#ellie wlliams x reader

[dykeomania]

i don't even think i wanna fuck ellie at this point i kinda just wanna play uno with her and her friend group and see how long it takes for her to castrate somebody

[minustwofingers]

love is a laserquest p.2

series masterlist (read p1 here!)

pairing: rockstar!ellie williams x reader

request: @thatgiraffefromtlou so kindly included me on a post about writing something inspired by these beautiful edits :) thank you !

summary: after a serious of unfortunate events, columbia grad y/n y/l/n finds herself using her hard-earned journalism degree interviewing vapid stars and writing articles that she's convinced are rotting her mind. ellie williams has just dropped the album of the year and it's all anyone is talking about, but all she wants is to be off the press train. a certain interview with a certain interviewer might change this.

cws: explicit language, kind of suggestive phrasing? (i get a little feral with guitar playing descriptions), shitty bosses, mentions of nausea and throwing up (no one actually does tho dw), y/n is anxious asf, my writing is a little....yikes...in this one, loser!ellie

a/n: i lied i lied hehe. here's the next part. im still working on building this stupid app so i havent been able to write as much recently + holiday family stuff but oh am i back!

here's a playlist inspired by this fic

wc: 2.4k

tags: tags :) @intrnetdoll @dazedshoon @lovecaraya @pctcr @sariyaflowr @loser-keiji @prettyplant0 @666findgod @sawaagyapong @rystarkov @buzzybuzzsposts @addisonnie@galacticstxrdust @elliesbabygirl @pinkazelma @ariianelle @lu002 @blairfox04 @sparkleswonderland @elliesflower @muthafuckingstargirl @elliewilliamsissubermommyoml @eviestevie-14 @quicksilversg1rl @guacala @crtcrp @overtrred28 @diddiqueen @krisyslostsoul

enjoy mwah

It starts slow, like the drip of a broken faucet. It’s not like you’re actively seeking out anything Ellie William’s related, but somehow it seems like everything Ellie Williams related is seeing you out. 

In the grocery store, one of her hit songs from her newest album blaring over the speakers.

On the street, where you see crumpled pages of magazines with her face plastered all over them. 

And—perhaps the most offensively—on NPR and the New York Times, quite literally days after you’d met her. Suddenly Steve Inskeep and Leila Fadel begin the Up First podcast with a familiar song and devote an entire third of the morning podcast to Ellie and her band’s rise to fame. 

You decide to switch to the BBC World News for a while, but even they seem to be under her spell.

It’s not that you don’t like Ellie. She seems fine. Normal. Really cute, actually, and clearly very talented. But whenever you think about her, you think about the ill-fated, awkward, charmless interview.

“What happened?” Alyssa had asked you when she’d come back from surgery. “That wasn’t you out there.”

Which was actually very hurtful to hear, because you’d been holding onto the hope that you’d been all in your head about your interview being a failure. It all culminates in Eric, your 300 year old manager, sending you a strongly worded email that told you that your performance in the interview was so underwhelming that you were being pulled from the interviewer pool and exiled to article writing land. Which could be worse, you admit. You could be unemployed on the streets of LA. At least you’re still writing. 

And write you do. You spend all your waking hours either at your keyboard, on your yoga mat, or sat in a chair somewhere at a local cafe for a coffee chat. You’ve mostly deleted social media, since all you see nowadays are pictures of Ellie and Becca’s posts about her experience working and loving her life in New York (the algorithm apparently knows exactly what you want to see the most). 

It’s bizarre that, even as you try your best to place your focus on honing your craft and consuming only content that you think will make you a better writer, you still somehow learn everything and more about Ellie Wlliams and her band. It’s in the emails at work whose chains you’re CC’ed on. It’s in the advertisements and the billboards everywhere. It’s even in the conversations you have with your two roommates, Greta and Maureena. 

“She’s so fucking cool,” says Maureena dreamily as you sit around the TV in the living room. “I still can’t believe you got to talk to her.”

“It’s not like I actually got to, like, get to know her or whatever,” you say. “It was honestly kind of dry. Just awkward small talk.”

“That’s more than anyone else I know can say.” She reaches forward and grabs a fistful of popcorn. “How come she gets interviewed by the person who probably cares about her the least in all of LA? Like, what are the chances?”

“I care,” you say, and it sounds unusually defensive coming out of your mouth.

Maureena gives you a long, suspicious look, but before she can respond, Greta comes bursting into the apartment, purse swinging from her shoulder.

A greeting is halfway out of your mouth when she cuts you off. 

“You guys will not believe what I just did.” She’s nearly bursting with excitement, her eyes bright and wide. 

“Like, in a good way?” you ask. 

“Yes. Obviously!” Greta fishes around in her pocket until she pulls her phone out, waving it around. “Check your email.”

The last time Greta had come in with an entrance this energetic, she’d been coming to inform you both that she was getting engaged to her loser boyfriend Brian (which—thank God—didn’t actually last), so you and Maureena trade nervous looks. 

Maureena gets to it first. 

“Tickets to see Ellie Williams? Tonight?” Now she’s about to explode with giddiness, leaping from the couch and throwing her arms around Greta. “I love you, I love you, I love you. How did you get these? I thought they were, like, totally sold out. Or ten thousand dollars.” 

She grins wickedly, holding her hands out in a “who knows” sort of way. “You can all thank me later. We have to leave in about 20 if we want to get there in time. Y/N, you good?”

You’d been staring on in horror, jaw dropped and body completely frozen. You had registered that Ellie was playing in LA tonight—it’s all anyone you knew talked about at work today—but you never once considered actually going to try to see her. “Uh, yeah. Give me just a few.”

By the time you get to the venue, you’re convinced that you might actually puke from the nerves. It’s ridiculous. It’s not like three broke 20 some year olds were going to get last minute seats to an Ellie Williams concert that were genuinely good seats. It’s not like she would see you and realize that the girl who flopped while interviewing her was a big enough fan to attend. You’re going to be fine. 

“Shit, Grets, how are we so close?” asked Maureena as she leads you both closer and closer to the front. 

Horror steadily rises within you as you approach the front row. 

“I got these from my boss,” she says, turning around with a devilish glint in her dark brown eyes. “Her daughter got food poisoning, bless her. She had to stay back to take care of her, and I was the only one who stayed late to work, so…”

Greta’s boss was some filthy rich nepo baby who was a partner of a big talent agency. All of a sudden you feel stupid for not realizing this sooner.

“Shit,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Oh no. Oh my god.”

“Isn’t this so cool!” Greta jumps up and down, hands on your shoulders as she tries to rile you up. “Dude, what if she recognizes you?” 

“I think I’m going to puke,” you say miserably. Somehow the thought of her seeing you made you want to crawl inside your skin in shame and hide for the next calendar year. “Did you guys not see how ass it was? I was so fucking awkward.”

“It wasn’t even that bad.” Maureena pats your shoulder. 

“I literally was forbidden from ever interviewing again because it was so bad.”

“Because Eric hates women,” says Greta. “It’s not your fault he’s a horrible human being. Give it, like, a year or so until he croaks. Then they’ll let you back in the game.”

“Uh huh,” you say, feeling very harrowed. 

You remain in this state of abject terror for the entire opener performance. The nausea doesn’t subside. It only gets worse when you realize that if you actually puke, Ellie’s definitely going to see it. Just like she’s going to see you, with the stupid stars Greta had insisted you paint on your cheekbones with glittery eyeliner and eyeshadow. 

“She really likes space,” Greta had told you while you’d been getting ready, pretending like you didn’t already know all about this. “So all of her fans wear star stuff to see her.”

Before you can think to wipe off the glitter, everything goes black. Then the crowd goes wild. 

When the silvery blue light spills onto the stage, it illuminates Ellie, standing just a number of feet away from you. You barely have enough time to take in the black leather coat and loose white shirt she’s wearing before music explodes out of the speakers, her fingers flying up and down the fretboard. 

You’re spellbound as you watch her. Her voice rings loud and clear and slightly gravelly when it snags on her words. She’s nothing at all like the girl you’d met a month ago—there’s no discomfort, no awkwardness. She looks like she’s born to be on stage. 

When the first song ends, she steps back, grabbing the standing mic next to her. 

“Uh. Hi,” she says, and it’s so endearingly nervous compared to how she’d just sounded that something in your chest twists. She rubs the back of her neck. “I’m Ellie.”

Greta and Maureena join the crowd, screaming and cheering. 

“I LOVE YOU!” someone shrieks, louder than everyone else.

“You know,” she says, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to people reacting like this to me just, like, saying my name. It’s really fucking weird. Oh. Shit. Sorry. Are you guys okay with me swearing?” 

The roar that comes from the crowd is entirely undecipherable. 

“Right,” says Ellie. “Um. I’ll take that as a yes. Sorry to anyone who brought their kids or something. Anyway, this one’s about the ex who cheated on me and gave me mono.” 

Before you can react to that, she starts playing. 

As she proceeds through the setlist, you’re struck by just how close you are to her, how many things you can notice that hardly anyone else in the crowd can see. You see the outline of her phone in her pocket, the pieces of hair that have fallen out of her little half bun and are sticking to her face, the way that the glitter on her collarbones trails down her shirt in little rivulets. 

And, above everything else, you can see the horrible way her fingers straddle the fretboard, curling and pressing with ease so practiced it looks tender. 

Apart from this bad, bad development (you can feel your mind going a million miles an hour about things you should not be thinking about), things are going great. Ellie hasn’t noticed you. Or even looked in your direction. You’re not even sure she can see you, given how little light is shed onto the crowd. The false sense of security makes you feel comfortable singing along with Greta and Maureena, your lips forming the lyrics you’d been pretending to not listen to whenever her songs came on. 

It happens during a slower song, a sort of ballad that makes your heart thud harder in your chest to hear from her mouth. The lights on stage dim a little. Light spills just the slightest onto the front of the crowd, and Ellie’s eyes fall and snap onto yours so decisively that it almost feels audible. 

For a moment, you can’t breathe. Ellie’s voice suddenly catches mid-word, faltering and missing a beat. She thrusts her hand with the mic into the crowd, which eagerly picks up where she left off and finishes the verse. 

It’s impossible to see on the screen projecting her image behind her, but you can see the flicker of recognition in her eyes, the stiffness that comes with realizing that you actually know someone from somewhere. 

You’re the one who breaks eye contact, focused with a sudden intensity on the way the thin fabric of your sleeves are situated on your arms. 

Greta pokes you so hard in your ribs that you gasp. 

“What the fuck!” you snap, but the words are swept away by the noise around you. 

“Why didn’t you wave?!” she hisses in your ear. “She totally recognized you.”

The realization falls over you with the subtlety of an anvil. Oh my god. You totally should’ve waved. That was the normal, well-adjusted thing to do. Now she was going to think you were weird. And it was too late now. But she didn’t wave to you. Wasn’t she supposed to wave first? Because you of course remembered her, but she might not remember you. Yeah. You could go with that.

Maybe she didn’t remember you. 

You can’t relax for the rest of the concert. You try your best to just act normal and dance along with your friends and casually mouth the words, but it’s hard when it feels like she’s staring at you. Which is completely impossible. The light doesn’t fall back onto the crowd until the concert is over and Ellie and her band are long gone backstage. 

~

Two months later, all you can think about is the way that Ellie stuttered over her words when she saw you in the crowd. Of course, this is definitely something you’ve made up in your mind, because there’s a number of reasons why she might’ve slipped up. Maybe she just thought she knew you from somewhere and couldn’t place it. That’s why she (allegedly) kept looking in your direction afterwards. Or maybe you’re completely batshit insane, and she didn’t look at you at all. Because if she had, wouldn’t she have waved? Right?

It’s almost bad enough to distract you from work. You find yourself prowling on Twitter, watching the #elliewilliams tag blow up following every concert date. It doesn’t give you any clarity, because in every picture, she looks just as perfect and cool and confident as she was at the LA show. You don’t know why you assumed she’d look different if it was true that she’d recognized you. More human, maybe. But she’s just as bathed in starlight as she was that night many weeks before, just as far away and untouchable. 

You spend so much time thinking about her that you’re convinced you might’ve slipped into a dream when Eric appears at your cubicle with the news.

Instead of saying hello, he plops a stack of papers on the desk in front of you, all labeled “PopNow! Interview Etiquette”. 

“Excuse me?” you say. 

“Start reading up, kid,” says Eric. “You’re back in the game.”

“What?” 

“You have an interview scheduled later this week.” He scowls down at you, gum smacking in his mouth. He smells faintly of tobacco. 

“But I thought I was removed from—”

“You still are,” he says. “But someone requested you. Their manager told us they wouldn’t talk to us if they didn’t get you.”

“What?” 

He huffs out a short laugh. “Believe me, I was surprised too. Don’t know what they’re on about after the last time you talked to their client. Fuck this one up and you’re out, okay? Got it? The info’s in your inbox already.” 

Somehow the words don’t quite sink in until you open the email and see the words on paper. 

SENDER: Maria Miller

RECIPIENT: Eric Bal

CC: ewilliamsmusic@gmail.com, y/ny/l/n@popnow!.com

Eric,

Great to hear back from you. Glad that 3 next Wednesday works. 

Best,

MM

final a/n: lmk how u guys feel about this...feeling a little unsure about where this is going but enjoying writing it anyway there are two wolves inside of me etc. etc. also ive missed u all! i hope everyone is doing well! dont b shy!