warnings: badly written, cancer, some angst maybe idk
a/n: i know what ur thinking: “what! the authors name is rosie!” and yes, it is, but this is about the reader’s younger sister, a 10 year old named Rosie, being in the hospital and the reader meeting ashton that way uwu
i think i’m gonna make this into a series tbh
—
The day you found out was marked as the worst day of your life so far.
warnings: badly written, cancer, some angst maybe idk
a/n: i know what ur thinking: “what! the authors name is rosie!” and yes, it is, but this is about the reader’s younger sister, a 10 year old named Rosie, being in the hospital and the reader meeting ashton that way uwu
i think i’m gonna make this into a series tbh
---
The day you found out was marked as the worst day of your life so far.
You had come home from college, in a relatively good mood, having found out you got an A on that physics test you were dreading. It was also the first day of winter break, which made the day even better.
But that good mood immediately begins to deteriorate when your little sister doesn’t come home after 3:30pm--the time the bus usually drops her off in front of the house.
Your little sister is eight years old, and her name is Rosie. She’s possibly the sweetest thing that’s ever existed, and the only thing that may be sweeter than her is the family dog, Simba--who’s a beautiful light brown-and-white pit bull--and he doesn’t even do much.
You can remember the day vividly in your mind, you can see yourself sitting on the couch, laptop propped open on one leg, with Simba resting his head on the other. You can recall scrolling through the internet aimlessly, occasionally stopping to google ‘tom holland’ just to see that actor’s cute face, despite being a year older than him.
Your mom doesn’t even notice you were home until she wanders into the kitchen. You haven’t seen your family in three months, so it comes as a shock to you when you see that your mother is pale and ragged, looking like a former shell of herself.
She opens the fridge, staring at the items for a while before closing it. That’s when she spots you, your head popping out over the couch and staring at her with a perplexed look.
And the sight of you triggers tears.
Your mother falls to the floor, her body shaking with sobs as you put your laptop down, move Simba gently, and rush over, hugging her. You don’t know why she’s crying, but whatever it is, it must be bad. It takes more than just seeing her daughter after three months to trigger tears of any kind.
She continues to sob for a few more minutes, holding onto you tightly, before her cries begin to slow down. Eventually, she manages to speak a few words.
“When did you get home?” Her voice is strained and cracked, as if speaking those five words threatens to push her over the edge and start crying.
“This morning, Mom,” you say in a soft tone, still hugging her. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
She stares at you like you’re crazy for a moment, before realizing you weren’t told of what happened. She has to take a few deep breaths to calm herself, her body beginning to shake once more, before she says three words that make your world fall apart at the seams.
“Rosie has cancer.”
Jump to the present, and you’re standing in a hospital room, next to a pale, small girl with a shaved head. She smiles at you, seeming vibrant despite the harsh circumstances.
“Hi sis!” Her voice is so sweet, so happy. It doesn’t reflect the current situation at all.
The sound of her words causes your throat to close up as you try and hold back your sobs as much as possible. You sit in the chair next to her, gripping her small hand in yours. Her hand is warm, showing that life is running through her bones, that, despite having cancer, she’s okay.
“Hey Rosie,” you whisper, fearing that you’ll cry if your voice is any louder. “How are you?”
She smiles, making your heart ache even more. She has a hole where one of her left teeth should be, indicating that she’s just like any other 10 year old; she loses her teeth naturally, too. “I’m good! It’s kinda boring here, but sometimes my friends come and visit and we play board games on the bed.”
You can’t help it, those words that pour out of her mouth make it seem like this is normal, that this has no chance of ending in tragedy, as you begin to sob. She looks concerned and sits up a bit more, holding one of your hands in both of her small ones.
“Sis, are you okay?” There’s no more happiness in her voice, it’s been replaced by worry for you. You glance at her eyes, her beautiful green eyes, and can feel the worry reflecting in their depths.
“I’m fine, honey,” you manage to whisper between sobs, trying to give her a smile.
Rosie pouts, still looking worried, but also stubborn. “I’m not seven anymore, I can tell that you’re not fine.”
“You’re so mature for your age, you know that?” you whisper as she works on wiping tears away from your face. She giggles a bit at the sight of your smeared mascara, and begins to rub the black ink all over your face.
She seems proud of herself, giving you another grin, as she points to a mirror hung up in the corner of the room. “I gave you a makeover, go look!”
You get up from the chair, sniffing a bit as you walk over to the mirror. Rosie had smudged the mascara to the point where you looked exhausted, and then proceeded to smudge it all over your cheeks while she was at it. You laugh a bit, turning to look back at her.
“Oh, I’m gonna get you for that!” you declare, speed-walking over to the hospital bed and sitting down it. Her eyes reflect horror as you tickle her.
She shrieks, falling back onto the bed while laughing. “No, no, no, I’m sorry! Please, sis, have mercy!” She barely managed to speak the words between shrieks and laughs.
A doctor suddenly pops into the room, looking awfully confused before realizing that you were tickling your sister. He pinches the bridge of his nose, walking over and shaking his head.
“Too much strain on her body could harm her, so please stop tickling her.”
The joyful atmosphere in the room vanished as the doctor exits, closing the door behind him.
Rosie pouts, sticking her tongue out at the door before turning back to you. “Now I’m gonna tickle you!”
She proceeds to do so, leading you to erupt into laughter. “No, no, stop! Please, Rosie, I didn’t mean to tickle you!”
The sound of your laughter must be so loud that others can hear it, and someone knocks on the door. You glance at your sister, who gives you a nod as you walk over to the door, opening it to reveal a tall, handsome, green-eyed male.
“Oh,” he says simply, and that’s all it takes for you to remember you have mascara smeared all over your face. You immediately cover your cheeks, smiling awkwardly up at him.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“Uh, I was visiting my dad next door--he broke his leg--and I heard screaming. Is everything alright?” the male asks, his voice tinted with an Australian accent.
Rosie speaks up from her spot on the bed, sounding shocked: “Sis, you should date him! He’s really cute!”
You whip around, glaring at your 10 year old sister giving you love advice, before returning to look up at the stranger. He chuckles a bit before pointing to your sister. “What’s she in for?”
You can see that he knows what she’s in for due to her shaved head, but you tell him anyways, your voice dropping to a whisper: “Cancer. Appendix cancer. Doctors say she might live, but they’re not sure.”
And just like that, your voice cracks as you inhale deeply, holding back tears once more. The male realizes his mistake and pats you on the back. “Can I go in?”
You nod, stepping to the side. After he enters, you close the door and watch as he goes to sit down in the chair you once sat in.
“Hey there,” he says, holding his fist out for a fistbump. “I’m Ashton. You know, you look really cool.”
Rosie blinks, giving him a cautious and hesitant fistbump before saying: “How do I look cool?”
He smiles at the return of the fist bump, saying: “Well, you ever seen Mad Max: Fury Road? You look like Furiosa, and she’s super strong. A good female character.”
Rosie’s eyes widen. “I’ve never seen that movie, but my sister says I look like the Ancient One from Doctor Strange, and she was super powerful so I like looking like her.”
Ashton chuckles once more, smiling. You can only assume it’s from how cheerful this little girl. “You know who else had appendix cancer?”
“Who?” Rosie looks confused, mostly because no one’s mentioned her cancer to her directly, but here was this guy.
“Audrey Hepburn. You know what was special about her?”
“What?”
“She’s an icon for girls everywhere. So you should grow up thinking you’re like Audrey Hepburn, because you’re also an icon for little girls everywhere.”
Rosie gasps, before clapping excitedly. She turns to you, and you’ve been standing in the corner, watching them talk with a smile on her face.
“Sis, can you please date Ashton? He’s super cool, and he looks like he’s 30, which is your age, right?”
You mentally face palm before saying: “Rosie, I’m 23, not 30.”
“And I’m 24, not 30,” Ashton adds in, turning to look at you. “23, huh? I remember when I was 23.” He says so in a wistful tone.
“Oh, shush,” Rosie says, interrupting what you were about to say. “Anyways, you two should date. Because you’re both cool--well, sis isn’t cool, but I think you get what I mean.”
The three of you talk for a little more when Rosie suddenly collapses on the bed, her heart beat monitor beeping rapidly. Doctors rush into the room, shooing you and Ashton out, and you stare at the door in a sort of trance.
“She was doing so fine-- what happened?” you whisper, feeling the looming threat of tears once more.
“I don’t know, but she’s strong. She’ll make it.”
This man, who you’ve barely known for an hour, talks in such a way that makes it seem like you’ve known him forever.
warnings: angst? im not too good at writing angst tbh | inconsistent spelling of the word “grey”
a/n: this was originally going to be a maori-speaking reader x ashton irwin and going to the dog park, but seeing as i don’t trust google translate enough to provide correct maori words i changed it to this angsty thing
italics r flashbacks and because im not in the mood 2 confuse myself 2 death, they are also in present tense [sorry]
also, the “fight” between ashton and the reader isnt like, a physical fight, its moreso an exchange of words and bad feelings on both sides afterwards
let me know if you’d like a part two!
---
Bloodshot eyes. Fidgety hands. Bouncing knee. No sleep.
Four things that summarized your boyfriend, Ashton Irwin, up perfectly at this very moment.
The whites surrounding his hazel eyes are streaked with blood vessels from lack of sleep, and they are tinted red from crying.
His hands are shaking from an excessive amount of caffeine, and he’s locked them together in an attempt to stop the shaking. He’s holding each hand so tight that his knuckles are white.
The quiet ‘tap, tap, tap’ of his heel hitting the floor repeatedly echoes throughout the room. His knee has been bouncing nonstop since his last cup of coffee, and it’s a problem.
His back aches from sitting in a plastic chair for more than twenty-four hours, but he can’t leave. If he leaves, something might happen. He has to stay by your side at all time.
The tapping of his heel is in time with another sound. The soft, beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor.
His warm, large hands unclasp and envelope one of yours. He presses his lips to your knuckles, feeling tears stream down his face as his mind flashes back to precious memories he made with you.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going--” you begin to say before stopping short as you stare at the man you bumped into.
“S’alright, doll,” Ashton says. Sure, you bumped into him and spilled burning hot coffee on his brand-new blue satin shirt, but you’re pretty, and he doesn’t want to seem like a wimp.
“No, seriously, let me... let me pay for dry-cleaning and get you a new cup of coffee. I’m so sorry.”
The Aussie smiles slightly as he observes you. Your hair is ruffled by the wind, and your arms are full of books, most looking old and well-read. You’re wearing an oversized grey sweater, perfect for the current weather, and black leggings. Your eyes sparkle in the dim evening light.
“You don’t need to worry yourself, mate,” Ashton says in a calm, serene tone--much different from what he’s like with his bandmates.
The male suddenly jerks forward, bumping into you and causing your books to fall all over the place. You let out a yelp of surprise, almost falling over from the weight of the male that’s kind of on you.
“’Ey, what’s the hold up, Ash?” The voice of one of Ashton’s best mates, Calum, resonates from behind him as Ash whips around, glaring at him.
The black-haired boy peeks out over Ashton’s shoulder and, upon seeing you, gently punches him in the arm--you know, that thing guys do?--and smirks before continuing to walk.
“I’ll meet you at the studio!” Cal shouts before vanishing behind a corner.
Ashton runs a hand through his locks--which are long, almost chin-length at this moment in time--and gazes at you. He bends down and helps you pick up your books.
“You know, I think I’ll take you up on that offer for coffee.”
“I’m so sorry, doll.”
Those four words resonate within the hospital room. Ash can’t bring himself to look at you; your arms are covered in bandages and your left leg is raised up in a cast. Your face is covered in cuts, and there’s a gash on your hairline that’s stitched up. His gaze remains on your unmarked hand, which is wet from the tears streaming down his face.
“It should’ve been me.”
The next memory that pops into his mind is bittersweet: the first obstacle in your relationship. You two had fought about him staying out late.
It seems so long ago and insignificant for the blondish male.
“Where were you?”
Your voice startles him as he closes the door to your shared apartment. It doesn’t sound angry, just disappointed and concerned. He suddenly feels an overwhelming amount of shame.
“Out with the boys.”
His response seems to infuriate you. He doesn’t understand why, until he looks at the time.
4:06AM.
One thought resonates through his head: shit.
He really fucked up this time.
“You couldn’t’ve taken five seconds to text me, ‘hey doll, I’m okay’?” You sound angry now, and Ashton feels an even heavier guilt for making you stressed.
But then, a little voice whispers in his ear. A little voice that causes the fight.
“Doll, I’m twenty-four. You don’t have to act like my mother.”
The second the words leave his lips, he instantly regrets it.
“Your mother? Your mother? Ashton, you’re my boyfriend. You left at 6pm to hang out with Luke, Calum and Mike. It’s 4am now.” He watches as you pinch the bridge of your nose, the bags under your eyes seeming thirty times more prominent. “You could’ve texted me! I stayed up thinking you got into an accident or something.”
“What, don’t you put any faith in me?”
“You usually come home drunk, Ashton. Drunk and sweaty and gross. How am I supposed to know you’re not in the middle of the highway with your face buried in an airbag?”
The words sting more than they should’ve, and Ashton knows that. He knows he should’ve texted you, that he should’ve let you know that he was okay, that beer wasn’t something he planned on consuming that night.
But he doesn’t get a chance to apologize. You get up from where you’re sitting, shake your head disappointedly, and go to your shared bedroom.
That night, Ashton sleeps on the couch.
His mates had always said that your first official fight--at least, what Ashton classifies as the first--wasn’t actually a fight. But Ash had disagreed each time, saying that fights didn’t have to be loud and aggressive. Fights usually just ended with both sides feeling negative emotions, which was what happened.
The male lets out a soft, quiet, broken chuckle. “I-It seems so insignificant now, doll,” he whispers in between sobs, his voice cracking.
And this time, a happier memory pops into mind. Ashton begins to speak, his words barely louder than a whisper.
“Remember the outcome of our fight, doll?”
The brown box in Ashton’s hand shakes as he struggles to hold onto it and open the door at the same time. There are holes poked in the top and on the sides. A bow lays loosely on the cover of the box, threatening to fall off.
“Doll?” Ashton calls out as he walks inside with the box, pulling a suitcase--of sorts--behind him.
He spots you working in the kitchen, preparing a late lunch for yourself. You don’t notice him until he wraps his arms around your waist, placing a gentle kiss on your neck.
“Oh, hey Ash,” you say in a monotone voice, clearly upset about the night before.
“Whatever you do, don’t turn around, okay?” he asks, before rushing off to set up the house.
You’re too busy focusing on the recipe for your late lunch--which he thinks you put too much effort into since it’s lunch--to notice Ash setting up puppy pads, a crate and dog bowls around the house. It’s not until you hear the excited ‘yip’ of a small puppy that you turn around.
He smiles proudly as you take in the sight of the puppy-proofed house, and he watches you scan the room until your eyes fall on the grey, black and white bundle in his arms. Another excited bark resonates from the bundle. It shifts a bit in Ashton’s arms, its head poking up to reveal that it’s a dog--and not just any dog, but your favored breed, a Cardigan Welsh Corgi.
The tall male kneels down, placing the puppy on the floor before straightening up and gazing at you. “I’m sorry for not updating you.”
The small dog sniffs around, eventually making its way over to you. Ashton can tell that you want to remain stubborn, but can’t once you look into the eyes of your new pet. He watches as you pick the female puppy up, pressing your cheek to hers and cooing about how she’s “the bestest girl”.
You and the puppy--who you both later name Lola--remain in that position for a few moments before you finally speak.
“Apology accepted, Irwin.”
Despite the sadness that’s clouding his brain, the memory manages to make a bright smile form on Ashton’s features. He presses his lips to your knuckles once more, sniffing a bit. More memories flash through his mind--the temporary break in your relationship, Lola having accidents in the house, inviting the band over and accidentally burning the food you were making--but the one that hurts the most is the most recent one.
The one of your accident three months ago.
The one that landed you here, in the hospital, stuck in a coma.
The one that broke Ashton Irwin.
The sun shines brightly, the sky is blue, and a gentle wind ruffles the trees and their many leaves as you, Ashton, and Lola are on a walk to the dog park.
You’re not too focused on your dog as you talk to Ashton; she’s one year old now and knows not to cross into the middle of the street. The blondish male’s full attention is on you.
Ash can’t remember what the two of you were talking about, but it was a good discussion. You were talking with your hands, making gestures to prove your point as he nodded, absorbing the information you told him and relaying something completely different.
If only he had been a bit focused on Lola, too.
Out of the corner of his vision, Ash sees a squirrel dash across the street. Lola notices it too, and the corgi rushes forward to chase it, yanking on her leash. The next moment will forever be sketched in Ashton’s brain.
He watches, motionless, as you rush across the street to catch Lola, doing so successfully. He watches, motionless, as the speeding car, which is going 50 miles an hour on a 30 mile road, makes a high-pitched noise as the driver slams on the brakes. He watches, motionless, as the car hits you, sending you and Lola flying. He watches, motionless, as you land on the asphalt, your head receiving quite an impact, and as Lola lands, a sickening crack echoing through the air as her back breaks upon contact with the ground.
Only once the action stops does he move, rushing to his dog and girlfriend. The driver of the car gets out, and, upon seeing what damage he’s caused, calls 911, even though he later gets his license revoked and sent to a seminar about speeding.
It takes three paramedics to tear Ash away from you, away from Lola, away from his world.
They don’t let him inside the ambulance, leaving him on the street that he now avoids at all costs due to the horrible memories associated with it.
“I’m so sorry, doll,” the male whispers. He begins his cycle, his cycle of holding your hand against his lips and whispering four words over and over again as he rocks back and forth.
“It’s all my fault.”
---
if u’d like to be removed from the taglist, let me know uwu
words: probably less than a 1000 seeing as i am also in the middle of procrastinating reading a 322 page book that i have to write a report on by tomorrow
warnings: some swears
a/n: i know i havent written in a while on my other account, but i felt that i should post a quick one shot on this one to maybe attract more followers y’know
i apologize for how SHORT IT IS ! but this is, essentially, a test run to see if i really have what it takes to write ashton irwin [and, in the future, calum hood, luke hemmings, and michael clifford [although i’m not too sure about the last two... i’m not very comfortable writing one-shots / fics of people who are in relationships ]]
---
His chiseled jawline reflects some of the soft morning light that filters through the white curtains. His arm is loosely draped over your back, his hazel eyes hidden by eyelids as he sleeps softly. His hair is splayed out around his face, having become shoulder-length since his last haircut. The time on the clock reads 8:23am, and you cannot help but admire the beautiful features of the man next to you.
The fingernails on his left hand have chipped black paint on them, reminding you of the countless times where you painted them for him. His hand is a bit calloused from drum playing. Soft breaths enter and exit his slightly open mouth.
He appears so calm, so serene. You want this moment to last forever, to have him be peaceful.
But alas, all good things end.
It’s as if, even in slumber, he can feel your gaze studying all his flaws and all his perfections. His eyelids flutter, his mouth closes. Soon, his eyes are open and staring at you, the words that are tumbling out of his lips tinged with a husky tone.
“Hey, doll.”
You can feel your face redden involuntarily, the guilt of being caught staring surfacing in your brain. But, nonetheless, you reply in a soft tone.
“Hi, Ash.”
It’s like you two just slept in the same bed for the first time. Ashton’s eyes are full of love and devotion to you, and you bet your eyes are full of the same emotions.
“How long ‘ave you been staring?”
His Australian accent is thicker than usual, and you’re unable to tell if it’s because of the grogginess in his voice or his recent trip to Australia to show you off to his family.
“Not too long. I just woke up.”
“So... thirty minutes?”
You’re left speechless at how well this man knows you. The two of you have been dating for a little over two years, and it’s like he can state everything you like, everything you do, everything you are in complete confidence. And get each statement 100% right.
A comfortable silence settles over the two of you as you gaze deeply into Ashton’s hazel, gold-specked eyes. He stares into your optics, and the two of you lay there, on your sides, looking at each other with love and adoration.
Soon, too soon in your opinion, the male beside you sits up, the blanket falling from his body as he places his feet on the hardwood flooring. His defined back muscles are illuminated by the morning light as he shuffles over to the closet, pulling a drawer open and sliding a short over his head.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, blinking in confusion. “Long day ahead of you?”
“Nah. I got a free day. So I’m gonna do what I like to think I do best.”
“Drum?”
He whips around, giving you a shocked look as his mouth drops open to form an ‘o’. He gasps in an offended manner. “Do you think I think that I drum the best out of all my talents?”
“...you get paid to do it, so yeah?”
“Well, I think what I do best is showing my girlfriend lots of love and being there to support her. Clearly, we disagree on this issue.”
You feel your face heat up again as you sit up in bed. “I mean, I guess that works too.”
The tall male rushes around the bed, scooping you up in his arms. “It may shock you, but no one else is as good at it as I am.”
You giggle before planting a soft kiss on his nose.
“If you’re going to shower me with love and affection, I should probably dress up.”
---
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tagging some people that will end up getting stuck on my taglist [but if u dont wanna be tagged just let me know okokok] : @upsidedownparker @penisprkr @tomsfireheart @hydra-hound @peters-vlogs @futzingclint @a-singleboat @hamiltrin
