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alohajix · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐚𝐩𝐞

Description: she said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself. The Casting Tape — you only need to watch it once to come back for more.

Warnings: this one-shot includes explicit sexual content, including fingering, oral sex (M/F), face-fucking, rough grinding, dirty talk, praise kink, light choking, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), and graphic language. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 7K.

I understand you guys really enjoyed “First Time for Everything”. So here’s a new one-shot I've been working on for a while, featuring pornstar!harry once again.

please enjoyyy💕

*****

I almost didn’t walk through the door. It looked too normal from the outside—just a nondescript black building sandwiched between a vape shop and a custom auto wrap place. No sign. No logo. Just a metal door and a tiny keypad. I stood there for a full minute, staring at my reflection in the door’s narrow glass panel, wondering what the hell I was doing. My fingers fidgeted with the zipper on my hoodie as I debated bailing. But then I remembered rent. And how many hours I’d spent reading that post.

“Paid casting opportunity. Professional, safe, filmed. No pressure to continue. Just be yourself.”

So I buzzed in. A soft click, and I stepped inside. The air was cool, sterile, quiet. A short hallway led to a room that looked more like a YouTube set than anything porn-related—white walls, gray backdrop, soft box lights aimed at a plain black leather couch. A camera was already set up on a tripod, its little red light blinking lazily like it was waiting. There was no one else in the room, just a low table with a water bottle and a clipboard. I approached it like it might bite.

“Hey there,” a voice called from behind me—low, male, casual. “You can grab a seat. We’ll start in a second.”

I turned to find a guy with a headset leaning against the doorframe, sipping coffee. He looked more like someone who worked in tech support than adult film, and he barely glanced at me. That helped a little. I gave him a tight smile and sat down on the couch, tucking one leg under the other. The camera stared back at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim skirt.

“You go by your real name or a stage name?” the voice asked.

I hesitated. “Stage name.”

He chuckled. “Smart. What should we call you?”

“…Lola.” I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t even know anyone named Lola.

“Cute,” he said. “Alright, Lola. We’re just gonna ask you a few questions. Keep your eyes on the camera, speak clearly, be yourself.”

I nodded once. The camera light turned solid red.

“Tell us how old you are and why you’re here.”

My voice came out a little too fast. “Twenty-two. I—uh—I heard about this through a friend of a friend. Thought it might be… interesting.”

“And have you done anything like this before?”

I forced a smile. “Not professionally.”

He chuckled again, friendly but disinterested. “Good answer. So—this is a soft casting. No pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We just want to see how you come across on camera. If it feels natural, maybe we’ll try a short chemistry test.”

My stomach flipped. “Chemistry test?”

“With a partner,” he clarified. “Clothed or not. Touching or not. Totally up to you.”

I swallowed hard. “And who’s the partner?”

“Hey, man,” the guy said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “You mind stepping in for a quick test?”

I didn’t hear footsteps. I felt them. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. And then I heard his voice.

“Yeah. I’ve got time.” I turned. And immediately forgot how to breathe.

He walked in wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tucked under a gray beanie, tattooed arms on full display. Calm. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. And when his eyes met mine—green, curious, knowing—I had to look away before I gave something away.

I knew who he was. Everyone who’s ever dipped into amateur porn knew who he was. He wasn’t just a pornstar—he was the pornstar. The one known for making people cry in the best way possible. The one who ruined girls for normal guys. The one I may or may not have watched the night I sent my application in.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice like silk. “I’m Harry.” Of course he was.

I tried to remember how to smile. “Hi.”

He looked me over—slowly, respectfully, but definitely. His gaze dragged from my hoodie to my bare thighs, then up to my lips before meeting my eyes again.

“You okay to keep going?” he asked. “Or just here to talk?” His tone was soft. Patient.

I bit my lip. I should’ve said no. I should’ve kept it simple. But the way he was looking at me… “Let’s try,” I said quietly.

His mouth curled into a half-smile. “We’ll go slow.”

He sat beside me on the couch, leaving just enough space between us that it felt intentional. His thigh brushed mine every time I shifted, and I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose—but I hoped it was.

The camera was still rolling. “You nervous?” he asked, his voice low and almost amused.

“A little,” I admitted. “You’re not exactly a nobody.”

He smiled at that—soft, slow, like he was letting the compliment soak into his skin.

“Well, I’ve done a few of these,” he said, tilting his body slightly toward me. “So if you want to stop at any point, you say the word. We good on that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Safe word or something?”

“We can use red. If you want to pause, say yellow. But honestly? Just talk to me. I listen.”

God, that shouldn’t have made my stomach twist—but it did. His hand landed gently on my knee. Just a touch. Nothing dirty. But the weight of it made my heart skip.

“Can I touch you a little more?” he asked.

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

He slid his hand up my thigh, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled around the bare skin just beneath the hem of my skirt. His pinky brushed the side of my underwear. He didn’t move further. He just… held me.

“See? You’re already shaking a little,” he said, voice soft like a secret.

“I’m not,” I lied.

His thumb moved lazily across my thigh. “You are. That’s okay, though. Nervous is normal. But you look good nervous.”

I smirked despite myself. “Is that your line?”

“No,” he said, leaning in just a little. “That’s the truth.”

His other hand reached up, fingers playing with the zipper of my hoodie. He didn’t pull it down right away—he just watched my face.

“Can I?”

I nodded again. “Yeah.”

He tugged the zipper down, slow as hell. I didn’t wear a bra on purpose—I’d told myself it was about being comfortable, but I’d also known what kind of job this was. I’d wanted to feel like I was ready for it, even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He pushed the hoodie off my shoulders, revealing my thin tank top underneath—white, ribbed, tight. My nipples were already hard beneath the fabric.

His eyes dropped for half a second. “Fuck.”

“What?” I teased.

“You’re hot.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Didn’t expect that.”

I grinned. “You didn’t look me up before this?”

He leaned closer, lips near my ear. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Fuck. That got to me. I shifted in my seat, squeezing my thighs together, and his hand didn’t miss it.

“You get turned on easily, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Only when someone says shit like that.”

He chuckled, and it vibrated straight through me. “Alright then. Let’s see how much you can take before we even get your clothes off.”

He turned to face me fully, his hand now resting between my thighs, thumb pressing lightly at the crease where leg met hip. I was still covered, but it felt dangerously intimate.

“Look at me,” he said. I did.

His hand moved to my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt. His palm was warm on my bare skin, fingertips grazing my ribcage, tracing just under the curve of my breast. His thumb brushed upward, catching the edge of my nipple through the fabric—and I gasped, barely holding still.

“Sensitive?” he asked, eyes still locked on mine. I nodded, biting my lip.

He pinched lightly—just enough to make me jerk—and then soothed the spot with his palm.

“You’re already breathing like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Maybe I just like the way you touch,” I whispered.

He grinned again. “Yeah?”

His other hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as he leaned in. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

I nodded. “Please.” And then he kissed me. Slow. Firm. One hand holding my jaw just right while the other teased under my shirt. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world. He tasted like mint and something just a little bit sweet—god, it was unfair how good he was at this.

My mouth opened for him on instinct, tongue brushing his as he deepened the kiss. I whimpered before I meant to, and he smiled against my lips.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He pulled me onto his lap. I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I felt his thighs beneath mine, the stretch of my skirt riding up, the thick press of him already hard beneath me.

“You wanna keep going?” he asked, hand splayed on my lower back.

“Yes.”

“You wanna keep your clothes on for now?”

I nodded again. “Let me stay like this.”

He gave a slow, approving nod. “Smart girl.”

I started to grind—tentatively, testing—and he held me tighter.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His hands stayed on my waist, guiding me. My panties were soaked through already, and he hadn’t even touched me properly. His cock pressed up against my center through both layers, and the friction was delicious.

“Feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered. I nodded. “Good. Don’t stop.” I didn’t.

I rocked against him slowly, rhythmically, trying to match the pace of his hands, trying not to let my moans get too loud. But the fabric was slick, and I was clenching around nothing, desperate for more. He leaned up to kiss me again, slower this time, while grinding back into me with little thrusts of his hips.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Using me to get yourself off. All clothed. So dirty, baby.”

God, baby—the way it rolled off his tongue nearly made me come.

“I wanna see you fall apart,” he said against my lips. “But not yet. Gotta take my time with you.”

I whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it to be unforgettable.”

I didn’t mean to drop to my knees. It just happened. One second, I was straddling him, moaning into his mouth, and the next, I was slipping down between his legs, hands trailing over his thighs like they belonged there. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word—just leaned back on the couch and watched me with that slow-burning smirk, his chest rising and falling like he already knew what I was going to do next.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice husky.

I nodded as I settled between his thighs, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “You’ve been hard since I got here.”

His brow ticked up. “And you think that means you get to do something about it?”

I looked up at him, tilted my head innocently. “I know I do.”

He grinned. “Cocky.”

“I learned from the best,” I said, tugging his sweats down just enough to free him. And fuck.

I’d seen it before—on screens, in videos—but nothing prepared me for the way it looked up close. Thick, long, already leaking at the tip. Veins along the shaft. His entire body was unfair, but this? This was just cruel.

I wrapped my hand around him slowly.

“You gonna stare at it all day, or you gonna do something?” he teased.

I licked a long stripe from the base to the tip, just to shut him up. His breath caught.

“Mouth open,” he murmured. I obeyed, letting my tongue hang out as I stroked him slowly. He was heavy in my hand, warm and twitching, and when I finally took him into my mouth, I moaned like it was for me, not him.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You’re better than half the girls I’ve filmed with.”

I pulled back just enough to say, “That supposed to make me feel special?”

He looked down at me with a grin. “It should.” Then he shifted his hips forward a little, his hand slipping into my hair. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me fuck your mouth a little.”

I whimpered, nodding as he gathered my hair in his fist and guided me back down. His thrusts were slow at first, controlled, testing. He pushed past my lips and onto my tongue, letting me feel every inch. I hollowed my cheeks around him, drool already sliding down my chin. The angle made my throat ache—but I didn’t care. He watched every second.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Look at me. Eyes up. Fuck—just like that.” I moaned around him, and he groaned in return, gripping my hair tighter. “You like this?” he asked. “Being used a little?”

I blinked up at him, spit trailing from my lip to the base of his cock. “Yes.”

“How filthy are you, baby?”

I swallowed him deeper before answering. “Wanna choke on it.”

He smirked, that filthy edge sharpening in his eyes. “Greedy girl.”

He held my jaw and started to fuck into my mouth harder, sloppier. My mascara was running—I could feel it—and my knees were going numb, but I didn’t care. Not when he was groaning and panting above me, thumb wiping spit from the corner of my mouth.

“Open wider,” he growled. “Let me all the way in.”

I did. He pushed in until the tip hit the back of my throat, and I gagged—but he didn’t stop. He stayed there for a second, watching the tears spill down my cheeks before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” I blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, lips puffy and slick. “You want me to come in your mouth?” he asked.

“No.” He raised a brow. “I want more than that.” He stared at me for a beat. Then he reached down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me gently to my feet.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated, chest heaving. “All of them?”

“All of them,” he said softly. “Want to see what kind of mess I’ve made.”

I peeled off my hoodie first, even though it had already been unzipped. My tank top followed, sticky with sweat. Then my skirt. Then my panties—soaked, clinging to my thighs. His eyes drank me in.

“You’re soaked.”

“You made me like this.”

He stood up—slow, deliberate—and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my neck, then lower, until he was kneeling in front of me.

“You ever squirt before?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He smirked. “Might today.” Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue across my inner thigh.

He didn’t go for my pussy right away. Instead, he kissed every inch around it—my thighs, the crease of my hip, the patch of skin just above my mound. His hands wrapped around my legs, holding me steady as he took his time. The anticipation had my stomach fluttering, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched.

“Please,” I whispered, shifting.

He looked up at me from between my legs, his lips shiny with spit. “Yeah?”

I nodded, breath shaky. “I—I need—”

He slid one finger up my slit, slow as hell. “You need this?” he asked, teasing my clit with the lightest touch. “Or my mouth?”

“Both.”

He grinned. “Good answer.” Then he dove in.

His mouth latched around my clit like he’d missed it, like he owned it. His tongue flicked and sucked, alternating between slow pressure and fast strokes that made my legs tremble. I cried out, one hand gripping the back of the couch, the other tangled in his hair. He moaned against me when I tugged, and I felt it vibrate through my whole body.

“F-fuck,” I gasped. “Harry—”

“You taste so sweet,” he muttered between licks. “Could stay here all day.”

He pushed two fingers into me while his tongue kept working, curling them just right. My back arched off the couch, a moan ripping from my throat so loud I was sure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it,” he said. “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”

I was already on the edge, too fast, too intense—and he knew it.

“You close?” he asked, sliding his fingers faster, deeper, hitting every nerve ending I had.

I nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—” He stopped. Pulled back. Fingers still inside me, but barely moving. I whimpered. “Why—”

“Cause I want you to come on my cock, not my tongue.”

“Fucking mean,” I whispered.

He smirked. “You like it.” I hated how right he was.

He stood and kicked off his sweats fully this time, leaving him completely naked—tall, lean, toned. Tattoos stretched across his chest, down his arms. His cock was heavy and thick, standing up proudly, still slick from my mouth. He grabbed a condom from the table behind him—but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” I said softly. His eyes locked on mine.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m clean. On the pill. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw clenched. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

He climbed back onto the couch, pulling me into his lap again. This time, we were both naked. Skin against skin. He lined himself up with one hand, the other gripping my waist.

“Take it slow,” he murmured. I did. I sank down on him inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, the burn, the way he filled me up so deep I thought I might break.

He kept eye contact the whole time. “Look at you,” he said. “Taking it so well.”

I whimpered when I bottomed out, thighs shaking.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “You weren’t made for this, were you?”

I moaned. “Maybe I was made for you.” That broke something in him.

His hands gripped my hips, and he started to move—slow thrusts upward that hit just right. I rocked against him, chasing friction, rolling my hips as he fucked up into me.

“Say my name,” he ordered.

“Harry.”

“Louder.”

“Harry.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking good,” I gasped. “You’re so deep—fuck—it’s so good.” His hand came up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he asked. “Like a needy little slut in my lap?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes—please, I need it—I need to come—”

“Then come.”

I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through me in pulses that left me crying out his name, clinging to him, hips still rocking even as I trembled. He held me through it, whispered praise into my ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “So fucking good for me.” But he wasn’t done. He flipped me over onto the couch, face-down, ass up. “Not finished with you yet,” he growled.

He slid back into me easily, grabbing my hips and fucking into me hard now—rough, deep, animalistic. My cheek pressed against the cushion, mouth open as he pounded into me.

“You want it rough?” he panted. “You want to feel how hard you made me?”

“Y-yes—fuck—yes—”

He slapped my ass, hard. “Say you love it.”

“I fucking love it.”

“Say who’s fucking you.”

“Harry—Harry’s fucking me—please don’t stop—”

He leaned over me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other holding my throat as he fucked me from behind. Skin slapping, breath ragged, everything filthy and perfect.

“Gonna come on you,” he groaned. “Wanna see you dripping.”

“Yes,” I begged. “Do it—please—come on me—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast before spilling hot all over my lower back and ass, groaning through gritted teeth. I lay there, trembling, dripping, wrecked. Breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He exhaled a long breath, letting it hang in the quiet between us. The only sound now was the soft hum of the camera still rolling. The red light blinked steadily, like it had witnessed every filthy, raw second of what just happened. Harry sat back, eyes scanning over me like he wasn’t sure if he was done yet—or just trying to memorize how I looked. Wrecked. Flushed. My hair a mess. My thighs still trembling.

“Stay there a sec,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

I blinked up at him, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion, and nodded. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a warm towel. He didn’t rush—just knelt beside me, gently wiping me clean, taking his time like he actually cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at playing the part. But something about the way his fingers grazed my skin, soft and unhurried, made my chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking up to mine.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… that was a lot.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Good lot or bad lot?”

“Really good.”

He handed me the towel and stood up to grab water bottles. When he tossed one to me, I caught it with shaky hands.

“You looked like you’ve done that before,” he said, sitting down beside me again—close, but not touching.

“I haven’t,” I replied, twisting the cap off. “Not like that.”

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

I smiled. “Trust me. I’d remember if someone ever made me feel like that before.” He went quiet, watching me sip.

“You ever actually plan on watching the footage?” I looked at him. At the blinking red light still recording.

“I kind of want to,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll show you mine… if you come back and film another one.” I stared at him, half smiling, half stunned.

“You saying that to everyone who comes through here?”

“Nope.” He leaned in just slightly, voice lower. “Just the ones who moan my name like they mean it.”

I laughed, flushed, and shook my head. “You’re dangerous.”

He smirked. “Only on camera.” I didn’t believe that for a second. But I wanted to find out.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #pornstar!harry #masterlist

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cuteandhughesy · 7 months ago

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5 Times | Matthew Knies

summary: where a fan creates a mini compilation of all the times you and your boyfriend, matthew knies, were seen kissing and being cute on camera.

[word count] 2.0k

warnings: SFW! pre-established relationship | fluff | matthew being a cutie

a/n: just a short and sweet little imagine for my pookie kniesy :) the next story to be worked on is a jeremy swayman fic based on a request ! so stay tuned for that

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

you and matthew lounge together comfortably, your libs tangled together on the couch. free evenings with matthew typically all looked the same - the two of you snuggling and enjoying each others presence in the homey comfort of matthew’s apartment. most of the time, including right now, you'd find yourself lazily scrolling your tiktok's for you page, and matthew watches amusingly over your shoulder - head resting against yours as you both laugh at stupid videos.

it wasn't uncommon for you to get hockey related videos and compilations among other varying tiktok videos - you were dating an nhl player after all. but tonight one edit in particular had your thumb freezing mid scroll - you and matthew re-reading the capitalized title that flashes on the video screen.

"matthew knies and y/n being cute and kissing on camera"

with much curiosity, you and matthew let the video play - intrigued on just how often you and matthew had shown affection in the public eye.

1st clip

the video starts with an interview clip that was taken at the last tavares foundation event just a few weeks ago.

at first, you're wondering how a clip of max domi smiling his toothless smile as he talks about how beneficial and important the tavares foundation is, correlates to you and matthew.

but then the screen is cropped, focusing in on the background behind max. in the back, you and matthew are standing near one of the backdrops covered in the foundations logo, facing one another as you chat together.

the fabric of your pastel, silk summer dress is looking reflective under the studio lights, which instantly draws your eyes in - no wonder fans spotted you lurking in the background.

you're smiling as you sip on some of the fancy cocktail held in the long stemmed glass. that moment you remember your face flushing from an inappropriate comment matthew had made regarding your boobs - and your memory is confirmed as matthew throws his head back in the video, his laughter just catching the audio through your phone.

matthew reaches out for you, one of his suit covered arms wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you through the short distance of space between your bodies. now that you're tightly pressed against him, matthew smirks sweetly and leans down, planting a cheeky kiss on your lips.

just before the clip ends, you watch yourself reluctantly pull away from the kiss, a smile on your face. both of you are completely oblivious to the interview happening a few feet away, and that it’s recording your interaction - matthew leans back in, pressing two more chaste pecks to your mouth as the video cuts.

2nd clip

the clips transitions into a different setting, and you and matthew are met with the sight of an almost empty scotiabank arena. the video is actually from another girlfriends instagram story as she films her partner greeting his family in the stands after the game.

once again, the creator of the video zooms into the background of the video. a few sections away, you and matthew were stood with matthew's family. it was from the end of the previous nhl season when matthew's parents and brother had flown in for a couple weeks to watch some games and spend time with their son.

matthew is standing behind you, pressed tightly against your backside. he's got his arms around around you in a gentle hug, and you reciprocate the intimacy by holding onto his forearms, keeping him close. both of you are blissfully unaware of everything around you, the two of you laughing and chatting with matthew's mom and dad about the game and even upcoming dinner plans.

you both look so domestic and in love - you've never seen the clip before and you honestly barley remembered that day before watching this video - but now you know it exists, you'll definitely have to save it.

you watch as matthew laughs at something seemingly particularly funny, and he sweetly leans into the crook of your neck, his chest rumbling against the material of your toronto maple leaf branded jean jacket. you're laughing as well in the video, and without even knowing what's funny, present you and matthew laugh along.

3rd clip

the next video was also from last season, and you and matthew are met with a scene from nathan phillips square in downtown toronto. the edit is clipped from a fan account, and they had captured a sweet video of you and matthew.

it was from the yearly family skate for the leaf players and their families, and your boyfriend had asked you to come along. the camera follows you and matthew, gliding leisurely along the expanse of the slippery ice rink with one another.

matthew is infront of you, skating backwards so he's able to look at you while he does so. you've got your hands clutched in your boyfriends warm palms, and he is pulling you gently along the ice with him, so you don't actually have to move your feet.

the smile on your face is bright, lighting up your entire winter kissed face. matthew is chatting away happily, his usual animated expression giving away the lightheartedness shared between you.

your lips move, but you can't tell what you're telling him - keeping some privacy and intimacy between you despite the cameras.

matthew's response isn't with words, but instead he slows you both down, coming to a halt before leaning in and kissing you. it's not a very long kiss, but it is definitely more than a peck - there's no tongue, or teeth, or grabbing onto one another like animals - the kiss is just simple and sweet.

matthew pulls away, his usual cheeky grin gracing his bright coloured lips.

right before the clip changes, you and matthew continue back at the slow skate you'd been doing just moments before the kiss - both of you looking at one another with the glimmer of light in your gazes.

they throw another short clip in from the same day of events. this time you're on the bench, cuddling up to william nylander's adorable puppies when matthew waddles over to you, his balance off because of his skates touching floor rather than ice.

he's slightly breathless from the scrimmage he’d just finished with his teammates, and just like all the other previous videos, he's got no clue there's a camera on.

matthew runs a hand through the dogs curly hair once before repeating the gesture on your head, smoothing over your styled hair before coming the rest on the side of your face. he tilts your head upwards in search of your gaze, and once he has it, he smiles quickly - leaning in to press a hello kiss to your lips.

4th clip

the next video has a recency favouritism for you, because it was only a few days ago. at the leafs home opener, you and some of the other established wags were standing along the boards for warmups. their kids were bringing the energy, happily watching their dads and the team greet them in between warm up drills.

the video is clearly taken by a fan - a shaky recording taken from the adjacent side of where you were standing.

matthew is standing right infront of you, and the video captures him blatantly flirting with you through the plexiglass that separates you two. matthew jerks his head at you, and a smirk is tugging at the corner of his plump lips.

although it's not the best quality, the video captures when you roll your eyes playfully - looking very amused at your boyfriends typical flirty antics.

matthew laughs, spinning on his skates so he's properly face to face with you. you smile warmly at your boyfriend through the glass, and matthew smiles back - tapping the heel of his hockey stick on the plexiglass right by your face.

the he turns away, shooting you one more charming smirk before he skates away, a puck sitting against the tape of his stick - shooting it over to marner.

5th clip

you've seen the next video before. it's from the leafs blueprint series on youtube - a series where they follow around players and the team to capture some lighthearted, behind the scenes footage. the rookie episode was one of your favourites merely because it had matthew in it.

the clip used in the edit was taken when your boyfriend was giving the camera crew a tour of, at the time, his new apartment. matthew loved his time living with john tavares and his family, but he had been over the moon at having his own space to come home to and have you spend time in.

towards the end of the tour, you're seen watching happily on one of the barstools, smiling encouragingly at your boyfriend showing off his stuff - furniture and framed photos of his family and you two together. matthew introduces you proudly, making some ridiculous joke about you being his 'professional dress shirt iron girl.' it has him smiling proudly at his joke, while you shake your head resting on the heel of your palm - a gentle, amused grin on your face.

the camera crew captures matthew's departure to the rink from the apartment. he's got a small duffle bag in one hand, containing his practice necessities, and a protein shake clutched in the other. even without the use of his hands, he parts from you sweetly, kissing you firmly.

he mumbles goodbye against your mouth before completely pulling away. this time, matthew was very much aware of the camera filming your interaction and he didn't want to subject you to crazy pda.

but you don't care about the cameras, and you watch yourself blush under your boyfriends intense blue eyed gaze. your clear flustered face has matthew's sultry smirk deepening - shouting out another goodbye as he leaves his apartment.

the producer asks a question about you in the car on the way to the rink, asking matthew about your relationship and what you mean to him and his career. matthew's response to that always had you melting, and as you watch the video for what feels like the hundredth time, those warm, loving feelings are just as strong as every other time.

"y/n is not only my girlfriend but she's my best friend. we've been dating for a few years now, and every year she's never failed to be the most supportive and loving human i've ever met. she doesn't care if I win or loose, she just cares about me. without y/n I probably wouldn't of made it as far as I have. I love her so much."

the video ends, and immediately you're looking over at matthew. you've got a watery expression on your face, your lips forming into a gentle, loving pout.

matthew smiles sweetly, wrapping his arms around your body and pulling you onto his lap. he kisses the side of your head with a loud smack. "I had no idea we've been filmed being all lovey with one another that many times - I guess i'm pretty social unaware." matthew hums, fingers tickling the outside of your bicep slowly.

you giggle, "you're not socially unaware, honey. people are just sneaky."

"wanna know what I think it is?"

you hum, brows raised curiously. you look at matthew from the corner of your eye, head lolling against his chest so that your cheek is pressed to his peck.

"I think i'm just too infatuated by you that when you're around I can't help but focus on anything but you."

you squint slightly. "whipped."

his mouth falls open, eyes wide in surprise from your teasing remark. matthew wastes no more time, leaning in to blow a tickly raspberry against your pink, rosy cheek.

you squeal pleasantly, trying to squirm away and escape matthew's adorable attack.

once you're laughter subsides, and matthew's done assaulting your cheek with tickly blows and kisses, he smiles. it's a sincere smile, one where he looks truly relaxed and happy. "I love you sweet girl."

you deflate against his chest warmly, and you press a quick kiss to the corner of matthew's mouth. "I love you."

#🤍⊹˚₊ cute and hughesy fic #hockey imagine #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #matthew knies imagine #matthew knies x reader #toronto maple leafs blurb #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl blurb #hockey blurb #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #matthew knies fanfic

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honeyslibrary · 2 days ago

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I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

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#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you

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illyrianbitch · 11 months ago

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Lights, Camera, Love!

Pairing: Reader x Rhysand

Summary: Rhysand, Hollywood's hottest heartthrob, has everyone smitten—everyone except you, his co-star. But when rumors of your feud begin to affect the show's ratings, your producers propose a last-ditch solution: a fake romance to salvage your public image and reignite fan interest.

Warnings: cocky Rhysand, just two snippy co-stars, ianthe, co-parent feysand, helion and amren as big hollywood peeps

Word Count: 4.7k

a/n: this is a lil series ive had tucked away with some inspo....lets see if ayll fw it enough hehehe. dedicated to @milswrites and @daycourtofficial bc their love for this pushed me to pick it up again

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It was unprofessional, truly.

You wanted to roll your eyes, to scoff and walk off set.

But instead, you simply shifted uncomfortably in your seat, adjusting the hem of your dress as Ianthe, your overly enthusiastic interviewer, fluttered around Rhysand like a lovesick butterfly. Her giggles grated on your nerves as she leaned in a little too close, her hand lingering on his arm just a second too long.

Ianthe was known for her probing questions and flirtatious demeanor— it’s what made her such a popular source for exclusive interviews. Not only did she know the right questions to ask, but she knew exactly how to ask them in order to get what she wanted: juicy gossip, something she could feed on. It wasn’t a coincidence that her last name held such a resemblance to the word parasite. She was one.

You didn’t want to do the interview to begin with. The upcoming release of your newest season meant various events and panels that left you unsettled and anxious. You loved your job— loved your character even more. But being in the public eye alongside Rhysand was hard. Suffocating, really.

It felt like hours that you sat there with a practiced smile, waiting as she conversed with Rhysand. The studio lights were warm, and the backdrop behind you— a cover of the show's logo— made you feel a bit more comfortable. But still, the unease persisted, and you counted down the seconds until this interview was over and you could return home.

"So, Rhysand," Ianthe said, her voice silky smooth. "You've become quite the heartthrob lately. How do you handle all the attention from your adoring fans?"

Your first instinct was to laugh. Your second was to roll your eyes. The third was to vomit in your mouth. You somehow resisted the urge to do all of the above, settling for biting back the rising nausea at the shameless flirting.

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, a charming smile spreading across his face. "It's all part of the job, I suppose. Though, I must say, the fans are incredibly supportive. It's their enthusiasm that keeps us going."

Us. This time it physically burned you to not roll your eyes, even subtly. Your lips curled into a pained smile. Ianthe didn’t seem to notice the forced gesture, her gaze locked onto Rhysand as if you weren’t even in the room.

You looked down, absently playing with a ring on your index finger. The metal felt cool and familiar, and you smiled faintly at it, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It seemed to fill your lungs with a steadying breath, one that was enough to gather yourself, to steel your resolve and endure sitting beside someone who sucked up all the oxygen in the room without even trying.

It took a few more minutes before Ianthe was turning to you with an expectant smile— perfect white teeth. Veneers, most likely. The smile was strange up close and you resisted the urge to lean in and expect them further, to search for any signs of hidden pointed teeth, sharpened to resemble that of a predator.

You blinked, tilting your head and welcoming her attention with a large smile of your own. Certainly not as perfect, but a lot less unnerving, you hoped.

“Y/n,” She started, readjusting herself in her seat. “You look beautiful. It’s always nice to see you.”

You gave a small nod in acknowledgement. You’d talked to Ianthe a few times, mostly on red carpets and press events. Never longer than a minute, never past fake pleasantries and a kiss on the cheek—- from her end.

“Thanks Ianthe,” you said, smile still plastered on your cheeks like glue. “It’s always a pleasure talking with you.”

There was a glint in her eye that told you she didn’t believe a word you said. At least you both had that in common, perhaps you could bond on your shared love of bullshit.

“Tell me, what's it like working alongside Rhysand? He seems to have quite the presence on set."

You paused for a moment, considering your response carefully before delivering it with a smile.

“Rhysand is an experience. Even after years, he still manages to keep me on my toes.”

What your statement really translated to was: Rhysand was a cocky asshole. Everything was about him. All. The. Damn. Time.

"It's truly remarkable how he commands the attention of everyone in the room. It's as if the rest of us simply fade into the background when he's around.”

Because he’s an attention whore.

You didn’t say the last thought— as much as your body screamed at you to.

Rhysand's smile tightened imperceptibly, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes before he masked it with practiced ease. "Well, thank you," he replied smoothly, "I suppose it's just the natural magnetism of a true star."

He delivered his words as a joke, as if you both shared a similar, endearing humor regarding one another. You fought to conceal a satisfied smirk, knowing that your veiled dig had hit its mark.

Ianthe continued to prattle on, her questions growing increasingly mundane as the minutes ticked by. There was a lull—a brief moment of respite where Ianthe paused to collect her thoughts.

It was Rhysand who broke the silence, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. "I must admit, I've always admired Y/n’s dedication to her craft," he said, his tone almost earnest. "It's not easy to disappear into a role the way she does."

You bristled at the backhanded compliment, knowing all too well that beneath his seemingly benign words lay a razor-sharp edge. It was a surprise to you that Ianthe didn’t pick up on it, her dull eyes and bright smile still worn on her nauseatingly beautiful face.

"Well, Rhysand," you replied, forcing a tight smile, "I suppose we all have our strengths. I can’t coast on charisma alone.”

His smirk returned in full force, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Ah, but isn't that what makes us such a dynamic duo, sweetheart?" he said, "The perfect balance of substance and style."

You fought to conceal a frustrated sigh, to bite back the snarl you wanted to make at the annoying nickname he’d adopted for you recently. He knew it drove you nuts, knew it made you want to call him something less sweet.

As much as you wished to continue the conversation, to match his veiled insults with ones of your own— that were sure to be far more clever, you knew that this verbal sparring match would only serve to prolong your agony. Instead, you plastered on a diplomatic smile, nodding in agreement as Ianthe launched into yet another round of inane questions.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It felt like an eternity before you were freed from the clutches of the interview.

Ianthe stood, flashing you a smile that felt more condescending than friendly. "Thank you both for coming," she said, her eyes lingering on Rhysand. You watched as she scanned him one last time, eyes drinking him in like a fresh glass of wine.

You forced a polite nod. "Thank you, Ianthe. Always a pleasure."

She gave you a look that made you feel small, but you quickly swallowed it and turned away, heading toward the exit. As much as a nice, warm bath was calling to you, you had lunch plans with Lucien and were itching to be in the presence of someone you actually liked.

"Well, that was entertaining," Rhysand commented, a smirk playing on his lips as he caught up to you.

You glanced at him, trying to keep your irritation in check as you quickened your pace, offering a few spare smiles to the employees you passed. "If by entertaining, you mean tacky, then sure."

His smirk faded slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. He raised a brow. "Tacky? I was just keeping things lively."

"Lively," you repeated with a laugh. You stopped, the movement so abrupt that Rhysand almost bumped into you. You turned to face him with a flat look. “You’re a shameless flirt."

His eyes narrowed at you— a deep blue that you swore at times was almost violet. His head cocked to the side and you shrank deeper into yourself, feeling somewhat at odds and uncomfortable in his burning gaze. The smirk tugged harder at the corner of his lips.

“Well, isn’t that the whole point?”

You scowled, opening your mouth to respond. But before any words could leave your mouth, a familiar voice filled the air. “Rhys!”

A head turn led you to catch Feyre’s eye as she walked towards you, a bright smile on her face. Her eyes lit up as her gaze landed on you and Rhys, one hand holding onto the smaller one of her son.

You watched as Nyx, quite possibly one of the prettiest kids you'd ever seen, ran up to Rhysand with a joyous laugh, opening his arms up, wide and expecting. In one swift and natural movement, Rhysand scooped him up effortlessly, his earlier annoyance instantly dissipating from his features.

“Hey, buddy,” Rhysand said, his voice softening as he kissed Nyx’s temple.

Against your better judgment, a smile tugged at your cheeks at how brightly Rhysand’s face lit up. He pulled Feyre into a quick, sweet embrace, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek.

If there was one thing you were willing to give Rhysand credit for, it was this.

His breakup with Feyre had been incredibly public. The divorce, the fallout—both of their reputations took a hit when it came out that she had initiated the divorce, later compounded by her being outed on a date with a woman from her past. Yet, despite everything, they both managed it with such grace.

Feyre was incredibly sweet. You never truly understood how Rhysand landed her in the first place, how they had been married for over five years, so deeply in love that they started a family. You thoroughly enjoyed her company, even though it wasn’t as often as you would’ve liked. She was still Rhysand’s family, after all, and you took every chance you could to avoid being around him when it wasn’t necessary.

But Feyre was a large reason you enjoyed your job. She eased the anxiety that came with joining a cast that was already so close, essentially taking a role that had belonged to her— even though your character was introduced after hers was written off.

It was clear that despite everything, Rhysand and Feyre had managed to maintain a bond, not just for their sake, but for Nyx’s. The love they still shared, the ease with which they navigated this new chapter of their lives—it was something you respected, even envied a little.

You averted your gaze, fingers running over the cool metal of your ring as you turned to leave, but Feyre called your name, her voice as kind as usual.

You paused, looking back at her. “Yeah?”

Feyre’s smile was warm. You took her in for a moment, how naturally beautiful she was— how she exuded a certain energy that you could only describe as regal. A smile fit for a queen. “How was the interview?”

You shrugged, giving a small smile. “The usual. Ianthe was...”

You pursed your lips as your voice trailed off. There were many ways you could finish off your sentence but you weren’t sure how diplomatic you could be anymore or if Feyre would be bothered by an honest review of your interviewer.

Feyre leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A bitch?”

You laughed, catching Rhysand’s glance as he looked over for a moment. His attention quickly returned to Nyx and you turned back to meet Feyre’s beautiful blue eyes. “Exactly.”

Feyre shook her head, a sympathetic look on her face. “She was always so condescending with me, too. It’s because she’s desperate to sleep with that loser.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder, jokingly but lovingly casting a glance back at Rhysand. She clicked her tongue. “Poor delusions.”

Another laugh left your lips and you nodded, suppressing a grin. “Yeah,” you drawled, “She wasn’t very subtle.”

Feyre raised a brow. “I don’t think subtly is in that limited vocabulary of hers.”

Your eyes drifted to the small interview set, where Ianthe was still standing, talking to someone and sparing regular glances over at Rhysand—a predator about to make her move. It was best for you to leave now, you thought, to avoid watching the inevitable hunt.

“I should get going,” you said, turning back to Feyre. “I have plans. But, it was so nice seeing you.”

Feyre beamed, putting a hand on your arm. You briefly took in the ink that covered her forearm, the delicate, beautiful tattoos that you always wanted to admire further. “You too,” she said, “Let’s have lunch soon.”

You nodded, a genuine and pleased motion. Your conversation with Feyre was the first one today that you didn’t have to fake any polite mannerisms. “I’d love to.”

Casting one last glance at Rhysand, you watched as Feyre approached him and put a hand out to Nyx. Rhysand smiled down at her, a soft, familiar look that made your chest tighten with an emotion you didn’t care to examine.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It was 10:00 am when you were called into the production office, a room nestled in a quiet corner of the studio lot. You were tired, having only slept a few hours the night prior, and you could feel life slowly dripping back into you with each sip of coffee. The area was relatively private, shielded from the prying eyes of paparazzi, so you opted for comfort over glamor, dressed in jeans and a simple hoodie—nice, big, and comfortable.

Helion was usually meticulous about these meetings, ensuring both you and Rhysand were well-prepared and informed ahead of time. This sudden summons felt off. You didn’t know what to expect, and that uncertainty weighed heavily on your mind as you pushed open the door to the conference room.

Rhysand was already in the room when you arrived, effortlessly lounging in a chair with the kind of put-together look that only seemed to accentuate your own disheveled state. It made you hate him even more. You didn’t attempt to hide your scowl. He glanced up as you entered, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Phew, you'd think it was a Sunday and you were hungover," he remarked casually, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shot him a pointed glare, resisting the urge to snap back and opting to take the open seat next to him, sitting back to take a sip of your coffee.

Rhysand leaned over into your space, reaching a hand to tug at the strings of your hoodie with a grin on his lips. You swatted his hand away with a deepening scowl. "Cut it out."

He chuckled lightly, settling back into his chair. "So, what do you think this is about?"

“No idea,” you sighed, crossing your arms defensively. You gave him a pointed glare. “What did you do?”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow. “And why are we automatically assuming I did something?”

“Well when are you not?” You titled your head. “Doing something, I mean.”

Rhysand caught onto the meaning of your words instantly. He narrowed his eyes at you before something crossed his features. Then, he was leaning in again, a smirk on his face as he scanned your own. “Are you feeling a bit left out? You’re always welcome to join.”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a scoff of disgust as you maneuvered yourself to lean farther away from him. “You’re shameless.”

The door clicked open, and your attention snapped over as Helion entered the room. You began to offer him a smile, but the motion died on your lips as you met his gaze.

You loved Helion— as an executive producer, and the main man regarding your public relations, you’d formed a great relationship with him. It helped that you were best friends with his son, too. But today his typically buoyant air was clouded, his expression wearing the weight of serious deliberation. It was one you could only compare to that of a disappointed father about to deliver bad news. Beside him, Amren followed like a silent storm cloud.

Amren, on the other hand, was someone you didn’t have a favorable relationship with. She was Rhysand’s personal agent and she excluded the same energy he did— something that tasted a lot like pretentiousness. Her sharp gaze swept the room, and you instinctively avoided meeting it.

If Amren was here, and Helion was wearing that stern expression, it could only mean trouble. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach.

You and Rhysand shared a quick, knowing glance, a similar confusion mirrored on both your faces. You straightened yourself as Rhysand offered a disarmingly charming smile.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Helion exchanged a glance with Amren before sighing heavily. He leaned forward, slapping a piece of paper onto the table and pushing it toward both of you.

The first thing that caught your eye was the TMZ logo— something that made your stomach drop instinctively. You bit at the inside of your cheek, your eyes repeatedly running over the headline. You looked up through your lashes to meet Helion’s expecting gaze.

Rhysand's voice was incredulous as he spoke. "Did you... print these out?"

You casted a quick glance of disbelief at him. Idiot. He paid no mind.

Helion ignored the comment, taking a seat across from you as he leaned back, crossing his arms. He gave a nod towards the two copies before you. “Go ahead. Read," he instructed calmly, his expression grave. The tone alone made you shiver from its unfamiliarity.

You picked up your copy, scanning the bolded headline and the accompanying pictures.

FAILURE ON SET: HOW AN OVERBEARING CO-STAR FUED IS THREATENING THE VIEWER EXPERIENCE

Ianthe Parcite weighs in on the rumored feud between co-stars Y/N and Rhysand after exclusive interview.

As expected, the large printed image was a glamor shot of Rhysand and one of the interview set. You were nowhere to be found. Your grip on the edges of the paper tightened as you began to read the article.

In an exclusive interview with TMZ, Ianthe Parcite, known for her candid critiques, has taken a stark stance on the alleged feud between Hollywood’s famed co-stars, Y/N L/N and Rhysand Darling. Contrary to initial impressions, Ianthe now reveals that behind the scenes, tensions ran high and professionalism faltered. “I sensed an atmosphere of unease and discontent,” Ianthe remarked, reflecting on her recent encounter with the co-stars. “Y/N appeared dismissive and disengaged during our interview, which is concerning for the show’s dynamics.” Ianthe didn’t hold back in her assessment of Rhysand either, noting his apparent lack of receptiveness to her questions. “Rhysand’s demeanor was noticeably distant, almost unreceptive to any meaningful dialogue,” she disclosed. “It’s unfortunate when personal dynamics overshadow the professionalism required on set.” The revelations have sent shockwaves through the fanbase, with many expressing disappointment over the potential impact on their favorite series. As speculation swirls around the future of the show, fans are left wondering if the rift between Y/N and Rhysand will escalate and if it's worth watching a show doomed for failure.

You scoffed incredulously, pushing the paper further away from you as if its distance would minimize the anger that simmered underneath your skin. You deeply regretted holding back in the interview— regretted not tearing that pompous bitch into two.

"So she doesn't even include a picture of me and yet I'm the main one she rips into?"

You found the courage to look around the room, your gaze landing on Helion with pleading eyes. His response was a noncommittal shrug, accompanied by a slight raise of his eyebrows. It was clear he didn't have an easy answer, either.

Running your tongue along your teeth, you shifted your gaze to Rhysand. His jaw clenched as he laid the paper on the table. "It's not even a great photo of me," he remarked dryly, "I'm too pale in it."

Your mouth fell open in exasperation. "Unbelievable," you muttered under your breath.

Rhysand shot you a glare that lingered for a few tense seconds. You matched his gaze evenly before he redirected his attention to Helion and Amren. "This is ridiculous," he asserted, "Did they seriously publish this?

A moment passed. Helion sighed heavily, rubbing his temples in frustration. "Yes. Every tabloid is eating it up.”

You clenched your jaw, feeling every muscle in your body tense with the frustration prickling at your skin. “It wasn't our best interview, sure, but it definitely wasn't that bad," you insisted, tapping a finger down on the offending article.

Amren's gaze flickered toward Rhysand, and you followed it. Rhysand shifted uncomfortably, his expression briefly sheepish before he turned to you with a defensive edge. You narrowed your eyes, tuning to face him properly.

“Did you do something?”

Rhysand rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous.”

Your mouth fell agape and you let out a deep, angry breath through your nose. “Don’t use that word about me,” you hissed at him. You pointed emphatically at the paper. "That is ridiculous. And you look like a guilty dog. What did you do?"

"Nothing," he finally muttered, his eyes narrowing in irritation. He shifted in his seat, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves.

It was Amren's voice that cut through the tension, her tone cool and calculating. "It's what he didn't do, really," she remarked cryptically, her gaze still lingering on Rhysand.

He shot her a pointed glare and you frowned, your brows furrowing to a tight knit. A faint headache throbbed at your temples. Turning to Helion for clarification, you found him leaning forward, lips pursed in thought.

"It appears Ianthe was a bit... offended that Rhysand turned down her advances," Helion explained carefully, his words laden with implication.

Your eyes widened in surprise, disbelief coloring your features. "Seriously?" you blurted out, your head twisting to face Rhysand once more, moving with such swiftness that an ache pulled at the muscles of your neck. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Rhysand's eyes widened in response, his expression a mix of offense and confusion. "Excuse me?" he retorted, a hint of incredulity in his voice. "So you have a problem with me when I sleep with people and when I don't?"

Annoyance flared within you. "You flirted with her the entire interview," you accused, your voice raising slightly in pitch. "The one time you decide to take a vow of celibacy and it's with the one name that can tarnish my reputation?”

Rhysand scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Your reputation, of course," he muttered sarcastically. "You're such a hypocrite."

"Your actions reflect on me too, Rhysand," you shot back, "Do you ever think about that?"

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms with a pinched expression. "Oh, please," he countered, "If you hadn't been sulking and throwing daggers at me the entire interview, I wouldn't have had to flirt with her to salvage it. You should be thanking me."

Your jaw tightened at his words. "Thanking you? Look what happened—"

Before you could finish your retort, Helion slammed his palm down on the table with a sharp crack. You and Rhysand both jumped at the sudden interruption, turning to face him with wide eyes.

"Enough," Helion declared firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Stop bickering like children."

You and Rhysand exchanged a reluctant glance and with a sigh, you sank back into your seat, folding your arms defensively.

"It'll blow over in a week, right? No big deal," Rhysand said casually, his tone attempting to downplay the severity of the situation. You raised your eyebrows at the suggestion, but as hopeful as it sounded, part of you knew that this was a bigger deal than you both cared to admit.

Helion regarded him with a critical eye, his lips pressed into a thin line. Feeling an itch at your skin, you unfolded your arms.

"He’s right," you said hopefully, running a hand through your hair. "I mean, rumors of us not being... the best of friends isn't something new. People know this."

Rhysand offered a nod of agreement. “Exactly. It's just tabloid fodder," he said, his gaze shifting between Amren and Helion with a hint of concern.

Leaning slightly on the table, Amren shook her head slightly, her eyes– a color so light they were almost silver— glowed with intensity as they swept over Rhysand and then fixed on you. The heat of her gaze made you swallow and you found yourself tempted to apologize for things you’d never done— confess for crimes you hadn’t committed. But against your instincts, you held her gaze for another lasting moment. Amren seemed to appreciate the stare and she raised an eyebrow of approval before she spoke.

“It's more than that now," she stated firmly, her voice cutting through the air like a finely sharpened knife. "This isn't just idle gossip anymore. It's becoming off-putting. A few small rumors are funny at first, but now people don't want to watch. It's affecting our ratings."

"We can't afford to lose viewers over this," Helion added, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency you’d never heard. He was stressed— extremely so. He picked at the gold rings that adorned his hands. "The show needs a strong, united front, not two leads sniping at each other in public."

You exchanged a glance with Rhysand. Your mind raced and you settled your gaze on Helion.

You trusted him. He always had your best interests in mind, and navigating public fallout wasn’t unfamiliar territory for you. This was fine, this was manageable.

“Okay,” you said, the words directly intended for him. “What do you want me to do?”

He threw a glance at Amren.

“Well,” he started, “We need to manage the narrative. The tension between you two is too obvious. Starting with the press tour, we'll need you both to project a good connection. No more sniping or tension in public—it needs to be all smiles and cooperation."

You nodded slowly, digesting his words. Next to you, Rhysand sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "Are you saying we need to fake being friends?"

The two agents before you shared another glance. You frowned at the exchange, an unsettled feeling brewing in your gut. Helion’s face slowly shifted into one more amused— and you watched as a grin grew on his lips, something suspicious, mischievous even. His eyes gleamed.

“Not just friends," he said, his gaze shifting between you and Rhysand. He looked to Amren one last time, who gave a small nod of approval before he continued,

"We need you to fake a romance."

You choked on the air in your throat, your heart skipping a beat at his words. You blinked rapidly, gaze darting between Helion and Amren, seeking any sign that this was a joke or a misinterpretation.

They were messing with you both, surely. This was some joke to make you both apologize, some horrendously unrealistic suggestion that made the idea of you two being simply friends something straight out of paradise.

But their faces were deadly serious— set with a purposeful intent etched into their features. Helion’s grin ate at you.

Rhysand's laughter broke the tense silence, though it lacked humor as he shook his head in disbelief. His wide eyes met yours, a silent exchange of incredulity passing between you before both of you turned to Helion simultaneously. When no other words were offered to you both, the reality of the suggestion seeped in.

As if you both registered it at the same time, both you and Rhysand rose swiftly.

"Absolutely fucking not—"

"—There is no way in hell I'm—"

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

GUYS IM OBSESSED IM SORRY I CANT. reader is such a hater and i think its so funny, whatever rhys does its just *eye roll* booo he sucks

i loveee them ur honor

if youd like to be added to the LCL! taglist, lmk!! <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124

Rhysand tag list 🫶🏻:

@serrendiipty

#rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand fanfic #rhysand fanfiction #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #rhysand x reader fluff #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhys acotar #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar fandom #rhysand acotar #high lord rhysand

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leclucklerc · 2 years ago

Text

Hard Carry CL16 - 00.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x driver!reader

Summary: When you're talking about one of the greats in Formula One, y/n is up there.

Word Count: 1.3K

Masterlist Next

Drive to Survive, Season 1 Episode 3

It's all about Porsche

"There's just something about Porsche that attracts you."

The scene cuts into Porsche's jet black F1 car zooming pass the screen in a top speed. The sound of the loud roar from the engine, as well as the checkered flag that was being waved as the car glide through the finish line is a sight to behold.

"Their team is new in Formula one," said Will Buxton as he leaned back on his seat. The pitch black backdrop is almost poetic considering which team they're discussing right now. "They debuted in 2012, and never looked back ever since."

At this, the scene cuts into a compilation of Formula one announcer announcing many of Porsche's achievements. From the constructor championships, to the world driver championships. An intimidating music can be heard playing in the background before it switches back into the interviewer room. Though, this time, it's not Will Buxton who sat there.

A man with greying hair and pitch black shirt could be seen. There's a small logo of Porsche on his breast pocket. Besides that, the shirt is void from any decoration. Just like how the man expression is void from any emotions.

"Hello," started the man, eyes zeroing straight towards the camera. "I'm Herman Muller, the team principal for the Porsche Royale Formula 1 team."

The scene changed into Porsche's Formula One garage. The pitch black theme with golden accent could be seen everywhere as the mechanics and engineers huddled along the car that they had created for the past year.

"We are a German based team," said Herman as many compilations appeared on the scene. Many of those, are the team celebrating their wins. "A fairly new player in the game, but a tough one, certainly." His English is loaded with German accent, though it only made him seems a bit intimidating.

Constructor championship.

Driver championship.

Many trophies could be seen lining the wall of their factory back in Leipzig. Pictures of their Formula One cars too could be seen littered around the wall.

"When Porsche came, it brought a lot of excitement," said Will as he gripped his hands together. There's excitement evident on his eyes as he began the tale. "There are a lot of buzz here and there about the team. After all, it was the first time FIA had decided to expand the sport." As he said this, clips of articles and old interviews from back in 2012 can be seen playing.

The decision that FIA made to add one more team in the sport after decades. It's for the fans, they had said. To add more excitement and enjoyment for the sport.

"I think our team motto is the reason why we can become like this," said Herman as the camera switched back to him. "Complete domination."

Sounds of machine whirring could be heard as a clip from recent grand prix could be seen. It's a fight between Porsche and Red Bull. A fight, that the pitch black car wins easily.

"Porsche managed to become one of F1 top team during their debut year, and they only ever skyrocketed ever since then," continue Will, he sounds every bit amazed at that. "Every year, without fail, they will always become a favorite to win the championship."

"It's a rocket ship," said Herman as the scene changed towards mechanics and engineers did their adjustment towards their car in the garage. There's a serious air around them as they continue their job. "I like to think that we're building a rocket ship, and not cars."

A compilation of the pitch black car zooming in front of the camera could be seen.

"Besides the complete monstrosity that they call car," said Will, eyes full of amusement. "Their driver lineup is, is simply incredible."

Two people could be seen walking through the grid in a dramatic slow motion. Only their bottom half could be seen, both wearing dark colored pants and sneakers.

"We have the most amazing driver lineup in the grid," mused out Herman as the scene changed back to him, letting out a small laugh. His previous lack of emotions has changed as a clear mirth could be seen shining through hid eyes. "A really unique one."

Well, unique is an understatement.

Will laughed, head nodding. "Their number one driver is probably the favorite driver is most definitely the favorite driver on the track-"

The scene changed into many race compilations, as a pitch black car with the number 1 could be seen overtaking Ferrari's familiar deep red car as well as Mercedes's during their highest height. Checkered flag could be seen waving around as the car zoomed past it, as it was announced as the winner of the race.

"And the favorite off the track."

Kring! Kring!

At the familiar sound of a bicycle bell, many turned their gazes towards the source of it. Almost immediately, their faces broke into smile as they laid their eyes on the person riding the vehicle. The camera is positioned at the back, showcasing long hair with dark Porsche hat on top of it.

As she made her way, many people greeted the woman in a friendly greetings. Some drivers like Daniel Ricciardo or Lewis Hamilton too could be seen waving or trying to make small talk with the rider of the bicycle. With those small interactions, it's clear that she's a popular face here in the grid.

The scene changed towards the interview room where a woman could be seen sitting on the chair. She looks oddly comfortable. As if there's no whole production crew staring at her just beyond the camera.

"Can I start?" she asked, voice soft. Long hair styled perfectly and bright eyes could be seen staring straight towards the camera.

"Yes, yes, start when you feel ready," voiced out the producer.

Said woman laughed, eyes crinkling and cheek rosy. "Well, hello, everyone, Netflix, and new Formula One fans, hopefully," grinned the woman as a round of small laughter rang through the room. Pearly white teeth could be seen under the painted lips. "I'm y/n l/n and I drive for Porsche Formula One team."

"Please say the full team name," said the producer.

Y/n blinked, before the grin on her face widened. "Ah, I completely forgot what it is. Better call Herman, no?"

After that introduction, a camera that was being placed on top of Porsche's garage as the car did a pitstop could be seen showcasing the Drive to Survive opening.

The scene cuts back towards the dark colored interview room. The name y/n l/n now could be seen besides the female as the title as Porsche's driver could be seen underneath it. Besides that, another addition also can be seen.

Three times world champion.

It's a title that many would salivate at the mere thought of. The very dream of every driver that ever graced Formula One.

Various news outlet appeared at this. News anchor announcing y/n's debut back in 2012. Of her, being the first female formula one driver in decades. Of her, as the youngest person to actually managed to snagged one of the most coveted seats in motorsport. Of her, breaking many unseen boundaries and limitations that the sport had put.

A photo of her on the cover of Times Magazine could be seen. Posing comfortably in front of her Formula One car as she holds her helmet.

"Y/n is probably the biggest star that F1 has ever produced," said Will as the screen shows Y/n's instagram page with a whooping 50 million followers. And counting. "She's completely charismatic woman-"

A scene where y/n is mingling with people in the paddock was seen. Laughters could be heard as a response to whatever she said. They seems magically charmed and completely fixated on the woman.

"- a fashion icon-"

Y/n now can be seen in Paris Fashion Week, sitting front row with various celebrities near her.

"- life of the party -"

A ecstatic y/n could be seen spraying champagne to other fellow drivers. The atmosphere is light and full of teasing and banters.

"- And of course, a damn good driver."

The scene changed into a dramatic turn that the woman made in one of the corners. The screeching sound of tires meeting gravel could be heard as she propelled into full speed, easily overtaking cars that stood in front of her. A scene where she was crowned as that year world champion also can be seen as she celebrated with the team.

It changed back to the interview room, where the woman could be seen completely relaxed as she smiled.

"Do you think you're a good driver?" asked the producer.

Y/n tilted her head before various clips appeared.

"AND Y/N L/N IS THIS YEAR WORLD CHAMPIOOON-!" She could be seen spraying champagne.

"TWO YEARS IN A ROW! Y/N L/N IS A WORLD CHAMPIOON-!" A clip of her spraying champagne once again was shown.

"AND YET, SHE MANAGED TO TAKE BACK HER CROWN AS A WORLD CHAMPION!" And another clip of her spraying champagne towards other fellow drivers could be seen.

The loud scene full of euphoria and loud yells are cut as y/n appeared back in the interview room, a small smile on her face. The sudden change into a tense silence is a bit shocking.

"Well," she started, laughing. "I guess I'm a pretty good driver?" y/n stopped a bit. "Can definitely become an Uber as a side hustle."

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