him CONSTANTLY being near you. whether it’s a promenade (which is literally just him showing you off), or tea at his family home, he always wants needs you at his side.
expensive gifts just to make you blush because he knows you will scold him for spending money on you yet again and he thinks it’s adorable.
him constantly sketching or painting you.
if you even mention once that you enjoy reading, this man will gift you an entire library.
nicknames that make you heart flutter. “dearest” “lovely” “my darling” “beauty” “petal”
naturally, violet adores you because her son now actually gets excited for balls and soirées - he gets to show the ton that he’s captured the heart of the most beautiful girl.
becoming close with his sisters and discussing books with eloise who constantly questions why you are with one of her brothers - “are you ill? is he holding you hostage?”
the other young ladies throwing dirty looks your way as you glide across the dance floor with the most desired eligible bachelor of the season.
constantly making each other laugh at the most inappropriate times and having to stifle the laughter which just makes you both laugh harder.
him wanting to be a gentleman and wait until marriage - until he sees that your mother has styled you in his family’s signature blue - a sparkling gown that accentuates your bosom, upon which lays a sparkling sapphire that he bought you…
꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ first snow | anthony bridgerton x f!reader [ficmas day 13]
↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ ficmas masterlist
you and anthony always dance around eachother, until a surprise snowstorm forces you together
a/n: merry christmas to those who celebrate! this year has been a difficult one for me, and I appreciate everyone's patience with me through it all. i hope to continue writing for you, and i hope that you end the year with a smile. love you all, my inbox is always open
There had been no snow in December, which made it an unusually warm month. Christmas came and passed, leaving the members of the ton looking forward instead to the upcoming courting season.
The first several weeks passed without much fanfare until the night of the Bridgerton’s country retreat out at Aubrey Hall. Guests would be expected to stay the night, which had gone from a polite thing to do to a necessity as the first snow of the season finally fell.
You had been forced to come out this season by your parents, who were growing tired of your utter reluctance to engage in societal expectations. The turning point was when you joked about running away to the circus.
As a Baron’s daughter, you had been invited alongside your family to Aubrey Hall for one of the most anticipated events of the season. You had arrived earlier that morning, the carriage bumping over the gravel paths as you looked out the windows at the imposing building. It had cream yellow walls and turrets that made it feel like a castle rather than someone’s country estate. Flowers surrounded the property, spreading into the sprawling gardens. You should’ve been greeted by the Viscount and Dowager Viscountess when you arrived. Instead, it was only the latter.
It wasn’t that you and Anthony Bridgerton disliked each other; it’s more that you aggravated each other. You knew his intentions for finding a wife were practical, which you couldn’t fault him for. You could fault him for his general attitudes on how he treated the women he was vetting as a potential wife. You thought he could at least treat them with at least a semblance of respect. Meanwhile, you might not have chosen to enter the marriage market of your own accord, but you were not going to be caught in some loveless marriage just to get the job done. You’d rather be with someone who wouldn’t make you loathe the rest of your days.
So, after your first meeting that involved a lot of name-calling (you might’ve referred to the Viscount as a prime example of the type of son a mother wouldn’t want) and otherwise immature behavior, you actively attempted to avoid one another. It wasn’t always easy, and there were more nights than not that you’d return to your home and your mother would chastise you for demonizing one of the more powerful men in the ton, but you couldn’t care—least of all about him.
Which is why it was rather unfortunate when snow covered Aubrey Hall, leaving you and everyone else in it stuck until it finally melted.
Violet Bridgerton made the most of the circumstances, hosting an impromptu dance in the ballroom. You dressed in the maroon dress your mother picked out, and lingered at the edges of the ballroom as people mingled and swirled around the floor. You brought the rim of your lemonade glass to your lips and sipped, counting the minutes until you could be done.
“You must enjoy the snowfall,” a voice to your left says. You turn to find Anthony lingering next to you. He looked annoyingly handsome as usual, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze sweeping the floor. Every bit the Viscount.
“And why is that?” you ask, arching a brow as you look at him. He gives you a slight smirk.
“Matches your disposition.”
You roll your eyes. “I believe you can do better than that, my lord.”
“I’m still warming up,” he protests, huffing a laugh. If you didn’t know better, you would say he was enjoying this.
“Not under these temperatures you’re not,” you snort, a rather unladylike sound that you hide in your glass. He looks at you, his brown eyes missing nothing, even as you miss every little tell from him. You swallow your lemonade, gesturing to the rest of the floor with your gloved hand. “Which unfortunate lady do you have your eyes on tonight?”
Anthony sighs, his expression tightening. “None of them. I’m merely checking in and then returning to my ledgers.”
“Your life is incredibly exciting,” you respond, your tone bored. Anthony bites back another grin. He thought you were witty. He tried his best to ignore how much he liked it. To him, there was no point in love in a relationship when he would die exactly as his father did.
“Do you have a gentleman you’re hoping will ask you for a dance?” Anthony asks. You don’t look at him as you look out at the floor.
“No,” you answer plainly. “I will make my rounds and then turn in for the night.”
“So soon? The gathering will miss your optimistic demeanor,” Anthony says sarcastically. You turn and give him a saccharine smile.
“Goodbye, Viscount,” you murmur, turning and leaving.
“I pity the soul that talks to you!” he calls out. A few heads turn his way, but they’re all used to your behaviors at this point.
“Then you should pity yourself,” you retort, giving him a small wave as you leave.
Witty, indeed, he thinks to himself.
There is something about snow that makes it impossible for you to sleep. Maybe it’s the quiet it sets over the world, or perhaps it’s how it feels like it’s peering into your mind and forcing you to feel. Whatever the reason, you find yourself sneaking out of your room anyway.
You wrap a silken robe around yourself, grabbing a lantern as you pad down the hallways. You look at oil paintings of the Bridgertons and peer into open rooms that lead to servants' halls and offices, until eventually, you stumble upon the library.
The Bridgerton library has an entire wall of windows that overlooks the gardens. There’s a table in the middle for people to coalesce, and a chaise for more comfortable seating. There isn’t much by way of fiction on the shelves, but maybe a book on Botany will bore you enough to sleep to be worthwhile. You lean up on your toes to reach the book on the top shelf, pull it down, and move to the chaise, letting it fall open to the first page.
“Plants were of paramount importance to early civilization, having dependence on them by way of food, shelter, clothing…” You read, slightly interested, but also knowing that hundreds of pages of this will most definitely put you to sleep. You stay there on the chaise, your legs curled under for a while, somehow still not sleeping even as you learn the history and science of plants. You barely hear the door finally creaking open, and a figure stops.
“You’re awake,” Anthony Bridgerton murmurs, pausing in the threshold. You look up, brows furrowed as you take him in. He’s just wearing his white undershirt and breeches, having evidently been working.
“You’re in the library,” you answer lamely. He arches a brow.
“I saw the light. Wanted to check in,” he responds. You suppose that’s fair. He moves deeper into the space, looking around before landing back on you again. You’re acutely aware that you’re in your sleeping gown and unchaperoned with the biggest rake in the ton. “Can you not sleep?”
You shrug, running a hand over your face. “Snow keeps me awake– don’t ask me how.” You look out the wall of windows, taking note of the white flakes descending from the sky and settling on the bushes and grass, painting everything in shades of white amongst the darkness. “It is beautiful, though.”
“It is,” he murmurs. He’s not looking at the snow.
You close the book, setting it down neatly before standing and straightening your robe. “I should return to bed. I do not mean to disturb you.”
“That has not stopped you before,” Anthony retorts. You scrunch your nose at him, a habit that he adored.
“Goodnight, Viscount,” you murmur, making your way around him. His hand shoots out and grabs your elbow, haunting you.
“Dance with me,” Anthony blurts out. You look at him, confused.
“Why?”
“Because I want to, and you didn’t dance at the party,” he responds, like it should be obvious—your brows furrow.
“...why?”
“Dear god, woman, I just want to dance with you,” Anthony huffs. You give him a deadpan expression even as you consider his question.
“...fine,” you murmur. His hand drops from your elbow to your hand, pulling you into a waltz position. You put your hand on his shoulder, and you’re unsure what music he could be leading you in. Perhaps he has officially lost his mind? You can imagine the Whistledown headlines: Viscount Bridgerton Suffers a Mental Break and Hears Imaginary Music!
He twirls you and pulls you back in, slightly closer than before. Definitely closer than what’s proper.
“You’re being uncharacteristically nice to me,” you murmur.
“I’m always nice to you,” Anthony scoffs.
“You’re not mean to me, but you’re not particularly nice either,” you comment. He doesn’t have a good retort for that. “I am worried you might be ill if you continue this behavior.”
Anthony bites back another laugh, a smile on his face that crinkles his eyes and makes your heart flutter. His brown eyes meet you in the dim light of the library. “You’re an aggravating woman.”
“Thank you.”
“Completely aggravating, and taking my comment as a compliment further proves my point,” Anthony sighs. He swallows thickly. “And yet, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Your brows raise.
“I always look for you first in any room we’re in, and I look forward to how you will find the way to abuse me that day verbally, and–” Anthony breathes. “–you make it hard to pretend otherwise.”
You pause your dancing, your hands falling from him as you look up at him with a wide, vulnerable expression. Anthony looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something (anything) that will make his confession better. You lick your lips from nerves. He tracks the movement.
“I enjoy arguing with you,” you say quietly—your form of a confession.
It’s the only confirmation he needs.
Anthony surges forward, his lips finding yours in what will be your first kiss. Your hands tentatively go to his arms as he wraps his around your waist, hauling you closer as he coaxes your lips open with his tongue. You gasp against him, heating coiling in your body as he nips at your lip, making your heart beat faster. He pulls away with a groan, his jaw clicking as if physically holding himself back.
“We must stop,” he breathes, as if he weren’t the one who started it. “I-I am a gentleman, and I cannot defile a lady in the library–”
“You are barely a gentleman,” you retort, your breathing still a little labored. “And I am barely a lady.”
Anthony groans, his forehead falling to yours as he kisses you again. He laughs against your lips.
“God, woman– you’re going to kill me.”
You continue kissing him (and more) under the blanket of snow, the house fast asleep, as the two of you discover what it means to find your other half finally.
The Viscount’s Very Small Shadow (Anthony Bridgerton)
Author’s Note: Get ready to fall in love with this new side of Anthony!
Triggers: None, just fluff!
Pairing: dad!Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has been called many things, but fatherhood turns the fearsome Viscount into something softer, warmer, and entirely undone. A sunlit afternoon in the gardens reveals just how deeply he loves his wife and daughter
MASTERLIST
There had been many words used to describe Anthony Bridgerton in the ton over the years. Commanding. Stern. Unyielding. Overly protective. Impossible. The sort of man who entered any room as if the air itself made way for him out of pure instinct. The sort of man who wore responsibility like a second skin and pride like a perfectly tailored coat. But not a single one of those words fit quite as perfectly as the one currently being shrieked across Aubrey Hall’s gardens.
“Papa!”
You barely had time to turn before your daughter hurtled toward him with the unstoppable velocity of a very small force of nature. Her slippers pattered over the grass, curls flying, arms already outstretched in expectation. Anthony, who had once stared down pistols at dawn, outridden storms, commanded younger brothers with nothing more than a level stare, and taken on the viscountcy before most men had learned to shave properly, reacted with something very close to panic.
“Careful, sweetheart, you will knock me over,” he warned. Yet his voice was already softening, already losing that sharp edge of vigilance he insisted was natural. His knees bent, his arms opened, and all the fierce authority of the Viscount of Bridgerton melted into the gentle readiness of a man who adored his child beyond reason.
She launched herself into his chest.
Anthony let out a rather theatrical sound that was half groan, half laugh, and wrapped her up with a practiced ease that made it clear he would never tire of this ritual. Her tiny hands cupped his cheeks at once, demanding his undivided attention. Her curls stuck adorably to her forehead, her entire face flushed with the joy of running simply because she could, because Papa was waiting, because the day was bright and the world was safe.
“Papa,” she said in that solemn tone children use when they believe the fate of nations hangs on their words. “You pwomised we go pick flowews today.”
Anthony kissed her cheek with reverent devotion. “We are going to pick flowers, darling. I was waiting for you.”
She frowned as if evaluating this statement for truthfulness. “But Mama says you get distwacted.”
You could not help the inelegant snort that escaped you.
Anthony turned sharply toward you. His mouth fell open with deep and immediate offense. “I do not get distracted.”
His daughter gasped. “You awe distwacted wight now!”
He blinked at the accusation, clearly stunned. “I am?”
She tapped his forehead with all the authority of a monarch. “Uh huh. You awe thinking about Mama. You always think about Mama.”
Your hand flew to your lips to hide your laugh, though the sparkle in Anthony’s eyes made it clear he heard it anyway. He shot you one of those looks that lived somewhere between affronted pride and helpless adoration. You had long ago learned he could hold both emotions at once with remarkable aptitude.
“I think about Mama sometimes,” he attempted with dubious dignity.
“Lots of times,” she corrected. “All the times.”
You stepped closer and brushed a curl from your daughter’s brow, letting your fingers linger in her hair. “He thinks about me quite a bit.”
Your daughter gasped again, an expression of pure betrayal spreading across her face. “Papa, you pwomised we go pick flowews and not think about Mama.”
Anthony exhaled with the dramatic suffering of a Shakespearean tragedy. “I suppose I can attempt to think about flowers instead of your mother.”
“Good,” she declared, wiggling until he set her down. “Come on. We need the pink ones. Mama likes pink.”
You arched a brow. “Do I?”
Your daughter nodded with an earnest certainty that brooked no disagreement. “Yes. You like pink because Papa says you look pwetty in pink.”
Anthony made a strangled sound and glanced sharply downward as if the grass had become fascinating.
You knelt, tying the ribbon on your daughter’s dress to keep it from slipping. “And what does Papa like? What flowers are his favorite?”
She pressed a finger to her chin and pondered the question as if selecting a treaty for a nation. Her tiny shoulders rose and fell with effort. At last she announced, “Papa likes Mama.”
Anthony’s eyes shut as if he had been felled where he stood.
Then, with the merciless innocence of childhood, she added, “Mama is his favrit flowew.”
Anthony was gone. Truly gone. The Viscount of Bridgerton, feared and admired by half of England, reduced to a melted pile of adoration in his own garden.
He swept her up again although she had no need for carrying. “You are far too wise for your age.”
She smiled with all her teeth. “Does that mean I can have a biscuit before supper, wight?”
Anthony hesitated as if he were preparing to plead a case before the House of Lords. “Well. I suppose if your mother says yes. Then perhaps we could allow a very small biscu-”
“No,” you said.
Your daughter stared at Anthony.
Anthony stared at you.
Your daughter leaned in. “Papa. Use your charm.”
Anthony whispered, “That does not work on Mama.”
She looked genuinely horrified. “But you said Papa charm works on evewyone.”
“Everyone but your mother,” he muttered.
“I heard that,” you said, though your amusement was already giving you away.
Anthony straightened with that irresponsible smile that had once caused more than one debutante to swoon. “Darling wife.”
“You may beg all you like. The answer is still no,” you replied.
He sighed, as though denied a great and noble purpose. “Very well. No biscuit.”
Your daughter groaned with all the misery a small body could hold.
Anthony hitched her more securely onto his hip. “Come along. We shall pick flowers for your mother.”
She brightened instantly. “Yes. Pink ones. And white ones. And a yewwow one if Papa can find it because Papa says he can find anything.”
You tilted your head. “Does he?”
Anthony gave you a look filled with wicked promise. “Anything.”
Your daughter tugged his cheek. “Papa, I want a pink flowew crown.”
“Then you shall have the most beautiful flower crown in all of England,” he declared with a tone of absolute conviction.
She squealed with delight and buried her face in his neck, where she often hid when her happiness felt too big for the world.
The three of you walked deeper into the gardens. Aubrey Hall shimmered behind you, framed in the late afternoon sunlight that cast a warm gold across the lawns. Bees hummed lazily. Roses climbed trellises in a riot of color. The familiar gravel paths curved like old friends welcoming the family that lived here.
Anthony set your daughter down near a cluster of wildflowers that had sprouted from the softer edge of the path. She crouched immediately, hands reaching with reverence.
“Papa, look. This one is pink like Mama’s dress last night.”
Anthony crouched beside her, his large frame folding with surprising ease. You watched him with quiet warmth. He had always possessed a restless energy, a sharp intensity born from years of responsibility placed too early on too young a man. But here, among flowers and sunlight, with his daughter’s small hand gripping his, that intensity softened into something gentler. Something truer.
“Indeed,” he murmured. “It is a very fine pink.”
“Is Mama pretty in pink?” she asked.
Anthony picked one of the flowers with careful fingers. He examined it for a long moment before answering, his voice low and sincere. “Mama is pretty in anything.”
You felt your cheeks warm and pretended to examine a white blossom so you would not have to meet his gaze. You heard his soft chuckle behind you, followed by your daughter’s delighted squawk as he lifted her up again.
“Papa, you awe being distwacted again,” she informed him.
“I am picking flowers,” he insisted.
“For Mama,” she reminded him with a knowing tone far beyond her years.
He sighed in mock defeat. “Yes. For Mama.”
The two of them began gathering blooms of every shade they could find. You watched them from a few steps away, half participant, half enchanted observer. Anthony moved with the ease of a man who had never imagined this version of his life, yet now could not imagine living without it.
He handed your daughter a blossom. “What do you think of this one?”
She squinted at it. “It looks like Mama’s smile.”
Anthony paused, and something in his expression shifted. The proud tilt of his shoulders eased. His eyes softened. His entire being seemed to warm from the inside out. He looked at you then, not quickly, not bashfully, but with a steady reverence that stole your breath every single time.
You looked away first.
Your daughter piled her flowers into her skirt, the fabric straining under the growing bouquet. Anthony bent to help her, tying the ends of her skirt to form a makeshift basket. She laughed when he lifted the bundle as if it weighed a hundred stones.
“You are very strong, Papa.”
He nodded gravely. “I am aware.”
“Is that why Mama married you?” she asked.
You choked on air.
Anthony looked smugly delighted. “Part of it,” he said. He glanced at you with a teasing glint. “Ask her.”
You attempted to school your features. “I married him because he is very stubborn.”
“Stubborn,” your daughter repeated, testing the word on her tongue.
“And very protective,” you added.
“Protective,” she echoed.
“And because he thinks of his family before all else.”
Your daughter looked impressed. “Papa is like a knight.”
Anthony puffed out his chest. “You see? Your mother understands my virtues.”
————
Walking deeper into the garden, the late sun spilling over the three of you. The world felt warm and vast, yet entirely contained within the family you had built.
Your daughter tugged your hand. “Mama, Papa says he can find anything.”
“Did he?” you asked softly.
She nodded with certainty. “Yes. He said he can find anything he looks for.”
Anthony stepped beside you, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “I did not know what I was looking for until I found you.”
Your heart fluttered, a sensation that felt far too girlish for a woman who had been married for years. Yet that was the danger of Anthony Bridgerton. He could ruin you with a single line, a single look, a single moment of unguarded sincerity.
You lifted your chin. “Are you trying to charm me now?”
“Trying?” he repeated with an air of insult. “I thought I was succeeding.”
Your daughter shoved a handful of flowers at him. “Papa, stop thinking about Mama. We need more pink ones.”
“Of course we do,” he replied solemnly. “Your mother requires nothing less than the finest collection.”
You laughed and finally joined them among the blossoms. The three of you knelt together, hands brushing petals, stems, sunlight, laughter. The world felt simple in a way life rarely allowed. You began placing flowers in your daughter’s curls, weaving them idly. Anthony watched you both with a tenderness that nearly undid him.
When your daughter turned, she declared triumphantly, “Papa, I am a flowew princess.”
Anthony touched his forehead in a mock salute. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”
She giggled and pressed a pink flower into his hair with all the regal grace of a toddler. “Now you awe a flowew king.”
You bit your lip to contain your laughter. Anthony froze with a dignity that should not have survived such a situation and said, “I accept this title with great pride.”
Then he looked at you.
And suddenly the moment deepened. His gaze lingered, warm and full and unbearably earnest. Fatherhood had not merely softened him. It had revealed him. It had peeled back all his defenses until only the truest parts of him remained.
You tried to breathe normally.
“Come on, Mama,” your daughter said, tugging your hand. “Your flowews await you.”
Anthony extended his hand to you, palm open, patient and sure.
You took it.
Together, the three of you walked into the sunlit heart of the garden, surrounded by color and laughter and a love that felt endless.
—————
like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.
When you're looking to replace said, think about why. You'll generally want to do this when you need the following:
when the tone of the line needs more context.
when you want to show emotion instead of telling it.
when your character’s body language, action, or expression can do the talking instead.
Take a look at the scene you're writing, is the character saying their line? Or are they yelling it? Screaming it? Are they enraged, or perhaps is their voice a broken whisper from grief?
That being said, you shouldn't always avoid using 'said.' It's easy to read in long sentences, and it keeps the focus on the dialogue rather than the rest of the scenes. That may be beneficial and a key component to parts of your story.
Ways to Show a Character is Falling in Love and Doesn’t Want To ...
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They notice the sound of their name in that person’s mouth and hate that it sounds better. Like their name was meant to be said that way.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They start to dress better when they might see them, subconsciously at first. “Oh, this old thing?” Sure. The old thing you ironed twice.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Their laugh becomes a trigger. Not in the trauma sense, in the “I suddenly forgot how to breathe and now I want to die” sense.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Every conversation feels like walking a tightrope between wanting to tease and wanting to touch.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They say they don’t care, but they’re paying way too much attention. Who they’re talking to. How they’re smiling. Who made them smile.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They avoid them, dramatically, stupidly and it physically hurts. Like withdrawal. They’ll literally hide behind shelves, peek around corners, act like a spy in their own life.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They start saying their name too often. “Oh, yeah, Alex said that too.” “Alex likes that band.” “Alex once...” Shut up, my dude. Please.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They mock them to their friends, but there’s a softness in the way they do it. A little too much affection in the “ugh, they’re so annoying.”
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Their stomach does that thing, you know the one, when they catch their scent on something, and it’s not even strong, just a hint, and suddenly they’re useless for the next ten minutes.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They overthink texts. “Okay, no emojis looks cold. Too many looks desperate. Maybe one. No, zero. Period. Wait, does the period look aggressive?”
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They dream about them, not even romantically, just constantly. Their brain won’t let them rest.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Their jealousy doesn’t make sense. “Why are you talking to them?” “Because they’re a person.” “Oh, right, cool, yeah, totally fine, no reason, haha.” (proceeds to spiral internally).
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They act colder, on purpose. But it’s performative. The kind of detachment that’s practically begging to be noticed.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They start arguments for no reason. Because fighting feels easier than confessing.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They imagine kissing them during fights. Yes, during. It’s sick. They hate it.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They think about what they’d say if they ever got drunk enough to tell the truth. Then immediately pray that moment never comes.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Their pulse spikes when their phone buzzes. It’s embarrassing how fast they grab it. And when it’s not them? Oh, the rage.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They watch their every expression. Like a scientist studying a dangerous animal. “What does that smile mean? Are they flirting or just friendly?” They never know. It’s torture.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They make jokes about being heartless. “Me? Love? Gross.” Meanwhile, they’re literally halfway in love already.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They defend them when no one asked. “They’re not that bad.” Bro. No one said they were. Chill.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They keep trying to rationalize it, listing all the reasons it can’t work, all the flaws they can find, like that’ll stop the feeling. It won’t.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They flinch when someone else flirts with them, then pretend they didn’t notice.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They convince themselves the other person doesn’t feel the same, because that’s safer than hoping.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Their denial becomes its own obsession. “It’s not like that.” “It’s nothing.” “I don’t even like them.” Said for the fiftieth time this week.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ They get defensive when someone points it out. “Me? Them? You’re insane.” They’re not.
After her friends and boyfriend continuously leave her in danger and abandon every plan she makes for them the Originals slowly mend her breaking heart. The gang’s enemies become her friends with her and they don’t know how to feel about it. The last straw is walking in and seeing her boyfriend cheating on her and she runs to the ones who always care for her. What will the gang do when they lose something irreplaceable?
Plot: You are cast as Sophie Beckett but you fall in love with Luke in real life.
Word count: Just under 12K
18+ does include smut at the end
MasterList
Bridgerton and Cast Masterlist
The room was unbearably warm, or maybe that was just my nerves. I sat in the waiting area, my foot tapping against the polished wooden floor as I tried to focus on the lines in my hands. I had rehearsed them a hundred times, but the words blurred together now, my brain buzzing with anxious energy.
This was it. My final audition.
When I first got the call for Bridgerton, I nearly dropped my phone in disbelief. They were casting Sophie Beckett the love interest of Benedict Bridgerton for the upcoming season and somehow, somehow, I had made it to the chemistry read. The moment that could make or break everything.
The nerves twisting in my stomach weren’t just about the role. It was who I’d be reading with.
Luke Thompson.
I had admired him as an actor for years, captivated by the way he brought Benedict to life on screen witty, passionate, and utterly mesmerising. And now, I was about to stand in front of him, reciting words that would determine if I was fit to play his love interest.
"Y/N?" A casting assistant poked her head out of the audition room, giving me a warm smile. "You're up."
I swallowed hard, rising to my feet and smoothing out the fabric of my dress. This was it. Show time.
Stepping inside, I was met with the sight of the showrunner, a few producers, and Luke himself, casually leaning against a chair in the middle of the room. He was flipping through a script, but as soon as I walked in, his head lifted, and his eyes met mine.
And just like that, the air shifted.
Something unspoken crackled between us, an almost magnetic pull I hadn’t expected. His blue eyes studied me for a beat longer than necessary before a slow smile tugged at his lips.
"Hi," he said, standing up and extending his hand. "Luke."
"I know," I replied before I could stop myself, my voice a touch breathless. I took his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. "Y/N."
"Lovely to meet you, Y/N." His voice was softer now, almost as if he could sense my nerves.
"You too." I forced myself to take a deep breath as I let go of his hand, feeling the weight of the casting directors' gazes on us.
"Right," the showrunner said, glancing between us with interest. "Let's see how you two read together. Start from page seventy-three the scene in the library."
Luke nodded and stepped closer, script in hand. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
And then, just like that, we began.
The library scene was pivotal Sophie and Benedict, caught in a moment of rare privacy, tension thick between them. She was the mysterious woman he couldn’t get out of his head, and he was the man who saw right through her defences. It was a dance of longing, restraint, and undeniable attraction.
But as soon as I delivered my first line, something happened.
Luke wasn’t just acting as Benedict. He was Benedict. His eyes locked onto mine with such intensity that I nearly forgot my next words. His voice dipped into something lower, something more intimate, and I felt it in my chest, my skin prickling in response.
I matched his energy, letting the emotions flow naturally, and suddenly, we weren’t just reciting lines we were feeling them.
The moment he stepped closer, invading my space, I felt my breath hitch.
"You cannot keep looking at me that way," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"And how exactly do I look at you, Sophie?" Luke countered, tilting his head.
"Like you're searching for something in me that does not exist."
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, and something in my stomach flipped.
"But what if I see something you do not?"
Silence hung between us, heavy, charged. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.
Luke’s gaze flickered to my lips for the briefest second before he stepped back, breaking the moment, just as Benedict would have.
And just like that, the scene ended.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, my pulse racing.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Then, a chair creaked as one of the producers leaned forward.
"Well," the showrunner finally said, sounding almost amused. "That was... something."
Luke turned to them, his expression unreadable, but there was something alight in his eyes.
"She's Sophie," he said simply. "No question about it."
A surprised murmur rippled through the room.
I blinked, certain I had misheard. "What?"
Luke looked at me then, and his lips curved into the softest smile. "I know when something feels right," he said. "And that felt right."
I stared at him, speechless.
The producers exchanged glances, clearly intrigued by his confidence. The showrunner pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "Luke, we still have more chemistry reads to go..."
"You don’t need them." His voice was calm but certain, unwavering. "I know chemistry when I feel it. And that?" He gestured between us. "That was real."
My mouth went dry. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this stunned.
Luke turned to me again, his expression softer now. "You felt it too, didn’t you?"
I hesitated, but only for a second. "Yeah," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I did."
A small, triumphant smile ghosted across his lips before he turned back to the casting team.
"Then there's your answer," he said simply.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the showrunner let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. "Well, that certainly makes our job easier."
And just like that, I knew.
I had the role.
I was going to be Sophie Beckett.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to do something, but I was too overwhelmed to move. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as I looked at Luke, who was already watching me with that knowing smile.
"Congratulations, Y/N," the showrunner finally said. "Looks like you’ve just secured yourself a role in Bridgerton."
I let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," I whispered, still trying to process it all.
Luke’s grin widened as he nudged me playfully. "I can't wait to work with you" he murmured.
for the first time since I stepped into that room, I allowed myself to smile.
Stepping into the rehearsal space for the first time in months, I felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement swirl in my stomach. The table reads for Bridgerton had officially begun, and with it came costume fittings, wig and make up trials, and endless rehearsals before filming kicked off.
The last time I had seen Luke was during our chemistry read the moment that had quite literally changed my life. His unwavering confidence in me had secured my role as Sophie Beckett, and now, here I was, walking into a room full of actors who already felt like a family.
And then, as if on cue, I spotted him.
Luke was already seated at the long table, script in hand, engaged in quiet conversation with Jonathan Bailey. His eyes flicked up just as I walked in, and immediately, his face broke into the warmest smile.
"There she is!" he announced, standing up as if greeting an old friend.
I couldn’t help but grin. "Been saving my seat, have you?"
"Naturally." He gestured to the chair beside him, his expression teasing. "Wouldn't want my favourite co-star getting lost, would we?"
I rolled my eyes but took the seat anyway, my heart doing an annoyingly giddy little flip.
Just as I set my bag down, Luke leaned in slightly. "I was going to ask," he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "what’s your go-to coffee order?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Um… a vanilla oat latte, usually. Why?"
He just smiled, sitting back in his chair as if that was all the information he needed. "No reason."
I raised an eyebrow, but before I could question him further, the director called for everyone’s attention, and the first read-through began.
Over the next few days, we fell into an easy rhythm.
The morning after the first table read, I walked into the room, still bleary-eyed, only to be greeted by the scent of fresh coffee.
"Morning, Y/N."
I looked up to see Luke standing there, holding out a cup. "Vanilla oat latte, right?"
My mouth fell open slightly. "You remembered?"
He simply shrugged, that boyish grin firmly in place. "Seemed like important information."
I took the coffee, warmth spreading through my fingers and, if I was being honest, my chest. "Thanks, Luke. That’s really sweet."
"It’s nothing," he said easily, though the pleased look in his eyes suggested otherwise.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Because every morning after that, without fail, he showed up at just the right moment always with my coffee in hand, always with that infuriatingly charming smile.
One afternoon, after another long reading session, we were sent off to costume fittings.
I stood in front of a mirror, already partially laced into an intricate gown, watching as a seamstress adjusted the sleeves.
"How does that feel, my lady?" a playful voice sounded behind me.
I turned, my gaze landing on Luke as he leaned casually against the doorway. He was already in partial costume his waistcoat fitted perfectly, the crisp white of his shirt contrasting against the deep navy of his coat.
For a moment, I forgot how words worked.
"Um," I managed, blinking. "It feels… period-appropriate?"
Luke smirked, stepping into the room. "That’s what you’re going with?"
"Well, I can’t exactly say it feels like a comfy pair of pyjamas, can I?" I retorted, smoothing the skirts.
He chuckled. "Fair point."
"Where’s your cravat?" I teased, nodding toward his unbuttoned collar. "A true gentleman of the ton wouldn’t be caught dead like that."
Luke grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don’t tell the costume department, but I’m rebelling against the cravat as long as possible."
"Scandalous," I gasped, playing along.
"You should report me to Lady Whistledown," he whispered.
I laughed, shaking my head. "You’re ridiculous."
He just smiled at me, and for a moment, we simply stood there, his eyes searching mine.
The seamstress coughed politely, breaking whatever spell had settled over us.
Luke stepped back, clearing his throat. "I should, uh, probably let you finish up," he said, scratching the back of his neck.
I nodded, suddenly feeling far too warm in the layers of fabric. "See you at the hair trials?"
"Wouldn’t miss it," he said with a wink before slipping out of the room.
The hair trials were an experience in themselves.
We were seated in a row, each of us trying on different styles, as the hair team fussed over every detail.
Luke, who was sat beside me, had been relatively quiet until they trialed a new hairstyle on him.
I barely had time to register the look of horror on his face before he turned to me, wide-eyed.
"Be honest," he said in a low voice. "Do I look like a man who’s just crawled out of the woods after years of solitude?"
I tried so hard to keep a straight face. I really did.
But the moment he lifted his brows in exaggerated distress, I completely lost it.
Laughter bubbled out of me, and soon, Luke was laughing too, shaking his head as he pulled the wig off.
"we can't do that," he declared to the hair team. "Y/N will never take me seriously."
I wiped at my eyes, still giggling. "I think you should embrace the wilderness aesthetic."
"Not a chance," he muttered, ruffling his hair.
The stylists chuckled as they discussed different options.
Luke turned back to me, a mischievous glint in his eye. "See? This is why I need you around."
I tilted my head. "To stop you from looking like a feral man in a romance series?"
He grinned. "Exactly."
By the end of the week, after countless readings, fittings, and more coffee deliveries than I could count, something had settled between us.
A familiarity. An ease.
Luke was effortlessly charming, endlessly kind, and always seemed to know exactly when I needed a pick-me-up whether it was coffee, a joke, or a simple smile.
On our final day of pre-production, as we walked out of the building together, he nudged me lightly.
"Excited for filming?" he asked.
I exhaled, letting the weight of it all sink in. "A little nervous, if I’m honest."
Luke looked at me, something warm and reassuring in his gaze. "You’ll be brilliant, Y/N. I have no doubt."
I smiled, feeling that familiar flip in my stomach. "Thanks, Luke."
"Anytime." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "And if you ever need anything on set or otherwise you know where to find me."
Something about the sincerity in his voice made my heart skip.
"Same goes for you," I murmured.
A small smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, I thought he might say something else. But instead, he just reached into his bag and pulled out a takeaway cup.
"One last coffee before we start the madness?" he offered, holding it out.
I stared at him, touched beyond words.
"You’re unbelievable," I said, taking the cup with a shake of my head.
He simply grinned. "I try."
The first day of filming was a whirlwind.
I had been up before the sun, fuelled by a mix of excitement and nerves as I arrived at set. The energy was infectious crew members bustled about, adjusting cameras and lights, while costumers made last-minute tweaks to everyone’s outfits.
And then, of course, there was the cast.
I had met most of them at the table reads, but now, seeing them in full costume, it suddenly felt real.
"Y/N!" A voice called out as I stepped onto the main set, where the Bridgerton family’s grand house stood before me.
I turned to see Nicola Coughlan beaming at me, her Penelope curls pinned to perfection.
"You look amazing," she said, reaching out for a hug.
"So do you!" I grinned, hugging her back.
"You nervous?" she asked knowingly.
"A bit," I admitted.
"Oh, don’t worry, we’re all a mess on the first day," she reassured me. "Just wait till Newts forgets his lines for the first time it’s tradition at this point."
"Oi!" Luke Newton’s voice piped up as he joined us. "That was one time."
Nicola raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"
He sighed dramatically before turning to me. "Welcome to the madness, Y/N. Are you ready for the most chaotic, hilarious, and exhausting few months of your life?"
I laughed. "I think so?"
Before he could respond, Jonathan appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around my shoulders.
"Our new Sophie Beckett!" he declared grandly. "Welcome, darling. We’ve been waiting for you!"
I chuckled. "I feel very welcomed already."
"As you should!" He grinned, then turned to Luke T, who had just arrived, already in full Benedict mode. "And you, sir, have some very big shoes to fill."
Luke looked between us, confused. "Do I?"
Jonathan smirked, nudging him. "Oh, you know… romance, longing gazes, yearning… The Bridgerton way."
Luke rolled his eyes. "I think I’ll manage."
"Oh, we know you’ll manage," Luke Newton interjected, wiggling his eyebrows. "Especially with a certain co-star."
I glanced between them, confused, but Jonathan let out a knowing chuckle. "Ah, I see. Thompson’s already smitten."
Luke groaned. "Here we go."
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Nothing," Luke said quickly.
"Everything," Jonathan corrected, grinning.
Luke Newton clapped his hands together. "I say we keep an eye on these two. Something tells me there’ll be plenty of off-screen chemistry as well."
Luke shot them both a look. "Can we focus on the actual job, please?"
Nicola leaned closer to me, whispering, "They love to tease, don’t mind them."
I bit back a smile. "Noted."
Once filming officially began, the teasing didn’t stop but neither did the fun.
Our first scene was a grand ballroom sequence, filled with swirling dresses, twinkling chandeliers, and a sea of actors moving in perfect synchrony.
I stood off to the side, watching as the crew set up the shot.
"Not too overwhelming, I hope?" Luke appeared beside me, his voice gentle.
I smiled up at him. "It’s a lot, but in the best way."
He nodded. "I remember my first day. It was a blur of corsets, cravats, and trying not to trip over my own feet."
"Let me guess you tripped anyway?"
He sighed. "Spectacularly."
I laughed, nudging him lightly. "I’ll try to avoid making my grand debut that way."
"You’ll be brilliant, Y/N," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made my heart skip slightly.
"Thanks, Luke."
"Anytime."
Between takes, the entire cast fell into easy camaraderie.
Jonathan and Simone took turns making up ridiculous backstories for the extras in the background, while Nicola and Claudia had a full debate over whether their characters would secretly write Gossip Girl-style letters in the modern era.
Luke Newton, meanwhile, had somehow convinced the costume team to let him have a third helping of cake from the banquet scene, much to the director’s exasperation.
And Luke Thompson?
Well, he kept finding ways to be exactly where I was.
At lunch, when I was searching for an open seat, he wordlessly pulled out the chair next to him.
When I struggled with one of the intricate lace ties on my gown, he appeared behind me, effortlessly fixing it.
And, of course, he still showed up with my coffee every single time.
"You really don’t have to do this," I told him as he handed me yet another vanilla oat latte between takes.
He shrugged, grinning. "I know. But I like to."
I couldn’t fight the warmth spreading through me. "You’re ridiculously sweet, you know that?"
He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. "Don’t tell the others. I have a reputation to uphold."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Your secret’s safe with me."
By the time the sun began to set, marking the end of our first day, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
Yes, the day had been long. Yes, my feet ached from hours of wearing heels.
But I had never felt more welcomed. More at home.
As I gathered my things, Luke appeared beside me once again.
"Survived day one?" he asked.
"Just about," I grinned.
He studied me for a moment before saying, "You belong here, Y/N. You really do."
My heart squeezed. "That means a lot."
"It’s just the truth."
For a moment, we stood there, the chatter of the crew fading into the background.
Then, with an easy smile, Luke gestured toward the exit. "Come on. Let’s get out of these ridiculous costumes before we become permanently laced into them."
I laughed, falling into step beside him.
Filming had been going smoothly for the past few days, each scene feeling more natural as I settled into the world of Bridgerton. The cast had welcomed me with open arms, and between the long shooting hours and endless costume fittings, I had quickly grown comfortable around them.
So, when my phone buzzed with a message from Luke one morning, I was already smiling before I even read it.
Luke: Morning, trouble. We’re all heading down to Bath together for filming today. Fancy squeezing into the chaos wagon with me, Jonny, Nicola, and Claudia?
I huffed out a small laugh, shaking my head.
Me: Chaos wagon, huh? Sounds risky.
Luke: Oh, it absolutely is. But I’ll let you have the front seat.
Me: Tempting offer…
Luke: I’ll even bring you coffee.
I snorted. Of course, he knew my weakness.
Me: Fine. But if I regret it, I’m blaming you entirely.
Luke: Deal. See you soon, love.
I should have known the car ride would be anything but peaceful the moment I stepped outside and spotted Luke behind the wheel.
"Welcome to the chaos wagon," he greeted, smirking as he leaned across the seat to open the passenger door for me.
"God help me," I muttered playfully, sliding into the seat.
Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia were already crammed into the back, mid-argument over something I couldn’t quite make out.
"Just admit it, Jonny!" Nicola was saying, her voice full of exasperation.
"I refuse," Jonathan declared dramatically.
"It’s a fact," Claudia interjected. "You do take the longest to get ready in the mornings!"
Jonathan gasped in mock offense. "That is slanderous, and I will not stand for it."
Luke chuckled as he pulled out of the car park, giving me a knowing glance. "Still sure you don’t regret this?"
I shook my head, laughing. "I’m getting the full Bridgerton experience, aren’t I?"
"That you are," he agreed.
The drive quickly descended into complete and utter chaos.
Nicola and Claudia put on an early 2000s playlist, belting out every song with dramatic flair. Jonathan, not to be outdone, started making up ridiculous backstories for the passing roads.
"That road leads to a secret society of butlers," he said seriously as we passed a quiet country lane.
Luke shook his head. "I am never letting you sit in the front."
"Jealousy doesn’t suit you, mate," Jonathan quipped.
I was laughing so much my stomach hurt. I had never been on a road trip quite like this before one filled with so much energy, so much ridiculousness, and so much joy.
And then, in the midst of all the noise, something happened that made my breath hitch.
Luke took one hand off the wheel and rested it gently on my thigh.
It was a simple gesture. Casual, even. But something about the warmth of his palm, the way his fingers squeezed lightly, sent a sudden jolt through me.
I turned my head, and for a moment, it was just the two of us in our own little bubble.
His eyes flicked toward me, a soft smile playing at his lips.
"You alright?" he murmured.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah."
His thumb brushed over the fabric of my leggings, and my stomach did a ridiculous little flip.
And then
"OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
Jonathan’s voice shattered the moment.
"Luke Thompson, removing a hand from the wheel for romantic purposes?" Nicola gasped dramatically. "Someone alert the ton! Scandal!"
Luke groaned, his hand instantly retreating. "For God’s sake"
"IT’S HAPPENING!" Claudia declared.
"It’s not happening!" Luke shot back, though his face was definitely a little pink.
I, meanwhile, covered my face with my hands. "You guys are the worst."
Jonathan grinned. "Oh, come on, Y/N. Admit it Thompson’s got a soft spot for you."
I peeked at Luke, only to find him already looking at me. His eyes were unreadable, his lips twitching like he was deciding whether to fight back or lean into it.
Instead, he simply said, "Drive’s going to be a long one if you lot keep this up."
"Long and full of undeniable chemistry," Nicola corrected.
Luke sighed, shaking his head, but I didn’t miss the tiny smirk pulling at his lips.
I turned back toward the window, my cheeks still warm.
By the time we arrived in Bath, my stomach ached from laughing too much.
The car ride had been nothing short of chaotic Claudia and Nicola had somehow convinced Jonathan to create an official ranking of everyone’s most scandalous moments on set, and to no one’s surprise, he had decided that Luke’s hand on thigh moment was at the very top of the list.
"Mate, you have no idea the damage you’ve done," Luke grumbled as he parked the car in front of the hotel.
Jonathan smirked. "Oh, I do. I fully intend to capitalise on it."
I turned to Luke, trying to look serious. "You’ll never live this down, you know?"
He sighed dramatically. "I figured as much."
"Better get used to scandal, Benedict," I teased, stepping out of the car.
The hotel was stunning an elegant Georgian building with grand chandeliers and thick velvet curtains. It was the kind of place that made you want to walk around in a dressing gown, sipping tea like you were in a period drama even off-set.
I grabbed my room key from the front desk, only to glance over and see Luke holding an identical one.
"Room 214," I murmured, reading the number.
Luke lifted his own key. "215."
I huffed a laugh. "You again?"
He grinned. "Reckon the universe is trying to tell you something, love."
"Yeah," I mused. "That I should invest in noise-cancelling headphones."
His chuckle was soft, almost fond, as we headed upstairs.
After dropping my bags off, I flopped onto the bed for all of two minutes before my phone buzzed.
Jonny: "BREAKING NEWS. LUKE ‘THIGH TOUCHER’ THOMPSON AND Y/N ‘VICTIM’ L/N HAVE ADJACENT ROOMS. THE SCANDAL CONTINUES. MORE AT 10."
I groaned. He was never going to let this go.
Filming in Bath was special. The historic architecture, the cobbled streets, the way the city seemed frozen in time it made stepping into the Bridgerton world feel even more real.
And, of course, the cast made everything ten times more ridiculous.
"Right, everyone, places!" the director called, clapping his hands together.
We were filming an outdoor scene today, and the second I arrived on set, Jonathan was already stirring up trouble.
"A scandal must be addressed!" he announced dramatically, gathering the cast and crew like he was making an important political speech.
"Here we go," Luke muttered beside me.
"Last night, I was made aware of alarming news," Jonathan continued. "It has come to my attention that our very own Luke Thompson has been engaging in highly improper behaviour."
Luke sighed. "It was a knee-jerk reaction"
"It was a thigh-jerk reaction, actually," Claudia corrected, grinning.
The entire cast erupted into laughter.
I shook my head, trying (and failing) to suppress a smirk. "I’m never getting in a car with any of you again."
Nicola nudged me. "Oh, please. You love it."
"Debatable."
Jonathan, who clearly had no intention of moving on from this, turned to the director. "Sir, I do believe we should be adjusting today’s script to reflect this newfound scandal."
The director, who had likely seen far too much of our antics by now, simply pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just get into position, please."
Luke shot me a look half exasperated, half amused. "See what you’ve done?"
"I didn’t do anything!"
He arched a brow. "You existed in the front seat, Y/N. That was enough."
I rolled my eyes. "Should I be flattered?"
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "Only if you want to be."
And just like that, my stomach did that stupid, ridiculous, fluttery thing again.
Filming was a mixture of long takes, quick costume changes, and a lot of standing around waiting for the next setup. It was during those in-between moments that I really started to notice something.
Luke was always there.
Not in a weird way, but in the Luke way.
Like how, right after my first big emotional scene, he appeared at my side with a bottle of water and a small nod.
Or how, when I shivered in the cold between takes, he wordlessly draped his coat over my shoulders.
And, of course, how he still turned up with my favourite coffee at exactly the right moments, like some kind of caffeine-delivering wizard.
"You’re very good at this," I murmured as he handed me the cup.
"At what?"
"Knowing exactly when I need caffeine."
He smirked. "It’s a talent."
I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me. "You should put it on your CV."
"‘Professional coffee provider’?"
I nodded solemnly. "Future generations will thank you."
His laugh was soft, but his eyes lingered on mine a beat too long.
By the time we wrapped for the day, I was exhausted. Filming had run late, and all I wanted to do was collapse into bed.
As I was unlocking my hotel room, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
"Long day, huh?"
I turned to see Luke, leaning against his own door, looking just as tired as I felt.
"Yeah," I exhaled. "Fun, though."
He nodded. "You were brilliant today, by the way."
I blinked. "Oh. Um thank you."
"You’re really bringing Sophie to life," he added, his voice softer now. "It’s incredible to watch."
I felt my face warm. "That means a lot, coming from you."
His lips quirked up at the corner. "Should I be flattered?"
I rolled my eyes. "Only if you want to be."
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Touché."
For a moment, we just stood there in the quiet hallway, neither of us moving to go inside.
Something about the stillness of it all the soft glow of the hallway lights, the way he was looking at me like I was something worth noticing made my chest feel oddly tight.
I cleared my throat. "Well, um… goodnight, Luke."
He hesitated, then gave me a small smile. "Goodnight, Y/N."
As I closed my door behind me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
After a long day on set, there was nothing better than food.
Good food. Good company. And, if Jonathan had anything to do with it, absolute chaos.
So, when Nicola suggested going out for dinner, it took approximately three seconds for the entire group to agree. Within half an hour, we were packed into a restaurant in the heart of Bath, tucked into a booth that definitely wasn’t designed for this many people but somehow accommodated our rowdiness anyway.
The drinks flowed, the food arrived, and the volume at the table was immediately ridiculous.
"I would just like to formally announce that I am still traumatised from today," Luke declared dramatically, waving a fork in Jonathan’s direction.
Jonathan, who had spent the entire day again loudly broadcasting Luke’s scandal to anyone who would listen, merely smirked. "I was performing a public service."
"Public service my ass," Luke grumbled.
I snorted. "To be fair, you did bring it on yourself."
Nicola raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. Don’t rest your hand on a lady’s thigh if you don’t want to be called out, darling."
Luke groaned. "I hate it here."
"Cheers to that," Jonathan said, raising his glass.
Everyone clinked their drinks together, laughter bubbling around the table.
At some point between bites of pasta and stealing a piece of garlic bread from Luke’s plate (he absolutely noticed but didn’t say anything), I felt it again those small, unspoken moments between us.
A glance held a second too long.
The brush of his knee against mine under the table.
His fingers grazing my wrist as he reached for the salt.
Tiny, insignificant touches.
But none of them felt insignificant.
Jonathan, ever the observer, caught more than a few of them.
"Interesting," he murmured into his drink at one point, eyeing us.
Luke shot him a look. "What?"
Jonathan sipped his wine, smiling innocently. "Oh, nothing."
I narrowed my eyes. "That wasn’t nothing."
He shrugged. "Just taking in the dynamics at play."
Luke sighed. "Jonathan."
Jonathan beamed. "Luke."
I looked between them. "Should I be concerned?"
"No," Jonathan said cheerfully. "But he should be."
Luke groaned. "I repeat I hate it here."
Later in the evening, after most of the table had moved on to dessert (and Claudia was passionately debating with Nicola over whether cheesecake counted as cake), Jonathan and Luke found themselves alone at the bar.
Jonathan leaned back against the counter, nursing his drink, eyes sharp as they flickered to where I was laughing with Claudia.
"So," he said casually, turning back to Luke.
Luke raised an eyebrow. "So?"
Jonathan smirked. "You like her."
Luke exhaled through his nose. "Observant, aren’t you?"
"It’s a gift," Jonathan said with mock modesty. "But seriously, mate. The chemistry between you two? It’s insane."
Luke glanced toward the table, his gaze softening as he caught sight of me mid-laugh, eyes bright, hand gesturing animatedly as I spoke.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
Jonathan studied him for a moment. "When did you know?"
Luke didn’t hesitate.
"The second she walked into the chemistry read."
Jonathan tilted his head, surprised. "Really?"
Luke chuckled, shaking his head. "It sounds stupid, I know. But" He exhaled. "I just… knew. She was different."
Jonathan grinned. "You’re in so much trouble."
Luke huffed a laugh. "Yeah," he admitted, taking a sip of his drink. "I know."
Filming schedules rarely made sense.
One day, we’d be shooting an intense argument. The next, a scene that took place before the argument. And today?
Today, we were filming the wedding.
Luke wasn’t nervous.
Okay, that was a lie.
He wasn’t usually nervous, at least not when it came to filming. But as he stood on set, dressed in full Regency wedding attire, his hands clasped in front of him, he felt an unfamiliar kind of anticipation bubbling in his chest.
Then, I walked in.
I wasn’t even near him I was talking to the director across the room, adjusting my gloves as the costume team flitted around me. But it didn’t matter.
The second Luke saw me in the wedding dress, he forgot how to breathe.
"You’re kidding me," Jonathan muttered beside him.
Luke barely heard him.
"You’re actually Oh my God you’re actually gone for her."
Luke blinked, forcing himself to look away. "Shut up, Jonny."
Jonathan grinned. "Mate, I wish I could, but I physically can’t. I mean, did you see your face just now? It was like you’d been hit by a horse and carriage."
Luke exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but his heart was still racing.
How was he meant to act normal when I looked like that?
The set was breathtaking candles flickered softly, white flowers adorned every surface, and the grand church felt almost reverent in its beauty.
I stood at the end of the aisle, my hands clasped around a bouquet, heart hammering in my chest.
Luke was already waiting at the altar, his back straight, eyes fixed on me.
And for a moment, it wasn’t acting.
It wasn’t a character walking toward another character. It was just me and him.
The director called action.
I took slow steps forward, my heart pounding louder with each one.
Luke swallowed hard.
When I reached him, our hands met. His fingers curled around mine warm, steady, but slightly trembling.
The vicar’s words blurred in my ears. I was too aware of him. The intensity of his gaze. The way his chest rose and fell. The slight twitch of his fingers against mine.
And then
"You may now kiss the bride."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then, Luke’s hand slid up to my jaw, his thumb grazing my cheek. His touch was featherlight, hesitant, as if savouring the moment.
And then he kissed me.
It should’ve just been a scene. Just another part of the job.
But the second our lips met, the world tilted.
Sparks.
Actual, electric sparks shot down my spine, my skin igniting at the press of his mouth against mine.
His fingers tightened on my waist.
My hands curled into the fabric of his coat.
For a moment, we forgot.
Forgot about the cameras. Forgot about the people watching. Forgot about everything except the way we fit together so perfectly in that instant.
Then, the director called cut.
We pulled away.
Silence.
Luke’s eyes flickered over my face, his breath uneven.
I couldn’t speak.
Neither could he.
Because whatever had just happened between us whatever had shifted we both felt it.
But we didn’t address it.
We couldn’t.
So, we simply stepped back.
And the moment passed and we all reset and we continued to film different angles.
Luke barely made it off set before Jonathan grabbed him by the arm.
"Right," Jonathan said, pulling him into a quiet corner. "Tell me you felt that."
Luke ran a hand through his hair. "Jonny—"
"Luke."
Luke sighed, his mind still spinning.
He couldn’t lie. Not to Jonathan.
So, he exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he admitted, voice quiet. "I felt it."
Jonathan grinned. "Knew it."
Luke rolled his eyes. "Don’t."
Jonathan held up his hands. "I’m just saying damn. That was not just acting."
Luke didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because Jonathan was right.
Meanwhile, in the costume trailer, a similar conversation was happening.
I sat in a chair as Nicola and Claudia flanked me, both staring expectantly.
"So," Claudia said, drawing out the word. "That was some kiss."
We’d carried on as normal laughing, bantering, running lines together. But something had changed. There was a shift. A tension.
And our castmates? They definitely noticed.
Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia were on a mission.
I should’ve known something was up when I walked into the green room and they were huddled together, whispering furiously.
The second I stepped in, they fell silent.
"Good morning?" I said, eyeing them suspiciously.
Nicola grinned. "Morning."
Jonathan cleared his throat. "You look nice today."
I frowned. "Thanks?"
"Anything new happening in your life?" Claudia asked, her tone far too casual.
I raised an eyebrow. "No?"
Nicola sighed dramatically. "How tragic."
Jonathan shot her a look before turning back to me. "Anyway, you busy later?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
Jonathan draped an arm over my shoulder. "Because, dear Y/N, we thought it’d be fun if you and Luke rehearsed your next scene alone. In private. Without distractions."
Nicola and Claudia nodded way too enthusiastically.
Claudia beamed. "We just think you and Luke should spend some quality time together."
I groaned. "Oh my God."
Jonathan patted my shoulder. "That’s a yes, then!"
Before I could argue, they were already rushing off to find Luke.
I was so doomed.
Their first attempt came during lunch.
Luke and I were the last ones in the costume department, getting some final adjustments done. When we went to leave
The door wouldn’t open.
Luke frowned, trying the handle again. "It’s locked."
I blinked. "That’s…weird."
From the other side of the door, I heard hushed whispers.
"Did it work?" That was Nicola.
"Shh! They’ll hear us!" Claudia hissed.
Luke and I exchanged a look.
Jonathan’s voice came next. "Okay, okay, we give it five minutes, then we let them out."
I groaned, knocking on the door. "Jonathan!"
"Who, me?" he said, all faux innocence. "I have no idea how this happened."
Luke ran a hand through his hair, trying very hard not to laugh. "Right. So, we’re locked in."
I sighed. "Apparently."
"Well," he said, leaning against the wall. "Might as well make the most of it."
The next attempt happened during scene rehearsals.
The script called for Luke and I to run a particularly intimate scene together. The plan was to practice in pairs before running it with the director.
Somehow, Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia convinced everyone to swap partners leaving me and Luke alone.
I stared at Jonathan. "Seriously?"
He grinned. "What a coincidence."
Luke smirked. "They’re not subtle, are they?"
"Not even a little," I muttered.
Still, we went through the scene.
But the moment Luke’s hand brushed my waist, a shiver ran down my spine.
His fingers lingered just for a second.
And I knew he felt it too.
Jonathan, watching from the sidelines, wiggled his eyebrows.
I shot him a glare.
By the time we wrapped for the day, I was exhausted.
I was about to head back to the hotel when Jonathan suddenly appeared.
"Oh no," he said dramatically. "We’re out of cars!"
I frowned. "What?"
Nicola nodded solemnly. "So tragic. Guess you’ll just have to share with Luke."
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
Then turned to Luke, who of course had one available seat in his car.
Luke chuckled. "Come on, then."
With no choice, I slid into the passenger seat.
As we drove off, I caught sight of Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia high-fiving.
I buried my face in my hands. "I hate them."
Luke laughed. "They really want us together, don’t they?"
I sighed. "Apparently."
He glanced at me, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Can’t say I mind too much."
I turned to him, heart stuttering.
His eyes flickered to my lips.
Then, before I could respond
Jonathan’s text came through the group chat.
JONATHAN: Are you two kissing yet? 👀
I groaned reading it out loud to Luke.
Luke howled with laughter.
The steady rhythm of raindrops tapped against the windshield, soft and rhythmic, casting a hazy glow across the car's interior.
Luke had parked outside the hotel, but neither of us made a move to get out.
We just sat there.
The engine hummed softly, the only other sound between us aside from the rain. Streetlights flickered outside, casting golden streaks across the wet pavement.
I stole a glance at him.
He was gripping the steering wheel loosely, fingers tapping against it, as if working up the nerve to say something. His jaw tensed. Then relaxed.
I swallowed, my heart hammering.
The air between us was different tonight. He felt it. I felt it.
Luke exhaled, finally turning toward me. “So…”
I turned to meet his gaze, my lips parting slightly. "So," I echoed.
He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as if laughing at himself. Then his voice turned quieter, more careful.
"I haven’t stopped thinking about it."
My breath caught. "The… kiss?"
His lips quirked, but there was nothing teasing about it. Just honesty. "Yeah."
A warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading through me like wildfire.
I took a shaky breath. "Me neither."
Luke's expression softened, and for the first time, I saw something unguarded in his gaze. Something real.
"I..." He hesitated, running a hand through his curls before finally meeting my eyes again. "I knew it was gonna be good, but I wasn’t expecting that."
I let out a breathless laugh, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. "Me neither."
His fingers flexed against his thigh, as if resisting the urge to reach for me.
“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
I swallowed. “Yeah?”
His gaze dropped to my lips.
And then, achingly slow, he leaned in.
He was so close I could feel the warmth of his breath, the faintest scent of coffee lingering between us.
My heart stuttered, everything else in the world blurring into nothing.
His hand lifted hesitant at first before brushing against my cheek, his fingertips featherlight. I instinctively leaned into his touch, my lashes fluttering closed.
Then, finally...finally his lips met mine.
Soft. Warm.
His lips moved against mine in a way that sent sparks racing through me, a kiss so slow and careful, like he was savoring every second of it.
And I was too.
I tilted my head, deepening the kiss just slightly, my fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater. He exhaled against me, his hand slipping to the side of my neck, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my skin.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was everything.
When we finally pulled back, just a breath apart, neither of us moved away.
His forehead rested against mine, and for a moment, all we did was breathe.
His eyes fluttered open, and when he spoke, his voice was barely there.
“…Wow.”
I laughed softly, my lips tingling. “Yeah. Wow.”
His thumb brushed over my cheek. "I should probably say something witty right now."
I smiled. "You really don’t have to."
His eyes searched mine, filled with something that made my stomach flip. "Good," he whispered. "Because I just want to stay right here."
And so we did.
Just us.
Just this.
For as long as we could.
The world outside the car had faded away. It was just me and Luke, our voices low, soft laughter lingering between us as we basked in whatever this was this shift, this new, delicate thing blooming between us.
His fingers traced light patterns on my knee, our foreheads nearly touching as we whispered to one another, smiling like idiots.
And then
BANG BANG BANG!
I screamed, jerking away from Luke as a chorus of cackling erupted outside.
Luke jumped, smacking his head against the headrest as his hands shot up defensively like he'd been caught committing a crime.
Outside the car, Nicola, Claudia, and Jonathan stood by their own parked vehicle, smug as hell.
"Oi, lovebirds! You finally confess your undying love, or are we still dragging this out?" Jonathan yelled, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Nicola clutched her stomach, laughing. "Oh, their faces! Look at them!"
Claudia pounded on the window again for good measure, making me jump. "Don’t be shy, open up!"
Luke groaned, dragging a hand down his face as I covered mine entirely. “I hate them,” he muttered, voice drenched in amusement.
I bit my lip, barely suppressing my laughter as I reached for the door handle. “If we don’t get out, they will break in.”
Luke sighed dramatically before shoving his door open. "Right, you absolute menaces"
I stepped out too, the cool night air biting against my skin, and was instantly met with the three of them grinning like feral goblins.
Jonathan folded his arms. “So? Did we miss anything?”
I opened my mouth then immediately closed it, warmth rising in my cheeks.
Luke cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “Um.”
Nicola’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ohhh, this is juicy."
Claudia gasped, smacking Jonathan’s arm. “Wait. WAIT. Did something happen?”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "You did tell each other, didn't you?"
Luke and I exchanged a glance before looking anywhere but at them.
"OH MY GOD, YOU DIDN’T!" Nicola shouted, horrified.
Jonathan groaned, throwing his hands up. "How are we still in this slow burn? We need progress, people!"
Luke rolled his eyes, nudging me forward. “Come on, let’s just go to our rooms before they....”
“Oh, no no no, we are not done here!” Jonathan called after us.
Ignoring them, Luke and I started toward the hotel, the car park lights glowing around us. My heart still raced from before, but I didn’t feel nervous anymore.
Because, just as we passed under the lights, Luke reached for my hand.
Without hesitation, he laced our fingers together.
I stole a glance up at him, but he was already looking at me, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.
I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
And just like that, we were us.
When we reached our rooms right next to each other Luke stopped outside my door.
He turned to me, still holding my hand, then gently pressed a kiss to my forehead.
It was soft. Warm.
Then he pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping securely around me.
I melted into him, my hands gripping his jumper as I closed my eyes, breathing him in.
We stayed like that for a few seconds until our peaceful moment was shattered by the loudest, most chaotic screaming behind us.
"OH MY GOD, GET IN THERE, Y/N!"
"WOOOO, LUCAS!"
"SEX MAGNET STRIKES AGAIN!"
"LOCK THE DOOR, YOU COWARD!"
Luke groaned into my hair, and I buried my face in his chest, dying of laughter.
We turned slowly to see Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia standing a few feet away, losing their minds.
Jonathan had his hands cupped around his mouth like a sports commentator.
Nicola was doubling over with laughter.
And Claudia? She was full-on crying from how hard she was laughing.
Luke let out a dramatic sigh, dropping his head onto my shoulder. “We are never going to hear the end of this, are we?”
I grinned, squeezing his hand once more before finally pulling away, the warmth of his touch lingering on my skin.
"Nope," I said, smiling up at him. "Never."
And honestly?
I didn’t mind one bit.
Lying in bed, I was still smiling.
The warmth of Luke’s hug lingered, the feel of his lips pressing against my forehead replaying in my mind like a favorite scene from a movie.
My phone vibrated beside me.
Luke: They’re never going to let us live this down, are they?
I giggled, biting my lip as I typed back.
Me: Not a chance. I think Jonathan’s planning a full-on wedding at this point.
His reply came almost immediately.
Luke: I wouldn’t put it past him. Should I be worried about getting fitted for a tux?
My fingers hovered for a second before I finally typed back.
Me: Door’s open.
Not even ten seconds later, there was a quiet click as my door opened, and Luke slipped inside, his hair slightly tousled, wearing a hoodie and sweats.
"Hi," I murmured, watching him step closer.
"Hi," he said softly, a small smile playing on his lips.
He moved slowly, almost hesitating, before he finally sat on the edge of my bed.
And then, with a warm, gentle hand, he cupped my cheek and leaned in.
The kiss was soft, slow, and sweeter than I could have imagined.
His lips pressed to mine with the kind of tenderness that made my heart ache in the best way.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
"That was better," he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheek lightly.
I let out a breathy laugh, my heart still racing. "Better than what?"
Luke pulled back just enough to look at me, a teasing glint in his eye. "Better than the first one."
I rolled my eyes. "That was for work."
"Was it?" His voice was softer now, and the way he was looking at me like he was seeing something he never wanted to look away from made my stomach flip.
I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he still was. "No," I admitted quietly. "It wasn’t."
His lips quirked up in a small, knowing smile, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he shifted on the bed, lying back against my pillows like he belonged there.
I raised an eyebrow. "You making yourself comfortable?"
He grinned. "You did say the door was open. Thought that was an invitation."
I huffed a laugh, shaking my head before shifting to lie beside him. He lifted his arm, letting me tuck myself against him, his body warm and solid beneath the hoodie.
For a while, we just lay there, the sound of the rain still pattering gently against the window.
"You know," Luke murmured after a while, his voice quieter now, "I really did feel it. That first kiss."
I tilted my head up to look at him. "Me too."
His arm tightened around me slightly, like he was pulling me closer without even realising it.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I really, really like you, Y/N."
My breath hitched.
There was nothing teasing in his voice now. No playful smirks or sarcastic remarks just honesty.
I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping his hoodie slightly. "I really, really like you too, Luke."
His lips parted slightly, his blue eyes searching mine like he was committing this moment to memory.
Then, instead of kissing me again like I half-expected, he just smiled, his eyes soft and filled with something that made my chest ache.
"Come here," he murmured, pulling me even closer until my head rested against his chest.
I let my eyes flutter shut, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Stay?" I asked softly, already half-asleep.
His lips brushed the top of my head. "I'm not going anywhere."
A loud knock at the door jolted me awake.
"Y/N! Are you ready?" Claudia's voice rang through the door, far too energetic for this time of the morning.
I blinked, my brain struggling to catch up. Why did my pillow feel so… warm? And why was there an arm draped over me?
Oh.
Oh no.
I turned my head slowly, only to find Luke still fast asleep beside me, his curls messy from sleep, his lips slightly parted.
Panic surged through me.
"Luke!" I hissed, shoving at his chest.
He groaned, stirring slightly. "Hmm?"
"Wake up!" I whispered urgently. "We overslept!"
Another knock.
"Y/N?" Claudia called again. "We need to leave soon!"
Luke's eyes flew open. I could practically see the realisation hit him all at once.
"Shit," he muttered, sitting up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. "We didn't set an alarm."
"No, we didn’t!" I whispered, frantically untangling myself from the duvet. "You need to go. Now."
He nodded, already getting up. He was still in his hoodie and joggers from last night, which made it easy enough for him to slip out unnoticed. At least, that was the plan.
Luke crept toward the door, shooting me a quick look over his shoulder before carefully pulling it open.
Unfortunately, Claudia was still standing right there.
Her eyes widened in slow motion as Luke stepped out.
Mouth agape, she turned her head as he casually strolled next door and slipped into his own room like nothing happened.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, Claudia burst through my door.
"OH. MY. GOD."
"Shhh!" I waved my hands frantically, trying to shut her up before she woke up the whole hotel.
Claudia ignored me completely, flopping onto my bed dramatically. "You and Luke! LUKE!"
"It’s not what you think," I groaned, rubbing my temples.
Claudia gasped. "Did you?"
"No!" I cut her off before she could even finish the question. "We didn’t do anything!"
She squinted at me, not looking convinced. "So you’re telling me Luke just happened to leave your room, looking very comfortable, and it was all innocent?"
"Yes!" I sighed, sitting down next to her. "We were talking last night, and then he asked if he could come in for a proper goodnight kiss"
Claudia let out a high-pitched squeal, grabbing a pillow and smacking me with it.
"Stop!" I whined, laughing despite myself. "Let me finish!"
She huffed, crossing her arms but still bouncing excitedly. "Continue."
I rolled my eyes. "So he came in, we kissed, and then we just… laid here talking. It was really nice. But we must have fallen asleep, because next thing I know, you're banging on my door."
Claudia groaned dramatically, falling back onto the bed. "This is so much better than I imagined."
I snorted. "What did you imagine?"
"Something much less soft and romantic," she admitted with a grin. "So, what now?"
I hesitated. "I… I don't know."
Claudia sat up again, her expression softening slightly. "Do you want to know?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I really do."
Her grin returned. "Then you will. Because if I know Luke and I do there is no way that man is going to just let this be a one-time thing."
I bit my lip, feeling warmth creep up my neck.
"You're blushing," she teased.
"Shut up," I muttered, unable to stop the smile forming on my lips.
Claudia threw an arm around my shoulders, giving me a playful shake. "Oh, I love this. I love this for you. I love this for me. And you know Nicola and Jonathan are going to lose their minds when they find out."
I groaned. "Oh god. They're going to be so annoying, aren't they?"
Claudia grinned. "Absolutely."
By the time we arrived on set, it was game over.
Claudia had immediately told Nicola and Jonathan everything, and, as expected, they were being insufferable.
The moment Luke and I stepped onto set, Jonathan let out a long, exaggerated gasp.
"Would you look at that," he announced loudly, nudging Nicola beside him. "The lovebirds have arrived."
I shot him a glare. "Jonathan."
"What?" He smirked innocently. "I’m just observing."
Nicola, standing beside him, was beaming. "Oh, this is my favourite day."
Luke, to his credit, handled it well at least at first. He just chuckled, shaking his head, keeping his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
But then Claudia decided to add fuel to the fire.
"You should’ve seen her this morning," she said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Absolutely radiating."
"Was I?" I deadpanned.
"Oh, absolutely."
"Mate," Jonathan said, looking at Luke now. "You stayed the night."
Luke sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It wasn’t like that."
Jonathan cackled. "That is exactly what people say when it was like that."
Nicola gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Oh my god, do we have an on-set romance brewing?!"
Luke and I exchanged a look, both flustered beyond belief.
"Nothing happened," I reiterated, already knowing it was pointless.
Jonathan hummed in thought. "Mmm, see, I want to believe you, but considering I watched you two practically devour each other with your eyes at dinner the other night, I’m inclined to think otherwise."
I groaned, covering my face.
This was going to be a long day.
The teasing never stopped.
Every time Luke and I so much as stood near each other, one of them had something to say.
During rehearsals, we were running lines when Claudia suddenly interrupted.
"Sorry, I just" She turned to the director. "Can we make sure Luke and Y/N are focused? Or are they too busy making heart eyes at each other?"
I gaped at her. "Claudia!"
Luke just laughed, shaking his head, but his ears were definitely pink.
Then, during hair and makeup, Nicola waltzed in, a mischievous look in her eyes.
"So," she said, plopping onto the chair beside me, "do we think Luke is a good cuddler?"
I choked on my coffee.
The makeup artist had to pause to make sure I wasn’t about to spill everything all over myself.
"Nicola," I warned.
Nicola grinned. "I mean, you would know."
I gave her my best unimpressed stare. "I hate you."
"You love me," she corrected.
And then Jonathan joined in.
"You know," he mused, "I did hear Luke humming to himself this morning. Suspiciously happy, if you ask me."
Nicola gasped. "He was humming?"
Jonathan nodded solemnly. "Like a man who has known true happiness."
"STOP," I whined, covering my face again.
Luke, sitting in the chair on the other side of the room, just shook his head with a soft chuckle.
They were never going to let this go.
At lunch, I was sitting with Luke when Jonathan suddenly slid into the seat beside me.
"So," he said, stirring his drink nonchalantly, "how does it feel to be Luke Thompson's chosen one?"
Luke choked on his water.
I sighed. "Jonathan, I swear to..."
"And you" He pointed at Luke. "I can’t believe you haven’t kissed her today. What kind of weak game is this?"
Luke exhaled a laugh. "Mate."
"Mate me all you want," Jonathan continued, grinning. "But you’re slacking."
Nicola, sitting across from us, nodded solemnly. "He does have a point."
Luke gave me a look, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Should I?"
I rolled my eyes. "Don’t give them anything."
Jonathan gasped. "A denial? Oh, this is even better."
I groaned, dropping my head onto the table. "I hate all of you."
Luke just chuckled, nudging my knee under the table.
It had been a few days since the endless teasing, and while Jonathan, Nicola, and Claudia were still making plenty of comments whenever they got the chance, things had slightly calmed down.
Until today.
Because today, Luke and I were scheduled to rehearse one of the most intimate scenes in the show.
And we were absolutely doomed.
The large rehearsal room had been set up with a few props and a couch in the centre. The intimacy coordinator, Sophia, was standing with the director and writer, walking us through the scene.
Luke and I sat beside each other, scripts in hand, nodding along as Sophia explained the choreography.
“This is a deeply emotional moment for both of your characters,” she said, glancing between us. “It’s raw, vulnerable, and full of yearning.”
Luke exhaled softly beside me. I snuck a glance at him and saw his jaw tense slightly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his script.
Yeah. We were definitely in trouble.
“Now,” Sophia continued, “we’re going to start by breaking it down into beats.”
She turned to Luke.
“Your character will enter, see her standing there, and there’s this moment of hesitation before you cross the room. You’re drawn to her like you have to touch her. And then, when you finally do, it’s…” She made a small, sweeping motion. “It’s electric. You both know what’s about to happen.”
I swallowed hard.
It already felt hot in here.
Luke nodded, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he was focusing intensely. “Right.”
Sophia turned to me. “And you your character is just as affected. When he touches you, it’s like the air has been sucked from the room. You can barely breathe.”
I exhaled shakily.
Luke noticed.
His lips twitched in amusement, his voice teasing as he murmured, “You alright?”
I shot him a look. “Shut up.”
He grinned.
The director, completely unaware of our little exchange, clapped his hands. “Alright, let’s try the first beat.”
Luke stepped back, shaking out his shoulders, then turned toward me.
As soon as our eyes met, the shift was instant.
His whole posture changed his gaze darkened slightly, his lips parted, his hands flexed at his sides like he was aching to touch me.
And damn, he was good.
I stood there, my breathing shallow, waiting.
Then he moved.
Crossing the space between us, slowly, like he was being pulled toward me.
By the time he reached me, my heart was pounding.
His hand lifted, fingers hovering just over my arm.
“Do you want me to touch you here?” he asked, his voice low, as per the intimacy guidelines.
I barely managed to nod. “Yeah.”
His fingers brushed my bare skin, and I nearly shivered.
Holy hell.
Sophia clapped her hands. “Great! Let’s pause here.”
I exhaled sharply, stepping back, trying to collect myself.
Luke looked just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck with a very subtle smirk.
Sophia grinned. “How’s that feel?”
Luke let out a breathless chuckle. “I mean… yeah. Feels good.”
I rolled my eyes. “Such insightful feedback, Luke.”
His smirk widened. “Happy to help.”
Then came the actual kissing part.
Which was an entirely new level of torture.
Sophia walked us through the angles, where to place our hands, how to make it look natural while keeping it choreographed.
But none of that prepared me for the moment Luke’s lips actually touched mine.
It was soft, slow, testing like he was discovering something dangerous and thrilling at the same time.
His fingers brushed my jaw, guiding me into it, and god, it was unfair how good he was at this.
Heat pooled in my stomach, and I could feel his breath against my skin when he moved his lips from mine down seductively down my throat, his breath hot as his lips barely touched my skin, making me swallow hard. He kept going, leading down across my chest to my cleavage, where his hand grasped my boob through my top, and he looked up through his thick lashes like his character was silently asking for permission, and in turn, he was also actually asking me permission, and I nodded very small, hardly noticeable, and he pretended to latch to my nipple. I was clothed but it still made them erect with the warmth of his breath through my T-shirt.
There was a brief silence.
Then the director clapped his hands. “Brilliant! Let’s do it again.”
Luke let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, sure. Again.”
I swallowed. “Yep. Again.”
We were so screwed.
later that night the hotel room was dimly lit, a soft glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows along the walls. The air outside was cool and damp from the lingering drizzle, but inside, there was a warmth one that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the man sitting beside me on the bed.
Luke leaned back against the headboard, one arm draped lazily over the back of the pillows, his fingers idly playing with the edge of the script resting between us. He’d been quiet for the past few minutes, which wasn’t entirely unusual, but I could feel something brewing in the air between us.
Then, finally, he exhaled, tapping the pages of the script against his knee before looking at me.
“I was thinking,” he started, hesitating just slightly, “if you’re comfortable with it… maybe we could run through the scene again? Just the two of us. Without an audience.”
I blinked.
I hadn’t expected that.
“The...” I shifted slightly. “The intimate scene?”
He nodded, sitting up a little. “Yeah. I just thought… rehearsing it alone might help. Make it feel less, I don’t know, performative? Less like we’re being observed and more like… just us, figuring it out.” His voice softened, cautious, like he didn’t want to push too far. “But only if you’re okay with it.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
It wasn’t a bad idea. In fact, it actually made a lot of sense. The whole point of these scenes was to feel natural, effortless, full of emotion and that was hard when we had a room full of people analysing every breath and movement.
And it wasn’t like we’d be doing anything we wouldn't be already be doing in the actual scene.
Still… the thought of going through it in this setting alone, in a hotel room, with no one watching but us made my stomach tighten.
Not in a bad way.
Just in a way that made me very aware of how close Luke was sitting.
I swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”
His eyes searched mine for a second, like he was making sure I meant it, and then he smiled, soft and warm. “Okay.”
Luke sat up properly, setting the script aside. “Alright,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders back slightly, slipping into that same headspace he’d been in earlier during rehearsals.
I mirrored him, shifting so I was sitting across from him, knees nearly brushing.
This scene was a turning point for our characters a moment charged with unspoken emotions, where a touch meant more than words. Where longing turned into action.
Luke exhaled, then slowly so damn slowly he reached for me.
Just like he had in rehearsal.
Fingers hovering first, as if giving me space to pull away, before he finally, finally touched my skin.
It was supposed to be choreographed. Precise. But here, in this moment, with no one watching, it felt different.
More real.
His fingertips brushed along the side of my arm, barely there, and yet it sent a trail of warmth straight down my spine.
I knew I was supposed to react to let my character’s emotions show through me but I wasn’t entirely sure which part of me was acting anymore.
Luke’s jaw tensed slightly, his breathing shifting just enough for me to notice.
He was feeling it too.
We went through the scene touches, pauses, deep breaths lingering in the space between us. And then, finally, the kiss.
Luke hesitated for just a beat, eyes flickering to mine, waiting.
And I leaned in first.
The moment our lips met, everything else fell away.
The scene was supposed to be soft at first, testing, and then deeper more desperate, more needing. And damn, if Luke didn’t follow that rhythm perfectly.
His hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face just enough to deepen the kiss, and I felt my fingers instinctively gripping the fabric of his shirt.
He then moved again down towards my ear and then down my neck, his breath hot again as his lips barely touched my skin.
He kept going, leading down across my chest to my cleavage, where again his hand grasped my boob through my top, and then he did that thing again where he looked up through his lashes at me.
The eye contact he shared was so intimate, and then he pulled my top over my shoulders and head, and the cool air instantly made me shiver.
His hot hand came back up to my breast, and he palmed it through the thin lacy bra I had on. He looked up again, asking permission, and I nodded, and his hands went behind my back, working on undoing the little clips holding it together.
When he finally got it, he slowly took it off and immediately latched to my nipple.
I knew when I auditioned that I would be signing up for real boob stuff, but the rest would all be faked softcore porn where it was choreographed to look real, but we would have modesty garments...except for the breast play that was very real.
And man, was this such a surreal moment. I couldn't help but slip out a moan...a real moan.
He looked up again and smirked as he moved to the next breast, sucking and biting that one, and I had to close my eyes; it felt so good.
He moved to lay me back on the bed and crawled slowly on top of me.
He takes his time kissing down my body, making me relax further from each kiss, and then he gets towards my pussy, and he nudges my legs a bit, looking back up and making eye contact, pulling up my skirt and my knickers to the side.
"I want you to look at me no matter what," he demands, and I nod, watching as Luke sticks his tongue flat out and licks a stripe up my pussy, making me gasp and close my eyes.
"Look at me," he says. I force my eyes open again and watch him as he continues to suck and bite the sensation, something I've never experienced quite like this before.
I was getting closer; he was working his magic on me while we continued our eye contact, making this all the more hotter. I had no idea anything could feel this right.
I bit my lip, and I knew I was close. He knew too and stopped and started kissing his way back up my body, kissing me, letting me taste myself.
He moved and positioned himself in between my legs and made eye contact again.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" He said so softly and gently, and I nodded quickly, unable to form words as he pushed in his cock slowly. I knew better than to close my eyes even though that's the only thing I wanted to do right now. In this very short time, I realised why he wanted to look into my eyes; it was the best way to read how a person felt, staring straight into their soul, seeing the pleasure and the pain show in their eyes.
One of my hands tangled in his hair, pulling slightly as my other hand dragged my nails down his back.
"Fuck," the word sounding so dirty coming out of his sweet mouth.
He leaned back in, and we were making out. The butterflies in my stomach were no joke. This just felt so right. Like, this is how it's always meant to feel.
We continued for a while, finding our rhythm, our bodies working together just like Mother Nature intended.
"I'm close," I whispered.
"Me too." He was breathing heavily and began kissing my neck in the moment, not even caring if he left a hickey.
I came first, but he wasn't long after. We were both breathing heavily in. hot sticky mess, our hair all messed up. We lay next to each other for a second, just catching our breaths and replaying what just happened.
A heavy silence settled between us.
Then, finally, Luke huffed a small, breathless laugh.
“Well,” he murmured, voice slightly hoarse, “I think that was… productive.”
I let out a shaky laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Very… methodical.”
He grinned, thumb brushing absentmindedly against my wrist before he finally sat back, giving us both some much-needed distance.
And yet, as I met his gaze again, I knew we were both thinking the exact same thing.
We were so beyond rehearsing.
The aftermath of filming the intimate scene was… surreal.
The second the director called cut, the air felt thick not just between Luke and me, but throughout the entire set. It was like everyone had collectively forgotten to breathe.
I could still feel him.
The ghost of his touch on my skin, the warmth of his breath against my lips, the way his hands had held me like I was something precious.
And from the way Luke was still looking at me, his chest rising and falling slightly deeper than usual, I knew he felt it too.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, the director exhaled a breath that almost sounded like relief before breaking into a wide smile.
“That,” he said, pointing between us, “was stunning.”
The entire crew murmured in agreement, nodding, exchanging glances like they had witnessed something.
“That felt so incredibly real,” the director continued, stepping forward. “It wasn’t just technically perfect it was authentic. It had depth, and connection and...” He laughed, shaking his head. “It was like watching two people who are actually in love.”
Luke and I exchanged a look.
Then, at the same time, we both grinned, biting back laughter.
“Must be our undeniable chemistry,” Luke said smoothly, eyes twinkling.
I hummed in agreement, nudging him slightly with my shoulder. “Truly a natural phenomenon.”
The director chuckled, shaking his head in amusement before clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s reset for the next scene.”
The crew quickly dispersed, leaving Luke and me standing there, the echoes of what we’d just done still hanging between us.
And that’s when the trouble arrived.
I should have known we wouldn’t get away with it.
Not with them lurking around.
Nicola, Claudia, and Jonathan practically ambushed us the second we stepped off set, their faces radiating mischief.
“Well, well, well,” Jonathan drawled, arms crossed as he rocked back on his heels. “Would you look at who just wrapped the most romantic scene of the season.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
Claudia gasped dramatically. “You think we weren’t going to bring it up?”
Nicola nodded eagerly, leaning in. “I mean, you did just make half the crew believe you were really about to have sex.”
Luke snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Come on...”
“No, no, no, don’t come on us,” Jonathan interrupted, pointing a very accusatory finger at Luke. “Do you know what the crew was saying?!”
I frowned. “What?”
Jonathan grinned wickedly. “One of them told me that it was so soft and intimate that it felt like they were intruding on a private moment between two people genuinely in love.”
Luke and I froze.
Nicola wiggled her eyebrows. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
I let out a deep sigh. “We were acting.”
Jonathan gasped. “You’re telling me that level of yearning was just acting?”
“Obviously,” Luke said smoothly, though the smirk tugging at his lips totally betrayed him.
Claudia grinned. “You sure about that, lover boy?”
Luke gave her an unimpressed look. “Yes.”
Jonathan hummed, unconvinced. “Mmm. If you say so.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You lot are so annoying.”
Nicola shrugged. “And yet, here we are.”
Claudia clapped her hands. “Anyway, we just wanted to congratulate you on giving the best love scene this show has ever had.”
Jonathan waggled his eyebrows at Luke. “And on finally embracing your inner romantic lead.”
Luke sighed dramatically. “God, I hate you all.”
I just laughed, nudging him gently. “Come on, Mr. Authentic Chemistry, let’s get out of here before they start planning our wedding again.”
Jonathan gasped. “Wait. That’s an idea—”
“NOPE.” Luke grabbed my hand and dragged me away before they could say another word.
But even as we walked off, their laughter ringing behind us, I couldn’t shake the smile on my lips.
so sick and tired of this "power should belong to those who don't want it" bullshit. can hboiaf come up with something new? something new and preferably less stupid than this?
#leaders who don't care for power are just as bad as power-hungry leaders. if not worse. #a leader who doesn't have his heart in leadership is someone who lacks vision and neglects their responsibilities #which is very bad for the people who are ruled by them
The best rulers in asoiaf are good because they WANT power. Dany and Jon want power and are the best rulers. Even in the past, Aegon I, Jaehaerys (as much as I hate him), both wanted power and were good leaders.
The worst leaders, the ones who ruined the realm the most? Robert, Aegon ll (bite me, he did nothing but be a puppet), they both did not want to become leaders.
Yes, being power-hungry is terrible, but not wanting power leads you to be a lazy ruler. The theme of asoiaf is not that all rulers who want power are bad, but that ruling is hard, and good rulers want power to help people.
Klaus Mikaelson was not a man easily undone. He was a thousand years of war, of conquest, of power honed into something sharp and dangerous. He had been feared, revered, cursed, and worshiped. But never, in all his long years, had he been held.
Not truly.
Not the way he craved.
He could count the moments of genuine warmth in his life and still have fingers left over. The touches that had shaped him were ones of violence—a father’s fists, a mother’s cold hand, the iron grip of enemies who had tried and failed to bring him to his knees. Even love, when it had come, had been cruel, meant to tame him or destroy him.
But then there was you.
And you touched him like he was something precious.
༊*·˚
It started small. So small, he almost didn’t notice.
The first time had been incidental, barely worth remembering to anyone else. But to Klaus, it was a brand upon his skin. You had been laughing—some sharp-witted retort about his arrogance, no doubt—and in the midst of it, your hand had landed on his arm. Just for a moment. Just a press of warmth.
It had taken everything in him not to flinch.
Not because he didn’t want it. Because he wanted it too much.
And that had been the beginning of his downfall.
Because once you started, you never stopped.
A hand on his shoulder when you passed behind him. Fingers brushing his when you handed him something. An absentminded tug on the sleeve of his jacket when you wanted his attention. A lingering press of your palm against his when you pulled him along on some ill-advised adventure.
You were tactile in a way he had never been allowed to be, and it was driving him insane.
༊*·˚
Klaus prided himself on control. Even when he lost his temper, there was always a leash on his emotions, a calculated choice in every outburst. But you—you—were testing him in ways he had never prepared for.
It was the little things. The way you would sit next to him on the couch, closer than necessary, your knee bumping against his. The way you would hug him in greeting, brief but firm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The way you touched him without hesitation, without fear.
Like he wasn’t a monster.
Like he wasn’t untouchable.
And he was starving for it.
༊*·˚
One night, it nearly broke him.
You had been reading, curled up in the armchair by the fire, and he had been watching you, as he often did when you weren’t looking. It was a quiet night, the kind he had learned to cherish in your presence. No grand battles, no enemies lurking in the shadows. Just the two of you and the soft crackle of flames.
You must have sensed his eyes on you, because you looked up, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “What?”
Klaus smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Simply marveling at the miracle of your concentration. I was convinced you had the attention span of a fruit fly.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t take the bait. Instead, you stretched—long and lazy—and moved from your chair to the sofa beside him.
And then—then—you did something so devastatingly simple that Klaus felt his entire body go still.
You laid your head against his shoulder.
No hesitation. No fanfare. Just the soft weight of you settling against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Klaus forgot how to breathe.
His entire body locked up, every nerve alight. His first instinct was to pull away, to create distance before this touch unraveled him completely. But then you sighed—content, warm, trusting—and he felt something inside him crack.
Slowly, cautiously, he let himself lean into it.
It was nothing. It was everything.
He could hear your heartbeat, steady and calm. He could feel the heat of your skin, the faint scent of something sweet lingering in your hair. He had stood in the blood-soaked ruins of civilizations, had held the power of life and death in his hands, and yet nothing—nothing—had ever undone him the way this moment did.
You shifted slightly, pressing closer, and Klaus bit back a shudder. He clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into his own knees as he fought the overwhelming urge to hold on.
It was agony. It was heaven.
How long had it been since someone had touched him without expectation? Without fear? How long had he been starving for something as simple as warmth?
Too long.
Too long.
༊*·˚
From that night on, it became something unspoken between you.
You touched him freely, and Klaus let you.
He never spoke of it, never acknowledged the way he craved it, but you must have known. Because you never stopped.
If he was tense, you would brush a hand along his arm, grounding him. If he was brooding, you would nudge his shoulder playfully until he smirked despite himself. If he was lost in one of his darker moods, you would simply take his hand in yours and hold it until he found his way back.
And when the days were quiet, when the world wasn’t demanding blood and war, you would sit beside him, your presence a balm to something he had never known needed healing.
༊*·˚
One night, he broke.
He had been restless, the weight of eternity pressing down on him. He had left the house, wandering the city aimlessly, but nothing settled the ache in his chest. He didn’t even realize where his feet had taken him until he was standing at your door.
And when you opened it—sleepy-eyed, confused—he didn’t have the words to explain why he was there.
But you didn’t ask.
You simply stepped aside, letting him in.
And then, without hesitation, you reached for him.
It was nothing more than a hug, but Klaus melted into it like a man dying of thirst finally being given water. He clung to you, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, his face pressing into the curve of your neck.
You held him. Just held him.
And for the first time in a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson let himself be touched.
༊*·˚
It was not a grand declaration. There were no confessions, no dramatic revelations. Just this—your arms around him, the steady beat of your heart, the quiet understanding between two souls that had found something rare and fragile in each other.
Klaus didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.
Because when you finally pulled away, just enough to look up at him, there was something in your eyes that told him you already knew.
And for once in his life, Klaus Mikaelson was not alone.
Thank you for the lovely fic request @morganas-pendragons <3 I hope you like it!
⎯⎯ Happy birthday, my darling. I have loved you in every century. I will love you in every one still to come.
warnings: its ma birthday, he's the best man ever, proposal?????
It begins like a secret.
You wake slowly—no sunlight, no alarm, only the soft brush of your name in Klaus’ voice against your shoulder, lower than usual. Reverent.
“Love,” he says gently, lips warm at your neck. “Happy birthday.”
You murmur something unintelligible, already aware of how close he is, how quiet the world feels. And when you open your eyes—candles. Dozens of them. A slow golden glow painting the walls, flickering across his face like it’s always belonged there.
There’s no one else.
Just you, him, and the hush of morning wrapped in warmth and devotion.
“I told you not to make a fuss,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-melting under his gaze.
He hums. “And yet you look so radiant when fussed over.”
He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder, where the blanket slips just enough for his lips to find skin.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, eyes wide at the quiet opulence around the room: a breakfast tray at the foot of the bed with croissants from that café in Paris you once mentioned in passing. Coffee, hot and perfectly brewed. A single rose laid across the plate like a signature.
“But I did,” Klaus murmurs. “I always will.”
༊*·˚
Later, he walks you to the sitting room. You don’t notice it right away—he keeps the lights dim, the candles still glowing in little crystal holders. But then you turn. And see them.
Paintings.
Portraits.
Dozens of them.
You. Sleeping. Smiling. Laughing. Holding a book, sitting beneath a tree, brushing your fingers along the edge of a window, unaware you were being watched.
You cover your mouth with your hand. “Klaus…”
“I’ve been painting you since the moment I knew I loved you,” he says simply.
You blink hard, suddenly shy under the weight of it all. “I didn’t know…”
He steps closer, hands gentle at your waist, steadying you. “You never had to. You exist, and that alone is gift enough for me.”
And then he shows you the letter.
Folded and hidden beneath your coffee cup. Inked by hand. His handwriting. Sincere and steady.
My love,
Today the world was given you, and I thank whatever gods still listen that it was. That you found me. That you stayed.
You are the brushstroke in my madness, the breath in my silence, the fire in a heart I thought long frozen.
Happy birthday, my darling. I have loved you in every century. I will love you in every one still to come.
Ever yours. Ever mine.
— Klaus
Your fingers tremble as you read it, breath catching in your throat.
“Klaus,” you whisper, undone, entirely and fully.
He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand. “You are worth every century of waiting.”
You don’t speak—not at first. There’s too much in your chest, swelling and soft, aching in that way that only love can ache. Instead, you look at him like the stars bent down and whispered his name first. Like the whole world has always been leading you here.
He watches you with a quiet sort of pride, like he can feel your heart beating from across the inches between you. And then, without a word, he steps back and offers his hand.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
A faint smile, crooked and sweet. “Asking the birthday girl for a dance.”
You glance around instinctively—there’s no music. Just candles. Silence. The soft crackle of firelight from the hearth.
But he doesn’t falter.
“I can hear the waltz in my head,” he says softly, hand still outstretched. “It’s yours. If you’ll have it.”
Your fingers meet his like gravity itself decided for you.
He pulls you close, one hand resting at your back, the other guiding your joined hands up gently, reverently. His touch is so careful you almost want to cry. He looks down at you like the very act of swaying with you is sacred.
And slowly, so slowly, you begin to move.
There’s no orchestra. No polished ballroom. Just the warm hush of candlelight, the faint scent of bergamot tea and paint, and the quiet shuffle of bare feet on old floorboards.
Klaus doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once.
He holds you like you might vanish. Like you’ve already saved him more times than he’ll ever say. Like there is no past, no future—only this moment, this dance, this breath.
You lay your head against his chest, eyes fluttering shut.
“Did you do this in your mind?” you murmur. “Paint this moment before it happened?”
“Every day since I met you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hairline. “And still it doesn’t compare.”
You smile against his collarbone, that ache in your chest curling warm now.
“Don’t let go,” you say, voice nearly gone with how much you feel.
“Never,” he promises. And you believe it.
You dance long after the candles burn low.
You dance until the world forgets there’s anything else but you and him.
And later, when you’re tangled together on the floor in laughter, dizzy and glowing, he says,
“This is how forever begins, love.”
༊*·˚
It’s well past midnight when he pulls a coat over your shoulders and leads you to the door.
“No more surprises,” you say, smiling sleepily, the kind of warm exhaustion that only comes from being so full of love you don’t know where to put it all.
“No more surprises,” he promises. Then leans down, kisses the tip of your nose, and lies: “Just one more.”
The air is cold. Crisp in that clean, silver way only a quiet night can be. Stars scatter overhead like candle sparks, a soft wind curling through your hair. The streets are empty. The world is asleep.
But Klaus?
He walks like the night was made just for this. Just for you.
“Tell me something,” you say, fingers laced with his. “What did you do on your last birthday?”
He hums. “I think I killed someone.”
You snort. “Of course you did.”
“But then I painted,” he adds softly. “Something you inspired before I ever knew you.”
Your steps slow. “You really mean that?”
“I never say anything I don’t mean to you.”
༊*·˚
The path winds past trees still heavy with dew. Somewhere nearby, a river hums low, quiet like a secret. And then he stops.
A single lantern glows ahead, dim and flickering—hung above a small stone bench in a clearing where the moonlight gathers.
He’s pacing.
Not dramatically. Not like he wants to be seen. Just pacing—restless, almost boyish, hands in his pockets, muttering things under his breath that are likely 40% curses and 60% pure nerves.
You sit on the old wooden bench, wrapped in the coat he forced on you earlier, legs tucked under you as you watch him wear a path into the earth beneath the trees.
“Klaus,” you say softly, tilting your head, “you’re terrifying the wildlife.”
He freezes. Blinks. Turns slowly, like he’s remembering you’re here—like he’s remembering this is real.
Then he walks toward you. Stops. Hesitates.
“I had something rehearsed,” he mutters. “It sounded better in my head. Less…pathetic.”
You smile. “I already like this version better.”
He exhales through a shaky laugh, like you’ve just handed him a lifeline.
And then—he kneels. Right there in the dirt beside the bench. Not for show, not for spectacle. Just because something in him still knows what it means to kneel for what he worships.
The box he pulls from his coat is small. Worn. No shine or flash, just old wood etched with runes, like a secret meant to be kept.
He opens it slowly.
And the ring inside?
It isn’t beautiful in any traditional way. It’s strange. Quietly wild. As if it was shaped from starlight and carved bone and old blood spilled during something sacred. Not just metal—memory. A single deep green gem in the center, the color of moss after a storm.
Klaus doesn’t look at the ring. He looks at you.
“This,” he says gently, “belonged to a woman I once loved. A very long time ago.”
You feel your heart stumble. “Klaus, you don’t—”
“I never gave it to her.”
His voice isn’t cold. Just honest. Raw and real and trembling slightly.
“I kept it,” he continues. “Through wars and cities falling and centuries of grief. I kept it—not out of love. Out of guilt. Because I thought no one would ever deserve it. No one should.”
He pauses. Swallows.
“But then I met you.”
Your breath catches.
“I met you and suddenly… eternity didn’t feel like a punishment. Suddenly I wanted things. Morning things. Your voice from the kitchen. Your shoes in the hallway. Your hands smacking mine when I eat from your plate.”
You laugh through the sudden ache in your chest.
“I have seen kingdoms fall and stars collapse. I have held this ring through rage and regret. But tonight,” he says, lifting it—offering it— “I give it to you. Not as a promise. Not as a cage. But as truth.”
You don’t even notice you’re crying until the stars blur.
“And,” he adds in a quiet rush, “I want to marry you. That’s—that’s the part I forgot to say. That’s what this is for.”
Your laugh bursts out wet and joyful. “You’re a disaster.”
“Yes,” he agrees solemnly. “But I’m your disaster. If you’ll have me.”
You nod, too overwhelmed to form real words. “Yes. Yes.”
He slips the ring onto your finger. So gently. Like the air around your skin might tear.
You lean forward and kiss him before he can stand, one hand in his hair, the other already curled against his chest. He kisses you back like he’s finally remembered what it means to belong to something other than sorrow.
You press your face into the curve of his neck, arms tight around him like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Your breath trembles with everything you can’t put into words.
“I love you,” you whisper again, and again, and again. As if the words alone can stitch him into the fabric of your life. “I love you, Klaus. I love you so much.”
He doesn’t answer at first.
He just holds you.
Like you're something breakable and holy. Like the night might end if he breathes too loud.
And then—quietly, so quietly it nearly gets lost in the hush of the stars above and the sound of your heartbeat against his chest—he says:
“But I loved you first.”
Your breath catches.
His voice is soft. Not playful, not teasing—just full of that hushed wonder he always gets when he’s near you. As if he’s still surprised you’re real. As if saying it aloud might unravel him.
“I loved you,” he murmurs, “before I knew I was allowed to. Before you ever looked at me like this. Before you ever smiled at me like I wasn’t some ancient, cursed thing.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear with fingers that tremble slightly. His eyes are lit with something deep and fragile—like the boy he used to be still lives in there, tucked beneath centuries of ruin.
“I think I loved you the second you told me off in that bookstore,” he adds, smiling crookedly. “Or maybe when you called me a pompous arse and didn’t mean it.”
You laugh, even as tears cling to your lashes.
“And I’ve loved you every version of the way since,” he says. “In silence. In secret. In every shattered moment I thought I’d ruined any chance of deserving you.”
You reach up and cup his cheek. His breath stutters under your palm.
“You do deserve me,” you say, quietly. “You always did.”
His eyes close for a heartbeat, like the words physically undo him.
Then he leans in and presses his forehead to yours, the space between you full of everything no language has ever managed to say properly.
“But I loved you first,” he repeats, barely above a whisper.
Like a prayer. Like a truth carved in bone.
And this time, you don’t answer. You just hold him tighter.
Because some things are too big for words.
And this—this is one of them.
thank you anon for the request and remembering my birthday <3 And happy either late or early birthday to you as well🤍
The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, the waves hush against the sand, and the air still smells like salt and promise. It’s early enough that the rest of the district is asleep or pretending to be, which gives you these precious minutes alone, just you and Finnick. Just the two of you, before the world wakes up and remembers who he is.
You’re sitting on the rocks, legs pulled up to your chest, when he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. A comforting feeling, something you only trusted him to do.
“You’re late,” you tease.
“I brought breakfast.” He holds up a paper bag with two flaky pastries, slightly squished from his run over. “Peace offering?”
You turn your head slightly so your nose brushes his. “Depends. Did you get the sweet one?”
He kisses your cheek. “Always.”
You take the bag and tug him down beside you. The world is still golden and quiet and yours.
Everyone in the district knows Finnick Odair. Of course they do. He’s the Capitol’s golden boy, the youngest victor in history, a name whispered with awe and fear and a tinge of envy. But you know him differently. You know him when he’s not trying to be charming, when he forgets the way he’s supposed to carry himself like a weapon. You know him when he’s barefoot and laughing, when he cries in your arms, when he dreams out loud about a future that might never come. When you’re swimming in the sea and running barefoot down the stony pathways of four.
And somehow, against all odds, you’re his. In secret. Not because you’re ashamed. Because it’s safer that way.
If the Capitol knew—if Snow knew—he would destroy you just to remind Finnick who he belonged to. So instead, your love lives in the spaces between. Glances across the square. Notes tucked into fishing nets. A second pair of footsteps behind the cliffs. And mornings like this one, where time bends just enough to make room for you both.
“You’re staring,” Finnick says, and when you look over, he’s grinning at you with one brow raised.
“Can’t help it,” you say, leaning into him. “You’re prettier in the morning light.”
He laughs, the sound warm and real. “You’re the only person alive who says that to me like it means something.”
You thread your fingers through his, fitting together with practiced ease. “That’s ‘cause when I say it, it does.”
The waves crash louder, a seagull swoops above, and Finnick watches you like you’re the only constant in a life full of chaos. “You ever think about running away?” he asks quietly, like he’s not supposed to even speak the thought out loud.
“All the time,” you reply. “But I don’t think we’d make it past the district border.”
He nods. “I know. I just… I think about it more now. About you and me and a little boat and no one knowing our names.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “I like the sound of that.”
He turns to face you, suddenly serious. “If I ever get the chance to go, I’ll take it. And I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”
You blink at him, stunned. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” he says. “I don’t want this life forever. I don’t want to keep pretending. I want us.”
Your heart pounds so loud you’re scared he’ll hear it. You squeeze his hand tighter.
“Okay,” you say, breathless. “Then I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait.”
The months go by like pages turning too fast.
Your love is all little things. Late-night walks on the pier. Pressed flowers in your pockets. Hidden kisses behind nets and market stalls. He braids tiny shells into your hair and says you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and you tell him he talks too much, but you kiss him like you believe it.
And then.. everything changed.
When they announced the Quarter Quell, your heart dropped before his name was even drawn. You knew. You knew Snow would never let him go. Not after all he’d endured. Not when Finnick’s smile was still the Capitol’s favorite currency.
You had braced yourself for goodbye. But instead, miraculously, inexplicably, they came for you. District 13.
President Coin said it was for your safety. Someone had told them of Finnick Odair's secret lover and how he needed her--you. But you weren’t stupid. You knew the truth: it was to keep him tethered. To keep him sane. To remind him what he was still fighting for.
Finnick didn’t know you’d been brought to District 13, not at first. You were underground, in hiding, protected and silenced and surrounded by strangers in gray. But when he stumbled out of the hovercraft after being rescued from the arena, bleeding and trembling and half-alive, they let him see you.
They didn’t expect him to fall to his knees when he did.
He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost, hands trembling as they hovered inches from your face. Like he was scared you’d disappear again. That he’d imagined you like he had so many nights in the Capitol, when loneliness felt like it would kill him before Snow ever could.
You took his hands and pressed them to your cheeks, kneeling in front of him slowly, like he was some wounded animal. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here.”
He sobbed into your neck. And from that moment on, you didn’t hide anymore.
In District 13, you sleep in the same bed. It’s not like before, no ocean breeze or tangled nets or kisses by moonlight, but it’s real. It’s a borrowed bunk in a metal room, and still, somehow, it feels like a palace. Because it’s yours. Because he’s yours.
He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. You don’t ask what he’s dreaming of. You already know. So you curl around him, press your lips to the side of his neck, and hold him until his shaking stops.
He always says the same thing: “You’re my only safe place.”
Sometimes, he says it with tears still drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, it’s whispered against your shoulder like a prayer. And you believe him. Because you feel the same way.
In District 13, people glance sideways at you in the beginning. You don’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder if you’re scared out of your minds. Let them wonder who had possibly caught Finnick Odair's attention. It didn't matter, because it was finally real to you.
But there’s nothing fake about the way Finnick pulls you into him during the middle of strategy meetings, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s bored out of his mind but perfectly content as long as you’re there. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he holds your hand in the cafeteria line, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You could be grabbing bread and water and he’s still brushing his thumb over your knuckles like you’re made of something divine.
You catch people smiling sometimes. Not the cold, calculating kind. The soft kind. The kind that says: oh, this is real.
He kisses you in the hallways. He steals kisses like he used to, quick and sly, like you’re both teenagers again, but now it’s in full view. You’ll be talking to Gale or Katniss, and Finnick will just walk by, press a kiss to the side of your mouth like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and keep walking like it didn’t leave you flushed and dazed.
“You’re insufferable,” you tell him once, when he does it in front of a crowded room.
“You love it,” he grins, hands already slipping around your waist.
“I do,” you admit, letting him press his forehead to yours. “God help me.”
He kisses you like the world has already been saved.
When the war ends, and the world opens back up, Finnick refuses to go anywhere without you. It’s not a protective thing, it’s a need thing. A love thing.
You rebuild a life together near the coast, in a village that smells like freedom. You sleep tangled up like driftwood, limbs always brushing. You wake up to his lips on your cheek, his voice murmuring some half-sung melody he’s writing in his head. And when you leave the house, together, always together, people don’t bat an eye when he threads your fingers together like it's second nature.
Because it is.
You go to markets and he picks out your favorite fruit without asking. You read on the beach and he lies with his head in your lap, humming under his breath. You take walks along the shoreline, and he insists on skipping rocks even though he’s absolutely terrible at it. He’ll pretend to pout until you kiss him. It works every time.
He kisses you so often it becomes a rhythm. A punctuation. A language.
And he loves being yours publicly. After years of being forced to wear a mask in the Capitol, after years of fake smiles and someone else’s hands, you are his truth. You are the thing he never had to fake.
He tells people stories about you, often unsolicited.
“She makes the best tea,” he says to a wide-eyed kid in town. “Once she brewed a cup that knocked me out for eight hours straight. Slept like a baby. Woke up drooling on her shoulder.”
He grins at you like you hung the stars.
You roll your eyes. “It was chamomile, Finnick.”
He shrugs. “Magic.”
Sometimes you find yourselves just watching each other.
You’ll glance across the room and find his eyes already on you. Like he’s always checking, just to make sure this is still real. You’re sitting on the dock one evening, feet in the water, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders.
“Remember how we used to hide behind that net stall?” he murmurs, pointing down the shoreline.
You smile. “We got caught so many times.”
He laughs, tipping his head back. “That one time your braid got tangled in the ropes—”
“—and you tried to play it off like we were just admiring the craftsmanship.”
“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It was a fine net.”
You laugh until your sides hurt. And then you lean into him, quiet, hearts beating in sync. “We don’t have to hide anymore,” you say softly.
He kisses the side of your head. “We never will again.”
“Do you regret it? The secret of us?” You asked.
Finnick shook his head, “I never regret any of our moments together.”
You’re the kind of couple people talk about in stories now. Not because of the war. Not because of the Capitol. But because of how good your love is. How whole. How loud and soft and lasting. They see the way Finnick looks at you like you’re his whole world. The way he tucks flowers behind your ear and doesn’t care who’s watching. The way you press kisses to the corner of his mouth every time you say goodbye—even if it’s only for a five-minute errand.
They say love in Panem never lasts. But you and Finnick? You’re the exception. You’re always touching. Always close. Always choosing each other. Not just in secret. Not just in private. But in every room. Every day. Every lifetime you’re lucky enough to share. And gods, are you lucky.
summary: you were a simple town girl. finnick odair was the crown jewel of panem. both of you needed an escape and found it at a secluded beach just outside district four. these were three ingredients that created a year-long friendship. but were friends supposed to have… impure thoughts about one another? you weren’t so sure.
pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader
warnings: smut, wayyy too much detail, dirty thoughts, friends-to-lovers, mild angst, mostly readers pov, pre-rebellion, HEAVY dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v (big no no), multiple orgasms, so much pining, creampie, cock-warming
notes: i’m so sorry this took me so long. life has been up my ass lately and, as y’all know, i’m a slow writer. but thank you sm to everyone who patiently stuck around, i love y’all <3 this was supposed to be a short smut fic but um, apparently not. anyway, this has taken long enough to come out so imma stop rambling. ENJOY <3
word count: 11.7k
Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.
Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.
Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.
District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.
You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.
However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.
But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.
Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.
"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.
Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"
"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."
Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."
To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.
"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"
"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."
You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.
Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.
He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.
The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.
He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.
Finnick Odair.
The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.
The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.
That was what everyone made him out to be.
Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?
It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.
His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.
"I'm Finnick, by the way."
The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.
You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.
Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.
You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.
At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by.
When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did.
As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...
**********
As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.
Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.
"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."
Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.
Finnick was very much a gentleman.
He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.
All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.
But there was more to it than innocent adoration.
The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.
Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.
All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.
A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.
Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.
But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?
Maybe.
However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.
Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.
Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.
He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.
There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.
You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.
It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.
You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.
This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.
As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.
"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.
Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.
That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.
"Look at thi—"
Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief.
Damn that stupid seashell.
He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"
You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.
"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"
Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.
"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."
You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.
"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.
He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."
"No, you just don't think, Finn."
He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."
"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."
Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.
You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.
Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.
One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.
Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.
And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."
The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—
"I think..."
—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.
The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.
Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.
Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.
So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.
When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.
As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.
The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.
You sighed.
The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.
Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.
"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.
Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"
"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"
With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"
"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"
Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"
He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"
You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."
"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.
Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?
Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.
Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.
Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.
And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.
You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.
"Thinking about anyone in particular?"
You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?"
How did he keep doing that?
Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"
As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.
Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.
If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.
Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.
You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."
Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...
Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.
You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."
"Who could've guessed."
Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.
Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.
Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.
There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.
Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."
You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.
"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.
You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."
With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.
The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"
"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."
You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.
"Better?" he asked.
You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."
"Anytime."
You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.
Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.
He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.
How could he?
The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.
You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.
First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.
"Stop moving."
You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.
"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.
His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.
You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?
In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"
"Fuck," he breathed out.
Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.
That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.
But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.
"...Oh," you whispered.
"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."
Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.
As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.
What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—
Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.
You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.
"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"
That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.
Finnick was silent.
The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.
Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.
And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."
Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.
You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.
It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.
Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.
"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.
"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"
You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.
Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"
A wave of chills ran down your entire body.
What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.
Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.
You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.
He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.
Finnick murmured your name.
"Yes?" you managed to whisper.
"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"
Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.
You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.
His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.
There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.
You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.
It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.
Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.
Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.
With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.
"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.
His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"
Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.
Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.
You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.
You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.
So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.
It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.
"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.
"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.
If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.
Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.
Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.
"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.
The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.
"Yes,"you practically whined.
He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.
You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.
His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.
You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.
Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.
But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.
Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"
He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.
You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.
"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."
And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.
"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."
Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.
To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties.
He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.
Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."
He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.
His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.
"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.
How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."
"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."
Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.
At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.
The moan you let out was positively filthy.
"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."
Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.
"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."
"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."
A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.
Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.
The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.
It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.
"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.
He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.
"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.
You nodded fervently.
"Say please first."
"Finn," you whined in frustration.
You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"
His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.
Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.
"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."
He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."
His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.
Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.
That is what did it for you.
You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.
"Taking it so well."
"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."
"Such a good girl."
As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.
"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.
You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.
"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."
If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.
You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him
You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.
"Hi," you whispered.
He smiled. "Hey, stranger."
He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.
You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.
Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."
You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.
"Feeling better?"
"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."
A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."
And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.
You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.
You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."
Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.
Then came the explosion.
His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.
Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.
A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.
You stayed like this for a few seconds.
"So big," you gasped against his lips.
His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"
"Never."
This was so not what friends did.
He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.
At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.
All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.
The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.
He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.
You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.
"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."
You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?
He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.
"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."
He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.
Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.
He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.
His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.
You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.
Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.
His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.
He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.
Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.
That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.
Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.
He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.
"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."
Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.
You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.
Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.
"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."
The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."
"Come inside you?"
You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.
"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."
Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.
"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.
He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.
And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.
It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.
He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.
When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.
With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.
You were gone.
"Oh fuck!"
The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.
He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.
You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.
The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.
A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.
There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.
But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.
It was a new moon.
Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal.
You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.
Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.
He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.
Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.
"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.
Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."
"For an entire hour?"
"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."
You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."
"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."
"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."
You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.
Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.
"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"
The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?
A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.
There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.
Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.
Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.
Maybe.
"That's a long time," you said.
He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."
And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.
"I'm sorry it took me so long."
"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."
You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.
A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.
You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.
"Finn?"
"Yeah?"
The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.
You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.
He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.
"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.
Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?
"I love you too."
His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.
Imagine Klaus asking you to travel the world with him.
“Let me take you everywhere you want to go. I swear to you, love, you won’t regret it. Just take a chance; take a risk. Be selfish for once. Come with me.”
Five times I whispered 'I love you.' Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader.
Summary; Being Daphne's best friend had its perks, growing up alongside the Bridgerton family, going to the balls with them, and falling in love with her older brother.
Warning; shit tone of fluff, little smut, angst. Family death; readers mother passed away and Father is ill with similar traits as the King. Readers last name is Taylor.
Distractions.
"Y/n,"
You pause, looking through the mirror at Daphne, your fingers run through your curls, a simple lilac dress hugging your frame beautifully.
"Dear, why are you running?" You laugh, raising a questioning brow at the oldest Bridgerton daughter.
"I need your help, the Duke is on his way and I need a moment alone with him-"
"Out of wedlock," You turn around to face Daphne, with a gasp, you place a hand on your chest with a teasing smirk, "How scandalous."
Daphne whacks your shoulder, passing you to take a lipstick from her vanity, "No, I need you to go downstairs and distract Anthony for me, mother has taken the others to the market and you are my only help."
"It will cost you three new books-"
"Of course," Daphne beams, pressing a kiss on your cheek, "Thank you."
You hum in reply, the two of you quickly scurrying to window as the carriage arrives at the front of the house. You both share a look before the two of rush out her room and down the stairs, hands held together as you try not too trip over your dresses.
"Go quickly, I'll distract him," You gently push Daphne towards the door before rushing towards Anthony's office.
Taking a deep breath, you straighten your dress and gently knock on his door. Hearing a faint, 'come in', you gently open the door, popping your head around the corner as he looks up from his desk.
"Lord Bridgerton," You greet with a smile, "I was wondering-"
"What are you up too?" Anthony frowns, placing down his work, "You have that look on your face-"
"I have no look upon my face-"
"You certainty do-"
"My face holds nothing but beauty,"
Anthony laughs, standing up as you smile teasingly at him, "You hold a lot of beauty, Lady Taylor."
You feel your cheeks blush as he gets himself a drink, he leans against his desk as he watches you. You hold his eyes for a moment before clearing your throat, "I was wondering if you wanted to walk with me in the gardens, Daphne is busy-"
"Of course," Anthony replies, taking his jacket from the back of his chair.
"Are you not busy?"
"Not for you," Anthony offers you his arm with a smile, "And I can't have my sisters dear friend wondering around alone."
You smile, taking his arm as the two of you head towards the gardens, you look over your shoulder catching Daphne followed by the Duke who gives you a cheeky wink to which you roll your eyes at playfully.
Anthony holds the door for you, and you head out into the gardens. Beautiful lines of flowers lead down the garden path towards the pond, where a tall white fountain sits in the middle of it.
"Its beautiful out here," You say, letting your fingertips run over tall pink flowers, "You should host a picnic."
Anthony hums in agreement, "And whom should attend?"
"Me," You raise a brow at him, making him tilt his head down towards yours with a smile on his own.
"You practically live here," He jokes, "But you are more than welcome."
Your hand falls from Anthony's arm as Hyacinth and Gregory come bounding towards the two of you, their nanny running close behind with bright red cheeks. You catch Hyacinth in your arms, placing the ten year old on you hip as she hugs you.
"Y/n," She beams, "Have you seen our new flowers, mother had them placed by the entrance, they are tall and purple and-"
"They are beautiful," You press a kiss on her cheek, Anthony watches with small smile, holding Gregory's hand in his own as the four of you continue your walk, "What are you two playing?"
"We were just running around," Gregory answers, gently swinging his and Anthony's hands.
"Sounds exhausting," You roll your eyes playfully as Hyacinth giggles at you.
"Anthony?" Gregory pauses, pointing over into the distance, "What is that?"
Your eyes go wide as Anthony looks over at you, then towards the carriage at the front of the house. Anthony races towards the entrance as you place down Hyacinth, taking hers and Gregory's hand as you follow behind him.
Reaching the entrance, the carriage is long gone, leaving Daphne stood at the doors with a small smile. Anthony skids to a stop, looking up at his sister with a questioning look. You stop beside Daphne, holding a cheeky smile as he glares at you, now knowing your true intentions for wanting to go for a walk.
"I best excuse myself," You press a kiss on the two youngest's head before pressing one on Daphne's kiss, who whispers a thank you. Making your way down the steps, you lean up to press a kiss on his cheek, "Have a lovely evening, Ant."
Anthony watches you walk away, fingertips brushing over his cheek as Daphne laughs, he glares up at her, "You are unable to question my love life if you are unable to sort out yours, brother."
Anthony watches as his sister ushers his little brother and sister inside the house before looking over his shoulder in the distance you had wondered off too.
2. Always.
"Lady Taylor,"
You jump in surprise as The Duke bursts into the room, eyes wide, breathing heavily, cloths in disarray. It was late a night, your home library only lit up by a few candles. You place down your book, heart pounding in your chest as catch onto the worry in his eyes.
"Daphne has gone into labour, Y/n," He hurries, offering you his hand as you rush with him through your house.
"What is happening?" Your father questions, stepping outside of his office.
"It's Daphne papa," You quickly explain, slipping on your shoes, "She has gone into labour."
"Wish her my best," You father smiles, looking over your shoulder at the Duke who takes your hand again gently pulling you along, "And you too son, you'll be a fine father."
The Duke smile quickly, closing the doors behind you before climbing into the carriage, "Are you alright?"
Simon nods, knee bobbing up and down, his face written with anxiety, "I am worried."
"Daphne is a strong woman, I have grown up alongside her and she will be a wonderful mother," You reassure him before teasingly adding, "So will you."
Simon laughs, "Thank you, Y/n. She asked for you, she needs you beside her."
"Always."
"As did the Viscount," Simon says, you open your mouth to reply but he beats you too it, "He trusts you, I have never seen Anthony so infatuated."
The rest of the carriage ride is sat in silence. Your heart pounding in your chest as you arrive, Simon rushes out before you, you quickly following as you rush towards Daphne's room. Reaching the hallway towards her room, The Duke runs past the siblings who sit scattered outside the in the hallway. Anthony pushes off the wall he was leaning on, quickly taking your hands as Daphne's scream echoes down the hall as Simon walks back into her room.
Your eyes stay onto his, squeezing his hand, "I have too-"
"I know," Anthony nods, pressing a gently kiss on your hands, "Be with her."
You walk past the siblings, pressing a quick kiss on Hyacinth's head as you pass. Anthony watches as you close the bedroom door behind you, before sighing, slumping back down beside Benedict.
"Are you ever going to come to your senses?"
Anthony frowns, looking at his brother, "Pardon?"
"Y/n, she has grown with us," Benedict leans his head back against the wall, "You don't look at her like how Colin and I do, you look at her as if she holds your world."
Anthony shakes his head, "I do not wish to burden Y/n with our family-"
"She is family."
Hours had past. Gregory and Hyacinth had gone to bed, the rest of the siblings fallen asleep in the hall. Benedict passes his brother a drink as he rubs his eyes tiredly.
"I believe it will be a boy," Benedict mumbles tiredly as Anthony hums in agreement.
Their heads shot up as you quietly come from the room, gently closing it behind you, you smile brightly, "It's a boy."
Anthony and Benedict share a laugh, as the other siblings startle awake. They celebrate together as Anthony walks towards you, gently wiping away the happy tear that rolled down your cheek. He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead as you rest your hands on his chest as holds you close.
"Thank you, Y/n."
"Always, Anthony."
3. Take my hand.
Aubrey Hall looked stunning under the summer sun, the garden decorated with numerous tents, surrounding a platform for dancing, a band siting in the corner.
"It looks truly beautiful," Daphne mutters as you nod in agreement, watching as Lords and Ladies began to dance under the evening sky.
Anthony and Colin walk up to the two of you and Anthony takes a moment to take in how breath taking you look. A sheer black dress sat over a burgundy one with think straps, sheer black gloves reach over your elbows, dark hair curled and pulled into a perfect bun. He smiled gently as you thank him for the drink he passed you, the four of you stand on the steps watching down on the garden party.
"Is that Lord Elton your father is talking too?" Colin asks, squinting under the sun as the three of your follow Colin's gaze, "Why would your father be speaking to Lord Elton, the man that has been rumoured to be the biggest prick of the ton."
Anthony reaches behind you, smacking his brother around the back of his head, but none-the-less doesn't disagree.
"Why would your father be talking to Lord Elton?" Colin asks as Daphne and yourself share a worried expression.
"I will be back in a moment," You rush down the steps and hurry towards your father.
Anthony watches with a heavy feeling sat in his heart as you gently interrupt their conversation. His stare hardens as Lord Elton gently presses a kiss on the back of your hand.
"Stop glaring," Daphne gently nudges her older brothers arm.
"Lady Y/n looks beautiful tonight, I am sure he is hoping for much more,"
Anthony smacks his brother again as Daphne rolls her eyes at the two, "Anthony, you truly need to see that Y/n would be a fine wife for you."
"She is your closest friend, Daphne," Anthony replies, swallowing thickly as he watches you, "She is family-"
"She makes the world stop for you, doesn't she?" Daphne rhetorically asks, "She makes you happy and you make her happy too, I only wish for the two of you to be happy together."
Anthony looks down at his sister, mirroring her soft smile as he presses a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Colin chuckles, "In other words brother, be a man and tell her how you feel." Colin ducks before his older brother could smack him.
You pull your father to the side as Lord Elton walks away to get himself a drink. Your father was the only family you had after your mother's passing a few years ago. Recently, your father had been having these spells as your father calls it, moments where he forgot about the world around him and focused on the stars, believing your mother was calling him from the stars.
"Lord Elton is a good man-"
"Father, I understand you are worried but he is not a good man, I wouldn't be happy-"
"But you would be safe and have money, the children you have will be looked after," You father gently argues, cupping your face he brushes his thumb over your cheek, "If I can not remember you, my darling, I want to forget with you secure and with someone I trust."
"You trust him?" You ask, brows pinched together as you look at your father, "Don't you want me to be happy?"
"Lord Elton is hardly around, he is wealthy," You father answers, "You would have my inheritance-"
"That he would take, he is a wicked man-"
"You mustn't think the worst of people," Your father's gaze harden slightly as he sighs, shoulders dropping, "I don't know how long I have left and I need you to be safe when I pass."
"I will-"
"Lord Elton will provide for you, and he has enough to do so," You father finalizes, "I will be giving him my blessing."
Your father walks away as you watch with a sudden pit of anxiety sat in your stomach. Looking over your shoulder the Bridgeton siblings had disappeared which your thankful for as you rush up the stairs and into the house.
You rush further into the house, away from the garden party, you finally sob, pressing a gloved hand over your mouth as you slide down the wall, falling into tears.
Outside Anthony watches as you quickly walk away and into the house, passing his drink to Benedict before quickly following. He smiles politely as people greet him before rushing further into the house. Anthony frowns, falling beside you to bring you into a hug letting you sob into his chest.
"My father is ill," You whisper, as you wipe away your tears, moving to lean your head on his shoulder.
"I am sorry," Anthony replies, pressing a kiss on your head, "What is wrong?"
"He has these spells," You quietly say, "He believes he can hear my mother and she is telling him to meet him in the stars, he has fits and spells of anger where he locks himself in his office."
"What can be done?" Anthony take one of your gloves off, lacing your fingers together.
"Nothing," You reply, wiping another fallen tear, "He wants to marry me off to Lord Elton so he can pass knowing I am safe-"
"Lord Elton is a wicked man-"
"Please tell my father, Ant," You lean your chin on his shoulder as he peers down at you, "I don't want to marry him."
"I know," Anthony presses a kiss on your forehead, "I won't let it happen."
You breath a laugh, tightening your hand in his, "And how will you do that, my Lord?"
Anthony swallows thickly, before resting his forehead on yours, "Whatever to make sure you are happy."
4. Our final moment.
On a warm summers day, your father hosted a game of croquet, inviting the Bridgerton family, The Duke and Lord Elton for a friendly game. Taylor summer house was grand, your favourite home; tall tower like structures either side of the grand entrance, a library with bookcases from the floor to the ceiling and a garden that reached for miles, the house surrounded by trees. It was simply beautiful.
"May I say," Lord Elton says, pushing back his thick dark hair off the thin line of sweat, "This house would be magnificent to raise children in."
You share a look with Daphne after Lord Elton winked at you. Anthony glared at him as the Duke nudged him, raising a brow at him to which he rolled his eyes at. You gently tugged the sleeves of your lace sleeves over your knuckles as your father awkwardly chuckles, breaking the slight pause at the Lord's comment.
"I think Lord Taylor and I will sit the rest of this out," Violet gently smiles, placing a comforting hand on your arm sensing your uneasiness.
"I agree, I grow tired quickly now I grow old," You father jokes, smiling gratefully as Benedict passes him a drink before he sits.
"You've been old for awhile, father," You press a quick kiss on his head as you pass, smiling as Anthony passes you a blue mallet. The sibling's yourself and the Duke, carry on with the game, walking down the garden hill to the next match.
"What a quick tongue," Lord Elton jokes, taking the yellow mallet from Anthony's hand, "I am sure we can fix that when you'll be mine."
"I am no object you can claim," You take the yellow mallet from his hands, passing it back to Anthony as you pass, "And I do not need to be fixed."
Anthony shares a smirk with Simon as Daphne and Eloise share a laugh hidden under their hands. Benedict pats your shoulder with a proud smile before you take your shot perfectly.
As the game continues, you stand beside Anthony and Daphne, laughing gently at Colin's misfortune and bad aim. Lord Elton follows on, whacking the ball and Anthony's out the way making Anthony's roll down the hill. Anthony glares as you roll your eyes at Lord Elton's smirk. Daphne goes next, sending a cheeky wink to her husband as she hits your ball, coincidently making it follow Anthony's.
"I guess we need to go for a hunt, Lord Bridgerton," You smile cheekily, taking Anthony's arm.
As Lord Elton goes to object, Anthony smiles, "We will catch up, continue."
Simon wraps an arm around Daphne's shoulders as the two share a knowing smile.
Anthony and yourself walk down the hill, your hand falls into his in a more intimate moment, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The two of you found your croquet balls stuck in mud at the edge of the tree line.
"Come on,"
Anthony watches as you walk into the mud, bunching your dress in one hand. You whack the ball out of the mud, before looking at Anthony with a raised brow. He chuckles before sighing as he steps into the mud, whacking the ball out of the mud and beside yours. Anthony takes a step out of the mud, sighing at his new black shoes now covered in mud.
"Anthony,"
Anthony looks over at you, who is struggling to get out of the mud, your mallet now fallen beside you as you try and pull your foot out. Anthony steps back into the mud, hand catching yours, as he gently pulls you into his arms.
Looking down at you, you hold onto his arms, tugging gently to try and free yourself, "May I lift you?"
"You may,"
Placing his hands on your waist, you wrap your arms around his shoulders as he lifts you out of the mud. As he goes to walk out of the mud, he finds himself stuck making to two of you tumble forward. You back hits the mud first, his body falling on yours. The two of you gaze at each other, before breaking into a fit of laughter, your arms wrap around his shoulders, legs slotted together.
"Your covered in mud," Anthony murmurs as the laughter dies, bright smiles gracing your faces.
"My back and just your knees," You wink, "How scandalous."
Anthony laughs again, eyes searching yours as his cheeks blush pink, "A rumour that may save you from marriage."
"So that was your plan all along,"
"Possibly."
His eyes flickered over your face, before falling onto your lips, you barely tilted your head at him, raising your brows when you let your eyes level at his mouth, at those pink lips.
"Anthony," You breathlessly whispered.
His lips meet in the most romantic kiss, one full of passion and unspoken love. A muddied hand cupped your cheek as Anthony leaned down on his elbow beside your head, you hands fell to cup the back of his head, fingertips running down his nape as you pulled him, if possible, closer. You moaned into his mouth as the hand that once cupped your cheek gripped your hip tightly bunching your dress in his fist as instinctively hitch your leg over his hip.
The kisses turn more hungry and needy, his tongue dancing over yours as his hips press into yours. His hand runs over your ankle that sits on his hip, running his hand down the length of your smooth leg before resting it on your upper thigh.
"Lady Y/n! Anthony!"
The two of you quickly pull apart as Colin comes bounding down the hill. Scrambling to your feet, Anthony helps you out of the mud before picking up your mallet passing it to you before picking up his own. Colin stops, looking between the two of you with a wide cheeky grin.
"You have a little mud on your cheek," Colin points to your cheek making your eyes go wide as you quickly try brushing away the mud off your cheek.
"We will be there in a moment," Anthony tells his brother.
Colin nods, unable to take the smile off his face as he sends you a cheeky wink before walking back up the hill. Anthony takes his handkerchief from his pocket, standing in front of you as her cups your cheek, gently cleaning the mud from your cheek. His eyes never leave yours as he does. Shrugging out of his jacket, he wraps it around your shoulders, helping you slide your arms into his jacket.
"To hide the mud," He quietly jokes, making you blush.
"Thank you," Anthony smiles, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead.
5. 'I love you.'
Lord Elton held a ball in order to celebrate your engagement. Though it was a little beforehand as you had yet to be asked for your hand in marriage. The hall was decorated beautifully with white flowers, tall champagne towers and a band playing on a stage.
Anthony was unable to look away from you; a white dress with lace detailing and long sleeves that fell over your knuckles, flower embroidery decorating the skirt. You hair was long and curled, half of it pinned back with delicate pearls.
"You are staring again," Eloise nudged her brothers arm.
"I can not help it," Anthony admits, eyes meeting your as you look over your shoulder, you send him a kind smile though your eyes betray you true feelings.
"This is your last chance to tell her," Eloise tells him softly, taking a sip of her drink, "Or Lord Prick will marry her."
Anthony chuckles, looking down at his sister fondly, "Stop listening to Colin's foul language."
"I believe I learnt that from you, brother."
You grasp your father hand in your own as his began to shake. Lord Elton rambles on about something, but you pay no attention, focusing on your father.
"Lord, I hope you don't mind but I think my father has had enough for tonight," You smile gently at him, "I think its time to go home."
"Of course, I will accompany you-"
"That isn't necessary-"
"When you are mine, I will not let you out of my sight," Lord Elton pulling your father closing to him and out of your hand, "I will take him to the carriage, get whatever you need."
You watch helplessly as he takes you father away, worry sitting in the pit of your stomach as you gently push through the crowd. The announcement that the ball is over is shouted as you take Daphne's hand, gently pulling her aside.
Her worried eyes meet your own, "My father is about to have a spell and Lord Elton is coming with us, possibly to propose, what do I do?"
She squeezes your hand, "Talk to him, quickly. My brother loves you, go before it's too late."
You nod, quickly pressing a kiss on her cheek before quickly walking towards the eldest Bridgerton brother. He stands alone, waiting for his siblings and mother to collect themselves before getting into the carriage. His eyes widen as you approach meeting you halfway, placing his hand on your shoulders as his eyes meet your worried ones.
"What happened?"
"I am taking my father home, he is unwell," You rush out, "Tell me you love me."
"Pardon-?"
"The prick will propose with my father's blessing in his state, he is playing a wicked game and I know it, so tell me you love me as I love you and be the man my father wants me to marry, be that man I feel safe with."
Anthony's brain pauses, his heart stopping as his hands fall from your shoulders. You heart hurts, taking his moment to mean rejection. You look over your shoulder as a butler calls your name, telling you a carriage has arrived.
Looking back at Anthony, he stares, eyes glazed over as you nod once before walking away, brushing past the Bridgerton siblings, ignoring Daphne as she calls your name.
"He missed his chance," Eloise sadly mutters, head falling onto Benedict's shoulder as he watches his older brother crumble.
---
Holding your father's hand tightly, you guide him through the house as he mutters quietly to himself. Taking him into the office, you sit him down into the chair before pulling the curtains closed, closing your father away from the heavy rain and sudden shout of thunder.
"What is happening?" Lord Elton asks as you father mutters to himself, head in hands as you kneel beside him.
"He is fine," You defensively dismiss him, "Thank you for your assistance but you may leave-"
"He is losing his mind," Lord Elton laughs, watching as your father gently rocks himself, looking up at the ceiling, muttering about your mother and the stars, "Look at the man."
"Don't you dare-"
"Do what?" Lord Elton rhetorically asks, taking a further step into the office, "You are simply a woman and he is a freak."
"You are simply a beast of a man, one that is cruel and heartless," You spit, clutching your father hands tighter in your own as a tear rolls down your cheek, "I will never except your hand in marriage."
Lord Elton glare down at you, before spitting horridly at yours and your fathers feet, "I wouldn't touch the Bridgerton's whore anyway."
"Leave before I write to the Queen herself, describing how much of a prick you truly are, and then no woman will want to touch you."
Lord Elton snarls before slamming every door on his way out. You turn to your father, letting go of one of his hands to gently cup his face, he tiredly blinks at you as you wipe away a tear.
"I am sorry," Your father quietly whispers, "I am so sorry, my dear."
"Do not apologise, you wanted what was best for me," You reply with a quick pained smile, "But I am afraid what I thought was best for me, doesn't want me."
"Anthony knows, he is just scared." Your father gently rests his forehead on yours, "Your mother was everything to me, when you where born you became everything as well, I want what is best for you and I got carried away in my own worries that you would be alone when I pass that I was unable to see how I was going to marry you with a man that was going to do more harm than happiness."
"You need to rest," You pull away, standing up to help him, "I will ask the cook to get you something warm to eat-"
"I can do that, darling," You father squeezes your hand, giving you a warm smile, "Go and find your happiness."
"I can not leave you like this-"
You father presses a kiss on the back of your hand, "I will be fine, now go."
---
"I froze, how could I be so stupid?"
Benedict sighs, sitting beside his brother, who holds his head in his hands, cheeks stained with tears. Daphne kneels in front of him, placing a hand on his knee as Violet sits the other side of him, placing a comforting hand on her son's back.
"Love makes us do stupid things," His mother gently whispers sadly.
"I have loved her for so long and Y/n tells me she loves me and I suddenly do not know how to reply," Anthony finally breaks, looking at his mother as a tear runs down his cheek, "I have lost her."
"No, no you have not," Violet brings her son in her arms, pressing a kiss on his head, "You can still go to her, tell her before it is too late."
"Lord Elton-"
"Do you honestly believe that Y/n would chose Lord Elton over the one she truly loves?"
Anthony looks down at his sister, who offers him a knowing smile. Benedict pats his brother's shoulder, mirroring Daphne's smile.
Violet nods, squeezing her son's hand tightly, "Go and get your happiness, Anthony."
---
The maids shout after you as you rush out of the house, hands gripping your dress tightly as you run through the rain. You hair sticks to your neck, the white dress ruined but you couldn't find yourself to care.
The Bridgerton siblings and Violet watch as Anthony rushes out of the house, smiling happily as they watch Anthony run down the street. Simon takes his wife's hand in his own, pressing a kiss on her head before gently taking his son out of her arms. Eloise beams as Colin wraps an arm around her shoulder as Benedict wraps his arms around the two youngest. Violet wipes the tear off her cheek as she finally watches her eldest son chase after the purest love.
Rounding the corner, the streets are empty, only lit up by the golden glow from the house windows. You suddenly stop as he does, standing opposite sides of the road. His hair sticks to his forehead, white skirt sticking to his arms as his blue waistcoat is soaked in rain.
Your chest heaves as your heart pounds in your chest, the two of you clash into a hug. His arms wrap around your waist as your wrap around his shoulders, holding you close to him, he presses a light kiss on your neck before pulling away slightly.
"I do, I do love you," Anthony breaths out, "I am sorry I froze, but hearing you tell me you love me, I- It was all I have ever wanted to hear."
You smile, gently pressing a hand to the back of his nape, resting his forehead to yours, "There are many reasons why I couldn't marry Lord Elton, not only because he was a prick but because I couldn't imagine marry anyone else but you."
"Then marry me," Anthony says, nose brushing against yours as he smiles, "Let me call you my wife, let me have children with you, grow old with you, let me kiss you when I want, let me love you."
You share a kiss under the stars, one full of spoken and knowing love, one of passion and understanding. His hand holds the back of your head as your hands slide down his shoulders, resting on his chest, his heart thumping under your touch. He holds onto desperately, kissing you with all his love, before gently pulling away, resting his forehead on yours with a love sick smile.
"I love you," Anthony whispered against your lips.
Jon and Dany were meant to forever live in the shadow of their siblings. Dany was merely Viserys’ sister, her girlhood sacrificed for her brother’s crown. Jon was merely Robb’s bastard brother, meant to live and serve as his brother’s follower, not his equal. But Robb and Viserys died. Viserys crowned with molten gold. Robb crowned with his wolf’s head. Dany was Viserys’ last surviving heir and with his death, became House Targaryen’s new beginning. Jon was recognized as Robb’s last surviving heir — and with his death, becomes the North’s new hope.
hey so this is insane ☝️ viserys & robb wearing mock-crowns in death because the narrative uses them as stepping stones for dany & jon to rise to power in their places. I am unwell.
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