would you be able write a fic about getting high with the lads? maybe like with the other lasses and being elis girl?
Wait I’m actually giggling over this (and it’s not like I’ve daydreamed about this before or anything…👀)
Hopefully this is as you imagined it HAHAHA (I also put my own little twist on it so hopefully that's okay xxx)
Weed Talking — Elijah Hewson
Summary: (based off request) The guys are back from tour and you invite them and some old friends over to your childhood home. Your feelings for Elijah have been around for years, but when you get high they seem to heighten, and there’s no hiding from him…
Warnings: mentions/use of weed, a few suggestive moments and thoughts, alcohol, aggressive make out sesh.
A/N: I decided to put a bit of a spin on the request just to spice it up a little bit. Hopefully that’s okay with everyone hehehe xxx
There was something about being back in your childhood home with all of them — like the years hasn't passed at all. You'd set out blankets in the back garden, grabbed spare duvets and snacks, and someone (probably Rob) had already queued the same playlist you all used when you were seventeen.
Rob's girlfriend, Martha, and your best friend, Caoimhe, were sitting cross-legged under the fairy lights you'd strung up that afternoon, passing a joint between them while Sam and Lucy argued about whether the moon looked "mystical" or "like a bad drawing." Ryan and Josh were somewhere near the fire pit your parents fitted in about a year ago now, laughing over God knows what, and Elijah...well, Elijah was beside you.
Too close, maybe. His leg pressed lightly against yours, neither of you shifting away. The weed had hit (so did the whiskey), mellow and heavy, and your whole body felt like it was floating. But your mind — your mind was doing somersaults.
You could smell him. That same cedarwood-after-smoke scent he always carried, always just barely there. And you shouldn't notice that, shouldn't care. But the warmth pooling low in your stomach said otherwise.
"You're quiet," Elijah said suddenly, voice low like a secret.
You glanced at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little glassy, his curls a mess from when he kept running his hands through them. He looked unfairly good. Not even in a rockstar way — just...him. Familiar and infuriating and heartbreakingly safe.
"Just thinking," you said, blinking up at the stars like they could save you from the daydream you were slipping into.
"About?"
You should've lied. You should've said something dumb — the stars, Lucy's nonsense, or how Josh still couldn't roll a proper joint. But you were too high for that kind of finesse.
"You."
He tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the low light. "Yeah?"
You gave a half-shrug, suddenly feeling exposed. "Dunno. Just...It's weird, isn't it? How we've all known each other forever, but sometimes I look at you and it feels like I'm seeing you for the first time."
He didn't answer right away. He just stared, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second too long, before flicking back up to your eyes.
The air thickened. Like summer heat before a thunderstorm.
"Eli," you said, voice soft, guilty even. "I probably shouldn't say any more."
"Probably not," he agreed.
Neither of you moved.
The laughter in the background faded to a blur, the music distant. Everything felt underwater. Too slow. Too much.
You imagined his hands. On your hips. On your neck. Tangled in your hair. You imagined saying fuck it and kissing him, right there, while everyone else was too stoned to care. You imagined him pulling you into his lap and whispering the things you wanted to hear but could never ask for.
You looked away,
"God," you muttered under your breath. "I need water or I'm going to say something really fucking stupid."
Elijah laughed. Quiet, low, raspy.
"I'd probably say something worse."
Your gaze snapped back to his, and this time you didn't look away.
There was something unspoken hanging there — thick, heavy, humid — suspended in the summer air and the smoke curling lazily around the two of you.
He leaned in just a little, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, "Tell me later."
Your heart stuttered.
And maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the years of almosts. Maybe it was everything finally catching up with you.
But in that moment, your daydreams didn't feel so far from reach anymore.
—————————————————
The night had slipped into that dangerous kind of blur — too many joints lit at once, whiskey glasses way too full, everyone too relaxed, too loud, too far gone.
Caoimhe was giggling at something Josh had muttered under his breath, their shoulders pressed against yours like bookends holding you up. But across the fire, Elijah hadn't laughed in minutes.
His eyes were on you. Still.
It was relentless. His stare wasn't subtle, wasn't gentle. It burned. Possessive. Heavy. The kind of look that sank into your skin and didn't let go. He didn't care who saw it. His glass was low in his hand, fingers loose, his star ring catching the firelight — and still, all his attention was on you.
You shifted under it, tried to laugh at something Rob said, tried to focus on Martha gripping Rob's arm while she stared at him like he hung the moon just for her. But it was like Elijah's gaze was pulling at the hem of your linen button up shirt, trailing down the slope of your shoulder, setting fire to the inside of your throat.
You couldn't take it anymore.
"I—uh—water. Need some water," you said, voice too sharp, too fast. You were on your feet before anyone could respond, your steps uneven as you practically bolted into your house.
The kitchen lights were too bright. The cold water from the tap hit your glass in a hiss, and you drank it like it might save you. But it didn't. You slammed the glass down harder than you mean to, chest rising and falling like you'd run a marathon.
Head in your hands. Elbows digging into the marble counter. You squeezed your eyes shut.
"Get a grip," you whispered to yourself. "He's your friend. He's always been your friend. Just your friend."
But your body didn't feel like it got the memo. It was still humming, charged. And your mind — your mind was deeper in the gutter, imagining things that you couldn't un-imagine.
The sliding backdoor squeaked.
You didn't need to look up to know who it was.
He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in and shut the door behind him like it was nothing. Like you weren't about to combust.
When you finally looked up, he was leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, curls messy, whiskey eyes locked on yours.
"You alright?" he asked. But he knew the answer. You could see it in his stupid, knowing smirk.
You let out a humourless laugh, still breathless. "Not really, no."
He pushed off the wall and walked toward you, slow like he was giving you a chance to run. You didn't.
"You left in a bit of a hurry," he said, voice lower now, almost careful. "Did I... do something?"
His eyes searched your face, softening just enough to make your stomach flip.
"You know you did," you whispered, too honest, too wrecked to lie. "Back there. What you said — how you said it, about me telling you what I was thinking later. You can't just... do that."
He stepped closer. You didn't move.
"I meant it. I always want to know what your thinking. I always have."
That was it.
That was the thing that broke you.
One second you were staring at him — at his flushed cheeks and parted lips, his chest rising slow like he was trying to keep it together too — and the next, your hands were in his shirt and your mouth was on his.
It was messy, immediate. Years of repressed feelings, passing glances, drunken almosts, and high-stoned fantasies crashing into one kiss that was too much and not enough at the same time.
He kissed you like he'd been waiting. Like he'd thought about it every night on every tour. Like he couldn't believe it was actually happening. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth, already dizzy from everything — the weed, the whiskey, him.
His lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees weaken. Your hand tangled in his curls, the same ones you'd watched him push back over and over, wondering what they'd feel like between your fingers.
You were halfway up on the counter before either of you realised it — clothes still on, but the tension electric, skin burning. It was like every fantasy you'd buried under years of friendship had broken the surface all at once.
When he pulled back, just barely, his breath hit your lips.
"This isn't just the weed talking, right?"
You shook your head, whispering, "No, it's not."
He nodded, like that was all he needed, and kissed you again — deeper this time. Slower.
And you knew it then and there, that there was no going back after this.
Summary: Soft moments of you and Elijah on a short summer break away…
Warnings: Suggestiveness but other than that just fluff!!
A/N: I’m so busy at the moment so here’s something short and sweet that’s just been sitting in my drafts while I’m trying to catch up with requests!!
The cicadas hummed lazily in the olive trees, the golden haze of the late afternoon settling over the hillside like a warm blanket.
You leaned against the balcony railing, a cold glass of rosé in your hand, the breeze lifting the hem of your linen shirt. Somewhere below, the sea glittered like broken glass, blue and endless.
“The longer you stare at the ocean doesn’t mean it’s going to talk back to you,” Elijah said, his voice rough from sleep and softened by the way it always got around you.
You smiled but didn’t turn. “Maybe I’m waiting for it to say something interesting.”
He stepped up behind you, arms sliding around your waist without asking, without hesitation. His skin was warm from the sun, and he still smelled faintly of citrus and the salt water you’d swum in earlier.
“You know,” he murmured into your hair, “we didn’t come all the way here for you to flirt with the Mediterranean.”
You laughed, leaning into him and his touch. “Are you jealous of the sea, Hewson?”
He tilted his head, brushing a kiss just below your ear. “I’m jealous of anything that gets your attention longer than I do.”
Your heart flipped, like it always did when he said things like that—so direct, so low, like it was meant only for you and no one else would understand.
His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, finding bare skin, the cool contrast of his rings making you shiver.
“Elijah,” you breathed, a warning and a plea.
“Hmm?”
“We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Dinner can wait. The sun’s about to set. And you, standing here like this…” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You’re not making it easy.”
You turned finally, letting your hand rest on his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed steady and real. He looked impossibly golden, curls messy from the hammock he fell asleep on, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.
“I like it here,” you said softly. “With you. Quiet like this.”
He reach up, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb softly. “Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Then let’s stay like this a little longer.”
And as he leaned in—slow, deliberate—you forgot about the dinner reservations, the time, the sea. All that mattered was the feel of his mouth on yours, the sun slipping low behind the hills, and the promise of a night that belonged only to the two of you.
————————————
The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, brushing the sky with a purple hew almost as the heat of the day still clung to the stone walls of the villa.
Inside, tangled in linen sheets and each other, skin to skin, you lay with Elijah, your limbs barely distinguishable from his.
The dinner reservation had long since passed.
His hand trailed lazy circles on your lower back, the salt of your sweat still cooling on your skin. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his breath steady now, but slower—like he never wanted to move again.
“You know we missed that Michelin star place for this,” you teased, nudging his thigh with your knee playfully, voice half-melted in the warmth between you.
Elijah’s chuckle vibrated under your ear. “Best decision I’ve made so far on this trip.”
You tilted your head up, brushing your lips against the edge of his jaw. He turned to meet your gaze, his eyes soft, unreadable, pupils wide in the dimming light. The breeze from the open balcony stirred the curtains like a slow dance.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, fingertips brushing your collarbone. “Just us. Nowhere to be.”
You smiled, pressing your forehead to his. “You say that, but you’ve got a world tour staring back up in, what? Two months?”
“Then let’s run off before then. Disappear into the countryside. Start a vineyard, raise goats.”
“Raise goats?” You laughed.
“Fine. Kids, then. If you insist.”
You stilled for a moment. His tone had shifted—still light, but not joking. He looked at you like he meant it.
“Eli, baby…”
“I’m serious,” he said quickly. “Maybe not goats. But… someday. I can see it.”
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You and me. Kids. A home.”
He nodded. “Maybe not here. Back home, in Dublin, probably by the sea. I know that’s what you really want. You’d make a beautiful mam, you know.”
Your throat tightened, unexpected and sweet. He kissed your temple.
“You ever think about it?” He asked. “What it’d be like? Having kids? Marrying me?”
You smiled against his skin. “All the time.”
“Yeah?”
You shifted so you were looking at him full on, not caring that the linen sheet was no longer covering your top half, your hand still in his. “Yeah. You’re the only person I can imagine sharing forever with.”
The breeze blew through again, warm and lazy, smelling like sex and sea salt. The room, the whole world, seemed to exhale around you.
He leaned in slowly, kissing you with the kind of depth that said more than words ever could.
And outside, the stars began to blink into the sky—silent witnesses to a future quietly unfolding.
maybe some robert smut 👀👀👀 i saw on ur master list u have a little section, so maybe like u guys just started dating and it's ur first night together could be rly rly cute
This smut is a lot more detailed than my Eli one so I'm so sorry don't cancel me pls!!! (cries)
Thank you for the request my love xx
I Love You - Robert Keating
Summary: Read the request for the summary xx
Warnings: sexual content, explicit language, a very loving relationship and it's all very consensual.
A/N: Again, I'm sorry if this isn't great, I tried my best! If you feel uncomfortable reading this then don't read it!! Only read things that you're comfortable with and enjoy xxx
The air outside still held a trace of spring’s warmth as you and Rob stepped out of the cozy little Italian restaurant he’d chosen. Your hand was tucked into his, your fingers interlaced like you’d been doing it forever.
The soft glow of the city’s streetlights brushed against his face, catching the smile that hadn’t left his lips all evening.
“I still can’t believe you said yes. What do you mean you’re my girlfriend?” he murmured, squeezing your hand.
You nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “Was there ever a doubt?”
He chuckled, that familiar soft laugh that made your stomach flutter. “I dunno. I’ve been nervous about asking all week. Eli said I’d fumble it somehow.”
“Well, you didn’t,” you said, stopping in your tracks. Robert turned to face you, his brows raised just slightly in anticipation. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”
His eyes searched yours, something unspoken passing between you, and then he leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips. “Let’s head back to mine, yeah?”
————————————
The moment the apartment door clicked shut behind you, something shifted. Maybe it was the way Rob looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to—or the way his thumb brushed your hand as he dropped his keys on the counter.
Whatever it was, it made the distance between you feel unbearable.
“Come here,” he said softly, an obvious tone of hunger there, already closing the spaced between you.
His hands found your waist as yours slid up to rest on his shoulders. His lips were on yours before you could say a word—warm, hungry, and full of everything you both had been holding back all evening.
You melted into him, your fingers threading into his bleach blonde hair, the slight scratch of his hair against your palms sending a thrill down your spine.
He walked you backward gently, guiding you through the apartment like he’d done it a hundred times. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and you both laughed into the kiss, breathless and flushed.
“Fucking hell, you’ll be the death of me.” He groaned, his voice low and a little rough as he nuzzled against your jaw.
You tilted your head, giving him space, your heart racing at the way his lips trailed down to your neck before returning to your mouth with a new kind urgency.
You loved his lips being on yours more than anything, but that burning heat in the pit of your stomach needed more. You needed to jump in his bones at this stage just to feel some kind of relief.
“Shit,” you moaned quietly between a kiss. “Go-go back to my neck.” You managed to stutter out, and he wasn’t the one to say no to you.
You could ask him to get on his hands and knees and crawl for you, and he’d do it without a second thought.
The two of you had made out before, so he knew where you liked to be kissed, or little things that got you riled up, and the left side of your neck, right under your ear, was one of those spots.
His lips found the spot in an instant, and he wasn’t afraid to bite down on the sensitive area slightly, sucking the skin lightly after to try and get a moan from you.
“You sure about this?” He murmurs against your neck, voice low, husky with something between hope and restraint. His fingers brush under your dress, hesitating about mid thigh, waiting for your answer.
You pull his head gently away from your neck, looking him straight in the eyes and nodding. “Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I want this. I want you. Really, I mean it.”
He leans in. The kiss is soft at first—careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, tasting faintly like the red wine from earlier. But then he deepens it, tongue teasing the seam of your mouth, and you melt into him with a quiet gasp. His hands find the zipper of your dress, and you practically jumped out of it, desperate to feel his hands on your bare skin.
His fingers splayed over your ribs, thumbs stroking slow circles just under your breasts. You’re not sure how you make it to the bedroom. It’s all a blur of mouths and laughter and demands.
But most importantly that wild, dizzy feeling of finally getting what you’ve wanted for so long.
Clothes come off in stages—his button up shirt practically being ripped open, the slow peel of his jeans, your dress was left behind in the hallway but he wasn’t shy to take off your bra, finally admiring the part of your body he’d been nearly craving to see face to face.
The drag of his fingers down your spine as he pressed you back against the mattress, dragging a low moan out of you.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, almost like he’s saying it to himself. “Been thinking about this… about you…”
“Rob, baby, I love you so fucking much. But please, get to work I’m dying over here.”
You reach for him, pulling him down into another kiss, and this one is full of hunger, your bodies flush, his skin practically boiling hot against yours. His weight on you is grounding, electrifying. He kisses down your neck, slow and reverent, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue flicking just enough to make you squirm.
You gasped softly as his teeth grazed the soft skin above your breasts, and he smiled against your skin, his hands splaying wide across the outside of your thighs.
"You nervous?" he asked, pausing to look at you—his blue eyes suddenly a darker shade of blue, pupils blown, but still so gentle.
"A little," you admitted. "But not in a bad way or anything. It's just been a while since I've...you know."
His hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing along your bottom lip, slow and careful. "We can stop any time. Just say the word."
"I don't want to stop."
That was all he needed.
He kissed along your chest slowly, reverently, letting his tongue flick over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. Your back arched instinctively and he groaned at the way you moved under him.
The feeling of his calloused fingers tracing your ribs, your stomach, it had you feeling like your head was stuck in the clouds. You finally managed to pull yourself back down to earth for a second when you noticed he was kneeling between your legs, pulling your underwear down at a teasing pace.
"You're shaking," he said softly.
"I know," you breathed. "I just...I want you so fucking badly."
Rob leaned down, lips brushing yours. "You have me."
Then his hand slid down your thigh, then between them, and you gasped as his fingers found you already wet, already aching for him.
"Christ," he muttered. "You're so fucking perfect."
He dipped one finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, his thumb brushing your clit in slow, patient circles. You moaned, hips lifting to meet his hand, and he watched you with something close to awe—as if seeing you come undone for him was a privilege he didn't quite believe he deserved.
"I'm obsessed with you, you know?" he whispered, kissing your jaw, your throat, your breast. "So obsessed."
You tightened around his fingers, gripping onto his wrist as you moaned out in ecstasy. But before you knew it, the feeling of his touch was gone, and you could've screamed from frustration.
"Come on, baby. I think we've both had enough of playing around." His smiled was close to a smirk, tone clearly teasing. You didn't know if you wanted to kiss him or slap him.
Probably both.
You watched his every move. The way his muscles flexed as he took his boxers off. The way he ran his fingers through his bleached hair as he took in a shaky breath. You couldn't possibly get enough of this man.
He reached across to the top drawer of his night stand, clearly in the search of a condom.
"I'm on the pill. We don't need to use one." you rushed to say. Just wanting to feel all of him with nothing in the way.
"Are you sure? You're still taking a bit of a risk without one."
"No, I'm sure. I just want to be able to feel you."
His face practically scrunched up in what looked like pain. Pain from you killing him with words.
When he finally slid between your thighs and pushed into you, he went slow—achingly slow—watching your face the whole time, checking for any flicker of discomfort. But all you felt was full, deliciously stretched, your legs wrapping around his waist as he bottomed out inside you with a low groan.
"God, you feel unreal," he chocked out.
He moved slowly at first, deep, measured thrusts that made your breath catch every time he rocked into you. His forehead dropped to yours, sweat beading along his hairline, threads of his hair sticking to his forehead.
"You're taking me so well," he murmured against your lips. "So tight around me. Let go, baby. Let me take care of you."
Your nails dug into his back, leaving marks down his spine as your body climbed higher, tighter. He sped up just enough to make your breath stutter, your moans getting louder, his hips snapping into you with perfect rhythm, hitting that spot inside that made starts burst behind your eyes.
"Rob—" you moaned, barely able to get the words out. "I'm so close, I—"
"I've got you," he said, voice rough, hand slipping between you again to circle your clit. "Come for me. Show me how good I make you feel, baby."
And you did—hard. Your whole body tensed, you cried out his name like it was the only work you knew, and clenched around him as your orgasm tore through you like a wave. He followed moments later, groaning into your neck as he thrust deep one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking through his own release.
You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, your limbs intertwined and skin flushed with heat.
After a long silence, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering, "You okay?"
You nodded, burying your face in his neck. "That was...fuck me, that was good."
He laughed softly, brushing your hair back. "I couldn't agree with you more, beautiful."
Your eyes glistened as they locked with his. The two of you just admiring each other, not wanting to end this moment too soon.
"I love you so much." You whispered, your voice thick with emotion and love.
hiii can you please do another eli x reader in her own band imagine? it can be about anything i just love that concept and would love to see more!! thank u!!
OMG YES!!!
I’ve missed writing about my babies so much 😭😭
You can read the last oneshot from this AU here if you’d like to hehehe
Telephone Static - Elijah Hewson
Summary: While on tour and missing Elijah more than expected, you struggle with distance and sleepless nights. A late-night FaceTime call turns into comfort, laughter, and sweet flirting that reminds you love can stretch across any miles.
CW: None :)
A/N: I love writing for this AU so if you guys have any more ideas for them please send them to me thank youuuuu xxx
The tour bus hummed beneath you as it hurtled through the endless stretch of highway, the lights of distant towns flashing past like little promises you couldn’t reach. You stared out the window at the dark, velvety sky, the emptiness echoing the knot twisting in your chest.
Sophie, Jake, and Sean were dozing, sprawled across the seats in various states of comfort, but sleep wouldn’t come for you. Your phone rested on your lap, screen dark, and you felt that familiar ache of absence.
Elijah.
You two had been inseparable back when Inhaler had been touring and you guys were their opening act—late-night pizza boxes and endless laughter backstage, the quiet hum of shared music in hotel rooms. Now, things were different. He and the lads were home, finally taking a break they’d earned. And then there was you, halfway across the world, filling venues larger than the last tour, yet somehow still feeling smaller than when you’d left.
You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over his name. You wanted to reach out, to tell him how much you missed him, but every message felt inadequate, every “I love you” too heavy with unspoken frustration. You could hear his laugh in your mind, see the way he scrunched his nose when he was focused—little details that used to comfort you but now stung, a reminder that you weren’t there with him.
A quiet knock on the back lounge door pulled you from your thoughts. Sophie leaned against the frame, hair messy from a nap, eyes soft but knowing.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
You shrugged, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Just tired, I guess.”
She didn’t press, just sat next to you, nudging your shoulder gently. “You’ve been staring at your phone for hours. It’s not just tired.”
Her words hit harder than you’d expected. You hated admitting how much this distance was getting to you, hated how vulnerable it made you feel—but you also hated lying to your friends.
“I… I miss him,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the drone of the bus. “I thought I’d get used to this, but I can’t. Not like this.”
Sophie gave your hand a squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s hard. You’re allowed to feel it.”
You nodded, grateful, though the ache didn’t leave. Your phone buzzed suddenly, Elijah’s name lighting up the screen. A picture—him on the couch, his guitar on his lap, shirtless, a silly grin.
Wish you were here xxx
You smiled, a little laugh escaping you despite the tightness in your chest. He always knew how to reach you, even from thousands of miles away.
You typed back quickly:
Wish I was there too xxx
It wasn’t enough. It never was. But it was something. A thread between you both, fragile but unbroken, stretching across the miles.
You leaned back, phone warm in your hand, heart a little lighter. Distance didn’t feel any easier, but for the first time in hours, it felt survivable.
Because no matter how far apart you were from each other, you were still tethered. Still the couple everyone knew. Attached at the hip.
You hovered over the text you sent, wondering if you should say more. But before you could overthink it, the phone buzzed again—this time, with an incoming FaceTime call.
Your heart lurched, and you swiped to answer with shaky hands.
“Hey, stranger,” Elijah’s voice filled the small space, warm and teasing. His face came into focus, hair falling into his eyes, the familiar background of his bedroom at his parents house behind him.
Sophie poked her head in your personal space just as the call connected. She caught sight of the screen, her mouth curving into a wicked little smile.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” she whispered dramatically, wiggling her brows before slipping out of the back lounge and shutting the door.
You couldn’t help laughing, even as your throat tightened. “Sorry about her.”
Elijah grinned. “God, I love her. She keeps you honest.” His eyes softened as he leaned closer to the camera. “But… you don’t look okay.”
You hesitated, the mask of I’m fine so close to slipping into place. But he knew you too well.
“I’m… trying,” you admitted, voice quiet. “I thought the distance would get easier, but it feels heavier every day. I’m proud of what we’re doing, but sometimes it feels like I left half of me back in Dublin.”
His expression melted into something tender. He rested his chin on his hand, listening the way he always did when he wanted you to feel heard. “You didn’t leave half of you,” he said softly. “You’re still whole. Just tired. And missing home. Missing me.”
“Of course I’m missing you,” you whispered, blinking back the sting of tears.
“I’m missing you too,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But we’re stronger than the miles. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting. With the best cup of hot chocolate you’ve ever had with extra marshmallows and probably a burnt pizza.”
That made you laugh, a wet sound, but real. “That’s not much of a welcome.”
“It’s our welcome,” he countered, eyes glinting. Then his voice softened again. “I don’t need you to be strong all the time, you know. Just be you. That’s enough.”
You both stayed silent for a minute, just staring at each other through the screen. God you loved him, so much it made your soul feel like it was leaving your body.
Elijah tilted the camera as he stretched out on his bed, giving you that lazy grin that always made your heart skip. “You know,” he said, “Mum and Dad keep asking when you’re coming back. They miss you almost as much as I do.”
You smiled, soft and sad all at once. “You know Ali makes the best shepherd’s pie. No one feeds me properly out here. I swear it’s just crisps and energy drinks keeping me alive.”
He laughed, that rich sound that felt like home. “Don’t let her hear that. She’ll have me shipping dinners to you on dry ice.” His expression softened. “They really do miss you, though. Mum keeps saying the house is too quiet without you dropping by. And Dad—” he smirked—“he pretends he doesn’t notice, but he asks about you all the time.”
Warmth spread through you at the thought. You hadn’t realized how much you missed them, too.
You shifted on the couch, tucking your knees up to your chest. “I’ve not been sleeping much,” you admitted, voice lower. “The bus never stops moving, and my head just… won’t shut off.”
His brow furrowed, but his voice stayed gentle. “Baby… you should’ve told me sooner. I’d have sung you to sleep every night.” He tilted the phone closer to his lips. “Want me to try now?”
You laughed, cheeks heating. “You’ll wake up the whole band.”
“Good,” he teased. “Let ’em know I’ve got you.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the brewing grin. “Cocky.”
“You love it,” he shot back, eyes glinting.
You bit your lip, warmth pooling throughout your body. “Maybe I do.”
There was a beat of quiet, both of you just drinking each other in across the screen. His voice dropped, lower, teasing. “You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m never letting you back on stage again. Gonna lock you in my room and keep you all to myself.”
Your laugh bubbled out, flustered but giddy. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” he said simply, no hesitation, his grin softening into something that stole your breath.
You tucked your face into your hand, heart hammering. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m trapped on a bus with three other nosy idiots.”
“Then hang up,” he teased, smirk widening. “But you won’t.”
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I won’t.”
You talked like that for hours—sweetness laced with banter, his voice steady in your ear until your eyelids grew heavy. The last thing you remembered was his voice, soft and playful, promising he’d still be on the call when you woke up.
And he was.
Just like he’d promised.
Because when it came to you, Elijah Hewson always kept his promise.
Summary: It’s been weeks since you and Eli tried to have a conversation about your feelings for each other, and another sleepless night alone leaves you feeling emotional and in need of his company…
Warnings: A lot of emotions, fluff, some smut, just two cutie pies feeling their feelings.
A/N: I loved writing two parts for this. This is my first time dabbling in smut so hopefully you guys like it and it’s not too terrible xxx
The hum of the city outside the hotel room window was the only sound in the room. Vienna was starting to fall asleep, but you weren’t.
You lay under the covers, your comfort blankets since birth lay by your head, arms folded tightly across your chest as you stare at the ceiling like that could keep your thoughts from running off into places they shouldn’t. Places that always led back to him.
To Elijah.
It had been weeks since that night you and Eli tried to open up. Since his eyes and words practically burned a hole in your soul. Since he admitted it—what you both knew, what you both felt.
But nothing had changed. Not really. No lines crossed. No kisses stolen. Just this… unbearably tender limbo.
And tonight, it was too much.
You threw the covers off and sat up, rubbing your face like you could scrub the emotion away. You padded across the cold floor, slipped on a pair of cotton shorts, and walked out into the hallway, barefoot and half-afraid of your own impulse.
His door was only a few steps away. You didn’t knock right away. You stood there, knuckles hovering, wondering if this was stupid. If you were about to ruin everything.
But then again… maybe not knocking was what had been ruining it all along.
Your knuckles rapped gently.
A beat. Then another.
Shuffling. The click of a lock. And then his face—sleepy, warm-eyed, hair wild from sleep.
“Hey,” he mumbled, blinking. “You okay?”
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. I mean, no. I need… couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t ask anything else. He just opened the door wider and let you in.
His room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow over the unmade bed and his scattered belongings—rings on the nightstand, a piece of paper folded neatly beside a half-empty water bottle. You sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled under you. He sat beside you without question.
“You want to talk?” He asked, voice low.
You looked down at your hands. “I think I do. But I don’t know how.”
He was quiet, letting the silence stretch. Not in a pressuring way—he never did that. Just letting you breathe.
And then finally, you spoke.
“It’s weird,” you said. “I think I’ve been in love before. A few times. I thought I knew what it felt like. But then you came along, and now it’s like I’m realising I’ve never actually… let anyone love me.”
He didn’t interrupt. You kept going, heart racing.
“And I don’t mean that in a poetic way. I mean, every time something got too real, I’d pull away. Or they would. And I told myself that was normal. That I was too much. Or not enough. Or that no one sticks around anyway.”
You felt your throat tighten, tears pricking. You swallowed hard.
“But this… you… I think I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And that scares the shit out of me, Eli. Because if this fails—if we fail—I don’t know what that would do to me.”
You looked at him properly, finally. And he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way—barefoot, in a crumpled t-shirt, black boxers, eyes glassy, jaw tight with emotion he hadn’t let out yet.
He reached for your hand, gently. Like you were something incredibly fragile.
Which in some ways, you were.
“I’m scared too,” he whispered. “I think about it all the time. How easy it would be to mess this up. But then I think about how much harder it would be to live with myself if I never tried.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I love you,” he said. “And I don’t just mean I love you like a best friend, which you are, or like I care about you in some quiet, convenient way. I mean I love you. Like a lot, in a terrifying and real way.”
A tear slid down your cheek, and he caught it with his thumb.
“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered, breath hitching. “I just need you to stick around, that’s all.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, firm but soft. “Not unless you tell me to.”
You shook your head gently, a small smile appearing across your lips. “I don’t think that would ever happen. I like you too much to do that.”
He didn’t say anything back to that, his eyes just glossed over, a small but gentle smile showing. His heart soared whenever he looked at you, but in this moment, there was something different there. Something stronger.
"I keep thinking about that night," you say, almost a whisper. "When we were practically on our own and you were helping me with the boxes."
He nods, lips pressing together as his eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips. "Yeah. Me too."
You swallow hard. "I thought you were going to kiss me. Or at least you wanted to kiss me."
"I wanted to," he admits. "Still do."
Your eyes stared deep into his soul in that moment.
He's looking at you like the only thing that would ease his racing mind is to just jump in your bones then and there.
You take in a breath, moving over closer to him on the bed. "Then do it."
He doesn't rush. His hand cups your cheek gently, thumb tracing your skin like he's learning it. You can feel the hesitation in him, the waiting—giving you time to pull away. But you don't.
The kiss is soft. Warm. The kind that doesn't need urgency to be overwhelming. It tastes like all the things you've been holding back—longing, affection, fear. Hope.
When he pulls away from your lips, he just looks at you. Admires you like you've just painted the entire sky.
"I've tried so hard not to want this," you manage to croak out.
"Me too," he breathes, brushing his lips against yours again. "It didn't fucking work."
You barely notice when both hands settle on your face, or how yours tangle into the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the heat of his skin. The kiss deepens. His tongue slides softly against yours, and your breath hitches.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he says, voice low.
You shake your head, whispering, "Don't stop. Please."
He kisses you again, slower this time—savouring you. His hands, warm and grounding, trail down you face, to your shoulders, down your sides, thumbs brushing under the hem of your sleep shirt. He pauses at the edge of it.
"Is it okay if I...you know?" he murmurs against your lips.
You nod. He lifts the shirt slowly, as if undressing you is a privilege, not a right. The fabric slips over your head, and you're left bare from the waist up. He exhales softly—not a groan, not a gasp, but something reverent. Like awe.
"You're so beautiful," he says, like he's only just realising it now, even though he's looked at you every day for who knows how long at this stage.
You reach for the hem of his shirt in return. He helps you tug it off while you try your best to move onto the bed properly, relaxing against the headboard without embarrassing yourself. But it's Elijah, nothing you do could ever be embarrassing to him.
As he followed your movements, hovering over you comfortably, you couldn't help but stare at him. It made you ache physically in your chest over how much you loved this boy.
Your hands explore first—fingers trailing over his stomach, up to his chest, tracing the light line of hair down the centre. He shoulders stiffen under your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as if the moment is too much to hold still.
Then his mouth is on your collarbone, then down—slow, deliberate. He kisses across your chest before taking one nipple into his mouth, tongue warm, lips soft. You sigh, your back arching, hand threading into his curls.
"Eli..."
The way his name sounds on your lips makes him groan—not loudly, but like he's letting go of something he's been holding back. He gives the same attention to the other breast, the pleasure of it all making you feel free. It's not rushed. It's worship.
One hand drifts downward, brushing the edge of your waistband.
His voice is lower now. "Still okay?"
"Yes," you breathe, almost desperate.
He kisses your stomach, each inch down feeling like fire and silk. Then he slides your sleep shorts and underwear down together, slow enough that you feel every movement, every inch of his gaze on you.
Once you're completely bare, he sits back for a second. Just looks at you. Not like he's judging—like he's stunned.
"Fuck," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You're..."
You reach for him, needing him closer. He presses back into you, kissing you harder than before, full of the ache that's been building since you met each other. His hand trails down your thigh, between your legs, fingers brushing where you need him most.
You inhale sharply at the first real contact. He strokes you slowly, deliberately, finding your rhythm. Your hips move along with his hand, every wave of pleasure overwhelming to you.
You bury your face in his neck, moaning softly as he keeps going, his free hand tangled with yours beside your head.
"You're everything to me," he whispers, kissing your jaw, your ear. "Fuck, I love you."
You whimper, lifting your hips slightly as his finger hits the soft spot that makes you see stars. He watches your face every time you pull away from his neck, needing to see how you react, what you need.
The tension builds quickly, your body coiled tight, every nerve alight under his careful touch.
"Elijah," you say again, eyes fluttering. "I'm—"
"I know," he says gently, capturing your lips with his own. "I've got you."
It hits you all at once—a slow-blooming warmth that takes over your whole body, crashing in waves. You tremble against him, hand gripping his arm, your moans and whimpers muffled against his shoulder.
He holds you the whole time, not stopping until you're done shaking, until your breathing slows. He kisses your hair, still tangled with you, but not asking for more. He doesn't need anything from you. Not tonight. Just being there is enough.
—————————————————
Your body is still humming, warm and pliant from his touch, but it's the stillness after it all that surprises you the most.
There's no awkwardness. No tension. Just the quiet of the Venetian night seeping through the open window, and the slow rhythm of Elijah's breathing against your back.
You're both tangled beneath the hotel sheets now. One of Eli's arms is slung lazily around your waist, hand resting on your stomach, fingertips making small, absent circles against your skin. His chest is pressed along your spine, bare and solid and grounding.
"I don't think I've ever... felt like that with someone before," you murmur after a long silence.
His voice is soft, close to your ear. "Like what?"
"Like it meant something." You pause. "Like I could just...fall apart and not be afraid."
He doesn't say anything right away. He shifts, pulling you even closer, and presses a kiss just below your ear.
"It did mean something," he says. "It means everything to me."
You roll over to face him, nose to nose now in the low light. His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear, like he hasn't looked away from you since the moment you walked into his hotel room.
"I was scared," you admit, again.
He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing over your cheek. "I know, gorgeous."
You smile, a little sad and a little shy. "So what now?"
He laughs—a quiet, breathy sound. "Now I keep you here with me. If that's okay."
You nod, already curling closer, your leg sliding between his. "That's more than okay."
You fit perfectly. It's cliche, but true. His hand finds yours under the duvet, lacing your fingers together.
For a while, you both just lie there. The silence is thick but comfortable. No more what-ifs or almosts. Just his steady heartbeat under your palm and the scent of warn skin and laundry-soft sheets.
"I wish we didn't have to leave Vienna tomorrow," you whisper.
"Then stay in bed with me all morning," he replies. "We'll pretend we have nowhere better to be, hm?"
Your lips find his again—not rushed, not hungry. Just a simple kiss to say thank you, I see you, I want this forever.
When you fall asleep, it's with your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his breath in your hair, and the unspoken truth finally settled between you both:
Summary: You’re Inhaler’s merchandise manager, and over the time you’ve been working with them you’ve become best friends with all of them, but you and Elijah have a different kind of bond that’s always on both your minds….
Warnings: none at all! Fluff and maybe some angst but not really
A/N: I’m thinking of doing a couple of parts for this so hopefully it goes down well with you guys! Xxx
The crowd had finally thinned. The stage was empty except for a few leftover water bottles, stray picks, and the hum of amps cooling down.
You were at the back of the venue, wrestling an oversized box of hoodies into a what you liked to call “wardrobe on wheels” to fit it into the added on storage compartment of the tour bus.
Your hoodie sleeves were rolled up, your cheeks flushed from both adrenaline and exhaustion. It had been another sold-out night.
“You ever take a break?” Elijah’s voice cut through the low buzz of the night, teasing and warm.
You turned, still slightly out of breath. “Only when I’m dead or unconscious. You guys sold nearly everything tonight.”
He grinned, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Because you’re a merch wizard.”
You rolled your eyes, half-smiling. “Wizard? You’ve been watching too many fantasy shows with Josh again.”
There was a pause between you—comfortable but electric. You felt it more often lately. Every look lingered longer, every inside joke hit deeper. You were used to being close; tour life made intimacy unavoidable. But this…this was different. Sharper. Softer.
You became their tour manager at the very start of the cuts and bruises tour. Something about being two years younger than them felt scary, you were worried they’d treat you like a child, but no, the treated you like a long time friend.
Having Rob, Ryan, Josh, and Louis as new best friends made your heart feel so full. But, Elijah. That was always a different story. He was special, and your friendship was very important but sometimes complicated, because the feelings you two had for each other were hiding in glass closets.
Elijah moved closer, helping you shove the last box inside the moveable wardrobe. “You know,” he said quietly, “we’re only this organised because of you.”
You looked up, his face a little too close. “And you’re only still awake because of me.”
You locked up the moveable compartment and started pushing it to towards the front of the venue to head to the bus for the night, and of course, Eli didn’t hesitate to follow.
He laughed, then faltered—like he wanted to say more. Like the words were pressing against his teeth.
“I—“ he started, but was cut off by a sudden burst of squeals from across the road when you exited the venue. A handful of fans has spotted the two of you. Phones were already up, cameras ready to flash.
You took a step back instinctively. “Guess your fan club’s clocked out late.”
Eli didn’t move away. He leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “They’re not the ones I’m thinking about.”
You met his eyes, searching. He looked nervous. Hopeful.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said. “About…us. But I didn’t want to mess up what we have.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Me too. I’ve been thinking about it, I mean. About you.”
And then the moment hung there—between merch crates and late-night fans, between the buzz of post-show energy and something much more fragile.
You both smiled, just slightly. Nothing decided yet, but something acknowledged. Finally.
A shout from Ryan inside the bus broke the silence. “Can you two stop staring at each other and get in here!? The pizza will be fucking freezing if yous don’t hurry up!”
You both laughed, brushing shoulders as he went inside and you loaded everything onto the back of the bus before joining them.
Tomorrow, maybe, there’d be a real conversation. But tonight, it was something to ease the subtle tension in your body.
—————————————
The next day started too early, like most days on tour. The bus was already humming down some narrow stretch of motorway when you wandered into the small kitchenette, hair still messy, hoodie halfway zipped, leaving it to hang off your shoulder which was a risky move.
You reached for the kettle like it was your lifeline. Your veins begging for a strong cup of coffee.
Elijah was already there, cross-legged on the booth seat, headphones around his neck and a notebook open beside his tea. You paused when your eyes met. He gave you a small smile—not the usual playful grin. This one was more careful. Maybe even nervous.
“Hey,” you said softly, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Hey,” he closed the notebook, fiddling with the edge. “You sleep?”
“Barely. You?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
Silence. Not awkward, just… waiting.
You finally broke it. “So. About last night.”
He looked up. “Yeah.”
You both paused again, like you were on the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.
“I meant what I said,” he began. “I’ve been thinking about you. About us. For a lot longer than I’d like to admit, actually.”
Your throat tightened just a little. “Me too. I’ve been scared to say anything. I didn’t want to mess things up.”
Elijah leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “You’re one of my best friends. But it’s also more than that. Every time something good happens on stage, or we hit a milestone… you’re the person I want to talk to first. That has to mean something.”
You swallowed. “It does. But we’re on the road all the time. This tour is chaos. And what happens if we try and it goes wrong? We still have another six months of buses, and green rooms, and sharing a bus.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I’ve thought about that too. I don’t want to pressure you. I just… I couldn’t not say it anymore.”
You nodded slowly, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “I’m glad you said something. I needed to hear it.”
“So what do we do?”
You shrugged, and your voice cracked just a little. “I don’t know. But maybe we don’t have to decide everything right now.”
Elijah’s expression softened. “Yeah. Okay. No pressure. No rush.”
A quiet settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t tense. It felt like something real was building—even if it didn’t have a label yet.
“Hey,” he added as you got up to refill your tea. “Whatever happens… I’ve got your back.”
You smiled without turning around. “Same here, always. You know that.”
how r u??? would u b able to write abt eli x reader in her own band before anyone knew they were together, like sneaking around ppl having suspicion and they end up getting caught sneaking in each others bunks on the tour bus??? i absolutely love this concept !!
This idea is so sweet I'm obsessed!!
I love how much you guys are loving this AU, keep sending the requests xxx
Our Little Secret - Eli Hewson
Summary: Read the request for the summary xx
Warnings: Only some explicit language but that’s it!
A/N: I’m so obsessed with writing this AU it’s so interesting to me 😭. Hope you guys enjoy this one xxx
You never thought sneaking around would become second nature, but here you were again—pressed against the side of your bands tour bus at nearly two in the morning, your skin slightly sticky from the humid air as you waited for Elijah to sneak out of Inhaler's tour bus.
He caught your eye from the shadows, his hood drawn low and a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. One hand lifted in a silent signal—ready.
You gave him the smallest nod and motioned for him to come over. He darted across the lot, silent as a phantom, and within seconds, he was by your side, laughing quietly as you tugged him up the bus stairs behind you.
"You know," he whispered once the door shut behind him, "for someone who's supposed to be an internationally touring artist, you're a terrible influence, my love."
You shot him a grin. "Oh, and you're not?"
Elijah leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Guilty."
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was hard to deny. Being with him felt like gravity—natural and inescapable. But it wasn't something the world knew. Not yet. Not while your careers were still carving themselves out in the spotlight. Not while people still scrutinised every word you said on stage, every word in interviews.
Your band has been opening up for Inhaler for nearly 3 months now. The guys—Sophie, your bassist; Jake, your guitarist; and Sean, your drummer—were all close with Elijah and the rest of the lads. You'd grown up alongside each other in the Dublin music scene, scrappy and loud, similar rehearsal spaces and cheap bar gigs.
But you and Elijah? That had only started around 5 months ago, in secret, during tour rehearsals and too many late-night writing sessions that ended in laughter and kisses whispered behind closed doors.
You weren't ready for that to be public. Neither was he.
Which made sneaking him onto your tour bus a terrible idea.
But tonight, for once, you didn't care.
You tiptoed through the narrow bus corridor, motioning Elijah to stay close behind. The rest of your band had turned in a while ago, their bunks lined up along the hall like stacked coffins (as Sophie would say). You held your breath, heart hammering, as you passed Sean's bunk—quiet, the curtain drawn. Safe.
Your bunk was at the very back—small, cramped, barely wide enough for you alone. But somehow, Elijah made it feel like a king-sized bed.
You pulled the curtain back and motioned for him to climb in first. He did, careful not to knock his head on the low ceiling. You followed, forgetting to tug the curtain shut, stifling a laugh as you settled beside him.
"Think we pulled it off?" he murmured, voice barely audible.
"I think we're—"
A cough. A shuffling sound.
You froze.
Then—click.
Light flooded the corridor.
Sean stood outside your bunk, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, holding a water bottle and blinking at you like he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming.
You and Elijah locked eyes, then looked back at Sean.
There was a beat of perfect, horrible silence.
"...Mate," Sean said, his voice flat. "You've got to be joking."
He just stared at the two of you, one brow slowly rising. Elijah was frozen mid-turn in your bunk, half-under the blanket, looking like a deer in headlights. You sat up a little, your head nearly brushing the ceiling.
"Okay," Sean sighed, rubbing at his face with one hand, "so either I'm hallucinating, or I've just walked into some fucked up form of band on band incest."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"...Surprise?" Elijah offered sheepishly, trying and failing to hide behind your shoulder.
Sean blinked. "I knew it. I fucking knew you two were sneaking around. Sophie owes me twenty quid."
You groaned and dropped your forehead to Elijah's shoulder.
Sean crossed his arms, clearly savouring the moment. "You really thought none of us would notice the constant vanishing acts? The giggling? The weirdly intense eye contact?"
"Excuse me, it's not weirdly intense," Elijah muttered.
"Right. Because regular friends eye fuck each other on the daily. Sure Eli, sure."
You peeked up at Sean. "Are you mad?"
He scoffed. "Mad? No. A little offended that you didn't trust us enough to know about it? Maybe." His tone softened a bit. "You're one of my best friends, you know. I've had front row seats for this slow-burn drama since day one. I just wish you'd told me before I caught you spooning like criminals."
You winced. "We just didn't want the tour to get weird."
"Eli literally sleeps with his socks on," Sean said, deadpan. "This is not what makes things weird."
Elijah sat up straighter, frowning. "Hey, my feet get cold—"
"Not the point, Hewson." Sean turned back toward the front of the bus, shaking his head with a smug smirk. "I'm telling the others in the morning. You two can have the pleasure of explaining yourselves."
You flopped back onto the mattress as Sean disappeared.
"...We're dead," you groaned.
"Yep, we're fucked," Elijah agreed.
You looked over at him. He grinned.
And then you both started laughing. Loud, breathless, absurd laughter that you tried—and failed—to muffle into the blanket.
————————————
The next morning, the band meeting (of both bands), was a scene.
Sean had gathered everyone around the little kitchenette like he was announcing a murder mystery. You and Elijah stood at the end of the narrow table, looking like guilty suspects.
Bobby blinked between the two of you, then leaned back. "Oh my God. Sean wasn't lying."
Jake sipped his coffee. "I thought you two had been dating this whole time."
You and Elijah looked at each other. "Wait, what?"
Elijah shrugged. "You're not exactly subtle, babe."
Ryan nodded slowly. "Remember in Prague? You guys got "lost" for like, two hours. In a hotel, may I add."
Sean added, "Or how Eli magically needed to borrow our van three separate times when we were off?"
You rubbed your temples. "How did you guys even piece this together?"
"We're not dumb," Sophie said. "You two just act like you're in a teen drama 24/7."
Josh looked at Sean. "So, do I still owe you that twenty?"
"No," Sophie cut in, "I do. I said they'd crack by the London shows. You said Berlin. It's Amsterdam. Middle ground."
You stared at them all. "Wait a second, all of you made bets."
Sean grinned. "Tour's long. Gotta have hobbies."
Elijah laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "And here I was thinking we were good at being discreet."
Sean reached into the fridge and tossed him a yogurt. "Next time, just tell us these things. We're your friends. We care. And honestly?" He pointed between the two of you. "You two are kinda gross. But in a sweet way, I guess."
———————————————
Later that night, after the show, you and Elijah managed to sneak away again—out onto the empty stage once the venue had cleared out, the echo of the final song still hanging in the rafters.
He took your hand as you walked across the scuffled floor.
"You think this changes things?" you asked, voice soft.
"With the guys? Nah," Elijah said. "They'll keep giving us hell, but they're happy for us."
You looked over at him. "And with us?"
He squeezed your hand. "It feels nice. Not having to hide it anymore. Not having to hide how we feel about each other. How I feel about you."
"Even if the rest of the world sticks their noses into every nitty gritty detail of our relationship?"
He nodded. "Let 'em think what they want. This—" He tugged you closer. "—this is just ours."
You smiled, resting your forehead against his.
Caught or not, the secret was out—and maybe that was okay.
Because now everyone gets to see just how much you love him.
And god, does that boy love you just as much in return.
hi would u b able to do an eli x reader where the reader suffers with an ed? if thats too much maybe one where she feels insecure w her body plz? <3
Hey, love!! As I mentioned a while ago I don't write in detail about suffering with EDs since it's something quite personal and sensitive for many people and me included, but I'm still going to write something on the lines of it that isn't overly distressing or mentions any specific EDs.
I hope you can understand and enjoy what I've written 😘❤🩹
I'm Still Here - Elijah Hewson
Summary: Based off the request above xxx
CW: Mentions of an eating disorder without actually labelling it, fighting between them due to the situation, reader has unhealthy habits, a lot of tension.
A/N: Please only read this if you’re not at risk of being triggered by this. Don’t push yourself to read something that makes you uncomfortable or might trigger you 💙
You don't hear the front door open — only the dull shuffle of Elijah's shoes hitting the hallway floor. The clink of his keys landing in the ceramic bowl by the coat rack. The soft, familiar sound of his breathing as he stands just out of your line of sight.
You're curled up on the couch, legs folded beneath you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, half-watching TV with the volume low. Some random cooking show flickers across the screen, a woman zesting a lemon, smiling brightly. You can't remember how long it's been on.
"Hey," Elijah says gently, stepping into the living room. "Didn't think you'd still be up."
You glance at the time on your phone. 12:08 AM. Late, but not unusual. He'd been at a studio session — not a big one, just something small with the band. Still, you stayed up. Out of habit more than anything.
"I couldn't sleep," you reply, your voice low.
Elijah nods, but he doesn't sit down right away. He studies you for a moment, eyes sweeping over your figure like he's cataloguing the way your hoodie hangs too loosely, the untouched mug of tea on the coffee table, the unopened granola bar next to it.
His bag slides off his shoulder and onto the floor. He crosses the room and sits down beside you, close but not pressing. His presence alone is grounding — warm and quiet and steady — but even that feels like too much sometimes.
"I missed you today," he says.
You nod, eyes still on the TV. "Missed you too."
Silence stretches between you — not tense, not hostile, but weighted. Like he's waiting. Like you're hiding.
Elijah leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You didn't eat today."
The sentence doesn't sound like an accusation. Just a fact. A fragile truth spoken aloud.
Your stomach twists. "I wasn't hungry."
He doesn't respond right away. He rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable — worried, tired, maybe even a little helpless.
"Love..." His voice is soft. "I know you think I don't notice. But I do."
You flinch. Your body feels like it's buzzing under your skin, like shame is trying to claw its way out.
"I've just been... tired," you say, but the lie tastes thin. You're not just tired. You're drained. Hollowed out. The mirror has become your worst enemy. Food has become a bargaining chip with your own mind. Every outfit, every photo, every meal — everything has turned into a battle.
Elijah shifts closer, resting a hand gently on your knee. "Can I ask something?"
You nod.
He swallows. "When did you stop liking yourself?"
The question splinters something inside of you.
You open your mouth, then close it again. Your vision blurs. You hadn't planned on crying, but your body doesn't seem to care what you planned.
"I don't know," you whisper. "It just... happened. One day I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. And it hasn't stopped since."
Elijah leans in, wrapping his arms around you carefully, like he's afraid you might break.
"You can't be shutting me out when it comes to things like this, and there's no fucking way I'm letting you deal with it alone either," he murmurs into your hair. "Even when it feels like you're alone. Even when your brain tells you I wouldn't understand — I'm still here."
You press your face into his shoulder. He smells like his cologne and the night air — safe, familiar, home.
"I don't want you to have to take care of me," you say. "It's not fair."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I want to be here. Not out of obligation. Because I love you." He brushes hair behind your ear. "But I'm scared. And I think you are too. It's been going on for way too long, gorgeous."
Something inside you stiffens. The warmth of his words doesn't sink in this time — instead, they spark something colder. Sharper. Like a nerve's just been exposed.
You pull your face away, subtly at first. He notices.
"I'm not scared...and it hasn't been going on for that long either," you mutter, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Okay," Elijah says gently. "Then maybe we can just... talk to someone? A GP, or maybe—"
"There's nothing wrong with me," you snap, more harshly than you meant to.
The room stills.
Elijah's face doesn't change much — not anger, not disappointment. Just this quiet, pained stillness behind his eyes. Like he's trying to not make it worse. Like he's used to stepping carefully around landmines now.
"I didn't say there was," he replies, his voice low and steady. "But you're hurting. And I don't know how to help you if you won't let me."
You cross your arms tightly over your chest, shrinking into yourself. The couch cushions seem too big now, the hoodie too thin. You hate the way your voice came out. You hate the way he's looking at you. You hate this conversation. You hate being like this.
"I said I was fine," you say again, colder now. "Why isn't that never enough for you?"
Elijah flinches — just barely, but enough that you notice. You wish you hadn't said it. You wish you'd said it worse. You don't know which.
A silence drapes itself over the room like a sheet.
You stare at the blank TV screen now, the reflection of your hunched body staring back at you in dark, glossy tones. You look small. Fragile. Angry. Lost.
"I'm not trying to push you," Elijah says finally, " but I'm watching the person I love the most disappearing in front of me."
Your throat tightens.
"I don't want to fix you," he adds. "I just want to see you smiled again."
You clench your jaw, blinking hard. "Then maybe stop acting like I'm some kind of problem."
"I don't think you're a problem," he says, sounding tired now. "I think you're in pain. And I'm not going to pretend not to see it just to make you more comfortable."
There it is — the crack in the wall. The fight that neither of you wanted, but both of you could feel coming.
"I didn't ask you to fix anything," you say, quieter now, but not softer. "I didn't ask for any of this."
Elijah exhales, sitting back a little. "No," he agrees. "You didn't. But I'm still here."
The silence this time isn't heavy. It's hollow.
After a minute, he stands. Picks up his bag from the floor. He doesn't storm out. He doesn't slam the door. He just looks at you like he's not sure where to go from here — not physically, but emotionally.
"I'll sleep in the spare room tonight," he says, carefully. "Not because I'm mad. Just... giving you space."
You don't answer. You watch him walk down the hall, the soft creak of the door closing behind him.
And then you're alone.
The apartment feels too quiet. Too large. And you sit there, motionless, in the echo of a love that tried to reach you and didn't quite make it.
————————————————
You lie on your side, facing the window, but not really seeing it. The streetlights outside cast soft orange lines across the bed sheets, striping the wall in long, melancholy shadows. The other side of the bed is still cold. Empty.
It's been hours since Elijah went into the spare bedroom and you entered yours. Hours since you said the kind of things that sit like stones in your chest after the anger fades. You don't know if he's asleep. You don't even know if you've blinked in the last twenty minutes. Time feels like something that's happening to someone else.
You shift, pressing your hand to the spot where he usually sleeps. You half expect it to be warm, for the smell of him to hit you instantly. But it doesn't.
And that — that's when something breaks.
You get up slowly. Quietly. Padding down the hallway in your socks like a ghost. The floorboards creak under your weight, a reminder that you're still here, still real, still tethered to the world by something other than your own thoughts.
The spare room door is half-closed. There's a faint glow from inside — not a lamp, just the hallway light casting a soft arc across the bed. Elijah's lying on top of the duvet, hoodie still on, one arm tucked under his head. He's not asleep.
He looks up the moment you open the door.
Neither of you speak right away.
Your voice, when it comes, is small. "Can I come in?"
He nods once. "Yeah."
You step inside, closing the door behind you. You don't go to him immediately. You stand near the wall, hands twisted in the hem of your sleep shirt, still unsure how to undo the distance between you.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," your murmur.
He sits up slowly, his hair tousled, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and whatever he's been holding in. "I know."
You take a shaky breath. "You were right. About... all of it. I just didn't want to hear it."
He gestures towards the bed. "Come here?"
You hesitate — just for a moment — then cross the room and sit beside him. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
"I'm scared," you admit, barely audible. "I said I wasn't, but I am. I'm scared of needing help. Of what people will think. Of what it means if something is really wrong with me."
He doesn't rush to fill the silence. He lets your words settle.
Then: "It doesn't mean you're broken. It just means you're hurting."
You nod slowly, eyes starting to burn again. "I just... I don't want to lose you. And I feel like I'm ruining everything."
"You're not ruining anything," he says softly. "You're just going through something. And yeah, it's hard. But I'd rather go through something hard with you than pretend it's not happening."
Your throat tightens. You look at him, and he's already looking at you — not with pity, not with pressure. Just with that same quiet steadiness that's always been there.
"Can we just sleep? I'm tired of moving tonight." You whisper.
He doesn't answer. He just pulls the blanket back and opens his arms.
You crawl in, curling against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, like muscle memory, like breathing. He doesn't press anymore questions. Doesn't bring up the GP. Doesn't say we'll fix this.
Instead, he just holds you. Grounding you. Keeping you here.
And somewhere between the rise and fall of his breathing, your body unclenches for the first time in days. Not healed. Not whole. But not alone either.
You don't say I'm sorry.
You don't say I promise.
You just whisper:
"I'm still here."
And Elijah's arms tighten around you as he whispers back:
