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my name is hammy (or hannah if you prefer my government name) and I’m happy you’re here <3
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support for my hockey teams specifically my ride or die hockey team, the columbus blue jackets, and the teams I’ve picked up along the way, the vancouver canucks and boston bruins
fanfic recs for mostly nhl players, some other fandoms sprinkled when I feel like it
reblogs of gifs and pics of hotties, occasionally some suggestive gifs
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occasional ramblings and whoreish thoughts about hotties, hockey and other (I’ve done this thrice lol)
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(the blog formerly known as quinniferhughesenthusiast)
✿ summary: As you're getting ready for your wedding with Luke you play a little game to spice things up ;)
✿ warnings: p in v, oral (f and m reciving), overstimulation, choking, multiple orgasams, fingering, dom!luke, teasing
✿ word count: 7.8k
✿ author’s note: this is to all my friends who pushed me to start posting my work instead of letting it sit in a goggle doc to collect dust. and a big thank you to the person who helped me set this blog all up i would be so lost without ur guidance.
i love to play around with my writing so this one is in first person pov, but i have others that are second person pov! also heads up there is probably a spelling/grammar error or two.
i absolutely looooovved writting this one and it's one of my fav so i hope you love it as much as i do:')
The suite smells like fresh linen, wood polish, and expensive nerves.
Sunlight pours through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes in the air, making everything feel a little cinematic– too bright, too sharp. I stand in the middle of it all, shirt hanging open, collar wrinkled from the way I keep tugging at it. My tie's already been thrown onto the back of the couch. Twice. Every time I go to get ready, I end up pacing again. Restless. Half-feral with anticipation.
The space is big–bigger than I expected it to be– with heavy curtains drawn halfway back, an antique mirror leaning against one wall, and a bar cart in the corner that none of us has dared to touch yet. The venue is some restored estate outside the city, all stone terraces and glass chandeliers, the kind of place you book when you want your wedding to feel like it might outlast time itself.
The others are here– Michael has his feet propped up on the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone. Ashton is fussing with his cufflinks by the mirror like he's presenting an award, and Calum's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending to finalize his best man speech but mostly just throwing grapes at me every time I sigh. The room is full of noise, the kind of harmless chaos that usually calms me, but today it's static.
All I can do is miss her. Like an ache. Like a bruise under my ribs.
"You good?" Calum asks without looking up.
"Yeah," I replied.
"You've said 'yeah' fifteen times in the last half hour."
"Well, I meant it differently each time," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself. It's not cold feet. It's not even the pressure of the day. It's the fact that she's somewhere in this building, behind some closed door. Getting her makeup done, probably laughing with her bridesmaids, sipping something bubbly. Slipping into a dress I'm not allowed to see yet. And I can't see her. Can't touch her. Can't even hear her voice.
I am losing my goddamn mind.
Last night was the last time I'll have ever gone to bed without calling her my wife. And somehow that makes everything sharper today. Like I'm walking around with no skin.
I pace again, this time from the mirror to the windows, then back towards the arched doorway that leads to the suite's small lounge. The walls are all soft golds and creams, the ceiling high enough to echo. My reflection catches in the mirror— bare chest, half-done buttons, tattoos exposed, jaw clenched. I look like I'm waiting for a fight.
"She'll show," Michael says casually. "You know, unless she saw the group chat and changed her mind."
"If she leaves me at the altar," I say, without blinking, "I'm following her."
"Romantic and slightly terrifying," Calum says, tossing another grape.
Then– a knock.
It's light. Confident. Just once.
We all go still.
Ashton crosses the room and cracks the door open, only to grin and swing it wide.
Standing there, holding a plain white envelope, is one of her bridesmaids – dressed down, makeup half-done, hair clipped back, but smiling like she knows exactly what she's doing.
"What's this?" I ask as she walks up.
She places the envelope in my hands like it's fragile. "I was instructed not to say anything except: 'Don't open ahead, don't let the guys see, and don't drop it.'"
Then she spins on her heel and disappears through the suite door, leaving behind the faint smell of hairspray and perfume.
I look down. Thin envelope. Unlabeled. Whatever's inside has weight to it– not paper. A photo.
I slide a finger under the seal and pull it open slowly, like it might bite.
And there she is.
Curled up on our bed at home. My hoodie hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs are bare. One knee tucked under her, the other stretched long. Her hair is a mess, soft around her face, and her smile is a quiet kind of dangerous– knowing, tender, intimate. Like she's not posing for the camera, just waiting for me to come to bed.
It hits me hard. Harder than I expected. I forget the room, the guys, the ceremony– everything.
I flip the photo over.
I wanted you to see me the way I feel when I think of you. Love you. Don't be late.
My chest twists.
I sink onto the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror, elbows on my knees, photo in both of my hands. I run my thumb gently along the corner, careful not to smudge it. There's something about the curve of her smile in that photo– like she already knows what I'm feeling now. Like she's been feeling it too.
"She's insane," I say softly to myself.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Insane like…'I should call someone? Or…"
"She sent me a photo." I can barely tear my eyes away. "A Polaroid. She's wearing my hoodie."
"Ohhh," Calum whistles. "We've entered the tease era of the day."
I flip the photo again and tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, right over my heart.
"No one else gets to see it."
It feels sacred. Not just the image, but the act. The intention. Knowing she wanted me to have this moment, before everything else. She wanted to remind me of what we already are, before all the guests and vows and photos.
"You're smiling," Ashton says quietly, walking over to me, patting my back. "You didn't do that once this morning."
I lean back and exhale. My chest feels looser, lighter.
"Yeah, she does that to me."
The Second:
I managed to finish buttoning my shirt. That's about the extent of my progress.
The tie's still untouched. My hands keep fidgeting with the cuffs, rolling and unrolling them like I forgot how sleeves work. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the door. Thinking maybe it'll knock twice this time. Maybe she'll just walk in wearing that hoodie in real life instead of tucked into the side of my suit jacket in Polaroid form.
I can't stop thinking about that photo. That look in her eyes. The way she somehow made our bed look like the most intimate place on the planet. The way she looked at me– even through the lens, even knowing I'd see it later.
She wrecked me with one picture.
The guys are still buzzing in the background— Ashton's reading some wedding trivia off his phone like it's the Oscars, and Michael and Calum are arguing about whether the band playlist should include one of our old songs. I'm barely listening. Everything in me is pacing, even when I'm sitting still.
Then it happens again.
Another knock.
Softer this time. Almost playful.
Michael beats me to the door, opening it with a knowing smirk.
Another bridesmaid stands there, this one holding an envelope between two fingers like she's handing off classified intel. "Round two," she says. "And don't act like you didn't like the first one."
I gave her a look. "You guys planned this, didn't you?"
"Don't shoot the messenger, Hemmings." She grins and slips away before I can say anything else.
This envelope's thinner, but somehow feels heavier in my hands.
I already know what's inside.
Still, my heart kicks like it's trying to warn me.
I tear it open, slower than the first time. Careful. A little afraid of what she's about to do to me again.
The photo slides into my palm.
Fuck.
She's sitting on the kitchen counter at home, legs bare and stretched out, laughing like I just said something that made her lose it. She's wearing nothing but my band tee– the old threadbare one, with the cracked logo, holes near the hem. The one. It's long enough to hang loose, but just barely. Her hair is messy again, wild and sexy in a completely unintentional way. One hand is behind her on the counter for balance. The other's holding a coffee mug— my mug. Her thighs are parted just enough to make me insane.
I flip the photo over…
For when you missed breakfast x
I drag a hand down my face, biting back a groan. "I'm not going to survive today."
"That bad?" Calum questions, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
I don't respond. Just get up and start pacing again. This time with purpose. My blood is too hot now. I can feel it under my skin, all charged and restless. Like I'm burning from the inside out.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
The photo isn't soft like the first one. It's more playful. Cheeky. She's saying 'I know exactly how to distract you, and I'm doing it on purpose' without saying it.
I slide the photo into the same pocket where the first Polaroid is. My chest feels tighter now. Not in a bad way. Just full. Heavy with a mix of love and need while also something lower— darker– twisting and swimming behind my ribs.
Michael watches me with a grin plastered across his face. "Is the second one better than the first?"
I glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm not answering that."
"Which means yes."
"I said I'm not answering it."
I turned towards the window again, mostly to cool off. Resting my forehead against the glass and focusing on my breathing. Outside, the courtyard is being decorated. Flowers everywhere you looked. Chairs lined up perfectly. It all seemed so still compared to what was happening inside of me.
She's turning today into a game. A slow, teasing, perfectly executed form of torture. And I don't want her to stop.
The Third:
We've been moved from the groom's suite to what the planner called the "final prep lounge". It's quieter here, off to the side of the gardens, near where the ceremony will take place. A room nobody uses except the couple and whoever in the party needs a breather before they walk out in front of a hundred or so people.
It's got this old-world feel, bookshelves built into walls, dusty with old books that were there for aesthetic more than function. There's a velvet couch underneath a wide window overlooking the garden and a few chairs scattered around. Everything feels suspended in time. Numb with anticipation.
I can't stop messing with the cuffs of my suit jacket. I've been doing it for ten minutes straight. Nerves aren't new to me– hell, I've played in front of stadiums– but this feels different. Bigger, heavier.
Ashton is leaning in a corner, scrolling through his phone, claiming he is 'too antsy to sit'. Calum is messing with his tie in the mirror, mumbling something under his breath about needing a drink. Michael is looking through all the old books, trying to figure out which one is the oldest purely based on looks alone.
And then there's a knock at the door.
Sharp. Meaningful.
Cal opens it, and another one of the bridesmaids steps inside. She's glowing, like they all are today, but there's something mischievous about her smile. She walks straight towards me, heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and hands me a small, plain white envelope. Just like all others.
She doesn't say anything— just winks and then she's gone again.
I stare at it for a second.
My chest tightens.
By now, I know the game she's playing.
I tear the seal open. My hands aren't steady anymore. My fingers brush the edges of the Polaroid, and I already feel my blood stirring before I even see it.
When I do– fuck.
It's her, in our bedroom. Not staged, not artificial. Just her.
She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit by the late afternoon sun. She's wearing black lace, barely wearing it. The kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Thin straps falling from her shoulders. A deep cut bra that lifts and exposes in a way that should be illegal. Matching bottoms that sit high on her hips, making her legs look even longer, even more sinful.
Her lips are parted, just a little. Like she'd been talking to the camera. Her eyes are locked on her reflection– and mine now. There's a rawness to it. A quiet heat. It's not the lingerie that undoes me– it's her expression. The way she is so completely herself in it. Beautiful. Bare. Powerful.
And the caption?
Don't drop this one in front of your mom.
I swallowed hard. My throat is dry.
"Jesus," I mutter, low enough that only I can hear it.
My hands cover my mouth, rubbing across my jaw. My pulse is pounding. I glance over at the guys, half-afraid someone can read it on my face. What I just saw, what I'm thinking.
Ashton looks up from his phone briefly, notices something, but says nothing. Cal raises a brow, gives me a lazy grin. But the room's gone quieter now. They can sense a shift.
The teasing from earlier is gone.
Because this one– it's not just flirty. It's not cute or cheeky, it's intimate.
It's hers. For me.
I stare at the photo a little longer than I should. Thumb tracing the edges, careful not to smudge the image. I tuck it safely right where the other two are, over my heart in my jacket pocket.
Sitting down on the arm of the couch, I look outside at all the white chairs, flowers, and the aisle– attempting to steady my ragged breathing.
Every time I think I've hit the ceiling with how much I want her, she finds a new way to undo me.
And we haven't even made it to the vows yet.
The Fourth and Final:
It's been twenty minutes since the last Polaroid.
I've been alone for ten of them.
The wedding planner told me to wait here until she came to get me and took the guys with her. "Just breathe," she said, like that's easy to do right now.
The last three polaroids weighed down my jacket pocket.
I haven't stopped thinking about it.
She's on the counter, in our bed, laughing like she owns the whole goddamn world.
She kind of does.
I rub my palms down the front of my thighs, trying to focus on anything but the way my heart won't slow down. I've been pacing the length of the room, over and over. Tie's done. Jacket's ready. Vows are in the pocket of my slacks, worn soft from how many times I've pulled them out, reread every word, re-memorized every breath.
Then I hear it— barely a sound.
A light knock.
I turn, expecting the wedding planner.
But no one's there.
Just something left just inside the door.
Another goddamn envelope.
My breath catches, I already know.
This one is quiet.
I grab it gently, like the air might shift if I move too fast, and sit down on the edge of whatever chair is closest to the door. My fingers are careful, reverent. I slide the photo out.
And everything stills.
She's bare.
Laid out in golden light, like she took this seconds after stepping out of the shower. Her back arched, legs tucked underneath her, and she had one hand on the mattress to hold herself steady. Her head is turned slightly toward the camera, toward me. Her hair was falling wildly down her back. Her eyes–
Fuck. Her eyes.
They're not playful. They're not soft.
They're something else entirely.
Open and unfiltered. Daring me to feel everything this moment is.
My throat tightens.
I press the heel of my palm against my chest, right over my tie, because I swear to god my heart's never beat like this before. It's her. All of her. Unapologetic, unafraid. This isn't just sex. This is trust. This is her saying; I'm yours. Now. Later. Always.
And I feel it so deeply in my bones.
My hand shakes as I run it through my hair, the photo still held in my other hand like it's some kind of holy artifact. Sacred and private and mine.
No note. No words.
She doesn't need any.
I exhale slowly, jaw tight from how hard I'm clenching it. I'm seconds away from losing it completely. The way I want her right now, it's not calm. It's not polite. It's overwhelming. Fierce, like I could walk into the hallway and forget the whole ceremony just to find her. Just too–
I laugh under my breath, breathless and wrecked.
"Jesus, baby," I whisper, leaning forward. "You're really trying to kill me before I can even make it down the aisle."
I look up at the ceiling, breathing deep, trying to hold it together.
Not long now. I just have to make it a few more minutes.
Then she's mine. Fully, forever.
And so help me God.
Part 2: The Reception.
(Her POV)
The reception is a blur of music, light, and heat. String lights sway above us like stars, and someone's spinning Fleetwood Mac again– third time tonight. The dance floor is all bare feet and laughter, the smell of champagne and sweat clinging to everyone like a second skin.
But none of it matters.
Not the music. Not the speeches. Not the cake I've ever tasted.
Because all I can feel is him.
He's across the room, talking to someone– I think a cousin, maybe a drummer. I don't know. I don't care. His sleeves are rolled up, the collar of his shirt open, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. And his jaw is clenched in the way it always gets when he's trying not to lose control.
I know that look.
I gave him that look.
And I haven't touched him in over an hour.
That's part of the fun.
Earlier, I'd been subtle. Fingers under the table. Whispers into his ear that made him twitch in his seat. Dancing with him so close, my lips brushed his throat while I silently reminded him of what I was wearing underneath my dress.
His breath had stuttered. I felt it. Right against my collarbone.
Now? Now I'm just watching him unravel.
He meets my gaze from across the room. I tilt my head slightly and take a slow sip of champagne, letting my tongue dart across the rim of the glass. Just enough to make his knuckles tighten on the drink in his hand.
Good.
He's trying to play it cool like always.
But I know him.
And right now, he's strung so tight I bet he'd break with one whispered word.
So I give him none.
I let the moment linger, then turn away and laugh at something Calum says, even though I didn't hear a word. My skin feels electric. Every inch of me is aware of him watching. Of the way this dress clings to my thighs. The way the slit rides higher when I move.
Eventually, I feel him behind me again– close, hovering. He doesn't touch, but I feel the heat of him like a hand against my spine.
"You're being evil," he says lowly, voice like gravel.
I don't even turn around. Just sip my drink.
"You're going to kill me."
"You'll die happy," I replied.
Before he can answer, someone shoves a Polaroid camera into my hand. "Last one of the night! Newlyweds, front and center."
I grin and grab his hand before he can think to resist. "Come on, rockstar."
He lets me drag him to the wall, where people have been snapping candid shots all night. It's covered with photos now— lipstick stains, someone mid-cartwheel. And ours is going to be nothing like theirs.
I turn and press my back to his chest. Guide his hand to my waist, then lower. Lower still.
He stiffens.
"Relax," I whisper, reaching for his other hand and sliding it gently across my collarbone, up to my throat.
"That's enough," he warns.
"Shhh," I mutter. "Just look at the camera."
He doesn't move. I feel his breath at my temple, warm and staggered.
Then I tilt my head. My lips brush against his jaw– just barely.
Click.
The flash blinds us both.
I grab the photo before he can. Shake it, watching the ghost of an image start to blossom.
He stays behind me, breathing heavily. His hands are still planted where they were in the photo, like he's trying to not haul me into the nearest dark hallway.
The photo develops slowly. When the image clears, I turn around to face him and hold it up for him to see.
He freezes.
His hand is still curled around my throat– not hard. Just there. Like a promise.
In the photo, his eyes are closed. My mouth on his skin. And I'm looking at the camera like I planned the whole thing.
Because I did.
"It's a good one, don't you think?" I asked, all sugary innocence.
He doesn't answer.
"You knew what it'd do to me," Luke finally says.
I smile.
"I've been trying to ruin you since this morning."
I slide the photo into his jacket pocket, where I can feel the other ones are.
Then I turn and walk away.
Barefoot. Back straight. My dress swayed around my legs like smoke.
I don't look back.
I don't have to.
I know he's following.
Part 3: The After.
(Her POV)
The limo door clicks shut, and we're alone again, finally. The noise of the reception fades behind tinted glass and closed windows, and it feels like I can breathe again– for a second.
Then I catch the way he's looking at me, like I lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. I glance out the window, pretending not to notice, but I let my hand slide over his thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Just above the knee.
He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.
But I feel the way he tenses under my touch. The muscle in his leg tightens, his breath catches, and when I steal a glance at him, his jaw is tight.
He's looking out the window, like he's trying to stay calm. Like if he looks at me, he'll lose whatever composure is left in him, helping him cling to his sanity all night.
I squeeze a little.
His head turns toward me.
"You really did that to me today?" His voice was rough, quiet as if someone else could hear him.
I don't look at him. Instead, I trail my fingers higher. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to provoke.
"You made it through the reception," I murmur, smoothing my dress over my legs like I haven't been just driving him insane for hours. "Barely."
His hand moves.
Not gentle or patient.
His palm slides under the hem of my dress's slit, up my thigh with a kind of reckless hunger I can feel in my teeth.
"You think you're in control right now?" he says.
I smirk. I don't answer.
But my body is already betraying me– heat pooling between my legs, heart pounding like it knows exactly what's coming.
His fingers stop right where lace meets skin. Just resting there. Waiting. Like he's daring me to react.
He leans in again. His breath was hot on my neck.
"Careful," he growls. "You're gonna find out what happens when I'm finally not playing nice.
The second we're inside the hotel suite, the facade cracks.
The door shuts with a violent click behind us, and his mouth is on mine before I can say a word. All tongue and teeth and raw, pent-up need.
I don't remember walking, but Luke's already pushing me backward, crowding me until I hit the door again. My back slams into it, and I gasp— not from pain. From the way he's touching me now. Like he's starved.
His hands are already on the zipper of my dress, tugging hard, clumsy and desperate. One hand cups my jaw as his mouth crashes into mine again, teeth scraping my lower lip.
"You've been fucking with me all day," he mutters against my lips.
He's not wrong.
I kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his curls, tugging until he groans. "Do something about it then," I dare.
And he does.
His hands slide under my thighs, and suddenly, I'm off the ground. Legs wrapped around his waist, back still pressed to the door as he holds me there like I weigh nothing.
I wrap my arms around his neck, breath ragged, as he grinds against me through layers of clothing. Every moment is frantic, fueled by hours of teasing looks and whispered innuendos.
"You don't get it," He mutters, voice strangled with restraint. "You don't get what you do to me."
He kisses down my throat, rough and hungry, like he's trying to brand me.
I lean my head back against the door, moaning as one of his hands slips beneath the lace between my legs.
He pauses, and when his thumb brushes over the soaked fabric, he groans against my neck. "Fuck."
I bite down on my lip and arch into his touch. "Still think I'm not in control."
He laughs, but it's dark. "Not anymore, you're not."
Then goes back to kissing down my throat. Sucking on my collarbone. Hard, and this time there's no teasing.
Just fire.
He drops to his knees. Just like that. In the entry of the suite, my dress bunched at my waist.
The carpet brushes the tops of his boots. He doesn't even blink.
"Are you serious?" I breathe, but it's more of a gasp than a question.
He looks up at me from between my thighs, blue eyes darkened past recognition, jaw set like he's ready to ruin me. One of his hands curls around the back of my calf, guiding it over his shoulder. The other hooks into the waistband of my panties– lace, black, deliberately chosen.
"You knew exactly what you were doing," he murmurs, and then—
Heat. Tongue. Pressure.
He doesn't ease in. Doesn't take his time. He licks me through the lace, firm and slow, until my knees actually give a little and I grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. The grin he gives me then– crooked, smug, devastating– is all teeth.
He moves the lace aside. Bare skin, no more teasing.
And then he's back at it. Mouth sealed, tongue working in circles, maddening and slow and fucking perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair before even realizing it– tight and possessive, grounding myself.
"Oh my god–" I gasp, hips rocking against his face. He holds me steady with a firm hand under my thigh, pulling me in like he wants me to suffocate him.
The drag of his mouth, the obscene wet sounds, the way his stubble scrapes my inner thighs— it's all too much and not enough all at once. I can't even think. Can't breathe. My entire body arches towards him.
He moans into me, low and rough, like he's getting off on the way I fall apart.
And then he finds it. That exact spot. The one that makes me tremble.
He focuses there, lips tight, sucking just right– flicking his tongue until everything in me coils tight like a wire pulled too far.
"Don't stop," I choke out. "Luke— fuck, don't stop."
I grip the back of his head like I might float away if I don't anchor myself to him.
And then it hits.
Pleasure cracks through me, hot and binding. I cry out, thighs shaking against his shoulders, stomach tightening as my orgasm slams through me, fast and hard. He holds me steady through it, licking me through the aftershocks like he's determined to taste every second of it.
My vision swims. I'm panting, clutching his shoulders, legs barely holding me up.
Luke finally pulls back. His lips are slick. His mouth is swollen. He looks so proud. Wild and dangerous.
"One," he says, voice smug and confident, standing slowly like a predator who knows he's just begun. He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh before rising. Then his eyes meet mine.
"You're not walking tomorrow."
He lifts me off the door and carries me to the bed, standing me right beside it— his mouth already on my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my lips like he can't stand the distance between us.
I expect the same kind of urgency that had me unravelling in his mouth a minute ago.
But no.
It's like now that he's tasted me, he wants to make the rest of this last.
He lays me down, careful, reverent. The room spins a little with how gentle his hands are. His eyes drag down my body over the dress I wore just for this, over the flushed skin that still hums from his mouth.
His hands find the zipper again.
He kneels in front of me, beside the bed, fingers ghosting along the line of my back as he pulls the zipper down– inch by inch, his mouth following, warm and open against my skin. He doesn't rush. Each kiss is a confession for him. A slow unravelling.
My dress falls in soft folds around me.
And then I hear it– a sharp inhale from his chest. A curse under his breath.
I glance down at him, heat prickling at my neck.
I'm in the same black lingerie from the third Polaroid.
The one that I'm sure made him dizzy.
The one I took, knowing exactly what it would do to him.
His voice is ragged when it breaks the silence. "You planned this. Every second."
I don't say anything. Don't have to.
He trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh. Presses a kiss on my hipbone. Then another, lower, warmer.
"You knew I'd lose it."
A kiss on my stomach.
"You knew exactly what this would do to me."
He moves higher, lips brushing the curve of my ribs, the underside of my bra. His hand slides to my back, unfastening it with infuriating slowness, like he wants to savour it.
I arch into his mouth when he kisses the side of my breast, his tongue flicking over the skin like he's claiming it.
But then he pulls back.
Stands.
And the air in the entire room changes.
The softness evaporates. What's left is heat. Control. A rawness in his eyes I've never seen before– something older, darker, starving.
"On your knees."
His voice was low and firm. There's no room for question in it.
My breath catches in my throat. He watches my process with his words. Watching me hesitate for one second too long.
"You made me wait," he says, taking off his shoes. Then his shirt. "You wore this little fucking set and left me sitting with those pictures. For hours. Thinking about this body. About that mouth. About what I'd do the second I got my hands on you."
He unbuttons his slacks, watching me like a wolf watching its prey.
"You don't get to play innocent now."
Heat pools low in my stomach.
I drop down to my knees slowly. He watches every move like it's sacred. Or sinful. Or both.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Right where I want you."
I look up at him through my lashes.
"You waited," I whisper. "I thought about it every night."
His breath stutters. His hand knots in my hair, pulling it back to make me look up.
"Say it again."
"I wanted this," I say bolder this time. "I wanted to make you lose control."
"You fucking did," he growls, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you've done to me."
He strokes himself slowly in front of me, just enough to make my mouth go dry. Then he taps his cock against my bottom lip.
"You're gonna take all of it, baby. Every inch. No teasing this time. No games."
I open my mouth for him, and he throws his head back and groans like it physically hurts him to be touched.
"Look at me," he says, sliding in deep, hand tight in my hair. "Eyes on mine. You don't look away unless I tell you to."
I moan around him, already dizzy from the fullness, from the possessiveness in his grip, from the way his jaw clenches like he's seconds away from losing it.
He thrusts slowly at first, controlled.
Then harder.
Faster.
Dirty words pouring from his lips, one after another:
"Fucking perfect mouth–"
"It's like you were made for this–"
"Look at you– so fucking needy, choking on it like you love it."
His rhythm falters as he gets close, voice shaking with restraint.
But he doesn't let himself finish there.
One second I'm limp on the floor, wrecked from his mouth, the next I'm in his arms again– lifted like I'm weightless. He doesn't give me time to breathe.
My thighs lock around his waist as his mouth crashes into mine, open and hot and tasting like me. He walks me backward, gripping my ass, barely looking where he's going. The suite blurs past in streaks of gold light and shadows, until my back slams into the wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle.
I gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. "Luke–"
His mouth moves down to my neck, biting down just enough to make me gasp.
"You think I'm done with you?" he growls, grinding against me. "I haven't even started."
Then he's inside me.
No warning. Just one rough, brutal thrust that steals the breath straight from my lungs.
I cry out, nails scraping down his back. The wall is cold on my back, but his body is fire– his skin, his breath, his hands everywhere.
"Fuck," I gasp, clinging to him, legs tightening.
His pace is punishing, hips slamming up into me like he's trying to make a point. My head tips back and hits the wall again, a sharp thud. His hand comes up, fingers sliding over my throat.
"Keep your eyes on me." He demands, gritting his teeth.
I do– barely. His face and neck are flushed, jaw tight, blue eyes dark and locked on mine.
"Look at me when I ruin you," he says.
Then his hand tightens.
My eyes roll back. My body arches against his, and every nerve is on fire. The pressure on my throat makes everything sharper– every thrust, every sound, every pulse of heat between my legs.
"Fuck— Luke–" I choke out.
He growls low in his chest, voice filthy and worshipping.
"God, this fucking body. This cunt. All mine. You hear me?"
I nod, choking on a moan. "Yours– yours–"
He presses in harder, deeper, lip brushing my ear. "You made me wait. Dressed like a fantasy, touching me like it meant nothing. Then wore that fucking lingerie from the Polaroid. You wanted this."
I whimper.
"You wanted me like this. Didn't you?"
"Y-yes," I gasp.
Luke pulls out suddenly, and I almost collapse, but he doesn't let me fall. He turns me– spins me so I'm facing the wall, palms splayed out, bare chest pressed against the cold surface.
"Hands up. Spread your legs."
I do, shaking. I feel the rough drag of his chest to my back, his hand locking around my throat again as he lines up and thrusts into me from behind.
Deeper. Angled. Brutal.
I scream. There's no point holding it back.
He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back so my cheek's pressed to the wall.
"Louder," he growls. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who's fucking you like this."
His other hand slides over my hip, down to where we're joined, fingers rubbing hard, fast, perfect. I saw something out that might be his name.
I'm close. Too close. I can feel it building again, like lightning coiled in my spine.
His hand in my hair is back on my throat. Tight.
"You want to come again?" he grits out. "Beg for it."
My mouth falls open. No words coming out. His head was fuzzy from his hand on my throat.
"Please," I manage. "Please, Luke– I'm so– fuck, I need–"
"That's it." He mumbles. "Come for me."
I shatter. Harder than the first time. It rolls through me in waves, hot and violent. Every nerve stripped bare.
He follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself inside me one last time as he finishes, hips stuttering, grip bruising.
We're both panting. Ruined. Feral.
"That's two," Luke says between breaths.
Then his arms wrap around me from behind, holding me up as my legs give out entirely. He carries me to bed, lies down gently, then pulls the sheets over us like he's sealing something sacred. His breath is still ragged when he kisses my bare shoulder.
My fingers drift over his chest. "Did you like the photos?"
He doesn't speak right away, just leans over the edge of the bed and reaches into his discarded jacket, pulls out one of them– creased, warm from being kept too close.
"This one," he says, handing over the fourth one I gave him, the one of me naked on our bed at home. "I nearly lost it."
My heart stutters. He adds, quieter, "Kept it over my heart."
I lean in and kiss him slowly. "I knew you would."
His mouth grazes mine in lazy, drugging kisses, when his hand slides lower— fingertips teasing, tracing, memorizing. His touch is less frantic than before, but no less consuming. Kissing me like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing else outside this bed, this moment, and the heat reforming between my legs.
Luke's lips drag across my mouth, over my jaw, down my neck, and I let my eyes flutter shut. My pulse trips. He takes his time tracing over every part of me he hadn't before– soft grazes across my ribs, the dip of my waist, and then—
His hand slides lower, slipping between my legs, like he already owns the space. I shift toward him instinctively, but he plants a firm hand on my hip, holding me still.
"Easy," He mumbles against my shoulder, voice rough. "You'll take what I give you."
It should make me bristle. But it doesn't. It makes me ache.
His fingers move slowly at first— barely there. A soft, maddening tease that brushes where I want him more. I breathe through my teeth, every nerve lit and waiting. When he finally pushes two fingers inside, my hips lift off the mattress in a sharp gasp.
"Shit," I breathe.
"Keep still. Let me feel you." His voice is calm, measured. Dangerous.
I try. God, I really try to behave the way he wants— motionless and obedient under his hands— but I'm unravelling too fast. His fingers curl inside me, already knowing the exact spot that'll break me.
My back arches without permission, jaw slack.
"Please," I whisper. Not even sure what I'm begging for– more, harder, anything.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, still slow. "Please, what lovie?"
"I want you."
He doesn't stop moving his fingers, but his voice turns colder, commanding. "No. That's not what I asked."
I open my eyes. His gaze pins me in place, his thumb stroking over my clit until my entire body locks up with need.
"Tell me what you are. Say it."
My pride holds on for a second too long. And then he curls his fingers again, right there, and everything inside me contracts, my breath catching on a sob.
"Yours," I say, broken. "I'm yours."
His mouth crushes down on mine in a kiss that tastes like a reward— possessive, dirty, deep. "Good girl."
His pace doesn't change, but the pressure does. More controlled. More devastating. My legs shake. My hands claw at his back, arm, shoulder, anything I can hold onto as he fucks me with his fingers like it's the only thing that's ever mattered.
"That's it— my pretty mess, dripping all over my hand. You know what you're doing to me?"
Luke's words make me shake, whimper and plead for release even though I'm already so close I can hardly breathe.
And then I'm gone. Clenching around his fingers with a cry I can't hold back, thighs trembling, closing in on his hand, back arching off the bed as he works me through my orgasm until I fall limp against the mattress, spent and silent.
He holds me there, one hand splayed low on my stomach, his fingers still inside, claiming me.
“Three down, one to go.”
He's on top of me now. Finally.
The weight of his body feels grounding, not crushing. Heavy in the best way— solid, real, like I could fall apart underneath him and nothing would escape the cage of his arms.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking it slowly, like I'm not just something to touch, but something to be known. Memorized. Like he's collecting every moment we've made tonight and storing it somewhere he can reach.
I open my eyes and look up at him, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
His forehead rests against mine. Breathe shallow. Lips parted. Blue eyes locked on mine like they could hold me still. And maybe they do. I've never felt this quiet inside. Never felt this seen.
Then, in a voice like he's telling a secret he's never said out loud, he whispers, "You're my wife."
My chest stutters. I don't know if it's from the words or the way he says them.
Like a prayer, a promise.
Then louder, rawer, almost ruined, "You're my fucking wife."
And with that, he slides into me again.
No hesitation. No ramp-up. Just full, slow, relentless depth— like he knows exactly where I need him and refuses to give me anything less.
I gasp, legs tightening around him. One hooked over his hip. The other wrapped around his thigh, drawing him impossibly closer.
He stays deep, grinding instead of thrusting. Like the friction itself is enough. Like he wants me to feel everything. Wants to make sure I remember this even in dreams.
I whimper his name, again and again, and every time I say it, he groans like it's undoing him.
"You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing against my jaw. "How fucking good you take me?"
I nod. Not able to trust myself to say anything.
He holds my face in one hand like I'm fragile, scared, something rare that he's been given exactly once and refuses to fuck up.
His other hand threads through mine, pinning it above my head on the pillow. Our fingers laced. His grip is unrelenting, steady. Like if he lets go, the moment will too.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. God, I do.
And I see it all.
The awe. The hunger. The helpless, wrecked affection he's never been good at hiding when we're like this— when nothing else exists but skin and need and the way we break for each other.
"Fuck—I love you. I love you," he says, almost like it hurts. "So much it scares me."
And then kisses me, full, soft, aching. As if we have all the time in the world, even if we don't. He can pour every unspoken word into my mouth, and I'll understand.
It's all heat and friction and sweat-slicked skin, but somehow still tender– his fingers through mine, our foreheads touching like we're trying to crawl inside each other and stay there.
I hold onto his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. He presses our foreheads together again, eyes fluttering closed.
We stay like that, building our highs together— slow and scared.
His name falls from my lips in a whisper, then again. Then louder.
He moves deeper, harder. Still holding eye contact. Still inside me like he's proving his vows with every stroke.
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please— Luke, fuck."
"I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl," he promises me.
My body arches against him, lost in it. His hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up to push it back just so I can see him better. So I can memorize this.
His hand moves from my cheek to the back of my head, holding me to him as I fall apart beneath him. He doesn't let go. He doesn't rush. Just stays with me, inside me. Through every wave.
And when he comes, it's with a sound I'll never forget— like he's breaking open and finally, finally letting me in.
We finish together. Messy, gasping and clinging.
Name after name after name. His. Mine. Ours.
Like a spell cast in sweat, breath and skin.
Like there's no one else in the world but us.
We don't move right away.
“And that’s four.” He says breathless.
He collapses onto me, bodies still tangled together, breath still short. His weight is solid, skin flushed and damp against mine.
I wrap my arms around him, legs still draped over him. His heartbeat thunders against my body.
We stay like that for a long time.
Eventually, he shifts, rolling us so I'm on top, sprawled across his chest. He kisses my shoulder, my temple, the corner of my mouth— soft, lazy kisses that feel like aftershocks.
His hand moves to my hair, combing through the strands slowly, like he's trying to soothe both of us back to earth.
His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, and his voice breaks the silence– wrecked but tender.
"You could send me Polaroids every day for the rest of my life…"
He swallows, chest rising beneath me. Finishing the sentence like it hurts.
"And I'd still never get used to you."
I smile against his collarbone. My lips brush his skin as I reply, sleepy and smug. "Good."
My fingers trail down the center of his chest, where I can still feel his heart hammering.
"Because I plan to keep ruining you."
He exhales a laugh– soft, disbelieving– and pulls me closer as if I'm somehow still not close enough.
Neither of us says it, but it's in the quiet, heavy air between us:
✧ summary:
a dangerous meeting with a handsome stranger in a bar leads to the best sex of your life.
✧ warnings:
face fucking, unprotected sex, cream pie, squirting, face riding, semi-public sex, rough sex, dom!ash, roleplay
✧ word count:
6.6k
✧ title:
mascara — by Deftones
✧ author’s note:
BITCH GUESS WHO’S BACKKKKK!! sorry for disappearing chat, it seems as though i had a bit of a writer’s block. the juice i was running on when i pumped out all of the previous fics seems to have run out, but alas here i am!
i can’t promise i’ll be as active as i was before, but i hope you enjoy this little blurb because IT WAS SO FUCKING FUN TO WRITE.
this was inspired by a certain line in the song mascara by Deftones. stick around till the end, i promise the fluff is worth it.
also, thank u soup for being my other braincell when it comes to writing ashton. you hyping me up helped a ton. ALSO TY FOR CHOOSING THE ASH ERA AND PICTURE AHHHH!!!
The air in the bar was thick—saturated with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and lingering cigarette smoke, all underscored by the raucous echoes of drunken laughter. You tapped your carefully manicured nails against the sticky tabletop, eyes flitting nervously from face to face, cataloging each stranger with uneasy precision.
The thrill of the night buzzed beneath your skin—sharp, electric, almost unbearable. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest as your gaze remained fixed on the bar’s entrance, each passing moment stretching thin with anticipation. Maybe it was the taboo of it all—the unspoken danger, the uncharted territory you’d sworn never to touch—but the butterflies in your stomach had taken flight with dizzying urgency.
The bartender made eye contact with you again—for the third time in ten minutes. You offered nothing back, just lazily nursed your drink, tracing the rim of the glass with a fingertip. Condensation clung to the outside, slick and cool, and you found mild amusement in watching a droplet race downward, faster than the others.
“Must be some evenin’ if you’re entertaining yourself with a damn water droplet.” The voice—low, accented, tinged with amusement—slid into your senses just as he took the seat beside you.
Your eyes flicked to him. Sandy stubble framed a sharp jaw and hollow cheeks, his dark hair falling messily across his brow. And then—those eyes. Bright green, catlike, studying you with lazy precision.
The corner of your mouth curled into a smirk, slow and knowing. Your gaze dropped—right to the glint of a wedding band wrapped snug around his ring finger.
Instinctively, you twisted your own wedding band, the familiar pressure grounding you as a wave of anxiety surged—unwelcome, but far from unfamiliar. You straightened in your seat, spine stiffening, willing your features into something resembling calm.
“I find that the simplest things can be the most surprisingly amusing,” you hummed, voice dipping into something sweet and slow, almost syrupy. Then, you met his gaze head-on. “You’d probably know that if you didn’t strut around like you’re God’s gift to the Earth.”
His eyebrow arched, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face as his tongue dragged across his lower lip. He nodded slowly, accepting the barb with practiced ease. “Terrifying,” he murmured, raising a hand to flag down the bartender.
His emerald eyes flicked back to yours with a lazy sort of confidence, and a single dimple appeared as he smiled. “You want a refill? For a water droplet rematch?”
You took a breath, steady and deliberate, refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze swept over you like muscle memory—lazy, familiar, sure. Like he already knew the answer.
“Get me something stronger,” you murmured, stretching languidly in your seat.
His eyes followed the arch of your back with a quiet, hungry reverence—the kind of look that sent heat cascading through your limbs.
His smile could undo a person. “A woman after my own heart,” he mused, a pleased hum curling beneath his words. “I like that.”
You rolled your eyes as he turned toward the bartender, ordering two whiskeys neat. Presumptuous. But, annoyingly, spot-on.
“I’m sure your wife could agree,” you said, voice cool and edged.
His gaze flickered back to you, the smile still etched effortlessly into his features. “Let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing down to your lips—lingering—before dropping to your hand.
“Unless you want to talk about that massive rock you’ve got on your finger, too.”
You didn’t reply.
He pressed on, tone light, teasing. “That really is quite the ring,” he said, amusement never fading. His gaze sharpened just slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You must be quite special, hmm?”
You narrowed your eyes, shifting in your seat. “I thought you wanted to let bygones be bygones?”
“You’re right,” he said with a nod, not even a flicker of shame. “My bad.”
Then he pivoted fully, turning to face you—his body leaning in like he’d known you forever. Like this wasn’t something dangerous.
“My name’s Ashton.”
You paused. Then, evenly, “Y/N.”
Ashton pursed his lips in thought before letting a slow grin curl across them. “Y/N,” he repeated, rolling the name across his tongue like he was testing its weight. The way he said it—deliberate, slow, far too familiar—sent a flash of heat cascading down your spine. “Pretty name.”
You shrugged, biting your lip as you toyed with your glass, carefully considering your next move. “For a pretty woman,” you purred, casting him a look from beneath your lashes. “It fits.”
“Damn right it does,” Ashton murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink—his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “So, enlighten me, Y/N… what’s a beautiful married woman doing in a hotel bar at—” He glanced at his watch. “One in the morning on a Saturday, wearing lipstick that screams bite me?”
You inhaled slowly, gaze drifting over him with a lazy, deliberate hunger.
“Maybe I’m looking for a victim,” you mused, voice laced with danger and promise. Then you tilted your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What about you? What’s a handsome, married man doing alone in a bar… buying drinks for someone else’s wife?”
Ashton raised his hands in mock surrender, though the easy smile on his lips didn’t so much as flicker. “Just being a good Samaritan,” he said with a casual shrug. “You never know what kind of people lurk around at this hour… or the intentions you might encounter.”
“Oh?” you purred, tilting your head as you blinked up at him with feigned innocence. You slowly rested your arm on the table, exposing the delicate inside of your wrist—the soft skin catching in the low light. His eyes tracked the motion instantly, just as you expected. “And what makes your intentions so different from theirs?”
Ashton’s gaze lingered for a beat too long before lifting back to yours, something darker now swimming beneath the surface of his smile.
“Just looking for a way to kill some time,” he said, tone sincere but low. “Something to help with the jet lag, ya know?”
You hummed softly, lifting your glass of whiskey to your lips. “Jet lag,” you echoed, taking a slow, deliberate sip—Ashton’s eyes tracking every movement with the kind of hunger that would put a starved man to shame. A single bead of amber clung to the corner of your mouth. You reached up, wiping it away with the tip of your finger, and let your lips curl just slightly. “And here I thought you were just bored of your wife.”
Ashton let out a quiet, amused laugh—open, easy, a sound that vibrated in your chest. “She does get a little repetitive at times,” he said with a mock sigh, lifting his glass to his lips.
“Excuse you,” you said, feigning offense, narrowing your eyes as you tilted your head. “I’m sure she’s a lovely woman.”
His smirk deepened, eyes flicking once again to your left hand—your very occupied ring finger. “She sure is. Just like I imagine your husband’s quite the catch.”
You rolled your eyes, resting your cheek against your hand. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
Another flash of those damn dimples, and your breath caught just slightly. “The funniest, love.”
You let out a quiet chuckle—soft, reserved, almost unsure. Another sip of whiskey gave you something to do, something to hide behind. “You must be a nightmare at any social event.”
Ashton raised a brow, amused, and leaned into your space without apology. The scent of citrus and musk clung to him—rich, clean, and heady. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, involuntarily letting it sink into your senses.
“Only if the conversation’s dull,” he murmured, glancing down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid with lazy ease. “Or if the wives look… particularly restless.”
“Oh, yeah?” you challenged, leaning in just enough to mirror him. “So tell me, Ashton… what is it that you think I’m looking for?”
He moved slowly, deliberately—lifting one arm and dragging the pad of his index finger down the soft skin of your forearm. The touch was featherlight, but it left a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
“I think you’re looking for a thrill,” he whispered, voice dipped in heat. His breath brushed your ear. “Something dangerous. Something to remind you you’re not just someone’s well-kept prize.”
Your pulse spiked.
You turned your head toward him—lips dangerously close, eyes locked. There was no hesitation in your expression. You wanted this. You both knew it.
“Mm. That’s a tempting offer,” you murmured. “You are offering, aren’t you?”
Ashton’s grin was slow and wicked, his head tilting like he was insulted by the question. “Darling, I’m not here to talk about your husband’s diamond preferences—though credit where it’s due, the man’s got taste.”
“Hmm.” You let Ashton hang there, suspended in the tension you both had carefully spun, letting the silence tease him just a little longer. The anticipation only sharpened your craving. “Does your wife know you’re out here complimenting diamond cuts?”
Ashton leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low and full of intent. “I’d much rather be doing more than admiring a ring on your finger,” he murmured, each word soaked in heat. You could feel the warmth of him, pulsing between you like a live wire.
Then he pulled back, slowly—reluctantly—and stood. He towered over your seated frame, casting you in shadow and possibility. His hand reached out, gentle yet firm, tilting your chin up until your eyes locked.
“You take control a lot in your life?” he asked softly, like he already knew the answer.
Your gaze held his, unwavering. “I’m looking for something that’ll let me give that up,” you replied, voice low, deliberate. “Is that what you’re here to compliment now? My willingness to obey? My need to surrender?”
His eyes darkened, hunger flickering across his features like a spark hitting gasoline. His jaw flexed, tightly restrained, and you could feel the war inside him—between restraint and abandon.
His eyes kept darting to your lips, and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom one. For the first time, you saw something shift—surprise, almost awe—behind the heat.
“Do you want me to test just how compliant you are?” he rasped. “Or do you think your husb—”
“Let’s go,” you cut him off, the heat between your thighs finally boiling over. The game was over. “Take me.”
The air felt sucked from the room the moment your words left your lips. Ashton’s mouth parted slightly in surprise, but you knew there would be no hesitation. And there wasn’t.
His hand reached for you—delicate, yet firm—as his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The moment his skin touched yours, heat surged through your body, sealing your resolve.
The bar blurred into irrelevance as he led you past tables, past strangers who didn’t matter. His pace was confident, deliberate—like a man who already knew the outcome.
The hallways were quiet, save for the occasional couple stumbling toward their own late-night regrets, not sparing either of you a second glance.
When the elevator arrived, you tugged Ashton inside without a word, blindly slapping the correct floor button as he pushed you back against the mirror.
The door slid shut just as your spine hit the cold glass. He caged you there, body pressed against yours, hands gripping the railing behind you as if to anchor you. His eyes devoured your face—lips parted, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.
And then he kissed you.
No hesitation. No pause. Just heat.
His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and ravenous, like he’d been waiting all night to taste you. His tongue slid past your lips without resistance, drawing a soft gasp from your throat as he explored you—confident, controlled, hungry.
His hands wandered too—down the curve of your waist, to your thigh, lifting it slowly. One hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, savoring the heat of your skin, rough fingers skimming delicate lace.
A quiet moan escaped as he bit down on your bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth. He groaned in return when your hips rolled against his, chasing friction like oxygen.
One hand came to your neck, strong fingers bracketing your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath the skin. It made your head spin.
The elevator dinged.
You pushed him back—breathless, flushed—and grabbed his hand, fingers lacing tightly with his as you dragged him into the hallway.
“Jesus,” Ashton laughed, voice low and wrecked. “Impatient, are we?”
You stopped in front of the door, turned on your heel, and grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him down to meet your lips again.
“Just open the fucking door,” you murmured into his mouth, already losing yourself to the next kiss
Not surprisingly, one of Ashton’s hands came up to cup the back of your neck, keeping your lips locked with his as his other hand swiped the keycard and swung the door open.
The two of you backed into the room slowly, the door shutting behind you with a soft click that left no room for hesitation.
Ashton pulled away just enough to shed his jacket, letting it fall to the hotel floor. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the open blinds—just enough to see by, just enough to want more.
The green of Ashton’s eyes was almost entirely overtaken by the black of his pupils. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as his gaze dragged down your body, sharp and electric. This was different. This was new.
“Strip,” he said, voice eerily calm. Controlled. “And get on your knees.”
You turned, brow raised in a questioning glance. “What?”
“I said strip,” Ashton repeated, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate step forward. There was no trace of the charming, cheeky man from the bar. This was something darker—something raw, unfiltered, and burning.
You bit your lip, fingers moving behind you to find the zipper of your dress. The seconds stretched, molasses-thick, as Ashton stood still—watching, waiting, hungering.
You slid the dress down your arms, letting the fabric whisper to the floor and pool at your feet.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, stepping closer. His eyes roamed your body like he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. “Keep going.”
Biting your lip, you reached behind your back and unhooked your bra, letting the straps fall slowly down your arms until the fabric slipped to the floor, joining your dress. Ashton had begun circling you like a predator stalking its prey, and the weight of his gaze alone made your thighs instinctively press together in a futile search for relief.
With deliberate slowness, you slid your panties down your legs, stepping out of the lace and nudging your discarded clothes aside. Ashton came to a stop in front of you, and wordlessly, you sank to your knees—eyes locked on his the entire time.
He licked his lips, head tilted slightly, savoring the way anticipation coiled tight in your body. His steps toward you were slow, deliberate, like he was drawing out your need on purpose.
His rough hand cupped your face, his pinky settling just under your jaw, tilting your gaze up to meet his.
“You look good like this, Y/N,” he murmured, voice low and gruff with want. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, then pressed between them, slipping into your mouth without resistance.
“Your husband’s lucky,” he added, dark amusement laced in the words. “Let’s see just how lucky, though.”
Your breath hitched as his hand dropped to his belt, undoing it with the kind of practiced ease that made your pulse stutter. The other hand left your face to pop the button, then the zipper, his movements unhurried and confident as he pushed his jeans just low enough.
He was already hard—thick, glistening, beautiful.
Your mouth watered at the sight.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your breathing shallow as he stepped in closer. Slowly, he pressed the tip of his cock to your lips, the salty taste flooding your senses as his eyes met yours in a silent question.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your lips parted, and you took him in—slowly, deliberately—just the tip at first. Ashton let out a low moan, his head tipping back as he eased deeper into your mouth.
“That’s my good fucking girl,” he growled, voice rough with pleasure, one hand sliding into your hair to guide you as he hit the back of your throat.
You let your tongue swirl around him, your hand wrapping around the base to take care of what you couldn’t fit. The weight of him on your tongue was addictive, the stretch of your jaw delicious as you began to move—slow, steady, intentional.
“Oh, fuck,” Ashton groaned, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he watched you. “So fucking pretty… just like I knew you’d be.”
His encouragement only spurred you on. You bobbed your head faster, wrist moving in perfect time as your tongue traced the underside of his tip—right where you knew he was most sensitive.
“God, you look like a fuckin’ dream on your knees,” Ashton gasped, his voice coming out rough and breathless. One hand came to brace against the wall behind you, the other still tangled in your hair, keeping you close.
Your lips were stretched around him, swollen and slick. Spit coated your chin, your cheeks flushed with heat. You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the way his hips twitched slightly with every pass of your mouth.
Then you opened your eyes again—wide, glassy, unafraid—and met his with a look that dared him.
Take it. Take me.
Ashton recognized that look instantly. He smirked, a dark and pleased curve of his lips, and then his hips began to move—slow at first, then harder, faster, more demanding.
He fucked into your mouth with purpose, hitting the back of your throat again and again, and you let him. You gave yourself over to him completely.
“Pretty little thing,” he gritted out, breath ragged. “God, your mouth feels so fucking good.”
You moaned around him, and the vibration made him curse under his breath. It only made him go harder, faster, more desperate. Tears sprang to your eyes from the force, slipping down your cheeks without mercy—raw, messy, beautiful.
“Don’t cry, baby,” Ashton growled, fisting your hair tighter, the pace unrelenting. “You look so fucking pretty with my cock down your throat.”
You could imagine exactly what he saw—your body on your knees, mascara streaked like black lightning across your face, lips swollen and glistening, eyes wet and glassy, mouth full of him. Completely ruined, completely his.
And you loved it.
Without warning, Ashton pulled out of your mouth. You gasped, your throat raw, vision blurred as the world rushed back in too fast. The sudden loss made your body ache.
“You’re such a good little whore f’me,” Ashton panted, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. “But I need to come inside you.”
A whimper escaped before you could stop it. “Please, Ash,” you rasped, your voice hoarse and trembling from the effort of holding him so deep for so long.
“You did such a good job,” he murmured, thumb stroking along your jaw. “Such a good girl. And good girls get rewarded.”
You bit down on your lip, swallowing the moan building in your chest. The slick heat between your thighs was unbearable now, every shift of your body sparking friction you couldn’t ignore. You squirmed, desperate for more.
Ashton leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. His hand fisted in your hair, anchoring you there as your hands clutched at his shoulders. Your mouths moved together with practiced, hungry precision.
With trembling fingers, you began to unbutton his shirt, pushing his jean jacket off in the same motion. His skin burned under your touch, the heat of him making your own skin feel too tight. His hands found your waist, dragging you into him as the two of you collapsed to the floor in a messy tangle of limbs—your body falling on top of him.
His tongue slid into your mouth again, slow and sure, drawing out a moan that vibrated between your lips. One of his hands roamed your back, the other dropping to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in possessively. The press of his cock between your bodies was firm, heavy, demanding.
You shifted your hips to grind against him, seeking friction, and he groaned against your mouth.
“I want you,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, “to sit on my face.”
The words knocked the air out of your lungs.
“Ride my tongue,” he growled, eyes dark with want. “Until you fucking come. That’s your reward.”
Your eyes widened in surprise, but Ashton’s gaze was already locked on yours—wide, dark, and desperate. Your entire body buzzed like a live wire, and God, you’d dreamed of this. Of his mouth. Of that stubble dragging along the sensitive inside of your thighs.
“Fuck,” you breathed, voice trembling as you took in the sight of him sprawled beneath you—an absolute dream of a man, waiting to worship you.
One of his hands fell away from your back as he propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes burning into yours as he waited.
“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, voice low, rough, and sweet like sin. “You don’t get to be shy. Not after you choked on my cock like you were fucking made for it.”
You bit your lip as he leaned back against the floor, lifting a hand to gesture toward his face.
“Up here,” he ordered, voice firm. “Bring that pretty pussy to my mouth.”
There was no hesitation. You moved up his body, thighs bracketing his face as you settled above him. The sight of you—wet, glistening, need dripping from every inch—made Ashton groan like he was in pain.
“God,” he rasped, eyes fixed on you. One hand came up, his finger lightly trailing down your slit, making you hiss. “You’re fucking soaked, baby.”
You began to lower yourself slowly, but it wasn’t fast enough for him. Ashton gripped your hips and pulled you down against his mouth in one swift, hungry motion.
The second his tongue touched you, your moan echoed through the room—loud, helpless. He licked a long, deliberate stripe through your folds, savoring the taste, before circling your clit in slow, maddening motions.
“Oh my—fuck,” you gasped, the words dissolving into a strangled cry as your hands scrambled for purchase on the nearby nightstand.
Ashton’s lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently, then with a little more pressure. Your hips jerked in response, grinding down instinctively, chasing the searing high he was building with every flick of his tongue.
His stubble burned deliciously against the soft skin of your thighs, only heightening the sensation. He alternated between languid, lazy licks and pulling your clit between his lips, suckling it like he had all the time in the world—and every intention of wrecking you slowly.
Your thighs trembled uncontrollably on either side of his head as you rode the delicious flicks of his tongue. When Ashton groaned into you, the deep vibration sent shockwaves straight through your core.
It felt so good—too good. Your free hand tangled in his dark curls, your head tipping back in pure ecstasy as a crescendo of moans spilled from your lips. He encouraged the slow grind of your hips against his mouth, both hands gripping your thighs as you chased your high.
The room was filled with the sound of wet, sinful pleasure—his mouth working you over with no mercy. You chased every swipe of his tongue, every deliberate kiss to your throbbing clit, your hips stuttering with every stroke.
A deep throb coiled low in your belly, tightening fast as your breathing grew uneven and your moans climbed in pitch.
“Oh God, Ash,” you whimpered, voice cracking on his name. “Your mouth feels so fucking good. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Ashton hummed in response, the sound rumbling against you as he squeezed your thighs tighter.
“Come for me,” he growled, voice muffled and rough. “Be a good girl and come all over my fucking face.”
That was all it took.
With one last flick of his tongue, your orgasm slammed into you, stealing your breath and darkening your vision. Your entire body shook, thighs quivering as a sob wrenched free from your throat—his name falling from your lips like a broken prayer.
Your spine arched, hips jerking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Ashton didn’t stop—not for a second—his mouth working you through every pulse, every aftershock, until your cries blurred into whimpers of overstimulation.
By the time you came down, your arms gave out and you collapsed forward, catching yourself on trembling hands. Ashton eased you off his mouth gently, and you rolled off him until you were seated back on the floor, chest heaving.
“Fuck, your wife is lucky,” you muttered, pushing damp strands of hair out of your face as Ashton propped himself up on his elbows, wearing a thoroughly smug grin.
“She is,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction as he sat up and got to his feet. “But I’m here with you… and I’m not finished.”
You blinked up at him, still dazed, trying to piece your mind back together.
Fuck. He never came.
Ashton extended a hand, and you took it. With his help, you stood on shaky legs, and he placed a steadying hand at the small of your back.
“You can handle more, can’t you, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, sending a fresh shiver down your spine.
He guided you toward the balcony, pushing the glass door open. Warm spring air hit your flushed, naked skin, and you gasped at the contrast—the city lights glowing just beyond the railing, the hum of the night surrounding you like a secret.
“Hands on the railing, babygirl,” Ashton instructed, voice firm as he stepped in behind you and bent you forward.
Your hands flew out to grip the railing, knuckles turning white with anticipation.
Ashton let a hand trail slowly down your spine, the light touch making you shiver. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” he murmured, voice low and dark. “And I need everyone in this goddamn city to know it. Got it?”
You bit your lip, nodding eagerly, the thrill of his words pulsing between your legs.
He moved your hair gently over your shoulder, exposing the curve of your neck. His lips followed, soft and deliberate, as he kissed the sensitive skin. You exhaled a content sigh, eyelids fluttering as he scraped his teeth along your pulse point.
Then he sucked—slow, deliberate—drawing a deep mark that made your knees nearly buckle.
You could feel the heat of him behind you, the weight of his cock as it was pressed against your ass. Gently, Ashton adjusted his grip on your hips, the warm night air doing nothing for the goosebumps that decorated your skin at every minor touch.
“Fuck, Y/N,” Ashton groaned, voice thick with lust. “You look so fucking good like this—bent over, gripping the railing, dripping for me like the cockwhore I know you are.”
His hands roamed slowly down your back, spreading you open with a deliberate touch that made your breath hitch. You were completely exposed, completely at his mercy—and he reveled in it.
“Keep those hands right where they are, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. His voice softened just enough to make you melt before his fingers teased your entrance.
You let out a stifled moan, your body already throbbing for him. When he pushed one finger inside, your eyes rolled back.
“So fucking tight still,” Ashton hummed, pleased, like he wasn’t already obsessed with how you felt. “Gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock.”
A second finger joined the first, stretching you out, filling you. The sensation was intense, especially with how sensitive you still were—your climax from his mouth barely in the rearview.
You clenched around his fingers, hips shaking, legs trembling from the effort to stay upright. His pace was unhurried, torturous, and you could feel the smirk on his face even without looking.
Then, without warning, he pulled them out, and you whimpered at the loss.
You heard the slick sound before you even saw it—the unmistakable sound of him sucking your arousal off his fingers.
“Taste like fucking candy,” he groaned.
“Ash, please—” you started, only to be cut off by the slow, maddening drag of his cock teasing your entrance. He rubbed against your clit deliberately, and your knees nearly buckled.
“Oh, fuck,” you cried, hips jerking.
He chuckled darkly behind you. “You like that, baby?” he asked, taunting. “Look at you—clenching around nothing. You’re so damn desperate.”
“Ashton, please,” you begged, voice wrecked. Your fingers tightened around the railing, white-knuckled, as your whole body cried out for him. “I need you.”
And finally, finally, he gave in.
The air left your lungs in a gasp as Ashton pushed inside—inch by inch—stretching you open in a way that made your mind go blank.
He bottomed out with a low, guttural moan. “Oh fuck, that pussy’s perfect,” he hissed. “So tight around me, so wet. You feel fucking amazing.”
His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises—marks you knew you’d wear proudly tomorrow.
Then he moved.
Without warning, Ashton pulled back and slammed into you, drawing a loud cry from your throat. The sound was lost in the buzz of the city below—but you knew you were only going to get louder.
His hips were relentless, slamming into yours with the kind of force that had your body jolting forward, the railing shaking beneath your grip. Your cries mixed with his breathy groans, the air between you thick with sweat, heat, and need.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Let them hear you. Let this fucking city know who owns this pretty pussy.”
Your head fell forward, resting against your arm as your body trembled with every deep, punishing thrust. The pleasure was blinding—overwhelming—consuming every thought until the only thing you could register was Ashton’s cock driving into you over and over again.
Your legs barely held you up as Ashton continued to pound into you, merciless and relentless. Your skin buzzed with electricity, every nerve ending alive, your moans dissolving into broken, choked-off cries as each thrust hit deeper than the last.
“Right there, Ash,” you gasped, voice echoing into the open night. Anyone could see you—if they stepped onto their balcony or even glanced out a window, they’d be greeted with the filthy, breathtaking sight of Ashton fucking you senseless.
And Ashton wasn’t faring much better. His composure had shattered, his strangled moans mixing with yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the night air.
You were gone—completely undone. Your body no longer felt like your own, just a desperate vessel for Ashton to use, to ruin, to worship with every precise snap of his hips. He kept hitting that spot inside you—over and over—that made your vision blur and stars explode behind your eyes.
Your thighs shook violently, every thrust knocking the breath from your lungs.
“Fuck, yes—right there,” you cried, the words barely intelligible, your mouth working around them between moans. But he understood. Oh, he understood.
His grip on your hips tightened like a vice. He knew from the way you were trembling, the way you clenched around him like a vice—you were close. So fucking close.
“You gonna come for me?” he growled into your ear, voice a low, filthy rasp. Each word was punctuated by a brutal thrust that had your hands gripping the railing like your life depended on it. “I can feel it. This tight little pussy’s begging for it. Begging for me to fuck it dumb.”
A choked sob ripped from your throat just as Ashton’s hand left your hip and slipped between your thighs. His fingers found your clit instantly, rubbing tight, ruthless circles that made your back arch and a scream claw its way from your chest.
The only sounds were your cries, the wet slap of your bodies, and Ashton’s ragged breathing at your neck.
“You’re gonna milk my cock dry, aren’t you?” he snarled. “Fucking wring every last drop out of me, you dirty little whore.”
You bit your lip, mustering just enough strength to nod—but even that felt impossible. The pleasure was overwhelming, consuming every thought, every breath, every nerve in your body. Words were out of the question.
“Come for me,” Ashton snarled, his fingers rubbing ruthless circles on your clit. “Fucking come for me. Make a mess, baby—I wanna feel you soak my cock.”
With one final, devastating snap of his hips, your body seized up and you screamed his name into the night. Hot, blinding, electric pleasure crashed over you like a wave, so intense it shattered every thought. You were reduced to nothing but a gasping, writhing mess—your back arching, toes curling, mouth open in a silent cry.
And then it hit.
Just as your orgasm peaked—when you thought there couldn’t possibly be more—your body let go completely. A powerful gush spilled from between your legs, soaking your thighs and Ashton’s hips, the force of it making you collapse against the railing with a broken moan.
“Holy fuck,” Ashton breathed, voice wrecked, completely stunned. “That’s it, baby—good fucking girl. Squirt all over me. Goddamn.”
But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The sight of you losing control like that only pushed him further. His thrusts turned savage, unrelenting, and your legs gave out beneath you. Ashton didn’t falter—his hands clamped around your hips, holding you upright as your body went limp.
“Look at this pussy,” he panted, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder. “Fucking soaked for me. You’re a mess, Y/N—the hottest, filthiest fucking mess I’ve ever seen. And I’m not stopping till I’ve come so deep it drips out of you for days.”
You whimpered, exhausted and overstimulated, but fuck if his words didn’t light you up all over again.
“Goddamn,” he groaned, chest pressed to your back, one hand gripping the railing while the other snaked around to hold you still. “You drenched me, sweetheart. You’re mine. You hear me? This pussy—this sloppy, dripping, perfect fucking pussy—belongs to me.”
“Only to you,” you managed to breathe, voice raw as another moan tore from your throat. “It’s yours, Ash. No one else’s. Ever.”
He groaned like he was losing his mind, lips dragging across your skin as he chased his own release. “Fuck, you look like sin,” he growled. “Bent over like a perfect little slut, dripping down my cock, soaking my thighs—you love this, don’t you?”
After a particularly brutal thrust, you let out a strangled gasp.
“I fucking love it,” you sobbed. “I love how deep you are. I love how you ruin me.”
That was all he needed.
One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your back flush to his chest as his other hand slid up to grab your tits, fingers rolling your nipples between them as your head fell back against him.
“God, you’re so fucking filthy,” he hissed into your ear. “Still begging for my cock even though you can barely stand. You squirted all over me and you’re still taking it like a good little whore.”
You moaned loud and broken—speech long gone.
“You want it?” he growled, cock throbbing inside you. “You want me to fill up this tight little cunt? Pump you full until you’re leaking down your thighs?”
“Please, Ash,” you begged, vision swimming. “Come inside me. Fill me up—I want to feel it dripping out. I want your cum fucking everywhere.”
He snapped.
With a loud, guttural groan, Ashton slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock twitched deep inside. You could feel the heat of it—thick, hot spurts filling you, spilling into every inch.
“Fuck—fuck, take that,” he gasped, grinding into you through every last pulse. “Take my cum, baby. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full. This pussy was made to be ruined by me.”
You cried out, shaking as the warmth of his release spilled out of you, dripping instantly down your thighs. His hips jerked through the aftershocks, unwilling to let go of the moment.
He stayed there, pressed tight against your back, panting hard, fingers bruising your hips as he came down.
Finally, with a low groan, he pulled out—and the slick sound of his cum dripping out of you made him hiss through his teeth.
Before your legs had the chance to give out, Ashton scooped you up effortlessly, one arm behind your back, the other under your thighs. You sagged into him, boneless and ruined, as he carried you back inside.
He kicked the balcony door shut with his foot, his lips brushing your temple as he carried you through the room. Slowly, he walked you over to the bed and laid you down with care, then padded into the bathroom to grab a towel.
Your mind was still a haze of afterglow and overstimulation, but clarity gradually returned. The trembling in your legs faded, replaced by a deep, warm relaxation that spread through your entire body.
When Ashton returned, he wore a dopey, satisfied smile as he sat beside you. He gently spread your thighs, the towel in his hand already damp with warm water. With careful, tender motions, he began cleaning you up—wiping away the mix of arousal and cum with quiet focus.
You hissed when the fabric brushed over your still-sensitive skin, and Ashton’s head immediately shot up. A stray black curl fell over his eyes as he checked your face for any sign of discomfort.
You slowly sat up, your hand reaching for him. With a soft touch, you brushed the hair from his face. His expression softened as your fingertips skimmed his cheek.
“That was fun,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.
Ashton grinned, setting the towel aside on the nightstand. “Yeah, it was.” He paused, eyes gleaming with mischief as he added, “Too bad you’re married…”
You arched a brow, already bracing for it.
“To me,” he finished with a shit-eating grin.
You let out a dramatic groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
He burst into laughter, clearly pleased with himself. “Oh, baby, come on!” he said, cupping your face with both hands and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t the hottest sex we’ve ever had.”
You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. “Maybe,” you grumbled. “But did you really have to keep bringing up the wedding band you picked out mid-fuck?”
Ashton grinned, entirely unashamed. “I really outdid myself, what can I say?”
Your glare was unimpressed. “I pity your wife.”
Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, his teasing fading into something tender. He tilted his head, studying you with the kind of reverence that could only come from someone completely, hopelessly in love.
“She loves me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” you whispered, nuzzling deeper into his hand. “I do.”
Ashton smiled, flashing you a dimple. “I love you too, baby.”
online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.
and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.
there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't think anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.
i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.
feeling emo about the quinn we used to have and had all created a fake version of him. dead wife scenario and I’m so serious.
like we should all be chatting about his slutty playoff beard and requesting/writing fics of beard burn but it just doesn’t feel the same and i’m annoyed by it.
i’m so angry at the columbus blue jackets but i still love them so much and i already can’t wait for next season, because i am in fact that stupid and ready to be hurt again
Summary: After the cadets leave to go back to Basgiath, you go to find Brennan to see how he's doing. But one kiss on your neck sets you off, and you can't help yourself.
Warnings: NSFW. 18+ Minors DNI. Pet Names. Dominant Brennan. Thigh Riding. P in V Unprotected Sex.
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist | Masterlist
Riorson house is quiet as I walk through the halls. It was one of the rare days between the cadets from Basgiath leaving and arriving. By tomorrow afternoon the halls would be busy and noisy again. As much as I liked the quiet, the noise of other riders being around made the place feel lived in and alive.
I already knew I’d find him in his office. He always ended up there on days like this, using the time to catch up on the things he’d missed while teaching. Pushing open the door I see him sat in his chair, but not hunched over his desk like I’d expected. Instead he’s leaning back, legs spread wide as he looks out the window deep in thought. The setting sun casting an amber glow over him that extenuates his hair and eye colour. I can’t help but stare at him, how regal he looks. And I won’t lie, how fucking handsome he looks. And he was mine. Even if we weren’t public with our relationship.
He. Was. Mine.
And right now, I wanted nothing more than to drag him away, back to our room and solidify that. But I knew he had a lot to do, so I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind for now. Later when he was done with his work I wouldn’t though. I’d bring those thoughts front and centre.
I make my way over to him, Brennan still lost in thought as he stares out the window. Usually Brennan was completely aware of his surroundings, so I’m shocked when I reach out, placing my hand on his shoulder as he startles.
“Sorry, I thought you heard me come in.” I say as I smile down at him.
He returns the smile, not quite meeting his eyes due to whatever was on his mind. “It’s ok. Just lost in thought.” He tells me, his hand coming to rest on my lower back as he guides me to sit in his lap, pulling my back flush against his front as he sits forward in his desk to return to the papers sprawled across the desk.
“Any thing I can help with?” I ask as his hand comes to sit on my waist as he uses the other to shuffle some things around.
“No, just a lot going on is all.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to my neck, right below my ear, causing me to shiver. “But thank you.”
I merely nod in response, not trusting myself to speak normally. It was just a kiss on the neck, but a spot that was very sensitive to me. And now those thoughts I’d tried to shove to the back of my mind came rushing back in full force. And his hand on my waist, holding me against him wasn’t helping either. Fuck.
“You ok?” He asks when I don’t give him a verbal response, his hand tightening on my waist.
I turn and look at him over my shoulder. “Yes, just a long day with the cadets leaving.” I tell him.
He nods in agreement. “Yes, always a fun day when cadets leave and arrive. I’ll be done soon and we can go relax.” He tells me with a soft smile before scooting his chair closer to the desk and returning to his work.
As he works I do my best to push the thoughts that had entered my mind once again away. But with that kiss, his hands on me and now sitting in his lap, it was proving awfully hard to do so. I shut my eyes, leaning back fully against him as I rest my head on his shoulder, hoping that might help. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t help one damn bit. If anything it makes it worse.
Every movement he makes around sets me sets off again. His hand tightening to keep me steady due to probably thinking I’m asleep or trying to rest. The way his stubble grazes against my face when he leans down. The way he shifts in his chair to get comfortable. Every single movement was just making it harder to get those thoughts from my head. Thoughts of how that stubble would feel grazing the inside of my thighs as he went down on me. The way he’d suck and lick at me just how I liked.
I don’t realise I’m doing it, but a strong had grasps my hip, stopping the rocking motion I must have started up. Shit.
I open my eyes slowly to see Brennan’s amber eyes looking down at me. “Sweetheart, I’m trying to work.” He warns me.
He’s not harsh with his command. But there’s definitely a warning behind his words as he looks at me sternly. Though there is that unmistakable hint of desire in the amber colour, showing that he doesn’t entirely want me to stop.
“I’m sorry.” I mutter.
He nods. “I won’t be much longer, ok?”
I nod, Brennan turning his attention back to his work, removing his hand from my hip as he looks over the papers.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. My body craving his touch. Craving his hands on my body as he whispers praise in my ears. Especially when I can feel his arousal beneath me.
I gasp as I’m spun around so I’m straddling Brennans other leg. His hands firm and strong on my hips as he holds me there. His amber eyes are now practically on fire with desire and lust, nostrils flaring as he takes me in.
“I told you. Just a little longer.” He grits out, hands tightening on my hips again.
“I’m sorry. When you kissed me on my neck, in that spot. I couldn’t help myself.” I tell him, shifting on his leg, gasping as it applies the perfect pressure against my clit.
“Couldn’t help yourself.” He muses, eyes dragging down my body till they lock on where my hips rock back and forth slowly on his thigh. “Well then sweetheart, if you can wait till I’m done, then It’s my thigh or nothing. I’m not helping you get off.”
My mouth drops open as his hands leave my hips, leaning back in his chair, arms draped on the chair as joins his hands and rests them in his lap, his amber eyes not leaving mine. I just sit there in shock, not sure what to do. Brennan has never been like this when it comes to sex. Never told me to get myself off as he sits there and watches. And I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or not. But I’ve never known Brennan to mess around with anything he says or does. And I can see the challenge in his eyes. Waiting to see if I’ll take it.
And I do. I place a hand on the arm of the chair, using it to steady myself as I start to rock my hips back and forth on his thigh. Even through my flight leathers it felt amazing. The perfect amount of friction as I rock back and forth, feeling myself getting wetter and wetter by the second.
Brennans face gives nothing away as he sits back and watches me. But his eyes betray everything. I can see how badly he’s enjoying this. See how badly he wants me. The faintest twitch of his fingers is the only other tell that he wants to reach out and touch me. And I want him so badly to touch me. Feel his hands on me as they set my body alight.
I sink down onto his leg more, the extra pressure causing a gasp, followed quickly by a choked moan to leave me.
“That’s it. Look at you.” He muses, shifting to sit forward in the chair, but keeping himself just far enough away to be frustrating.
I could reach out and touch him, but I feel like that would wreck whatever it is this is. And I don’t want to. I want to do what he’s asked of me. To get myself off on just his thigh beneath me as I rock back and forth, despite how badly I want to come apart on his tongue, fingers or cock.
“Such a good girl.” He muses as he leans in, noses barely touching as he watches me. “You getting close?”
I nod, dragging my bottom lip through my teeth as I increase my pace, a lewd moan coming from me as I feel that familiar feeling building inside me. So close. I was so fucking close. One touch from Brennan and I’d be done for. I’d fall apart as I rock and forth on his thigh.
I watch his eyes darken, watch as he tries to stay in control. But I know he wants to touch me as badly as I want to touch him.
“I-I’m so close Brennan. So v-very close.” I stutter out as I start to squirm on his thigh.
Fuck. I wasn’t going to last much longer. I run my hands up my body, groping my breasts through my top as I get closer and closer. I feel myself start to tip over that edge, eyes fluttering closed as I sink fully down onto Brennan’s thigh. But before I can fully give into the feeling I’m yanked against Brennan as he stands, holding my against him before he lays me down on his desk. His fingers undo the front of my pants before he tries to pull them down. But with a frustrated grunt he grips the material, pulling at it till it tears down the seam and exposing me to him.
My brain can’t comprehend what’s happened before he shoves my underwear aside, freeing himself from his pants and thrusting into me in one go. I arch off the desk as our moans mix together, my body shuddering as my orgasm rips through me.
I don’t have time to fully process and come done from it as Brennan starts to thrust in and out, hands grasping onto the back of my thighs as he pushes them towards my chest. Fuck it felt amazing. My body still sensitive and on edge from the orgasm that I feel another one building already.
I look up at Brennan through hooded eyes, the sun hitting his face perfectly. I barely see the amber in his eyes due to how blown out they are. The controlled and revered Brennan I usually get is gone, and in his place is a Brennan whose let his instincts take over. And it looks good on him. His eyes meet mine as he bites his bottom lip, a groan catching in his throat.
He leans forward, resting my legs over his shoulders as he braces his hands either side of me as he claims my lips. My fingers tangle in his auburn hair, holding him to me as we devour each other. Both of us letting instincts take over as we fight for control. But ultimately I let Brennan win, my body and mind still hazy from my orgasm. His lips devouring my mouth before kissing down my neck, causing me to shiver and clench around him.
“Fuck.” He mutters into my neck, his thrust faltering.
He was close. I could tell. Clearly me getting myself on his thigh had affected him more than I thought.
He pushes himself up, his hands keeping my legs in place before he pushes them wide. My reaction is immediate as he hits a new spot inside me, pushing me over the edge again. I cry out loudly, back bowing off the desk as he thrusts into me at a brutal pace, groaning loudly before he stills, emptying inside me.
He collapses on top of me, burying his head in my chest as we both try and catch our breath. I reach up, playing with his hair as we both enjoy this moment.
Slowly Brennan pushes off me, sliding out before tucking himself away, and within seconds he’s mended my destroyed pants as if nothing ever happened. I push myself to sit, Brennan helping to guide me back to his lap as he sits back in his chair as if nothing had happened.
This time he pulls me hard up against him, his arm wrapping around my waist as he locks me in place. No way for me to wriggle my hips like I had earlier.
“Think you can behave for ten more minutes?” He whispers into my ear. I turn and look at him over my shoulder, nodding in response. “Good girl.”
okay i am making this post because i want to continue to enjoy willmack but this particular subset of hprf has grown so uncomfortably large that so many fandom norms are out the window (or perhaps more accurately, the sheer size of it has invited the particular norms that go along with a larger fandom, like tinhatting, which is unusual for more niche fandoms like hrpf).
i am mostly preaching to the choir here, as i have cultivated my own smaller circle of like-minded people, but assuming i have any reach whatsoever, that whoever might be reading this is new to fandom in general, new to hockey specifically, or maybe this is your first (or just most intense) rpf ship; please, please understand rpf is short for real person fiction. it is SO much fun treating public figures like a text we can analyze, building up characterization notes and headcanons, losing our collective minds at the things they do. and willmack specifically do some crazy shit!
but we can never forget that foundational pillar: our interpretations are fiction. we do not have any personal insight into what they are truly thinking or feeling. when we start to think that we do, that is when things get dangerous. that is when people start to get parasocial to a toxic degree, start to interpret things as "signs" from the objects of rpf, start to create these echo chambers where logic no longer exists. it eventually breeds harassment when one or both ship members stop following the "script," which destroys their private life (or god forbid, the life of their future partner). this happened in 1D fandom (and others too i know; i'm just speaking from my particular experience) and the real life friendship it impacted has never been the same to this day.
so i'm just posting this as a general PSA. a moment to check yourself and ask how invested you are in an rpf ship comprised of two straight hockey players, and if you're here to have fun and play with the paper dolls we've constructed with the understanding that the real people they're fashioned after are out there living their lives completely disconnected from fandom, or if you've started to think, "well, but maybe..." because if you have: stop right now. bring yourself back to reality. don't be the person who ruins fandom for the rest of us, who encourages and enables tinhatting, who contributes to all the awful things that always follow: the gross invasions of privacy, the whittling away of the fourth wall, the harassment that eventually leads to less publicly available content as the objects of said tinhatting try to put out the flames before they get burned. are you hearing me?
Your fingers dig into the soft tan skin of Bryce’s plush thigh, hers do the same to yours. Both of you lie on your sides as you straddle one of her legs, rubbing your clits together. Grinding, desperate to lose yourselves in orgasmic bliss. Again.
Both of you have already cum twice. Once, after you found her playing with herself and stripped to play with yourself too. The second was when you fingered yourselves together.
Bryce pants, her tits jerking with the movement of her chest rising and caving. “You look so fucking hot right now,” she says between panting breaths.
“You’re fucking soaked,” you groan, grinding harder into her. Your slick covered cunts rubbing against each other fill her bedroom with wet lewd noises.
She laughs breathily, blushing. “Y-you make m-me so wet-t.” She stutters out. Her brows pinching together as her nails dig into your thigh.
“Likewise, baby.”
Tilting your hips, changing the angle so you can get as close as possible to her, your clits drag against each other’s. Your movements are frenzied and frantic as your free hand fists her bedsheets beneath you. Wanting to fall over the edge with her.
The muscles in your tummy tightening as you near the finish line. Bryce’s legs shake, her heavy tits jutting out as her back bows, screaming your name as she cums. Her nails claw into your skin as she writhes.
It’s the final push you need to topple over with her, hips still rolling into hers even as they start to buck, as waves of ecstasy take over your body. Seeing stars from squeezing your eyes shut so tight like the grip you have on her thigh and bedsheets.
Both of you fall back into the bed, eyes closed and chests heaving as you come down from your orgasms. Your panting breaths and heartbeats fill her room. Bryce lifts her head, looking at you, “I ordered us something,” she mumbles.
You prop yourself up limply, “what?”
She smiles and languidly leans over to her nightstand and you hear her pull something out before you can see it. Your brows pinch as you let out a sharp breath. “That looks big.”
Bryce giggles, running the bright neon pink double ended dildo through your wet folds. “We’ve had bigger,” she smirks. Your hips jerk when it presses against your sensitive clit.
She covers it in your slick, in your release, and brings it up to her mouth. Tasting you. She lets out a groan, her eyes fluttering closed, you feel your start to race again.
Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks it and then slides it back out. “You’re so sweet,” she smiles. Then with the end that’s facing her she runs it through her pussy lips, covering it in her arousal and then offers it to you.
Wordlessly, eyes boring into hers, you part your lips around it. Cleaning it off as she works it into your mouth. You pull off with a soft pop, wrapping your hands around it, pulling it out of her grasp. “Get on all fours,” you instruct.
Bryce grins, scrambling to get on all fours. She wiggles her ass at you and you smack it, earning a giggle from her. But it turns into a sigh when you push the bright pink dildo into her. She pushes her hips back, taking more of it into her.
She looks over her shoulder at you, already blissed out, “your turn.”
You slap her ass again and get on all fours too. Sliding your legs in between hers and reaching underneath you, pressing the head of the dildo to your entrance. Your hand falls as you shudder, it’s so thick.
Bryce’s hand replaces yours and something clicks lightly, then the dildo starts to vibrate making you both whine and whimper. She pushes it the rest of the way into you and your back arches even more. You’re not gonna last long.
You both unconsciously push back, your asses pressing against each other as your cunts swallow the bright neon pink double ended dildo.
“Gods!” you cry out as it hits your g-spot, vibrating.
“Oh-h fuck!” Bryce screams. You feel her body start to shake. “Y/n!” She’s gonna cum soon.
“I-I know, baby.” You moan. “Me t-too.” Both of you continue to push back on the dildo, on each other. Your asses slamming into each other. Heats floods your body as Bryce and you fuck yourselves, your pussy contracting around the thickness of it.
“Fuck!” You scream, gripping fistfuls of the bedsheets. Your entire body buzzing as your hips start to stutter, Bryce’s too.
You slam into each other one more time, reaching back to hold each other’s hips in place. Fingers digging into the soft flesh as you both shatter around the dildo. Each other’s names ripping free from your throats in hoarse cries.
Both of you shake as your orgasms barrel through you. Bryce collapses onto the bed first, making the dildo fall out of you. You’re still trembling as you pull it out of her and lay next to her, and she drags herself on top of you, cuddling you.
