Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3881047.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Hunger_Games_Trilogy_-_Suzanne_Collins
  Relationship:
      Katniss_Everdeen/Peeta_Mellark, Katniss_Everdeen/Gale_Hawthorne
  Character:
      Katniss_Everdeen, Peeta_Mellark, Gale_Hawthorne, Effie_Trinket, Haymitch
      Abernathy
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-05 Words: 12257
****** Having Them Both ******
by heathenpesticide_(orphan_account)
Summary
     One-shot that takes place during and just after the Victory Tour in
     Catching Fire. Katniss and Peeta attempt to make the most of their
     arrangement.
I think my hair is on fire. The heat feels too close behind me as I flee the
blaze that is too patterned and too calculated to have been an accident - to
have not been fabricated by a Gamemaker to smoke me out. The carefully aimed
fireball that hurtles toward my head confirms it. I'm running as fast as I can
but everything seems lethargic and sluggish, and I have that vague sensation of
being underwater. I'm normally a fast runner, but this time my body is too
fatigued and stubborn to respond to urgency. I realize the trademark signs of
dream-state movement just as I escape the blaze and emerge from the trees to be
greeted by Cato, who thrusts his spear straight into my head.
I awake with a start, a guttural series of noises coming from me that are
somewhere between screams and panicked panting. My body instinctively flails
about in the dark, impulsively defensive. My brain knows it was just another
night terror, that I'm safe now aboard the train that plows through the
districts as we undertake our Victory Tour, but my body is still an
uncontrollable vessel of reflexes and nerves. I jolt at the slightest
unexpected noise, movement, or touch. The night terrors still inundate my
sleep. It's going to be like this for the rest of my life. I can no longer
censure Haymitch for his incessant drinking. I wonder how long it will take
before I go down that road. I see myself in ten years, haggard and as though
I've aged twice as much, sloppy and disgruntled and impatient, a cynical old
hag who regards the tributes I mentor as cattle being led to their slaughter.
Or mere inconveniences that hinder the acquisition of my next drink. The
thought makes me gag, but the image dissipates when Peeta hurriedly bursts into
the room.
Something about his expression softens the disquiet in me. Always a wealth of
compassion and selflessness, that boy. His face is flooded with concern and
perhaps a bit of protectiveness as well, lit by an undercurrent of urgency that
comes with the innate passion to keep me safe. Before the Games, I would have
resented it. I would have found it condescending and nauseating that someone
would think me so weak and vulnerable to require protection. I think a part of
me still does. I'm supposed to be the protector. But it's different now. The
horrors in that arena changed me, permanently. I no longer balk at the prospect
of expressing vulnerability. I just try to express it when no one's looking.
But right now, I just need to be held. I have a hard time even admitting it to
myself.
"Peeta, will you stay with me?" My voice sounds shrill and disingenuous, and I
wince at how pathetic I sound to myself. I'm not used to asking for things like
this. I'm not used to feeling like this.
The urgency in his eyes flickers to something else. Confusion, maybe?
Apprehension. I must have sounded sarcastic and stupid to him as well.
Fantastic. But then I realize that he never would have expected such a request
from me. He's become so accustomed to my indifference since the Games, since
the absence of the cameras, it's taken him off-guard that I would do such a
thing with no audience to emotionally manipulate. I see that flash of doubt -
his face is always an open book, too easy to ascertain what he's thinking or
feeling - and I almost feel like I can see him working it out in his head, what
could possibly motivate me to request his intimate company. It's only for a
second though, not even long enough to be really considered a hesitation, and
he acquiesces, sliding between the sheets with me and settling down beside me
so that I can rest my head on his shoulder.
He's bare down to his waist, wearing only a pair of loose training pants. His
body is warm, his arm strong and firm as he pulls me against his side. I'm
tense, not sure I remember how to do this and feeling incredibly awkward, but
the arm that embraces me gently tightens around me in a subtle gesture of
reassurance, his fingers idly tracing soft caresses over my side and back. It's
a soothing touch, and finally I relax against him, hypnotized into a detached
lethargy by the slow, steady rhythm of his heart and the motion of the speeding
train. I don't quite fall asleep, but I hover somewhere comfortably in between,
conscious enough to distantly notice fleeting little sensations, but not quite
asleep enough to return to the horrors of my memories. It feels good. I don't
think I quite expected this. He feels good. He keeps tracing faint caresses
over my waist, and I pretend not to notice how he surreptitiously inches the
hem up on my night camisole so that his fingers can brush against bare skin.
It's a pleasant sensation, and I have to force myself to stifle a small moan of
contentment in the back of my throat. I'm not allowed to enjoy this. I'm only
doing it out of necessity.
I feel him press his lips to the top of my head, hear him slowly inhale the
scent of my hair, and something else catches in my throat - that same feeling I
had that time we kissed in the Games, the only time I ever felt a spark of
emotion for him during the entirety of our performance as the ill-fated lovers
from District 12. I'm grateful for the darkness and that my face is hidden so
he doesn't see my suppressed smile. I'm grateful it's too dark for him to see
the chillbumps that have crawled over my skin at the sensation of his warm,
fluttering touch at my waist. I hope he's asleep, because I nestle deeper into
his embrace, subconsciously nuzzling into his chest as I breathe in his scent.
I try to be subtle about it, not wanting to show an obvious display of
affection. I am half asleep, and I could pass it off as an unconscious
repositioning to make myself more comfortable. He responds to the movement, and
I can tell by the tightening of the muscles of his chest that he's craning his
neck to try and see my face. His embrace tightens gently around me for a brief
moment, and his caresses to my waist and back become more assertive as he
daringly pulls my shirt up even further without even bothering with the
pretense of accident anymore.
I draw a deep breath at his bold touch, melting against him as I'm brought to
the surface of wakefulness now, fighting the sudden, inexplicable urge to bury
my face in his chest and press my lips to his heartbeat. It's such a nagging
desire that I keep finding myself on the verge of doing it, and I keep having
to hide the gesture by lightly running the tip of my nose along his chest. His
fingertips continue their caresses as his other hand finds my face, his thumb
brushing my cheekbone before he's running his fingers gently through my hair.
He presses his lips to the top of my head again, a long, lingering kiss that
sends an electric warmth through my entire body, and I turn my face upward so
that I'm nuzzling at his neck, warming the tip of my nose in the heat of his
pulse. His fingers travel higher up my waist, brushing against my ribcage, and
I tense nervously as his hand comes a little too close to the curve of the side
of my breast. He courteously draws his hand away, but he's looking down at me
in the darkness now, and I can feel his eyes burning into me with such
intensity that I'm afraid to see what emotion lies behind them.
The hand that toyed with my hair is now cradling my neck, his thumb tracing my
jawline as he delicately guides me back so I'm forced to look into his eyes.
"You know, it's eventually going to have to come to this, Katniss," he says
softly, his voice gruff with the bleakness of reality, though he's unable to
hide the strained excitement and hope behind it. "You know what's expected of
us. We're going to at least have to...try."
I'm suddenly cursing how close we are now, because I know he can feel the
frantic pounding of my nervous heart against his ribcage. I can't even bear the
nakedness of strangers, much less fathom the prospect of intimacy. I realize
that the concept of it terrifies me. It's not something I've ever really
thought about, because survival was always the one thing predominant in my
mind. The Capitol expects us to get married. And we'll have to consummate that
marriage. I feel myself blanch at the possibility that they'll probably invite
camera crews along for the sensational experience. The entire Capitol has
become so infatuated by our romance that the more I think about it, the less
absurd it seems that they would be that invasive with our relationship. I know
my sense of panic is palpable, because he senses it and his caresses to my
waist and neck become slower, gentler, the way one might calm a frightened
animal.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he says apologetically, his thumb
grazing along my bottom lip. "You're not obligated to do anything until you're
ready."
As if in defiance of my diffidence, my body stubbornly resists and I feel a
twinge between my legs, as if an electric current suddenly brought to life the
most intimate part of me. The way his thumb affectionately touches my lower lip
stirs something inside me, and I feel my heart jump erratically within my chest
as my breath catches in my throat. "Have you ever made love before?" I ask
weakly, feeling foolish because my voice shakes when I speak. I'm mortified
that we're even talking about this.
He gives a tight smile and shakes his head.
"Me neither," I answer awkwardly, though it's unnecessary because I know he
already knows this. As if my bashful reaction to naked men wasn't obvious
enough.
"Although I've...entertained myself before," he says, his smile becoming
slightly mischievous when I attempt to hide my blush in his chest.
Probably thinking about me, I think, and immediately I chastise myself for
being so vain and vulgar, but the pragmatist in me knows it's probably
dreadfully true. The image instantly flashes through my head - of him alone
with the self-inflicted pleasures of his hand wrapped around his length,
stroking himself to relief as he whispers my name. And suddenly, the thought of
it isn't humiliatingly obscene to me anymore, but somehow vaguely flattering -
endearing, even. And, though I hate to admit it even to myself in the deepest
recesses of my subconscious, I find something tantalizingly erotic about it as
well. Not only that he pleasured himself, but that he trusts me enough to
confess that he did it. The moment feels increasingly intimate now, and I
realize it's because in an instant, he's gone from chaste, adolescent lover to
being thrust into my awareness as a sexual being, and now the image of him as a
man with carnal desires is something I can no longer avoid. As if in
enthusiastic affirmation of this, I shift in his embrace, feeling the rigid and
unavoidable protrusion of his arousal brush against the inside of my bare
thigh, and I flinch at the realization that the only thing between him and my
naked body is a sheer camisole and my underwear.
I feel him stiffen, and I know it's because he expects a mortified reaction
from me, ready to distance himself from me in an instant in respect for my
modesty. Instead I pull into his embrace, leaning in to the tentative kiss he's
been wanting to give me since I fully awoke. I'm suddenly very aware of his
chest and his stomach and his arms and his neck and those muscular thighs
pressing against mine and my curiosity at what it would be like, to be
completely intimate with him, and I'm no longer embarrassed and jittery because
the curiosity has consumed everything. I can't help but stare at the muscles of
his arms in the dim light of the moon filtering through the window, at how his
shoulders flex at even the slightest movement, the way that muscle in his
forearm seems to dance whenever he merely clenches his fist. There's the way
his collarbone beautifully accentuates the chiseled hardness of his chest, and
my fingers apprehensively trace along those lines, just innocent, curious
exploration, but I don't miss how his breath hisses between his teeth, or the
way I can feel the chillbumps crawl over his skin beneath my touch.
He kisses me softly, lightly sucking on my bottom lip and letting his mouth
linger there as he crushes me against him, and there's that sensation of warmth
in the hollow of my chest again that spreads through my body and makes me feel
like static is dancing wildly over my skin. It's like that moment in the cave
in the arena, where I felt that initial twinge of...something...and I wanted
him to kiss me like that again, only to be left wanting. This time he shows no
restraint, and he takes my bottom lip in his mouth again, and again, each kiss
becoming deeper and more passionate than the first, and my fingers are tracing
a line down his chest and softly kneading his firm stomach, appreciating how
he's filled out so nicely right under my nose, and in this moment, the only
word I can think to use to describe him is 'man-shaped.' His muscles are solid
beneath my fingertips, but his skin is soft from the labors of his prep team
and the effects of the luxurious showers. It's like touching stone through
cashmere, and I keep grazing my fingers over the lines of his stomach because I
find the sensation delightful, oblivious to how it teases him until he stills
my hand in his.
He pulls out of the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed
and a little crease working its way into the center of his brow, as if he's in
mild discomfort. To be fair, he probably is. "You were just swept up into this
plan with no warning. I feel awful that I didn't consult with you before all of
this...that I never spoke to you before the reaping. I think maybe all of this
would have been much easier if we'd at least already been friends. I'm more of
a stranger to you than you are to me."
"A lot of things happened in the arena," I say, inching back a little so I can
inspect his eyes. There's a warmth and affection there that initially made me
feel a little uncomfortable, but it's beginning to grow on me. "I feel I've
known you for a lifetime."
He smiles a little and lowers his eyelids, obscuring the emotion in his eyes.
"The point is, Katniss...I know you feel pressured into this. And that's the
last thing I want you to feel. I know that...genuinely wanting me is a bit much
to ask of you - " he places his thumb on my bottom lip again as I begin to
protest - "but I want to at least make you feel comfortable. And safe. ...I
want to make this easy for you, so that we can make the most of
this...arrangement."
I gasp at the touch on my lips again, a heavy sigh swelling in my chest at the
compassion and finesse he's showing for me. You could do a lot worse, you know.
I hear Haymitch's condescending drawl in my head, and I know he's right. Always
thinking of me, Peeta. So selfless. I hate to think it, but he wouldn't have
survived the Games if not for me. He's too morally pure. He's too much of a
saint. But then, where would I have been without him. We wouldn't have survived
without each other. And in this moment, his thumb soft and gentle as it
caresses my bottom lip, his palm working soothing, rhythmic circles into my
back, I think, Maybe I can do this. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all.
Spending my life with someone who cares so much about how I feel and respects
my boundaries so much is really not the worst thing that could happen.
I think he senses my relief, because he leans forward to kiss me again, holding
my chin in his thumb and forefinger so he can tilt my head back and continue a
light trail of kisses along my jawline. I feel the warmth of his lips brush
against my neck and I swell into him, gasping at how surprisingly pleasant it
feels. His lips part there and he nips softly at my skin, leaving slow,
lingering kisses in a line just below the hinge of my jaw and he chuckles
against my throat. "I love the way your pulse feels in my mouth," he whispers
against my ear, and I feel a vibrating sensation in my chest, as though a
butterfly has been trapped in the center of my ribcage. "It's so frantic when
you're too flustered to enjoy how much this excites you."
"Peeta!" It's meant to be a scolding chastisement, but it comes out a little
too breathy and instead sounds wanton and lustful. I'm pretty sure he knows
what I meant, but pretends to take it as encouragement and continues to nip at
my neck anyway.
I give in and lift my chin to welcome him, his mouth moving down the curve of
my neck and across the top of my shoulder where he pauses to slide the thin
strap of my camisole over my skin and continue his trail of tentative,
exploratory kisses. His fingers have been idly fidgeting with the hem of the
camisole, inching it higher and higher up my ribcage until I realize I'll
either have to tell him to stop or allow him to continue, and I find that I
have a hard time working up the constitution to tell him no. His touch is so
slow and deliberate, a calculated approach to allow me enough time to tell him
to stop if I feel it's going too far. Instead I slowly raise my arms to help
him pull the garment up over my head, and it's almost as if a restrained look
of pain creases his brow when he looks at my bare chest. He smiles and lightly
trails his thumb down the curve of my breast, and I'm thankful for the
fulfilling diet my winnings have afforded me so that I could fill out enough to
have something he could appreciate. Somehow I think my emaciated, pre-Games
figure wouldn't have been as gratifying.
He lightly weighs my breast in his palm, delighting in its springiness. "You
have no idea how many times I've pictured you this way," he whispers, and I
blush, even though I subconsciously already knew. He shifts so that he's easing
me onto my back, rolling onto his side so that he can gaze down at me and trace
my newly acquired curves beneath his fingertips. "I should like to kiss you,"
he says, his voice low and hoarse.
My brows knit together in confusion. "Well, you've already been doing plenty of
that..." I say, wondering why he's only now seemingly asking permission.
A coy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Not here," he says, touching my
lips with his thumb again. Then his fingers trace a faint line down my neck and
between my breasts, continuing a fluttering trail down the center of my stomach
that ends in a fleeting touch that brushes between my legs. "I want to kiss you
down here." There's a low purr to his voice now, a seductiveness I've never
heard before, and my breath catches in my throat at the provocative suggestion.
I know I'm blushing madly and I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he's
enjoying every second of it.
The thought is at first horrifying, but then I think of the way his mouth felt
on my neck and I immediately imagine that same sensation in the place that now
seems to be humming with nagging lust, yearning again for that fleeting almost-
touch of his fingers again. I even find myself unconsciously lifting my hips in
the hope that it will alleviate the ache there, that it will make him touch me
there again. That's when I feel a tiny burst of moisture in my underwear, as
though a small berry has been crushed there, and I can feel it seeping through
the fabric where his fingers had just grazed me. I close my eyes and sigh in
answer to his request, which seems to be enough for him. He leans forward and
leaves lingering kisses down the center of my throat, explores the curves of my
breasts with his lips, coaxing his way down my stomach and pausing to dip the
tip of his tongue into my navel. It's a shock of pleasure, and somehow the
sensation there seems to be directly connected to the ache between my legs,
because I feel it there too, even though he hasn't yet touched me there. His
tongue slowly circles my navel a couple of times, his eyes shifting upward
toward me and locking with mine in an enticing glare and I know it's meant to
be a preamble, of sorts. He's silently telling me, This is what's about to
happen to you down there.
I'm too frenzied by what he's doing to care about restraint anymore. My mind is
clouded, and I can no longer swallow my moans. There's something between a
whimper and a low sigh that escapes me, and I close my eyes against the
pleasure. He withdraws his tongue and continues kissing a straight line below
my navel until he comes to the waistline of my undergarments, where he
teasingly runs the tip of his nose along my skin just above the elastic. His
hands are on either side of my hips, fingers twitching at the waistband,
waiting for me to tell him to stop. The moisture in my undergarments has
accumulated to such a degree that it's becoming uncomfortable and sticky, and
I'd rather be rid of them. He runs a finger lightly along the length of the
aching folds between my legs again, chuckling to himself when he feels I'm
seeping through the fabric. He pulls the garment down over my hips, sliding it
along my thighs where I cringe at the small vestige of moisture that rubs
against my skin. I'm surprised at how uncomfortable I am at my own fluids. I'm
more surprised at how much of it I seem to have produced.
"And I haven't even really done anything yet," he warns mischievously, and
another whimper-sigh dies in my throat.
I don't know why I'm so nervous about being laid bare before him. I've been
just as naked in front of my prep team. They've stripped me smooth down there
as well, and there's no longer a merciful tuft of hair between my legs to hide
behind. It occurs to me that it's different being naked for Peeta because I
actually care about his opinion. I want to speculate on what this says about
how I feel about him, but I don't get the chance because his lips are dancing
further downward, brushing over the immaculate smoothness there. Finally, he
presses his lips to the aching mound between my legs, kissing me softly there
just as he kissed me when I first woke, light and sweet and remarkably chaste
before parting his lips and sucking slightly on that tender nodule of flesh and
nerves that so powerfully delivers me to the whims of ecstasy. He places
several slow, open-mouthed kisses there, then flicks his tongue against it
once, then twice, pressing the tip of his tongue into me with increasing
pressure until he's tracing a lethargic line up and down in rhythm with my
slow, deep panting.
His hands are warm as they stroke my thighs, his tongue changing its up and
down rhythm to slow circles that increase in intensity and speed, a sporadic
motion that keeps me on edge. I reach down and run my fingers through his hair,
wanting to press him harder into me, but his tongue is stroking me in a swift
rhythm now, and my mind begins to slip as I feel an odd sensation building up
just behind my navel and tighten in my thighs. "Peeta," I gasp, and he presses
his tongue against me with increased fervor, and all that exists in the world
is the way the tip of his tongue feels against that sensitive bit of flesh
there. The circles he makes become more focused, falling into a steady rhythm
that finally pulls me over the edge that causes my entire body to go rigid, my
back arching as I press myself against his mouth. My insides tighten and spasm
with an explosion of pleasure, and my mouth is open, though for a moment, no
sound comes out. I'm paralyzed by the shock of ecstasy. Finally my teeth clench
and a long, low moan escapes, followed by a slow, deep breath, and then another
moan, and it continues this way as I ride it out, rocking my hips beneath the
slowing motion of his tongue. I hear my moans, a low, strangled sound that
could be mistaken for someone being tortured, and I realize in this context, it
seems remarkably lewd. The fluids have flowed with incredible intensity from
between my legs, and I feel the uncomfortably moist spot that's soaked the
sheets beneath me as my body finally falls limp beneath his mouth.
I'm breathing heavily, my eyes closed as his hands still gently stroke my
thighs. I can feel my pounding heartbeat throbbing between my legs with
increased intensity, and I'm overwhelmed by the sense of contented
gratification I feel. I wonder where he learned to do that. I feel his soft
lips against my thighs, placing sweet kisses there as I come down from the
climax. If I weren't so clouded by pleasure, I would be mortified that he has
now seen every part of me, that even now he's gazing at the intimate parts
between my legs with an almost reverent expression.
He rests his chin on my thigh and looks up at me. "It's absolutely maddening to
see you moist and split open like a ripe peach this way," he says quietly.
I inhale sharply at the offhand eroticism of his words. It would have been
obscene if the look in his eyes wasn't one of unwavering adoration. He tilts
his head slightly to inspect me there again, and a warm smile touches upon his
lips.
"I could do it for you now, with my fingers, if you wish," he says quietly.
"You're relaxed enough that it wouldn't hurt so much."
My heart skips at the vague suggestion, but I know exactly what he's implying.
He's always so gentle and coaxing, and lately everything he says, every small
look or touch, seems specifically calculated to make my breath catch in my
throat and my body weak. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. But he's staring
at me steadily with those affectionate eyes, and I know he's patiently awaiting
an answer. His hand delicately grips my thigh now, ready to do it on my
command, his thumb slowly running back and forth across my skin.
"No," I say quickly, not really giving myself time to think about it and
wanting desperately to avoid the conversation altogether.
He seems a little disappointed for a moment, his eyelids dropping so I can't
see the expression in his gaze, and he nods once. "You want it to be him," he
says quietly. "You want to remain intact for him."
I can't hide my gasp of surprise. Gale. To be honest, I hadn't even been
thinking about him. And then I hate myself, because I realize I probably should
have. I feel horrible for not having kept him in consideration. I feel guilty
for having enjoyed this licentious moment at all, for giving in to the
Capitol's arrangement for me. I feel like I've committed some act of compliance
simply by allowing myself a moment of passion with the boy they've assigned to
me. I think about what Peeta just did to me, and then I imagine what it would
have felt like if it had been Gale's tongue stroking me to the edge. I close my
eyes and moan before I have the mind to suppress it. I realize I want it very
much. I want Gale to do that to me. But it's Peeta who is here with me now, and
he's been so charitable and patient, and now it occurs to me that I'm guilty of
selfishness at the expense of both of them, and there's absolutely nothing I
can do that can make it at all fair for either of them. Or for me. Why can't I
just have them both?
Peeta rubs a reassuring hand over my thigh and reaches over to retrieve a fresh
linen handkerchief from one of the drawers. "It's okay, Katniss," he says,
compassion saturating his voice. "I know he had you first. I don't mind if
you're not a virgin for me. I just want you." He gently dabs at the moisture
between my legs, wiping me clean from the bothersome fluids that have been an
idle annoyance since I came down from my climax. It's such a simple but
affectionately intimate gesture, and this small charity from him makes my heart
swell for him. I wish he'd been boorish and dreadful like Haymitch. Then it
would be easier for me to still want Gale. I'd be entitled to my selfishness
and reticence. But now I feel like I'm indebted to Peeta, and that I'm being
childish and petty for wanting out.
"Peeta," I whisper, and there's a sob at the back of my throat that I
thankfully swallow back down, but there's no hiding the tears that crystallize
in my eyes.
"Hey, come on. Don't do that," he says, crawling back up over me and brushing
my cheekbone with his thumb. He kisses my forehead and pulls me against him,
continuing the sweet caresses from before. "Go back to sleep, Katniss," he
coaxes, pulling the covers back up around us and stroking me gently until I
fall asleep.
There are no nightmares this time. It's difficult to tell if my peaceful sleep
is a result of what we just did or the comfort of his closeness, or both. I
wake before him, just as the sun is rising, but I don't hurry to get up. His
warmth is too pleasant, his heartbeat a slow, steady thud in my ear. I doze a
little longer before I gently extricate myself from the arm that envelops me,
indulging in a shower to rinse away any evidence of last night's events. All of
my clothes are still in the chest of drawers near my bed, and I emerge in just
a towel, seeing him awake and gazing out the window. He turns his attention
toward me and smiles, and I can't help but draw my gaze to his mouth, a flash
of last night assaulting my thoughts. My knees feel weak. I go to the plush
couch and immediately sit, pulling my towel close around me. He rises from his
seat on the bed and slowly crosses the room toward me, taking a seat on the low
table just in front of me. His movements are cautious and deliberate, and I get
the feeling he's doing this intentionally to seem as nonthreatening as
possible.
"You don't have to feel obligated to do that again," he reassures me, and I see
him reach his hand out as if he's going to rest it on my thigh, but he quickly
rethinks the gesture and withdraws. "It's okay if you didn't like it. ...But I
hope it's not too inappropriate for me to say that...I did." Is there a blush
to his cheeks? Hard to tell.
I have a hard time meeting his eyes, and I curse the blush that comes to my own
cheeks. "That's the problem, Peeta," I say quietly. "...I did like it."
He seems puzzled for a moment, but his face quickly falls into one of
understanding as he figures it out. "You feel you've betrayed Gale in some
way." He says it so succinctly, and again I'm angry with myself for being so
indifferent and selfish with Peeta, who is always so aware of everyone's
feelings. "It wasn't my intention to draw you away from him. I don't want you
to feel as though I've seduced you."
I wince and shake my head. "I know." I'm surreptitiously glancing at him
through the corner of my eye, and my gaze keeps falling to his mouth. There's
that creeping disquiet between my legs again, and I shift uncomfortably in
hopes of discreetly quelling it.
He's silent for a moment, and I see that he's wearing a smug grin and
scrutinizing me closely. "You're squeezing your thighs together, Katniss," he
says, his voice nothing more than a soft purr.
I finally gather up the courage to look him directly in the eyes, and there's a
smug confidence there, but beneath it is that same adoration as always,
accompanied by a silent request for permission. Would you like for me to do it
again?The tension in my thighs goes slack as I feel that affectionate weakness
in my body again, and I'm grateful I'm sitting down because I would have
crumpled to the floor had I been standing. I want to avert my eyes but I can't,
because I'm consumed by that surge of desire that kills any restraint in me.
Instead I boldly hold his gaze, slowly sitting back against the cushions as my
knees part slightly. There's not even a second's hesitation before he swoops
down between my legs, easing them apart as his hands reach up under my towel to
stroke my thighs. He presses his lips to the inside of my thigh, his eyes
moving upward to catch my gaze with that daring, hypnotic glare again. He
stares right at me as his lips part and he places a soft bite there, causing me
to give a little cry of surprise at the fleeting pain and the rush of pleasure
that accompanies it. I'm rigid with nervous anticipation as I watch him, with
no merciful cover of darkness now to offer the pretense of modesty. He keeps
those eyes on me as he kisses his way up the inside of my thigh, and I realize
there's no point in anticipating his actions, so I stretch my arms out along
the back of the couch and let my head fall back, closing my eyes and making
myself as pliable as possible for him, peacefully enjoying the tingling warmth
of his lips as they draw closer and closer to the throbbing ache between my
legs.
The way he holds my thighs is so assertive and sweet, his mouth working coaxing
kisses into the spot between my legs, eliciting sporadic moans from me every
time I feel myself close to the edge. Each time I do, he eases up, skirting
away from making me climax too soon, and I suddenly grow frustrated with this
and a whimper escapes me at his cruel teasing. He's intentionally drawing it
out. He wants to build it up so that when he finally allows me release, it will
incapacitate me. He drives the tip of his tongue with too-perfect precision
against the ache in that magical little spot that controls my pleasure, and I
think I say something vulgar. I can't help it, it feels too good and there's no
sound I could make, no word in existence that could ever genuinely describe
with any justice how good it feels.
"Nnngg Peeta," I moan, flexing my hips upward, pressing myself harder into his
mouth. "That's perfect," I simper under my breath, hardly able to vocalize
anything. "Just there..."
There's another shrill chirp, and it could have come from me, but I realize
it's too displaced for it to have escaped from me in a daze of pleasure. I then
notice the disturbance in the air, as though a door has opened, and I feel the
presence of someone else just as my eyes slowly open and I lift my head from
the back of the couch to see Effie standing there, frozen on the spot with her
eyes wide, her face quickly turning a shade of puce that matches her hair. I
can only imagine what she must see, my body lasciviously spread out on the
couch with Peeta's face buried firmly between my legs, and I'm about to throw
him off of me and frantically cover myself with my towel when Effie squeaks
with humiliated apology again and scampers out of the room, leaving us alone
again.
If Peeta noticed, he doesn't show it. His tongue continues its expert
precision, driving a rhythm to the center of my pleasure, my stomach tightening
in preface to the explosion I know is about to come. He doesn't ease up this
time, and I rock my hips back and forth with the movement of his tongue until I
erupt in ecstasy, intentionally making my moans into audible cries that must be
mockingly chasing Effie as she retreats down the hallway of the compartment.
That'll teach her to knock next time. I can only imagine the lecture we'll
probably get about getting fluids on the luxurious Capitol textiles. That is
brushed suede! I hear in her comical scolding accent.
"We should probably go to breakfast," he says, gently wiping me clean with my
towel and rising to retrieve a set of clothes for me.
I lay there panting for a moment, grabbing his hand and pulling him down on the
couch beside me. "In a minute," I say, resting my head on his shoulder. In
truth, I'm not sure I can stand just yet. "You know Effie just saw us," I say
warningly, not wanting to face breakfast because of how awkward I know it's
going to be.
"I know," he says nonchalantly.
"Wait, what?"
He shrugs. "I wasn't going to stop. That would have been cruel, you were so
close. She should have knocked."
I stare at him, puzzling at this new attitude from him that seems so divergent
from how I'm used to seeing him. He's so confident and assertive now, almost to
the point of aggressiveness, and I remember I saw a glimpse of this side of him
in District 11 not days before, in the dome of the Justice Building. He was
angry then, steaming with heated fury at how Haymitch and I had found him too
inconsequential to include him in my precarious situation with President Snow,
but he was also bolder, more confident, and the Peeta that sits here beside me
now with little regard for propriety at our sexual liaison is one and the same.
Perhaps the arena has changed him more than I thought. I don't say it, but I
like it. I find it attractive, even.
He must think I'm appalled at his cool indifference to Effie's intrusion
because he reaches up and reassuringly strokes my hair. "Don't concern yourself
with it, Katniss. She's an adult, I'm sure she can handle it."
I snort and pull back, fixing him with a doubtful glare. "You sure about that?"
We laugh and force ourselves to get up and ready ourselves for breakfast,
gingerly emerging from my room and glancing about the car to see if anyone's
around. We're both prepared for a stern lecture, but Effie pointedly avoids so
much as looking at us when we sit down to breakfast. Haymitch's bloodshot glare
lingers on each of us - he probably hasn't been to bed yet - glancing from one
to the other as his tired, calculating eyes try to piece together the awkward
silence and rigid postures. I chance a sideways glance at Peeta, who's coolly
inspecting a strawberry as he expertly removes the stem from the top, and I
know he's intentionally teasing me when his tongue flicks out and pries at its
now hollowed out center. I choke on my muffin, our eyes meeting for just a
moment as we share a devious glance with one another, our faces stiffening with
the effort to hold back our smiles. I hear a utensil clatter down on a plate,
and I look up to see that Effie is staring in horror and perhaps mild
fascination at Peeta's inappropriate display. His eyes shift to her and he
insolently holds her gaze, continuing to suggestively probe the strawberry with
his tongue before finally popping it into his mouth. I kick him under the
table, inclining my head to one side as I fix him with a wide-eyed, imploring
glare. The nonchalance, the indifference from before - I can get that, but this
- this is downright brazen behavior. He's cocky.
He's officially humiliated Effie, and she nervously rises from her seat and
traipses out with flustered awkwardness. Haymitch stares after her, then turns
his chastising glare on us. "What the hell was that all about?" he asks,
spiking his coffee from a flask he procured from the inside pocket of his
blazer.
I immediately look downward, suddenly fascinated by my sausage and gravy. Peeta
calmly picks up a napkin and unfolds it with a flourished whip, then places it
on his lap before smoothly buttering a scone. Haymitch watches this display
with slightly impatient suspicion, and Peeta finally shrugs in answer. "Effie
walked in on me pleasuring Katniss with my tongue," he says simply, as though
he were commenting on something as trivial as the way the eggs were prepared.
I silently chide him for disclosing this information just as Haymitch takes a
sip of his coffee, and I brace myself to dive sideways to dodge what I don't
doubt will soon be a powerful spit-take in my direction. Haymitch manages to
choke it down though, shifting his eyes between us as he tries to find an
appropriate response. He eventually sets his cup down and dabs at his mouth
with his napkin before throwing it down on his plate.
"Well, it's certainly good to see you two finally warming up to one another,"
he says dryly. "Let's only hope rumors of your indiscretions make their way
back to President Snow." He pushes up from the table and leaves us alone.
I set my utensils down and swiftly turn to Peeta. "What the hell are you
doing?!" I hiss.
He very deliberately sets down his scone and leans back, fixing me with the
gravest look I've ever seen on him. It doesn't seem to settle properly on his
features, or perhaps that's just my personal bias at being so unaccustomed to
seeing him anything other than boyish. "From what you and Haymitch told me in
11, President Snow's got you in a really difficult position. He's got you in
his crosshairs and he's just waiting for an excuse to hurt you in some way. Me
included. I think we've far surpassed the point where innocent love is going to
be enough to convince him and satiate our audience. If they want ribald
passion, then let's give it to them. Make Snow uncomfortable. At this point,
it's either bare ourselves to the nation or end up dead. Or worse, mourn the
deaths of our loved ones. There's no reward in practicing restraint now,
Katniss."
I don't bother hiding the shock in my face. I push my plate away from me,
suddenly losing my appetite. I get the feeling that's not all, though. I've
never thought of Peeta as an opportunist, but it certainly seems to be
convenient for him that escalating the nature of our relationship is likely the
only way to keep us alive. But then I see the glint of desperation in his eyes,
that abandon of hope that has him panicked, but he's too used to being
everyone's rock that he can't show it. "You're reckless," I gasp, realization
suddenly dawning on me.
I feel his hand on my thigh beneath the table, warm and pleasant and
comforting. "Caution has gotten us absolutely nowhere," he whispers, and
there's another surge of heated affection in my chest at the penetrating look
he's fixed upon me. His eyes soften in an instant though, and his thumb moves
back and forth against my thigh. "Your reticence is more noticeable than you
think," he says gently. "So far, I don't think Snow is too convinced with your
performance. I've done everything I can...except this. I figure...if we need to
make this realistic, to hell with propriety, I'll go to any lengths to awaken
some spark of passion in you." He playfully tweaks my chin between his thumb
and forefinger.
A part of me feels manipulated, seduced. I can hardly be angry, though. He's
done all of this to keep me safe. He's doing this to make it easy for me.
...And I've enjoyed it. I close my eyes as another flash of last night flickers
through my immediate thoughts, and I huff out a flustered sigh at the memory of
the way his mouth felt on me. "Oh, Peeta," I sigh, and I lean into him as he
clasps a hand around the back of my neck and rests his forehead against mine.
"And admittedly," he continues, lowering his voice, "seeing how I can make you
moan and sigh the way you did, I can't help but feel encouraged that I can make
this work in our favor. You're so lovely when you're helpless to the whims of
pleasure."
It's like this for the rest of our Victory Tour. Sneaking into my bed in
private, whispering cavalier erotic sentiments in my ear in public. He always
springs them on me when we're supposed to be keeping up an appearance, and it's
always at a moment where suddenly being weak in the knees and threatening to
collapse to the floor would be most inconvenient - like when we're surrounded
by cameras. He does it at the party at Snow's mansion, subtly leading me to a
back corner of the room as we dance, obscured by so many people too preoccupied
by food and drink and their own Capitol-esque trivial problems to notice us.
Our dance slows to a stop and he circles around behind me, trailing his hand
about my waist as he inclines his head as though to whisper in my ear, but
instead places a warm, lingering kiss on my neck that causes me to sigh and
lose my balance. He steadies me with a firm hand on my elbow, holding me up as
he lightly drags his lips across my skin, then lifts his head to turn his
attention to the intrusion of a towering boom and a camera that has somehow
followed us through the crowd and just broadcast the racy expression on my face
to the entire nation, my eyes closed and brows helplessly puckered, mouth
wantonly open. I have no doubt that he carefully calculates these instances on
purpose. They're always too perfect.
I'm mortified, but I feel him smile against my neck as he peers around me to
send that smoldering, insolent gaze into the camera, then smoothly but curtly
answers a couple of questions for the crew before leading me away to genuine
privacy where I know he's assured we won't be seen, because he ardently sweeps
me back against the wall and continues with his lingering kisses to my bared
flesh that is so in vogue right now amongst Capitol couture. His hand travels
under my dress and along the inside of my thigh, hiking my leg up around his
waist as he inches the neckline of my dress lower and lower until my nipple is
bared, which he lightly kisses as his fingers begin to rub a slow rhythm
between my legs.
"I'd fuck you in Snow's own quarters if I could," he purrs against my ear, and
for the first time, I kind of hope someone is watching. I hope Snow is peering
around a corner at us right now as we carry out this impudent display under the
hospitality of his own home. I'd bare my legs open wide for Peeta if it meant
making Snow feel foolish and uncomfortable just for one second. Because at this
point, Snow's already established that our performance was unconvincing. Only
it wasn't - regardless of any efforts on our part, these events have been set
in motion a long time ago, and nothing we could have done would have stopped
it. The unrest in the districts that was so palpable on our way to the Capitol,
the defiance of even the weakest districts - this had been far out of our
control ever since I brought out those berries in the arena months ago. Peeta
and I could have given them the most explicit show of sensual depravity and it
still wouldn't have appeased the population into submission.
I realize the act is up, that this is no longer necessary, but still I
participate. I tell myself it's for Peeta's sake, to let him indulge for what
little grace period of peace we have left as a way of returning so many favors
he's owed on my behalf. But the way his mouth warmly closes on my nipple, the
way his tongue flicks against it with perfect precision, the ecstasy I feel as
his fingers rhythmically rub me to careless bliss, I know I'm doing it for my
own indecent pleasures as well. Perhaps I'm using him, but the comforts of the
pleasure he brings me only strengthens my resolve for the tentative plan I have
when we get back to Twelve. I let my cries echo through the empty stairwell as
he rubs me out, hoping they're loud enough to carry up to whatever hole Snow's
crawled into at the moment.
On the trip back home, Peeta seems more subdued. I wonder if it's because he's
figured out that we've failed. We don't talk about it, but he seems to practice
more restraint, that defiant smolder he's come to rely upon so heavily in
seducing me and an entire nation having melted back into his typical boyish
affection. I awake with my head on his arm and my hand at the center of his
chest, with no recollection of him initially coming in to bed, and his fingers
are idly caressing my waist as they so habitually do even when he's in a half-
sleep. He's awake though, and I can tell by the slightly elevated rhythm of his
usually slow resting heart rate that he's distressed. I can feel it in the
tension of the muscles of his chest and shoulders. I slowly chance a peek up at
his face, and his eyes are clouded and distant, the way they get when he's
painstakingly working something out. His eyes clear when he senses my movement,
and he instantly shifts his gaze to me, a smile curling his lips, though the
warmth doesn't reach his eyes. They remain troubled and sad.
"I meant what I said, on that first night," he says quietly, not even bothering
with preamble. "Your...arrangement...with Gale. Take advantage of what little
moments you can get with him before our lives are shoved under a microscope
after our wedding."
I lift my hand from his chest and slowly reach up to hold his cheek in my palm,
and he reaches up to lay his hand over mine. "Peeta," I say, pain and guilt
making my voice sound thick and choked. I want to tell him everything now. I
feel horrible for having kept him in the dark about how we've failed,
especially after his outburst in Eleven. I know how he'd feel for having been
treated like a child again. I think the reason I still say nothing is because a
part of me doesn't want this fantasy to end. He's been so passionate and
accommodating, that I can't find it in me to break it to him that there likely
never will be a wedding. Because I'm going to run. And I'm taking everyone I
immediately care about with me.
I follow his advice, though. I think I would have anyway, even if he hadn't
given me his blessing. I'd intended on a secret rendezvous the moment I got
back anyway, and I realize how much I've missed Gale during the tour. He meets
me at the old hollowed out house by the lake, and I've already started a
healthy fire and brought rich furs from the Capitol, which I've spread out on
the cold concrete floor. Combined with the fire, they make the small room
incredibly warm, despite the broken out windows. I pretty much could have
predicted the outcome of this moment. I tell him my plan to run, and ask him to
come with me. He expresses his elation and his love for me. I guiltily confess
that Peeta will be part of our crew, and he becomes agitated and defensive. And
then the only unpredictable part of the moment, I let slip about the uprising
in Eight, about the restlessness I'd seen on our tour, and Gale becomes
steadfast in staying to join the resistance. And in an instant, not only have I
failed with Snow, I've failed with Gale as well. My entire plan dashed to
pieces in an instant, because of my impetuous desperation to make Gale see
reason. I can protect no one, and for the first time in my life, even
considering my time in the arena, I feel really, truly helpless.
"Make love to me, Gale." My voice is small and thick, on the tail end of a sob.
He's about to leave me in heated anger, but he stops, slowly turning to fix me
with a look of consternation and doubt. He thinks I'm still trying to prove
something.
He slowly closes the distance between us, lowering himself back down beside me.
"Why now," he says hollowly, staring blankly ahead into the fire. "Why ask this
of me now?"
"Why not? It's not like I've got anything to lose. I'm already about to lose
everything. None of us are likely going to see the year out. We might as well
indulge in what little pleasures while we still can." The end of my confession
is clipped, and I choke off as my lungs run out of the air to sustain my words
and a sob at the same time.
The unconcealed emotion in my voice incites him into action, and he swiftly
leans forward to take my face in his hands, kissing me so that the sob that
threatens to come is stifled against his lips. I'm overwhelmed with a flood of
emotion, most of which is relief. My moments with Peeta on the tour were so
fantastical, so sublime that I had begun to doubt if I still felt anything for
Gale at all. I'd feared that I'd lost touch with my feelings for him before I'd
ever actually gotten to let myself feel them in the first place. The way he
kisses me now, all of that doubt is instantly erased. His lips are light and
sweet against mine, and the heat that radiates so intensely from his body is
enough to warm the entire room. I realize I'm burning up in my hunting jacket.
I reach up to fumble with the fastenings, but he releases my face from his grip
and pulls out of the kiss, stilling my hand at my throat.
"No," he whispers. "Let me do it."
He moves my hands away and gingerly pulls the zipper down, his eyes so steady
on it that he seems almost hypnotized. I watch him apprehensively, and once my
jacket is off, I know my heart is beating so frantically that he can see it in
the vibrations of the fabric of my shirt. He removes his own jacket, and I see
the sleeves of his shirt tight around the sculpted muscles of his shoulders,
the fabric pulled taut against his broad chest. I fight the impulse to suddenly
lean forward and bury my face there. I find that I'm tensely anticipating him
removing the rest of his clothes, and I'm suddenly shocked at how the prospect
of naked men no longer makes me uncomfortable. Whether this was a side effect
of Peeta's machinations or my frenzied affection for Gale in the face of death
is unclear, but I'm instantly leaning forward and pulling the hem of his shirt
up over his head, desperately wanting to see the fine shape hiding underneath.
He seems pleasantly surprised at the way my fingers knead at the sculpted lines
of his chest, the way I memorize every nuance of him beneath my fingertips. He
doesn't expect this, and our clothes come off in frantic haste as we abandon
the fear that someone is watching, that Snow's surveillance could be anywhere,
waiting to emotionally extort me into doing anything to save my people. I've
already lost. You just sit back and enjoy the show all you want.
He lays me back against the furs, which are sinfully delightful against my
naked flesh, and there's something sweetly romantic about the way he tenderly
cradles my head in his hand as he steadies himself over me. I don't panic when
I feel his arousal stiff and urgent against my naked thigh. I'm comfortable
with him. I've known him for so long, can truly share my secrets and fears with
him. I trust him. His teeth close on my earlobe and I lose my mind a little,
lifting my hips up against him so that the tip of his arousal brushes against
the slickness between my legs. A groan dies in his throat and he steadies me
with a firm hand at my waist, his grip gentle but steady enough that I feel the
strength behind it, that I know he could easily restrain me if he wanted to. He
kisses my face, my jawline, follows my pulse with his lips before coming to my
breasts and devouring them with the unharnessed passion of someone who's been
wanting to do this for a long time. I look down at him as he lovingly takes my
nipple between his lips, my breast swelling into his mouth as I draw a deep
breath at how arousing the image is. His eyes are closed, but he feels my stare
and looks upward to fix me with a warm gaze as I watch his tongue flick out and
encircle my nipple with a teasing lethargy that makes me reach up and tangle my
fingers in his hair, pressing his mouth harder against me.
I lift my hips up against him again, and there's that dreadfully annoying
moisture again, making the insides of my thighs slick and slowly soaking the
furs beneath me. I need him to touch me there so badly. I need some release,
even if it's just for him to briefly graze his finger against me. His chuckle
is stifled by my breast in his mouth, and I know he understands what I need.
His hand slowly travels down my stomach and traces the line at the inside curve
of my hip, but I stop him.
"Gale," I gasp, "Use your mouth."
He delicately releases my nipple from between his lips and smiles wryly down at
me before kissing an agonizingly slow trail down my stomach, having to firmly
restrain me as I flail beneath him, my hips rocking violently beneath him. "Be
still, Katniss," he warns, and there's an authoritative undercurrent to his
tone that gives me pause. He's seemingly drawing it out even more now,
intentionally teasing me for being so impatient and demanding. He spends a lot
of time kissing that curve at the inside of my hip, and just when I think he's
never going to give me my release, he continues kissing down the line where my
leg meets my pelvic area and finally touches his lips to the slick, throbbing
ache between my legs.
There's a moan carried on a sigh that escapes me, long and low, and my voice
doesn't sound like my own. He sweeps his tongue over me in long, careful
strokes, applying the perfect amount of pressure, and I'm already so on edge
that I fear I may finish prematurely. I think he recognizes the signs, sees my
stomach tighten because he eases up, his tongue against me so faint I can
hardly feel it. That's when I feel the shock of his fingers sliding into me,
and there's a sharp pain that surfaces through the pleasure of his tongue,
eliciting a shrill gasp from me. It's not very discernible from a gasp of
impassioned pleasure though, so Gale doesn't notice right away. I wince my eyes
shut and concentrate on Gale's tongue stroking my center, and his fingers
slowly work themselves out and back in, causing me to cringe slightly. I hear
his gasp as he withdraws, and I peer at him through my eyelashes to see him
rise up on his elbow, puzzling at the blood on his fingers.
"Katniss," he whispers. "Oh god, Katniss..."
"Why'd you stop?" I breathe, my voice too shaky to say much else.
He looks slightly horrified, but also remarkably pleased, and perhaps grateful.
"I thought...I thought you and Peeta would have..."
I reach down and place my hand on his cheek. "I wanted it to be you," I
whisper.
His brows knit together as a small smile tugs the corner of his mouth, and
there's such a flood of warmth and affection in his eyes that I nearly drag him
up to kiss me, but he swiftly ducks back down to continue where his tongue left
off. He slides one finger into me with extreme caution, steadying me with a
large hand across my stomach as I cringe, and his tongue massages me as he
breaks through what innocence I have left. This really isn't so bad. He
withdraws his finger only to replace it with two, and I cringe again, but the
way his tongue works me distracts me from any discomfort. I think I'm close
now, and I intentionally focus on the pain inside me so that the pleasure of
his mouth doesn't send me over the edge. He must sense it, because he stops and
gently withdraws his fingers. He rises back up over me and firmly grips my
right hip, guiding me to roll onto my side.
"It will be a lot easier for you if you're on your stomach," he explains,
helping me roll into position. The thought of being face down for this would
have otherwise horrified me, but I trust Gale so much that I allow myself this
vulnerability.
The fur tickles my face as I rest my left cheek against it, feeling his large
hands position me so that my hips are slightly raised up, his hand sliding
against the inside of my thigh to guide my legs a little farther apart. He
feels my trembling body and leans forward to press his warm lips against my
ear. "Trust me," he whispers soothingly, and I feel the tip of him pressing
against the entrance between my legs, a small hesitation to allow me time to
brace myself. My fingers grasp handfuls of the fur blanket beneath me and I
clench my eyes shut, boldly arching my hips back against him in silent assent.
He gently brushes my hair to one side, and I feel his lips sweetly kissing the
back of my neck, tracing down my spine between my shoulder blades before I feel
the splitting shock of intrusion as he cautiously pushes into me. He notices my
shrill gasp this time, and he stops but doesn't withdraw, allowing me a moment
to become accustomed to the way he feels inside me. After a moment, the
throbbing discomfort subsides a little, helped by the loving kisses he
continues to place on the back of my neck.
He gently drives deeper into me, distracting me with light caresses to my waist
as he steadies me beneath him, his lips working a soothing pattern over my
skin. "How's that feel, Catnip?" he whispers against my ear, slowing to a stop
whenever he notices me cringe. His hand is lightly stroking my hair, calming me
as I shift beneath him to find a more comfortable angle so that it doesn't
quite feel like he's ripping me apart.
"Hurts," I gasp, and his hand at my waist strokes me sympathetically.
"We can stop if you want." His voice is soft and filled with concern.
"No," I say emphatically, and in stubborn defiance, I drive my hips back
against him, impaling myself on him.
It hurts, but I secretly revel in Gale's reaction, a frenzied series of huffs
coming from him as his hands grip me in shocked arousal. He's still for a
moment, but eventually presses his lips to my skin again, continuing with a
slow, tentative rhythm that could be just as much to keep himself from
finishing too soon as it is to keep from hurting me too much. The pain subsides
to a dull throb that numbs slightly as I become accustomed to the way he feels,
and he moves into a rhythm of long, gentle thrusts that begin to inch deeper
and deeper up inside me. He snakes a hand down beneath me, and his finger
begins rubbing that tender spot where his tongue had just previously massaged
me. I turn my head back over my shoulder and he kisses me, his finger rubbing
me with the same slow rhythm of his thrusts, and I know he can feel my insides
begin to tighten around him as I come close to the edge because I hear those
short, frenzied huffs catch in his throat again. He breaks out of the kiss and
clamps his teeth down on my shoulder when I feel myself spasm violently around
him, my moans muffled in the fur blankets that I bury my face in when I feel
the explosion unravel in my stomach and groin. I'm arching my hips back against
him and forcing him deeper inside me, not caring that it hurts or that it feels
like something breaks inside me.
I listen to his moans, which come out partially choked, and I turn my head over
my shoulder because I suddenly have the strong desire to see his face when he
finishes. He looks so helpless and vulnerable, and it's an expression I've
never seen on him before, his eyes closed and his brow creased, jaw flexed over
clenched teeth. He could almost be in pain. He falls panting against my back,
and I feel his undulating spasms inside me, and my heart skips as I suddenly
realize the risk we just took, frantically calculating in my head where I am in
my monthly courses. I wince and bury my face back in the furs, cursing myself
for my carelessness. I feel like this is something Gale would have thought
about and taken extra precaution to prevent, but then I remember our
conversation that day of the reaping, about how he wants kids eventually, and I
can't help but feel he did it on purpose. I don't say anything to him about it.
He stays inside me for a long moment, letting us both come down, and his
fingers lazily stroke my skin as his lips brush against the back of my neck and
my shoulders while my breathing slows back to normal. "I'm sorry I hurt you,"
he whispers, and I immediately shake my head, brushing off his concern.
"It's supposed to be like that," I answer lethargically. I suddenly have the
strong urge to sleep, and I feel like we could do just that, tangled right here
in the furs.
I think he senses what I'm thinking, because he gently braces his hands on my
shoulders and extricates himself from me, causing me to wince a little at the
way the new movement aggravated the pain that had numbed into a dull ache. He
lays beside me and wraps the fur blanket around us, stroking my back until I'm
lulled into a light sleep. I awake a couple of hours later, pleasantly
enveloped in his warmth, having shifted in my sleep so that my body is
practically draped over him with my cheek resting on his collarbone. His arm is
around me and his hand is still affectionately rubbing my back, even though
he's partially asleep. I lay there with my face in his neck for a while,
hypnotized by the slow, rhythmic throb of the pulse in his throat, and without
thinking, I lean in and rest my lips there. He stirs and turns his head toward
me, his arm tightening around me as his other hand comes to cradle the back of
my head.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice still heavy with lethargy.
"A little sore," I mumble against his neck.
His arms tighten around me sympathetically. "You will be for a little while."
He's silent for a long time, and for a moment I think he's fallen back asleep.
"I'm glad you chose me," he says finally, his voice hushed and tinged with
affection.
I don't say anything. I don't want to admit it to him, but there was no
question about it, there was no more obvious of a choice. I want this moment to
last forever. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach when my mind wanders to
Peeta. It only just occurs to me, all those indiscretions on the tour, all the
times he pleasured me, I never once reciprocated. And here's my first real
romantic moment with Gale and I give him all of my body. I hate my selfishness.
I swiftly get up, pulling my clothes on in silence as Gale watches me with mild
concern. He doesn't say anything though, and moves to get dressed as well. His
eyes fall to the blood staining the white fur blanket, and he gives a slight
grimace that's lit by a smile.
"I suppose it's unfortunate that my mother does all the district's laundry," he
says, stooping down to roll them up after he's dressed.
"Just throw them away," I say hastily, wanting to hide all evidence of this
liaison.
He looks up at me as though I'm mad. "These are from the Capitol," he says
emphatically. "They must have cost a fortune."
I shrug, not wanting to look at them. "I can afford it now." I hate myself as I
say it.
He takes them anyway, but never makes it back. I'm unsure what happens to them
when the new Head Peacekeeper strings him up for public torture. I understand
that simply running away will never work, because it's all gotten so much
bigger than that. If I marry Peeta, I'm in some way complying with the
Capitol's demands. If I join Gale in the rebellion, I'm selfishly hurting
Peeta. I curse the situation again, the cruelty of having to choose. Why can't
I just have them both? It becomes a daunting question in the weeks to follow.
An impossible question when the Quarter Quell is announced and we realize we're
going back in the arena. I take pleasure in the small victory of the appearance
of my monthly bleeding, a mild reprieve that my emotional carelessness didn't
result in a disaster, for once.
Haymitch's counsel in my frenzied panic following the announcement is succinct
enough. You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know. In
truth, that could apply to Gale and Peeta alike.
Why can't I have them both.
I surprise myself with my own resolute sense of calm. Snow can't kill either of
us, even in the arena now. It will mean making at least one of us a martyr. The
nation has fallen hopelessly in love with us. And The Capitol is built on a
weak foundation, thanks to the lack of foresight on the part of its pioneers.
So dependent on the districts for all of its resources, it would collapse when
the districts rebel - which has already begun. I'm calmly convinced that Peeta
and I are going to make it out of this alive. I'm going to make sure of it. And
to hell with custom.
After all of this is done, I'll be entitled to my selfishness - and I damn well
will have them both.
===============================================================================
A/N: I've written a companion piece/sequel to this one from Peeta's POV
entitled Always. Enjoy.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!