He's always inebriated to some degree. She's prim and proper to the last bit of lace that covers her porcelain skin. But he finds when she shoots straight liquor, that high-toned, upper-class citizen inside of her tumbles down with her dignity. It's her third year when she's so disgracefully drunk that he thinks she might be as fucked up as he is.
Then she giggles about something trivial and he remembers he doesn't care.
They make it as far as the hallway in the penthouse before they're completely naked and ready to fuck. She keeps her wig on, though. Always. He can't bear to see her normal because she might actually be human, and that's inconceivable.
She does all the right things, even though she won't remember in the morning. Lifts her neck to give him better access, scrapes her long nails down his back, sighs when he touches her in all the right places. When she wakes up and her head hurts from all the liquor, she'll only remember how he was rough and rude and everything felt so damn good.
It’s in-between the lines, sweetheart, he thinks he should tell her. It’s quick and dirty and purely to try to experience the closeness of another person. After years and years of this, he thinks one of them should feel something by now.
She can’t help but wonder when that part of her stopped working.
He thinks maybe they ought to lay in bed afterward and want to stay. They should be playing their own games around each other, instead of his own called get the escort drunk. Because she always is when they’re together. She won’t touch him sober, and he doesn’t ask.
The year they win the games, they don’t fuck.
He saunters into the main room, drunk on scotch, and sees her standing there, delicately wrapped in her Capitol couture. His hands are on her hips, and his hot breath is on her neck, and she stands still, eyes on the television screen.
“He’s gonna die, Eff,” is all he can muster. It is not sensual, even though his actions intended to be. She shivers, not backing away from him, though. She watches Peeta on the screen, dying and alone. She feels tears prick her eyes, because she had hoped, foolishly hoped, that somehow nobody would die this year.
The only thing she can do is turn around and let him have her. He’s too broken to cry and she’s too upset to let him hold her. So they have sex on the couch, not caring that an Avox could walk in at any moment. She intends for this to mean something, to really mean something. But she rolls over afterwards and feels the same emptiness as always. She thinks next time might be different.
This is amazing, with the right touch of harshness and dysfunction that I rarely see (but always want to see, if I'm to believe it) in Effie/Haymitch fics.
It starts as a drunk hook-up.
He's always inebriated to some degree. She's prim and proper to the last bit of lace that covers her porcelain skin. But he finds when she shoots straight liquor, that high-toned, upper-class citizen inside of her tumbles down with her dignity. It's her third year when she's so disgracefully drunk that he thinks she might be as fucked up as he is.
Then she giggles about something trivial and he remembers he doesn't care.
They make it as far as the hallway in the penthouse before they're completely naked and ready to fuck. She keeps her wig on, though. Always. He can't bear to see her normal because she might actually be human, and that's inconceivable.
She does all the right things, even though she won't remember in the morning. Lifts her neck to give him better access, scrapes her long nails down his back, sighs when he touches her in all the right places. When she wakes up and her head hurts from all the liquor, she'll only remember how he was rough and rude and everything felt so damn good.
It’s in-between the lines, sweetheart, he thinks he should tell her. It’s quick and dirty and purely to try to experience the closeness of another person. After years and years of this, he thinks one of them should feel something by now.
She can’t help but wonder when that part of her stopped working.
He thinks maybe they ought to lay in bed afterward and want to stay. They should be playing their own games around each other, instead of his own called get the escort drunk. Because she always is when they’re together. She won’t touch him sober, and he doesn’t ask.
The year they win the games, they don’t fuck.
He saunters into the main room, drunk on scotch, and sees her standing there, delicately wrapped in her Capitol couture. His hands are on her hips, and his hot breath is on her neck, and she stands still, eyes on the television screen.
“He’s gonna die, Eff,” is all he can muster. It is not sensual, even though his actions intended to be. She shivers, not backing away from him, though. She watches Peeta on the screen, dying and alone. She feels tears prick her eyes, because she had hoped, foolishly hoped, that somehow nobody would die this year.
The only thing she can do is turn around and let him have her. He’s too broken to cry and she’s too upset to let him hold her. So they have sex on the couch, not caring that an Avox could walk in at any moment. She intends for this to mean something, to really mean something. But she rolls over afterwards and feels the same emptiness as always. She thinks next time might be different.
It isn’t.
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