Tumblr Prompt. Hayffie, Masturbation.
So yeah, I've taken some liberties with this. This is set during the run up to the 74th games. I'm assuming that both Haymitch and Effie stay in the tributes quarters in the run up to the games. And despite the high tech doors we've seen, for the purposes of this story, the doors to the rooms are normal doors that you can open quietly ;)
This story also presumes that there have been no previous romantic encounters between H&E- this is NOT my headcanon, but it worked for the purpose of this story.
As Haymitch Abernathy opens the last cupboard in the kitchen and finds it, unsurprisingly, devoid of any bottles, he not so silently curses Effie Trinket for the third time in as many minutes.
Why she'd felt the need to start yet another crusade against his drinking he'll never know.
Well technically that's a lie.
It's no secret that she's disgusted by his behaviour both towards the tributes and in general, and he supposes she's looking for a way to get him under control.
That doesn't give her the God given right to get rid of his hard earned liquor, and he'll be damned if Effie Trinket thinks she can control him.
Haymitch slams the door shut and bangs his fist onto the countertop, his rage threatening to overspill from where it's already bubbled to the surface.
He needs to raise this issue with her and sort this out once and for all. He will not have his fucking escort thinking she can rule his life.
Haymitch walks through the living room and instead of taking the corridor that would lead to his room he takes the route leading to Effie, fully bracing himself for the argument that he's sure is going to follow.
The plush carpet ensures that Haymitch's footfalls are not audible even to himself, and as he reaches Effie's door he raises his hand, fully intending to bang holy hell out of it.
At the sound of a muffled noise from within, Haymitch manages to still his hand a fraction of a second before it would have connected with the door; and it's fucking ironic because he's pretty sure that he wouldn't have been capable of that had he had his usual bottle.
He pauses, and strains his ear to try and make out the sound. He hears it again, and this time he manages to make out that it's a muffled whimper. Haymitch is instantly on guard, thoughts of his own savage nightmares flooding his mind and he turns to leave but is stopped in his tracks by another, slightly louder moan.
He knows he should walk away, knows that Effie would likely kill him if he came across her in such a vulnerable state, but he can't let himself leave without checking she's ok.
He'll just check on her, he reasons to himself as his hand blindly searches for, then closes around the door handle in the pitch black of the corridor. He'll make sure she's ok, that she's not too deep in the thralls of a nightmare, and then he'll leave.
If she doesn't wake up, then they won't even have to have an awkward conversation about it in the morning.
He pushes the door handle down and silently pushes it open just enough for him to slip into the room. He closes the door softly behind him, thankful that the small click is hardly audible, and turns around to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the room.
Instantly, Haymitch realises how much of a mistake he has just made.
Effie is laying on the huge bed, her head propped up on a pillow. He can see that she's discarded the ridiculous amount of pillows that must have been adorning the bed previously on the floor, and it strikes him as completely out of character for the usually fussy and reserved Effie to have been so messy.
Well. She's certainly not reserved now.
She's wearing a robe, and Haymitch dimly registers that it's some sort of peach colour. He can't be expected to be exact, when said robe is spread open to reveal her milky white skin, and he can see the rosy pink peaks of her breasts straining and erect, and fuck- he really should have thought about what else that whimper may have meant.
Her golden hair is loose around her shoulders and it looks soft. Haymitch wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through it; to twist a lock of it around his finger.
Effie shifts slightly, and his eyes are drawn down to where her hand is resting between her legs. Resting isn't the correct word really, because her hand certainly isn't idle.
Haymitch tries not to look too closely, tries not to focus.
But then Effie switches hands, and the hand that trails up her stomach to flick at her nipples is wet and Jesus fucking Christ, Haymitch is lost.
Effie throws her head backwards, and he trails his eyes downwards again, to where she is wet and glistening. She's alternating between dipping her fingers inside herself, pumping them in and out languidly, before bringing them out to circle around her clit.
Haymitch knows this is wrong. Knows he should say something; should turn around, open the door and leave without looking back. He should probably have said something five minutes ago when he first found himself in this situation.
But then Effie throws her head back with more force, the movement of her hand increases in its intensity, her moans and gasps become desperate, and he couldn't escape this even if he wanted to.
She's fucking beautiful, he registers, and he wants to kick himself for not realising it earlier.
How the hell had he not seen that this was under those ridiculous wigs and stupid costumes?
He's drawn out of his reverie when the hand that Effie has been using on her breast flies out to desperately grip the bed covers. Her hips, which until now have been steadily rotating on the bed suddenly surge upwards, and she cries out as her body jerks into orgasm.
As Effie comes down from her high, her hand still moves between her legs but the hurried movements are gone, replaced by a more languorous pace.
She lets out a content sigh that sounds suspiciously like a word, and Haymitch didn't think it possible after that display but the sound leaving her lips turns him on even more, his pants impossibly tight.
He realises a fraction of a second too late that he must have mirrored her sigh with one of his own when Effie tenses almost imperceptibly and jolts upright.
The flush that covers her breasts is a pretty sight, and it's spread up her neck and onto her cheeks, the pink hue spreading across her face.
Her hair is tousled around her face, and her pretty mouth hangs open slightly, opening and closing around words that she doesn't seem able to form.
Her blue eyes, still slightly glazed flit down to take in the hardness apparent in his pants before they fly up and meet his gaze head on.
Haymitch steals another glance at her, robe still open, and he lets his eyes linger as he notices that she makes no move to tie it shut. Interesting.
He locks his eyes with her again and quirks an eyebrow, inviting her to comment on the subject at hand.
"Haymitch, I.. what are you..what were you doing?"
"I think the question is sweetheart; what were you doing?"