Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Good morning.”

I jump and spill coffee down my front. Sputtering and shooting daggers from my eyes, I turn and face the source of the deep voice that startled me out of my early morning funk.

“It was,” I say wryly, “until someone scared me, and I spilled coffee on my interview outfit. What are you doing up so early, anyway? I expected to have the kitchen to myself.”

“Baker hours,” he explains with a shrug. “When I was in high school, I used to help my dad get the dough prepared for the morning loaves.”

“Your dad’s a baker?” I’m reminded again how little I know about this man, Peeta Mellark, my new roommate.

“He was, yes,” he answers with downcast eyes and crosses to the coffee maker.

“Retired?”

“No,” he mumbles. “Dead.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, but he shrugs again.

“No way for you to know.” He motions to my stained shirt and says, “You should change. Don’t want to be late for your interview.”

I open my mouth to reply but snap it shut quickly. He’s right, this stranger who now shares my apartment. I need to go. I need this job, so I can’t afford to be late.

I rush to my room and frantically paw through my closet for something clean, unwrinkled, and at least somewhat professional. I grab a dark green shirt and tuck it into my black pencil skirt. Taking a quick glance in the mirror, I smooth down my thick braid and slip on my black flats. I have exactly two minutes to get out the door before I’m pushing it with traffic and other unexpected delays.

“Good luck,” he calls as I hurry through the rooms and head to the door.

I send a thank you over my shoulder but don’t stop. I barely know this guy, and I don’t have time to make small talk so I can spare his feelings when I have a job at stake. I’ll talk to him later, I think as I make a beeline to my car and drive to Panem Manufacturing for my meeting with Mr. Heavensbee.

“Please let me get this job,” I breathe. “Please, please, please. Let something go right today.”

Peeta slips through the front door later that night, so quietly I would have missed him if I hadn’t been curled up on the couch staring at the blank space right above the TV. I haven’t moved since the early afternoon when I returned home after my interview and immediately changed into flannel pajama pants and a faded gray sweatshirt my best friend gave me from his days as a college football walk-on.

I don’t say anything, and Peeta nods as he crosses to his room and closes the door. I’m not sure why I’m disappointed. I’m certainly not in the mood to talk to anybody after the reception I got from the head of sales at the factory. Even if I do get the job, it’s going to be tough to get excited about working with such grumpy employees who seem to care about nothing except a fat bottom line for the company.

I’ve barely finished the thought before Peeta rejoins me. He’s changed into threadbare jeans that cling to his powerful thighs and a soft navy t-shirt that makes his bright blue eyes even deeper than they already are.

“What are you watching?” he asks and picks up the remote to hit the info button.

“Nothing really,” I mumble. “Just have it on for sound. Feel free to change it.”

He plops down onto the cushions, only a couple of feet away, and glances over at me. “Any suggestions?”

“Whatever is fine,” I assure him. “I’m not really into too many shows.”

He flips through a few channels until he lands a local station. “News okay? I try to stay up on current events.”

“Fine.”

We sit in silence for a while as the anchor relates the day’s events with gravity laced with a touch of humor. On the first commercial break, he turns to me and asks, “How was the interview?”

I want to answer him, but the words stick in my throat. I’m probably not going to get the job, and months of unemployment stretch before me, taunting me until I feel like I’m going to vomit. When I don’t answer, he reaches over and puts his hand on my forearm and gives it a comforting squeeze.

My skin tingles when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few moments before he turns back to the television. With his eyes facing forward, I study him carefully. He’s got a strong jaw that frames an attractive face with full lips, a slightly upturned nose, and startlingly blue eyes. His shoulders are solid atop a torso that would make most girls drool. His legs stretch out in front of him, and he crosses his feet at the ankle as he slouches on the couch. He seems to know exactly who he is, and I suddenly realize how insanely attractive he seems, this man who also lives inside my small apartment. It’s almost tiny with his muscular body crowding against mine.

He answered an ad I placed on Craigslist. That’s how he found me. My best friend Gale and I were drunk one night, and he teased me about both the empty bedroom in my place as well as my own vacant bed. He dared me to advertise for someone to share both but to put it in one notice. He didn’t think I could or would do it, but I woke the next morning to a splitting headache, enough regret for four lifetimes, and a voicemail message.

“Hi, Katniss,” it said. “My name’s Peeta. I’m new in town and saw your post online. I’m a guy, in case you couldn’t tell from my voice. I’m quiet and neat and am good at making beds. I can bake, which is what I’m guessing you meant by putting stuff in the oven, and I’m ready to move in right away. I’m starting a new job, and I haven’t had time to do anything more than check into a hotel. Temporary is fine, if you want to give this a trial run. Let me know when you can.”

Too embarrassed to explain anything, I returned his call immediately, and we’ve been living together for the past two weeks. He’s been true to his word so far. We’ve barely interacted, but now…

“Do you have to work tomorrow?” I ask suddenly, and he jumps slightly. I blush at the realization that my question was overly loud, but I stare at him until he shakes his head.

“No, I’m off tomorrow. Why?”

“Do you drink?”

He nods, and I bound from the couch to grab a couple of bottles of booze and some shot glasses from the kitchen. When I return to the living room, he shoots me a quizzical look, but I simply pour him some vodka and nudge it toward him.

“It’s been a shit day, and I could use some company,” I offer in explanation and throw back my head. I relish the burn of alcohol down my throat.

Three shots later, I’m feeling a lot more relaxed. Peeta’s tolerance is clearly higher than mine, but I don’t care. I’ve got a half-smile on my face, and I’m sure whatever I’m saying is fascinating. He nods along and mixes something for me that tastes a hell of a lot better than the vodka shots. I take the drink from him gratefully and let my fingers graze against his for longer than necessary. His eyes darken but otherwise acts like nothing happened.

I learn a lot about Peeta through the haze of alcohol. His job at the local newspaper as a photographer helps him fund his true love of art. He’s hoping to find a studio in town and get back to smearing paint on canvas as soon as possible. He’s from a small city several hours away and has two brothers whom he adores, a mother he hates, and a father who passed away from a massive heart attack a few years prior. He hasn’t dated in a while, and he admits with a sheepish grin that he’s a little bit frustrated with his social life.

“What about you?” Peeta asks and points his shot glass at me. “I’ve been talking for the past hour, and you’ve done nothing more than sit there and drink what I’ve given you.”

“And you’re very good at that,” I compliment him as I snuggle into the blanket that’s draped over my shoulders. “I haven’t been this relaxed in a looooooong time. Not since Gale and I…”

I trail off, and Peeta leans toward me. “Since you and Gale what? Gale’s that guy who was here the day I moved in?”

I nod, and he hands me another drink.

“We’re not together, you know,” I say firmly, but the effect is ruined when I hiccup.

“No?”

“Nope,” I insist and take another sip, hoping it will help me speak normally. “We’re best friends. Have been for years. Now that he’s a cop, he looks out for me. He ran your info before you moved in. I had to know you weren’t a serial killer or something.”

“Oh, good,” Peeta quips. “Seems like my juvenile records are still sealed then. He didn’t find the triple homicide conviction from when I was thirteen.”

Laughter bursts from me, and I admire the humor in his blue eyes. “You’re funny,” I tell him, and he smiles, pleased with himself.

“I try.”

“You’re very good-looking, too,” I add and clap a hand over my mouth.

“Thank you,” he answers, completely nonplussed. “So are you.”

“Noooooo… I’m not. I just look better with alcohol.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of it,” Peeta reminds me, and I nod along with him.

We settle into a comfortable silence. The TV is set to a movie channel now, although neither of us are paying any attention to it. We’ve been too wrapped up in each other to care, and I suddenly have a craving for something a little more intimate.

“That t-shirt looks really good on you,” I tell him, and he rolls his head to the side to look at me under eyelashes that won’t quit. They’re incredibly long, so long they should tangle, but somehow, they don’t.

“It’s nothing special,” he drawls, and I fight the urge to reach over and run my hands across his chest.

“Looks pretty special to me.”

I’m slurring at this point. I know I’ve had too much to drink. I know I should stop, but the feeling of complete abandonment, total freedom to do and think and speak as I please, is as intoxicating as the liquor. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind, either, so I hand him my empty cup and watch as he fixes me another.

This time his fingers slide over mine as I take the drink from him. He stares at me as I raise the glass to my mouth and run my tongue along the lip. I swallow and watch as his eyes slide down my neck and down my body to the way my thighs stretch my flannel pants.

“You know that oven thing wasn’t exactly a request for a roommate who bakes,” I say.

“It seemed kind of odd,” he answers, and I laugh. The sound’s throaty and scratchy, and he shifts uncomfortably. I don’t miss him covering his crotch with a pillow and grin. Maybe I’m having some sort of effect on him.

“And yet you answered the ad.”

He nods slowly, and his eyes grow misty and unfocused. “Something told me to. I don’t know what it was, but I felt a pull when I read it, and now here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“Half-drunk and sprawled on a couch together.”

“In a mostly dark apartment.”

Our eyes lock for several seconds, and then things happen so quickly I can’t think. He scoots across the couch and catches my face in his hands. His lips find mine, and my mouth opens under his. He’s solid muscle under that cotton shirt, and I twist my fingers in the fabric, tugging and pulling as he kisses me so thoroughly my head spins. His breath is hot against my skin, and I struggle to hold in quiet moans at the feel of him against me.

“Katniss,” he groans against my neck, and I rake my fingernails up his back.

I don’t want to think. I don’t want to listen to the voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m being really stupid. I don’t want to be responsible or smart or cautious or anything that stops me from taking this man’s clothes off and running my hands over every inch of his warm, sculpted body.

Peeta’s not showing any signs of stopping. His mouth moves over my exposed skin, and his hands paw at my shirt. His palms burn against my bare back, and I arch into him.

“You smell amazing,” he murmurs as he runs his teeth along my collar bone. My skin pebbles, and he grunts as I shift underneath him and his hips bump against mine. I don’t hesitate to wrap my legs around him and thrust upward.

Our simultaneous moans sound like music, and he rocks against me. I respond in kind, and I kiss him as we dry hump like teenagers in a backseat. He’s hard, deliciously hard, and he’s found exactly the right spot that sends shivers of pleasure rocketing through me. I try to stay quiet, but, before long, I can’t stop the cries that gather in the back of my throat.

“Peeta,” I pant. “Fuck, this feels good.”

His response is to fumble at my waistband and slip his hand inside my pants. My back arches as he teases my entrance, and he holds my gaze as he slides his fingers into me.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice gruff.

I give up on remaining coherent and clamp my legs around his hand. I chase the heat coursing through me and urge him to keep going. He curls his fingers inside me, and I throw my head back and scream.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” I chant, the word becoming increasingly louder as he drives me to the edge. “Keep going. Keep going.”

He presses into my leg repeatedly, and I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so caught up in my own haze of sexual tension. He’s hard as iron inside his jeans, but it’s his hand working magic between my legs.

“Ahhhh,” I wail as the string finally snaps after several minutes of frenzied torture. My walls contract around him, and he continues to pump and curl as I thrash and shake. My climax ebbs into waves of molten metal. My skin burns and my blood boils, and nothing feels better than what we just did together.

He’s trembling in my arms, and I realize it’s taking every ounce of his strength to hold back. I will my arms to move and tug his shirt over his head. His chest—oh my hell. It’s gorgeous, solid muscle and incredibly broad. I push him off me and frown at the way his fingers glisten from my arousal. He’s been remarkably generous to me, a practical stranger, and I want to return the favor. Not that it won’t be amazing for me too.

It takes a few minutes to extricate myself from him, and he doesn’t protest at all. He’s a gentleman, I realize, and that makes it even more gratifying to grab his hand and pull him down the hall after me to my bedroom.

He closes the door behind us and draws me into his arms. We kiss for several minutes, and then I pull back and stumble toward my bed. He’s rumpled, his hair askew, and his cock straining against his jeans. His chest heaves, and his eyes are dark and glow with desire.

“Come join me,” I offer, and he crosses the room quickly.

The next several minutes pass in a flurry. Our clothes fall to the floor, and he rips the foil packet I hand him from my bedside table. We exchange a mumbled conversation, and then he’s inside me, pumping and grinding so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.

Peeta’s so enthusiastic it’s hard not to be completely caught up in our coupling. He’s got incredible stamina for a guy in a dry patch, which allows him to shift into new positions every few minutes. If he wasn’t so smooth, it would be jarring, but we change from missionary to cowgirl to reverse cowgirl with almost no pause in pace or intensity. The man’s a master.

I’m bouncing on top of him, back arched, eyes closed, when he grips my hips roughly and slows his thrusts. I wish I could see his face, but I’m facing the other way. Instead of his closed eyes and parted lips, I study the way his feet scramble against the mattress and his thigh muscles bunch and contract as he pumps into me.

“Peeta?” I pant, but his name comes out as a question. I can’t think, and I’m trying not to. I just want to feel—him inside me, the way my blood sings in my veins, how alive I feel.

“I’m almost there,” he grunts. “I’m trying to wait, but I can’t much more.”

I chuckle in disbelief. He’s trying to hold off, to make this last longer, to make me feel better. I glance over my shoulder at him and pull his hand around to rub my clit. My fingers interlace with his, and we stroke together as he shouts and falls apart.

The world shatters around me when I climax, too. The feel of him pulsing inside me and the condom filling with his ejaculate. His thick fingers wrapped around my smaller ones and covered in moisture. His inability to remain quiet as his orgasm shoots from him. My abandon as I buck on him wildly. Too much. Everything. All I can comprehend is these random sensations. No coherent thoughts. Nothing but us and burning heat. I’m on fire.

Finally, I slump into a heap beside him, and he leaves me by myself for several minutes. I assume he’s cleaning up since I hear water running in the bathroom, but I’m too exhausted to do anything other than float on a cloud of post-coital joy and alcohol-induced stupor. I’m still drunk, and my limbs are heavy.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and I startle. I nod, and he crosses to the bed. “Can I help you up?”

My cheeks burn, and I wonder how awkward this is going to be in the coming days. I can feel his hesitation as he offers me his hand, and I take it and stagger to the bathroom. After several minutes, he knocks on the door.

“Katniss? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, choking with emotion. I splash water on my face and wrap a towel around myself. The thought of emerging from the bathroom and standing in front of him naked is too overwhelming.

His face is a mask of chagrined kindness when I finally emerge. He’s fully clothed, but his cheeks glow pink, and he can’t stop twisting his hands together. He’s trying hard to pretend he’s under control, but he’s failing. I can tell he’s uneasy.

“Uh, hi,” he mumbles awkwardly, and I grip my towel harder.

“We saw each other naked,” I blurt and immediately regret it. Peeta stares at me, unsure what to say, and my face burns with humiliation.

“You look good that way.”

“So do you,” I admit and duck my head to avoid his gaze. He extends my discarded clothes to me, and I turn my back on him to redress. He pretends not to watch, but I can see him in the mirror. He can’t stop himself from sneaking a few glances as I tug on my sleep pants and ratty sweatshirt. At least the gray material matches my eyes.

“Look,” he finally says when I’m redressed and facing him again, “this is awkward as hell, but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy every second of that. You’re sexy, Katniss, and you are amazing in bed. I’m not a prude. I’m a grown man who’s new in town and in between girlfriends and really enjoys good sex. What happened tonight doesn’t have to again, but I won’t be upset if it does. We do live together. We’re both single adults. If you want to uh…go to bed with me another time, well…all you have to do is let me know.”

And with that, he sweeps from my bedroom and marches down the hall. He unmutes the television, and I hear glass clinking. It takes several minutes before I follow him and rejoin him on the couch. He sloshes some liquid into a glass and hands it to me. We sip together as time passes. At midnight, he says goodnight and heads to his room.

I wake a few hours later, sweaty and unable to get back to sleep. It’s no surprise that Peeta’s door is unlocked when I test it, and it’s not shocking he welcomes me into his bed with unbridled enthusiasm. I wake the next morning cradled in a stranger’s arms.

Chapter Text

Waking up in Peeta’s bed and arms isn’t at all what I expect when I surface from slumber, but neither is the ache between my legs. For a moment, I allow myself the pleasure of remembering how he felt inside me, how thick and rigid his dick gets and how hard and well he fucks. Unfortunately, reality comes crashing back in a rush when I hear the creak of bedsprings. Peeta’s crowding into me, and he’s got some pretty impressive morning wood.

Blinking open my eyes, I realize he’s either barely awake or reacting subconsciously to a naked body in bed with him. Suddenly horrified by what I’ve done, I shove him away and scramble from the bed. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. Instead, he grips himself, rubbing his balls and jerking himself with lazy strokes. Ashamed and confused, I stagger from his room and lock myself in the bathroom. I need a shower, a scalding, punishing shower that will wash away all my poor decisions.

Peeta doesn’t wake early for once, and I’m absurdly grateful. Instead of risking facing him, I hide in my room and refuse to answer his gentle knock until he finally leaves me alone. The rumble of his battered twenty-year-old SUV is the only thing that makes me feel like I might survive the day. While he’s at work, I can get myself together. Hopefully, eight hours is enough time.

With trembling fingers, I grab my phone and dial as quickly as I can. It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to hit the right buttons. When it rings, I try not to throw up. All I can think is that I’m a total idiot.

“Hey, Catnip.” Gale’s familiar voice floods my ear, and I can only choke back a sob.

“C-can you c-come over?”

I can hear him switch into professional mode. His voice deepens, and the authoritative tone he uses when he pulls over cars and makes an arrest makes me cringe even more. There are advantages to having a cop for a friend, and there are disadvantages as well.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he demands. I can already hear rustling in the background as he gathers his keys, wallet, badge, and firearm. He’s nothing if not dependable.

“I’m fine. Just stupid.”

“Stupid? I doubt that. You haven’t done anything stupid since…since your dad died. Oh, fuck, Catnip. You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” His exasperation is evident. “I mean, I know I’ve been teasing you about your dry spell, but don’t shit where you eat. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Miserable, I try not to cry, and all that does is make me really angry. I don’t need Gale lecturing me like I’m an idiot. I already feel dumb enough. What I need is my friend to be supportive instead of lording it over me that I’m so undesirable that the only way I can get laid is to climb into my roommate’s bed in the middle of the night when he’s too tired to protest. Rationally, I know I’m overreacting, but I’m not interested in the facts right now. I’m too busy working myself up into a shame spiral for that.

“I changed my mind. Don’t come by,” I snap and end the call. Tossing the phone on the bed, I tug on running shoes and burst out of the building. Before I can change my mind, I’ve settled into a steady rhythm and am headed to my favorite running trail.

The very real crisis is that I have absolutely no idea what the fallout from my little indiscretion is going to be. Peeta and I are practically strangers, unsure of the other and tiptoeing around in our own home for fear of offending the other or creating an uncomfortable atmosphere. Falling into bed together, fucking for hours and in every position imaginable, engaging in such intimate acts…and then retreating to my room and ignoring his attempt to engage me in conversation before he left the house… I’ve done the unthinkable, and now I’m going to pay for it.

Still, I can’t find it in myself to regret it. Peeta is a good lover—considerate, passionate, impeccably skilled, enthusiastic, generous, and grateful. When he moved inside me, it felt like heaven, and I want it again and again. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense. My history of failed relationships and disappointments isn’t relevant when I’m cradled in his arms, and when his lips meet mine, I’m positive I must have done something wonderful in a former life to deserve perfection in this one. Whether or not Peeta is a stranger doesn’t matter. I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with the realization that I want him to be my lover.

Staggering to a halt, I suck in air in ragged, anxious gulps both because I’m out of breath from running and the realization that I want something more than temporary from my roommate arrangement. Maybe my Craig’s list ad was a misguided joke made in a drunken haze. The fact remains that Peeta’s my roommate, and I’m a loyal follower of his dick now. Clearly, I have issues.

Still breathing hard, I put my hands on my knees and lean over to suck in great gulps of air. I straighten up and walk slowly down the path. No longer attempting to run from my problems, I make my way to the hidden gem of a mini waterfall I found on a run several months earlier. I settle onto a moss-covered rock and dip my hand into the cool water. Heaving a massive sigh, I allow the soothing quiet of the forest to calm my nerves.

“It’s okay to want more,” I assure myself, but the words sound hollow in the open air.

I don’t deserve more, have convinced myself of that for years, so I can’t quite get on board with allowing even a glimmer of hope to flicker to light. Gale calls twice, and I answer on the second time, but that’s only because I’m sure he’ll send out the deputies to find me if I ignore him much longer.

“Feeling better?” he asks when I answer the phone and mumble a greeting. Closing my eyes tightly, I repeat myself, even though I was the only audience the first time I said it.

“It’s okay to want more.”

My voice shakes as I say it, but it’s a huge step. I don’t have a lot of confidence, and Gale’s been one of my biggest cheerleaders since we first became friends. To have his support means a lot to me, but to know that I’m finally realizing some of the things he’s been telling me for forever is something that needs to happen.

Agreeing with me, Gale says gently, “It is okay, Catnip. You deserve better. You really do. I don’t know why you’ve convinced yourself that the world should move forward while you stay stuck in a place that’s lonely and cold and isolated. You’re a great person, and someone will be lucky to have you. I’m just not sure banging your roommate is the best way to go about it.”

For some reason, his choice of words cracks me up, and I snort at his speech. “Banging my roommate? That’s the best you’ve got?”

Chuckling softly, he defends himself, but it’s only half-hearted. I can tell he’s genuinely concerned, but not in a controlling way. He loves me as much as anyone in this world ever has. His loyalty and affection have meant a lot to me over the years.

“Well, you know. We can’t all be wordsmiths.”

My laughter echoes through the woods. I’m not good with words at all, and he knows it. In fact, the semester in college when I had to take speech was the worst of my life.

“Thanks for calling, Gale. I really do feel better.”

The jog back into town takes longer than when I fled, which I guess isn’t much of a surprise. My mind doesn’t whirl quite as quickly, and I’ve almost convinced myself that things will be fine when I walk through the door to my place. However, a second later, I’m positive that packing up and moving out is absolutely the best course of action. I’m not ready for this in any way. Besides, Peeta deserves someone better than me, someone who can love him with a whole heart. Mine’s too shattered to give him that, so it’s kinder to him to simply let the dream of a happy, healthy relationship go.

That’s what I tell myself all afternoon, but it flies out the window as soon as Peeta returns home. I take one look at him, and all my good intentions are gone, replaced by an insatiable lust that he seems happy to nurture with long, hooded looks and a lazy smile.

“Are we okay?” he asks, and that’s all I need to break all the promises I made to myself by the waterfall.

Nodding eagerly, I approach him slowly. He stands in the kitchen, his hip leaning against the bar and his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Although he looks relaxed, he’s surely not if he’s been wondering about us the entire day. As I draw near, he reaches for me. His hands are strong and sure on my hips.

“Are we really, or are you just saying that because I’m so devastatingly handsome?” he teases.

Bursting into laughter, I wrap my arms around his waist and tuck my head under his chin. “We’re really okay,” I insist, although I’m not sure exactly what that means. Does he want more? Do I? Will we settle into roommates with benefits, or are we headed for something meaningful, something with the potential to change our entire lives?

Tilting my head up, he says softly, “Good.”

“Good?”

With a firm nod, he repeats. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you all day long. Couldn’t wait to get back and make sure I hadn’t messed up the best thing that’s happened to me all year.”

“Does that mean you like being my roommate?”

Lowering his head, he whispers, “I do, but I like being your lover even more.”

“Me too,” I answer in a barely audible gasp.

His lips brush over mine, sending a shiver through me. Electricity crackles in the air, and I reacquaint myself with him. Before I know it, I’m stretching and rubbing against him like a cat. Eager for his touch, I push onto my tiptoes to chase his lips. When I do, he dips his fingers into my waistband to search for bare skin.

“I feel like we rushed it last night,” he murmurs as he ducks his head and kisses lazily along my neck. “That’s not normally my style, you know.”

His breath is warm, and I shiver in response. He’s weaving a spell. I’m helpless against it.

“No?” I ask in a futile attempt to maintain some semblance of control.

“Not even close. I like to take it slow. Really enjoy myself. Tease a little, maybe.”

My eyes droop closed as he ghosts kisses over my skin. His fingers are insistent, working from back to front until they dip lower and glance over the dark curls between my legs. Whimpering with longing, I drop my head back and kant my hips forward. There’s something enchanting about his deep baritone crooning my name as he works lower and finally dips his middle finger into my slit.

“Sweet Lord,” I wail in a high-pitched whine. “Peeta, I… I… Yeah…”

The words trail into incomprehensible squeaks and whimpers in response to the insistent, eager strokes of his fingertip over my nub. Each one shoots a jolt of electricity from my pussy to every nerve in my body. As Peeta massages my clit in torturously slow circles, I shake with longing. Every speck of me wants exactly what he’s offering and a whole lot more.

“So warm,” he hums. “Hot and wet and so eager. Katniss, you’re too good to be true.”

I’d answer, but he moves his hand, shifting so that the tip of his middle finger is pressed against my hole. He continues to rub my clit with his thumb. Much more patient than I appreciate, he pressed into me briefly before pulling away. Over and over, he repeats his actions until I can’t do anything but cling desperately to his broad shoulders and beg for him to end his torture.

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m not close to done. Not even a little bit close.”

“Peeta, I can’t—”

Pressing his lips to my temple, he assures me firmly, “Relax. Don’t fight me. I’ve got you. All you have to do is let go.”

He says it like it’s simple, but what he’s doing to me is anything but. Legs shaking and voice wrecked, I lean into him as he works his finger deep inside me, strokes against my walls, and retreats. He does it repeatedly, increasing the pace or lavishing me with an extra swirl of his fingers, as sobs catch in the back of my throat.

Burning up inside, I fist his shirt in my hand and twist in the hopes that will entice him to end the torture. He doesn’t, though. If anything, he increases the pressure, burying his finger up to the second knuckle and toying with me. When he draws out, I whimper, but he fills me up again before I can even ask for it. My legs shake when he curls his fingers inside me and chuckles low in his throat.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

Nodding, I bite my bottom lip and moan as my head falls back. All I want to do is grind down on his hand and get off a million times, but I should have more decorum than that.

“I bet it does. You’re so wet. Just sopping for me. I bet you taste amazing.”

“Oh, fu—”

My body seizes as he fingers me deeper. Heat floods my insides as choked cries fill the air. Ragged breathing reverberates around me, and I ride the small wave with a pleased groan.

“Yeah, I like that. Clenching down on me. Riding my hand like you can’t get enough. Dripping all over me. So sexy. Can’t get enough of you,” he confesses. “I’m gonna make you come until you can’t stand up anymore. Till your knees give out. Gonna give you multiple orgasms. I want you to come so hard it drips down your legs and makes a puddle on the floor.”

“Peeta,” I moan, but he doesn’t relent. Instead, he doubles down, fingering me deeper as he tells me exactly how he’s going to drive me over the edge.

When he curls his fingers the next time, I can’t hold back anymore. Moaning low in my throat, I clamp down on his hand and pulse my hips. My orgasm rolls over me like a wave, sweeping through me like a flash fire, and draining my energy until I can only lean into Peeta’s shoulder when he pulls me to him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Just let go.”

I do. Over and over. Wave after mind blowing wave. Until my throat’s hoarse from shouting and my legs can’t support my weight anymore. Peeta holds me up and doesn’t relent as my body shudders and shakes and moisture wets his hand and my panties. The wet fabric of my leggings clings to my fevered skin, and my hips undulate as I fuck myself on his hand. He talks me through all of it, whispering into my ear and urging me to keep going until I can’t even think. I’m exhausted, but he’s wringing a near constant climax from me. It’s nonstop, and it’s because he’s fucking amazing at this.

“I can’t,” I moan, barely able to form the words. “Peeta, I can’t anymore. I can’t. I can’t…”

Kissing me into silence, he curls his fingers into a tight C and chuckles as I pulse around him and groan into his mouth. My knees finally give way, but he catches me and pulls me tight against his hip. When I finally stop quaking, he pulls his fingers free and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Yeah, I think we’re going to be just fine,” he whispers into my ear. “Think living with you is going to be a hell of a lot of fun if this is the welcome I get every day when I come home from work. You’re absolutely stunning, Katniss. Beautiful, dewy skin and”—he sucks his fingers into his mouth and moans at the flavor—“you taste like cantaloupe. Sweet and smooth. So fucking sexy.”

A low whine catches in my throat as I try to find some semblance of control, but there’s no coming back from this. Not when I’m standing in my kitchen with a wet crotch because I just got finger fucked so good that I can barely see.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” I mutter as a full body shiver runs through me.

Pulling away from me, he turns to the sink and pumps some soap into his palm. Water runs as he scrubs his hands clean, washing the taste and smell of me off his skin.

“I think it’s my turn to cook dinner, right?” When I nod dumbly, he gestures to the barstools. “Take a seat. I’ll just get to it.”

Speechless, I glance down and flinch at the wet patch on the crotch of my leggings. As stunned as I am about what just happened, I’m not too out of it to process that I need to change clothes. Either that, or I need to sop up the mess I’ve made of myself.

“I-I think I need a shower,” I manage to sputter. “Go ahead with dinner. I’ll be right back.”

Flashing a smile, he sets to work pulling ingredients out of cupboards and the fridge. Turning on my heel, I flee to the relative safety of my bedroom where I shut the door firmly behind me and sag against it. I walk on jelly legs to the bed and collapse on the side, still too dazed to fully process what just happened. I’m still sitting there when Peeta calls me to dinner. Scurrying to change into clean, dry clothes, I hurry back to the kitchen where Peeta and a feast await.

Chapter Text

Collapsing onto the bed, I groan as Peeta pulls out and rolls onto his side. Sweaty, flushed, and obviously pleased with himself, he moans happily and stretches as his dick softens with the cum filled condom drooping against his pelvis. Giving a whole body shiver, Peeta rubs himself a few times before tugging off the condom and tying it off. Tossing it into the trash can next to his bed, he pulls me close to him and nuzzles at my neck.

“Always blowing my mind. Just keeps getting better with you,” he mumbles against my feverish skin.

I have to admit, I’m not sure how I got here—freshly fucked every single day and spoiled by the stranger who’s inserted himself into me and my life with such ease and enthusiasm, I can hardly remember my daily routine without him. Despite him having never met my family, I’m positive they will approve. Gale’s given him the onceover, including another background check that he reluctantly admitted holds nothing worse than a parking ticket from Peeta’s first year of college almost a decade ago. According to Gale, Peeta is “squeaky clean.” Obviously, Gale doesn’t understand how damn horny and kinky my roommate can be.

On the other hand, I have a front row seat to the show, and it’s sometimes closer than that. Occasionally, I’m actually in his lap, riding him with all the eagerness of a sexual ingénue. It’s a little unsettling, but Peeta has a way of making me not care about anything when his dick’s inside me. I wasn’t expecting a…whatever we are to each other…when I advertised for a roommate, but I can’t really see how it could have worked out any better.

Still huffing and panting from our athletic sex, I don’t bother to answer. What is there to say? He’s just complimented me, and I take those about as well as I do advice from Gale about what I should and shouldn’t be doing with Peeta. If he wasn’t dating someone else, I’d swear Gale’s into me, but that’s simply not true. In reality, Gale loves me like a sister, and I’m as grateful for his friendship as I am annoyed by his protective nature.

However, Gale’s not who’s occupying my thoughts right now. Instead, it’s Peeta, the beautiful, kind, compassionate, caring sex god who’s just rocked my world. Again. For what must be the millionth time since we started sleeping together three months ago.

“You know you can sleep in here tonight,” Peeta offers in a hopeful invitation, but I’m not yet willing to give into that urge. Our relationship is still too new—if that’s what this actually is. That’s still rather up for debate.

“I have to be up early tomorrow.”

It’s an excuse, and not a very good once since Peeta used to work at a bakery. He wakes before me almost every single day. The idea that I’ll disturb his sleep is laughable. He’s much more likely to disrupt mine—probably with an early morning bout of sex than anything else.

“When are you going to stop acting like we aren’t meant to be together?” he asks quietly, his brilliant blue eyes sad when he speaks. “We’ve been playing at this for how many weeks now? I thought we had it figured out, but you keep pulling back, putting distance between us every time I think we’re about to make a breakthrough.”

“Stop pressuring me,” I grumble as I shove him away and struggle to my feet. Glaring at him, I breathe heavily and immediately realize I have no credibility as a grump. I’m not very intimidating, especially when I’m still naked and smeared with bodily fluid. When I glance down, I notice some red marks on my hips that look remarkably like fingers that will fade to bruises overnight. We both enjoy getting a little rough. Apparently, earlier today was one of those times.

“Katniss, sweetheart, I’m not,” Peeta insists gently.

Too wound up on endorphins and the letdown from my orgasm, I don’t want to listen to reason. Maybe it’s cliché, but I feel like being emotional after being driven out of my mind. If Peeta doesn’t like it, he can just shut up and deal with it or get out.

Stubbornly, I decide to pick a fight. It’s not a sound strategy, but I’m feeling more vulnerable than usual standing before him unclothed. I need to regain control of the situation.

“Could have fooled me,” I sneer and slam out of the room.

To his credit, Peeta doesn’t follow me or try to wheedle to get his way. Instead, he lets me go. From the sanctuary of my own room, I hear him shower and prepare for bed. Grateful for the reprieve but disappointed I couldn’t goad him into an argument, I tiptoe to the bathroom and clean up before slipping into my bed alone.

There’s a chill between us the next two days. Peeta, who’s clearly the more adult between us, kisses me hello and goodbye but doesn’t make a move otherwise. As much as I miss his hands on me, I need some space, time to get my head on straight, and a deep dive into what it is I really want. Jumping into bed with Peeta wasn’t smart when I did it the first time, but it seems to have worked out for the most part. I’m just not very good at making people like me, so I’m exceptionally leery that he seems to think he does.

On the third day, I’m frustrated and jumping out of my skin, so I don my running clothes and head out to my favorite trail. There’s something comforting about being in the woods alone, surrounded by nature and nothing but authentic quiet. Breathing evenly in and out, I put one foot in front of the other over and over until things seem to center. Apparently, getting out of the house I share with Peeta is exactly what I’ve been needing. Slowing to a stop, I put my hands on my lower back and try to regain my breath as well as slow my heart rate.

As I walk, I hear a distinctive sound that I haven’t noticed in a very long time. One that makes my insides ache with loneliness. It’s the sound of a mockingbird and a blue jay singing together, and it reminds me of my father.

“I miss you, Dad,” I whisper as I take a seat by the waterfall. “I know we all do, but it feels worse when I haven’t talked to Mom or Prim for so long.”

There’s no answer from the wind or the birds, so I listen to the silence for a few minutes before admitting what it is that’s bothering me. Maybe I can’t tell Gale or face Peeta with the truth, but I can put it into the universe while surrounded by nature and the starkest reminder that I once had of a father who loved me very much.

“I miss you, and I haven’t trusted any man besides Gale since you left us. I know you didn’t mean to, couldn’t help it, but the fact of the matter is that when you died, I shut down. It wasn’t the same as Mom’s grief. Instead of going catatonic, I turned into an overachiever for a while, took care of everything, practically raised Prim until Mom could function again. But then…”

Pausing, I toy with the tip of my braid and press my eyes shut. I don’t enjoy all the memories, especially when my actions back in college were completely out of character.

“Then, I decided there wasn’t any point being careful. You had been, and it didn’t seem to matter. So, I went a little crazy. Scared Gale to death because I had no sense. When I realized I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself, I stopped dating altogether. Until Peeta…”

Biting my bottom lip, I blink against the tears welling in my eyes. Until Peeta seems like a momentous shift in my life.

“I think I’m in love with him,” I admit softly.

A haunting melody rises from the trees, and I hastily wipe away the tear that streaks down my cheek. Logically, I know the birds singing isn’t my father speaking to me from beyond the grave, but it’s still comforting to hear the duet that always reminds me of our time in the woods. When we first started running together, he taught me how to breathe—two beats in and two beats out—instead of gasping for air like a fish on dry land. I learned proper form from him, how to stretch, and how much water to consume to stay properly hydrated. Since he died, running has been how I’ve escaped from anything that bothers me.

It might be time to stop running, though.

Peeta’s right. I have been pushing him away, keeping him at arm’s length, and refusing to admit what’s happening between us. Not only do we already share the same address, we live together in all the ways that matter, the ones that indicate a high level of intimacy. We cook and clean together, hang out and talk, grocery shop and eat together, and we essentially share a bed, even if I won’t sleep in it with him overnight anymore. I know his favorite piece of clothing, his hopes and dreams, and the flavor of his toothpaste. I’ve seen his face when he can’t hold back from spilling inside me and heard my name groaned at the height of his climax. I know him better than I know Gale, and we’re as close as two friends can be.

When there’s no other answer than the wind in the branches and another few notes from the birds, I repeat my earlier confession.

“I think I love him,” I call out to the forest, and it echoes back gently.

Encouraged by the sound of my own voice, I stand up and shout, “I think I love Peeta Mellark!”

My hand flies to my mouth as the words burst out, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. I don’t think I love him; I know I do. I’ve just been too much of a coward to admit how much he’s come to mean to me—especially if there’s a chance I can lose him like I did my father.

“Oh, God,” I gasp. “Fucking fuck. I love Peeta.”

The sky’s grown darker as I contemplated my feelings and reminisced about Dad. Now, it’s pushing sunset, and I’m in danger of getting caught in the woods as the sun sets. Besides, I’m starving. More than that, though, I’m terrified of one more second passing before I talk to Peeta and explain what’s been going on. He’s never questioned me about my family, respectfully avoiding the subject because I asked him to when he first moved into our place, but he deserves to know what happened to me, what’s made me so reticent to open my heart to anyone outside my closest circle of family and friends.

It only takes one small step before I’m flying down the trail, running back to our building where I hope he’s waiting. Sweating and out of breath, I take the stairs two at a time and burst into our apartment. Calling Peeta’s name, I move from room to room, but our place is empty. He’s still at work or taking his sweet time getting home. Desperate to talk to someone, I pull out my phone and dial as quickly as I can.

“Everything okay, Catnip? What’s wrong?”

“I love him,” I huff, completely unable to breathe properly. “I do. I love him.”

Silence stretches over the line for several minutes before Gale finally releases a wry chuckle. “Am I supposed to be surprised by this?”

Irritated, I gulp in air and snap, “Well, I was, so it would have been nice if you’d filled me in. Especially since you already seemed to know.”

“I didn’t want to upset you. I knew you’d come around eventually and figure it out.”

“Why do I continue to put up with you?” I mutter, although underneath I’m not really that mad. How can I be when I’ve just realized how different and better my life can be if I simply embrace what’s already before me?

“My good looks.”

“Nope. That’s not it.”

“Ah, then it’s likely my brilliant mind.”

Clicking my front teeth with my fingernail, I reply, “Nope. Definitely not it.”

“No? Then, it’s got to be my body. Praise be to the gym and my manly physique.”

Bursting into laughter, I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. I’ve had this kind of conversation with him too many times to take him seriously. He’s always had a special way of cheering me up and calming me down when I’m upset. So does Peeta, although the methods they use are vastly different.

“Seriously, though, Catnip. I’m happy for you. You deserve to have good things, and you deserve to be happy.”

“I…”

My throat closes, so I simply mumble my thanks before saying goodbye and ending the call. Pacing nervously, I glance around and try to figure out what to do with myself until Peeta gets home. Brushing my hair off my sweaty forehead, I catch a whiff of myself and realize I should take a shower. There’s nothing quite like the stench of body odor to convince a guy to fall in love with me. Very enticing, of course.

Peeta comes home while I’m in the shower, which only poses a problem since I forgot to bring any clean clothes into the bathroom with me. In order to get dressed, I’ll have to traipse down the hallway in full view of him in nothing but a short towel. Of course, that’s not normally an issue now that we’ve been having sex regularly, but tonight…I was planning to actually talk to him before we end up in bed.

I needn’t have worried because we don’t end up in bed. Instead, he catches me by the elbow as I attempt to scurry by him and draws me into a deep, passionate kiss with so much tongue, I can hardly breathe. Unable to speak, I moan into his mouth and arch into his touch. The feel of his rough palms on my clean, dewy skin is almost too much.

It’s no wonder that he turns me around, bends me over the kitchen counter, and finger fucks me until my eyes cross. Head forward, I whine as water drips from the ends of my long hair and spatters on the countertop. He’s right behind me, pressing into my bare ass, his dick hard and flush against my crack. The brush of denim coupled with the velvety smoothness of his cock causes me to shiver, but it’s his fingers curling into me and the insistent brush of his thumb over my clit that drives me wild.

Holding onto the countertop with both hands, I perch on my tiptoes and grind onto his hand. Thrashing and babbling, I rut against him, begging him to fill me up, take me over the edge, hold me tightly as I fall apart. I’m on fire, my breasts flat against the cheap, chipped Formica. My confession is right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite allow it to escape.

When he enters me, stuffing me with his beautiful, thick cock, I can hear the squelch of my arousal on the condom. He’s grunting, his voice caught in a raspy baritone that indicates how far gone he is. For a split second, I wonder if all this is between us is sex, but then I remember how kind he is, the way he comforted me when I finally got the call from my interview and didn’t get the job, the fun we have together, and the thoughtful way he does a million everyday things that let me know how important I am to him. Besides, he’s got that smile with just the right touch of shyness, even when he’s inside me and doesn’t need to be bashful.

“Oh, God, I’m coming,” I wail as I clench around him. A sob catches in my throat as he shifts behind me, pulling me back against his chest and fucking deep inside me. “Peeta, Peeta, Peeta…I love you.”

The words are like a bomb. Stilling inside me, he pants in my ear, his voice a whine when he finally asks, “Are—are you serious?”

Clenching around him, I nod my head furiously. Only half-coherent, I moan, “Yes. Have a whole speech, but it’s about my dad. I don’t really want to think about him while I’m riding your dick. I’ll tell you later.”

Turning my head, I blink repeatedly, trying to focus on his beautiful face, but I’m so full, so completely desperate to come again, that I can hardly think.

“Peeta, please.”

Capturing my mouth with his, Peeta kisses me deeply, tongue sweeping inside to probe tenderly as his hips stroke long and smooth. In the blink of an eye, he’s taken this from a quick fuck in the kitchen to a slow, passionate, erotic bout of making love.

In the end, we skip dinner, electing to feed each other some cookies he made earlier in the week and cuddle in his bed as we talk. I tell him about my loss, how I retreated and shut out the world, and the decision I made this afternoon to embrace what’s between us. Calmly and sweetly, he listens and repeats the promise back to me. He loves me, too.

That night, I don’t go back to my bedroom. Instead, I sleep encircled in the arms of my roommate, lover, and boyfriend. No longer practically strangers, we are a united front. As I drift into sleep, I lace my fingers with his. I don’t ever want to let go.