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the-panwitch · 4 years

Note

Heylo! I saw that you were asking for requests, and I have one if you want to write it! What if the reader is always drawing on the boards after school, and students don’t know who does it, and one day Peter catches her drawing? Idk, I kinda liked the idea! I love your writing hun!!🥰💕❤️

Peter Parker and The Dry Erase Board Artist

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A/N: And here it is! Almost a whole month after I said I would have it done! I am so so so sorry for how long this took and also sorry for how shitty it also is. I hope you enjoy this trash fire that I just spent almost 4 hours on and finished at 1 am. Oh, I also made this gender neutral using they/them pronouns.

Warnings: uh language, slight death threat?, stupid teachers, numbers, fluff ig, idrk

Word Count: 2279

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: There’s a new mystery in Midtown, and it’s the creator of the dry erase board drawings. Peter is desperate to find out who it is even if it means losing sleep and missing assignments. What will it take to find out who this secret artist is?

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Peter knew all about mysteries. He used to stay up too late reading those mystery novels by flashlight when he should have been sleeping. He grew up loving them. The amount of times May would walk into the living room to see him once again binge watching Scooby Doo was uncountable. Even now, he prided himself on being one of the biggest mysteries in New York: Spider-Man. He had to hold back a grin whenever he heard people discuss who the masked hero could possibly be. The craziest one so far was that Spider-Man was actually an alien being used by the government. He wasn’t sure who came up with that one, but props to them for their creativity.

He just absolutely loved mysteries of all shapes and sizes, and now, he had a new one to solve: the drawings. He called it Operation Dry Erase Board, and yes, the name did need improvement. Both MJ and Ned made sure to tell him that every single time he brought it up. Ned had suggested The Search for the Hidden Artist, which MJ just said sounded even worse.

It had started a couple weeks ago. He had walked into his first period calculus class to see everyone whispering and taking pictures of the board. His first reaction was panic － his teacher was prone to surprise pop quizzes － but it soon turned to awe as he stared at the array of color across the board. It was a beautifully detailed portrait of the sea. He gazed upon the scene of manta rays and fish and even the silhouette of a shark. There was coral and shells of every color, and the lines and swirls of blue captivated him.There was no signature. Nobody knew who had done it.

At first, Peter just tried to brush it off. There was somebody in the school who was skilled with dry erase board markers and was very artistically gifted. Not the biggest deal, but good for them. It became a bigger deal when the next day a gorgeous rendition of Starry Night was covering the board of the biology classroom. Once again, no signature. That’s when Peter started to become invested.

He questioned MJ first. She was one of the only artists he knew, but she just scoffed. “I’m good, but dry erase markers are shit for me to work with.”

He started paying more attention in art class, looking for anyone with a similar style. Nothing. Everyone was your typical high school artist who was just there for the credits, meaning people like him. Don’t ask about how designing the first spidey suit went.

The drawings just kept coming. He soon saw space, dinosaurs, a jungle, The Mona Lisa, even each of the Avengers all spread across the dry erase boards. Each one of these was so beautiful and so alluring that it made his eyes sting and shouts of protest to erupt from the students when the teachers had to erase them. Even if they didn’t erase them, they were gone the next day. Whether it was the Hidden Artist or the janitor, Peter didn’t know. It was just another part in the mystery.

A lot of the drawings weren’t done in any classrooms that Peter had, meaning he would have to take field trips during his lunch period to go and find them. Most of the time he already knew where he was going. There was now a whole Instagram page dedicated to the art. It was run by Daphne, who was in both Yearbook and the Art Club. He had asked her if it was her, but she had just giggled and said she was a fan. Honestly, Peter was too.

He would stare at the art for as long as he could each time he saw it, and he stared at the pictures he took of them even longer. He was consumed by the art, by his love for it. He needed to find out who the artist was, but unfortunately for him it would have to wait. He was so preoccupied with being Spider-Man and now also being a shitty detective that he was falling behind on both his work and his sleep. He had now fallen asleep a total of five times over the course of a week and a half, and he was close to failing both AP Government and Spanish, simply because he wasn’t catching up on his workload.

Now, he was passed out in AP Lang, the one class that everyone knew not to fall asleep in. He couldn’t help it. He was running on a total of 4 hours for the week, and it was a Thursday. Not even his spidey sense could have prepared him for the crash of a ruler against a metal trash can right next to his ear. After nearly falling out of his chair and almost decking his teacher, Peter was given two weeks’ worth of detentions.

“Hopefully that’ll teach young Mr. Parker here to pay attention instead of dozing off in the middle of class. Maybe he’ll catch up on his missing assignments, too. Speaking of, would you like to tell the class which rhetorical devices you’ll be utilizing in your essay, Mr. Parker?” All Peter could do is stare back at his teacher, horror written over his face.

————————

It was 3:30 on a Wednesday, and Peter was losing his mind. Each of his detentions were an hour and a half long, lasting from 3:15 to 4:45. He had managed to catch himself up on his work and raise his grades a bit, but that didn’t change his predicament. He couldn’t go home or skip detention, meaning he was stuck at school for another hour and fifteen minutes. When he asked if he could do something, he was told he could go help the janitor. With a sigh, he got up and went in search of the janitor’s closet.

During the time spanning over his punishment, he had nearly forgotten about his obsession with the Hidden Artist. Of course he still saw and heard about the drawings and he would still stare when he saw them, but now with the need to focus on his assignments being drilled into his brain every day on top of trying to stop bad guys each night, he was forced to move on. He didn’t want to. God, if he had the chance he’d stare at those drawings for hours on end, but he didn’t have that chance. It fucking sucked.

After a couple minutes of searching, he finally found the closet. He grabbed a broom and looked around, and to his left, there was a classroom with the door slightly open. With a heavy sigh, he walked towards the room and pushed the door open, only to stop dead. There, across the room, was a brand new drawing, and it was a drawing of him. Not him him, of course, but a drawing of Spider-Man. It was a drawing of an event he recognized from yesterday when he had walked a lost kid back to their parents. The drawing showed him crouched down in front of the kid who was crying, and he had his hand out as an offer for the child to take it.

Upon closer inspection, the drawing seemed incomplete. There were too many white spaces which wasn’t the artist's style. As he stepped closer to it, he heard the door creak and a gasp behind him. He spun around, nearly falling over in the process, and looked up wildly. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw Y/n L/n, a student in his grade. They stared back at him with wide eyes.

“Did...did you do this?” Peter asked slowly. Y/n hesitantly nodded.

“If you tell anyone about this, Parker, you’re dead.”

He was slightly taken aback by this. Not the death threat, necessarily, he got those all the time, but it was a bit of a surprise coming from Y/n.

“I won’t. I promise,” he said softly.

Y/n nodded slightly before striding towards the board and taking out a marker, beginning to fill in all of the white spaces Peter had noticed earlier.

After a moment, Peter asked, “How do you do it?”

Y/n turned towards him, black marker clutched in their hand. “What?”

“The drawings. They’re so beautiful...I didn’t even know you could draw like that.”

“Everyone has their secrets, Parker. I’m sure you have yours.”

Peter almost laughed at that, because yeah, he did, and Y/n was drawing it across the Physics dry erase board. But he didn’t laugh. He just smiled a little and kept watching, forgetting all about the broom that was now leaning against a desk.

“So...Spider-Man huh?”

Y/n sighed and turned to him. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be sweeping or something?”

Peter shrugged. “Or something. Look, this is probably gonna sound super weird, but I’ve been trying to figure out who you were for weeks. Your art is super amazing and cool and I just wanted to know so badly who was talented enough to pull it off. And now I know.”

“Are you disappointed?” It wasn’t a question out of fear, but more out of curiosity. Y/n sat themselves on a desk and waited for the answer.

“I don’t think so,” Peter said. “This was just unexpected, I guess. I didn’t even consider you for a suspect.” Y/n chuckled at this.

“Nobody suspects me. That’s the fun part of all of this, actually. Did you know people actually thought that it was Ms. Rosemary for a while?”

“The crazy teacher’s aid?”

“Yup. The theory, I think, was that she was so crazy that art became like her therapy or escape or whatever. I mean, it can be like therapy, but I think Rosemary needs a little more than some doodles in order to help her.”

“These aren’t just ‘some doodles,’ Y/n. They’re-”

“Beautiful. Yeah, you’ve said.” They shrugged. “It’s just scribbles on a board, Parker. Scribbles that, for whatever reason, make our brains happy.”

Peter didn’t really have a response to that, so instead he just watched as Y/n went back to work.

————————

That was how he would spend his detentions. He would offer to go help the janitor, and then he would run around the school trying to find Y/n. Eventually, on the days where the drawings took less time to create, Y/n started to try to teach him how to draw. Basic things at first, like flowers or trying to break things down into their simpler shapes. He could barely do either of those things, but he enjoyed trying anyways. On other days, Peter would just sit and watch in silence as they drew. It was mesmerizing, and only he got to witness it.

It became their thing. Even after detentions ended, Peter would stay after school for an hour or so just to go hang out with Y/n. They would have snacks and play music and have a good time. Peter learned that Y/n stayed after school since their parents were never home until the late evenings, so they stayed back just for the hell of it. He also learned that they were good friends with the janitor and that his name was Roger. He was the reason that they were even able to stay for as long as they did. It was pretty cool.

It was a Friday, and Peter was spinning around in the teacher’s chair while Y/n drew a forest scene. Peter watched them for a while, a small smile on his face. They were also so concentrated when they worked, their eyes narrowing and jaw tightening as they drew the different lines and curves that made up the masterpiece. Unbeknownst to Y/n, Peter had a surprise for them.

“Hey, N/n?” Peter asked. All he got was a hum in response. He rolled his eyes. “Come here.”

Y/n sighed and got off of the stool that they had been sitting on. “What do you want, Pete?” they asked as they strolled over, leaning over the desk when they got close enough. In response, Peter held up a small, wrapped up bundle. Y/n’s eyebrows furrowed as they picked it up.

“What-”

“Shhhh!” Peter said with a soft giggle. “Just open it.”

Y/n narrowed their eyes at him before slowly tearing the paper away. They smiled softly as they stared at the multipack of dry erase markers, enough colors to make practically any drawing that happened to cross their mind.

“Why?”

“A simple thank you would have sufficed. It’s an appreciation gift for all of your art. I figured by now you’ve probably killed most of the markers in the school, so I got you some new ones.”

Y/n chuckled a little and looked at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You deserve it.”

“I literally just make colored lines one a board.”

“And I appreciate those colored lines! They give me serotonin as do you.”

“I give you serotonin?”

“Yes.”

Y/n blinked in surprise. “Alright then...you also give me serotonin.”

“Really? Awesome.”

They both laughed for a moment, Y/n glancing back down at the markers as Peter continued to look at them.

“Hey, Pete?” Y/n asked as they looked back up at him. “What?”

“Would you...would you like to continue to provide me with serotonin and go out with me?”

Peter’s eyes widened in surprise, but soon it was his smile that was widening instead.

“Absolutely.”

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Tagging: @tommysparker @bebbeb @stixnstripesworld @orowit @dreamerinthesun @ididntseeurbag @bruhelpimgay @yikes-n-bikes @becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot @thespydersargon @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @th0ttie4tommy

#peterparker #peter parker x reader #Spider-Man #spider man x reader #marvel #peter Parker #my fics

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calumcest · 4 years

Text

fight so dirty but your love’s so sweet

[ao3]

SO i participated in a fic event with a bunch of other very talented writers where we all took a prompt and had to include a phrase in the fic. my prompt was lashton - bad boy so...here is what i managed to come up with

the masterlist of all the fics for this event can be found here

this fic would be absolutely nowhere without @calumsclifford and @5sosnsfw i owe them an eternal debt of gratitude for their help with coming up with ideas and listening to me scream about it for days on end because i just could not write it and also to jex for betaing for me i owe you my soul at this point i think

also i literally said when i started this i was going to struggle to keep it under 10k but honestly what do you expect from me? brevity? absolutely not. on the topic i want it to be known that i finished this fic at exactly 4:58pm and it is due at 5pm will i ever change? no. keep your expectations of me low and we will all do just fine

Luke hates a good ninety-five percent of his job.

A solid thirty percent of that comes from the fact that he works as a receptionist at a hotel, which he thinks is possibly the most thankless job humanity could possibly have created. A further ten comes from the fact that his desk is right next to the kitchen, meaning mouth-watering smells are constantly wafting under his nose, and Luke’s not allowed to eat on shift.

Fifty-five percent of it, though, is Ashton.

Ashton doesn’t work at the hotel, but Luke’s pretty sure he’s there more regularly than half of the staff who do. He’s Calum’s friend, or they live together, or they’re in a gang together, or something, because Calum is how Luke knows Ashton’s name. Ashton will always slouch against Luke’s desk, cigarette tucked behind his ear, and then Calum will come out of the kitchen and Ashton will push himself off the desk and walk out with him. Luke’s never spoken to Calum, but he knows Calum’s boyfriend Michael works as a concierge on night shift, and that Michael doesn’t like Luke’s organising system. Luke doesn’t like Michael’s, and especially doesn’t like that he has to rearrange his entire desk every day when Michael’s shift ends at nine a.m. Neither of them is willing to be the first to give in, although privately Luke thinks that if Michael ever said a word to him about it he’d fold and let Michael have his shitty system and probably, like, Luke’s house, or something. Luke’s not very good at confrontation or standing his ground.

Here’s the thing, though. Luke kind of likes Ashton. He likes the way Ashton’s black curls fall into his face and he doesn’t seem to care, likes the way his hazel eyes light up when he smiles, likes the way he gesticulates a lot when he talks. Ashton’s hot, and Luke’s lonely, and lusting over hot guys from afar is pretty much how he’s lived his entire life.

However, Luke doesn’t like people leaning against his desk, which is one thing Ashton does. He also doesn’t like strangers speaking to him outside of a professional capacity, which is another thing Ashton does. He especially doesn’t like when he’s trying to deal with a difficult guest and Ashton takes it upon himself to tell them to go fuck themselves, because then Luke’s job is made ten times harder.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says, hurriedly, as Ashton leans back against the desk, leather jacket rubbing noisily against the wood.

“Excuse me?” the guest says to Ashton, halfway between incredulous and infuriated. Ashton shrugs.

“You heard me,” he says coolly. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Sir, I sincerely apologise,” Luke says, almost begging. “Of course I can refund you for breakfast. Which room number should I process the refund for?”

“Who are you?” the guest says, and Ashton pushes himself off the desk, drawing himself up to his full height.

“You wanna know who I am?” he says. His tone might be lazy, his face might be carefully slack, but his hazel eyes are hard, an edge of a threat in the way he cocks his head.

“I want your name,” the guest blusters. “I want to file a complaint for your behaviour.” Ashton’s lips quirk up in an amused smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’d be happy to introduce you to my boss,” he says, taking another step closer to the guest. The guest takes a small step back, stumbling as he does, and Ashton edges closer, baring his teeth in a grin. “But I can’t promise you’d come back in one piece.”

“Your room number?” Luke says, trying to diffuse the situation, and it only comes out as half-squeaky, which is pretty good going for him.

“Uh, actually, it’s okay,” the guest says, words tripping over themselves in their hurry to leave his lips. “Um. Thanks.” With that, he turns on his heel and speedwalks out of the lobby.

Well. Fuck.

Ashton watches him leave, then grins, pleased with himself, and turns back to Luke. Luke swallows, feeling himself flush under the heat of Ashton’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, pretty boy,” Ashton says, when Luke says nothing. Pretty boy. Luke hates when Ashton makes fun of him like that.

“Thanks,” Luke mumbles, even though he absolutely doesn’t mean it. Guests like that never just leave it; his manager will be getting a strongly worded email later, and Luke’s going to get fucking reamed for it.

“You’re fucking cute when you blush,” Ashton comments casually, sauntering back over to Luke’s desk. Luke doesn’t know what to say to that, never does, so he says nothing, pretending to be completely preoccupied with making a note for James, the guy on evening shift, to process the refund for the guest anyway. He’s not sure why the guy waited until five p.m. to ask for a refund for breakfast, but whatever. James’s problem now, not Luke’s.

With two minutes left to go on his shift and Ashton’s eyes burning into the back of his head, Luke busies himself with gathering his things together so he won’t have to look at Ashton. He can feel Ashton’s eyes follow him as he gets up and shrugs his coat on, and wishes Calum’s shift would hurry the fuck up and end already. Luke always has to wait an extra couple of minutes for James, who’s always late, and Calum’s usually out of the door at five on the dot.

Sure enough, as Luke watches the clock on his computer tick over to five, the door to the kitchen bangs open and Calum strides out, face splitting into a grin when he sees Ashton.

“How’d you get here?” he asks, and Ashton pushes himself off Luke’s desk again to fall into step with Calum.

“Took Michael’s bike,” he hears Ashton say as they walk out. “Mine’s still in the fucking shop.”

“He’s going to be pissed if you get him another tick-,” Calum says, cut off when they walk out of the lobby. James passes through the door they’d pushed open as it swings shut, and Luke lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Would it kill you to get an earlier train?” he asks James as he pulls his bag off the chair, even though this is early for James.

“Maybe,” James says. “Haven’t tried it, just in case.” Luke rolls his eyes, shouldering his bag.

“See you tomorrow,” he says. “I’ve left a couple of notes for you.” James nods, sitting down in the chair and pulling the keyboard towards him.

“See you,” he says. Luke nods, starting to walk away, when James shouts- “Hey, Luke!”

“Huh?” Luke spins around to see James holding out a scrap of paper. “What?”

“You left this,” James says, waving the paper. Luke frowns.

“No I didn’t,” he says.

“Well, it says Luke on the front,” James says, arm still outstretched. Luke hesitates for a moment, because he really hasn’t left anything behind - he’d checked meticulously when he’d been packing, anything to avoid Ashton’s gaze - before crossing the room back over to James and taking the paper from his hand.

“Thanks,” he says. James makes a ‘don’t mention it’ hand movement, eyes already on the computer screen.

Luke’s eyes flick down to the piece of paper in his hand - it does indeed say ‘Luke’, which kind of surprises him, although he’s not sure what James would have had to gain from lying about that.

“You’re going to miss your train,” James says, not looking up from the screen, and shit, he is. Luke pockets the note and heads towards the doors of the lobby.

“Wouldn’t miss it if you would fucking get here on time,” he says, pushing the doors open.

“Fuck you!” James sing-songs after him, and Luke grins as the cool May air hits his face.

-------

Luke forgets about the note in his pocket until he shoves his hands in his pockets to protect them from the biting wind on his way from the station to his house. He curls his fingers around the paper so he doesn’t forget about it, not wanting to lose it to the wind that’s howling in his ears, only letting go even when he has to unlock the front door.

As soon as he’s safely inside and has kicked his shoes off and chucked his bag down next to the sofa, he pulls the note out of his pocket and unfolds it.

Golden boy,

Golden curls, golden smile, golden heart. You burn me with how bright you shine, drown me out with your smile.

What I wouldn’t give for you to see me.

- AFI

Luke stares at it.

What the fuck?

This has to be some kind of a joke. AFI? Like the fucking band? Luke doesn’t even listen to them. Or, actually, maybe there’s another Luke this is intended for. Luke does work as a receptionist, after all. Maybe someone dropped it off, wanting him to pass it on to a guest called Luke. It’s a pretty common name, so that’s not out of the bounds of possibility.

Yeah, Luke thinks, folding the note back up carefully and putting it back in his pocket. He’ll check the list tomorrow morning, and see if there are any Lukes staying at the moment.

-------

Michael’s always gone by the time Luke gets to the desk, even though Luke gets there ten minutes early every day. Luke often wonders how long Michael’s actually at work, whether he just fucks off at eight when things start getting slow after the early morning checkouts have gone.

The start to the day is usually slow, which is good since Luke always has to reorganise the entire desk from the way Michael’s trashed it (seriously, who puts the returned room keys in alphabetical rather than numerical order?). It takes him until half-past to sort that out, cross-referring the guest database to the keys and hoping some deity takes pity on him and curses Michael to the ninth circle of Hell. By then, a steady stream of people are going in for breakfast, and Luke starts getting his first red-eye check-ins.

The note completely slips his mind (again) until a lull at half-past three makes him decide to check his phone, which is in his jacket pocket. His fingers brush the paper as he reaches in, and he suddenly jolts, remembering he’d been meaning to look up all the Lukes currently staying at the hotel.

Phone forgotten, he pulls the database up again, and does a quick search for Luke. Four names flash back at him, and Luke sits back, sort of satisfied, sort of disappointed. Some part of him had kind of hoped there weren’t any Lukes staying, and the note had been intended for him. The last time anyone had said anything nice to Luke was probably, like, a good three years ago. And it was probably his mum.

He sets a note next to all four Lukes for himself, James and Michael to ask whether they’d been expecting a message when they check out, and then pushes the note from his mind and gets back to work.

He barely even notices the time pass, so focused on answering emails, until there’s a tapping at his desk. He looks up, a customer-service smile already plastered on his face, only for it to slide off when he sees Ashton.

“No need to look so happy to see me, pretty boy,” Ashton says, flicking a lighter on and off idly, but his eyes are twinkling. Luke swallows, and turns back to his screen.

“Good afternoon,” he says politely, typing out a reply to a booking request and steadfastly not looking at Ashton. Ashton leans against Luke’s desk, leather jacket rubbing loudly against the wood, and Luke wishes he had the balls to tell him to stop.

“I’m not a guest,” Ashton says. “You don’t have to be polite to me.” Yeah, but I’m kind of terrified of you, Luke thinks sourly, as he nods primly.

“I’m on shift,” he says. “I’m polite to everyone.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ashton’s lips quirk up in a grin.

“I bet you are,” he says, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and putting it between his lips.

“Um- you can’t do that in here,” Luke says, as Ashton flicks the lighter on again and lights the cigarette. Ashton looks up, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he says, around the cigarette. “Are you going to stop me, pretty boy?” Luke opens his mouth, and then closes it again, because who the fuck is he kidding? He’s not going to say shit. The fire alarm will speak for him, anyway.

Ashton smokes in silence for a few minutes, and Luke thanks God that five isn’t a popular checkout time, so he doesn’t have to deal with guests throwing Ashton (and Luke) dirty looks. Five more minutes until Calum comes out, he tells himself. He can make it through five more minutes.

“Do you smoke?” Ashton asks after four and a half minutes have passed, out of the blue. Luke blinks at him for a moment, realising Ashton’s talking to him.

“Uh, no,” he says. Ashton cocks his head.

“Shame,” he says. “Bet your lips would look good around a cigarette.”

Luke has absolutely no idea how to respond, because he never knows what to say when Ashton mocks him like that, but he’s saved from answering by the door to the kitchen slamming open and Calum walking out, already grinning before he even sees Ashton.

“Mate, I got a pay rise,” he says, as he and Ashton set off without a backwards glance.

“Who’d you fuck for that?” Ashton asks, laughing as he dodges a punch to the arm from Calum. Luke just stares at them as they walk away, still bickering about Calum’s pay rise, wondering why Ashton gets such a kick out of making fun of Luke. His thoughts are cut short, however, when the fire alarm suddenly starts blaring.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, scrambling to his feet and sprinting to the box to press the reset button before guests start piling down the stairs.

Grace sticks her head out of the kitchen door, frowning.

“Wasn’t us, I swear,” she says, seeing Luke pressing the reset button like his life depends on it.

“I know,” Luke says.

“Why does it smell like smoke in here?”

“Uh, does it?” Grace’s frown deepens, and then there’s a shout from the kitchen and her head disappears again. The fire alarm finally stops, just as James walks through the door, giving Luke a confused look as he ambles over.

“They burn toast again?” he asks, because none of them are ever going to let the kitchen live that one down. Luke shakes his head, and James wrinkles his nose. “Hey, why’s it smell like smoke out here?”

“Don’t know,” Luke says as he shrugs his coat on, hoping there’s no ash on the carpet, or anything. “I’ve got to go, I’m going to miss my train. See you tomorrow.”

“Hey,” James says, holding out another piece of paper. “Stop leaving shit behind.”

“That’s not mine,” Luke says. James frowns at it, and then at Luke.

“Says your name on it.

“Yeah, I think it’s for a guest,” Luke says. “I made a note in the system. There’s four Lukes here right now.” James’s brow remains furrowed.

“No, I think it’s for you,” he says.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” Luke says.

“Take it.”

“I have to go.”

“Well, take it with you.” Luke rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t have time to argue with James anymore because he really is going to miss his train, so he just snatches the note out of James’s hand and makes a mental note to bring it back tomorrow.

“Don’t miss your train,” James calls, as Luke speedwalks towards the door. Luke just flips him off over his shoulder, hunching into himself as the cold May wind wraps itself around him.

-------

This time, Luke reads the note on the train.

Golden boy,

I try not to look at you, as if you were the sun, but I see you, like the sun, even without looking.

Let me bask in your sunlight.

- AFI.

Luke frowns.

He knows those words. That’s Anna Karenina, with the pronouns changed. Someone’s quoting Tolstoy to whoever this mystery Luke is that these notes are intended for, and Luke’s kind of a little bit envious. He wants someone to write him romantic, literary love notes.

Whatever, he thinks, shoving the note back into his pocket with a little more force than strictly necessary. He hopes whichever Luke gets these notes appreciates them, and the effort Luke’s putting into getting them to him.

-------

There’s a note in the system when Luke gets to work the next day.

not luke evans - michael

Okay, Luke thinks, clicking on the three remaining Lukes still checked into the hotel. Their checkout dates are all in the next couple of days, so Luke still has time to get the notes to whichever one it is. He’s put both scraps of paper in a corner of the desk, folded carefully so the name is clearly visible, lest James or Michael forget about them.

He clicks off the Luke Evans note, and another note pops up.

stop fucking with the room keys - michael

Luke’s kind of outraged at that. There’s literally nothing that makes any less sense than organising the room keys alphabetically rather than numerically. It takes more time to do anyway, because it means cross-referencing the key number to the guest database. He’s not sure whether Michael’s joking or just a masochist, but either way, Luke’s not having it.

Stop putting them in fucking alphabetical order then. - Luke

He presses enter before he has the time to second-guess it, because this is a topic that’s close to his heart, and if Michael actually fucking listens it’ll save Luke half an hour every day. He quashes the instant flare of fear that forces its way up his throat the minute he’s made the note, because he’s a little bit terrified of Michael, and clicks onto his emails, ready to make a dent in his already-full inbox.

It’s a Friday, which is one of the busiest days at the hotel, so Luke’s checking people in and out for most of the day. His cheeks hurt from politely smiling by the time it starts to slow around four-thirty, and he has to stop himself from sighing when a shadow appears over him twenty-five minutes later. He’d hoped that was it for guests for today.

When he looks up, though, he’s confronted with Ashton, leaning against his desk with a grin on his face. He’s not sure whether that’s better or worse than another guest.

“Afternoon, pretty boy,” Ashton says. He’s got his usual leather jacket on, and his hair is all fucking windswept, and Luke doesn’t think he should be this attracted to someone he doesn’t know and is a little afraid of, but whatever.

“Afternoon,” Luke says politely, averting his gaze and hoping Ashton doesn’t see the slight blush creeping up his cheeks. Ashton’s gaze flicks over to the pile of room keys Luke’s still got to wipe.

“Busy day, huh?” he says, indicating to the room keys with a tilt of his head. Luke just nods, and keeps typing. “Y’know, I sometimes wonder if I should quit the day job and become a receptionist.”

“Oh,” Luke says, because what the fuck else can he say?

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Probably wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, though.” Luke purses his lips. He’s not sure whether Ashton’s trying to shit on Luke’s job, big up his own job, or get Luke to employ him. Luke’s not in charge of hiring, anyway, and if Ashton’s hoping he’ll put in a good word, he’s got another fucking thing coming.

“Right,” he says eventually, when it becomes clear Ashton’s waiting for some kind of response. He kind of wants to know what Ashton does for a living, given that he seems to have the time to hang around waiting for his friends during normal working hours, but he’s far too shy to ask. Plus, what if the answer’s, like, assassin, or something?

He doesn’t end up needing to ask, though, because Ashton supplies the answer for him.

“I work at a bar,” he says, flashing Luke a grin. “Barback.”

“Not bartender?” Luke asks in surprise, before he can stop himself, because Ashton doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be content to not be the centre of attention. Ashton laughs, and Luke’s stomach flips at the sound. He’s not really sure why it makes something warm fizz through his veins, why it makes him want to make Ashton laugh again.

“Not trained,” he says. “I’m just working off a debt.” And, okay. Luke’s not really sure he wants to know what said debt is. No debt that needs to be paid off by barbacking sounds like one Luke needs to hear about.

“Right,” he says again, hoping he doesn’t sound as flustered as he feels.

“You should come by sometime, pretty boy,” Ashton says casually. “Bar’s on King Street.”

“Oh,” Luke says. “Thanks. Yeah. Maybe.” Jesus Christ. His job is talking to people - why the fuck is he suddenly so bad at it when it’s a hot (and mildly terrifying) guy?

“You can drink on the house,” Ashton says, eyes twinkling, “as long as you give me your number afterwards.” Luke feels his mouth drop open slightly, stuttering as his mind tries to both process what Ashton’s said and string together some syllables in response, but then the door to the kitchen slams open and Calum stalks out, looking furious. Luke jumps at the sound and shrinks into himself a little at the irate look on Calum’s face, but Ashton just looks over his shoulder lazily.

“Afternoon,” he says idly, falling into step with Calum, who doesn’t even pause.

“You come on Michael’s bike again?” Calum says, and Ashton nods. “Good. Fucking crash it on the way ba-” The door swings shut behind them, cutting him off, and Luke stares at where they’d been standing two seconds ago in surprise. What the fuck could Michael have done that was so bad Calum wanted Ashton to crash his bike?

Luke shakes himself out of it and starts shoving his things haphazardly in his bag, because he’d been too distracted by Ashton to remember to pack, and as he’s wrapping his scarf around his neck, James ambles through the door.

“Fucking cold out,” is how he greets Luke, from underneath his scarf. Luke indicates to his own.

“It’s May, mate,” he says. James rolls his eyes, pink-cheeked from the wind, and tugs his scarf off as he walks behind the desk.

“See you tomorrow,” Luke says, heading for the door.

“Stop leaving your fucking notes behind,” James says, before Luke’s even got halfway there, and Luke rolls his eyes before spinning on his heel to face James.

“They’re not for me,” he says.

“They are,” James says, holding the note out. “Why else would whoever’s leaving them leave them here?”

“Because they don’t know the room number of the Luke they want?” Luke suggests. James rolls his eyes.

“They could ask.”

“Maybe they want to remain anonymous.”

“They’d be anonymous to this hypothetical Luke, anyway, because they’re dropping it off at the reception,” James points out.

“Well, I-”

“Take the fucking note, Luke.” Luke scowls, but James isn’t going to let this go, and Luke doesn’t have the time to argue or he’s going to miss his train, so he just rolls his eyes and snatches the note from James’s outstretched hand.

“Hope you make it,” James calls behind him as he starts to jog towards the door, and Luke just flips him off without looking back.

-------

Golden boy,

Your lips are on my mind day and night, night and day. I wonder just how many other hearts they’ve sent racing.

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

- AFI.

Luke frowns at it. Huh. Gone With The Wind. Whoever this AFI person is knows their literature, and Luke’s trying his best not to be impressed by it.

Whatever, he thinks, shoving the note back into his pocket and trying not to be too sullen about the fact that some Luke out there is getting romantic, literary notes written for him. He’ll put it with the others on the desk on Monday.

-------

Luke’s weekend is spent watching movies and eating junk food, with a little feeling sorry for himself sprinkled into the mix, so he’s feeling pretty well-rested by the time he gets into work on Monday morning. He steps through the door at ten to nine, shakes out his umbrella before slotting it neatly into the umbrella stand, and heads over to the desk that Michael has already vacated, as usual.

There are two notes in the system for him when he fires it up.

not luke johnson - michael

alphabetical order makes it so much easier to sort through fuck you - michael

Luke scowls at the screen, tapping out a reply before he can think better of it.

How does it make it easier to sort through?! You have to cross-refer everything to the database!! - Luke

He clicks off the notes, mentally crossing out a second of the four Lukes, which reminds him to set the third note on top of the other two in the corner of the desk for James and Michael to see.

Besides Fridays, Mondays are the busiest days for check-ins and checkouts, so Luke’s face is already aching from the polite smile plastered on his face by ten past two. He’s idly rubbing at his cheeks when the door to the lobby swings open, and Ashton comes striding in, looking somewhere between furious and concerned. Luke starts in surprise, checking the time to be sure he’s not, like, missed two hours of the day somehow - nope, definitely ten past two - but Ashton doesn’t even stop at Luke’s desk, doesn’t even spare him a glance as he heads for the door to the kitchen.

“Um- you can’t go in the-” Luke starts, but he’s cut off by the door to the kitchen banging shut behind Ashton. Luke stares at it, and then sighs. Whatever, he tried.

He turns back to his screen, expecting to hear Calum and Ashton striding out of the door any minute, laughing and joking and nudging each other, but the door stays shut. Instead, after Luke’s read the email in front of him at least three times, mind elsewhere, he hears raised voices shouting in the kitchen, although he can’t make out what they’re saying.

He clears his throat, and reads the email again. This isn’t any of his business, he tells himself, trying to focus on just what week Ms Barnet wants to book seven rooms. Ashton’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.

(He vaguely registers that maybe he shouldn’t be more worried about a stranger than about his colleagues, but whatever.)

The voices get louder and louder, still muffled by the kitchen door, and Luke strains his ears to try and hear what’s being said (he’s pretty sure he can make out a bunch of fucks). After a good two minutes, the door slams open again, making Luke jump, and Ashton walks out, Calum leaning into him, an arm slung over Ashton’s shoulders.

“...can fucking look after myself,” Calum’s saying irately, as Ashton strides towards the door, Calum limping at his side. Ashton’s got his arm around Calum’s waist, clearly supporting his entire body, and Luke tries his best not to think about how strong Ashton must be to do that.

“Look after yourself? You fucking fainted, Calum, and they let you keep working!” Ashton says furiously.

“I’m fine, Ashton, I told you, I’m fucking fine,” Calum spits, and Ashton growls, like, literally growls. Luke swallows, hard.

“Oh, sorry, Doctor Hood, want to show me the medical degree you’ve got to back up that opinion?” Ashton says sarcastically.

“Fuck you, Ashton, seriousl-” the door swings shut behind them and cuts off their conversation, leaving Luke staring at where they’d been standing half in surprise, half in arousal.

Okay, so he might have just discovered he has a bit of a thing for protective men. Or, maybe he’s just discovered he’s got a bit of a thing for Ashton. Which, frankly, isn’t much of a discovery, more of a confirmation.

He shakes his head, trying to erase all the images this has conjured in his mind, and resolves to look into getting laid as soon as possible.

-------

Luke scours his desk before he leaves on Monday, but there’s no note. He finds himself a little disappointed for a moment, because it’s kind of nice to be able to kid himself that the notes are for him for a minute or two, before James finally arrives and he’s able to push it out of his mind in favour of shouting at James for being a whole ten minutes late.

On Tuesday, Luke finds himself tensing up around ten to five, but Ashton never comes and Calum never leaves. There’s no note on Tuesday either, and Luke wonders whether maybe the fact that the mystery note-leaver isn’t getting any responses from the mystery Luke has disheartened them, and immediately feels guilty that he hasn’t tried hard enough to get the notes to the right Luke. The thought is forced out of his mind, however, when James arrives (half an hour late) announcing that the trains are all cancelled because of some signal failures and he’d had to carpool to work, so Luke needs to, like, call an Uber, or something.

“Fuck’s sake,” Luke says, because he really can’t afford an Uber all the way home.

“I know,” James tells him, sitting down in the chair heavily. “At least you’re not the one who’s going to be dealing with pissed off guests.” Luke has to concede there.

Luke goes to the station anyway, in the vain hope that the Sydney Trains will actually fulfil their single function as a transport service, and is informed by an overwhelmed-looking station guard that it’ll probably be another three hours before they’ve sorted out the problem and got all the trains moving again.

Great, Luke thinks, as he walks out of the station and into the cold mid-May air. Where the fuck is he supposed to spend the next three hours?

He wanders around aimlessly for a while, sits down on a bench in Hyde Park for about ten minutes before the wind starts threatening to take his nose from him, wanders around some more, and then, because the universe wants Luke to lose the will to live entirely, it starts to rain.

Great.

Luke ducks into the nearest building - a bar, he can make that work - and shakes the water out of his hair, chancing a glance at the bar itself. Seven isn’t too early to order himself a shot, right?

He stops short, however, when he sees who’s behind the bar.

Ashton.

He’s about to turn on his heel and walk out - he’s dripping wet, in a terrible mood, and Ashton’s terrifying on the best of days - but it’s too late. Ashton’s already spotted him, face splitting into a grin, beckoning him over to the bar. Fucking hell.

Luke edges over hesitantly, trying to surreptitiously arrange the curls around his face - fucking rain, honestly - giving Ashton a hesitant smile as he gets to the bar.

“Didn’t think you’d come, pretty boy,” Ashton says, still smiling, as Luke reluctantly sits down on the bar stool opposite him.

“Um,” Luke says, glad that the bar is poorly lit so Ashton won’t see the blush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s raining.” That doesn’t dim Ashton’s brilliant smile at all, though.

“I remember saying you could drink on the house,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“Conditionally,” Luke says, without thinking. Ashton looks at him for a moment, and then laughs. Luke’s stomach flips, heat pooling low in his abdomen - Jesus, someone as hot as Ashton shouldn’t be allowed such a cute laugh.

“Is giving me your number such a burden?” he says, grinning. Luke flushes, and looks away. He doesn’t get why Ashton gets such a kick out of making fun of Luke like this. He’d thought he’d left the days of people pretending to be into him for fun behind in high school.

Ashton seems to sense Luke’s trepidation, and leans back from the bar.

“Relax, pretty boy,” he says. “I don’t bite.” Luke can’t help the sceptical look he sends Ashton’s way, and it’s met with a dimpled grin. “Okay, I do, but you’ve gotta pay for the privilege.”

“I don’t have any money,” Luke says, because it’s true. That’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place; he can’t afford the fifty dollars it’d cost him to Uber home.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood,” Ashton says, leaning against the cupboard behind him. “What’ll it be?” Luke hesitates. On the one hand, he really doesn’t have any money, and if Ashton reneges on his offer, Luke’s kind of fucked. On the other hand, he’s had a shitty day, he’s still got an hour until the signal failure might be fixed, and he wants a fucking shot.

“Tequila chilled, please,” he says eventually. “But I thought you weren’t a bartender.” Ashton’s lips quirk up in a grin, as he reaches for the tequila and a glass.

“I’m not,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “But what are you going to do, tell on me?” His tone is both amused and challenging, and Luke swallows. They both know Luke’s not going to do shit.

“That’s not chilled,” is all he says weakly, when Ashton pours the tequila straight into the glass. Ashton laughs, and pushes the glass towards Luke.

“Try it,” he says. Luke stares at it, wrinkling his nose, and Ashton grins. “C’mon, I’m not trying to poison you. You’re far too pretty for that.” Luke bites his lip, but picks up the glass and glances at the clear liquid in it warily. He doesn’t even know Ashton, he thinks. This might be, like, straight hydrochloric acid, and Luke would be none the wiser until his oesophagus disintegrated.

Despite his better judgement, though, and largely due to the heat of Ashton’s gaze, Luke raises the glass to his lips and tips the tequila down his throat, wincing as it burns down his throat. It’s warm, and it really does burn, but it burns in a good way, kind of peppery in his mouth, and Luke finds he doesn’t actually mind the aftertaste.

“Huh,” he says, as he sets the glass back down, staring at it in surprise.

“Told you,” Ashton says smugly. “Want another one?” Luke hesitates, and Ashton rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “On the house, pretty boy. You look like you could do with one.” Luke nods, and Ashton pulls the glass back towards him and pours him another shot. Luke watches him pour, trying not to think about the way his fingers are curled around the neck of the tequila bottle. He blames it on the alcohol making its way through his veins, ignoring the fact that it’s far too soon for it to have had an impact.

Ashton pushes the glass towards Luke, who takes it and downs it without a second thought. Ashton laughs again when he sets the glass back down on the bar, eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Rough day, huh?” he says. Luke, fingertips tingling, cheeks a little warm, nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Guess that’s what happens when I don’t show up for a day,” Ashton says, eyes glittering, and there’s something behind the humour on the surface that Luke can’t quite put his finger on.

“Is Calum okay?” Luke asks, without thinking. Ashton looks at him for a moment, surprised, and then nods.

“Took him to hospital,” he says. “Doctor said he should rest for a few days, but he’d be fine. He’s kind of pissed about it.” Luke can’t help the snort that escapes him, and Ashton’s lips curl up in a smile.

“He sounded pretty pissed at you,” Luke says, as Ashton pulls the glass back towards him and pours Luke another shot. Jesus. Luke’s not even going to make it on the train at this rate.

“He was,” Ashton says nonchalantly. “But Michael would have been more pissed if I hadn’t picked Cal up from work, and I’d take Calum’s wrath over Michael’s any day.” Luke wrinkles his nose.

“Michael has a terrible organising system,” he says, swirling the tequila around in the glass.

“He says the same about you,” Ashton says, which makes Luke start in surprise.

“He knows who I am?” Ashton gives him a funny look.

“Of course he knows who you are,” he says. “You’re day shift.”

“Oh,” Luke says. “Day shift. Yeah. That’s me.”

They lapse into silence for a while, Ashton gazing at Luke like he’s trying to work something out, Luke staring through the bottom of the glass and wondering whether he really should take this shot or not.

“Are you afraid of me?” Ashton asks, eventually. His tone is even, and his face is calm, but Luke sees the tension in his posture, the hardness in his eyes.

(Luke takes the shot.)

“Uh,” he says, when he sets the glass back down on the bar. “I’m afraid of everyone.” It’s not technically a lie, and Ashton considers it for a moment before shrugging.

“I’m not trying to trick you, pretty boy,” he says, and he’s aiming for casual but Luke hears the seriousness beneath it.

“I didn’t say you were,” Luke says, now definitely a little buzzed. Ashton cocks his head and narrows his eyes, gazing at Luke.

“You don’t trust me,” he says after a moment. Luke shrugs uncomfortably.

“I don’t know you,” he says. Ashton scrutinises him for another moment, and Luke desperately wishes he had something that wasn’t Ashton or his hands to stare at, before Ashton grins.

“Let’s change that,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Ask me anything you want to know,” Ashton says, putting his elbows on the bar and leaning forward. His hazel eyes glint in the dim light of the bar, and Luke parts his lips to respond, but finds himself too caught in the brown-gold-green.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, shaking himself out of it when he remembers that hello, staring at hot and intimidating guys is kind of a bad idea. “What?”

“C’mon,” Ashton says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “There’s got to be things you want to know about me.”

“What’s the catch?” Ashton laughs, tipping his head back, and God, Luke wants to mark up that throat. Jesus. He makes a mental note for the future that tequila at seven p.m. is a no-go.

“You really don’t trust me, huh?” Ashton says, grinning. “Well, I was just going to let you ask, but...how about I get to ask questions in return? Quid pro quo.” Luke swallows.

“Okay,” he says, because what’s he got to lose?

“But you have to be honest,” Ashton says seriously, and Luke nods. He’s a shitty liar, anyway. “Alright. You first.” Luke’s eyes widen, and Ashton looks at him expectantly.

“Uh. What- what’s your favourite colour?” he asks stupidly.

“Seriously?” Luke shrugs, averting his gaze to the glass still sat between the two of them. “Okay. Green. Why don’t you ever speak to me when I’m at the hotel?”

“I’m on shift,” Luke says automatically. “What’s your favourite food?”

“Carbonara. Do I bother you?” Luke hesitates. He’s tipsy enough that he can’t lie, but still sober enough that he doesn’t want to potentially aggravate Ashton by being too honest.

“Yes and no,” he says after a moment’s consideration. “When’s your birthday?”

“Sixteenth of July,” Ashton says. “What do you mean, yes and no?”

“Yes, because I’m trying to work and you’re really fucking distracting, no, because you’re-” Luke coughs, feeling himself flush. “Uh. Do you have any siblings?”

“A brother and sister,” Ashton says. “Because I’m what?” Luke swallows.

“Give me another shot,” he says, and Ashton laughs.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says, grinning. “You still need to get home in one piece, pretty boy.” Which, shit, what time is it? Luke pulls his phone out of his pocket - fuck, ten to eight, the trains might be back up and running by now - and pushes himself off the bar stool.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, steadying himself against the bar as his vision spins from standing up too fast. “Uh. Thank you? For the drinks.”

“Hang on,” Ashton says, catching Luke’s arm as he turns away. Luke’s skin burns red hot under Ashton’s warm, calloused fingers, and he tries not to let it make him even giddier. “You owe me a number.”

“I don’t know my number,” Luke says, and Ashton frowns.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little concerned. “You can say no.”

“I’m not saying no,” Luke says. “I’m saying I don’t know my number.” Ashton blinks at him for a moment, and then drops his arm.

“You’d say no if you meant no?” he says, like he’s not quite sure he believes Luke. Luke nods.

“That’s why I’m not saying no,” he tells Ashton, and then his stomach lurches, because fuck, that might have been a bit too forward for Luke, even in his mildly inebrieted state. “Uh. I really do have to go. Thanks.” Ashton nods, leaning back against the cupboard behind him and folding his arms. Luke closes his eyes so he won’t have to stare at Ashton’s biceps.

“See you around, pretty boy,” Ashton calls, as Luke turns on his heel and heads for the door as fast as he can without looking suspicious.

The cool May wind crashes over him when he stumbles outside, and Luke gulps in the crisp air like a drowning man.

Jesus Christ, he thinks, tipping his head back and letting his eyes flutter shut. Hopefully Calum has to stay home for a long enough time that Luke can legally change his name and move to Perth, or something.

-------

On Wednesday, Luke checks a tired-looking Luke Newham out.

“Thank you very much, sir,” he says politely, when Luke Newham hands his room key over. “Oh, by the way - we had a number of notes arrive for a Luke in the hotel. Were you expecting anything?” Luke Newham looks surprised.

“No,” he says. “Definitely not for me.” Luke frowns, and nods, and mentally strikes Luke Newham off the list.

Well. It’s got to be Luke Byrne then.

On Thursday, Luke arrives to find a note in the system from James on Luke Byrne’s guest data.

Told you they were for you. - James

Luke frowns, and reaches for the three notes folded carefully in the corner of the desk.

Golden boy. Surely that’s not Luke? Okay, he thinks, looking at the first note - golden curls, yeah, he’s got blonde hair, but besides that? Golden smile, golden heart? If whoever is leaving these notes thinks Luke’s customer-service smile is golden, he’s going to have to recommend a lobotomy. And, he thinks, shuffling to the second and third notes, nobody could think he shone like the sun, nor have their hearts sent racing by his lips. Luke just isn’t that person for anyone, never has been.

He spends the whole day puzzling about it, so consumed in trying to make sense of the situation that he doesn’t even realise how fast the time is going until the door swings open at ten to five, Ashton already grinning as he walks over to Luke’s desk.

Oh, fuck.

Luke hasn’t seen Ashton since the night at the bar, and he’s been trying his best to keep Ashton out of his mind, too. He’d nigh-on had a panic attack when he’d thought back to their conversation in the shower the next morning, so he’s counting the repression as being for health and safety reasons, which is definitely permissible.

However, he can’t avoid Ashton at work.

“You look happy to see me, pretty boy,” Ashton remarks, leaning against Luke’s desk, that one fucking curl falling in his eyes, and Luke forces the trepidation off his face.

“Long day,” Luke says.

“Need another pick-me-up?” Ashton asks, lips quirking up in a grin. Luke wills his blood to remain where it is and not rush to his cheeks, and averts his gaze back to his screen.

“No,” he says, and then thinks it might have come out a bit curt, and adds, “thank you.”

“Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” Ashton says. Luke nods tightly, and taps out a response to an email.

“Michael says someone’s been receiving mystery notes,” Ashton says after a moment, far too casually. Luke’s eyes snap to him, and narrow.

“What?” he says. Ashton shrugs.

“Says someone’s been leaving notes for a Luke, and you’re trying to find who it is,” he says. Luke hesitates, then nods.

“Well, they’re for a Luke, but I’ve checked with every Luke that was staying here when they came,” he says. “So. I’m going to check whether there are any Lukes due to arrive soon.”

“You ever stop to consider it might be you?” Ashton asks, amused.

“Well,” Luke says. “I mean. No? Like, I’ve thought about it, but- I’m not, y’know. That kind of person. I mean. Nobody, like.” He shrugs uncomfortably, wishing he’d never opened his mouth in the first place.

“Nobody what?” Luke sighs.

“Nobody would do that for me,” he says, all in a rush. Ashton raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he says. “Says who, pretty boy?” Luke opens his mouth - to say what, he’s not quite sure - but they’re interrupted by the kitchen door banging open, Calum striding out, beaming.

“I’m going to do it,” he says to Ashton.

“Good,” Ashton says, pushing himself off Luke’s desk. “Only taken you a decade.”

“Are you fucking mad, as if he would have said yes when we were sixte-”

“See you tomorrow, pretty boy,” Ashton calls, and Luke starts in surprise. Ashton never says goodbye, forgets all about him as soon as Calum comes out.

“Uh,” Luke stammers, “bye?” Ashton throws him another amused glance over his shoulder, and falls in step with Calum, who’s saying something about how he had to wait for the right time, okay, sixteen is way too young, even if he already knew back then.

Luke stares after them for so long after the door has closed that his eyes start to water.

Ashton doesn’t say goodbye to Luke. It’s one of the universal laws of, like, life, or something. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, and Ashton doesn’t say goodbye to Luke. Luke’s honestly not sure what to make of it - does Ashton think they’re, like, friends now, or something? Is he just trying to unnerve him? Yeah, it’s probably that, he thinks. Ashton clearly gets a kick out of making Luke flustered, and throwing him a curveball like that is a surefire way to do it.

When Luke finally tears his gaze away from the door and back at the desk, he notices another scrap of paper to the left of his computer screen. He reaches for it, frowning at the Luke on the front, and opens it.

Golden boy,

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

- AFI.

Hamlet. AFI is quoting Hamlet. Not just that - he’s quoting a lesser-known part of Hamlet, which means he’s either googling ‘romantic quotes to put in anonymous love notes’ or he’s well-read. Luke decides to choose it’s the latter, because the idea of that makes his heart skip several beats.

Although, to be fair, that might just be him jumping in shock when James slams his bag down on the desk.

“Got your daily note?” James asks, seeing the piece of paper in Luke’s hand. Luke flushes, and folds it back up.

“It’s not mine,” he protests weakly, getting to his feet, and James rolls his eyes.

“We checked every Luke in the system,” he says. “Who the fuck else is it going to be?”

“Maybe it’s for a Lucas,” Luke suggests. “Maybe Luke is a nickname.” James pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re fucking impossible,” he says, holding his hand out. “Let’s see it.” Luke hesitates, and then drops it in James’s hand and busies himself with getting his things together so he won’t have to see the look on James’s face as he reads.

“Put it on top of the pile,” Luke says, his back to James as he shrugs his coat on.

“Luke,” James says, like Luke’s the stupidest person alive. Luke resents that. “This is about you. This is about you doubting the notes are for you.”

“It’s not,” Luke says.

“You’re doubting a note written about how you shouldn’t doubt the notes?” James says, eyebrows raised. Luke scowls into his bag.

“Fine,” he says, turning around to face James. “And what if they’re for me?”

“Then we find out who’s leaving them,” James says, swinging himself into the chair and spinning around.

“How?” James shrugs.

“You’re going to miss your train,” is all he says. Luke scowls, and flips him off.

“Get an earlier fucking train,” he calls, as he jogs towards the door, because shit, he really is going to miss his train.

“No can do,” James shouts after him, and Luke flips him off again, almost shutting his finger in the door as it closes behind him.

-------

Luke can’t sleep.

He’s been lying in bed for two hours, tossing and turning, but he can’t get the notes out of his mind.

What if they are for him? Luke’s barely even stopped to consider the idea - no, he’s actively stopped himself from considering the idea, because there was no way they were for him, and it would have been stupid for him to build up that kind of hope only for it to come crashing down.

But now that they’ve checked every Luke in the system, he has to toy with the idea that maybe, just maybe they are for him. Sure, they could be for a Lucas, or for a Luke that’s still to arrive, but the rational part of his mind tells him that the likelihood of that is incredibly low. Logically, he knows he’s looking for other explanations because the idea that they could be for him just doesn’t compute. Luke’s not someone who gets romantic notes. Luke’s not someone who gets romance full stop - the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for him is pay for his cab home from their place.

(He still thinks about Nick fondly.)

And if they are for him, that opens up a whole new can of worms. Luke’s barely even given any thought to who AFI might be, because he’s been telling himself the notes aren’t for him. But now that he’s starting to entertain that notion, that question is crowding into every corner of his mind.

Is it a reference to the band? Is it some kind of cryptic musical reference that Luke’s somehow supposed to understand? Or maybe it’s someone’s initials? AFI are pretty unusual initials, he thinks. He doesn’t think he knows anyone with a name starting with F, or a surname starting with I. Maybe it’s double-barrelled?

He sighs, and rolls over onto his side, trying to put all thoughts of the mysterious author of the notes out of his mind. There’s nothing he can do about it now, and running in circles in his head clearly isn’t helping. He’ll just have to pay better attention tomorrow, see who’s dropping pieces of paper on his desk.

You know, a little voice in his mind tells him as he’s on the verge of falling asleep. Ashton starts with an A.

Luke pushes the thought away and allows sleep to envelop him.

-------

On Friday morning, Luke pushes the door to the lobby open, yawning from his lack of sleep, and stops short.

Michael’s there.

He’s standing by the desk, hands on his hips, looking distinctly irritated.

“Oh,” Luke says, completely bewildered. Michael’s never there.

“I’m specifically supposed to give you this,” Michael says, thrusting a hand out. As Luke edges closer, he sees a piece of paper in it, the same scratchy handwriting spelling out his name on the front.

“From who?” he asks.

“Can’t tell you,” Michael says shortly, dropping the note in Luke’s hands and hoisting his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve left the keys in alphabetical order, and if you fucking mess them up again, I’m going to have Calum commit a fairly serious crime against you.” Luke clenches his teeth, watching Michael as he saunters out of the room without waiting for a response from Luke (not that he would have got one anyway), only dropping his gaze to the note in his hand when the door closes behind Michael.

Okay, he thinks, unfolding the note, and trying to ignore the way his heart is racing and his fingers are fumbling with the paper. So the notes are for him.

Golden boy,

Maybe I’ve been too subtle with these. Maybe you needed the pomp and blare, and not the old friend through quiet ways, the seeming prose.

- AFI.

Luke frowns at it, sitting down in his chair and pulling up a browser on the computer. He’s not really sure whether these are AFI’s own words, or whether it’s a quote from something he hasn’t read before. However, a quick Google informs him it’s a (very butchered) line from Anne of Avonlea, which immediately makes Luke’s heart jump a little, because who outside of bookworms reads any further than Anne of Green Gables? Jesus, Luke’s already a little in love with AFI, and for all he knows it could be James playing a prank on him.

And, like, okay. The notes are for him, and it makes Luke’s palms sweat a little just to think about. AFI thinks he’s a golden boy. AFI thinks he’s worth sending romantic literary notes to, and wants him to know they’re for him.

And, more importantly, Michael knows who AFI is.

Luke stews on that all day, thoughts stumbling over each other in their haste to get to the forefront of his mind. Why wouldn’t Michael tell Luke who it is? Why is AFI so keen to remain anonymous? Are they embarrassed to like Luke? Actually, that would explain a lot, and Luke can’t really fault them for it. He’s not exactly anyone to show off to friends and family.

He’s so preoccupied that by four-fifty he’s only about two-thirds through the emails he should have answered, but as soon as he feels the familiar presence of Ashton looming over his desk, he knows he’s not going to get anything more done. He sighs, leaning back, and looks up at Ashton, who’s grinning at him.

“Afternoon, pretty boy,” he says, looking particularly pleased with himself for some reason. Luke decides not to ask.

“Hi,” he says.

“You look pensive,” Ashton remarks. Luke shrugs, a little uncomfortably. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Yeah, you wouldn’t happen to know who dropped a note off for Michael to give to me this morning, would you? Cheers, mate. By the way, I’ve wanted to fuck you for, like, six months, and your presence is getting a bit unbearable, so would you do me a favour and not show up again until I’m out of this dry spell?

“Uh,” he settles for. Close enough.

“Heard you met Michael this morning,” Ashton comments, examining his fingernails.

“Yeah,” Luke says, even though he’s met Michael before. “He’s, uh.” Bitchy? Luke’s not sure insulting Ashton’s friends is the best idea he’s ever had, so he says nothing. Ashton seems to get it, though, and just laughs.

“Yeah, he’s like that,” he says. “But he’s lovely when you get to know him.”

“Right,” Luke says doubtfully. Ashton just grins, and reaches for the cigarette behind his ear.

“Uh,” Luke says. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“Oh?” Ashton says, raising an eyebrow, cigarette already halfway to his lips. “What are you going to do about it?” Luke opens his mouth, and closes it again. Then, suddenly-

“I’ll give you my number if you don’t,” he blurts, and then immediately feels himself turn an impressive shade of red. Ashton’s hand stills for a moment, and then he grins, and tucks the cigarette back behind his ear.

“If I remember correctly, you owe me your number anyway, pretty boy,” he says, but he’s still smiling.

“You almost gave me a hangover,” Luke says, but he’s reaching for the phone in his coat pocket anyway, if only to spare himself from having to look at Ashton. Jesus Christ. What the fuck came over him?

“Not my fault you’re a lightweight,” he hears Ashton say, and he scowls, unlocking his phone and pulling up his own contact. He spins back around to his desk and pulls a piece of paper towards him, scribbling the numbers down at the top. He hesitates, and then writes Luke at the top, even though Ashton clearly knows his name. He’s not sure how many numbers someone as attractive as Ashton must be receiving on a daily basis, so it can’t hurt, right?

He pushes the piece of paper towards Ashton, who takes it with a grin, reading the numbers at least three times.

“You know, I know your name,” he remarks.

“I know.” Ashton glances back at the numbers again, and looks like he’s going to say something else, when the door to the kitchen opens.

“You come on your bike?” Calum asks Ashton, who nods. “Good. I’ve picked out a few places I think might have good ones.”

“In your budget?”

“Fuck you,” Calum says, as they start off towards the door. “I got a raise, remember?”

“And you still think Michael’s going to say yes when he hears how you got it?” Ashton says, sounding amused.

“He already knows,” Calum says dismissively, pushing the door open. “And it’s not like he’s above threats of violence himself.”

“I’ll text you, pretty boy,” Ashton calls over his shoulder, just before the door shuts behind him.

Luke’s glad the door’s between them, or he might do something stupid like shout yes, please do, and please fuck me while you’re at it after Ashton.

Jesus, he thinks, putting his head in his hands. Ashton’s got his number. He’s given Ashton his number. He, Luke Hemmings, had the gall to give the hottest guy in the entirety of Australia his number.

Whatever, he tells himself, packing his things together. Ashton’ll probably forget to text him, anyway. Luke’s not exactly high up on anyone’s to-do list.

-------

Much to his surprise, Luke’s first text from Ashton comes on Saturday evening.

0491570156 Evening, pretty boy.

Luke looks over at his phone lazily when it chimes, not intending to answer his mum when Mike Ross is about to get found out as a fraud by Jessica, and jerks upright when he sees the nickname.

Hi.

Hey.

Hi :)

Hi!

Luke types and erases each one. Too serious, too enthusiastic, too childlike, not cool enough. By the time he’s decided to just bite the bullet and go for Hey, Ashton’s typing again, and Luke erases it all and waits with bated breath.

0491570156 You typing an essay or something?

Shit, Luke forgot Ashton could see when he was typing. God, he’s going to have to start typing on Notes, or something.

Me Sorry. Hi

It’s terrible, but so is Luke, so it’s fitting. He clicks off the chat so he won’t have to see Ashton typing, and saves him as a new contact, by which time Ashton’s sent another message.

Ashton You sound pleased to hear from me

Luke swallows. He’s not sure whether it’s just because it’s over text, but Ashton sounds kind of pissed.

Me I am!

He erases that immediately.

Me I am, I’m just surprised

He bites his lip, and then thinks fuck it, takes another gulp of his wine, and adds a line.

I’m also pretty bad at talking to people.

Ashton’s reply is instantaneous.

Ashton You’re cute when you’re flustered

Ashton Although honestly, you’re cute all the time

Me I’m flustered all the time

Luke stares at the screen, willing Ashton to respond, heart beating wildly. He’s not exactly known for his flirting prowess.

Ashton Damn...thought I was special

Luke inhales deeply, and types without letting himself think about it.

Me Never said you weren’t the reason I’m flustered all the time

This time, Ashton replies immediately.

Ashton Good :) I was starting to think this was all one-sided

Luke lets out a shaky exhale. What’s that supposed to mean?

He’s halfway through typing out a message along those lines when another text comes through.

Ashton Sorry, my shift is actually about to start. Wasn’t expecting you to reply so quickly

And then another:

Ashton See you around, pretty boy

Luke stares at it, and then puts his phone down, slightly dazed.

He’s not going to think about this until he absolutely has to.

-------

‘Until he absolutely has to’ turns out to be about ten p.m. on Sunday night.

Ashton Hey, pretty boy

Ashton I’m on my break

Luke jumps when his phone chimes, and grabs for it with fumbling fingers.

Me How’s work?

Ashton Oh, you know

Ashton Only had to kick out one guy so far

Ashton So pretty good

Luke huffs out a laugh.

Me Pretty sure that’s a bouncer’s job, not a barback’s

Ashton I’m a good multitasker

Okay, Luke doesn’t have, like, a thing for bouncers, but the idea of Ashton squaring up to some drunk guy and throwing him out is kind of doing something to him. He blames it on the fact it’s late, he’s tired, he’s desperate, and Ashton’s far too attractive for his own good.

Me Clearly, since you bartend too

Ashton Hey, you said you wouldn’t tell

Me Telling you doesn’t count as telling

Ashton You don’t know who might be watching over my shoulder

Luke grins.

Me Who’s watching over your shoulder?

Ashton No one, but it’s the principle of it

Luke doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he’s saved from having to come up with anything by another text from Ashton.

Ashton You should come by the bar again soon

Me Bars aren’t really my scene

Ashton The way you knocked back those tequila shots says otherwise

Me I said bars, not alcohol

Ashton Come after closing, then

Luke hesitates.

Me I have work during the week. I can’t be out at three

Ashton Then come on Friday

Luke exhales heavily.

Me Maybe

Ashton You can say no

Me I’m not saying no

Ashton :)

Ashton Break’s over. I’ll see you soon, pretty boy x

Luke throws his phone down on his bedside table, pretending for the sake of his sanity that he hasn’t seen the fucking kiss at the end of that message, rolls over, and goes to sleep.

(And if his dreams are filled with dimly lit bars and hot guys in leather jackets, that’s a total coincidence.)

-------

It comes to a head on Tuesday.

On Monday, Luke’s note had read:

Golden boy,

Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I think we are the latter.

- AFI.

Luke hadn’t had to look that one up - it’s Sense and Sensibility, anyone would know that. It might have made his heart race a little, seeing those words in the rushed, scratchy writing he’s come to associate with AFI, and knowing that they’re for him. Someone out there thinks that despite the fact they’ve only been leaving him notes for a little over a week, that’s enough.

Ashton doesn’t show up until a minute before Calum’s shift ends on Tuesday, which is unusual for him. He’s got bruised knuckles and a black eye when he does turn up, and he can only throw Luke a slightly half-hearted smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and doesn’t even call him pretty boy.

“Hi,” he says, sounding tired.

“What happened?” Luke says, frowning. Ashton shrugs.

“I owed someone a favour,” he says simply, and there’s a tone of finality to his voice that tells Luke not to pry. Luke swallows, and nods.

“You should put ice on that,” he says instead, nodding at Ashton’s eye, and Ashton huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I-” he starts, and then the door to the kitchen bangs open, and Calum’s striding out, looking stricken when he spots Ashton.

“What the fuck?” he demands, coming up to Ashton and cupping his face in his hands. “Jesus, was this Leon?”

“Ben,” Ashton corrects, and Calum drops his hand.

“Ben?” he says, an edge of fury to his voice. “Which Ben?”

“You know which Ben,” Ashton says uncomfortably, turning away from Luke and heading off towards the door. Calum jogs after him, making a noise of anger.

“Ashton Fletcher Irwin, what the fuck did I tell you about going after Ben?” he says dangerously.

“I know, but Sam said-” Ashton says, cut off by the door swinging shut behind them, and Luke never gets to find out what Sam said.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s gaping at the spot Ashton and Calum had just been standing in.

Ashton Fletcher Irwin, Calum had said. Ashton Fletcher Irwin.

AFI.

Luke barely even notices he’s on his feet until he’s at the door, tearing it open and looking around wildly. The cold May air heads straight for his nose and ears, but he can’t even bring himself to care, rushing down the steps when he spots Calum and Ashton arguing by two motorbikes.

“...owed him, Cal, you and I both knew he was going to call the favour in at some point,” Ashton’s saying.

“Ashton,” Luke says, and both Ashton and Calum turn to him in surprise.

“Yeah?”

“Ashton Fletcher Irwin.” Realisation dawns on Ashton’s face, and he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter this time.

“You?” Ashton squirms a little, and nods.

“Holy shit,” Luke says, because he doesn’t get it, can’t wrap his head around it. “Fucking- you’re AFI.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Look, I’m sorry, I just-”

“You read Anna Karenina?” Ashton glances at him in surprise.

“What? Yeah, it’s one of my favourite books.”

“And Hamlet?”

“Who hasn’t read Hamlet?”

“Gone With The Wind?”

“I- yeah? I just-” Luke takes a deep breath.

“You’re AFI,” he says, again. Calum’s watching this entire exchange with something between bewilderment and amusement, leant back against his bike.

“I just said that,” Ashton says.

“You wrote me romantic notes.”

“I- uh, yeah. I did.” Luke blinks at him, and takes a deep breath.

“You- did you mean them?”

“Of course I meant them,” Ashton says, sounding surprised. “How could I not? Jesus, Luke, look at you. You’re a fucking fantasy come to life. I’ve wanted nothing more than to kiss you since the day I first saw you. You think I was coming to pick Calum up from the hotel to be a good friend?” Luke stares at him. That’s the first time Ashton’s said his name, and Luke wants to hear it for the rest of his life.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you,” he says, without thinking. Ashton chokes on his next breath, and Calum sniggers behind his hand.

“I’m going to go ahead,” he says, still smirking, throwing a leg over his bike. “Be safe, boys.” Ashton flips him off as Calum kicks his bike into gear and rides off, leaving Luke and Ashton alone in the deafening silence that follows Calum’s roaring exhaust.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Ashton says, after a minute. Luke bites his lip.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, “but I have no idea what I’m doing. I almost never do.” Ashton laughs at that, amused and fond, before his face falls again, like he’s just remembered something.

“Luke,” he says carefully. “I- look. I like you, but I’m- I’m not a good guy.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” Ashton sighs.

“No,” he says. “I- look. I’m trying to be better, okay? But I don’t want you to get caught up in all this. I’m trying to end it.” Luke hesitates, and then nods. He’d kind of known Ashton was mixed up in something, and he finds that it doesn’t really bother him.

“Okay,” he says easily.

“No, Luke, you don’t get it,” Ashton says, sounding a little frustrated, and Luke takes a bold step forward, because what the fuck does he have to lose now, and places a hand on Ashton’s forearm.

“Hey,” he says, summoning all his courage. “You owe favours, you’re repaying debts. You don’t have to tell me what they are. I’m okay with that.” Ashton frowns at him.

“I’m ending it,” he says again, like he doesn’t think Luke believes him. “These are the last few jobs. I’ll be out of the bar in a few weeks.” Luke nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “I can wait a few weeks, if you want me to.” Ashton tilts his head, and stares at Luke.

“You’d do that?”

“Well, I’ve waited six months, haven’t I?” A slow grin spreads across Ashton’s face.

“You don’t have to wait,” he says. “It’s not- like, I’m not in the fucking mafia, or anything. I just don’t want you to get caught up in my business.” Luke shrugs.

“I’m good at lowkey,” he says, and Ashton huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I can believe that,” he says. “So. How about mine on Friday, instead of the bar?” Luke blinks at him.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Not if I call in sick,” Ashton says. Luke hesitates, and then a small smile spreads across his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Yeah. I’d like that.” Ashton grins back at him, swinging a leg over his bike and pulling his helmet on.

“I’ll text you,” he says.

“Yeah,” Luke says, a little dazed. “Text me.” Ashton kicks his bike into gear, and Luke sees his eyes crinkle, which means he’s smiling.

“See you around,” Ashton says, “golden boy.”

#lashton #5sos slash #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #malum #i'm telling you i haven't struggled this much to write a fic since like 2015 #JESUS CHRIST I HAVE 2 MINUTES AND I AHVENT WRITETN AN AUTHORS NOTE FUCK ME #OH SHIT I SAVED IT AS A DRAFT INSTEAD OF POSTING IT SORRY IM 5 MINS LATE

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niallssecret · 7 years

Text

•Deck The Halls•

A/N: Just Niall and Jasmine being cute during the holidays. This was going to end differently but then niall went and disrespected us today so....here ya go!

Niall was having a shitty day. He was tired, and felt like he was working far more than he should have been. He understood one that being a co-owner of a cafe would mean he'd need to be there, most of the time. But he also understood that he’d rather be at home on the couch, doing nothing. He was exhausted, and incessant holiday music that’d been on repeat in the shop the past week wasn’t helping. It was Gerry’s idea and Niall about socked him when he suggested it. ‘It’s the holidays Niall. It makes people happy!’. So he let him. He wasn’t happy about it but it’s not like he had much of a choice.

Gerry let him go home after lunch. He said he could handle everything on his own, and didn't need Niall there. Really he was tired of watching him brood his way through his shift. He took his time walking home though.

He wanted to get home but he needed time to clear his head too. He walked around in circles, up and down a the same couple of block a few time listening to some moody music. It was all very dramatic. He couldn’t figure out why he was so...anxious. He just was. The holidays was had never his favorite. And it seemed lately he was acutely aware of the constant reminders of what time of year it was everywhere he went.

With his last circle around the block he dug his key out of his pack ready to buzz his way up to place. He was more than ready to change into some sweats and lay himself on his couch with the warm comfort of a blanket and a beer or two. So when he he opened his door to see Jasmine he thought the rest of the day could only get better.

She’d had a key now for a little over a month. It wasn’t a huge gesture, she’d spent a ton of time over at his anyway due to a weird roommate situation. So the thought of giving her a spare key didn’t seem to serious to Niall. He was worried that maybe Jasmine would think they were moving too fast, but she was just as excited as he was at the prospect of always having her around.

He kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket and backpack tossing them to the side near the junk table near the front door, and made his way over to her. He made it halfway through his small living room, before he tripped on a string of christmas lights. His place turned into Santa's workshop. And then he realized Jasmine wasn’t near the window just sipping tea. She was putting up more decorations.

She didn’t hear him come in, too focused on the work she was doing,trying to figure out how she should around the ornaments on the pint sized ttree she managed to get. It was when she heard huff in the living room she turned her attention away from the tree.

“Hi! How was your day?” She smile, cheerful and as adorable as ever. He didn’t have it in him to be the smallest bit annoyed. She meant well he knew she did.

“It was alright.” He lied. She didn’t notice, but it didn’t bother him that she didn’t notice.

“Good.” She turned her attention back to the true, biting her cheek trying to debating on whether enough one side of the tree was too dressed than the other. He came up to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder pressing a kiss to her hair. She turned for only a moment to give him a proper one on the lips before going back to her tree.

He took a look around and noticed a few christmas nick nacks here and there. A small christmas center piece arrangement in the living room. A magnet on the fridge. He knew Jasmine liked Christmas but he didn’t know she liked it this much.

“Aren’t these a bit much?” He question pointing at one of the Santa ornaments on the tree.

“I can take it down-”

“No no- it's fine.” He said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

She finally put down the ornament she’d been fretting with down and turned to look at niall.

“Listen, I know how much you hate Christmas -”

“ I don’t hate christmas.” He huffs taking a step away from her. Call it childhood trauma. Or mommy issues. Or daddy issues. But the fact is that Niall has not been the biggest fan of christmas, for a very long time.

“Whatever. I know you have a complex about it and I - I still want you to have a nice one this year.” She was much too sweet to him sometimes, and he’d never understood why. He could be the most cynical person he’s ever known, but she still stuck around.

“Thank you.” He let out a sigh smiling down at her. He brought her face close to his for a kiss that was interrupted far too early by an oven beep.

“Jazzie?...What-”

“I made cookies.” She smirks up at him, placing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

She pranced into the kitchen,putting on an oven mitt he didn’t even know he had. She came back up with a tray full of sugar cookies. He followed her the small distance to his small kitchen and then notices the small station she’d set up on the kitchen, and the few other cookies already baked.

“Jesus christ.” He’s huffs, rubbing his face. He looks annoyed but he was so endeered.

“I thought I’d be fun for us to decorate some cookies. I know you think it’s silly but I use to do it all the time as a kid and I liked it so here.” She hands him a spoon and a tub of icing. She forces him down into one of the bar stools and hands him a plate with a snowman and a christmas tree shaped cookies.He takes the spoon from her without caution, unable to keep the smile. She’s so cute.

She places the fresh cookies on a cooling rack. She takes another spoon from the drawer and plate before taking her spot next to Niall. She goes for one of the cookies that is already half eaten placing a spoonful of blue icing, and finishing it off. She reaches for another one, putting a spoon full of icing on it, and taking a big bite. Niall is so endeared.

“I’m no cookie decorating expert but i'm pretty sure your supposed to eat them after they are decorated.” He’s chuckles.

“So?” The words are mumbled, behind her hand as she tries to finish her last big bite.

She reaches for another cookie this time actually decorating it, and Niall realizes he hadn’t even finished his first, too mesmerized by how adorable Jasmine looks concentrating so hard over fucking christmas cookies. She starts talking, and it's something about christmas presents but niall is preoccupied.

“What - Niall are you even listening to me?”

“I’m listening.” He smiles moving himself closer to her.

She goes on about her story. All he picks up is that the store ran out of nutmeg before she’s turned towards him again.”

“You’re not listening at all are you?” There’s only a little bit of irritation in her voice. Niall gives her small smile, and instead of an answer gives her a long sweet kiss instead.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing. I just like you alot. Your cute when you’re ranting.” He smiled down at her brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. He knew they weren’t ready for ‘I love you’s’, and Niall wasn’t even sure he had figured out what love felt like. But with Jasmine he felt like he was slowly figuring it out.

She narrowed her eyes a little, not too pleased that he wasn’t listening. But flattered by the compliment.

“Your cute too, I guess.” He gave her an affronted chuckle and one more peck.

“Thanks, appreciate that.”

He excused himself from the cookie decorating to go shance into some backet ballshorts and comfortable shirt and made his way to the couch. He looked to the side, looking at the small charlie brown looking christmas tree Jasmine had half decorated and smiled. After a few minutes of scrolling through his phone, he got board.

“Jazzie?” He called without looking behind him.

“Yes…”

“Come here” He called out. He heard her let out a huff before he finally saw her. She lifted her eyebrows, expecting him to say something.

“Come cuddle with me.” It was in that husky almost whisper tone, that Jasmine loves. It wasn’t fair. Still she pretended to think about it for a few seconds, hands on her hips.

“Okay.” He gave her a smug smile, and quickly got her as close to him as possible. He grabbed the remote and he let her choose the station. She’d settled on House Hunters which, Niall didn’t mind all that much. He enjoyed the show actually.

After a few moments Niall looked down at Jasmine, cuddled to his chest. It was seeing her muttering to herself about how wrong the house was for the couple, that he figured out what love feels like.

#niall fic #niall fluff #niall one shot #niall oneshot #ttwili extra #my writing #ttwili #MERY CHRISTMAS

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strawberryspeachy · 6 years

Text

Crazy ex gf started off really funny but now...

Look ok. There are a lot of “crazy gfs” there are. And she was.

But let’s not pretend every girl a boy calls crazy is crazy. Boys use of that word normally mean - ‘I wanted to do a thing and she didn’t make that easy and I almost felt bad about myself’

It was a comedy now it feels like I’m being lectured about the life of someone with bpd

1) no ones friends are that forgiving. NO. ONES.

2) the perpetuation of all the people you love rushing to the hospital for you. K my car flipped and everyone knew and no one even texted me.

3) ok so maybe number 1 is wrong because I do know some people who act like Rebecca and people do adore them and I never understand it

4) just because someone had good intentions doesn’t clear them of being an asshole —- by that I mean. Everyone would love to constantly be like. “Yeah I’ll help you of course I will!” People don’t do that cause they have the common sense to think “man id love to help my friend but I really can’t. So I’m not gonna say I will” BECAUSE CIRCLING BACK TO NUMBER 3

a) it’s fucked up to tell people you’ll do something for them then fail to do it and the intention doesn’t make it all better “I’ll write you a recommendation letter!” Guess what a person that’s not on tv and gets it anyway to move the plot along now can’t go to college cause you lied and I know plenty of people who would do this to email a couple hours before the deadline and be like “sowwwyyyyyy I can’t anymoreee” it’s not ok.

b) if you’re preoccupied every time I talk to you and only make eye contact with me when you wanna spew whatever’s in your head at me before darting off to wherever your head actually is - I don’t wanna talk to you anymore

c) when you do shitty things but then push your ‘I wanna feel like a good person’ shit only anything I do that you disagree with so you ruin my thing even though if the tables were turned you’d do the thing. Fuck you. You don’t get to decide your morals based on whether or not it affects you

d) cool you admit to having mental issues. Don’t use them as an excuse to be a fucking asshole but then get an attitude when anyone does it back to you

e) if you do something insane. So in return someone does something insane. You don’t get to play the victim here. You can be mad but not all ‘omgosh why would you do that? I didn’t deserve it!’ Yes you did

f) being mentally unstable is not cute and quirky

Lol just ugh the last season and a half it’s slowly annoying me more and more cause I guess since I have mental issues I hang out with and tolerate a lot of people who also have mental issues and it’s like giving me flashbacks to the asshole people I’ve met. Two of which had giant boobs and it’s totally a factor in why everyone literally treated their insanity like Rebecca big boobs and got mad at people who didn’t treat the grown baby like a baby

#crazy ex gf #crazy ex girlfriend

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runjakkrun · 7 years

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"I Don't Care What We Have For Dinner...." : The raw truth about mental illness and addiction.

“I have anxiety, depression, OCD, PTSD, ADD, mild aspergers, motor tics, severe insomnia, and an outrageous propensity for addiction. This isn’t something I normally share, because everyone and their mother thinks it’s cool to claim to have mental disorders this day and time. And honestly, it pisses me off…. Get comfortable and buckle up, because shit’s about to get ugly and real…. You think it’s cool and romanticize PTSD, talking with your buddies over a few beers at the bbq. It’s not cool or romantic when you wake up screaming and shaking and sweating so many times a night that you can’t sleep in the same bed with your wife, or that you stay absolutely exhausted, or that you’re legitimately afraid to go to sleep because you know what you’re going to see when you close your eyes. It’s not cool or romantic to do threat assessments every time you walk into a room, or see every stranger you pass on the street as dangerous. To not be able to stand sitting in a restaurant with your back to the room or door, or panic when you find yourself in a crowd. It’s not cool or romantic to be completely relaxed and laughing one minute, then have a full blown PTSD meltdown out of nowhere, leading to a severe flashback, leading to you taking a swing at your best friend or pulling your sidearm on the woman you love because your mind told you they were a threat and you think you’re fighting for your life. It’s not cool or romantic to have no idea where you’re at, or what’s real. When it takes two people who mean the world to you two hours to get you through it. When you keep broken knuckles from outbursts of anger. When you physiologically react to something that happened years ago- sweating, shaking, nausea, headache, fever, heart pounding out of your chest, jumping every time you hear a loud noise. When the one closest to you feels the need to do a quick sweep for the gun they know you carry, disarm you, drop your mag, eject the chambered .40 hollow point, and put it all in a different room because you’ve completely lost touch with reality and they’re afraid of what you might do- to someone else or to yourself. It’s not cool or romantic when you’re having an episode and your first instinct isn’t to reach for your loved ones for comfort, but to get as far away from them as possible because you’re terrified of how badly you could hurt them if you lost it and they got too close. It’s not cool or romantic to have a panic attack and worry about flashbacks or shutting down every time you hear someone scream, or you smell blood or bleach, or someone walks past you wearing a certain cologne. Especially when you work in a high stress, high risk field where screaming and blood and bleach and strangers having the worst days of their lives aren’t only a part of but make up the entirety of your job description. When people’s lives depend on your ability to think clearly and hold it together when everything goes to hell. It’s not cool or romantic to overreact and have a complete breakdown every time your hands get dirty, or something gets screwed up/ doesn’t go exactly as planned, or you hear/ see someone filing their fingernails. It’s not cool to literally physically HURT when you feel certain textures like denim or wool or concrete. It’s not cool or romantic to have to take Adderall and Prozac and Seroquel and benzos like candy just so you can function, so you can focus on one train of thought instead of being mentally exhausted all the time because you’re hyperfocused on every little sight, smell, sound, thought, or detail. When it feels like every nerve is on fire and you can’t make it stop. It’s not cool to be so deeply depressed over absolutely NOTHING that you don’t want to go to work or go kayaking with your best friend or out to a movie you’ve been waiting to see for months, or even make love to your wife. It’s not cool or romantic to spend your days in a haze of amphetamines, opiates, muscle relaxers, and cocaine, and your nights under the heavy sedation of marijuana and benzos, at the bottom of a fifth of whiskey, with no idea how you let it get to that point or how to fix it. To have to choose between going to rehab or losing everything. To go through withdrawals so bad that you spend a week shaking and violently vomiting, with headaches, unbearable muscle aches, no appetite or energy, too weak and exhausted to even get out of bed. To see the pain and the panic and the terror on your wife and your best friend and your partner’s faces, wondering if this is the last time they’ll be able to hug you or kiss you or tell you they love you, the last time they’ll see you alive, when they go to bed every night wondering if this will be the time they wake up to the phone call that changes their lives forever. The one where some strange, apologetic but professional voice is on the other end of the line telling them you’ve overdosed or eaten your gun or wrecked your truck driving drunk and, "I’m sorry, but one of the people you love and rely on most is dead.” It’s NOT cool! These are some of the most miserable experiences in existence. Things that those who suffer from them would do anything to make stop. Who wish like hell they didn’t know what any of it was like. Who, when the pain gets to be too much, often end up taking their own lives because they can’t bare standing another single moment feeling what they feel…..And if people actually understood what they were saying and implying when they tell everyone they have anxiety or PTSD or suffer from addiction because they think it makes them “cool,” they’d stop…. Because anyone who has truly been through it knows that there is absolutely nothing even remotely cool or romantic about it.

Allow me to walk you through a day in my life….

My beautiful, smart, sweet, amazing wife, who I love more than anything, is getting on my last nerve. She’s constantly chattering about everything, happy to have me home and be able to spend time with me. Just babbling about random bullshit like a dog she saw once or what she’s planning to cook for dinner, or what we need to get at the grocery store, and I’m both physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, inserting appropriate one or two word responses- just enough to keep her off my back, from asking me what’s wrong or why I’m so crabby- and all I can think is, “I really don’t fucking care….” It’s even worse when I get off of a rough shift and somebody is wanting to talk about stupid, petty shit, and all I can do is think about how people would have a really hard time being so concerned and preoccupied with celebrity gossip and what’s for dinner if they were out there and had to see and do shit that really matters. If they’d ever tortured or killed someone, or worked a horrific stabbing or shooting, then had to turn around and scrape some innocent, sweet, too young toddler’s brains off the pavement because their shitty parents were too high to put them in a car seat. If they had ever had to look some guy’s wife of 60 years in the face after he kissed her and told her he loved her…. After they’d looked her in the eyes, smiled, and told her they’d take care of him, and he’d be fine, and they’d see her at the hospital….. Only, approximately eight minutes out, he suffered a massive subarachnoid bleed and coded and his wife was in her car right behind their ambulance when they hollered at their partner to light it up. When she stood in the ambulance bay, watching them unload the love of her life who she lay in bed beside not an hour ago, and now he is completely unresponsive with a tube down his throat, unable to breathe on his own, hearing sternum and ribs crack and break as a stranger tried their best to get his heart to beat….. If they’d had to look her in the face and tell her they were wrong, and that he would never wake up…. If they had ever seen pain and grief and brokenness like that…. They’d have a hard time coming home and pretending they still give a fuck about all that shit, too…. Even walking through the grocery store, it’s all I can think about and none of this every day, dulled, muted bullshit matters…. My wife told me on the way home that I seemed like I either wasn’t listening or didn’t care, and it all finally came pouring out. I don’t fucking CARE what brand of ketchup or what color apples we get, I don’t fucking CARE how hot it is outside or whether it’s gonna rain or not, I don’t care that the electric bill is $10 less than last month’s. I just. don’t. fucking. CARE…. I feel horrible for feeling like this, even as it’s coming out of my mouth. Ever since I told her that, she’s been quiet and won’t look at me, and that just makes me feel worse. But I can’t fucking help it. It’s no failure on her part, it’s no dissatisfaction with my marriage or my home life or anything else. It just IS. In an attempt to comfort me and relate, she told me, “I understand…. I’m the same way with my job sometimes. With the adrenaline and tech work.” And I didn’t say anything. I was too tired to explain to her that it’s not even remotely the same and that she has no clue, and that lighting or props or sound quality not being perfect is absolutely nothing compared to pulling out every trick in your bag trying to make a real live person- a full grown, tatted up, tough man- stay that way, while they cry and beg you not to let them die. But you can’t fucking get the bleeding to stop or their pressure to come back up, no matter how much gauze or how much pressure you apply, or how many bags of fluid you dump into them. It’s just not the fucking same. But how can I tell her that? So I just stare out the window and don’t say a word. I’ve found myself having an extraordinarily difficult time even sitting at the dinner table with my wife and my mother, who I barely see any more, finding it in me to give a damn about any of the petty bullshit they’re so concerned over. Their biggest worries are my eight week old PTSD dog in training biting my wife’s ankles and peeing on the comforter, my sister not graduating on time, and how expensive car insurance is. Who fucking cares? I catch myself thinking that it must be nice to have that type of shit be your biggest stressors…. Wondering how anyone can expect me to give two fucks whether we get name brand or store brand cereal, when not twelve hours ago, I was getting my ass kicked trying to help some drunk asshole who didn’t want anything to do with me. When not twelve hours ago, my only concern was whether or not the ungodly amount of someone else’s blood I had all over me was infected with anything. With what I could’ve done differently to have kept my last patient from dying. With just making sure that my partner and I got to go home to our families at the end of our shift….. It’s hard sometimes when what you consider important is so much different than what most other people consider important. For most people, their life is being home, spending time with their spouse and kids, relaxing…. That’s what feels real and important and makes them feel alive. Work is a necessary evil and something that has to be done in between. It’s just a filler. But for us, it’s the other way around. In my case, this is how it has been since I graduated high school and immediately shipped to my unit with the Army. For me, being at work- on the truck- is what makes me feel alive…. That’s what feels real and vivid and important to me. “It’s like it puts lightening in your bones and makes it hard to hold on to anything else….” The adrenaline and split second life and death decisions, bringing a beautiful, healthy, perfect baby boy into the world in some run down ghetto parking lot, then turning around and pronouncing someone dead from two gunshot wounds to the chest twenty minutes later. The feeling like you’re doing something that matters. That’s life to me. It’s all I’ve ever known. Being off duty is the filler. Being home and having down time and worrying about a busted pipe or laundry or date night is what fills the space in between…. It’s like going from a top of the line 70" plasma screen HDTV with 1500 pixels per square inch, voice control, a perfect picture, and surround sound to an old 10" black and white box tv, where the volume doesn’t always work, and if the jerryrigged, tin foil bunny ears aren’t perfect, the picture goes in and out…. That’s the only way I can begin to describe it. It takes so much more to make you feel anything, when you’ve truly seen the world. I was discharged from the Army in 2011. I got home, and it was as if somebody had put everything on mute and the color was dull and I felt like I was on the outside looking in to my own life. The shoes I had traded for combat boots just didn’t quite fit any more…. The worst thing in the world is watching the people you love go on with their lives, expecting you to go back to being the same person you were before. Except, no matter how hard you try, you can’t figure out how to pick back up with the life you left. You have no idea how to talk to or relax around the people who were so easy to be around before. People look at you weird when you don’t laugh at something you would’ve before, or are more quiet and introspective instead of loud and energetic and mischievous like you used to be. Realizing that everyone else’s world kept turning while yours was turned upside down, shaken, completely changed, and you were left spinning…. Eventually, old friends stop calling and texting and wanting to hang out. Family stops inviting you to baseball games and lunch after church and holiday get togethers. People stop popping in to say hi and ask how you’re doing. And it sucks, but it’s hard to care or do anything about it, because by this point, you’re too busy just trying to remember how to breathe…. Even now, five years later, I have a hard time. There are some times when I enjoy being off and feel like I’m in the moment and I’m relaxed. But nearly every friend I’ve got or care to be around is either EMS, FD, or PD, because I can’t stand being around people who don’t get it or look at me weird or think they know what stress is. Who have no idea what TRUE loyalty or bravery or brotherhood is. Who think PTSD is a stylish trend. People who haven’t REALLY lived and died a few times. I have no patience for any of it…. I’m closer to and more trusting of and feel as if I belong better with my public safety family and my partner than I do my own flesh and blood. It’s just a heavy burden…. Sometimes I can’t help but feel like I’m on my knees, screaming at the top of my lungs, and nobody can hear me.

So next time you think mental illness or addiction or PTSD is cool or romantic, know that you have no fucking clue. Don’t look at me or my brothers like we’re weak or there’s something wrong with us when we are a little too jumpy or overreact or do something you think is strange. We’ve walked through hell and back, and we earned these scars. You didn’t.“

-KBW, 2016

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