Putting Him First

Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership of The Hunger Games or Characters, the story is for fun. NC-17

The sound of rain steadily beating against the house is monotonous yet calming. On days like this it is impossible for me to hunt, gather, or even visit Haymitch. Days like this give me ample excuse to steal away in my favorite closet and reflect, mourn, and linger on events that I cannot change. In many ways I am so much better than when I returned to District 12 three years ago but that does not mean that I am healed. I no longer just exist but have come to enjoy and revel in the life that Peeta and I have built. What we have is exactly what I told myself I never wanted. It’s love, and it’s raw, and real and necessary for both of our survivals. Trying to imagine myself without the divine co dependency we share would rob the breath from my lungs.

The storm blew in last night as we sat wrapped around one another on the porch. I felt his body tense when he realized the gigantic, billowing thunderhead clouds were headed our direction. He knows the effect that having abundant time on my hands can have on me. When it storms my sweet husband fears that he will lose me to the depths of depression for a day or two. I hate causing Peeta any worry because stress can induce an episode, and anxiety over me is Peeta’s worse type of stress. The nature of the beast is cyclical because now I am worried about Peeta fretting about me.

Peeta left this morning before first light had even begun to creep through the windows of our bedroom. Even though I slept through his departure I know that he placed a kiss on my head and whispered ‘I love you’ into my hair. There are few guarantees in life. The tragic circumstances that mar my life have proven as much; but Peeta’s morning affectionate ritual is one that I have come to understand is constant and unchanging. He is at the bakery no doubt creating breads and pastries, ruminating about what, if any, mental deterioration I am experiencing while he works. The desire to stay tucked away wallowing in my hidey hole is strong, but my need to protect my fragile husband’s psyche is stronger, at least today.

The weight of the world is agonizingly heavy this morning. It is pulling me down and begging me to stay under the covers and to tuck away in the furthest recesses my own mind. But, I cannot and will not allow myself to succumb today. Instead, I consider a completely different kind of weight. It is a very literal weight and it frees me. When Peeta returned to District 12 we skated around discussing sensitive issues like our feigned romantic relationship and the ghosts of our pasts. These topics kept us locked in our sordid history and built barriers between us.

Together, we quickly discovered, was the only way that either of us could function and exist. We needed each other. We completed one another and together we could subsist. It was not long before needing one another led to wanting each other. Our love and our resulting togetherness were borne of survival, whereas the resulting want was of a carnal nature. Being in love with Peeta and being loved by him is the only thing truly tethering me to the Earth, but it is the physical act of our lovemaking that makes me feel alive.

Today, of all days, I need a definite source of physicality to prevent me from withdrawing. I have become self aware to the extent that I know when I need an anchor to tie me down but not yet able to pull myself from the fog of my mental state purely on will alone. The intense pleasure and ecstasy that engaging in the physical act of love brings is the only thing heady enough to stave off the depression clouding in.  I cannot leave Peeta, if even for a day, to fend for himself. He needs me to keep the shiny monsters of hallucination away, and I need him to make me remember that I am alive, that I survived, and that I am worthy. I need to feel Peeta, to touch him, to become one with him and absorb his reassuring warmth. It is from this understanding that I map out a plan to seduce my husband when he comes to check on me at lunch.  As I move for the bathroom I find myself dwelling on my desire to take Peeta into my mouth. I want to feel the weight of him on my tongue and against my chin. The idea is so overwhelmingly appealing I feel the slow burn of arousal building in my stomach. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than my fully erect husband and nothing that arouses me more than the taste of his salty skin.

I want to seduce my husband into letting me do this for him and not have him do anything in return.  Most men would be thrilled at having their wife go down on them, but most men are not like Peeta. My beloved is patient, gentle, and gifted with his hands in the way that only an artist and baker can be. He is giving in the bedroom, if possible even more than he is in real life. But, today is about making me feel alive, and nothing reminds me of my vitality more than making my husband’s body sing for me. It is my imperative that Peeta must know how much I relish him and our irrevocable connection. More often than not the focus of our coupling exists around Peeta skillfully teasing every single bit of bliss he can from me. He claims that it is through my satisfaction that he is able to fully find his own, but I cannot help but feel guilty. Peeta is giving in every sense of the word and will rarely find fulfillment before I do.

It will not be long before he treks from the bakery to check on me so I shower, dress in a simple pair of underwear and one of his dress shirts that buttons in the front. I roll the sleeves to my elbows and leave the first two buttons undone. My chin rests on my knees as I perch on the top step of the stairs listening to the rain and waiting for Peeta to arrive. Eventually, Peeta pushes through the front door. He is drenched from walking in the rain, and large pools of water are forming at his feet.

I slink down the stairs while Peeta removes his overcoat and rain boots. “It’s not letting up out there, is it?” Peeta looks at me and the surprise to find me out of bed is evident on his face. “Let me grab you a towel.”

“Thank you.” His verbal response is friendly; however, there is something deeper at play evident in his eyes. Peeta is sizing me up looking for signs of distress. I know that he is cataloguing the facts that I have showered, my clothing is clean, and that my eyes are clear and not red rimmed. As I step into the bathroom, I peer in the mirror and undo one more button in the front of the oversized shirt that I am wearing. I reach for a towel and realize that the anticipation of what I have planned is causing slick warm lubrication to seep from between my folds.

Peeta has shed his socks and shirt and is waiting for me to return with the towel. I hand him the towel and he leans down to capture my mouth in a chaste kiss. He smiles at me and wrinkles his nose. “I’m all wet.” He quips and starts to dry his hair.

“Me too.” I respond and sink to my knees in front of him. “Here let me help you with your pants.” My hands find his belt buckle and I quickly move to unfasten it. Sensing the proximity of my face to the zipper of his pants, Peeta removes the towel from his hair and stares down at me with a raised eyebrow.

“What have you been up to today?” My caring Peeta still isn’t convinced that I am doing okay and isn’t quite sure what to make of me positioning myself face to face with his crotch. The shirt I’m wearing shifts and falls off my shoulder exposing the swell of my upper left breast. I feel the tension leave Peeta’s body, and the shift towards arousal in him as he takes in the expanse of my skin. He reaches out to tug on a lock of my hair. “I love it when you leave your hair down.” Peeta’s breathing quickens as I unbutton his pants and slide them down his hips. When I look up at him, I am rewarded with a vision of the beginnings of a beautiful flush on Peeta’s neck.

“I’ve been thinking of this all morning.” My hands pull the band of his boxer shorts down just enough so that I can nuzzle my nose into the coarse dark blonde hair that is usually hidden. My eyes close as I breathe deeply and take in Peeta’s musky masculine scent. I feel my teeth bite at my bottom lip, and in this moment the only coherent thought my brain can conjure is how much I want to taste him and feel the delicious weight of his cock in my mouth. As I follow the hair south, I place heated open mouth kisses down the fabric of his boxers.

From deep in his throat, Peeta lets out a soft moan. His left hand tangles in my hair while the right pulls on my shoulder urging me to stand. “Are we taking this upstairs or the couch?” Peeta mumbles. He does not yet realize that this moment now is about him. I ignore his question and slide his shorts down to his ankles. The muscles in my pelvic floor tighten at the sight of Peeta’s semi erect member. No matter how many times I see him, I will never become accustomed to the exquisite vision that is Peeta’s nude form. My hands reach around and grasp his tight backside as I graze his hipbones with my teeth. I nibble on the sensitive skin, and Peeta’s hands run through my hair as he thrusts apparently seeking friction against my neck and chest. The thrust must have been involuntary because he whispers, “Sorry” and makes a move to pull me up to face him again.

With my tongue I trace the delicate blue veins visible through his alabaster skin down to the base of his cock. My head rests on Peeta’s thigh as I admire the beauty of his elongating form. I can feel the pulse in his femoral artery racing against my cheek. He wants this. “Don’t be.” I assert, my voice is husky with heat. Surely he can hear how bad I want this, how bad I need this.  The tip of my tongue wanders from the base to the head before I wrap my hand around him and push him back a little so I can give the underside of his shaft the same treatment.

Peeta’s grasp on my hair has tightened which tells me that he is starting to lose himself to the moment. He is so careful about hurting or offending me that he wouldn’t pull my hair if he was thinking too much. It is not painful. In actuality it feels amazing and I feel my thighs clench together seeking sensation. “Katniss.” Peeta whispers my name like a reverent prayer, and my thighs pull together again.

My tongue is still continuing its ministrations all over Peeta. It runs back and forth from the front to the back of his shaft, down over his balls, and then swirls all around the tip. I knew this would make me hot, but I did not realize that I would become this aroused so quickly. I let my hand fall from Peeta’s backside and move to unbutton the shirt. As my fingers clumsily search for buttons, I take the head of Peeta’s cock into my mouth and lightly suck replacing the grasp of my hand with that of my mouth. With my other hand free, I quickly rid myself of the confines of the shirt.  The shirt falls to the floor and Peeta moans deeply. My eyes seek his and find him obviously appreciating the show. “If we lay down then I can kiss you too.”

“No. Right now is about you, Peeta.” To emphasize my point I take him as far into my mouth as I can. Peeta tries to maintain eye contact but as my bottom lip becomes flush with where his shaft and balls meet they close on their own volition lost in sensation. He shifts his weight and moves to rest his back against the door so I settle my thighs onto the back of my ankles to accommodate the new position. My legs spread and even though my mouth is full with Peeta I gasp as the cool air shocks my heated core.

I reach for Peeta’s hands, still knotted in my messy dark hair, and pull them to my face looping his thumbs behind my ears. I pull away from Peeta and demand, “Take my mouth.” Confusion crosses his countenance, but he will soon figure out what I’m asking. I slide Peeta back into my mouth and lock eyes with him as my hands move down to find my breasts. His grip on my cheeks gets slightly tighter, but I am still the one directing my movements. My hands squeeze my breasts, and I manipulate my hard nipples between my thumb and forefinger.  Peeta’s eyes grow wide but he still hasn’t caught on that I want him to take my mouth how he needs.

I duck my right hand between my legs and peel back the side of my panties. With his full attention focused on what I’m doing to myself Peeta doesn’t even realize that he has begun to thrust into my mouth. A whimper escapes my mouth in response to how incredibly hot and intense this has become. When I use my fingers to spread myself and rub slow circles Peeta’s grip on my cheeks becomes hard and he moans my name. His hands now guide my mouth with abandon. Even in the throes of passion Peeta is not too rough, and his hurried thrusts incite an impossible want deep inside me.

The circles that I am looping have become hurried and my left hand has dropped from my nipple to assist. I’m in the midst of climbing higher and higher to sweet oblivion when Peeta suddenly releases my face from his grip and slides down the door. “Together.” He asserts as he pulls me astride his lap. My calves squeeze the side of Peeta’s thighs as I sink down and bury him completely inside of me. I rock up and down, finding our rhythm. In a matter of minutes, we come together, and as stars explode behind my eyes I know that I am alive.

In the subsequent blissful aftermath of our pairing, Peeta feeds me bits of fruit, bread, and cheese while we lay wrapped around one another on the cold kitchen floor. In this moment, I am aware that while physically I am complete it is only Peeta who makes me whole. Prior to the Games and the Rebellion I would have been disgusted with myself for relying so intrinsically on another person. To allow myself to want Peeta would have been an affront to my sense of self preservation and to need him would have been completely unheard of. It is fitting that what I once saw as weakness I now embrace fully. Peeta sneaks a tender kiss behind my ear and whispers, “Thank you.” I know that he is acknowledging the herculean effort that it took for me to make it downstairs and not offering gratitude for the act itself. His admission warms my whole being with its honest sincerity; my Peeta knows me and recognizes that I was not looking to forget but begging to be reminded that I am alive. We take care of one another, Peeta and I, always.

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