cth. est 1996

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TW// Oral (F receiving), biting, unprotected sex

Your legs are dangling off the drum throne, knees squeezed together, shoulders tense as you clutch the sticks like you’re about to be tested in front of a firing squad. The kit looks massive from this angle—cymbals shimmering above you, toms spread out like some impossible puzzle you’re supposed to solve.

This was solely your idea, and you’re starting to regret it.

Ashton lounges a few feet away, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, tattoos flexing with the movement. He’s in a worn-out tank, curls falling into his eyes, and his mouth is pulled into that infuriating half-smirk you’ve grown addicted to.

“Relax your grip,” he drawls. “Right now you’re strangling the sticks. They’re not snakes, baby.”

“I’m trying,” you shoot back, glancing between the hi-hat, snare, and kick pedal like they’re landmines. “This is actually so intimidating.”

He laughs, the sound low and smug, chest shaking like he’s already enjoying this way too much. “You’ll survive. Just… don’t expect miracles. Rhythm isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

Your head snaps up, a smile betraying your quip. “Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

“Hey now, I love you,” Ashton says immediately, feigning innocence. “But I also know what I’m working with.”

“Rude,” you huff, lifting a stick like you might throw it at his cocky ass. He pushes off the wall, catching your wrist easily with one big hand.

“Don’t pout.” His thumb strokes along your pulse, soft enough to undo your irritation. He bends down and kisses you, quick and warm, before murmuring against your lips, “Tough love, baby. That’s how you learn.”

You glare up at him, but your mouth curling up at the corners. God, he’s cocky, but he knows just how to get to you. “Fine. Then actually teach me. No more condescending coach voice. If I suck, I suck. But do it for real.”

His grin sharpens, proud, but his eyes glimmer with something else. “Alright then.”

He steps behind you, his whole body slotting around yours as natural as breathing. His arms cage you in, guiding your hands. “Right foot on the kick pedal. Left foot on the hi-hat—heel up, don’t get lazy on me.” His chest brushes your back as he leans close, voice curling in your ear. “Now—right hand on the hi-hat, left hand on the snare.”

The words shouldn’t sound filthy, but in his tone? You shiver.

“Good girl,” he says when you adjust. “Now give me a basic four-on-the-floor. Count it out—one, two, three, four.”

You try. Genuinely.

The hi-hat ticks under your right hand, the snare cracks on the two and four, your foot presses clumsily on the kick. It’s definitely uneven, but the beat exists, and Ashton hums his approval into your shoulder.

“Not bad.” He drops a kiss to your jaw. “See? You’re hot as hell behind my kit. Just like I knew you’d be.”

You laugh breathlessly, because this is exactly what you wanted—him pressed close, smug and patient, your whole body alive from the rhythm and the way his voice wraps around you.

“Don’t be too proud,” you warn, though your smile betrays you yet again. “I’m only doing this so I can show off.”

“Oh, baby…” Ashton steps back with a lazy sprawl of his arms, giving you the kit like it’s a stage. “That’s the only reason I’m teaching you.”

You manage another shaky round of hi-hat, snare, and kick before Ashton’s hand slides over yours, “correcting” your grip. His palm is warm, his thumb pressing along your knuckles, and instead of listening to the rhythm in your head, you’re too busy feeling the rhythm of his pulse against your skin.

“Ashton,” you warn, your voice more breathless than stern, “I’m actually trying to focus.”

“I am teaching,” he says innocently, even as his lips graze the curve of your neck. “Proper stick control. Very important lesson.”

You roll your eyes, though the way your thighs press together on the stool don’t help your case. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously good at teaching, love.” He grins, sliding a hand down your side, over the dip of your waist as he leans in to guide your arm.

His tone drops a bit lower, purposely so. “Now, keep your wrist loose, baby. Let the stick bounce. Don’t choke it.”

“God, why do you make everything sound dirty?” you mutter, cheeks heating.

“That’s ‘cause it is,” Ashton fires back smoothly, kissing the corner of your mouth before straightening again. “Drumming is basically sex. Timing, rhythm, stamina—tell me I’m wrong.”

You bite back a laugh, trying to refocus. You manage two solid bars before his hand comes down over your thigh, sliding just high enough that you miss the snare entirely.

“Ash!” You bark in frustration, but there’s a giggle at the end.

“What?” He smirks, utterly unapologetic. “Just stabilizing your leg, honest.”

You give him a half-hearted glare, shaking your head. “This isn’t foreplay.”

He leans down, curls brushing your cheek, his gaze on your lips. “Why can’t it be both?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you nearly drop the sticks entirely. His teeth nip at your ear, then he murmurs, “Come on baby, show off for me. Get through eight counts clean and I’ll keep my hands to myself. Maybe”

It’s a challenge, and he knows it. You square your shoulders, determined—but the way he’s watching you, eyes dark, lips tugging into that smug little grin? He doesn’t think you can do it.

You grit your teeth, eyes locked on the kit as you try to tune out Ashton’s warm hands and teasing whispers. The hi-hat ticks, the kick thumps, the snare cracks—you’ve got maybe two bars clean before his fingers trace up your thigh again and the whole thing falls apart.

“Focus, baby,” he hums, smug as ever, kissing the top of your shoulder.

“You’re literally the reason I can’t,” you shoot back, swatting him with your elbow while trying not to lose the beat. “Ash, you promised.”

He chuckles low in your ear, not even pretending to be sorry. “Yeah, well… I lied.”

You shake your head, determined, and plant your feet. One, two, three, four—again and again. Something clicks this time. Your body finds the groove, your sticks land true, and suddenly you’re locked in. Hi-hat crisp, snare sharp, kick solid underneath. A steady rock beat, simple but correct, echoing through the room. And it sounded pretty hot, if you do say so yourself.

Ashton goes quiet. His grip on your body loosens.

You glance up nervously, expecting another joke, but he’s just… staring. Mouth parted, chest rising a little faster, his eyes dragging over you like he’s watching his favorite fantasy come to life.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes finally, low and reverent. He steps back, running a hand through his curls like he can’t believe what he just heard. “Do that—do it again.”

You do—and this time you own it. Deep breaths, then you start the pattern again, grinning while you play, just to show him up. The sound fills the room, powerful and intoxicating, and Ashton’s jaw clenches, his whole body shifting closer.

“Christ, that’s…” He cuts himself off, his hand sliding back to your waist, this time gripping harder. “You have no idea how fucking hot you look like that.”

You smirk, still keeping the beat. “Thought I didn’t have rhythm?”

“Baby,” he groans, dragging his teeth along your neck, “you’ve got plenty. I was wrong. And now I’ve got a problem.”

Your laugh falters into a gasp when he spins the stool, pulling you into him, sticks tumbling from your hands. His mouth crashes onto yours, desperate, hungry, all that smugness gone and replaced with pure, raw heat.

The second your lips part, Ashton growls low in his chest, arms sliding under you like you weigh nothing. The stool tips back with a clatter as he lifts you clean off it, carrying you to the wall in a rush. Your back hits the surface with a dull thud, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his mouth claims yours again, hot and reckless.

“You—” kiss, teeth dragging your lip, “—looked so fucking sexy, baby.” His hands roam everywhere, gripping your ass, your thighs, squeezing like he can’t decide what to worship first. “My girl, behind my kit, all focused and flushed—fuck, you looked like a wet dream.”

You whimper, tilting your head back as his mouth trails down your throat. “Did I now?” you tease breathlessly, though your nails are already biting crescent moons into his shoulders.

“Don’t play coy.” His voice is gravel low, filthy as his hips grind you harder into the wall. “You were my perfect girl, keeping that beat… and you’re gonna do it again. For me. Only me.”

The words send heat spiraling through you, your laugh breaking into a soft moan. “Possessive much?”

“Damn right.” He bites gently at your collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue. “The way you looked, the way you sounded—fuck, baby, nobody else gets that. Nobody else deserves it.”

Your hips roll against his, pulling another guttural groan from him. “Guess you’ll have to keep teaching me then,” you manage between moans and kisses, lips brushing his ear. “If you want more little shows like that.”

He presses you harder into the wall, breath hot, eyes dark, rolling his hips again. “Oh, you bet your sweet ass I’m teaching you again. Lessons every day. Every damn day, until you can make me this hard with just a beat.”

You laugh, smug despite the way you’re gasping for air. “So… what’s my grade so far, Mr. Irwin?”

Ashton smirks against your skin, sliding his hand up under your shorts, fingers dragging across bare heat. “A-plus. There’s extra credit too if you keep moaning like that.”

Ashton moves you from the wall and abruptly pushes you back into the studio couch cushions, his body looming over yours. His pupils are blown wide, curls messy from your hands, chest heaving as if he’s still stuck in that moment of watching you on his kit. He licks his lips, grinning down at you like he’s about to devour you.

“You’ve got no idea what you did to me,” he growls, spreading your knees apart with his hands, settling between them. “Watching you play… my sticks in your hands… my beat under your control? Jesus, baby, you’re gonna kill me.”

Your cheeks burn, your breath catching as he leans down, kissing you slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. When you moan, he smirks against your mouth. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

He strips you quick but careful, his touch greedy but worshipful, peeling away layers until you’re bare beneath him. His mouth trails down your throat, biting, sucking, leaving noticeable marks with every pass of his lips. “Mine,” he mutters against your skin, sharp teeth followed by soft kisses. “All mine. My good girl.”

His fingers slide down, teasing, circling where you’re already aching for him. Your hips jolt, a whimper spilling out, and Ashton groans, forehead pressed to your chest. “Fuck, you’re soaked for me. Just from drumming? Just from showing off for your boyfriend, baby?”

“Y—Yes,” you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his arms.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Ash—fuck—‘m yours.”

“Good girl,” he praises, voice thick. “My beautiful girl.”

Then he’s on you, mouth hot and wet between your thighs, tongue moving like he’s starved. Your back arches, hands clawing at the couch, and he groans into you like the sounds you make are his reward. Every moan, every gasp, every needy little cry only spurs him on.

When you tug his curls, he smirks against you, dragging it out, licking you slow just to hear you whine. “You taste like sin, baby. And you’re gonna come for me right here. Loud. I want the walls to fucking know who you belong to.”

Your thighs tremble, his grip holding you open, relentless until you’re unraveling, gasping, and borderline screaming.

“Ash—Ash baby f—fuck… I’m—” Is all the worlds your brain is able to combine before the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. He lets you ride it out on his face, your hips meeting his mouth halfway, the obscene wet sounds filling the room.

Ashton finally pulls back, chin shining, lips swollen from devouring you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning like a man possessed. You’re limp against the couch cushions, body twitching with aftershocks, and when his hand strokes up your thigh again you flinch.

“Ash—” you gasp, shoving lightly at his shoulder, “Don’t—’m sensitive.”

“I know, baby.” His voice is warm, coaxing, but his eyes are dark and greedy. “You’re gorgeous like this, all wrecked and needy. But now I need you to do something for me...” He leans close, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Ride me. Right here.”

Your chest heaves, still trying to steady yourself. “You’re insane.”

“Mm.” He hums like you’ve confirmed his point, already undoing his belt, pulling himself free with a hiss of relief. “C’mon, (Y/N). You want to show off for me, no? Do it again. Be my good girl. Up here.”

You glare at him weakly, though your body betrays you by already shifting closer. “I told you, I’m sensitive.”

And then he does it—the same condescending coach voice he used when he was teaching you to hold a beat. Slow, patronizing, and dripping with challenge: “That’s how you learn, baby. Tough love.”

“Oh, you suck, Irwin,” you mutter, but you straddle him anyway, petty to your core.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, hands gripping your hips like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

You line yourself up and sink down, every inch of him stretching you out, forcing another moan from your throat due to overstimulation. The mix of pain and pleasure has you shaking, clenching, eyes rolling back as you bottom out on him. He curses, head thudding back against the couch, his jaw tight, hands firmly in your thighs.

And that’s when you decide—if he wants to play games, fine. You’ll really show him.

You move. Barely.

Rocking your hips just enough to make him feel it, drawing every inch out until his hands are trembling against your skin. You’re half doing it because you physically can’t go faster after how hard he just ruined you with his mouth… but also half because you know it’s torture for him.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans, nails digging into your hips as if he can force you to move faster. “You’re actually killing me.”

You smirk, breathless, leaning down to whisper against his mouth. “Tough love, Ash. You’ll survive.”

His laugh is more like a growl, his hands already tightening on you, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him.

You keep the pace cruelly slow, rolling your hips in long, deliberate drags that make Ashton’s head tip back and his knuckles whiten where they now clutch at your ass. His thighs are twitching under you, his chest heaving, groans tearing from his throat every time you squeeze down around him.

“Baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked already, “I get it, ok? Just—please. Please, I need more than this.”

You kiss him, swallowing his desperation, and murmur against his lips, “What’s the matter, Ash? Thought you needed tough love to learn.”

He lets out a broken laugh, forehead pressed to yours, but he’s too far gone to be smug. Too drunk on you to be clever.

His mouth is hot and frantic against you, kissing you like he can pull more movement out of your body with his lips alone. “You’re evil. Fucking evil.” Another thrust of his hips underlines his point, but you only keep your pace steady, teasing.

It’s when his voice drops, gravel low but desperate, that your resolve cracks. “Sweetheart—please. Ride me like you mean it. I need my girl. I need all of you.”

And that begging tone—that’s your weakness.

So you start moving faster, bouncing harder against him, your body finally giving him what he craves. The slap of skin echoes in the studio, filthy and raw, and Ashton groans like a man being saved. “That’s it—fuck yes—just like that.”

Your tits bounce in his face with every rise and fall, and he doesn’t waste the prime chance. His mouth latches on greedily, kissing, sucking, biting wherever he pleases, leaving hot marks across your chest. The sting only makes you clench tighter around him, your walls fluttering every time he bruises another spot.

“God, baby—! That—Mmm… Don’t stop—,” you moan, fingers twisting in his curls to hold him against you.

He growls in response, mouthing over your breasts like he can’t get enough. “Good girl—fuck—you feel that? How you’re squeezing me? You love it when I mark you up, don’t you?”

Your hips answer that by speeding up again, chasing the drag of his teeth and tongue. Every filthy sound he makes fueling you further.

And from beneath you, Ashton’s voice cracks on a groan, thick and raw: “Jesus, baby—yeah just like that.”

You’re riding him harder now, tits bouncing in his face, your cries mixing with his groans until the whole studio feels like it’s vibrating with you. Your walls flutter tight, every clench pulling another filthy sound from him.

“Ashton—” your voice breaks, your rhythm faltering as your orgasm rips through you. It’s sharp, uncontrollable, your body seizing around him as you cry out his name.

That’s all it takes.

Ashton growls, gripping your waist like a vise as his hips buck up into you. But instead of letting go, he suddenly surges forward, flipping you onto your back against the couch cushions. He hovers over you, wild curls falling into his flushed face, his body moving with frantic, punishing thrusts.

“Fuck, baby—fuck—you feel too good, I can’t—” His voice cracks as he buries himself deep one last time, then yanks out fast, jaw tight, groaning low as he spills hot across your stomach and chest.

The heat of it makes you gasp, your own body still shivering through the aftershocks as Ashton strokes himself through the last pulse, groaning your name like it’s salvation.

Drops streak across your skin, messy and raw, and he collapses over you with a laugh that’s more like a gasp.

He kisses you, sloppy and breathless, dragging his mouth over yours like he’s still not satisfied. “Fuck, baby… my perfect girl… showing off for me just to drive me insane.”

You smile against his lips, sticky, wrecked, and giddy all at once. “Worth the lesson?”