Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger

[molotov]

Who| Molotov and Black Tom
What| Dinner
Where| Below Timberline
When| A few days after the end of the Arena
Warnings/Notes| nah

One extremely good part of being friends with Jolie meant never having a lack of animal prints in your wardrobe. Molotov wanted to be a big cat lounging in the trees -- and it wasn't like cheetah print didn't already appeal to the Brighton Beach whore part of Molotov's innate style. Gold bangles and miniskirts and velour everywhere, all the time.

It was easy enough to pull the strings and get a good reservation. Tributes were celebrities by nature, but Molotov's hard work at becoming a public figure really had paid off, as shops and restaurants figured it was fantastic to have someone so recognizable be seen in their doorways.

Her earlier words to Tom were true, though, and she's swept away from the paparazzi into the most private nest before he can even arrive. She waits patiently, long legs curled up next to her under her skirt, sipping at a glass of wine and almost childishly watching for him to round the corner with the hostess.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

"Technically, I didn't earn the leprechauns. They came with the castle." He lost the castle, but that's bitching for another time. He nudges her knee back, and then rests his thigh next to hers, so that they are as one.

"Oh? Regale me with tales about your net worth, dear."

[molotov]

"Ah, of course, the Cassidy family leprechauns." It's said with a laugh. "They're heirlooms."

She rests her head against him, chewing another mouthful of soup and bread before launching into it. "Let's see. I went freelance after the Dissolution, so I was... mm, twenty-two? Twenty-three? Within five years, I was among the most sought-after mercenaries in the world. Two years ago, I launched my own company, an all female mercenary group I called my Black Hearts. We were the most in-demand mercenaries in the western hemisphere. The group was only dissolved due to my need to go on the run... well, and an unfortunate accident happening to my girls."

Pausing for a sip of wine, Molotov smirks, perhaps smugly. "And that was all after qualifying for the Olympics before puberty, so."

[pimpcanes]

"Heirlooms, vermin, what's the American phrase? 'Tomato, tomahto'?" He rests his cheek against the top of her head, his hand almost subconsciously stroking the crook of her waist.

"It's as if you're reading me a storybook where I know I like the ending." He drinks from his wine, too. "Will we be return to my District Suite tonight?"

[molotov]

Her fingers slide a bit up his leg to mimic the movements of his hand at her side. She snorts, though, casting him a joking glance.

"Are you counting yourself among my accomplishments?" she asks, teasing again. "My Suite is a shorter elevator ride."

[pimpcanes]

"I would like to, but I wouldn't want to be presumptuous." He wishes his clothing were thinner, to better feel her hand. He wants her fingerprints all over him.

[molotov]

Molotov's fingers dance just high enough to graze the line between appropriate for public and inappropriate, then she smooths his trousers down as she returns to his knee.

"No, but you are being a bit egotistical again."

[pimpcanes]

They've finished their soup. Tom rests one elbow on the back of the seat and keeps his other arm around Molotov, perfectly content to wait however long for the entrees.

"Is it unwarranted egotism, though?" He bats his eyes at her.

[molotov]

There's a slight lull between the courses, for conversation and digestion, and Molotov is terribly pleased to spend it cuddled up to him, moving her hand to lie on his stomach now.

"I can't say I know yet," she jokes, closing her eye for a moment as she soaks up the warmth of his body against her, the mild rocking of their booth in the breeze. A waiter sweeps by soon enough to clear the soup and bread, and present the second course -- fettuccine in a cream sauce with lobster tail meat and roe. It still steams slightly, hot in the cool of night, and Molotov sits up excitedly upon seeing it, leaning forward.

"Oh, caviar is my favorite."

[pimpcanes]

"I'm hoping you come to a conclusion soon." And with that he rubs her side a bit with his knuckle, gentle, sensuous.

"Oh, very nice." Tom's a snob when it comes to most things pasta. He rolls up a ribbon of fettuccine on his fork and holds it out to her. "And your feelings on the noodles?"

[molotov]

All she does is smile when he moves his hand, her own fingers curling just slightly.

Molotov takes the bite, one hand to her mouth to catch any sauce that might drip, and nods appreciatively as she chews it. "Delicious," she answers, reaching for her own fork to spear some of the lobster meat and caviar on her next bite. "I'll be shocked if anything here isn't magnificent."

[pimpcanes]

There's almost something disappointing about how wonderful everything here is. What's the point of being versed in earthly pleasure if not to remark on how most things don't live up?

"I would be too. You know, as vapid as the people here are-" and they don't seem the type to be terribly insulted by that truth- "they do know how to indulge."

[molotov]

Well, it's a fine restaurant -- Molotov is more than sure that there are other places that wouldn't match Tom's standards. She's pretty sure she heard about a Viking restaurant somewhere in the city.

"Their most worthwhile characteristic." She smiles through her next bite, and can't help but to quickly dab her fingertip in some of the roe to savor it on its own.

[pimpcanes]

He dabs his fingertip too, and then holds it out for her to take a taste from him. To feel her mouth on him, even if just on his finger, those cherry lips with the upturn that seems set into her cheeks regardless of her expressions.

"Maybe we'll let them live, once we're out of this situation." He's teasing - he says it lightly enough that it could easily be a harmless joke - but he really does want out of here. Less immediately than his fellows, maybe, but the Capitol took something from him and he doesn't appreciate that.

[molotov]

The upturn is more concrete now, entertained and nearly spilling over with ideas that could reduce him to a puddle in public, leave her the clearly dominant force between them. But she isn't sure she wants that yet, and instead, she leans down to only gently lick away the caviar before sucking on just the very end of his finger.

"We'll need cooks, after all." Her tone mimics his, though perhaps it's a bit more light, knowing as she does that someone is probably listening in for soundbites to sell to Celebrus or PNN. Every word is risk in this city, every expression an opportunity for someone to find something you don't want them to.

[pimpcanes]

"And someone to tailor my suits." She leaves his finger feeling as if it holds an electrical current in it, as if her very touch is not one between humans but between a man and some elemental spirit. She's so beautiful, so powerful, so dangerous.

A man plays with fire knowing full well he may be burned.

"Other than that, we're entirely independent, aren't we?"

[molotov]

"Of course we will spare Jolie," she says with a smile. "So that's clothes and food taken care of. An Avox or two to keep things tidy, and I can't imagine needing anyone else around."

Molotov takes a sip of wine, traces her finger around his knee. "Imagine how much room you'd have for flowers if we had the city for ourselves."

[pimpcanes]

"I'm quite a fan of the architecture. We don't necessarily have to take that all down. Much better than some of the awful modernist buildings I've seen in the past." He ghosts his knuckle over the base of her spine.

"I can't imagine we'll need even another soul."

[molotov]

She can only snort. "Nearly all buildings are nicer than most of what I am used to, the blocs where every was gray and square. But they could do with more greenery around here."

There's a pause, and she turns to nose his cheek. "We'd be set."

[pimpcanes]

"A woman like you shouldn't be deprived of beauty, even as a child. It's hard. Sometimes I forget not everyone grew up in a castle." He smiles softly and bumps noses with her, as if pantomiming the most gentle swordfight, sparring with kisses. "Too bad we both lack the ambition to take over this sad little world."

[molotov]

"You poor, poor man." It's teasing, that growing up in a castle might be a problem simply because he has to remember that other people didn't. "If I am going to be stuck here, all I want is my crown and my own place to live. Somewhere far enough away from the city center that I don't have to be chased by the paparazzi all the time, but close enough to come for parties and events if I want to."

She pauses, brushes her lips against his, smiles widely. "And a garden."

[pimpcanes]

He considers something of a game to catch her lips when they whisper over his, as if he were a venus fly trap closing over succulent prey, but so much more gently. He kisses back.

"And a suitor, perhaps?"

[molotov]

Molotov holds his tie with one hand, capturing him close to her and keeping him there, her food practically forgotten by now, growing cold on the table.

"My bed would be cold without one."

[pimpcanes]

He doesn't mind this tether, doesn't mind that she has him in complete control and that he made the naive decision to wear an actual tie, one that could strangle him. He lets his nose nestle against her cheek, feeling rather than seeing how smooth she is.

"I've heard that I'm quite warm at night."

[molotov]

If she was going to kill him, she'd have done it by now, and so a tie is nothing to worry about, not naive in the least. After all, she hardly needs a tie to strangle him.

"Good, because I've been told I'm like an ice cube."

[pimpcanes]

"Then I imagine it's equally fortunate that I don't mind a little cold." He finally pulls away. "More pasta, dear?"