Just some simple PxK Fluff, a little...limey? I guess, it's pretty tame. I adore the series so I had to write a fic on it. I might be continuing this, let me know if you'd want more.
Set after Mockingjay.
I do not claim to own Hunger Games or any of the characters….just an obsessed fan.
A year goes by in the world and we're still rebuilding. I don't know when it will ever stop but for now it feels good. To tear down old memories, respecting the past while at the same time building a better future. You can see it on the faces of the people in town, so cautious, so wary. That will never change, not for this generation at least. We know how fast things can change. We know the sacrifice behind every new building. Every blessing is a reminder of the horror that had to come before it. Blood lies behind every shiny new surface and we all know it.
It doesn't take long for Peeta and me to see that living in separate houses just doesn't work. A few days later he and a few friends from around the town have moved his things over. One day I come back from hunting to see he's painted every room of the house. Bright, cheerful colors. The kitchen is a soft buttery yellow, and he's in there baking, smiling to himself when he sees me. I feel awkward in the doorway watching him, but most of the time that's just what I do. Watch him.
The spare rooms we converted to fit our new needs. One room is simple, painted a subdued blue with a simple desk and two chairs. A book shelf and a window complete the room. This is where we write in the book. When Haymitch joins us we pull another chair up and make room for him too.
Another room is a simple guest room, not that we have many guests. It was Peeta's idea. He painted it a lovely shade of pea green, it reminds me of Octavia and I don't know how that makes me feel. Somewhere in my mind I know he's hoping someday this room could be for another person...not a guest, but a new addition to the family...but I've deliberately put my foot down on that subject. It's far too soon to talk about that anyway. We're not married...and while sometimes in my mind I tack on a 'yet' to that statement, most of the time I only blush away these thoughts to concentrate on the hunt.
The last room down the end of the hall is where Peeta paints. It's the only room he hasn't painted, the walls are white. He has unfinished paintings and sketches here and there. Brushes and pens have spilled onto his desk, no doubt the work of Buttercup, who has a particular fondness for the soft ends of his brushes.
He's gotten past painting the games, and I'm glad he has. Soft yellow flowers and scenery, as well as happy portraits have replaced the blood and gore that used to inhabit his canvases.
I asked him once if he missed those paintings, the ones of Clove, the ones of Rue and the flowers. He gave me a sad smile and spoke wistfully, "I don't think we need any more reminders of how cruel life is." I nodded and let it drop. He's so absolutely right.
Our bedroom has been painted a warm orange-red like sunset. A white billowy canopy is draped over our enormous bed. It's a place of luxury and relaxation. He decorated it that way, adding happy pictures of the woods and flowers and I'm forever grateful. It's nice to wake up from nightmares in such a place, with him beside me reassuring me the things I dream about aren't real...at least, not anymore.
-
As for Peeta's old house, we converted into the new bakery. I talked to my doctor over the phone about Peeta's complaints that the kitchen was too small to service the entire town, the next day a work crew came with tools and new appliances all the way from the capitol and expanded the kitchen to real bakery kitchen. It now was a pristine bakery filled with shiny metallic ovens, counter space and dozens of rows waiting to be filled with his creations.
He looked over at me when they'd completed their work with a look of awe. It was the first surprise I'd really ever given him, the first gift even though it wasn't really all my doing. He looked like he was teetering on the edge of some emotion, lost in his blue eyes. He grabbed me, picked me up and kissed me. Before I could react he'd set me down and bounded inside. I felt a warmth run through my veins, chasing away the usual anguish and emptiness I felt.
He baked about a dozen cakes that night, and instead of selling them he gave them out for free to families in town who were still struggling, especially ones with children. His face would soften when he'd see them happily eating it. It makes me feel weak inside. That was a gift I wasn't ready to give, but at the same time I hoped he got some day.
I now stood looking out the window to the bakery, it's nightfall and the bakery throws out golden light from the windows. He would be closing it up soon and coming home, but I'm still impatient. While the house was undoubtedly warmer, it still wasn't complete unless he was with me.
I walk over, wrapping my coat tighter around me, from the cool that had seeped in overnight. A good night to light a fire, I mused over this thinking it was good I'd gathered firewood earlier that day. I walked in; a tiny bell went off at the door.
"I'll be right there!" he called out. I feel my heart flutter a little. He turns up around the corner, covered in flour and wiping his hands on a damp cloth. He gives me a quizzical little smile.
" Hey, I'm sorry did I keep you waiting?"
I shrug, "I didn't feel like waiting," I wander over to him and scrape off a bit of frosting off of his cheek. He smiles slyly, catching my hand in the air, "Did you miss me."
My face instantly flushes red, "No I'm impatient for dinner. What did you make today?" While talking I pull my hand away from him and walk into the kitchen, acting as if I know what I'm doing. I don't. His teasing gets me flustered and confused and I'm searching for a way out, even if a part of me is longing for something. I don't know what.
He comes up behind me and circles his hands around my waist, his breath is at my neck, he whispers, "Are you sure you didn't miss me?"
He's kissing my neck before I can stop him, and a little gasp of what could only be pleasure escapes my mouth. It's embarrassing and I don't like feeling this exposed but he's already sucking gently on my neck, encouraged by my little noises. With more bravery than I should have, I turn to face him and kiss him, our tongues meet and I feel too much going on in my body. All at once my stomach is curled up in excitement and his hands are all over me, intensifying the feelings. I didn't think I could feel more excited than I felt now.
We're pressed up against each other, he's pushing me hard against a counter and while it's not the most comfortable position, I don't complain. I'm pushing back, wanting something more. I'm vaguely aware that we're knocking cooking utensils on the floor, I don't care and neither does he. His mouth is urgent on mine, groaning a little when my hands inch lower and lower down his abdomen. His hands are under my shirt running up my stomach, to my bra, underneath it, rubbing sensitive skin...
I let out a moan, a loud one. I push him away, dizzy.
He steps back, panting, looking at me concerned, "I'm sorry did I do something wrong?"
I give a faint, breathy laugh, "No...You're doing... r-really good." I cringe, no matter how much time passes with us, I can't be sexy, and I can't be loving. It just isn't in me, I feel things but I can't put words to the feelings. It's frustrating because I know Peeta would love to hear me spill out mushy, romantic words to him. I flush red and look down mumbling something about being sorry again.
Despite all this he smiles, still trying to calm down. My eyes wander down his apron to where something is bulging out slightly. I avert my eyes immediately; I don't need to guess what it is.
My eyes flit back to his face which had followed my eyes and he's beet red, stuttering out apologies and backing out of the room.
Out of all the complicated things I should be feeling, I giggle. A real one. I try to stifle it with my fist, but decide not to, how many times have I laughed in the past year? It feels nice. I hear Peeta laughing from somewhere in the shop too, I like the sound of it. He's demanding that I stop making fun of him. I can't help it. I'm happy; it's lighthearted and wipes away the fiery tension we were feeling earlier, though I'm not sure which I want more right now. Both make me happy.
That's all for now :) tell me what you think, if you want more.
Can I just remark how crazy it is that it's so incredibly easy to write 3 pages of fanfiction, but nearly impossible to write 2 pages for an essay you get a grade for! Logic.