Shakes. She/Her. Writer of varied fandoms. Gamer, Crocheter, fan of sturdy desks and romance. I post my writing, vintage aesthetics, favorite fandoms and personal bits. Welcome to my writing desk and lemonade stand!
Currently working on:
In Waking Dreams, depicting the romance between Cullen and a Trevelyan mage Inquisitor, Lydia. (This was previously completed, now expanding)
The Tulsa Queen, seventies Girl in Thedas becomes a bard and falls reluctantly in love with the Commander.
Tag list: lemons (for nsfw/smut) shakes writes (my writing) personal (for my personal posts) teaching tag (my teaching stories) grad school shenanigans (for musings on graduate school stuff) crochet (for my crochet work) shakes tries art (because we are attempting that now 😂) vintage (for Old Hollywood) my screenies. (gaming screenshots) tumblr clownery (pretty much what it says) and fandom critical if it’s serious. I also tag all fandoms I reblog.
In the morning on one of those days where they have nowhere to be but with each other, when he wakes by her side he praises the sun against his cheek, the peace of a quiet night, her weight next to him. He praises the Maker who gave him this, who aided in giving him the strength to carry on, Maker who brought him back to Ferelden, Maker who brought him to her. Maker, his prayer and plea, praise.
He’s with her.
It’s morning and yet she has an easy touch and a prayer of her own. Laying by his side, her hand caresses his cheek like he’s made of fine marble, though truthfully it’s roughhewn with a day’s old beard. She likes the scratch. She’s said so before, like she likes the earthen feel of his weight pressing her to the bed, the earth, his desk, or wherever else they may be. In lieu of good morning there’s a kiss and then more. There’s skin against skin, entwinning limbs, her hand urging him to lay against the bed. There she slides downward, the tips of her hair tickling his chest. She sits lays herself between him and Maker how he asks, panting and heated and ripened underneath her effortless touch. What have I done to deserve this? This woman is ethereal and stolen from the art on the wall and the art wedged between books with her hair wild from sleep and eyes heavy with lust for him, a pink tongue darting to lick her lower lip that’s still partially stained with red from the day before. What have I done he asks and what does it matter, nothing exists or will exist save her.
If you could instantly be granted fluency in 5 languages—not taking away your existing language proficiency in any way, solely a gain—what 5 would you choose?
not to be NSFW (lol JK) but there’s no literally no way to be romantic about balls. I’m writing this scene and Lydia is like heheh let’s go down and yeah there’s just no way
1 year ago
