thecapitol | A Silk Lapel Suits You Well [Closed]

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A Silk Lapel Suits You Well [Closed]

WHO| Black Tom and Molotov Cocktease
WHAT| Molotov and Tom have a Capitol photoshoot for fancy suits.
WHEN| After the reaping.
WHERE| Various places in the Capitol.
WARNINGS| Rich asshattery.

"Are you sure that we should be using the Avoxes as ottomans here? I'm worried that might push us into camp."

Tom's found that the work of being a minor celebrity, of representing brands and signing contracts and being the face of photoshoots for outfits that cost more than the GDP of some small countries, is actually quite a lot of work. For one thing, there's taking orders from the photographer, who seems more than a little bit of an idiot, and for the latter, there's constantly getting 'adjusted' by makeup artists and a wardrobe assistant and someone who insists on using hair spray in a can shaped like a tiny Roman statue. None of the people working on this set seem able to find their own feet without directions.

It's very near torturous. Thank God he has Molotov to pass the time with.

"No, it's fine, the pale skin on that one really makes the shine on those shoes pop." The photographer looks over his shoulder and scowls. "Oh, God damn it. The monkeys's wet his tuxedo again. You guys hang out here while we get him changed so he can put the grapes in your mouth. This won't be more than ten minutes."

"Make sure to wash his hands!" Tom sighs and unbuttons his suit jacket before shoeing the Avox off. Molotov sits on the couch with him, dressed to the nines and with a little hat that props up her cigarette holder. Tom wraps his arm around her and whispers in her ear, as he has been for most of the morning. They're a natural couple, these two, and candids of them on set are already circulating online with hashtags like #MOLOTOM and #OTP-ULENCE.

"Personally, I'm looking forward to the part where we shoot whales from the yacht."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Molotov doesn't like hats.

She doesn't like hats, and she doesn't like monkeys, and she doesn't like this many people floating around her and touching her all the time. Her discomfort and annoyance are palpable, fading only slightly with Tom's touch, and she practically hisses at a wardrobe assistant who's getting too close to them (the waifish little thing backs off immediately).

"I'd rather shoot these people," she mumbles petulantly, resting her forehead on his shoulder and placing her hand on his chest. "At least I don't hate whales, they never spent so much time annoying me."

Her dress isn't the easiest thing to move in, and she winds up more just tilting forward than actually leaning against him. She can't really bend in any way -- men have it so much easier.

"We could do both. Make it look like an accident." He curls up a wave of her hair around his finger. "It's been a very long time since I've used a harpoon gun on anything. My aim might be a little off..."

He's less pissy than she is today, and that means that he's taken it upon himself to try and cheer her up. He doesn't know how successful he is at it - certainly, when he's irascible the last thing he wants to do is have another person all over him, trying to make him feel better - but it's all he can think of to do. He has no solutions for her terrible outfit and can only scare back the wardrobe assistants so much.

She doesn't mind his attempts to cheer her up -- at the very least, they spare her from being approached by anyone who would actually upset her more. She is, occasionally, just prone to moods, and that's most of what this is, exacerbated by the tedium and frustration of the photoshoot.

"Promise to hit the photographer?" she asks, raising her head and perching her chin on his shoulder as she looks up at him. Her expression is doelike and wanting, the same pouty one she'd given him this morning when she had to practically be forced out of bed for this entire experience. "For me?"

"Given how much he's in our faces, I may be able to hit him twice." And with that, he can't resist the call of those red, dewy lips, and he's sucked practically subconsciously into another kiss. It's as if he doesn't realize she has his mouth locked until he's already there.

Someone takes a quick snapshot on the side and whispers "text that to Cyrus Reagan".

Molotov raises her hand to his cheek, knowing that they only have a moment before someone from makeup rushes in to save them from the thick paint of her lipstick smearing everywhere. Her thumb brushes over his cheekbone before an angry little man in an organza shirt does indeed come to break them up, throwing up his hands in exasperation when he sees the smudges of red all over Tom's mouth.

"Go away, go away, god," she hisses at the makeup artist, who stalks off to retrieve his various products and brushes, cursing them. Molotov leans her forehead to Tom's, moving to wipe off a little of the lipstick with her fingers. "Sorry."

"I fail to see how lipstick on my collar won't make this shoot better," he grouses in the general direction of everyone involved in the scene. "It's storytelling."

The story being that he and Molotov are super rich and super sexy and doing each other on the reg and you should all be really jealous.

He kisses her fingertips. "You needn't apologize, dear. Just imagine the harpoons and make a mental list."

"All of them," she laughs, watching his mouth. "The more of them we hurt, the longer they will leave us alone." She is still swiping red off his lip when some screeching announces the return of the monkey, who stands near his trainer and looks up expectantly.

Molotov's frown is directed less at the monkey itself than at the idea of it when she turns her head to look at the director. "I don't want that thing touching me," she announces loudly, hand subtly shifting to lace with Tom's. "This is how people get ebola, from monkeys and their filthy little bodies."

She is, actually, aware that she's probably wrong about that, and that also it would require eating the monkey, but either way, she doesn't want it near her.

"I thought there were going to be tigers at this shoot, not monkeys. I like tigers."

"Even if they had brought tigers, we'd still be dealing with some apes." Tom raises his eyebrow and tilts his head at some of the styling crew, all of whom seem to miss the jab in their direction. All the better. He's sure if they could read his and Molotov's minds they'd be slipping acid into their face foundation.

"Ebola aside, that thing had better have been washed thoroughly. If it doesn't smell like lavender when it's brought back out I'm not eating a single grape from its hand."

He's aware if they just cooperate things will get done faster, but he has no great interest in doing that. He's decided to be spiteful, and to focus the entirety of his energies on amusing Molotov.

Molotov rests her cheek on his shoulder, watching as an assistant tries to sniff the monkey without catching its attention. "You're going to get a disease," she says lightly, placing her hand on his thigh. "And I'm not having sex with you if you have monkey diseases, I'm sorry."

She's (mostly) teasing, and even if the two of them are being wholly uncooperative here, they are eventually accosted by people trying to get them back into position, so that the photoshoot can recommence.

It drags on for hours, it seems, until all the stiff sitting and awkward cheats to the camera have Tom's back sore and his mood even more soured than it was to start with. The monkey's shrieks are enough to give someone a splitting headache, and there's the hot lights to consider and the assistants' complete lack of boundaries. They'll just put a Q-tip in your ear here without warning. It's entirely unacceptable.

"Lunch break!" the photographer finally calls. "No one touch any of the food for from the set, we have to return that to the caterer. It'll be fed to the Tributes."

"Goodie. The Avoxes have been shoveling reheated leftovers at us," Tom mutters, giving Molotov a quick squeeze and a kiss on the temple.

"Maybe the monkey will contaminate it," she manages to say before being pulled away and swarmed with assistants who quickly change her out of the dress she can't move in, leaving her in a silk robe and high heels. It's a quick process, and the stylists treat the dress with more respect than they do Molotov.

She gets spit back out of the wardrobe circle like she's not entirely sure what happened to herself.

"I'm going to kill them all," she informs Tom darkly, glaring at the dress on a hanger as she takes his hand. "At least this means I get something else to wear. Come on, I want something to eat before they get their sparkly little fingers on it."

"At least this means we'll have something to do in the Capitol, aside from enjoy each others' company. Plotting their demise." Tom's been treated with even less care than Molotov has, largely because he has somewhat less of a reputation for throwing things out of the windows during his tantrums. Little do they know what he's capable of when pushed.

"Food sounds good. I'd say I can hear your stomach rumbling from here, but that might just be you snarling at them." He reaches forward and taps her chin.

"I had coffee this morning, and then they wouldn't let me eat in case I start looking like I ate," she grumbles. "If anyone so much as glances sideways at me during lunch, I'm going to rip their eyebrows straight off. I'm eating as much much as I damn well please."

Which, knowing Molotov, wouldn't be that much anyway. She pulls him toward the catering table.

"Oh no, heaven forbid your figure be distended by the burden of a single pastry." Tom can't help but roll his eyes at the very concept. He's going to get a strain with all this. He goes easily with her, and although he isn't quite famished he expects that hunger will only make this day even more unbearable.

"Sandwiches. That's it. You'd think we were at a funeral." Tom looks disgusted. "Would it kill them to at least put a little alcohol out?"

"They asked if I've been eating salt lately. Because I seem bloated." Venomous is a mild word for her tone right now, as she glares at a rather scrawny-looking turkey club.

"How is there no alcohol? We both have liquor representation deals, how is there not even one single bottle?"

"For what it's worth, they wanted to apply shoe polish to my hair at the temples because I seem a little too old." Yes, he's miffed.

"Because we're being punished," Tom mutters, and it's unclear if he's joking or deadly serious. Emphasis on deadly. "Somehow, they've decided we're too good at the Arenas themselves and are finding other ways to remind us of our place. And that includes sobriety."

He wants to flip the table.

"A whole society obsessed with altering their appearances, and they want to put shoe polish in your hair. Of course."

Molotov bares her teeth at a makeup artist who's getting a bit too close, then grabs a croissant with a meager spread of chicken salad and a single slice of avocado. "I didn't think they were supposed to be torturing us."

"They told me it would wash right out. I'm not willing to risk it."

He pokes at a wrap of lettuce and turkey. Why turkey?

"If this is what they do on a photo set, I'm terrified of what they'll do if we wind up in prison." He's kidding, despite the sour tone. He's been in prisons with actual torture. He'd rather not repeat the experience, especially with people as creative as the Capitolites.

Edited 2014-12-01 01:14 (UTC)

She absently touches at the hair they wanted to cover up, the light grays and whites of his temple, and frowns. She likes it, she doesn't know why everyone here is so obsessed with looking perpetually twenty-one. It just makes for a whole city of people who look oddly stretched and colored.

"I'm going to eat one of those apples over there just to spite them," she says, and offers him a bite of her sandwich. "I've eaten worse, even if they somehow managed to put the absolute minimum amount of ingredients on it. I'm not entirely sure they could give us less food in prison, so that's something to stop worrying about."

"An apple? You could eat an entire tree and still look flawless, as far as I'm concerned." He sneers. "I should have brought my flask."

It doesn't matter that all the ingredients of the wrap are organic and sun-kissed and assembled by trained chef's hands - Tom's still bitter. "It's only a little bit better than starving."

Whine whine bitch moan.

"So. Harpoon guns. Have you used one before?"

"Of course," Molotov answers, holding her sandwich to take another bite. "I can't say I've been whaling before, but harpoon guns are fun. Mounted ones especially, it's like controlling a cannon or something. I've always wanted to fire a real cannon, but I was born just a bit too late for that."

She chews and looks at him expectantly, swallowing before speaking. "Have you been whaling, dear?"

"I actually haven't used one before. All the better an excuse when I accidentally skewer the photographer by complete accident." He picks at the turkey in his wrap. "Nor have I ever been whaling, actually. So this will be a novel experience for both of us."

He makes a mental note to himself to get Molotov access to a cannon for her birthday. And a note to find out when, exactly, that birthday is.

"You can go first, so I can get a good view how how fun it is for you." She smiles, prods at his hand so he'll eat, even if he doesn't seem to want the wrap. "I can't imagine we're actually going whaling, though. We're nowhere near the ocean, and flying in whales just for us to shoot them is a little excessive, even for these people."

"I'll take bets that it's just the runts from whatever killer whale litters they're breeding at Sea World. Or, perhaps, a sneak peek at whatever beasties they'll be sending at us next Arena."

He eats at her urging. Mostly he's just holding off out of spite. "Is that all you want a good view of?"

Molotov laughs a little and shakes her head. "No, but I'm a patient enough woman. I can wait until later to get what I want."

She smirks as she takes another bite of her sandwich.

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