#blu-babes

[teamfuckyou2-blog]

Thank you for sticking up for people who are being sent death/rape/dox threats. This kind of behavior is unacceptable and disgusting. All these kids needs to get their shit together and learn how to block people instead of harassing others.

@blu-babes thank you! Its nice to have a little bit of support. A lot of themes on that blocklist are 18+ anyways, so they should stay away from these blogs fullstop. It’s a shame that people are overlooking this fact.

[toxsmithereens-blog]

@blu-babes 

It was evening, the first he would be spending at this new base.  He’d been moved around so many times in the past years he was used to the lost, unfamiliar feeling of exploring a new place, seeing new faces.  At least everyone used more or less the same gear, weapons, clothing, and other superficial details as in other bases.  The atmosphere was definitely BLU; lots of straight lines and angles, subtle blue and silver hues dominating the space.  He’d been given some time off to adjust and get moved in, but tomorrow he was expected to join his new team in battle.  

He was glad to start over and leave the drama of the past behind him, but it was always lonely at first, not knowing anyone, not knowing who to trust.  He strayed away from the mess hall or anywhere else he could see people about and just wandered the base aimlessly.  Going down one hallway he peered into the rooms until he found one too irresistible to pass up a closer inspection.  The smell of industrial grease and oil was like a siren call to him, suggesting something interesting waiting for him.  At first he was cautious walking in there, ready to leave if he heard anyone, but he was soon drawn to the work bench.  To a layman’s eyes, it would seem like a mess of metal parts and oily rags, but to Cameron it begged to analyzed.  

Normally he’d know not to mess around with things that weren’t his.  But he was fairly entranced by all the stuff in here and it’d been a while since he’d really had the chance to geek out.  He considered himself more a chemist than an engineer, but it really didn’t matter.  Science was science, and he just knew he could figure out what this object on the bench was supposed to be used for, if he studied it enough.  He was careful as he picked it up, super focused and mumbling to himself as he touched every edge and corner.  The rest of reality faded away around him, seeing or hearing nothing but the object in his hands and his own observations he spoke softly aloud.

[levi-the-engineer]

The air was crisp with the wash of winter coating the bases as the year began to come to a close in the mid of December, leaving a more cheerful note to vibes that existed among the mercs as a few even managed to put of a handful of christmas lights up for the holidays; though several of them would be going home to see family. Levi hadn’t yet quite decided where he would spending his time this year since it was more simple just to stay around here, though he knew that his two nephews and single niece would miss his presence on Christmas. 

Since it was no longer his preferable balmy hot outside, the sun tanned Aussie engineer had finally given into the need of wearing more than he usually did; a warm thermal long sleeve blue pull over, his usual half hanging off overall’s and heavy work boots, and now a fleece line jacket were what covered him. Though just looking at the man one would think he would be at home with the way his white washed blonde curls and icy blue eyes mixed perfectly with the snow capped earth that was now their base.

 Having managed to actually get some sleep in his own bed that night, Levi was now marching his way toward his shared work barn with the tiny black beast of a pug trotting half frozen at his feet. It didn’t take but a second for the barns door to slide open just enough, before Gizmo went hurtling like a grunting bullet toward her cozy fleece lined bed perfectly set beside the hot and roaring iron stove-fire place he had put into the barn himself. That and the amused stormy chuckle that followed gave any clue that they were there to the other engineer that may or may not have been in the barn that morning; Levi having gathered early on the woman didn’t care much for talking to him, though it honestly didn’t bother him. Having earned himself a nickname of “mute” in his family, not talking suited him just fine. He was more than able to convey a lot more of what he thought or felt with simply a look or with how he held himself, enough so that he was certain they could communicate just fine; though if he was being honest, he enjoyed being able to simply watch her and enjoy her company without too many words getting in the way. 

@blu-babes

[pushspacetocontinue]

@blu-babes liked my post for a starter with Reline. She gets to meet Atropos the doll maker. "So far, from what I've learnt of Merasmus, he is capable of creating fear spells, making people dance uncontrollably, that sounds fun, zero gravity, that sounds really fun..." She grins for a moment at the thought, "Making it rain piss, ewwwww! Ugh, no, that's nasty..." Her eyes widen for a moment, she can sense magic in the air. It has an electric smell which tickles her nose and makes it tingle. It feels weird. It can't be Merasmus, can it? "Hold that thought," she says in the dictaphone before she turns it off. She hurries towards the source of the scent. But when she sees who is emitting, she stops. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says to the woman who she spots immediately. She sheepishly fidgets where she stands, "I thought you were someone else." She doesn't look like a member of any of the other nine classes that are typical for this world. She might be one of those fabled rare tenth ones. "I hope I didn't startle you," she added, when she remembered she should say something else, "I was just walking around, exploring, that kind of thing. I'm Reline."

[amanthatneverwas-blog]

GOOD END- The ideal end to my muse’s story where everything is resolved and they can live a good life.

The letter arrived with a return address at an unmarked P O Box. Alexis opened it with a dawning sense of dread. Had they found a way through the company? Had he been given up?

Tutti quelli che volevano trovarti ora se ne sono andati. Nessuno ha pensato che lo avresti tenuto lì così a lungo. Devo dire che siamo impressionati. Abbiamo sprecato più risorse per te che sarebbe valsa la pena trovarti. Esci e vivi la tua vita e non sentirai più parlare di noi. Sei libero. L'hai guadagnato, Renny.

He read it a third time. A tenth. He recognized the handwriting.

Libero. Free. He’d outrun them long enough.

Alexis Langlais retired from Builder’s League United after a storied 20-year history, saluted on his way out by even the Soldiers. The man made his way to Boston, looking to meet up with some old friends before finding his next path in life.

He was shoved onto subway tracks by a football player trying to hit on someone and backing up, and run over by the incoming train. He died instantly, and his corpse was fried by the third rail until there was almost nothing left to identify him but his effects, including the strange sticks of powdered coffee in a cigarette case.

Quinton, Oklahoma. Years later.

The tinkling of a shopkeeper’s bell as a young woman walks inside the quaint little story, smiling. She walks past the table where three older ladies sit with their complementary cups of tea, hushedly giggling. “Morning, Winny!”

A man in a simple purple apron leans against the wall, his curly hair tied up in a ponytail behind him. Threads of white and grey throughout it give a look of calm age. It went white rather fast - in fact, people who knew him said he seemed to age a decade and a half in a year, and then slow down, as if the world was making up for long time. He smiles softly, setting down the knitting needles in his hand. Soft clinking of boots as he walks to the counter.“Morning, Sarah.” His voice was soft, and a little high, but still clear as day. Not quite the local accent - he hadn’t been born here - but close enough that anyone traveling through couldn’t tell the difference. “Here to pick up the scarves for the boys?”

He knows. He always seems to know what someone needs when they come into his shop - a scarf, a sweater, a hat, a fixed hemline, a dress taken in. Even things they didn’t have to buy, too. Someone to rant at. A cup of tea. A shoulder to cry on. A good-natured joking threat against who’d hurt them.No one took those seriously. He was an old man, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

That night, some of the locals at the Rusty Rooster gather near the side of the stage. It’s Thursday, which means no guest artist. Just Winny.Some nights, it’s his guitar. Some nights, it’s his fiddle. Some nights, it’s his voice. Some nights, it’s all three, or two of them.They love when Winny comes to play, even when he makes them cry. It’s always the kind of cry that comes from deep within, and makes you feel a little better when it’s all over.

He’s an odd little fixture of their town. Came down the road one day, looking for a drink and a bite and a For Sale sign. An old wanderer, he called himself, who’d seen a lot and was looking to see the same thing for more than two nights in a row. The Bartons down on Carter Way had just moved up north, someone said, and their house was always a little small for two.Well now, he said, buying that man a drink for telling him. I’m a little small for two myself.

The little store wasn’t going to make it, everyone said, shaking their head. Everyone could make their own stuff if they wanted it handmade, and machines could knit nowadays, could sew nowadays.But there was something about Yarns and Threads that drew people in. Maybe it was the calm atmosphere, the soft colors. Maybe it was getting to watch him work on orders right in front of you, hear the clacking of needles and the soft music. Maybe it was the conversation, or the damn good tea he could make.Yarns and Threads kept up enough business to keep itself alive. And he didn’t need to live off it, exactly - always seemed to be more money in the bank when he needed it.

There’s always rumors about who that man was before he came in. Some say he must have been a soldier, from the way his bright blue eyes with their flecks of grey would gaze off into the distant on hard nights. Some say he’s some foreign noble’s son, with that sweet singing voice and those perfect manners to guests. Some say he’s an old mechanic who wanted some fresh air, with those careful fingers and his ability to keep up with tech despite his age. Some even say he’s a gymnast, maybe even one of those big ones from Cirque du Soleil or something, who got old and couldn’t quite keep up anymore, judging by how fast he can seem to move when you aren’t looking. 

But Quinton, Oklahoma doesn’t care too much about who Winfred Draper was before he came there. It loves him.And he loves it right back.

[ask-the-blu-bushman]

What about sniper/engie? That's a good one

(Ding ding ding u won! I’ve gotten a lot of requests for this and after looking into it its probably one of the cutest (almost cannon) ships i’ve seen in this fandom. there’s a lot of canon material to work with (much like Boots and Bombs and Heavy/Medic) and they would seem really really really good together. A good strong cowboy relationship :D )

[nathans-place]

🌀 (For Nick from Lutalo)

Send “🌀” to find my muse, injured and alone after being beaten upNick wouldn’t be in this position if he had paid a little closer to his surroundings. He should have heard the Bot’s coming close but his mind had been focused on the gunfire in front of him. So being found bloody and bruised wasn’t exactly how he wanted to see Lutalo again but... he needed help. Everything hurt, every breath he took, every time he tried to move. It hurt. So all he could do was weakly call out and pray the other man heard him.

[demoladay-blog1]

@blu-babes started following you

“Now. What brings ya’ blues all the way out here! I doubt’ it was my stunning good’ looks!” she chuckled loudly and with a shake of her head decided that ... eh it’s not time to fight. So... “I’m Lark. Who’ are you?”