watching the met gala thinking about congressmanbucky x famousreader attending.. hiding in the bathroom……….. thinking ..,
The Met Gala was a circus.
A beautiful, glittering, suffocating circus.
Camera flashes exploded so bright they painted spots behind your eyes, reporters shouting your name from behind velvet barricades while assistants rushed around with clipboards and headsets like they were directing military operations instead of couture. Your dress alone weighed enough to qualify as cardio—a shimmering gown stitched so tightly to your body it practically sparkled with every breath.
And beside you stood Congressman Bucky Barnes.
Tall. Broad. Devastating in an intricate tux that looked like it had been tailored directly onto his body. His dark hair was brushed back neatly, the silver at his temples catching the museum lights every time he turned his head.
America adored him.
War hero turned politician. Reformed bad boy. The mysterious congressman with haunted eyes and impossible charm.
America also adored you.
Award-winning actress. Fashion darling. Chronic headline-maker.
Which meant the two of you together?
Absolute media catastrophe.
“Oh my god, look at them.”
“They’re definitely together.”
“No way. She’d never date a politician.”
“Did you see the way he touched her waist?”
Bucky’s palm settled lower against the small of your back as another wall of cameras erupted ahead of you.
“Smile, sweetheart,” he murmured smoothly, leaning close enough that his breath skimmed your ear. “They’re losing their minds.”
“They’ve been losing their minds for six months.”
“Can you blame them?”
You fought a grin.
That was the problem with Bucky. Even now—standing in the middle of the most photographed event on earth—he still managed to make everything feel private somehow. Intimate. Like the two of you were sharing secrets no one else could hear.
The relationship technically wasn’t public.
Not officially.
There had been blurry photos leaving restaurants. Rumors about late-night visits to his DC townhouse. A scandalous TMZ video of him helping you into a car after an afterparty at two in the morning.
But neither of you had confirmed anything.
Which only made the public obsession worse.
“You’re staring again,” you whispered as another photographer called your name.
Bucky didn’t even pretend innocence. His eyes dragged slowly over you, warm and shameless.
“Can’t help it.”
Heat climbed your throat.
The dress had a plunging neckline with diamonds dusted along sheer fabric, the entire thing molded to your body like liquid silver. When the designer pitched it to you, she’d called it celestial.
The look on Bucky’s face when you walked out wearing it?
Religious.
“You trying to kill me tonight?” he asked quietly.
“You survived HYDRA. I think you’ll manage.”
“Not sure about that anymore.”
You laughed softly, but his hand flexed harder at your waist.
And that was another problem.
Bucky had been like this all night.
Too close. Too warm. His fingertips grazing your bare back every chance he got. Looking at you like he was seconds away from dragging you into the nearest dark corner despite the hundreds of cameras surrounding you.
By the time dinner started, you were half convinced he’d combust before dessert.
“You okay?” you asked beneath your breath while another celebrity gave a speech somewhere nearby.
Bucky took a slow sip of champagne without breaking eye contact.
“No.”
Your pulse skipped.
“No?”
“No, because you keep crossing your legs like that under the table.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
His expression stayed perfectly calm. Politician smooth.
Meanwhile your face burned hot enough to melt steel.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Then his fingers brushed lightly against your knee beneath the table.
Just once.
Barely there.
Still, the touch shot straight through you.
Bucky leaned closer, lips almost brushing your ear.
“And if one more person asks if we’re secretly engaged,” he murmured, “I’m gonna say yes just to scare them.”
Your breath hitched.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The smug flicker in his blue eyes nearly made you kick him under the table.
Instead, you swallowed hard and whispered, “Bathroom. Now.”
Bucky blinked once.
Then his jaw tightened.
Five minutes later, you slipped away from the gala floor separately to avoid suspicion.
The museum hallways were quieter away from the main event, though distant music still echoed faintly through marble corridors. You checked over your shoulder once before ducking into one of the private bathrooms reserved for VIP guests.
The door had barely clicked shut before Bucky was behind you.
“Sweetheart—”
“You’re unbearable tonight.”
“Me?” His hands landed on your hips immediately. “You wore this dress.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Feels personal.”
You tried to glare at him, but it dissolved the second he backed you gently against the marble counter.
God, he looked unfair.
Tie loosened slightly now. Blue eyes darker than before. Big hands gripping your waist like he physically needed the contact.
“You know how hard it was standing next to you out there?” he asked softly.
“You seemed fine.”
“I’m a congressman. Pretending fine is my whole job.”
You snorted a laugh, but it faded quickly when he leaned down.
Not kissing you.
Just hovering there.
Close enough that your mouths almost brushed.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmured.
Your fingers curled against the front of his tux jacket.
“Probably the same thing you do to me.”
Bucky exhaled shakily like that answer genuinely affected him.
Then finally—finally—he kissed you.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Like he was savoring it.
The entire night melted away in seconds.
The cameras. The headlines. The pressure. None of it mattered when Bucky kissed you like this—deep and warm and consuming enough to make your knees weak beneath couture heels.
His hand slid up your spine carefully, mindful of the delicate dress.
“You’re trouble,” he whispered against your mouth.
“You like trouble.”
“Love it.”
Another kiss.
Longer this time.
You could feel the tension in him now, all that tightly controlled restraint from the evening unraveling little by little beneath your hands.
A muffled burst of applause echoed faintly from somewhere back inside the gala.
Neither of you moved.
Bucky rested his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.
“We should go back before they send a search party.”
“Probably,” you agreed softly.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did you.
Then his mouth curved into something wicked.
“Or,” he said casually, “we fake a political emergency and leave early.”
You laughed quietly.
“Congressman Barnes, are you trying to sneak me out of the Met Gala?”
His eyes dragged over you again, devastatingly warm.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ve been trying to get you alone all damn night.”
