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buckysleftbicep · 10 days ago

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just one race 𐙚 b.b

pairing: biker!bucky barnes x fem!biker!reader (modern au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, bathroom sex, light choking, illegal street racing, past hook-up, unresolved sexual tension

summary: two years ago, you fucked bucky and never called back. when he sees you again, he's not just racing for the win.

word count: 4.2k

author's note: hi my loves, i am such a huge fun of biker!bucky and i had this fic idea for a few weeks now, and i am posting it in hopes it won't flop! thank you for stopping by, i love you guys and stay safe out there!

The night was thick with heat—not warmth, not comfort—but something oppressive, electric, alive.

Humidity clung to your skin like sweat-slick silk, rising off the pavement in ghostly waves, curling around bare shoulders and whispered sins.

The air reeked of asphalt and adrenaline, burnt rubber and gasoline, all of it mixing into a cocktail so heady it made your lungs ache and your blood sing.

Beneath the overpass, under a patchwork canopy of shadows, steel girders, and flickering neon signs, the city’s underground pulse came to life.

Not the kind that tourists raved about or cops pretended didn’t exist—this was the real vein, the one that throbbed with danger and speed and sin.

Headlights cut through the dark like predator eyes. Red, white, electric blue—each beam a challenge, each growl of an engine a warning.

Music blared from somewhere in the chaos—low, dirty, aggressive.

A bassline so filthy it made bones rattle. The kind of rhythm that didn’t just pulse—it throbbed, deep and rhythmic like the start of something inevitable.

They called it Race Night.

And tonight, it had drawn every devil out of their hole.

Bikes lined the cracked concrete in a gleaming, growling row—vintage beasts and futuristic monsters, chrome and matte black armour, custom paint that caught the flicker of streetlight and made it scream.

Exhaust hissed like serpents, engines purred and snarled, pacing like wolves too long caged.

Men leaned against the machines with practiced indifference—leather jackets unzipped halfway down chests, heavy boots planted wide, arms crossed, smirks loaded.

Cigarettes dangled from lips or fingers, flicked to the ground and crushed under heels. The air swirled with smoke and sweat and sharp-edged testosterone.

Women danced to the beat, hips winding slow, lip gloss catching the neon. Some perched on the backs of bikes like queens on their thrones—dangerous, and entirely in control.

It wasn’t just a race. It was a ritual.

And you and Yelena were right on time.

The moment your engines growled into the lot, the crowd shifted. A ripple moved through the bodies—heads turning, eyes locking.

They felt you before they saw you.

Yelena swung off her bike first—combat boots hitting pavement with a steel-toed thud.

Her blonde hair was cropped and slicked back beneath the dull orange glow of the streetlamps.

She wore a blood-red tank, skin tight, under a cropped black leather jacket. Black jeans clung to her hips like a second skin, tucked into her boots, a chain hanging low on her thigh.

Fingerless gloves flexed as she reached up and loosened the strap of her helmet.

She looked like hell’s favourite riot.

You matched her step for step, the throb of your boots a slow echo behind hers. Your bike purred low behind you, engine cooling, metal ticking beneath the night air.

You were dressed to kill—and not just in speed.

Black, heeled boots that clicked sharp against the asphalt. A leather jacket worn open, the cut just sharp enough to flatter and flare.

Underneath—straps, black as sin, crossing your chest and wrapping around your ribcage like a harness meant to tempt more than protect. High-waisted jeans hugged your thighs with ruthless precision, their seams stitched for seduction.

A man muttered, breath caught in his throat—“Holy fuck.”

Yelena smirked without looking. “Let them stare, honey”.

“Don’t they always?” you murmured back, voice low and amused.

And they did. The crowd parted for you like water bending around fire. Necks craned. One guy’s eyes trailing down your frame like a prayer that turned blasphemous by the time it hit your hips.

But you didn’t slow. Didn’t even blink.

Because you felt it. That pulse. That electricity. That pull.

And then—you saw him.

Standing across the lot, against the black gleam of his bike like he was born from the smoke that rose off the street.

Bucky.

The last time you’d seen him, your back had been pressed against a bathroom mirror and his hand had been shoved under your skirt, voice all gravel and grit. You hadn’t forgotten that mouth.

That stare. Those fucking hands.

And by the looks of it, neither had he.

He stood with his arms crossed, weight cocked to one hip, that leather jacket worn open just enough to show the black tee beneath—tight, stretched across his chest, framing muscle like it was poured on.

His sleeves pushed up just far enough to expose his forearms, thick and veined, skin dusted with sweat and sin. His jeans hung low on his hips, his boots scuffed, heavy, like they’d hit the pavement too many times to count.

His dark hair was longer now—wilder, swept back from his face in waves that curled just slightly at the tips. That jaw could cut glass, and that damn smirk.

And his eyes— Those goddamn eyes.

Glacial blue, intense, focused. Like he hadn’t looked away since that night.

And fuck, he was looking at you now like he could still taste you on his tongue.

You didn’t even have to close your eyes to remember that night, two years ago.

The bass has been deafening.

It throbbed through the floors, pulsed through your bones—like a second heartbeat, slow and carnal.

Lights strobed in erratic bursts of violet and cobalt, casting fractured shadows across slick skin and open mouths. The place smelled like sex and tequila.

You were on your third drink, fingers wet from the condensation of the glass, tongue still tingling from the last shot.

The crowd swelled around you, the music drowning your thoughts, but your body was wired—aware. Hips swaying with each beat, the weight of your leather skirt hitching higher on your thighs with every deliberate roll.

And then you saw him. Across the floor. Like a sin you forgot to confess.

Bucky Barnes.

He stood with a beer in hand, barely touched, jaw sharp in the flashes of blacklight, hair mussed like he’d ridden there with his helmet off.

A leather jacket hung off his shoulders like it had no right not to be wrapped around yours instead.

The black tee underneath clung to his chest, sleeves rolled high enough to reveal the hard cut of his arms, veins thick, hands calloused. Tattoos peeked beneath the cuff of one sleeve—dark ink winding over muscle.

And he was staring. Right at you. No shame. No hesitation. Like he’d seen a challenge.

Like he knew exactly what you’d taste like. And you didn’t run.

You danced. You let the music slink up your spine, let your hands drag slow down your sides, ass grinding to the beat like a dare. You could feel him moving closer before you even turned around.

Then—contact.

His hands found your hips. Hot, heavy, possessive. And you didn’t stop him.

You pressed back, spine arching against his chest, your ass grinding into the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. A slow exhale left him, rough and low.

“Didn’t think an angel like you belonged somewhere like this,” he rasped, voice dark velvet at your ear.

You smiled. Slow. Sharp. “If you think I’m an angel,” you purred, “you haven’t been paying attention.”

That was all it took.

The kiss was brutal. No hesitation. No finesse. Just need.

Teeth and tongue, lips bruising, breath stolen. His hands gripped your waist like he’d waited years for it.

You felt him—fuck, you felt him—thick and hard, pressing into the curve of your ass through the denim. He rutted against you, hungry, and you gasped, letting him swallow it.

You were stumbling through the crowd, laughing into his mouth between kisses, the club melting around you like it no longer existed. Your hand was in his, fingers locked, his grip tight.

You didn’t even make it to the hallway.

He kicked open the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind you, the echo swallowed by the thump of bass outside. The lights were harsh, the mirror already fogged from the sweat rolling off your bodies.

Then he was on you. Mouth crashing to yours. Hands everywhere.

Your back hit the counter. Hard. The marble dug into your spine. You didn’t care.

His fingers were already at your top, yanking it down, dragging your bra with it. His mouth latched onto your breast, sucking hard, his teeth scraping over your nipple with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

Your head fell back. You moaned loud and messy, fingers scrambling into his hair.

“Fuck—” you gasped, hips bucking.

He was feral.

Your skirt was shoved up, your panties torn at the seam with one sharp tug. He growled at the sight of your slick cunt already glistening, the heat of it radiating up at him.

“You that wet for me already?” he grunted, palming your thigh as he stepped between your legs.

Your legs wrapped around his hips before he could finish the question. He fumbled with his jeans, breath ragged, and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

He rubbed the head through your folds, slow, teasing, gathering the slick there.

“Bucky—” you panted, hands gripping his shoulders.

“Say it again,” he gritted out.

“Bucky,” you moaned, almost begging now. “Please. I need—”

That was it.

He thrust into you in one hard stroke.

You cried out, hands flying to the edge of the sink to brace yourself as he bottomed out inside you. The stretch burned—in the best way. You were so full you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t give you a second to adjust.

He fucked you like a man possessed, hips pistoning forward, brutal and relentless.

His fingers dug into your thighs, bruising. The slap of skin echoed off tile. The mirror fogged with each ragged breath. You clenched around him and he groaned, low and wrecked, mouth moving to your neck.

“Goddamn, you feel good,” he muttered, biting your skin. “Tight little pussy takin’ me so good, baby.”

Your head rolled back. “Fuck, Bucky—yes, yes—don’t stop—”

His hand wrapped around your throat. Not hard. Just enough.

He pulled you forward, nose brushing yours, his breath hot and filthy. “Look at me when I make you cum.”

And fuck—you did.

Your orgasm hit hard. Sharp. Your back arched off the counter, pussy clenching so tight around his cock he groaned your name like a prayer he never should’ve learned.

He didn’t slow.

He pulled you closer, arms around your waist, fucking into you like he needed it to live.

You came again—a second wave crashing over you, messy and loud, your thighs trembling, nails scratching down his back hard enough to mark.

“Shit—fuck—” he cursed, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me—”

You tightened around him on purpose, voice a wicked little moan in his ear, “Do it. Fill me up, baby. I want it.”

And he did.

With a growl that tore from his chest, he came deep, hips snapping hard one last time before he stilled, cock pulsing, forehead resting against yours.

His breath was ragged. Yours was gone.

You stayed like that—panting, ruined—his arms still around you like he didn’t want to let go.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, this time. A little too sweet.

He gave you his number.

And you never called.

Bucky had thought about you for two years.

Every girl after you? A shadow. A placeholder.

None of them tasted like you. None of them looked at him like they knew exactly how far he’d go for another night with you.

Every time he rode—high-speed and reckless—he imagined it was your voice in his ear. Your nails on his back. Your legs around his waist.

And now?

You were back. And you looked better than the fucking memory.

He’s walking toward you now.

Hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans, his shoulders are loose—relaxed in the way only men who know they’re being watched ever are.

That cocky grin is already spreading across his stubbled jaw, slow and sure like a fuse catching fire.

His eyes are locked on you.

They don’t drift. They don’t flinch. They drink you in, head to toe—like he’s not just looking, he’s remembering.

The way your legs wrapped around him. The way you tasted on his tongue. The sound you made when he pushed into you so deep your fingers left marks on his back.

His voice, when it comes, is low and drawling, thick with that gravel-and-honey tone that had once made your thighs clench in a public restroom.

“Well, well,” Bucky says, eyes raking down your body with absolutely no shame. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought I scared you off.”

You tilt your head, watching the way his smirk deepens at your reaction. Your smile is slow—unchallenged. Dangerous.

“Scared?” you echo, voice laced with sugar. “Honey, you were begging by the end of the night.”

He laughs.

And fuck, it’s hot.

That kind of laugh that vibrates in your chest, that spills easy from his lips but feels like it was pulled from somewhere deep.

It’s warm and rough and full of something between amusement and desire, like he enjoys the memory as much as he resents how good it still makes him feel.

“So someone misses me, huh?” you add, tongue in cheek, brow arched just slightly.

His gaze darkens, subtle but unmistakable. His smirk slips just a fraction—replaced with something hungrier, sharper.

“Wouldn’t go that far,” he lies, and you know it. “But you do make one hell of an impression, sweetheart.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, cocking a hip as she crosses her arms. “Oh god, here we go.”

And then—he says it.

“You and me. One race.”

The shift in your posture is instant. You straighten, eyes narrowing just enough to read him—to feel the weight behind the words.

It’s a challenge. A contract, if you say yes.

Your brows lift. “What’s in it for me?”

He jerks his chin toward the bike behind him—an obsidian beast gleaming under the floodlights like something conjured from a wet dream.

The custom rims shine like teeth. The jet-black pipes curl sleek and lethal. A gold-plated clutch glints near the handlebar, polished to perfection.

The entire thing hums like it’s alive, like it’s listening.

“You win,” he says, voice slick with pride, “she’s yours.”

You let out a low, appreciative whistle, gaze dragging over the machine. “That’s your baby, right?”

He nods once. “She’s never lost a race.” Then that wicked smile is back, more teeth this time, more heat. “Neither have I.”

You take a step closer, arms still loose at your sides, heart ticking a little harder beneath your chest.

“And if I lose?”

His boots close the distance. One more step and he's in your space—warm, towering, magnetic. His voice drops an octave, low enough to rumble straight through your bones.

“Then I get a date,” he says. “Just one.”

Your smirk curls slow, unapologetic. Bold. “Making up for lost time, Barnes?”

He leans in, that stubble brushing against your temple as he brings his mouth to your ear. His breath is warm, and it smells like mint and sin.

“I’ve had this real pretty girl on my mind for a while now,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Can’t help myself.”

Yelena barks a laugh behind you, rolling her eyes. “You must be outta your damn mind, babe.”

You glance over your shoulder with a wink, not missing the way Bucky watches the movement of your hips, his eyes tracking it like a man ready to break all his own rules. “You’re just jealous.” you joke playfully.

And you walk away, hips swaying deliberately, slow and smug.

Behind you, Bucky doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way your fingers slide across the seat of your bike. Watches the flick of your hair over your shoulder. Watches like you’re still in that bathroom, flushed and moaning, mouth against his jaw and nails in his back.

That familiar hunger stirs in his chest like a fire being stoked to life all over again.

And tonight?

He wasn’t letting you go again.

Not this time.

The news spread like smoke—fast, thick, and impossible to ignore.

One whispered challenge under the overpass was all it took. Someone overheard Bucky offer you a race. Someone else repeated it and then it caught like a lit match in a dry field.

By the time the clock ticked past midnight, the meet had tripled in size.

The back lot was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people and bikes. Every alley that bled into the main strip was clogged with more engines, more tension, more noise.

The air felt tighter. Louder. Alive.

Some came to race. Most came to watch.

But all of them came for one thing.

Someone was going to race Bucky Barnes. And that someone might actually win.

Engines howled in greeting like wolves baring teeth. Tires screeched across pavement in celebratory skids.

Streetlights above buzzed like dying stars, casting long, warped shadows that danced between the strobes of red brake light and leaking neon.

A truck stereo rumbled from somewhere in the center of the chaos—its remix so loud it shook the bones in your chest, bass vibrating in the soles of your boots.

A girl in leather hot pants climbed onto the hood of a matte black Camaro, her legs glinting with oil sheen under the light as she threw her head back and moved to the beat, heels clacking against the metal roof as women and men shouted beneath her.

Yelena lit a cigarette with a practiced flick, the flame cutting bright against the shadows. She took a drag, letting the smoke curl from her lips like she owned the air around her.

When a guy in a sleeveless denim vest stepped too close, eyes crawling up your chest, she didn’t even look—just flipped him off without breaking stride.

“You sure you want to do this, honey?” she asked through the haze, the grin on her lips crooked with mischief.

You tightened your gloves, leather creaking softly beneath your fingers. “You scared I’ll lose?”

“I’m scared he’ll flirt you off the road,” she muttered playfully, her gazing towards Bucky stood across the lot, laughing with Steve like he didn’t just challenge the only girl crazy enough to ride him into the ground.

You smirked, tongue pressed behind your teeth. “Then he’ll have to earn that date, won’t he?”

And across the lot, Bucky stood like the street belonged to him.

That jacket, the same damn one from the night in the club, hung open across his chest, framing a tight black tee stretched over a torso carved by what seemed like adonis himself.

His jeans were dark, fitted, hugging his hips, his boots were scuffed and scarred—clearly having kissed asphalt at least once—but they were planted wide, solid, like nothing could move him.

Steve stood beside him, broad, blonde, a silver bike helmet tucked under one arm as he leaned in and murmured something low.

Clint and Natasha stood beside them, relaxed and deadly in their own right.

Clint had his brows raised, the redhead beside him leaned against her cherry-red Ducati, arms crossed, smirking like she already knew how the night would end.

They weren’t just racers. They were practically legends.

The kind of names you whispered at the edge of circuits in other cities.

And all of them had lost to Bucky. Some more than once.

And tonight they looked curious.

They weren’t watching him. They were watching you.

Because tonight wasn’t just another street race.

Tonight was the first time someone had the balls—and the skill—to try and take the king.

Steve clapped Bucky on the shoulder, easy and loud, then tilted his chin toward you.

Bucky followed the look.

And when he saw you—standing there with your helmet tucked under one arm, fingers tracing the sleek frame of your bike like a lover, your mouth tilted in that slow smirk he hadn’t stopped thinking about—he smiled.

Not cocky. Not smug.

Like a man who knew.

The crowd started to shift, as if drawn by instinct, forming a loose barrier around the cracked stretch of asphalt that would be your track.

People climbed onto crates, dumpsters, the back ends of pickups. Someone mounted a tripod camera, already livestreaming, already narrating: “She’s gonna race Barnes. No fucking way.”

You adjusted your helmet strap, letting the tension roll down your shoulders. When you looked up, he was already walking toward you.

Swagger in his step.

Heat in his eyes.

His voice was low when he reached you—gravel-smooth and lazy as sin. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?”

You turned slow, eyes drifting down the line of his body. His hands. His boots. The unmistakable tension in his shoulders that said he lived for this kind of risk.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried.”

He chuckled, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his chest. “I’m not. Just wondering if you’ll let me take you out win or lose.”

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes.

“You’ll have to earn it. And you better hope I don’t look better on your bike than you do.”

He gave a long, low whistle, his grin spreading wide. “God, I missed your mouth.”

You could feel it in your bones.

This was going to be good.

The crowd parted like the red sea as Steve stepped into the center, raising his arm. “Alright, alright, you crazy bastards. Line up.”

You swung one leg over your bike, the weight of it familiar beneath you—the rumble of the engine like a heartbeat syncing with your own. You flicked the ignition, and it growled awake, deep and hungry.

To your left, Bucky did the same.

You could feel him without looking. That shift in his body as he dropped into the zone. The predator beneath the leather. Hands flexing over the grips.

Someone in the crowd whistled. Another voice rose—cheering, shouting. A girl near the front screamed, “Let’s go, baby!”

Steve raised his hand.

“Three—”

Your heart synced to the thrum beneath you. Every muscle tensed. Your eyes locked forward.

“Two—”

Bucky looked at you.

And smiled.

“One—”

The air split open.

Tires screamed. Pavement blurred. And you were gone.

You launched forward, tucked low, your bike a sleek black bullet cutting through the night.

Wind clawed at your jacket, ripped through your hair. But your hands were steady. Every motion was muscle memory. Every turn was pure instinct.

Beside you, Bucky stayed even.

Neck and neck.

His bike snarled beside yours—an untamed monster of matte black steel and engine fury. It spit sparks, hissed threats, surged into your blind spot. But you didn’t flinch. You twisted the throttle harder, took the inside curve so tight the gravel kissed your boot.

The crowd warped into streaks. The lights dissolved.

Nothing existed but you. Him. The road.

You felt him beside you—not just the movement, but the heat. The electricity in the air. That same impossible pull from two years ago, now wrapped in adrenaline and exhaust.

The next curve came fast. S-shaped.

You didn’t brake. Neither did he.

You downshifted, leaned in—nearly horizontal—your knee skimming a hair’s width from the asphalt as your tires screamed across the bend.

He mirrored the motion flawlessly, and for a moment—just a moment—you swore you heard him laugh.

“You fucking love this,” you muttered under your breath, smiling wild.

It wasn’t just a race. It was foreplay.

The final stretch loomed—too soon, too fast. The finish line was drawn in chalk and headlights. A wall of sound waited on the other side.

You pushed harder.

And then—

He edged forward.

Inches. Just inches.

Enough to win.

Your tires screeched as you slowed, the roar of the engine dying as you coasted to a stop, lungs heaving, heart still hammering.

The crowd erupted behind you—screams, cheers, claps, someone lighting a firecracker that whistled into the sky and burst red above the lot.

You pulled off your helmet, hair tousled, lips parted in a breathless grin.

Bucky rolled to a stop beside you, his chest rising deep and even, his bike still purring beneath him like a satisfied animal. He took off his helmet slowly, deliberately, shaking out his hair like he knew what the hell he looked like.

Smug bastard.

“Fuck,” you laughed, voice wrecked and thrilled.

He looked over, mouth twitching. “Close one.”

You stepped off your bike, still catching your breath. “You got lucky.”

He tilted his head. “Rematch, sweetheart?”

You smiled, cocking your hip. “Take me on that date first, Barnes.”

That grin. It spread across his face like fire on oil. “Oh, I plan to. I’ve been planning to since the minute you walked into my goddamn life.”

And for once, you didn’t stop him when he leaned in.

Didn’t flinch when his fingers brushed your waist.

Didn’t pretend it wasn’t already happening.

Because the race was over. But the chase?

The real chase had only just begun.

a/n: thank you for reading! please consider leaving a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this fic!

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