fundamentally | Effie NYE

Effie NYE

Kagura mountain lodge was huge and offered many dark corners and empty hallways, especially on the upper floor. John had endured the party for as long as he could stand, watching Effie as she made her rounds through the crowd. She was so beautiful and the way she interacted with people was so effortless. John was truly jealous of her in that way.

But then the clock struck twelve and she was at his side, kissing him into the new year. Blood pounded in his ears and his groin and before John knew what he was doing he'd taken hold of her wrist and was dragging her off. Away from the crowd. Down a hallway, kissing her and touching her. Shoving her against the wall to ruck up her skirt and feel the bare flesh of her thigh above her stockings on the landing of the stairs leading downward.

"Effie," he gasped into her mouth. The single soft word echoed in the empty stairwell.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's kneading her tits and touching her face and pulling her hip but it's not enough. The wet heat of her, the smell of her, it has his mouth watering and it's just not enough. It can't possibly be enough.

His hand slides between then and he thrusts it in, right along with his cock, and he fucks her with it, too. He strokes her clit until he's afraid she might actually start screaming. Then to stifle her he pushes the wet fingers into her mouth.

"Taste," he demands, forcing her to suck her own taste off his fingers. He loves the velvet slide of her tongue and the sensation only makes him drive into her all the harder.

The tone of his voice alone is enough to make her comply immediately and without thought. She's so on edge, so wrapped up in him and oblivious to anything but the physical and the trust she has in him is absolute. He will take care of her, he will make this good, he won't let anything go wrong. And so she doesn't have to think about anything but what he's making her feel. She can close her eyes and take his cock and his fingers and his hands on her skin and let go of everything else.

She doesn't ever want him to stop but she's so close and the orgasm hits her hard and fast enough that it takes her knees out from under her. Nails digging into him hard enough that she might break the skin, she hangs on and rides it out, muscles tensed and barely able to swallow the sounds she's desperate to make.

He loves the way her cunt flexes and pulls him, the way the muscles inside flutter around his cock. He groans low and quiet and doesn't stop pumping into her until he can tell she's spent.

"Oh, love," he says softly. He slides from her and steps back, then takes hold of her neck.

"Get on your knees. You'll suck every drop of come off my cock. And you'll be quiet. So quiet. Do it," he tells her.

She sways in his grasp and looks at him with dazed eyes, panting as she struggles to catch her breath. For a moment she can feel herself trying to find some words to say but the only sound she can make is a slightly desperate moan and she lets herself surrender to it as he guides her to the floor.

Hands on his thighs, she holds tight to his pants and steadies herself, looking up at him through her lashes. She wants to be good for him, wants to not be anything but what he tells her to be because he's safety. And he will always make everything right. It's hard to make her eyes focus but that doesn't matter, she doesn't need her eyes now. Her fingertips know every inch of him and she takes him in hand, his cock slick and hot and perfect. She's beyond the point of finesse, especially not when she can taste herself on him, so it's nothing but hunger guiding her. Closing her eyes and swallowing him down until there is nothing but the feel of him on her tongue and the heat of his skin under her hands.

Her mouth is perfect. Eager and hot. Wet. It's so overwhelming he almost comes then and there. But John thinks of awful things, of the snow and of rugby and of the fight over the beef and it holds him back. Not well. Not well enough.

John jerks back and reaches for his pants.

"We need to get out of this bloody stairwell because I need you to make some noise," he says, tugging at her to come along, down and down into the basement to find somewhere more private.

The shift is so abrupt she feels like she's been shaken out of a deep sleep and it's all she can do to hang on to him and let him pull her along to wherever it is he wants to go. Her lips are swollen and her cunt is throbbing and she needs more coke but she isn't sure how to process all of this input at once. Not when he's got her hand in his and is moving with purpose.

Still, when they get to the bottom of the stairwell she pulls him to a stop and leans back against the wall, reaching into her bra to pull out the bag. "Just a second, sweetie. I need just a second."

Her hands are shaking ever so slightly but the actions are second nature as she taps out on the back of her hand for the bump before licking her skin clean and running her tongue across her gums. "Did you want any?"

He nods and holds up his own hand. He'd only ever done this a couple times in college but now with Effie he finds himself getting more and more dependent on it. He snorts a bit and licks it clean, then he waits for her to tuck it away before he pulls her along once again.

Downstairs it's the laundry, mainly, and he scans the area for somewhere to be. He spies a closet that might afford them some privacy and when he opens it it smells of bleach- towels and sheets floor to ceiling on metal shelves.

John pulls the door closed, pushes her against it, and drops to his knees.

"Spread," he commands, shoving her dress up again so he can dive in and taste her. He feels alive. Electric. And he's gotten to where he's absolutely comfortable taking what he wants from her, knowing she'll gladly give him anything he desires.

It's quiet all around them which means she finally doesn't have to be and that's a damn good thing because she can't anymore. Not with the drugs buzzing all her nerve endings and not with the way he gets rough with her. Forceful and demanding in the way that takes her options away and gives her the freedom to just be. To submit. If she can lose this at any moment, if nothing is real then let this be all that matters. Let this be the only real thing they have. His mouth on her and her yielding to him over and over again.

She screams just like she wanted to when he suck at her clit. She can feel how she's practically dripping down her thighs and she feels filthy and beautiful and his. Hand on the back of his head she lets her own fall against the door with a dull thud as her eyes roll back. Cries of "Oh god, John" leading into desperate moans.

His hair tight in her fist, the nails of her other hand scratch along the door, looking for something -- anything to hold onto.

He doesn't even bother to look at her, though that's one of his favorite things. He loves looking at her sex, how pretty it is. How neat and trimmed and adorable it is. He likes to open her, to peek at her clit, to enjoy the art of her before diving in.

But not tonight. Tonight he doesn't so much as spare her a glance. She spreads and he's got his mouth on her, his tongue forcing into the gash, lapping at her clit with blunt force. Tongue then in her hole, lips sucking the button and then she's screaming and he feels a rush of power. He's doing this to her. He's got control of her.

He reaches with his fingers for his fly and opens it so he can have a pull while he fucks her with his tongue, while he sucks her off as eagerly as if she had a cock. He knows what drives her mad.

It's all so sordid with him on his knees, fisting his cock desperately with his face buried in her cunt. He needs her to come again. Needs it like he's never needed it before.

It doesn't register, what he's doing to himself. The sounds drowned out by her own screams and the pounding of the blood in her ears. She's too fucked up, too fucked out to notice anything but her own pleasure. It's too big. Too overwhelming and it's sucking her under, just like she wanted. Just like she needs.

She thinks she might be crying but she doesn't care. They aren't tears of pain or fear or even sadness, really. It's just an overflow of emotion. The drink, the drugs, the desperate need to drown out the loss that's so big, so terrifying she can't even look at it. Not yet. And the more pleasure John gives her, the more he takes, the easier it is for her to keep looking away.

"Don't stop, please don't," she begs as she feels herself nearing that edge again. It's not a shock this time, it's a slow build. So intense it's almost painful and she wants that pain. Chases it. Muscles tensed and breath coming in short gasps. "Like that, like that, like that..."

He's not about to stop. Tongue and lips and then fingers, too. He opens her and drives in two, deep as he can. He can feel the way her cunt quivers how it always does before she comes. It's not so much different than the way his own cock swells and jerks before he tips over the edge.

He feels the tight pull, the slow burn in his groin and he knows he needs to stop. John lets go his cock and his hand rises, rises, rises until he's massaging her tit through her dress while his tongue works over her clit. Front, back, left right, flick flick...and he groans as he tastes how wet she is.

Her brain is nothing but white noise and she's beyond words. A steady stream of moans and grunts coming from her lips, breathing so fast and hard she can see flashes of color behind her eyelids. The only thing real is the feel of his hair between her fingers and she holds on as he pushes her closer and closer to the edge of that cliff. It's never as easy after the first time, but it's often more intense and this is no exception. Every inch of her pulled tight and about to snap.

When she does it's on a scream that she doesn't even try to stifle. Can't remember why she should have to. It hurts in the best possible way, like all her nerve endings firing at once and it washes over every inch of her skin. A hot flush down through her fingers and toes that shorts out everything else.

Wet. Wet. Gushing wet and he laps it up. Fingers, tongue moaning into her cunt as he coaxes her through it to the other side. And as soon as she relaxes, as soon as the grip on his hair relents, John rises to his feet.

"I love your cunt," he rasps, and then he's on her. Grabbing her. Turning her. Pulling her ass so she has no choice but to offer it up so he can drive his cock into her, eager for his own release. He gives her no time to relax or recover and certainly no time to comprehend or protest before he's fucking her hard and fast.

She can hear the sound of her nails scraping down the wood of the door, the sound of his flesh against hers, the way he's breathing. She can feel how his fingertips are digging into her hips. All of it somehow initially louder and more intense than the feel of him fucking into her. Like her brain is focusing on the minor details before it can register the enormity of the main event. Not because she doesn't want it -- she desperately wants it -- but because the sensations are beyond overwhelming.

And then, between one heartbeat and the next, everything snaps into crystal clear focus and she makes a sound that's almost a growl. Pushing back against him, trying to find some way to reach him, to touch him. "I need...I need," she tries to get the words out but she can barely breathe around the pounding of her heart. "Your hands... skin...please."

He pulls her dress up higher and then his shirt up too so there can be more skin against skin. He's grunting with every push, his balls aching as they draw up. She's wet and hit and deep and perfect. Every time he draws back his cock chills just a fraction, making her all the more hot.

And then to add to it all he thrusts in and smacks her ass, knowing he's allowed. Knowing she's always eager for the pain. He might take care of details like her wig or her make up but when it comes to fucking her everything from the neck down is his to abuse and appreciate.

"Fuck, Effie. God...God, just a little...I'm going to come. I'm so...I'm going..."

Just a bit more. Harder. Faster. More.

The smack makes her gasp and flush, just the way she likes it. Always him giving it to her just the way she likes it and so she never says no. Never resists. It makes them fit so beautifully and she never looks at it, never examines the dynamics of it because she doesn't need to. Doesn't want to. He can give her pain and fear in measured doses. He controls it. And if he can control her pain and her fear then he can keep her safe and she needs him. Needs him to keep control because she doesn't know where the limits are anymore. She doesn't know if she ever did.

Pushing back she meets his every thrust, urging him on, squeezing around him, giving him everything she can to make it good. Better than good. She wants the fingertip bruises on her hips, the burn of the smack, she wants his sweat and his spit on her skin. She wants all of him on all of her until there is nothing left in her to think about tomorrow. Just this. Just now. "I love you. Fuck, I love you. Do it. Do it."

It doesn't take much more. Not at this pace. Not with her pushing back to meet him and all but begging. He drive in, in and in and hard and fast and when he comes he grips her hips so tight his fingernails bite crescents into her skin and he swears a string of profanity that begins in English and ends in French because one language isn't enough.

"You fucking brilliant, beautiful whore," he says in the most drunken and appreciative way. He stays there for a long moment until his cock begins to flag. Then without a thought he withdraws and sinks to his knees again to lick her clean, drinking his own come from her as if it's an honor.

It starts out so gently, just the slightest trembling in her hands, her arms. Then it moves down her body until she's shaking all over and at first she thinks it's just sensory overload. It would be far from the first time she's been left that way. The feel of his mouth on her cunt, his hands on her thighs, every inch of her over sensitized and wrung out.

But then it's something else entirely and it hits her so hard and so fast it steals the breath from her lungs. As though a bubble had burst and the water is rushing in, a freezing wave that's crashing over her and sucking her under. She loves him so fucking much and she's so fucking scared and no matter how hard she tries to block it out, it's there now. All that fear is there now and she doesn't know what to do to save herself from drowning.

She sucks in a desperate, gasping breath before she starts to cry. The trembling turning into shaking as her knees go out from under her.

It takes no time for it to register to him. She sobs once and he stops what he's doing immediately because while there may be no limits to what he can do to her he knows precisely when he's gone too far. He knows because he so rarely manages to go to any extreme. But there it is, she's crying and he's sure he's overstepped.

"Oh, no. No, no, Effie, darling," he says, rising and wiping off his face. "Come now. Come here. I've stopped. It's done, love."

And as he always is afterward, he's soft and gentle, offering her every bit of comfort and support. He's quite good at this part. The after care. This comes naturally.

The pain of the loss squeezes her heart to the point where she has to fight to breathe around it. As profound as the moment Peeta told her. Even through the drink and the drugs and John's arms around her and the time that's passed since they'd gone. It's fresh and raw and it aches down into her bones.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She isn't sure what she's apologizing for, maybe everything. Ruining the night, making him have to comfort her, not being able to stop crying. Not being stronger, maybe. "I just want them back, John. I want them back. I'm sorry."

She lays her head on his chest and closes her eyes. Desperate to try and find that numbness again that she'd worked so hard for.

He hears and he can only think of that day when they'd first realized people could vanish. And now her victor Katniss was gone and the other one- Finnick had been his name- they had vanished. He knew it had profoundly affected Effie. He'd seen how she stayed in bed too long, was high or drunk much more than ever...

"I'm so sorry, darling," he said softly as he kissed her temple. "If I could bring them back to you I would."

"I need this to be real, John. I need it to be real. Do you understand? I can't..."

Her voice is wet from tears and the words are broken by her breathing, but they're there. The fear so overwhelming she'll do anything to block it out. She knows he's heard it before, she knows he understands why she's scared, but that doesn't stop her from needing reassurance. It doesn't stop her from needing to hear him say it so she won't be alone.

"They've gone and I don't know where and I don't...I don't know if they...if they don't remember this I can't stand it, I can't stand this. Please just let this be real."

"It is. It is, love," he says, holding her tight and rubbing her slowly. He'd be lying if he said this caught him off guard. It did in that it was now, but he'd seen it coming. Seen it coming since Peeta had told her.

"It will be alright, Effie, darling," he says softly. There's nothing for it, he can do so little. She's drunk and high and emotional and he has to let her ride it out. "I'm here. We're...it's real. Very real. It's alright."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Effie NYE

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject