twerkingintomordor asked: aw i'm really glad you liked it! have a lovely day/evening!
Evening here :) And I really did. I hope you have more prompts to work on (I am sure I can think of more if you need them)
Okay, prompt me. I’ve got to write something. Not promising it will be long and/or good though…
effstrinket asked: i miss your fics :(
I miss writing them too, but my writing time is lacking at the moment. I promise to try and get something done soon x
Effie loves shoes more than anything else in Panem. Capitol Coture only made six pairs of this particular stiletto and as one of their current models she has managed to wrangle a pair from the designer himself. Wrapping the diamond enscruted creations in soft cotton, she places them gently on the shelf. All around her are hundreds more pairs organised by colour and height.
Her wardrobe is huge – she can lose herself for days in it, running her hands over the fabrics, trying on hairpieces, transforming herself into someone else. This is where she is something special.
She still craves more – the rarer and more outlandish the outfit the better. When people stare in wonder at her latest ensemble she basks in it; for the affection starved escort it is the closest thing she’s ever felt to love.
It’s incredible, he thinks, that Effie can be so ridiculously clueless about the world she lives in. She believes so ardently in righteousness of the Government. Absolutely nothing he can throw at her phases her in the slightest.
He believed in things once upon a time. He remembers when he was a small boy knowing that his father would keep him safe from all the monsters in the darkness. Then the mines claimed his father and the Hunger Games killed his family and his girl. Alcohol drowned out everything else good in his world.
Jealousy flares and twists low in his belly; he wishes he was Effie Trinket. He wants more than anything to have something he can put his trust in. He wants to believe.
“Hello Sir. Isn’t our Miss Trinket a fine piece of ass?”
Effie turns red through a combination of embarrassment and anger as Haymitch drapes a heavy arm around her shoulders. He’s roaring drunk, swaying dangerously against her. She feels light headed just from the radiating fumes.
The sponsor, so eager to speak to her five minutes ago, shifts nervously.
“Are you going to give Twelve money then?” Haymitch’s smile is predatory; the businessman backs away.
“How much have you drank?”
“Two… three?” He turns away slightly to vomit on the carpet beside her feet. “Bottles, that is…”
Mirror out on the table opposite him, she’s reapplying her make-up, brushing more colour onto her cheekbones. The hues make him hurt, the pounding hangover just behind his eyes forcing them shut as his stomach threatens to heave.
She stands and straightens her outfit – he can hear the skirts rustling. He peeks at her through his lashes, not wanting to move any more than necessary. She’s twirling, preening, practising her smile for the sponsors. He ignores the tantalisingly close curve of hip laced tight in red satin.
“You look like a fool, woman.”
She glares down at him, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “No, actually I look fantastic, you slob.”
Effie Trinket does not understand Haymitch Abernathy.
She was so excited to meet her childhood hero; the boy she worshipped from afar for so long. To have the opportunity to work with him was a dream come true. Too late she noticed the other escorts sniggering behind their palms – she really should have taken the hint.
Never really one for violence outside of a viewscreen, it is surprisingly quickly that she finds her fingers itching to slap him out of his stupor.
“Are you not even going to speak to our tributes?”
“What’s the point?” He takes a swallow of liquor and stares at her with hatred. “You killed them the day you chose them.”