#Undying Love | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blissfulcrow · 3 months ago

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Crow 1994 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Eric Draven/Reader, Eric Draven/Shelly Webster, Eric Draven/You Characters: Eric Draven, Shelly Webster, Reader, Sarah Mohr Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual Fluff, Inspired by Music, Post-Canon, Post-MCR, Love, Falling In Love, Canon-Typical Violence Summary:

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she could see a crouched man dressed in all black, rips and tears covering his attire, squatting on the sides of the mausoleum as if he were a fierce stone protector right at home with the gargoyles. His clown-like face paint was framed by deep black hair and intense brown eyes that seemed to pull you deep into them. There was something almost ethereal about him, nearly as if he glowed in the pale moonlight engulfing them both.

Note: My fic inspired by Brandon Lee’s portrayal, posted both here and on AO3. Please feel free to leave a like and comment so I know I'm not just throwing this fic into the abyss

Chapter One: Can’t Find My Way Home.

Blinding… That is the only way to describe her rage's effect on her… Blinding… like a flashlight clumsily pointed in your direction or a train rapidly approaching, unwavering in its journey and uncaring what was in the way. She was inconsolable after they told her the news. Her closest friend suddenly and unexpectedly passed away after having no signs of deterioration whatsoever. When she remembers, she feels like she's still there in that hospital room. Her ears ring as doctors ask a flurry of questions that she can’t answer, not because she doesn't know the answers but because her mouth just refuses to form the words. The bubbling of emotions threatening to boil over is unbearable; she thought she had prepared for this… “Stupid fucking idiot!” She reprimands aloud, boots slogging through the dense, earthy surrounds of the cemetery just outside the city. She walked straight back into the emotional turmoil of losing her mother; she promised herself she wouldn't work herself up, today of all days especially. Today marked one year since her friend's death, a whole year. One year without her closest confidant, a year of benders ending with her curled up next to a toilet, calling her friend's voice mail despite knowing it was futile. She would never get the answer she sought at the end of that dial tone, no matter how many tears were shed… The dead can't come back.

Every week, she would bring flowers to her grave. No matter how much it hurt, she pushed herself; she knew her companion's biggest fear was being forgotten, and she couldn't bear the thought of her being right. Every week, she had to put herself through the same bitter cycle of grief, and she knew she couldn't keep going like this. She just didn't know how else to cope. She trudged closer to her destination, fists whitening from her stone grip on the wilted pink Chrysanthemums. It happened to every flower that made its way to the grave; no matter how hard she tried, they always ended up crushed, and in that regard, she could relate to the poor flora withering in her palms.

The headstone slowly entered her view, the night's fog limiting it momentarily. The pot of emotions she thought she had under control started to boil wildly and without warning. Tears erupted ungraciously, blinding her vision as she approached, unaware of the crow mounted atop the grey stone watching her intently.

A grating caw pulled her from her mourning. Startled by the black bird as she kneeled, she looked up at it, and its eyes were hypnotising. It cocked its head as if almost to ask, “What's wrong?” and that's when laughter burst from her mouth. “I must be going nuts if I think a bird is concerned for me!” She manically exclaimed, running her hands through her hair to soothe herself. It wasn't working, not this time. “Sometimes, seeing truly is believing.” a bleak voice beside her called, snapping her back. Dropping her bag and flowers, she scurried away, hyper-aware of the reality of being in a cemetery alone with a stranger in the late hours of the night. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she could see a crouched man dressed in all black, rips and tears covering his attire, squatting on the sides of the mausoleum as if he were a fierce stone protector right at home with the gargoyles. His clown-like face paint was framed by deep black hair and intense brown eyes that seemed to pull you deep into them. There was something almost ethereal about him, nearly as if he glowed in the pale moonlight engulfing them both. Seeing her reaction to his presence, he shot his hands up, seemingly to say, “I’m no threat to you.” It was comforting in a strange way. Despite his ghostly exterior, she felt that there was something more to him, something tragic. His eyes held sorrow and grief, just as hers did. ‘Probably just another poor grieving soul.’ She speculated, feeling foolish for her initial reaction to his presence. “What do you mean?” She quizzed, referring to his opening line. She hadn't said anything, yet he had read her mind. “The bird, you thought you were going crazy because it could understand you. If you see it, believe it,” The leather-clad man stated as if it were something everyone would know.

“That's an odd icebreaker” She quipped, straightening herself up. “Got a name, Mr Lurker?” Stretching out her hand to formally introduce herself to the man. She's done stranger things.

He stared at her hand as if contemplating the minor gesture. After a moment, he shook his head. ' Oh,’ she thought.

“Don’t do physical contact” Fell bluntly from his blackened lips as he looked away. Her hand wavered for a moment before returning to its place beside her. “Hey, fair enough, man, the chick you just met in a graveyard probably has heaps of diseases. I don’t blame you.” She chuckled, turning her head towards a grave, any of them to not face the embarrassment of her word vomit.

Eyes flicking from graves to the man, the woman sucked in a breath as if to build the courage to ask.

“So, what brings you this neck of the woods?” He stared again, trying to read her face.

“Only two types of people come to these places at such an hour: criminals and mourners.” He laughed, a haunting laugh that almost echoed off the surrounding statutes and monuments. She was entranced in how alluringly beautiful he looked as the smile spread across his monochromatic features. The crow landing on her shoulder broke her out of her daze. “So which are you? We friend or foe?” She jested, bringing her hand up to her shoulder, stroking the feathered creature with her pointer finger.

Her eyes moved from his face to the disturbing sight beside him: an overturned grave. She couldn’t make out the deceased's name but could do the math. Sketchy stranger plus disrupted grave equals criminal, a thought that caused anxiety to rise to the surface despite his good looks.

She slowly rose to make a quick escape, seeing as though she had just interrupted a looter, and she didn't want to end up in that empty grave. He saw her alarm and quickly cried out as she turned to run, crow flapping away from the perch on her shoulder.

“It's my grave!” Well, that certainly is a good way to stun someone. Ever so gently, she turned to face the unknown clown-covered man, contemplating how even to address the statement he so brazenly blurted out. ‘What the fuck does that mean?!’

Before she could verbalise her confusion, he was suddenly in front of her as if by magic. His hand flew to her mouth as he pulled her towards the mausoleum, keeping her from screaming. Her arms and legs flailed wildly in vain as he pinned her to the wall inside. “Hush now; no harm will come to you.” He whispered curtly. “There is someone here; they are responsible for the grave. If I take my hand away, do you promise to be good?”

All she could do was nod, eyes wide in fear and confusion. He eyed her carefully, steadily removing his hand, testing if she would keep her word. She did.

“Thank you. If your kindness could extend a tad longer, that would be appreciated. We have a visitor, " he said, crouching at the tomb's gated entrance to get a better look at who was approaching. She joined, slightly behind him.

It was a cloaked figure, steadily encroaching on the mangled grave. A heavily bangled arm outstretched to pick up the wilted chrysanthemums, crouching as they grabbed them. Low, angry muttering could barely be heard by the shrouded pair when suddenly, the flowers set ablaze in the figure's hands. More curses left the form as they clapped their hands over the empty grave, shaking the remaining cinders from their skin with the loud clangs of their bracelets that echoed through the graveyard. Visibly frustrated, the figure turned to leave quickly as if on a mission.

She didn't realise she had been holding her breath until her body reminded her of her oh-so-important need for oxygen. Spluttering as she attempted to regain a semblance of control of her body, the man before her turned to meet her gaze as if almost to say, “You mind?”

“Sorry”, She started, “I’m not accustomed to hiding from hooded figures.” If the joke landed, his face did not show it.

“What happened to the whole ‘Don't do physical contact thing��?”

He peeked out to ensure the coast was clear, ignoring her before straightening up and extending his arm. Rapid flaps could be heard as the forgotten crow took its place upon his arm before turning to its owner; when they locked eyes, it seemed almost as if they were communicating with each other telepathically. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ The woman thought. “Go home, it’s not safe here.” Well, that much was apparent. Hastily, she skirted around the man to begin scooping up the contents of her bag back into its home. This had been creepy enough to last her a lifetime.

The man watched her fumble and tumble out of the cemetery, not moving until she was out of sight. He made his way back to the decrepit grave, wracking his mind: ‘Why am I here? I thought this was over with. How am I back? Who was that figure?’ His eyes slowly drifted from the carved-out words ‘Eric Draven’ to the name on the adjacent grave, ‘Shelly Webster’, his heart rapidly thumping, threatening to leave his chest.

“I tried to come home, Shelly; why can't I return to you?” He wept, kneeling beside her headstone. His head met his hands as he unleashed his sorrow and frustration. ‘It’s not fair; what cruel being keeps us apart?’

Next to his grieving form, he could hear tiny taps of scale-like feet. Pulling him from his pity, the crow had dropped something beside him. Reaching out, he picked up the object, a driver's license. Seemingly, it belonged to the woman who had mistaken him for a thug. Gazing towards his feathered companion, he muttered,

“Suppose it’s time for a formal introduction.”

Alright, folks lemme know what you all think With Love, Blissful Crow <3