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.

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"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.

Molotov's fucking the man who devoted the last thirty years to screwing up his cousin's life because his cousin won a dice wager and kissed a pretty girl.

"I'm only repaying what's given to me. It's hardly my fault I'm blessed to be your man," he whispers into her hair more than her ear. He grips her shoulder hard enough to leave marks as he guides himself into her and moves, as she commands, with slow sobriety and yet the barely restrained violence of their passion, of their twin natures as terrorist and mercenary.

He grips that hair and forces her head into facing the beautiful expanse of crystal white that now bears her name.

Molotov wore a chastity belt for twenty-odd years, to punish mankind in general and one guy in particular, all because her dad died. Also, she hauled that one guy out of hot tar simply so that she could be the one to kill him.

He still sniffs her metal panties at night.

She hisses when he grabs her shoulder that hard, though she gently loosens his fingers -- she's seen the outfit she has to wear tonight, she doesn't want bruises. But that's little in the face of her gasp and moan when he turns her head, her nails raking on his scalp as she smiles at all the untouched snow, this miracle of science and nature that he had made for her, that's not even done yet.

A bird flies underneath them, over the white that must be blinding in full daylight, and she moans, rocking her hips back hard against him.

Look they both have some issues with letting things go. ~~They're both actual infants who can't handle not getting things their way.~~

He follows her directions, relaxing his grip slightly but pushing harder elsewhere, more fervently, but at a speed to please her rather than to immediately satisfy himself. For all that she's gifted him with the full procedure today, this day is still about her, or at least about all his feelings for her. Which means it's sort of about him.

Supervillains and their egos.

"Christ, but I love you." He tilts his head back so her nails did further into his scalp.

She groans when he changes pace, digs her nails in and drags them, meets every movement with one of her own. It doesn't matter what he thinks the day is about -- the whole birthday thing is so meaningless to her that she doesn't care if he wants to make it about himself. She's content to just be up here, to have his attention all to herself, without even a potential distraction.

"You're amazing." Molotov breathes hard for a moment, reaching out to put her free hand on the floor, her eye starting to flutter closed even as she tries to keep it open, then pants, "Tom, Tom, touch me. Please."

"As you wish," Tom says, exhales into her like he's breathing life into her. He loves her and he makes that love into a motion as he holds himself on one hand to fondle her with the other, to give her that touch her body is reaching for.

(And he bites her neck, just slightly).

She lets go of his hair, covers his hand with hers, but it's when he bites her that she groans and goes still, pressing back into his lap as she trembles. Her nails skitter against the smooth floor, not scratching it but making noise all the same, and when she finally goes limp, she squeaks, her head hanging as she catches her breath.

"I love you," she murmurs, after indulging the need to breathe for only a moment. Her hand is at his cheek, her head turned toward him, and she picks back up without missing a beat, exhaling hard when continuing makes her entire lower body throb with sensitivity.

"I love you too," he says, pushing against and inside her, feeling her all but pulse around him.

"Let's see if I can give you multiple orgasms for your birthday," he says, kissing the cheek she presents him with, mouth hot and hungry and wet. "By the way. There will be fireworks of your face."

Look at this idiot you have chosen to love, Molotov.

"You're so stupid," she laughs breathlessly, but digs her nails into the back of his hand when he keeps going, shuddering when she inhales. and she keeps her eye open, fixed on his face, filled with adoration. She has never been so in love in her life, didn't even think it was really possible, at least for her.

Molotov had always thought she was destined to waste her life on someone who would never accept her, bouncing around with other men just for the entertainment factor. She hadn't really ever thought that the reason she couldn't feel real love was because the right man was in another world, or however this shit works.

"Promise me, Tom, promise me you'll never leave me."

"I promise. I promise I'll never even consider it."

Tom imagined himself not doomed, but content with life as a bachelor. Love was not something he was seeking again, so tied to loss in his mind - at least the passionate, consuming love he feels for Molotov, once felt for Maeve. It was, like virtue and decency, something for other people.

He finds he doesn't mind its wrecking-ball return to his life. Doesn't mind it at all, not even the fear that wakes him up at night and drives him to wrap his arm around Molotov's waist to confirm her living, breathing presence.

"Marry me," he whispers into her hair.

Her stomach almost aches for the way it clenches down along with everything else in her, and she rocks forward without thinking, wrapping her hand tightly around his wrist as she gasps, "Yes."

The snow is blinding in that moment, so bright and unbroken even by animal footprints, and when she falls back to his chest with a groan, she gently takes his hand away before touching his face again, chest heaving. She'd normally just let him keep going until she absolutely couldn't take anymore, but, well, she can probably be forgiven for wanting to talk a little bit at this particular moment.

"Yes."

He lets her continue to guide him, to express her desire so he can fulfill it, even if at the moment all that is is to pause and absorb everything about this instant in which they are living, breathing, sweating, communing. He wants the rest of their lives to be like this, her asking and him filling that need, performing for her whatever her heart desires because that satisfies the both of them.

He loves her in a way that obliterates his entire past and creates nothing but a shimmering, endless and perfect future. It all hinges on her, the years ahead of them trailing her like a bridal train.

He rests his forehead against hers. He lets their noses touch and he pulls her close.

"I've a ring for you in the cockpit."

Molotov holds the sides of his face and tries not to breathe obnoxiously hard into his face before she kisses him, needy and demanding and more filled with love than she thought she could ever be. She keeps touching his jaw when she breaks away, leaving only room to breathe between them.

She has a lot of thoughts happening right now, and it's so hard to sort through them all as quickly as she needs to. "A ring," she repeats softly, like she hasn't even thought of it, and she really hasn't, because in this moment, it seems almost insignificant compared to everything else, to what there is between them.

Kissing him again, she moves to sit on the floor, leaning back against the seats. She gropes in their pile of clothes for his shirt and pulls it around herself like a blanket, and then a laugh bubbles up from inside her because she can't stop smiling and she doesn't ever remember being so happy in her life. "We're going to get married."

He's no more eager to break the contact between them than she is, and his hands splay across the back of her head, holding her close, the two of them naked in a helicopter over a white expanse of snow that seems as full of possibilities as the life they can make together. He lets her dress and, the moment not lost but put in stasis while all the blood rushes through their hearts, slips his pants on.

"You're going to make me the luckiest man alive, Molotov Cocktease." He laughs back, and there are tears in his eyes. "Even more than I already am."

She laughs again and watches him, slipping her arms through the sleeves of his shirt and bunching the cuffs around her wrists where they're too long. She waits for him to sit next to her, so she can lean against him. She sees the tears in his eyes and kisses his nose, reaching for his hand.

"I only want one thing," she murmurs, squeezing his hand. "I want it to be just us, the real thing. I don't care if we have a big giant wedding afterward and sell the whole thing, but I want to know that we didn't actually let them have the best moment of our lives. We give them so much already."

He blinks away the tears into her hair, happy enough that his whole body feels as if it's warm and weightless.

"Whatever you wish. I wouldn't want some of these people intruding on an intimate moment anyway." That isn't necessarily true; Tom would want the showiest, tackiest wedding possible if it were up to him, but he's all too happy to subsume his desires into hers. "But we have to make the announcement suitably bombastic, once we've sealed the deal."

Truth be told, Molotov is just tired of the constant exposure -- almost every facet of their relationship has been broadcast across the country, from the moment they met until her leaving the Tower to get in the car and come here. She's a woman who's spent her whole life operating from the shadows, and having a spotlight that she can't control is uncomfortable enough (hence her determination to utterly reign over her own image since day one), let alone having it shown on even the most private moments.

She's willing to play their game, sell the pictures to the highest bidder in the media, invite important people she's never met. They can have a wedding special on television, and raffle off the centerpieces. She'll ride through the city in a carriage, waving like a fucking royal if that's what they want (and are willing to pay for).

But she can't give them the only moment of absolute meaning she might ever have, that actual promise between herself and Tom. It's not theirs to gawk at and chatter about like monkeys.

"I would expect nothing less." She noses against the side of his face. "I want it to take them by storm. I won't even wear the ring out until we're ready to blow their minds." By which she means where is my fucking ring, give it to me.

It's one place where they diverge; Tom doesn't think he could become tired of the exposure. It plays into every egocentric conception he has of himself, his desire for the spotlight not for its own sake but so he can exclude everyone else and take it for himself. It's vindictiveness as much as arrogance, wanting to have because he deserves and more important, because he can deny things to others.

But they can have both - the intimate moment that she so desires, and the pomp of Tom's fantasies of a Capitol wedding. He'll have to start a hit list for any important people who don't show up. He wants every major family in the Capitol there to schmooze with.

"Are you being subtle with your hints right now, my dear?" He untangles from her and gets up to grab the ring from the cockpit.

"Close your eyes."

That's all she wants, that one moment of real privacy, and then she doesn't care if he wants to cover the whole city in white flowers and doves. She actually doesn't have strong opinions on very many aspects of a wedding, coming from a place where weddings were small and people cared more about the food and alcohol than any other extravagances.

So Tom is free to design the wedding of his crazy dreams.

"Oh, so says the king of subtlety," she teases, but releases him and closes her eye anyway, biting her lip from excitement.

Just wait. Somehow there will be dragons and time travel involved. He is from the Marvel Universe, after all.

He returns to her with a claddagh ring, one with a diamond the size of an eyeball resting on it, cut into a flat shield shape with just enough edge that it could be used as weapon or jewelry. And he gets down on one knee, just for her.

Edited 2015-10-18 05:17 (UTC)

Dragons, she's okay with, but she would prefer no time travel shenanigans. And also that Tom try his best to remain fully human until at least after the honeymoon. Everyone must remain as human as possible until they aren't in her wedding pictures and/or having sex with her.

Molotov almost laughs at how stereotypical he's gone, a claddagh, but holds her left hand out anyway so that he can put the ring on her finger. She fists her other hand in the sleeve of his shirt and holds it to her mouth, smiling so hard that she's naturally inclined to cover it up.

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this icon though why is he in a suit in the bathtub

lol i think in that photoshoot, he actually took a bath in the suit

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