After spending a good amount of time taking in the art, her gaze had begun to drift over the others who were present. There had been a few familiar faces that she’d caught sight of but none quite as familiar as the one that her gaze had just landed on. After all, her job required her to spend five days a week with him - there were few faces she saw more of. The urge to role her eyes was only staved off by the fact that a small part of her was glad to have someone she really knew there, rather than the odd tentative acquaintances that she’d been gathering.
Moving away from the piece that had claimed her attention, she moves to close the distance between them, playful challenge in her voice. “And why am I not surprised that you’d be at something like this?”
@earldevon
his most preened and proper and educated self told him to chill, bid on some art, maybe have a drink. and then the former bullingdon club member told him to not chill, destroy some art, break some bottles because nobody needed to be drinking watered down and far too expensive bubbly gasoline. and he’d come with ivana –– so he really was trying to be on his best behaviour. taking a sip of his bubbly gasoline, sarmad studied the painting in front of him –– as you do –– his boredom was interrupted by a familiar voice and a smirk on his own lips.
“ why, were you keeping an eye out for me? ” he teased, glancing over at her ; an eyebrow raised in question. they rarely, if ever, saw each other out of the office. but now here they both were. “ so how’s your night going, wilson? see anything you like? ”
Sarmad was a breath of fresh air during the charity auction. Although Ivy had always enjoyed social events, especially ones among the Society members, the distance from Leah was tolling. Some of the conversation with the wilder members, ones Ivy didn’t believe fit the Society well, was also tolling, although she was far too classy to state that opinion.
With her arm linked through Sarmad’s, Ivy smiled at her friend as Brennan of Romania (was it Romania? Ivy hadn’t been paying close attention to the man that had been telling Sarmad and Ivy a frankly disgusting story about a prostitute he’d hired) took his leave. “If I had to endure one more of Brennan’s stories, I think I would have died,” Ivy stated with a dramatic sigh. “Without you, Sarmad, I don’t think I could have survived all these years of small talk.” Before he could reply, Ivy glanced in Leah’s direction before returning her attention to her friend. “How many people do you think believe we’re a couple?” Ivy asked, amused.
since before he could walk five metres without falling on his bum ( kidding, kidding –– his nanny would never have let him fall ), sarmad had been taught to be proper: always spoon soup away from you ; always write thank you notes by hand and on personalised stationary ; never drink bottled water ; defeatism didn’t look pretty on anyone ; and never yawn in public –– ever. so he laughed politely at brennan from...was it bulgaria? slovenia? whatever's story, and finally exhaled when he finally left.
“ at least it’s not the one about his fourth wife –– again, ” sarmad mused, grinning as widely as he could at one of his closest friends since...well, he couldn’t actually remember, it had been that long. and the only reason he ever made it to society events and galas was solely because he knew ivy would be there to make it better than bearable. “ without you, i don’t think i’d have survived these people, ” he returned, soft and honest. but he was distracted by her question, a quiet chuckle on his lips as sarmad looked around the room. “ i’d say all of them –– we’ve been glued at the hip all night. why, are we making someone jealous? ”
“Taken?” she purred, eyes instantly zeroing in on his with predatory focus. “How would I have known? They should’ve, I don’t know, left a jacket or something.” Her lips stretched into a wicked smile as she angled her body closer. “So, are you as bored as you look? I’ve never seen anyone look as thoroughly unamused by the… grandiosity of it all.” Her arms gestured widely to the room before settling along the bar. “No, that’s not the right word. This isn’t grandiose. It’s pretentious.”
" they really should have, ” he replied with the cock of an eyebrow and the hint of a smirk ; his gaze going to the discarded jacket just once. “ it’s a shame they didn’t. ” sarmad wasn’t one to judge ; it wasn’t like he didn’t accidentally once spill a drink on an old friend’s white suit, just to stop him from droning on and on. sometimes, you had to do what you had to do. “ not anymore, ” he said, taking a sip of his drink and glancing across the museum wing. “ pretentious doesn’t seem to cover it. so what drove you to tequila this early in the night? ”
LOCATION: AFTERPARTY AT THE MOULIN ROUGE (OPEN TO ALL)
“Tequila to kill ya feelings,” he offered, grinning wildly in amusement at his joke. He waved the bottle at the other, drawing shotglasses from the table, gesturing at a bowl of sliced limes and copious amounts of salt. Felix occupied two seats, leaning against the other in his intoxicated state. It was ridiculous, really, what a mess this had all made him — and now Felix Salamanca did what he knew how to do best: drink. “Come on, then. Come drink with me. No body shots, I promise — unless that’s what you want.”
he wasn’t a big public drinker –– after all, he published photos of celebrities and titans absolutely blotto in public and he wasn’t going to make that mistake –– but between the bore that had been the auction at the louvre and the ten minute drive down pierre fontaine, his top few buttons had gone unbuttoned and his dark hair was flopping down into his dark eyes. “ i could always use a drink tequila some feelings, ” sarmad snorted, reciprocating the joke in kind. and without pause, he picked up a shot glass and drowned the thing down with ease. ( he wasn’t on the clock, there was no one to take photos, and for one thing, he actually liked the tech giant. ) “ so why exactly are we trying to kill our feelings? ”
by the auction’s pop up bar (he’s classy like that), ft. @earldevon
Auctions, he’d always thought, would’ve been his stomping ground. Dropping absurd sums of money on paintings that only a few people cared about beyond their price tags should’ve come naturally to him. Instead, Tobias found himself drinking too much and missing his ex; he hasn’t watched all of Ex on the Beach to know that’s a disaster.
( It doesn’t help that the majority of the women in attendance he’d either a. already slept with, or b. point-blank refused to. Screw you, Maverick Hearst. )
“You know,” he said, settling his elbows on the counter-top and nursing his glass of whiskey, “I never thought I would miss the ugly paintings at Amalienborg. Or a pint of Amstel.“ He chuckled and looked down at his glass, "so I hope your night has been more productive than mine?”
after avoiding joining the society for about twelve years of his life –– his dad died more disappointed about that than his eldest son’s manbun phase –– sarmad now remembered exactly why ; he just didn’t like it. he didn’t like the stuffy clothes or the elevator music or the overpriced art pieces his dogs could make if they tried just a little harder. he’d spent only too much time gossiping about it with ivana, poster children smiles plastered across their faces.
“ sorry, do i know you? ” he did. sure, monarchies meant nothing in this day and age, but he prided himself of not being a complete idiot. and even he’d heard of some uncouth madness going down in the society like it was 2005 and everything was fair game. sarmad just offered the man a cool smile, brows raised. “ can’t complain. so what’s making you miss amstel when you could have –– ” he gave his flute of champagne a glare, “ –– glorified capri sun? ”
“You said that the last time.” Words slip out in an unaffected drawl, languidness heavy on her tone. Another woman might have taken offence at the notion that they were someone he’d not want to continue sleeping with. But that would have required having the feelings to get hurt in the first place. She wasn’t a completely heartless being, just sometimes there was no need for there to be anything more than convenience to a situation. Despite their rivalry, their relationship in the bedroom had carried on without a hitch, a rare commodity when people seemed determined to make something more out of any remotely intimate encounter. Smirk flickered over her lips at his jest. “Or you could just get better at selling those papers.”
“You’re a big, smart boy, I’m sure you’ll figure out.” Playful touch of his nose was given, with ever intention to making sure the patronising nature of her sticky sweet, honeyed words wasn’t missed. She’d never been one for subtlety after all. Gaze drifted pointedly to his now silent phone. “You sure you don’t want to take that call?”
" i meant it last time too, ” he bit back, but it was diluted by the tired smirk on his face. one day, a third paper was going to end up finding out about this, and the both of them were going to end up losing the story to some glorified town crier with an internet connection. but sarmad didn’t like commitments or second dates or anything more than dinner and drinks that led to the bedroom and nowhere else. ( okay, sometimes to the office or the kitchen or the dining table and that one time in the back of his town car, but he didn’t like calling any of them back. it’s why he never saved anyone’s number. ) and sure, he and elena were at each other’s throats professionally, but there was no reason they couldn’t just blow off a little steam later. no strings attached, thank fuck. “ or you could just admit you’re poaching stories. ” there was a smile in his words ; she probably was, because he definitely was.
scrunching his nose at the finger on his nose, he just rolled his eyes at her tone. “ you know what? ” sarmad began, reaching over to grab the phone and swiping at it. and then he just threw it aside, arms going round len’s middle and pulling her right back into bed. “ they know i’m in a meeting right now, anyway. ”
If there was ever an event Elvyra had wanted to pass up, it was this one. Any one, really, that she couldn’t attend arm-in-arm with a handsome distraction. The invitation had been enticing enough, mysterious and demanding, and a trip to France even more-so, but she was bored by it all. A charity auction? It was too tense and stuffy, no room for a single misstep, especially not as an initiate. But she was desperate for a bit of a mischief. Near the open bar she chose a seat with a jacket already draped across it for that very purpose, despite the array of available options. Just a cavalier swipe of her hand had it slipping to the ground, freeing it up to be perched upon, which she wasted no time doing. A conspirator’s smirk turned her expression feline as she flagged down a server with a cavalier wave. “Enough champagne. Perhaps you can figure out a way to deliver me the makings of a perfect tequila shot without earning me too many scandalized glares, yeah? This is a formal function, after all.” (x)
he hated art –– hated. did he enjoy throwing darts at the priceless rubens in his study, just because it had belonged to his mother? absolutely. did he want to turn up to a charity art auction even though his mother would quite obviously be there? not even in a midsummer night’s dream. but sarmad had turned up with ivy –– now lost somewhere in the horde of art lovers and random people willing to prove they could afford something with absolutely no return on investment –– and with nothing much to do, he’d found himself at the bar, nursing a few generous fingers of whisky in his hands. “ that seat was taken, you know, ” he mused from a few seats down, sparing the woman a glance and recognising her immediately. “ be shame to just take it from them. ”
–––– sarmad villiers, the ninetheenth earl of devon ; a closer look.
name: sarmad nooh imtiaz sikander villiers.
nickname: sarmu ( his step-mother only ) ; saadi ( siblings && close friends ).
gender & pronouns: cismale && he/him.
age & dob: thirty-seven && june 4th.
zodiac sign: gemini.
orientation: bisexual && grey-romantic.
nationality: british && pakistani.
ethnicity: south asian.
religion: lapsed muslim.
neuroses: nothing some chai and walking the dogs can’t help.
HISTORY.
hometown: exeter, devon.
father: zafar villiers, deceased.
mother: no longer mentioned. she left when he was very young, and though she’s also a member of the society, he has no interest in finding her or speaking to her ever again.
siblings, if any: two younger sisters, two younger brothers.
extended family: stepmother, aged 53. three corgis named cider, peppermint, and cardamom ; two cocker-spaniels named spencer and emmanuel ; two foxhounds named winston and manto ; one labrador named simla.
educational background: windlesham house school for one term ; the dragon school for lower school ; harrow for upper school ; lady margaret hall, oxford university for undergrad ; brasenose college, oxford for postgrad.
languages spoken: english && urdu && french && latin && punjabi && mediocre arabic.
occupational history: full time contributor to the telegraph ; freelance columnist for vanity fair and the independent on sunday ; investigative reported for the guardian ; editor of the telegraph ; hereditary peer in the house of lords.
achievements: young journalist of the year, the press awards ; columnist of the year, the press awards ; front page of the year, the press awards ; political journalist of the year, the press awards ; the orwell prize for journalism ; the george orwell memorial prize ; the amnesty international uk media award for feature writing.
THE SOCIETY.
codename: marcus aurelius.
meaning: a roman emperor && stoic philosopher titled the philosopher king. sarmad believes there’s more to life than education and influence bought by money and entitlement. and this quote in particular sticks out: “everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.” and he takes it forward in his work and life.
raditionalist or reformist?: reformist. sarmad does not care for tradition all that much, despite his own background. and if burning it all down’s what it takes, then he’ll light the match.
goals in the society: he’s not sure. for a decade, he refused to join on principle alone ; he disliked the idea of secret societies built on the pavilion of unearned merit. but he’s joined now for the political connections –– and to see just how much he can trade in his own clout for its return. maybe it’ll end up in a story on the front page of his newspaper.
opinion on the society: lukewarm. he lives and lets live, he doesn’t care all that much about the who and the why.
PERSONALITY.
mbti: ESTP - A ; the entrepreneur.
enneagram:
56% –– the challenger.
36% –– the achiever.
8% –– the individualist.
temperament: choleric.
hogwarts house: ravenclaw – gryffindor hybrid.
inspirations/parallels: harvery specter, suits ; javier pena, narcos ; draco malfoy, harry potter ; sirius black, harry potter ; oberyn martell, game of thrones ; poe dameron, star wars.
tropes: the ace ; awesome but impractical ; berserk button ; the casanova ; deadpan snarker ; everyone has standards ; fatal flaw ; jerk with a heart of gold ; must have caffeine ; sharp-dressed man ; dragon with an agenda.
YOUR MUSE AS ..:
a piece of art: the thinker by auguste rodin. the kohinoor, which he’d personally like to claim and take back for his personal collection of knick knacks.
a song: hustler by zayde wølf.
a book: toba tek singh by saadat hasan manto.
a movie: the riot club, dir. lone scherfig.
a tv show: bbc’s round planet, same energy.
a historical era: 1580s.
a historical figure: aurangzeb, without all the stuff.
a fictional character: harvey specter, suits.
a colour: tea pink.
an animal: lindt easter bunny ; smooth and shiny and fancy on the outside, basically sweet af on the inside.
YOUR MUSE’S DREAM ..:
job: he had it –– as an investigative reporter for the guardian at one point. but he couldn’t just stay there, he didn’t have the time and he was far too well known to be effective. so editor in chief will have to do, too.
vacation: to his own house, thanks. have some tea –– he’ll be mother –– and chill with the dogs and his family. maybe throw some darts at that rubens in the study.
day: sarmad makes it a point to have a perfect day nearly every day. he doesn’t want for anything, so he’s not going to pretend he does.
as a child: to become a firefighter.
last night: doesn’t dream –– well, he never remembers them. ever.
that they gave up on: staying out of politics.
that they have right now: to finally pull the telegraph out of its old reputation.
–––– in conversation with @duchessnorfolk ; arundel castle.
because sarmad had a certain je ne sais quoi –– his brother called it dumbass syndrome –– he’d wanted to go up and visit amber. but he’d been home in devon ; the drive alone would have been too long, and he hadn’t been on a train since that one incident with the policeman’s hat and the sack of potatoes, so there had only been one thing left to do. sarmad had borrowed a friend’s helicopter ( well, friend was a generous word ; they’d only known each other a few years ) and gone up to arundel for the day. plus –– much as he didn’t like to gossip before lunch on a weekday, he’d heard that amber was having a pretty fucked up time of it. and everything could be made better with a bottle of the 1904 bisquit dubouché. it cost more than a small car for a reason.
––––– “ the prime minister? seriously? ” he snorted, expression curdling like...well, like he’d just realised an old friend’s ex had cheated on her with the prime minister of their country. so he took a sip of his drink. “ that’s original. ”
Hard work was hardly a foreign concept to her when she’d got a job the moment she’d turned fourteen as well as witnessing her parents spend endless hours at their jobs. She was no stranger to it and if anything she revelled in it. Long hours and packed days were all met with ease but what she hadn’t expected when she’d taken this job was for her boss to be hard work of a different kind. Exasperation was an all too common feeling and she felt that same emotion rise once more as a check of the schedule revealed a clash of committments. “Please tell me that you haven’t double booked this Friday.”
Just as quickly as the frustration had built, a further glance at the two clashing committments provided the perfect solution. The solution slips from her lips without hesitation, leaving little room for argument despite it being him that was supposed to call the shots. “You’ll have to miss the first day of that stag weekend, the speech is too important.” After all, a speech at a benefit was far better for publicity than a rager with the lads. It wasn’t even her distaste for all things indulgent and austentatious that made her decision, one simply had more political sense. She’d been hired for her advice as much as her organisational skills and while she was used to biting her tongue most of the time, when she got the opportunity to say her piece she’d be damned if she stayed silent.
@earldevon
" i thought today was friday? ” sarmad replied completely deadpan, before glancing up from his marked up version of tomorrow’s issue of the telegraph, a rakish smile on his face. to be honest, he probably had double booked friday. then again, he had a really fun but ultimately pretty counterproductive habit of just saying yes to literally everything. there were probably five breakfast meetings the earl of devon had probably scheduled and missed just that morning. well, he tried his very, very best to. and he would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for beth getting his ducks in a row before he could go round smashing them up with a cricket bat. “ i can multi-task, you know. don’t know if they teach that at cambridge. ”
at the mention of the stag do, he sat up immediately –– already halfway through explaining why exactly none of that was going to work. “ oh, no, no. it’s gussie’s stag do, wilson. ” sarmad sat back in his office chair –– the thing was still uncomfortable as fuck, but he was a gentleman ; he didn’t talk like that. in the office. before noon. “ and then if i don’t go, cheesewright’s not going to show up. and then boko and bingo are just going to steal another horse –– as you do. ” he rolled his eyes, but there was a faint edge of amusement in his voice ; just to see how she’d react. ( they were actually just renting out the kwant bar and drinking them out of the eighties vermouth, but bingo had threatened a surprise. but if he didn’t give beth a little grief, well. how could she possibly put him in his place? ) “ okay, okay. don’t make that one face you always make. what’s the speech on? ”
dededos
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
areudirty
romaincrisis
snowghoul
