In an alternate version to the original, Katniss and Peeta go though with their plan to eat nightlock berries, leaving the 74th annual hunger games without a winner. This follows the story of Primrose in the years that followed.(Slightly darker than my other stuff and I tried to write it with a new style)

Prim’s life had been on a consistent downward trajectory since Katniss had died, defying the capitol in the process. Her mother shut down just like she had after her husband died. She fell sick died and to the winter cold less than year later. Gale had helped where he could, but he too was taken from her, by another mine collapse. Something which was becoming increasingly common. She managed to avoid being selected again for the games, despite a worry the capital would rig the games and make an example of her.

Prim’s body was thin and frail from malnutrition, her development through puberty and into adulthood stalled by the lack of nutrients. Her half starved form was thin and weak. Her ribs stood out against her chest, her breasts were just small, almost flat pockets of fat, her waist painfully narrow, her hips sticking out against her skin, narrow and boyish.

Her pussy has just a faint dusting of hair, never growing any longer. Her near starvation and lack of nutrition has stopped her periods years ago. She wasn’t sure if she could still get pregnant. Not that she would be able or even willing to bring a child into a life of such destitution.

She sometimes wondered if she should have just volunteered for the game. At least she would die quickly and with a full stomach. But she couldn’t. Katniss had sacrificed herself to protect her, and she couldn’t cheapen her sacrifice by ending up the games anyway. Even putting her name in more times than required for extra rations made her feel guilty but she had been starving Now she was 18, she was free if the games, but victim to the poverty of district 12.

She might have escaped the capitols games, but she had been living her own version of the hunger games since Katniss died, with emphasis on the hunger. The coming of winter is what pushed her to sell the one thing she had left. Something she had kept all this time. It was the only thing of any value she had. She pulled the thin and threadbare clothes around her frail form and went to visit him. The Merchant.

He was known to offer coin to the broken and desperate girls of district 12. Prim knew her lack of feminine features and gaunt appearance wasn’t the kind of thing men would find attractive, but when it was your innocence you were selling, much would be overlooked in favour of something so pure.

Their merchant’s grin spread wide when Prim explained her situation and explained that she was a virgin. The girls, usually desperate enough to take his offer of money for sex were already worn out. Used up and broken by the rough coal miners that made up most of the population of district 12. A virgin was a delightful treat he couldn’t wait to devour.

She could do with a few months of good food to fill her out, and she certainly needed a bath, but beneath the grime and desperation, he could see potential.

“Come back at closing time,” he said before giving her an apprising look, “and clean your self up.” He gave her a cheap bar of soap and told her to make sure she was clean. Shower were a luxury and a bath was nothing more than a distant memory. No one stayed clean for very long in district 12. The coal dust from the mines in the seam permeated everything. Prim took herself to a back ally she knew to have rarely visited rain barrel.

The bar of soap was a waxy, grey rectangle that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and lye. Prim held it in her chapped hands, her fingertips tracing its edges as she stood in the frigid alley. The water barrel was half-full of rainwater, its surface skimmed with a thin layer of ice she had to break with a stone. The cold was a physical shock, a teeth-rattling invasion that turned her skin a mottled blue and white.

She peeled the threadbare layers from her trembling body. The wind bit into her, making every fine hair stand on end. She was a study in stark angles and hollows. Her collarbones protruded like shelf-bones, and below them, the cage of her ribs was a stark relief against the thin skin of her torso, each bone visible down to her diaphragm. Her breasts were not even mounds, but merely small swellings on her chest, her nipples a pale pink, small and tight from the cold. Her waist was so narrow she could nearly span it with both hands. Her hip bones jutted sharply, creating deep hollows in her flanks. The faint, downy hair of her pubes was light blonde and sparse, never having thickened or darkened. Her legs were sticks, her knees knobbed and bruised her feet painful from her to small shoes.

She worked the cheap soap between her palms, creating a thin, slick lather. She scrubbed her skin raw, moving over the prominent bones of her shoulders, down her sunken stomach, between her stick-thin legs. The lather stung in the small cuts and abrasions from hard living. She cupped the icy water and poured it over herself, the shock stealing her breath, watching the grey suds sluice down her body and pool around her bony ankles on the dirty cobblestones. She did this until the soap was gone, her skin was numb.

She used her only scratchy towel to dry off and redressed. Clean clothes were another faint memory. The few clothes she did have had been patched and repaired so many times hardly any of the original material remained.

By the time she returned to the merchant’s store at dusk, the street were almost empty. The merchant led her back to a small storeroom and locked the door, the click of the bolt final. The riom was dim, lit by a single oil lamp that cast long, dancing shadows. The smells of dried herbs, dust, and his own musky scent filled the air.

“Let’s see my investment,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Prim stood motionless as he approached. He didn’t touch her face, which was pale and sharp with hunger. His eyes catalogued her like a butcher assessing a side of meat. His thumb brushed over one of her collarbones. “So fragile,” he murmured.

He pushed the shoulders of Prims dress off, the dirty and threadbare fabric slipping down her thin body. His hands, dry and warm, cupped the meagre weight of her breasts, his thumbs circling the tight, pebbled nipples until they ached. She flinched but didn’t pull away. He traced the ladder of her ribs down to her concave stomach, then his palms settled on the sharp points of her hips, his fingers dipping into the hollows of her pelvis.

“Turn.”

She turned slowly. His gaze, and then his hands, travelled over the knobs of her spine, the slight, almost flat curves of her buttocks. One hand slipped between her legs from behind, his fingers parting her cold outer lips. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. She was dry and tight, a virgin’s anatomy untouched and unprepared.

“Good,” he breathed, his voice thick. “You were telling the truth. A virgin is a rare treat.”

He led her to the back of room, where sacks of grain were stacked against a wall. He laid out a coarse blanket. She stood naked before him, her arms wrapped around herself in a futile gesture of modesty. He was already undressing, his own body soft and pale in the lamplight, a contrast to her starved angularity.

For the first time in her life she saw a man’s cock. The thick and veiny shaft and it fat bulbous tip stool out, pointing straight towards her. She was having trouble reconciling the idea of it soon being inside her small body.

“Lie down.”

She did, the rough blanket scratching her back. He knelt between her thin, parted legs. He didn’t kiss her or caress her. He simply stared, taking in the sight of her exposed, underdeveloped body, her faint pubic hair glinting in the low light. He spat into his palm, slicking his erect penis, which looked thick and obscene against her frail form.

He positioned himself. The blunt, broad head of him pressed against her tight entrance. “This will hurt,” he stated, not unkindly, but as a simple fact.

He pushed.

The pain was a white-hot lance of tearing flesh. Prim cried out, a short, sharp sound she strangled in her throat. Her body went rigid, her hands clawing at the blanket. He was large, and she was small and unyielding. He pushed further, a slow, relentless invasion, stretching her virgin tissue to a burning ache. She could feel every ridge of him, the impossible fullness. A tear escaped her eye, sliding down her cheek.

This wasn’t how she imagined losing her virginity. She should have met a nice boy her own age and fallen in love. They would go on dates, hold hands in the street, sneak kisses under the summer moonlight. He would have a safe job that kept him out of the mines. Maybe a baker like Peeta’s parents and she could be a healer. Helping people like her mother used to.

That fantasy has grown dimmer and dimmer until it has almost entirely faded. The only dreams she has now was of a full belly and warm clothes. Even that seemed out of reach.

The Merchant began to move, shallow at first, then deeper. Each thrust was a fresh burst of fire. The friction was dry and brutal despite his spit. She felt a warm trickle of her own blood mixing with his wetness. He grunted above her, his hands pinning her bony hips to the blanket, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. Her small breasts jiggled with the violent rhythm. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard, biting slightly. The dual sensation of pain—from her torn opening and her bruised breast—merged into a single, overwhelming agony.

Every thrust of his cock inside her sent shots of pain through her, her torn innocence never getting a chance to recovered before Prim’s was filled again. The merchant pushed Prims legs up, bending at the knee as spreading her wide. His weight pushed against her as her leaned into each thrust, driving the young girl into the sacks beneth, the rough blanket scratching at her back each time the merchant thrusts rocked her back.

She dissociated, trying and block out the pain and discomfort. She floated above herself, watching from the rafters as a pale, gaunt girl was brutally deflowered on a pile of discarded sacks. Just like her, they had been thrown aside and forgotten until they had some use. She counted the dust motes in the lamplight. She watched as if she was someone else, watching a girl being violated by the merchant. She tried to ignore the sensation of his cock driving into her, tried desperately to focus on the promised coin, and not his grunting breaths past her ear, or his hands grabbing at her body.

With a final, deep groan, he shoved into her to the hilt, his body shuddering. She felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release inside her, a strange, violating warmth. He collapsed on her for a moment, his weight crushing the air from her lungs, before rolling off.

He stood, wiping himself with a corner of the blanket. Prim lay still, her legs splayed, a sharp, throbbing pain radiating from her core. The inside of her thighs was smeared with blood and semen, more leaking from her abused pussy with every shuddering breath.

He tossed a small leather pouch onto her stomach. It landed with a soft, heavy clink. “Not bad for a first time,” he said, buckling his trousers. “Come back when hungry again. “You cunt has a few more uses before you just another whore”.

Prim hated every word from his mouth, the degrading terms he used making her feel even worse than she already did. She wanted to scream and shout. To kick him between the legs until he bled the same way she did. But, she didn’t, she came here for a purpose as despite hating every second of it. She knew she would have to come back.