Thank you so much for choosing to read this :D

I've become obsessed with Hunger Games recently (yay for the new movie coming out in November!) and had to make this fanfic; I don't see this trope often enough.

This is a seam!Peeta and merchant!Katniss fic. It's not a genderbend and the story stays mostly the same, though we sprinkle in a little added trauma here and there. Maybe a new character or two. Nothing too damaging to the the story we all know (and hopefully) love.

I have a rough idea of where this is going, but it's random notes I've written in a doc, nothing official. My imagination has hijacked the this fic, so really, even I'll be surprised at what's happening at times. I'm pretty sure this is going to be a shower thoughts fic as well- like whenever I think about a cool plot point I'll just write chapters that way. So do not expect regular updates because I can't (and won't) promise that.

This isn't beta read, so kindly point out any mistakes and review just on the over all writing quality, because I'm new(ish).
Tags will be added as I update the story (I want to avoid spoilers)

Also I don't own anything and all that other stuff.
This has been crossposted on Wattpad and Ao3

THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS NON-CON ELEMENTS AND INSINUATION OF RAPE

KATNISS

It happens when it's raining and she's walking home from school.

Her house isn't far from it, and usually, she'll walk hand in hand with her brother, Rye. But he has wrestling. She tells him it's fine before she leaves, "you need to practice, I can walk home myself," she reassured. It's the first time she has this small freedom, and it is exhilarating. Though her house is with the other merchants in town, the school is still nestled right between the seam and the shops, so it's a big responsibility for her. A girl not even seven to walk ten minutes by herself.

She treks for about five minutes in the rain, before she realizes she's hopelessly lost. She stumbles into a fence, there are none near where she lives, except for the one right between her house and the butcher's, that keeps the pigs in. But here, there are too many trees. The roads, if they could be called that, are too rough, and the houses look as though they've been made of folded tin.

The Seam, she realizes, she must have taken a wrong turn from the school. It is a depressing place, with no color, and soot covering the ground. Here and there she sees people still swaying outside, crawling from house to house, banging on doors and begging for food, money, shelter. Some simply shivering on the ground, not bothering to fight their imminent death. This, she realizes, is a dangerous place, not meant for girls like her. With her bright colored dress, and her full face, she's almost like a beacon. She quickly turns in the other direction, trying to head back to the school, but the rain is coming down in sheets, and she can barely see three feet ahead of her.

"You're a pretty little one, aren't you?" A man stops her, standing in the middle of the road. His face is covered in a thick beard and his eyes are Seam gray, but the clothes he wears are not Seam clothes. They're white, expensive and shiny looking. He's a peacekeeper, she thinks, and she feels relief. Finally someone that can help her; someone that can get her home. And right before she can run up to him and ask for help, he steps closer, his smile predatory, "Oh yes. I've been keeping my eye on you for a while. You'll grow into quite the beauty when you're older." His eyes flash, and she wants to step back, for some reason. There is something unsettling about this man. Perhaps it's the way he looks at her, or the way he leans in too close to her face, but she knows this man is wrong. Though she's young, she knows enough that old men aren't supposed to look at girls in such a way.

He steps closer now, too close, and she wants to run away, but she's frozen in fear. Say something! She needs to say something, but she finds her mind going blank, just looking at the man with wide eyes, and then- he reaches out to touch her. Bony hands picking up one of her braids, running down to her shoulders, and then brushing up her neck. She can't feel the rain, or hear the thunder, her entire vision is filled with this man and his scary face, leaning closer and closer.

"Please," she says, almost begging, as her eyes well with tears. She doesn't know what she's asking for. Perhaps for the man to leave her alone, or for help, but still, her plea goes unanswered, and the man leans closer. Her breath hitches, and she stays still as the peacekeeper does nothing but stare at her, trapping her gaze with his. How wrong this is. She can feel it; sense that she's in trouble and that this man will hurt her. He doesn't look kind or understanding. And his dilated pupils make him look crazed.

People! She thinks. There were people behind her. Starving men and women who might come to her aid. She could pay them- her father would pay them. In money and bread perhaps, and they would be thankful. But still as the man in front of her licks his lips and digs his nails into her cheek, no one comes swinging wild fists to stop him, and she feels lost. Powerless.

And then he jumps, pulls her dress up as she lays kicking and screaming and begging on the muddy, uneven ground. His legs locking hers in place, one of his hands squeezing her face, the other in places she doesn't recognize. And though she begs, and screams as loud as she can, trying to get away from this horrible man, still no one comes, and she's left alone as he does cruel things to her. Painful things that she didn't know were possible.

Almost as soon as the horrors start it ends. Though it feels like hours to her. On the lips of the wild, possessed man that collapsed on top of her, screaming over the thunder, wanting to be heard.

"Katniss!"

She's never quite the same again.

"You have the prettiest smile, Kitty, you should smile more. Your face is too young to look so old." Her father tells her one morning. She is eleven now. She spares him a glance over the cake she's attentively frosting, a beautiful thing covered in green textures and pink roses. She's been working on it for a week. Her father doesn't expect an answer, she doesn't talk much anymore, and yet, she's nervous. Perhaps she should respond to the kind words her father has paid her, maybe even a nod. The silence drags on, and almost becomes suffocating. Her hands, usually so sure when holding a frosting bag, begin to shake, and a rose she's been detailing comes out looking more like a bee.

"Don't encourage her, Dad," her older brother, her amazing, beautiful older brother, speaks up suddenly from where he's sitting at the table, admiring her work. He flashes her a comforting smile, and she gives him a shaking one in return. "I have enough trouble keeping the boys away from her as it is. If she started smiling around school more, I would have to start carrying a stick." There are no boys to keep away, she knows this, and her father knows this; no one wants a broken girl. But he still turns to Rye, his eyes crinkling in the corner- while her father is a man of few words, his expressions contain paragraphs.

They stay in silence like this for the rest of the morning, her brother and father staring at the cake she decorates. It isn't until her mother comes into the room, a wrinkle in between her eyebrows and her mouth drawn at the sides, that her father gets up, that Rye suddenly finishes his tea, that she pushes the cake away, declaring it finished. "Katniss," her mother says, a hard edge to her tone, "help me with the bread for tomorrow." She nods, too afraid to disagree.

She remembers when her mother was a beautiful woman. When she would laugh at Rye's jokes, when she would visit Rusk (the oldest of her brothers) and his wife, when she would bake bread with her father late into the night, humming quiet tunes. But now, it's bitter eyes and cruel words. The only hug she receives from her mother anymore is after she's been slapped, or beat, and her mother realizes what she's done.

"The dough is resting," her mother tells her, and she nods, moving to the counter where ceramic bowls lay covered in cloth. Inside each of the containers lies dough, a husky, cream color with dried fruit and nuts making the surface uneven. It's a hearty, expensive bread; one that she knows will lie in the display for weeks before going stale, when they can finally eat it. Gingerly she removes it from the bowl, and places it on the counter that has been covered in flour. With careful hands, under her mother's watchful eye, she starts needing. Molding the bread into shape, until it's fluffy and round. And even then, she keeps kneading. The last time she had stopped without her mother letting her, she had a bruise on her hand that wouldn't disappear for two weeks.

The bell from the front rings as she kneads, something that peaks her curiosity. It's raining now, hard bullets of rain that slam into the window and roof so hard it seems as though as thousand men are trying to knock her house over. It's strange that someone would brave this weather to come to their bakery. Not even Rusk would do such a thing to visit his family.

The door from the kitchen opens into the counter space, and if she leans forward slightly, and balances on one foot, she can sometimes see the customers, and if she strains her ears, she can sometimes listen to the conversation. And she can now, if she wishes to. Her mother left the room with an annoyed huff, shaking her head about the disgusting creatures from the Seam that come to beg. Cautiously, she stops kneading the bread, and looks up, slanting her head to the side, and putting her weight on her toes.

At the counter is a boy she knows goes to her school. His face looks gaunt, so thin that every bone can be seen, and dirty, covered in coal powder and mud, like he hasn't been able to find a bath for a while. His clothes- tattered and cheap- are of the Seam, and his starved look is of the seam, but his eyes and hair belong to a merchant. Light blue that can be seen from where she is, and golden blond that escape from under his hat. In his hands, he holds rags, but when she looks closer, she sees that they're baby clothes, worn with age.

She knows this boy. Almost as much as she knows her brothers and father. Peeta Mellark, the boy from the Seam, that can sing so beautifully that birds stop to listen. He has a little sister named Primrose, a tiny, adorable girl with typical seam coloring, and she adores this boy, Peeta Mellark, because of the love he holds for that Prim, clear on his face when he carries her on his shoulders to school.

He looks to be begging, his eyes shining with tears as he looks up at her mother, clutching the clothes as though they're a life line. But, even though she can't see her mother's face, she knows the woman is looking at him with disgust, shaking her head. Soon, she'll start demanding that he leaves the shop, and then she'll chase him with a pin until he flees outside. But, luckily, he leaves on his own, his shoulders hunching down in defeat as he slowly heads outside, back into the rain.

When her mother comes back, her head snaps back forward to the counter and the lopsided dough on it.

And she begins kneading, pulling and pushing, feeling through nuts and dried fruit, thinking of the boy that has to walk through the rain.

She goes to school with trembling hands and a sore back. And though after her mother treated her to decorated cookies and warm milk, soothing her and hugging her and begging for forgiveness, she still can't forget the fear she felt for the woman when she had burnt the bread. A friend, Delly, notices her meek look when they sit down for lunch. She smiles through clenched lips reassuring her that nothing's wrong, nothing's happened, that she's fine. It's all lies. She's not fine. But the children at school already avoid her for being as damaged as she is, she wouldn't have them avoid her brother for having an abusive mother. And then-

"That Seam boy, Peeta, looks quite happy today." Delly says, a mischievous, teasing glint in her eyes as a smile plays on her lips. She tries to glance to where she nows Peeta sits without drawing attention. And though he still has a starved look, with tired eyes, and soot covered skin, he's glowing. She watches as he laughs at something the Mayor's daughter, Madge says, it's a beautiful sound. And though the horrors from the previous night plague her, she can't help but smile widely at the thought that she's the reason Peeta Mellark can finally be happy again.