“I would never have believed this, years ago, that the boy with the bread would become my friend, my sweetheart. I would never have believed it if someone had told me I’d be full of anticipation for my wedding day. That sort of thing was impossible for the girl who survived day to day on what she could scrounge and shoot. She remains a part of me, that girl, afraid that the beautiful things she’s opened her heart to might be taken away at any moment. For some reason, she decided this was worth the risk.”
A couple weeks ago or so @rosegardeninwinter requested a neck kisses fic. This is being trying to oblige 🥰. Ngl after my recent experience posting fic, I’m super nervous now but I figure why not hurry up and get back on the horsey. So anyways, this fic is essentially so sugary it should give you a cavity 😍. So brave yourselves.
For some reason, my nightmares never really changed. In the three years that’d taken place since the war, I had yet to experience anything truly new or inventive from my psyche.
From Cato being eaten by mutts, having his flesh torn bite by bite from the bone beneath to Clove chasing me down until my legs give out and I land on the cold, wet dirt, having no other choice but awaiting the stab of her knife. From Mags running into the fog, only to have her body implode, to have pieces of her rain upon all of us to Finnick making it to the top of the ladder, to safety seemingly, only to fall downwards again anyways, landing right in the mutts’ grasp, his body torn to pieces in seconds, watching him suffer before I finally blew up the halo and definitively end his agony. To the haunting requiem of my little sister, standing in the Capitol Square, trying to save ailed children around her, only to be blown sky high before my very eyes. None of my dreams in the last three years have seen much change.
So I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked by what other nightmare tends to circulate my unconscious. It should have been expected—I should have expected it—that my reunion with Peeta in Thirteen would be finding its way into my dreams too.
It’s another reoccurring nightmare. One that’s come up seven or eight times since the war. But it never does get easier. The recollection of that moment never does get any easier to bear.
I think the worst part of the dream is the fact that none of it is fabricated. Unlike the nightmares of Cato and Mags, which are highly false, or even the remembrance of my sister’s death which is a bit exaggerated, this dream is the only one that is shocking and terrifying enough, all on its own merits.
It happens perfectly accurate to the reality. At least the reality according to my memory.
I walk in, excited beyond measure to see Peeta again, alive and safe. I imagine him kissing me, hugging me, holding him close to me, feeling his heart beat beneath my ear. I feel the same anticipation I felt back three years ago, as if it were happening all over again.
And I don’t know if I honestly believed, back in that moment, that our reunion would go necessarily that picturesque, but I do know that I believed it would be a celebratory moment.
I know I never believed it to go the way it did.
In the dream, just the same as my memory, I walk into the room. I race towards him, the same as him, it seems for a moment.
My lips are forming his name when his hands lock around my throat.
The dream is horrific in every way, but in no way more so than the moment the choking starts. Because in that exact second, I recognize what’s coming. I understand then it’s just a dream.
But it’s one I must live out to the end, under Peeta is cold-cocked and I’ve passed completely out from the lack of necessary oxygen.
When I wake, as always, I’m shaking in fear. There’s tears running down my face. And I’m screaming. I’m flying upwards and screaming on top of my lungs.
And Peeta, my companion in the nightmare and now in life, is next to me, already sitting up against the headboard, waiting for this to come. Waiting for me to awake and cry out.
Which is a clear indicator that I was evidently talking in my sleep.
I struggle to catch my breath for second, my whole posture hunching over as the images of the event fade from my mind.
As soon as my body language relaxes even the slightest bit, Peeta’s placing a hand on my back, very carefully. This experience isn’t new to him either, despite the fact that he can’t recall for the life of him the moment it actually occurred. Unlike every other nightmare, Peeta has learned the hard way not to touch me as soon as I wake from this one. Until I’m sure of my surroundings, until I know I’m in my bedroom, that I’m with him and he’s Peeta again and I’m safe and it’s all over, it’s not a good idea for him to touch me.
Memories of sustained bruises, claw marks across his cheek, and my surprisedly swift attack serve as proof of that.
As if the feeling of his warm hand on my now sweaty back relays me into action, I’m breaking to pieces, I’m crying real, frantic tears and lunging forward, practically throwing myself into his warm and inviting arms.
Peeta readily holds me on his lap, rocking me back and forth just as he did on the beach, after the jabberjays were done with me. Just like then, he whispers soothing words to me, trying to calm down my shaking, whispering directly into my ear.
Unlike in the arena though, Peeta leans in and kisses the shell of my ear, gently massaging it with his lips. “It’s okay,” he promises as I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent of vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own, feeling his soft skin against my cheek, having the insane urge to press my mouth to it, to feel him with my lips suddenly.
I don’t act on the impulse but it’s one I definitely consider. It’s something I imagine doing, that I never would have allowed myself to picture three years ago.
His hand trails up the side of my shirt, rubbing my bare side, trying to calm me through his soft touch. “You’re okay,” he whispers once again, his lips finding my forehead, kissing there repeatedly, like he does when we make love.
I sigh against him, feeling a shudder run through my body, like the dream has to physically work its way out. “I hate that dream,” I complain against him, my voice still not strong enough to speak and therefore breaking as I try.
Apparently my tone upsets him too because I feel him clutch me tighter now. “I know,” he says remorsefully.
“I wish I could erase it from my memory,” I continue as he kisses my hair now.
“I know, baby.”
Neither of us speak again for a long time, instead just laying in a heap against the headboard, Peeta holding me to him, never letting go for even a second.
Eventually Peeta breaks the silence. “Do you want to try sleeping again?”
I shrug, still too shaken by the visions playing behind my lids to consciously decide. “I don’t know.”
He gently scoots me off his lap, moving to lay with me on my side on the mattress, snuggling his body up close behind. Snuggling so close that I can feel every uneven breath he takes in, feel every tiny beat of his heart against my shoulder blade, feel the way his breath tickles the back of my neck.
The area feels sensitive again now, feels like it should still have bruises on it, feels like I still shouldn’t be speaking.
Unconsciously, my hand raises up to touch it, to feel it, bracing myself for the tenderness and pain that rationally I’m aware are long gone.
And of course, Peeta notices.
I feel a tear hit my shoulder, where his face is buried and my heart breaks in an entirely different way. In an entirely worse way.
“I’m sorry,” I croak softly, because I am. I hate that these nightmares, that my residual flashbacks and phantom pain all take their toll on him as well.
“No,” he refuses and I feel him tug on my hip, silently imploring me to turn around and face him. “No, this is about what I did to you. You’re not the one who’s going to apologize, Katniss.”
The tears in my eyes are still fresh though and there’s so many of them, ready to fall at a second’s notice and I can’t hold them back now.
“It wasn’t you,” I insist.
“Is that why you’re always afraid of me touching you after this dream?”
He has me there and my lip trembles even more as I break eye contact.
“No, Katniss, don’t cry,” he pleads now, his baby blues growing desolate with the request. “Come here.”
He guides my face closer to his, pressing his lips to my quivering mouth with awe and tenderness, consoling me in a way that is so intimate, it makes me grateful I didn’t realize I loved him until after the cameras were gone. Until every prying lense was as far away from me and Peeta as humanly possible. I’d never want anyone else to steal these tiny moments from us now. I want these touches to only belong to me and him.
He kisses my lips, eliciting the simmer of a spark between us that we both know I’m in no shape to build. But that’s not what these kisses are for. Peeta doesn’t want to make love. He wants to show me his love, show me physically all the ways in which he could never hurt me like that again, show me all the ways that what happened couldn’t have been him. Couldn’t have been the real him, if his life depended on it.
His lips move from my mouth to my cheek, to sides of my face, across my temples, over my forehead, my hairline, softly between my bushy eyebrows.
“My beautiful girl,” he whispers reverently and I feel his hand slide up the front of my shirt now, massaging the warm skin there.
I close my eyes as the sensation of his kisses relaxes me a little, as they replace the feeling of imminent dread, of gut digging anxiety, with a warmth, a safety, a feeling of love and peace and comfort, that only Peeta has ever been able to give me.
“I wish I could take it all away,” he whispers as his lips hover over mine again.
I surprise him by leaning up and giving him an unexpected peck. “It’s just a memory now, Peeta,” I try to say nonchalantly.
But he doesn’t seem convinced. “One you have to deal with because of me.”
“One that isn’t your fault,” I correct pointedly.
Both his hands unconsciously run up and down my ribcage now, causing me to shudder once again, for a completely new reasons this time. The sensation is enough to make me close my eyes in pleasure, enough to elicit a tingly feeling in my lower back.
“Hey, Katniss?” Peeta whispers after a soothing stretch of silence.
I know something’s on his mind when he starts a sentence like that. “What?”
“Do you trust me?” He asks in all earnestness.
My heart practically breaks in my chest, as I catch that horrible forlorn glint in his blue gaze now. “Of course I trust you, Peeta,” I affirm, reaching up sleepily and cupping his cheek. He turns his head and kisses the inside of my palm, his mouth lingering there for a beat.
“Will you lean your head back for me?” He requests, one of his hands moving to my back, the other coming to rub circles on my lower stomach, right below my belly button.
I don’t know why he’s asking and I find the request rather strange, but I do trust him and I want him to believe me—and more than anything, I want him to trust himself—so I do as he asks and tip my head back against the mattress.
I watch curiously as Peeta leans down slowly, first coming to press his lips to the cleft in the center of my chin, moving downwards subtly to kiss the underside of my jaw.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against my clammy skin. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”
His lips travel downwards, to my neck, directly to the place where he tried to kill me. It feels like only a few minutes ago, Peeta was trying to strangle the life out of me, in the exact same spot he’s now ravishing.
“Don’t apologize,” I try to say but the words get caught in my throat as his mouth opens a little, as he applies the sweetest pressure against my throat with every ounce of care in his body.
His thumbs massage the sides of my hips, the bare skin beneath my shirt. “Don’t worry about me,” he whispers as he presses another kiss, a wet, openmouthed kiss, closer to the side of my neck now. “Just relax, Katniss. I’m right here.”
I let my eyes fall shut as he continues to suckle on my sensitive skin, his gentle kisses healing what his hands hurt.
He’s massaging a specifically enjoyable spot, near where my throat becomes my collarbone, when I hear him murmur into my flesh, “I love you, Katniss.”
“I love you too,” I whisper but his mouth moves to my pulse point and I shudder—in pleasure this time—deeply, unable to focus on verbal sentiments at the moment.
Peeta seems to understand this. He doesn’t appear to expect any sort of response to his declaration. Instead his hands trail up my body further and his lips travel back to the underside of my chin once again and I close my eyes again, letting my back roll into the mattress as my husband continues his ministrations.
I absently pet down his wild blonde curls, hoping he already knows I love him. Hoping he can sense it with every touch, every glance, every word.
Based on a real instances that may have happened this weekend. So this is a vent drabble. Married!Everlark Daddy!Peeta Mommy!Katniss at a children's Birthday Party.
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As planned, Willow, Rye and I show up to the final hour of Odair’s party for their 3 year old. Peeta and our youngest, Violet attended the whole party today. Peeta worked his magic with sweets and preschool-age crowd control.
Rye heads right for his daddy and dives into his arms with little more than eye contact as a warning.
I know the drill, I mentally prepared in advance for the mundane small talk with parents. A handful of parents have already gravitated to Peeta before Rye barreled into his arms for the usual manhandling that 5 year old boys demand.
I take a quick peek at Willow. Oh good, she found her best friend little Finn Odair. They're chasing each other around with empty squirt guns. I laugh to myself as I think of how much that resembles a young Gale and I.
Okay time to mingle. I step up to where Peeta is multitasking a conversation with a few parents while tickling our giggling son and dangling him upside down.
Peeta's amazing, so great with kids and people. I can't help the smile that spreads when my eyes meet his.
I glance to my right and start your classic light party conversation. Observations of the happenings around the room, and funny childish behaviors we can see. I add in a joke about cupcakes and the sugar rush we're in for.
"Gerd your loins now!" Might have been something awkward I said. I'm terrible at small talk.
“Have you been here the whole time?" I ask the mom I've been talking with.
She laughs a little a nods. “It's been nuts, the Odairs would be in way over there head if they didn't have such great friends to help.” She smiles in Peeta's direction.
I nod and smile in agreement.
“Yeah, Peeta is so good with the kids! He made the cupcakes. He told you that, right?” I ask her.
She's still kind of looking off, remembering something. She nods at my questions.
Then sees her son.
“Ryker, put that down honey!” She commands to the little boy in the corner, ready to pummel another kid with a monster truck. Clearly Ryker is exhibiting an age appropriate desire for attention by showing poor behavior. Attention he seeks either from the other child or is mom.
She clenches her teeth in annoyance, then takes a deep breath.
“Which 3 year old is yours?” The blond with green eyes and a little too much makeup for a children's party asks.
“Oh, Which child was specifically invited?” I ask, for clarification.
She nods, clearly wondering if I'm stupid.
Don't look at me like that woman! Violet is still 2 and we were all invited. I don't say any of this obviously.
I point to Violet, playing with the other little girls in the dress up trunk. I can't help but smile, she's so much like my sister. With that bright smile and blue eyes she could pass for Prim’s offspring instead of my own.
“Violet is our youngest.” I confirm.
“But Violet is Peeta's…” she pauses for a moment, the question on her face turns into a subtle glare.
I just nod. Indifferent to her response.
“He was the obvious choice to go with Violet. He loves kids, look, they love him! It also made it easy for me to bring the older two--”
“Older two?” She interrupts, now ‘Ryker’s Mom’ wears a deep scowl.
I'm perplexed. Maybe I should explain?
“Yeah...Rye.” I point to the 5 year old with wavy blond hair sitting in Peeta's shoulders.
“And Willow.” I point my thumb in the direction of the dark haired 7 year old in two braids chasing a red-headed Finnick Odair tiny human replica.
Now this blonde with too much makeup is starting to irk me. I notice a few more buttons on her blouse are open than I would wear, revealing some cleavage. At a children's birthday party?
I fold my arms, and try not to laugh. Oh… oh. She's totally into my Peeta.
I mean. I guess who wouldn't be?
‘Ryker’s Mom’ is still gives me a questioning look.
I can't help but be annoyed. Who does this bitch think she is? What is with this judgement? AND did she honestly think she could pick up my Peeta at a birthday party? ...nope.
Fortunately, Violet runs toward me.
“Mama! Mama! Yo heew!” She says in her little two year old speech impediment, as she raises her arms to be picked up.
I scoop her up in my arms and she pulls my face to hers so that we rub noses. Violet laughs, just like her daddy, so jovial.
“I missed you!” She tells me. Typical almost 3 year old, missing mommy already.
“But you had so much fun with Daddy at Emmy’s Party!” I insist.
Violet smiles and nods, the little dimples make an appearance. I just melt every time.
Who knew I could be so sentimental when my children look like and act like their daddy?
It still amazes me.
This woman interrupts our moment by clearing her throat, clearly needing attention.
I guess we know where her son gets that.
I turn to her, two year old cuddled in my arms.
“So Peeta's your--?”
“My husband.” I answer the woman quickly with a mask of indifference.
She nods, then had the gall to blatantly ogle Peeta from heat to toe.
She then looks back at me, annoyed.
Are you f---ing kidding me?! I say in my mind.
“You're a very lucky woman.” She says slowly and bitterly, with a hint of sadness.
Instead of telling her to f--- off or let her know she’s affected me, I smile.
“Yes I am.” I say, more to Peeta. I watch him entertain a crowd of parents, they burst out laughing at something he said. He's so much better at small talk.
He catches my gaze and winks at me. I still grow weak in the knees after all these years. This deep blue eyes hold me captive for a moment.
At that, Blondie grabs her son Ryker and leaves the party with a kicking and screaming 3 year old and no explanation.
I'm not saying a word to Peeta.
Madge and Annie are going to hear all about this little incident but not my husband.
I know how lucky I am.
Marriage is hard sometimes, especially with 3 small children. I can be quite the surly bitch sometimes. He puts up with a lot from me.
I silently make a promise to thank him later, after all the kids are in bed. I will appreciate him properly tonight, in the bedroom, when we're alone.
He looks at me again and I try to give him a smoldering look. He bits his bottom lip with heated look in response.
