His mouth is hot and demanding against your neck as his hands roam lower, tugging your shirt up and over your head without a second thought. He groans when he finally gets his palms on your bare skin, fingers spreading over your waist like he owns every inch of you.
“There she is,” he mutters, eyes dark as they drag down your body. He squeezes your hips, pulling you flush against the thick bulge straining in his jeans. “My needy little baby. Can’t stop clinging, can you? Can’t let me go even if you tried.”
When you whimper, he eats it up—pressing you back onto the mattress, settling between your thighs. His knee forces them wider, grinding into your heat while his mouth finds your breasts, teeth grazing your nipple just to hear the sharp sound that falls from your lips.
“Good girl,” he praises, licking over the sting, sucking until your back arches. “So sweet for me. Always mine.”
His hand slips down, past your belly, knuckles brushing your aching core through your underwear. The thin fabric is already damp, and he growls when he feels it, pressing harder, making you writhe.
“Fuck—so wet already. Just from me holding you down? From me telling you you’re mine?” He laughs low, sliding his fingers under the waistband to finally touch you bare. The first stroke has you gasping, and he doesn’t let up, circling your clit before pushing two thick fingers deep inside.
He watches your face, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every gasp, every helpless sound you make. His free hand pins your wrist to the bed when you try to grab him, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. My good girl, clinging to my fingers like you’ll break if I pull away. You want more?” He curls his fingers just right, your moan the only answer he needs.
By the time he finally frees himself from his jeans, he’s dripping with need, cock heavy and flushed. He doesn’t tease long—he’s too far gone, too desperate for you. He lines himself up and sinks in slow, dragging a filthy moan out of both of you as your walls stretch around him.
“Fuck—look at you,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts deep and steady from the start. “Wrapped around me so tight. Stuck to me just like you should be. You’re not letting go tonight—gonna fuck you until you can’t even think about anything but me.”
bucky barnes x reader
summary: a family trip to Italy was supposed to be about culture and sightseeing — not stolen glances at your dad’s best friend. but with Bucky around, every photo, every dinner, every late-night walk only makes it harder to pretend.
word count: 4k
warnings: explicit +18 mdni, smut, age gap, dad’s best friend, unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk.
You're in Florence, sweltering under the afternoon sun, pretending you care about Renaissance art when all you’ve done for the past two hours is sneak glances at the man walking just a few steps ahead of you.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Your dad’s best friend. Also known as: the man who's been single-handedly ruining your peace of mind since day one of this “family vacation.”
He’s wearing a dark linen shirt, rolled up to his elbows. His hair is pulled into a lazy bun, a few strands falling around his face. And when he lifts his sunglasses to get a better look at the Duomo, you almost drop your phone.
Italy was supposed to be about family. Sightseeing. Culture. That’s what you kept reminding yourself, at least, every time your dad snapped another picture for Instagram.
And yet somehow, every picture your eyes went straight to him. The man who’d been around your whole life in one way or another, but who had apparently decided that this summer, during this trip, he would choose to look like sin.
You go through your dad's photo dump from the trip and zoom in on Bucky every single time he’s in the background.
In one, he's laughing at something your mom said at dinner. His hand’s mid-air, holding a wine glass, his smile wide and stupidly attractive.
In another, he's half asleep in the back of the tour van, head tilted back, throat on full display. You cropped that one.
You have a whole folder at this point. Titled “scenery” in case someone goes through your phone. You're sick.
It doesn’t help that he’s nice to you. Says your name soft, helps you carry your bag when the cobblestones get too much, teases you when you order gelato for the third time in a day. Calls you sweetheart.
Now, he’s turned back to check on you, eyes squinting against the sun. “You good back there?”
You nod way too fast. “Yep. Good. Great.”
“Not too hot?”
You choke. On air. “Hot? N–no. I mean—yes. But it’s fine. I’m good.”
He raises a brow, like he knows. Like he’s seen the way you freeze up when he stands too close, the way your eyes linger a little too long. Maybe he’s humored by it. Maybe it’s just your overactive imagination.
Either way, he chuckles. Walks slower so you’re next to him now. Close enough that you smell his cologne. You’re doomed.
By dinner that night, you were a mess.
The restaurant was tucked into a narrow street, string lights overhead, tables so close together you could hear other people’s conversations. You tried to focus on the food, on the laughter, on anything that wasn’t Bucky. But of course he had to sit across from you, glass of red wine in hand, his voice low and steady whenever he leaned in to answer your dad.
You felt his eyes before you even looked up.
“Something on my face, doll?” he asked suddenly, catching you in the act.
Your fork clattered against the plate, and you nearly dropped it entirely. “N-no. Sorry.”
He smirked, lifting his glass again. “Didn’t think pasta was that distracting.”
You ducked your head, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.
The next day was worse.
The vineyard tour the next day is worse. The sun is brutal, and Bucky undoes two buttons, collar open, chest glinting with sweat. You nearly melt. When his hand brushes your arm, your heart stutters so violently you think he must hear it.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, walking beside you, his voice pitched just for you.
You kicked at a loose pebble, trying to look anywhere but at him. “Just tired.”
“Mm,” he hummed, clearly not buying it. His hand brushed your arm—accidentally, maybe, maybe not—and you swore your heart forgot how to beat for a second.
Later, when the tour guide paused to explain the wine-making process, you pulled out your phone, pretending to check messages. You tilted it ever so slightly, snapped a photo—just of the group, just the vineyard—but your eyes immediately zoomed in on him afterward. His profile, sharp against the golden light.
But when you look up, he’s already watching you. This time no teasing smile — just something heavy. Sharp. You lock your phone like it burns, but the damage was done. Because if he hadn’t noticed before, you were pretty sure he did now.
Avoidance doesn’t work. In a small gallery the next day, cool marble and quiet, his voice finds you.
“Thought you’d gotten lost.”
You turned. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like he’d been waiting for you to notice him.
Your throat went dry. “Just… needed a break.”
His gaze flicked over you — not in a way anyone else would notice, but enough to make your skin feel too tight. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
You forced a shrug. “I’m fine.”
Bucky tilted his head, like he didn’t quite believe you. And then, softer: “You always were a bad liar, y’know that?”
Before you can answer, your dad calls. The moment slips away. But later, when Bucky takes a family photo, you see it clear: everyone’s smiling for the camera, but his eyes are locked on you.
No one else notices. But you do.
The trip blurs. Piazzas, dinners, espresso. And him. Always him. The world sees your dad’s best friend carrying bags, holding doors. Only you see how he angles toward you in every crowd, how his gaze finds yours like it can’t help itself. You were losing your mind quietly.
One afternoon, while your parents haggle at a market stall, Bucky appears at your side like he’d been magnetized there.
“Not really your thing, huh?” he asked, nodding toward the table of trinkets.
You shook your head, managing a small laugh. “I don’t think I need another keychain.”
“Smart,” he said. Then, quieter, leaning in just enough that you felt the brush of his shoulder, “Besides, you’ve already got something to remember this trip by, don’t you?”
Your chest tightened. Does he know? He can’t know.
But when you looked up, he was already straightening, his expression unreadable again.
That night your dad posts another selfie. Everyone’s smiling. Except Bucky, whose eyes are fixed on you. Sharp. Uncovered.
You can’t pretend anymore.
On the seventh night, your parents went up to their hotel room early, worn out from the long day of exploring. You lingered in the lobby, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, nerves buzzing like static. You weren’t waiting for him, not really. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
And then the elevator doors opened.
Bucky stepped out, hair still damp from a shower, a plain black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders like it had been made for him. He spotted you immediately. “Not heading up yet?”
Your throat felt dry. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Same.” He hesitated for only a moment before nodding toward the front doors. “Walk with me?”
You should’ve said no. You knew you should’ve. But your body betrayed you, feet already moving before your brain caught up.
You walked side by side, close enough that his hand brushed yours every so often, close enough that every brush set off sparks under your skin.
“You’ve been different this trip.”
Your head whipped toward him. “Different how?”
He shrugged, eyes forward. “Quieter. Can’t tell if you’re avoiding me, or…” He trailed off, but the weight of what he didn’t say hung heavy between you.
Your pulse thudded in your ears. “Or what?” you asked, barely a whisper.
That’s when he stopped walking. Just… stopped. You almost stumbled, turning to face him, the glow of a streetlamp cutting across his features. His jaw was tense, his eyes dark in a way that made your stomach drop.
“Or maybe you’re not avoiding me at all.”
The air felt electric, charged, like the entire city was holding its breath. He was so close now, close enough that you could see the flecks of silver in his hair, close enough that if you leaned in just a fraction—
And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “We should head back.”
The spell shattered. Just like that.
You nodded mutely, heart pounding, and followed him in silence.
The next day your dad suggested a slower pace, and eventually everyone settled on exploring the quieter streets near the hotel. You swore you wouldn’t let yourself get caught up in him again. You repeated it like a mantra while brushing your teeth, while pulling on a sundress, while sitting across from him at breakfast.
It didn’t work.
Because Bucky wasn’t making it easy.
“You always walk like you’re in a hurry,” he said casually, hands tucked in his pockets, matching the pace of his steps with yours.
You huffed a laugh. “Maybe I just don’t want to get left behind.”
His eyes flicked down at you, unreadable, then softened. “Trust me. I’d never let that happen.”
Your breath caught. It was nothing — just words, just Bucky being… Bucky. Except his tone was different, low and certain in a way that made your skin stutter.
A block later, your mom spotted a shop she wanted to duck into. Your parents disappeared inside, leaving you and Bucky standing awkwardly on the sun-warmed cobblestones.
You fiddled with the strap of your bag, unsure what to do with yourself. “They’ll probably be a while.”
“Good,” he said without thinking.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost frustrated with himself. Then he stepped closer — just a fraction, but enough that the air shifted. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that?”
Your breath hitched. “Me?”
He stepped closer still, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of cologne under the salt and sun. “Don’t play dumb, doll. I see the way you look at me.” His voice dipped, almost a growl. “You think I don’t notice? The pictures. The staring.”
Your entire body froze. He knew.
“I—” you started, but the words tangled.
And then he slipped.
One of his hands came up, fingers brushing just under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The touch was barely there, feather-light, but it lit you up like a match. His thumb lingered against your jawline, the calloused pad dragging across your skin like he couldn’t stop himself.
For one breathless second, you thought he might kiss you right there in the shadow of the alley.
But then his jaw tightened, and he dropped his hand, stepping back as if burned. “We shouldn’t,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your heart was racing so hard you thought it might echo in the street. “Then why—”
“Because I couldn’t help it,” he cut in, voice rough. His eyes met yours, blazing, unguarded for once. “And that’s the problem.”
Before you could say anything, before you could even breathe properly, he turned and walked ahead, leaving you pressed against the wall, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you. And for the first time, you knew with absolute certainty: this wasn’t just you anymore.
At dinner, the lively chatter of your family faded into the background, drowned out by the weight of Bucky’s gaze. Every glance across the table chipped away at your composure, leaving you restless and distracted.
When he quietly asked if you were okay while your dad was away from the table, his low, intimate tone only made your chest tighten. By dessert, you were unraveling, so you excused yourself. His eyes followed you, making your skin burn.
Hours later, after you’d changed into pajamas and tried to read to calm your racing heart, a soft, deliberate knock sounded at your bedroom window.
Your stomach flipped. You peeked out, and there he was — eyes glinting in the moonlight, looking impossibly dangerous and yet impossibly tender.
“Bucky…” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t think knocking on your door was smart,” he muttered, voice low, smirking at you through the glass. “But you left your jacket.”
Your chest tightened at how careful he was, how much thought he’d put into this little act just for you. Without thinking, you opened the window wider and let him slip inside.
“It’s cold,” you murmured, shivering slightly, and he handed you the jacket, lingering close. The heat radiating off him made your fingers tremble.
“You okay?” he asked softly, voice almost a whisper. His hand brushed against yours.
“Better… now,” you admitted, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped.
For a long moment, you both just stood there, the quiet hum of Florence outside, the nearness of him, and the undeniable electricity that had been building all week. Neither of you moved to break the silence, neither of you wanting to be the first to let go.
And in that suspended, fragile moment, you knew — everything that had been simmering all week, all the glances, all the touches, all the near-misses — was finally teetering on the edge of something neither of you could deny anymore.
You swallowed hard, heart hammering, body buzzing with nerves you hadn’t been able to contain all day.
“You didn’t have to climb all the way here,” you murmured.
“I wanted to,” he replied, voice low, rough, and dangerous. He stepped closer, closing the sliver of space between you. “I wanted to see you.”
Your chest heaved. “Bucky…”
He didn’t let you finish. One hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a force that was gentle but undeniable. The other slipped behind your back, pressing you closer against him. Your body betrayed you, leaning in without thought.
His lips hovered over yours, brushing softly at first — teasing, dangerous, impossible to resist. You tried to pull back, to remind yourself this wasn’t supposed to happen, that it was forbidden, that your dad’s best friend shouldn’t be here like this. But you couldn’t. Every nerve ending in your body screamed for him.
Then his mouth covered yours, and the world shattered.
It was rough, demanding, hungry. His tongue teased yours, daring, claiming, as if punishing you for all the stolen glances and quiet lust that had built up over the week. His hands roamed over your body with precision — one pressing firmly to your waist, the other to the back of your neck, threading through your hair, holding you like you were about to vanish if he let go.
You gasped into the kiss, melting against him, letting the sin of it wash over you. Nothing mattered except the way he tasted, the way he moved, the way he made you feel.
Your breath still came in shallow gasps, Bucky’s forehead resting against yours, his thumb sweeping lightly along your jaw like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you. Like stopping would mean admitting it had happened.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Because there wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t shatter the fragile, burning thing suspended between you.
His fingers drifted to your waist again, and you swore you could feel every callus, every brush of his skin like it had been branded there. And when he looked at you — really looked — it was with something hungry and aching and impossibly soft all at once.
“I should go,” he said, voice raw.
Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “I know.” Neither of you moved.
His mouth ghosted over yours again — not a kiss this time, just the echo of one. A memory in the making. He whispered, “This doesn’t mean nothing, you know.”
You swallowed hard. “I know.”
“Say it again,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “So I believe it.”
You reached up slowly, palm settling against his chest. His heartbeat was wild under your hand. “It doesn’t mean nothing,” you said, barely audible.
He nodded, jaw clenched like it was taking every ounce of control to step back. But he did. Eventually. Hands slipping away like it hurt to let go.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured, and climbed back out the window like something out of a fever dream.
You didn’t sleep.
Your dad wanted to see another cathedral in the morning, dragging your mom along, but you begged off with the excuse of a headache. Bucky stayed behind too, claiming he’d already seen enough stone and stained glass to last a lifetime.
That left the two of you alone.
Exactly what you shouldn’t have wanted — and exactly what you did.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just waited until the rest of the group was out of sight.
“Your dad would kill me if he knew.”
You looked at him. Really looked.
“But he doesn’t,” you said softly.
Bucky exhaled. “You’re not making this easy.”
“You’re not walking away,” you countered.
He stepped closer.
And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t hesitant or careful or secret. It was real. Possessive. His hand at the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand another second of pretending.
When he pulled back, your lips were swollen and your heart was in your throat.
“You better keep your window open tonight.” he said, voice hoarse.
Your parents returned late, laughing about the worst pizza they’d eaten so far. You played your part. Ate three bites, smiled at the right times, slipped away after dessert.
You were brushing your hair when the soft knock came again.
You opened it before thinking, and there he was. Still the man who kissed you like he couldn’t stop.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You opened the window wider. “So don’t come in.”
He jumped inside without hesitating.
It felt louder than it should’ve, the soft thunk of wood against frame echoing in the small room like a final decision.
He didn’t move right away. Neither did you.
The air shifted — thickened — stretched taut between you.
Bucky stood there. His jaw was tight. His hands flexed at his sides, as though he didn’t trust them.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“You are here.”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Say the word, and I’ll walk out.”
Your stomach flipped.
It would’ve been easier if he’d kissed you again the second he stepped inside. If he’d let the tension snap the way it was threatening to. But this was worse. This slow, dangerous unraveling.
This was a man who had waited. Held back. Felt everything, and kept it all in his chest like it would kill him if he let it out.
You stepped toward him — one careful step.
He didn’t move away.
“I don’t want you to leave,” you said, quiet but sure.
The breath he let out was sharp. Almost pained. Then he was on you.
His mouth crashes back onto yours like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting years for this moment. “Fuck” His voice was low, wrecked, lips trailing down your jaw and your neck as he presses you back against the wall, body hot and solid against yours. “You feel what you do to me, doll? How bad I’ve been needing this?”
Your answer was a whimper, your hands already sliding under his shirt, nails dragging down the ridges of his abs.
His hands roam shamelessly — one sliding down to grip your waist, the other dragging over your thigh before hooking it around his hip, pinning you to him. You can feel him, hard and thick, straining against his jeans, grinding against your core until your head spins.
“B-Bucky—”
“Shh,” he growls, one hand suddenly pressing lightly over your mouth. His eyes burn into yours, dark and hungry. “Gotta keep quiet, sweetheart. Your dad’s right down the hall.”
The warning only makes your pulse race faster. You nod, muffling another gasp against his palm as he ruts harder against you, the friction making you ache.
He smirks, feral, like he can feel how soaked you are through your dress. “That’s it. Good girl. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
When his fingers finally slip beneath your dress, dragging your panties aside, you nearly sob into his hand. He strokes you slowly, deliberately, spreading the wetness over your swollen clit, then dips lower, teasing your entrance until your thighs tremble.
“So wet already,” he murmurs against your ear, voice rough silk. “Been waiting for me to touch you like this, huh?”
You nod frantically, nails biting into his shoulders as he pushes two thick fingers inside you. The stretch makes you whimper, muffled under his palm, back arching against the wall. He curls them deep, hitting the spot that makes your knees nearly give out.
“Look at you,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, your temple, his pace relentless. “So fucking tight. Gripping me like you were made for it.”
By the time he pulls his fingers out, you’re shaking, desperate. He brings them to your lips, smearing them against your mouth before slipping them past. “Suck,” he orders softly, eyes locked on yours. And you do, tasting yourself on his skin, heat flooding your cheeks.
He growled, shoving you gently back until your knees hit the mattress and you fell onto the bed. His body followed, heavy and overwhelming, lips crashing down on yours.
His hand slid down your thigh, spreading you open.
“Christ,” he groans, undoing his jeans. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, brushing against your thigh. Your breath catches at the sheer size of him.
“Eyes up here,” he says with a dangerous grin, lining himself up. “You can take it. I’ll make sure of it.”
The first push steals every bit of air from your lungs. He’s so big it hurts, stretching you wide, forcing you open inch by inch. Your muffled cry vibrates against his hand, and he presses his forehead to yours, panting.
“Fuck, you feel unreal… so tight around me.” He thrusts deeper, slow, controlled, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you swear you see stars.
When he finally starts to move, it’s devastating. Each thrust drags against every nerve ending, filling you so deep you can barely think. Your muffled moans grow higher, desperate, and his grip tightens over your mouth.
“Quiet, baby,” he warns, voice ragged in your ear. “Don’t wanna give us away, do you?”
The danger of it makes your whole body burn hotter. You shake your head wildly, biting down on his palm to keep from crying out as he pounds into you harder, faster, the wet sound of your bodies obscene in the quiet room.
“That’s it,” he groans, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple. “Take it for me. God, you’re perfect.”
You’re already close, the knot in your belly winding tighter with every thrust, every filthy word he growls against your skin.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Be my good girl and come all over my cock. Quiet — don’t want Daddy hearing his baby crying on my dick.”
That filth shatters you. The orgasm tears through your body, violent, overwhelming, your scream strangled under his hand. You convulse around him, walls milking him until he curses, rutting harder.
“Fuck—fuck—” he pants, pulling out at the last second to spill hot against your stomach, his groan low and guttural as he braces himself above you.
For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, the pounding of your hearts.
Then, softer, almost reverent, he kisses you again. Slow this time.
“Shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers against your lips. “But I don’t regret a damn thing.”
And you know, with absolute certainty, that neither of you will stop now.
