i write things

Dating for Dummies

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Prompt: Recovering from a wound/illness -“If you think I don’t feel anything for you, then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

Author’s Note: This one got a little long...

You don’t go out into the field often. Your role is more of a technical, behind the scenes one, but whenever you do Captain Rogers seems to live up your ass. He’s always hovering and watchful like he doesn’t trust you to get the job done. At first, you worried it was some weird sexist hangup from the ’40s but he seems to trust Natasha and the other female techs just fine so it’s pretty clear it's you that he doesn’t like. You can handle his aversion, even if he doesn’t make any effort to hide it, but it hurts more than you care to admit when it interferes with your actual job.   

It’s humiliating to listen to him argue against taking you on the mission, trying and failing to overrule Maria Hill in front of a dozen people. It’s all you can do to sit quietly, wringing your hands in your lap as the urge to cry overwhelms you. Hannah, one of the other techs, places a gentle hand on your shoulder that makes you suck in a low, pained breath. You don’t dare look up again until Maria calls your name. 

“Go pack, wheels up in 15,” she instructs. 

“Yes ma’am,” you tell her, proud of how your voice doesn’t waver. 

You don't look at the Captain. 

WOMAN + BLOOD + SMILE

Based on @nekoannie-chan ‘s request : Hi again! Well I’d like a fic with Brock and this prompt “Every day I love you more.”, also he is HYDRA and if is possible reader is HYDRA too, please ? Does it get much more Hydra than Crossbones? Consider this post-Winter Soldier canon divergence (specifically because we’re not going to have him go get himself blown up in a few months). Gif lovingly borrowed from @leviathanhomecooking​ because the gif search option was underwhelming.

A pair of scarred hands gripped the porcelain edge of the sink as Brock stood in the bathroom of his apartment, staring at the remnants of his wrecked face. Considering the overall destruction he’d found himself at the bottom of, he was aware the damage could have been far worse,  but in moments like this, when he found himself alone with his damaged flesh, the idea that he could count himself lucky of the physical results was laughable to him at best. Sliding out a drawer and dragging out a set of clippers, he reached up with the other hand, running his fingers over his prickly jawline. Much as he hated having to look upon his own reflection these days, he knew his facial hair was beginning to edge on excessive in the eyes of his lover. She liked his stubble, she hated a full beard. Switching on the electric trimmer in his hand, he went to work to make himself ‘presentable.’

Several months had passed since the accident, since that genetically enhanced do-gooder had dropped a building on his face, and though his distaste for his appearance had not noticeably dissipated in that time, he couldn’t deny that his life had improved in some drastic ways. Years of being a loyal member of Hydra had dealt him a solitary existence in his downtime, and he’d mostly given up on the hope of a romantic relationship along the way, but the young woman who’d become such a staple in his life since his stay in the hospital had drawn out of him feelings he thought long extinguished. Hope. Trust. Compassion. Love.

Though he’d noticed her in passing multiple times over the last few years through the facade of S.H.I.E.L.D, he’d never spoken a word to her until he’d found himself lying in a hospital bed as she carefully treated his slowly healing scars. He’d watch her face for shifts in expression as she tended gingerly to his flesh, hypervigilant for any signs of distaste or disgust, but she only flinched when she grazed over the occasional, particularly fragile nerve that caused him to tense up in pain. When his treatment and physical therapy had come nearly to a close, and he’d finally expressed the affection he’d developed for her, she hadn’t shown the slightest tinge of hesitation as she stood on tiptoes to accept his kiss.

As Brock flipped the the switch on the device in his hands, examining the results of his work, he heard the brief sound of another set of clippers from beyond the bathroom door. Running a damp cloth over his torn-up facade, he splashed on some aftershave and stepped out of the bathroom. “I can’t get it any closer than this,” he uttered as his bare feet padded across the hardwood floor of the living room, watching the young woman as she examined the various attachments and guards of the clippers she held in one hand.

“Come on,” she invited, ignoring what she knew was an invitation to scrutinize his damaged aesthetic, gesturing to the stool that sat before her, “Let’s clean up your fade.” Holding her gaze as long as he could, noting with silent pleasure the flush that permeated her cheeks in response to the intensity that flustered her still, he finally sat before her, facing away with his eyes closed as she set to work.

Brock’s breathing was slow and steady as he sat in silence, reveling in the delicate touch of her fingers as she trimmed the edges of his hair that had started to lose its desired shape from lack of upkeep, careful to avoid the scarring of his neck and ears. She knew he wouldn’t feel any physical pain if she had, those nerve-endings were fried, the pain was psychological. He was about as healed as he would ever be on the outside, but the wounds to his ego were fresh and raw inside. It hadn’t been easy to convince him that her returned affection was true, but for her, and certainly for him, it was worth the effort.

Brock had completely zoned out by the time she sat down a pair of scissors after trimming the longer strands that ran over the top of his scalp, silently examining her practiced work. His crop of thick, dark hair still damp from the spritzes of water, she worked her fingers though his damp forest, listened with a smile tugging at her lips as the man before her sighed contentedly. With a hint of preliminary anxiety, her fingers slipped around to lightly grasp his stubbled chin, tilting his head back a bit and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the lighter scarring of his forehead. Brock flinched, as he always did when her touch was introduced to his distorted skin, but she ignored his subtle reaction, guiding his head back further to press light kisses to his right cheek – she knew better than to so much as graze the left.

“Do you still love me,” Brock rasped as his apprehension at her touch shifted as it always did into comfort, tilting back to claim her lips in a tender kiss.

“Every day I love you more,” she whispered back, Brock’s scarred hand reaching up to weave his fingers through her pristine digits.

☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

Likes are great, comments and reblogs are even better (no one gets their writing exposed to more readers if it doesn’t get reblogged)

Because why not.

Gif not mine, credits to the owner.

Your relationship is a secret, of course.

Can you imagine what would happened if someone found out that two members of the STRIKE team are dating? One of them being the commander himself.

Once you get to know him well, you realise he's quite a sensitive guy.

He loves poetry.

In fact, you often find in unexpected places (like your locker or gym bag) small notes with fragments of poems.

Brock denies writing them, but you can easily recognise his handwriting.

He looks like a tough guy, but when the two of you are alone he is the cutest guy you've ever date.

He's also the kind of guy who uses the word "fuck" in every sentence.

He stands against toxic masculinity.

I mean, the guy loves to spend with you his free Saturday nights with facials, wine and movies.

And takes way to seriously his skincare routines. 

"Looking good is as important as feeling good, babe."

Morning work out sessions.

He really enjoys training you and pushing you to your limits.

"That's my girl"  "Shut up"  "Want another set?"  "No"  "Another set then"  "I hate you"  "love you too, honey"

Brock fucking loves protein shakes.

Sweaty hugs.

"Come here"  "No *chuckles* you're gross and sweaty" "Love me"  "Brock, I just took a shower!"   "I need love"

He is not overprotective with you because he knows you can be as deadly as him. There's a reason you're both members of the STRIKE team.

"Am I too old for you?" "No, I collect antiques"

You are just a great team.

Friendly reminder that if I haven’t answered your ask the same day, it means either: 

I want to treasure that ask forever

I dont feel up to social interaction

I didnt have time, and ended up forgetting about it

What it does NOT mean:

I dont like getting asks

You’re bothering me by sending asks

pairing: MCU!Brock Rumlow x reader

summary: They say to love your partner in their love language, not yours. Someone in this relationship likes touch more than the other. Hint: it’s not the reader.

authors note: I’ve got a million prompts running through my head but this one jumped out first. Let me know how you feel & any critiques! I love talking to people about my fics.

There were 5 love languages.

Words of Affirmation, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and touch.

Touch has always been something you’ve struggled with. Always the butt of the classic “were you not hugged as a child?” joke because, well, it was mostly true.

Your family wasn’t horrible to you. They were great, in fact, despite all the accidental trauma. They were human. And they were doing their best.

Touch just wasn’t something that happened very often. One time your father hugged you in the middle of a funeral and it took you a solid minute to register what was happening.

By the time you realized it was a hug, you were too late to reciprocate and he was already basically across the room.

Which is why it took you a year to realize that your commander - now boyfriend, Brock Rumlow, had the hots for you.

Lingering touches in the hallways after mission debriefings, resting a large hand on your waist after evading enemy fire, even insisting on patching your hands up after a particularly brutal sparring match - Rollins was losing his mind at your ignorance. Jack decided to spill the beans after he caught Rumlow brushing a thumb across your bottom lip, murmuring a rare praise at your clever tricks when seducing a target, only to be given a very oblivious “Thank you, Sir” (and not a sliver of a sexy tone found at that).

“You’re thicker than a bowl of oatmeal,” Rollins said at your stunned gaze after his scolding for ignoring Rumlow’s advances. “And although I’m sure Rumlow would be talking about your body, I want to clarify that I’m talking about that thick ass skull of yours,” he hastily added.

“Please put us all out of our misery and fuck him already,” he said before you could tell him just how absurd that was.

Upon confronting Rumlow, half-expecting him to deny everything, you were suddenly having the daylights kissed out of you and couldn’t help but to wonder if maybe you were into touch after all.

But of course, after being with Brock for over a year now, the novelty was fading away. You found yourselves in a rhythm of work-sex-sleep-repeat and as devastatingly good as the sex was, you couldn’t help but to notice that Rumlow seemed like he was craving more.

His eyes didn’t shimmer like they used to. The curve of his playful smile was harder and harder to come by. There was an underlying feeling of unsatisfaction that you couldn’t quite put your finger on and it absolutely destroyed you.

It was only until you noticed his hand twitching next to yours that you realized it was touch.

Not being a touchy-feely person, Rumlow must have caught on to the fact that in most scenarios, it made you uncomfortable. You hated PDA and downright hated holding hands (and god forbid, embracing), even on date night. You were content watching a movies together all night without a mere brush of a finger.

Hell, even after sex you were perfectly happy rolling over on your side of the bed and snoring the night away without a single cuddle.

A tsunami wave of guilt washed over you. Your love language may not have been touch, but it was clear as day in that moment that Brock - STRIKE commander, expert hand-to-hand combatant/marksman, literal sex on legs - Rumlow, was secretly needing cuddles to thrive.

He just wouldn’t say it out loud. Which is why you’d just do it for him. Well, you’d actually do anything for him. But he didn’t need to know that. He needed to feel it.

After a particularly long mission, you made a point to rub his shoulders, not missing the slight unfurrowing of his brow afterwards. A kiss on his temple before you went out on your morning jog made his eyes shine a little brighter. Weaving your fingers through his in the middle of going grocery shopping made him stand taller, prouder.

A kiss on his neck made him melt. A bite on his lower lip made his dark eyelashes flutter. Tugging on his hair made him a little bit more desperate for you.

Even though you weren’t in love (or really, even in like) with touching or being touched, god damn were you in love with the way it made him feel.

And although he would never admit it, you both loved it when you were the big spoon to your giant, tough-as-nails teddy bear of a partner.

Jack Rollins caught you reaching for Rumlow’s hand after a horribly boring mission debriefing and winked after seeing your horrified, embarrassed expression.

Even though you loved making Brock feel good, that was for his eyes only. When did you turn into a softie? And in public, at that?

“Thank god,” he said, breaking the silence while sauntering past the both of you.

“I thought I was gonna have to babysit you through this entire god damn relationship.”

Immediately flipping him the bird and doubling down by squeezing Brock’s hand tighter, you very eloquently told Rollins to kindly go fuck himself. Chuckling, Brock brought your hand to his lips and you shivered at his stubble tickling your knuckles.

Thank you, the kiss said. He knew you were trying.

You brought your hand away and quickly pecked his lips instead, savoring the happy smile you felt against yours as well as the feeling of his large hands on your waist.

I’m all or fluff and smut but I rarely often see fics about all the little bumps in the road that relationships come with (unless it’s just straight up angst/break up fics). Having just gotten out of a 3 year relationship, part of me misses those “lightbulb” moments with a special someone.

If I’m gonna be honest, those bumps in the road during a relationship are half the fun.

pairing: MCU!Brock Rumlow x reader

summary: They say to love your partner in their love language, not yours. Someone in this relationship likes touch more than the other. Hint: it’s not the reader.

authors note: I’ve got a million prompts running through my head but this one jumped out first. Let me know how you feel & any critiques! I love talking to people about my fics.

There were 5 love languages.

Words of Affirmation, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and touch.

Touch has always been something you’ve struggled with. Always the butt of the classic “were you not hugged as a child?” joke because, well, it was mostly true.

Your family wasn’t horrible to you. They were great, in fact, despite all the accidental trauma. They were human. And they were doing their best.

Touch just wasn’t something that happened very often. One time your father hugged you in the middle of a funeral and it took you a solid minute to register what was happening.

By the time you realized it was a hug, you were too late to reciprocate and he was already basically across the room.

Which is why it took you a year to realize that your commander - now boyfriend, Brock Rumlow, had the hots for you.

Lingering touches in the hallways after mission debriefings, resting a large hand on your waist after evading enemy fire, even insisting on patching your hands up after a particularly brutal sparring match - Rollins was losing his mind at your ignorance. Jack decided to spill the beans after he caught Rumlow brushing a thumb across your bottom lip, murmuring a rare praise at your clever tricks when seducing a target, only to be given a very oblivious “Thank you, Sir” (and not a sliver of a sexy tone found at that).

“You’re thicker than a bowl of oatmeal,” Rollins said at your stunned gaze after his scolding for ignoring Rumlow’s advances. “And although I’m sure Rumlow would be talking about your body, I want to clarify that I’m talking about that thick ass skull of yours,” he hastily added.

“Please put us all out of our misery and fuck him already,” he said before you could tell him just how absurd that was.

Upon confronting Rumlow, half-expecting him to deny everything, you were suddenly having the daylights kissed out of you and couldn’t help but to wonder if maybe you were into touch after all.

But of course, after being with Brock for over a year now, the novelty was fading away. You found yourselves in a rhythm of work-sex-sleep-repeat and as devastatingly good as the sex was, you couldn’t help but to notice that Rumlow seemed like he was craving more.

His eyes didn’t shimmer like they used to. The curve of his playful smile was harder and harder to come by. There was an underlying feeling of unsatisfaction that you couldn’t quite put your finger on and it absolutely destroyed you.

It was only until you noticed his hand twitching next to yours that you realized it was touch.

Not being a touchy-feely person, Rumlow must have caught on to the fact that in most scenarios, it made you uncomfortable. You hated PDA and downright hated holding hands (and god forbid, embracing), even on date night. You were content watching a movies together all night without a mere brush of a finger.

Hell, even after sex you were perfectly happy rolling over on your side of the bed and snoring the night away without a single cuddle.

A tsunami wave of guilt washed over you. Your love language may not have been touch, but it was clear as day in that moment that Brock - STRIKE commander, expert hand-to-hand combatant/marksman, literal sex on legs - Rumlow, was secretly needing cuddles to thrive.

He just wouldn’t say it out loud. Which is why you’d just do it for him. Well, you’d actually do anything for him. But he didn’t need to know that. He needed to feel it.

After a particularly long mission, you made a point to rub his shoulders, not missing the slight unfurrowing of his brow afterwards. A kiss on his temple before you went out on your morning jog made his eyes shine a little brighter. Weaving your fingers through his in the middle of going grocery shopping made him stand taller, prouder.

A kiss on his neck made him melt. A bite on his lower lip made his dark eyelashes flutter. Tugging on his hair made him a little bit more desperate for you.

Even though you weren’t in love (or really, even in like) with touching or being touched, god damn were you in love with the way it made him feel.

And although he would never admit it, you both loved it when you were the big spoon to your giant, tough-as-nails teddy bear of a partner.

Jack Rollins caught you reaching for Rumlow’s hand after a horribly boring mission debriefing and winked after seeing your horrified, embarrassed expression.

Even though you loved making Brock feel good, that was for his eyes only. When did you turn into a softie? And in public, at that?

“Thank god,” he said, breaking the silence while sauntering past the both of you.

“I thought I was gonna have to babysit you through this entire god damn relationship.”

Immediately flipping him the bird and doubling down by squeezing Brock’s hand tighter, you very eloquently told Rollins to kindly go fuck himself. Chuckling, Brock brought your hand to his lips and you shivered at his stubble tickling your knuckles.

Thank you, the kiss said. He knew you were trying.

You brought your hand away and quickly pecked his lips instead, savoring the happy smile you felt against yours as well as the feeling of his large hands on your waist.