erikcampbellsprettywife - Tumblr blog

erikcampbellsprettywife · 22 days ago

Text

BONUS

“Welcome To The Dollhouse, Erik.” PART 5.5

(Part 5)

~~~

The bedroom was quiet, warm with that soft gold morning hue bleeding through sheer pink curtains. Your long limbs were tangled in the silky sheets, chest rising gently with each breath. The scent of something sweet—maybe your perfume, maybe just you—still clung to the air.

Erik lay next to you, completely still, half-awake and trying not to stare.

Your lashes were just the prettiest thing in your sleep. Your cheek was pressed against the pillow, lips parted the tiniest bit. You looked stupidly peaceful for someone who lived in a castle and had a fucking tarantula named Cherry watching from the tank across the room below the 325 inch flat screen.

Then again… he fucked you so good, your body gave out like a love-drunk spell had snapped—and you passed out, blissed and boneless in his arms.

His arm slid out from under your waist, slow and careful, like even gravity dared not disturb you. He sat up with a quiet breath, sheets tumbling down his tattooed back, still damp in faded places from the night before. The room looked almost unreal in the soft morning light—like a still from some romantic fever dream. Everything smelled like magnolias, coconut, and maybe a hint of leftover sin.

The chandelier sparkled overhead, catching sunlight like it had something to prove. He ran a hand down his face, then across the faint red scratches littered down his spine. Damn. Guess every morning really is better when you’ve been fucked unconscious the night before.

Still half in a daze, Erik grabbed the robe hanging on the back of your vanity chair—soft blush pink, embroidered at the collar, and way too damn luxurious to belong to someone who regularly threatened to key Teslas for fun. It was absurdly plush, like it cost more than his entire wardrobe. He slipped it on anyway. Whatever. The sleeves drowned his hands until he rolled them up his tattooed forearms, grumbling under his breath as the silky fabric swished with every step.

He padded barefoot into the hallway, hair still damp and sticking up in reckless waves.

It was quiet.

Eerily quiet.

The kind of rich-people quiet that felt designed by an interior decorator with a god complex. The hallway stretched out like a palace corridor, high-ceilinged and echoey, every surface spotless and softly glowing with morning light. He could practically hear his own heartbeat bouncing off the imported wallpaper—something textured and expensive-looking, probably hand-painted by monks in Tuscany.

Crystal vases lined the walls like little soldiers, each one cradling an obscenely fresh bouquet of peonies. Pink, white, blush. Delicate and ridiculous. Every single one looked like it had just been misted by a fairy. Or a butler. Same difference.

The whole place smelled like wealth and vanilla perfume.

It was like walking through a goddamn bougie dollhouse—fluffy, floral, faintly threatening.

And he was the barefoot grunge It was like walking through a goddamn bougie dollhouse—fluffy, floral, faintly threatening.

And he was the barefoot grunge rat who’d somehow been granted temporary sanctuary.

He scratched his neck absently as he passed a marble bust that might’ve been your great-great-something. The eyes on it followed him. Or maybe that was just the sleep deprivation. Either way, he squinted at it like, Don’t start with me, dude, then kept walking.

Somewhere ahead, the smell of espresso drifted faintly through the air, rich and dark, cutting through the floral fantasy like a whispered promise of survival. Erik followed it like a bloodhound. Or a raccoon. Same vibe.

He passed double doors, velvet curtains, a decorative harp that definitely hadn’t been played since the Bush administration, and a table stacked with unread art books that probably cost more than his last car.

He finally reached the grand spiral staircase and descended like a sullen prince in Barbie’s Dreamhouse—the pink robe flaring slightly as he moved, one hand running through his messy hair, the other gripping the banister like it had personally wronged him.

At the bottom: silence. Too much of it.

Until—

He found the kitchen by accident, took one step in—

“Morning.”

Erik froze.

There he was: Daddy Mafia himself, sitting at the sleek marble island in his own expensive-ass robe, sipping coffee like this was any other Wednesday. His silver watch caught the sun through the open patio doors, and he didn’t even blink at the sight of Erik standing there, shirtless, clearly just crawled out of his daughter’s bed.

“…Morning,” he managed, voice a little too casual, like he wasn’t someone who’d just rearranged his daughter’s entire soul less than eight hours ago- and had glitter between his toes from walking on your damn carpet. He probably smelled like your perfume and whatever rich-people body wash was in your spa-bathroom.

The silence was immaculate.

And worse? The man didn’t even look surprised. Like he expected this.

“You drink coffee?” your dad asked, raising an eyebrow slightly, eyeing the blooming purple marks on his future son-in-law’s skin.

“Only if it’s strong enough to kill me.”

That got a small smile. One corner of the your dads mouth curved upward like he wanted to laugh but didn’t believe in emotions or something.

He poured Erik a cup in one of the porcelain mugs lined in gold trim. Erik took a sip, held back a cough—because Jesus, that was expensive coffee. It tasted like it had been brewed in heaven and blessed by an Italian priest.

Your dad stood, stretched, and motioned for Erik to follow him outside.

The backyard was a goddamn dreamscape. Dew still shimmered on the grass, workers were already out trimming hedges in perfect square patterns, someone was mowing the lawn in near silence, and fruit bushes lined the far edge of the garden. Strawberries, raspberries, maybe even blackberries—all being picked by hand by some guy in white gloves.

It was completely surreal.

Erik sipped his coffee, trying to act casual, but the look on his face said ‘What the actual fuck?’

“You look like you’ve never seen strawberries before,” your dad said, glancing over.

“I’ve never seen strawberries that’ll end up in a crystal bowl twenty minutes later.”

“Everything gets cleaned thoroughly. She doesn’t like bruised fruit.”

Erik laughed under his breath. “Of course she doesn’t.”

They walked slowly, the morning sun just starting to stretch across the stone path beneath their feet. Birds were chirping like it was a Disney movie. Erik was still in your robe, hair messy, chest tattoo peeking out—and somehow, it didn’t even feel out of place anymore.

“You’re wondering how a girl like her exists,” your dad said after a moment.

Erik gave him a sideways glance. “Something like that.”

“She’s always been like this. Dreamy. Soft. Kind of floats through the world. We tried to ground her, but she was born with glitter in her blood.”

Erik chuckled. “Yeah. She’s a little unreal.”

“She’s also stubborn as hell. Fierce. Not as fragile as she looks.”

“I know,” Erik said softly, his eyes scanning the morning horizon. “She’s a heartbreaker. But sweet about it.”

There was a pause. Just birds and clinking of garden tools in the distance.

“She likes something, and she takes it. Seems like she did that with you..”

That earned a soft chuckle from Erik.

“I like you,” your dad said finally, taking another sip. “Didn’t think I would.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“You’re rough around the edges. Covered in ink. Smartass. But you see her. You don’t make fun of her softness. You respect it.”

Erik’s jaw flexed slightly, lips pressing into a line. “…She deserves that.”

Another quiet moment.

“You staying for breakfast?” your dad asked.

Erik smirked into his mug. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They were already halfway through their second cup of coffee the butler refilled, the steam curling up between them like lazy smoke. The sun had risen a little higher now, casting long, golden beams over the trimmed hedges. One of the gardeners carefully placing berries in a woven basket like they were precious rubies.

Erik leaned against the railing, eyes scanning the garden like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“Still getting used to it?” her father asked, glancing over his mug.

Erik scoffed quietly, amused. “You mean the mansion? The private gardeners? The strawberries with their own fucking security team? Yeah. Just a bit.”

The older man chuckled, low and knowing. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Erik looked at him sideways. “What do you do, exactly? She just said something vague about old family money- business..”

There was a pause. Then a slow, amused smile spread across the man’s face.

“I consult,” he said smoothly.

Erik raised a brow. “That sounds like code for something illegal.”

Another sip. Another smirk.

“I’m not in anything she doesn’t already know about. She just chooses not to ask too many questions.” He set his mug down on the stone ledge and looked out at the yard. “What matters is that it keeps her safe. Protected. Spoiled, if we’re being honest.”

Erik chuckled. “Spoiled, yeah. But not in the annoyingly rotten way.”

“Exactly.” Her father turned to face him more directly. “She’s got a good heart. Soft as hell. Always has been. That’s why I’m careful about who gets near her.”

“I figured,” Erik muttered, brushing a hand through his messy hair. “She told me about the ex.”

The man’s smile dropped.

“That little piece of shit,” he said flatly. “Yeah, I know.”

Erik stayed quiet.

“Entitled. Rich. Daddy had money but didn’t teach him a damn thing about how to treat a woman. Thought being flashy made up for being emotionally vacant. She loved him. And he drained her dry.”

“Damn,” Erik muttered, jaw ticking just slightly.

“Didn’t lay a hand on her, thank God,” the man added. “But emotionally? He was a ghost. She cried a lot. Even after she left. Kept thinking it was her fault he couldn’t love her right.”

Erik’s grip tightened slightly around his mug. “That’s not her fault. She’s—fuck, she’s the easiest person in the world to love.”

Her dad nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “I know that. And I’m glad you do too.”

It got quiet for a few second before Dad spoke again, “He’s dead now..”

Erik almost dropped his fucking mug. “Really? Shit. How?”

“I shot him.” The dad said as if it’s a secret, sipped his mug and continued walking.

Erik blinked and caught up to him, deciding it was better not to ask questions.

Well shit.

They both watched a staff member in a white apron pick fresh mint leaves from a small planter box. Another guy opened the patio doors to prepare the breakfast table with linen napkins and crystal juice glasses.

Erik sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is wild. Like, I never saw this shit coming. One minute I’m giving her a tattoo, and the next, I’m walking around in a damn silk robe in a palace with a mafia dad telling me his daughter got her heart broken and he killed him.”

“Life moves fast, kid.”

“I noticed.”

The older man studied Erik for a moment—his tattoos, the messy black hair, the faint bruising around his knuckles, the way he stood like he never quite got comfortable anywhere.

“She likes you,” he said after a long moment. “More than she’ll admit.”

Erik gave a half-smirk. “Yeah?”

“She talks about you like you’re a coma dream she hasn’t woken up from. And she’s a dreamer, you know that. But when she said your name, I knew she meant it.”

Erik didn’t say anything for a second, just took a sip of the now-warm coffee and looked out across the yard.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he finally said. “She’s the softest thing I’ve ever touched and I’ve got nothing but sharp edges.” Erik was honest, and he loved that about the kid.

Her dad looked at him, brow furrowing slightly.

“That may be true,” he said, “but you’re not cutting her. You’re not ruining her softness. That’s more than most.”

“…Thanks.”

“You know she paints?”

Erik blinked. “No.”

“She paints. Mainly butterflies..? Has for years. Has her own art room. Everything she touches, she makes prettier. Even you, apparently.”

Erik let out a breathless laugh, eyes low. “Jesus.”

There was another long pause, both men watching the yard workers in silence for a few moments. A slight breeze rustled through the lemon trees near the garden wall.

Then her father nodded once toward the house. “Come inside. Breakfast’s about to be served. You’ll want to see what they do with those strawberries.”

Erik shook his head in disbelief, pushing off the railing. “If I’m not careful, I’m gonna get used to this shit.”

Her dad smirked. “That’s the danger.”

————-

The house was still sleeping.

You woke up moments later from your cats tail, bathed in sunlight, beautifully sun-kissed, wrapped in pink silk and the scent of Erik lingering in your sheets. You yawned softly, curling your toes into the plush comforter before rising, robe slipping around your body and your cat falling comfortably in your lap. You trapped her and padded down the stairs like a sleepy bunny, hair messy but pretty, your face bare and glowing.

You blinked as you saw them on the terrace—your dad and Erik, standing together like old friends, sipping espresso and talking like this was normal.

“Is Daddy being nice?” you asked, dropping the cat softly before stepping outside, voice soft and teasing.

They both turned.

Your dad smirked.

Erik stared.

You were like a mirage. All soft robe and glowing skin and glittery toes and that sleep-drunk look in your eyes that made his heart do something weird in his chest.

“He hasn’t tried to kill me,” Erik said, “so I’d say yeah. He’s doing great.”

You giggled, “Kill you? He’d never.”

Erik shook his head, giving that ‘Not so sure about that,’ look.

You stepped barefoot across the warm stone, pressing a kiss to your dad’s cheek. “Morning, Daddy.” Then to your mom, who had just stepped outside like she was stepping out of a literal oil painting.

Her robe was white silk, long and flowing, her silky hair in a soft updo, face makeup-free and still radiant. She looked like a Greek goddess sipping grapefruit juice. Of course she did.

“Morning, my darling,” she whispered, kissing your cheek.

Then you turned to Erik. Smiled.

And kissed him softly on the lips.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second longer than they should’ve.

“Morning.” you whispered, lips still close to his, hand on his chest. His heart was pounding under your touch.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath when you pulled away, dazed.

“What was that, sweetie?” your mom asked sweetly.

“Nothing, ma’am,” he said. “Just adjusting to heaven.” He said in that sarcastic playful tone.

You giggled and took your place beside him, curling up in one of the ornate wrought-iron chairs, robe tied in a bow.

Then breakfast arrived.

And it was a scene.

The strawberries—fresh picked—were sliced perfectly and arranged in a crystal bowl with tiny edible flowers and raw sugar. You squealed and clapped in delight. Erik just stared like he’d never seen a fruit look back at him.

He took a bite.

“Oh my god,” he breathed.

You smiled.

He took another. “This tastes like forgiveness.”

You laughed and fed him one. “Tastes like my love.”

“Don’t say that unless you want me to propose,” he muttered through a mouthful of heaven.

Your dad nearly choked on his espresso.

The rest of breakfast was light and warm and almost too perfect. Your mom chatted about gallery openings. Your dad mentioned a vineyard deal. Erik made fun of the grapefruit juice and got away with it.

You leaned on his shoulder mid-meal, eyes fluttering. “I wanna go back to bed.”

He looked down at you and smirked. “You just woke up.”

“I know.” You looked up at him. “But now I wanna wake up again. With you this time.”

His heart stuttered. Your dad narrowed his eyes. Your mom just smiled like she already knew how this story ended.

And honestly?

So did Erik.

43 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 22 days ago

Text

“Welcome to the Dollhouse, Erik.” (Pt. 5)

Erik Campbell x AFAB! Bimbo Reader

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

🖤Author's Note🖤:

This piece contains explicit sexual content and emotionally intense moments. Please read responsibly. 💗

Content Warnings / Tags:

🔞 Explicit Sexual Content / Smut

🚿 Shower Sex

💦 Steamy / Sensual Scenes

🔥 NSFW

💉 Piercing Mention (Reversed Prince Albert, Nipples)

🫶 Established Relationship

🐾 Mentions of Pet Tarantula, Rabbit, and Cat (Arachnophobia, Leporiphobia, Ailurophobia)

💋 Heavy Kissing / Intimacy

🛑 Possessive Language / Dom-leaning Partner

💔 Emotional Intensity / Vulnerability

🫠 Descriptive Language / Sensory Detail

🧼 Mutual Touching / Washing

🧷 Mild Degradation Praise

⚠️ Minor Mention of Blood / GORE 🩸

It was 7:59 PM when Erik Campbell pulled into the circular driveway of your mansion—if you could even call it that. The place looked like what might happen if a luxury magazine and a mafia movie had a baby, and then baptized it in designer perfume for final touches. Massive white pillars lined the entrance. The windows stretched so tall they could see god. The whole estate glittered under golden light, trimmed hedges perfect enough to make angels cry. A marble fountain in the middle practically wept elegance.

His black van—dusty, dented, grumbling like a smoker—rolled to a stop beside three matte sports cars that looked like they’d never been ticketed in their lives.

He killed the engine and sat back in the seat, dragging a hand down his face.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he muttered, eyes scanning the palace before him.

He looked exactly like you'd expect: black muscle tee, ripped jeans, heavy boots, and his signature leather jacket. Hair slightly messy, jaw sharp, lips twitching like he was holding back too many things. He looked like a rockstar who rolled joints on vinyl sleeves and made girls cry on live TV.

He got out, boots crunching on the gravel, and headed up the marble steps like someone walking straight into the lion’s den.

When he rang the bell, he didn’t expect your dad to answer the door.

Tall. Broad. Sharp suit. Sharp jaw. Face like he’d killed a man and finished dessert after. A silver watch glinting beneath his cuff, probably worth more than Erik’s van.

“You must be Erik,” your dad said, his voice smooth and calm. Too calm.

Erik blinked. “Yup. That’s me.”

The stare-down began. Your dad's eyes trailed over the tattoos, the piercings, the boots. Then—one nod. A slow, deliberate one.

“Come in.”

Inside was worse.

Gold trim. Glass walls. Velvet accents. That haunting scent of wealth that wasn’t perfume but generational power.

“So you're the guy that pierced my daughter’s nipples?”

Straight into hell.

Erik gave a dry laugh, not sure if it was a trap. “She told you that?”

“I assumed. And now I know.”

Your dad poured him a glass of expensive whisky, like this was just... casual dinner conversation. Erik took it like a dare. And strangely enough—they clicked. Turned out your dad liked sarcastic people. Especially the brutally honest ones. Maybe it was the fact that Erik didn’t flinch under his stare. Maybe it was the way he said "sir" like he was mocking it and respecting it all at once.

“You work in a tattoo parlor?” your dad asked, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

Erik nodded, fingers curling around the matching crystal tumbler in his hand. “Yeah. Been at it for a while. I manage the shop practically. Design work. Custom pieces. Piercings too.”

“Piercings,” your dad repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow—not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. “Right. Like my daughter’s.”

Erik gave the faintest smirk, but didn’t flinch. “Well. You raised her bold, sir.”

That got a quiet chuckle from your father, the first real crack in his cold exterior.

“What made you want to do that kind of work?”

Erik tilted his head, thoughtful. “Grew up drawing on walls. Had a lot of paper, but still. Anything flat was fair game. Lockers, desks, my own arm. Eventually figured it was smarter to get paid for it than arrested.”

Your dad snorted into his drink. “Practical.”

“I try.”

There was a pause—just the soft clink of ice shifting.

“What about your family?” he asked next, his tone dipping a little lower.

“Pretty solid, honestly. Parents are still together. Got a younger sister and brother. We fight. We drink. We show up for each other. Can’t complain.”

Your dad nodded slowly, eyes narrowing just a little like he was filing that information away. “Close-knit.”

“Yeah.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t take bullshit.”

Erik let out a breath through his nose, leaned back slightly. “I seem like the kind of guy who’s seen a lot of it.”

That earned him another small smile—just a twitch at the corner of your dad’s mouth, like he was starting to enjoy this more than he planned to.

“You ever been arrested?”

“Nope.”

“Close?”

“A few warnings. A couple citations. Kicked outta college. Dumb shit. Nothing major.”

“What kind of dumb shit?”

Erik chuckled. “Skating on government buildings. Tagging up a cop car- in high school. Lighting trash cans on fire. Fighting outside a bar once when some guy started harassing my sister. Few other minor shit”

Your dad gave a low whistle. “That’ll do it.”

“Didn’t start the fight,” Erik added, sipping his whiskey. “Just ended it.”

Another pause. Another nod of approval. The tension between them had shifted—it was no longer can I intimidate this boy, it was can I figure him out.

“Do you believe in loyalty?” your dad asked suddenly, voice quieter now, but sharper somehow.

Erik didn’t blink. “Yeah. It’s everything.”

“Respect?”

“Earned. But yeah.”

“Violence?”

“When necessary.”

A pause.

“You ever shoot anyone?”

Erik blinked, caught off guard for the first time all night. “…No, sir.”

“Good,” your dad said, deadpan. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Erik almost choked on his whiskey, coughing slightly as he laughed. “Jesus.”

Your dad finally set the glass down with a soft clink and glanced toward the massive spiral staircase like this entire interview had just been a prelude.

“She’s upstairs,” he said, his voice loosening. “Lit up the whole damn house waiting on you. You should’ve seen her—swanning around, pretending not to check the clock every thirty seconds. Girl’s practically glowing.”

Erik swallowed the rest of his drink and set the glass down beside the man’s. “Yeah, well. I’ve been glowing since you opened the door, so I guess we’re even.”

That earned a full-blown smirk from your father. Not just amused—approving.

And just like that, he motioned to the stairs.

“Go on, Campbell. Try not to trip on the marble.”

Erik didn’t say it, but in his head?

‘Too late. I already fell for her.’

No pressure.

Erik climbed the winding staircase, past flickering sconces and glittering chandeliers. Every step felt like sinking deeper into some luxurious fantasy.

And then—

Double doors.

He opened them.

Holy—

You were standing barefoot on a cloud of white carpet, wearing the softest, most absurdly hot pink fuzzy lingerie gown he’d ever seen. Sheer, delicate, dipped at the chest and tied in a cute bow at your waist. It floated around your glowing skin like cotton candy mist. Your nipples—pierced and healed—were barely concealed by the mesh, the jewelry glinting faintly under the lamplight.

And your toes sparkled.

Glitter polish. Pink. Of course.

Your ankle bracelet caught the light as you moved toward him, legs long and golden. You wore no makeup. Just your skin. Flushed, glowy, all high cheekbones and soft lips.

Your hair cascaded in dreamy waves and you kissed him so gently on the cheek, like you’d missed him every second he was gone.

“Hey, you,” you whispered.

Erik's eyes were locked on you. “Fuck. You’re unreal.”

You giggled, sliding your hands across his chest. Your perfect pink manicured nails traced the edge of his shirt, teasing the muscle beneath.

“You like it?” you asked, doing a little twirl, your gown catching air like it was floating.

“Yeah. No. What the hell, babe?” He laughed breathlessly. “You look like a Victoria’s Secret Model who got cursed by Lisa Frank in the best way.”

The cute thing about y’all’s relationship is, no matter how used to each other you got—no matter how many sleepovers, kisses, fights, or late-night talks you’d shared—there were still those speechless moments. Still butterflies. Still that dizzy, giddy teenage love that hit out of nowhere and made everything feel brand new again. You could be wrapped up in each other all day, but he’d still get that stunned look in his eyes when you walked into the room glowing in pink silk. You’d still feel your stomach flip when he grabbed your waist or whispered something low against your neck. There was something innocent and electric about it, like y’all were still falling for each other every damn day. And maybe that’s because you were—still young, still figuring it out, still tripping over emotions too big for your hearts but holding onto each other like home. Like no matter how chaotic the world got, the softness between you stayed untouched. Constant. Real.

“Mm. Compliment taken.”

“I see your tattoo healed nice,” Erik mumbled, eyes flicking downward as the mesh of your lingerie caught the light. The delicate ink beneath your breast peeked through the sheer fabric, soft and perfect against your glowing skin. He smiled faintly, thumb running over the skin softly, the memory of giving it to you flashing through his mind like a secret only the two of you shared.

Then something in the corner caught his eye.

He stiffened. Paused.

“Holy fuck,” he said slowly, voice suddenly sharp. “Is that a… spider?”

You turned toward the glass tank on the far side of the room, already grinning. “That’s Cherry.”

“Cherry,” he echoed, stepping cautiously closer to the enclosure. “Cherry’s a fucking tarantula, babe.”

“He’s sweet.”

“Cherry’s plotting my fucking death.”

Despite the panic in his tone, Erik was grinning now too—an incredulous, baffled sort of smile, like he couldn’t believe he was about to be in the same room as a spider on purpose. But curiosity tugged at him harder than fear. He leaned in, eyes scanning the eight-legged creature crawling slowly over the driftwood inside the glass tank.

You crossed your arms, amusement sparkling in your eyes. “He’s a boy, by the way. With a girl ass name. Because… why not?”

That made him laugh under his breath. “Of course he does.”

Then—because Erik Campbell was never one to back down from a dare, even an unspoken one—he opened the tank.

“Wait—” you started, but he was already reaching inside.

His fingers moved slow, careful, deliberate. Cherry shifted, almost curiously, and with one smooth motion, Erik slid his palm beneath the tarantula’s legs.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

The spider began crawling up his hand, fuzzy legs dragging across his skin like tiny, tickling wires. Erik stood perfectly still, mouth parted slightly, his other hand hovering just under his wrist in case the thing tried to leap. But his eyes—his eyes—were wide and lit up, fixed on the creature like he’d just discovered some wild new form of trust.

It was weirdly intimate.

The way his breath slowed. The way his muscles relaxed. His tattoos flexed as Cherry climbed up his forearm, the soft hair of the spider contrasting stark against the black ink spiraling up his skin. His pulse thudded visibly in his neck, but he didn’t flinch. He let the tarantula crawl all the way to his elbow, just watching, completely focused, like the moment had shrunk the entire world down to this one quiet, surreal interaction.

“That’s… kinda hot,” you murmured, biting your lip.

“Tell me that when he doesn’t bite me,” Erik muttered, eyes still on the spider.

“He won’t. He likes you.”

He shot you a look. “He’s crawling on me like he’s picking a vein.”

You giggled, but honestly? The whole thing was insanely attractive. Erik in your bedroom, shirt slightly wrinkled from your touch, standing barefoot on your plush rug with a tarantula on his tattooed arm, his expression soft and serious like he was handling a living jewel. He looked dangerous and delicate all at once—sharp edges and velvet patience.

He finally guided Cherry back into the tank, gently letting him crawl off and settle on the bark again. He slid the lid shut, exhaled, and turned back toward you.

“You’re keeping secrets from me,” he said, voice low and amused.

You tilted your head. “What kind?”

He smirked. “Like the fact you’re a rich, lingerie-wearing spider mom.”

You shrugged innocently. “I contain multitudes.”

He stepped closer, still grinning, and brushed a hand down your bare arm. “Yeah. You really do.” He stepped closer.

Your heart thudded.

There was something in his eyes—still buzzing from the adrenaline of holding Cherry, still glowing from how much he adored you in this weird, glittery, pink-spun universe you’d built. Like he was falling for you again in real time. And you could feel it in your bones.

You tilted your head up slightly, lips parting. “You gonna kiss me or just flirt with my spider?”

Erik smirked. “Can’t a guy do both?”

But then he moved even closer, slow and steady like he was drawn to you by gravity itself. One hand rose to cup your cheek, warm and a little rough, his thumb grazing just beneath your eye. His touch was gentle—like you were something soft he didn’t want to break.

“You look so pretty,” he whispered, like the thought hit him out of nowhere and he had to say it before it burned a hole in his throat. “Like… stupid pretty.”

You smiled, soft and pink and glowing.

“So kiss me.”

He did.

He leaned in and kissed you slow—so slow—his lips brushing yours with that kind of aching, intentional softness that said he wasn’t in a rush. Just the press of his mouth against yours, lips molding perfectly, breath catching in that delicate little pause between heartbeats. His free hand found your waist, fingers curling gently into the fabric of your lingerie, anchoring himself to you.

You kissed him back, arms sliding up around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes so you could melt into him properly. His lips parted just slightly, just enough to let his bottom lip drag sweetly against yours—teasing, tasting, not deep yet but promising.

And it was warm. And safe. And glittery.

The tarantula tank hummed softly beside you. Candles flickered. Somewhere across the house, the sound of a piano note echoed faintly from a speaker your mom had probably left on. (Chopin – “Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2”). But in that moment, the world got real small—just your lips, his hand on your waist, the shared breath between you.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, eyes still half-lidded.

You grinned. “You like trouble.”

He kissed you again—quicker this time, like he couldn’t help it.

And maybe he couldn’t.

Because the way you tasted, the way your mouth moved with his like you were made for each other?

Yeah. Erik was gone.

Eventually y’all did pull apart-

He wandered through the closet, inspecting your perfume shelves, your crystals, your racks of pink everything. A lot of creepy shit too, but in a cute pink way. Taxidermy butterflies in gold frames. A tiny Ouija board on a vanity tray. An antique dagger dipped in rhinestones. He blinked at a pair of heels shaped like little coffins and whispered, “What the fuck?”

“What the hell do you do, again?” he asked, lifting a crystal vial of perfume shaped like a rose.

You slid onto the bed, legs crossed, smiling like a secret. “Modeling what my family designs. My family’s been in fashion since forever. We’ve got a house in Milan, but this one’s my favorite.”

He turned to look at you fully, brow raised, still holding the perfume like it might whisper a prophecy. “Jesus, babe. I thought I had tattoos that made me mysterious.”

You gave a lazy little shrug, fingers toying with the pink ribbon on your robe. “You are mysterious. You look like you kiss people and disappear.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You look like you cast love spells for fun.”

You bit your lip. “Only on boys with pretty faces and commitment issues.”

That made him grin. He stepped closer, slowly, still holding the perfume. “So... me.”

You tilted your head, eyes glinting. “You said it, not me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand braced near your thigh, the other setting down the rose-shaped bottle. His gaze lingered on you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss you or keep staring forever.

“Remind me to never piss you off,” he murmured.

You smiled, lashes lowering just a little. “Too late. I already love you.”

And just as the words settled between you like glitter in the air—

The intercom buzzed.

"Miss, dinner is ready. The family is waiting."

You groaned and flopped backward across the pillows like the world was ending.

He blinked. “This is real life?”

You reached for him. “Unfortunately.”

You threw on a robe over your lingerie (pink, of course). Erik smoothed his hair and followed you downstairs.

Dinner was actually... normal.

Which was weird, considering your dining room looked like something out of The Godfather meets Versailles. Crystal chandeliers, velvet chairs, candles glowing in tall candelabras, and enough silverware on the table to host a royal wedding.

Your mom smiled at Erik like she hadn’t clocked every tattoo on his body two seconds after he walked in. “So Erik, do you cook?”

He blinked, halfway into unfolding his napkin. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone. Or starving.”

Your dad poured him wine like it was an ancient ritual. “Cabernet okay?”

“Long as it’s not poison,” Erik said dryly, then paused. “That was a joke.”

Your dad raised a brow. “I haven’t poisoned a man in years.”

Your mom didn’t blink. She just offered Erik a porcelain plate with handmade ravioli and a garnish that looked like a tiny edible rose.

“You pierced her?” she asked lightly, sipping wine, as if discussing weather.

Erik nearly choked. “I—yeah. Professionally. With gloves. Consent. You know. Very respectful nipple stabbing.”

You kicked him gently under the table, trying not to laugh.

“She said it didn’t even hurt,” your mom added, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “She has a surprisingly high pain tolerance.”

Your dad hummed. “She got it from me.”

Erik, unsure if this was bonding or a soft threat, nodded. “Cool. Genetics.”

You leaned your cheek on your hand and watched the three of them like you were observing an experimental art piece.

“Can we change the subject?” You spoke. Talking about your nipples wasn’t a subject you wanted to talk about at the table. Or at all.

“Right. Do you like art, Erik?” your mom asked, swirling her wine.

“Hell yeah,” he said. “I do a lot of drawing. Ink work. Tattoos. I like stuff that feels... personal.”

Your dad glanced up. “You do your own tattoos?”

“Some of ‘em. Some I traded. Some I earned. Some is just random, cool shit.”

“Earned?” your dad repeated.

Erik shrugged, sipped his wine. “Every scar has a story, right?”

That made your mom smile. “You’re poetic.”

He side-eyed you. “She rubs off on me.”

“She tends to do that,” your dad said, looking over at you like you were still five years old and running barefoot through the garden.

You mouthed sorry to Erik, but he only smirked, reaching under the table to rest a hand on your knee. Warm, solid. Calming.

“I still don’t know how she convinced me to paint my nails last week,” he murmured.

You sipped your drink. “Black polish. It was hot.”

“Can’t lie,” he said. “I kinda liked it.”

Your dad arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Your mom smiled wider.

“You’re from the city?” she asked.

“Born and raised.”

“Quiet house?” She asked again.

“Loud,” Erik said. “Two siblings. Parents still together, somehow. They’re not doing totally bad though. I mostly stuck to my room. Drew on the walls. Got grounded a lot.”

“Grew up with girls or boys?” She piqued.

“Both. My sister kicked my ass until I turned thirteen. Even though I’m older than her. Then I started tattooing my friends and became cool.”

You laughed. “Julia would love her.”

“Totally” Erik said.

There was talk of Milan. Of gallery openings. Of your last photo campaign in Paris.

Erik listened, nodded, answered questions. He even said “ma’am” once and made your mom blush.

Halfway through dessert, your dad leaned back and said, “You should stay the night.”

Erik blinked. “Uh…”

“We’ve got a few extra rooms,” your mom added, like she wasn’t sitting there in a pearl-studded robe like an editorial from Vogue Italia.

You smiled sweetly. “Please? I want you to stay.”

Erik cleared his throat, adjusting in his chair. “Yeah. Sure, babe. If you're okay with it, I mean…”

Your dad gave him a long look. Then nodded, approving.

“She’s the one running the show.”

Erik gave a half-smile, and quietly wondered what the hell kind of dream sequence he’d landed in.

Back upstairs, the tension from earlier had settled into something quieter. Softer.

“I’m gonna feed Cherry,” you said, padding over to the far corner of the room. You switched on a tiny warm lamp beside his tank, casting a soft amber glow across the glass and your skin.

Erik hovered near the doorway, arms crossed like a guard dog with trust issues. “He’s gonna crawl into my mouth while I’m sleeping.”

“He’s a lady,” you reminded him sweetly, crouching down beside the tank.

“A lady tarantula,” he echoed, grimacing, “-but actually a male. So like… a lady in drag?”

“He’s gender fluid,” you said with a little shrug. “Like me when I shop in the men’s section.”

He snorted. “Yeah, but you’re hot. Cherry’s… plotting a murder.”

You giggled, leaning down to drop her tiny food pellets gently into the corner of the tank. Cherry crept forward slowly, legs gliding like silk threads as she claimed the food like royalty.

“He’s sweet,” you insisted again, eyes soft.

He walked closer, cautiously, hands on his hips as he leaned down. “You keep saying that like he’s not covered in a hundred knees and eyes.”

“He likes warmth,” you whispered, tapping the side of the tank lightly. “You literally held him earlier.”

Erik smirked. “I was feeling bold, guess he isn’t so bad though.”

You hummed proudly. “Exactly.”

You turned to point behind you. “That’s Thumper. You know, from Bambi.”

Erik looked up—and sure enough, nestled inside a plush velvet bunny bed like some spoiled Victorian prince was a fuzzy white rabbit with a pastel pink ribbon tied neatly around his neck. His fur was blinding white, his ears twitched lazily, and his eyes—glowing red like he had a vendetta against mankind. Not softly pink. Not cute ruby. Full hellfire red, like he’d been summoned instead of born.

“Oh my god,” Erik muttered. “What the actual hell—why does this place look like Cruella de Vil’s penthouse if she retired and started a glitter cult?”

You just grinned and opened Thumper’s little habitat like it was completely normal. “He’s shy. But he likes blueberries. Wanna help me feed him?”

Erik stared at you. Then at the vampire bunny. Then back at you.

He blinked slowly. “I already made peace with Satan in a spider suit.. Might as well get bitten by a satanic Build-A-Bear too.”

You giggled.

He sighed dramatically and kneeled beside you. “Sure. Let’s add ‘demonic bunny concierge’ to the list of things I survived this week.”

You giggled as you handed him a single blueberry like it was some sacred offering. Erik took it slowly, like it might explode.

He held it out toward Thumper with two fingers, cautious and unimpressed.

The bunny sniffed once, twitchy and judgmental, then delicately chomped down on the berry like he’d just been served at a five-star restaurant.

Erik blinked. “Okay… what the hell.”

You leaned closer, eyes glowing. “Aw. He likes you.”

Erik watched the fluffy little menace nibble away, eyes narrowed. “He’s eating like he pays rent. This is insane. You got him a checking account too? Health insurance? Is this rabbit employed?”

You laughed, brushing his arm, but Erik wasn’t finished. He pointed a stern finger at Thumper.

“I’ve lived with grown men who didn’t eat this politely. I once had a roommate who drank Monster for breakfast and considered ketchup a food group. Meanwhile, this dude’s out here snacking like he’s got a Michelin star and a trust fund.”

“He’s classy,” you said proudly, adjusting the pink ribbon tied neatly around Thumper’s neck.

Erik gave you a flat look. “No, he’s terrifying. He’s too quiet. Too... pristine. Like he’s plotting. If he pulls out a monocle, I’m leaving.”

You snorted.

“I don’t even know if I like him or if I’m being silently judged,” Erik continued, now full-on ranting. “Look at his posture. Look at his fur. The tiny fucking bed. Looks like a penthouse suite at a Vegas hotel for small woodland creatures?”

You laughed harder.

Erik leaned down again, watching as Thumper reached for another berry. “Jesus. He’s got etiquette. He’s not just eating—he’s dining. I feel underdressed.”

You held out another blueberry with a grin. “Want to feed him again?”

He hesitated, squinting at the bunny like it might suddenly demand taxes. Then sighed in defeat. “Fine. But I swear to God, if he starts blinking in Morse code or levitates, I’m not sleeping here tonight.”

“He won’t,” you said sweetly. “Unless you disrespect the ribbon.”

Erik turned to you slowly. “You mean this tiny pink noose of power?”

You giggled uncontrollably.

“I don’t trust it,” he muttered, feeding Thumper another berry anyway. “But damn, I respect the shit.”

He gave you a side-eye. “What else are you hiding in here? A python? A peacock? The ghost of a Victorian child?”

“Nope,” you chirped, smoothing Thumper’s ears as he flopped into your lap. “Just a soft heart and a few secrets. And a cat who thinks she owns the place.”

You looked up and gestured vaguely toward the mess of blankets on your bed. “Honeybee’s somewhere in here. Orange tabby. She thinks she’s a raccoon.”

“Why does that… make sense?” Erik muttered.

“Cause she eats my pillows and hisses at the mirror.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You giggled again, stroking Thumper’s head as he burrowed closer to your thigh. “She has attitude. But she’s cute. Like someone else I know.”

He side-eyed you again. “That better not be about me.”

You smiled. “It’s absolutely about you.”

Erik shook his head, watching you—pink robe slipping slightly off your shoulder, Lucifer’s cotton ball in your lap, glowing like some magical creature he accidentally summoned and couldn’t send back. You’re the magical creature btw.

“You know,” he said slowly, “if this is a trap—like a really pretty, expensive trap where I wake up one day and find out you’re secretly a cult leader—it’s working.”

“I’m flattered,” you said, chin resting in your palm as you beamed up at him. “Want to pet em’?”

He gave you a flat look. “The rabbit, or you?”

“Both, obviously.”

He chuckled and reached out, stroking Thumper’s fur gently while your knee brushed his. The warmth of the room, the scent of perfume, the candlelight flickering near the vanity—it all blended into something soft and surreal.

“You’re good with him,” you murmured, watching his fingers trace carefully between the bunny’s ears.

He didn’t look up. “I’ve had practice. Julia went through a guinea pig phase. Those things scream.”

You laughed, and he finally looked at you—really looked. Your eyes were glittering, skin dewy from candlelight and heat, your smile just a little crooked in the prettiest way.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just… watched you.

Then: “You’re kinda ridiculous.”

“I’m glitter and animals and lace and problems,” you said proudly. “Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, I’m taking it,” he muttered, rubbing the bunny’s head one more time. “I’m just scared of what else comes with it.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, soft and slow, your lips brushing just under his cheekbone. “You’ll survive.”

Erik barely exhaled, but his shoulders relaxed. His hand moved to rest gently on your knee, thumb drawing slow circles. Thumper wriggled like he was plotting, who knows.

Erik raised a brow at the bunny. “Chill, Romeo.”

You giggled, curling into his side slightly.

The moment felt sweet. Warm. Almost stupid in how perfect it was. But that was the thing about you two: no matter how chaotic, how sarcastic, how out of place it might’ve looked from the outside—every moment always settled into something quiet. Something real.

Then you put your bunny back in his habitat, got up and grabbed a towel off a rack from the side and handed Erik a towel. “You can go shower.”

He paused. “You joining me?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m letting you rinse off alone?”

🔞

The bathroom was marble and warm, glowing softly from golden sconces on the walls. The light caught every bead of moisture, turning steam into diamonds, and steam hung thick in the air like a silk curtain—curling, swirling, fogging the glass with lazy grace. Everything glowed. Everything whispered. It was the kind of room that felt holy.

You stepped under the stream first, water spilling down in a smooth, steady rhythm. Your eyes fluttered shut as the heat enveloped you—trickling through your hair, cascading over your shoulders, rolling down every curve of your body like it had nowhere else to go. The pressure hit just right, pulsing gently against your back, rinsing the outside world into silence. It was soft. Dreamy. Like standing in the middle of a secret.

Then you felt him.

Erik stepped in behind you—slow, quiet, reverent.

For a second, he just stood there, frozen in the haze. Watching. The steam curled around you like a veil, and he looked almost startled by the sight of you—like the curves of your back, the dripping silk of your skin, the glow of your shoulders had knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

His hands came next. Big. Warm. A little rough from work, but steady, careful now—sliding down your waist like he was afraid you might disappear. His thumbs pressed gently into your hips, grounding you, anchoring you as his chest met the soft line of your back.

You hummed, your body melting instantly into his. Your spine arched the tiniest bit, the heat of him curling into your skin like he was made to fit there. The water rushed between you, but his presence stole the spotlight from every drop.

Then his lips—barely a brush. A kiss to your shoulder. A second. A third. His mouth moved slow, tracing a path toward the base of your neck, like he had all the time in the world.

“I’m gonna break something in this damn house,” he murmured, his voice dazed and hoarse against your wet skin.

You smiled faintly, eyelids heavy. “Just not my heart, okay?”

That made him pause.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it was loud. Thick. Charged with something deep and secret and soft. His breath ghosted along your skin, his hands holding you a little tighter now, like he needed you close just to keep his thoughts straight.

Then his lips returned—slower this time. A kiss beneath your ear. A graze along your jaw. His breath shaky.

“Not planning on it, babe,” he whispered, like a vow pulled from the back of his throat.

You turned to face him—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, water dripping off your lips, eyelashes damp and dark. The two of you just stood there, suspended in time, chests barely touching, steam rising between your faces like a secret.

You reached for the body wash and poured a dollop into your palm, working it slowly into a lather before dragging your hands across his chest—firm, warm, slick with water. You traced every muscle, every inked line, every scar and shadow that made him him. The soap slipped along the lines of his body like your hands had known them forever.

He didn’t look it, but Erik was strong—deceptively so. Every movement beneath your fingers was sculpted tension and quiet control. His breath hitched softly, and you felt it—how your touch undid him.

He mirrored you—hands gliding over your hips, then brushing up along your sides, trailing over your ribs. His touch slowed at the undersides of your breasts, over your new tattoo, careful but lingering, teasing but reverent. His thumbs circled slowly, barely there. You shivered beneath his hands.

There were kisses.

God, there were so many kisses.

He leaned in—wet skin, parted lips—and kissed you full on the mouth. Deep. Hot. Slow. The kind of kiss that fogged the mirror even more. His lips moved against yours like he wanted to taste every corner of your mouth, tongue sliding lazily with yours, savoring, almost desperate. You moaned into it, the sound swallowed by water and breath and the press of his body.

You pressed closer, your chest slick against his, your nails dragging lightly down his arms. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, the other slipping to the small of your back as he deepened the kiss with a soft groan. The world tilted.

Then—one of his hands slid between your thighs. Featherlight.

Just a stroke.

A tease.

You gasped softly against his lips, head tilting back, and he chased the sound with another kiss—wet, messy, perfect. Your hand gripped the side of his neck, the other curling in his soaked hair, fingers tightening like you needed him to anchor you.

He groaned again- low, ragged- and drew you closer, like even an inch of space between you was unbearable. One hand stayed pressed firm to your back, steady and grounding, while the other drifted downward- slow, unhurried, full of intent. His fingers slid between your thighs, warm and slick with steam, and when the course pad of his finger tip brushed your clit, it was barley a touch- but enough to steal your breath.

He circled gently with that maddening tenderness that set your nerves alight. Your knees wavered, breath catching in your throat, hips tilting into the motion like your body already knew what it needed. The contrast of his calloused finger against your softest place sparked like static- rough and reverent, precise in its pressure, like he knew just how to unravel you, and was taking his time doing it.

“You’re unreal,” he was so convinced, he breathed against your lips.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Your mouth found his again, tongues tangling, breathing together, both of you drunk on the heat and softness and the way your bodies just fit.

His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you up as you whimpered into his mouth. It was everything and nothing at once, pure sensation and want and steam.

You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, but your lips didn’t part. They hovered—panting, brushing, whispering nonsense.

“Erik…” you whispered, voice trembling.

His only reply was another kiss—deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He kissed you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to ruin you or worship you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Wild. Blown wide with something deeper than lust. His breath shuddered as he stared at you, taking you in like a sinner staring at salvation.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, voice raw like it hurt to say. “I touch you and I—I lose my fucking mind.”

You smiled—kiss-drunk and glowing, your fingers threading behind his neck. “Good.”

The steam veiled everything—senses softened, vision blurred, like the two of you existed nowhere but here, dripping and tangled in heat.

And then—

His hands found the backs of your thighs, one then the other, rough and deliberate. His fingers curled around the softness, gripping like he meant it, like he needed to, and without a word—without warning—he lifted you clean off the marble floor.

A gasp tore from your throat as your spine met the warm, fogged glass of the shower. It thudded gently behind you, rattling in its frame, steam-painted with the shadow of your back.

You clung to him instinctively—arms wrapping around his shoulders, legs winding around his waist, breath caught in your throat like a bird too stunned to fly. His hands stayed locked beneath your thighs, holding you there with such filthy ease, the muscles in his inked forearms flexing against your slick skin, drenched hair dripping between you both.

The glass was cool compared to the heat of his body. Your bare back arched against it, slick with water and steam, the contrast making you shiver. Your heels dug lightly into his calves, then higher—wrapping around his waist like instinct. His mouth didn’t even hesitate—pressed hard to yours, tongue sliding deep, kissing like he was claiming space. Like your mouth was the last sacred thing on earth.

And just when it started to get really filthy—when hands were sliding, hips were shifting, water dripping from mouths and mingling with breath—

He groaned low against your lips, like something in him snapped.

You barely had time to whimper—your breath stuttering out in a soft, desperate gasp—before he pushed inside.

All at once.

A slow, stretching invasion that knocked the breath from your lungs. Your body arched in surrender as he filled you to the hilt—deep, hot, unbearably thick.

It was like being lit from the inside out.

And God, you should’ve been used to him by now.

You’d done this before. Again and again, in secret corners and quiet nights, between laughter and longing and whispered I love yous. But it never stopped feeling like the first time. Like your body couldn’t quite believe he was real. Couldn’t quite handle the way he fit so deep, so right, like he was designed just for you and no one else.

He groaned through gritted teeth, his voice dark and dazed. “Fuck, baby…”

You felt everything.

Every inch.

Every heavy, heart-thumping drag of him inside you.

And then—there. That perfect flicker of pressure as the silver curve of his Prince Albert piercing caught against your walls, just enough to make your whole body jolt. A gasp tore from your throat as your legs tightened around him instinctively, back arching against the fogged glass like your body couldn’t get close enough.

That piercing. That perfect glint of metal buried deep inside you. It always made you lose your mind.

It wasn’t just pleasure—it was possession. Like he was marking you from the inside.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your neck, his voice hot and low, his hips frozen just enough to make you feel every throb, every twitch of him deep inside. “That’s mine, baby.”

Your fingers twisted into his soaked hair, mouth falling open. “Erik—”

He kissed you before you could finish.

Hard. Starving. Like he was the only thing keeping you alive and he knew it.

Because that was the thing about Erik Campbell.

He was a drug.

A rush. A burn. A slow, sweet poison that stole your breath and gave you something better in return.

You didn’t just love him.

You craved him.

He moved inside you with a slow roll of his hips, and you saw stars. Pressure and heat surged with every grind, every drag of his piercing hitting just right—again, again, again—until your legs were shaking and your nails were leaving little half-moons down his back.

It was insane, the way he ruined you.

The way you swore you could never have him again for the first time… and somehow it always felt like you were.

“F-fuck,” you gasped into his mouth, forehead pressed to his, dizzy and aching as he filled you. His jaw flexed. His hips rolled forward again—slow but so deep it made your breath catch.

“Jesus,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this—”

Your moan was soft, high, desperate. You rolled your hips, chasing more, needing more, and he gave it to you without hesitation.

He fucked you against the glass like he wanted to brand it—deep, hard strokes that knocked the breath out of you, again and again. His grip on your thighs was punishing in the prettiest way, your back sliding slightly with every thrust, steam rising around you like smoke.

Every movement was soaked in heat and something needier than lust. Like worship. Like obsession. Like he was pouring weeks of longing into the rhythm, unspoken I missed you’s and I need you’s riding each deep, slow thrust. His bottom lip caught between his teeth hard enough to draw blood, but he didn’t care—he leaned in and kissed the sweat off your temple like it was holy.

Your back arched more against the slick glass, wet thighs trembling around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. You kissed him like you were drinking him, like he was water and you were starved—your lips clinging to the edge of his cheek, your tongue ghosting across his throat, hot breath huffing against the fluttering pulse there.

“Don’t stop, Erik—please—” you whimpered, voice cracking, fingernails leaving crescent moons in his shoulders.

“I’m not,” he choked out, forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking into something hoarse and raw. “Not fuckin’ stopping—look at me, baby—look at me.”

You did.

And everything slowed.

Your eyes locked, and the world vanished—just wet heat, shuddering breath, and the stretch of him inside you, hitting something too deep, too perfect. You clenched around him—tight, desperate—and he nearly buckled with a gasp.

“Fucking hell—” he whimpered, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back harder, rougher, chasing it, chasing you.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, one rough palm sliding under your ass for leverage as he pistoned into you, your bodies a blur of steam and soaked skin, every thrust a filthy sound that echoed in the fogged-up marble shower. You tilted your head back and cried out, your voice high and breathless, overwhelmed by how deep he was, how full you felt—like he was carved to ruin you.

And he was.

He leaned down, mouth greedy on your skin, sucking hard bruises into your chest—sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breast, his teeth sinking in, tongue lapping over your pretty pierced nipple until it was slick and aching. Then the other. Sucking hard. Biting just enough to make you cry out.

Your hands tangled in his hair more, your own mouth finding his jaw, his neck, your lips parted against his throat. You kissed your own marks into him—soft whimpering kisses, then darker, desperate hickeys along the ridge of his collarbone, down the side of his neck. “My pretty boy,” you whispered, breath catching, leaving another kiss right over his pulse.

“You good fucking boy …” you whispered, a breathy, manic laugh spilling from your throat- low and sugar-slick, laced with something unhinged.

Your pretty eyes burned with that glassy, doe-like innocence, but there was nothing pure in the way you looked at him. Not anymore. Not when every flutter of your long, wet lashes framed a gaze so feverish, so filthy, it made his chest tighten.

Obsession lived there- wide and wild -like you’d tear your own throat open if he asked.

Rip your heart out with a smile just to hand it to him bleeding.

He whimpered.

Erik fucking whimpered into your shoulder, biting down again to muffle the noise, rutting into you like he was drunk on the sound of your voice, the clench of your body. That Reversed Prince Albert dragging against your walls in just the right way—it always did—and every single time felt like the first. Like you weren’t supposed to survive it.

“God, baby—” he groaned, voice wrecked, hips stuttering.

Your legs trembled around him, your body twitching with pleasure, tears slipping from the corner of your eyes, your whole body taut and electric and flushed pink with it.

He kissed your neck. Your jaw. Your lips.

And he followed you—came hard with a gasp and a curse, pressed so deep inside you it felt like he lived there. His body shook, arms wrapped tight around you, his forehead dropping to yours again as you both shattered, held, stayed.

He pressed you to the glass and held you through it.

Both of you gasping. Wet. Wrecked. Shaking.

Held in each other’s arms like you were the only safe place left in the world.

Steam swallowed the rest of the scene.

Only the echo of your breaths remained.

-and you’re outta your fucking mind if you think they aren’t going round two.

BONUS

🖤Authors Note🖤:

This was my first time writing a smut scene- apologies if it’s not the best…

#erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #final destination #erik campbell final destination #final destination bloodlines #Spotify

100 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 24 days ago

Text

412 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 24 days ago

Text

“Ink Me, Baby.”

Part 4 – Inframammary Tattoo

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Erik Campbell x Bimbo Reader

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Erik’s tattoo shop like you owned the damn lease. Heads turned like always when that bell chimed—but this time, even the co-workers blinked twice.

Because damn.

Black lace mesh heels tapped against the floor in soft, deadly clacks, each step echoing like a countdown. Your legs were wrapped in sharp fishnet diamonds that glimmered slightly under the dim shop lights, like little traps stitched straight onto your skin. That micro leather skirt? Practically indecent—slick, high-cut, clinging to your hips like it owed you rent and was already two months late. And your top? A sheer, gothic daydream of a blouse—bell sleeves, high neck, and jet-black lace that hinted at the silhouette underneath but left nothing to the imagination if the light hit you just right. Tiny buttons undone just so. Collarbones peeking. Your hair was beautiful, it swayed with you. Not a lick of makeup. Not even gloss. Just your pretty colored skin, glowing like an expensive chandelier under candlelight—dewy, soft, and criminally pretty.

You walked in like you were here to either bless the shop… or destroy it.

Bag of greasy fast food in one hand. Large soda in the other. You were the definition of I came to cause problems and feed my man.

Erik looked up from his station—hands gloved, lip piercing halfway in on a client—and the second his eyes landed on you, his brows arched just slightly. He didn’t say anything right away. Just took in the whole look, slow and steady, blue eyes tracing from your heels up to your face with the tiniest twitch of a smile like it physically pained him how hot you looked.

The door softly automatically closed behind you. “Why’s everyone lookin’ like I just strutted in here naked?”

“You might as well have,” Erik muttered, dragging the piercing needle through the guy’s lip with expert precision, his voice flat—but his smirk wasn’t. “You’re lucky this isn’t a kirk.”

The guy in his chair turned slightly and blinked at you, his voice garbled through the lip clamp. “This is your girlfriend?”

Erik didn’t even pause. “Nah, this is just some chick that keeps showing up dressed like sin and feeding me like a stray.” He shrugged. “It’s working, unfortunately.”

You gave a single, sweet, mocked gasp.

The guy blinked again, confused.

“Don’t worry,” you said to the poor pierced man, waving your soda. “He flirts with everyone. It’s part of his customer service voice.”

Erik groaned softly. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

The client snorted as Erik finished the piercing and gave him the usual care spiel. Once the guy paid and shuffled out mumbling ‘damn, she really bad though,’ Erik finally peeled off his gloves and turned to face you fully.

“And what happened to all your pink?” he said, eyes narrowed slightly, that smirk tugging at the edge of his lip. “You look like a Wednesday Addams fever dream.”

You slumped the food bag dramatically onto his counter and took a long, slow, loud sip of your drink. Slurp. “Oh, so I’m not allowed to be your dark angel now?”

He leaned on his elbow, watching you lazily. “Never said that. Just… didn’t expect you to show up looking like you bite people for a living.”

“I do bite people for a living.”

That made him laugh under his breath, tongue brushing over his bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” you mused, resting your hip on the edge of the counter, cleavage just slightly visible through the lace. “Don’t you like..? How do I put this… alternative girls?”

“That’s my style,” he said, stealing a fry from the bag. “Not my type, babe.”

Your stomach fluttered. Stupid, girly, chaotic butterflies. The good kind.

So you leaned closer, lashes fluttering. “Anyways. I brought you food. I expect eternal devotion in return.”

“I already give you eternal devotion,” he said, mouth full of fries. “That’s why I didn’t kick you out when you sent me thirteen stupid-ass memes at three in the morning.”

“They were wholesome.”

“They gave me a migraine.”

“Shut up, you saved two of them.”

“I saved one.”

“You saved two. I saw. You even sent one to Bobby.”

He scowled softly. “Snitch.”

“You’re welcome.”

Erik pulled out the burger and took a bite, eyeing your outfit again from the corner of his eye like he couldn’t not. “I like the grunge,” he mumbled through a bite. “But I like you in pink better.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

He just shrugged, casual, cool, chewing slowly. “You shine different when you're glossy and glittery. Like a pretty little gem. All sparkly and obnoxious.” He booped your nose lightly with a ketchup-covered finger and went right back to eating.

You literally almost combusted. Like, your heart did a full cartwheel in your chest and your spine felt fizzy. Your pupils practically morphed into pretty pink hearts on the spot—wide, dilated, love-struck. You looked at him like he’d just told you your birth chart was perfect, your credit score was 850, and he canceled all your red-flag exes from the timeline.

Your stomach? In knots. Your brain? Mush. Your soul? Wearing a tutu and doing pirouettes like a majestical ballerina.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you breathed, voice a little squeaky with how violently you were holding back a full-body reaction.

You looked down at your lace-covered chest like you needed to make sure your heart was still inside your body and hadn’t just glitter- bombed out onto the floor.

You softly wipe the ketchup off your nose.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m gonna cry.”

“Please don’t. I’m eating.”

You smiled so hard your face hurt and slid onto his rolling stool like it was your throne. “Well. I’m here for another tattoo, booboo.”

Erik paused mid-chew. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He sighed, eyes closed. “I just did your back. Literally like a week ago.”

“That’s such a hyperbole statement to claim. Besides, I tipped you like a desperate stripper.”

“That you did,” he muttered. “Where this time?”

You pointed. “Like, under my tit.”

Erik squinted. “An inframammary tat… today?”

“Yup,” you said, kicking your legs innocently. “I even shaved for you.”

He stared. “It’s gonna hurt.”

You smirked. “Kinky.”

He choked a little on his drink.

“Jesus Christ, you freak” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I don’t have another client till three.”

You stripped off your lace top like it was nothing. No shame. “If you weren’t my boyfriend, this would be so wildly inappropriate.”

Saying as if he hasn’t recently just pierced my nips.

“You are wildly inappropriate.”

“And you love it.”

He tossed you a pair of petal-shaped nipple covers. “Stick these on. And please don’t flirt with me while I’m sanitizing the machine.”

You slapped them on dramatically, topless now except for your leather skirt and heels, sitting cutely like a statue in a museum of hot messes. Erik didn’t even pretend not to look.

“Eyes up, Campbell.” You scoffed at the perv.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, chuckling as he prepped the stencil.

He wiped the skin clean, leaned in close, and pressed the transfer gently against the side of your ribcage. The chill of the stencil solution made you arch a little, which earned a quick glance.

“Careful,” you whispered as he adjusted the placement. “You might fall in love while shading that butterfly.”

He paused. “Too late.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

He smirked and didn’t answer.

The machine buzzed to life.

He began to tattoo.

And you? You laid on your side, comfortable on that tattoo bed, soft breaths falling from your lips as the needle hit your skin. It burned, but in that way you liked.

That pretty pain.

And not to mention his hand placements, he was so comfortable, sitting on his rolling stool while leaning into your body, it made it easier anyways.

It went on like that for nearly two hours—banter, bickering, teasing.

“I’m bored,” you groaned mid-way through. “Tell me about your childhood trauma.”

“No.”

“Tell me about your favorite band.”

“You’ll roast me.”

“I already roasted your band poster.”

“That is my band.”

“Exactly.”

He sighed. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“You’re lucky I feed you.”

You moaned once—dramatically—just to mess with him.

He groaned. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Sounding like that. This is a public space.”

“Oh, please. I’m literally your girlfriend. You pierced my nipples.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to flirt while I’m stabbing you.”

“But I want to flirt while you’re stabbing me,” you pouted sweetly, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. Your big, starry doe eyes shimmered up at him—all soft, glowy mischief and natural pretty charm, framed by long dark lashes that you didn’t even have to curl. You were made to get away with things.

He knew what you were doing, that thing you did with your pretty eyes that always got him hard.

Erik didn’t even look up—just shook his head with the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth, biting back how badly he wanted to kiss you instead of tattoo you. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dabbing gently around the stencil. “You need therapy.”

You smirked, chin tilted. “You’re literally giving me permanent trauma right now. This is therapy.”

“God help me,” he muttered again, finishing the last little heart with a careful swipe of ink and a flick of his wrist, like you were a living canvas and he was trying not to lose his mind over it.

When he wiped it clean and wrapped the area, you sat up slow, braless and glowing.

He admired it.

You admired him.

“Gorgeous.”

“The tattoo or me?” you asked.

He looked at you—eyes low, voice rough. “Both.”

You slipped your top back on and flopped up straight on the client chair like you were made of silk. “Will you rub lotion on me later?”

“No.”

“Even if I pout?”

“...Maybe.”

“Even if I cry?”

“...Ugh. Yes.”

You grinned. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

You kissed his cheek, stole a fry, ruffled his messy hair, and looked at him like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

“I’m still your goth sugar baby now.”

“‘Pink’ sugar baby,” he corrected, popping the last bite of burger into his mouth. “Goth’s temporary. That obnoxious glitter in your soul? That’s forever.”

You beamed. “I’m glad you love it.”

And Erik just shook his head like he was doomed.

“God help me,” he muttered, wiping his hands. “I really fucking do.”

Then he looked at you—really looked at you.

Still perched half on his client chair, legs crossed at the knee, shirt barely pulled back on over your braless chest, the bandage peeking out beneath the hem. Your hair was a little messy from where you’d flipped it back too many times, your lips slightly parted, skin flushed from the needle, and your eyes—

God, your eyes.

Big, glossy, pretty things—starlit and full of trouble. Your lashes fluttered like they were made of velvet. That soft, slow smile spread across your lips like honey melting in the heat.

He stood and stepped closer.

Didn’t say a word. Just reached for your waist, guiding you off the chair gently, his palm splaying warm and possessive against your hip as he tugged you closer until your bodies were nearly flush. You tilted your chin up, lashes lowering just a little.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice all sugared silk.

He huffed a soft laugh through his nose, eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorize every detail, every sparkle of light across your cheekbones.

Then—slowly, finally—his hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone, fingers grazing the underside of your chin. His touch was reverent. Gentle. Worshipful.

“It’s actually kinda insane how much I like you.” he said, almost under his breath.

And then he kissed you.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow.

Like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment, and this was it.

His lips met yours in a soft, almost cautious press—warm and deliberate. He kissed you like he was figuring it out, savoring every second. His fingers curled at the back of your neck, drawing you closer. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders instinctively, pulling him in until there was no space left between you.

The kiss deepened.

His mouth parted against yours, the slow drag of his bottom lip catching slightly as your noses bumped, and then again, more certain this time. His tongue brushed the seam of your lips and you sighed, parting them willingly, melting into the taste of him—mint, salt, a hint of spice from the fries, and something so Erik it made your stomach twist.

He groaned low in his throat when you nipped his bottom lip, barely there, but it wrecked him.

You giggled softly between kisses. “Thought you weren’t the soft type, Campbell.”

He kissed you again, firmer this time, like he needed to prove you wrong.

Then pulled back just slightly, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “Shut up.”

But his smile was real. Soft. Crooked.

And when he kissed you again—one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding low on your back—you felt it all: the hunger, the heat, the tension that’d been building since the second you walked in wearing lace and leather and that damn smug smirk.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he was already yours.

Your fingers stayed curled in the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing warm against the chain at his collarbone. You were still close when you finally pulled back, just barely, noses brushing. Your lashes fluttered and you blinked up at him with those big, pretty eyes—doe-eyed and dangerous.

Then, like a sweet little afterthought, you gave him one more kiss. A soft, slow peck. Then another. And one more, right at the corner of his mouth, your lips barely brushing his skin like a sigh.

His hand stayed firm on your hip, but his smirk came back lazy, lip a little red and kiss-bitten.

“Mm,” you hummed, smiling like a devil in lace. “Can I give you a tattoo now?”

Erik blinked.

“...Excuse me?”

You shrugged innocently, pulling back just enough to plop your cute ass right back into his rolling stool like you were about to ruin his life. “What? I brought food, got stabbed, kissed you passionately—I deserve to ink a little heart on you or something.”

He stared at you, equal parts horrified and amused. “You are not touching my machine.”

“But I’m so gentle,” you teased, batting your lashes. “I’ll be so sweet, Erik. I swear.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I could do a little butterfly,” you pouted, voice sing-song. “Or your name in pink cursive. Ooh! Or a Hello Kitty with fangs—”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“C’monnnn,” you pleaded, reaching for the tattoo gun dramatically. “Just a lil' dot? A sprinkle of chaos?”

Erik pointed at you like he was about to lecture a toddler. “If you so much as breathe on my setup, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out.”

You tilted your head, smiling wider. “Handcuff me while you’re at it.”

“…Unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re still in love with me.”

Erik sighed, deeply, and muttered, “God help me.”

But the way he leaned down and kissed your temple? Yeah. You were totally winning.

Twenty Minutes Later

You were fully straddling Erik’s lap now—bare thighs warm against his jeans, his shirt somewhere on the floor, and your manicured hands steady as you held the tattoo machine like it was your own personal wand of chaos.

He sat leaned back in his client chair, head tilted lazily against the headrest, abs flexed just enough to distract you if you weren’t in full artist mode. His nipple ring caught the light, glinting silver just below where your tattoo stencil rested—right above his pec, high enough to make it cheeky, low enough to make it dangerous.

And you?

You were in deep, sparkly focus. Starry eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted, the tips of your lashes kissing your eyebrows as you leaned in close and focused, needle buzzing like a secret between you. Your tongue poked out a little in concentration—so unfairly adorable it almost distracted him more than the needle did.

His hands were tangled loosely in your hair, fingertips softly stroking your scalp like he was grounding himself with every motion. His rings brushed your neck every so often, cool and comforting.

You’d chosen a delicate crescent moon, turned just right above his heart. And tucked along the curve? Three tiny bats—each one barely larger than your pinky nail. Perfectly spaced, dainty little wings outstretched like they were in mid-flight. It was witchy, moody, just the right mix of spooky and sweet.

“This is gonna look so good,” you murmured softly, not looking up. “You’re gonna thank me later when someone compliments your sexy bat titty.”

Erik let out a low chuckle, thumb still idly brushing behind your ear. “My what?”

“Bat titty,” you repeated sweetly, tapping the skin just above his piercing. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m never saying that out loud.”

“You will when you look in the mirror and feel hot as hell.”

He hummed, smirking lazily under you. “I already feel hot as hell. You’re on my lap in fishnets.”

You grinned but didn’t lose focus, angling the machine slightly to finish one wing. “Aw. You’re flirting with your tattoo artist.”

“I’m in love with my tattoo artist.”

“Yeah, well,” you whispered, glancing up through your lashes just once, “she’s dangerously talented and kind of a hazard.”

“Sounds like my type.”

You went quiet again, finishing the last delicate swoop of a wing. The buzz stopped. You gently wiped the area, leaning back just a little to admire your work.

And Erik?

He was still watching you.

Like you were the art.

You slid off his lap with a satisfied little wiggle, careful not to bump the fresh ink. Your leather caught the light as you stood, stretching your arms above your head with a yawn that was far too smug for someone who just tattooed a crescent moon and bats above her boyfriend’s nipple.

Erik exhaled through his nose—amused, wrecked, and still a little dazed-looking—as he reached for the black tee he’d flung over the back of the stool earlier. He slipped it over his head with zero ceremony, tugging it down in that lazy way that made the hem catch slightly on his waistband before falling into place. The fabric hugged the slight taper of his waist, hiding the view you’d just spent twenty minutes worshipping like it was a damn Greek statue.

A tragedy, honestly.

His abs weren’t even that defined in the current lighting—soft shadows and silver piercing glinting just barely through the cotton—but still, the man looked like a forbidden snack from the back aisle of Hot Topic and you were starving.

You took a moment to watch him while he moved around his station. He tossed y’all’s used gloves into the waste bin, sanitized the table and machine like muscle memory, and wrapped the fresh ink over his chest with practiced ease. His hands worked quickly, slipping tools into drawers and rearranging ink caps, cool and quiet as ever.

Even now, even cleaning, he moved like something unbothered and wild—fluid and confident and full of quiet power. Your chaos. Your calm. Your favorite walking contradiction.

Finally, stretching his arms just once, cracking his neck. “Neck tattoo client’s coming in like… five minutes.”

“Yikes,” you winced. “Good luck with that. Neck people are always so dramatic.”

“Says the girl who just got stabbed under her tit and moaned.”

“Those weren’t moans,” you smirked, snatching your bag. “Those were emotional gasps. There’s a difference.”

He gave you a look like he was resisting the urge to pull you back into his lap again. But instead, he leaned down and kissed you once—quick, messy, warm—right on your gloss-less lips.

You smiled against his mouth and pulled back just slightly, brushing some hair off his face. “I’ll see you tonight?”

He nodded, blue eyes locked on yours. “Yeah. Text me when you're home.”

You booped his nose one last time for good measure. “Only if you promise to dream about me.”

He rolled his eyes, grinning. “I always do.”

And with that, you swayed toward the door, heels clicking lightly, fishnets whispering against your thighs, makeup-free face glowing like the world’s most dangerous angel.

The bell jingled behind you.

And Erik?

He watched the door long after it closed. Already counting the hours.

#erik campbell #erik campbell final destination #erik campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines

125 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 24 days ago

Text

Date Night Disaster (But Make It Hot)"

Part 3 – The First Date

(Part 1)

(Part 2)

(Part 4)

Three weeks, one back tattoo, two piercings, and way too many flirty texts later—he asked me out. Sort of.

“Fine. If you’re gonna keep texting me butterfly facts at 3am, I might as well take you out before you show up at my shop naked.”

“Deal,” I said.

So I did what any normal girl would do. I shaved everything, picked the sparkliest dress I owned, and rolled up to his house like a hot pink fever dream on wheels.

I wore a pink mini dress, soft and glossy like melted strawberry ice cream. The fit was perfect—tight at the waist, flaring into a playful little skirt that bounced with every step. The back dipped low, really low, just enough to show off the top of my butterfly tattoo, wings peeking out like a secret. And right below it? A giant silky bow, perched right on top of my ass like a perfectly wrapped present. Every time I turned, it swayed behind me like a flirt.

Bowclads were the sexiest, most innocent things. With sparkly heels, glossy lips, and a heart full of trouble, I looked like a birthday gift made to be unwrapped—slowly. I looked like I belonged on a Bratz doll shelf and I knew it.

I pulled up to his family’s house in my custom pink convertible—matching rims, fuzzy dice, bedazzled wheel. I swear it purred like a spoiled cat. I honked twice.

Then once more just to be annoying.

And then he came out.

And Jesus.

Black button-up. Two—no, three—buttons undone. Sharp collarbones, tattoos crawling up his chest, his silver jewelry catching the streetlights. Sleeves rolled, arms veiny, rings flashing. Piercings in place. Hair messy. Chewing gum like he owned the night. Black ripped jeans, chunky belt with more chains. The boy looked like a sexy cigarette ad from hell.

He paused when he saw my car. Then paused again when he saw me.

I leaned over the door, chin resting on my palm on the rolled down window. “Get in, pretty boy.”

Erik scoffed but grinned—genuinely, which he didn’t do often. “You look like a Barbie someone fed tequila and trauma.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He slid in, long legs folding into the seat like it was built for him, and shut the door. The car immediately smelled like him—cologne, cloves, slight hint of cigarettes, and chaos.

“You clean up nice,” I teased, pulling away from the curb.

“You look like you’re about to ruin my credit score,” he said, glancing over with that lazy smirk of his. “But thanks.”

I giggled, flooring it a little harder than necessary. He grabbed the handle, bracing himself like he’d already accepted death.

“Jesus Christ, you drive like a GTA character.”

I winked. “Only when I’m trying to impress boys with septum rings.”

He snorted. “You think this is impressive?”

I rolled my eyes softly, little smile on my lips.

We bickered the whole ride—playfully, effortlessly. I took the highway too fast, he threatened to walk home.

I sang along to Y2K bimbo pop, he called it “aural brain rot,” but didn’t turn it off.

I slapped his thigh at a red light and he pretended not to like it.

I kept glancing over at him between stoplights, cheeks warm every time I caught him already looking at me.

He didn’t even try to hide it. Just stared like he was studying something weird and fascinating. Like I was a science fair experiment made of glitter and sin.

“You missed the exit.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You literally just passed it.”

“I’m giving you more time with me. You’re welcome.”

“Generous,” he muttered, eyes rolling.

Finally, we pulled up to the restaurant—fancy, dim, rooftop seating. I tossed my keys to the valet and Erik gave me a look.

“You don’t have to try this hard to seduce me, babe.”

“You haven’t even seen the sushi boat I’m about to order yet.”

He chucked and followed me in, his hand brushing mine like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t make my stomach flip.

At the table, we sat across from each other, elbows on the table, legs brushing sometimes under the cloth. I ordered sushi—of course. Rainbow rolls, spicy tuna, whatever looked cute and tasted expensive. He got steak. Medium rare. Of course.

“You’re so predictable,” I teased, picking up a piece of my roll with my chopsticks.

“You ordered a sushi platter with edible flowers and glitter on it.”

“I’m whimsical.”

“You’re high-maintenance.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

He laughed into his glass of water, shaking his head. “Delusional.”

But the way he looked at me across the table? It didn’t match his sarcasm. His eyes were soft. Smirking, but warm.

He watched me eat like it was his new favorite hobby. I licked some sauce off my finger and I swear his jaw clenched.

“This place is expensive,” he said after a few bites.

“I know,” I smiled sweetly, setting down my chopsticks. “That’s why I’m paying.”

“Hell no you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I drove. I’m paying.”

“I’ll walk home.”

“I’ll drive faster.”

He groaned, head falling back as he muttered something about glitter rotting my brain.

“You love me,” I said once again, trying to just manifest him into actually loving me-

“Questionable.”

“You’re staring at me like you wanna marry me and cry at the wedding.”

He blinked, leaned back. “I’d cry if the buffet ran out of dumplings.”

“You’d cry if I ever wore beige.”

He pointed his chopsticks at me. “Guess we’d have to see one day.”

I giggled, smug. “Just let me spoil you.”

“God, you’re dangerous.”

After dinner, we walked out under the warm night sky. My heels clicked on the pavement, his rings clinked as he slid his hands into his pockets. I dangled my keys in front of him.

“Wanna drive?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me—me—to drive your pink clown car?”

“It’s not a clown car,” I huffed. “It’s iconic.”

“I’ll pass, babe.” He nodded toward the passenger side. “I like being chauffeured around by a sparkly psycho.”

I beamed. “Passenger princess it is.”

The ride back was slower. Softer. We talked about everything and nothing. He told me how he got his first tattoo. I told him about my secret obsession with scented stickers. He told me about a dream he once had where he was trapped in a Forever 21 with no exit. I told him that was probably a prophecy.

“You’d die in Forever 21.”

“I’d become part of the wall decor. Just bones holding a ‘Buy One Get One’ sign.”

I laughed so hard I swerved a little and he yelped like a cat in heat.

When I pulled up to his house, I let the car idle.

Neither of us moved.

“Well…” I said softly, turning toward him. “Did I pass the first date test?”

He looked at me. Eyes blue, dark, unreadable.

“No,” he murmured. “You aced it.”

And then he leaned in—slow, sure, hands cupping my face like I was something fragile. His lips brushed mine once, then again, a little firmer. He tasted like mint and steak and sarcasm. My cherry lip gloss stuck to him, and he didn’t even care.

It was slow. Then it wasn’t.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me a little closer, mouth warm, kiss deepening until I was practically melting in the driver’s seat. My hand gripped his chain, pulling lightly, just enough to make him groan against my mouth.

When he finally pulled away, he stayed close—his forehead almost touching mine.

“I’m not good at this shit,” he muttered.

A whisper against my lips.

“You’re doing fine,” I whispered back, leaning in to kiss him again, but-

He pulled away with a smirk, reaching for the handle.

“Text me when you get home,” he said. “Or don’t. I’ll assume you crashed into a bush while thinking about my abs.”

My eyebrows rose. Abs?

Of. Fucking. Course.

“Bye, Erik.”

Words coming out softly.

He slammed the door gently and walked up the path, hands in his pockets, head turned like he knew I was still watching him.

And I was.

I didn’t leave until I saw his light turn on upstairs.

And even then—I drove home with a heart full of butterflies, and a kiss that hadn’t left my lips.

BONUS:

By the time you pulled into the circular driveway of your mansion, the kiss still lingered on your lips like an aftertaste you didn’t want to rinse away.

You didn’t even say hi to your parents this time—just floated through the marble halls like a ghost in heels, all soft smiles and starry eyes.

Your dad glanced up from his drink, pinstripe sleeves rolled, gold rings flashing, but you were already gone—up the curved staircase past the foyer, past your mom in her white silk robe, reclining like a Botticelli painting with a glass of rosé in hand.

“Is that a post-kiss glow?” she called.

You paused on the stairs, gave her a shy little smile.

She grinned back like she’d won a bet with God.

Then you disappeared into your bedroom, dropped your purse, peeled out of your dress with a sigh, and slipped into your cutest “I didn’t try but I still look delicious” pajamas: hot pink polka dot shorts and a spaghetti-strap silk cami, lace trim hugging your collarbone like a soft whisper. Damp hair, no gloss, just warm skin and the smell of coconut and lavender from your quick shower.

You crawled into bed, lights off, screens dimmed, and stared at your phone for a long second.

You weren’t gonna text him.

You really weren’t.

…

Except… maybe just one.

[You, 10:48pm]

Hey.

[You, 10:48pm]

Made it home.

[You, 10:49pm]

Thanks for tonight.

You set the phone on your chest. Tried not to stare. Tried not to need a response.

But it buzzed faster than expected.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:50pm]

You’re home already?

[You, 10:50pm]

Didn’t speed too much. Maybe a little.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:50pm]

Not shocked. You drive like the cops are chasing you.

[You, 10:51pm]

Only when I’m driving away from boys who kiss me like that.

A pause. You stared at the screen like it might blush back at you.

Then:

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:52pm]

Yeah?

Like what?

Your breath caught a little. You bit your bottom lip.

[You, 10:52pm]

Like I mattered.

[You, 10:52pm]

Like you meant it.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then his name lit up your screen again.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:55pm]

I did.

Your stomach flipped.

But you kept it cute. Light. Cool.

[You, 10:56pm]

I know.

[You, 10:56pm]

The way you held my face. That’s not just a kiss, that’s a whole emotional event.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:57pm]

You’re so soft right now.

[You, 10:57pm]

I know.

Don’t get used to it.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 10:58pm]

Too late.

You tucked deeper into your comforter, letting the warmth of that text melt into your skin. You didn’t need to scream. You didn’t need to spiral.

Not when the boy you liked was right there on the other end of the screen, matching your softness with his own quiet kind of affection, making you feel 12 again with a stupid little girl crush.

[You, 11:04pm]

When can I see you again?

You held your breath.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:04pm]

I was gonna ask you the same thing.

You smiled.

[You, 11:05pm]

I’m free tomorrow.

And the next day.

And probably the rest of forever.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:05pm]

Clingy.

[You, 11:06pm]

You kissed me. I’m allowed.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:06pm]

That’s fair.

Another long pause.

You thought maybe that was the end for tonight.

Then:

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:11pm]

Sleep good.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:11pm]

You looked really fucking pretty tonight.

You blinked.

Stared.

Smiled so wide your cheeks ached.

[You, 11:11pm]

So did you.

Even if you called my car a clown car.

[Erik ☠️🖤, 11:12pm]

It is a clown car.

But you looked like a dream in it.

You hearted the message. ཐི♡ཋྀ

You sighed, heart full, phone pressed to your chest again.

You didn’t even need to say I miss you already.

He knew.

TO BE CONTINUED...

#erik campbell #final destination #final destination bloodlines #erik campbell x reader #erik campbell final destination

103 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 25 days ago

Text

!MASTERLIST!

Hii, welcome. I’m really just gonna start Richard Harmon stories!

Erik Campbell x Bimbo Reader

“Ink & Iridescence” - Part 1

“Metal and Mischief” - Part 2

“Date Night Disaster (But Make It Hot)" - P3

“Ink Me, Baby” - Part 4

“Welcome to the Dollhouse, Erik.” - Part 5

Part 5.5 - BONUS

#erik campbell final destination #erik campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines #erik campbell

47 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 25 days ago

Text

"Metal & Mischief"

Part 2 – Three Weeks Later

(Part 1)

(Part 3)

(Part 4)

Erik Campbell x Bimbo Reader

It had been exactly four weeks since I left with a butterfly on my lower back and a swarm in my tummy. I healed beautifully, obviously—Erik had magic hands. And now, I was back. For something bolder. Something shiny.

The sun had gone down when I stepped inside the shop, the glass door giving a soft jingle behind me. It was quiet, warm, the air filled with that inky, antiseptic smell I weirdly liked. The walls were glowing under the dim LED purple lights, and the only sound came from the low music playing and the hum of something far off in the back.

And then… there he was.

Erik. Fucking. Campbell. Once Again.

Behind the counter. Grungy, gorgeous, and still somehow prettier and sexier than sin. His messy black hair was barely pushed back, some pieces falling in his sharp eyes. His sleeves were rolled up. The ink on his arms peeked out, and he was chewing on a toothpick like he didn’t know he was in every one of my dreams.

I walked up slow, my soft little footsteps padding against the floor. I wore my favorite hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit—low-rise, rhinestoned, zipped halfway up. No bra, obviously. My hair shiny, my face fresh, my gloss glassy. Natural, soft. All me. And when I looked at him through my fluttery lashes—

His eyes snapped to mine.

A smirk immediately curled his lips, like he already knew what kind of trouble I was here to start.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning onto the counter like a movie scene. “Look what the sparkly devil dragged in.”

I giggled softly, fingers brushing over the cool glass in front of me.

“Hey, Erik… closing alone?”

“Yup. Pink’s dangerous on you, babe,” he said, eyes dragging down and then right back up, slow and smooth. “What’re we doing tonight? More ink? Or are you just here to tempt me into another existential crisis?”

I leaned in, big doe eyes wide and sweet. “My nipples.”

He blinked.

I smiled. “I wanna get them pierced.”

There was a beat of silence. His smirk cracked wider. “Of course you do.”

He didn’t say anything else—just came around the counter, lazy and long-legged, leading me into the piercing room like this wasn’t about to be so much more than professional. The room smelled clean and crisp. Shiny trays, labeled drawers. He clicked on the overhead light and gestured to the padded chair.

“Alright, sweetcheeks,” he said, snapping on a pair of black gloves with a pop, “let’s get you settled.”

I slipped out of my jacket slow, the zipper making a little shhhhkk sound. No bra underneath, of course. Just skin, soft and warm from the chill in the air. His eyes flickered—just for a second—before he immediately looked away. Respectful. But barely hanging on.

He cleared his throat. “Sit back for me. Arms relaxed. We’ll check anatomy first, make sure everything’s golden.”

It was so cute how non-chalant he was trying to be.

I nodded and did what he asked, sitting back with a little shiver. He was careful, gentle, clinical—but I could still feel the heat in the air when he touched me. Just his fingers brushing along the underside of my breasts to check placement, his thumb moving the tissue ever so slightly.

“You okay, babe?” he asked, voice lower now.

I nodded. “Mhm.”

He looked up from where he knelt in front of me, eyes locking on mine.

“Of course you’re perfect,” he muttered more to himself than anything, pulling away to prep his tools. “Why wouldn’t you be.”

I bit my lip, cheeks warm.

He turned back around with sterile jewelry and two curved needles. “I’m using titanium. Fancy stuff, ‘cause you’re a princess.”

I smiled again. “Obviously.”

“Alright,” he said, suddenly a little more serious. “Deep breath for me.”

I did.

The first needle went in—sharp, fast, stinging. I bit my bottom lip a little harder, but when your kinky- it doesn’t affect as much.

But shit- it still hurt.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice husky and low as he slid the barbell through. “You okay?”

I inhaled a little too much, nodding. “Uh-huh…”

He looked up again, his face softer now. Just barely.

“Almost done.”

The second side hurt a little more. But his touch was steady, voice soft and grounding. He was talking me through it, breath warm, his eyes locked on mine between every step.

Once both were in, he cleaned everything carefully, applying ointment, checking for bleeding. His fingers were still gentle, but there was a tension in his jaw. Like he was concentrating too hard. Like he was trying so hard not to look too long.

“You did amazing, babe,” he finally said, standing back. “Seriously. You’ve got a pain kink or something?”

My eyebrows rose for a second, a soft smile creeping on my lips before I giggled. “Maybe just when you’re doing it.”

He snorted, pulling his gloves off and tossing them into the trash. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you love it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly in amusement, head tilting. “You wish.”

I stood, slow and dainty, pulling my jacket back on—just over my shoulders, not zipped, not closed. My skin still tingled. My nipples ached, hot and sensitive under the fabric.

“How do they look?” I asked, hands playing with the edge of the zipper, eyes wide, innocent.

He looked at me—really looked.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he said, voice thick. “In the best way possible.”

I grinned, smug and sugary-sweet. “Good.”

I zipped back up.

He watched me for a second longer than he probably meant to, then finally cleared his throat and turned back to his tray.

“Don’t forget to clean ‘em twice a day. No playing with ‘em. No rough stuff. You heal pretty, but still—take care of my work.”

I tilted my head. “Your work, huh?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Damn right. They’re my art now.”

The butterflies were back—loud and spinning.

I pulled my hair back into a quick ponytail from the heat, cheeks glowing, nipples still buzzing under the fabric.

I pulled out my purse and a stack of cash, sliding it on the counter, smiling. “Can I text you if I need help… or just wanna, y’know. Say hi?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean flirt shamelessly and tell me how hot I am at midnight?”

I gave a big innocent blink. “That’s a yes?”

He shook his head with a grin. “Text me, babe.”

I turned to go, throwing him one last look over my shoulder.

“Thanks again… you were really gentle.”

“I know,” he said. “But don’t get used to it.”

And I walked out with sore nipples, a warm chest, and a grin so big it nearly reached the rhinestones on my back.

#erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #final destination #erik campbell final destination

108 notes · View notes

erikcampbellsprettywife · 25 days ago

Text

"Ink & Iridescence"

Erik Campbell x Bimbo Reader

(Part 2)

(Part 3)

(Part 4)

~From her point of view~

I could hear the gentle buzz of the tattoo gun before I felt it. The sound was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing—if you ignored the sting every time the needle kissed my skin. I was lying on my stomach, my bare back exposed, my arms folded under my head, and my hair spilling around my cheeks. The tattoo bed was surprisingly soft, or maybe I had just gone a little floaty from all the nerves. Or from him.

Erik. Fucking. Campbell.

He was sitting just behind me, focused, gloved hands ink-stained and confident. The light caught on the metal ring in his nose, his head tilted down, black bangs falling into those ridiculous ocean eyes of his.

He looked like someone who would ruin your life beautifully.

He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes. Just the hum of the machine, and the occasional wipe of a cloth across my lower back. It felt good, knowing he was so focused on me. My tattoo. My body.

And then my voice slipped out, soft and curious.

“When did you say it would start to hurt again?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just glanced up at me for a second—blue eyes quick and electric—before turning back to the butterfly he was carefully bringing to life on my skin.

“When I get closer to your spine,” he murmured, low and casual, like he wasn’t carving art into my back. “That’s when you’ll start squirming.”

Then, after a beat, his voice dipped into that smirky, cocky tone I was already too familiar with. “So let me know if you want a break, okay? We’re doing this on your terms.”

He dipped the needle into ink again. “Besides,” he added with a teasing lilt, “I cleared my whole schedule for you, babe. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

I smiled into my arms, cheeks warm. He called me babe like it was a second nature. Like he didn’t even think about it. Like I hadn’t been holding back a full-on crush since I walked in and saw him all tall, tattooed, and emotionally unavailable.

“Thank you,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder just slightly. “I really appreciate your effort.”

He didn’t respond right away, but I could feel it—the shift in the air. Like my words meant something. His gloved hand gently pulled the skin on my back taut as he continued. Focused. Intent. Sexy.

Honestly, for a first tattoo, I thought I’d be way more nervous. But Erik? He made me feel… safe. Cozy, even.

The tattoo I’d picked was big and bold—an ornate butterfly with wide, dramatic wings that reminded me of a gothic fairytale. Pretty, but dark. A little delicate, a little dangerous. Like me, maybe. Or at least, the version of me I wanted to be.

I glanced at him again from under my long lashes. His jaw was clenched in concentration, his brows furrowed. He looked so serious, and somehow, still so smug.

He caught me staring.

He chuckled, low and amused. “You always watch your artists this closely?” he teased without looking up.

I smiled softly, fluttering my lashes before letting my eyes fall closed. “Only when they’re pretty.” I hummed.

His chuckle deepened, but he didn’t argue.

A few more minutes passed before he spoke again, this time more casually, like he couldn’t help himself.

“So,” he hummed, tone light and teasing, “how come you decided on a lower back tattoo, anyway?”

I could hear the smirk in his voice. Knew exactly what he was implying.

I sighed, my voice still dreamy. “I always wear low rises or something that shows off my back, so I wanna show off that spot with a tramp stamp.”

I paused, then added with a little grin, “And it’ll look good during back shots.”

There was silence for a second. Then—that laugh. Deep, raspy, Erik.

“Oh, babe,” he chuckled, eyes flicking up to me with something wicked hiding behind them, “you really thought this through.”

I opened my eyes, pushing up gently on my elbows to glance back at him. My hair framing my face just right. I smiled, dimples displaying. “I did.”

He looked at me like I was art—his lips parted slightly, like he forgot what he was doing for half a second. Then he cleared his throat and glanced back down at my skin.

“How’s it looking?” I asked softly.

He took a beat. “Looking good,” he said, his voice a little lower. “Halfway there, sweetcheeks.”

I giggled at the nickname and dropped my chin back onto my arms, lips pulled into a cute little smirk. “Amazing.”

I didn’t miss the way his breath hitched slightly. Like I was doing something to him just by existing.

“What all piercings do you have?” I asked innocently, fluttering my lashes again.

His pause was long. Suspiciously long.

“Just my lobes,” he said first, casual. “Septum. Nips.” A slight beat. “And a Reversed Prince Albert.”

My lips parted slightly. I wasn’t dumb—I knew what that meant.

“Oh.” I blinked.

He glanced at me again, full smirk in place now. “Why? You thinkin’ about getting some, babe?”

I shrugged cutely. “Maybe. Want my bellybutton. Maybe my nipples.”

He made a sound in his throat—something between a hum and a groan.

“You’d look so good with piercings,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “I’d love to do them for you.”

I smiled like that didn’t immediately send a swarm of butterflies bursting throughout my stomach. “After my tattoo heals, I’ll totally call you up.”

He grinned, still working. “Yeah. I’ll have you all pierced up, real pretty.”

I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see the blush. I smiled into my arms, heart fluttering stupid fast.

Comfortable silence… then-

“You holding up alright, sweetheart?” he asked a few minutes later.

I nodded. “Better than ever…”

“Wanna know why a butterfly?”

He hummed, focused again. “Why’s that, babe?”

I smiled softly, his words getting to me. “Some butterflies are see-through—like, literally. The glasswing has invisible wings. Some are iridescent, like the Blue Morpho—they flash bright blue in the sun. And no two butterflies are exactly alike. They all fall in love through scent and dance. Sorry, I’m probably ranting too much.”

He shook his head slightly. “Damn. You really know your butterflies, huh.”

Then: “You mind if I add something to your tattoo?”

I looked back. “What is it?”

He smirked. “It’s a surprise, babe. But I promise, it’s special.”

I melted. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

“You just keep that cute little ass still, alright?”

I laughed under my breath. “Can I tell you more?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, sure, babe. Keep going.”

I sighed dreamily. “They use their wings to attract mates. Like love at first sight. I think that’s real, you know?” My own eyes drinking him in.

He made a sound—a scoff. “Sounds like some fairytale bullshit to me, babe.”

I rolled my eyes. “You're such a pessimist.”

“Oh, come on. You really believe in that whole ‘love at first sight’ thing?”

I smiled to myself. “I mean… yeah?”

He laughed—actually laughed. “Babe, that’s Disney stuff. Not real life. It’s hormones and dopamine.”

“Who broke your damn heart?” I muttered, playful but a little disappointed.

He paused.

“Who says anybody broke it?”

I turned my head toward him again. “Because no one who hasn’t been hurt says stuff like that.”

Our eyes locked.

For a second, he didn’t look smug. Just quiet.

“You haven’t found the right one yet,” I said softly.

He shook his head, lips twitching. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

I let the subject drop. We talked about lighter things—piercings, music, movies, whether I could pull off fairy wings in real life (spoiler: I could). Time flew.

“How much longer?” I asked eventually, my body sore and a little achey.

“Almost done,” he said. “You’ve been a damn champ, babe. Just a little longer, alright?”

I nodded and laid back down, heart fluttering.

Then, after a beat:

“…You sure do ramble a lot, babe.”

I frowned. “Hey…”

He grinned. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing. It’s cute. You just talk. A lot.”

I scoffed. “You’re in love with me.”

He laughed. “Oh yeah. Head over heels, babe. Totally gone.”

I grinned and kept talking about nothing and everything.

By the end of it, I was sore, floaty, and filled with way too many butterflies—inside and out.

He finally pulled away, setting the needle down gently. “Alright, babe. We’re done. You did amazing.”

We both stretched. I walked over to the mirror behind us and stared, wide-eyed, at my reflection.

The butterfly on my back was stunning. Dramatic, delicate, just like I imagined. He added shimmer to the wings, like light was catching them. Like they were made of moonlight and stardust.

I turned, bent slightly, glancing at him over my shoulder in the mirror. “Would this look good in back shots?” My voice carrying a hint of flirt and innocence.

He groaned under his breath, eyes shameless. “God, babe. It’ll look insane in back shots.”

I let out a soft laugh and continued to eye my body and tattoo in the mirror, all excited.

“You seem pretty damn pleased,” he murmured behind me.

“I am.”

Before I left, I tipped him big. Probably too big. He deserved it.

And then I was out the door, butterflies still fluttering all over my back—and deep, deep in my stomach.

#erik campbell #final destination #erik campbell x reader #SoundCloud #Spotify

135 notes · View notes