summary: Steve catches a glimpse of his future while at your wedding reception and doesn't want to waste another second without putting his baby inside of you.
pairing: husband!Steve Harrington x wife!f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, unprotected piv, breeding kink (obv), use of the word 'daddy' but like...not the way you're thinking, oral f!receiving, semi-public sex, praise, big dick!steve, riding, lots of kissing, fluff, traditional gender roles, set between seasons four and five so spoiler free, but canon divergent because max isn't in a coma but i would literally never have a wedding without my ginger baby there with me, no beta
wc: 4.6k
note: i've only read over this once so sorry for any mistakes! i wanted to get this out into the world. i hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!! <3
[masterlist] [AO3]
Sometimes, Steve thinks that loving you is an integral part of his DNA.
He’s never been happier than he was this afternoon, standing up there at the altar in the church beneath stained glass windows. He’d chosen to recite the vows he’d written for you in the back of his biology notebook in tenth grade. You were so beautiful and so strong, even back then, that he’d known no matter what happened, you were going to be the absolute love of his life.
Steve proposed with a plastic ring in Mike Wheeler’s basement that he’s pretty sure had teeth marks in it. Everyone was there, and Steve knows he should’ve planned better. Waited for a time that was more romantic, waited until he had an actual ring.
But he’d seen you fold your arms around Will and Lucas at the same time and promise them pizza next weekend and all Steve could see was the future mother of his children.
And so much had been taken from the two of you already; innocence, peace, time. He didn’t want to waste another second.
So he’d picked up the ring from the sienna colored carpet and got down on one knee and spilled his guts in front of everyone.
And when you’d said yes, it had felt like a breath of fresh air. Felt like reclaiming what had been stolen.
Dustin had screeched in excitement like a wild animal and Max and El started jumping on the couch and started planning the party before the tears had even dried from the corners of your eyes.
There’s a lot of things that went wrong from then until now. The caterer had bailed at the last minute and Mrs. Wheeler had borrowed every roaster on the block to make enough roasted chicken to feed everyone.
Steve couldn’t do his hair like he wanted that morning, could never do it quite the way you could, so he’d sat with his eyes closed tightly while you used that Farrah Fawcett hairspray and styled his hair in your wedding dress.
He hadn’t peeked, though he wanted to. But Steve had felt the brush of both silk and lace and knew the smell of your perfume from memory.
The strap of your heel broke, so Joyce had glued it to the side of your ankle with liquid bandage and after the church ceremony, you’d spent the rest of your time in those beat up sneakers you always wore.
And on top of everything else, there was still the looming question about Vecna’s unconfirmed death that hung like a dark cloud in your mind.
But still. Even with all that had gone wrong, the Harrington wedding had turned out perfectly.
There isn’t a single thing about it that Steve would change.
Not when everything leads him here. Standing off to the side of the dance floor, finding a moment of quiet to himself for the first time all day.
There’s a glass bottle of beer in his hand and he clinks his ring finger against the side of it, hearing the ting it makes and reveling in it.
He watches you and sees the rest of his life.
You’re in the middle of the dance floor. The glittering pins in your hair sit a little askew now, and the bottom seam of your white dress has grown dusty. But Steve thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do at this precise moment.
You’re dancing with Max and El. Swaying your hips and twirling them in circles. They’re smiling hard with exertion-reddened cheeks and giggling so loud that Steve can hear them over the steady thrum of music.
A widespread grin stretches across your pretty mouth. Finding just as much joy in the moment as the two girls who idolize you.
There’s this light behind your eyes when you look at them. A soft adoration, a maternal instinct deeply ingrained.
It only serves to reassure Steve impossibly more that you’re perfect for him.
He feels giddy with excitement, thinking of what’s to come. Thinking about how ten years from now he’ll be coming home from a long day at work to see you dancing just like this, except you won’t be on a dance floor.
Instead, you’ll be in the middle of the kitchen in the home you share with him. There will be soft music on the radio and food on the stove and you’ll be spinning two little toddlers that hopefully have your eyes and your nose and your smile.
He wants to fill the house with your children, truthfully. Wants to lay awake at night hearing giggles from boys who are up well past their bedtime and trip over princess dresses in the hallway and spend Saturday afternoons at the ice cream parlor. He wants to argue about bath time and eating peas with dinner and why the pink cup is no better than the green one.
Steve wants it all. And he wants it with you—his beautiful, sweet girl.
His wife.
Something shifts inside him. Something equal parts desire and devotion.
He sets the bottle in his hands on the nearest table, and makes his way to you. His suit jacket is long gone, and he’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows.
You have your back turned to him as you and Max try to demonstrate a terrible example of salsa dancing to El. But as he nears, you smile at him over your shoulder. As if you’d known he was coming, as if you could feel him like a secondary part of yourself.
Steve holds his hand out to you, palm up and open. “You guys mind if I steal my bride back for a little bit?”
Both Max and El make sounds of irritation. “But we just got her!”
He laughs, unable to control his mirth. “I know, I know. She’s a wanted woman, what can I say? I’ll bring her back, alright? I promise.”
Max places your hand into Steve’s with a glare on her face. “Don’t hog her, Harrington. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he says, pulling you away from the dance floor. Steve conveniently waits until Max is out of earshot before he grumbles, “Monopolizing my own wife. God. Ridiculous. And did you hear that? Her tone?”
Your giggles are music to his ears. “She was just having fun, that’s all.”
Steve pauses. Slides one hand around your waist and uses the other to gently cradle your cheek. He smiles softly when you lean into his touch, the bustling crowd around you fading into nothing but background noise. “She loves you,” Steve says. “Believe me, I get it. I know exactly how she feels. And you wanna know what else I know?”
“Hm?”
“I know that you’re the most beautiful woman on Earth.”
You scoff and roll your eyes playfully, but Steve just pulls you closer.
“What? It’s true. And I mean, like—every version of it. In every alternate dimension that exists, you're just as perfect as you are right here and now.” Steve’s voice lowers. Just a fraction, almost undetectable. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”
The flush that crawls up your cheeks is nothing short of breathtaking. He loves seeing you like this. All soft and bashful because of him. “God—Steve. There are people around, you know.”
Your words make him laugh. “Sweetheart, they just watched us get married. Like, literally—all of them. I don’t think anyone will be very surprised if they overhear me calling my wife beautiful, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re talking like…you know…”
“Like what? Am I–I’m talking weird?”
“No, not weird. Just…” Your face flames as you lean in close, voice lowered. “Kinda like you do when we’re alone. Like we’re about to…”
You don’t have to finish for Steve to hear your unsaid words. “Oh, I see,” he said, feigning innocence. “You mean the bedroom voice?”
With a turn of your head, you sweep your eyes across the space around you. But no one’s listening, all too caught up in their own joy. “Yeah. That.”
Steve just laughs and wraps his arms around you fully now, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. There’s a teasing tone to his voice as he says, “Aw, babe. I’m sorry. C’mere.”
He’s certain you can feel the stiffness between his legs, even through all those layers of tulle and silk. Your eyes widen just a fraction as you look up at him with your lips parted, likely to chastise him in that spirited way he loves.
But Steve doesn’t give you the chance. He just leans down, presses his mouth to your ear, and whispers an admission. “Seeing you with the girls just…” Steve sighs all dreamily and shakes his head. “I dunno—it’s just got me thinking about the future, you know? About our kids. About how great a mom you’ll be. How pretty you’ll look with my baby in your belly.”
You hide your face in the crook of his neck, but Steve can feel the wide grin that stretches across your face.
“And I was also thinking about how I…I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he confesses.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, you’re still smiling but there’s something else in your eyes now, too. Hesitation, almost. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s the point? Tomorrow isn’t promised, we both know that. And I know we’re not really prepared but we could be by the time it’s…you know—time. And who’s ever really ready to become parents, anyway?”
“Steve,” you say, voice quiet.
“I just can’t stop seeing it in my head, you know? I even dream about it. They’re the only good dreams I have anymore. And I just…I don’t know. I want that. I want it with you. And I don’t want to wait for a day to come that isn’t promised.”
Your stare is heavy, really listening to his words even though he’s stumbling over them. It makes him feel seen in a way that only you have ever given him. Makes him feel understood.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m ready. I mean…if–if you are, too.”
He pauses. The words are out now and there’s no taking them back. And Steve tries to tell himself that he’ll be happy with any answer you give him. Whether you want to start now or a year from now or five—as long as it’s with you, he’ll be happy.
But he can’t deny the relief that floods through his veins when you giggle and nod your head and say, “Okay. I’m ready, too.”
Steve smiles so hard the apples of his cheeks tinge pink. “Yeah?” He holds your face delicately in his hands and presses his forehead to yours.
“Mmhm. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we? Might as well start now, right?”
Desire swirls low in his abdomen at the idea alone. Steve thinks you're right—you should start now. “C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours and tugging you through the crowd of people.
He heads for the room at the back of the venue where you’d been tucked away to get ready for the ceremony. You pass the boys all laughing together at some solo cup-stacking competition they’re having, making a big mess and being rowdy as usual.
Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder as he walks by and says, “You better clean that up when you’re done, Henderson,” he says. And then he points his index finger at him and says, “You hear me?”
Dustin just nods through his laughter, too wound up for a proper response as Will’s tower clatters to the floor.
The moment he pulls you down the back hallway, everything becomes much quieter. The sounds of the reception can still be heard but it’s muffled, especially once he ushers you into the small room and closes the door behind you.
There’s makeup products and hair brushes and your casual clothes from this morning strewn across every viable surface. Opened duffel bags and unzipped backpacks sit propped up against the vanity in the corner, and the sofa in the center of the room is made from crushed velvet.
Steve’s shoulders drop and he smiles wide the moment he looks at you.
“They’re going to notice we’re gone, you know,” you say, the sound of your voice much clearer now that you’re alone. “What’re we doing all the way back here?”
He smiles wide and crowds you against the door, using one hand to lift your chin. His mouth is less than an inch from yours, his eyes all starry when he looks at you. When he speaks, you can taste the heat of his breath. “I want you,” he explains. And then even clearer, voice low, “Want you to make me a daddy.”
Your lips part, and Steve reaches behind you and clicks the lock on the door into place. “Now?”
“Why not? You said it yourself. Got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I hadn’t meant it literally,” you say lightheartedly. “People will come looking for us.”
“Let them,” he says, and means it. He only cares about you and him and this exact moment.
Steve waits for you to respond. Tries to find hesitance in your eyes or apprehension in your body language. But he comes up empty, and when you sink your teeth gently into your bottom lip, he knows you want him just as badly.
And then you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his hungrily. You taste like mint and ambrosia and home. Steve slides his tongue into your mouth and drinks you in, his cock already painfully hard in his dress pants.
He slides one hand to the nape of your neck and the other to the small of your back, hauling you impossibly closer.
Your hands are faster than his, tugging his dress shirt out of his slacks and working at the buttons. You whimper into his mouth and Steve sighs at the beautiful sound.
He pulls away only long enough for you to push his shirt off his shoulders, and you use the opportunity to say, “You’re going to be such a good daddy, Steve.”
And Christ, he’s fucking done for. Just like that. His cock throbs painfully, his pupils dilate, and suddenly the urge to be inside of you is absolutely unbearable. His voice trembles, but he’s smiling wide as he asks, “Oh, yeah?”
Steve drops to his knees before you and slips his greedy hands beneath your fluffy white dress, wrapping desperate fingers around each of your ankles.
“Mhm.” You grant him some reprieve by gathering the fabric in your hands and pulling it up.
He climbs beneath your dress and lets out a slow, shaky breath when he sees the pretty lace you’ve chosen to wear all for him. White, matching your dress and the garter around your thigh. Steve leans forward and presses a kiss to your pubic bone, an affectionate caress that’s more appreciation than lust.
“I know you will be,” you continue. “Can see it in the way you treat the kids in our lives now. Can even see it in the way you treat me. Always taking such good care of everyone around you. Always一”
You inhale sharply as he parts your thighs and runs his flattened tongue against your seam, over the lace that still covers you. Steve licks you again, relishing in the faintest hint of your taste, breathing in deep. “Keep going, baby,” he mutters.
“Always…God, Steve.” Your hips tilt, giving him more access, asking for more without asking. But it’s okay, because you’re right. Steve knows just what you need, and he’ll always take care of you.
He hooks his fingers at the edge of your panties and carefully pulls them down your legs and over your sneakers, slipping the soft fabric right into the pocket of his dress pants.
“You’re such a hard worker,” you say. “And I know you’ll always make sure our little family will never want for anything. I think about一”
Steve spreads your knees wide and places a wet, open mouthed kiss on your clit, groaning low in his chest at the taste of you. You’re so warm and wet already. “What do you think about, pretty girl?”
You hike your dress further up so you can grasp his shoulder for support, eyes fluttering closed. “About you taking care of scraped knees and signing homework assignments and—”
He sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue. It pulls a moan from deep in your chest and has your head thudding back against the door.
Steve reaches between your thighs and gently strokes his fingers over your entrance. Once, twice—teasing in the way he always is, before finally pushing them inside.
“Steve—”
He hums against your cunt, the vibration rocking inside you, reverberating all the way down to your curled toes. He releases your clit from his mouth only long enough to say, “Don’t stop, baby. M’takin’ mental notes. Keep talking.”
It takes a minute before you speak up again. Because once he hooks his fingers inside of you and kisses your clit all wet and sloppy, all sense of rational thought empties from your brain.
Still, you try. You try because it’s Steve and you want to make him happy. Want to make him proud. Want to be as good for him as he is for you.
“Piggyback rides in—in the kitchen, and ice cream on the weekends and—fuck—that feels so good. You’re so good, I—”
He can feel you getting close. Can feel your velvety walls clamping down tight around his fingers, squeezing him desperately, all but begging for more.
Steve resists. Lets you get close enough to taste the edge, and then he pulls back. Slides his slick-soaked fingers out of you and licks them clean. His breath is shallow and filled with need, but he goes back for just one more taste of you. Flattening his tongue and sliding it through your syrupy folds, savoring it.
When he climbs out from under your dress and stands up to face you, there’s a flush on your cheeks and a big smile on your face. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen you look this happy.
And he doesn’t need to ask why, because he feels it, too.
In all the chaos, in all the uncertainty, you have become home to him. His lone place of solace.
And now you’re his, undoubtedly, with his ring on your finger and his last name and a big smile, and Steve’s heart pinches tight.
It feels like something out of his wildest fantasies. Something he’s only conjured in a dream until today.
There’s only a single dream that would ever compare to this one. One he knows you want just as badly.
And Steve’s about to give it to you.
He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you softly, every movement filled with devotion. He takes your hand in his. “C’mere,” he says, leading you to the couch.
Steve takes a seat right in the center and pulls you down onto his lap. The tulle of your dress makes the position a little awkward, fluffing up between you. You and Steve both laugh, but it’s manageable with only a little maneuvering.
You press your hips against his and Steve groans low, feeling the heat of you even through his dress pants. He kisses you hard, drinking in the taste of you, his hand holding firm at your jaw.
“All mine now,” he murmurs against your lips. “My sweet girl.” He reaches beneath your dress and finds the buckle of his leather belt. It clinks as he undoes it and shoves his slacks down just enough to pull his cock out, already so hard for you it throbs in his hand. “Tell me you want it,” he says.
Your answer comes quick and desperate. “I do. Please, Steve. I want it. Want you.”
He lines himself up at your entrance, but doesn’t push inside. When he speaks, it’s with that voice again. Low, intentional, dark. “Yeah? S’that right?”
“Yes一!”
“Then take it, baby.”
You lower yourself onto his cock, rolling your hips in a way that has his breath stuttering on an exhale. A pained sound comes from someplace at the back of your throat, but Steve knows you’ll be okay. Knows it's big but knows, too, that you’ll work through it. “Oh, god.”
“I know. S’okay. Breathe, sweetheart.” Steve leans in close, brushing his nose against yours affectionately. “Yeah, there you go. Good job, baby. Doing so good for me.”
He kisses you softly this time, lips moving gently against yours. Encouraging you to take all of him. And when you do, Steve lets himself sink deep into the feel of you around him. Soft and warm and so fucking wet your arousal drips down onto the dark hair at the base of his cock. “Feels…”
“Does it feel good, baby? All full?”
You nod and a whimper leaves your mouth when he shifts beneath you, angling his hips so he’s just a little bit deeper. Touching parts of you that only he ever has, that only he ever will.
Steve reaches beneath your dress and splays his palms wide on the sides of your thighs. “Gonna look so fuckin’ pretty with a baby in your belly,” he mutters.
His words spur you on enough to roll your hips against his. Careful at first, testing the feeling. But it doesn’t take long for you to find a good rhythm.
You feel like heaven around him. Perfect friction that has his toes curling inside his shoes. He fits so perfectly inside you he thinks he could fucking live here, just like this, with your pussy wrapped tight around his cock like it’s where it belongs. “Fuck, baby. Yeah. Just like that.”
You ride him with your hands braced against his broad shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent moon shaped indentations in his freckled skin. Your whimpers quickly turn to moans and the thought crosses Steve’s mind that someone could hear, but he doesn’t care. Not when you say, “You’re so big. Want you to fill me up ‘til一hmm一’til it sticks.”
Steve slides his hand further up your thigh, his thumb finding your swollen clit, still slick, coated in his saliva. “Kiss me, baby. Wanna taste you.”
You press your mouth to his and it’s like heaven to him. Steve can’t think or see or feel beyond his perfect, pretty wife and the way you beg so fucking prettily for him to give you his baby. To fill you up with his cum until it’s spilling out of you and sliding down your thighs.
He licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, unraveled by you completely. “So fucking beautiful,” he muses.
Your walls pulse around him, and Steve circles your clit with his thumb a little faster, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.
“Did some research a little while ago,” he says between kisses, lips red and spit-soaked. “Better chances if you cum first.” He’s breathing fast, his own release coiling tight at the base of his spine the longer he’s inside you. Steve knows he won’t last.
Not like this. Not with you in this fucking dress and with his last name. Christ.
“So you gotta cum for me, baby,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Cum for me so I can make you a mama. Hm?”
Your hands on his shoulders tighten, and a wide grin spreads across his face as he feels you twitch around his cock, clit pulsing beneath his thumb.
“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. S’fucking…so good for me, baby. Jesus fucking一squeezing me so tight. M'gonna be the best daddy, okay? I promise.”
He thinks he can hold off long enough for you. Thinks he can fight release until you’re all twitching and sensitive in his arms. Thinks he can do what the textbooks say to give you the best chances, thinks he can do this right.
But then you look him right in the eye and say, “Cum with me, cum with me. Please, Steve, please.”
And Christ, he’s weak for you. Putty in your hands. And you sound so pretty, begging for him like that. What on Earth is he supposed to do except exactly what you ask?
His release hits him hard, darkness clouding his vision, his skin tingling in every place he can feel your warmth. “Love you so much, baby.”
You slide your hands up the back of his neck and thread your fingers through his hair, kissing him in that way you do. The way that makes him feel like the most cherished man on the planet, leaving him aching to be impossibly closer.
His orgasm fizzles out, but Steve stays buried deep inside you until his cock softens. And even then, he lifts his hips a couple more times, thrusting up into you, making sure his seed reaches your cervix.
You take a second to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, wincing in the process.
Steve sort of feels bad…but there’s another part of him, too, that likes seeing it. Likes when you walk a little funny because of him, likes knowing you can feel him even when he’s gone.
He helps you right your dress and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. Steve buckles his belt and the two of you laugh as you try to help him with the buttons on his dress shirt.
The party still thrums loudly on the other side of the door. “Max is definitely going to kill you,” you say, reaching for the door.
Steve chuckles and lets you take his hand and lead him back towards the rowdy crowd in the front of the reception hall. “Oh, for sure,” he agrees.
Just before you make it out of the shaded hallway, Steve pulls you back. Spinning you into his arms, delighting in the sweet sound of surprise you make. “Wait,” he says. “One more for the road.”
You smile and press your lips to his. Softer now, but no less heated. “I love you,” you tell him, and Steve wonders if that nervous, giddy feeling he gets hearing those words from you will ever go away.
“I love you, too, baby. Gonna love it even more when there’s two of you.”
Dustin calls his name from the other end of the room, louder even than the music, and there’s a massive pile of paper towels on the floor between him and Mike as they scramble to clean up some mystery green liquid.
He turns his head to find Max behind the DJ booth now, playing some Madonna song and giving the actual DJ a hard time.
Steve shakes his head. “We were gone for ten minutes. Ten minutes!”
You laugh, and the sound brings him so much happiness of his own that he can’t help but smile even with his frustration. “I’ll see you on the way to the honeymoon, husband,” you say.
The word sends a tingle down his spine. “Double the attempts mean double the luck,” Steve teases. “I’ll be seeing you later, wife.”
You both begin to back away in opposite directions. Steve towards Dustin while you move towards the soundbooth. But your fingers stay intertwined until the very last second. And only when your hands drop fully do either of you turn away.
Steve knows then, no matter what happens, that he’ll be okay.
As long as you linger with him for the rest of his life.
The first sign that something was terribly wrong with Fred and George Weasley was the smell.
Not a dangerous smell, exactly.
Just… deeply concerning.
It drifted through the Gryffindor common room three days after everyone returned from summer holiday — thick curls of sugar and smoke and something strangely acidic, like burnt caramel mixed with potion fumes.
You looked up from your book just in time to see a first-year yelp as sparks exploded from his pocket.
The room erupted into laughter.
Fred Weasley leaned back against the sofa, entirely unapologetic.
“Good news,” he announced. “Your trousers are now scientifically fireproof.”
“They’re smoking!”
“Temporary side effect.”
George, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by parchment, scribbled something down. “Increase Flobberworm mucus stabilizer,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Noted.”
The common room had slowly transformed into the twins’ personal laboratory since returning to Hogwarts. Every available surface was covered: parchment sketches, ingredient jars, half-finished sweets, violently colored smoke bombs, tiny labelled vials and experimental candies that looked deeply illegal.
Even Lee Jordan had stopped accepting random samples after one particularly unfortunate incident involving temporary purple teeth and uncontrolled hiccups.
You stepped over a pile of parchment carefully. “You know normal people spend the first week back studying.”
Fred looked up immediately at the sound of your voice.
“Well, that sounds tragically boring,” he said, sprawled lazily across the sofa. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, ink smudged across one hand, hair messier than usual from repeatedly tugging at it. “We’re innovators, sweetheart.”
George snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
Fred ignored him completely, eyes already fixed on you instead.
It was honestly irritating — the way he looked at people. Like every conversation was secretly amusing him. Like he knew exactly how to make someone flustered and enjoyed watching it happen in real time.
Unfortunately for you, Fred seemed to enjoy doing it to you most.
You crouched near the coffee table, eyeing a tray of suspiciously bright chocolates. “What are these supposed to do?”
Fred sat up. “Our masterpiece.”
“You eat one half,” George explained, holding up a dark piece of chocolate, “and it makes you properly ill—”
“Fever,” Fred added.
“Nosebleeds.”
“Fainting, if the dosage is right.”
“And then—” George held up the second half triumphantly, “—you take the antidote and recover immediately. Perfect for escaping lessons.”
You stared at them.
“…You’re actually insane.”
“Visionaries,” Fred corrected smoothly.
Before you could respond, a loud bang cracked through the room.
Ron doubled over coughing violently near the fireplace while green smoke poured from his mouth.
George sighed. “Too much peppermint.”
Fred, meanwhile, looked delighted.
Then his gaze flicked back toward you.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Not his usual loud, mischievous grin.
This one was sharper.
More interested.
“Oh, this is perfect.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “No.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“That’s because I know that look.”
Fred stood, brushing past the sofa toward you with infuriating confidence. “Come on, love. One tiny test.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’d be helping science.”
“You nearly poisoned Neville yesterday.”
“He survived.”
“Barely.”
Fred stopped directly in front of you now, close enough that the sugary smoke clinging to his jumper wrapped around you too.
You hated how distracting that was.
His smile softened slightly, becoming coaxing instead of teasing.
“Please?”
That was unfair.
Fred Weasley saying please should’ve been illegal.
You folded your arms, trying very hard not to react when he leaned down slightly to catch your eyes properly.
“What exactly does this one do?” you asked cautiously.
George looked at the parchment in his lap. “Mild fever. Bit dizzy. Maybe temporary weakness in the knees.”
Fred’s mouth twitched.
“Interesting symptom, that last one.”
You ignored him. “And the antidote works?”
“Eventually,” George said honestly.
Fred elbowed him. “Wonderful wording, George.”
You laughed despite yourself.
And Fred noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
Something warm sparked behind his eyes at the sound, quick and pleased, like he’d won something.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped annoyingly.
George reached for one of the chocolates. “We still need proper dosage testing before we finalize the doxy venom ratio.”
“Doxy venom?” you repeated sharply.
Fred waved a hand. “Tiny amount.”
“How tiny?”
He pinched his fingers together. “Scientifically tiny.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means,” Fred said patiently, stepping even closer now, “that we need someone clever enough to report symptoms properly…”
His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before lifting again.
“…and brave enough not to panic.”
Oh, he was flirting now.
Blatantly.
You should’ve walked away.
Instead, you lifted your chin. “And you think that’s me?”
Fred grinned instantly.
Knew he had you.
“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re far more dangerous than you look.”
Heat rushed into your face.
George made a disgusted noise. “Can you two either kiss or start the experiment? Some of us are trying to build an empire.”
Fred didn’t even glance away from you.
“So?” he asked softly.
You looked between the suspicious chocolate in George’s hand and Fred’s expectant expression.
This was a horrible idea.
Truly terrible.
Which was probably why you heard yourself say:
“…Fine.”
George looked far too pleased with himself.
“Excellent,” he announced, already digging through the mess of parchment scattered across the table. “I’ll start a fresh observation sheet.”
Fred, meanwhile, looked at you like Christmas had arrived early.
You pointed a warning finger at him immediately. “If I grow extra limbs, I’m haunting both of you.”
“No promises,” Fred said lightly. “Could be profitable.”
George shoved a small notebook into Fred’s chest. “You monitor symptoms.”
Fred caught it one-handed without looking away from you once.
“Oh, I intend to.”
That should not have sounded the way it did.
You sat carefully on the sofa while George began arranging ingredients with alarming enthusiasm. Tiny glass bottles clinked together. A jar labelled DOXY VENOM rattled ominously near the edge of the table.
You eyed it. “That does not look safe.”
Fred dropped down beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against yours. “Relax, sweetheart. We tested this already.”
“On who?”
A beat of silence.
Fred grinned.
Merlin, he was unbearable up close.
Without the chaos of the common room distracting you, every little thing about him became impossible to ignore.
The freckles scattered across his nose...
The sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms...
The way his voice dipped lower when speaking directly to you...
The constant restless movement of his hands.
He looked completely at ease.
You, meanwhile, felt strangely aware of your own breathing.
George finally handed Fred a small chocolate square dusted with sugar.
“Version seventeen,” he declared proudly.
Fred examined it critically. “Smells less murderous.”
“Thank you.”
You eyed the chocolate suspiciously. “Why is it fizzing?”
“Character.”
“It’s not supposed to fizz?” you asked immediately.
Fred laughed under his breath.
“See? This is why you’re our favorite tester already.”
Your heart did an annoying little jump at favorite.
Before you could overthink it, Fred held the chocolate out toward you between his fingers.
“Open up.”
You stared at him.
He raised an eyebrow innocently.
“Oh, don’t start blushing now, love. We haven’t even begun.”
“I am not blushing.”
“You absolutely are.”
George gagged loudly from the table. “I miss when we were professional.”
Fred broke off a piece of the chocolate and handed it to you properly this time, still smiling to himself.
“Ready?”
Probably not.
You took a breath and popped it into your mouth.
The taste was surprisingly good at first—sweet honey and caramel melting on your tongue.
Then came the burning.
“Oh, Merlin—” you coughed.
Fred immediately leaned forward. “What?”
“It’s spicy!”
“That’s not supposed to happen,” George said alarmedly, flipping through notes.
Fred looked delighted. “Write that down.”
You swallowed hard, pressing a hand dramatically to your chest. “I think my organs are dissolving.”
“Interesting,” Fred murmured, already opening the notebook. “Subject reports dramatics.”
You snatched for the notebook immediately. “Give me that!”
Fred leaned back easily, laughing as you tried to grab it from him.
“Careful,” he warned, one hand catching your wrist before you could fall sideways into him. “Scientific process.”
His fingers stayed wrapped around your wrist a second longer than necessary.
Warm.
Firm.
Your pulse stumbled traitorously beneath his touch.
And Fred felt it.
You saw the exact moment he noticed.
His eyes flicked downward briefly, amusement sharpening into something quieter. More focused.
“Well,” he said softly, thumb brushing once against your skin, “heart rate’s certainly elevated.”
Heat rushed straight to your face.
George looked up from the table. “Any dizziness yet?”
“Yes,” you said immediately, still looking at Fred. “Severe.”
Fred’s grin turned wicked.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Unfortunately for you, the effects started working properly a few minutes later.
It began with warmth creeping slowly through your body.
Then your head felt oddly light.
You shifted against the sofa cushions. “Okay, maybe this one’s actually doing something.”
Fred instantly straightened.
“What kind of something?”
You pressed fingers to your temple. “Warm. Little dizzy.”
George perked up. “Perfect.”
Fred shot him a look. “Don’t say perfect like that.”
George rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who wanted stronger symptoms.”
“Yes, but preferably not fatal ones.”
“That’s reassuring,” you muttered weakly.
Fred’s attention snapped back to you immediately.
“Hey.” His voice softened slightly. “Look at me.”
You did.
Big mistake.
He was sitting even closer now, knees angled toward yours, notebook forgotten beside him as he studied your face carefully.
Not teasing this time.
Actually studying you.
“How dizzy?” he asked quietly.
“Room’s spinning a little.”
Fred placed a hand lightly against your forehead.
His palm was cool.
Your entire body reacted embarrassingly fast.
“Definitely feverish,” he murmured.
George scribbled furiously. “Excellent.”
“You are deeply weird people,” you informed them.
Fred smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed on you.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Probably.”
By the end of the week, testing became routine.
Which was probably concerning.
Every evening after dinner, the three of you disappeared into whatever empty classroom Fred and George had temporarily claimed as a laboratory. The tables were crowded with ingredients and parchment, potion stains spreading across the wood in suspicious colors.
George handled measurements.
Fred handled you.
At least, that was how it slowly started to feel.
“Version twenty-three,” George announced one night, sliding another sugar-dusted sweet across the table. “Reduced doxy venom. Stronger fever response.”
Fred took it automatically before you could reach for it yourself.
“Any side effects from the last batch?” he asked, flipping open his notebook.
You leaned back in your chair. “Temporary blindness.”
George looked horrified.
Fred barely glanced up. “She’s joking.”
“…I hate that you knew that immediately.”
He smirked slightly. “You get this little look before you lie.”
Your stomach flipped.
That was another problem lately:
Fred had started noticing things.
Small things.
Dangerous things.
Like when you were cold, when you were tired, when you were pretending not to stare at him, when his hand brushed yours and your breathing changed.
And unfortunately, Fred Weasley seemed deeply entertained by all of it.
“Open,” he said casually, holding the candy toward your mouth.
You narrowed your eyes. “You know I can feed myself.”
“Mm.” Fred tilted his head thoughtfully. “But where’s the fun in that?”
George made another disgusted noise from across the room. “I’m begging you both to act normal for ten seconds.”
Neither of you listened.
You leaned forward reluctantly, letting Fred place the candy onto your tongue.
His fingers brushed your lower lip deliberately on the way back.
Your eyes snapped to his instantly.
Fred’s expression remained perfectly innocent.
Bastard.
The candy fizzed sharply against your tongue.
“Immediate reaction?” Fred asked.
You swallowed carefully. “Nothing yet.”
He scribbled something down.
You tried to peek at the notebook. “What are you even writing in there?”
“Scientific observations.”
“You’re absolutely not.”
Fred looked offended. “How dare you question my integrity.”
You lunged for the notebook anyway.
He caught your waist immediately before you could reach it.
The movement was quick, instinctive—
his hand spreading warm against your side as he pulled you back into your chair with effortless ease.
For one stupid second, neither of you moved.
Fred’s fingers tightened slightly.
Your breath caught.
And Fred noticed that too.
Of course he did.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth briefly before he released you slowly, smirking when your face heated.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re getting distracted again.”
George looked up from his parchment. “Honestly, just date already. This is exhausting.”
You grabbed the nearest quill and threw it at him.
Unfortunately, about fifteen minutes later, the experiment stopped being funny.
You were sitting on one of the desks swinging your legs absentmindedly while Fred asked questions from his notebook.
“Any nausea?”
“Little bit.”
“Dizziness?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Blurred vision?”
You squinted at him dramatically. “You’ve become strangely attractive all of a sudden.”
Fred barked out a laugh.
George gagged again. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore.”
“You live for this,” Fred called after him.
The classroom door shut behind George, leaving the two of you alone for the first time all evening.
The silence shifted instantly.
Not awkward.
Just… closer.
Fred looked back down at his notes, though the corner of his mouth still twitched from laughing.
“You know,” he said casually, “you’re surprisingly good at this.”
“At poisoning myself?”
“At trusting us.”
You snorted softly. “That part still feels questionable.”
Fred hummed in agreement, then glanced back up at you.
The expression on his face changed slightly when he noticed you swaying a little where you sat.
His teasing faded almost immediately.
“Hey.”
You blinked slowly. “Hm?”
Fred stood, crossing the small distance between you in seconds.
“You alright?”
“Yeah,” you said automatically.
Then the room tilted violently.
Your hand slipped against the edge of the desk.
Fred caught you before you could fall.
One arm wrapped firmly around your waist while the other steadied your shoulder, pulling you against him so quickly it knocked the breath from your lungs.
“Easy,” he said sharply.
The dizziness hit harder this time—hot and heavy beneath your skin.
You pressed instinctively closer to him.
Fred went very still.
“…Okay,” he muttered quietly, more to himself than you. “That’s new.”
Your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder while the room spun.
Fred’s hand slid up your back carefully.
“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Talk to me.”
You laughed weakly. “Think your science is trying to kill me.”
“That’s usually George’s department.”
Despite the joke, you could hear it:
the tension creeping into his voice.
Real tension.
Fred guided you carefully onto one of the desks, standing between your knees while he checked your temperature again with the back of his hand.
His brows pulled together immediately.
“You’re burning up.”
“Dramatic wording,” you mumbled.
“You’re shivering.”
You hadn’t even realized that until he said it.
Fred’s expression sharpened immediately.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Focused.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”
You tried to answer normally, but your head swam the second you lifted it. “Warm. Dizzy. My legs feel weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Weird as in I don’t think they work properly anymore.”
Fred swore softly under his breath.
That got your attention more than anything else.
Fred almost never sounded nervous.
He turned quickly toward the cluttered table behind him, scanning bottles and notes with sudden intensity.
“George said version twenty-three reduced the venom concentration…” he muttered.
“Well,” you said weakly, “either George can’t count or I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
The answer came too fast.
Too sharp.
Fred grabbed a vial from the table, frowned at it, then immediately shoved it aside again.
“No, not that one—”
You watched him move around the classroom faster than usual, sleeves shoved up higher now, hair already a mess from running his hands through it.
And suddenly the whole thing became strangely surreal.
Fred Weasley—
cocky, impossible Fred Weasley—
actually looked worried.
A little thrill curled low in your stomach despite the dizziness.
“Fred.”
He looked up instantly.
You smiled weakly. “You care.”
He froze for half a second.
Then narrowed his eyes at you. “This is hardly the moment to look smug about it.”
You laughed softly.
Bad decision.
The room lurched violently again.
Your breath caught as nausea twisted sharply through you this time, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.
Fred crossed the room immediately.
“Hey—hey.” His hands landed on your waist before you could slide off the desk completely. “Easy.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re very obviously not okay.”
His voice dropped lower now.
Closer.
You looked up at him through the haze in your head and suddenly became painfully aware of how near he was standing.
One hand still braced against your waist.
The other resting against your knee.
Warm.
Steady.
Fred’s eyes searched your face carefully.
“How much did you eat?”
You frowned. “One piece.”
“Are you sure?”
“…Maybe one and a half.”
Fred stared at you.
“You what?”
You winced slightly. “I got curious.”
“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, sounding genuinely offended, “that is deeply irresponsible behavior.”
“You literally created poison candy.”
“Yes, professionally.”
Despite yourself, you laughed again.
Fred exhaled sharply through his nose, somewhere between irritated and relieved that you were still joking.
Then his expression shifted the second your smile faltered.
The dizziness was getting worse.
You swayed forward slightly—
and Fred reacted instantly.
His hand slid up your back while the other cupped your jaw gently, steadying your head before you could even realize you were falling toward him.
The touch made your stomach flip.
Even now.
Especially now.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured.
“You said I was burning up two seconds ago.”
“You’re somehow doing both. Very talented.”
His thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw while he studied your pupils with frustrating concentration.
You should not have noticed how pretty he looked while worried.
That felt deeply unfair.
“Fred,” you mumbled quietly.
“Hm?”
“You keep staring at my mouth.”
His eyes flicked up immediately.
For one dangerous second, neither of you moved.
Then Fred huffed a breathless little laugh.
“Venom-induced hallucinations,” he decided. “Tragic.”
“Liar.”
That crooked smile appeared briefly again.
There he was.
But it faded almost immediately when your hand slipped weakly against his chest.
Fred’s entire posture changed.
“Okay,” he said firmly. “No more testing tonight.”
You blinked slowly. “Aw. I was having fun.”
“You nearly passed out.”
“Tiny detail.”
“No,” Fred said quietly, “not tiny.”
Something in his voice made you still.
He looked… genuinely shaken now.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just too alert.
Too careful.
Like the thought of something actually happening to you had suddenly become very real in his head.
The realization settled warm and strange beneath your ribs.
Fred swallowed once before speaking again.
“I need to get you the antidote.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately, he sounded very pleased with himself for someone currently panicking internally.
You smiled faintly. “Maybe a little.”
Fred’s eyes darkened instantly at that.
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Going to be the death of me.”
Then he stepped back reluctantly, moving toward the potion supplies again.
You watched him for a moment through blurry vision.
Fred rummaged through the cluttered table with growing irritation.
“Where’s the bloody antidote vial?”
Outside the windows, rain tapped softly against the glass, the castle nearly asleep around you. The only light came from a few flickering lamps near the desks, casting warm gold across Fred’s face as he searched through bottles and notes with increasing frustration.
Glass bottles clinked together loudly as he searched through the mess George had left behind.
“No, no, that’s the fever reducer— bloody hell, George—”
“You’re literally panicking.”
“I am not panicking.”
He absolutely was.
You could see it in the way he kept rereading labels twice now, jaw tense beneath the warm glow of the lamps.
Then suddenly—
Fred stopped moving.
His eyes dropped to a crumpled piece of parchment near the edge of the table.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Not relieved.
Dangerous.
“Oh,” he murmured.
You narrowed your eyes weakly. “Why do you sound like that?”
Fred picked up the parchment quickly.
Too quickly.
“What’s that?”
He folded the parchment immediately before walking back toward you, looking far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly dealing with a medical emergency.
You stared at him. “Why are you smiling?”
“Well,” Fred said casually, stopping between your knees again, “good news.”
“Is there antidote left?”
“…Technically no.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Fred!”
“But,” he continued smoothly, one hand settling against your waist, “according to our notes, there is another method.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly.
“What method?”
Fred’s grin widened.
“Apparently,” he said, fighting obvious amusement now, “physical contact helps neutralize the dizziness.”
“That sounds fake.”
“Very scientific, actually.”
“You made that up.”
“I’m wounded you think so poorly of my integrity.”
You tried to glare at him properly, but another wave of dizziness hit instead, forcing your hand instinctively against his chest to steady yourself.
His hand slid more securely around your waist.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.
“Oh, immensely.”
Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.
“I still think you’re lying.”
“That’s fair.”
And then he kissed you before you could argue more.
Slow at first.
Almost careful.
Like he was trying not to overwhelm you despite the fact that he was very obviously enjoying himself now.
His hand slipped from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your chin as he kissed you warm and deep and entirely too well.
You melted against him immediately.
Fred smiled faintly against your lips.
“Oh, definitely working,” he murmured.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss. “Shut up.”
Your fingers curled into the front of his jumper automatically, pulling him a little closer without thinking.
Fred made a quiet sound low in his throat at that.
“Merlin,” he breathed softly against your mouth. “You’re trouble.”
“You poisoned me.”
“Minor detail.”
His forehead rested briefly against yours while both of you laughed quietly under your breath, the dizziness finally fading into something warm and hazy instead.
“You know we’re ridiculous, right?” you whispered.
Fred grinned lazily. “Completely.”
“And George is absolutely going to figure this out.”
“Mm.” Fred brushed another quick kiss against your lips. “Worth it.”
Then—
The classroom door burst open.
George walked in carrying three ingredient boxes before stopping dead in the doorway.
Silence.
His eyes moved slowly between your flushed face,
Fred standing between your knees,
your hands gripping his jumper,
and Fred looking entirely too pleased with himself.
George blinked once.
“…Interesting.”
Fred didn’t even move away from you.
“In fairness,” he said calmly, “this was a medical emergency.”
George narrowed his eyes immediately. “You used the fake antidote excuse?”
You turned toward Fred so fast he physically laughed.
“FAKE?”
Fred looked delighted by your outrage. “I panicked creatively.”
“You liar!”
“You were very convincing as a dying person!”
George dropped the boxes dramatically onto the nearest desk. “Oh, this is unbelievable. I spend weeks perfecting venom ratios and Fred turns the experiment into foreplay.”
Fred finally stepped back just enough to shoot his brother an offended look.
“That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You’re literally still holding her waist.”
Fred glanced down.
Paused.
Then tightened his grip slightly out of spite.
“Scientific support.”
You buried your burning face into your hands while George gagged loudly.
“Right,” George announced. “New rule. No snogging the test subjects.”
Fred looked genuinely thoughtful. “That feels anti-innovation.”
A few days later, George officially banned Fred from being left alone with the test subjects.
Fred took this personally.
“Completely unfair,” he complained, leaning lazily against the table while you sorted through ingredient jars beside him. “I’m an excellent medical professional.”
“You told Angelina a nosebleed was ‘character building,’” George called from across the room.
“And I stand by that.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
The classroom smelled faintly of sugar and potion smoke again, warm evening light spilling through the windows while Fred pretended to help and mostly just hovered near you instead.
Actually, hovered was generous.
He’d become annoyingly attentive since the doxy incident.
You reached for one of the candy samples.
Fred immediately caught your wrist.
“Absolutely not.”
You blinked at him. “It’s a Fainting Fancy.”
“Exactly.”
“You invented it.”
“And now I’m having regrets.”
George made a choking sound somewhere behind you.
Fred ignored him completely, eyes still fixed on you.
“You nearly collapsed last time.”
“You also kissed me last time,” you pointed out innocently.
Fred froze.
George dropped an entire box of sugar quills.
The silence lasted exactly two seconds before Fred grinned slowly.
“Fair point.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly.
Fred looked unbearably pleased by that.
Then, casually—like it meant absolutely nothing—he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth.
Soft.
Brief.
Familiar.
Your breath caught anyway.
George gagged violently in the background.
“That’s it,” he announced. “I’m separating your workstations.”
Fred barely looked away from you.
“Jealous because nobody wants to kiss you?”
“YOU MADE THAT PART UP!”
You laughed so hard you nearly knocked over a jar of doxy venom.
Fred caught it immediately with one hand while the other steadied your waist on instinct.
For a second, all three of you paused.
Then George groaned loudly.
“Oh, brilliant. Now he’s got reflexes for her too.”
Fred only smirked, thumb brushing lightly against your side before letting go.
“Scientific instinct,” he said smoothly.
You rolled your eyes.
But Fred noticed the smile you tried to hide.
And later that night, when he thought you weren’t looking, he quietly added one final note to the corner of his observation sheet:
Subject responds extremely well to kissing.
Research ongoing.
You're on your couch, controller in hand, when the first rumble of thunder rolls across the city like God clearing his throat. The weather app on your phone has been screaming warnings all week - some massive storm system churning up from the Gulf, promising to turn the weekend into an apocalyptic light show. You're actually looking forward to it. There's something cool about being safely inside while nature throws a tantrum outside your windows. It’s as if, inside your apartment, nothing from the outside world can really get in, can really reach far enough to unravel the quiet you’ve built here.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Danielle: "Hey! Emergency favor? My friend needs a place to crash this weekend because of the storm. Her Airbnb got canceled last minute. Can she stay at your place?"
You pause your game and actually consider it for a moment. Your roommate Jake moved out two weeks ago to live with his girlfriend, leaving the spare room empty except for a bed and some boxes you haven't bothered to move yet. The place feels too quiet without his constant stream of terrible jokes and questionable cooking experiments.
"Who is it?" you text back.
"Hanni! I've mentioned her before. She's traveling around before starting her career. Super sweet, you'll love her."
You do vaguely remember Danielle talking about some friend who was taking a gap year to see the world. Something about learning languages and having adventures that make your Netflix-and-takeout lifestyle seem embarrassingly mundane.
"Sure, why not. When's she coming?"
"OMG thank you! She'll be there around 6. You're the best!"
It's 3 PM now. You look around your apartment with the critical eye of someone who's about to have a stranger judging their living space. It's not terrible - you're not one of those guys who lives like a feral college student - but it's definitely bachelor-pad basic. Clean enough, but lacking any personality beyond your gaming setup and the collection of empty beer bottles you keep meaning to recycle.
You spend the next hour doing a speed clean that mostly involves shoving random items into closets and running a vacuum over the visible carpet. The spare room gets fresh sheets that smell like the lavender detergent your mom bought you in a misguided attempt to civilize your domestic life.
By 5:30, you're showered and wearing actual pants instead of the basketball shorts that constitute your weekend uniform. You've even put on a t-shirt without any stains, which feels like formal wear at this point.
The building's ancient intercom crackles to life at exactly 6:03 PM.
"Hi! It's Hanni, Danielle's friend?"
Her voice has this musical quality even through the shitty speaker system. You buzz her up and find yourself actually nervous, which is ridiculous. It's just some girl who needs a place to crash during a storm. No big deal.
You open the door before she can knock, and—
Fuck.
Okay, let's pause here for a moment, because you need to process what you're seeing. Danielle definitely undersold this situation when she said "super sweet." Standing in your hallway is quite possibly the most beautiful girl you've ever seen in person, and that includes the time you accidentally ended up at a fashion week after-party and felt like an anthropologist studying a different species.
Hanni Pham is petite - maybe 5'3" in the sneakers she's wearing - with long dark hair that somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that's been building all day. Her skin has this natural glow that girls probably spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve with makeup. She's wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversized cardigan that manages to be both cozy and effortlessly stylish.
But it's her smile that really hits you. When she grins (and she's grinning right now as she looks up at you) her whole face transforms. It's one of those smiles that makes you want to say something funny just to see it again.
"You must be the famous roommate.”
"Famous might be overselling it," you reply, stepping aside to let her in. "I prefer 'locally notorious' or 'generally adequate.'"
She laughs - actually laughs, not just that polite chuckle people give when they're being nice - and the sound does something weird to your chest.
"I'm Hanni," she says, extending her hand like you're meeting at a business conference instead of your apartment doorway.
"I know," you say, shaking her hand and immediately noticing how soft her skin is. "Danielle's mentioned you. I'm—"
"The mysterious roommate who apparently has his life together enough to have a spare room on short notice," she interrupts with a teasing smile. "Danielle was very impressed by your domestic capabilities."
"Danielle has clearly never seen me try to fold a fitted sheet," you say, grabbing her suitcase. "But I can order takeout with the best of them, so we won't starve."
She follows you into the apartment, and you watch her take it all in. Your place suddenly feels inadequate under her gaze - not messy, but definitely lacking in sophistication. She doesn't seem to mind, though. If anything, she looks comfortable immediately, like she's one of those people who can adapt to any environment.
"This is really nice," she says, and she sounds genuine. "Much better than the hostel I was staying at last week in Austin. There was this guy who brought his guitar to the common room every night and knew exactly one and a half songs."
"Let me guess—'Wonderwall' and half of 'Sweet Caroline'?"
"Close. 'Wonderwall' and the first verse of 'Hey There Delilah.'" She drops onto your couch like she belongs there. "It was painful. I started taking long walks just to avoid the evening concert."
You find yourself grinning as you set her suitcase by the hallway. There's something immediately easy about talking to her, like you've known each other longer than thirty seconds.
"So Danielle says you're traveling around before starting your career," you say, settling into the armchair across from her. "What's the master plan?"
"Oh, there's no master plan," she says with a laugh. "That's kind of the point. I graduated in May and realized I had spent four years studying business management and had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life. So instead of jumping straight into the corporate grind, I decided to see the world for a while."
"Business management?" You raise an eyebrow. "Let me guess: parental expectations?"
"Bingo." She tucks her legs under her on the couch. "Asian parents, you know? They had my life planned out from birth. Good grades, good college, good job, good marriage, good grandchildren. The whole timeline."
"And you said 'thanks but no thanks'?"
"More like 'thanks but maybe later.'" She runs her hand through her hair, and you try not to notice how the movement makes her cardigan slip slightly off one shoulder. "I'm not rebelling exactly. I just want to figure out who I am when I'm not following someone else's script."
There's something refreshing about her honesty. Most people your age are either pretending they have everything figured out or wallowing in quarter-life crisis melodrama. Hanni seems genuinely comfortable with not knowing what comes next.
"So where have you been so far?" you ask.
Her face lights up. "God, everywhere. I started in California—spent a month in San Francisco, then drove down the coast. Did the whole Southwest thing, then back up to Colorado for a while. I was in New Orleans for two weeks, which was incredible but also nearly killed my liver."
"And now you're here because...?"
"I'm flying to Germany next month to start learning the language properly. And then this storm happened..." She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the sky is getting increasingly ominous.
"Germany, huh? Then what?"
"Portugal, maybe Brazil after that. I'm trying to learn German and Portuguese simultaneously, which my brain is not appreciating." She laughs. "But I figure if I'm going to wander around aimlessly, I might as well collect some languages while I do it."
You're impressed despite yourself. While you've been grinding through your marketing job and spending weekends recovering from the week, she's been living like a character in one of those indie movies about finding yourself.
"That's actually amazing," you say, and you mean it. "Most people just talk about doing something like that."
"Most people are smarter than me," she replies with that killer smile. "They understand things like 'financial security' and 'long-term planning.'"
"Overrated concepts," you say. "I've got both of those things and I still spend my Saturdays wondering if I'm wasting my life."
She tilts her head, studying you with those dark eyes. "Are you? Wasting your life?"
It's a more serious question than the conversation has been up to this point, and you find yourself actually thinking about it instead of deflecting with humor.
"I don't know," you admit. "I've got a decent job, this place, good friends. On paper it all looks fine. But sometimes I feel like I'm just going through the motions, you know? Like I'm waiting for my real life to start."
"And when do you think that happens?" she asks. "The real life part?"
"No idea. Maybe when I figure out what I actually want instead of just what I'm supposed to want."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "That's exactly why I left. Everyone kept asking me what my five-year plan was, and I realized I couldn't even figure out what I wanted for lunch most days."
Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer this time. The light coming through your windows has taken on that weird greenish quality that means the storm is getting serious.
"Speaking of lunch," you say, standing up, "or dinner at this point—are you hungry? I was planning to order something before the weather gets too crazy for delivery."
"Starving," she admits. "I haven't eaten since this morning. What are the options?"
You grab your phone and start scrolling through delivery apps. "Thai, Chinese, pizza, Mexican, Indian... There's this Vietnamese place that's actually incredible if you're feeling adventurous."
"Vietnamese sounds perfect," she says immediately. "I haven't had good pho in weeks."
"You know pho?" You look up from your phone, surprised.
"I'm half Vietnamese," she says with an amused smile. "Did Danielle not mention that? Pham's my dad's name."
"She definitely left out some key details," you mutter while pulling up the Vietnamese restaurant's menu, feeling slightly embarrassed. Of course Hanni Pham is Vietnamese. You're usually more observant than this, but something about her presence is scrambling your normal social awareness.
"It's okay," she says, clearly picking up on your embarrassment. "I get it all the time.” She leans forward to look at your phone screen. "Oh my god, they have bun bo hue. Order that for me, please. I've been craving it for months."
"You got it." You add it to the cart, then look up at her. "Well, the dual nationality thing must be cool, I guess.”
"Sometimes. I got really good at code-switching depending on which side of the family I was with." She grins.
"And? Which one is actually you?"
She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Both, I think. Neither. Someone new." She looks at you directly. "That's part of why I'm doing this whole travel thing. Trying to figure out who I am when I'm not performing for anyone."
There's something vulnerable in the admission, and you feel a unexpected urge to tell her that whoever she is right now, sitting on your couch talking about identity and soup preferences, she's pretty fucking great.
Instead, you finish placing the food order and set your phone aside. "Well, for what it's worth, the version of you that's here right now seems pretty authentic to me."
She gives you a look that's hard to read - surprised, maybe? Like she wasn't expecting you to say something that direct.
"Thanks," she says softly. "That's... actually really nice to hear."
The moment hangs between you for a few seconds before another rumble of thunder breaks it. This one's close enough to rattle the windows.
"Jesus," you mutter, walking over to look outside. The sky has gone full apocalypse mode - dark green-black clouds rolling in like something out of a disaster movie. "This is going to be intense."
Hanni joins you at the window, standing close enough that you can smell her perfume - light and citrusy that makes you want to lean closer.
"I've never been in a real storm like this," she admits.
"You're in for a treat," you say. "We'll probably lose power at some point."
"Seriously?"
"Oh yeah. When storms like this hit, the grid just gives up." You glance at her. "You're not scared of storms, are you?"
"No, just... inexperienced." She looks up at you with a grin. "You'll have to teach me how to survive a proper thunderstorm."
There's something in the way she says it that makes your pulse quicken. Maybe it's the proximity, or the intimate lighting as the sky darkens, or just the general chemistry that's been building since she walked in. But suddenly the idea of being trapped in your apartment with Hanni Pham for three days doesn't seem like an inconvenience at all.
"First lesson," you say, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation instead of how close she's standing, "stock up on essentials before the power goes out."
"Which are?"
"Candles, flashlights, batteries, booze." You tick them off on your fingers. "I've got the first three covered, but we might need to make a liquor store run."
"What kind of booze?" she asks, clearly amused by your priorities.
"Wine for sophisticated storm watching, whiskey for if things get really bad, beer for everything else."
"You've really thought this through."
"I've lived here for three years. You learn to prepare for these things."
She's still standing close, looking up at you with those dark eyes, and you're starting to realize that the storm outside might not be the only dangerous weather system you need to worry about this weekend.
Your phone buzzes with a delivery notification, breaking the moment.
"Food's here," you announce, probably more loudly than necessary.
"Perfect timing," she says, but she doesn't immediately move away from the window. "Before we eat, should we make that liquor store run? It's only going to get worse out there."
You check the time on your phone. 7:15 PM. "Good call. There's a place around the corner that stays open late."
"Let me grab my jacket," she says, heading for her suitcase.
Five minutes later you're both hurrying down the sidewalk as the wind picks up. Leaves and debris are starting to swirl around, and the air has that electric feeling that comes right before a big storm hits.
———
The liquor store is busy (apparently you're not the only ones with the idea to stock up before the weather gets nasty). Hanni gravitates toward the wine section while you grab a bottle of decent whiskey and a twelve-pack of beer.
"What do you think?" she asks, holding up a bottle of red wine. "I don't know much about wine, but this one has a pretty label."
You look at the bottle - some mid-range Cabernet that's probably perfectly fine. "Pretty label is a valid selection criterion," you say. "But if we're going to be storm-bound for three days, we might want something a little more special."
You lead her over to a section with slightly better wines and pick up a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. "This one's got character. Good for drinking while watching the world end outside your window."
"You really know wine?" she asks, looking impressed.
"I know just enough to sound like I do," you admit. "My ex was into wine, so I picked up some basics through osmosis."
"Ah, the ex." Her tone is light, but you catch something in her expression. "Recent?"
"Few months ago. Nothing dramatic, just... ran out of steam." You realize you probably shouldn't be talking about your ex-girlfriend to the beautiful girl you just met, but Hanni seems genuinely curious rather than uncomfortable.
"That's the worst kind of breakup," she says sympathetically. "When there's no big fight or betrayal, just the slow realization that you're not right for each other."
"Exactly." You're surprised by how well she gets it. "How about you? Leaving a trail of broken hearts across America?"
She laughs. "Hardly. I was dating someone senior year, but that ended when I decided to do this whole travel thing. He wasn't exactly supportive of the idea."
"His loss," you say, and immediately regret how that sounds. Too forward, too obvious.
But Hanni just smiles. "Thanks. I think so too."
You grab the wine and head to the checkout, where the cashier is grumbling about having to stay open during the storm.
"Y'all better get home quick," he says as he rings you up. "Weather service just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Gonna be nasty out there."
As if to emphasize his point, a flash of lightning illuminates the store windows, followed immediately by a boom of thunder that makes everyone jump.
"Shit," you mutter, grabbing the bag. "We need to move."
The walk back to your apartment is like something out of a movie. The wind is whipping hard enough to make walking difficult, and the first fat raindrops are starting to fall. By the time you reach your building, you're both laughing breathlessly at the absurdity of racing a storm.
"That was exhilarating," Hanni says as you climb the stairs to your floor, her cheeks flushed from the wind and exercise.
"That was just the warm-up," you tell her, unlocking your door. "The real show hasn't started yet."
Inside, your apartment feels like a sanctuary. The food delivery is waiting outside your door (the delivery guy apparently decided not to stick around for a tip in this weather) and you bring everything inside just as the rain really starts coming down.
"Perfect timing," Hanni says, already unpacking the Vietnamese food on your coffee table.
You open the bottle of wine while she sets up the food, and within minutes you're both settled on the couch with steaming bowls of soup and glasses of the Tempranillo.
"Oh my god," Hanni moans after her first spoonful of bun bo hue. "This is exactly what I needed. I don't know how they get the broth so perfect."
"Good choice?" you ask, settling back with your own bowl.
"Amazing choice. You clearly know your Vietnamese food."
"I know good food in general," you say. "It's one of my few useful skills."
Outside, the storm is really starting to intensify. Rain is hammering against the windows, and the lightning is getting more frequent. The thunder is almost constant now, a low rumble punctuated by sharp cracks that make the building shake slightly.
"Jesus," Hanni says, looking toward the windows. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"That's normal for a storm this size," you tell her, but privately you're a little impressed by how intense it's getting. "We're safe in here. These old buildings are built to last."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she's trying to play it cool. You notice her flinch slightly at a particularly loud thunder clap.
"First real storm nerves?" you ask gently.
"Maybe a little," she admits. "I know it's silly, but I keep expecting something to fall on the building."
"Not silly at all. The first time I experienced a storm like this, I spent the whole night awake thinking the roof was going to cave in."
"Really?"
"Really. I was convinced every lightning flash was going to fry the building's electrical system and trap me in a powerless hellscape."
"And did it?"
"Well, the power did go out around midnight, but the hellscape part was mostly in my imagination."
She laughs, relaxing slightly. "Okay, so what actually happens when the power goes out?"
"Candles, flashlights, and a lot of sitting around in the dark talking. It's actually kind of nice once you get used to it. Very... primitive."
"Primitive how?"
You consider how to explain it. "Like, suddenly all the modern distractions disappear. No TV, no internet, no phone charging. You're just stuck with whoever you're with and whatever conversation you can make."
"That doesn't sound so bad," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Especially with good company."
There's something in the way she says it that makes you look at her more carefully. She's got this slight smile playing around her lips, and she's holding your gaze in a way that feels deliberate.
Okay, you think. So that's definitely flirting.
"The company seems pretty good so far," you agree, matching her tone.
"Just pretty good?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'll have to work on that."
Before you can respond, there's a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it feels like it's inside the apartment. Both of you jump, and then you're laughing at your own reactions.
"Okay, that one was close," you admit.
"How close is close?" Hanni asks, moving slightly closer to you on the couch.
"Close enough that we're probably going to lose power soon," you say, acutely aware of the warmth of her leg against yours.
As if summoned by your words, the lights flicker.
"Shit," you mutter.
They flicker again, holding for a moment, then go out completely.
The apartment plunges into darkness so complete you can't see your hand in front of your face. The only illumination comes from the occasional lightning flashes outside.
"Well," Hanni's voice comes from beside you, sounding remarkably calm, "I guess this is where the primitive part starts."
You fumble for your phone's flashlight and use it to navigate to the kitchen, where you keep the emergency candles. Within a few minutes, you've got several candles lit around the living room, casting everything in warm, flickering light.
"Better?" you ask, settling back onto the couch.
"Much," she says. "This is actually kind of romantic."
She says it casually, but there's something underneath the words that makes your pulse quicken.
"Romantic disaster preparedness," you say. "I should put that on my dating profile."
"You'd get a lot of matches during storm season."
"Is that your type? Guys who are prepared for natural disasters?"
She pretends to consider this seriously. "I don't know. I'm still figuring out what my type is."
“You've really never figured out your type?"
"I mean, I thought I had. But then I realized all my previous relationships were based on what I thought I was supposed to want, not what I actually wanted."
"What did you think you were supposed to want?"
"You know, the whole package. Ambitious guy, stable career, five-year plan, ready to settle down and start checking off life milestones." She takes a sip of wine. "Turns out that bores me to tears."
"And what do you actually want?"
She's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the candlelight. "I'm still figuring that out. But I think I want someone who doesn't have it all figured out either. Someone who's okay with not knowing what comes next."
There's something charged in the way she's looking at you, like she's not just talking in hypotheticals anymore.
"That sounds terrifying and appealing in equal measure," you say.
"The best things usually are."
The storm outside is reaching its peak now. The rain is coming down so hard it sounds like static, and the lightning is almost continuous. But inside your apartment, with the candles flickering and the wine starting to warm your blood, it feels incredibly intimate.
"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says, shifting to face you more directly on the couch.
"Shoot."
"When Danielle asked if I could stay here, did she mention anything about... me? Specifically?"
"Just that you were sweet and I'd like you," you say. "Why?"
"Nothing, just..." She trails off, looking suddenly unsure of herself.
"Just what?"
"I think she might have been matchmaking," she admits with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "She's been trying to set me up with people for months, saying I need to stop being so picky and give nice guys a chance."
"And you think I'm the latest nice guy she's throwing at you?"
"Are you? A nice guy?"
You consider the question. "I try to be. Though I'm starting to think 'nice' might not be what you're looking for."
"What makes you say that?"
"Just a feeling," you say, holding her gaze. "You don't strike me as someone who wants safe and predictable."
"You're right," she says quietly. "I don't."
The admission hangs between you in the candlelit air. You're both aware that the conversation has shifted into more dangerous territory, but neither of you seems inclined to back away from it.
"So what do you want?" you ask.
She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her wine glass. When she looks back up, there's something different in her expression: more open, more vulnerable.
"I want to feel something," she says simply. "I've spent so much time doing what I was supposed to do, being who I was supposed to be. I want to know what it feels like to just... follow my instincts for once."
"And what are your instincts telling you right now?"
She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully. "That this is probably a terrible idea, but I don't care."
"What's a terrible idea?"
Instead of answering, she reaches out and traces her finger along your jawline. Her touch is soft but deliberate.
"This," she whispers.
You catch her hand in yours, holding it against your cheek. "Hanni..."
"I know," she says. "We just met. This is crazy. I'm leaving in three days. There are probably a dozen reasons why we shouldn't."
"Probably more than a dozen."
"So why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world?"
You don't have an answer for that, because she's right. Despite having known her for less than three hours, this feels inevitable somehow. Like you've been moving toward this moment since she first smiled at you in the hallway.
"Maybe," you say carefully, "we don't overthink it. Maybe we just see what happens."
"What happens if what happens is that I fall for you and then have to leave?"
"What happens if we spend the next three days being careful and polite and miss out on something amazing?"
She considers this, her thumb stroking across your cheek where she's still touching you.
"You make a good point," she says.
"I have my moments."
"So what are you suggesting? That we just... go with it?"
"I'm suggesting that we're two adults who are clearly attracted to each other, trapped in an apartment during the storm of the century, with excellent wine and nowhere else to be." You turn your head slightly to press a kiss to her palm. "I'm suggesting that three days can be a lifetime if you let them be."
Her breath catches at the kiss, and you feel something shift in the air between you.
"Three days," she repeats.
"Three days."
"And then I leave."
"And then you leave."
"And we don't make any promises or plans or expectations."
"None."
She's quiet for another moment, studying your face in the candlelight. Then she smiles - that incredible smile that made you forget how to think when you first saw it.
"Okay," she says. "Three days."
And then she's kissing you.
It starts soft, tentative, like she's testing the waters. But when you respond, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, she melts into you with a little sigh that makes your heart race.
She tastes like wine and something uniquely her, and when she runs her tongue along your lower lip, you actually groan against her mouth.
"Fuck," you breathe when you finally break apart.
"Good fuck or bad fuck?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.
"Very, very good fuck."
She grins and kisses you again, harder this time, her hands tangling in your hair. You pull her closer until she's practically in your lap, and the feel of her body against yours is intoxicating.
Outside, the storm rages on, but you're barely aware of it anymore. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms, the way she kisses like she's hungry for it, the little sounds she makes when you trace your lips along her neck.
"This is crazy," she murmurs against your ear, but her hands are already working at the buttons of your shirt.
"Completely insane," you agree, sliding your hands under her cardigan to find the soft skin of her waist.
"We should probably slow down," she says, even as she's pushing your shirt off your shoulders.
"Absolutely," you say, lifting her cardigan over her head. "Very sensible."
She's wearing a simple black bra underneath, and the sight of her in the candlelight makes your mouth go dry. She's even more beautiful than you imagined, all soft curves and smooth skin.
"Fuck, Hanni," you breathe, running your hands over her shoulders, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts.
She arches into your touch, her head falling back as you trail kisses down her throat. "This is definitely not slowing down," she gasps.
"Do you want to stop?" you ask, pulling back to look at her.
Her eyes are dark with desire, her lips swollen from kissing. "God, no," she whispers. "I want... I want you to touch me everywhere."
The raw honesty in her voice undoes something in your chest. You cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, pouring all your want and wonder into it.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.
"Bedroom?" you suggest.
"Bedroom," she agrees.
You blow out most of the candles, leaving just one to light your way, and lead her down the hallway to your room. In the doorway, she stops and looks around.
"This is very you," she says with a smile.
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's perfect," she says, and then she's kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed.
You sit on the edge and pull her between your legs, your hands settling on her hips. She runs her fingers through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that makes you shiver.
"I can't believe this is happening," she says softly.
"Having second thoughts?"
"No. It's just... I don't usually do this. Sleep with someone I just met."
"We don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupts. "God, I really want to. It's just new for me."
"What's new? The one-night stand thing?"
"The following-my-instincts thing," she says. "I've never just... acted on attraction like this before."
You smooth your hands up her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her bra. "How does it feel so far?"
"Terrifying," she admits. "And incredible."
"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"
"The best kind of terrifying," she says, and then she's pushing you back on the bed and climbing on top of you.
The feeling of her straddling your hips, her hair falling around her face as she looks down at you, is almost overwhelming. You reach up to trace the line of her jaw, and she turns her head to kiss your palm just like you did to her earlier.
"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.
She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to," you say, sitting up so you're face to face with her. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
She looks at you like she's trying to decide whether to believe you. "Really?"
"Really."
"Even with my hair all messy from the storm?"
"Especially with your hair all messy from the storm."
She smiles and kisses you again, and this time there's something different in it; less desperate, more tender.
"I like you," she whispers against your lips. "I really, really like you."
"I like you too," you whisper back.
"Even though I'm leaving in three days?"
"Especially because you're leaving in three days."
She pulls back to look at you. "What do you mean?"
"It means we don't have time to overthink this or talk ourselves out of it," you say. "It means we can just be here, right now, with each other."
"No expectations."
"No expectations."
"No promises."
"No promises."
"Just this."
"Just this."
She nods, and then she's kissing you again, and her hands are everywhere - your chest, your shoulders, your arms. You let your own hands explore her body, mapping the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the way she shivers when you trace patterns on her back.
Time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. One moment you're kissing slowly, savoring each other, and the next you're pulling at clothes with urgent need. But there's no rush, no pressure. Just two people discovering each other by candlelight while the storm provides the soundtrack.
When you finally reach for the clasp of her bra, she covers your hands with hers.
"Wait," she says softly.
Your heart sinks. "Are you sure? We can stop—"
"No, it's not that," she says quickly. "I just... can we talk for a minute first?"
"Of course." You settle back against the headboard, pulling her with you so she's curled against your side.
"This is going to sound weird," she says, tracing patterns on your chest with her finger. "But I've never done anything like this before. I've had sex, obviously, but never like this. Never just because I wanted to, without it meaning something specific."
"What did it usually mean?"
"That we were in a relationship. That it was leading somewhere. That it was part of a plan." She looks up at you. "This doesn't mean any of those things, and that's scary but also... liberating?"
"You don't have to justify it," you tell her. "We can do whatever feels right."
"What feels right is being here with you," she says. "But I'm nervous."
"About the sex?"
"About being vulnerable with someone I barely know. About letting myself feel something for someone I'm going to leave."
You stroke her hair, thinking about how to respond. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think vulnerability is brave, not scary. And I think feeling something - even if it's temporary - is better than feeling nothing at all."
She's quiet for a moment. "You're very wise for someone I met three hours ago."
"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..."
"And what about you? Are you nervous?"
You consider lying, playing it cool, but something about her honesty deserves the same in return.
"Terrified," you admit. "But not for the reasons you'd think."
"What reasons?"
"Because I like you. Like, really like you. And I'm scared that three days with you is going to ruin me for everyone else."
She lifts her head to look at you. "Would that be so bad?"
"Ask me in three days."
She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what do we do with all this nervousness?"
"We take it slow," you say. "We don't do anything that doesn't feel completely right. And we remember that this is supposed to be fun."
"Fun," she repeats. "I like fun."
"Good, because I'm planning to show you the time of your life."
"Big talk," she says with a grin. "Can you back it up?"
"Give me three days and find out."
She laughs and tilts her head up to kiss you. "Okay," she says against your lips. "Show me."
The next hour unfolds like a dream. You take your time with each other, talking and laughing between kisses, learning what makes each other sigh and gasp. There's something magical about discovering someone new, about the way unfamiliar touches can make your body shiver.
When you finally do remove her bra, it's with reverent slowness, your eyes locked on hers as you reveal more of her beautiful body. She's perfect - small, firm breasts with dusky nipples that harden under your gaze.
"Fuck," you breathe, and she blushes prettily.
"Is that good?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
Instead of answering with words, you lean down and take one nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it until she arches off the bed with a gasp.
"Oh god," she moans, her hands fisting in your hair. "That's... that's really good."
You spend long minutes worshipping her breasts, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction, learning what makes her writhe beneath you. She's incredibly responsive, her back arching and her breath coming in short gasps as you discover all her sensitive spots.
"My turn," she pants, pushing at your shoulders until you're on your back.
She straddles your hips again, and the feeling of her bare breasts pressed against your chest as she kisses you is almost overwhelming. Her hands explore your body with growing confidence, tracing the lines of your muscles, finding the places that make you groan.
When she works her way down your chest with kisses and gentle bites, you think you might lose your mind. She's thorough and deliberate, paying attention to your reactions and filing away everything that makes you respond.
“Hanni," you gasp when she reaches the waistband of your jeans.
"Hmm?" she hums against your skin.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," she says, looking up at you with dark eyes. "I want to taste you."
She won. "Fuck, yes. Please."
She smiles and makes quick work of your jeans and boxers, leaving you completely naked in the candlelight. For a moment she just looks at you, taking in your body with obvious appreciation.
"You're beautiful too," she says softly, running her hands up your thighs.
"Guys aren't beautiful," you protest.
"You are," she insists. "You're perfect."
And then she's touching you, wrapping her small hand around your length, and coherent thought becomes impossible. She starts slow, just exploring, learning the shape and feel of you. When she finally takes you into her mouth, you literally see stars.
"Jesus Christ," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets.
She's clearly not super experienced, but what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm. She's paying attention to your reactions, adjusting her rhythm and pressure based on your moans and gasps.
"Hanni, fuck, that's incredible," you manage to say.
She hums around you, the vibration making you jerk beneath her. When she pulls off your cock to catch her breath, her lips are swollen and slick.
"Good?" she asks with a satisfied smile.
"So fucking good," you tell her. "Come here."
You pull her up to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. The storm outside seems to have calmed slightly, but you barely notice. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms.
"I want to touch you," you murmur against her neck.
"Please," she breathes.
You roll her onto her back and trail kisses down her body, taking time to appreciate every inch of soft skin. When you reach the waistband of her jeans, you look up at her for permission.
"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Please, yes."
You remove her jeans and panties slowly, savoring the reveal of her body. She's perfect everywhere – thick, smooth legs hiding the paradise you are about to discover.
"My turn to explore," you say, settling between her legs.
The first touch of your tongue makes her cry out and arch off the bed. She's already wet, and she tastes incredible; so sweet and musky and uniquely her.
"Oh god, oh fuck," she gasps as you find a rhythm that makes her thighs shake. "That's so good, don't stop, please don't stop."
You have no intention of stopping. You lose yourself in the task of learning her body, finding the spots that make her writhe and the pressure that makes her moan. She's incredibly responsive, her hips rolling against your mouth as she gets closer to the edge.
"I'm gonna come," she warns. "Fuck, I'm gonna come so hard."
You double your efforts, and within seconds she's falling apart beneath you, her back arching as waves of pleasure crash over her. You work her through it, gentling your touch as she comes down from the high.
When you finally lift your head, she's looking at you with wonder.
"Holy shit," she breathes. "That was... I've never... holy shit."
"Good?" you ask, pressing kisses to her inner thighs.
"Incredible. Amazing. Life-changing." She pulls you up to kiss her deeply. "I need you inside me. Right now."
"Condom," she manages to say.
"Nightstand," you say, reaching over you to fumble in the drawer.
The practicalities of protection handled, you position yourself at her entrance and look into her eyes.
"You sure?" you ask one more time.
"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, pulling you down for a kiss.
You enter her cunt slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation. She's incredibly tight and warm, and it takes all your self-control not to lose it immediately.
"Fuck," you groan against her neck. "You feel amazing."
"So do you," she pants, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Move, please move."
You start slowly, finding a rhythm that has both of you moaning. There's something perfect about the way your bodies fit together, like you were made for this.
"Harder," she gasps after a few minutes. "I need more."
You pick up the pace, driving into her with more force. The sound of skin against skin mingles with your gasps and moans, creating a symphony of pleasure that drowns out the storm outside.
"Yes, fuck, yes," she cries, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you deeper. "Just like that, don't stop."
You can feel her getting close again, her inner walls starting to flutter around you and you're not far behind: the combination of her tight heat and the sounds she's making is pushing you rapidly toward the edge.
"Come with me," you gasp, reaching between your bodies to find her clit.
The added stimulation is all she needs. She cries out your name as she comes, her body clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses that trigger your own release.
You collapse on top of her, both of you breathing hard and trembling from the intensity. For a long moment, you just lie there wrapped in each other's arms, coming back to earth.
"Wow," Hanni finally whispers.
"Yeah," you agree, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Wow."
You clean up quickly and settle back into bed, pulling her against your side. The candle has burned low, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"The storm's getting quieter," she observes, her head on your chest.
"Mmm," you hum, too content to care much about the weather.
"So this is what it's like," she says softly.
"What what's like?"
"Following your instincts. Doing something just because it feels right." She tilts her head to look at you. "I can see why people get addicted to it."
"Addicted to what? Good sex?"
"Addicted to feeling alive," she corrects. "I haven't felt this... present... in years."
You stroke her hair, understanding exactly what she means. "It's the storm," you say. "It strips away all the normal distractions and forces you to just be where you are."
"Is that what this is? Storm madness?"
"Maybe. Does it matter?"
She considers this. "No," she says finally. "I don't think it does."
You're both quiet for a while, listening to the rain that's finally starting to ease up outside. The thunder is more distant now, rolling away toward the east.
"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.
"Anything."
"What are you thinking right now? Really thinking, not just the polite answer."
You're quiet for a moment, trying to articulate the complex mix of emotions churning in your chest.
"I'm thinking that this is the best first day of anything I've ever had," you say finally. "And I'm thinking that two more days isn't nearly enough."
"And?"
"And I'm trying not to think about what happens after that."
She nods against your chest. "I'm thinking the same thing."
"What else are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that I could get used to this very quickly," she admits. "Being with someone who makes me feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like myself. Like the person I am when nobody else is watching."
You tip her chin up so you can see her face in the dim candlelight. "That person is pretty incredible."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
She smiles and settles back against you. "Two more days," she murmurs, half to herself.
"Two more days," you agree.
But as you lie there holding her, listening to her breathing even out as she drifts toward sleep, you're already dreading the moment when you'll have to let her go.
Day Two: Dreaming
You wake up to silence.
Not just quiet; actual silence. No hum of the air conditioning, no soft whir of the refrigerator, no digital clocks glowing in the darkness. Just the gentle sound of rain still pattering against the windows and the warm weight of Hanni curled against your side.
The power is definitely out.
You check your phone: 7:23 AM, and the battery is at sixty percent. Outside, the world looks washed clean. The storm has passed, leaving behind a gray morning and the kind of pristine air that only comes after nature has thrown a proper tantrum.
Hanni stirs beside you, making a soft sound of contentment as she presses closer to your warmth. She's wearing one of your shirts. Now you can't help but think that you'd like to see her wearing every single one of your shirts throughout the nights.
"Morning," you murmur into her hair.
"Mmm," she hums without opening her eyes. "What time is it?"
"About seven-thirty."
"Too early," she decides, nuzzling into your neck. "Let's stay in bed forever."
"I like that plan," you say, tightening your arms around her. "Unfortunately, without power, it's going to get pretty cold in here eventually."
That gets her attention. She lifts her head, blinking in the dim light. "Still no electricity?"
"Nope. Welcome to day two of our primitive survival experience."
She stretches like a cat, and you can't help but admire the way the movement makes her back arch. Even first thing in the morning, with her hair messy and her makeup long gone, she's breathtakingly beautiful.
"How do you feel?" you ask, suddenly worried that she might regret last night in the clear light of morning.
She settles back against you with a smile that erases all your concerns. "Like I slept better than I have in months," she says. "How do you feel?"
"Like I don't want to get out of this bed."
"Then don't," she says simply, trailing her fingers across your chest. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"We could starve to death."
"Romantic starvation," she muses. "There are worse ways to go."
"Very romantic. We could become one of those tragic love stories people write songs about."
"The Storm Weekend Lovers," she suggests dramatically. "Found months later, still in each other's arms, beautiful corpses who chose love over sustenance."
"That's morbid as hell," you laugh.
"But romantic," she insists, grinning at you.
You kiss her forehead, marveling again at how easy everything feels with her. "Okay, before we commit to romantic death by starvation, let me see what the food situation actually looks like."
"Fine," she sighs dramatically. "Abandon me for practical concerns."
"I'll make it up to you with breakfast."
"What kind of breakfast can you make without power?"
"You'll see. Trust me."
You reluctantly extract yourself from the warm cocoon of blankets and Hanni's arms. The apartment is noticeably cooler without the heating system running, and you can see your breath slightly in the dim light.
"Jesus, it's cold," you mutter, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt.
"Come back," Hanni calls from the bed, having stolen all the blankets the moment you left. "I'm freezing without my personal heater."
"Give me ten minutes to survey our survival options," you tell her. "Then I'll come warm you up properly."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart."
In the kitchen, you assess your options by phone flashlight. The gas stove still works (one advantage of having an older apartment with gas appliances). You've got eggs, bread, coffee that you can make in your French press, and some fruit that doesn't need refrigeration.
More importantly, you've got camping gear in the closet from a phase last year where you thought you might become an outdoorsy person. That means a battery-powered radio, a camp stove with fuel canisters, and some warm clothing.
You get the coffee started first (because priorities) then set up the camp stove on the balcony to supplement the gas range. The morning air is crisp and clean, washed fresh by the storm.
By the time you return to the bedroom with a tray of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast, Hanni has managed to make herself even more beautiful despite (or maybe because of) being wrapped in blankets like a burrito.
"You actually made breakfast," she says, sounding impressed.
"I told you to trust me." You set the tray on the nightstand and climb back into bed. "Coffee, eggs, toast, and..." You produce a small container from your back pocket. "Strawberry jam from that fancy place downtown."
"You had fancy jam just lying around?"
"I bought it for my ex and never used it," you admit. "Seemed like a waste to throw it out."
"Well, her loss is my gain," Hanni says, unwrapping herself enough to reach for the coffee. "Oh my god, this smells amazing."
You settle back against the headboard and watch her take her first sip. The way she closes her eyes and makes a little sound of pleasure makes you think about last night, which makes you think about things you definitely shouldn't be thinking about while trying to eat breakfast.
"So what's the plan for today?" she asks, curling up next to you with her coffee.
"Depends how long the power stays out. If it comes back on in a few hours, we can pretty much do whatever we want. If not..." You shrug. "We get creative."
"I vote for not," she says immediately.
"You want the power to stay out?"
"I want an excuse to spend the whole day in bed with you," she says with that direct honesty that keeps catching you off guard.
"We don't need an excuse for that."
"Don't we?" She looks at you over her coffee cup. "I mean, what would we normally do on a Saturday? If we were dating, I mean, or if this was... normal somehow."
It's a good question. What would you normally do? Probably sleep in, maybe grab brunch somewhere, do some shopping or see a movie. The kind of casual weekend activities that couples do when they're still figuring each other out.
"Honestly?" you say. "I'd probably be overthinking everything. Wondering if you were having a good time, whether I should hold your hand, when would be the right time to kiss you."
"And instead?"
"Instead I already know you taste like strawberry jam and make the most incredible sounds when you come."
She nearly chokes on her coffee, laughing. "Jesus, you can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me want to do things that aren't compatible with eating breakfast."
"What kind of things?"
She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand sliding under your shirt to rest on your chest. "Things that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of those sounds you mentioned."
Your pulse kicks up immediately. "We should probably finish eating first."
"Should we?" she asks, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin.
"Food is important for maintaining energy levels."
"I can think of other ways to work up an appetite," she murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your neck.
The combination of her lips on your skin and her hand moving lower makes it very difficult to remember why breakfast was important.
"Hanni," you start, but she silences you by biting gently at your earlobe.
"I've been thinking," she whispers against your ear, "about last night. About how you felt inside me."
All coherent thought evaporates. "Yeah?"
"Mmm. And I've been wondering what it would feel like to wake up with you inside me. To start the day connected like that."
"Fuck," you breathe, your body responding immediately to the image she's painting.
"Is that a yes?" she asks, pulling back to look at you with a smile that's equal parts innocent and wicked.
"That's a definitely yes," you manage to say.
She grins and starts pushing the breakfast tray toward the nightstand. "Then breakfast can wait."
What follows is slow and lazy and perfect. Morning sex with soft gray light filtering through the windows and no urgency except the desire to be close to each other. You take your time exploring her body again, relearning all the places that make her sigh and arch beneath you.
"I love how you touch me," she whispers as you trace patterns on her inner thigh. "Like you're memorizing me."
"I am memorizing you," you admit, pressing kisses along her hipbone. "Every inch."
When you finally slide your cock inside her, it's with a sense of rightness that goes beyond the physical. She wraps her legs around your waist and pulls you close, and for a moment you just stay like that, connected and still.
"This is what I wanted," she says softly, her hands framing your face. "To start the day with you."
You move together slowly, building pleasure with deliberate care rather than desperate need. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond just sex: it's tender and vulnerable and real.
When you both finally fall apart, it's with quiet gasps and whispered names rather than the loud cries of the night before. Afterward, you stay connected, neither of you wanting to break the spell.
"Now I'm hungry," Hanni announces eventually, making you laugh.
"Good thing I made breakfast."
"You're very practical for someone who just rocked my world."
"I'm a man of many talents."
She stretches beneath you, catlike and satisfied. "I'm beginning to notice that."
You finally separate and resettle with the breakfast tray between you. The coffee has gone lukewarm, but neither of you seems to care.
"So," Hanni says around a bite of toast, "what's the rest of our survival plan?"
"Well, assuming the power doesn't come back soon, we'll need to think about staying warm. The temperature's supposed to drop tonight."
"How much colder?"
"Forties, maybe high thirties."
"That's actually cold," she says, looking concerned. "I don't do well in cold weather."
"Don't worry," you tell her. "I've got camping gear, and worst case scenario, we can always share body heat."
"I like that plan."
"I thought you might."
You finish breakfast and decide to venture out to assess the neighborhood situation. Most of the power lines in the area are down, and you can see utility crews already working to restore service. The convenience store on the corner is closed, but the coffee shop two blocks away has a generator and is serving as an unofficial community center for people without power.
"This is kind of amazing," Hanni says as you walk through the neighborhood. "Look how everyone's just... helping each other."
She's right. Neighbors who probably barely speak normally are sharing generators and hot coffee. Someone has set up a grill in the parking lot behind the coffee shop and is cooking food for anyone who needs it.
"Crisis brings out the best in people sometimes," you say.
"Or the worst," she points out. "But this is definitely the best."
You grab some extra ice and batteries from the coffee shop, then head back to your apartment. By the time you return, it's almost noon and the temperature is starting to drop noticeably.
"Okay," you say, setting your supplies on the kitchen counter. "Time to implement phase two of the survival plan."
"Which is?"
"We build a fort."
"A fort?" She looks at you like you've lost your mind.
"A blanket fort," you clarify. "In the living room. We bring all the blankets and pillows from the bedroom, set up the camping gear, and create a warm, cozy space to wait out the power outage."
"That's..." She pauses, considering. "Actually brilliant."
"I told you I was practical."
The next hour is spent transforming your living room into what can only be described as the ultimate adult blanket fort. You use chairs and the coffee table to create a framework, then drape every blanket and sheet you own over it to create an enclosed space. Inside, you spread out camping mattresses and sleeping bags, set up battery-powered lanterns, and arrange pillows for maximum comfort.
"This is ridiculous," Hanni says, crawling inside the finished fort. "And I absolutely love it."
"Welcome to Fort Blackout," you announce, settling beside her. "Population: two."
"It's perfect," she says, snuggling against your side. "Like being kids again, but with the possibility of sex."
"The best kind of fort."
You spend the afternoon in your blanket sanctuary, talking and laughing and learning more about each other. Hanni tells you about growing up between two cultures, never quite fitting perfectly in either one. You tell her about your job and your friends and your general quarter-life confusion about what you're supposed to be doing with your existence.
"Do you ever think about just leaving?" she asks. "Packing up and starting over somewhere else?"
"Sometimes," you admit. "But I've got a good life here. Friends, decent job, this place. It seems stupid to throw that away just because I'm restless."
"But what if staying is what's stupid?" she challenges. "What if the life you have is just... fine... but not actually what you want?"
"What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then you travel until you figure it out," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Not everyone can do what you're doing, Hanni. Some of us have responsibilities."
"What responsibilities?" she asks, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.
"I don't know... rent, career progression, not disappointing my parents..."
"Those aren't responsibilities," she says gently. "Those are expectations. Other people's expectations."
"What's the difference?"
"Responsibility is taking care of yourself and the people you love. Everything else is just pressure you're choosing to accept."
It's such a simple distinction, but it hits you hard. How much of your life is actually driven by what you want versus what you think you should want?
"You make it sound easy," you say.
"It's not easy," she admits. "It's terrifying. But it's also the most alive I've ever felt."
You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "Is that what last night was about? Feeling alive?"
"Partly," she says. "But not just that."
"What else?"
She turns to face you in the dim light of the fort. "Connection. Real connection with someone who sees me as I actually am, not as who they want me to be."
"And who are you actually?"
"I'm still figuring that out," she says with a smile. "But I know I'm someone who sleeps with beautiful strangers during storms and builds blanket forts and doesn't have a five-year plan."
"That sounds like a pretty good person to be."
"You think so?"
"I think so."
She kisses you then, soft and sweet, and you lose yourselves in each other again. There's something about the enclosed space of the fort that makes everything feel more intimate, more secret. Like you're the only two people in the world.
By evening, the temperature outside has dropped significantly, and you can feel the cold seeping into the apartment despite your fort construction. You've been keeping warm by staying close together, but it's clear you're going to need additional strategies for the night.
"I'm actually cold," Hanni admits, shivering slightly despite being wrapped in a sleeping bag.
"Time for phase three," you announce.
"Which is?"
"Hot food and alcohol."
You venture out of the fort to cook dinner on the camp stove - simple but warm soup and grilled cheese made on the gas stovetop. The bottle of wine from last night is joined by the whiskey you bought yesterday, and soon you're both warming up from the inside.
"This is actually fun," Hanni says, curled up next to you with a mug of soup. "Like camping, but with better amenities."
"Better company too," you say.
"You've done a lot of camping?"
"Some. I went through a phase where I thought I wanted to be outdoorsy. Bought all the gear, planned these elaborate trips, then realized I'm much more of an indoor person."
"What changed your mind?"
"Sleeping on the ground sucks," you say simply. "Also, I like showers and reliable wifi."
She laughs. "So you're a fake outdoorsman."
"Completely fake. I appreciate nature from a comfortable distance."
"Good thing I like fake outdoorsmen."
"Is that your type?"
"Apparently," she says, leaning over to kiss you.
The kiss tastes like wine and soup. When you break apart, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing, just... this is nice. Sitting here with you, talking about nothing important."
"As opposed to?"
"As opposed to the kind of conversations I usually have. About careers and goals and where do you see yourself in five years." She makes a face. "I'm so sick of those conversations."
"What would you rather talk about?"
"Anything else. Favorite books, worst fears, what you wanted to be when you were seven years old."
"A dinosaur," you say immediately.
"What?"
"When I was seven, I wanted to be a dinosaur. Specifically a T-Rex."
She stares at you for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "That's the best answer anyone's ever given to that question."
"What about you? What did seven-year-old Hanni want to be?"
"A translator," she says. "I wanted to be one of those people at the United Nations who wear headphones and translate speeches in real time."
"That's… very specific for a seven-year-old."
"I was fascinated by the idea that you could help people understand each other just by knowing multiple languages. It seemed like magic."
"It kind of is magic," you say. "Being able to communicate across cultures like that."
"Maybe that's part of why I'm learning German and Portuguese. Chasing that childhood dream in a roundabout way."
"Are you good at languages?"
"Pretty good. I'm fluent in Vietnamese and English, obviously, and my Spanish is solid. German is harder because the grammar is insane, but I love how precise it is."
"Say something in German," you request.
"Like what?"
"Anything. I just want to hear how it sounds."
She thinks for a moment, then says something in German that sounds both melodic and strong.
"What did that mean?" you ask.
"I said, 'This is the strangest and most wonderful weekend of my life.'"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You're both quiet for a moment, the weight of the sentiment settling between you.
"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.
"Always."
"What happens after tomorrow?"
It's the question you've both been avoiding, and hearing it out loud makes your chest tighten.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do we exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch? Do we pretend this never happened? Do we..." She trails off, looking uncertain for the first time since you've known her.
"I don't know," you admit. "What do you want to happen?"
"I don't know either. That's the problem."
You set down your mug and turn to face her fully. "Why is it a problem?"
"Because I'm leaving," she says. "Because this was supposed to be simple and uncomplicated, and it's turning into something that feels... not simple."
"What does it feel like?"
She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. "It feels like the beginning of something important," she says finally. "And I don't know what to do with that."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Hanni..."
"I know," she says quickly. "I know this wasn't supposed to be about feelings. But I can't help it. I really like you. Like, really really like you."
"I really like you too," you tell her, reaching out to take her hand. "More than I expected to. More than is probably smart."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I know I don't want to spend our last day together worrying about what comes after."
"You're right," she says, squeezing your hand. "Whatever happens, happens. Right now is what matters."
"Right now is pretty great."
"It really is."
She leans over to kiss you, and this time there's something different in it; a tenderness that goes beyond just attraction or desire. It's the kind of kiss that means something, whether you want it to or not.
"So," she says when you break apart, "how exactly are we going to stay warm tonight?"
"I have some ideas," you say with a grin.
"Involving the sleeping bags?"
"Definitely involving the sleeping bags."
"And shared body heat?"
"Lots of shared body heat."
"Show me," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your pulse quicken.
You spend the next few minutes rearranging the fort, zipping two sleeping bags together to create one larger sleeping space. The battery-powered lanterns cast warm, golden light over everything, creating an atmosphere that's both cozy and intimate.
"Come here," you say, settling into the makeshift bed.
She crawls over to you, and in the confined space of the fort, everything feels closer, more intense. When you kiss her this time, it's with the knowledge that your time together is limited, which makes every touch more precious.
"I want you," she whispers against your lips.
"You have me," you whisper back.
What follows is slow and thorough and incredibly intimate. In the warm cocoon of the fort, with the cold wind whistling outside, you take your time worshipping each other's bodies. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered endearment feels like something to be treasured.
When Hanni straddles your hips and slowly sinks down onto you, the look in her eyes is so intense it takes your breath away.
"God," she gasps, her head falling back as she adjusts to the feeling of your cock inside her.
"Look at me," you say softly, reaching up to cup her face.
She meets your eyes, and the connection is electric. There's something vulnerable and open in her expression that makes your chest tight with emotion.
"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.
"So are you," she whispers, beginning to move slowly.
The rhythm you find together is unhurried and perfect. In the golden light of the lanterns, with the storm sounds providing a soundtrack, everything feels dreamlike and magical.
"I don't want this to end," she gasps as you hit a particularly good angle.
"Then don't let it," you say, sitting up to wrap your arms around her.
The new position brings you even closer together, and she makes a sound of pleasure that goes straight to your soul.
"Like this," she breathes, moving against you in a way that makes you see stars. "I want to feel all of you."
You lose track of time after that, lost in the rhythm of her body and the sounds she makes and the way she looks in the flickering light. When she finally falls apart around you, crying out your name, it triggers your own release with an intensity that leaves you shaking.
Afterward, you hold each other close in the warmth of the sleeping bags, listening to the wind outside.
"That was..." Hanni starts, then trails off.
"Yeah," you agree, understanding perfectly.
"Is it weird that I'm already sad about leaving?" she asks quietly.
"Is it weird that I'm already planning ways to convince you to stay?" you counter.
She lifts her head to look at you. "What kind of ways?"
"I don't know. Bribery, maybe. Really good coffee and homemade breakfast every morning."
"That's a compelling offer."
"I could throw in backrubs and excellent fort-building skills."
"You do build an excellent fort," she concedes.
"Plus, think of all the storms we could survive together."
She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her thinking.
"It's tempting," she says finally. "But you know I can't."
"I know," you say, even though part of you was hoping she might say yes. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to ask."
"What if..." She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. "What if distance doesn't have to mean the end?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if we see what happens? Stay in touch, see where you are when I'm done traveling."
Your heart jumps at the possibility. "You'd want that?"
"I don't know what I want long-term," she says honestly. "But I know I don't want to just forget about you when I leave tomorrow."
"I don't want to forget about you either."
"So maybe we don't have to figure it all out right now. Maybe we just... see what happens."
"No pressure, no expectations," you say, echoing the conversation from the night before.
"Just... possibility."
"I like possibility."
"Good," she says, settling back against your chest. "Because I think you might be worth waiting for."
The words hit you harder than they should, given that you've known her for less than two days. But lying there in your blanket fort, holding this incredible girl who's managed to turn your entire world upside down in the span of a weekend, waiting doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.
Outside, the wind is still howling, but inside your makeshift sanctuary, everything feels perfect. You're warm and safe and holding someone who makes you want to be braver than you've ever been.
"Hanni?" you say softly.
"Mmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For making me feel alive."
She tilts her head up to kiss your jaw. "Thank you for making me feel like myself."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other in a pile of blankets and sleeping bags, with the storm providing a lullaby and the promise of one more day together when you wake up.
Day Three: Departure
Sunday morning arrives with cruel sunshine.
You wake to Hanni tracing patterns on your chest, her finger following the lines of your muscles in the golden light streaming through the apartment windows. Sometime during the night, the power came back on - you can hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator and see the digital clock on the microwave blinking 12:00 in the kitchen.
"The storm's over," she says softly, not looking up from her artwork on your skin.
"Yeah," you agree, though you're not sure if she's talking about the weather or the weekend.
"I checked my phone. My flight's still on schedule for tonight."
"What time?"
"Eight-thirty. I should probably leave here around five to get to the airport and check in."
You do the math automatically. It's 9:15 now. Less than eight hours left.
"We should make them count," you say, tightening your arms around her.
"What do you want to do?"
The question hangs in the air between you. What do you do on the last day with someone who's about to walk out of your life? How do you fit a lifetime of experiences into eight hours?
"Everything," you say finally. "I want to do everything with you."
She smiles and looks up at you. "Everything's a pretty big list."
"Then we better get started."
What follows is the kind of day you'll remember for the rest of your life. Not because anything particularly extraordinary happens, but because of the weight of knowing it's all temporary. Every moment feels heightened, more vivid, like you're seeing everything in higher definition.
You start with breakfast in bed; real breakfast this time, with the coffee maker working and eggs that don't require camping equipment. Hanni steals bites of your toast and gets jam on her chin, and when you lean over to kiss it off, she tastes like strawberries.
"So what's the plan?" she asks, curled up next to you with her coffee.
"First, shower," you say. "A real shower, with hot water and actual water pressure."
"Together?" she asks with a grin that makes your pulse quicken.
"Definitely together."
The shower turns into an extended exploration of what it feels like to worship someone's body under hot water. You take turns washing each other with deliberate care, learning the geography of skin and muscle and the places that make each other gasp. When Hanni drops to her knees and takes you in her mouth under the spray of water, you have to brace yourself against the tile wall to keep from collapsing.
"Fuck, Hanni," you groan, your hands tangling in her wet hair.
She hums around you, the vibration making your knees weak. When you finally pull her up to kiss her, she's laughing and breathless and more beautiful than should be legal.
"My turn," you murmur against her lips, and proceed to return the favor until she's crying out your name and trembling against you.
By the time you finally make it out of the shower, it's almost noon and you're both wrinkled from the water and grinning like idiots.
"Best shower of my life," Hanni announces, wrapping herself in one of your towels.
"Just wait until you see what I can do with actual food and a working kitchen," you tell her.
"I've tried every kind of food in America. Do you think you can surprise me?"
"Watch me."
You spend the next hour cooking together - and you use the term "together" loosely, since Hanni's contribution mostly involves sitting on the counter distracting you with her legs and making unhelpful comments about your technique.
"You're supposed to flip it when the edges start to set," she says, watching you make pancakes.
"I know how to make pancakes," you say, though you're more focused on the way her towel is riding up her thighs than on the cooking.
"Are you sure? Because that one looks a little..."
"A little what?"
"Burned," she says with a laugh.
You look down at the pan and realize she's right. "That's your fault for being distracting."
"I'm just sitting here."
"You're sitting there being gorgeous and naked under that towel. It's very distracting."
"Poor baby," she says with mock sympathy. "Can't cook when there's a pretty girl in the kitchen."
"Not just any pretty girl," you correct, moving to stand between her legs. "You specifically. You're like kryptonite for my domestic skills."
"Kryptonite?" She wraps her arms around your neck. "I'm your weakness?"
"My greatest weakness," you confirm, leaning in to kiss her.
The pancakes burn.
You order takeout instead, laughing about your complete failure at domestic goddess status. While you wait for the food to arrive, Hanni gets dressed in clothes from her suitcase; jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her skin glow.
"I need to do laundry when I get to Germany," she says, examining the contents of her suitcase. "I've been living out of this thing for months."
"What's Germany like?" you ask, settling on the bed to watch her pack and repack her things.
"I don't know yet. I fly into Munich, then I'm taking trains around to different cities. I want to see as much as possible before I settle somewhere to really focus on the language."
"How long will you be there?"
"Three months, maybe four. Depends on how quickly I pick up the German and whether I like it enough to stay longer."
"And then Portugal and Brazil?"
"That's the plan. Though plans have a way of changing when you're traveling." She looks at you. "I'm learning to be okay with not knowing what comes next."
"Must be liberating."
"It is. Terrifying, but liberating." She sits on the edge of the bed. "What about you? Any plans to escape your comfortable life?"
"Maybe," you say, surprising yourself. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. About the difference between responsibilities and expectations."
"And?"
"And maybe you're right. Maybe I've been living someone else's idea of what my life should look like."
"What would your idea look like?"
It's a good question, and one you've been afraid to ask yourself. "I don't know," you admit. "But I think I'd like to find out."
"That's the first step," she says softly. "Admitting you don't know."
The food arrives, interrupting the conversation, but her words stick with you. As you eat lunch together on your couch (Thai food this time, eaten straight from the containers) you find yourself looking at your apartment with different eyes. When did you stop thinking of this place as temporary and start thinking of it as permanent? When did you stop asking yourself what you wanted and start just accepting what you had?
"Penny for your thoughts," Hanni says, nudging you with her foot.
"Just thinking about what you said. About not knowing what comes next."
"Having second thoughts about your perfectly adequate life?"
"Maybe." You look at her. "Is that crazy?"
"The only crazy thing would be staying somewhere that doesn't make you happy just because it's safe."
"But what if I leave and it turns out this was as good as it gets? What if I'm throwing away something good for something that might not even exist?"
"What if you stay and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?"
She has a point. You've been so focused on not making the wrong choice that you've avoided making any choice at all.
"Besides," she continues, "who says you have to figure it all out at once? You could start small. Take a vacation somewhere you've always wanted to go. Apply for jobs in other cities. See what happens."
"Is that how you started? Small steps?"
"God, no," she laughs. "I went full nuclear option. Quit everything, bought a plane ticket, and hoped for the best."
"How's that working out for you?"
"Well, I'm sitting in an apartment eating Thai food with a guy I met two days ago who makes me feel like I can conquer the world," she says. "So I'd say it's working out pretty well."
"Even though you're leaving tonight?"
"Especially because I'm leaving tonight." She sets down her food and moves closer to you. "Don't you see? If I had stayed home, played it safe, followed the plan, I never would have met you. I never would have had this weekend."
"But you're still leaving."
"But I'm not forgetting." She cups your face in her hands. "Some experiences aren't meant to last forever. That doesn't make them less valuable."
"How do you know the difference? Between something that's meant to be temporary and something that's worth fighting for?"
"You don't," she says simply. "That's what makes it an adventure."
You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "You're very wise for someone who doesn't have a five-year plan."
"I'm very stupid for someone who's falling for a guy she can't keep," she counters.
"Are you? Falling?"
She's quiet for so long you think she's not going to answer.
"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."
"Hanni..."
"I know," she says quickly. "I know it's stupid and impractical and completely against the rules we set up. But I can't help it."
"The rules were stupid anyway," you say, pulling her closer. "Who makes rules about not having feelings?"
"Smart people who don't want to get hurt."
"Are we smart people?"
"Definitely not," she says with a laugh that sounds slightly watery.
"Good. Smart people are boring."
"Are you?" she asks, looking at you with those dark eyes that see too much. "Falling?"
You think about lying, about protecting yourself and her from the complications that come with admitting feelings. But looking at her face, open and vulnerable and beautiful, you can't bring yourself to do it.
"Yeah," you say. "I'm definitely falling."
She closes her eyes like the admission hurts. "This is a disaster."
"The best kind of disaster."
"We're going to end up heartbroken."
"Maybe. Or maybe we'll end up with something amazing."
"How can we have something amazing when I'm leaving?"
"I don't know," you admit. "But I know that what we have right now is amazing, and I don't want to waste it worrying about later."
She opens her eyes and looks at you. "You're right. We have..." She checks her phone. "Four hours. What do you want to do with four hours?"
"Make love to you," you say immediately, then feel yourself blush at the words. "I mean... fuck. I meant have sex. Make love sounds so..."
"Perfect," she interrupts softly. "It sounds perfect."
And it is perfect. You carry her to the bedroom and spend the next two hours learning each other's bodies with a tenderness that goes far beyond anything you've shared before. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss is meaningful, every moment feels like something to be treasured.
When Hanni arches beneath you, gasping your name as you move inside her, the look in her eyes is so full of emotion it takes your breath away.
"I love the way you feel," she whispers, her legs wrapped around your waist. "I love how we fit together."
"I love everything about you," you say, and immediately freeze. It's too much, too soon, too honest.
But instead of pulling away, she smiles. "Say it again."
"I love everything about you," you repeat, this time deliberately. "Your smile, your laugh, the way you think about the world. I love how brave you are and how honest you are and how you make me want to be braver too."
"I love you too," she says simply, and the words hang in the air between you like a gift.
You stop moving, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. "Hanni..."
"I know it's crazy," she says, her hands framing your face. "I know we just met and I'm leaving and this is supposed to be casual. But I love you. I love you and I needed to say it."
"I love you too," you say, and saying it feels like jumping off a cliff. "God, I love you so much it scares me."
What happens next transcends anything you've experienced before. You move together with a desperation that comes from knowing this is precious and temporary. When you both finally fall apart, it's with tears in your eyes and each other's names on your lips.
Afterward, you hold each other in the afternoon sunlight streaming through your bedroom windows, both of you quiet and overwhelmed.
"So," Hanni says eventually, her voice slightly hoarse. "We're in love."
"Apparently."
"That complicates things."
"Just a little."
She's quiet for a moment, then starts laughing. "This is insane. I'm in love with someone I met three days ago."
"Two days," you correct. "It's only been two days."
"That makes it worse, not better."
"Or it makes it magic."
She lifts her head to look at you. "You really think so?"
"I think that falling in love isn't supposed to be logical or convenient or follow a timeline. I think it just happens when it happens."
"And it happened to us."
"It happened to us."
"In the middle of a storm."
"The best things happen during storms."
She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what now?"
"Now we figure out what to do with it."
"I still have to leave."
"I know."
"And you still have your life here."
"I know."
"And long-distance relationships are hard and usually don't work."
"I know."
"But?"
"But I love you," you say simply. "And you love me. And maybe that's enough to figure out the rest."
"You'd really want to try? Even knowing how complicated it'll be?"
"Hanni, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. If there's even a chance we could make this work, I want to take it."
"What if I'm traveling for a year? What if I decide to stay in Europe? What if—"
"What if you stop asking what-if questions and we just see what happens?" you interrupt gently.
She's quiet for a long moment. "You'd really wait for me? Even not knowing when or if I'll come back?"
"I'd really wait for you."
"Why?"
"Because some people are worth waiting for," you say, echoing her words from the night before. "And you're definitely one of them."
She turns to kiss you, and there's something different in this kiss - hope, maybe, or possibility.
"Okay," she says against your lips.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, let's try. Let's see what happens."
"Really?"
"Really. I can't promise anything, and I don't know how it'll work, but... I love you. I want to see where this goes."
The relief that floods through you is almost overwhelming. "I love you too. We'll figure it out."
"Together?"
"Together."
You spend the remaining time before she has to leave for the airport doing normal, domestic things that feel anything but normal. You help her pack, though mostly you just sit on the bed and watch her fold clothes while trying to memorize every detail about her. You make coffee and share a mug, taking turns sipping from it like you're sharing something sacred.
At 4:30, you call a car to take her to the airport.
"I should go wait downstairs," she says, shouldering her backpack.
"I'll come with you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
The ride to the airport is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Hanni's hand is in yours, and you find yourself memorizing the feel of it: the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit between yours, the small callus on her index finger from writing.
At the departure terminal, you help her get her bags from the trunk and then stand there facing each other, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye.
"This is it," she says finally.
"This is it."
"I'll text you when I land in Munich."
"I'll be waiting."
"And we'll video chat when the time zones work out."
"Every day if you want."
"I want." She steps closer, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you so much."
"I'm going to miss you too."
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"For the best three days of my life. For making me feel like myself. For being brave enough to fall in love with me."
"Thank you for falling in love with me back."
She rises up on her toes to kiss you, and it's soft and sweet and tinged with the sadness of goodbye.
"I love you," she whispers against your lips.
"I love you too," you whisper back. "Now go have adventures. I'll be here when you're ready."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You watch her walk into the terminal, turning back once to wave before she disappears into the crowd. You stand there for a long time after she's gone, watching planes take off through the windows and thinking about how much your life has changed in three days On the drive home, your apartment feels different, too quiet, too empty, like it's missing something essential. You walk through the rooms, touching things she touched, remembering the way she looked curled up on your couch or standing in your kitchen making coffee.
The blanket fort is still set up in your living room, and you find yourself crawling inside it, surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of everything you shared there.
Your phone buzzes with a text: "Boarding now. Thank you for everything. I love you."
You text back: "Fly safe. I love you too. This isn't goodbye, it's see you later."
"See you later," she responds, followed by a heart emoji.
You lie there in the fort, thinking about storms and timing and the way some people can walk into your life and change everything in the space of a weekend. Outside, the city is settling into Sunday evening normalcy, but inside your apartment, everything feels transformed.
Your phone rings. It's Jake, your former roommate.
"Hey man," he says when you answer. "How'd you survive the storm? Power's been out in half the city."
"It was... interesting," you say, which might be the understatement of the year.
"Just interesting? Dude, that was like a once-in-a-decade storm. Didn't you have Danielle's friend staying with you?"
"Yeah. Hanni."
"How was that? Awkward having a stranger crash during the apocalypse?"
You think about how to answer that. How do you explain that a stranger became the most important person in your world in the span of three days? How do you describe falling in love during a storm?
"Actually," you say, "it was perfect."
"Perfect? Really?"
"Really."
"Huh. Well, good for you, man. I was worried you'd be miserable stuck inside with some random girl."
"Definitely not miserable," you say, and you can't help but smile despite the ache in your chest.
After you hang up, you stay in the fort for a while longer, thinking about everything that's happened and everything that might happen next. Tomorrow you'll go back to work, back to your regular life, but something fundamental has shifted. Hanni was right: you can't go back to just going through the motions when you know what it feels like to be truly alive.
Your phone buzzes again. A photo this time - Hanni at her gate, giving a thumbs up with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Gate 47. Thinking of our fort," she's written.
You take a picture of yourself inside the blanket fort and send it back. "Fort misses you already."
"Save it for when I get back?"
"It'll be here waiting."
"Good. I love you."
"I love you too. Safe travels, beautiful."
You stay in the fort until long after her plane has taken off, scrolling through the few photos you managed to take over the weekend and reading through your text conversation. Eventually, you clean up the living room, folding blankets and putting furniture back where it belongs. But you keep one of the sleeping bags on the couch, and you don't put away all the candles.
Some things are worth preserving.
That night, you lie in your bed (which feels too big and too empty now) and think about the future. For the first time in years, you don't know exactly what comes next, and instead of that feeling terrifying, it feels like possibility.
You think about Hanni somewhere over the Atlantic, probably asleep in her cramped airplane seat, flying toward her next adventure. You think about the conversations you'll have and the texts you'll exchange and the video calls that will have to substitute for being together.
It won't be easy. Long-distance relationships require work and patience and faith that what you have is worth the difficulty. But lying there in the dark, remembering the way she looked at you when she said she loved you, you know it will be worth it.
Your phone buzzes one last time. "Somewhere over the ocean. Can't sleep. Thinking about our storm."
"Think we'll have another one?" you text back, not sure if she's still awake to receive it.
The response comes immediately: "I'm counting on it."
You fall asleep smiling, and you dream of storms and girls who taste like adventure and the way some weekends can change your entire life.
Three days. It took three days for a stranger to become the most important person in your world. Three days to fall in love and decide to fight for something that should be impossible.
But as you've learned, the best things usually happen during storms.
Winner winner, chicken dinner || Michael x Singer! Reader ||
Synopsis: You and Michael both released albums around the same time. He released Bad, while you released Twilight. Now you're sitting side by side at the Grammys, waiting for the winners to be announced. (Please I'm not creative enough to make an album name 😔)
Theme: fluff
Gener: short one-shot
Pairing: Michael x Reader in a established relationship
Inspired by a moment that happened with Beyoncé (the queen) and Jay-z. (,; ⩌ ;,)!
You and Michael were sitting next to each other at the Grammy Awards. The two of you had been dating publicly for about a year and a half, and everyone knew you loved each other deeply. Paparazzi often spotted you out on many dates and at countless events. Some had even managed to capture more intimate photos of the two of you when you thought you were completely alone in your car.
That being said, when you and Michael arrived at the Grammys, everyone was ecstatic. Michael had released Bad, and you had released Twilight, both of which were nominated that evening.
Sitting beside you, Michael rested a hand on your knee while the two of you talked quietly, occasionally waving to the cameras whenever they panned over to you.
Soon, the award announcements began.
The announcers, a man in a suit and a woman in a beautiful red dress, walked up to the microphone. Your name, Michael's, and two other artists appeared on the big screen.
"And the Grammy for Album of the Year goes to..." the woman announced as she carefully opened the envelope.
The man took the opportunity to make a joke.
"Looks like we might have an argument at home after this," he laughed. "We'll finally find out who really wears the pants in the relationship!"
The audience erupted into laughter.
Michael looked over at you, laughing just as hard. You grinned and playfully punched his shoulder. He dramatically clutched it as if he'd been seriously injured, earning another round of laughter from the crowd.
Once the room quieted again, the woman smiled down at the card.
"Twilight!"
The audience burst into applause.
Both you and Michael stood immediately. He wrapped you in a tight hug, kissing your cheek before taking your hand. He walked you up the stairs like a gentleman and kept a gentle hand against the small of your back.
When you reached the microphone, you adjusted your dress while Michael respectfully stepped back a few paces, giving you your moment.
"Thank you, everybody. This is truly wonderful," you began, smiling through your emotions. "I'd like to thank all of you so, so much from the bottom of my heart."
Before continuing, you glanced back at Michael.
He was already smiling at you.
"And before I go," you said softly, "I want to thank you, Michael. You are my muse... and my love. Thank you for coming into my life."
His smile only grew warmer as he visibly melted at your words. You gave the audience one final wave before turning back toward him.
Michael reached out without hesitation, intertwining your fingers with his. He stepped down from the stage first, helping you descend carefully in your heels. Once you reached the bottom, you thanked him quietly.
Instead of answering, he simply smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Just a fun little short because I havnt posted a fic in a while!
Summary: Eddie’s fans don’t like you, his girlfriend, and he’s had enough.
Pairing/WC/tags: actor!Eddie x actress!reader / 1,128 / fluff and romance, established relationships, dating, Eddie being a sweetheart
A/N: for day 11 of AU-gust @thepromptfoundry ‘actors behind the scenes
Everyone had warned him about you.
They told Eddie to stay away. That you were that kind of actress, that everything about you was carefully crafted for the cameras. They told him about your dating history, about how you supposedly couldn’t keep a relationship alive for longer than a few months.
They told him you’d break his heart. You’d do to him what you had done to every guy before him.
But then Eddie met you.
It was at an awards ceremony afterparty, one of those industry events where everyone was pretending not to care who was in the room and the drugs were flowing. Eddie had expected exactly what everyone described, some untouchable Hollywood star who knew exactly how beautiful she was.
Instead, he found you sitting on the floor in the corner, laughing with someone about something stupid, shoes kicked off because they were hurting your feet.
You were just… you.
Eddie couldn’t understand how everyone had gotten it so wrong. You were kind. You were funny. Warm in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.
You weren’t the woman the magazines had painted you out to be. You were just a girl who happened to be famous.
Eddie liked that. He liked it a lot.
It didn’t take long for him to ask you out. You looked at him like you couldn’t believe he was asking, then smiled softly and said yes. Eddie swore, in the best way possible, that that smile was going to kill him.
For your first date, he took you somewhere small. A little family-owned theatre tucked away from the busy streets of Los Angeles. Somewhere he’d gone before he was famous, before people knew his name, to watch old films and forget about the outside world.
The date was perfect, ending with your hand in his, no flashy lights or annoying paparazzi. It was no surprise when there was a second date, then a third, and a fourth, and suddenly Eddie was picking you up after filming, and you were sitting in his trailer stealing his snacks, and he was learning exactly how you liked your coffee.
It didn’t take long for him to make things official.
Eventually, people, and the internet, noticed.
They noticed you showing up to his premieres, sitting proudly beside him. Eddie started appearing at your events, standing in the background with a smile on his face whenever you walked the red carpet.
They sa the way he looked at you, and the press did what the press always did. They tried to ruin something good.
They dug through your past, talked to family that you had cut off for good reason, twisted conversations and moments that were private into top news stories. The public began to wonder, to speculate how the relationship had even begun. Online, people took bets that he would leave you by Christmas.
They were cruel, and eventually, you started wondering when Eddie would get tired. The idea that he could stop loving you the way he had been for nearly a year made you a little sick. It wasn’t founded though, Eddie never wavered.
He didn’t hesitate or start looking at you differently. If anything, he held on tighter. He stood beside you through every headline, every rumor, every cruel comment. It was as if loving you was the easiest decision he’d ever made.
“Eddie…” Your voice is quiet as you sit beside him in the car.
The beach trip had been a disaster.
You had barely made it onto the sand before photographers spotted you. The two of you had been surrounded, forced to leave as people shouted questions and cameras flashed. Now the beach sits behind you, abandoned and quiet as Eddie drives you back to his place. You stare out the window.
“You don’t deserve this, Ed’s.”
He glances at you before looking back at the road. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “Baby.”
“I mean it. I don’t know if…Everyone keeps saying I’m the problem and maybe they’re right.” You swallow. “And you don’t deserve that. Your career has taken off and I don’t wanna drag you down.”
“You breaking up with me?” Eddie frowns.
“No,” you reply, shaking your head. “I’m just…”
“Stop,” he interrupts, and you press your lips together. “Just- baby, whatcha doing?” He reaches over, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. “You’re my girl. Fuck those assholes that wanna say shit.”
He raises your hand, and presses a kiss against your knuckles. Your eyes sting as you watch.
“You’re amazing.”
“All you, baby.”
Eddie pulls the car into the hotel parking lot at his reserved spot, and you raise your hood in case there’s a straggler photographer. When he doesn’t move, your brows knit. “You ready?”
“Yeah, yeah I- give me a minute?”
“Alright,” you don’t second guess him, cracking open the car door. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
He grins at you as you get out and watches you walk inside. It’s only when the electric sliding doors of the hotel close behind you that he reaches for his phone. He adjusts his hair, propping up the device on his dash as he moves to Instagram. Taking a deep breath, he starts a live stream.
“Hey guys!” Eddie beams, making his smile wide. “Ed’s here. Just thought I’d touch base while on vacation. You guys should’ve seen today’s waves.”
It only takes a few minutes for several hundred viewers to become several thousand, and Eddie yaps for a bit, letting them all join. Everyone needs to hear this.
“Anyways, before I go, I just wanted to make an announcement of sorts,” he chuckles before his expression loses its friendly demeanor. “My girl, is my girl. A lot of you seem to have a problem with that, harassing her online and even in person. Not cool, man. If you have an issue with her, and you want to still call a fan? You better keep that shit to yourself,” Eddie takes a deep breath. “Or I will go so off grid the upcoming press tour won’t even have my face.”
He waits, letting the depth of his words sink in. The comments underneath the video are blowing up, plead after plead for him to not cancel appearing in his newest movies press tour. He can’t help the slightly wicked grin this pulls from him.
“Alright,” Eddie hums. “Seems like you all get the picture. Ed’s out!”
He turns off the video without preamble, slipping the phone into his pocket. Shutting the rental door, Eddie practically skips inside, swiping his key card to your shared room. You’re on him in an instant.
“What did you do?” You nearly hiss. “Eddie, you can’t do stuff like that. They’ll hate you.”
He rolls his eyes, placing his hands on your hips. “You think I care?”
“I- well you should,” you retort. “Those fans are what keep you in business. Relevant!”
“That’s all fluff, babe,” Eddie soothes, his hands coming up to your arms. “You’re what’s important. The internet can literally go suck one.”
You can’t help it, your face splits into a little grin. “You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re my girl.” He hums, dipping his chin to kiss you. You melt into it, into him, and even though his live might have some negative repercussions, you’re sure the both of you can handle it.
Just pure fluff and stuff! I've tried to put diverse hobbies :) boys may be ooc
Bruce Wayne:
Baking. Literally when you first started dating Bruce he was your taste tester(and eater). When you're making new combinations and such he's always having a taste before the batter is baked, "quality check" he would say from behind, obediently taking the spoonful of batter in his mouth. He's also filled in his clothes a lot more, gaining a bit more weight after hard patches of not taking care of himself. Alfred likes you a lot, so he blesses you with permission to use the kitchen and the ingredients in them. Often you and the older man grocery shop together.
Dick Grayson:
He loves that you go out and travel! Almost at any point you'll find out that he's canceling previous plans to go out with you. No matter if you're running a simple errand or literally going on vacation. It's not suffocating in any way. His favorite is when you two go hiking (at the nearest state park), just alone with you and nature. It helps him clear his head when he's away from the vigilante stuff, and everything that weighs on his mind. Literally hates bugs though, and often squeaks when you pick up a scary looking beetle and chase him around with it.
Jason Todd:
Board games/puzzle games. He claims that it helps him stay sharp after his dip in the the Lazarus pit. As much as he is a fan of physical strength, he's also a fan of working out his brain. Most of the time he's on his phone doing them, like sudoku, cryptogram or minesweeper. He also uses them to help de-stress after a crazy patrol night. With board games, he doesn't mind the classics such as Uno or Shoots and Ladders. He likes playing them actually, as the both of you always end up in giggles and competitive play fighting over the other cheating.*
Tim Drake:
Video games. More specifically, rhythm games. He will literally learn how to play it just to spite you, and get better at you. If you two play co-op on the same server on a rhythm game, he'll try to mess you up while still ending up getting a full combo at the least. He claims it has helped him with recognizing rhythm, and improving his hand eye coordination. I wouldn't be surprised if he got onto some leader boards with other very serious players.
Damian Wayne:
Crafting. It's something that he could stare about and watch you do for hours. Creativity wasn't something that was rewarded in the League and as he grew up, so he has his own outlet via drawing and painting. It memorizes him if you do something that requires a certain level of consistency or a steady hand. "You are very consistent.....carry on." He would say when you catch him just staring into your soul as you worked on a project. Doesn't know a thing about your supplies, but if you mention something it'll mysteriously show up in your mail box, along with other goodies.
I just imagine sebastian being like wake up sleepy head to ominis (like the vine ) Only for mc to go what the fuck from the bed cue the running and laughing like the vine
Wake-Up Call | Ominis Gaunt x Reader
💚 The Vine, for reference. This was so cute and fun to write, thank you for the ask, Anon!!! I hope you love it ahaha
Words: ~1,800
Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Friendship, Fluff/Crack
Morning came gently, slipping in through the curtains in soft, golden streaks. The world outside was quiet, still half-dreaming, and Ominis would have liked nothing more than to stay exactly where he was: tucked beneath the blankets, warm, content, and completely tangled up with you.
It still felt unreal.
Your breath ghosted softly against his collarbone, your body pressed against his side as if you belonged there. (And you did—you always had, he realized.) The weight of your leg draped over his own, anchoring him in place, and one of your hands rested against his bare chest, fingers curled lightly over his heartbeat.
Ominis tightened his hold on you slightly, just enough to feel the give of your body against his. The fabric of his oversized shirt—the one you had stolen to sleep in—shifted under his fingers, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel your skin again, warm and bare under his hands.
For years, he had resigned himself to loving you quietly, distantly, safely. He thought it was better that way, to spare himself the risk of losing you altogether. But last night had shattered all of that. The way you had touched him, whispered his name against his lips, told him you loved him—he could still hear it now, echoing through his thoughts like a spell he never wanted to break.
He had you. You loved him.
Ominis could have stayed like this forever, just holding you, listening to your steady breathing, pressing lazy kisses to your hair while the rest of the world ceased to matter.
But, of course, Sebastian Sallow had other plans.
The sound of heavy footsteps storming up the stairs made Ominis’s eyes snap open. A flicker of recognition—and dread—spread through his drowsy mind, but before he could react, the bedroom door slammed open so violently he almost expected it to come off the hinges.
“WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD!”
Sebastian’s voice exploded into the room, and just like that, Ominis’s perfect, dreamlike morning was utterly, violently ruined.
You jerked awake beside him with a startled gasp, sitting upright so fast that the blankets fell away from your shoulders. Your hair was an absolute disaster, your face still slack with sleep, your eyes bleary and unfocused as you processed the intrusion. And your voice—groggy, irritated, and utterly unimpressed—cut through the chaos like a knife.
“What the fuck?"
Ominis felt Sebastian freeze, could hear the split second it took for realization to dawn.
Then, Sebastian let out the single most obnoxious cackle Ominis had ever heard in his life—loud, breathless, utterly delighted.
Ominis didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He just sat there, shoulders hunched, gripping the bridge of his nose as the morning crumbled into absolute disaster.
Sebastian was laughing so hard he could barely stand. He was bent at the waist, one hand clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, the other pointing wildly in Ominis’s general direction. He gasped between fits of breathless cackling, his voice breaking into high-pitched wheezes, his entire body shaking with uncontrollable mirth.
Ominis inhaled deeply through his nose, his jaw tight, his grip on the bridge of his nose whitening his knuckles. He tried—tried—to will himself into calm.
It didn’t work.
Because Sebastian was still laughing. Because this morning—the most perfect morning of his entire miserable, tortured existence—had been utterly, violently desecrated by Sebastian bloody Sallow, who had apparently appointed himself agent of chaos and ruiner of happiness.
“OH—OH, THIS—” Sebastian wheezed, laughing so hard he snorted. “THIS IS INCREDIBLE—”
That was it. That was the last bloody straw.
Ominis had the vague, dull thought that murder was technically illegal, but at this moment, he was fully willing to risk it.
He flung back the covers with enough force to send a rush of cool air through the room.
Sebastian, meanwhile, still had the audacity to stand there, grinning, hands on his hips, clearly about to launch into a monologue about how he was right all along—
Ominis didn’t give him the chance. He surged to his feet.
Sebastian had always been fast. Quick on his feet, trained in dodging punches, skilled in knowing exactly when to run for his damn life.
And run, he did.
He scrambled backward so fast he slammed into the doorframe, nearly knocking himself out, before turning and sprinting down the hallway like the devil himself was after him.
Which, to be fair, he was.
“Ominis, mate—”
“YOU BLOODY IMBECILE—”
“I WAS JUST SAYING GOOD MORNING—”
“DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO FUCKING KNOCK—”
You sat in bed for a long moment, blinking at the now-empty space where Ominis had been while listening to the heavy thud-thud-thud of feet flying down the staircase.
From the bed, you could only stare at the open doorway, watching the last fleeting glimpse of Ominis’s bare back before he disappeared completely down the stairs, hot on the heels of his laughing, screaming best friend.
“Merlin’s sake, Ominis, let’s be rational about this—!”
“Rational?! You just—”
Then came the sound of furniture scraping against the floor—probably Sebastian vaulting over the sitting room sofa in his escape. A muffled thud followed, then Ominis’s furious voice.
“STOP RUNNING AND FACE YOUR FATE, YOU COWARD.”
Sebastian’s response was a hysterical, “AS IF—”
Another loud thud followed. Something crashed. Possibly a chair.
“Okay, ow, that was unnecessary—”
You groaned, rubbing at your face, exhaustion weighing down your limbs. All you had wanted was one peaceful morning—one slow, perfect, love-drunk morning wrapped up in Ominis.
Instead, this.
That's when the back door slammed open.
You sighed, shoving the blankets off and forcing yourself out of bed, your body sluggish and still aching from last night (not that you were complaining). Tugging Ominis’s oversized shirt down your thighs, you stumbled toward the window, blinking sleepily against the morning light.
What you saw was nothing short of absurd.
Sebastian was sprinting across the grass in the back garden, kicking up damp earth in his wake, absolutely booking it toward the far side of the yard where the trellis climbed up the garden wall, and right on his heels—furious, relentless, and hellbent on bloodshed—was Ominis.
“I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE NICE!” Sebastian yelled, breathless as he dodged a thrown shoe (where did Ominis get that?)
“YOU ARE A PLAGUE UPON THIS EARTH, SALLOW!” Ominis shouted back.
Sebastian shrieked—an actual, honest-to-Merlin shriek—as he realized that Ominis was not slowing down.
He made a desperate grab for the trellis, yanking himself up in a frantic attempt to climb over the garden wall.
Big mistake.
Ominis was on him in seconds, gripping the back of his shirt and yanking so forcefully that Sebastian let out a strangled yelp and tumbled backward, landing in a heap on the grass.
You winced. That sounded painful.
Ominis, meanwhile, did not give him time to recover. He was on him immediately, shoving Sebastian onto his back, pinning him down by the shoulders with an iron grip.
“You are the worst human being alive,” Ominis seethed, breath still ragged from the chase.
Sebastian grinned up at him, eyes still watery from laughing too hard. “That’s a bit dramatic—”
Ominis shook him. Sebastian wheezed.
“You—” Ominis snarled, his voice low and deadly “—are lucky that I respect Anne too much to murder her brother.”
Sebastian, still grinning like an absolute menace, coughed, clearly thrilled by the whole situation. “Merlin’s sake, Ominis, you’re acting like I—like I walked in on you shagging her—”
Ominis’s grip tightened. Sebastian immediately regretted everything.
“WAIT—WAIT, NO—”
Too late.
Ominis decked him.
It wasn’t his full strength—just a precise, well-aimed punch to the shoulder, but it was enough. Sebastian yelped, clutching at his arm, curling in on himself like a wounded animal.
“Oh, come on,” he groaned, rolling onto his side, still winded. “That was unnecessary—”
“So was your existence in my bedroom this morning, and yet here we are.” Ominis huffed, shaking out his hand as if debating whether or not to go for round two.
You, watching from the window, sighed deeply. You had a feeling that if you didn’t intervene, this ridiculous chase was going to last all bloody morning.
You leaned out the window, out just enough for your voice to carry across the garden.
“Ominis!”
He didn’t let go of Sebastian's shirt.
The brunette, however, perked up, flashing you the smuggest grin imaginable. “Good morning, darling!” he called sweetly, dodging a swipe from Ominis at the last second. “Sleep well?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Ominis, love,” you tried again, making sure your voice was sickly sweet, laced with just enough teasing to make him falter. “Are you really going to let him take you on a full lap around the garden when you could be back in bed with me?”
That did it.
His grip on Sebastian's shirt slackened, his breath still heaving from the chase, but his priorities had just been rearranged. Because you were right. He had far better things to be doing than entertaining Sebastian’s nonsense.
Ominis stood to his full height and turned on his heel, stalking back toward the house. When he reached the door, he paused, tilting his head slightly in Sebastian’s direction.
“For the record,” Ominis said smoothly, “if you ever pull something like this again, I won’t stop at one punch.”
Sebastian, sprawled dramatically in the grass, grinned up at the sky. “Worth it,” he sighed contentedly, massaging his shoulder.
Ominis didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned back toward the house, his pace quickening as he climbed the stairs.
As soon as he stepped inside the bedroom, he felt you—warm hands against his chest, laughter still humming in your throat as you tilted your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.
“You look murderous.”
“I am murderous,” he muttered, rubbing his temples as if physically willing the memory of the past ten minutes out of his head. “He’s never going to let this go.”
You grinned. “Of course he’s not.”
Ominis let out a long, suffering sigh—but then you were pulling him back toward the bed, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
“Come back to bed,” you murmured.
Ominis exhaled slowly, his fingers finding your waist, curling into the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt. Just like that, the last remnants of frustration, irritation, and righteous fury toward Sebastian Sallow unraveled, dissolving into something softer. Something infinitely more important.
And so he followed you into the sheets without hesitation, sinking into the warmth of your embrace, determined to reclaim the peace that had been so disgracefully stolen from him.
