#feely x reader

Arguing with Patrick Feely felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a thunderstorm—one moment it was all wind and the scent of salt in the air, thrilling and alive, and the next you were being hurled into crashing waves below. It always started quietly, cautiously. Like two people trying not to wake a sleeping giant. But inevitably, one word—just one—would send everything spiraling.

You had been standing in the middle of his bedroom when it happened. The place was dimly lit, only the soft golden glow of the old lamp on his nightstand throwing pools of light on the deep navy walls. His guitar leaned lazily against the edge of the bookshelf, schoolbooks were strewn across the desk in his usual half-chaotic fashion. It smelled like sandalwood and something sweet—his cologne. Familiar, comforting, even when everything else felt sharp.

“You’re being crazy!”

There it was. The word. That word.

You froze. Your body stiffened like you’d just walked into icy water. You blinked once, then again, like if you did it enough times, the sting behind your eyes would go away.

He realized it the moment it left his mouth. His expression shifted, regret flickering in his dark eyes for just a second. But then, as always, pride got in the way.

“Oh, I see. Sorry for trying to be enough for Patrick fucking Feely,” you said, voice trembling like the air before a storm. You folded your arms tightly over your chest, more to keep yourself from shaking than anything else.

“Maybe stop trying so hard,” he snapped, tone sharp. “It’s suffocating. You’re suffocating.”

You flinched. Your lip trembled before you could stop it. “That’s mean, Pat. You’re being mean.”

“No, I’m not being mean. I’m being real,” he said, taking a step away, as if distance would soften the blow. “Ever since you came back from Dublin, you’ve been… different. I can’t deal with this right now. I should go.”

Oh, that’s how it is…

“Yeah,” you whispered, though your heart was roaring. “Yes, you should.”

He didn’t look at you again. Just turned, grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair, and left. The door slammed behind him, vibrating through your bones.

For a few moments, you just stood there, staring at the space he left behind. His scent still lingered in the air. His hoodie was still draped over the edge of the bed. There was an empty mug on the nightstand—he’d made you tea that morning. That version of him, the one who made tea and sang you songs when you couldn’t sleep, felt like a ghost now.

You dropped onto the bed, knees folding in, your back curling like a dying leaf. Then the tears came. Not the pretty kind. The ugly, heaving, choking kind. The kind that leaves your face blotchy and your chest hollow. You weren’t even crying over the fight—you were crying because you believed him. Because deep down, that small, cruel voice in your head had been whispering the same thing for weeks: You’re too much.

The next day at Tommen was a blur. The school looked the same, but everything felt different. The halls were filled with laughter and chatter, but it passed over you like smoke. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the floor tiles like they held all the answers.

In class, you sat next to Shannon, who was practically glowing as she spoke about her weekend in Dingle with Kav. Her fingers twisted through her curls as she described the seaside cottage, the firelit dinners, the moonlit walks on the shore. You nodded along, offered smiles in the right places, but your mind was elsewhere. Stuck on that moment in Patrick’s room. That word. Crazy.

You didn’t look behind you, because you knew. You could feel him. That strange gravity Patrick Feely always carried—his stare burning holes in the back of your neck. But he didn’t approach. And neither did you.

The walk home was miserable. A thin drizzle coated the streets in a slick sheen, and the grey sky seemed to mirror your mood perfectly. The route along the canal was usually your favorite—lined with cherry trees and little stone benches—but today it felt too open, too exposed. Like the world was watching you unravel.

That night, sleep never came. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the rotations of the fan, your thoughts spiraling faster than the blades. You didn’t eat. You skipped your meds. You drowned yourself in schoolwork, hoping to quiet the noise.

But Patrick’s voice kept echoing.

The third day after the fight, something snapped. You grabbed your coat, pulled on his hoodie—you hadn’t been able to stop wearing it, no matter how much it hurt—and left your house with no real destination in mind. Your feet just… moved.

You ended up at the lake.

It was raining again. Not a drizzle—proper Irish rain, coming down in sheets. The kind of rain that soaked you through no matter how fast you ran. But you didn’t run. You walked slowly, letting the cold water seep into your shoes, your hair plastering to your face, your fingers trembling.

The lake was surrounded by trees, dark and wild, the kind that seemed to hold secrets. You’d come here with him before. Once, after a particularly bad anxiety attack, he’d brought you here. Sat you on a blanket, wrapped you in his arms, and talked about nonsense until you smiled.

Now you stood on the edge, arms wrapped around your own body, sobbing so hard it felt like your ribs might crack. “You said you’d never leave when it got hard,” you whispered to no one, voice raw.

“I didn’t,” came a voice behind you.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned.

The rain came down harder now, like the sky itself was falling apart. Cold water streamed down your back, soaking Patrick’s hoodie clinging to your frame, and yet you barely noticed. Every nerve in your body was locked on him.

Patrick stood just a few feet away, chest rising and falling beneath his drenched T-shirt, jaw tense, fists clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust his own body not to reach for you.

“I didn’t leave,” he said again, hoarse.

You blinked at him, raindrops mingling with the tears on your cheeks. “You walked out, Patrick. You let me fall apart. You let that word leave your mouth and then you just… left.”

“I know,” he whispered, as if even saying it caused him physical pain. “I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now. I’ve been carrying it around since I closed that fucking door. I wanted to turn around the second I left.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

His eyes searched yours, helpless and hollow. “Because I’m a coward. Because loving you means seeing parts of myself I don’t like. Because sometimes you look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together, and it scares the hell out of me. Because I didn’t think I deserved to be your person. Not when I couldn’t fix what was hurting you.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” you said, voice cracking. “I just needed you to stay. Even if I was messy. Especially because I was messy.”

“I know. I know that now. And I am so—” he stepped forward, his voice breaking—“so sorry I made you think you weren’t enough. You’re not suffocating. You never were. I was drowning in my own fear and I lashed out like a bloody coward.”

Your bottom lip trembled, and you bit it hard to keep it from fully quivering. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. How even now, after everything, you still wanted to run to him and bury yourself in the comfort of his arms.

But he saw it—the flicker of hope in your eyes—and that’s all he needed.

He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

You didn’t stop him.

“I miss you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I miss you so much it physically hurts. I miss your laugh. Your weird obsession with that ridiculous cardigan. The way you whisper my name when you’re half asleep. I miss us, and I know I don’t deserve to ask you to forgive me but—”

You reached out before he could finish.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him the final inch toward you until your foreheads touched. His breath hitched as he leaned into the contact, eyes fluttering closed.

“I hate how much I love you,” you whispered.

A single breath passed between you.

Then your lips crashed into his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft or pretty. It was desperate. Like kissing him was the only way to stop the ache in your chest. Like if you didn’t kiss him now, your bones might shatter from the weight of missing him.

He groaned into your mouth, one hand flying to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your soaked hair as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His other hand found your waist, pulling you tightly against him, like he couldn’t stand even a millimeter of distance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your lips between kisses. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You kissed him again, harder, your hands framing his face. “You hurt me,” you whispered against his skin.

“I know,” he said, eyes red, voice barely holding it together. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. His breath hitched under your touch.

“I don’t want promises,” you said. “I just want you. Real. Scared. Messy. But here.”

“I’m here,” he breathed. “God, I’m so here.”

And then you kissed again slower this time. Painful in its tenderness. His lips moved like he was trying to memorize the shape of yours all over again, like every second he’d gone without you was being rewritten in that moment.

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Your eyelids. Reverent. Apologetic. Devoted.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m the worst version of myself. Even when you can’t see it. I love you.”

You let yourself fall into him completely, arms wrapping around his waist as he buried his face in your neck, holding you like he was afraid the wind would tear you from him if he let go.

And there, standing in the rain by the lake—two heartbreaks stitched together with saltwater and apologies—you knew you were choosing each other again.

Not because it was easy.

Patrick Feely was lying flat on his back, the bedroom dim and musty, thick with the stale stench of booze and damp clothes. The bottle of Jameson lay half-crushed under his shoulder blade, long forgotten. He didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Downstairs was hell.

His da was shouting again—something about respect, or lack of it. Something about someone not pulling their weight. The telly was blaring louder than it needed to be, his sisters huddled on the sofa like they could disappear into the cushions. His ma was clanging pots around the kitchen, wordless and worn down, too tired to intervene.

And him?

He lay there like a fucking ghost. Breathing, but not really alive.

He didn’t want to think about you. But Christ, that was a lost cause.

You were everywhere. In the cracked photo on his dresser. In the hoody still hanging on his door that smelled like the vanilla lip balm you used to steal from Penneys. In the song that had come on the radio earlier and nearly knocked him sideways with the memory of your laugh in his passenger seat, wind in your hair, fingers laced with his over the gearstick.

He hadn’t touched his phone in three weeks. Couldn’t bear to see your name. Couldn’t bear not to.

But tonight?

Tonight he was weak.

He called.

And when you answered after the third ring, his heart shattered all over again.

“Pat?”

Your voice was quiet. Cautious. Laced with the kind of worry he used to crave—before he started resenting it, pushing it away.

“Yeah. I’m… I’m grand,” he said, and even he didn’t believe it. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

A long pause. Then:

“Are you sober?”

He closed his eyes, swallowed. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, Patrick. It does.”

“Don’t—” his voice cracked. “Don’t call me that. Not like that. You never used to—”

“It doesn’t matter what I call you anymore, does it?” you snapped. “You made sure of that.”

He flinched. His fingers tightened around the phone. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” you cut in. “You always mean to. You hurt me, Pat. Again and again. And you never look back.”

“I do look back,” he said fiercely. “Every fucking night.”

“Then why do you only ever call when you’re pissed and lonely? Why am I your rock when you need me and a ghost the second you’re sober?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not fair,” you said, voice trembling now. “You wreck me and then disappear. And I keep letting you come back. I let you ruin me because I love you and you know it.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I don’t want ‘sorry,’ Patrick. I wanted you. Sober. Trying. Here.”

“I know,” he said. “And I ruined it.”

“You did.”

A pause.

“I still love you.”

“Then let me go.”

Click.

The next morning came grey and heavy, rain slicking the city in a way that made everything look bruised. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. His voice had echoed in your skull all night. The way he said your name. The pathetic apology. The way he whispered I love you like it could fix the crater he’d carved into your chest.

You weren’t going to see him.

You weren’t.

You told yourself that all morning as you paced the kitchen, ignored your phone, and finally pulled on your coat to “get some air.” That’s all it was. Air.

But somehow your feet took you to the exact place you swore you’d never go again—the corner shop by Thomas Street. The one where he always ended up, shame-faced and half-alive, gripping a breakfast roll and a bottle of Lucozade like they’d soak up the poison he kept feeding himself.

And sure enough—there he was.

Hood up. Head down. Hair wet and curls matted to his forehead. He looked like a kicked dog. Pale, tired, shattered.

When he looked up and saw you, something in his eyes broke.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said.

“Neither was I.”

Silence.

He looked down at his shoes like they’d betrayed him. “I meant what I said last night. About loving you.”

“You don’t get to say that anymore,” you replied, tone sharp as glass. “Not after what you did. Not after everything.”

He took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know how to love you the right way.”

“That’s a cop out, Pat.”

“It’s the truth,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “You think I wanted to be this broken? You think I liked dragging you into the mess of me?”

“No,” you said. “But you did it anyway. You let me hold the weight of your trauma and then blamed me when it crushed you.”

His jaw clenched.

“I begged you to talk to me,” you continued. “To let me in. And you shut the door. Again and again. And now you’re what? Standing in the rain hoping for a miracle?”

“I’m standing here because I’ve got fuck-all else left,” he said hoarsely. “Because I’ve spent the last three weeks choking on everything I never said, and you’re the only thing I still believe in.”

Your eyes burned.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“I can’t let you go,” he said, stepping forward. “I won’t. Not without trying. Not without fighting.”

“Oh, now you want to fight?” you laughed bitterly. “You’re months too late, Feely.”

“I know. And I’ll crawl if I have to. I’ll grovel. I’ll beg. I’ll spend the rest of my bleeding life making up for what I did—just please, don’t walk away. Not for good.”

Your chest heaved with the weight of it all. The ache. The fury. The love that refused to die.

“I hate you,” you said, voice trembling.

“Then scream at me,” he said. “Tell me I ruined you. Tell me I’m a bastard. Just don’t pretend you don’t still feel this.”

He closed the space between you.

And when his hands touched your face—rough, trembling—you should’ve pushed him away.

But you didn’t.

Because when his lips crashed into yours, all that rage and sorrow melted into something deeper. The kiss was desperate. Angry. Full of teeth and tears. You gripped his hoodie like you could rip him in half and put him back together again. Like he might fall apart if you let go.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, rain dripping off both of you like some kind of baptism.

“I’m going to get better,” he said, voice wrecked. “For you. For me. I swear it.”

“We’ll see,” you murmured. “You’ll have to prove it.”

“I will,” he whispered. “Even if it kills me.”

And somehow, standing there in the cold rain, soaked through and trembling, it felt like the beginning.

Not an easy one.