Ashton Irwin: Coffee Shop

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Pairing: Ashton and Y/N

Word Count: 5.6k+ words

Rating: Smut

Requested: Sorta

Ashton and Y/N are just cocky lilttle shits

I shivered against the frigid wind as it blew snow across my face. I walked as quickly as I could to Connor's Coffee, pulling my scarf up around my face to keep the winter out. My hands felt numb even while wearing gloves and I awkwardly fumbled with the door handle.

"Fuck," a tall man gasped as I nearly plowed him over trying to get inside. He held his cup firmly in one hand and caught me in his opposite arm. I stumbled to my feet, looking embarrassed as my eyes met the hazel ones of the attractive curly headed boy standing in front of me.

"I'm so sorry," I hurriedly said, helping him pick up a few papers that he had dropped. I didn't get a good look at them before he snatched them from my hands, but they looked a lot like musical scores. As I got to my feet I bumped his elbow causing his coffee to spill onto his coat jack and onto the floor.

"Jesus Christ, are you always this much of a fuck up?" He had a thick accent as he spat at me, and if it wasn't for his rude comment I probably would have complimented him.

"I-I said that I was sorry," I mumbled, my feelings a bit hurt. I had always been sensitive to harsh words and criticisms and I hated that I was letting this rude stranger get to me. I blinked back a few awkward tears and thankfully he didn't seem to notice.

"You should watch were you're going," was all he said before brushing his arm against my shoulder as he departed into the cold.

For a moment I just stood there, mouth slightly parted and eyes wide as I watched him leave. What the fuck just happened?

Letting out a loud breath, I walked up to the counter where a tall brunette headed boy was casually scrolling through his phone. His left arm was completely covered in tattoos up to his elbow and a few were spread across his right forearm. He was wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans and loose grey t-shirt.

"What can I get for ya?" he smiled, and my eyes scanned the menu. His voice was much more polite than the rude man, and I was grateful that I wouldn't have to deal with horrid employees too.

"Skinny Vanilla Latte."

The man punched a few of the buttons on cash register and I couldn't help but think he looked a bit out of place in here, with all of his tattoos and funny quiffed hair. "That'll be 3.50," he said, I handed him my debit card. "Name?"

"(Y/N)," he nodded before handing me back my card and scribbling my name sloppily on the cup.

I made my way over to the booth in the corner, and shrugged my coat off. It was much warmer inside the small shop and I happily settled down in the cozy seat. I closed my eyes, waiting to hear my name called when I felt the seat beneath me begin to vibrate.

I quickly went to grab my phone, before I realized that the night before I had dropped it into the batch of lemonade that I was making and broke it. "What the hell?" I mumbled, reaching my hand between the cushions and pulling out a sleek black phone.

Home

I quickly slid the phone to answer before it stopped ringing and pressed the phone tightly against my ear. "Hello?"

"Hi, I believe you found my phone." The man began, his voice was thickly accented and I couldn't quiet place where he was from. Australian, or British? It definitely sounded different than most people's in L.A.

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