The time when I drunkenly wrote letters to my boss and all hell broke loose
Pairing : congressman!bucky x assistant!reader
Summary : When you get drunk and accidentally confess all your wild fantasies to your boss via e-mail, it might be your biggest mistake. But good for you, your boss doesn't mind it all that much. In fact, he's quite elated.
Word Count : 5k
Warnings : confessing spicy fantasies via email, inappropriate professional behaviour, mentions of reader’s filthy desires (not specifying all of them here, it would ruin the fun), congressman barnes (he's the biggest warning of them all), Smut, 18+, MDNI, oral (f. recieving), fingering, hand job (if you squint), PinV, PWP, nasty language, bucky is already gone for reader even before receiving the letters, and reader, well….she’s down very bad.
A/N : full credit of this fic goes to @emmathefanficgal and her brilliant mind for coming up with this idea and for listening to me yap endlessly when i was losing my mind over this…..Love you a ton, emma
You swear you didn't put yourself in this situation on purpose. You had denied going to any parties tonight, wanting to just rot in bed with some nonsense movie and chinese takeout.
But your best friend cum roommate being the absolute menace that she is, dragged you out of your bed, chucked one of her dresses in your hand and pushed you into the bathroom to get ready.
Which is how you find yourself in the bar, surrounded by tens of her girlfriends, celebrating whoever’s bachelorette it is by downing your fifth shot of tequila.
“Another” you slam the small glass on the table with a lopsided smile, swaying slightly. The bartender eyes you, then your best friend, totally rethinking his life decisions.
Nat grabs hold of you as you sway dangerously and toddle towards the dance floor.
“That's enough. Were going home” she puts one of your arms across her shoulders to balance you. All while you try your best to drag her to dance.
“Noooo” you whine “I wanna dance”
“You're in no position to dance, girl” natasha scolds just as the music booms. And before she can react someone grabs your wrist to pull you toward the crowd.
Your eyes light up in drunken joy. “YES. MOVEMENT. I will out-dance my emotions.”
Nat scowls, fingers massaging at her temples as she watches you wobble like a drunk raccoon.
You last approximately thirty seconds before:
– tripping over your own foot
– laughing hysterically
– attempting to twirl
– and nearly colliding with a very confused stranger
Natasha immediately intercepts you like a linebacker. “Okay. Nope. That's it. We're done for today”
She starts to guide you out of the bar while you complaint about your heels and demand more vodka.
You both make it halfway down the block before you stop dead.
“Wait.”
Nat sighs in frustration. “No.”
“I need—”
You don’t finish the sentence as bile rises to your throat, and you lean over the sidewalk throwing up with the kind of dramatic betrayal usually reserved for soap operas.
Nat gathers your hair behind you and holds it in a makeshift ponytail as you retch.
“This was a bad idea” she mutters under her breath, wiping your mouth with her handkerchief as you stand back up and hug her with all the enthusiasm of a tiny panda.
She sighs, dragging you towards the car.
The car ride home is somehow worse. Mostly because you decide to ramble your way out of drunken haze.
You slump against the window, mumbling like you're confessing to the glass.
“I love when he says my name,” you murmur, eyes half shut. “Especially when he says it… like it matters. That’s illegal. He should be illegal in congress.”
Your friend drives with one hand and regrets with the other. “Stop blabbering and go to sleep. Hangover's gonna kill you tomorrow.”
“But…… daddy, I love him” you wail, leaning over the gear shift, wiping your nose on her dress and she grimaces, laying you back on your seat.
“I’m never letting you drink again”
—
You reach the apartment in pieces.
One heel is already missing by the time the door clicks shut and you stumble inside like a defeated knight, blinking at the familiar walls like they’ve personally offended you, brfore making a determined beeline—not for the bed, not for the couch—
For the desk.
Natasha drops the keys and groans. “No. Absolutely not. You are going to sleep.”
“I am going to… process,” you say solemnly, colliding with the chair and half-falling into it. “With words.”
Natasha watches as you fumble your bag onto the floor, squint at the laptop like it might escape, and open it with all the gravity of someone launching a missile.
“Go to bed,” your best friend insists, tugging at your sleeve. “You are drunk. You threw up. Your mascara is… abstract.”
“I am still literate,” you argue, expression serious, cracking your knuckles with purpose. “And deeply burdened.”
You open the document and type one line.
Delete it.
Type it again.
Nat leans over your shoulder. “What are you even writing?”
“A document of emotional significance.”
“That’s called a diary. And it lives offline.” she facepalms.
You sway in the chair, pointing at the screen. “This is… more official.”
“No, this is more dangerous.”
You straighten suddenly. “I have been quiet for too long.”
“You have been loud for three hours.”
You stare at each other.
Your best friend sighs, rubbing her face. “Fine. I’m going to shower. When I come back, you will be right here.”
She lifts a finger. “Do not move from this chair.”
You salute so hard you almost tip over.
“Aye aye.”
Nat pauses in the doorway. “Do not write anything.”
You salute again. “I will not… write anything inappropriately.”
The bathroom door shuts with nat mumbling something like, “She’s gonna get herself fired”
Subtle foreshadowing.
The apartment goes quiet except for the hum of the laptop.
You squint at the blank page.
“Dear Sir,” you whisper, testing it out loud.
Then nod, satisfied.
“That is… respectful.”
Your fingers begin to move.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Posture miraculously perfect despite the sway in your shoulders.
You mutter as you type. “Subject line is important. One must always… set expectations.”
You type one, squinting suspiciously before changing it.
Subject: Concerning a Conflict of Interest (Personal)
You beam.
“Yes. That is… accurate.”
You lean closer to the screen, hair falling into your face.
“It is with considerable reluctance….” you murmur, squinting, “…and an alarming lack of judgment that I must inform you of a developing issue within my professional conduct.
Your head dips, but the words keep coming.
By the time the shower turns off, the document is three paragraphs long, formatted perfectly, margins aligned, tone immaculate.
You stretch, proud.
“Good,” You say softly. “That was very… contained.”
Subject: Concerning a Conflict of Interest (Personal)
Dear Sir,
It is with considerable reluctance and an alarming lack of judgment that I must inform you of a developing issue within my professional conduct.
Said issue involves an excessive awareness of your presence in shared spaces, including but not limited to conference rooms, elevators, and the general vicinity of your desk.
Upon further reflection, I regret to report that the aforementioned “distraction” has escalated into what medical professionals might classify as longing.
This manifests in involuntary behaviors such as: – memorizing the cadence of your footsteps – experiencing unreasonable satisfaction when you request coffee – developing a heroic desire to defend you from mild inconveniences
Your finger slips.
Not save.
Not draft.
Post.
You blink at the screen,smiling proudly.
Then promptly rest your forehead on the desk.
By the time natasha appears in the doorway again, you have fallen asleep on the desk, drooling slightly. The laptop screen is still glowing.
five emails sent to congressman barnes
She groans, wondering what you might have written in there, before wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and leaving the room.
And you? well, you sleep peacefully, unaware of the upcoming storm that you have deliberately thrown yourself into.
——
The office is still half-asleep when he arrives.
Lights off in most corridors.
Security nodding quietly.
The city outside his windows just beginning to breathe.
This is his hour — before meetings, before numbers, before decisions that weigh on other people’s lives.
He sets his coat on the back of his chair, loosens his cufflinks, and sinks into his chair.
For a moment, he just stares at the desk.
Files stacked in perfect alignment.
His schedule printed and clipped the way you know he likes it.
A pen placed parallel to the folder, because you once noticed he straightened it unconsciously.
He exhales.
You do this every night. Stay later than you need to. Prepares tomorrow before you leave today.
He blinks, loosening his tie, eyes drifting automatically to the small details you leave behind:
A faint floral scent in the air.
A sticky note reminding him to eat lunch.
Your handwriting in the margins of a report—small, precise, careful.
You.
He exhales slowly.
He notices everything about you. He wishes he didn’t.
The way you bite the inside of your cheek when concentrating. How chirp “good morning” like you didn't lose sleep last night on today's meetings.
It is inconvenient, this feeling.
Unwise.
Ill-timed.
You're too young for him. Too bright.
Too unguarded in the way only someone who still believes in effort and fairness can be.
And he is… not.
He has meetings that decide futures. Scars from past battles. A life made of careful choices and restrained wants.
You're brilliant. Efficient. Too young to be tangled in something as complicated as him. And technically, professionally, untouchable.
He presses his thumb against the edge of the desk.
But he still looks at you, he can't help but watch you.
The way you tilts your head when thinking.
How you say his name in that sweet bird like voice like the name belongs to you.
How you stay late without being asked.
How you never look at him when you laughs — as if afraid you might give something away.
And God help him, he is in love with you.
Quietly.
Carefully.
From a distance he pretends is enough.
He has rules for himself:
Do not stare.
Do not linger.
Do not want.
Especially not someone so young. so innocent.
Especially not someone who trusts him with her time, her career, her future.
“She doesn't think of you like that, bucky. For fuck's sake, get a grip,” he murmurs to the empty office.
If only he knew.
He shakes his head, ridding himself of his regular morning brooding session and turns on his laptop.
The screen glows to life.
Inbox loads.
He expects to see board messages, legal reminders, market reports.
What he does not expect—
Company-wide post:
“Concerning a conflict of interest (personal)”
That… is not a budget memo.
He frowns, clicking it open.
And the universe collapses directly into his chest.
Dear Sir,
It is with considerable reluctance and an alarming lack of judgment that I must inform you of a developing issue within my professional conduct…….
Your words.
Your tone.
Your formatting.
His heartbeat stumbles as reads and rereads.
Subject: Clarification Regarding the Severity of the Situation
Dear Sir,
It has come to my attention that my previous messages may have understated the gravity of my condition.
I do not simply admire you. I suffer from an ongoing preoccupation with the way your sleeves roll up when you are focused, and how your expression softens when you believe no one is watching.
This has resulted in a persistent desire to be nearer to you than professionally necessary, and an irrational disappointment when meetings conclude.
The said meetings are spent by me wondering how you might react finding me on my knees under your desk, mouth working meticulously on your cock while you try to lead the meeting.
Hence, should you notice increased efficiency in my work, please be advised it is fueled entirely by such improper fantasies, inappropriate affection and an alarming amount of emotional attachment.
With troubling sincerity, Your assistant (emotionally unsound)
His throat tightens. Another message appears.
Subject: Formal Notice of Want (Unprofessional Edition)
Dear Sir,
It is no longer possible to categorize my feelings as a minor inconvenience. They have evolved into a persistent craving for your attention, your approval, and, regrettably, the warmth of your proximity.
I find myself imagining being seated on your lap while your metal fingers explore me in the ways I am unable to explain. Coaxing the whines and moans out of me as my warm, wet walls envelope the said metal fingers.
It is essential for you to know that the desire I have to be on my knees before you and have your hands rest in my hair while I wrap my lips around your cock is irrepressible.
It is pre-eminent for me to hear you moaning my name as you hold me against the glass window of your office, cock pounding into me while you usher me to stay quiet. And having you shove your fingers in my mouth when i’m unable to do so.
Should you inquire, my other fantasies include but are not limited to, riding you until you pass out, making out with you in your office, being bent over your desk while you fuck me from behind.
Then another. His eyes are wide enough to pop out of the sockets as he takes in each filthy, agonizing detail you've written in your letters.
Subject: Final Report on My Emotional Collapse
Dear Sir,
I hereby confess that my professionalism is now held together by routine alone. Beneath it exists an unrestrained desire to be chosen by you in ways that extend far beyond quarterly objectives.
I wish to be the first person you see when you arrive and the last you speak to before leaving. I wish to be indispensable not only in function but in feeling.
It is vital for me to be fucked by you so as to be relieved of having to do it myself while imagining your cock instead of my hands.
I find it highly uncomfortable to not he able to kiss you when I want to and to sit on your lap like it's my assigned position.
If this sentiment is inappropriate, I accept full responsibility. If it is mutual, I will require several minutes to process the miracle.
I remain, disastrously yours in spirit, The assistant who has crossed several emotional boundaries
By the time he's done reading the last of the letters, his heart is thudding wildly in his chest.
His throat tightens at the raw vulnerability in each letter.
Each one worse than the last.
Each one more honest. More filthy.
Each one written like a confession wrapped in professionalism.
He leans back slowly in his chair, hand over his mouth.
You wrote this, he thinks. Drunk, probably. Brave, definitely. Not knowing what it would cost you.
And somehow the fact that hits him the hardest is that you wrote all this… about him.
Of all people.
He scrolls again, rereading it. Not because he needs to. Because he wants to.
Because every line sounds like something he has been forcing himself not to feel.
He thinks of your age. Of his position. Of the way the world would look at this.
Then he thinks of the way you look at him.
And for the first time in months, the rules feel… negotiable.
He eyes close themselves, a tender, mischievous smile blooming across his face as an idea plants itself in his head.
—
You wake up with no memory of last night and cursing at the alarm clock.
“Ughh” you groan, rolling over in your bed to hide from the bright lights peeping in from the curtains, except you're not on your bed.
The desk chair creaks as you try to roll over and fall to the floor with a loud thunk.
“I'm guessing you're awake” comes Nat's sarcastic voice from the kitchen.
“Shut up. It's your fault” you wince, getting up.
“But it wouldn't be my fault if you get fired for being late at work.” She shouts back and you glance at the clock.
“FUCK”
You rush to the bathroom, yelping when you stub your little toe against the bed in hurry.
By the time you're ready and on the way to capitol hill, you're already late by an hour.
You dash across the parking lot and through the reception, towards your desk. Hoping you didn't miss any early morning meetings or events that you had to remind bucky about.
God forbid he misses something important because of your foolishness and you'd lose this one thing you love doing.
Only if you remembered the stuff you pulled off last night.
Your anxiety almost makes you trip over a crate of water bottles when Jane, from reception catches your arm.
“Careful there, honey” she smoothes your coat, smiling amiably before adding “congressman barnes was asking for you in his cabin”
“For me?” You confirm. It isn't too rare of bucky to ask for you, you're his assistant. Of course he'll call you if he needs something.
But you can't get the feeling out of you that there's definitely something wrong. You brush it off, thinking its because you're late that you're feeling this way.
Jane intercepts your train of thoughts “Don't worry, it's not because you're late. He needs you to review some files”
“Oh thank god.” You sigh a breath of relief and hastily walk over toward bucky's cabin after thanking Jane.
You don't knock before entering. Knowing he can hear you approach anyway. And after working for years as an assistant for him, you've crossed the bridge of professionality to being friends.
“You asked for me, sir?” you chime as you walk in, smiling slightly as you watch him write something in his notepad.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you like me correcting you every time you call me sir” he looks up, eyebrows slightly raised, voice laced with his teasing lilt.
You giggle, making your way across the room and sinking in the chair in front of him. “Jane said you wanted me to review some files?” You question.
“Yeah. Here. Have a look at this.” He slides a leatherback folder across the table toward you, and leans back in his chair, smirking.
His eyes are bright like you've never seen before, almost mischievous, like he's….. up to something.
You open the folder and stop dead at the very first line that gets your attention…
I find myself imagining being seated on your lap while your metal fingers explore me in the ways I am unable to explain.
Your eyes trail upwards, reading the whole thing.
What the fuck! Is this your formatting? Oh…fuck yeah it is.
You turn the page and find another letter, then another, then another.
Each one filthy.
Each one highly Unprofessional.
Each one vulnerable and raw in a way that you'd never be if you weren't drunk.
Oh My God
The memories slam back to you like a freight train. Nat's party, the shots, the desk……the emails, all of it.
You look up, embarrassed to your very bones and wishing the earth would swallow you whole, this instant.
You're so fired
“So…” Bucky begins and you close your eyes, knowing what he'd say. Something among the lines of ‘this was very Unprofessional’ or ‘you're fired’ but the words that come out of his mouth are something you'd never even thought of in your wildest dreams.
“About that….” he leans towards the table, tapping a spicy nasty line in particular “….how would you like to proceed”
Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out.
Out of all the ways you expected this to go, this was not it.
Your cheeks burn red with embarrassment and anticipation as bucky gets up and stalks closer towards you.
You turn in your chair as he reaches you, stooping down so he's eye level with you. His eyes are tender now. Almost adoring.
“You aren’t supposed to love me like this,” he murmurs.
Then adds just as quietly, “…but I don’t think I can pretend I didn’t see it.”
You don't know what you see in his eyes that makes you want to tell the truth “I do” you nod “I really do”
His metal palm cups your face as you whisper “I love you bucky”
He leans in, close enough that your nose nudges his, close enough that you can feel his warm breath fan your face.
His eyes flick toward your lips, then back at your eyes, giving you all the time to pull away if you want.
You don't.
You tip your face up, closing the gap and meeting his lips in a slow, tremulous kiss.
His lip quivers slightly when your tongue sneaks out to lick at it. His mouth opens itself, letting you in, deepening the kiss.
Your tongues slide against each other, exploring, fighting for dominance.
His hand is tangled in your hair, yours holding on to his shirt for dear life.
Bucky's palms slowly make their way across your back, settling themselves around your thighs and hoisting you up from the chair.
You break the kiss with a yelp as bucky places you on his desk “you wanted to be fucked on my desk, didn't you?” He pecks your lips, smiling.
You nod, shy beyond measure.
“I need your words, baby” his fingers grab hold of your chin, tipping it up so your eyes would meet his.
“I want you to fuck me, bucky” you murmur, hiding your face in his chest as he chuckles, breathy and amused.
“Not yet, sweetheart” he mutters, dropping to his knees.
“Buck, what're you—” you start but he shushes you.
“I need to taste you, baby. Can I?….please” his eyes are dark with lust, restraint running thin, yet he asks so nicely, so patiently, how can you say no to him.
“Have at me, bucky” you reply
His hands slowly skim across your thighs, sliding your skirt up until its bunched at your waist.
He groans at the sight in front of him, before leaning in and pressing his nose to the thin material of your panties.
You gasp at the contact. “Fuck, sweetheart. You smell so sweet” he mumbles against you, kissing your inner thigh before sinking his teeth into the flesh then soothing it with his tongue.
“Take them off” you tell him, voice breathy. As he hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls the panties down slowly, you push them away when they reach your ankles.
Gasping as bucky's mouth finds your wet core. “Aww baby, you get this wet from reading your filthy letters” he teases.
You frown “No. It's—um—it's because of you” you confess shyly.
He smiles, proud and smug, pressing a chaste kiss to your core. Before his tongue slips out, licking a thick stripe through your warm, wet heat.
You shudder at the feeling.
“Fuck, You taste even better.” He pulls away, looking up at you before diving right back in. Slow teasing licks that make you gasp and chaste kisses that leave you craving for more.
Your hips move on their own. Inching closer to him, chasing more of his tongue. His mouth. “Bucky, please” you whine in frustration as he laps at your pussy, avoiding your clit yet again.
“Begging already? I haven't even touched you properly yet” his voice is low and teasing.
Your eyes narrow at him, feigning annoyanace “Shut —Ahh” your insult is cut off as a moan tears through you when his mouth closes on your clit, suckling slightly.
Your thighs shake where they're held apart by him around his head.
“Bucky—Ahh—just like that” he doubles down at your praise. Pushing two fingers inside of you while he nurses at your clit.
His fingers curl slightly, brushing a spot that makes you see stars. You whimper, already trembling in his arms as bucky's hands find their way to your ass, pulling you closer to his face.
The sound you make is animalistic as bucky picks up the pace. Fingers thrusting faster, mouth suckling harsher.
“Bucky—I'm gonna—”
“Yes, come on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel it” he curls his fingers, pressing harder against the spot that makes your hips jerk.
Your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. Making every bit of your body shiver as your thighs tighten around his head and you come with a choked gasp.
You're still gasping when he comes up to kiss you. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into his mouth.
You grab the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. His hands land on your waist, swiftly sneaking under your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.
Your fingers make quick work of the buttons of his shirt before letting it fall to the floor while you stare at bucky's bare chest in awe.
You trace your fingers over every ridge of muscle, every scar tissue, every bulging vein, with reverence.
He lets you explore. “Like what you see?”
“I do” you smirk before pressing your lips to the centre of his chest.
You feel a shiver run through his body as he tries to maintain his composure, his hard length pressing against your exposed core through his pants.
Your lips move upwards, tracing the path of your fingers before pressing a kiss to his jawline and closing around his Adam's apple.
He groans and you feel it in your veins like a zap of electricity. Your mouth trails farther, kissing and nipping at his collarbone. His hips rut forward, helplessly, grinding against you.
“I need you inside me bucky” you murmur against his neck, impatient.
“I thought you'd never ask” Bucky groans, pulling away to rid himself of his pants.
Your mouth goes dry when you see him. All of him. His cock is thick and flushed pink. Slightly curved towards his stomach, veins clinging across his shaft.
You reach for him. Stroking slowly. His eyes close, “Don't—don't do that, or this will be over before it starts” he warns when your hold tightens around him.
“Then don't wait.” You inch closer, lining him up.
“You're sure?” He confirms. You nod.
He shakes his head “Words, baby”
“I'm sure bucky. I think I'd die if you don't fuck me now” he chuckles that turns into a choked breath halfway as he eases himself in slowly.
His eyes flutter shut, pulse thundering against your hand where its pressed to his chest. “Fuck” he swears “fuck, baby. You're—you're so tight. I won't last”
“Who said you have to” your reply is earnest “I just want to feel you buck”
“You feel so good, sweet girl” he pushes in slowly “Fuck, never felt anything like you”
You feel the sting of his cock stretch you open and you hide your face in the crook of his neck as he pushes all the way in and stills.
His breath is heaving “I won't move until you say so” his fingers tremble when they get hold of your hand, intertwining with your fingers.
The sting slowly fades into a warm thrumming beneath your bones. You roll your hips experimentally and sparks of pleasure shoot down your spine.
“Move, bucky. Please” you grind harder against him, making him groan before he pulls out almost all the way and sheathes himself back in.
He doesn't find a pace, too lost in pleasure, in you. His thrusts remain ragged and erratic as he tries to hold himself for longer.
His metal palm wanders down to rub tight circles on your clit and you cry out at the sensation.
Your orgasm hits you like lighting. Sudden and overpowering as your vision whites out and you almost scream “James”
The sound that comes out of him is almost a whine when he hears his first name from your mouth. His thrusts grow shallow, breath heaving, heart thundering as he spills inside groaning your name.
By the time you both slump into his chair, your ears are still ringing.
You're nestled on his lap, as he palms your ass in quiet, reverent caresses. He presses warm and chaste kisses to your forehead. Your cheek. Your nose.
“You still with me, sweet girl?” He asks, voice laced with concern and love. You nod against his chest. Tired and boneless.
“You did so good for me” he praises and heat rises to your cheeks yet again. You top your head up, enveloping him a kiss that's sloppy and playful, yet loving all the same.
“I guess getting drunk is not so bad after all” you pull away, smirking slyly.
“Of course not if it ends like this” he agrees slapping your ass playfully. You squeak before breaking into giggles.
“But I have a complaint” bucky states, making you meet his eyes in a serious expression.
“What complaint?” You question
“Next time you want to confess your naughty fantasies, you don't need to write letters.” He winks “you can just tell me” then swiftly adds “we'll recreate it however you want”
You hide your face in his neck with a loud whine, although the way your eyes shine and your lips twitch in a smile, betrays you.
And you think, “Sometimes the dumbest detours are the ones that accidentally lead you straight to the best place.”
A/N : When I tell you I was SUFFERING while writing the smut, it's an understatement. I rewrote it four times and I still think I've done a shit job. I find all the dialogues cringy and the description just feels bleh to me.
I'm so fucking nervous and anxious. If this fic flops, I'm never writing smut again, thank you 😭
Dividers : @dividers-are-us
Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @quantumbarnes, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67
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