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[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

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

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

[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

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.

[gogobootz1]

The Mentor pt. 5

Finnick Odair x Reader

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

part four

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

[gogobootz1]

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 ♥️

[gogobootz1]

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.

[gogobootz1]

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?

[gogobootz1]

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

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

[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

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 😇

[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

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.

[gogobootz1]

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

[gogobootz1]

Creepy Crawlies

Spider-man x reader

Summary: You never expected your museum internship to be reminiscent of the Night at the Museum movies, but life comes at you fast. As it turns out, so do giant spiders.

word count: 2k

“And as we round the corner, you’ll enter our history wing,” you said, doing your best to not sound entirely monotone. You knew you weren’t succeeding. Despite your best efforts, your heart just wasn’t in it. Yesterday morning, you'd been dumped.

You hadn't even been seeing the cute guy from your photography course for two weeks. You'd been on two dates with him (both of which he'd been late for) before he decided it just wasn't working out.

Well, that was fine by you. It was his loss. Really. You weren't even upset. You had hardly cried yesterday, and you didn't even eat all your ice cream. Did you spend your entire day off hiding under blankets and watching tv? Maybe, but you came to your paid internship today, despite the heavy rain, and that was what mattered.

A shout of your name interrupted the half-hearted tour you'd been giving. You wheeled around to find your boss looking at you expectantly.

"Did you forget?" He asked.

You stared at him blankly, "Forget what?"

"Addie?"

Recently the museum curator's ten-year-old daughter had taken a liking to you. Apparently, Addie's nanny had gone home to France for a month, so her mother was using the museum she ran as free childcare. The girl had taken turns with all the museum staff but decided you were the best. Thus, your superiors stuck her with you. You were reluctant at first, but Addie was good company, so you didn't really mind. Plus her mom said she'd give you a bonus at the end of your summer internship.

"Oh no," you said, eyes wide.

Your boss nodded at you, "Go, I'll take your tour." Before he was even done talking, you were jogging towards the new arachnid exhibit.

"You're late," the pig-tailed girl said. She sat on the floor outside the blocked-off entryway. Officially, the exhibit wasn't opening for another week, but Addie demanded early entry. She said that she would judge the presentation you prepared for the hall, and give you pointers on how to make it even better.

"I'm sorry," you replied, ducking under the caution tape to pull back the tarp. "I lost track of time."

The girl ducked under your arm and into the exhibit. You followed close behind, not eager to lose sight of her in an area still under construction.

"I've been told that most of the work in here is done," you started, "but it's important to keep away from anything they're still putting together." Addie did not seem impressed by your warning and began wandering toward the crowning jewel of the space.

"Woah," she said in awe, staring up at the twenty-foot spider resting on its even larger faux web. It was certainly a feat of engineering. "How'd they build that thing?"

"I think some Hollywood special effects guy helped," Addie shrugged.

"Well, it sure is freaky," you said. Creepy crawlies had never been your thing.

"No!" Addie was quick to scold you, "It's amazing!"

"Ok, I guess it's kinda cool," you conceded, "but it looks like it'll come to life and eat us."

"That's the point! My mom says it's a detailed replica of a Black Widow Spider, meant to give people a better look and dispel their fears," Addie nodded confidently.

You eyed the thing skeptically, "I think I'll have to overcome my own fears before I can help people dispel theirs." Addie rolled her eyes at you and grabbed your wrist, dragging you away from the giant spider.

"Come on, let's look around while I tell you why spiders are cool and not scary. You should add all this to your tour material, by the way," she told you seriously.

Marching you past areas on jumping spiders, giant spiders, foreign spiders, and local spiders, Addie seemed determined to change your mind about the creatures.

"Ok, they might be important, but I still think they're icky," you shrugged at her. She made a face at you and dragged you on for another few steps before you stopped. Looking at the display you tried not to shiver.

"Come on, there are more spiders to see," she demanded.

"You know, I think you're on to something," you told her. She turned to you, confused. "Spiders really aren't the worst," you barreled on, "ticks are." You gestured toward the tick display.

"Eugh," Addie said, disgusted.

"I didn't even know those were arachnids," you admitted.

"Those are worse than scorpions," she nodded along. "I don't think I've seen the scorpion section yet," she scanned around for it.

"It's over there," you gestured, "they need to glue the tip of his tail on to make him scary. Can't make him worse than our spider friend, though," you nodded towards the giant display.

Suddenly, Addie looked afraid, "you might be right."

"Are all the spider pictures finally getting to you? I've been itchy for the last ten minutes. I feel like I need to wash my hair," you shivered, unaware of the larger issue.

"Your hair's fine," Addie said, staring over your shoulder, "but we might not be."

You were taken aback by her words, "What?" Your voice gave out when you saw the twenty-foot spider crawling down off its web and towards you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you watched in crawl closer. "Run," you whispered. The ten-year-old didn't need to be told twice. She bolted out of the room and started screaming. It took you another few seconds to listen to your own advice and start after her.

"RUN," you screamed, hoping the closest visitors would hear you and heed your warning. "GET OUT OF THE BUILDING."

The spider was light. Its footsteps sounded not much heavier than that of a few bustling museum-goers. What it lacked in weight, it made up for in speed, and it was gaining on you. When you rounded the corner into the main entrance of the museum, all hell broke loose. If Addie's screaming and your hollering hadn't scared anyone, the giant black widow spider chasing you certainly did.

People who had just walked in the doors ran back out of them. A practical mob of people pushed and shoved their way through the exit. Some people entered further into the museum, vying for back doors. You were just busy trying not to catch a stray bullet as the security guards opened fire on the creature chasing you.

The warnings you'd been yelling turned quickly into screams of terror as you faced danger on every side. Stampeding crowds trying to leave had quickly begun to trample each other. More security guards arrived to shoot at the thing behind you, and you could've sworn the spider herself had just dripped venom onto you.

But how could a museum display spider have venom? And, more importantly, how could it come alive?

You didn't have time to ponder these questions as you were swiftly removed from the situation. Suddenly you found yourself standing on the second floor, looking out over the chaos.

"Addie said you might need a save."

You turned to see Spider-man standing behind you. You let out a sigh of relief, knowing the little girl was safe.

"Great timing," you said. It was all you could manage after the biggest shock of your life.

"Are you alright?" The masked man asked, seemingly concerned.

"I think it spat on me, but I really don't know how it did that because it shouldn't have organs," you said, perplexed.

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, no, this thing is a display piece," you tried to explain.

"I guess all press is good press," he shrugged. "How much did this cost?" The hero seemed surprised.

"It didn't use to be alive," you told him gravely, eyes wide.

"Got it, that makes more sense," he nodded.

"Does it?" You asked, thoroughly upset by the events of the day.

"You know what? Maybe not," Spider-man replied, turning to look at the scene unfolding. You followed his gaze to see the bottom half of a security guard hanging out of the spider's mouth. "Oh, wow, is that my cue," he said, jumping onto the railing. "Stay safe!" He pointed at you as he fell backward off the second floor.

You raced to the edge to see the masked hero catch himself with a web before landing on the spider's back. He squeezed the thing by its throat, trying to get it to spit out the security guard.

"Security guards are not a snack!" Spider-man said as he wrestled with it. "Don't make me do the Heimlich on you!"

Finally, the spider regurgitated the security guard to focus on the nuisance on her back. "Cool- it worked! Maybe that was the Heimlich."

Spider-man launched a web to the ceiling and swung off the giant spider's back. Dropping closer to the ground, he started webbing the thing's legs together. Eventually, the thing lost its balance and fell to the marble floor with a resounding thud.

"I guess I can add exterminator to my resume," the masked man said, standing over the felled spider.

He gave the thing's head a firm kick, accidentally separating it from its body. "Oh shit," he said, pulling the severed head back to him with a web.

Looking at the gaping hole its head left, the spider was obviously animatronic. You'd have to have a serious talk with Addie's mom about doing background checks before hiring people. You let out a huff.

Clearly, Spider-man's senses were more keen than you realized. He looked up to find you still standing by the railing. Using a web, he launched himself up to stand next to you.

"So, a spider just saved you from a spider," he started, "pretty meta, huh?" You gave him a courteous nod, not feeling up to joking as you looked down at the robot spider carcass.

Spider-man grabbed your shoulder, lightly turning you away from the sight. "Are you sure you're alright, miss?"

"Not quite," you shook your head.

"You weren't hurt, were you?" He took a hurried step toward you, looking you over.

"Yesterday, I was dumped. Today I got chased by a giant man-eating spider. Does it ever get better?" You asked, tears welling in your eyes.

Spider-man couldn't help but let out a little snort. Your eyes widened at his reaction. You scoffed and slapped his chest.

"Are you laughing at me?" You asked wetly.

He put his hands up in surrender, "Sorry, I'm sorry, really." You shook your head at him.

"No, you're not! This is just like the time a raccoon got in my basement," you complained, tears streaming down your face.

Spider-man had to hide his continued laughter.

"No one believed me! I had to shoo it out with a broom all by myself," you said tearily, glaring at him. The masked man was practically bent over, trying to hold his laughter. Unfortunately for you, his laughter was highly contagious. It wasn't long before you were chuckling a bit too.

He pulled himself together, "This was much worse than a raccoon. You have every right to be upset."

"Thanks," you nodded, wiping your face.

"Want me to swing you home?" He asked.

As tempting as it sounded, you weren't sure about the state of the museum. Or your job. "They're usually pretty strict about hours here."

Although you couldn't see his face, you knew Spider-man was giving you a look. "I think it's safe to say the museum is closed for the day."

"Still-"

"What would you even do? Flush the bug down the toilet?"

"That's what I do at home," you shrugged.

He shook his head at you good-naturedly, "Come on, we can stop for muffins on the way." That got you up.

Spider-man spent the following hour making you feel better post-animatronic spider attack. When he finally left you on the stoop of your apartment building, you realized you'd answered your own question. It did get better.

Too bad your stupid, loser ex-boyfriend, Peter Parker, wasn't around to see it.

[gogobootz1]

TYSM!!! I'm so glad you liked it :)

Paperback Writer

Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: When Bradley finds a stray journal at the Hard Deck, he makes it his personal mission to return it to its owner. But not before reading what's inside.

Word Count: 2.4k

Top Gun Masterlist

You've spent the last four hours at this bar and still haven't come up with a thing. The newest page in your notebook stares back at you, entirely blank. Well, blank, save for the water ring your mojito has left on it. Only the ice cubes have been left for a while now, and you sip sadly at them as you stare off at the water. Maybe a beach day will inspire you.

Sighing, you close your notebook and push it toward the wall. You don't want to think about the deadline that is slowly closing in on you. A new book, and only about two months left to complete it. It had been three, but you've spent the last month at a complete loss.

This whole night, going to dinner, going to a bar, has been with the intention of finding inspiration. You still haven't found it, so now it's time to find your way home. Pushing yourself away from the table, you peel yourself from your chair and settle up with the nice lady at the bar.

You look out at the ocean again on your walk home. It's extremely nice of your agent to let you stay at her and her wife's beach home. Pam had granted you this accommodation in the hopes it would kickstart your writing. To the extent of her knowledge, it has. She's been worried about you after you argued with the publishing company over a sequel. You fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to work on something totally new. After the commercial success of your debut novel, however, they were reluctant to pass up their chance at a sequel.

Your publishing company clearly hadn't been expecting such an exorbitant amount of copies to sell. Frankly, neither had you. By some stroke of luck or divine intervention, Taylor Swift picked up your book, read it, and posted it on her Instagram story. Stores could hardly keep it on shelves after that.

Now your publishers are simply hoping to milk the cash cow. You can't really blame them, but soon, when you don't have a second novel to give them, they're going to blame you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Thanks for cleaning up, you two," Penny calls from behind the bar. Maverick had practically begged Bradley to stay and help so that he and Penny could start their date early. After some negotiating, he happily acquiesced.

"No problem, Penny," Rooster calls back, sending a smug look at Pete, who narrows his eyes at him. They're just about finished wiping tables, and he can tell Mav is more than ready to leave.

Bradley turns to wipe the last table but stops when he sees a leather-bound journal sitting near the window. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands.

"Done. Let's go, Pen," Mav says, rushing his girlfriend. Penny finally drops the rag she'd been wiping the bar with.

"I've still gotta lock up," she says, lightly mocking.

"I can do it, Penny," Rooster says, not taking his eyes off the journal.

"Thanks, kid," Mav smiles, whisking his girlfriend away. "Keys are on the bar. I owe you one!"

Bradley just barely hears Penny's protests as Pete rushes her out. He figures he'd better get home, himself. Giving the table a cursory wipe, he heads toward the bar to grab the keys.

Suddenly his eyes land on the lost and found bucket. Most of the Hard Deck's patrons are locals and regulars. The bin is almost always empty, and when it isn't, people always come back for whatever's inside.

Bradley looks at the journal again. Surely no one would be coming back for this tonight, though. And would they really notice if it had been flicked through? Letting his curiosity get the best of him, Bradley takes a stool at the bar and starts reading.

After a few pages, he starts to realize just what the journal is. It's no diary, none of the juicy details of someone's personal life that he had nosily been hoping for. No. It's a book, or some sort of story, at least. It's a good one, too. Bradley takes a sidelong glance at the clock and finds he's stayed for an hour longer than he intended.

He grabs the keys and locks everything up for Penny, not bothering to put his find in the lost and found.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Bradley can’t remember when he’d fallen asleep, but he's certain that it wasn’t before he’d read the vast majority of the journal. His neck is stiff from crashing on his couch, but he has a new interest in finding whoever wrote this. 

He hasn't been that interested in a book in a while, and he'd be remiss if the author doesn't get their work back. Especially when the work is so incredible. Bradley's never considered himself the most avid reader. He only reads when he's got the time and wouldn't rather be watching the game. This book, however, has him hooked. He thinks it should be on shelves, selling out all over the world. He only needs to find this person to tell them that.

Where do people write their names in their journals?

He makes a face, confronted by his own stupidity, and flips to the front page. Sure enough, on the back of the cover is a woman's name and address. Bradley's not quite sure if people knock on each other's doors nowadays, or if that's entirely creepy, but he's willing to find out.

Once his fist is inches away from her door, Bradley hesitates before knocking. Is it creepy that he's here? Is it creepy that he read the journal? He's willing to admit that one. Should he tell the author he read it at all? Maybe he should pretend he didn't. Can he fake being a Good Samaritan when he really wants to ask this woman about her writing? He doesn't have time to answer these questions for himself before the door swings open on its own.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You recoil when you realize someone's standing on the front porch. "Hello?" You're certain you don't know this man. He's too pretty for you to know him, and you'd at least remember him if you did.

"Hi," he responds stiltedly.

You look at him questioningly, "can I help you?"

"Yes! Actually," he holds up your journal, "is this yours?"

"Oh my god," you snatch your notebook out of his hands, "Where'd you find it?"

"You must've left it at the bar last night," he shrugged.

"Well, thanks," you smile, putting it in your tote bag.

"No problem, yeah. Wouldn't want to lose all that work," he nods. You look up suddenly.

"You read it?"

The man grimaces when he realizes he's outed himself. "Sorry," he cringes, "I'm too nosy for my own good. But can I just say that this is incredible? Really! This could be a book!"

Your face falls, and you look at him blankly, "it is." 

"No!" He shakes his head. "I mean- well, yes, it is. And that's a great attitude to have, but what I'm trying to say is that you need to find a publisher. This is-"

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. Reaching into your giant beach bag, you grab your sunglasses and shove them onto your face. Stepping out onto the porch, you grab a real copy of your book from your bag and plop it in his hands. "That’s really not my problem right now, hot stuff. Have a good one,” you lock up your house and start walking towards the beach.

He doesn't follow you until a few seconds later.

"You mean you're already a published author?" You hear from behind you. You roll your eyes and keep walking, but he easily catches up. "What I read was just-"

"The prototype to what seven million American women have already consumed? Yeah," you nod.

"Holy shit!" He says, and you just hum in agreement. "So wait, what is your problem then?" You stop in the middle of the path. You haven't even said it out loud yet.

"They want another one," you admit quietly.

"That's great!" He says excitedly. You slowly turn and remove your sunglasses to level him with a glare, "...or not?"

"No, stranger, it's not great."

"I'm Bradley," he interrupts.

You barrel on, "You know when they want the sequel by?" Bradley shakes his head. "The end of next month!" You practically shout, and he cringes.

"And how much do you have done?"

Your face falls. "One," you say reluctantly, holding up a solitary finger.

"Chapter?" He asks hopefully.

"Word!"

Bradley grimaces, "What's the word?" You huff.

"'The' and the thing is, I don't even like it. I'm gonna go back and delete it." You give an exaggerated shrug, seemingly distraught.

"That's probably a bad idea," he says gently.

"Oh? And what do you know about writing novels?" Your tone is biting.

"Not a damn thing, but I know a thing or two about speed. At a certain point, you just have to keep going," he offers.

"Thank you for that wisdom, speed racer," you snap, sauntering away.

He stands there stunned. 

“Wait!" Bradley jogs to catch up to where you're still marching onto the beach.

As soon as he's next to you, you barrel on. “How am I supposed to give them a sequel to a story I thought was over?” 

“Huh?” He feels like he's still playing catch-up as he matches your pace.

“And I told them - I swore to God that if they made me write a sequel, I'd probably end up accidentally plagiarizing any given Remington Steele episode. But, nooooooo they insisted,” you vent.

“Remington Steele?” Bradley raises a brow.

“Okay, you don’t get to judge my 80s preferences when you look like that!” You gesture to his general appearance, Hawaiian shirt, porn stache, and all. Not that it's not working for you.

He holds his hands up in surrender.

"I've done everything. Really. Everything to try and inspire some writing. I go outside," you gesture to the outdoors around you. "I've switched the font on my computer to comic sans," Bradley visibly grimaces in response to this, and you nod at him. "Hell, yesterday I went on a run."

"I don't feel like that's all that abnormal," he ventures.

You look at him, stricken, "I've never been on a run."

"Never?"

"Not in my life," you confirm. "It didn't even help, and now my legs hurt."

"It does kind of seem like you're hobbling," he nods.

Your eyes widen, "Gee, thanks," you bite out.

"You can probably chalk it up to poor form," Bradley tries to console you. "You're supposed to land on the front of your foot when you're running."

You shake your head. "They always want to teach you something," you mumble.

"What was that?" He looks over innocently. The two of you stand at the entryway to the beach. You decide it's time to make your goodbyes to the near stranger you've confessed half your current life problems to.

"Look, that's very nice of you," your words lack some sincerity. "You seem like a nice guy, and you're very attractive, but I don't really want to get better at running. What I want is to get better at writing, which is my job, and usually, I can do it. But right now, I'm broken, so what I will do is lay in the sun and crisp like a piece of fried chicken. Bye, now!" You say cheerily, placing your sunglasses over your eyes and bounding away towards an appealing-looking plot of sand.

All Bradley can do is watch as his new favorite author walks off. He drives home and finishes the official, hand-gifted copy of your book in one sitting.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A week later, Bradley is once again at the Hard Deck. This time it's Mav's birthday, and the whole squad is celebrating before they all go their separate ways. The Navy gave everyone a month off after the Uranium mission, so this is simultaneously a celebration and a goodbye.

He steps out onto the deck to enjoy the ocean view. Bradley is pleased to find a familiar figure that lies a few meters away from the bar.

"Let me guess, you're crisping like a piece of chicken again?" You hear a voice call from above you. Suspicious of the intrusion on your private beach sulking session, you look up to find the handsome man who'd tried to return your journal the other day.

"Actually, I'm boiling like a lobster," you correct.

"Ah, my mistake," Bradley nods sagely. "Mind if I sit?"

"Okay..." you agree, silently questioning his motives.

"I had an idea," he starts. "The main character in the first book," you nod, encouraging him to continue. "You mentioned her younger sister."

"I did," you agree, not understanding where he's going with this.

"Write the new book about her," Bradley says simply, shrugging.

You stare at him for a moment, processing this thought. After a bit, your jaw drops. How did you not think of this yourself? A slew of ideas pop into your brain, and you lunge for your bag, hoping to grab your journal and write them all down.

"Are you okay?" He asks. You hold up a finger, silently asking for him to give you a second. In a hurry, you scribble down a giant bulleted list. You can't help but wish your hand moved as fast as your brain. Bradley gives a weak call of your name, concerned by the new burst of hyperactivity. It pulls your attention away from the final bullet point you've just made.

"I think you're a genius," you breathe out, looking at him in awe.

He seems shocked, "it was just an idea."

"No, no," you remain firm, "you're brilliant, and you've just saved my life." A grin pulls across his face at your words. "Pam is gonna be so stoked," you say, standing and starting to pack your things. You pause all of a sudden and reach for your notebook again. You scribble something else and tear out a sliver of paper.

You hand it over to him, and his gaze flicks over a series of hastily written numbers. Your phone number. Bradley slowly stands up.

"Breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee, dessert, movie, ice cream, drinks- whatever you want, on me," you say in a rush. You take about two steps toward your car, hoping to call Pam and confirm that you can go in this creative direction before his voice stops you.

"How about a date?" He asks, looking after you.

You turn over your shoulder and smirk, "That was the idea."

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I hope everyone is having another very Top Gun summer <3