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It had been a particularly trying year. The outcome of the 64th Hunger Games had felt like a foregone conclusion from long before they started. She’d heard rumours flitting about for months, but the moment Effie had watched Cashmere ascend the stage steps on the screen she replayed the day’s reapings, it was confirmed in her mind that the stunning blonde was to be the victor. Really, it was a show everyone in the Capitol would find impossible to resist, the sister of the beloved Gloss who’d won just the year prior, a fight for further family glory, proving that the districts cherish the Games as much as the Capitol.
Meanwhile, not 50 yards from her were two 13-year-olds whose best hope of ‘glory’ would be dying quickly and without too many tears (or worse) beforehand. It hadn’t escaped her attention that except for the trained volunteers from districts 2 and 4 – and even then, they weren’t of their usual calibre – all the tributes this year were particularly young and feeble.
It made her feel ill.
So she’d kept herself busy, thrown herself into her work – she’d been extra effusive, pulled out all the stops when it came to her appearance, flirted with sleaze after sleaze to try to secure at least one sponsor. To show everyone that 12 wouldn’t go down without a fight. To give the kids some hope.
To give herself some hope.
She coached the kids as best she could on etiquette, how to present themselves outside and inside the arena. She didn’t give herself time to think about their fate, about the buzz on every street corner about the darling sister, soon-to-be victor who was all anyone had eyes for this year.
Her efforts had come to nothing.
No matter how dazzling her smile, how many glasses of champagne she tolerated from greasy hands which wandered far too frequently, the Capitol’s eyes slid past her lambs as if they didn’t exist.
She’d held her chin up when the boy died in the bloodbath, a clean crossbow bolt giving him a quick death at least. The girl survived, choosing not to risk the cornucopia. She survived, but with no supplies, for how long?
Two days passed, the girl still alive but with no food, water, shelter. And still, a dropped pearl bracelet, a deliberate laugh too loud, a calculated brush of skin… none of it mattered.
The futility of it all hit her when the girl from 12 finally died of dehydration, curled in the dirt, throat too dry to even whimper. No cannon had sounded for almost an hour after she stopped breathing. Every camera and every sponsor were instead fixed on Cashmere reclining in just her underwear on a sun-warmed rock by the stream under the guise of washing clothes that had yet to be dirtied.
Effie’s hands had trembled when she gathered her papers, desperate for order, for something she could put back into place. Haymitch had seen it, the way her control slipped, and instead of softening, he’d pushed. He always pushed.
The Games had a way of grinding them both down til they were nothing but their worst traits, clashing against each other because there was no one else safe enough to absorb the blow. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, but their words landed harder than usual.
Effie had snapped first, her passive-aggressive jabs becoming more aggressive than passive, and it had culminated in nothing good.
“This is your fault! You gave up before the fight had even started. They never stood a chance because of you, you pathetic excuse for a mentor! At least I try!” Her voice, sharp and brittle and nothing like its usual refined silk, echoed off the walls as prospective sponsors, fellow escorts, and mentors alike snickered.
“Those kids were dead the second you picked those bits of paper out of the bowl and you know it! You really think your painted whore face and freakish smile makes up for that? Is going to save them? You’re a shallow, superficial bitch,” Haymitch had barked back, even less considerate of their very public location.
They’d left the viewing centre in opposite directions, burning with fury, wanting to get as far away from each other as possible. She’d stormed out of the building in a cloud of pointless perfume, he’d stumbled toward the bar only to turn away, restless from the public scrutiny. Hours later, though, the inevitable pull had dragged them back to the penthouse.
Their arguments never really ended, only burned themselves out into something else.
Neither spoke, at first, when the door clicked shut. ‘Great minds’, Effie thought sardonically, having entered the suite not 30 minutes before Haymitch. Unsure if or when he would join her, she’d found herself going through the motions of her normal nighttime routine, stripping away the layers of caked on makeup, pins, clothes – stripping away the character that was Effie Trinket, the escort.
By the time he made it to her room, Haymitch had done the same, ridding himself of all but his underwear and socks. Now, Effie stood next to the bed in nothing more than a nightgown, and as he crossed the threshold of her bedroom door, Haymitch simply watched her for a moment, considering, his face showing something far colder than fury now, and for a moment she wasn’t sure whether to brace herself for another round of shouting, flee, or apologise.
She was beginning to recognise the look in his eyes though. A look she knew promised something altogether different. Before she could break the stillness, he crossed the room to her, and when she fell backward onto the bed, the air left her lungs. His hands caught her wrists before she could decide whether to shove him away or pull him closer, and the fight bled out of her in a rush, replaced by a trembling need she hated to admit.
Haymitch tilted his head, considering her, holding both her wrists tightly above her head. She felt vulnerable under the scrutiny and impatiently tried to wriggle free, but they both knew he had the upper hand here.
“Keep them right there,” he instructed, voice low and level. “You don’t touch me, you don’t touch yourself, you don’t move unless I tell you, understand?”
Effie nodded silently. She’d suspected they’d end up here tonight; it wasn’t the first time they’d found relief in this sort of game. The pressure on her wrists was released as Haymitch sat back up, still appraising her, deciding his next move. Gone was the sense of urgency from earlier, the need to fill their minds with frenetic activity replaced by a stillness that was far more effective.
It was almost surprising how gentle he was when he took charge like this. Tonight, he started with soft kisses slowly peppered across her face, from the corner of her lips across her cheek, then down further and across her jawline, one hand cupping the other side of her face the whole time. Her eyes fluttered shut as he placed a kiss on the underside of her jaw, just at the juncture of her neck and ear. His kisses became a little more forceful as he worked up and down her neck, eliciting a soft gasp as he pulled that spot just above her collarbone into his mouth until he’d marked her. Against her will, her arms faltered slightly, though she was well-practiced at this sort of game and didn’t touch. Smirking at his small victory, he leaned away.
“Open those pretty eyes, princess,” Haymitch crooned, running his thumb across her cheek. “I want you to watch as I take you apart piece by piece.”
She was powerless to resist, allowing pure instinct to take over. He hummed in approval as she opened her eyes, locking them on his. His hand left her face then, grabbing her arms again and bringing them down to her sides, shooting her a look that clearly conveyed ‘don’t move or there will be consequences’. His hands then moved to his next target, the thin straps of her nightgown, slipping them both off before returning her arms above her head. He then moved one hand down to hem of her nightgown, held on her body only by gravity now, his fingertips brushing against the back of her knee where they landed. He kissed along one collarbone toward her shoulder, grazing the skin with his teeth, stopping only briefly to observe her quickened breath before moving to repeat on the other side.
He moved his hand up and gripped her thigh, nightgown bunching up just below her hips, as his other hand pulled the top of the garment down, revealing her breasts. She shivered as the cool air hit her nipples and they started to harden, though Haymitch accelerated the process by circling them with his fingertips.
“Fuck, princess. Love these tits.” He continued his teasing ministrations until finally, when she was arching and whimpering, he pinched one nipple as he took the other into his mouth. She gripped the edge of the pillow she could reach, a desperate proxy for touching him. He kept flicking her nipples with his tongue, breaking it up every now and again with a nibble or kiss or pinch, until her whimpers became a mix of pleasure and pain from how sensitive they were becoming. Just as it was almost too much, he released her nipple with a ‘pop’ that would’ve been comical or obscene in other circumstances, humming in approval as he admired his handiwork.
She felt his hardness against her thigh as he moved and, eager for more contact, rolled her hips up. It was all she could do to not moan when she pressed against him, his underwear too thin to dull the sensation. He groaned before pulling away. “Patience, sweetheart. Who decides the pace tonight?”
“You do,” Effie breathed, a beautiful picture of impatience and need and submission swirled together.
“That’s right,” Haymitch said, his gravelly voice, blown pupils and straining cock betraying his own intense desire. “Now, I think this nightgown needs to come off, what do you think?”
Without waiting for her to reply, relying on her small eager swallow, he worked the nightgown up her body, finding no other fabric underneath, revealing only her perfectly smooth skin wrapped over her intoxicating curves. As he pushed the garment up to her hands, Effie started pulling her arms out of it, free, but Haymitch quickly stopped her, holding one of her wrists. Directing her, he released only one hand from the gown, twisting the garment thrice before gently pushing her briefly-free hand through the new, narrow opening.
It was an inelegant, crude restraint, not intended to be anything but, not trying to showcase a skill he’d gained in ugly circumstances for ugly purposes. Effie could easily pull her wrists out if she truly wanted; this was psychological, not physical.
Leaning back again, he looked at her, a question only she could understand in his eyes; she answered with a soft hum he knew meant ‘yes, I’m ok, keep going, please.’
He drank her freshly naked body in with his eyes, hand skimming down her side, making her shiver slightly (whether his fingertips tickled or electrified her, she couldn’t possible untangle). “Fuck, Eff,” he marvelled as barely more than a breath. He wanted to suspend time itself to hold this moment for eternity, though with the throbbing in his cock becoming ignorable no longer, he kept his hand moving down.
Her legs parted instinctively as he brushed against her inner thigh, though he made sure to take his time before moving his hand where she was asking him to. Returning his mouth to her neck, collarbone, then kissing down her chest and abdomen, in tandem he worked his hand along each thigh slowly.
“Haymitch, I want…” Effie trailed off. She still struggled sometimes to verbalise in these moments (something about ‘manners’). Still, it was obvious what she wanted.
“Yes, sweetheart? What do you want?”
His fingers traced along the outline of her lips, taking his time, enjoying the contrast between her smooth skin and the small patch of trimmed hair she kept. He brushed against her clit every now and again, her hips rolling involuntarily.
“I w— ah! Want… touch me… right now,” she moaned.
“Ask nicely.”
“You’re a brute!” Effie exclaimed with absolutely no conviction, still wriggling.
“Ask. Nicely.” Haymitch’s commanding tone sent a jolt of electricity through her body, and she caved, her mind clear of everything else.
“Please touch me, Haymitch.”
And with that, his fingertips were pressed against her clit, rubbing it in circles. Effie’s head fell back as a litany of praise left her lips in the form of oh, oh god, thank you thank you thank you.
He pulled his fingers away, just long enough for her to glare daggers at him and him to raise an eyebrow at her as if to say ‘remember who’s in charge,’ before pressing his thumb where his fingers had just vacated. His fingers moved lower, lightly circling her entrance.
“Oh, aren’t you wet for me, princess?” Normally, he’d be wearing a shit-eating grin at that sort of observation, poking fun at her, bantering, but tonight was different. Tonight, it was pure approval. Praise.
He slipped a single finger inside her. Shallow at first, teasing, slowly pumping in and out of her but never past his knuckle. She was whimpering, pushing against the headboard of the bed trying to get more.
“Please Haymi— oh!” Effie cried out in a choked sob as he suddenly pushed two of his fingers deep inside her, thumb continuing its rhythmic circles as Effie’s hips bucked toward his hand. Her wrists strained against the twisted silk of her nightgown, fingers clawing at the headboard to give her enough of an outlet to stop herself reaching out and dragging him closer.
“Good girl,” Haymitch murmured, voice rough but still pure affection and warmth. “Holding still for me. Taking it like I want.”
Her breath caught at the praise, chest rising and falling faster and faster by the minute. She was falling apart beneath him, unrecognisable as the Effie Trinket with perfect poise, but he could see the control in the small tremors of her arms, the perfect way she obeyed even as her body begged for more. He fucked her in an even rhythm with his fingers, thumb relentless on her clit, just how he knew she liked it, drawing her closer and closer until she was sobbing his name.
“Come for me, Eff.”
And that was it. Her whole body tightened, eyes closed, cries spilling from her lips she couldn’t keep inside if she wanted. He didn’t stop immediately, gentling the pressure on her clit but keeping his fingers moving inside her through it, stretching out every wave until her shaking became spasming and her wriggling was to move away from the stimulation, not toward. Only then did he slow before withdrawing his fingers entirely; Effie whined in spite of herself.
By the time she’d mustered up the energy to ask for what came next, Haymitch was already stripping his boxers off, his cock aching by this point. He braced himself over her, one hand curling around her cheek again, grounding her. He needed her soft and pliant, but more than that, he needed her with him. Not just her body - her eyes, her fire, her whole damn self.
Her hands twisted against the makeshift restraint again, this time less a struggle and more a plea. She wanted to touch him, wanted to anchor herself to him, the only thing that kept her afloat during the Games.
He swore under his breath, something low and hoarse, finally nodding his permission, and she without hesitation slipped her hands out and reached for him. Cradling his face for barely a second, her fingertips jumped to his chest like the sensation of his skin and hair was oxygen, nails pressing just enough to remind him she was here, alive, and needed him just as much as he needed her.
And when he reached down to guide himself in and finally pushed inside, she gasped like she’d been holding her breath for days. He groaned, forehead pressed to hers, and it took all the willpower in the world to give her the few seconds she needed to adjust before moving.
“Hold me,” he muttered, more command than invitation.
Her arms wound around him at once, pulling him flush against her.
“Always so fucking tight and hot for me,” he choked out, rewarded with her fluttering around his cock.
He moved then, deep, measured thrusts that rocked her against the mattress, their closeness allowing his pelvis to grind against her clit with each movement. Every time he pushed into her, she clung tighter, nails digging crescents into his back.
In these moments, the world ceased to exist, rare respite for both. There was no Capitol, no districts, no Games, only the two of them, desperate and raw and finding something like salvation in each other’s arms. She raked her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, and he let her, surrendering the last morsel of control and distance and defences he’d been holding onto.
Her body squeezed around him, every thrust bringing her closer again, her wordless moans turning into desperate requests for permission that he was only too happy to indulge. When she came, muffling her cries into his shoulder as sweet encouragement poured from his lips – “that’s it, so good for me, fuck” – he felt his very soul slowly come apart in the warmth of her arms, the fierce grip of her hands, the unpolished feeling in her eyes neither of them ever dared to voice when the walls had ears.
He shifted, bracing himself on one elbow as he grabbed her thigh and hooked it higher around his hip, wrapping her even tighter around him. Effie cried out, the new angle sending renewed sparks through her body, and instinctively she tried to bury her face in his shoulder again. Not this time. His hand caught her chin, pulling her face back where he could see it.
“No,” he rasped, sweat dripping from his temple to hers. His thrusts stayed steady, deliberate, each one wringing another gasp from her lips. “Look at me, princess. No hiding. You let me hear you, watch you fall apart.”
Her eyelids fluttered, desperate to close against the intensity, but she gave him what he wanted, looking up at him even as her vision unfocussed from the tension she was holding in her body.
“That’s it,” he panted, “want to watch you come apart. Want to— fuck, Eff. ‘S me, only me, that does this to you.”
“Yes, Haymitch, you – oh – only you, only you only you,” Effie sobbed, the whole world except him disintegrating.
As he pushed her closer to the edge, her mouth fell open, silent at first, before the pleas spilled out again, each one rawer than the last. The sound quickly dragged him closer to his own climax, and he held himself steady, driving into her again and again, refusing to let her look anywhere but into his eyes.
They came together, overwhelming and unrestrained. She cried out his name like it was the only word she knew how to say, and he yelled hoarsely as he finished inside her, her body enveloping him even tighter.
And with that, they were spent, the energy fuelling their fury from earlier entirely dissipated. As he collapsed down on the mattress next to her, she stroked his back in slow, soothing circles, her hands enjoying their freedom.
She’d have to make a quick bathroom trip and prepare her customary sleepy tea soon enough, and he’d need a nightcap to keep the shakes away as he slept.
For now, though – for the first time in too long – they let themselves be held.