Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

[molotov]

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.

Comments

[molotov]

She laughs, because in her state of intoxication, that story just sounds funny, rather than unbelievable, and she's picturing little pop stars next to him while he wears high heels (and also lipstick because why not?), imagines a blue ribbon being distributed in this ridiculous contest.

"A dress too?" she teases, then clambers up from the sofa, still moving less than gracefully because she's practically vacuum-sucked into this outfit. She can hardly bend to grab his hands, but manages it anyway, pulling him up in the direction of the VIP-level dance floor, where most of the strange guests and lingerie girls are dancing and/or basically having sex. "Dance with me!" she cries over the music.

Tom doesn't dance, not like this, and she doesn't even know if he could with his leg. This all reminds her a better version of the discos in old Moscow and East Germany, long nights spent dancing with targets in South America and Hong Kong and Taiwan in the '90s, when she was in her twenties and still willing to take those kinds of missions.

[intenserer]

"And what if I fuckin' was," Ford thunders, "it was the eighties, it was a different time, wasn't it." He's pleased, however, that she doesn't challenge the tall tales he's telling her. It's nice for his braggadocio to go unchallenged for once. He watches her get up, and all of a sudden he's being pulled right along with her. He lets her, not least because he's drunk enough that dancing seems like a good option right now, and because it's Molotov and you don't just tell her no.

So he goes, big hand clasped in her smaller one, and the people on the dance floor make space for the two of them--because she's Molotov and he exudes masculine presence, obviously. And Rick Ford fucking dances.

[molotov]

"I'm not questioning it, Boy George!"

For someone as completely trashed as she is, Molotov doesn't have any problems moving elegantly while on her feet, like she's incapable of losing her balance once she's regained it upon standing. The lights are flashing everywhere and the bass is heavy enough to reverberate through her bones as she dances. Her dancing is made up mostly of bouncing and hip swinging, because they train spies to dance at galas and not in clubs, but given the atmosphere, she doesn't look any more ridiculous than any of the other women. Her hair, long since freed from the painful and stiff creation that was styled for her, swings everywhere, strands sticking to her face and shoulders, and she's actually having fun for the first time since she set foot in this place.

[intenserer]

"Boy--" He whirls, brow furrowed, gesturing wildly to his eyes with two fingers, and then pointing at her one good eye with his pinkie. "Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me that Boy George could even remotely measure up to a specimen like this. If anything I was David Fuckin' Bowie." Boy George, honestly.

Still, he follows her, and he dances like there's no tomorrow, because he's got enough designer drugs in his system that he's actually loose, he can move his hips--watch out for his body rolls--and shake his ass (he actually does have an ass, it's just hidden under a layer of pure muscle, thanks) with the best of them. And her--goddamn, he ought to have known she'd look gorgeous out here, bopping her head and looking fucking happy for once. Good on her.

[molotov]

She laughs loudly, enthusiastically, and grabs his hand when he points at her. "You're nothing like Mr. Bowie!" she informs him, and she knows this because she's done work for David Bowie in the past -- he's good people. Plus it meant she got to hang out with a panda for a while.

Molotov is completely incapable of any real bending or flexing in the dress she's wearing, vacuum-packed in as she is, so she's nowhere near as animated as he is, but Ford's enthusiastic dancing keeps her smiling, even as she shoves off some random who tries to get too close, sending him to the floor about six feet away.

[intenserer]

"Fuck off," Ford guffaws good-naturedly, because he's far too hammered to actually protest with any venom. He just goes along with it, letting his body do the talking, keeping a respectful distance, but at the same time keeping an eye out for any creepy fucks who might try and make a move on Molotov. But as it turns out, he needn't be concerned--she's got it handled all on her own.

Just the same, though, he turns to position himself between her and the other guy, just to solidify that his company is all kinds of not wanted right now.

[molotov]

Molotov either doesn't notice or doesn't mind the additional blockage of Ford's body separating her from most of the other dancers. The song changes several times before an Avox wanders onto the dance floor, jostled around but barely seeming to care as it accomplishes its task of handing Molotov a note. She pauses to read it, then shoves it back at the Avox before grabbing for Ford's wrist.

"Come on, time to cut the cake!" she calls over the music, and she starts to make her way toward the stairs. Her dress, at this point, has risen high enough that she can at least move a little better, actually walk rather than take teetering little steps because her thighs are constricted together.

[intenserer]

He's not trying to be possessive. He really isn't. He knows he has no right, for one thing, and for another he's pretty sure it'd just piss her off if he did try. He just wants to keep all this Capitolite trash away from her if he can help it.

Still, he lets her drag her away once more when it becomes apparent that she wants him to accompany her to her cake-cutting or whatever the fuck. As long as he gets a piece. Of the cake, that is. So he comes along with minimal grumbling, shouldering people out of the way where necessary. "Better be a good fucking cake," he calls, unable to resist watching where her ass is basically hanging out the bottom of her dress.

[molotov]

Ordinarily, yes, but Molotov is extremely drunk and in a good mood, which is great for Ford and also everyone else in the club, because she has drunkenly set off grenades while in a bad mood before. And she likes Ford more than she likes anyone else present in the building, possibly more than she likes anyone in the whole Capitol except Tom and Arya.

It really says more about her than it does him, but she can't help that all of her other friends have all been killed. Between that and her automatic kinship for other spies, he was doomed from the start.

"All the cake here is good." Her ass really is pretty much hanging out of her dress, the scant thigh coverage rolled up the the actual curve, where her ass meets her legs. She is far too drunk to care, not that she'd care all that much while sober. She takes the stairs slowly, because her heels are pin-thin and the stairs are slick, and she clutches at both the railing and Rick's arm until she actually makes it to the bottom.

There's a small group of Peacekeepers to meet them, surrounding them (her) in a sort of circular formation to get them through the crowd and to the dais where an enormous red and gold cake is waiting, sporting several sparklers in place of candles. Molotov looks unimpressed, despite the cake being five tiers and beautiful.