twitter microprompts/flashfics
Dec. 28th, 2018 12:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gigantomachyRandom prompt drive on 19 December; fills crossposted here because Tumblr's fuckery has reminded me of how to be wary of trusting content to a single social media site. (It's kind of funny how you can see exactly at what point I wasn't stuck filling these on my phone lmao)
Forwrathofscribbles : Cornyx, teeth/smile/bite - T
They called him Immortal. And maybe it had seemed that way, even to himself at times.
But that was when walls had felt eternal -
(between the world and annihilation, between a man and his distant heart)
- before careless laughter and a smile sharp as starlight stripped him down to pieces and reshaped him, before an island man with the sun in his heart taught him what it meant to love the light and then left him to a world without it.
Before he'd known how to drown on dry land.
For Chase: cornyx, mess - M
Nyx isn't expecting that little rumble of vague irritation -- not when he can still feel the tremor in Cor's thigh still, right here beneath his palm. But it resonates deep in Cor's chest as he rolls towards Nyx, and in the low light he watches Cor reach up to swipe at the edge of his jaw with the back of his hand all he can think is oh.
He can't help his own snicker as he catches Cor's fingers in his own, as he pulls him in to press lips to knuckles and yes, tastes himself there. (Maybe he even makes a show of it, in the face of that narrow-eyed look that follows.)
"What can I say?" Nyx asks quietly, impish and wholly repentant as he leans in ot kiss the smear from Cor's cheek, all tongue and tease and it's worth it for the new sound that catches in Cor's throat and a dozen other reasons besides. "I look good on you, Marshal."
Forninemoons42 : cornyx, scarf - G
Mainland winter and island blood mixed poorly, Cor discovered the first year he'd allowed Nyx into his life. The first snow was punctuated by shockingly cold fingers worming their way beneath his shirt, seeking out any sliver of unguarded skin to leech warmth from, frigid toes jolting him from those precious hours of sleep that he suspected weren't half as accidental as promised. (Like so many of Nyx's quirks, they were moments to be dreaded and held dear in equal measure.)
It was the scarf he'd found in some rundown undercity market -- blood red and longer than Cor was tall -- that provoked the most apprehension. No red string of fate, but Nyx made the most of it in his own way, looping an end around Cor's shoulders as well and calling it an excuse to walk even closer than usual as they made their way home, arms linked and fingers entwined in the arm space within Cor's pocket --
Dreaded. Held dear.
For Aliatori: cornyx, clarify - G
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cor asks, halted mid-stride on his way to the kitchen, a bewildered tilt to his head as he watches Nyx's stormcloud eyes widen in disbelief.
"It means," Nyx says, drawing out each syllable as if speaking to a particularly dull-witted person, that I —" He points to himself. "Love—" And here, he manages a surprisingly artful rendition of a heart-shape with his fingers and thumbs, "you." This, punctuated by one of those fingers now jabbed into the center of Cor's breastbone. He's grinning. Delighted with himself, as he so often is when it comes to nonchalantly leaving fresh tracks across the once-ordered landscape of Cor's sense of self.
"Oh." Cor considers this for a moment, eyes drawn to the curve of his shoulder, the way the fine cord woven into one of those thin braids has begun to fray with wear. "Oh."
"That better?"
"Ulric, you said you wanted to fight a family of behemoths, bare-handed." Cor feels he's allowed his bemusement, and holds onto it tightly, because the alternative he's fairly certain is letting his brain spin out like tires in the sand while he … processes.
Nyx laughs. "I said I would. Y'know, if I had to. For you. Because—"
"I — think I understand now, yes." Sort of. Enough to stutter forward on when Nyx's finger loses tension, drifts up with the rest of his blade-callused hand to mold against the side of Cor's neck, drawing his untethered self back down and into the moment once more.
For tinyconfectionary: Promcor, "keep it down" - E
"Prompto." An urgent whisper in the near-black, breathed into that wild nest of golden hair, and while it's true that for Cor, discretionary silence is a way of life … well, Prompto's always been something of an attention-getter.
He's certainly got Cor's attention now, half-hidden beneath the loose weave of a days-worn shirt where their bodies join, snagged on the dig of Prompto's nails into the meat of his shoulders. Whatever privacy afforded to the Marshal doesn't extend beyond the battered tent's thin canvas walls — that unasked-for but appreciated privilege is certainly no barrier to contain the reedy little noises clawing their way up Prompto's throat as he arches again and grinds down again on Cor's cock like a man driven. (The quiet of the camp, he knows, is temporary; three hours to mission start but he knows from experience someone's bound to show early.)
Cor's hand shifts away from the slim line of Prompto's bare thigh to press fingers over those damp lips in warning, but all he gets is a filthy scrape of teeth against his knuckles for the trouble, a half-laugh in the darkness as Prompto snaps his hips like a fucking professional and goes tight around him for a heartbeat and it's Cor that's forced to stifle a choked sound of his own.
"Hush."
"There's no one," Prompto gasps, holding tighter, tongue probing wet and promising between the spread of his ineffective fingers.
"There will be," Cor murmurs, giving up on that particular tack and sliding his slick fingers into Prompto's hair at the temple instead.
Another little mewl of pleasure when Prompto shifts his hips just so, choked-off, still too much. "—gonna have to make me."
For pipdepop: Cornyx, silly season - T
Cor realizes, halfway through his third mug of warm, spiced wine that the mandatory ridiculous sweater should have tipped him off — but Nyx can be terribly convincing when he really puts his mind to it, and Cor hadn't wanted to cast aspersions on some important Galahdan tradition. He'd accepted having his boots traded at the door to Crowe's apartment (nicer than Nyx's, despite the scuffs in the paint and the dings and occasional burns on the tables) for a pair of oversized, antlered slippers with only a single sigh of resignation.
He'd let himself be dragged under the cluster of greenery dangling from the ceiling, reassured that this, too, was tradition: Crowe presented her cheek as expectantly as any queen for her kiss; Libertus had hesitantly offered his blunt, scarred hand as if waiting for dismemberment; Nyx had tipped Cor off-balance and leaned in to meet him, kissing him nearly breathless for two solid minutes before the others threatened to go muster up recording gear.
Spiced wine and a thick, spicier curry followed, and then Crowe dragged out the cards, laying out the house rules for an oddly competitive, financially irresponsible team spades game that currently saw Cor wistfully peeling the last of the bills from his wallet to lay on the table while Crowe cackles in unabashed delight.
"You're fucking with me," Cor says as he leans back, and his words are a little soft around the edges. "This … solstice festival."
"A little," Nyx grins.
"You're only saying that because it's my house this year," Crowe says.
"The rules change," Nyx says, leaning up against Cor's shoulder when he returns to staring at the cards in his hand in search of a way to take three more tricks instead of giving in to the urge to swear further. "But the heart of it's the same. Hunker down with your family. Soak up the good stuff, and shrug off the bad for a night."
"Family, huh?"
"If Nyx says you're family, you're family." Cor thinks it's the most Libertus has said to him all night. "Our condolences."
It takes a little while for the words to soak in, really — but when they do, the clarity is like a punch to the chin, almost enough to shake loose the warm, fizzy buzz of the alcohol. Shit. He doesn't know how to respond to that, or even if he should, so he … doesn't, instead nodding at the crumpled pile of bills and coin on the table. "You always fleece your family like this, Altius?"
Crowe's smile is almost sweet — which Cor is learning to understand means grounds for suspicion all on its own. "Just doing my part to make sure everyone gets a good hard fucking by dawn, Marshal."
"And if it doesn't go according to plan?"
"Why, that," Crowe says, "is what the kissy weed is for. Are you going to throw that pretty red lady already, or do we need to get Nyx to drag you under again?"
(There are worse things, Cor thinks as he reaches for his card, than an empty wallet and a full heart.)
For
wrathofscribbles : Cornyx, teeth/smile/bite - TThey called him Immortal. And maybe it had seemed that way, even to himself at times.
But that was when walls had felt eternal -
(between the world and annihilation, between a man and his distant heart)
- before careless laughter and a smile sharp as starlight stripped him down to pieces and reshaped him, before an island man with the sun in his heart taught him what it meant to love the light and then left him to a world without it.
Before he'd known how to drown on dry land.
For Chase: cornyx, mess - M
Nyx isn't expecting that little rumble of vague irritation -- not when he can still feel the tremor in Cor's thigh still, right here beneath his palm. But it resonates deep in Cor's chest as he rolls towards Nyx, and in the low light he watches Cor reach up to swipe at the edge of his jaw with the back of his hand all he can think is oh.
He can't help his own snicker as he catches Cor's fingers in his own, as he pulls him in to press lips to knuckles and yes, tastes himself there. (Maybe he even makes a show of it, in the face of that narrow-eyed look that follows.)
"What can I say?" Nyx asks quietly, impish and wholly repentant as he leans in ot kiss the smear from Cor's cheek, all tongue and tease and it's worth it for the new sound that catches in Cor's throat and a dozen other reasons besides. "I look good on you, Marshal."
For
ninemoons42 : cornyx, scarf - GMainland winter and island blood mixed poorly, Cor discovered the first year he'd allowed Nyx into his life. The first snow was punctuated by shockingly cold fingers worming their way beneath his shirt, seeking out any sliver of unguarded skin to leech warmth from, frigid toes jolting him from those precious hours of sleep that he suspected weren't half as accidental as promised. (Like so many of Nyx's quirks, they were moments to be dreaded and held dear in equal measure.)
It was the scarf he'd found in some rundown undercity market -- blood red and longer than Cor was tall -- that provoked the most apprehension. No red string of fate, but Nyx made the most of it in his own way, looping an end around Cor's shoulders as well and calling it an excuse to walk even closer than usual as they made their way home, arms linked and fingers entwined in the arm space within Cor's pocket --
Dreaded. Held dear.
For Aliatori: cornyx, clarify - G
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cor asks, halted mid-stride on his way to the kitchen, a bewildered tilt to his head as he watches Nyx's stormcloud eyes widen in disbelief.
"It means," Nyx says, drawing out each syllable as if speaking to a particularly dull-witted person, that I —" He points to himself. "Love—" And here, he manages a surprisingly artful rendition of a heart-shape with his fingers and thumbs, "you." This, punctuated by one of those fingers now jabbed into the center of Cor's breastbone. He's grinning. Delighted with himself, as he so often is when it comes to nonchalantly leaving fresh tracks across the once-ordered landscape of Cor's sense of self.
"Oh." Cor considers this for a moment, eyes drawn to the curve of his shoulder, the way the fine cord woven into one of those thin braids has begun to fray with wear. "Oh."
"That better?"
"Ulric, you said you wanted to fight a family of behemoths, bare-handed." Cor feels he's allowed his bemusement, and holds onto it tightly, because the alternative he's fairly certain is letting his brain spin out like tires in the sand while he … processes.
Nyx laughs. "I said I would. Y'know, if I had to. For you. Because—"
"I — think I understand now, yes." Sort of. Enough to stutter forward on when Nyx's finger loses tension, drifts up with the rest of his blade-callused hand to mold against the side of Cor's neck, drawing his untethered self back down and into the moment once more.
For tinyconfectionary: Promcor, "keep it down" - E
"Prompto." An urgent whisper in the near-black, breathed into that wild nest of golden hair, and while it's true that for Cor, discretionary silence is a way of life … well, Prompto's always been something of an attention-getter.
He's certainly got Cor's attention now, half-hidden beneath the loose weave of a days-worn shirt where their bodies join, snagged on the dig of Prompto's nails into the meat of his shoulders. Whatever privacy afforded to the Marshal doesn't extend beyond the battered tent's thin canvas walls — that unasked-for but appreciated privilege is certainly no barrier to contain the reedy little noises clawing their way up Prompto's throat as he arches again and grinds down again on Cor's cock like a man driven. (The quiet of the camp, he knows, is temporary; three hours to mission start but he knows from experience someone's bound to show early.)
Cor's hand shifts away from the slim line of Prompto's bare thigh to press fingers over those damp lips in warning, but all he gets is a filthy scrape of teeth against his knuckles for the trouble, a half-laugh in the darkness as Prompto snaps his hips like a fucking professional and goes tight around him for a heartbeat and it's Cor that's forced to stifle a choked sound of his own.
"Hush."
"There's no one," Prompto gasps, holding tighter, tongue probing wet and promising between the spread of his ineffective fingers.
"There will be," Cor murmurs, giving up on that particular tack and sliding his slick fingers into Prompto's hair at the temple instead.
Another little mewl of pleasure when Prompto shifts his hips just so, choked-off, still too much. "—gonna have to make me."
For pipdepop: Cornyx, silly season - T
Cor realizes, halfway through his third mug of warm, spiced wine that the mandatory ridiculous sweater should have tipped him off — but Nyx can be terribly convincing when he really puts his mind to it, and Cor hadn't wanted to cast aspersions on some important Galahdan tradition. He'd accepted having his boots traded at the door to Crowe's apartment (nicer than Nyx's, despite the scuffs in the paint and the dings and occasional burns on the tables) for a pair of oversized, antlered slippers with only a single sigh of resignation.
He'd let himself be dragged under the cluster of greenery dangling from the ceiling, reassured that this, too, was tradition: Crowe presented her cheek as expectantly as any queen for her kiss; Libertus had hesitantly offered his blunt, scarred hand as if waiting for dismemberment; Nyx had tipped Cor off-balance and leaned in to meet him, kissing him nearly breathless for two solid minutes before the others threatened to go muster up recording gear.
Spiced wine and a thick, spicier curry followed, and then Crowe dragged out the cards, laying out the house rules for an oddly competitive, financially irresponsible team spades game that currently saw Cor wistfully peeling the last of the bills from his wallet to lay on the table while Crowe cackles in unabashed delight.
"You're fucking with me," Cor says as he leans back, and his words are a little soft around the edges. "This … solstice festival."
"A little," Nyx grins.
"You're only saying that because it's my house this year," Crowe says.
"The rules change," Nyx says, leaning up against Cor's shoulder when he returns to staring at the cards in his hand in search of a way to take three more tricks instead of giving in to the urge to swear further. "But the heart of it's the same. Hunker down with your family. Soak up the good stuff, and shrug off the bad for a night."
"Family, huh?"
"If Nyx says you're family, you're family." Cor thinks it's the most Libertus has said to him all night. "Our condolences."
It takes a little while for the words to soak in, really — but when they do, the clarity is like a punch to the chin, almost enough to shake loose the warm, fizzy buzz of the alcohol. Shit. He doesn't know how to respond to that, or even if he should, so he … doesn't, instead nodding at the crumpled pile of bills and coin on the table. "You always fleece your family like this, Altius?"
Crowe's smile is almost sweet — which Cor is learning to understand means grounds for suspicion all on its own. "Just doing my part to make sure everyone gets a good hard fucking by dawn, Marshal."
"And if it doesn't go according to plan?"
"Why, that," Crowe says, "is what the kissy weed is for. Are you going to throw that pretty red lady already, or do we need to get Nyx to drag you under again?"
(There are worse things, Cor thinks as he reaches for his card, than an empty wallet and a full heart.)
