v-o-i-d-e-d

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

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.

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

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

“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????

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

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. 

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

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

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

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!!!!!

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

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!!

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

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!

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

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

we dumped tea into the harbor for less

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

I would read the fuck out of this! If you ever write it would you tag me?

Jack Dawson x Dewitt-Bukater!Reader anyone? Where the reader runs away from her family as a teen and ends up meeting Jack, they travel together as friends and eventually start dating and then get married. And now wanna return to America for a new life with their unborn child.

imagine the drama when the reader seesher younger sister Rose on the titanic and her mother! The dinner scene the atmosphere is so thick.

But like the moments were the reader shows Rose what its like to live, how much fun she's having being free being with jack would be sweet.

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

This was super cute!!

could i request a barista au charles xavier x reader fic?? 🤭 with him being all flirty every time the reader orders something 🫣 love ur writing!!

ahh thank you! this was so much fun to write I hope you like it <3

Early Morning Coffee Date

pairing: Charles Xavier x Fem!Reader

word count: 1618

warnings: none

12 Days of Christmas masterlist main masterlist

"What can I get started for ya?"

Y/N looks up from her purse to see who's talking to her. Yes, she was in line for her local coffee shop, but she knew all the baristas that worked at 7:30 AM on weekdays. And she would definitely remember this man, with his British accent and bright eyes.

"You're new?" She asks, and then wants to hit herself. Why can't she just order?

"Yes." He laughs, his accent making her heart skip a small beat. Small. "But don't worry, I worked at Starbucks before this, so I promise I can make whatever crazy concoction you think of." He smiles, and she wishes today was a good day so she could order something crazy, just to tease him.

"Well, I totally would put your knowledge to the test, but I forgot my wallet." She says with a grimace, because of course the day she meets a cute barista she forgets her goddamn money. She doesn't have time to go back to her house before work, so she'll just have to hope that she doesn't need it again today. She's lucky she can walk to work and doesn't have to take the Subway, like most New Yorkers.

"If you order something easy, it's on the house." He says, and she smiles, mouth widening in shock.

"I can't let you do that." She says, looking at the line forming behind her. "I'll just have to survive with the break room coffee." She said it without a shudder, but the barista clearly knew the break room coffee tasted a little like mold no matter how much she washed the pot.

"I cannot let you do that." He says, shaking his head. "Please, miss, there's a line now. If you don't tell me what you want to order, I will be forced to make you something random that you may not want." He says it with a smirk and shrug, and she feels her heart pick up agin.

"Fine," She says, fighting to keep the smile away. She gives him her usual order, and he takes it down on a cup.

"And what's the name for that order?" He asks, giving her a look that lets her know that he is asking for more than just the order.

"Y/N." She answers, searching for the barista's name tag. "I'm sorry, but you don't seem to have a name tag." She informs him, and he just smirks.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, I guess." He says with a wink. "I will personally make your drink, Y/N. And I'd love to hear any criticism, as it seems you come here a lot." He says as he moves away from the register, despite the line that is still very much there.

"Charles!" Cass, one of Y/N's barista regulars yells. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back on register." She rolls her eyes, and Y/N smiles as Charles' cheeks heat.

"Charles," She repeats, and the barista nods. "Well, now I have no reason to come back." She jests, even though she knows the people behind her must absolutely hate her.

"You still haven't tried my drink. And I know you want to." She cannot deny the way her heart is racing now, especially with how she can feel her cheeks heating up.

"You're right." She gives in, knowing she needs to say goodbye. "Thank you, Charles. Hopefully I'll see you soon." He winks at her as she leaves, and she can't help but widen her eyes as she turns away.

Was that hot barista just flirting with her?

~

"Cass, good morning." Y/N greets the next day. She can see Charles working the espresso machine, and even though she does want to try his drink she also really wanted to talk to him again. She wants to be angry about the crush she's already developed on him, but seeing him working makes her realize that it's basically hopeless. He's hot and nice, which is high expectations in the world they live in.

"Y/N!" Cass greets, seemingly more excited than she's ever been that Y/N's here. "Charles, your customer." Cass turns, and Charles pauses everything to turn and see Y/N. She forgets all about the 'your customer' part of Cass' sentence, which she had been meaning to revisit.

"Hey!" He sounds so excited, and Y/N's surprised by this. "You came back."

"She comes every-"

"I needed to taste your drink." Y/N cuts Cass off, because she wants Charles to feel special. She would have come today anyway, yes, but she also really wanted to try his concoction.

"Yes!" Charles calls, starting to pull a shot. "Cass, don't put this one in. I'm making a special one." He winks before going to work. Y/N immediately shakes her head.

"No, no, please, let me pay." Y/N pulls out her wallet.

"You heard him." Cass shrugs. "Now, please step aside. There's a line." She smiles, and Y/N thanks them before moving away. She doesn't have to wait long by the counter before Charles is there, on her side, holding a hot drink.

"What are you doing?" She asks, looking over to the espresso machine. Someone else is working it in his place, and Y/N turns back at him with a smile.

"I was hoping you had ten minutes? I'm on my break." She's so shocked, because how is this cute guy asking her to talk on his break? "Or maybe you have work, which is fine. I should have figured." He sounds dejected, and as he turns Y/N grabs his arm.

"Don't walk away with my coffee." She says with a small smile. "You got my drink out so fast, I think I have a couple minutes to spare." Charles' face lifts, and she feels her heart skip.

She's so whipped.

~

Of course, Y/N gets sick the next day.

They had talked about everything, from what brought them to the city to what their favorite color was to their favorite childhood tv shows. Y/N was late for work, which she blamed on a headache, and then somehow she manifested it into actually having a headache which she hoped taking a nap at home would cure. The next morning, she woke up with a stuffy nose and a sore throat.

She debated going into the coffee shop, but decided against it, as she didn't want to get anyone sick. So she sits at home for two days, reads her book and watches an entire season of her show while she tries not to think about the coffee shop - about Charles.

It's a weekend when she finally goes in - late, because she couldn't bring herself to wake up early on a weekend even if it meant seeing Charles. She walks into the shop as quick as she can without trying to look like she's rushing and then looks at the people behind the counter as she gets in the long line.

No Charles.

She thinks about leaving, heart falling traitorously. But she talks herself out of it before the idea fully forms, because it sounds stupid. Maybe he's on a break. But by the time she makes it to the front of the line, she realizes that he's still not here.

"Hey, Y/N!" Erik, the cashier today, says, and Y/N smiles, because it's nice that people know her. "Do you want your usual?" He asks with a smirk, and Y/N is just about to answer when someone comes up next to Erik and slightly pushes him out of the way.

"I've got this handled." Charles sends a glare to Erik, so fast Y/N barely registers it, before he smiles at Y/N. "I know what you like. You're good to go." He winks, and Y/N can feel her cheeks start to heat.

"You can't keep giving me free drinks." She says with a small smile, biting her lip to keep it small.

"Multiple offenses? Charles!" Erik says, sounding scandalized, and Y/N feels the heat spread to her neck.

"Go ahead and take someone else's order, Erik." Charles says, before smiling once more at Y/N and walking back to the espresso machine to make the drink.

"You're one special gal." Erik tells her with a smirk. "Have a good day, Y/N." She bids him the same as she walks away, knowing the line needs to continue moving. She goes over to the side of the counter and watches Charles work, waiting for her drink, which clearly has been moved to the front of the line by the way Charles is already done and walking over to her with a smile stretched across his face.

"I was worried when you didn't show up the past few days." He tells her as he leans over the counter to talk. She takes a sip of her drink, which somehow tastes better than the first time.

"I was sick." She says, heart fluttering.

"And here I was thinking your boyfriend found out about our long talk." He smirks, and her stomach did a flip.

"I don't have a boyfriend." She said, taking another sip of her drink.

"Hm," Charles looks down, then grabs her free hand. "Would you want one?" He looks up at her, and her mouth went dry.

He's asking her out. She needs respond because he's asking her out.

"Possibly," She finally says, taking his hand. "If the right man were to ask." She can't help but tease him.

"Well, what are you doing tomorrow?" He asks, and she smiles.

"Probably going out with my boyfriend." She puts her coffee down and leans against the counter, close enough to put the ball in his court.

"Perfect." He smiles back, and then leans in to kiss her across the counter.

//

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187  @one-sweet-gubler @theoraekenslover @thefandomplace @mcueveryday @icequeen1371 @kenzi-woycehoski @multifandom-boss-bitch

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

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

me as a writer

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

*passionately thinks about story instead of writing it*

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

HA! I guess I dropped it just in time then! Glad you liked it!!!

I just recently saw Back To The Future again and I had an idea for a request!

Back To The Future

Marty McFly x Gn!Reader

Marty and Y/N decide to take the DeLorean to go back in time for a 70s horror movie fest for Halloween. Y/N thought they can handle the scary movies, but they get freaked out and Marty needs to comfort them.

hope you’re having a wonderful day!

Okay, so it's not a movie fest. But I do like this idea so I made something suuuper similar! I hope you like it and sorry for taking so long!

Warnings: none? I guess really small spoiler for Alien?

Word Count: 1876 (a little on the short side, I know)

Hold My Hand - Marty McFly x gn!reader

  “I don’t know, Marty, this doesn’t seem like a good idea.” (Y/N) said as they cast a wary look at the DeLorean.

         “Come on! It’ll be fun! What better way to watch Alien for the first time than to go to opening night!” Marty grabbed (Y/N)’s hands and pulled them closer. “And if you get scared, I’ll protect you.”

         (Y/N) rolled their eyes and lightly smacked Marty’s chest, “Don’t be a dork. Won’t Doc be mad when he finds out you’re joy-riding around in the DeLorean?”

“Nah, of course not. He gave me special permission,” the boy grinned and pulled the keys to the DeLorean out of his jacket pocket. (Y/N) narrowed their eyes as Marty dangled the keys in their face.

         “So, you stole them from his desk and he has no idea?”

         “Yeah.”

(Y/N) sighed, crossed their arms, and bit the inside of their cheek. they did not want a repeat of the Wild West, or 2015, or another repeat of 1955. That was the strangest week of their life and while they didn’t necessarily regret those adventures, they were understandably wary of another ride in the time machine. However, when their eyes met Marty’s they found their resolve weakening. their resignation must have shown on their face because Marty’s smile turned smug. 

“Fine, but if we end up causing some crazy paradox I have the right to say I told you so.”

Marty laughed and opened the passenger door for them, “Don’t sweat it. Nothing bad is gonna happen.”

(Y/N) and Marty hid the DeLorean on an access road just outside of town. During their walk toward the movie theater, they both noticed that not much was different there in 1979, after all, it was only a few years earlier. 

“You know, somewhere in this town, right now, y ou and I are probably hanging out together,” (Y/N) said. they sneaked a glance at their best friend who chuckled. 

“We’re probably complaining about how we can’t see this movie.”

Both teens laughed at that. “Yeah, if only 10-year-old me and 11-year-old you knew they’d only have to wait about 6 years!” They both continued to laugh at that idea. Amazed at where their lives have ended up. Marty watched (Y/N)’s face as they continued to smile. their bright eyes scanned the familiar street and their hand occasionally brushed his as they swung at their sides. (Y/N) caught him looking and lifted an eyebrow in question. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Should we get snacks?” 

(Y/N) hummed, “I don’t know if we should spend a lot of 1985 money there. We’re already going to cause enough trouble using our money to get tickets. Spending any extra could cause an even bigger problem dontcha think?” 

Marty stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged, though he couldn’t keep the smug look off of his face. 

“Oh my god! Marty!” The girl lightly rapped their fist against their friend's shoulder a few times, “You stole Doc’s cash too?” (Y/N) could feel their cheeks grow warm as they thought about the consequences of stealing money from Doc. 

“I didn’t steal the money!” Marty defended himself both figuratively and literally as he blocked (Y/N) from hitting him anymore. “I asked Doc for the money. Told him I wanted it as a keepsake. Besides, even if I stole it he would have no idea. He’s off enjoying his life with Clara and the kids.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“What? Do you not trust me, your best friend in the whole world?” Marty looked at his friend with the biggest most pitiful puppy eyes he could manage. Despite (Y/N) visible disapproval, they chose not to say any more about how Marty got the money. Instead, they changed the subject as their eyes left Marty’s to walk up to the ticket booth outside the movie theater. 

“Two tickets for the new Alien movie, please.” 

The guy in the booth couldn’t have been much older than (Y/N) and Marty, though of course, he was much older than them. His focus shifted from the cash register to (Y/N) and his eyes brightened. 

“Of course! I guess you’re a big horror fan?” The guy leaned slightly forward and made no move to grab the tickets (Y/N) had asked for. Marty rolled his eyes at him. 

“Yeah! I’ve been wanting to see this movie since-” (Y/N) paused for a moment after realizing they were in the past, “since it was first announced!” they beamed at their own smooth recovery. 

“Well, I’ll tell you what: how about a deal?” The boy, whose name tag told (Y/N) that he was named Michael, looked around to make sure no one was watching before looking deeply into (Y/N)’s eyes. They decided to play along and leaned forward onto their side of the counter. 

“What’s the deal?” 

“I can get you these tickets for free if you go on a date with me.”

Marty scoffed in disbelief. It’s as if I’m not standing right next to them! He thought to himself as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash for the tickets. Before (Y/N) could reply, Marty looped his finger into their belt loop and pulled them out of the way then slammed the cash on the counter. 

“C’mon, dude, keep the line movin’!” 

Marty was right. There was a line gathering behind them but that didn’t change how Michael grumbled to himself as he took the cash and handed Marty the tickets. With the tickets in hand, Marty gently led (Y/N) through the crowd by their belt loop. He mumbled under his breath as (Y/N) laughed. 

“Marty, I could have gotten those for free!” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

(Y/N) continued to giggle to themselves even as their cheeks flushed. Was Marty jealous? 

If (Y/N) had said that they never looked at their best friend that way, they would be telling a lie. Truthfully they had had a crush on Marty since before they had become real friends so the thought of him being jealous over them made their stomach flutter a bit. The two got whatever snacks they required and made their way to the theater to take their seats. Finally settled in, (Y/N) rubbed their hands together and squeaked in excitement. they looked at Marty who was shaking his head at them and smiling. 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m excited!” 

Before Marty could respond, the lights began to dim and the two teens settled in and waited for the movie to start. 

Though they hated to admit it, The movie had barely begun and (Y/N) had already closed their eyes in fear several times. Any time they even suspected that a xenomorph was about to come on screen, they pushed themselves back into their chair and not-so-subtly covered their eyes with their candy box. Marty, who couldn’t help but glance over at them every few minutes, attempted to suppress his smile as the girl cowered. He leaned toward them so he could whisper in their ear, 

“Are you scared yet? I can’t tell.”

His comment earned him a flimsy smack on the back of his head and a quiet “Shut up, Marty.” He snickered at them as his eyes returned to the screen. 

Dallas was crawling through the vents while Ripley and the crew stood watch over the monitors, keeping a wary eye out for a second heat signature. Briefly, a second dot appeared on the screen heading toward Dallas. 

“Are you sure it’s not in there with you? Look around!” Ripley warned. Dallas denied visual on the creature and the second dot on the screen disappeared 

(Y/N)’s hand moved towards Marty’s as if it were magnetized. Each time Dallas lit the flame thrower into the dark vents they squeezed his hand in fear. 

“It has to be right there with you, you’ve got to get out of there!” 

Dallas climbed down another level despite the protests from his crew members and as he lit the torch-

(Y/N) - along with several other audience members - screamed as the xenomorph appeared in front of Dallas. their hand now gripped the lapel of Marty’s jacket as they hid half of their face in Marty’s shoulder and kept one squinted eye on the movie screen. Heat crept up the nape of Marty’s neck at the close proximity, but he couldn’t say that it was unwelcomed. He moved his arm so that it was wrapped around the girl’s shoulders. 

“Why didn’t he listen to Ripley?” Y/N whispered. Marty chuckled and gave their shoulders a squeeze, 

“The same reason I never listen to you.”

“Because men are stupid?” (Y/N) snickered. Marty scoffed ready to quip back but the reply died in his throat as (Y/N) settled themselves into his side. 

“Oh my god, that was so good!” (Y/N) bounded out of the theater with Marty not too far behind. 

“How would you know? You spent most of the movie with your hands over your eyes,” Marty said. He then mocked them by pretending to cower behind his hands. (Y/N) whacked his shoulder and rolled their eyes. 

“You’re the worst.”

“If I was the worst I wouldn’t have brought you to a movie in the 1970s. I think you owe me.” Marty said. A sly smile pulled on his lips as he wrapped his arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders. (Y/N) leaned into the touch but scoffed, trying desperately to ignore the blush on their cheeks. 

“And what, pray tell, would I owe you, McFly?” 

Marty realized that he had a golden opportunity here. If it worked, he could mark this down as one of the best nights of his life.

“A kiss.”

(Y/N) almost tripped over nothing. The two teens had made it back to the Delorean and (Y/N) heavily considered pretending they didn’t hear him and just getting into the car. 

“What?” They muttered. Their face had faltered into a nervous smile and their hands had suddenly become clammy. 

“What?” Marty mimicked (Y/N)’s reaction and they narrowed their eyes in annoyance, “A kiss would definitely even out the imbalance.” Marty’s arm slid from around (Y/N)’s shoulders to wrap around their waist. He knew that if he eased back now, he’d lose his nerve so he pushed a bit further. Marty was really close to them now. They could feel his breath on their face and their heart was practically beating out of their chest. 

“Well, I guess we can’t leave things unbalanced,” (Y/N) trailed off as they let their hands rest gently on Marty’s shoulders. They closed the distance and pressed their lips against Marty’s. The kiss was soft and sweet. Their lips danced together in a languid dance that both of them had been longing to experience for quite some time. (Y/N) pulled away and Marty chased after their lips, leaving one last peck before backing up a bit. 

“Well? Are we even?” (Y/N) teased. 

“Hm, I don’t know, I think you might have shortchanged me a little,” Marty replied before capturing their lips with his once more.