We do not own the Hunger Games. Or 50 Shades/Twilight. Or Braveheart, Chronicles of Narnia, or Lady Gaga.

Lots of language and lots of adult lovin'. Not your mother's Hunger Games.

Enjoy!

Former soldier Katniss Everdeen-Mellark recounted her struggle for victory in the 74th Annual Hunger Games and revolt against President Snow's dictatorship in what became The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay, which would go on to win the Panem Prize for Historical Non-Fiction. Little did she know that years later, from beneath the rubble, the private journal she kept throughout it all would surface. And within its pages, a smouldering tale of love, lust, and betrayal unfolds...

Before they were hungry, they were...

50 Shades of Hungrey

o0o0o

Peeta makes his way up the grassy knoll by the meadow, his wooden leg dragging behind him slightly. I frown from my place at the kitchen window, where I rinse the blood from my hunting knives. Ever since the tiny Rosie started whittling things, we've been running low on wood to keep her occupied. But Peeta doesn't mind, in between the screams.

He looks preoccupied. Unsettled, even. Did he have a flashback down at the bakery? The last time that happened, he'd nearly beaten Haymitch to death with a rolling pin. Our mentor ended up on top of Peeta, pinning his wrists and ankles to the floor. Not bad for an old drunk. But I suspected that there was only so much more abuse that his body could tolerate.

There's something in Peeta's hands. A small package. From the Capitol?

"You okay, sweetheart?" I say as he enters the kitchen, panting.

"Yeah, I...yeah."

"You're not making me feel real confident."

Peeta shakes his head as if to get his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes. Time for an appointment at Ye Olde Supercuts. Back when District 12 was part of the United States and people could afford things, apparently they still liked discounted haircuts.

But I know what the shaking means. Our perpetual game: real or not real? The Capitol memories were waging war on him again.

"It's just that..." Peeta fondles the package in his hand. "This came on the train for me, and I'm not sure what it means."

I take it. Sniff it first. Just because we're back in the bowels of Panem doesn't mean that we haven't had our share of death threats. Me especially. The girl on fire tends to get a few bags of flaming poo. So far, so good.

"Was there a note?"

"Nothing."

As the paper unwraps, I drop the package in shock.

"Do you know?" Peeta says anxiously.

I look at the whip.

Of course I fucking know.

o0o0o

Once Rosie finishes chiseling at the ottoman and we convince her to sleep, I look through the bookshelf. There's the book we made to honor the family and friends that we lost. There are my memoirs. And then there's the sketchbook that Cinna left behind for me. But this one isn't filled with my sad attempts at fashion.

"Katniss, you still haven't told me about the whip."

"I'm trying to process, Peeta. Gosh!"

Process. He nods, and a dreamy look immediately fills those blue eyes. I know where his mind has gone. Processed food. Whole grains. White grains. I can see him counting the grains in his head. Counting how many loaves he'll bake tomorrow. He'll be out in minutes. "I'll be in bed soon, I promise," I assure him.

My husband lumbers up the stairs. I listen until I hear the familiar clunk of wooden leg on the floor. He's in bed for the night.
It's then that I risk pulling out Cinna's gift to me.
The black book.

I shiver.

When you're reaped, you don't know what you're in for. You vacillate between the unrealistic hope of winning and the desperate wish to just die quickly at the bloodbath so that your family doesn't have to watch you starve or go mad on screen. You wonder what weapons there will be, how crazy your opponents are, and whether or not it will come down to you and your fellow district tribute. If you're so lucky as to live that long.

Call it Panem's largest playroom.

Everything's in that book. Too much. With the bombing and the rebellion, I'd forgotten its existence. When I slowly came out of my catatonic grief, I remembered it. Surely it couldn't have survived when so much - and so many - had been lost. But like that damned cat Buttercup, the thing proved to be invincible.

The Training Center. The cave. All of those things the way they really happened when the cameras were trained elsewhere. After the Games, I had no choice. The cameras would always be on me.

But not then, no.

Because there were two versions of the 74th annual Hunger Games. The one that was broadcast to the districts and most of the Capitol, in which we fought for our lives in the forest. Small wonder what Snow's CGI could do. It could create worlds that didn't exist, distort people's words and looks and even their deaths.

And then there were the Games that were broadcast directly to Snow and select members of his craven cabinet. The real Games.

o0o0o

"Katniss, honey? Are you okay?"

How long have I been sitting here staring at the wall, the book closed on my lap? It's like those first few months back home in District 12 after the war. Hours passed without me moving.

Peeta sits next to me on the sofa and immediately I fall against his chest. After all these years, I still need his warmth. "That weird package really threw you, huh?" he says into my hair.

"Just a tad."

"Want to talk about it?" He pulls back so he can look me in the eye. "You don't have to protect me, you know. In a refreshing turn of events, we're not on the verge of being poisoned, tortured, mauled, or otherwise maimed."

I smile in spite of myself. "It's a whole lot to take in."

He flicks my braid. "Tell me."

Caesar Flickerman, a million years away: Peeta. Tell me.

"It might be better if you...read."

"Okay," he says. "But only if you read it with me."

There are several things I'd prefer over reading the true story of our Games. Like Rosie whittling my shin or Haymitch throwing up on his breakfast.

But the time for running away from Peeta has long passed, and so I open the book.