whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

[molotov]

Who| Molotov, Black Tom and open
What| A wedding reception for the ages
Where| A private estate
When| Between the D7 and D1 battles
Warnings/Notes| General assholery, excessive and gaudy displays of wealth, literal fountains of alcohol, two terrible people who genuinely love each other

The ceremony was small and private, as far as guests went -- you probably weren't invited. The Capitol even granted them a few moments without cameras or recorders for their vows. Tom and Molotov were married at dusk in a room of flowers, a room that's been made completely off-limits until the happy couple themselves are far from it. Once the party begins, it holds the dance floor, illuminated by thousands of tiny fairy lights that shine from inside the greenery, and even the floor is made of flowers, kept pristine and dance-friendly with a layer of plexiglass atop them.

Two bengal tigers in white flower crowns and neck wreaths are waiting to welcome you to the area designated for cocktails, and while the tigers lie mostly still on their perches placed at either side of the door, they do occasionally let out a growl or roar, just for show. The music is quieter here, to accommodate mingling, and while the bar does have practically every variety of beverage ever created, there's a sign to highlight the carefully crafted signature cocktails for the couple:

Permafrost
vodka, elderflower liqueur, white cranberry and lime juice, garnished with an orchid and edible gold flecks

The Barrington
whiskey, simple syrup, and lemon juice, garnished with a sprig of fresh mint and an emerald at the bottom of the glass

Killer Love
champagne, cognac, orange liqueur and a candied hibiscus blossom cradling a diamond

The massive dining area is indoors, though one could be forgiven for thinking they've walked outside -- a domed glass ceiling shows the sky above (which has been artificially enhanced through the glass to include gorgeous starry heavens). Trees and flowers seem to grow from the tables, glowing from the light of soft LEDs in glass orbs amongst the branches. Some of the bulbs contain butterflies instead, white and fluttering around, providing a bit of movement.

There doesn't seem to be a menu; instead, chefs man at least twenty different specialty stations, ready to make custom versions of everything from risotto to grilled cheese, pizza to lobsters. There's an entire table devoted to caviar, another just for varieties of bread and butter. One chef is happy to prepare you a hearty stack of waffles, should you wish.

Though there is one cake that is, obviously and undoubtedly, the main cake, there are several dozen other, smaller ones dotting tables around the room, each with a different look, flavor and decoration.

Towards the end of the party, well after midnight, guests are ushered outside for the send-off. As Tom and Molotov exit, fifty thousand white and gold balloons are released into the sky above them, and guests are urged to wave their sparklers for good luck and congratulations. They leave in a sleek black coupe, complete with custom plates that read CASSIDY.

The music keeps playing until dawn.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

"A shame." It doesn't really perturb Tom, though. He's been to a few alternate dimensions, heard tell of far more, including places where history and culture seem to have progressed at remarkably the same clip regardless of who was there as the steward. It's enough to make someone believe that art is immutable, and that the people behind it are anonymous and interchangeable. "I'd say they know Rome but I asked one of them once and got the most goggle-eyed expression I've seen yet."

He lets himself get pulled in, meeting her smile with one of his own.

"Is that so? Maybe I will have to exit this reception early then, lass."

[molotov]

Molotov likes David Bowie, okay? He's good people, it's a tragedy for him to be unknown and not in possession of a panda.

"Ah, I was told that the Romans were the last great civilization, and that Panem is following in their colossal footsteps. They don't seem to know how Rome fell, either, and they don't want to know about it." She's pretty sure that their knowledge of Rome also makes no sense, given that the same person told her that humanity was 500 years old and that Panem is the only nation. Who was Rome????

She cranes her neck that small bit, bites his bottom lip gently, and loosens his bowtie. "I'm sure we can find a closet somewhere."

[pimpcanes]

"Oh, you met a Capitolite who read a book, once. Or maybe watched a program that wasn't the Hunger Games or Fashion Police." Sometimes it just blows his mind how Capitolites are educated. They're awash in propaganda, forced to memorize and not question. It's like his Catholic school education turned to cartoonish degrees. He's amazed that some of them know how to string sentences together.

"A closet at our own wedding reception?" He asks, clearly not shooting the idea down in any way. "We are in Panem. We could probably get away with doing it on the same table as the cakes."

[molotov]

Molotov was educated by the Soviet military, and she knows she was taught some questionable things, but it's astounding that the Capitolites can't even seem to spot the inconsistencies when they spout them back-to-back. "Don't get crazy, we want them to waste all their brain cells on trash television." She smiles. "We make a lot of money on that inclination of theirs."

With a laugh, she undoes the top button of his shirt, then takes hold of either side of his loose bowtie and grins lasciviously. "Probably, but I can think of at least three places I don't want cake lodged. Anyway, I don't want any of these bitches looking at you. You know how jealous I get."

[pimpcanes]

"True." Tom sucks in a breath through as his teeth as he lets her pull away his formality, any stiffness around his demeanor. "Watching trash television and not thinking there's anything shameful in being too drunk to string an argument together. Did you see my whiskey sales are up fourteen percent since the marriage announcement? Not that that's why I'm wedding you..."

He leans forward and kisses her. If anyone says anything, they can be damned. It's his damn wedding reception. "Are you sure they wouldn't be looking at you?"

[molotov]

"And my lingerie's up by twenty-four percent," she counters, proud of both of them. "Everything that comes in white or ivory is completely sold out. The souvenir garters were gone in two days." Molotov has specifically stayed away from anything that's too much like her, eyepatches and red gloves, things like that, but she wouldn't be surprised if someone told her there's now a shortage on red wigs.

It's all she can assume with the way her panties are selling.

She bites at his lip when he pulls away, doesn't let go until she has to. "That doesn't make me jealous."

[pimpcanes]

"Were those the ones you signed? My signature boosted my bottles by four times the retail price. Given that I wasn't even the one writing them, my company's made quite a boon on our nuptials."

He savors the sting of her teeth on his lower lip, not even bothering to be subtle as he leers at her. "We could sneak away. We wouldn't have to put a stop to everything."

But honestly, at this point, he'd be okay with grinding the reception to a halt.

[molotov]

"Mm-hm." Molotov actually had signed the garters, taken an afternoon to sign around three hundred. For her vodka, she wouldn't have made the effort, but she genuinely likes her lingerie line, jumped on the opportunity to have another thing she could control. Everything else she endorses, she's mostly a face, but the Molotov collection is hers.

Like a very lacy baby.

"Let them have their party," she smirks, hooking her fingertips in his waistband and pressing her hips to his. "I don't care if they stay here for another three days. You and I will go find a spare room, I can actually get this dress over my hips without popping seams on it."

[pimpcanes]

Tom has some poor Avox mimicking his handwriting. There may be a blow to the image of authenticity his liquor company tries to put out there if it's ever found out, but really, "authenticity" tends to not be high on the list of desirable attributes Capitolites look for in their dietary experiences. "District authenticity" is basically slang here for boiled cabbage and food poisoning.

Of course, he has nowhere near the investment in it that Molotov has in her lingerie line, and he's loath to admit it but it shows in the quality of the product. Molotov's got compensated garters from every part of the collection, and Tom has some very good memories associated with them now.

Maybe they ought to make some more.

He leans in and whispers it to her ear, eyeing the room for a hallway that might have a room they could take over. "I would be happy to help undress you, just in case."

[molotov]

"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that later." She turns her head to murmur against his neck, and at the rate she's going, it's a wonder she hasn't just thrust her hand down his pants and dragged him somewhere. When she looks up, she can see people milling around them, politely giving them space even as they place their drink orders.

She's disheveling his shirt and she knows it, but she rakes her nails up to his navel just the same. "Besides, there's not much to take off. I don't have on anything under this dress."

[pimpcanes]

"I should hope so. We haven't even settled on a location for the honeymoon yet, but I did manage quite a nice piece of time off." Mostly because Tom's job with the Peacekeepers is, aside from when they send him out into combat where he invariably dies, a bit of a joke. It's mostly him flaunting power and watching security footage and bitching about how the refrigerator made the texture on his caviar weird.

"Good for us. Less I'm apt to accidentally damage when I tear it off you." He takes her hand and starts to lead her down the hallway.

[molotov]

"I told you, I want to go to the beach." She bites a little at his neck, as if to chide him for not listening to her and giving her exactly what she wants to begin with. But time off was hardly something she needed to think about now -- not with PNN's cancellation. She hasn't had much to do except work on the wedding and sign garters.

She follows him with glee, trotting after him like an excited puppy.

[pimpcanes]

"But which beach?" Tom says, teasing, laughing, already feeling the blood pool between his legs at the lusty idea of Molotov in a bikini and shining with sunscreen. Maybe they'll just have to have some sort of force-field put up to protect them from the UV rays - God knows they'll both fry like leaves in a fire in the sun.

He brings her to a ballroom that's largely being used by Avoxes to bring out new attractions, bottles of alcohol and caged animals and bouquets of flowers, to replace the ones that are consumed or that wilt or tire in the main room. He could wait for them to make it presentable.

But right now, Tom doesn't care to wait for them to clean up.

"Get out," he commands them all.

[molotov]

"The most private one in this goddamn country! Who knows the next time we'll be around enough sand to fuck in?" She does also enjoy sunning herself topless and under a layer of SPF 60, because her only options for coloring are bone white and as red as her hair.

She watches the Avoxes scurry past them and out, and she snaps at the last one to stand guard outside the room, no one allowed in. When the door lock clicks, she hoists herself up onto a table, where she sits surrounded by floral arrangements, and shrugs completely out of the top of her dress, lets it pool at her waist. The pearls and crystals on the back hit the table with tiny thuds like raindrops.

idk how I lost this but rest assured i am ANGRY AT MYSELF

[pimpcanes]

"Do we really want to deal with the hassle of sand everywhere?" he whines, although it's a teasing sound, one that's appended with a little chuckle. If she wants a beach, he'll give her a beach. He'll give her sun-bleached white sand and perfect waves and seashells the size of her head and a day with only enough clouds to be photogenic.

He throws his jacket off with a practiced swing, because even when about to have his first nuptial intercourse, he's still a showboat. And then he descends on her, pressing his lips to her collarbone, to that perfect white skin.

YOU SHOULD BE

[molotov]

"More reason to spend time in the shower. An outdoor one, maybe, we can put a chair under it," she reasons, her arms wrapping around him like a swan enfolding her wings around her mate. One hand cradles the back of his head, her fingers in his carefully, artfully tousled hair, and her other grabs the length of her skirt, hitching it up before circling her legs around him. Her knees rest beside his hips and her ankles lock behind him.

Her heart is pounding in her ribs, her breathing rough, and she almost laughs at the fact that she's sure to leave behind a damp spot on the tablecloth.

[pimpcanes]

"Or perhaps a hot tub?" He wraps his arms around her waist, getting that picturesque arch to her back, feeling her skin hot under his mouth as he gives her just enough of a nibble to sting.

"What say you," he whispers into her flesh, the sweet saltiness of sweat starting to become noticeable, hard as a rock in his pants, "to a cabin by the beach for two whole weeks? Not even with servants. We can rough it, as they say."

[molotov]

"Or a hot tub," she agrees with a sharp inhale. She slips a hand in the small space between them and palms him through his trousers, resting the side of her head against his. Her fingers graze the nape of his neck and she nods a little, chest heaving.

"The only other thing I want is a hammock. A hammock and the beach and you. Well, and alcohol, but that should go without saying."

[pimpcanes]

He shudders, gasps even, when she starts to fondle him. He takes his hands off her just long enough to undo his band and start to slip his pants off.

"I will be certain to make that happen. Where else will we take our afternoon naps if not in a hammock?"

[molotov]

There's something vicious in her grin at his reaction, a perversely victorious edge, even when she is so filled with love for him that she can hardly stand it. The competitive part of her, the sadistic part that will never go away, they find their way into every aspect of her. Even this.

Her hand moves from wool to skin as soon as she has the chance, though she does momentarily pause just to hitch her skirt all the way up, leaving her dress pooled around her waist with the train piled behind her on the table, her bare ass on the silk damask tablecloth.

"You will be inside me, of course. But we'll still need the hammock or else I'll have to nap on the floor."

[pimpcanes]

"Oh..." He closes his eyes and lets that feeling rush over her, the sheer longing ameliorated by the promise of satisfaction peeking over the horizon. Soon enough they'll be in bodily communion, making good on each of their vows to the nerve.

"I can't have you doing that." He approaches her bare nethers, then enters them with unceremonious assertion, feeling himself the master of this demesne.

[molotov]

"Ah..."

She breathes it out hard when he penetrates her, her legs locking tightly around his waist even as she touches her nose to his and gently puts her hands on his face, her eye open and shiny and meeting his. The depth of her gaze is bottomless, stretching down into her little black heart, still scarred with cracks but filled with adoration for this beautiful, insane plant of a man.

"True. A married woman probably shouldn't sleep on the floor."

[pimpcanes]

"Will we even have bare floors? I wanted to cover them all with the most plush rugs," he says, thrusting his hips with every syllable, as if he's reciting an incantation to raise an army of the dead.

"With all those that won't offend the sensibilities of an ursine enthusiast such as yourself," he adds.

[molotov]

"At home, of course." She pants, barely able to form the words, her eye fluttering closed after only a few of his thrusts. Her lips feel dry, and she kisses him rather than lick them. "But think of the sand. I will have to beat you if I get rashes."

She gives up then, groans and drops her head, lets her forehead fall to his shoulder. Every move he makes, every breath and twitch, she's sure she can feel them scorching from within her, searing up her sides to stretch her ribcage around her heart and lungs, where he seems to pound in harder than anywhere else.

[pimpcanes]

"Is that supposed to dissuade me?" He thrusts into her again, faster, gasping between his teeth. "Maybe I want you to beat me up some, lass. Maybe that's why I can barely fit in you now, because you're promising these things to me."

It's not that he has a kink for that, really, but just that the lust and the pleasure is starting to addle his head, making him string together words he isn't even totally thinking of. He's on another plane, one deep inside her where he never wants to leave.