#writober2020

[bolontiku]

"Unconventional"

Avengers AU - Drabble

Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 229

Prompt: kiss in the rain

A/N: for @cevans-is-classic writober I am behind in this one but here it is.

WARNINGS: none?

Like what I write? ☕ café

*******

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

It was supposed to be perfect.

Which meant, dinner, getting to know each other slowly. Long walks, questions, long talks. 

I mean, you knew him.

Everyone knew him.

Captain America. 

You knew him as Steve Rogers.

That guy that always doodled during meetings. The one you couldn't stop sneaking looks at. The one that made you fidget when he smiled at you. Cause… dammit he had such a cute smile. 

He was cute. 

But that didn't mean you knew knew him. That didn't mean you should be kissing him. Much less in the rain. 

You had plans. There was a way these things were supposed to go. 

Yet, here you were standing in the rain, his coffee in your hand, yours in his. His free hand cupping your face as his lips molded to yours and you forgot how to breathe or even what your plans had been. 

A kiss in the rain. How cliche… how lame.. How perfect.

Steve pressed his forehead to yours, pulling away just so. "So… can we date?"

Laughter bubbled up and out of you, "is that how this goes? Its a little unconventional."

He shrugged those broad shoulders of his, the ones that you couldn't get out of your eyesight when he was around, "I'm an unconventional kinda guy." And there it was again, that smile.

[cevans-is-classic]

Kiss In The Rain

This was meant to be day 3 (and I'll post day 2 soon) but work kicked my ass.

Writober Event 2020!

Sebastian Stan X Reader

Warnings: None, I think.

@fenvincible

If you'd like to join just follow the rules, guidelines and prompts and tag us in your work!

Kiss In The Rain

His hands were hanging at his sides, fingers tapping his thigh. If he keeps his hands to himself, it’ll be easier. 

“How long until you have to go?” The rain had slicked your hair, strands falling in your face highlighting your eyes. 

Your lips were turning blue, “Another day?” 

He nodded, trying to keep himself in check, but the longer he watched the way you shiver, the more he wanted to reach out and hold you, “I don’t want to go.” You whispered lower than he could hear. 

It was the first thing you two talked about after the first night. Your job brought you here, your job was taking you away, and there was no guarantee you’ll be back. 

“I’ll come to you.” He nuzzled into your neck, kissing your collar bone and nipping the sensitive skin under your jaw. 

Your sigh pulled him back, “It’s not that easy.” 

“That just means we have to make the most of the time we have left,” He couldn’t stop himself this time. He reached out wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into him and resting his lips against your hairline, “I don’t want you to go, but that’s life and we’ll make it work. I promise.” 

Seb felt your face press into his chest, hot breath warming him as you shook in his arms, “Can I submit a complaint to the romance department. To whoever it may concern: why did you make me fall in love.” 

Laughter separated you, your chin tilting upwards until he could get a good look at you, “Forwarded.” 

The kiss was cold, wet, and the best damn thing Sebastian had ever felt. This was every cliché in the book. Two lovers separating, two strangers who fell in love and a kiss in the rain to seal the deal that he couldn't care less where you were, Seb would find his way to you.

[anotherghostcity]

- Nana, My blood all over their canvas (translated) (Writober, Day 16)

[cityveinlights]

“Here be wonder, here be mischief”

What is a place if a place isn’t there?

Under the staircase, a portal of air.

Warlocks and magic and castles with moats,

All hiding behind a curtain of coats.

So look, look, look, look! Just open your eyes,

While dragons fly rampant in fluorescent skies.

Put pen onto paper, expanding your mind,

And spell up a new world, leave bygones behind.

day 7: warlock

[sammylikesyaoi]

Camici Bianchi e pronto soccorso

Promt: Day 15 - Hospital AU Fandom: The Old Guard Ship: Nicolò da Genova/Yusuf Al-Kaysani Dal Testo: "-Hai già incontrato il nuovo Figo del pronto soccorso? - Chiese Nile, sorseggiando il suo caffelatte. Nicolò capì immediatamente che stesse parlando del dottor Al-Kaysani. L'intero ospedale non parlava d'altro, dell'avvenenza del nuovo medico. Ormai si era arreso a zittire le infermiere che parlavano di lui durante le operazioni. Non lo sorprendeva: era davvero un bell'uomo."

[marianhellequin]

Октябрь в Нулогорске. Часть 26/31. Сверхновая звезда.

Ночное не��о было невероятно высоким и красивым. Усыпанное яркими далёкими звёздами, подсвеченное кроваво-алым северным сиянием и загадочным свечением, на которое все боялись поднять взгляд, оно неизменно привлекало астрономов, романтиков и уфологов.

Но не всегда смотреть было можно. В эту ночь те, кто отважился понаблюдать за удивительным событием, надевали очки с нулевым индексом прозрачности и наушники, чтобы слушать трансляцию по радио. Впрочем, многие предпочли задёрнуть окна и не смотреть наружу вовсе. Всё равно по радио в прямом эфире шло красочное описание событий.

У тёмной бетонной коробки рыбокомбината стояла солидная чёрная машина генерального директора. Директор сидел на заднем сидении и через глухо тонированные окна наблюдал за сиянием вспышек сверхновых и россыпью метеоритных дождей. Не то, чтобы он любил смотреть на небо. Ему больше нравилось море. Но сверхновые и правда были хороши. Директор долго смотрел на них, а потом водитель завёл мотор, и директор отвернулся, глядя прямо перед собой своими круглыми, бледными глазами. Звёзды звёздами, а сегодня вступал в силу новый указ, подписанный лично мэром Павлом Боровиком. Вот уж где вспышка.

Впрочем, ничего нового или сверхнового. Директора это не беспокоило; его сейчас даже не беспокоили особо военные в форме со знаками различия - за последние месяцы то ли он привык, то ли они стали осторожнее и деликатнее, но пока проблем не возникало. Хотя они и приходили, фотографируя оборудование и тщательно что-то записывая. И изымали образцы продукции. По указанию директора это списывалось на представительские расходы.

Вообще-то дела города не слишком волновали рыбокомбинат. Всё-таки это закрытое предприятие. Ну, по мере сил, конечно же. Чёрный автомобиль неспешно вёз генерального директора вдоль набережн��й к респектабельному кварталу частных домов. Дом директора был самым близким к морю. И с самым высоким забором. Директор очень не любил чужих взглядов. Ещё он не любил указы мэра, касавшиеся рыбокомбината и его продукции.

Но сейчас был вынужден согласиться. Всё-таки после недавних событий действительно не стоит повышать обороты производства промышленной вёшенки.

* * *

- А гендир завода? То есть, комбината? Константин выглядел взъерошенным и смутно довольным (возможно, потому что у него появились отличные планы на среду). - А что гендир. Я от него ни слова не добилась, - Елизавета фыркнула, заглядывая через плечо помощника в его ноутбук. - Можешь прямо так и записать. Набрал в рот воды. - То администрация. - М? - Администрация. А-а-а, ты ж с нами не ходила... Они воды в рот набрали и молчали. Елизавета скептически вскинула бровь. Константин смотрел на неё совершенно спокойно, с ухмылочкой и абсолютной невозмутимостью во взгляде. - Схватили стаканы, набрали в рот воды и замолчали. - Их вообще сколько? - Видимых в тот раз было пять. Так что с гендиром-то? - Ну, он не набирал в рот воды, ладно. Но просто молчал и лупился на меня. Глаза у него противные, - Елизавета невольно поморщилась. - Рыба рыбой, фу. - Скользкие, мёртвые стебли на холодном камне, - вспомнил Константин недавний гороскоп и рассмеялся. За окном полыхнула финальная вспышка самой крупной сверхновой.

* * * Продолжение следует.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 18 (photograph)

Extra, extra, read all about it: someone’s about to fucking die. As they should, because who the hell honestly believes that Commander Shepard and Commander Shepard are straight anyway?

(ME1)

---

“Do you think either of them know they were seen yet?”

“Doubt it. Definitely explains the last name thing, though. How long do you think it's been?”

“Can't have been more than 5 years, they both did N7...”

Alistair was starting to get tired of people whispering. Didn't they know it was rude?

Ok, maybe his nerves were still a little frayed from the whole touch the Prothean beacon, figure out Saren is trying to kill everyone, become the first human Spectre thing. Nobody could blame him that he was a little cranky that morning as he left his office to get the Normandy where it needed to go. The fact it was actually his ship definitely didn't help either. After years of being enlisted or an officer, having free reign was... deeply uncomfortable.

He'd probably get over it, but... yeah it felt weird.

Still, even in his terrible mood it was impossible to miss the stares and the whispers from the crew whenever he walked by. Part of him had wondered if it was them gossiping about how he'd gotten the Normandy off Admiral Anderson, but... it didn't feel right. Professional whispering from the ranks was one thing, but this felt... oily. Salacious, maybe. Definitely something personal, which just amped up the gossip even more.

Now, had he been in a better mood, Alistair probably would have ignored it. The thing was, he wasn't. So he would have to be forgiven if he took a right when he should've gone straight and walked straight behind the two gossiping crew-mates. Neither of them noticed him, of course. He was quiet like that.

“What was that about N7?”

He shouldn't have enjoyed just how much air the two men cleared when they jumped out of their skins, but forgive him if he wasn't feeling just a little petty that morning. They were both 3 shades lighter as they turned to face him, and the sweat was really starting to pour down their faces. On his scale, he'd call that shit terrified.

Good.

“C-Commander Shepard, sir! W-we didn't see you there!”

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Yes, that tends to happen when someone comes up from behind you. Now, to reiterate. What was that about N7? Have either of you been asked to join the training program? My congratulations if so, it's an honor even to be asked.”

He would know – he had it tattooed above his ass. And he definitely knew nobody on his ship was in active training at the moment. It was one of the perks that came with being the Normandy's CO. The other was getting to see moment like this transpire before him.

The larger of the two was sweating bullets as he tried to figure out what to say. “N-no... nothing like that, sir.”

“Just...” the words failed the smaller one. His face screwed up as he seemingly gave up whatever he was holding back. “How long have you been married to XO Shepard?”

…

Alistair blinked slowly. “What?”

If he hadn't known better... someone had just asked if he was married to his XO. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard, his best friend and probably the closest thing he had left to family.

What the entire fuck?

Big one rubbed the back of his neck as his face began to take color again. “It... was on the extranet a few days ago. Pictures of you two together. It implied that you two were married. We thought it would explain the shared last name and all...”

Alistair let a sigh leak from between his teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A tabloid with nothing better to do, I assume.”

He let the pinch go, shaking his head. “Mind sending that site to me? I think I need to do some correction next time we dock at the Citadel.”

The two were already racing for their omni-tools, but he could tell the question still loomed in both their eyes. After all, he could just be trying to quash the story to keep his so-called marriage quiet. These crew, lovely as they were, didn't know he or his XO well enough yet.

Maybe that was why he rolled up his sleeve to expose his tattoo. “And by the way, I think this should clarify your questions.”

He tapped the wing colored in the gay pride flag for emphasis. The other, shaded in trans pride, went without saying. Years later, he was still glad he had gotten it during pride, even if it had been somewhat of a spur of the moment choice. Ironically enough, he had gotten it with Bo – she had the lesbian colors around her ankle.

You know, because she was a fucking lesbian and he was gay as hell.

“O-oh... yeah I guess it would.” Someone's face was turning red. “Sorry, Commander...”

“Just don't spread it around anymore.” Down went his sleeve. “Now, I'm going to go see where this website is hosted...”

With that he left them, the details blooming to life on his omni-tool screen. Once they got back to the Citadel, he and Bo were going to have to take a little trip...

---

“I'm going to murder them when I get my hands on them.”

“Don't worry, I won't stop you.”

The port hissed as Bo and Alistair left the Normandy's decontamination lock and entered the Citadel docking bay. It had been a few days since the discovery on ship, and now they were at the heart of the matter. Someone was about to get their clock cleaned, and it wasn't going to be mechanically.

'Don't forget ,you two, you don't have to testify against each other in court since you're married and all~!'

Al shot a glare back at the Normandy as he pressed the communicator in his ear. “Joker-”

'Just kidding, commanders. I know what teams you two play for. I guess we'll know you found them when we see the blood spurting.'

“You better fucking believe it.” Bo's eyes were practically glowing with hostility as she stomped down the walkway that connected their ship to the dock. Around them hummed the activity of the Citadel proper. Ships sailed above their heads, people went about their business... and somewhere, a tabloid was about to get the unholy shit kicked out of it.

Alistair checked the details on his omni-tool as they began to walk. “I traced the website's ISP to a building in the Wards. Chances are, they're there.”

“If not, they're going to tell us where the fuck they are.” Her knuckles were white as she slammed them together. “Damn straights and their height kink. How the hell could anyone think I was straight?”

Yeah, that was his question – she was built like a tank and had pink hair. How the hell could anyone read that as straight?

“I mean, they thought I was straight somehow, so they don't have a great judge of character.” Alistair tapped at his omni-tool. “It would be faster if we got a taxi, but walking is an option too. Up to you honestly.”

Bo didn't answer him. He realized why once he figured out he had lost his handy patch of shade. The other Spectre had left him in order to go storm over to a nearby newsstand where people were whispering. Given a few were running...

Well, he ran over to make sure nobody died.

“I can't fucking believe this!”

She pounded her fist on the counter, and Alistair felt like doing the same once he saw it. A new story had popped up, front cover with a picture that definitely wasn't photoshopped. Bo was front and center, chatting with a rather lovely lady. Anyone who could read body language could guess the two were probably flirting, which is probably why someone had been so quick to take it. Above the photo, a bold headline proclaimed “Commander Shepard: Newlywed in Bisexual Affair?”

Oh boy... whoever took that was a dead man.

Bo rounded on him, fire in her eyes. “Taxi. Now.”

Alistair didn't need to be told twice – they were soon in the back of a cab, headed towards the Wards. To say a burning silence fell over the back was putting it mildly. Bo was gearing up to kill someone, and he... well he didn't want to be next in the tabloid.

The cab driver unfortunately didn't have the sense God gave to rocks as he surveyed the two. “Trouble in paradise, huh? Well, there's always divorce court.”

Alistair grabbed for Bo before she could crash the cab. “We're actually going to clear up we're not married!”

“Ah, that's a shame. You two make a cute couple, being the first two Spectres and all. You could've made some wicked strong biotic kids.”

“Sir when I tell you I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now, please believe me and keep driving.”

By the time they were dropped off in the Wards, Alistair was pretty sure he had lost 10 pounds keeping the cab driver alive. His arms were killing him as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a nondescript office building. It had a listing on the side, telling the different businesses inside. Their next stop was on the fourth floor... so if anyone got tossed out of a window, they would probably live.

“Alright, so let's figure out what we're-”

He didn't get to finish his statement. Bo was already walking in like a woman on a mission, leaving him in the dust. All he could do was chase after her, eventually catching up on the stairs to the second floor. All the while, a receptionist chased after them.

“Excuse me, you can't just-”

Bo turned back to face her dead on. “Spectre business.”

Their tail shook a little, but... Al was pretty sure it was because she was kind of into that. She was definitely blushing a little as she backed up. “R-right... fourth floor is what you're looking for, ma'am.”

Alistair sighed as he held up his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, we'll be done quickly. Thank you for your information.”

And then he was chasing after Bo again as she took the stairs two at a time. Before long, they were standing on the fourth floor's landing. There was only one door here, labeled with a sign that called themselves Citadel Daily. They were one of many tabloids that supplied the Presidium and Wards with the lack of news people loved, and no doubt they were one of the more popular ones. After all, they were creating quite the buzz about humanity's first two Spectres.

A buzz that was about to be repaid with a lot of violence if he didn't mediate.

He managed to grab her wrist before they went in. “Let's just... try talking first.”

“It's not you they're calling a cheat, Al.” She tugged her arm away. “I'm handling this my way.”

And then she pushed the door open, probably burying the knob in the wall. All motion stopped on the other side as she stormed into the room, coming to a stop at the heart of it. All Alistair could do was enter after her pulling the door out of the wall as he did. Yep... the handle went straight through. That was going to require a patch.

Bo glared at the room filled with desks and people. Someone was reaching for a camera, a device that abruptly died as her eyes glowed red. She might not have been good with technology, but she knew how to break it just fine. No more devices came out after that – they were smart.

“I'm only going to say this one, who the fuck is John Jacobs and when are they getting the fuck out?”

Nobody moved at first. Alistair could hardly blame them as he scanned the room. Mostly, he just saw shocked wanna-be journalists and gossip columnists who had never expected this kind of treatment. After all, they weren't printing anything particularly hard hitting. Of course, their mistake had been printing about the Shepards... which was a bad idea to say the least.

He spotted someone twitching in the corner of the room. Rather than alert Bo, he began to pick his way over. Nobody would look at him, but that was fine. He had his eye on the man trying to hide behind his desktop, looking at though he might piss himself.

And as he should – from the looks of things, he was working on his latest article.

“'Commander Shepard spotted coming out of a bar with-'” He shook his head, sighing. “Mr. Jacobs, if you were even half a journalist you would know I can't drink on my medication. That's just sloppy work right there.”

The man definitely pissed himself as he backed up in his seat. “C-Commander Shepard!”

“One of them, anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bo, found him.”

Maybe that was mean, but the photoshop job on that picture had been particularly atrocious. So maybe he didn't feel bad that hell on wheels was storming over, ready to put her fist straight through this guy's head. At least he'd stop it if it came to murder...

Maybe.

Bo came to a stop in front of the desk. His desktop fizzed and died as she loomed over him. Alistair definitely smelled piss and something else as the full weight of his crimes fell upon him. And of course, nobody was dumb enough to take pictures. After all, they were Spectres and about ready to prove what happened if you tried to smear them.

Though... was it actually a smear if they did make this guy's life a living hell?

“John Jacobs?”

His answer came out shaky. “Y-Yes, that's me. I didn't expect the story to get so big, b-but-”

Too late. He was already out of his seat by the collar of his garish shirt. Bo had him at eye level, and Al was there to avoid the pants region as he watched the carnage unfold. Someone nearby had a camera up  - a blue-eyed gaze quickly put a stop to that. Bo wasn't the only one who knew how to break technology.

“What the fuck was going through your demented little fucking head?” She brought him closer. “You got some kind of height kink, you nasty fuck?”

John was sweating bullets. “N-no! I just... a lot of people think you two are married! It's the same last names!”

Yeah, Alistair was doubting the lack of height kink, but at least he was trying to be honest. He was still probably going to get the shit beaten out of him, though. He kind of deserved it, what with insinuating they were not only married but... ugh...  straight.

Really, how the hell did anyone think that of them?

Bo's eyes said murder and her fists were willing to comply. “Let me put it to you this way, that receptionist down there is more my type than this manlet will ever be.”

“Hey, I'm a maligned party too, don't take out your frustration on me.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck anyway – talking about his height was a sensitive subject. “Anyway, we're very clearly not married.”

“Or straight.”

He nodded. “Or straight, yes that's kind of important. So maybe you should print a retraction on those articles and apologize so you don't get thrown out a window. You'd probably survive, but it would sure hurt a lot regardless.”

Judging by the grip on his collar, he wasn't going to get out of this without some form of damage... but maybe they could keep him from getting tossed out a window. Besides, if he pissed himself anymore he was going to start leaking on the floor. Talk about gross.

John's eyes traveled from Shepard to Shepard. “T-this is cen-”

“Oh come the fuck on, she's ready to murder you do you really wanna complain about censorship? Read the room, man.”

Normally, Alistair didn't swear. However, this man clearly didn't have sense in his head, so maybe shock methods were needed. At least he shut his mouth that time as he thought the offer over. Maybe he should think a little faster.

Bo started to move to the window. “Well, he had his chance.”

“No, wait, stop!” Both his fists couldn't fit around her wrist. “I'll print the retraction!”

She stopped a few feet from the open window. “And you'll stop writing about us. No more Shepard stories, understood?”

He started to look like he wanted to argue, but... that window was pretty damn close. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he considered his options. Then he got inched a little closer, and the decision was clearly made.

“U-Understood... I won't print anymore.”

And then he was dropped to the floor in a sad, soggy heap. Bo wheeled around and glared at the entire room. Alistair stepped forward as well, feeling much more pleasant as he surveyed the terrified reporters sitting before him.

“I hope you all understand, that goes for anyone here. Nobody gets a free pass out of defenestration, understood?”

And then his eyes glowed as another camera died. “No story about this either, by the way. I've added you guys to my omni-tool news feed, so don't think just because we're off saving people that we won't hear about it.”

Given everyone else looked like they might need a change of underwear once they left, that was another pact sealed. With any luck, they wouldn't get too stupid about their stories. Of course, if they did... it wasn't like they were going to move buildings.

“Good talk.” Bo was already throwing the door open. “Let's get the fuck out of here, it smells like piss.”

Alistair was already following her out, sighing in relief as the door shut behind them. At least nobody had died, or even been really bodily harmed in the process. As far as missions went, this was one of their more successful ones.

Then again, Bo hadn't gotten to work her frustration out, so...

“Want to hit up the Alliance training course to work out that energy before we go see Anderson?”

“Fuck yes.” Bo was already heading in that direction. “I still should've thrown him out the window. Damn your sensibilities.”

Eh he could take her being mad at him if it meant nobody died. Dissatisfaction was part of being a commanding officer.

---

Retraction on previous stories concerning Commander Bo Peep Shepard and Commander Alistair Shepard

The Citadel Daily would like to publish a retraction towards two stories it printed. Along with this, we extend a heartfelt apology to-

“Well, I guess they got the message.”

Joker was chuckling as the message read over Alistair's omni-tool. All three were gathered in the cockpit a few days later, after a successful mission on a nearby planet. The news had come in as they were on the shuttle, and he had been waiting to listen.

Bo nodded as the message finished. “They fucking better... still don't know who took those damn pictures. They're lucky I didn't find them...”

Alistair nodded as he killed the feed. “Oh, speaking of. Turns out they're a freelancer. I think I have a beat on them-”

No doubt he was starting another hunt for some poor sap, but... well, again, he didn't feel bad. After all, they had thought he was straight. Someone had to pay for that grievous misstep. And with any luck, maybe this one wouldn't wind up out a window either.

You know, maybe being the CO wasn't so bad after all. He got to schedule time for defenestration duties. Talk about a perk of running the show...

[writingdisaster]

Day 6 -- “Compleanno”

Si rivolta un po’ nelle coperte prima di aprire gli occhi, come se mantenendoli chiusi quel giorno possa non arrivare mai. A dire la verità era una cosa che pensava ogni singola mattina, come se il sorgere del Sole ogni giorno fosse più una tortura che l’opportunità di nuovi incontri, nuove storie, nuove avventure. A Will non importava niente delle avventure, gli importavano solo i suoi libri e la sua tanto adorata e sudata solitudine. Comunque il giorno del suo compleanno restava sempre un’incognita particolare, un giorno che tanto era gioioso per gli altri era nero per lui.

Non è facile, dopotutto, seguire in veste di clone le orme di un uomo vissuto secoli prima – per giunta nato e morto lo stesso esatto giorno. Sembrava quasi che il buon vecchio Shakespeare gli avesse fatto quel brutto scherzo di proposito, sapendo che un giorno del 2085 qualcuno avrebbe deciso di clonarlo in un nuovo essere vivente e lo avrebbe costretto a vivere con la croce di dover ogni anno condividere nascita e morte. Dopotutto il vecchiaccio del Seicento aveva tirato le cuoia, cosa importava a lui della pressa psicologica che il clone adolescente provava in quel momento? Continua a rivoltarsi nelle morbide coperte, il ragazzo dai capelli scompigliati, e prega in silenzio che magicamente abbia dormito per tutto il ventitré aprile e sia già arrivato il ventiquattro. Quasi ci crede, quando finalmente quegli occhi sbucano dal letto e cercano assonnati la sveglia sul comodino di fianco. Quella suona, squilla e illumina brutalmente la stanza – già di suo poco illuminata a causa delle tende che coprono i raggi solari. Sono le 7:00, Will, e ti tocca alzarti.

Ah, ovviamente è il ventitré aprile. Anniversario bisesto, giorno funesto.

Fino a quel momento i suoi compleanni non erano stati un granché, anche perché si era ben visto dal far sapere in giro a quei già pochi amici quale fosse l’effettiva data. Semplicemente non voleva festeggiarlo, non ne aveva interesse e soprattutto stare al centro dell’attenzione lo metteva maledettamente a disagio.

Si veste in silenzio, anche se nella stanza entrambi i suoi coinquilini si sono già defilati per andare a colazione. Ripensandoci, gli sembra anche di averli sentiti ridere mentre uscivano dalla stanza. Probabilmente hanno architettato qualche scherzo nei suoi confronti, dopotutto non sarebbe una cosa che lo stupirebbe – in quell’accademia si aspetta sempre qualche presa in giro da parte degli altri. Apre con un movimento deciso le tende, e la luce del Sole illumina la stanza dandogli quell’atmosfera calorosa che tanto gli piace. È sempre l’ultimo a svegliarsi, dunque può approfittare di quello spettacolo mattutino in totale tranquillità e pace. Quel giorno tra l’altro i raggi sembrano essere particolarmente caldi, tanto che in fretta il piccolo scrittore capisce di doversi cambiare. Inverte il maglioncino leggero con una t-shirt e una felpa – la sua adorata felpa dietro al cui cappuccio di solito si nasconde – e apre un po’ la finestra per lasciar entrare l’aria primaverile e quei raggi così caldi. Il Sole sembra sorridergli.

Apre la porta senza pensare troppo, senza aspettarsi niente come accade tutti i giorni da ormai un paio di anni – e lo spettacolo che gli si prostra davanti lo fa quasi sobbalzare sul posto. Ghirlande, palloncini, tubetti di coriandoli che gli esplodono dal nulla in pieno viso per poi proseguire per il corridoio fino a (presume) la mensa. Allo stipite della porta è attaccato un cappellino di carta – quelli a forma di cono che andavano tanto di moda agli inizi del 2000 – insieme ad un biglietto. “Mettilo o non sei più mio amico. -L.”. Un lungo sospiro esce dalle sue labbra, mentre pensa all’unica persona che potrebbe aver elaborato una cosa del genere e che vada per un nome che inizia con “L”. Eppure è certo di non aver mai detto a Louis di quando sia il suo compleanno… Beh, può stare certo che Will quel coso in testa non lo mette. Lo stacca dal chiodo, tuttavia, e inizia nervosamente a rigirarselo tra le mani. Come si dovrebbe comportare? Nessuno ha mai celebrato il suo compleanno, che cosa fa un festeggiato? Comincia a elaborare altri scenari apocalittici che potrebbero nascere dalla mente del Re Sole, tra cui la maledizione di un regalo, di feste plateali in mezzo ai corridoi – come se quella scia di “mattoni dorati” alla Mago di Oz non sia già abbastanza – o addirittura una torta con candeline da soffiare. Qualcuno chiami aiuto. Un paio di ragazzi gli passano davanti in quel momento, sorridendo e facendogli gli auguri prima di passare oltre. Sconcertato. William Shakespeare è sconcertato. Sconcertato e terrorizzato da cos’altro può aver pensato il suo migliore amico. Sconcertato, terrorizzato, ma in fondo anche commosso. Infatti ecco che, non appena il sentimento rientra in circolo, le guance si colorano appena di una sfumatura rosea. Non si aspettava che a qualcuno interessasse fare per lui una cosa del genere. E poi il fatto che sia proprio Lou...

Una mano va a scompigliarsi i capelli – classico gesto di irrequietezza per il ragazzo – e con un altro sospiro tra le labbra, aggiunto ad un lieve sorriso che Will negherebbe anche sotto tortura, inizia timidamente a seguire la scia di coriandoli fino alla meta ignota.

O insomma la mensa, gli pare ovvio che sia la mensa.

[bolontiku]

"Him & You"

Avengers AU - Drabble

Characters: Frank Castle, Reader

Word Count: 604

Prompt: "How did you think this was a good idea?"

A/N: for @cevans-is-classic writober event, I swear I am running behind a day cause I like being late an shit XD

WARNINGS: none?

Like what I write? ☕ café

You rolled your eyes, "don't move," you bit out as you reached for the scissors. 

Frank grumbled.

"You don't get to sit there and growl at me when you bang on my door at bum fuck hour o'clock in the morning. What the hell were you even thinking?"

"Thought you'd like to see my mug."

You sat back and stared at your handiwork. "How did you think this was a good idea? What did you throw yourself in front of a mack truck? How do you do this to yourself?!"

Frank grinned at you, frowned and licked his split bottom lip. "Just patch me up."

"I don't even have a medical license-"

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, "but ya got the best hands around."

You rolled your eyes and slapped his hand away, moving on to another deep wound. "You know if my brothers caught you here there would be hell to pay." Frank snorted, god the man was insufferable. How you found him utterly attractive you had no idea, "stupid, wreckless, idiotic… MEN!"

"You like me."

You paused, pursuing your lips as you stitched together the gash just under his rib. "And then you say irrelevant shit like THAT just to get under my skin or get a reaction so that you don't have to admit to your stupidity!"

"You didn't deny it," he hissed as you jabbed him with the needle. "Your hands shaking? Did I make you shaky?" His laugh was rough, it made you wonder how rough his voice could get, what it would sound like to hear your name in that tone, a little strained, moaning. "I got under your skin?"

"Shut up."

Frank struggled to keep from laughing as you continued to work, ducking closer to avoid eye contact. He didn't say anything else as you cleaned him up; quick and efficient. He liked that about you, he liked the way you narrowed your eyes at him when he showed up bloody and a little dizzy from blood loss. The way you shoved him into a chair in your too small kitchen, how warm it felt even before you set the coffee. How your apartment smelled like pumpkins even after he gave you shit about it. 

"So what? I like pumpkin shit, leave me alone or go to somebody else," you bit out with a frown. 

He blinked, had he said something out loud? He hummed, "I like it, now I can't not think about you when I smell it." You stilled, enough that he cocked his head to look at you. He could tell you were struggling to keep from furiously blushing.  "Vanilla, coffee and pumpkins, that's what you smell like and it makes me-" he paused, your eyes flicked to his, "gonna eat you up one day."

"Well, not today cause I am done. Go back to the dump you crawled out of and shower all that grime off. Try not to come back here again." He tugged on his jacket, followed you to the front door, "I'm serious Frank."

He stared at you long enough that you looked away. "Yeah, okay." The press of his lips to your cheek made you jump, you leaned into it, into him. "See ya later pumpkin."

"Will I?" You asked leaning against your doorframe as he stopped in the hall. He didn't answer, simply disappeared down the hall. Your heart stuck in your throat, you would be waiting. Hoping that he wouldn't knock again but knowing it would come again. And you would open that door again. Cause it was him and you were you. 

[fallish]

two weeks until rules of the game has its first chapter out and here i am starting my sara berry project for writober (i might drop it all at once or at the end of the the month maybe? i dont know yet)

[cevans-is-classic]

How Did You Think This Was A Good Idea?

Writober 2020! 

Day Four!!

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark 

Warning: Nothing really except maybe language, mentions of violence and jail setting 

If you’d like to join the event just check out my pinned post or message myself and @fenvinciblet to get some information 

How Did You Think This Was A Good Idea? 

When their first anniversary ended up with Tony trying to bail his husband out of an Oklahoma jail, the sheriff glaring at him over orderly misconduct paperwork as Tony waved his card in his face. He should have accepted this as his new normal, Cap was a wild card despite what people thought, and if you looked at him and assumed he’d be the level-headed one? Tony has three words for you. 

Outstanding Warrants. 

Technically, two words, but he loved to enunciate.

A simple, small part of him assumed that when Bucky came back and everything settled that maybe the other super soldier would help rein him in, maybe help set some much needed ground rules that Tony himself couldn’t do. All Steve had to do was smile at him, aiming those azure eyes his way, and Tony would help him take over the damn government if he asked. 

He was wrong. 

It was worse. 

Between Barton egging Steve on, Sam joining in the fray and Natasha making bets with anyone would wager you’d think there’d be no room left but here he was walking into a Tijuana jail cell, Jarvis in his ear reading out the charges and a sheepish-looking Steve leaning against the bars, “Hi Sweetheart.” 

Tony raised a hand, “Twelves years ago I was the one people would have pegged to be in this cell right here. Who would have thought I would be the responsible one with an ever running bail fund, really Steve? Bar fights?” 

“He didn’t start this one-” Bucky piped up behind him, but Clint elbowed him in the stomach before he could finish. 

“I’m not even focused on the fighting part, RoboCop, what I cannot seem to fathom was how you acquired three goats, a brand new jaguar and someones mortgage all while beating the shit out of someone, apparently, but ultimately how in the hell you went from a mission in Romania to a jail cell in Tijuana in under twenty-four hours. Do tell me, my love, the story this time?”

Steve had reached through the bars, slipping his fingers into the cuff of Tony’s shirt and drawing his hands towards him, “I missed you.” 

“Steven!” 

“It was Bucky’s idea!” Clint shouted, earning his own elbow jab. 

Tony didn’t break eye contact with his husband, who kept stroking the smooth skin over his wrist, “Steve?” 

His husband sighed, “We finished the mission earlier than we planned, sent the information back to Fury and, well, Bucky thought it’d be kind of fun to let loose while we still had the Avengejet to ourselves,” He shrugged, “It seemed like a good idea.” 

Tony threw his arms out, motioning to the surrounding jail. One cell had a drunken man tipped over a bench, another man sitting beside him mumbling under his breath and the one next to it held what looked like three sex workers and a scared teenager, “Please, tell me, how did you think this was a good idea?” 

Steve grinned sheepishly and looked down, “I’ll return the goats and mortgage, but Bucky won that car fair and square.” 

Tony wanted to bang his head on the iron bars, “Rogers,” He pressed his forehead against his husband’s, “You’re becoming an expensive habit.” 

“I’ll make up for it when we’re home.” He kissed him once, quickly pulling away when Clint and Bucky started making obscene gestures behind them, calling out loud kissing noises. 

“Icy hot and Birdbrain. How do you plan to make up for this? I could just leave you in here for the next twenty-four hours, y’know.” Clint blanched, but Bucky just grinned. 

“I can think of a few things I could do to make up for it, some Steve can eve help with.” Tony laughed, leaving his husband blushing and smacking his best friend as he made his way to pay, yet another, bail fee. 

[anotherghostcity]

Writober day 12 (Childhood fear/Miroir) - Skinned alive

Nana, Skinned Alive (Writober 2020, day 12)

[athelyewrites]

“Disgustoso.” Fanno una confusione infernale, occupando il nostro spazio. Ne avevamo sentito parlare, ma vederli è tutto un altro discorso. Camminano fra di noi come se nulla fosse, come se fossero a casa loro, guardandoci con diffidenza, alcuni con agitazione. La loro abilità migliore è di raggiungere qualsiasi luogo, consumarlo e passare al prossimo, senza alcuna considerazione di ciò che li circonda. Che si muovano in gruppo o da soli, per noi è sempre una sciagura. Eppure, almeno qui, fra le colonne chiare del tempio, la dea Karni ci protegge. Penso fra me e me, mentre li osservo. “L’uomo è davvero disgustoso.” . . . Sono distratta, quindi dato che ho perso il sesto giorno, combino il #inktoberdisgusting di oggi a #inktoberrodent , anche se continua a essere un #writober2020 anziché #inktober2020 #india #mouse #karnimata #udaipur # (presso Karni Mata Temple Udaipur) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGN2Gnvg4Vs/?igshid=1os4utph6isp9

[cityveinlights]

“The souls of leaves and skin”

Orange air and the scent of dying flora,

I felt you begin to shift in October.

Slowly, your fingers turning yellow,

The smell of your skin a musty, sharp compost.

White eyes darkening, teeth beginning to decay,

Funny how when you lose things, they lead others to a new place.

Something so pretty—the changing of nature—embodied in someone I wanted to observe with.

Autumn was always my favorite time of the year, but now it is winter.

Where do the souls of leaves go after the fall?

They go to new houses, new beds, new embraces,

And leave their trees to shake naked in the cold.

day 1: autumn

[aaronburpsir]

Day 9 -- “Identità segreta”

Entra nel bar cercando di fare meno rumore possibile, come se in quel marasma di persone la sua presenza possa saltare particolarmente all’occhio di lei. Non appena si chiude la porta alle spalle, un giovanotto sui trent’anni scatta in piedi dal proprio tavolino proponendogli di prendere il suo posto, e non può che accettare. Forse cinque anni prima il suo onore lo avrebbe portato a declinare gentilmente l’offerta con un gesto della mano, ma a dirla tutta le sue ginocchia non sono più le stesse di una volta.

C’è confusione quella mattina. È un lunedì, per giunta il primo lunedì di rientro dalle vacanze per molti studenti e lavoratori – è normale che un bar in centro a Roma sia così pieno. Normalmente l’uomo si metterebbe a ricordare la sua giovinezza, come erano fatti i bar un tempo, ma francamente in quel momento gli sembra una cosa inutile. È troppo nervoso per essere il solito buon vecchio tizio che fa il giovanile con chi gli sta intorno, adesso non gli pare il caso. Attende che il marasma di persone davanti al bancone si liberi un po’, e intanto cerca di intravedere tra una testa e l’altra la folta chioma rossa per cui si è trovato lì quella mattina. Una volta avrebbe potuto dire anche lui di avere una chioma del genere, che adesso era stata scolorita dal tempo e dallo stress di una vita all’insegna della carriera lavorativa. Aveva passato tutta la vita a concentrarsi sul suo lavoro per un futuro stabile, e tale vita aveva finito col portarlo allo stesso punto di tutte quelle persone che si erano concesse il capriccio di avere una famiglia. Ironico.

Qualcuno gli chiede se ha bisogno che altri ordinino per lui, risponde di no. Aspetterà a sedere che scali un po’ la fila, dice. Quelli gli rammentano che se ha bisogno di qualcosa non deve indugiare a chiamare, e lo sbuffo dalle sue labbra riesce una volta per tutte ad allontanarli. Lasciatelo in pace, lasciatelo guardare. Ancora le teste sono troppe, è presto perché tutti i liceali si defilino verso la loro prima ora. Ancora cinque minuti. Solo cinque minuti.

Era il suo compleanno. Non di lui – erano passati parecchi anni dall’ultima volta in cui lo aveva festeggiato – ma di lei. Teneva un pacchetto tra le mani, contenente un libro dalla storia assolutamente neutra e potenzialmente apprezzabile da tutti. Non conosceva i suoi gusti, dopotutto l’ultima cosa che le aveva regalato era stato un ciuccio. Non si era mai preoccupato di lasciare un segno nella sua memoria, non gli era mai interessato. Era stato il cancro a convincerlo che forse non era troppo tardi, che forse lei poteva avere il desiderio di incontrarlo. O magari era solo qualcosa che diceva per convincersi di non aver sprecato una vita, chi lo sa? Sa solo che strinse le mani tra di loro, con pazienza, e attese quei maledetti cinque minuti.

« Buongiorno, mi dica. »

Si era distratto a guardare un neonato in un passeggino, testimone il suo cuore reso più dolce dalla vecchiaia, e neanche si era accorto che era stata lei stessa ad avvicinarsi al tavolino. Volta improvvisamente lo sguardo, incrociando i suoi occhi, e il primo pensiero è quanto sia diventata bella. Non credeva che sarebbe arrivato a un cliché del genere, come si vedeva nei film, ma con tutta la sincerità del mondo non gli riuscì pensare altro. I riccioli rossi – di un rosso acceso che erano anni non aveva più visto – erano raccolti in una coda scomposta, mentre le mani si asciugavano sbadatamente al grembiule legato alla vita. Gli occhi erano quelli di sua madre, di un verde acceso come pochi ne aveva visti in vita sua e che, sinceramente, non aveva mai dimenticato in trent’anni che non l’aveva più vista. Rimase in silenzio, fissando quegli occhi e sentendosi mancare il fiato.

« Signore? Sta bene? Vuole che chiami qualcuno? »

« No, no, sto bene. Grazie. » furono parole uscite in un sussurro, quasi balbettate, mentre le mani sudate cominciarono a rigirarsi il pacchetto tra le mani. Si alza in piedi, allora, e spostando frettolosamente la sedia il coraggio viene a mancare tutto d’un botto. Lascia andare bruscamente il regalo sul tavolo, mentre con l’altra mano fa uno strano cenno come a farle intendere di stare bene e di non aver bisogno di niente. La legge la preoccupazione nei suoi occhi, quella preoccupazione di chi tiene veramente alla persona che ha davanti e non lo fa per semplice cortesia. Dio, sei così bella e così gentile, come sei venuta da me?

Non dice più niente, solo esce di gran furia. Ha sbagliato tutto. Ha sbagliato a presentarsi quel giorno e ha sbagliato ad andarsene trent’anni prima. Sente ancora una volta la sua voce chiamarla dall’interno, ma improvvisamente le ginocchia non gli fanno più male. Improvvisamente è capace di tenere un passo tanto veloce da potersi allontanare dal bar con una certa velocità.

Quasi gli sembra di sentirsi chiamare alle spalle da una voce in lacrime. “Papà?” dice, eppure lui – vigliacco – fa finta di niente.

[sammylikesyaoi]

Rouge

Promt: day 29 - Rosso Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Leonardo da Vinci Dal testo: "Se Leonardo dovesse associare un colore ad Ezio, sarebbe il rosso."

+

Meet me in your dreams

Promt: day 30 - Sogno Fandom: The Old Guard Ship: Joe/Nicky What If. Nicolò non è partito per la prima crociata. Dal testo: "- Sei curioso di incontrarli? - Mormorò lei, sorridendogli. Nicolò pensò a quell'uomo che infestava i suoi sogni e la sua mente. E, anche se non riusciva ad ammetterlo ancora, il suo cuore. - Sì. -"

+

A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square

Promt: day 31 - Nemico Fandom: Good Omens Ship: Aziraphale/Crowley Dal testo: "Perché era giusto così. Lui era un demone. Il nemico."

F I N E