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

[pimpcanes]

"Of course there is. Tell me, would a palanquin borne by Avoxes be too much of an intrusion on your sense of privacy?" He plants kisses on her neck, worshiping her the whole time.

Given how often they've banged, there probably are sex pictures out there somewhere, but Tom takes plenty of time at Peacekeeper HQ deleting his and Molotov's intimate moments off the tape reels. And getting paid for it!

[molotov]

"No, but where are they taking us?" she asks, reaching up to the side of his face and letting her nails trail on his cheek. "I imagine it would be terribly turbulent to have sex while they walk to no particular place."

It's a very important part of his duties as a Peacekeeper, as far as she's concerned. As long as he's the only one watching (and/or doing other things, as Molotov is sure that few men have the necessary amount of self-restraint).

[pimpcanes]

"To the cabana, of course." He watches her nails as best he can from the corner of his eye, like a cat adoring the hand that pets it. Then he takes her hand, heavier now with that ridiculous ring, and holds it over his heart.

"I'll have to start introducing you as Molotov Cocktease, renowned mercenary and spy and my fiancée."

[molotov]

She curls her fingers against his skin, but it's her other hand that's stealing the show, reaching down between them into his open fly and wrapping around him, ready to finish what was started.

"Molotov Cassidy," she says softly, although she's fairly sure she'll hyphenate, if she takes his name at all. Forty years is a lot of time to grow attached to a surname.

[pimpcanes]

She teases that crinkle in his brow out, the one he has only for her, a stamp of yearning and delight and pleasure and need. But he takes her hand and pauses it for a moment.

"Would you take my name?"

[molotov]

"Well, probably hyphenate." She kisses the tip of his nose, and though her hand is still, she's continuing to squeeze. "You have to admit, my name has a certain je ne sais quois that's a bit hard to give up entirely. But yes."

[pimpcanes]

"The Americans call that je-ne-sais-quois a seven-second delay." He releases her hand, encouraging her to pick up where she left off, now that he's gotten that question out there. "Add a few more syllables and you'll have a name worthy of the ridiculous restaurants and celebrities around here."

[molotov]

"Oh ha ha ha," she says sarcastically, snapping her teeth at him while she moves her hand, increasingly fast until he's back to the point that she can sink back down and rock her hips. "They don't care about my name around here, they're all too busy imagining that they get to be you for a night."

[pimpcanes]

"Don't flatter yourself too much, my dear-" he gasps as she brings him back to peak width and firmness. "They may just wish to be a fly on the wall watching this."

After all, even in this relationship, Tom wants some room for his ego.

[molotov]

She gasps too, whimpers almost imperceptibly, when her thighs touch his again, when she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him hard. Molotov nips at his bottom lip and then rests her forehead against his.

"Why, because that's what you do at work all day?" Her voice is catching in her throat, but she can't let that joke slide.

[pimpcanes]

"Flattering myself or watching tapes of us? Because the answer is both, of course. I split my time fifty-fifty."

He groans as she lowers herself back onto him, sending a wave of warmth all the way through him like a bomb detonating in slow motion.

[molotov]

"What an effective use of taxpayer money."

Her hips roll and the diamond on her finger glints when she moves her hand back for balance, her spine arching and following the movement of her pelvis. She's still wearing his shirt, open and huge on her, the buttons tapping on his chest when she moves the right way.

[pimpcanes]

"I'd say they won't miss it, but-" Scratch that thought. Tom doesn't care about the Capitol missing his paltry salary (he pulls in so much more from Sponsors). He only cares about the sensation roiling up from his groin, Molotov atop him, pleasure to the eyes, to the body.

"I am so-" he gasps for breath- "deeply in love with you, Miss Cocktease-"

His back arches as he approaches the apex of oblivion.

[molotov]

"Cassidy," she pants, and she's not sure if she's appending what he said or correcting it, but she supposes it hardly matters either way, given the point he's at. Her fingers press into the back of his neck, and she's nowhere near where he is, but she did get hers before this, before he put a ring on her hand and his name on hers.

She leans forward a little, hair hanging down over both of them, and breathes next to his ear, whines. "Thomas... come inside me, Thomas..."

[pimpcanes]

"Yes, yes." He moans and bites his lip, straining the back of his neck against her fingers, feeling the weight of the ring as it pulls at her hand. All his consciousness focuses, sharpens, drives into a stake-point at the center of their connection, and then explodes into a spike of white light that leaves him gasping for breath and melting inside her.

[molotov]

She makes a small noise, resting her cheek on his shoulder and pressing her forehead against his neck as she slows down to just a gentle rocking in his lap. Running her fingers through his hair, she sighs and holds him close to her, chest to chest, heartbeats still wild next to each other.

[pimpcanes]

"Christ," he whispers. He feels old and yet reborn, suddenly deeply exhausted, all the energy sucked straight out of his bones, and yet he's warm and blissful too. He smiles with each tug of her fingers in his hair.

"I'll have to come up with a way to give you many multiple orgasms for the wedding night."

[molotov]

Molotov laughs softly, scratches the back of his head, then lets her other hand trail to his chest, lightly tracing lines there along the definition of muscles, scars, bones. She's still smiling, her toes curled a little.

"I think you do a fine job already, you don't need to go crazy."

[pimpcanes]

"But I have to make it special. A lovemaking worth remembering." It's probably more important to do so for the sake of his sense of grandeur and presentation than it is for any sexual ego. He just would rather things go as planned, in the most ostentatious way he can manage.

[molotov]

"You just want to show off," she murmurs, kissing the edge of his jaw, then slides down to sit next to him again, leaning her head to the side to rest it on his shoulder. She chooses his scarf to clean up with and drops it on his lap for him when she's done. "You'll have a whole honeymoon anyway."

Wrapping her arm around his waist, she sighs. "Are you coming to the thing tonight? You don't have to, it's going to be awful."

[pimpcanes]

"Does that surprise you? I always want to show off. It's in me nature." He cleans up idly, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, then sighs.

"Are you sure you won't be mad with me if I don't? Planning all this has me knackered."

[molotov]

"Of course it doesn't surprise me, I know you. I was just pointing out that you're lying to make it seem like you're doing it for me." Her eye is closed and she hooks her ankle over his, bumping their toes together with a smile.. "Dishonest man."

"No, it's fine. I don't want to go at all, but I'm under contract to be there from eleven to two. Whatever. I just have to get through it."

[pimpcanes]

"You'd be bored with me if I were honest."

He sighs with relief. "Good. If I have to spend another day on my feet this damn's leg's going to telescope into itself. I need an evening in bed with a hot water bottle for it."

Now that they aren't in the middle of sex he can admit he's kind of old and lame.

[molotov]

"We'd probably fight less over card games." Because they both cheat and lie -- it would make their poker games substantially easier if Molotov was the only one doing that.

She knows he's old and lame, and she loves him anyway, moving her hand down to gently rub where she knows his leg aches. "Don't fall asleep though, or at least be ready to get woken up. There's no way in hell I'm getting through this night sober. Not even close. I might need a new liver by morning."

[pimpcanes]

"The fighting's half the fun of the game." He wouldn't be able to bear it if she beat him honestly.

"Don't drink so much you can't enjoy the bottle of red I bought us, at least." He sighs as she runs her hand over his leg. He's long become accustomed to the idea of it always being a hindrance, but it's somehow worse as he gets older - not in intensity but in implication.