innocent ~ nsfw bucky barnes
toxic congressman barnes x virgin assistant reader word count: 6.2k based on this ask. disclaimer: NON-CON. alcohol consumption, coercion, manipulation, blackmail, degradation, deliberate infliction of pain, rough sex. toxic, mean Bucky.
✦ part 2 ~ playlist ✦
~~~
when he asked you to stay late, you should have said no.
when he offered you a drink, you should have said no.
except you didn’t have it in you. how could you say no to him? he was everything you’d ever wanted and more, and you’d do anything for his attention.
working late without getting paid for it was worth it as long as it meant you got to be with him. alone in his office, only the two of you left in the building, the sun setting early as the seasons begin to change.
it was like a dream.
except when you begin to ask him about the next steps on the project you assume you’re going to be working on, he tells you to relax. to sit and enjoy the beverage he’s given you.
he leans up against the front of his desk, crossing one of his legs over the other as he stands. he pushes his flesh hand into his pants pocket as his vibranium hand cradles his glass close to his chest.
the weight of his gaze makes you feel wired, like your skin is crawling.
“so,” he begins, staring down into his glass, “no boyfriend at home waiting for you?”
the suddenness of his inquisition takes you aback for a moment, alongside the fact that it is incredibly inappropriate of him to be asking such a thing.
“are you allowed to ask me that?” you joke, laughing anxiously as you do. you’re seated in one of the two plush chairs in front of his desk, your own legs crossed over one another as you sip your beverage. you want to look away from him, away from the way his slicked-back hair never falls out of place even as he moves. it’s gorgeous.
“just being friendly,” he assures you, returning his gaze to yours and sipping his beverage without breaking eye contact.
“Mr. Barnes–” you begin, but he interjects quickly.
“Bucky.”
his tone is forceful, as though he isn’t just requesting for you to call him by the nickname. his gaze is pointed directly at you as he says it, the intensity of his eyes only emphasizing the importance of you listening to his command. of following his order.
you shake your head and your jaw falters, lips upturning into an apprehensive smile as he says it. you don’t dare look away.
you shift in your seat, pulling at the hem of your skirt as he glares you down.
“Bucky,” you repeat back to him.
he nods. “good.”
you blink. this is weird. you aren’t working, and the way he’s acting is out of character for the man you’ve gotten used to working for.
“you didn’t answer my question,” he says, devoid of the demanding tone his voice held previously.
you’ve always liked Bucky. he’s a good boss and a good man. he treats you well and pays even better; it helps that he’s one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever laid your eyes on.
except something is off here.
this isn’t like the Bucky you’ve come to know.
“do I have to?” you ask, trying to maintain your upbeat and calm demeanor. acting as though the question was rhetorical should open the door to changing the subject, right?
“yes, you do,” he affirms without hesitating.
you swallow and take another sip of your drink before looking back up at him.
“no. no boyfriend, why?”
you try to stay calm, act like yourself. act like he isn’t trying to read your thoughts by looking into your eyes.
he’s enhanced, can he actually do that?
“do you like your job here?” he asks, looking around the office. “it’s a decent place to work, wouldn’t you say so?”
you blink once. twice. you take a deep breath.
“yes, I do. I really like working here,” you say, shifting in your seat and setting the glass on the floor next to the leg of the chair. “am I in trouble? are you letting me go?”
“no, no. of course not,” he clarifies, shaking his head no and setting down his own glass on the desk behind him. you watch as he crosses his arms in front of him. “you do good work for me. and you listen when I tell you what you’re supposed to do.”
your brow furrows in confusion. that seems like an odd thing to say to an employee.
but of course, all of this has felt… off.
it comes to be your turn to speak, the natural flow of conversation. he looks at you expectantly as you struggle to come up with a response and draw a blank.
“do you wish to keep your job here?” he asks of you when you fail to respond.
your whole body freezes. you’re stuck in place, held there by his heavy gaze as he watches for your reaction. what is this? what’s happening here?
his entire face remains neutral, giving you no insight into what he’s feeling or what he’s thinking. his tone sounds like any normal question.
but it can’t be.
until his face cracks, until a smile breaks out on his face and he looks down at his feet with a chuckle. “you okay?” he asks you as he returns his eyes to meet yours. “your heart is racing like I’m about to fire you.”
“are you?” you ask, unable to return the smile. you’re too confused, too concerned with trying to figure out what’s going on.
“no. I don’t want to fire you,” he says, sounding as though he’s trying to reassure you. as though those words don’t hold much deeper meaning within the context of this conversation and how he’s acting right now.
“I’m just wondering what it is that you’re willing to do to keep this job.”
your voice is lost once more. your whole body is stuck, the itchiness of the chair no longer a thought in your head as you focus on the heavy weight inside your chest. it’s as though the force of gravity has somehow doubled, and you’re helpless against it, a force of nature not to be reckoned with.
you can’t move. you can’t breathe.
you hear him take a deep breath and sit down in the chair directly next to yours, each one tilted ever so slightly in the direction of its neighbor. his knee brushes yours as he sits, and then–
his vibranium hand comes to rest on your thigh.
this can’t be happening.
you’ve always liked him from afar, of course you have. admiring his beauty, picturing what he’d be like in bed, all of it coursed through your head on a regular basis. you couldn’t help it.
but this isn’t right.
“I’ve seen how you look at me, sweetheart.”
every dream you’ve ever imagined with him, of having this with him, suddenly sours. your mouth goes dry and your stomach broils with nausea as your leg burns under the cool touch of metal on your skin.
“look at me,” he suddenly growls at you, his intonation rising in an aggressive manner unlike you’ve ever heard from him before. you obey, your eyes wildly darting up to his as they begin to grow warm.
“you said you really like working here, and I asked if you wished to keep your job here,” he repeats. his grip on your thigh never adjusts, never relents. he’s holding you down with nothing but a simple touch and a few words.
trying to remove yourself from his grip feels like the wrong answer.
you could move. you could say no.
but this is Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier.
you never thought of him like that, as the man of his past, until now. with the way his eyes go grey as he looks at you…
this modern version of him is capable of doing everything the old version was capable of and more.
he asked if you wish to keep your job.
it feels like he’s asking if you wish to keep your life.
“I do,” you pipe up, voice low and squeaky as it cracks.
he takes another deep breath and settles into his chair further, as though a decision has been made. as though you’ve solidified your future as his assistant, solidified your future on this planet.
you’re scared. you’re more scared than you’ve ever been, and all you can do is exactly as he says.
“you listen when I tell you what you’re supposed to do,” plays out in your head on repeat. the threat sounded worse when he said it, but now?
you know for fact that this is about to happen.
the fantasy you’d had of him holding your hips, slowly pushing into you, your first, all while praising you for taking him so well?
the way you’d dreamt of him telling you he’ll make it so good for you, ensure you he’d be gentle, and make sure you weren’t in any pain?
the childlike dream you had of him wanting to make it perfect for you, complete with candlelight and flower petals and soft music playing in the background?
all those dreams are incinerated in less than a second with the way he looks at you, not with tenderness and love, but ownership and lust. your imagination took you to a lot of places with your boss.
you never pictured it would be like this.
you’re scared shitless.
“are you going to do your job and do as I tell you?” he asks, monotone as he questions you.
you know what he’s actually asking.
every part of you is conflicted. you’ve always wanted him, but having him like this? like you’re not allowed to say no, or tell him you’re not ready?
how the hell do you escape this?
you don’t.
the realization makes your stomach churn once more. you’re trapped, stuck in a situation that you don’t have any power to escape from. you have to do what he says, or else.
“yes,” you whisper, your throat dry and your voice clearly reflecting your hesitance.
he doesn’t care.
“stand up,” he orders you, removing his hand from your thigh and allowing you the space to do so.
you pause. he doesn’t push, doesn’t reprimand you for not immediately obeying.
no, he wants you to think this through. to be fully aware of the choice you’re making. to think it through and make the choice anyway.
when you finally do, your feet are shaky. his vibranium hand comes to yours at your side as you stand from the chair, holding you gently, as though he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart. as though he’s simply a comforting presence beside you, aiding you in your struggle to push yourself upright.
with his grip on your hand, he draws you closer to him, guiding you to where he wants you: standing right in front of him. he maintains his grip on your hand for a short few moments as he looks you up and down, clearly deep in thought.
your whole body shivers when his hands come to rest on your hips over your clothes. you want to close your eyes and hide from this, from what’s happening to you right now. except you know that doing so would likely only serve to piss him off.
“you nervous, sweetheart?” he suddenly laughs, like a tease between friends.
he knows what he’s doing, carefully and slowly tormenting you with each word he speaks. trying to confuse you with the consistent switch-up of his demeanor.
before you can respond, he continues, “don’t be. I’ll take good care of you.”
those words should be your salvation, should help to ease your anxiety in any variation of this situation. in your fantasies, you’d even imagined him saying it while petting your hair and kissing your brow.
how fucking stupid you feel now.
“please don’t make me do this,” you whisper, regrettably closing your eyes and shaking your head. your mouth spoke before you could stop yourself, and now you’re even more scared because of it. you’re concerned that he’s going to punish you somehow for it, hurt you for it.
why couldn’t you just shut up, go along with whatever he wanted, do as he said?
he can kill you without trying, and now you’ve just given him a reason to.
you’re fucked, you think, until you hear him chuckle again. you listen, your body shaking, as he laughs at your plea for him to spare you.
“come on, sit down, sweetie,” he encourages, still laughing.
you gulp.
it could be worse, you tell yourself as you let him move you into a straddling position on his lap. he could have–
his vibranium hand comes to your jaw then, digging into your cheeks so deep it causes you to cry out in pain. you force your eyes to open before he can reprimand you for letting them close.
“don’t you ever question me ever again, you hear me?” he grits, his tone biting. the pain in your face stings and burns all at once, and it’s all you can do to bite down on your lip and not scream out again.
his eyes are black and narrowed at you unlike you’ve ever seen them.
if you thought you were scared before, that was nothing compared to now. he can inflict insurmountable pain on you without even trying, and that’s exactly what he’s doing: reminding you. that he’s the one in control, and your life is in his hands.
the only way you come out of this alive is by obeying.
“yes, I’m sorry,” you do your best to whisper, holding back your cries. your eyes begin to tear up with each passing second he holds you there, deliberately hurting you to teach you a lesson.
the second he finally lets go of your jaw is a relief, your whole body relaxing as the worst of the pain eases.
“crying?” he whispers, his soft persona revealing itself once more. he brings a flesh thumb to wipe your tears from your face as they fall. “don’t worry. I’ll really make you cry, if that’s what you want.”
your mind screams no, no, no, when he says that to you. you don’t want him to hurt you any more than he already has. if he thinks that was nothing, just a taste of what he could do to you, then what does worse look like?
you don’t say a single word in response, instead focusing on catching your breath and composing yourself.
you realize, then, that your knees are spread over his thighs and you’re sitting just above where he’s clearly hard underneath the fabric of his pants. your hands must have twisted themselves in the fabric of his shirt when he grabbed you.
you look at him, at the pretty face that stares back at you as your mind whirs, deliberating how this is about to go.
“yeah, I can do that,” he says softly like he’s going out of his way for you. like he’s doing something nice for you, simply a good samaritan who seeks to help you out.
you want to scream for anyone in the building to come help you, or to beg him to show you mercy. to not do this, whatever it is he’s about to do to you.
your tears only fall harder as you keep your mouth closed, letting him remove you from his lap and standing the both of you from the chair. his hands hold your waist tightly, and he towers over you, staring down at your teary face.
your eyes find his again.
the look on his face is pitiful, like you’re something sorry and pathetic under his gaze.
you feel idiotic for thinking he was different from every other man on the planet. for thinking he was better, that he would actually care about you.
he is different.
he’s so much worse.
he walks you backwards, and you trip over your heels as they catch on the fabric of his carpet underfoot. he doesn’t care, too focused on what he’s doing that he just keeps walking, his grip on you strong enough that it keeps you from falling flat onto your ass.
once your lower back hits the edge of his desk, he quickly spins you around until you’re facing towards it. you barely have enough time to brace your hands on the surface before he’s shoving you down, your chest meeting the wood below. you do your best to grit your teeth and keep from whining as he holds you there, unable to move an inch. you turn your head to the side as you try to look behind you to see what he’s doing.
you can’t do anything but watch as he begins to unzip your skirt and pulls it away from the curve of your body where you’re bent over the desk, proceeding to then shove your shirt upwards and out of the way of his view of your ass.
you’re well and truly panicking now. you think you know what he’s about to do, but you can’t be sure–he’s unpredictable, and your mind is all over the place as you scramble for answers in your head.
once again, you question yourself about how you can get out of this.
amongst the frenzy of thoughts within your mind, you speak up, one last-ditch attempt to sway him.
“I’m a virgin, Bucky, please,” you whimper, still watching him as best you can from your position on the desk.
he stops moving entirely, and you breathe a sigh of relief. it’s going to work.
“you serious?” he asks in disbelief, but still not yet letting you go.
“yes, please–”
without warning, his flesh hand comes down on your ass, hard, and you cry out into the room due to the searing pain.
“that just means you’re going to cry so much prettier for me,” he says, tone still feigning pity. you can barely hear it with the blood rushing in your ears. “that’s what you wanted, right? for me to make you cry?”
“no, please, no,” you whine out.
that was a mistake.
his hand comes down on you again, even harder this time, if at all possible. the sting is worse than you ever could have imagined it would be; you’re once again in tears, screaming as he continues to lay one smack after another on your backside, up and down your thighs, all while you’re forced to just lay there and take it.
when he eventually stops, your cries are all that’s left, the sound of his hand colliding with your skin no longer veiling the sound of your sniffles and the sobs that wrack through your body.
exactly what he wanted.
“come here,” he whispers, gently pulling you away from the desk, to your feet, and turning your body so you’re face to face with him. you’re a mess of snot and tears all over, but you don’t dare make to wipe your face for fear of his cruel response to your disobedience.
“you look so pretty like this, sweetheart,” he tells you, bringing both of his hands to shrug your hair behind your shoulders, giving him a clearer view of your heated face. his eyes roam over the sight of you in front of him as you continue to struggle to calm your sobs and catch your breath.
he speaks again after a few moments of just observing you as such. “you know what you say when I tell you to do something?”
you sniffle once more before responding, your voice hoarse, “yes, Mr. Barnes.”
he tuts and corrects you. “I told you to call me Bucky, sweetheart.”
you nod without hesitating this time, repeating back to him, “yes, Bucky.”
your voice isn’t your own, what with how you can’t believe that you’re speaking to him in this manner, in this situation. he’s reduced you to a drooling mess with a firm hand, by dangling your job and your life in front of your hands.
your only option is yes.
you flinch when he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “good girl,” he says, ignoring the way you recoil as he comes closer.
you should let it go, focus more on what’s next rather than what’s already happened. is he mad at you and simply pretending not to be? is he going to hit you again? is this exactly what he wants, for you to cower in fear every time he approaches you, an open declaration of your submission to him?
how the hell have you even ended up in this situation?
you trusted him. imagined a life with him, one where he cherished you and did everything in his power to protect you.
“I want you to do something for me,” he says, trailing his fingers down the side of your face, down your jaw where it’s still sore from his earlier treatment. “I want you to go sit in my chair, behind my desk. can you do that, sweetie?”
the words are automatic, a fear response that you’re sure he’s going to drill into your head.
“yes, Bucky.”
he hums in approval and watches as your feet take you around the desk and to his chair. you hiss as you sit down, your entire rear sore and the irritation of your skin aggravated at the contact.
you glance up at him apprehensively, waiting for whatever it is he plans on doing next.
next.
you have no clue how long he’s going to keep you here, doing whatever he pleases with your body, no matter how it makes you feel. you doubt you could even drive yourself home in this state. worse even, you know he’s nowhere near done with you yet. will you be expected to come to work tomorrow? is he going to let you keep your job, even after promising that this is how you save it?
he could still kill you after all this is said and done, if he wanted to. if he worried you wouldn’t keep your mouth shut.
everything he promised, as long as you did what he said, could have been a lie to force you into doing what he wanted. all of it can be so easily taken away if he changes his mind just because he feels like it.
you begin to wonder, did he ever actually promise you that you’d be safe after all this? that your job would be safe, anything?
or did you take his words out of context, twist them in your mind to try and make yourself feel better about what’s happening?
is any of this even real?
he steps around the desk after a few moments, leaning over you as you sit in the chair and bracing his vibranium hand on the armrest. his face is so close to yours; before all this, being this close to him would’ve made you feel giddy, excited.
now, you just feel terrified at the proximity.
you get distracted and avert your gaze downwards when his flesh fingers find their way between your bare thighs, pressed together where you’re seated.
“spread your legs for me, doll,” he whispers, his own gaze falling to where his hand touches your skin.
it takes you a moment to adjust, uncomfortable and pained as everything below your waist just hurts.
“that’s it,” he mumbles, reaching his fingers to the hem of your underwear. you expect him to ask you to lift your hips, to adjust your positioning once more so he can remove them.
you’re stunned as he simply rips them from your skin, and you let out a small gasp of shock at the motion.
he chuckles again, and your face heats. he’s laughing at you, isn’t he?
your face is still itchy and uncomfortable from your crying, and your eyes are once again threatening tears. you’re humiliated, debasing yourself just because he says so.
he’s laughing at you because you’re laughable, because you deserve it.
his fingers reach between your thighs, now parted for him, and his eyes glance back up to your face to watch your reaction as he dips them to where you’re wettest.
“yeah, look at you,” he taunts. “you’re all soaked for me. you like getting spanked, don’t you?”
you don’t know if it’s worse to agree, to scream out no, or stay quiet altogether.
you elect to keep your mouth shut.
he begins stroking you more deliberately, watching the way you hold your breath to withhold yourself from giving him a reaction.
except he’s going to pull it from you, one way or another.
he’s impatient, and without warning, he quickly begins to press two fingers up inside you. his hands are far bigger than your own, and the stretch is too much too quickly.
“Bucky,” you whine out, a few more tears falling. the way he’s touching you hurts, making you take it rather than giving it freely as you used to imagine he would. your hands instinctively reach to grip his forearm between your bodies, holding on tightly.
“you mean it when you said you were a virgin?” he asks, smirking to himself.
“yes,” you whimper, sharply inhaling as he presses his fingers further inside when you speak. he leans in closer, his lips brushing up against your ear as he asks his next question.
“you think you’re gonna bleed real pretty all over my cock?”
you’re helpless to the way you moan out when he asks you that, the way you involuntarily clench around his fingers as they’re buried inside you. your fingers dig further into the flesh of his arm where you hold onto him.
“that’s what I think, too,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before pulling back entirely. he stands up straight in front of you and removes his hand from between your legs, out of your grasp.
once again, he takes a moment to simply observe you, a wreck. at his mercy.
vibranium fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head backwards as his other hand comes to your mouth.
“clean up your mess,” he says, pressing his two wet fingers into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on his skin.
you diligently suck his fingers clean, trying your best to follow his orders so you can avoid whatever other painful ideas he has in his sick mind.
“what do you say when I tell you to do something?” he questions of you for the second time tonight. you begin to pull away from him to respond, but his hand in your hair tightens to hold you in place. “no. just like this.”
you blink your tears back and try to respond, “yes, Bucky,” with his fingers still in your mouth.
“what was that? I didn’t hear you,” he taunts you, feigning complete obliviousness.
you shut your eyes in your embarrassment and do it again, the words once again lost as he muffles your ability to speak.
“with your eyes open this time,” he instructs, still smirking.
if you thought you were humiliated before, you’re well and truly stripped of all your dignity now.
you think he’s finally pleased with you when he laughs after your third attempt at speaking, once again inevitably failing at doing so.
just another humiliation to reduce you to nothing at his will.
when he relieves you of your misery and withdraws his fingers from between your lips, you take a few deep breaths and force yourself to refrain from letting your tears fall.
“bend over the desk,” he tells you, not bothering to give you a moment to compose yourself.
on shaky legs, you push yourself up from the chair, reaching for the edge of the desk to steady yourself. you turn towards it, bending over and bracing your hands on the surface of it in order to hold yourself up.
you feel his hips press into your ass as he steps up behind you. you already know that he’s observing you, analyzing every inch of your body beneath him. you’re a prisoner to the way he just watches you.
each of his hands find your wrists where you’ve placed all your weight on them to steady yourself. he yanks your arms out from under you, making you fall forward, and your body crashes against the desk. the motion is so quick it startles you, and you let out a high-pitched yelp when your chest collides with the keyboard underneath you.
“that’s better,” he says, stacking your forearms on top of one another behind your back. you don’t dare move them when his hands release you, both of them coming to grab at the flesh of your ass.
except it hurts, and you’re sure your entire rear is going to be bruised for at least a week with the shape of his fingers imprinted on your skin. you wince as he roughly grabs at your skin, making you relive the pain he’d inflicted on you earlier.
you feel the weight of his body press against yours as he leans over you, drawing your hair out of the way with his flesh hand and turning your chin in his direction to speak to you.
“did you imagine it like this?” he whispers into your ear.
you immediately let out a sob, shutting your eyes and berating yourself for ever thinking that this man was the one worthy of being your first and your only.
“I’m sure you did. I mean, having a crush on your boss? this seems like the kind of thing you’d imagine, letting me use you in my office.”
you grit your teeth and growl in anger. you can’t say anything, so you don’t. you’ll never admit anything to him. not now, not like this.
until he makes you, one way or another.
you shiver again at the prospect.
his hand falls from your jaw only to slap the back of your thigh once more, and just as before, you can’t stop yourself from screaming out.
“yes, Bucky!” you cry, tears falling freely.
he seems pleased with your response as he stands up straight behind you, pushing the back of your head downwads until your forehead touches the wood surface top of the desk below.
“yeah, of course you want it like this. always the fuckin’ innocent ones,” he says, more so to himself than to you.
you hate the way he kicks your feet apart, spreading your legs to give him full access to absolutely ruin you.
you silently sob even harder when you hear his fingers unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants behind you.
if he was a better man, maybe he’d stand here and take his time to open you up for him, show just a little bit of mercy to make this easier for you. he’d use his fingers to stretch you out to prevent you from feeling some of the sheer pain he’s about to inflict on you.
he isn’t a better man.
besides, what’s the point if you’re not screaming and crying for him?
as he steps forward and notches himself against your entrance, your panic well and truly sets in. you can’t see anything, and you’re not going to dare move your head to try and look back at him. you can already tell he’s massive, and he’s most definitely going to split you in half.
he places his vibranium hand on your lower back and his other comes to your hip, holding you firmly in place where he wants you. holding you tightly so you can’t get away from this, from him.
he’s barely pressing in before you start begging again.
“Bucky, please don’t do this,” you cry. “I’ll stay quiet, I won’t tell anyone, please. just let me go, please…”
your tears fall softly onto the desk as your entire body shakes in fear. he stills his motions just long enough to listen to your pleading.
“I know you won’t tell anyone,” he affirms, tone mocking, pitying you once more. “I have no doubt that you’ll keep your pretty little mouth shut.”
and then he’s pushing in roughly, quickly, holding you down so you just have to take it.
if anyone else was still in the building, they’d hear the way you scream out in pain. the way your voice reaches the top of your lungs until you can’t breathe anymore, the way you beg Bucky to stop what he’s doing. to let you go, to stop hurting you.
no one else can hear you except him. no one is coming to save you from this torture.
“fuck, you’re so tight, virgin,” he hisses, using the word against you like it’s an insult. you feel it bite at you, stabbing you in the chest that he’s taking this from you without any concern for you.
he doesn’t take any time at all pressing himself fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, pinning you to the desk.
he withdraws, and he pauses for half a second to speak:
“told you you’d bleed real pretty.”
and then he shoves in again, once again making you lose control of your voice.
the way he begins fucking you is ruthless. every thrust feels like another punishment, another cruel reminder that your body is his to do with as he pleases. you plead with him relentlessly, your voice crying out “please” and “Bucky” over and over again.
every word you speak falls on deaf ears, the man behind you far too concerned with taking what he wants to spare you even a moment of his attention.
isn’t this him giving you his attention? what with the way he touches you, uses you?
isn’t this the equivalent of everything you’d always wanted: his attention?
you’re paralyzed under him, berating yourself repeatedly for ever dreaming of this moment. for thinking it would be pleasant, enjoyable, memorable.
this will most certainly be memorable. just not in a way you ever fathomed possible.
when he begins to falter behind you, his movements becoming erratic and uncoordinated, you’re reminded of a harsh truth that’s only just now crashing down on you.
“Bucky, I’m not safe. please, you have to pull out,” you beg of him.
you know he hears you. you know he’s not so stupid as to ignore what you’re telling him, that there’s bigger things in play here than just the fact that he’s fucking you against your will.
you know he knows better than this.
“don’t care,” he grits, and you whine in shock as you feel him bury himself to the hilt inside you once last time, accompanied by a warmth settling in your stomach.
he didn’t.
no, he can’t do this to you.
it’s not enough for him to weaponize everything he has against you, for him to physically force you into giving him what he wants? it’s not enough for him to repeatedly hurt you and make you cry for his own sick satisfaction?
his hands reach for you, dragging your torso up and away from the desk until you’re leaning back against him.
“should keep you here like this until it sticks,” he threatens, and you wince again. he’s still so deep inside you, pressing up against spots you didn’t know existed.
he looks over your shoulder to see your tear-stained face, to admire the way he’s utterly wrecked you.
of course that’s not enough for him.
he finally pulls out of your wet and abused hole, and your whole body goes slack in his grip. he turns you until you’re facing him and he lays you back down on the desk, the keyboard far more painful under your back than it was under your chest.
he pushes your legs up towards your torso until your knees are level with your face, taking your hands in his and making you hold your legs in place. spread and in position for whatever cruel treatment he’s about to give you now.
your eyes fall shut as you just lay there and await whatever abuse comes next.
“smile for the camera, sweetie,” he tells you, and your eyes shoot open immediately, just in time to watch him take the picture of you on his desk, face red and gross, his release spilling out from between your thighs.
there’s proof of this now. real evidence that this moment happened, that he defiled you like this.
you might puke.
he slaps your cunt, dripping and on display, just hard enough to make you squirm.
“what do you say?” he mocks, hovering over you and looking into your eyes.
you want to cry again.
“say, ‘thank you, Bucky.’”
you’re so exhausted and in so much pain, the idea of doing so feels like yet another slap. another slight to your ego, clawing away at whatever dignity you think you have left.
with every ounce of strength you have left in your body, you force yourself to say it. give him what he wants and pray he’ll go easy on you.
“good girl. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, okay? we’ve got a lot of work to do before the hearing next week.”
and he walks away, leaving you alone and dripping on his desk.
you still have your job, and you still have your life.
except you’ll never escape him now. he owns you, and you know he’ll do whatever he has to in order to silence and keep you.
maybe death would’ve been a more merciful fate.
~~~
✦ masterlist - join a tag list ✦
