* 𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕥 ╱ 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓉 @cleofms - Tumblr Blog

Location: An event where they'd run into each other For: @giannarossi

Cleo arrives at the Rehabilitation Through Arts benefit dinner straight from an engagement party, scotch on her breath. It’s a mixed bag tonight, the crowd a blend of arts-adjacent supporters, judges, and defense attorneys — many of whom actually care about the cause. Cleo, on the other hand, is using it as an excuse to get drunker and circulate. She stands in an empty women’s room, sneaking a cigarette when the door opens. She is relieved by who walks in. “Gianna.” Cleo adopts a daisy fresh smile, doesn’t bother to fan away the smoke. “What a relief, I thought it would be someone stuffy. I don’t know how you deal with these law types on a daily basis. They have no sense of humor.” Her professional world doesn’t often collide with Gianna’s, but when it does, Cleo is always glad for it. Even the lamest events improve with her at them. “You know, there’s a judge out there who’s absolutely wasted. Told me prosecutors make good lovers, but defense attorneys are selfish. Care to comment?” Her brows knit. “Are judges even supposed to sleep with lawyers?”

#( feat. gianna )#hope this works !!

Location: Celestina's office For: @celestinadelcastillo

May’s rain paints a sheen on apartments, flowers, and cars in the slick streets as Cleo waltzes into Celestina’s office, ten minutes late, rain beads on the shoulders of her coat. She hopes the folder she is carrying will make up for her tardiness which, for once, is not intentional. Cleo likes to make people wait, play her little mind games. But never with Celestina. She has a silk twill scarf wrapped around her hair, sunglasses on, looking like a blonde Audrey Hepburn as she drops the manila folder on the desk between the two women. “Ever heard of the Artemis Fund?” she asks, lowering herself into a chair. “It’s legal advocacy for women. Emergency housing, education grants, the whole shebang.” Cleo knows it’s not really about generosity in their world. It’s about optics. Philanthropy is social currency. “A little birdie told me their founder is about to be nominated for the Berggruen Prize.” Considered the Nobel Prize for philanthropy, Cleo knows someone on the inside who has confirmed this. “And they’re getting a story in Time. Which means…” She taps a lacquered nail against the armrest. “A lot of attention incoming. They’ll be the hottest charity to support once the news breaks. Which is why you get in early. If you do something public to show support now, you’ll look like you believed in them before the applause arrived, instead of jumping on the bandwagon after the fact. What do you think?”

She leans back, satisfied with herself. The right cause is just another accessory. Then, she crosses her legs, pivots. “I’m having people over Saturday. Small crew. Some NYU art PhD students. A few people from one of the galleries. You should swing by.” She doesn’t expect a yes. Celestina doesn’t party with her anymore. But Cleo asks anyway.

#( feat. celestina )#sorry this got a little long !! let me know if you want me to change anything #also i forgot it's now june so this takes place last week or something ok thank you bye :))

Location: The Mercer Art Gallery For: @nicocaravelli

The gallery, usually a murmuring hive, is closed when Nico arrives. Cleo has sent the assistants and curators home, locked the front doors, told security to make themselves invisible unless the building catches fire. She knows Nico prefers it that way; the knowledge of who is in a room, who is listening, who has a reason to remember what they heard. Sunlight filters through the building's high windows, casting golden rectangles across the polished concrete floor where Cleo stands. The exhibit laid out in front of them is an ugly saccharine nightmare called Honey for the Wound. The artist (some outsider art wunderkind) has worked almost entirely with caramelized sugar, sculpted, twisted, and contorted to look like rotting things, a statement on sweetness and death being intertwined, like how flies swarm honey the same way they do a dead body. Nico is not here to talk art, and Cleo knows this. The Caravelli Financial Group handles her finances. Cleo launders for The Mob. This is a business check-in. Still, she can’t resist the urge to ask. “Thoughts?” On the exhibit, she means, eyes catching on a small marzipan-looking statue of a lamb, split open along the belly. A critic from Frieze had called it grotesquely thought-provoking.

#( feat. nico )#please let me know if this doesn't work bc i can change whatever !!

dadivosos

he nodded his head at her words , the other person obviously not thinking she knew what she was talking about. however , as much as santiago hated to admit it yale really did make well rounded individuals --- that and they were both fairly influential and knew better than not not catch up on their wordly endeavors. lips curled into a small grin at the woman's compliment , cleo did always have a way with words. at the mention of his campaign the other looked shocked --- almost shocked he didn't recognize him. he could have just asked but he knew the moment had left and so had their little friend. " i think that's your fault for being too inviting , " he nodded , lips curled against his cigarette , quickly lighting it and blowing the smoke away from the two. " and to think every single harvard graduate i've met is like that and don't get me started on princeton. i like to think we have a little something to offer rather than regurgitating whatever professors say during lecture. " though he had to wonder how many times cleo had actually attended lectures , but it didn't matter they seemed to be doing fairly well for themselves. " for me ? " he pointed to himself with his free hand before shrugging. " can i play coy and say --- no cleo , you don't have to do that ? or will it be too obvious that you can do whatever you want ? "

cleofms

Cleo half-scoffs at his suggestion. “Too inviting? A vile accusation. He needs to learn to read cues. I mean, I was standing here barefoot and visibly losing the will to live.” She pauses, as if only just remembering something. “Speaking of…” Cleo rises onto the balls of her feet, movement unconscious from years of training. “…where are my shoes?” she asks, though mostly to herself. The concern lasts all of three seconds before she lowers herself again and takes another pull from her cigarette. “The most annoying thing about Harvard alumni is that they never miss an opportunity to tell you they went to Harvard. Have you ever noticed that?” When he points to himself, Cleo looks him over. “Yes, Santiago. For you.” Her brows lift. “Unless you’d rather I do it for your opponent,” she says, her lips curling involuntarily before dismissing the idea entirely. “No, I’d never. That’d be treason of the highest degree. I should surely be put to death.” Cleo draws a clean line across her neck with one hand, miming a guillotine as if she still lives in the time of kings and queens, when disloyalty meant prompt beheading. “As much as I would love to watch you play coy, it will be painfully obvious that I intend to do whatever I want. We just acquired a space in Chelsea. Art deco building, gorgeous natural light. Just begging to be shown off. It’d be the perfect space to guarantee another zero added to your campaign funds, with the right crowd.”

#( feat. santiago )

Location: Cleo's house, before a night out For: @softstcps (Rüya)

Cleo is still getting ready when Rüya arrives, long hair wavy and wet on her silk robe. Going out tonight was Cleo’s idea, though neither of them have figured out yet where they’re actually going. She pads back into the bedroom after letting the other in, a call of, “Help yourself to the champagne on the counter,” thrown over her shoulder. She pulls on a vintage black dress, a shimmer of blue on eyelids, red lipstick, and reemerges, her cat, Brontë, trailing behind her like a shadow. Pausing in the archway leading to the kitchen, she properly greets Rüya. “Welcome, schätze.” It’s German for darling. German, which means Cleo’s had a few glasses of wine already. She only slips into foreign languages when she’s buzzed. “So, I still have no idea where we should go tonight. Do you have any leads?” The city feels different with everything going on, though Cleo is determined to forge ahead. “Are you feeling something lowkey? I know about a loft party in Tribeca, but it won’t really be worth hitting up until after midnight.” She scoops up Brontë, leans against the kitchen island, and points her chin toward the champagne. “Really, help yourself to that. It’s an expensive gift and I can’t think of a better way to enjoy it. It’s been too long. How is fortune favoring you these days?”

#( feat. rüya )#let me know if you'd like me to change anything !!

dadivosos

santiago was beginning to despise networking , his whole life just felt like one big fucked up networking evening with alumni up his ass asking him for opportunities if they were straight out of yale or the class of '76 asking him what his thoughts were on the rising toll of artificial intelligence and if they should implement and cost everyone their jobs. the whiskey in his hand had gotten awfully warm as he smiled his way through discourse he could pretty much care less about. at some point he excused himself to get some fresh air where some hedge fund investor patted his back and told him good job and offered him his card. he gladly took the card and rushed out before they asked him how the president was. he took the final sip from his glass and placed it on some random table while he reached in his blazer pocket for a cigarette. head whipped around at the sound of a familiar voice , he almost sighed in relief at the familiar face that accompanied it. he made his way over , removing a cigarette from the pack -- the man she was with recognized him but tried to make it seem like he was being a nuisance for joining in. " i think if you're a political idealist you best keep your idealism during election time , politics unfortunately makes you compromise on certain ideals which to the public makes you seem like a traitor but there is no such thing as disillusionment if you truly think you can convince people. shit , lenin thought he was doing well for his people and he had support. i'm not disillusioned , " he said with a small smile as he put the cigarette in his mouth , " we can all eat --- i just rather have my pie and eat it too. "

cleofms

She drags on her cigarette and says nothing, watching Santiago with something that is starting to look like amusement. “Ah, Lenin. ‘There are no morals in politics; there is only expedience’,” she quotes back to him, because Cleo knows that Santiago knows Lenin. Santiago went to Yale. Unlike the M-named guy standing across from her, who used his father’s connections to attend some sunny party school in California. At his comment about having his pie and eating it too, Cleo plucks her champagne glass from where it balances precariously on the balcony ledge. “Spoken like a true politician.” This is a compliment, coming from her. She raises her drink in a toast before continuing on. “And speaking of,” Cleo turns slightly, angling her body in such a precise way that it quietly ices — Mark? Matt? — out of the conversation. “How goes the campaign?” she inquires. Michael(?) lingers for one brave, unfortunate second before slinking into the crowd, pretending to recognize someone. Only once he is gone does Cleo drop pretenses and let out an exhale. “My God, do you know him?” She questions, incredulous. “The guy would not leave me alone. I don’t think he’s had a single original thought in his life, it’s a bit sad. He’s like an amalgamation of anything he’s ever heard in an intro college course and thought sounded pseudo-intellectual. I don’t mind arrogance, obviously, but it should at least come with a little flavor, don’t you you think? Anyway,” She waves smoke away with two fingers, lips whispering a vague smile. “When are you going to let me throw one of these for you?” A fundraising event, she means.

#( feat. santiago )#sorry for the quick reply. i was clocking in at the reply factory tonight

henri-brooks

"Oh our honeymoon? You know, recently you've been really liking pretending to be married to me. A guy might start to get a certain impression." he smiled at her as he took the drink. "To Jeff and Mindy. We are eternally grateful for your generosity. I mean, it's kind of romantic. Believing in true love." He clinked his drink against hers before taking a hefty sip. "I mean you love to read. Probably have read a lot of love stories, do you think true love exists? Or have we not had enough drinks to have that conversation?" Granted Henri had already had a few drinks before this outing but that was because he had taken the train here from another bar. He was quick to take Cleo's invitation though. They always had fun together, and she indulged him in his little role-playing. She was a master of theatrics and an admirable liar. He deeply appreciated her company.

"PhD? In this economy?" He smirked, knowing the economy affected her very little. "What would you even get it in? I mean all of that studying and papers and exams," he shivered, thinking about his time at Harvard and how much work it all had been. He had enjoyed it but he was so far from it now he didn't see how he could go back. "Me? I've just been busy playing my hot boy summer. That and trying to find an older and distinguished gentleman or heiress to sponsor my summer fun. I'm thinking owns a yacht or owns their own island all together. I've been working on my abs just for that," he told her and lifted up his shirt to show her before going back to his drink. "I have a few leads but one of them is in medicine and I don't know that I can pretend to care about anatomy in that way."

cleofms

“Henri, we could never be married. I’d cheat on you, you’d cheat on me. It’d be an endless cycle. And anyway, I don’t believe in that sort of thing,” she tells him, saying ‘that sort of thing’ the way a Christian mom might refer to recreational witchcraft. Cleo doesn’t believe in marriage, nor monogamy. Or rather, she’s never met anyone who has given her reason to believe in those things. “I’ve read a lot of tragedies,” she corrects, bringing her lips to the edge of her drink. “But I do think it’s real. I just don’t think it’s automatically virtuous. Love can blind you. Humiliate you.” Her eyes drift, briefly, toward Jeff and Mindy at the bar. “Even true love can be ugly, don’t you think? Or,” she points a finger in his direction, “don’t tell me you’re a secret romantic at heart.” She holds no judgment regarding his answer.

“Comparative literature. I got wasted on red wine and came up with a dissertation idea on female hysteria,” Cleo explains, drawing a sip. “That’s the point of it all,” she continues. “The exams, the papers, being the smartest person in the room. Where’s your competitive spirit?” Academia is titillating to her, and she has the privilege of treating higher education like a hobby. Her eyes follow when he lifts his shirt. She does not pretend not to look. “Mm, a modern-day Hercules,” biting back a lecture on Disney incorrectly naming its film after the Roman Hercules rather than the Greek Heracles, Cleo presses on. “You didn’t become one of those gym nuts, did you? Life is too short to eat plain chicken and white rice every day.” She thinks of a few people, specifically, who deserve exactly what Henri is describing. “What are your standards? I mean, octogenarian with a humiliation fetish…yay or nay? Because I know a guy.” A smirk cuts across her features. “But really, what’s the worst you’d put up with for a private island? Like, where would you draw the absolute line?”

#( feat. henri )

clark-sanders

Location: Crimson Velvet Starter for @cleofms

It wasn't that Clark hadn't been to Crimson Velvet before but this really hadn't been a part of his plans tonight. A girl he knew who worked there was going through a divorce and needed some extra security getting to work so he had been giving her rides. Tonight though, she had asked him to come into the club, at least have a few drinks on her as a thank you and he hadn't felt right turning her down. Even if two of his drinks so far had been sodas. Still, he was trying his best to actually relax when he turned and saw her. "Oh fuck me," he said more to himself, knowing that as soon as she saw him she wouldn't just let him slip away. Every time he saw Cleo he felt like he was pulled back into another version of himself. A version of him so lost in his own grief he was only focused on what party was after whatever party he was currently at. Still, it was too late so he ordered and actual drink and moved to sit next to her. "Shouldn't you be at some charity gala right now? Like a benefit for kids with a bad sense of style or something?"

cleofms

“The charity benefit for unfashionable youth was last weekend. And I’ll have you know that I donated a very trendy dress. So Vogue.” She’s joking. Though with the self-indulgent philanthropy crowd she deals with, it’s not as absurd as it seems. Cleo isn’t unaware of Clark’s lack of enthusiasm for this conversation. For seeing her in general, really. Clark has evolved, grown. Whereas Cleo has simply continued. Not unchanged, exactly, but committed to many of the same bad instincts. She doesn’t say anything to acknowledge him taking the seat beside her, just points to a brunette doing slow acrobatics on stage, body glitter catching every color in the room. “She has amazing form. She’s not sickling her foot like the other girl, see?” She may as well be speaking another language with her ballet jargon, but Cleo still points it out. “Do you want me to buy you a dance?” She already assumes the answer but still asks anyway, because she finds it amusing. “I see you’re still doing the whole Wyatt Earp cosplay thing, then?” It’s half question, half assessment. Back when they used to hang out, he didn’t have the whole...cowboy-ish vibe.

#( feat. clark )

Location: some rich people brownstone party they would both attend For: @camillacaravelli

It’s the kind of party where everyone has gathered to drink and flirt and forget the ugliness going on in the city around them; a casual house party that is anything but. Cleo is perched on the kitchen counter. A spread had been laid, dip and crackers and wedges of cheese, little éclairs, but she isn’t impressed. Though Cleo is rarely impressed by anything. Still, she picks at the crackers, snaps it neatly between her teeth as she observes the party around her. She notes an old man with big ears and a toupee slapped on top of what she assumes is an otherwise bald head. After a moment, she leans toward a blonde next to her, eyes still on him. “Keep him off the terrace. One gust of wind, and it’s over.” Cleo oozes sarcasm like an infected wound, casual roll of her eyes hardly implicating any investment in the matter. “Society is too kind to men. I mean, we spend hours getting dolled up, meanwhile they scotch tape a toupee to their heads, throw on some uninspired suit and call it a day.” Pitching a sigh, eyes move over the blonde, who Cleo recognizes as Camilla Caravelli. Cleo isn’t surprised to see Camilla in a place like this. She wonders if, like herself, this was a “friend-of-a-friend” invite, or if Camilla actually knows whose brownstone she is in right now. “Life would be much better if we were a matriarchy, don’t you think?”

#( feat. camilla )#let me know if you want anything changed !!

Location: a crowded little bar For: @henri-brooks

The bar is humid in the way a bathhouse is humid. Architecturally, it cannot handle the crowd it draws, which is part of the appeal. Cleo chose it because it’s busy, full of drunk idiots and, under those conditions, who knows what she and Henri might get into. She emerges from the crowd with two drinks, moving with the ballerina’s grace of someone who has no intention of wearing anything sticky tonight. “Say thank you to Jeff and Mindy,” she says, handing Henri one of the glasses. “And if they come over, we just loved our honeymoon.” She lifts her left hand, one of her rings refracting bar lights. It’s been newly relocated to her fourth finger for the bit. Then she waves toward a couple at the bar. “So cute. They say ‘true love’ drinks on their tab all night,” she adds, lowering herself across from him. Cleo can afford the drinks. This is not the point. The point is the sport of it all, the theatrics of it all. Spinning some silly little web and pulling in Jeff and Mindy from Idaho who believe in true love and are willing to sponsor it one round at a time. All because of some harmless, stupid little lie.

She takes a sip, looks at him over the rim of her glass. “I’ve been thinking of enrolling in a doctoral program. Which means I’m clearly either bored as hell or having a mental breakdown. Talk me down, I beg you. Anything remotely interesting going on with you? Please, sir, can I have some diversion?” she asks, cupping her hands out in her best Oliver Twist impersonation, begging for distraction from her own allegedly boring life.

#( feat. henri )#hope this works for you but let me know if you want me to change anything !!#sorry it got a tad long lol

Location: a fundraiser thingy at the Yale Club. For: @dadivosos (Santiago)

It’s not entirely clear what they are fundraising for tonight. Something about children. Empowering them, perhaps. Though the specifics of what that actually means, Cleo can’t be sure. She just knows that she’s drunk at The Yale Club, debating politics with some guy whose name begins with an M and ends, in her mind, almost immediately after that. She is barefoot, in a gray Versace dress on the balcony of the rooftop, smoking a cigarette and engaging in a disappointingly tepid conversation regarding virtue in politics. Somewhere under some table, her heels sit. And somewhere under her skin, the last of her patience circles the drain as she taps two fingers against her chin, feigning deep thought until she can’t possibly twist her mouth into another shape. Frankly, this man is an idiot. Not even an interesting idiot, which is especially cruel. Her eyes drift, briefly scanning the crowd until they settle on a familiar face. “Santiago,” she calls out, beckoning him over with the wave of a hand. “Help me settle a debate, would you? Is political idealism a foolish endeavor in Washington? I mean, does the political machine inevitably disillusion everyone in the end?”

#( feat. santiago )#hope this works !!#let me know if you want me to change anything :)

( anya taylor joy, cis woman, she/her ) SPOTTED: CLEO CALHOUN-DIETRICH in new york city! heard the THIRTY-TWO year old belongs to THE MOB as a MONEY LAUNDERER. word on the streets is that they can be REFINED, but they can also be HEDONISTIC.( olive, 31, they/them, cst )

tldr ; Cleo is the inheritor of her great-grandmother's elite ballet school and her grandfather's real estate company that owns theaters, art galleries, and other arts-related spaces. She uses these to launder for the mob, operating as a cultural front that makes dirty money look like arts and philanthropy. An ex-ballerina raised on a meat farm, Cleo is elegant but not delicate. Old-money and connected, she's confident, educated, and vivacious but pretentious, irreverent, and impulsive.