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Capitol Nights, chapter 4	By : Woodspurge Category: G through L > The Hunger Games Trilogy Views: 9273 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the recognizable elements of this story, and I realize no financial gain from it.

Chapter List
- 1-Capitol Nights, chapter 4
- 1
Author’s Note: This is chapter four of ‘Capitol Nights’. It’s posted by itself here for obvious reasons. This is a harsh, graphic chapter of a very dark story. It includes an explicit rape scene. If you’re too young for such material, please don’t read this.
Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable elements of this story and make no financial gain from it. I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or anyone or anything specific to the Hunger Games Trilogy. All of that belongs to Suzanne Collins.
Capitol Nights, chapter 4
Haymitch knocks on the door thrice, loud and steady. Tonight he wears a royal blue velvet suit with a white silk shirt and a frilly cravat. The ever-present gold cuff glitters on his right wrist. A line of tiny diamond studs runs all along the edge of his right ear, twenty-six of them in all. The piercings had been done that morning and had been iced to cut down on the redness and swelling. Before he’d been taken from the Cell tonight, his stylist had dabbed a layer of make-up around each one with her smallest applicator. His ear throbs with pain whenever anything brushes against it- like his friggin hair- but the piercings look fully healed.
The door opens, and a tall man in an expensively tailored black suit regards him wordlessly.
Speak, he reminds himself. “Hello, sir. I’m Haymitch.” Smile, he reminds himself, but he can’t. “May I come in?”
Tonight’s john, Wenceslas Seisty, gives him a slow, deliberate look up and down. Haymitch blushes and looks away. This makes ten- nights, johns, deaths. Most recently what had died was the anger. Now all he feels is burning shame and slow rot.
“Yes, I think so,” the man decides, and steps aside to let Haymitch walk past him into the tenth hotel suite.
“Have a seat, Haymitch,” the man says, gesturing to the grouping of opulent, overly plush furniture around the strictly for-show fireplace. He watches as Haymitch settles himself into one of the wingback chairs, watches the blond cross his ankles and steeple long fingers over his flat belly and assume a palpable waiting attitude.
“Are you allowed to drink?” Wenceslas asks.
“Yes, sir,” Haymitch replies indifferently. Not enough to help. One drink, if his purchaser offers. He is also allowed to say as little as possible.
“What would you like?”
“I really don’t care, sir.” Why can’t they just get on with it? This man is going to rape him, and he isn’t even allowed to ask him not to. A drink won’t change anything.
Wenceslas comes toward him, reaches out to him, and tugs on his mutilated ear. Haymitch cries out sharply, scratching at the arms of the too-fussy chair. Shaking, he clamps down on his reaction. Be quiet, be still, three hours isn’t that long, it’ll be over soon.
“Haymitch. Look at me.” The voice is calm, not noticeably angry or excited, and that is undoubtedly a good thing. A real bright side. Haymitch lifts his grey eyes to meet those of his soon-to-be-rapist. Grey and golden hazel, one looking up and the other looking down, one in pain and the other in control, and he finally understands that this has always been inevitable. He fishes deep inside what remains of himself and comes up with a snarky smile.
Wenceslas smiles back, sly and knowing. “I know you don’t want to be here. I know you won’t enjoy what we do tonight, except perhaps on the basest, most purely physical level. Do you consider yourself to be gay?”
“No.” Haymitch answers, still staring up into his eyes.
“Have you ever had sex with another man, one who hadn’t bought your services?”
Haymitch pushes his lanky form up from the chair a little, bringing his face close to the other man’s. “Just fuck me, sir. I’ll be a total slut… or an innocent little virgin. Whatever you… desire.”
The man pushes him back down, but he does it gently. “More of the former, apparently. And yet…” He runs his fingers under Haymitch’s chin and Haymitch jerks his head away. “You’re not quite the jaded whore you would have me believe you are. Well, it is less than two weeks so far.” He begins to play with Haymitch’s hair, pausing to stroke a fingertip ever-so-lightly over his ear in warning. Haymitch endures it stolidly until the man seems to tire of his game and finally steps away.
Sitting down in the matching chair across from Haymitch, Wenceslas says, “’Sir’ is much too generic a moniker for our time together. You may call me Wenceslas. And I will continue to do you the courtesy of calling you by your proper name, except when I’m fucking you.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Then I will call you ‘sweetheart’, and you will respond to it.”
Haymitch flinches, unable to suppress it in time. What the fuck? He’d started with a sicko who wanted to pretend to be Maysilee while they fucked, and now this guy wanted- what? Is this man actually going to pretend that he, Haymitch, is Katniss?
Wenceslas laughs, apparently discerning his thoughts. “You misunderstand me, Haymitch. I’m well aware you are male.” As a token of this acknowledgement, he gives the blond a leering up-and-down look. “And I myself am as gay as Liberace. It just strikes me as wonderfully ironic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Haymitch drawls. “Should really offset all that courtesy.”
“And have you been sold to any men yet?”
Smile firmly back in place, Haymitch replies, “Five of them. You’ll be six.”
The next question is as prompt as it is predictable. “And did you top or bottom, or some of both?”
Haymitch wrinkles his nose. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve been fucked up the ass by five men you don’t know in the space of ten days. You strike me as a natural bottom. But it wouldn’t matter if you were as big and muscle-bound as that poor boy Cato was. What Capitol citizen is going to let a boy from District 12 top them. Am I right?”
“Yeah, hey, here’s an idea: why don’t you stop dicking around and just fuck me?”
“Yes, time is passing. But I must ask one more thing first. Why aren’t you available for full nights?”
“I wish I was,” Haymitch snaps, almost meaning it. He could practically jerk off to the thought of this pampered Capitolite waking him up from one of his terrors. Maybe violence is becoming his turn-on. That seems inevitable, too.
“Flattered, I’m sure. But why aren’t you?”
“They don’t explain things to me, Wenceslas.” He leans back, casually. “Maybe they’re saving me for a better offer, or maybe Snow is going to make me a birthday present to himself. Who knows?”
“You think well of yourself, don’t you? Okay, sweetheart, take off your clothes and kneel on the floor.”
Kneel? Haymitch thinks, scoffing inwardly as he undresses. Maybe the guy is going to knight him with his cock. Rise, Sir Hustler of District 12. Well, it’s his freak show. Haymitch drops awkwardly to his knees and sits back on his heels.
Wenceslas comes to stand in front of him and undoes his fly. Haymitch watches at eye level as he pulls out his cock, which is already hard. He tries to remain outwardly impassive. No one has tried to make him perform fellatio so far. Being a man himself, he is pretty sure no other man would care to place something so valuable in the tooth-filled mouth of a murderer-turned-unwilling-prostitute. What if it happened now? Would he bite? It would be an easy way out of all this, because they would undoubtedly kill him. But after they killed him they would bring Katniss and Peeta here to take his place. So, no, he couldn’t bite. But there’s a good chance he’d throw up, and that might come to the same thing.
Wenceslas hands him a small bottle. “Lube me up, sweetheart. Not too much, now.”
With shaking hands, Haymitch squirts some of the cold, slippery substance onto his palm and begins to smooth it over the erection hanging less than a foot in front of his face.
Wenceslas’ hand cups the back of his head, pushes him closer. “You’re shaking like a leaf, sweetheart. Are you nervous? Want a taste before it goes in you?”
Haymitch twists his head to look up at him, letting his eyes give the challenge he can’t speak. Go on and try. Wenceslas lets him go regretfully.
“That’s enough lube, I think. Get on your hands and knees.”
Wenceslas moves around behind him and Haymitch tries to ready himself mentally. Hands grip his hips and hold him in place as the other man’s cock begins to push into him. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re tight,” Wenceslas groans.
“No shit,” Haymitch hisses quietly, spreading his legs wider in an attempt to ease the pain. It will hurt a lot less once the man is fully inside him. He knows he’ll never use that particular appellation again. Do they train Capitolites to mindfuck any outsiders? He supposes they might, especially if Snow takes an interest in the local school curricula.
“Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you like that?”
Haymitch bites his lip and realizes he is angry. That, at least, is some relief. He embraces it, gathers it up and reflects it back at himself where it can do service as a distraction since he no longer has the power to do anything else with it. You stupid, filthy whore, he rages. Let it hurt! He pushes back hard onto the man’s cock, emitting a loud groan of pain in spite of himself. Let the rapist take that how he will; Haymitch has responded.
Wenceslas is evidently happy with this response, because he begins to fuck Haymitch fast and hard. “Yeah! I’m going to fuck your tight little ass! Say my name, sweetheart! Say my name!”
Wenceslas is a ridiculously cumbersome name to call out during sex. Is that even doable? Something short and simple would be so much better. For a second he very nearly slips and calls out ‘Wench’.
“Wen-uhn-wenceslas!” he manages around another groan.
“Ah!” Wenceslas cries, pushing in hard. He pulls out most of the way and slams back in.
Fuck. That- just fuck. It is so messed up for him to be hard right now. And again. Stop doing that! Then the cock pulls out of him entirely. For a couple of seconds he thinks it might actually be over. Then Wenceslas slams back into him, tip all the way to the damn base in one thrust.
“Fuck!” Haymitch yells, his whole body jerking painfully as he ejaculates, stars flashing in front of his eyes. Wenceslas cries out wordlessly in pleasure and triumph. He pulls Haymitch’s head around and covers the side of his face in kisses. The he lets go of his head, wraps and arm around his waist to steady him, and resumes fucking him at a more leisurely pace, laughing softly.
Haymitch is shaking again, but this time it isn’t nerves or even humiliation- though he can sense a tidal wave of the latter waiting in the wings. He is post-coital. All of his senses seem to have taken a giant leap up the scale. His cock is twitching, already trying to get hard again. In response to what? Being fucked, in every sense of the word?
“Almost there, sweetheart,” Wenceslas says breathlessly. “Do you want me to cum inside you?”
“No.” Haymitch moans, miserable and half-hard.
With a loud groan, Wenceslas pulls his cock out of Haymitch’s body. Wait- that worked? Haymitch thinks in surprise.
Wenceslas comes around in front of him again and grabs a handful of his hair to hold his head still. With his other hand he jerks himself off rapidly, and spurts of cum splatter Haymitch’s face, his hair, his beard. Wenceslas rubs the tip of his cock in a circle around Haymitch’s tightly closed lips, wiping off the last drops. Then he scoops some of it onto two fingers and holds them in front of Haymitch’s mouth. “Lick them clean, sweetheart.”
Haymitch shakes his head slightly, not so much in refusal as in denial that this is happening.
“Come on, now, sweetheart. You were such a good fuck. I’d really regret having to tell your handler that you were uncooperative, especially after everything you submitted to so readily.”
“Please, don’t,” Haymitch whispers.
“Then lick them clean. Now.”
Haymitch inches forward until his nose almost touches Wenceslas’ hand. The acrid scent of his rapist’s cum fills the air. He licks the glistening fluid quickly, nearing gagging at the salty sliminess of it. Swallowing it down convulsively, he continues licking the proffered fingers until Wenceslas withdraws his hand.
“That’s a good boy,” Wenceslas says mockingly. He tucks himself back into his pants. “The bathroom is over there, through the bedroom. Clean yourself up and get dressed and you may wait in the drawing room until your car arrives. I’ve no further use for you tonight.”
Haymitch stands up and makes his way towards the bathroom. Wenceslas’s voice stops him. “Take your clothes with you, Haymitch.”
He turns back, having no choice. He needs to get away from this man. He’s going to be sick. His stomach is churning. It hurts to walk. He feels a trickle of the other man’s mess touch his lips. Revolted, he scrubs his hand over his face. Then it’s on his hand and he’s still stark naked and is he supposed to wipe it off on his skin? Wenceslas is watching him with an amused smile, and Haymitch is suddenly sure of what Wenceslas will force him to do. It’s too much, and he begins to gag.
“Stop that,” Wenceslas says sharply. “You want to just swallow it back, Haymitch, because if you throw up, here or in the bathroom, I’m going to put my fist in your ass. Now get your clothes and get out of my sight.”
Haymitch swallows over and over again until the urge recedes for the moment. He gets his clothes and quickly retreats to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Carefully setting the garments on the marble counter, he turns his eyes to the full-length mirror. He takes his reflection in and thinks that now he really looks like what he is. That waitress will have no doubts at all next time she sees him, her or anyone else. “The other major food group,” he tells the real him. Then he has to swallow a couple more times to get past it.
A pile of thick fluffy washcloths embroidered with the hotel’s logo is sitting on a marble shelf next to the shower. They are in arranged in a pyramid. He takes the top one and scrubs his hand. The next one he wets, and begins to wipe off his face. He wipes his mouth first, though he knows it won’t do any good now. The taste lingers and this time he swallows to try to get rid of it.
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Capitol Nights, chapter 4