lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

The Suit Problem™

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: someone commented, and i quote verbatim "I can't imagine Bucky in a suit without thinking of him flexing & accidentally ripping his sleeves. Just to share that imagery."

Warnings/ tags: MATURE THEMES, Original Characters galore, political tension with feelings, lots of tension, suit kink (very heavily implied), emotional restraint and physical damage, making out in federally inappropriate spaces (the bathroom), clothed intimacy

Word count: 3k

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The First Time It Happens

It’s a standard afternoon hearing – oversight – dry, procedural, and criminally under-attended. Some poor GAO witness is walking the committee through a line-by-line breakdown of federal allocations for energy storage grants. You’re barely following. The numbers aren’t the problem, the problem (as is with many other things in life these days) is Bucky Barnes.

Specifically, Bucky in the third chair diagonally to your left, rolling back his shoulders and shrugging his jacket up higher on his frame like it isn’t already fighting for its dear life. Like the seam at his right shoulder isn’t straining with every millimetre he moves.

You’ve seen the shrug before. He does it when he’s bored. When he’s too warm. When he knows you’re watching.

It makes him look younger – unruly and a little too charming for your peace of mind.

Normally, you can take it.

But then –

riiip

A soft tear. Audible, but just barely. Right at the seam where his sleeve meets his right shoulder. Not the metal arm.

The flesh one.

You don’t mean to look. But you do, reflexively.

The fabric’s split open like a bad alibi, pulled too tight over muscle he has no business keeping in that good of a shape. The shirt underneath clings and you can see the edge of his bicep where the cotton’s pulled taut.

You freeze.

Then you blush.

And then you realize you’re blushing, and you nearly drop your pen.

He looks over. Of course he looks over.

He knows.

And his mouth quirks up like he’s won something, and perhaps he has.

You tear your eyes away and pretend to reread your notes, except that your entire mental slate has just been wiped clean by the sight of one extremely illegal shoulder doing irreversible things to navy wool blend.

Mills, three chairs behind you, texts the group slack in real time:

He BROKE THE JACKET. That’s the REAL oversight. my kinsey score will never recover

You press your lips together. You do not react. This is a federal setting.

But somewhere in the back of your head – right between this is wildly inappropriate and I did not know this was a thing for me – there’s a voice whispering: not even the metal arm. Jesus Christ.

In the Hallway Immediately After

You catch him just outside the hearing room. You're clutching your notes to your chest – mostly to hide the fact that your hands are shaking slightly. From frustration, obviously.

“Barnes,” you call out. 

He turns, slow. Too slow. His suit jacket’s slung over one shoulder now, exposing the ripped seam like it’s a war medal.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you enjoy making my staff reconsider their sexuality during active committee meetings?”

He bites down on a smile. "It was an accident."

A pause.

Then – lower, silkier, “your staff, or you?”

You go still.

It’s not fair, the way he says it. Like he’s just asking a question and he isn’t the living embodiment of every problem you’ve ever sworn to ignore.

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t test me, Barnes.”

He smiles properly now – wolfish, pleased. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You take a step closer. That’s your first mistake because he smells like cedar and clean soap and faint Capitol dust, and he’s still doing that thing – head tilted slightly, mouth soft at the corners, like he knows exactly how close you are to either slapping him or kissing him.

“That’s a campaign funded jacket,” you say, voice low. “You keep destroying them like this and I’m going to have to file you under infrastructure damage.”

“I’ll expense it,” he says, deadpan. “Line item 22: legislative tension.”

You exhale sharply. “You know you’re not supposed to look like that in public. It's unbecoming of a Congressman.”

He leans in, just a little.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll break the other seam too.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it and smiles.

“You’re impossible,” you say, weakly.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

He shrugs.

Again.

The sound that comes out of you isn’t quite verbal.

Somewhere behind you, a staffer coughs awkwardly.

You straighten up and smooth your blouse, all while pretending that your entire blood supply hasn’t migrated somewhere wildly inappropriate for federal property.

“I’m telling Mike to order you three new jackets,” you say, already turning to leave.

“Better make it four,” he calls after you. “Just in case I sit down too fast.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back, because you're smiling. 

The Fitting

The tailor is a compact, fastidious man named Victor. He works out of a discreet Dupont Circle storefront and has measured no fewer than four Supreme Court justices and at least one war criminal. Nothing rattles him.

Enter Bucky Barnes.

You are only here because you know Victor personally. That, and because Mike flagged Bucky’s latest jacket incident with a single phrase in your shared calendar:

URGENT: Barnes needs congressional-grade tailoring before someone loses an eye.

Victor gestures for Bucky to step onto the platform. “Try lifting your arm.”

Bucky rolls his left shoulder back in a deceptively casual shrug. The fabric of his shirt pulls like it's being winched over a steel cable. You hear it before you see it – a subtle groan of resistance from the sleeve.

There’s a long, painful pause.

"Okay," you say slowly, eyes fixed on the fabric. "So that’s a no."

The tailor clears his throat. “We might need a reinforced seam or – pardon me – structural adjustments for… exceptional anatomy.”

You hum. “Exceptional anatomy. That’s generous.”

Bucky shoots you a look, half mortified, half amused. “You dragged me here.”

“Because you tore your third jacket in two months,” you say, very calmly. “You can’t keep walking into committee hearings looking like you lost a bar fight with your own sleeves.”

He mutters something about deadlifting and polyester. You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching his biceps test the limits of a very expensive shoulder seam.

“I could just wear the old black suit,” he offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “The one you ripped open lifting a box of printed memos?”

"...It was a heavy box."

You shake your head as you pace about the store. You’ve chosen to pace because you will not be hovering while Bucky shrugs in and out of suit jackets like a Calvin Klein fever dream.

Victor starts measuring. Professional, focused, barely blinking until he gets to Bucky’s shoulders.

Victor sighs. “Sir, I’m going to need you to relax your shoulders.”

Bucky grins. “They are relaxed.”

You do not look over.

You will not look over.

Behind you, Jenna – assigned to ‘observe and document’ this appointment – is standing by the sample books, typing into her phone like a woman possessed.

#suitwatch (active)

[Jenna]: she just said “exceptional anatomy” out loud. in public. to his face. [Micah]: this is a First Amendment violation and also the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard [Devon]: sleeves are a construct. arms are forever. [Mills]: he’s looking at her like he’d say yes to anything even the double-breasted one even charcoal pinstripes

Victor measures in silence, muttering every now and then things like “This cannot be standard”, and, as he loops the measuring tape around Bucky’s chest, “I’m going to need heavier thread for the buttons.”

Bucky glances at you through the mirror with a smirk. “Enjoying the show, Congresswoman?”

You cross your arms and lift your chin. “I’m imagining filing a workplace complaint.”

He grins wider. “About my arms?”

“No, about your attitude.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “though the arms are definitely a secondary violation.”

Victor drops his pen.

*

Victor retreats into the backrooms to retrieve a reinforced thread spool, muttering something in Italian that sounds less like measurements and more like final blessings, and you drop onto the edge of the leather bench to watch Bucky undo the last jacket with surgical precision and barely restrained biceps.

"Out of curiosity," you say, elbow on your knee, chin in hand, "how much can you bench?"

He glances over, mid-button, brows raised. "Why?"

You gesture vaguely at the battlefield of defeated suit samples around him. “Trying to figure out whether the problem is vanity sizing or the fact that your upper body mass violates OSHA standards.”

He pauses for a second to think. Then he shrugs one shoulder – very carefully, this time.

“Dunno. Probably a Hummer H1. Full bed. Loaded?”

You blink. “The military one?”

“Yeah.” He nods at you, expression infuriatingly mild. “Yeah. The old diesel kind. Not the electric one.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just press your lips together and mutter under your breath, “exceptional anatomy, my ass.”

Behind you, Jenna makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a quiet breakdown. You're not sure which.

Three weeks later…

The tailor’s delivery arrives at 10 am on the dot – three full suits, pressed and wrapped, with Victor’s signature scribbled on the invoice like he is issuing a personal challenge. Devon brings the garment bags to your office with a look that says I know everything and I’m telling the group chat the moment I leave this room.

You thank him, barely.

It’s sheer coincidence, of course, that the floor’s scheduled a major vote for the afternoon, the kind they put on banners and b-rolls. C-SPAN and Politico have already parked their crew outside the chamber. You yourself are already dressed for the day in a sharp navy suit, statement earrings, and subtle heels. You’ve been on camera twice this morning and will be again before the end of the day. You've barely had a chance to have your coffee. 

And so it is just a function of practicality that Bucky Barnes shows up at your office just before noon with the sleeves of his day shirt rolled up and his tie stuffed in one pocket.

"Victor delivered?" he asks, already loosening the collar of his shirt as he toes the door shut behind him.

You gesture toward the rack. “Personally. Go with the charcoal pinstripes and try not to break it before the cameras roll.”

He unzips the garment bag and glances back at you. “Want me to change in here?”

“I don’t care where you change, Barnes,” you reply without looking up from your tablet, “as long as the jacket makes it through one vote without structural failure.”

He shrugs. “You staying?”

“I’ve got too much left to read," you say quietly, eyes still on the tablet, "and nowhere better to be.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the screen. You will not stare while he peels his shirt off like a man who has never once had to worry about being perceived.

You do not register the sound of buttons slipping free.

You do not notice the rustle of fabric, the stretch of muscle, the quiet exhale he lets out when the collar loosens.

The section header on your screen reads: Summary of proposed appropriations for FY26.

You’ve read the page four times. You would not be able to repeat its contents if your life depended on it.

He buttons the new shirt slowly, leisurely. You can hear it in the way he moves.

When he reaches for the jacket, you’re already standing.

You don’t say anything as you take the jacket down from its hanger, brush the shoulders once, and hold it out for him.

He pauses in front of you but doesn’t reach for it.

“I can do it,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “Let me.”

He turns without comment.

You slide the jacket up over his arms, settling the weight of it across his back. It fits like it’s supposed to – no pinching at the shoulders, no strain at the seams. You smooth it over his frame and let your hands linger just long enough to tell yourself you're just feeling for tension along the stitching. 

You circle in front of him, new tie in hand. You adjust his lapels and button the top button of his shirt yourself, slow and firm.

Before you can speak, he asks – mildly, almost carelessly, but not really at all, “you gonna tie it for me?”

You respond by sliding the fabric around his neck, slow and deliberate, letting it settle against the collar of his new shirt. It fits – too well. Clean lines, pressed seams, nowhere to hide.

“You could do this yourself,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he replies. “But your approval ratings are better.”

You don’t rise to it, not out loud.

Instead, you start the knot.

Not fast. Not businesslike. You take your time, fingers grazing the hollow of his throat, the soft scrape of new cotton against your knuckles. He exhales – shallow, quiet, controlled.

You don’t finish it.

Just as the final loop would tighten, you let the tie fall slack in your hands and take a step back.

His brow lifts, amused. “Giving up?”

“Letting you contribute,” you say, tone dry. “God forbid you show up to a vote half-dressed again.”

He chuckles low in his chest, but finishes the knot with a flick of his wrist. His eyes don’t leave you. “You like the charcoal?”

You brush a speck of lint from his lapel. Let your palm settle there for a beat too long.

“Victor’s best work,” you murmur. “If you break this one, I’m filing that workplace hazard report.”

“I’d like to see that paperwork,” he says, leaning in. His voice drops. “Will it mention how close you’re standing?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you wrinkle the jacket.”

He smiles – sharp, wrecked, beautiful. You ignore it.

"You’re ready,” you murmur. It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out feeling like a dare.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You straighten the line of his collar and let your thumb graze the base of his throat like you have the right.

“Don’t ruin it until after,” you say, adjusting the knot at his throat like it’s the only thing you still have control over.

He leans in. “That a dress code policy or a personal plea?”

You say nothing and ignore the way your face heats up. 

He lets the silence stretch, inordantely pleased. 

Then, while adjusting his cuffs and grinning. "Either way, I'll try not to disappoint." 

You step back. “You have five minutes to make it to chamber,” you say, tone even. “Go be legislative.”

He nods, heading for the door. But he does glance back once, shameless. "I'll do my best." 

And then he's gone, leaving you standing in your office, adjusting the cuffs of your own jacket lilke it might keep your hands from shaking. 

~*~

Recess is called five minutes into the session. Some kind of procedural delay – something wrong with the roll call, something about a faulty vote counter.

You’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Bucky hasn’t looked away since you adjusted his jacket fifteen minutes ago. Since your fingers brushed the collar like you were daring him to keep it together. And apparently, he can't.

He waits until the chamber begins to thin before he moves – silent, clean, intentional – and you follow.

Neither of you speak.

You end up in one of the hallway bathrooms – technically gender-neutral, technically a staff washroom, technically not a place for professional misbehaviour.

But the moment the door clicks shut behind you, it stops being technical.

He turns and you’re already there.

Your hands immediately go to the lapels. Again. But not to fix them this time.

This time, you pull.

“You look like a problem,” he mutters.

“Then solve it.”

The kiss is not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s been months in the making. Every ripped seam, every stare across committee hearings, every time you told yourself you could handle the sight of him in a suit he doesn’t deserve to wear this well – it crashes down like a tsunami.

He grunts when your mouth meets his, and he crowds you into the counter. His hands are everywhere – hip, waist, jaw, anchored in your blazer like he has no intention of letting go.

You fist your hand in his tie – new tie, freshly pressed tie – and drag him closer until he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

“You said not until after,” he breathes against your neck.

“You waited,” you kiss him again, just to punish him for it. “Congratulations.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s wrecked. “You gonna yell at me for the wrinkles?”

You grip the lapels again and pull.

“Try me.”

He laughs – low, feral, ruined– and kisses you deeper, hungrier. The jacket groans in protest under your grip. One of you knocks something off the counter that falls to the floor with a crash. You don’t even bother to see what it is.

He palms the back of your thigh and mutters, “still going strong. You stress-testing for structural failure?”

You kiss the edge of his jaw. “No,” you whisper. “I’m trying to cause it.”

His hands go under your blouse. Yours slip beneath his waistband like a threat. He grips the counter behind you like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

He shrugs. That goddamn shrug.

Your knees nearly give out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” you whisper.

“You’re letting me,” he says, somewhere between reverent and fucked.

Your phone buzzes with your two minute timer.

You pull back first. Barely, just enough to breathe.

Your lipstick is gone. His tie is a disaster. Your blouse is askew. The shoulder of his jacket is unmistakably wrinkled. 

He touches just beneath your lip. His thumb lingers. “You should touch that up.”

You glance down. At the tie. The crease in the jacket. The faint imprint of your grip still visible across his chest.

"You won't fix it?" you murmur. 

“I want them to wonder,” he says slowly, entirely unrepentant. 

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

You open the door and walk out first.

He waits exactly ninety seconds.

And follows.

A/N: I need to touch some grass!

A/N (again): there's now a continuation! Benchpressing a Hummer (for Charity)

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

the first tuesday in november masterpost

my catch-all for my Congressman Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman Reader things.

There are three main chaptered works, favours owed, For The Record, and off the record, plus other standalones.

This universe is canon compliant, and takes place in that un-explored period of time that technically stretches between the end of tfatws, bnw, and thunderbolts* where all we are told is bucky became a congressman just like that !?

Best read on AO3!!

WARNING: SOME WORKS/ CHAPTERS CONTAIN EXPLICIT CONTENT, Original Characters aplenty, Slow Burn, Political Drama, Light Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Bucky Doesn't Think He Deserves Good Things, Hurt/Comfort But Make It Legislative, Secret Missions with Legislative Consequences, The Interns Have Theories, Canon-Typical Violence, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, author is not american and barely gets american politics, no use of y/n

❀ favours owed (3) - Explicit

[Complete] Congressman Bucky Barnes does not like owing favours, least of all to you

❀ For The Record (c.20) - Mature

[WIP] Bucky Barnes has a metal arm. You have a post-metahuman era housing bill and a reputation for not suffering fools in committee. And it was always about the work—until it wasn’t.

Now he’s disappearing between votes with bruises he won’t explain, and you’re rewriting amendments with one eye on the chamber doors.

Trust looks like passing notes under the table. Care looks like covering for his absence without asking questions.

And whatever this is? It lives somewhere between silence and strategy - folded into briefing packets, stitched into a hoodie you never gave back, and hovering just under the words you never say out loud.

There’s a vote coming. And he’s trying to make it back in time - for the record, and for you.

❀ off the record (?) - Teen and Up

[WIP] Congress redacted the floor debate, the interns kept the rest. Out-takes, one-shots, and other small things that did not make it to For the Record, my Congressman Bucky x Congresswoman Reader fic (can be read without reading FTR!)

❀ Misc. others

Congressman Bucky Barnes headcanons || More Congressman Bucky Barnes headcanons: subcommittees edition || Bucky x Calvin Klein

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

CA: First Avenger Bucky💕✨☺️

(This is watercolors in terrible quality paper)

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

“Happy birthday, James Barnes.” (short oneshot/fluff)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: You celebrate his birthday late at night in weekend with help from Sam and Joaquin. Word Count: 1k Warnings/tags: fluff, metal arm in dishwasher A/n: it's Seb birthday, so this is for him. Lol... as if he have tumblr acc 🤔 i wrote BUCKY SERIES, still ongoing- show some love there too plis plis👉🏻👈🏻 huehue thx for reading

bucky masterlist

The kitchen smells faintly of soap and damp steel when you step in, half-expecting to see Bucky drinking coffee or raiding the fridge.

Instead, he’s crouched in front of the dishwasher, looking way too casual for someone committing a crime against both household appliances and basic hygiene.

“Barnes,” you start slowly, arms crossing. “Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

He glances over his shoulder, all innocent blue eyes. “I’m just… cleaning up.”

“Your arm,” you clarify. “You’re cleaning your vibranium arm in my dishwasher. The same one we use for plates. That food goes on.”

He shrugs. “It’s stainless steel. This is stainless steel. They’re practically cousins.”

“That is not how that works.” You step forward, pointing at the machine like it’s a crime scene. “You can’t just stick it between the casserole dish and the coffee mugs.”

“It’s efficient,” he counters, straightening up like he’s making a reasonable point. “Hot water, soap, dries in thirty minutes. It even gets in the joints better than a toothbrush.”

Your jaw drops. “You’ve been using my toothbrush?”

“…No,” he says, with the kind of pause that makes you immediately doubt it.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, because arguing with Bucky is like arguing with a very handsome raccoon who thinks every bad decision is just ‘creative problem-solving.’

“From now on,” you say firmly, “arm-cleaning happens in the sink. Or literally anywhere else that isn’t where I eat off of.”

He smirks faintly, clearly amused that you’re this worked up. “Fine. But if it rusts, you’re paying for the oil.”

“It’s vibranium, it doesn’t rust—” you stop, glare at him, and point toward the sink. “Go. Now.”

Bucky’s still chuckling when he pulls the arm out, clunking it against a plate on the way. You swear you hear him mutter, “Still think it’s genius,” under his breath.

You watch him set the arm in the sink like it’s a defeated pet, water running as he starts rinsing it off. The dishwasher is still humming from the interrupted cycle, and you know it’s going to bug you all day that it’s not actually done.

“Hey,” you say, leaning against the counter. “You free next weekend?”

Bucky doesn’t even look up. “You know I’m not.”

“Yeah, but I thought maybe this time you’d surprise me,” you push, tilting your head. “Don’t you ever get tired of disappearing every weekend like you’re Batman’s moody cousin?”

That earns you a side glance, one brow arched. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Like what?” you challenge. “Secret missions? Brooding competitions? Underground dishwasher tech conventions?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he keeps his focus on the arm. “Maybe I just like keeping you guessing.”

You sigh dramatically. “One day, I’m gonna trick you into saying yes, and you won’t even see it coming.”

He smirks, drying the vibranium with a kitchen towel. “Good luck with that, doll. I’m un-trickable.”

You roll your eyes. “Says the guy who just admitted to using a dishwasher as a glorified car wash.”

For a split second, he looks like he’s about to fire back with something clever—but instead, he just shakes his head and chuckles, muttering, “You’re relentless,” like it’s a compliment he’s not ready to admit out loud.

By the time Bucky’s arm is fully dry and the kitchen is safe from further war crimes, you’ve already made up your mind. If he won’t give you a weekend, you’ll just steal one—specifically, his birthday weekend.

The second he disappears into the hallway, you pull your phone from your pocket and open your messages.

You: Sam, urgent. Sam: What did he do now? You: Nothing… yet. I need you to keep him out of the house next Saturday. At least until 8 p.m. Sam: Is this about his birthday? You: …Maybe. Sam: Ohhh this is gonna be good. You want me to annoy him on purpose or just “coincidentally” keep him busy? You: Both. Also, don’t tell him anything. He gets suspicious if I’m too quiet. Sam: Please. I was born to be annoying. Consider it handled.

You grin, already picturing Bucky’s face when he walks into a table set for dinner, maybe a cake, maybe a few people he actually likes—though you’d have to keep it small, because he’d probably bolt if it turned into a party.

For the rest of the week, you work in the shadows: slipping grocery lists into your phone under fake names, casually checking his favorite foods, and pretending not to be suspicious when he catches you rearranging the fridge. Every time he narrows his eyes, you just shrug and say, “Spring cleaning,” even though it’s August.

By Friday night, Sam sends a final text: “Operation Birthday Ambush is a go. I’m picking him up at noon, and we’re hitting the range, then dinner. You’ll have him all to yourself after.”

You put your phone down, a satisfied smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky never liked celebrating his birthday.

It wasn’t about getting older—he’d long stopped keeping track of the years in any real way. It was the fact that for so much of his life, the days hadn’t been his to claim. Decades stolen, memories bent and broken until they barely belonged to him. The date on the calendar felt like it belonged to a stranger, some kid from Brooklyn with too-wide smiles and grease-stained hands, not the man he was now.

So when the day came around, he preferred to let it pass quietly. No parties, no candles, no fanfare. Just another sunrise, another sunset.

At least, that was the plan—until you realized he is getting better with the therapy and his superhero side missions. Why not celebrate it this time?

The clock had barely hit midnight when you slipped quietly into the living room, a small cake balanced carefully in your hands. The light came from the flicker of candles, casting a warm glow over the room and the lamp in the corner create ambience romantic setting—and over the man slouched on the couch, halfway falling asleep after coming home late than he usualy does on weekend.

Bucky’s head tilted up at the sound of your footsteps, he slowly sit up straight. “Doll… you didn’t have to—”

“You only turn…” you paused dramatically, “a hundred and something once.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re the worst.”

“Mm, and yet you keep me around.” You set the cake down on the coffee table and perched beside him, tucking your legs under yourself. “Happy birthday, James Barnes.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, something softer than amusement settling in his expression. Then he reached over, metal hand curling around your knee, grounding you there.

“Thanks,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the candles before returning to you. “Not for the cake. For… y’know. This. You.”

You smirked to keep your own heart from tripping. “Well, blow out the candles before you get all sappy on me, old man.”

He chuckled, leaning in just close enough for his breath to mingle with yours before blowing them out—and then the door slammed open.

“Happy birthday, Tin Arm!” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet, followed by the unmistakable smell of pizza. He strode in with a greasy cardboard box in one hand, grinning like he’d just scored the winning touchdown. Behind him, Joaquin appeared with two more boxes stacked in his arms, looking sheepish.

“We brought reinforcements,” Joaquin said, nodding toward the food.

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly,” Sam replied, plopping the box down next to the cake. “Perfect time for birthday pizza. And before you start whining—” he jabbed a finger at Bucky “—you’re eating some. You can’t just sit here brooding over candles like a sad kitten.”

You bit back a laugh as Bucky shot you a betrayed look.

“This was your doing,” he muttered.

“Guilty,” you said, handing him a paper plate as Sam and Joaquin made themselves at home.

It didn’t take long before the living room turned into a low-lit mess of pizza boxes, cake crumbs, and the hiss of beer cans cracking open. Sam had somehow produced a deck of cards from his jacket pocket and declared himself “dealer and undisputed champion” of the night. Joaquin tried to keep a straight face as Sam’s rules got more suspicious with every round.

Bucky sat back, beer in hand, pretending to be unimpressed—but you caught the way the corner of his mouth kept twitching upward. At one point, Sam accused him of cheating, to which Bucky calmly replied, “I was a sniper, Wilson. I can read your tells from a mile away.”

The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. Warm.

By the time the clock read nearly two in the morning, there was a pile of discarded bottle caps on the coffee table, and Sam was loudly declaring that next year they were upgrading to a karaoke machine.

Bucky only rolled his eyes, but when you caught his gaze across the chaos, there was something soft there—an unspoken acknowledgment.

This was the first birthday in decades that actually felt like his.

---

Bucky lovers taglist: @pipo246 @lolainrainbowz @feynightlight @mayal0pez @bloooferladyy @onlyjunisworld @boomyoulookingforthis @wakemeornot @castielscaplan

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Fuck, Marry, Kill - coming soon

Congressman Barnes x assistant!reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, drinking, swearing, smut, horny bucky, power dynamics, unethical use of superior position, just overall dirty af

Summary: You’re Congressman Barnes’ overworked, underpaid assistant—the one making sure his career doesn’t implode before the next news cycle. One night, you finally let the other aides drag you out for drinks. Three margaritas later, you’re deep into a Fuck, Marry, Kill debate—only this round features, embarrassingly, your boss. You don’t mean to, but it isn’t your fault he’s first on your speed dial…and now he knows exactly where he’s ranked.

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Chris Evans as Steve Rogers Captain America: The Winter Soldier

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

can i request (only if you're taking) a very hot sexy turned on bucky getting frustrated because he can't unclasp y/n bra while making out? i mean imagine the once "winter soldier" can't do this now lmao... i can't get this out of my head 🤭🤭

<3

this made me giggle !!! i’m always taking requests baby <3

it was a very heated makeout session, i mean you were on his lap, straddling him, just wearing a oversized shirt and panties underneath. bucky was shirtless, sweats left on.

his larger hands trailed your body, sending shivers down your spine as your head tilted back, eyes closed, his lips trailing from your jawline down to your neck leaving multiple love bites all around.

“fuck, s’beautiful..” he murmured against your skin, grinding up against you, his bulge very evident. bucky’s hands stopped at your bra, one tug, two tug, three tug by the fourth he frowned, pausing his actions growing frustrated. “what the fuck—“ he mumbled, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

you looked down at him, raising an eyebrow watching him struggle, “s’there a problem?” you questioned, bucky grunted, swiftly picking you up and turning you around in his lap as you gasped, “bucky!”

“hold still.” he grumbled, lifting your oversized shirt, taking a look at your bra, fumbling with it again. you felt a tug, again, and again, and again and—

“what the fuck type of bra is this?” he asked making you snicker.

“is the infamous winter soldier, who by the way, can single handily take out 10 men in 5 seconds, struggling with my bra?”

“s’not funny doll i don’t like this, is this some new type of bra or something?” he asked again, trying to unclasp it.

“bucky oh my god—“ you covered your mouth with your hand, laughing.

“ah! there!” he exclaimed, tearing it apart.

“james buchanan! that was new! and expensive!”

“i’ll get you more, ten more, less complicating than this one babydoll, promise, just c’mere lemme suck ‘em.” he pleaded

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER 1.03 | "Power Broker"

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

“... oh, I'm fine. I have a great past, so I'm totally fine.”

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

🧸 - Bucky & reader caught in the rain?

like lightning | b.b.

a/n: hi. yes i still have these sleepover requests. i'm starting to get to them i promise 🥲 anyway this was inspired by fine from ordinary days

"Told you we should've taken a cab."

Your voice is drowned out by another clash of thunder loud enough to make you flinch; even though you’ve pulled Bucky’s jacket over your head in an attempt to shield yourself, your dress is already completely soaked through, and you can feel water slowly beginning to seep into your shoes with every step.

Bucky, meanwhile, still hasn't lost the damn grin on his face, and it's frankly starting to drive you up the walls of this never-ending alleyway; you’re the only maniacs outside in this weather and he seems to enjoy it while you're starting to resemble a drowned rat hurrying alongside him, your make-up running down your face. Shortcut, your ass—if you're late to his family's dinner now, if you’re going to make a horrible first impression on top of everything else, you might just consider murdering him, no matter how charmingly he bats his eyes at you, and—is he slowing down?!

"Buck, I don’t think we should—" you start, then gasp when he suddenly pulls you towards his chest, his other hand coming up to gently cup your face.

His eyes roam over you like he’s mesmerized by the very sight, still with that smile on his face, the one that makes his dimples show, and normally you’d think all of this very sweet but the wind’s picking up and you’re late and miserable and cold and wet and—"Marry me."

And with another thunderous crack, your world turns upside down.

thank you for joining the sleepover

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Сейчас эра баки потом как пойдет

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Loving this series! Read it!

The Domestic Clause Masterlist

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

The Domestic Clause (#1)

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Word Count: About 5.3k. - Masterlist

He didn't want the cleaning service at first.

Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.

The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.

Didn’t think he needed it.

And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.

And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.

He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.

Found himself breathing deeper.

And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.

He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.

But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.

----

It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.

Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.

That was four years ago.

The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.

So she cleaned.

Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.

Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.

When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.

“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”

She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.

It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.

The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.

A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.

Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.

It wasn’t a dream job.

But it was good enough.

And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.

----

She hadn’t meant to snoop.

It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.

But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.

Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.

Barnes, James B.

Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.

Her stomach gave a weird little flip.

She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

James Barnes.

It couldn’t be-

But it was.

She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.

And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.

Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.

And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.

So he was her boss.

It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."

She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.

She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.

He was just a man.

A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.

----

She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.

Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.

She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.

A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.

And the food.

She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.

No complaints.

So she kept going.

On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.

A small cake.

A batch of oatmeal cookies.

A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.

Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.

----

It started with the pie.

He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.

The apartment smelled like something sweet.

Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.

He set his keys down and found it on the counter.

Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.

He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.

But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.

And it was good.

He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?

But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.

By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.

And it did.

Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.

He found himself trying to imagine her.

Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?

He started looking forward to Thursdays.

Started coming home earlier, if he could.

And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.

----

He nearly stepped on it.

The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.

But it was a chain.

Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.

He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.

Definitely not his. No one else had been here.

His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.

She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.

The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.

He found himself thinking: She must be older.

The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.

He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.

He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.

Just until Thursday.

----

She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.

Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.

She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.

Her throat closed.

The pendant.

A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.

The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.

She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.

It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.

Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?

The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.

We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.

That was it.

She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.

She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.

It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.

It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.

Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.

Almost poetic, really.

The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.

----

He looked a it longer than he meant to.

He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.

When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.

He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.

The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.

It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.

He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.

The necklace, and beside it, the flower.

No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.

For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.

For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.

For the food that tasted like memory.

For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.

----

She wasn’t expecting anything.

By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.

Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.

That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.

Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.

It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.

She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.

There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.

He’d found it.

She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.

She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.

----

The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.

It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.

Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.

He moved toward the kitchen.

And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.

He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.

He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.

They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.

He reached for a second slice.

And for the first time in days, he really smiled.

----

He should’ve checked the schedule.

The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.

No session.

A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.

James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.

He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.

Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.

She’s there today.

He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.

But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.

The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.

He reached the hallway.

He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.

Not what he had expected.

As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals

Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-

Maybe you think that you can hide

I can smell your scent for miles

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals-mals

It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.

A very suggestive prose, by the way.

He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.

But I get so high when I’m inside you-

She turned.

Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.

They stared at each other.

Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.

Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I-  I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.

He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”

The lie passed his lips smoothly.

She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.

She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”

She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.

----

She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.

Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.

Not even close.

In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.

And now… this.

Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.

He didn’t seem mad. That was something.

Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.

But that didn’t mean anything.

People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.

Fuck.

She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.

The pendant. The flower.

Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.

But that was before this shitshow.

Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.

What if she got fired?

What the hell was she going to do?

The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.

She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.

And the thing that made it worse?

She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.

And now all she wanted to do was vanish.

----

He tried to read the bill.

The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.

Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.

His eyes scanned the same sentence again.

Still nothing stuck.

Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.

The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.

She hadn’t fled.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.

What if she requested a transfer?

What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?

He wouldn't complain.

He’d never say a word.

But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.

He looked at the time and did some quick math.

She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.

If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.

He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.

So he waited.

Just long enough.

Let the minutes tick by.

And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.

----

She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.

He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.

But she knew better.

She straightened her back and made herself speak.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.

He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”

A beat.

“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”

He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”

There it was. A quiet request.

Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.

The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.

“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”

He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.

“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”

There was a pause.

His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.

“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”

His voice was rougher now, gentler.

“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”

She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.

He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”

Her answer came gently, but sure.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you, too.”

Next Chapter

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[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Bucky | Steve

part 1  

part 2

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

Bucky | Steve

part 1

part 2

[lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky]

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