Author's Notes: This story began in response to several prompts in my tumblr inbox. Each chapter is crafted around the word that served as a prompt and begins with the definition of that word. So this one's a little different than my other stories since it was reader interactive to a certain degree. Rather than planning it out in advance, I planned and wrote based on the prompts given to me. It is complete and if you really want to read it, the whole thing is up on my tumblr page already, but I will be spreading out the posting of it here because I am supposed to be packing for a move right now. Hooray for multi-tasking! Anyways, even though it is completed and won't be changing, I welcome your comments and constructive criticsim. I can always use it to grow as a writer and apply it to the next story.

My thanks to akai-echo for the stunning banner, and peetabreadgirl for being the most enthusiastic human test subject/beta reader ever. Love you both and hugs! 3 KDNFB.

Grapholagnia - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.

The giggling draws me in. The girlish, bubbling noise out of place with the scent of chemical cleaners and formaldehyde that still lingers in the air. They scramble as they sense my approach, aware of their impending doom in the last second as I hold my hand out expectantly and confiscate the folder concealing whatever has distracted them from Rue's hands. She averts her eyes, her cheeks darkening with an embarrassed flush as she hands it over to me.

"Please continue your work," I calmly state in my best teacher voice.

"Yes, Miss Everdeen," Rue and Sasha whisper in unison, bending their heads over their desks, pencils scratching away, completing their lab reports. With a satisfied nod, I return to the board, detailing their homework assignment as my class continues their quiet work.

This class, at the end of the day, is usually the most difficult to engage and keep focused. The bright promise of the final bell and the freedom of the afternoon, or as is the case today, the weekend, is often too tempting for my students to ignore.

Five minutes before their (and my) liberation, I call for their attention, pointing out their assignment for the weekend, ignoring the pained groans, and reminding them to place their lab reports in the box on my desk before they go.

"Have a great weekend, and I'll see you on Monday," I call out, most of my words muffled under the shrill bell, the scrape of chairs, and the excited talk of teenagers. I smile, ducking my head to hide the expression, because alright, their joy is infectious.

They spill from the room, and I notice that Rue is hanging back, taking her time to double check the assignment she's copied down and carefully placing her books in her bag. When just she and I are left in the classroom, she approaches my desk.

"Miss Everdeen, could I, um, get that back now?" Her feet shift nervously and she fiddles with the straps of her bookbag.

Picking up the folder, I level her with my best This better not happen again look. Then I open it, to see what exactly caused the problem. Rue squeaks, and I have to control my reaction. It isn't easy. I am greeted by a glossy photograph of a man in firefighter gear. Sort of. I'm pretty sure my face is flaming hotter than some of the fires this man extinguishes for a living, although hopefully not dressed like that.

His pants are worn and hang low on his hips, the v of his lower abdominal muscles evident. His jacket hangs open, revealing a bare chest glistening in oil or sweat. His hands are draped casually over the ax slung across both shoulders, and his face is obscured behind the face shield of his helmet.

"This is serious, Rue," I manage to say.

"I'm eighteen," she insists.

"Yes, but this is not appropriate to bring to school," I remind her as I flip to the front cover. 2017 Panem Firefighters Annual Charity Calendar. I clear my throat and shut the folder. "However, since you've never given me trouble before, I'll let you off with a warning."

"Yes! Thank you!" she exclaims, bouncing on her toes with giddiness.

"Take this home, don't open it until you're off school property, and I never want to see something like this in my classroom again. Understood?"

"Yes! Understood!" She says, accepting the folder with the calendar still tucked inside and shoving it into her book bag before racing out the door with a happy farewell on her tongue. "See you Monday, Miss. Everdeen!"

I sigh and grab the stack of lab reports, placing them neatly in a file folder. Making sure my room is ordered and ready for class on Monday before I shut everything down. With the papers I'll need to grade over the weekend tucked in my bag, I leave the school.

"Big plans for the weekend?" Annie Cresta asks as we join up in the hallway, both headed for the staff parking lot.

"New book," I say simply, and Annie nods, leaving it at that. We walk in stilted silence. Both of us have worked here for a few years, but neither of us is very social or friendly. I really don't know much about her other than that she teaches chemistry and I teach biology. Our classrooms neighbor one another. And that's about all I know about her. It makes for some awkward moments.

I'm grateful when I finally reach my car and can enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet. It's payday, and I'm treating myself to a new book, some Chinese takeout, and maybe a bubble bath later tonight. The drive from the school to my favorite bookstore is short, and within twenty minutes, I'm standing in line with a brand new mystery novel. They're kind of my guilty pleasure.

When it's my turn, I am greeted by the gum-popping cashier, her hair in pigtails, and also a prominent display of calendars. The same one I confiscated from Rue earlier today. The cover model is pictured in psuedo-profile, more of his back than his side facing the camera. He's shirtless, displaying miles of smooth, dark brown skin, with his arms crossed and his muscles bulging, pants low on the hips. Again. The Panem Fire Department needs to invest in belts or something. His shoulder is adorned with a tattoo of the PFD crest. And I can't seem to look away.

"Oh it's a good one this year," the cashier says as she scans my book and taps her nails on the calendar.

"I wouldn't know," I stutter.

"Oh my gosh! I look forward to August every year just for this. Their calendars are always so freaking hot, plus the money goes to a good cause," she chats as she tosses my book into a plastic sack bearing the store's logo. Then she picks up one of the calendars and my cheeks rage in a conflagration as she flips it open to show me something. "July is my favorite. Last year he was December and the cover. Usually, they rotate the guys through, but this one is always in the calendar. Guess he's in high demand. There's just something about a ginger that lights my fire, know what I mean?"

"Um thanks for the information," I say, shielding my eyes with one hand because July is wearing nothing but his boots, a smile, and a chartreuse fire extinguisher held strategically over his groin.

"For 2016, the money went to the Tenth District Animal Shelter, so they posed with puppies and kittens. Oh my gawd, I thought my ovaries were going to implode. This year, though, the money's going to the Soup Kitchen down on Twelfth and Oak. You know the place?"

"I do. How much for my book?" I say, my eyes dipping once more to Mr. July. There's no denying that he's stunning. He oozes sensuality, but I really just want to get out of here.

"They only run $15 a piece," the girl talks, and flips the page. "Not only that, but they've got a woman in here this year. See?"

Oh my god, I look. Briefly. Just enough to see that they've used the suspenders to cover her nipples, although the round globes of her breasts are visible, and her brown hair is spiked and streaked with red.

"You know, if that's your thing. Equality, right? Hey! When's your birthday? Let's see what tasty treat you get for your special day!"

I don't know what comes over me. I grab one of the calendars and shove it into my bag. Just to get her to shut up. She keeps nattering on as I finally pay for the book and the calendar, consoling myself that really, I'm just donating to a worthy cause. I don't have to look at it. But I can file a complaint about the pushy, over-sharing cashier. Later, though. Because I basically run out of the store, my relaxing weekend looking to turn into a complete joke.

When I get home, I shove the calendar, still in the opaque plastic bag, deep into the recesses of my closet. Dial up my favorite Chinese place and order way too much food before changing out of my work clothes into something far more comfortable. I even manage to read a chapter plus a few pages of my book before the buzzer rings, indicating that my food has arrived. Wallet in hand, flip flops on my feet, I zip to the elevator, mouth anticipating my order of crab rangoons.

"Hold the elevator, please!"

I roll my eyes and sigh. This person is getting between me and my food, but I press the Door Open button just as my neighbor from across the hall slips through the doors.

"Thanks," he says with a bright smile, adjusting the black backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Don't mention it," I say. Yet another person I know nothing about, and yet, I can't stop staring at the bright red embroidery on the sleeve of his navy blue polo shirt. He must take my attention as an invite to talk. Which it's not.

"So, relaxing Friday night in?"

"Yeah," I say, ripping my gaze up from the PFD emblem on his shoulder. How did I not know that 4C is a firefighter? He's pretty quiet. No loud parties or random hookups at all hours of the night. No loud music or strange thumping. He keeps odd hours, though, a fact that now makes sense. I've seen him here and there, checking his mail, coming in from a run with his shirt plastered to his chest with sweat. Once, jogging from the building dressed much like he is now - navy polo shirt, navy cargo pants, and black boots - his blond curls damp from what I assumed was a shower. And another time, juggling three grocery sacks while helping our other floor neighbor get her skittish dog back into her apartment.

Mags, a sweet older lady, lives in 4B, and her massive chocolate lab, Rowdy, is almost always breaking free of her grip, trailing his leash behind him as he explores. Thankfully, she keeps him tagged and well trained. Usually he returns home on his own.

I think of all this as I force my eyes to the chrome elevator doors as we descend. My neighbor clears his throat once, clearly getting the message to leave me alone, and scratches the back of his neck, drawing my gaze there and then down, for some unknown reason.

Looser pants. The Panem Fire Department needs to buy looser pants and belts for their employees. They should use their charity money to purchase better fitting uniforms. I snort at the thought, and catch my neighbor watching me, a slow smile curving his lips. He has blue eyes.

And now I'm having lewd thoughts about my neighbor. Is he in that calendar? And what the hell is taking this elevator so long? It's only three damn floors.

"And you?" I ask to break the strange tension.

"Headed into work. I drew the crummy shift this week," he says, and I nod, hoping that this conversation is now over. No such luck. "I work for PFD."

"I can see that," I say with a scowl and a nod towards his sleeve as the elevator finally stops.

"Right," he says as I hurry off and he follows. "I, uh, guess I'll see you around?"

I don't bother answering because I am busy transacting for food. Delicious food that doesn't have blue eyes or bulging biceps or a tight ass. Why did I check out my neighbor's ass?

Food in hand, I hurry back upstairs and lock myself in my apartment. Halfway through my meal, though, I've reread the same page five times, unable to swat or eat or read away my curiosity. I'll take one look. Just one quick peek to satisfy myself that my neighbor's goods aren't circulated to the greater Panem Metro Area because…

Fuck, I have no reason.

Retrieving the calendar from its hiding place in my closet anyways, I sit cross-legged on my couch. I finger the cover for a second before flipping it open to January.

Well, that's a lot of skin, I think and flip to February. Four months of sweaty, gorgeous firemen. My hands shake as I stare at the squares of April, remembering what the cashier said about my birth month. It's silly so, I stuff a crab rangoon in my mouth, reminding myself that I am perfectly within my rights to view this. These firemen were consenting. I flip to May.

And nearly choke.

This one isn't smoldering at the camera or grinning with swagger. He's laughing. His blond curls are mussed up, and his arm muscles practically ripple off the page. The navy polo shirt stretched across them tonight only a tease of what lay beneath. A coiled firehose is draped over one shoulder, revealing just how broad that expanse is. But what holds my attention is that his pants have malfunctioned.

They're not hanging low on his hips like the others, they're dangling on the precipice of indecency. Not even fastened, gaping open to reveal a trail of blond hair leading into a thatch of more blond hair. That and his laughter, his casual stance, paints an irresistible picture. I can practically see it, him juggling the heavy hose with one hand and his disobedient pants with the other, attempting to maintain some form of modesty, and laughing as he nearly fails. The lucky photographer catching the carefree instant with a quick snap of the shutter.

Holy fuck. My neighbor is five alarm hot.

Something flutters low in my stomach and a burning takes residence in my core. While I'd like to dismiss it as nothing or even as something unpleasant, like a yeast infection, I know that's not what it is. I should look away. It isn't right to stare lasciviously at my neighbor, whom I definitely know nothing about except what his happy trail looks like, and I wonder if the hair is coarse or if he'd twitch when I ran a finger through it, and I stop myself right there, flinging the calendar aside and refusing to look any further.

I march into my bathroom and start the water to draw my bath, eyes squeezed shut, but the image of him is tattooed on the back on my eyelids, and I groan in frustration as I realize, I won't be unseeing it. How am I supposed to act normal around him now?

I'm so fucked.