Okay, so hi. My Hunger Games motivation has been sparked by the movie release. The way Seneca Crane was portrayed in the movie absolutely fascinated me (read: I was in love with him), so I couldn't ignore this naughty little idea when it popped into my head. I have this story mostly planned out, and it won't be very long. Also, if you want a good song to listen to while reading this, go find Jared Leto's cover of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. It gives you a good feel for the fic.

WARNINGS: This is teetering on the fine line between non-con and dub-con, that is, non-consensual (rape) and dubious-consent (not quite rape, but not quite consensual either). If this bothers you, please don't read this. This is quite graphic, as is most everything I write. Whoopsies.

Disclaimer: I'm a liar. This never happened, of course. The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Wes Bentley belongs to himself. Josh Hutcherson belongs to me. Oh wait... that's not right...

"Peeta Mellark."

The way it felt when Effie Trinket called his name, the way his stomach lurched, the way terror invaded every cell in his body…he'd never be able to fully explain how he felt at that exact moment, no matter how good he was with words.

And now, as he lay in his bed in the Capitol, staring bleakly up at the ceiling, he let every emotion he'd been suppressing wash over him.

Overwhelming anxiety, for what lay ahead in the arena. A calm, almost eerie sense of acceptance, for the realization that he wouldn't be coming out of the arena, and anger, because he knew he really couldn't change that. Humiliation, for being forced to play the Capitol's game. A fierce determination, for the promise to himself to keep Katniss alive.

He'd make sure she survived the arena if it was the last thing he did.

The tributes' days of training came and went. The interviews with Caesar Flickerman had been the day before last; he hadn't really been planning on having Katniss find out how he felt about her that way, but the audience of bright colors and scrutinizing eyes ate it up.

"He made you look desirable," Haymitch had told Katniss, afterward. And so he had; with any luck, she'd get sponsors and stand a decent chance at going home.

With any luck.

All 24 of them were packed into a room, lined up first by district, then by gender. Silence. Intimidation. Today they had their chance with the Gamemakers.

Slowly, so slowly, tributes disappeared through the doors to the Training Center. Districts four, five, six. Peeta passed the time by picking at his nails, burying his face in his hands, watching Katniss stare at nothing.

Districts ten, eleven.

"Katniss Everdeen."

The girl next to him took a deep breath before standing up.

"Katniss," Peeta blurted. She turned to him. "Shoot straight."

Then she was gone, and he waited alone. He counted his heartbeats until they called his name.

He stood and stretched before walking into the Training Center, his head held high with a confidence he didn't feel. As soon as his eyes fell upon where the Gamemakers were supposed to be sitting, he knew something was wrong.

Seneca Crane was sitting in the center of the Gamemakers' stage with his legs crossed elegantly, studying Peeta over his clasped hands, icy blue eyes narrowed. He was very much alone.

Peeta raised his eyebrows curiously, but Crane made no movement except to narrow his eyes further, a small smirk spreading his lips. The tribute nodded slightly to himself, still confused, and moved toward the camouflage station.

"Ah, ah, Twelve."

Peeta turned to look at Crane, but the man hadn't moved an inch. Peeta stared at him questioningly until the Gamemaker unclasped his hands and sat back in his seat. Those cold eyes were still watching him with hawk-like fascination and his smirk was becoming increasingly feral. Peeta took a half-step back.

"What…what am I supposed to do?" He asked quietly, but Crane heard him and stood up. The way the man was watching him was starting to make Peeta feel uncomfortable, like prey to the world's hungriest predator.

"I have a… proposition to offer you, Twelve. A bargain, if you will." Seneca chuckled, as if enjoying an especially amusing private joke.

Peeta eyed him wearily. A bargain…?

"You see, I run these Games. What I say, goes."

Peeta nodded. Of course, he was the Head Gamemaker.

"And what I say," Crane continued with a gesture in Peeta's direction, his tone loaded with a practiced, icy calm, "is that District Twelve will have a winner this year."

Peeta froze. What was the man saying? He stared at Crane with wide eyes, not daring to hope he'd heard him right.

"But, you…the Games...they're survival of the fittest. There's no way I could—"

Crane cut him off with a scoff, "Of course there's a way."

Peeta stared at him uncomprehendingly.

The Gamemaker rolled his eyes. "The Games are rigged, Twelve. Always have been." When the Tribute looked at him blankly, Crane continued, a new edge of irritation to his voice, "Tributes win because I make it so."

Peeta's heart skipped a beat. Was he seriously suggesting…? "Why?"

"More fun for me, I suppose," Crane answered, his voice low.

"No, but…why me? Why not Cato?" Peeta still couldn't wrap his mind around the concept the man was offering.

Crane had an air about him of someone hearing something particularly entertaining. It felt as though the man was building up to something big, something Peeta wouldn't like at all.

Crane laughed, soft and dangerous. "District Two? No… no. I'm in the mood for something different this year."

The Tribute paused. "But…me. No one would believe it."

The Gamemaker hadn't yet taken his eyes off of Peeta, not even when he moved to the very edge of the stage, much too close to the boy. "People believe what I make them believe, Twelve."

Peeta swallowed dryly, finding himself unable to look away as Crane's eyes raked down to his feet and then back up to meet his gaze, the icy eyes burning in a way that made the Tribute's palms sweat. He definitely didn't like where this was going.

"Now, I've told you my side of the bargain…" Crane trailed off, looking at the boy expectantly.

Peeta's breathing became too heavy, painful even, as he clenched his jaw and stared at the Gamemaker. "I have nothing to offer you."

The man's face split into a wide grin and his eyes narrowed. Bingo. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

Peeta cocked his head as Crane stepped back to his chair in the center of the stage, sitting lightly. "What do you want?" The Tribute demanded.

Crane let his knees fall apart and leaned far back in the chair. He watched the boy, contemplating, for a few moments, before running a hand across his perfectly manicured beard.

"Come here."

His voice had lost its soft, almost teasing tone, only to be filled with something darker, more dangerous.

When Peeta didn't move, Crane's eyes blazed. "Come here." Hard, demanding, I-will-get-what-I-want voice.

The tribute took a hesitant step forward, watching the dark-haired man with apprehensive eyes. "What…what do you want?" He asked again, though much more nervously this time.

Seneca Crane was not someone to be messed with. Peeta knew this. The Tributes knew this. All of Panem knew this. Peeta's life was in this man's hands, quite literally. To disobey Seneca Crane surely meant his imminent death.

Peeta took another step forward, and Crane gave him that feral smirk once more before speaking again. "What do I want?" His voice was low, conversational yet dangerous in a way that sent shivers of icy fear up Peeta's spine. "I want you on your knees, and I want your pretty mouth open and waiting. And after that, I want you bound and gagged with that flaming tie of yours from your interview with Flickerman. I want you bent over my office desk, hot and hard and begging me to fuck you."

Words were supposed to be Peeta's specialty; he could string together phrases to make even the weakest conversation powerful. But now…

He couldn't breathe. He felt sick. This was incomprehensible; Crane couldn't be serious. There was no way. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He would not let Crane have this kind of control over him; the Capitol had already taken his life away from him. Seneca Crane would not take his dignity as well. Nothing was worth that. And—

And he had Katniss to think of, to protect.

"I won't."

Seneca Crane adopted that amused look again; the man's eyes were alight with mirth. It disgusted Peeta.

"Ah, yes. Of course you won't," the man simpered, holding back another grin. He gestured absently at the exit to the Training Center. "Your precious Katniss. The Girl on Fire."

Peeta glowered at the man. He'd never hated anyone as much as he did Crane when the man said Katniss' name. "Don't you dare speak about her," he growled, taking a vicious step forward, but Crane only chuckled.

"Relax, Twelve. Relax," he said in an overly sympathetic tone, stating matter-of-factly, "I have a second part to my side of the bargain."

The Tribute breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes still locked hatefully on Crane, and waited.

"If you hold up your end of our little agreement, I will ensure Katniss Everdeen's survival as well as your own."

Crane sat back in his chair once more, watching triumphantly as the boy's eyes widened.

"You can't. There's only one winner in the Games," Peeta stated, though he sounded unsure.

Crane cocked his head. "Haven't you been listening? I make the Games."

Still, the blond hesitated. Crane sighed tiredly before continuing in that soft, dangerous voice, "Don't make the mistake of forgetting, Twelve: I can help you win, or I can make sure you die."

It was amazing the way Crane could see the fight drain from the boy; his eyes lost their spark, his fists unclenched at his sides. His entire figure radiated defeat.

It was beautiful.

Seneca relaxed in his chair, watching in private satisfaction as the boy slowly, so slowly, made his way up onto the stage. Such a pretty mouth, twisting and pursing in obvious humiliation. He was transfixed on that mouth. The Tribute stopped a few feet from him, swaying slightly on his feet and avoiding eye contact for the first time since he'd entered the Training Center. The Gamemaker watched him patiently, lustfully, waiting for the boy to come to the decision himself.

He loved it when they squirmed, after all. Yes, he was Head Gamemaker and it was his job to ensure that they squirmed, but this… up close and personal…

He allowed himself a small victory smile when the Tribute finally dropped to his knees between Seneca's spread legs, his forearms resting along the length of the man's thighs and his rough, calloused hands fumbling at the button to his pristine slacks.

…This was his favorite part of the job.

It was endearing to watch the kid's shaking fingers try and try to pop the button on the slacks, then those same shaking fingers slowly pulling the zipper down. The Tribute quite obviously didn't know what he was doing, and Seneca was practically salivating at the chance to take that pesky innocence from him.

Peeta's jaw was set and he took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. He tried to ignore the bulge in Crane's briefs; his tongue was feeling much too heavy in his mouth, and he was starting to feel slightly sick. He was doing this for Katniss. Only for her. He could feel the man's lustful gaze on the top of his head but he refused to meet it. He wouldn't give Crane the satisfaction.

He didn't even know what to do, what was right. It wasn't as though he'd ever done it before, of course.

He stared determinately at his hands on the Gamemaker's thighs as he spoke up, "I don't…I mean, what do I—?"

"Do?" Peeta could hear the infuriating smirk in Crane's voice. He didn't answer, only clenched his hands into fists. "Pull it out, of course."

The Tribute could feel his face burning in shame as he did as he was told. He held the Gamemaker's cock lightly, as though afraid of what would happen if he tightened his grip.

Crane let his eyes flutter for a moment, embracing the warmth of the Tribute's calloused hand before his eyes fell back to the boy between his legs.

"Oh, come on, kid, don't tell me you've never jacked off before. You know how this goes." Stupid, condescending, leering voice. Peeta finally looked up in defiance.

Crane locked his eyes on Peeta's, licking his lips before whispering, "Spit in your hand," low and dirty.

With a final glare, Peeta withdrew his hand to spit into it and brought it back to the man's length. He pulled in long, hard strokes, impatient to just get this experience over with. He flicked his bangs from his eyes and watched as Crane's own eyes closed and his head fell back against the chair.

"That's it, Twelve, just like that. Oh, fuck." The grunts and soft moans falling from the Gamemaker's lips so obscenely made Peeta's stomach flip and his grip tighten. He sat up higher on his knees, staring curiously as his hand flew over Crane's cock, wondering desperately why he wasn't as disgusted as he thought he'd be. In fact, he felt almost…as though— A welcomed chill curled lazily up his spine and he shivered, swallowing, and swept his thumb over the slit.

"Fuck, yes—ah, Twelve—" Crane's voice broke on a guttural groan and Peeta's stomach did that stupid flipping thing again.

What was wrong with him?

He was…was he enjoying this? Enjoying the praise?

No. No. Nothing was wrong with him. He just wanted to get this over with, to hurry it up already. He wanted to get back to his room on the twelfth floor, and he wanted to see Katniss. What he really wanted was—

He lurched forward and sucked the head of Crane's cock into his mouth, surprising both himself and the Gamemaker. Crane's icy blue eyes shot open and his hand immediately tangled into the kid's blond hair as a cruel grin twisted his features.

"Eager little slut," he muttered, pushing on the back of Peeta's head to force him further down onto his cock. "There you go, watch the teeth. Relax."

The kid's throat—nngh, sofuckingwet—was working, contracting around his cock, and Seneca pushed the Tribute down while simultaneously lifting his hips to create the most delicious friction. When he felt his cock hit the back of that warm, inviting throat, he held the kid firmly in place.

Peeta jerked desperately, panicking with the need to breath. He could feel his throat tighten around the intrusion, his gag reflex working aimlessly, his eyes beginning to water. He pushed frantically at Crane's thighs but the man's grip on his hair only tightened, holding him in place. He blinked his wide eyes as thick trails of saliva dribbled down his chin, down Crane's cock.

The urgent noises the kid was making sent vibrations coiling through Seneca's body; he let out a filthy moan and gasped before finally—finally—yanking the Tribute off of his length. The boy immediately coughed and heaved a huge breath before coughing again. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and glanced up into Crane's face with wide, wet brown eyes. That predatory, greedy gaze stared back at him, studying his face which was now flushed with exertion rather than embarrassment.

Seneca allowed him a few more deep, recovering breaths before cocking an eyebrow. "Well? Go on, then," he said, burying his fingers in the blond locks again before adding, "And breathe through your nose if you have to."

Peeta filled his lungs once more before closing his lips around the head again, breathing experimentally through his nose while slowly sinking his mouth further down the hard length. He tried not to wince as those long, spidery fingers clenched in his hair, urging him, guiding him, until his nose was pressed against the soft dark hairs at the base of Crane's cock.

"Easy, kid," Crane cooed, "Ah—watch the teeth! Good, there you go—oh, shit—alright, relax your throat, come on." One of the Gamemaker's hands came down to rest in the crook of his neck, the thumb running lightly across the soft skin at Peeta's throat.

Peeta sucked back up the man's length then, his tongue circling the head, dipping into the slit, circling the head again. Crane was groaning, praising Peeta softly when he could catch his breath; he let out a sharp gasp when the Tribute pressed his tongue against the vein running along the underside of the cock. Peeta lapped at it over and over, harder each time; he found that he could feel the man's heartbeat right there, against his tongue, and it intrigued him. He wrapped his fingers around Crane's length and sucked back up again, teasing at the slit once more before his mouth popped off with a sound that he could only think of as obscene.

He dipped his head to lick a thick, hard stripe up the underside of Crane's cock, root to tip, before sucking the head back in. Crane's hips gave the slightest involuntary jerk, and when Peeta finally chanced a glance up, the gaze that met his was smoldering, hungry, and it sent a jolt of excitement up his spine.

"Okay, kid," Crane said, somewhat breathlessly, "we're gunna try something."

And then he was standing up, the tip of his cock still caught between Peeta's swollen lips. His hands were curling around Peeta, one at the crook of his neck and the other at the back of his head to hold him still.

"Okay, now relax your jaw," Crane instructed, and Peeta jerked his wide, pleading eyes up to the man's face, trying and failing to shake his head.

"Relax, Twelve," came the demand, and then Crane rocked his hips forward without further warning. Peeta struggled to obey the Gamemaker's request; he breathed heavily through his nose and tried to drop his jaw completely, lapping his tongue in a pitiful attempt to keep up with Crane's thrusts. The man's grunts and moans grew in volume as his hips picked up in pace. Muffled choking sounds tumbled from the Tribute's mouth, and more saliva was trailing down his chin.

He felt so… so… 'used' wasn't a strong enough word.

Peeta was quite sure his lips would bruise from the brutal thrusts; he wondered idly what his prep team would say when they saw—or if they'd say anything at all. Finally, Crane's hips began to falter, quick, jerky little wavers, until he tugged the Tribute's head back by the hair.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, voice shaky despite the underlying severity. Peeta was quick to comply. With a quick squeeze, Crane lifted his hand from Peeta's neck to his own cock.

After a few rapid strokes, the Gamemaker was seizing up, gasping out a long, drawn-out groan, and coming in pearly strands onto the kid's tongue and lips. Peeta closed his eyes and waited, listening to the dark-haired man's grunts; he didn't even realize the man had finished coming until his heard the low, breathy command.

"Swallow it all."

The Tribute curled his tongue back, forcing the substance down his throat and trying not to wince. He tentatively licked his lips and swallowed all that he found there. The older man collapsed back into the plush chair, breathing deeply, and Peeta looked up at him.

After a few moments, Crane's eyes rolled down to meet Peeta's, and a satiated smirk lifted his lips.

"God, Twelve. You sure can suck cock."

Peeta's cheeks burned and he dropped his gaze to his hands, resting now on his knees. He kept his mouth shut, rolled his tongue against his teeth. He could hear Crane zipping his slacks up, making himself presentable, and then the man stood up in front of him. Still, Peeta refused to look up.

This was for Katniss, he told himself. The corner of his mouth lifted up; a silent smile at the floor. Katniss would be angry if she ever found out, furious even. She wouldn't have wanted him to let himself be used like this for her. He knew that. He also knew that Crane surely would have killed them both, and probably painfully, if he'd refused to do it. Peeta was just glad that he could do his part to keep the Girl on Fire safe. Alive.

He did it. It was over.

"Clean yourself up, kid. I'm not done with you yet."

Or not.

"I will be in my office tonight after dinner," Crane was speaking somewhere above him, his voice back to that soft, dangerous tone that promised horrible things if defied. Peeta cringed. "Come to me then. And, uh, bring the flaming tie."

Peeta let his eyes fall shut. Submission was resting heavily on his shoulders, curling around his neck where he could still feel the ghost of Seneca Crane's overpowering hand. He slumped.

"Or you don't have to." Crane's statement had Peeta's head jerking up to stare at him. Crane showed him his teeth in a cruel, predatory grin. "Tell me, Twelve, how long do you think Katniss Everdeen—" he sneered her name, "—will last when that arena becomes her own personal death trap?"

Peeta let his eyes fall again. Crane was playing with him; Peeta was his and he knew it. The tribute sighed.

"I'll be there."

Then Crane was gone, leaving Peeta feeling as alone as he had when Effie Trinket had called his name that very first time.

I find myself enjoying writing brutal blowjobs. It's a sickness, and I love it.

I hope you did too! Let me know? :)

Love.