April 24, 2012/04/24
A/N: A Collection of romantic oneshots. I'll hand out frosted cookies to those who review and drop one word-theme challenges.
I don't own The Hunger Games.
Chapter 1: Prayer
She`s never believed in gods, nor in prayers.
The moment he steps into the moonlight, she momentarily forgets to breathe. Each plane on his muscled chest, each scar that serves to perfect his form rather than to flaw, and each strand of his flaxen hair is coated with a shimmer of sheen silver that for a heartbeat she finds it fair to consider the possibility that this beautiful man, perfect in more ways than one, has stepped somewhere within bounds of immortality.
When you know that the course of your life is being dictated not by the unknown, but by a very powerful hand seated within the Capitol, the idea of mercy and compassion is colored out by novelty and whim.
His sapphire irises are fathomless and beckoning as he lowers himself to her. She is compelled to grab his hand and press it to her cheek to show her reverence. When his lips find hers, it is all she can do not to weep; for his benevolence is too much and his love cannot be surpassed.
She knows about religion of course. What no living proofs could testify for, books have taught her. And yet, it is inevitable for her people to misunderstand. When survival dangles precariously over the brink of life and death on a daily basis, salvation is a personal burden one has no other choice but to bear.
He is warm and pulsing and everything that life should ever be when he buries himself inside her in one swift stroke. And all at once she is trembling, and all at once her soul has surged forward in a desperate grasp for the only remaining sliver of salvation in her life—him. When pale muscled arms come up to grasp her form impossibly closer to his, the jagged edges of the world fade away and she forgets where her damnation ends and her devotion begins.
There had only been two instances when she found herself praying to a god she had long since deemed to be non-existent: once for her father and once for Prim. When the heavens had remained silent to her pleas, making the decision to take matters in her own hands came in the form of instinct. This time, there would neither be useless devotions nor silly prayers; there would only be determination and strength as she fights to keep one more person safe—her boy with the bread.
Her name leaves his lips in a blessed whisper as she frantically clings to him. It`s too much—he`s too much. Every fibre of her being thrums for him, every nerve pulses and sings in desire and pleasure as he careens inside her, frantically, breathlessly. When his lithe fingers cleverly snake inside her to rub that most delicate nub, she is awash by a blinding light, a surge of heat. When their worlds collide, his name naturally touches her lips like a desperate prayer, every breathless syllable reverberating in the four corners of the dark room as she calls upon him over and over again in throes of passion and pleasure.
She`s never believed in gods nor prayers.
But when the tumultuous storm has passed and he lies beside her, breathless, spent, a vision covered in a silvery sheen of sweat and yet with that perpetual smile on his lips, and he asks her that single, hopeful question, she has enough conviction and blind faith in her heart that no god could have ever hoped to gather from such a scarred soul as hers:
`You love me, real or not real?"
"Real."