#M&A negotiation

[jeffreyhammel1]

M&A Negotiation Tactics: Achieving Financial Success

When you're leading a merger or acquisition, your ability to negotiate effectively makes the difference between a deal that delivers value and one that drains resources. It's not just about reaching an agreement—it’s about building terms that protect your interests, preserve upside, and minimize downside. In this article, you’ll walk through negotiation tactics that give you control over pricing, structure, timing, and integration readiness. With a focus on preparation, real-time financial data, and sector-aware strategies, you'll approach your next negotiation table with the clarity and confidence needed to succeed.

Ground Yourself in Real-Time Market Signals

Before you enter a negotiation, you need to understand the current deal environment. M&A volumes are climbing across multiple sectors, with buyers becoming more selective and sellers pushing for aggressive multiples. If you're on the buy side, you need to be aware that valuations are stabilizing in some industries while remaining inflated in others. That gives you leverage, especially if you're targeting a business in a sector with cooling demand or shrinking margins. Use this timing to your advantage—timing often drives price flexibility more than any line item in the balance sheet.

If you're the seller, your positioning relies on articulating your resilience in uncertain conditions. You’ll want to use sector benchmarks and industry forecasts to justify a premium or argue for a performance-based earn-out. Either way, understanding where your deal sits within the broader market gives you leverage before you say a word.

Use Financial Data to Justify Value

Your most effective negotiation tactic is credible, real-time data. Don’t negotiate off estimates or legacy multiples. Instead, use detailed analytics that show current EBITDA, revenue run rates, churn metrics, customer lifetime value, or market share compared to public or private benchmarks. If you're the buyer, build a financial model with multiple scenarios—baseline, optimistic, and conservative—and make your offer based on reality, not assumption.

As a seller, you should highlight trends that show consistent growth or strong margins compared to competitors. Showcase backlog strength, retention rates, or favorable contract terms. These numbers turn your narrative into a value proposition. They also reduce the emotional tension in negotiations by anchoring the conversation in objective facts.

Define Your Walk-Away Point and Their Pressure Points

Every effective negotiator walks in knowing their boundaries. You need a clear understanding of your Best Alternative to a Negotiated Agreement (BATNA). Know your floor—whether that’s price, structure, or post-close involvement. Without this, you’re reacting instead of leading.

At the same time, study your counterparty’s needs. Are they in a cash squeeze? Are they under pressure to hit quarterly targets? Are there competitive bidders at the table? Knowing what’s motivating the other side helps you frame your proposals in ways that feel like wins to them, while still protecting your core terms. Great negotiators don’t just push—they listen for leverage.

Structure the Deal Around Risk and Upside

When there’s a gap between valuation expectations, use structure to find middle ground. Earn-outs, contingent payments, holdbacks, and seller notes are all tools you can use to tie price to future performance. If you think the seller’s projections are aggressive, offer a base price with additional payouts tied to revenue or EBITDA milestones.

This tactic doesn't just bridge the valuation gap—it aligns incentives post-closing. From your side, you’re not overpaying upfront. From their side, they can earn more by delivering. Just make sure the metrics are measurable, auditable, and not easily manipulated. Document these terms clearly to avoid disputes later.

Insist on Cybersecurity and Compliance Provisions

In today’s market, cybersecurity and compliance risk can kill a deal faster than poor financials. You need to audit the target’s data protection, cloud architecture, and vendor agreements. If you find gaps, negotiate indemnity clauses, escrow holdbacks, or specific cleanup actions before closing.

Even in smaller deals, insist on representations and warranties that confirm no known breaches, adherence to data privacy laws, and proper encryption standards. These protections give you recourse if issues are discovered later. If the target resists, it’s a signal that you may be inheriting more risk than value.

Make Integration Part of the Deal Terms

Too often, integration is an afterthought. But if you're serious about value creation, it has to be built into the negotiation itself. Include provisions for transition services, system access, IP transfer timing, employee retention bonuses, and communication protocols. When those details are hashed out before closing, you're not left scrambling when the deal is done.

Use this integration language as proof of your execution readiness. If you're buying, it shows the seller you plan to honor the business they built. If you're selling, these terms give you peace of mind that your customers, employees, and brand will be managed with care post-close.

Adapt Your Tactics to the Sector and Deal Size

Negotiation strategy isn't one-size-fits-all. Tech deals often hinge on intellectual property, ARR metrics, or founder retention. Manufacturing deals revolve around asset condition, inventory accuracy, and supplier contracts. Each industry has different pressure points—and you need to adjust accordingly.

In smaller deals, you’ll likely deal directly with founders or family owners. That requires a more empathetic tone while still protecting your terms. In larger transactions, you’ll be working with advisory teams, and deal momentum can shift based on internal politics or capital structure. Tailor your playbook for the room you’re negotiating in.

Plan for Regulatory and Cross-Border Complexities

If your deal spans jurisdictions, build regulatory timelines and contingencies into your terms. Currency volatility, data localization laws, and regulatory approval requirements all influence your timeline and risk exposure. Clauses like reverse termination fees, currency hedging, and staged closings help you manage those variables.

Whether you're navigating antitrust reviews or tax residency questions, the earlier you anticipate friction points, the better your negotiation terms will be. Sophisticated buyers and sellers bake these into their models from the start. That foresight shows maturity and keeps deals from derailing late in the process.

Close Strong, Then Keep Communicating

Even after the terms are signed, negotiations aren’t over. You’ll be working together through diligence, legal drafts, board approvals, and press releases. Maintain open communication, confirm deliverables, and document each milestone. Surprises kill trust—and trust is what keeps deals alive through complexity.

Set up regular status check-ins, centralize documentation, and proactively resolve misunderstandings. When the transition feels organized and respectful, both sides are more likely to execute their commitments smoothly. And that’s where true deal success lives—not just in the close, but in the delivery.

Top M&A Negotiation Moves

Use current financial data to back valuation

Bridge valuation gaps with earn-outs

Secure cyber and legal protections

Align deal terms with post-close integration

Adjust tactics by sector and deal size

In Conclusion

Successful M&A negotiation depends on timing, preparation, and knowing how to use structure and data to shape the deal. When you define your walk-away point, understand the other party’s needs, and back every position with current numbers, you control the outcome. Whether you're buying or selling, you need to account for integration, cybersecurity, and regulatory friction before you sign anything. If you carry that mindset into every deal, you’ll avoid surprises and walk away with terms that hold up long after the ink is dry.

"Thanks for reading! To explore additional insights on M&A strategies, financial leadership, and effective negotiation tactics, follow Jeffrey Hammel on X"

[deiim]

between aemond and daeron, vizzy t was desperate to name a kid daemon and i imagine alicent only manged to prevent it by threatening to fling herself off meagor's holdfast so he had to improvise

[danwhobrowses]

I have to say when it comes for episode 107 I'm on the camp of this feeling wrong. Like, two gods' plan is to just let Ludinus just have his way? And just assume that the vessel won't get them? The Wildmother showed Orym the time Predathos came to town, it took out two of them in a blink and the Titans did the heavy lifting, it chased them from Tengar to Exandria without concept of navigation so it's foolish to think they won't do the same this time around. Running forever isn't a life even the infinite should be pursuing. Corellon is cheeky and flirty but it's a mask for being deflective and honestly a little cowardly. What you're asking and trying to persuade with gifts requires the Hells to entertain sacrificing one of their own, which they shouldn't (and I'm hopeful they won't, because that'd be to me at least be a character betrayal since they have always prioritized each other over the gods) consider doing even for any kind of promise, and treating it like it's a necessity, as if leaving like you've decided you want to do now is your 'sacrifice'? Even if being a vessel and still being of sound mind was a viable option with proof that it can work that way, there are too many unknown factors that it seems not even the gods have answers for, so it should all trail back to the fact that this is STILL not a risk worth taking and Ludinus should not be having his way.

I guess part of this feeling comes down to the fact that this was not what I was hoping to get out of the episode; I'm always open to being surprised (because I often am) but it has to be in a good way, this was not a good way. But we'll have to see where it goes, this is a proposal of two gods against a majority yet to say their piece and could still be heard out, I still trust Matt's vision and Abu DM's like smooth butter, but the god debate admittedly continues to wear on me - we were already in a state where we were open to talk but now they're conspiring against one another too? Can we not just focus on Plan A: Unite to Stop Ludinus from releasing Predathos? Evoroa literally said Ludinus' plan is to divide why are we sowing more division? Couldn't just kill Zathuda and take his dragon for Fearne...this should've been Bell's Hells' big win to make up for Otohan but now for me at least it feels a little sour.

[arafinweanappreciation]

okay so i realized I have a pretty specific idea of how this went down and now i'm curious to see what the rest of y'all think. DO NOT look up a timeline or anything. I just want to see people's assumptions

[utilitycaster]

it's so funny to me that Lucanis remembers your favorite drink and there's a "consequences of your action" purple arrow situation and everything and then if you do not romance him this means precisely nothing. I want him to be like "and Rook, of course, you will be having tea from Manfred as per usual" to, well, spite me for picking Minrathous in this run.

[mxgoldenwood]

I CAN NOT stop thinking about Astarion with cleric-of-Ilmater Tav, so a few thoughts that have crossed my mind….

First… what could possibly be a more powerful religious experience for a follower of Ilmater than giving up your own blood, so that a friend in need won’t go hungry? The way Astarion’s first bite is narrated, it would almost certainly be a transcendent, divine experience.

Following on from this, though… the more Tav and Astarion spend time around each other, the more I think they would both gain from their relationship.

Yes, Astarion is annoyed by his companions playing the hero and he doesn’t like it when Tav promises to help people just because they’re sworn to relieve suffering wherever they can. He’s selfish and jaded and nobody ever did that for him (before now) so why are these strangers so special?

But on the flip side, there comes a point when Astarion has a point!! Tav doesn’t need to open their veins for every stranger in need. Maybe they shouldn’t sell their soul to help someone who would as soon kill them as look at them. You can’t fill up anyone else’s glass when your own is empty, and all that. I can easily imagine Astarion’s annoyance with Tav’s heroics shifting gradually from “ugh, what makes these people so special that they deserve help for nothing?” to “darling, you’re killing yourself slowly— and for what?” as he finds himself becoming more genuinely attached to Tav.

When you have people who care about you, your suffering becomes theirs. Cleric-of-Ilmater Tav may not see this at first, but they could come to understand it. By all means, help where you can. But don’t make your loved ones watch as you bind yourself onto the rack for someone whose gratitude can never cancel out the vicarious suffering of your (found) family watching you suffer. If anyone would speak up and talk some sense into Tav about this, it would be Astarion.

Just as Tav can set a good example for Astarion, reminding him that he has some goodness and maybe a little heroics of his own, buried under all the bitterness and trauma…. I believe Astarion would have a thing or two to teach cleric-of-Ilmater Tav about when it’s fine to help, and when they’re hurting themself for no good reason.

[singedbutter]

Do you have any videos of you sucking dick or getting fucked on your OF?

Not currently! I have not been active on there lately. But you can ALWAYS custom something like that directly 😌😘

[shakshukagirl]

main (non-negotiable) goals for 2025:

- master a programming language

- complete more than 2 projects

- get gpa up to or above [redacted]

- keep promises I make to myself

[obstinaterixatrix]

the thing is the webtoon where the mc gets accidentally pushed down the stairs by random high schoolers is frustrating with how terrible the romance is but netkama punch is entertaining with how terrible the romance is and the difference is that even though in netkama punch the stakes/consequences are different for mc and li the intensity/impact are at a similar level. they’re both equally invested in (their version of) the relationship and their actions give each other the same kind of frustration and turmoil. they’re equally insecure and fragile (lol), even if the li has more material power they have equal emotional power (and in fact emotional power is skewed towards mc). in the other webtoon the power is just sooo weighted towards the ceo li. and he doesn’t use it well. like if there’s going to be a clear power differential it can at least be used well yknow

[dashiellqvverty]

i am a destiel girlie til i die but i LOVE dean rarepairs so much you don’t understand. i will be honest this is in large part because i have a very hard time finding deancas porn that i really like and dean rarepairs (including dean/OMCs) are more likely to have the dynamics im looking for for him.

[anisalarkwood-author]

What are you reading?

Just picked up a copy of Margaret Atwood’s Negotiating With the Dead: A Writer on Writing from Austin Public Library. If you don’t already know, I tend to read more “books about writing” than I do in all other genres put together 😂 It’s probably not healthy to read so many books about writing, but I can tell you with certainty that I can’t stop/won’t stop. I’m only 20 pages in, but I can…

[patrickbrianmooney]

Identity is not negotiable. An identity you have achieved by agreement is always a prison.

M. John Harrison, "A Young Man's Journey to Viriconium"

[mayasaura]

And like. It's also about how John didn't set up the conditions for the end of the world alone. He didn't do jackshit on his own. He had the magic powers, and he pulled the trigger, but they all helped load the gun. The apocalypse was a group project.

Obsessed with that bit where P— told John to be a bad wizard. That they could write the history books later to say he was good, but what he needed to do now was to scare the shit out of people. What he needed was leverage.

Because that's what he did! That's exactly what he did. He got his leverage, he played the bad wizard, he scared the shit out of everyone. And then after the dust settled, when he was the last man standing, he wrote the history books to say he was good.

And like. The thing that gets me is. After all that, he named her Pyrrha.

They won. It wasn't worth it.

[buckyseternaldoll]

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.”

[afloweroutofstone]

The Trump administration accidentally included the conservative editor of The Atlantic in a group chat where they were discussing, in great detail, the US bombing campaign in Yemen

In all, 18 individuals were listed as members of this group, including various National Security Council officials; Steve Witkoff, President Trump’s Middle East and Ukraine negotiator; Susie Wiles, the White House chief of staff; and someone identified only as “S M,” which I took to stand for Stephen Miller. I appeared on my own screen only as “JG.”

...I had very strong doubts that this text group was real, because I could not believe that the national-security leadership of the United States would communicate on Signal about imminent war plans. I also could not believe that the national security adviser to the president would be so reckless as to include the editor in chief of The Atlantic in such discussions with senior U.S. officials, up to and including the vice president...

At this point, a fascinating policy discussion commenced. The account labeled “JD Vance” responded at 8:16: “Team, I am out for the day doing an economic event in Michigan. But I think we are making a mistake.” (Vance was indeed in Michigan that day.) The Vance account goes on to state, “3 percent of US trade runs through the suez. 40 percent of European trade does. There is a real risk that the public doesn’t understand this or why it’s necessary. The strongest reason to do this is, as POTUS said, to send a message.”

The Vance account then goes on to make a noteworthy statement, considering that the vice president has not deviated publicly from Trump’s position on virtually any issue. “I am not sure the president is aware how inconsistent this is with his message on Europe right now. There’s a further risk that we see a moderate to severe spike in oil prices. I am willing to support the consensus of the team and keep these concerns to myself. But there is a strong argument for delaying this a month, doing the messaging work on why this matters, seeing where the economy is, etc.”...

At 8:27, a message arrived from the “Pete Hegseth” account. “VP: I understand your concerns – and fully support you raising w/ POTUS. Important considerations, most of which are tough to know how they play out (economy, Ukraine peace, Gaza, etc). I think messaging is going to be tough no matter what – nobody knows who the Houthis are – which is why we would need to stay focused on: 1) Biden failed & 2) Iran funded.”

The Hegseth message goes on to state, “Waiting a few weeks or a month does not fundamentally change the calculus. 2 immediate risks on waiting: 1) this leaks, and we look indecisive; 2) Israel takes an action first – or Gaza cease fire falls apart – and we don’t get to start this on our own terms. We can manage both. We are prepared to execute, and if I had final go or no go vote, I believe we should. This [is] not about the Houthis. I see it as two things: 1) Restoring Freedom of Navigation, a core national interest; and 2) Reestablish deterrence, which Biden cratered. But, we can easily pause. And if we do, I will do all we can to enforce 100% OPSEC”—operations security. “I welcome other thoughts.”...

The account identified as “JD Vance” addressed a message at 8:45 to @Pete Hegseth: “if you think we should do it let’s go. I just hate bailing Europe out again.” (The administration has argued that America’s European allies benefit economically from the U.S. Navy’s protection of international shipping lanes.)

It was the next morning, Saturday, March 15, when this story became truly bizarre.

At 11:44 a.m., the account labeled “Pete Hegseth” posted in Signal a “TEAM UPDATE.” I will not quote from this update, or from certain other subsequent texts. The information contained in them, if they had been read by an adversary of the United States, could conceivably have been used to harm American military and intelligence personnel, particularly in the broader Middle East, Central Command’s area of responsibility. What I will say, in order to illustrate the shocking recklessness of this Signal conversation, is that the Hegseth post contained operational details of forthcoming strikes on Yemen, including information about targets, weapons the U.S. would be deploying, and attack sequencing.

The only person to reply to the update from Hegseth was the person identified as the vice president. “I will say a prayer for victory,” Vance wrote. (Two other users subsequently added prayer emoji.)

According to the lengthy Hegseth text, the first detonations in Yemen would be felt two hours hence, at 1:45 p.m. eastern time. So I waited in my car in a supermarket parking lot. If this Signal chat was real, I reasoned, Houthi targets would soon be bombed. At about 1:55, I checked X and searched Yemen. Explosions were then being heard across Sanaa, the capital city.

[sameergaza]

Never, first of all, I thank you all for what happened last week. I asked to collect an amount to buy a bag of flour, and I only saw from you that you did not let me down and we collected the full amount. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, guys, but I will be alert to a simple thing that happened to me new, when I collected the amount of 500 dollars, which is the price of a bag of flour 7 days ago, and this is what I asked for money to buy a whole bag, but unfortunately, when I went to buy flour, I found that flour traders and the owners of thefts, had hidden the flour, and did not show it at all, what's wrong? What's the problem? No one knows the reason, I went back to my house, although the money is available to me and I can buy it, the effects of sadness on my family and their sadness seemed for what happened to me, my father told me to go to another place tomorrow to buy flour, so I started the next day to look for any bag of flour, and in the end, I found people selling flour, I was happy to see them, and I felt that this time I would not take my family, I went quickly, and I asked the man how much is the price of the bag I need one, so he told me that the price of the bag is 1000 dollars, and here was my shock, he started negotiating with him, I told him Yesterday it was worth 500 dollars،

What happened, why did his price double, he didn't listen to me, and he was a cursed merchant, but I couldn't come back empty this time, I was forced to buy 12 kilos of flour, equivalent to half a bag of flour, and I returned home, this did not execute my family's joy of getting flour, although we did not buy enough of it, but we ate and were full yesterday and here we are eating today too, and all that credit is up to you, but it is not enough tomorrow we will eat for the last time, we need 3 kilos per day, so the quantity I brought will run out tomorrow, and we will return to famine after that, I think if it is not annoying, to continue collecting the amount, enough to buy half another bag, or collect the price of another bag of flour, but I will only ask for a little, 500 dollars to buy half another bag, it will be enough.

I'm sorry for everything I did. I swear if there was something else I would do I have no other choice. Please, my friends, who is bothering him, tell me that he doesn't want to hear anything from him, and I won't bother him with my messages anymore.

The link of the old post, for those who care to know all the events :

My campaign verification link .

3447/4000.