Raven

Stubbornly, you go on, "That doesn't answer my question. Would. You. Love. Me. If I were a worm?" The way you slow down the question irritates her even more.

"Yes, I would," she finally looks up, annoyance written across her face. Okay, you would pay for that later. "Happy now?"

"Very," you grin, quickly leaving before she can see how happy you are about a silly question.

Tony:

It was already late, and the two of you had been up for hours trying to make a few repairs on his suit. Curiously, you asked, "Tony, would you love me if I were a worm?"

"No, I wouldn't," he answered bluntly, keeping his eyes on the suit. "You would be a worm."

Ouch. That stung.

"It's a theorectical, Tony," you spat back. "Nice to know how much you care."

He stared at you with an exasperated look, "Stupid questions get stupid answers."

"For so much of a genius, you can be pretty stupid sometimes," you scoffed, storming off. Just as you got to the door, he spoke up, "Okay, just wait a minute. Look, I wouldn't love you as a worm because then you wouldn't be you, so clearly I would have to create some sort of device that could transfer the worm DNA to human DNA on the molecular level if you want a smart answer." There was a beat. "And an honest one."

Rolling your eyes, you turned. "Fine, maybe you are a genius, but you're still an idiot."

Thor

"Hey, Thor, would you love me if I were a worm?"

"A worm?" Thor asked with a near sense of urgency. "Why? Has my brother threatened to turn you into one? If so, I will take this up with him-"

"No, it's just a question. Would you love me if I were a worm?" you ask again, probably preventing a war with Asgard in the process.

"Why would you be a worm?" Thor asked. "Are you also a sorcerer? My brother often turned into a snake when we were young. I love snakes, and he knew that, so when I went to pick it up, he stabbed me."

You blinked. "Thor, your entire family needs therapy."

Thor laughed heartily before turning confused again. "What's therapy?"

Why did you even bother at this point?

Wanda:

One night, as the two of you were curled up watching another re-run, you quietly asked, "Would you love me if I were a worm?"

"Of course. I would love you in any form," she answered quickly with an honestly that could melt anyone. "Any version of you, from any universe, I would love."

All you could do was stare a moment, trying to take in her words. They were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to you, and from Wanda they were all the better.

Leaning in, she whispered, "Whoever turned you into a worm would have to deal with me afterward." A hint of a red glow shimmered behind her eyes, setting a promise in stone.

Bruce:

Okay, so maybe annoying the guy who could turn into a literal giant green, rampaging monster wasn't the brightest idea in the world, but you loved asking him random questions.

"Would you love me if I were a worm?" you asked as he was focused on some emails.

Turning, he stared a moment. "Isn't this one of those internet trends? I mean, yeah, I would. Actually, I would probably build a terrarium with the right ecosystem for worms. What would the perfect Ph balance for the soil be?" Mumbling, he went back to the computer, already planning ahead.

The next day, he sent you an entire blueprint for a portable worm habitat, but when it came to Bruce, that was enough to answer your question.

Bucky:

Bucky was sitting on the couch, trying to finally catch a break and get back to reading some Tolkien when you asked, "Would you love me if I were a worm?"

Immediately, Bucky stared at you as if you had asked the stupidest question in history. "What sort of question is that?" he grumbled. "A worm? Is this some new thing I'm not understanding?"

"It's a new question people ask, to see if their partner would still love them, even if they were a worm. The internet made it up."

"Of course it did," he sighed in frustration. "Why would you care if you already know I love you? People are so weird now."

You shrugged. "It's just a question, Bucky, for fun. So would you?"

"Nope, I'm done," he said, getting up and putting the book away. "None of this weird internet stuff today."

"Come on, Bucky!" you exclaimed. "Just answer it!" Under his breath, he grumbled, "Yes, I would. Now can you stop asking me these silly questions?"

"Never," you grinned. "It's too much fun to mess with you, old man."

Sam

"Would you love me if I were a worm?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Look, I'm in the middle of trying to fix your wing-suit, while we're in the middle of nowhere on a mission, and you ask me a question like that?"

"So? We have to pass the time somehow," you scoffed. "Besides, last week didn't you ask me to play kiss, marry, kill with the big three?"

"Fair enough," he admitted. "Fine, I would love you if you were a worm. Now, can we get back to fixing this?"

Handing him one of the broken pieces, you added, "Goes the same for you too, you know."

With a slight smile, he nodded, "I know."

Loki

Loki was dreadfully bored when you arrived, with a familiar look on your face.

"Oh, I know that look," he smirked. "You're up to something."

"No, I just had a question." You took a seat next to him. "Would you love me if I were a worm?"

Loki stared for a moment. "A worm? Have you learned some sort of transformation magic? Personally, I find snakes and frogs much more entertaining."

"No, it's just a thing people ask their partners," you responded. "I'm not being literal."

"Would you love me if I were a worm?" he asked curiously.

"Not everything is about you," you sighed, rolling your eyes.

"Well, sorry for wondering," he said with offense, "Who knows? It's very plausible for me to turn into a worm, although I wouldn't be a fan of the slime, but I suppose you wouldn't be so awful as a worm."

"Is that a yes?" you asked, grinning. "I suppose it is," he agreed. "Why are you so eager about this."

Tapping him playfully, you teased, "I tricked you and got you to admit you love me! So much for the cold-hearted villain-"

"Wait, that's not- It wasn't like that," he fumbled as you walked away. "I can't stand you sometimes!"

"Liar!!!" you shouted, smiling as you left, leaving him very annoyed. Looks like he'd have to return the favor with a little trick of his own tonight.

The soft, persistent chime of the elevator was the first sound to officially declare Saturday morning had begun in the Avengers Tower. The second was the clatter of a metal whisk against a glass bowl, followed by a high-pitched giggle that echoed off the sleek, modern walls.

You were already in the kitchen, your territory on weekends. The massive, state-of-the-art space was dusted in a fine layer of flour, a testament to your early-morning enthusiasm. You were perched on a stool at the central island, your legs swinging in a rhythm that matched the beating of the whisk, a frilly apron that said "Kiss the Cook, I'm Dad's Favorite" tied over your favorite white cashmere sweater. Beside you, Peter Parker, your partner-in-crime, your honorary brother, your favorite lab partner, was attempting to separate an egg with one hand while juggling three blueberries with the other, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

"Peter, you're going to drop it," you warned, a smile already blooming on your face like morning sunlight breaking through clouds.

"I have enhanced coordination," he protested, just as the eggshell crumbled in his grip and a piece of shell plopped into the bowl of yolks with a soft, betraying splash. "…Mostly."

You dissolved into laughter, the sound bright and clear in the quiet of the early morning, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances and filling the space with warmth. "You're hopeless. Just use a spoon like a normal person."

"Where's the fun in that?" he grinned, finally abandoning his juggling act to fish out the shell with a spoon, his fingers deft despite the earlier mishap. "Okay, your turn. Tell me more about this dream. I'm a what, now?"

"A movie star!" you exclaimed, grabbing the whisk and resuming your vigorous stirring of the pancake batter, the motion so enthusiastic that a few drops splattered onto the marble countertop. "But like, a really famous one. Action hero, huge blockbusters, billboards in Times Square. And everyone loved you. But then, at night, you'd turn into a tiny little rat and you'd live in the sewers with a whole colony of other rats who were your adoring fans."

Peter stared at you, his brow furrowed in mock-serious contemplation, his head tilting like a confused puppy. "So… a parallel to my current life? Swinging through sewers, adored by the common… rat?"

"Exactly!" you beamed, pointing the whisk at him triumphantly, a drip of batter landing on the counter and then another on the floor that neither of you noticed. "And Dad was the Wizard of Oz! He was this big, booming green head behind a curtain, all smoke and mirrors and intimidation, but when Toto, who was actually a hamster, not a dog, but still dog-sized, pulled the curtain back, he was just sitting there in his workshop, tinkering on a suit made of emeralds."

"That's… surprisingly accurate," came a sleepy, gravelly voice from the doorway.

You whirled around so fast you nearly lost your grip on the whisk, your face splitting into a radiant grin that could have powered the entire tower. Tony Stark stood there, leaning against the doorframe with all the casual grace of someone who owned the building, which, to be fair, he did. His hair was adorably mussed, sticking up in about seventeen different directions, he was wearing his favorite faded Black Sabbath t-shirt and pajama pants with little arc reactor symbols on them (a custom job Pepper had gotten him as a joke that he now refused to retire), and he was holding a steaming mug of coffee that had clearly been procured before he'd even fully opened his eyes.

"Daddy!" you squealed, abandoning the whisk entirely, letting it clatter into the bowl with a splash of batter, and launching yourself off the stool. You crossed the kitchen in a flash, your fuzzy socks sliding slightly on the polished floor, and threw your arms around his middle, burying your face in his chest. He stumbled back a half-step, more from the sheer force of your affection than anything else, and a genuine, soft smile touched his lips that he would never admit to in front of the press. This. This was his favorite part of any day. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders, holding you tight, his other hand expertly balancing the coffee mug above your head like a seasoned waiter.

"Morning, sunshine," he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with sleep but warm with love. "Wizard of Oz, huh?"

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes sparkling with excitement, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove and the joy of his presence. "Yeah! It makes so much sense. You're like this big, important person everyone thinks is all powerful and mysterious and kind of scary, but really you're just a regular guy who's really, really smart and likes to build things and has a big heart. Except instead of a heart, a brain, or courage, you give people really cool suits and a place to call home."

He snorted, taking a sip of his coffee to hide the wave of pure, unadulterated love that washed over him, threatening to drown him in the best possible way. "I'll take that. And Peter's a sewer rat. That also tracks."

"Hey!" Peter protested from the island, but he was grinning, his ears turning slightly pink.

You kept one arm looped around Tony's waist as you half-walked, half-dragged him further into the kitchen, your constant motion never ceasing. "I'm making pancakes! Your favorite, the ones with the little chocolate chips and the banana slices, and I'm going to put whipped cream on top for everyone who wants it. I'm using the recipe from that little diner in Queens we went to last month, the one with the grumpy waitress who called you 'hon' and didn't believe you were really Tony Stark. And Peter's helping, even though he's terrible at it and he keeps getting shell in the batter."

"I am not terrible! I am an invaluable asset to the pancake-making process!" Peter declared, holding up the bowl of now mostly shell-free yolks with the pride of a warrior presenting a trophy.

"You are a chaos agent," Tony corrected, settling onto a stool at the island with a contented sigh. You immediately leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you continued to tell him about your dream in vivid, rambling detail, your hands gesturing animatedly as you described the emerald suit and the hamster Toto. He just listened, nodding along, making small noises of acknowledgement, and soaking it all in like a man dying of thirst in a desert. He knew this phase of open affection might not last forever. He knew seventeen might bring eye-rolls and slammed doors and declarations that he was "so embarrassing" and requests to be dropped off a block away from school. He knew teenagers were fickle creatures of chaos and hormones. So for now, for this perfect Saturday morning, with flour in your hair and batter on your apron and your weight warm against his side, he was going to commit every single second to memory, cataloguing it away in the vault of his heart labeled "priceless."

The elevator chimed again, this time disgorging a quieter, more graceful presence. Natasha Romanoff glided in, already dressed in sleek black workout clothes, her hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that didn't have a single strand out of place. She moved straight for the industrial-sized coffee machine, her mission clear and her purpose undeniable.

"Morning, Nat," you chirped, peeling yourself away from Tony just long enough to give her a quick one-armed squeeze as she passed, not even interrupting your story about the dream. "Coffee's in the top drawer, I already filled the water and cleaned the filter because last time someone, not naming names but it was definetely Bruce, i saw, left old grounds in there and it tasted like sadness."

A rare, genuine smile softened Natasha's features, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "You're a lifesaver, detka." She began the ritual of making a pot strong enough to wake the dead, her movements efficient and graceful, a dancer's precision in every gesture.

"She's making pancakes," Peter announced, as if revealing a state secret of utmost importance.

"I can smell them," Natasha replied, her gaze flicking to the mess on the counter with amusement. "And the flour. The entire floor probably can. Happy's going to complain about the ventilation system again."

Next came Clint Barton, shuffling in with his bow case slung over his shoulder, clearly coming from the training room where he'd been practicing since 5 AM because he was "too old to sleep in" which everyone knew was code for "the nightmares were bad last night." He sniffed the air appreciatively, his nose twitching like a bloodhound on a trail.

"Does my nose deceive me, or is that the scent of a home-cooked breakfast that isn't a protein bar?"

"Your nose is fine, Barton, but your aim this morning was not," Natasha commented dryly, not turning from the coffee maker. "I saw the security footage. You missed the bullseye three times."

"My aim was perfect. I was just… warming up. Testing the equipment." Clint dropped his case by the door and made a beeline for the island, ruffling your hair as he passed, leaving it even more disheveled than Tony's. "Hey, kid. Save me the crispy ones, the ones with the slightly burned edges."

"Always, Uncle Clint," you promised, beaming up at him, your heart swelling at the nickname. "I made a whole separate pile just for you, they're over there keeping warm under the dome."

The kitchen was slowly coming to life. The sounds of sizzling batter on the griddle joined the chatter, a symphony of domestic bliss. You poured the first few pancakes, expertly forming perfect circles without even thinking about it, years of practice making the motion second nature. Peter stood by, ready with the chocolate chips and banana slices to create smiley faces on them, occasionally sneaking a chocolate chip into his mouth when he thought you weren't looking (you were always looking, you just didn't call him out on it).

Then, with a gentle hum of magic and a soft rustling of fabric, Wanda Maximoff appeared in the doorway, drawn by the warmth and noise like a moth to a flame. She was wrapped in a cozy burgundy robe, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves, her face still soft with sleep. She paused, a soft, fond smile gracing her lips as she took in the scene: you, so full of life and light at the stove; Peter, your willing and chaotic assistant; Tony, looking at you both with an expression of pure, unguarded love that he would deny to his dying breath; Natasha, the quiet heart of the room, brewing coffee for everyone like the den mother she pretended not to be.

Wanda drifted over to Natasha, leaning a hip against the counter beside her, soaking in the warmth radiating from the coffee machine. Her voice was low, meant only for the spy's ears, a soft whisper in a language of shared secrets. "Look at her. She's a little sunbeam, isn't she? All that light and warmth. Tony is so lucky."

Natasha glanced at you, then back at Wanda, her own expression softening in a way that would have shocked anyone who only knew her as the Black Widow. "He is. You should have seen her a few years ago, though. All black clothes and heavy eye makeup, wouldn't say two words to him in public. Slammed doors. The whole teenage rebellion starter pack."

Wanda's eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. "No. Really? Her?"

Just then, Bruce Banner ambled in, a well-worn book tucked under his arm and his reading glasses perched on his nose, the ones he only wore when he thought no one was looking because they made him feel "old." He overheard the tail end of the conversation as he made his way to the coffee pot, his slippers shuffling against the floor.

"Oh, it's true," he confirmed, taking the mug Natasha offered him with a grateful nod and wrapping his hands around its warmth. "The 'my dad is so embarrassing' phase was strong with this one. She dyed her hair jet black once. Tony almost had a heart attack. Called me at 2 AM convinced it was permanent and he'd 'lost his little girl forever.'"

Clint, who had commandeered a stool and was now trying to steal a chocolate chip from the bowl Peter was guarding with his life, chimed in around a mouthful of stolen chocolate. "Yeah, I remember. The 'get that thing away from me' phase. She wouldn't even sit next to him at movie night. Sat as far away on the couch as possible, sulking in the corner with her arms crossed, listening to music that was just screaming through a synthesizer."

"It wasn't sulking, it was brooding," you corrected from the stove, flipping a pancake with a flourish that sent it spinning gracefully through the air before it landed perfectly back on the griddle. "And it was a very important part of my development. I was discovering my inner darkness, exploring the shadows of my psyche, connecting with my angsty soul. It was art."

"Your inner darkness is the shade of a freshly bleached white t-shirt," Tony deadpanned, earning a laugh from everyone in the room. You just stuck your tongue out at him, but your eyes were dancing with mirth, and he blew you a kiss across the kitchen that you pretended to catch and press to your heart.

Wanda looked at you with newfound admiration and kinship. "I had a phase like that, too. In Sokovia, before everything. Lots of dark lipstick and dramatic poetry, sitting in cemeteries and writing about death. My brother thought I was possessed."

You gasped, spinning around completely, spatula held aloft like a scepter. "You did? Really? Oh my gosh, Wanda, we have to compare phases sometime. I had this journal covered in velvet with a lock on it, and I wrote the most angsty poetry about how no one understood me, and Dad found it once and tried to have a 'heart to heart' about feelings and I screamed into a pillow for an hour."

"Documentation exists," Tony confirmed solemnly. "FRIDAY, remind me to show Wanda the security footage of the screaming-into-pillow incident later."

"Already queued, boss," FRIDAY's voice chimed from the ceiling, and you threw a dish towel at Tony, which he dodged with surprising agility for someone who hadn't finished his coffee yet.

The elevator announced its arrival with a triumphant ding that seemed to shake the very walls, and Thor strode in, his presence immediately filling the space in a way that made the room feel both smaller and grander simultaneously. He was dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, but he wore them like royal attire, like he was slumming it in mortal garments out of kindness. He took a deep, exaggerated breath, his chest expanding impressively.

"Mine senses are overwhelmed by a most delightful aroma!" he boomed, his eyes landing on the growing stack of golden-brown pancakes with the intensity of a starving man finding an oasis. "Lady Stark! Thou art a goddess among mortals, a true purveyor of breakfast delights! The All-Father himself would weep with joy at such a creation!"

You giggled, blushing slightly at his dramatic flair, a pink flush creeping up your cheeks. "Thanks, Thor. They're almost ready! I made extra because I know you like them, and I used the good maple syrup, the one from Vermont that comes in the fancy bottle."

"I shall prepare myself," he announced solemnly, grabbing a plate and a fork and positioning himself strategically near the stove, his eyes fixed on the pile of pancakes with the intensity of a hawk watching its prey, his body coiled and ready to strike.

But something was missing. Someone. You were about to ask where Steve was when the door to the back stairwell creaked open (he always took the stairs, even though there were three perfectly good elevators, because he was like that) and Steve Rogers walked in, looking freshly showered and unfairly handsome in a simple henley and jeans, his hair still slightly damp and curling at the edges.

"Morning, everyone," he said softly, his voice that gentle rumble that always made the room feel safer somehow. "Sorry I'm late, lost track of time on my run."

"You're not late, Cap, you're right on time," you called out, your face lighting up even more, if that was possible. "I'm making pancakes! Your favorite, the blueberry ones, and I put extra lemon zest in the batter like you like!"

Steve's face softened into that warm, genuine smile that made him look like he'd stepped off a recruitment poster for decency itself. "You remembered the lemon zest?"

"Of course I remembered the lemon zest," you said, rolling your eyes affectionately. "I remember everyone's favorites. It's my job. Dad pays me in love and unlimited credit cards."

Tony snorted into his coffee. "She's not wrong."

Steve made his way into the kitchen, automatically gravitating toward the coffee pot, but you stopped him with a wave of your spatula. "No, no, sit down, I'll bring you a cup. You've been running, you deserve to rest."

"I can get my own-"

"Sit. Down, Steve." You pointed at a stool with the spatula, and to everyone's amazement, Captain America, the man who had fought aliens and Nazis and super soldiers, sat down without another word of protest.

Natasha caught Wanda's eye and raised an eyebrow. Wanda smothered a giggle behind her hand.

You poured Steve's coffee exactly the way he liked it—a splash of cream, no sugar—and brought it to him with a flourish, curtsying slightly. "For you, good sir."

"Why thank you, kind lady," he played along, taking the mug with an exaggerated bow of his head. "These pancakes smell incredible. You're spoiling us."

"That's the goal," you said simply, turning back to the stove. "You all work so hard saving the world and stuff. The least I can do is make you breakfast on Saturdays."

The room went quiet for a moment, the weight of your simple, sincere words settling over everyone like a warm blanket. Tony's eyes went suspiciously bright, and he had to take a very long sip of his coffee to compose himself. Steve looked at you with an expression of such gentle fondness that it could have melted glaciers. Natasha's hand, resting on the counter, tightened slightly. Wanda's heart swelled with affection. Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked rapidly. Thor looked like he might actually cry, which was impressive for a Viking warrior.

Peter, bless him, broke the silence by accidentally dropping an entire handful of chocolate chips on the floor. "Oops."

The moment shattered into laughter, and you grabbed the broom before anyone else could move, shooing Peter away from the mess. "It's okay, it's okay, we have more. Here, take this bowl and start making the whipped cream, can you do that without causing a disaster?"

"I am deeply offended by your lack of faith," Peter said, but he took the bowl and the hand mixer with a grin, immediately proceeding to turn it on at too high a speed and spray cream across his face.

"Disaster," you sighed, but you were laughing, and so was everyone else.

Breakfast was a beautifully chaotic affair. You brought the massive stack of pancakes to the table (actually three stacks, because Thor alone could eat an entire stack by himself) and everyone dug in with varying degrees of enthusiasm and table manners. The conversation was a layered symphony of voices, each one adding its own unique instrument to the melody.

Tony was telling you a story about a particularly disastrous college experiment involving a toaster and a lot of shaving cream, which had you in stitches, tears streaming down your face as you tried to eat your pancakes. "And then- and then- Rhodes walked in, and his face was just-" Tony couldn't finish, he was laughing too hard himself.

Peter was trying to tell Clint about a new Star Wars theory he had involving the structural integrity of the Death Star and whether it could have been built with actual physics, but Clint was too busy fending off Thor's not-so-discreet attempts to spear a pancake from his plate with his own fork.

"Brother, thine stack appears more… structurally sound than mine own," Thor rumbled, his fork inching closer with the stealth of a panther stalking prey.

"It's the same pancakes, Thor! We all got the same amount! Look, yours is right there, you have three left!" Clint protested, guarding his plate with his arm, leaning over it protectively.

"Aye, but yours were blessed by the sunbeam herself," Thor countered, nodding towards you with an expression of pure sincerity. "They carry her essence and thus taste sweeter."

"That's not- that's not how pancakes work!"

"Is it not?" Thor looked genuinely puzzled, and you had to hide your grin behind your hand.

Steve, seated beside you, leaned over slightly. "You've created a monster. He's going to be insufferable about pancake blessings now."

"You love it," you whispered back.

Steve's smile was his answer.

Across the table, Wanda and Natasha were having their own quiet conversation, their heads bent together. "She's so good with all of them," Wanda murmured. "With all of us. She makes this place feel like… like a home, not just a building."

Natasha nodded slowly, her gaze sweeping over the room. Over Tony, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Over Clint, dramatically guarding his plate. Over Thor, still trying to strategize pancake acquisition. Over Bruce, quietly enjoying his breakfast and his book simultaneously, occasionally looking up to smile at the chaos. Over Peter, covered in whipped cream and telling a very animated story. Over Steve, gently teasing you about something. Over you, the center of it all, the sun around which they all orbited on this quiet Saturday morning.

"It's because she's never known anything else," Natasha said quietly. "Tony made sure of that. From the day she came to this world, he gave her this. Safety. Love. Family. She doesn't know how to be anything other than what she is because she never felt the need to be anything else."

Wanda's eyes softened with understanding. "He protected her from the darkness."

"As much as anyone can." Natasha's voice was quiet. "The rest of us… we're here to help with the rest."

You caught them looking at you and raised an eyebrow questioningly. Natasha just shook her head slightly and raised her coffee mug in a small toast. You beamed at her, then turned back to Steve, who was asking about school and your friends and whether you needed anything for an upcoming project.

"Actually," you said, lowering your voice conspiratorially, "there's this history paper I have to write about World War II, and I was wondering if maybe… you'd be willing to look it over? Not write it for me!" you added quickly. "Just… fact-check? Make sure I didn't get anything embarrassingly wrong? Mrs. Davison is really strict about historical accuracy, and I figured you'd know better than any textbook."

Steve's face did something complicated—a mixture of touched and wistful and warm all at once. "I'd be honored, kid. Any time."

"Thanks, Steve." You leaned over and bumped your shoulder against his, and he bumped back, and it was such a simple gesture but it meant everything.

After the last pancake was just a memory, and the last drop of coffee had been drained from the pot, and the conversation had softened from lively chaos to comfortable quiet, you stood up and stretched, your arms reaching toward the ceiling. You walked over to where Tony was still sitting, nursing his final cup of coffee, looking more relaxed than he had all week.

Without a word, you climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder, your body fitting against his like you were made to be there. He was warm and solid and he smelled like coffee and expensive cologne and home.

"I love you, Dad," you mumbled into his neck, your voice soft and sleepy now that the adrenaline of breakfast was wearing off.

He was quiet for a moment, his hand coming up to rest on your back, his thumb tracing small, absent circles through the fabric of your sweater. The billionaire, the genius, the man with a suit of armor around his heart and walls higher than any building he'd ever constructed, was completely and utterly defenseless. Completely and utterly hers.

"Love you too, kiddo," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion he'd never admit to. "More than all the pancakes in the world. More than all the pancakes in all the worlds."

From across the table, Peter caught Tony's eye and gave him a goofy, two-fingered salute, whipped cream still on his nose. Tony just rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was the realest thing in the world.

“Please,” you whine softly, your voice quiet in the empty bedroom.

The digital clock flashes two o’clock on the nightstand, a slow blinking in the midst of the night. Your boyfriend is face down on the mattress, his forehead pressed against his forearm that rests just above his head, and he groans at your disturbance. 

“Baby, it’s three in the morning,” he mumbles, not bothering to glance over at you beside him; wide, bright eyes, energy pumping through you that could have your legs running a marathon if he let you.

“Two, actually,” you correct, still keeping your voice at a low whisper.

He groans again, lifting his head, turning to you. You’re wide awake, staring at him with those wide eyes, all puppy-like and hard to say no to. He sighs, rubbing the side of his jaw, then yawns.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, the rasp settling in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know, I can’t sleep,” you tell him, shaking your head with a pout.

“Just… close your eyes,” he reassures you, slowly moving back down, pressing his face into the warm pillow.

You roll onto your back again, tipping your head back in a light frustration. You stare at the ceiling above you, the faintest glow from the moon out of the window, and a light breeze from the cracked window. You sigh, tossing and turning.

After a few rolls, you peek over at him; he’s unbothered, sleeping like a rock beside you, and you furrow your eyebrows at how damn content he is. Well, he did just work a twelve-hour day, and you sat on the sofa all day, waiting for him like a puppy.

A light brush of your foot against his beneath the blankets has him stirring, and your eyes light up when he rolls onto his side, propping himself up with his elbow, and you realize he’s been up longer than you thought.

“Sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, his hair a sleepy mess.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he tells you, staring right back at you. “We gotta do something about all that energy, huh?” he mumbles, his voice always deeper when he just wakes up.

“Yeah… yeah, maybe I can go and watch a movie, or something, or go on a walk,” you ramble, and he sleepily smiles, huffing.

“No… no, baby, you’re not watching a movie at two in the morning,” he protests, and he reaches out, rubbing your shoulder.

“It feels like I could run around the house twenty times, and then do a marathon,” you tell him, and he sighs, nodding in acknowledgment.

“This is what happens when I let you have ice cream right before bed?” he teases, and you bite your lip, knowing it was true; sugar always tastes better at night, especially later when you’re currently off a sugar high, and your boyfriend just wants to sleep.

“No…” You deny and shake your head lightly, and he waves you over as he rolls onto his back.

You grin, barely visible from the dim light, and you’re instantly crawling on top of him, straddling him, the blanket shifting down. You place your hand against his chest; warm and sweaty, firm and muscular. He grunts when you settle, his hands finding your bare hips beneath your nightgown.

“Gotta tire you out, huh?” he mumbles, squeezing your bare hips, fingers lightly pulling at the elastic band of your underwear.

“Please…” you murmur into the room, and he scoffs.

“Gonna make you do all the work, baby,” he teases, and you whine at the thought–it’ll work, and you hate him for it.

“Not fair,” you protest, and he gently slaps the side of your hip. Despite how gentle he is with you, the sound is loud in the bedroom; he can't help it when his palm is as big as you are.

“Talking about not fair… when you just woke me up so I’d fuck you,” he groans, and you put your head down, deciding not to talk back. “Hm, that’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches, and you can feel him against you, the firm outline hardening in his sweatpants, pressing right against you now, and you wriggle your hips.

“Ah-ah,” he shakes his head, grabbing a fistful of the soft flesh on your hips. “None of that teasing bullshit, put your energy into fucking onto me,” he tells you, and you whimper.

“But–” you stutter, and it’s another squeeze, this time purposely painful.

“No,” he’s firm with his words, and you can see his eyes darkening despite the darkness in the room. “Don’t get to talk back when you woke me up for this,” he shakes his head again.

You swallow hard and lift your hips, shaky hands reaching down to adjust the blankets between the two of you, and you’re finding the waistband of his sweatpants. You pause, looking up at him for confirmation and his eyebrows furrow.

“Go on,” he squeezes again, and you wince at the fingertips pushing into your skin.

You slide the sweatpants down his hips, and he helps a little as he lifts them for you, making the process just a bit easier. You stare down, hard to see in the dimly lit bedroom; he’s big, and you always seem to forget that until you’re about to suck him off, or… well, ride him.

“Not helping you,” he tells you, his tone dry, almost monotone.

You look away, like you want help from something else, and you can hear him chuckling below you. You snap your head back, staring down.

“What?” he asks, eyebrows raising. “Woke me up to get off, and now you want me to do everything? Doesn’t work like that, doll,” he shakes his head, his jaw clenching.

You huff dramatically and reach down, two small fingers pushing your underwear aside, and he scoffs at your desperation–you aren’t even bothering to slide them off, merely deciding to set them aside like this is an urgent act, and not something that’s in the comfort of your own bedroom.

“Brutal how needy you are,” he taunts as you lift your hips, aligning yourself with him, but fumbling slightly. You’re used to some help.

“Please… can… you just…” You mumble quietly, and it takes zero hesitation; he fucks right up into you, the movement rigid and not calculated at all.

You immediately whine, leaning forward, two firm hands on his bare chest, supporting your body from completely collapsing into him. 

“Couldn’t watch that any fucking longer,” he groans out, his hands sliding back to gently squeeze your ass from behind, keeping you against him. “Pathetic, baby, you really are.”

You cry softly, your head tossed back, your neck on display in the bedroom; all hickey-covered, and his eyes darken.

“Fucked you this morning,” he mumbles, his own words being distorted by his grunts and groans. “And… you’re waking me up… for more…” he drawls out, not in disbelief; he knows just how needy you are.

“I’m–i’m sorry–” you whine, shaking your head, and he’s relentless beneath you; quick thrusts, all aggressive and lacking any hesitation, a fluid movement that’s being driven into you.

“Little too late for that, don’t you think, baby?” he taunts even more, bringing your body back down onto his in a solid lift of his hips. It’s almost painful how easily he can lift and manipulate you, bringing you right against him, hips snapping.

“Yeah… mhm,” you babble, already drunk off the feeling of him being careless like usual, wearing your body out until you’re a mess for him.

“Mmm… yeah,” he growls, his own head tipping back, and you notice it; how his Adam’s apple highlights in the darkness, the veins in his neck pulsing and bulging, his forearms strong and keeping you on him. 

“Come on, baby,” he mumbles, eyes watching your body; all tense, hands clawing at his chest, back arching. He’s impressed; you’re usually falling forward, begging him to stop. 

“I’m–” you whine, feeling him pressing deeper and deeper, the angle he’s keeping you at making everything more intense; you’re panting and whining, squeezing your thighs around his hips where they rest.

“Close? Sweetheart…” he coos, wetting his lips, but he breaks the facade for just a second when it feels a little too good. You’re clenching, tensing.

“Yeah–yeah, mhm,” you babble out again, biting your tongue to stop you from completely wailing in the bedroom that’s now filled with sounds of slapping skin and heavy breaths, the sounds mixing.

“Really are that fucking desperate,” he mumbles, keeping himself in check when a groan almost crawls up his throat.

“I-I am… I am,” you admit, always knowing how easily you confess things when he has you on top, like he suddenly has much more control over you than he usually does.

“Not letting you wake me up to last less than a minute,” he counters, shaking his head. “Hold it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you cry at his words.

It’s hard to think when it’s like this; the thrusts, the way he’s gripping your ass so tight it’ll leave marks, bruises staining your skin, and you can’t help but feel the tears running down your cheeks at the denial. It’s getting hard to think.

“Oh, come on, don’t… give me that,” he tuts, chuckling at the tears dripping down your cheeks, and you’re softly crying, biting your lip in embarrassment.

“I–I have to cum,” you whine, your head tipping back even further, and he swipes his tongue over his lips, watching.

“Show me how badly,” he prompts, his fingers driving further into the skin of your ass, and you cry out at the stinging that he quickly soothes with a rub of his thumb.

You do show him; you moan as your hips stall, any light grinding immediately stops, and you helplessly clench around him, tossing your head back. A ray of heat runs through you, and you finish all over him, in record time that has your face flushing red, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead and cheeks, straying down your neck. You’ve never been more humiliated.

Your boyfriend isn’t stopping; he still fucks up into you, relentlessly moving back and forth, and he cums in the midst of the endless thrusts. He groans and growls, not bothering to stop as he pushes his own cum back in, only using it to make things slippier, easier.

You’re whining louder than before, leaning back now, your two hands resting on his thick thighs, your back arching; it’s a new angle, and his eyes almost widen at the sight; your head tipping back, your breasts showing right through your nightgown, and he glances down, watching himself move in and out. It’s obscene, and it only fuels whatever twisted fantasy he’s living out.

It quickly ends when you collapse forward onto him, almost in tears at the overwhelming feeling, the constant thrusting, the endless movements of his hips, and the way he grips and squeezes at the warm flesh. 

The door creaks open, the soft hall light drooling in through the space, and you roll over, gazing at it. 

He’s walking in, tired eyes gazing at your slumped form, blankets and sheets wrapped around your body. The window is shut, your sheer curtains placed in front, and his feet are heavy against the wooden panels. It’s a dream-like state, and you lazily smile.

It was a bad idea; your dad’s best friend slipping into your room at five o’clock in the morning, your mother and father sleeping just a few rooms down. It’s the only space the two of you have, and it was a silent agreement that he’d sneak in just before dawn and leave before breakfast.

“Sleepyhead,” he drawls quietly, and you’re sitting up, rubbing your eyes.

“Five past five,” you mumble after glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “Five minutes late,” you tease, sleepily tilting your head to the side.

“Your old man was doing somethin’ in the bathroom,” he explains, glancing over his shoulder at your closed door, creeping towards your bed. “Gotta be real quiet,” he whispers, smiling.

You’re not sure when it started, but it did. 

Returning home after graduating college and realizing that he was the only man who had ever treated you right definitely fuelled the idea; him being your boyfriend, taking care of you, sleeping with you. It slipped in your head over dinner, when he offered to get you a drink, and you realized that your ex-boyfriend had never done anything similar. 

Those curious glances in the garage when he’d watch sports games with your dad, and he’d beckon you over, offering you a beer, and your dad would roll his eyes at the idea of his daughter joining. But you did, and you liked it.

He was always so sweet and caring, and the lack of a ring on his finger made you even more confused. He was easy with his hands, and sweet with his words, and he knew how to treat you right–hell, your mom even adored him; everybody did.

The wooden frame of your bed groans when he slowly crawls into it, right on top of you, and you giggle softly, biting your lip, barely hesitating to lift your hands to cradle his face. It’s rough and barely shaved, his eyes crinkling in the dim light.

“You miss me?” he asks quietly, his own hand finding your cheek. “Your daddy keeps wonderin’ why I want to sleep on the couch so often,” he chuckles under his breath, and you smile, teeth and all.

“He can keep wondering,” you counter, biting your lip, feeling his body settling right on top of yours.

“Ah,” he nods, his calloused thumb beneath your eye. “That attitude…” he rolls out, tilting his head.

“Shut up,” you giggle, sliding a hand down to hold his shoulder instead.

He grins at the soft sound from you, his hand drifting from your cheek to your forehead, and he moves hair out of your face. The look in his eyes can only be described as adoration, and you shift your hips.

“Prettiest thing I’ve seen,” he mutters, keeping his voice a whisper in your bedroom.

You smile again, though it’s much more shy; no teeth and your eyes glance at your ceiling instead, and he smirks at the flustered look sinking into your features.

His lips find yours when you look away, and you’re kissing back without thinking of it, like it’s just routine, and it practically is. You’ve been home since April, and he’s been sneaking in since the end of May. It’s July now.

Something is different about it, and he’s hungrier than usual, all teeth and sloppy, his head tilting to deepen it. He’s groaning into your mouth, his tongue already sliding in, and you’re moaning now, noticing his hips effortlessly grinding against yours already.

“Can’t get over you,” he mumbles when he pulls back, a brief look into your eyes, and he’s sliding down your jawline and to your neck, lips finding the old hickey that you had to blame on a straightener. His smirk at breakfast the next day made it worth it.

“Don’t want you to,” you whisper and shake your head, letting it tip back against your pillow.

“Never will, kid,” he promises, mouthing at your neck, purposely leaving saliva behind, a trail behind his warm lips. 

You moan, your hand finding the nape of his neck, holding him there, and his hand slides up your shirt, gently golding your ribs. His thumb brushes against the warm skin, brushing along, feeling the way you prickle with goosebumps. 

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, shaking his head when you moan. “Can’t be too loud.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, feeling his other hand sliding down to the waistband of your underwear, shamelessly dipping inside.

You gasp when he cups you, just feeling, no deliberate touches.

“Yeah, you did miss me,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your jawline. “How long you been this wet, darlin’?”

“Since… since dinner,” you admit, breathing heavier as he squeezes your core, just that large palm holding you there. “When… when you… you tugged my ponytail, and… and told me I looked… pretty,” you ramble on, and he’s smiling into the crook.

“Did look real pretty,” he admits, letting his thumb press against your clit finally. “Jus’ wanted to see you, didn’t care about dinner, or anythin’,” he shakes his head, his other fingers gathering the slick.

You whine, biting your lip, eyes squeezed shut. He’s still kissing at your neck, a gentle hand rubbing your ribs, the other one coaxing the softest noises from your lips. It feels so good, and your bed creaks when you shift your hips.

“Missed you so much,” you plead quietly, knowing you saw him just at dinner, but your body never had enough. 

“I’m here, sweet girl,” he tells you quietly, two fingers prodding at your entrance. “Right here, baby, deep breath,” he reminds you, and you inhale, feeling the thick digits slide in.

Before you can snap your head back and moan, that hand on your ribs is clasped over your mouth, his thick palm pressing right against it. You make a noise against it, and it’s muffled, shielding the sound from your sleeping parents.

“Atta girl, stay quiet,” he coos, no longer kissing your neck, but keeping his face nuzzled into the corner of it, his nose nudging your ear. 

You whimper into his palm, feeling his fingers twist and curl, knowing every crook inside of you: the soft spot, the one where your legs fall open so he can slide between them, and your head is tipping back, and you’re whining, and your body is asking for more. He has your body memorized.

“That feel nice?” he asks, breathing heavier into your ear. “Jus’ want my girl to feel nice,” he says, his fingers hooking, and it makes a sound slide out of your mouth and into his palm, a muffled noise in the quiet bedroom.

He can feel himself hardening his jeans–he’s still wearing clothes from the day before, passing out on the couch in the living room, your dad dismissing his best friend sleeping there. He’d have no reason to be against it.

“So hard for you already, baby,” he groans through a smile, impressed with how easily you turn him into a desperate man, reverting to whatever innate urge he has.

You whimper into his hand, and he slides back a little bit, his wet fingers sliding out of you. He leans back onto his haunches, though he’s leaned forever slightly, still covering your mouth, and he raises his eyebrows, and you nod. It was a silent agreement that you’d be quiet. 

“The things you do to me,” he mumbles in disbelief, looking down at his glistening fingertips, and he licks them clean, glancing up at the flustered version of yourself; flush cheeks and your hands are by your face, shielding yourself.

“This is why I call you ‘my sweet girl’,” he teases, a chuckle coming from deep in his chest. 

“C’mon, help me, kid,” he then gestures down to his brown leather belt around his jeans, and he always makes you do it, unbuttoning his jeans and unclasping the buckle. 

You nervously grin and sit up a little, watching the way he holds your knees open, and you begin to undo the belt, letting it jingle in the early morning. He slides his hand forward, running it through your hair, brushing it away from your face, all while you work on unbuckling him.

Your hands now pull down his jeans, sliding them down his hips slightly, and he looks down, knowing this is when he takes over. You find the whole ‘putting your hand into his boxers’ intimidating, and he doesn’t mind helping you, not at all.

“Mmm… look here,” he whispers when his hand slides into his boxers, taking himself out; long, hard, throbbing in his hand, and you stare, blinking slowly. You hate how you’ve missed this. 

He’s stroking himself, and you’re leaning onto your back, and he grins, following suit, moving down against you even more, pushing his body further between your open thighs. He blinks slowly, breathing heavier. 

“I got your underwear, baby,” he reminds you quietly, his voice thick in the morning. “Just… relax, and take me,” he mumbles, lips brushing yours briefly, planting a chaste kiss.

His hand slides the cotton fabric aside, wanting the cleanup to be easier; he knew he had to be out sooner than he’d like, before your parents woke up and called you for breakfast. He was being safe, and you almost hated how you had to tiptoe around so much. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pulling back, watching your expression warp as he slowly rolls his hips forward, and your back arches, curving into him. He bites back a groan of his own.

“Daddy,” you whine to him, and the word is even bitter on your tongue, and he has to bite back a grunt at how obscene it is; his best friend’s daughter, calling him ‘daddy’, like he took the place of him. 

It’s a layer of shame he’ll unpack on the drive home.

He slides two fingers into your mouth when he has the chance, your mouth hanging open in awe. He shuts you up, and you start sucking, using it to keep yourself quiet. Any time you feel a sound bubbling in the back of your throat, threatening to slip out, you let it bleed into his thick fingers instead. 

He’s thrusting now, moving back and forth, grunting with each pronounced movement of his hips. He’s gazing down at you, watching your hair fan out behind your head, against your pillowcase, eyes closed and in your own world.

“Takin’ me so well, every time, baby,” he praises, his other hand gripping your hip, keeping you stable and in place. “Every time… every time, sweetheart,” he groans.

You whimper into his palm, the summer heat suffocating the two of you currently. You’re already drenched in sweat, and it doesn’t help that you were melting into your bed before he walked in, your sheets damp prior. It’s only worse, and he’s panting, eyes glancing up at the ceiling.

“Come on, baby, feelin’ so good,” he rambles on, his fingers pressing onto the flat of your tongue. “Missed bein’ inside you, so much,” he’s moving faster, and the headboard snaps into the wall.

Your eyes shoot open at the loud noise, and he braces for impact, like the bedroom door is about to swing open and your dad is going to see his best friend fucking his daughter, fingers shoved down her throat at five o’clock in the morning.

“It’s okay… we’re okay, baby,” he reassures you, groaning as his hips stall, and he pauses, burying into you for just a second, letting silence linger.

After a brief moment, he starts up again, sharp eyes paying attention to the part of your bed that decided to slam into the wall, the one connected to your parents’ bedroom. He watches it, thrusting, and your eyes close again, slipping back into that state of bliss.

“Wanna do this to you… all day,” he admits, and you squeeze your eyes shut harder because you know he would if he could–he had eaten you out for a good hour when your parents left for an evening. He has no issue with devouring you, and he knows that you know.

You clench around him, feeling that familiar burning in your lower abdomen; it’s ripping through you, settling right where his hand is now pressing against you. He applies pressure with his large palm, still gagging you with his other hand, but this one is splayed against your stomach.

“M’know you can feel me here, baby,” he mutters to you, the sun now coming up, a honey-like light drifting in through your sheer curtains. “All… in here, so deep,” he taunts, nodding. 

Your head tips back further, practically choking on his fingers as he presses and presses, his large hand keeping a steady weight on your lower stomach. It oddly makes it feel even better.

He feels you clenching, the shifting of your hips, the way a hand of yours slides up, and you grasp at his shoulder helplessly. He knows you're close; he has seen that familiar face more times than he can count this summer: furrowed eyebrows, scrunched nose, a knit in your forehead where all the tension settles. He’s the only man that can relieve it, your dad’s best friend. 

“Mmm, baby, cum for daddy, come on,” he mumbles, and you know it’s just lust he’s running off, the term ‘daddy’ deafening in the bedroom. “Let daddy fill you, too,” he nods.

The feeling tears you apart from the inside, the harsh bite of pleasure sinking its teeth into you. Your head tips back even more, your neck stretched back, the arch tight and curled, lifting right off the mattress, and he cums too–the clash is enough to have him biting back a plethora of grunts and groans. The look on his face says it all.

He doesn’t pull out; no, he keeps himself buried in there, keeping you stuffed, and he rubs your stomach, letting his damp fingers slip by your lips. He moves his palm in slow circles, flat against your abdomen, soothing that dull ache, the feeling of fullness making you feverish. 

“Gonna feel me for hours,” he drawls out, staring down at your flushed face and gaping mouth. “Gonna feel me… sitting there at breakfast, aren't you?” 

You whimper but nod, knowing you’ve felt it before. 

Still feeling him on your tongue after sucking him off behind a fucking carnival ride, the two of you casually heading back to join your family like the top of your shirt wasn’t damp. It was a dirty, filthy secret you two cherished. 

He stays there for minutes, but he glares at the clock. It’s bordering the time your parents wake up, and he knows he has to leave. He has to slip out of your bedroom and out of the back door, discarding any evidence of him being in your room.

“You know I gotta go, baby,” he whispers, shaking his head, and you’re practically in tears, grasping at his shoulders, but he’s leaning back.

“No… no, a bit longer, please,” you beg, feeling him pull out, and it’s like you’ve lost a part of yourself the minute you don’t feel that reminder of him buried in you.

“I’ll be back… lunch,” he reminds you, knowing just hours later he’d show up at your door, joining your family at the dining table for a Saturday lunch. Only you knowing what happened. 

“Promise?” you whimper, sniffling, and he cups your cheeks.

Lily frowns. "It seems like you have to always pay to get into one anymore."

"Well, that's not strictly true, is it?" Sirius bumps your shoulder, grinning with conspiratorial pride.

You shrink as the attention of the group settles collectively on you.

"Tell us about that spot you found." Sirius hesitates. "Uh, unless it was meant to be a secret."

You cringe. "Well, no—"

"Shit. Sorry, gorgeous."

"It's fine." Heat prickles in your face, but you force yourself to speak loud enough that they can hear you. "I've been swimming at the hotel lately. It doesn't seem like they check if you're a guest or not."

"No way." James looks gobsmacked. Behind him, Marlene's brows raise from behind her sunglasses. "That's genius."

"Should we go tomorrow?" asks Lily.

While the rest of the group hatches a plan to infiltrate the pool (which you aren't so confident will work with a large group—the main reason why you were keeping it under wraps), Sirius squeezes your hand encouragingly. You try to supress the smile that takes you, feeling the lingering impressions of eyes on you still, but Sirius catches it.

A kiss lands on your head. You turn to him, eyes blinking wide, but he only grins and does it again.

The heat of the day just keeps getting worse, for you.

"What?" Sirius laughs at you. "You can't expect me to stop if you're going to keep looking so scandalized."

"You just surprised me."

"Well, you shouldn't be surprised." He takes your chin in hand, angling you for a bone-meltingly soft kiss to your lips. "You're stunning, and I'm not made of stone."

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, burning. Sirius' laughter rumbles through him. He palms the back of your head and pulls you closer like he's shielding you.

"I'm just spreading the gospel of your brilliance," he murmurs close to your ear. "Don't know if you heard, but everyone agrees you're a genius now. You ought to be thanking me."

"Shut up."

“What?” 

“Playing with m’hair.” you grumble, words slurring together. “I’m gonna fall asleep.” 

“You can go to sleep.”

“Can’t. We’re going to the pub, remember?”

Sirius rolls his eyes and, despite your hand still resting over his, resumes the slow stokes through your hair. He can’t believe you care about the pub later while you have each other like this. Stupid pub with stupid friends. He could be here soaking in you. 

When he doesn't answer, you open one eye to get a look at him and find yourself not all that surprised to find him looking down at you. His dark hair falls messily but as per usual Sirus looks flawless. Perfect. Beautiful. 

“No one will care if we don’t show up.” he says, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

He slides further down the bed until he’s lying beside you properly, wrapping an arm around your waist and nudging his forehead against yours.

“Yes they will!” you exclaim, pushing away from him but not getting far, “I didn’t hear the end of it last time and–” 

Sirius cuts you off with a kiss. His lips are warm, slow, lingering. By the time he pulls away from your lips, he’s already pressing soft kisses across your cheek. They trail across your jaw and down the side of your neck.

Every now and then he nips lightly with his teeth before soothing the spot with another kiss, trying to distract you. It pulls a content sigh from your lips.

When he pulls away, it’s with a smug smile like his convincing couldn't possibly fail. See? It says. Problem solved.

“We have to go.”

Sirius’ face falls and he leans forward to bury his head in the curve of your neck while letting out a dramatic groan. You raise a hand to thread through his hair now, settling at the base of his neck.

He’s mumbling against your skin, incomprehensible words that have the tone of complaint. It makes you smile. 

“Fine.” He sighs, lifting his head just enough to look at you again. “What do you wanna eat before we go?” 

“Beans on toast?” you ask to tease because you know it’ll make his lovely nose scrunch in disgust. He spent most of his life too posh for it and he still seems it now. Sure enough his face pulls.

“You’re horrible, y’know that?” he says, sitting up just enough to make a show of leaving. He doesn't get far as you slip your arms around his middle, keeping him where he is.

“You love me.”

“I do,” he admits with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re lucky I do.”

“Oh?”

She had decided his brother needed a little love in his life, and she’d do everything she could to make that happen. Which was how Enola and Tewkesbury found themselves crouched behind the half-open door to the drawing room, trying to peer inside without being too obvious.

You were arranging the files, while Sherlock stood across from you, inspecting the papers you were yet to organise. You had both been quiet for a long while, which made Enola smirk.

"Something's about to happen," Enola whispered.

Tewkesbury leaned closer to her. "How can you possibly know that—"

"Be quiet, they'll hear us!"

Sherlock had turned to look out of the window by the time Enola turned her eyes back to him, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched some birds flying past the window with grass and pieces of cloth in their beaks — a nest was being built nearby.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he then said.

You glanced up at him. "If it's about the files about Mr. Bradshaw, I heard there’s been a shift in the investigation, I’ve already reorganised them so you can continue from where you left it."

"It isn't about the files." He turned, walking over to you. He seemed to struggle with his words for a second, but then, “I… I believe I have feelings for you.”

You blinked, your eyes widening slightly. “…What?”

He nodded. “I’ve had them for a while.”

You stared at him a moment longer, before scoffing. “Very funny, Mr. Holmes.”

He sighed. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m very serious about my feelings.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

He interrupted you. "I'm aware of what I said. Or what I've implied, over the years. I'm aware it probably reads as contradiction."

You swallowed. “You said romantic relationships would be a danger to whoever you’d care about.”

He nodded, looking at your hands for a moment before carefully taking them to his. “They still are. I haven’t worked that part out yet.”

Enola was grinning now. “I knew it,” she whispered to Tewkesbury.

Sherlock sighed, turning his face towards the door slightly. "Enola. I know you're there."

A beat of silence, before two pairs of brisk steps scrambled away from the door. You grinned, looking down for a moment.

“Now, where were we?” Sherlock asked, smiling softly at you.

You laughed. “I believe you were announcing your love for me, Mr. Holmes.”

His smile widened into a grin, something you had never before seen him do — and that was when you truly knew your relationship would turn into a beautiful one.

---

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Every night in August looked the damn same: your dad’s friends crowded in the garage, smoking, drinking, shouting nonsense at the sports game. It was a sight you didn’t like, you hadn’t since you were a young thing–the overbearing noise, the smell, the way they always shooed you out anyway. It wasn’t your territory, and you respected it. Barely.

It’s Friday night, and you stand in the kitchen, yawning from being woken up. It was the stupid yelling again, a bunch of deep voices shouting over a commentator. Your mom was elsewhere, wine-drunk on the patio with her own friends, and you were stranded here on college vacation. 

You groan, stomping towards the garage door, swiftly opening it, seeing the five men lazily lounging around at twelve o’clock in the morning. You scowl at their collective glances, and you can tell that your dad is scowling at them, too.

“What can I do for ya’, honey?” your dad slurs out, leaning back into the lawn chair, his head turned over his shoulder. He’s drunk, of course he is.

“I’d… I’d appreciate it if you kept it down; I’m trying to sleep,” you explain with a little nod, leaning against the doorway, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. It’s a male-connection type of thing, and the other four smirk around the rim of their beer bottles.

“Sure… sure thing, baby girl, we’re sorry,” he mumbles out, chuckling to himself as he turns back to the television mounted on the garage wall, and you groan.

It’s not promising, not at all. 

Just as you shut the garage door, it returns; the cheering, the yelling, the laughs and high-fives, and you freeze, tipping your head back in frustration. It’s no use; why even bother going into your bedroom if you’ll be interrupted by grown men overreacting to other grown men kicking balls?

You settle for the living room–at least there’s a television there, something that can drown out the sound. You’d stay in your room, but you know your sleep schedule–you won’t be falling asleep for the next five hours, and you’ve made peace with that inconvenience.

Leaning into the cushions, you curl up a bit more, focusing on the idle screen. It’s playing some shitty rom-com, something that barely stimulates any part of your mind, but the commotion outside is slowly being forgotten, and you ease into the cheesy movie.

You jump when the garage door shuts, and you quickly turn your head over the couch to see who just entered your house: two men, standing tall, laughing quietly among themselves, rambling on about the game. One turns, the shorter one, noticing the peeking eyes over the back of the couch, and he narrows his eyes, smirking.

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” he says, his voice deep, low, shaking his head as he holds the empty beer box. “Your daddy says there’s an extra case… somewhere… mind helpin’ us?”

The other one beside him, just a bit taller, glances out of the corner of his eye, his hands straightening the hem of his shirt. You sigh quietly, nodding and crawling off the couch, wandering towards the two of them.

“Thanks, baby,” the other one finally chimes in, his voice much different, softer, gentler, and you suddenly feel the weight of two men towering behind you as you lead them towards the small fridge, where your dad specifically left beers to chill.

“There you go,” you say softly with a confident nod, turning around to face the two of them, and they have the same look on their face; knowing, eyes darkened and low–barely drunk, but tipsy enough to be staring at their friend’s daughter.

“Perfect, thank you, baby,” the taller one says, leaning a bit forward and patting your shoulder, warm fingers grazing the bare skin revealed by the thin strap of your tank top. You nod again.

You slowly walk back towards the living room, glancing back at the two of them; hovering around the mini fridge, one leaned down, fishing out three beers, and you settle back onto the sofa. 

“Hey,” one of them says, and you look back again, but they’re both approaching the living room, bypassing the garage door. You furrow your eyebrows, biting your lip.

“Yeah?” you ask quietly, swallowing back the nerves settling in your throat.

“Want one?” he asks, and the taller one nudges him slightly–he’s the quieter one, you notice, always making faces and glances when the confident, short one says something your dad would punch him in the face for.

“Yeah… yeah, that would be cool,” you smile and nod, watching as the two men part ways, both walking on each side of the couch, carefully crowding you in.

You don’t realize what’s happening until either one is sitting beside you, and you’re sandwiched between them. You’d be lying if you didn’t feel the slightest bit lucky; they were always the ones you found most attractive, the ones who gave you attention when you’d stare at them during stupid backyard get-togethers. 

“Thanks… thank you,” you say nervously, taking the cold beer from the one on your right, giving him a polite nod. He’s looking past you at the one on your left; he’s adjusting his hips, his longer legs struggling to adapt to the smaller space. He’s so tall.

“Of course,” he mumbles, a charming smile pulling into his lips, and he’s finally looking at you. You bite your lip out of habit.

“Sweetheart,” the left one begins, and you’re turning your head, suddenly realizing how overwhelming this is; two men, two handsome men, two sets of prying eyes, four hands, and you’re struggling to process it. “We’re just sorry about your daddy, yelling and all that,” he grins.

You feel the touch from behind, not the one you’re making eye contact with, gently pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. You flinch, laugh nervously, and look between them.

“No… no, it’s okay, I’m used to it.” You shake your head, unable to choose which one to focus on.

“It’s not okay, sweetheart,” the one behind you chimes in, pulling his hand away from your hair, and you can only focus on him now–the short one, you register. “Not very polite of us to disturb a guest,” he smiles again, and you’re smiling too, but nerves fuel it. 

“I swear–it’s okay, it’s fine, you don’t have to worry about that,” you defend quickly, shaking your head, and the taller one suddenly has a light grip of your hair, a fistful of it, forcing your head to face him instead.

“You don’t have to take things you don’t like,” he says quietly, shaking his head as if he’s scolding you. “You’re tough, though; we’ve noticed it,” he adds, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to deal with men like that,” a deeper voice says–you noticed it: the cockier, shorter one has a deeper voice, and the taller, gentler one has a softer one.

Huh. Funny how that works. 

“Yeah, he’s right,” the soft voice says, and you’re staring into his eyes, nodding like you’re somehow being hypnotized. You wish you weren’t so weak, but you are.

A flick of his eyes has the other one joining in, leaning forward and gently kissing your neck from behind. Your eyes flutter, and the one before you smiles, already watching you melt. 

The tall, soft one with the soft voice, and the shorter, rough one with the deep voice.

 That’s the only way your fuzzy brain can distinguish the two of them.

“She’s already enjoying it,” he suddenly calls out, the one your brain has deemed as soft and tall, and you look at him, lips parting in embarrassment. “You like how he’s kissing you, baby?”

You’re moaning softly now, feeling lips move more insistently after hearing how much you’re apparently enjoying it. His deep voice mumbles against your neck: “Gonna let him touch you while I kiss you, sweetheart?”

The one who is holding your hair, tall with that soft voice, still slides his hand away, gently cupping your cheek instead, feeling you lean into it; eyes heavy and cheeks flush, feeling lips moving again, sliding up to your jaw, and you’re whimpering.

“You tell him you want me to touch you?” the tall one asks, his voice soft and quiet. The soft one, right.

You can feel the rough one, well, getting rough: his hand gently grips your waist from behind, practically guiding you to lie back against him, between his legs, while the other one nudges his way between your parted thighs. It’s hard to believe this is real, but it is.

You stare up, blinking slowly, the one above you moving his long legs, nudging your thighs apart, all while your neck still has attention on it; light kisses, and now rough hands cradling your hips.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” he mumbles as he kisses your neck, and you’re staring up, seeing a completely different man looking down at you. It’s hard to comprehend it: two different men, touching you, wanting you.

“Good… I feel good,” you mumble, and the one between your thighs is currently spreading yours even further, smirking, his ears paying close attention to the conversation he’s not a part of. 

“Good.. you deserve to feel good,” the shorter one whispers beneath you, a trail of saliva spreading across the slope of your neck. “Isn’t that right? Our girl deserves to feel good?” he suddenly asks, clearly not talking to you.

“Of course,” the one above you mumbles casually, nodding, leaning closer, two hands finding the waistband of your shorts, lightly tugging the fabric down. “Such a good girl.”

“Your daddy always tells us how good you are,” a deep voice is mumbling into your ear, but your eyes watch above you, lips parted in awe, and he’s working your underwear off; meanwhile, the one beneath you is holding your hips still.

You shift your hips awkwardly, but a rough grab of your body keeps you still, and the one who nudged his way between your thighs is slowly tossing your underwear aside, and you breathe heavier and heavier, gazing up at him.

“Stay still, let him do what he needs to do,” you feel against your ear, eyes focusing on strong hands unbuckling his belt, and you’re melting into the firm body beneath you, all the while, the other way is undressing himself.

“Keep kissing her neck,” you hear from above you, and lips are back against your neck, slowly closing your eyes as you give in to the feeling. “Wish you could see what she looks like.” 

Big hands rub your thighs, another pair holding your hips, keeping you still and spread open. You’re moaning softly again, panting quietly, overwhelmed by the feelings, and the next time your eyes flutter, you quickly realize he’s about to fuck you right here, with his damn friend beneath you.

“I–” you stutter quietly, but a large hand slides from your hip and clasps over your mouth, suddenly shutting you up, and the one who is currently aligning himself with you is smirking, looking past you, nodding. 

“Keep quiet for him, baby,” a rough voice says into your ear, and you tip your head back onto his shoulder, suddenly feeling pressure between your warm thighs; he’s already burying himself in you, and the other short one is soothing you, kissing your jaw still.

You whimper into his palm. Meanwhile, the tall one, buried inside of you, has his hands holding your knees, keeping them spread open, ensuring he has all the room in the world to push deeper and deeper, and your hips attempt to lift; thank God the other one has one hand pinning them down, the other forbidding any noise to come out of your mouth.

He’s groaning softly, head tipped back in awe, and you can feel every inch of him inside of you; warm and thick, twitching, and you’re being gently cradled in the arms of another man the entire time.

“She takes me so fucking good,” he drawls out, the soft voice bordering on rough, and the one beneath you chuckles. “So.. fucking tight,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

“Yeah? She feel good?” he asks beneath you, his eyes turning to see what you look like; eyes squeezed shut, forehead glistening with sweat. “Looks like the poor thing feels good, too,” he taunts, slowly sliding a hand away from your hip.

“Mhm, feels like a fucking dream,” he agrees, smiling through the groans and moans he can't conceal, and you’re sinking further into the one who is still lightly kissing at your neck, but you notice his hand detaching from your hip, sliding to press against your stomach.

“Gonna let him fill you up, huh?” he chimes in, applying pressure to your stomach. “Think you owe it to him, for fucking you so good, yeah?” he taunts again, the roughness poking its head out, influencing his sharp words you’re getting sick off.

You whine against the warm palm, clenching around the one above you, and the stretch sends your head back, tipping further onto the other one’s shoulder. It feels so good, waves of guilt and pleasure clashing.

“God, she’s fucking tight,” the tall one groans with a solid thrust, pushing deeper into you, your body pressing against the thick one beneath yours. “Wraps around me so nicely, isn’t that right, baby?” he asks you, and you’re nodding, feeling licks against the shell of your ear.

The hand on your stomach slides lower, and you suddenly feel a warm thumb push against your clit, a gentle circle, only adding to the stimulation. You whine louder into the palm, noticing the two other hands above you forcing yourself to spread open more.

“You’re gonna break her,” he mumbles between your legs, talking to one who is currently kissing your neck from behind, all while focusing on rubbing slow circles, right against that one part of you that even you barely fucking touch. “Need some help, yeah?”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, nose scrunching as the two men communicate, and you watch a hand slide down your thigh; two fingers part, lightly spreading you open, forcing your clit to be on display, all while the other one’s thumb presses down harder. He’s fucking you, and keeps you stretched.

“Oh, baby,” the one beneath you coos, kissing your jawline, rubbing circles, the one above you still fucking into you, a helping hand spreading your folds, eager to help his friend, and you. “All spread for us, aren’t you?”

“So stretched out, you are,” he groans, the thrusts becoming quicker, harder, his body leaning forward slightly to keep that hand between your thighs, allowing those long fingers to keep that sensitive bud right in the open. 

It’s a burst of warmth with that final thrust, and he pushes in deeper than you thought you could handle. He finishes, deep, that full feeling, accompanied by the continuous, agonizing drag of the stray thumb on your clit. You’re helplessly whining into a palm still wrapped around your mouth, your eyes shutting.

“She’s stuffed,” he groans, pulling out, his hand sliding away from between your thighs, though the one beneath you insists on letting you ride out the orgasm, still circling. “Like, leaking onto the front of your fucking jeans, stuffed,” he scoffs, gazing down at the unfortunate mess you’re making.

He chuckles into your ear, and the tall one admires the piece of work you are; flushed and already exhausted, cum dripping out of you, and he glances at his friend, who is kissing your jaw still.

“Your turn,” he smiles, and your eyes widen at the thought–round two, different guy? 

The thought makes you dizzy, and you whine into your hand, eyes blinking quickly.

“It’s only fair, sweet girl,” he coos like he wasn’t just buried inside of you, his own hands now reaching forward and grabbing hold of your hips, the hand against your clit redacting, and the two men are working you into a different position. 

You gasp in relief when the hand is pulled away, panting heavily, nervous eyes glancing around the living room. The television is still playing; there’s quiet chatter from the garage, and it hits you that you’re really doing this in your living room.

“My–my dad,” you plead softly, feeling the way you’re being carefully lifted, noticing the four sets of hands working around; it’s confusing; you can barely pick out who is who; just long fingers, quick, touching you effortlessly.

“What about him, baby?” the one you’re now straddling asks, the short one–reverse cowgirl, to be exact- quickly realizing you’re about to be fucked by him next, and you glance down; he’s already pulling himself out, thick and ready.

“Don’t watch that, watch me.” A strong hand grabs your chin, and you’re forced to look up at him; instead of the taller one fucking you this time, he’s half-kneeling on the couch, getting you almost eye-level with his groin–he’s always been tall, and it’s working to his advantage. 

Another pair of hands is holding your soft hips, carefully aligning you, all while you stare up at the other man, eyes darkened, ready to watch you be used a second time, eager to see the same expressions that curled at your lips and scrunched at your nose. Though he knows your mouth will be full this time around.

“Gonna fuck her mouth, use it too?” he asks below you, pressing up into your already used hole, and you whine softly, which makes him quickly nod.

“To shut her up, yeah,” he chuckles, condescendingly, acting like you’re barely part of the conversation, merely an observer, and you whimper, glancing behind you at the short one. He pats your hip, telling you to focus on the man who is tall and looming over.

You look back, and it nudges your lip, the tip of him, and he reaches out, gently patting your head. “Look at me, baby,” he mumbles, and you whine softly, closing your eyes instead.

It’s simultaneous; the thrust of the hips beneath you, carried by the way he nudges his cock between your pouty lips. It’s all-consuming, and your mind instantly goes fuzzy at the feeling of being completely stuffed–both ends.

Two large hands grip your hips, guiding them, adjusting them, keeping a steady rhythm that has your eyes rolling back, though a sound can’t leave your mouth; it’s full, and drool trickles down your chin, feeling the veins rolling across your tongue, the prodding against the back of your throat.

The lack of moans from you is made up of gags instead, soft chokes of slight defiance, a reaction to your body adjusting to the size of both; one focused on fucking up into you, while the other keeps a hand on your head, holding it steadily, mercilessly moving back and forth.

“Good girl, that’s it, baby” rings in your ears, and at this point it’s difficult to tell which voice is speaking to you; with three hands on you, both ends pounded, it’s hard to register a single word.

“Taking us so well,” a low voice hums, and you’re sure it’s the one pushing deep inside you, into your stomach, focusing on going deeper and deeper, but it’s hard to tell with your eyes closed and your mouth stuffed.

“Looking like a fucking dream, huh?” the one who is using your throat asks, and you can’t make a sound, but the one beneath you does; “God, feels like one–you were right,” he grunts out, panting softly.

Your eyes fill with tears, just a plain reaction to what you’re feeling, and he smiles, his head tipping back in a nod. “You’re okay, sweetheart, we’re… we’re taking care of you,” he reassures.

It’s all so fuzzy; the voices are a blend, no longer soft or rough, just a mindless haze of lust washing over you, and them, of course. You’re choking on the one stuffed in your mouth, his long legs giving an unforgiving angle, and the short one is still holding your hips, fucking up into you. 

Both ends are currently being stuffed in your living room, and all you can do is gag and whine about what’s in your mouth and what’s happening beneath. It’s rough and soft, warm and cold, the two men clashing, and you don’t even know who is who; you just know that every inch of you is being used, and you sit and take it.

The tall one has his hand on your head, thrusting into your mouth, and he’s watching behind your shoulder, his friend mercilessly fucking up into you. He grins at the sight, panting and sweating, and it happens like a burst of lightning; both of them finish at the exact same time.

It’s the most overwhelming thing you think you’ve felt; three times, being filled, and you’re whining when he finally pulls out of your mouth, immediately wiping the cum, but still stuffed from the other end. You’re a mess, an absolute mess, and the tall one grasps your face, his hands holding your cheeks.

Komoda seemed rather bemused at the fact that the two of you had met and not immediately jumped each other's bones. “Oh… oh! Really?”

You hummed in the affirmative.

“Every year when we mentor new tributes.” Finnick explained.

Komoda tried to laugh. “Well, I just think that the two of you would get on rather well.”

“We get on fine.” You continued, feigning ignorance.

“The two of you would make a very handsome couple!” One of her friend’s chimed in, earning him nods of approval from the quickly forming group of spectators.

“Well, looks aren’t everything, are they?” You tried, and a few of the more…altered individuals seemed rather perplexed at the thought. “The two of us might not have anything in common.”

“That’s very true.” Finnick agreed. “Let’s see; how do you feel about the beach?”

“Too much sand; I’m shaking it out of everything I own for far too long afterwards. What’s your favourite pastime?”

“Swimming.” He answered.

“I never learned how.” You continued with pursed lips. “Least favourite season?”

“Winter. What’s your favourite holiday?”

“Christmas.”

Finnick hummed in displeasure before continuing. “Favourite animal?”

“Cats. Yours?”

“Dogs.”

You hummed in displeasure. “How do you feel about white chocolate?”

“Love it.” He replied easily; you scrunched your nose at him before he carried on. “What’s a dealbreaker for you?”

“People who like white chocolate.”

He pressed his lips into a flat line and nodded his head in understanding. “Very fair.”

You looked back over at Komoda and her friends to see them all gaping at the two of you.

“Sorry to disappoint, folks.” Finnick apologized with a shrug of his shoulder. “It’s apparently just not meant to be.”

“But…” Komoda started, looking rather crestfallen. “I…I was so sure!”

“You’re not the first to try to set us up.” You placated, placing a gentle hand over the scale-like jewels on the shoulder of her gown. “You probably won’t be the last, either.”

“Maybe the 29th time will be the charm, hm?” Finnick offered you with a wink, causing you to roll your eyes at him.

“Don’t hold your breath, Odair.”

“I can hold my breath for a very long time, sweetheart; I’m a world class swimmer, afterall.”

“Oh, you’re something alright.” You laughed as you turned to walk away, deciding then to begin your rounds of goodbyes before heading back to your suite.

You held the towel to your face for a few seconds, just taking a moment to breathe and enjoy the quiet, warmth, and serenity of your post-party ritual.

You were just about to pull the towel away when you felt gentle hands slide around your waist before you were being embraced between two strong arms.

“Long night?” He murmured into your shoulder before pressing a kiss to it.

You hummed in agreement and pulled the towel away from your face, smiling at Finnick in the reflection of the mirror.

“It always is in the Capitol.” You replied.

He offered you a knowing smile before pressing another kiss to your shoulder.

“Missed you.” He said before reaching around you to grab some makeup wipes to begin removing the work his own stylists put into his appearance tonight. “Anything interesting happen?”

You hummed noncommittally as you smoothed cream over your skin. “Not really. Someone tried setting me up with this guy again.”

“Really?” Finnick asked, feigning intrigue. “Was it a match made in heaven?”

You made a so-so sound. “He was pretty cute,” you allowed, “but I don’t know if it would work.”

“No?”

“No. I mean, for one, he didn’t start drooling the second he saw me. Huge red flag I think.”

With that, Finnick theatrically slammed his hand down on the countertop and levelled you with a disbelieving look. “You mean to tell me that he didn’t immediately fall to his knees in worship?”

“No!”

Finnick shook his head; simply aghast. “You can do so much better, honey.”

Your smile turned soft as you watched him lather some of his face wash between his hands before bringing them to his face. “I think so too.”

By the time he was done with washing his face, you were sitting on the counter with Finnick standing between your legs as you massaged some moisturizer into his skin.

“They don’t know what you deserve anyway.” Finnick states suddenly.

Your brows scrunched in confusion. “Who doesn’t?”

“The Capitol people; they don’t know what kind of partner you deserve.”

You stayed quiet as you finished working the product into his skin, pressing a kiss to his lips to alert him to the fact that you were finished. You felt rather shy when he opened his eyes and you found yourself pinned beneath his sea green gaze.

“They’d be sorely mistaken if they thought Capitol Darling Finnick Odair was all you deserved.”

You smiled softly at him before pressing another softer, lingering kiss to his lips.

“I’m rather fond of this Finnick Odair.”

You relished in the slight pink dusting of his cheeks as his smile grew wider before he pulled you in, cradling you to his chest.

You’d come to expect a lot of things to happen when attending a party in the Capitol.

It would take your stylists three hours to prep you for the party. It would take you forty minutes to disassemble yourself after the party. The outfits and jewelry you wore would cost more than most District families saw in years.

And there would always be people trying to introduce you to or set you up with their favourite victor; the Capitol’s darling.

The best part was that no one knew you and Finnick Odair have actually been dating behind closed doors for four years now.

You sit across from him, legs crossed, elbow propped on the armrest. Your gaze is fixed out the window, where the scenery blurs into streaks of green and gray. The train hums beneath you, cutting across the country at 250 miles per hour, but everything inside this car feels oddly still—quiet, suspended.

Finnick’s been watching you ever since the two of you left your tributes behind to give them some space. Alyssa is still recovering from her breakdown, trembling and hollow-eyed, while Ronan seems hellbent on burning the whole world down with his glare alone. You figured they needed a moment to breathe—without the weight of two victors hovering over them—and Finnick, ever your shadow, followed you here without question.

“What?” you blink, snapping out of your thoughts and turning your head to him.

He’s a mess of golden curls and lazy elegance. His hair is longer now, brushing the tops of his ears and curling at the nape of his neck. He’s slouched low, legs sprawled across the glass coffee table, chin resting against his chest. His lips are jutted in mock offense, and those sea-green eyes flick lazily over you, unbothered and amused.

“I asked if you knew how to braid hair,” he repeats, unmoving.

You shift, uncrossing your legs and planting your feet firmly on the ground. “Sort of. Why?”

A grin breaks across his face like sunshine. He springs up from the chair, eyes glowing with the kind of giddy excitement that makes him look years younger.

“I do! But my hair’s too short—it’s tricky.” He clasps his hands together with childlike eagerness. “So I figured I’d teach you instead. How about it?”

You eye him suspiciously, arms crossing over your chest. “You want me to braid your hair.”

He shrugs, grin widening. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.”

Finnick gasps—loud and dramatic, like he’s auditioning for a Capitol soap opera. “What? Can’t a man want his hair braided in peace?”

“You think I’m buying that?”

“Okay, fine, you caught me.” He throws himself back into the chair, hands raised in surrender. “I just wanted a pretty girl to doll me up and put her hands all over me. Sue me.”

You scoff, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrays you. He sees it immediately.

Triumphant, he rises again—this time stepping clean over the coffee table with those absurdly long legs—and drops into the seat beside you. He doesn’t just sit; he flops, half his weight pressing against your side as he rests the back of his head on your shoulder.

“Finnick, get off—”

“Just braid my hair, please,” he whines, craning his neck to look up at you. His sea-green eyes widen into a pitiful, practiced pout that probably gets him whatever he wants 99% of the time.

If you were still the girl who had a hopeless crush on Finnick Odair back when you first met—when he was shiny and untouchable and looked like he belonged in storybooks—you probably would’ve folded right then and there. Hell, you would’ve agreed the second he brought it up.

“Finnick, that’s disgusting,” you deadpan, pushing at his shoulder with mock disdain.

He only leans in harder, his grin turning mischievous.

“Why won’t you justtt—” Finnick shifts abruptly, knocking you sideways as he flops fully onto the couch, “braid my hairrrr.”

You groan, smacking his arm. But you’re already reaching for his curls.

You sigh, combing your fingers through the mess of bronze curls resting on your shoulder. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“But charming,” he mumbles, eyes closed, lips curled into a smug little smile.

You ignore him, gathering a small section of his hair near the crown of his head. It’s surprisingly soft, the strands slipping through your fingers like silk. You separate it into three uneven parts, unsure if you remember the technique exactly—it's been a while.

“Alright,” he says, voice lilting. “You start with three sections—left over middle, right over middle. Just keep crossing them like that.”

“I do know the basics,” you reply, tugging a bit tighter on one of the strands just to make a point.

Finnick winces dramatically. “Ow! Is this how you treat all your clients?"

“You’re not my client,” you murmur, already smoothing another piece into the braid. “You’re the guy who whined until I let him use my shoulder as a pillow.”

“Correction,” he says, eyes still closed, “I am the guy who won his Games at fourteen, who’s currently teaching you how to braid, and who looks devastatingly handsome while doing so.”

You yank just a bit harder on the next cross.

He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth. “Hey!”

You feign innocence. “Oops. My fingers slipped.”

Finnick lifts his head just enough to glare at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Me?” You blink at him sweetly, even as you deliberately pull the next section just a touch too tight. “Why would I ever do that?”

He groans and flops back down, muttering something about “cruel women with delicate hands” as you stifle a laugh.

“You’re such a baby,” you tease.

“I’m a delicate baby,” he replies, still dramatically sprawled across your lap. “Handle me with care.”

You roll your eyes but your hands work more gently this time, smoothing the last bit into a neat little braid that curves just behind his ear. It’s not perfect, but it holds—and for someone who supposedly hates the Capitol, you can admit that it makes him look softer. Like a boy again.

“There,” you say, giving the braid a light pat. “Braided. Happy now?”

Finnick hums, tilting his head side to side like he’s testing the tension. “Not bad,” he muses. “A little tight. Think you’re mad at me.”

You shrug, wiping your hands together like the job’s done. “Maybe I am.”

He gasps. “For what?”

“For existing.”

Finnick clutches his imaginary pearls. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

“I might not,” he moans dramatically, slumping even further against your side. “This braid might cut off circulation to my brain. If I die, I want you to know you’re the prime suspect.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Whatever will I do without your constant whining and inflated ego?”

He grins, bright and boyish. “Mourn me forever. Keep a little locket with my picture in it. Swear vengeance.”

“I’d throw a party,” you shoot back, poking his cheek. “Balloons. Cake. Streamers that say Good Riddance.”

“You’re cruel,” he says, feigning deep heartbreak. “And I liked it better when you were pretending not to hate me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes crinkling, “but if you braid my hair again tomorrow, I’ll take it as a declaration of love.”

You snort, giving him a shove with your shoulder. “You’re lucky I didn’t tie a knot in it.”

“Oh, you tied something, alright,” he says with a wink, flicking the end of the braid.

“Finnick,” you warn, already smiling.

“Just saying,” he chirps, stretching back out with a yawn, “if I start walking around the Capitol with braids, everyone’s going to assume I’m spoken for.”

“Let them.”

That makes him pause—but just for a second. Then he smirks again.

“Dangerous words,” he murmurs, turning his face up toward yours. “Careful. I might hold you to them.”

You roll your eyes, flick the end of his braid, and lean back with a smirk of your own.