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: 1,104
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.
It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. Steve and Y/N were supposed to get married, grow old together, have a gaggle of kids and grandkids, go on trips around the world; the scenarios and possibilities were endless. That was until Brock came around and fucked it all up. The asshole took everything away from Steve, ripping Y/N away from him with a twitch of his finger. He scraped a hand over his face, a heaving sigh leaving him, the darkness inside of him growing larger, reaching out to touch everything, consuming him.
“Mr. Rogers,” the coroner interrupted Steve’s mourning. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your signature.”
Steve took the proffered clipboard and pen, scratching his name across the dark line at the bottom of the form, the one that gave permission for the hospital to release Y/N’s body to the funeral parlor. Tears clouded his vision as he handed the form back, grunting as the coroner thanked him.
“Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” And with a curt nod, the coroner disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
When Steve was done blinking away the tears, he looked down at the steel table, finding Y/N, a stark white sheet covering most of her bruised and battered body. Her eyes were closed, long lashes fanning out, her once-tanned skin was ghostly grey, a stitched up y incision on her chest. Steve’s fingers hovered over her hand, daring not to touch her, because if he did and she didn’t respond, then Y/N was really dead.
A sob strangled him when one of his fingers twitched, inadvertently touching her. Her skin was chilled, driving a shudder down Steve’s spine. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over her knuckles, his thumb running over the spot where her vein once pulsed in her wrist.
“I can’t do this, baby,” he sobbed, his knees like rubber, not able to support him any longer. He fell to his knees with a grunt. “Not without you. What am I supposed to do without you?” Y/N didn’t answer, she couldn’t, but there was a small part of Steve that fully expected her to.
He reached up to her head and pushed the hair from her face, threading his fingers through the once-lush strands, all but praying for her eyes to open. It was ridiculous, he knew that. Y/N was dead, and it was all his fault. He didn’t protect her as he promised he would. Too many other things had divided his priorities, his attention, and now he was paying the ultimate price.
Gathering whatever strength he had left, Steve pushed up to his feet and pressed a kiss to Y/N’s clammy forehead.
“Steve?” Wait, he knew that voice, but it couldn’t be Y/N. Could it?
He stood up and found Y/N’s eyes open, wide, opaque, unseeing. With a gasp, he stumbled back until he slammed into another steel table. “How… how is this happening?”
She turned her head slowly, pinning him to the spot. “I’m right here, Steve. Everything is just fine.”
“No,” he cried, dropping to his knees, his hands over his face. “It’s not fine. Nothing is fine.”
There was a hand on his face and he jerked away from it. “Open your eyes, baby. Come on. Look at me, Steve.” She sounded frantic and scared, desperate for him to look at her.
Steve was shaking his head, his hands around her wrists, overpowering the dead woman in front of him, a wicked snarl escaping his lips. And then, as if someone had flipped a light switch inside his head, he woke up.
“Y/N,” he croaked, his chest heaving, his heart hammering, blood roaring in his ears. He latched onto her and cried into her neck, not caring how pitiful he sounded. His hands dug into her naked skin, pulling a small gasp from her. “You’re alive.”
She murmured soft assurances as he cried, swept her hands over his shoulders and back, kissed his temple, promised him that she would never leave him, that she was safe, that he was safe. They stayed there for hours, until the sky started to lighten, until Steve had fallen asleep.
After a hot shower, you slipped into something loose and comfortable before heading downstairs. Clint and Natasha were in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and making coffee. Natasha turned at the sound of the bar stool sliding against the floor, greeting you with a wide smile.
“Morning,” you murmured sleepily.
“Afternoon,” Clint corrected you with a chuckle.
Running your hand over your face and up into your damp hair, you gave a yawn. Natasha slid a cup of coffee in front of you, patting your hand before she turned around to grab some plates and cutlery.
“My hero,” you praised before blowing into the cup, cooling it just enough that you could take a sip without burning yourself.
Clint started shoveling hash browns onto the plates. “Will Steve be joining us?”
“Not right now,” was your strained answer. “He’s still sleeping.”
“Still having nightmares?” asked Natasha, setting three strips of bacon on each plate.
You nodded after unceremoniously shoveling a forkful of buttery hash browns into your mouth. “They’re getting better, less frequent. Besides, it’s only been six weeks since… since I killed Brock.”
God, had it really only been six weeks? Being kidnapped and held against your will, a knife to your throat, a gun to your head; it seemed like it happened ages ago. And then, there were times it felt like yesterday. If you had zoned out, your head angled a certain way, you swore you could feel the heat of Brock’s breath on your neck. Or, like the other day, when you ran a towel over your face after your shower, your eyes blurred, and you jumped back with a shriek, convinced that Brock was crouched in the corner, ready to attack.
While you were seeing a therapist twice a week to help deal with your demons, Steve handled his a little differently. Steve had always been able to handle himself in hand-to-hand combat, but watching you fight for your life, scared the shit out of him. He enrolled in krav maga the very next day.
Nat’s hand was on yours. “Honey, are you okay?” she asked gently, snapping you out of… wherever you had gone.
“Not exactly,” you answered with a grim smile, turning your hand over in hers, squeezing it. “But I will be. We will be.”
The End.
Or is it?
Stay Tuned to find out what happens in the next chapter of their lives.
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