5 Seconds Of Summer Imagines

Ashton Imagine

For over an hour, you and Ashton have been arguing. This is the third time this week and its only Monday. It’s annoying you to the point where you want to scream at him and pull your own hair out, but you keep trying to reel the argument in so you can go back to being that adorable couple that everyone knows and loves. So you decide to walk away from the argument in the hopes you can both cool off and solve it.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Y/N?!” He yells after you as you walk towards the stairs to go to your room.

“Away from you if that’s possible.” You say back, refusing to shout because you want the argument to end not extend.

“We’re not finished here!” He shouts through clenched teeth, climbing the stairs behind you and you roll your eyes at his determination to carry on.

“Well I am, Ashton.” You retort, not even bothering to turn and speak to him. You continue into your shared room and head towards the closet. You reach to the top shelf and grab a large, black case and drop it on the floor. Unzipping it, you begin piling clothes into the empty space.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice anxious and not holding an ounce of anger like it was 2 minutes ago. You choose to ignore him, thinking it pretty obvious what you’re planning on doing and there is no need for an explanation. “Y/N, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“You’re leaving me?” His voice childlike and quiet, as if saying it too loud will make what you’re doing, a reality. And everyone prefers their dreams over a reality. “You can’t.”

“I can, Ash, and I am.” You keep your voice stoic, void of all emotion. Not so that you can hurt him further, so you can stop yourself from hurting too much.

“But,” He scrambles for words, a reason to keep you there with him and after a few seconds he says the only thing he can think of, “I love you.”

“I know you do, Ash, but I don’t think I love you anymore.” At your words, you practically hear his breathing stop. If you wasn’t so sure of his presence in the room, you would have thought you were alone.

“Wow, you’re such a bitch.” Your eyes widen at his words, not used to him saying such horrible things to you, and you practically snap your neck to try and look at him as opposed to the case in front of you.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re a bitch. You don’t just say to someone that you don’t think you love them anymore, just because we’re having a silly little argument. That’s the fucking lowest of the low.” His voice is cold, scary almost, and it causes you to be taken aback and unable to respond.

He leaves the room, storming out and slamming the door, you know he’s still in the house because you can hear him yelling profanities downstairs. After a few minutes, you hear glass smashing, causing you to race downstairs to the cause of the mess. Ashton is stood there, a broken lamp on the floor and a small hole in the plaster board wall. You quickly glance down at his hand to see it bleeding, most likely the results from punching the wall next to him. His stance is guarded, making you wary of approaching him, but you know you need to.

“Ash?” You whisper out, not wanting to cause too much sound in case you startle him. You step forward and the glass shards crunch underneath the soles of your shoes.

“Don’t come any closer, Y/N.” The words which could sound protective, sound threatening almost. And, even though he’s punched the wall and broken objects, you know he would never lay a finger on you in a negative manner.

“I just want to make sure you’re OK. That’s all.” You want to sound caring, so he will let his guard down and be more like the Ashton you’re used to, but it doesn’t work.

“You want to make sure I’m OK?” He mocks your question. “Oh, I’m fine and dandy, Y/N. I haven’t just had the love of my life practically rip my heart out from my chest and brake it like I just did this lamp.”

His words cause your breath to hitch in your throat and your eyes burn as a warning of tears. He sounds so heartbroken and angry and you don’t know what to do. You want to comfort him and help him, but leave him at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” You choke out, feeling the wave of tears hit you and slowly start to slide down your cheeks. He keeps his eyes fixed on you, even though his words scream heartbroken, his expression says different. He looks like he doesn’t care.

“No. You’re not. Because if you was, you wouldn’t have told me you didn’t love me in the first place.” He sounds defeated, like he’s not going to fight for you and what you had. You let out a small sob, it not fazing him as he stands there, watching you and waiting for your next move.

“I am sorry. I really am.”

“Just go. You’ve packed your bags, now leave. I don’t want you anymore.” His words are unsympathetic. He doesn’t care about your apology, because as far as he’s concerned, the damage is done and there’s no way of fixing it.