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Little Princess

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As far as dates go, Sam Wilson had been incredibly funny, insanely articulate, perhaps a little handsy as he paid the bill, though frankly, it had taken a lot of self-control not to drag him into the bathroom to have him teach you some of his rap skills. 


Sam was a psychologist specializing in PTSD and spent his weekends volunteering at the veteran’s soup kitchen around the corner. He was a momma’s boy, charming and incredibly smart. 


It hadn’t been the worst date you’d been on. You have definitely had worse experiences. 


No, the problem wasn’t Sam, it was you. Well, Steve to be more precise. But tonight, you had made a promise to yourself you would not think about him, though it was proving difficult. 


You had spent a good part of your date at the rundown dive bar glancing around the room checking for his spies. Steve has eyes all over New York and it appeared Bill’s Tavern, in the backend of Harlem, was no exception. You spied the six-foot-something giant Drax by the bar, his eyes glued to his phone as you enjoyed your third drink. 


The air was brisk as you and Sam stood on the sidewalk as you waited for the Lyft he had ordered for you. 


“I had a great time tonight,” he said in his rich, chocolatey voice, a thick finger caressing your cheek as you stepped closer. 


“I had a great time too, Sam.”


There was this all-encompassing calming aura that surrounded Sam. You could see why he was so good at his job. You were so lost in his calming energy that you failed to see Drax standing in the shadows, his phone’s camera trailed on you both.


The kiss was sweet, the lingering taste of cheap beer and wings on Sam’s tongue. He wasn’t rushed, though you could feel his heart racing under the palm of your hand. He took his time, his tongue languidly caressing yours as his hands gently carding in your hair.


The impatient honk of a car horn drew you from each other, the Lyft driver gifting you a glare.


Sam chuckled before placing another tender kiss to your lips. “Text me when you get home and we can plan our next date.”


“That’s rather presumptuous of you Mr. Wilson,” you teased as you made your way to the Lyft. “Who says there’s going to be another date?”


You found yourself briefly pinned to the cab, Sam’s hot lips on yours. Well damn.


“I’m thinking bowling for our next date,” Sam chuckled as he helped you into the car. “Text me when you get home.”


As the car pulled away, a hum of excitement settled over you. Sam was a good man and maybe you could take a chance with him. He was kind, considerate, had respected your space, although you had possibly encouraged the thigh stroking as he paid your tab. 


He was the kind of man you needed in your life. 


The vibrating of your phone in your clutch pulled you from your reverie. You pulled out your phone and tensed.


I miss you, Princess. 


Your blood ran cold, your hands shaking as you tried to force your phone back into your impractical clutch, the phone dropping onto the floor of the car. You blindly reached around the floor, grabbing the phone and shoving it back into your clutch.


Fuck Steve Rogers. And fuck you for falling for his charm.


Your life had been up-ended the day he walked into your studio like he owned the place, charming your assistant and roaming staff of The New York Times . He had been selected as one of New York’s top bachelors and it didn’t take long for you to fall under his spell.


Not long into the shoot, Steve had requested you photograph him alone. How he had managed to talk the journalist into that you weren’t sure, but Steve has his ways.


He was funny, witty and considerate as you photographed him on the fire escape, the smell of Chinese takeout permeating the air, the hustle and bustle of New York’s symphony surrounding you. He opened up about the death of his mother and saving his best friend Bucky from a life all but destroyed by drugs after his return from Afghanistan. 


He asked you about your life, your moving to New York. And in a moment of weakness, or perhaps blindness, you opened up. You told him of your previous relationship, an abusive and toxic environment that had worn you down to the bone.


Had the walls around your heart not been ten inches thick you would have fallen hard for him. But you were weary. You had heard the rumors about dynamite Steve Rogers, everyone in New York had. He ruled the streets of Brooklyn, Harlem, Queens and the Bronx. He was lethal, clandestine and capricious. 


And yet the man before you… perhaps it had all been a terrible case of Chinese whispers. 


He had stayed behind to help you pack up, your assistant long gone, before insisting on taking you to dinner. Dinner quickly spiraled into drinks at his loft, overlooking the Hudson River, which equally descended to you between his sheets. 


The sex had been incredible. No man had been able to make you come so hard, ripping the breath from your lungs before plunging you back into the darkness over and over again. 


The following morning found you pinned to his shower wall as he ate you out before fucking you on the kitchen table. Your body ached for days following your night with the mobster king. 


You had not been looking for a relationship, especially with a man with his reputation, however, it had slowly become difficult to see the world through the cloud he had over your life. 


It had started innocently enough. The occasional text message asking you for a drink, to which you would politely decline. Business was booming and you were too busy to be contemplating a relationship. 


Texts turned into flowers. The flower arrangements were sweet and charming but gradually became more ostentatious and expensive. 


Soon Steve would show up at the studio with gifts or food. You didn’t have the nerve to send him on his way, his temper and ability to turn on a dime slowly seeping into the time you spent together.


Steve scared you, and rightfully so. Everywhere you turned he would be there, his men scattered around the city keeping tabs on you. Steve was not subtle.


You had tried going to the police but that had been a disaster. You quickly learned that Steve had eyes all over the city, including half the NYPD. The spanking you had received, strewn over his lap, had been a lesson quickly learned.


A year on and Steve was still sending you gifts, text messages and occasionally having food sent to your apartment. You could not go to the shops without being followed. 


Your heart had broken when your favourite model, Loki, had received death threats when Steve had spied you having drinks one night.


As you ascended the stairs of your apartment complex you contemplated texting Sam and calling the whole thing off. You could not live with yourself if something happened to him. 


You knew something was terribly wrong the second you opened the door to your apartment. The distinct smell of copper filled the air, the apartment filled with light when you had left just the kitchen light on as you left for your date. Mixed with the acrid coppery scent was the unmistakable scent of cedarwood and musk. 


Fear spiked as you stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind you, escape was not an option. White noise filled your ears, deaf to the cries and specific sound of bone snapping as you made your way into your small living room. 


The scene before you was something from a terrible mob movie. Sam, sweet considerate Sam, tied to your new, high back, green velvet dining chair, Clint Barton calmly drawing a kitchen knife over Sam’s cheek, blood trickling down his chocolate skin. 


A sob escaped your lips as you froze, tears instantly painting your skin as blood did Sam’s. Your skin pricked cold as warm fingers caressed your cheek, descending down your neck, a hot body pressed against your back. He suffocated you, Steve’s overwhelming, dominating presence a terrifying contradiction to sweet, calming Sam.


Sam looked like he had gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, and whilst Clint Barton was no boxer, he was a butcher. 


“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Steve cooed in your ear, your ice-cold skin burning as his hot breath brushed against you. “ Pretend you never saw that. I can’t stand it when you look so scared.


He coaxed you to turn around, your back to Sam. His eyes locked on yours; they were dark blue, the kind of darkness that you would equate to the infinite darkness of space, the unknown and vast black. It was so easy to get sucked into that vacuous, dangerous gaze.


“Princess, you know I don’t like it when you go out with other men,” he sneered, his fingers digging into the skin of your cheek. “Why must you torture me like this?”


Your hands gripped his forearms, desperation pulling you under the water. “Please, Steve, punish me. Let him go. It was my idea, I pushed him to take me out.”


“Sshhh,” Steve cooed, resting his forehead against yours, lightly brushing his nose against your face. “It’s okay sweetheart, I know you were just trying to be nice to him, because you love me, right? I’m the only man you love.”


He hugged you, your skin alight under his touch as his hands cascaded down your back. The rhythmic push of his chest as he breathed was calming, if for a second, before the crashing reality hit you. 


“You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you, princess?” 


Your hands clenched at your side before he fought to pull your arms around his waist, you lamely punch at him. 


“Come on, Princess, don’t fight me. Please stop denying me. You are mine and I am yours.” His hands again gripped your face as his lips desperately met yours in some desperate attempt to win you over. 


Your salty tears intermingled with your lips, playing the role of the stark reminder of the dire situation you were in. Sam was tied to your dining room chair, bleeding profusely and most likely next on Steve’s kill-list. 


“Please don’t kill him,” you pleaded, desperately giving in to his kiss, your hands clutching onto the lapels of his designer suit. “Please, Steve, it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”


Steve sighed, hugging you, your body flush against his as though you were lovers greeting at the airport after months apart. 


“I know you are sorry sweetheart,” he cooed, resting his chin on the crest of your head. “But Sam here should know better than to touch what belongs to me.”


“He didn’t…”


Steve silenced you with his lips against yours, his soft pouty mouth draining what Lilliputian fight you had left in your veins. 


“You both just need to be taught a lesson that he shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to him and you are my whore.” 


His lips instantly silenced your whimpers, drawing your gaze back to him as you moved to give Sam an apologetic look. Not that an apologetic look would atone your bloody hands or save Sam.


“I’m not going to kill Sam, sweetheart, especially in front of you. Sam needs to learn to keep his hands off of you and you need to be reminded of whom you belong to.”


Your skin crawled and you dared to look at Sam as Steve moved away, positioning himself on your couch, his legs spread wide. 


“You don’t have to do this man,” Sam drawled, “let her go and I will take the beating…”


You cried as Clint knocked Sam on the head with his Glock,  Sam hissing at the impact. Bucky chuckled darkly from the corner of the room, his arms crossed against his chest as his eyes twinkled with excitement.


“Take your clothes off, Princess,” Steve drawled, spreading his legs further, a clear display of marking his territory. You stalled, nervously glancing around the room at the men situated around your small living room, their Glocks on display. “Unless of course, you would rather I put a bullet into Sam’s brain.”


Through your blurred vision, you focused on the cheap Ikea print on the wall above Steve’s head, your hands shaking as you pulled your jumper over your head, your nipples hard against the lace of your bra. In your periphery, you could see Steve smirk, a finger languidly running over his lip as his eyes trailed over your bra-clad breasts.


As your fingers began to undo the button on your jeans you tried to picture yourself anywhere but here. You imagined you were back on your date with Sam at the bar, drinking cheap beer and eating terrible wings, laughing over a game of pool. You imagined his lips on yours as you waited for your Lyft. 


“Oh sweetheart,” Steve croons as your jeans hit the floor and you stepped out of them. “Look at that Sammy, my baby girl is all wet for me.” Your body flushed hot with embarrassment as you squeeze your eyes shut. “Look at the little wet patch on her panties boys. Isn’t she a pretty picture?”


“You are a lucky son of a bitch,” Bucky said with a grin, his eyes firmly fixed on Steve. 


“That I am, Buck.” Steve’s voice dropped another octave, rich like molasses. “Come on sweetheart, I still don’t see you naked.”


You choked back a sob as you unclasped your lace bra, throwing it to the side with your jumper and pushing down your panties. 


“You’re so sweet when you do as you’re told,” Steve said, his voice darker and more drawn out as he stood up and stalked over to you. His hands began to undo his tailored pants and untucked his pressed-shirt. You sucked in a desperate breath as you felt him come behind you and wrap his hand around your neck. “And because you’re such a sweet girl you’re going to let me fuck you in front of Sammy, aren’t you? Because I know, deep down, you really want the world to know you belong to me. You’re my little princess, aren’t you?”


His hand was blisteringly hot against your skin as he pressed his hard cock up against your ass. “We’re going to put on a little show for our friend, Sammy,” he whispered wickedly in your ear, gently steering you around the table to face Sammy, whose head hung. “Don’t get shy on us now, Sammy boy,” Steve taunted, staring directly at Sam over your shoulder, “my sweet little princess is going to put on a show for you.” 


Sam did not move, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Come on Sammy, if you’re not going to watch I would hate to have to go give your sweet mother a visit.” 


“You son of a bitch,” Sam growled looking him directly in the eyes. “You touch one hair on her head…”


“Yeah, yeah,” Steve laughed as he ran his hand over your hair, “you’ll kill me. Like I haven’t heard that one before.” His men laughed, a truly choreographed moment. “You know when my princess gets going her nipples become really sensitive. She has the sweetest little mewl when you nibble on them.” To make a point his hands tweaked your nipples. “Eyes on Sammy, princess,” he whispered in your ear.


Your eyes locked on Sam’s and you mouthed an apology. Sam gifted you a weak smile. 


“And she just loves having her pussy eaten,” Steve crooned as his hands slowly moved down your body before cupping you. “I could spend hours edging her. I tell you, she’s a real screamer when she finally comes. My neighbours complained the night I had her.”


It was humiliating, the telltale trickle of juices running down your legs. To further his point, Steve ran a finger through the damp trail and brought it to his mouth. “Mmmm, sweetheart, you still taste just like I remember. Be a good girl and put your right leg up onto the table.” 


You complied, biting back a sob as you felt the cool air brush your exposed pussy. You felt his hard, weeping cock caress your folds, Steve’s breathy groan vibrating against your ear. You could practically feel his gaze burning through Sam as he slowly entered you, your walls stretching against his thick cock.


You tried to stifle the mewl that threatened to slip through your lips, Steve’s grip tightening around your neck as slowly pulled out before pushing back in. 


“Is that good, sweetheart?” You mewled a pathetic yes before uttering a squeak as his fingers found your clit. “Oh sweetheart, you are so tight, like a glove. You were made for me, weren’t you?” 


The lewd, wet noises as he fucked up into you, Sam’s hard eyes trained on you, the pathetic, unhindered cries falling from your lips were embarrassing and all-consuming. 


“I told you she sang like a bird,” Steve chuckled as his hands moved to your hips, holding you in place as he moved faster, his fingers drawing circles over your taut clit. “Are you going to show my friends what a good princess you are when you come?”


You clenched around his cock as he fucked you through your eye-watering orgasm, your body shaking in his grip as you cried out, the sobs all-encompassing as the weight of reality brought you crashing back down to earth. 


“That’s it, princess,” Steve crooned sweetly, the dark, dangerous undertone evident, “squeeze my cock. I’m going to fill you up, princess. Show Sammy who you belong to.”


You mouthed apology after apology to Sam as Steve fucked you roughly, his fingers dragging another orgasm from you as he came hard, filling you and branding you with his teeth on your neck. 


Your head was hazy and light as you felt Steve pull you flush against his chest, his mouth claiming yours, his fingers gently tugging your hair.


“Be a good little princess and go and tell Sammy,” he said before whispering gently in your ear. 


Your lip wobbled, shame burning your skin like fire as you slowly walked over to Sam, kneeling before him. “I’m sorry Sam, I can’t see you anymore. I’m the property of Steve Rogers.”