This was written for otrascosasseries on Tumblr, she's so supportive and so quick to dole out compliments and make stunning banners for the fandom. This wee bit of fluffy smutty canon Everlark is a very tiny thanks to her!
I can't take my eyes off her, can barely even blink. She's on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth and moaning, a long stream of primal sounds fall from her pursed pink lips, punctuated by grunts and curses.
My hands shake and I'm breathing hard, sweating profusely, but I notice that somehow her hair stays perfectly coiled on top of her head.
When the desperate keening begins I know Katniss won't last much longer. We've been at this nearly 10 minutes already, I don't think she's ever held out so long before. A moment later I'm proven right.
"Dammit, Peeta," she groans, pushing herself up awkwardly, "I can't take anymore of this." She stomps away and I blow out a forceful breath, wiping my damp palms on my trousers and reaching for the remote to pause the action onscreen. The shrieking cuts off abruptly and the image freezes on the face of a painted Capitol woman, mouth wide in a now silent scream. I take a few moments to calm my breathing and clear my head before following her.
She's at the kitchen sink, hands braced against the counter, staring out the window over the dark yard. Tension radiates from her in waves. I move behind her and wrap my arms around her. She leans into me, rubbing her head against my shoulder like a cat. She's not angry, that's a good sign. I press a kiss to her temple and murmur into her hair. "I'm sorry, Katniss."
"You don't need the videos, Peeta," she says, and I nod. It's the same argument we've had every week since Dr. Aurelius started sending them. "They're not even realistic," she huffs and I sigh.
"They're the best I can do," I counter. "I can't risk losing myself when it happens." Though I haven't had a violent episode since the end of the war I do still occasionally have flashbacks, a lingering side effect of the highjacking I suffered at the hands of President Snow's scientists in the Capitol. Stress and exhaustion make them harder to fight off, and I know this is going to be one of the most stressful occasions of my life, despite how excited I am.
"Oh, Peeta," she sighs and the frustration is clear in her voice. "That won't happen, you're going to be amazing." She turns in my arms then and I have to take a half step backwards to make room for her belly.
It's taken five, ten, fifteen years to get here. When we first returned to District 12 after the war we were both so broken, all of our efforts went into healing: ourselves and, eventually, each other. But as the years passed, and as Panem thrived in peace, the idea of bringing a child into the world started to seem a little less scary. We watched our friends' children grow and bloom, saw the joy those little people brought to their families.
I started contemplating the idea of a child of our own a few years ago, but I never pushed Katniss. I knew she'd be an amazing mother, anyone who'd ever seen her with Prim would have known that, but I've also seen her with the kids in the district. She's quick to sneak them a cookie when she's at the bakery, even quicker to teach them about the wildflowers that fill their meadow playground. But I knew she had to come to that realization herself.
When she finally told me she was ready it was one of the greatest moments of my life, only behind our toasting... and of course the day she told me we were finally expecting.
The pregnancy hasn't been easy on either of us. Katniss has nightmares, she's had nightmares since the Games, even before that, and they've never completely gone away, but for a long time they were better. Over the past few months however they've come back with a vengeance.
And for me, a new addition to the terrors I see when I sleep is a horrible recurring nightmare of attacking Katniss as she's giving birth, killing her as our baby slips into the world, still and silent.
Those are the mornings I can't even look at Katniss, for fear she'll be able to see what my dream-self has done. See the evil that lurks, still, in my mind.
Dr Aurelius is semi-retired these days, but he's the first person I called after the new nightmares began. A few years ago we transitioned my care to another doctor, Dr Aubry, but since he and I usually spend our once monthly calls talking about sports I figured it'd be better for my mental stability to seek Dr Aurelius's help again.
Dr Aurelius actually agrees with my wife that I'm overreacting, that once the time comes I'll be just fine, but I refuse to leave anything to chance. So we've been working on an immersion therapy of sorts - each week he sends me a tape of the latest episode of A Capitol Baby Story . The idea being that if I watch childbirth over and over I'll become desensitized to it, to the hospital beds and screaming and blood that are often triggers.
I'm not sure how well it's working.
Oh I haven't dissociated watching any of the tapes, haven't even had to fight off a flashback. The videos are graphic, and they make me pretty queasy, but I'm able to stay in the moment.
Katniss, on the other hand, hates them. I desperately want her by my side while I watch but she barely makes it through the opening credits before she's running away.
Okay, running might be a stretch. At 34 weeks pregnant she doesn't run anymore. Or climb trees. Or hunt. I'm glad that's not something we had to fight about, instead the midwife was the one who told Katniss a couple of months ago that she was going to need to retire that for awhile.
That went over about as well as you might imagine. But to her credit she listened.
Katniss sighs and rests her cheek against my chest as I hold her. "It won't be like in the videos, Peeta. We'll be here, in our home, just you and me and Milena." Milena is the midwife, a really wonderful woman who came to Twelve years ago, from Seven I think. She has been so good at soothing Katniss through this whole process.
"Thom too," I remind her. That's another part of my plan to ensure her safety. Thom, who over the past 15 years has become one of my closest friends, will be here. If anything happens, if I snap or lose myself, he's promised to incapacitate me. I feel her nod against my chest.
It's nearly the time we usually turn in, I have a full complement of staff at the bakery but I still like to open. Baking in the predawn is practically in my blood. So we usually are in bed early. I lead Katniss up to our room, stopping only to switch off the television. Seeing that face on the screen staring at me in the early morning hours would probably end poorly.
I head right for the shower, and am in and out quickly, but when I walk back into our bedroom with a towel slung around my hips Katniss isn't in bed. She's standing in front of the full length mirror by our closet. She's wearing the short silk robe I gave her for her birthday last year and a pair of panties. The robe is open, framing her breasts and the swell of her belly where our child rests.
She's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.
I've always thought Katniss is beautiful; she has an elegance and a luminosity that attracts people. But pregnant she is just so incredibly sexy. She's gained about 20 pounds so far, and while the majority of it is in the enormous bump of her stomach, the rest of her body has filled out a little too. Her hips are curvier, her thighs and ass rounder, and her breasts... as if I wasn't already completely hard.
She sees me in the mirror and turns to face me, the glint of mischief in those mercury eyes is unmistakable.
Pregnancy hormones have made her tired and moody and sick in turn, but for the past 2 months those same hormones have made her insatiable.
I'm not complaining.
I release my grip on the towel, which slips to pool around my feet, and scoop Katniss up in my arms, bridal style. Though it's only a dozen steps to the bed I have to stop twice; the feeling of her nearly naked body pressed against mine, her lips and tongue painting sonnets onto my throat, I can barely control myself. I set her on the edge of the bed and get rid of those panties, then bury my face between her thighs.
She tastes phenomenal.
She's already so wet, swollen and almost sticky, and her keening as I torment her clit with my tongue and teeth is like music, so much different than the noises in those stupid Capitol videos.
Katniss is real.
She comes with a shout even before I have a chance to press my fingers into her waiting heat, but I keep stroking her with my tongue as she comes down from her high, lapping up her sweet tangy arousal. Only when she practically melts into the mattress do I slide up to join her, shifting us to lie side by side, spooned as if for sleep.
But we're not going to sleep just yet.
I pull her leg up over my hip as she wiggles her bare ass against my throbbing cock then finally, finally I slide into her. She's so hot and tight, and in this position she clamps around me like a vise.
I'm not going to last.
I try to go slowly but she just feels so good. My pace quickens and grows erratic far too soon. The arm wrapped around her drifts lower, to tease her swollen clit, and after only a few passes she shatters. The feeling of her pulsing around me sends me over the brink and I grunt and curse as I empty myself into her.
She's asleep before I can even pull the sheets over us.
I've given up on the videos entirely, Dr Aurelius sent me picture books on the last train. They're not much better, but at least Katniss will look at them, though the nudity bothers her. 33 years old and still there's a purity to Katniss that's a unique contrast to the fierce huntress she shows the rest of the world.
She's 37 weeks pregnant now, and so completely done with the whole experience. Her back hurts, her ankles are swollen, she can't get comfortable enough to sleep longer than an hour or two at a time, and even that rest is plagued by nightmares. She's sick of being pregnant but terrified of giving birth. I can't help feeling that the videos and picture books are feeding her fear.
Katniss alternates between snapping at me and then apologizing almost tearfully. I hate her misery. I hate feeling like it's my fault. I hate that I can't make it better for her. I bake her cheese buns and rub her sore feet. I tell her I love her every chance I get. But I can't take her place.
And we still have three weeks left. Or longer, if the books are to be believed. When we read that most first time pregnancies go a week or two overdue she hid in our closet for over an hour.
I too am looking forward to the pregnancy being over, but only because I'm so anxious to meet our little one. I've filled half a sketchbook with baby cheeks and gummy smiles, sharp grey eyes and wisps of dark hair. I'm not so secretly hoping it's a girl. I'll love this baby with my whole heart regardless of the gender (I'm not my mother, after all), but a tiny replica of my wife? How could I resist that?
But I'm also trying to enjoy every second of the pregnancy too. My hands cup Katniss's belly at every opportunity, and feeling the life we've created together squirming against my palms is the absolute definition of awe. Katniss is almost always accommodating of my inability to keep my hands off her. Almost.
She's crankier than usual tonight, pacing our home like a caged lynx. I imagine it's the combination of a few bad nights in a row and the cold fall rains that have pelted the district for three straight days, turning the path to town into a treacherously slippery mudslide. Katniss hasn't been further than the porch in days.
I make a snap decision to stay home from the bakery tomorrow. A quick call to my right hand man arranges it. It'll be too muddy to do much, even if the rain lets up, but hopefully I can distract her, keep her mind off things for awhile.
I tell her as we're preparing for bed and her silver eyes shine. "Really?" she says, a half smile tugging at her lips. "You'd willingly spend a whole day stuck in the house with a cranky bear?" And I laugh; there's my Katniss, my sassy, vibrant, incredible wife. She laughs too. "You really don't know what you're in for." But she's smiling.
The uptick in her mood remains once we've climbed into bed together. Playful kisses grow heated quickly. We don't fit together the way we used to, which makes me smile against her lips. Her frustration makes me smile even more.
But my smile falls away when she abruptly straddles me, tossing the thin nightgown she'd worn to bed onto the floor. Her hips move in an erotic dance, grinding against me sensually. Even through her panties and my shorts I can feel how wet she is. Her heavy breasts sway and her eyes close in bliss. She's breathtaking. My cock throbs, the prickle in my balls increasing with every swivel of her hips until I'm panting, begging. "Please," I moan. "Please Katniss. I want to be inside you."
She moves with a speed and grace completely at odds with her condition. Her panties are mostly off, dangling from one ankle before I can even help. She pushes my shorts down only far enough to free my cock, then plunges down on me in one hot motion. It's such a turn on that she wants me too much to even wait for me to undress fully.
It feels so good, my eyes almost cross from the intensity of her velvet walls gripping me tight. Then she's riding me hard, stealing my breath, reducing me to a moaning, cursing mess.
My hands grip her hips, trying to slow her, to prevent myself from falling over the edge too quickly but she's relentless. "Katniss," I gasp. "I'm gonna come."
She shoots me the most wicked look and stops abruptly. I groan as the peak I was chasing slides back a little, but she just smirks. When she senses I've calmed a bit she starts to rhythmically clench her walls around my dick. A string of curse words fall from my lips and she laughs, sweetly and musically. This woman will be the death of me.
She starts to move again, but more slowly, sensually. Her hands roam my body as she rocks with me, and her eyes stay fixed with mine. The love I see in their silver depths is the most powerful aphrodisiac.
I pull her down to kiss her, it's awkward with the firm swell of her belly between us, but worth it to taste her lips, swallow her soft moans.
We keep our pace slow, touching and stroking and loving until neither of us can take it anymore. My hands grip her hips hard as I thrust up and she bears down, over and over. She wails her release into the darkness and I follow with a shout so loud the whole village likely heard. Not that I care in the least.
She curls into my arms with a contented sigh, and I'm asleep in minutes.
I'd intended on sleeping in, waking slowly with my beautiful wife, maybe making love again before feeding her a huge breakfast, then pampering her all day, as much as she'll allow. But when my eyes spring open it's still night, though a faint glow comes from behind me. I can't suppress the quiet groan of disappointment.
"Shhh, go back to sleep Peeta." Katniss's voice, wide awake. I roll over to find her sitting up against the headboard, her bedside lamp on, a notepad in one hand.
"What's wrong?" I'm rapidly waking up, usually she wakes me when she's had a nightmare, so it must be discomfort that has her wide awake. As my eyes focus I can see I'm right; her brow is pinched. "Is it your back again?" She shakes her head, and blows out a noisy breath. There's something really wrong. I sit up, leaning in to grasp her arms. "Katniss?"
"I think I'm in labour." I understand the words, but it takes several long moments before I figure out their meaning. And when I do I leap off the bed.
My prosthetic snags and I barely stop myself from falling face first to the floor, catching myself awkwardly, and then I'm sprinting to the dresser. She calls my name, first quietly, then with growing exasperation.
"Peeta!" I stop, whirling to face her, heart hammering, wearing a shirt and socks but nothing else. Her eyes crinkle in amusement. "Come here," she says, reaching a hand to where I stand shaking like a leaf. But she's calm, and it soothes me. I sit beside her, wide eyed and she takes my hand.
"Remember what the books said," she reminds me softly. "Labour takes a long time. And I'm not even certain it's real yet." She hands me the notepad she'd been clutching, a list of numbers scrawled on it. No, not numbers, times. 1:47. 2:10. 2:31… and on until 4:25, just five minutes ago. I guess that's what woke me. The most recent times are about fifteen minutes apart.
"Why didn't you wake me, Love?" I hate that she's been suffering while I've been snoring away, completely oblivious.
"I wasn't sure what was going on. I'm still not," she admits. "But I think they're getting stronger."
"What can I do?" All of those tapes, the books, the talks with the midwife, all of it has flown out of my head completely. Katniss merely smiles.
"Just hold me," she says.
By the time the sun rises it's pretty clear that this is it. I make her a light breakfast, and we chat. It's not much different than a normal Sunday… except it's Thursday, and every ten minutes or so Katniss has to stop and clutch the table, gritting her teeth and breathing hard for a minute.
I call Milena at 8:00 and describe the situation, she promises to be by within the hour.
When she arrives she helps my wife to the bedroom, examining her and confirming what we already knew: we're going to be parents. Today. (Or maybe early tomorrow she admits, which makes Katniss snarl.)
Milena puts a waterproof sheet on our bed and gathers the towels and blankets and other supplies she'll need. Her calm efficiency puts me at ease. Since the beginning, Katniss has been insistent that our baby will be born here, at home, like all of our ancestors were. No health centre. No hospital. So it's reassuring to have Milena here. I'd be lost otherwise.
She encourages us to take a nap while we still can, Katniss has been awake for hours already and is exhausted, and the real work is still ahead of her.
In the end they were all right: it was nothing like the videos.
Thom arrived around dinner time, bearing a casserole his wife prepared, some meat and cheese and noodle dish that no one ate.
Katniss laboured all day and deep into the night, pacing when she could, gripping my hand tightly with each contraction. Unlike the shrieking of the videos, Katniss was, for the most part, silent. Low moans, quiet grunts and some tears, but no screaming, no wailing. In fact the only crack in her brave façade came while she was pushing. "I can't," is all she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. I was sitting behind her, supporting her weight, murmuring encouragement in her ear.
"Yes you can. You're almost there, you're so incredible, Katniss." I meant every word.
The first fingers of dawn were just grazing the sill of our open window when our baby came into the world, not still and silent like my nightmares, but squawking and flailing in righteous indignation.
We have a daughter.
She's tiny and perfect; ten fingers, ten toes and a shock of dark hair. I'm already in love with her.
We've named her Willow.
Katniss is a natural. I knew she would be. I'm a little bit of a wreck myself. Willow is so small, so helpless, so completely dependent on us. I'm humbled and awed to be entrusted with the care of this tiny, precious creature who fits snugly in my two hands.
We haven't left our room since she was born, hours ago. Milena checked over the baby, took care of Katniss and discretely cleaned up, then brought us up a light meal before leaving. Thom slipped away soon after the birth, to give us our privacy, never having had to intervene at all. Just like Katniss predicted, I kept myself together the entire time. I'm not even sure if I thanked Thom for being here, I haven't been able to tear my eyes away from my family.
My family.
Katniss and I take turns holding Willow, admiring her, thanking each other for her, laughing and crying. Every time I look at my daughter lying contentedly in the arms of the love of my life I'm filled with a gratitude so huge it threatens to overwhelm me.
I am truly happy. Life is good again, in spite of our losses. The future is ours to discover, together.
Always.