gogobootz1 - Tumblr blog

gogobootz1 · 22 minutes

Text

The Mentor Pt. 7

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Your Hunger Games strategy goes off the rails when a friend comes to you with a plan

Part 6

“Look kid, this isn’t like last time, you’re not on a level playing field here.”

Katniss crossed her arms as she leaned back into the couch of District Twelve’s Capitol penthouse.

“These are Capitol darlings, lethal weapons, murderers one and all, gathered neatly together for an All Stars round. Of these stars, you are space dust. Recency may be on your side, but little else. They are older, stronger,”

Peeta effectively interrupted, “Who are they?”

“What?” Haymitch blinked.

“Take us through them. Surely you can offer some insight, after knowing them all these years,” he shrugged.

“I’ll ignore the fact you just called me old,” the older man walked off to grab the tablet that controlled the TV. District by district, he took his tributes through their competition.

When he got to District Four, Katniss beat him to it, “Finnick O’Dair, right?”

“Yes,” Haymitch confirmed, “he won his games at fourteen. Youngest ever. Extremely humble.” The image of the tall, bronzed man sauntering across their screen seemed to disagree.

“You’re kidding,” she deadpanned.

“Yes! I’m kidding,” Haymitch snapped. “He’s a,” he dramatically moved his hair, “peacock. A total preener. But he’s the Capitol Darling, they love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat. Especially in water.”

“What about weaknesses?” Peeta leaned forward.

“One,” Haymitch confirmed, “Mags. She was his mentor and basically raised him. If he’s trying to protect her in any way it exposes him.”

“A guy like that has to know she’s not gonna make it. I bet when it really comes down to it he won’t protect her,” Katniss shrugged.

“Well, Katniss,” Haymitch said, “I just hope when she goes she goes quickly. She’s actually a wonderful lady.”

Katniss blinked guiltily at his statement, and Peeta leaned back into the couch.

“But if he does ally with her it’ll make him less of a threat,” Peeta offered.

Haymitch let out a sour little laugh, “Oh, we’ll get to his allies.”

Peeta winced when Haymitch later marked the intimidating young woman from District Seven as one, and was surprised at the lack of others.

By the time he got to Ten, Katniss was antsy, “Can we wrap this up?”

“Sure if you want to ignore a huge fucking threat,” Haymitch shrugged.

“It looks like a strong gust of wind would blow him over,” Katniss complained.

“Not him,” her mentor snapped, clicking forward, “Darla Kennedy.”

Their attention went back to the screen when another young woman appeared, stepping forward and giving an assured nod to the cameras.

“Darla is young, well connected, and deadly with a whip,” Haymitch began.

“Who’s that behind her?” Peeta interrupted, noticing the woman peace keepers were escorting off stage.

“Well, since you mentioned it,” he rewinded the feed to when the young women were standing next to each other. “That,” he pointed to the one they weren’t familiar with, “is Darla’s mentor. One of the most popular tributes to ever come out of the games, and maybe the best mentor I’ve ever met.”

“How do you mean?” Peeta pressed.

“She saved Darla’s life about four times during her games with just wit and a warm smile,” he shrugged, “if she wanted a sponsor there’d be twenty knocking down her door. Kid’s a magnet, and a brilliant strategist. Not to mention, a great drinking buddy,” Haymitch finished.

“Not helpful,” Katniss griped, and the man rolled his eyes.

“Point is, if you don’t think she’s calling on every favor she’s owed and pulling every string in her arsenal to save that girl, you’re dead wrong. Darla’s practically all she has left,” Haymitch elaborated, “but both Ten ladies are good friends with Finnick.”

“Finnick?” Peeta asked, surprised.

“Not that he’d need the help with sponsors,” Haymitch shrugged, “but no doubt it’ll be a scary alliance. One you might consider joining.”

“No way,” Katniss scoffed.

“Like I said, I’m friends with their mentor, I could hook you up,” he doubled down.

“Not interested,” she grunted.

“Look,” Haymitch sat on the coffee table across from them, “you’re starting at a disadvantage. Most of these people have been friends for years.”

“That just puts us higher on their kill list,” Katniss snapped, crossing her arms.

“Do it your own way,” Haymitch shrugged, “but I know these people. You go it alone, their first move is gonna be to hunt you down. Both of you.” He left the room before his words even sank in.

————————————

Your fingers twitched while you waited for Darla to wake up. Sometimes you cursed yourself for being an early bird, but after your games you couldn’t help but get up with the sun. Some lasting self-preservation instinct had always been your theory. You had a plan for her, not that she’d like it.

Shuffling from the hall caught your attention, and you perked up to see her walking toward the breakfast table half-awake.

“Morning,” you said, quickly. She just grunted as she poured herself some coffee. “I want to run something by you.”

She took a sip of coffee, placing pastries from the breakfast spread onto her plate. When she realized you weren’t still talking she looked up, and gestured for you to go on.

“I want you and Finnick working together,” you started.

Darla interrupted, mouth full of croissant, “Obviously, that was just a given.”

You clenched your jaw a bit, but barreled on, “and I want the two of you working with Johanna and-“

“No!” She cut you off, nostrils flared. “That’s a recipe for disaster, and you know it.”

“It’s the best plan I’ve got,” you fired back, “the Capitol knows the two of you were together. They’ll eat your dynamic right up, and keep you alive long enough for you to keep making good television.”

She looked indignant, but you doubled down, “Johanna is a strong fighter, and with Finnick distracted protecting Mags you’ll need to beef up your alliance. If Blight comes with her, the five of you can square off evenly against the careers.”

“We’re sure Finnick won’t want to join the pack?” Darla raised a brow, and you blinked at her in surprise.

“You really think he’d do that?” You asked, voice light. Would he? You were so certain of his character you hadn’t even considered the possibility. But the games always changed things- changed people. When she made a face at you, you shook it off, “You know he loves Mags, he wouldn’t just leave her. And the careers are too pragmatic to take on someone they see as dead weight.”

“Good thing I’m not pragmatic, then,” Darla said wryly, taking a bite of a fruit tart.

Pragmatic, no. Entertaining, yes. Watching Finnick care for Mags would melt hearts across the nation, and they wouldn’t be able to turn the cameras away from two bickering exes. Putting on a show was the first step to a one way ticket out of the arena. You just didn’t want to think about which one of your friends would be the one to take it.

Your strategy started as soon as the train pulled into the station. Walking onto the platform with an arm over Darla’s shoulder, and big smiles on both of your faces. If there was ever a time to appeal to the audience it was now. Normally you’d shy away from questions, but with a few cameras you were eager to assert your tribute early.

“We’re always happy to visit the Capitol! You all make us feel so welcome here!” Darla assured a reporter. So she had taken your strategy briefing to heart.

“While we wish we could be seeing you under better circumstances,” you jumped in, “we’re certainly going to make the most of our time here. You might just get sick of seeing us!” You laughed with the reporter, touching her wrist lightly.

From there you were off to the races, starting a campaign of phone calls in the car. Scheduling an appearance on daytime TV to talk up Darla, conversing with the connections you’d made over the years, and making appointments for drinks or coffee occupied your afternoon.

Darla took the time to settle in to the space, flicking through magazines on the couch as you talked your throat dry. After hanging up on another Capitolite, you scratched some more notes on the meticulous schedule you’d started.

“Time for a break?” Darla asked from the other room after a minute of silence.

“Time for a drink,” you complained, but caught a glimpse of the time. “Shit!”

“What?” She asked as you ran to the room you’d stayed in during your annual visits.

“I’m meeting Mrs. Montgomery for dinner!” You shouted back.

“Who?”

Within ten minutes you stumbled back out in a short, but stylish cocktail dress.

“How do I look?” You asked, shoving your feet into a small pair of heels as you smeared lipgloss on your mouth.

“Stellar,” Darla assured you, not bothering to look up from her magazine.

You were busy clipping your hair up, assessing your appearance in the microwave’s reflection. “Really?” You fretted, finally turning toward her.

“Absolutely!” She said enthusiastically, still not looking up.

Your shoulders dropped, “Fuck off!” Grabbing your purse, you headed for the door.

“Love you too! Thanks for all you do for-“

The slamming door cut her off, and she snickered.

Mrs. Montgomery was over the moon that’d you’d asked her out to dinner, and recommended her favorite spot in the city. Luckily it was only a few blocks away, and with some extra incentive your driver floored it. You walked into her embrace right on time, and successfully reminded her of how much she adored you for an hour.

Long ago you had learned just how much Capitolites liked to talk about themselves, and you used it to your advantage more often than not. Questions like, “How are your students? I so regret I haven’t been able to visit recently!” Were unbelievably well received, and further endeared you to the very wealthy woman who sat across the table.

Finally, she came to address the elephant in the room, “I’m sure it’s hard for you to be here under these circumstances.”

You nodded, “It is. This is my home away from home, but I can’t help but worry for Darla.” She nodded sympathetically, you had her hooked, but it was time to reel her in, “She’s so so capable, and I know she’ll go far, but I need her to come home.”

Mrs. Montgomery reached across the table for your hand, “We’ll be happy to sponsor Darla.” She spoke on behalf of herself and her ultra-rich husband, who you’d have the displeasure of meeting as a client.

“It would mean so much to me to have yours and Mr. Montgomery’s support. Please tell him I asked after him, by the way,” you squeezed her hand gently. You might come to regret it later, but what was the point of being forced to have a roster if you couldn’t put them to good use. The man was richer than God, and had requested your company on multiple occasions. An appeal to his wife and to him, though indirectly, would go far. You could face any consequences later.

You paid for dinner yourself, though Mrs. Montgomery did protest, earning even more points towards your cause. A warm goodbye hug marked your departure, and soon enough you were B-Lining to the hotel bar in the lobby of the training center.

—————

“If it isn’t my favorite District Twelve victor,” an airy voice pulled Haymitch’s attention from the glass of bourbon he’d been swirling. Pleasantly surprised to see you, he turned the futuristic stool next to him in your direction.

“Well, have a seat, your highness,” he invited, and you settled in at the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“Surprise me,” you set your purse on the counter. He slid you his untouched glass of bourbon. “Lazy,” you complained, before taking a sip.

“You’re just the gal I’ve been wanting to see,” a small smile spread across his thin lips and raised alarm bells in your mind.

“Why’s that?” You asked cautiously.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he stood from his chair, but you shook your head.

“Let’s not,” you weren’t aiming to be associated with Twelve right now. If Capitolites saw the two of you on the street and got to talking, it could be bad for business. Katniss and Peeta made for a good show, but with your finger on the pulse of the Capitol, you could tell when Snow was displeased. That wasn’t an obstacle you currently needed in your way.

Haymitch put his hands up in surrender, “Then I’ll mix you something better.” He winded around to the other side of the bar. Stopping in front of you, he snatched the glass of bourbon back and polished it off. Where the bartender had run off to, you couldn’t say.

“What do you want?”

“Your ear,” he crushed some mint at the bottom of a new glass. “I just don’t want you to waste your efforts.”

Your brow furrowed, he was crazier than you thought if he was asking you to back off, “I spend my energy carefully, thank you.”

“Then spend it on this,” he plopped a mojito in front of you, “your girl makes it out and so does mine.”

You raised a brow, inspecting both him and your drink, “You know that can’t happen.”

“If you pretend we’re flirting while I lean in to tell you the plan it can,” you blinked for a second before meeting him halfway.

“A transport is coming from District Thirteen to pick up Katniss and anyone aiding her from the arena. They want her for the rebellion,” Haymitch breathed into your ear. Pretending you hadn’t just heard literal whispers of treason involving a long-dead district was difficult, but you managed to swallow your shock.

“When?” If true, this would change everything. Your moves would need to incorporate Katniss and Peeta, your endgame would be totally different. But first you had to determine the chances of this going wrong.

“I don’t know yet,” Haymitch whispered.

“Give me something here,” you pleaded, “I can’t work with nothing. How could I trust a pretty promise?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he warned, and you angled your head enough so he could see your glare. “You know very well I’m too chicken to take anything less than a sure bet.”

“You’re awful at gambling, and you’re a reckless old drunk,” you snarked quietly back, this wasn’t a risk you could take lightly.

“I’m telling you this because I need your help, and Darla’s, and Finnick’s, and Johanna’s,” he went on, but you cut him off.

“You’re assembling a team of political defectors?”

Haymitch’s nostrils flared, but went on before you could protest further, “We need to keep Katniss alive until Plutarch can get her and her allies out of that arena.”

“Plutarch?” That caught you off guard, and you reeled back. Your volume clearly bothered him, though the bar was empty. Haymitch clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Yes,” he confirmed quietly, scanning the room, “though this is all meant to be secret!”

You smacked his hand away, “Then what is my part in your lovely little treason plot?”

“You need to recruit the others,” Haymitch nodded.

“Excuse me?!”

“Well, as helpful as you’ll be pulling strings from behind the scenes, Katniss needs allies in the arena,” he said.

“You really think they’d commit treason because I asked nicely?” You were skeptical.

“Yes,” he nodded, and you gaped.

Shaking it off, you kept pushing, “What makes you think they’ll work with her? What makes you think she’ll work with them?”

“She doesn’t know about this,” he said sharply, “and she can’t. All they have to do is not kill her, and eliminate those tributes who might.”

“The careers, then,” you tilted your chin up.

“Bingo.”

You took a sip of the now slightly watered mojito, “So what does she know?”

“What you did when you won,” he offered, “shoot to kill, play to win.”

“Will she take any allies?” You asked, taking a deep breath, “You know that’d make things easier.”

“I’m working on it,” he shook his head.

“Yeah, that’s a no,” you huffed a laugh, astounded by the turn of events. Never in a million years would you have seen this coming. You knew Katniss had stirred something up, but had not foreseen a full fledged rebellion on the immediate horizon.

“She needs time,” Haymitch insisted, “Peeta will help her see the logic behind strong allies.”

“And how much does he know?” You set your glass down with a clink. Haymitch just shook his head. Sighing, you barreled on, “I don’t like this, you know?”

“I know,” he nodded, eyes clear and serious. You weren’t sure you’d seen him quite like this before. “But you’ll do it. You don’t want to have to choose between Finnick and Darla.”

Tightening your grasp around the glass, you ran your tongue across your teeth. Fuck if he didn’t have you pinned. If there was even a slight chance you could save them both, you’d take it. Just when Haymitch had realized how deep your affection for Finnick ran, you had no clue. Suddenly, you hoped you weren’t a chatty drunk.

“Your lives will all be better for it,” Haymitch said, “we’ll all be free.” You met his gaze head on, and were surprised to find hope lying in them.

“I’ll talk to D tonight,” you nodded once, “and I’ll get to Fin and Jo.” Haymitch’s shoulders sagged with something like relief. When you clocked Peeta walking in from the other side of the room, you knew it was time to wrap things up. You leaned in close, again.

“But don’t think I’m doing all your dirty work, Old Man,” you said lowly, with a coy grin, “I’m sending them your way!” You planted a quick kiss on his cheek, leaving behind a lip stick print. Quickly grabbing your purse, you sprung off your stool.

With some manufactured pep in your step, you walked towards the blond boy. “Don’t let him fix you a drink, Peeta,” you said, conversationally, “for a drunk, he’s piss poor at it!” The last part was directed at your old pal, who’d now placed the lot of you in a precarious spot.

“I missed you too, Sugar!” He yelled back, wide grin on his face as you sauntered toward the elevator.

Peeta looked at him, amused, but skeptical, “What’d she want?”

“A piece of this!” Haymitch gestured dramatically toward himself, and picked up the glass you’d left behind. Polishing it off, he choked a little at the taste. You’d been right, of course, he was a little rusty at bartending.

——————————

You tugged at the shoulder of Darla’s tribute outfit. When you’d suggested leather to the stylist, this wasn’t what you’d meant. Skin tight, black patent leather reflected sunlight into your eyes. You let your hand come to your brow as you shook your head.

“What?”

You raised a brow at the stylist, one of Darla’s.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You don’t think it leans a little… kinky?” You shrugged, frustrated.

“Well, you said leather,” the stylist defended themself.

“And you took that as BDSM?”

Darla threw her hands up in the air at your comment, tired of being examined, and wandered off.

You sent the stylist away before they could argue any further. This parade was already a mess. Your plans to put Darla on horseback, to harken back to her first parade, were ruined by Darby’s apparent inability to ride a horse. There was no way you could put her on horseback if those poor creatures were pulling a cart as well. You pet one of the horses that would be pulling the Ten tributes, and the action calmed you a bit. Only, your peace was disturbed when you saw Finnick putting the moves on Katniss.

Of the ways to piss off the standoffish girl you’d been charged with helping protect, he had to pick this one. It took about ten seconds for you to march over and fix it.

“I’m sorry you had to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you,” you overheard. His voice oozed with sarcasm and you rolled your eyes.

“Is this strange man bothering you, Katniss?” You didn’t wait for a response before dragging him off by his ear.

“Hey, now,” he complained, but kept at your side. “Peeta,” Finnick tried for a dignified nod as you passed him, but came up short.

“Finnick,” he nodded back, gaze turning to you.

“Bye, Peeta!” You waved with your free hand.

“See ‘ya, Sugar,” he waved back, kindly.

Finnick planted his feet, freeing himself in an instant, “Sugar?!” He stood to his full height and shot the Twelve tribute a sour look. You rolled your eyes and started dragging him by the wrist instead. While you were going to correct Peeta, you no longer saw a point.

“Sugar?” Katniss questioned too, a skeptical look on her face.

“Is that not her name?” Peeta was confused. “That’s what Haymitch called- oh,” he seemed to have answered his own question, and Katniss let out a small laugh.

“What was that?” You asked Finnick, when you’d finally pulled him to a secluded area.

“What? I was just being nice,” he defended himself, about to pop a sugar cube in his mouth. You plucked it from his hand and tossed it over you shoulder. Finnick blinked.

“So I was trying to sus her out,” he shrugged, “big deal. If the Capitol finds out their romance is a lie, their support goes up in flames… like her little dresses.”

You rolled your eyes. If you were still playing to win, you would’ve liked his angle, but as it was, you had to steer the ship back on course. “Play nice with her, would you? I’m working on something.”

“You’re working on something that includes the girl on fire?”

You grabbed his wrist, “Keep it quiet and come find me later. Find Haymitch too!” Sensing the parade was about to start, you turned to go.

“Some greeting,” he complained, moodily. You stopped in your tracks, and turned again to face him.

“Did I forget to say hi to you and your abs and your skirt?” You asked facetiously.

“You did” he nodded, “we were offended.” Rolling your eyes amusedly, you stepped up close to him.

“Hello Finnick,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Hi Finnick’s abs,” your gaze moved down as you went, “hi Finnick’s skirt.” You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips as you looked back up at him. “Happy?” You asked.

“Very,” he nodded, soundly.

“Good,” you nodded back.

“I missed that smile.” He said lowly, leaning in a bit. You were really fighting against your grin, now.

“It missed you too,” you said, refusing to make eye contact.

“Really?” His eyes sparkled as he looked down at you.

“Don’t you have a populous to charm?” You tilted your head.

“I’ve got a you to charm, first,” he blinked, innocently. When he reached out to tug on a strand of your hair, you’d had enough.

You lightly swatted his hands away and skittered back, “Go! … Do your parade prep,” you sputtered.

Finnick tried to conceal his laughter at your reaction. He just loved to see you flustered. “If you insist,” he bowed his head and began to trot off. But he couldn’t resist throwing a melodic goodbye over his shoulder and taking one last glance to see you hurry off.

————————————

Finnick wouldn’t see you again until later, though he did try. He eventually found you at a party that night, a young Capitol socialite you were both familiar with was throwing a celebration in honor of the games.

When he saw Darla tearing up the dance floor, he had no doubt that you were behind the appearance, and started scanning the rooms in the penthouse. Finally, he found you hidden away in a quiet spot, typing away on a tablet.

Hard at work securing sponsors, no doubt. If he was lucky, he’d be reaping the rewards of Darla’s 101 sponsor gifts. Maybe you’d even deign to send him a little something. He called your name to pull you from your work.

You looked up from your tablet, curiously. His hand tensed. When did you start wearing glasses? How did they make you look even more-

“Finnick?” You arched a brow.

“Yup?” He said, shoving both hands in his pockets.

You blinked at him from your spot on a couch, “Spaced out there for a second?”

“Yup,” he nodded. You rose to meet him when you noticed he wasn’t moving to sit beside you. He watched the slinky black dress graze your thighs as you walked.

“Are you alright?”

“Yup,” he said, a little breathy.

“Okay,” you said, skeptically, “So in terms of-“

“Sorry,” he interrupted, swallowing, “when did you start wearing glasses?”

“What?” You asked, not quite following his train of thought.

He inched closer and adjusted the frames on your nose as you blinked up at him, “When did this become a thing?”

“I-“ you floundered. Was he blushing?

“Okay, lovebirds,” Johanna breezed into the room. You jolted and Finnick snatched his hands away from your face in surprise. “Wrap it up, I want to hear this brilliant plan of yours.”

She directed the last part towards you. You had found her earlier and told her essentially the same thing you’d said to Finnick. Johanna was surly, sure, but had a soft spot for you. She’d won the year after Darla, and you eventually took her under your wing as well. Not in time to warn her to take Snow’s threats seriously, but soon enough to comfort her before she could spiral too badly.

You tried to shake off the confusing last few moments, “Alright, well, marketing it as my plan was maybe a little disingenuous.” They both seemed confused at your words. “But if it’s the plan I think it is it’s a plan I can get behind,” you rushed out

“Are we throwing a surprise party? What the hell are you talking about?” Johanna asked.

“Look, I,” you did a quick glance around the room, and motioned for them to follow you. They both did, but it only further soured Johanna’s mood. When you found a private enough corner, you told them what Haymitch had told you.

“So what? We have to protect pretty little princess for a free ticket out of here?” Johanna spat.

“Basically,” you nodded. Looking over at Finnick, you tried to gauge his reaction. He hadn’t said anything, and still seemed deep in thought.

You knew neither of your friends were fond of the Capitol. They had both lost more than they’d care to admit to these people, but you couldn’t begrudge them for trying to think this through. You’d spent a few hours doing the same before you brought it to Darla last night, and she had to sleep on it.

“Look,” you tried again, “the reality is, she probably won’t ally with you. I still think the smartest thing to do would be to bring both your district partners and Darla into an alliance of five. If you can manage to knock out some threats to her, you can bide your time until the free plane ride.”

They both seemed to relax a bit at that, but there was still some hesitance. “You really think throwing Darla and I together is a smart move?” Johanna asked smartly.

“I don’t take this lightly,” you said with an air of scolding, “I’m trying to keep you safe. Right now, the only way I know how is asking you to watch each others backs in the arena while I watch yours from here. Can you trust me to do that?”

“Yes,” Finnick chimed in seriously, speaking for the first time in minutes.

Johanna was silent for only a few seconds longer, “Yes. But don’t expect me to be nice to her.”

You weren’t quite sure if she was talking about Katniss or Darla, but either way it didn’t surprise you. You only shrugged at her before she walked away.

“So,” you turned casually back to Finnick, “where were we?” You gave him a quick once over, and he seemed to tense up.

“I think I might turn in,” he nodded quickly, brow furrowed. When you titled your head and shot him a confused glance he barreled on, laughing awkwardly, “Big day tomorrow, super tired, goodnight!” He took smell steps backward with every word before practically bolting.

He breezed past Darla, face a little flushed. She smirked a little at his quick pace, and shook her head as she approached you. “What was that about?” She laughed.

“Beats me,” you shook your head, confused and a more than a little disappointed at his departure. After all, you hadn’t seen him in a few months. Most of your phone calls had circled back to the quell, and you would’ve liked some time together. At least the escape plan had made you more optimistic about your chances of seeing him again.

————————————

“Answer me this,” Darla’s voice startled him the next day at training. “Why’d you leave the party in a rush?”

“Sorry?” Finnick remembered it well, but in the light of day was better able to keep his cool. Damned glasses.

Darla rolled her eyes, “Why don’t you tell me after I kick your ass?” She gestured toward the mats set up in an alcove and started walking that way. He followed her lead and took on a fighting stance.

She started to throw out guesses as he dodged her jabs. “Indigestion?” He blocked a punch. “Had to vomit?” Blocked a kick. “Left the oven on?” Sidestepped a hit. Her barrage continued until he swept her legs out from under her.

Darla landed on the mat without complaint, more concerned with him than with training. “Then what sent you running from my lovely mentor?”

Finnick offered her a hand up, but she swept his legs out too. Lying in opposite directions on the floor, he made his first verbal defense. “What, you don’t get sick of those parties?”

She propped herself up on her elbows and sent him a glare. It was intimidating too, but Darla had learned from the best. “Cut the crap, I know there’s a reason. No way she could fathom being rude to you, so that’s out.” Finnick rolled his eyes as sat up. “And she’s got no game so no way she made you blush.”

“Come on,” he said, defensively, pushing to his feet, “don’t insult her.”

Darla perked up at this, and accepted the hand he had once again offered, “Wait, it was really her that made you blush? What on Earth did she say?”

“Drop it, D,” he warned, stalking off.

“I am so getting to the bottom of this!” She chirped, smiling at his departing figure.

Darla gave him some space for a while, flitting around the various stations. The practical skills called out to her, no use practicing with weapons when she was already as good as she’d get.

When she saw Finnick bothering Katniss she made her way over to intervene. He’d tied a noose around his neck, the cheeky bastard. Just when he held it out for Katniss to take, Darla snatched it and pulled him away.

She heard him wheeze and let up on her grasp. “Fuck,” Finnick choked out as loosened the rope from around his neck. “Darla!” He scolded her once he was properly free.

“Don’t antagonize the girl,” she said, stopping once they were out of ear shot, “and don’t act like you’re not spoken for.”

He didn’t bother replying to the first part, “I’m not spoken for.” Darla shot him a glare, saying you’re really going to pretend I’m wrong? with just her eyes. When he glared back she only shrugged.

“You could be,” she sassed, and he took a sharp breath.

“I don’t think now is the time to-“

“If not now then when?!” Darla whisper-yelled, “Newsflash buddy, you still might die. So do you want to die sad and alone… or spoken for?”

“Do I really come off as sad and alone?” Finnick blinked.

“Only to those who know you,” she shook her head.

“Gee thanks, Darla,” he said flatly.

“It’s my pleasure,” she gave him a friendly yet exaggerated shoulder bump. “Come on, let’s catch the show.” Finnick followed her off to join the crowd forming around Katniss’s simulation session.

Darla could see the faces of the other tributes drop as Katniss put down figure after figure. They were nearly all modeled after the rest of them, and featured their signature weapons at the very least. She clenched her jaw when Katniss shot the female figure holding a whip straight through the face. No mistaking who that was meant to be. She saw Finnick twitch when Katniss shot the figure with a trident through the chest. By the end, it was clear that the girl was absolutely on the level of every person there. If luck was on her side, and she wanted to, she could likely kill each one of them.

Wiress started clapping, and it killed some of the tension in the air. But the quell was getting more interesting by the minute.

——————-

The four of you sat in silence in a both in the empty lounge within the training center. You traced the rim of your drink, hoping Haymitch would arrive soon since he asked you all to meet him there. The casual conversation had died out a bit ago, having run out of outfits to make fun of to keep the conversation light. It was hard not to think about your immediate circumstances.

You shivered a little, still unused to the central air the Capitol pumped through all their buildings. Finnick caught your eye and nodded his head in the other direction, inviting you to scoot closer to him. You would’ve shaken your head if you hadn’t put on a tank top earlier, but you were chilly enough to press up against his side in a bid to steal body heat.

Finnick raised a hand to wave to Haymitch when he saw the older man scanning the place. He settled the arm over your shoulder when he was done. Behind your head, he caught Darla narrow her gaze at him and sent her a look of warning.

“What’s the update?” He asked Haymitch as the man slotted into the space at the edge of the curved booth.

“Well, Katniss is not keen on allies,” he said, instantly off to a bad start, “though she is interested in the District Three Tributes.”

“Excuse me?” Johanna asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Wiress and Beete.”

“You mean she wants Nuts and Volts for allies?” Darla asked, and heard Johanna try to muffle a snicker. She tried not to smirk at the sound. So much for ‘not understanding her’ or whatever Jo had said during their breakup.

“Look, don’t shoot the messenger,” he defended himself.

“Maybe we should if the message is dumb,” Johanna snarked, crossing her arms.

“She said she liked them,” Haymitch repeated, and the whole table winced. Maybe as people, Darla thought, though even that might be a stretch, but as allies? In terms of physical game it’d be like tying a brick around your ankle. Hadn’t the girl seen anyone else at work? Johanna’s axe skills? The second time she and Finnick had sparred?

“Anyone else?” You tried, hoping for a better result. Haymitch thought for a second before snapping his fingers.

“Yeah, Mags!” Darla groaned, make that two bricks. Finnick used the arm he’d draped across your shoulders to flick Darla in the ear.

“Mags and I are a package deal,” Finnick asserted. Not a chance in hell he’d trust someone else to protect Mags.

“Then my bet would be no deal from the girl on fire,” Haymitch shrugged.

“Ok, so we’re keeping Katniss alive, but Three too?” Darla asked.

“Haven’t we established-?”

“We’ve got it,” you reassured him, and Finnick and Johanna nodded.

“Good,” Haymitch saidd. “We’ll,” he nodded in your direction, “keep in touch through sponsor gifts. But it’ll have to be subtle, so keep your thinking caps on.”

“Is that it?” Johanna asked, bored.

“No actually,” he went on, “when the time comes you’ll have to cut out your trackers and one of you will have to get Katniss’s.”

“Shit,” Darla said.

“Squeamish?” Johanna taunted her from the other side of the table. Haymitch interrupted before a fight could break out.

“Before then,” he said, firmly, “I’d recommend making a big show of the interviews. Last chance to drum up public outrage at this, maybe get it cancelled.” Johanna scoffed at that, but Haymitch kept on, “At the very least it’ll be good for sponsors.”

“He’s right about that,” you nodded, already thinking up possible interview angles for Darla.

Haymitch grinned, “I’ll see you all there.” He pushed away from the table, heading back to his own tributes, no doubt.

Johanna walked away next, and Darla popped up to follow her.

“Think they’ll kill each other before the games start?” Finnick asked, angling his head to look at you.

You let out a chuckle, still tucked under his arm. “Let’s hope not. I’m counting on those repressed feelings to bring in sponsorships,” you replied, watching the two walk off. He grinned, shaking with a bit of laughter. When you looked up to catch his gaze, you realized how close you were.

“They sure are powerful,” Finnick said, holding your gaze.

You blinked at him, “Sorry?”

“Repressed feelings,” he clarified, doing his best to look innocent. You elbowed him and scooted away from his grasp and out of the booth. You’d been dancing around your feelings for him for so long you didn’t know how to do anything else.

“Goodnight, Finnick!” You called over your shoulder as you marched away. He sighed as he watched you go, a small smile working on his face. Maybe Darla was onto something.

------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed <3333 next part coming soon! That one will cover the interviews and the start of the games at least

taglist: @emerald-09 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @daixylie @fandomhopped

@axelinchen

@whens-naptime

@avoxrising

@erindiggory

@commanderfreethatdust

@blackdxggr

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@iheartspderman

@slytherinfolk25

@cassiecasluciluce

@jazzyyyyslife

#finnick odair x reader #hunger games fanfiction #finnick x reader #finnick odair #the hunger games

1 note · View note

gogobootz1 · 3 days

Text

The Mentor Pt. 6

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Five more years of victordom have passed, but the Capitol is still throwing surprises at you. This time, in the from of

Part Five

A/N: SURPRISE! This is coming back because I felt like it and some lovely folks left comments recently ♥️ we can blame my absence on this semester, but thank putting off a 14 page final paper for this bout of productivity! (Also I was going for a ranch vibe with this pic? I'll start putting his face back on these soon lol)

Warnings: description of blood

Tears welled in your eyes as you finished dicing yellow onions, and you wiped your face with the back of your arm as you turned to scrape them into the pot. Caesar Flickerman’s voice floated in from your living room, the TV playing in the background so you could keep an eye on the quarter quell special. Count on Caesar to draw the whole thing out, emphasizing the significance of the anniversary and whatnot. You couldn’t help but be curious, though. The last quarter quell had fifty tributes, and you weren’t even alive to see it. You had, however, seen its effects on your occasional drinking buddy, so you were certain this year would be a doozy.

It seemed Caesar was finally getting to the point as you began chopping a red pepper. He introduced the President, and your hand tightened around the knife as Snow began his address. That voice haunted your dreams, and hearing it at home was far more unpleasant than anywhere else. You did your best to tune him out. That was, until he announced it.

“As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, on this, the third quarter quell games, the male and female tribute are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.”

Your ears began to ring, and suddenly, you couldn’t hear the rest. Existing pool of victors. Existing pool of victors. Sharp pain brought your vision back into focus, and you blinked to find blood from the backs of your knuckles spilling over your pepper. Though your brain stopped moving, your hands hadn’t.

You took a silent step back from the counter, staring at the ruined cutting board. Tearing your gaze away, you started rifling through cupboards trying to find a towel. The ironclad grip your dominant hand kept on the knife wasn’t helping, but it certainly hadn’t occurred to you to let it go. Out of options, you shoved your hand under the faucet and watched water carry excess blood away.

Vaguely, you registered the pain in your hand as your water heater got to work, but your eyes stayed locked on the drain. A loud ring of the phone startled you out of your reverie, to the point where you’d launched your still-dirty kitchen knife into the wall next to it. But it pointed you in the direction of some towels, at least, and you snatched a clean one from the laundry basket on the stairs.

Sat on the second to last stair, you hunched over to wrap your hand. The world felt surreal as you stared at your shoddily covered wound, only looking up when your door burst open. You weren’t surprised to see Darla. Her scraped knees, bloody nose, and breathlessness didn’t shock you either. She probably fell when running over, but you were sure you looked just as frazzled. Grabbing her a towel from the basket, you nudged her with it before she could sit.

“Answer Finnick.”

She picked the phone up from the receiver, doing a double take when she registered the kitchen knife.

“Howdy,” she huffed, licking her top lip and clearing some blood.

You could barely hear Finnick’s resigned tone from the other end. “Hey, D,” he breathed. “How’s…” he trailed off.

“Well, there’s blood on the cabinets,” your head popped up when she said it. You hadn’t even noticed the trail you’d left in your wake, “Water on the floor, and a knife in the wall.”

The faucet was still on, too, and you definitely hadn’t turned off the stove. It was a relatively generous assessment from her.

“Will you put her on?”

Darla stuck the phone straight in your face. When you grabbed it she reached for another towel, and pushed it along the floor with her foot.

“Finnick,” your tone was almost too even for the circumstance.

“Don’t do it,” Finnick warned, knowing you far too well.

“Save it,” you shot right back, “I know you’re thinking it too.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he said firmly. "They all have kids. Who would I be if I didn’t?”

Though Darla was busy cleaning up after your spell, you weren't stupid enough to think she wasn't listening. “You know I feel similarly,” you chose your words carefully.

Finnick did know, he’d seen what you’d given up for Darla. How you’d put yourself through the wringer for years just to spare her. He had no doubt you’d act just the same now. Only he didn’t want you to. He would’ve hated seeing Darla in there, but he’d be a dead man if you were in the arena with him. Your stubbornness didn’t stop him from making a final plea.

His soft call of your name cut your heart worse than you’d cut your hand. Suddenly, you could no longer bear speaking to the man who’d been your constant for the past five years. “I’ll talk to you soon. I’ll see you soon, Fin. Take care of yourself.” You stood and shoved the phone back on the receiver before he could say another word. Talking to him, thinking about him, neither would help you hold yourself together.

You stepped away from the phone, but stopped in your tracks to look at the knife. Some of your blood still lingered.

“Leave it,” Darla called from the kitchen, “it’s a bold new piece of decor.” She’d taken up interior design in the wake of her victory. You shook your head with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lip.

Coming to her side, you both looked down into the pot she’d taken off the stove. Burnt onion wouldn’t make much of a base. “There’s leftover pasta in the fridge,” you offered, sadly.

“Yes please,” she nodded quietly. You passed behind her to heat some up, and she settled onto one of the stools at your counter. It took you a minute one-handed, but Darla seemed too absorbed in quiet reflection to care.

She dug in as soon as you slid her a bowl, but you stopped short before sitting down with your own. She raised a brow.

“I’ll be back,” you shook your head, taking your dish and slipping on shoes. The wind whisked straight through your clothes as you crossed the street.

Darby had never been close with you, nor Darla. He was there when she won, and you could tell he was somewhat relieved to only bring home one casket. But you weren’t close enough for him to tell you that, because he wasn’t your trainer.

He wasn’t even there when you’d won. The story was that Darby was too ill. It was true, only the illness was drug induced. District Ten had only one trainer that year.

The woman who had trained Darby had trained you, and you were the last District Ten victor she’d lived to see. Sam was kind but incredibly sharp. Gentle, yet challenging. Observant and astute, she’d assessed you for all you were and marketed a more palatable version to the good citizens of the Capitol. Beyond helping you survive the games, she helped you navigate the aftermath. Without Sam and without your Nana, you wouldn’t have lasted a month outside the arena. She picked you up and dusted you off again and again like your mother had when you were a girl who thought she was invincible. No time had hurt as badly as losing your first tributes, though, but Sam saw you through that too.

Before your second try at mentoring, however, she’d died. A horseback riding accident was the official story, but Sam had left the leather watch she loved at your house just before. She insisted on doing the dishes after you’d made dinner, and you later found it by the sink. Sometimes you swore you caught glimpses of her long silver braid. Each time it happened, you opened the drawer of your nightstand to stare at her watch.

Her death hit Darby hard, they’d been the only two Ten victors for a while. He hardly held it together during Darla’s games. Afterwards, he fell apart.

You’d been mentoring with Darla ever since, comforting her with each loss as Sam had with you. But you knew Darby had seen this announcement, and everyone in the district knew what it meant.

You stood at his door a few minutes after knocking. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you felt compelled to come over anyway.

A blue eye peaked from where the door had finally opened a crack. You held up the still-steaming bowl as an offering. Darby pulled the door fully open and stalked off into his house. Trailing after him, and closing the door behind you, you noticed how skinny he’d gotten since you’d last seen him.

“Thanks,” he said, raspy, when he took the bowl from you finally. You could only nod.

“I’m sorry,” you offered, knowing full-well how little it meant. Darby only sighed and shook his head.

He shrugged, stabbing a fork firmly into the bowl. “I always had that feeling,” he shook his head. Your brows furrowed in confusion, and he went on, “that it wasn’t over. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. They own us, of course they’d want us back.”

His passe tone rattled you. You nervously wiped your non-covered palm on your pants, “Right.” You looked around his dusty home awkwardly, “Well, see you soon.” Trying to leave him in peace and for your own, you made for the exit.

“I’ll say hi to Sam for you,” he said from behind you, mouth full. It stopped you in your tracks. You couldn’t even look back at him.

“Thanks.”

————————

The months leading up to the reaping were hellish, with you and Darla trying to shed your rustiness. You insisted you both throw your all into prepping for this, but that was mostly a ruse. Volunteering for her had been your plan since the announcement. At the very least, you enjoyed your time at home with her. You hadn’t gotten any calls about trips to the Capitol, and Finnick told you he hadn’t either. At least they were letting you enjoy your last few months alive.

As Winter went, and Spring too, the day had finally come. Off to die for the second time.

You zipped the fly on a pair of jeans you hadn’t ever worn. Your stylists had shoved them in your closet a long time ago- since they looked exactly like the ones you’d won in. The head gamemaker your year had a background in fashion, and gave tributes plenty of chances to change dirty or worn clothes in for unique ones. People loved the look so much that denim had been a brief Capitol fashion trend. You figured it’d send a message to anyone who knew. After all, you’d cheated death in these once, you could do it again.

You were up early, and since you and Darla had agreed to arrive separately, you took a long walk around your home district. Your long lap, with sights you’d grown up loving and smells you’d always scrunched your nose at, was met with a few pitying glances. Eventually, it lead you to the Justice Building, and you took an extremely early seat. People took their places as the hours passed.

"Remember, it’s just for show," Sam’s voice rang in your head. It was the last thing she said to you before you entered the arena.

“Hey,” your head snapped to your right where Darla took her seat. She looked tense. You took her hand and squeezed it, a silent reassurance. It’s not you. You’ll be ok. I’ll miss you.

The district filed in for the ceremony, unusually unorganized. The only people the Peacemakers were concerned about policing, however, were already on stage.

Your annoyingly vibrant district escort began the ceremony, and you ignored her for as long as you could bear it. “Ladies first,” you blinked to attention, head held high. This was it. Dug your nails into your palm to stop your hands from shaking. You swallowed. I volunteer as tribute. You willed the words to the front of your brain, hopefully convincing your mouth to form them when the time came.

But you didn’t have to. She had called your name. You willed your face to remain impassive as you squared your shoulders. You forced yourself to take a proud step forward. Perception was everything here. You couldn’t look weak, not to the capitol, and not to your fellow tributes.

“I volunteer as tribute!”

Your well-crafted mask fell with the words. Shoulders sank as you turned to her in shock. Not once did you think she’d volunteer for you. But you could almost hear Finnick’s voice reminding you how similar you were. It was why you got along like a house on fire. Only, this time you had been so recklessly loyal to her you’d miscalculated. And it would almost certainly cost your tribute her life.

“Darla,” you breathed, quiet enough for only her to heard, and sharp enough for it to come across as scolding.

She didn’t even turn your way.

You were escorted straight to the train before Darby could even be picked by default. The new (old) District Ten tributes were escorted straight to the train as well. Only then could you confront your mentee.

“What the fuck was that?!” You stood in a rage. She walked right past you toward the couches, but you caught her wrist.

“You don’t get to scold me for saving your life,” she shook her head, and tugged her wrist free.

“Sure I do, when you’ve acted like a fool! It was random, D! We agreed to let it be random!”

“Oh, that’s rich!” She scoffed.

“Excuse me?!”

“You’re still lying! You really think I didn’t know you were going to volunteer for me?” Darla asked, throwing her hands up in frustration. She fell back onto the couch.

You stepped back, anger fully dissipated. “What?”

“You hung up on Finnick nearly every time I’d walk in,” she shrugged, “you’re brave not subtle.”

Your shoulders sagged, and you lowered yourself onto the luxurious Capitol sofa next to her. For a second, you let your head fall into your hands.

“Still,” you persisted, looking straight ahead, “it was going to be me. You didn’t have to-“

“I know what all you’ve done for me,” she said simply. You sat straight up, finding her face with wide eyes. No.

“Finnick?” He wouldn’t.

“Johanna,” she shook her head. Your shoulders sagged. It made sense that Johanna knew, she was almost in the same situation. And you wouldn’t have expected them to keep things from each other, not before they broke up at least.

“Darla,” you started. Why hadn’t she confronted you when she found out? How long had she been holding on to this knowledge? Did she think differently of you?

“You’ve been falling on your sword for me for five years,” Darla said solemnly, “it’s high time I took it away from you.”

Your stomach ached, and tears blurred your vision, “D.”

She pulled you in for a hug when your voice broke. “You gave me my life back,” she whispered, “I’m only doing the same.”

You pulled away from her, wiping vigorously at your face. “I won’t watch you lose.”

She sniffled a wry laugh, “then make me win. Maybe this time it'll stick.”

————————————————————

taglist: @emerald-09 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @daixylie @fandomhopped

@axelinchen

@whens-naptime

@avoxrising

@erindiggory

@commanderfreethatdust

@blackdxggr

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@iheartspderman

@slytherinfolk25

@cassiecasluciluce

Sorry if you no longer want to be tagged and sorry for this formatting (Tumblr is confusing and it's the only way the tags would work?) ! Let me know and I'll remove you from (or add anyone who wants to be on) the list

#finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick odair #hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games

35 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Text

AAAAAAA TYSM!!!! Percy is so funny and I LOVE Mamma Mia I'm so happy you caught that 😭♥️

At War

Luke Castellan x Reader [fem!daughter of Apollo]

Summary: There's nothing like some friendly competition, but when planning rival parties, you and Luke are a little less than friendly.

Word count: 2k

Every year, there came a time for the retreats- a chance for children of the gods to bond and have some special fun. One big retreat seemed pointless, so camp faculty allowed two. The two retreats accidentally split the boys and girls, and naturally, they turned into an (unofficial) competition. As one of the oldest and most experienced campers- you’d been volunteering to champion a retreat for years. Traditionally, you’ve hosted a slumber party equipped with PJs, dancing, games, movies, braid trains, nail polish, and basically anything anyone could want. You also, of course, have the best food. Each year, it’s been a hit, and it’s only gotten better with time.

The only problem is that you have tough competition. The day after the retreats, you always hear about what happened at the other one. Paintball, camping, fishing, mad romps through the wood, scary stories- barbecue. Everyone loved it. And every year, you’ve had to quietly conceal your anger and jealousy. It pains you to admit that Luke sure can throw a party (maybe even better than you can). But this year, you are more determined than ever to outdo him.

The two of you have long been in competition, and things have only escalated. As hilarious as Mr. D found both your antics last year, Chiron was extremely unhappy about the fact the two of you had exceeded the budget by miles. He’d told you both to reign it in this year or no more retreats. When he felt that didn’t sufficiently move you, he threatened to let other people plan them. You both caved and vowed to stick to the budget this year.

You’re always a little frantic the day of, and today is no different. To your chagrin, Luke is cool as a cucumber. It pisses you off to no end.

“Nervous?” A smug voice voice asks from behind your back. You drop the spoon you were using to push mashed potatoes around your plate.

You turn slowly on the bench, “Why should I be?"

“Usually, you’re pulling out your hair before the retreats,” he says skeptically, “perfectionism taking its toll.”

“Yeah? Well, my perfectionism makes my parties perfect,” you flaunt. The few sisters that can stand to be around you when you’re stressed roll their eyes. It’s clear to them this is escalating.

“What about when Susie vomited in your bouncy house last year?” He taunts, and you glare at him. That girl should not have been jumping after four bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and two Redbulls- it was hardly your fault.

“How about when Aidan got a concussion after falling off the mechanical bull?” You snap back.

You don’t notice Luke’s shadow until he pipes in, “Are these people okay?”

“They signed waivers!” You say at the same time, and the new Poseidon kid takes a defensive step back. You send Luke a glare when you realize you spoke in sync. He huffs before smirking at you.

“Good luck with your sleepover,” he mocks, “You’re gonna need it.” Before you can reply, he marches away, protégée in tow.

“Eat shit!” You call out after him.

“That was weak, girl,” one of your sisters says.

“Shut up, I know,” you shake your head at her, “now come help me set up.” You drag her up by her elbow to make your sacrifices, then get to work.

Five hours later, the main hall looks great. Your disco ball is glimmering, the mini photo booth is equipped with feather boas and pink cowboy hats, the food is all laid out, and the stage you bribed some Hephaestus kids to build looks great.

“Perfect,” you whisper, pleased at your surroundings.

“Fucking finally!” Your sister throws her hands up and walks away. You’ve very likely driven most of your half-siblings insane today.

“Thanks for your help!” You call after her, and as she goes, you spot some prying eyes through the window. Percy, you think his name is, looks afraid now that you’ve caught him peering in through the window. In a few swift moves, you leave the room and block his exit from the patio.

“Can I help you?” You ask suspiciously.

“Just admiring your excellent disco theme,” he says, putting an ultra-sweet smile on his face. As charming as the boy is, you take your retreat very seriously and feel a deep-seated urge to protect it from potential sabotage.

“Mhmmm,” you nod, “and you wouldn’t happen to be reporting back to anyone about what you’ve seen?”

“Whaaaaaat?” Percy asks, awkwardly chuckling.

Your shoulders drop, of course, Luke would stoop to employing spies. You dig into your pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill, “I’ll give you this if you act as a double agent.”

He eyes your money suspiciously, “Do you really think I can be bought?”

You roll your eyes and pull out another bill, “How’s twenty?”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he grabs both bills from your hand and shakes it. Percy happily walks past you, shoving his new earnings into his pocket.

You grin, “Make sure he hears all about how awesome my party is!”

“I’m on it, boss,” he calls over his shoulder. After a short walk, he’s back to the boathouse lounge where Luke has been waiting for his report.

“Well?” The older boy asks him, jumping up from his spot on the couch.

Percy shakes his head solemnly, “Bad news, boss.”

“What?!” He asks, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me she went over budget. She didn't get another mariachi band, did she?” Percy shakes his head and files this new information away. With what he’s been hearing about the last few retreats, he’s almost sad to have missed them.

“No, but it does look super cool,” he nods, and it really wasn’t a lie- he saw a chocolate fountain on that snack table.

“Damn,” Luke’s face twitches in annoyance.

“But your party will be great too, I’m sure,” he smiles, nodding reassuringly.

“Of course, it will,” he says defensively, “make sure you check back in over there from time to time. I want to know how it’s progressing.”

“Sure,” Percy nods, but his concern at the competitiveness underlying this event grows. He wonders just how bad this will get tonight. But check back in he does, and he won’t deny he enjoys himself at the sleepover. Every time he visits, you give him a new sparkly mocktail, and the Aphrodite girls give him a new feather boa. At one point, he’s wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and eating some cake. He was very impressed when M&Ms fell out of the middle as you cut it. Apparently, it’s also one of your newest sisters’ birthdays- he’s heard whisperings of some big special present for her yet to come.

Each time Percy returns to the other retreat, he can see Luke get a little more tense. The fact that he’s exaggerating doesn’t help either. When he tells the older boy that you have an ice sculpture spitting Dr. Pepper, he thinks he sees steam pour from Luke’s ears. It’s not like people aren’t enjoying his party, but Percy can that Luke wants to one-up you and feels like he’s falling short.

“And I’ve heard she has a special surprise in store for Sophie since it’s her birthday. Apparently, she’s the newest addition to their cabin, so she wants to do something special,” Percy nods at him, eating a taco he had brought back from your party. Luke cuts him off by grabbing the taco from his hand just as he’s about to take another bite. “Hey!” He protests when Luke puts it right in the trash.

“When is this surprise?” He asks the twelve-year-old.

“The Aphrodite girls told me I should be back in like twenty minutes so I wouldn’t miss it,” Percy tells him.

“And when was that?”

“Like twenty minutes ago,” he shrugs, and Luke just stares at him. “Ohhhhh,” he says when he realizes how long it’s been.

“Come on,” Luke shakes his head and starts out the door, Percy in tow. They can hear the surprise before they see it, an ABBA song blasting out of the building. Only, they don’t realize who's performing it until they walk in. Along with two of your musically-inclined Apollo sisters, you’re dressed in bell bottoms and sleeves. And you look like you’re having the time of your life- until you spot them, that is.

“Look, look, look, look,” you pull the microphone away to mutter to Tanya. Her shock is visible, but you both keep performing anyway. The crowd goes wild at the end, and Sophie runs up on stage to give you a big hug. You let Tanya take over host duties and make your way through the crowd to the party crasher.

“That was,” Luke starts, but you are not keen to hear whatever he has to say about your outfit, or your performance, or your party.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

His expression instantly sours, “I wanted some Dr. Pepper from your ice sculpture, where is it?”

“What are you talking about?” You’re highly confused until Percy gives you the cut-it-out motion from behind Luke’s back. “We put it back in the freezer,” you say, and Percy gives you the thumbs up. No matter what you think of him, Luke’s not an idiot. He turns around in time to spot Percy’s gestures.

“Wait a second, are you two colluding?” He looks between the two of you in shock.

“You were colluding with him first,” you shrug, crossing your arms. “You really earned that twenty dollars, by the way,” you compliment the kid, and he gives you a pleased nod.

“Dude,” Luke turns toward Percy, betrayed.

“She outbid you,” he shrugs. “Hey, what if you guys just went to each other’s parties?”

You both eye the boy suspiciously, “Why would we do that?” You ask him, and Luke nods in agreement.

“Well, you’re both so desperate to know about the other’s party, so why don’t you just experience it for yourselves?” Percy asks, and when he feels you aren’t sufficiently moved by it, he tries again. “If you attend both parties, you can decide who wins.”

“Good enough for me,” Luke wanders off into your party.

“Yeah, okay,” you head for the door.

“Hopeless,” Percy mumbles, shaking his head.

An hour later, you and Luke meet in the middle of your respective parties. You stare at each other for a minute before you admit in sync, “I had fun.”

“We have to stop doing that,” you shake your head.

“Agreed.”

You’re both silent again for a minute. “The slip and slide was a good idea,” you say reluctantly, soap still in your hair, “low budget but lots of fun. Tubing was good too. And the campfire.” You had changed out of the disco attire and into shorts and a T-shirt over your swimsuit.

“Did you try-“

“Chris can really grill,” you nod. After some hesitance, you finally choke out a confession, “I am very displeased to call you the winner.”

“No way,” he shakes his head.

“What?”

“You totally won,” he shrugs, “the disco was killer.” You only now realize he changed into pajamas.

“You actually embraced the sleepover?”

He flicks some grass off your shoulder, “You gave my party a fair shot.” That’s true, and you nod, looking away for a second. “The chocolate fountain was a nice touch.”

“Thank you.”

“And I was trying to tell you earlier, but your performance was really cool,” he admits.

“Yeah?” A genuine grin grows on your face at this. Most everyone in the Apollo cabin loves music, but some of your half-siblings are more keen to perform than you. Hearing this, and from him especially, means a lot.

“Yeah,” he nods, smiling now too. “You’re the winner here.”

“Let’s call it a draw?” You offer, and he nods.

“What if we just worked together and planned one party next year?” He asked, and you pretend to consider it for a moment.

“That could be cool,” you nod, “imagine what we could do with the combined budget.”

He grins and scrunches his nose, “How about we enjoy this year’s party until then?”

“We could do that,” you nod, “where to?”

He swiftly wraps an arm over your shoulder and starts guiding you back to your party, “Let’s boogie.” You laugh, and he thinks it’s a sound he could get used to.

-----------------------------------------

I've been awake for too long so idk if this is coherent but I had fun <3

#comment rb

787 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Text

THANK YOUUUUU <3

At War

Luke Castellan x Reader [fem!daughter of Apollo]

Summary: There's nothing like some friendly competition, but when planning rival parties, you and Luke are a little less than friendly.

Word count: 2k

You’re always a little frantic the day of, and today is no different. To your chagrin, Luke is cool as a cucumber. It pisses you off to no end.

“Nervous?” A smug voice voice asks from behind your back. You drop the spoon you were using to push mashed potatoes around your plate.

You turn slowly on the bench, “Why should I be?"

“Usually, you’re pulling out your hair before the retreats,” he says skeptically, “perfectionism taking its toll.”

“How about when Aidan got a concussion after falling off the mechanical bull?” You snap back.

You don’t notice Luke’s shadow until he pipes in, “Are these people okay?”

“They signed waivers!” You say at the same time, and the new Poseidon kid takes a defensive step back. You send Luke a glare when you realize you spoke in sync. He huffs before smirking at you.

“Good luck with your sleepover,” he mocks, “You’re gonna need it.” Before you can reply, he marches away, protégée in tow.

“Eat shit!” You call out after him.

“That was weak, girl,” one of your sisters says.

“Shut up, I know,” you shake your head at her, “now come help me set up.” You drag her up by her elbow to make your sacrifices, then get to work.

“Perfect,” you whisper, pleased at your surroundings.

“Fucking finally!” Your sister throws her hands up and walks away. You’ve very likely driven most of your half-siblings insane today.

“Can I help you?” You ask suspiciously.

“Mhmmm,” you nod, “and you wouldn’t happen to be reporting back to anyone about what you’ve seen?”

“Whaaaaaat?” Percy asks, awkwardly chuckling.

Your shoulders drop, of course, Luke would stoop to employing spies. You dig into your pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill, “I’ll give you this if you act as a double agent.”

He eyes your money suspiciously, “Do you really think I can be bought?”

You roll your eyes and pull out another bill, “How’s twenty?”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he grabs both bills from your hand and shakes it. Percy happily walks past you, shoving his new earnings into his pocket.

You grin, “Make sure he hears all about how awesome my party is!”

“I’m on it, boss,” he calls over his shoulder. After a short walk, he’s back to the boathouse lounge where Luke has been waiting for his report.

“Well?” The older boy asks him, jumping up from his spot on the couch.

Percy shakes his head solemnly, “Bad news, boss.”

“No, but it does look super cool,” he nods, and it really wasn’t a lie- he saw a chocolate fountain on that snack table.

“Damn,” Luke’s face twitches in annoyance.

“But your party will be great too, I’m sure,” he smiles, nodding reassuringly.

“Of course, it will,” he says defensively, “make sure you check back in over there from time to time. I want to know how it’s progressing.”

“When is this surprise?” He asks the twelve-year-old.

“The Aphrodite girls told me I should be back in like twenty minutes so I wouldn’t miss it,” Percy tells him.

“And when was that?”

“Like twenty minutes ago,” he shrugs, and Luke just stares at him. “Ohhhhh,” he says when he realizes how long it’s been.

“That was,” Luke starts, but you are not keen to hear whatever he has to say about your outfit, or your performance, or your party.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

His expression instantly sours, “I wanted some Dr. Pepper from your ice sculpture, where is it?”

“Wait a second, are you two colluding?” He looks between the two of you in shock.

“You were colluding with him first,” you shrug, crossing your arms. “You really earned that twenty dollars, by the way,” you compliment the kid, and he gives you a pleased nod.

“Dude,” Luke turns toward Percy, betrayed.

“She outbid you,” he shrugs. “Hey, what if you guys just went to each other’s parties?”

You both eye the boy suspiciously, “Why would we do that?” You ask him, and Luke nods in agreement.

“Good enough for me,” Luke wanders off into your party.

“Yeah, okay,” you head for the door.

“Hopeless,” Percy mumbles, shaking his head.

An hour later, you and Luke meet in the middle of your respective parties. You stare at each other for a minute before you admit in sync, “I had fun.”

“We have to stop doing that,” you shake your head.

“Agreed.”

“Did you try-“

“Chris can really grill,” you nod. After some hesitance, you finally choke out a confession, “I am very displeased to call you the winner.”

“No way,” he shakes his head.

“What?”

“You totally won,” he shrugs, “the disco was killer.” You only now realize he changed into pajamas.

“You actually embraced the sleepover?”

He flicks some grass off your shoulder, “You gave my party a fair shot.” That’s true, and you nod, looking away for a second. “The chocolate fountain was a nice touch.”

“Thank you.”

“And I was trying to tell you earlier, but your performance was really cool,” he admits.

“Yeah,” he nods, smiling now too. “You’re the winner here.”

“Let’s call it a draw?” You offer, and he nods.

“What if we just worked together and planned one party next year?” He asked, and you pretend to consider it for a moment.

“That could be cool,” you nod, “imagine what we could do with the combined budget.”

He grins and scrunches his nose, “How about we enjoy this year’s party until then?”

“We could do that,” you nod, “where to?”

He swiftly wraps an arm over your shoulder and starts guiding you back to your party, “Let’s boogie.” You laugh, and he thinks it’s a sound he could get used to.

-----------------------------------------

I've been awake for too long so idk if this is coherent but I had fun <3

#comment rb

787 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Text

At War

Luke Castellan x Reader [fem!daughter of Apollo]

Summary: There's nothing like some friendly competition, but when planning rival parties, you and Luke are a little less than friendly.

Word count: 2k

You’re always a little frantic the day of, and today is no different. To your chagrin, Luke is cool as a cucumber. It pisses you off to no end.

“Nervous?” A smug voice voice asks from behind your back. You drop the spoon you were using to push mashed potatoes around your plate.

You turn slowly on the bench, “Why should I be?"

“Usually, you’re pulling out your hair before the retreats,” he says skeptically, “perfectionism taking its toll.”

“How about when Aidan got a concussion after falling off the mechanical bull?” You snap back.

You don’t notice Luke’s shadow until he pipes in, “Are these people okay?”

“They signed waivers!” You say at the same time, and the new Poseidon kid takes a defensive step back. You send Luke a glare when you realize you spoke in sync. He huffs before smirking at you.

“Good luck with your sleepover,” he mocks, “You’re gonna need it.” Before you can reply, he marches away, protégée in tow.

“Eat shit!” You call out after him.

“That was weak, girl,” one of your sisters says.

“Shut up, I know,” you shake your head at her, “now come help me set up.” You drag her up by her elbow to make your sacrifices, then get to work.

“Perfect,” you whisper, pleased at your surroundings.

“Fucking finally!” Your sister throws her hands up and walks away. You’ve very likely driven most of your half-siblings insane today.

“Can I help you?” You ask suspiciously.

“Mhmmm,” you nod, “and you wouldn’t happen to be reporting back to anyone about what you’ve seen?”

“Whaaaaaat?” Percy asks, awkwardly chuckling.

Your shoulders drop, of course, Luke would stoop to employing spies. You dig into your pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill, “I’ll give you this if you act as a double agent.”

He eyes your money suspiciously, “Do you really think I can be bought?”

You roll your eyes and pull out another bill, “How’s twenty?”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he grabs both bills from your hand and shakes it. Percy happily walks past you, shoving his new earnings into his pocket.

You grin, “Make sure he hears all about how awesome my party is!”

“I’m on it, boss,” he calls over his shoulder. After a short walk, he’s back to the boathouse lounge where Luke has been waiting for his report.

“Well?” The older boy asks him, jumping up from his spot on the couch.

Percy shakes his head solemnly, “Bad news, boss.”

“No, but it does look super cool,” he nods, and it really wasn’t a lie- he saw a chocolate fountain on that snack table.

“Damn,” Luke’s face twitches in annoyance.

“But your party will be great too, I’m sure,” he smiles, nodding reassuringly.

“Of course, it will,” he says defensively, “make sure you check back in over there from time to time. I want to know how it’s progressing.”

“When is this surprise?” He asks the twelve-year-old.

“The Aphrodite girls told me I should be back in like twenty minutes so I wouldn’t miss it,” Percy tells him.

“And when was that?”

“Like twenty minutes ago,” he shrugs, and Luke just stares at him. “Ohhhhh,” he says when he realizes how long it’s been.

“That was,” Luke starts, but you are not keen to hear whatever he has to say about your outfit, or your performance, or your party.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

His expression instantly sours, “I wanted some Dr. Pepper from your ice sculpture, where is it?”

“Wait a second, are you two colluding?” He looks between the two of you in shock.

“You were colluding with him first,” you shrug, crossing your arms. “You really earned that twenty dollars, by the way,” you compliment the kid, and he gives you a pleased nod.

“Dude,” Luke turns toward Percy, betrayed.

“She outbid you,” he shrugs. “Hey, what if you guys just went to each other’s parties?”

You both eye the boy suspiciously, “Why would we do that?” You ask him, and Luke nods in agreement.

“Good enough for me,” Luke wanders off into your party.

“Yeah, okay,” you head for the door.

“Hopeless,” Percy mumbles, shaking his head.

An hour later, you and Luke meet in the middle of your respective parties. You stare at each other for a minute before you admit in sync, “I had fun.”

“We have to stop doing that,” you shake your head.

“Agreed.”

“Did you try-“

“Chris can really grill,” you nod. After some hesitance, you finally choke out a confession, “I am very displeased to call you the winner.”

“No way,” he shakes his head.

“What?”

“You totally won,” he shrugs, “the disco was killer.” You only now realize he changed into pajamas.

“You actually embraced the sleepover?”

He flicks some grass off your shoulder, “You gave my party a fair shot.” That’s true, and you nod, looking away for a second. “The chocolate fountain was a nice touch.”

“Thank you.”

“And I was trying to tell you earlier, but your performance was really cool,” he admits.

“Yeah,” he nods, smiling now too. “You’re the winner here.”

“Let’s call it a draw?” You offer, and he nods.

“What if we just worked together and planned one party next year?” He asked, and you pretend to consider it for a moment.

“That could be cool,” you nod, “imagine what we could do with the combined budget.”

He grins and scrunches his nose, “How about we enjoy this year’s party until then?”

“We could do that,” you nod, “where to?”

He swiftly wraps an arm over your shoulder and starts guiding you back to your party, “Let’s boogie.” You laugh, and he thinks it’s a sound he could get used to.

-----------------------------------------

I've been awake for too long so idk if this is coherent but I had fun <3

#luke castellan x reader #pjo fanfic #luke x reader #pjo series #luke castellan #pjo x reader #pjo tv show #charlie bushnell #luke castellan x you

787 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Text

THIS IS SO SO KIND THANK YOU😭😭😭😭😭♥️♥️♥️

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling??? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

22K notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Text

The Mentor pt. 5

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: You throw a two-person housewarming party at your new Capitol penthouse

part four | part six

The hardwood floor is cold beneath your back as you look up at the ceiling. You haven't even had a full day here and you don't know how you'll get through this. When the phone rings you don't bother to stand. Reaching your arm up and feeling around on the couch-side table, you manage to grab it in time. “Hello?” You stretch the cord down to where you lay.

“You made it, then,” Finnick’s voice rings through the phone. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the station,” he told you he would, the consistent phone calls over the past two weeks have effectively established a friendship between the two of you. “Something came up last minute.” You have no trouble reading between those lines.

“I figured as much,” you shrug, “it was for the best anyway. I was sent straight to my first engagement when I arrived- didn’t even get to stop in the new penthouse.”

“Already? That seems cruel.”

“Tell me about it,” you shake your head and roll your eyes.

“How is the new apartment?” It’s large and towards the top of the building with private, elevator-only access. It disgusts you.

“Cold and lifeless,” you spit dramatically, and he chuckles a bit. “Well, save for an odd lamp,” you admit, curling up a bit to look at it.

“Don’t tell me you have the corn lamp.”

You bolt upright, “How did you know?” There's no way he could guess that there's a huge plastic head of corn that lights up neon in your living room.

“Because I can see it clearly from my apartment,” he tells you. You stand and make your way to the floor-length windows, stretching the phone cord to the point you pull the receiver off the table. You can make out a figure waving from a different apartment building in your same complex, and you wave back. “Were you lying on the floor?”

“Don’t judge me,” you say, still waving.

“Hey! How about a housewarming gift?” You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, and you amusedly shake your head.

“Sure.”

Soon enough, the elevator doors reveal Finnick, dressed casually but looking no less dashing, with a bottle in hand. “Whiskey for your welcome present," he offers, and you snatch it from his hand.

“And what a warm welcome it is,” you go digging through sleek new drawers to try to find a corkscrew. Finnick makes himself at home, hopping over the back of your couch and settling into it. Pouring two drinks, you walk around the furniture to join him.

“It’s worse in person,” he says, accepting the drink while staring at the corn lamp.

“I’ve been trying not to look at it,” you nod, taking a long sip. It’s smooth, too. Of course, he has expensive bottles just lying around, ready to share.

“I don’t see how you can,” he shakes his head, still staring at it, “it’s shining like the fucking sun.”

“Don’t burn your eyes,” you warn, setting your cup down on the glass table.

He still doesn’t look away, “Did they get confused? Think you’re from Nine?”

“No,” you say, now looking at the lamp too, “Whoever put it in here probably just forgot what Ten does.”

“Or they just didn’t bother redecorating before shoving you in here,” he shrugs. The two of you stare at it for a bit.

“Okay, now I hate it,” you admit, polishing off your glass of whiskey.

“Only now?”

“Well, I was perfectly content to ignore it before you waltzed in and started staring at it,” you say petulantly.

“You really could’ve ignored it?”

“Probably,” you defend, “it would’ve just melted into the background.”

“You’re deluded,” he shakes his head.

"Better than burning the image into my eyes,” you argue.

“You might be right, actually,” he admits.

“So now, what am I supposed to do with it?” Finnick finishes his drink before hopping up.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

First, he unplugs it and throws his hands out to re-present it to you. You give him an unamused stare and get up to grab the whiskey bottle.

Next, he drapes a blanket over it. You shake your head at the attempt, and he swiftly replaces the blanket on your sofa. Finnick takes the whiskey bottle from your hand to take a swig before his next attempt, despite your protests.

Then, he tries dragging it into a closet. The door won’t close all the way, and you give him a firm thumbs down. He pouts.

When he drags it into your all too large standing shower you slap his arm, and he snickers.

Finally, Finnick drags it into your elevator. At first, you are aghast, but then an idea comes to you. You grab his shoes and throw them at him in the elevator. He looks put out by this until he sees you slip on a pair of your own. Grabbing a coat and the blanket from the couch, you join him and the corn. You drape the blanket over his shoulders before pushing the button for the roof.

“Two prostitutes and a life-sized head of corn walk into a bar-“ he jokes, and you snort.

When the elevator dings, you drag the lamp off of it and through a thin layer of snow. It’s heavier than he made it seem, but once you get it a few feet onto the terrace it looks intentional. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“Perfect,” he says, wrapping an arm around the lamp. “You know, I think I might miss this thing,” he turns to look at you, but moves too fast and stumbles, sending the giant lamp into the rooftop swimming pool.

You let out an audacious laugh, “Even better.”

“Now, how is this different from my shower idea?”

You give him a faux glare, before sitting down on one of the benches. He slowly joins you.

“Thanks for this,” you nod, gesturing at where the lamp bobs in the pool, “it was nice to get my mind off things. This is harder than I thought it'd be."

“Oh?” He asks softly.

You shake your head, “She’s pissed at me.” You fiddle with the sleeve of your coat. He looks over with furrowed brows, and you go on, “for my leaving so soon. Says I’m abandoning her when she needs me most.”

He knows you’re talking about Darla, “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’ve given up a lot for her, she’s not allowed to make you feel guilty,” he asserts.

“Tell that to her,” you scoff.

“Maybe I will.”

“You can’t,” your hand shoots to his wrist, and the look in your eye says you mean business.

“I can at least tell her to back off. Your job was hard enough without what you’re taking on for her,” Finnick argues.

You shake your head, “She’ll laugh at you. She thinks I’m a glorified model.” He pauses at this.

“You still haven’t told her?”

“Why should I when it’d make her that much more indignant. She’s dealing with victordom poorly as is.”

“She has no inkling of what you really do?”

“Well, they do a mighty fine job hiding it,” you shrug, “the tabloids call you a playboy. My busy work around town usually explains my presence here, and I’m sure they’ll find a way to spin my extended stays.”

Finnick huffs, “You’re astounding.” He looks over his shoulder, out on the cityscape, snow gently nestling itself into his golden waves.

“I’m not quite sure how to take that,” you stare at his profile before turning to see the view as well.

“As a compliment, of course,” he says quietly, "you’re doing a selfless act and accepting backlash for it."

"What other choice did I have?" You shake your head.

"A lesser person would’ve made a different choice," he says assuredly, "but you couldn’t because you're the kindest, most noble person I know."

But you don’t feel like it. And you don’t feel like you deserve his praise. All you do is your best: trying to keep up appearances, keep it all together, protect who you love. And it doesn’t always work. Sometimes, it’s all out of your control, like dirt slipping through the cracks in your fingers. Your lip trembles, and you try not to let the tears in your eyes spill over, though the brisk air makes it difficult. After a moment, you center yourself enough to look his way.

He’s already looking at you, those big green eyes gazing into your soul, “You’re astounding.” There it is again.

You’re not sure you can bear to hear anymore. Removing an icy hand from your jacket pocket, you cup his cheek and plant a soft kiss on the other one. “Goodnight,” it’s barely a whisper, but you hope it makes up for leaving him alone in the cold.

------------------------------------------------

I wrote the end of this first and made myself sad so I had to go back and write some goofy bullshit <3 in terms of the rest of this series I’m thinking two(ish) more parts and they may be collections of vignettes- we’ll see

taglist: @emerald-09 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @daixylie@imaegonstargaryenswife0@fandomhopped@axelinchen @whens-naptime @avoxrising @erindiggory @commanderfreethatdust @blackdxggr @maxinehufflepuffprincess @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @melagemo0263

also I'm getting lazy, so no pic of him up top this time- sorry people

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick x reader #hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games

246 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 4 months

Note

I’m absolutely in love with the way you write. I’ve been stalking your page for over an hour now and I still feel dehydrated😭

I JUST CANT GET OVER YOUR WRITING I LOVE IT AND YOU SM

THANK YOU ILYT YOU'RE TOO KIND ♥️

3 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Text

Chance Encounters of the Elite Kind

Coriolanus Snow x Reader (what can I say? this is where we're at)

Summary: Finally, at one of countless stuffy parties, Coriolanus finds something (someone) interesting.

“Overwhelmed?”

His head snaps to a leather chair, where you already sit, book in hand. He didn’t think anyone else would be in the library.

Not one to be caught in a vulnerable position, he snaps back, “Annoyed, actually.”

“Oh?” You respond in the same tone as before, not looking especially surprised or impressed. Your expression surprised him since he’s been practically drowning in newfound admiration. He's gotten a lot of the starry-eyed look ever since he’s been climbing through the social ranks.

“Half the people here can’t hold an intelligent conversation,” he shrugs. You snicker, and he feels an odd sense of pride grow at making a beautiful stranger laugh.

“You needed a break, then?” You ask, a small smile now painting your face.

“I thought the books would be better company,” he replies slyly, a smirk starting to rise on the edges of his mouth.

“Well, that’s your problem Mr. Snow,” you say, without malice. His smirk is goes as fast as it came.

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t like the fact that you know him when he doesn’t know you, and he especially doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“You think you’re better than everyone,” you assert, and he’s surprised at your neutral tone. His eyes narrow in anticipation of what you’ll say next. “The problem is, you’re right.”

He can’t help the way his eyes widen at your statement. It was entirely the opposite of the judgment he’d been expecting to spew from your painted-red lips.

You roll your eyes at his reaction, and before he can even get a word in, you start again, “It’s not exciting to be so far ahead when they can’t hardly keep up. So, the game loses its charm.” You shrug and begin to stand, setting the book on the table beside you.

“The game?” His eyes bear into yours.

“Yes,” you emphasize like he was foolish to ask such a question. “Life. The game of social checkers that every person here is desperately trying to win.” You shake your head, a foul expression on your face as you condemn the guests of this party.

He’s never heard someone express such a similar outlook to his own. In the few minutes you’ve spoken, he’s become fascinated. As he watches you walk to the door, he comes to the conclusion that you also think these people are below you.

You’re about to leave before his words stop you, “Yet you’ll go join them?” You cast a scolding look over your shoulder.

“No, I’ll return to my rooms,” you say before exiting. “I prefer chess,” the words are for him, although your back is turned.

He tracks your movements from the doorway of the impressive library. You navigate the hallway then turn a corner like you’ve been doing it your whole life. Probably because you have.

He could kick himself. The hosts of this party don’t go out terribly often because they don’t have to. Arguably the oldest, wealthiest, and most well-respected of the elite Capitol families, they only throw parties on occasion to remind everyone of their superiority. And they keep their daughter under lock and key.

Suddenly, he has a new goal to add to his list.

----------------------------------------

To the good people of Tumblr- thank you and I'm sorry. I am not immune to skinny blonde men. It's a disease.

#coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #tbosas #hunger games fanfiction

180 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Text

The Mentor pt.4

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Back at home in your district, you debate the merits of calling the phone number you've been given

part three | part five

You stare at the phone. You’ve been on the floor next to your bed, staring at the phone on your nightstand for an extended period of time.

A crumpled piece of paper seems to taunt you as you clutch it in a tense fist. It has his number on it. Not that you needed to write it down, but you practically ran to the nearest pad of paper when you boarded the train yesterday.

You sat in this same spot last night, as well, for probably an hour. Ultimately, though, you decided calling the same day would come off as desperate or uncool.

Although Finnick has thoroughly demystified and made himself available for you, you can’t help but want to make a good impression. The two baby breakdowns you’ve had in his presence probably haven’t helped. Really, to retain your reputation, you should simply not call. But that’d be mean. Would that be mean? But that’s beside the point. You want to call, you do. But you don’t know what exactly he gave you this number for. Talking specifically about your unfortunate shared trade? Trauma dumping? Breakdown hotline?

Currently, you're handling things as best you can before Snow throws you back in the deep end. Rehashing everything would probably be more damaging.

You want to call, but would he want to have a normal conversation? Are you capable of having normal, authentic conversations with people at this point?

Besides, you don’t even know if this is his District Four number or the number to his Capitol residence. Really, you might not reach him at all.

“What are you doing?” Darla’s voice causes you to jump four feet in the air. Your head snaps quickly over your shoulder to glare at her. Darla had been watching trashy Capitol TV at your house since the train brought you back. She said she didn’t want to be alone.

“What the fuck, D? You can’t just sneak up on a person like that!” You insist.

She makes a face at you, “It’s not my fault you’re having a staring contest with the phone.”

“Did you want something?” You ask, jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” she shrugs casually, “someone’s at the door.” Now that surprises you. You jump up, leaving the worn-thin paper beside the phone.

“And you just left them there?” You breeze past where she stands in the doorway to your enormous bedroom.

Tramping confusedly down the stairs, you pad barefoot across your wooden floors, through the hallway, and up to the thick oak door separating you from the elements.

Swinging the front door open, you momentarily regret not grabbing a robe to cover your old pajamas. There’s no one there to witness your fashion faux pas, however, and your nose scrunches in confusion. You lean your torso out of the doorway and into the crisp night air- thankfully warmer than the Capitol. Shaking your head, you seal the door back up and flick the deadbolt.

“Did they leave a name?” You shout up to where you’d last seen Darla. She doesn’t reply, but as you start walking back to your room you swear you hear her faint voice.

Suddenly, it clicks. You really should have learned not to underestimate her by now. “Darla!” You break into a sprint across your house.

“She’s been staring at the phone alllll night,” you hear as you make it to the second floor.

You know who she’s talking to. And you just know he’s wearing a smirk. You don’t even have to hear the pleased “Really?” that comes through the phone.

Bursting into your room, you tackle her away from the phone. “I’m gonna kill you!” You growl as she starts fighting back. Darla didn’t win her games through pure luck, after all. The phone sits a foot or two away, unattended on the ground, as the two of you wrestle.

Finnick hears the fight over the phone and listens with a concerned smile. He won’t deny that it’s entertaining.

Finally, Darla elbows you in the nose and uses the chance to escape. “Sorry! Don’t hang up!” She calls out as she flees your wrath.

Your shoulders drop in annoyance, and you wipe your upper lip to see she knocked you hard enough to make you bleed. “Bitch!” You call half-heartedly after her.

Grabbing some tissues, you turn to where she left the phone on the ground. You cautiously make your way over and pick it up with a grimace. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Finnick’s smart reply rings in your ear, “good wrestling session?”

“She gave me a bloody nose,” you bemoan.

“Poor baby,” he taunts, and you scoff.

“Shut up!”

“You know, I was told you’ve been staring at the phone for forever,” Finnick ventures, and you can practically see his grin.

“It wasn’t that long,” you correct, quietly.

He sighs, “Why didn’t you just call?”

“I just- I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me,” you say defensively.

“I gave you my number,” his confusion is audible.

With some hesitant, you huff, “Yes.”

“And you called it,” you can hear his smirk through the phone.

“Not quite,” you snap.

“That’s ok, you’ll call without youth assistance soon enough,” he says confidently.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Never, darling,” he replies lazily. “So… why’d you want to call?” This is the part you were dreading.

“I don’t know,” you snap defensively. After a moment of silence, you take a breath. Reluctantly, you say, “Aren’t we- friends now?”

“Wow, a lot of confidence in that statement,” he teases. You glare at the phone.

“Fuck off,” you say, only half joking.

“Okay! Friends,” he concedes. More silence.

“I’m just bad at this, okay?” You admit, feeling awkward. “I haven’t really had a friend in years.”

To your luck, he takes the information in stride rather than replying with pity. “You mean falling in cow shit didn’t endear you to people?”

He earns a small grin from you, “You’d be surprised, actually. The family who owns the corner store ate for a week on the money my nana gave them for soap. They loved me.”

He chuckles thoroughly at that, “Look at you, stimulating the local economy.”

“Oh yeah,” you laugh too, “you know, that’s happened a few times, actually! Once-“ you cut yourself off.

“Why’d you stop?” Finnick asks, after a second of silence.

“You know a lot more about me than I know about you,” you reply cooly. “You don’t get another of my hilarious and charming childhood tales.”

“Booo,” he complains.

“Nope,” you stand firm. “That’s how it works. You’re missing out on some good ones, too.”

“Fine, would one of my childhod stories mske you feel better?” He asks.

“Yes, actually,” you nod.

“Okay, when I was twelve, there was a district-wide competition and whoever had the biggest catch won. I helped my father pull in the winning fish,” Finnick offers.

Your face falls flat, and you don’t reply for a few seconds. He calls your name, thinking you might’ve lost connection. “You totally missed the point of this,” you tell him.

“Excuse me?” He asks defensively.

“Has the great Finnick Odair never had anything embarrassing happen to him in his life?!” You ask, almost frustrated. "Falling in shit is very different than being a champion fisherman,” you say.

You can almost see him rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he gives in and you grin, “that same day, I kept refusing to wear sunscreen. So by the time we docked with our catch, I’d spent about eight hours in the sun. Well, I didn’t feel it until the next day, but I was so burnt I got incredibly sick.”

Your shoulders drop, “Finnick, this was supposed to be funny, not sad.”

“I was wearing sunglasses on the boat all day. When I finally went back to school, all the kids called me ‘goggles' because of my tan line,” he grumbles. You break into a laugh, and he smiles. He likes the sound even more than he did yesterday.

“Sorry,” you apologize for laughing.

“No, no, you asked for it,” he shakes his head. “Was that good enough?”

“Definitely,” you nod.

“So, do I get to hear the story you were about to tell me, then?” He asks expectantly.

“If you insist,” you tell him. “This was before the poop incident, by the way,” you preface.

“Naturally,” he nods.

Smirking, you start, “So, I was sort of a ringleader when I was really young, and one day, I led a group of local kids on a forest adventure.”

“This can't be good,” he says, and you shake your head.

“While we were in the woods, we came across some sort of nest.”

“No.”

“Yes,” you nod, continuing, “So I poked around a bit, and I saw some babies, when suddenly, the animal it belonged to showed up.”

“Of course,” he said.

“It was unhappy, and started hissing at us. So everyone wanted to run, and I reluctantly agreed, but not before it sprayed us.”

“Don’t tell me it was-“

“A skunk? Yeah,” you confirm, “I was single-handedly responsible for about seven tomato soup baths across town.”

He laughs, “So whoever made tomato soup was grateful to you too?”

“Well, the family that sold the tomatoes was, but everyone who had to make the soup was really unhappy with me.” He laughs even harder at that, and you smile at the sound.

“You know, I doubted you, but I’m starting to think your childhood stories are all charming and hilarious,” he admits.

“Thank you!” Before you can say anything else, Darla shouts up from downstairs.

“Your TV is broken!”

“Hold on a sec,” you tell Finnick, then try to muffle the receiver. It hardly helps, he can hear your whole conversation.

“So what?!”

“Come fix it!”

“Do it yourself!”

“Hang up on your boyfriend and help me!”

“No!”

“Then come spend time with me!” You pause at that one. “Please?!”

You bring the phone back to your ear and sigh, “I have to go, Darla needs me to fix the TV.”

“Oh, so you’re a tech wiz too?” He teases you.

“No, but I might be a babysitter,” you reply.

“You love her,” he corrects.

You huff, "I do."

"Tell the kid I say hi," you smile at that.

“Will do,” you nod and go to put the phone down. The sound of your name stops you.

“You know I’m gonna call you now, right?” He asks, and you grin a little.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good,” you confirm, “I’ll be around.”

“Not staring at the phone I hope,” he says.

“No, I might be too busy tending to the diva,” you shrug. Darla validifies your statement when she shouts out asking you to make hot chocolate.

“Good luck,” he offers, "I’ll let you leave before she gives you another bloody nose.”

You chuckle, shaking your head, “Bye, Finnick.” He wishes you the same before you hang up. You sit there a moment longer.

“Are you staring at the phone again?” Darla shouts. You roll your eyes, and start heading her way.

“Just for that you’re not getting hot chocolate,” you taunt, and she complains.

It’s nice to have friends.

----------------------------------------------------

taglist: @emerald-09 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @daixylie @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @fandomhopped @axelinchen

It is getting progressively harder to find good pictures to use for these.

Anyway, I didn't really edit this, but I hope you all enjoyed <3 also I might write something for Johanna soon because I love women - if you have any requests let me know ig?

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick x reader #hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games

392 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Note

The mentor!!!! I absolutely loved part 3 so much. Your mind is amazing

THIS IS SO KIND THANK YOU SO SO MUCH <3 ILY

2 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Text

The Mentor pt.3

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: A morning chat at the train station proves very revealing for you and Finnick.

Warnings: mention of forced prostitution and mild self-harm

part two | part four

The marble steps you sit on are practically ice, and the cold seeps quickly through your pants. The train station is entirely empty, and you sit outside of it looking out at the city.

Knees up to your chest, you take a deep breath. The roses you clutch in your icy fingers seem to taunt you, and once you look at them, you can't pull your eyes away. A beautiful gift belying your tragic fate.

You set all but one down beside you, then start to pick at its petals. Completely transfixed, you don't even hear the sounds of someone approaching until you drop the last petal.

"What'd you land on?"

The words break your focus, and you quickly gaze up to find who interrupted you. Finnick interprets your gaze as a confused one and elaborates, "Loves you/loves you not?"

That's not why you were picking the petals, but if you had been asking the flower, it would've been about him. The thought is embarrassing, so you give a half-hearted shrug and look away.

"Well, I got these for you," he holds out a small, far more rustic bouquet. Violets. "But it seems like someone's beaten me to the punch." What a cruel metaphor. Snow blocking your chances yet again. Standing in between you and a real life with real connections. Soon enough, you won't be real. What'll be left when you run out of choices you can make for yourself?

For now, you put the roses down anyway. The breath from your melancholy laugh is visible in the crisp morning air. "Thanks," you say, holding your hand out to accept the flowers. They remind you of home. A patch of them grew out in the field behind the house you grew up in. Your fingers brush over his as you accept the bouquet.

He jolts, "You're freezing!" Dropping down next to you on the steps, he removes the violets from your grasp and rests them in the small space between you. You follow the purple flowers with your eyes as he swiftly takes your hands in his own, attempting to warm them. "Do you purposefully torture your hands?"

You don't answer, still looking at the flowers he brought you. Finnick sighs, "You take such good care of Darla. Do you even bother looking after yourself?"

"What's the point?" Your heart hurts. As much as he hates it, he doesn't have a reply to that. He often wonders the same.

"How will you hold all the flowers you're collecting if your fingers freeze off?" He tries for lighthearted, but you wince. Instantly, he frowns. While typically, your replies to him are short, bordering on rude, they're always spirited. You seemed upset before he left you at the party last night, but now you seem disheveled. Like you hadn't had a wink of sleep.

Clearly, he's caught you in one of those moments. All the victors have them, but usually in private. He's not keen to leave you, though.

"Who gave you the roses?" He ventures, suddenly getting a sickening feeling. He's not expecting a real response, necessarily, but a 'wouldn't you like to know' would ease his anxiety.

You pick up the heavily perfumed flowers, "Oh, these? A gift, I suspect. I made someone very happy last night, and I'm sure I'll be doing it more often," you say bitterly before you toss them back down. Your voice comes out small, though, like you haven't built your armor thick enough to face this yet.

"From the office of the President?" It's not even a question. He already knows. Your face reveals your surprise. "I got a similar congratulatory present when I made my first deal." While he figured out that Snow had you in a similar position, it's clear you suspected nothing of the sort when it came to him. As you look into his eyes, he hopes you're getting what he's trying to convey. That the two of you are the same. And you can finally, finally, be honest.

"It was more of a negotiation," you nod, holding his eyes. "Not my first deal."

"I figured," he says.

You laugh sourly, "Is it easy to tell that I'm a cheap whore?"

"Don't sell yourself short," he scolds, "you're a very expensive whore." He almost worries it won't go over well when you snort and launch into the freest laugh he's heard in his life. Thank God someone appreciates his humor- Mags hates these jokes. He's got plenty more of them, and will definitely use them on you now that he knows they'll land.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," you reply, tongue-in-cheek. Finnick can tell by your genuine grin, however, that you appreciated the joke.

"You're welcome," he nods, "You know, I've considered abandoning prostitution in favor of stand-up comedy."

Somehow your grin grows wider, "Really?"

"Really," he confirms, "I just have to perfect my material before I pitch it to the big man." You nod sagely, entertaining his bit. "He might just keel over in laughter," Finnick suggests.

You lean in a bit, "Think he'll keel over dead?"

"Here's hoping!" He leans in, too, sending you a flashy smile. You laugh again and look back out at the city. An amicable silence falls between the two of you, and you enjoy it a bit before breaking it.

"I met with him before the taping to tell him our deal was off. My nana died during Darla's games, so I thought he had nothing to hold over my head anymore. Then, at the party, our escort told me that Snow wanted everyone to get to know her. And when I saw her talking to-" you cut yourself off, but he understands. Some of them are too difficult to even think about. "I marched into his house and told him I'd take on twice the clients if it meant Darla would never see one." Finnick's breath catches in his throat for a second.

"So... a reminder of my renewed imprisonment," you pick the white roses up again and wave them sarcastically.

Finnick snatches them from your hands and launches them far across the steps with a firm throw. They scatter and tumble across the white marble. The action is so unexpected that another laugh bubbles out from you.

"I think you're incredibly brave," he declares, looking you right in the eye. "You might be the only victor worthy of the title."

"No," you're quick to insist. "That's Darla. She's earned her peace."

"You haven't stopped to think that you might've too?"

You shake your head, "But I haven't. I don't think I could ever atone for what I've done- no matter how hard I try." His brows furrow, finding your words worrisome.

Catching his look, you elaborate, "Every visit to Mrs. Montgomery's classroom, the parks I design, the gardens I dedicate, my broadcast segments- they're all born of guilt!" You admit, getting choked up, "It's my way of saying sorry. Sorry for fucking your husband, even though he paid to fuck me, and I wanted to die each time he did it. Sorry for being a plague upon the Earth, here's something to make it better. Sorry for-" You only notice you'd been aggressively scratching the back of your hand when Finnick grabs your wrist. It cuts off your rambling and prevents you from hurting yourself anymore.

"Why don't you talk to someone instead of torturing yourself?" He sounds pained.

“Who would I talk to?” You shrug, swiping at a stray tear.

“That was… supposed to be an offer,” he winces.

“Oh?" you blink at him.

“I’m really just a call away,” he nods, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.

“Right,” you say, still sounding a little unsure. You blink a few times, averting your gaze and thinking it over.

“I know you think I’m gorgeous, but I’m sure it’ll be less of an obstacle for you over the phone,” he jokes.

You turn toward him slowly, eyes wide, “she didn’t.”

“She did,” he smirks at you.

You hit him firmly in the gut, and he lets out a heavy breath as he curls inward. He’s glad you’re feeling up to your usual abrasiveness.

You’ve already moved from your spot and are heading toward the station. He stumbles up after you.

You stop suddenly. Not that you were really going anywhere. The train for Ten won’t leave without Darla and Darla is chronically late. He nearly runs right into your back, and you see him struggle to regain his balance as you whip around.

He’s much closer than you thought, and you have to take a small step back. “What’s your number?”

“What?” He asks, reeling from the near-collision.

“How am I supposed to call if I don’t have your number?” You ask, and his eyebrows raise at the question. You totally skipped the ‘yes, thank you, what a great idea,’ part he’d been hoping for. But, he’ll take what he can get. He rattles off the number in an instant.

“Are you going to remember that?” He asks.

You nod noncommittally, “We’ll see.” The exasperated look on his face pulls another grin from you. He doesn't fight the smile off his face when he sees yours.

A car door slam breaks your extended eye contact. The other District Ten mentor breezes right past you and Finnick, clearly annoyed at being up so early. You know him well enough to know he’s going right back to bed on this train.

Darla, however, looks like hell-warmed over. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Shhhhh,” she holds a finger to her lips, the other clutching her head. Your expression drops as you take in her appearance.

“Are you hungover?!” You try to steal her dark sunglasses, but she’s too quick.

“Whatever, Mom,” she grumbles, “hurry up and kiss your boyfriend goodbye so we can leave.” She trudges further into the station, where a train is inevitably waiting for you. Your eyes go wide in embarrassment.

“Darla!” You yell, and she winces at the noise.

Finnick chuckles, “What happened to moderation?” She throws him the finger, earning further laughter.

You shake your head at her behavior, and when you turn back to Finnick you find he’s already looking at you. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, acting innocent. “Oh wait,” he snaps and doubles back to grab the flowers he arrived with. “You almost forgot these.”

You shake your head at him, smiling, “Can’t have that can we?”

“Safe travels,” he nods at you, turning to go. He makes it a few paces before you call out after him.

“Finnick,” he quickly turns at the sound of his name. When you recite his number back a surprised grin lights up his features. “The uh- the phone works both ways, you know. I’m not a bad listener.”

“Noted,” he nods, smiling. You smile back at him, a genuine one, and it makes you look younger. A loud call of your name from a train within the station makes the both of you laugh.

“Bye, Finnick,” you smile at him, giving a cute little wave. He returns it readily.

And he thought he was in trouble before.

--------------------------------------------------

@emerald-09

I also didn't really edit this one, but I think I like how it turned out? I'm not sure if I'll write more for this mini-universe since I have a few other Finnick ideas but we'll see

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick x reader #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction

505 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Note

I'd love more of finnick and mother hen reader !! I just feel like they could be so cute and once they are together or just like ,, the pre relationship time I'm imagine how gentle and genuine r would be with finnick. he deserves that :)

Ask and you shall (sorta) receive 😇

#finnick odair x reader

53 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Text

The Mentor pt. 2

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Your mentoring tasks persist as you and the newly crowned victor tackle a Capitol party- with some help.

part one | part three

"So you’re stealing from me now?”

You jump at the sudden sound of the voice behind you. Luckily, none of your champagne spills.

“Pardon?” You look over your shoulder, only to see a pretty face coming your way.

“Intellectual theft is serious, you know,” Finnick says with faux sincerity, and takes a sip of his own champagne.

You lazily roll your eyes, “Please, one of my cows could have come up with the momma-bear angle.” You pick at your nails again, gaze drifting back to where District Ten’s Capitol escort parades Darla around. Before the group of you had even arrived, she’d forbidden you from sticking by Darla’s side the whole night. Said the president wanted people to get to know her- which made you reluctant to separate from the girl you’d taken under your wing.

You’d settled for watching her like a hawk, prepared to intervene if you recognized any bad apples.

"Blue suits you, by the way," he starts, and you cast him a suspicious sidelong glance. "Much better than brown, or so I'd assume." You prickle with embarrassment, catching the reference to what he'd overheard the other night.

You cross your arms, "Don't be a jerk." The words sound sad rather than snippy- like you intended them to.

"I was trying to compliment you," he insists. "Really, you look quite nice. This is a far cry from your outfit the other night." Your pajamas. They were the closest thing in reach when you were paged to the recording studio during Darla's breakdown. The reminder makes you shift awkwardly, suddenly even more uncomfortable.

"How kind of you," you say flatly, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles of the dress your stylist had placed you in. At least this interaction is slightly less mortifying than the one, or two you suppose, you had with him the other night.

Finnick doesn't respond, and you don't bother looking at his face to gauge his reaction. Instead, you find Darla in the crowd and start picking at the skin around your nails again. She seems okay for now, but it doesn't do much to ease your worry.

”You seem nervous,” Finnick says, without his former mirth. You startle again, assuming he'd walked away.

“Do I?” You briefly let your gaze flick up to him, eyes wide, before turning right back to your task.

“Well, at the rate you’re going, your hands will be bone within the hour,” he lightly grabs your wrist, drawing your attention to the blood (both fresh and dried) that sits on your cuticles. "Have you been at this all night?"

“Thanks for your concern,” you snatch your hand back, trying to shield it from his gaze. It takes you a second to spot Darla again, and when you do your shoulders drop in relief.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he doubles down.

“Did you ask one?” You bite back.

“What are you nervous about?” He asks.

You turn fully toward him, “What do you think?” You extend an arm out, gesturing to where Darla is.

Finnick follows your gesture to spot Darla being dragged around. He huffs, "She'll be alright, you know. Like us."

"Speak for yourself," you laugh, but it's a hollow sound.

His face falls, "You know what I mean."

"I do, but I don't like it," you snap sourly. Closing your eyes, you take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. When you open them, you face the front again. "The way I feel all the time," you shake your head slowly, "I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Let alone Darla, so if I can- if I can just keep her close enough, I can spare her from some of this."

He quietly says your name, almost like a warning.

"No!" You cut him off, "No, I know how I sound. I can do it." The look in his eye says he's not buying it, but you double down, "I have to. I have to... try." Your voice breaks a little, but there's no time to be embarrassed over it when a different voice calls out your name.

Finnick watches as you pull yourself together. The change is visible. It's almost like you're a new person, the one the Capitol adores. Sweet and pristine, bloody hands hidden neatly behind your back.

"I wanted to thank you for coming in this week. The kids love your visits," the middle-aged woman says, smiling at you. Her attire is far less ostentatious than her fellow partygoers, but she's clearly Capitol-born and bred. Her gaze shifts to Finnick, and he stiffens, recognizing the look in her eye.

It seems you notice it, too, as you're quick to intervene. "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Montgomery," he almost cringes when he recognizes the name you call her. "If I could, I'd come often enough that they'd be sick of me." You're good at this, though, he notes, grateful for being off the hot seat. Quick and clever, just like in your games.

"Impossible!" The Capitolite laughs, "In fact, they're already asking me when you'll be back. When are you free?"

While your facade is impressive, it's not perfect. He sees you tense before replying, pleasant as ever, "I'm actually heading home soon, but I'll let you know when I'm back." It's enough to appease Mrs. Montgomery, at least. She eyes the buffet table.

"Please do! I'll see you soon, love," she waves as she walks away. You wave back, picture-perfect smile lighting up your features.

It drops as soon as she turns, and he does his best not to laugh at the contrast. "If that's who I think it is, I hate her husband," Finnick tells you.

You echo the sentiment with a scoff, "Me too."

"I thought you were sweet to everyone but me," he turns toward you in surprise, and you shrug. "Here I was thinking I was special," he shakes his head in faux sadness.

A small grin emerges on your face at his antics, though it's clear you're trying to hide it. He spots it, however, and smiles a bit, basking in his victory. Suddenly, your poorly concealed grin drops, and he follows your gaze to see who stole the humorous moment you'd been sharing.

Darla, of course, but someone else is with her. A large man, probably a few inches taller than Finnick, towers over the sixteen-year-old. She looks terribly uncomfortable, and the District Ten escort is missing from her side. When his eyes flick back to you, he finds your expression mirrors Darla's. It's worse, even, and far worse than when Mrs. Montgomery came around.

You turn to face him, eyes wet and blown with fear. He's never seen you look so vulnerable, not on TV and not in your limited interactions. You looked worried the other night, sure, but this is different. This is a look of terror.

"Dance with her," you practically beg, suddenly grabbing his forearm. Your voice trembles, "Please. They'll- I can't take her away. Please just go dance with her." Tears threaten to spill over, and you get more upset as you go on.

Finnick's reluctant to leave you so distraught, but he's sure that whisking Darla away from whoever this is is the only way to assuage your worry. "Of course," he nods, ducking his head a bit to be on eye level with you. His hand covers yours, subtly removing himself from your grasp so he can attend to your request. "Keep an eye on us, okay? It'll be fine."

He holds your gaze for a bit as he departs, but he can feel your eyes on him even after that. Quickly, he comes upon Darla and the large man that you apparently know and abhor enough to ask him this favor. He spews some of the charming bullshit everyone in the city eats right up and steals Darla away without issue.

Finnick looks back to where he left you as he leads her onto the dancefloor, hoping that seeing Darla safe will ease your panic. He's caught in the act, though, "Sent by my guardian angel, then?" The teenager asks him, pulling his attention back to the dance floor.

"How'd you know?" His eyebrows knit together, and the girl laughs.

"She's been watching me from the same spot all night. It's kind of creepy," she jokes.

"I think she's just worried," Finnick says defensively.

"I think if she stays there for much longer, they'll install her as a statue," Darla quips. It's funny, but he fails to chuckle since he wouldn't put it past the people here. She sort of cringes, realizing the joke didn't land. "I'm really grateful for her, don't get me wrong," Darla tries, "it's just- sometimes I wonder about her."

"How so?"

Darla inhales, "I don't know. She disappears and just seems... different when she comes back. And I swear she lies about where she goes since there's never any press coverage, but cameras constantly follow her." His face falls as Darla goes on, "Sometimes when she sees random people, she instantly clams up."

It's a little too familiar to him. Paired with your reaction to both his comment about Mr. Montgomery and seeing that man with Darla, he's starting to understand. Maybe he has more in common with you than he'd originally thought.

"Finnick?" Darla says, and he realizes he's left her in silence for too long.

"I was gonna say I wonder about her too, but I was thinking more- favorite food, favorite color," he tries to lighten the mood.

Darla looks pleased as punch, "Well when it comes to you, I have her pinned."

"Yeah?" Finnick asks, amused.

"Yeah," Darla nods, "she’s clearly head over heels for you.”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head, “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, no, she’s totally in love with you,” she reaffirms.

“Are we thinking of the same person?” He asks, extremely skeptical.

“Yes!” Darla insists, lightly slapping the side of his head.

“Well, it just seems like she doesn’t like me,” he defends himself.

“You make her nervous,” Darla affirms. “She’d make a fool of herself if she wasn’t being rude. She told me the other night, this is a quote by the way, 'he's so gorgeous, I can't say anything to his face.'"

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” she pops the P.

“I struggle to believe that Capitol’s loveliest victor won’t talk to me because she thinks I’m pretty,” he scoffs.

“It’s more than that,” Darla chides, “she thinks you’re too good for her, so before you can reject her, she tries to beat you to the punch.”

“And when exactly did she tell you all this?” He asks skeptically.

“Oh, we had a sleepover the other night and got super drunk. Boy, was she an open vault,” Darla laughs, but it's clear to him you'd kept some secrets to yourself.

“And you don’t feel bad telling me?” He inquires skeptically.

“Please, I’m helping her help herself.” She scoffs, “She’d pine over you until her dying day without ever saying a word.”

“Whatever you say, kiddo,” he says. Finnick's not sure how reliable a source the teenager is, so he decides to refocus on his original goal. "I meant to ask if you were ok, by the way. You know that guy?”

Darla’s face sours. “No clue. But let’s just say I was glad for the interruption.”

He raises a brow, hoping she’ll elaborate.

“I felt like he was … looking at me,” she huffs. “Like, trying to see below the dress.” Finnick's jaw clenches at that. He knows the type. He deals with the type. And now he's almost certain you do too, hence your big reaction.

"Well, if he bothers you again, just come find me. I'm quite comfortable on the dance floor," he tells her as the song comes to an end.

Darla pats his bicep, "Thanks, but you should really be getting comfortable with someone else." She nods her toward where you'd been standing. "The bar will take good care of me." She only gets a few paces before he calls out after her.

“Hey!” She turns to catch his words. “Moderation,” he points at her, emphasizing the word.

She smirks, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Dad.” A smile twitches at his lip, and he shakes his head as he turns to find you.

When Finnick finally circles back to where he'd left you, you're nowhere in sight. He sighs, disappointed, though he can't quite blame you when you've revealed more about yourself tonight than you probably intended.

He wonders if you've left the party or just found a better observation spot, but either way, something tells him you don't want to be found right now. He remembers something you said earlier about shielding Darla. You seem to be doing alright so far, but he's suddenly wondering how far you'll go.

———————————————————

Once again- super unedited. I'm just having fun on my holiday break at this point. I feel like this leaned kinda sad? So... sorry for that. <3

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick x reader #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games #the hunger games

655 notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 5 months

Text

The Mentor

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: As a mentor, you do your best to help your tributes. When one of them turns into a victor, she knows just how to embarrass you in front of people you’d like to impress.

part two | part three

You whisk through the backstage hallways of the filming center, wet hair whipping as you turn corners. You’re on a mission. Apparently your tribute, now victor, is having a total breakdown.

Your fellow mentor told you he could absolutely handle her post-games interview. Clearly not, though, since your phone wouldn’t stop ringing while you sat at the bottom of your shower. When you finally pulled yourself out of your stupor to answer it, the district ten escort was on the phone begging you to get down here and fix her. You thought she was exaggerating until your stylist came on and told you it was bad. At that point, you threw on the closest clothes you could find and flew out of the apartment.

Darla is a sweet girl, and you’ve grown quite fond of her. You busted your ass getting her sponsors. Every year you try your best, but you thought she had a good chance and she proved you right. Seeing her in the hospital bed, though, you knew she was different. You thought something like this might happen, but you didn’t think it would happen during your shower.

Rushing around another corner, you crash right into another body.

“Sorry!” You try to quickly remove your hands from where you’d steadied yourself, and sidestep this new obstacle.

“What’s the rush?” The obstacle won’t quite let go of you, though. Now interrupted from your task, you look up to recognize the person in your way. Finnick Odair. It couldn’t have been anyone else?

“Emergency,” you quickly dismiss, trying to get by him again. If you look into his eyes you will be thoroughly distracted. You generally try to avoid Finnick at all costs. His intense stare makes you rather nervous.

“Everything ok?” He raises a brow.

“It will be when I get through here,” you start to get antsy. You tend to accidentally default to short and rude with him.

He lets out a scoff of a chuckle, “you’re a tough egg to crack, you know that?”

You’re really not. The Capitol knows you as the gentle victor, who often visits classrooms and reads to children. You guest star on daytime Capitol tv, making some of your favorite recipes in your houses’s enormous kitchen. You’ve designed gardens and parks and are generally well liked here for your friendliness.

“Look,” you huff, “Darla’s in trouble.” This, at least, you know he’ll understand. “Let me through so I can help her.”

“That’s why everything’s been delayed?” He asks. He’s right, too. The time it’s taken you to get dressed, get a car, and get here is all time that Darla should’ve been on air.

“Finnick,” you snap.

He steps aside in an instant, “good luck.”

You breeze past him.

“Mother hen is a good look on you,” you hear from behind you.

“Shut up,” you bark over your shoulder.

Back on track, you quickly find the right door. Whipping it open and rushing in, the entire district ten beauty team turns to look at you. Their eyes are wide and they look quite upset.

“She’s been staring at the wall since before we called you,” the hairstylist whispers, quickly rushing up to you and taking your hand. You instantly tug it away, they are not your priority.

You breeze past them and slowly approach where Darla is sat. She faces away from you, and is curled up in a ball staring at the wall. Quietly, you sit parallel to her and enjoy a similar view of the wall.

“Hey, D,” you say quietly. Taking a slow approach will probably be more effective than trying to force her up. You’re certain the beauty team tried that approach, but quickly got scared.

She’s silent for a bit, “I can’t do this.” Her voice comes as a relief to you.

You hate what you’re about to tell her. You’d really rather whisk her away back to the apartments, but there’s not exactly another option here. “Look at me, honey, yes you can.”

“No, I-“

“Darla, you can.” You try to be firm, but it falls short.

“You don’t under-“

“Now I know you weren’t gonna say I don’t understand. Baby, I might just be the only one who does.”

Darla starts to cry, and suddenly she looks her age. In this moment she’s not a victor. She’s just a sixteen year old who’s been through far more than she should. You move from your spot to embrace her.

“I know, honey. I’ve been here. Sometimes I’m still here. I know. But they don’t- and they can’t.” You say as you hold her close to your heart.

“So what do I do?” You pull away to see her teary face. You rise to your feet and slowly pull her with you.

“We’re gonna clean you up, and send you out there good as new,” you say, trying to imbue some confidence in her.

Darla’s eyes widen in fear.

“Relax, honey, we’ve got time,” you wipe her teary cheeks. You wave the makeup artist over, as you sit Darla in a chair. “Now in the meantime,” you start, pouring a glass of water and forcing it into Darla’s hand, “I’m gonna tell you a story. How’s that sound?”

Darla nods reluctantly, taking in ice water through the straw. You sit on the glass coffee table in front of the girl as the makeup artist gets to work.

“Now this happened a looooong time ago- back when I was ten. It was a bright summer’s day on the ranch, and I was up nice and early when my Paw came up and told me he’d lost his wedding ring. Now, my Nana was an insightful gal- if she had noticed (and believe me she would’ve) she’d have pitched a fit.

So I was enlisted to help him find it. Well, we searched everywhere. All around the house, the garage- no luck. Finally, we headed out to the pasture. We were digging through manure, when suddenly my foot sank into a pothole and I went flying toward the ground. I landed face first in an enormous pile of shit. But that’s not the worst of it- ohhh no.

When I pushed myself off the ground, I saw my nana had come home. She’d brought four of her friends and all of their grandkids. That included little Jimmy Price, who I happened to be enamored with. (Not that I ever spoke to him since I was so shy.) And in that moment, my Paw, back turned to the whole thing, held up his ring and shouted ‘found it!’ Only to turn and find me covered in cow poop and his wife watching with all her friends.”

Darla smiles a bit at your misfortune, “so he found the ring in the poop?”

“Oh no,” you shake your head, “it was in his pocket all along.” Darla cackles this, nearly messing up the eyeliner her makeup artist tries to fix from her earlier tears.

“So what was the lesson in this fable?” Darla asks teasingly.

“Oh none,” you reply innocently, but a smirk grows on your face, “but at least you’re not heading out there covered in cow shit.” Darla grins and shakes her head, feeling up to the task now. The makeup artist nods at you and dashes from the room.

“Now honey,” you start, pulling Darla up from her chair, “you just blame your tardiness on me. Tell Caesar I was fawning all over you like a mother hen.” At least something useful came out of your run in with the Capitol’s darling.

Darla smiles a little, nodding. “And remember, just be your charming self- everyone here adores you,” you remind her. She seems a lot better now.

“Oh hey, where were you earlier?” Darla asks, about to head out the door.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” You tell her, smile dimming.

“Now you really sound like my mother,” Darla quips back, and you grin again.

With that, a stagehand pulls Darla away to where Caesar’s been waiting. There’s not much else you can do for the girl now. Out of your hands and into the Capitol’s. You can only hope Darla won’t freeze feeling all their eyes upon her.

You shouldn’t have been worried, though. Darla nails her post-games interview. The audience finds it adorable when the girl says she took so long because her mentor was fussing over her hair and her dress.

“You wouldn’t think it- but she’s a real mother hen.” Darla says, and you smile as you watch from backstage. The audience erupts into a gleeful sort of laughter at the comment.

Caesar knows just what to do with it, too, “well it’s no wonder, I’m sure you’ve made her proud!” Darla beams, and very convincingly so. “Let’s take a look back at Darla’s games!”

To your great relief, Darla holds it together through the recap. The girl gets boisterous applause as the leaves the stage, then comes flying into your arms once she’s out of sight. The force of it makes you stumble, but you quickly plant your feet and return the hug.

“You did great, kiddo,” you tell your tribute.

“Thanks!” Darla replies, speaking loudly from the adrenaline rush, “and thanks for telling me about when you face planted in a pile of cow poop back home, it really helped!”

Every single person milling around backstage turns to look at you when Darla says it. Not that the girl notices the extra eyes.

You drop your chin, trying to avoid the stares of these people. This is what you get for comforting her at your own expense. Taking a calming breath, you look up only to meet a pair of sea-green eyes.

Of course Finnick Odair heard that, and of course he’s smirking teasingly at you.

Like Jimmy Price all over again.

You stick your tongue out at him.

———————————————————

I did not edit this so I hope it’s ok lmao. The new hunger games movie was great so ofc finnick’s been on the brain

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick x reader #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #caesar flickerman

1K notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 8 months

Text

one whole year since this 🥺 (perhaps my fav thing I've ever written?)

The Joker

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

As the owner of the foremost bakery in Fightertown, slight kitchen mishaps aren't uncommon for you. But when you have a big one, can Penny and a certain Naval aviator help you out?

Warnings: none Top Gun Masterlist

3.2k words

The California sun was not being kind to you. At 98 degrees you were practically melting, especially with the added weight of a crate full of fruit. Maybe your sweaty hands would protect against potential splinters. But those were the least of your worries right now.

Last week, you placed an order from a farm upstate for one crate of peaches. At five o'clock this morning, a giant vehicle had come by the bakery to drop it off. You should've known that your one measly crate wouldn't have warranted such a large delivery truck. When the driver opened the door you nearly passed out. Apparently, you hadn't just ordered one crate. You'd ordered twenty-one crates. When he asked you to sign off on the order you adamantly refused.

"Jimmy." He'd been making your produce deliveries for weeks. Now he looked at you with pity. "What the hell am I supposed to do with all of this?!" You asked the man in a panic.

"You already paid for it." He said sympathetically and shrugged. That gave you pause. For the past few days, you'd convinced yourself that you'd bought the Ferrari of peaches. That for the price you paid they would be homegrown, hand-watered, organic, gourmet, and cancer-curing. Evidently, it was just because you bought a shit ton of them.

He placed a pen in your hand and directed it towards the line on the page. It was the least excited you'd ever been to give your signature.

You'd almost cried as he moved all of the boxes out of the truck and into your storage room. Previously you'd been planning to make a peach upside-down cake or two, but after the delivery, it was more of a question of what couldn't you put peaches into.

All of the bread products for the day had already gone into the oven. Your almost daily clock-in time of four AM allowed you to get an early start each morning, but the pile of fruit staring back at you told you it wasn't early enough.

By six, you had peach cobbler pound cake and peach streusel muffins in the oven. You were piping peaches and cream cupcakes while you waited to take the other dishes out. At six-thirty, two of your employees arrived and nearly walked back out the door when they saw the state of the place. When you explained, they chuckled and began to help you.

Seven brought customers and confused glances at the peach-only options. Your regulars smiled as you told them this was a test run for themed days.

The rest of the morning saw strudel, pie, scones, and countless other (peach) dishes. Another few members of your staff eventually came to relieve the morning shift. They received a similar explanation for the peach crisis and decided to give out a free peach with every order.

By closing time you still had an inordinate amount of peaches. You had sent all of your employees home with a crate, whether they liked it or not, but about fifteen were still left. A text to your friends had gotten rid of five more, and desperate calls to local restaurants took another six. You thanked your lucky stars that the soup kitchen agreed to take three, and you were glad to spend most of the afternoon dropping them off.

Upon your return, the final crate was taunting you. Sitting in the corner and practically overflowing, you couldn't bear to look at it. Thus, you decided to take it on a walk down the street. You just prayed Penny could use it over at The Hard Deck. If you had to wake up to leftover peaches you were going to be sick.

Your struggle down the street was no pretty sight. The crate was heavy. And there was no way to tell if you were leaving a trail of fruit behind you. Looking back would've spelled failure. Losing your balance or tripping over a stray peach could've meant certain doom. Or even more embarrassment.

Finally, you made it to the bar. The boisterous noise wasn't uncommon for the establishment, but 6:30 seemed kind of early for that. Lugging the crate up the stairs was the beginning of the end. The weight was becoming too much for you.

You pushed open the door with your back, silently begging everyone to get out of your way. You heard a voice call after you as you rushed through the crowd towards the bar.

"Hey! You dropped your... peach?" His statement ended with a question. You hardly heard him over the bustle of people and your own looming thoughts.

Heaving the crate onto the bar made a loud slam. You smiled sheepishly at some of the people around you before turning to the woman across from you.

"What'd you do?" Penny shook her head fondly at you.

"You have to help me." You begged her. "Please. I have been staring at peaches since five AM. I have sliced and baked more peaches today than I have in my whole life, Pen." She took a closer look at you and saw how frazzled you were.

"Wha-" Penny tried to ask you what was going on, but you barreled on.

"I have made peach pie, peach crisp, peach cobbler, peach scones, muffins, cakes, cheesecakes, and even galette. Do you even know what galette is?" She shook her head, slightly fearful of the look in your eye. Penny leaned across the bar and grabbed your arm lightly.

"Why don't you sit down, sweetie?" She said gently. You nodded and planted yourself on the stool beside you.

"Penny I am begging you, please, please, take these peaches off of my hands." You said, your hands knit together in pleading. "I'll owe you big time."

Just then another voice entered the conversation- one you faintly recognized. “I think you dropped these, darlin’.”

You looked over into the most gorgeous green eyes you'd ever seen, and for the first time all day, you stopped. For a long moment, you just stared into his eyes. The eyes of one of the most beautiful people you'd ever had the privilege of gazing upon.

You snapped out of it when, in your peripheral vision, you saw the two peaches he held. One in each hand. You threw your head back and let out a huff. It was like they followed you around. “Just keep ‘em, hot stuff.” You said, pleading. Turning back towards Penny, you silently begged for her help. Shock was written all over her face. Usually, you were pretty reserved, so your boldness let her know how dire the situation was. “Please, Penny?”

“I’ll take care of it, hun." She nodded at you. "Go get some sleep, I know you've been up since three.” The tension released from your shoulders and you raced towards the door.

“Thank you!” You shouted over your shoulder.

Hangman stood there, stunned. Never in his life had he struck out in such a way. He turned to Penny with a seriously confused look on his face.

She shook her head and started walking away, “don’t ask.” Suddenly she turned and grabbed the crate on the counter. “Oh! But make everyone on the squadron order a peach daiquiri.”

“What?” This confused him even more.

“That’s an order, lieutenant!” She demanded.

The next day brought with it what you deemed an appropriate amount of fruit. Things at the bakery were back to normal. You made chocolate chip muffins, cannoli, tiramisu, and any other non-peach dish that came to mind.

But at the end of your workday, you felt bad about the previous night. Abandoning Penny with the rest of your problem probably wasn't the kindest thing you'd ever done. So, as per usual, your guilt manifested itself in the form of baking.

You definitely went overboard by making the dark chocolate salted caramel cake, but out of all the flavors you'd made Penny sample, that was her favorite. You decided to drive it over so it wouldn't melt in the heat.

Unbuckling it from the passenger seat, you realized that perhaps forcing a cake onto Penny while she was bartending wasn't the best course of action. So you decided to sneak around the side and drop it off in the kitchen.

When you walked through the employees-only entrance, you were shocked at how little noise was coming from the bar. You set the cake on the counter, dismissing the thought. Since your logo was on top of the box, you trusted she would know just who it was from. The two of you could chat about it later.

You went to leave. "Hey, Peaches, wait!" A voice stopped you in your tracks. As you turned you were met with a rather familiar pair of green eyes.

"Huh?" You said, suddenly sort of dazed.

"Weren't you here yesterday?" The man asked. "With the world's foremost amount of peaches?" He tried to jog your memory. You let out a sigh.

"I'm trying to make up for that, actually." You said and he seemed confused by your reply. "I made Penny a cake to apologize for sticking her with a bunch of fruit."

He chuckled a bit, "I wouldn't worry about it." Your eyebrows furrowed at his response and he shook his head. "I'm pretty sure she made a killing off those peach daiquiris last night."

"Well, I'm glad, but she's still getting this guilt cake," you insisted. "Where is she, anyways? And why are you back here?" All of a sudden it occurred to you that it was a little weird for this customer to be hanging out in an employee's only space.

The man put his hands up in surrender, "just grabbing the fruit tray for our little shindig." As he grabbed a large plate out of the fridge he turned back toward you, "anything you want to add to it, Peaches?" You felt a little flustered at the nickname he'd apparently chosen for you.

"Hangman, how hard is it to find a fruit platter?" Penny burst in, frustrated at his extended absence and the lack of party food. Her whole demeanor changed when she caught a glimpse of you.

"Hey, hon, what are you doing here?" She asked.

You gave her a bashful smile, "I felt bad about last night and I wanted to thank you." You lifted up the cake box so she could see. A fond smile grew on her face.

"You know you didn't have to," Penny started. "But since you did, you can go set it on the bar. Since someone," she shot a glare toward Hangman, "forgot their responsibility for tonight."

"Hey! Rooster was supposed to get the cake," he was quick to defend himself. Penny shook her head at him.

"Jesus, did all of your parents hate you?" You looked between the two of them.

Penny let out a small laugh, "they're pilots- those are their callsigns." She explained as she guided you into the bar. "You can set the cake down over there," she pointed to a spot on the counter. You were quick to follow her direction.

"I'll get out of your hair, Pen." You told the older woman. "I didn't mean to interrupt a private party." Your gaze flickered to the handsome blond man.

"Nonsense, Peaches," Hangman said. "Why don't you stick around?" Penny nodded in agreement. You were still hesitant and started to shake your head.

"If you don't, I'll cut the cake wrong." Penny threatened.

Your eyes widened, "you wouldn't." The look on her face told you she was dead serious. "Fine. But you'll have to explain my presence to the guests."

"Oh, trust me," Hangman assured, "they won't be complaining in the presence of a lady as pretty as yourself." His comment took you off guard, and your eyes widened as you looked at him. A charming smile had weaseled its way onto his face.

"Don't lay it on too thick, Hangman," Penny warned him, smirking. You let out a chuckle at her comment.

As it turned out, you knew most of the partygoers. They'd all stopped in your bakery at one point or another, and some of them were regulars. The aviators were all pleasantly surprised by your presence, but they were happier to see the cake you'd brought sitting on the counter.

Excusing yourself from the conversation, you went to take a water break. It took all of five seconds for Hangman to follow you to the counter.

"How come everyone around here seems to know you but me?" He demanded as he plopped down onto a stool.

"It's probably whatever wheatgrass diet you subscribe to that prevents you from enjoying baked goods." You nodded sagely.

He gave you a look. "I'm serious. I haven't even caught your name. Fanboy and Bob greeted you with hugs."

"I don't know your name either. Callsigns hardly count." You pointed out. "And Mickey's girlfriend likes my coffee cake. I also ship muffins home to Bob's mom." You told him simply. Hangman stared at you, astounded, as you took a sip of water.

"How have we not met before?" He asked, frustrated. You gave an exaggerated shrug.

"I'm a busy lady," you explained, "I don't have much of a social life beyond my bakery."

"Really? You're too busy baking?" Hangman shook his head. Your expression turned at his words.

"Excuse me?" You asked.

"We'll fix that." He said. When he saw your confused expression he elaborated, "...when I take you out."

Your shoulders dropped at his words. In an instant, you were out of your seat, "that is never going to happen, Hangman." You spat as you made a B-line towards the door.

"Woah, wait!" He said, causing you to spin on your heel.

The anger in your eyes caused him to take a step back. "You know why that is never going to happen? Because you don't know me. And instead of trying to get to know me, you decided to be a presumptuous, whiny jackass." The doors to the Hard Deck swung shut behind you. He stood there for a moment, stunned.

"Who wants cake?" Penny shouted from the other side of the bar. Hangman's head fell back. He stared at the ceiling, kicking himself for messing things up with someone he was actually interested in.

Your mood the following day was abysmal. So much so, that your employees kept you baking in the back. They said it was to stop you from scaring away customers.

As the influx of customers slowed, you decided to close up shop early. You were looking forward to a relaxing evening after a busy few days. As you cleaned up in the kitchen you heard the bell ring. You groaned at the thought of more customers and wondered whether you'd forgotten to flip the sign.

Taking your place behind the counter, you were surprised to see Hangman standing in your store. He was looking around, admiring the place you got to work at every day. The place you owned, that you'd built from the ground up through pure will.

"Can I help you with something?" You asked him shortly. What he said last night rubbed you the wrong way. You didn't appreciate him undermining your career. Or his assumption that you'd just fall at his feet. He'd been so assured in it, too. That with one handsome grin, you'd fall under his spell. And you might've if he hadn't opened his big mouth.

"What do you recommend for apologizing to someone?" Hangman asked you softly, regret plain on his pretty face.

"Usually I'd say anything chocolate," you started, "but we're closed." His shoulders fell a bit. Hurting his pride was actually improving your mood.

"What if I told you it was for someone special?" He tried.

"Still closed," you would not let up.

"Even if I told you that I messed up? That I might've let something really good slip through my fingers because I'm an ass? That I'd really like to start over?" You shrugged at his words, trying to act like he hadn't made an impact. He sighed. "What if I told you that I'm sorry? Because, God, I am. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have made assumptions or implied that what you do isn't important. You make people happy for a living, and that is so special and-"

You interrupted his long-winded apology by ringing the small ceramic bell you kept on the counter. "What's the name for that order?" You asked after a moment. You leaned over the counter toward him with a brow raised. A small smile grew on his face as he walked over to the counter.

"Jake," he said softly, offering his hand. You took it with a smile and introduced yourself in turn. You quickly packaged something up for him.

"Your order, sir," you said jokingly, handing him the bag.

He took it gently, "maybe you'd like to... go for a walk? Share it with me?" Jake suggested, looking at you hopefully.

You shook your head as you rounded the counter. "I don't think so." Disappointment flashed across his face. "I put one in there for both of us," you teased, and his face melted with relief. "Come on," you headed towards the door. Jake trailed after you like a puppy.

You'd been spending time together each subsequent evening after his apology. As it turned out, the two of you couldn't be better suited to one another. That particular evening he insisted on a sunset picnic at the beach. You'd say you were surprised at how prepared he was with his checkered blanket and wicker basket, but you'd come to understand it was just him. Jake excelled at everything.

When the two of you finished dinner he revealed his surprise. "In all your rush the other day, did you even get to try one of these?" He asked, holding up one of the peaches you'd dropped at the Hard Deck.

"No, actually," you said. You hadn't even thought to get rid of them by eating them. Jake smiled at you and pulled out his pocket knife, peeling the skin off of the fruit and handing it to you. You waited as he peeled the other.

The two of you took a bite at the same time. Your eyes widened as you looked at him and nodded. "This is good!" You told him with your mouth full. "Damn, this might be my new favorite fruit." You said after swallowing your bite. He let out a small chuckle which grew into a full-blown belly laugh when you made a face at him. You pushed him into the sand. "Hey!" You'd begun to laugh too. "What is so funny?"

He snickered as he stood, "now I get to call you Peaches forever." Your eyes grew wide as you launched after him.

"Hangman!" You shouted as you chased him across the beach. He stopped and turned abruptly, causing you to crash right into his arms. Jake picked you up and spun you around as you laughed and shouted in protest. When he finally set you down, he kept you in his arms and planted a kiss square on your lips. He tasted sweet, like peaches.

------

This was inspired by my baking adventures this summer and by the song The Joker. Especially the line "I really love your peaches wanna shake your tree." Genuinely, I sing this in my head at even the mention of peaches. So thank you to The Steve Miller Band for making such a banger.

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun x reader #one year anniversary

2K notes · View notes

gogobootz1 · 9 months

Text

Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: A bet between two love-averse nobles turns into something more

Word Count: 4k

House of the Dragon Masterlist

Skirts in hand, you quickly but subtly managed to escape the crowded ballroom. It had taken you multiple hours to untangle yourself from each conversation you had been wrangled into. After all, you could not simply say no to the fellow nobility who wished to speak to the elusive young lady of the North. Your mother would have your head if she heard you were anything but polite.

She had not been pleased with your antics the past few years, driving away any potential suitors with just your demeanor. To anyone else, it would appear that you were just a bit odd and couldn't help the fact that you drove your prospects away. Your mother, however, knew you better. She knew the smart, funny young woman you really were. She also knew those things wouldn't help you find a husband but trusted you were astute enough to know what would. So when none of the young men who made your acquaintance expressed any interest at all, she knew it was your doing.

Your father, Lord Stark, on the other hand, found your antics most amusing. He would happily allow you to become a spinster and live comfortably at Winterfell for the rest of your life. He was certain your younger brother would allow the same when he took on Lordship.

Even still, Lord Stark could not entirely shield you from your mother's wrath. Your most recent transgression had caused a rage in her the likes of which he had seldom ever seen. It was the reason why he opted not to make the journey with you.

She had dragged you kicking and screaming all the way down to King's Landing. Your punishment for your self-sabotaging ways was for you to be subjected to the prince's name-day festivities. Lady Stark thought a week of good courtly manners and countless Southern gentlemen might force you to change your ways. If it didn't, which she found likely, then at least she would have forced you into doing things you hate. Namely, socializing.

Unfortunately for her, your lady mother could not anchor you next to her for the entire trip. The first day of the festivities had already seen you accompany young noblemen on turns around the garden and sit next to them at tea.

You had seen none of those men tonight, likely because they did not want to see you, but plenty of others had cornered you this evening. At least six had danced with you, but a variety of stepped-on toes and extensive talk of Northern folk dances had caused none of them to ask for a second dance. In between dances, multiple of your mother's friends grabbed your arm and inserted you into their conversations.

Your punishment came in its truest form, however, when the eager young Tully lad asked you to dance. You were too polite to decline the boy. When he asked for a second dance, you began to regret your decision. Later, when he offered you his hand for a fourth time, you told him you needed some refreshments or you might pass out. Aghast and eager, he raced off to find you something to drink. As soon as he was out of sight, you raced off to find somewhere to hide.

Thus, you found yourself on a small balcony adjacent to the ballroom. It was the emptiest place you could find as you tried to make your exit. Considering yourself lucky, you walked over to a long stone bench next to the door. You plopped down on its far end with a huff, grateful that none of the party-goers would be able to see you from inside the ballroom.

Only a minute later did someone join you on the balcony. In a flash of long white hair, Prince Aemond took a seat on the other end of your bench.

"Prince Aemond?" You couldn't help your shock. He jolted, startled to see someone else hiding out on the small balcony. He only blinked at you for a moment, unable to form a reply.

"May I ask what brings you out here?" As shocked as you were that he was sitting on a bench with you, you weren't exactly surprised. The prince looked more than miserable sitting at the long table with the other members of the royal family. "Is this ball not in your honor?"

"Indeed it is, m'lady, and that is precisely the problem," the prince said, finding his voice.

"Oh?"

He sighed, "You see, on occasions like these," he looked over his shoulder, back towards the ballroom, "the extra brave young ladies deem it appropriate to fling themselves at me."

"And what of the moderately brave ones?" You asked.

"Oh no, moderate or below, and the scar is an effective deterrent." The prince shook his head.

"Is it your hope to deter them?"

"Yes, I find the vast majority to be quite daft," he confirmed.

You smirked, "funny, I should say the same for my own suitors."

"You receive many?" He asked, turning toward you.

"Certainly," you replied, playfully offended. "Next to none make it past my first line of defense, however."

"No?" He asked, intrigued.

"Oh no, as soon as I slouch, or scowl, or speak out of turn, I've driven at least half of them away," you said happily.

Prince Aemond nodded, "simple and efficient."

"Quite," you smiled, "and for those not sufficiently dissuaded, I take it that much further."

"How so?"

"Well, for example, recently, I failed to scare a potential suitor off before dinner," you began.

"Disappointing," he interrupted, and you leveled him with a glare.

"At dinner," you barreled on, "I proceeded to drink copious amounts of mead, eat with ghastly table manners, and to top it all off-" you paused dramatically, "I belched right in his face."

Aemond nodded, "I take it that was an effective deterrent?"

"He went running for the hills," you smiled, content. You turned to look at the prince, "How do you spurn the ladies' advances?"

"For those brave enough to approach me, it's actually quite simple," he said.

"Pray, tell," you inched closer.

"Often, I speak about the most recent thing I've read until they get bored and leave." You snorted at this. "My favorite, however," he continued, "is to tell them that Vhagar has a taste for human meat, and at the end of each week, I must find a member of the small folk to feed her."

A boisterous laugh erupted from your mouth. "And if they persist?"

"Few ever have, but in that case, I tell them that sometimes Vhagar deigns to share." A devilish smirk grew on your face at his words.

"You are as wicked as they say," you spoke sarcastically.

"What could be more evil than wanting to be left alone?" He shrugged.

"Nothing," you nodded, feigning seriousness. "Between the two of us, we've probably scorned nearly all the eligible Westorosi elite. I believe I sent seven men running just today."

"Quite an accomplishment," he nodded, agreeing easily.

"Which of us do you suppose has spurned more advances?" You jested.

"I am a prince."

"Fine," you made a face, "but I'd bet I'm better at it."

"I doubt that," he said, and the moment he did, he could practically see the spark of mischief light in your eyes.

"Care to put it to the test?" You asked.

"How do you mean?" He eyed her suspiciously.

"A simple wager," you assured him, "whoever spurns more advances wins."

"I feel I may be at an unfair advantage, considering this event is in my honor."

"Ah, but you've forgotten two things," you said confidently.

"Do enlighten me."

"Firstly, I am a known recluse. I would attest that I have hardly been seen by any nobility in multiple moons. That creates an air of mystery," you happily reported.

"Secondly?"

"I have never been this far South. Every lady mother below the Vale will bend over backward to introduce their son to the very eligible, very wealthy, she-wolf of the North."

"You are the elusive Lady Stark, then?"

"I most certainly am," you nodded.

"And I will attest to everyone just how humble you are."

You sent a light glare his way. "Will you agree to this wager then?"

"What is the prize?"

"It is your name day," you shrugged, "what do you suggest?"

"Will the sweet taste of victory suffice?" He ventured.

"I shall enjoy it," you smirked. "As for parameters, let's say we have until the end of the week."

"Winning will make for an excellent name-day present," he nodded.

"Our count will be determined by each potential suitor who approaches once then, never again," you determined.

"Easy," Prince Aemond shrugged. "When shall we begin?"

"How does right now sound?"

He considered for a moment, "It would seem I have nothing better to do. Why not?"

"Excellent," you said, springing up from your seat on the bench. "Shall we check in here tomorrow evening to determine our progress?"

"Let's," he nodded, standing.

"Well then, in the name of good sportsmanship, I bid you good luck, my prince," you stuck your hand out for him to shake.

"And to you, my lady," he said, shaking your hand rather awkwardly. You paid no mind to it, though, and marched right past him back into the fray. With your confident demeanor and brazen disregard for the laws of etiquette, he was suddenly concerned about being able to win this bet.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"I've changed my mind," were the first words that came out of your mouth when you burst out onto the balcony the next evening.

"Already?" The prince asked. He had been sitting outside for a few minutes waiting for you. You'd been caught up in a dance but knew it was time to check in when he'd briefly made eye contact with you from across the floor. "It's only been a day, and you're throwing in the towel?"

"Certainly not," you asserted. "I've simply determined that I should like more than just the sweet taste of victory when I win."

"Is that not rather presumptuous?"

"No, and I feel the need to elucidate exactly what my new terms are," you said.

Prince Aemond shrugged, "By all means, then."

"Excellent," you smiled, "upon my win, I should like you to tell my mother what a wonderful young lady I am and how there is no man in Westeros deserving of me."

"It appears I was correct about your humility," he quipped. You rolled your eyes at him.

"Do you agree to the amended terms?"

The prince sighed, "Fine."

"That's the spirit! Now, how did you do?" You asked, taking a seat next to him on the same bench as last night.

"After we parted yesterday evening, I was approached by three young women. Unfortunately, we can only count two of them. The Tyrell found me again this morning. She seems rather persistent," Prince Aemond said.

You nodded, "Her mother just talked my ear off for nigh on an hour. I'm not surprised it runs in the family."

"This morning, I ran into three young ladies, including the one from last night, who each asked me for a tour of the keep. I told them all to consult a guard if lost," he recounted.

You snickered, "Excluding Lady Tyrell, you're at four."

"I've spent the evening silently standing on the edge of the dancing, and the tactic has proved most effective."

"Is that so?"

The prince nodded, "Indeed, four lady mothers have approached with daughters in hand. I sent each away grumbling about the Prince's lack of propriety." He said, and you smiled.

"That makes eight," you nodded at him, "impressive."

"How did you fare?"

"Towards the end of last night, I managed three. This morning I took breakfast with some of the ladies, who were eager to tell me about their sons and promise me dances with them this evening. Then I went on two garden walks, both of which ended quickly," you told the prince.

"Five isn't bad," he nodded.

"I'd be doing better if most of my time this evening hadn't been stolen away by Lady Tyrell and that cursed Tully boy," you complained.

"How old is the lad?" Prince Aemond asked.

"Ten and four," you replied, rolling your eyes, "luckily I think I've finally thrown him."

"However did you manage that?"

"I told him I am prone to horrible bouts of indigestion and that I felt one coming on imminently," you said, somehow pulling a laugh out of the prince.

"You should count him as two, then. It seemed he'd never leave you alone."

"You witnessed his persistence yesterday evening?" You asked.

"It would've been hard to miss it," he confirmed. You groaned, embarrassed that people witnessed the spectacle.

"Was it really that bad?" You asked.

"More so for him than you," he offered. "You are a head taller than him. Young Lord Tully looked a foolish child dragging a stately lady around the dance floor."

You sighed, "I almost wish someone had swooped in to rescue me. At least I could've spurned a grown man's advances."

"Some did try," the prince said, and you turned to him in shock. "The clumsy lad would just drag you off in the opposite direction before any of them could cut in." Prince Aemond smirked at you as your face fell.

"No," you said.

"Indeed, my lady," he confirmed.

You shook your head, slowly standing, "Since he wasted so much of my time, I should get back in there- recoup my losses."

"You needn't try terribly hard. You'll have a huge leg up on me tomorrow," the prince said, following suit.

"Why's that?" You asked.

"I'll be competing in the joust," he replied, surprised you weren't aware.

"Really? I thought you'd be watching since it is part of your celebration," you said.

"I shall only celebrate upon my victory," Prince Aemond said, determined. "The competition gives your suitors plenty of time to make their advances."

"Then you have given me an advantage," you said. "In that case, I bid you luck in tomorrow's tourney, my prince."

"You can do away with the title," he replied. At your confused glance, he continued, "You haven't been treating me as such, so there's no need for pretense."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a good thing you haven't run into my mother," Aemond shook his head. "You're meant to curtsy whenever entering or leaving the presence of royalty. Not speak until spoken to."

"Oh. I suppose I had forgotten that," you nodded. "Are you not glad for my poor memory? You never would've had such entertainment were it not for my accidental disregard of propriety."

"If you disregard it much longer, you'll lose this evening's opportunity to take the lead in our contest," he reminded you. That was all it took for you to rush by him and back into the ballroom. Aemond smiled as you left.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sweat practically dripped down your back as you sat in the stands, desperately fanning yourself. It was all you could do to not melt into a puddle.

"Perhaps you should try to retain a bit more decorum," your mother quietly reminded you.

"Perhaps you should remember raising me in the bitter cold of Winterfell and understand my plight," you snipped at her.

She huffed, "I'm sorry, dear, but you look... sweaty."

You knew it too. It was why every nobleman who took a step to approach you took two steps back. At least you'd been racking up points in your contest with Aemond.

Aemond. Never had you thought you'd be on a first-name basis with the prince within two days of your arrival, but here you were. You were certain he'd laugh at the reason for your success today.

"Dear?" Your mother tried. You snapped to attention.

"Hm?"

"I said that you might consider going back to our rooms and freshening up. You could cool off a bit before making a reappearance at tonight's dinner." Her hints weren't subtle, but they flew above your head in this heat. "Or you could even skip dinner."

"Nonsense, Mother, the Prince hasn't jousted yet," you said. Her mouth fell open in surprise. She was giving you an out from a social event you were clearly suffering through, and you declined it? Unheard of.

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Lady Stark asked, suddenly concerned.

"Yes, but I am hotter than ballocks," you shrugged and turned to face her. She smacked you on the arm, causing you to reel back.

"How many times have I told you not to use your father's language?"

You rolled your eyes, "it's not like anyone is listening." She pointed her finger at you, ready to scold, but you interrupted, "If it would please you, Mother, I will retire and make myself presentable, but only after the prince jousts. And I expect a full report of the rest of the action."

"Of course, dear," she said, sufficiently appeased.

Finally, a voice announced Prince Aemond. He rode in on a black stallion, wearing deep charcoal, nearly black armor. It was understated yet regal. He certainly stood out amongst the array of knights and noblemen that had passed through.

Aemond came to a halt in front of the large noble box, in which you and your mother occupied a far corner.

"Lady Stark," he called out, and you froze. Your mother snatched the fan from your hand, replacing it with a wreath. She then firmly elbowed you in the side, forcing you to stand. "I ask for your favor in this tournament."

You started down towards the edge of the box after your mother gave you an encouraging kick in the shin. Reaching over the railing, you drop the blue spruce and winterberry wreath onto the prince's lance.

"I wish you good fortune, my prince, though I doubt you'll need it," you called down to him.

The faintest hint of a smile worked its way onto his face, and Aemond nodded at you before riding off. Once you returned to your seat, you nervously watched as the prince prepared to face off against his competitor. The tension in your shoulders only eased as, to no one's surprise, he secured a victory.

"Well, Mother, I'm a woman of my word. I will now recuse myself," you stood and quietly made your way from the box. Before you lost sight of the arena, however, you spared a look back and were disappointed to catch no glimpse of the prince.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Why are you not ready for dinner?!" Your mother bristled as she rushed into your shared guest apartment. You jumped in surprise at her sudden appearance.

"I thought you were encouraging me to skip it," you said, confused. You put your book down to give the frazzled woman your undivided attention.

"Not anymore," she replied pointedly, rifling through your luggage.

You raised a brow at her behavior, "and why have you changed your mind?" Just as you finished your question, a dress hit your face. She stared at you gravely as you freed yourself from the extravagant fabric.

"You are to be the guest of honor."

You snorted but stopped when you saw how grave she looked, "you do not jest?" She shook her head.

"Prince Aemond was most disappointed to find the lady who'd given him her favor was nowhere to be found upon his victory. He made his intention to crown you queen of love and beauty quite clear," she nodded and your eyes widened.

"No," you were in disbelief.

"The king assured him not to worry, however, that you should be crowned tonight instead," your mother smiled, panicked.

"No," you insisted.

"Yes," she maintained. All she could do was grab you by the arm and pull you up, forcing you into the most extravagant dress that was packed for you. Once she was done with your dress and hair, she looked gravely into your eyes, "Please, do not let me down this time," she pleaded.

You felt your eyes turn glassy, "I'll try."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

For the first time since your arrival, you were nervous. You didn't know how to act. To make matters worse, you couldn't exactly place why Aemond had done this. A friendly gesture between competitors? Perhaps, but you thought him too cunning for that. A ploy to sabotage your chances in the bet? That was certainly more likely, you had gotten the edge today in the stands. It could've been a strategy for making up ground.

Another possibility occurred to you, but you dismissed it easily. Aemond was even less interested in romance than you were, which was, indeed, saying something. In all the time the two of you had spent speaking about what you did in the absence of useless romantic sentiment, you'd become certain it was not in the cards for either of you.

But now, with an even larger amount of attention on you, an evening practically dedicated to you (alongside the prince, of course), you were afraid you'd no longer be able to hide from it. If you were to unintentionally take a few persistent lords' fancies, how long could your silly schemes dissuade them? After all, if the prince had taken an interest in you, there must be something worthwhile for them to discover.

So although you were nervous about tonight, you were fearful of the days that would come after it.

As you and your mother were announced into the hall you kept your head held high. Despite the eyes on you, you maintained a facade of ease and grace. You managed to keep up the act, too, and avoid meeting Aemond's eye. The latter was more difficult as he was the one crowning you Queen of Love and Beauty.

When he had placed the floral wreath on your head, you took a slight sigh of relief. Finally, it was over. Only when you turned back toward the prince you found his hand stretched out, inviting you to dance.

Taking his hand, you shot a quick glare at your mother. She had conveniently forgotten to warn you that this would happen. She gave you a small shrug and you turned back to the task at hand.

Apparently, the first dance was reserved solely for you and the prince. The empty floor looked daunting, but you didn't have time to dwell on it before the music began.

"You look nervous," Aemond said lowly after a few seconds. You couldn't meet his eye, busy staring apprehensively at the crowd of faces watching you. It was hard to determine exactly what people thought as he turned you around the floor, but the airs of judgment and desire you caught had your stomach churning.

"I am," you said simply. His face showed a flash of concern, but his expression quickly returned to a neutral one. "I'm nervous you won't find me to be such great company now that my mother has instructed me to be on my best behavior."

Why you felt the sudden need to comfort him or deflect your true feelings, you couldn't say.

"You needn't worry," he replied quietly.

"No?" you did your best to retain a playful facade.

"Even if you were to behave properly, I'd still prefer your company to anyone else's," he affirmed.

"Is that why you've given me this crown then," you referred to the floral wreath that rested on your head, "you find me good company?"

"There's not a single person I'd rather share this dance with," he nodded subtly.

"That's it?"

"Well, that, and I'm hoping any suitors you haven't managed to scare away might take a hint," Aemond shrugged. You tilted your head, confused. He leaned in a bit, "I was hoping you'd take the hint, too."

Shock made its way across your features as you came to the realization, "You mean?"

He gave you a slight nod, then a questioning look, waiting for your response.

"I suppose we've both lost the bet then," you said. "Will you still sing my praises to my mother?"

Aemond let out a rare chuckle, "Most definitely."

---------------------------------

I apologize if this was a bit OOC, but this is Aemond if he could have a little fun. And I hope you had fun reading it <333333

also sorry to hottie Cregan for totally changing the Stark family

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #prince aemond x reader #house of the dragon fic

6 notes · View notes