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emoevanafton · 18 days ago

Text

Too far away

why did i sobbed ,long but worth it

Story:Two dorks stupidly in love. Distance tries to wreck them.

Warnings⚠️:smut,fluff,language,long distance angst ,softdom boyfriend ,horny and heartbroken ,panic attacks mention ,emotional support hoodie ,filthy phone calls

“Do you really have to leave? Can’t I just sneak into your suitcase and smuggle myself out with you?” You pouted—sad was an understatement.

“You know I’d love that, baby,” Erik chuckled, “but I’d rather not end up on human trafficking posters across the country.” He laughed, but you could tell it was just as hard for him.

Erik Campbell—aka your boyfriend of two years, your personal heater, your serotonin provider—was being shipped off to Buttfuck Nowhere for some tattoo workshop his boss had bullied him into. And yeah, you were happy for him (or at least trying to be), but the thought of your apartment without him in it? Bleak. Depressing. Borderline illegal.

“Can you at least leave your dick at home? I don’t think I’ll survive without it. I’ll miss him too much.” You flopped onto the bed as he packed, tossing clothes into his backpack like a man on the run.

He cackled. God, how were you supposed to go three whole months without that sound? You were going to go fully, irreversibly numb.

“Him? Really?” Erik raised an eyebrow. “Me and my dick are a sealed package, sweets. I’m sorry.” He hovered over you, pinning your wrists playfully above your head.

His cologne hit you first—warm, musky, stupidly good. Then the mint on his breath. Your body was already mourning his absence, and he hadn’t even left yet.

“I’ll miss you like crazy, you know that?” he whispered, kissing your neck, biting and sucking like he was trying to tattoo himself into your skin. You let out a soft moan. “Oh look,” he grinned, pulling back slightly and gesturing to the very visible bulge in his jeans, “your buddy already misses you.”

You smirked. “That’s my boy.” Two dorks, stupidly in love, laughing through the ache.

“I’ll call you when I get there, okay? And please, for the love of all things holy, send me some nudes. I’m about to be trapped with ten other dudes and exactly zero porn material.”

“You such a dork. I will.” You winked.

The moment stretched—just you and him, eye to eye, your heart already splintering down the middle.

Then his phone buzzed.

“Shit. I’m late,” he muttered, checking the screen and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. You ruffled his hair, trying not to crumple into a mess of snot and tears.

“I love you. Have a safe trip. And Erik—no dick pics while I’m at work. I’m serious. Last time, my patient saw it and nearly had another stroke.”

He smirked. “That was a great angle, to be fair. Maybe the piercing triggered it.”

You pinched his arm. “I’m serious.”

“Aww, okay okay—only balls, no cock.” He dropped his bag and leaned in, cradling your face. His lips met yours, slow and greedy, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. His tongue grazed your lips, parting them. You melted. You bit his bottom lip, dragging a low whimper out of him. When the kiss broke, he gave you one last peck on the cheek.

“I love you, Peach.”

You squeezed his hands. “I love you too, dumbass. Now go before I change my mind and tie you to this bed forever.”

He grinned. “Honestly? Not the worst idea. Maybe I’ll stay—”

You cut him off with a finger to his lips. You knew if you let this play out another second, you’d snap and lock him in the bedroom for life. But you had to let him go. At least before the ugly crying started.

“Bye, baby.” You kissed him one last time.

“Bye, sweets.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you horny, breathless, and heartbreakingly alone.

After Erik left, you got dressed and dragged yourself to work. You had the night shift at the hospital—thank god. Maybe if you kept busy, it would stop your brain from spiraling. Distraction. That was the plan. That was the only plan.

Twenty-four hours later, you were officially dead on your feet. The ER had chewed you up and spit you out. You peeled yourself out of your scrubs, took a scalding shower, pulled on one of Erik’s oversized T-shirts, and collapsed into bed.

His scent still clung to the pillow. Your eyes stung before you even realized you were crying. The ache in your chest felt like it was trying to climb up your throat and crush your windpipe.

Panic attacks were easier when Erik was around. He always knew what to do—what to say, how to hold you, how to make the world feel just a little less heavy.

Your phone buzzed. You picked it up before it could ring twice.

And just like that, the chaos in your brain quieted the moment you heard his voice.

“Hey, baby. What’re you doing? How was your shift?”

You exhaled. The knot in your chest loosened. Maybe three months wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe.

“It was fine. A ton of paperwork and, like, maybe two hours of sleep,” you murmured, already drifting.

“Oh fuck—did I wake you? I’m such an idiot. Sorry, Peach.”

You could practically hear him facepalming. Even through a speaker, he was stupidly adorable.

“No, babe. It’s okay. I just got into bed. I’m wearing your shirt, by the way,” you added with a sleepy giggle.

“You brat. You miss me that much, you’ve resorted to theft?” he laughed.

“Shut up. I left you a present in your inside pocket, by the way. Thank me later,” you mumbled, voice going soft.

“Wait—what? Hold on—” You heard frantic rustling through his bag, and smiled. He was always such a mess when he unpacked.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT—ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

You couldn’t hold in your giggles. His reaction had you grinning like an idiot, your heart doing little summersaults.

“You’re welcome, dummy.”

While he was distracted, you’d managed to sneak in a couple of sexy Polaroids—tastefully shot, high heat, and very not iMessage-appropriate. You’d even included the lace panties you wore in the photos. Classy, thoughtful, terrifyingly effective.

“How do I tattoo this on my eyeballs? Jesus Christ,” he whispered like he was in church.

You yawned, blinking back tears—this time the tired kind.

“Go to sleep, babe,” he said gently. “I love you.”

His voice was so soft, so close, you couldn’t tell if he was on the phone or just in your head.

“I love you more,” you whispered.

And just like that, you were gone— floating in the scent of him, wrapped in his shirt, with the ghost of his voice holding you through the night.

ERIK’S POV

The call ended, and for a moment, Erik just sat there—on the shitty motel bed in the middle of Nowhere, USA—staring at the Polaroid in his hand like it was sacred text.

Jesus. You were unreal.

He set the photo on the nightstand, very gently, like it might self-destruct if he moved too fast. The panties were tucked safely in his hoodie pocket now—he was never taking that hoodie off again. Not even for fire safety.

He leaned back, running a hand through his already-messy hair, exhaling like he'd just survived a war.

Three months.

What the hell had he done agreeing to this stupid workshop? Oh right—his boss, with that whole “it’ll be good exposure, Erik” crap. If exposure meant sharing a bunkhouse with ten other tattoo artists who all snored like dying lawnmowers and argued about needle brands at 6 a.m., then yeah. Exposure was thriving.

But you? You were home.

Even over the phone, he could hear how tired you were. He could practically see you curled up in bed wearing his shirt, all soft and sleepy, with those barely-there moans when you yawned. It made something ache deep in his chest.

He missed you. Already. Stupid hard. And not just in the horny way (though, let's be clear, he was one lace-panty whiff away from going feral).

No, he missed the tiny things.

Your awful morning coffee that somehow always tasted like burnt hope and yet he still drank it. The way you’d steal all the blankets and then wrap yourself around him like a very needy, very warm octopus. The way you'd hum under your breath when you were concentrating—he swore it was his favorite sound on Earth.

He stared at the ceiling. This room felt too empty. Too quiet.

The pillow didn’t smell like you. That alone should’ve been illegal.

He rolled onto his side, pulled out his phone, and opened his camera. Snapped a blurry, shirtless selfie with the Polaroid blurred in the background and his dumb smirk front and center.

Caption: Missing you so bad I’m talking to your panties. Pray for me.

He saved it, didn’t send it. Not yet. You were asleep. He didn’t want to risk waking you again, even if part of him wanted to keep hearing your voice on loop.

Instead, he opened his Notes app and typed:

“Things to Do When I Get Back:” – Binge-watch that shitty detective show you love (no complaints, even during the sex scenes) – Take you to that sushi place you keep hinting about – Let you steal all my shirts, no arguments – Make up for three months of lost time in bed. (Bring Gatorade.) – Tell you again and again and again: I love you, I missed you, you’re it for me

He looked at it for a moment. Smiled to himself like a complete idiot.

Then he buried his face in your panties and groaned dramatically into the pillow.

This was going to be the longest three months of his entire goddamn life.

It had only been three weeks.

JUST THREE FUCKING WEEKS.

You thought keeping busy would help. You picked up extra shifts, reorganized the kitchen (twice), binge-watched two seasons of that drama Erik hated (“They’re not even real detectives, babe”), and even tried meditating. You lasted five minutes before crying yourself to reality.

Everywhere you looked, Erik was there—in the dent he left on the couch, the stupid chipped mug he insisted was “aesthetic,” the half-full cologne bottle by the sink that you kept sniffing like it was cocaine.

You missed him so bad your bones hurt.

Even worse? Nights.

You couldn't sleep. Not properly. The bed was too big, the silence too loud, and your body too used to being wrapped in his stupid, clingy octopus limbs. Without him breathing next to you, it felt like the world was slightly tilted. Off-balance. Wrong.

And the panic attacks? Yeah. Those were back. You had one in the breakroom on day five. Curled up in your locker like a wet cat, texting Erik things like “I hate this” and “I need you” while tears smudged your eyeliner into raccoon territory.

He texted back instantly, always did. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t him.

You even started talking to his pillow like it was an actual person.

"God, I’m losing it,” you muttered one night, clutching your phone, hoping he'd call before you completely short-circuited.

And when he finally did, you answered on the first ring, voice cracked and sleepy and desperate.

ERIK’S POV – ONE MONTH WITHOUT YOU

He was unraveling.

Every day was hell, and not even in a dramatic, poetic way. Just... mundane, miserable hell. The bunkhouse smelled like Axe body spray and chili dogs, some dude named Kyle snored like a freight train, and someone stole his shampoo. Twice.

He hadn’t eaten a vegetable in two weeks.

But none of that compared to the you-shaped void following him everywhere.

He missed you in the morning when he didn’t get to kiss your temple before you rushed off to save lives. He missed you at night when he lay in bed scrolling through your old texts, rereading them like they were scripture. He missed you in the shower, where the water was too hot and no longer smelled like your vanilla conditioner.

He was being weird. Fully aware. He was sleeping in the hoodie you gave him even though it was 80 degrees in the room. He kissed the Polaroid you gave him goodnight. Once, in a moment of weakness, he pulled the panties out just to feel closer to you, then immediately scolded himself like, “Jesus, Erik, get a grip. This isn’t a damn romance novel.”

But then he got your texts. The ones where you sounded small. Frayed. Like you were falling apart just like he was.

And he cracked.

He called you even though it was late. He couldn’t go another night without hearing your voice. When you picked up and whispered a broken, “Hey,” he wanted to climb through the phone and hold you so tight the world disappeared.

“Baby,” he breathed. “I miss you so fucking much.”

You sniffled. “I think I’m going insane. I cried in the freezer aisle today. I saw your favorite ice cream and lost it.”

He smiled softly, eyes stinging. “That’s fair. I saw someone wearing your perfume at the grocery store and almost proposed.”

You both laughed, a little brokenly, through the ache.

He lay on his bed, listening to your breathing even after you fell asleep, your voice fading mid-sentence. He didn’t hang up. Just pressed the phone to his chest like a lifeline.

SEXTING & SOBBING (A MASTERCLASS IN FAILING AT LONG-DISTANCE)

You: You were curled up on the couch, swaddled in a blanket like a burrito of despair, eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with a baby spoon. Erik hadn’t texted in two hours—two whole hours. That was basically a week in long-distance time.

Finally, your phone buzzed. Erik : “Hey sexy. You alone?”

You raised an eyebrow, wiped a peanut butter smudge from your lip. You knew that tone.

You: “Alone, pantsless, and dangerously close to crying to a rom-com.”

Erik : “Hot. Let’s pretend I’m there. What would you do if I was?”

Okay. So that’s what we’re doing.

You squirmed a little, warmth blooming in your belly. You wanted him so bad it physically hurt. So you gave in.

You: “I’d sit on your lap and grind real slow, just to torture you.”

Erik : “Fuck. Keep going.”

You giggled, slipping a hand under your shirt, playing with your own chest like he would.

You: “Then I’d pull off your shirt, kiss down your chest, tongue over that tattoo I love…”

Erik : “I’m getting hard. Jesus. My roommate just walked in, I’m going to kill him.”

You laughed, then bit your lip, typing out something hotter—

But then you saw his jacket hanging by the door.The one that smelled like him. And just like that, your throat tightened, your eyes welled up, and the tears started leaking without permission.

You: “I miss you.” “Like… ache-in-my-ribs miss you.”

Erik : Typing... then nothing. Then: “Babe…”

You: “I want to fuck you but I also want to cry into your chest and eat pasta while we watch cartoons.”

Erik : “Same.”

You: “I’m a disaster.”

Erik : “You’re MY disaster.” “Let’s just cry and masturbate in sync. Soulmates shit.”

And that’s how your sexy night ended—with a mutual emotional breakdown, one ruined vibrator, and Erik softly whispering “I love you” through FaceTime while you wore his jacket and ugly-sobbed into your pillow.

10/10. Romance is alive and well.

ERIK: It was a Thursday. A normal, boring-ass Thursday. Until it wasn’t.

It started with him dropping his machine mid-session. His hand was shaking. Because the last text he got from you was: “I had a panic attack in the breakroom again. I just want to go home. But home feels empty without you.”

He’d read it twelve times.

Then Kyle—the human garbage disposal who he shared a room with—made some offhand joke about “you still being hot without the crying,” and Erik nearly decked him.

That was it. That was the breaking point.

He walked out of the studio, got into his rental car, and drove straight to the airport. No plan. No luggage. No return ticket.

He got as far as the ticket counter.

“Where to?” the airline clerk asked.

“Home,” he said. His voice cracked on it. He coughed. “I mean—Boston.”

The lady raised an eyebrow, tapped the keyboard. “Next flight’s in three hours. ID and card?”

Erik stood there, frozen. Three hours. That was nothing. He could do it. He could surprise you, show up at your door with a bag of takeout and that dumb grin you always called “trouble face.”

His phone buzzed.

It was a selfie from you—no makeup, eyes puffy, holding a cup of instant noodles and wearing his hoodie. Caption: “I miss you like air. Be proud—I haven’t fallen apart today. Yet.”

He stared at the screen. His grip tightened.

And then he turned around.

Back to the car. Back to the bunkhouse. Back to the fucking chili dog–scented nightmare.

Because he loved you enough to keep going. To not blow it all up just because he was hurting. Because you needed him to finish this. To prove that you were both strong enough to survive three months apart.

He could cry later.

Right now, he needed to send you a text.

Erik : “I was literally about to board a plane. Your hoodie photo saved me from losing my job.” “I love you, Peach. You’re my home. I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

BAD OMENS, “WHO ARE YOU,” AND A GODDAMN MIRACLE

It had been two and a half months.

You weren’t sure how you’d made it this far without Erik. Probably a combo of sheer willpower, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and late-night FaceTimes that ended in “I love you more, no I love you more,” until one of you passed out.

Then the Bad Omens tickets came.

Your favorite band. His favorite band.

You’d bought them together, months ago, on the floor of your apartment, high on pizza and each other, screaming when you saw the pre-sale went live. You were supposed to go together. You couldn’t imagine it any other way.

But now?

Now he was 1,200 miles away. Still stuck in Tattoo Bootcamp.

You almost didn’t go. You’d sat on your bed for hours, the ticket clutched in your hand, crying into his hoodie and whispering, “I’ll go next time. When he’s here.”

Then your phone buzzed.

Erik : “Baby, you HAVE to go.” “I know it hurts, but you need this. I’m there with you, in every fucking beat, okay?” “Scream for me. Cry if you want. Just go. Don’t let us miss this.”

So you went.

Alone.

The arena was packed, vibrating with energy, everyone screaming lyrics and losing their minds. But you felt like a ghost—surrounded, but alone.

Then the lights dimmed. Smoke curled around the stage. The crowd started to hush.

You felt it before you heard it.

The first soft, aching chords of “Who Are You” started to play.

Your chest cracked wide open.

That was your song. The one that played in the background the first night Erik said he loved you, voice shaking. The one that always made you look at each other like no one else in the world existed.

And now, it was playing without him.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You tried to wipe them away, but the flood was coming. Your lip trembled. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

Then— A hand brushed lightly against your waist. Warm. Familiar.

And a voice, low and rough, whispered in your ear:

“I told you I’d be with you in every beat. I just didn’t say it’d be in person.”

Your heart stopped.

Your brain screamed.

You whipped around so fast you almost fell. And there he was.

Erik.

Grinning like a damn fool, eyes glassy, hair messy from travel, wearing the same hoodie you used to cry into.

“I—I thought you couldn’t—I mean—you were—” You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

He grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you like the world was on fire and you were the last safe place.

The crowd exploded around you, but in that moment, it was just you and him and Noah Sebastian’s voice echoing the exact pain and love sitting in your chest.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, he whispered against your lips:

“I couldn’t miss this. Couldn’t miss you. I got on a red-eye the moment they let me go early. I’d have walked here if I had to.”

You were full-on sobbing now, holding onto him like he might disappear again.

“I hate you,” you whispered into his chest. “I love you. But I hate you.”

He laughed, kissed the top of your head.

“I love you too, Peach. So much it made me stupid.”

Then you screamed the rest of the song together, wrapped up in each other, lost in the music and the madness and the miracle of finding home again—right there, in the middle of a crowd of strangers, with your hearts finally back in the same place.

POST-CRY DINER CUDDLES & EMOTIONAL WORD VOMIT

You didn’t let go of Erik’s hand for a second.

Not through the crowd.

Not down the sidewalk, past buzzing post-show fans.

Not even when you slid into the squeaky red booth at the all-night diner down the street.

You were still in your concert high and emotional coma all at once. Erik looked just as wrecked—eyeliner smudged (yes, he wore eyeliner for your concert), hoodie stained with some kind of beer, eyes still pink.

You both just stared at each other across the booth for a minute, breathing like two people who had survived something massive. Because you had.

He reached across the table and grabbed your hand.

“Do you know,” he said, voice hoarse, “how close I was to completely falling apart when you turned around? Like, actual chest-cracking-level shit.”

You laughed. “You? I nearly blacked out. I thought I was hallucinating you from emotional dehydration and raw vocals.”

You both laughed—half-giddy, half on the verge of another breakdown. The waitress came by and neither of you could read the menu, so you just mumbled “fries, milkshake, whatever you got, please help us.”

Erik scooted around to your side of the booth and pulled you into him, arms around your shoulders, forehead against your temple.

“I watched that whole song from behind you,” he whispered. “I saw the way your shoulders shook, how you clenched your fists.”

You didn’t say anything. Just buried your face into his hoodie.

“I had to hold back so hard not to grab you the second it started,” he added. “But then you cried, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you stand there like that anymore.”

You whispered into his chest, “That was the worst and best surprise of my entire life. You realize I’m going to propose to you one day purely because of this, right?”

“Peach,” he murmured, eyes wide. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You both laughed, but the air around you had shifted.

The ache was still there, but the relief of having him here—real, warm, smelling like sweat and salvation—was washing over it.

Then the fries arrived. And you devoured them like two wolves who’d just survived an apocalypse.

LATER – RECKLESS, EMOTIONAL, STARVING-FOR-TOUCH SEX

You barely made it through your apartment door.

Erik kicked it shut behind you, pressing you against it with all the desperation of someone who hadn’t felt you in seventy-five days and some change.

Your hands were already under his hoodie. His mouth was on your neck. It wasn’t slow or gentle. It was messy. Clumsy. Starved.

Clothes came off like they were on fire. You tripped over each other trying to make it to the bed but collapsed halfway there, tangled in limbs and kisses and breathless moans.

“I missed you,” you gasped as he kissed down your chest.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispered into your skin. “Every night. I’d wake up hard and aching and alone—fuck, I missed you.”

He took his time, even in the chaos. Mouth on every inch of skin he could reach. Hands like he was relearning you from memory, mapping every curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp.

You clawed at his back, pulled him in closer, whispering his name like a prayer between moans.

When he finally slid inside you, you both froze.

It was too much. Too good. Too real.

You locked eyes, tears threatening again—not from sadness this time, but the overwhelming weight of having each other again. Of surviving the storm.

Erik held your face like it was holy. “I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts.”

“I love you more,” you whispered, voice breaking as he started to move. “Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.”

“Never,” he promised, and sealed it with a kiss so deep you forgot where your body ended and his began.

The rest of the night blurred—slow, then fast, breathy laughter between filthy moans, skin slapping, hands gripping, hips grinding, and love thick in the air like smoke.

You came apart under him with a cry of his name. He followed not long after, trembling against your chest, whispering “home, home, home,” over and over.

AFTERMATH – THE SILENCE THAT MEANT EVERYTHING

You lay tangled in the sheets, both sticky and breathless, limbs draped across each other like anchors.

Erik kissed your forehead.

You whispered, “Please don’t leave again.”

He looked you in the eyes, tired but glowing.

“Never. Not unless you’re coming with me next time.”

And in that silence that followed, you both just breathed.

Together. Whole. Home.

THE MORNING AFTER – DOMESTIC, STUPIDLY IN LOVE, & STARVING FOR PANCAKES

You woke up slowly, the way you do when everything finally feels safe again.

Warm breath tickled your neck. A heavy arm was draped across your waist, a leg thrown haphazardly over yours, and someone—Erik—was dead-asleep, mouth slightly open, mumbling nonsense against your skin.

You turned slowly to face him.

He was a mess.

Hair everywhere, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, a faint mark from your pillow across his forehead, and a little trail of dried drool on the corner of his mouth.

You smiled. You were done for.

His eyes cracked open just enough to catch you staring.

“Are you watching me sleep like a creep?” he rasped, voice wrecked and gravelly and—god help you—stupidly hot.

You whispered, “No. Shut up.”

He smirked, then kissed your nose like it was his religion. “I love you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said, but it came out as, I missed you so much I could explode right now.

You lay there like that for a while. No rush. No alarms. Just skin on skin and fingers tracing lazy patterns on backs and hips and arms. Erik kissed your shoulder every few minutes like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Eventually, your stomach growled like a wild animal.

He chuckled, eyes still half-closed. “Is that your soul leaving your body?”

“I need pancakes. Or you’ll lose me forever.”

He groaned and rolled out of bed dramatically. “Fine. But only because I need to rehydrate after that olympic-level sex marathon you subjected me to.”

You threw a pillow at him. He dodged, naked and proud. “I’ll wear an apron and nothing else. It’s what you deserve.”

“You’ll burn your dick on the stove again.”

“That happened once.”

You followed him into the kitchen, both of you in underwear, looking like half-conscious trash goblins and feeling like the happiest idiots alive.

While Erik clumsily whipped together pancake batter (spilling flour like it was glitter), you leaned against the doorway and just watched him.

Then your eyes landed on the shelf near the fridge. A frame sat there now, small and unassuming.

The Polaroid.

The one you’d snuck into his backpack—the reason he almost got kicked out of the workshop for “inappropriate groaning during team breakfast.” The one he’d kissed every night like a love letter.

He noticed your gaze and followed it.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, walking over. “You framed it?”

You nodded shyly. “It reminded me of you. Of us. Even when we were apart.”

He picked it up, held it to his chest like it was a heartbeat. Then he kissed you, slow and gentle.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured. “And I want to be married to that menace someday.”

You blinked. “Wait. Was that a proposal?”

He shrugged with a grin. “Maybe. Who knows. Could’ve just been pancake brain talking.”

You grabbed a spoon. “Say it again and I’ll make sure pancake brain never walks again.”

He cackled, hands up in surrender.

And just like that, you were dancing in your tiny kitchen, tangled in each other, burning pancakes on the stove, completely in love, and entirely whole again.

A FEW WEEKS LATER – THE PROPOSAL (OR, “HOW ERIK COULD NOT Wait Another Second”)

You weren’t expecting anything.

It was just another lazy Sunday—your favorite kind. You and Erik were on the couch, tangled up in a sea of blankets, your legs on his lap, both pretending to watch a movie but mostly just trading forehead kisses and dumb jokes.

You had a mouthful of popcorn when he said it:

“So I’ve been carrying this ring around like an absolute psycho.”

You froze mid-chew. Slowly turned toward him.

“What?”

He was dead serious. Too serious. Like you’d caught him confessing to murder.

He pulled something out of his front pocket. Small. Velvet. Box-shaped.

You choked. “Are you—”

“I was gonna wait,” he said quickly, nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, for something cool. On the beach. Or with fireworks. Or whatever Pinterest says you’re supposed to do.”

You just blinked. Popcorn halfway to your mouth.

“But I can’t,” he admitted, eyes locked on yours. “I literally can’t wait. I think about it every night when you fall asleep with your mouth open next to me. I think about it when you steal all the hot water and call it feminism. I think about it when you wear my hoodie backwards like a gremlin and ask me if your butt looks good while brushing your teeth.”

You laughed, heart racing, mouth dry.

“Babe—”

“Peach,” he cut in, softer now. “I’m in love with every single version of you. The broken ones. The brilliant ones. The panic-attack-in-the-grocery-aisle ones. All of them. And I don’t want another day where I don’t get to call you my actual, legal, fully-recognized-by-the-state dumbass partner in life.”

He opened the box.

Inside: a ring.

Simple. Silver. A black diamond. Classic Erik—bold, not flashy, beautiful in its own way.

“Will you marry me?” he whispered. “Like, for real? As in, I get to legally be the guy who brings you soup when you’re sick and kisses you before you yell at customer service?”

You were crying before he even finished.

You tackled him onto the couch, kissing him so hard he dropped the ring box between the cushions. You didn't care.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, smiling through your tears. “Yes, you absolute idiot. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Fuck,” he grinned, pulling you tighter. “I was so scared. I thought you were gonna say, ‘I’m too young to be a wife, I barely keep my plants alive.’”

“I don’t keep my plants alive,” you sniffled. “That’s why I need you. You’re the adult in this relationship.”

“Oh god help us,” he groaned.

You both laughed, wrapped in each other, fully in love, half-covered in popcorn.

Somewhere under the couch, the ring glinted between the cushions—waiting for one of you to retrieve it.

But right now? You were too busy making out with your future husband to care.

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emoevanafton · 19 days ago

Text

I don’t see enough people talking about the name of Erik’s playlists 🥲 what a loser (affectionate)

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emoevanafton · 20 days ago

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Always for you

I’ve had this scene playing in my mind ever since I first saw the movie. Bear with me.

Story: Best friends to lovers but make it filthy — horror movie nights, shared hoodies, slow-burn tension finally snapping into messy kisses, pierced boys with soft hearts, and the kind of “i love you” that wrecks you in the best way. they were always meant to fall—just didn’t know how hard. also yeah... his tongue piercing did things.

⚠️ Warning: smut. filthy smut. soft emotions. language. horny best friend energy. 18+ only.

You and Erik? Best friends. Ride-or-die. You dated other guys, sure—but it never got serious. Every time things started getting real, you’d just... shut down. In your head, none of it mattered. You had Erik. And he was everything you ever needed in a man. Soft cuddles. Horror movie nights (he lived for horror, the weirdo). Endless 2 a.m. conversations until the sun crept through the windows. Family dinners. And those little, forbidden touches—so casual, no one ever questioned them. A hand on your hip to steady you at a concert. Fingers laced with yours when anxiety threatened to spiral.

It made your heart stutter. But say something? Risk this? Ruin what you had for a few traitorous butterflies? Hell no.

You’d ruffle his hair, place your hand on the back of his neck every time he said something so stupidly cute it made you forget he was this pierced-up, inked-to-hell bad boy (and yeah, you knew about that piercing too). You had feelings, no doubt. But cuddling into his chest on a Friday night felt safer than risking it all.

And then there was her. Brina. That smug, plastic little heart-shredder. After she broke him, you were the one who picked up the pieces. Three straight months of late-night crying and way too much whiskey. You. Always you.

It started as a regular night at the Campbells'. You were playing Until Dawn—again. Legs thrown over Erik’s lap. Comfortable. Familiar.

“GO FASTER! ERIK—PRESS THE DAMN TRIANGLE!”

“I’M TRYING! This thing’s broken, I swear—”

You grabbed the controller, definitely not thinking about how big and inked his hands were. Nope. Not even a little.

“Give me that! You play like a twat—Wendigo’s about to eat Jessica and Matt, and you're over here flailing like a grandma on Wii Sports!”

You beat the level—barely—and smirked. “Matt’s too hot to die.”

Erik laughed, that deep, throaty sound that always got under your skin. “Jessica’s hotter. She deserves to live.”

“You only say that because she looks like fucking Brenda.”

“Brina, Y/N. Brina.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost sprained something. “Whatever. Save the game. We need to get ready for Jessica’s birthday before your mom kills us.”

You stood up—or tried to. A firm hand yanked you back onto the couch. Erik was on top of you, hovering close. Too close.

“Where do you think you're going after calling me a twat?” His smirk was dangerous—pure sin. Your brain screamed do not soak your panties, but it was a losing battle.

“Get off. I’m already sweating.”

His eyes darkened. That look. You hadn't seen it since he punched your ex for slapping you in public—and yeah, that trip to the police station was worth every second.

“Kiki?” you asked, voice low. If he kept looking at you like that...

His leg slid between yours. His breath was minty. His lips soft. The space between you? Non-existent.

“Y/N—”

“HAS ANYONE SEEN PACO?! I’M STARTING TO PANIC!” Bobby barged in like the goddamn Kool-Aid Man, derailing the moment with all the grace of a freight train.

Erik groaned, helping you sit up. “Come on, Foxy. Let’s get dressed.”

“Yeah. In a minute.” You watched him walk away, heart thudding, panties—yep, soaked. Fantastic.

“Paco’s in the fridge, Bobby. Delicious side dish.” Erik smirked.

“Oh thank God. Then who the hell did I put in his cage?” Cue: beef jerky in a lizard tank. You wheezed.

Later that night, after Jessica’s party, all the siblings were crammed in the car. You offered to Uber to avoid the chaos.

“Don’t be stupid. Y/N can sit on my lap,” Erik said, hand resting on your shoulder.

“Promise I won’t get a boner,” he whispered, his palm sliding to your waist.

“Yeah? Bet.”

The car ride was quiet. Parents up front. Bobby passed out. Jessica glued to her phone.

You? Tortured.

Short skirt. G-string. Erik’s lap. Worst. Decision. Ever.

“Remember when we first heard this song?” he asked as House of Balloons played.

You leaned back against his chest, fingers intertwining with his on your thigh. “Yeah. Then someone ruined it by playing it on loop for 24 hours.”

He chuckled. “Only because I couldn’t stop thinking about you that day.”

Your breath caught. His hand tilted your chin to face him. Eyes locked. Lips close.

“You looked beautiful tonight, Peach.”

You kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand the way you do during panic attacks—the silent I’m okay now, because of you.

“Can I stay over tonight?” you asked, voice louder so his parents could hear.

“Of course, sweetheart,” his mom replied. “Erik, be nice this time.”

You squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back. “Yeah, Mom. I’ll be nice.”

The last 10 minutes of the ride were spent with Erik softly kissing your cheek, hand creeping dangerously high on your thigh. Your hips shifted. His bulge pressed against you.

“You lost the bet,” you whispered.

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he murmured, draping his jacket over your lap, hand slipping under.

“What are you—”

Hot. His hand on your panties. Soaked.

“Fuck, Erik—”

“All that for me? Maybe you’re a good girl after all, Peach.”

You were melting. You needed more. More of him. More of his everything.

“It was always for you,” you whispered. His eyes widened, the smugness replaced by something softer. Real.

“We’re home!” his dad called. “Let’s go!”

Erik helped you out of the car. You both avoided each other for the next 40 minutes. Separate showers. Awkward silences. Doubt creeping in.

Did you mess it up?

Later, lying in his bed, backs turned, dim light casting long shadows—you couldn’t take it anymore.

You climbed out of bed and straddled him, waking him up.

“Kiki…”

“Peach? You okay, love?”

Love. That did it.

“I love you,” you blurted out, palm flat against his tattooed chest.

Silence. Your brain screamed. Panic. Regret.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you babbled. “I just had to say it. And if it ruins things, I’m sorry, I’ll drop it, we can go back—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Erik kissed you like his life depended on it.

Tongues,, desperation.His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours clawed at his back.

“Do best friends kiss like this?” he murmured, breathless.

He kissed your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“I’ve been in love with you since you tripped and made me slam my head on the concrete in third grade, my Peach.”

“Erik… kiss me.”

And he did.

Your mind was spiraling. Is this really happening? You forgot how to breathe. His lips—soft, warm, sinful—had you melting into the moment.

“What took us so long?” he murmured against your mouth between fevered kisses.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, breathless. “But god, ... I need you. Don’t hold back. Please.”

You paused just long enough to meet his gaze—and there it was. That dark, dangerous glint in his eyes. The one you’d secretly begged for in a hundred quiet fantasies.

The devil had finally answered.

With a growl deep in his throat, Erik grabbed your thighs and flipped you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and before you could even blink, his lips were back on yours—hot, greedy, possessive.

He kissed you like a starving man, like he'd waited years for this moment. And you? You surrendered to it, every single part of you burning for more.

You could feel his bulge growing, hard and heavy against your thigh. His hands slipped beneath your—his—shirt, cupping your breasts like they belonged to him. Like they’d always been his to touch, to hold. The way his palms fit you was almost unfair.

Your moans—soft, breathy, desperate—drove him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

In one slow, deliberate motion, he slid your panties down your legs, his eyes never leaving you. He paused, gaze devouring the sight of you in his shirt, laid out on his bed, wrapped up in his arms.

Exactly where you were meant to be.

He could count the times he had imagined this moment. You, exactly like this. But now it was real—and for once, there was no guilt weighing him down. Just you, and the way you looked at him like he was your whole world.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “And mine.”

His hand trailed down your body, fingers brushing your heat—light touches that made your hips jerk and your breath hitch. You were trembling under him, your body aching, begging.

“Please, baby... touch me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and breathless. Was that really you? Desperate, pleading for the thing you’d craved for so long.

He didn’t tease you this time.

He pushed one thick finger inside, and you nearly came undone—your body arched, a choked moan slipping past your lips as pleasure took over.

“Oh God—” you gasped, trying to muffle your cries with your hand, terrified the whole neighborhood might hear.

But he just smirked, dark and wicked, the devil in human form.

“God’s not here, Peach,” he growled. “Beg for me, not Him.”

And then he slid the shirt up, exposing your chest. One hand still working you mercilessly, the other grabbing your breast, fingers rough and hungry. His mouth followed, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue teasing, sucking—claiming.

Every part of you was unraveling.

I need you to stop covering your moans, baby,” he pleaded, his voice husky, strained with need. “I need to hear your voice. Don’t hide from me.”

The way he said it—don’t hide from me—it cracked something open inside you. You were already blushing so hard you could barely remember your own name. But the way he looked at you, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world, made you want to give him everything.

“Erik… please,” you whispered, breath hitching, eyes glassy with heat and emotion.

Your hands fell away from your mouth, lips parted, chest rising with each shallow breath. And when his fingers moved again—slower this time, deeper—you let the moan out. Loud, raw, unfiltered.

And Erik? He looked like a man finally tasting heaven.

He took his time, working his fingers inside you with maddening control—first one, then two. Each thrust stretched and filled you in ways that made your back arch off the bed, every nerve begging for more. You bit your lip hard, trying not to scream his name, but the tension building in your core was impossible to hide.

Then he moved lower. You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you, tongue stroking your most sensitive spot, licking you like a man possessed. Holy hell— he wasn’t just good at this. He was lethal.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, trembling. “I’m so glad you got that tongue piercing—fuck—”

That comment alone could’ve made his ego break the ceiling, if it hadn’t already. He glanced up at you, smug but focused, eyes locked on your every breath, every twitch, every flutter of your lashes as he pulled you closer and closer to that edge.

“I’m gonna cum if you keep going like that,” you warned, voice cracking.

But he didn’t stop. He devoured you—slow, deep, hungry licks that sent shivers through your entire body. And every time that cold metal barbell rolled against your clit, it sent a jolt straight through your spine. You were burning, unraveling, teetering on the edge of total destruction—

Then he stopped.

Your breath caught. “Why—?”

Before you could even finish the question, he was above you, thick and hard in his hand, the head of his cock glistening as he rubbed it against your entrance—ready. Perfect. Dangerous in the best possible way.

You couldn’t look away. Sure, you’d caught glimpses before—quick peeks in the bathroom when he forgot to lock the door—but now? Now it was right in front of you in all its gorgeous, pierced glory.

“Like what you see, princess?” he smirked, cocky and damn well knowing the answer.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You were soaked—drenched—just from looking at him.

He leaned down, kissed you hard, rough and claiming, before his mouth moved to your breasts again, lavishing attention like they were sacred. But his hands? Gentle. Careful. Like you were something rare.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” he whispered, that flicker of worry in his eyes—because you knew, no matter how wild this got, he cared. So much.

You reached up, placing your palm on his cheek. He kissed it softly.

“I love you,” you whispered, brushing your lips to his. “But I really need you right now.”

And that was all it took.

His eyes darkened, something primal overtaking him, and then he was inside you—deep, raw, thick.

The first thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. He moved like a man losing control, hips snapping forward with power and purpose—but still kissing you softly, like he needed you to know this was more than lust. This was everything.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filled you over and over, his pace brutal, the stretch intoxicating. The friction. The heat. The way he whispered your name in your ear like it was a sacred prayer.

You came undone—hard and fast—your whole body shaking as the climax ripped through you like a tidal wave.

He followed right after, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, coming deep inside you with one final, shattering thrust.

And then—for a moment—there was only silence. The sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the weight of years of want finally fulfilled.

He pulled you into his arms, bodies still tangled in warmth, your fingers laced tightly together. His eyes—stormy, glowing like stars—locked onto yours as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I can’t believe we actually did that,” he murmured, breathless, voice low with disbelief and something softer—something real.

You giggled, brushing the sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. “Believe it, Campbell.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you like you were something sacred. “I love you, Y/N. Please, please let this not be another one of my horny-ass dreams or I swear to—”

You silenced him with a slow, lingering kiss, your lips smiling against his. “It’s not, you dork. But if you’re still not sure…” You winked. “We could go one more round—just to really make it sink in.”

That was all it took.

With a mischievous grin, he scooped you back into his lap, hands firm on your hips like he never wanted to let you go. He stared at you in total awe—Erik Campbell, pierced and inked and bruised by life, finally letting himself feel love, not just lust.

And you saw it written all over his face.

“I love you too, dork,” you whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

Within moments, you drifted off, curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. And Erik?

He held you like you were everything.

Because to him, you were.

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emoevanafton · 20 days ago

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Hi! I read your sfw A-Z for Ian McKinley. I’ve been obsessed with him for ages! I was wondering if you’d mind doing a NSFW version for him. If not worries.

Yes of course!! I’m writing A-Z Sfw, nsfw, and yandere for now. Hopefully I’ll branch out more. Obviously he’s 18 here lol I hope you enjoy- Willow

Ian McKinley Nsfw A-Z

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

This man likes to think he’s the absolute king of aftercare but for the most part he’s decent.

He’ll clean you up, grab you some water, and pass out next to you.

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

Ian’s favorite part on you is your hands. He loves to paint your nails black ( those pretty fingers would look great wrapped around his cock)

His favorite part of himself would probably be his mouth, he doesn’t want to sound too conceited but he loves the way he’s able to go down on you. Ian loves seeing you try to not make a sound as he’s using his tongue on you.

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

For Ian, he loves to come on your chest and ass. It’s so cute watching you try to wipe the cum all off you.

Sometimes if he’s feeling a bit cocky, he’d push his cock against your cheek, just to get some pre-cum on your face.

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

His dirty secret is that this man wants to try being pegged just once. Ian just wants to know what it could feel like.

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

He’s not that experienced at all. The only person he’s been with was Erin, and even then they didn’t do much. It’s definitely a sore topic for him.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

His favorite position has to be missionary. It’s basic but he loves seeing your face contort from slight pain to pleasure and your body bounce ever so slightly as he thrusts up into you. The sight is truly his favorite thing to see.

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

He’s not too goofy, the most he does is use your pet names in bed or making small little teasing jokes. Other than that he prefers to just enjoy the experience with you.

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

He’s got black semi thick curly hair. He trims it whenever it gets too long , he refuses to shave it though.

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

He gets very romantic during the moment. He’ll whisper how perfect you look under him, and how much he loves you. He’s super gushy during the moment and gets embarrassed later on.

He won’t openly admit to anything he’s saying though. He’s to shy about it.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

This dude won’t admit it but he jerks off every single day. He’s always stressed so just one session a day would help relieve that somewhat.

If you’re offering yourself up however, he’d slow down his methods of jerking it a day. It’d turn into every few days.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Dacryphilia

Breath play

Blood play

Dominance and submission

Impact play

Edging

Praise and degradation.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He loves doing it in his van or in his room. The van makes him feel a little risky but not risky enough to actually make him anxious about being caught. His room is his favorite spot by far because he can just pass out on his bed after plowing you into the mattress.

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

He gets all hot and bothered by the sight of you getting all embarrassed and flustered, it makes him feel a bit more in control.

Ian loves feeling you press up against him or bend over right in front of him, it sends his mind racing.

He also loves when you run your fingers through his jet black hair, especially when you tug on it.

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

Actually bullying him or making mean comments about his body, he likes being degraded but not like that.

Anything non-con, he wants to have sex as two consenting adults do. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s actually forcing you to sleep with him.

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

He prefers to be on the receiving end, solely because he’s a bit embarrassed of his giving head/eating out skills. He’ll pet your head if you go down on him, and if he’s really getting close he’ll hold your head in place and hump into your mouth.

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

He tries to go slow at first but when he’s caught up into it, he ruts into you fast and a bit hard. His thrusts are aimlessly rhythmic, his only goal in mind is to hit your sweet spot and to come deep inside you.

Ian is gonna be holding you down as he’s fucking into you, the sounds of his skin slapping yours echoing the dimly lit room. He’s sweaty that his eyeliner is making small streaks down his pale cheeks. Small little whines are going to come out no matter how hard he bites down on his bottom lip to block it.

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

He doesn’t hate quickies; but he doesn’t prefer them either. Ian wants to just enjoy taking his time with you, wanting to draw out the sight of you falling apart on his cock as long as possible. However when he is having a busy or stressful day, he wouldn’t be opposed to using your body as a stress reliever.

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

This man has a hard enough time fitting into society with how he dresses and acts, he’s not too eager to be found butt ass naked with you raw dogging in some closet.

He prefers to have sex with you in places where he knows he’s safe from leering eyes.

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

Ian can go about 2 - 3 rounds with you before feeling exhausted.

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

He’s not the type to really own toys for himself, but he’d buy you some if you’d ask.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s not much of teasing guy in the sense of physically doing anything. This punk guy is all verbal teaching. He’s got a tongue on him for sure. Not that you’d mind.

He’d get jealous and asks if you both can leave early because he wants to go home. If you want to try and wave him off, he’d whisper about how if you’re good and goes home with him, he’d make you feel like you won’t be able to walk for a while. Needless to say you went home with him.

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

He groans a lot. He gets embarrassed about it, but if you make him submissive and ride him, he’ll let out more whines and whimpers than you’d expect. Dudes a switch.

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

Ian gives me vibes that if you pull on his hair, he’d probably nut in his pants. Sensitive scalps for the win 💅🏻

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

Ian is about 7 inches circumcised, black hair trimmed. He’s definitely not a grower, Ian is long when soft and hard. He isn’t thick around at all either.

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

His sex drive isn’t the highest, but definitely not the lowest. This man can go about 2-3 rounds before having to tap out.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

While he’d love to cuddle and sleep together, usually he’s reverting back to his usual sleeping position. ( he looks like a sickly Victorian child)

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