Silverflint drabble of the week (15 October)

Trust/ Energy/ Mother

“What the fuck are these? Aren’t we having a fencing lesson?”

“It’s something that can be done on one leg and a crutch. Needs less energy than swordfighting. Trust me.”

“You sound like a mother hen trying to keep her chick safe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Pick up the bow.”

“What’s the target?”

“The coconut on that rock.”

“Too far. Fucking impossible. End of lesson.”

“Wait … I’ll throw in a bribe.”

“I’m incorruptible … Oh. THAT kind of bribe. Do that again. Please.”

“After you hit the coconut.”

“You shit. Well, how do I fit the arrow onto the bow?”

capblacksails:

Silverflint drabble of the week, 15.10.2018 – Trust, Energy, Mother (VII)

(Set up: the cliffs of angst *my heart*)

Of course, Flint has seen right through his stories…

And yet…

’It is all true’, Silver wants to say. ’I never knew my mother. I grew up in a home for boys. I met Solomon Little.’ Worse still, he might want to reveal it all. ’I am no one. From nowhere. Belonging to nothing.’

Silver though finds the energy to catch those words trapped in his throat, before they can escape.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Flint to understand. It’s that he trusts him to understand too well. And he cannot have him doubt his friendship.

zooeyscigar:

Silverflint Drabble of the Week, October 15, 2018 – Trust, Energy, Mother

[continued from here]

Flint snarled, pressing closer, teeth bared. It was definitely his pistol.

“Tell me you want this,” Flint growled hot in Silver’s ear.

“I want this.” Silver was breathless, flushed.

“No ulterior motives.” It was not a question.

“None but to bed you.”

Another snarl, meant to intimidate but instead energizing Silver, who dared grab hold of Flint’s waist.

Flint pushed a leg between SIlver’s, grunting at the hardness against his thigh.  

“How can I trust this? Trust you?”

“You trust me with your crew, your plans, why not this?”

A desperate pause.

Silver sighed. “Then let me go, you motherfuck—”

zooeyscigar:

Silverflint Drabble of the Week, October 8, 2018 – Story, Pistol, Rabbit

[continued from here]

“That’s on the table as well, honestly. If you’d just—”  

“Shut the fuck up, Mr Silver,” Flint hissed while sliding a hand into the curls at the base of Silver’s neck and brushing dry lips against his.

Heart rabbiting in his chest, Silver pressed forward, but Flint’s grip was tight, unmovable, allowing nothing but the tease of lip and breath. There was always a way to rewrite the story, though.

Silver backed himself against the wall and tugged Flint’s body flush with his own, gasping at the solid heat he’d longed for.

“Is that your pistol on your hip or…”

[continues here]