Banter - Blog Posts

Masterlist

For Joanna:

Synopsis: Nikolai has been trying to find the right person to repair his beloved helicopter for a while too long, now. And then, he meets you.

Status: Completed!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

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Watcher 1-1:

Synopsis: You used to be a star member of the Task Force 141. Good things never seem to last, and change paves over your old friendships. Now, the only issue is that those old friendships are staring at you across the table, with anger in their eyes.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.

Valentines

Synopsis: You've been on the team for a while now. It's been a task to get used to, but you've been getting on just fine with the boys. Or maybe, juuust maybe... better than fine.

Drabbles: Winding Down

Fiber Arts S/O!

Wisdom Teeth

Breakup Day (Johnny)

Damaged, but not beyond repair

Why Hobie disappears

Not very long, just a little thing I wrote! Features/warnings:

Hobie is protrayed as very much being genderqueer in some way, shape or form, and is referred with he/they/she throughout the story + one instance of the reader calling him "girly" which Hobie explicitly enjoys and is implied to have talked about beforehand.

Reader is implied to also be genderqueer, and Hobie refers to them as "big man" once, they also stim when they get excited. Other than that, gender neutral reader and no warnings, just silly fluff!

It's widely understood that Hobie in himself is a wild sort of enigma. This is why no one really seems to question where he's going or why, what he plans to do. Hobie is just... Hobie, and he Hobies around until he leaves and presumably Hobies around some more wherever he trotted off to. Gwen and Pav wonder about this, because after every mission (or, at least, the few that Hobie bothers with), he just sort of magically slips off and reappears sometime later. It's Pav that suggests tracking him down, but Gwen would be a liar to say she's not also curious.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You sit on the floor, cross-legged with a punk at your side and a sewing machine in front of you. Tartan weave rubs against your fingers as you sew darts into the fabric, ensuring it would fit just a bit more snugly at the waist, because Hobie really liked that sort of thing in clothes. "Y'want a cinch, right? Nothin' too far off your usual?" Just in case, you double check. Hobie looks up from his guitar, and nods. You don't really note that he's smiling, and he knows you aren't, but the corners of his lips twitch up anyway. "Yeah. Thanks again, bruv, couldn't ever do that shit like you." There's something in his voice that makes you smile, nod a little firmer than normal. Hobie knows that. "Yeah, yeah, 'nuff with the flattery, I'm on it." Truth be told, this little symbiosis of Hobie giving you projects to work on and you giving him much better clothing in return has grown into something much more significant. Friendship. Even when you weren't working on anything, taking a rare break to clear your head, Hobie would let you sit near him (regardless of if you were in a talking mood or just wanted to be quiet for a few hours), sometimes talk about what he was doing, sometimes teach you a little tidbit about his universe's idea of how punk works. It was similar, for the most part, but you liked to learn new things anyway, so it never hurt. Your skilled fingers thread the machine before you as Hobie continues plucking at quiet chords with the guitar. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gwen and Pav felt like this search was endless. For at least an hour, they had found a grand total of nothing, like Hobie really had vanished into thin air. He wasn't at his place Gwen had checked, so he was probably somewhere at the Spider Society, but tracking down someone so rebellious that no one bothered to ask where he was going was proving to be ridiculously difficult. It takes another half hour to find one of the smaller rooms of the Spider Society, a little sort of craft-haven and quiet space. Pav cracks the door, and gasps a little. "Gwen, Gwen, look at this." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ When you take the now-fitted shirt off the machine (with a slight skirt you'd added made of scrap fabrics), you grin, and toss it to Hobie. "Try it on, fucker, should be perfect." Your confidence isn't misplaced, it seems, because when Hobie taps your shoulder to signal that it's good to turn back around, they're a fucking vision. Smudged eyeliner, torn pants, and the little suspenders, all the same, but with your work, cinching at the middle and showing off the wonderful lines of form, tracing down their hips until the skirt cuts off mid-thigh, Hobie looks so much more at home in it. "Fuck yeah!" Hobie smiles when you jump up and flap your hands a little, lets you circle them like a hungry shark as you rave about the new thing you'd tried, a different stitch or something. Hobie couldn't care less what you did. It was something you had made, and that was enough. "Beautiful, can't believe you're lookin' so good, girly." The tender, feminine nickname makes Hobie's chest thrum a little with satisfaction. She knows you know that she loves it when you do that, when you use other pronouns just to show her that you know and care for her preferences. "Thanks, big man. 'Preciate it." Now its your turn to grin, and wrap the punk up in a tight hug from behind, stupidly happy and content. Hobie is nonchalant. You are not. It works well. The lanky Brit smiles, and pats your hand around their waist. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gwen and Pavitr had stood stock still as they watched this exchange. It was deeply shocking to them. Hobie, who was hanging out and being nice with some random, excitable spider that neither of them had met before. And this other spider seemingly knew things they didn't if Hobie's little smile was anything to go by. Gwen, however, softens. Hobie had his confidants, and she has hers. Maybe that's why she gently pulls Pav back, and smiles at him. "C'mon. Let's get lunch. Hobie's doing his own thing."

Winding down

Synopsis: A mission's end is always an odd thing to live through, but you've found ways to manage, WARNINGS!: depiction of injury, pain, description of gun sounds and bullets. Canon-typical violence (mission) Little notes: Hurt my thumb (big typing finger for me) so if there are any errors with spelling, please don't mind This blog is still very much new to me, so if you have any little silly comments or requests for bonus stuff, send an ask! It'll make my day :) enjoy! (but only if you wanna)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- There was dust in the air, swirling like a typhoon that simply ached to consume you and all you held dear. It doesn't throw anyone off, though, you've all been trained better than that. Price's voice is in your ear again, biting out the order to "get out of there, you dolt, bomb's off in thirty seconds." It's nothing you've never heard before, you know you've cut it closer and got out fine, so you wait until you have to reload to push the button on your radio and bite back a response. "Give me ten, Cap, and I'll be clear. Stragglers." You can hear him growl under his breath, but quiet. Some part of you would smirk in satisfaction, tease the old man over knowing damn well you could pull your weight, but there isn't time for that now. You're on the clock, and it ticks much too fast The familiar, satisfying click soothes any remaining thought as you slam the gun's magazine into your thigh to push it in the rest of the way, peek out from behind your cover to unleash another spray of shots into the idiot who was trying to creep up on you. Fifteen seconds

If your ear serves you right, only one left. if you take him out in five, that leaves you ten to get out. Risky, but the odds aren't zero. Your radio buzzes back to life, but now it's the other John yapping at you, something something "Get out of there." and then your name. Johnny doesn't use your callsign, but your name. It pulls you back from the edge of bloodlust just long enough for your mental count to hit ten. "Right. Clearing out." That's all you bother with before setting on your mad dash for the exit of the decrepit concrete rectangle that is this building. West's compromised, too piled with bodies to be a safe bet for running, and East is blocked. So you run North, through unfamiliar, winding hallways, for your life. Six seconds

The thumps of your boots aren't alone. You were right, though, there's only one more soul in this nasty shit-hole. Five seconds You hear a magazine getting knocked into place, cuss to yourself and push even harder, try your damnedest to get out of this unscathed. It isn't looking good now. Four seconds A bullet tears through the wall right next to your head when you turn the corner with a resounding crack. Fuck. The thrum of adrenaline is the only thing that supports you as you continue the mad dash for the door, see it at the end of a long, straight hallway. Three seconds This is getting worse by the second, and you know it. This fucker has good aim, there's no space to zigzag or dash in a random direction like a flighty, scared animal. Two seconds Time to run the gauntlet. Glass crunches beneath the soles of worn boots, you fly through the hallway as fast as your legs will allow, silently screaming a prayer to a god you know never listens. One second

Right as you cross the doorway, there's another crack of a bullet, but it's drowned out by the bomb finally going off. The shockwave is so intense that it launches you into the air (it feels much higher than it is), and, all at once, you turn to get a look of who almost managed to put you in a box. They're all dolled up in tac gear, but you know the look in their eyes the second you spot it. It's the same determination that drives you forward, raw and feral and it's tinged by the rush of adrenaline you live for. Young, too, they couldn't be older than you were when you first joined the task force. Then, when the ceiling above them cracks and stars to come down, it's fear. Your memories of the minutes after are loose at best, but you try to piece them together. You know that, at some point, you rose to your feet, made the jog back to the evac point with that rookie's blood sprayed on the vest that caught their last bullet. It would have hit you right between the ribs. You know that Kyle wordlessly sets a cigarette between your parted lips, pulls you in by the neck to light it with his own, hazel eyes focused as he calms himself back down. You know that he's there, next to you, like always, it warms you, if only slightly. Kyle doesn't press, doesn't try to talk, but he makes a point to show you that he's there. You know that Johnny breathes out a plume of that weird vape shit he's been swearing by (it smells like a public restroom if it was mint flavored), makes a bad joke about "butt fucking" because that's what they call bumming a light in Scotland. You think his friends just picked it up from shitty American movies and lied to him. You know that, when you finally take a drag, the nicotine shocks your systems back into full function. You know that when you open your eyes again, the world is clear. You see Price trot forward and let out a breath of both annoyance and pride. He used to tear you a new one every time you pulled a stunt like this, but now he knows better, knows you operate at your best in the split second between like and death. So now, you feel his hand pat the shoulder of your vest, resigned but proud. You feel your cheeks round with a small smile when you finally pull the cig back from between you lips, finally yourself again. "Not bad, ain't it? All targets neutralized." Your voice is just a little raspier than normal, tinged with the fading of your adrenaline high. From the corner of your eye, you see Ghost, leaning on the helicopter's side. He nods. "Aye, that was feckin' pretty, ye stupid lil cunt!" Your snort seems to make Johnny beam even wider than before, you feel the warmth of his side as he pulls you into a firm, one-armed hug. Out of sheer habit, you retch jokingly, and shove him back. "Gross! You're fucking sweaty, Soap, don't muck up my good shirt!" Your 'good shirt' is torn at the bottom hem, has a fine spray of blood on it, and is half-covered in concrete dust from the former building that is now a pile of smoking rubble a few hundred meters away. It'll all come off in the wash, just like today's sins will spiral into the drain of a weird-smelling communal shower room. And you know, come tomorrow, you'll be training with your boys once more, trading quips and barbs and soaking in camaraderie. For now, that's more than enough.

Incorrect Shakespeare Quotes: Much Ado About Nothing 1

Benedick: Beatrice, I screwed up, big time.

Beatrice: Benedick, given your daily life experiences, you’re gonna have to be more specific.

*

Benedick: I can't take this anymore, someone needs to take me out!

Beatrice: In a dating type of way, or an assassination type of way?

Benedick: I don't know, surprise me!

*

Beatrice: I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. Someone asked me what the Spanish word for "tortilla" was once, and now I dream of kissing them under the moonlight.

Benedick: What kind of animal is the Pink Panther?

Beatrice, already taking off their clothes: God, Benedick, you’re so fucking stupid.

*

Beatrice: Valentine’s day is just a consumerist holiday that holds no real value other than drive people insane buying heart shaped chocolates for their significant others and pos-

Benedick: I wrote you a poem.

Beatrice, already crying: You did?

*

Benedick: Hey, random question, what are your favorite flowers?

Beatrice: Peonies, why?

Benedick:

Beatrice: Were you going to get me flowers?

Benedick:

Beatrice:

Benedick: ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃ ᵖᵒˢˢᶦᵇᶦˡᶦᵗʸ

*

Benedick: Strawberry milk doesn’t taste like strawberry OR milk.

Beatrice: Go the fuck to sleep Benedick.

*

Beatrice: You’re overthinking this.

Benedick: You don’t know the appropriate level of thinking, Beatrice. What if I’m underthinking?

*

Benedick: I have a problem.

Beatrice: Kill it.

Benedick: Can you chill for like, two seconds?

*

Benedick: Anyone down to take couples counseling and see at what point the therapist realizes we barely know each other?

Beatrice: Idiots to lovers, 20k words, angst with a happy ending.

*

Beatrice, laying in bed: Get out of my room.

Benedick, standing just outside of the door frame: I’m not in your room.

*

Beatrice, ordering Starbucks: Hey, I just got my heart broken, what do you recommend?

Benedick, who’s running the drive thru: …

Benedick: Tequila.

*

Beatrice: I don't know how to tell you this, but... I love you.

Benedick: That's great, Beatrice. Especially considering the fact we've been married for 6 fucking years.

*

Beatrice: *standing on a balcony and sneezes*

Benedick: *standing on the roof* Bless you.

Beatrice: God?!

*

Benedick: Do we have any orange juice left?

Beatrice: *pours the remaining juice into their cup*

Beatrice: Sorry, we’re all out.

*

Benedick: Am I right, Beatrice?

Beatrice: I’m almost certain you’re not, but to be fair, I wasn’t listening.

*

Benedick: Hey, Beatrice. What kind of flowers do you prefer?

Beatrice: I like sunflowers.

Benedick, pulling out a bouquet of Venus Flytraps: Well, shit-

*

Benedick: Go fuck yourself.

Beatrice: Come over here and fuck me yourself you coward!

*

Beatrice: Don’t weep for the stupid. You’ll be crying all day.

*

Benedick: Capitalizing every word in a sentence is vomit inducing.

Beatrice: Enjoy Your Trip To Puke Land, Boy!

*

Beatrice: Benedick, can I ask you a question?

Benedick: Sure, anything.

Beatrice: Why don't you go back to your own house and leave us alone?

Some glasses 👓 Gays also known as Logicality. Made for an art trade with @everything-is-rainbows which you should absolutely follow cause their art is flippin amazing.

“You’re really cute when you pout like that.”

Ship: Spencer Reid/Aaron Hotchner/Derek Moragn

Summary: Aaron is trying to finish some paperwork. Derek is teasing Spencer. Spencer is cuddly, and rather innocent.

A/N: My Poly ass has to write Poly ships sometimes so it’s on my spin wheel

They were scattered across places of Aaron’s office, Aaron the only one left who was still working. Derek was messing with some phone game while Spencer read some books he’d found at the library.

Spencer shuffled over from where he was leaning against Aaron’s desk to lean against Aaron’s legs prompting Aaron to play with his hair by knocking his head against where Aaron had rested his hand amongst his knee.

“I swear you were a kitten in a past life babe.” Derek teased.

“Shut up Derek.” Spencer grumbled good naturedly, pouting when he looked at Derek over the edge of his book.

“You’re cute when you pout like that.” Spencer retaliated by throwing a pen at Derek who promptly threw it back, unfortunately missing Spencer by a few inches and hitting Aaron in the face.

“Uh oh.” Spencer mumbles tilting his head up to look at Aaron. “Please don’t kill him.”

“I’m working.” Aaron huffs. “Both of you better quit it or I’ll kick you out.”

“No you won’t.” Derek responds, making his way across the room. “I’m sorry I hit you in the face with a pen.” The absurdity of the situation had Spencer gigging and Derek reached over to lightly shove him.

“Just behave.” Aaron mutters not looking up from his paperwork. “Both of you.” He adds when Spencer reaches out to grab Derek’s ankle.

“Can the paperwork till tomorrow?” Spencer asks twisting around so he’s resting his chin on Aaron’s knee.

“No it can’t.” Aaron’s hand reaches out to push Spencer off his knee. “Behave.”

“I was behaving.” Spencer argues furrowing his eyebrows, Derek laughs leaning down to whisper something in Spencer’s ear. “Oh.” Aaron rolls his eyes closing the file with a defeated sigh.

“Come on. I’m not getting anything done with the two of you fooling around.” Spencer frowns watching as Aaron packs up with a slightly agitated look on his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah me too.” Derek relents when Spencer looks at him expectedly.

“It’s fine. Let’s go home.” Aaron barely makes it to the door before two sets of arms are wrapping around him, the faces of his lovers both apologetic. “Really, it’s okay. Let’s go home.”

“You sure?” Spencer asks.

“I’m sure.”

POV: They’re your Defense Team.

it was supposed to be a friendly game of chess, but I suppose that made me forget we were still on the opposite sides of the board. you played a queen's gambit, and did win in the end, but failed to realize that entailed losing your queen too, until it was too late.

the observer effect

author:

MistressEast

summary: More than a year before the petrification incident, Gen gets a text from a stranger.

Loving Until Sunset

author: soda_coded

summary:

Ruggie dropped out of NRC when he found out he was pregnant, abandoned and heartbroken. Leona thought he'd never hear from the love of his life again... Until a chance encounter in a sleepy town reunites them.

Secrets and love between them but which will win out? Find out in 'Loving Until Sunset' a soda_coded original romance.

Happy Valentine's Day!