Effie comes more quietly with Haymitch than with anyone else. A series of small jerks followed by a short exhale of breath.
It's not a spectacle, nothing like the numerous other forgettable Capitol affairs. No sounds of decadence and self-made hedonism. No airs of feminine playfulness or fantasy.
No props, no Illusions. Only animalistic need.
It's rough and feral, a whirlwind of energy that rolls over and over in waves and leaves you breathless, and craving more. Sprawled over counter tops, pinned against walls and reflected onto bathroom mirrors. It's potent and angry but never quick. Skin cools and warms back up, pulled and stretched taut, and for a glorious moment the only thing on your mind is the rhythm of your heartbeats and the sweat he licks from your neck. It feels like salvation.
Never in Capitol bedsheets, never without something to drown out the noise.
You know each other far too well. He knows how many fingers to use, when you like them in your mouth and when to curl them just right. Knows how to tease you slowly and unwaveringly until you finally snap and pull him into you. Knows the way you like to have your tongue sucked. Knows how to draw patterns onto your thighs, tug at your folds and suckle on your clit. Knows you adore his stubble, and that you're secretly filthy, depraved and angry, so angry at the world. Knows you'd like nothing more than to have him fuck you brutally on your knees with him tugging roughly at your hair in front of everyone to see.
He knows how to touch you when breasts become tender just before that time of the mouth. The soft way you like your back to be stroked and your hair to be played with, and tucked behind your ears. Knows how to make you melt with one glance, one touch, and why to never, ever leave a mark on your skin.
He knows to ignore the propaganda that spits out of your mouth.
You know the sharper the nails the better. Know the spots on his chest that makes him sweat. Knows the tendons on his neck that make his breath become rough, which firmness of grip to use and the kisses that make him shudder. Know how to create goose bumps along his thighs, and the strength hidden in his back. Knows your mouth is his favourite thing about you. Knows he loves it when you gag.
You know why he can never close his eyes for longer than a moment. You know why it sometimes takes longer to finish than usual and sometimes not at all. You know when to act unperturbed and selfishly whisper "my turn then" and get him to make you come so hard the bite marks radiate from his shoulder. You know he will come to you days later for the sole purpose of erasing that previous dip in masculinity. You know caressing his ear makes him sigh so contentedly you wish could bottle up and keep it forever.
You know to ignore the barbs of cruelty and the pretence of indifference.
You know about the poison that has tarred his soul and haunts his dreams. The one that doesn't come from a bottle. He knows about the art deception and trickery that doesn't come from makeup and tinkling enthusiasms.
There's a pull, an unyielding, magnetic attraction that for countless reason neither should have dared to recognise, but has been going on for so long it's impossible to imagine a life without it. A need to consume this sarcastic roguish man, with gorgeous grey eyes, a brain so sharp it needed to be lulled, and hands that make you so wet you clench involuntarily when he rips his bread at the dinner table.
He notices the look in your eye and looks away inconspicuously. Acting as insolent as ever, while you scold him and his fingers slowly circle the rim of his glass.
You come more quietly than with anyone else, and you couldn't picture it any other way.