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emjayewrites · 27 days

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The First Monday in May | LH44

SUMMARY: Lewis Hamilton and his girlfriend have too much fun at the Met Gala.

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Black Fem! Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI/18+

TAGLIST: @cocobutterqwueen @httpsserene @mauvecherie-writes @galatially @pausmoon @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @weetjy @lewisroscoelove @hxneyclouds @questionable-behaviour @lovebittenbyevans @tian-monique @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @planetmimi @woderfulkawaii @d3kstar @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @blveeeeeee @sugardontbesweet @omgsuperstarg @bluesole16 @serpenttines-library @peyiswriting @jasmindaughteroftheworld @motheroffae @hrlzy @xoscar03 @xsweetdellzx

A/N: I had to! Lewis was looking too good! The hold he has on me is crazy!! Please comment and reblog!! The headers/dividers are by @inklore

The luxurious suite at The Mark Hotel was a whirlwind of activity as you and Lewis prepared for fashion's biggest night - the Met Gala. Seated at the vanity, you watched in the mirror's reflection as your makeup artist meticulously applied the finishing touches to your glamorous look, but despite her artistry, you found your gaze continuously drifting, utterly entranced by the vision that was your boyfriend. He was an absolute vision as he prepared for fashion's biggest night.

Instead of the typical tuxedo, Lewis had chosen an exquisite all-black ensemble from Burberry to pay homage to the Welsh gardener John Ystumllyn. The intricate floral embroidery that adorned the long overcoat was a true work of art, a delicate stitching of daffodil motifs.

Watching as Lewis moved with that athletic grace of his, you felt a familiar heat unfurling low in your belly. Even three deliriously blissful months into this relationship, the man still managed to render you utterly breathless with desire.

"Easy there, gorgeous," your makeup artist chuckled, having caught your hooded gaze locked on Lewis. "We've still got some work to do before you can jump his bones."

You didn't even attempt to hide your shameless ogling as Lewis's own makeup artist leaned in to meticulously groom and sculpt his already perfect brows. The man's cheekbones could slice diamonds, you were certain.

"I can't help it," you murmured, shamelessly drinking in every sinewy line and angle of his body beneath the tailored lines of the all-black ensemble. "He's too much."

As if sensing your rapt regard, Lewis turned to catch your eye in the mirror. His full and bitable lips - a true pout that would make any sane woman melt - curved into a wolfish grin that did absolutely indecent things to your insides. The man was a walking orgasm without even seeming to try.

"See something you like over there, baby?" His tone was pure liquid sex, that deep baritone seeming to caress you from across the room.

Rather than answer verbally, you held his heated stare and slowly, deliberately dragged your gaze over his form in a full-body rake. Only when you'd visually mapped every hard plane and sinuous curve did you meet his darkened eyes once more.

The heavy silence that stretched between you thrummed with smoldering tension and the sort of electric chemistry that you somehow never seemed to run out of these days. You were well and truly still drowning in the depths of that delirious honeymoon phase.

Clearing his throat, Lewis broke the thick moment by unfastening his wristwatch and handing it off to his assistant. As he fastened an assortment of jewelry to his wrists and fingers, you admired how the gleaming metal accents played against his burnished skin like molten sunlight.

Lewis seemed to fill every inch of his look with that potent masculinity of his. Raw, unapologetic virility in its most delicious form. He certainly cut an impressive figure, yet somehow your gown managed to visually complement his rather than compete. An exquisite confection of black and white fabric, delicate floral embroidery across the bodice, and gossamer tulle layers underneath for a more puffy skirt, it was a study in ornate romance. As a playful wink to your boyfriend's look, you'd requested a spray of lush John Ystumllyn roses to be artfully woven into your elaborate upswept braid.

The overall effect was absolute decadent glamour, blending seamlessly with Lewis's darker, more understated Ystumllyn homage. You were in perfect stylistic alignment, two halves of a striking whole.

As you rose to join him for a few final touchup photos before the grand arrival at the Met, Lewis's molten gaze raked over you with naked hunger.

"Good god, you're exquisite," he rasped, reaching out to ghost his fingers over the delicately embroidered skirt. "Perfect in every way."

Leaning in, you pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of his jaw, inhaling the heady scent of his cologne.

"You keep kissing me like that and we'll never make it out of this hotel room," Lewis rumbled, his large hands settling possessively at your ass.

You let out a breathless laugh, feeling deliciously giddy in a way that never seemed to fade these days, not when you were around him. "And that would be such a tragedy?" you countered playfully, rising on your tiptoes to feather a string of teasing kisses along the strong column of his neck. "Think of all the headlines - 'Hamilton a No-Show At Big Fashion Event, Too Busy Wifing Up Boo.'"

The growl that rolled through Lewis's broad chest could only be described as primal. "Cheeky girl."

With some reluctance, you forced yourself to take a step back, smoothing the lapels of his ensemble as you drank in every last detail that would soon have the world's photographers in a frenzy.

"Tonight's the night, babe," you murmured, unable to resist running an admiring palm over the solid plane of his chest. "Ready for your close-up with me by your side?"

Lewis's whiskey-brown gaze burned molten with certainty and desire. "More than ready. It's you and me, baby. We got this."

Offering his arm in that genteel way of his, Lewis ushered you from the hotel suite to begin your grand debut as an official couple. As you rode the elevator to the lobby, butterflies took fluttering flight in your belly, not from nerves but pure, unbridled excitement.

This relationship was still so new, so wholly unexpected and whirlwind and earth-shatteringly right, that tonight felt profoundly momentous. Your first time facing the glaring scrutiny of the world's media and paparazzi as Lewis Hamilton's date - his woman to put it simply.

Yet gazing up at the achingly handsome man by your side, you felt nothing but calm certainty and devotion unfurling within you. This was your reality now, this charmed existence where you were cherished and adored by one of the most famous and talented men in the world.

The roar from the crowds outside was deafening as the hotel doors parted. Lewis held onto your hand tightly as the two of you made a dash to the awaiting black SUV.

When the two of you finally arrived at the Met Gala carpet, the roar from the crowds gathered outside reached fever pitch as your driver opened the door, a solid wall of camera flashes and shouted greetings assaulting you.

As you emerged onto the frenetic Met Gala carpet, the roar of the crowds and paparazzi reached deafening levels. Lewis kept you tucked securely against his side, his large hand a scorching brand at the small of your back as you blinked against the blinding flashes.

"Just keep those gorgeous eyes on me, baby," he murmured, lips brushing your temple. "You've got this."

Your arms instinctively banded around his trim waist as you took his scorching weight, nodding wordlessly. This entire event was Madison Square Garden levels of sensory overload and spectacle. Despite Lewis's easy confidence and the steadying weight of his arm around you, nerves fluttered wildly in your belly. This was your official debut to the world as his girlfriend, after all.

As if sensing your slight trepidation, Lewis leaned in closer, stealing a series of soft, reassuring kisses along your cheekbone. "Be a good girl and stay calm for me," he rumbled in that sinfully delicious baritone, "and I'll make sure you get a very…special reward later tonight."

You shivered at the heated promise in his words, the suggestive waggle of those thick brows that never failed to turn your insides to molten lava. "What kind of reward?" you couldn't resist asking coyly.

Lewis simply flashed you a wicked grin before turning his magnetic presence on the press line.

"Lewis! Lewis, over here!"

Posing effortlessly with that second skin of charisma and charm, he graciously accepted the mic from the smiling Ashley Graham. "Looking like an absolute dream tonight, my friend. And who is this vision on your arm?"

With a possessive sweep of his free hand down the embroidered curve of your waist, Lewis reeled you in closer until you were melded against the scorching line of his body. "This remarkable woman is the love of my life," he proclaimed boldly, his honeyed gaze of pure devotion blazing into yours.

Ashley let out a delighted laugh. "So this is the official hard launch of your relationship then? Out and proud for all the world to see."

Lewis's chuckle was rich with satisfied masculine pride as he nuzzled a kiss to your temple, his nose nuzzling the sweetly fragrant blooms woven through your braid. "I guess you can say that, yeah. No point in hiding the way I feel about this one anymore."

Flushed and giddy with glee, you somehow made it up the iconic Met steps in a blissful daze, secured to Lewis's side and feeling utterly invincible in his steadfast presence. Once inside the grand venue, your vision was awash with dazzling lights, priceless gowns and dapper tuxedos, a truly who's who of Hollywood and fashion royalty.

At your secluded table, Lewis introduced you to his fellow guests - songstress Raye, actors Jodie Turner, Colman Domingo, and Charlie Hunnam. The group instantly folded you in with warm smiles and enthusiastic conversation as Lewis's large hand found its way to your thigh beneath the tablecloth.

A jolt of pure sin shot through you at the blazing path his fingers traced over your bare skin, squeezing and caressing with casual possessiveness. He was permanently branded into your nerve endings at this point, able to ignite you with even the simplest of touches.

Across the table, Colman leaned over with a twinkle in his eye. "Seems our Lewis found himself quite the stunner. You'd better keep that man on a leash."

"Oh trust me," you managed to rasp out around the lump in your throat, "I fully intend to."

A fresh roar rose from the crowd as some of the evening's co-chairs - none other than Zendaya and Bad Bunny - took the stage to kick off the night's festivities and programming. Ariana Grande herself soon serenaded the event as Lewis's fingers continued their torturously delightful ministrations beneath the table, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping your expression impassive.

Just as the first strains of one of Ariana's biggest hits reached a crescendo, Lewis suddenly stood and grasped your hand. Throwing him a questioning look, you allowed him to tug you up beside him.

"Do you trust me?" The words were a low, heated rasp meant only for your ears.

Your answering nod was instant, unhesitating. At this point, you would likely follow this man into the flames if he asked.

Slipping his palm against the small of your back once more, Lewis guided you from the grand auditorium and out into the dimly lit corridor, somewhere quieter and more private. You let out a startled gasp as he abruptly tugged you into what appeared to be a utility closet, shutting and locking the door behind your bodies.

"Lewis, what are you - mmph!"

His lips crashed over yours with bruising, devouring force, swallowing your words and sending an electric jolt straight to your core. The enclosed space was immediately suffused with the heady scent of his cologne and the unique, musky aroma that was simply him - dangerously virile, achingly male.

Pinning you to the wall, Lewis plundered your mouth with that wicked, talented tongue, his hands shamelessly roaming every curve and dip of your body. When you instinctively arched into his solid frame with a desperate whimper, he let out a guttural groan of approval.

"Wanted you the second I saw you in that fucking dress," he rasped harshly against the swollen seam of your lips. "Christ, I can't get enough of you, baby. Can't ever get close enough."

Spreading his large palms over the flare of your hips, he tugged your lower bodies flush in a deliriously sinful grind. His eyes were fever-bright and blown wide in the dim closet, a maelstrom of possessive hunger.

"All night, I wanted you just like this," he commanded in that rough, wrecked tone that obliterated your higher reasoning. "Writhing on my dick, my name falling from those pretty lips…I can't wait to fuck you senseless later, but first I'm gonna do it with my hands."

The world could have fallen away in that heated moment, and you wouldn't have noticed or cared - not when Lewis was kissing you breathless, reducing you to a devastated puddle of want in the circle of his scorching embrace.

Feverishly tugging at his tuxedo jacket and shirt, you finally managed to spread your palms over that broad, powerful expanse of bare chest. God, the man was sculpted perfection, every striated muscle and sinew begging to be mapped and worshipped with your mouth.

You latched on with your mouth in a filthy, open-mouthed trail of nips and kisses, laving the heated skin with your tongue.

"Christ..." His head fell back with a ragged groan. "That mouth, baby...gonna fuckin' ruin me."

You blazed a messy path of worship over every glorious inch of bared flesh, nipping and swirling your tongue until his strangled curses spurred you onward. His hands continued to roam wildly, locating the zipper at the back of your gown and dragging it down in one long pull until you were exposed from shoulders to waist. The entire upper portion slithered free, puddling at your feet and leaving you bared from the waist up. Lewis's shredded grunt seemed to vibrate through your very nerve endings.

"Fuckin' stunning..." he husked, drinking in every newly revealed inch of your skin with undisguised want. "So gorgeous, baby."

Any sense of inhibition or location abandoned you as Lewis sealed his mouth over yours once more. You arched wantonly into his hardness, fingernails scoring lines down his powerful back as your lower bodies ground together in a maddening spiral of friction.

He broke away with a guttural rumble, latching onto your pulse point and sucking hard enough to leave a mark for all the world to see. A harsh tug followed, that broad palm closing around your thigh beneath the frothy skirt layers to hitch your leg over his powerful hip.

"Gonna make you mine now, girl," he growled against your damp skin. "No more waitin', no more teasin'..."

His free fingers sought the sleek juncture of your thighs, skimming along searing flesh, past your lace thong, and coaxing a litany of shameless moans past your parted lips. "This pretty pussy is mine."

The sheer possession in his lust-roughed baritone sent shockwaves of electric heat arrowing through you. He cupped you, skilled fingertips finding your slick, aching core as you canted your hips with a choked cry.

"Yes, Lewis...God yes!"

Rewarding your eager surrender with a harsh nip to the swell of your breast, he coaxed your other leg up and around his narrow waist. Pinning you to the wall fully, he slid two thick fingers into your dripping channel as his palm ground against your throbbing pearl in delicious torment.

"Fuckin' drenched for me," he commented with clear masculine satisfaction. "This what you want, baby girl? My fingers splitting you wide and fuckin' open..."

If he kept up that whiskey-rough filth while working you apart so skillfully, you were sure to detonate within seconds. Hips circling mindlessly, you chased the rapidly cresting highs, trusting him completely to send you plummeting over that euphoric edge.

"Please..." you sobbed, legs quaking where they were hooked around his lean hips. "Please, Lewis...I need..."

Whatever pleas remained caught in your throat as he claimed your lips again, swallowing your hoarse cries and whimpers. The built-in shelving at your back served as convenient leverage as he fingers pumped in a steady, owning cadence while his palm continued kneading at your sensitive bud with perfect pressure.

You tore your mouth away to gasp against his stubbled jaw, tingles of electricity licking along every nerve ending like wildfire. "I'm gonna...oh God, Lewis, I'm gonna..."

"That's it, baby." His answering rasp was shredded and dark, wreathed in blatant carnal pride at your wanton surrender. "Let it go for me...drench my fuckin' hand with it."

His vulgar praise was the final push you needed. With a drawn-out keening cry, your spine arched into an almost painful bow as you released in spectacular, obliterating waves of screaming pleasure. Lewis held you pinned as shockwave after shockwave washed over you, prolonging and intensifying your euphoric high.

At some point, you found yourself draped over him bonelessly, panting in great heaving gulps while he nuzzled your hairline and trailed hot, worshipful kisses over your face and throat. Though satisfyingly sated for the moment, an ember of longing still throbbed molten and low, awaiting his final searing brand.

"Goddamn, you're exquisite," Lewis breathed against your sweat-dampened skin. "I'll never get enough of you, baby girl. Not in this life or the next..."

As he shifted to mouth along the shuddering column of your exposed throat, those talented fingers still worked your flushed, sensitized flesh in tiny pulses and caresses, sending aftershocks of delicious torment skating through your limbs. Overwhelmed anew, you could only cling to him, this remarkable man whom you'd fallen so hopelessly in love with.

After sharing a lingering kiss that left you both slightly breathless, you reluctantly disentangled yourselves and began straightening rumpled attire. Lewis shot you a roguish wink as he smoothed the lapels of his immaculate tuxedo jacket. You bit your lip to stifle a giddy giggle, feeling deliriously happy despite the slight flush of embarrassment at being caught in such a compromising position.

Squaring your shoulders, you emerged from the utility closet trying your best to exude nonchalance. Lewis followed closely behind, his large palm skating across the small of your back in a reassuring caress. Immediately, you nearly walked straight into the grinning form of none other than Bad Bunny himself.

"Ay yi yi...." The Puerto Rican rapper's eyes danced with mischief as he took in your flustered appearances. "If I had known the closets were available, I would have brought someone myself."

Lewis just laughed, slinging an arm around your waist. "What can I say? She's irresistible."

You ducked your head shyly as Bad Bunny chuckled. After exchanging some playful banter, you and Lewis headed back to the Gala's main venue - hands intertwined, beaming unabashedly. Despite the brief embarrassment, your shared smiles spoke of an unbreakable partnership built on deep adoration. In Lewis's eyes, you were his unstoppable equal, his everything. And he was undeniably yours.

#the first monday in may #lewis hamilton #emjayewrites #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #sir lewis hamilton x black!reader #lewis hamilton x black!reader #f1 x reader #f1 x black!reader #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x black reader

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firstelevens · 28 days

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traveling on (and it won't be long)

sam/bucky | alternate universe (formula one au) | 2.6k words | rated g

The drivers from Team Stark get invited to the Met Gala and produce some content for their socials on the way. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

My beloved @sesamestreep texted me yesterday about the F1 AU boys attending the Met Gala, and naturally her wish is my command. Enjoy!

( also on AO3 )

Over the course of his career, Bucky has done no shortage of things that made him look stupid. There was his exclusively-cavorting-with-young-royals-on-yachts phase, the two years (pre-Alpine, of course) where his Instagram was exclusively thirst traps, that one summer when he decided to go blond…all terrible choices, in retrospect, and all things that he regrets. One thing he can say for all those phases, though, is that at least they were fun at the time.

He would give anything to be able to say that about today.

‘If one more person tells me to relax, I’m going to lie down on the floor and scream,’ he texts Steve, because Sam’s probably on lap twenty of a race right now, and Becca would probably just tell him to suck it up.

‘How are you still this bad at being on camera?’ Steve replies.

‘Peter used to just let me argue with Sam and hit record. These guys are making me read from CUE CARDS.’

Steve just sends him a laughing emoji in response, because he’s a traitor. (But then he follows up with a picture of Ellie and her baby brother playing with fingerpaint to cheer him up, because apparently siding with Steve in a fight against two boys twice their size was the right call when Bucky made it thirty years ago.)

It’s his own fault, maybe. If Bucky had spent less of his last year on the grid antagonizing the higher ups at Tuono, Rhodey and Nat would have had to spend considerably less time trying to placate them, and then they wouldn’t have had the leverage they needed to get Bucky to agree to this.

The director calls for everyone to get set up for another take, and Bucky stands on his mark again, shaking out his shoulders and trying to reach for the charming version of him from the yacht parties and all those videos with Sam. When they call action, Bucky looks at the camera, pretends that it’s Sam, and lets the smile spread across his face as he reads from the cards: “I’m Bucky Barnes and today is the first Sunday in May. It’s time to get ready with me and Team Stark to go to the 2026 Met Gala.”

He doesn’t actually fall to the floor in relief when the director declares, after eighteen takes, that they’ve finally got it, but it’s a near thing.

After the cue cards, they film Olivia as she talks the viewers through Bucky and Sam and Joaquín’s outfits for the events, and Bucky just has to ask her questions and let her talk, which is a relief. Bucky gets about fifteen seconds after that to check the results of the race in Montreal and text Sam an emphatic, ‘CONGRATULATIONS I LOVE YOU SO MUCH’ immediately followed by an equally sincere, ‘they’re making me film my skincare routine you owe me so big after this.’

He knows that Sam won’t get around to checking his phone until much later, not until after the cooldown room and interviews and the presentation of the trophies, but still. If Bucky can’t pull him aside and kiss the hell out of him in a quiet corner the way did after all their races last year, the least he can do is be sure there’s a text waiting for whenever Sam gets to it.

Then he trudges to the bathroom vanity, where there’s a ring light and a camera set up by the mirror and a sound guy standing in the shower, reminds himself that he’s doing this because of how much he loves Sam, and launches into an explanation of the facial cleanser he uses and how important hydration is for race car drivers.

By the time the crew packs up for the night, they’ve filmed skincare, haircare (an overnight mask made by a New Orleans small business), and gotten footage of Bucky doing a Korean face mask (he looked ridiculous, but Olivia did one with him in solidarity, because she’s the best). As Bucky closes the door behind the last person to leave, he looks around the suite, now ringing in its emptiness, and falls into bed without even turning off the lights.

—

It’s not until morning that Bucky even remembers to check his phone. He’d plugged it in to charge far away from where they were filming, to avoid the temptation to check for replies from Sam every few minutes, and he’d been too tired to retrieve it at night. He swipes through his texts as he sits up in bed: selfies that he and Olivia took with the face masks on, pictures from Steve of Ellie and Jamie covered in paint after their art session, and then a stack of notifications from Sam. The earliest ones are from last night, a series of hearts and a ‘ thank you, baby’ in response to Bucky’s congratulations, then laughter at Bucky’s unwitting transformation into a skincare influencer, and a message that says, ‘guess I’ll have to think of some way to repay you for everything’ followed by that weird smirky emoji that shouldn’t make Bucky blush as hard as it does.

The rest are just updates: a good night text from when Sam went to bed, a message from around seven AM about a weird dream he’d had involving a tortoise, and then messages about heading for the airport and getting on the plane. Bucky replies to the very last one and then sets off in search of some kind of caffeine before the cameras come back in.

He doesn’t realize until much later that his ‘love you, see you soon’ text to Sam was only half true. They’re doing his makeup—eyeliner is involved, enough that he’s irrepressibly reminded of the era where his style icon was Pete Wentz—when Bucky notices that there’s only one camera in the room today instead of three. When he asks about it, the makeup artist tells him they had to split up the cameras between the three rooms, which she appreciated because she’d been worried that they would get in her way.

Bucky says something about how it must be hard to weave around all of that and do such delicate work, and she agrees, but really all that he’s thinking about is the fact that there are two other rooms. Some part of his brain had just assumed that Sam would be here getting ready alongside him, that they’d have at least gotten to see each other while being corralled into makeup and hair and wardrobe. He knows that Sam’s outfit has enough architectural detail that they can’t share a car there, but he’d hoped that they could at least swing a couple minutes with each other before he had to relinquish Sam to his adoring public. (And they are adoring, not that Bucky can blame them.) Something in Bucky’s chest sinks a little bit, but he swallows it and keeps chatting, very aware of the camera pointed directly at his face.

As it turns out, there’s a staggered schedule for Sam and Bucky and Joaquín to finish getting ready and head out, and Bucky’s up first. Olivia sweeps into his room right as they’re putting the finishing touches on his hair, one last tweak of the flowers tucked into the bun at the back of his head and a spritz of hairspray for the hair that’s down and brushing his shoulders as he turns his head.

“You look amazing,” she says, beaming at him. He grins and thanks her, then grins even wider when she takes a step forward and adjusts the lapels of his jacket, fussing with how the necklaces sit and adjusting the way his cape drapes over his shoulder.

He steps back for final approval when she’s done, turning to the side so she can get a better look at the cape. “Am I up to your standards? I won’t bring shame to your good name if people know you’re my stylist?”

“With your jacket collection? Never,” laughs Olivia.

She gives his hand a squeeze before she shoos him out the door, and he calls over his shoulder, “Go get dressed already! How are you gonna upstage us if you’re not on time?”

“There’s one person here who’s gonna be doing the upstaging,” she says, “and it’s not me or you.”

As Bucky is ushered out towards the elevators, he sees Peter at the end of the hall, holding the door open for someone carrying an oversized garment bag. There’s a little bit of coral fabric peeking out, just like the material of Sam’s outfit, and for a second, Bucky thinks about making a break for the room. He’s an adult, he reasons. It’s not like they could stop him if he ran.

But then the elevator opens, and the camera operator gets in first, immediately turning to get a shot of Bucky at the doors, and he resigns himself to waiting a little bit longer as he steps in.

Bucky has attended exactly one other Met Gala before, when he was twenty-four and dating a British model who was maybe also some kind of duchess. He’d just been scenery back then, dressed all in black so as to avoid taking away from her outfit, which had involved so many ruffles in the skirt that she couldn’t even sit down in the car on the way over. As the door opens and he steps out of the car, Bucky finds himself wishing he was that invisible again, just for a second.

Then he remembers how hard Olivia has worked for months now, how excited the young designers had been when the team had gotten in touch about dressing the three of them. There simply isn’t a universe where Bucky allows himself to let them down, so takes a deep breath and straightens his back and steps out onto the red carpet.

Once he’s high up enough on the stairs, he undoes the tie that’s holding up the train of his cape, hopes that the damn thing works, and keeps walking. He only knows that the fabric unfolded properly when he hears the soft noise of silk flowers tumbling out in his wake, spreading out into a train as he goes. He tries not to look too pleased with himself and hopes to God that it was the right angle for photos.

He’s just made it up to where people are being greeted and interviewed by a young woman who looks familiar. He’s seen her face on posters, and though he doesn’t know her name, she knows his. He tries not to feel too bad about it when she tells him how much she enjoyed this season of Need for Speed , and he opens his mouth to thank her when a ripple of gasps carry down the stairs, loud enough to be heard over shouting photographers and the ambient noise of so many people in one place.

“Did someone fall?” Bucky asks, looking ahead to where people are posing on the steps, but he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary there.

“I’m pretty sure they’re looking that way,” says the interviewer, grinning as she points down at the very bottom of the stairs.

He turns to see what she’s pointing at and feels his breath catch in his chest, a second too late to join the chorus.

Bucky has only ever seen Sam’s outfit in parts: sketches on the wall of Olivia’s studio and individual pieces tried on during fittings, mockups shared on video calls and swatches of fabric pinned up next to a Botticelli painting. They were all too disjointed to form any kind of picture, and Bucky had trusted Olivia enough to know that the effect was worth waiting for.

Now, as he looks down towards Sam, he’s not sure that ‘worth waiting for’ does him any kind of justice.

His arms are bare, rings and bracelets glittering on his hands as a gold filigree cuff wraps around his bicep. The coral and gold fabric of his vest and pants must be tailored down to the millimeter for how they hug his body, and there’s a gold headpiece creating a halo around him like the one Bucky sometimes thinks he might have in real life.

And though Sam sometimes feels to Bucky larger than life—in his talent, in his kindness, in the vastness of his love—now he looks the part, too, the cape that’s settled on his shoulders arcing high up behind him in two curves like an enormous set of angel’s wings. It’s layer upon layer of soft, floaty fabric, coral giving way to pinks and purples and eventually a deep ocean blue that just sweeps the floor as Sam walks.

There are flashbulbs going off and people murmuring excitedly around him, but all Bucky can do is stare at Sam, watching as he jokes with a photographer and throws his head back in a delighted laugh. Bucky has taken his first step down before he even realizes it, then stops where he is.

He thinks again of the last time he was on this carpet, of how the greatest worry was that he would be a distraction and he was kept well clear of the pictures until it was decided that he could come back in. He couldn’t do that to Sam, not when he’s so utterly glorious a picture all on his own.

“He looks incredible,” says the interviewer, who Bucky really should apologize to. He’s about to do it, too, to say sorry and try to answer at least one of her questions before moving on, but his eyes are still on Sam, and he knows that he should tear them away except…except…

Except now it’s Sam who’s looking up at him , eyes wide. He would feel the weight of that gaze from a mile away, would know in an instant that it was Sam whose eyes were tracing the lines of his body. He would know the smile that spreads across Sam’s face, too: slow and satisfied and with its own gravitational pull, for all that Bucky can’t turn away from it.

The smile would be enough for Bucky, really. He’s well aware that he ought to be moving on, that people are looking impatiently at him from their various stations, but then Sam catches Bucky’s eye, raises a hand, and beckons him down.

There’s no way that people are supposed to be doing this, thinks Bucky, as he hurries down the stairs, but there’s no way that he’ll lose even a second of being at Sam’s side, not if he can help it.

He’s almost tempted to hover a few paces away, just so he’s out of shot, but Sam extends a hand to him before Bucky even makes it to the last step, interlacing their fingers as soon as Bucky’s hand lands in his.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, all warmth as he pulls Bucky towards him.

Bucky shrugs, not even bothering to hide his smile. “Well, you know, I didn’t have anything else planned tonight, so I thought I’d see what the fuss was about.”

Sam raises their joined hands and kisses Bucky’s knuckles, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s own. “You want to find out together?”

“Always.”

—

The next morning finds about five dozen texts from Becca and Steve on Bucky’s phone, every possible angle on Bucky’s awestruck face as he looked at Sam on the red carpet. None of them are particularly flattering, his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide in pure wonder.

Still, Bucky thinks, as Sam curls an arm around him and wordlessly grumbles about being woken up too early, this time, maybe he’s okay with looking a little bit stupid.

#happy first monday in may y'all #sambucky #sambucky fanfic #sambucky f1 AU #my fic #down to the WIRE but I finished it while it was still temporally relevant so THERE #sesamestreep

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