AN: Alternate Universe in which the rebellion is won by the Capitol, and all female rebels are taken to be sold to the highest bidder and all male rebels are taken to be to be tortured and killed. A few manage to escape and restart the resistance, and this ficlet is just one of those men/women heading out to rescue other captured soldiers. Please don't flame - don't like, don't read. Because I don't take insults very well and I'm actually pretty sensitive .-. And if you do like Primrose/Haymitch, then enjoy whatever mess that I've constructed this time. Also sorry for any errors or anything. I don't have a beta and sometimes reading your own stuff over and over and over again is tiring.

Warning: This is a Prim/Haymitch fiction, which means it's underage. It's also mentions non-consensual, forced prostitution and cutting, briefly. It's a pretty dark story filled with underage smut, so I suggest you tread lightly.

To Hell With Me

He leans in the doorway, and she wonders vaguely if he's a masochist or a sadist. She doesn't look at him - that's what he wants her to do. Not that she isn't for giving him for what she wants, because if she doesn't then poor little Posy next door will be killed, and so will Rory and Vick and her aunt Hazelle. She can tell from his shadow that he's tall, maybe even taller than Gale. Taller than Gale, that's a feat. No one was taller than her giant oak tree of a cousin. She shakes her head, her jumbled thoughts getting back on track. This wasn't about Gale. This was about the man with the dark hair and the not-quite-grey eyes standing in the doorway, his lips molded into a lopsided smirk and his clothing actually fixed into something other than the slouch he is. The smell of expensive cologne and soap radiates off of him. He smells good. Really good. Damnit, why did she dare look at the profile of her patron's today. The last thing she needs is to actually be attracted to one of these sick bastards.

He pushes away from the doorway and strides over to her, untying her hands from the wooden pole that the last men had put her on. She yanks away her wrists quickly, rubbing away the reddening sores that had begun to gather there. Primrose had decided early on that she hated the ones with the thirst for dominance. Her eyes remain on the floor, staring blankly at the gold and white zigzag patterns that cover the rug. He kneels in front of her and taps her chin twice, but she refuses to look at him. She refuses to even acknowledge his presence - all she wants is for this man to fuck her and move on with it. She's supposed to hate him, but she can't hate the man that smells like soap and cologne and doesn't just go straight to raping her. She can feel his eyes on her, taking in her almost nude body and the scars that cover her thighs and wrists. He clucks his tongue, once, twice, three times, before shaking his head.

"Oh honey," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. She fidgets in the blistering heat - why did they keep these damn rooms so hot? - and tries desperately to ignore the heat in her lower abdomen at the sound of his voice - so raspy and rough and masculine. His voice sends a different kind of heat rolling through her, one that makes her gasp a little. He's not supposed to be special. He's not supposed to make her feel these things. He's supposed to be another asshole politician looking for a good fuck and some cheap pussy. But that's not him at all.

"Why did they tie you up, darlin'?" he asks, kneeling next to her. His voice - still possessing the raspy masculinity - is honeyed and kind, not mocking on sneering at her. His voice is different, it's a lovely voice that she wants to hear more of. She fights the tears in her eyes. No one had ever sounded like that - like they genuinely cared. Well, her family did, technically. But Katniss was dead, and Gale and Peeta were mindless drones, and her mother was only god knows where. Ever since she'd been captured and sold away to this stupid fuckin' brothel, all she heard was empty flatteries and barren words. No one ever cared anymore. It actually hurt when someone did care.

"They tied me up because I was fighting, sir," she says loudly, making sure not to lean towards his scent and look away from the semen and piss stained carpet. Something wraps around her shoulders after she speaks, and after a moment she realizes that he just gave her his jacket. Despite the heat, she welcomes it. Something to cover her dignity is the best she could ask for right now. It smells like him, and she can't resist wrapping it tighter around her body. "Thank you, sir."

"Prim, you realize," he begins, his words slow and meaningful. "who I am right? Do you remember me, sweetheart?"

"No, sir. It is not my job to remember patrons, sir. My duty is to serve you as my master, sir."

"Don't do that, don't talk to me like that, sweetheart. Talk to me Prim, come on. I'm not just another patron that uses and discards you. I'm here to help you," he says urgently. "Say anything that sounds like the old Prim. Let me know that it's not a lost cause." She doesn't. She doesn't utter a word, she just turns to look at him. A flicker of recognition crosses through her sky blue eyes, and a small sob escapes her throat. She remembers. His eyes are pained and bloodshot, the effects of the tracker jacker poisoning, probably. They'd tried to alter him like they'd done to Gale and Peeta, but the man was too headstrong. She remembers nights with him, curled on his couch as he helps her with her homework or weaves some ungodly tale about falling in and out love. Although the poison did cause him to tune out at times or spasm and twitch at weird moments, he was still the same man that she'd almost fallen in love with, back during the war.

He gives her a small smile and she nods her head, a small incline. He breathes a sigh of relief, gathering her into his arms and pressing his lips against the matted strands of her hair. She suddenly feels shame. Dozens of men's semen, urine and even scat was matted in her hair, along with even some blood and spit. She didn't want him to see her like this, or to hold her while she's so filthy. She wants to me clean and beautiful when she meets him again - not half-nude and internally dead.

"I have a team of men behind this operation, but I still need you to keep it together. I'm gonna get you out of here, sweetheart, but it's gonna take awhile. We're getting you out of here. You hear me?" he asks, cupping her face. His calluses rub against her cheeks and she sighs. It had been too long since a kind hand had touched her, and she almost forgets to reply to him as she revels in his touch. She nods slowly, before pointing towards the restroom.

"Do you mind helping me bathe? I haven't walked in weeks and I don't want you to have to... use me while I'm a filthy mess," she whispers. He frowns, pulling away from her as if she were on fire. Immediately, Prim misses the warmth and comfort he brings, and pulls his jacket tighter around her.

"I refuse to treat you like they do, darlin'," he hisses, his words dripping with an angry venom that she'd only seen in him once before, long before Katniss had won the Games. It's terrifying and thrilling. "I ain't scum."

"Oh, but you have to! If my master comes around and does my check, and finds that I have not been recently used, I will be beaten and whipped for not serving the man as a proper bitch should," she says, not missing the flinch that comes from him. "If you ever wish to see me again, you must do as I tell you."

"I'm gonna to help you, Primrose Everdeen. Or to hell with me. But I will not abuse you," he says with finality. Fear washes over her. She wasn't lying - he did need to have sex with her. Hourly, she got checked by the brothel owner himself, and if he saw that she hadn't had her fair share of use, the patron would be banned from the brothel and she would be beaten and whipped. She didn't want that, and she wouldn't want to be left alone again. She'd only found Haymitch a few seconds ago - to have him so cruelly ripped away so soon would damage her even more than a thousand beatings.

"Please, Haymitch," she pleads, grabbing the lapels of his coat. "Please. I beg of you. Do what you must."

He stares at her, his fiery determination cooling into a chilling sadness. He really didn't want to hurt this girl, barely sixteen now. It would be morally wrong and he'd never be able to live with himself. Not even a million showers would be able to wash away the self-loathing he would feel afterwards, and he'd hardly be able to look her in the eye. He wasn't one of those filthy politicians and loyal Snow supporters. He was here to get out as many ex-Rebels as possible and guide them to safety. Not to rape poor little girls who have already been through too many traumatic experiences.

But if he didn't, she would be brutally hurt. He knows this well. When Plutarch had tried to retrieve Katniss a year ago - all under a guise, you see - he had not had intercourse with her. Katniss was later beaten within an inch of her life, and her wounds became infected. It was how she died - dirty, abused, and lonely. Trapped in a desolate brothel. Haymitch would not allow the same fate to come to Prim - no matter how much death may seem like a beacon of hope to her. She would be the new Mockingjay - he could not get her killed.

Fighting a lump in his throat, he helps her to the washing area. Haymitch tends to her, washing out her hair slowly and peppering small kisses to her forehead. Not romantically, just to let her know that someone was here for her. And that her days of loneliness were far from over. He bathes her, being gentle with her cuts and bruises, helping her clean until the water that swirls down the drain is no longer black. Then he helps her back to the bedroom, where he lays her gently on the bed and climbs on top of her.

Haymitch wrenches his eyes shut as he unzips his pants, not bothering with foreplay. He didn't want to drag this out - all he wanted to do was get this girl far, far, far away from here and never have to touch her in this way again. But to do that, they each much conquer obstacles that would prove to be helpful in the long run.

"Haymitch," she whispers from beneath him. He dares a peek into her eyes, filled with a glistening hope that he did not see when he walked in. "Haymitch, it's okay. It's you, and I know you. You said yourself that you did not want to hurt me, and I believe you. It's alright. You can let go for now." He shakes his head, fighting the boiling wrath that bubbles to his surface as he pushes gently into her. She whimpers below him, and his member twitches - much to his disgust. He genuinely didn't want to sleep with the girl, but his body reacted on primal instincts and almost immediately, he was hard for her. The urge to vomit comes and goes four different times, and each time it's a bigger struggle to keep his lunch and breakfast down.

Prim spreads her legs wider for him and he buries himself to the hilt inside of her, his face falling between the crook of her neck and shoulders so that he won't see her face. Haymitch desperately doesn't want to have to see her young face, which should be filled with unknowing innocence. She whines in arousal and pain, her walls adjusting to the feeling of this man inside of her. Even though she'd been used multiple times before, it wasn't often that men came with a length and thickness such as this. She wasn't used to his size, but it shouldn't be hard to adjust. This was something that need to be done - she wouldn't let a little pain stop any of this moment. Not to mention this was the first time that she'd ever wanted to voluntarily sleep with someone.

He pulls out suddenly, and she hisses at his sudden lack of presence. But just as soon as he's gone, he's back and this time with a little more force.. His hisses at the warmth and delightful tightness of her, and once more must fight the self-loathing that he begins to feel on the inside. Prim arches her back and drags her nails across his still clothed back, a small moan falling from her lips in a serenade. She wants to rip at his clothes, but even she knows that this is already hard enough on him and that maybe she shouldn't ask him to fully expose himself.

"Faster," she pleads, cupping his arse instead. "Faster, Haymitch." He obeys, pulling out and in again with more speed and force. His thrusts pick up from there, the bed beginning to rock as he increases speed. Prim's cries of passion and his grunts fill the air, leaving a rising tension in the room that seems to continue to build, creating an uncomfortable heat that tops the previous one tenfold. Something between them sparks, like electricity. Stars begin to explode behind both of their eyelids and Haymitch hates himself for enjoying this. They both begin to break into a sweat, and Primrose can actually feel something knotting in her stomach, something that she doesn't get to feel often. The smell of sex and sweat begins to fill the air as well, the sudden stench somehow adding to her arousal. When the climax to her climb hits, Prim cannot hold back any longer. Arching her back and bucking her hips, Prim gives out a loud cry of pleasure, his name tumbling from her lips in the motion. Her walls clamp down around his member and he actually moans at the feeling. Mentally, Haymitch curses his body's natural reaction to things as arousing as this. It takes him a few more thrusts before he reaches his peak, but when he does he groans loudly and slumps against her, his heavy breathing the only sound against her pounding ears. His warmth fills her, his member twitching and pumping her full of his sticky seed. Prim is surprised to revel in the feeling of his essence inside of him.

It takes a few moments for either of them to come down from their high, and Prim must take five deep breaths. Their orgasms ring in their ears as his face buries nto her shoulder.

"To hell with me," he whispers into her shoulder, and she can feel a liquid-y warmth on her shoulder. He's crying because he slept with her. "I am no better than those assholes that-" he cuts off, shaking his head. She combs through his now matted hair, her nails separating the tangles and her voice humming the melody to the Hanging Tree.

"I am no better," he says with finality. She shrugs lightly.

You are all the better, Haymitch Abernathy. And I thank you for it.