Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Hi how are you? It's my birthday today and it had me thinking and hear me out 🤭🤭 rough birthday sex with Eric draven (2024) with just fluffy aftercare from him
Have a good night/day ❤❤
Oh…sooo… yea, hi!
First of all, happy (very belated) birthday!! 🎂✨❤️
I know it’s been a while and I am sooo sorry for taking such a long time to get to your request.
I’m finally back and I really hope you enjoy what I wrote for you! (I hope you’re still here🙃)
I know you asked for rough birthday sex with fluffy aftercare, and I actually ended up starting it vice versa (I hope you don’t mind). I wanted to make it extra special to make up for the wait.
Thank you for waiting. I really hope it was worth it, and that you enjoy it! ❤️
Description: It’s your birthday, and your boyfriend has planned a trail of notes and intimate surprises, each one pulling you toward a night of raw devotion and tenderness… Will you let him take you there?
Words: 7705
Eric’s Birthday Girl
The first thing you feel when you start to wake is the cold.
You stir slowly, stretching a leg out under the sheets, expecting to meet the familiar warmth of Eric’s body beside you, instead. there’s just emptiness.
Your eyes crack open, squinting into the morning light slipping through the curtains.
You let your hand wander over the mattress, hoping to find him. But he’s not there.
Then you see it. A folded piece of paper resting on his pillow.
You push yourself up and grab it quickly, fingers already trembling a little. There’s a smudge of black ink on the corner, probably from his fingers.
His handwriting is messy and sharp, like scratches on a wall
“Had to run out. Do some shit. Don’t pout. I’ll make it up to you tonight… -Eric Draven.”
You flop back against the pillow, still holding the note, your lips tugging into a smile despite the empty bed. Only Eric would sign his full name, like he’s leaving some official document. Like you wouldn’t know it was him from the first scratchy line. As if there’s anyone else who would leave you a cryptic, half-threatening love letter first thing in the morning.
Your eyes flick over the words again, and you pause.
‘No happy birthday.’ You said to yourself trying not to think too much about it.
After a moment, you force yourself to get up. You pull on your robe, the fabric sliding over your bare skin and making you shiver in the cold. The sheets and the air still smell like him. That mix of rain, smoke, and something sweet you can never quite put your finger on. It’s him. It’s comfort and chaos all at once.
You walk into the kitchen and a steaming mug sits waiting for you on the counter, exactly the way you like it.
Next to it: another note. You grab it, feeling that same excited, shaky rush.
“Coffee’s hot, but not as hot as you looked last night when I was pounding inside your sweet pussy. I can still feel your nails in my back. Drink up. You’ll need every drop of energy later. P.S. Don’t forget to drink your water and take your vitamins, baby. -Eric Draven.”
Your breath catches in your throat. Heat rushes over every inch of your skin, leaving you dizzy.
You read it again, waiting to see a happy birthday at the end but there’s nothing.
A wave of disappointment cuts through you, sharper than you expected. You press your lips together, trying to swallow it down.
Then you see the P.S., that ridiculous, sweet afterthought. You laugh softly, a warm sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen.
“Fucking idiot,” you whisper, but you’re already smiling, wide and stupid.
You sip the coffee carefully, the warmth blooming in your stomach. You imagine him scrawling that last line, all serious, like he’s making sure you don’t forget to take care of yourself.
But that’s Eric.
Rough enough to ruin you and sweet enough to make sure you’re okay after.
After a few sips of coffee, you set the mug down and finally drag yourself away from the counter. Your legs still feel a little shaky, but you shuffle toward the bathroom for a quick shower.
But when you push open the door, you freeze.
Steam curls through the air, clinging to the mirrors. The tub is already filled, water shimmering softly under the light. Black and deep red rose petals drift on the surface, a messy, beautiful contrast that feels exactly like him. You catch the scent of your favorite bath oil, sweet and heady, the one he always says makes your skin “soft enough to ruin.”
You spot it immediately: another note, propped against the edge of the tub, a little damp around the edges.
“Bath’s ready. The only thing missing in there is my hands all over you.Enjoy it. Let the heat open you up, let it soften every inch I’ll touch tonight. Think of me when you slide under. Imagine me behind you, mouth on your neck, fingers everywhere the water touches now.Think of my mouth, my fingers, and the way I’ll fuck your brains out.Don’t get too lost. I still want you hungry when I come home.P.S. Think of me. I’ll be thinking of you, every damn second until I’m home.P.S.2 Don’t forget to dry your hair properly. Don’t want you catching a cold before I ruin you tonight. -Eric”
You catch yourself holding your breath, cheeks burning. You feel your pulse kick up and your thighs pressing together without you even realised.
You let out a little sound, clutching the paper like it might burn your skin. The heat in his words crawls under your skin, every word drips with something darker, filthier. You can almost feel his breath on your neck, his voice low and rough in your ear.
At the bottom, you see it. Just Eric. No last name, no grand signature like before, this time is just Eric. Your thumb drifts over those four letters, your chest tightening in that stupid, sweet way he always manages to pull out of you. Your Eric.
And for the third time today, you notice he hasn’t said happy birthday. A small ache flickers under your ribs. But when you look at the tub. The hot water, the silky oils, the petals floating like a secret promise, that ache softens.
Because even without saying it, this is him loving you. Loud, messy, possessive.
You feel your throat tighten, your eyes sting for a second. You press the note to your chest and exhale loudly, a laugh slipping out at the same time as a sigh.
“Fucking idiot,” you murmur again.
You set the note carefully on the sink before slipping your robe off, letting it fall in a hush around your ankles. As you slide into the water, it wraps around you like a hot breath. You sink deeper, your muscles unspooling, every inch of you opening up under the heat, just like he wanted.
By the time you finally drag yourself out, the apartment feels too quiet again. You wrap yourself in a towel, and then you’re grabbing the hair dryer and start to use it. When it’s finally done, you glance in the mirror. Your skin glows from the bath, your hair a little messy but soft and dry, just how he wanted.
You towel off and pull on a short dress. Soft cotton, pale against your skin, falling just above your thighs. Comfortable, but it clings just right in certain places.
Your fingers hover over the book you’ve been reading the past few nights. Dracula by Bram Stoker. An old favorite you keep coming back to, every line crawling under your skin in a way you secretly love.
You sink into the cushions and flip it open, eyes scanning for your last page. But before you can even start, something slides free and lands into your lap.
A single black rose. Dark as midnight, petals so deep they almost look like ink. The petals feel fragile in your fingers, dark and velvety, like something that belongs to him.
Your breath catches. You lean down and smell it, dizzy already.
Then your eyes fall on the folded piece of paper tucked inside the pages. You unfold it carefully, feeling the rough edge where he probably ripped it in a hurry.
At the top, a quote from the book, scrawled in that same messy, sharp handwriting:
“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”
Below, underneath the quote he also added:
“Sweet, isn’t it? Jonathan longing for his Mina, writing all those soft words like a lovesick dog.We’re not them. You’re not some delicate bride waiting by the sea, and I’m sure as hell no Jonathan.Maybe you’d say I’m your Dracula instead, creeping in the dark, obsessed and hungry.But I can be better. I can be much better. I can be your Crow. Dark, devoted, filthy as hell, with a love that’s just as deep and unbreakable as it is raw and reckless.The only thing I want to build is you, moaning under my hands, clawing at me like you did last night.The way I want you, it’s not just hunger. It’s forever. The fucked-up, undying kind of love that digs its nails in and never lets go.Let’s stay us.
Messy
Dark
Real
Save those pretty sighs for me, birthday girl.-Crow.”
Your breath hitches, heart speeding, chest tightening like the words are squeezing the air out of you.
He’s not Jonathan. He’s not Dracula. He’s him. The wild, broken, beautiful madness that somehow makes you feel more alive than anything else ever has.
You glance down at the rose pressed between the pages. Black and perfect and sharp, just like him. You tuck it carefully back into the book, fingers trembling just a little.
Your eyes drift back to his words. That confession, that raw devotion hidden behind all the filth and heat. The kind of love that isn’t gentle or pretty, but feels carved into your bones. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how deeply he claws into you, how he makes you feel seen and worshipped in the most messed up, perfect way.
And then was the moment you noticed another piece of paper, between another pages. You grab it and unfold it carefully.
It’s a sketch.
Your mouth falls open the second you take it in.
It’s you.
Sprawled out
Back arched
Propped up on your hands.
Your hair is messy, your head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan. Between your legs, his head is buried, his shoulders tense, hands gripping your thighs like he’d tear them apart if he could.
Your pulse thunders so loud you almost can’t hear anything else.
At the bottom corner, he scrawled another note:
“I want that sweet pussy saved for my tongue tonight. You’ll look just like this. Shacking, dripping, begging. And I won’t stop until you forget your own name and can only say mine. - Crow.”
You run your fingertips over the lines, your breath shaky. It’s like he’s in the room already, crawling under your skin, inside your head, inside everything. You can practically feel his tongue, his fingers, the warmth of his mouth.
A soft whimper stumbles out of you before you can stop it.
You snap the book shut, pressing it hard against your chest. You’re not in the mood to read anymore. There’s no space left in your brain for words that aren’t his, for anything that isn’t him.
You set the book down carefully on the side table, the rose and sketch tucked inside, like some dark, wicked secret you’re afraid might slip out.
Your legs feel unsteady when you push yourself up from the couch. You’re still buzzing everywhere, inside and out, heart stuttering like a broken record.
And just as you steady yourself, you hear the door creaks.
He’s home.
Eric steps inside like he owns the whole fucking universe. He stands there in the doorway, his tall frame cutting a sharp, predatory silhouette against the dim light behind him. His dark hair falls wild into his face. His coat hanging open, boots heavy on the floor. Tattoos crawling down his arms like living shadows.
His fingers are adorned with heavy silver rings, catching glints of light as he flexes them, and one chain hang against his chest.
Those dark eyes sweep over you, slow and hungry. A smirk tugs at his lips. A dangerous smirk that somehow promises both heaven and hell in the same breath.
He tosses his keys on the table without even looking, taking his coat off, boots heavy as he steps closer.
You cross your arms, head tilted, lower lip jutting in a perfect, fake pout. “Oh, so you finally decided to come home.” you say, your voice dripping with fake hurt.
He cocks his head, eyebrow arching, that smirk spreading. “Oh?” His eyes narrowing on you like a wolf tracking prey. “What’s wrong, doll?”
You stomp one foot like a spoiled brat. “It’s my birthday, and you left me here all alone. You didn’t even say happy birthday!”
His tongue flicks over his teeth, eyes darkening as they rake down your body. “Oh… poor baby,” he drawls, voice low and mocking sweet. He’s towering over you now, so close you feel the heat rolling off him.
You jut out your lower lip even more. “Yeah. Poor me.”
He laughs, a sharp, low sound, and in the next instant, he’s on you. His hands grab your face, his lips crash against your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw. Each kiss punctuated by a rough, whispered “Happy birthday.”
Your giggle bubbles up and dies just as fast when his lips crash against yours, swallowing your breath in one brutal, possessive kiss. His mouth is all teeth and tongue, tasting you like he owns every inch.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses to yours, breath ragged.
Your fingers claw into the thick black fabric of his shirt, tugging, needing.
He tugs at your dress, knuckles dragging slow against your thighs.
You barely manage to drag it over your head before he’s grabbing at your hips, pulling you flush to him. His rings bite cold into your skin, and you shiver, gasping against his mouth.
He strips himself next. The coat falling to the floor, shirt dragged up over that lean, inked body. You catch glimpses of black lines twisting over his ribs, neck, hands…shapes you’ve traced a thousand times in the dark and daylight. The silver chain swing against his chest, glinting wickedly.
Your nails drag down his stomach, catching on his tattoos, feeling the hard muscle jump under your touch. His breath hitches, head tilting back, a low snarl tearing out of him. Your fingers claw at his belt, yanking it open. His pants drop, boots kicked aside.
Without warning, he pushes you back onto the couch, forcing you to prop yourself up on your hands, legs spread, exactly like in his sketch.
“Fuck, baby…” he groans, voice dropping so low it’s almost inhuman.
“Did you like my drawing?” he murmurs, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
“Love it!” You say in a heartbeat.
“Gonna make that look like child’s play.” he rasps, sinking to his knees between your thighs.
Your body arches involuntarily, fingers digging into the cushions behind you.
Your head falls back with a cry as his mouth crashes against wet pussy, tongue moving with ruthless, practiced precision. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you open wider.
You feel every flick, every suck, every guttural moan he makes as he devours you like a man starved. Your hands claw at the couch, at his hair, your hips rolling helplessly into his face.
Your arms tremble from the effort of holding yourself up, your whole body reduced to nothing but sensation, burning hot and electric.
He pulls back just long enough to spit against your clit, watching it slide down your pussy. And then, for a second, your eyes meet.
His gaze locks onto yours, and you see it happen. That terrifying, gorgeous shift. His eyes go completely black, swallowing up every last bit of light.
‘The crow’
And he knows exactly what you’re thinking because he smirks, all teeth and hunger and that sick, beautiful love that lives in his bones.
You know right then, you’re fucked. Not just in the body but in the soul. He’s about to wreck you so deep you’ll never crawl back out.
A violent shiver rips down your spine, your breath catching in a broken gasp when his tongue meets your clit again.
His fingers dig deeper, spreading you open for his mouth as he flicks and sucks with a ruthless rhythm that sends sweet shocks through your body.
You feel your head tip back, a ragged cry spilling out. Your hands fly into his hair, nails digging into his scalp like you’re scared he’ll vanish.
He groans into you, and the vibration nearly breaks you in half. You feel it all the way up your spine.
Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train, your vision going black and your body convulsing in shuddering waves.
He doesn’t stop. Even as you try to squirm away, too sensitive, he keeps going, rough and hungry. You scream, legs trembling violently.
In that second, you swear he’s everywhere. In your blood, under your skin, in every broken breath you try to drag in.
Finally, he stands, towering above you again, his hair a dark, tangled halo, lips and chin glistening with your arousal.
He flips you roughly onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, your knees sinking into the cushions. You’re barely catching your breath when you feel the thick tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
You ready for your real gift, birthday girl?” he hisses, leaning forward so his chest covers your back, necklaces dragging against your sweaty skin.
“Ye..” is all you can say before he slams into you in one brutal thrust.
Your cry echoes off the walls as he begins to fuck raw, each stroke deep and hard, knocking you into the cushions. His fingers tangle in your hair, yanking your head back so you have no choice but to arch for him.
His rings scrape against your scalp as he holds your head tight but tender at the same time, his other hand gripping your hip so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow.
“Oh, fuck!” You scream, your voice dissolving into sobs and moans.
He thrusts faster, harder, his breath ragged, each movement with that dark, obsessive love only he could give you.
“I love you,” he gasps against your ear, voice breaking. “I love you so fucking much!” He adds between thrusts, breathless.
You can’t stop sobbing out his name, your fingers clawing at the couch, your whole body on the edge of total collapse.
He slaps your ass sharply, the sound echoing, making your muscles clench violently around him.
“You’re my good girl,” he growls, snapping his hips even harder. “You take all of my cock, every fucking inch, so fucking perfect.”
“Yes, yes baby! Oh fuck!”
Your second orgasm crashes into you even harder, your body going rigid, toes curling, mouth open in a silent scream. He chokes out a vicious moan, hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, spilling his cum inside you with a strangled, desperate sound.
He collapses over your back, both of you trembling, your breaths ragged and broken. His lips find your shoulder, your neck, kissing slow now, his heartbeat pounding against your spine.
After a long, heavy silence, he pulls out gently, pressing one last kiss to the curve of your shoulder.
You feel him moving behind you, reaching for his jeans, rummaging in his pocket.
You barely register it when he steps in front of you again and slowly kneels. Your eyes meet his, soft and deep green this time.
He pulls a small black box and opens it carefully.
Inside is a delicate silver chain with a tiny crow pendant, dark and glinting in the low light.
His inked fingers are shaking slightly as he holds it out to you.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers, voice hoarse and broken in the most beautiful way.
“I love you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, forehead pressing to yours.
“I love you too.”you say, as you take the box with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision.
Then he kisses you. Long, slow, tender. The kind of kiss that feels like nothing else matters.
___________________
P.S. I wrote this on my iPhone so sorry for the mistakes. I’ll edit later.
Requests are TEMPORARILY CLOSED whilst I work through the ones in my inbox. Should reopen in a couple of months.
Authors Note: ALL my work is NSFW unless explicitly stated. I'm also on Ao3 - thedevotchka and won't be transferring over a couple of my longform fics from there, so please do check them out on Ao3.
NSFW Alphabet (Bill Skarsgård Characters)
Characters: Roman Godfrey (Hemlock Grove), Eric Draven (The Crow), Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont (John Wick Chapter 4), Boy (Boy Kills World) Eddie Barrish (Locked), Mickey (Villains), Henry (Battlecreek)
Roman Godfrey x Reader (Hemlock Grove)
Longform
Oneshots
Eric Draven x Reader (The Crow 2024)
One Shots
Eddie Barrish x Reader (Locked)
One Shots
Vincent Bisset de Gramont x Reader (John Wick Chapter 4)
Genre/Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, nondescript smut, hands, possible hand kink, possible hand fetish
Request: A piece about Eric Draven’s hands
A/N: For @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler !! I also used one of their gifs from their gifset.
———
Eric is so gentle with his hands. He always has been, no matter the situation.
He’s handsy too. He loves to be touching you at all times, no matter what’s going on. If you’re out and about, he’s either asked you to wrap a hand around his bicep or hold his hand. Or when he’s guiding you somewhere, there’s always a hand on your lower back.
When you’re out at a bar or in a club dancing, he’s always got his hands on you. He’s either in front of you and holding your hands while you mirror each other’s dance moves or got his hands on your hips while you both sway to whatever beat is on. When he’s behind you, there’s a guarantee he’s either hugged himself around your waist or crowding into your personal space with arms wrapped all around you and a head on your shoulder.
Eric never doesn’t not have his hands on you.
When you’re alone and domestic, you’re never not within arms reach, if Eric even lets you sit away that far. When you’re relaxing in bed or on the couch, Eric is swirling patterns into your skin with his fingertips or following the curves and dips of your skin. When it’s your turn to make dinner, Eric likes to watch with either a hand on your lower back or hugging himself into you from behind. Or when Eric is playing piano, he insists that you’re sitting and pressed up beside him. There’s no way you’re in the way of his playing. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.
When you’re in bed, it really shows how gentle Eric is.
Eric loves to grope and grab. He’s not one to slap or leave bruises or throw you around. He loves to help you get in position though. And his hands are always touching you, all over. He covers as much area as he can in the moment.
The man never pressed to hard or tugged to harsh, just enough to make it feel good. He only ever grabs hard enough to leave temporary indents in your flesh, something that’ll last for a few minutes at the least.
Whenever or wherever Eric is trailing kisses, his hands aren’t far behind. They always smooth down goosebumps or grab at any excess flesh.
When the deed is done with, Eric insists that you lay on chest bare chest. Both of your bare bodies are pressed into each other. Your hand traces over the black ink that’s etched into his skin and his trace shapes and swirls into yours.
Eventually, Eric ends up lulling you to sleep with his hands. And he rubs you back until Eric is off to dreamland himself.
