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it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

IT MAY TAKE ME A MONTH TO PUT OUT A CHAPTER BUT AT LEAST IM NOT USING AI TO WRITE IT

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“We’re in a fanfic drought” Tell the writers you like their work.

“All Tumblr ever does is write oneshots now” Tell the writers that you’d love to see them write longer things.

“Nobody updates their fics anymore” Tell the writers you love the fic and want to see more of it.

Tell the writers.

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Pondering my orbs.

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Sneak peak!!

Hey y'all! I know I keep coming onhere and saying I'm back and then disappearing into the ether again BUT, here is a sneak peak of some content I'm cookin up for you. (Yes it is for part 2 of my Spock fic "Allow the Ground..." that I keep promising y'all)

Her shaking fingers touched the fork; the handle was thicker than a normal fork, and supposedly that was to make it easier to grab. Her muscles were still very weak, and despite all the effort she put forward, her arm seemed to go dead, and her hand dropped onto the table just inches away from the utensil. A frustrated grunt left (Y/N)’s lips as she sloppily slid her hand to push the fork off the table and onto the ground. Bones looked at her with pity in his eyes. It was a look that (Y/N) had grown tired of seeing from everybody. Jim, Scotty, Bones, Chekov, everyone. Except Spock. He never looked at her that way. 

“I’m done. I can’t do it. Not today,” (Y/N) felt on the edge of crying. The lump in her throat burned and made her voice sound cracked and rough. 

“(Y/N) you shouldn’t-”

“No!” She interrupted Bones and did her best to lean away from the table, pushing herself into the back of the wheelchair. “I’m tired. Please, Bones. I can’t anymore.” She sounded so defeated. A few tears slipped past her defences, and she couldn’t even wipe them away herself. 

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to anyone missing my writing please know i am also missing my writing

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just a girl in her room trying to create scenarios in her head so that she can actually fall asleep

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haymitch abernathy | no peace

words: 1.7k warnings: 18+, hurt/comfort, public punishment (inspired by gale's whipping in catching fire), mentions of alcohol and drugs, pain, pain, pain, blood, injury, just a lot of whump description: Disobeying the Peacekeepers comes with punishment. Haymitch is the one to protect you, sitting at your bedside and helping you through the agony.

You kneel because it’s all you can do, just as all the residents of the Seam can do is watch it happen. Beside you, the little girl who you’d leapt in front of just a moment ago sniffles and cries for her mother. You think you know her as the daughter of one of the coal miners, but you don’t see either of her parents anywhere now. Likely, they’re at home, waiting for her to bring that stolen wedge of cheese before they starve. Now, it lies on the floor at the Peacekeeper’s feet, dirtied by the sooty ground and laid to waste. 

“She’s just a girl,” you say again — plead. You’re met with a blow across your face, one that knocks you to the ground. Though it steals your breath, you only grunt, determined not to show weakness. It’s what they thrive on, but you are not weak. Not for this. 

The crowd gasps in shock, but nobody steps in. Nobody can, not without twice as terrible a punishment. 

When you rise onto your elbows, the Peacekeeper grabs your chin, teeth bared. “Well, I sure hope she was worth the twelve lashes you’re about to get. Let’s see how heroic you feel with your back in tatters, shall we?” 

He drags you over to the whipping post, your knees scraping against the cobbles, heart pounding in your ears. The girl is crying, but you glimpse a neighbour pulling her away. Good. His focus is on you, and that means she’ll get to go home today — without food, but safe. Perhaps one of the onlookers will take pity, find something to fill her belly. God knows she looks like she needs it, joints jutting out of grimy, freckled skin. You know that hunger; the type that aches in every bone, burns right through your insides. Her tiny frame wouldn’t survive the lashes, but you will, so you let the Peacekeeper rip off your shirt and bare your back to him when he asks, another of them approaching to tie you up with rope that immediately chafes your wrists. 

“Please,” the little girl is shouting, but she’s far away. 

You grit your teeth when you hear the whip crack against the floor. Focus on the rows of feet surrounding you, as though counting the holes in the miners’ boots might be enough of a distraction and you won't feel it. 

Except it isn't and you do. The whip tears over your spine and you can’t keep from letting out a scream this time, entire body shuddering as though it can’t quite settle into this new pain. The Peacekeeper counts with every lash: one, two, three. By the fifth, you can’t hold yourself up, slumped against the pole as hot blood trickles down your skin and gathers at the waistband of your trousers. The shoes blur and tilt with the rest of the world, and you wonder how you’ll work tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. You hope the girl isn’t looking. You wish nobody was looking. 

Before the seventh, a new voice chimes in, footsteps scuffing against the stone behind you. You don’t need to see him: his voice is enough for you to recognise who is trying to rescue you. 

Haymitch. 

“All right, all right, don’t you think you’ve proved your point?” he’s saying with that usual hint of a slur, because you can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk. It’s the only reason you’re friends. He buys your liquor, enough that you started watering it down a while back both because you don’t want to enable his addiction and because it gives him reason to come back more often, even if it’s to yell at you about the quality of your booze. 

“The sentence for attacking a Peacekeeper is twelve lashes. Step aside, or join her,” the Peacekeeper warns. 

Attacking a Peacekeeper. You barely touched him, only pushing him back before he could hit the girl. 

“Leave it, Haymitch,” you manage to force out. You taste blood and realise you’ve bitten through your tongue, but it’s impossible to feel it with your back on fire. “Let the man finish. No Peacekeepers, no peace, right?”

Your sarcasm is rewarded with another whip, right across both shoulder blades. 

Seven.

“Stop it!” Haymitch orders. There’s something rich and husky in his voice. Desperation. There you were thinking he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. You'd be surprise if you could muster the energy. “You wanna punish someone, punish me. How about we see what happens when one of the Hunger Games victors gets all bloodied up in the street, huh?”

Silence. Likely, the Peacekeeper realising who he is. District 12's only victor. You squeeze your eyes closed, dreading that Haymitch might actually take the lashings for you. The only thing you could bear less than this.

“Victors aren’t exempt from the rules,” the Peacekeeper decides, but his voice is no longer as stiff and certain as before. “And Seam scum like her certainly aren’t.”

“Maybe not, but what would everyone think, seeing Panem’s hero at the hands of a Peacekeeper? You sure that’s an image Snow would want associated with his precious Games?”

A scoff. “I don’t care about Panem’s heroes. You have nothing to do with this, so step aside.”

“She’s my wife!” Haymitch claims, causing another wave of shock to rattle through the crowd. And through you, because like hell you are. But he’s lying to save you, and you don’t know why. “I won’t let you do this to her. So whip me, or let us both go. What’ll it be?”

The moments that follow are excruciating, and you can do nothing but pant as the cool air hits your ruined skin. Finally, a Peacekeeper comes before you to cut through your bindings. You’re about to fall back onto the stone when two arms wrap around you, your soft whimpers landing in their chest. 

“All right, sweetheart. I gotcha now.” He picks you up, then whispers an outpouring of sorries when his arms scrape against your wounds, drawing another agonised keen from you. The sky is cloudy and grey above you, and it’s all you can do to stare at the clouds as he walks with you, each step jolting another rush of pain through your body. 

“Gonna getcha all cleaned up,” Haymitch soothes. And then he’s shouting for someone, for Asterid, and the sky is replaced by the wooden beams of an old house. 

Immediately, orders are shouted: clear the table, get the morphling, lots of gauze. You’re set down on something hard and clutch at Haymitch’s shirt desperately. His face swims over you, blue eyes glassy yet alert. More alert than they’ve ever been before. 

“Can you roll off your back for me, sweetheart? That’s it.” His hands are at your sides, anchoring you as you try to take the weight off your injuries. Everything is slippery with your blood and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, because it hurts. You must say as much, because his hand smoothes over your hair. “I know. I know. Gonna get you something for it, okay?”

“It’s going to be worse, just for a moment. We need to clean your wounds,” a kind voice, Asterid, warns, and then it is. You imagine fire all around you, and somewhere distant, hear your own screams. Haymitch’s hand stays in yours as he holds your convulsing body down.

“Can’t you get the damn morphling first?” Annoyance bubbles in Haymitch’s tone. 

“I can’t find it!” a younger, more flustered voice says, the sounds of riffling breaking through the cotton wool in your ears. Must be Asterid's daughter, Prim. She's barely younger than the girl outside; she shouldn't have to see the mess the whip has made.

And then you must pass out, because suddenly, you’re rising from fog, body heavy and pain dulled, and Haymitch is in a chair by your side. Your blood is on his shirt, you notice, and his hand is still holding yours on the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a way that is both gentle and rough. 

“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.” 

Moving makes you hurt again, and he shushes you when you cry out. “Stay put for now, okay? Wounds are still open.”

“Where are we?” Your voice is almost as hoarse and slurred as his. 

“Asterid’s house. She’s getting you all cleaned up.” 

“Did… did they stop? Did the girl get away?” 

He brushes the hair off your forehead. “She did. Made sure she got some food in her belly, too. Jesus, what were you thinking, getting in between a fight with a Peacekeeper like that?”

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” 

“Never damn well is.” 

“She was just a girl, Haymitch.” Anger rises to the surface, breaking through layers and layers of pain and sedation. 

Haymitch sighs. Leans his elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. You wonder why it brings you comfort to smell his alcohol-laced breath, to feel it across your skin, to have his crooked nose graze yours. So gentle compared to the whip and yet it still leaves you shuddering. 

And yet his words are serrated as ever. “I know. But if you could find some sense of self-preservation, that’d be great.”

You shake your head, lids growing heavy again. You’re still conscious enough to point out, “You didn’t seem to have much of any, either, jumping in front of me like that. Calling me your wife. How long ‘fore they realise that’s a lie?”

His brows knit together, fingers drawing absent circles into your arms. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

Somehow, you find it in you to smirk. “‘Cos I’m right?”

“‘Cos the morphling’ll wear off soon, and it’s gonna hurt like hell.” Then, he softens. "And because you're a little right."

And you dread it, that first part. You can already feel the flames charring the edges of your consciousness, trying to take over again. Chin dipping back onto the table, you squeeze Haymitch’s hand tighter. He’s all you have here. No family to come sit with you, no friends who’ll take care of you the way he has. He's stupid for it, for putting himself in the crossfire, but it means something. Right now, you don’t know what, but you’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he’ll let you. 

“You gonna leave?” You sound so small, and it leaves you regretting asking at all. This isn't you. You get by on banter and jabs, not... this. Not vulnerability. The scars might heal, but you won't be able to take back the things you've given to him today. Shreds of yourself you didn't know existed.

He shakes his hand; strokes your hair again. “Gonna be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” 

With the morphling humming through your veins and his gentle, soothing touch taking your mind away from the pain, you drift back into a restless, uncomfortable in-between. 

One where he is here, and for that alone, the agony is almost worth it.

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“What if I write it and it’s bad-”

WHAT IF YOU WRITE IT AND ITS GOOD? WHAT IF YOU WRITE IT AND ITS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED? WHAT THEN????

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Losing Dogs - Prologue

Yeah...I have no explanation for this. It was originally supposed to be a one-shot but there's just so much more to this story that it became impossible to make it a one off. I hope you enjoy it, and let me know if you're interested in more chapters! (I'll make more anyway, but your comments keep me alive <3)

Word count: 1417

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x fem!OC, Katniss Everdeen x fem!OC (platonic)

Warnings: I don't think there's anything in this one. Alcohol mention, I guess, and of course canonical violence.

The victor’s village of District 12 was never a particularly welcoming place, even now that the Games are over. Compared to the ramshackle town, it was always too clean, too well built, and an all too obvious reminder of how the Capitol could have provided for its people, but didn’t. When Dorothy Pick was asked to stay with Katniss in the victor’s village, her first instinct was to refuse. 

“It’s temporary.” Effie offered. As if that soothed the ache that had formed in the pit of Dorothy’s stomach. “She needs someone with her. I just know she’ll end up isolated in that dusty house, surrounded by them. The memories of… well, you know.” Effie’s voice broke before she could say Prim’s name. Dorothy looked down at her District 13 distributed boots. They were a half size too big and gave her blisters. She chewed the inside of her bottom lip in thought. 

“What you’re asking me to do,” she met Effie’s gaze, “Katniss would hate it.” 

Katniss had always dealt with her feelings alone. Dorothy tried her best to help the girl but was brushed off at every turn. Katniss had never been able to be a true child. Her pride would never allow it. 

“Of course she will. But you and I both know that one day soon, she’ll need someone close to care for her.”

Dorothy’s worn-in boots crunched on the gravel drive as she walked around the village. After a month of sharing a house with Katniss, there had been very little progress. Katniss never spoke, ate only what Dorothy physically forced her to, and spent most days rotting away on the couch. Dorothy spent most of her days dusting, rearranging, and airing out the house in an effort to prevent staleness from lingering. As she moved about the house, she could often feel Katniss’s eyes tracking her every move as if waiting for Dorothy to turn and attack. 

“Eventually, you’ll have to get up. Otherwise, you’ll fuse to the couch,” Dorothy said. There was no judgment in the tone, simply stating a fact. Katniss only responded with a half-hearted glare in the older woman’s direction. Dorothy shrugged her shoulders, “Alright. I guess showering will be something we tackle later.” 

Tonight, she managed to convince Katniss to sleep in her bed rather than the overused couch. There was no changing of clothes or brushing of teeth or any other hygienic care, but Dorothy silently celebrated the fact that Katniss had moved at all. Baby steps. she thought as she closed Katniss’s door. 

After putting Katniss to bed, she decided to take a walk and get out of the house for a few minutes. She hoped that the walk would calm her nerves and help clear her mind before bed. Tonight, however, it was the village itself that was fueling her mind’s fire. Lavish homes set up especially for those victors lucky enough to survive the torment. Cozy rooms to cage the animals the Capitol created. Soft, clean beds for the district filth to rest in until the next round of torture rears its ugly head. 

Dorothy was no victor. She was never reaped and never had to know the slings and arrows of the Games and the Capitol extortion for herself. The day she woke up too old to be reaped was one of the happiest days of her life. Her dear friend, Astrid, had managed to avoid danger as well, and together they shared hopes that their children would be just as lucky. Unfortunately for both women, their luck ran out. The world knows of Astrid’s child, Katniss Everdeen. The Girl on Fire who broke the system and brought down the capitol. A true victor of the people. Dorothy’s only child – her darling Lennie – never lived past the age of 13. The day he was reaped, Dorothy was inconsolable. Her body quaked with the screams for the peacekeepers not to take her son. He was all she had; all she was. The day she watched him die was the day she knew she could never be a mother again. Now, as she found herself staring at one of the empty victor’s houses, she thought of what might have been if her son had lived. If her baby had come home to her.  

“Do you expect the house to move or something?” 

Dorothy tried not to visibly bristle at Haymitch’s voice calling to her from his porch. She cast a glance at him over her shoulder. He stood there in casual clothes – clearly he had been wearing them for at least a day or two – and loosely gripped a glass of bourbon in his hand. She could practically smell him from here. 

“Hi, Haymitch.” Her response was clipped, as it always was when addressing him. There was no smile, but no frown or grimace either. Haymitch shifted to lean on the doorway so he no longer had to support his full weight himself. No doubt he was at least four drinks in by now. The sobriety of District 13 didn’t last long once he entered his house and was once more surrounded by an endless supply of alcohol. 

“What are you doing out here skulking around in the dark? Aren’t you a little old to be sneaking into empty houses?” 

“Aren’t you a little old to be purposefully destroying your liver?” 

“Hm, Touchè.” Haymitch punctuated his sentence with a long sip from his cup. Dorothy turned her face back to the empty house before her, and she took a deep breath in, letting her eyes slip closed for a moment. 

“How is she?” Haymitch asked after a long pause. His voice was softer than before. Dorothy barely heard him from where she stood. She turned to face him, finally. A soft breeze almost stole the words from her lips as she began to answer. 

“I got her to sleep in her bed for once.” 

Haymitch looked down into his glass before taking another sip. He nodded slowly and continued to look at the glass as if it held all the answers. “She’ll come around,” he muttered to himself as he turned to walk back into his house, shutting the door behind him. 

When she returned to Katniss’ house, she was met with heavy silence. She removed her boots and her coat and then made her way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. As the water boiled, Dorothy pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Just hard enough to see the kaleidoscope of colors bloom. The sound of the water roiling did little to combat the oppressive silence that threatened to swallow her whole. She could hear him sometimes. When it was too quiet. The shuffling of his feet across the floor, his steady breaths as he drew at the counter, and his laugh as pure and clear as a bell. He haunted her every quiet moment. Her boy. 

The sharp whistle of the kettle caused her to lurch forward to stop the noise from waking Katniss. Her heart rate spiked as she waited, kettle in hand, to make sure Katniss wasn’t coming downstairs. After a few moments of continued quiet, Dorothy sighed and poured the hot water into her waiting mug. She had hardly allowed the tea to steep before she was pressing the mug to her lips and savoring the earthy flavor. The more she drank, the heavier her eyelids seemed to grow. She left the now-empty mug by the sink – it’s tomorrow’s problem – before shutting off all of the downstairs lights and padding up the stairs. 

The room she’s in had to have belonged to Prim. There were traces of her everywhere: a few articles of clothing she must not have had time to pack, some dried sprigs of various herbs hanging in front of the window, and a few books that looked to be about herbology and herbolism. Dorothy had left everything completely untouched, including the bed. She thought that one day Katniss may want to come in here and sit with Prim’s memory. Her pallet of fluffy blankets on the floor was good enough for now. After changing into her night clothes and lowering herself to the floor, she breathed out a long sigh. Moonlight streamed in through the gossamer curtains and cast the room in an eerie glow. Dorothy stared up at the ceiling and waited. Waited for her mind to quiet, for her body to relax, and for sleep to finally end the day. 

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Something's coming tomorrow...

Is it a request?

...no

Is it another project that I'll start with lots of enthusiasm and then slowly abandon when other things in life get to be too much?

...maybe

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I recently finished Sunrise on the Reaping and I am actually chomping at the bit foaming at the mouth totally normal for Haymitch Abernathy, soooooo feel free to send some requests!!!!!

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Yes, I am still amongst the living (barely)

Hey little froggies,

Yeah I know I keep disappearing - reappearing - promising to write - disappearing again. I'm sorry 😭. This semester is so overloaded that I don't even have time for my homework. But I swear Things are in the works. Very slowly they are being assembled.

I do want to ask a question! If I did a part 2 to Seeing Blind (the Connor x reader fic) would y'all want it to be post revolution, or do you want me to pick up where the fic left off in game? I don't mind either one, but y'all are the consumers so I figured I'd ask!

Also for the fans of my most recent Spock fic: a part 2 is going to happen, but probably not for a while. I have to do some medical research for that one 😅

Anyway, just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't abandoned anything. I'm just a little overwhelmed right now. That being said, feel free to keep dropping requests! I like to have lots of options when picking what to work on!!

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That one time, Charles had a slip-up.

[Listen, I watched Apocalypse again, and this has been on my mind ever since. I love this man so much, it hurts.]

young!Charles Xavier (Wheelchair) x Reader TW: Oral (f!receiving), dirty telepathy.

You're pacing the front of the classroom in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, chalk in hand, as you sketch out Mendelian genetics on the blackboard. The familiar screech of chalk against the slate is comforting. You're in your element here, explaining the logic of dominant and recessive genes with an enthusiasm that hopefully borders on infectious.

"Any questions so far?" you ask, facing the class. But it's not their faces you seek; it's not them you crave validation from. No, if you're honest with yourself, you're playing to an audience of one—the one who's not even here today: Charles.

Of course, you've seen him around the mansion—how could you not? Charles Xavier, with his sharp wit and sharper suits, his intense eyes. Even seated in his wheelchair, he carries himself with a grace and confidence that sets your heart racing. His presence lingers like in the study halls, and every so often, when your paths cross, his warm eyes seem to twinkle just for you.

"Miss?" A student's voice pulls you back to reality, and you shake off the daydream with a laugh that you hope sounds more professional than flustered.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought. What's your question, Jamie?"

As you navigate the minefield of mutant teenage curiosity, something shifts within you—a sudden invasion of vivid and unexpected images almost knocks you off-balance. There you are in your mind's eye, but not as you are now. Instead, you're perched on the edge of Charles' desk, the mahogany surface cool beneath your fingertips, the ambient light dancing across your—

No. Stop that. This is neither the time nor the place for such fantasies. You cough to dispel the inappropriate mirage and refocus on the lesson. It must be the pollen of spring air wafting through the open windows, you tell yourself, or perhaps the strain of teaching genetics has finally cracked your decorum.

You walk back to the front of the class, your mind still reeling from the vivid images that seem to have hijacked your thoughts. You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure as you refocus on the genetic intricacies of Punnett squares. But it's difficult—oh, so difficult—when you think of Charles's mahogany desk, your body is there, on top of documents and pens, spread like a sacrifice for him.

"Adenine pairs with thymine," you recite, your voice a little too breathy. You fumble slightly with the chalk, and it drops to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, you're hit with another wave of those illicit thoughts. 

You’re sprawled across that desk now, papers fluttering to the floor like they’re too shy to watch. Your thighs are parted, your panties soaked through, and Charles stares at you like you are his favorite meal. His breath is hot against your skin, puffing out in little gusts that make your core throb like it’s got its own heartbeat.

“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. His tongue darts out, tracing the crease where your thigh meets your swollen center. 

He doesn’t stop there. Oh no, he is just getting started. He’s kissing his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips soft and wet, a hint of teeth scraping against your skin in the best kind of way. And then he’s there, right on your hot flesh, his tongue brushing against your clit.

“Charles,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as his tongue slips between your folds, lapping at your juices. He’s good at this—too good—and you know why: He can read your thoughts and understands precisely what drives you wild. You’re already shaking, your hips jerking up to meet his mouth as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips. 

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice cracking as he slips two fingers into your dripping wetness, curling them, hitting that sweet spot inside you like he’s got a roadmap. Your thighs are trembling and you can feel the heat building in your core, white-hot and unstoppable.

“I want to hear you,” he growls against you, his breath hot and wet, and then he’s devouring you again, his tongue flicking against you in hard strokes while his fingers move at that delicious pace.

And that’s when you feel that sweet, soul-crushing wave of pleasure that starts in your toes and rips through your body like a hurricane. You’re coming, hard, your heat clamping down on his fingers as he licks and sucks you through it, drawing every last drop of ecstasy out of you until you’re a quivering, sobbing mess on his desk.

It's like being jolted awake, and suddenly, you're back in the classroom. The daydream bursts like a balloon, and you're aware of your surroundings. You're standing in the middle of the classroom, giving a lecture about... wait, what was the topic again?

"Guanytosine... cytosine..." The words are suddenly foreign on your tongue, a tangled mess of syllables. You shake your head, trying to dispel the imagined orgasm, but it clings with a tenacity that makes your knees weak.

"Any questions?" you ask, more out of need to break the spell than actual inquiry. A sea of blank teenage faces stares back at you.

"Alright, then." You manage a smile as the bell finally chimes. "Don't forget to review chapters five and six. We'll be discussing mutations next class."

The students file out, their chatter and laughter a welcome distraction. Once the last one leaves, you lean heavily against the doorframe, taking in the now-empty classroom.

Fresh air. You need fresh air. Stepping outside into the crisp morning, you embrace the solace of the estate's gardens. The manicured lawns stretch out before you. You close your eyes, taking in deep lungfuls of the verdant fragrance to push out the scent of Charles that you can’t shake.

The soft sound of wheels on gravel draws your attention. The sunlight catches in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow that's hard not to notice.

"Hello, darling," he greets you warmly, those expressive eyes meeting yours with a depth that always seems to see right through you. "How were your classes today?"

You open your mouth to reply, aiming for nonchalance. "Good," you manage, but it comes out more as a question than a statement. A blush creeps up your neck as flashes from that earlier inappropriate fantasy flicker behind your eyelids. You can feel the heat of your cheeks matching the roses beside you.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, his tone laced with concern.

Before you can fabricate some form of reassurance, his hand brushes against yours, a simple touch that sends a jolt of energy through you. His thoughts unexpectedly merge with yours, revealing the image you've been dreaming about—now seen from his perspective. 

Your cheeks flush crimson. You either revealed your secret fantasies about him or... those vivid images were actually his, projected directly into your mind.

"Charles," you breathe, looking up at him with wide eyes

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment and a playful undertone suggesting he's not entirely repentant. "I suppose my thoughts were... louder than intended."

"Your thoughts..." you begin, feeling heat rise to your cheeks again. "They weren't... "

"I projected," Charles admits with a small smile. "A slip-up. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable isn't quite the word for it; more like overwhelmed and flustered beyond belief.

"Seriously?" you ask. "That happened unintentionally?"

"Well, not entirely," he replies with a grin. "It was bound to slip out eventually. But..." He chuckles alongside you, the sound mixing with the rustling leaves and distant chatter from the mansion. "Next time, I'll endeavor to keep my dirtiest daydreams to myself," he promises, though the twinkle in his eye makes you wonder if he truly intends to.

"Well, you could at least take me out to dinner first," you jokingly reply.

"I'll be by your door at seven." Charles smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

You blink, caught off guard by his swift response. "I... wait, really?"

Charles' lips curl into a playful smirk. "Unless you'd prefer to skip straight to the desk?"

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson. "Dinner sounds lovely," you manage to say, your voice a touch higher than usual.

"Until then," he says softly, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. The gesture is so charmingly old-fashioned that you can't help but smile as he rolls away.

[v-o-i-d-e-d]

Always do your best to support local libraries! They help hold society together and they have so much more than just books!!!

Hey hey, as a librarian, can I just say don’t pace yourself at the library. I get a lot of customers saying “oh I shouldn’t get too many books out at once” but like you should!!!! Max out your card, take everything we have on a subject you’re interested in, make a book fort in your home. We love that shit! It doesn’t matter if you read them or not; just take them for an adventure and bring them back whenever they’re due!

For public libraries, one of the ways we secure funding year to year is lending. Governments don’t want to fund more books if they’re not being used and the way we measure use is by issues. Regardless of whether you read it or not, whether you have it for a day or a month, if you issue it to your library card, we get the stats! It makes the library look good!

Help your local library; get books out even if you know you can’t read them all!