Hayfield prompt based on this quote from Grey's Anatomy: "And it's not about the sex. It's not... about the sex. It's about that moment afterward... when the world stops. It just feels so safe, so safe. I'm not ready to give that up. I'm not ready to give that up. — Meredith Grey"

Autocorrect changing hayffie to hayfield will never stop making me laugh. It's like a field of hayffie XD

The Bubble Their Bodies Create

Haymitch is so out of breath it's not even funny. His chest rises and falls fast and hard as he tries to gulp air back into his lungs. There's a chill in the air, or maybe it's the sheen of sweat all over his body as he lies there in her now very dirty sheets and stares at the ceiling of her bedroom.

She's breathing just as hard, one leg bent, not caring one bit about how exposed she is… Why would she? There's not an inch of her he hasn't kissed or licked yet. But he likes that about her. For all her resistance to take off that stupid wig or to let him see her without the heavy layer of make-up that's now smudged beyond repair, he likes how confident she is about her body, how unbothered she is by her nakedness.

Sometimes, he thinks he could stare at her for hours on ends and not get bored. She's that beautiful. Particularly when she's lying on white silk sheets. Like a painting of the old times, when art was still based on emotions rather than the price it would get.

Get out of bed, a voice reminds him at the back of his mind. Get out of bed and get out of here.

Too late though.

With one of those low chuckles that reeks of post-sex and afterglows, she rolls on her side and snuggles closer to him, her leg slipping over his and between his thighs.

He should mind.

He does mind.

He doesn't cuddle.

He doesn't stay afterwards.

He fucks them and leaves them – fucks her and leaves her, lately.

When he stretches his arm so he can wrap it around her, bring her closer, he tells himself it's because there's a chance for round two – and he fucking wants a second round, maybe a third and a fourth.

His hand curls over her shoulder and his thumb strokes her sweaty skin in a distracted way. Her own hand is exploring his chest, toying with the chest hairs she's always so fascinated by, gentle and lazy.

He should get out of bed and out of the room, though, because it sends the wrong message if he stays, if he doesn't take her again immediately, if he allows her the cuddles and the semblance of intimacy she craves…

But it's not the first time he lingers in her bed, is it? Hell, it's not even the first time he lingers in her arms…

If you had told him when he met her…

Effie Trinket is…

She's a fucking hurricane, she's sunshine piercing dark clouds on a very stormy day, she's… dangerous.

But the sex is so good…

He could find great sex elsewhere though. He could. Maybe not to that level of chemistry – because, fuck, do they have chemistry – but there's plenty of great sex to be found out there. It's not what's bringing him back to her, it's not what's making him stay in her bed. No, the truth is…

Her hand travels all the way up to his throat, brushes against his Adam's apple…

He doesn't even flinch.

He wonders if she knows he wouldn't give another woman that much liberty. Touch him where he's vulnerable. His throat… The right side of his stomach… Allow her to take his glass from his hand… Allow her to ride him… Allow her to boss him around and scream at him… Allow her to slap him on occasions when he really deserves it… He allows her so much he would never grant anyone else.

Because he trusts her.

There have been women before her, a long time ago now, men too. People he didn't choose. People who hurt him. They didn't break him, those people, but they hurt him badly enough that he is wary now when he shares his bed, that he goes for his pleasure and bypasses his partner. Because he doesn't care for their pleasure. Because he doesn't want strangers' hands in vulnerable places.

But her hands…

Her fingers keep stroking his throat, the side of his neck…

"Tickles." He mutters in protest and turns his head so her hand is trapped between his cheek and his shoulder.

She laughs again.

He never hears it outside of those moments, that laugh. It's low and genuine and cheerful but not over the top like the rest of the time. It makes him think she plays a role out there, just like he does. It makes him think she has so many more layers than what she chooses to reveal.

He already plucked a few of those layers but he's nowhere near the core of who she is underneath yet.

And he wants to keep plucking.

He wants to see her naked – not her body, her soul.

It's why it's dangerous, why they should both find someone else to fuck and call it quit while they're ahead but…

This moment, right here, right now, it's so good he thinks he could die in it and be happy. It's not just the great sex and the way his body feels sated, heavy with the best sort of exhaustion, it's the easiness. How good it feels to have skin on skin contact with someone and not be scared to be hurt or wary to be touched.

Safety is a concept he left behind in an arena seventeen years ago and yet… That's what he feels when they're together like this, tangled legs and roaming hands… Safe. Safe in the bubble their bodies create, removed from the exterior world and its lurking sharks, happy in the cradle of her arms…

That's why it's so hard to give it up, to move on, even though he knows he should by now.

It's not just the sex.

And that terrifies him.