#prompt: all words used

[caramelcoffeeaddict]

A Boyfriend for Christmas [Klaine Fanfic]

Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, OC Finchel Child [also includes extremely brief appearances by Rachel Berry, Burt Hummel, Carole Hudson-Hummel, & Finn Hudson] Chapters: 15/15 [Complete] Word Count: 9,221 Rating: Teen&Up Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff Summary: When Kurt takes his 6-year-old nephew, Caleb, to see Santa, he's mortified when Caleb asks Santa to give his Uncle Kurt a new boyfriend for Christmas; Blaine - who is working as one of Santa's helpers - however, is eager to help Caleb get his Christmas wish. Author Notes: Written for the December Klaine Fanworks Challenge hosted by @klaineadvent. all 21 daily word prompts were used to complete this story. Original Post Date: December 2023

READ ON AO3

[scealaiscoite]

bodyguard/protectee prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍊 ꒱

-ˏˋ. dialogue ˊˎ-

⋆ “um, look- i know i’m only meant to be here for you in a professional capacity, but if you ever need anything i’m here for you.”

⋆ “come on, just admit it- i’m starting to grow on you, aren’t i?”

⋆ “since when does your job extend to giving me relationship advice?” “it doesn’t, but i wouldn’t be able to live with myself if i didn’t at least try to tell you how much more you deserve than that idiot.”

⋆ “don’t tell your coworkers, but you’re my favourite.”

⋆ “i know it’s like your job or whatever, but i- i’ve never had anyone protect me like that before. so, uh- thanks, i guess.”

⋆ “don’t worry. i’m not going to tell anyone that my big bad bodyguard like to be the little spoon.”

⋆ “i think if you let people see this side of you more often, you wouldn’t have any need for me.”

⋆ “we’re gonna be in this car for eight hours! you’re not gonna combust if you speak to me more than one word at a time.”

-ˏˋ. actions / scenarios ˊˎ-

⋆ while the protectee is in the process of overworking themselves, the bodyguard reluctantly steps in to make them take a break

⋆ after an event that shakes the protectee, the bodyguard silently takes their hand and doesn’t let go until they’re safe again

⋆ the bodyguard gets injured in the process of coming between the protectee and a physical threat and, in a panic, the protectee fusses over them as they gingerly tend to their wounds

⋆ after overhearing a personal argument that leaves the protectee upset, a very out-of-their-depth bodyguard tries their best to comfort them

⋆ whilst trying to cheer up a downtrodden protectee, the otherwise stoneyfaced bodyguard divulges the first pieces of personal information they’ve ever given to anyone on the job

⋆ during an overnight protection detail, the bodyguard finds themselves keeping company to an insomniac protectee

⋆ one finally building up the courage to ask the other out on a date once their professional relationship is over

[greenerteacups]

Hi! I am an ardent fan of your writing, and I hope to be as sorted and planned as you some day in my own writing journey.

My question is: you have a keen eye when it comes to planning character personality, dynamics, and such. I've also been wading through your ask replies, and your insights into how you write people and how you make them play off of each other is so wonderful to read. If it's not too personal a q, how did you learn how to write like this? Did you go to school for writing, does it come from years of observing people, do you have reading list recs for "how to write real people and real interactions"?

Thanks! This is a really flattering question. I'll try to answer it honestly, because I wish someone had been brutally honest about this with me when I was a young writer.

I didn't go to school for writing. I started doing it when I was about nine years old. It sucked very badly. I kept writing throughout high school, and it still mostly sucked, but some of it was occasionally interesting. ("Interesting" here does not mean "good," by the way.) I took a break in college, and then came back. I've been writing ever since. Sometimes, I feel good about it. A lot of the time, I don't!

I hate giving this advice, because I remember how it feels to get it, and it's the most uninspiring, boring-ass, dog shit advice you can get, but it's also the only advice that is 100% unequivocally true: you have to write, and specifically, you have to write things that suck.

I do not mean that you should make things that suck on purpose. I mean that you have to sit down and try your absolute hardest to make something good. You have to put in the hours, the elbow grease, the blood, sweat, and tears, and then you have to read it over and accept that it just totally sucks. There is no way around this, and you should be wary of people who tell you there is. There is no trick, no rule, no book you can buy or article you can read, that will make your writing not suck. The best someone else can do is tell you what good writing looks like, and chances are, you knew that anyway — after all, you love to read. You wouldn't be trying to do this if you didn't. And anyone who says they can teach you to write so good it doesn't suck at first is either lying to you, or they have forgotten how they learned to write in the first place.

So the trick is to sit there in the miserable doldrums of Suck, write a ton, and learn to like it. Because this is the phase of your path as an artist when you find what it is you love about writing, and it cannot be the chance to make "good writing." This will be the thing that bears you through and compels you to keep going when your writing is shit, i.e., the very thing that makes you a writer in the first place. So find that, and you've got a good start.

Some people know this, but assume that perseverance as a writer is about trying to get to the point where you don't suck anymore. This is not true, and it is an actively dangerous lie to tell young writers. You are not aiming to feel like your writing doesn't suck. You are aiming to write. You are aiming to have written. Everything else is dust and rust. And of course, you'll find things you like about your pieces, you'll find things you're proud of, you'll learn to love the things you've made. But that little itch of self-criticism, in the back of your brain — the one that cringes when you read a clunky line, or thinks of a better character beat right after it's far too late to change — that's never going away. That's the Writer part of you. Read Kafka, read Dickens, read Tolstoy, you will find diary entries where they lament how absolutely fucking atrocious their writing was, and how angry they are that they can't do better. A good writer hates their sentences because they can always imagine better ones. And the ability to imagine a better sentence is what's going to make you pick up the pen again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Which is what I mean, and probably what all those other annoying, preachy advice-givers mean, when we say: a good writer is just someone who writes every day. It's that easy, and that hard.

[wellfine]

Can I take a wild swing at your Childhood friends AU?

I've had a few people reach out and ask if they can write stuff about that AU (or just straight up say they're going to take it without asking, haha..) so I'm gonna answer this one publicly as a blanket answer that's basically "yes"!

I don't own the concept of a childhood friends AU and I'm sure I'm not the first person to think about Usopp & Sanji meeting when they were young, so already I don't feel right telling people they can't take inspo from my AU. And also, I'd love to read more people's takes and interpretations on this AU and sanuso in general!

Sometimes I can be precious about my concepts in case I'd like to work them into my own comics/stories but I think this one is fair game! If you take direct inspiration from my work in your fic then I would appreciate credit/a link back, but like I said, I can't really claim ownership over such a broad concept.

Let me know if you publish it though so I can read it!

[kitas-cleaning-supplies]

written for the march foxglove editorial, inspired by this drawing by @noenoaholi and beta'd by @fish-with-more-eyes/mac

There aren't a lot of things Atsumu likes to ignore, but Kiyoomi’s abysmal cooking skills are certainly one of them. Not a single person with working tastebuds or a functional sense of self-preservation would trust Kiyoomi in the kitchen. For the sake of his sanity, Atsumu likes to pretend Kiyoomi wasn’t ordering takeout on the regular before they moved in together.

Although if there’s one thing Kiyoomi can be trusted with, it’s baking desserts and using a blender. Atsumu has no idea why those two out of everything, but Kiyoomi’s cookies are to die for and his chocolate milkshakes are delicious. He’d brag about this if Kiyoomi didn’t have the shitty tendency to mix it up and make healthy drinks too.

They’re pungent, vile and disgusting.

They’re not even easy to make, what with a million and a half ingredients and three thousand steps. Atsumu wants to puke whenever he thinks of how much energy Kiyoomi puts into waking up early and making it for him. Sometimes there’s a lump in his throat choking him up if he thinks about it too long. He shoves the feeling down ruthlessly every time without fail: he doesn’t want to think about it.

Most days Kiyoomi can’t even be assed to get out of bed until the absolute latest he can get away with. And whenever he can, he traps Atsumu there too with his stupid long legs and stupid warm cuddles.

He’s up early this morning.

Kiyoomi’s side of their bed is empty; Atsumu finds him diligently chopping carrots in their kitchen.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu whines, wrapping his arms around his sadist of a boyfriend and doing his best to resemble a kicked puppy, abandoned outside in the cold rain. “C’mon ya made this yesterday. Do ya gotta make it so often?”

“Drink it.” Unfortunately his boyfriend’s the most stubborn person Atsumu’s ever met. He’s ruthless and heartless. Kiyoomi shoves the glass of green yuck into his hands. “All of it.”

Atsumu sniffs haughtily and graciously pinches his nose; he chugs it all down in one. It’s bitter and foul and Atsumu wouldn’t do this for anyone else in the world.

He pauses.

His mouth is filled with the most disgusting drink while the pieces click into place: he loves Kiyoomi. It’s so on brand for them, he can’t help but laugh a little. Atsumu tunes Kiyoomi’s complaints about what he finds so funny out, and gives him a little kiss over his moles.

He starts planning out the most dramatic way possible to break it to Kiyoomi in his mind. He’s a little nervous, but the urge to make Kiyoomi regret the day he ever thought dating Atsumu would be a good idea wins out. His itch for mischief drowns any fleeting feelings of apprehension easily.

Atsumu’s grateful he can still taste that nasty green drink for the first time. It makes keeping the smile threatening to break out over his face at bay. Kiyoomi calls it his plotting face. Atsumu’s more inclined to call it his moment-of-genius face. His fun face. He’d go so far as to say it’s his handsome face, but that’s just his everyday.

Kiyoomi’s never going to see his confession coming.

[actual-changeling]

Focusing a bit more on their ptsd lately because I want to and I can, this is set a few weeks after they got to Jackson so still pretty early on. Completely fluffy though, promise!

-

There is nothing worse than being alone in a crowd with no one to have your back.

Ellie's hypervigilance is in absolute overdrive after Silver Lake whenever she isn't too dissociated to perceive anything at all, and leaving the house becomes a choice between constantly looking around and driving herself half insane trying to look for something, anything dangerous and gritting her teeth and pushing through it while her brain screams at her that the worst things imaginable are seconds away from happening.

Both options are terrible, both leave her shaking and on edge, and any loud or unexpected noise makes her jump even when it is three streets down and completely unrelated to her. Going outside isn't safe, isn't fun, so she doesn't, and she is acutely aware that it's a problem she will need to solve one day, but for now her skin is stretched less tightly over her bones and the back of her neck only gives her the occasional jolt of paranoid electricity.

It doesn't even fully occur to ask someone for help when there is a movie at the theater she really wants to see that night, she thinks about it all day with a heaviness in her heart that almost has her put on her shoes and go anyway, but then the bell ringing for lunch has her almost falling out of her chair and she settles with the sour taste of defeat on her tongue. She would ask Joel to go with her, but they both know he is just as jumpy as she is, especially with her around in a closed space, and yeah it's a problem, but for now it is what it is, and she doesn't ask.

However, while she forgot about the obvious solution, Joel didn't.

That evening, Tommy comes over, which in by itself isn't surprising, that man is more at their house than at his sometimes, but he doesn't take off his shoes like he always does and waits for them in the hallway instead. She leans against his side in the greeting half-hug they tend to do, his arms around her shoulders, and the weight of it in her neck does the same thing Joel's hugs do - they absorb the panic and let it run through them into the ground, redirecting the lightning jumping across her skin. Ellie looks up at him and her face lights up before Tommy even gets the words out, putting two and two together and vibrating with excitement so bright she can't even feel stupid for not thinking about it herself.

"Ready for movie night?"

"Are you sure?"

Asking him that feels like she is stomping on a christmas present before even opening it, but her fingers are twisting in her shirt and joy is a warm, yellow sun in her chest, and she needs him to wants this as much as she does or she will feel bad for dragging him along. His hand settles on the back of her head and her gaze flicks between him and Joel, who is watching her and her only.

"Are you kidding me? Alien? Of course I'm gonna go see it, it's one of the best fucking movies ever."

There is a few seconds of silence and dizziness shoots straight into her head when she forgets to breathe, but then she falls forward and squeezes Tommy so tightly she can hear the air rushing out of him before letting go to put on her shoes. She is so focused on getting there before everyone else so they can get the best spots, planning out the quickest path to the building (although there really aren't that many options, more like three and a half possible routes), she only realizes Joel is shrugging on his jacket too when she turns to say her goodbye for the next few hours. There's a familiar tightness in his jaw, and she is pretty sure there's at least a knife somewhere on him, but his eyes are soft and she realizes that Tommy isn't just an additional anchor of security for her.

Paranoia grows all over her skin, a deep-seated itch she can never scratch enough, but Joel is right next to her and she can hear Tommy's footsteps behind her, and it is enough to keep it subdued enough for her to handle. They all silently come to the agreement to sit near the side rather than in the center, neither of them fully comfortable with being surrounded by people like that, and having space on one side, Joel on the other, and Tommy behind her makes it easy to forget about everyone else once the movie starts.

She jumps when someone accidentally kicks over a chair, and Joel gently squeezes her hand whenever she crushes his during the few times her brain tries to convince her everyone in the room is out to kill her, but they all make it through the next few hours without chewing on their panic the entire time. Tommy's quiet comments from behind her make up half the fun, and on the walk back, she paces circles around them while talking a mile a minute about a conflicting mess of a thoughts she cannot sort through in her excitement; Joel watches her just like he has been doing the entire night, and she doubts he heard a single line from the movie. The tension in his jaw has dissipated, though, and her lungs expand without resistance.

They stop right between their two homes, and for the first time since arriving in Jackson, Ellie feels almost sad to go back inside again. There's a moment of silence before she wraps herself around Tommy in another hug, her thank you a muffled whisper against his chest before she leans away, and it is hard to tell whether she is thanking him for having her back or for being family.

"Any time, sweetheart."

Both, she decides, and they all know without having to say a single word.

There is nothing worse than being alone in a crowd, but she is no longer just by herself, and although she forgets sometimes, there will always be someone to have her back now.

[salovie]

When the sun has kissed every single smile you grow,

When the rain has wept away oceans of woe,

When the grass becomes field becomes meadow becomes forest,

When the birds have long memorized your sweet laughter’s chorus,

When the wind has whispered my love from all its directions,

When I run out of ways to share my affections:

through frost and flame, to mountains and shores,

Still you are mine, Still I am yours.

[constantvariations]

Why did they create such a useless character to show Cinder's backstory when Salem is literally right there AND the real question the audience wants answered???

Imagine if it had been Salem who stayed at the hotel and saw something of herself in the scrappy servant girl. She saw how the Madame treated little Cinder and offered a way out only if Cinder has the power to be useful to her. Maybe she put Cinder to a test of how far she was willing to go for freedom, or maybe Salem wanted something from the Madame that she wouldn't give so it was up to Cinder to provide

Either way, Salem gets a young disciple that's ruthlessly ambitious and easy to manipulate and Cinder gains the illusion of freedom under a new master

[windydrawallday]

EVERYTHING COUNTS

There's no heavy plan or pretense on these that just-- Me wanting to try my hand on this pairing because I NEED TO POUR SUGAR ON EVERYTHING I LIKE, OKAY! (and make more SFW artworks of quality because I guess they give that irresistible vibe of being-- welp I better shut up it's not like I don't do that COFF). What I was saying? AH.

And I love a lot the idea of Swindle… swindling his way with Lockdown. I think he would be of the few mechs that can make him truly flustered, if their relationship were a physical contract for sure it would be constantly edited to suit their desires over and over and--. It's a fun dynamic of "this is strictly business, no strings attached" but the string is there… invisible like those fishing lines that you forget they are there until you trip with it and fall on your nose x'D.

Next one I'll post tomorrow, I'm doing it this way too to give myself more time to gather my energies: I've been on an emotional storm and I found my loyal "coping umbrella" has some holes… I'm probably overthinking… I want to take a looong walk after… the rain stops, it's been like that for a whole week!.

[cdrama-action]

Please check out our fandom update for today before requesting new prompts! The google doc is the most up to date.

[fixatedonfandom]

Aw, Hell

this is a pre-EngieScout fic :3 idea shamelessly stolen from @hanktalkin in this gorgeous post about ol' Engie's legendary temper, and the one thing proven to cool it off

This is the lightest and brightest thing I've ever written it made me feel like skipping through a field of daisies

I don't claim this to be the pinnacle of my writing but I do claim it to be darn cute and self-indulgent. If it reads strangely that's because I wrote this as a message from the divine. Thank you <3

~~~~

After four long hours of battle, and round after round of humiliating RED Team losses, the klaxon wailed and hailed the end of the work day for the poor fellows down in Teufort, New Mexico. The BLUs marched out with high heads and gloating smiles, and retreated to their locker rooms to count out bet money and crack open some beers. The REDs trudged through blood-clotted sand puddles to their lockers and scraped their heels in the door frame, with uniforms lousy, torn, and sweat-soaked beyond the good of washing. No blistering smiles, or cheerful banter, and not really much noise at all save for the slamming-open of the locker doors and the clatter of guns, hats, and accoutrements to the benches and the floors.

It was an ugly series of rounds, and an uglier loss overall, made worse with some faulty equipment (Scout’s headset had been acting up the whole day, Sniper’s best scope had a scratch), bad calls, and plum poor luck. Not a man in that room was happy, but none more pure and pissed than the good Engineer Dell Conagher.

He stomped his path to his standing locker and ripped the door near off of its hinges, and hurled his favored pipe wrench into the wall with a cantankerous CLANG.

“Dammit!” The man bellowed, tearing the canary-yellow hardhat from his head and throwing that to the concrete as he bitched. “God-dammit! We had them bastards on the goddamned ropes!”

It was true. Their losing rounds had been consecutive, frustrating, and downright embarrassing at times, but they hadn’t all been hopeless. The midpoint of round 10 had given RED a crucial break in the BLU’s push for the second point. RED Heavy begot a dead BLU Heavy, RED Sniper begot a dead BLU Soldier, and a pissy RED Medic begot a dead (and grossly dismembered) BLU Demoman. With that much space to breathe, and that much time for the Engineer to rush-upgrade his ballistic turret, they could’ve held that point much, much longer.

But that damn BLU Spy, and his damn BLU sapper. That solid hold they'd had fell apart about as hard and as fast as Engie’s turret had when he turned his back at the wrong time.

“Damn Spies…” Engie muttered through his clenched jaw. He was grinding his teeth together so tightly one could imagine he was trying to make corn flour in his molars. “I’m so damn mad I could spit.”

It wasn’t an often sight for the other 8 men to see the Engineer so hot. He was American, a people who could be known for their flaming tempers, and he was a Texan to boot, but Engie was cool-headed at the worst of times and could even be downright tranquil at the best. Never one to holler, shout, or scream at his fellow teammates in anger even in the thick of a losing battle, even if any one of them was being an obvious flaming idiot. He was a quick-witted, level-headed, stoic sentry of a man. That’s likely why his anger wasn’t much like a firecracker, but more of a pressure cooker left to stew for too-little too-long.

He radiated anger like heat, and one could hear his developing migraine beating a pissed-off rhythm in his skull from down a long hallway. It was the kind of slow, rough, abrasive anger that killed people for breathing too loud too close.

The last time he'd gotten all up-in-arms like he looked right then, the team had elected to ignore the bellows and crashes coming under the base from his workshop, only realizing the extent of the damage when they'd found a mangled experiment tossed out by the dumpster, scorched and twisted beyond recognition or repair.

So, lest he be compelled to show the rest of the boys what his old pipe wrench was good for beyond sentries and dispensers, it was silently agreed among the rest of the RED men that the best course of action would be to stay out of the Engineer’s way when he was stewing. 

The sticking point of a silent agreement, however, was that it wasn’t much good for a man who was as tone-deaf and emotionally unobservant as a fart in a funeral. The good RED Scout happened to be one of those sorts of men.

When Engie’s tight-lipped curses became mutters and huffs, Scout, who had been undoing his hand wraps, looked up and said, “Hey, Eng."

Shoulders tensed and hands stilled across the room, though Scout didn’t seem to catch any of that. Engie inhaled and bit out, “What, Scout?”

“Whaddayou call a mix between an elephant and a rhino?”

Immediately, the other REDs shuffled away from the scene, doing what they could to get cleaned up and get out of there before the pot boiled over. Scout was annoying; everyone knew this. He could try the patience of a saint. He seemed to know intrinsically the buttons of everyone he met and exactly how to push them. They’d seen him send people from zero to pissed in a few short sentences. None of them thought he’d be stupid enough to try and antagonize the Engineer, though. Not even Pyro played with that much fire.

Engie shook his head, then dragged his hands real slow down his face. “What?”

Scout chuffed, snorted back at him, “‘El-if-I-know!”, then hunkered over in choked off giggles that turned into the loudest sound in the room.

Engie didn’t chuckle, didn’t hardly smile, just pushed his lips together and started shucking his toolbelt to put it away.

When Scout collected himself he started on his left hand wrap, glanced mischievously over his shoulder, and said again, ”I got another one”

“Lad.”

That was Demo on the bench across from Scout a little ways away. He fought to catch Scout’s eye and, when he did, shook his head very slowly to warn him off.

Scout shrugged, like he was saying, ‘What?’.

Demo shook his head again and nudged it in the direction of the Engineer, trying to draw attention to his drawn-up shoulders and the steam practically coming out of his ears.

Scout just looked between him and Engie, he did it a few times, then shrugged again. ‘What?’

While Demo tried to come up with the most intelligent way to go about getting Scout to see what was right in front of his damn eyes, Scout went back to Engie.

“Whaddayou call a cop that’s asleep in a bed?” Scout got the last of his wraps off, and he turned a little further in his seat on the bench. “Huh?”

Everyone in the room had their eyes on Engie- Scout in mischief, the others anxiously. Engie worked his goggles off his face and rubbed his real hand over the indents they left under his eyes. He sniffed, then said, “What?”

The stupid smile on Scout’s face grew ten sizes. He managed to hiccup, “an undercover officer,” before losing himself in laughter once more and hunching over, just short of collapsing in his giggles.

He didn’t hear Engie sigh, didn’t see him shake his head tightly, or flex his jaw, but the others did. They glanced amongst themselves with obvious trepidation, obvious to all but two.

“Scout, lad.” Demo scooted further down his bench. “Read the room.”

“What?” Scout responded when his laughter calmed down. “Fuck you, that was a good one. Not my fault he don’t have a sense’a humor.”

Demo shook his head, then turned back to unlacing his boots. “Your funeral, laddie.”

Scout just scoffed at that. He fixed his hat on his head, and took his headset off and tossed it in his open locker, seeming not to care if it broke. He was getting a new one before the next match. 

“Wait.” He suddenly perked up and turned his head back over his shoulder. “Hey, Eng.”

Engie pinched the ridge of his nose.

“Engie! Hey!” said Scout. 

Demo leaned back over, about to hiss at him to shut his trap, but Engie grumbled before he could. “What, Scout?”

“This is the last one, I swear.”

“Damnit, Scout-” Engie mumbled.

 “C’mon, last one.”

When Engie said not a word, Scout persisted.

“Whaddayou call a solider whose survived mustard gas and pepper spray?”

Soldier’s head popped up, but Pyro was quick to wrap a hand over Soldier’s mouth and pull him back down before he started shouting in the tense atmosphere.

Scout scooched back and nudged Engie with his elbow. “Huh? Whaddayou call ‘em?”

Engie’s gloved hand tightened on the door of his locker. A creak was heard coming from it, and Engie was slowly and surely forcing five finger-sized divots into the metal where he gripped it.

A painful silence came and went before he responded, “What, Scout?”

Scout muffled a snort, and took just a second to compose himself, then answered.

“A seasoned veteran.”

Scout’s giggling started up again. Engie breathed in deeply. His eyes closed, and the Gunslinger tightened its grip like a pneumatic clamp. Then he exhaled.

As he did, though, his shoulders started shaking, and his door-grip faltered. The tight lines of his face loosened like uncoiled wires, and his breath…

He was laughing.

The rest of the REDs watched in shock when Engie threw his head back and released a bark of laughter that shattered the tension in the air like glass.

Scout whooped and hollered when he heard it, and leapt up from the bench and threw his arm over Engies shoulder with his other fist raised in victory. They were both laughing harder than that stupid joke called for, but they cackled and chortled like it was easier than breathing. Engie’s face was turning redder and redder, and soon he was bending over to lean on his knees while Scout leaned right on him.

“I knew it! I fuckin’ knew I’d get you!” Scout howled. “I fuckin’ told you!”

Engie shook his head and rubbed his hands down his face for the last time, but they came away to reveal a shameful, resigned, yet bright smile on his face. He leaned right back up against Scout when he straightened out and jabbed him in the ribs to get him to lay off.

“Aw, hell, boy,” He said through light chuckles. “Those were damn awful. Damn awful. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Hey, look who's talkin’, chuckles,” Scout said right back. “That one wasn’t even a good one!”

“You’re damn right about that.” The laughter had begun to calm, but the vestiges of it remained on both of their faces. 

Engie slammed the door of his locker shut (not minding the handprint-shaped divot that kept it from closing properly) and Scout kicked the door of his to do the same. They made identical clangs. Engie sauntered towards the door of the locker room with both hands in his back pockets, and Scout sidled up next to him and started to go on about how he ‘couldn’t believe that stupid soldier joke was the one that made him crack’.

Engie chuckled and nodded along, but stopped them both when he sniffed and Scrunched his face up.

“What?” Scout asked.

“Christ alive, boy.” Engie huffed hard through his nostrils like he was trying to blow to smell out. “You need a shower worse than I do. That’s sayin’ somethin’.”

Scout shoved his shoulder. “Hey, fuck you. I’m starving, dude. Food first.”

 “Not a snowball’s chance in Teufort I'm lettin’ you be near me smellin’ like that, roadrunner.” Engie shook his head, and nudged him back with his own shoulder. “I’ll tell you what: You shower, I’ll cook. That way you won’t kill everyone in this base and we won’t have to put up with your bitchin’.

“Fine. Whatever.” Then Scout nudged him right back, and they found themselves in a tiny shoving match where they kept pushing back and forth with their shoulders. “Breakfast for dinner?”

The remaining six REDs watched in silence as they left the room, joyful and tame. It was only when they were gone, hearing Engie’s voice echo down the hall saying something about sausage gravy, that any of them spoke up.

"The hell was that?" Sniper muttered.

“‘m I jus’ drunk off my ass…” Demo ventured, and dropped his foot off the bench to lean on his knees and stare down the empty doorway like everyone else. “Or did any of you lads see what I just seen?” 

“If you mean the fact that Scout had attempted to annoy our Engineer, yet we’re not currently picking his remains off the floor,” Spy responded, his smoldering cigarette hanging from his lips. “Then yes. We all did.”

Medic and Heavy, who had been standing near each other through the whole exchange, glanced at each other, at the empty doorway, and back again.

“I see…” Medic murmured, mostly to himself. “Very interesting.”

No one asked him what he was thinking. Most every man in that room was thinking the same thing.

“They will tell us when ready,” Heavy said, sagely, and turned to close his locker door. 

That was a good enough answer for the rest of them, too.

~~~~

Thank you so much for reading!! I didn't really edit this so if you notice any glaring issues feel free to point them out. Still debating whether or not I wanna publish this on ao3 but I probably will so don't panic if you see it there too

The engiescout in this was not intended to be overt. I wanted to stay close to the spirit of the og textpost and make it seem like maybe Scout and Engie themselves don't really realize their own connection and everyone else sees it before they do, but I also didn't wanna make it too subtle.

This is also partially for just_mebs for dragging me into this hell ship so thanks to him

[tmae3114]

definitely one of my worst bugbears is when a piece of media establishes specific terminology for things in-universe, as used by the characters, and the fanbase ignores it to use terminology from other things that does not apply in this case

one of the fastest ways to drive me up the wall, very little competition

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

Chaos Prompts!!!! (I'm gonna send a few so feel free to ignore any that don't vibe!)

It's a trash can, not a trash cannot, for Willex?

This got Bex versed. Which means it got Willexied. Again because of @narcissusbrokenmirror's request for the same: 10."It's a trash can, not a trash can't" for the bex verse. Thank you both!

“What- Are you three doing?” Alex asks, shoving the groceries onto the counter. He takes in the sight in front of him. There are crafting supplies everywhere. Bex’s hands are covered with glue. It looks like somebody dumped the recycling bin onto the table. There’s a hot glue gun on the other side of Willie and a handful of other tools scattered around that Alex can’t even begin to imagine purposes for.

“Crafting,” Reggie says helpfully. 

“Right.”

“Okay, so I was on Pinterest-”

Alex sighs, cutting him off. “Reggie, we’ve talked about this!”

Reggie waves Alex off. “I know, I know! But there were so many cute ideas for things we could make! And it’s reduce, reuse, THEN recycle, right?”

Alex groans as he starts unpacking the groceries. “You know that after they’ve been made into things, they can’t be recycled, right?”

“You know that most things sent to be recycled aren’t, right?” Reggie counters. Bex and Willie eye the pair warily but otherwise keep focused on their task: gluing pieces of cardboard to a painted milk carton.

“What are you even making?”

Bex holds up their creation, “Bird feeder!”

Alex runs a hand through his hair, biting back his frustration. “It’s beautiful, sweetie. Where are you going to put it?” He utters out the last few words through gritted teeth, very intentionally directed at his partners. “We live in an apartment building,” he reminds them with hushed exasperation.

“There are trees in the courtyard, surely someone will let us hang it in one of them,” Willie says without looking up from where they’re trying to secure a stick to the front of the carton.

“Don’t call me Shirley,” Reggie giggles, just under his breath.

Alex glares at him and finishes putting the groceries away. When he’s done, he walks around the island and stands behind Willie, watching them work for a moment. He squeezes Willie’s shoulders.

Willie tips their head back, looking up at Alex. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” Alex leans down and gives Willie a kiss.

“Blech,” Reggie and Bex say in tandem, grinning at each other like it’s some inside joke and not a bit they’ve been doing for months.

Alex rolls his eyes. He surveys the empty chairs to confirm one is safe to actually sit in without getting paint or glue or worse on his clothes. He deems the one at the head of the table acceptable and sits down. 

“Okay,” Alex sighs. “What else are you making?”

“Well, we have birdfeeders. And toilet paper roll butterflies. Ohhh, and show Daddy the sensory bottles, Bex!” Willie says excitedly. 

Bex climbs over the table, causing Alex to hold his breath in a practice of great restraint, and grabs the bottles of shimmery liquid. She crawls them over to Alex, setting them in front of him. She then climbs down into his lap. She reaches for the bottle closest to them and holds it out for Alex.

“Shake it!” Bex tells him. 

Alex complies. “Oh, very pretty!”

Bex beams at him and grabs another bottle, shaking it vigorously and watching the glitter swirl around.  

“Who knew you could make so many things from garbage?”

“Well, Hotdog,” Willie says, “it’s called a trash can, not a trash can’t.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what that means.”

Reggie laughs from where he’s sitting. “Neither does Willie,” he says at the same time as Willie’s, “Me neither.”

“It’s a meme and you're doing it wrong,” Reggie clarifies. “And also, Pinterest. Pinterest knows you can make so many things from garbage.”

[theflyingfeeling]

fanfic rambling in the tags, nothing interesting really, just me talking to myself lol, okay to ignore or read as you please ✨

[wanderingmaskdragons]

Pride Dragons <3

🏳️‍🌈

[crebbyhermit]

identity - idem - the same

oc only vers