Filed Under: Inappropriate
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader
Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.
Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones
Word count: 4,720
You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.
It was the damn cologne.
Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.
You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.
And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.
You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.
Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.
You knew your place. And you played it well.
But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.
──
Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.
A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.
You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.
Then came the part that always undid you.
Three spritzes.
You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.
Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.
You hated that it turned you on.
The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.
You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.
But today…
Today something broke.
──
You shouldn’t be doing this.
You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.
Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.
But then your hand slid between your thighs.
And it was already over.
You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.
“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.
You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.
What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.
It was in his ear.
──
Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—
“F-Fuck—Bucky…”
His name.
Moaned.
Soft and strangled and real.
His spine straightened like he’d been struck.
The voice was unmistakable. Yours.
The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.
He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.
It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.
But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.
Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.
And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.
The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”
He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.
Still in that room.
With you.
Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.
He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.
He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.
When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”
A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.
No one followed.
No one asked questions.
And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.
Just you.
Still in there.
Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.
He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.
The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.
You hadn’t noticed him yet.
You were still in his chair.
One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.
He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.
“Christ,” he muttered.
What the fuck were you thinking?
He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.
You had no idea how close you were to being caught.
To being taken.
You didn’t even check the door.
Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—
Bucky felt proud.
Protective.
Turned on beyond belief.
Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.
You were close.
He could tell.
Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.
He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.
You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.
And God, he did.
He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.
You made it so easy.
Too easy.
His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.
He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—
You were different.
You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.
And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.
Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.
Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.
Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.
And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.
That did it.
He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.
So he cleared his throat. Just once.
A low, deliberate cough.
──
Your whole body jolted.
Eyes flew open.
You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.
Then you saw him.
Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.
Because he had.
He’d heard everything.
And he didn’t look away.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
“You didn’t lock the door.”
His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.
Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.
“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”
“Stop,” Bucky said gently.
Your mouth clamped shut.
He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.
“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”
You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.
“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.
“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”
Your lips parted. Breath caught.
Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.
And that’s when you saw it.
The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.
“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”
Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.
“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”
Your apology died on your tongue.
Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.
“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”
His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.
“But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”
He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.
“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”
Your whole body pulsed with heat.
And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.
“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”
He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.
“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.
You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.
So Bucky did.
He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.
You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.
“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”
You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.
“Fuck, sweetheart…”
But something changed.
As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.
Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.
You were taking control.
And he was losing it.
“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”
He didn’t finish the warning.
With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.
He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”
You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”
Bucky’s pupils dilated.
He was far from done.
“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”
You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.
He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.
He didn’t hesitate.
He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.
You writhed. He growled.
Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.
“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”
The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.
And for Bucky?
It might as well have been.
“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.
You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.
And he didn’t even try to hide it.
He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”
Your breath caught.
You obeyed.
The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.
“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”
You whimpered.
He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.
“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”
Then—without warning—he slammed into you.
You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.
Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.
“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”
He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.
And then he lost the last of his restraint.
The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.
“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”
“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”
“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”
You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.
And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—
He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:
“You’re coming with me.”
You didn’t stand a chance.
Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.
And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.
“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”
You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.
He was insatiable.
“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”
“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.
“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”
He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.
And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.
“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.
He didn’t last long.
One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.
Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.
Then he chuckled, dark and low.
“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”
You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”
Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”
He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.
His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.
A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”
Your breath caught.
Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”
You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.
“Only if I get a copy too.”
He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.
And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE
He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.
If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…
“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”
You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”
He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”
Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:
“We’re not done, by the way.”
You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”
“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.
“I haven’t even had lunch.”
