Summary: Steve Rogers is the CEO of his own company, and he’s a man that has never heard the word no from anyone. He goes after what he wants and he gets it, no matter the cost.
You’re doing your best; sharing an apartment with your best friend, struggling through college, trying to make your own imprint on this world.
The two of you cross paths when, as a favor to your friend, you interview him for a magazine. Without meaning to, you catch the attention of the insanely wealthy and intense bachelor.
Word Count: 2,658
Warnings for Series: Angst, fluff, explicit rough & consensual sexual content, dub-con, dom!Steve, sub!reader, talk of past abusive dom / dub relationship, mentions of cheating, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: Yes. There are going to be similarities to 50 Shades of Grey. This isn’t exactly a rewrite, this is my take on how it should have been. This fic wouldn’t be possible without @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree, their support and assistance has been invaluable.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Steve watched her sleep, not because he couldn’t sleep himself, but because he wanted to make sure nothing more happened to Y/N. He had this innate need to protect her at all costs, no matter what that entailed.
Y/N shifted against his side, her lips parting as her head lolled back, eyes skimming back and forth. He pushed the hair from her face, traced along the shell of her ear with his thumb, then the line of her jaw, and finally the column of her neck. She was so beautiful, it made his heart skip a beat. It sounded corny, but it was the truth; from the minute he saw her, he knew she was special and different. He just hadn’t realized how much.
His last relationship had been one hell of a roller coaster, so much so, that when people had started asking questions about when they were going to get engaged, Steve buckled under the constant pressure and started looking at rings.
A part of him would always wonder what it would have been like if he and Sharon had stayed together, but the day he found her in bed with another man, he knew he had to sever all ties with the woman, and not a day had passed that he didn’t regret doing so.
From that moment on, he buried himself in work; acquisitions and mergers, charity functions and press conferences. Before he could even blink, a year had flown by, and Y/N was literally falling into his office. It felt as if he had taken his first breath the moment she looked up at him. He wanted her, and he wanted her in every dark and carnal way he could take her. He could feel it, the familiar ache of a feeling so strong and intense, there was no use fighting it, he just had to buckle down, and enjoy the ride.
Steve was so lost in watching Y/N, he didn’t remember falling asleep.
The colors of the rising sun were on your face, pulling you from unconsciousness one nerve at a time. It started in your toes and fingers, twitching, muscles stretching almost painfully from sleeping on the couch. Then it was in your calves and thighs, your back, and finally, your arms, raised over your head, a small gasp leaving your lips. Steve’s hand flexed against your hip, reminding you of his presence, even though he was sleeping.
When you pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek, you had every intention of going into the kitchen to make some coffee. Needless to say, when Steve’s arm snaked around your waist, holding you to him, you sucked in a gasp of surprise, your hands planted on his chest, legs straddling his.
“Morning,” he hummed against your lips before kissing you.
Your protests were weak. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
“I don’t care,” was his gruff answer, and then his teeth were on your bottom lip, tugging, urging you to open your mouth.
Heat coursed through you at the way he kissed you; it was greedy and urgent, dominating your senses. His hands were on your back and in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You pushed your knees into the couch and scraped your nails through his thick hair, pulling gasps and moans from the man beneath you.
When his hands fell to your hips, you thought he would just rock you against him, but he reached around, grabbed the globes of your ass, and pulled you into him so you could feel the thick outline of his cock. Arousal was dampening your panties and your entire body was buzzing; every part of you wanted to free his cock and ride him, but two things happened at once.
Your phone rang and a memory of Brock flashed in your mind.
With your hands on Steve’s chest, you pushed back and sucked in a stuttering breath. He looked at you with wide eyes.
“Are you okay, doll? You’re shaking.” He worked his hands up and down your goosebump-covered arms.
You shook your head as you said, “Yeah, fine. I just… my phone.” Pushing off his lap, you sat on the edge of the couch and grabbed your phone from the table. It wasn’t a number you recognized, but you swiped your finger across the screen, accepting the call.
“Hello?” you rasped tremulously, your hand pressed to your chest.
There was a low chuckle that made your heart stop. “How’s my girl?”
A cold sweat washed over you and you could feel the blood drain from your face. “B… B… Brock? What do… why are…. You can’t be calling me.”
Your ex-dominant hummed in response. “I saw you in the paper this morning, Y/N, and shit, you looked fucking incredible last night.”
“Last night?” you rasped, tears pricking your eyes as you shoved away from the couch and lurched across the apartment. You ripped open the door and yanked the New York Post from the welcome mat.
Steve was behind you, closing the door after he took a look both ways down the hall. He watched as you slapped the paper onto the counter and flipping through the pages.
“Page six, Y/N,” he whispered, and it made your stomach roll.
Your hands were shaking as you turned to the page number provided, and sure enough, there was a half-page picture of you and Steve, freshly emerged from his town car, the pair of you smiling wide.
At thirty years old, Steve Rogers is a multi-millionaire, and the CEO of Rogers Tech, the youngest to hold the title since the company was founded in the late 1880’s. While he has had success with the most recent acquisition of Stark Communications, Mr. Rogers has been quite unlucky in the romance department. However, it appears things are turning around.
Last night, he was seen outside of ‘Per Se’ with an unidentified young woman. One of the diners said that they looked like they were watching a love story unfold right before their eyes. The pair were said to be holding hands and kissing throughout their meal, sitting in close proximity with one another up until dessert.
However, there have been a few comments regarding how the night ended. His date was overheard having a heated conversation and was later spotted crying while Steve tried to console her.
Any requests for a comment have been denied.
“That… that’s not me,” you tried to argue, even though you knew he could tell when you were lying.
“Don’t bullshit me, Y/N,” he snarled with barely restrained rage.
Once Steve was done reading over your shoulder, he dug out his phone and, sure enough, there were an alarming number of missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. He was about to shove the phone into his pocket when it rang. It was his mother, and he knew better than to ignore her.
“What was the last thing I said to you, huh?” His gritty voice made you want to throw up.
“I don’t remember, Brock,” you murmured. “I was unconscious.”
With a sigh, he said, “Yeah, well, that’s what you get for not listening.”
“No,” you argued through your teeth. “You’re a fucking psychopath, Brock. You were the one that wouldn’t listen. You abused your position over me!”
At that, Steve whirled around. “I’ll call you back, ma.”
“Listen here, you ungrateful bitch,” he snarled, undoubtedly spitting while he raged. “You were a weakling when I found you.”
“I was eighteen, Brock,” you reminded him for the hundredth time.
The line went silent for a moment, and when Brock came back, he was calm. “‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’ That was the last thing I said to you. Ring a bell?”
Your legs were shaking so bad, you were surprised you weren’t on the floor. “I’m not a possession to be had, Brock.”
“You’re mine. One way or another, you’re going to see it my way. I’ll see you soon,” he cooed before disconnecting the call.
Steve was at your side, turning you around to face him. “Y/N, who is Brock?”
Your mind was a jumble of memories, both genuine and reconstructed, and it was too much. It was difficult to focus on any one thing, your eyes were darting around Steve’s face and shirt, your nails digging into your palm of one hand, the other squeezing the phone so hard you thought you heard it crack. The breath was tearing in and out of you and the walls, shit, the walls were closing in on you.
Steve knew an anxiety attack when he saw one. Bucky’s honorable discharge came less than one month after his third tour of Afghanistan, and his PTSD was off the charts. Steve did everything he could to help his best friend; medication, therapists, meditation, both in and out patient programs. He had seen him at the lowest of the lows, flying high, and everything in between.
“Breathe,” he instructed, his hands cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “I need you to breathe, Y/N.”
Your teeth and lungs ached, but you didn’t do as you were told. The last thing you wanted to do at that moment was bend to the will of a man, even if you were falling for him.
Steve’s brow arched when he said it again. “No, you don’t get to shut down on me like this. You need to fucking breathe, and not because I want you to.”
Shit, he was right. With your chin quivering, your eyes rolled back as you sucked in a ragged breath.
“Again,” he said, less harsh than before.
Your hands loosened as you pulled in another breath, and another, the white-hot rage had started to dissipate.
“Good. That’s a good girl,” he praised, pushing a kiss to your forehead.
Once the breath wasn’t hitching in your throat, he asked, “You want to talk about it?”
“No, but if you really want this,” you motioned between the two of you, “then I have to.”
Steve was standing because he couldn’t sit down, he was too anxious, and you were sitting because you couldn’t stand, not on shaking legs. He waited until you were ready to tell him what had happened between you and Brock.
“As I’m sure you’ve managed to work out,” you started, voice soft and unsure. “I’m a submissive.”
“I have,” he confirmed, hands shoved into the pockets of his silk pants. “And I’m sure you’re deduced that I’m a dominant.”
You couldn’t stop the corner of your lips from pulling up. “I have.” Before diving into the dark and gritty details of your relationship with Brock, you added, “I like you, Steve, a lot. And if you don’t want to be with me after hearing the truth, well… I understand.”
Steve didn’t say anything, just nodded his head once and waited. It took you five minutes to say anything.
“Brock was my dominant for almost two years. I met him one day, early into my freshman year, and we just… God, this sounds so stupid now. We clicked. He was so nice and sweet and supportive of my degree, of what I wanted to do after graduation. The sex was… incredible. That was all in the beginning,” you scoffed, scraping a hand over your face roughly.
You chanced a glance at Steve, and nothing much about him had changed. He wore a stoic expression, though he was clenching his jaw and his eyes were dark. You could see the tension in his shoulders, but you didn’t focus on it, because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to keep talking.
“It was after a year that he changed. He was keeping secrets, he was possessive, not letting me go anywhere if he didn’t approve it, he was jealous for no reason, paranoid, and then, one night, he got really drunk.” You had to stop for a minute, work on your breathing, get your heart to slow down.
“He… he uh,” you shifted in your seat, craning your neck to stretch out the spasm, “threatened to kill me if I left him.”
“So you stayed,” Steve murmured darkly.
Your eyes were full of tears when you looked at him. “I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do. I held out hope that he would change after that, but nothing I did was good enough for him. He couldn’t… get off, and it was all my fault, said if I’d let him go rougher, harder, that maybe he could look past the fact that I wasn’t pretty anymore.”
Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, your eyes fell to your bouncing leg. “So… I did, I let him take things further. I… in spite of what he had been like before, I trusted him. He was my dominant, he swore he’d never hurt me.”
Steve was in front of you, on his knees, between your legs, his hands on your damp face. “Dominants are never to hurt their submissives, Y/N,” he breathed.
“He beat me,” you finally admitted, your chin quivering, bile rising in your chest. “He whipped me until I passed out.”
You could feel the anger rolling through Steve, it was unbridled and dangerous, but his fingers didn’t dig into your flesh, something you made a mental note of.
“Nat found me, took me to the hospital, and called the police.”
“When did this happen?” he asked, voice low and gritty.
You sniffled and wiped a hand over your face. “Two years ago, and I haven’t been able to be with anyone since.” You watched the anger drain from his expression.
“Oh, doll,” he murmured, pressing his lips to yours. “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do it to me,” you chuckled ruefully.
“And I never will,” Steve promised, staring at you with crystal eyes.
Your heart started to stutter in your chest at the realization of his words. “I’m damaged goods, Steve,” you tried dissuading him.
Wearing a gentle smile, he repeated your words to Brock earlier. “You’re not a possession,Y/N. And I will never, ever treat you as such.”
A sob escaped you at that point and Steve pulled you into him as he maneuvered himself onto the couch, dragging you onto his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck and wept openly. It had felt good to tell someone about it, someone that wasn’t Nat or someone that would judge you. Steve was someone that understood the sexual lifestyle.
“I’m damaged goods, Steve,” she tried arguing, giving him an out, should he want one. Only one problem with that, he was invested, there was no way he could walk away. Not then. Not ever.
“You’re not a possession,Y/N. And I will never,
ever
treat you as such,” he reassured her, because that’s not what happened in a healthy relationship of any kind.
Steve watched as she shattered and it made his heart lurch in his chest. Before he could think about it, he was pulling her into him as he moved into a sitting position on the couch. She was in his lap, her knees drawn up, pressing into his side, her arms around his neck as she wept. He held onto her tight, securing her to his chest with an arm around her upper back, the other around her waist, fingers in her other side, digging in, but not too deep, just a reassurance that he was there, and that he would always be there.
He wanted to find Brock and choke the life out of him with his own bare hands, but on the other hand, he wanted to do nothing more than spend the rest of his life showing Y/N how amazing she was, shower her with love and affection, what a healthy dom / sub relationship was like; all the things she deserved in life.
NINE
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