#//thank you mother father🐦‍⬛

[r3dblccd]

"This one's from me," he hummed softly, sliding a slim yet wide velvet box over to Nao. "This one's from Raphael." He placed another velvet box atop, smaller and a little bulkier than the one beneath. "I figured with your sleight of hand, these might please you a bit. Raphael helped with the design of his gift. I only suggested the colors you enjoy be part of it." Zachariel chuckled softly, patting atop Nao's head. "Don't get anxious about it. They're nothing dangerous, I know they're both something you'd get a lot of use of."

Despite handing out gifts to the people closest to them, it may or may not come as a surprise that Nao didn't really celebrate the holidays actually, after a few quite traumatizing and not-so-silent nights. But their eyes did widen at the sight of not only one, but two boxes intended for them. "You really didn't have to---" The small twinkle in their eyes was saying otherwise though! Even after all the headaches they had given him? Both to Zachariel and probably Raphael. If there was truly a naughty or nice list, shouldn't they be basically on the naughty list? Nao peeked through the boxes to see what's inside. Shiny. Maybe they had noticed Nao was kind of like a crow when it came to those. Maybe if they put something pretty on they and put these on too they could catch the attention of--- No one! Nobody at all! Nao carefully closed the boxes again, cheeks slightly burning. It was just because of the frost, they can assure! "Thanks." They added shortly.

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 1)

You help out an injured crow. It seems to be a bit of a strange crow, though.

nav: one (current), two, three, four, five, six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, still linkon city but mc is not a hunter, basically an alternate universe, minor character deaths, mc has a distinct backstory and personality, slow burn, hurt/comfort, you’re lowkey a disney princess witch character who attracts crows 🐦‍⬛✨💅

314.27.

You exhale slowly. Barely enough to cover food for the next two weeks, until your next paycheck. That nasty cold last week really gutted this month’s budget.

With a heavy heart, you retrieve your card from the ATM and start your usual trek toward the city park, stopping by the familiar food cart that sells peanuts at a good price. (Yes, a questionable purchase, considering your financial situation. No, you will not acknowledge said questionable purchase.)

Linkon City in mid-December is bone-chillingly cold, blanketed in powdery snow—but that’s never stopped you from your daily visit to the park. The freezing temperatures tend to drive most people away, leaving the usually lively space quiet. You, however, can’t resist coming to see your friends.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

Speak of the devil. Well, devils.

A giddy smile tugs at your lips, and the exhaustion from the day evaporates.

“Hi!” you call out to the murder of crows circling above. Their midnight feathers gleam against the brilliant pink, orange, and purple hues of the winter sunset. You reach into the inside pocket of your weathered but ever-loyal overcoat and grab a handful of peanuts, tossing them onto the snow-free patches of ground.

The crows descend immediately, squabbling as they pick at the treats.

Moving carefully so you don’t spook them, you settle onto a nearby bench. A few of the bolder ones flutter down to join you, perching on the bench as their beady eyes lock on your face. Beaks held high, they wait expectantly, clearly hoping for more. You huff a soft laugh and oblige, tossing another handful.

Your peculiar friendship with these crows began a few years ago. The day of your family’s funeral.

A drunk twenty-year-old behind the wheel of his rich businessman father’s SUV, barreling down the highway at four times the speed limit. Your mother, father, and younger brother, on their way to your college graduation. A tragic case of wrong place, wrong time.

You don’t remember much after that. Everything that followed was all a blur. The driver didn’t really face any consequences, thanks to their family’s influence. Their lawyer presented you with a pitiful settlement offer (or, in hindsight, maybe you were more or less threatened into accepting it). Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of hopelessness at the time, or the suspicion that your lawyer might have been paid off by the driver’s family, but you ended up agreeing to settle.

It didn’t matter anyway. Your family was dead.

The funeral was a simple event. Some extended family came to offer their support and condolences. Once the day ended and everyone went home, however, you were left alone in your family’s house.

You don’t remember much, but you do remember standing in the middle of your living room, a growing tightness in your chest slowly overtaking you, as if your heart was being squeezed from the inside. The walls of the room seemed to close in around you, and suddenly it was impossible to breathe. Somehow, you ended up bolting out the door—leaving it wide open behind you—and ran. You didn’t know where you were going, but you eventually found yourself here, at this very park, sitting on this very bench.

A single crow had perched nearby, watching you silently. Your hand brushed against your coat pocket, and you found some leftover peanut shells from the funeral’s snack offerings. You absentmindedly tossed them toward the crow, and it hopped down to peck at them. There was something oddly comforting in the way it ate, its sharp black eyes darting back toward you as if to say thank you.

The next day, you returned. One crow turned into three, then six. Slowly, more joined, until it seemed like the entire murder looked forward to your daily visits and peanut offerings.

A sudden, loud thump behind you pulls you from your thoughts. You instinctively turn toward the sound, only to find… nothing. Frowning, you scan the area, glancing left and right, until your eyes land on a crow lying on the ground directly behind your bench.

You gasp and quickly stand, rushing over to it.

“Are you okay?” you whisper, crouching down and scanning it for signs of injury. It looks like it fell straight out of the sky.

The crow caws at you—loudly. Unlike the murder behind you, its caw is sharper, more jarring. It grates against your ears like nails on a chalkboard. Its eyes seem to gleam red when the light catches them at certain angles, similar to how a cat’s eyes flash in the dark.

Then your gaze drops to its left wing, which is bent unnaturally.

“Did you hurt yourself?” you murmur, leaning closer to examine it. The injury doesn’t look like a typical fracture. The way the wing bends reminds you more of a mechanical part with a screw loose than a broken bone.

It caws again, louder this time, as if trying to get your attention.

You glance up at the sky and realize it’s grown darker. Heavy clouds swirl above, signaling an impending snowfall. Behind you, the other crows begin to disperse, their farewell squawks echoing as they take flight.

Looking back down at the injured crow, you watch as it tries to take off, only to crash back onto the ground with its unusable wing.

“Um, would you like to stay with me until your wing feels better?” you ask hesitantly.

The crow tilts its head to the side, almost as if it understands you. You miss the subtle garnet glow in its eyes as you carefully scoop it into your arms, cradling it gently to avoid jostling its injured wing.

“I’ll help you out until you’re better,” you say softly, already walking toward home. “I don’t have much, but you can have the rest of the peanuts I bought earlier.”

The crow doesn’t resist, settling into your arms. Its body relaxes against you, and you tighten your hold to shield it from the cold winter air.

You know your groceries won’t stretch far for the rest of the month, but your conscience won’t let you leave an injured animal out in the snow. Hugging the crow a little closer, you feel a small smile tug at your lips when it starts to coo softly.

You don’t notice the faint whirring sound beneath its gentle cooing, like the hum of tiny mechanical gears.

note: not sure where I’m headed with this tbh, but it’s kinda like an alternate universe of the game’s main story. still set in linkon and the concept of evols still exist, but mc is basically an average citizen. (lowkey gonna treat this whole thing as a massive projection of recent irl feelings teehee.) we’ll see how this goes!

nav: one (current), two, three, four, five, six or: read on ao3

check out my other works!

[acoraf]

A Court of Thorns and Roses.

Page 140:

*SPOILERS for the end of the book and later books*

Alis, explaining how aging works:

"Ah, some age like you and can breed as often as rabbits, but there are kinds - like me, like the High Fae - who are rarely able to produce younglings. The ones who are born age quite a bit slower....

...And the eldest won't even reach adulthood until he's seventy-five.."

Thank you, Sarah, for this little piece of world building. Now excuse me while i go throw it in the rubbish, since it seems that's what you did, when you realized this wouldn't make sense later. Cause that would mean Tamlin and Rhysand was more or less fighting over a 5-year-old.

Or when you were making a very heartfelt story of Rhys' mother, doing everything to postpone her bleeding for as long as possible, and started when she was 18? Which again would make her get her first at around 5 years of age. Morri is the same, tho she was 17..

Not to mention Rhys' father getting a matingbond with a CHILD if what Alis said was canon - which it of course isn't, cause our dear Sarah retconned it before the book was even over, don't worry 🙃

Please, I beg all future writers... Write your lore down, and figure it out before you start writing.. I feel like figuring out how aging works for immortals would be the bare minimum, lol.

K, thx babes🌹🐦‍⬛

[the-kr8tor]

I had a 7 hour nap and whoa where am I..anyways.

Daily Hobie HC! If you think about it, Hobie's been through a lot. From his father leaving, to his mother dying from alcoholism to leave him and his many siblings to raise themselves. And then also being bitten by a radioactive spider that literally crawled out of a waste dump and bit him. With no proper support, he must've been terrified upon being bitten, probably thinking that this was the end for his life. Even before he was bit, he must've been bullied to an inch of this life, not because of poverty, but also because of the possible racism in his universe. I feel like he struggles with abandonment issues in all honesty. Even if you and him are lovers, and he trusts you wholeheartedly, there would always be his inner child while a sense of fear that you'll leave him. Before, early on, he'd hide the bad parts from you, not even allowing you to see his tattoo in fear you may leave him for someone you deemed better. Someone with less struggles, less worries, someone more of your 'hero' than him. For this, let's say his lotus flower tattoo is at the back of his shoulder. At first, before you knew about his past and bad experiences, he would never want you to stand behind him when he was shirtless, conjuring up the excuse of his spidey-senses tingling and mistaking you for some villain. When in reality, you always made his senses tingle differently. He just didn't want you to see what he had been through in fear you would see him differently. Early on, he would appear to you when he was okay. When he could handle the burdens on his shoulder. However, when it all came crashing down, you were the last person he would want to ever know about it. Of course, he wouldn't just leave you wondering. He'd still speak to you, one way or another, before isolating himself somewhere to feel himself break under the pressure. He saw you as a flower. You had your own struggles, your own grief, your own worries. And Hobie would say to himself that he didn't want to burden you, so he simply just bottled it up. Even when he bottled his feelings up, he would never lash out at you, instead just listening to your side of the story whenever you guys would argue, and let the mood of the room simmer down a little before talking. Instead, his bottled feelings came out in waves when he couldn't take it anymore, drowning. Until one day, your warmth cracked a wall leading to his thoughts. Anyways I baked cake last night and I thought you may wanted a slice, so here!🍰 - 🐦‍⬛

7 HOURS?! I'm so jealous rn

WOOHOO DAILY HOBIE HC 🎉‼️

W-wait H-hold on

YOU WERE NOT KIDDING AT HOW ANGSTY THIS IS! OFF TO JAIL FOR YOU! For *checks watch* 5 mins!

The comic art of him getting bit made my heartache for him fr like he's in pure agony there 😭😭😭

Him hiding his feelings 😭😭😭😭😭 BRUHH 😭😭😭😭

*with tears in my eyes* t-thank you for the cake 🥲

[bajablast666]

🐦‍⬛ ?

Thank you so much!

I still really like this scene with Kelrath and Kaethan first having a conversation because it's pleasant enough but there's something off, almost unsettling about it(at least, I hope that's the vibes it's giving off lol)

“No songs today?” the man asked him idly. Kaethan glanced at the man. He was a drow, his skin gray like stone, hair the color of steel. He would have been simply dressed if not for the golden embroidery at the collar and sleeves of his black and red surcoat. It was intricate work, expensive, rows of thin golden stars sewn into the shoulders with metallic thread. “Sorry, no,” Kaethan said, tearing his gaze away from the man’s clothing. “My father says there aren’t enough customers tonight for that.” “Shame,” the drow said, taking a sip of his wine, watching Kaethan from the corner of his eye. “Are you a paladin?” Kaethan decided to ask. Usually temples were the only type to order such expensive embroidery work, aside from nobles. Kaethan’s mother had always fought hard to get temple commissions; Temples, unlike nobles, rarely needed just one piece at a time. The man set his goblet down on the table, inclined his head to one side. “Why do you ask?” he asked Kaethan. It was more than just the clothing, the man’s sword belt hung across the back of his chair; the longsword was massive, the scabbard and hilt just as ornate as the embroidery, but the sword and it’s sheath showed wear, the signs of frequent use. Kaethan shrugged, hugging the empty serving tray close to his chest. “Just curious is all,” he said. The man glanced at the table where the Fists that had harassed him sat and then where Kaethan’s father stood barking orders at Taryn. His gaze trailed back to Kaethan. “Are you in need of a paladin, boy?” The man asked. The drow’s eyes were red as rubies, set deep in black sclera, and they stared at him now, unwavering. There was real intent there in his voice. A rush of words spilled from Kaethan. “N-No, no I don’t, I’m fine, honest.” The man watched him quietly for a moment more and then took another sip of wine. “You just look like a paladin,” Kaethan said. A smile worked it’s way across the man’s face as though he found that amusing and it didn’t reach his eyes. “Do I?” he asked. The drow was handsome, high cheekbones cutting through the sharp planes of his face. And he looked like the sort of man you’d expect to wield a sword like that, thick arms, wide shoulders. “It’s supposed to cool down tomorrow and it’s a weekend, so I’ll probably perform.” Kaethan said. “If you really wanted to hear me sing, you should come by again then.” Another smile and the man looked directly into Kaethan’s eyes. “Maybe I will.”

the full fic is here if anyone is interested btw: [x]