—— steve breaks, you try and fix him. fyi, this fic is pretty dark, pretty emotional, pretty heavy tbh… u wanna get the full effect? listen to “two evils” by bastille while reading to get punched in the fucking heart!
Atlas drops the world.
And Steve Roger’s knees buckle, fingers slipping, and he cracks like weathered marble. So suddenly, he isn’t so super and he’s no hero and he can’t hold on to that tow-rope and that car plunges off the highway overpass and he can hear that mother screaming on the way down. Her kids are screaming, too, but they’re watching the man who held up the world drop theirs.
He knows you’re awake when he pushes through the doors of your apartment.
You have a bad habit of laying awake, listening to the creaks of the old Brooklyn apartment complex. You wait for him; it’s a habit you can’t break because some nights you’re afraid he will and you won’t be awake, won’t be there to piece him back together.
He drops his bag at the door – his uniform is inside, still caked with debris and blood. Blue eyes look tired and cold, and you know that it’s one of those nights.
You sit up, illuminated by the glow of your alarm clock, and Steve’s steps are heavy. He collapses onto the bed, hands on his knees and head in his hands. The bed frame creaks with a mournful wail.
“… Steve?”
He doesn’t speak – he can’t, really, because he doesn’t want to cut you on his broken edges.
This is scares you into moving.
The sheets run like a river around you and you slip to the ground before him; the rug burns your knees and your fingers shake a bit as they wind into his jeans – you’ve been here before, hazy with lust and enamored with the strength of the man before you.
But, now, lust is lost and you struggle to hold up your world.
“Steve,” you say, coaxing and soft, “Steve, it’s okay.”
He pulls his face from his hands and you see the angry ribbons of flesh along his palms when he does. His eyes are rimmed with a mournful regret; he doesn’t want you to see him like this. He doesn’t have to say it. The shame in his posture does.
You rise on your knees, nightgown slipping off your shoulder as you sway into his arms. Steve winces when you speak – it’s so gentle, so loving. He doesn’t deserve it.
“O, Captain, my Captain,” you whisper, lips pressed to the cut of his cheekbones, “What happened?”
Your fingers dip into the golden tufts along his scalp, but when he shakes his head and hiccups with a suffering sob, you rescind the touch and rock back to the floor like a falling tide.
It’s fear that warrants the reaction – you’ve never seen him so much as crack. Steve Rogers is ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed. He is so very much Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world.
And Atlas dropped the world.
And so you move, standing and turning the lights on and pulling yourself together because he needs you to be ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed.
Steve is crying now – angry, frustrated, pissed sobs that tear themselves out of his throat and you scramble to sweep him into a hard hold. You press your fingers into his hair the way he does when you’re having a panic attack.
It coaxes a breathe out of his lungs, and after what feels like forever, he stops.
He goes silent.
And your fingers shake with panic.
“Steve,” you say his name again like a prayer, “Talk to me.”
He searches for the words, only finding them when you’ve kissed his cheek the second time.
“I made a mistake today,” he utters, “It cost a mother her life.”
Sometimes you forget that he’s not invincible. Steve is not made of marble and he’s not Atlas. He’s human, and under the sinews of super-soldier muscles is a man who yearns for peace and a good night’s rest. He’s seen war and crawled from the fires of it changed.
You don’t press further, but instead urge him up and strip him of his clothes that smell too much like smoke and gasoline and his motorcycle. He complies wordlessly, shredding those bits of the outside world in favor of your touch and slips into bed beside you with cold hands.
You reach over him, pulling the chain on your bed lamp and smothering the studio apartment in darkness again. Steve watches you shift in the moonlight; you look worried and he feels guilty. Your eyes are wide, trained on him.
You’re quiet for a while – until his breathing evens out and his hands begin to move in slow circles on the small of your back.
You tuck yourself close to his ribs.
“You know I love you very much, right?”
Steve makes a sound; it’s soft and pressed into your hair. It’s enough – he doesn’t feel better but he knows he won’t for days.
“And you’re a good man,” you whisper, “But, you’re a man. You make mistakes, and you care. And that’s why I love you.”
He needs to hear it some days, and when Atlas drops the world, you’re there to lessen the blow. You bear the weight for a while, shoulder his burden, bend under the breakage.
the greatest skill a woman can learn for herself is self reliance
to clarify … so many strong women in my life rely on men. that dependence is dangerous. ladies here are some good ref resources I’ve found helpful on my journey towards self reliance
this list is in no way comprehensive feel free to add on
a lot of ‘man things’ are a lot easier than you think they are. especially considering the fact that most of these things when buying the parts come with directions on the packaging that men usually don’t even look at (and often end up doing it wrong because they were taught by fathers who also did not look at the packaging).
like i recently had to change my car battery and freaked out cause i thought id electrocute myself but turns out new batteries come with directions and its the easiest shit in the world so long as you can lift the damn thing.
so yeah, ladies dont ever feel like a man is a necessity for life, you can do this shit on your own its easier than you think!
—— steve breaks, you try and fix him. fyi, this fic is pretty dark, pretty emotional, pretty heavy tbh… u wanna get the full effect? listen to “two evils” by bastille while reading to get punched in the fucking heart!
Atlas drops the world.
And Steve Roger’s knees buckle, fingers slipping, and he cracks like weathered marble. So suddenly, he isn’t so super and he’s no hero and he can’t hold on to that tow-rope and that car plunges off the highway overpass and he can hear that mother screaming on the way down. Her kids are screaming, too, but they’re watching the man who held up the world drop theirs.
He knows you’re awake when he pushes through the doors of your apartment.
You have a bad habit of laying awake, listening to the creaks of the old Brooklyn apartment complex. You wait for him; it’s a habit you can’t break because some nights you’re afraid he will and you won’t be awake, won’t be there to piece him back together.
He drops his bag at the door – his uniform is inside, still caked with debris and blood. Blue eyes look tired and cold, and you know that it’s one of those nights.
You sit up, illuminated by the glow of your alarm clock, and Steve’s steps are heavy. He collapses onto the bed, hands on his knees and head in his hands. The bed frame creaks with a mournful wail.
“… Steve?”
He doesn’t speak – he can’t, really, because he doesn’t want to cut you on his broken edges.
This is scares you into moving.
The sheets run like a river around you and you slip to the ground before him; the rug burns your knees and your fingers shake a bit as they wind into his jeans – you’ve been here before, hazy with lust and enamored with the strength of the man before you.
But, now, lust is lost and you struggle to hold up your world.
“Steve,” you say, coaxing and soft, “Steve, it’s okay.”
He pulls his face from his hands and you see the angry ribbons of flesh along his palms when he does. His eyes are rimmed with a mournful regret; he doesn’t want you to see him like this. He doesn’t have to say it. The shame in his posture does.
You rise on your knees, nightgown slipping off your shoulder as you sway into his arms. Steve winces when you speak – it’s so gentle, so loving. He doesn’t deserve it.
“O, Captain, my Captain,” you whisper, lips pressed to the cut of his cheekbones, “What happened?”
Your fingers dip into the golden tufts along his scalp, but when he shakes his head and hiccups with a suffering sob, you rescind the touch and rock back to the floor like a falling tide.
It’s fear that warrants the reaction – you’ve never seen him so much as crack. Steve Rogers is ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed. He is so very much Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world.
And Atlas dropped the world.
And so you move, standing and turning the lights on and pulling yourself together because he needs you to be ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed.
Steve is crying now – angry, frustrated, pissed sobs that tear themselves out of his throat and you scramble to sweep him into a hard hold. You press your fingers into his hair the way he does when you’re having a panic attack.
It coaxes a breathe out of his lungs, and after what feels like forever, he stops.
He goes silent.
And your fingers shake with panic.
“Steve,” you say his name again like a prayer, “Talk to me.”
He searches for the words, only finding them when you’ve kissed his cheek the second time.
“I made a mistake today,” he utters, “It cost a mother her life.”
Sometimes you forget that he’s not invincible. Steve is not made of marble and he’s not Atlas. He’s human, and under the sinews of super-soldier muscles is a man who yearns for peace and a good night’s rest. He’s seen war and crawled from the fires of it changed.
You don’t press further, but instead urge him up and strip him of his clothes that smell too much like smoke and gasoline and his motorcycle. He complies wordlessly, shredding those bits of the outside world in favor of your touch and slips into bed beside you with cold hands.
You reach over him, pulling the chain on your bed lamp and smothering the studio apartment in darkness again. Steve watches you shift in the moonlight; you look worried and he feels guilty. Your eyes are wide, trained on him.
You’re quiet for a while – until his breathing evens out and his hands begin to move in slow circles on the small of your back.
You tuck yourself close to his ribs.
“You know I love you very much, right?”
Steve makes a sound; it’s soft and pressed into your hair. It’s enough – he doesn’t feel better but he knows he won’t for days.
“And you’re a good man,” you whisper, “But, you’re a man. You make mistakes, and you care. And that’s why I love you.”
He needs to hear it some days, and when Atlas drops the world, you’re there to lessen the blow. You bear the weight for a while, shoulder his burden, bend under the breakage.
When he eats you out, it scratches against your spread legs, and adds this extra little burn that’s feels so fucking good omg
He’ll grab handfuls of your ass to lift you where he wants to, and he’ll keep your there as he licks insistently inside you, his fingers are teasing at your clit and he’s lapping at you like a man starved until you’re wet and dripping down his chin
He wants to feel you cum on his tongue, and he won’t stop until you can’t control yourself and you wrap your legs around his head to keep him there
He loves that shit btw
Thinks it’s so hot when you’re so desperate for him, grinding down on his face, getting that extra fiction from his beard
While sit there and lap at you slowly as you come down, his tongue giving those broad strokes, your hips twitching from being so oversensitive
He kisses your thighs sweetly when he’s done
Then he’ll come up and kiss you so you can taste yourself on him, moving his lips down your body
It tickles when he kisses you but in a really good way
Will do that thing when he kisses you where he rubs his face all over yours until you’re laughing
He knows what his beard does to you mkay
But the absolute best angle for him to get at you is when you’re above him okay
Rocking down on his face, so you can feel that beard scrape all over your thighs as he gets you messy between your legs
N he’s moaning so loud bc he loves the taste of you sliding against his tongue back and forth like that
Reach down and grab his hair too, to pull his face more into your cunt, fuck yourself harder against him, practically riding his face at this point
When you come around him it’s amazing
Listen Steve alternates between staying clean shaven and letting it grow out
But you know when that beard comes around he’s going to spend most of his time between your splayed thighs
Warnings:War, blood, death, one-liners, and fluffy moment.
The pulse of war intertwined your mind and soul. Your sword collided with your enemy’s stomach, slashing skin and bone. They fell forward on your sword, limp like a doll. Shoving your heel against their shoulder, they toppled back, folded in two.
Smoke darkened the morning sky, swirling high before disappearing. Metal swept metal, an orchestra of grinding and screaming. A boom shattered your moment of admiration for the sight Fire ignited beside you, licking your arm as you stumbled. Catching bodies and discarded wooden weapons, the fire spread. The crackling grew with the flames while the crowds shrank.
“You’re supposed to run from the fire, not towards it,” Loki swaggered forward, catching his arm at your waist. Dragging you from the heat, he pushed you back into the conflict. “I respect the death-wish but we’ve got better things to do at the moment.”
“I like playing with -”
“Don’t say it,” Loki reached over your shoulder to slice a creature reaching for your neck. Black blood sprayed like a cracked pipe, burning the small areas of your skin not covered with armor. “It’s so overdone.”
“Fine,” You spun, kicking the fountaining alien to the ground. The metal on your heel sank into its chest as it flailed. It died with an indignant jolt of its tentacles. “I’ll come up with something better for next time, but not all of us spend our days thinking of witty one-liners for fantastical situations.”
“That’s exactly why I excel at it,” Loki lifted you bridal style, your sword curving through the air with your surprised yelps.
Sheathing your weapon, you ripped a dagger from Loki’s hip instead, heaving it at a bipedal monster. The creature boasted eight eyes, positioned in a perfect circle in the center of its head. With a whoosh, the dagger struck the center of his eyes, hilt wobbling away its remaining momentum.
“I think I have an eye for knife throwing,” You twisted to kiss the pleased grin from Loki’s bloodied lips. Hands dragging up his face, you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging playfully at his roots.
Loki dropped his hold, letting you fall free a moment before catching your waist. Your legs waved like a pendulum in the air.
His fingers run through your hair gently, digits untangling the damp strands to flick droplets of scented water onto his pants. Akutagawa didn’t even feel the water soak through the cotton; focus completely on your soft breaths curling across his thigh. Your head resting in his lap as you lay across his sofa, finally sleeping after his insistence.
The book he had been reading was discarded next to your sketchbook, closed without a bookmark or dog-eared page to mark his place. His place…in that moment and for all the other moments he could think of, was meant to be with you.
If he had; his thumb traces over the dark violet and indigo bruise blooming on your jaw and creeping up your cheek, you would have been safe. If he had been with you instead like he should have been; palm sliding down your shoulder to your ribs cracked and sore, you wouldn’t be in more pain.
“I will protect you,” Akutagawa swears softly. More so to himself than you so you wouldn’t awaken. “Whatever it takes, even if I must leave your side.”
You nuzzle into his leg sleepily, content in dreams rather than the usual nightmares.
A collection of mismatched, sewn together skin. He was too tall, too skinny, too ugly to even look at. His eyes were large, one yellow and one green, and scary he had been told. He hid himself in the shadows like all of his kind did, covering himself beneath thick, tattered cloaks and masks that covered his monstrous face.
It was safer this way. Even if he hated it.
No one to scream at him, not torches or pitchforks, no stonings. He may be alone, living in darkest of places, but he was living and that was more then most of his kind could say. So it was enough.
At least…it was until he met you.
At first, he was content with simply watching you. You were so…lovely. You smelled sweet and you were so kind. He had noticed you as you took care of the strays in the alley behind your home. Instead of kicking them away or ignoring them like so many others did, you were gentle. You gave them food and water, even names.
He liked that. The naming.
He didn’t have a name of his own and had often wondered what his ought to be. He wondered if you would name him…it was that thought that convinced him to stay. He just wanted to be close to you.
He liked you.
Everyday, he would watch over your little bookshop. Knowing a bit of magic, he cast a good fortune spell, hoping to bring a little buisness to your shop. It worked too, a fact that filled him with pride. Feeling confident, he cast another spell shortly after. A karma spell, punishing the people who were mean to you and your workers. Hearing your laugh when another rude customer got hit with a bought of karma was music to his ears!
He had meant to cast a third spell.
He had seen them, humans who crept in the darkness and stole.
Some did it because they had too (as he often did), others did it because they wanted to. They were of the second kind. He began to worry that they might break into your shop and rob you, maybe even hurt you, so he immediately began searching for a good protection spell.
But he found it too late. Just as he had carved the marking into your doorway, he heard it.
A loud clatter.
The sound of heavy boots on old floors.
A scream.
He ran, ran faster then he ever had from the mobs. He rushed into your shop from the broken backdoor, finding two men. One was shouting, trying to break the safe. And the bigger one was holding you, your limp body in his arms. They both froze when they saw him, staring in shock.
He knew exactly what they thought, it was whst all humans thought. Ugly. Evil. Monster. The words hurt but this time he used them to his advantage. Rising to his full height, he glared at the men, his green and gold eyes glowing.
“Get. Out.”
When he spoke, his voice was no more than a low whisper but it did the trick. They fled, rushing past him into the darkness. The second man had dropped you but he caught you, he couldn’t just let you fall to the floor.
Looking around, he saw books all over and a couple of small shelves on the floor. The door would need replacing, he realized, among other things. Guilt racked his four hearts as he sighed sadly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have cast my protection spell earlier…I should have stopped this.”
“I don’t blame you.” A voice suddenly said.
He almost screamed at you sat up, looking right at him.
“I…I thought…I thought that…they had hurt you.” He stammered.
“They tried,” you said as you smiled, “so I just played possum. I was really surprised when they dropped me so thanks for catching me.”
He could barely think right now let alone speak. Realizing that he was still holding you in his arms, he quickly let you go and tried to leave. But you stopped him, grabbing his arm gently and asking him to please wait.
“Those carvings, the spells, did you make them?” You asked.
He nodded, still to scared to say a word.
“Good fortune, karma, protection. You were trying to help me. Why?”
“Because…because you’re nice. To the cats. To everyone. You’re not like most humans.” He whispered.
You said nothing for a moment, only looking at him. He wondered what you were thinking and what you were going to do. A part of him feared that you would yell at him, hurt him, and that he would be forced to flee.
But you didn’t.
Instead you kissed his hand and thanked him for bring so kind. He was both baffled and enchanted, unable to do anything except for stare.
“What’s your name?” You asked.
“I…I don’t have one. We call ourselves Nobody or Nothing but I didn’t like those names…”
“Hmm…can I call you Tolkien?”
Tolkien. The author. He nodded happily, saying his new name to himself quietly. Tolkien…
“Well, Tolkien,” you said, “it’s nice to officially meet you.”
~
He stayed. For the first time in his long life, he stayed. Your basement was nice and cozy and, when the shop was closed, Tolkien would join you upstairs.
He had books and food and a warm place to sleep and a name of his very own but best of all…he had you.
Toad's Cave 