#eric2024

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Eric doesn’t just stay close after—it’s like his body refuses to let you go. He’s lazy, his arms draped over you, keeping you so close like you belongs there, skin pressed to yours as if he could melt into you entirely. He’ll help you clean yourself up kissing your thighs so gently and lovingly—But sometimes, he wants to stay inside you, mumbling half-coherent praise against your shoulder. His hands are restless, tracing nonsense over your skin, committing your body to memory. If you try to move? You’re not going anywhere. Not until he’s had his fill of holding you, of breathing you in, of making sure you know you’re his.

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B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself: His hands. Calloused, scarred—like they’ve seen too much. But when they touch you? It’s different. Careful. Like he’s afraid of breaking something precious.

On you: Your stomach and thighs. He’s obsessed, but he doesn’t know how to say it. Sometimes, his fingers just ghost over your skin, barely touching, his breath catching like he can’t believe you let him touch you at all. If you ever try to cover up, he doesn’t stop you—just looks at you, brow furrowed, before whispering,

“I wish you could see what I see.”

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C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Eric always comes with this soft, shuddering gasp—like he can’t believe this is happening. His fingers tighten on your hips, his breath hitches against your throat, and then—he just lets go, burying his face against your shoulder as he rides it out, with a quiet, “Fuck—”

Otherwise, he loves finishing on your your stomach or your thighs

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D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Eric would love to watch you touch yourself—He doesn’t just want to watch you touch yourself—he wants to know what you think about.

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E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s had a couple of flings, but nothing like this. Nothing real. He’s careful, always watching you, learning every sound, every shiver—but sometimes, he still hesitates.

“Is this okay?”

he’ll murmur against your skin, waiting for the smallest nod before he moves. But once he knows? Once he’s sure? He’ll give you everything.

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F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Him on top. Because he wants to see you, to feel you, to be right there. His hands tremble against your skin, his breath shudders in your ear.

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G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

If something awkward happens, Eric will absolutely laugh—“You still good?” he asks, and when you nod, he relaxes, kissing your forehead.

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H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Messy. A little wild. He trims sometimes, but mostly just lets it be.

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I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Eric worships you. He’s desperate to be close, to mean something to you, and it shows in the way he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.Eric worships you. He’s desperate to be close, to mean something to you, and it shows in the way he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

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J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Oh, he does. Regularly. He sits up in his bed, back leaned against the wall, legs spread, hand wrapped tight around his cock as his head falls back, jaw slack, quiet moans spilling from his lips. He’s messy with it, half-choking on your name, muttering under his breath about how bad he needs you. His fingers tighten, his hips stutter, and he cums messily into his hand.

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K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise. He thrives off it, lives for the way you whimper his name, tell him how good he feels, how perfect he is. Call him yours, tell him nobody else can fuck you the way he does, and he’s giving you his soul. And he gives it too, breathy and desperate, voice dripping with need.

"You take me so fuckin’ well” “You were made for me" “You’re so fucking beautiful.”  He wants you to know how much he worships you.

Possession. He’s not controlling, but he needs you to know you belong to him. His hands are always on you—gripping your hips, holding your throat, fingers curled in your hair. 

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L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere that feels intimate. A bed, preferably—because there, he can take his time, keep you close, kiss you slow and deep while he ruins you. He loves seeing you sprawled out beneath him, loves how his body cages yours in.

But if he’s desperate enough? A wall, a couch, the nearest surface he can push you up against. His hands fisting in your clothes, his lips claiming yours like he’s starving—"Fuck, need you now—"and it’s frantic, messy, a blur of teeth and tongues and moans swallowed into kisses.

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M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It doesn’t take much. A look. A sound. The way your breath hitches when he leans in, the way your body reacts to his touch. Sometimes, he just sees you—and that’s enough. His jaw clenches, his fingers twitch, and suddenly he needs to have you.

But the worst? The way you say his name. When it’s breathy, needy, that tiny, desperate edge to it—his whole body reacts. His grip tightens, his breathing turns ragged, and he devours you.

"Say it again, —fuckin’ say it again please."

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N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything cold, distant, or meaningless. He needs the intimacy. If it’s not dripping with emotion, if he can’t feel it in his bones, he’s not interested.

Anything you're not comfortable with.

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O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving: Oh, he lives for it. He doesn’t just do it for you—he does it for himself, for the way you come for him. He loves the way you cry out his name, the way your fingers tangle in his hair like you can’t take it anymore. He’s a munch, going at it with both fingers and his tongue. He moans while eating you out.

"You taste so fucking good, I can't get enough of you…" // "Fuck...you’re so wet."

Receiving: Oh, fuck yes. His head drops back, his lips part, and the sounds he makes are pure filth. Low, breathy moans, curses whispered under his breath. His fingers slide through your hair, not forcing—just guiding,

"God, your mouth—fuck, that feels… better than I imagined." // "I—shit, you’re so good at this, I don't even—"

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P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Eric isn’t rough. He’s careful. Every movement is deliberate, slow, like he’s memorizing how you feel around him. He shudders against your skin, hands gripping yours like he needs something to hold onto, breath stuttering as he moans,

"God, you feel so fuckin’ good—" “You’re so beautiful.” // “I love you.”

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Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If there’s no time? Oh, absolutely. He’ll press you up against the nearest surface, hands desperate, mouth hungry, murmuring against your lips.

"Just need you— need you now."

But normally? He likes to take his time—he wants to make it last.

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R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s open to it. If it’s something you want, if you’re eager, he’ll try it. But he’s not reckless—his priority is always you, your comfort, your pleasure. The second something feels off, he shuts it down. 

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S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s not some endless machine, but fuck if he doesn’t try to be. His stamina is solid—one round, but it’s intense, drawn out, leaving both of you wrecked by the end of it. He needs a moment, needs to just breathe you in, touch your skin, kiss your temple while he murmurs,

“Gimme a sec—I got you.” // "You okay? Fuck, you’re perfect."

He doesn’t need multiple rounds—he just makes sure the one he gives you is more than enough.

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T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Doesn’t own any for himself, but he’d use them on you in a heartbeat. Watches every little reaction, the way you arch, the way you plea. His smirk is pure sin as he tilts his head, fingers grazing over your stomach.

"Too much? Or do you want me to keep going?"

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U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He teases, but never cruelly. It’s playful—But he caves easily. The second he sees that desperate glint in your eyes, he gives in. His voice is wrecked as he finally gives you what you need.

"Fuck, alright, —I'm done playin’. I need you. C’mere."

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V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t just moan—he gasps, whimpers. Not obnoxiously loud, but fuck, his voice? It’s everything. Deep, breathy groans, quiet murmurs of your name, little curses slipping past his lips as he loses himself in you. And when he gets close. His voice breaks—he chokes on his moans, gasping, barely holding himself together as he lets go.

But the most dangerous thing? The way he talks you through it.

"That’s it—just like that.” // “You feel so good—so fuckin’ good." // “Come for me. Make a mess.” 

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W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You don’t even realize how much of his music is about you. The melodies? The lyrics? Every single one has a trace of this, of you, of the way you make him feel. 

He keeps things of yours—stupid things like a receipt from a date you went on. He doesn’t even realize how much he hoards memories of you until he finds them all one day, stuffed in his pockets, his drawers. And he just sits there, scratching the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I keep them. I keep everything." // "It makes me think of you so i kept it."

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X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Length: 7.5-8 inches—It’s not just big—it’s intense.

Girth: Thick. Heavy. A lot to handle

Curve: slight upward curve

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Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Absolutely insatiable. Always wanting, always aching for you. You could just brush against him, look at him a certain way, and he’s done. 

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Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t sleep right away. He stays close—arms wrapped around you, fingertips tracing lazy patterns over your skin. He makes sure you’re okay first. The warmth of you keeping him grounded. It takes a while for him to actually drift off, but when he does? He’s out.

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PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!

The hallway on the top floor was always quiet, almost unsettlingly so. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and made your footsteps echo louder than they should. Your apartment was at one end of the hall, and at the other, there was him. Eric Draven.

You didn’t know much about him—no one did. He was a mystery, a shadow slipping in and out of his apartment at odd hours. He wore the same scuffed bomber jacket, his old Vans battered from years of use. His dark eyes rarely met yours. When they did, it was fleeting—just a polite nod or a barely audible “Hey” in a voice rough like gravel. His short, dark hair, usually messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times, added to the impression that he was perpetually on edge. There were always people coming to the apartment building. Some, were loud, others silent, all of them strangers who never stayed long. The faint scent of smoke often drifted from under his door, mingling with something metallic and sour. You’d heard whispers from other tenants—he was a drug dealer, they said.

Eric didn’t seem like he belonged anywhere. He carried himself like someone who was painfully aware of the space he took up, always shrinking into himself, avoiding prolonged interactions. His hands fidgeted when he thought no one was looking, his jaw tight with a tension he probably didn’t even realize was there.

And then there was you. You weren’t loud or demanding, content to blend into the background. You moved through life carefully, as though not wanting to disturb the world around you. Eric had noticed you, even if he was too self-conscious to say anything.

You and Eric were opposites. He was jagged, all rough edges and quiet desperation. You were steady, like a calm in the chaos. The polite nods and brief greetings you exchanged were nothing more than habit, but they lingered. His presence was a constant hum at the back of your mind, and yours seemed to weigh on him in the same way.

Neither of you said much, but in the silence of the top floor, it was enough.

PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!

Eric’s apartment was the kind of place you moved into when you had no other choice—a dingy box in a rundown part of Los Angeles. You’d barely been in the city a week when he offered to let you crash, awkwardly explaining that it wasn’t much but better than nowhere. He wasn’t lying. The kitchen and living room blended into one chaotic space, the linoleum floor worn and sticky in spots. Empty takeout containers were strewn across the counter, and the sink was perpetually full of unwashed dishes. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting a sickly light onto the battered couch that sagged in the middle, positioned in front of a coffee table that looked like it might collapse if you so much as sneezed.

Eric’s desk sat against one wall, a sharp contrast to the mess around it. Dark, haunting drawings were taped to the wall in clusters, the desk cluttered with sketchpads, scraps of lyrics, and a computer surrounded by crumpled papers. It was where he spent most of his time, headphones on, shoulders hunched as he disappeared into his art and music. You hadn’t dared to ask what he was working on, but the intensity in his eyes when he focused on the screen made you curious.

The bathroom was even worse, tucked behind a flimsy door that didn’t quite close all the way. The sink leaked steadily into a warped cabinet below. A ring of grime circled the bathtub, but Eric had left a stack of fresh towels folded neatly on the toilet lid for you. That small gesture felt strangely comforting in a space that was anything but.

Eric wasn’t much of a talker—nervous, shy, always rubbing the back of his neck when he tried to make conversation. He seemed to carry the weight of the apartment’s flaws like they were his own, always apologizing for the mess, the noise, or the broken heater that barely worked. Still, there was something disarming about him, something kind in the way he gave you the better side of the couch or offered the last clean mug. This wasn’t home, but at least, for now, it wasn’t nowhere.

PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!