#crowlycule

Most Popular Fic

Hearthkeeper Astarion x Ceri (Named Fem Tav) Explicit | 39,657 words | Incomplete Indulgent comfort smut long-fic I swear I haven't abandoned this fic. The Dragon Age brainworms have taken me over and there are only so many hours in the day. 😩

Shortest Completed Fic

oh, make it good Davrin x Rook (Unnamed Fem Rook) Teen | 822 words | Complete Davrin and Rook take Assan and Manfred to the beach for an afternoon! Davrin was my first romance in the game and I'll love him forever 💕

Longest Completed Fic

Hold Your Horses Solas x Mirwen Lavellan (Named Female Inquisitor) Teen | 6,297 words | Complete Inquisitor Mirwen Lavellan and Solas end up on a horse together. Flirting ensues! Written immediately after beginning a playthrough of Inquisition for the first time after just having finished Veilguard and thinking "damn I wish I could have romanced Solas" 💀

In Progress Fic that I want to work on More

Inevitable [series] Solas x Mirwen Lavellan (Named Female Inquisitor) Teen | 7,669 words | Incomplete This is what I've been calling everything I write about Solas and Mirwen! I wanted to write more of their Inquisition story before I start posting Maeve's Veilguard story because they're part of the same canon but that's probably not going to happen lmao. 🤝

Spiciest Fic

Kinktober 2025 Viago de Riva x Maeve Aldwir (Named Fem Rook); Lucanis Dellamorte x Viago de Riva x Andarateia Cantori Explicit | 4,566 words | Complete Baby's first Kinktober! Indulgent Mango 🥭 smut and a polycrow (Lucanis/Spite/Viago/Teia) oneshot!

Most Updated Fic

i call & you come through ♜❤️‍🔥🐦‍⬛ [series] Viago de Riva x Maeve Aldwir (Named Fem Rook) Explicit | 18,238 words | Incomplete I can't believe how much I've written about these two idiots since *checks notes* the end of March??? I think about them literally constantly.

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And he shouldn’t stare, because they’re going to notice, and once they notice there will be no end to his suffering. But he cannot stop, because there is only one way his shirt ended up here without his involvement.

Marisol’s fingers still and the metal claws of their trap snap closed around Viago’s throat. Her curls curtain their faces as she leans forward, and smirks.

“Rosa was here the other day, did you know?” And there is— a bite to her words. Of course he didn’t know, but now he does, because there is no one else who steals his shirts and wears them about all of Antiva as if she has rights to every piece of him.

“And she what,” he musters a bit of dignity, even as Teia laughs quietly above them, “walked back across Treviso, half-naked?”

“You say that as though you don’t think she would.”

She absolutely would, because Rosa sheds her clothes at the slightest provocation. Skin is just skin, to her, and it means nothing to show it, or not, and she does not think of appearances or implications. Certainly she did not think of them when she left his shirt where he would be sure to see it in the not so distant future that is today.

Pointedly, he does not think about what led her to discard her—his— shirt in the first place. Does not think of flirting and banter and teeth. How Rosa might have blushed like the flowers she was named for, and how she would have repaid the favor with lightning on her tongue.

He does not— he does not—

Because there are reasons and boundaries and rules that keep him safe, and if he touches Rosa without gloves he will burn and burn and burn—

But the Crows of House Cantori have a fire all their own, and no one has bothered to tell them that they are not the exception to every rule.

“She likes to wear your clothes, you know.”

“I am well aware.” Viago scowls. “They go missing often enough, and they need particular laundering—“

The silk against his shoulders pulls taught as Mari undoes the rest of his buttons and takes the tails of his shirt in her hands. Her teeth are a wicked grin, all sharp edges and the kind of confidence that Viago knows as the shape of a knife pointed straight at his throat.

“Not what I meant.” She curls forward over him once more, puts her lips right by his ear, and he can feel the curve of her smirk as she says, “she likes to wear your clothes in bed. With us. When she has my fingers, or is taking Teia apart with her tongue, with your shirt on she gets—mm. Intense.”

And— he would like to say he doesn’t immediately picture it, red hair thrown back over black silk, someone else’s pleasure shining on her chin. He would like to say that his cock, still in the confines of his trousers, doesn’t stir and twitch, but he would be a liar, and Marisol, astride him as she is, knows.

She grins, triumphant. And presses further, because she has never met a boundary she did not like to push, and Viago will not set this one, not yet, not until he knows what else she has to say.

(Because wayward Crows from House de Riva do not get to hide parts of themselves from their Talon, not when they are sharing those parts with menaces from House Cantori.)

“It is like— she is so pretty when she comes, you know? Or I suppose you don’t know, but she is, and if the light catches right it looks like she has fire in her hair and she glows and it is all very—“ A shiver runs down Marisol’s spine and she clicks her tongue and hums, pleased. Ambivalent, for all appearances, to the tension thrumming through Viago beneath her. Teia abandons his head and slinks down, behind, leaving Viago adrift for all of three seconds before her hand is in his trousers and Marisol shifts up, curling tighter around his ear.

“And normally she does not hide, she takes her pleasure and enjoys it but this time— and maybe it was because Teia worked her up over and over and then walked her back down, or maybe—“

Marisol catches the loose ends of his collar, pulls them tight just as Teia slides her palm along the length of him and it is wholly unfair, Viago thinks, to be played like a lyre by the two of them, but he lays there and takes it and takes it and takes—

“—maybe it was your shirt, and I only say that because she had the silk in her teeth— and you know how she is with the biting and affection and getting those all mixed up, but regardless—“

“Do you ever stop talking?” Viago hisses, undercut by a gasp when Teia twists just so. And Marisol does pause, then, and something cold slips at the small of Viago’s back at the devious look that takes her face. She brackets her elbows on either side of his head and she does not kiss him, but her words are like a kiss when they ghost over his lips.

“I could. But I think you want to hear how she buried her face in your shirt when she came. How she breathed you in and pressed into it and needed to curl up and crawl inside and how in her pleasure she turned to you—“

He comes with a groan, a whine on his lips. Spills over Teia’s hand, with Marisol’s whispers in his ear, and with Rosa on his mind. And Marisol does kiss him, then. Swallows his pleasure and his shame and his guilt; the complicated tangle of the worst mistake he’s ever made.

He comes and he thinks maybe— what if—

Teeth catch at his lip and they are not hers but what if they were—

They bring him down with gentle touches and soft kisses and knowing looks that make his ears flare red. Teia is already up and fetching a cloth, because they know how he gets, but Marisol stays and smooths his hair back from his brow and grins.

Viago doesn’t trust his voice, not just yet, but he raises a brow at her, waiting for the blade to drop.

“She doesn’t even notice, really,” she says— conversationally, like his cock isn’t softening in the evidence of his pleasure (shame? he cannot decide). “She just does it, but maybe someone should tell her. Imagine if she were out on a contract—“

And then he is imagining it, of course— a contract he gave her and another person between her thighs but his shirt, him on her skin and between her teeth and—

Or one of her bards, with all their songs and stories and making memories of her while she is thinking of him—

No. For so many good reasons and once Marisol gets off of him, once Teia brings the cloth and cleans him up, once he is out of this hazy, liminal space they like to drag him into he will list them and remind himself, remind them, though it will not stick, it will not matter, in the end.

“Seeing as you’re her boss—“ Viago scowls at the weight she gives the word. It does not belong there; he is Rosa’s boss, her Talon, and he cannot be anything more but nor can he bear to be anything less. “Now that you know, you could let her know and then we’d all be in the loop, hm?”

Briefly, indulgently, he imagines it: when Rosa comes to him— interrupts him, inevitably— dressed in misadventures and a stolen shirt. Pinning her with a glare and perhaps a smirk, holding the upper hand, for once, for certain, and calmly informing her that if she wants him wrapped around her when she comes—

No.

His chest seizes tight and Marisol rolls off of him—a reprieve, then, as Teia comes and cleans him up and they curl around him like it was nothing. Normal, even. But Marisol slings her leg across him, over Teia’s hip, scrapes her teeth over his pulse in a mockery of a kiss. It jumps beneath her lips and he thinks—

Maybe.