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matbaerzal · 5 years ago

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Let Me In | B. Boeser

You’d never been good at sharing your feelings. There were only a handful of people that you let see your vulnerable side, and your best friend Brock was one of those people. Well, he had been, up until you realized you love him. It’d been a couple weeks since the realization and to say you were freaking out would be an understatement. You’d been out for lunch with him, and everything seemed normal at first; like any other lunch you’d had together. But then he had to go ahead and be nice and sweet and stupidly handsome.

You were sat at a small café on a Monday, and you’d mostly finished eating, now just snacking on whatever was left as you talked. A woman about the same age as you both walked in and you could hear her order a long list of drinks, reading the order off of a note in a hurry, before handing the note to the barista. It was probably over ten drinks and it left you wondering how she was going to hold them all when she left. As all her drinks were ready, she seemed to be wondering the same thing. She had four drink holders all containing four coffee cups each. You and Brock were both looking at her trying to stack the drinks one way or another when Brock stood up, and walked the short distance over to her. “You need some help there?” He said, catching her off guard a bit, making her almost lose balance of the drinks before Brock reached out to steady them. You could see the look on her face, it’s the face most women make when they see Brock. He’s probably the most handsome guy you’ve ever met, and it’s obvious that most other women think the same thing.

“Yes! Sorry, if you don’t mind, I just need to get them out into my car across the street. Thank you!” she rushed, seeming nervous in her speech. He took two of the drink holders and looked at you, “I’ll be right back”. They walked towards the door, “I’m sorry for interrupting your date” you heard her say, and just before they exited the café Brock replied “oh no, don’t worry, we’re just friends.” His words unexpectedly stung, and looking at the two of them smiling as they crossed the road made you feel uneasy. It looked like a scene out of a romantic comedy, and it made you feel sick. Why it made you feel that way, you had no idea, and the confusion only added to your spiralling mood. You could see Brock making his way back across the road, the smile on his face, just made you feel worse. Without thinking much you stood up from your seat. “Sorry, I have to go, I uh-, I’m meeting Katie in a bit” you lie, not being able to look at him as you do so. Well, it’s only a half lie, you are meeting your neighbour Katie later, but not for another 5 hours. “I thought that wasn’t until later today”, he says, because of course you’d told him that. “Yeah, um, she just sent me a text saying she can’t do later after all” you lie again, whilst gathering your things up nervously. He hesitates, before sighing. “Ok, let me drive you home then”.

The drive over is quiet, and they usually are. But unlike all the other times, you have a million thoughts swimming through your head and you can’t seem to catch any of them. For the first time ever the silence between you feels awkward. Brock drops you outside your apartment building, and you almost forget to hug him before you leave, because you’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

When you get to your floor, you walk straight past your own door to the next. Knocking frantically, hoping Katie was home. She opens the door, surprised to see it’s you. “I thought we weren’t meeting till later? Did Brock have to cancel lunch or something?”. You walk past her and slump down on her couch. “No, we already went” you exhale, frustrated. Your thoughts are still running a mile a minute. “What’s up with you?” Katie says, eyeing you as she sits down on the opposite side of the couch. She’s obviously noticed you’re in a bit of a mood. “I honestly have no idea” you admit. “How’s that?” she laughs. “I mean one minute I was completely fine, and then the next I just, I don’t even know” you splutter. She gives you a confused look, “did something happen at lunch?”.

You think back to Brock and the woman at the café and huff out. “Not really, I mean, It’s stupid” you say. “Try me” she challenges. So you tell her about the woman, and you try your best to explain how it made you feel and going over the story just makes you even more confused about your feelings. When you’re all done, Katie looks at you, and you can’t get a read on her expression. “Wow” she laughs, ”what do you mean, wow?” you don’t mean to snap. “I just thought you didn’t want to admit it to anyone else, but turns out you don’t even want to admit it to yourself” she says. You’re even more confused now, and before you can even say anything Katie chuckles, “you’re jealous!”. “What?” that’s the last thing you expected her to say. “No, there’s no way, I don’t have a reason to be jealous” you continue, and the second you say the word, it’s like a flood of feelings rush through your body. “Oh my god, fuck, I am jealous” you cover your face with your hands, the thought alone makes you terrified.

On Wednesday, Brock messages you and asks if you want to come over and watch a movie, you come up with an excuse as to why you can’t. Lying is much easier over text, you find. It’s not until Friday that you see him in person again. You couldn’t lie your way out of this one. Petey’s birthday had just been, so you’d been invited out for dinner to celebrate. It had been planned for a while now and it didn’t feel right to cancel, especially because you hadn’t seen Elias in a while. You hoped the fact that there would be a couple of other people there, and that you could drink some wine, would help your panicked state. You didn’t even know how you should act around Brock now.

When you arrived at the restaurant everyone was already there. Normally you’d be early, but you had spent a long time trying to figure out what to wear and even longer freaking out at the fact that you now cared so much about your appearance. Upon seeing you, Brock practically jumped out of his seat to greet you with a hug. You hesitantly wrap your arms around him. “What took you so long?” he said, still not letting go yet. “I’m not that late, am I?” you mumble, feeling guilty now, and he finally lets go of you. You quickly move to Petey and lean down to give him a hug where he’s sat. “Happy Birthday” you say as you hand him your gift. “Thank you. It’s only 10 past Brock, she’s really not that late” he says. Looking up you greet the other guests, noticing that you’ve even arrived before a couple of people. “Just considering she’s always early” Brock mumbles. When Brock pulls out the chair next to him for you to sit down, you pretend you don’t see and sit down next to Petey on the opposite side of the table instead. Brock gives you a funny look, and to avoid being asked about it you turn to Petey again, “you can open your gift now if you want.”

The rest of the guests arrive shortly after you, and now you’ve all had your mains. You’ve had a bit more wine than you’d normally have, to try to drown the awkwardness you feel between you and Brock. You’d barely spoken a word to each other, despite his best efforts to start a conversation with you. Now that you’re waiting for dessert, you’re in deep thought, the conversations around you just noise. That is until you hear Brock say your name. “Sorry, what?” you say as you turn to look at him. “I was just telling Petey about Vanessa, the girl at the café” He says. “What about her?” you say, trying to keep your voice level and unaffected. You take a sip of your drink to try to collect yourself. “Well, she gave me her number, and we’re actually going out for dinner tomorrow” He exclaims. You try your best not to spit your wine out all over the table, swallowing too quickly, which then causes a coughing fit. Petey pats you on the back, not being able to keep himself from laughing at you a little. “That’s- That’s great” you manage to say once the coughing calms down.

Brock looks confused and you’re afraid your fake excitement didn’t convince him. The way he’s looking at you is too much, and you want to run away like you did the last time. Instead you excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. Once there you do the first thing that comes to mind. Katie doesn’t take long to pick up her phone. She doesn’t even bother saying hello, “How are you hanging in there?”. You can hear her smirk over the phone. “This isn’t funny Katie, I can’t even look at him without blushing” you groan. “And now he’s going on a date with that café lady tomorrow!” you continue. “Oh” she pauses “I’m sorry”. You sigh “I can’t hide in a bathroom forever, but I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing if I stay”. “Maybe go sit with someone else, and leave a bit earlier” she suggests. “Yeah, I guess I could do that,” it wouldn’t be too weird if you sat down and socialized with the other guests. So that’s what you do, luckily there’s a free seat next to Jake. You see Brock look at you in the corner of your eye, but you don’t look over. You try your best to focus on the ongoing conversation. The rest of the night you only look at him when you know he’s not looking at you. He looks distant, and you don’t hear him talk much the rest of the night. You make it through dessert before you go over to Elias to say goodbye. Before Brock can get up to hug you, you’re on your way to the door. You don’t notice the upset in his eyes as you leave without acknowledging him.

The next day all you can think about is the fact that Brock is going on a date. And after a lengthy conversation with Katie you’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t continue like this. He’s your best friend, and whilst you’ve now realized that you have feelings for him, he clearly doesn’t feel the same. If he did, he wouldn’t be on a date with Vanessa. You’d have to live with that, you couldn’t lose him as your friend, you would have to get over him somehow. For now all you wanted to do was sulk on the couch with a movie in the background. Trying your best not to think about Brock and Vanessa, and how they were probably having a great time. And that this was probably only the first of many dates, you’d have to meet her properly one day and pretend you’re ok with it. Brock would normally text you after a date to tell you how it went. So, when he doesn’t, you assume the worst. It had gone so well that he’d already forgotten all about you.

It’s not until late Monday that he calls you. The days in-between you’d spent moping around, trying to get a grip. Katie had tried her best to get you out, but you had simply been too stubborn. You hesitate before deciding to answer. Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest when you hear his voice. “Hey, can I come over?” he says. “Sure, yeah” you say, “ok, good, I’ll be right over” he answers before hanging up. Usually he’d just show up, without calling, so the fact that he felt like he had to call now just made you nervous. You quickly go to the bathroom to freshen yourself up, not wanting him to see the state you’re in. He’d know straight away that you weren’t feeling well and he wouldn’t give in until you tell him what’s wrong. You’d just managed to fix your hair a bit and change your clothes when there’s a knock on your door.

“How did the date go?” you ask, feeling a lump form in your throat. Brock walks past you, ignoring your question. A look of frustration adorns his face as he sits down on your couch. “Why did you ignore me at Petey’s birthday?” he presses. You freeze in your spot, “Wha-, Why-, I didn’t ignore you” you insist. “Please don’t lie to me” he sighs, running his hand through his hair, “just tell me what’s wrong”. You look down on the floor, still stuck where you’re standing, “nothing’s wrong, I’m fine” you manage to get out. You know straight away that he’ll see right through it. He sighs “Stop pretending you’re okay, because I know you’re not.” When you look up at him, he’s staring right back. The sadness in his eyes captivates you and you can’t look away. You could stare at his eyes forever, but he doesn’t let you as he tears his gaze away, looking at his hands. Before you can come up with another excuse he speaks up again. “You always pull away from people when something is wrong, and I’ve tried to give you space, because normally you come to me eventually and tell me what’s wrong.” His eyes find yours again before he continues, “but you’ve pulled away from me completely and I’m scared because I don’t know what I did wrong.. Just talk to me, please” His voice breaking as he pleads you.

Knowing that telling him anything but the truth wouldn’t be fair now, you take a deep shuddering breath before moving to sit down on the opposite end of the couch. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Brock” you sigh, “Then wha-” he starts before you interrupt him. “No, please just let me talk, because there’s no way I’ll tell you if you don’t let me” he gives you an apologetic look and gestures for you to continue. His eyes are studying your face, and you feel incredibly shy. It hurts to think that you’ve caused this yourself. You put a distance between the two of you, he blamed himself for it, and here he is desperate to know why you pulled away. Giving you the time and space you need to gather up the courage to tell him.

“I realized something a couple of days ago. Something that absolutely terrifies me, and telling you will change everything. But, I can’t lie to you anymore” Whenever you lie to him you can’t even look him in the eyes, so to make sure he knows you’re telling the truth you gather up all your strength to maintain eye contact as you’re about to change your relationship forever. You expect he’ll need time to process, and it’ll be awkward, but hopefully you’re not about to lose your best friend forever. “I was jealous of Vanessa when you met her at the café, and it only got worse at Petey’s birthday when you told me you were going on a date with her. That’s why I left the café early and that’s why I couldn’t even look at you during Petey’s birthday dinner. Because a couple days ago I realized that I love you, Brock” It feels as if the weight of the world has lifted off of your shoulders and you can’t stop yourself before you continue. “I love you, and I know you don’t feel the same, so I was terrified that if I told you that you’d freak out and I’d lose you as a friend. So I just needed some space to get over my feelings, because I can’t lose you. I can’t not be your friend, you mean too much to me”

You’re not sure what his reaction would be, but he’s just sitting there looking at you. Now he’s the one that is frozen in his spot, and you assume that he’ll need some space once he processes your confession. So you take your time looking at him, taking in all the small details about him. His hair that needs a trim soon, his broad shoulders, and his stupid, cute face. And his lips, that are now slightly smirking. No, that can’t be right. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, the whole time” He suddenly says, which leaves you even more confused. Seeing your confusion he continues, “You asked me how my date went.” In a flash the jealousy is back, but as quickly as it came it disappears when he says, “All I could think about was you, and why you were ignoring me. And more importantly, how that made me feel. The whole time I was comparing her to you, and I realized something too.” He’s definitely smirking now, clearly seeing something you aren’t, “what did you realize?” you ask him. “That I love you too, obviously”. He moves closer to you on the couch and by the time he’s next to you, you register what he just said “you love me?” you stuttered. “Yeah, and you love me, right?” he smiles, leaning in closer and closer. A smile finds your lips “I love you” you confirm. His hand slides around the nape of your neck, leaning in his nose brushes against yours. Your lips almost touching as you close your eyes, your hand finds his t-shirt as you pull him in the rest of the way. It’s unlike any other first kiss you’ve ever had, like you were meant for this. It feels like everything is falling into place and you are right where you’re meant to be.

#brock boeser #brock boeser imagine #canucks imagine #vancouver canucks imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #brock boeser fic #canucks fic #op:w

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coldwind-shiningstars · 4 years ago

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ok ok prompts!!! so, I would be Delighted by some more qinxiyao family fic (deleted scenes or things you might have wanted to include in the big bang fic but didn't get to?), or, alternately, anything in the modern tcgf au? anything at all; they're all so excellent <3

both of these are such excellent prompts I started working on both of them, but the modern au got finished first! I’ll probably both a) do a lot of edits on this and b) do the qinxiyao family fic in a week or so, but here this is for now. Also, for those not in James and my brains, this is a very small part of a very large AU! Small note, all characters appearing in this fic are trans; however, He Xuan is still very much an egg and so they are referred to throughout the fic as “he/him,” although SQX at least is aware of this and wondering when to bring it up with her. She is, however, unaware that “Ming Yi” is a stolen identity and He Xuan is actually the eco-terrorist who’s been blowing up her brother’s fish hatcheries. It’s a long story.

If Xie Lian was being honest, he didn't much like the internet. It was so bright and everything moved too fast. People used a bewildering array of slang and images. It was surprisingly difficult to avoid spending hours reading upsetting news stories. People spent days arguing about pornography.

Also, his phone didn't really connect to WiFi very well. Even by the loosest definitions of the word, he hardly counted as a netizen.

People were usually shocked when he told them this, though, because Xie Lian's best friend was one of China's most popular beauty influencers.

Xie Lian's face appeared on her Weibo with some regularity. She talked about him often. He'd gone viral three separate times on Douyin, entirely accidentally.

What Shi Qingxuan was most famous for, however, was makeup tutorials. He had never actually appeared in one of these, but, since there were very few people in the world capable of saying no to a very determined Shi Qingxuan, this was about to change. He was used to being in her charmingly decorated little apartment but not quite used to becoming a decorated thing himself. He'd even put on one of the outfits Hua Cheng had designed and sewn for him, based on some of his old dance costumes and a few frantic weeks of historical research, and kept swishing the skirts around his legs.

Shi Qingxuan started setting up, chattering away to Xie Lian as she did. "You need anything before we start? Bathroom, water, a snack? I edit my videos pretty heavily, so we can always take a break, but it’s good to be comfy."

"No, I'm fine," Xie Lian said, and then had to close his eyes when she clicked on the ring light.

He fiddled with the makeup compacts laid out on the table.

Shi Qingxuan adjusted her light, scootched Xie Lian’s chair a little to the left and a little back, and then fiddled with the camera. It was quite the involved operation, Xie Lian thought; he knew a lot went into making videos, but he hadn’t realized it took this much effort before the camera was even on. Shi Qingxuan had done his makeup before, of course, but mostly just for fun, or something she could take a picture of and post on Weibo. It had been so long since he'd been filmed.

He watched Shi Qingxuan press record on her camera and then sit back and flash it a smile, putting on her Influencer Face. She squeezed his hand under the table.

“Hi everyone, welcome to Feng Shi!” she said, chirpy. “I’m Shi Qingxuan, and today we’re doing xianxia makeup with my good friend, Xie Lian. Now, for this look, we’re going to need…”

When Xie Lian was little, the makeup artists for his dance troupe had known he took about twice as long as anyone else did to get his makeup done. He was the darling of the company, though, so this was tolerated with fondness.

He didn't like the way the foundation felt on his face when it dried. His eyes watered when they put on eyeliner. He liked to spin his chair from side to side.

He'd had much worse things on his face than paint since then, and had learned how to be still.

Shi Qingxuan patted his hand cheerfully as she pulled out the setting powder.

"You're always one of my favorite models," she said. "You're so photogenic and so patient!"

"Thank you," Xie Lian said, and held still while she brushed it in his face.

Ruoye, probably noticing the warmth, slithered out of Xie Lian's robes and curled up on top of his head so she could get the full blast of heat from the ring light. She flickered out her tongue to scent Shi Qingxuan when she leaned in with a liquid eyeliner pen.

Shi Qingxuan made little kissy sounds at her, which only confirmed Xie Lian's certainty that he had good taste in friends. Most people were startled by Ruoye originally, but how they responded to her after Xie Lian introduced them was a good litmus test.

Ruoye settled in, and Xie Lian reached up a finger to stroke her scales.

He was feeling good, content and warm, happy to sit still. Then the apartment door clicked open, and Xie Lian stiffened.

"Ming-xiong? Is that you?" Shi Qingxuan called.

Ming Yi mumbled something back and shuffled into the room, buried deep in his black hoodie. As always, Xie Lian's first thought upon seeing him was wondering how he could see through all that hair.

The hoodie had a fish skeleton painted on it that he recognized instantly as one of Hua Cheng's drawings; it made Xie Lian smile, thinking of how insistent San Lang was that they absolutely weren't friends, no way, there was no particular reason he would make custom hoodies for Ming Yi. The fish were a coincidence. He’d even made Ming Yi custom salmon breakup boots while proclaiming it meant nothing.

Xie Lian, wearing an elaborate hanfu Hua Cheng had designed, sewn, and embroidered himself, even making him a period-appropriate duduo to flatten his chest, absolutely did not buy any of these excuses. Hua Cheng covered people he cared about with his art.

Ming Yi grunted a greeting and wandered off, probably to raid the fridge. Shi Qingxuan winked at Xie Lian.

“I’ll edit most of this out,” she said, conspiratorial, “But my viewers love Ming-xiong. Especially when he’s out of focus in the background. They’ve made memes. I haven’t told them anything about him. It’s good to keep a little mystery! It keeps people watching.”

Xie Lian, having no real idea what she was talking about, smiled and suppressed his instinct to nod. Shi Qingxuan began painting a flower on his forehead with red pigment.

Finally, Shi Qingxuan gently removed Ruoye from Xie Lian’s head and shoulders and settled a wig cap over his hair, then the wig she’d pre-prepared. A few bobby pins, a few tucks, and then she stepped back, grinning.

“Ta-dah! How do you like it, taizi dianxia?”

“It’s beautiful,” Xie Lian said, honestly.

“We’ll end the video here, I think,” she said, “But I’ll get some posed photos of you to edit in here if that’s alright. Oh, tilt your head back and forth a little? Good. Smile at the camera!”

Shi Qingxuan fluttered her fingers at the camera in a wave; Xie Lian waved too, a few seconds later. As she leaned forward to click off the camera he straightened his legs out to try and loosen them up. His knees made terrible crunching sounds as they stretched.

“You can take a little break if you want,” Shi Qingxuan said. “I’ll set up the area where we’ll take photos, but I’ll try to make it quick. You’re a darling for sitting through all this, you know?"

She was already bustling around again. She seemed to have an endless fountain of energy; Xie Lian found it admirable. He laid flat on his back on her bed, careful to not get makeup on her sheets or wrinkle his clothes. Ming Yi sat next to him, eating shrimp chips. He put a few directly into Xie Lian's mouth, feeding him like a little bird, and Xie Lian felt warm. Like Hua Cheng, it could be hard to know when Ming Yi liked you, but there were ways to tell.

He let Shi Qingxuan pose him until she was satisfied with the numbers of pictures she’d taken, trying very hard not to feel like the chuunibyou teenager he’d once been. He felt himself mostly immune to embarrassment at this point, but he supposed there were always exceptions.

Eventually, they cleaned up, although Xie Lian had promised Hua Cheng to show off the full look, so he didn’t get changed or clean his face.

“I’ll buy dinner,” Shi Qingxuan said. “We deserve it. You too, Ming-xiong!”

She herded them both out of the apartment and down the street to a small noodles stall. They all ordered (in He Xuan’s case, three bowls) and Xie Lian was fumbling for his phone when he heard Shi Qingxuan cheerfully tell the clerk to put it all on the same ticket. She tapped her phone to pay for it all before Xie Lian could protest.

A few people asked Xie Lian for pictures as they ate. He posed obligingly, hoping he hadn't spilled any sauce on his clothes while eating. When he was done, he packed up his leftovers, let Shi Qingxuan nag him into calling a Didi instead of trying to walk home, and bid both her and Ming Yi farewell. Ruoye, who had spent most of the time they were eating in Xie Lian's backpack, made a brief appearance too like she wanted to say goodbye as well.

Xie Lian clicked his own apartment door closed quietly and tiptoed over to slide his leftovers into the refrigerator. Down the hall, a light shone out from underneath Hua Cheng's studio door.

There was an old picture of the two of them on the fridge; it was them in a hospital pediatric ward group room. Xie Lian, age fifteen, was beaming at the camera, his "FIGHT! JUVENILE SLE" shirt a bright red and his pants an immaculate white. Next to him, Hua Cheng, his right eye patched with patterned tape, bald and tiny, stared up at him with devotion.

Ruoye bonked her head gently on the freezer door. Xie Lian pulled out one of her mice and slid her gently into her tank before giving her the treat; she was swallowing the mouse as he left the kitchen.

Hua Cheng turned to him as Xie Lian opened the door to his studio. His eye got wide, and his face looked like it did sometimes when he looked at Xie Lian, like he was seeing something holy. He slid his headphones off his ears.

Xie Lian did a little twirl for him, letting him see the way the fabric moved, and then tilted his face up for a kiss when Hua Cheng came over to him.

“Gege, you look beautiful,” he said.

“San Lang,” said Xie Lian. “It’s all you and Qingxuan. I’ll get her to send you the pictures later.”

Hua Cheng kissed the top of his head. He was dressed down, in a soft shirt and pants, not wearing his prosthetic eye. Xie Lian leaned his head into Hua Cheng’s chest.

“Gege seems tired,” Hua Cheng said. “Would you like to get ready for bed? Do you need dinner or your medicine? I can help you take all that off.”

“San Lang, you’re working,” Xie Lian said. “I already ate, so I think I’d like to sleep. But you don’t have to help.”

"Gege is more important than commissions," Hua Cheng said, and Xie Lian let him bundle him off to bed.

post about prompts!

#replies #my writing #body in abyss heart in paradise #paradife-loft

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yellowmagicalgirl · 5 years ago

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Fic Writer Tag Game

tagged by @im-the-king-of-the-ocean

...it feels like I just did something very similar to this very recently but I’ll do it again I guess. This time I’m gonna include Fanfiction.Net, though, just so I can give different answers. That being said, I’m only going to link to the AO3 version of the fic

Fandoms:

These days, it’s almost all Tales of Arcadia, but my AO3 also has some Miraculous Ladybug, SPOP, and RWBY as well as a crossover with The Hunger Games. In addition to the above, my FFN also has some PMMM, Tai Chi Chasers, Sailor Moon, iZombie, Harry Potter and Voltron Legendary Defender in there.

Number of Fics: 98 on FFN, but only 60 of them ever got transferred to AO3.

Fic I Spent the Most Time on: I know I said I was torn between two fics last time, but honestly? I spent hours looking up the effects of PTSD, solitary confinement, and various forms of torture for the Juliet Dies; Life Continues fics. There’s a reason why when I finally publish Juliet Survives in This I’m gonna contain two disclaimers: one for the Dead Dove Do Not Eat and another for the fact that I’m using magic and the fact that Claire’s not entirely human anymore just so I can find a way to make it so that Claire has a good reason for not being any worse off. The other fic I was writing I only did some research before going, “nah I’m bastardizing Arthurian legend”

Fic I Spent the Least Time on: *looks at old writing and cringes* Raked over Crimson Waves, probably...

Longest Fic: Every Ghost in Me is the longest fic I’ve ever written at a proud 10,188 words... and somehow it’s a oneshot.

Shortest Fic: For actual fics, it’s A Shop Infested on AO3 and Arme Harry on FFN. Though, A Shop Infested is also the shortest English actual fic on FFN for me as well (yes, I have one (1) fic written in German.) However, this doesn’t count my poetry. On AO3 it’s Isn't It Ironic? On FFN it’s In My Arms.

Most Hits: On AO3, it’s I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) with its 1741 hits. On FFN, it’s Dare, which has 15,174 hits. Though, for comparison, Dare was written in 2015; I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) only has 348 hits on FFN.

Most Kudos: I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek)

Most Comments: On AO3 my collab with Tuna, Birds, Bees, and Blood Magic, has the most comments, but Juliet Dies in This has the most threads. On FFN, it’s still Dare.

Most Bookmarks: Birds, Bees, and Blood Magic holds this title on AO3. The closest similar thing we have on FFN is favorites, so that title goes to Picked the Wrong Girl.

Total Word Count: On AO3, my net word count is 82,299. On FFN, I had to break out excel, and my net word count would be approximately 136,615 words. Approximately because I can’t separate the fic from the author’s note.

Favorite Fic I Wrote: You can’t make me choose... but it’s probably one of those jlaire hurt/comfort fics I’ve written. Or for that matter, the LadyNoir hurt/comfort fics I used to write when it comes to FFN even though I decided not to move them off of AO3... wait a second. I have a type. Oh no I have a type when writing and shipping and that type is the person who’s associated with light and goodness comforts the person who’s associated with darkness. I mean I’ve written outside of this type many a time but let’s face it so many of my shippy hurt comfort fics more or less boil down to this description.... how did I not realize this before.

Fic you Want to Rewrite or Expand on: I will never actually finish it but every so often I still want to go and give With the Distance Amplified a proper ending. Other than that, I kind of want to go and expand upon I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) despite the fact that I don’t want to have to watch ML canon to do so properly... oh, and also? I really need to finish the 3Below interlude to Juliet Dies; Life Continues.

Share a bit of a WIP or Story Idea you’re Planning on: so earlier today I posted a Krexie ficlet... I need to do some more editing so that the fic makes me nearly cry as much as the ficlet did and write all the other scenes because the fic is much more than just the kiss but here is the kiss from Krel’s POV:

There is a very full bowl of cat food, and multiple bowls of water. Krel follows Archie, and he finds Douxie, sitting on the floor, curled in a blanket, back to the door. Archie meows and runs away. Douxie doesn’t look up, and so Krel walks around him. Douxie’s head is bowed, and he is typing frantically at his phone, and then erasing what he wrote. There are tear tracks on his face, though they are hard to see, when most of the tears probably crawled into the cracks. Krel kneels in front of him, trying to see what Douxie is typing. The movement catches Douxie’s attention, and he startles. The blanket falls away from Douxie as he scrambles to his feet.

Normally, his reflexes are better. Not so clumsy. Not almost falling over his own long, cracked limbs. Krel reaches out to help Douxie stabilize himself, but Douxie uses a wall instead.

Douxie rips his earbuds from his ears, and for a second Krel can hear a woman singing from the earbuds before Douxie silences the music he was listening to. Douxie takes a breath. It is wet and shaking.

“Krel, why are you here?” Douxie wraps his arms around himself, and Krel isn’t sure if Douxie is cold from wearing a sleeveless shirt or just uncomfortable.

“I saw your text; I worried.”

“I’m sorry.”

Krel takes a large step towards Douxie; Douxie takes a small step back.

“Douxie, you, we’re gonna break the curse, you’re going to –“

“I’m going to die today,” Douxie whispers, looking at his own feet. Krel looks past the soft shorts Douxie is wearing to Douxie’s ankles. They have been taken over by cracks, and they’re advancing.

They are out of time. Douxie is out of time. Krel feels his lower lip start to tremble, and he tries to make it stop.

“You, you should probably go,” Douxie says like he doesn’t mean it. “I don’t… I’m not going to make you watch me die.”

“I’m not going to make you…” Krel can’t bring himself to say the word “die”, like saying it aloud will make it true. And that’s silly, that’s superstition, that’s not scientific, but every scientific way Krel has tried to save Douxie hasn’t worked. “I’m not leaving you alone; I don’t think you want to be alone right now.”

“Then can you-“ Douxie breaks off into a coughing fit. “Can you hold me? If that’s okay?”

Embrace your mistakes, like Mother would have said if she were not dead.

Krel takes another step towards Douxie, and Douxie does not step away, rather, he leans into Krel, unwrapping his arms from his own torso. They take one, two, three steps backward, to where the blanket lays abandoned on the floor. They sink to the ground, arms around each other. Krel cannot save Douxie, but he can make sure that Douxie is comfortable. Douxie clings to Krel with a surprising amount of strength. Krel ignores the urge to wrap his fingers around Douxie’s neck, just so he can keep track of Douxie’s pulse. Krel cards his fingers through Douxie’s hair instead. His other arm wraps around Douxie’s torso and his hand rests on Douxie’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Krel says, hating how his voice sounds when he’s about to cry.

“It’s not your fault, all of you did your best,” Douxie says, voice choked and so very scared. Krel feels his shirt starting to grow damp. “I don’t want to die; I wish we had more time.”

“Me too,” Krel says. A tear slips down his cheek, and he tightens his grip around Douxie’s torso, like he can keep Douxie from slipping away.

Douxie jerks, and Krel fears Douxie might be convulsing, but he’s just pushing himself up so he can look Krel in the eye. “Krel, I…” Douxie coughs, turning away, and when he turns back his glowing eyes are so much dimmer. “I love you.”

Douxie goes slack in Krel’s arms, closing his eyes. Krel presses his lips against Douxie’s and hopes.

A couple tears escape Krel’s eyes as he tries not to think of how he still doesn’t know for sure if he loves Douxie the way the curse wants him too, if he’s too late and he should have kissed or at least told Douxie sooner instead of waiting.

Krel closes his eyes. Douxie’s lips are chapped or cracked or maybe both, but they are still. Passive. Krel exhales through his nose; Douxie’s lips feel dead.

Krel is about to pull away, but then Douxie starts kissing him back. And it isn’t much, just a firm press that wasn’t there before, but it is enough to convince Krel that maybe it isn’t too late.

Tagging (for the record your participation is optional): @clairekatswritingcorner, @fieryartemispublications, @mambo-no-5, @dork-empress, @brothebro, and @akozuheiwa

#my writing #krexie

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twentiethcenturymoviesandtv · 4 years ago

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Casablanca: Facets of Filmmaking

On December 8th, 1941, Warner Brothers spent $20,000, an extraordinary amount of money, for an unproduced stageplay by the name of Everybody Comes to Rick’s. It wasn’t really thought to be anything special, just another patriotic war flick to be produced on a Warner Brothers lot with under a million dollars for a budget. No location shooting, not much in special effects (the plane at the end? Cardboard.) Just a standard production.

But then, very few movies are made with the intention of being a classic.

Production of the film began, and the name was changed to something a little more memorable: Casablanca.

You guessed it, today, we’re talking about the behind-the-scenes of Casablanca, everything from the director to the cast.

Let’s take a look. (Spoilers below!)

Director Michael Curtiz had previously directed hits like The Adventures of Robin Hood and The Jazz Singer, and while not being a classic ‘auter’ like the likes of Hitchcock or Wells, was a consistently excellent director, easily considered the top director in Warner Brothers studios. But no director can make an excellent film without an equally matched script.

The screenwriters for Casablanca, identical twins Julius and Philip Epstein, were enormously talented, with Julius already having one Oscar nomination under his belt. They were tasked with the challenge of adapting the stageplay Everybody Comes to Rick’s into a film screenplay, (with the help of editing work from Howard Koch, Casey Robinson, and others). It’s pretty safe to say that they were up to the job, turning out one of the sharpest and most memorable scripts in Hollywood history, and earning three Oscars for it in the process.

As for casting?

As it turns out, Humphrey Bogart had always been the first choice for Rick Blaine, and ended up being one of three American-born actors in the film, ironic, considering its place in American cinematic history. The other two American actors included bandleader, singer, and drummer Dooley Wilson as Sam, and Joy Page as the bride from Bulgaria. A large number of the remainder of the main cast, were, in fact, real victims of the Nazi opression in Europe, including Conrad Veidt and Peter Lorre, as well as many of the extras. That crying during ‘La Marsaillaise’ was all too real, making the scene that much more poignant.

You’d think that once the cast was assembled, all that would be left would be to start filming, but, unfortunately, there was a small complication: The script wasn’t finished.

Yes, Casablanca was filmed in chronological order, an unconventional method that was necessary for the scriptwriters to get the ending finished. Ingrid Bergman notably was displeased with not knowing how the film was going to end, and which man her character was going to be with, but unfortunately, she was as much in the dark as the scriptwriters were. Oftentimes actors were confused by flashback scenes or other elements going on, being unaware of how to react to the situation and other characters, having no idea what the ending was going to be. It was also thanks to this rushed writing process that Rick never has an actual backstory of why he can’t return to America; the writers couldn’t think of anything in time. The ending, however, ended up not being entirely up to the writers.

Thanks to the Hays Code of the time, it was impossible for Rick and Ilsa to end up together by the end, Ilsa being married and all. The idea of a married woman leaving her husband was unthinkable for the moral upkeepers of the silver screen, and thus, Ilsa and Victor’s escape together was a foregone conclusion.

Despite the confusion and frantic filming process, the cast overall worked well together; Bogart, Lorre and Greenstreet had already starred in one film together, and the chemistry between Bogart and Bergman was so convincing, Bogart’s wife suspected that the two were having an affair. (They weren’t, in fact, the actors interacted very little when not working) There were problems, however. Paul Henreid wasn’t an especially large fan of his character, and also didn’t get along very well with his co-stars especially well, calling Humphrey Bogart a ‘mediocre actor’. In return, the cast wasn’t terribly fond of him either; Ingrid Bergman was reported as calling him a ‘prima donna’.

Even casting Bergman turned into a bit of a hassle. The moviemakers were unaware of the fact that she was two inches taller than Bogart until she was already signed, and spent the entire film placing Bogart on boxes, stacked pillows, and anything else they could find that would make the actor appear taller than his co-star. Later, Bergman would complain that this was her best known film, surpassing more ‘artistic’ endeavors she would later attempt.

As I mentioned, the scriptwriting process was a little rushed, and more than a little written by the seat of the scriptwriters’ pants. It became even more so thanks to the decision to move the release date of the film up in response to the Allied Invasion of Casablanca. It was thanks to this (and Bergman having cut her hair, making her unavailable to reshoot) that allowed the iconic ‘As Time Goes By’ to remain in the film. Despite the dash to the finish (of both writing and filming), Casablanca ended up a huge hit, not just financially, but emotionally resonating in the hearts of audiences not just then, but the seventy-five years following.

In hindsight, it can seem hard to believe that a rushed, traditional, assembly line propaganda film managed to become one of the greatest films of all time. So good that no sequel ever conceived could possibly measure up, Casablanca reigns supreme decades later, and will continue to do so for quite a long time. Greater than the sum of its parts, there’s just something about Casablanca that still sticks out and holds up, a legitimate credit to the Golden Age of Hollywood. It’s considered the best of the best for a reason, even without a huge budget or even a lot of faith in the project. Casablanca lives on, and will continue to live on as a landmark in the history of cinema, and indeed, the history of America.

Well, we’re almost finished with our analysis of Casablanca. Thank you guys so much for reading! Don’t forget that my ask box is always open, be it for a hello, a comment, question, suggestion, or discussion! I hope to see you guys in the next article, as we take a final look at this Hollywood classic.

#Casablanca #Casablanca 1942 #1942 #40s #Film #Movies #War #Drama #Romance #PG #Humphrey Bogart #Ingrid Bergman #Paul Henreid #Claude Rains #Dooley Wilson #Conrad Viedt #Sydney Greenstreet #Peter Lorre #Michael Curtiz

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peetabreadgirl · 8 years ago

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Writer’s Block, the Third

I know it’s been a while, but man, oh man, don’t EVER title your story the worst thing that could happen to a writer. With that being said, thanks to @burkygirl and @xerxia31 for general hand-holding, butt-kicking, and very frank discussions about where this fic is headed. And thanks to @katnissdoesnotfollowback for having a birthday and giving me a reason to write this. Hope you like it! You can read the whole thing here. Don’t forget to talk to me. ;) Pbg

The walk to work is short, but I’m no less exhausted after my sleepless night than if I’d had to run miles to get there. All night long, my mind was wrestling with mortification mixed with a little self-loathing - while my body was on a whole other track. It doesn’t care that I lost control in the arms of my nemesis, moving in a single night from my first kiss to… whatever the hell that was. Nope, my body finally knows what it was missing all these years and it wants more. More kissing. More touching. More stubble under my fingers. I actually imagined what it would be like to lick him in forbidden places, like his nipples, or… lower. Much lower.

I spent the night at war with myself -- blushing at my thoughts one second, berating myself the next -- until I finally caved into fatigue. I woke up three hours later to find my alarm had been going off for twenty minutes. Sleep, however little, did nothing to dispel the embarrassment. It clings to me like aggressive static electricity. This must be what the walk of shame feels like. Maybe I should read that book again.

The mid-morning sun blinds me when I turn the corner of the building, or I would have seen him, jumped behind a tree or hid in the alley until he left, but the sun is part of the universe after all. And I’ve already gotten the message that we are not friends.

He leans against the smooth glass of the box office, hair a mess and I can see the dark circles under his eyes even from twenty feet away. His hard glare reminds me of the Peeta I was familiar with from before the project, rather than the friendly one I'm starting to get used to. It threatens to halt me in my tracks, but there’s nowhere for me to go. He’s seen me, and now that I’ve seen him, I’m not entirely sure I want to run.

“Katniss,” he says as I come closer. Last night, my name on his tongue was like honey, smooth and sweet. Today, it’s frigid and makes me shiver in spite of the spring warmth. I prefer last night’s version.

“Hey.” It’s lame, I know, but I’m too shocked to say anything else. I thought I had the weekend to prepare myself for what to say. Maybe write a letter detailing everything I know I can’t express with spoken words and give it to him in class. But it’s staring me in the face a hell of a lot sooner than I expected.

“It’s nice to know you’re okay.” My heart thumps wildly in my chest as my brain scrambles to understand his cool words.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head.

“Because you left my place just before two in the morning and you had no car, no cell phone, and no way to let me know you made it home? Not to mention I don’t even know where you live.” His tone is low but incredulous and my mouth opens and closes in my futile effort to form a response. I hadn’t even thought about that. I walk everywhere. I go where I want, when I want. I’ve been on my own far too long to be dependent on anyone. It’s one thing to be made to rely on him, like in the case of our project, but it’s a whole other to choose it for myself. I just wanted to get out of there before I made an even bigger fool of myself.

“You know we have to finish the project. Unless you’re going to bail on that, too,” he says before I can defend my actions.

“I’m not,” I snap. I may be embarrassed of how I behaved, but I am no quitter.

“Good, because I’d hate to earn your A for you.” He quirks an eyebrow and I wonder if he can see straight through me. Whether he meant it as a threat or a prod, it works, and bitter words I’ve carried around for four years come spewing out, sharp and ready for battle.

“If either of us is going to be responsible for an A, it’ll be me. If you think I’m going to sit idly by and ride your coattails of glory like you did the free ride you earned to this school, you’ve got another thing coming.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I hear how awful they sound. Ugh. This is why I write. I can edit words and chew on them for a while, deciding whether or not they're fit to be on the page. If they're the right feeling I want to convey. They can be perfect at first, then seem petulant until finally tweaked and tempered to the desired effect. What I've just revealed is rude and petulant, and I can't take it back, even though the injured look on his face makes me want to so badly.

If Peeta is any kind of clever, and I’m sure that he is, he’ll figure out that I’m angry about the scholarship if he doesn’t know already.

Peeta stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down at the ground. I relax my defensive posture. Clearly I’ve hurt him, and I’m not mean enough to kick a puppy.

“Glad to hear it, Everdeen,” he says, his words coming out light and feeling anything but. It’s like a two-ton elephant jumped on my shoulders and asked for a ride. “Let’s just try to focus and get our project done.”

My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say, and Peeta senses my hesitation.

“We’re adults, Katniss,” he says with a resigned sigh. “We can work at the coffee shop if you want.” He points across the way to the quaint establishment that’s usually packed with people and it makes me instantly nervous. It’ll be just like the library. I picture Johanna making weird eyes and shouting innuendos at me from across the room, and Cato leering over my shoulder and sniffing my hair like a dog in heat. Nope. Not doing this in public.

“You’re place works.” My voice cracks halfway through and I cough a little before adding, “You’re right, we’re adults, and...”

“You sure?” he asks when I don’t fill in the blank, the doubt in his eyes matching the tone of his voice. I nod, certain that I’d rather write in semi-private than in an elbow-to-elbow atmosphere. “Alright. What time should I expect you?” He doesn’t offer me a ride, which, oddly, stings a little. But it’s for the best. The less time we spend alone together the better.

“I get off at seven,” I tell him.

He says, “See you then,” and I swear I hear a hint of a smile in those words, but he turns to leave before I can be sure.

I watch him as he walks away, prepared to avert my blatant ogling should he look back at me. His blond waves ruffle with the slight breeze as he walks with his head lower than it should be, shoulders slumped. My conscience is screaming at me to tell him I’m sorry for what I said, but any bravery I may have possessed to call out to him fades with every step he takes away from me. I try to convince myself that it doesn’t matter, that he’s probably not even thinking about it. But even as I try to weave that lie into something I can believe, I know that offering him an apology isn’t just about him. It’s about me, too. I want to obliterate one of the most disheartened looks I’ve ever seen.

As I watch him drive out of the parking lot my heart expands in my chest, like it’s trying to get his attention, frantically waving and yelling hey, pay attention to me! I’m what’s real, here. Not the bitter shell that’s holding me prisoner!

Too tired to try and decipher it all, I go to work, but it nags at me until I’m standing in front of his door. I hope he’s not looking through the peep hole. If he is, then he’s been watching me give myself a pep talk about how I can do this and not look or sound like an idiot in front of him again.

There are two things I’ve decided I won’t be repeating about last night. One, I won’t leave without telling him goodbye. Not even if I wet myself from laughing too hard, which is highly doubtful given our strained situation. And two-

The door swings open suddenly and I jump. “You made it,” Peeta says, clearly surprised. I breathe deeply to calm my racing heart. He waves me in and gives me a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’ll be right back. I left my phone in the car.” While he’s gone I wander through the door, glancing quickly away from the couch. I take a seat in the chair, the only other piece of furniture in his living room besides the coffee table and television stand. That is the second thing I decided - not to be too close to him. Focus is the name of my game, and breaking that little rule may set my mind off on a trail it doesn’t need to go down.

The urge to bolt before he comes back is strong, but I remember the promise I made to myself, and to Peeta, even though he doesn’t know about it. I pick at a thread on the cushion while I wait for him to come back. It seems like forever, but in reality I know it’s only mere minutes.

When he returns, he gives me a curious look that I answer with a painfully awkward smile. I wonder if he disapproves of my seating choice, and if he would have looked at me differently if I had taken the same seat I was in last night when that happened.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, slapping his hands at his sides and then shoving them into his pockets. Like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“Yes, thank you.” He gives me a quick smile, and I see a touch of shyness there.

“I wrote the rest of the scene if you wanna take a look,” he tells me, grabbing his computer off the coffee table. A surprised ‘oh’ escapes me as he hands me the open laptop. “Tell me what you think.” My eyes flit between the screen and his retreating form until the kitchen wall obscures my view of him. I feel a bit like a tag along on this project, but I tell myself it’s not fair of me to have expected him to stop working just because I had to go. I should be thankful he’s moving it forward.

Irritation aside, I peruse the new addition with unexpected appreciation. My cheeks warm and my skin prickles as I feel every word he’s written. Probably because I lived it. He’s described our entire experience, from the racy sounds they make to the placement of Adam’s hands on Julia’s hips, down to the end result of their hastiness and lack of self control. It makes me flush and I cross my legs to hide the ache between them. An ache I now know can be, and has been, soothed by the man in the next room.

Moving on!

The next part gets my attention, though, as it’s nothing like what happened between us.

Julia laid her head on the arm of the sofa, her eyes fluttering in sated fatigue. The cushion next to her dipped with Adam’s weight, but she didn’t dare open her eyes. Her heart raced at his proximity, and she wondered what would happen next. Would he tell her to leave? Or would he hold her and soothe away the embarrassment that was creeping over her?

She had her answer when he slipped in between her and the back of the couch, molding their forms together, from chest to knees to feet. He placed a gentle kiss on the skin at the crook of her neck and asked her to stay with him. Delirious with the relief she felt, Julia grinned, wiggling even closer against him and whispered, “Always.”

“So?” A voice floats over my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. I whip my head around and see Peeta standing behind me with a glass of water. He holds it out for me, but I don’t really see it. As if my earlier guilt wasn’t enough, he has to literally spell it out for me.

“This is… great, Peeta.” I hear the hesitation in my own voice, and I hope he doesn’t mistake it. His way with words is amazing, but the end of the scene feels off to me.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely. I make a quick edit, switching out one word for a better one, before I tell him the rest of what’s on my mind.

“It’s beautifully written, I can’t argue that,” I start with a compliment because he’s been nothing but nice to me since I got here, “but I disagree with Julia’s easy acceptance of all she’s just done. She should question herself, and maybe even Adam’s intentions. He’s an experienced person. What does he want with a virgin who barely knows her own anatomy?” I physically feel my face redden with my thinly veiled admission.

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully at me. “What about him would cause her to question his motives?”

Without thinking, I answer, “Because they hate each other?” Coworkers up for the same promotion that have a history of competition and one-upping each other aren’t exactly primed for an easy-going romance. Even I can see that.

“Doesn’t seem like it to me,” he says, setting the glass of water down on the small table next to me. He moves to sit on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees, clasped hands thoughtfully rubbing back and forth on his chin. “I think he’s never really hated her. I think he just acted that way all along because she’s snarky and it’s the only interaction she allowed him to have, so he took it.”

“Julia isn’t snarky,” I defend her, even though there was no malice in Peeta’s observation. But she’s a reflection of me, after all, and I don’t see myself that way. “She’s just focused.”

“You’re right. She’s been focused on work, and that’s admirable. But she’s been too focused to notice Adam has been watching her, that he’s interested. That he knows little things about her, like the way she takes her coffee or that she favors a certain pair of jeans. How she interacts with everyone. He’s taking what he can get on her terms, whether Julia realizes she’s set them or not.”

I think about what Peeta is saying, and I find myself willing to explore this new idea. We’re not so far into the story that we can’t add some background. Julia’s characterization is solid, but Adam is more of a mystery. “How far do these feelings go back?”

“Since the first time he saw her.” Peeta’s reply is quick and easy.

It makes no sense to me, so I ask, “Why has he hidden it all this time? Why has he acted as if he can’t stand being in the same room with her if he feels the opposite?”

Peeta drags his nails along his jaw, looking thoughtful before answering with a slight shrug. “He’s intimidated by her? He thinks she’s beautiful and strong. And she hasn’t exactly been nice to him, either.”

My temper flares a bit at his answer. “Well, no, she hasn’t, but to be fair, he got a raise and she didn’t, but she works just as hard as he does.” Listening to my own words, I know we’re not talking about Adam and Julia anymore. The situation reminds me of ours in a ‘same but different’ kind of way.

“Are you hungry?” he asks me, seemingly out of nowhere, to which I reply a befuddled, “huh?”

His mouth twitches and it looks like he might smile, but then it’s gone before he says, “I haven’t eaten, and I’m feeling like a sandwich.You want one?” My gaze follows him when he stands, eyes connected with mine as he waits for an answer.

“I guess,” I say unconvincingly. He nods, then starts for the kitchen. “Do you need help?” I call after him, hating that I feel like he’s waiting on me. I can’t cook worth a damn but I can slap together two pieces of bread around meat and cheese.

“Nah, I got it. Why don’t you work on the next part?”

That I can do.

Leaving him to the cooking, or rather the putting-together, I read back through the all too familiar setting. Inspiration hits me for the morning after scene, and it’s not hard to summon the feelings I struggled with when I woke up. Julia may not have run off like I did, and in hindsight maybe I shouldn’t have, but she would certainly question her actions, even feel confused about her feelings for Adam. I place my fingers on the keys, and let the words flow.

Julia snuggles into the solid warmth at her back, unaware of her surroundings until something tightens around her waist. Sleepy eyes widen in alarm at the unfamiliar touch. Taking in her surroundings she realizes she isn’t at home, and panic whips through her when she remembers where she is, and what she’s done. Everything she experienced with Adam last night had been a ‘first’ - first kiss, first hands exploring her body, first ever orgasm. It had been an incredible feeling - one she knows she’ll want to experience again.

As good as all of those things felt in the moment, the dawn of reality is hitting Julia hard. She rarely shows a vulnerable side. Did she expose too much to Adam last night? Will he judge her inexperience? She knows she’ll be found lacking if he does, and just the thought of that puts a tiny tear in her heart. Even worse, what if he never wants to be around her again? It’s no secret they weren’t the best of friends before this, but if that happens she will never be able to look him in the eye again and, oddly enough, that makes her sad.

She can’t think with him so close; can’t process what’s real and what’s not. Apprehension begins to fill every space in her mind - and there were plenty - not already occupied by courage or dignity. Untangling herself gently from his grasp, Julia quietly slips out the door.

There. She leaves anyway. I don’t know how Peeta will feel about what I’ve written, and I can only hope it’s positive, but it’s just not realistic for Julia to think everything will be perfect the day after she dry humps a man she’s always tried to avoid and then sleeps cocooned against him, no matter how nice he seemed to be during their couch time.

I write another hundred or so words, closing out the scene with a few more of Julia’s insecurities and a sleepless night spent debating her feelings. Easy enough considering it was something I had dwelt on almost fourteen hours ago. I’m a little freaked by the similarities and the ease with which this is coming to me. I know I’m projecting myself into my character, but I can’t steer it in a different direction. It’s what I know.

Inspiration drained, I sit back and wonder what’s taking Peeta so long. My stomach grumbles quietly as the scent of dinner settles around me. It’s been lurking around me the whole time, but my focus on my writing seems to have dulled my sense of smell.

Peeta appears in the doorway, two plates in hand, as if conjured by my hungry thoughts. I briefly wonder what’s taken him so long in there, but as he comes closer I notice these aren’t hastily made pb&js. They look like works of art. I accept the plate and study it silently.

Thick slabs of bread are buttered, toasted, and speckled with some kind of seasonings that are bringing nose to life. In between the bread are strips of bacon and chicken, a juicy red tomato and some leafy green lettuce, covered by a slice of white cheese that’s obviously melted by the way it’s drooping down around the meats and veggies.

“Is it okay? I can make you something else if you want…” He looks nervous, and I realize I’ve just been staring at the plate in my hand. I must seem so ungrateful.

“Oh, no! I was just... I’ve never seen anything look this good is all. It’s almost too pretty to eat,” I tell him honestly. “Almost,” I add, and the smile that quirks up the corners of my mouth surprises me.

Peeta sits on the couch, eyes on me as I take my first bite. It’s so delicious I can’t stop the groan that starts deep in my throat. My eyelids flutter closed as my taste buds experience a level of food porn they’ve never imagined. Maybe they should write our story.

“Oh my god, Peeta. This is amazing.” When I open my eyes he’s still staring at me, his lips pressed together in a tight line before his tongue sneaks out to wet them. It catches me off guard, and as good as this sandwich is, I know he tastes better. Not in a taste bud explosion kind of way, but like a tremor in my insides sensation. The kind that warns you to take cover right before an earth-shattering quake that could drastically alter the landscape.

“Yeah. Yeah, um, glad you - glad you like… it.” I don’t know Peeta as well as I could, never really wanted to before now, but one thing I do know about him is that he’s never at a loss for words. His speech at our high school graduation was eloquent. Had a seething annoyance not been simmering inside me, it would have made me feel something a little magical. He received a standing ovation, that day, so it’s interesting that simple words evade him now, and it sparks a kind of challenge in me to see if I can do it again.

I watch him take a bite, eyes drawn to the way his lips wrap around the golden bread. The way his teeth sink into the warm layers. A string of cheese catches at the corner of his lips and he licks it clean. Now I’m the one staring. I feel like we’re facing off in a competition to see who can make the other more turned on. It’s probably just my imagination, but then he looks at me over the sandwich and I swear his eyes are daring me to deny it.

I don’t know the first thing about flirting, much less foreplay, but in my ‘research’, aka reading porn, I noticed that if a girl can draw attention to her lips, it’s hard for a guy to ignore them. I pluck at a piece of gooey cheese and twist it around my finger until it unravels from my sandwich, dropping my eyes from him because I’m not confident enough to conduct this experiment while we’re staring at each other. Then I stick my finger in my mouth and slowly pull it back, sucking the cheese off. “Mmmmm. It’s so good,” I tell him, going for sexy but not a hundred percent sure I am hitting the mark. What I am sure of, though, is that Peeta Mellark is like an earthquake in the middle of my life, altering my landscape.

I look at him to gauge his reaction. It’s almost comical, and I might even laugh if it weren’t for the sheer terror clawing its way to the surface. The excessively visible whites of his eyes, the way his jaw hangs open, sandwich frozen just below his chin, as if he was going to take a bite but now he can’t remember where his mouth is. I think I’m playing way out of my league now, though. I make a mental note not to draw attention to my mouth again. It works just like in the book, but I’m ill prepared for the way it works on me.

We seem to have fallen into a trance. Neither of us is eating. If we want to continue being the adults we say we are and avoid a repeat of yesterday, then I need to do the responsible thing and break it. I clear my throat and tell him his sandwich is going to get cold if he doesn’t eat it soon. He finally blinks, his eyes flitting down to his food.

“Well, thank you. For the sandwich,” I tell him sincerely, setting it down after taking a few more bites. I’m really hungry and I’ve only eaten half of it, but we need to get back to work. “Here’s what I wrote.”

He sets his plate down as well and takes the computer from me, patting the cushion next to him. The very one from last night. I sit, not wanting to be rude, and watch him as his eyes scan the words, narrowing every now and then while his lips twitch with what I can only assume is consideration. I wait, not so patiently, for his review as he puts the computer down and picks up his sandwich again. By the time he speaks I’m about to combust with anxiety.

“Well?” I ask, prompting him to break this unnerving silence.

“It’s… good. Are you sure you want her to leave like that?” he asks before taking a bite. His question is cautious and he only looks at me briefly before concentrating back on the screen. And we’ve come full circle to the original discussion.

“I think... “ I pause, trying to figure out how to say what I want to say and not make it personal. “She thinks that she’s done something wrong. It’s unfamiliar territory for her and she isn’t sure if he liked it. And she’s just supposed to wake up next to him and - what? Talk about the weather? I don’t think she’d wait around for him to tell her it was a mistake.”

Peeta chews his food, staring at me the whole time like I have three eyeballs. I have no idea what’s going on in his head, but the longer this tension thickens, the more I brace myself for a certain argument. An argument he won’t win because I’m sending all of my reasons, armed and ready to fire, to the front lines to protect myself. He sets the sandwich down and picks up his napkin, crumpling it between his fingers.

“Alright,” he says, and all my little soldiers vanish like traitorous cowards. Now I have no response. I was ready to defend, but the simple white flag he’s raised renders me completely at his mercy. Open and vulnerable. It’s a place I never let myself go but, oddly enough, I’m not itching to be free of it. Him.

“But... you should know that a guy never dislikes it when a girl gets him off.” The apples of his cheeks turn a little pink beneath my curious stare and he tears off little pieces of the paper napkin. “Of course, it’s a little embarrassing when it happens in his pants instead.”

My little soldiers reappear, waving their own white flags, and I surrender to my curiosity. “So then, you… liked it?” I don’t want my eyes to be fixated on his, but they won’t look away. I can’t breathe and it suddenly feels like the middle of summer inside his apartment. I reach up and tug absently on a collar that doesn’t exist.

His low chuckle pulls me out of my own head. “Katniss, I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I mean, once I got past the fact that you left without so much as a goodbye.”

His gentle reprimand stings, but it’s not his fault. It’s mine, and the apology I should have given him earlier is staring me in the face. “Look, Peeta, I’m sorry for leaving like I did. It had nothing to do with you, and what we- you know.” I suck at talking, but Peeta waits patiently for me to continue.

“I just- I don’t know how to do or be that. Honestly I didn’t even know I wanted to until… you know.”

Peeta’s mouth quirks up in a smirk, but it’s sweet instead of arrogant like I’m used to seeing on him. “You want me?” He’s teasing, I think, but it tongue-ties me just the same.

I’m about to lie to try and cover the truth I’m certain is written across my face - that yes, I do want him, but what I’ll do with him when I get him is a mystery to me - when he speaks again.

“Can I ask you a question?” I nod once, hoping it’s an easy one. “Why do you hate me? If I’ve done something to upset you, I’d like the chance to at least apologize for it.”

Nope. Not easy at all. In fact, it’s the most difficult question he could’ve asked because the answer is all twisted up in my memories and opinions. It’s not all factual. The only truth I can go on is that he got the money I desperately needed.

“You can’t.” He looks baffled at my confession. “Apologize for it, I mean. You didn’t do anything. Not really. It was me, I was-” How much do I reveal? What parts do I keep buried inside me, never to see the light of day?

I don’t mean to let it all out, but once I start, I can’t stop. One confession is connected to the next in a puzzle I have to solve piece by jagged piece or it won’t make sense at all. I tell him everything from my past family troubles to the $2.10 in my bank account as of today.

When I’m done, I’m spent and I realize how much baggage I’ve been carrying around all these years. It feels so good to actually talk to someone.

Peeta blows out a deep breath and I can only imagine he’s trying to process the pile I’ve just dumped on him. There definitely won’t be any more kisses or couch time after that confession. He’ll probably toss me out if his house any minute, but he surprises me as time drags on and he doesn't.

“I'm sorry you didn't win the scholarship, Katniss, I truly am. I wish we both could have received one. But…” he pauses, his eyes bouncing around the room until they land on me again. He continues to tear at the napkin, little bits of it floating to the floor around his feet. “I can't say I'm sorry it was me.”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but it’s not that.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he hesitates again, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully as he concentrates on the coffee table or the rug underneath, “I needed that scholarship.” Then it all comes pouring out, a soul in need of cleansing. “People always assume the Mellarks have money, and my mother would have liked it to stay that way. She wanted out of the bakery business. Wanted me to buy it from them. They wouldn’t pay for college because they were leaving me a legacy, or so she said. No need to waste all that money,” he says sharply, and I can only imagine he’s repeating his mother. “She had almost badgered me into it when I happened to come across her financial ledger.”

There is pain etched across his brow and I can only imagine it’s there in his beautiful blue eyes as well.

“The bakery was in a huge amount of debt, and so were my parents. They’d taken out a home equity loan every five or so years for the last three decades, not to mention a massive loan against the bakery itself.” He laughs derisively and shakes his head. “My own mother was trying to trick me into paying off their debts, and send me into bankruptcy soon after.”

“What about your dad?”

“He didn’t know. Mother has always been in charge of the books. She likes to keep up a certain appearance in the community, and while the bakery did well enough to support a family or two, even set them up for retirement, it couldn’t afford my mother’s tastes.”

“Your poor father!” I don’t realize how literal the words are until they’re out of my mouth, but Peeta doesn’t seem to notice. He’s lost in the mess of his own mother’s sabotage. My mother isn’t perfect, but she’s never done anything like that to me. If anything, her neglect forced me to grow up and think for myself.

Peeta sighs, the last tiny piece of the napkin leaving his hands to join its shredded family. “Yeah, he was devastated to say the least. He thought he was close to retirement, and to find out that he had to work the rest of his days, plus sell off everything he thought he owned.... It was rough.”

His admission sheds new light on my bitterness towards him, and once it’s out of the shadows I see it for what it really is - pettiness. Childish and narrow-minded. I may have had it rough and paid my own way, but neither my family nor myself is in as much trouble as his. And it helped Peeta steer clear of an awful situation. I hate to think of him saddled with all that debt and family baggage for years to come.

I'm not certain of the exact moment I began to see Peeta under the light of something other than animosity, but I know I don't hate him. Can't hate him, try as I might. He’s just not hateable. He’s not even a little dislikable.

I think I just joined the Peeta Mellark fan club. The same fan club that gave him the scholarship and fawned over all his charm and accomplishments. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’ll have to analyze it later, because right now, I just want to ease his pain. I place my hand on his knee and he stares down at it. “I’m glad it was you,” I say softly. And I am. I just wish I could have been glad about it four years ago. Maybe we could have been friends instead of… whatever we are now.

“Thank you, Katniss.” He gives me a smile that’s not sad, but not quite happy either. It’s more… apologetic, even though he has nothing to be sorry for. I want to tell him that, but I don’t have time to write it down, so I squeeze his knee instead, hoping he understands that I understand.

Somehow, in all our confessing, I’ve drifted closer to him so that when he turns to look at me our faces are only inches apart.

His eyes flutter closed and when he opens them again they’re focused on my lips. It makes me self conscious and I can’t help but bite my bottom one. I feel warm. There’s a heat stirring inside me that’s creeping up my chest and neck like a vine. His tongue peeks out, swiping across his own lips. My eyes track the movement. Before I know it, I’m leaning in, my gaze concentrated on his delicious-looking mouth because I’m not brave enough to look him in the eyes. I’m barely brave enough to admit to myself I'm about to initiate this kiss, break the promise I never should have made to myself.

Our lips touch. It’s gentle. Unsure. When I pull away because I don’t know what else to do his eyes flutter back open. “Don’t stop,” he says and his husky voice pulls me back in like metal to his magnet. This time my lips part over his as my mind reaches back to last night, remembering how he kissed me. Made me want more. But he takes control and his mouth is so good at what it’s doing. He’s soft, slow and very thorough, coaxing the sparks between us to life with his tongue.

I’m so lost in the kiss I don’t even open my eyes when he stops. I don’t want to. I want him to come back and finish what he started, but before I can complain or beg for more he says, “I better get you home.”

I blink up at him, the lust cloud clearing away at the sting of his rejection.

“Don’t think too hard,” he tells me, tapping my temple lightly with his finger. “I like you, Katniss, and I don’t want to give you a reason to run away again.” He winks at me and smiles. His eyes crinkle endearingly at the corners, the blue in them a little darker than usual and shining with mirth. Something I want to see in them always. It dissolves any kind of trepidation I had.

Then he brushes the hair back from my ear and leans in, his lips dragging across the outer shell when he speaks, causing my skin to prickle with goosebumps. “We’re going to take this slow, Katniss. Very. Very. Slow.”

A shiver races through me at his words, heading straight for that sweet spot I discovered last night, and fuck it all, I think I just became his fan club president.

#writer's block #peetabreadgirl #everlark #sorry so late #alaska #happy birthday again #next year you're getting a one shot #i swear!#lol

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