Tremble

by Blueberrychills94

Whirlwind of passion. That's the only way he could put it. His virgin lips were dirtied by the filth of another's touch. His skin, once pale, grew pink upon the contact of a reprimanding hand. His legs, which used to quake in fear in Cato's presence now spread so easily at his command. He was owned, wholly and completely, and he did not mind one bit. Modern Day. BDSM.

8. Chapter 8

A/N: Ah, it's good to be back. And with a long chapter to boot! Let's hope my rush of creativity doesn't get stomped during exam season ^_^

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

Warnings: Graphic sex (you guys get the idea by now, right?), rough sex, sexual relations in unconventional places, etc. Okay, the warnings are getting tiring by now and I'm sure you're sick of reading me rhyming off the same stuff, so if there's something new that crops up, I'll let you know, would that be better?

Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

Peeta rushed around the kitchen, unable to deny how at home he felt. Baking was his second nature and the more often he baked, the more comfortable he was. Well, sort of. The fact that he was baking in nothing but an oversized purple button up shirt and transparent shorts that might as well have been invisible was kind of off-putting.

"Didn't we agree that you'd be working while I was baking?" Peeta asked while rigorously stirring some cookie dough in a bowl.

Cato, who sat at the marble islet in the middle of the room, shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a fast worker when I want to be."

"You're making me nervous." Cato's gaze burned into Peeta like a fire and it was difficult to shake off.

"Better get used to it," Cato responded. "We're only at week two. Getting oggled is the least of your worries."

"Somehow, I think that's true." Peeta checked the oven temperature before slipping the first batch of cookies inside. He knew instantly that Cato would be staring at his ass when he bent down to do this but he tried not to think about it. "But unless you want burned chocolate chip cookies, I'd suggest you cut it out."

"Suggestion"- Cato pulled a face, pretending to think about it-"denied." He grinned cheekily when Peeta rolled his eyes in displeasure. "How about this? If you allow me to oggle you as much as I like, I'll reward you tonight."

"Reward?" Peeta's voice held incredulity. He poured the current mix onto a flour coated spot on the islet beside Cato and started rolling it out. "I thought the sex was the reward."

Cato chuckled, amused by Peeta's naivety. "No. The sex is an essential when there is no option left other than for me to plough you into the ground."

"You're very good with words, have I ever told you that?" Peeta asked sarcastically. Cato picked some flour out of the open bag and flicked it at Peeta so it caught on his hair and cheeks. "Okay, I deserved that," said Peeta, batting away the particles that still hung in the air. "Tell me, then, what's a 'reward'?"

"A reward is when there is nothing asked of you other than to lie back, enjoy yourself and remember not to hold back any hot moans you feel about to pass through your sweet lips," Cato took pleasure in explaining.

"That's all?" Peeta asked, his face flushed. Everything he had done so far had required something off him. Answer questions. Answer questions while being tied up and spanked. Don't make a sound. Say yes, give Cato a blowjob and fuck himself with a toy. Not that Peeta minded, he just couldn't imagine not doing anything at all. What was he going to do? Just . . . lie there?

Cato grinned. "That's all." He stood up and walked around the islet to be behind Peeta. He looped his strong arms around the smaller boy's waist and tugged his slim body up against the wall of muscle he called his own. Peeta's breath caught in surprise, especially when he felt his owner's hard on against his ass. He shocked himself, however, when he melted against Cato and simply continued rolling out dough.

Cato kissed his ear and nipped insistently at the shell and lobe. Peeta tilted his head a little and hummed in approval. "Since the cookies are baking, do you mind if I take an early lunch?" Cato breathed into Peeta's ear, his hot breath making Peeta shudder.

"Sure, go for it," Peeta answered.

Peeta yelped in shock when Cato lifted him off his feet and placed him ontop of a non-flour coated part of the islet. Cato was instantly on him like a predator, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his skin like it was going out of fashion. "Cato, what are you doing?"

Cato pinched his nipple hard, causing his face to flame in embarrassment and pain. "It's sir, remember your place." He claimed Peeta's lips and caressed them possessively with his tongue. Peeta moaned, still confused as to what was going on.

When Cato ripped his mouth away and began devouring his neck, Peeta risked asking again, "Sir, what are you doing?"

Cato squeezed Peeta's thighs and purred, "Isn't it obvious?" In one expert move he flipped Peeta around onto his stomach. The marble was cold against Peeta's stomach and nipples and he couldn't contain his cry of surprise. "I'm having an early lunch."

"What?"

Cato proceeded to pull the silly lingerie shorts off of Peeta and tugged his body closer so his legs hung over the edge. Peeta was thankful that the islet was not tall as he did not wish to be humiliated by his feet not reaching the floor. He felt Cato's hands on the bare skin of his exposed bottom and still didn't understand what exactly was going on until the very last second.

When Cato buried his fact in his ass and started eating him out.

"Oh!" Peeta gasped, his blood already rushing away from his head. He squirmed feebly against the islet but only succeeded in spreading his legs out further. "Oh god, sir, please don't stop!"

Cato was far from stopping. His tongue had to be charmed or something because the magic he could do with it was inhuman. "Tell me how it feels," he pulled away to order before continuing his actions.

"It feels . . . it feels . . ." What would the right word be? Cato egged Peeta long by squeezing his butt cheeks and pulling them farther apart for more access. Peeta moaned and blurted out the first word that came to mind. "It feels glorious, sir!"

Cato was pleased with this response. He stopped and smirked devilishly when his pet groaned, unsatisfied. He pushed a finger into Peeta's ass and watched as the younger boy groaned in pleasure and shuddered in want. The tip of his finger found the small moist bump that always coaxed the best reactions out of Peeta and he massaged it vehemently. Cato's eyes greedily took in the writhing form of his pet, whose hands scrabbled against the unforgiving marble of the islet and whose back muscles shifted under his skin as he squirmed in the most beautiful way.

"Oh, sir, harder," Peeta begged.

Cato slapped Peeta's ass, a cruel smirk curling onto his face when Peeta cried out in surprise. "What's the magic word?" he teased, pushing his finger against Peeta's prostate until he whined.

"P-please," Peeta stuttered.

"Good boy." Cato reached underneath his pet and rubbed his balls, making sure both got an equal amount of attention, before taking hold of Peeta's cock and rubbing him sensually. Peeta's pants echoed in the kitchen as Cato fucked him with his fingers, his body almost physically unable to handle all the pleasure he was feeling. Peeta pushed up on his tiptoes without realizing and was rocking his hips back onto Cato's fingers, the feeling of both being fingered and jerked off at the same time amazingly overwhelming.

"Next time I fuck you, I'm going to uncover the mirror that's installed on the playroom ceiling," Cato purred, "because I think it's an absolute sin that you can't see how positively delicious you look when you're being fucked."

Peeta moaned. Not at the idea of having to look at himself while Cato fucked him, but for the strong tone Cato used to tell not ask him what was going to happen. "Oh God, sir, I think I'm going to cum!" Peeta cried out, suddenly worried about the hygiene of Cato's kitchen. Undeterred, Cato rubbed Peeta that little bit harder. He caressed the tip of his pet's penis and thursted his fingers in and out of his backside with more vigor. Peeta gasped for breath and writhed against the islet, his body amazingly in sync with Cato's actions. "Aaargh, sir, I c-can't hold on!"

"Just a little longer," Cato replied, being purposely difficult and pressing his thumb over the tip of Peeta's cock to prevent orgasm.

The frustration inside of Peeta built up to the point where he couldn't control himself and before he understood what was happening, he was shouting at Cato in Irish. Well, less shouting, more . . . moaning under his breath. This happened sometimes. When he dated Katniss she used to like it when he murmured some of his native language under his breath while they made out. He and his mother used to also scream at each other in Irish when they were really annoyed with each other, which wasn't any different for Maria but weird for Peeta. It seemed he couldn't control what came out of his mouth when he was strongly angry, sad, aroused or frustrated. And right now, he was extremely frustrated.

Intrigued, Cato asked, "What are you saying?"

Peeta shook his head and pressed the side of his sweaty face against the cool marble of the islet. He panted hard and softly moaned as Cato continued to abuse his body. "You don't want to know, sir."

Cato pressed his finger against Peeta's prostate so a shockwave went through his body, his thumb still pressed against the tip of his cock to prevent orgasm. Peeta groaned and swore under his breath. "As your owner I demand you tell me what you said," Cato ordered.

"I was just saying stuff," Peeta quickly replied. "Like swearing and stuff, sir."

Cato smirked. "Is there an Irish word for 'bitch'?" he asked.

"Yes sir. Bitseach," said Peeta. He felt Cato's soft lips against his shoulder blades and he sighed at the comforting feeling. "Why?"

"You're my little bitseach, Peeta," Cato murmured against his skin. If he didn't have a hand around his cock and fingers up his ass, and wasn't completely and utterly turned on in that moment, Peeta would have probably laughed at how Cato mis-pronounced the Irish word for bitch. However, right now all he could think about was how hot it was to hear his home language in Cato's voice.

"Yes, sir," Peeta moaned back. The tension in his neither regions was almost unbearable and he begged, "Please let me cum, sir, I can't take much more!"

Peeta almost cried with joy when Cato graciously removed his thumb. "There you go, my pet," Cato said affectionately, kissing a wet trail up the line of Peeta's spine as he released his essence all over the kitchen counter. He took Peeta's hand and helped him stand up, smiling when Peeta winced once he was fully erect again. "I have to say, that has to be one of the best lunches I've ever had."

"One of?" Peeta chuckled weakly. He looked at the mess they had made on the counter and turned his nose up in distaste. He was surprised when his stomach growled and he became suddenly aware of the fact that he was painfully starving. "God, I'm hungry."

Cato laughed and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I kind of am too. Seems like eating ass is like scoffing sweets: it tastes wonderful but does nothing in terms of sustainability."

Peeta smiled, a pink flush creeping up on his face. "Yeah, I guess," he said. Cato quirked an interested eyebrow. "Not that I'd know. I'm just agreeing with what you said because you're always right." He busied himself by scooping his underwear up and quickly pulling them on. "Is there anything in particular you'd like for lunch? Proper lunch, I mean?" The silk of the underpants could not prevent the tender twinge the material caused when it brushed against his now sensitive cock.

"What do you think I am, a pig?" Cato laughed. He took Peeta's arm and made him sit at the islet (carefully, so that he didn't hurt him). "I literally just forced you over the kitchen counter, I can't expect you to cook. Besides, I make a mean lasagna."

Peeta watched Cato in surprise as he wiped the islet down and put the rolled out dough aside. "I've never had lasagna before," he said thoughtfully.

"Are you kidding?" Cato asked. "Oh my God, I have to fix this immediately." He spun on his heel and started unloading ingredients from the cupboards. "How can you have never eaten lasagna before? It's-it's appalling!"

"It's just something I've never thought about before," said Peeta. "I don't eat out often so I've never had it made by someone else and when I cook at home it's mainly stews and pies . . . My mother would have made things like Sunday lunches when I was a kid. She loved cooking potatoes."

"Didn't that get boring?" asked Cato.

"Oh no. My Máthair makes the best potatoes. Her chicken dinners are to die for," Peeta explained, that automatic smile that always fell upon his face when he thought of his mother making an appearance. "She hasn't cooked a meal of her own in years but I can remember what it had been like when my entire family would gather at the table on a Sunday afternoon to eat a meal together. The kitchen always smelled of either fresh baked bread or cinnamon because since she didn't work, she spent most of her time baking."

"You speak so fondly of your mother, it's really nice," said Cato. He had this remarkable talent where he could multi-task and still be able to listen to every word that came out of Peeta's mouth. He had some meat frying on a pan and was now chopping some onions up and Peeta was amazed at how he was able to keep up with everything. He struggled with sorting icing and making dough at the same time.

"She's my world, how else should I talk about her?" Peeta inquired.

"It's sweet," Cato smiled.

Peeta pulled the rolled out dough towards himself and used the cookie cutter to cut out some shapes into it before it hardened and was ruined. Cato pulled the other cookies out of the oven and placed them on a cooling rack to cool down. Peeta was thankful, he'd completely forgotten about them. "What about your mother? Did she cook?"

There was a pause where Cato just stood and stirred the meat in the pan. Peeta waited, having expected that he was only trying to think of what to say. "My parents actually died when I was a baby," he finally said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Peeta replied.

"No, it's fine. There isn't much to miss if you never knew them," said Cato.

"Who raised you, if you don't mind me asking?" Peeta asked.

"I was raised in an Orphanage," Cato answered.

"No family?" asked Peeta.

"Nope." Cato said this with so much ease and without much conviction. Peeta would have thought that not having any family to speak of was upsetting but Cato didn't seem to mind at all. Noticing the shift in the air, Cato said, "I don't worry over things that aren't important and, in my eyes, family has never been a priority."

"But every . . . everyone needs a family," Peeta frowned.

Cato smiled and reached across the islet to touch Peeta's face. "You don't need to worry about me, Peeta. I can already see those cogs turning in your head, trying to come up with something to say to make me feel better. It wasn't one of those horror stories where the children are neglected or abused by those who worked there," he said.

"I just . . . surely you have someone," Peeta insisted.

Cato shook his head. "Your big heart is going to get you into trouble someday," he said. Despite this, he was smiling. "It's not your job to look after me, it's my job to look after you. Understand?"

"I guess . . ." Peeta muttered. Worrying was like a second nature to him. He constantly worried about his mother, he worried about his future, now he was going to worry about Cato too. He just couldn't help it. It seemed that he had grown to care for Cato, which wasn't a good situation to be in since Cato had already adamantly insisted that he did not develop feelings for subs. It seemed that having sex was not as intimate an act for Cato as it had grown to be for Peeta.

"Good." Cato stole a kiss and ruffled Peeta's hair before resuming his cooking.

Peeta could only hope now that the feelings would pass.

~T~

Peeta sat in bed with the covers over his lap, trying to bite a hangnail off his finger. He hated hangnails, they were so hard to pull off and always caught on clothes and other materials. Cato sat at the edge of the bed, doing some finalizing on his PDA. When he finished, he flipped the thing shut and climbed in beside Peeta.

"You just going straight to sleep?" asked Peeta. Sometimes Cato read or they chatted for a bit before going to sleep.

"Yeah," answered Cato. Without another word, he threw the covers over his head and crawled to the end of the bed. Every night, before going to sleep, Cato had to make Peeta cum at least once. It was like part of his routine or something. Like it put him at ease for the night knowing that his pet was satisfied. Peeta still had to grow used to this and forgot every single time that Cato almost had to do this. It was one of Cato's OCD-like master quirks.

Peeta watched the moving duvet lump that was Cato apprehensively, already beginning to tremble in anticipation. It was strange, being part of such an apt routine that involved his compliance and good behaviour. Especially since the schedule concerned Cato not being able to rest peacefully without getting Peeta to orgasm.

Fingers curled into the waistband of his underwear and Peeta held his breath, lifting his hips and allowing Cato to pull them off. He could swear Cato groped him without reason as he slid the garment off of him but he didn't mind all that much. His body did belong to Cato for the foreseeable future, he could do with it what he wanted. Which, it seemed, having random gropes of his ass.

Peeta allowed Cato to spread his legs apart. He curled his fingers into the duvet as he felt his owner's warm breath against his private parts and he released his breath as huge gust of air. "Sir?" Peeta whimpered, a little nervous due to the fact that his neither regions were still a little tender from earlier.

"Yes?" asked Cato, his hands sliding up Peeta's thighs and resting on his hips.

"Please be gentle," Peeta whispered, his voice lost amongst the conflicting emotions he always felt in Cato's presence.

"Aren't I always?"

"Well yeah-except when you're not."

"Any time I inflict pain, it is in your best interests," Cato answered. Peeta whined when his blood rushed warm as Cato's breath seemed to almost caress his body. "Spread a little wider and don't forget to moan for me, okay baby?"

"Okay Cat-Aaargh! I mean sir!" Cato's fingernails dug into his backside so hard it almost felt like it was going to draw blood. "Sir, I meant to say sir, I swear!"

"Shut up and stop fretting," Cato scolded, his voice muffled under the covers. "Let me work now."

Work. Peeta almost scoffed. "I don't even know if I'll have the stamina for th-IS!" Peeta's voice tapered into a squeak as Cato's mouth engulfed his penis. "Oh fu. . ." Peeta bit his lip, his chest unable to catch any sensible form of breath. His feet slipped off a little and he yelped, blushing furiously as his knees knocked against Cato's temples.

"Ow!" Cato exclaimed.

"Sorry, sir!" Peeta exclaimed back. "My feet just . . . they just slipped!" Concerned by how hard his knees had actually hit Cato, Peeta lifted the duvet and grabbed the back of Cato's shirt. "Come here, let me see."

"It's fine," said Cato, trying to pull back.

"Have you ever had a concussion before, sir?" asked Peeta.

"No," Cato answered.

"Then just let me check, sir," Peeta insisted. When Cato was still reluctant, and tried to continue sucking Peeta off, Peeta whimpered, his back bowing away from the headboard of the bed. His fingers curled into Cato's shirt and he kept tugging. "Come on, just let me check. You can finish off your . . . uh . . . job . . . once I'm sure you're okay."

"God, you and your fussing," Cato muttered. However, he let Peeta pull him up out of the covers

Once Cato's head came out from underneath the covers, his hair sticking up with static, Peeta framed his face in his hands and examined his eyes to check for any signs of concussion. "I'm always fussing, you know that," Peeta murmured, thankful that he hadn't done any damage to Cato's head. "I'm sorry about that. My feet just sort of slipped on the mattress sheets."

"It's alright, I'm okay," said Cato. He tried to slip back under the covers but Peeta had become entranced by his eyes. He didn't let go of Cato's face and instead stared at his eyes in a fascinated way. The green of them. It was so refined. He couldn't believe it. It was beautiful. His fingers twitched, desperate to recreate the colour with his paints.

"Is there something on my face?" Cato quipped.

"No, it's just . . . your eyes are so . . . I can't even find the right word for them," said Peeta in awe.

"My eyes? Says the one with the inhuman baby blues," Cato responded. Peeta blushed. He used the tips of his fingers to touch the hair brushed behind Cato's ears, enjoying the way the silky hairs caressed his fingertips and using his master's distraction to his advantage. Cato leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Peeta's right eyebrow.

"Cato, have you always been a dom, or have you submitted before?" Peeta asked.

"I tried once." Cato propped himself up on one elbow, his body lined up perfectly with Peeta's and pressing him into the mattress in a comfortable way. With a hand now free, he reached out and swiped his thumb along Peeta's bottom lip. "It didn't work. I couldn't take it. It increased my respect for my subs, however. There's no way I could do what you do."

"Why's that?" Peeta asked.

"I suppose it's in my nature to be in control," Cato shrugged. He leaned forward and captured Peeta's lips, savouring the kiss and taking his sweet time before pulling away. "I just can't be tied down, I almost panic at the very idea."

Peeta's hand slipped down to Cato's cheek and he stroked the faint stubble on his master's face with his thumb. "Why do you think you panic?" he asked gently.

"I'm sure it's some psychological thing," said Cato. "I'm sure if I went to a therapist they would say that my need for dominance is linked to my lack of control in my childhood or something like that."

"Do you think that's what it comes from?" asked Peeta. "Your childhood?"

"I think it's just because I like being in control," said Cato. He kissed Peeta again, neither of them aware of how intimate the situation had gotten. Peeta had never been so close to Cato, had never touched his face or hold him in any way what-so-ever. Cato was also being strangely gentle. Of course, he was always careful with Peeta but there was something different about this form of careful. It was affectionate and familiar.

"Sure, but so do many others," Peeta asked between kisses. "What do you think made it reach the extent that it has?"

"The extent?" Cato quirked an eyebrow at Peeta, clearly indicating for him to go on.

"I mean . . . no one's born with the desire to lead such a . . . different . . . lifestyle," Peeta tried to explain. "Right? I mean, surely it has to develop over a certain length of time. Like it was incubated by something that made it grow or . . . something?"

"I don't know, I was a pretty controlling kid," Cato shrugged. "I always had to be group leader; team captain; the one in charge basically. It's probably just something that moved on into my adult life. Besides, I like the way my sex life is. I'm perfectly comfortable with my lifestyle. I doubt it really matters what the origin story is. I'm incredibly happy with where my life is right now. Aren't you?"

Peeta chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "Relatively?" he answered unsurely.

"Relatively?" Cato repeated. He nestled his face in the crook of Peeta's neck and sighed. "You shouldn't settle for anything less than completely and utterly happy," he mumbled into the smaller boy's skin.

"I'm okay with relatively," Peeta said. He wound his fingers into Cato's hair, content with just lying there without sex or feeling obligated to do something sexual at all.

"I have your satchel."

Peeta froze underneath Cato. It all came back to him. He wasn't shocked or surprised, he just hadn't noticed that for the past few days he hadn't been carrying his satchel around. He had left it in Cato's office on Wednesday. "Oh," he whispered. "Did-did you look in it?"

Cato smiled into Peeta's neck. "I did," he murmured.

"Why?"

"I didn't go hoking around in your stuff if that's what you're worried about," said Cato. "When I found your bag sitting by the couch in my office and I picked it up, the Velcro ripped open and the flap fell open. Your stuff spilled out onto the floor."

Peeta's heart sank. He knew that his satchel was old, and that the Velcro sometimes broke open, so he handled the bag with care. But Cato didn't know that. He lifted his bag without realizing that the flap would snap. He saw what was inside out of pure accident. He suddenly felt this urge to curl up into a ball and crawl away into a hole where he would spend eternity basking in his horror.

"You're very talented," said Cato, as if this would help. "I know you said you were interested in art but those paintings . . . they were . . . they were amazing."

"I don't-they weren't meant to be-I didn't . . ." Peeta couldn't find the right words to explain what was going on. He suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. "They were just a joke. I was just sort of pretending that I was applying for Art College. I do it every now and again just . . . just because . . . because . . ."

"You don't have to explain yourself, you know," said Cato. "It's okay to do what you enjoy sometimes. You don't need an alibi or an explanation."

Peeta shook his head. "No, I'm wasting my time. There's no point in me doing it, it's stupid. I always just sort of carry them around just . . . just because I can't leave them behind at home. Y'know, in case someone I don't want to finds it."

"What, like me?" Cato smirked. He lifted his head and brushed the hair away from Peeta's forehead. "I don't see why you shouldn't want someone to see them. You're amazingly talented."

Peeta rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh," he muttered. "I should have quit long ago. The more I entertain the idea that I can accomplish something like Art College the more I'm going to waste my time. It's stupid."

Cato frowned. "Surely you could still apply. Your work-what I saw of it anyway-was so beautiful, so inspired, so meticulously completed it's clear how much effort you put into every corner of your sketches and paintings. You'd have no trouble getting into Art College. They wouldn't even second guess your talent, you'd get in easily."

"No," Peeta said, shaking his head. "I don't intend to apply for anything. Especially not with those drawings in the satchel."

"You shouldn't waste such a talent," Cato insisted.

"I can't Cato," Peeta replied. He squirmed out from underneath Cato and sat on the edge of the bed. "I can't. I have my mother to look after. She can't cope on her own. The fact that I'm here is a favour I have arranged with our neighbour because Máthair wouldn't let me care for her over the weekend, no matter how much I insisted to her that I could do it. I don't have time for College."

Cato scooted closer to Peeta and gently placed his hands on his shoulders. "I'm sure there's a way you could care for your mother and still go to College."

"No, Cato, there isn't. Trust me, if there was a way, I'd have thought of it," Peeta said.

Cato rubbed his thumbs into Peeta's back, trying to comfort him a little. Peeta's eyes rolled behind his head and he sighed in content. "Have you ever thought of-and I say this gently-a nursing home?" Cato asked cautiously.

"What?! No! I am not sending Máthair to a nursing home!" Peeta snapped.

"Okay, okay, calm down, it was only a suggestion," Cato said gently.

"A suggestion I didn't ask for!"

"Peeta," Cato said, his voice firm and warning, "watch your tone."

Peeta frowned to himself but conceited. "Sorry," he muttered. "I love my mother too much to send her away to some home. She's had enough people ditching her in her life time and I'm not going to be one of them, you hear me, Cato? I'm just . . . I'm just not!" He pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration and groaned.

"You can still visit people in Nursing Homes," Cato said carefully. He spoke like he was treading on ice, something he told himself he'd never do for a sub. "You could still see her every day. Just not as often. You wouldn't have to worry about her care. You wouldn't be abandoning her."

Peeta put his head in his hands. The idea was unthinkable. Take his mother from her home-the place she had lived her entire life-just to put her in an alien environment? No. "I don't care," Peeta answered. "I'm not sending her away. I've had this conversation before. Nothing you can say will change my mind."

"Who have you spoken to about it?" asked Cato.

"Katniss and Delly have tried to talk me into it before," answered Peeta.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that your ex expresses so much interest in your life?" Cato frowned.

Peeta shook his head. "What? No," he replied.

"I don't know. It just seems . . . weird. Are you sure it's completely platonic? I know you are but is she?"

"Yes," Peeta said slowly. "Katniss is like my sister."

"Yeah, a sister you've dated," Cato muttered.

Peeta wretched away from Cato, facing him with a frown. "What exactly is your problem?" he demanded. "Are you jealous of Katniss or something?"

Cato narrowed his eyes dangerously. "I'd watch how you talk to me Peeta. Last warning."

"You are, you're avoiding the question!" Peeta accused. "Cato, Katniss isn't a threat, she's . . . well, she's just Katniss!"

"Peeta, I'm not jealous."

"Katniss is my friend! We're just really close, that's all!" Peeta exclaimed. "I don't understand why you would feel threatened!"

Cato lurched forward and grabbed Peeta by the waist, spinning them around on the bed until the smaller boy was pinned underneath him. Peeta stared at him in shock. "I told you it was your last warning!" Cato snapped.

"Well, maybe if you just admitted that you're jealous and that maybe it's possible that you are capable of feeling such things other than lust and greed I wouldn't have to talk to you like this!" Peeta shouted back. He didn't know why he was so bothered, maybe it was because Cato's suggestion of putting his mother in a home had riled him up, but the idea that anything was going between himself and Katniss was the final straw.

"I'm not jealous, I've hung out with exes all the time!" Cato yelled.

"People who you've forced to their knees, bound up and fucked in the past don't count!" Peeta fired back. He didn't even bother squirming as Cato roughly grabbed his wrists and forced them against the mattress. He was too focused on pouring all his pent up anger into one, burning stare.

"I don't have any reason to be jealous," said Cato. His lips attached themselves to the sensitive skin underneath Peeta's jawbone. The younger boy's composure wavered but he still managed to cling to his anger and hold it in his chest where it felt like it was going to burst out any second. "Why should I be worried about something I already own? Your body belongs to me, I don't have to envy anyone because what I want is already mine."

Peeta wondered-not for the first time-what it was that Cato saw in him. He barely had a muscle to his name, nor did he really find his face all that appealing. Maybe Cato had a thing for those who were plain looking. "I'm not really in the mood," he murmured. Despite saying this, he wasn't making any move to stop Cato from practically slobbering over his neck. "Although for some reason I feel that won't stop you."

"You did cause a distraction by trying to check for a concussion, even though I told you no. Count your blessings you're not being punished," Cato threatened.

Peeta was still irritated and wasn't in the mood for playing nice. "Well sorry sir," he said pointedly, "I won't worry about your welfare next time! If it's going to get me punished then I just won't bother!"

"Good!" Cato replied. He kissed Peeta fiercely, the kiss so powerful it pushed the smaller boy into the cushions. Peeta wanted to move his hands; to lift them up and touch Cato's face; his hair; his arms; his body. But Cato wouldn't let him do it. Peeta tried to pull himself away but Cato was too strong. For the first time since this whole arrangement began did he feel completely helpless.

Cato, fuelled by rage and frustration, was rough but efficient. He used a discarded scarf to bind Peeta's wrists to the headboard of the bed before pushing his shirt up to his chin and attacking the alabaster skin that lay underneath. Cato was greedy, his mouth devouring Peeta's slim torso messily, leaving sparkling trails of saliva on his skin that snaked from the middle of his abdomen to across his waistline and sides.

Peeta couldn't breathe. It was like the room had been rid of all oxygen, all of it completely sucked out and replaced with a thick, almost musty, stale imposter of air behind. It was a lot to take in all at once. Half an hour ago they had been ready for bed, one quick orgasm away from a peaceful night's sleep, and between then and where they were now Peeta had nearly concussed Cato; they had had an out of character heart-to-heart; Cato tried to talk him into going to college to pursue art and to put his mother into a Nursing Home; had a ridiculous argument over envy and Katniss; and now Cato was . . . what? Punishing Peeta? Channeling his anger into a quick fuck? Groping him for the sake of groping him?

A tiny breath caught in Peeta's throat as Cato's gorgeous pink lips enclosed around one of his nipples, while one of his hands simultaneously grasped his throbbing cock. "Ngh," Peeta groaned, not sure what 'Ngh' stood for, nor did he doubt he would ever discover what it did stand for. His body lifted from the bed and his wrists begged to be freed.

It was a quick fuck. The bedroom equivalent to a quickie in a public cubicle. Peeta concluded that Cato was funneling his anger into the sex as he didn't give him prep before he entered him and each thrust was clearly executed for getting Cato off, not Peeta. Of course, Peeta still came, as Cato would not be able to sleep that night if he didn't, but it had to be the most limited of orgasms. Could an orgasm even be limited?

It did not end there, either. Once the sex was over, Cato sat against the headboard of the bed and put Peeta over his knees, naked and still trembling from the after-effect of being fucked so hard that he was still experiencing aftershocks, and spanked him from his blatant disobedience. Peeta supposed it fair, since he ignored Cato's warnings during their argument and seemed to completely forget where he stood and what his place was.

However, once the spanking finished, Cato's more tender self returned. Peeta couldn't deny that he was thankful, as his ass burned like hot coals and he didn't know how many more smacks he would have been able to take before he'd have to shout warmth. Peeta didn't intend to call the safe word too often-he still cursed himself for using it instead over just admitting what Cato had wanted him to admit, since saying it out loud didn't mean he had to believe it-because he wanted to prove how capable he was of being a good sub.

"You have to know I only want what's best for you," Cato said gently, his palm smoothing gentle caresses over the curve of Peeta's abused behind.

"I understand, sir," Peeta mumbled into the duvet. "I just didn't know that our agreement meant that you would take such an interest in my private life."

"It means that since you belong to me, in accordance to the temporary contract, I can offer advice and aid on things relating to your personal life but I cannot interfere without your expressed permission," Cato explained.

"I don't remember reading that," said Peeta.

"I know, I had to come up with it after the 6 month contract had been signed by you," Cato replied.

"Why's that?"

"Because I've never been interested in a sub's personal life before."

Peeta couldn't understand why, if Cato had never been interested in a sub's personal life until now, he chose his particular life to be interested in. His life was boring as hell! "I see," was all he could conjure up in response.

Cato threaded his fingers through Peeta's silky locks and stroked his head lovingly. Peeta almost purred, a heat blooming in his chest that stayed there instead of falling to his crotch like it usually did. "Although, next time you ignore me so blatantly, it will be worse than some rough sex and a spanking for you," he warned.

Peeta's body tensed, the thought of what Cato would do to him exciting him in an incredibly exhilarating fashion. "What would you do with me, sir?" he asked in his best sultry voice.

Cato placed a hand over Peeta's mouth and purred into his ear, "I'd just have to ball gag you, chain your ankles to the same bed posts as your wrists and fuck your tight hole with an ice dildo until you came over yourself over and over again like the dirty whore you are."

Peeta shuddered. He still didn't understand how such things could turn him on but he could already feel his cock waking up a little at the idea. However, he still couldn't completely understand why Cato was so interested in whether he went to college or whether he pursued art or not. It had nothing to do with him, or their 'relationship', or the arrangement between them. It didn't make sense.

Was Cato, dare he say it, developing feelings for him too?

A/N: Thoughts would be great! :)