kara | 18

The only sound was your blood in your ears - loud and overwhelming.

The car spun wild circles across the rain-slicked track.

You felt the impact with the kerb.

The car was airborne.

Instinct finally took over.

You let go of the wheel.

Crossed your arms over your chest.

Waited for it to stop.

...

..

.

Time stretched.

The rain against the halo turned into something else -

Lights. Noise.

The AGP garage, the first day you walked in as their driver.

Everything cleaner and shaper. Faster than anything you’d known before.

You tried not to stare.

“Don’t hover. C’mon -” he’d said, his voice low in your ear.

You hadn’t even heard him behind you, already in his black racesuit.

Like he belonged there in a way you were still trying to understand.

You stepped forward before you could second guess it.

Not toward the garage.

Toward him.

Like you always did.

Sam waited further into the garage, his arms crossed.

You glanced at Bucky who shrugged like your move to AGP had been inevitable.

Like you were.

This was always how it was going to go.

“Welcome home,” Sam said warmly, amused when you reached out to shake his hand.

He pulled you into a hug instead.

But even then -

- even standing in the centre of it, the dream you’d worked for your entire life -

you looked past Sam.

Back at Bucky.

Just for a second.

Just to check -

The memory fractured.

The rain -

The barrier, right there -

You held your breath.

And closed your eyes.

.

..

...

“Storm? … Storm, radio check? Nothing, boss”

...

..

.

“Storm, it's Sam, do you copy?”

.

..

...

The impact sounded like a bomb.

One moment the AGP car was fighting for grip through the chicane, battling with the Thunderbolt car for third place.

The next it was flying through the air.

Sparks tore across the circuit as the chassis slammed sideways into the barrier, tyres exploding in a cloud of smoke and shredded rubber.

For a moment nobody moved.

Not the crowd.

Not the commentators.

The powerless drivers flew past the wreckage at two hundred miles an hour.

Bucky’s own car had spun off at the contact, straight into the gravel but still only feet away from the track.

He'd felt it. The lightest touch of his wing against your front tyre.

He could see the closest marshal waving double yellow flags, the back marker cars slowing down to a pedestrian stroll.

Smoke curled above the barrier.

They hadn’t reached the car yet.

They hadn’t reached the car yet.

Bucky gasped, dragging air into his lungs.

He could hear the radio chatter in his ear, Ava and Bob communicating to the rest of the team.

“Double yellow flag. Double yellow, reduce speed now.”

“Car stopped at turn eight.”

“Medical car deployed.”

Words he should understand - better than anyone.

Instructions he should follow.

But he couldn’t.

The cold crawled up his spine, seeping into the join of vibranium to pale, stretched skin.

He wasn’t scared of the crash.

Or of the incoming penalties.

His hands shook on the wheel he still hadn’t released.

“Bucky, turn off the engine.”

He didn’t move.

His heart raced like he was still going flat out on the straight.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Wrong.

His world shrank to a single thought.

Not you.

Anything but you.

Because if it was -

His breath hitched.

Because if it was you -

He didn’t know what came next.

He should move.

Obviously.

Unclip. Get out. Run.

That’s what you’d do.

That’s what you did.

Your hands shaking as you dragged him clear of the car, screaming for medics like you could force the world to move faster.

He remembered that much.

He remembered your hands on him.

He remembered thinking -

Stay with me, love.

His fingers didn't move.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

The air reeked of scorched rubber and wet asphalt. Marshals finally swarmed in like bees in orange overalls.

Static crackled through the radio.

“Storm, can you hear me?”

Sam.

Wonderful, incredible Sam who’d tethered himself to you but let you fly.

“Yeah…” you croaked. “I’m here.”

“Jesus fuckin’ christ,” he whispered.

You tried not to listen to how close to tears he sounded.

You unclipped the belts with shaking hands and ripped the HANS device from your neck, your heart jack-hammering against your ribs.

Your legs didn’t quite work when you climbed out, your feet caught on the edge of the sidepod, on the halo as you tried to step over.

You wobbled on the spot, jelly legs threatening to topple you.

Then you saw the red Thunderbolt fifteen feet ahead. Something in you recoiled.

Not fear.

Not where he could see it.

Not where the whole world could see it - again.

Anger was easier to stand on than fear.

The grandstands erupted the moment they saw you standing, it drove strength into your legs.

You staggered out into the gravel trap with your helmet swinging from your fist as the world roared around you - engines still screaming past behind the safety car, camera drones whirring above, and the rain still pouring.

You swayed precariously on the spot.

Jelly legs again.

And then he was there.

Scrambling to get out of his almost unscathed car.

His visor was up, his pale blue eyes wide behind the tear-off film, his breath fogging in the damp air. He jumped from his car - abandoned in the gravel - and ran straight for you.

"Hey - hey, babe, are you OK?!" His voice cracked, raw with panic.

He reached for you -

For a fraction of a second, your body almost let him.

Then -

You slapped his hand away so hard his entire body jolted.

"Don’t you fucking touch me, Barnes!" you screamed, your voice slicing through the rain-soaked air.

A marshal stumbled to a halt nearby, frozen.

The cameras caught every furious second.

The fans in the grandstand next to you were transfixed, phones held aloft.

There would be hell to pay later. And a few fines.

"It was a miscalculation - I swear, the rain, I didn’t see -"

"Oh, you didn’t see?!" You stepped closer, shoving him hard in the chest with your helmet. He stumbled backwards. "You always see everything, Bucky! What the fuck was that?!"

Your helmet thudded into the gravel as you threw it towards him, your blood boiling.

You squared up to him again and shove, harder this time.

"I hit the barrier at two hundred because you miscalculated?" Your voice splintered on the last word, raw with betrayal.

"I would never hurt you -"

"But you did!"

He flinched.

The crowd noise faded for a second. You felt the eyes of millions through the broadcast, every word replaying already in slow-motion highlight reels. You could hear Sam on the radio, your earpiece still tucked in place. Get your ass back here, now.

"I trusted you," you said, quieter now. Just as dangerous. Just as sharp. "I fucking trusted you more than anyone on this grid. And you took me out."

He stared at you, rain dripping from the edge of his helmet. His hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know whether to grab you or let you go.

Your chest heaved. Your racesuit clung to your arms in the rain.

"Stay the fuck away from me," you spat finally, stepping back. "Don’t you dare come near me after this."

You shoulder barged past him, grabbing your helmet on the way, ignoring the marshals shouting, ignoring Bucky’s broken, half-choked call of your name.

When they led you toward the medical car, you didn’t look back.

Over his ragged breath he heard Yelena in his ear.

"Radio Bucky, please confirm you’re OK."

He watched the marshals move the barrier to let a crane though, one of them trying to herd him out of the way. "I’m sorry, guys. I fucked up."

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

You didn’t let anyone help you.

You made sure to get out of the medical car by yourself, your boots slipped slightly as rain seeped though the thin soles, and offered the waiting cameras a clear thumbs up.

“I’m fine,” you told them automatically.

The words came too fast.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You curled them into fists before anyone could see.

Circuit staff ushered you away from prying eyes and into the medical suite.

“I’m fine,” you muttered the minute someone suggested you take a seat.

You’d said it so many times it didn’t even feel like lying anymore.

The room tilted for half a second.

You ignored it, blinked hard, and brought the room back into focus again.

The casual lean against the bed was deliberate.

Because your legs still felt… off.

Like they didn’t quite belong to you anymore.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible liar?” Sam asked from the corridor. He knocked unnecessarily.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped. “You’re supposed to be at the garage. Joaquin’s still out there.”

He waved it off. “He’s fine. He’s got MJ.”

His eyes flicked over you, taking inventory.

“You, on the other hand -”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Yeah? That why the bed’s holding you up?”

You rolled your eyes so hard pain spiked behind them.

“Could you remove your gloves and the top half of your racesuit please?” A medic asked.

Your hands were freezing under the gloves.

Sam stepped into the puddle gathering at your feet and tore open the velcro, pulling off a glove at a time.

Before you could reach for the zip of your racesuit, he took your hands in his own and warmed your numb fingers.

He leaned down to drop a kiss onto your forehead.

There was no comment on how much your hands shook as you drew the wet sleeves down your arms.

You winced at the ache through your shoulders.

The medic reached for the sleeve of your base layer.

“Just need to check -”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, jerking your arm away.

Too fast.

For a second, it wasn’t Canada.

It was blood on your gloves. Someone shouting -

You blinked hard.

Gone.

Outside, you knew the footage was already on a loop.

Every angle.

Every second.

Another moment for them to freeze you in.

Another moment that would be tied to him forever.

Instead of the medic, Sam stepped in again.

He gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your bicep, and then stepped back.

“C’mon now, let’s get you checked over and then you can come back to the garage.”

“Promise?”

“As long as no medical intervention is required, I promise.” He said solemnly but his smirk spoke volumes. “Finish up here, Kam’s just outside if you need her. She’ll bring you back later.”

“Fine,” you mumbled indignantly.

He squeezed your shoulder, his grip significantly lighter than normal - your muscles still protested - and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that it was quiet.

You could just about hear the sound of cars out on track, but they were too far away.

You’d held it together because of Sam. Alone though, was much harder.

The medic stood just in your periphery, waiting for your go-ahead.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked gently.

You stared at him. “…Seriously?”

He gave a wry smile. “The question set doesn’t take your job into account.”

The snatch of pain when you rolled your eyes was worth it, but you gave your name anyway.

“And what race are we at?”

“Canada.”

“Can you recall what lap were you on?”

Easy. “Twenty -”

You paused.

The number slipped.

Just for a second.

“…eight?”

The pen stopped its scrawl on the page. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Telling you. I saw the board on the straight,” you huffed.

Had you? On that lap?

He looked apologetic. “These are standard checks.”

“Yeah, I know what they are,” you snapped.

“Why don’t I stop the questions for a minute or two. Let’s do some physical checks.”

The blood pressure cuff still clung to your arm, lobsided from where Sam had placed it.

“Your heart rate is still a little high.”

“Yeah. I just crashed at two hundred miles an hour,” you muttered.

“And?”

“And I’m fine,” you told him through gritted teeth.

“OK, let’s listen to your lungs, check for bruising.”

The stethoscope was cold on your back, making you realise you were still shivering.

“Take a deep breath for me, please.”

You did.

It caught halfway in, tight and painful. The medic didn’t comment.

He took a penlight and pointed it directly into your eyes. “Follow my light, please.”

You tracked the light from side to side.

“Any blurred vision?”

“No.” You blinked. “… Just a bit when I move.”

The medic tsked. “That’s still a yes.”

Your hands wouldn’t stay still, not even when you clenched them.

You rubbed them together under the pretense of searching for warmth.

“Nearly finished. Turn your head slowly to the left.”

You didn’t listen to the slowly part.

You turned too fast -

- and the world tilted again, taking your stomach with it.

Just slightly.

You steadied yourself against the bed before he could comment.

“‘M fine,” you mumbled a lot less convincingly.

Pain flared sharp behind your ear, pulling down your neck.

“Do you remember the crash?”

Great, he was back to the questions.

“I aquaplaned, it’s wet”

“After that?” he pushed. “Do you remember the impact?”

Which one?

Do you remember the last time you almost lost him?

“There was a car beside me.”

“Who?”

...

You looked away.

“Does it matter?”

“Not to me,” he said simply. “You’ve got a mild concussion, you’re in shock, and there’s some bruising on your ribs and shoulders -”

“I’m racing again in two weeks.”

“That’ll be down to your team doctor and the FIA, not me.” He glanced up from the paperwork with a brief smile. “Fortunately. I’d hate to be the one telling you you’re not driving.”

You shrugged guiltily. “I’m sorry. I - I didn’t mean to make your job harder.”

He waved off the apology and gestured to his notes. “I’ll get this written up and get you some painkillers. Rest. Please. You’re safe in here, no one will come in.”

A muted TV flickered in the corner of the room.

You hadn’t noticed it before.

You looked past the medic to see who was leading the race - and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The replay rolled again.

The spray from Walker’s car, the rain getting heavier.

Bucky’s car in-line with yours.

Your car snapping sideways -

You didn’t watch the impact.

You couldn’t.

Instead, your eyes dropped to your hands, like they might tell you something different this time.

They didn’t.

When you looked up again, it was already over.

The Thunderbolt car had joined yours in the gravel.

But Bucky -

Bucky hadn’t moved.

He sat there.

Like he’d forgotten how to get out.

Your jaw tightened.

Of course he didn’t move.

Of course he didn’t.

The image flickered -

And for a second it wasn’t Canada.

It was humid.

Warm rain.

Your knees hitting gravel hard enough to bruise.

Hands slick with blood as you tore at his suit, screaming for someone - anyone - to help.

Move.

Move, Buck -

You blinked.

Back in the medical room.

Safe.

On the screen, on the replay…

He was still sitting there.

Doing nothing.

Your jaw tightened.

Of course he didn’t move.

Of course he didn’t.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

The route to the medical centre was filled with chaos.

Team personnel, FIA officials…

None of them mattered.

Bucky barely slowed as he cut through them, still in his soaked race suit.

“Medical suite is closed -” one of the circuit staff started.

He didn’t stop.

“I need to see her.”

“Sir, you can’t -”

“I’m her -” he stopped himself. “I’m not asking.”

That got some attention.

A couple of heads turned.

The door was right there.

Kamala Khan stepped in front of him, blocking the handle.

“She’s being assessed.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snapped. “I just need -”

He cut himself off again, his jaw clenching hard enough to make his teeth ache.

“I need to see her.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“I’m not waiting,” he growled quietly, somehow making things worse. “She just went into the barrier at -”

“Yeah, we know,” Kam snapped bitterly. “That’s why she’s here.”

Bucky felt something pull at him.

Guilt. Anger. Fear.

All tangled up so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

“I put her there,” he said, like it would suddenly change Kamala’s mind. Like she’d suddenly open the door for him.

It didn’t. She didn't.

“All the more reason to give her space.”

For a second, he just stood there.

He stared at Kam who held his gaze.

His fist clenched and unclenched, debating whether to just take the handle clean off.

“She hates me right now,” he said mostly to himself.

Kam didn’t answer him.

Bucky dragged a hand through his damp hair and paced. Caged energy with nowhere to go. Race adrenaline which hadn’t worn off.

“I just need to know she’s OK.”

And there it was.

Kam frowned disapprovingly.

He wasn’t there for you.

He was there for himself.

She didn’t move from the doorway.

“I’m sure you’ll find out when she’s been cleared. I'll do a press release,” she said firmly. “It’ll be around the same time the FIA decides how to punish you.”

That was it. Final.

He stared at the door a moment longer, wondering if he waited long enough, whether you’d come out anyway.

Then he left.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

There were raised voices outside.

You could hear Kamala using the tone she saved for fighting her way through the fanzones.

“- I need to see her -”

Your stomach dropped.

“She’s being assessed.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snapped. “I just need -”

The voices dropped. You couldn’t make out what was being said.

“- sure you’ll find out when she’s been cleared -”

Of course he was here.

Of course he didn’t listen.

Of course he thought he could just walk in without being stopped.

You turned away from the door and back to the TV where Walker was still leading the race.

Kam’s knock was more tentative than Sam’s.

“Hey, I got you a change of clothes,” she smiled gently, placing jeans and a warm hoodie on the bed next to you.

You didn't look at her.

“Has he gone?”

Her hands stilled. “You heard?”

“Thin walls,” you shrugged.

“He’s gone. He’s not very happy about it, though.”

“Thank you for keeping him away. And for this,” you gestured at the clothes. “I might get a hot shower first. I’m freezing.”

“Adrenaline is wearing off,” Kam nodded knowingly. She pulled a chocolate bar from the pocket of her jacket. “You need to boost your blood sugar. Eat this and as soon as you’re let out, I’ll take you the back way to the motorhomes.”

“Oh fuck that,” you sighed. “We’re going the public route.”

Kam pressed her lips together tightly. “Storm -”

“I'm serious. If Barnes wants to see I’m OK so badly, he can see it with everyone else on Sky Sports.”

Your voice was steadier than it had felt since the crash.

“Hmm…. Speaking of, Ted Kravitz is hanging around. Waiting for you.”

“Good. Let's go give him what he wants.”

The medic cleared his throat.

“What do you think, Doc, am I good to go?”

He narrowed his eyes, then sighed. “Fine. But you need to rest. Try and keep away from screens for a few hours.”

You glanced at the TV. “…Right.”

“I want you to monitor your symptoms, look out for the dizziness getting worse, any nausea, confusion -”

“I’m always confused,” you laughed. He didn’t.

“And sensitivity to light.”

“You got it.”

“Those bruises are gonna come out in a few hours and you’re gonna feel like you’ve been hit by a truck -”

“This isn’t my first rodeo. Thank you, though.”

The medic didn’t look convinced.

You didn’t wait for him to be.

You hopped down from the bed. The room spun again - just a little this time - but still there. You ignored it.

“C’mon,” you said to Kam, already moving for the door.

She hesitated, concern etched on her face. “Storm -”

“I’m fine,” you cut in sharply.

Harsher than you meant to.

“I’m fine.” You tried again, a little softer, a little quieter.

Kam didn’t argue. She grabbed the clothes and your helmet, and moved to your side, close enough that if you stumbled, she’d catch you before anyone else noticed.

The noise hit you instantly when you opened the door, the lights were brighter. There was no press, fortunately, but the sounds of the crowd bled through the concrete walls.

You squared your shoulders.

Let them look.

Let them talk.

Let him see.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

It was even louder outside.

The sound of the crowd bounced off the water surrounding the island track.

You kept walking anyway.

Kam stayed close at your side, near enough that you could feel her there.

Just in case.

You were flagging. Every part of your body ached more and more as the adrenaline from the crash began to die away, leaving you cold from the dampness of your racesuit, and trembling from the onset of shock.

You wished you’d put the hoodie on.

“Stay close,” Kam murmured.

“I’m not going to bolt,” you muttered.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

The noise of the crowd was building around you the more people spotted you.

“Storm! Storm!” A kid wearing your baseball cap leaned over the railing and waved. Behind them, phones were held up and fans called your name.

“You’re OK, yeah?”

You lifted your hand and gave them a thumbs up, the same lie as before.

Kam spotted the moment the noise of the fans had alerted the media to your arrival. She angled herself across you, her warm hand gripping your wrist tightly.

“We’re not taking any questions -” Kam started.

It didn’t stop them trying.

You felt a dozen cameras locking on to you as they surged forward.

“Thought you said it was just Ted?” you grimaced at the number of reporters gathered.

“It was when I got here,” she frowned. “Shall we go back inside?”

You shook your head, your vision dancing in protest. “No, let’s get it over with.”

“Give us some space, please -” Kam ordered, forcing a space for you to follow her.

Questions rattled like gunfire.

“Storm! Was that reckless from Barnes?”

“Do you blame him for the crash?”

“Are you okay after that impact?”

“Is this going to affect your championship fight?”

One in particular stood out.

“Storm, is this what happens when you push too hard?”

It cut through the noise and the camera flashes.

Push too hard.

Just another way to paint you as reckless.

The sign they’d hung around your neck before every race weekend.

The first thing they always reached for.

You stopped walking and turned to the reporter, Kam’s hand losing its grip. You hoped they didn’t notice how you swayed on the spot.

The ground didn’t feel quite solid under your boots.

The concrete felt like quicksand, like it might give way and suck you in if you shifted your weight.

You locked your knees and held yourself upright.

“If you can’t handle pressure, you shouldn’t be on this grid,” you said to the camera hovering behind them.

“Are you saying Barnes can’t handle it?”

“Are you saying you -”

“That’s enough,” Kam cut in quickly, her hand found yours again, firmly this time, her fingers linking with yours in a gesture so welcomed, you thought for one horrible second that it might be the thing to make you crumble in front of the world’s media. “That’s it - she’s just been cleared, give her some space.”

You didn’t remember walking the next few steps, only the soft warmth of Kam's hand covering yours and squeezing gently.

I've got you.

The noise faded, sounding woolly in your ears.

Kam tightened her grip.

You didn’t have to look at her to know she meant it.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “you still with me?”

“Yeah.” you said quickly. “Yeah. Kam, I -”

“Hey - this is my job, OK? You’re my job. Let’s get you out of here.”

She guided you through the crowd, the bodies and voices blurring together as you tried to keep up, your steps half a second behind your own thoughts.

You should’ve taken another route.

All but one of the cameras stayed behind in the media area, a lone operator tailed you all the way to the garages, jogging to stay just ahead of you.

You shouldn’t have looked.

But the screens were everywhere - mounted above food trucks, hanging from scaffolding, reflected in every glass surface.

They were impossible to avoid.

You saw yourself, looking drawn and tired, frowning at the camera.

You tried not to look again.

Then your eyes caught on another before you could stop yourself.

It wasn't showing the race, or the timings.

It had cut to him.

Sitting at the Thunderbolt pit-wall, a chair sandwiched between Bob and Ava.

His helmet off, hair damp and roughly pushed back.

He raised a hand in a half-hearted salute to the camera.

His hand -

Raw.

Grazed and red, the knuckles split.

Your stomach twisted.

Not concern.

Not really.

Just -

You wondered what he’d taken it out on.

Underneath his image flashed a news ticker.

Barnes receives ten second penalty in Monaco for crash with Storm.

Good.

Ten seconds wasn’t much, but on a track like Monaco, it was everything.

You had to be fit to race and make the most of the opportunity.

You didn’t look at the screens again. You didn’t look for him.

You certainly didn’t care what he’d broken.

🏎🏎🏎🏎

The shower had been hot enough to scald, but the heat hadn't quite reached your bones yet.

The walk back to the motorhomes had sapped any remaining energy you had left so you’d left Kam just outside your room.

Her calm voice trickled through the door, washing over you like water.

She kept up a quiet commentary - Joaquin’s race, the uproar on Twitter, the fact you’d been followed all the way from medical to the motorhome…

You wrapped your hands around the AGP-branded travel mug she handed you afterwards, still trying to hide the shaking.

In the garage, no one stood on ceremony.

“Here she is. Good to see you back,” one of the engineers said warmly, nudging an empty chair toward you.

The pit crew had taken over your side of the garage, rows of folding chairs filled with yours and Joaquin’s technicians, all watching the last few laps of the race unfold.

You could just about hear the commentary from the monitors.

You could still feel it under your skin, the rhythm of the race hadn’t left you yet.

It never really did.

But you weren’t in it anymore.

You were… adjacent.

Surplus.

The crumpled car sitting on the back of a flatbed was more use than you were right now. An assortment of salvageable parts and total scrap - much like you felt.

You thought about sitting down beside them - no one would stop you.

You could slot back in like nothing had happened.

You wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

But your head still felt half a second behind everything else, there was still too much noise, and the lights felt like they could pierce the backs of your eyeballs.

And the thought of sitting still -

- of watching -

of not being able to do anything -

felt worse than the crash.

Sam didn’t call your name.

He just stepped into your path like he’d been waiting for you to join him.

“Took the scenic route?”

“Thought I’d give them something to talk about,” you muttered.

His arms came around you without hesitation.

He was solid and warm, and at last, you felt something other than cold.

It was steady in a way nothing else had been since the crash.

He always had been.

You knew there were cameras.

You knew this would be on every feed within seconds, but you didn’t pull away.

You let your forehead rest briefly against his shoulder.

Just long enough to steady yourself, just long enough to take a breath.

His hand came up to the back of your head instinctively, but then stopped short, not wanting to hurt you.

“I hope you were gentle with them after I left,” he teased.

“I was polite.” You mumbled into his sweater.

“The FIA are going to want to see you before Monaco, check your good to drive.”

“I will be,” you glanced at the screens showing the championship leaderboard - Walker in third overall after your second place in Saudi and a win in Miami.

Then the graphic shifted.

Walker jumped above both you and Bucky…

… into first.

You didn't react.

“He hasn't won this race yet,” Sam said with an arched eyebrow.

You laughed, your ribs protesting. “Boss, he's got a five-second lead.”

The coverage switched to the battle between Joaquin and Ben Grimm for second place.

“C’mon, son -” One of the race engineers called out, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

There were only three laps left.

The gap didn’t close - not fast enough.

On the monitors, Joaquin pushed hard through the final sector, the car chasing something that was always just out of reach.

“C’mon, c’mon -” someone muttered beside you, their fingers tapping anxiously against their headset.

On track, Grimm’s car held firm.

The chequered flag came out before anything could change, less than half a second between them.

The garage erupted in a ripple of noise - relief, approval, a slightly muted celebration.

“P3, that’s strong. Really strong,” one of the engineers said, already half-standing. “He's a good lad.”

Not the weekend they’d wanted, but still a podium.

You felt Sam shift slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Good drive,” he said.

It was, you thought, a flicker of pride cutting through the fog.

You watched as Joaquin’s car slowed on the cooldown lap,

Sam held out a headset. “He's been asking about you. Wanna congratulate him?”

You hesitated - just for a second.

Then pulled it over your ears. “Joaquin, that's P3! Great drive, lindo - I'm proud of you!”

“Woooo! Querida! Te extrañé, me da gusto que estés bien! I missed you out here, girlie.” His voice crackled faintly over the radio - excited, breathless, proud.

You smiled.

It came more easily this time.

His voice contained the kind of energy you knew by heart.

The kind you should’ve been part of.

Around you, the garage started to come alive again. The engineers hustled out of the garage and into the pitlane, making their way toward the podium.

You stayed where you were.

You reached out and wrapped your hands around your tea, long since gone lukewarm.

“Storm -” someone called, gesturing toward the monitors. “He’ll be buzzing if he sees you at the podium.”

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said.

Your voice sounded steady enough.

On screen, Joaquin climbed out of the car, punching the air as the crowd roared.

P3.

You exhaled slowly.

Then, with a small nod to yourself, you pushed up from the chair and out into the celebrations.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

Bucky had walked back from the medical bay in a daze.

He’d told himself that he needed to see you, to know you were OK.

You were, and it didn’t fix anything…

… And Kam - bright, brilliant Kam - who had spent her first five years at AGP doing for him exactly what she’d done for Storm.

She’d shown no remorse or hesitation in sending him away.

She’d given him a look he’d never seen before - not even when she’d visited him in hospital after his crash.

A look of pity.

He was disgusted in himself.

He’d only ever been there for himself.

The countless hours of therapy following his crash - examining every modicum of his psyche… It had taught him to recognise the patterns of his self-destruction, just not how to stop him from repeating them.

That sorry task remained with him, and despite his promises to himself to do better, he’d still walked in there trying to take control instead of giving it to you.

He’d trudged back to the Thunderbolt garage with a look so fierce even Martin Brundle gave him a wide berth.

The noise of the track followed him, the rain continued to seep through his racesuit and into his shoes.

He could hear snatches of commentary over the speakers, Walker well in the lead.

Your number was everywhere. Every other fan seemed to be wearing it.

The cold crept into his shoulder, making the seam between skin and vibranium ache.

He’d always been so precise and deliberate on track.

The colour of your helmet flashed in the corner of his eye.

He felt his head turn towards it, a beacon calling him.

Was that it? Had he turned toward you on track? Inadvertently angled the car in your direction just for a glimpse?

A couple of engineers reached out to shake his hand as he wandered past them through the garage.

“Shit happens, mate. Least you kept our car in one piece!” One joked.

“‘Bout time you got back,” Yelena’s shout stirred him from the pitwall.

He checked for cars coming in to box and crossed to meet her.

“Had to swing by medical.”

“Not for yourself,” she rolled her eyes.

Next to her, Bob moved into an empty seat and left a space for him next to Ava.

His right hand flexed on the back of the chair as he lifted himself into it.

His knuckles stung.

Split skin, already stiffening, dried blood pulled tight across his hands.

At first, he didn’t remember hitting anything.

Then it came back. The fog of anger and adrenaline he couldn’t process on his way out of the medical block.

He’d taken it out on something.

Old patterns.

He hadn’t felt the blood.

He felt the focus of the cameras though, the unmanned lens mounted to the Thunderbolt pitwall.

“You have a penalty in Monaco -” Yelena started, “and a fine for punching the security gate outside medical.”

He saluted the camera, knowingly showing his bloodied knuckles.

The garage was still loud behind him - cheers and voices rising as the team eagerly awaited Walker’s win.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll pay up,” he shrugged.

“We’ll need to rethink the race strategy -”

“Yep, I know.”

“Jesus, Bucky, could you fucking engage here? You’ve just derailed this weekend, and Monaco -”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he muttered bitterly. “Looks like Johnny’s got it handled. For once.”

She threw up her hands as he went to move, offering a nod to Bob as he left.

He couldn’t stay at the pit wall.

He’d tried for all of thirty seconds.

But the noise, the screens, the constant chatter in his ear, Yelena’s sniping, none of it landed. None of it stuck.

It just slid straight past him.

He was moving again before the end of the race - not wanting to see an ending he wasn’t part of.

From the garage, he briefly saw Walker take the win, the championship graphic shifting to bump him down the list into third overall.

And then the cameras cut to the AGP garage.

He finally got just a glimpse of you.

Drawn and tired, but watching. Smiling at Torres’ well-fought third place.

Alive and fine in a way that should make him feel relieved… instead it made the guilt worse, because you were fine despite him, not because of him.

He could hear the crowd getting louder as Walker pulled into parc ferme.

Around him, the crew began to assemble, ready to greet their winner at the podium, to celebrate.

Bucky wouldn’t be there.

As if someone at the FIA were watching him watching the screens, the crash footage ran again.

Then a cut to you standing in the rain, screaming at him.

I trusted you.

Your biting comment rang in his ears.

You always had.

That was the problem.

From the moment you’d appeared at the dusty kart track outside Brooklyn with a helmet that didn’t fit and knee pads that slid down every time you walked, you’d trusted him.

He was older, wiser, arrogant and smug.

A career plan he’d recited to you over lunch.

He’d recited it to himself every night before he went to sleep from the age of six.

Karting til I’m fourteen.

F4 for a couple of years, then F3, then F2.

Formula One by the time I’m twenty-one.

He’d been twenty-two.

Stepping into the second seat once Tony Stark retired and with a dominating Steve Rogers taking the number one car.

He’d won three world championships before you’d even made it to Formula One.

No team had wanted to be the first one to promote a woman into their cars.

Five years his junior, and more years in the lower stages under your belt.

You’d been Steve’s reserve driver first.

Then he’d moved on to your old team. It had been an intentional downshift. Bucky knew he wanted to coast his last couple of seasons while he held out for a senior role on Stark’s board - designing the cars rather than driving them.

Who better than an artist who knew every nut and bolt holding him off the track?

In the changes, you’d gone from always being right behind him to being up there next to him.

Ahead of him in so many ways.

He remembered your first Canadian race as an AGP driver.

He watched a wide stream of water make its way down the pitlane, people dodging the huge puddles on their way to the podium.

The rain had been just as relentless back then.

A three hour delay to the start of the race, drivers, engineers, mechanics all wandering around aimlessly, trying to keep themselves occupied.

Your solution had been paper boats.

He hadn’t understood it at first.

Hours to kill, a championship on the line, and you were tearing pages out of a notebook like a bored kid.

“C’mon,” you’d said, not even looking up at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to make one?”

He thought about it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever even tried before.

You’d even coloured in the paper - as much as you could with a narrow selection of ballpoint pens.

Each crease sharpened under your nails until the little boat stood proudly beneath the TV screens showing an impatient crowd.

You balanced little haribo bears inside as boat crew, then you crouched in the rain outside the garage.

It dripped down from the gutter and into the back of your racesuit, you’d squealed from the chill.

The little boat floated in the puddle running through the pitlane. With an official salute and a wave, you’d sent it down stream towards your former garage - Green Machine Racing Hulks - where Bruce and Steve eagerly awaited its arrival.

At it’s destination, Bruce stepped out to catch the boat and held it aloft with a grin.

“Hey, thanks Storm!”

You’d bounced on your heels, happy in the rain.

Ten minutes later, he’d had joined you with boat of his own, as had M’Baku and the Starmachine team of James Rhodes and Peter Quill.

Peter Parker had dug a whiteboard out from under one of the benches and was creating a leaderboard.

Bucky had laughed in pure disbelief as David Croft and the Sky F1 media team decided to televise the boat races, complete with commentary.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered from underneath an AGP umbrella.

“This is whimsy, Barnes,” you grinned. “Live a little!”

He’d seen you like this before - countless times - you’d always been so full of light and impossible to ignore.

But it hadn’t felt like this.

The rain blurred everything around you, turning the paddock into nothing but streaks of colour and movement, but you’d turned back to him and smiled.

Soft and unguarded.

It caught somewhere in his chest.

He’d known, of course. He wasn’t blind.

They way you hovered around him for just half a second too long, the way even after all these years your attention always circled back to him.

Subtle, but not as subtle as you thought.

He’d made a point not to encourage it. He kept everything above board, called you kiddo at every opportunity.

But you weren’t a kid.

And something had shifted.

You weren’t looking at him like he was untouchable anymore.

You were looking at him like you already had all of the answers.

He held your gaze for a moment too long…

Long enough to realise it - long enough to feel it.

Then he went back to the garage like nothing had happened.

The noise snapped him back to the present, a season where your relationship - whatever it had been, or could have been - had fractured beyond repair.

You no longer looked at him like you used to.

You looked straight through him.

He’d hoped to be hiding in the hospitality suite by the time the team returned from the podium, but the steady drips of rain had pulled his attention for too long.

Out in the pitlane, Walker stood with the trophy in his hands.

The mechanics around him cheered and laughed, clapping him on the back and opening bottles of beer.

Bucky turned to leave before he could be dragged into the celebrations.

“Hell of a call in the wet, Barnes,” Walker called.

Bucky stopped slowly.

Walker set the trophy down on a stack of tyres.

“Didn’t think you took risks like that anymore.”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“Guess you were wrong.”

The noise carried on around them, he heard the squeak of Walkers wet shoes on the polished floor as he took a step closer.

“They gave you ten seconds.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, he half turned, not quite enough to look Walker though. “Yeah.”

“That’s about right,” he nodded.

Bucky finally glanced at him. Walker held his gaze for a second, then looked past him instead.

“Brazil was… what? Five?”

There it was.

Bucky said nothing.

Walker huffed a humourless laugh.

“Wasn’t enough.”

No I’m sorry.

Not even close. Bucky’s hand flexed at his side, the split skin stinging as it pulled tight.

“No,” he said evenly. “It wasn’t.”

There was another pause as Walker shifted his weight, looking at the screens, the back of the garages - anywhere but directly at Bucky.

“She walked away.”

It was meant as reassurance.

You were fine.

Bucky’s expression didn’t change though.

“Yeah,” he said eventually.

But it didn’t sound like agreement.

Walked looked back at him. Frustrated with the nothing Bucky was giving him.

No anger, no absolution.

Just space.

Whatever it was, Walker swallowed it down again.

“It wasn’t enough,” he repeated, picking the trophy back up. “See you in Monaco.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Walker didn’t wait.

At the back of the garages, those not celebrating were packing.

A familiar figure leaned against the wall, out of sight of the media and away from the rain.

“If you’re here to chew me out -”

“Now why would I do that?” Sam said lightly. “It’s not like you took out my top driver today.”

Bucky bristled. “I went to apologise.”

“Yeah, I know. You know she won’t want to hear it though.”

Bucky nodded, the cold from the rain starting to sink into his racesuit. He hadn’t bothered changing after the crash.

“You look like shit, man.”

“Thanks, brother.”

He felt the pause as Sam looked around. Not uncertain, just waiting.

Sam was sure about everything.

“You got a ride back to the States?” he asked.

Bucky looked up sharply. “Just with the team,” he gestured toward the Thunderbolt garage.

Sam followed the movement, then let his gaze drift past it towards the AGP garage.

“Come on the Stark jet. We’ll talk on the way back.”

It wasn’t a request, or a suggestion.

Bucky hesitated. “I dunno, man… that feels like a bad idea.”

Sam didn’t reply.

“She’s gonna freak -”

“Don’t worry about Storm,” Sam cut in. “That’s my job.”

Something in his tone made Bucky look away.

“See you at the airfield,” he added. “We take off at ten.”

He walked past Bucky without a goodbye, heading for the small cluster of media outside the AGP motorhomes.

The hospitality suite was louder that it had been all afternoon.

Not with race tension, but something looser and more celebratory.

Walker’s win had settled in.

Bucky still barely registered it.

He cut through the back of the suite, already halfway out of his racesuit, ignoring the glances thrown his way - some curious, some cautious.

“Barnes.”

Yelena.

Of course.

He didn’t stop straight away.

She was leaning back against the coffee bar with her arms folded. Her expression was unreadable which usually meant she’d already worked out how angry with him she still was.

“You’re not going to the debrief,” she said.

Bucky pulled one arm free from the suit. “No.”

He shrugged. “Not much point when I didn’t finish the race, I got nothing to debrief.”

“You got somewhere else to be?”

“Yeah. I’ve got another ride back.”

Alexei let out a short laugh from somewhere behind her. “Of course. Winter Soldier need to decompress.”

Yelena tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“You’re going back with them,” she said simply.

Again - it wasn’t a question.

Bucky didn’t answer.

Something flickered across her expression - gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Frustration, again.

“Try not to punch anything on the way out,” she added dryly.

She glanced at his knuckles.

Bucky huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

He turned before she could say anything else.

“Eh, Barnes - try to extract some secrets from the opposition, da?” Alexei laughed, it boomed through the suite.

Bucky raised a hand in acknowledgement as he departed.

Behind him, the suite carried on celebrating.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

The AGP plane was already boarding by the time he got there.

Sam’s invitation didn’t feel like an olive branch - it felt more like a test, or a trap.

Maybe both.

He knew full well what would be sitting between them on that plane.

He climbed aboard the familiar Stark Industries jet to find Sam already pouring him a drink.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, one eyebrow raised.

He passed Bucky the glass and gestured to a seat.

“Didn’t feel like I really had a choice,” he admitted, setting his backpack down.

“You’ve always had choices, Buck.”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully.

“She here yet?”

“She was waiting on Joaquin. They’re on their way.”

Sam settled into a window seat, leaving the space across the table open for him.

Bucky didn’t sit.

His gaze drifted instead to the table further down the cabin.

The one he knew too well.

Where he’d sit with you and review every second of whichever race you’d been in that day.

He could almost hear it -

“You gotta hold the line there, babe - don’t leave the door open.”

“There’s a whole ass kerb there, Buck, that’s not my line!”

“You make it your line. Don’t give this guy an option.” He tapped the screen, pointing at the car edging alongside you. “Hold it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” you muttered, but you tucked yourself closer anyway, your head settling against his shoulder.

Your eyes slipped shut.

You smelled like shampoo and the insanely expensive moisturiser you’d taken to using… but underneath it there was still smell rubber and champagne.

“Earth to Bucky.”

The memory snapped, disappearing from reach.

He blinked.

“Sorry - what?”

Sam watched him carefully.

“I asked if you were gonna sit down,” he said mildly, “or if you’re planning on playing air hostess.”

“And here I thought pretty boy Joaquin had already filled that position.”

Your voice cut through the quiet cabin, precise and razor sharp.

Bucky turned to find you already halfway down the aisle, Joaquin followed just behind you.

“Damn right I’m pretty,” he quipped with an easy grin, taking no offense at your tone. “I look even better in a mini-skirt.”

You looked at Bucky for half a second, there was no warmth or hesitation.

He may as well have been a stranger.

“Sam,” you said, nodding once you reached the table.

“Hey Storm.” He gestured at the seat across from him, the one Bucky hadn’t yet taken. “You wanna sit?”

You didn’t.

Instead you reached out and took a bottle of water from the table.

“How’s the head?” Sam asked, stealing a glance at Bucky.

“I’ve had worse.”

You finally looked at Bucky again, taking him in from undamaged head to toe.

“I didn’t realise we were opening this flight up to guests,” you said with disdain.

Your gaze flicked to the end table, then away again like it meant nothing.

“C’mon cariño, let’s leave these guys to it,” Joaquin interrupted, nudging you gently. “You need to rest.”

You squeezed past Bucky and moved to the back of the cabin, as he followed, Joaquin held his hand out to Bucky.

“Good to see you, man. Tricky race,” he said sympathetically.

Sam grinned and shot Joaquin a wink.

“So, now you gonna sit?”

Bucky took the seat across from Sam, giving him a perfect view of the back of the cabin.

You’d already claimed the corner, your arms crossed on the table and your head resting on top.

Next to you, Joaquin took a deck of cards from the pocket of his jacket and dealt two each.

You moved sluggishly and picked up the cards.

Bucky’s hand tightened around the glass in his hand.

“Careful,” Sam said lightly. “That’s Stark’s crystal.”

Bucky didn’t look away.

“She’s not sitting up here?”

Sam followed his line of sight and watched as Joaquin beat you.

You rolled your eyes at his victorious laugh, but smiled anyway.

“Well she doesn’t want to sit with you,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat.

Bucky finally looked across the table.

Sam was already watching him.

Above him, the seatbelt light flicked on and Bucky felt the jet rumbling underneath him.

“So you gonna keep staring, or you actually wanna talk about what happened out there?”

Bucky sighed.

“It was a mistake, the rain -”

“Right, the rain.”

Bucky’s voice dropped. “You think I woulda done something like that on purpose? C’mon Sam, I thought we were friends -”

“Are friends, Buck. Just cos you moved teams… we’ve got a lot of history. I don’t want to lose that.”

An uneasy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the occasional laugh from the back of the cabin and the rush of air outside as the plane gathered speed on the runway.

Sam let the glass rest loosely in his hand.

“You know what nearly broke this team?”

Bucky watched the comfortable shorthand you had with Joaquin, the same as the one you used to share with him.

“Tony Stark’s ego?”

“Funny, but no.”

Bucky didn’t respond, just looked back down the cabin.

“Winning stopped being enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, bringing his attention back to the table.

The plane turned, tilting to show the city of Montreal lit up in the night sky.

“It means,” Sam said carefully, “it stopped being about racing.”

He took his own opportunity to look back at you, still quietly chatting with Joaquin, your eyes getting heavier.

You moved gingerly, your arms drawn around you to protect your ribs, the bruises he couldn’t see.

“We didn’t change because we got soft,” Sam said. “We changed because we almost lost her.”

“She’s fine,” Bucky said.

Sam didn’t look at him.

“No,” he said quietly. “She isn’t.”

Bucky exhaled, impatiently. “She walked away.”

“I know.”

He looked back at Bucky shrewdly.

“But you didn’t see her last year.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Silence stretched between them.

“She thought she had something to prove,” he said at last. “To the media. To the paddock.”

“She didn’t -”

“To you.”

That stopped him.

“She stopped pacing herself,” Sam said. “She stopped listening. Every run had to be faster than the last one. Every lap had to be cleaner, tighter.”

Bucky looked down at his hands, then up at you.

Joaquin was still talking, filling the silence, but Bucky could tell you weren’t really listening.

You nodded at the right moments, detached until Joaquin sighed and with a soft smile, opened his arms out to you.

You slotted in easily, your head on his heart while he continued to talk.

Bucky didn’t look away quickly enough.

The warmth Torres gave you was effortless.

Something Bucky had long since lost the right to.

He turned away, back to Sam who watched him intently.

“She wouldn’t let it get like that.”

“She did. She wasn’t driving to win anymore,” Sam added. “It was like she was trying to exorcise you somehow -”

There was a long pause as Sam stopped himself.

“We used to let that kind of thing slide,” he went on. “Stark thought it was what made champions.”

“What changed?” Bucky asked, quietly.

Sam finally looked at him.

“She did.”

Another beat.

“She scared the hell out of all of us,” he said. “Tony included, he damn near staged an intervention. That’s why she spent her summer break at a wellness retreat.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“We had to decide what kind of team we were going to be,” Sam said. “Because if we kept going the way we were…”

He didn’t finish it.

He didn’t need to.

Bucky swallowed.

“I’m the reason she’s even here”

Sam looked up sharply.

“The hell you are, don't flatter yourself.”

He shook his head and looked out of the window.

“I would've signed her before you,” he added quietly. “You really think you were the reason we met? I'd been watching her since day one.”

Bucky didn't interrupt.

“You didn’t put her in that seat. I did. And you may remember her being easy, but she wasn’t. She's worked just as hard as anyone else on that grid.”

Joaquin slid into the empty seat beside Sam.

Bucky looked down the cabin where he could just about see your sleeping form laying across the chairs.

“You weren't there, hombre. You pushed her away, we picked up the pieces. If you're mad about that, that's on you.” Joaquin shrugged as if it were the most simple truth of all.

Delivered to him by someone who may as well have been a complete stranger.

Sam took a long drink, then reached for the bottle in the table.

“Bet you don't get this kind of moral support from the Thunderbolts,” he teased.

Bucky didn't reply.

He couldn't bring himself to admit that Sam, and Joaquin, were right.

It felt - you felt - so far removed now from the life he'd known.

He looked over at you. Asleep under Torres's jacket. Your face finally unguarded in a way it hadn't been with him since before Mexico.

“She's gonna race in Monaco, isn't she?”

Sam didn't answer straight away.

"Get some sleep, Buck."

Driver Standings after Canada:

@shameless-klutz , @idgasb , @onlyedenn , @missvelvetsstuff , @scarletkanami ,

@phoenix-in-writing , @thegirlwhowaited5everok , @totallysocially , @mishkatelwarriorgoddess , @manly-man-whore ,

@eterna1reverie , @stesha02 , @mrsnikstan , @nexxen24 , @sebastians-love ,

@straight4buckybarnesbutimgay , @frothy-tart , @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger , @werewolfgirl1995 , @avengersfan25 ,

@kaybee87 , @quantumlethe , @1dluver13xx , @bumbling-beaa , @cutttteeee ,

@indigo123789 , @anyzandy , @kimtallet , @singulartoast , @skxawngg ,

@bartonsparrow25 , @evalynkillgrave , @spring-soldier , @sleepysnoopyhughes , @idkbeautiful

@bleedingmetalarm , @floraf1ln , @kararchives , @weasleyswizarding-wheezes , @lives-in-midgard,

Then the crowd shifted. The chant changed - your name echoing up from the stands as you walked into view. He heard it, of course he did.

When you passed his garage, he caught your eye and smiled.

"Hey! Happy race weekend."

He went to reach for you, but seemed to second guess himself at the last minute.

You forced your smile. Forced normalcy. You had to for your own sanity.

"Hey Bucky. Welcome back."

An F1 official photographer almost barrelled you over in his hurry to get you to stop on your way to your own garage. “Hey! Hey! Can we get a picture of you guys? Teammates turned rivals?”

“It’s not… that’s not what this is,” you tried to tell him, but the noise from Bucky’s car firing up swallowed your voice.

“Don’t say that, man,” Bucky told him, far louder than you had, “it’s not like that.”

“Sure, whatever you say. Bit closer?” He pinched his fingers together and you found yourself stepping into the place that had always felt so familiar, so perfect. Tucked into Bucky’s right hand side. His hand dropped to your waist. After a few clicks of his camera, the photographer spotted his next victim and went sprinting down the pit lane.

Bucky squeezed a little tighter. “S’good to see you.”

“You too. You on the media sheet today?”

He scoffed. “Of course, first race back. Why wouldn’t I want to relive the crash that nearly killed me for a few soundbites?”

“You should tell Shostakov to hold questions on the crash.”

“He’s not gonna do that, babe,” your heart fluttered against your will at the old endearment. Something from a past life. When you’d been much closer to something than you were now.

“Sam would,” you said quietly.

Sam had spent the best part of a year shutting down every journalist who even thought about asking you about the crash, the aftermath, your relationship with Bucky then… your relationship with him now.

“Yeah, well,” he shifted on his feet, guilt crossing his face. “Get ready for us to be labeled mortal enemies from now on.”

“If the shoe fits,” you shrugged.

He clutched his heart dramatically. “You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe not. But I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

“Lookin’ forward to it, sweetheart.” He winked. Over his shoulder you could see his teammate, John Walker, scowling.

“You’d better go, looks like your new number 2 isn’t quite as amenable as I was.”

For a brief second, he looked guilty.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few hours.”

You nodded and left him, standing in the lines of his pit box, his eyes following you to the next garage where your team, your car were waiting.

Avengers GP.

Your garage decked out in sleek black and papaya, kitted out and ready for the first Friday of the racing season. Music pumping through the speakers and engineers swarming around with huge smiles.

The warm Australian summer sun was slipping into something more autumnal and lit up the garage making everything feel shiny and new.

Whoever decided to put this as the first race of the calendar knew exactly what they were doing.

More relaxed and carefree than some of the other races, you were grateful for the laid-back attitude Melbourne brought.

The ideal first race back from a long break.

Your car - the AGP1 - sat waiting for you, idle for now but ready for the first of the three weekend free practice sessions. Your set-up would be fine tuned to give you ideal performance on track.

“Here she is!” Your teammate grinned, jumping down from the counter running along his side of the garage.

“Heyyy!” You laughed, letting him wrap his arms around your waist and swing you.

“Torres, put her down. Last thing I need is my best driver to get injured on the first weekend.”

Joaquin Torres did exactly as he was told and you turned your attention to your team principal, Sam Wilson.

“Hey boss,” you stepped in for a hug that he hadn’t quite been expecting. Publicly, yours was the epitome of a professional boss/employee relationship, but privately, the last year had changed you both.

He’d picked you up and put you back together when Bucky had pushed you away to focus on his rehabilitation. He’d carefully let you push yourself to the brink last season - your first as his number one driver.

He’d sanctioned the endless physical and mental training, the simulation time, allowed you to manage jetlag and the weight of everything that went into your car.

He paid the fines without a word when you neglected your press duties.

And he hadn’t said I told you so when it still hadn’t been enough.

And he hadn’t called you out for falling out of love with the sport by the end of the season.

All he asked was that this year, you trust him to do his job and leave you to race.

“You good?” He asked, his arms coming around you. You nodded into his chest.

“Yep, just needed a Sam Wilson special.” You held a little tighter.

“He looks shit in red,” Sam whispered. “And you’re gonna put him in the dirt.”

You laughed weakly, a little watery. “He’s still your best friend, Sam.”

“Sure, yours too,” he shrugged, “and I love him. But when we’re in the paddock, you’re my driver.”

You opened your mouth - some quip about team loyalty on the tip of your tongue - but his arms stayed firmly around you.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

Next to the telemetry screens, Joaquin coughed. “What am I, huh? Nothin’?”

With a laugh, Sam let you go and squeezed his shoulder, “Torres, you ain’t nothin’ but a pain in my ass.”

“You don’t mean that,” you scolded, nudging Sam.

“I don’t mean that.” He agreed, looking Joaquin firmly in the eye keeping a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’m kidding, you’re the heartbeat, man. Without you, we’re nothing.”

Joaquin beamed and turned to you, “guess that makes you the heart attack, cariño.” He laughed, dodging the flick of your hand.

“I’ll give you a heart attack, guapo!”

“It's a better nickname than The Storm!” He teased. He blew you a kiss and ducked into his driver’s room for his helmet and gloves.

“Kam’s got your suit ready, go get kitted up. I want you in that car.” Sam told you. “Best way we show we don’t need him is on track.”

“You’re right,” you nodded firmly, determination setting in. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

In your small driver’s room at the back of the garage, Kamala Khan, team support and all-round angel, had laid out your kit.

You toed off sneakers and peeled off your jeans, swapping for flame-resistant Nomex leggings tucked into socks, then you pulled on your long sleeved base layer - also fire-resistant and adorned in various sponsor logos.

Finally, you pushed your legs into your overalls. Black and papaya with the Avengers GP name printed down your leg.

You left the suit unzipped to your waist and gathered up your gloves, balaclava and helmet.

Joaquin was already stepping into his car when you entered the garage.

“Try not to make me look too slow, cielo, yeah?” He gave you a salute and slid down into the cockpit.

Giving him a wave, you carried on with the lengthy process of dressing for the track. On went the balaclava, carefully feeding through your earpieces.

Around you, an engineer checked for bare skin, making sure the wrists of your top were pulled right down. You slipped your arms into the suit and pulled the zip, panels covering the full length of it.

Your race boots tucked into the ankles of the suit, the rubber sole so thin it felt like your feet were bare. From behind you, your engineer passed you your helmet and started hooking up your HANS device - the plastic contraption designed to keep you from whiplash and worse in the event of a crash.

Your gloves, fitted with sensors ready to transmit your pulse and blood oxygen levels back to the teams, went on last.

You sat in the car, fingers curled tight around the wheel as the mechanics gave the final signal.

"Radio check," A voice crackled in your ear.

"Copy."

"Box out, track is green."

"Understood."

The roar of the engine swallowed everything else. Out of the pit lane, the world narrowed to the width of the track and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

When you glimpsed a flash of red in your mirrors - Bucky’s car - your jaw tightened. You pushed the throttle a little harder.

“Avenger 1, pace looks good,” Sam’s voice called. Calm and steady. "Let's keep it clean, we’re gonna run through the set up. Warm up two laps."

"Copy. Let me know sectors."

You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the pride. You were his driver now. His number one.

You pushed through the run plan, the car hummed beneath you like a living thing. A few flying laps, a few long-run laps, some data collection.

"We're seeing a bit of understeer, try a bit more front wing for me?”

“Copy. Trying a different line through turn 3.”

The car bent to your every whim, an extension of your body.

“She feels good, Sam, I’m happy.” You confirmed as you took the car up to 200kmph.

“Copy that. Box this lap, let’s look at the data.”

Back in the garage, you climbed out, unzipping your suit halfway as Kamala handed you water.

“You’re P1 on the timesheets,” she said brightly. “Sam’s waiting in the back room.”

“Thanks Kam,” you nodded. You heard the murmurs through the garage - Bucky’s name, his pace, Walker’s pace - but you didn’t look.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

The rest of your morning was a whirlwind. The first race of the season meant that everyone was under scrutiny. New teammates, old rivalries, and rookie racers all led to uncertainty.

You were one of the driver representatives for the interviews that day. Clearly chosen by F1 for your proximity to Bucky. His first race back after the crash, his first full race weekend with the Thunderbolts. No longer your teammate, publicly being referred to as your rival, all catalysts for a media wet dream.

"Don’t tell me you’re nervous," Joaquin teased, leaning in close enough for only you to hear as you lingered with a protein shake in the hospitality area.

You snorted. "Not about the car."

Sam raised a brow from across the garage, catching your eye. You knew he knew. Knew exactly what you meant.

The TV screens above the pit wall were already cycling through pre-race interviews with just about everyone in the paddock, showing highlights from Free Practice 1. You spotted the bright Thunderbolts red on one feed - Bucky, head bowed as he adjusted his cap, eyes darting away from the camera as he headed out of his garage.

Your chest went tight.

"Media pen in ten," a comms staffer called.

Torres squeezed your shoulder. "Knock ‘em dead."

"Always," you said, twisting your mouth into a grin. But the second you turned away, your fingers flexed, restless.

With a quick glance at the screen, F1TV was once again replaying footage from Bucky's crash with the ticker underneath reading “Bucky Barnes to discuss horror crash - - - Avengers GP tops timesheets in FP1.” Your stomach churned seeing yourself on screen, kneeling beside his unconscious body, screaming for help, and covered in blood. Bile rose in your throat and you turned away.

You'd never talked about it with him.

In over a year, neither of you had mentioned it.

You didn't know if he'd heard you pleading with him to live, or if he'd listened to the audio from either of your headsets. You’d chosen not to.

You hadn't even asked if he'd avoided the replays in the same way you had.

Over a year later and you’d seen nothing but the pale, shocked faces from the fans in the stands. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at his mangled car.

You hadn’t really been in the same room as him in almost a year. Not without Sam as a buffer or, like that morning, surrounded by colleagues and press.

After the race you'd stayed by his bedside until Sam had dragged you away. You'd been the one to escort him home.

A week in a Brazilian hospital and then a private jet back to the States and the finest medical services readily available.

As the team owner, Tony Stark had spared no expense or expertise.

With only three races to the end of the season, you hadn't slept between staying with him during the week, and racing every other weekend.

It had almost been a relief when John Walker had won the Championship, taking enough points in those last three races to just overtake Bucky in the standings. Bucky had slipped to second, and you’d taken third.

And then Bucky had started to isolate himself from you.

Not from Sam. Only you.

And you'd let him. You'd thrown yourself into preparing for the new season.

For being Sam's number one driver.

You stifled the guilt at leaving Bucky behind by doing everything in your power to take the fight to John Walker, trying to get back at him for taking the Championship from a man lying in a hospital bed.

And despite consuming your body, mind and heart, it hadn’t been enough.

The press room was a converted hospitality suite above the pit lane, glaringly bright under the LED lights. You could hear the muffled roar of fans below, the shrill trill of an engine doing pit stop practices.

They sat you side by side on the narrow stage, the sponsor backdrop behind you.

A journalist from Sky F1 leaned forward first, the microphone practically trembling in her hand.

"Bucky, welcome back. You’ve spoken before about your rehabilitation, but... The last time we saw you two together, it was, well - dramatic. You were both literally covered in blood. Can you talk us through how that’s affected your relationship now? Does it change the rivalry dynamic?"

A murmur of voices rippled through the room.

You could feel Bucky glance sideways at you. You kept your gaze forward, fingers tight on your water bottle.

He cleared his throat. "Well… I’m grateful to be here at all. To be alive. And she -" He stopped. You didn’t move. "She’s a big reason why I got through it."

Another reporter cut in immediately, eager for a viral soundbite.

"So no bad blood then? Even now that you're rivals on track?"

Your voice was flat, rehearsed. "I’ve always respected Bucky as a driver and a teammate. I plan to respect him as a rival, too."

He turned toward you slightly then, his leg bouncing restlessly. He searched your face, but you didn’t give him anything - not a smile, not a nod.

"And what about the emotional side? There were rumours you were romantically close before the accident. Some people even combined your nicknames to ‘The Winter Storm -"

"I don’t really read the headlines," you interrupted sharply. You heard Bucky exhale beside you. "We’re here to race. We've raced on different teams since we were kids. We’ve actually raced on different teams a lot longer than we were on the same team. That's it."

A silence hung in the room.

Then the PR handler forced a smile. "Next question, please."

A different journalist cleared his throat, eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he was hunting for a weak spot.

“Given everything you two have been through, do you think it’ll affect your approach on track? Are you worried about giving each other space? Any hesitation going wheel-to-wheel?”

Bucky leaned forward, his jaw tight. “I don’t plan on giving anyone space. Least of all her.”

You didn’t smile.

You adjusted your mic. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win races.”

Someone else jumped in, smelling blood. “So it is personal, then?”

Your fingers curled around the bottle again. You felt the plastic start to buckle.

“Not at all,” you said, sharply. “It’s professional.”

“Bucky, did you ever consider returning to AGP? I know you’re close with Sam Wilson?”

“No. During my year out I realised it was time for me to move on.”

Beside you, he turned just slightly, his mouth parted like he might add something. But he stopped himself.

The attention turned back to you.

“You seem to get on very well with Joaquin Torres, how different is he as a teammate?”

At that, you did smile.

Pride laced your voice. “Joaquin is the best teammate. He's such a natural on track, and he's really had my back this last year.”

The journalist looked back at Bucky who frowned, “Bucky, looking a little pensive there. Sure there’s no regrets?”

“None.”

The press handler clapped their hands, cutting through the tension. “OK! We’ll wrap there - thank you both for your time.”

There was a polite murmur of applause along with the flurry of cameras clicking.

You could feel his stare burning into your back as you walked off the small stage, your water bottle clutched so tight your knuckles went white.

Outside the press room, you pressed into the narrow hallway that led to back down to the garages. You moved quickly, your head down.

“Hey -” His voice, low and rough, behind you.

You didn’t slow.

“Stop, please -” Bucky called again, closer now. You felt his fingers catch lightly at your arm - not enough to really stop you, just enough to make you feel it.

You wrenched free without turning. “Don’t.”

“Come on,” he hissed, low, his footsteps echoing behind you. “Can we just - can we talk for a second?”

You reached the steps, holding back to let a group of people up first.

“Please,” he tried again, softer now. “I just -”

“Not now, Bucky,” you sighed. “I've got to get ready for FP2.”

You skipped downstairs and out into the pit lane, heart hammering.

He waited. Like he might follow you to his old garage. But he didn’t.

You slipped in past your car and into your room. Pressing your forehead to the cool inner wall, your breath came in ragged pulls, your hand still crushing the bottle.

There wasn’t time enough to recover, to wallow. Kamala was already in the room laying out your race gear again for the next session on track.

“Wow, you OK? You look -”

“I’m OK. You know what press day is like, and it’s the first race. It’ll get better.” you muttered.

“Did they ask about the crash?”

“It’s pretty much all they asked about.”

Kamala watched you carefully, her fingers paused on the folded balaclava. “They really don’t know when to quit.”

You sank into the narrow bench, elbows on your knees. “They want blood,” you said quietly. “They always want blood. It’s why they replay crashes from every possible angle, over and over. They claim to hate the danger, but love everything it sells.”

Kamala hesitated. Then, softer, “Do you want me to shut the door? Tell them you need some time before FP2?”

You shook your head. “No. We don’t hide. We race.”

Kamala smiled, a small proud curve of her mouth. “That’s my girl.” She dropped a hand to your shoulder, squeezed. “I’ll give you a minute.”

When she left, the silence pressed in. Your fingers flexed restlessly in your lap. You thought about his hand on your waist earlier, his fingers curling like he didn’t want to let go. The look he’d given you when they’d asked about Joaquin - like he was trying to remember the reasons he left, rather then the ones that made him want to stay.

You slammed your palms down suddenly on the bench, the sound sharp in the small room. You couldn’t sit still.

Before you knew it, you were already out the door, down the paddock in the space between garages and team areas, weaving past team staff and crates of tyres.

By the time you reached the Thunderbolts motorhome, your breath was coming hard and your hands were shaking.

A young comms assistant tried to stop you at the steps. “Ma’am, he’s not -”

You didn’t even slow down, cameras flashed as you pulled open the door to the rival hospitality suite and marched through the public areas to the drivers rooms at the back.

You weren’t really sure where you were going, but you daren’t let anyone realise it.

Inside a narrow corridor you found a room with his name on the front. He was in the small lounge space, half into his fire suit, head in his hands.

He looked up sharply when you burst in, eyes wide.

You stopped just inside the door, chest heaving.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snapped.

He stood quickly, hands up like he could calm you. “Hey -”

“No,” you cut him off, voice rising. “You don’t get to act like we’re fine. Like I’m fine. You left me. You pushed me out when I was the only one who -”

His jaw clenched. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? From you?” You barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Newsflash, Bucky - I didn’t need protecting. I needed my teammate. My -” You stopped yourself just in time.

A tense silence yawned open between you.

His gaze softened, like he heard the word you didn’t say. “I know. I know I hurt you.”

You turned away, pressing your palms to your eyes. “You don’t know anything.”

A beat. His voice dropped, rough and low. “I missed you every single day.”

You let out a shaky breath, shoulders curling inward with your own guilt.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

"We’re still friends, right?" He asked, just as quietly. Desperately.

"Of course, Buck," you sighed. "And I tried to be around last year as much as I could -"

"I know, it’s OK. Look, maybe we both had a hand in this. You had to take the lead for Sam, and I used that as an excuse to push you away. You did the right thing."

"You didn’t have to move teams," you said bitterly, your voice cracking more than you liked.

"You couldn’t go back to being a number two driver, doll. You’re too good for that."

When you finally looked back at him, your eyes were glassy, your jaw set. “I have to get ready.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You stepped back out the door, leaving him standing alone.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

He couldn’t bear it. Not being able to reach out and touch you.

You felt so far away and he laid the guilt for that at his own feet.

Sam had needed you for those last races after his accident, to protect the Constructors Championship - the one that gave him a decent budget for the year - and potentially to stop Walker from taking the Driver’s Championship.

He’d watched you work yourself into the ground, going from his bedside to circuits. Not even close to home, those last few races were half a world away.

Sam had let you stay by his side as late as possible each time, and then he’d switch on the TV and see you stalking through the paddock, dark glasses hiding the circles under your eyes, you’d go through the motions on track, and then leave again immediately to be back by his side by the Monday morning. For those last five weeks, it had exhausted you.

And then Walker had taken the Championship by a single point.

He watched you on the TV, blank faced on the last podium of the season. You’d stormed off before the champagne showers and thrust your trophy into Sam’s arms.

Then you’d returned to Bucky’s side and, thinking he was sleeping, cried for hours.

So he let you go.

Pushed you away towards the track where you could direct your anger and frustration and channel it into a language you both understood - racing.

Winning.

He hadn’t meant for it to be permanent.

When he let go, he thought he was making space for you to heal. For you to focus on what you loved.

But the space had turned into a chasm.

You'd filled the off-season with training, determined to get the title back from Walker.

Sam even told him as much, “she said it shoulda been yours, man, she wants it back - for you.”

So he watched you step into that new role with AGP - no longer his protege, no longer just covering for a few races, no longer shielding him from the worst of the politics and media. You were the tip of the spear now. You carried it so well it looked effortless, but he knew better.

He knew you.

He’d seen your hands tremble before going out for a wet weather qualifying session. He’d held your helmet steady for you when your fingers couldn’t. He’d memorised the tiny crease between your brows when you were still running race simulations in your head at midnight.

It was easier when you were both fighting the same enemy. Now? Now he wasn’t sure what he was fighting for anymore.

And he couldn't remember the crash.

He'd seen it afterwards, from every possible angle, but even then he didn't see himself, he watched you.

The fear in your eyes, the blood covering your race suit, your cheeks streaked with tears, sweat, and grime. He never wanted to see you like that again.

But that was then.

He couldn’t hold the crash in his mind before he was due to get out in the car again.

Twenty-four hours on from the free practice sessions, everything at Albert Park was louder, bigger and more electric.

It was qualifying day - his first real on-track confrontation since the crash.

The stakes were raised, the testing laps were over, no more simulations.

Just a chance to claim the front row and show everyone he was still the man to beat.

He couldn't get you out of his head. It may have felt like the first time he'd seen you, but in reality he'd followed your every move for the last year. Glued to every race, sent his congratulations via Sam after every win.

The season should have been yours.

Now, he was not only teammates with your biggest track rival - the man who'd won the last two seasons - he was also here to prove himself. To fight you for every point.

He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

The garage felt too small, too loud. His heartbeat rattled in his ribs like a loose wheel nut.

John paced, getting himself psyched up.

“You're better than her, faster than her,” he spat, mostly to himself.

"One minute," Yelena's voice crackled in his ear.

Bucky flexed his fingers on the wheel.

You were already on track, your out-lap sector times lighting up green on the big screen in front of the engineers.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching.

You were so smooth - every micro correction in the steering, the millimetre-perfect lines through the last chicane. You made it look so easy.

His jaw locked.

"Alright, Bucky. Push push. Let’s get out there."

The lollipop man dropped the sign, and Bucky released the clutch, feeling the car surge forward, the bark of the engine echoing off the pit walls.

Out of the pit lane, up the hill. Tyres weaving, still slippery from lack of use. His brakes spiking red-hot as he made the car hop and twist to warm everything up.

He tried to clear his head.

Sector one: purple.

A memory of three years previously came to mind, you standing on the pegs at the back of his pushbike, hands on his shoulders as he rode around the track.

“Next year, you're drivin’,” he huffed.

Somewhere, in the noise between gears and the squeal of the brakes, he thought he heard you whisper his name. But he was already pushing past it, already lying to himself.

Sector two: green.

Two years ago, a run around the track.

“C'mon, it's only 5k. Let's blow off the jetlag,” you'd teased, the view of your short shorts just ahead of him pushing him through each kilometer.

Then Yelena’s voice pulling him into the present: "Good job, keep it tidy. She’s on a cool-down lap now, she'll be on a hot lap after. Focus on your own run."

As if he could.

Every apex he hit, he imagined your car’s nose in his mirrors. Every straight, he felt you closing in, even if you were no where near him on track.

Yelena was in his ear at each sector, giving him the delta to your previous fastest lap.

Across the line - provisional P1.

“Great job, Bucky! Still both AGP cars to come in, Torres is a fraction behind you.”

He didn't ask about you. He didn't need to.

The crowd roared above the pit straight.

Three corners into his cool-down lap Torres was confirmed in provisional P2.

Your time came in seconds later. P1. By a tenth of a second. It pushed him into P2 and Torres into P3.

He finished the lap, entered the pit lane and brought the car to a halt in front of the number 2 board.

You swept down the lane a minute later with Torres right behind, pulling up on his left in parc fermé.

He didn't rush to get out of the car, he fiddled with the steering wheel and his harness so he could watch you for a moment longer.

You climbed gracefully out of the car, stepping over the halo and onto the front of the car, one finger raised in the air, helmet still on.

The stands vibrated with noise, press shouted your name - barely heard.

Next to your car, Torres waited before putting an arm around your waist and lifting you down from the car.

You held his helmet in both hands and bumped the foreheads of carbon fibre together, both bouncing on the balls of your feet.

You got weighed and by the time the data had been recorded, Bucky had finally moved from his car.

You pulled off your helmet and balaclava, beaming at Sam who'd come to the barriers. You launched at him, hugging him tightly over the metal railing.

As he finally stepped away from his car, Sam caught his eye over the barriers and called his name.

Bucky forced a small smile, peeling off his gloves. He moved toward Sam, who clapped a big hand on his shoulder.

"Good run, man," Sam said, voice warm but careful. "Tomorrow's a new fight. You still got it."

Bucky nodded, eyes flicking past Sam to you. You were laughing, your arm still draped around Torres’s shoulders.

“Thanks buddy, it's good to see you.”

Then he felt your gaze snap to him, sudden and sharp as a blade.

For a split second, everything else faded - the pit noise, the mechanics, the cameras.

You stepped forward, stopping just shy of him.

"Nice lap," you said. Your voice was steady, but your eyes were burning, bright and unreadable.

He opened his mouth, but the words stuck so he nodded instead. His jaw clenched and he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Before he could try again, you'd already turned, helmet swinging at your side as you followed Torres toward the interview pen.

He stood there for a moment, his own helmet hanging limply from his hand.

“Bucky!” Yelena called from the barrier, she shook Sam's hand warmly and then reached for him. “You did so good! We're so proud of you!”

Behind her, Alexei Shostakov towered over the gathered mechanics and engineers.

“Winter Soldier still has the balls!” He cried gleefully. “Biiiiig racing balls!”

Yelena wielded her iPad, “I've got the data coming through, debrief in thirty minutes, you'd better get to the interviews.”

He turned to follow you, catching up just as Torres slung his arm around your shoulder.

He may have been second on the grid, but he felt like he’d lost something much bigger than a pole position.

Tomorrow, your car would be by his side, but unlike old times, one of you would have to break first. He just hoped it wouldn't be him.

He took his place on your left side for the qualifying photographs, his hand slotting around your waist.

Heat radiated from you, your hair was damp with sweat under the team baseball cap.

“How did that feel?” Ted Kravitz called out from the press pack.

“So great! The car feels good, Joaquin did a fantastic job setting me up for the hot lap. Perfect start to the season.” You grinned infectiously.

“Not sure I'm gonna like being sandwiched between two AGP's tomorrow, but I'm happy with how close I got to pole,” Bucky added.

“We gotta be sharp tomorrow, I'm sure Barnes is gonna be ready to hit that first corner, and I'm gonna have Walker right behind me,” Torres said diplomatically. “Can't get ahead of ourselves yet.”

Finally, he was dismissed. He watched you dart down the paddock laughing with Torres.

The Thunderbolts garage was buzzing at their P2 and P4 qualifications, but it wasn't all with excitement.

Bucky could feel the frustration radiating from Walker's side of the garage. His teammate brooded in a corner, only half listening to Ava Starr’s patient analysis.

“Here comes my man! P2! Almost there!” Alexei hollered. “You were slower than the little AGP mouse, but we will catch her, da?" His big bear hug nearly knocked Bucky off balance.

“Alright, back room, let’s go,” Yelena called juggling her iPad and headset.

Walker dragged himself away from the TV feed with a scowl, muttering under his breath.

In the cramped briefing room, they squeezed around the small conference table, the air thick with adrenaline.

“Walker, I’ve got your hot lap compared to Torres -” Bob started.

“I want to see hers,” Walker cut in sharply. “Put me up against her.”

“There’s no point,” Yelena snapped, barely glancing up. “You lost too much on sector one exit. You pulled it back, but it’s closer to Torres than to her.”

“This how you're gonna treat your number one driver?” Walker bristled, leaning forward. “Let’s not forget who’s won the last two seasons, huh?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such an ass -” Yelena started under her breath.

Alexei’s palm slammed the table, rattling water bottles.

“Enough! We are team. We are family,” he barked. Then, more quietly, he added, “We welcome Bucky to our family.”

Walker slumped back, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before he folded his arms tight to his chest.

“Bob, show data,” Alexei ordered.

Walker’s lap filled the left screen, Torres’s on the right. Bucky watched carefully, quietly clocking where Walker hesitated. In his mind, he was already planning where he'd have to defend from Torres on track.

“You can stay on the throttle longer there,” he pointed, tapping the screen where Walker eased off too soon.

“Yeah? Doesn’t feel like it,” Walker muttered, elbows on his knees, chin down.

“No, trust me. Nudge it to 220, maybe 230. Car can take it.”

“Aha! Big balls! I tell you, he has big balls!” Alexei roared, beaming. “Listen to him. Now we see your lap, my friend.”

Bob switched screens, bringing up Bucky’s own lap. For a heartbeat, Bucky looked at the wrong feed.

The familiar AGP cockpit pulled his eyes, but it was your gloves on the wheel. He realised too late he was watching your onboard, seeing the track through your eyes.

"She’s always quick off the line," he muttered, low, almost to himself, unable to look away as your car nosed ahead of his.

He watched the subtle twitch of your wrists, your line through the last corner. Something deep and tight stirred in his chest, something that wasn’t just envy.

It was the precision, the attention to detail, the fearless commitment that made you untouchable on track - and that tightened something hotter and darker deep in his gut.

He’d memorised your race data. The subtle shifts in your body language before you did something you knew was risky, the way you used every inch of the track. But there was a different set of stats he craved - how your breath would hitch if he kissed your throat, the arch of your back under his hands, the exact moment your voice broke as you moaned his name.

Those were the data points he didn’t have.

The ones he wanted most.

“Alright,” Yelena’s voice cut through. “Turn one entry, you were three kph down from your last sim. Good chicane, but you lost time on the exit.”

He tried to focus, he really did. But behind his eyes, all he could see was you: bumping helmets with Torres, one arm lifted, bright smiling eyes behind your visor.

And the deepest cut of all was knowing that he wouldn’t be the one to catch you fresh from the car anymore, high on adrenaline and laughter, close enough to touch.

His hands balled into fists, his newer Vibranium arm ached to the point of painful. The stress testing hadn’t been enough.

“Sector two was good, but you lost time here,” she pointed, “and again here.”

Bucky heard her, but in his head, all he could see was you celebrating on top of your car, your joy ringing out of parc fermé.

When Yelena asked a question, he switched his attention to her half a second too late.

“Understeer. Or over. I'm sorry, I -”

“Next time, you get her! Or we accidentally loosen a wheel nut, da?” Alexei grinned, saving him.

As the footage on screen came to an end, familiar voices on the radio filled the small room.

“That's P1, baby!” Sam sounded jubilant.

“Woooooo!” You cheered. “Amazing lap guys, thank you!”

“Proud of you, what'd I tell you?”

“Love you, Sammy,” your voice quivered with emotion and something hit him like a wave.

It sounded so familiar. The tone was wrong, but there was something so real about the words.

Bucky stood abruptly to leave, only Yelena’s gentle hand on his arm stopping him.

"Focus on your run, solnyshko. We'll get her tomorrow."

"Don't worry, soldier boy, I’ll keep her off your back.” Walker cut in sharply. Bucky felt his jaw tense.

“Yeah, how you gonna do that from three places back, Johnny?” He bit.

A mistake. The relationship was too new, too fresh for him to retaliate like that.

He swallowed down anything more.

Yelena scowled at Walker, he held up his hands in false apology and slipped back to the garage.

She turned back to Bucky. "Hey, your data is strong, OK? We’ll sharpen it overnight and you’ll fight tomorrow."

His smile didn't feel entirely fake, but he wasn't sure it was honest either.

Surrounded by voices he only half recognised, unfamiliar data, and in-jokes he had yet to learn, he couldn’t stop thinking of Mexico, of your smile, of how close everything had been to changing.

He was so close to having a family again but he wasn't sure he was ready to reach for it because it would put him another step further away from you.

Alexei left the briefing room rambling on about dinner plans and whether there was enough vodka if they won.

The garage noise swelled around Bucky.

He needed to be somewhere quieter.

In his personal motorhome, he could be alone.

And in the quiet, he heard your voice again.

I love you.

It came to him like a whisper, like a breath of wind against his visor. He heard it so clearly it made his chest ache, his hands curl into fists.

He replayed your final lap over and over in his mind. Every corner you nailed, every fraction of a second you stole back. And again, the way you’d looked when you climbed out of the car - untouchable, vibrant.

You used to look at him like that. Before Mexico. Before Brazil. Before he woke up in a hospital bed and realised he’d lost more than just blood and bone.

People had described the crash to him: how his corner entry had been too aggressive, the sudden snap of oversteer, the other car clipping his rear wing.

How he’d rolled the car once, twice in the air and hit the barrier, the impact so violent it tore the nose clean off and ripped open the monocoque like paper, the impact dragging him from what was left of the cockpit.

Splintered carbon, the weightlessness of being airborne, the smell of iron and burning fuel.

He remembered nothing. Just flashes of scorched rubber. The cold bite of gravel against his neck. The Brazilian humidity.

But this wasn't the first time he'd had these incomplete flashbacks. Sometimes, in the dead quiet of the night, or alone in the car with his visor down, today, waiting for the lights to go out - he heard you.

Felt you.

Your hands on his face, warm with blood and shaking.

Your voice, low and pleading, close enough to feel your breath against his ear.

Cracking with emotion, with fear.

I love you.

He dragged a hand over his face, tried to brush the delusion away.

Tomorrow, he’d fight for every inch. He always did. It was the only way he knew how to live - head down, foot flat, no room for doubt. Nothing else but you and him and the track.

And he’d make damn sure he was the last one to break.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

He woke before his alarm, the adrenaline already crackling under his skin like static and pulsing through his veins.

The early sun hit the paddock, glinting off the huge team hospitality suites and lighting up the central boulevard. Engineers and mechanics were already moving like ants around the garages.

As he headed out of his motorhome, he could hear Alexei’s booming laugh echoing from the main hospitality suite, Yelena arguing with a mechanic in rapid Russian, Walker talking to the press.

A small smirk tugged at his lips.

One more fight. One more chance to remind everyone - especially her - exactly who he was.

The journalist interviewing John called out as he passed them, “Bucky! A word from you? Walker is eager to get out there, how about you?”

“I’m feelin’ good, hope Johnny’s ready to give up that title -”

“Ha! You wish pal!”

They teased out the teammate rivalry, the journalist lapping it up.

“Safe racing, guys, thanks!” They beamed before running to catch one of the midfield drivers on the way to their garage.

They lined up for the track parade, perched on the back of a vintage flatbed truck as it crawled past the packed grandstands, fans screaming their names from both sides.

He spotted you the second he climbed up - near the front, already waving to the stands.

For a second, he hesitated. Two years ago he'd have slung an arm around your shoulder without thinking. This year however...

But when you turned and saw him, he felt that spark ignite. The same one that had always burned between you, whether you admitted it or not.

He grinned, sharp and sure, and called out, "ready to get your ass kicked today?"

Your eyes went wide - surprised and thrown off balance for a heartbeat. And God, he loved that.

"Big talk for a man starting behind me," you shot back, chin tilting up. “How’s the view back there?”

He laughed, that easy, dangerous sound echoing through his ribs. The kind of laugh that used to make you roll your eyes and shove him away - only to pull him back in closer later.

"Give it a few laps," he teased, stepping a little nearer, close enough to feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "You know I always catch you eventually."

The hitch in your breath - he saw it. Felt it. And in that moment, something inside him snapped back into place.

The part of him that believed. The part that didn’t question whether he belonged out here, whether he was fast enough, brave enough.

He leaned in, voice low enough only you could hear over the roar of the crowd.

"You look good up there, by the way. Almost makes me want to let you keep P1… almost."

Your surprised laughter, that soft edge of flustered he’d always chased - sent a thrill through his veins sharper than any adrenaline rush.

When your eyes locked with his, he saw it: the way you wanted to look away but couldn’t.

For the first time since the crash, he felt fully alive. Not just a driver, but your equal again.

It was still there.

The spark he’d missed so much, the one he thought he’d pushed too far away, it was still there.

He wondered if you ever thought about Mexico.

By the time the truck pulled back into the pit lane, his heart was hammering, but not from fear.

No.

Today, he was going to make damn sure you felt him in every corner, every mirror check, every heartbeat.

Having neighbouring garages was not ideal.

He’d come too damn close to following you to AGP all weekend, having to consciously make sure he followed the red signage and livery.

It had its benefits though, when the engines idled and the music died down, he could hear you. Catch glimpses of you. Most of the times you left the pit-lane it was past his garage.

“OK team, let’s get lined up,” Ava called from the central line of the garage. “See you on the grid.”

Bucky finished strapping into his race suit almost automatically. Every tug on the zip, every adjustment to his gloves felt like coming home - a ritual he knew better than his own reflection.

Today wasn't about ghosts or old wounds. Today was about taking back what he knew he could still claim.

It was facing the fear of getting back out onto the track surrounded by the rest of the field.

He rolled his shoulder, a morning of intense physio loosening the join between flesh and metal.

He led the way out of the garages with Walker pulling out behind him. Your car waited at the exit of the pit-lane, waiting for the green light to get out onto the track.

He raised his hand in a wave which you didn’t return.

On track, the cars fell into their grid position order. Torres right behind him, Walker behind Torres, and then the rest of the pack.

You moved the car steadily through each turn, waving to the crowds occasionally, and then you stopped on P1 with Torres directly behind you in P3.

Bucky stopped smoothly at the line for P2.

He hated this bit.

The waiting.

It was the only bit of racing he hadn’t missed.

It wasn’t quiet, there was the restless noise of the crowds, the roar when they spotted someone they liked. The fly past of the Roulettes which shook the sky. The national anthem. Countless camera crews and celebrities mingling with the team staff.

After the national anthem, he headed back to the car. His eyes flicked to watch you slid into your own car alongside him. On the big screen, he could see the footage from the camera that hovered over your shoulder. You fiddled with your steering wheel impatiently until your engineer, Peter Parker shooed them away.

“Radio check, Buck,” Bob’s voice came through his earpiece clearly.

“All good, Bob. Car feels tight.”

“Copy that. Just clearing the grid for formation. Stay behind AGP1 please.”

He maneuvered through the formation lap, weaving and braking, gently bringing the car to life. By the time they’d made it round to the grid again, the circus of engineers and staff had rushed back to the garages leaving the track clear and ready to race.

Every nerve ending screamed for release, anticipating lights out.

He took up his place next to you again, tyres feeling warmer.

He didn’t think about the drivers behind, just you next to him.

Nothing else mattered. Not the crash, the headlines, the ghost of your touch against his jaw in Mexico.

Above his head, five red lights lit up.

He took a deep breath.

Lights out.

He launched the car down the track and towards the first corner.

You were just ahead, pulling across to cover the inside. Aggressive and fearless.

He dove for the space you’d left behind but you closed the door at the last millisecond, inches from contact.

Bucky’s heart slammed in his ribs, but underneath the visor his grin was feral.

“Nearly, sweetheart,” he muttered.

Lap after lap blurred, his left arm burned. Every muscle and tendon in his shoulder screamed.

Sweat dripped down his neck, down his back, but you stayed in his sights.

He couldn’t let you slip away.

“Gap to AGP1 is point-seven. Push with DRS. Zone coming up now.”

I am pushing. He clenched his jaw and nudged the throttle, his eyes fixed on your rear wing.

You swung the car so fiercely into turn nine he thought you’d lost it, the rear of the car swinging out too close to him.

Then he realised you’d meant it.

Mexico flashed in his mind, the determination in your eyes as they’d glanced at his mouth.

He had no doubt of the determination in your eyes today.

On the straight, he climbed along your inside line, forcing you further around him and off the racing line.

He could smell the burning rubber, feel the heat of the track.

“AGP1 is boxing. We stay out.”

He watched you veer into the pit-lane but stayed on track. Behind him, he saw the red of Walker’s car follow you in.

“Walker’s box first?”

“He’s on plan B.” Yelena told him curtly.

He led the race. It felt like flying. The seconds built up from Torres.

“What’s Walker’s position?” He asked, wondering whether the two of you had clashed coming out of the pits.

“P6. AGP1 is P7.”

“Looking strong, John,” he grimaced, feeling the tyres starting to yield too much. “Box box. Tyres are done.”

“Next lap. Keep Torres behind.”

“Copy.”

The tyres fought him through every corner. Every minuscule turn of the steering wheel jolting the car more than he liked.

He kept Torres in his mirrors, holding the line as long as possible before finally peeling into the pit lane with a bone-deep exhale.

He glided to the pit box. Mechanics swarmed the wheel guns shaking the car, the crew a blur of red overalls and slick, well practiced movement. His pulse hammered in his ears, it felt louder than the wheel gun whines.

The front jack moved out of the way and he watched the lollipop man to clear him.

Go go go.

He surged back out onto the track, merging behind you.

You were all over Walker like a rash, snapping at his rear wing.

He caught your overtake on one of the track-side big screens as he barreled down the straight. Late on the brakes, two wheels on the painted curb. You were ruthless. Beautiful.

His throat went dry. Atta girl.

He could see Walker fighting you, trying to force you into the apex of the corner but you shoved him wide and he had to concede.

By the next sector, your gap to Walker grew, Bucky could just see your rear lights. Three seconds ahead, he guessed.

He swallowed, punching up the engine mode. But the seconds were gone.

“Gap to P2 is two-point-three,” Bob’s voice crackled. “Torres one-point-one behind.”

He wrung the car, but the front tyres were fading, steering heavy with compensating and the car was feeling sluggish under his hands.

He saw the final boards: 2 laps to go.

Walker was inching away too, clean air finally on his nose, but Bucky kept him close.

He crossed the line in P3.

Head back, eyes shut, lungs heaving against the belts.

You’d won. Walker in second, he’d kept Torres behind him.

And as he pulled into parc fermé, his heart still thundering, he knew you’d felt him breathing down your neck all race long.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

You could barely hear a thing as you pulled the car up. Your own pulse was loud, but the crowd was louder than anything you’d ever heard.

Your hands shook as you unbuckled, but the adrenaline held you up and made you feel invincible.

You balanced on the halo, fist pumping in the air, your screams of joy echoing through your helmet, then you jumped from the car and into Sam’s arms.

He caught you in a bone-crushing hug, feet off the ground, his voice a blur in your ear.

You turned, ready for Walker’s sportsmanlike handshake - but then you saw him.

Bucky.

Helmet in hand, hair slicked back, chest still rising and falling like he’d sprinted the entire race on foot.

His eyes were on you. Like he’d never seen anything else worth looking at in his life.

Before you could stop yourself, you launched at him, jumping at the last minute to pin your knees to his hips.

He caught you instantly, strong arms tight around your waist, gloves digging into the small of your back.

For a second it felt like home. Like it was only you and him, heartbeats pressed together, the whole paddock noise drowning under the roar of your blood.

You were grateful you’d kept your helmet on, your eyes hidden from the cameras. You thumped his shoulder once, twice, too hard. He didn’t let go right away. You didn’t want him to.

When your feet hit the ground again, you pulled your helmet off in a frantic tug. Hair stuck to your forehead, your breath still ragged.

“Good fight,” you managed, your voice raw, still shaking.

“Yeah?” His grin was sharp, eyes dark, pupils blown wide even in daylight, not just the adrenaline, the fight. Something else. “Almost had you, sweetheart.”

A laugh ripped out of you, wild and bright. “In your dreams, Barnes.”

On the podium, it hit you again.

You lifted the trophy, tossing it into the air as though it were weightless.

Then champagne sprayed like rain against your suit, sweet and sticky on your lips.

Walker shook the bottle and ran across the podium, angling the spray down at his team.

But all you could see through the spray and noise and photographers - was him.

He looked up at you like he wanted to devour you whole. Like he knew every part of you already.

When you turned, you aimed the champagne at his face on purpose.

He flinched, spluttering, then burst out laughing - a sound so raw and rare it hit you low in your stomach.

God, he was beautiful like this. Alive. Hungry. Untouchable and yet right there within reach.

You wanted to kiss that grin off his face. You wanted to find out what he sounded like under your hands. You wanted every single piece of him you’d never dared to touch.

Your heart pounded. Your fingers ached to grab him again.

And for a dangerous, breathless second, you knew: it had never just been best friends.

You’d been lying to yourself for years. But today, on track with him again, you felt every truth clawing its way to the surface.

The leaderboard after Race 1 of the season:

The dust tasted like chalk and rust. It coated the entirety of your tongue, your nostrils, and made every inhale feel like you were taking in ground up glass. 

Above, a jagged slab of concrete held back tons of debris, creating a suffocating pocket in the darkness. Your leg was harshly pinned, a sharp, white-hot agony radiating from up the ankle, but the physical pain was secondary to the proximity.

Bucky was inches away. His metal arm was wedged against the slab, the rebars whining softly as he tried to shift the weight. His flesh hand rested on your thigh, steadying you against the tremors of the collapsing tunnel.

"Stay with me," he rasped, his voice coated and cracked with dust. The faint yellow glow of his shattered coms cut through the gloom. "Don't close your eyes, okay."

"I'm not," you whispered, though your vision was blurring at the edges. "Just... tired."

You had been separated from the team by a triggered pressure trap. The world had fallen away, leaving you two alone in this dark, intimate hell. 

In the silence between the groans of settling metal—the walls of whatever was left of “duty” and “protocol” crumbled. It was just you two. Just the man who had held you in the stolen hours of midnight, the man whose fractured memories had found a temporary anchor in your arms, before the world righted itself.

"Help is coming," he gritted out, more to himself than to you. His thumb brushed a smear of thick blood from your cheek. The gesture was tender, a ghost haunting. "I won't leave you."

"I know," you smiled through copper tang and dirt.

The rescue was a blur of noise and blinding light. Machines bit through the steel, and hands—strong, gloved, pulled you. 

You were immediately lifted onto a stretcher, the sudden rush of fresh air making your head and heart go dizzy. You saw Bucky being helped up by Steve, his frame swaying with exhaustion, his eyes scanning the triage area frantically.

You were carried to the medical bay, the paramedics working quickly to stabilize whatever was left of your pinned leg and treat the lacerations on the expanse of your body. 

You heard him before you saw him again.

"No, I’m fine. Move." Bucky’s voice was a growl, dismissing the medics trying to check his vitals, his cognitive abilities. He shoved past them, stumbling slightly, his eyes wild.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice cracking with a desperation that cut through the noise of the compound. "Where is she?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a traitorous, hopeful rhythm. You began to shift, trying to sit up, wincing and crying out as deep dulling pain shot through your leg. 

He’s looking for me, you thought, the thought unbidden and dangerous.

He broke through the line of agents, his gaze sweeping the triage center. For a split second, his eyes locked with yours. Relief washing over his face, raw and unguarded. He took a step toward the glass door, his metal hand lifting slightly, reaching.

"Bucky!"

The voice was bright, tearful, and shattered the moment like ice.

Rose.

His wife.

She threw herself into his path, colliding with his chest. Bucky stopped dead, his momentum halted by the force of her embrace. She buried her face in his tactical vest, sobbing his name.

"I thought I lost you," she cried, clutching him. "S-Steve called he…I thought you were gone."

Bucky stood frozen for a heartbeat, his arm hovering in the air where he had been reaching for you. Then, slowly, as if waking from a dream, his arm lowered. He wrapped it around his wife, pulling her in. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, grounding himself in the reality of the woman he had married.

You watched them, the air leaving your lungs. The pain in your leg was nothing compared to the sudden, crushing weight in your chest.

Natasha stood a few feet away, her face smudged with soot, her eyes sharp and knowing. She glanced from the reuniting couple…then to you, her expression softening with a pity you didn't want. 

She leaned toward Steve, her voice a low whisper that carried like wind over a frozen lake. "That's not the she he was asking for."

You sat on the stretcher, covered in dirt and scrapes, a bandage pressed tightly to your temple slowly seeping blood. Your hands trembled by your sides. 

You werent the woman he ran to when the world ended. You were the woman he found in the cracks of it—a temporary solace in the chaos of a fractured, crumbling mind.

—end — my masterlist—

Bucky never saw this coming.

After years of being a super-soldier, he thought he finally had it all figured out; the unlimited stamina, the lack of fatigue, and the sheer strength and muscle that the average person couldn’t obtain in two lifetimes of effort.

But Hydra’s serum never came with a handbook on side effects. Bucky never imagined he’d encounter anything like this—until he met you.

You were the first woman Bucky had dated since coming out of cryofreeze, and he was damn well going to make sure you were the last. Being with you made him open up both emotionally and physically. He let you into his heart and, well... you made the mistake of letting him between your legs.

The first few times you had sex, you assumed his uncontrollable trembling and heavy breathing were just nerves. After all, it had been decades for him. But even buried deep inside you, he always made no effort to move. His muscles strained and his face twisted into a grimace, as if it were taking every ounce of his will just to hold back.

Hold back on what, exactly?

At the time, you didn’t know yet.

“Bucky,” you whispered, resting both hands on his shoulders.

He hovered above you, eyes half-lidded, his bare chest heaving as his strong arms caged you against the mattress. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can take our time. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not that I’m not ready,” Bucky let out a low, agitated groan. “I’m more than ready, doll. I just—fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You frowned slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “You’re doing great, honey. Just… move your hips. Create a little friction, like this—”

You began to rock your hips up against him. Bucky’s head dipped, his arms nearly giving out as he threatened to collapse on top of you. The feel of your tight, silky walls rubbing against him was clearly more than he could handle.

“Fuck—Jesus, baby!” he barked out, his hips twitching involuntarily as he rutted even deeper into you. “Careful—shit, I’m gonna cum if you keep moving like that—”

“I know, baby,” you encouraged. “I want you to cum.”

When your boyfriend—who’s a literal super-soldier—is a panting, trembling mess on top of you, eyes rolled back and babbling filthy words, how could you possibly stop?

Especially since, despite being together for a while, you had yet to actually see him cum.

Determined, you wrapped your legs tight around Bucky’s waist. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance and topple fully onto you, his weight pressing you into the bed as his cock pushed even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat as you felt him sink more inside, rocking your hips rhythmically against his.

“Shit, baby—this isn’t good—” Bucky babbled, his hips slowing their movement as he rocked lazily against you. “Fuck… I’m—”

You felt your heart leap into your throat. Every time Bucky was close to cumming, he pulled out at the last second and never let himself finish the job. He’d always excuse himself and run to the bathroom, never saying what for—but he’d always come back with his shoulders a little less tense.

It didn’t take more than one brain cell to piece together that he was finishing on his own in there.

But now, with your legs clamped tight around his waist, you weren’t going to give him the opportunity.

You squeezed your legs tighter, your cunt clenching around his shaft as you felt him pulse. Bucky groaned, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his whole body began to shudder and shake against yours.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” Bucky moaned. “I’m gonna cum inside you. I can’t… need to pull out!”

“It’s okay, Buck,” you reassured him against his ear, your hands rubbing up and down his broad back. “I’m on the pill. You can cum inside, baby.”

“Fuck—no, that’s not it…” Bucky grunted, his voice breaking as his breathing grew even heavier. “Fuck… baby. I can’t cum inside you—you can’t take it.”

“Bucky, just do it,” you groaned, ignoring his warning as you ground your hips up one more time.

You didn’t care about his excuses.

All you wanted was to finally feel him come undone inside you.

“Cum inside me, Bucky. I want to feel you. It feels too good to stop now.”

He let out a panicked, strangled sound, his metal hand clenching the bedsheets so hard the fabric began to tear. He tried to lock his arms to push himself up, desperate to pull out before it was too late, but you weren’t having it. You shifted your hips, tilting your pelvis just right to catch the head of his cock, locking your legs tighter around his waist and pulling him back in.

He moaned loudly as he sheathed back into you, the sensation of your tight cunt deliciously squeezing his shaft making his mind go dizzy.

“Wait—baby, no!”

Bucky arched his back as his cock pulsed and throbbed, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled into his head. The wet heat hit your cervix, making you gasp, but it didn’t stop there. He just kept coming, and coming, and your legs felt like jello around him as he kept pumping you full.

Bucky’s body spasmed, his muscles bunching and twitching as the super-soldier serum’s side effect made itself known. He was absolutely flooding you, filling you deep. You felt like you were drowning inside, the hot, thick weight of him filling every spare inch of you. It was too much for your body to hold—the excess began to spill out, slicking your thighs and the bedsheets beneath you as he continued to pulse and pour into you.

He let out a long, broken moan, finally collapsing against your chest as a trembling, sweaty mess.

He looked completely mortified, refusing to look at you as if he expected you to shun him or push him off in disgust.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice shaky. “I… I’m sorry. Fuck. Let me grab a towel to clean you up—”

“Bucky, wait—”

Before you could even tell him to stay, he quickly scrambled off the bed. He fumbled for his boxers, pulling them up as he ran for the bathroom in a hurry.

While you waited for Bucky to return, you flopped back onto the bed and let out a disbelieving breath. You propped your legs up, tilting your head down to see the “damage” he was so painfully ashamed of—and your heart skipped a beat.

You were a total mess.

His cum was dripping down to your navel from when he had desperately tried to pull away, trailing down to your mound and between your folds. When you lifted your leg a little higher, your cunt made an embarrassing squelch as more of his seed trickled out of you, staining the sheets.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, eyes going wide at just how much he filled you.

Your face went bright red over the fact that he could produce such a… massive load. It was a testament to just how much the serum had changed him, turning him into something more than human, yet vulnerable in the best possible way. Knowing that his body was capable of filling you so completely—of literally overflowing—was the hottest thing you had ever experienced.

Bucky returned, but he wouldn’t even look in the direction of the bed. He moved shamefully, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He had a clean, damp towel in his hand, and he moved to the edge of the mattress without saying a word.

“Bucky…” you spoke softly, reaching out for him.

“Don’t. Just—don’t,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He gently spread your legs to get to the mess, but his eyes stayed fixed on the towel, never once meeting yours.

As he began to wipe you down, he just kept repeating the same words under his breath, like a mantra of shame. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll. God, I'm sorry.”

The towel was already becoming saturated, and he had to fold it over twice just to try and catch what was still sluggishly leaking out of you. Every time he moved the cloth, more spilled out, coating his fingers and the sheets. The more he cleaned, the more he seemed to sink into himself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his face twisting with guilt. “You’re a mess. I... I literally drowned you in it. I told you that you couldn’t take it, and I still let it happen. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, his movements frantic as he tried to clean you up. He was so caught up in his own head, so convinced that he had done something disgusting, that he didn’t even notice you weren’t looking at him with disgust at all.

You reached out, your fingers gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic movements. “Bucky, look at me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It’s okay. I promise, I’m okay—”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he finally met your eyes. He swallowed hard, his gaze searching yours as if he were expecting you to judge him for what he was about to say.

“It’s the serum,” he confessed. “It doesn’t just make me stronger or faster. My metabolism, my recovery, even this. It’s like my body is constantly over-performing, and working overtime to produce more of everything. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold back or how many times I go to the bathroom before we start… it’s always like this.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched with embarrassment.

“And it’s not just the physical part. The serum enhances every feeling that’s already inside you. Everything is louder. Every feeling is dialed up to fucking eleven. When I’m with you, and I’m… I’m horny,” he blushed, sheepish. “It’s not just a feeling. It’s feels like a goddamn command. My body just takes over.”

When he finally looked back at you, his blue eyes were watery with guilt, and it made your heart hurt.

“Especially because it’s you. I love you so much, and that love just feeds the serum. It makes me want you so bad I can’t breathe, and then my body reacts by… by doing this to you. I’m a super soldier, doll. I’m supposed to have discipline. But when I’m inside you, I’ve got none.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to keep eye contact. You didn’t care about the mess all over your body and the sheets; you just wanted him to see that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Bucky, listen to me,” you pressed, thumb swiping over his cheek gently. “I don’t want your discipline. I want you—all of you.”

You leaned in closer, your voice turning into a comforting whisper.

“And if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s incredibly hot. Knowing that you want me so much that your body literally overflows. It makes me feel wanted in a way I can’t even describe—”

Bucky flinched slightly, his face getting even redder. He broke contact by looking down at the sheets in denial. “You’re just saying that to be kind. You’re covered in me, doll. I ruined the bed. I practically drowned you. There’s nothing ‘hot’ about losing control like a—” he grimaced, “—pervert.”

“Okay…” you took a careful breath, trying for a different angle. “What if we found a way to make you feel more in control? Something to try to contain it?"

He glanced at you, wary. “Like what?”

“We could start using condoms,” you suggested softly. “The heavy-duty kind. It would catch everything, Bucky. It stays inside the latex, so there’s no mess, and no reason for you to feel like you have to run to the bathroom the second you’re done. Then after we have sex, we could just lay together instead of having to worry about staining the sheets. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“We could at least try it?”

Bucky stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to the towel in his hand. You could see the gears turning as he considered the idea of a physical barrier—something to keep his “situation” under wraps so he could focus on you instead of his own anxiety.

But the truth was—he hated that he even had to consider this.

Internally, every heightened cell in his body recoiled at the idea of a barrier—even if it was something as flimsy as a condom.

The serum didn’t just make him produce more; it made him feel more.

Every nerve ending made him sensitive, making the sensation of being inside you an all-consuming experience. His mind couldn’t fathom putting a layer of latex between himself and your warmth. He lived for the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him, the friction of skin-on-skin, and the way he could feel every internal pulse of your climax against his own. To him, a condom felt like a cage, a dulling of the one thing that made him feel truly alive and connected to his humanity.

But when he looked down at the towel—stained with the evidence of his own lack of control—the shame came roaring back harder.

He couldn’t keep doing this to you— drowning you, staining everything, making the room reek of sex, and then hiding in the bathroom like a pathetic, wounded animal.

“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, doll. If that makes you feel better… if it keeps things cleaner… then we’ll use ‘em.”

He reached out and squeezed your hand, his metal fingers careful and gentle, hiding the fact that his body was already mourning the loss of the direct contact he craved. He’d trade his own pleasure for a bit of his dignity back if it meant he didn’t have to see you covered in his ‘freakish’ excess ever again.

“We’ll try it your way,” he whispered, leaning in to press a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it takes to keep me from making a mess out of you.”

A few days had passed, and the heavy-duty box of condoms sat on the nightstand like a silent mediator between his shame and your desire.

Now, with the lights dimmed, Bucky was over you again. But everything felt wrong. To his enhanced senses, the thin layer of latex felt like a suit of armor. He was moving into you, but the friction wasn’t the same. He couldn’t directly feel the small flutters of your muscles or the exact texture of your silkiness that usually drove him mad.

It was driving him towards a different kind of frustration—a sensory deprivation that made him groan in irritation.

“You okay?” you asked softly through a moan as he rutted into you.

“Fine,” he grunted, his thrusts diving deeper into you, desperate for that satisfaction.

Bucky grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder as he repositioned himself. One strong, flesh arm tensed next to your head while the other whirred in its vibranium casing. He angled your hip so he could fuck even deeper into you, your back arching as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot.

“Oh, fuck! Bucky—!”

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his hips moving at an uneven, frantic pace. “If you keep crying out like that, I’m gonna cum.”

The condom suddenly felt excruciatingly tight, stretching to its limit as he felt himself begin to pulse. His body shuddered as his cum started to balloon the latex; the sensation of that extreme stretch made him panic.

He couldn’t stay inside. The pressure was simply too much.

The rubber wasn’t going to hold.

“Shit—I can’t—”

You felt his hips pull away, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his back, whimpering as you tried to hold him, but it was no use. “Buck—stay inside, please—”

And with a groan, Bucky pulled out at the last possible second.

He collapsed onto his knees between your legs, his breath ragged and hitching desperately. The condom was dangerously full, the reservoir tip engorged and already starting to seep at the base from just pumping it full.

He couldn’t stop. His hands flew down, his fingers—both vibranium and flesh—wrapping around himself over the slipping latex. He began to stroke himself with quick, heavy pumps, the sensation of cumming so much making him painfully sensitive—his body couldn’t help but crave more. His back arched, and he gasped as he watched his own seed continue to flood the condom, spilling over the rim and coating his knuckles as it dripped down on the bed.

You could only pant, watching him finish himself off right in front of you.

He looked like a wreck, his eyes rolled back and his chest heaving. Even with the latex in the way, the release was still so intense, it was dripping out of the condom and making the room smell like the musky scent of sweat and sex.

Bucky let out a long, jagged exhale that sounded more like a snarl than a breath.

“Fuck,” he rasped, irritated. He didn’t look at you—he just stared at his hands, watching the excess drip onto the sheets he had tried so hard to keep clean. “I knew it. I knew the goddamn condom wouldn’t hold.”

You swallowed hard, sitting up and reaching for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t seem sad this time. Instead, his shoulders were shaking with the frustration of himself and the entire situation.

“Honey, please—”

“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” he snapped. His blue eyes were dark, blown out with frustration. “I told you. I told you it was too much for a piece of rubber, and I just fucking embarrassed myself in front of you again.”

He gestured wildly at the mess—the leaking latex and the white streaks dirtying his vibranium fingers.

“I couldn’t even feel you, doll. I was suffocating in that thing, and I still ended up making a mess of everything anyway.” He let out an agitated sigh. “It’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke. I’m trying to make love to you like a normal partner should—trying to be a goddamn gentleman—and I just end up looking like a fucking animal jerking himself off on the bed because I can’t even stay inside my own girlfriend.”

You were starting to get tired of him apologizing for something that made your blood sing, tired of him treating his own body like a broken weapon instead of a source of pleasure. He was so busy being angry at the mess that he was completely missing the fact that you were practically fawning over him because of this.

Instead of arguing or trying to soothe his ego with words you already knew he wouldn’t listen to, you decided to show him exactly what you thought about his ‘problem’.

You sat up and crawled towards him, your legs finding his waist as you toppled yourself over him. Bucky was so caught off guard, so deep in his self-loathing, that he didn’t even resist as you forced him down against the pillows.

“Sweetheart—what are you—!”

“It’s always about what you think, Bucky,” you said.

Your hand reached down, your fingers sliding down his stomach and fingers grazing gently against his half-hard, half-soft, cock. “You’re so busy deciding for me that this is ‘disgusting’ or ‘wrong,’ but you never once stopped to even consider what I think.”

Bucky’s breathing grew heavier at the sight of you on top of him, his flesh hand coming up to hover over your waist, unsure if he should pull you closer or push you away. “Doll, look at me. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah,” you sighed wistfully, taunting. “But not nearly as messy as I want you to be.”

Your hands found the base of the condom, pulling it off in one quick swipe. It popped off the head of his cock, and his dick sprang free, sending the cum pooling out of the rubber and onto his shaft, his pelvis, his thighs, and the sheets.

“Jesus—baby! No! It’s getting everywhere!”

Without another word, you leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling through the thick, salty cream of his seed.

Bucky’s entire body jolted at the feel of your warm tongue caressing his tip. A broken, high-pitched moan escaped his throat as his back arched off the bed. His fingers tangled into your hair—not to pull you away, but to hold you there in sheer disbelief.

You sucked him deep, your throat working to swallow the heavy pulsing of his cock, making it clear with every wet, hungry sound that you didn’t just want him—you wanted all of him.

Even the parts he was afraid of.

He was trembling underneath you, the frustration and shame finally melting away into helpless surrender.

“Fuuuck,” he whined, tossing his head back against the pillow.

The sound was a complete contrast to the angry, frustrated man he had been just seconds ago. Encouraged by his moans, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive veins of his shaft, lapping at the leftover seed from before.

Because he had just finished, his nerve endings were painfully sensitive and overstimulated. Every wet slide of your lips felt like an electric shock to his system. His metal hand clamped onto the headboard, the wood creaking under his vibranium grip, while his flesh hand stayed buried in your hair.

“Doll, it’s—too much,” he gasped, though his hips stuttered upward in a helpless, jerky motion. “I’m too sensitive... I just... god, I can’t breathe.”

He was hyper-responsive, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his own pleas, he didn’t pull you away—and he didn’t want to.

The sensation of you worshiping the very thing he’d been ready to hide, and the feeling of your mouth swallowing every last remaining drop, was overwhelming his brain. Every time your lips hit the base of his cock, or your cheeks hollowed out to take it all in, it elicited a sharp, broken sob from his throat.

And when you looked up at him— your lips glistening and chin smeared with his seed—and gave him a slow, hooded stare, he felt like he was going to collapse right then and there.

“Shit, baby. Take it out… out of your mouth. Fuck.”

Bucky’s hands shook as they tightened in your hair, trying to tug you away, desperate to spare you from what was about to come. But you were determined, your hands locking onto his thighs to keep him in place.

You had made a silent promise to yourself to take every bit of him, and once the first thick pulse hit the back of your throat, Bucky’s protests instantly dissolved into a moaning mess.

He felt as if his entire body were on fire; his mind and vision spun in circles. The feeling of your wet lips suctioning around the base of his shaft and your warm tongue pressed against the heaviness of his cock was all too much.

He lifted his head off the pillow, watching your throat work rhythmically as you tried to keep up with his pace. Seeing you so dedicated to him—seeing your cheeks stretch and your eyes water as you refused to let a single drop go to waste—did something to his heart.

“Fuck… baby,” Bucky rasped. “Look at you… you’re taking everything.”

As he watched you through hazy eyes, he realized just then how good it felt to be taken like this.

To have his flaws not only accepted, but also devoured.

Eventually, the volume of his cum became too much. You gasped, pulling back as you began to choke on the thick, salty heat, and as soon as his cock was free of your mouth with a wet pop, the pressure sent his seed nearly spraying across your face. It painted your cheeks, your chin, and even caught your eyelashes as he continued to pulse.

Bucky was spent, his muscles twitching as his chest heaved. “Fuck.”

He should have felt ashamed for cumming too much again. He should have ran to the bathroom like he always did, grab a towel, and clean you up.

But as he watched his seed slowly trail down your cheek—a thick white contrast against your flushed skin—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to. You were panting, your lips parted and glistening, looking like a beautiful, sultry masterpiece he had personally painted himself.

“My god,” he breathed, his voice gravelly.

Bucky reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw. His thumb moved slowly as he smeared a streak of his mark across your cheekbone.

For the first time, he didn’t want to clean you; he wanted to look at you like this for hours—covered in his love.

“I thought I was making a mess of you.” he whispered, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “But you look... god, you look perfect like this.”

Bucky’s heart leaped in his chest as he watched you lick your lips, tasting him. Then you gave him a soft yet sultry smile that finally shattered what little defense he had left.

“I love it, Bucky,” you whispered. "I love every bit of you—especially the mess.”

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head as the light from the table lamp caught the white streaks on your skin. “Besides,” you teased, your a little playful and teasing. “Don’t I look so pretty, marked by you?”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your words. He had never thought of seeing it this way, but witnessing the way you batted your lashes, your face dirtied with his release—it was as if the question had uncovered something dirty deep inside him.

The shy, apologetic man was gone, replaced by a man who wanted nothing more than to paint his partner with his love.

His vibranium hand came up to slide behind your neck, his cool fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his eyes took in your debauched face. Meanwhile, his flesh hand cupped your jaw, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your pearly lips pucker.

“Pretty doesn’t even cover it,” he rasped, his eyes dark and possessive. “You look like you belong to me. And if you’re tellin’ me you like it... if you’re tellin’ me you want this...”

He parted your mouth with his thumb, his own seed already slicking his digit as he pushed past your lips. Bucky let out a deep, shuddering exhale as he watched you instinctively twirl your tongue around his thumb, the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him.

“If this is what you really want, then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every time—I’ll give it all to you. And from now on, I expect you to take it all.” He pulled his thumb back slowly, watching the strand of saliva and seed stretch between his hand and your lips.

“And you will take it all, right?”

You nodded, eyes hazy with lust and love. “I will.”

no words. thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!

the soft bass and murmured voices of the crowd dulled in the cold tile of the bathroom you and bucky took coverage in. you both slumped into the bathtub, legs dangling off the side and your heads propped up on the wall behind you — plastic cups filled with a concoction of mystery juices and alcohol neither of you really want to know.

the conversation you two had lingered into a comfortable silence, your head lulled onto his shoulder as you both basked in each others presence and let the heavy bass vibrate over your skin — until Bucky wiggles.

"m'sorry," he mumbles as he stumbles his way out of the tub, "gotta pee." you follow him to your upright position, helping the poor boy up as you ascend, but your ears prick up shamelessly when he spoke.

"c-can you like, turn around.. or something?" his cheeks flush a little.

you're not sure if it's the alcohol talking or the fact he's the one guy you've ever been so close to, but your mouth moves quicker than your mind could comprehend.

Bucky's fingers fiddle with the clasp of his belt before your voice slices through the air.

"can i hold it?"

his mouth parts just a little before he snaps it closed, his head shaking with a humorous huff as if he heard you wrong — at least he hoped.

he chuckles breathlessly, "Im sorry?"

you step closer, lips pursed into a cheeky smile. "Can i hold it? y'know, i wanna know what it's like."

the two of you stare at each other. your thumb beats rhythmically on the plastic of your cup as you wait for Bucky to say anything back. but he stares dumbfounded and more flustered than he thinks he's ever been in his entire life.

"you're drunk—"

"nuh-uh!" you retaliate, wincing as the words stumble out of your mouth. "i've had just as much weird punch as you have, and you know it Buck," you sigh deeply.

"please?"

he knew he could never resist you and your pretty eyes, all big and glossy, pupils swallowing the colour, he can only presume from the alcohol, but he wishes otherwise. he exhales harshly and huffs a laugh, wiping his hand over his flushed warm cheeks before smiling softly.

"fine."

☆

"just here?"

he nods with a 'mhm', lips pulled taunt in a line, his hands hovering as your own circle around his waist. "y-yeah right — oh, fuh-uck!"

your hands wrap around his soft cock, the soft skin of his shaft a contrast to the cold cup in your hand the majority of the night.

he's a lot thicker than you thought he'd be, flushed a deep pink like a permanent blush. you'd be lying if you said your tummy didnt flip as you wrapped your hands around him gently.

you hiss a little at his reaction, head turning towards his as you rest your chin on his shoulder. "Sorry! first time, y'know." you murmur a soft chuckle as you aim, a sly smirk easing onto your face. "hey little guy—"

"okay, t-thats just mean."

you chuckle as he starts with an impatient hum. you start aiming. "im fucking with you Buck, he's pretty."

"he?"

"your dick," you stick the tip of your tongue out the corner of your mouth in concentration. his hands find your forearms, keeping you still and grounded while you hold, but its moreso for him, to remind himself it's you guiding him. "your dick is super pretty, Bucky. has nobody ever said that?"

you couldnt just let the words settle in your mind, the boy had to know he was carrying well.

his eyes widen at the compliment, hands shifting around your wrists as you watched his cheeks flush from a dusty rose to a full crimson. you cant help the sly smile that creeps onto your face.

"loser," you murmur into his shoulder as you watch. "you're so cute, it's insane."

he whimpers softly when you let go of his dick, hands up and on your way to the sink to wash your hands. he tucks himself back in his pants, but he just watches you. glasses a little fogged, lips parted and silky, face redder than the perfect dusk sky.

he watches your reflection in the mirror, the apples of your cheeks prominent and deep, a low hum as you recall the memory as if it didnt happen just moments ago.

"we should do that again, Buck." the smile on your fave was enough to kill him. hell he's sure he died and went to heaven as the words 'can i hold it' left your lips. he's making sure it happens again.

taglist: @devililithh @buckyfmd @umbreoni @bckyslover @nikkitabarnes @miraclediviner

bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @wildflowersandvibranium @colettebarnes @ssop-hiee @the-once-and-future-bitch @metal-armed-muse @bucklesby-barnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @overwintering-soldier

You stop. Swallow. “Okay, um. There’s something I wanna do. For you. But I’ve never… I don’t know how—”

His brows lift in understanding so fast you want the mattress to swallow you.

“Oh,” he breathes, warmth blooming across his expression. “Sweetheart. C’mere.”

You shuffle forward until you’re standing between his knees. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs rubbing comforting circles.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head?”

“I just…” You inhale shakily. “I’ve never done a blowjob, Buck. Ever. And I want to, for you, but I’m scared I’ll do it wrong. Or hurt you. Or—”

He stops you with a soft laugh, forehead dropping to your stomach. “Honey, I promise you—you can’t hurt me. And there is no wrong. Not with this. Not with us.”

You feel his lips smiling against your skin.

“I don’t want you doing anything that scares you,” he adds, looking up. “But if you want to learn, I’ll guide you through every second. You hear me? You don’t have to know anything.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Let me take care of you while you take care of me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you nod.

He switches positions easily, leaning back onto his elbows while you kneel between his legs. Your hands tremble a little, and he notices immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek. “If at any point you wanna stop, you tap my thigh twice, okay?”

You nod again, relieved, steadied.

“Good girl,” he praises softly—your breath catches.

He lets you tug his sweats down and his cock springs free, already heavy and hard, flushed at the tip. You stare, wide-eyed.

“Buck…” You blink. “I don’t think that’s gonna fit.”

His grin is sinful and soft at the same time.

“You’re not takin’ all of it, sweetheart. Just your mouth on me is gonna drive me crazy. Trust me.”

Your hand wraps around the base. He inhales sharply.

“Start with your tongue,” he says, voice low. “Just give me a little lick. Top to bottom.”

You lean in, tentative, and drag your tongue along the underside. His head falls back immediately.

“Jesus, doll. Just like that.”

The encouragement sends a spark through you. You do it again—slower—and his hips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper. “That’s… not scary.”

He huffs a laugh. “Told ya. Now kiss the tip for me.”

You do, shy but curious, tasting salt and warmth and him. His hand slides into your hair, not pushing, just resting.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he murmurs.

You part your lips, letting the blunt head slip inside. He groans, deep and rough, the sound vibrating straight to your core. You try taking a little more, awkwardly adjusting your tongue, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re doin’ perfect,” he assures. “Relax your jaw. Breathe through your nose.”

You follow his instructions, slowly sinking down until your lips meet your fist where you’re holding him. The weight of him fills your mouth, hot and pulsing, and the way he watches you—eyes heavy, cheeks flushed—makes you feel powerful and wanted and brave.

“Use your hand too,” he guides. “Twist a little when you move.”

You stroke him as you bob gently, spit gathering, dripping onto your fingers. Bucky groans like you’re unraveling him one second at a time.

“That’s it—fuck, sweetheart. You’re a natural.”

You pull off with a little gasp. “Are you sure I’m doing it right?”

He cups your face, thumb tracing your swollen lip. “Baby, I’m tryin’ not to embarrass myself right now. You’re doing so good.”

Heat floods your body at his tone—desperate but controlled, like he’s holding back for your sake.

“Think you can take a little deeper?” he asks softly.

You nod, determined.

This time when you lower your mouth around him, he guides you carefully, hand in your hair but never pushing. You find a rhythm—slow, messy, learning as you go—and the more you relax, the more he melts into the bed.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “My sweet girl, takin’ me so well. God, you feel amazing.”

Your stomach flips at the praise. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue, and he groans brokenly.

“Okay, okay,” he suddenly warns, voice strained. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.”

You pull back, chin slick, chest heaving. “Isn’t that the point?”

His expression softens and darkens all at once. “Yeah, but I wanna make sure you’re okay with it.”

“I am,” you say immediately. “I want you to.”

He exhales like you’ve knocked the air out of him. “Then—come here.”

You wrap your lips around him again, stroking the base as you take him as deep as you comfortably can. His thighs tense. His breath stutters.

“Sweetheart—fuck—m’gonna—”

His hand tightens in your hair, not forcing, just grounding.

“Tap twice if you want me to pull out,” he reminds desperately.

You don’t tap. You suck harder.

“Jesus—baby—”

He spills into your mouth with a groan that sounds dragged from the center of his chest. You swallow instinctively, surprised but proud as his body shudders.

When he finally opens his eyes, he looks wrecked. In love. A little worshipful.

“C’mere,” he whispers hoarsely.

You crawl onto his lap and he kisses you deep, slow, like you just gave him a gift he’ll remember forever.

“You did perfect,” he breathes against your lips. “Perfect. My brave girl.”

You blush, hiding your face in his shoulder.

He laughs softly. “Sweetheart, next time you ever worry about not knowin’ how to do something? Let me teach you. I’ll always take care of you.”

And judging by the way he’s already hardening again beneath you…