#5+ sentence fics

[martybaker]

Over the rainbow

So I know we love torturing or at least inconveniencing retired Dream with new human ailments and realities, I love doing that as well, but the thesis of this was - what if Dream retired and he finally got to be at peace and all was well, actually 🥹

(started this for prompt First time for dreamling week but here we are over a week late)

————

“I’ve never been kissed,” Dream announces.

He’s settled on the far end of Hob’s sofa with his knees up, chin settled on top of them and arms loosely hugging his legs, somehow looking both comfortable and relaxed as well as like a model in the middle of a photoshoot.

Hob’s had a hard time not staring but when Dream says that line his eyes immediately snap to the vision on his couch, clothed in hues of beige, wrapped in Hob’s own softest cardigan, and he nearly spills the tea that he was bringing for a sip.

“Huh? What?” He asks dumbly, voice unnaturally high pitched.

Dream merely blinks at him and waits him out.

When the wheels in Hob’s brain start turning again he does try to parse that statement, but all he can come up with is: “But…you’ve had relationships? You had a wife and all, did you not kiss? Was it all like, metaphysical or-“

Dream rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Of course I’ve kissed my partners. Let me rephrase the statement. Murphy has never been kissed.”

Oh.

Dream’s talking about his new human body. His new self, that he named Murphy, a name to be used for dull but necessary identity paperwork that Hob obtained for Dream through rather illegal means.

It’s only been a little over a month since Dream turned human, but he’s been very…calm while settling into his new reality. The retirement was his own choice and he seemed to be perfectly content with his decision, despite the fact that he was forced to live with Hob in his messy little apartment while they figure something of his own for him.

Well, if.

Dream also seemed perfectly content in Hob’s space and showed no interest whatsoever in looking at flat listings.

Not that Hob minded. He would happily spend every minute every day with his friend, if it wouldn’t make him feel guilty about slacking on his job and his students. After all, Hob’s chosen career wasn’t just to keep himself busy, he really enjoyed teaching young impressionable minds about days past, keeping the history alive. Remembering.

But his joy in teaching was currently found lacking compared to the newfound joy of Dream in his home. Not just visiting, robed in dark colors, taking time off of his duties to spend a moment with Hob, but human, dressed in earthly colors, there in the mornings for shared breakfasts and still there in the evenings when Hob returned. Reading a book, slowly going through Hob’s vast vinyl collection, playing the piano, painting, knitting, molding clay. Pale blue eyes focused and clever hands at work, creating, always creating. He’s always been an artist and that part of him stayed true, despite the big change.

All things considered, Hob’s really been having a hard time keeping his foolish heart in check. And with Dream saying things like this, things like-

“This mouth has never been kissed.”

Hob’s eyes drop to Dream’s lips as soon as Dream says that, just to see them twitch in a pleased smile.

Hob stares at him, at a loss for words, while Dream looks back at him expectantly. Expecting…an answer? A reassurance?

Hob clears his throat. “Well…I’m sure it will be? It’s a very lovely mouth,” he says, unable to stop the blush coloring his cheeks.

Dream sighs a long suffering sigh and pets the couch next to himself. “Come here,” he commands.

There’s no ancient power of a monarch of the Dreaming behind it anymore, but Dream still keeps his regality, his head held high, a quiet gravitas to him. Not quite the same as when he was an Endless, but still there.

Confident, elegant, graceful.

And calm, like the still water of an indigo lake high in the mountains.

Hob blinks. What was the question? Oh, right, he was being summoned. He moves to sit next to Dream.

Dream turns towards him, leans in and closes his eyes.

Is he…?

Hob is frozen in shock once again. “Ahh, you, you want me to…?”

Dream opens his sky blue eyes again, staring into Hob’s soul. “Yes,” he says decisively.

There’s a beat when they just stare into each other’s eyes and then Dream closes his again. Waiting, alluring lips just a few inches from Hob’s.

But Hob’s having a crisis. They’ve never done this before! Dream’s never said anything about being…attracted to Hob, he’s never suggested, he never seemed interested that way.

One time, Hob got drunk and Dream had to drag his ass upstairs to bed, and Hob was just enough at his senses to remember that he slurred: “D’ya know what I like best about being immortal?”

“What,” Dream asked as he pulled Hob upwards, making sure he wouldn’t stumble on the stairs.

And Hob smiled goofily and said: “You.”

Dream just blinked at him. He didn’t say anything, not then, not when Hob got propositioned by the shopkeep when they were out together, browsing for new (old) records, not when Death was visiting and she teased if they changed their dates to weekly instead of centennialy.

Not when they were walking in a park, and Dream seemed to be watching a couple on another path on a stroll as well, holding hands.

Hob’s good mood made him act foolish, he reached out a hand in offering, but Dream… he just stared at it. Hob quickly withdrew it, running it through his hair, chuckling nervously. “I was just teasing,” he said weakly, but by that point he was sure his feelings were transparent and Dream’s lack of reaction was a clear signal.

Then again, maybe this was just harmless experimentation? Wanting to know what it feels like, being kissed as a human?

But Hob still hesitates. He feels too strongly about Dream to casually mess around without being wary of the consequences.

“Uhh, wait. I, are you sure? I don’t-“

Dream sighs and his patience with Hob apparently runs out because he pulls Hob towards him by his shirt, kissing him square on the lips.

Hob makes a surprised sound, but then he closes his eyes and falls into the kiss.

It’s unhurried and rather chaste, yet Hob’s heart seems to be doing its best trying to jump out of his chest.

Dream pulls away, slowly opening his eyes.

“How….how did that feel?” Hob asks, reminding himself that this was just an experiment. A one time deal.

Dream contemplates his answer. “Different,” he says.

“Different than when you were..Endless?

“Yes.”

“Good different or bad different?”

Dream frowns. “No such dichotomy applies,” he says, and then he leans back in again and Hob leans away.

He chuckles nervously. “Ahh, haha, hold on. You’re gonna make me think you like kissing me.” He tries to turn it into a joke, holding Dream lightly by his shoulders, trying to prevent him from darting forward again.

Dream glares at him. “And what, pray tell, is making you think I don’t.”

“Oh…really?” Hob lets go of one bony shoulder to pinch his own arm. Surely, he’s still asleep and this is just a …dream.

Dream’s glare turns even more unimpressed. “You’re awake,” he says, sharp, and as if to prove his point he kisses Hob again, more hungrily and passionately, biting at his lower lip, Hob’s hold too slack to hold him back.

They kiss and kiss and it’s far from chaste this time, Dream seems to have made it his mission to explore Hob’s mouth thoroughly, while his hands explore his chest.

Hob’s hand burrows into Dream’s hair, he isn’t able to hold back now, kissing back with vigor, treasuring Dream’s every gasp.

They’re both breathing hard by the time they part - by the time Hob has to pull Dream back by his hair to stop him from diving back in.

He can’t help but laugh. “You do actually need to breathe now, you know.”

Dream doesn’t seem too pleased with this reminder. He huffs, sitting back onto his heels.

Hob already misses the feeling of him in his arms.

He clears his throat. There’s a very important question to be asked first.

“Is it…just the kissing that you like?”

Dream tilts his head at Hob like a cat, measuring him. “You cannot tell?”

Hob shakes his head.

“You’re not very bright, Hob Gadling,” Dream says, and Hob would protest, he would tease back, but the words get stuck in his throat when Dream takes Hob’s hand into his own, putting it on his chest and making Hob feel his racing heartbeat.

Hob inhales, blushing.

“You…I…,” he sighs, searching for words. “I still have a lot to learn,” he offers, smiling at Dream.

“As do I,” says Dream.

It is marvelous seeing Dream like this. His words are confident but his heart beats wildly under Hob’s hand, pink colors his cheeks, chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

He’s trusting Hob with this, with his very human body whose reactions he cannot temper, cannot regulate.

Hob chuckles, feeling warm.

He loves this, the marvelous feeling of finding out your crush likes you back, the feeling that’s always incredible, no matter the time and place, no matter how many times he’s experienced it. One of his favorite feelings, the ones that make life an amazing journey.

“I really thought you weren’t interested in me like that,” he says.

Dream sighs. “I…could not be.”

Hob’s heart aches.

He has to touch, now that he’s allowed, now that he’s invited to. He kisses Dream’s forehead, his cheeks, delighting in the sighs he earns.

He kisses Dream's neck and Dream tilts his head for better access, making Hob feel lightheaded and so full of happiness he can hardly contain it. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you now,” he warns. “I’ll kiss you a hundred times every day.”

“A thousand times” Dream says, and Hob laughs, scraping his teeth against alabaster skin, making Dream moan.

He smirks, gaining back his confidence now that he knows Dream means this. He holds him around the waist, pulling him closer.

“I did learn a certain thing or two over the years,” he says slyly, dipping Dream backwards, laying him on the couch. Dream sighs indulgently, wrapping his hands around Hob’s shoulders, holding him close.

“Want me to show you?” Hob asks, and Dream hums in confirmation, pulling him for another kiss.

Soft notes play from the old record player, outside warm spring sun rays melt the last reminders of winter, birds chirp their welcoming songs.

Hope is in the air.

Dream’s here, in Hob’s home, in his arms. The cold weeks when he was distant and quietly hurting and Hob could sense something was very, very wrong but didn’t know how to fix it now seem like a distant memory too.

Hob pulls back for a second, holding Dream’s head in his hands, savoring the moment.

“Will you stay?” he whispers.

Dream inhales, his hand shaking a little when he places it on Hob’s cheek, caressing Hob’s lips with his thumb.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he says, smiling.

————

[kryptonitejelly]

Hello! LOVED your Sonny Carisi first kiss 😍 How about some pillow talk with our favorite ball of Sonnshine 😏🌞

send asks for sonny carisi x reader (5 sentence baby blurbs!)

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“Yes,” Sonny’s eyes are still closed, his arms wrapped around you, but his answer to your ridiculous question is immediate.

“What if I was a -”

“Yes,” his voice is thick with sleep, but he cuts you off with a quick answer.

“But I haven’t finished my question,” you protest as Sonny’s eyes flicker open. He flips you in one swift motion; you are with your back on the bed, Sonny’s arms caging you in.

“Doll,” he drawls, lips going down to the column of your neck; you can feel his voice against your skin, “the answer is always yes.”

[foggieststars]

[rubs my grubby little hands] for the 5 sentences game: charles + armor :-)

some lestappen captive prince adjacent shenanigans for you my love <3

-

Charles feels practically naked in the scraps they've given him to wear. This, more than anything, affirms his long-held view of the Dutch as barbarians. More than the golden cuffs around his wrists, the matching muzzle holding his mouth open, preventing him from speaking. The chiton barely brushes his mid-thigh, slit on both sides to the waist. He has to move slowly and carefully to prevent anything spilling out.

Though, Charles supposes, that's probably its intended purpose.

It's a far cry from the clothes Charles usually opts for. The court in Monaco demands modesty; only a lover should see him in such a state of undress. Now, Charles thinks he'll probably never get the chance. Not if he's going where he thinks he's going. He feels like a soldier stripped from his armour, thrust into battle with only a wooden sword to defend himself.

The guards dragging him through the corridors are rough, uncaring. They yank at the golden leash threaded through the collar around his neck, sneering when he stumbles.

None of the courtiers they pass seem to recognise him - and why should they? His hair has been shorn to the very nape of his neck, a length he's not chosen to wear it in since childhood. The cool air on the back of his neck is unfamiliar. It makes him feel almost more naked than the clothing does, accustomed as he is to his hair falling to the middle of his back.

He's lost colour too, in the weeks spent languishing in that rotten dungeon. He'd watched as his skin faded from its usual golden hue to palest white, leaving him looking ill. He doesn't blame them for not recognising him. He doesn't look like a prince any longer. He looks like what he is; a slave.

Charles doesn't know how, or why - but he knows who. He'd counselled Lorenzo repeatedly against putting his faith in Binotto, implored him to see reason, failed to understand Lorenzo's infuriating caution when it came to the man.

This, Charles realises. This is why Lorenzo had never wanted to move openly against him. Charles should have trusted his brother.

When they reach the threshold of the throne room, the hubbub inside falls to a murmur. Hundreds of eyes turn to face him. Charles halts in his tracks.

The guard holding the chain yanks on it angrily, and Charles stumbles into movement once more. The crowds part as the guards move through, and Charles catches his first glimpse of the thrones at the head of the room.

"Here he is, sire," one of the guards grunts, when they reach the foot of the platform. "As you requested."

"Very good, very good," Jos murmurs, standing from his throne. He takes the leash with little ceremony, and examines Charles with cold eyes. Charles wonders if he recognises him. The last time he saw Jos he was nine, after yet another failed negotiation with Charles' father.

He must, surely. The whole plot reeks of Binotto's oily manoeuvrings, but the way everything transpired...

It was all too neat, too well-organised. Charles didn't trust Binotto because he's always been able to see through his plans. He hadn't seen this coming. It reeks of someone else's involvement, a puppeteer pulling strings. It burns him up inside, to know that he's been outplayed.

"A present for my son, on his name day," Jos announces, with seeming affection. It smacks of insincerity.

And then the words sink in. A present for my son.

Charles' eyes flit to the left, past Jos' shoulder. There he is, lounging on a smaller throne, to the left of Jos' own. The one person who Charles knows above all, will not fail to recognise him.

Icy blue eyes meet green, and Charles has to work hard to suppress a shudder when Max's mouth curves into a smile.

Is this the moment? Where Jos reveals all to their courtiers, alerts them to the treasure they have in their laps? A bona fide prince of their oldest enemy, to use and abuse as they see fit? To ransom until Charles' court is beggared, and he's returned in disgrace?

Jos continues. "A slave boy, fit for your tastes."

Charles furrows his brow in confusion. He doesn't have long to dwell on it however, because with a harsh yank, Jos tugs on the leash, sending Charles sprawling in the dust at the foot of the thrones. Charles goes down hard, coughing and spluttering. The collar cuts into his neck, makes it hard for him to draw a full breath.

Charles watches through blurry eyes as Jos sends the leash flying through the air, listening to the tinkle of golden links. For the briefest moment, Charles thinks Max isn't going to catch it. And then, with an absurdly quick snap of the wrist, he does.

"Yes," Max says, baring his teeth. "A lovely present indeed, father. You have my gratitude."

He begins winding the chain around his hand, slow and purposeful. The crowd titters when the chain goes taut and forces Charles to crawl in Max's direction. When he tries to stand, even just to crouch, so he doesn't have to crawl up the stairs leading to the throne platform like a dog, Max tugs on the chain, sending him sprawling again.

Charles gets the message. He crawls, until he's nearing the foot of Max's throne. He chafes against the indignity, wants to snap and bite and tear. If he had his sword in his hands, he'd be able to slice Max in two before he could move to stop it.

He doesn't have his sword. He has a collar, and Max is holding the leash.

"Kneel," Max says, and Charles does, shifting into a loose semblance of a slave's position. He only does so to relieve the aching pressure on his neck, the metal cutting into him like a brand.

Max studies his face with calm quiet. Distantly, Charles is aware of Jos announcing something to the court, something to do with a feast. For Max's name day. He can't really listen properly, can't take any of it in. Can't process the fact that as Max's new slave, he might be expected to service Max.

He can't do any of that, because Max is leaning in close, scrutinising his face with a cool intensity.

A cold hand lands on his jaw, thumbing against the edge of the muzzle cutting into his face. Goosebumps rise on Charles' skin that have nothing to do with the drafty hall, and everything to do with the man touching him.

"So you cannot talk your way out of anything this time, I suppose," Max says, composed. "A shame. You've always had such a talented mouth."

Charles glares up at him, trying to channel three-hundred years of ancestral enmity and ten years of highly personal hatred into his gaze. Max pushes his fingers through the gold bars, into Charles' open mouth, rubs the pads of his fingers against Charles' tongue.

All Charles can do is close his eyes against the humiliation. He wishes for a strength unknown to mankind, something that will allow him to bite through a bridle made of solid gold, through bone and flesh, severing Max's fingers from his hand.

"At least they didn't cut it out," Max remarks, releasing his grip and leaning back in his chair. "I so look forward to seeing what you can do with your tongue."

[hergrandplan]

Wilmon + ‘are we out of view of the cameras?’

Aa thank you so much for this! Idk if you were angling for it, but this was the perfect sentence for a little sequel to this ficlet ! Fun fact that I forgot to mention in the first part: this idea is based on an actual, real life Dutch dating show called Lang Leve de Liefde where two strangers are matched together and have to spend the entire weekend in one house (though they can opt out after 24 hours if there's no spark)(Not that that's a problem for Wilmon lol)

“Are you sure we’re out of view from the cameras?” Simon gives an affirmative hum as he leads Wille into the little shed in the backyard. Their mics are somewhere on the kitchen table, the cameras in the house aren’t showing anything and Simon has no doubt that the producers will know what’s going on, but all that really matters is that Wille’s hand is warm in his own. Besides, without any camera proof or sound, they have nothing to show the public. They could stay in here the rest of the weekend if they wanted. “My mom used to watch this show all the time, and I’ve never seen footage from inside this shed so…” Simon turns around to face Wille and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, which Wille answers by crashing his lips against Simon’s and spinning them around so Simon’s back is against the door. “Please, baby,” Wille murmurs against his lips, before kissing him deeply again, “don’t talk about your mom right now.” Simon gasps when Wille then starts trailing his lips down his neck, grabbing a fistful of Wille’s hair. “What should I talk about instead then?” Simon says, managing to keep his voice level and teasing despite how hard Wille’s lips are working pulse point. Wille looks up with dark eyes, and Simon’s grin widens. “Well, I’d rather you not talk at all, actually.” Wille presses himself more into Simon and in turn presses Simon more against the door. Heat pools deep within his stomach at the feeling of the hard wood against his back, Wille standing over him, and when he feels Wille’s breath fan over his ear, Wille’s voice soft and low, Simon’s sure his legs would have given out had it not been for Wille’s arms around him. “Unless it’s to tell me exactly how and where you want me.”

Send me 'Wilmon' + a sentence and get a ficlet!

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

ok I've got a few good sentences that might inspire you, but this one feels very much Tav and Astarion:

"oh, that's a nice tavern. ...Where the fuck am I?!"

It was taking every ounce of self restraint Astarion had to keep from laughing as you staggered forward, leading an equally staggering Karlach through the streets of Baldur’s Gate on a quest to get tattoos.

He didn’t know when exactly the scheme was sprung, but he suspected in was somewhere after the fourth and fifth round of drinks. He had quit after the third, deciding he had to keep a clear head if you weren’t. Besides, you’d earned at least one night of drunken revelry.

Gale and Wyll had expressed their objections, but being a few cups deep in themselves, weren’t in a position to stop a barbarian when she decided to leave anyway.

Astarion had opted to simply follow, just to make sure the pair of you didn’t get into too much trouble. And by the gods was he delighted he did.

“I think it’s this way,” your slurred, pointing down a side street.

“No!” Karlach bellowed, having lost control of her volume three drinks ago. “It’s ah…fuck, they changed fuckin’ everything. Should be ah—“

“Wait,” you objected. “If we’re…if we’re gonna do this. We’re gonna need another drink.”

“You’re so right,” Karlach said, leaning on you so heavily, Astarion was shocked she didn’t topple you over. “Elfsong is around here somewhere.”

“Oh that’s a nice tavern… Where the fuck am I?!”

Astarion did laugh then, muffling it behind his hand. He needn’t had bothered; both you and Karlach were too far gone to notice.

This was going to be a night to remember, for him if no one else.

(Astarion x AsexualBard!Tav Masterlist)

[landoom]

5581 or 3381, and “sulking” for your prompts thing :)

“You’ll get wrinkles early if you keep frowning like that,” Oscar says as he’s getting tired of Carlos ignoring him.  “They might appear in a few months, old man…” he adds knowing it’s a low blow as Carlos is not even that old. “I’m sulking. Let me be.” Carlos answers not even turning to look at Oscar. Oscar chuckles, knowing that Carlos is pouting because Oscar said to the journalists that they weren’t friends…which wasn't really a lie after all. But Oscar knows how to make Carlos give in so he just stands up and goes to his suitcase in the corner of the room, leaning in a fake attempt to grab something and wait for Carlos to succumb to the appeal of the Oscass… 

[in-amor-veritas]

Wilmon + "I am going to sleep on the couch tonight"

💜

So my brain immediately goes to angst when I see something like this but in an attempt to challenge myself to write things I normally don’t have something not angsty at all 🤭 kinda inspired by my recent bout of COVID

…….

“I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight,” Simon says looking exhausted, arms full of blanket and pillow, “I don’t want you to get sick too.”

Wille frowns, gently taking him by the arm and pressing a hand to his forehead, his skin his burning and the dizzy sheen in his eyes paired with the shivering is concerning, “Don’t worry about me love,” Wilhelm soothes, “I‘ll be fine—it’s you who needs to be comfortable.”

After a small noise of protest Wille manages to guide his husband to the bed and gets him settled, covering him with blankets and making sure he’s comfortable before going to get the essentials—tissues, tea, Alvedon and the iPad from the living room in case he wants to watch something.

When he returns Simon is sitting up against the propped up pillows, watching him as he arranges everything, gives him the medicine and waits for him to take a few sips of tea, his voice is scratchy when he sets the mug down and looks up at him with a frown, “You’re going to get sick.”

Wille crawls into the bed from the other side, on his side, meeting his husbands gaze who hesitates as he shuffles closer, “I don’t care, in sickness and in health don’t you remember?” Wille murmurs and Simon seems to melt when he pushes back the damp curls at his forehead, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Wille pulls him into his arms and feels the way he’s radiating heat, kissing his burning temple as the tension seems to slowly ease out of his husbands body and soon all he hears are the soft sounds of sleep.

….

Love how all of these are just insane run on sentences. Also Wille most definitely got super sick after this but he didn’t mind.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Uhhhh.... I want so many of them with Frank! For now I have chosen ❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜ and ofc with Frank Castle! <3

btw I loooove 'Sneaky' so much and I've read it so many times!!!

Oh I haven't written Frank in a loooong time. Thank you so much for reading "Sneaky" and sending in a prompt 💞

Pairing: Frank Castle x gn. reader

Warnings: a kiss I guess

"You can kiss me, you know," you heard him say, your eyes blinking a couple of times to get out of your daydreaming about what those lips...

"Wait, what?" you asked, your eyes finally focusing on more than just those lips that were now twitched into a small smile, his eyes mischievous.

"I said you can kiss me instead of just staring at my lips," Frank winked with a little smirk and your mouth fell open, your blood rushing to your cheeks, your hands getting sweaty.

"I... I wasn't staring... I was just.... thinking... about.... things...." you mumbled, trying to search for the perfect lie, your eyes widening as Frank got up from where he was sitting until his hands were resting on the armrests of your chair, his face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin.

"Things, huh?" he asked and you slowly nodded, gasping when you felt his fingers tilting your chin up, his eyes on you, his face coming slowly closer as if giving you a chance to back out before his lips pressed against yours.

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

several sentences sunday

tagged by @tizniz @daffi-990 @wikiangela @devirnis @elvensorceress @thekristen999 @lemonzestywrites @spotsandsocks @hoodie-buck

thank you lovelies! <3

another snippet from calls fic which i think is just gonna haunt me forever asdfghjkl

“You good?” Eddie asks when it’s been silent for too long, praying that the complexities swirling inside him aren’t present in his voice. If anyone could hear them, it would be Buck.

“What? Yeah, yeah, sorry, just–tired.”

Eddie is pretty sure tired isn’t what Buck was originally going to say.

Buck has the uncanny ability to steer people, including himself, away from what’s really going on inside his head, masterful at the craft of saying things that aren’t necessarily true but aren’t exactly lies either, euphemisms spilling from his mouth like sanctified honesty, so very hard not to believe.

And Eddie has learned how to navigate this for the most part, knows when he needs to push and when he needs to hold back, knows when Buck wants him to offer something he can take whether it’s advice or sympathy or an opinion and when Buck needs him to deflect, to amuse, to lighten their circumstances enough that Buck can breathe.

Admittedly, Eddie doesn’t always do what Buck wants or needs in these situations, because he is only human and stubborn and willful and at times dangerously affirmed of his own thoughts and occasionally frustrated easily enough that he will give no thought to how he should structure his sentences, often straddling the line between being careful with Buck but also not treating him like he’s fragile, but right now, well, right now Eddie has the feeling that a strong gust of wind could knock Buck over, so he treads delicately.

“I, uh–” Buck coughs and there’s some rustling in the background, a familiar enough sound that lets Eddie know Buck is currently sitting on his couch. “I just got home and realized I kinda forgot about our usual Thursday dinner.”

Eddie tuts as loud as he can into the phone, leaning back against the counter so it digs into the bottom of his back. “A truly unforgivable offense, Buckley. Not sure how Chris and I will recover.”

Banter is easiest. Banter he can do. It’s the thing they use most often with each other, because it’s fun, yes, but also because it’s the only thing they really know how to do properly. They can fully lean into it because there are no expectations or consequences, it’s just–them, being silly and teasing because it makes the other feel better and because anything else might be too soft or too harsh to bear.

tagging @spaceprincessem @bucktits @shitouttabuck @911onabc @try-set-me-on-fire @rewritetheending @sibylsleaves @messyhairdiaz @bvckandeddie @loserdiaz @rogerzsteven @shyaudacity @buddierights @monsterrae1 @gayedmundodiaz @heartshapedvows @wh0re-behavi0r @thewolvesof1998 @sunshinediaz @jeeyuns @spagheddiediaz @exhuastedpigeon @butchdiaz @bucks118 and anyone else who wants to share!

[willesredlights]

Hey Sari 💜 hope you have a lovely Sunday 💜

Wilmon + “it’s called acting, you dumbass.”

Hi Lia! Thank you, I hope you had a lovely Sunday too!💜

Let's pretend as if this is 5 sentences.

"It's called acting you dumbass", Wille says jokingly, after he kissed his roommate, Simon, while they were rehearsing for Wille's  theatre play.

"You didn't mention this scene involved a kiss", Simon is still shocked by Wille's sudden action to kiss him, he hadn't see it coming and it felt as if his insides were on fire, burning him up from inside out. That happens when the boy you've had a crush on for months just suddenly kisses you without a warning.

"A theatre kiss needs to be spontaneous, otherwise it will feel forced for the audience and I wasn't sure if you still wanted to help me rehearse if you knew it involved a kiss scene", Wille explains, his cheeks turning a bright red.

Simon is still processing what just had happened but only one thought is crossing his mind, he wants to feel it again, he wants to feel Wille's lips on his again because it had felt so good, it had felt as if all the noise had left their small dorm room and as if his heart was bursting with happiness.

Without thinking and in an impulse he grabs his roommate by his neck and pushes his lips onto his again and it feels like a thousand butterflies are erupting in his stomach and it feels so good to be finally doing this after months and months of pining.

Wille looks at him, confused and shocked at the same time, the same shock that was written on Simon's face a few minutes ago, he can't bring out another word but instead he pulls Simon closer and kisses him soft and tender and for Simon this is all the confirmation he needed.

Thank you for the prompt! 😊

Send me a ship and a sentence and I'll write the next five.

[pagegirlintraining]

Jealous!wilmon

"Back off, Simon is mine!" 🤭

I’m so sorry this took me literal ages to get to 🙈🙈🙈 but thank you so much for the prompt anyway! It was a fun one and I hope you like the result ☺️

“Back off, Simon is mine.”

The way Wille’s actually full-on glaring at Henry, cheeks still pink from their warmup sprints and eyes a full shade darker than usual, shouldn’t do anything to Simon other than make him giggle. But damnit, he can’t help the tiny, primitive part of him that preens at hearing his boyfriend stake his claim on him so explicitly, even if it’s for something as minuscule as a game of dodgeball. And maybe, just maybe, the deeper register that Wille’s voice has slipped into like second nature is also doing some things to Simon that he really should reevaluate when they’re not in the middle of gym class.

“Okay, okay, have him then”, Henry says with his palms slightly lifted, and only once Wille has turned his back to him to face the remaining players to be picked, Simon can see him mouthing a “Jesus Christ” in Walter’s direction.

“So” Simon hums quietly once he’s made his way over to Wille’s team, making sure to brush his shoulder with his own as he goes to stand behind him, “I’m yours, huh?”

He doesn’t expect the little “Very much” Wille whispers back to him, voice still holding that same, deep vibration, but oh my, is he not going to disagree.

[usetheforce]

for your prompts—Obi-Wan and Anakin are same age padawans for Qui-Gon and either/or gets curious about the other’s body at like 16 (ofc they’ve explored their *own* bodies by this point) and then end up with some touches and some kissing. Maybe frottage?

Send me a nsfw prompt or headcanon and I’ll write a 5 sentence ficlet!

Obi-Wan stormed out of the training salles, letting the door slam behind him with a bang, unable to get the image of Anakin looming over him out of his head, pinning him to the mats flushed and panting with exertion.

"Obi-Wan, wait!" Anakin called, running after him, but Obi-Wan kept walking, head down, unwilling to acknowledge both him and the burgeoning swell of his cock in his pants.

Of course, Anakin caught up, and of course, he reached out to stop him with a firm grip on his shoulder, and frustrated, Obi-Wan whirled around at the touch to slam him into the nearest wall with a snarl.

Anakin blinked up at him, surprised, his perfect mouth parted slightly, and Obi-Wan couldn't take it anymore, he just couldn't, after so many hours of wrestling each other to the mats as they sparred under Qui-Gon's tutelage, the tension between them ratcheting up and up and up--he leaned in to roughly capture those tempting, lush lips with his own.

Anakin gasped into his mouth, a short, stuttering thing, and lolled out his tongue to swipe at Obi-Wan's, the contact electric, and Obi-Wan licked more firmly into his mouth with possessive ownership, crowding him against the wall until their hips met and he could grind his aching cock against Anakin's own.

[enjoythesilentworld]

💜 wilmon;

"Shhhhh!"

hello anon ;) you ready for a lil horny wilmon?

“Shhhhh!”

Still wrapped around Simon from behind, Wille moved his right hand from where it was grasping Simon’s neck up to cover his mouth, the left hand still splayed hotly across Simon’s lower stomach, keeping his backside pressed firmly against Wille’s front.

“You’ve got to stay quiet, love,” he whispered into Simon’s ear, then nibbled the soft skin of his neck, increasing the temperature in the small closet even further.

Wille continued, “Can’t let anyone find us just yet,” sliding his left hand even lower, coaxing a muffled whimper from Simon, who was using every ounce of self control to not bend over and let Wille take him right there, no matter the exclusive royal gala happening just on the other side of the door.

Simon squeezed his eyes shut as Wille continued his rampage of Simon’s neck, and when the other hand finally untucked his pressed shirt from his pants, and three fingers dipped under the waistband, Simon barely swallowed down a moan.

“Will you stay quiet for me, baby?” asked his perfectly cocky ex-prince — who Simon loved, and loved that he enjoyed stealing away from fancy royal dinners to take Simon apart piece by piece — and Simon nodded rapidly, hoping it was enough; it seemed it was, because he felt Wille smile against his neck, and the hand dipped even lower.

[hergrandplan]

Wilmon + "I can sleep on the couch tonight"

Hi anon! sorry this is so late, I hope you'll still see this somehow <3 I've been having a bit of a writer's block for a few weeks, but this particular story would not let me go, and it was actually really helpful in beating the brain demons. I hope you'll enjoy it 💜 (fair warning it's 1k words idk what happened here)

“I can sleep on the couch tonight,” Wille announces once the movie credits start rolling. He gets up from under Simon and from the couch, then stretches, shirt lifting up to show a sliver of alabaster skin that Simon wants to feel, to touch, to experience.

And maybe he would have, if he wasn’t so stunned about Wille’s announcement, given Simon has spent the better part of the evening cuddled up on said couch with Wille, lying in his arms as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if they hadn’t met mere hours before.

Simon tries to swallow his disappointment down. “Oh,” he says, mouth quirking up into a smile that feels so fake that he’s sure even the people at home will be able to tell. “That’s sweet of you.”

He’s usually better about getting his hopes up. He had thought that, especially for a TV show like this one, two strangers being locked in the same house for the entire weekend, he would have been more on guard. More careful about getting close to Wille, given all of Sweden was watching. But that was the entire point of the show, wasn’t it? To see if two strangers could fall in love within just a few days.

And they’ve known each other for even less than a day, so Simon really shouldn’t have expected Wille to want to share the bed with him. He definitely shouldn’t have hoped for it. And yet, here he is – hopes absolutely squandered.

Had Simon just misread everything up until this point? Is Wille simply not interested in him like that? Simon had been sure that something had been building up between them. They'd hit it off right from the moment Wille had walked in the door. Simon had been a bit nervous, and he suspected Wille had been too, but his radiant, carefree smile had been enough to calm Simon’s nerves. They've done nothing but talk and laugh for the past few hours, getting to know each other, and Simon had loved every minute of it. It didn't feel forced, even though it should have, or fake, even though they were on TV – it had just felt natural. And when they'd put on the movie, and Wille had opened his arms, an invitation for Simon to fall into them, Simon hadn't even thought twice, had let himself be held. Not at any point did he feel uncomfortable, or like he shouldn’t be doing this – like even their bodies fit together.

Once or twice during the movie he had even imagined leaning up a bit, wondering what it'd be like to kiss Wille, what his lips would feel like. 

But maybe all of Wille's touches, the hand he placed on Simon's arm for a second while they were cooking, jostling against him when they were doing the dishes after dinner, staying really close to Simon the whole while and the playful giggle Wille let out when Simon had splashed him — maybe it had all been friendly for Wille. 

An uncomfortable feeling settles in Simon’s stomach as he watches Wille clean up their mess, bring the cups and empty popcorn bowl to the kitchen – their kitchen, at least for the next 30 hours. It was the ease with which Wille shifted out from under him, that maybe hurt more than Wille saying he’ll sleep on the couch.

Simon’s not normally the guy to fall this fast. He hadn’t really expected anything to come out of joining this programme other than maybe finding a friend, but Wille had been so warm, and welcoming, and funny that it had just happened. And now, more than anything, he wished they’d met under normal circumstances, no cameras to see what they were doing.

“Are you okay?” Wille asks, when the table has been cleared, the dishwasher running.

Simon blinks up, back to reality, back to Wille, who has sat down next to him again. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies. He can’t say the truth, that he’s weirdly upset about Wille not wanting to share the bed with him. He’s sure people would make a meme out of him, his face plastered on every Swedish channel as yet another desperate guy.

Wille looks at Simon for a moment, a look on his face that Simon can’t quite decipher before his gaze softens. Then he does something that makes Simon’s heart burst in his chest, just a little: as if he has read Simon’s mind, he covers his mic with his hand.

“What’s wrong?” he says so softly that even Simon’s mic won’t be able to pick it up, only Simon himself.

“I had …” Simon starts, not sure how to continue. If it had been just him and Wille, he’d have asked him to come to bed with him in a heartbeat. Would probably have done more than they would do tonight, because he’s not doing any of that with the camera’s surrounding them, but he still would like to fall asleep next to him, maybe in his arms.

Simon covers his own mic to give himself a semblance of security, but he still feels too seen, too vulnerable, so when he speaks, he looks down to where Wille’s leg almost touches his. “I had kind of been hoping you maybe wanted to share the bed… tonight. But if you don’t want to that’s of course totally okay you know, no ha-”

“Simon.” Wille stops Simon’s rambling with a hand on his thigh. Simon looks up, just in time to see how Wille’s face completely lights up with a smile, almost relieved, and even the room around them feels brighter all of a sudden. “I’d like nothing more.”

There’s a twinkle in Wille’s eyes. It’s nothing sexual, nothing that conveys anything but pure joy, and Simon already can’t wait to find out what else will make that twinkle appear, hoping to see it so much more often in the future. Maybe if there weren’t any cameras around, this would have been the moment Simon would have leaned in and kissed him, but he’s not sure if he wants all of Sweden to see that. Still, smiling, Simon takes Wille’s hand and leads him to the bedroom.

Send me 'wilmon' + a sentence and get a ficlet!

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

5 sentence for you if it sparks anything ^_^

Astarion *mumbles in elvish*

Tav, intrigued “wait what was that??”

A/N: Okay, I did spark something, but slightly different from this set up. I hope that's okay!

Also, this is in keeping with the canon that Evie (Ace!Tav) can't read common. So, any Elvish they've learned is purely through what they've heard and conversational context.

You should have known you'd find trouble the second you saw the look on Astarion's face.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen you perform. However, it was one of the few times you had decided to sing as opposed to simply play. The crowd seemed right for it, and after going through your standard set list you had decided to end to night on an old favorite. It also happened to be the only song you knew in Elvish.

He looked so...delighted. It made you suspicious, not helped by his overly enthusiastic applause as you finished.

“Bravo," he exclaimed as you took your seat beside him. "And here I thought you didn’t speak Elvish."

“Not fluently. Just enough to negotiate a meal really," you admitted.

He nodded, his expression turning just a little too smug. “Ah.”

You narrowed your eyes, your lips turning into an unamused line. “What does “ah” mean?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself my love," he assured, innocently. "So I take it you learned that song by ear.”

“Yes…" you said, frowning. "Seemed to be a crowd favorite.”

“Indeed it is. And you do play it so beautifully.”

You bit back a frustrated growl. If he was going to play coy, so could you. “Oh I don’t know. Something tells me I would play it much better if I knew what it meant. Perhaps if somebody could translate it for me.”

Astarion shook his head, clutching a hand to his chest is dismay. “Perish the thought. I wouldn’t dare jeopardize your performance. No, I believe it would be much better if you keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

You gave a slight huff, realizing your efforts were futile. You then turned your attention to Shadowheart.

"It's all a big metaphor for sex, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Not much of a metaphor."

send me a sentence + pairing and i’ll write the next five sentences

[landoom]

for the prompt thingy, landoscar and "dying"

“I’m dying,” Lando moaned from where he was lying on the bed, surrounded by too many pillows and buried under two duvets and two woollen blankets. “You aren’t, you just have the flu and you’re not going to die from the flu. Not on my watch.” Oscar answered in his usual neutral tone.  A tone that was contradicted by the way he was gently caressing Lando’s burning forehead and by how he had taken care of his teammate in the past hours: bringing him his meds, entertaining him, covering and uncovering him every 5 minutes and even making him some chicken soup.  “Promise?” Lando asked, moving his head a bit so Oscar could see his pleading eyes. “Promise,” he answered without any hesitation.

Please feel free to send me more prompts here.