#shton | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

souperbloom · 23 days

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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.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

#ashton irwin #5sos fanfic #5sos #ashton 5sos #5 seconds of summer #ashton irwin smut #ashton irwin fanfic #ashton irwin series #ashton irwin x reader #ashton 5 seconds of summer #being in love part 2 how we feelin’

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sylvanfreckles · 2 years

Text

No. 28: Explosion

Part 28 of Deck the Hells

Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Warnings: violence, gore, impaling

Summary: Ashton is injured in an explosion at a tavern, and it's up to Orym to get them to safety. (Read on AO3)

...

Ashton leaned back against the bar with a sigh, folding their arms across their chest. This line of questioning wasn’t really going well. The barkeep was either completely ignorant or stonewalling them, and even though the rest of the Hells had scattered around the tavern to question the patrons, they really couldn’t see getting any concrete information here.

“Picking up anything?” they muttered to the person on their right.

Orym sighed and shook his head. He’d perched on a barstool to get a similar eyeline to Ashton’s and had been scanning the room ever since they’d arrived. “Something doesn’t feel right. I’m trying to work it out, but something in here is just off.”

They grunted in reply, having learned early on to trust Orym’s instincts. “Think we should leave?”

“Maybe,” Orym whispered. His eyes were on one of the tavern staff, who was rolling a large barrel out of the back room. Instead of rolling it behind the counter, they left in the center of the main floor, maybe ten feet from where Orym and Ashton were standing. “That’s not right,” he said as he shoved himself off the stool and started for the barrel.

Ashton saw the little curl of smoke spiral out of the barrel the same moment Orym did. “Everyone, down!” they shouted, grabbing Orym by the shoulder to shove him behind them.

The barrel exploded.

The heat washed over Ashton first, with a force that sent them crashing back against the bar, pinning Orym between their body and the sturdy wood. Then the burning, and countless points of agony as bits of metal and glass lodged in their skin. The barrel had been packed with shrapnel; designed to do the most damage to living casualties and not structures.

They stumbled to their knees. They hadn’t been facing the explosion head-on, so it was mostly their left side that had taken a hit. A quick glance revealed that their leather jacket was practically stapled to their body by jagged nails longer than their hand. Wine-colored blood oozed out of numerous wounds.

“—shton? Ashton!”

Wearily, they cracked their eyes open. They didn’t remember falling to the floor, but they were definitely horizontal now, and a singed-looking Orym was leaning over them.

“We gotta go,” Orym said. He took Ashton’s less-injured arm and hauled on it, as though his halfling strength would be enough to pull someone like them to their feet.

“Go…go on,” Ashton tried to bat at Orym’s arm, but their vision was blurry now. So, head injury on top of everything else. “I’ll be…jus’ go.”

“Fuck.”

If the situation had been less serious, Ashton might have been amused to hear his reserved friend using such strong language. Orym was usually so careful and measured with his words—if they survived this, Ashton was never letting him forget it.

“Look, man, I didn’t want…I need your help.”

Ashton peeled an eye open again and stared balefully up at Orym. The tavern was most likely falling in around them, a good portion of it was on fire, and they had dozens of new piercings in their stony skin.

“I-I can’t find the witches,” Orym stammered. He looked up and away, shaking hands still wrapped around Ashton’s arm. “I can’t look on my own; you’ve gotta come with me, all right?”

Well, fuck. With monumental effort, Ashton heaved himself up to one knee and paused as the world spun around him. Orym was still at his side, insistent, holding his forearm with both hands.

“Wh’r they go?” they slurred when they finally staggered to their feet. Orym was at their side, holding their hand against his sturdy halfling shoulder.

“They must be outside,” Orym replied. “We’d better hurry.”

Thinking was painful at the moment, but it did cross Ashton’s mind to wonder why Orym needed their help to look outside. Particularly when Ashton could barely stay on their feet.

They stumbled, dropping to their knees, and would have fully collapsed if Orym hadn’t braced himself under their chest. Ashton hissed in a breath and coughed it back out wetly, as Orym unintentionally put pressure on one of their wounds.

“Sorry, sorry,” Orym gasped. He wasn’t looking so good, either. Ashton had shielded him from the brunt of the blast, but he’d still taken a few hits. “We gotta go, Ash. Stay with me, okay?”

“I’m not….”

“I can’t do this without you, man.” Orym’s gaze was intense as he stared into Ashton’s eyes. “It’s real bad out there. We need you.”

Fuck it all, these people were going to be the death of them. Ashton shoved back up to their feet, leaning heavily on Orym (which nearly made the halfling collapse). Part of them knew they were in no condition to fight, but if Orym was saying they were needed it must be true.

“That’s it,” Orym’s voice wavered as they neared the door. “As soon as we’re on the street we can look for the ladies. They’re pretty much helpless without us, right?”

Ashton grunted. They thought of Laudna, who looked like a stiff wind could snap her in half. Of Imogen, who could get so focused in battle she forgot to defend herself. Of Fearne, who definitely still had interesting things worth stealing in her pockets.

There were more shouts now. People were running past them to tend to the fire or look for other survivors. They were shuffled to the side, largely ignored in the hubbub as Orym lead then doggedly toward the tavern’s open door.

They stepped through into fresh air and late afternoon sunlight, familiar hands joining Orym’s to guide them away from the chaos.

“Fucking…fuck,” Ashton groaned as someone finally let them lie down. Hands were prodding at their chest, worrying over the bits of metal. Someone brushed his forehead and a jolt of healing warmth cleared up some of the ache and confusion of his head injury. They looked up into Fearne’s worried face. “Hey…found you.”

“You certainly did,” Fearne replied.

“Orym was…he was worried,” Ashton said. Their head was spinning in and out, blackness gathering at the edges of their vision. “Needed my help.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

Something in Fearne’s tone made Ashton stare at her. She was barely hiding a smile, and they looked past her to see Imogen and Laudna talking together a few feet away.

Orym knelt next to Fearne, filthy and bruised and covered in blood—both his and Ashton’s. “Letters is on their way.”

“You,” Ashton jabbed an unsteady finger at Orym. “You lied to me.”

The halfling had the audacity to look embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no. No sorry,” Ashton waved the finger. “’m proud of you.”

“Okay, that’s the concussion talking,” Orym said, gently resting a hand on Ashton’s shoulder. “Help’s on the way.”

#whumpcember2022 #whumpcember2022 day28 #explosion #violence #gore #impaling #critical role #campaign 3 #bells hells #bell's hells #fanfic #ashton greymoore #orym of the air ashari #hurt ashton #orym and ashton friendship #critical role fanfiction

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