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bluemoonlrh · 3 months ago

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oh, honey! [A.I.]

roadie!reader x Ashton Irwin

the sequel to the coveted ‘being in love’

a/n: you guys asked, so i delivered. i’m so glad you guys love being-in-love-shton as much as i do. he’ll always have a special place in my heart. huge day for souperbloom nation i can’t believe i finished this.

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, angst, very angry reader, semi-public nefarious activities, shit that’ll make your heart race, pet names, fingering (f!receiving), choking, lots n lots of dirty talk, smart mouth ash (as always), lots of inner turmoil but also how could you be mad at that face? once again, i went overboard but how could i not with being in love!ash ????

WORDCOUNT: ~6.7k

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There was no way in hell.

You were surely going crazy. Another month of that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach?

Not a fucking chance.

It was early September now, and tour was in full swing. You had traveled to eight more cities, and yet nothing felt right.

Eight incredible shows, eight smooth rehearsals, eight company meetings— since that one fateful night.

Your mind was in work mode, sure. And your physical being was somewhere in the midwest— but that passion you found in your work, and the love you felt from putting on a show.

It was missing.

Your heart was still in New York.

The clipboard in your lap was barking at you, reading cues and call times, as you flip a pencil between your index and middle finger.

It was so quiet backstage. It always was. Especially before the arrival of the band. You always ended up curled up on a loveseat in one of their dressing rooms, one dressing room in particular, before you were eventually ushered away to start running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off.

"We need road crew on stage."

You took advantage of the moments like these. The measly little moments in which you got to be alone with yourself.

Moments where your mind wasn’t so damn loud.

"Y/N, where are you?"

Your eyes scanned down your perfectly crafted schedule, reading it for the millionth time over and ignoring the crackling call of your name through your headset.

"Y/N, we need you on stage!"

With a huff, you roll your eyes, smacking your pencil down onto the clipboard and using that free hand to push the button down on your headset.

"Fuck, alright! I’m coming, I’m coming!"

The walk down the hallway lined with doors hadn’t felt the same since that night in New York. Something you were usually so comfortable with had turned into a feeling of a racing heart and a spinning head.

You never knew who you’d run into. Who’d be walking down this same corridor at exactly the right moment.

It was all a waiting game.

"There you are! Did you not hear me calling your name forty times?!" Your manager starts yapping the moment you step foot onto the stage, but you just ignore him. Your mind was too preoccupied with that sinking, impending doom.

"I heard it, don’t give me shit. I’ve had a rough day."

You slowly start to make your way across the stage, ducking your head down and trying to ignore the set-up of that pearly green drum kit; the one that liked to taunt you every time you were around it. In fact, his drum kit being the first piece of equipment to be set up on stage felt like some sort of sick joke. Just looking at it made your stomach turn.

Whether the drummer was behind it, or not.

All of the sound equipment was just about perfect in its places when suddenly, you hear a familiar commotion of voices from the opposite side of the stage, towards the outside door.

"Band’s here," your manager deadpans, barely lifting his head up from the clipboard he was writing on.

Those two words sent an unshakable chill down your spine. You knew better than anybody what those two words meant for you, but whether or not you wanted to acknowledge the grip they had on your conscience was something you’d toy with all too often.

"Can somebody go help them unload?" Your manager scans the stage towards the crew, his eyes stopping directly onto yours, "You. Miss “Rough Day”— Go."

He shoos you away with his hand, nose still buried deep into whatever the fuck he was writing down. So, of course, as a good roadie should, you listened. Trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts about inevitably being called that nickname that makes your stomach twist in knots.

Or, about how that nickname sounded in your ears while being fucked against a bathroom counter, only few nights ago.

The silence was louder than anything you’d ever heard, walking down the empty halls to the outside door. You were sure there was some sort of dog whistle that only you could hear, ringing incessantly and telling you that whatever feelings you choked down on that rooftop was just your mind playing tricks on you.

Duh, you never said anything at all. Ashton didn’t know a damn thing.

Unless he was wise enough to piece everything together.

Or maybe, he was a mind reader.

The midwestern sun was scorching, brutal enough to make you feel as though you were getting sunburnt just by walking out into it. There was no sign of a breeze, not a single cloud in the sky. It was a considerably perfect day.

Yeah, a perfect day to lose your fucking mind.

You stepped out into the parking lot, which was already stock full of vans and crew; all of them running around and lugging out bags like the Queen was in town.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were sent out here in the first place. The band’s personal crew seemed to have everything under control, and there was nothing more for you to do besides stand as you were and look pretty.

Surely that’s what he wanted, though, wasn’t it?

"Y/N!"

A familiar voice scares you out of whatever lamppost you were blankly staring into; as precaution to avoid making eye contact with anyone of distaste.

"Oh, hey Luke."

Luke takes long strides towards you, the t-shirt on his back clinging to his slick skin that had already began producing sweat the moment he stepped off the bus. You try your hand at smiling; but you weren’t sure if it read more as an ‘uncomfortable yearbook photo’.

"She’s a scorcher today, isn’t she?" Luke comments, taking the back of his hand to wipe a droplet of sweat off his forehead before adjusting the strap of his guitar case.

You look down at his attire and compare it to yours with a scowl. He was prepped for the weather with thin basketball shorts and the aforementioned t-shirt; yet you opted for your usual uniform. A pair of black jeans and the black CREW tee. You swore you owned a million of these things; in every color of the rainbow.

Not like you paid any mind to the weather channel today. You had other things on your mind.

"The sun? Yeah, tell me about it. It’s fuckin’ brutal out here."

"Yeah... ‘Been out here for like, five minutes and I’m already sweating buckets."

You nod slowly, your eyes sneakily wandering behind Luke’s head as this attempt at small talk was making you more antsy than before. There’s a brief awkward silence that falls between you and the singer; one that was definitely more obvious than you’d thought.

"Well, I don’t mean to distract you. Go do your job, or— whatever. I’ll see you backstage, right?"

"Huh?" Your gaze whips back to meet him, cheeks flushing red, "Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll see ya’."

Luke flashes you a froggy smile before spinning on his heel to walk away, making you cringe at how mortifying that exchange was.

Your heart wasn’t the only thing stuck on that rooftop in New York. Your charm had ran along right with it.

You couldn’t bear standing out in the sun for any longer; practically cooking like a fried egg in a pan with your entirely black outfit. It was in your best interest to head back inside, and you knew that. But something was keeping your boots nailed to the concrete.

A gut feeling.

The people move around you, but you stay still, occasionally catching their eyes and sparing them a meek smile. There was no sign of that pair of sparkling jade irises that you were hoping for.

Not until the moment you turned around.

"What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here in this hellish heat?"

Almost as if it were some sort of cue, Ashton appears. Out of thin air. You swore he wasn’t there just a moment ago. Then again, you also swore you knew a lot more about yourself than you actually do.

"My job," you reply, plainly. As if his presence wasn’t effecting you in the slightest.

"I can tell… Really puttin’ in the work just standing there n’ looking cute…. ain’t ‘ya honey?"

A rumble of nerves roll down your spine as soon as the word leaves his lips.

Honey.

The nickname, although endearing, never failed to drive you up the walls. No matter the context.

"Standing and looking cute is at the top of my resume. It’s what landed me the roadie spot, actually."

Ashton nods at your blunt sarcasm, an eyebrow raised in intrigue as his confidence bounces off of your shoulders. You pause for a moment to take in his appearance, speaking on the fact that each time you looked in his direction lead you to deafening heart palpitations.

His reddened, sun-kissed cheeks were adorned with sunglasses, resting beneath a netted trucker hat which allowed his chestnut-honey-blonde curls to peek out from beneath the brim. His broad chest was complimented by a worn Def Leppard tee, which he had taken the liberty of sloppily hacking off its sleeves to make it into a tank top.

He looked ravishing, as always. It was hard to look away. But you knew in your mind that he was ogling at you with similar intentions.

It was always so fucking obvious.

"Hey," Ashton breaks the silent stare-down, "I forgot some shit back in the van… Mind waitin’ up for me?"

You stutter for a moment, tugging at the hem of your t-shirt, "Uh, yeah. I don’t mind. I’ll be right here."

His face morphs into a small smile as he holds up his hands, "Don’t move an inch. I’ll be riiiiight back."

It was hard to bite back your giddy smile as Ashton scurried towards the van, holding onto the top of his hat as he jogged away.

You felt so dumb, waiting up for him. Dumb was the only word to describe it. Absolutely smitten. Lovesick. Just fucking dumb.

Then again, the entire situation was dumb. And quite frankly, you were tired of feeling that way.

"Got it," Ashton returns, holding up a single pair of drum sticks.

"Don’t tell me you ran all the way back over there just to grab one pair of fuckin’ sticks."

The two of you start to walk as Ashton brushes off your scrutiny. "This isn’t just any pair of sticks. These are my lucky sticks. I use ‘em to warm up. Gives me an extra boost before each show."

You cross your arms, feeling oddly small next to his towering stature.

"Sure. Whatever you say, Ashton."

"Don’t sass me. I don’t like that shit," he frowns disingenuously, sliding in front of you to hold the door open for you, "But then again, I do love it when you say my name."

It was getting harder now to fight the urges inside of you. The itches begging to be scratched by the only person who knew exactly where to reach.

Once you both entered the backstage area, your mind began to race with all the thoughts that had been plaguing you since the moment you locked eyes with him in the parking lot.

How long until soundcheck? Where’s the nearest exit? How fast could the two of you get undressed and get this shit over with?

"You should put your stuff down," you say to him calmly, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

Ashton stops short in front of one of the dressing rooms, readjusting the strap of his bag. A wicked smirk sprawls across his cheeks as his eyes flick down to your lips.

"How about you stop worrying about me, and start worrying about that pretty head on your shoulders. Looks like it’s about to fuckin’ pop."

You roll your lips inwards, feeling yourself take a self-conscious step back as he subtly leans in closer. He gazes at you, oddly softly.

"My head’s fine," you reply, "Worrying is my job."

"Is that so?" Ashton’s quick quip has you stumbling back further, to the point where you’re backed completely against the wall. He towers over you, to no surprise, before anchoring a subtle hand on your waist.

The touch alone sends a shock wave through your body. You felt frozen in time. Frozen in this moment. He ducks down to whisper into your ear, lips barely grazing your cheekbone.

"If it’s your job to stress n’ worry, I’d say I could help with that, at least a little bit. Don’t you agree?"

You swallow hard before replying. Damn you.

"I— I suppose."

"Good," you could practically feel his menacing smile against your skin, "Bathroom. Ten minutes."

A desperate sigh barely escapes your larynx as he draws his gaze back into yours. Your eyes go doe, yet his intensity never falters.

In a shoddy attempt at pushing him away, you place your palms flat against his chest. But he just gazes at your fingertips in amusement, before scooping up your hands, and placing a tender kiss onto your knuckles.

"Don’t be late."

You weren’t sure how much time had passed while you stood in the same spot, right where he had left you. But as soon as you’d noticed that he had rounded the corner towards the wings, you hit the ground running.

The beating of your heart was traveling up to your throat as you stalked the halls in your squeaky old boots, completely oblivious to your surroundings. You were one track minded, to put it simply. And running was super embarrassing.

But who really cares?

You skidded to a stop in front of the bathroom door, latching onto the handle and shaking it to ensure your privacy.

"Anyone in there?" You shout, your voice weakening.

To your relief, nobody replied, so your first order of business was to body slam the door open and lock it behind you.

A sigh tumbles past your lips the moment your back presses against the steel clad restroom door. You couldn’t bear to look in the mirror, to see how much of a disheveled mess you’d become from standing in the hot sun, combined with the frenzied actions that lead you into this bathroom.

Your foot tapped impatiently against the tiles, occasionally checking your watch while you continued to second guess how many minutes was exactly ten of them.

But as you spiral on behalf of the hands on the clock, you hear a quadruple knock at the bathroom door. It was disembodied, no voice behind it asking if it was occupied, nobody wondering if it was you.

You knew what that knock meant.

It was fucking game time.

With a collective breath, you spin around, hastily undoing the lock and cracking open the door.

First, you see the trucker hat. Then, the golden chains. The sunglasses discarded and hanging on the collar of his shirt and the tattooed biceps that accompanied the lack of sleeves.

"Mind if I come in?"

"What’s the password?"

There’s a brief pause from behind the door, followed by a quiet chuckle.

"The password is: let me the fuck in, honey girl."

The door swings open and suddenly you’re stumbling back. You’ve lost all control of your movements and Ashton was finally holding you up by the strings. Like a sad little puppet.

As the door slams shut behind the commotion of Ashton pressing you up against the bathroom wall, all you could think about was how the echo of it slamming was about to make the ringing in your ears much, much worse.

You don’t even get a moment to process how quickly these events were unfolding, before Ashton’s hands are cradling your waist and his stubble is rubbing against your jawline as he nips gently at your neck.

"Been thinkin’ about you," he murmurs, followed by a trill of goosebumps running down your spine.

"Have you really?"

"Mhmmmm." His satisfied hum leads you to give into whatever was holding you back. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the base of his neck, sliding up to knock the hat off of his head and run through his unruly curls.

“Gonna prove it?”

The words fall short coming out of your mouth, said with the least confidence you’d ever felt in your life, but you hadn’t the soul in you to care. His lips were running rampant towards the neckline of your t-shirt and the only thing you could think about now was how soft they felt.

“M’gettin’ there, yeh,” Ashton bumbles, the stubble on his upper lip brushing against you as he smiles into your skin, “You’re talkative today, aren’t you?”

Your face falls flat, thrown off guard by that snide comment, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

It was moments like these that had you questioning whatever the hell was going on in that thick skull of his; you couldn’t tell whether or not to feel used, flattered by the fact that he’d noticed something off about your character, or just plain offended.

His head pops up when he feels your body freeze, hands dropping off of your hips to cup your cheeks and force your eyes into his. “Nothin’ bad, honey. You just— don’t usually do the talking around here. Thought that was reserved for the ‘blabbermouth’.”

You could feel your jaw tense when the calluses on his palms caress your cheekbones, awfully flushed by his condescending tone yet still enjoying it nonetheless. He was referring to the one single time where you snapped, and told him he talked too much. In which he then proceeded to hold onto that statement for a week, and remind you of it every chance he could.

“So what if I wanna talk? Not like you listen to me anyway.”

Ashton’s face drops lightly, a twinge of a smile still left beneath the outgrown stubble gracing his jaw. His broad palms still cupped your face, your words that oozed ambiguity giving him all the means to squeeze your cheeks together until your lips pursed.

“Oh c’mon, you don’t mean that. Do you really think I don’t listen to you?”

His thumb brushes against your top lip, still squashed between his hands, “Doesn’t seem like it, no.”

“Honey, as long as words are falling from those pretty lips, I’m all fuckin’ ears.”

Jesus.

You couldn’t stand to entertain whatever this weird, poetic drabble was about, it was getting you oddly worked up and now, your time left in this bathroom was at the mercy of the poet himself.

“No reply? Damn, I worked hard on that one,” Ashton says with utmost seriousness, taking his hands from your cheeks and moving them back to their original position on your waist, “To think I’ve wasted some of my best material just to bomb my set.”

For some reason, the typical witty remarks that you’d grown so accustomed to were making you seethe. A characteristic that was so unapologetically’ ‘Ashton’ left you feeling like there was an anchor tied around your neck.

You swore you’d loved everything about him. Maybe your manifestations of these feelings one day disappearing were finally coming true.

“Ash, can we just get this moving? My boss is already on my ass about running late from earlier and I just—”

“—Your boss, huh?” his head tilts to the side, his towering frame reinstating its power in this given moment, and your inner monologue from before becoming null and void, “And here I am thinking I was your boss.”

Okay, now you just wanted to reach up and wring out his neck.

“You know what I meant, dickhead. Y’know the guy who runs around with a big headset and bitches me out because your dumbass decided to run off and go missing 5 minutes before curtains? That’s my boss.”

Ashton chuckles, although you can’t quite place the tone, “So then— what does that make me?”

Your jaw ticks again, fighting everything inside of you to shut him up with either a kiss or a sucker punch.

“You don’t even wanna’ know what I think you are, Ashton.”

Something about that comment dropped the tension from between your bodies, Ashton’s steel-faced gaze suddenly disappearing and leaving you practically cross eyed whilst he slammed his lips against yours. You melt into him, albeit a bit sheepishly, letting his tongue roam your mouth and taste every inch that he’d been torn from while you were speaking.

“Like when you’re mean t’ me,” his words knock against your bottom lip before he’s sinking his teeth down into it, “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“Just— shut up. Please.” you retort, pressing the front of your body against his torso and rolling your hips to get a semblance of the feeling of him.

“Is somebody mad at me?” He pops up for a millionth time, although you really wished he’d just shove his tongue down your throat instead.

“No.”

“Is there something that you’re not telling me, hm?” There was that bullshit, devil-may-care attitude again. Coming right back around to bite you.

“No.”

You stand your ground, trying to fight the invasive thoughts of telling him everything you truly felt. The good, bad, and ugly.

“I have a feeling you may be lying but, I won’t pry. Unless— that meant I’d make you angry. You’re sexy when you’re mad at me.”

Ashton’s hands had wandered beneath your t-shirt, now traversing the soft flesh of your torso while he continued to poke every single goddamn one of your buttons.

“So, I’m not sexy all the time?” you try to earn back your playful crown.

“‘Never said that. But, I’ll admit you’re at your sexiest when you look like you want to crack me in the jaw.”

Unable to argue, you shrug, still ticked off by his pestering yet just about ready to tear the already hacked up shirt off of his back. You kiss him again, a bit more forcefully this time, hoping things would stay that way.

A moan rips through your throat when his grip on you tightens, unable to control the volume of your noises yet still, not finding it in you to care. After holding you hostage against the cool bathroom tiles for the entirety of this exchange, he slowly began to back you away from it.

A blind stumble leads you, Ashton, and your ass straight to the lip of the countertop. He used his strength against your limp body to hoist you up onto it, giving you a nice perch and an even nicer slot for him to slide between your legs.

“So good for me, my girl,” Ashton coos, his lips still practically in your mouth, “Always knows exactly what to do for me.”

My girl.

“Your girl?”

The moment freezes. With Ashton tucked between your legs and the back pockets of your jeans damp from being sat on the sink. “What was that?” he asks, still a bit drunk on the taste of your lips.

“You just called me your girl.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? Don’t I always?”

You raise an eyebrow, debating biting your tongue and pretending like you didn’t let your inner monologue slip into your reality, “Well, yeah.”

“And— you’re my girl, aren’t you?”

The way his sweaty curls flopped into those dumb green eyes made them shimmer even more, you were starting to get pissed off simply by his existence. The taunting, the teasing, the ‘making you feel worthless without really even trying’, it was becoming too much to bear.

The cord that held up your heart strings and any last bit of patience you possessed had finally fucking snapped.

“Y’know what, Ash— how about you tell me? Am I really your girl?”

A low chuckle takes up the empty space left behind your pressing question, Ashton’s hands now restless against your hip bone as his eyes searched your face for something to say.

“Is that what this is? Why you’re so mad at me? C’mon, honey girl. Don’t do this t’me right now.”

“Do what to you? Ask a question?” your words bite, and they bite hard, “Don’t you think this is all a little unfair?”

Ashton’s jaw twitches. You’d never seen his face drop so quickly from that shit-eating grin but low and behold, you seemed to have struck a nerve. Maybe even a few nerves. His hands fall from your hips, although still inches away from your face as he huffs through his nose in frustration.

“We can have this conversation another time.”

“Ashton, I don’t think there’ll be another time. Not if you keep pulling this stupid, elusive bullshit—”

“Y/N, please—” His voice gets weaker as he cuts you off, you could practically feel him trembling.

“No. I’m tired of this shit dude! I’m tired of feeling like there’s no end in sight when it comes to you. You string me along like your gross little puppet— Don’t you ever feel sorry? For me? For yourself? God, do you feel anything at all?!”

Your throat began to burn up, that awful chest pain closing in on you as tears begin pricking at your lower lash line. God, please don’t cry, you thought, please don’t fucking cry.

“I can promise you, I feel things. Please— don’t paint me as heartless.”

He reattaches his hands to you, like a moth to a flame. His touch reignites that fuzzy feeling you get whenever he’s around and you’d just wished for even a second it would go away. But as you’d said, finally vocalized out to the man who keeps you up at night:

There really was no end in sight.

“I’m tired, Ash. Tired of feeling so fucking— used.”

As though you’d lost control of your senses, your hand finds its way to his curls. Those curls you love to tug, and play with. To inhale and exhale on the rare occasion that he lays on your chest to listen to the sound of your heartbeat. The thought of him was intoxicating, despite the fiery red fury you’d just unleashed into his now sad, glassy eyes.

You’d hoped you didn’t ruin the moment, because you were now afraid it’d be the last.

“It’s complicated.”

That was it?

That was all he had to say for himself?

“Are you fucking serious?” you bite, those words hurting more than any pain you’d ever felt in your life.

“Just— give me some time. Please? If you give me time I promise, I’ll have a better answer for you.”

“Time’s a fucking illusion with you. I’ve given you all the time in the goddamn world, Ashton. Y’know what— fuck this. I’m leaving—”

Before you could even attempt to slide off of the countertop, his arms stiffen before your boots reach the floor. He holds you between his hands with force, digging his fingertips into that soft skin on your waist.

“Honey,” the nickname drips with persuasion, “don’t get yourself all worked up now. You’ve had a rough enough day already.”

Ashton manages to prop you back onto the counter, after using enough force to keep you in his arms. It was painfully clear that he didn’t want you to leave, and if you’d really wanted to, you would’ve.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mutter, the end of your sentence cut short by his hands moving down to your ass and pulling you into him. Your gaze was now glued to the floor, unable to face those stupid eyes that look like the forest and feel like home.

“You don’t mean that.”

His tone is sharp, but you double down. “Yes, I do.”

Before you could even exhale, Ashton grabs your chin between two fingers, forcing you to look back into his own. You tremble between his fingertips, bottom lip quivering like a desperate, desperate mess.

“If that’s how you really feel— look at me and say it again.”

Although you’d seemed to have lost your senses when it came to Ashton months ago, right now was no exception. You couldn’t control just how quickly your lips reattached to his, let alone how mindlessly you had begun feeling up his broad shoulders and taut back like they were the last two things you’d ever touch.

He groans into your mouth and it’s like music to your ears, ringing true like church bells and finally earning back those weakening heart palpitations.

“God fuckin’— dammit—“ you curse out in frustration; Ashton’s wide, calloused hands snaking beneath your shirt and squeezing the soft sides of your hips.

“Baby, move with me,” he orders, pulling you off of the counter while your lips are still attached. Of course, you oblige. No questions asked.

As your tongues tangle sweetly in that rough, frenzied kiss, Ashton is positioning your limp body around like there was no tomorrow. His hands moved from your shoulders, to the small of your back, all the way down to the pockets of your jeans; where his slender fingers staked claim before he was whipping you around to face the mirror.

A gasp escapes your chest when you catch your own reflection, having been ripped away from such a heated moment. You felt as though you were even more disheveled than you were angry, just a few moments ago.

“Look at how beautiful you are, honey,” Ashton coos into the mirror, his hands plastered to your waist as he stoops over your shoulder.

“Mhmmm.” There was no room left in your right mind for words so, sounds should do just fine.

“Want you t’ watch,” he begins, along with his hands that had started their journey of lifting your t-shirt to expose your midriff, “Look how fuckin’ gorgeous.”

You do as you’re instructed, watching how your lips part and your face falls flush when Ashton moves in on your breasts. He massages them gently over your bra, squeezing them before trailing blistered fingers down your stomach to the waistband of your jeans.

“Pretty like a painting,” he taunts, fiddling with your button before popping it open and unzipping the fly, “‘Could do this all day.”

A smile sneaks out of you, but is immediately wiped away when he starts to tease just below your navel. Soft whines slowly begin to float past your lips and right into Ashton’s ears as he traces lines across your skin— he was nodding to the rhythm of your voice.

“Ashton—” you squeeze out, but his mouth is preoccupied by the sensitive spot on your neck that drove the both of you wild.

He hums in delight, “Sounds s’ pretty when you say my name.”

You could barely stand the teasing but he seemed to read your mind; Ashton was never one to keep you waiting. He takes his hand and slowly pushes it down into your underwear, taking his index finger and dragging it up your slit. You wince at the sudden contact; how aroused he’d made you by merely teasing and feathery touches.

“God, so fuckin’ wet for me— already?”

It was virtually impossible to pull your eyes away from the obscenities that were happening below your waist. You attempted to snap back at him, maybe even slip in a little nasty comment about how you were still angry at his dumb face and stupid green eyes. But as his fingers stretched and curled, sending shockwaves through your entire body, the most you could do was slump backwards. Right into his arms.

“Oh my God,” you manage to weasel out the words lodged behind your tongue, that index finger of his working magic and making circles around your sensitive bud.

Your eyelids were getting heavy now, overstimulated by Ashton’s nimble handiwork. Would it be the worst thing to close your eyes and forget that conversation from moments ago?

Why the hell not.

“Ashton.”

His name catches on your teeth as you fight the feeling of him. Ashton, Ashton, Ashton.

He dragged one more line up your folds, collecting your wetness onto his fingers.

“Mmhm?”

Right as you open your mouth to speak again, he curls his finger inside of you. You writhe and squirm, pushing back onto his chest that was seemingly going nowhere if not to support your weakened body.

“Holy shit—“ you whine, eyelids finally giving up their fight and lulling closed once he’d found the rhythm of you at his fingertips.

“Ah ah ah, no,” Ashton tuts, one hand still working around the clock while the other shoots up to the top of your throat, just below your chin. He forces your eyes back open and when you’d met him in the mirror, the most you could do was moan.

“Eyes on me, honey girl.”

Your senses were lost, your legs were going numb; you were shaking and moaning like a desperate mess and once again, you were held up by strings like the sad little puppet you were.

Were, and always will be.

“C’mon, don’t lose me now,” he mumbles, dipping down to sink his teeth into the base of your neck, “You’re doin’ such a good job.”

The face staring back at you in the mirror was barely your own. It felt like torture to watch yourself unravel for him, let alone watching everything unfold at the mercy of his fingertips. This wasn’t one of those thoughts that you could just stare at the ceiling to forget about; it was real, and it was now.

And a part of you felt the need to just smile.

As Ashton trails kisses up your neck to the side of your face, he catches that lazy grin of yours in the mirror.

“There she is, there’s my fuckin’ honey girl.”

The thrusts of his fingers were growing sloppier, your stomach contorted in knots as you writhed in his hold. The sounds of your arousal echoed against the matchbox walls of the restroom, making your face fall flush as the smell of his cologne had you dizzy enough already.

“Gonna cum’ for me baby? I feel it— you’re fuckin’ close now, aren’t you?”

There was now a heated staredown taking place in the mirror. One hand of his wrapped around your throat while the other worked away at your core beneath your jeans. God, it was an obscene sight to behold. And Ashton seemed to agree.

His eyes zones in on yours, hypnotizing you with those speckled irises as the corner of his lips perked up into a smile. He was egging you on, knowing that his face and encouraging words alone could lead you toppling towards the finish line.

“Ashton— oh, Ashton—” you whine, your breathy words causing him to press into you and push your body against the counter. He was rough around all edges yet gentle in the way that he handled you, making sure you were comfortable enough for him to kick your leg open wider and clamp down on your neck like it was nothing.

“Fuck!” you cry out, that familiar feeling of butterflies entrapped in your lower stomach starting to brew.

“Give it t’ me, baby— Nice n’ easy— Fuck yes, you feel incredible— So fuckin’ tight…”

His voice started to sound like a siren’s song, still drowning in his strong cologne and now feeling the raging hard on of his pressing against your backside, it all had you doubled over in ecstasy. You never wanted this to end, truth be told; and Ashton wasn’t going to let that happen.

Not quite yet.

“Look at you,” Ashton growls, his face welded with concentration, “So fuckin’ dirty… Watchin’ me fuck you with my fingers in the mirror. You like that, don’t you?”

You nod sheepishly, opening your mouth but wincing as his thumb and index finger squeeze the sides of your neck.

“Honey, you— you gotta’ answer me when I ask questions.”

“Yes— I— I like it, Ashton.”

He’s still working at you with his fingers, now paying the most attention to your clit and rubbing quick circles against it.

“Oh c’mon, is that all you’ve got? Tell me how much you love bein’ a dirty fuckin’ slut for me.”

Right as you’re about to answer his pressing demands, your orgasm begins to rip through you like a bullet to the chest. You cry out, slumping against his back, your legs twitching uncontrollably as he matches the timing of your high with his magical fingertips.

“I love it! Fuck, yes— I love it!”

Although your ears were ringing from the orgasm that just came crashing down onto you, you could faintly hear a chuckle from the base of Ashton’s chest. He was laughing.

Maybe you were overthinking it, but could it be that he was laughing at you?

“God, you are just— sensational,” Ashton catches your limp body, his hands quickly finding and supporting your waist as you stumble backwards like you were made of jello.

“Wh—what?” you reply, hoping you’d heard him correctly and weren’t just hearing voices.

“I said,” he begins, grabbing your chin once more and forcing your eyes back into the mirror, “You are fucking sensational.”

“I— I don’t—” Your head was cloudy, so to speak. And Ashton suddenly switching from one tone to the other had it messed up even more. That damned pearly smile in the mirror was almost mocking you, acting like he hadn’t just had your livelihood at his fingertips.

Literally.

“You alright?” Ashton asks you gently, after a few moments of unresponsiveness.

“Yeah I— I’m good…”

What Ashton didn’t know was that you were, in fact, not good. Maybe even worse than before. As cliché as it all seemed, having him so close made you only want more of him— and you knew that desire would be dust in the wind once the curtains fell.

Your time with Ashton never had a set clock, but this time felt oddly short. Change was weird, change was hard. You weren’t sure you liked that.

“You’re just a peach, aren’t you? Feeling any better?” He leans down to the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your ear as he plants tiny kisses in his trails.

“I suppose so,” you mumble, leaning into him one more time before the inevitable end of this tender moment.

“I told you I could help ya’. Maybe your job’ll be a little easier tonight, honey. I know mine will.”

The irony of his statement almost made you chuckle, but you couldn’t stand to be staring at your own reflection anymore. You spin around to face him, cupping his face in your hands and letting your thumb trace the stubble on his cheek.

His eyes found your lips almost immediately, that gaze of his was telling enough.

“Have a good show tonight, Ash— Feels like I don’t say that enough.” You weren’t sure what in your somewhat right mind led you to say that, but the pit in your stomach seemed to be taking the lead.

“Oh, well, thank you. I— I appreciate that.”

You caress his face for a few more moments, debating whether or not to kiss him. But he makes that decision for you, grabbing your hips sweetly and pulling you in.

The kiss is tender; not hungry like before. There’s better intentions behind his lips and his tongue was about as sweet as ever. You close your eyes, savoring the moment since you never quite remember to do so.

“I always have a better show when I know you’re there watching, y’know.”

You chuckle, his voice was soft like cotton and almost brought a tear to your eye. He presses his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours gently.

“Well then, I’ll be there,” you whisper sheepishly, letting his hands roam your hips one last time before he’s pulling away, “I have to be, anyway. I get paid to do so.”

“Good. I’ll be looking for you before curtains so, I better find what I’m lookin’ for.”

An exasperated sigh leaves your chest as you watch him step away from you, his footsteps taking him towards the door. This was the end, you thought, but the cycle must continue.

Life goes on once again, as usual.

“I’ll see you out there,” you wave, remnants of your conversation from earlier plaguing the back of your head as you try to savor your last few moments alone with him.

Ashton just smiles. That stupid, dumb, idiotic smile. The one that drives you up the walls and keeps you occupied whenever your head hits a pillow. He waves back at you, like a high school crush, his face gleaming as per usual which only made you want to curl up into a ball in the corner and die.

His voice is once again that soft, tender tone. You wished you were dreaming but unfortunately, you were wide awake.

“I’ll be waitin’ for ya’, my honey girl.”

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#to read!

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bluemoonlrh · 10 months ago

Note

hey! i love your ash and luke one shots so i was wondering if maybe we can get a soft dom cal? something like he comes home late from a studio session and you get mad because you had plans for that night, so he begs for forgiveness by eating you out lol

i love your brain anon. this one was fun as hell.

enjoy some soft!dom cal <3 xoxo

————————

apologies. [C.H.]

🎸boyfriend!cal

the ask pretty much told y’all everything you need to know. kissy.

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, angst if u squint, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk/praise, squirting.

WORDCOUNT: 3.4k

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"Are you guys fuckin’ coming, or what?"

"Yeah, just— gimme’ another hour. We’ll be there…"

"Swear?"

"Fuckin’ swear, Ang."

You were lying.

You knew damn well you were lying. And so did your best friend, Angie.

Also known as; the one on the phone, that had been pestering you about your plans to go out for the last three hours.

You’d been stalling for a third of that time, which you weren’t proud of. These plans had been made weeks in advance and the only thing stopping you from just getting up and leaving right now was your rather untimely boyfriend.

Calum was the type to let time slip right through his fingers. He was terrible at managing how he spent that time, let alone keeping an eye on the clock. Especially when he was at the studio with the boys.

So you weren’t surprised when he had told you he’d be home to get changed at 10:30— yet now, it was well past midnight.

Letting out a frustrated huff, you toss your phone on the side of the couch. Your long sleeve ‘going out’ top was riding up your back and furthering the anger that was boiling right through you.

"Fuckin’ hell, Cal…" You mumble to yourself, talking into open air with nobody to reprimand, nobody to yell at and let off steam.

You were alone.

The clock on the cable box blinked 12:32. An hour and a half later than the original time of your plans. You were about ready to storm out of your apartment and leave a long, shitty note for Cal to read about just how angry he had made you; but you knew deep down that you’d have a better time with him at your side. You loved him, for fuck’s sake.

Too damn much, sometimes.

Just when you thought a little too hard about putting your shoes on, you hear the familiar sound of keys rattling against the door. It was more frantic than usual; most likely due to the sweaty hands that were manning them.

You snap your head around to watch the door bust open, revealing your panting boyfriend who had probably just run up the five flights of stairs it took to get to your apartment.

He was never a fan of waiting for the elevator.

"Hi, hi, baby— hi— I’m— I’m here, I’m here." An exasperated chuckle laces through your boyfriend’s words as he tried with all of his might to kick the door closed and take his coat off at the same time.

But you just sat there. Your legs crossed, your arms folded— the most scornful, disapproving gaze in your eye.

"You’re late, Cal," you say, disdain rattling off your tongue like a viper.

"I— I know, baby. Fuck, I’m sorry. Lost track of time… fuckin’ around when I shouldn’t have been. But— I’m here now. I’m here."

His words were coming out jumbled and frantic, while still running around like a chicken with its’ head cut off. He had ventured towards the kitchen island, dropping his keys and taking off his beanie that shielded him from the crisp fall winds.

His cheeks were glowing red, still laminated with the sweat it took to get him up five flights of stairs. Yet he hadn’t even made eye contact with you.

"We made these plans weeks ago." You try your best at remaining stern with him, sitting still.

"I know, I know, I know, I know…" Calum was now migrating towards your bedroom, his voice growing faint and trailing off as he exited. You watched the empty hallway; the sounds of rummaging through drawers, opening and slamming them shut was already pissing you off more than you’d like to admit. Your leg was bobbing impatiently now, trying to think of any kind of way to cool yourself off before you burst into flames.

Or, tears.

"Cal—." Your voice cracks slightly, to no response.

"Calum." You try again, a bit louder this time.

His head finally pops around the corner of the door frame. "What?"

"Just—" Your sentence breaks with a sigh, dropping your head into your hand as you pinch the bridge of your nose, "—forget it."

"What?" He steps out into the hallway completely, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Forget it, Cal… I-I don’t even wanna’ go anymore."

The clothes that were once in his hands drop to the hardwood floor as he rushes over to you on the couch.

"Hey,” he tries to console, "don’t say that."

"What’s the point? We’re already two hours late! Angie’s one phone call away from ripping my goddamn head off!" You can’t help but huff, dropping your head into your hands.

"Y/N, I’m really sorry." Calum voice rings soft, and sweet— but there was nothing more that you wanted to do than wring out his fucking neck.

"Just— drop it, Calum. I’m already in a shitty mood."

You hated being so mean.

Each time you yelled at him was like the snapping of one of your heart strings. But despite that tightness in your chest, he needed to know how much this affected you. Whether you liked it or not.

Calum stays quiet for a moment, seemingly nervous to say the wrong thing or misstep. He was always so cautious with you, never picking a fight. Even though you’ve picked many.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" He asks, squatting down to be level with your sunken face.

"No."

"I could… run you a bath?"

You shake your head. "Nuh uh."

"I could make you dinner?"

"I already ate."

When you peek out from between your fingers, you notice Calum’s lips pushed to the side. He braces his hands on your knees, still crouching and trying to get some sort of read on your face.

He could tell you weren’t happy.

And he fucking hated that.

"Can I see that pretty face?"

That almost got a smile out of you, but you opted just to shake your head.

"I’m not sure how else to say I’m sorry, my girl." His thumb starts a cadence of soothing circles around the outside of your knees.

"Try saying it in French," you mumble, rubbing your tired eyes.

Calum sucks his teeth, "Ouch."

Growing impatient and just about ready for bed, you sit upright. Faced with Calum for the first time since he bust through the door.

His heather green flannel was slouching on his shoulders, looking beat up from the 10 hour day he’d spend working in the studio. His curls hung lowly over his big brown eyes, in desperate need of a trim.

It was taking everything inside of you not to grab his face and tell him how much you loved him, because in spite of all this, you still did.

He was an expert at pissing you off, and it only made you love him more.

"There’s my beautiful girl," he says upon seeing you, smiling meekly, still trying to get your spirits up.

"’Don’t feel it."

"Why not?"

"’Cause you piss me off."

Cal chuckles, squeezing your kneecaps and adjusting his squatted position.

"Can’t really argue with that."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment; the decorative string lights from behind your couch were twinkling in his chocolatey irises, and painting him out to be some sort of angel. His pretty cherub cheeks were still rosy from rushing around and quite frankly, it suited him.

You’ve fallen too damn hard.

"Y’know, I thought of another way to make it up to you."

"Yeah?" You quip, leaning back on the couch cushions.

"Mhm."

His hands were still lingering, moving up to massage your exposed thighs that were now catching a draft from your lack of movement. You had planned to wear this outfit on the day you told Angie you’d be there tonight. So the fact that you were still in it, yet not where you said you’d be, was making your blood boil.

"Gonna buy me back all the time I wasted getting ready for tonight?" You seethe lowly, trying not to sound too bitchy yet coming across as the bitchiest bitch in the world.

Calum frowns, his Doc Martens squeaking against the hardwood floor as he adjusts his posture, "You’re really good at that."

"Good at what?" You muse, chuckling through your nose.

"Firing the shit I pull right back at me. It’s sexy."

"Don’t try to butter me up, Cal. I know I’m sexy. Hence why it took me an hour and a half to get ready."

For some odd reason, your whiny complaints and moody comments towards Calum didn’t seem to be effecting him. They were bouncing off his puffed up chest like he was made of rubber. He was used to your incessant need to be on time, and how he was quite literally your antithesis.

But those witty remarks you kept throwing at him were one of the things he loved most about you. Which is why he kept egging you on.

"I’m really sorry, baby. I’m really sorry I wasted your time."

You try your hardest to bite back a smile, but it doesn’t go over well. "You should be."

Without another word, Calum is dropping down to his knees and suddenly, your heart is racing.

"Can I make it up to you," his hand creeps towards the hemline of your skirt, "like this?"

"I’ll consider it," you nod, trying to seem unbothered by your boyfriend’s large, weathered hands, "But what’s in it for me?"

"Trust me, baby. It’ll be all about you. You won’t have to move a muscle and I swear, on everything I love…"

His fingers stretch across the width of your thighs, prying open your legs with a wicked grin.

"… I’ll have your fuckin’ legs shaking like crazy within the next ten minutes."

Your face flushes, hands subconsciously gripping onto the couch cushions down at your sides at your boyfriend’s promise. He’s still gleaming up at you, waiting for your approval; he’s never the type to handle you without your permission.

"The journey to forgiveness is a long, winding road… But this is definitely a good start, Calum. Well done."

Despite your cool, agile reply, your heart continues to thump out of your ribcage when you see how your unnerving boyfriend reacts to the sound of his own name. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply with that smile still painted onto his cheeks.

"Keep fuckin’ talking like that. See where you end up."

You scoff playfully, "Is that a threat, Mr. Hood?"

"Not a threat, my girl… It’s a promise."

His hands are dancing dangerously close to your underwear now, having crept up your skirt without you even noticing. But you hadn’t a care in the world. You were merely turned on by the sight of him, so eager to please you. So ready for your forgiveness.

"Fuck, you’re good," you groan, letting a whimper slip past as well, "Show me how sorry you really are, then."

In no time, Calum is leaving a sultry trail of kisses up your thigh. You hiss at the feeling of his cool lips against you; having not felt them since the last time the two of you fucked. Which was about four days ago.

He had been quite busy in the studio with the band’s upcoming album, so times like these were a novelty. Not like you minded much, any quality time spent with Calum was worth a million years.

And besides, he’s damn good at it. Why tamper with an already perfect system?

"I know what I said, but can you do somethin’ for me?" Your boyfriend’s head pops up from beneath your skirt with sparkly eyes.

"Mh, depends." You reply lazily.

"Wanna hear you, baby. Wanna hear that pretty voice."

"That won’t be an issue," you smile, lifting your upper half from the couch, "You may have to earn it though…"

Calum’s eyebrow quirks, looking like he’s just about ready to wipe that catty smile right off of your face.

"Since when are you the one to give orders around here?"

You sit up even further to spit back, "Since you decided to fuck around with your boyfriends and make us miss our fucking plans."

There isn’t even an opportunity for you to say any more, since Calum had decided to grip the backs of your thighs and yank you to the edge of the couch. He lifts your legs, ripping your panties off swiftly and tossing your knees over his shoulders before you can even blink.

You gasp at the sudden dynamic change, shallow breaths barely escaping your throat as your boyfriend is now heaving as well. His once angelic brown eyes had shifted to something darker.

Somebody needed to pinch you. You must be dreaming.

"Watch that mouth," he growls lowly, that soft demeanor of his slightly peeking through his cold exterior, "Not gonna tell you again."

Your face drops, now nodding like a desperate mess.

"I don’t care how sorry I am. Good girls get their way, bad girls don’t. And we both know that, don’t we my baby?"

"Yes— yes sir."

"Gonna be good for me?"

You nod again, fingernails digging into the couch cushions as his apology has not only become something you really really wanted—

It was now something you needed.

"Please, Cal. Promise… Promise I’ll be good for you."

He smiles, and a familiar warmth settles back into the pit of your stomach as he kisses both of your knees.

"That’s my fuckin’ girl."

Sweat begins to pool across your forehead when the first kiss is planted on your inner thigh. You writhe above him, patiently waiting for his mouth to travel down to where you needed it to be.

But patience runs thin in moments like these, especially since Calum was such a fucking tease.

"Cal, baby— please…"

Another couple of kisses later and you’re still feeling unfulfilled. At this point, his head was so far deep into your skirt that you could only see the frosty tips of his unruly curls. He hears your plea, nodding slowly.

"Getting there, pretty. Getting there…"

A shock wave zaps your spine the moment he makes contact with your clit. Your body jolts, feeling the slow rhythm of his tongue toying with your sensitive bud.

"Jesus fuck—" You sigh, trying to fulfill the promise of letting him hear you while simultaneously trying to lasso your head back onto your shoulders.

Calum hums happily, which sends another wave of flutters down your body. You were so damn sensitive, and your boyfriend knew it too. But when his head was between your legs, he never seemed to think, or care about anything else.

He flattens his tongue against your dripping slit, making sure to move slowly and pay attention how long it took him to drag his tongue from one part, to the next. You’re still wriggling around, but Cal’s got his arms locked around your thighs.

You couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.

"Just— just like that, baby… Keep— keep doing that."

The blood rushes to your head when he finds that particularly sweet spot with the tip of his tongue; he’s moaning, you’re moaning, it was like a symphony of desperate pleas. Your hands fly to meet his head, fingers getting tangled in his chocolatey curls as he starts to use his nose in cohesion with his tongue.

"Fuck me, you’re magic, Cal…"

He hums again. Of course, he agrees. He knows he’s the only one who could ever make you feel this way, and he was damn proud of it.

Apology: accepted.

But you wouldn’t tell him that.

That familiar crash of adrenaline was beginning to wash over you, your stomach began twisting in knots as each tug of Calum’s hair produced more and more pressure onto your pussy. He was chipping away at you, collecting your juices onto his tongue and savoring each and every flavor of you. By the sounds he was making, you could only assume that he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

"Cal, baby… I’m close. Gonna’ cum… gonna’ cum really soon."

You say the magic words. Your lower half was already preforming backflips at only the flick of his tongue, but that euphoria heightened when he took it upon himself to pop his head up and start using his fingers instead.

He dips one finger inside of your dripping heat, his face slicked with your wetness as he finds your eyes for the first time since he started. Your mouth hangs open, trying your hardest to keep the eye contact as he begins to speak.

"Forgive me, baby? I’m really, really, really sorry."

You nod wearily through a breathy moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling into the back of your head.

"Y—yes… Yes Cal, I—"

Your sentence is cut short by the feeling of a second finger entering you, curling up to brush against that sweet spot with each new stroke.

"Yes what? You forgive me? Say it like you mean it, my girl… I know you can do it."

His taunting words pull another moan from your throat. He’s still looking at you with hooded eyes, enjoying every second of watching you fall apart. You weren’t sure what had gotten into your sweet boy tonight, but you definitely didn’t mind it.

"Yes. Yes, baby— I— I forgive you," you breathe, that swirling feeling in the pit of your stomach ready to burst, "I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you…"

Calum nods, his teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip as he watches the obscene ways of your impending orgasm. If he was more honest with himself, your face alone could’ve had him coming on the spot. But he would never admit that. You always came first.

"Yeah? You mean it?" He asks another question. You swore this was some sort of game.

"Yes baby, I— I mean it—!"

Your breathing picks up, Calum’s fingers now moving a bit sloppily, yet keeping that steady rhythm that was driving you up the walls. The pressure building in your lower half was unfamiliar, drawing quick confusion out of you mere seconds before your orgasm.

"Cal, wait— I—"

Alarm bells were blaring in your head, now that Calum had taken his other, freer hand to press his palm flat onto your stomach. He knew what was coming, but you didn’t have a clue.

"Let it go for me, my girl. Let me hear it. Fuckin’ give it t’ me."

Not only does your orgasm rip through your body like a whip cracking down onto pavement, a new sensation was felt the moment Cal told you to let go. A spurt of wetness coats his fingers and the lower half of his face, bringing you to immediately go stark white.

Your chest is heaving, coming down from the high that your boyfriend had just whipped you through. He beat the clock and kept his promise, that’s for damn sure.

"What just— what the fuck. What the fuck, Cal?" You giggle through the comedown, watching Calum triumphantly admire his digits that were now soaked with you. The feeling of you. The taste of you.

"Think you just accepted my apology in more ways than one, baby," your beau chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his fist.

"I can’t believe I just did that," you mumble meekly, now slightly self-conscious as you realized what had just occurred.

Calum scoffs with a shrug, "I can, are you kidding? I knew you had it in you. And all it took was me fucking up to get it out."

"Don’t put it like that," you cringe, scrunching your nose, "Makes it weird."

Calum then begins a slow rhythm of massaging your thighs, something he always does whenever you’re coming down from one of your highs.

"Okay. Won’t make it weird. But let me ask you this— are you still mad?"

You raise your eyebrows, still flustered, watching him lean upward to rest his elbows on your legs. His flannel was in a disarray, as were his curls; you were so wrapped up in admiring him that the thought of anger never even crossed your mind.

"Mad about what?" you ask innocently.

"Mhm," he hums, before leaning in to peck you gently on the lips, "Exactly."

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