A/N: Written for Spring Kink Fest 2012-May, 4th.

"…and May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor!"

"Let the 74th Hunger Games begin!"

"You blew up the food?"

The distant buzz of a thousand screens.

"You don't have much competition anywhere."

Kiss.

My head aches.

I do not have to see the eyes with my own eyes to know they always watch me.

I move to let Peeta into my sleeping bag and we sit gingerly against the cave wall. He presses his healthy leg into mine. He's close now; his sweat-dirt-blood scent mixing to my stomach tremble (I will not lose that lamb stew now!), make my eyes swim.

It is strange. I do not feel anything for this boy.

She says as she suddenly cannot hear for the heart beating in her ears.

That voice could have been Haymitch's. It had his tone, his accent.

Can't I have any privacy even in my own head?

Peeta settles in the sleeping bag. I ignore the rushing in my ears and lay my head on his shoulder. I try to relax against him. Must always keep up appearances.

The corner of my eye catches one of the sweetest smiles I've seen from Peeta. It's beautiful; it's infectious, and I find myself smiling, too, in spite of the entire situation. For just a moment, the dirty cave evaporates. The arena and the competitors in the arena vanish. The screens, the commentary, the jeers dissolve.

It's just me. It's just him. It's just us.

That smile melts something in me. Maybe it is because his smile is honest, from the bottom of his heart. Maybe his smile is a reminder of easier, younger days.

Peeta's smile still alive, he wraps his arms around me, and I sink into his warm, dirt-encrusted hug. His arms are firm, cut taut, and they wrap around so much. His body becomes soft and yielding. And almost imperceptibly, I feel his head turn towards me.

The tip of his nose brushes against my ear – I hear him inhale lightly.

My heart is beating too fast again. Something tells me to touch him.

I can barely breathe. I lift my free hand to brush my fingertips against his cheek. It feels most natural to kiss him now.

This kiss is different. There is spice and a kind of musk in the taste. In the middle of it, I realize I want more. I turn into him and cup his face with both hands.

Have another kiss, sweetheart.

Ugh. Just…go away.

I lean the short distance forward and kiss him again, lightly at first. This is the spicy part.

Our kiss deepens when Peeta caresses my lower lip with the tip of his warm tongue. This is the musky part.

I inhale his scent, and the spice hangs in the air, too.

Somehow, tips of tongues aren't enough. If a little is good, more must be better.

Carefully, slowly, I lie on the floor, bringing Peeta with me as gently as I can. His mouth chases mine down. His lips feel impossibly soft and full. His body is hot; I did not even realize it had been heating. Everything in my body simmers into hypersensitivity.

Kisses on mouths are not enough anymore. His lips hesitantly trail down my chin and neck. I lift my head – unspoken permission. He smiles again and dips his lips to the pulse in my neck. Tremors race through me with each kiss. My hands run tentatively through his hair – this is new, foreign, not a little disconcerting, but not a little intoxicating.

This is, for lack of a better word, delicious.

Peeta's raises his head and eyes lock onto mine. I meet his gaze.

I see raw, green desire in his eyes. I have been hunter enough to know how a hunter looks at their prey.

He wants you, sweetheart, take him, he's yours!

Shut up!

His fingers touch my neckline and that's all it takes. Before I can register my body, I'm unclasping and peeling off my thick top layers. I stop at my tank. But something in his throat gives and he moans. He buries his face in my neck and paints a long trail up with the flat of his tongue. My body stiffens, shivers. My muscles feel syrupy and weak.

Peeta's prey is hardly prey.

My hands coast over his chest and back, gentle with his injuries. He drifts down my body, kissing and licking on the way. I don't know exactly where he's headed. Maybe.

The waist hem of his pants stick to his skin, but one hand of mine manages to sneak inside. His buttocks are tense and trembling, his skin hotter than ever. He snuggles his head between my breasts and presses his nose to the apex. Everything feels so good, so needed, so right.

"Katniss," he whispers.

I open my eyes.

"I want to touch you more."

I can't say anything. I know what he wants. Honestly, I want it, too.

I lay a hand on his and smile.

"Here," I murmur. My guiding hand and his push my tank up over my breasts.

Peeta's eyes rove shyly over my breasts and something in his face lights. He cups his hands around my breasts and lifts them to his mouth. His tongue and lips tug and tickle my nipples. His hands tenderly knead and squeeze. The sensation trebles in my groin and shoots up my spine. The dichotomy between his war-roughened hands and my untouched breasts is stark. The sight sends sparks through my brain. I moan softly, gripping tufts of his hair.

Peeta presses and grinds between my legs – I feel him hardening. White fire jolts through me and I cry out for the first time.

A dull roar sounds somewhere in the distance.

Between breasts, licks, hands, kisses, tight backs, breaths, straining necks, he slips my pants over my knees. My breath comes hard and my heart sings in my throat. I reach for his pants' fastenings with trembling fingers. I push his pants down and my hands hover around his hips. I'm nervous, and my body is moving of its own volition. This is going to be unlike anything I've ever tried before.

Peeta reaches for my hand and stills it. "Katniss," he says. "Trust me. Go slow." He smiles and I melt. Again.

What did I tell you, sweetheart?

Amidst the dull roar, I can hear a world of taunts and mockeries from the bows of human throats.

Peeta's grabs my hand and gives it several especially wet licks. His hand guides mine into his underwear, and he wraps my hand around his erection.

I'm actually touching him, actually sliding my hand along his shaft, actually massaging his underside. The reality takes a moment to jerk into my brain.

He's past my underwear, soft baker's fingers touching places I've never touched myself. Everywhere he explores, my skin cries out for more. I can feel a trickle of moisture coming from somewhere inside me, and his fingers smear it all around. His slips my underwear off, and I'm completely exposed to his gaze, but I trust him.

We touch everything until the point of no return. Peeta's face is frightened and passionate, lost and hopelessly in love. I don't think he can hold back anymore. Neither can I.

"Katniss," he pants. "I need to be in you." Even I can see the red bloom across his face and chest in the dark of the cave.

The distant, high-pitched noise of a thousand screens. The screams of an insatiable audience for, "More, MORE, MORE…!"

He touches my knees, begging. Fire flushes under my cheeks and diffuses across my breasts as I spread my legs. He kneels above me and I bring his hips down to mine. His shaft stands over my stomach, jerking, dripping.

"Will you…put it in?" He asks. "I don't want to hurt." Sweet Peeta.

I guide his cock to my entrance and I feel the head push just inside. His chest heaves, he growls with an open mouth. He shoves down suddenly, twice, and we are completely joined.

It is so full down there, I'm stretched almost to the breaking point. But he's quivering inside and hitting something buried deep that makes me shake all over. He withdraws and thrusts forward once and I dig my nails into his butt hard. That hurts. Wait.

The audience hoots with ribald japes. A voice speaking obscene commentary rises above the others. I don't know what it is saying.

He grips my body to him and waits. The stinging stops moments later and I rock and wriggle against him. Okay. Now move.

It is a command he fulfills as though his life depends on it.

Our skin slaps together as he rams down, as though he's racing for something. I brace both hands against the wall of the cave as he pushes us both across the floor. I must be racing towards something, too – something is gathering and building between my legs. It grows the more he pushes in and pulls out. I'm losing control. My hips hit his so hard that I'm sure there will be bruises. Peeta reaches for and kneads a breast and grips my hip.

The audience turns to rhythmic chanting.

Now he grinds harder than ever. Now there is a ceiling I'm lurching into and I'm shrieking his name. The world strobes black and spins. My legs stiffen and my toes curl. I'm so full with him down there; my body squeezes him.

And he is shouting, he is squirming inside me. He is finished.

He shifts off me, never letting me go. I'm limp and shivery all over. Our shared warmth keeps the cooling sweat from robbing us.

But I know what I heard. I am not imagining it. Our finishing screams – recorded for all time – echo throughout Panem. Every known cranny of the world sees our kisses. My mother…Prim…Gale…are watching and listening hundreds of miles away.

The screens are never dark. The commentary never ends. The crowds' jeers are never silent.

Here, I have found an oasis. I do not let the oasis drain. I do not let our soft noises end.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Critiques? Likes?