vocalfuel | keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars

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harley altmeyer

keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars

I don't really know what's happened.

What I remember is this: sitting down next to Prim, the world slowing down as she told me her story, and being lost in a mess of feelings after that, anger that threatens to overtake me, outweighed only by sadness and, more than that, guilt. It's the latter that keeps me from staying put. As much as I want little else than to be with my sister right now, I can't bear to look at her, knowing about what happened to her and that it was my fault, that, after all I did, in the end, I even failed at protecting her, the only real thing I set out to do in the first place. All the blood I had on my hands already, I can't justify it anymore, either. The people who died for me, who followed me into a cause — there was never one in the first place. I volunteered so Prim wouldn't die in the Arena. I kept up the façade for my family, used that to keep me going when nothing else could. I always knew I never should have been the figurehead for the revolution, but now, I think about all the people who were killed, all the damage done, because I wanted to keep Prim alive and I wanted to get home to her, and I can't stand it, so I can't stay where I am.

How I get to Harley's door, though, I'm not sure, except he's the only person nearby. I considered briefly just taking my bow and going out into the woods, but however cathartic shooting might be, I don't think I have it in me to kill anything right now, not even a squirrel in a tree. Still, I have to do something, practically shaking with a desperate nervousness, more thrown by this than I want to consider. If only for a little while, I need to put it out of my head, to get rid of the emotions weighing me down too completely. I have to, if I'm going to be able to look my sister in the eye again.

So I lift my hand to knock, hoping he's in, even if I don't know what I'm going to say. Not what really brought me over here, but apart from that, I'm at a loss. Maybe I just won't say anything at all.

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Elvis starts barking the minute someone's knuckles hit the door. "Shh," I hiss. "Down. Down. Be quiet."

He's obedient at least, whining a little as he retreats to a corner, circling before flopping down. I'm more concerned with who might be at the door. I haven't lived out here long at all, a matter of days, and I don't know anyone who'd come out all this way to visit me at night. Anyone who'd come see me would text or something first anyway.

I don't know who to expect, but I definitely don't expect Katniss. I barely even know her, but she doesn't exactly seem like the housewarming type of neighbor. "Hey."

His dog's barking from inside cues me in to the fact that he's at least probably home even before he comes to the door, but I find myself a little relieved when he opens it anyway. I'm no less clueless, unsure what I could possibly get here except to know that it won't change any of what's happened or make it better, but at least I have somewhere to go at all. I couldn't talk to Peeta about this; I can barely talk to him as it is. With Harley, I don't think I need to talk, even if I have to swallow down the words that come instinctively to the tip of my tongue. My little sister's dead and it's all my fault. Maybe following through on impulse, letting the words out into the open, would do me some good, but I don't think so. I just need to get away from all of it for a little while.

"Hey," I say, and for a moment, I leave it at that, standing awkwardly in front of him, more vulnerable than I'm accustomed to, though I don't think he'll notice it. I don't think he'd even know what to look for. In the moment, I'm more than grateful for that, for someone who hardly knows the first thing about me or my life, who'd probably look at me like I'm nuts if I mentioned President Coin or District 13 or the bombing of the Capitol. He's neutral territory, no one I have to protect, no battle I have to fight. Every inch of me is tense, my throat still tight, but for the first time in a long time, it feels like I can breathe easy, too. "Can I come in?"

Katniss remains a cipher to me, the sharp lines of her face reminding me more of Misty than anyone else, and even then, she's nothing like my sister. I can't tell if she's angry or hurt or annoyed, or if maybe this is her default state, as unfamiliar to me as anything else. There's no reason for me to let her in now. I don't really know her, it's getting late, and something isn't right, and that's none of my business. I have every reason just to close the door.

"Sure." I step back out of the way so she can come in, Elvis wagging his tail as he walks over to sniff at her.

Standing in Harley's house, the first thing I think is that this is a mistake. I still don't have the first idea what to say to him, or what I'm looking to get out of this. A way to forget, maybe, or at least to let it not matter for a while. That isn't fair, I know. I started all of this, I guess just prolonging the inevitable and starting all sorts of other trouble when I volunteered for her at the games. I shouldn't just be able to shrug it all off; I should have to bear the weight of what I brought about. Right now, though, I just can't. It's too much. If there's anything that could break me, it's losing Prim.

Absently patting his dog's head, I look at Harley almost expectantly, as if he'll have some clue what to do when I don't. It's stupid, all of it, but I don't want to leave. "Thanks," I say, well aware of how ridiculous I sound. "I just — needed somewhere to go."

"Okay." It comes out because I've got nothing else to say, not yet. I don't really know why she needed that or why she would choose here when she hardly even knows me. I'm not sure I want to know the answers to any of that either. I don't dislike Katniss. I don't know her well enough to. I don't know enough to like her either. She seems like kind of a bitch, but not enough to put me off. Besides, it's not like I'm not the same way with people.

I just close the door, standing near it as Elvis trails her, looking up hopefully, though I doubt there's any food on her for him to smell. "Couldn't go home?"

I shake my head, the movement a little too quick, too insistent. I haven't got a home anymore, I think, but true or not, I'm not going to say that. It isn't what he means, and the last thing I want to think about now is the bombs they dropped on District 12, burning it to the ground. Bombs like they dropped on my sister, the last person who should have been caught in any of this crossfire.

"That's where I came from," I say. I'm sure he means the one here, and there's no sense in getting into the rest of it anyway. "I had to get away for a while."

"Oh. Okay."

The words sound flat to my own ears. I kind of hope that's just me, and it sounds different to her, but I don't know how much anyone could milk out of those two words anyway.

It's not like I don't know the feeling.

"You want a beer or something?"

"Sure," I say without much of a pause at all, even the nod accompanying the words stilted, awkward. I don't drink much. I don't like surrendering control like that, and I don't like what it does to me, both in the immediate and the more distant time after. Right now, though, it feels like I could use it. It seems like the thing to do, too. That isn't something I tend to care much about, but at least in this case, it makes me feel a lot less pointless than just standing here. Maybe once I start drinking, I'll be able to pretend I came here for a reason other than the one that actually brought me out of my house. "Thanks."

The kitchen is small, but I don't need much in the way of space. It's just me, and sometimes Elvis, even if he still sleeps outside about as often as not. There are a couple counters, a little stove, a microwave — the basic essentials, and all I need since I'm not much of a cook. I have a little more time these days, but I don't care enough to experiment or try too much that's new. What I can do is good enough, and it's easier to follow the instructions on boxes than risk wasting food making something beyond me.

Pulling open the refrigerator, I grab a couple of beers, holding one out to her. "You wanna..." I shrug. I'm not good at this shit. "I don't know, talk or something?"

I kind of hope she says no. I can listen if she needs, but I wouldn't be any fucking help, and whatever's on her mind, I probably wouldn't know what to say.

I shake my head, though there's a hint of something like gratitude in my expression as I reach out for the beer and pull it open. Talking about it is exactly what I came here to avoid. I know there's no way he could know that, and I should probably appreciate the offer, but it just makes me that much happier for the drink in my hand. This way is just better — not just for me, but for both of us. There's no reason he should care, not when he doesn't know Prim or the place we came from, and the longer I can keep it shut out, the better.

"No," I say, and then take a long drink. It tastes about as good as I expect it to, which is to say, not at all, but I don't care. "Not really."

The way she drinks the beer, head tipping back, exposes her neck, and I think for a moment about what it would be like to have my mouth on her skin. It's pretty fucking stupid when I don't even know why it is she'd come here, other than that I'm close by and most people aren't. I didn't get the impression she liked me too much. But then, I also figure, if she didn't like me alright, she wouldn't have kept talking to me, and she sure as hell wouldn't be here now.

i know the way she drinks, the way she talks. 'Not really' means not at all, said like that. I get it. "You wanna do something else?" I ask, frowning slightly, cautious. That she's here and doesn't want to talk when I know shit all to do makes me wonder if it isn't so fucking stupid after all. Worst that happens is she gets pissed and leaves.

Pausing a moment, I then shrug, still holding onto the bottle like I wouldn't know what to do without it. Just resorting to this at all is probably stupid, something I'll regret come morning, but I'm not that far gone yet. Besides, compared to the other things I have to regret, the one big thing that I've come here to try to stave off thoughts of, a night of drinking is nothing. I just can't say that to him.

"Sure," I reply. I don't know what it is he might have in mind, if anything at all, but it's got to be better than standing around awkwardly. It doesn't matter, anyway. The fact that he hasn't pressed for me to tell him anymore is all I need to be glad that I decided to come here. "Like what?"

I shake my head. Like I fucking know. I have ideas, but what else is new? I'm not dumb enough not to be a little cautious about making any kind of a move on her. I don't want to know what happens if she takes it badly, and there's a good chance she will.

"I don't know. Come on, let's sit down." I'm hoping it'll at least be a little less awkward than standing.

"Okay," I say. What difference it will make, I haven't got a clue, though if nothing else, it might make me feel a little less out of place. Just standing around here, sipping from a drink, unsure what it is I'm even doing, isn't likely to do me any good, though I'll be surprised if anything even could. That's just all the more reason to take him up on his suggestion. Heading over to his couch, I take a seat, shifting awkwardly, then tip my head back for another long swig of beer. Maybe it will help.

I think about turning on the TV or something, finding some movie that's already half-over to distract her from whatever brought her here. She doesn't want to talk. I'm not going to ask her to.

But it makes me feel awkward in my own place, sitting on the couch with a solid couple of feet between this, just to keep the space there, maybe to see what she'll do. I think about asking if she has other friends she'd actually want to talk to, but that makes it sound like we're friends, and I don't know if we are.

Just sitting there feels even stupider, though, and after a moment or two, I turn toward her, eyes following the line of her neck up to her eyes, her lashes. There's a hardness to her, but she's pretty, too. I don't think she's trying to be, but she is. I close the gap between us, leaning over to kiss her, hand coming up to cup her jaw. The worst thing that could happen is she leaves.

It's really not what I'm expecting him to do, and for a moment, if only because that's the case, I'm tempted to draw back, to push him away from me, because this isn't what I came here for. But then, I think, isn't it? I barely know what I'm doing, and I definitely don't know why he'd want to kiss me, but it's better than sitting here awkwardly and it's one sure-fire way not to keep thinking about my sister and all the blood on my hands. Maybe this is even what I was looking for in the first place, and I just didn't realize it. Either way, if this is his alternative to talking, I'll take it.

Shifting closer, I wonder for a moment what to do with my hands, one of them still holding a beer, and settle on curling the other in the front of his shirt as I lean into the kiss. I barely know Harley, but it's easier than it should be, I think, kissing him. It's easier than kissing Peeta, anyway, and almost a relief for that alone. At least I can be pretty well assured that he isn't going to take it for something it's not, or want more from me than I know how to give. This, I can do, my mouth pressed hard to his, all my focus on not just surging ahead.

I'm more surprised than anything when she leans into the kiss, and then grateful, because what little I know of Katniss makes it pretty clear she wouldn't hesitate to kick my ass if she didn't want me kissing her. I like that I don't know her, that this once, it doesn't mean much of anything, other than that I want to do it, want her, her waist under my hand as I trail my palm down to her hip. She's not going to expect anything, I'm pretty sure, or think there's something going on here that isn't.

Taking her kiss as a cue, I pull her a little closer, kiss her a little harder.

It's exactly what I want him to do, and surprisingly, I don't even feel bad about thinking so. I might not have come over here thinking that I wanted him — I'm not sure I'd have even known how to — but now that we've started it, it seems increasingly like the best possible option. That kiss alone, the way his hand slides down along my waist, they make it perfectly clear that he understands me a lot better than Peeta ever could, all without knowing anything about it. This doesn't mean anything, and that makes me want it all the more.

In instances like this, I don't have any real instinct to go on, but I kiss him back harder in turn, shifting closer at his prompting until I'm practically in his lap. I'm not desperate, not really, except for an escape, but I don't see any point in drawing this out needlessly, pretending like I don't know where it's headed.

Every advance she makes comes as a relief, like I think she might change her mind any moment. I wouldn't blame her if I did. Even if it's nothing, just sex, I'm not the best guy to get mixed up with. She could probably find plenty of better men out there. But then, she's so contained, so sharp, I don't know how many of the good ones would get close. I'm used to it. That's the advantage we have, those of us who've been through shitty times, the ones who are mistakes. We can deal with a hell of a lot.

My hand skirts higher, slipping under the hem of her shirt to find skin. I've learned some restraint, enough not to start undressing her without warning, but I want to touch her somehow, skin against skin and tongue against tongue. She might talk much, but she's responsive enough without words, and I like that better anyway.

It's moments like this — not that I've had more than one of them before now, and that was different, without quite the same urgency — that I'm reminded how little I know what I'm doing. Kissing him, letting him slide his hand under my shirt, wanting him to touch more than just my waist, that's easy enough, but for once, taking any kind of initiative is beyond me. I don't know what he wants. I don't even know why he'd kiss me in the first place. I just know that I don't want him to stop.

All of those uncertainties, though, I don't care enough to get tied down in them for more than a moment. Shifting is difficult without pulling away, but I finally manage, setting the drink in my hand down on the table with a little more force than is necessary and then drawing back from him, only enough to tug my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor. Just doing so leaves me more self-conscious than I'd admit to, but that doesn't matter. Even if I don't know what to say, I can at least make my intentions clear.

I like that she doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. If she didn't want to be here, she wouldn't be, and she sure as hell wouldn't be undressing, which is about as far as my attention goes. Any words would be superfluous, when we've got action instead. My gaze rakes over her body, the curves coming as kind of a surprise. The way she dresses tends to hide how fucking hot she is, and for a moment, I feel something almost possessive, prideful, not because I feel any claim to her but I'm willing to bet hardly anyone else knows what I see right now.

Kissing her, I slip my hands up her back to find the clasp on her bra. It's a hell of a lot easier to unhook these things than it used to be, but it still comes as a relief when I get it unfastened pretty easily, setting it aside so I can touch her. Sliding a hand up to cup her breast, I run a thumb over her nipple, teasing it, groaning against her mouth.

He's not the first person who's touched me like this, but he might as well be, the brush of his thumb sending a shiver straight through me. I'm not used to this, and I wonder if he'll know, if it will matter; I wonder if I ever could be at all. Right now, I'm not sure I could. It's not even just the physical aspect of this, though that goes a long way on its own, or how refreshingly uncomplicated it is, knowing that this doesn't mean anything, that he's not going to ask for anything more from me. It's that, like this, with his hands on my skin and him making sounds like that against my mouth, I almost feel beautiful. I feel like he might think I am. And that, without any other sort of attachment involved, that's new.

Arching forward into his touch, I echo the sound with one of my own, a little fainter, a little higher, but audible all the same. I want him to keep doing that. I want a lot more than that. I've already gotten close, but I pull myself closer now, fully into his lap, one knee on either side of him. My intent has been made pretty clear, I think, but that's no reason not to make it clearer, tugging at his shirt as I kiss him harder, though I know I'll have to stop if I want to take it off.

"Fuck," I mumble, drawing back just enough to help get my shirt off, mostly so I can get back to touching her. It's not something I think about usually, the state of my own clothes. I care a hell of a lot more about getting her naked. As soon as she's done, I go back to kissing her, hands moving to her tits again. They're bigger than they looked under her shirt, and I wonder for a moment why it is she covers up like she does, but I don't think I really care what the answer is as long as I get to touch her like this.

Reaching down, I fumble with her pants, not entirely sure if I'm trying to get them off of her or just get my hand down them, teeth catching on her lip. Her nipple is hard under my palm and I'm hard under her, but the way she sounds is soft and warm. I wonder what it would take to make her do that again. I always like it when the girls make sounds like that, but it seems like it hits even harder from her, if only because I wasn't expecting it.

This is nothing like the first time, I think. Though I can't make much sense of anything right now, let alone what prompted this to begin with, I think I'm glad for that, too. With this hurried, feverish intensity, there isn't much time to stop and consider what I'm doing and why, and needing an escape from my own head is exactly what brought me here in the first place. As long as that's the case, it doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter why he started it, either, or how he somehow finds me desirable. The only thing that's important is that he does.

Leaning down, still kissing him hard, I push my weight up onto my knees. It's not like it will do much more to get me undressed, but I'm not ready to pull away yet, mostly because that would mean stopping, however temporarily. It's a little bit more room, anyway, so it's a start, and it gives me space enough to slip a hand between us, pressing against him over his pants.

Any trepidation I felt about kissing her before has melted away, and I lean up towards her with a whine in my throat, kissing her neck as I tug her pants lower. I move on autopilot like this, turning us both toward the couch, urging her down onto it, where it'll be easier for both of us to do what we want, what we want from each other. The way she touches me isn't enough, not even close, my pulse pounding in my head, and all I can think about is getting more and being inside her. There isn't much room to work, but I slide my hand clumsily into her underwear to touch her. Whatever her reason for going along with this, I don't really care as long as she keeps going.

It's just as surprising as it was the first time, how much I like this. Not because I think I shouldn't or anything like that — as far as I can tell, that's the point — but just because it wouldn't have seemed like something I would care much about. Right now, though, it's the only thing I want to care about, and it's remarkably easy, something without any other complications. His hand sends sparks shooting through me, or it feels like it does, and for as difficult as it is to shift back on the couch, a part of me wanting instinctively, even now, to resist just for the sake of it, that stops mattering almost instantaneously. A gasp catching in my throat, I rock my hips up against his hand, thinking only a moment later to reach between us, fumbling for the button on his pants.

I'm still not sure I actually know what I'm doing, but I don't really care either. I just know I like the way she moves under me as I touch her, and that she seems to like it, and that's all that really matters.

I pull back just a little, kneeling on the couch as I tug her clothes the rest of the way off. Running my hand up her thigh, I lean back down, reaching up to feel her warm and wet under my fingers again, groaning against her mouth. It's hard to stay patient when her hands are at my pants and I just want to get them off already, but I know enough to be sure I'd just slow things down if I tried to take over. It'll be worth it, I tell myself, though it doesn't make me any less desperate.

It's not exactly easy to focus on getting his pants off when he's touching me like that. For that matter, it isn't easy to think about much of anything, my head filled with nothing but thoughts of wanting more, and hoping it isn't too clear that I don't know what I'm doing, that I'll be able to keep up. I'm not used to undressing other people, anyway, and keeping the slight distance between us it requires when I want so much to have him closer is more than a little difficult.

I manage, though, fingers hurriedly, clumsily getting both button and zipper undone, impatient as I push at fabric. If nothing else, I need to even the score, not about to let him so obviously get to me without doing the same in turn.

"Fuck," I say, muffled against her mouth, and pull away after a moment. She's done the important part, getting it undone, but she's not going to be able to get them off me when I'm between her legs. I don't want to stop touching her, but it has to be done, so hurry, scrambling to my feet to pull down my pants and boxers, rock hard as I settle back over her. I'm tempted just to go ahead and fuck her now, impatience more of a habit than anything else these days, like they might change their minds if I give them too long to think about it. Instead, I duck my head, take her nipple into my mouth, hard and soft at the same time, my hand on her thigh.

I start to protest when he pulls away, stopped more by my own unwillingness to make myself any more vulnerable than being naked on his couch already leaves me than the fact that I know he's only gotten to his feet to finish getting undressed. Still, I'm impatient and too far gone to pretend I'm not. I might be pretty close to clueless, but I don't need to be experienced or knowledgeable to know what I want, and right now, that's to have him close again, for him to go back to touching me, more. Anything, as long as it keeps what brought me over here from my mind, but this is working well so far.

Back arching as he settles over me again, I curl one hand tightly in his hair. I want to do more than this, but I don't know what he wants me to do, so I'll settle for urging him on. As long as it keeps this going, it's worth it. "More," I say, only half-aware of doing so, voice rough with insistence. "Harley."

It's only then I realize she hasn't said anything since I kissed her. I'm alright with that. I like that better, actually, all my attention on what's happening, not on useless words. That, though, the way she sounds and what she says, more than makes up for the break in the silence.

Running a hand over her hip, I pull her closer against me, my forehead pressed to hers as I push inside her. As easy as that, it's like everything else in my head goes quiet, nothing else there except for the loud groan that rolls from me and how tight she is around my dick. For a moment, I don't even know if I can move, and then I am anyway, fingers digging into her thigh.

My heart beats faster, breaths growing shallower, when he pushes into me, my body tensing instinctively. This might not be the first time I've done this, but that doesn't make all that much difference when, before, it was only that once, and it was different, too. Thinking back on that, I still can barely make sense of it, how that switch flipped in my head and suddenly I wanted nothing more. Now, it's too logical to think about, a way of losing myself. The fact of that only makes me want all the more.

Teeth pressing so hard to my lip that it occurs to me to worry that I might draw blood, I stifle a moan, clinging to him desperately, my leg hooked against his hip. With him moving inside me like this, I feel like I can barely breathe, but at least the reason for that now is preferable by far to the one I had before. It spurs me into motion, too, even if I have to focus to do so, my hips rolling up against his. I've never been at all passive, but now's not the time to start.

Somewhere inside all that roiling need, the frenetic push for release, there's a peace I don't get any other time. I can't make sense of it, but sense doesn't fucking matter right now. All I know is it feels good. I move on pure instinct, pulling her leg closer, clutching at her thigh, my mouth on her neck and shoulder, sucking, biting, everything coalescing into dizziness. She's so tight I'm kind of worried I'll get off too fast, mostly because she's not a girl I'd want to disappoint. From the way she moves, though, I don't think that'll be too much of a problem.

Right now, like this, I think I can almost understand what the big deal about this is. The act itself, I don't care that much about, all the more so for the startling vulnerability that comes with it, but as an outlet, there's nothing else like it. Not even an afternoon spent in the woods with just my bow and a quiver of arrows, I think, though this is nothing at all like the quiet stillness out there. More than that, though, the way he touches me and moves inside me, the way his teeth press into my skin, it makes me feel like someone worthy of being wanted. I'm not used to that. His desperation, I meet in equal measure, nails digging into his back as I rock up against him, wordless save for the groan that's lodged itself in my throat.

The scrape of her nails sends thoughts of Effy rocketing through my mind, and then she's gone again, nothing left in my head but a kind of calm. My body hurries and my brain disappears, and I don't care about either. I never expected Katniss to move under me like this, to be as interested, as eager, but then, I never figured I'd actually fuck her either. If I'd thought about it, it probably wouldn't be much of a surprise. She's a weird girl, tough and silent, but something about the way she always seems ready to roll her eyes or tear me a new one reminds me of just about every other teenage girl I've ever met. I lift my head to find her mouth again, kissing her. Like everything else about this, that's rough, too, teeth and tongue, soft and sharp.

What it is that I want so badly, I'm not sure. All I know is that I do, that as I press my hips against his and clutch at him, it's as much out of a longing for something as it is finding it. Even having done this before, I'm not sure I've felt anything quite the same, desire and peace in my head in equal measure. It's not something I'm in a hurry to let go of, and not just because I know what will be waiting when I do. Nothing else matters right now, and that feels as good as he does. Breathless, I kiss him back hard, and there's nothing I'm trying to get from it except more of the same. How something like this could be so refreshingly uncomplicated, I don't know, but it feels like something I should have had a long time ago.

The couch isn't the best place for this, but I don't care how cramped it is so long as it's happening. It's not like it's going to take much longer before I come anyway. It still sneaks up on me most times, but practice has made me better at recognizing it, mostly because Effy wouldn't stand for me finishing and leaving it at that. If I want this to happen again — and I already know I do, can't imagine why I wouldn't — I figure Katniss is probably the same way.

Sliding my arm between us, fumbling to touch her, isn't easy, but the way she holds onto me, fucks me, serves as a pretty good distraction from that. Whatever it takes to keep feeling like this is worth it.

What he's doing, the way his fingers move against my skin, that's new, startling and incredible. Without thinking, I tear my mouth away from his to tip my head back against the arm of the couch instead, a rough, ragged gasp rising in my throat. I'd be scared of how much I like this if it weren't for the fact of that, just how much I like it, a pressure that I can't quite understand or explain building inside me, like a tightly coiled spring. It's torturous. I don't want it to stop.

One of my hands slides into his hair, curling tightly, fingernails of the other digging into his back. I don't know how else to say anything, or if I should. Somehow, I think he'll get it, even if I don't.

Her nails press hard enough I know she'll leave marks, though I don't know how long they'll last. I don't care either. There's pain, but I barely notice it under how good she feels around me. It's the gasp, the arch of her neck, that cuts through my fog. It's clear she likes what I'm doing, enough that I'm a little surprised, even kind of proud.

I'm not that great at it, I know that deep down, that I don't have much in the way of rhythm, fingers running irregular circles against her clit, but it's probably a little like a blowjob. It doesn't have to be great to feel good.

It's not like I don't, in a technical sense, know what's happening. There's such a difference, though, between an awareness of how bodies fit together and this, the sparks under my skin and the weight on my chest, the way I've forgotten not just how to breathe but everything. I wanted this, I think, but I know that's not quite right. It was an escape that I was looking for when I knocked on Harley's door, but I didn't have this in mind. I couldn't have even imagined it, or how desperately I would wind up wanting him, like he's an answer to something I've been looking for. In a way, I guess maybe he is. There are no complications here, no demands, no one who'll care if I sleep with him. No one else even knows where I am. I've never felt so free.

My body shifts against his, breasts pressed against his chest, like a silent plea for more, every inch of me aching for something I've never actually felt before, that I know can't be far off. I've left myself entirely in his hands. For once, I can't mind that at all.

I'm aware now how close I am, and I don't know if I have the will power or even the desire to hold out, desperate to come, to exist in that brief and brilliant space where nothing fucking matters. But she presses up against me and she doesn't have to say anything for it to be clear what she wants.

I don't think anything else in the world is like sex. I used to think about it all the time, before I ever fucked anyone, and I had no idea what I was missing out on. Thrusting deep into Katniss, feeling her tight around me, there's nothing else that feels so good or easy or safe, like looking out over a precipice and being at peace with whether or not you fall. There's no power like it either, especially with a girl like Katniss. Her skin is warm, salty-sweet, when I suck at her neck, bite into her shoulder, my fingers slick with her as they slide over her clit. She's always so fucking surly, so tough, and now she's soft and pliant and desperate, like any other girl.

I should hate this. Distantly, I'm aware of that again, that there's no reason why this should feel so good, or why I should allow it to happen. Oh, I could overpower him if I wanted — or needed — to, I'm sure of that. Still, letting myself be so vulnerable, giving him any control like this, when it would be so easy for him to hurt me, it's not something that ought to be so enjoyable, if that's even the right word for it. I think, though, that that's why it is. His teeth press into my skin, I hiss in a breath, and it's like handing myself over to someone else without any real risk involved. No wonder other people seem to like it so much.

When it happens, I'm not really expecting it, though I probably should have. It hits me with the force of the bullet my Mockingjay uniform took in Two, knocking the air from my lungs, leaving me to arch up against him, trembling and clutching at him like he's all that's keeping me there. Difficult as it was to think before, it's even more so now, nothing in my head except for one thought: I'm the girl on fire again, every inch of me alight, and it's never felt so magnificent.

My fingers slip, clutching at her thigh as she tightens around me, her body pressed hard against mine, breath knocked out of me. From my vantage point, she's nothing but shoulder and collarbone, dips and curves, and she's beautiful beyond words. Her dark hair curls and clings against her skin, and I think a couple strands get in my mouth, but I don't notice. I'm too busy shaking, glowing, melting from hard to soft to white hot, a choked moan shuddering out of my throat. It's luck alone that kept me holding out long enough for her to come, too, but I'm thankful for it. When it happens, it feels even better. The reminder of someone else doesn't take me out of that peace as much as I would have thought.

Even when my body relaxes, slumping into the cushions of his couch, all the tension bleeding out of me, I'm still clinging to him, arms and legs wrapped around him, though not with the same insistence. I wouldn't have the energy for that. I'm not sure know what else to do, though, and even pinned under him, it feels too good, like nothing exists outside of this. I don't feel guilty, I don't have to question what I've done or why or what he'll think now. Everything's simple, uncomplicated, a feeling that I'm not used to, but don't think I could ever get sick of.

Breathing heavily, I don't yet say anything, just closing my eyes for a moment. It's easier than wondering what I'm supposed to do at a time like this, what I'm supposed to say, if there's some kind of etiquette or whatever about it. Not that I'd really care if there were. I get the sense that he probably wouldn't, either.

It takes all the energy I've got left not to just lean into her and let my weight rest on her, my body weighted and warm. I brush a kiss against her lips, drawing out of her to fall back against the side of the couch. I don't want to cuddle up against her or anything, but it feels good to have her close still as my eyes fall shut. I don't want to fall asleep here, not sure what she'd think of that, but I can be still for a moment. I never sleep so easily as I do the nights when I've had sex. It's like the fight goes out of my body and I can rest.

It's gone out of hers, too. I wouldn't call Katniss soft, but there's something more peaceful to her now. I don't know what brought her here, but I feel like I might have done something right for once.

I want to keep kissing him. Even spent and struggling to regain my breath, the two of us pressed close beside each other on his couch, it's an instinct it takes a lot of effort to hold back. I'm just not entirely sure. This doesn't — I'm still sure of it — mean anything, and it's not like having sex with Harley has made me suddenly discover some hidden feelings I've had for him. The whole point of this is the opposite of that. I don't feel nothing, but what's there isn't romantic, and for once isn't something tangled and dark. It's just relief.

Which might explain the surge of affection I have to restrain myself from, though that's not a word that's often been applicable to me. It isn't for him so much as it is for what I've found here, the peace, however temporary, he's helped me find, the chance to have something so simple. I don't say anything yet, but I stay curled close, hoping that says it all, unwilling to let go of this quite so soon.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars

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