Touch The Darkness
dark mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader
summary for this chapter: Accompanying Steve to a club goes terribly wrong. However, what follows may shake you even more. Certain self-discoveries are best left ignored and denied, right?
warnings for this chapter: dark!Steve Rogers; forced marriage; violence; being turned on by violence (not against the Reader); hurt her and you die trope; hurt/comfort of sorts; smut; gun kink; oral (m receiving); fingering; anal play; double penetration; dirty talk; praise; D/s undertones;
word count: 6.2k
Author’s Note: We're on the penultimate chapter! It means certain discoveries and revelations about Princess and Steve's dynamic. Personally, I'm happy that I've written it all exactly like I imagined when I created the outline for all ten chapters of this fic 😎 Also, just to calm you all down, the main story will end on chapter 10, but it doesn't mean I won't write some fics and drabbles for Steve and Princess in the future.
Also, in this chapter, there's a tiny blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to @krirebr's vampire Steve 🤭 No, he doesn't appear. There's just a particular innuendo.
Touch the Darkness Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Chapter 9. Eruption
~ * ~
A myriad of colorful splashes chased each other along the dark, cathedral ceiling. Following their drugged dance felt both tiring to your eyes and childishly relaxing.
When Steve informed you of the opening of a new club - one that was officially owned by someone else, but in reality fell under Steve’s command in that twisted dark web of connections you learned intertwines the city and the whole fucking coast up to the Capitol - you snorted at him that you’re not a college girl interested in spending her Friday evening skanky, drunk and groped.
The last word you should’ve skipped, because of course your husband grinned that lethal way that wordlessly reminded you that you’d most certainly be groped and ruined by him anyway.
Thankfully, Steve didn’t utter a word about the importance of that club opening to his business, or reputation, or whatever. You didn’t give a damn about any of that. Honestly, you doubted Steve did either.
It was probably an opportunity for him to remind someone that he was still the biggest predator, or to put deep fear in them. For you, it was a chance to get a migraine.
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.
A contrast to the dark red blood on the other side.
