Marvel Girl

But Steve simply kept you over his lap, his arm securing your back as he traced his other hand over your forehead and cheek.

"I can't live locked, Steve," you said quietly, your gaze dropping down.

"Locked?" He quirked a brow, slowly undoing the buttons of your shirt. So slowly you didn’t even notice right away. "You can go wherever you wish."

"But not alone." You protested. "And not everywhere."

"That's for your own protection, honey." Steve reminded you - again, as he’s done for the past weeks since he brought you here. 

“And the baby’s protection,” he added, parting the sides of your shirt and resting his hand on your belly. 

You frowned, suddenly confused how he got you bared to him without you noticing. Then again, you shouldn’t be surprised. Steve was able to make you give in to him without putting up a fight almost every evening. And though you wanted to blame it on fear, Steve didn’t threaten you even once.

Unless promises of filling you over and over again were threats. 

Your stomach growled unexpectedly and while you scrunched your face in embarrassment, Steve chuckled. 

He reached for the bowl with grapes that stood on the table. There were little chocolate bonbons in colorful wrappers scattered around between grapes; he made sure to add them himself since he noticed your sweet tooth. 

He plucked one juicy grape and brought it to your lips. You glared at him, but opened your mouth to swallow. 

He unwrapped a bonbon and fed it to you next. 

“See, sweetheart,” Steve palmed your breast, your nipple instantly erect under his touch, “you need someone to take care of you.”

He pinched your nipple and your moan melted on your tongue along with bonbon’s sweet filling. 

Steve’s hand moved down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your comfy, stretchy shorts. With a jerk of his knee beneath you he jolted your legs apart, allowing his fingers to dive between your folds.

“If you run away, I can’t protect you,” Steve said, stroking you. 

“If you’re away, I can’t feed you. Can’t watch your sweet mouth take what I give it.” 

You gasped at his words. And at the intrusion of two long digits inside of you.

“What would your lovely, responsive body do without my touch?” Steve pressed a thumb against your clit, drawing tight circles. “Would you deny yourself the pleasure just because you needed to act out and rebel against all reason?” 

“Because it is unreasonable, honey-” he nipped along your jaw then sucked on your earlobe.

“You live in a beautiful apartment. With a loving husband who’d give you anything you ask for. My attention? You have it. My cock? Anytime you wish, honey. My love? Grows stronger every day.” 

Your moans increased, your hands clutching onto Steve’s forearm as he curled his fingers inside you and quickened their pace. He was bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Yet you want to deny yourself all of that.” Steve tutted, shaking his head slightly.  

“If it’s denial that you seek, my sweet wife-” his eyes found yours, blue of his eyes turning icy- 

“Denial you will get.”

“Yes.” She beamed. “Handsome fellow, but it seems he’s just as scared of clinics as the rest of men.” She laughed.

“You sure he’s here for me?” You asked hesitantly, an idea of who might it be already forming in your head. Terrifying you. 

“I’m sure. He gave all the information on you.” The woman’s face flashed solemn, her tone professional as she assured you of the thorough check. “I admit, even my own mom sometimes forgets what year I was born in.” 

“Thank you.” You forced out a smile, but your heart was hammering in fear.

You have no idea how he found you. Even less how he got so much detailed information about you. But then again, you shouldn’t be surprised now that you knew who he was.

Steven Grant Rogers. 

The ruthless head of the New York mafia who was more lethal than a viper already sinking its teeth in your ankle. 

And who, to you, was just a very hot man you hooked up with a month and half ago. 

You met Steve in a fancy club your friends booked a booth at - apparently it was a club so exclusive getting a booth in it was nearly impossible. Now you understood why. 

You’re not sure why you caught his attention when there were so many beautiful women in the place that night. But three flutes of Prosecco in and you were bolder than usual. You agreed to accompany him in his VIP booth while your friends went crazy on the dancefloor.

He disarmed you with his focus on you, his eyes never straying to any other woman. A charming gentleman who made you melt with the few moments of movie-like fairytale feeling. 

And when he whispered into your ear how he wants to eat you out until you pass out from pleasure, you almost spread your legs for him right there in the club.

Steve took you to his place - an elegant penthouse, in a building you later learned belonged to him. A one night stand turned into whole weekend of him fucking you senseless and spoiling you with fancy food delivered to his apartment. 

He also made you do the most depraved things; no one else has ever made you come just from fingering your ass and talking dirty to you. 

Like he promised each time he was buried in your cunt, Steve filled you to the brim. 

You leaked his cum even as you got home late on a Sunday afternoon - Steve’s driver dropping you off in front of your modest flat. 

The result of his filling woke you up a few weeks later, making you vomit your guts out each morning. With your period being unusually late there was only one explanation. 

At first, after you confirmed the pregnancy with your doctor, you planned on telling Steve. One night or not, he had a right to know. But you didn’t have his number, nor did you remember the exact address where he lived. So you googled him.

And the articles made your head spin. 

You thought it’s a misunderstanding. Just a coincidence, but then one of your friends complained to you about her boyfriend - a cop - being angry that you went to a mob-owned club. 

Further prodding revealed that The Shield club belonged to Steven Rogers himself.

You could no longer fool yourself with coincidences and similar names. In an instant you made a decision to never put your foot anywhere near the club and to hide from everyone who exactly was your baby’s co-creator. 

So as you kept it to yourself, building a lie (not so far from the truth) about it being a result of a reckless one night stand, you started to forget about the real father. Sometimes you even calmed yourself by repeating he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it anyway. 

But there couldn’t be anyone else claiming to come for you by posing as your husband. And Steve had the influence to learn all the details about you, if he wished. 

You cast a glance at the main entrance. He was waiting for you there. To do who knows what to you. 

If he didn’t want the baby being born and you refused to get rid of it… a man like him would simply get rid of you to erase the problem.

Perhaps you didn’t stand a chance against the power of someone like Steve Rogers, but you could try saving yourself and postponing the inevitable. For a little while, at least.

Pivoting on your heel, you went in the opposite direction. You didn’t know if there’s a back exit and you feared asking anyone, but the restroom you used earlier had a window facing the park and it was only on the high ground floor, so the risk was minimal.  

You smiled at a woman who was washing her hands when you entered and pretended to lock yourself in the stall. When you heard the door closing after her, you left the stall and opened the window. 

You dropped your bag first, then sat on the windowsill and swung your legs over it. Carefully, you lowered yourself down, hands clutching onto the edge. You took a deep breath and let go, landing softly on your feet without much trouble. 

“Shouldn’t be doing that in your state, sweetheart.” 

A smooth voice startled you. 

A familiar voice.  

You could still recall the praises he moaned in your ear when you trembled beneath him. 

You turned around sharply, heart jumping to your throat as you faced him. 

Steve stood a few steps away from you, his back resting against the side of the sleek, black car parked on the sidewalk. Dark aviators shaded his blue eyes, but you knew he was watching you like a hawk, ready to react if you fled. 

You frowned, surprised to see him here, considering the receptionist told you your husband was waiting at the front. 

You looked in the direction where he was supposed to be. Steve’s chuckle drew your attention back to him.

“Fawns like you are predictable.” He said with a smirk. 

“Now, come on,” he called your name as he moved to the side, opening the car door, “get inside.”

You didn’t even stir. You simply couldn’t, frozen in place out of fear and shock. A thought of running passed through your mind, but you were never a fast runner and you predicted Steve would be more pissed if he had to chase you. 

That he would catch you was undeniable. With his long legs and stamina that drove you into almost passing out a few times.

Steve sighed when you didn’t follow his order. 

Unhurriedly, he walked over to where you trembled, plastered against the coarse, concrete siding of the building. He crouched down to pick your bag then slowly straightened. 

Fuck, you didn’t remember him being this tall and broad. 

Steve slid his aviators down to the tip of his nose, his icy blue eyes piercing through you. He traced the shell of your ear with a single digit, then trailed it along your jaw. He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger before saying firmly:

“Get in the fucking car, sweetheart.” 

This time you obeyed. He gave you no other choice as he guided you with his hand pressed against the small of your back. 

You slid onto the backseat, curling in the corner against the opposite door. Steve got in right behind you. The moment he closed the door on his side the locks clicked in, trapping you inside with him. 

The partition between you and the driver was pulled up, though you assumed Steve’s men were loyal to him enough not to react to a woman screaming for help. 

“How do you find this clinic?” Steve simply asked, dropping your handbag on the seat on his other side. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to reach it without having to pass him. 

“What?” You stared up at him, confused. 

“I’ve heard it’s good, but I can get you into a top-shelf place.” While you were tense and strung up, Steve sat next to you completely relaxed. He took his sunglasses of, spread his legs wider.

You wrapped your arms protectively around your midsection, tears stung beneath your eyelids as you considered the potential meaning of his words.

“I’m keeping the baby!” you blurted out. Right that instant you knew you were ready to fight till your last breath to save your child.

Steve cocked his head to the side as he looked at you, a twisted warmth filling his eyes and making his smile even more charming.

“As you should.” He praised you. 

He reached for you, wrapping an arm around your back and pulling you to his side. With his other hand he swatted your arms away from your belly and spread his fingers over the curve that would soon start swelling.

“You’ll give me more, too.” Steve hummed, his eyes glued to where his hand laid. 

You were speechless. Initial fear of being forced to lose the baby turned into a completely new terror. 

Steve’s words didn’t cut your life short, but they built a long, gilded-cage waiting for you.   

“It’s about time I started nesting.” Steve chuckled, his hand moving to cup your chin and tilt your head back. “I don’t mind doing it with a sweet, little bird like you.” 

He pressed his lips against yours gently, almost sweetly, as if he was a tender lover doting on his beloved. Then his tongue teased the seam of your mouth. When you didn’t open right away he bit your bottom lip, making you gasp and forcing his tongue inside. 

You told yourself it was fear and adrenaline, but your nipples hardened and your pulse quickened. 

“First things first-” Steve pulled away. 

He took one of your hands and brought it to his lips, peppering kisses on each of your knuckles.

“We have to get you an engagement ring and order wedding bands as well.” 

“Steve, I don’t understand-” your heart pounded so fast it rushed blood to your head and made you dizzy. 

He intertwined your fingers and brought your clasped hands to his chest, just as he slipped his other hand to grip the back of your neck firmly.

A part of you hated him for it, but there was a part of you that made ran to that coldness like moth to a flame.

You crossed the waiting room to where he was standing, typing on his phone with one hand and ignoring the sorrow that was clogging the space.

"He'll be okay, right?" You stood so close to him, toes of your shoes kissing the edge of Steve's black combat boots.

Steve didn't put his phone down, but his gaze flicked up to you. A glint of displeasure cut through his blue eyes at seeing your distress.

"You heard the doctors." He replied, his calm tone somehow anchoring you. "Your father is in critical state, but they are the best specialists-"

"I need you to tell me he'll be okay!" You blurted out in a nearly hysterical tone, suddenly gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Steve's eyebrows pulled into a frown. Without taking his eyes off of you, he locked the screen on his phone and slid it into his back pocket.

"You want me to placate you with bullshit reassurances?" His tone held no malice, rather surprise. You always shown yourself as holding to logic, science and that stubborn polished composure he loved to fuck out of you.

"I'd think you wanted more objective information from the medical staff."

"I-" you hesitated, looking at Steve with eyes shiny with tears.

Steve was right. But it seemed to be your modus operandi for other situations, not when your father was on the operating table. You didn't want logic now. You wanted something more powerful than death itself.

Your husband.

"I need you to tell me my dad will be okay. But not to placate me." You replied, softer, and leaned closer to Steve.

"I need you to say it, because you're Steve Rogers. What you say, becomes law. What you demand, happens."

He made no sound, but his chest expanded slightly as if he took a sharp intake of breath. A second later his hand slid to the back of your neck, squeezing it gently.

"Your father will make it." Steve said in that deep, firm voice of his. "He'll be okay. If needed, I'll have a talk with his heart myself."

A broken, quiet laugh bubbled on your lips at his ridiculous threat. But, God, it made you feel lighter. Before you knew what was happening, you were pressing yourself into his arms, hiding your face in Steve's chest.

Of that boring pantsuit, too. It was very chic, not some ugly piece hiding your curves, but it was so proper and bland. As if you were void of any spark.

“Please sit, Mr Rogers.” You tilted your chin up, after closing the door to your office.

Steve waited for you to reach your chair, before he sat down himself. He could be a ruthless mobster, but nowadays to run an empire as successful as his you had to also know how to play to what people expected.

Not that Steve played those games for long.

No, he entertained it to assess the opponent. Then he stroke however he deemed necessary. Usually in brutal ways.

“I’m sure you’re a busy man Mr Rogers,” you forced your jaw to relax. Another sign of you controlling the way you appeared, which Steve noticed. “So I assume your need to see me goes beyond simply wanting to meet the new director of the center.”

Ah, so you do have a spark! Steve felt a surge of wicked elation, hearing that undertone of impertinence, despite your best attempts to remain simply professional and stern.

“It does, but you are a curiosity.” He leaned back in his chair. 

“How so?” You raised an eyebrow.

His gaze didn't stray from your face, reading the way the cogs in your head had to turn with possibilities. You were probably mauling over the fact you weren't a socialite, nor a star type of a doctor who usually mingled around Starks and their alike.

Again, thinking of your appearance and all things proper. Not even considering that he could find you a curiosity for how you were not who.

“A pretty, shiny fish being dropped into a tank full of sharks and swimming through it all calm and confident.”

It wasn't meant to be a compliment. Steve, despite his sudden fascination, was clear in his intention of getting exactly what he wanted, no matter if he had to watch you shiver in response to his threat.

There it was - your back going ramrod straight and your hands falling to your lap. You were holding yourself so hard to maintain composure and not claw at him.

Which was good. If you raised your hand, as amused as Steve could be by it, he would not let you get away with it. You were not in his circle to gain any privileges of forgiveness.

Not yet, anyway.

“If you mean dealing with health care system moguls, I assure you I have experience in that." You replied, tone barely restraining the annoyance bubbling inside of you. "Managing donations for a privately based center won’t be much different than wrapping pharmaceutical companies around a finger.”

Steve grinned, entertained with your attempt to cover a shiver as you held his gaze.

“That’s not what I mean at all.” He drawled with a slight chuckle.

“What is it that you mean, then?” You huffed, once again changing the position of your hands.

Though he was tempted to push that button harder, to see you truly snap and reveal something other than bland, clueless naivety, Steve couldn't allow you to treat him like an average demanding client. 

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” He tilted his head to the side, adding a tone of ice to his voice. 

It was best if you learned fast that he wasn't one to play those polite back and forth games for long.

“One of Howard’s benefactors?” You swallowed nervously, while still trying to remain calm on the outside.

And Steve found himself the more annoyed with it. He needed you obedient, but he wanted you to submit while being you, not some persona you were playing.

But he didn't provoke you further, more intent on driving to the point.

“Of sort.” He replied. “I’m someone who has all of those benefactors under my thumb. As well as other people.”

Your eyes ignited with realization, though Steve assumed you were suspecting it earlier, but simply didn't accept it fully. Probably thinking that a nice, unthreatening woman like you simply couldn't find herself face to face with a mobster.

There was no rule book about dealing with someone like him. You had to scramble for defense and self-preservation instinct to continue.

“What do you want exactly?” Your voice returned to the softer tune, the slight tremble in it inaudible.

But Steve was skilled in reading signs of fear. Like a predator sensed its prey's heartbeat and scent.

He saw the little gulp. The widening of your irises. The twitch in your fingers. And found it a different kind of potent thrill for his tastes.

He wanted to keep you on edge: a little scared, a lot of shocked.

Steve wondered, if he could push you to break out of that shell and do something that he'd have to meet with an iron grip and a blade at your throat; and how you'd look at him then.   

“A lot of things,” his grin was sharp and threatening, “but now, from you? I want this place.”

Your face again showed that astonishment and clueless confusion. Steve knew there's no way you would be aware of the potential this place had, but there were other possibilities to think of. Well, at least people who grazed the grey area, or were business moguls with a lot of dirt under their carpets, would come up with some ideas.

“You want to run a health center?” You asked slowly and Steve felt his glee rising at the prospect of staining that silly light bubble you were keeping around yourself.

“Not at all.” Steve shook his head, his grin not disappearing. “The grounds it stands on are of value to me.”

He wasn't sure which aspect of it exactly did it, but he triggered your response.

That wild outburst, which stirred his cock with interest as you abruptly stood up and raised your voice at him.

“I am not going to hand over this place, robbing people in need of the help they only recently received, just because you wish to broaden your show-off territory.” You circled your desk in swift steps, standing in front of him with your hands on your hips. 

As if you could scold him, or intimidate him.

“I won’t ever sell it. Or hand it over. No!”

Steve remained seated, simply watching as realization of your own behavior dawned on you. He wondered, if you were more scared of his retaliation for yelling at him, or if you were more appalled that you didn't remain this dead statue of professionalism?

“You haven’t yet heard my offer.” His fingers clenched on the armrests.

To restrain himself from touching you. Not in violence.

Well, not in painful kind of violence...

“I’m not interested in it.” Your reply was softer and your eyes widened as you hear yourself resist further, despite what your brain had to be advising you.

“You should be.” Steve slowly stood up. 

You made a step back. Of course you did, anyone would. But when Steve followed you, crowding you against your desk, he didn't feel hunger for your blood and broken bones.

“See, I’m not the only one who will show interest in this place. Word goes around, especially in this city. Others will reach out to you, too, when they find out I’ve shown interest.” He clenched and unclenched his fingers, warming them up, though he hasn't decided yet for what. “Sooner or later. For your sake, I hope it’s too late for them.”

Steve noticed the change as he spoke. It was minimal, but telling.

The way your breath hitched as he neared and the look in your eyes flicking from fear to glimpse of need.

It was soon gone as you trembled at his approach, but Steve recognized that tread - that craving for something dark and dangerous.

Honestly, a few minutes ago, when he laid his eyes on you for the first time, Steve wouldn't suspect you hid desires for depravity.

You pushed it all down into your proper box, but you couldn't help your body reacting to the fire of annoyance mixed with fear that made you tilt your chin up defiantly.

“If it’s so desired by many, as you claim, why should I take your offer instead of others?”

Steve leaned closer, catching a whiff of your sweet scent punched up by your heightened temperature due to the rush of adrenaline.

He slowly dragged his gaze down your body and up, thinking of the nice clean cuts he'd make to those dull fabrics you wore.

“Because-” he made his voice softer and warmer, studying your face and chest for reaction- “I can protect you from them. But no one can protect you from me, Princess."

The pet name rolled out on his tongue instinctively.

It fit you so well. Your sweet, proper aura, just begging to be conquered and debauched.

“There’s no need for condescending names,” you blurted out, but it was breathy.

Steve noticed the way your breasts raised in reaction, how your arms dropped to your sides defenseless and your fingers twitched.

There was no hate for that pet name, though he expected you would rage at it later, once he left you to gather your wits.

“Condescending?” He inched even closer. He slipped his hands to rest on your desk, caging you between him and the sturdy furniture.

“A Princess is a title of a royal family’s member,” he lowered his head to catch your gaze. “You may not be connected by blood, but you are now an heiress to Stark, who has been treated like royalty for decades.”

“A Princess-” Steve moved one of his hands and brushed it along your hip- “is also a girl deserving to be spoiled.”

He didn't think of pretty gifts for you, but there were other ways to spoil a woman.

If he was to spoil you, it would be with his mouth between your thighs while your naked body shimmered with gems he boldly stole as youth.

But you'd have to earn it.

For now you gave him merely a few minutes of entertainment. Steve wanted more. He wanted the center and he was going to get it. You'd better accept the fact and comply, before he lost his patience.

“Seize the opportunity while I still consider you deserving of it.” Steve pulled back, ignoring the tilt of your body following his warmth for a split of a second.

“You can keep your center, I don’t need it locked down. But you will sign the property over to my name.” He served you the cold, unyielding tone.

Your coworkers and guests, even if they sensed the danger that accompanied Steve, seemed more fascinated and in awe.

"Steve?" You gulped, eyeing him suspiciously.

Yet your body turned his way; a thrill skimming through your limbs as he sneaked a hand around your middle and leaned down to kiss you.

"Hello everyone," without easing his hold on you, Steve greeted the others. His hearts-winning and panty-dropping smile fooling everyone.

He explained how he wanted to support you, especially the idea of a weekend away, since the two of you have been so busy lately.

You didn't believe a single word.

It was when he insisted on the two of you going for a short stroll, while everyone was preparing ingredients to grill for dinner (somehow Bucky took the lead in that, commanding others with barely any word spoken), that Steve's agenda became clear.

Seemingly casually, Steve asked brief questions about each of your staff members. Until he asked about Joaquin.

"Is he a good doctor?" Steve's hand cradled your chin as he tilted your head to look in the direction of the young neurologist.

"Yes." You frowned, not yet realizing where it was leading.

"It would be a shame then, if the center lost him." Steve turned your face back to him. His hand slid down, rings adorned fingers curling around the front of your neck in that possessive manner that weakened your knees.

"It would be a shame, if no hospital or clinic were ever to discover his brilliance, because he got himself killed for flirting with my fucking wife."

Steve's voice remained softly composed, but the last three words were punctuated with his blue eyes turning icy cold and his fingers clenching tighter around your throat.

"He wasn't-" you tried to protest, but at Steve's arched eyebrow you relented.

Okay, so maybe Joaquin was making it quite obvious that he liked spending time with you and always found a reason to be near. It was pleasant, but harmless.

Or so you thought.

Since you weren't tempted to go with it, you didn't think it was risky to reciprocate some smiles, or letting Joaquin swipe an eyelash threatening to fall into your eyes while your own hands were dirty.

You didn't expect Steve's spy to tattle on you about something insignificant like that.

"Don't hurt him, please." Your reached for Steve's free hand, squeezing it in both of yours as you looked up at him.

"Is that your good heart speaking, or do you have feelings for him?" Steve inched closer and despite being in an the open, you felt caged.

His warmth seeped through you, starting a wave of heat that flushed you. His proximity had the hair on the back of your neck standing to attention in fear, but your nipples hardening in arousal.

You wished that you were the person you claimed to be nearly a year ago, so that falling for someone so sweet like Joaquin would be expected and normal. Instead, you weren't even mildly interested in him, but in the devil who had your body responding to his power.

Steve's gaze slowly dropped to your parted lips, then down to your chest and the stiff peaks pointing through your shirt. He looked lower, to how your were clenching his free hand within yours and holding it against your belly.

A corner of his mouth dragged up in a pleased smirk. The bastard knew you were itching to have his fingers slide under the waistband of your jeans.

"Is everything okay?" Your eyes widened as Joaquin unexpectedly walked over, but you didn't dare look away from Steve's eyes.

"Quite perfect, actually," Steve chuckled.

Joaquin frowned, his gaze shifting between the two of you. It landed on your neck and the glint of sun in silver rings on Steve's fingers, which were tightly wrapped around your throat.

Joaquin called your name.

A muscle in Steve's jaw twitched, as if he could barely stand another man saying your name.

"He's worried, Princess." Steve cooed. "Why don't you tell him how wet your panties are just from my hand on your throat?"

You felt the scorching flame of embarrassment burning your from the inside, wishing the ground would simply swallow you whole.

But you knew that playing along was the only way of ensuring that Joaquin would live to see another day.

"They're soaked," you muttered, eyelashes fluttering as you cast your gaze downwards.

Steve smirked, triumphantly. He stroked his thumb along the side of your neck in a rewarding caress.

"See," Steve cocked his head, looking at Joaquin with lazy confidence of a man who couldn't be bothered by anyone's threats, "my wife likes it on the kinky side. But she is a tad shy, so we'd appreciate if you left us to our privacy."

Joaquin left, or rather bolted. Was he embarrassed on your behalf, or did he plan on calling someone else for help, you weren't sure.

"You humiliated me in front of a colleague and employee." You grumbled when Steve's gaze returned to you.

"Princess, he's more outraged with the fact he won't ever get to sample your dirty cravings, than with knowing you have them." Steve chuckled, moving his hand so that his thumb rubbed along your bottom lip.

"And it's better for him-" Steve's tone lowered as he pushed his thumb into your mouth- "if he understands that you belong to me and no force is going to change that."

You thought Steve meant that display alone as the supposed lesson for Joaquin.

But he proved you wrong later that night, when he took you hard on the creaking bed in your small room in the lodge.

Steve's big hand was pressed over your mouth, muffling your sounds and occasionally also cutting off your airflow, while he made you cum until you sobbed.

When he fucked you right into your fourth orgasms, you didn't expect him to lift his hand from your face.

But since he went after you to your little hiding place and demanded to know what's wrong, you tell him. You hiss the word period and give him a murderous look that suggests he is the one responsible for all women suffering monthly bleeding and pain.

A second later you almost cry again, because Steve doesn't look shocked anymore.

Steve doesn't even cringe when he says the word period. He doesn't look bothered or disgusted by it, which you find quite annoying.

It would be so much easier if the bastard was one of those idiot males, who can't even say the word and they run away at the thought of it.

Instead, Steve tilts his head slightly to the side, scans you from head to toe and back again.

"Then why the fuck are you curled up here and not in bed?" He nods at the old armchair in the library nook, which you never before used, even when reading. It's more of a decoration than comfortable to actually sit in it.

You don't answer him, only glare and pull the two layers of blankets up to your nose.

You're not going to tell him that you love the comfort of the pristine, expensive covers on your marital bed and that while you never minded it at your previous home, you were kind off scared of bleeding on them.

Which is what started this whole thing of you storming into the library - wrapped in two blankets that trailed after you like a train. Because you were about to hide in bed, most excited to find comfort and relax in the lovely soft, clean sheets, when a flash of image of your blood staining it had you bolting out.

It's ridiculous. You never normally cared for such things. Sheets could be washed and changed.

But somehow, this time, you ended up crying and leaving the bedroom.

Steve seems to read your like an open book, despite your complete silence.

"Princess," he sighs, "I've seen plenty of blood. I've been covered in blood an brain matter of my enemies more times than you imagine. Doesn't bother me. Especially not my wife's natural reason for it."

You're about to snap at him that his sensitivities weren't your concern at all, when he continues:

"And the sheets can be changed as many times as needed. I've already ordered three more sets in that cream and gold shade you like the most."

"You know nothing," you glower, but you can feel the heat filling your face.

How the hell did he know that? It's not like you said to him anything on the topic of something so silly like finding the covers pretty and lovely. Which you do.

Steve's mouth curls into a smirk as he leans forward and braces hands on the backrest of the armchair, on both sides of your head.

"Don't think I didn't notice how you curl into a cozy burrito when the cream covers are on and that you stay a little longer in bed. And-" his face inches closer, warm breath fanning your cheek- "that you more often provoke me to have sex outside of bed, so the sheets stay clean longer."

"I do not provoke you to have sex!" You burst, but Steve only laughs as if you told the funniest joke.

Next thing you know, he's scooping you up into his arms - bundled in blankets and all. He carries you effortlessly, not caring for the few protests that you hiss at him.

He takes you to the bedroom and slowly puts you down on your feet on the floor. He rips the blankets away from you then lifts you up again, placing you in bed. On those soft, fresh smelling sheets.

He had you sprawled on his lap, your back to his chest, while he curled ring-adorned fingers of his left hand around the front of your throat.

You tilted your head back obediently, resting it against Steve's shoulder. Your hands curled into fists on your thighs, sparkly fabric of your sequined dress bunching in your grip, as you felt the tip of a blade tease down your chest.

Steve dipped it in the valley of your breasts, lightly scratching the roundness. He rubbed the flat side of the blade over your covered nipple, which instantly stiffened at the debauched stimulation.

You didn't want to think of the others watching the scene; of that man, one of Steve's new goons, on his knees directly in front of you.

You also didn't want to be turned on by any of this, but as Steve moved the knife between your thighs it was already too late to deny it.

He flicked his wrist, pushing the ornamental handle of the knife under your dress and over your mound. Your back arched, a needy hiss escaping your lips when he pressed the butt of it against your clit.

"Are you wet, Princess?" Steve's voice was a darkly decadent seduction.

"Yes," you murmured, having learned a while ago that he always made you admit the truth and it was better to do it right away than challenge him into proving it in most depraved ways.

"Who are you wet for?" He asked, rubbing your clit in steady motions.

"You, you bastard," his low laugh at your hiss only made you wetter.

Steve licked a stripe up your throat then sucked on your earlobe. your nipples hardened, your hips bucking against the pressure between your thighs.

Then he slipped the knife's handle beneath the soaked fabric of your panties, coating it in your slick.

You couldn't help the moan that bubbled out of your lips, feeling a scorching wave of shame wash over you.

Suddenly, Steve withdrew the knife and his body moved; and yours along with him.

He bent forward, your head lolling down and eyes opening to watch in terror (and arousal) how he imbedded the blade in the man's splayed hand.

Blood spilled and the goon grunted in pain (not screaming, to his honor and appreciation of the others present), but he didn't dare to jerk away, or curse Steve.

"She's wet only for me," Steve tone was a shard of ice, sharper than that knife. "She's needy only for me. She's to be touched only by me. You don't ever get to even imagine coming close to her. Am I fucking clear?"

The man nodded, gritting out a painful Yes Sir.

"I hope next time you'll know how to behave," Steve spat, "or I'll drive that knife into your skull."

The man hasn't touched you with a single finger, didn't attempt to grab, but his stupid remark on how women got wet for any bad boy was paired with a glance your way. Which was enough for Steve to react.

You don't think it was to defend you; definitely not to defend women in general. It was about comparing Steve's level of power to a pathetic bad boy.

And maybe about the very faint suggestion that anyone beside Steve could turn you into a pathetic, dripping mess.

No one could. Even you knew it by now.

With his cock still buried deep inside your clenching cunt, Steve moved his fingers - those slicked with your juices from where he kept rubbing and pinching your clit over and over again.

He gripped your cheeks, squishing them, and turned your head to the side.

Your blurry sight sharpened so slowly, brain still not catching up with what was happening beyond the fact that you were swimming a powerful orgasm's high.

But the nightstand finally came into view and your mind picked pieces of reality.

First your gaze landed on the gun. The same that was shiny from lube and your own wetness after you worked yourself on it at Steve's command.

Then you noticed the neon green numbers flashing on the alarm clock. 00:01.

It was already the next day. Day of your birthday.

And Steve made you come, screaming for him and gushing, right as your birthday started.

"It's your special day, Princess." Steve forced your head back and slipped his sticky fingers between your lips.

"I'm going to spoil you," he started rocking his hips again.

"You know what I mean," quickly stuffing another spoonful into your mouth, you trotted after him into his home office.

You ignored the fact he was fully dressed, leather jacket draped over his arm, having returned from some shifty morning meetings while you were barefoot, in nothing but a pair of panties and a tank top.

Tank top that stretched around your rounded belly, the hem rolling up and revealing a stripe of skin.

"Pregnant women go to work every day, doing much more straining jobs than I do." You rounded Steve's desk, crossing arms over your chest; but since it made your already bigger breasts almost spill out, so you dropped your arms down.

"They sure do," Steve nodded, reclining in his armchair. "But they're not my pregnant wife."

"Oh, can I divorce you then?" You smiled sweetly, clasping your hands.

Steve's responding grin was as much a hungry shark's bite as it was soft fondness that was messing with your mind. Or it used to mess with it. After a year of being in Steve's clutches you grew accustomed to the dark tendrils of his twisted charm.

Accustomed was a better word than...

Big hands settled on your hips, rough callouses (which you knew were from holding weapons and yet it didn't deter you from his touch at all) grazed your sensitive skin.

Steve pulled you between his spread thighs. With his thumbs he rolled the hem of your tank top further up.

"Try me, Princess," Steve looked up at you, then moved his hands to the backs of your thighs.

He squeezed them and then yanked you up and over his lap in a swift move. That he was still able to manhandle you easily was scary. You were also kinda excited to see if he'd be able to do it in a few months, when you're really heavy.

"I want to work," you pouted.

You grasped the back of the chair. Your grip hard, transferring your need to grind against Steve and instead needling the leather with your fingernails.

"You can work all you want." Tip of Steve's nose trailed up the column of your throat, his warm breath in its wake. "From home. Where it's safe."

~ * ~

Dark mafia Steve would stand over your quivering body after he fucked your brains out, curling his fingers just right below your jaw to give that extra pressure that makes your body thrum with wicked need.

"What would that pretty boy doctor say now, if he saw you so pliant for me and dripping my cum?"

Under the mocking tone there's a slice of threat; of possessiveness that led to him making a mess out of you on the floor of your own office.

"He could never give that to you, Princess," Steve's thumb presses against your pulse point. "Those dirty pleasures you crave so much."

With his other hand he cups your breast; toys with it, then pinches your nipple. So hard you keen, your legs kicking helplessly, but Steve's weight is pinning you down.

"For his sake, he better be a professional and stick to his work here. If not, your pussy gushing around my cock will be the last thing he sees in his life."

~ * ~

Enforcer Steve straddles your writhing body on the cabana bed by the swimming pool in his open backyard. Gauzy fabric of the canopy is pulled back, exposing everything that's happening on the bed.

"Now, now, Cherry," his voice is velvety and enticing; his fingers gentle as he trails his palm up your neck.

"Be a good girl and put your arms above your head."

His fingers curl around the front of your neck, a possessive grip that sends a zap straight to your clit. Your hips roll out of their own volition, but you can't get much friction with Steve pinning you down.

"I know you love being my good girl, Cherry. Come on, pull your hands away and show me your gorgeous tits," Steve's tone remains soft, but you know there's a thin line of patience and you're skating it.

"No one's here. No one can see." His grip tightens as Steve leans down; blue eyes glinting a dangerous spark.

Mafia Ari is very sensual and affectionate, he loves having you in his lap. He'll let you ride him slowly while his hands roam all over your body, or hold you tightly while he fucks into you as hard as he wants. Ari truly enjoys how low you sink down on him, how you cling to him and make noises with your face buried in the crook of his neck.

Mafia Steve loves seeing your face, so he goes for any position that allows him to watch your eyes gloss over and the grimaces you make as he fucks you. Missionary is actually his favorite - he gets to pin you down, pound you deep and hold your gaze as you fall apart for him.

Dark!Mafia Steve will take you anyway he wants to, but most of the time you end up with your back pressed to his chest, one of his hand around your throat, the other tormenting you - holding a blade to your skin, or a gun that's still hot after shooting (or sometimes simply pinching your nipples, or rubbing your clit, or giving you a smack).

Mafia duo Bucky&Steve prefer you bent over. Either one is taking your mouth while the other is fucking you from behind, or you're bent over one's knees getting spanked or teased, while the other uses your mouth.

Alpha Steve, as much as he loves seeing you present for him, most of all loves having you displayed for him on your back. He cherishes the connection you have then and honestly gets a kick out of tackling you down (whether it's in bed, or he's tossing you onto the kitchen table) and spreading your legs himself when you're being a brat.

Alpha Ari is obsessed with prone bone. For one, it calls to his primal instincts, letting him pin you down and fully dominate you. Secondly, because you come the hardest when he takes you like that. It's a perfect angle for his cock to absolutely destroy your g-spot and also drive right up to your cervix. And you feel so much tighter, too.

There was glee at the very beginning, when you snuck through that restroom window and jumped into the awaiting car. Encouraged by the third glass of wine, you came up with the most spontaneous, not thought-through at all plan. You talked your former classmate to help you, using the small class reunion meeting as the perfect opportunity to fuck with your annoying guard dog. Natasha. 

Of course she accompanied you. She checked the whole place then sat down at a table in the corner. Probably to have the perfect view of all the doors, corridors and such, whatever trained assassins were skilled at. The fact you already used the restaurant’s bathroom once and returned to the table like a good girl worked to your advantage. Natasha would never suspect you pull out a stunt like that. 

Which was more the reason to do it. 

You clutched your colleague’s sleeve when he said he had to leave, blurting out a ridiculous request for him to pull up in his car on the other side of the restaurant to pick you up after you sneak out through the bathroom window. He was confused at first, but then you said it’s a prank on your bodyguard. That, let’s be honest, no danger awaits, it’s just your husband’s overprotectiveness.

You knew Natasha was smart and observant enough to quickly notice your disappearance, but you would be at least three to five minutes ahead. In the world of blood-dripping, ruthless mafia, it was one of the greatest advantages. 

You asked Mike to take you to the train station. Grinning and smug, you told him you’d take a train to a station right on the outskirts of the city where the sweet suburban life began. You didn’t care if he took you for a spoiled businessman’s wife who fucked with her bodyguards for kicks because she’s bored otherwise, or if he sensed there was some trouble brewing. You wouldn’t tell him a single thing, anyway, to not drag him toward the actual danger.

At the station, despite three glasses of sweet wine buzzing in your veins, your mind shifted gears. You scanned the timetable, checking which trains left from the same platform. Then you paid with your card for one ticket, a route south. But with cash you bought the ticket for the other train on that platform. One going in a completely different direction. 

They would track your card transactions first, which bought you a little more time. You pushed through the crowds and jumped onto the train a few minutes before its departure. Then there was that sharp tug as the train moved and you were leaving the city.

Excitement shouldn’t only stay with you, but you expected it to increase. Even if there was no solid plan on what to do when you reach a destination, you were free. For those few hours, perhaps a full day more, you were out of the shadowy bonds. 

Steve would find you, of course. You didn’t fool yourself thinking his clutches were escapable. 

But as you sat in an empty compartment, watching the illuminated city disappear into darkness, a cold question sliced through you.

Would Steve even bother to look?

He already had what he wanted all along. Your health center at his full disposal. He was already using it as the gates to the smuggling underground trail that no authorities knew about. As your husband, he’d remain the sole owner of the grounds. 

He didn’t need you.

The spark of your rebellion snuffed out with that thought, drowning you in darkness similar to the one outside the window.

It should be a comforting thought. Half a year ago you’d take it as the greatest gift, to know Steve Rogers lost his interest in you and wouldn’t care if you disappeared to build a life somewhere else. 

However, as you sat in that compartment, ache squeezed your throat. 

Dread of something you’ve been noticing but denying for the past weeks crept under your skin. The warmth that shouldn’t spread, yet it felt even worse as sadness coated it with cold. You feared each time your heart pounded for reasons other than terror in your husband’s presence, but the prospect of not feeling it ever again proved more horrifying. 

Steve fucked up your life. Unapologetically. Brutally. You swore to hate him forever, to always seek a way out. So why did the hollow cavern in your chest expand as you thought of not waking up next to him?

You despised knowing how cruel and merciless he was, yet found a particular stability in it. 

He was the reason your life was at risk, but he was also the one who protected you with his own body. The one who extracted vengeance for the smallest harm to you. He used the pure intentions of your health center program to cover his dark deeds, but didn’t hesitate to fund your projects despite them not serving him at all. His hands were skilled in causing pain, yet he gave you only the kind that shattered you into ecstasy. 

Steve was never intimidated by you: your intelligence, competence, or independence. Quite the contrary, he seemed to be turned on by it. Never limiting you, but rather giving you means to expand your projects and feed your hunger for more. 

He crushed the shell with which you covered yourself for years, exposing the molten core that bubbled with desires of volcanic heart. And he met those desires, never failing to give you even more than you dared to whimper for. 

Would he simply continue ripping out spines and then map someone else’s body with his bloodied hands while you woke up alone in a cold bed? Would you even sleep well without the heat of him beside you, knowing that if a nightmare or a wet dream roused you from sleep he wouldn’t be there to deal with the aftermath? 

Would he make some bitch, like the mayor’s wife, a cup of green tea with a cookie on the side? 

You leaned your temple against the cold window, staring at the blurred shapes in the evening darkness. It wasn’t only the speed of the train that smudged them, but the fog of tears forming beneath your eyelids. 

Joyless, you were separating yourself from the life you claimed to hate. Instead of relief, however, the pain of losing it all overcame the victory.

A small sob bubbled out. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, attempting to cover the pitiful sound, to squash it down. But it only grew as the thought of Steve’s swift adaptation to life without you stabbed your heart. 

The image of the beautiful knife he gifted you being used on someone else, or dumped forgotten and gathering dust while you spent restless nights dreaming of depraved things Steve used to do to you with it, tore out another choked whine from you. 

Was it an addiction, that you experienced sudden terror at the prospect of losing the powerful rush of adrenaline and arousal? Or was it something worse - the softest word and deepest confession which you couldn’t force past your throat to admit its reality. 

As the train continued its ride in the falling night, taking you away to a supposedly safe harbour, your head filled with flashes of your husband. Each image making your heart pound, then crushing it painfully with a dark twist of conviction that he’d be done with you.

Perhaps he’d even celebrate. With Bucky’s stoic presence beside him, telling him how easier things would be now. With Natasha’s snide mockery of you and her toasting the fact she wouldn’t have to babysit the annoyance anymore. 

You tried to focus on your next steps for when you got off the train, but all you could think of was the cold gray of the early down in an unknown place where you wouldn’t have the certainty that an unstoppable force would come for you if needed. 

Because no matter what you did in New York, where you ventured, or who came at you, there was confidence in Steve striding in with cold murder in his eyes. 

Another wave of tears cascaded down your cheeks as you curled against the window. 

Drowning in emotional nightmares, you didn’t notice the train slowing down. Until it came to a full stop. In the middle of the dark abyss. 

There was no train station, not even faint lights of a town nearby. It didn’t halt abruptly, either, which would indicate an accident or malfunction. The conductor didn’t run down the hall. No announcement over the speakers. 

A soft slide of doors down the corridor indicated someone either stepped in or out. In. Steady, purposeful steps echoed. Growing louder as it neared your compartment. 

Then a familiar, broad shape appeared outside your compartment’s door and you watched with wide eyes as he slid the door open and stepped inside. 

Somehow, you couldn’t unstick yourself from the window, still pressing your forehead to it and leaking tears. But your heart fluttered in your chest, starting to spin like a pet who missed its owner for too long. 

You’ve seen him this morning, but with the heaviness of thoughts that’ve been plaguing you since you sat on that train, it felt like it’s been so long, too long. He was wearing the same clothes, a dark ensemble of denim and cotton clinging to his chiseled muscles. With how much the veins were protruding in his hands and forearms, he had to be flexing them hard for the past hours. 

Did he beat anyone who dared to speak to him as he chased you? Did he grip the steering wheel? Or was he clenching his fists imagining choking you to death for your stunt? 

“Steve,” you breathed out. 

“Princess,” he greeted casually, taking a seat opposite of you. 

He wasn’t dragging you away instantly, nor threatening you for disobedience. He just sat there, like he was about to have a conversation with you. 

Once upon a time he sat opposite of you in your office, then at the table after serving you tea - both times he sealed your fate in merciless calm. 

Was he going to cut your ties now, delivering it with the same indifferent tone? 

You swallowed hard, hoping your already dysregulated body didn’t burst with new tears. Somehow you didn’t fear he’d simply kill you, even though the middle of nowhere was a perfect place to dispose of a body. There were probably some wild dogs, or other animals in the area that would feast on your corpse before anyone noticed there’s someone lying in the middle of fields. 

Steve leaned against the backrest, planting one of his feet on your seat. It was as much a posture of an unbothered king as a blockade for you, if you thought of jumping to your feet and running away.

Your stupid heart felt comforted that he wouldn’t easily let you go. Not right away, at least. A few more minutes with the dark power that changed you forever. 

“I heard some cry from happiness, but it doesn’t look like your tears are of joy.” Steve tilted his head to the side, studying you. “Shouldn’t you be more ecstatic about your great escape?”

“I should,” you didn’t drop your gaze from his face, in case it was the last time you got to see the unfair beauty of chiseled jaw, icy blue eyes, soft curve of cruel lips. 

Steve gave a slow, knowing nod. Like he understood why the joy wouldn’t ignite for you more than you did. He seemed to be a step ahead of you not only in cunning plans, but in seeing certain truths you refused to admit. 

“All that impressive, fast thinking, only to give yourself a heartache.” He tutted. “Unnecessarily, too.” 

He reached out his hand, palm up. Your fingers slid into his hold without a beat of hesitance, as if something broke the barrier that always held you back and kept you doubtful. 

One tug and Steve had you up from your seat. A swipe of his free arm and he hoisted you up over his lap. Your dress rolled up your thighs as they spread to accommodate Steve’s hips. 

The zap of heat that struck you wasn’t a novelty. You realized it wasn’t simply a physical reaction to stimulation (like you loved to convince yourself in the past), but a constant feeling that increased at proximity. 

Steve held your hand in his, but with his other he gripped your chin.

“I will always come for you.”

Yes, it was a threat. Steve Rogers’ breathing itself was underlaced with peril. But it was so much more this time.

A six-word sentence that in truth meant the power of three most important words. 

You shivered, feeling your chest tightening with a wave of emotion. This time there were no voices whispering how this was a manipulation, a cruel game to crush you further and entangle you in Steve’s web. No urge to fight it stirred in you.  

“I-” your voice wavered as you stared into Steve’s eyes. It was the terror that kept gnawing at you for the past months; the fact you felt it as intensely and knew it meant eternal doom for you.

But now you admitted you never wanted your fate to change.

“I want you to keep coming for me.” You whispered back, squeezing Steve’s hand. 

It wasn’t a fall into the precipice. No lick of crushing waves swallowed you down under, forever stealing your breath and your life. It was a high tide - breaching into the shores you kept guarded, but couldn’t maintain unclaimed forever. 

Not when it was Steve Rogers flooding and conquering your heartline. 

“Will you ever say the words?” The question slipped out softly. You weren’t even sure you needed Steve to say those words. Maybe it was more about wondering if he was capable of it.

One of Steve’s eyebrows formed a perfect arch as he looked at you, unperturbed.

“Will you?” He challenged back. 

Well aimed, you thought. Steve was anything but direct and blunt in his plans and desires, while you spent months fighting tooth and nail. 

“Why tonight’s attempt?” He asked, not really needing you to answer the previous question. He knew the truth. As did you. “Why squeeze your juicy ass out of a restroom window?”

“Honestly?” You sighed, easily leaning into him. “To spite Natasha.”

That seemed to surprise Steve. A flash of shock followed by a snort, and a slightly exasperated shake of head. He underestimated how deeply run the hurt caused by someone you formerly thought to be your friend. As well how vengeful you were becoming; a streak that you kept at bay, but Steve’s influence tempted it to flow freely. 

“How did you find me so quickly?” You parried. 

That he would find you (if he wanted to) was a given, but a train ride provided a smokescreen. Not only with your attempt to falsely put them on trail down south, since your card paid for that ticket, but the train you were on stopped at a few stations. You could’ve gotten off at any place, meaning Steve and his men would have to waste more time searching.

Steve lifted your joined hands up, placing a kiss atop the shiny stack of your wedding band and engagement ring.

“Your tracker has a precision of about fifty yards.” He revealed with a dark chuckle.

For a long moment you stared at him. You shouldn’t be surprised, not with everything Steve’s done so far. Yet it still astonished you. 

“You put a tracker in my rings?” You huffed incredulously. 

“Oh no, no.” Steve shook his head. “Rings could be taken off. Tattoo guns usually don’t provide the same usefulness of injecting a tracking chip like a syringe does, but Tony did a little tech tinkering for me, so we killed two birds with one stone.” 

Slowly, your mind put together the puzzle of his words, deciphering the meaning. A heartbeat. A blink. A curve of a smirk.

“You put a tracker on me?!” You screeched. “You fucking bastard! You-”

Steve’s hand slipped from your chin, fingers curling around the front of your neck in a firm grip to hold you in place as he silenced your mouth with a filthy kiss. 

You felt his smug grin against your lips. 

The hand on your throat didn’t ease as he anchored his other arm under your ass and swung his body up onto his feet. Your legs instinctively locked around his hips, hands gripping onto Steve’s shoulders as he marched you out of the compartment.

“I’m gonna remind you that you’re all mine, but I’m not doing it on a train.” 

His words, though you were still fuming, bloomed something warm and thankful in your chest. Steve was taking you to the place that transformed from pretty prison to… home. 

Though for the moment he wouldn’t let you bask in the coziness of nooks where you often relaxed in. When you got back home, he hoisted you up over his shoulder. Unbothered with your spill of outrage and embarrassment, he carried you straight to the bedroom. He placed you down on your feet, between him and the bed. Like he did on the wedding night.

And like that same night, his wrist flicked to present the glint of a blade.

Your breath hitched, gaze shifting between the knife and Steve’s face, hungry for both. 

“Tell me,” Steve pressed the tip of the blade into the valley between your breasts, “how wet are you gonna be by the time I finish cutting off your clothes?”

The thrill amped, buzzing between your legs with increasing pulsing. On your wedding night it scared you to discover your responsiveness to something so dangerous and kinky. Now you craved the torment your husband would unleash. 

Your gaze slowly dipped down to look at the tattooed hand holding the knife, at the rings adorning his fingers and catching flickers of light. You wanted them glistening with your juices, wanted the press of them leaving tiny crescent marks on your skin where he gripped you. 

Your gaze traveled up his forearm, over the curve of biceps, and then onto the wide span of Steve’s chest. Up his neck, your eyes tracing a pulsing vein there which you wanted to lick before burying your face in the crook of his neck and whimpering pitiful sounds of surrender. 

Finally, you looked up into his eyes. The arctic cold that burnt. 

“I’m already dripping.” You replied, chin tilting up boldly. 

Dark fire ignited in the iceberg of his irises. One smooth slash, you didn’t even fully register his arm move, and your dress parted in the middle. 

He pressed the tip of the knife beneath the lace of your bra and cut upward, exposing the swell of your breasts to his hungry gaze. It traveled down, following the path of the blade which he slowly dragged down your curves. 

“Show me,” Steve ordered, hooking the knife beneath the waistband of your panties and mercilessly slicing them off. 

You slipped off the shreds of your clothes and stepped back. Not taking your eyes off of Steve, you sat on the bed, palms braced on the mattress, and spread your legs. 

“Dripping indeed.” His gaze burned between your thighs. 

“Such a pretty princess pussy,” he hummed, stepping between your legs and crouching down. 

His hot breath teased your skin, rousing excited goosebumps where it puffed wetly. He took a whiff of your scent, and made a delighted, obscene groan. 

“Should she be treated gently?” He murmured against your core, brushing his lips so close to where you needed him most. “Does she want sweetness?” He kissed your folds. Left side. Then right. “A tender exploration?” Tip of Steve’s tongue flicked over your clit, eliciting your desperate whine.

“What do you say, Princess?” He blew cool air on you. “Want me to make love to this precious pussy?” 

A part of you wanted to nod. To moan Yes, please, because you couldn’t stand him teasing you anymore. There was, however, a part of you that was feral with frustration. 

“Or-” Steve’s eyes lifted to yours. “Does she want the things that made her so wet?”

Because you both knew it wasn’t softness and poetic confessions that made you so desperate for him. It was an unapologetic, merciless possession. Firm hand on your throat, manhandling, knife play. 

Your fingers fisted the sheets as you blurted out your final concession:

“Ruin me.” 

You expected Steve to dive right in, feast on you until you screamed and cried. It was a consent, but also a provocation, to which he didn’t rise the way you expected him to. 

Instead, he stood up. Towering over you. Eyes never leaving yours, he yanked his shirt over his head. A drip of poisonous smirk on his lips added to the liquid heat between your thighs when he noticed your hungry gaze. 

He kicked his boots off and took off his jeans. His thick cock stood proud and unyielding, red with eagerness and leaking at the tip. You struggled between desire to swallow it down your throat and stretching yourself out on the mattress, ready for him to split you in half. 

The need to have him inside you tipped the scales. You lifted your legs, bracing your heels on the mattress to push yourself backwards onto the bed. 

Steve stopped you. 

“Kneel up,” he commanded. 

You got in position, eager to bend forward and wrap your lips around his cock, but he tutted at you again. 

Then his arm sliced through the air. A flash of steel barely caught in your vision before Steve’s fist pounded into the mattress. When his fingers uncurled you saw the familiar handle of a knife and an inch of a blade. The rest of it was embedded into the mattress. 

You stared at it, at the gentle creases of sheets weaved around the weapon which was the center of an infamous wet dream.

That Steve was now making come true. 

Your breathing sped up, breasts rising and falling, despite not suffering any physical exertion yet. A trickle of wetness curved down your thigh, your pussy clenching in anticipation. 

“Go on, Princess.” It wasn’t an encouragement, but rather a ruthless expectation. Which you were more than eager to follow. 

You shimmied forward, lining your center with the knife below. Fingertips digging into your thighs, you tensed your muscles as you slowly lowered yourself.

“Keep looking at me as you sink your sweet cunt on it.” 

Steve’s focus was on your face, not on the obscene view of the decorative handle disappearing between your legs. He drank up all the expressions on your face; from the exhilaration, through widened pupils and helpless gasp at the first breach.

Steve fucked you with that knife before, but this was different. You weren’t pinned down, you weren’t losing a fight, you weren’t debauched. It was you fucking yourself onto the weapon, willingly breaking yourself for Steve and satisfying his pleasure.

Which, in turn, spiked your pleasure thrice. 

“Is it all you dreamed of?” Steve’s tone held a hint of mockery, but the way he had to squeeze his cock to stop the flow of pearly pre-cum betrayed how much of a turn-on it was for him.

You didn’t tell him about the bloodied bodies of enemies strewn around in your dream. That wasn’t really the part you wanted, or needed. Instead, you clamped both of your hands around Steve’s wrist and pulled his hand toward your throat. 

He didn’t require a more direct instruction, instantly curling his fingers around the front of your neck and squeezing firmly. 

A moan spilled out of your lips, your hips jerking as your pussy tightened. 

“Fucking perfect, Princess.” His fingers tightened as he bent down to kiss you. 

Softness of his plush lips contrasted with the nip of teeth, and the demand of his tongue swiping in. The grip on your throat cinched, limiting your bloodflow and starting that pleasant dizziness, as he fucked your mouth with his tongue. 

Suddenly, air flowed back in a rush. Choking on a squeak when Steve lifted you off the knife and tossed you onto your back on the bed. He was quick to fall on top of you, knee kicking your thighs wider apart as his fingers returned to collar your neck. 

He thrust into you brutally, the stretch of his thick cock a fulness the mere knife handle couldn’t prepare you for. 

Seconds ago you were turned on, but nowhere near coming, yet the sensation of Steve’s cock spearing into you ruthlessly blew you over the edge. 

You screamed; eyes wild and misty, going unfocused as he kept fucking you through it. 

One of your hands was clutching onto Steve’s back, nails scratching his skin, the other dug to his side, helplessly struggling to decide if you wanted him to stop or urge him to wreck you harder. 

Steve’s hand was a constant presence on your neck, his forearm a heaviness pressing you down. The other palm swiped your sweaty hair away from your face, framing your forehead as he fused your mouths together, spitting vulgarities between your lips. 

You couldn’t tell if your second orgasm was from his dirty words, or the way he was pounding you. 

The reprieve of a breath came for a short moment when Steve used both of his hands to hook your ankles over his shoulders. Then he was bending you in half, fingers returning to grip your neck as he resumed fucking you. 

His breath wasn’t as wheezing as yours when he laid on top of you, pleasantly heavy and hot. His cock was still inside of you, not twitching anymore after filling you with his cum. 

Steve’s mouth was trailing wet kisses across your chest, up your neck, along the arm that was resting boneless beside your head (the other curled around Steve’s middle). He paused there - lips pressed to the inside of your arm.

“You’re mine, Princess.” He reminded you, voice raspy.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, too worn out to even roll your eyes at the possessive tone. 

Considering you bared yourself to him fully, admitting boldly that you wanted him and all the fucked up things he did to you, it was pretty obvious you were beginning to accept that deranged ownership. 

“All of you,” he scraped his teeth against a spot in your arm and you suddenly realized where his focus was. 

Your head turned to the side in a snap. You stared at him as he slowly shifted his gaze from the patch of skin where the implant was hidden to your face. 

“If you never want to have kids, it’s fine.” Steve shrugged. “It was never on top of my agenda. But if you ever considered being a mother… the only babies you ever have will be with me. The only seed that ever fills this pussy is mine.”

You gulped, yet your pussy gave an involuntary squeeze.

One Steve surely felt.

“If you decide not to have any out of pure spite, that’s you crushing your own dream.” He stated with a mocking huff. “But considering how your pussy livened up at the prospect of being bred full, I’d say you’re going to be taking out that implant sometime soon.” 

“No, I’m not!” You weren’t ready to unpack that at the moment.

Thankfully for you, Steve didn’t seem interested in continuing the topic. Not as he rolled his hips and his cock twitched inside of you, stretching you anew as it hardened. 

“All of you, Princess,” Steve grunted, slowly pushing in and out, “all of you is mine.” 

That you didn’t object. Nor when he slipped out to turn you onto your belly. He caged your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the mattress above your head. His body stretched over you, reminding you of the way he broke you into a squirting orgasm on your wedding night, taking you prone bone.

This time, however, he didn’t kick your legs apart wider. Instead, his free hand kneaded your asscheek before pulling it to the side. 

Then the head of his dick was pressing into the tight ring of your ass. 

“Nghhh!” You squirmed, resisting the merciless, overwhelming pressure. 

Your wetness was smeared all over your inner thighs, it was sticky in the crack of your butt, too. Steve’s cock was coated in the mixture of your slick and his cum, enough to provide lubrication. But it still was too much. For your struggling mind, at least. 

“All of you.” Steve didn’t relent, pushing in. “Come on, Princess. You took my fingers in that tight ass so beautifully. You’ll take my cock, too.” 

Your brain lost the capacity to analyze, if it was the pleasure from anal penetration, or Steve’s power over you, or enough friction your clit had against the sheets. It lost the ability to function at all as he filled you and his balls tapped against the swollen folds of your pussy.

“Fuuuck, that’s it!” Steve groaned at the muffled, primal sound you made. 

He tried to take it slow, but the delicious mixture of your little moans and choked struggling poured fuel over fire. He started riding you hard, driving your senses to a point of burnout. 

You came with a hoarse scream, most of it muffled by the sheets. Your whole body seized beneath Steve’s, wetness coating his ballsack. High pitched hiccups of sound squeaked out with each of his deep thrusts as he chased his own release. Eyes rolled to the back of your head when warm wetness marked your insides. 

You couldn’t remember if you passed out after or before Steve pulled out. It made no difference, anyway, since he didn’t bother to clean either of you. You woke up the next morning sore and sticky, held tightly from behind. 

The knife was still embedded at the edge of the mattress.

None of it stirred panic. There was no urge to slip out of bed and rub yourself clean. No terror upon realizing what you allowed Steve to do to your body. What you gave into. Perhaps, when your brain returned to its highest functions, some of it would flow back to you. 

The tracker sure would. 

But you didn’t have any muscle strength to reach for the knife and jab Steve for that. 

By the time you moved out of bed and into the bathroom, it was already around noon. Steve got up less than an hour before you, draping a clean blanket over you as he took his own body heat away and into the shower. You considered if everything on the bed after that night was worth washing, or should you just burn the completely soiled fabrics. 

You dreamt of taking a bath, but your stomach protested at being separated from food for longer than necessary. Hot water in the shower helped your muscles a bit. Though it didn’t ease the scorching heat of embarrassment burning your face off as you felt cum trickling out of your holes. 

You hoped nothing dribbled down your thigh as you made it downstairs for breakfast. Or whatever type of meal one had in the middle of the day but after just getting up. 

Steve was in the kitchen, sipping coffee as he browsed something on his phone. He looked up at you as you entered - over a pile of food on top of the kitchen island. Stack of pancakes, tiered platter of muffins, a basket with a fresh loaf of bread, plates with cheeses, cold cuts, slices of tomatoes. 

“Either the whole house smells of sex and the chef decided we need to replenish our energy,” Steve commented on the abundance of food. “Or it’s his Welcome Home After Trying To Escape type of breakfast.” 

“I hope it’s the latter.” You scrunched up your nose, sliding onto a barstool by the island. 

You were halfway into one of the muffins when Steve set down his phone and reached for something on the kitchen counter behind him. Then he placed three folders in front of you. You frowned, chewing. When you opened one of the files you found a photo of a blonde woman, with a dossier inside. The other two files also contained a resume type of information and pictures.

“What’s this?” You asked confused, looking up at Steve. 

“Three best candidates for your bodyguard. Peter will take some of the responsibilities of your assistant.”

You stared. Suddenly, your throat constricted, a bite of muffin almost choking you along with a surge of emotion. 

“What about Natasha?” You swallowed, unsure how you would feel if Steve announced a severe punishment for allowing you to escape. 

“To both of your joy, she returned to tackling tasks she’s best at.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Now you get to pick who takes over. The sooner you decide, the sooner you get back to work.” 

To some it might seem ridiculous, but for the first time in the past months you got the freedom to choose. Yes, it would still be Steve’s leash on you of sorts, a spy to report to him everything about you. But you were aware of the truth now. 

A blunt honesty from the start, allowing you to either keep them at distance the whole time, or build some form of bond knowing their loyalties would be to Steve anyway. You could accept that. You appreciated that. 

“Thank you.” You didn’t hide the shine of tears in your eyes as you looked at Steve. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit this little change meant a lot to you. It was probably the best gift Steve’s ever given you. 

Your gaze dropped down to the files in front of you, excitement bubbling beneath your skin as you read each line and studied each photo. Yelena. Ayo. Xu Xialing. You were about to ask Steve about them when a roar of engine disrupted the comfortable quiet. 

Steve didn’t seem alarmed, meaning he was expecting the visit. He was more interested in forming a sandwich out of everything - including stuffing a pancake between the slices of bread, along with cheese, meat and tomato. 

“Honey, I’m home!” An amused yell carried through the house. A voice you didn’t recognize.

Steve rolled his eyes and put his weird sandwich down. There was easiness in his posture, a certain full body relaxation he allowed others to see only around very few people. Otherwise he was always carrying that aura of immediate danger and high chance of psychopathic enjoyment of gutting. 

Interest piqued, you turned on your stool. Your eyes widened as you took the person striding in. You had to look comical, considering the flash of grin and laughter as the man glanced your way.

A man that looked like a lighter, time-warped version of Steve.

He was younger. At least ten, if not fifteen years to Steve’s age. His body was leaner, but the muscular build beneath the leather of his clothes was undoubtful. His hair was the same shade of blonde, only styled differently. 

Bright tattoos of flames were licking up his neck and fingers, implying a full on blaze covering his body beneath the motorcycle gear. 

“Johnny.” Steve greeted him in the same detached tone he tended to do with his men, but judging by his clone’s saunter said Johnny could get away with crossing boundaries. 

“Boss.” Johnny saluted his way before returning his attention to you. 

“Mrs Rogers, welcome to the family.” He took your hand and kissed the back of it. 

There was a click.

A gun pressed to Johnny’s temple, but he didn’t even flinch. His smirk broadened as he stayed in place, only lifting his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Fine, fine, no touching my sister-in-law.” Johnny sighed dramatically. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your wedding.” He winked at you. “I was invited, as the favorite cousin, of course. But was busy scorching through coastal infestations.”

“With success.” Steve put away his gun. 

While Steve’s blue irises reminded of the freezing arctic that cuts through you, Johnny’s blue eyes were pools of spilled gasoline - tempting in the colorful reflection, but a spark away from arson.

The longer you studied him, the more you realized that while Johnny appeared to be an unrepentant little shit he held the same lethal darkness that shrouded Steve. 

Different magnitude, perhaps. Same chance of burning the world to the ground and feeling zero remorse. 

“I wouldn’t disappoint you,” Johnny said, a flash of devoted determination in his tone. 

“Which is why you’ll be the one taking over on the coast.” Steve’s decision thickened the air, even you felt the importance of it. As well the unspoken pride behind it. 

Johnny’s lax posture changed. He straightened, head held high as he solemnly nodded. 

He sat beside you at the kitchen island, helping himself to some of the food as he reported to Steve details with the same seriousness other made men did. The aura of flirtation and carelessness, you realized, were a part of him but also a cover for the actual danger he posed. 

An hour later you watched him leave. Without flamboyant sauntering, but a precision of bullet cutting through the air. The roar of a motorcycle spraying gravel in your driveway echoed for a heartbeat longer. 

Your gaze returned to your husband. Steve didn’t put any masks on. He was the brutal bastard out in the open. Even his presented charm at some public events was a weapon. 

It still sparked fear. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Author's Note 2: Talking about projects for 2026 I mentioned a new dark babe set in the same universe as Touch The Darkness. You just got a glimpse of him!

I know Johnny Storm isn't a popular character and not many will be interested in reading a story with him, but for those who are:

Johnny will be equally dark as Steve, though in his own ways. His series will include:

However, Steve had one argument - the only one he used - that won you over. 

Pepper was going to be there.

Apparently, her husband loved all kinds of extravagant parties and had a solid chunk of the club’s profits. Considering the interior design of that monstrosity, you suspected Tony also had some influence on that matter. It was gothic meets the 80’s disco, though you couldn’t exactly imagine a gothic staple in the form of a vampire preying through the glittery crowd to sink its fangs into someone’s neck under the disco ball sparkle. 

But Pepper’s company was always welcome. Not only she became a true, honest ally in this murky underworld, she also helped you remember there were pieces of your life worth enjoying, instead of just drowning yourself in bitterness and hate. 

She was exceptionally smart in assessing you, too. She never pointed out money or status as something of value, but rather opportunities to use to help others and small bits of care you refused to see on your own. 

She also had a hilarious evil pixie side and roped you into making sassy, judgmental comments on the people dancing the night away on the dancefloor below. 

You both leaned on the wooden balustrade of the choir balcony of the former church that now served as the VIP lounge, watching and laughing as the colorful crowd swayed on the shiny-tiled dancefloor. Behind you, Steve, Tony and some two other men whose name you chose to ignore, had a business conversation. Bucky and Nat were off to the side; partially on duty and partially off of it, having some almost-silent conversation with Tony’s man, Happy. 

Despite your vehement reluctance at first, you found yourself relaxed and having fun (which you assigned mostly to Pepper’s influence). 

Steve didn’t attempt to show you off in any way; he didn’t suggest you go dancing, nor did he send you away when he started talking business. And when you walked back to the sofa, his body shifted your way without him losing his focus on the conversation. 

His hand landed on your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze, but thankfully not moving upward in a bold, inappropriate way you knew he was capable of. 

Pepper smirked at you when she noticed the gesture, then grinned unrepentantly when you shrugged but made no move to knock off Steve’s hand. In a way, it was comforting to have him acknowledge your presence; even if a part of you was irked at the possessive side of it. 

Not to mention the third, unsophisticated inner goblin, who wanted you to spread your legs a bit and have Steve’s fingers glide up your thigh. 

With a sigh, you relaxed against the soft cushions and let your gaze roam the ceiling for a moment, chasing the spots cascading off of the disco balls and chandeliers. You shifted your attention back to the table when a hostess brought fresh drinks. 

She set the glasses on the table, perfectly balancing the smoked-glass trey on one hand. The hostess behind her held the trey more wobbly, though still gracefully. You suspected she had experience in the job, but not necessarily in serving a group that had to at least be rumored to be criminals. 

You glanced at her face, noting the perfectly maintained calm, polite smile. Not a drop of sweat, nor a tick of nervousness. She actually reminded you of Natasha, once her mask was torn off and her true identity was revealed.

That realization made you pause. 

You weren’t a behavioral psychologist, but that level of composure and control of the smallest muscles in the body rang alarms in your head. Your own body shifted, your back straightened and your muscles tensed. 

You felt a twitch of Steve’s fingers against your knee.

It seemed to be less than a blink of an eye when the hostess tilted the glass trey and a glint of metal was seen before sparks ignited.

At the same moment brutal force knocked you off the sofa and down onto the floor. Heavy, suffocating weight landed on you, crushing you and stealing your breath. 

Though it was possible that the sudden burst of panic locking your lungs in place was responsible for the trouble with breathing. 

You squeezed your eyes tightly as your ears filled with noise that mixed with the still beating music. A crash, yells, another echo of a bang. Two, three heartbeats and the heavy mass was lifted off of your body. It didn’t quite help with your breathing. Quite the contrary, its lack seemed to steal away the sense of warm safety. 

Forcing your eyes open, you dared to look around and up. 

You were curled between the sofa and the knocked over table. It was kicked onto the side, the wide table top forming a wall in front of you. The floor on its other side was now covered in a spill of drinks, shattered glass, and redness that surely didn’t come from any juice. 

The tight spot you were pushed down into provided a semblance of shield. 

As did the looming shadow over you - the tall, broad form of your husband, standing in a way that hid your body from the only open angle through which someone could reach you.

Steve was the one who pushed you down to the floor, you realized. The heaviness that pressed into you was the weight of his body. 

The music was still loud and you couldn’t hear the exact words, but Steve was spitting out commands. His fists were clenched, the muscles in his forearms tense so much that his veins protruded visibly even through the dark swirls of ink on his skin. 

Slowly, you dared to lift your upper body, bracing on your hands to peer over the table. You saw Tony rush Pepper down the stairs, his hand laid protectively on her head. Their security formed a tight cocoon around them. The other two men were nowhere to be seen, probably rushed away into safety by their own guards. 

Natasha and Bucky were gone at the moment, as well, though you suspected it was to deal with the would-be assassin. Through the carved balustrade you saw the sway of bodies still dancing to the music, oblivious to what had just happened on the VIP balcony. Your civilian logic told you all these people should be evacuated, but apparently your mobster husband saw it differently. 

With your heart hammering wildly in your chest, breath still shallow and burning your lungs, you ungracefully scrambled to your feet. You moved closer to Steve, keeping yourself at his back when he remained unmoved. 

You noticed one of his arms tensing and slightly rotating in a micro-move to keep you shielded behind him. You barely stopped your own fingers from clutching onto the fabric of his shirt. 

You didn’t want to lean onto him for support as panic threatened to take over you. 

“No,” you heard Steve’s steely voice as he spoke to one of his high ranking men, “if we sound the alarm and start evacuating people, any accomplices might slip out with the crowd. This way we have more control.”

“Right.” The man (Sam, if you remembered correctly) nodded. “I’ll check the security feeds and see if anyone left in the last fifteen minutes. Nat and Lena will swipe the crowd.” 

When Sam walked away, you finally moved to stand beside Steve. He didn’t even look at you, yet you were sure he was aware of your every little move. His jaw was set in a hard grit. He had to be angry as hell, which was understandable considering he was just shot at. 

You were closer to breaking into heaps of crying and screaming, so you did what usually helped you keep yourself together - you refocused. 

Unfortunately for Steve, he was the only close object your attention could stick to for longer. 

You watched him survey the crowds dancing below then sharply assess the VIP lounge. Not even out of breath, he remained composed, hard as a granite statue. His clothes weren’t even that much rumpled. Though the sleeve of his shirt sported a splash of dark liquid. It wasn’t growing rapidly and the fabric wasn’t torn, so it didn’t appear to be a wound to his shoulder. 

As your gaze traveled up, however, you registered the source of the spill. It made you gasp aloud, a wheezing sound that felt near painful as your chest constricted in rising panic.

Steve’s temple was smeared with blood. Redness matted his dark gold hair around it. A thin trickle of blood dropped down from his earlobe and splashed on the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Jesus fuck, you’re shot!” 

Your palm cradled the side of his face, fingers pressing against the wound. To which Steve reacted with a hiss and childish tilting of his head away from your touch.

“It’s just a scratch.” He grunted, acting like his brain wasn’t just inches from being blown out. 

Steve was more interested in Bucky’s return and a short report on first findings, which you didn’t even listen to, still focused on the bleeding wound. So much, you didn’t even pay attention to your own increasing worry for the man you were supposed to hate. 

“Just a scratch my ass.” You spat in annoyance, frantically looking around for something that could help you form a makeshift dressing. 

Finding nothing of the sort, you reached to the underside of your own dress and, cursing, ripped a piece of the lining. 

Folding it in a big square, you lifted on your tiptoes and pressed it against Steve’s temple. This time you held yourself steady on his arm with one hand, so when he tried to lean away you easily followed the movement. 

“It needs to be checked.” Not caring that Bucky and Steve were in the middle of organizing next moves, you interrupted. “You could have a fractured bone, or internal bleeding. If the pressure on your brain grows, it could lead to-”

“Princess.” Steve growled in a warning tone, gripping your wrist.

“I’m not doing you a trephination at home when your brain matter drowns in your own blood!” You spluttered angrily, hitting at his hand. 

That made Steve pause and look at you. Or maybe it was the pitch in your voice, the quiver of your lips and tears brimming your eyes. He studied you for a longer moment, unbothered by your fingers trying to pry his fingers off your wrist. 

“Fine.” He conceded and turned back to Bucky. “Call Banner. Tell him to be at the clinic in thirty.”

Bucky didn’t comment on the interaction between you two, though if you weren’t so focused on your self-appointed task you might’ve noticed a spark of amusement in his eyes. Still, his face betrayed nothing, as usual. 

“Come on.” Steve’s arm slipped around your waist. “We have to get going if you want the good doctor to tell you the same thing I said, that it’s just a scratch.” 

“You have to put pressure on the wound.” You directed him to hold the improvised wound dressing, but Steve made no move to follow your instruction.

“That’s your job.” He shrugged.

“I can’t exactly walk and keep my hand at your temple at the same time.” Not with the height difference between you two. 

Suddenly, his arm around you slid lower. In a swift move, Steve gripped your ass and hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his middle instinctively as he placed both palms under your buttocks. 

“Easier now?” He grinned at you as he started walking toward the hidden exit at the back of the lounge. 

“Have you lost your mind?” You gasped, more shocked than outraged. “You’re wounded, you shouldn’t be straining yourself. It might increase the bleeding.”

“Having you on me is no strain, Princess. Besides… my blood is about to abandon my head for the more exciting ride down south. With the way your warm pussy is right against my dick.” 

You wanted to yell at him to stop diminishing the seriousness of the situation, but you figured it was serious only for you. To think of it, your husband probably had a lot of experience in being shot at. Perhaps, his assessment was more accurate than yours and this was, in fact, a minor scratch.

Still, your worry didn’t decrease. Your fingers were slightly trembling as you held the lining of your dress to his temple. It was soaking up blood, though thankfully not a deadly amount of it. Given that Steve was still able to walk and not get dizzy should be reassuring, as well, yet your brain didn’t accept it and demanded a hospital check-up anyway. 

In the car, Steve kept watching you curiously, as if your behavior was an intriguing novelty to him. 

It was to you, too. 

Was it that fear of falling prey to bloodthirsty rivals of his if Steve died? Just an empathetic reaction because you were a caring person in general? Or were you truly worried for a husband you hated? 

The hate part was crumbling to pieces, it appeared. There wasn’t a single flicker of joy, or malicious satisfaction that he got hurt, that someone might have killed him and released you from the forced marriage. 

Like there was no repulsion whenever Steve put his hands on you; be it when dancing at Tony’s ball, rousing each inch of your body as he fucked you into unconsciousness, or simply passing by you when moving around the house. 

For a few weeks you told yourself it’s simply desensitisation grown out of habit, since you were exposed to that touch constantly. However, there wasn’t only indifference to it. There was a certain, fucked-up warmth. And pleasure. 

It grounded you even at that moment when you pressed to his side at the backseat of the car and Steve smoothed his fingers along your thigh, as if he was the one soothing you in distress. 

Scared of what else you might feel, you abandoned the makeshift dressing when you reached the private clinic ran by doctors Banner and Cho, choosing instead to walk side by side with Steve. The clinic catered to Steve and a plethora of his criminal minions, but was also veiled with pretty bows of free service for the homeless and at-risk citizens. Bruce was already waiting in the hall when you entered, ready to get right into saving mode.

Instead of rushing towards you, like the doctors in the ER might, he scanned Steve’s body head to toe as you approached, then released a single (relieved, or disappointed) “Oh.”

“It’s just a scratch, but my loving wife got really worried.” Steve informed briskly, gently pressing his hand to your lower back. “Check her first.”

“What?” You almost stumbled in your steps. 

You were about to protest that you didn’t need any checking, because you had zero injuries. It would’ve fallen onto deaf ears, because Bruce nodded and guided you forward to a room stocked with top quality equipment. 

“Are you worried your massive body broke my ribs when you laid on top of me?” You snorted at Steve after doctor Banner checked your pupils. 

“Nah,” Steve sat on the gurney opposite of yours, “you have my body on top of yours quite often and sustain no injuries. Can’t be sure about shards of glass, or ricochets, though.”

He said it nonchalantly enough that you suspected he wasn’t really worried, but more likely a little petty. Since you forced him to come here, he would subject you to medical treatment as well. Steve couldn’t be worried about you. Not when he was the one making sure to cover you from any bullets and the table he kicked over to provide a shield knocked all the glass on the other side of it. There was no chance anything hit you.  

“All good.” Bruce announced then swiftly turned around to finally check Steve’s wound. 

With wide eyes, you observed his every movement. How he checked Steve’s vitals and went through the basic neurological examination. Then how he cleaned the wound and dried blood on Steve’s earlobe. 

When he said no stitches were needed, only strips, you felt both a relief and suspicion. You pressed your lips tightly to prevent yourself from questioning Banner’s decision. Or from demanding a CT scan. 

You refused to look at Steve for longer than brief glances on your way back home. And when you were at home, too. Since he and the doctor claimed he was fine, you wouldn’t give a damn anymore. No matter that it still gnawed at you. There was that growing itch to check if the wound wasn’t bleeding, if he didn’t have a headache, if he wasn’t dizzy, if… 

No! Don’t! You inwardly scolded yourself as you rubbed your freshly showered body with a towel. 

In the bedroom, Steve was already in bed. He showered before you, since you decided to distract yourself from thoughts about him by calling Pepper and checking if she’s all right. Leaning against the headboard, he simply read something on his tablet. Probably one of the variety of articles on economy, science, or politics. It still shocked you that someone so primitively brutal was so fucking smart. 

Just check once, the voice in your head goaded as you slid under the covers. One quick check and you can go to sleep. You won’t fall asleep if you don’t check.

Cursing under your breath, you rolled to the side and then sat up. Steve tilted the tablet down as you leaned over him. Without a word of explanation, you scanned his injury. Your fingertips traced gently along his hairline, close to the wounded area but not touching it directly.

Steve’s warm, steady breath tickled your skin. He made no comment as you silently fussed over him. Not even a sassy remark. 

It looked good, the injury. With the strips in place and all blood cleaned off, it really appeared to be just a scratch. Yet the tension in your body rippled with the potency of an eruption. You swallowed hard. 

Steve’s fingers circled your wrists gently. He tugged your hands down. With another nervous gulp, you tilted your head to look him in the eye. For a moment he didn’t say a word, just studied you with a frown. 

When he spoke, it was with words you didn’t expect to hear. Not from him. 

“You’re okay.” It wasn’t the softest shush, but a firm declaration. 

You shook your head, feeling the sting of tears gathering beneath your eyelids. 

“You are.” Steve repeated calmly. His frown deepened when you closed your eyes and shook your head again. 

It was another life-threatening situation you found yourself in since Steve barged into your life. A part of you was shaken to the core by it. But it wasn’t that part that tightened the iron grip around your chest at the moment. 

“I’m okay.” Steve’s assurance opened our eyes. 

You looked at him, teardrops swaying on your lower eyelashes. A heartbeat, a stuttered breath, and then the tears fell freely. 

Strong arms wrapped around you, crushing you down into Steve’s chest. He didn’t coo at you, didn’t whisper any soothing reassurances. He simply held you. 

And it scared you so fucking much how good it felt, even though it shouldn’t provide any form of security when he was the monster who forced you into all of this. 

You fell asleep in the monster’s embrace. Woke up with relief that his warmth was still there. Neither of you made any comment about your breakdown last night. Aside from briefly watching Steve move and dress, you didn’t feel the desperate need to check his wound again. 

It was easier, getting back to the routine of daily life and ignoring the uncomfortable revelations about the messy tangle of emotions you felt. The fact Steve was his usual self, one that felt nothing beside rage for vengeance and desire, helped to pretend that nothing has shifted.

Natasha’s presence also reminded you of why hate and disdain should be your main operative modes with your husband. With occasional need for a good fuck. Nothing more. 

When less than five days after the shooting Steve came to pick you from work himself, you greeted him with a suspicious glare. Then, when you realized he was taking you back to the club, you cursed the fact you were already trapped in the backseat of the car, which meant you had nothing but your own fingernails to attack him with. 

Which also didn’t happen, because you weren’t in the mood to be fucked hard while Bucky sat in the front seat. 

The club was empty and thus eerie. 

The VIP lounge was cleaned so thoroughly nothing suggested it was chaos and mess a few days ago. Even the table Steve kicked over was fully polished, or maybe it was replaced with a new one. 

Steve left you there and walked back downstairs, onto the main floor. Soon after, you heard the door open and the sound of some scuffle. Hesitantly, you walked over to the balustrade and peeked over it. 

Heart lurched to your throat, your fingers tightened on the wooden beam so hard you almost broke your nails. 

In the spotlight on the floor knelt a man - bruised and weak, meaning he already had a meeting with some of Steve’s people. Bucky was a few steps aside, having dragged the man in. Steve was standing right in front of the man. In all that dark, scary glory. 

Back straight, sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a display of tattoos and glinting rings. It reminded you of that first moment you saw him stride into the health center. 

This time, Steve held a gun in his right hand. Fingers firmly wrapped around it, with confidence of a man who used it hundreds of times. Not flamboyant showing off. No tremble of uncertainty or fear. He held it like an extension of himself. Like an experienced surgeon might hold a scalpel. 

In the empty cathedral belly of the club, Steve’s voice carried easily. 

“You know,” Steve started almost conversationally, “I often admire the gumption of some gangs who go for what they want. Sometimes, if I’m really impressed, I even offer them to work for me.”

“I’m not even bothered you went bold with your attempt to kill me. Not the smartest move, but I can see what you hoped to gain. However-”

You didn’t hear the click of the safety being switched off, but you assumed it had to be that moment, because a visible shiver went through the man’s body.

“ -you made a huge mistake-” Steve lifted his hand and aimed the gun at the man.

“ -scaring my wife.” 

The gunshot echoed. 

Steve didn’t toy with the man. Didn’t prolong it like a game, but simply executed the kill order he’d have placed on the man’s head anyway. 

You felt the reverberation of that shot through your bones, yet no nausea followed. No urge to turn away and hide your face in your hands. Your fingers clenched tighter on the banister, but you kept staring ahead. At the spot where blood was pooling around the dead man’s head in a creepy halo. 

Slowly, you moved your gaze from the wide splatter of blood to your husband. The way Steve was standing as confidently and unshaken as before. Your eyes dragged up his form, taking in the gun still in his hand, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His insanely handsome face and eyes looking up at you. 

He said something to Bucky, but you didn’t listen to the words. You were too focused on watching Steve and the way your body ignited with terrifyingly hot excitement. 

When scenes like that played in your dreams, you could easily blame them on brain chemistry going awry in sleep. Getting wet because your dream subconsciousness liked being made to ride the handle of the knife while blood covered the floor was something you could assign to haze beyond your control, since it happened in sleep.

But now it was happening in reality. 

It wasn’t the killing that pooled warmth low in your core, but the way Steve held that gun, the way he didn’t hesitate. The way he fucking moved toward the stairs and up to the balcony you were on. 

Your walls clenched as Steve stepped into the lounge. Your breath quickened with each powerful stride towards you. 

He still held that gun in his hand and your body nearly toppled with need, remembering how it felt still warm and lethal when he rubbed it against your pussy that one time. 

Though at the moment you didn’t want it inside of you. No, there was a different desire blooming and spreading its demanding branches. 

You wet your lips with your tongue as Steve stopped right in front of you. Icy blue eyes so intense as he studied you. He was the magnificent iceberg in a sea of sunset red ripples and you were the sun warmth about to melt yourself all over his jagged edges.

When Steve touched your cheek with the muzzle of his gun, you didn’t even flinch. You were bravely holding his gaze. He traced a line from your temple, over the roundness of your cheek and down, pressing under your chin.

“Take what you wish, Princess.” His tone was underlaid with hunger that resonated with yours. 

Because, for the very first time, you weren’t playing down the sudden eruption of dark desire you felt for Steve. 

He put his arm down, holding the gun at his side, as you reached for his belt. Steve’s chest seemed to expand when you didn’t hesitate to unbuckle it. Your fingers worked swiftly, any previous tremble gone, as you lowered the zipper. Then you were dragging his jeans down along with your descent to your knees. 

For all the times Steve had his mouth on you, wrecking you completely, it was the first time you were going to fill your mouth with him. You had your hands around his cock many times, but strayed away from tasting him. Especially out on your own volition. 

You didn’t only want to do it now. You needed it. 

Every inch of your body was thrumming with that irresistible craving to worship the scary power that was Steve Rogers. 

A man who fucked up your steady life. A man who showed no remorse. Who was never soft, or empathetic. A man who protected you with his own body. Who held you as you broke down. Who killed someone for scaring you. Who would do many more unholy things. 

You ran your hands up Steve’s thighs then gripped the back of them to steady yourself. Your breath puffed along the hardening length of it as you admired his cock for a moment. You’d never say about any dick that it’s pretty, and you wouldn’t say it about Steve’s either, but there was something about it that was so fucking attractive. 

Maybe it was the man it was attached to. 

With a little hungry growl you opened your mouth wide and swallowed as much of it as you could. You felt too impatient to play with it this time. Though, with the pleasure that zinged down your spine at the velvety heaviness pressing on your tongue, you could see yourself doing it in the future. 

What you couldn’t take in your mouth you wrapped your fingers around. Smearing your own saliva along it, you set a mild rhythm. Suck and stroke. A little twist of your hand as your tongue swirled over the crown. 

The feeling of a gun gliding along your scalp like a caress pinched your nipples and clit into throbbing attention. Your shameless moan vibrated around Steve’s cock, making it swell in your mouth. 

Steve didn’t hide his groans of pleasure, either. They spurred you on even more. 

“Is it the gun, or is it my cock that turns you into a needy, slutty princess?” Steve’s voice was the most shaken you’ve ever heard him to sound. 

A garbled whine was your response as his dirty words added to the mess between your thighs. 

You were wet the moment he walked up the stairs and towards you. Every second of what followed only worsened your state. 

“You can have my gun in your mouth too, if you want.” Steve teased, weaving his free hand into your hair. “But you’d have to let go of my cock. And with your eager sucking I’m not sure you’d like to part with it anytime soon.”

Glaring up at him, you pressed your fingernails into the skin of his thighs. It only made him chuckle. 

When he lightly tapped the gun over one of your cheeks, you jerked forward with a muffled moan, taking more of his cock into your mouth. Too much. It hit the back of your throat and made you gag. Tears sprang to your eyes as your body tensed. Steve’s fingers in your hair tightened. He let out the sexiest moan.

And it was the hottest thing you ever experienced when sucking a man off. 

You didn’t try to repeat that, but it doubled your eagerness and efforts. Your own hips started swaying in desperate need. You were so hot and wet, and aching to have your pussy filled. 

“Princess,” Steve grunted; you felt his muscles tensing. 

“I’m about to come. Do you want me to paint your beautiful face, or do you want to swallow every drop like a good girl?” 

You paused for a second, holding just the tip of his thick cock in your mouth. You considered the options for a moment then, holding Steve’s gaze, you slowly took him deeper. As deep as you could without tipping that gag reflex again. 

“As you wish, Princess.” He huffed, half amusement half all pleasure. 

When you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, at the same time moving your spit-slick fingers to cup Steve’s balls, he growled a curse. It stretched into a long moan as his cum filled your mouth. 

Each time you swallowed small gulps of it, your tongue moved under his throbbing cock, drawing out more. 

Your chin and mouth were glistening with saliva and white streaks of cum that dribbled out. Steve’s grip on your hair didn’t ease as he slipped out from between your lips. He held your head in place as he brought his gun and rubbed the muzzle in the shiny mess on your chin. 

Then he was tossing the gun aside and lifting you up onto your feet. Steve’s mouth was devouring yours even before you steadied on your legs. His tongue dipped in, unbothered by the remnants of his own cum. 

You gripped at his shirt, eagerly responding to the dirty kiss and mad passion that erupted. Steve’s chuckle melted against your mouth when you rubbed yourself against him.

“Did sucking my cock make you wet, Princess?” 

All of him made you wet. But you weren’t going to admit that. 

You didn’t have to answer his question, either. Steve found out himself, driving his hand beneath your skirt. His fingers pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear. Not just a wet patch. A sticky mess. 

“Fuck!” He groaned, his hips bucking against you. 

Suddenly, he was turning you around and pushing you forward. 

He bent you over the wooden balustrade, pulling up your skirt and kicking your legs wider apart. 

Your glazed over gaze landed on the floor below. The dead body was gone. So was Bucky. Only the dark pool of red blood remained, flashing at you with memory of ruthless brutality. Still, your ass rubbed against Steve’s hand eagerly, your desire not the slightest diminished by the memory of horror. 

Steve ripped your soaked underwear. He tossed it over the balcony, making you watch the ruined garment fall down. 

You didn’t have time, nor brain capacity, to see the metaphor of your own innocent life falling down into his evil clutches. 

You moaned, back arching, as Steve’s fingers swept between your swollen, wet folds. 

“I’d give you the gun, but I want your tight pussy all to myself. Not going to share it even with your favorite, lethal toys.”

His fingers were more deadly, you wanted to say. But no words fell out, only a strangled cry, when Steve pushed two of his thick fingers in. Eased them in and out a few times, before suddenly rotating and curling. He pressed against that spot that made you keen and arch onto your tiptoes. 

“That’s it, Princess.” He praised, wrapping his free hand around the front of your neck. “Getting all messy on your husband’s fingers.”

A guttural cry ripped from your lungs when he forced a third finger in. 

It felt almost too much. Almost as stretched and full as when he had his cock buried to the hilt. 

Then it was really too much when one of his fingers, now all slick with your juices, withdrew from your pussy and pressed against your rim. 

“Ohgodohgodohgod-” you babbled, clenching your eyes shut. 

But you didn’t jerk away. Didn’t plead with Steve to stop. Instead, you shuddered and moaned when he slowly, but mercilessly pushed that finger into your ass. 

“So fucking tight, Princess,” Steve panted against your ear. “You’re making me hard all over again.”

He fucked both of your holes, increasing the rhythm until your cries were growing louder. Until you broke like a string stretched too far and your wetness coated his hand up to his wrist. 

You were a boneless mess, held up only by his hand on your throat and the sturdy balustrade. You felt his pulsing cock against your thigh, getting hard again just like he said. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers from your fluttering pussy. Squelching sound of it made you scorch with embarrassment. 

But then there was another pressure. Right next to the finger already knuckle deep in your ass. 

Steve was pushing another finger there. 

“Nghhh!” You whined, tensing against the bigger intrusion. It was somewhat uncomfortable, yet seemed to rouse your spent body anew. 

“You can take it, Princess.” Steve breathed against your neck as he shifted his position behind you. “Today you’re daring. Taking what you want and not shying away from it.”

His second finger sank deeper and the head of his dick nudged at your pussy. Your hips rocked back against him. You weren’t sure you did it consciously. Your mind felt too scrambled at the moment. It was more an instinctive chase after another shattering completion. 

With two fingers in your ass, the fullness of Steve’s cock stretching you felt nearly overwhelming. And so fucking good. 

You bucked against him with a whine when Steve remained still for a longer moment. His fingers around your throat clenched slightly before he finally gave you the friction you wanted, pulling slightly out then slamming back in. 

At first he fucked you only with his cock, holding his fingers in your tight hole. When your cunt spasmed around him, betraying your heightening peak, Steve amped the ruin by thrusting in and out of your ass. 

Your gaze was no longer on the pool of blood. It became foggy, unfocused. Your eyes rolled back, your vision filled with a kaleidoscope of colorful shards. Your hands let go of the wooden banister; one clutching onto Steve’s arm, the other reaching behind you to grip and twist the fabric of his shirt. 

“Going to come for me again?” Steve rasped, scraping his teeth along the skin of your neck. “That’s it. Go on. Come from having all of your holes owned by me.”

“Come from loving it.” 

And you did. 

Your cry echoed under the cathedral ceiling. A spilling of high pitched keening forming a lewd choir as Steve kept fucking you through your orgasm, tipping it into another peak as he followed soon after and his cum filled your clenching cunt. 

His own ragged breath sank into your skin. He eased the hold on your throat and instead wrapped that arm around your chest. After easing ers out of your ass, he wrapped it around you as well. 

Excess of his cum dribbled out of you when his softening cock slipped out. It was forming a glistening white splatter on the floor between your legs.

You glared at him, but didn’t comment on the intrusion. Knowing your husband, he’d say that he came in your pussy just this morning and you had no objections to it, so why fuss over a damn office. 

Pointing out that you didn’t exactly invite him into your pussy either, was a futile argument. Especially since you didn’t stop him, or even elbow him in those perfect, stupid abs of marble. 

Quite the contrary. You rocked back against him and begged, until he rolled you fully onto your front and savaged you. 

You were still disgusted with yourself for that. As well for the sex two nights before. And the one in the shower. Or the Sunday humiliation, when it became clear that the chef was in the kitchen preparing your fancy dinner while you were screaming the house down as Steve wrung three orgasms out of you, one after the other. 

So disgusted. And still giving in to the temptation that was the devil himself. 

Who walked around your desk and leaned against it, looking down at you curled in the chair and with your cheeks stuffed with sweets. 

A strange feeling knotted your stomach. 

You were barefoot, wearing a pair of leggins and a hoodie. Crumbs of gooey sweetness were sticking to the corners of your mouth. Steve was barefoot, too; which meant he came home for the rest of the day, with no plans of leaving. He had a plain, tight T-shirt paired with dark jeans, his leather jacket already taken off. He stared at your face, only briefly glancing at the almost empty plate of macaroons.

This scene was so… domestic.

Instead of unwrapping that terrifying thought, you diverted your attention to the royal red envelope in Steve’s hand. A beautiful calligraphy shimmered in gold. 

“What’s that?” You asked, swallowing the rest of your macaroon. 

Unexpectedly, Steve leaned forward. Tip of his tongue licked at the corner of your mouth, swiping the sticky sweetness. Then it plugged between your lips that opened on a soft gasp.

The kiss was short, but intense and depraved. As it always was with Steve. And your treacherous body chased it as he pulled back.

“Lemon would pair better.” He hummed, resuming his previous stance.

“What?” You blinked, confused. Your head was still swimming in dizzy fog from that unexpected kiss. As well from the fact nothing more followed.

You were married, but there was nothing marital about your relationship with Steve. There were no sweet kisses good morning or goodbye, or hugs and cuddles. If either of you initiated physical contact it was to fuck. 

But now no touching, or undressing followed. The unexpected kiss remained just that - a shard of affection a normal newlywed couple might show each other.

It messed with your mind. And pulled at a cord in your chest.

“With your taste.” Steve explained; corners of his mouth curling in a hungry smirk.

Which, really, should be followed by his mouth descending on other parts of you. 

Instead, your body filled with heat both from the kiss and his words while Steve returned to tapping the envelope against his thigh, unbothered. 

Swallowing, you pushed that spark of need down. Steve was already too aware of how eagerly your body responded to him. Especially, since you stopped fighting it too much when the desire sparked low in your core. You weren’t going to further your humiliation. 

“So what’s with that?” You asked, pointing at the red envelope. 

“An invitation.” Steve showed you the beautifully addressed front. “For Mr and Mrs Rogers.”

You ignored his pleased smirk when he said the last part. It still evoked annoyance. The realization other people were now calling you by his last name fueled that irritation. 

“To Stark’s annual post expo gala.” He said it with a roll of his eyes.

Clearly, he wasn’t thrilled. You doubted it was because he had no regard for technology and knowledge. As much as you hated to admit it, Steve Rogers was exceptionally smart and up to date with many areas of expertise. 

From what you learned about your husband over the weeks, he wasn’t a fan of boring, social chit-chat and fake politeness. Which is why he preferred his direct, brutal methods of communication. But even he couldn’t fully escape socializing with the people he had on payroll and leash. 

“I assume it’s expected of me to go with you,” you glared at him, even though a small spark of excitement flickered in your chest.

You’ve been to a few fancy parties and fundraisers, but to attend something of this caliber was a thrilling novelty. 

For one, you’d get to dress up. You liked it, once in a while, to feel like a modern sort of Cinderella, who gets to swirl around in a pretty dress and eat expensive snacks. Secondly, it was a tempting opportunity for you as a director of the health center to lure in new benefactors. The project you’ve been working on was one that would need a solid dose of funding. 

There was also the aspect of meeting people in similar fields. Stark’s expo focused on technology mostly, but that area leaked into medical fields, as well. There were a lot of neuroscience breakthroughs in the past years, which served psychiatric and psychological fields. It could prove beneficial, if you spoke to some experts.

“Princess,” Steve tilted his head, “fuck the expectations.”

You almost sagged in disappointment.

“But-” he continued- “I have a few things to settle with some people and they will be there. It saves me a lot of time to do it there. And since I’m going, you are going, too.” 

He dropped the envelope onto the desk then cupped your chin with his hand. You hated how you didn’t hate the jolt of pleasure his touch evoked. 

“First official outing as newlyweds, Princess. Gotta make an impression.” There was near cruel mirth in his blue eyes.

“Pffft!” You snorted, attempting to pull away from his grip. You still haven’t fully accepted that once Steve had his hand on you, he was unlikely to relent.

Well, your mind didn’t accept it. Your body has become a whore for it. 

“I doubt I’ll be making any sort of impression on the corrupted men who kneel for you,” unless they were disgusting pigs interested in ogling Steve’s sidepiece. “Though I guess I could use you, for a change. Your name could be impressive enough for some schmucks to donate to the center.” 

“Tell them you’re mine and they’ll fund you three centers.” Steve said it so casually, without any hint of cockiness. In his eyes, it was a simple truth. 

“I’m not yours,” you hissed, more annoyed at the heat you felt creeping over your skin.

At that Steve smirked. 

He released your chin and stood up. He didn’t even counter your claim, as if it was the most pitiful lie that didn’t require any argument because neither of you believed it. 

He stole one macaroon before leaving your office. 

You quickly stuffed your mouth with the only macaroon left, in case he would take that away from you, too. Then you returned your gaze to the project document. Suddenly, with the prospect of potential donors, you felt a new wave of energy and motivation to write it all out. 

You clung to the claim that it was the same motivation filling you with excited lightness as you donned on a beautiful evening dress three weeks later. Adamant on enjoying the fancy party and working for the center’s goals, you pushed away the nagging thoughts of going there as Steve’s wife. 

Not that you thought anyone would be interested in that, anyway. You weren’t a famous socialite, or a model, and you considered Steve to be terrifying enough that no one would imagine him getting married. Much less gossiping about it.

The smaller argument you weaved - about you not even matching your outfits, ergo no one would recognize you as a couple - died the moment you descended the stairs to where Steve was already waiting for you. 

The only time he wore a suit was at your wedding. His usual style was rougher, more practical and intimidating. A jagged chunk of volcanic rock, still pulsing with burning lava. So it was quite shocking to see him in a dark blue two piece that was cut so perfectly that his broad shoulders and tapered waist seemed more prominently outlined than when he wore jeans and tight shirts. 

The shade of his suit was dark enough to hold that dangerous, intimidating aura, but the shiny blue hue matched your choice of dress perfectly. 

He was the night sky to your moon glow. 

Steve didn’t mask the hunger in his eyes as he looked at you. Though you were thankful he didn’t utter anything about not making it to the gala, because he wanted to sate that hunger. 

He did, however, order you to turn around; with that rough, low voice that had your clit tingling. Despite the vow you made to yourself two months ago, to not so easily comply with his commands, you did as asked. You found yourself staring at your reflection in the large mirror in the entryway, your body heating up from the sudden lewd imagery of what could happen if Steve put his hands on you. Would he make you watch as he…

His ice blue eyes sparked a dark satisfaction, undoubtedly reading your body well enough to suspect where your thoughts have wandered.

But he didn’t mock you. Instead, his touch was a gentle brush that evoked goosebumps as he placed something shiny and heavy on your chest. 

He clasped the white gold necklace at the back of your neck as you stared at the incredible rock nestled in a cushion of diamonds that were so crystal white they appeared to be frosty snow. 

The rock in the middle was a hue of sundown orange, mostly transparent, but with a flame encapsulated within. Like the heart of a star. 

“Once upon a time,” Steve’s fingers trailed over your exposed collarbones and down along the delicate chain of the necklace. “There were six rarest jewels in the world. Called the infinity stones.”

Memory of Batroc asking about them flashed in your mind and you held your breath. 

The rumors were true, then. Steve was the ghost from the legend, who tore through the Greek magnate’s citadel and stole the rarest gems, without leaving a trace. If this was one of them, were the rest nestled in the rings on his fingers like you presumed once before? 

“This one is called the soul stone.” Steve traced the outline of the pendant with his fingertip, dipping it into the valley between your breasts. Your nipples hardened instantly.

“Fitting, since you’re the devil who stole mine,” your retort had no bite. Not with how breathless you sounded.

Steve chuckled, slipping his hand over your breast and lower. His fingers splayed across your belly as he pressed closer against you. His breath was a warm tickle on your skin as he brushed his lips along the column of your throat.

“I stole more than that, haven’t I, Princess?” He smirked at the flash of fear in your eyes, which dissolved into stubborn defiance. 

“Yes. My peace and chance at happiness.” You glared at him in the mirror. Which didn’t dent his amusement. 

With a chuckle, Steve kissed your neck then scraped his teeth over the spot. Thankfully, not hard enough to leave any evidence, but making your pussy clench. 

You scurried away towards the exit, before he decided to humiliate you by leaving a hickey that anyone could see. 

You tried not to show how Steve’s touch on your lower back affected you, neither on your way to the car, nor when you entered the lavish gala at the Stark Tower. You doused the warmth of comfort with a flute of champagne when Steve spent the first solid hour keeping you at his side and introducing you to various people. As his wife.

It was only after you two returned to the main hostess and Tony’s wife, Pepper, who greeted you at the entrance and then smoothly roped you into a social conversation, that Steve murmured something about attending to business.

He left you with a brief kiss to your cheek and a brush of his fingers sliding from the small of your back over your ass. Unapologetic about doing it publicly.

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at his retreating form. 

“Ah, newlyweds.” Next to you, Pepper let a dramatically dreamy sigh. 

Your gaze shifted to her, only to notice she was most amused. Unlike some of the women whom you were introduced to, she didn’t look at you with envy or disdain. Which had annoyed you, because really there was nothing to be jealous of. Well, mindblowing sex perhaps. But that was it. Nothing more. 

If they wanted Steve so much, you’d happily give him away. If he only let you. 

Pepper seemed genuine in her friendly approach, witty responses and warmth. The only flaw you found in her so far was the fact she was friendly with Steve, too.

Not overtly, in a way betraying carnal interest, or former relationship (which you sensed from a few other women at the banquet). But the platonic friendliness toward someone like Steve was alarming in itself. 

“Oh yeah,” you snorted, lifting your glass of champagne to your lips, “I’m sooo head over heels for him.”

Pepper’s laugh was soft and tinkling like velvet bells. Nothing fake, or annoying in the sound of it. Quite the opposite, you were surprised how it put you at ease after mingling with people who wore fake politeness like a family crest.

Crinkles appeared in the corners of her eyes as she looked at you and you couldn’t help but respond with your own grin.

“People often mistake my sunny disposition for naivety. They're very wrong.” Pepper said, taking a sip of her strawberry gin & tonic. 

“I know you didn't marry Steve out of love.” She stated bluntly, without judgment or conspiratory whispering. “But watching you two, some things are unmistakable.”

She lifted her left shoulder in a shrug, sparkling amusement in her eyes turning into a knowing look. Your heart halted before setting in a slightly panicked flutter. 

There were little moments when you felt certain cracks in your hard hateful shell, but you hoped that you managed to quickly hide them behind walls and under a mask. You didn’t want Steve finding more of your weaknesses. It was even worse, if someone else saw them.

Pepper barely met you and if she noticed how comfortable you felt at times beside Steve (when you forgot to remember you’re supposed to hate him and be disgusted by his touch), then the bastard must have been aware of them, too. Crap.

Still, you arched your brow as if you had no idea what she was implying. Pepper’s amusement deepened, she wasn’t buying your cluelessness. 

“There may not be romantic affection, but he sure gives you attention.” She said, angling her body so you stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the grand ballroom.

Before you snorted that you’d rather never have drawn Steve’s attention, she vaguely pointed at the room full of people. Expensive suits and dresses worth more than your half year salary, diamonds dripping, chests puffed. Women polished to perfection glued to the side of their men, sweet smiles offered on painted lips.

“That's something only very few women here experience. It’s rare.” There was a hint of disappointment in her tone, but you doubted it had to do with her own relationship. 

Tony Stark was like a hummingbird on energizer and coke - he fleeted from one conversation to the other, growing bored, acting pretentious asshole. He stopped for longer only with a few people. But every half an hour or so, he would search for Pepper and the way his attention zeroed in on her left no room to doubt his love for her.

She grounded him. Gave him a moment to recharge, even as she called him out on some of his antics. 

Many of the women at the gala, who accompanied their husbands, or partners, were there as an accessory. Beautiful, adding to the status, but few were even acknowledged by their company. 

“I’m not sure having Steve Rogers’ attention is exactly a good thing.” You pointed out. 

Everyone here may officially pretend he was a ruthless businessman, while they all knew the bloody truth. He was a mafia boss, a brutal king of the underworld, who wouldn’t blink an eye flaying someone open here in the light of the crystal chandeliers. 

No one wanted his attention on them, not really. 

“Not for most.” Pepper agreed. “Though some of the women might disagree.”

“Are you talking from experience?” You maintained a neutral, indifferent tone (mostly because you didn’t think there was ever anything between Pepper and Steve); yet there was a tiny flicker of something angry that ignited at the prospect.

It stirred with a growl and clawed out a few times that night, when a few of the women made it obvious they were wet and willing for Steve.

“God, no!” Pepper snorted, pretending to shudder. “I’m not that adventurous.”

“Yeah, bungee jumping without rope might be less of an adrenaline rush than being with him,” you rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth tilted in a grin. 

“Well, it seems only fair to give back in return. What would perturb the dark overlord?” Pepper pretended to seriously ponder, tapping her finger against her lips.

“I could try setting Bucky on fire.” 

Pepper’s laugh resounded with the same melodic chime as previously, but much louder. Not a single fake note, her burst of laughter was real. It enticed your own laugh to bubble out; both of you falling into a fit of giggles behind your drink glasses. 

You drew the attention of many people, who either watched you with suspicion, or glared offended. You didn’t care. And when your gaze connected with Steve’s, who looked your way from the other side of the room while some men were babbling next to him, you didn’t even pretend to be gloomy.

“Now that was the height of entertainment tonight.” Pepper looped her arm around yours, still smiling brilliantly ear to ear. “For me, at least. Now, how to repay you for that? I can tell you all the spicy gossip. We could get drunk and no one would dare to say anything to either me or you.” 

“Not gossip, but information.” You finished your champagne and reached for another flute as a waiter passed by. “I need to know more about this swamp my so-called husband treads through. And I need to milk some of them for money for the center.” 

“I know just the right people for that,” she nodded with determination and steered you toward the first potential benefactor. 

Pepper’s company was a wonderful balm and entertainment rolled into one. She was a graceful hostess, smart and perceptive professional, but also a bubbly imp who didn’t spare you the details about some sordid affairs. 

Though she could excuse herself with her duties, she stuck with you the entire time. She also managed not to smirk at your glower when she pointed at three women who have in the past fucked Steve. 

However, her smile turned mischievous as she spotted someone over your shoulder. She reminded you of the lunch date in three days that you happily agreed to, then smoothly glided away before you managed to properly say goodbye. 

Words stuck in your throat as you felt the familiar solid warmth at your back. Steve’s shadow cast over you first, then his heat and scent engulfed you. Like a mythological fate, always reaching its grasp for the heroine, no matter the hard fight towards the light, your personal devil softly pulled you back into his clutches. 

His hand touched your back and he spun you around. 

“Having fun, Princess?” He looked down at you. 

Icy blade of his gaze cut down men bigger than life, but, despite the first instinctive flash of fear, you felt it slicing through the layers of your clothes and defences. 

Plate by plate, you quickly reinforced your shell, to at least endure a few hours more before Steve got under your skin again. 

And into your cunt, because with his hot looks and your four glasses of champagne that was inevitable. 

“I don’t think parties of this kind are meant to have fun.” You scrunched up your nose. “But I managed to sway some rich snobs to potentially fund that educational project for the center. Leon Stavros seems keen to donate half the sum.”

You announced with a proud tilt of your chin and a smile. Tame enough to not share the actual happiness you felt with Steve. You wanted to boast about your little success, but you had to remember that he was the bane of your existence.  

Steve’s hand on your back settled heavier, while his other slid along your arm. He took your hand in his, outstretched your joined arms and in a single move swept you onto the dancefloor. 

“You’ll have to use his money for a different project.” He continued your conversation as he led you across the floor. “The psychoeducation and resources for caretakers project is already fully funded.” 

It took you a moment for his words to register, because you were still scrambling to catch up with the fact that a heartbeat ago you were standing off to the side and now you were dancing across the ballroom. 

It was truly mind boggling that your psychopath husband was a damn good dancer.

“What? Who?” You blinked, when it finally dawned on you what he said. You even cast a glance around, wondering who managed to deliver the funds so quickly.

Something sharp pierced through your chest as you realized there was only one person who knew before everyone else and could fund a project with a single transfer. Your gaze flicked back to Steve’s handsome face.

“Steve…” 

Heaviness of the situation turned worse by the second, because he wasn’t showing that smug, triumphant look, which would at least remind you to hate him. 

“You were determined to get that project running.” Steve replied easily. There was no affectionate passion in his next words, but still they chipped at the walls protecting you - “What you want, you get.”

“Thank you.” At the moment you didn’t know how else to respond. How to treat this gift. 

You could think of it as his manipulation to get you further into his sticky web, but he already had you at his mercy on all accounts. No, it flashed too much thoughtfulness.  

To preserve the comfortable setting of animosity, you asked cheekily - “What if I want a divorce?”

You were determined to keep asking for a divorce every chance you got. Officially, you believed it was because you wanted out of this fucked up marriage. Secretly, you were thrilled with the various ways Steve responded to that demand. 

“Then-” he pulled you even closer, his cheek brushing yours as he leaned down to whisper into your ear- “you get a fucking so hard, any silly ideas drip out of you permanently.” 

Steve delivered on the hard fucking, even though you haven’t mentioned divorce again that night. 

You blamed the champagne and happiness at having your project funded for making you sit so close to him in the car on your way back from the gala, rubbing your heated body against him with unrestrained need. Steve was merciful enough to not wait it out until you lost the battle with your own will and initiated sex yourself, but instead dragged you over his lap, rolled up your dress and fingered you into a dripping, screaming puddle before you made it home.

Then he took you hard, in front of that fucking mirror in the hall. With you completely naked, wearing only the necklace and watching yourself give in to the monster completely. 

You nearly passed out when he fucked you again in bed. Your almost unconscious state didn’t stop Steve from using you thoroughly and then spilling thick ropes of white cum all over your body, white drops landing around the jewel sparkling on your chest. 

Though your body was wonderfully blissed out each time you and Steve had sex - which was becoming an almost daily thing - you still refused to use the blissful adjective to describe your marriage. Or any positive adjective, for that matter. Even as the comfort of sitting next to him or sharing meals increased; or how he casually draped your legs over his lap, massaging your calves while he typed murderous decrees on his phone. 

The word domestic echoed in your head often, but you drowned it in screams of his victims, gunshots, Steve’s cold and sinister commands. 

You shouldn’t feel at ease and comfortable around the devil who kept you chained to him. You gave yourself a pass for enjoying mindmelting orgasms, it was a small reward for your suffering, but you wouldn’t let yourself get accustomed to being a wife. Not to Steve. 

So you pretended to be only mildly annoyed when he strolled into your office one day, bringing lunch as if he was a normal loving spouse, and announcing that you’ll be hosting a dinner at home. For the mayor and his wife. To his credit, Steve didn’t imply you had to be the one preparing said dinner. Having a chef was another benefit of your doom. But the expectation of playing the sweet wife and hostess to the corrupted pair of a politician and socialite made your blood boil.

Or maybe it was the fact that mayor’s wife was one of the few women Pepper confirmed to have been fucking Steve in the past.

No, you told yourself as you put on the soul stone necklace when preparing for said dinner. You didn’t care who he sank his cock into. You didn’t care, if he returned to that and left you in peace. 

But your conviction shattered to sharp, jagged pieces when mayor’s wife made obvious moves at your husband, with her own fucking husband sitting right there at the table! 

You were appalled. By her rudeness, of course. 

Mayor played a clueless idiot, probably too scared of Steve to fight for honor. Or maybe he was actually gaining something from having his wife almost drop to her knees and swallow Steve’s cock whole. You played indifference, because why should you care? 

So maybe your knife and fork scraped against the plate so loud that everyone at the table cringed in pain, when the mayor’s wife briefly touched Steve’s arm and mentioned missing their passionate art discussions. It was nothing. Just a spasm in your hand. And you gulping down half of your wine glass all unladylike was because you needed to soothe an itch in your throat, not because the floozy licked her lips and made a suggestion Steve should go with her to the new exhibition. 

Though Steve hadn’t replied to Miliana’s advances, focusing on the not so subtle business talk with her husband, he didn’t refuse her either. Which made you want to reach for the knife he had custom made for you and stab him with it, when later that night he had the audacity to touch you. 

Steve merely chuckled, absolutely amused. Mockingly asked if you were jealous. Which you were not! 

Tension slowly dropped after that, as days passed and you haven’t seen that skank’s face. Unexpectedly, however, the mayor requested an official visit to the center. It was a short one, a half an hour so the press could write about his interest in healthcare and supporting new community focused projects. You also suspected he wanted to kiss Steve’s ass.

You didn’t have a reason to deny him, especially since the press would also mention the center and new projects, which would be helpful. It was even better, because he came only with some of his office staff, no wife at his side. 

But then, just as you were breathing in relief that the circus was almost over, the mayor had the balls to invite himself over to your house for dinner the upcoming weekend. 

In true political bullshit manipulation, saying how his wife loved your chef’s scallops and couldn’t wait to taste them again and how your house provided comfort to talk business with your husband. 

At this point, you were wondering if the slimy asshole was a cuckold. 

He was bending backwards just to give his own wife an opportunity to touch your fucking husband. Maybe he really was into that. Maybe he wanted to watch. Maybe you should’ve vomited when you relayed the request to Steve and he shrugged that he’s free Saturday evening: if the greedy idiot wants to crawl begging for more scraps. 

Your appetite evaporated, as you spent days fuming at the prospect of another weird dinner when a shameless woman would be drooling after Steve while you were sitting there right opposite of her, in your own damn home. 

No, this time you wouldn’t stand for it. You would make Miliana associate your house with something most unpleasant. And a small vial stolen from one of the medicine cabinets at the center was going to help you with that.

It was surprisingly easy, really. It should shock you how calm you were as you prepared for the dinner; how a soft smile graced your lips as you set the table while the chef prepared delicious food. But now that determination guided your hand through the plan, earlier fiery aggravation melted away. 

Briefly, you wondered if the same calm took over Steve when he took lives. 

You shook that thought away, since you weren’t attempting to kill anyone. Though when a memory of her hand on Steve’s arm flashed in your mind, your fingers itched to grab a knife. 

Applying a little drop to the bottom of a crystal glass and another on the rim, smearing it along, you felt an odd kind of satisfaction unfurl in your chest. There was no hesitation, no worry about potential mix-up. No, you were certain Miliana would once again seat on Steve’s left. Just like the last time. It was cunning, since it appeared all innocent - her sitting on her husband’s right, just you were sitting on your husband’s right, the men facing each other. 

Your smile widened when the couple entered your dining room and sat exactly like you predicted. Politely fake conversation flew as the chef brought out first dish and his assistant poured wine into glasses. 

The scallops tasted even more delicious, in your opinion. Especially when after a few sips of wine the mayor’s wife had to quickly excuse herself to the bathroom. 

Few minutes later the mayor’s phone vibrated, which led to him frowning at the screen and excusing himself as well - undoubtedly to aid his wife. When he walked back into the dining room a while later, he looked nervous and embarrassed, paler too.

“My apologies. It appears my wife and I have to leave promptly, it was unplanned, but can’t be avoided.” 

You made a sound of worried pity, but continued to cut into your own food and eating it without an ounce of genuine distraught. Steve arched a brow in surprise, but nodded his head, which seemed to bring the mayor immense relief. The man was more scared of offending Steve than for his wife’s health. 

It was less than a minute when you heard their car take off from the driveway. The sound of it and the fact they were no longer polluting the space of your home pleased you greatly. 

“Mhm, these scallops are really delicious,” you hummed, licking your fork. 

“Princess,” Steve tuned the petname in a sing-song tone. “What did you do?”

Slowly, you looked his way. He didn’t seem angry, nor worried. He angled his body towards you, propping one elbow on the table and drumming his fingers in a steady rhythm. He wasn’t asking if it was your doing, he already knew. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t permanently damage one of your mistresses. She’s just gonna spend a day or two glued to the toilet.” You snorted, clenching your fingers around the fork. “But maybe next time she’ll reconsider coming into the house where your wife lives.”

Dark gleam flickered over Steve’s ice blue eyes. 

He leaned forward, moving his hands to grip the edge of your chair and yanked it at an angle toward him. Your legs were between his, his hands gripping the sides of your chair, veins protruding in his forearms as his muscles tensed.

“Your possessiveness gets me hard.” He chuckled darkly.

“I’m not possessive!” You objected immediately, crossing your hands over your chest. 

“You demanded I marry you, the ruthless fucking king of the underworld. So now you have to deal with having a wife. And your reluctant queen won’t stand for any more humiliation.” You spat the last part, boldly leaning forward and glaring at him with all the accumulated hatred. 

“Princess,” Steve inched even closer, not the least bothered by your outburst. Quite the opposite, he appeared to love it. “My dick hasn’t even twitched for any other woman, since I tasted your lips. There’s no pleasure in standing their fake, exaggerated despair, when I have your sweet pussy so responsive to my darkness…”

Your retort died on your tongue when suddenly one of Steve’s hands gripped your chin.

“Now-” he tightened his pinch on your chin, his voice smoothly transforming into a cold warning. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.” 

“Miliana doesn’t have enough spunk and her husband is too much of a scaredy wimp to retaliate in any form.” He showed zero empathy toward them. “But there are eels and sharks swimming around us and some of them would dare to bite back.”

Holding your chin, Steve forced you to lean closer. His breath tickled your mouth as he inched forward, as well.

“And if anyone dared to put a finger on you, it would end in a bloodbath.”

Only Steve could make a psychopathic threat sound like a seductive, velvet vow of a lover.

Your brain screamed that it was wrong, that you should be disgusted by his words and scared of how easily it came to him to take lives. Yet your insides filled with heat, one spreading through your chest and a wave of it pooling low in your abdomen.

“Don’t go on a murder spree, because of some macho obligation.” You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You. Are. Mine, Princess.” Steve punctuated each word with a brush of his lips against yours. “To harm or disrespect you means to hurt or disrespect me. I have no mercy for those. I would cut off the limb, with which they hurt you, and carve out their intestines. Then fuck you while their blood pools at your feet.”

“That’s disgusting,” with how breathy you sounded, your claim felt like a lie.

One that Steve read right away.

“It turns you on.” He chuckled, grinning. 

“I know that you get so wet from the scary, unhinged things that I do.” His other hand slapped your knees apart.

“I’m not-” you frowned, ready to deny that as well. Even though your body was already primed for him.

Words went forgotten when Steve picked you in a swift move and deposited you in his lap. The hand on your chin moved to grip the front of your neck; the cool sensation of his rings digging into your soft skin made you gasp. The sound nearly stopped in your throat, because he tightened his grip. And it made your arousal burst stronger.

His right hand ventured between your spread thighs. His fingers easily slipped beneath the flimsy fabric of your underwear and teased your slick folds.

“Soaked.” Steve triumphed, running the ring-adorned knuckle of his index finger up and down between your folds. “Sweet, good-hearted Princess who lives to help people, cumming on her brutal husband’s weapons and cock.” 

The mere mention of his thick cock made your pussy pulse. The image of his gun and of the knife sliding along your skin and pressed so close to your most sensitive areas caused a shiver to rock your whole body.

Steve chuckled at your body’s reaction. He laced kisses and licks along your jaw, continuing to tease your cunt.

“As for you wanting to be a queen at my side…” he sucked your earlobe lewdly, making you moan. 

“Do you know what a queen’s role is?” He whispered right into your ear before pulling back slightly.

“To stand fierce and unbending beside her king.” He withdrew his hand, kissing your lips when you pouted at the loss of delicious stimulation. Fingers sticky with your slick, he ran his palm up your belly and over your breast. Then to your arm. 

“And to give him an heir.”

Steve’s eyes locked with yours as his wet fingers circled your arm, thumb pressing right over where your contraceptive implant was hidden beneath your skin. 

“Are you ready for that, Princess?” He asked, rubbing the spot in sinfully slow circles, as he would do your clit. “Are you ready to take out this little implant and let me breed you properly?” 

Your brain was too scrambled, even though Steve barely touched you, really. The adrenaline from poisoning a woman who dared to flirt with your husband mixed with desire that the fucker so easily ignited in you. 

The unexpected mention of impregnation? In that dark, raw way only your husband dared to speak to you? For a short moment your mind simply stopped working.

“No!” You clenched your eyes, letting the last remnants of reason fight against the threat. 

Steve didn’t seem perturbed by your refusal. Perhaps it wasn’t even something he was interested in, just another means to torment you with and make you yield to his command. 

“Until then, you remain my Princess.” He declared, cutting off your airflow for a few seconds and taking possession of your mouth. 

When he let you breathe again, you felt dizzy and pliant. Your own hands clenched on his shoulders as Steve stood up abruptly. He kicked the chair away and placed you on the dining table. 

Plates and wine glasses tumbled over, food and wine spilling across the tablecloth and dripping down on the floor. You felt the sticky wetness soaking into your back as Steve splayed you on the table, but you didn’t care. Not when he was holding you down by your throat with one hand and ripping your soaked underwear with the other. 

Then there was the sound of a zipper and Steve’s low, sexy groan as he gripped his hard cock and stroked it a few times. 

Steve held your gaze as he tapped his dick against your pulsing clit and then nudged it into your opening. A needy whine vibrated in your throat, tempting the fingers around your neck to squeeze just a tad tighter. 

He slammed into you in one stroke; dark victory flamed in his eyes as your body jerked and your pussy clamped around him. 

Buried to the hilt, with his hand around your throat and the other holding your leg bent and pressed against your chest, Steve looked down at you. Danger pulsed off of him like a dark aura, reminding you how defenceless you were.

“Don’t ever fucking endanger what’s mine.” He warned.

You glared at him, indignant at being referred to as his. But then he snapped his hips back and into you again, and your ire flowed into brain short-circuiting pleasure. 

“My good, depraved Princess.” Steve praised, fucking you hard. “Creaming around my cock so prettily.”