#5sos6

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TW // Oral (M & F receiving), unprotected p in v sex, spanking, praise kink

The house smells like caramel popcorn and pumpkin candles.

You’ve been lighting them one by one, setting the mood as if you’re trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be terrifying—that it’s cute, domestic, cozy. Definitely not something that’s going to leave you hiding behind Ashton’s arm later.

The living room looks like a Pinterest board threw up on it. Blankets everywhere, soft and mismatched but warm. A giant bowl of popcorn sits on the coffee table beside two wine glasses and a ridiculous amount of Halloween candy you insisted on “just in case trick-or-treaters come by,” even though the porch light’s off and you both know no one’s showing up.

You smooth out the blanket again. For the fifth time.

Because if you focus on the setup—on fluffing the throw pillows and arranging the snacks—you can ignore the way your stomach keeps twisting at the thought of jump scares and eerie music.

You absolutely hate scary anything. Movies, games, stories, everything. You always avoid this God forsaken holiday like the plague… but it’s Ashton. And you love Ashton. And Ashton loves horror movies. So you’re giving it a go.

He texted you an hour ago:

on my way gorgeous, got the movies 😈

The little devil emoji didn’t help your nerves, but his excitement was contagious. You smiled anyway.

The knock at the door makes you jump, which is just cruel foreshadowing of how this night’s gonna go.

When you open it, he’s there—hoodie half-zipped, curls damp from the drizzle outside, cheeks a little pink from the chill. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers and a stack of Blu-rays, and that smile that always makes your heart stutter.

“Holy shit,” he laughs as he steps inside, kicking off his shoes and handing you the flowers. “(Y/N), did you rob a HomeGoods?”

You scoff, shutting the door behind him. “Excuse me, this is called ambiance. Spooky but…cozy ambiance.” You smell the flowers and take them to the kitchen to find a vase.

Ashton looks around, impressed. The soft orange candlelight glows against the walls, shadows flickering just enough to look like firelight. He lets out a low whistle. “You really did all this for me?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance as you take his jacket. “Don’t let it go to your head, Irwin. I just wanted to do something festive for us.”

“Uh-huh.” He grins, setting the movies down. “You hate scary stuff.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t hate them.”

He quirks a brow because… it’s not like you’ve ever been shy about your disdain for this holiday.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, crossing your arms. “I do. But I figured… you always watch them alone, and you’re always so sweet about it, so I wanted to try. With you.”

Something softens in his face. He steps closer, warm and solid, smelling faintly of rain and sandalwood. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever met, y’know?”

You swat at his chest, embarrassed, but he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles anyway. “I promise,” he murmurs, his tone low and earnest, “I’ll keep you safe. No ghosts, no clowns, no demons. Just me.”

You sigh dramatically, trying not to smile. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

He grins wider. “What’s first? The Conjuring? Hereditary? It?”

You groan, dropping onto the couch and dragging the blanket around you like armor. “I already fucking hate this.”

Ashton laughs, tossing the discs onto the coffee table before flopping down beside you. He tugs you into his lap like it’s second nature—strong arms, soft hoodie, your knees tucked under the blanket.

You can already feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm. As for your heartbeat? Well, somehow it’s already racing, bracing for the absolute worst and the movie’s not even on.

He picks up the remote. “Alright, sweetheart. Ready to be scared out of your mind?”

You peek up at him from your cocoon of fabric and whisper, “No.”

And he laughs, bright and low, pulling you closer.

“Just stay right there, I’ll keep you safe.”

The movie starts off deceptively calm—some girl walking into a creepy old house, eerie music in the background, nothing too horrible yet. You focus on breathing, on Ashton’s warmth beside you, on the faint scent of caramel and smoke from the candles.

You can do this, you tell yourself. You can handle it. It’s just a dumb movie.

Ashton, of course, is in heaven. He’s grinning, eyes glued to the screen, his arm lazily slung over your shoulders. You can feel the vibration of his chuckles in his chest every time you flinch at something that isn’t even scary yet.

When the first real jump scare hits, you yelp and practically climb into his lap.

He laughs, pulling you in tighter. “Told you,” he murmurs, hand instinctively finding your waist. “That was the first one. They do get a little worse after this one, baby.”

“I regret everything,” you mumble into his hoodie, voice muffled against the fabric.

He tips his head down, voice low and teasing near your ear. “You say that, but you’re gripping me like I’m a teddy bear.”

“Because I’m shaking, Ash” you shoot back, swatting his chest weakly. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” he smirks, and when the next scare comes, he actually covers your eyes before it happens. You still gasp at the sound. “See? I’ve got you,” he says, that soft laugh of his making your pulse race for reasons that have nothing to do with the movie.

You peek out between his fingers and see that dopey smile on his face. “Oh my God. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Me scared out of my mind.”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, tone innocent but teasing. “You’re really fucking cute when you’re scared. All clingy whiny.”

Your cheeks burn. “Shut up.”

He hums, amused, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm. “No, really. I might start putting on horror movies more often so I can get more of this.”

You scoff. “Oh, just so you can watch me have a heart attack in real time?”

“So I can hold you like this,” he counters easily, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are digging into his hoodie. “I mean, you haven’t let go of me since the title sequence, love.”

You glare, but it’s weak. “If I actually have a stroke and die, it’s your fault.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll protect you, remember?” He lowers his voice just enough to make your stomach flip. “Always.”

Another sound—a creak from the movie—makes you flinch again. Ashton tightens his hold instinctively, half-laughing, half-soothing. “You okay, baby?”

“Define okay,” you whisper, eyes glued to the screen despite yourself.

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “You’re safe. It’s just a movie. You’re in my arms. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

You feel the words more than you hear them. They sink into your skin, warm and protective, laced with that teasing lilt that always makes your breath catch for completely different reasons.

It’s ridiculous, you think, how his laugh can make you melt even when your heart’s hammering from fear.

You glance up at him, and he catches your gaze—eyes soft and amused in the dim glow of the TV. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, thumb ghosting along your cheek. “You sure you wanna do this? I can turn it off if it’s too much.”

You swallow, shake your head. “No. I can handle it.”

He grins. “Look at you being all brave all of a sudden. That’s my girl.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile, but he sees it anyway.

As another eerie noise fills the room, you press closer, your legs tangling under the blanket, your body nearly molded to his. He smells like clean laundry and home, feels like safety and mischief wrapped together.

The movie ramps up.

The girl on screen is sobbing, running barefoot through a forest, haunted by something unseen—and somehow, you are more panicked than she is.

You’ve turned into Ashton’s human barnacle. Legs tucked into his lap, arms wrapped tight around his middle, face half-buried in the curve of his neck. You flinch so hard at a sudden violin screech that you jolt against him, your thigh pressing firm and high between his legs.

Ashton goes still.

Not that you notice.

You’re too focused on the glowing TV screen, wide-eyed and breathless, whispering, “Oh my God, oh my God, what is that—ASH, WHAT IS THAT?” into his throat.

He lets out a shaky laugh.

Not from fear.

Because your lips brushed against his neck when you gasped, warm and soft and involuntary. Because your leg just shifted again—dragging across a spot that’s suddenly, very inconveniently, getting harder to ignore.

“Baby,” he murmurs, trying to stay composed. “It’s just a movie. You ok?”

You nod frantically, eyes locked on the screen, voice a hushed whisper. “No. I mean—yes. But also no.”

He laughs again.

God, you’re adorable.

And you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

Another scare—this one a loud, sudden crack—and you squeal, curling tighter into him like you’re trying to climb inside his hoodie. Your knee brushes his inner thigh. You don’t even flinch at the contact, you’re too wrapped up in your own little world. Oh, but Ashton nearly chokes on his own breath.

His jaw tenses.

This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about except the fact that his girlfriend—his sweet, terrified, unknowingly sexy girlfriend—is now pressed against every single erogenous zone he has, completely oblivious, while her breath ghosts against his collarbone like some cruel little whisper of temptation.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, half to himself.

“Huh?” you peek up at him, blinking, lips pouty and parted, face flushed from adrenaline. “Wait—what happened? Did I miss something?”

You have no idea.

He clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Uh—nah. Just… creepy sound.”

“Creepy sounds,” You repeat, lifting your head lightly with narrowed eyes. “Ash you’ve seen this movie like a million times. You good?”

“Me?” he says, voice climbing an octave. “I’m fine.” He flashes you a too-sweet smile and tries to adjust the blanket in his lap without being obvious.

You return your gaze to the screen, attention fully back on the film. “God, I hate this movie. Why are they always so fucking stupid? Like why would she go into the basement? Why would anyone ever go into a—OH MY GOD!”

You shriek again, both hands clutching his hoodie now, and with another full-body flinch, you roll your hips just slightly—unknowingly grinding into the lap he’s very much trying to keep under control.

He hopes that with that movement you’ll finally realize what you’re doing to him. But you don’t. For fuck’s sake, you don’t. Ashton exhales harshly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

You. Are. Killing. Him.

“Sweetheart,” he says lowly, “I love you. But I need you to stop moving for a second.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Why? What’s wrong?”

He gives a tight little smile. “Uh… Nothing. Just… sensory overload.”

Still confused, you settle back into his chest, pressing a kiss to his jaw before snuggling in again. “Thanks for holding me. I don’t know how you watch these alone.”

He laughs, breath hot against your hairline and mutters. “Well for starters I usually don’t get half a lap dance while I’m doing it.”

He said it mostly to himself but you heard it clear as day. You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

He meets your gaze, amused and exasperated, one brow raised as he tilts his hips forward—just slightly—so you can feel the problem.

“Oh.”

Your cheeks go up in flames.

“Oh my God Ash. Baby, I’m sorry I—I didn’t realize—”

“I know.” His voice is rough, low, and filled with something far darker than humor now. “That’s the problem.”

You really try to keep watching the movie.

You reposition yourself, bite your lip, even grab a handful of popcorn like that’s going to distract you from the very solid situation happening beneath you.

Ashton’s being good too. Well—for the first few seconds.

But then another jump scare hits.

You squeal again, instinctively pressing your face into his neck.

And this time… he turns to meet you there.

His mouth brushes your cheek, soft at first—comforting, almost. But then it lingers. Trails.

And then he’s kissing the corner of your lips, barely touching, teasing, until your breath catches and you turn to face him.

It’s not a scared kiss anymore.

It’s slow and warm and hungry.

He pulls you in deeper, one hand slipping under the blanket and sliding up the back of your thigh. When his fingers squeeze, you gasp—and he swallows the sound with another kiss, tongue flicking against yours just enough to make your toes curl.

Your body moves on instinct.

Your hips shift a little closer.

Your hand knots in his hoodie.

The movie continues in the background—some distant shriek, another eerie chord—but Ashton’s hand is on your waist now, guiding you, encouraging you to roll against him just enough to feel the friction.

“You still wanna watch the fuckin’ movie?” he murmurs against your lips, voice all husk and heat.

“I—I was trying to be romantic,” you whisper back, cheeks hot.

He grins, lazy and amused. “You are.”

Then he kisses your jaw. Then your neck. Then right below your ear.

“And also a very hot distraction.”

You inhale sharply as his teeth graze the skin on your collarbone.

“I was gonna let us finish the movie,” he continues, voice low and amused, “but you keep grinding on me every time anything happens and now I’ve got a problem, sweetheart...”

You shiver, because it’s true. And because his hand is now under your sweatshirt, tracing the curve of your waist, warm and firm and very intentional.

“But it’s Halloween,” you whisper weakly, trying—trying—to stick to your plan. “This was supposed to be scary and festive…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he smirks, lips brushing down to your collarbone. “I like it when you scream.”

Your breath stutters.

And then his mouth is on yours again, hotter this time, deeper. His hands aren’t just teasing anymore—they’re tugging. Gripping. Pulling you flush against him as he lays you back into the cushions.

You lose track of the plot of the movie completely.

One second you think someone’s about to be murdered. The next? It’s white noise.

Ashton’s hand slides beneath your waistband, slow and possessive, his eyes are on you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Still scared, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice wicked.

You shake your head, dazed, heart pounding.

He grins.

“Good.”

The blanket slips to the floor.

Neither of you notices.

Ashton’s hands are already tugging at your shorts, dragging them down with a slow sort of purpose—like he’s unwrapping a treat he’s been saving for a long, long time. His eyes flick up to meet yours as he settles between your legs, spreading them apart with both hands like he’s framing his favorite view.

And when he sees how wet you already are?

He lets out a growl.

Not playful. Not teasing. Primal.

“God, baby…” he murmurs, almost in disbelief, fingers grazing lightly down the crease of your thigh. “That scared little act really got you worked up, huh?”

You whimper, cheeks flaming. “Ash—”

“I’m gonna make you scream,” he cuts in, voice low, dark, and thick with lust. “Don’t you there hold back on me, ok love?”

And then he dives.

Hot mouth, soft tongue, sinful precision. He licks a long stripe up your center, groaning into it like he’s tasting his salvation. The vibration alone makes you cry out—your hips jerk, your fingers fly to his curls, and your eyes roll back—

Only for him to stop.

Completely.

Your hips stutter, confused. Your breath hitches.

“Ash?” You mean for that to sound a lot less needy than how it comes out. But alas.

He pulls back slightly, face flushed and glistening, lips already wet. “Eyes on me.”

You blink, dazed. “Wha—?”

“I said,” he growls, voice darker now, “keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. Don’t look away. Not even for a second.”

You swallow hard, nodding.

And once you’re looking at him again—eyes wide, lips parted, helpless beneath him—then he rewards you.

He leans in and sucks your clit into his mouth like he’s starving. His tongue moves in slow, devastating circles before he flattens it and devours you. Wet, messy, filthy sounds fill the room, and the only thing louder are your moans.

“Fuck, Ash—!”

Your thighs tremble as he shifts your legs higher on his shoulders, gripping your hips like they’re his anchor. You watch his head move between your thighs like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

He nips at your inner thigh between strokes. He groans whenever you whimper. Encourages every little gasp like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“That’s it, baby… Let me hear you.”

“Louder. That feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Keep those eyes on me. Careful, baby… You look away, I stop.”

So you don’t.

Because the thought of him stopping makes you want to cry.

You feel like you’re actively falling apart, unraveling from the inside out. Your hands claw at the couch, at his hoodie, at anything you can reach.

You’re babbling now—his name, curses, gasps that start as words and end as broken little sounds that only make him moan in return.

Your eyes are on him the whole time, and you can see past his head, his hips are rutting into the couch, desperate and aching just from how you sound.

And holy shit, it’s quite the sight.

The pressure building like a storm.

The burn behind your eyes.

The uncontrollable need to let go mixed with the knowledge that he’s just as desperate.

“Ashton—Ash—I’m gonna—”

His eyes snap up to yours, blown wide and wild. “Then fucking do it.”

He speeds up his movements.

He does not stop until your thighs are shaking, your breath is gone, and you’re screaming his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

He slows down when you start pushing his head away because you’re oversensitive and kisses your inner thigh. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, though he’s still flushed and throbbing in his pants.

You’re still panting, body limp, brain all fogged over and stupid from the orgasm he just tore out of you with his mouth. You’re trembling in the most delicious way, heart racing, limbs heavy, skin hot. And Ashton—Ashton is hovering over you like a man possessed.

He kisses you like he needs you to survive.

Messy. Hungry. Desperate.

And you taste yourself on his tongue.

It only makes you moan.

You giggle softly between gasps, dazed and breathless, kissing along his jaw now, your nose nuzzling the stubble there as you grin like a drunk girl at a Halloween party. “You’re insane,” you whisper.

“I need you,” he says back, voice rough with restraint.

And God, he does.

He’s still fully clothed, but his jeans are doing nothing to hide how painfully hard he is. He’s grinding subtly against the couch, trying not to, but failing spectacularly.

Still, he checks in. Always.

His hand cups your cheek. “Baby… can I please—”

“I know,” you whisper, kissing him again, slow and sweet. “You can, I just need a second.”

He nods, breathing deep, trying to be good. But his hands are fidgeting—fisting the couch cushions, running down your sides, gripping your hip like a lifeline. His jaw is locked so tight it could break.

So you reach for him.

Palm him right over his jeans.

His breath hisses through his teeth, hips bucking into your touch. “Fuck—”

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Someone’s very impatient.”

“You just came, love” he grits out, eyes fluttering as you start rubbing slow, deliberate circles over his zipper. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” you interrupt, giving him that sleepy, sexy smile—the one that always makes him lose composure.

You sit up, legs still trembling slightly, but you’re focused now. You hook your fingers into his waistband, tugging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him. He groans at the contact, one hand flying to the back of the couch like he needs to ground himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters when your hand wraps around him.

And you’re so gentle at first.

You always are, when you start.

Soft little kitten-like licks.

Right under the head. Slow but devastating.

Just the tip of your tongue, flicking teasingly.

He shudders. You know how much he loves it when you do that.

“Fuck, baby, don’t—”

You do it again.

And again.

Little licks, light kisses at the base and around his inner thighs, barely touching him, just tasting like he did you.

He groans loudly, head falling back from the pleasure.

You smile sweetly before you open your mouth wider and finally take him in—slow, deep, lips soft and warm and wet around him as you sink down and moan just to feel the way he twitches against your tongue.

His hips jerk, hand tangles in your hair not to guide but because he needs something to hold onto.

And the sounds he makes?

Sin.

“Fucking hell,” he growls. “You feel s’good. So fuckin’ good, baby…”

You bob your head, suck harder, deeper, take him until your eyes water just a little. Now he’s the one babbling above you, telling you how hot you look like that, how much he’s missed this, how close he already is.

Your free hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, and the couch creaks with how tightly he’s gripping the armrest. His thighs are tense, his chest is heaving, and he’s rutting just a little into your mouth now, completely wrecked.

“Holy fuck—I’m not gonna last if you keep going like that—shit—”

But you don’t stop, but you do slow own a bit. You want him to savor it. Make it last a bit longer.

You want to see him fall apart. But not down your throat.

He’s so close—so fucking close.

Your lips are warm, your mouth is perfect, and he’s practically trembling from how good it feels. His moans have gone breathless, his hips twitching as he fists the couch cushions in one hand and your hair in the other.

And then—

You pull away.

He lets out an actual whine. Desperate. Gutted. His chest heaves. His cock twitches in the open air.

“Baby… what the fuck— I was right there—”

But then you lean back on the couch.

And oh.

Oh.

You don’t say a goddamn word.

Just tilt your head, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and slowly spread your legs. One knee bent, the other hanging off the couch. Fully open. Completely bare.

You lift two fingers and beckon.

Ashton goes from whiny to feral in a matter of half a second.His mouth falls open slightly. His pupils blow wide. And then he’s laughing—soft, breathless, almost in awe.

“You fucking tease,” he murmurs, crawling over you, kissing his way up your body like a man possessed. “Do you even know what you fuckin’ do to me?”

You grin up at him, impossibly proud and lightly bashful. The way he talks always makes you blush, even if he does it every damn time. “Wanted you here instead... Figured that’d get your attention.”

“Well, you got it,” he growls, lining himself up and brushing the tip through your slick folds, slow and tempting. “You’ve fucking got all of me.”

Still, he pauses. His forehead presses against yours, grounding. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

“I want it,” you mutter against his lips, already breathless. “Want you. Ash—please…”

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slowly, carefully, filling you inch by inch with a ragged groan. He watches every flicker of expression on your face, waits for that usual tension to melt before he moves.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, eyes wide, arms looped around his neck. The stretch is always a bit sharp, but your body adjusts quickly.

“More,” you whisper. “Mm—Give me more.”

So he does.

His pace deepens. Gains rhythm.

He sets one hand on your thigh to keep you open and the other cradles your jaw, keeping your gaze locked to his.

“Eyes on me,” he growls again, the same way he had earlier. “Keep those pretty eyes open for me sweetheart, ok?”

And you try.

God, you do. But the way he’s thrusting into you—deep and thorough and possessive—is turning your brain to static.

Your eyes flutter closed for a second, breath catching.

Smack

You gasp. His palm just landed on the underside of your inner thigh. Not hard. Just enough.

“Eyes,” he reminds you, voice low and dark.

And the worst part?

Your gasp turns into a moan and your body arches into him.

That makes him stop for a moment. Eyebrow raised, and shit-eating grin on his face.

You freeze.

“Oh?” he says, hips still rolling deep and slow. “You liked that, didn’t you, baby?”

You cover your face with one hand, cheeks already turning pink. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and the sound is pure sin. “Nah, sweetheart. That felt good, didn’t it? Should I do it again?”

He didn’t wait for a response just—smack. Another playful slap to your thigh, just enough to sting and spark.

You whimper.

Ashton grins, wild and enamored. “Fuck, look at you. So good for me. So fucking sweet when you’re getting wrecked.”

He pushes deeper, faster now, hand wrapping under your thigh and hitching it higher on his waist. His rhythm turns rougher, more desperate, and he’s still watching you. Obsessively.

“Don’t look away from me,” he pants. “Not when you look like this. Like you were fuckin’ made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back. Your body tightens around him. And your eyes? Yeah, they’re locked to his like you’re drowning in him.

His thrusts stay deep and steady—grinding into you with the kind of precision only he could pull off. Because he knows your body, sometimes better than you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with devilish intent.

“Eyes still open, baby?” he pants, glancing down.

You nod, dazed, lips parted—until he brushes his finger over you just right, and your eyes flutter shut on instinct.

Smack.

A quick slap to your thigh. Your gasp is sharp. Your back arches.

“Shit—Ash—”

“You know what to do, sweetheart,” he warns, voice ragged but so fucking controlled. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You force them open, lashes trembling, pupils wide and hazy.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hand pressing firmly against you now, rubbing in tight, perfect circles that send electric pulses straight through your core.

You cry out. He groans in response, feeling how close you are—how tight you’re getting around him, how your thighs tremble with every stroke.

And still—he doesn’t let up.

Not with his hips.

And definitely not with his fingers.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants, watching you with reverence. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart. Look at you, baby… All this just for me.”

You try to answer, to form a sentence, but it all comes out broken.

“Oh God—Ashton—I—fuck—”

You’re babbling now. Helpless. Whimpering his name like a prayer.

He leans in closer, mouth to your ear, his voice low and hot and absolutely wrecking you.

“Come on, (Y/N), let go. I wanna hear you.”

And when his fingers press just a little firmer, circling faster, you shatter.

You come apart with a cry, loud and wild, your body spasming beneath him. Your fingers dig into his back, your thighs clamp around his hips, and you scream his name as the orgasm tears through you—wave after wave, dizzying and intense.

He rides it out with you, still grinding into you, still murmuring praise right in your ear.

“That’s it—fuck yes, just like that.”

“Look at you, baby… my perfect girl.”

“Making the sweetest fuckin’ sounds I’ve ever heard.”

Your whole body shakes from the aftershocks, breath ragged, mind blank.

But he doesn’t stop touching you—his fingers still gentle on your clit, drawing it out. Prolonging it.

You squirm, overstimulated, but moaning still.

“Too much?” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Or just right?”

You’re still trembling, chest heaving, pulse racing. Every nerve ending feels like it’s glowing, lit up from the inside out.

Ashton slows his thrusts.

Then stops completely.

You blink up at him, dazed. Because you know he hasn’t finished yet.

He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, oversensitive and wrung out. You assume maybe he’s done? Expecting him to collapse beside you, or maybe lean in for a kiss. But instead—

His hand dips down between your thighs.

And he collects your release.

Two fingers, dragging slowly through the slick mess he made of you.

You twitch. Gasping loud.

“A-Ash—! ’M sensitive—”

“I know,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “Just a second, baby.”

He lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.

You moan.

Because his lips wrap around his fingers like he’s savoring the taste of you. Because his eyes go dark with hunger as he swallows every drop like it’s something holy.

“Tastes even better when I’ve earned it,” he rasps, voice wrecked and thick.

You’re limp beneath him, hair fanned across the couch, legs still spread, lips swollen and glistening. You look wrecked.

And Ashton? The sight makes him twitch. He’s so worked up from getting you off that he’s on the edge. He needs to cum. Now.

His cock is throbbing, flushed, angry red at the tip. The restraint in his face is painful.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his hand around himself, already stroking fast and messy. “You don’t even know what you look like right now…”

You glance down. You’re still fully bare, stomach flushed, skin damp, thighs sticky from your orgasm. Your expression? Dazed, shy, completely ruined.

And he’s obsessed.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, thrusting into his hand, eyes locked to your chest, your face, your thighs. “My perfect girl. Let me hear you, come on—keep making those sounds—”

You whimper softly, thighs still trembling. “Ash…”

He shudders. A few desperate thrusts into his fist is all it takes.

Hot ropes spill across your stomach, thick and messy, as he lets out a desperate moan that sounds wrecked. One hand still pumping himself through it, the other braced by your hip, body trembling from the relief.

He curses under his breath, hips twitching with the last spurts, staring down at the mess he’s made of you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You’re breathing hard, eyes fluttering again, but not closing this time. You’re watching him.

And he fucking melts.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you with everything he has left.

You look around for the first time since you fully stopped caring about the movie and… Yeah, the living room is a mess.

Popcorn scattered. Blanket on the floor. Candles flickering low. TV long forgotten, now showing the blu-ray menu screen on a loop.

You are till naked, flushed, sticky, and absolutely glowing. Ashton exhales a breath that sounds like a laugh and collapses beside you, still catching his own.

“Well…” he huffs, glancing down at your stomach, “that escalated.”

You giggle, voice sleepy and spent. “You think?”

He grins, tilting his head toward you. “Hey, I’m not complaining. Just saying… that might’ve been the best horror movie I’ve ever not watched.”

You snort, still breathless, arm draped over your forehead. “We lasted, what, thirty minutes?”

“Barely,” he smirks. Then glances down at your stomach again and makes a thoughtful face. “Okay, hold up. Let me… Let me grab something before we permanently ruin the couch.”

You whine when his body heat pulls away from your side, but he returns in seconds with a warm towel from the bathroom. He settles between your legs again, but this time with the gentlest touch—careful and focused as he wipes you down. The towel glides around your stomach and between your thighs, soaking up the evidence of your sins. He’s quiet, reverent even, checking in with his eyes every few seconds.

You bite your lip, watching him.

There’s something so goddamn sweet about the way he does it. Still shirtless, still flushed from coming apart, and yet soft as ever now, fully focused on you.

Once you’re clean and somewhat tucked back in under a warm blanket, he lays down beside you again and immediately tugs you to his chest.

You melt into it.

Your limbs are tired, but your heart is full.

And for a few minutes, there’s just quiet. The kind of silence only soft afterglow and flickering candlelight can create.

Then Ashton speaks, voice softer now.

“Thanks for doing this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Even if it… y’know. Turned into something else entirely.”

You hum against his chest. “I did watch a good portion of the movie.”

“You watched it through my neck,” he teases. “And screamed in my mouth twice.”

“Accurate,” you giggle, looking up at him. “But hey, I tried. I made snacks. Lit candles. Put my brave face on and everything.”

He brushes your hair back gently, his smile a little crooked, a little too fond. “You were so brave. Truly. Sacrificing yourself for my horror obsession.”

You nudge his ribs with your elbow. “You’re lucky you’re hot, Irwin.”

He laughs, pulls you even closer. “ Oh I know.” Then, he lifts your chin with his thumb and pulls you into another kiss.

This time, it’s different.

Slower. Deeper. No hunger or rush. Just warmth. Gratitude. Love.

You sigh into it. Let yourself sink. Your palm settles on his chest, right over his heart.

“Next time,” you whisper against his lips, “we pick a rom-com or something.”

He grins. “Deal. But only if you scream for me anyway...”

You roll your eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “But I make you forget your own name too, so i think I’m allowed.”

You try to smack him, but you’re laughing too hard.

And he’s already pulling you closer, the blanket tucked around both of you like nothing else exists.