Trigger Warnings! Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sexual Activity, Prostitution, Suicidal Thoughts, Attempted Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture.

There are times it's going to be graphic, it's going to be rough and it's going to have some triggers that some readers might not be comfortable with.


Prologue

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Peeta repeats the mantra until it is the only thought in his head, until it sucks the tears back behind his eyes. He's shaking all over with no way to hide it. He burns with shame because even though he desperately doesn't want this, he can't stop his body's reaction to the naked woman lying on the bed in front of him. He's hard and completely naked, so there's no way to hide that either. He's only sixteen. Random words get him hard. That doesn't mean he wants to do this. Not for his first time. Not at all.

"Mmm, I love a virgin. So shy. So eager," the woman purrs.

He swallows back the vomit in his throat. If he had known that this is what it meant to win the Hunger Games, he would've let the Careers kill him in the bloodbath. Gotten it over with quickly instead of dying the slow death that giving his body to strangers entails. He could refuse. He could put his clothes back on and walk out of the door, leave the naked woman on the bed. But his oldest brother just had a baby. His middle brother just aged out of the Reaping and asked Carmina Braselton to be his bride. His father still loves running the bakery and even his mother is proud of him now that he is a victor.

Haymitch had warned him. Finnick had warned him. Johanna had warned him. You can't refuse. You can't walk away. If you do, you'll be punished. And the people you love will be dead.

"I'm going to have fun with you," the woman says as she climbs down from the bed. She moves behind him, brushing her fingernails down his back. "Do you know how much you cost? Such a high price for such a pretty thing." She grabs his ass. He flinches. She laughs. "So pure too." She moves around to face him. She smells of heavily perfumed roses. He wants to gag. He clenches his teeth together. "Not so innocent though. Isn't that right? I watched your games and the way you killed the last one – " she grabs his bicep " – with your bare hands." She leans in to whisper in his ear. "It made me so wet."

Don't cry.

The woman sinks to her knees in front of him, taking him in her hand, and begins to stroke up and down the length. He bites his lip to stifle a moan because even though he doesn't enjoy it, even though he wishes he were anywhere but here, the sensation of a hand on him that isn't his own feels good. Too good. She strokes faster, and he sucks deep breaths in through his nose. He turns his head and focuses on the floral-patterned fabric of a decorative chair in the corner of the room. Dandelions. An odd choice for Capitol furnishings. Roses are most often used in honor of the president.

When the warm, wet cavity of her mouth descends on him, the moan he's been holding back escapes. And he hates himself for it. He hates that he is getting any pleasure out of this at all. His eyes drift from the chair back to the woman. He watches her lips as they slide over him. His cock disappearing and reappearing over and over again. The familiar tightening in his balls signals that he's about to come. He panics, unsure what to do. He hasn't lasted very long at all. Humiliation pours over him on top of the shame that he's in this room at all. His breath comes out in rough gasps. His hands hover around the woman's head. He's not sure if he can touch her or if he should warn her.

He shoots his hand out to the side grasping one of the posts of the four-poster bed. "I – I'm…I," he stutters, unable to articulate his impending orgasm.

It doesn't seem to matter. The woman understands and grows more excited, groaning and moving over him faster. He closes his eyes; his fingers painfully clamped around the post and tries not to despise himself as the waves of pleasure flow through him and his semen coats the inside of the woman's mouth. She moans, releasing him with a soft 'pop' and licking her lips.

"I won't be doing that with you again," she says, rising to her feet and wiping the corners of her mouth.

"Again?"

She laughs in his face. "I have more money than I know what to do with and I'm fully prepared to spend the full asking price on you again and again." She snakes around him and pushes on his shoulders directing him towards the mattress. "As I said, don't expect that from me again. I only do it once and only with the virgins. I like to have the first taste. It makes the hefty price tag that much more worth the money."

She moves back in front of him, letting her fingers slide along his shoulders. Then she climbs on the bed, slinking across it like a cat before twisting onto her back. With her knees bent and her legs spread, she beckons him with the crook of her finger. He freezes. He knows the mechanics of what he's supposed to do. He grew up with two older brothers. Finnick and Haymitch also made sure he wasn't going into tonight completely blind. But now that the moment is here he can't breathe. He glances down at himself to see that he is still hard.

The woman looks down too and chuckles. "God, I love the young ones. You can just keep going and going, but we aren't going to need that yet."

Peeta's brows furrow in confusion. The woman throws her head back with a bark of laughter.

"So pure," she cackles. "Come." She pats the mattress.

He climbs up and positions himself between her legs because he's not sure where else he's supposed to go. She reaches behind her head and into a nightstand drawer. She pulls out a long piece of black cloth. He watches her, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He has an innate fear of bindings. It's as much a part of him as the hair on his head. If he reaches far enough back in his memories, one of his first involved being bound and being caged. He's shaking so hard he can feel the bed vibrating beneath him.

The woman sits up, scooting closer to him until their groins almost touch. He sucks in a ragged breath. She takes the cloth and wraps it around his head, covering his eyes. He exhales. Blindfolded. He doesn't like not knowing what's coming, but it's much better than having his hands or feet bound. Actually, maybe being blindfolded won't be so bad after all. He can pretend he's somewhere else, with someone else, someone he hasn't seen in a very long time, someone with gray eyes.

The door to the room opens and closes. He jolts at the sound, losing his balance and clasping the woman's thighs to keep from falling over. The woman giggles throatily. A deeper voice joins her.

"He's a jumpy one," a man says.

Large hands, rough hands, masculine hands, skate down his arms. Lips graze his shoulder. Stubble scratches his skin.

DON'T CRY!

The mattress sinks as the man climbs onto the bed. A whimper leaks from Peeta's lips. The pair chuckle. Their breathing increases. They're excited by his obvious discomfort. He listens blindly to the wet sounds of them kissing. Their hands roam his body. His senses are overwhelmed. His mind screams for escape. His heart drums painfully against his ribs.

Someone's lips find his. He doesn't respond at first, still numbly kneeling on the mattress.

This is his first kiss.

Eventually, he remembers Haymitch's words and Finnick's words, and Johanna's warnings. He moves his mouth against the pair of lips trying desperately to match the movements. Suddenly, he's being pulled down and another pair of lips are on his while a mouth is around his cock again. He cries out because whoever has him knows what they are doing. It feels good. And he doesn't know if he's ever hated himself more.

Is the blindfold wet? He told himself not to cry.

Things start happening faster. Lips are replaced with body parts. He feels himself enveloped in tightness, warmth, and wetness. He fists the sheets, his back arching off the bed uncontrollably. And he knows. He's no longer a virgin. This isn't how he imagined it. How could he possibly have imagined this? He feels himself sliding in and out of the slick heat. He turns his head to the side. The damp material of the blindfold sticks to his cheeks and soaks up his tears.

His mind drifts. He thinks of those gray eyes and wonders if she's happier now that she's dead. Can dead people truly be happy? Perhaps death is nothingness. He wouldn't mind nothingness. His body is moved into different positions.

It's uncomfortable. It's painful. It's nothing he's ever wanted.

He thinks of the dandelion chair in the corner of the room and the field of dandelions, daisies, and lilies in the meadow back home. He used to sit there for hours sketching in the sun.

The man thrusts into him painfully, pulling his mind back to reality. He sobs into the pillow in earnest now, not caring if they know he's crying. The man strokes his back and grunts platitudes meant to soothe him. The woman moans in pleasure beside him, her nails raking down his arm.

When it's over, when they've finished with him and he curls in on himself feeling more used, dirtier, and more abused than he ever thought possible, the door opens again. He tucks his knees further into his chest. Fingers grasp the blindfold and gently lift it from his eyes. Finnick's troubled green eyes are there.

"I didn't know." His hands hover, unsure, over Peeta's naked body. "I didn't know there would be two of them. I thought it would be just the woman. I would've tried...would've tried to bargain with Snow, taken the man myself. I would've tried...something. I'm so sorry Peeta."

Peeta stares at him blankly, empty. He doesn't know what to say. He's not sure he can form words right now anyway. Finnick releases a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat. He reaches out lightly touching Peeta's arm. Peeta twitches away from the contact.

"Let me help you," Finnick says softly. "Let's get out of here and get you cleaned up."

Peeta nods, pushing himself up and hissing through his teeth. He's sore and tired. So very tired. Finnick's hands hover near, but he doesn't touch him again. Peeta dresses slowly, pulling clothes over a body that doesn't feel like it belongs to him anymore. It belongs to the Capitol now.

Once he's dressed, he follows Finnick through the door and out onto the street. There's a car waiting for them. It takes them back to an apartment building near the presidential palace. The building houses Capitol officials, Gamemakers, and Hunger Games Victors when they are in the city.

Peeta moves mechanically, following Finnick through the building, his eyes trained on the floor. Finnick pushes the door to Peeta's apartment open and leads him to the bedroom.

"I'll be just outside if you need anything," Finnick says, the worry, guilt, and anger etched across his face making him look far older than he is.

The door clicks shut and Peeta silently pulls off his clothes. He looks down at the pile at his feet and wonders how much trouble he would be in if he burned them. He never wants those pieces of clothing to touch his body again. He steps over the pile and into the bathroom, bypassing the mirror. He can't stand the thought of seeing himself yet, knowing that he'll look the same even though he feels so different. With the touch of a button, water streams from the showerhead. He adjusts the temperature far hotter than he usually prefers. Maybe if he makes it hot enough it will scald away every memory of them on his body. He stands under the streaming water expecting to feel the burning sting as it pelts against his skin, but he feels nothing. Nothing at all. He drops to his knees, pressing his face against the shower's cool tile floor. That's where he stays until Finnick finds him an hour later.


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