idk i'm having writers block

Drawing in the Common Room

Summary: You’re trying to draw but Sirius really wants a kiss.

Word Count: 1,091

Pairing: Sirius x Reader

Requested by My Writer’s Block (ugh)


Sirius’s right hand rests on your hip, fingertips lightly digging into your skin as you hold the sketchbook in front of you. The two of you take up an entire couch in the Gryffindor common room, earning you the glare of more than one other student over the afternoon. Sirius’s cocked eyebrow and innate charm sent them all scurrying away.

Or maybe it was his implied threat of blackmailing them. You don’t really care. They’re gone, leaving the two of you alone in the common room. That’s all that matters.

The open window lets a lazy breeze in, one that leaves light goosebumps on your arms that Sirius chases away with a soft touch, running his hand up and down your arm.

“Have you almost finished?” He asks, letting his hand wander down the side of your thigh.

You bite your lip, squinting at the intricate swirls on the bookcase across the room. “Not yet, love. And quit moving your hand. It was fine where it was.”

“Come on,” He whines, but he moves his hand back onto your hip.

“Just a little bit more.” You say, words slow as you focus on the sketch.

Sirius sighs, head falling onto the pillow he’s clutching with his left hand.

Keep reading

part three of the grindr au, based on a fic by @des-zimbits​ (read it here). sorry this took forever, guys. this part is a little longer at 3k (and I didn’t even get all the way through spring semester. help). rated t for language?

also um content warning for Jack’s internalized homophobia making him act like a real asshole. he sorts his shit out by the end the end of this part, but like. it might be upsetting in places. sorry.

part one. part two.

“So, what was your New Year’s resolution, Bits?” Ransom asks.

Jack knows it’s the traditional just-back-from-Winter-Break question, but he always hates this conversation. His own resolutions are never very interesting, and he hates talking about them. (This year he has two: to improve his shooting percentage by at least 10% in the second half of the season, and to increase his bench press by 50 pounds before the end of the year.) Historically, whenever Jack has told anyone what his New Year’s resolutions are, he’s only met with a frown and a short, “Oh.”

Bittle’s resolutions, on the other hand, will no doubt be terribly interesting and charm the whole team even further. Because that’s just how it goes.

“It was, uh.” Bittle laughs a little, rubbing back of his neck. “It was actually—to be a little less inhibited?”

Before Jack even knows he’s doing, he’s saying, “Less inhibited?”

Keep reading

So desperately unspoken.

Once upon a time the always amazing krem-de-le-creme sent me a skype prompt that went as follows. 

Anders realizing Hawke had a bad day and tries to cook him dinner, fails horribly. Also, he and justice should fight about adjusting ingredients.

This is the result. I really don’t feel like I have their voices quite down yet? But I swore I’d try new pairings…

***

It’s late, definitely more night than evening, when Hawke finally throws open the doors of the mansion, weight balanced on the blade of his staff. Anders looks over at the sudden interruption in alarm but when he sees no blood, only fatigue, he turns back to his stack of parchment. Justice urges him back to writing - He is uninjured, do not be distracted. We must continue our work - flaring lightly beneath Anders’ skin, tracing tendrils of blue like vines up his hands from the tips of his fingers.

“Thought you’d be at the clinic, love. I went there first but it was locked.” Garrett’s voice as he calls across the hallway is hoarse, like it always is when he’s been yelling and Anders feels a momentary pang of regret that he had declined to go with him. Hawke sounds tired, exhausted really; each heavy footstep drags across the floor, as though lifting each boot is simply too much effort. Justice pushes it back down and he keeps writing.

“Closed up a few hours ago,” Anders says. “It wasn’t too busy today, we must have finally got the latest plague sweeping through Darktown under control.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how the Wounded Coast was?” Hawke whispers into his ear and Anders jumps, actually jumps out of his chair. When did Hawke get so close? He must be slipping, not to hear footsteps so close behind him.

“How was it, my heart?” Anders asks absentmindedly as he puts quill to paper again and scrawls another line.

Hawke laughs as he stumbles forward, bracing himself on the back of Anders’ chair.

“Oh, you know how it is. Pouring. Raiders. Slavers. Spiders everywhere. But all in all, not too bad for a Tuesday.”

At this Anders lays his quill down despite Justice’s faintly flaring protest, looks up at Garrett and chuckles, laying a hand lightly across his cheek.

“I should have come with you, love,” he says, stroking calloused fingertips against the man’s overgrown stubble.

Hawke melts into the touch, closing his eyes only to snap them open again with a sheepish expression as his stomach rumbles so loudly that Dog twitches awake from his place in front of the fire and growls.

“I’m hungry…” he whines, casting a hopeful look at Anders who rolls his eyes lightly.

“What about Orana?”

“It’s her night off…” He trails off and it’s silent for a few moments before Garrett sighs heavily and continues. “I guess I’ll just go down to the Hanged Man… Alone… Find something that might only give me a mild case of food poisoning…”

Anders stops writing, he never can resist Hawke’s whining. Justice stirs as he drops the quill but Yes, this IS important, this IS Justice. How can we leave our lover to suffer? and the spirit within him quiets, settles to nothing more than a light, flickering imprint under his skin.

“I’ll make you something, my love,” Anders whispers, pressing a kiss against Hawke’s chin before he walks off towards the kitchens.

***

Hawke hears a loud clanging which jerks him from sleep, the imprint of the edge of the table carved across his cheek.

Off in the kitchen Anders’ voice raises until it’s nearly shrill and Hawke thinks that’s probably not a good sign. Whatever Anders is making does smell wonderful though he realizes as a loud growl from his stomach brings him back to reality.

“Justice, NO. You don’t even eat, stop adding things!” There’s another loud crash, as though a pan has been slammed onto the hearth.

“That is far too much salt, Justice. Maker, the last body you inhabited was a corpse. Corpses wouldn’t know what actual food tastes like.”

There’s a distant rumbling, much like a lightning spell, that he can’t translate into words just yet; not until he takes a deep breath and catches the faint metallic twinge of lyrium twisting in the air. Justice. It’s always Justice now and Hawke summons a thread of mana, listening intently to catch whatever the spirit adds.

“Humans require salt in order to live, as well as enjoy it. We must add more.”

That really doesn’t sound good. Nor does the answering, aggrieved sigh.

“Anders?” He tries to no answer. “Love? Are you two alright in there?”

“We’re fine!” Anders says as Hawke heard a dull thud, rather like a tin of spices - quite possibly the aforementioned salt - hitting the floor. “Don’t come in!”

Hawke groans. That is definitely a bad sign. He rises with a sigh, bracing against the edge of the table and walks over towards the kitchen.

“Anders?” He calls and just as he walks across the threshold there’s awhoosh and a high spark of flames from the hearth. “Shit!”

“I…” Anders stutters, staring at the fire rising higher with each passing second, wide-eyed. “Hawke…”

He pushes past Anders, priming winter’s grasp between his hands before releasing it onto the flames which sputter and flare before dying out.

“You alright, my love?” Garrett asks, stifling a cough as the smoke rises higher.

Anders smiles ruefully, raising a hand to rake through the strands of hair that have escaped his mussed ponytail. “I… we ruined your dinner, love.”

Hawke grins, taking the last few steps towards the blonde before pulling him into a soft, needy kiss.

“S’alright,” he mumbles around Anders’ lips. “Think I’d rather move on to dessert anyway.”

TitleSleeping WIth The Enemy
RatingMature Audiences
RelationshipsRick/Michonne
CharactersMichonne, Rick Grimes
Word Count: 1,635
SummaryMichonne is a notorious White Collar Criminal that actively pursues a night with Rick Grimes who happens to be a renowned agent with the FBI. An agent completely oblivious about just who it is he has invited into his bed. What was meant to be a simple night of pleasure and blissful irony turns into something Michonne wasn’t prepared for in the slightest. And as feelings for Rick begin to surface, and the realization of his feelings for her become more prominent, her life becomes a steadily complicated balancing act.
PartsChapter 1

Her fingers were splayed across his toned stomach admiring the gentle rise and fall that came with each steady breath. Their legs were intertwined, bodies still entangled, they were a mess of sheets and sex exhausted limbs. Every so often she’d gaze up at him to see if he were awake and each time she was met with eyelids shut fast over his bright blues, face devoid of anything other than tranquility.

He was always so peaceful when he slept, like an earthbound angel, all the stresses of the day seeming to melt away as he slumbered. She found herself enthralled by the sight of him sleeping, so enthralled even that the thought of leaving him was almost painful.

Keep reading