Ashton:
It was a cool, Sunday morning, the perfect cuddle weather and I had the cutest boyfriend to do so. Problem was WE WERE NOT CUDDLING! No, Ashton decides to sit on the other end of the couch and call up one of his bandmates. Of course, I was having none of it and joined him, squeezing my butt between his and the armrest and throwing my legs over his lap. I placed a kiss on his cheek, which only received a small smile. Our silence lasted about 15 minutes, Ashton talking to Calum and me watching Gossip Girl on Netflix, when I finally couldn’t stand it. I began mimicking him, attempting to duplicate his accent. He didn’t notice at first, but when he did, he couldn’t stop smiling, his eyes on me.
"No Cal, it’s just Y/N," he said into the phone.
"No Cal, it’s just Y/N," I repeated.
He laughed. “I know. She does a terrible accent.”
Again, I repeated him.
Ashton gave me a lingering look, then said, “Cal, I have to call you back.”
He hung up and looked over at me. “Y/N, what do you want?”
With my faux accent, I asked, “What do you mean?”
"Y/N." His eyes gave me a warning.
"Ashton," I said in the same tone.
Ashton sighed. “Stop with the accent!”
"Make me," I said, smugly.
That was all it took for Ashton to pin me down and tickle me. He knew I hated that.
"Ash! Stop," I begged.
"Then you stop!"
"Ugh, fine," I replied with his accent.
"Y/N!"
I laughed, “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I promise.”
Ashton gave me another look then got off, pulling me back up.
I laughed, fixing my hair. “Damn, Ash. When I told you ‘make me’ I had something else in mind.”
Ashton laughed. “We can do that too,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss.
Michael:
I walked into my apartment, the sound of swearing and shooting greeting me, typical Michael. He was practically playing his game 24/7.
'Hi, babe,” I said, walking over to him. I pecked him on the cheek then headed into the kitchen to put down my things.
"Hey, where’d you go?" He asked, his eyes glued to the screen.
"Lunch with Y/B/F/N," I replied. "I bought you some pizza," I added, placing the small box on the kitchen counter.
"Can you bring it here?"
I sighed. “Mikey, really?”
"Please, Y/N."
"Fine," I replied, grabbing the box and plopping myself beside him on the couch.
Somehow, Michael perfected how to multitask eating pizza and playing his game at the same time. I watched as he played. His dorky side was pretty cute. It was especially hilarious when he started screaming at the screen and pounding at the controller when he was either about to win, or lose.
But half an hour later, it got old. He was literally paying no attention to me. None. At all. So naturally, I got irritated. Out of nowhere, I snatched the controller out of his hand.
