Author's note: I've been working on this for quite some time now. The first chapters were posted for Prompts in Panem 2016. This story is darker than anything I've ever written and I urge you to take note of the trigger warnings.

Contains sex and violence.

This story contains direct and revised quotes from The Hunger Games books and films. I own neither.

Trigger warnings: non-consensual sex, mention of abuse, mention of abortion.

Caryn! Thank you for being so wonderful and supportive. Without you, I don't know if this story would see the light of day.

It's a brown and orange sticky mess, and I wonder if it's even legal to call it food. Then again, the law doesn't apply here—we're all criminals. It doesn't matter if you're actually guilty of the crime you're convicted of because, as soon as you're on the other side of the fence, you're a felon in everyone's eyes. They could feed us dog food and no one would care.

If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine this being a cafeteria bustling with people. But it's a difficult task—since we're only allowed plastic trays and cutlery, the sound isn't the same. Not to mention the stench. I try to block out the odor by imagining the sweet smell of a freshly baked cinnamon… No, I can't go there. That was another time, another life. I've made a new one here. Besides, I can't show any signs of weakness.

I push the tray in front of me and stand up, heading for the exit.

"Everdeen!" a familiar voice barks behind me. I stop and turn around to look at Cato, one of the guards. His smile is smug, his stance wide, and he's holding his belt with both of his hands, trying to look intimidating. Like he's trying to make up for that tiny dick of his. "You know where the tray goes," he says, giving me a stern look.

"Apparently, so do you. Why don't you put it there?" I challenge, not breaking eye contact.

"I'm not your servant, Everdeen! Now take your fucking tray and put it where it belongs." He's losing his patience. Good. It gives me an opportunity to make a statement.

I walk back to the table, pick up the tray and walk to him slowly, dropping the tray on his feet. "Go fuck yourself," I say and saunter away, not bothering looking back. I know exactly what's in store for me after this, but it's worth it. I have to assert my authority here. I've worked my ass off for almost eight years to build myself a reputation—sucking dicks, licking pussies, taking beatings, etc. And a prick like Cato will not take it away. The people in here are like wolves—they can smell fear. And the moment you show any type of weakness they will rip you to pieces. Kill or be killed.

On my way back to my cell I pass a couple of guards sneering at me. I just glare back. Pieces of shit. To be able to climb to the top of the food chain, whether you like it or not, you'll have to suck a lot of dicks. The new ones usually settle for a handjob, but once you've given them an inch, they want a mile.

I've never liked my cellmate. I can't put my finger on what it is, but she gives me a bad vibe. Rumors say she's an axe murderer, but I don't know how much of that is true. I find it hard to believe that she would end up in a medium security prison if that was the case. She doesn't like me either, but at least she's not sucking up to me, which I can respect. We have a mutual understanding—I don't mess with her, and she doesn't mess with me.

She's reading a book from the prison library as I walk in. "Heard you told Cato to go fuck himself," she says without lifting her gaze. "You know that's going to cost you."

"Yeah, it's nothing I haven't done before. Where did you hear that anyway?"

"You know I won't tell you that. You've got your ways to stay on top, I've got mine."

That's the longest conversation we've had in a week, so I leave it at that.

I should be used to the blaring horn at night, but I still jerk at the sound.

"Twenty minutes before lights-out!" a robotic voice shouts through the speaker. I drag my tongue across my front teeth, feeling their ragged surface. I grab my bag with toiletries and walk toward the communal bathroom. I'm not surprised when I meet Cato in the hallway on the way back.

"I think you have problem with authority, inmate," he says, pointing his baton at me.

"I don't. Because you don't have any authority over me." I try to keep a condescending tone—fear or weakness will get me nowhere.

Cato approaches me with long strides and grabs the collar of my shirt, pulling my face toward his. "We'll see about that," he hisses in my ear, roughly shoving me into a nearby closet—a closet I'm more familiar with than I would care to admit. As soon as he's closed the door, he grabs my left hand, cuffs it, and locks it above my head on one of the metal shelves. I close my eyes and hear the familiar sound of pants unzipping. Pulling out a knife, he presses it to my throat. Guards aren't allowed to carry knives, but I guess he's found a way to smuggle one in. It's not that difficult.

"Grab it," he growls into my ear. I take his dick in my hand and start stroking it, making sure to squeeze the head the way I know he likes. He's already hard, and I hope I can finish him off as soon as possible, so I speed up the motion with my hand. "Not so fast, Katniss." There's a hiss at the last syllable, and I cringe at the sound. I prefer if they don't use my first name—it makes it too personal. "Do you think a simple handjob is gonna make up for that stunt you pulled?"

He puts both hands on the waistband of my pants and pulls them down along with my panties, leaving me completely naked from the waist down.

"What's the matter, inmate? Don't know where to put it?" he mocks. I stay silent, not wanting to give in. "I think you do. It's not our first time," he groans in my ear, his breath on my skin disgusting me. "Why don't you put it there?" he taunts, mimicking my words from earlier. I could refuse to do it, but he's got the upper hand, and I know there's no way of escaping. So I might as well get it over with.

Reluctantly, I bring his cock to my pussy, and when he pushes it in I try not to show the pain that he's causing. He can feel that I'm not wet enough for this not to hurt, but I think the fucker thrives on that.

Instead of fighting it, I put my head against the wall and try to imagine someone else. Someone who never would have been this rough without my permission. I remember him moving above me, inside me, showing me what real pleasure was. How his gentle touch always made a warm, fuzzy feeling spread throughout my body. No. I won't go there.

"That's right. Right there," Cato pants, breaking me from my thoughts. For a second it didn't hurt, but with his words the pain comes back full force. He seems to be close, pushing into me faster and faster. He puts one of his hands on my breast, squeezing it hard, and this time I can't hold back a cry. I curse myself for letting him know much this hurts. I can't be weak—not in here. But he seems to be too wrapped up in his own pleasure to notice. He's pressing himself into me with such roughness that my back is starting to hurt too. I'm relieved when I feel his grunting get louder, and I finally feel his semen filling me and then seeping out as he pulls out.

He tucks himself back into his pants, staring at my naked legs the entire time. "You little cunt. Don't you think you can give me that crap again. I rule this place, not you. Or we will find ourselves in this closet again. And next time, I won't be so gentle."

It's not the first time I've heard it, and it won't be the last. He looks me up and down. My pants are still at my ankles, and my hand is above my head. It's degrading, standing like this, completely at Cato's disposal, but giving him blowjobs and the occasional fuck is worth it. No inmate here dares to cross me, and the fishes are terrified of me. Exactly the way I want it. I guess my murder-conviction doesn't hurt either. Well, technically it's not a murder-conviction, but that's what everyone thinks. It works to my advantage so I don't bother clearing up that misunderstanding.

"I would love to just leave you here, like this. But I need the handcuffs." He unceremoniously unlocks the handcuffs and leaves without another word. Good. I have to wash his fucking cum off me.

There is no risk of pregnancy. Not anymore. After a year here it was discovered that I was pregnant. I have no idea who the father was—it could have been anyone of a handful of guards, but it was obvious to the warden what had happened. Not wanting to cause a scandal, I was forced to have an abortion. But it was done off the record and in silence, so it was sloppy and apparently damaged me so much that I will never be able to bear children. Not that I was planning to, considering I'm gonna be locked up for a long time. But I would have liked to have had the fucking choice.

And as for STDs—there's really nothing I can do but hope for the best. So far, nothing has come up during my medical exams. Most of the guards put on condoms, claiming that I'm too filthy to stick it in me without some sort of barrier. Not too filthy to fuck, though, apparently.

I hurry my way back to the bathroom to wash myself off quickly before lights out.

"That was a long pee." I don't miss the mockery in her voice.

"Shut up, Mason," I glare at her.

As soon as the officers have counted everyone, the cell doors close, and I immediately dive under the covers of my bunk. This is the only time I allow myself to—at least partly—let my guard down. No one can see or hear me here, so I can let my mind wander. I let it wander to a time before I came here, where—at least for a short time—I was happy.

I've developed a technique to keep the nightmares in check—at least sort of. I can't wake up screaming in the middle of the night. That would indicate vulnerability. I don't want Cato or anyone—or anything—else in here invading my dreams, so before I fall asleep I force myself to think of something completely different, hoping that it will transfer into my dreams. It usually works, but sometimes I've woken up covered in cold sweat from night terrors. Fortunately no one has noticed—as far as I can tell.

It works this time. Instead of moldy bathrooms, flaking paint, and plastic trays, I dream of him.

I trace the edge of the swell of his left cheek, just below his eye.

"What was it?" I don't have to ask why or how it happened—I already know who to blame, and as for the reason, it's anyone's guess. When I reach a sensitive spot of his bruise, he flinches away in pain.

"A wooden spoon," he says, looking to the floor.

He thinks this is his fault. I guess you can only hear how worthless and unwanted you are so many times before you start to believe it.

"I have to clean this. Otherwise it'll get infected."

"Okay," he croaks. I put my hands of both sides of his face, careful not to hurt him, and push his hair back, dragging my fingers through his soft, blond locks. He closes his eyes and seems to enjoy this moment. It feels surprisingly intimate.

I could tell him that none of this is his fault and that everything will be okay, but I know he won't believe me. Besides, I love him too much to offer him meaningless platitudes.

I swing my leg over his lap and straddle him, giving him a light kiss on the mouth. He slides his hands over the outsides of my thighs, letting them rest by my waist for a minute before gliding underneath my shirt. He groans when he palms my breasts, and I moan when he swipes his thumbs across my already puckered nipples.

I reach down between us and start unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. He's already hard when I start stroking him through the fabric of his underwear. He keeps one of his hands on my breast while the other snakes under my skirt and starts rubbing me through my panties. For being so strong, his fingers can be surprisingly delicate. But I need more. So I reach underneath the waistband of his boxers and bring his cock out of its confinement. At this, he pushes my underwear to the side, sliding his fingers through my folds.

"Oh, my..." I pant. He removes his hand and I instinctively scoot closer to him, dragging the tip of his erection from my entrance up to my clit, coating him in my juices.

"That's—" he gasps. "It feels incredible. You're incredible."

I put his cock at my entrance, and he pushes in without hesitation. It feels so good, the way he fills me up completely. It's the safest I've ever felt. He moves both of his hands, letting them linger by my waist, holding me in a firm grip.

He moans when I start moving my hips, but I let him set the pace with his hands. He needs this. He needs to be in control. He needs to know that somebody's always by his side, so I follow his motions, and it's not long before he starts thrusting into me, sending a wave of pleasure through me, and I know I'm close.

He's twitching inside me, and I know he's close too. I almost think he's gonna finish first, but when he moves his hand to where we're connected and start teasing my clit, it's my undoing. He keeps the same fast pace throughout my entire orgasm as he rubs me. A couple of more thrusts, and then he's coming too. His movements become more wild as he spills inside me.

After we've both come down from our highs, I move to stand up.

"Stay."

The look of pure innocence on his face melts my heart, and I know I can never deny him anything.

"Always."

I'm awakened by the horn, signaling it's 6:30 a.m. We have fifteen minutes to come down to the dining hall, and then it's time for work. Work. They say it's a way of getting inmates assimilated to the real world when they get out. But really, it's just a way to get cheap labor. We're paid about a dollar an hour to use at the prison commissary.

My assignment is the laundry room, where we wash the bed sheets and the inmates' clothes. It's a fairly easy job, and it's an upgrade compared to my first one, cleaning the toilets. I had to suck the warden's dick twice to get transferred. It was worth it.

You stand and fold the laundry as it comes out of the dryer. It's kind of therapeutic, actually. I don't have to pretend in here. It probably sounds silly, but this is about the only secure place I've got. Sometimes you get new cellmates when old ones get released or transferred, changing the dynamic completely, and once in awhile you have to change cells. But this place is constant. It always smells the same, and you always do the same thing while you're here.

Whispers across the table break me from my thoughts. It's two of the girls with minor charges—I think it was drugs, but I'm not sure. I don't care, and I don't bother to learn their names.

"Hey." They snap their heads up, fear registering on their faces when they see it's me. Good. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry." They become silent and continue to work. But it only takes fifteen minutes before they resume their chatter. Are they giggling? I can't think of any reason to be giggling in this place, and their cackling brings to mind the sound of long nails scraping across a chalkboard. I slam the shirt I'm holding on the table, making as much of a noise I can, and walk up to them.

"What could possibly be so fucking funny that you're giggling?"

They somber quickly. "Sorry, but have you seen the new guard? He can cuff me anytime," one of them says, wiggling her eyebrows. They're crushing over a fucking guard? It's the pretty ones that are the most dangerous. They're used to getting what they want, and they will expect to get it here too. The ugly ones are usually happy with a handjob, or sometimes even just a kiss.

But a new guard poses a problem for me. It's important that I get him on my side before bitches like Cashmere get their claws in him. We're in different parts of the prison and most of the inmates are either on my side or hers. She's been inside about two years longer than I have, and she gave me my welcome party when I arrived. After only a couple of days in here, she and her mercenaries beat me up and robbed me of the few personal belongings I had, only to assert her authority.

The bruises and cuts healed, and most of my stuff could be replaced—except for one thing. She took the only photo of him that I had. It's of both of us, me sitting in his lap, and we're laughing at something I can't recall. I tried to commit it to memory, but as the years went by it faded away. I never got the picture back, and I'm still biding my time to get revenge. But it's difficult considering we operate different parts and the few times I do see her, she's always surrounded by her "bodyguards."

"What's his name?"

"Mellark. He'll probably grace us with his presence at lunch."

I spare a glance at the massive clock on the wall. 9:37 a.m. That won't do—I have to get to him as soon as possible. "Where did you see him?"

"In the hallway. I think he was going to Abernathy's office."

"When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

That's good news. Hopefully he hasn't met any of the other inmates yet. Maybe I can intercept him before he does. I haven't been to the toilet since I got here, which is a great opportunity. I walk up to the guard standing by the door.

"I need to go to the bathroom."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "You can wait till the break in twenty minutes," he responds dryly.

"I need to go now," I insist. "It's lady trouble," I say, trying to sound uncomfortable, squeezing my thighs together for effect.

He sighs. "Fine, but hurry back."

I scurry around him, making my way toward the bathroom. Before I enter, I look back at the guard, making sure he's not looking, and walk past the door instead.

As soon as he's out of eyesight, I pick up my speed in an attempt to meet this new guard before anyone else does. Fortunately, the counselor's office isn't that far away from the bathroom, so I hope I can make this quick. It's usually enough to the be the first to meet them and form some sort of bond. That way, when—or if—they chose their allegiance, you've already got them somewhat on your side.

But I'm out of luck. The office is locked, and I don't hear any voices inside. Abernathy always has his door open—I think he has to, being a counsellor and all. Here, they take the my-door-is-always-open-policy literally. So if it's closed it must mean he's not there, and not that new guard either. Fuck. I can't go around looking for them, so I guess I have to wait until lunch.

"Everdeen!" a guard snarls behind me. Shit, the odds are really not in my favor today. I turn around, flashing him an innocent smile. "What are you doing here?"

He's tall, with his dark brown hair in what looks like it's supposed to be a crew cut, but it's obviously been a while since he's cut it. He has to shake his head to get rid of his hair from his gray eyes, almost the same shade as mine. He's holding a styrofoam mug, with what I presume is coffee, because based on how red he is around his pupils, he didn't get much sleep last night. It says 'Hawthorne' on his uniform. "I was looking for Mr. Abernathy." Which is sort of true.

"Then you should come when he has visiting hours," he says, pointing at the sign next to the door. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be working? We don't pay you to wander around the hallway." His voice is stern. I stifle a snort. Pay?

I approach him. Hopefully I can persuade him to not rat me out. "I'm sorry, Officer Hawthorne." They love when you address them as officers rather than guards. "I just needed to see him—it's really important. Please don't tell anyone. I'd owe you one," I say, sliding my fingers up his arm and hoping he'll respond like most men do. He doesn't seem to mind my touch, but he doesn't say anything for a while either.

He finally breaks the silence. "Just get back to work."

I scramble around him and half-run back to the laundry room. I spend almost two hours stealing subtle glances at the clock and only halfheartedly folding the sheets. Honestly, who's gonna tell the fucking difference? As soon as the sound blares, announcing lunch time, I don't even finish the one I'm folding, just throwing it back in the dryer and hurrying to the dining hall.

As soon as I'm there, my jaw drops. I actually think it literally fucking drops. My eyes go directly to him. He still has the same effect on a room—it seems brighter and somehow more radiant. The lines on his face are more distinct, but it only makes him, oh-so-much sexier. His eyes are still the same, though, the same piercing blue gaze that could make any panties drop to the floor soaking wet with just one look. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who used to haunt my dreams. He's put on some muscles, and he fills out his uniform perfectly—enough to get a hint of the chiseled pectoral and abdominal muscles he's sporting underneath. His hair is a little shorter than it used to be, but I think it's an improvement. He holds his hands behind his back with a straight posture. He doesn't need to assert his masculinity by gripping his belt or spreading his legs.

He's changed, but I can still see the innocence and purity as clearly as all those years ago. Instinctively, my hand covers my mouth, and for the first time in eight years I let myself say his name. It comes out as a whisper, but inside I'm screaming.

Peeta.

Author's note: Please drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.