This is a new story I posted on Tumblr for Katnissdoesnotfollowback's birthday back in December and I forgot to share it here! There is a book out there called Smut that this story is based off of, but I haven't read it. I read the summary while browsing books on Amazon and figured it would make a good Everlark prompt. Turns out I was right. ;) Lol. Hope you like it.
I stare at the outline I've created for my story and decide that I hate my life. I haven't always, but it seems like fate keeps throwing wrecking balls at me and all my efforts to dodge them have been futile.
I was happy once. A carefree kid, but that was before my father died when I was sixteen. Before I had to work away my afternoons to help keep the electricity on and the cupboards from being empty. Before I missed out on the scholarship I needed to go to college without having to keep that full time job. I was hoping to cut my hours back to part time so I could concentrate on my studies, graduate at the top of my class and get the first job I put my resume in for.
But then Mr. Sunshine was awarded the money I'd worked so hard to get, and it felt like the last five years of my life was washed down the drain. I had given up my teenage rights - friends, parties, boys, fun - all for responsibility. And then, they gave my scholarship away to Peeta fucking Mellark. Just thinking his name has me on edge. Had it been someone who actually needed it, I would have just been disappointed. Instead, I had to sit there, simmering in my own skin with a fake smile plastered across my face, and watch a rich kid - rich by my standards anyway - take what was rightfully mine. Let's just say I haven't quite gotten over it. We go to the same school and I try to avoid him at all costs, but we've crossed paths a few times. It hasn't been pretty.
In hindsight, I know it's not his fault that he won the damn thing. I mean, he didn't award himself the money, but his popularity, optimistic attitude, charm and boyish good looks always drew attention. Attention I desperately needed, but didn't have a clue how to get. I was surly and small, and nonexistent in any extracurriculars because of my circumstances. I've always been bitter about it, and I've taken it out on him a couple times around campus. I guess he decided I wasn't worth his smiles and kindness because he started giving back as good I gave, then avoiding me altogether. Which was fine by me. If I didn't have to see him, then I didn't have to deal with my feelings.
Ignorantly, I had thought things were looking up for a bit. My sister was awarded a full ride at the university in Capitol City a few hours away, and my mother had been promoted at her job, which came with a raise. A small one, but a raise nonetheless. And, I'm about to graduate. It's been four years and I've managed to keep my need for student loans to a minimum. By my calculations I should have my debts paid off in a year's time, and with no sister or mother to support, I can start saving for my future. Hopefully, I will never have to be caught in my mother's situation. It is what it is, but I never want to lean on my children the way she had.
It seems every step forward I take, a setback is waiting to ambush me. Today, I found out in my writing class that for our final, we were being paired up to write a 55,000 word paper based in a random genre. First of all, I really didn't want a partner. I work better alone, when I can think without someone else's thoughts scattering mine. But mostly, it annoyed me because I might get hooked up with a slacker and end up having to do all the work. Second, I didn't want to get stuck with anything in the fiction categories. I am not creative that way. I want to write about things that matter, like earthquakes in Nepal or the despicable treatment of women in the Middle East. Not about fictional lands and ridiculous love stories.
My professor, though, tends toward the artistic side - the very gaudy artistic side - and I just knew there were more of the former than the latter.
As I stared at the two large fishbowls filled with little slips of white paper, one with names and one with genres, I silently begged for my luck to continue.
Minutes ticked by and classmates were paired off after Professor Trinket announced that there would be no changes. "You get what you get, so don't throw a fit," she sing-songed at us like we were kindergarteners.
She finally called my name, then reached a manicured hand into the bowl for my partner's name. I really don't know anyone in the class, so I wasn't sure who to hope for. There were over 100 students and I always sit at the front, same seat, and never look over my shoulder or make much conversation with my neighbors. Some would call me anti-social, but I'm just focused. No distractions.
"Your partner is…" she opened the slip, "Peeta Mellark." I think my jaw actually came unhinged, it dropped so far. I had no idea he was even in the class. I can't believe I had gone almost an entire semester without realizing we were sharing a classroom. I turned my head to locate him, and found his mop of blond hair and icy blue eyes instantly. Very back row, seat closest to the door.
And she'd said his name so pleasantly, like I should be grateful to have been paired with him, while my thoughts frantically searched for ways to switch partners. I would take anyone else. Anyone but him.
But that wasn't even the worst part. Professor Trinket trilled my name like an annoying bird that sings too early in the morning. "Genre please," she reminded me, tapping a lone, bright orange nail on the glass bowl. Since Peeta was all the way at the back, it was left up to me, and I felt my luck fading with every step I took toward the bowl. My fingers found one paper, but I dropped it in lieu of another, wanting to outsmart fate. I should have known I couldn't.
I tried not to groan aloud when I opened the paper, wondering why I'd never thought to learn sleight of hand so I could replace this genre with something more respectable. Realizing I couldn't, that all eyes were on me, I reluctantly handed it over.
"Erotica! My favorite!" Professor Trinket cried out, a huge smile spreading across her lips as she crushed the unlucky paper to her bosom. A few students chuckled, others sighed in relief. Mortified and cursing the powers that be, I stonily turned around to take my seat. No matter how hard I willed my eyes not to look in Peeta's direction, they did, and a spark of anger ignited when I saw the vacant seat. He fucking left! I guess I figured out which one of us would be writing the damn thing, and which one was the slacker. Which, given our history, is completely unfair. I decided then that I wasn't letting him off the hook, no matter how badly I wanted to write by myself. He got the scholarship over me, he could damn well do the work.
I packed up my things and stomped up through the stadium seating and out the door.
"Katniss." My name came from the left, sounding as unhappy as I felt. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the pair of blue eyes that had been missing when I'd last looked for them. Peeta was leaning against the wall, his golden hair perfectly disheveled, one foot propped up as he twirled a pen through his fingers while leveling me with a heated gaze. His eyes dropped to the motion in his hand as I neared him cautiously. When I stopped, he pushed off the wall and stuffed the pen in his pocket. He really was very handsome. I'd always thought so, but the animosity between us stifled any attraction I might feel towards him, and I was thankful for it in that moment. While he wasn't looking at me, my eyes quickly skimmed the cut of his jaw and the swell of his lips, over broad shoulders, toned arms and chest that filled out the waffle-knit tee he was wearing. He really did have everything, and now he had the surety of an A for his final project because he'd been partnered with me. Infuriating.
"Peeta," I replied coolly. "I guess we need to exchange information." He pulled a phone out of his back pocket.
"What's your number?" he asked hastily. I balked and his eyes narrowed.
"Relax, Princess," he said with a smooth voice that barely covered the acidic tone. "I'm not hitting on you. And I promise to lose the digits just as soon as we're done."
His obvious disdain was more shocking to me than it should have been. "I- it's not, I don't-," I stumbled through trying to tell him I don't have a cell phone. I can't afford it, but that would be a blow to my already wounded pride where he was concerned. "Can we just use email?"
Peeta scoffed. "Fine by me." He pecked my email address into his phone, then slipped it into his back pocket, groused that he'd be in touch, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving the faint smell of sweet bread lingering behind.
Now, I'm sitting here in my room with my ancient laptop open, trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to write mindless drivel and make it sound good. It shouldn't be hard, considering it's my professor's favorite genre and it should be hard to screw this up, but that's not the problem. The problem lay in the fact that, in all my hectic, responsible young adult life, I had none of the experiences that I would need to write any of this. None. Nada. A zero of the biggest and fattest kind.
I'm twenty one and I've never even been kissed. How am I supposed to write erotica when I don't know the basics of a physical relationship? Somehow, insert tab A into slot B doesn't seem impressive enough for Professor Trinket, and it would mortify me to show that to Peeta anyway. I tried watching some light porn, but all that did was freak me out and turn me on at the same time.
A pinging sound alerts me to a new email. I switch from google docs to gmail and my next breath lodges like a balloon in my throat when I see it's from Peeta. We had mutually decided through our first few emails that I would start with an outline and then share it with him on docs. All of our communication is electronic, thereby eliminating the need for us to be in each other's presence. I'm grateful, because just the thought of letting his eyes roam the words on this page has me crawling out of my skin. I couldn't imagine what I would feel like if he were reading over my shoulder.
Are you done yet?
I groan for what seems like the hundredth time this week. I am not ready for this. Why does the universe hate me? After responding to him with ten more minutes, I do another quick once over of the kissing scene I've written for the two main characters. She's a virgin, and he's… well, not. I'm hoping my characterization of her helps to hide my inexperience.
For all Julia's newfound bravery, she can't seem to say what she actually wants. That she wants Adam to kiss her. That she wants to know what his lips feel like pressed against hers. If he tastes the way he smells, like a warm cinnamon bun on a chilly morning.
Adam gives her a slight nod before leaning in. Her eyes drift closed as he places his wet lips on hers, and they fit together perfectly. He tilts his head to the left, and their lips lock. His mouth curls around her top lip, pulling it into his mouth. His hand drifts to the back of her neck. He holds her against his mouth as his tongue snakes out, and she opens her mouth to the intrusion. Tongues dueling for domination, while fireworks explode behind her eyelids. This first kiss… it's everything she ever thought it would be and more.
It's not too bad. I might even sound like I know a little something, but that just makes it more unnerving. Will he think I'm writing an actual experience? It's terrifying how personal it seems. I also wonder why I care, but there's no time to analyze that.
With a deep breath I share the doc to his email address, surprised when his picture pops up immediately in the top corner. He must have been staring at his computer, waiting. Unable to watch his cursor peruse the intimate words, I log out and force myself to do laundry and clean my bathroom. Anything to distract myself from the knowledge that he's reading my scene. I wait an hour, thinking surely he must be out of the doc by now, and he is, but when I go back in, there are so many edits.
In the first paragraph, he comments 'this part is good', but in the very next he's slashed through half of my words. Then there is a whole extra paragraph that's not even mine. I rake my eyes over the changes, feelings of inadequacy rising higher and higher with every edit he's made.
Adam gives her a slight nod before the soft flesh of his lips brushes hers, so soft she could have imagined it if it weren't for the warmth of his body so close and the small puffs of his breath across her cheek.leaning in. Her presses his lips more firmly against hers, his hand drifting to the soft skin at the nape of her neck. His touch burns like fire. eyes drift closed as he places his wet lips on hers, and they fit together perfectly.
Anchoring her against his mouth, he glides his tongue across the seam of her lips, and they part for him. This first kiss… it's everything she ever thought it would be and more. Excitement races through her as their tongues tangle sensuously, slowly, exploring and making her want more. duel for domination, while fireworks explode behind her eyelids.
But all too quickly, he's pulling away. Her lips chase his, and he chuckles at her eagerness. "All in good time," he tells her, and her blood thrums through her veins at his promise of more. Julia's first kiss was everything and more she thought it would be, but that would only heighten her fantasies until next time.
There's a comment at the end of the paragraph that widens my eyes and stops my breathing.
'Geez, Everdeen, haven't you been kissed before?'
It hurts. More than I'd like to admit. Is it that obvious? The embarrassment that rose to the surface when I started reading morphs into sheer anger. I want to reply that no, in fact, I have not been kissed, just to make him feel like the ass he is, but that would humiliate me more than him and probably have him bowling over in a fit of man-giggles, so I don't. My pride is daring me to reply that I've been kissed by plenty of men, but that's just a lie. Instead, I mimic his words, avoiding the kiss altogether.
'Geez, Mellark, are you telling me my writing is shitty?'
After walking away to heat up a cup of ramen that I barely touch, I return, accepting all the edits because it really does read better than mine. Now that I've had an hour to digest the disgrace, I can see there's definitely more feeling and sensuality to his sentences. Hell, it made me want to be Julia. Made me want to look into Adam's soulful, blue eyes and hear him promise me more kisses.
The ball of anxiety continues to roll around in the pit of my stomach, making it difficult to fall asleep. When I do, I dream about lips and tongues and soft caresses. Butterflies in my belly and warm pants of breath on my cheeks.
I gather my things at the end of class and think about the scene I'm supposed to write today. It's a little more than kissing, namely dry humping on the couch. Julia and Adam are taking things further this time, and it's got my stomach tied up in knots. I'm way out of my league here. I ended up buying a romance novel at the used books place for .99 cents to get a feel for how the scene should go.
"Katniss." I stop as Peeta calls my name from the same spot he waited in the first day we were paired. It pulls me from my thoughts, but adds another brick to the pit of my stomach. We haven't spoken face to face about the assignment, and I feel my cheeks flushing already, and I try my best to shoot daggers at him from my eyes.
They must have felt more to him like wet noodles, because when I don't move closer to him, he pushes off the wall and walks towards me. He crowds just a touch inside my personal space and it makes my skin prickle. His forearm is on the strap of his bag and brushes against the arm I'm using to anchor my books to my chest. A zing of something rockets through me, and I'm suddenly swimming in his sea blue eyes.
"Hey, I just wanted to say I, um, I'm sorry for the comment I made in the doc. Your writing is not shitty. Not by any stretch of the imagination."
Oh. He seems… nervous. It's kind of endearing and - dare I think it - adorable? "Don't worry about it. It's fine," I dismiss his concern quickly, needing those puppy dog eyes to stop unraveling the layers of hatred I have for him.
"You're a really good writer. I mean, the plot is fantastic, but that particular scene just felt a little… off? From your others."
An apology and a compliment? He's throwing me off my guard, and something antagonistic simmers inside me as I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. To mess with me. "Yeah, you're right. It was off," I shrug like it's no big deal. Two can play that game. "I really liked what you did with it, though. I'm glad you're my partner."
I'm waiting for his eyes to narrow, or a sneer to form across his lips. But then he smiles, and I swear one of those layers evaporates completely, the substance of it no match for the shining look on his face. I'm startled by the flutter in my chest, and the alarm that quickly replaces it tells me I need to get away from him. Back to where I feel safest - or safer, rather. I need to keep our interactions relegated to the electronic kind. This face to face is too much for me, and if he smiles at me like that again, who's to say all my defenses won't melt at once? And what will I be left with then?
To admit that he deserved that scholarship instead of me? No way in hell.
I tell him I'll see him around and start to step away, but he's still smiling and it's hard to watch where I'm going. I run smack dab into a large body and it almost knocks me on my ass. Not so thankfully, Peeta keeps me upright with a firm hand on my back, and one on my arm. His touch sizzles like an egg on a hot sidewalk. I've never felt anything like it before. Time slows and the sounds of students shuffling through the hall seems muffled, like it's coming from the wrong end of a bullhorn. Some of my senses feel heightened, while others feel diminished. It's disorienting.
I manage to mutter a quick thank you to Peeta for saving me from what would have been an embarrassing fall before bolting back to my place, breathless and a little panicked, but it doesn't feel bad. It feels… good. There's a rush of something exciting making its way through me, and before I lose it, I open my computer and begin to write, inspired by the afternoon's event.
...as Adam's fingers trail Julia's arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. His touch singes every nerve and turns her thoughts to mush. She doesn't know how he does it, only that she feels combustible and he holds the only match that can set her ablaze.
I sit back in my chair and let out a whoosh of breath, proud of the scene I've just written. But before I can finish the last few paragraphs and send it to Peeta - I'm both excited and terrified for him to read this - my screen goes black. I tap on it, then press a few keys, hold the power button down too long. Nothing. I growl at the computer, but it doesn't respond, obviously unafraid of me. I want to beat on it, take some frustration out that I finally wrote something to be proud of in this stupid genre and I need someone to read it, but it's already a fragile piece of equipment. I plug it in, hoping that it's just dead, but knowing I had more than half battery life. I'm not surprised when it doesn't respond. This is what happens when you spend two hundred dollars on a piece of shit refurbished computer.
The only silver lining I can see is that docs saves everything automatically, so at least I haven't lost the last two hours of my work.
It's only six in the evening, but I still have to write the couch scene, so I guess that means I'm headed to the library.
With my lighter than normal bag slung over my shoulder, I march up the steps and into the gilded glass doors, present my student I.D. at the front desk, and head to the computer lab hoping for a vacancy. I spot one at the far end, and start making my way through the quiet crowd, but my stomach tightens when I get closer. The neighboring student is in my writing class. I only recognize him because he hit on me the first week of class, and I could never forget his leering, light blue stare and hulking frame, both of which put me on edge immediately. I avoided him like the plague after that. It helped that he wouldn't go near the front of the room for a seat.
Cato Evans looks up before I can abandon my plans, surveys the crowded space and smirks. He knows I have no choice but to sit next to him, and his gaze stays on me, watching. Waiting to see what I'll do. Turn and run? I want to, but I've never one to back down from a challenge, so I take the seat. My back is ramrod straight even through my attempt to relax by reminding myself we're in a public place and it's not like he's going to attack me, but my body screams at his proximity.
He goes back to pecking his index fingers on the keyboard and, though I refuse to look at him, I can feel the grin on his face reaching across the two feet of space between us. I decide to ignore him, and I pray to the heavens he does the same to me.
After logging into my docs account, I read through my last paragraph, hoping to bring back the spark I had before my computer gave up the ghost.
I get lost in my thoughts, wondering what it would feel like to touch my lips to someone else's. Surprisingly, the first image that pops into my mind is Peeta. Even more surprisingly is the fact that I allow the thoughts to take over after convincing myself it's only for the sake of writing a good paper. My mind reaches back to earlier, after class when Peeta stopped me. He kept smiling, and I focus on the plump lips that frame his straight, white teeth. They looked smooth, and soft, with an underlying firmness thanks to his chiseled from stone jawline. When I imagine them close to my own lips, they start to tingle.
"Whatcha doin' there, Everdeen?" Cato interrupts me. I freeze, realizing the pads of my fingers were gliding absently across my mouth. I drop my hands back to the keyboard, and focus on the screen, hoping to avoid a conversation as my fingers fly furiously over the keys. I don't even know what I'm typing. Probably a bunch of gibberish.
"How's the porno coming?" he asks a little too loudly for my liking, and follows it with a snigger. I don't miss the emphasis on that last word, either, and my cheeks heat up faster than a Bunsen burner. He leans in uncomfortably close and my entire body tenses. I'll probably feel like I've been hit by a semi in the morning. "You know," he says in a low voice, "a good writer always does her research, which I'd be more than happy to help with."
That's it. I can't work like this. Without a word and as quickly as I can, I log out of docs, close the browser window, and gather my things before bolting from the library as cackles and the contemptuous voice throwing out the words "so pure" follow me into the night. My legs, and my breathing, don't slow down until I lock myself in my room. This will definitely put us behind schedule, but until I can figure something out that doesn't involve the library or purchasing another computer, Peeta will either have to wait, or write the scene himself.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. (Before you move on to the next chapter, because let's face it, once you click that little icon that takes you to chapter 2, the likelihood of it happening decreases exponentially.) Tell me what you think! I live for waking up in the morning to your comments. ;) Pbg