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starkeyvhs · 3 hours ago

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only you my girl, only you babe

PAIRING: rafe cameron x pogue!fem!reader

SUMMARY: four times your “enemy” rafe hinted he cares for you and the one time you actually caught on it. OR you thought rafe doesn’t like you because he hates all pogues. little did you know he has always looked at you differently.

WORD COUNT: 6.7k

WARNINGS: drinking, drugs, swearing, blood and wounds, kinda canon rafe (omg kez????), obx cliches (mainly the whole ‘kooks vs. pogues’ thing from S1), extremely ‘only soft to you and no one else’ vibes, fluff, angry confessions, heavy pining, mentions of y/n

EDITH SPEAKS: oh. my. god. if you were there on my old blog you would know how long it’s been since I first introduced my idea of writing this fic. I got stumped on it way too often and then forgot about it for months, and then decided to abandon it. But I found it again and I got my inspiration back and now I’m so so happy it’s actually finished!! <3

major thank you to @zyafics who helped me last year when i was writing the fic and helped me brainstorm ideas for it :’) kissing your beautiful mind just like always zya xxx

this really is a labor of love and I genuinely couldn’t be happier 🥹I would highly appreciate all kinds of feedback and reblogs, because they really are extremely motivating and fun to get back to! I hope you enjoy reading, and i hope these 6k words are worth all your time and attention :)

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

PROLOGUE

“Stay off Figure 8!”

The all too familiar deep voice boomed across the beach, a completely dead silence started to surround the atmosphere. A loud groan was heard along with the unsteady thump of a person falling onto the sand, causing people standing around to gasp.

JJ struggled to get up from the ground, the big punch he received from the one and only caused his nose to bleed non stop, and when he barely opened his eyes, he was met with a pair of icy cold blues staring back at him.

“You hear me, Maybank? Stay. Off. Figure. 8. You and all your filthy pogue friends.”

JJ tried getting up and talking back, he really did, but the one and only Rafe Cameron punched him so hard he lost all his balance. Blood kept on flowing in a never ending fashion, and JJ could see dark spots in his vision, his mind feeling light headed.

“JJ!”

Rafe froze in his position, not looking up from JJ at the sound of JJ’s name being called out. The voice, the perfume, the general aura of the presence; Rafe didn’t have to look up to see who it was.

“JJ oh my god please tell me you’re okay,” you mumbled, your voice almost trembling with the worry dripping from your words. You got on your knees and gently cradled JJ’s face, pulling it into your lap as you brushed his hair aside to look at the extent of damage on his face. JJ mumbled something incoherently and you let out a sigh, relieved he wasn’t completely knocked out.

Rafe stood there on the side, his eyes widened as he saw how your fingers ran through his hair and wiped off his blood, he saw how careful you were with him, he saw how you mumbled small words of sweet nothingness to him.

Rafe didn’t know what to say, he stood there limply as he watched you help JJ up, let him loop an arm across your shoulders so you could help him walk back to The Cut.

As he saw you both walk back, he felt his blood boil. The rage built in him slowly like a thunderstorm, his breathing started to become erratic and his fists clenched tightly on his sides.

“FUCK!”

Rafe’s foot kicked across an empty beer can buried in the sand, causing it to fly and topple a few meters further from him.

He wouldn’t have done anything to JJ, heck, he wouldn’t have looked at him if he knew you were on the beach too.

The look on your face when you saw how hurt JJ was, the concern clouding all over your facial features; from the furrow of your brow to the frown on your lips, he knew you now hated him more than ever. He knew you would never want to look at him ever again. He knew you would never acknowledge his presence ever again.

He knew there was no chance you would look at him the way he looked at you.

ONE — THE PARTY

It was crazy.

The lights were neon and bright and they pierced your eyes harshly. The people at the party were almost sticking next to each other, their sweat, weed, alcohol, and an ungodly mix of expensive and cheap colognes being the only thing you can smell.

You almost gagged as you maneuvered your way through the sweaty crowd, but you finally did, finding yourself taking deep breaths as you leaned against the countertop of the makeshift bar in the kitchen, letting the awful smell wash away from your nose palette.

When you started feeling better, you got yourself a nice cold beer, letting the icy liquid run down your throat, sending chills down your spine but in a way you relished deeply.

It was a scene like any other party; there were people dancing, some catching a smoke break at the side, some making out on the other side, nothing new.

And it wasn’t anything new when a fight broke out.

You didn’t know who the boys were who started to fight; all you saw was them go at each other like wolves, their courage mostly coming from the plethora of drugs in their system, profanities after profanities spilling out their mouth, and you were just watching from the side, completely nonchalant about it.

But you were not so nonchalant when glass bottles were involved in hurting the other; you being in close proximity to the fighting pair resulted in one of the flying broken piece of glass cutting your hand, making you yell out at the sharp pain. The cut looked deep as the blood didn’t stop gushing out, but no one focused on you. Everyone was too busy watching the fight, trying to stop it, or just enjoying it for the heck of it.

You hissed in pain, your own beer bottle set aside as you squeezed your eyes shut from the stinging pain spreading from your hand to your forearm. The blood started to trickle down from your palm down to the floor, and you had no idea what to do or who to go to.

It all became a huge mess very quick, you on the side with your hand bleeding, and the rest of the party too busy to peg the immature boys on.

You felt a tall shadow stalking over you, the scent of the rich cologne all too familiar.

“That looks bad,” you heard in your ear.

You turned to be face to face with Rafe. He was stalking down your wound, the blood flow not really stopping as the drops dripped down on the hardwood floor. His expression wasn’t one of worry. But it wasn’t one of detest either. It was just… emotionless.

“Yeah no shit,” you muttered, looking down at your wound too.

“Here,” he said, fishing out his handkerchief from his pocket. “This should help for the moment…” he muttered as he gently took your hand and wrapped the handkerchief around your cut.

You looked at his hands working around your hand, covering up the cut. The pearly white cloth was quickly stained with a deep red of your blood, slowly spreading throughout the cloth.

“You should get that checked once, just in case you need stitches,” he said, tying a knot to fix the cloth in its place. Just like his facial expression, his voice is also emotionless, monotone words leaving his lips.

“Why are you doing this?” You couldn’t help but ask, out of all the people, Rafe was there to help you with your wound.

“Because you’re bleeding a little too much,” he said, taking a step back from you. His hands then buried in the pockets of his jeans as he shrugged at you.

You looked up in his icy blue eyes, not a single emotion in them. You weren’t sure what to say, finding yourself to be quite stunned which was never really the case; whenever Rafe talked to you, you were always quick to talk back, never letting him be the one who said the last words.

“Right… thanks,” you muttered, looking down at the securely tied handkerchief around your hand.

“Yeah,” he said with a nod of his head, and left you alone.

TWO — THE FAILED DATE

You clutched on the tablecloth out of utter anxiousness, your eyes darting around the room. You took a look at your watch for the umpteenth time, and saw that the time you were supposed to be meeting someone got farther and farther in the past with each passing second.

It had now been over an hour, the waiters had politely asked you if you would like to eat something, and all you asked for was a simple glass of water, because what if he shows up?

But now you could very clearly see that he won’t.

You had a date, which unlike the past dates you had been on, really excited you. You thought he was a nice boy, someone you met while you were buying some beer for you and your friends. You don’t remember how the conversation started, but you both used to talk quite often, numbers exchanged and texts sent under the pale moonlight of 3 am.

He finally asked you out on a date, and you were thrilled, to say the very least. But now, here you were at a fancy restaurant on Figure 8 which you barely got to go to, absolutely impatient as your knee bounced up and down out of anxiousness and embarrassment.

You felt tears prick your eyes but you were quick to not let them fall, wiping them away from your waterline. You looked down in your lap, your fingers nervously pulling onto each other as the reality of being ditched settled in you. You took another look at your phone, desperate for any text, but there were no notifications.

But then, you felt the sunlight falling onto you from the window next to you being blocked by a huge shadow, and when you looked up, you saw Rafe.

Of course, Rafe, out of all the people.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you; your slightly red eyes and the tears accumulated in them didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Why are you here all alone?” He asked you, still standing in front of you.

You just shook your head as a reply and picked up your belongings from the table. “It’s none of your business Rafe… I’ll just leave…” you muttered, but before you could do anything else, Rafe sat in the seat opposite to you.

He took a look at your outfit, noticing it’s something different than the attire you’re usually sporting, something more formal.

It didn’t take him long to connect two and two together to figure out everything.

“You got ditched huh?” He said silently. His tone came off condescending to you, even though he didn’t mean to sound that way at all.

You mentally braced yourself to get embarrassed by him, ready to hear a comment or two from him, because that’s what he did: say rude things to people, especially Pogues, because he felt like it.

But he didn’t say anything.

Absolutely nothing.

You looked up at him, small streaks of tears had started making their way down. “I told you it’s none of your business,” you said, sniffling.

He only sighed as he leaned back in the chair, watched you carefully as your head hung low, silent sobs escaping you as you occasionally wiped away your tears.

“Listen, it’s not your fault okay?” He mumbled. You looked up from your lap with your eyes filled with tears. “I know you must be feeling really bad right now, and there is nothing wrong about it, but don’t think too much about it,”

“I… I got ditched Rafe. I am sitting here all alone in this expensive restaurant crying my eyes out. How can I not think too much about it?” You whispered, your eyebrows creased together.

He leaned a bit closer to you. “I’m trying to make you feel better…” He said softly.

“Well,” you sniffled, looking away from him, “I didn’t ask for it, okay?”

These were the last words you said, before you got up from your chair and left the restaurant, whilst Rafe watched you walk away, wanting to hold your hand and to stop you, but he just couldn’t.

THREE — THE BEACH CLEAN UP

You looked up at the sun, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you took in a deep breath. The summers only seemed to be getting hotter this time around, and the fact that you were at a beach clean up at noon was not helping your situation.

You liked to pick up work like beach clean ups in between your main job at the island club so you could make a little side money.

As you got back to picking up the trash from the beach, throwing it in the little basket you’re carrying with yourself, you looked up to hear some chatter besides the otherwise quiet beach and the other people working quite silently.

It was a group of Kooks – their expensive clothes and accessories shining under the bright rays of the sun completely unmissable. And in the group of them, a pair of electric blue eyes had its gaze fixed on you intensely.

You didn’t even know why Rafe was there. Or why the other Kooks were there. They didn’t have any need to participate in these kinds of jobs. Everything was just handed down to them, daddy’s money being what they thrive on.

You ignored them and got back to working, focusing on clearing the trash from the specific area of the beach you were at. Just a few minutes later you felt the sunlight being blocked by a huge shadow, and when you looked up, you saw Rafe right by your side, separated from his Kook friends.

You wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure what, so you peeled your focus away from him and got back to picking up the trash and throwing it into the basket.

“Here,” he said almost suddenly, causing you to look up at him. “I’ll hold it for you,” he gestured the basket in your hand, and even proceeded to hook two of his fingers into its side, holding onto it.

Before you could have protested, he gently pulled the basket from your hand, causing you to let go of it. You wouldn’t lie, your basket had started to get heavy from the innumerable aluminum cans and other trash sitting in it.

“Thanks,” you murmured under your breath and from the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe acknowledged you with a nod of his head.

For the next hour or so, you went around picking up the trash and Rafe followed you holding the basket for you as if it weighed nothing, and you kept on dropping the trash in it. It was oddly comfortable, the silence between you two as you weren’t sure what to say – and frankly, you thought that was the best.

As the clean up came to an end, everyone was sitting in the sand, and light laughter and chatter filled the group. The afternoon had started to turn into evening, the bright rays of the sun turning into something more warm, more comforting instead of burning. You sat in the sand, leaning back on your forearms a little away from the rest, just letting the summer breeze blow past you gently.

Rafe sat down next to you, and held out something. You saw it was a glass of iced lemonade he got from the little surf shop.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, eyeing the glass in his hand, the condensation on the surface causing water droplets to slide against the smooth glass.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’ve worked all afternoon. Have it, it’s my treat.”

You took another second or two before taking the glass from him, sipping on the cool, sour yet sweet liquid and allowing it to run down your throat. He remained seated next to you as you both watched the waves crash on the shore, the seagulls flying over and the sun only delving you into a comforting warmth more and more with each passing second, and slurped on your little lemony drinks.

FOUR — THE TIP

The day was slowly turning into dusk, the bright afternoon light leaving to welcome darker pink and orange streaks cast by the almost setting sun. This was the time when the island club started filling in more and more, the bar being one of the first parts of the club to get exceptionally occupied.

You were busy serving an older woman, your mind completely occupied to make the martini, when out of the corner of your eye, you caught the all too familiar gist of a head of dirty blonde curtain bangs.

You turned your head to meet Rafe’s blue eyes looking intently at you. The way he was focused on you, his gaze not wavering for even a fraction of a second, and the strong intensity behind them made you feel like the only girl on this planet. Though, of course, that feeling was short-lived when you were snapped out of your daze by a customer calling out for you.

You were quick to rush over to the customer, who had just finished the drink you had served him. He left the money for his drink where he was sitting and was already making his way out of the club.

You picked up the dollar bills to see he paid completely for the drink, but the tip wasn’t even touching the bare minimum. You didn’t know what the reason was, you had been kind to the customer, made his drink perfectly and served it on time, and even presented it as aesthetically as you could. Even then, your tip wasn’t up to the mark. Sighing, you made your way over to the other end of the bar counter where you kept your tip jar, which coincidentally also happened to be where Rafe was sitting.

“Everything alright?” He asked, eyeing your woeful expression as you were putting the newly received ‘tip’ (if it can be even called that) in the jar. His eyes raked over the jar, and he couldn’t help but find it a lot more empty than it should be.

“Yeah everything’s fine,” You mumbled, keeping the jar aside. You wiped your hands once on the towel slung in the loop of your apron before looking up at Rafe. “What can I get you?” You asked.

“A neat whiskey’s fine,” He said and you nodded. You served him the neat whiskey, setting the glass right in front of him. He gave you an acknowledging nod and wrapped his fingers around the glass and bought it closer to his mouth, drinking from it.

You decided to work around the bar a bit, just cleaning everything up, preparing everything you may need in advance, practically anything you could get your hands at – because anything was better than having to talk to Rafe, who, by the way, didn’t take his eyes off you for even a second. His gaze was firm and jaw was set as he just saw you work around the bar, silently sipping on his whiskey.

You kept yourself wonderfully distracted as you served the customers and prepared everything behind the bar, but every so often, your gaze would magnetically be pulled back to Rafe, and you would always catch him looking at you.

When you noticed Rafe’s almost done with his glass of whiskey, you made your way back to him.

“Another one?” You asked, and he only silently nodded as his reply. You refilled his glass with the neat whiskey, and leaned back against the counter, just simply glancing around the scene of the bar and the club and catching a small break.

A silence fell over the two of you, the light chatter and the music playing in the club thrumming against your eardrums. Rafe was just silently sipping the whiskey, not saying or doing anything, just sitting there and having his drink.

“So uh… you’re alone here tonight?” You asked, your words feeling cautious. “I mean, you’re usually here with Topper, or with someone, atleast,”

He set his almost finished glass at the counter, his fingers still wrapped around the clear glass. His gaze found yours, a warm blue instead of the usual icy one sinking into your eyes.

“Topper was busy,” He muttered, “so I came alone,”

You just quietly hummed at his words, and from the corner of your eye you saw one of your customers finishing their drink and leaving their money on the counter. You went to get it, and when you did, you saw it’s the same thing repeating itself: the ‘tip’.

You sighed, slightly aggravated as you made your way back to where the top jar was, and dumped the money in it.

“Will it kill them to just pay something to their bartender?” You sighed, leaning against the counter and tilting your head back, closing your eyes for a moment. Your shift was close to coming to an end and if that’s the money you had to go home with tonight, well, it’d be kind of fucked.

You could feel Rafe’s gaze on you, but he didn’t say anything, just finished the last sip of his whiskey in a gulp. You were about to ask him for another refill, but you heard someone calling you out.

You turned around to see it was one of your coworkers, who told you were being called inside. You turned to look back at Rafe, but he just shook his head, and gestured to you to leave. You followed your coworker and went inside to where he was leading to.

After being freed from the quite useless meetup with your manager, you finally walked back out to the bar after 15 minutes. When you did, you saw Rafe’s stool was empty, and there was money kept on the counter.

You approached the counter, and the moment you saw the money, your eyes almost fell out from how wide they got.

Ten crisp hundred dollar notes sat unfolded on the marbled counter along with the money for the whiskey, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. For a second, it felt unreal. You reached your hand out and your fingertips touched the paper, and you realised the money was real. You picked the notes up, your lips parted in shock as you gaze at them.

Rafe tipped you $1000.

1000 fucking dollars.

Your gaze immediately turned towards the exit of the bar, and of course, you couldn’t spot Rafe – you had completely missed him.

You carefully kept the notes in your tip jar and sealed the jar shut. Through the glass, you couldn’t remove your gaze from the notes, your mind now completely clouded with Rafe, and his tip.

ONE — THE BROKEN DOWN CAR

You let out a frustrated groan, kicking the tyre in utter vexation, which helped you release just the tiniest fraction of your rage. You fished out your phone from your pocket just to see it was nothing more than a dead device, serving you no purpose. You almost had the urge to throw the phone, but you stopped yourself at the right second, because you realized, you can’t afford to hear the sound of the glass screen cracking.

Instead, you just kicked a pebble in your path and slumped against the side door of your beat up car which decided to stop working halfway across your journey from Figure 8 to the Cut. You were at the side of the road, watching other cars and vehicles pass by as you sat there on the roadside, not having a single clue on what to do.

10… 15… 20 minutes passed and you were still in the same position, not knowing what to do and not making any effort to find out either. The road fell silent a few minutes ago, no vehicles crossing, but the silence was short lived when you heard the revving of an engine from the distance, and it came to a stop right next to you.

An all too familiar red and black bike stood next to you, the rider’s face covered by the helmet. But the bike, the gold signet ring on the index finger of the left hand, and the taut muscles peeking from under the t-shirt were more than enough to confirm who it was.

The helmet came off and Rafe’s piercing blue eyes found yours.

“What happened?” He asked, getting off his bike as he ran a hand through his hair, his curtain bangs pushed back momentarily before they fell down on both the sides of his face in a ragged middle part just like always.

“My car broke down,” you muttered as you looked up at him.

“Hm.”

He rounded around you and lifted the cover of the engine, holding it up with one hand as he inspected the engine carefully. You watched him intently, trying to figure out what the expressions on his face meant, but there weren’t any to begin with. It was a face so cold and plain, suiting well with the cold blue eyes.

“There’s some issue with the battery. You most probably need to get it replaced.” He declared, letting the cover fall back in its place.

“Oh great,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your words as you threw your head back against the door of your car. “That’ll probably cost nothing, won’t it?”

Rafe caught the sarcasm of your words very well but didn’t comment anything, just wiped the dust off his hands as he gazed down at you.

“Come on,” you heard, and as you looked up, you saw he was holding his hand out for you. “You were probably going back home yeah? I’ll drop you.”

You opened your mouth to argue but he cut you off the next instant.

“No ifs, or buts, or ‘Rafe’s, you hear me? You’re letting me drop you off, and are letting me take care of this,” he said, gesturing to your car. “I’ll call a mechanic who’ll get your car towed from here and will work on it. Now come on, none of us have got all day.”

By the end of his words, you knew whatever you’ll do is equivalent to pointless, so you gave in. You gently held his hand and helped yourself up from the road, brushing a hand over your clothes as he led you to his bike parked aside.

Rafe put his helmet on top of your head and adjusted the strap, and you heard a faint click as it fixed in place. You wanted to ask ‘what about you?’ when the only helmet was now sitting on your head, but you decided against it. He mounted the bike and gestured to you to do the same, revving the engine twice or thrice before taking off.

He was definitely faster than what you had expected, and you couldn’t help it when you gripped the sides of his t-shirt, fisting the crisp material in your fingers to provide yourself some stability. For a second, he took one hand off the handlebar and reached for your hand scrunching his t-shirt. He gently took your wrist and you let go of the fabric in the process, allowing him to tug your hand and place it on his waist. Your other hand followed suit, and both of your arms were firmly wrapped around his waist. His hand landed back at the handlebar, and he only sped up more, the wind whipping past you at a phenomenal speed.

The ride to The Cut came to an end when Rafe reached your home, and you didn’t want to admit to him or to yourself, but you felt it was short. The ride was nothing short of exhilarating, the wind whipping past your skin, and the way your arms found purchase around his waist gave you the comfort you needed.

You got off the bike, firmly planting your feet on the ground as you did so, and Rafe’s hand instinctively wrapped around your arm to make sure you remained stable. You carefully took off the helmet and handed it back to him.

“So uh,” You muttered, clearing your throat subtly, “thanks for the ride. Really,”

He shook his head, kicking the stand of the bike in place and allowing it to lean on one side. “Don’t worry,” He said, still sitting on the bike.

“You, you really didn’t have to,” You said, your fingers intertwined with each other behind your back.

“And do what? Leave you alone at the side of the road? With a broken down car and a dead phone?” Rafe sighed. “I wasn’t gonna do that y/n, you know that,”

You know that.

Yeah you do.

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat as a small silence fell over you two as none of you said anything, and you kept on contemplating how you could possibly return such a massive favor.

“You…” You began, your voice low, the words on the tip of the tongue feeling experimental, “you wanna come inside for a moment?”

Rafe’s response didn’t come out the very next second, and that small pause felt like years to you.

“Sure,” He said, getting off his bike. You let out a sigh of relief and nodded, leading him towards your place.

“It’s nothing big…” You muttered as you climbed up the stairs of the porch and he followed suit, watching you unlock the front door. “But it’s home, I guess.”

Knowing he had grown up in the richest part of the island, surrounded by everything he could possibly need and want, you had a feeling he’d definitely make some snarky comment. Cause isn’t that what he did? Rafe Cameron: the Kook prince, but also the biggest asshole?

But he was completely silent when he followed you inside and only quietly sat down on the couch you led him to, which you definitely were shocked to see, but nevertheless you didn’t really let it show on your expressions.

“So uh…” you began to speak, wanting to break through the awkward air around you two, “anything you’d like? Water? Or some tea maybe?”

He shook his head silently, and a moment later, gestured to the empty seat next to him.

“Come sit,” he said, words simple and direct, no beating around the bush, just like always.

You took a sweet moment to let his words settle in you, but when you did, you walked up to the couch and sat down next to him, a small distance maintained between the two of you. Your gaze remained fixed on your shoes, your hands perfectly intertwined in your lap, and your habit of pulling onto them – something which only tended to happen you felt really anxious – came back.

The awkward air was around you two again, settling over you two like a blanket that is way too warm for hot weather, making you feel uneasy and has got you squirming for any sort of cooling.

“Why do you do that?”

There it was.

It was out.

You blabbered out the question as if it meant nothing, when in reality, it carried so much more weight than you could possibly ever imagine.

When you were met with silence for a moment, you looked up, and saw Rafe sitting with his hands on his knees, his own gaze fixed at something on the floor. What was it exactly – you couldn’t tell.

When he still didn’t speak anything, you decided to take the chance.

“You’re always… there for me, in one way or the other. You patched my hand up at that party weeks ago, when you could’ve just ignored the situation. You saw me crying to myself when my date didn’t show up and came up to me when you could’ve just ignored the situation. You helped me at the beach clean up and carried my heavy bin for me when you could’ve ignored the situation. You saw my lack of tips and paid me a massive one when you could’ve ignored the situation. You could’ve always ignored the situation, Rafe. Just like you always do with the other Pogues. With them, you don’t care for even a damn second. But… why are you doing so much for me?”

The silence kept on greeting you, and you could feel yourself beginning to get impatient. Your gaze flickered over Rafe, and you didn’t miss the way he flexed his fingers over his knee, as if gripping it tightly.

“I, I don’t know…” He mumbled weakly. You had never heard his voice take such a softer tone. It’s as if you didn’t even know it existed.

“What– what do you mean you don’t know?” You sighed, turning your body a bit so you could face him. “That’s fucking ridiculous Rafe!”

“It’s not ridiculous I just can’t explain it the way you wish I could–”

“Well you should be able to cause I need explanations–”

“Not everything can be given a logical explanation come on–”

“Yes it can if you try hard enough–”

“I care for you okay!”

His words were loud, much louder than any of his previous words. Their loudness and conviction shut you up right at that moment, your eyes widening, and your lips slightly parted as you stared at him with a look of disbelief in your eyes.

“I–I Rafe began, running a hand through his messy bangs, and you had to control the urge to run your own fingers through them and gently push them out of his eyes, “I don’t know why, but I just can’t stand the thought of you being hurt, or being sad, or going through any discomfort. I just can’t okay? Each time I see you that way I– I immediately get to solving it cause I can’t bear to see you all troubled. I don’t want to see a single scratch on your skin or– or a single furrow in your brow I just… want to see you happy. Cause you look... so so pretty when you’re smiling, y/n, it’s… it’s unexplainable,”

A silence fell over you two as you let his words sink in you, which was a lot harder than you’d like, but you were doing it.

“And i just… wish that one day… you’d smile that pretty smile of yours because of me,” He murmured, “because I made you smile,”

You could see Rafe’s own words taking a massive toll on him, just as it was taking on you. You parted your lips to say something but you were just so horribly stumped, you couldn’t utter a single word.

He ran a ragged hand through his hair once again and stood up, clearing his throat.

“I should leave now,” He muttered, standing in front of your seated form but not facing you, but instead facing the door. Your own gaze was fixed at the floor, and you could hear your heartbeat thumping loudly in your eyes, his words repeating over and over like a broken record in your mind.

You didn’t say anything to stop him, so Rafe silently walked out the door, closing it behind himself with a silent click.

You were left all alone in your living room, Rafe’s weighted words lying heavy on your heart and mind, and the distant noise of his bike’s engine revving a bitter reminder that he wasn’t next to you anymore.

Just two days later, when you woke up in the morning and looked out your window, you saw your car parked. Not only was the battery replaced, a whole paint job was done, the ripped car seats were replaced with some fancy leather, the tyres were exchanged for upgraded ones, and for a second, you didn’t even recognise your own car.

You noticed a piece of paper held in place by the windshield wiper, and when you went outside and took the piece of paper and unfolded it, you saw a small phrase scrawled in black against the white of the paper.

don’t mention it. – R.C.

EPILOGUE

You let out a deep sigh as you watch him laugh, patting his friend’s arm in the process. A smile of pure contentment crosses your face, watching the rays of the bright, afternoon sun hit his bare skin and making it shine, his muscles seeming more pronounced than ever.

You watch him turn around and glance at you over his shoulder, his smile wide as he gives you a flying kiss. You can’t help but chuckle at the endearing action, causing you to send one his way too. He lifts up two fingers in the form of a peace sign and gestures to his friend next to him, silently conveying to you that he will be by your side in just two minutes. You give him an understanding nod and watch his head turn back to the front, getting delved into the conversation with his friend again.

You sip on your drink as you lean your head back, the sound of the boat rushing past the waves of the ocean filling your ear drums deeply. You close your eyes and just listen to the sound of waves, your mind shutting out the chitter chatter of the conversations of the other people on this boat.

Soon enough you feel the sunlight being blocked and as you open your eyes, you see him standing right in front of you, a smile on his face. The chain around his neck along with the little gold capital letter of your initial hanging from it catches the sunlight and gleams more than it usually does. He sits down next to you and silently wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You smile as you lean into him, your fingers going immediately to fiddle with the chain, feeling the edges of the cool gold initial under your fingertips.

You take a glance up at him, running your other hand along the side of his now buzzed head, feeling the short, prickly hair gently tickle your fingers.

“Are you having a good time so far?” He mutters softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, your head tucking in the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, yeah I am,” you say quietly, your fingers mindlessly continuing fiddling with the gold initial on his chest. “You?” You ask, slightly lifting your head up from his neck.

“Oh, the absolute best time,” He says softly, looking down at you with a gentle smile on his face. “We’re on our boat, and I’m with my gorgeous girlfriend, what else could I need?”

You can’t help but softly chuckle at his words, silently shaking your head as you lean your head against his shoulder again and resume fiddling with the chain. You do it often, almost each time you get your hands on him, and he loves it; feeling the occasional brush of your fingers against his skin and the gentle tugs on the chain.

He allows you to relax against him completely, his arms around you to keep you close to him as you both sit silently, only the sound of the water and the light chatter of your friends accompanying you two.

“Thank you,” Rafe says softly, his fingertips tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder.

You furrow your brows at his words, slightly confused, as you look up at him. “What for?” You ask.

Rafe only keeps on gazing at you, a gentle smile pulling his lips. He quietly shakes his head, and with a gentle pull, he allows you to rest against him again.

“Nothing.” He stays quiet for a moment. “Everything.”

Your own lips can’t help but upturn in a small smile too. “Well, in that case…” you murmur, leaning back to look up at him, one hand coming to rest against his cheek as you gently caress the soft skin, and you slowly lean in, pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly against his lips. Rafe’s hands grip your waist and he pulls you closer, not letting you pull back from the kiss. His fingers splay across your back as he kisses you, his lips moving in an unhurried, tender motion against yours.

A moment or so later, he pulls back, his eyes opening by just a fraction. You let your arms hook around Rafe’s neck, keeping him close to you.

“You’re the only one for me, Rafe,” you mumble quietly. “You’re the only one I’ll ever want.”

He leans his head against you and takes a deep breath, your scent and the smell of the ocean around you filling his nostrils deeply.

You both let the moment just simply sink in you, the sun rays bathing you in the warmest light, along with the presence of each other, which might be warmer than the sun any time of the day.

“Only you, my girl,” he mumbles quietly. “Always and forever.”

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @drewstarkeys-world / @inthelibrarybtw / @mileyraes / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @khaisdrz / @weirdowithnobeardo

specific tags for this fic: @writingmeraki / @ghoslyethastaryn / @congratsloserr / @helloloverz / @littlelamy / @eolsens / @wtfdudesblog / @jkrafe / @onlyrealjoy / @husherstan / @lilithblackkk / @sublimepenguinpeach-blog

tagging some moots: @runningfrom2am / @b1mb0slvt / @nemesyaaa / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @jjsbank444 / @ladyinbl00d

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notlongtolove · 2 days ago

Text

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for.

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+.

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.”

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.”

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.”

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside.

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking.

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide.

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that… that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side.

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you.

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences.

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.”

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable.

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?”

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty.

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that."

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature.

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again.

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much.

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’.

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course.

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out.

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.”

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh.

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.”

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.”

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much.

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers.

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A.

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you.

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him.

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid x reader comfort

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vi-arcanes-left-bicep · 2 days ago

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Spoilers for Arcane S2 Finale❗❗

So, i keep thinking about Arcane's last pieces of dialogue and though they sounded kinda funny when I watched the end at the first time (in a 'really? This took 27h to write?' way), the more I think about it, the more I like it.

I think it has a ton of layers to interpret and I'm still missing a few of them.

Please forgive my multiple tangents while I try to gather my thoughts.

First, how Caitlyn finds Vi: no bandages, a glass of alcohol in her hands.

No bandages means many things for Vi: she's vulnerable -both because of what she's going through and beacuse she can allow herself to be vulnerable for the first time in the show, with Caitlyn-, and her fight is over, she doesn't have to fight anymore (Re: Ep7 Powder saying Vi fights because she's scared of losing everyone, and she has lost everyone). (Everyone but Ekko and Caitlyn, who have repeatedly proven they can fend for themselves and are leaders on their own right, I'd love to say Vi is in a point where she's able not to feel responsible for them too, though this is something I'm not so sure about). Bandages were also an important part of her character design, of herself, so this gives a sensation that she's lost a part of her identity too. Who is she, if not the big sister, the protector, the brawler?

Alcohol is another small details that just says she's not okay. We've seen her drink herself senseless for, presumably, months, in Act II, to cope with all that happened in S1 and particularly S2 Act I: accepting the loss of her sister after the attack on the council, becoming an enforcer even though she was completely against it because she still feels responsible for ending Jinx, recognising her sister again for just a glimpse and gaining faith that Powder is still there (with the realisation that she almost killed her sister -not the monster she convinced herself jinx was, her sister) falling in love with Cait and seeing her become a completely different person out of grief.... So after everything that just happened in Act III, where she saw that many people die, either strangers or friends, and where she lost her sister and father AGAIN, of course she's considering getting back to drinking. So much happened to her in the span of few months that she's considering drowning the pain away again.

Caitlyn's question: "Are you still in this fight, Violet?"

The line delivery is incredibly soft and intimate, and Cait calling her Violet is the cherry on top. She's knows Vi is not okay. She's knows she's going through a lot right now.

Caitlyn's question seeing this is really, at least, three questions:

First and clearest is a check-in: "How are you?" "Will you be okay?" "Do you want to talk about this?"

Second is "Are you staying?" Vi could leave to be alone as she did at the beginning of Act II, could go with Ekko to Zaun... I can also see an "Are you staying with me?" After everything that happens, after the little time that they've had to be together and to solve the many things between them, her asking "Are you still in this fight" can mean both "hey, are you holding up" and "Are we still together in this?"

Third would be "So, are you up to face this, solving things between Piltover and Zaun?". I know some people have criticized the lack of resolution in the Zaun/Piltover conflict. I'd argue, as much as I'd love for the class conflict to be expanded, it is not the core of the series, and both the writers and the characters know that a conflict like this cannot be solved in such little time. The series was not going to solve it. What it does is solve it's main plot and character arcs, and leave a space for this theme to have the start of a resolution. Piltover an Zaun joined against Ambessa's army, and the ending gives us a glimpse of the will to change the relationship between topside and bottom (e.g. having Zaunites in the council). It's not a perfect ending nor it is a resolution for Zaun's class struggle -I'm pretty sure that was never the intent, though I would have liked for both cities' relationship to be more comented upon in this season-, it's the opportunity to advance towards a resolution. So Cait is asking Vi if she is willing to deal with that too. "Are you still in this fight?" can also have an implication to mean fighting to make things better. This also means fighting for them to be together.

Then, Vi's answer: "I am the dirt underneath your fingernails, Cupcake. Nothing's gonna clean me out".

Now, I like this because it sums up to Vi saying "I'm not going anywhere" but the line itself and the delivery gives it a few more layers of meaning.

First of all, Vi is clearly not okay. She's very emotionaly scarred and considering an unhealthy coping mechanism. She looks incredibly sad. And she's deflecting with humour to the question because she's probably not ready to talk about it. So her delivery here, plus the strange joke/comparison and calling Caitlyn "Cupcake" (which she's only done when she's teasing her in a flirty or funny way or deflecting the conversation by doing so) is telling Caitlyn that she's not okay right now, but that she isn't going to leave. "

I interpret "Nothing's gonna clean me out" as her basically saying "I'm tough, I'll get through this" to Caitlyn's "How are you?" and saying "You're not getting rid of me" to Caitlyn's "Are you going to stay?"

Furthermore, calling herself "The dirt underneath your fingernails" has an obvious implication about her being a Zaunite and Caitlyn being from Pilotover. I've seen some people saying this is insulting to Vi's character and to Zaun's storyline.... I don't think so at all. Yeah, I can get to see a layer of self-depreciating humor, but for me this is Vi using her humour as well to reinforce herself and her identity as a Zaunite (which arguably she left aside/lost sight of during Act I) while also teasing Caitlyn for being a topsider. I like to interpret this as Vi saying "Yeah, Piltie, I'm sticking with you and I will keep bothering you". The tone and calling Cait "Cupcake" reinforces this as a tease as well. Reinstating her identity as a Zaunite also gives insight on Vi's position on the Zaun-Piltover new relationship: yes, she's willing to help out manage this, always from the position of a kid from the Lanes.

Zaun and Piltover are also stuck together after the ending - they've fought together against a common enemy and that has also forced Piltover's elite to sit and listen to Zaun's demands. For sure Piltover's aristocracy still has to get their heads out of their asses but this is how I like to read the phrase in regards to Zaun-Piltover, layered upon what Vi is saying: I am the dirt underneath you = I (Zaun's state and problems) am a consequence of your (Piltover's) actions and I am not going anywhere. (You will have to listen).

Anyways, lots of rambling and I'll still be missing stuff!

Another thing is, native spanish speakers as I am use the phrase "Nail and flesh" to say that two people are inseparable, and this has enough similarity to that for it to feel like Vi is also saying they are inseparable. So yeah

#arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #arcane ending #vi arcane #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn arcane #jinx arcane #arcane season two #arcane season 2 spoilers #caitvi #arcane is a masterpiece #character study #scene study #character dialogue #visual storytelling #caitvi endgame #arcane ramble #arcane analysis #arcane

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marvelwitchergilmore · 2 days ago

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Secret Kindness

Summary: Joel Miller x Fe!Reader -> It's no secret Joel Miller could be an asshole, but it was a secret that that wasn't all he could be.

Disclaimer: I haven't finished my re-watch but I wanted to write something for him. Kinda friends to lovers, oblivious idiots in love, descriptions of scars, bruises, cleaning wounds, kinda a 'who did this to you?' trope. Swearing, light spoilers for Field of Dreams? Fluff. Not Proof Read.

It was no secret that Joel Miller could be an asshole.

From the unspoken stories from his brother, to his treatment of people in general; untrusting, strong dislike, to simply his responses when talking to people. Mostly it was in grunts or short sentences.

Except, for some reason nobody else could see that Joel wasn’t just an asshole. He could be kind, funny, and deeply caring. That was something you had known from the minute you’d seen him.

Having arrived in Jackson a month or so after the winter, you had heard stories about Tommy Miller’s brother Joel. Most people called him an ass – never truly giving a reason why. But when he walked back into town with who you presumed to be his daughter with him, you saw there and then a side to Joel Miller that nobody cared to mention.

How he constantly looked around for the girl, watched her every move in fear she might get hurt. How his hand came to her shoulders, leading her away from looking at the group of people staring at them and towards the bar where Tommy had just walked out from.

And over the following weeks, you saw small parts of Joel that you felt nobody else had even cared to see. He helped Tommy where he could, and helped others where they’d let him. A couple of times you’d see Ellie – having met her briefly one afternoon when she was sat with Tommy as he tried to fix a toaster – struggling with her homework, only to turn to the one man who a lot of people were afraid of in town. With a calm nod, he’d walk over and help her.

Then you finally met him.

Usually, you were on patrol in the afternoons, taking over after Joel’s detail. Except, with one of theirs getting sick, you offered to cover. The other’s didn’t want to pair off with Joel because of their preconceived notions of him, or were more than eager to do so, which made Joel slightly uncomfortable.

So, when you called out to be paired with him, he agreed. Though, neither of you missed the looks two of the women in the team gave you as you walked past them and followed Joel.

That was the day you became friends with Joel.

“You know, if it makes you that uncomfortable, I can make a swap with one of them. Just because the world went to shit doesn’t mean someone should feel like it.”

Joel thanked you and, although he never gave an actual answer to your offer, part of him was pleased to see you in detail regularly.

Over the following weeks, you got to know more about him. About Ellie. About Tommy. About his life before Jackson. And he got to know yours.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.” Joel suddenly said to you one day.

You’d both been walking the grounds around the town and found yourselves looking over and in behind the wooden posts. People were mostly going about their day, working or playing.

“Right thing about what?”

“With Ellie. She’s just a kid and she’s already seen so much. She deserves a normal life.”

“She has a normal life, Joel. As normal as it can get these days. And that’s because you gave it to her.”

“Did I, though? Y/n, she hadn’t even seen a car before we hit the road.”

With a small sigh, you walked a little further up and met Joel where he stood. “If you’re that worried about her, show her something. Teach her something. A life skill that isn’t about survival.”

“Like what?”

You shrugged and looked back over the town. There has to be something.

“Do you know how to play the guitar?” You asked after a moment, turning back to him.

He nodded. “Use to.”

“Well, I’ve got a guitar in my house. Found it when I was rummaging through the attic. Teach her how to play the guitar.”

You walked away and a little further through the trees, Joel quickly followed after you. “I don’t know any songs.”

“I’ve got a guitar. There’s gotta be song books somewhere in that attic. We can look when we get back into town.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Then…make one up? It’ll be like riding a bike. Trust me.”

“Trust me.” Joel repeated. “Trust me, she says. Have you ever even played the guitar?”

You let out a small laugh. “Once. I wasn’t very good though.”

A few hours later, yourself and Joel were standing inside your house at the bottom of your attic ladders.

“After you.”

You stood so far away from the steps, Joel already had a feeling he knew what would be awaiting him.

“There a reason I’m going first?” He asked, already halfway up the ladders.

“No…”

He looked down at where you were standing; holding the ladder steady. “Okay, maybe. I found the guitar and then a massive spider. It ran away quickly. I couldn’t find it so that room is now his.”

Joel’s boots hit the floor of the attic and after a few minutes you heard a stomp before he called down to you. “Spider’s dead. You’re safe.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Walking up the ladders, you peaked your head over the edge of the floor before taking a look around. The coast was clear. And for the next twenty minutes, you and Joel rummaged through a couple of different boxes until you both found what you were looking for, including some extra things.

“Watch your step.” Joel stood behind you a little as you climbed down the last couple of steps, the heat of his hand warming your hip before he stepped around you and pushed the ladder back up into the door, closing the hatch.

Carrying the case of books down, you followed Joel with the box of clothes that you’d deemed salvageable.

“Thanks, for your help.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Joel nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Just before you closed the door, you called out for him. “Joel?”

He turned around.

“You’re a good dad. And Ellie’s a good kid. You’re doing a good job.”

He didn’t know what to say, feeling grateful if a little awkward and unsure of himself. Looking at you from the path to your home, he wanted to walk back and…hug you? He wasn’t too sure. So, with a low nod, he gave you a brief smile before he thanked you once more and headed back home.

As the next day came into view, Joel was rushing around the kitchen since he’d missed his alarm leaving Ellie to pound her fist on his bedroom door.

“Done your homework?”

“We don’t have homework this week.” Ellie told him as she took another stab at her eggs. “Were you meant to see Y/n this morning?”

Joel shook his head, pulling the hot toast from his toaster before reaching for the butter knife. “Don’t think so. Why?”

“Because she’s at the door.”

A knock came less than a second later and Ellie watched as Joel became something more than just flustered. “Uhhh.”

“Want me to get it?”

“Go ahead.” He reached into the cupboard above his head and pulled out a jar of peanut butter.

As Ellie answered the door and let you inside, letting you follow her through the house towards the kitchen, Ellie didn’t miss how neater the kitchen looked since she left.

And she didn’t miss how Joel’s hair had gone from sticking out in most places and his shirt being buttoned wrong, to being neat and tidy.

“Y/n’s here.”

“Hey,” Joel practically breathed out. “Were we meant to meet-”

You shook your head. “No, don’t worry. I just…” You held out the pile of clothes in your hands. “I found some more clothes last night after you left. And considering they won’t fit me, I figured you might want them. I’ve dropped some into town already but I saved these in case you needed some.”

“He does.”

“Ellie.”

“What?”

Joel looked back at you. “Thank you. That’s, uhh, that’s nice. Thanks.”

With a little awkward nod, you placed them on the kitchen table where Ellie took one from the pile and held it up. It didn’t seem like it would fit Joel.

“There’s some there for you, too,” you told her.

“Thanks.”

A moment of silence settled over the kitchen before Joel’s mind was kicked back into reality. “Right, you’re gonna be late. Have you got your-”

“Lunch, books, jacket.” Ellie sounded off.

It seemed like the list was a ritual.

“I’ve got it all now let’s go.”

You followed Joel and Ellie out of their house and through the town, Joel walking Ellie to school before he made his way further down the road and towards the stables.

It was your day to clean out their stables and since Joel was on construction, he’d offered to be the one to help fix a couple of the stable doors.

And all day, talking or working in silence, you both missed the looks and stares from the rest of the town paterons.

To them they’d seen Joel go from an asshole who spoke in grunts and rough gestures to witnessing a foreign side to him that apparently you only got to see.

When you were around him, people saw him actually smile. A few even heard him laugh. Of course, when people mentioned it to Tommy, he was a little shocked they hadn’t seen it sooner. It had shocked him to his core when he saw his brother seem a little like his older self when he was with Ellie – laughing, smiling, joking. Even if it contained a few more swear words. So when he saw Joel practically skip into work (he didn’t. But he definitely had a pep in his step) Tommy made sure to keep an eye on what had caused the change.

The only thing that had changed in his life outside of Ellie was you.

You’d come into his life and the side of him that was only visible to his family was very, very slowly becoming visible to the outside world.

Then the rumors started.

And they circulated for months.

“Heard any good new ones?” Tommy asked, leaning over the bar top, pretending to be interested in Ellie’s homework.

“Overheard one of the teachers. They said they’ve met before but because she was running a herbal shop when we were on the road. Apparently she slipped something into his tea that made sure he only ever liked her if they met again.”

Tommy choked back a laugh. “Well, shit.”

“Still doesn’t beat him being a warlock and being cursed to spend his entire life with her.” Ellie said.

“Do you know who started that one?”

Ellie shook her head, pretending to be interested in her homework, too. You and Joel were on the other side of the bar, setting up a couple of hanging features before Maria could get to the ladders again. Despite her being seven months pregnant, she was determined to ignore her midwife.

“Not yet. But when I do they better run. I like Y/n.”

“I do, too. And it really should be the other way ‘round. She’s cursed to spend her life with him. I used to live with him. I’ve seen him in the morning.”

“We’ve all seen him in the morning.”

“S’Not my fault I’m not a morning person.” Tommy practically stood to attention as Joel made his way over. “You two giving me shit?”

“No,” Ellie said far too innocently.

Joel hummed. “I’m sure. Tommy, you seen the 2x4 I left here?”

Looking under the bar, he held it up. “This?”

Joel took it from his hand. “Thanks.”

“Hey, Maria and I were thinking about having a family dinner this week? What’d you think?”

Joel nodded after taking in Ellie’s reaction. “Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow? About 7?”

Joel nodded. “We’ll be there.”

“Hey.”

Joel turned back to his brother. “Want to invite Y/n?”

Joel looked from his brother, to you where you were measuring out the centre of the wall on the ladder, and then back to his brother. “I can ask.”

Tommy smiled and Joel went on his way. “How long do’ya think it’ll take?”

“At this rate? An eternity.”

The next evening rolled around and you found yourself being dragged towards Tommy and Maria’s home by Maria.

“My shift ran late but I didn’t want to come empty handed.” You explained to Tommy and Joel as you were practically launched inside by the former’s wife.

“All is forgiven.” Tommy told you as he showed his wife what was in the tupperware you’d brought with you. “Right?”

“Yes, all is forgiven. Now let’s eat.”

Sitting down at the dinner table, Joel held out his arm and let you walk inside before him, where he held your chair out for you before tucking you under and sitting beside you and Ellie sitting on his other side.

However, halfway through dinner, your body jerked til you sat straight. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just twisted myself.”

All in all, it was a nice family dinner. A couple stories were shared, some updates given and then you found yourself being walked home by Joel since Ellie had given a small salute to you both before reaching your path, saying she had to rush home to do…something.

“Have fun, kids.”

“Take the main road!”

“Whatever you say!”

Joel gave a small groan. “She’s gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

You smiled. “She’ll be safe, Joel.”

Walking you to your door, Joel saw your body react to something that didn’t seem to be there.

“Are you sure you’re okay? That’s the forth-”

You let out a laugh. “I promise, Joel. I’m okay. Just twisted myself on patrol today.”

He didn’t seem to believe you. “I swear. I’ll be okay.”

With a sigh, Joel accepted your promise. “Okay.”

Then you did something that even shocked you. You leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, for walking me home. And for inviting me. It was a fun night.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“We should do it more often.”

Joel smiled. “Just might.”

Then a familiar silence settled over both you and Joel. The kind of silence that was begging for something more. But then, taking in a breath, you stepped back.

“Thank you, again. Goodnight, Joel.”

“G'night, Y/n.”

As you shut and locked the door, Joel found himself smiling as he walked away, his gaze drifting back to your home every now and again as he made his way back down the path and through the town to his own home where Ellie was waiting for him in the living room.

“So, did you kiss her?”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” The look Joel gave Ellie made her feel like she was under a spot-light. It was past ten pm.

“Answer the question?”

“Ellie.”

Standing dramatically, Ellie sighed. “Come on. I know you like her. And she likes you. Why not just kiss her already? Give the rest of us a break from the looking, and the staring and the smiling and the looking.”

Taking his daughter by her shoulders, he steered her towards the stairs and up them. “Teeth and bed. Now, please.”

“Ugh, fine. But you know I’m right.”

“Goodnight, Ellie.”

Eventually, after hearing the tap turn off and Ellie’s bedroom door shut, Joel shut his own and lay down in bed, his last thoughts being on you and what Ellie had said.

I know you like her. And she likes you.

A few days passed, however, before he saw you again. Which worried him more than he wanted to admit. But when he finally did, he knew the minute he saw you something was wrong.

Ellie had knocked on your front door early in the afternoon having snuck out of school. She’d invited you to watch a movie or two with her and Joel that evening.

“We found a whole bunch at the back of one of the closets. Please say yes.”

You smiled. You’d been dying to see both of them for days but the pain that had started as your side had practically spread across your entire body overnight.

“Okay. So long as it’s okay with Joel.”

“He said it’s okay.”

Joel didn’t know anything about it until Ellie got home from school and told him what would be happening. But he wouldn’t have said no anyway.

Ellie had practically flung the door off its hinges when she saw you walking up the steps of their porch.

“Someone’s excited.”

“Come on, come on, come on.”

Ellie pulled you inside and shut the door. “Joel! She’s here.”

“Is the door still attached? No Ellie sized hole in it?”

“He’s been grumpy all week.”

“I heard that!”

Then he appeared around the corner and your heart did the same thing it had been doing for weeks whenever you did see him. But that only caused you more pain in your chest.

“Ellie, go and bring the box down. We need to see which ones need to be rewound.”

Ellie looked between the pair of you before disappearing up the stairs.

“Hey, sorry I didn’t-”

“Show me.”

“What?” You took a small step back as Joel was about to take one forward.

“Y/n. Show me.”

Carefully walking over to you, you shook your head. “I’m fine, Joel.”

He was a little less abrupt this time. “Show me?”

His fingers traced the hem of your t-shirt and with a reluctant but painful sigh, you carefully removed your jacket with his help.

“Can I?”

With a soft nod, Joel took his eyes from yours and lifted the corner of your t-shirt only to be met with deep purple bruises with spots of black, green and yellow.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s starting to heal.”

Joel didn’t seem amused. “Y/n-” Then he noticed the others. “You’ve been cut. Jesus. Fuck. Come with me.”

Taking your hand in his, he pulled you towards the kitchen. “Sit down.”

“Joel, I’m fine.”

“Sit down.”

“If I sit down, it hurts more.”

Another silence washed over you both before he turned back to his freezer and pulled out a couple of ice packs. “Here…can I?”

You gave him your permission once more and he lifted your t-shirt and placed the ice packs against your sides. You could feel his thumb rubbing light lines across your side as he held you steady.

“Got 'em’ I think a couple- holy shit.”

Ellie got a clear view of the deep bruises across you. “Ellie, can you run and get the first aid kit from the bathroom?”

“Yea, are you okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Ellie.” Joel pushed. She nodded quickly then ran upstairs in search of the kit.

“That’s what you told me.” Joel mumbled under his breath.

“It didn’t look this bad.”

“When did it happen?”

There was no point in lying to him anymore. “Patrol before the dinner.”

“Who did it?”

“I slipped and fell against one of the trees.”

Flicking his eyes from your wounds and back to your face, one of his hands ran around the rim of your top until it was lifted high enough for him to get a clear picture, he shook his head. “Trees don’t tend to have rifles as branches.”

“It was mine.”

Joel pointed at one of the longer bruises. “This one…is yours.”

He pointed at the other one. “Whose was this?”

He looked you in your eyes but you shook your head. “Joel…”

“Got it.” Ellie landed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

Pulling a chair out, Joel sat beside you. “Sure you don’t want to sit?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

“Okay. Ellie, go and see if you can rewind some of those tapes.”

She just nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Joel waited until she left the room before asking you to remove your shirt. It took you a minute but with his help you finally got it over your head. Under any other context, Joel’s eyes trailing your body would have been for another reason outside of his brain counting each cut and scrape you’d gotten and each bruise that was trying its best to heal.

“This might sting.”

You nodded and bit your lip as the cold disinfectant hit your wounds. Some of them you didn’t even know existed considering you could only turn your body so far to look in the mirror before it screamed for you to remain still.

“Was it your partner?”

You swallowed thickly. “No.”

Your back was to him for the moment, so that made it easier to tell him the truth. “One of the others. They were hearing noises. His partner had left him and he got lost. Must have heard me and just…jumped. He didn’t mean to. He’s just a kid, Joel. He got scared. Did what most of us would have done.”

“You could have been shot.”

“But I wasn’t. I’m okay, Joel.”

He shook his head. “Says the woman covered in bruises and scars.”

“They’ll heal. I’ll heal.”

“What’s his partner’s name?”

“Joel.”

“Just tell me. If you don’t, I’ll ask around and Maria can be the one to deal with him.”

You sighed. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“What his partner did was stupid.”

“Joel.”

He grunted. “I promise.”

Swearing halfway through as Joel pressed another cotton swab of disinfectant to a scar, you told him his name. Joel had a couple of run ins with him over the last couple of months. A jock twenty years out of college, still trying to haze the kids under his authority.

Ten minutes or so later, Joel had finished and replaced the ice packs you’d been holding at your side.

Laying them on either side of your body as you turned around, your t-shirt falling back around your body. He slowly stood and you held onto his arms, your eyes closing.

“Any better?”

You nodded. “Much. Thank you.”

You both stood there for a few moments, your eyes closed, feeling the throbbing in your sides settle more than it had done in the last couple of days. And as you let out a calm breath, Joel leaned against you a little and pressed a kiss to your forehead before you rested it against his chest.

“I think I’m ready to sit now.”

“Okay,” Joel whispered before pressing another kiss to the top of your head before walking with you into the living room, finding a set up already made by Ellie.

“I thought the blankets might help.”

You smiled at her. “Thank you, Ellie.”

She smiled from her spot on the floor by the TV, her finger still holding the rewind button down. Joel helped you sit down.

“So, what are the options?”

Ellie read out a couple of the boxes. There were a lot of Disney films, a couple of thrillers and a few more different blockbusters. So, sticking his hand into the box without looking, Joel pulled one out.

Ellie read the cover. “Field of Dreams.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one.”

Ellie looked at Joel for confirmation and he nodded. “Stick it in, kid.”

Sitting beside you, you leaned against Joel for support and very soon after, Ellie joined his other side.

“Does he dream about a field?”

“Just watch it and you’ll find out.”

Around 40 minutes into the movie, Joel felt a steady weight against his arm where he turned and found Ellie fast asleep. So carefully reaching over, he pulled a blanket over her and held her steady against him.

“She asleep?”

“Yep. Yet to get through a movie with her awake.”

You smiled.

“You get much sleep recently?”

“Enough to keep me going.” Joel didn’t say anything but when he placed his arm around your shoulders, that said everything.

“This always made me cry.” You whispered to Joel as Archie stepped across the line and became his older self.

“How many times have you seen this film?” He’d caught you a couple of times mouthing the lines along with the characters.

You felt your cheeks heat. “A couple. Before I came to Wyoming, one of my neighbours had a VCR and two films. This and The Parent Trap. Since I’d look after her two kids when she worked, it didn’t take long for me to learn the scripts.”

“So how much do you know of The Parent Trap?”

You felt yourself chuckle. “We can watch it and find out.”

Joel laughed quietly, too, before carefully pulling you closer. “How’s your side?”

You looked up at him. “Better. Thank you.”

“Good.”

Joel pressed a kiss to your head before getting settled with both you and Ellie. And just as Kevin Costner started to play a game of catch, you felt yourself drift off to sleep.

You didn’t know how long had passed since the movie ended but when your body hit a soft surface, you stirred awake.

“Shush, it’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Joel.”

“It’s okay. I’m gonna check on Ellie.”

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your head but you mustered enough energy to reach out for him. “Come back.”

“I promise.” Lifting your hand, he pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. You woke up again when a weight dipped on the other side of the bed. Then you heard a familiar groan as his body settled into the softness of the mattress.

You shuffled closer to Joel.

Waking for the third time, the room was being lit with the soft rays of the sun and beside you, deep breaths were being taken by Joel as he remained in a deep sleep.

If this was anyone else, you probably would have left. Hell, you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place. But you trusted Joel. More so than most. You also found him to be steadier than most. He’d shared some of what had happened on the road with him and Ellie, as well as what happened before. Life hadn’t been steady with him, and yet, there he lay. Stable. Able. Strong. Maybe not as he was twenty years ago, but still. Trustworthy. And beneath it all…kind. Caring. Sensitive; even if he wouldn’t admit it. He knew when people were hurt, or hurting. And maybe for others he’d seem gruff. But not with you. Not with Ellie. Not with those he loved and cared deeply for.

With his hand wrapped over yours, you lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. Maybe Joel Miller could be an asshole. But to you he was a decently kind man.

Maybe others wouldn’t see that considering between the hour that Joel had left to pick a package up from Tommy, leaving you and Ellie to find another tape to play, your attacker’s partner found his nose broken and had been given a black eye. But you didn’t mind his kindness being kept a secret from the rest of the world.

Those he cared for knew the truth.

You knew the truth.

And nothing could ever change that.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #tlou #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller x fe!reader #fluff #angst #falling in love #who did this to you trope #cleaning wounds #oblivious idiots

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misaerabl · 2 days ago

Text

Backbeat

band guitarist (kinda a loser) ellie x reader

MINORS AND MEN DNI / word count: 3.6k words

SUMMARY: Ellie, a shy guitarist in a local band, has been harboring a quiet crush on you, a barista who works at her favorite café. Despite her growing feelings, she struggles to express them. As the band's upcoming gig approaches, Ellie grapples with her emotions and finally gathers the courage to invite you to the show.

WARNINGS: uhm none I guess... (SFW)

A/N: leaning more into the format of "Feeding The Fire"

⋆.˚🦋༘⋆

The café was bustling as usual, the clink of cups and the hum of conversation filling the air. You wiped down the counter, your movements steady and practiced, as you glanced over to the usual spot where Ellie and her band sat. She was there again, like clockwork, though today she was being uncharacteristically quiet. You noticed how her fingers drummed lightly on the table, her gaze flickering over the menu, even though she knew exactly what she wanted.

It was then that Jesse, the band’s outspoken and confident guitarist, leaned across the table, his voice loud enough to cut through the noise. "Come on, Ellie," he teased, his grin wide, "you’ve been coming here for months, and you still haven’t even said more than, what—'I'll have a coffee'?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her shyness.

Ellie’s face flushed, her eyes flicking to you behind the counter before quickly averting her gaze. "Shut up, Jesse," she muttered, her voice quiet, though her discomfort was evident in the way she tugged at the sleeve of her jacket, a nervous habit.

Jesse leaned back, clearly not backing down. "No, seriously. You’ve got a thing for the barista, don’t you?" His voice was louder now, and Ellie’s face went even redder. She didn’t answer, but the way she avoided looking at you gave her away.

The bandmates around them laughed, but Jesse’s teasing wasn’t over. "You’re practically obsessed with this girl. I swear, you could probably recite her coffee order by heart by now. How many times have you been here this week alone?"

Ellie didn’t reply. She kept her focus on the table, fiddling with the napkin holder like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You could see the mix of embarrassment and something else—something deeper—as her fingers drummed the table lightly, a subtle, rhythmic pulse that seemed to mirror the quiet beat of her heart.

Jesse, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting, nudged Ellie’s shoulder. "Come on, admit it. You’re too shy to talk to her. You’ve got the biggest crush, and you're not doing a damn thing about it."

Ellie shot him a glare, but it was more out of habit than any real anger. She couldn’t deny it. She was smitten, but she’d never admit it out loud, at least not yet.

"She’s just a barista, Jesse," Ellie mumbled, but even her words were tinged with uncertainty.

Jesse, sensing the vulnerability beneath Ellie’s tough exterior, grinned wider. "A barista you keep staring at every time she walks by. Yeah, sure." He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a teasing whisper. "What’s it gonna take to get you to talk to her? Or are you just gonna keep letting her serve you coffee in silence?"

Ellie shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tapping against the table again, almost like a rhythm she couldn’t quite control. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

"Come on," Jesse pushed. "Don’t let your chance slip away."

Ellie bit her lip, her gaze flicking over to you once more as you moved behind the counter, oblivious to the conversation unfolding. She felt that familiar flutter in her chest, the kind that always hit her when she saw you. But it wasn’t enough to make her act. Not yet. Not today.

"Maybe next time," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Next time? You’ve been saying that for months." He nudged her again, and with a defeated sigh, Ellie slumped back in her chair, her thoughts tangled in the rhythm of her own unspoken feelings—her own backbeat.

Echoes of You

The soft hum of the world outside drifted through the window, but inside her room, Ellie’s focus was all on the quiet stirrings in her chest. The walls were lined with posters of bands she loved, her bed a mess of scattered clothes and guitar picks. The dim light from the lamp beside her flickered gently as she lay back, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Her mind wandered to you—the barista with the gentle smile and the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you greeted her, even though she barely spoke beyond her usual order. There had been something about you from the first time she stepped into the café, but now, with each passing visit, that something had grown, unspoken and undeniable.

She could still hear Jesse’s teasing voice in her head. “You’re just a shy little mess, Ellie. Just talk to her already.”

But it wasn’t that simple. How could it be? Every time she walked into that café, she felt her pulse race, her nerves jittery as if everything—her heart, her words, her courage—might suddenly slip through her fingers.

Ellie closed her eyes, the sound of her breathing deep and slow as she tried to center herself. But there you were again, your face lingering in the back of her mind. And in the quiet of her room, she couldn’t escape it. The rhythm of her thoughts was there, pulsing in her veins, like the backbeat she always felt when playing her guitar.

She sat up abruptly, her hands reaching for the instrument resting against the corner of her bed. The familiar weight of it felt comforting in her arms, grounding her in the moment. She began to strum absently, her fingers moving across the strings in a rhythm that was both calming and restless at once.

A quiet hum escaped her lips, something soft, something simple. It was a melody she’d been carrying with her for days now—just fragments, nothing complete. But it was all about you. In every chord, in every note, she could hear the undercurrent of her feelings—soft, but always there, steady, like a pulse beneath the music.

She let the melody fill the space around her, her thoughts drifting in and out as she let her hands move freely. Her voice followed, hesitant at first, then growing more certain. She wasn’t singing the words out loud—no, this was something much quieter, more intimate. It was the kind of song she’d been afraid to admit existed within her, let alone express.

The song took shape slowly, a kind of confession written not in words, but in notes. A simple tune, nothing grand, nothing flashy, just the truth she couldn’t bring herself to speak aloud.

You don't even know, but you make my heart beat slow...

Every time you smile, it's like I'm running wild...

I don’t know how to say it, but I think you might be it...

She paused, her fingers still on the strings, but the hum of the song had stopped. The silence in the room felt heavy now, almost as if the song had unlocked something inside her that she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

The truth of it hit her then—she was writing a song about you. She had known it all along, but it was like the words on the page had made it real.

She bit her lip, the guitar resting in her lap now, her mind spinning. She wasn’t sure where it would go from here, or even if it would ever reach you. But there was something in the backbeat of the song, something deep and raw, that she couldn’t ignore anymore.

Ellie stood up from the bed, the song still echoing in her ears as she walked over to her desk. She grabbed her notebook and began to write the lyrics down. Her handwriting was messy, like her thoughts, but it was hers. It was real.

“Maybe one day, you’ll hear it,” she whispered to the empty room, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Inviting the Rhythm

It was a quiet afternoon at the café, the usual midday rush having come and gone. You leaned against the counter, a soft tune playing from the café’s speakers as you wiped down a cup. There wasn’t much left to do, but you didn’t mind the calm. Your thoughts, however, wandered back to Ellie.

You hadn’t seen her yet today, but you knew she’d be here. It had become a familiar rhythm—Ellie would show up, usually with her bandmates, take her usual seat, and quietly sip her coffee while they chatted amongst themselves. But today, there was a shift in the air, something different. You didn’t know what, but you felt it.

And then you saw her. She walked in, but instead of heading straight to the table where she always sat, she hesitated by the door, as if weighing something. Her hands were shoved into her jacket pockets, her eyes flicking around the room nervously. It wasn’t like Ellie to come in alone.

You felt a pang of curiosity. It wasn’t lost on you that Ellie had been coming in for months now, but you never really had a conversation. Not a real one, anyway. You had always wondered why she kept coming, but every time you tried to make small talk, she clammed up, giving you short answers before retreating back into the comfort of her bandmates.

Today was different, though. She finally made her way to the table, but instead of sitting with the rest of the band, she pulled out a chair and sat by herself. The usual upbeat chatter from her bandmates was absent. Ellie’s gaze was fixed on the table, her fingers tapping in that familiar, anxious rhythm.

You made your way over, wiping your hands on your apron as you approached her table.

"Hey, Ellie," you greeted with a warm smile. "You’re alone today. What’s up?"

Ellie looked up at you, and for a split second, her expression was unreadable. There was a flash of uncertainty in her eyes, something you hadn’t seen before. Her fingers, which had been tapping on the table, stilled as she fidgeted with the napkin holder.

“Uh, yeah,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. “The others are, uh, running late... or something. I... I thought I’d come early.” She quickly glanced at her phone, avoiding your gaze again.

You nodded, trying to keep the conversation light. "Cool. You don’t usually come in alone. Everything good with the band?"

Ellie shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, but she managed a small nod. "Yeah, everything’s fine. Just... needed a change of scenery today."

You leaned against the table, giving her space but also wanting to know more. "Well, you know, you're always welcome here. If you need a place to think... or just get away."

Ellie met your eyes for a moment, and there was something about the way her gaze softened that made your heart skip. For a second, you thought she might say something—something more than just her usual shy smile or quick one-liner—but the words stayed locked behind her lips.

The silence stretched, and Ellie’s fidgeting resumed, her fingers tapping lightly on the table again.

"So... are you still coming to our gig on Friday?" Ellie suddenly asked, her voice steadying as she looked up at you.

You blinked, taken off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. "Uh, yeah, I was planning on it," you replied, a little surprised. You’d heard about the gig from the band, but hearing Ellie mention it specifically made your stomach flutter. "Why?"

Ellie swallowed, her fingers still tapping nervously. "Well... I, uh... wanted to... you know, invite you. It’s not... it’s not just for the band or anything. Just... thought you might want to come."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if you were hearing her right. She seemed so different today, more vulnerable, less guarded than usual. "You’re inviting me? Just me?" you asked, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Ellie flushed, looking away quickly. "I mean... yeah," she muttered, "if you want to come. I—I’ll be playing, and... you could hear us. Just... don’t make it weird." She winced as soon as the words left her mouth, clearly regretting the awkwardness that had already settled between you.

You couldn’t help but smile at her shyness. "Of course, I’ll come," you said warmly, trying to ease the tension. "I wouldn’t miss it."

Ellie relaxed a little, the smallest smile curving her lips. "Great," she whispered. "I’ll... see you there."

You nodded, still caught off guard by her sudden openness, but something in her voice told you that this was more than just a casual invitation. There was a quiet hope beneath the words—Ellie was finally letting down her walls, even if it was just a little.

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You knew this gig was going to be more than just music—it would be the start of something, a rhythm that would soon be impossible to ignore.

The Song in the Silence

The crowd buzzed with excitement as Ellie’s band played through their set, each song building momentum with the kind of raw energy only a live performance could bring. You stood near the back of the club, nestled between the sea of people, your eyes fixed on Ellie. Tonight, she was different—her nervousness was replaced by an undeniable confidence. Her guitar was like an extension of her, and with every strum, her entire body seemed to resonate with the music.

You had seen Ellie around the café countless times, shy, awkward, and always hiding behind her guitar when you’d run into her. But up on stage, she was a different person. There was a power in the way she played—her fingers gliding across the strings with ease, her posture commanding the space. Every song seemed to have a part of her, but it was the last one that caught your attention the most.

The band was playing their final song, and the vibe in the club shifted, the energy growing electric. Ellie was playing rhythm guitar this time, her eyes closed as she lost herself in the music. Her bandmates—Jesse on bass, Dina on lead vocals—were fully immersed, their music echoing through the venue. But every time you glanced at Ellie, she was slightly more distant, her focus intense as if she was preparing for something.

The song’s outro built slowly, and you could feel the anticipation hanging in the air like a held breath. Then, in a moment of stillness, Ellie leaned over to Dina, whispering something too quiet for you to hear. Dina, the lead singer, nodded in response, a sly smile tugging at her lips. The band finished the instrumental portion, and the crowd fell into an expectant silence.

Dina stepped up to the mic, her usual confidence now laced with a playful excitement. "Alright, folks, this next one’s a special one. You’ve been hearing a lot of us tonight, but now we’re gonna switch things up," she said, her voice carrying through the room.

You watched as Ellie adjusted the strap of her guitar, standing slightly straighter, her posture giving away a hint of nervousness. It was a different side of her, one you hadn't seen before. The music was still alive in her body, but something else lingered in the air.

Dina continued, a mischievous grin on her face. "Ellie’s gonna take over for this last one. Let’s show her some love!"

The crowd cheered, a wave of applause rippling through the room. Ellie looked out into the crowd, her expression a mix of surprise and nervousness, but she nodded as if steeling herself for something big.

She took a deep breath and, with one last glance at her bandmates, her voice came through the mic—not yet, but the promise was there. The beginning of a song. But this wasn’t just any song—it was different. You could feel it in the air.

The first notes rang out, and Ellie’s fingers moved deftly on her guitar, filling the space with the familiar chords of the song. Her eyes were fixed on the neck of the guitar as she played, but there was a shift—a subtle, almost imperceptible change. It wasn’t just the song; it was the feeling behind it, the energy that swelled in the room, pulling everyone’s focus.

And then, Ellie began to sing.

Her voice was soft at first, hesitant, but each word carried an intimacy that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the lyrics—it was the emotion she put into them. As the chorus hit, the raw vulnerability in her voice reached deep into the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know it yet, but the song was about you.

Ellie’s eyes flickered to you from the stage, and for a fleeting second, you caught a glimpse of something deeper in her gaze—something that was always there, but hidden behind the awkwardness and the shyness. The song was her confession, wrapped in the melody, hidden in the lyrics, as if she had poured everything she couldn’t say into the notes and words.

The crowd swayed, caught up in the music, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from Ellie. The way she held herself now, the way she sang the song with a quiet desperation—like she was telling a secret only you could hear.

When the song ended, there was a brief moment of silence, followed by an eruption of applause. But you couldn’t focus on the crowd or the noise. You were still caught in the intensity of Ellie’s performance, her eyes finding yours once again, lingering for a moment longer than usual.

She set her guitar down with a shaky breath, her shoulders dropping as she stepped back from the mic. The room felt different, as if the weight of her confession still hung in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

Dina was the first to break the silence, her voice light and teasing. "See? Told you she could do it. Ellie, you were amazing!"

Ellie didn’t answer at first, just looking down at her guitar. It was clear she was embarrassed—maybe even overwhelmed by the act of putting her feelings into that song. But for the first time, you saw her vulnerability laid bare, not in awkward moments or shy smiles, but through the very thing she loved most—her music.

The applause around you blurred as you finally allowed the truth to sink in. Ellie had just sung her heart out, and somehow, you knew it was for you.

The Confession in the Chords

The applause faded into a hum of conversations and clinking glasses as the band began packing up their gear. You lingered near the back of the club, unsure if you should stay or leave. Something about that last song tugged at you, lingering in the air like the final notes of a melody refusing to let go.

Ellie was still on stage, carefully coiling her guitar cable. Her usual awkward energy was back—head down, shoulders hunched—so different from the confident girl who had just sung her heart out. Jesse nudged her, whispering something that made Ellie shoot him a glare before he laughed and hopped off the stage, leaving her alone.

You hesitated, then made your way closer. By the time you reached the edge of the stage, Ellie had packed her guitar into its case but hadn’t moved. She looked up as you approached, her green eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Hey," you said, your voice louder than intended over the buzz of the room.

Ellie blinked, then gave a small, shy smile. "Hey."

There was an awkward pause, the kind that usually made you uncomfortable, but now it felt charged, like there was something more waiting to be said. You broke the silence first. "You were amazing tonight."

Ellie ducked her head, her cheeks tinting pink. "Thanks. I—uh—didn’t expect you to actually come."

"Why wouldn’t I? You invited me," you replied with a small laugh. "And I’m glad I did. That last song..." You trailed off, searching for the right words. "It felt... personal."

Ellie froze for a second, her hand gripping the edge of her guitar case. "Yeah, uh..." She glanced around, as if looking for an escape route, then sighed and looked back at you. "It was."

You tilted your head, curious. "Who’s it about?"

She rubbed the back of her neck, her gaze darting everywhere but at you. "That’s, uh... kind of a long story."

"I’ve got time," you teased gently, crossing your arms.

Ellie finally met your eyes, her expression a mix of vulnerability and determination. "It’s about someone who makes me feel like I’m stuck in the background, like... like I don’t know how to say the things I want to say when they’re around."

Your heart skipped a beat at the weight in her words. "Ellie..."

She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching at her sides. "It’s about you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but the words hit like a drumbeat, steady and sure.

The world seemed to blur around you, the noise of the club fading into a distant hum. Ellie’s gaze didn’t waver now, her earlier shyness replaced by a quiet resolve.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. But then you smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. "I guess I should feel honored," you said, your tone light, though your voice betrayed your emotions.

Ellie chuckled nervously, scratching the back of her head. "Or creeped out. I don’t know—maybe both?"

"No, not creeped out," you assured her, your smile widening. "Not even a little."

Her shoulders relaxed, the tension melting away as she let out a relieved laugh. "Good. I was kinda terrified you’d think I was a weirdo."

"Well, you are," you teased, your grin turning playful. "But I think I like that about you."

Ellie’s mouth opened slightly, as if to respond, but instead, she let out another laugh, this one softer, more genuine. "Guess I can live with that."

For the first time, the silence between you felt easy, comfortable. The noise of the club returned, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, the backbeat of unspoken feelings that had been building for so long finally found its melody, and it was yours to share.

#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie tlou2 #ellie the last of us #the last of us #lesbian #ellie tlou #tlou #tlou2 #ellie fanfic #ellie x fem reader #the last of us 2 #ellie #ellie williams fanfic #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams the last of us

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yunazxxx · 1 day ago

Text

“you didn’t sleep again?” the red haired girl asked, “you didn’t eat again?” the brunette asked back. — meret manon x lara raj

cw ; angsty fluff, heavy topics (depression, struggles with mental health, feeling alone etc), established relationship (girlfriends), comforting, crying moments but not too many, physical affection (hugging, kissing, hand holding), manon lets lara cry on her shoulder at one point, lara wipes manon's tears at another, mentions of a eating disorder, kinda includes all of the girls, etc maybe

syponosis ; it's been no secret that the girls in katseye have suffered endlessly ever since the release of popstar academy, but even once th other members hate began to slow down it only picked up for manon and lara.

wc ; well over 1.5k

an - i want to first say this again, this story contains a lot of heavy topics if you cant handle that please take care of yourself and i’ll see you on my next update. this story is complete fiction, minus what can be proven as true. majority of this can genuinely take place but we don’t know that for sure if any of these have actually with these girls in specific. p.s not proofread bc im writing this at like 3am ntfm

—

it was 3:45 am, lara was still up on her phone, scrolling away on social media. she was laying in a fetal position due to how sick she felt, her stomach turned as she read comment after comment about herself. they were everything far from joyful comments, ever since geffen released their documentary the girls have been tormented by the media.

normally, lara wouldn't bother herself with reading every single comment, but on all of her social media that's all she'd see or someone calling her racial slurs or anything under that form of disrespect. lara didn't understand why, it had been so long since that recording, she was closer with everyone now, why was she getting so much hate for a small comment she made about her member, manon?

@larrarajj : are you awake? sent at 4:00 am. the redhead didn't know what to do, megan was asleep and it was too early in the morning for her to put anything on to distract herself, no matter what h tried all she could think about was those comments. lara got easily overwhelmed, unsure what to do with herself or anything.

she felt her heart getting heavy, as her eyes began to well with tears when her phone finally chimed.

@manonmeret : yeah, i am. sent at 4:05 am it was a text from manon, lara knew of her habit of almost never sleeping, espcially due to this endless stress they've been under, not ever given the chance to enjoy being ‘katseye’ because everytime they just breathe, they're getting ridiculed.

@larrarajj : can i come see you? - lara really didn't know what to do with herself at this moment, she felt so anxious it made her uncomfortable. she waited for manon's texts, seeing the bubbles pop up but disappear, then a knock was at her door.

she got off her bed and opened it, seeing manon in her comfort hat and a oversized t-shirt along with shorts. lara couldn't see the girl's face clearly, but her voice spoke enough that she had been crying. lara brought the older inside of her room, and hugged her.

manon could feel lara begin to break down in her arms, manon held her as tigh as she could, rubbing her back, "get it out, it's okay.." manon comforted the girl, it was heartbreaking watching lara suffer the way she was.

lara wouldn't ever talk about how she felt, she would always just isolate, or handle it herself, she'd never ask for help, which affected her girlfriend really bad because she'd always be available to assist lara, however she needed it.

anytime she'd ask if lara was okay, she'd just reply "oh i'm fine" but manon could see her about to break down, she'd bite her lip majority of the time or just nod because she could feel herself about to lose it. lara had her reasons, because yeah what she was getting was terrible, but she also got ahold of what was being said about the other girs, and those really messed her up.

when she did see happy comments about her and the girls, it'd only be about five of them, never including manon because everyone would berate her name ad drag it through the mud like she was nothing, lara wanted to speak out about it so bad, but she couldn't.

it made her feel so guilty, watching manon go through it every single day. as mentioned before, manon stopped sleeping. she was never calm enough to be able to sleep, she always felt so on edge that it fucked with her. manon started spending more money on energy drinks, catching the attention of the other girls.

sophia stopped her one day, seeing the stuff she had bought, asking why did she need so may. manon couldn't lie and say school, her and sophia graduated the same year, she would lie and say practice, or she was buying them for daniela too.

it wasn't like daniea didn't know of manon's habit, she roomed wth her, so obviously she knew. it really concerned daniela, so she began sleeping beside manon or letting manon lay in her bed so she could get a litte bit of sleep but as it got worse, not even that would help her.

manon would be up for hours, just writing in her journal. it wouldn't ever be something specfic, but as you read, you can her spiral mentally. infront of a camera, and seeig her laugh and smile you wouldn't ever guess that this is what she was going through.

lara lifted her head off of manon shoulder, manon just looked ather, with a frown but smile on her face, she looked reassuring, saying to her girlfriend, "you know, it's okay to get it out. we all need to talk to somene about what we're struggiling with." maon said, rubbing her girlfiends's back while she held her hands.

the pair was sitting on the bdnow, lara was fidgeting, but she didn't even know why. "hey, calm down, breathe" manon said gently to the panicked girl, she and lara took a deep breathe together, while manon was calming lara down she felt a tear fall down her face and lara wiped her tear.

lara kissed her cheek, "we're gonna be okay" lara said softly. they stayed with each other for a bit, before the sunrise began. manon took lara to the balcony, they watched the sun rise together. while this happened, lara put her head on manon's shoulder.

"i'm so glad i met you" she said softly, and the brunette nodded, "so am i" and they watched it rise in silence. soon the other girls began to come outof theirrooms, lara and manon began treating this as any other day, manon opening a energy drink while lara grabbed her water and gum, as her "meal for the day"

sophia watched as they did ths, it really made her feel terrible, watching them both sufferthis badly. she knew lara couldn't eat, after reading all of those comments everyday for as long as she would it began to make her so sick she would throw up everytime she ate something to the point where she wouldn't even get hungry.

it began affecting her health terrbly, lara would walk out of her room, she would look tired with bags under her eyes, oversized hoodie on and she'd grab her water then leave again. the most they would ever see of her would be during practice, butshewould get dizzy so easily due to her blood sugar and blood pressure being as low as it would get due to her never gettng enough nutrients.

megan caught on to this, and whenever mega would eat, she would have lara sit next to her and she would feed her older member. to the average person tis may soun ridiculus, but megan watched as lara began to give up on taking care of herself, the same way daniela watched manon.

her and megan did the best they could to help heal them, writing them mall notes and sticking them on their most used devices, notes of motvations, and quotes tha they know, or more hoped, would make them feel better.

overtime, lara and manon got better, it might've been a whole house effort but what mattered was that they started taking care of themselves once again. lara would pick up the habit of sleeping with manon more often, while when manon cooked she would feed lara to make sure she's eating well and would also keep an eye out incase she'd attempt to enduce vomitting.

overtime, things slowly became more normal around the house, lara wouldn't have to be monitorid as often and for manon, she started sleeing better ever since lara started sleeping next to her. even making a joked saying that she really just needed lara so she could feel better.

lara would spend so much more time in their room, that daniela would offer up her bed to lara until she was gone. lara would say it's fine but daniela didn't mind, normally saying she'd go talk to megan or something.

at some point the question was asked, "why didn't you come to me when you felt that way?" manon hd asked her girlfriend, she wasn't attacking her, but was curious what made lara isolate everytime she felt sad or down, "you had your own things to worry about baby, i'd hate to make you worry about more, let alone me" the redhead explained, but the brunette didn't accept it.

"it made me worry more ya'know?" manon said, playing in lara’s hair while the younger's arms were wrapped around her, "i know, didn't mean to though" manon nodded and kissed her head, "i know beautiful, it's okay"

#kpop #r talks #katseye #lara raj #spotify #manon bannerman #meret manon #lara katseye #marz #manon katseye #katseye imagines

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