caramel

I kiss you goodnight

[lovelikelandslide]

caramel. she/they. 18

cake lane. minors do not interact. rpf nsfw dd blog.

BEFORE YOU INTERACT

Asks are open, feel free to send ideas, or just come talk to me about your fav! writing for: ☆ 5SOS (x reader, ship) REQS: closed masterlist

[lovelikelandslide]

200 followers!! yay tysm!!! here's a sneak peek at my maluke :*)

[prayersgotothesky]

[lovelikelandslide]

looooved ur bsf headcanons!! could u do a bsf to lovers headcanon or something??

sfw bsf to lovers calum hcs

a/n: this is so cliche and cringe and tropey but its all I got for now *goes back into hiding*

𐔌 Calum has this habit of treating your life like it’s literally connected to his. He tells you things as they happen, asks for your opinion on decisions first (and acts as if his whole life depends on your hands), and sends you random updates that don’t really matter, but somehow they do when it’s about him. You’ve become so intertwined that neither of you really takes notice of it anymore.

𐔌 Calum is so used to being close to you that he doesn’t realize how intimate some of it is. Like how he fixes the loose strands of hair, and how he gives you that smile that makes you feel warm in your stomach, or the way he leans too close to you when he laughs. It’s all the usual for you until someone else points it out.

𐔌 Calum has introduced you to new people as "my best friend" for as long as you can remember. Somehow, his hand always seems to find the small of your back, and lately, the word friend sounds like a lie to your own ears.

𐔌 One night, you almost kissed. It was raining, and you were sharing his umbrella. You turned to say something, only to find his face merely inches from yours, his eyes softening as neither of you moved. Then he tittered, whispering, "We’d be so bad at this, wouldn’t we?" You agreed, but your hand still reached for his anyway.

𐔌 He finally confessed his love in the dark of his car, his hands gripped the wheel like he was about to die. Your breath started fogging up the window, and he didn't even look at you. "I love you." he finally forced out, his voice was so quiet that it was like the words were practically ripped out of him. "I'm in love with you. I have been for so long that I don't even remember what life was like before you."

[schecoperez]

the rpf will continue until morale improves

[ballard96]

[evvergreen]

tumblr is the website for if you're just someone's weird sister

[lovelikelandslide]

needd more nsfw michael clifford from you please!!! love love your writing sososo much (fwb!michael maybe????)

I'm so down

warnings: smut, fwb, banter, couch sex, orgasm denial kinda, domestic, college, barely any plot lol

word count: 3,695 words

pairing: michael clifford/reader

a/n: yayyyyyy 1 down let's go also they played cool dad whos happy about that? me!!!

WARNING! RPF CONTENT DONT LIKE DONT READ

The cursor blinked back at you, tauntingly.

Four thousand words due by midnight.

It had been sitting there for almost two weeks, and somehow you were sitting there, hunched over your laptop at the kitchen table, at 9 PM with barely six hundred words written, staring at a Google Docs that looked just as empty as it had when you opened it.

Your brain wasn’t working at all. You'd type a sentence, stare at it for a few seconds, delete it, and repeat the process until the words on the screen started blending. Nothing sounded right, and every idea you had disappeared the second you tried to put it into words.

“Still at it?” 

You looked up. Michael. Your roomie.

He was leaning against the fridge, phone in hand, wearing that stupid gray obscure band t-shirt with tiny holes you had told him to throw out at least a dozen times already. He was watching you with that half-amused expression he always got whenever you were in the middle of some kind of crisis. Not that he was ever much help.

"Don't start." you said, your voice coming out more desperate than you intended.

"I didn't say anything." He pushed himself away from the fridge, walking over to the counter and grabbing the half-empty water bottle you had abandoned there earlier. He twisted the cap open, taking a sip while looking at you over the rim.

"You don't have to say anything," you muttered, turning back to your laptop. "Your presence is enough."

Michael lowered the bottle slowly, looking genuinely offended. "Wow."

"What?"

"That's actually a terrible thing to say to someone who came to check on you."

You shot him a glance, looking over your shoulder. "You came here to make fun of me."

"I came here because you've been sitting in the same spot for hours doing nothing."

"I have not." A lie, you have, but who would admit it? It's embarrassing

He pointed at your laptop, then at the coffee beside it. "You haven't even touched either of those in like thirty minutes."

Your eyes dropped to the obvious evidence sitting right in front of you. "Okay, fine." you muttered. "But it’s not like you can help me or anything."

"Didn't say I could." He set the water bottle down and walked closer, his feet padding softly against the floor. He stopped beside you, peering at the screen. You felt his breath, warm, on your shoulder, very close. He smelled like laundry detergent and a hint of his usual cologne. "What's it about?"

"I don't even know anymore." You waved a hand vaguely at the screen, defeated.

He patted your shoulder. His hand lingered half a second longer than necessary. "Dude, you've got this. You always do."

You wanted to believe him badly. But the cursor was still blinking, and the word count was still pathetic, and most importantly—

You could have gone on, but then the lights started to flicker. Both of you looked up in synchronisation, the overhead bulb dimmed and flickered again. Then the whole apartment went black.

You immediately turned back to your laptop, fingers rushing to click the battery icon. 4%

 "Well," you said slowly. "I'm fucked."

You then looked up at Michael, who was standing in the same spot as before, his face barely visible except for the glow of your laptop screen against his skin. He was watching you with that look again—the amused one.

"You know..." He shrugged. "Just... you know. Maybe this is a sign for you to chill a bit."

You blinked at him. "A sign? Michael, I need to turn this in today, I'm totally fucked—my professor will—I—"

"When's the last time you took a break? Like, a real break? Not just scrolling on your phone."

"I don't have time for breaks. I have an assignment due, like, right now." You reminded him.

"And you'll have it tomorrow, make up a lie to your prof. The power will come back soon. The Wi-Fi will come back. You'll finish it." He stood back up and leaned down, wrapping an arm around you in a quick side hug. Your head barely reached his stomach, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt for a second before he squeezed you gently.

You wanted to argue, telling him you had no time, hell, you’d write it in your notes app, but he was right, you needed a proper break, you were so, so, so tired of burning your eyes off thanks to that damn laptop screen. "Fine." 

He smiled. "Good."

He turned on his phone flashlight, started rummaging in the kitchen drawer, and you heard the clink of utensils and a muffled curse when he hit his knuckle with something. Then the soft click of a lighter and a small flame.

He came back carrying the candle, a bottle of wine under his arm, and two mugs dangling from his fingers by the handles. The flame cast flickering shadows across his face, catching the soft line of his jawline and the slight curve of his mouth.

You pushed yourself up from the table, your joints stiff from sitting too long. You followed him, watching the way the candlelight danced across his shoulders as he walked. He set the candle down on the coffee table, then the bottle and the mugs. The amber glow pushed back the darkness, filling the room with a soft, warm light.

He set the candle on the crowded coffee table, nudging aside an empty soda can. He put the bottle and mugs down with a soft thunk and then just collapsed onto the couch.

He stretched his legs out, and looked up at you. "Sit." 

“Wine?”

“Drown your worries, babe.” You couldn't help but laugh at his stupid comment, but he was right, if you were going down, you had to do it right.

You grabbed the bottle from the table, shaking your head. "You're encouraging my bad decisions"

"No," he denied with his head. "I'm supporting you through them."

"By getting me drunk," you said as you poured yourself and him some. The wine sloshed into the mugs. You handed him his mug, and your fingers brushed. His were warm.

"By making sure you don't start spiraling alone in the dark," he corrected, taking a sip. He licked a stray drop from his lip.

You sat down, leaving a few inches between you. The room was quiet except for the steady tap of rain on the window. You picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured. You handed him his mug. His fingers were warm when they brushed yours.

“Enabler,” you muttered, taking a drink. The wine was too sweet, but it was something.

“You’d be worse alone,” he said simply, taking another sip himself.

After a few minutes of quiet, he spoke, his voice low. “Remember the last time this happened? Because of the storm?”

You nodded slightly, staring at the flame. “Yeah. Last spring, right? It was out for like, six hours.”

“We tried to play table games by candlelight, but you couldn’t stop cheating.”

“You won’t let it die, will you?”

“Dude, you totally did. You ‘forgot’ the rules to Uno every other turn.”

A faint, tired smile touched your lips. “Maybe. It was boring.”

“We ended up just sitting here. Like this.” He gestured vaguely with his mug. “In silence.”

“It was kinda nice though,” you recalled. “It kind of healed my brain a little.”

“Yeah.” He took another drink. “I guess.”

You hummed in agreement. The memory was mundane, quite boring actually. The knot in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it had loosened a bit.

"I'm still so stressed," you mumbled into your hands. "Like, the wine helped, but I can still feel it. Right here." You dropped your hands and pressed a fist against your chest, over your sternum. "This tight, awful knot."

Michael looked at you. "I can tell."

"I hate this. I hate that I can't even do anything about it right now."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he set his mug down on the coffee table. The thunk of ceramic against wood was loud in the quiet. "I have an idea," he said.

You looked at him. "What?"

He hesitated. You saw his throat move as he swallowed. His hand was resting on his knee, and he tapped his fingers against it once, twice, like he was working up to something.

"It's stupid."

"Probably. Tell me anyway."

He turned to face you fully, The light caught one side of his face, leaving the other half in shadow. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

"What if we made out?"

The clumsy question hung in the air, and for a second, you were back in that moment a month ago—the night that had started it.

You'd been sitting on this same couch, both of you fresh off shitty breakups. He had just found out his long-term girlfriend had been cheating on him with some guy from her gym, and you had caught your boyfriend texting his ex at 2 AM. The messages were long and intimate and full of things he hadn't said to you in months. You'd both been drinking, trading stories about how fucked up your love lives were, laughing bitterly at how stupid you'd been to not notice.

"I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore," he had said quietly. "Like, you think you know someone. You think you're doing everything right, and then one day you realize they haven't been feeling the same way for a while."

You had picked at the loose strings of the hem of your jeans, not really knowing what to say because you understood it too well.

"Yeah," you'd muttered. "You spend all this time trying to make something work, and they have already given up."

Michael had laughed softly, but there was nothing funny about it. "Exactly."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something neither of you had named. Then he'd reached out, his hand finding yours on the cushion between you, and said, "At least we're going through similar stuff, together, you know?"

And you'd kissed him. You didn't know why.

Maybe because you were lonely or because he was. Maybe because you'd both been so so overwhelmed and exasperated for affection that any touch felt like a rescue.

It had been messy at first. All clumsy and desperate, both of you still too caught up in everything you'd been carrying. But then his hand had slid into your hair, and you'd forgotten why you were even upset in the first place. Something had just clicked between the two of you. It became a thing. A thing you didn't explicitly talk about, but a thing that happened when one of you was having a bad night, or when the loneliness crept in too close, or when you just needed to feel someone's skin against yours without the weight of expectations.

It was exactly what you both needed. And now here he was, asking again.

"What?" You giggled

"I'm serious." He held up his hands, defensive. "I know it sounds dumb, but—hear me out. You're stressed. I'm here. We've done it a couple of times before. It's, you know. A thing we do. And I feel like maybe if you just—" He gestured vaguely, searching for the words. "If you let yourself get out of your head for a bit. Distracted. I can help?"

You stared and raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Really? That's your big idea?"

He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth was already twitching. "I mean—Yeah."

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "I don't know what to say to that."

"Okay, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's the only idea I've got. Take it or leave it."

You looked at him. The knot in your chest was still there, tight and restless. But his eyes were warm in the candlelight, and the memory of his mouth on yours was still fresh—the way his hands had gripped your hips, the sound he'd made when you'd tugged his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. "I've been needing this." 

“Okay,” you said. “It’s not like we have much more to do.” You set your cup down on the table, copying the way he had done earlier. You fixed your hair and adjusted your top, the small movements making your answer clear without needing to add anything else.

He grinned in response and shifted closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth of him, the faint trace of wine on his breath suddenly more noticeable.

The leather cushions compressed with that familiar wheeze as he settled deeper and pulled you down until you were sprawled chest-to-chest with him, while your knees sank into the couch on either side of his hips. He gave you a knowing grin and squeezed your waist with the proprietary ease of someone who’s done your laundry before.

“Comfy?” he teased, his thumb lightly tracing the waistband of your shorts.

“Shut up,” you breathed, but you were already rolling your hips, grinding down against the hard ridge of him trapped in his jeans. The friction was immediate—electric—the denim felt rough and constricting against your clit even through your thin shorts, it made you gasp, your hands fisting in his shirt. “Fuck, you’re already—”

“Hard? Yeah.” he finished, his voice wrecked but amused. His hands found your hips, fingers digging in, guiding your rhythm as you rolled against him again. “Feel that? That’s all you. Been like this since you walked in complaining about your citations earlier.” He joked.

“Don’t talk about my paper right now,” you whine, pushing up slightly to brace on his shoulders. You grind down harder, seeking the pressure, the leather below you sticky where your knees dig in. “I can’t believe you brought up citations while I’m—”

“While you’re what?” He smirks, thrusting up into your grind, his cock dragging against your core. “While you’re humping my lap? Multitasking. I’m proud of you.”

You groan, your nipples peaked and ached where they dragged against your bra. You reached down between your bodies, fumbling with his belt, the buckle clinking loudly. “I want to feel it. Stop being a tease.”

“Bossy,” he teased, but still, he lifted his hips, helping you shove the denim down with practiced efficiency. 

His cock sprang free—thick and flushed, curving up against his stomach—and you immediately settled back down, you were still clothed, but your heat pressed flush against his bare length.

The sensation was immediate and obscene. You were soaked—you could feel it, your arousal had soaked through the thin fabric of your bottoms, coating his shaft as you slide against him. The friction was perfect, addicting even, your clit grinded against the ridge of him with each rock of your hips.

“Shit.” he groaned, his head falling back against the armrest. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open through the damp fabric, pulling you down harder. “You’re fucking dripping on me. Soaking my cock already, and I’m not even inside you. Bad girl.”

“Shut up,” you laughed breathlessly, dipping your head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his throat, your lips dragged over his pulse, thrumming—as you grinded down harder on him. 

The couch groaned beneath you, thumping an embarrassing, frantic rhythm against the wall of your shared apartment, and each slick, wet collision of your core against his bare skin echoed through the room. Your cunt fluttered, aching and clenching around nothing as you rutted against him, reaching for friction that simply wasn't enough. “Michael, I need—fuck, I need to feel you. Please.” You grew hungry.

“Yeah?” His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers found your clit through the slightly soaked fabric, rubbing hard circles that made you jerk and cry out. “You wanna ride my cock? Wanna slide down on me and take it deep?”

“Yes,” you gasped, rocking into his hand. “Yes, please, I—fuck, right there—”

But he stopped you with a hand at your hip, stilling you even as his cock twitched against your thigh. He tilted his head, checking. “Wait,” he breathed. “Want to taste you first. You’re drenched through these shorts. Want to feel it on my tongue.”

You groaned, grinding down one last time, but giving in still. “Yeah,” you panted. “Yeah, just… hurry.”

He lifted you easily, guiding you to sprawl along the length of the couch, your shoulders propped against the opposite armrest. You kicked your shorts off, tossing them towards the coffee table, and he kneeled right in between your legs.

“Hey,” he said softly, his hands sliding up from your calves to your knees, spreading you open. His thumb brushed your inner thigh. “Still with me? Or are you thinking about what you're gonna say to your proff?”

“Fuck you,” you laughed. You reached down to tangle your fingers in his hair. “I’m here. Just… don’t make fun of me while you’re down there.”

“No promises,” he grinned, and then he finally leaned in. His breath ghosted hot against your inner thigh, thumb stroking higher as he spoke. “What are you gonna say, hm?” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the crease of your hip, dragging lower. “Gonna tell him you got distracted?” Another kiss, closer. “Gonna tell him your roommate kept you up all night?” He looked up at you, his eyes catching the candlelight, his chin resting on your thigh. “Or are you gonna be too busy feeling this to remember your own name?”

“I hate you,” you whispered, but you were lifting your hips towards his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just—please—”

“Please what?” he murmured.

”Please eat me out,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Michael, please—”

He groaned at your plea and finally gave you what you wanted. His mouth sealed over your clit—filthy, the vibration traveled straight through your core. He wasn’t teasing you anymore, he sucked you into his mouth with an obscene sound while his hands slid under your ass, lifting you, angling you better against his face.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, your head falling back, your heels digging into the leather. “Right there—just like that—”

His tongue found that perfect rhythm, a steady pressure—and then he pushed two fingers into your entrance, curling immediately and found that spot that made your spine snap straight.

“Michael,” you choked out, your knuckles white in his hair. “Don’t stop—please—just like that—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

You were reaching your climax, your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your cunt clenched around his fingers, but then—just as you were getting near the edge—he pulled back.

You cried out a strangled sound of protest. He hovered, his chin wet with you, his eyes dark. “Not yet,” he breathed, his fingers were still buried deep inside you, but still. “Want to feel you come around me. C’mere.”

He pulled you up, guiding you with his hands at your waist as you scrambled to straddle him. You were trembling as you positioned yourself above him, lowering yourself slowly, the familiar burn of the stretch making you pause for a moment. It had been a while, and you took a second to adjust until you were fully settled against him.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your forehead dropping to his shoulder, your hands braced on the couch back behind his head. “You’re so—fuck—you’re literally the only reason I keep you around—”

“Love you too,” he wheezed, hands sliding up to grab your tits with casual possessiveness, thumbs flicking your nipples. He shifted beneath you, settling deeper into the cushions, and then his hips snapped up—hard, ramming into you from below with a force that made the couch bang harder against the wall.

“Oh—” You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he did it again, and again, his hands dropped to grip your waist, locking you in place while he fucked up into you. He set a brutal rhythm, the leather creaking louder beneath his thighs as he plowed into you, his cock dragging deep and grinding against your front wall with every upward snap.

“Pathetic,” he observed, noticing you were just taking it, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. “Just sitting there? Zero effort. Embarrassing.”

“Fuck—you—” you managed, gasping as he hit that spot again, making you see stars. “You’re doing—the work—”

“Obviously,” he grunted, bucking up harder, driving the air from your lungs. “Rest your lazy ass. Let me do the work, since you’re clearly failing at moving.”

You collapsed forward, chest to chest, and he kept going—punching up into you with relentless, grinding strokes, his fingers digging into your ass to spread you open, angling you better against him. Banging—thump thump thump—the springs screaming beneath his rolling hips while you just held on, trapped, feeling every inch of him sliding deep.

“Shit,” you gasped, your face dropping to his collarbones. “You’re so—big—fuck—”

He jerked his hips up harder. “Come on,” he panted. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

He shifted angling up, and that made you break, the orgasm crashed through you in rhythmic spasms. You cried out, your cunt clamping down on him, milking him. He still fucked through it, his grip left bruising your hips—then he was spilling inside you, hot and thick, groaning your name into your skin.

You stayed slumped against his chest until the quiet settled. His hands slid up to rub a slow circle between your shoulder blades.

"Better?" he mumbled into your hair.

"Yeah."

"Good." He shifted with a wince. "Off. You're crushing me."

You pushed yourself up and moved to the other side of the couch. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and pulled his jeans on. He grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and handed it to you. "Here."

You took it and cleaned up. He shook out the old fleece blanket from the back of the couch and tossed half over you before settling back and pulling the other half over himself.

"Thanks." you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. He just held you there, your body pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he didn’t want to let go yet.

After a moment, he leaned down and kissed your sweaty forehead.

“Anytime." He mumbled.

[theweight]

[prayersgotothesky]

RAPACITY

★ pairing: ashtonirwin x genderneutral!reader

★ summary: The show was so long and he looked so good, you couldn’t help yourself!

★ tags: smut (hand job, nipple play), heavy body worship

★ wc: 1.6k

★ a/n: this is kinda filthy so be warned… I just need sweaty, beefy Ashton literally yesterday.

This is for all the peeps that voted would put face in Ashton armpit ;).

. . .

The heavy dressing room door closed behind him with a dull thud.

“Ashton,” you purred. You’d been waiting for the show to finish, perched on a small couch in the corner of the room.

“Baby,” he replied, moving to align himself with a mirror and finger through his dirty-blond curls. The warm spirals clung to his forehead and neck in an endearing and hazardous pattern. They were like honey, sticky with sweat, glistening.

The sweat.

The sweat hugged his meaty biceps, the nape of his neck, and the small sliver of skin visible at his lower back from where his tank-top was adhered to him by that same luster. The front read “feeling like a god.”

Your eyes devoured the expanse of his back; Ashton’s big shoulders, plush thighs trapped behind a layer of dark leather, and large, spanning arms all enough to render you useless to do anything more than imagine his body significantly less clothed. And significantly less far away from your own. You could partially see his face in the mirror. He was all smudged eyeliner and teeth (that shit-eating grin you couldn’t help but love). He went to turn around, apparently deciding his hair was a lost cause, but you found yourself closing the space between your body and his, desperate to feel and prove.

“Hey,” he started in a low, enchanted tone, yet ultimately just observed.

Your warm chest and stomach quickly became snug against his back; you wrapped your arms around his front, greedy hands pushing up his shirt and having it pool up over his chest. Those hands pawed at his soft abdomen, squeezing and letting go and then squeezing again. One traveled up and gripped his fleshy peck, his nipple being pinched inside the gap between your pointer and middle finger. He sucked in a breath, sarcastically asking, “‘someone miss me?”

You could only manage to answer with a weak whine and a quick, tighter squeeze of your arms around his torso, face pressed into his shiny neck and tongue barely pushed past your lips to taste his damp, briny skin. He shivered at the contact on his neck, bending slightly, having his wide palms hit the vanity in front of him. A couple of stray bottles of product and random belongings tipped over noisily at his weight. You pulled your mouth off him, then pushed your nose forward, nestling it in a grove of his neck and inhaling deeply.

Ashton let out a shuddering huff; you could physically feel his heart rate quicken with the way your hands were all over him, kneading and pressing and groping. He let a groan pass his lips, realizing you weren’t just congratulating him after a good show, you were evidently trying to find a way to melt into and devour him.

You focused more attention to his flushing nipples, pinching the newly red buds between your fingers with each hand and moaning quietly in his ear when he reacted with a jolt of his hips. You felt your way across the fine field of hair covering his chest, following the hair further, over and past his belly.

“Mmg… B—baby, what are you…?” He trailed off, too distracted by the way your hands frantically yanked at his belt.

“Needy, huh?” he reprimanded rather incredulously. His belly sat over his belt buckle with the way his body bent forward; your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily upon feeling his hands overtop of yours, aiding you in your pursuit to tear his belt off. Your mouth hung open ever-so-slightly, tongue damp and heavy.

Then, his belt hit the floor, and you made quick work of the button and zipper on the front of those devilishly tight pants. Your fingers shoved the fabric down feverishly, revealing the spot where his dark blond happy trail greeted his pubes.

“Takeyourshirtoff… please,” you tenderly demanded, voice all muffled as your lips were smushed against his neck.

“Fuck— okay,” he huffed; his persisting confusion with your sudden rapacious behavior was apparent.

His palms left the vanity and stretched over his head, pulling off his sweat-soaked tank top. With the motion his forearms and biceps were on full display, flexing and spanning. The ink lining them gleamed: large phases of the moon lining his inner forearms and a blacked out star decorating his bicep. He discarded the fabric randomly then met his own eyes in the mirror opposite. After a spell of feeling mildly embarrassed from facing such a vulnerable version of himself— blissed out, slack, jutted-out jaw, body being claimed and ravaged— his hazel eyes blinked then traveled and found your own. Your eyes were glassy and peaking over his broad shoulder, a disbelieving grin from his pink lips greeted them.

With his eyes drawing a direct line to your own, he watched your teeth clamp down on the junction of his shoulder and neck, and felt your hand massage his bicep. You perceived the way his hard, taut muscle felt projected under a layer of soft flesh. Your other hand, however, was significantly lower and more capable of making his head spin; your warm palm caressed his bulge over the leather restricting it. A noise clawed at the back of his throat but escaped as pitiful little bursts of air. And you would've thought he didn't have any water left in his body to sweat out, but a few droplets gathered at his temples and the side of his neck.

The sides of your mouth curled up around his flesh, teeth visible and crushing. His brows furrowed together but his eyes stayed trained on your face. Your teeth trailed down his bicep, often stopping to pinch down and feel his slick, briny skin fill your mouth. The salty luster and musk were fucking intoxicating; you felt crazy and addicted to dragging your tongue across his skin in a hazy, careless manner, collecting stray droplets and reveling in it.

“You’re so weird…” he chuckled, “Fuckin’ love that shit,” he muttered the last part under his breath, tongue in cheek, while he admired you worshiping him.

“Played such a good show, deserve it…everything— you’re so fucking hot,” you speak right up against his bicep darkly.

“Yeah, that right? M’so hot you needa touch me, fuckin’ lick all over me the second I step off stage?”

“Mhm, need to,” you nodded rapidly, finally dipping a hand into his boxers.

His chest constricted and his hips bucked forward, dick begging your hand for pressure and attention. You, obviously, obliged and exposed his fully-hard cock to the mirror. You admired the way your hand looked wrapped around it and squeezing; the tip was flushed an angry red, balls heavy and full, his dark blond bush was thick and unruly. You slowly dragged your fingers up his length, watching his foreskin squish up around the head with an open mouth, exhaling. You pulled down again and his bottom lip jumped in between his teeth with a hiss.

You babbled, finally pumping his cock in a steady pace; the pre oozing from his warm slit and dribbling down the side of his dick aided your efforts. “Sh…shit, Ash, look at you, baby, so big and hard for me…” you breathe. You observed his own eyes rake over his body and his fat, leaky cock— you swore you could feel him twitch in your hand. His ragged breathes and groans increase in frequency and intensity. That, and the way his hips shuttered and more and more pre-cum spilt from his slit, warned you of his pending orgasm. You peppered kisses on his bare shoulder blade and let your lips rest on his skin, the way you pant in time with your strokes causes drool to seep out onto his already shiny flesh. You took to the small kisses again, moving downwards. You felt utterly brainless, just wanting to drown in him, so you pressed further, nose running along the spot where his shoulder descended down into his armpit. You feel his back straighten, hands leave the vanity and arms press flush with his sides.

You kept one hand on his cock, taking to thumb over the head and paying it extra attention, and the other took hold of his wrist, urging him to allow you access.

He blinked, hips still chasing every movement of your hand.

“Babe— wha, no, I’m filthy.”

“wanna—needa feel,” you pouted. “Plea..please, just let me, Ash.”

He couldn’t contain the low moan that fought so desperately to slip past his wet lips.

“You’re a sicko.”

But you knew from that noise alone he’d let you do anything you wanted. So, you used your clutch on his wrist to pry his arm away from his sticky body, despite his half-assed efforts of shaking your grip, while moving closer to his side. He gave in, throwing a massive arm around your shoulders, allowing you to bury your face in the hair underneath his arm and feel the details of his body under your tongue.

“Such a dirty bitch…,” he chided, laughing lightly and in a patronizing manner. He even pressed his hand firmly at the nape of your neck, hauling you forward and keeping you there. Every breath you took you inhaled him, his essence, something so divinely him. The musk, the liquid manifestation of his hard work and talent.

All the while, your digits held firmly against his dick. You pulled in long, languid strokes, just how he liked when he was close. Then, just a couple of wrist flicks when you got to the tip of his cock and he was spilling out everywhere, all over your hands, the vanity, his own stomach. The pearly beads of cum clung to his pubes and happy trail. You watched it all in the mirror, face turned to the side, still nuzzled under his arm.

“Fuck, look at that. You came everywhere for yourself, all for you…”

And he fucking whimpered. He whimpered and ran a hand over his face, coloring deeply.

You quickly pulled his shielding hand away, clasping it at his side and having him watch his cock soften between his thighs.

“I hate you,” he complained.

You grinned evilly and placed a kiss on his lips.

[kaleidoscopeminds]

don’t ask if I was late to stage

[l00khemmings]

also do u think calum was a giant fucking brat last night when luke sang him the wrong lyrics

[almondmilkhunnis]

i just wanna see a boy beg on the pavement

[lovelikelandslide]

ok just one thing guys specify if u want nsfw or not while requesting ✊

[lovelikelandslide]

could u do some bsf ashton headcanons??????

sfw bsf ashton hcs

a/n: dw guys im working on couple requests rn

𐔌 Whenever something funny happens, Ashton’s eyes always land on yours first thing. It’s like an unspoken habit between the two of you. sharing a glance and trying not to laugh, already knowing exactly what the other is thinking. You don’t need to explain anything because you just simply get each other.

𐔌 He genuinely can't spend more than three days without seeing you, it's not even something either of you has to actually think about. It's just that you're always around each other. A quick visit, late-night conversation, or simply enjoying each other's presence in silence. Ashton always finds comfort in your presence.

𐔌 And whenever you both are together, you're attached by the hip. It's like there's this magnetic force that makes both of you gravitate to each other physically without realizing. It’s not unusual for you to end up wrapped around each other’s arms.

𐔌 He’s ridden with nostalgia, he often finds himself reminiscing or reminding you of earlier moments of your friendship. He'd never thought he would have such a particular bond with you.

𐔌  Whenever he finds a song that hits a specific nerve, he texts you "check your spotify" and you just know to drop everything and listen because he curates your shared playlist like it's a love letter, but platonic.

[lovelikelandslide]

do people even like x readers anymore I personally love them hence why I started this blog but idk maybe just this fandom is more into slash ship

[lovelikelandslide]

teenage dream tonight pretty please

[lovelikelandslide]

they said FUCK YOU you're not even getting teenage dirtbag you get try hard for the 128483432438 time