Eric Draven X Reader - Blog Posts

Way Home is Through You

Chapter 3: Do Or Die, You'll Never Make Me

AO3 link here

First Chapter here

Second Chapter here

“Okay, so if you're technically dead, do you eat or drink?”

“I don't need to, but I can.”

“Do you want something to drink?” She said, walking into the tiny kitchen. ‘Going to need coffee to get through this’.

“I’m good, thanks.” He replied as he took a seat on her worn, brown couch.

She nodded, flicking the kettle on to make her cheap instant coffee. Bringing down one of her favourite mugs, she poured out what she needed. Entirely entranced by the complexities of making it, she was trying to get her mind to form a semblance of thought on approaching this. It’s not like there is a how-to on helping a dead guy go back to being dead. 

The click of the boiled kettle broke her from her thoughts. Pouring it out and stirring, she reached the armchair across from the broody man.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened to you. Reading what I did, you’ve been through hell. That being said, how are you here?” She asked.

“Would tell you if I had a clue, all I know is that both times I’ve come back the crow is there. Last time I was here when the bird got hurt, I’d get hurt. I think it's my connection to the land of the living, but I don’t think it’s what brought me back this time.” He stated, gazing at the crow that had made itself comfortable perched on an old oak bookshelf in the cramped living room. The bird was transfixed on the woman, its eyes bore into her soul.

“Crows represent many things in many cultures. I guess it's not too far-fetched to say that someone was right about them.  In ancient cultures, some say they were revered for their association with death and beyond; they often felt they were guides for people through their journey to life after death.”  She replied, sipping her drink while maintaining eye contact with the bird.

“And you know this because..?” He asked, snapping her out of her cross-species staring contest.

“I enjoy mythology and am a fan of spiritualism.” She shrugged dismissively, feeling embarrassed about her answer. 

“Ah.”

There was a long silence between them, neither knowing where to go from here. She gazed over at Eric, trying to wrack her brain on what to do. Their only clue was a cloaked figure, which wasn’t much to go on. Her heart felt for him; so much happened to him, and he was lost and alone. 

The flapping of wings brought both of them out of their own minds and back to the present. The crow had made its way back to the window, looking over at the two and letting out a caw before motioning outside.

“I think your friend knows where we can start.” She laughed, rising to her feet to start gathering her things. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting ready? I am not about to go exploring the city in nothing but sleep shorts and a tee.” She quipped, throwing a pair of boots out from her closet. 

“Right, I’ll wait outside for you.” He moved briskly to the window, opening it wide as he started to raise a leg out of it. 

“Wait! You can use the front..!” She ran to the window as he dropped himself out of it, ignoring her exclamation. Sticking her head out, she gave him a look of concern. He raised from his landing and grinned up at her, almost amused by her concern. 

“Alright! I'll be down soon. You know, having to take the long way and all that!” She called down, pulling herself back inside to dress herself. 

After throwing on her jeans and a loose top, she grabbed her phone and keys to lock up. On the way down the stairs her mind reeled, just the other day she was working her mundane barista job and tonight she is wandering the city with a guy and his crow. How life takes us to unexpected places. 

Leaving the building, she saw him leaning against the opposite building, crow on his arm, almost looking like they were talking. Walking over, she clapped her hands together.

“So, where are we off to?” She asked, not sure if she was asking him or the bird. 

The bird cawed, taking initiative in leading the group. She looked over at Eric for answers, to which he cocked his head.

“This way.” Short and determined came the statement. 

As they made their way across the city. The woman tried to get to know more about him.

“So… That was a pretty big drop from my window. How are you, like not a moaning mess on the pavement right now?” She questioned.

“As long as the bird stays alive, I do too. Undeath gave me a few inhuman abilities. I can take quite a few hits and heal within seconds, which makes life easier. The scars, however, stay.” He replied, avoiding eye contact with her.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” She apologised, feeling like she had stepped over a line.

“It’s fine.”

The walk continued on with not much more said between the two, the night was quiet, save for the hurried footfalls and flapping of wings. After half an hour of following the crow, Eric came to an abrupt halt. His breath caught in his lungs as he gazed upon where the crow had stopped. The woman looked at him with an air of surprise. 

“Eric?” She pushed, worried.

His haunted green eyes never left the building before them, dilapidated and covered in graffiti. Boards that once barred the door had been ripped from their place and strewn carelessly onto the pavement. 

As if by the speed of light, he had taken off into the building, leaving her dumbfounded. She called after him as she bolted after him. Making her way up the twisting stairs, she called out to him. 

“Eric! You don’t know what’s… up here…” her voice faded as she caught up with him. Pushing her way into the run-down loft, she was alarmed at what was before her. The cloaked figure. Their voice broke the silence.

“I was hoping you’d arrive, but I do wish you hadn’t brought your pesky little mortal with you.” Her voice was deep and feminine, with a condescending tone that chilled you to the bone.

 The figure turned to face the pair, pushing back her hood to reveal long, curled black hair. Her features were as sharp as they were dark, contrasting her porcelain skin. She was elegantly dressed in a purple deep-cut slit dress, corset painfully cinching her waist.

“Why are you here?” Eric gritted through his teeth.

“Eric, my dear, is that any way to talk to the person who brought you back?”  She approached him, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek. He threw himself backwards as if her touch were electric, screwing his eyes shut and clutching his head as he groaned painfully.

“Hey! Get away from him!” His ally made her way towards him, only to hit an invisible barrier. 

“Now, that is quite enough from you.” Spoke the cloaked woman and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the other woman flying backwards into a wooden collum in the middle of the room. Her head bounced off the oak, dotting her vision and disorientating her. She ran her fingers through her hair and felt a slick sensation coating the tips; eliciting panicked,  hurried breaths from her lungs. The pain seared harshly through her body.

A loud, grating caw was heard with the vicious flap of wings.  Through slow blinks, she could see the woman flailing her arms to shoo the bird as it continued its assault on her. 

“Leave me, beast.” She sneered, backing towards the fractured stained glass window. The bird was relentless in its attack, the woman was frustrated with this and called out to Eric.

“I will be back for you, my love. We will not be interrupted next time we meet!” She promised as her form disappeared in a thick black cloud. 

Vision slowly left the woman on the floor; she saw the crow land beside Eric. Squawking to get his attention and once it had it, it hurriedly hopped towards her as if to lead Eric to her. Her eyes met his, concern covered his features as he slowly made his way over to her. Tears slowly filling her eyes, she softly whispered.

“It hurts.”

He didn’t respond, only reached his hand behind her head and closed her eyes. A warm feeling stemming from her head before flowing through her whole body made her hum in comfort; the pain slowly dissipated from her head and brought her back to reality. Staring up at him, she touched the wound to find it wasn’t to be found. 

“How..?” 

“I took it.” He said softly as if not to scare her more than she already was. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, concerned. He chuckled gently.

“You certainly are a strange one. You just took a header into a thick wooden collum, and you’re asking me if I’m okay? I’ll be fine. Right now, though, we need to leave. Are you okay to walk?”

She attempted to push herself up from the ground, but her arms gave out, and she slammed back onto the ground. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He huffed, wrapping her arm over his shoulders and hoisting her to her feet.

The action blushed her face. Her body was pressed up against his toned form, and she couldn't help but feel nervous at the sudden closeness. She chastised herself internally for thinking this way. 

‘This guy lost his fiancee. Don't get all hot and bothered because he’s helping you, ' she silently scolded herself. She needed to focus on helping him.

As they left the loft, she vowed to herself to put her feelings aside and not let them grow into something tragic.

Hey yall,

Sorry for the lack of updates, been super sick and had things happen in my personal life. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, if you do please show it some love. Here is hoping I can get on a posting schedule.

With Love,

BlissfulCrow <3

Way Home is Through You

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094282/chapters/153862384

Link to first part: https://www.tumblr.com/blissfulcrow/765505943344693248/way-home-is-through-you-chapter-1-blissfulcrow?source=share

Hey yall! An update!! Let me know if you guys are enjoying this series. I am considering a beta reader so hit me with a DM if you're interested.

Chapter 2: Give Me A Reason To Believe

A hurried shuffling could be heard through the streets. Once white sneakers were desperately fumbling over sidewalks, hoping to escape this freakishly strange night's events. The glass of a long broken streetlamp crunched under her footfalls, eliciting a curse from her shaky lips. “Fucking shit!” she choked out. “Just my fucking luck, narrowly escaped a grave-robbing mime just to bust up my last pair of decent shoes. Fuck!”

She skidded around the corner, narrowly missing drunken patrons from the bar down the road. She didn't care; she needed to go home to sleep off this bad dream. When she woke up in the morning, it would all be okay. Finally, she arrived in front of her less-than-perfect apartment building. Steading her hand, she punched in the passcode, and as soon as the door lock clicked, she was in the building like lightning. Climbing up the five-set staircase on any regular day was an unpleasant struggle, but the adrenaline making its way through her body made her barge through her apartment door before anyone could see her. She didn't want to answer any questions from concerned neighbours; manners don't matter in dreams, right?

Hurling her bag in a haphazard direction, she couldn't be bothered to see where it landed. Her focus was on the bed. As she stripped down, all she could think was:

‘You're fine, you'll be fine. Just a bad dream.’Pulling back the covers of her bed, she threw herself into it, wrapping the blankets around her head, protecting herself from the outside world. A mantra over in her head like a stuck record, ‘You're okay, just sleep. You're okay; just sleep. You're okay, just sleep.’

Scenes flashing, A couple, tenderly embracing.

Happiness. Comfort. Love.

A soft gold engagement ring emerges from a box, soft gasps and bright laughter.

Shock. Euphoria. Love.

The man entering his home witnessing his partner being pinned and assaulted. Next thing he knows, he’s plummeting out the window.

Rage. Injustice. Love.

His partner, battered and bruised, still holding onto life. Thirty hours pass before she dies.

Anguish. Pain. Love.

He claws his way out of his supposedly final resting place. 

Hatred. Grief… Vengeance.

Jolting awake, her eyes wild with confusion, she tries to breathe. So much sorrow, so many thoughts and feelings, flood through her mind. Clawing at her chest to self-soothe, she weakly attempts to ground herself. Her heart was heavily thumping through her ears, and she barely registered the taps from the window. Scrambling out of bed, she throws on an old shirt and some shirts. Making her way over, she rips open the curtain. A black crow sits on the damp window cill, surely not the one from before? She heaved the heavy pane open to shoo the bird away, but it had other ideas, quickly ducking past her flailing hands and hopping its way into the apartment. Her eyes meet the birds, and the flashes start again.

The leather trench coat.

Crow symbols alight.Knives.Needles.Cars.

“Tell them Eric Draven sends his regards.”

 A name beating in her head like a violent drum. ‘Eric Draven’ 

She mutters that name as she pushes papers away, ignoring the bird that followed close behind her as she scrambles to find her laptop on the cluttered dining table.

Her hands tremble as she opens up her jacked computer, anxiously tapping the on button. Despite that, the laptop takes its sweet time loading up. As soon as the browser opens, she begins furiously typing the name.

The first article to pop up:

‘Recently Engaged Couple Murdered on Devils Night’

Young couple Eric Draven (member of the band ‘Hangman’s Joke’) and his fiancee Shelly Webster were found on the infamous holiday ‘Devils Night’ dead at their apartment. Eric was found with multiple gunshot and stab wounds, but the coroner reports that his official cause of death was the drop from their top-floor apartment. Shelly was taken into intensive care and 30 hours later died from her injuries. 

Her stomach dropped to the floor as she read the rest of the article. All this happened 19 years ago? 

As she skimmed through her browser, she came across a picture with this ‘Eric’. It was him! The lurker from the cemetery, with less make-up, but it was him. How? The article was almost 20 years old, but he looked no older than his late 20s! This is beyond crazy; people don't come back from the dead.

‘Maybe it's just some poser who read about the article and thought it would be a cool way to prank people. That doesn’t explain the visions, though. Maybe it is just a mental break’

A banging on her door pulled her from her downward spiral. Oh no…

Slowly, she inched towards the door, trying to get a glimpse through the peephole without making any noise. Peering through, it was him, the living dead guy. She began to back away slowly; maybe he would assume she wasn't there if she didn't answer. That was the idea before an obnoxious cawing sounded behind her, throwing away any chance of her avoiding the interaction. She opened the door, trying not to show her fear outwardly. For a moment, neither said anything, letting the suspense linger in the musty hallway air. Finally as if a gift from some higher power, he held something out to her. “You dropped this.” He stated, face unreadable. 

“Oh.” It was her license, making it entirely less creepy that he knew where she lived. She took the tiny card from him, a small smile forming. “I appreciate that I didn't have to pay for a whole new one, thank you. You really didn't need to come all the way here for this, though,” she chuckled awkwardly. “It’s not the reason I came, " he said bluntly. His eyes bore into hers, but she couldn't read him. “May I come in?”

“No offence, but I don’t actually know you and I don't have a habit of letting every person who rocks up into my humble abode.”

“The documents on your table tell me otherwise; you’ve been investigating.” Referring to the open tab with a picture of Eric. “How did yo-” She turned away from him to gaze back at her laptop to find he was already there in front of it.

“What the fuck! How did you..? You were just..?” She frantically pointed between the laptop and the hallway, trying to rationalise the fact that this apparently dead guy made it from one point to another in 0.5 seconds. 

Her reactions, to an extent, amused him; it's a lot better than being shot at or stabbed. He understood her fear but was desperate for help; she seemed someone who could help him navigate this world. 

“Your scepticism is warranted but pointless. I don’t know why I am here; all I know is I am stuck in this shithole again and have no clue how to return.” His voice raised at the end, his hopelessness slipping through. He had returned without Shelly before; what cruel world would do this to him again?

“Do you think that person in the cape had anything to do with it?” “I haven't the faintest idea. The last time I came back was because of the crow.” He shared, pointing to his feathered friend. “And she assures me this wasn’t her doing.”

“You talk to the bird?”  

“In a sense, not like you and I are now. It is like we are connected on a deep level.” He stated as he made his way around the apartment, taking in the decorations. It was an admittedly small apartment, realistically only needing to house one person. The wall was unsystematically plastered with odds and ends, photos, concert stubs, and anything that made it feel like home. The furniture was a juxtaposition of different styles. Red-stained wood chairs that looked antique were slid under a white chipped particleboard table. The state of her home reflected her innermost feelings: neglected and cluttered. 

He seemed to be trying to figure something out from the decorations; eyes furrowed in concentration as he poked and prodded at a poster. 

“I like your decor. Reminds me of mine and Shelly’s place.”

Her stance softened, and she felt pity for him. From what she read, they really seemed infatuated with each other, and in this case, that love was undying. She always had a soft spot for a tragic romance and felt compelled to try at least to help him get back home.

“Alright, man, sit down and explain it. I’ll see what help I can be.” She said, walking over to the couch to straighten it up for the present company. For the first time since he returned, Eric’s gloomy face held a small, although genuine, smile.

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

Chapter One: Can’t Find My Way Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric Draven Fic

“Only two types of people that come to these places at such an hour: criminals and mourners.” He laughed, a haunting laugh that almost echoed off the surrounding statues and monuments. She was entirely entranced in how alluringly beautiful he looked as the smile spread across his monochromatic features. The crow landing on her shoulder broke her out of her trance.

*Here is a lil sneak peak on the upcoming fic I am working on. Hoping to make about ten chapters. Can't wait to post!* With Love, Blissful Crow <3