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"A certain darkness is needed to see the stars." - Osho
Maybe Dr. Aurelius is right. Maybe this Peeta is more dangerous.
She frets over this while on her knees, eerily peering around the corner into the kitchen, watching as he takes his glass baking jars and heaves them at the wall, one by one. They’re tall, thick and heavy, meant to store flour and sugar, so the sound is incredibly loud; almost deafening upon impact. She ducks down and covers her head as sharp pieces ricochet around her, quite amazed by how far glass can travel.
As tiny shrapnel settles to the tile floor, she almost hopes that his bare foot catches hold of one. Maybe it will bring him back.
Sometimes pain can do that.
For a while, he seemed to be okay. He went through long stretches without the blackouts; days where he was normal, sweet Peeta—her dandelion in the spring. He didn’t push her against the wall or shout gruesome, shameful profanities. Days where knives didn’t go missing from the kitchen drawer or she didn’t find him standing in front of her, hands gripped tightly around his coiled belt.
She knows what he means to do each and every time. It’s been almost like finding pieces of a puzzle; as if she were lucky enough to put it together.
Oh god, how he scares her sometimes.
But the dark place he goes to now is different and it's a certain kind of darkness. The blackouts come with less frequency, but more violence. His fits of rage last longer, are exponentially darker and far more abusive than ever before. She worries over this.
“Which one do you find worse, Katniss? Does this Peeta scare you more than the one he was before?” Dr. Aurelius asked her week ago. She had swallowed the thick ball forming in her throat and stammered into the phone upon answering. “I just...I don’t know...”
That’s the thing though: she didn’t know then and she doesn’t know now. How do you choose between two evils? Which one do you embrace? Yet when she looks at him, even now as he pounds his fists against the countertop, she still see’s her Peeta. She knows he is in there, just waiting to get back to her.
It’s just a matter of when.
She doesn’t expect it when he turns quickly. An overwhelming sense of hollowness takes over when those empty blue eyes catch her gaze. Her breath inhales sharply. Her stomach churns. Fear becomes her.
Shakily, she gets to her feet, trying not to look away. But she has to, and when she looks back, he’s gone from his previous location. Her heartbeat quickens immediately. Just as she goes to set one foot in motion, it’s too late. Peeta is standing before her, and with a grip wrapped around her arm so strong that it could break her in two, she can’t escape.
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She likes the way he smells. It’s rich and delicate, so familiar, so him. Even in the aftermath of their lovemaking, the aroma of his skin is intoxicating. Sometimes she finds herself holding on to him just a little bit tighter, burying her face against his shoulder a little bit harder, just so she can inhale deeper.
“What are you doing?” He asks with a chuckle, craning his neck so he can look back at her face. Loose strands of sweaty hair stick to his forehead and Katniss has to resist the urge to wipe them away. His right arm is bent, nestled against the mattress as his palm holds his head up from the pillow. From this view, he is gorgeous; practically a god among men.
Katniss just smiles in response.
Playfully, he turns over and grabs a hold of her hips, drawing her near him. She doesn’t fight it. Instead, she embraces it, nestles up against the warmth of his chest. He begins to run a single finger across her back, as though he is tracing an outline on her skin. It makes her heart flutter. He does this now; this romantic thing. Katniss has grown fond of it. It has provided an inexplicable, familiar comfort that allows her to relish in the afterglow of sex. Sex that she has begun to enjoy so much.
God, she has become a sap at the hands of Peeta Mellark. Who would have known? Her, a sucker for romance.
“Why do you always do that?” she asks curiously.
He chuckles and wraps his strong arms around her stomach, cradling her. She can feel his damp mouth against her shoulder while his head rests against her chin. He radiates warmth; like a heated blanket in the middle of a snow covered field.
“Because I can,” he says, eyes growing heavy. She watches it unfold slowly: Long, blonde lashes come down to rest, lids close. His breathing steadies. The feel of his left hand lazily descends against her back. It’s a beautiful thing—Peeta in the midst of drifting. Yet she wishes he wouldn’t go. She wishes he would stay just a little bit longer...
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The airway to her lungs has been constricted. Her fingers pry at the large hands clutching her neck, begging for mercy as the world grows silent, but his grasp refuses to lessen.
So she brings her right foot up and with all her strength, kicks him in the bad leg.
His grip falters and he falls back. Katniss coughs, holding her neck, taking air into her lungs again. But the sound of crunching glass that fills the room as he hits the ground is enough to make her shudder, and when Peeta rolls his back over the glass-covered tiles, tightly holding his leg, she has to look away. It’s too much to bear; his eyes wincing, broken shards penetrating his skin, the expression on his face indicative of the pain he’s in. Pain that she has caused.
Her first instinct is to go to him, but she recoils, immediately realizing the fault in this notion. She can’t worry about him right now. She needs to worry about staying safe and running until he comes back to her. The real Peeta, that is.
She only has a minute to decide what to do. As she looks out the window, taking notice of the rain blowing against the heavy winds, Katniss’s internal battle begins. Where will she go in the midst of near-winter weather? Fleetingly, she wonders if Haymitch is still awake...
“You fucking cunt,” Peeta says hoarsely, still gripping his wounded leg and lifting his gaze from the ground up to her. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he manages this through the agony. His forehead is covered in sweat while his cold, crazed stare fixes on her.
Her gaze goes from him to the window again. He’s going to get up any second. She has to decide.
As Peeta struggles to his knees, she watches the glass beneath him dig into his flattened palms. Slowly, thick blood trickles down his hands to the gray kitchen tiles. That horrendous crunching sound is the only thing she can hear other than the rapid beat of her heart.
She runs for the door.
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He likes to go slow. It drives her practically to the brink of insanity, but Peeta likes the unhurried, deliberate build. As he trails delicate kisses down her stomach, she has a feeling today is going to be no different. It’s a cruel punishment, but it’s one he is so incredibly good at giving.
The sheets beneath them are warm. Peeta is settled between her legs, but she beckons him with her fingers to come back up to her. She wants to kiss him. He acquiesces, returning the hot, open-mouthed kiss, using the length of his tongue to find hers. His lips stay upon hers as she sinks back down into the pillow, running her nails down his back.
He pulls away, face flushed; his hands roam, moving to her breasts, finding the swell of them. Impatiently he brings his mouth there, to the tiny nipples raised like stone. He begins to prod, lick, bite, worship. He spends nearly ten minutes on her breasts. He sinks his teeth into her sensitive flesh. Her hips buck as he runs a single finger near her dampness, now cool after being left bereft from contact.
This brings forth a silent moan.
Peeta descends downward on the bed and pushes her thighs apart. He lays his lips upon her knees while massaging the back of her calves. Katniss looks down at him, his mouth curled on the edge of a smile, entranced in running his hands over her heated skin. She’s always fascinated by this—his thoughts, fears, and expressions in these moments. In the beginning it was so awkward for them—learning the laws of stop and go. Can I touch you here? Or there? Is this okay?
How far they’ve come after three years.
Now, he’s licking his lips, staring down at her in his silent reverie just before coming to hover over her sex, making her quiver with desire. He then reaches down, running a single finger just barely between her glistening curls. She closes her eyes, exhales. Those strong baker’s hands wrap around her thigh, and seconds later, she feels the moisture of his tongue flickering over her erect clit.
“Peeta,” she softly cries, clawing at the sheets.
His tongue runs between the folds and along the pink flesh, lapping at the moisture gathering near her bundle of nerves over and over, forcing Katniss to writhe her hips against him. And when he inserts three fingers into her, she throws her head back in bliss, incoherently whispering his name. He curls his fingers in and out of her while simultaneously flicking his tongue against her. And when she’s so close that she begins to clench, clamping her thighs around his head, he stops.
“Don’t stop,” Katniss whimpers.
“Be patient,” he whispers against her ear.
“Fuck you, Peeta.”
She has a love- hate relationship with this torture. Peeta loves it and uses it to his advantage. He just chuckles and moves up, positioning himself between her thighs. As she shifts her hips eagerly and wraps her legs around him, pressing his hard erection against her, welcoming, encouraging, he knows he owns her.
“Please,” she begs.
“We’ll get there,” he responds, pushing inside her, loving the way they seemingly fit together. He slides in and out slowly, relishing in the tight feel of her surrounding him. But she’s hasty to bring her hips up to meet his, bringing force harder and faster with every thrust. Nails dig into his shoulder blades, making him wince with pain. And just as Katniss reaches the precipice, Peeta slows again, allowing the sweet misery to drag along.
“Not yet,” he says.
“I hate you,” she tells him.
But she doesn’t. She never will.
The aching never fully dies, but when he starts again, it all returns quickly. He brings a hand between them, rubbing precious circles where she so desires. In combination with his cock seemingly hitting every right spot inside of her, she thinks she may not survive another moment. But when it all comes to that one defining moment, he finally allows her to climb over the edge. She grabs a hold of his soft hair while softly chanting his name, clenching around him. When he closes his eyes tightly and gives one final thrust, everything stills. His body grows slack and heavy atop of her. The embers from the fire burn.
Katniss places a hand over her face and chuckles in the afterglow, pushing him off of her. She can feel it when he nuzzles up against her though, can feel warm breath and fluttering fingers on her back, tracing gentle outlines against the flesh. It’s then that she realizes that there would be no sweeter time to die than in this moment.
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She doesn’t want to die.
But her teeth won’t stop chattering and she can’t help the clouds forming from her breath. Katniss prays it isn’t loud, for that would make it easier for him to find her. It’s cold, though. Too cold, and the sharp water against her skin is just another reminder of that. It leaves her to only hope that the rain pattering heavily against the siding of Haymitch’s house which she leans against will drown out the sound of her loud, beating heart.
She hears the sound of heavy splashing, like shoes hitting a puddle and gasps.
“Katniss...” An eerie voice calls out from the darkness.
It’s coming from around the corner and she attempts still her breath, to calm her nerves, but nothing seems to be working. This only makes her more anxious. He thrives on her fear. There is no doubt in her mind he will detect her presence.
The tiniest bit of light shines from the water pooled in the mud next to her while the sound of nothing lingers. Cold air continues to turn her breath into clouds. The silence makes her grow bold. She peers her head around the corner, exhaling when she finds nothing. Maybe she can hide here just for a little while. Maybe she won’t have to leave him for too long and he won’t hurt himself...
“Katniss.”
His voice cuts through the damp, chilly air. It’s nearly paralyzing. But somehow, she knew he was there all along. She’s always been able to feel his presence, almost like she can feel the delirium coursing through his veins during these times. It nearly rips her heart in two.
Instead of fighting him, she turns slowly, trembling, her face laced with fear. Will this be the time he actually kills her? Maybe she should run. He’ll never be able to catch her.
Just as she goes to set her feet in motion, he grabs her hips strenuously, forcing Katniss’ voice to shriek, but those large hands come up from behind her and cover her mouth, muffing her screams. He grabs a hold of her waist and hoists her effortlessly over his shoulder, like a sack of flour. She pounds her fists into the back of his soaked, blood-stained shirt, fighting the whole way, but he doesn’t care. He just laughs as he carries her to their front door, where he throws her onto the floor as though she were a dog.
She’s shivering harder now than she was outside.
She doesn’t want to die.
The rainwater has disheveled his hair. That, along with the visible open wounds along his arms and hands, makes him quite the sight to see. Previously dried blood near the bend of his fingers and along the grooves of his nails has been washed away. Confliction plagues her. She wants to go to him, to patch his wounds, to caress his face.
But this ends when he walks towards her and grabs her violently by the arm, bringing her to her feet. It’s then that he begins to tear at her soiled, wet shirt, ripping it from her body, leaving the cold air to hit her bare skin. Feeling his eyes upon her, she uses her arms to shield her small breasts and stomach. It’s humiliating. Completely unaffected, Peeta just continuously walks circles around her, as though he is giving her a thorough examination.
His stare is different now. It’s not one of a killer, but something else; something she can’t quite place. It unnerves every cell in her body.
He pushes her arms down forcefully, exposing her. “Take off your pants,” he orders. Katniss abides with hesitancy, and places her hands at the elastic of her pants just before pushing downward.
So she stands there, fully nude as he continues to circle her. All the heat in her body rises to her cheeks, leaving the rest of her to shiver involuntarily. And then, suddenly, he stills is movements right before her, staring down in complete silence. His pink tongue darts over his plump, beautiful lips, making them to glisten. It leaves her knees weak. She isn’t sure if it’s fear or because even in the midst of insanity, she still finds him gorgeous.
Roughly, he places a single hand at the top of her head and pushes her downward, forcing Katniss to her knees on the cold, hardwood floor. This gives her the perfect view to watch as he unclasps his belt and slowly pushes down his pants and briefs, freeing his cock just inches from her face. In the midst of her consternation, Katniss gazes down, unsure of what is seemingly unfolding; but he grabs the side of her face and pushes his hips forward while Katniss clenches her teeth and forces her lips shut.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he commands.
The sound of his voice makes her quiver, and out of sheer fear, she acquiesces. As soon as her lips opens she feels the ridges of his semi-hard cock hit against the crease of her lips and the light taste of salt atop of her tongue.. It swells in the heat of her mouth and grows larger when he thrusts his hips, moving in and out. The assault begins slowly, but the grip he has on her face forces her to stay in place, so when he pushes harder, deeper, just past her tonsils, she chokes and gags. He holds it there, embraces the feel of the depths of her throat, well aware of her inability to breathe. The corner of her eyes pool with hot tears. When he finally pulls out his cock is coated in her saliva, and she coughs violently in a desperate attempt to draw air back into her lungs.
Her dry coughs do not stop him from forcing himself back into her mouth again. And again.
Finally, when he’s had enough, he brings her back to her feet and draws her near. She can feel his erection prodding against her inner thigh as he brings his first two fingers down between her folds; they run along her slit and come back glistening wet. Katniss looks away shamefully.
“I should’ve known. Of course you like it,” Peeta says wickedly. “We’ll fix that,” he promises. This threat sends a shiver up her spine. His lips are curled into the insane smile she has come to loathe, putting his perfectly white teeth on display. She hates that this version of Peeta is essentially the real Peeta. It blurs the lines of reality. It confuses her. She can’t shut off what she feels every time she looks at him, and they look exactly the same...
He directs her shoulders towards the couch and pushes her down, leaving her to fall onto the cushions. Katniss watches as he gradually slides his belt out of the loops, allowing his black slacks to drop and pool at his feet. He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way as well and steps out of them, revealing his fully nude body. Katniss gulps, completely aware of the heat rising between her legs. The sight of him has always had an effect on her. And she’s angry at herself for feeling this way—for wanting him in this state. But even with his skin pierced from the glass and the prosthetic still attached, he is glorious; muscles taut, cock at attention, demanding, unyielding. As he walks over to her with his belt coiled in his right hand, eyes cold, she stares up at him. Anxiety is thrumming through her body, leaving her breathless. It’s not knowing what he will do next that scares her the most. Especially when he is capable of doing so much damage.
He stands before her. Those large hands grab her hips demandingly, spinning her around on the couch to face away from him. Even though she’s facing the opposite direction of him, propped on her knees, she can still feel his cock against her inner thigh—just inches from her entrance.
“Say you want it,” he tells her.
Not a word escapes from her lips, but the muscles in her arms are quivering with anticipation. She’s too ashamed to admit it.
She feels the cold leather from his belt wrap around her neck, held taut against her skin. Peeta’s grip on it tightens slightly. “Say you fucking want it,” he orders.
She doesn’t speak.
He pulls hard on the belt, yanking her head back, making her shriek. “I-I want it,” she stammers nervously, afraid of what he’ll do otherwise. Katniss’s emotions are through the roof; she is feeling so many things at once...
“I thought so,” he murmurs against her ear. She feels his hand near, feels him position himself and move inside her, making her full. She sighs in contention, in familiarity.
The thrusts begin slow, but quickly become forceful, more so than usual. She feels the leather tighten around her neck, narrowing the air to her lungs. She tries to breathe in, but the hold is too tight. Her eyes widen with panic.
His cock continues to pulsate deep within her, thrusting upward; and when she gets to the point of dizziness, his hold lets up, allowing her to take a large gust of air in. Just as she goes for another breath, he pulls the belt hard against her flesh again. The air flow to her lungs constricts. Her eyelashes flutter. The world becomes light. She’s floating. The only thing she can feel is his cock pumping in and out of her, hard and the feeling of drifting far, far away. It feels good. Too good; like morphling dripping into her veins.
His grips falters. The belt loosens. She sucks in air greedily while he continuously fucks her. The building begins again. She can feel Peeta’s breath on the back of her neck as he pants.
He adjusts so he can move just a little bit deeper inside of her. What a difference such a subtle effort can make. Suddenly, he’s hitting the exact spot that will send her over the edge. Her legs begin to tremble. The belt around her neck restricts her, depriving her of much-needed oxygen. Every time his cock moves in and out of her, it’s as though she can feel every ridge, every vein against her flesh. Her senses are heightened beyond anything she’s ever imagined.
Images of her and Peeta come through. They’re sixteen and running through the meadow. She’s there, but she’s here, somehow in two places at once. She can feel the wet blades of grass under her feet, feel the summer dew on her skin. She can feel Peeta, taking her there, across the fields, through the spectrums.
She comes so hard she swears she can taste the rain.
He lets up the pressure on the belt and slouches against her back, exhausted, coming down to reality. His face begins to soften. Katniss exhales gratefully for it. She recognizes the look. It’s the same look that he has when he’s about to transition back to normal; back to her Peeta.
She goes to bed, leaving him behind. When she finally feels him push back the sheets later on and scoot close to her, she trembles with fear. And then she feels it: the soft traces of his fingers across her skin, fluttering in the darkness. She knows he’s back, and it’s then that she feels comfortable closing her eyes.
Dr. Aurelius is right. This Peeta is more dangerous.