| Practice makes perfect |
Pairings : Florence Pugh x female!reader
Summary : When the chemistry in your on-screen sex scene with Florence Pugh keeps falling flat, she offers a private rehearsal.
Warnings : WLW smut (face-sitting, oral sex, squirting, fingering, switch dynamic), age gap.
Authors note : Florence could slap me and I would say thank you. Sorry I disappeared my mental health has been horrible I don’t promise to post more fics
You weren’t supposed to get this role.
The lead in an emotionally brutal, sexually charged indie drama directed by a rising French auteur? With Florence Pugh as your romantic co-star?
No way. You were 22. Unknown. This was your first real movie.
Yet somehow, sitting across from Florence during the chemistry read three months ago, with your heartbeat pounding and your palms damp, you made her laugh.
Not giggle. Not fake-industry laugh.
An actual, snorting, shoulders-shaking laugh after you fumbled your line and mumbled, “Sorry, didn’t know I’d be dry humping Florence fucking Pugh today.”
She tilted her head. “Mm. So you do know my name.”
You flushed. “Kind of hard not to. You’re literally everywhere.”
She leaned forward like she was about to bite. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t bite. Not on the first day.”
Your face went hot. She laughed again.
The director hired you three days later.
Now, filming is three weeks in, and you’re learning something:
Dangerously hot. In every way that makes it impossible to focus.
She shows up in sweatpants and a tight white tank top, hair twisted up in clips, no makeup, still looks like a fantasy. She teases everyone — flirty, confident, magnetic — but when her gaze lands on you, it burns.
“Rookie,” she calls you. Always.
It started after the second take of a soft scene, the first time you had to kiss her on screen. You leaned in too slow, hesitated, and Florence whispered, “You gonna kiss me or call your manager?”
Everyone laughed. You went scarlet. She winked.
Since then, it’s been a war. A very quiet one.
She invades your space. You pretend not to notice.
You hate how good she is at all of this — not just acting, but you. Getting under your skin. Making you feel like a little kid with a crush at recess.
She makes you feel like a virgin, and you’re not.
You know how to kiss someone. How to touch someone. How to make someone fall apart under your fingers.
But when she’s the one touching you?
The worst moment came during scene 16.
Not the violent, high-stakes one in the middle of the movie. This one is soft. Sensual. Your characters have just made up after a brutal fight. You’re supposed to climb into her lap, whisper I’m sorry against her mouth, then make love to her like it’s the last time you’ll ever be allowed to.
You fumble the blocking. You forget your lines. Your hands shake every time they touch her thighs.
Florence — annoyingly, frustratingly, effortlessly — is perfect.
She moans the way she’s supposed to. Lets her head fall back. Tugs at your hair. But something’s off.
It’s not her performance.
“Cut,” the director says again. “Reset. Try it with more… heat.”
Florence raises a brow as you climb off her, cheeks flushed.
“I think you’re allergic to my mouth,” she says, deadpan. “You flinch every time we kiss.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I do not.”
“You literally jerked away like I tased you.”
She leans back on her elbows, skin glowing under the lights. “You sure you’re not into someone else on set? Maybe the boom mic guy?”
You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this irritating?”
She grins. “Only when someone makes it fun.”
Later that night, you slam your trailer door and curse into your pillow.
She’s infuriating. All charm and smug confidence and sharp tongue. The kind of woman who never doubts herself. Who takes what she wants without ever asking twice.
You hate how much you don’t hate her.
Because when she looked up at you from the bed — chest rising, lips parted — she looked…
And you wanted to give her everything.
The next day, the director pulls you both aside.
“I’m going to be honest,” she says, voice low. “The sex scene isn’t working.”
You go cold. Florence folds her arms.
“It’s not your fault,” the director says, trying to soften the blow. “There’s just something missing. The chemistry isn’t believable yet.”
You nod, but your throat burns.
Florence doesn’t say anything.
You avoid her for two days.
Which is hard, because you’re filming every day and your characters are literally obsessed with each other. But somehow you manage it. Barely.
It’s nearly 1AM. The crew wrapped late after a rain delay. You’re still in costume, makeup smudged, body aching. You just want to shower and forget the week.
You unlock your trailer, step inside, and—
Leaning against the couch, arms crossed, hair messy. Wearing a black hoodie, no bra, and joggers that hang low on her hips.
You stop dead. “How did you get in here?”
“Your assistant likes me better.”
You roll your eyes, drop your bag. “What do you want, Florence?”
Then says, “Let’s run the scene.”
“The sex scene. Just us. No crew. No lights. Let’s figure out what the fuck is missing.”
“I’m serious.” She walks forward slowly. “Something’s off. And it’s not the writing. It’s not the direction.”
You take a step back. “We can’t just—”
“Why not?” she says, voice low. “We’ve kissed. Touched. Dry humped on camera. Why not rehearse like we mean it?”
Your stomach twists. “You think it’s that simple?”
“No,” she admits. “I think it’s complicated as fuck. But that’s what makes it real, rookie.”
She takes one more step. Close now.
“You are,” she says gently. “Because you want it to be real. And you don’t know what that’ll do to you.”
Her hand lifts — fingertips brush your cheek.
“Let’s run the scene,” she murmurs. “Just once. See if it helps.”
You swallow hard. “No cameras?”
She smiles. “Just you. And me.”
You had expected Florence to back down after that night in your trailer, to chalk it up to some weird power play and leave it there.
The next morning, you arrived on set to find her waiting by the craft services table, casually flipping a coffee cup in her hands, her eyes sharp and assessing.
“Morning, rookie,” she said with that infuriating smirk. “Ready to run that scene again?”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” she said. “No script, no director, no cameras. Just us.”
You hesitated, your mind racing with all the reasons this was a terrible idea. But the way she looked at you — so confident, so sure — made your insides flutter with a mix of fear and excitement.
“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do it.”
You followed her to one of the soundstages, empty and dimly lit except for a single overhead lamp casting a warm glow.
Florence took your hand without asking, her grip firm and steady. Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a wild rhythm of anticipation and nervousness.
“Remember,” she said, voice low and breathy, “this is practice. No pressure. Just… feel it.”
She pulled you close, and suddenly all the rehearsed lines and blocked movements vanished. It was just you and her — skin and breath and heat.
Her lips brushed your neck, fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine.
You shivered, suddenly acutely aware of the soft fabric of her shirt against your bare arms, the warmth radiating from her body.
“Say my name,” she whispered.
You swallowed hard. “Florence.”
Her smile was a secret promise. “Good girl.”
For hours, you ran the scene again and again, each take peeling back layers of awkwardness until something raw and real began to surface.
You caught yourself watching her mouth when she spoke, memorizing the curve of her lips, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper — something like hunger.
At one point, your hands brushed, fingers tangled, and you both froze, breaths hitching.
“Don’t stop now,” she murmured, her voice thick with something unspoken.
You wanted to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her like you meant it — but fear held you back.
Outside of the set, things changed, too.
Florence started showing up at your trailer unannounced, bringing you coffee or snacks, sitting close enough that your legs brushed under the table.
One evening, she caught you watching her from across the room, your gaze lingering on her long neck and the curve of her jaw.
She caught your eye, smirked, and whispered, “You can’t hide it.”
The worst moment — and the best — came during a rehearsal break.
You were sitting alone on the stairs when Florence sat next to you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her body.
She rested her head on your shoulder.
“Relax,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long moment, you just sat there, your heart pounding.
Then she traced lazy patterns on your arm, her fingers light and teasing.
You closed your eyes, feeling a dizzying cocktail of fear and desire swirl inside you.
Jealousy reared its head when a male co-star joked about Florence’s “toy” — and you saw the sharp edge in her eyes when she glanced at you.
Later, she pulled you aside.
“You’re mine,” she said quietly, almost possessive.
You swallowed, breath shallow.
At night, your dreams were haunted by her touch — warm, demanding, addictive.
You woke with your skin flushed, heart racing, craving more.
The slow burn is now a wildfire.
Every glance, every brush of skin, every word dripping with double meaning.
You don’t know where this is going — but you want to find out.
The soundstage was empty except for the two of you and the soft hum of the overhead lights.
Florence had insisted on no scripts tonight. No lines, no cameras — just pure, unfiltered connection.
You were both tired, raw from the week’s relentless filming, and maybe a little desperate to break through the barrier that had kept you both distant for too long.
She took your hands in hers, holding them like a lifeline.
“Ready?” she asked, voice low, thick with promise.
You nodded, breath catching.
Her lips brushed yours — gentle at first, then demanding.
She pressed you back onto the soft, worn couch, her hands exploring, mapping every inch of your skin.
You gasped as she slid her hands under your shirt, fingers trembling as they found the curve of your ribs.
“You’re mine,” she whispered, voice rough with need.
And in that moment, all the tension, all the nerves, all the hesitation — it melted away.
She shifted, moving over you, straddling your hips.
Her heat was overwhelming.
“Look at me,” she commanded softly.
Her eyes were dark, liquid, and fierce.
She lowered herself onto your mouth, positioning so perfectly that your tongue found her slick heat without hesitation.
You moaned into her, hands tangling in her hair as she rocked against your face.
Florence’s breath hitched.
“You taste so good,” she murmured, her hips grinding slowly.
Your fingers fisted in her hair as you worked her clit with your tongue, careful and worshipful.
She whimpered, the sound vibrating against your lips.
Suddenly, she was gasping, her hands gripping your shoulders hard.
“Fuck, I’m—” she stuttered, voice breaking as a flood of warmth pooled down your chin.
You tasted her, salty and sweet, as she came—squirting right onto your tongue and cheeks.
She collapsed back slightly, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded.
“God, you’re making me crazy,” she said, voice raw.
Florence smiled wickedly.
“Your turn,” she said, sliding down to kiss a trail from your collarbone to your hip.
Her mouth was electric, hungry.
She took your panties off slowly, deliberately, kissing every inch of your thigh.
You shivered as her fingers found your wetness, teasing you open.
“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “So fucking ready.”
Her mouth closed over your clit, sucking hard as her fingers pushed inside you.
You arched into her, moaning loudly.
Florence’s hands were everywhere, and her mouth—oh, her mouth—was relentless.
You felt yourself slipping over the edge.
She looked up, eyes glowing with mischief.
“Not yet,” she said, voice commanding.
You whimpered, desperate.
She kissed you hard, hands pinning your wrists above your head.
Her hips rolled against yours as she pushed two fingers deep inside, curling them expertly.
You cried out, hips bucking.
She grinned, biting your neck softly.
“God, you taste amazing,” she whispered.
Suddenly, she withdrew, standing to strip off her shirt and jeans.
Her body was breathtaking — toned and soft, curves that drove you wild.
She knelt between your legs again, pressing her pussy right to your lips.
“You’re going to eat me out until I come again,” she said.
Your tongue explored her folds, tasting her again as she moaned and gasped above you.
You felt her pulse against your lips, the heat building until she was shaking.
She came harder this time, crying out as her body tensed.
You licked every drop, wanting to hold her pleasure in your mouth.
She pulled you up, fingers tangling in your hair.
“You’re mine,” she said fiercely.
Then she flipped you over, hovering over your heat.
Slowly, she sat on your pussy, your bodies molding together perfectly.
Her hips rocked against yours, hands clutching your thighs.
She whispered your name over and over, breath hot against your ear.
You were a mess of pleasure and need, riding the waves of sensation she gave you.
“Come for me,” she commanded, voice thick.
And you did — screaming her name as your body convulsed beneath her.
She followed, shuddering as she came after you, holding you close.
You collapsed together, tangled limbs and racing hearts.
Florence kissed your forehead gently.
“This is just the beginning,” she promised.
