A/N: As writers improve, so does their work. It's only natural.
I started with the concept of this story when I finished reading the OG series by Suzanne Collins in middle school. Obviously there has been some improvement in the way that I write, now a rising-junior journalism major with a fiction minor at a top university for writing.
That being said, I have gone into each of the chapters in this piece to fix what could be said better and make the work align more with the original cannon. So, before beginning this chapter (which is my favorite to date. I've been working on it for months), I suggest that you read through the previous chapters as well if you have not as of May 12, 2019.
Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think.
Help has never been one of my strong-suits. I'm proud. I'll admit that. Sometimes too proud for my own good, as many, including Peeta, would claim. But, how am I supposed to accept help when until now the whole world, it seems, has been against me.
I have always been there for myself. I had to be. There was no one else.
So, the idea of calling a Capital doctor at every sign of distress was not exactly reasonable. It's laughable even. I can't imagine who though I would actually talk to the man, Dr. Aurelius, an obviously sleep-deprived man of the re-inducted district that betrayed us all, head doctor for the rebels, defender of my life by reasons of insanity. It was probably Plutarch. Although part of the rebellion, he never quite fit in or understood how things are in the districts. He just picked the side he thought would win before everyone else.
None of them in District 13 ever really understood me. Sure, they listened to my demands. They needed me. I was the Mockingjay. But, they never made an effort to truly understand why I almost chose the berries, why I volunteered for my sister, why I killed Coin. They never truly understood my will to live was less than the lengths that I was willing to go to in order to save those around me, those that I love. Only Gale did. Although growing apart as friends and confidants, part of the reason we did that was because we grew to know each other better. It wasn't just the woods that became our domain, but the world.
I get the call early on a Saturday morning.
Peeta lays beside me, the pale grey-taupe comforter pulled up to his chin, his tanned skin bare and warm, radiating heat onto the white linen sheets beneath us, our legs intertwined and my slim and groggy figure held tightly to his. His lips are slacked sweetly and hair a disheveled mess on the puffed peach pillowcase, but I don't laugh. Instead, I smile at them, the little quirks of morning we share, the smell of fresh-baked bread somehow on his chest, the way his eyebrows crease above his nose like he's concentrating on something.
I try to be careful removing myself from the bed, not to wake him, having only finally fallen back into the bed a couple hours before, rising twice from nightmares. I kept my eyes closed, per usual, him only checking his surroundings before attempting to doze off again. He gets too guilty if he knows that he's woken me as well. The telephone's classic ring from the hallway stirs him before I have the chance not to, though, his soft husky voice moaning slightly.
I hush him before quickly tiptoeing across the floor, my bare legs chill against the open window's breeze, closing the door behind me and catching the dull olive green upstairs telephone that hangs on the wall, cupping my hand around my mouth as I whisper hello into its mouthpiece, wondering who in the world could have called at this time or called at all.
"Hello, Katniss. How are you?" he asks, like we were friends, not an obligation for each other in a past life, creator of my lunacy diagnosis. "I heard about Gale's passing and was worried. You haven't called me."
"There's a reason for that," I retort, rolling my eyes. "I don't need your help and it's five o'clock in the morning."
"I apologize for that," he says, and I can sense his polite smile across the line. It makes me nauseous. "I attempted to be considerate. I was under the impression that your time zone was clocked later than ours in the Capital."
Since the end of the rebellion, he had been promoted to top doctor in the Capital, being one of the only doctors that didn't specialize in plastic surgery, but rather PTSD and things that people actually needed help with after the war.
"It is later, but not by an afternoon," I explain, annoyed by his presence, literal or not.
I slide against the wall to the floor, placing both of my newly shaven legs on top of each other on the deep hard wood floors that cover the house, staring at my toes and their bare shine in the dim light of morning that pours in from the skylight above the stairs and entryway, eyeing my bedroom door, making sure that Peeta remains asleep and sound throughout my absence.
"Katniss, I know that we are no longer obligated to talk to me, but I wish you would still reach out. Our doctor-patient relationship doesn't have to end. I talked to your mother and—"
"Of course you did. How could I possibly think this was out of the blue? Is this a message from her then? At least it's more than the sentence she sent," I ask, bitter, and he can sense it.
"A sentence?"
"Yeah, she sent a letter of condolence for the funeral, maybe ten words. Sure wasn't worth the stamp," I laugh. He's silent. "I just hope Peeta gets five for me. I mean, I know Gale wasn't hers, but he might as well have been. He helped to feed her and clothe her and raise her daughter for six years. You'd think that he was worth more of her time than blowing your nose."
The aggravation and anger radiated off of me in waves, my jaw stiff and clenched, fighting off tears as they come to my eyes, making their way down my cheeks. I hate him. He's gotten to me and he knows it, the man who used to just be my napping buddy.
"Have you told her this?" he asks, and I laugh. I can even hear his smile through the ear piece, though he tries to hide it with a cough. "Yeah, I figured. But, other than that, how are you? How is your relationship with Peeta going?"
I hang up at that.
I'm sure he expected it. He's probably surprised that I stayed on as long as I did. Our relationship is not exactly the typical one for a doctor and his patient, to say the least. He reminds me a lot of myself before the games, smart and determined, except also a pain in the ass. It's unfortunate, otherwise I might have enjoyed our forced talks.
I decide to get a glass of water from downstairs while I'm up and about, hoping that the hydration might help me fall back asleep in the darkness.
The wooden steps creak in the hazy blue darkness, my toes trying to be delicate as I tip-toe down the stairs, feeling every sound in the house; the refrigerator in the kitchen, the breeze from our bedroom window, the peaks of pressure underground that make things I'm not even touching groan as if tired, momentarily frightening me as I creep about the house. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it halfway, my eyes entranced by the shadows of the moon on the living room furniture, reminiscing on quiet afternoons in the room sprawled between the pages of a book.
I freeze when I hear a scream, suddenly yanked from the lull of my mind.
"Katniss!"
His cries are frantic, howling through the house like a desperate wounded soldier.
"Katniss!"
I come running, water sloshing out from my glass slipping my step as I reach the top of the stairs, yanking open my bedroom door at another wail of my name, frightened as if almost in agony.
Peeta is covered in sweat. His hair drips from the ends I've been trying to remember to cut onto his chest, glistening like the rest of his skin in the chill open breeze. His back is hunched over as if he's yanked himself up, breathing heavily, eyes wide. His body starts shaking when he sees me, either releasing his anxiety or shivering, his body now wet and uncovered from the warm bedding.
I run to the bathroom for a towel, almost knocking over a stubby white vase of flowers on top my favorite copy of Leaves of Grass as I placed down my glass, the damp tips of my fingers pressing to the cover of The Sun Also Rises instead.
"I'm here," I assure. "It's okay."
His trembling hands find my waist as I sop up the sweat from his frame, rubbing his hair and chest until only damp with lingering perspiration, stroking his forehead and shushing his heaving breaths that show in the crisp air.
"I'm here."
He pulls me close to his heart as he finally starts to calm down, his breath still shaking and missing some beats, but taking less of a forced effort with each, letting me in. I kiss his head, tasting the salt on my lips from his damp hair, and climbing in beside him. The covers stay off as his sticky skin sinks to merely dewey, pulling me close enough so that my body mold so his, so that I can hear his breath in my ear.
"Dr. Aurelius called and I didn't want to wake you," I apologize, and I hear him smirk, ashamed in himself for letting another bad dream get the best of him, feeling as though he isn't brave enough for me. That doesn't change, no matter how many times I tell him I don't care. But, sometimes he just doesn't want to listen.
He frowns. "I just—I hope I didn't wake up Blair."
"I'm sure you didn't," I assure, petting his messy hair with a smile. "And if you did, she'll understand."
I wake up to a note on the bed, folded around the cover of his favorite book.
The geese woke up early today.
Gone to help Haymitch. Don't know when I'll be back.
Love you -
He must have been reading the book when he left, his penmanship rushed and paper ripped at the edges from a notebook of unlined paper at his bedside, typically used for sketching me in the rare sparks of moonlight.
I smile at it, thinking of the ugly birds and their irritated squawks in the dim sunrise; Haymitch's tired mumbles, sleeping off the night before's drinks until half past noontime; Peeta reading simply in bed with the faint screeching of the vile creatures in the distance from Haymitch's backyard pen, his eyebrows knitting together as the pecking annoys him further, finally throwing on a quick pair of clothes and running across into the wee morning to scare the shit out of Haymitch and yell at the birds who know no better, no matter how domesticated Haymitch claimed they were upon purchase.
Usually they're fairly quiet. For geese. But on days like this, Peeta may be there all day, chasing them around the backyard as they attempt to bite him and sneak into the house, swearing and yelling for Haymitch to help, unable to productively because of his nocturnal schedule making hims tired and irritable in sunlight.
I flip to the bookmarked page, reading the first few lines and writing that I've "gone hunting" on the other side of the paper holding its place.
1984. It's a strange number for a year. Way too large. And yet we know the events of this book already happened; the surveillance, the banning of individuality, the complete control of the government. It was used in school as an argument for how Panem was better than our ancestors, leaving nothing but 13 districts raged in poverty. But we all know how that turned out.
New copies with publication dates before the title's name have recently been found in bunkers within small independent civilizations discovered north of the mainland. Government historians think it was fiction written prior and then modeled after. Peeta of course though this beforehand. He's incredibly smart like that. I'm clever, but he's intellectual, wanting a reason for the universe.
I close the windows and instantly feel warmer, the faint perpetual breeze not pressing on my skin anymore. Its chill still lingers on the bed, but I only touch it to place the book back on top of the duvet.
I don't even attempt to shower, knowing the sweat and grime that will sit on my skin in just a few hours. I pull a tight knit tan sweater from my drawer and button a thick pair of trousers under the slump of its fabric, zipping my father's hunting coat just below my chin and pushing a foot in each boot. My hair is greased towards the roots, but still loose and knotted down to my split and burnt ends. I braid it quickly behind my head and tuck the end into the neck of my jacket before running out down the stairs and onto the stiff rocky gravel.
Today is my first hunting lesson with Rory. It's been about two years since we last went out in the woods, Gale only able to on his rare days off when he wasn't using the hours to catch up on sleep. He seems to have retained more than I thought, good for a beginner. He still needs a few touch-ups on his form with a bow, but his snares are perfect. I wonder if he practiced them back in his cabin in District 13, not needing much more than some creative supplies to study them.
He smiles at my reaction, dusting off the dirt from the knees of his trousers as he stands.
"I'm guessing that's a good one," he asks, and I just nod. "Good. At least I've still got that."
"I'm sure your hunting form will get better. You know, Gale was a good shot, but still needed consistent practice," I admit. "He used to set up targets on trees while we ate to warm up."
"Really?" he asks, surprised and bashful.
I laugh. "Oh yeah. But he was really bad when I met him. That's how I got so good at snares. He we'd trade skills training by the hour."
I find some berries in the outer brush of the woods, overlooking the valley where Gale and I used to sit by and watch the sun rise. It's where I kissed him before my second reaping. It's where he used to rant about the Capital and talk about running away together, before it became a reality. Here, he became my best friend.
We pick a spot in the grass, giving the area time to rest after our expedition of snares before attempting to teach him how to perfect the perfect shot. I lay out my jacket so as not to get my bottom wet on the greenery's disappearing dew. He just lays out in a cross under the early rays of sun, moaning as he hits the ground. He doesn't say much but comment on the day, fidgeting with Gale's old bow in his hands, mine up in the grass a bit behind us with my hunting bag.
The berries themselves are plump and purple and delicious, a few popping on my sweater as I attempt to dust them off with its fluffy cotton wool blend. Rory laughs and I scowl "shut up," but it's nice to see him laugh. He takes the remaining berries with grateful hands, popping them between his teeth one-by-one.
"Okay, so, quick run-through. Tell me the parts of your bow. What do they do?" I ask.
His lips quirk as he remembers his answers, "The riser, limbs, string nock, and string," he says. "Used to support the arrow when shot, making sure I can see and direct my aim, and supporting the string, that propels the arrow."
"Good." I pop a berry in my mouth. "I'll teach you how to prepare them, but for now, lets set up some targets."
I walk up to my hunting bag and pull out a knife about the length of my hand. I found it searching through my father's things while moving my mom and sister into Victor's Village. Its deep black handle has the sign of the miners union before uprising and Hunger Games as retribution from the Capital. It's been passed throughout my family for generations, but I've only learned about just how far recently, as unfavored history comes to light through the new government.
I carve three circles into the bark of a wide tree at the edge of the clearing. Rory dusts his hands off on his pants, rubbing the remaining sticky juice from the berries onto the fabric, leaving small purple stains for later.
He takes his bow up and settles into position, a serious look positioning itself over his face. His arm is pulled back and I adjust the angle just slightly, walking up beside him.
"Perfect," I smile. "Now pick an anchor point; somewhere that doesn't move when you make the shot, to keep everything steady and focused," I suggest.
The point of the arrowhead sits against his cheek, eyes still focused on the tallest target as he lets the arrow fly, landing a few feet above as he pulls his bow down to look at where it's gone.
"Okay, make sure you hold your stance until the end," I remind him." The follow-through is just as important. That's what's making your arrows twist out of target at the end. You're not holding your stance long enough."
He tries again and it's better, his bow still drawn out like he's taking a picture afterwards. He laughs at it, but sees three more arrows fall at the same level as the target, one hitting the outer carving, but the others flying on either side of the tree.
His jaw tenses and I can tell his frustration as he attempts the next circle, getting another in, by chance, but missing two more.
"Hey, that's all okay," I assure.
"I just don't know what I'm doing wrong. I try to stay still," he complains.
"While triggering, try using all of your fingers as a single unit. It gives you more control and allows you to pull back the string more effectively," I suggest, and he takes a deep breath, moving himself accordingly. "Aim and allow your sight pin to float over the bullseye. Concentrate on allowing the pin to float and slowly increase trigger pressure until the arrow releases."
He takes another deep breath. "Okay."
He does well, landing three in a row within the circles, forgetting to follow through at the next while screaming "fuck yeah," sending it flying past a bird just above us, both of us laughing historically.
We have some fun, him trying out five more arrows, all of them hitting the tree, but not necessarily the designated circles, before moving out into the woods to actually hunt.
"We'll get to more of this next week," I promise. "We'll always practice, but we should get out there to the actual woods for a bit. Unlike trees, animals move, and you should get some experience with that too."
He agrees and we head out, tracking the footprints and droppings of a deer, Rory trying his own shot at a few squirrels along the way. We're out for a few hours and he ends up getting one, though not in the eye. I'm proud of his progress.
I take back four squirrels and three birds myself, but am unable to shoot the deer.
We creep up on it from behind an old oak, Rory staying back, trying not to alert the do by crunching the fallen autumn leaves that scatter along the ground under his feet, discarded from their sheltered branches. I watch my step, slowly raising my bow and resting the arrow point against my lip as an anchor point, pulling my arm back as my eyes focus on the helpless animal. Its brown fur is smooth and I smile at its stillness, at the prospect of taking its body home in my bag. But as my arrow flies, I scream, seeing Marvel through its eyes. I fall back onto Rory, the trajectory reaching the sky and making causing a mockingjay to fall from the sky inits place, running from its previous feeding place and leaving me shaking on the ground.
I can tell that I scare Rory. My screams are high pitched and ravenous, thrashing and terrifying as he puts the bird in my hunting bag and lead us towards the entrance to the woods, my arm around his shoulder as he supports my weight.
By the time we reach the door of the fence, I'm calm but dazed. I can walk by myself, but he still supports me as I pant and stumble, images flashing through my head and making me dizzy.
Peeta isn't there when I get home, probably still at the cemetery, so I promise Rory that I'm okay and see him through the window beside the door as I crawl up the stairs on my hands and knees, slowly stripping in the shower as its hot water pours over my skin, leaving it soaked and scared.
The bathroom is warm when I step out from the shower, humidity forming droplets and fog on the sink mirror. I grab a towel from the rack and wrap it around my dewey skin, holding it close across my chest.
I make sure to dry my feet well before stamping across the bedroom, but my hair still drips along the hard wood as I walk from dresser to dresser. I secure a simple grey bra across my torso before dropping a simple long sleeve cotton shirt over my head and old navy blue trousers.
My hair splatters like a windmill as I flip to one side, so I can see, my face sill flushed from the warmth of my silent shower. I pad down the stairs towards the growing clatter downstairs, curious and worried, the noises getting louder as I grow closer to the kitchen.
Dough pounds into the counter. Timers for the over go off. Pots and pans and spoons scuff as he mixes things in, before beating it on the counter again. His right eyebrow twitches as he feels his eyes turn black, feels the flashbacks and triggers hit his memory, trying to fight them off as best he can, tossing the dough again before bringing it back to the counter with a bang. His breath is heavy and deliberate, as if he's running.
I'm not scared, but hesitant as I step forward.
"I-I can't go in my house—with those fucking birds!" he says, grunting as he digs the heels of his palms deeper into the dough. His teeth clench and I see his jaw tighten from afar.
My feet are wrinkled and my eyes lay slacken within my face, exhausted from my own outburst earlier, but I slowly make my way towards his side of the counter, step by step, his breathing needing to adjust as I get closer.
We both know it isn't the birds. We both know where he came from, button up shirt and dress shoes discarded on the floor of my entryway, feeling hot and suffocated beneath their confinements.
My toes touch him before anything else, my eyes watching as the big right one brushes against his heel, stepping almost. He almost pants at the touch. My hands are next, slowly push up his back, my fingertips pressing against his skin and bring my palms with them, around to his chest and settling on his stomach, letting my cheek lean against his steaming warmth as I embrace him. My hair drips by my toes and I kiss his bare shoulder blades, not for selfish reasons but because he needs me.
His breath slows, but he continues to knead fiercely, and eventually I leave, knowing that he needs time alone as well, that sometimes he needs to spiral before he comes back down. But I wish that I could take his pain away, kissing his cheek before slipping on my sandals and walking across the street.
"Not you too," Haymitch grumbles. "Whatever happened to no one liking me?"
I laugh. "Don't flatter yourself. We still don't. We just don't want to smell the rotting body."
Blair is already cooking when I enter. She usually comes durning the day to feed Haymitch's geese and make sure he's alive, taking over for us as more responsibilities pile up, but also "checking in" on her friends Apollo when in town. Apparently, the heavy drinker ha a former-thing with Blair when they worked together in District 2. Now that she's here and Apollo became drinking buddies with Haymitch at Gale's memorial service, they've been dancing around each other like oil and water in a glass; next to each other but never quite together.
She cuts up a loaf of bread at the table and forces a piece into Haymitch's hand with raised eyebrows. He doesn't dare argue, taking a grumpy bite and passing me a glass that I gratefully fill with water, taking a sip before settling into a chair across from him.
"Do you need any help in there?" I ask Blair, her stirring a large pot from across my view of the counter.
"I should be okay. The soup is almost done," she says, tapping the spoon on the edge before placing it on a plate on the counter. "I just threw a bunch of stuff in. He doesn't have much laying around. I hope it's good."
"Well, it smells amazing," I encourage.
Haymitch laughs. "That's just because you can't cook."
"Oh, shut up."
It's been a little more than two weeks since Blair started living with me and District 12 life has surprisingly agreed with the District 2 blonde beauty. Her pristine blue dresses have transitioned into tan Henleys and well-worn jeans. She haggles with Greasy Sae. She assists construction outside the Government Center with Peeta. Her brown thick heeled boots are blackened with coal dust residue. Her blue eyes still stick out among those left, most of the merchants burning in the bombings, but she doesn't let it bother her.
"The boy came over this morning," he complains, as if I didn't know. "Woke me up. Ran around frazzled all day. Chased them in and out of the house three times. One of them bit his arm. He started yelling and swearing."
I laugh. "Hey, you're the one who wanted geese."
"They're misunderstood creatures. Quite majestic," he alleges. Blair and I both roll our eyes. "They usually fairly quite."
"Except for when they're not—and wake up the whole neighborhood."
It was a little more than a year after moving back to District 12 (some of us more along the lines of "exiled") that Haymitch mentioned getting an animal to keep him company, the operative word being "an." We figured he meant a cat, something that could mope around and didn't require much upkeep. We still called him crazy because he was, knowing it was us who would end up taking care of the animal. His drinking habit had gotten better; more loosened up grump old man as opposed to pass-out drunk. But he still wasn't in the proper state to support another life. Not in the slightest.
So, when Peeta saw a huge flock of geese running around Victor's Village one day out my window, there was some concern. Settlements had already been made in the area by then, a few homes and small communal areas build between the old Main Square and Victor's Village, so we grabbed brooms and started herding them away from town.
We had no idea where they came from, let alone what they were, until Haymitch came out hollering.
"Hold up! Don't touch my birds!"
The birds lost their formation and squawked and marched in all directions from the cement as we stood there. My eyebrow quirked and I clenched my jaw, more annoyed than surprised. Peeta showed more composure.
"I was going to tell you both," he assured.
I scoffed. "Oh, I'm sure you were."
"They're geese," he explained, as if we knew what that meant. "Jameison, down in town, sold them to me real cheap. But if I got just one they'd be lonely. Apparently, they were popular to keep in pools in the Capital, but in all the deconstruction they got dumped between us and District 11 to wander. They were just getting in the way."
"So you though you'd bring them here," I confirm.
"I figure people already think I'm odd. Why not have a flock of birds?"
It's dark outside when Blair and I cross the lightly-worn cobblestones towards my house. The stars are out, cleared from the fog of the last few weeks, almost like freckles from the daily sun.
We laugh as we shut his door, telling him to go to bed. We already washed and put away his dishes and sat for an hour or two with the thickness of food and liquor in our bellies pulling at our eyelids. We fed his geese for the night, some sleeping but others just pacing around the dirt of his backyard.
I quiet my snickering as we step inside, Blair following with the same, wary to be quiet, unsure of what we walk into.
Peeta is slumped against the kitchen counter in silence.
I don't see him at first, tip toeing towards the kitchen and scanning every corner, only a dim lamp in the corner still on from when I left earlier. Blair wishes me "Goodnight" and heads up the stairs to bed, exhausted. She had been at Haymitch's chasing birds only a few hours after Peeta, staying long after he left for the cemetery to continue to stifle their rambunctious nature.
He doesn't quite notice as I enter, almost entranced by the small natural noises of the house, slacken and still. His feet lay out in front of him towards the opposite wall. His breath seems steady, but flour and baked good still sit on the counters, small red marks still left on his arms.
I change into my usual bed clothes; shimmying out of my jeans with fingers hooked in their belt loops and feet jumping over the swimming fabric. I huff as I throw them in the hamper, pulling my top off and tossing it to match. A dull green t-shirt of Peeta's slips over my bare breasts as I pluck a worn copy of Brideshead Revisitied and hair tie from the nightstand, following my mind back downstairs.
I walk by him on the hard wood floor to turn on the record player, settling into the middle of the couch clutching the words of Evelyn Waugh. The sweet hum of "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star sweeps through the room like a gentle yawn as he stirs. Waugh keeps me grounded; their story's heartbreak and sense of thought. The history of their words and thoughts and struggles is a window I find myself reaching for more often these days.
It's another few minutes before he stands himself, moving towards me with an outstretched hand and needy eyes. I take it—as always—his other hand moving to my hip and head on my shoulder. It's sweet and simple. I feel his chest through his shirt and smile as he spins me slowly, my feet fumbling on the small patch of carpet, dancing as he regains himself.
Long ago, before Panem was even a thought in a child's head, people used to sing freely, but as times grew worse, rules got harsher and music made hidden under ground. With Panem, music was reborn, only in the Capitol of course, but us in the districts still made do. We made string instruments like bows we hunted with in the woods. We crafted drums with blankets over pots we were served in at the Hob. We stomped and clapped and sang. Many songs died out, their lyrics never to be heard again, but some still laid in the basements of houses, just waiting to be heard by another's ears once freedom was ours. When fixing up the district, we found hoards of records from before the land grabs, back when they used to count time with numbers rather than reapings.
Radios have started playing pieces from the Capital, but us here in 12 only use them for the hum-drum of news updates; things too small to broadcast on our screens. We much rather the older drawn out tones of records that play from horns and needles on our machines.
I giggle as Peeta twirls me around the living room, kissing me with love in his eyes, somehow making me happy. We're messy and clumsy, bumping into the coffee table and couch arm. We tumble onto its fabric and he whispers "I love you" as I look in his eyes. I straddle his waist as I kiss him, his hands holding me as if we're still dancing.
He kisses my neck and I moan, feeling him under me, the song repeating itself yet again in the background. He kisses me harder, this time on my mouth, and I stroke the back of his neck, pulling the t-shirt from my torso, him feeling my curves with his fingertips and deep breathlessness.
When I feel him, his breath hitches in the back of his throat. We've done this before, but after today he's more vulnerable. His kisses fall to my chest as I continue, burying his moans in my breast. I stroke him and he pants my name into the dead of night, trying to be quiet, almost shameful of his need. But I relish us in this moment; tender, warm, soft, sticky, smiling, loving, connected. With us, I feel better about everything else in the world.
Hollow by Belle Mt / Lets Be Still by The Head and the Heart / six speed by ROLE MODEL / Alone with You by Canyon City
