genuwine bs-ing

18 alt, dni if my ideologies hwurt ywour fweelings actually crazy made this to write everything down

[writingramblescusican]

anyyyyhooottterrrss, hi! call me princess or call me star, whatever rolls off the tongue like wheels on a truck. if you find this page or my posts, I’m just here to bullshit! I’m writing everything and anything I want here since I’ve not actively nurtured my skill in months and that’s bad for me. send an ask for a ramble or a fic, or don’t! but you’re loved, stay healthy, and don’t dim your light. good vibes are a must round these parts :)

[anneofgreengabagool]

shipyard l simon riley x reader au | 2.4k words | ao3

cw/tags: cis-female reader. alpine divorce type situation.

you're crying when you see him, a body standing on a dock, eyes furrowed, watching you slap at the water in exhaustion to get a little closer. but your arms are burning, are actually beyond the point of burning, and he sees it. sees you give up as you approach. he crouches down at a dock post, unfurls a loop of rope, and tosses it to you in your kayak. it lands fat and spooled in your wet lap.

"grab it," he commands. your hands can't clasp anymore, but you clumsily set your oar across the kayak, and pathetically hold your forearms and cramping hands down over the rope to pin it in place.

and then, blissfully, you are tugged to shore. to land and safety, food and potable water.

the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.

you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.

—

the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.

"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.

"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.

silence. "wot for?"

you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.

"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."

"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.

"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."

the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.

it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.

you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.

sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.

"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."

you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."

"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.

"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.

"can you sit up."

you do awkwardly.

"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.

"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.

a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.

you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.

"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.

he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.

"chin up."

more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.

"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.

he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.

"headache?"

somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.

"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."

the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.

shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.

you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.

the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.

"y'alrigh'?"

you nod stiffly.

"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.

he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.

when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.

"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."

"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.

"i'm really so—"

"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."

—

the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.

coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.

you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."

"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.

"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.

you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.

minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.

he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."

your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.

"i mean…i think this is it?"

"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."

has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?

so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.

he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.

"thank you," you whisper.

his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.

—

you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.

you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.

there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.

"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."

"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."

you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"

silence tells you you're right.

"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.

"no."

you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.

when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.

this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.

his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth. you separate, both huffing.

"i think maybe that we should—"

"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.

you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."

he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.

you give him your number. type it into his old phone.

his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.

-

fic masterlist

[writingramblescusican]

alr so I have like three of a following and a low traction but I HAVE to reblog. I need the internet to know I LOVE THIS. if there was thirty more chapters and a whole boring introduction to our insert and her shitty ex-boyfriend, I’D CONSUME IT ALL IN ONE DAY. anyways beautiful characterization, concise writing, and a hook that has me HOOKED. thanks for the food 😋🙏

[writingramblescusican]

and by the way, I disagree with our favorite propaganda, and I don’t think price from cod likes the sweet obedient girl. it’s a hot thought!!! I support the agenda!!

but price from cod is used to everyone being obedient, used to giving orders and rarely taking them. he’s a man who always a leader, always the disciplinarian.

price from cod would love a brat, a little rebel who took forever to hear him out. he is 110% that guy who likes hyper-independent, overly headstrong women who always get it done. you’re the type of girl who doesn’t ask for help, instead finding a way to do it before the help arrives. god, he is such a sucker for that.

you’re not even the overly plushy, sweet-looking, bashful and innocent looking kind of woman he usually double takes at. no, you’re all sharp angles, low eyes as you scan your crew, a captain of another unit with lean bulk and battle scars aplenty. you look rough, like a grade-a badass that he usually saw.

price doesn’t even mean to when he whips his head twice at you, glancing as you pass, only to turn again to your ass back. you and your team had been sent for a temporary time to work with his, only for it to cause a string of verbal clashes and threats.

you heard his plan just the one time, shook your head and scoffed. not even meanly, not even a little condescending, just completely surprised. that offends him more than it should, since you just tilt your head and call out the missed flaw in his plan all along. “no way, sir, what? and how do you account for positioning my boy and your’s, without considering the snipers?”

price doesn’t even wanna talk about how you’re not just right, but also stand without asking him. offering a slightly altered version of his plan to the teams, much better at covering his mistakes. he’s so blown away by how you simply command a room, he can’t even be that angry.

and—bloody fucking hell—you’re so lovely to look at and so insufferable, he can’t help how he’s been repeatedly scolding you. when you laugh into comms and order your men to drop in faster, “please focus, love, enemies on our right.”

or how on day THREE, you were on your eighth “warning” for an inappropriate comment that was a dirty little joke. he never scolds anyone else, and you point it out, but price just groans so he can ignore how his pants shift. he’s been scolding you because everything you say makes him wonder if he blushes.

and you? little fucking minx that he should goddamn trap—you treat him like a joke. well, you seem to think it’s treating him as an equal, or a fellow captain. not noticing how he glares when you laugh at him, “c’mon, old man, that was good! y’know, fuzzy cuffs? not your thing, then?”

god don’t get him started on how you snorted after he told you to focus, he can hear your gun popping! hear the thuds of bodies when you chime back into the comms, “what enemies? on my right? you sure about that, sexy?”

price really fucking hates you, and his dick, when you two have a real first disagreement. your sergeant was the only other female on your team, and you made her try to bond with his sergeants. to which a large argument breaks out when she accuses one of them of making a sexist comment. you don’t take this lightly, and you take it to straight to the top, which, price also doesn’t take lightly.

you two clash fast, when you come at him and his sergeants fast and loud and already furious. price, is himself, and he tries to defend his men as much as he can. but the sergeants tell you two the comment—and now you two disagree. the male captain, scoffing far too fast, “frankly, lovie, he’s givin’ a compliment—he’s only surprised that she’s pretty. not a big deal.”

you groan before you scoff, stepping into his space and tilting your head. condescendingly tilting your head as you challenge, “are you fucking serious? now, you’re being sexist—what like she’s too girly or something to be military?”

price groans and nearly rolls his eyes, hand rubbing down his face and he scoffs back. he steps forward too to get in your space, your chests inches away, “never said that, did I? don’t be fussy, love, I don’t have time for—”

but you laugh again with bitterness, face pinching in fury and you take your finger to stab his chest. that spikes the heat in his body and he goes to growl back when you’re already barking. “fussy!? don’t you fucking call me fussy—! you douchebag, who do you think you are!? I—!” and he can’t help that he snaps again, he never expects himself to lose his cool like this.

price does lose his cool over you apparently, feeling particularly offended when you question his judgement as a leader. he doesn’t even realize he yells back when he pinches his nose, “who do you… I lead this fucking unit, darling. do you think you can rage at me?”

he’s so busy glaring at the sexy fire in your eyes and dragging a hand down his face, he doesn’t even see your lieutenant and your sergeant stand up. they bolt behind you to grab one arm each when you bark a sharp cackle, nearly knocking him over. you shot out, ready to swing, and he instinctively takes a step back. but you’re already being hauled two steps back as you cuss him out. “you lead this fucking unit!? half the team you’re yelling at, is mine! you are a self-righteous, ostentatious, manipulative, goddamn vampire—I will leap across this table—! oooou, you fucking—!”

well, that makes his pants tent. he tries to decidedly ignore it and tries to argue with you again. but you two don’t agree on it, simply arguing for the next hour. price had never been challenged before, and for the gods! he was fighting his body since he really fucking liked it. your sergeants resolve it in their irritation at you two bickering, like some kind of old married couple. you’re still flinging insults like “fucking tool,” or “old sack of shit,” while he’s calling you a “bitchy princess” when they shake hands and ask the two of you to let it go.

you both do not. you’re much more tense and keep making slick remarks to him after this. price responds in kind, making sure to slip in extra condescension and doubt into any questions he flings at you. by day five, both your units are watching you two fuck verbally, wishing you two’d grab a room and be done with it.

he’ll fix his first impression, he’s not yet sure how, but price is dead set on it.

[writingramblescusican]

omg I want bruce banner in a way that’s sooooo sick and unhealthy.

and I mean post-hulk him, I mean when he’s scary and mindless, and green, I wanna be natasha type shi.

I think the hulk likes that she shows literally no fear of him, I like to theorize that’s why they have a soft spot for each other. I think she knows hulk isn’t the worst fate, and she’s probably constantly thinking she’s done worse. hence, monsters rarely fear what they also consider monsters, their peers. god I’m so sick on this, don’t let me ramble.

especially since I think bruce banner and the hulk would like a girl with literally no survival instinct, like someone so incredibly demented that they don’t scare at the sight or threat of him.

bruce banner probably met you when he was on the run, maybe you’re someone or someone related to the many he saved as a doctor. or even, you’re a fellow traveler and found a friend in him, but you have no idea of his counterpart, no idea about his being a fugitive.

the hulk meets you during the loki attack, when on the ground and taking out any chitauri he can get his eyes on. you’re hiding, since you have some form of survival instinct, when the hulk last minute saves you from falling debris of a soldier he took out.

you, whose still literally so confused as to how a trip to new york turned to literal apocalypse, stop bracing for impact. your shriek quiets as you look up, gasping for air only to stop again. the hulk is above you, and his rampaging has stopped to stared back down at you. you’re both paused strangely, and your instinct isn’t to run for some reason.

you’re still confused and shocked, about to say thank you—have some damn decency, spit it out!—you think, and tilt your head. instead your brows furrow and you blurt, “bruce? is that you? jeez, it looks like you!”

the hulk actually hates this, and roars in your face, to where you literally have to anchor to the floor and brace for impact. the wind of it nearly whipping you away, to which, you only fucking wince! the beast has to actually pause in his ministrations to stare a bit slack jawed at you as you groan and rub your ears.

you fucking pout at the hulk, scoffing a laugh when you nod like a shrug and whine. “shit! touchy~! I understand, you’re not bruce.” and you walk over, patting the beast’s ankle, before you run off to duck for cover again. “thank you anyway!”

when everything is said and done, even when he’s become banner again, you’re stuck in his head. civilians didn’t react that way to the hulk—to him—and he’s stuck remembering where he knows you from. it’s one of the few flashes he can actually recall from his shift.

and when bruce banner sees you again while traveling again, it’s while you’re actively getting talked into a scam somewhere across the desert again. still, no fucking survival instincts as you nod and babble on—this guy’s gonna sell your organs, come on!—so he scoops you up.

acting as if you guys were touring together and profusely refusing the man while he walked you away, bruce is going to scold you when you just laugh and clutch on him.

“oh, long time no see! thank goodness for you, I couldn’t understand a word that guy was saying,” he nearly face palms at you then and there, you’re so fucking precious. but you babble, “I wanted out of that conversation sooo bad and he was pushy,” you drag out the last word to be dramatic.

he’s practically on autopilot, too busy checking you out and wondering how the hell you seem genuinely oblivious. he knows you’re smart from when he last met you, but you just tilt your head and raise a brow. “uh, hello? bruce, brucey? earth to dr. banner, are you listening? do I have to get your attention by asking about the hulk business in new york?”

well, fuck.

[writingramblescusican]

I’m dealing with a fucking heartache and mitski, that song “i like the way you kiss me,” AND FUCKING PROM QUEEN BY BEACH BUNNY JUST PLAYED

[writingramblescusican]

just so evb knows, I had a draft but I’m having the absolute shittiest night so, nothing. pls kill me I think I just had a verbal slap to the face and I’m still the villain

[writingramblescusican]

it’s one in the fucking morning but I need to write a thought.

soap from cod seems like he’d like penelope garcia coded women, like full blown witty nerds whose stuck in a chair and waayyyyy too pleased to flirt with him.

and I mean fullllyyyyyy get him in character, really have the insert basically be two words away from HR. I’m talking, would recreate the “thunderous chocolate god” comment, I’m talking he’d also have nicknames for her and you definitely also embarrass him when on blast in comms. I mean it, I think his humor is peeerrrffeeeeeccttt for shameless women, since he is but a shameless man.

soap from cod would definitely call you “babygirl” or “luv” or “gorgeous.” you do not have a birth name with that man, you’re his “babe.”

soap from cod doesn’t groan when you call him out by saying something wild again after he says you’re on speaker, “hey, I charge extra for group sessions.”

no, soap has to try not to laugh, has to hide a shit-eating grin, and can’t even stop from quipping, “‘can pay yer rate, luv.”

soap from cod definitely ignores your callouts until he slyly walks you into saying, “please, sergeant.”—not that it took much. he has to ignore how you drag it out and make sure he knows you’re flirting back.

no pls don’t let me expand on this, I’m obsessed w penelope garcia rn cus she IS the shit 😭

[writingramblescusican]

I think my generation does not genuinely connect with each other enough. And that’s bold, I know, since we all hear it from our parents and grandparents that it’s from our phones. I—obviously—disagree with that but I do agree that none of us connect with each other. I feel like I see everyone so often saying they feel alone, that none of their friends like them or treat them properly. So many people my age in fully committed relationships, just not feeling compatible and never moving on anyway. I think we conditioned ourselves not to love wholeheartedly anymore.

I’d like to blame our lack of unity lately, the strange divide of our generation that separates all of us who’s breaking the cycles and those now choosing to perpetuate it. The state of the world takes a bigger toll on us than we think and then we lash it out on everyone around us. I’ve never met one kid my age who isn’t stressed anymore, or anyone who has it ALL figured out before even twenty-five, let’s not think about thirty. We don’t give each other enough grace! And those who do, we constantly feel taken advantage of.

Today, I was on the phone with my boyfriend, (not so boyfriend, longer story) and he and I discussed his transactional friendships. His friends often treat him, their friendship, and even themselves as sponsors rather than friends. The blood soaked history and thousands of favors shall not hold you three together, and I just emphasized that over and over. Now tonight, I seen even one of my childhood friends, he posted on his instagram notes. And I just frowned for him, wished to harshly slap him on the back again and say, “Ah, to fucking hell with ‘em. Do better.” And I couldn’t, while his note said he felt all his friends were using him and he was exhausted or whatever. I felt for the guy, and my nickname for him is dickhead.

Both these people are amazing and fun despite their own flaws, and don’t deserve this. Even I constantly feel like a backup friend, only ever called to action when my friends need their wise therapist friend. Or only ever asked to hangout when no one else can. Why don’t we love each other? Why can’t you name your best friend’s favorite drink, or why they love that one hoodie they never wash? And it fucking stinks, but it never sticks out to you. Let’s love each other more profoundly, take the extra steps and always pay that forward. Tomorrow, ask another question you might find useless. Next week, show you care when they’re sick and you surprise your friend with their favorite warm drink. We all deserve better and should start doing better for each other.

Or, y’know, I’m fucking crazy and too soft on you all. At the end of the day, it’s our choice when we’re surrounded by negativity or positivity. Text a friend you haven’t spoken to, or cut off one who doesn’t deserve you. But don’t forget you’re loved, if by no one, then by me. We all deserve this little extra care. Stay safe, stay healthy, and hug your loved ones. We only have so long, just my thoughts and rambles :).

[writingramblescusican]

hey my header went up. I made that 😛

[writingramblescusican]

omg I did not wanna shit poat first but I’m in tahiti and why THE FFUUUUCCKK won’t ts let me change my header 😭