thecapitol | Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

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Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

Who| Molotov and Black Tom, A GIANT FUCKING OPEN PARTY
What| Molotov has one of those birthday things
Where| Tom's Mentor Suite, .infinity
When| August 7th
Warnings/Notes| to be updated if necessary

I. For Tom
Birthdays are honestly not something that Molotov finds very important. At most, they're an excuse to be treated specially, and she's now treated specially 24/7. It becomes almost boring after a while, and so she has mostly thrown away the gifts and bouquets that began arriving from fans about a week ago. She's kept a handful of the good ones, but really, what does she need with more roses? More candy, more clothing? She'd give them to charity if there were any, but she winds up tossing most of it in garbage bags that she gives to Avoxes to throw away.

She puts some of the bouquets, the nicer ones, in the common areas of the Suite. She thinks that's a very nice thing of her to do for the rest of them.

So when the alarm goes off in the morning, she doesn't really expect anything out of today, at least not on a personal level. She knows she has to go to her birthday party in the evening, but even that's more of a contractual obligation than anything else (it's being sponsored by the companies that make her vodka and lingerie lines). In fact, she even made it perfectly clear to Tom last night that she doesn't want to go out and do anything, and she'll be perfectly fine if he doesn't even remember. Or just pretends to forget.

Molotov isn't dumb enough to think he'll listen, because if there's a chance to show off, he'll take it. But she can say she tried.

II. Open prompt at .infinity nightclub

It is bright. It is loud. It is amazing.

It is Molotov's birthday party (brought to you by M Vodka and Consummare Apparel).

The party doesn't even begin until ten at night, and everyone of any importance in the Capitol has been invited, whether they showed up or not: Helena and Julian of Panem Nightly News are chatting up anyone who'll let them talk, and Cesar Flickerman is in the pool with roughly two dozen beautiful young people surrounding him.

All Games personnel and of-age Tributes have had an open invitation extended to them.

The music is loud, the dance floor packed, and there's a plethora of waitresses in heart-shaped eyepatches and lingerie walking around with trays of free alcohol. Vodka shots and cocktails abound -- don't get alcohol poisoning.

Molotov herself is up on the VIP balcony, which is roped off and contains few other people, though she might approve you if she likes you enough. She looks down over the party like a goddess, only coming down occasionally for the first hour or two, because she's still annoyed at wardrobe. She can't say she ever thought it would take three interns combined to pull a dress over her ass, or that she'd sit through four hours of hair on her own birthday.

But you'll be forgiven for focusing on her face, because for the first time since she arrived, Molotov is out in public without an eyepatch. Her left eye has been replaced, for the evening, with a glass one that seems to contain a whole galaxy, and the stars swirl and soar artfully between each blink of her eye.

She still can't see out of it, but at least it's pretty.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"And yet you never seem to have trouble hearing me when I'm inviting you in to shower with me."

Molotov closes her eye as he kisses her head, keeping her hold on him, forgetting that they're in a field and there's a helicopter a hundred yards away from him. "You would have been suitable. I told you to be low-key, not spend the whole day away from me and the bed. And the tub. And back in the bed." She smirks, brushes her nose against his and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"What did you drag me all the way out here for, anyway?"

"Oh, you've been inviting me? I've just been assuming I was inviting myself."

For a moment, their heads bent together prove why the symbol of a heart is so universal, their heads like the two arches and the divots of their necks meeting as the point. He smiles. "There will be plenty of time for beds and bathtubs tonight, my dear. I just worry if we did that first, I'd never leave."

And the world is too grand to contain themselves in bed, no matter how much he adores her.

"I saw how happy you were in that forest Arena. Don't tell me you don't enjoy glaciers."

"You are so fucking smug."

Her tone holds only affection, though, and she runs her fingers through his hair, locks her eye with his and smiles back. She certainly wouldn't mind skipping out on the stupid party she doesn't want, particularly if she could skip straight into the sheets and pillows with Tom, but he does have a point about the glaciers.

"I never even got to go up in the mountains."

"Why is it that even when you're insulting me, I feel like I'm being flattered?"

He leans in and kisses her cheekbone, then breathes past it: "what if I told you I commissioned your own personal glacier for you?"

"Six of one, half dozen of the other," she teases, pinching his cheek gently as he leans in. She draws in a delighted breath, beaming, and holds him tightly to her, looking up at him with a small wriggle of excitement.

"Just tell me you did something more creative than have my face carved into it."

"That was a little above even my pay grade," he murmurs to her. "It's just been started. I thought you'd want to watch as it goes from an ice field to an entire mountainside."

He finally pulls away from her, only to take her by the hand and lead her towards the helicopter.

"I would," she answers, catching his mouth with hers before he can pull away. She squeezes his hand and follows, dress blowing in the breeze from the chopper blades, her other hand holding her hair back from being whipped around.

The inside of the helicopter looks like the back of a limousine, except that once they're in any of the floors and walls can be made transparent for the best possible view. Thanks to Capitol technology, it's nearly silent as it flies, and preprogrammed instead of with a pilot.

~~Because the mile high club over your own personal glacier should be on everyone's bucket list.~~

"It's out over District One, up in the mountains that I could swear were the Sierra Nevadas in an alternate dimension." Tom settles in and pulls her onto his lap. "They can accelerate it to be a complete glacier in a matter of months."

He pulls her into his lap and she leans back against him, her head on his shoulder. "Or the Rockies," she says, recalling something Brock said to her once, that he was positive they're in Colorado. She figured he was probably right, given his penchant for the outdoors and how long he'd been living in such a bumfuck state.

"So I'll have a whole glacier by Christmas?"

"I wouldn't know, I suppose. Most of my time in America was spent in major cities. Spent a few months in Canada, though, off the grid." He strokes her hair and kisses her, deep and hungry and passionate, stroking one collarbone with his thumb.

"Aye. Maybe even sooner."

"Just something someone said about it once, that they look like the Rockies." Her hands are on his face and she closes her eye, biting at his lips as they separate again. She can't remember the last time she was this happy, and it has nothing to do with her birthday or the glacier (okay, well, maybe a little bit of it is the glacier), but just from being here with him.

"And then what? Do they do something with it when it's done?"

Tom has his suspicions about whom it was who said that, but he doesn't say that. He won't ruin what's otherwise a perfect moment. He lets her nip at his lips and nibbles back, dragging his hand up through the back of her hair.

"Well, since it's your glacier, I thought that'd be up to you. I've bandied about the idea of turning it into a preserve for bears and wildcats, along with that fringe of wilderness about it."

"Oh, I love that," she says softly, looking downward toward the field, though she doesn't see any animals. Molotov wonders, sometimes, if there are wild animals at all here -- since she's never been in the Districts, the most she's ever seen are little birds and squirrels and the occasional chipmunk.

But they must have animals somewhere if they're keeping examples in the zoo, right?

She slowly turns to be able to face him, straddling his lap, so incredibly glad that she's wearing a dress that allows for it, the slit nearly to her hip. Her hands on his jaw, she kisses him again, slow and deeply, her eye closed.

And from there on, there are very few words. He slides his hand up her dress, rubbing his thumb along the inside of her thigh, as he pulls her close and mulls on her tongue.

He can feel her heart against his chest, pounding away like the hooves of a stallion.

She knows she's being too indulgent, rewarding him too much for ignoring her requests about her birthday, but she doesn't care, because he's perfect, always perfect, even managing to find perhaps the only gift she'd want when she didn't even know it existed.

Molotov can't be much closer to him, and all that's under her skirt is skin and a really flimsy excuse for underwear (look, her lingerie line does not specialize in practical). She sighs and slides one hand into his hair, combing through his artfully styled "I didn't style this" look, and her other hand drops behind him when she wraps her arm around his neck.

Edited 2015-09-11 23:56 (UTC)

For a while, he doesn't even feel the need to remove her panties, just playing with her through them with masterful hands that can dismantle a bomb, pick a lock, and, of course, please just about any woman he sets his mind to. For the last few months that's been exclusively her. He hopes it will be that way for a long time now.

But soon enough he'd rather just use those fingers to tease the underwear aside, and so he does, teasing at her.

"Happy birthday, lass."

She rests her head on his shoulder, sighing and making quiet sounds and occasionally squirming a bit in his lap, but slow and steady feels like the right end to this day. She's in no rush to be anywhere except this helicopter, hovering over her very own mini-tundra while the sun slowly starts to lower behind the mountains, picking absently at the buttons of his shirt and the threads in his scarf while he plays her like a piano.

It's only when he's gone under her panties that she moans and presses her face to his neck, the bridge of her nose fitting right into the crook. She breathes hard, can feel it making the space between them hot, but it's nothing to notice as she plants her knees more firmly in the seat next to him, lets go of his clothes to hitch her dress up further, until it's stuck at the top of her thighs in front, and the back of her skirt is hiding his legs instead of hers.

"Tom," is all she says, soft and distant, sliding her hand up his arm to his shoulder, his jaw.

"Today's about you, my dear. Do you want us both to have a turn or do you just want to have all the pleasure for yourself?" he whispers into her ear, planting a kiss on the side of her face and continuing to finger at her, to rub and caress and smooth.

He wouldn't mind getting off himself, as she can probably feel exactly how aroused he is in her current position, but Tom is always the gentleman when it comes to these matters. It's one thing to disregard a woman's wishes for a private birthday, another to take advantage of the solitude and chemistry for one's own benefit instead f hers.

Molotov, as if often the case, doesn't answer verbally, choosing instead to press her mouth against his with her eye closed. Her other hand drops down between them, fumbles for a moment with his belt until she can get it undone, and she doesn't even bother removing it from the loops.

"Take off this jacket," she demands, already pulling his scarf from his neck and flicking several of his shirt buttons undone. She kisses him between orders, hips rocking into his hand, holding his face close to hers even when she breaks away to talk. "I want you, I want you to fuck me up here."

"With pleasure," he says, and his voice is near a delighted snarl. He finishes off the buttons and shrugs off the shirt, revealing how well-healed that lightning-wound now is.

With himself stripped down, it's time for her. He doesn't bother to get her out of that dress; he starts to roll it up her waist.

"Don't bother," she says between kisses, and leans back a little to pop open the closure on her belt, tossing it to the side with his clothes as her dress simply falls open like a robe. There's a small tie she undoes, two silk strings holding the dress together, then lets it fall off her shoulders, leaving her only in black panties that are little more than two pieces of lace with some ribbons tying it all together.

She grabs his face again and presses her mouth hard against his, biting at his lips before she asks, "Is your leg good? I want to look at my glacier while you fuck me." She never makes him hold himself above her if his leg hurts, not in any position, but she wants to be able to look down through the floor, feel his weight on her back and pretend that it's not all fake and engineered, but that it's home.

Even if she would never actually have sex in the snow (it's fucking cold), she's been in enough cabins and dachas to remember that feeling of comfort, snow piled outside while she allowed targets to hold her until they fell asleep and she could slit their throats.

"My leg's right as rain today," he says, even though it's a lie and she'll probably be able to tell, but he badly wants for her to have this perfect birthday. He's already decided to go into the mini-Arena, and thus it's vital to leave her with a fantastic enough memory of him to keep that choice from detonating a bomb on their relationship - and he wants badly to please her, not to prove but just to know he is worthy of the fantastic woman at his side.

Or in his lap, at the moment. He marvels without words at the flawless exhibit of her body, then kisses her as he brings her down to the ground so she can see the expanse he's purchased for her.

She'll know but won't stop him, won't insult him like that unless he needs to be stopped, if she can tell he really can't handle it and is pushing too hard to make her happy. He always wants to make her happy, enough so that sometimes she feels the need to slow him down, lest he run out of ideas before their first anniversary.

But no, the mini-Arena, that's a grenade that he's already pulled the pin on, a fight and a rage that he won't be able to escape. Not after he came back the way he did, not after the fight at his Crowning, her fear that one of them wouldn't come back, so severe that she gave up her own chances at a crown.

They retire Mentors too.

Molotov kisses back, hands on his cheeks, though she pulls away and lets go to kneel on the floor and just look down for a moment, transfixed. She snaps out of it quickly enough, distracted by the heavy, dangling weight of the necklace she's still wearing, then looks back over her shoulder before sliding back into his lap, resting lightly on his thighs and pressing her back to his chest. She reaches back to touch his face, her nose against his cheek.

"Slow," she murmurs, resettling her knees on either side of his. "But not gentle. Fuck that."

Never doubt a supervillain's imagination for coming up with absolutely retarded ideas for melodramatic presentations about love or victory or whatever the fuck else. It's like creativity has all congregated into a huddle with the desire to be the center of attention.

It's not the rage he's afraid of; he's resigned to that. It's losing her entirely. He hopes he can stop at least that.

"However your highness commands it," he says, guiding her into position and kissing the side of her face. "The hell with gentle. We're both from too hardy stock for that."

His options are still a bit more limited here, where he's not free to blow things up in her honor, and also where he can't manipulate the plant life any more than a regular gardener could. Even so long afterward, Molotov still blushes when she thinks of that flower portrait he grew.

She won't leave, at least not for more than a few angry nights -- she's put too much into this, given up too much to let him go. But it might be worse for her to stay, because Molotov is capable of holding a grudge and enforcing punishments for a really long time.

Decades, actually.

Reaching back, she circles her arms around his neck, sighing happily and closing her eye for a moment as she sinks down. Her hips move before she opens her eye again, but when she does, her gaze is stuck on the ground (or floor, rather), the snow and ice sparkling in the setting sun. She slides one hand into his hair, holds the back of his head, and leans her head toward his, resting it on his shoulder as she keeps looking down.

"You're too good for me, Thomas Cassidy," she murmurs, though it fades out into a quiet pleased sound.

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