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]

"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.

[molotov]

Molotov absolutely does have a kink for that, loves to fight until there's nothing left to do but fuck, but she rarely turns that on Tom. After all, besides his leg, they don't usually fight passionately enough for it, because they don't fight much at all anyway. She can change the outlet anyway, begs for him to bite and slap and choke her when she needs it.

But even to have him mutter to her about the fight, it makes her cry and dig her heels into his back, makes her grab his arms and dig her nails in like she might flutter away if she loses her grip. "Fuck, I love you," she hisses as tendrils of her hair start falling from the delicate style keeping it all up. "You feel so good, Thomas..."

[pimpcanes]

And when they do fight, it isn't the kind of passionate rage that makes for amazing angry sex -- it's the kind of earth-shattering realization that they are not, in fact, always on the same page and never will be. For Tom, it's something he can only meet with terror, because he doesn't want to accept that he may not be Molotov's perfect match.

So he won't accept it.

"No man is as lucky as I am today." He says that with a deep certainty that he can hear vibrating in his eardrums as well as running along his blood. He thrusts, putting a hand flat against the table to pull himself towards a better angle.

[molotov]

They so rarely fight that it hardly matters -- at most, they tend to have bitchy little arguments and disagreements that end with one of them stomping off until they both cool down.

They're children, just giant, grown-up children.

Molotov sobs and squeezes his arms, her head falling back as she loses the battle and comes around him, her skin flushed bright pink. Her eye is screwed shut, her mouth hanging open until she can gasp for breath again, and she moves one hand to the side of his neck, his pulse strong against her palm.