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: 2,174
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, animal cruelty [no details], rape, 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. GIF found on Google Images.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the speeding vehicle, you’d never been more scared, including the night that Brock had tied you up and whipped you until you passed out. That night was a walk in the park compared to the anxiety and unbridled fear that washed through you, threatening to consume you whole.
Out of nowhere, Bucky was yelling. “Hold on!”
You gave a yelp as the tires squealed against the asphalt when Bucky slammed on the brakes. He moved quickly, turning at the waist to pull you into him as best as he could, his arms wrapping tight around you, curling his body around yours. The oncoming truck plowed into the front panel of the car, driver’s side, by the engine, the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass exploded in your ears. The last thing you remembered was the car flipping.
It was the cracking of Brock’s hand on your face that woke you, pulling a yelp from your aching throat. The speed at which your head whipped to the side made your stomach roll, made the already sensitive and torn tissue in your neck scream in agony. Tears were in your eyes as you struggled to open them, the pain pulsing behind them, only growing more intense as you moved your head back to its original position.
You almost threw up when a barking laugh left your ex-dominant. “Fuck, you’re a smart one, ain’t ya? Alright, alright, you caught me. I want money, Steve, and a lot of it.”
“Ste-” you tried saying his name, letting him know that you were… alive.
Brock started circling the chair you were strapped into, the blade in his hand scraping over your tattered shirt, making you shudder. “I’ll go away if you pay me to go away.”
A whimper bubbled in your throat, your hands instinctively testing the bonds around them. “Please, Brock,” you begged. “You do- you don’t have to do this.” Your voice was barely a whisper, which meant that Steve couldn’t hear you.
“God, you sound like you miss her or somethin’,” Brock laughed again. The blade moved through your bloodied hair before it scraped along your jaw. You wrenched your head to the side, bile rising in your throat at the explosion of pain in your head and neck.
He knelt down and grabbed your chin between his two fingers, sighing heavily into the phone. “Ten million, cash, in a suitcase, three hours. I’ll call you with a location.” The call was disconnected before Steve could say anything.
Your entire face crumpled at the carnal lust and rage you saw in his eyes. “Why, Brock?” you croaked.
“You know the old cliche, doll,” he grinned, dark eyes roving over your chest. “If I can’t have you…” his gritty voice trailed off and he licked his lips hungrily.
“No,” you argued, ripping your head from his grip, a move which you regretted immediately. “I will never be with you.”
With a snarl, Brock tangled his hand in your hair and yanked you toward him, his lips brushing against yours when he said, “You’ve always been mine.” And then he was kissing you savagely, forcing his tongue into your mouth and moaning when you started struggling.
You bit his lip hard, drawing blood from it. He ripped away and swiped away the crimson drops with his thumb. “You’re gonna pay for that, you little bitch.” Brock slapped you again, much harder than the first time, with his opposite hand, the one that bore a ring. The design cut into your skin as your head whipped to the side, stars littering your vision.
“Don’t… fucking… hurt her,” someone ground out pitifully. It was Bucky, and he was trying desperately to get to you by pulling himself along the concrete.
You choked on a sob at the sight of him. His knuckles were scraped raw, fingernails caked in dirt, there was gash on his forehead that hadn’t stopped leaking, one of his eyes was swollen shut, a large bruise was blossoming on his chin, and shit, both of his legs were broken.
Brock rolled his eyes as he whirled around. “What are you gonna do about it, Bucky?”
“I’m going to kick your ass,” he vowed, venom lacing his words.
“I’d love to see you try.” Brock strolled over, smirking as Bucky grabbed one of his ankles. He easily wrenched it free, using the momentum to kick Bucky in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious.
There was a scream building inside of you, fueled by rage and fear and hatred. You let loose, not caring how badly it hurt or the consequence it would have. Even as Brock was yelling at you, demanding that you stop, storming over, towering over you, snarling, you wouldn’t stop screaming. You didn’t stop until the handle of the blade sent you spiraling into the darkness.
The brothers had been at the bank for over almost two hours, and Steve felt like he was going to explode. The longer it took to get the money together, the longer Y/N was with Brock, the longer Brock was doing God knows what to Y/N. Then there was the concern for Bucky. Where was he, had something happened to him, was he even alive? Steve felt like he was going to throw up.
Thank God for Clint. In addition to Bucky, Steve’s brother had always been there for him, no hesitation, no judgement, no second guessing, no looking back. It was as if the universe had brought them together, knowing that they needed each other, that without one, the other wouldn’t survive.
Despite the wealth he was adopted into, that he would want for nothing, the reassurances that his new parents would never give up on him, that they would be there no matter what, Steve didn’t believe them. Every night after dinner, he would pack a bag and sit on the bed, waiting for someone from child services to come and retrieve him. Years later, there were still times that feeling crept into his bones, but it never happened.
Clint nudged Steve with his knee. “Breathe, man.”
“What’s taking them so fucking long?” Unable to sit any longer, Steve pushed out of the chair and started pacing.
“Ten million is a lot of money,” Clint chuckled ruefully.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced at the pain behind his eyes. “I get that, I do. It’s just… time’s almost up.”
“And he’ll call,” Clint reminded him. “He said he would.”
“He also killed her fuckin’ cat,” Steve bit out, tears pricking his eyes.
Clint was out of the chair and in front of his bigger little brother. “You’re scared, I get it. Hell, if I were in your shoes, I doubt I’d be talking in complete sentences. You gotta breathe, man. Breathe and have a little faith that this whole thing is going to be okay. Can you do that for me?”
It took Steve several long moments before he could answer. “Yeah, I can.”
“That’s what I’m talking ‘bout.” Clint clapped his brother on the shoulder, turning around a moment later just as the bank manager entered the room.
“I do apologize for the delay,” he murmured, a large bag in each of his hands.
Steve crossed the room in three strides and took one of the bags. “Thank you,” was all he said. Clint followed suit, taking the other bag and jogging to catch up to his brother as he went out the back way, through the employees only area.
Clint was still chasing after Steve in the parking lot. “Steve, slow down.”
“Why? We have what we came for,” he argued, his shoulders tight.
“Because,” Clint bit out, jumping in front of his brother, “we don’t know where Y/N is yet.”
“I know,” Steve roared, throwing the bag into the back seat of the sleek SUV. “I know, okay?”
Clint held his hand out after setting his bag next to the other. “I’m driving.”
“Like hell you -”
“Steven Grant Rogers, give me the fucking keys,” Clint ordered calmly.
With a roll of his eyes, Steve pulled the keys from his pocket and pushed them into Clint’s hand. He had just opened his mouth for some smart ass retort, but the phone in his pocket sounded off. The phone almost fell from his hand as he yanked it from his pocket.
“He- hello,” he stammered after putting it on speaker.
Brock was straight to the point. “Do you have it?”
“Yes, ten million, just like you said.”
“Good job, Steve,” Brock teased. “Keep it up and you won’t be cleaning up Y/N’s brain matter with a mop.”
Steve almost choked on the bile that had risen in his throat. “Where am I going?”
“The abandoned train station,” was Brock’s answer. “You have fifteen minutes.”
“I had three hours, two hours and fifteen minutes ago,” Steve argued desperately. “The train station is on the other side of town. There’s no way -”
“Fifteen minutes, Stevie,” Brock cut him off. “One more thing, don’t try calling the cops for help. You even try it, I’ll blow her fucking face off.” The line went dead a second later.
During the fourteen minute and thirty-five second drive, the brothers put together a plan for getting Y/N back alive. It was weak and full of what if scenarios, but it was better than nothing.
With twenty-five seconds remaining, Steve took hold of the bags and jogged over to the train station while Clint disappeared around the back. Steve’s designer shoes slid on the concrete floor as he burst into the room.
“Cuttin’ it real close,” Brock admonished, blade in his hand, pressed to her throat, a whimper on her lips.
Steve’s eyes fell to the bloodied and battered man on the floor. “Is he -”
“Dead?” Brock finished. “I don’t think so. Not another step,” he warned Steve, his eyes dark and murderous.
“Okay, okay,” Steve conceded, raising his hands in the air after setting the bags down and taking several steps back.
Brock, with his hand in Y/N’s hair, he wrenched her from the chair and used her as a shield as he crossed the room. “Open ‘em up,” he growled into her ear.
Her hands were shaking as she bent down slowly, every inch of Brock’s body plastered to her back, his breath hot on her skin. First one zipper was opened, then the second, and the moment Brock’s eyes landed on the thick stacks of cash, he let out a low whistle of appreciation.
“Ain’t that a fuckin’ sight.” And then, rage appeared on Y/N’s face.
She shoved her elbow into his ribs and slammed the back of her head into his nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud snap. Brock roared in pain and dropped the knife to cover his face at the same time that Steve lunged forward to grab Y/N, but he was too late.
Brock had a gun in his hand and his arm wrapped around Y/N’s waist, the gun under her chin, her nose brushing against his. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” he warned.
“Easy, Brock,” Steve tried diffusing the situation.
“Shut it, Rogers,” he yelled, the sound of the hammer cocking echoed loudly in the room.
Steve wasn’t known for giving up. “Hey, man, we had a deal. Ten million dollars and you let her go. You promised, man.”
“Yeah, well, that was before your bitch broke my fuckin’ nose.”
Brock heard something shift against the concrete, but didn’t know what it was, not until white-hot pain erupted behind his kneecap. He unleashed a scream of unbridled pain that made his own ears buzz. With Y/N still in his grip, Brock fell to the ground, landing on his side. That was where he noticed a very conscious Bucky, a bloody knife in his hand, glaring at him with one eye.
The gun was still between them as Y/N made a move to gain control of it. Brock roared as her hands wrapped around the weapon. He rolled her to her back and pinned her there with his wide and muscular frame, snarling and swearing at her, calling her every vile name he could think of.
Steve was rushing over, murder in his eyes, prepared to kill the son of a bitch, but as soon as he kicked Brock in the face, snapping his head back with an audible crack, the gun discharged. Sandwiched between Brock and Y/N, the sound was muffled, distorted. Clint entered through the back of the train station, taking off at a dead run at the sight before him, the phone already in his hands, talking with a 911 operator.
Choking on a shout of her name, Steve dropped to his knees and shoved Brock’s body away. God, there was so much blood, too much. Steve couldn’t find the source, and it only fueled the anxiety exploding in his chest.
“Please don’t leave me,” Steve begged, pulling Y/N into his lap, cradling her, kissing her forehead.
TWENTY
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