#the crow drabble

[aviradasa]

I was debating whether to do this or not, but since I’m here— I’m going to

Eric Draven x reader-

idk what they are doing yet, but something in me wants to say Eric is comforting reader after a hard HARD day- she hasn’t slept much the past few nights and it’s getting harder for her.. so like.. soft dom Eric?? (No smut- I just kinda need this haha)

Love this request and it kinda got away from me. But then I fell asleep while making it so it's kinda short and also i proofread it not 10 minutes after waking up 🤣

Not my best work but as I get a feel for his character trust it will be better lol. I hope you enjoy this little shitty drabble

It felt like the days just kept dragging on. Like a repeating cycle of the same shit on different days, like you were running in a hamster wheel.

Sleep, eat, work, come home, sleep, repeat. And to top it off you were constantly finding yourself up at night waiting and Worrying.

One of the highlights of your life was your lovely boyfriend Eric. He's the best thing to happen to you in your life. Not a day goes by that you aren't grateful for him.

But with his tendency to go out late at Night, killing those who have it coming, he is also the cause of some of your greatest stress.

Though he was immortal and undead he was still killable if his crow gets injured, and you can't bear the thought of it.

You have tried to ask him if it was possible for the crow to just stay here where it's safe, but with him being able to see through its eyes, he refuses.

He knows about your concern for his safety, and sometimes he wonders if you worry more for him than he does for you.

But you try to hide your fears. Really, you do, but of course he sees right through it. He always did.

He can feel your sorrow when he sees you lately. Almost like it radiates from you.

He sees the bags and dark circles under your eyes growing worse as the weeks go on. you carry on without sleep, and he notices when your mental state declines slowly but surely. Noticing how you seem to be withering away almost

He fights with himself to refrain from asking you about it; he knows if you wish to tell him you will come to him. But he won't pretend It doesn't eat at his eternal soul being kept in the dark.

The day he walked into the apartment at 1 am hearing a loud crash and a loud exclamation of “FUCK” followed By a sob. He was sick of seeing you like this.

He knew part of the issues but not the full extent; he didnt want to be overbearing but he was gonna need to know your mind entirely to help.

So He followed the direction of the noises that led to the bathroom.

Slowly push the door open to see you sitting on the floor up against the wall with your knees to your chest, one of your hands curled into your hair, and the other covering your face as you cry.

Next to you on the floor are the broken Pieces of the cup you kept your toothbrush in, which was most likely the cause of the crash.

Hearing the screech Of the door opening, your head shot up quickly, wiping your face as you look up at him.

Your hair was disheveled from tugging; your eyes were glassy and dilated to the Point he wondered if your soul was truly trapped behind them, and your face and lips had a rosy tint from The salty tears that previously spilled from your eyes.

You looked almost like an animal caught in a trap, looking back at him like you did something wrong, and it hurt to see you in such a state.

Without a word he crouched down next To you, lifting a hand to your face. Gently moving some stray Hairs away from your skin as his fingers glide down your cheek, light as a feather. before tracing them to your chin, tilting your head up to the side and checking for any sign Of injury. Before switching to the other side. He knew there probably wasn't any but it was habit to make sure at this point.

Once satisfied by the inspection, he moves your head to face him, looking you dead in the eyes as he studies you.

It feels like he's reaching into your soul the longer he looks, so you attempt to avert your gaze As if you're Afraid to let him see too much at the moment.

But he doesn't let you. Instead, bringing his other hand to the opposite side of your head. Speaking the first words of the night in A calming voice, “Look at me.”

The gentle tone grabs your attention away from your hardship for a moment, making you latch on to his command like a lifeline as you shift your gaze to him.

Even with the worn grease paint That covers your lover's skin, you can see the tender worry on his features. Most people would probably falter or fear his strange look., But for you, it only calmed you.

I mean it's what You see whenever he does finally appear to you. The black and white paint and leather trenchcoat remind you that he kept his promise to come back to you that night. So you welcome it with open arms each time.

“What happened in here?” He asks you, releasing you from his grip to your misfortune, snapping you out of your thoughts as you look over at the mess with a dazed expression, feeling your throat tighten and your eyes water.

You take a moment before you speak so you don't end up breaking down again though it's in vain as you barely get a sentence in before it all comes out.

“ I came in here to clean up after getting off work cause it fucking pissed me off, and I wasn't thinking and I knocked the fucking cup off and it broke and I couldn't deal with it cause I'm having trouble dealing with everything and I don't know what the fucks going on anymore or what's happening!-” you try to explain, though about halfway through you just end up rambling About all sorts of different things as tears begin to fall once more.

You're so overwhelmed, and feeling like you have no control of your life at the moment scares you more than you can explain. So he makes sure you don't have to. Your rambling said enough.

He sits down fully next to you with a small smile, pulling you into his side, letting you cling to him feeling your grip tighten on the fabric of his shirt as he wraps his arms tightly around you one of his hands gently cradling the back of your head as you release All the pent up emotions that were swirling around your mind.

As you begin to calm down he doesn't say anything. Just sitting in comforting silence until you look up at him.

“I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to come home to this bullshit.” You tell him with a dry chuckle as you lighten your grip on him and sit up a little, using your sleeve to wipe your face.

“You shouldn't be having to deal with this on your own, you need to talk to me about this stuff. I'll be here with you through anything, but you have to let me.” He comforts all While making a pretty good point.

You had a tendency to refuse help or support, not wanting to be a bother. But with Eric, you were just gonna have to learn To communicate whether you want to or Not.

With that in mind, you just give him a small nod before you hear him speak once again “ no, say it to me. What did we just talk about?” He tells you in a sassy tone that surprises you for a moment.

“Come on, you know what I'm sayin'-” I object with an airy laugh, a grin creeping onto his face as he shakes his head side to side. “No, no. You didn't say anything. Shaking your head isn't a direct form of speaking. I want you to promise me. use your words.” He tells you with a hint of amusement.

At this point, he's just trying to put a smile on your face, and it's clearly working. He doesn't give a damn about a promise as long as he can see that smile he loves so much. You roll your eyes at him with a sarcastic sigh “Yeah, Alright, I promise.” I confirm with a smile as I lean back into his side. A few moments go by before you let out a yawn.

“Hey let's get you off this floor. Don't worry about the mess I'll get it. You just get comfortable and I'll meet you out there. ok?” He offers as he stands slowly, holding his hand out to you, hoisting you up slowly with ease.

You shoot him a quiet thank you and a kiss on the cheek before exiting the bathroom. You deeply appreciated his care. But something about it made you wanna return The favor as you made your way to your room.

[5sospenguinqueen]

(Forbidden Forest)

Garreth: Fine but if Ashwinders kill us all, I'm going to get Ominis' ghost to teach my ghost parseltongue so I can annoy the hell out of your ghost by hissing in your ear for all eternity.

Sebastian: I'll just hire MC's ghost to kick your ghost's arse.

MC: My ghost won't be associating with your ghosts.

[screamlet]

118 daily drabble (day 63; crow)

@118dailydrabble

notes: future fic

---

Tommy jumped. "What the hell?"

"Hey, no swearing in front of—you again?"

Howie came back with fresh drinks for the two of them and Evan, just as a fucking crow landed next to Tommy and eight-week-old baby Kevin.

"Evan, do crows eat newborns?" Tommy asked nervously. He was the one holding Kevin, and probably the one who would have to get his eyes gouged out defending him. He'd had a good career, a good life. He'd be okay.

"He's not gonna peck your eyes out, he's just annoying and shows up sometimes," Howie replied. "What do you want now?"

The crow looked unimpressed, then dropped a silver bracelet next to Tommy's beer and flew off.

Howie sighs. "Typical."

[treviso-nights]

✨ zevran arainai core ✨

oiled leather and spiced bourbon. massages every night, calloused palms scraping over shoulder blades. silky blond hair in your eyes. twin bronze tattoos carved deep into one cheek. golden skin glinting against campfire light. pointed ears that shiver when they're touched. laugh lines deep in the sun. thin scars across a smooth belly. a crystal earring he fits into your earlobe. the way it twinkles when you move. gleaming white teeth in his smile. giving you the last bite in every meal. the endless snickers of a man in love.

[jazzythursday]

Wylan leaves in the morning.

He doesn’t plan to, not exactly, but he definitely doesn’t plan on staying, either.

Wylan is no stranger to one night stands. He can’t say he gets around very frequently, but enough to know the general plot of how they're supposed to go.

Flirt, drink, fuck, leave. The order isn’t necessarily set in stone, but the list ends the same every time.

He has a good time, for the most part, and it’s always a welcome break from the awful chemical smell burned into the Tannery or the staleness of the empty rooms in cheap boarding houses (when he can afford them) that Wylan is used to. Wylan likes the freedom that comes with it, too. It’s liberating to go where he wants and do what he pleases; to not worry about who he’s seen with or sleeps with or what they might think of him after. And he likes feeling wanted, for a little while. He likes being reminded that he exists.

So Wylan does not make a habit of falling asleep with the people who take him to bed.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, really.

He doesn't remember, and yet, Wylan wakes up with his head pillowed on Jesper’s chest. With Jesper’s arm draped over him. His breath is warm where it ghosts over the top of his hair, and if Wylan glances up he can see the way Jesper’s mouth— those lips— fall open in sleep.

It’s the best morning he’s had in months, possibly. Certainly the most comfortable.

He knows it can’t last.

Wylan looks at Jesper, still sleeping peacefully next to him, and he panics.

He’d woken up in Jesper Fahey’s arms.

He’d slept with Jesper Fahey.

Jesper has a reputation, and Wylan knows it, even new to the Barrel as he is. He’d heard about Dirtyhand’s second and resident sharpshooter plenty— Can’t resist a gamble, never misses a shot, and not just with bullets. Jesper Fahey is an excellent marksman, they say, with terrible luck with the cards, and a soft spot for pretty girls and even prettier boys.

Jesper’s played the field— multiple fields— went on a seismic world tour of fields.

Wylan is very good at not being noticed. He’s also very good at listening. People tend to look past him, they never pay any mind to the too skinny boy with the wild hair and the hunched shoulders and the grime that never seems to wash off completely after his long shifts at the Tannery. Wylan knows this, knows he’s very adept at being able to disappear, when he needs to.

So by the time Wylan actually meets Jesper, he’s well aware of his place in Ketterdam’s booming rumor mill. Jesper has many, and Wylan thinks by now he may have heard them all.

And yet, none of them do a thing to prepare him for Jesper.

They’d met in a tavern.

Wylan had been nursing his drink for the better half of an hour, trying to come up with reasons not to go back to the sad cot he had waiting for him in a rented room, with the only window overlooking the brick wall of a dark alley.

So far, he’d only come up with the one.

Wylan had seen the tall Zemeni man from across the room and hadn’t stopped looking since. He was flirting with a girl at the bar, twirling one of his guns in one hand demonstratively with a drink in the other. The girl— a curly haired blond— was giggling, hand pressed to her mouth with eyes that had very clear and direct intentions.

Wylan had almost resolved himself to a night of wasting the few kruge at his disposal with little to show for it, when the man had looked up and caught him staring. The man had smiled, twirling his gun with an extra flourish and then tipped his hat. Wylan smiled back, and gave a little wave. Embarrassing, He’d thought, stop it, he’s already with someone else anyway. He’d looked down, and stared at the near empty contents of his drink until someone sat down next to him and said, in a voice like apple butter and sweet syrup, “Can I get you another of those?”

Then Wylan had looked up into the eyes of the handsomest man he’d ever seen, and thought, he has the most perfect lips.

Out loud, he’d said, “I, uh, well—” His mouth was wide open, he’d realised, and shut it quickly. Again, the man had smiled. Again, Wylan had smiled back. “Yes, please.”

And that's how he’d met Jesper.

Afterwards, they’d stumbled through the streets— I know a place, Jesper said, If you want to take this somewhere more private— until they’d passed a corner where a vendor was selling traditional Kerch sweets out of a cart.

“Stroopwafels!” Jesper had stopped. “I love stroopwafels!”

Wylan was tugging him toward the cart without really making a conscious decision to move, and Jesper had laughed, surprised and delighted.

Wylan bought them both stroopwafels and handed Jesper his with a shy smile and a shrug. “For the drink.”

Jesper looked at him consideringly, head caulked to the side, and Wylan felt himself blushing in the low light of the lamps. “You’re sweet,” he’d said eventually.

“Is that bad?” Wylan had asked, sheepish. Jesper was already shaking his head.

“It’s good. Just not that many sweet things to be had in the Barrel. It’s refreshing.” He’d bit off a piece of one of the waffles and smiled. “These are sweet too,”— he’d leaned in, smile still earnest but with something decidedly different underneath— “I like sweet.”

Jesper had not touched him like he’d been expecting to be touched. Jesper made no assumptions; he’d asked, about everything, in a way that was near gentlemanly if it wasn’t for the fact that he radiated trouble through his pores. Jesper was— not quite gentle, because Wylan had expected hot and heady and everything deep, and Jesper was all of that and more— but he wasn’t rough. He didn’t bruise, not if Wylan didn’t say yes first, and afterwards he’d laid back down and settled Wylan into his arms in a way that he had no real way of protesting— didn’t want to protest, anyway— and kissed him.

It was that that had scared Wylan the most, he thinks. Because Wylan is rarely kissed for the express purpose of it. It was always the promise of more— the rush of what was to come. But people do not generally tend to kiss Wylan for the sake of kissing Wylan. It’s different. Jesper is different, and Wylan can’t afford to be stupid enough to do something like get attached. Can’t afford much at all— really.

But Jesper had kissed him, pleased and lazy and warm, and at some indeterminate time later they had both apparently fallen asleep.

And it was nice.

It was too nice. It hurt with how nice it was.

Wylan peels himself slowly out of Jesper’s arms, careful not to wake him, and decides then that he cannot stand to be here any longer.

Jesper Fahey is not what he’d expected, he’s better.

Jesper Fahey is lovely, and beautiful, and kinder to him than anyone has been to Wylan for almost as long as he can remember.

Jesper Fahey is more than he could have ever hoped for, and he isn’t going to stick around for someone like Wylan.

So Wylan leaves, and he doesn’t look behind him as he closes the door.

[fbfh]

So I might have watched the Crow.... and I might have read the comics... and I might have made a 3 hour playlist... and I cannot stop thinking about Eric Draven. Just can't. Look at him

This man is a feminist. This man blew up a pawn shop to get an engagement ring back. This man is a metal guitarist which means you KNOW he's good with his hands. This man is canonically SO horny and SO sad. He aches. He laid down on his fiancée's grave and never intended on moving ever again. He has a cat named Gabriel because Shelley wanted a cat. This man is a protector of children who believes that recovery is possible. This man kills abusers violent criminals. He just fuckin. Recites contextually applicable poetry before murdering bad guys.

Eric Draven does not ever let anyone feel unsafe, especially not you. You're not afraid to go out at night or walk home anymore. You see crows and you know you're safe. You hear metal guitar coming from some rooftop in the distance and you know he's got you. He never lets you think anything is meaningless or trivial, he cares about details, your details. Your little thoughts and ideas and dreams. He is not ever going to let you feel pain again. Your safety, the safety of innocent people, of women and children and victims is not something he fucks around with. He is something you can count on.

[frickingnerd]

keep your enemies close

pairing: goro akechi x gn!reader

summary: akechi teases you while you two make out

“i can't stand akechi.”

those were the words that had left your mouth not even an hour prior. yet here you were, those same lips those words came from pressed against akechi's lips who you claimed to despise.

“i thought you didn't like me, hm~?” the detective prince teased, as his lips crashed against yours. “never thought you'd be the type to fall for your enemy.”

“oh, you know what they say about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer…” you hummed playfully, before pulling akechi back into another kiss. he was talking way too much for your taste, when he should be busy kissing you instead!

[dasiesanddarkness]

save me wesper first date fics where jesper wears something very flattering and borderline scandalous and wylan wears like a sweater vest and khakis and wylan is freaking out because jesper looks hot asf and jesper is freaking out because wylan looks adorable and also hot asf but they're both self conscious about their outfits even though the other is obsessed with it. save me.

[rottindecay]

hi～sorry to disturb you！I'm new to this fandom and in the hope of talking with someone else.🥺🥺🥺 i notice that you write requests for Eric Draven👉👈...could you please write something like a crossover head canon👉👈like David from lost boys being bestie with Eric （as i just read somewhere yesterday that Kiefer Sutherland was close to Brandon Lee and even the one who introduced Eliza Hutton to Lee. 👉👈）Or maybe just write a vampire Eric Draven AU please🥺🥺🥺🌹.

OH MY GOD ANNON. THATS SUCH AN AMAZING IDEA! Thanks for the request!

I haven’t seen THE LOST BOYS movie in like a million years and sadly, I don’t write for them. that might change though!

So this post is gunna be about Vampire!Eric Draven x Reader !

𝑹⛧𝑻' s Note (1): also soo sorry I made this super late, lots of stuff is happening in my life such as school and other things so I hope you don’t mind too much! I've also been grounded for some time now so if this layout looks a bit weird, I'm writing this on computer.

𝑹⛧𝑻' s Note (2): also im so sorry if this is ass i dont know much about vampires.. lol

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who writes poetry about you and for you. whether it’s about how much he loves you, or how beautiful you look under the moonlight. anything that comes to mind when he thinks about you, he is writing down on paper and giving it to you once he’s done or he's putting them in a pile full of other his poetry he has written for you but didn't gift.

���� . . Vampire!Eric Draven who feels bad when you give yourself up to him for when he is in need of blood. He hates hurting you in any way and will always feels guilty when he does do it, even after you say how it’s completely okay and you’re fine with it.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who when is done feeding on you, would patch any wounds up he might have left on you. he would hug and cuddle you and tell you how amazing and lovely you are as he kisses your patched up scars.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who would give you nicknames such as love, dove, my rose, angel…

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who is overly clingy towards you, but it’s not like you mind at all.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who stalks you at night when you’re at walking around or doing anything outside of your guy's shared apartment. He doesn't tell he does this; he just wants to make sure nobody is going to hurt you.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who watches you sleep at night since he isn't tired from sleeping all day. He admires your beauty from the one lit candle he has in the room and is astonished by how or why you chose him out of any other good-looking guys.

𖤐 . . Speaking of sleep.. Vampire!Eric Draven who will see you randomly taking a nap on the couch or bed and would just sit there and just stare admire you. He could do this for hours and hours on end and wouldn't get even the slightest bit of boredom.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who is like an actual crow. He would randomly give you things that reminded himself of you like roses, or just any cute looking trinkets he finds laying on the ground when he's out patrolling the night.

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven who when gifting you roses, would cut the thorns off of it first before handing it to you because he's scared that if you prick yourself on one of those thorns and smell the blood running down from your wound, he doesn't know if he could handle himself with the smell of your sweet... delicious... tasty... blood...

𖤐 . . Vampire!Eric Draven when you do accidently get pricked by something, would walk up to you and try to contain himself. He would ask if you're alright, but you can see the hunger in his eyes when he looks down at your freshly cut wound. After noticing this, you would ask him if he wants some of your blood but he's hesitant (as always) but gives in once he knows your 100% fine with it.

[devildomwriter]

Suspicious Behaviors | Short Story

Lately Mammon had been sneaking out of the House of Lamentation at odd hours. He was missing school. He was carrying around suspicious paper bags. Lucifer was at his wits end with his latest scheme so he followed Mammon and invited you along. Only to discover something rather unexpected.

He was feeding the new baby crows.

Now Lucifer is mad because he accidentally led you to witness something that made Mammon even more endearing to you.

Mammon is sitting there as baby crows hops around on him and he puts birdseed on his head. But the babies can’t reach it and the parents end up dive-bombing his head and he’s knocked over with a scream, spilling the bird food all over him.

He is now covered in crows and screaming. Lucifer sighs and leaves and you take pictures before helping your lovable demon who is swearing you to secrecy.

Mammon claims all the bandages are because he got into a fight and not because the crows accidentally took a few bites out of him. Lucifer shakes his head that Mammon lost a fight to birds.

“Just like Australia,” you declare and he’s more confused.

You advise Mammon he would not survive Australian birds and not to feed the wildlife there.

[crowandmousewritingco]

Safe with You

Pairing: Silva x male!reader

Words: 1 k

Rating: G

Summary: Silva gets a little sappy with you.

Author: Mod Mouse

Notes: I've been working hard on my Kinktober entries so I thought it would be nice to have small little drabbles to post as we get closer to October. Plus I wanted an excuse to write for this lovely cowboy. I used fluff prompts from @voidfxndoms specifically #28. Thank you for the wonderful prompts!

Life has moved quickly for you in the last year. You were a roaming rider for the Pony Express, seeing the West from the back of your faithful horse. It was nice for a time seeing the rolling hills and hot deserts throughout this vast country. But as time went on, the more you realized how much you hated how temporary everywhere felt. One day you would be delivering a letter to somewhere in California, and the next week you find yourself sleeping under stars in the New Mexico territory. Finally you decided that enough was enough. You would find something more stable than delivering mail. 

When the next town rolled around, you hung up your mail bag and scanned the “Help Wanted” sign in the middle of town. Lucky for you there was a job that was just up your alley. “Horse hand needed for long term ranch help.” You made sure to keep that information in your mind as you made your way out of town as the instruction indicated. 

That was when you met Silva. You remember riding into his ranch where he was outside tending to his cattle herds. The clomping of horse hooves had Silva glancing up from his favorite steers. After exchanging words and experiences, Silva deemed you more than capable for the position. From that moment on, you were ensnared in Silva’s world. 

Silva was impressed with how you were with the horses. You learned their quirks quickly and learned what made them tick. He had to admit to himself that he was starting to find that quality about you attractive. But he always kept those thoughts inside his heart for a multitude of reasons. And it would have stayed that way if it wasn’t for one night. 

A rich ranger was in search of a mare for his stud and wound up finding your ranch through word of mouth. You worked with him and soon he had a healthy foal on his hands. He had liked your service so well that he threw in a bottle of locally made wine after the birth. 

That night you and Silva indulged in the gifted booze, celebrating a job well done. The two of you ended up indulging just a little too much and soon all of your inhibitions were out the door. Hours of kissing and other such activities kept you up ‘till all hours of the night. 

Of course the morning came and when he realized that you had shared a bed that night, he profusely apologized for his drunkenness and his forwardness. Unbeknownst to him you did rather enjoy last night, and you stopped his excuses with another non drunken kiss. From there you two grew close bringing both the ranch and your relationship into a new era. 

Five years later and you two had fallen into a nice daily routine. You rose with the sun every morning, giving each other a good morning kiss to start the day off right. It was washing up then a nice breakfast made by you to make sure you had plenty of energy to complete your tasks– You to the stables to feed the horses, and Silva to the fields to tend to let the cattle out to graze. 

And it was one of those days you found yourself in today. You were inside preparing a quick but filling lunch. You were busy cutting up the fresh batch of bread and meat you bought on your last ride into town that you didn’t hear Silva slip in through the backdoor. It was only when a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush with his rugged torso, did you notice his presence.  

You sighed and gently caressed his well worked knuckles as he planted soft kisses on your clothed shoulder. Looking over your shoulder with a small smirk. “Well hello to you too.” You chuckled and kissed his bearded cheek, savoring his touch. 

“You know I was thinking,” Silva remarked. 

“That’s dangerous,” You teased and Silva squeezed your sides sending you into a fit of giggles. “Okay okay I surrender.” Once you got your breath back, you asked. “What were you thinking?” 

“Just how safe you’ve made me feel,” He said, leaning his head against yours. A small smile graced his lips. 

You grinned softly taking in his affection. “What’s brought all this on?” You asked, turning so you could face your love. 

Silva’s rugged hands stayed on your waist gently caressing the material with his thumb. His dark eyes gazed into yours. “Just spending so much time as a hired hand well ya get people comin’ after you. And since you got here I haven't had to shoot for a living.” He reached up one of his hands to cup your cheek. 

A heat flushed your cheek and you cupped your hand over his. The heat of his skin fills you with a familiar warmth. “I can’t take all the credit. You put a lot of effort into this ranch making it what it is today.” 

“But if it weren’t for ya…well I was about to give up on this place until you rode into my neck of the desert.”  

You leaned your cheek into his palm nuzzling against his skin gently. “I guess we found each other at the right time.” 

Silva smiled and kissed your forehead, pausing to revel in your touch. “I guess we did.” Time stilled as you took in each other. The lines on Silva’s face, the sprinkle of sun that covered his cheeks and nose, the graying tufts of hair that lined his beard; all of these aspects made Silva, Silva, and together made that man you fell in love with. 

The two of you bask in your love, until Silva broke the silence.  “Now let's get some food in us, so we can finish that order,” Silva said as he gave your waist a playful couple of taps. 

You chuckled and turned back to the cutting board. The sounds of the kitchen continued, slicing and clinking of dishware filling the room. Setting the assembled sandwiches on a serving tray, you brought over the food to the table. Each of you took a slice and began to eat, conversing here and there. Domesticity felt nice with Silva.

All Works Taglist

@for-a-longlongtime @romanarose

Pedro Character Taglist

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges

@carusolikey @thebeldroramscal

@morallyinept @lady-bess

@pedrostories @rivnedell

@pascalsanctuary @readingiskeepingmegoing

Thanks to the lovely @animatedglittergraphics-n-more for the dividers

[magicandpizza]

Just a silly drabble inspired by a silly conversation in the wesper writers discord server 🫶

When Wylan returns from the bathroom, he expects Jesper to still be getting ready for bed, hanging up his clothes or polishing his guns, or perhaps already in bed, waiting for him.

What he doesn’t expect is to be met with the sight of Jesper lying sideways on the bed, propped up on one elbow and one knee bent, the blanket artfully pooled between his legs and, in truth, concealing very little. As always, Wylan is struck by the miles of warm, dark skin on display to him, the smooth expanse of his chest and toned stomach, the trail of dark hair leading downwards.

Jesper glances up to meet Wylan’s gaze, and a cocky grin spreads across his face. “Sleep here often?”

“Jes, we sleep in the same bed,” Wylan says with a roll of his eyes, unable to suppress the twitch of his lips. He’s not entirely unaffected by the pretty picture Jesper makes, but he pretends to be, just for now, taking his time to remove his waistcoat and trousers and folding them neatly.

“And?”

“You’re a ridiculous man,” Wylan murmurs when he finally joins Jesper on the bed.

Jesper grins up at him, looking like the cat that got the cream. “But you love me anyway?”

“Ghezen help me, I do,” Wylan says, pressing a lingering kiss to Jesper’s waiting lips before kneeling up and throwing the blanket, and Jesper’s last scrap of modesty, aside.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Y/N: Can I say something that will probably annoy you?

Kaz: Since when do you ask for permission?

[undercover-grisha]

Jesper Fahey was lying on his boyfriend’s stomach. His hands were stretched out under Wylan’s back, between the man’s cotton sleep shirt and his skin. Jesper was lying on his stomach, his curls getting slightly squashed by the shirt he was pushing up with his abrasive head, interrupting the intended flow of clothing. He could hear Wylan’s stomach settling against one ear, the other exposed for all the sounds the rest of the world to funnel into his mind, like the bird up far too late outside, the branches scratching against the window, Wy’s gentle whistle of breath as the man slept soundly.

Jesper Fahey was lying on the best thing in his life, and he was seriously considering tossing it all away.

He could feel the cards of a full hand rubbing against his nerves, could feel the celebrations as he won a small fortune, could feel the slaps on his back and kisses on his cheek as he slowly bet more and more and more. He could feel the mood slowly, slowly falling as he ruins all he’s been given.

Jesper could feel the coins slipping through his fingers, and Saints, wasn’t that the rub.

He even missed the feeling of failing. The spin of Makker’s Wheel was addictive, sure, but failing?

Failing was cocaine.

He could fail, could run his allowance down, could get thrown out on his ass, and would get picked up the next morning. Kaz would pick him up.

Wylan’s slight whistle changed pace and the man turned over, moving Jesper with him. Jesper moved with him, unconsciously, mind broken from its thoughts. He let Wylan go and crawled up the bed to better be beside him, pulling his love against him. Wylan shifted, settling into the snug position of almost completely on his side, propped up against Jesper’s hold. Jesper rested his face against Wylan’s back, nose poking above his shoulder. His arm rested under their pillows, stretched long and at the risk of falling asleep. A slow, sleepy, freckled hand reached back to ruffle Jesper’s hair.

And Jesper breathed out, and Makker’s Wheel didn’t disappear, the touch of the cards didn’t leave, the roll of the dice, the flip of the coins. But he could feel his arm falling asleep, slowly, softly, and Jesper imagined their entire tomorrow, their entire future, their entire lives in between blinks.

And then…

The wheel stopped spinning.

[treviso-nights]

✨ rookanis drabble/mini-fic about gifts & acts of service :') ✨ ✨ read on AO3 ✨

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

At first, it began with coffee.

Specifically, coffees, plural. Just the way Rook liked it, with enough milk and sugar to kickstart them into their morning routine. The coffees would appear wherever the Crow thought Rook would look first upon awakening—beside the candles in their meditation room, then on the ground beside the couch. Later, the coffees would migrate to the ledge bordering the aquarium, so Rook could not in fact, miss them. Eventually, Rook took to leaving the empty mugs on the desk beside the dresser, so the Crow would see this and stop worrying about his gifts not being received.

When the Crow decided morning coffee was no longer enough, he took to sharpening Rook’s daggers whenever time and sticky fingers would allow. These, too, were lovingly placed beside the morning mugs of coffee, the room’s lowlight launching mysterious, irregular glints of light against the wall. When Rook attempted to tell the Crow that it was fine, that they’d service their own weapons (and thank you very much), the Crow had half-heartedly cursed at them before pushing another mug of something hot and sweet into their calloused hands.

Then came the poison. (And their corresponding anti-venoms. Just in case.) The Crow took particular care to place these a further distance away on the desk, not desiring to see Rook sleepily, and in spite of all their Antivan Crow training, mix a lethal dose into their morning mug. Truth be told, Rook had been neglecting their poison studies, so these occurrences were especially welcome—as was the new, uniform collection of tiny vials. Glass-made, of course, for easy shattering, with a peculiar sigil stamped into each of the curved bodies. Crow wings, spread from side to side.

A second mug soon joined the first, appearing each morning in tandem. “I’ve noticed you don’t eat breakfast,” the Crow said during a sparring match. Rook, explaining that they get stomach aches from eating too soon after getting up for the day, had only been able to feel sheepish when the Crow glared their way. “Fine,” he’d grumbled. The mugs of bone broth began appearing the day after, complementing Rook’s proclivity for a sweetened breakfast coffee blend. Knowing that the Crow was just trying to take care of them, Rook made sure to drain the broth too, painting the wooden desk in a fresh maze of mug rings which spoke of sustenance and love.

It all came to a head when Rook got sick. A fever—nothing more worrisome than the muscle aches and full-body sweat often associated with such. Rook, stirring in the haze of this illness, lifted their head off the futon in their meditation chamber to see if the Crow had delivered more coffee, daggers, poisons, and bone broth, because tradition now mattered. But it was the Crow himself they did not expect delivered, kneeling beside the futon. “What are you doing?” Rook hissed, scowling as the Crow lightly dappled the sweat from their brow. “Dellamortes don’t kneel! Not for me.” The Crow only smiled when Rook attempted to shove him away, batting their hands back with one of his own. “If you insist on throwing a tantrum, then it’s my responsibility to point out that Rooks do not tell Dellamortes what to do,” he grumbled happily, returning to his work. And what was there to say beyond ‘thank you’? Beyond ‘thank you for all of it, and thank you for you, too?’ So, Rook did. And then Rook slept, the Crow’s tender hands on her face like a flowered beak.

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[artemisadore]

🩸🐾 catcrow of course

This one got away from me! I hope you enjoy CatCrow pet names + patching up an injury, with a healthy dose of "I had no where else to go" 🩷

Rating: T

tw: mild blood, vague descriptions of injuries/first aid, references to abuse (physical and emotional)

x

Monty hisses through his teeth at the way throwing his body against the door of the cannery makes the pain in his side branch out like the gnarly limbs of a tree. He notes the pain, swallows it down, and braces himself accordingly when he does it again.

It's preternaturally quiet on the dock aside from Monty’s labored breathing, which would in theory be something good for Monty to note, if he weren't otherwise occupied with keeping himself upright.

“Come on,” he groans, beating uselessly against the door with his busted-up fist.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners, little bird?”

Monty whips around so quickly that the spinning in his head almost knocks him off balance. When his eyes finally focus in the darkness, he finds the Cat King watching him with glowing yellow eyes and a saccharine grin.

He continues easily, “Well, I suppose you were taken from your real mother as just a hatchling, hm? Plucked right from the nest by Esther dearest, caged before you even learned to fly.”

“God, you love to hear yourself talk,” Monty rasps, bitterness lacing his tone.

“I do indeed,” the Cat King preens, sauntering around Monty, who vaguely wonders if the monarch is only doing so to make him shift his weight if he wants to keep the predator in his sights. “And so must you, little bird, because I can't think of any other reason why you'd show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Uninvited.” His expression falls to a mocking pout, one that makes Monty want to peck his stupid eyes out. “It's past the cats’ bedtime, you know.”

Monty takes in a steadying breath, again swallowing his pain and now also his frustration. “I—I need you,” he grits out.

The Cat King's eyebrows shoot up toward his slicked-back black hair. “My, my. I suppose I have to give you credit for your good taste. First Edwin, now—”

“Not like—fuck,” Monty groans between shallow breaths. “You're just—you’re the only one who—” Monty lets his eyes slip shut in resignation.

Submission, his prey-brain supplies.

“I had nowhere else to go.”

The admission feels acidic on his tongue.

He may have had somewhere to go, once. But now that place is an entire ocean away, full of people who either left him behind or forgot about him entirely, and he isn't sure which one hurts worse.

When Monty opens his eyes again, the Cat King is gone. But just as panic seizes his chest, he smells the familiar scent of incense he's grown to associate with the use of magic.

The Cat King has transported him somewhere — presumably in the cannery, though Monty has never been inside to know for sure — and left him perched on the edge of bed, awash in the glow of red and blue neon. In a quick flash of purple, the feline is back again, holding what appears to be a first aid kit.

Monty blanches at the sight. “Woah, hey, I just need a place to stay!” he says, hastening to make himself as small as possible.

The Cat King pays him no mind as he opens the kit on the bed. “Your knuckles are bruised, your ribs are broken, and you’re bleeding on my good furs from that gash on your side,” he snips cooly, picking his tools and materials with practiced ease.

The sight of it all makes Monty nauseous for reasons he'd rather not consider at the moment, so he pointedly looks away.

“For future reference, you don't get to be the idiot who gets the shit kicked out of him and the idiot who walks right into the lion's den with a broken wing. After tonight, you have to pick a struggle.” Monty’s skin prickles, which must mean the Cat King's eyes are back on him. “Shirt off.”

Monty winces, but he thinks better of arguing. It's a painful process, but he manages to rid himself of his blood-soaked t-shirt, which he discards with a small joy directly on the Cat King's floor.

The joy dissipates when the shirt disappears into thin air in a purple puff.

There's no preamble as the Cat King sets to work, manhandling Monty this way and that as he assesses his wounds. Monty stares past him through it all, unable to bring himself to meet his eyes. When the Cat King gets to the gash on his side, he hisses in what might be sympathy.

The sympathy, if it existed at all, is short-lived. The antiseptic applied to his side stings like a knife — a pain with which Monty is all-too familiar.

Monty expects the Cat King to chatter through it all, but the monarch works silently with a focused precision Monty didn't know he was capable of. It feels strange, being in such close proximity to a creature who could tear out his throat just as easily as he now mends his side.

But Monty has learned that it isn't always the animals that rip out your heart.

Sometimes it's a ghost.

When the Cat King is through, he steps back to examine his work. “Oh! How could I forget the most important part?” To Monty's surprise, the feline leans down into Monty's space once more, so close that he can see his pupils dilate in interest.

Monty isn't quite sure if they dilated before their first kiss, if you could even call it that — it happened so quickly.

But this isn't quick. The Cat King takes his time cupping Monty's cheek, sending a shiver down Monty's spine, one of both fear and intrigue. Monty lets his eyes flutter shut, anticipation taking root in his chest.

But instead of lips, it's the pad of a thumb that traces the space above his upper lip. Monty’s eyes blink open at the tingling sensation and, once again, the scent of incense.

“Wouldn't want a scar to mess up that pretty face, now would we?” the Cat King purrs, his smirk only growing as he pulls away triumphantly.

Monty touches his fingertips to his lip in awe, the skin as smooth as the day he was created. “You healed me,” he murmurs.

Esther healed him once or twice over the years, so it's not like he wasn't aware that it was possible.

Monty just wasn't aware that healing didn't have to hurt.

“It's a good thing you're cute, little bird,” the Cat King scoffs, “‘cause you sure ain't quick. It's sweet that you thought you'd get a repeat of our little forest ménage à trois, but I've done you enough favors tonight, wouldn't you agree?”

Monty wants to hate him — his stupid leather skirt and dumb combat boots, his infuriating smile and his cocky attitude, his chiseled jaw and his muscular arms and—and oh. Monty recognizes that feeling, the one that is so distinctly human, the one he swore he would never feel again.

Suddenly, something dawns on Monty. “Hold on. You have fucking healing magic. You could have just healed me!”

The Cat King's answering grin is Cheshire. “How would you ever learn to fly if I gave you all the shortcuts, birdie?”

Monty isn't sure whether he wants to kiss the Cat King or pummel him.

But the night is young — he may very well end up doing both.