rebel just for kicks.

soon enough, seb is touching him, and all he can do is pull him closer, ignoring the flashes of cameras. "maybe because you're misbehaving." and javi wouldn't have him any other way. "I like you better without a shirt."

He takes the opportunity to lean more of his weight on him, his head tilting in that kittenish way it does. "What? I can't... talk to people who are working, now? That's just... classicist," thinly veiled amusement bleeds into the delicate edges of his mouth. "You know, I'm not so sure I believe you... you've had every opportunity to take advantage of me and yet here I am... all virginal and shit."

"sebastian," he's really trying to keep his expression as emotionless as possible, but he really can't help the amused smile creeping its way up his lips as he leans in closer to hiss an endeared "behave," through his teeth.

Sebastian. Cue the eye roll; he flashes his palms, as if he couldn't possibly convey the reason for that tone to be taken. Hasn't he been a perfect gentleman, all night? "Why does everybody keep saying that?" he places both elbows on Javier's shoulders, leaning into him to strategically block his view. "I have a shirt on, don't I? Don't I get praise for that?"

Your brother's around?

The right follow-up would have been something like, Which one?, but it didn't quite matter now. "Yes, and you're in his seat." A toast, offered. "So perhaps I will witness a murder, after all."

He shifts then—looking down at his seat as if searching for a hidden grenade in it. "...seriously?" he looked a little in disbelief just then. Maybe there would be a murder. "...do you think they're more or less likely to murder me if I move to your lap instead?"

the moment he sees sebastian gravitating towards him-- no, nearly skipping in his direction, javier does nothing to hide the smile tugging at his lips. he should've asked him to be his date for this. he nearly expects him to approach him with a drink in hand, ready to throw it in his face, after the whole shoe incident. instead, it's all puppy eyes and... is he wearing a shirt? for the met gala? unpredictable, as always.

"I'm working." it's a warning, but a weak one, as he looks sebastian over appreciatively. "need something?"

He returns Javier with that mischievous glint in his eyes, like a kitten barely keeping itself from pouncing on him. "Just... you know—delegate so I can suck you off already."

Normally skittish by nature, Selim's immediate reaction is to lean over and grab a fistful of napkins from the bar; to apologize profusely, offer to buy him a new shirt or foot the bill for dry cleaning but when the other's voice leaves his mouth in a tone that he knew all too well — haughty, well-to-do, condescending — the ex-agent stills mid-reach, his arms falling back to his sides. His spine straightens, shoulders rounding as he crosses his arms over his chest, dark eyes simply watching the other as he throws his tantrum covered in some sort of sticky alcoholic beverage like a toddler at day-care. A smirk curls on his lips. "A kilo of cocaine weighs about two pounds, give or take - depending on the seller and/or supplier," Selim rocks his head from side-to-side as if weighing the possibilities. "— could be eight inches in length, 5 wide. I can't decide if I should be complimented or insulted that you think I could walk fast enough under those pre-tenses, with it up my ass, to slam into another man about my size and still be standing."

He bites off his glove. "You know... I think that's the most long-winded way anyone's ever told me they're into anal," he mumbles, words stifled against the leather pinched between his pointy canines, fingers smoothing over the ruined front of his shirt, then starting to disrobe in a way that felt too casual for a crowded environment, before getting frustrated with the buttons and just ripping them open with a sharp tug—so much for wearing a shirt. Whatever.

The vibrant, clear blue of his eyes drag over Selim languidly, with the kind of appraisal usually reserved for his father's groupies. He squints then, a hint of playfulness twinkling dimly in his eyes. "C'mon. It's just eight inches man... what are you, a pussy?" he manages with a half serious expression, throwing his damp shirt over a chair with a wet slap, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he slowly works his jacket back on; and yes, he does think he's very funny. "I've met too many OnlyFans models not to believe in the resilience of the human body... call me naive," a tight lipped smile, then. "Is that what you're doing? Getting cute guys wet to promote your handle? I'm appalled."

( open to all / met gala ) Whether badged and vested, wired, or sporting event attire as he was now, Selim had never been a stranger to high profile events. While not his first with Tristan by his side, as he walks through crowds, for the first time in a long time, he finds himself checking over his shoulder, counting exits, visually patting down every one who came into close proximity to him or anyone who he now considered family — he knew where they set up, his former colleagues — on roof-tops, in the sidelines, dressed in all black, wired to the nines, holding negative and sometimes sick opinions of normal people. It's how one clocks him that unsettles his stomach this time - the more that he closed cases as a private investigator, the more eyes of his former colleagues fell on him. Were they worried, he wondered? That the next name brought to light would be their's?

Were they just letting everyone in, these days?

"—Fuck's sake," Sebastian barks in that irritated, clipped tone, alcohol splashing off his fingers with as he shook his hands, stepping backwards to look at the mess that had been made of him and back at the man with those cold, piercing blue eyes.

"Sebastian," she calls from her seat, holding a hand out. "You can come and sit with us."

The Murad table was reserved each year; astronomical donations will get you there. Such privileges also offered toward the Morgans, she supposes. Would there be a seat for him there? Anaïs wasn't so sure.

"What it would be, is scandalous," she tells him. "Like... Henry of Navarre and Margaret of France. Inês de Castro and Pedro of Portugal ." A jaw-dropping affair; a marriage carried out in secret. A corpse, crowned as queen. "Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn."

Following the historical comparisons however, it's indisputable that she would be much more of an Elizabeth — the first, that is. Avoiding marriage as a means to maintain political control, in whatever shape it may take.

"I have never met a man worthy of marrying, Mr Van Buren." Beat. "And you, of all men, should know I wouldn't even consider such a proposition unless they're on their knees," — both, begging — "offering something that I can decorate my hand with."

And yet, a scandal sounds like great fun. She's witnessed her brothers spear-head them many times. As with anything, Anaïs would bet she could do it thrice better than they.

Slowly, her smile widens. An underground adventure — the gentlemen's club. Illegal this, illegal that. What a smarmy, precious thing her Sebastian is. "...Now you're speaking my language." She might still have to teach him how to fold his tongue around a word or two. "Deal." Her hand shifts in his, not into a shake exactly, but something else. It's fierce. It's final. "Let's go and take what's ours."

"Yes! Exactly... Except we're prettier and... better," said without an ounce of self-reflection, but unwavering certainty. "What do you say? Wanna challenge the Roman Catholic institution with me?" he's batting those sooty lashes up at her, like it's a serious offer; it might be, just a little bit. But only if she says yes. "C'mon.. I promise I'll never try to have you beheaded." he flashes a lopsided, boyish grin, demanding nothing other than unconditional, unrelenting attention, until he's nauseous with it—and isn't that so little to ask for?

"No such animal," Sebastian whispers in quiet, taunting agreement, pearly incisors peeking through the the edge of his smile. "That's just a myth perpetuated by us so we can trick you, don't fall for it... unless—it's from me, then you should fall for it." he flashes his palms, subdued but not surrendered. "Alright, alright… fair enough," he concedes. "I hear you. Next time I propose," —and there will be a next time, "I promise to do it properly… on my knees, with a ring so obscenely expensive it will have these guys crying about it for weeks," a pause. "Though... just for the record, what do we like?" he asks as if they're a singular entity, merged somehow. "Are we more… Grace Kelly or.. Jacqueline Kennedy?" that's very is important information—he's taking mental notes.

"Aha! I knew you were a troublemaker, Anaïs Murad," it excites him, and it relieves him—because suddenly he's not thinking about anything else other than the obscene ways they could entertain themselves tonight. His smile widens, his arm—carefully this time—finds its way around the loop of her waist to lift her off ground. This floor was too dirty for her shoes, anyways. "Now, that's the spirit!" he hums in compliance with her mischievous spirit, mindful not to jostle her as he makes his way out. "Let's misbehave, then," lucky for him, drugs, drinks, and somewhere better and brighter to go, were always just a phone call away. "I might have something in the car—strictly for emergencies, of course."

the image pops into his mind again as he feels the cold, wet strands of hair against his neck, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. "since you were ten? y'know that's incredibly fucked up, right?" he tries to concentrate on keeping the conversation going, but the hand on his thigh is making him think about everything else. "seb..." his head tilts slightly, giving him more space to place his cold kisses over.

he can't tell him to stop. but he also doesn't want to tell him to be careful, considering if they run into police and get pulled over, they'll be in quite the trouble from the illegal firearms in that guitar case in the backseat. he can't possibly disclose that information to sebastian now, can he? not after that tantrum. perhaps when they arrive back home. he gasps when he feels teeth gingerly sinking into his jaw, pulling his shoulder up with a laugh. "I will not be seduced by a shoeless man! we're almost there, just sit tight, baby."

Sebastian laughed in that boyish, careless way he did, as if it was so funny, as if he didn't have a single worry in the whole wide world, which Javi knew by now not to be true. "Yeah, yeah... bunch of losers, who gives a shit..." they'd all die to switch places with him for a day, isn't that what his fans always said? He nips at the skin, tempted to draw blood. There's nothing about Sebastian that screams tough, but there was an edge to him, wasn't there? Something reckless, dangerous, lurking behind all the charm and confidence. He didn't want to be cruel to Javi anymore, though. It wasn't fun, at least not right now. He liked being coddled.

He slouches, chin perched atop his shoulder; the hand on his thigh pauses briefly. "What? You can't multi-task?" he squeezes his thigh, and then stops again, his eyes felt like playful, glittering blue jewels in the dark, pushing boundaries and testing limits for fun. "Too late..." he sing-songs playfully, imbibed in ego, rubbing his knuckles against skin of his jaw, wanting to.

location: random bar ( manhattan )

the place is too polished for comfort - glass, steel, everything reflecting back at him like it's asking questions he doesn't want to answer. heath's already there, standing instead of sitting, jacket still on like he might leave if this turns into something he can't control. people don't request meetings with their fathers, they text, they avoid, they circle around things, but seb asked, formal as hell, and that's what’s got him off balance. heath checks his watch, then his phone, then nothing at all, jaw tight, running through every possible version of this conversation and hating all of them. when the door finally opens, he doesn't move right away - just watches, sharp, assessing, like he's trying to figure out when his son stopped being someone he could read

The door opens with a quiet, deliberate push of his shoulder, like he owns the room—or at least refuses to admit that he doesn't. He lingers just inside the threshold for a fraction too long, letting his eyes skim through the crowd, disinterested, for the most part, until he lands on his dad.

He's draped in something overpriced and expensive, he always is, the tailored coat draped over his shoulders not worn properly, just resting there as if commitment to proper structure is beneath him. Crisp shirt, open at the throat because he says he can't breathe with anything around his neck, his skin littered in a constellation of bruised purples and fading reds, dressing up self-destruction as self-indulgence to make it more palatable.

The sunglasses stay on to cover his dark circles, and drop a little down his nose as he sits down, slouching, smiling up to his dad in such a careless the contrast between them feels grating. "Well, I didn't realize you were so busy before, I guess," he tilts his head just slightly, that hollow smile still in place. He likes to waste his father’s time, after all, and he's very, very good at that.

“Dios mío…” she muttered under her breath before stepping closer, heels careful against the slick cobblestone.

“Sebastian,” she said, voice cutting through the rain, calm but pointed. “Of course it is.” Her eyes flicked down briefly, noting the missing shoe, then back up to his face. “The city didn’t rob you, cariño, you likely misplaced it somewhere between bad decisions.”

She reached out, plucking the useless cigarette from his hand before he could keep fighting a losing war with the weather. “And this?” a small shake of her head. “Not happening tonight.”

Her expression softened just slightly, though the edge never fully left. “Can you stand, or are you planning to live here now?” she asked, already slipping off her coat to drape it over his shoulders despite the rain. “Because I’m not explaining to your father why I found you like this.”

A cheeky smile then, aimed upwards as he lets the rain fall over his forehead without any attempt to shield himself; he'd lost that battle awhile ago, as evidenced by the glittering droplets hanging on the edges of his sooty lashes. "The one and only..." the thought gives him pause, just briefly, and his nose crinkles playfully. "Well, sort of... definitely the prettiest, though... don't let tonight fool you." Definitely him.

Yeah, she was probably right... why would they steal just the one pair? It was probably in a club somewhere, its name long wiped from his memory. Those big doll eyes stare up at her, blue, clear like reflective glass, blinking as if unwitting as she swiftly pulls the cigarette from his lips, leaving a pout in its place instead. "That was so mean," he accused halfheartedly. "I can't believe you'd take away my only joy."

"It is very cozy... with some plants, maybe..." the rain feels like a sharp slap to the face, and sharpness of his tongue is cushioned by a drawl of inebriation as he stifles a humorless laugh, and really—if only because he doesn't want her twisting her ankle trying to help him off his miserable state, he grudgingly decides to cave. "Yeah, alright..." he presses his scrapped his palms against the wet cobblestone, wobbling to his feet in shaky legs, using the wall to steady himself. "Well, that would require him to climb out of his girlfriend and ask, so... you should be peachy," his bluebell eyes tentatively flicker sideways, looking borderline apologetic. "Can we just... keep this very pathetic run-in between us? Actually... between you, really. I'm not sure how much of this I'm gonna remember."

⸻ Elizabeth managed to escape from her four babies. That's when she decided to meet with Sebastian… They've known each other for a while by now; she was still a stripper when they met. It's been two years since she quit stripping, now having her own business, and back to doing some modeling work, and performing, the latter was a tad complicated to get back to action, mostly because of her personal issues at home.

This is when she saw Sebastian; she waved timidly, greeting him before taking a seat in front of him. ❛ Sorry, they really enjoy hearing the bedtime stories. And they did a lot of mess today, these boys are going to kill me. ❜ The only twin who didn't give too many migraines was her only daughter, Lilou.

"Hey," he did a double check before putting down his phone, taking his sunglasses offer for a warmer greeting than he's used to, flashing that billion dollar smile of his like he didn't have a care in the world. "I was starting to think I was gonna have to sweep in in a helicopter Mission Impossible style and kidnap you for some grown up time," he's only partially kidding—he done enough skydiving to feel confident enough he could drop directly into her window with some luck. Death had a habit of ignoring him, as Sebastian liked to say.

keep it together.

once they're both in the car, he runs his fingers through his wet curls, pushing them back and away from his face, silent as seb muses in the passenger seat. after a moment, he reaches over to the glovebox, opening it and pulling his emergency pack of cigarettes out. he lights one up himself, then hands it over to sebastian. "I do remember." he finally says as he starts driving, slow as to not disturb sebastian in his already fragile drunken state. "but that's just all it is. a story. and this is real life." he glances over at him, "you'll be alright, angel. I'll take you home, take care of you. okay? mango's missed you anyway." there's a pause, as he focuses on the road, contemplating whether to keep talking or not. "...you understand why I didn't tell you, right? it's not something you blurt out on the first date... I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

The alcohol holds some of the numbness in and he hopes it won't leave him too soon, sobriety is an welcome companion tonight, even if Javi, as much as he wanted to deny it, isn't. He hates the immediate comfort those words bring him, and the way they come from the least person who should be offering it so carelessly. "...Mango, huh?" he teases, and brings himself a little closer, seeming to have softened, at least momentarily, tucking his pert little nose to hide into the crook of his neck as if seeking warmth. "You're such a masochist..." he's one to talk, he knows; but being hypocritical has never made anyone wrong.

"It's okay... I get it, you hate me... everybody hates me, you guys ain't special... they've had websites for that since I was like, ten," at least he was half-honest, which is more than he could say for his friend, or his father. Out of everyone, he owed him the least, and he gave him the most; he isn't really the reason why he was in this state to begin with, is he? Not really... not for the most part. But he's just going to pretend it is, because the alternative is just too damn depressing. "But you miss me too..." he slid a hand over his thigh, a low, purring sound vibrating against Javier's throat as the sly shape of his mouth pressed there, climbing up to his jaw with kittenish kisses, where his teeth came to clamp down mischievously.

he lets him rant along, not taking any of it to heart, but committing each word to memory anyway. he could disagree. he could mock. it would be all too easy, wouldn't it? but who wants to argue with a drunken, miserable, shoeless man in the middle of the street? he's too old for this shit. "are you finished?" apparently not, as sebastian continues, closing in on him.

and that's when the alarms go off in his head. it's all instinctual, really. that chaotically wired brain of his remains as it has always been, no matter how much javi pumps himself with meds. it is bound to break every now and then. are you gonna shoot me? is the last thing he hears before he hisses, "alright, pity party's over." a forearm presses into sebastian's chest, and javi shoves him backwards, until the kid's back collides with the wall once more with a wet thud. his free hand clasps over his jaw into a firm grip, fingers digging into his cheeks as he leans in so that sebastian can hear him clearly.

"check that attitude of yours before you talk to me. try that shit ever again and you are going to get something that's a lot worse than a bullet through that pretty forehead of yours." his voice is low, and gruff, like rock grating against rock. "I'm not playing games. I'm not here to hurt you. if y--" want to talk about sad little lives, look into the fucking mirror, is what he meant to say. still, he doesn't finish. "get over yourself." he lets go of him, turns around, and walks towards his car, stepping over the shoe. "and get in the fucking car, sebastian."

The last thing he wants is to sober up now, a bullet didn't sound nearly half as bad as the idea dragging himself out of bed tomorrow, with a pounding headache and a thousand voice calls and messages from people he didn't wanna talk to.

"I'm right, though..." he sing-songs to Javier, rubbing the sharp, marbled cut of his jaw where he'd grabbed it, fumbling in his pocket to pull up a soaping wet, mushy pack of cigarettes he lets drop to the floor now with an audible sigh of disappointment next. Horrible night, really, and the saddest thing is it wouldn't even make it to his top five. "My only love sprung from my only hate, too early seen unknown, and known too late... something, something, that I must love a loathed enemy... I can't remember the lines... school was so long ago," he begrudgingly followed if only because he was tired of standing in the rain, it was getting cold, and the car felt more comfortable than a random sidewalk. He presses his forehead against the window of the passenger seat, waiting, closing his eyes because the street was spinning. "...you do remember how that story ends, right?"

"whatever makes you think that, hm?" his gaze drops to the foot missing a shoe, then up at those pouty lips again. for all intents and purposes, sebastian should be right about that. javi should hate him. he's a spoiled rich kid with no idea of how the real world works, happily taking and taking and taking from people much less privileged than him. and yet... when he looks into those eyes, he sees an abandoned, lonely kid on the street desperate to build up enough walls so that he'd be safe from the world. "come on," he nods to the side, reaching out to help him turn towards the car. "let's get you in the car."

"What? Did you and your little group of losers hear I'm the best fuck in town and all collectively decided to fuck me over at once? Well, good for you... fucking... good for you!" he clapped humorlessly, with all the gait of a feral thing on the verge of pouncing. "Fuck you—fuck you, and fuck Nia, and fucking Heath especially, and his dumb fucking child bride—" there's some more incoherent drunk cussing that's nearly impossible to make out as he clumsily takes off his other shoe to unceremoniously toss it at Javi's, and he couldn't even properly make out if it hit him or not in this horrible weather, but he wasn't even sure if he really cared.

A huff, he can feel an unflattering crease tugging between his brows as he staggers forward, taking the opportunity to use him as a supporting pillar. "Whatever... distill all your hatred on top of me to make you all feel better about your... sad little lives," there's a begrudging pout on his lips as he halfheartedly shoves him, and almost falls doing so. "But at least have the guts to hunt me out in the open, okay?" he extends his arms, goading him. "Well? Go on! I'm here, woohoo! Big bad rich boy all alone in the neighborhood!" he sing-songs over the heavy downpour, laughing. "What are you gonna do, huh? Are you gonna shoot me?"