Warning: Non-graphic depictions of abuse/violence, servitude (sexual and otherwise), and Peeta being forced to perform sex acts on someone who isn't Katniss.
At times like this, he wonders if there's something wrong with him.
Surely there must be, he reasons. Peeta can't imagine why any man would be unhappy with a beautiful woman writhing beneath him.
But he knows most men aren't forced into doing these things with the threat of imminent death hanging over their heads.
Mrs. Crane rakes her pointed, violet lacquered fingernails down his back as he pistons his fingers in and out of her. Perfunctory. Methodical. But she doesn't seem to notice his lack of effort. She keens in pleasure, an awful, shrill noise, telling him not to stop and yes yes, right there, that's it!
He's sure to be discreet in rolling his eyes at her excessive vocalizations, but continues his ministrations. He's tired, hungry, and wants nothing more than to fall into his bed and sleep for a hundred years, dreamlessly and uninterrupted.
He chuckles silently at that, because he knows he can't have what he wants. Not ever.
Mrs. Crane screeches when his fingers curl against her walls, and he knows that she's close. Wanting to put an end to it, he brings the pad of his thumb to rub hard against her clit. Three swipes and she's done, piercing curses and exultations falling from her lips as she shudders and slumps into the mountain of pillows.
He extracts his hand and discreetly wipes it on the bedspread as she lies with her eyes closed, breathing heavily as she gathers her bearings. He's lucky, he supposes. Mrs. Crane is rather pretty, although he knows she's at least fifteen years his senior. She lacks the monstrous body modifications of other wealthy Capitol residents, and is quite kind to him compared to most mistresses. Her demands come swiftly, but she leaves him be to do his job otherwise. Not like some of the others he's heard about.
"Very good, boy."
His head shoots up, regarding her carefully. She's settled herself under the covers, and he's relieved to see she doesn't want to take it further.
"You always do so well," she praises, settling herself deeper into the covers. "Much better than my blithering idiot of a husband, even before he lost his manhood."
Seneca Crane, the Head Gamemaker, had run himself into an accident after he didn't ensure the victory of the Capitol favorite in last year's Games. The pretty, lithe girl from District 4, with the sea glass eyes had captured the hearts of the Capitol from her very first interview. Sponsors came pouring in without her mentors needing to lift a finger.
Her strategy was erudite in nature; she observed the other tributes from afar without killing any on her own. The Games wound down to herself and another female tribute, a brutal girl from District 1, a girl who murdered her district partner as he slept, under the guise of her keeping watch.
A well-placed bolt of lightning was meant to make the girl from 4 the victor, to bring her back to the people who loved and adored her, to keep her safe for the rest of her light.
The lightning missed.
And Seneca Crane lost his manhood.
"That's quite enough for tonight," Mrs. Crane says, jerking Peeta out of his reverie. "I've got a function to attend in the morning," she says, pulling a sleeping mask over her and waving him out of the room.
He scrambles to his feet, bowing slightly, before rushing out of the room.
As he makes his way down to the servant's quarters, Peeta mulls over how lucky he's been, relatively speaking, of course. As the bastard son of a Capitol dignitary and an Avox girl, he knows he really should never have been born. He lives a quiet life serving the Crane family, baking their bread and tending to their gardens, and, as of late, being forced to "take care" of Mrs. Crane when she requires it.
He knows he's lucky.
He still wishes he could be anywhere else.
A soft series of raps on his door wakes him from his dozing, and he blearily opens his eyes. He peers out his tiny window and sees the moon still high in the night sky. Who could need him at this hour? He had completed his duties hours ago, having prepared the dough for the morning bread and cleaning the vast kitchen before retiring for the night.
Still he pulls himself awake, trying to make himself look presentable lest it be the head manservant, or even worse, Mrs. Crane requiring him again.
But it isn't either of them. It's her.
Her dress is metallic perfection, accentuating the slight curve of her small hips and matches her eyes to a tee. Her face is clear of the garish makeup they normally force her to wear, and her hair is down, loose around her shoulders.
When Katniss gives him a half-smile, he returns it fully, pulling her into his small room.
"How was tonight?" he asks as she takes a seat at the small desk in the corner.
"Okay," she replies, kicking her her heels off before wincing slightly. Her grimace isn't lost on him, and he pulls her feet into his lap before beginning to rub them. She gives him a tranquil smile in thanks, before she begins again.
"It was a small party, so I didn't have to stay long."
"Mmm," he responds, kneading the arch of her foot. "Did they—did they need you for any other reason?" he hedges.
A hard look comes over her face before she shakes her head. He exhales in relief, but says nothing further.
Katniss came to the Capitol six months prior. A girl from the District 12, so far away, she had been hunting outside the district boundaries when she had been caught by Peacekeepers. They had intended to cut her tongue out, and send her to the Capitol to become an Avox, when her sister, a slight young thing had begged hysterically on her sister's behalf, crying to them that Katniss would be so much more useful with her voice.
The young girl explained to the Peacekeepers that Katniss possessed a beautiful singing voice, a voice so lovely that even the birds stopped their songs to listen to her, and wouldn't she be much more useful as an entertainer? The Peacekeepers were dubious, but listened to the young girl's pleas, sending Katniss to the Capitol with her tongue intact.
Luckily for Katniss, her sister was right. Scores of Capitolites offered extreme sums to possess the girl with golden voice, lush and lilting, the voice that could entrance any and with just a series of notes. The Cranes had outbid the rest, with Mrs. Crane's inheritance and Seneca's salary as Head Gamemaker rendering the other bids too minuscule to have a shot at owning her.
The Cranes put Katniss to work, her duties similar to that of the other servants. However, come nighttime, she would be dressed in glitz and glitter, transformed into a sultry singer, made to entertain Panem's elite.
Katniss's early days with the Cranes had been tumultuous, to say the least. Her insubordination and surliness was met with harsh punishment, both bruising blows and psychological torture. She was often deprived of food, and was made to tend to her injuries alone, with the other servants forbidden from helping her.
Peeta had no reason to interact with her initially; they rarely crossed paths at the Crane estate, with him being sequestered in the kitchens or out in the gardens, while she was made to work up in the family's suites. The first time he'd spoken to her, she had been staggering down to her quarters, with a split lip she was trying to staunch the blood flow from with her sleeve.
"You're not supposed to help me," she muttered when he had dragged her into the kitchen to clean her up a bit.
Peeta faltered for a moment, before continuing to disinfect her cut. "They'll never know," he responded shortly. He stepped back a moment to peer at her, tilting her chin up. His eyes swept over her face to see if she had any other injuries that needed to be tended to, before she slapped his hand away.
"I'm fine," she snapped, before stalking out of the kitchen.
Katniss paused before she reached the door, and turned back to him, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"Thank you," she mumbled, before introducing herself to him.
He smiled in return.
Since that day, they had become inseparable. Peeta had coached her on how to deal with the Cranes and the rest of the Capitolites, having dealt with them his entire life.
They began a friendship, and he began to look forward to their interactions. Katniss began to sneak away from her duties upstairs to spend time with him. She told him about her life in 12, and having never been outside the Capitol, he hung on her every word. A dreamy look would come on her face when she would speak about her woods, her favorite place in the world.
"I'd like to see it one day," he'd told her as they lay side by side in his narrow cot.
She closed her eyes, a small grin upon her face.
"I'd take you there."
"Katniss," Peeta says to her, pausing his ministrations, and she cracks an eye open to look at him.
"I'm tired. Do you wanna stay?" he asks. He knows asking is pointless but he does it anyway. She stays with him on occasion, spending the night in his bed when it's too late for her to be seen wandering the halls. She always slips out when he rises early, sneaking back to her own room.
Katniss nods, before slipping out of her dress and digging in the cupboard for a spare shift she keeps with his things.
He swallows roughly before averting his gaze while she changes. He doesn't need for her to know that his feelings for her have veered from friendly, and he never wants her to feel uncomfortable around him.
Because he knows she'll leave. And he doesn't want to be alone again. He can't be alone again
He settles himself in the cot, careful to put a little bit of space in between them before closing his eyes.
"Goodnight," he says softly, and Katniss smiles a bit, before snuggling up into the pillow and closing her eyes.
Her steady breathing a while later tells him she's fallen asleep, and he's close to being pulled under himself, but he thinks for a moment.
Peeta knows he's lucky. His work is backbreaking, his circumstances hellish at times, but he's lucky. He's alive and he has Katniss with him.
He knows it could be so much worse.
And as long as she's nearby, he thinks blearily, he'll be alright.
Totally forgot to post this way back when. Thanks for reading!