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_________________ Whats up fuckers,
This is Part 1 of 2
It has a little more plot than i usually post but it's still good. The smuts kinda scattered around.
Also Harry styles' cover of juice by Lizzo SLAPS.
enjoy Xx _________________ Original title: Ivegotnofuvkingidesguysiforgottowriteallthesethingsdown Credit: I can't remeber the person's username but CREDITS TO THEM. _________________
Ashton Irwin is going to kill his roommate. He thinks he should probably warn him, let him know of his demise in advance so he can get his shit together; create a will, arrange a funeral and all that. "Calum, I swear to God I am going to kill you!" He yells, voice carrying along the corridor. He knows that he’s been heard when the floorboards creak. Calum’s probably finding a hiding place- a wise choice. Ashton can be pretty mean when he's angry.
And he wouldn't actually kill Calum (he doesn't think so anyway), he's just a little pissed off. Or, well, maybe that's an understatement. It's just- it's unfair. It's super, super fucking unfair. Why do the God's treat him this way? What kind of sins did he commit in his previous life to deserve the luck he has in this one?
He had felt the whole day like things were finally coming up Ashton. He'd caught the earliest train and had got on for free, his professors had seemed happy with his performance at school, and best of all, he'd actually got that cute barista's number.
It seems obvious now that all these incidents were merely meant to lull him into a false sense of security, so now his pain would feel even worse in comparison. Ashton's entire existence has been a lie, essentially. Fuck.
Ashton has been going to the same coffee shop for three months now, all in an attempt to woo the cute blonde barista who'd served him the first time he’d gone. Sadly, fate had never quite played along, and Ashton had started to assume that he'd simply made up this gorgeous creation: when Ashton considered the ethereal, God-like beauty of this broad shouldered, blue eyed barista, this did seem like the most plausible option.
But today- today he'd been there and they'd chatted for at least ten minutes before Ashton realised he had to leave. He’d left with a smile on his face, a coffee in his hand and Luke's phone number, scrawled in blue biro on a paper napkin. "Call me?" Luke had said nervously, as if Ashton hadn't been stalking him for months on end.
He'd gone home, turned on the TV, discarded the napkin on a counter to come back to later before he proceeded to forget about it. An hour or two later Ashton remembered his promise and wandered from the living room into the kitchen to call Luke.
So here he was: staring at a napkin in his kitchen and yelling about homicide. The number was still legible, luckily: except for the last digit. He feels like crying- screaming, maybe- punching through the fucking wall. The phone number Ashton has coveted for three fucking months has been wiped away by his roommate’s inability to find a fucking coaster.
