Sey && Coe

Aleksey Volkov and Jericho Nieto ;; characters for — revengeofthesinners don’t interact if not part of the rp

[seyxcoe]

(  𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑘𝑠𝑒𝑦  𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑘𝑜𝑣𝑎  )  :  don  of  pentavita  ››  ✎  muse  log  .  #649ea6 (  𝑗𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑜 𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑜  )  :  dirty  civilian  ››  ✎  muse  log  .  #a37dc9

[seyxcoe]

at the 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭, there wasn't any guest list with 𝒋𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒐 𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒐's name on it. no plus one, no rsvp, not even a fake smile at the door, just found a staff door with a busted lock and let himself in.

he looked wrong for the place. plain black t-shirt stretched across his chest, worn black pants weighed down with pocket bulk, and boots far from being polished. somewhere between sneakin' in and slipping past the buffet with them weird little rich people food, all tiny and confused about what meal they’re tryna be, he hit the coat check and walked off with whatever looked expensive. not for warmth–just camouflage. figured rich folks dressed like that on purpose, so no one would ask questions if he looked like some artsy nepo baby in a phase. worked well enough—he threw on @reveriixs's overcoat and kept walkin' like he knew what a trust fund was.

[valentinexhart]

She doesn’t grant him her attention right away. No, Valentine allows the awareness to build, lets the glimpses roll off her like dribbled champagne as she poses beneath a luminous chandelier that costs more than most homes. The weight of the room shifts when Sey nears, but she keeps her posture poised, tolerating his approach, permitting it to play out like a delicate crescendo.

Only once he speaks does she turn, chin tilting just enough to give him a taste of her profile, then the full impact, gaze slicing clean through candlelight and inquisitiveness alike.

"Now, now, Seysey," she breathes his pet name as if it were a secret, voice velvet-submerged and clipped at the edges. "You say that like it wasn’t already on its knees the moment I stepped out of the car."

Her foxish simper is understated. Controlled. But her eyes? They gleam with something keener than flirtation.

“Though I must admit,” Valentine adds, stepping forward just enough for the gold of her gown to catch the light and scatter it between them like the glistening surface of a trickling brook, “the idea of you on yours is awfully tempting.” Her eyes drop, briefly, to his glass before climbing back up to meet his with unwavering intent.

“You clean up well, Sey. But I’d warn you-” Her voice dipped just below conversational, “-the last man who tried to keep up with me at one of these festivities, left the gala in an ambulance and in an awful mood.”

[seyxcoe]

he let the pet name hang for a beat, drawn out like the last note of a sonata too indulgent to cut short, and tilted his head just enough to study her under the chandelier’s glow. she gleamed, of course. to rule and speaking like she already did.

“seysey,” he echoed, quiet, bemused, then he exhaled a soft scoff. his smile curved, warm enough to invite but not enough to mistake for surrender. “mm. tempting, sure. but that’s a dangerous picture to paint, for a woman who always ends up exactly where i want her.”

his gaze dipped then, deliberate, following the golden light as it clung to the swell of her hip. he didn’t disguise the way he looked – never had, not with her. aleksey was a man who appreciated beauty without apology, and she knew exactly how much work it took to look that effortless. the two of them had shared too many nights in cities that punished subtlety.

“if you think that earns me a warning, ruby, then you’ve been spending too much time around amateurs.” his voice dropped a little lower now, threading just beneath the music and the soft riot of voices that echoed off marble and silk, measured so only she could catch the edges of it. “the last time you tried to outpace me, we ended up banned from a palace”

he leaned in slightly, not close enough to be obscene, just enough to force the air between them to shift, his scent mixing with hers, the quiet threat of proximity delivered like a promise. his glass tapped softly against hers. “now,” he said, light again, conversational as if the air hadn’t just cracked, “you’re going to tell me who you dressed like this for.”

[filmdaya]

Taylor Zakhar Perez for Lacoste

[gildedash]

closed for aleksey volkova @seyxcoe

location: memorial gala

"do you trust the alcohol in this place?" levi asks, peering at the servers who walk by with already filled glasses of champagne flutes. he had been standing off to the side away from everyone else when he finally, finally sees someone that he knows. he isn't sure if he would trust the alcohol more if they were already in closed cans. it's not like levi is one to drink much anyway. "we're all in the same room tonight, i mean, clearly, something can't be good around this place? where's the nearest emergency exit in case we need to bolt? i found one that leads to the side, but it looks like one that most people would use." he had been mapping out routes all night. he thought he knew this building, but it looked different with people dressed up all extravagantly. at least he could still move in his clothes. levi never relaxed these days. but he supposes he should. he runs his fingers through his hair as he glances over at aleksey before glancing down to the ground, realizing that he was overthinking everything too much and takes a deep breath. "are you enjoying yourself at least?"

[seyxcoe]

“depends,” he said. “if it’s poisoned, you won’t feel it anyway. not the first ten seconds. and if it isn’t, it’s a pretty decent vintage.” his voice was low, but not conspiratorial–calm, direct, full of ease he hadn’t faked, the kind that made people stop checking over their shoulders. he scanned the room, blue gaze taking a slow drag across silk gowns, black tuxedos, security badges half-hidden under cuffs. “besides, if someone wanted to take a shot at us tonight, they wouldn’t do it through champagne. that’s old money drama. this crowd’s more fond of staged suicides and tragic disappearances.”

he leaned in just a little, shoulder brushing past with the kind of friendly contact that only registered as intimacy if someone was close enough to feel it. “relax, lev. stop counting exits. no one’s dying tonight unless i say so.” the confidence wasn’t forced. it didn’t need to be. “you haven’t unclenched your jaw since we got here.” he turned his chin slightly, eyes flicking toward the center of the ballroom where a senator’s wife had just fake-laughed at a joke too thin to survive on its own. nobody's watching them anyway. for now.

“i’m entertained. watching politicians lie to each other is oddly soothing.”

[gildedash]

“oh!” kenjie knew the guy. he kind of forgot from where. what was his name? rowan? jerome? rafael? “actually, come sit with me, i’m starving.” he says pulling the empty chair by him closer to him as he gets up and goes to the food stand. he stares at the salmon stack, looking things on a stick next to those caprese sticks and grabs a plate and shoves the whole lot of the salmon stacks onto the plate to the point where he cleared almost half the tray. he knew that he should have eaten before coming to this thing. he’s really hoping that archer and miguel are going to hold up their end of going to shake shack after this. he places the small plate down on the table and then glances around the room. he was certain that he had seen a vending machine earlier. “think there might be one of those vending machines in the back by the bathroom. we can share these to go and i can walk with you there.” he offers with a shrug. kenjie runs his fingers through his lilac hair with the slightest bit of a sheepish smile, “my name isn’t just purple guy y’know. it’s kenjie. you are….” a pause, is he even actually going to try to attempt? “i’m sorry, i know we’ve met before, but i actually don’t recall. it’s been a week, a day really.” he says, glad to find someone that he could possibly get along with. he was starting to feel like he wanted to go, listening to the people around him talking about what next seasons color is going to be and how this season everyone is screeching about buttered yellow. he felt like he was going to join late mayor dupont in the grave if he had to continue to listen to that conversation. “come! let me show you and please tell me you’re going to give me an interesting conversation that isn’t about buttered yellow.” he says, picking up the plate again as he hands one of the salmon sticks to jericho and takes one for himself. “did you eat before this? I did not, unfortunately, i pregamed too. i’m not trusting any open drink around this place.”

[seyxcoe]

he didn’t need to be told twice. as soon as kenjie tugged the chair out, jericho was up and movin’, boots scuffin’ the marble . didn’t bother tryna play it off classy, just dropped into the seat as if he’d been invited to the fuckin’ thing. couple of guests gave him the kind of side-eye normally reserved for rodents and poor people, but he didn't even clock them. wasn’t the first time he’d been somewhere he shouldn’t, wouldn’t be the last. head tilted back a bit, arm slung loose over the chair, one leg stretched out under the table, the other bent just enough to bounce his knee slow, fingers drumming against his thigh. he’d claimed the space and wasn’t planning to move unless someone made him.

he watched the kid work the catering table with intent, which earned a lazy grin outta him: whole plate was piled high. coe shifted, one leg hooked over the other, tryin’ to place the face again. there was a familiarity in his energy, that chatterbox rhythm some people carried naturally. reminded him of someone who used to talk through silences just to keep the dark from sinkin’ in.

when he came back with the plate, jericho leaned in and took the salmon stick when it was offered. he turned it between his fingers, then pop it into his mouth without ceremony. the flavor hit decent. upscale, a little sweet, didn’t taste like anything he ever got from a corner deli. his diet consisted mostly of instant noodles tho. “yo, that’s actually kinda good,” he said, brows lifting, more surprised than he meant to sound.

kenjie gave his name and jericho clicked his tongue. “kenjie. that’s right. 'purple guy’ still fits you though, got a vibe.” he wiped his fingers off on his jeans, grin sharp and easy. nodded once. “i’m j.”

he stood without hurry, followed along behind kenjie as they started movin’, hands tucked into his pockets, pace casual. no rush, no real aim. just a walk through too much perfume and tailored judgment, listening to kenjie who seemed he didn't need breathing with how much he was talking. he  remind him of his ex when he was in that real chatty kinda high. he kinda missed it, too.

“aight, lemme think. oh–'parently some town put a dog in charge. mayor’s dead, maybe we try that next. city’s wild.” he clicked his tongue once again, amused.

[reveriixs]

Alexie had just managed to snag one of those overpriced, overhyped puff pastries on his way out—some tragic little thing dusted in gold leaf and regret. He bit into it as he pushed through the doors, chewed once, frowned like the betrayal was personal, and muttered, “Tastes like a trust fund’s funeral.” Still, he finished it. Pride had limits; hunger didn’t.

He was wiping crumbs off his fingers when the bark came sharp across the terrace.

Yo. Hey, asshole. The fuck you starin’ at?

Alexie blinked, slow as sin, before his gaze trailed deliberately down the kid’s ensemble and back up, brow arching like a curtain call. “Asshole? Bold opener,” he drawled, “coming from someone who looks like a wizard got blackout drunk and lost a bet.”

The cloak got a full once-over. “That thing’s got more fringe than my ex’s therapy journal.” He grinned, not unkindly—just curious, just amused.

He took another step, reaching into his jacket pocket—not for a weapon, not tonight—but for the little silver flask he’d been nursing since cocktail hour. “Relax, if I wanted to toss you off the balcony, you’d already be airborne. You just looked like you might be in need of something stronger than whatever your last coping mechanism was.”

He held it out with a knowing glint. “Sip? It’s either this or one of those corporate-blood cocktails they’ve been shaking like maracas inside. And between us, I prefer my poison without performance anxiety. Besides, far as I can tell, you ain’t causing problems. Long as you stay interesting, you’re safe from eviction.”

[seyxcoe]

jericho’s lips parted like he had another bite ready to throw, just to get it over with and shut the whole thing down before it dragged. he wasn’t in the fuckin’ mood. hadn’t been all night. didn’t know why he thought this glittery graveyard of a party would feel better than sitting in the dark in his bedroom with a blunt and the busted fan rattling like it was trying to escape the window. then he reminded himself who else would be occupying the adjacent room, why he needed the distraction and to be out of the way. 

he caught the words and almost smiled. almost. but his gaze dropped, trailing the guy’s movements, already lining up something rude when his brain finally clocked the suit. matched the cloak, with the same loud print. jericho blinked once, slow, then huffed through his nose and shifted his weight. “right. yeah. guess you’d know exactly how fuckin’ stupid it looks,” he muttered, voice sharp but not biting. fingers raked through his curls as he let the words stretch. “ain’t my fault some bloke got shit taste. i was just doin’ y’all a favor keepin’ it out of sight.”

his eyes narrowed slightly, chin tipping up as if to make a point, like the problem wasn’t him sneaking into the venue wearing someone else’s coat; it was the fact that the damn thing existed at all. he didn’t look sorry. didn’t feel it either. in his head, the logic still stood: rich people wore ugly shit to prove they could, and coe was just borrowing the currency.

but then the flask came out, and he felt it like a punch to his guts.

he tried to remain relaxed, throat pulled tight, tongue dry. his eyes locked on it, small, silver, the kind you could tuck in a boot or a jacket lining. he used to carry one, albeit he was sure it didn't cost as much. now it looked like a test he didn’t remember signing up for. he didn’t blink, just flicked his gaze up to the guy’s face, then back to the flask, then again, faster the second time, less curious and more like he was making sure there was enough distance between them. then he turned his head, eyes locking on the skyline instead, fixing them on some office window with the lights still on. something solid. something far.

“i don’t drink,” he said, short and clipped. didn't feel the need to give an explanation.

his fingers flexed once at his sides before he rolled his shoulders back and turned just enough to glare. “i was out here first, y’know,” he muttered, jaw tight, smoke sliding from the corner of his mouth. “so if someone’s gotta do the entertainin’, that’s on you big guy, not me.”

his chin stayed lifted in a fuck you he didn't have to say out loud, the whole thing rubbing him the wrong way for some reason.

[reveriixs]

Alexie’s laugh came easy—sharp and amused, low enough to purr but loud enough to carry. He didn’t so much stand in the center of the room as command it, like gravity forgot who it belonged to and bent toward him instead. The flask in his hand was half-raised when the air shifted—that particular, pointed shift that made his spine straighten by instinct, even if the smile never left his lips.

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Some people walked in with presence. Others? They announced themselves without a sound.

Alexie let the flask hover just shy of his mouth as Aleksey's voice cut through the velvet hum of the gala, that too-smooth cadence a blade wrapped in cashmere. He turned his head slowly, that half-smile never wavering, just sharpening—mischief laced with a hint of warning.

“Ah, look who the wind dragged in wearing last year’s ego and this year’s cologne,” Alexie drawled, eyes dragging up and down with mock deliberation, before flicking back up with a glint. “Tell me, was that line supposed to insult me or turn me on? 'Cause I gotta say, you’re halfway there.”

He stepped forward just enough to make the tension theatrical—close, not touching, like the space between them was a dare all its own. “You don’t like the suit? That’s rich, coming from a man who dresses like he’s on his way to ruin someone’s marriage at brunch.”

Alexie tipped his flask in salute before taking another swig, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek as he looked Aleksey over once more—this time slower, like flipping a page he’d already memorized just for the pleasure of it.

“Careful, Sey,” he added with a smirk, letting the name roll off his tongue like honey spiked with something sharp. “You keep flirting like that and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

[seyxcoe]

the second alexie’s eyes caught his, sey’s mouth curved in a smile too sharp to be polite, too amused to be anything else. he moved without hesitation, floor recognizing the weight of who he was. noise, music and chatter stopped reaching him now: it didn't fall away, he shoved it out, let everything else blur at the corners. they were irrelevant, and alexie's deep-cut smirk predictable in the way lighting finds metal.

he took the flask straight from alexie’s hand without warning, and fingers caught against warm skin, knuckles to knuckles, heat flaring in a quick electric drag, unspoken and deliberate. sey tilted the it to his mouth, head slightly turned, and took a quick pull. “blyat,” he spat out. “your taste in drink are still shit.” but he barely focused on the taste, or the nice burn down his throat. everything was just a challenge, an invasion of the other's space.

when alexie moved in, sey met him without pause, without even a flicker of restraint–if the man thought pressure might make him step back, he’d clearly forgotten who he was dealing with. their bodies aligned the way they always did, symmetrical in stature and challenge, chests nearly brushing, heat caught in the tight breath of space that only existed so it could be crossed again. the air shifted around them, this was turning into a spectacle, the kind of moment that dragged attention, with dark eyes locked to ice-blue, and neither men pretending this was just talk. of course he missed this.

“if that was enough to get you going, you’ve been starving, dorogoy.”

the affable smile that followed didn’t match the words, and yet even as he teased and made sultry promises, he returned the flask to alexie and his other hand landed on his shoulder a moment later. the crowd saw what he wanted them to see: a cordial gesture, two men sharing a private laugh beneath the noise, but the layers underneath twisted deeper. he took one more step, pressing the flask between them, and his fingers curled, pressed into the muscle beneath the fine fabric, not to hurt, but enough to remind. a grip that said i know what you can take and i know exactly how to give it. he was sure alexie would feel the contrast carved into every inch of contact.

“and that name,” he added, now casually fixing the lapel of alexie’s suit, brushing the fabric smooth. it looked social. harmless, a man adjusting a friend’s collar before a photograph. but his voice dropped a shade lower now, pitched for no one else to hear, drawn close between them. “you know i don’t let just anyone say it. not friends. not enemies. only the ones who leave marks in the dark.”

his hand lingered a moment longer than needed, fingers brushing down and away, and when he looked up, the shift in his gaze was slow and unmistakable. it moved with intention, dragging first across alexie’s mouth, the edge of a smirk too sharp to ignore, pausing there like he could taste it if he wanted, then climbing higher to lock onto his eyes again. the heat there didn’t flicker. the crowd saw two powerful men talking close, maybe sharing an inside joke, or reconnecting over old business. “so if you’re gonna keep saying it tonight, you better start earning it.”

[seyxcoe]

he needed to be somewhere that wasn’t his shitty apartment that night, anywhere. chris was in one of his moods again, and coe figured he’d rather risk gettin’ tossed outta some mayor bday or memorial circus or whatever, than sit through that. the place inside looked like someone robbed a chandelier museum and said fuck it, hang ‘em all. crystal dripped from the ceilings like icicles on steroids, and people dressed like they crawled outta a magazine's ass crack. and him–black tee, ripped jeans, fuckin’ stupid-ass green cloak he snatched from coat check. looked like a magician’s beach towel, dragged when he walked as it was made for someone taller then him, and he kept steppin’ on the fringe, but every time he passed someone in a suit covered in rhinestones or saw nine inch heels decorated with moving butterflies, he reminded himself: rich folks wore dumb shit all the time. that was the point. blend in by standin’ out.

so he wandered. didn’t talk to nobody, just floated like smoke past whispering pairs and clinking glasses, eyes scanning the food trays. heard one lady say “foreign policy” and dipped out before he got asked what hedge fund his dad ran or which prep school made him hate his parents.

outside didn’t fix shit, but at least it was quieter; didn’t have to hear one more conversation about senate seats or gallery shows or yachts in fuckin’ montauk. he just wanted a drink.

his shoulders were tight as he lit a cigarette with too much force, flame flaring up like it was pissed too. movement flicked across the edge of his vision–he turned, chin tilting just enough to catch tall, broad: security, probably. the walk had that clipped confidence. jericho braced. figured he was about to get told there was a no smoking rule or some “sir, i’m gonna have to ask you to–” bullshit.

“yo. hey, asshole. the fuck you starin’ at?”

@reveriixs

[seyxcoe]

ain’t like he belonged in there. that was clear from the second he sneaked in and ducked behind a potted plant big enough to classify as its own zip code. tall, near the catering table, all decorative and self-important. good cover, though. kept him mostly outta sight, which was the goal. 

everybody else dripped in money, he had a black t-shirt on and black jeans ruined at the knees. coe just wanted somethin’ to eat needed to stay out of the apartment and far from chris bullshit. he'd heard rumors about the mayor's memorial thing, saw it on someone’s story–lotta glitter, lotta little-ass food that looked expensive. not the kind you bought in bodega foil, not even the good shit from dominican spots on grand. nah, this was fancy-fuckin’-toothpick food. all stacked and pretty and probably tastin’ like cardboard. he wanted to try one. or seven. 

“psst. hey. doll.” jericho hissed it low, catchin’ the flash of lavender silk or whatever-the-fuck across the way. shiny. tailored. familiar face, couldn’t place the name. “yeah, you. purple guy. c’mere a sec.”

when the guy turned, he peeked out further from the foliage, gesturing to the cutie to come closer. his grin came easy. “think you can snag me one of them lil’ salmon things? or whatever look fancy. i ain’t picky.” a pause. “also–d’you reckon they serve gatorade at this place?”

@gildedash

[seyxcoe]

the air shifted before he even stepped into view. beneath cipriani’s dripping chandeliers and the kind of velvet hush that came with money old enough to have forgotten what hunger felt like, aleksey moved through the crowd with the ease of someone used to being observed. every step was calculated, people turned as they always did, some because they knew who he was, some because they thought they did. he tilted a half-smile to someone from city hall, nodded to a hedge fund brat, let someone's wife kiss both cheeks and whisper something coy about catching up.

he crossed the floor, glass in his hand catching the chandelier’s gleam, stopping in front of alexie's figure. of course he was here; there wasn’t a night in this city thick with power that didn’t eventually drag the both of them into the same space. he let his blue gaze rake down–shoulders, chest, trim waist–and back up, like inspecting a car he didn’t plan to buy but wouldn’t mind taking for a spin.

“jesus,” he said, voice smooth as the drink in his hand. “don’t tell me you wore that on purpose. you look like you make your money off other people’s knees.” no handshake. just the grin that cut through his features, one part wolf, one part dare.

@reveriixs

[caedmilfolie]

Open starter (capping 0/6) location: memorial charity gala, early evening

The heels clicked like a promise across the marble—measured, deliberate, and meant to be heard. Serafina de Luca stepped into Cipriani 25 Broadway wrapped in hunter green that clung like a second skin and whispered when she moved, a fitting match with the chosen style of decoration for the evening. Tasteful and not too flashy. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, soft waves brushing bare skin, framing a face too composed to be called innocent. She didn’t smile, not yet. Smiles were currency, and tonight? She was counting every coin.

The room was decadent, all gold and light and whispered conversations stretched too thin. Beneath the chandeliers, champagne flutes clinked and politicians shook hands with criminals wearing better suits. She returned none of the stares that were occasionally casted in her direction, but she felt them. Sipped them like fine wine. Somewhere in this room, she knew, the rest of the Pentavita council was scattered like chess pieces across a velvet board. And somewhere else, someone she hadn’t met yet might be worth the trouble.

She lingered near the edge of the main floor, half turned toward the entrance as though waiting on a ghost, one hand curled loosely around the stem of her glass. If alliances were to be forged, they’d have to come to her first. Serafina didn’t chase power, she preferred to wear it like perfume. And tonight, beneath all the glitter and gold, something in the air promised change. Maybe even blood.

"Go straight for the wine." she recommended, when someone near her reached out their hand to take a flute of champagne from one of the waiters' trays. "The champagne truly lacks in flavor."

[seyxcoe]

old money shimmer, nothing nouveau about the way people moved or held their glass. the air smelled like polished stone and ambition, expensive perfume hung too thick near the stairwell, and there was always someone adjusting a cuff, a smile, a story. sey moved through it like he belonged—and he did—but he never let the belonging dull his awareness.

he recognized the stillness in sera's posture, not passive, practiced, like a dancer between steps, poised. he stepped into her periphery. “good to know,” he hummed, eyes scanning the tray that passed behind him before landing on her. he went for the wine. his smile curved, restrained but easy. he liked her. or at least, liked the way she played her role. “your mother sends her regrets?” he asked, casual, as it didn’t matter either way. 

[seyxcoe]

by the time aleksey stepped away from the italian financier gushing over synthetic oil futures, the room had swelled past comfort. gold-flecked gowns skimmed the marble, lapels brushed against shoulders, and the air was thick with perfume and pretense. cipriani 25 had done what it always did: reeked of old money and new favors, dressed up in faux civility. a stage for power, where the audience wore diamonds and suspicion in equal weight.

people parted when he walked past, not only out of fear, not quite, but out of instinct. like birds sensing a shift in weather. then something caught. it took a second, as he hadn't pegged him for this crowd. last time, the guy had been buzzing on caffeine and too much sugar, and he'd written him off as a civilian, harmless. but there he was, and sey hated surprises, not knowing who someone was, especially in a room like this. 

he cut across the room, steps unhurried but purposeful. his smile came before his voice, a slow curl of amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “you clean up well, kotenok,” he commented, slipping into miguel’s space to make sure he knew it was intentional. his gaze flicked down the line of the outfit, then back up, landing on those restless eyes. “friend of the mayor?” his tone played it close to the edge of mocking. “or just crashing for the canapés?”

the room moved around them, laughter spiked somewhere near the orchestra, the sound of glasses clinking together, and aleksey looked for tells. not just in posture, but in presence.

@darlingrevenge

[seyxcoe]

by the time the orchestra settled into its third pass of clair de lune, the gold-leafed rotunda of cipriani 25 had swollen to its full splendor: laughter curling into the high dome, crystal flutes clinking like windchimes in the hands of old money and newer predators, all of them perfumed and polished, chasing legacy or distraction or someone else’s mistake. he moved through them like current. not fast, never rushed, just inevitable. 

his gaze slid through clusters of silk and diamonds until it caught – stopped. he caught the way the dress moved first, molten, sculpted, a baroque fever dream stitched in decadence. he could feel heads turning behind him as she moved, but he was already on the approach.

“planning on bringing the whole room to its knees, valya?” he said, lifting his glass slightly in salute, head tilted just enough to catch her face in profile. “or just me?” there was a smile in his eyes, but it didn’t soften the way he watched and appreciated her. she was beautiful in that deliberate, crafted way, and he liked people who crafted themselves.

@valentinexhart

[seyxcoe]

by the time the crystal chandeliers had softened into their evening glow and the old-world hush of cipriani 25 broadway gave way to murmured politics and practiced laughter, aleksey was already deep in the current. his date had moved as well an nto the mirrored halls and veiled conversations of new york’s glittering power circuit, which meant aleksey was free to walk the floor as he pleased, if one didn't consider his security blurring at the edges of the room.

the scent of money hung thick in the air, layered over cologne and candle wax, dressed up in good intentions and black tie. he caught half-finished names, gossip laced with ice, glasses raised too late to mean anything sincere. and it was as he passed a knot of guests, that he heard it: an hushed murmur, volkova.

he didn’t pause, just let it roll past like so many other things people thought he wouldn’t hear. the name always came laced with something: fear, awe, hate, desire. what mattered wasn’t the sound, but the tone, and this one had edge. he circled wide the next few minutes, shook hands with a senator who cheated on his wife with one of sey's connection, gave a nod to an ex-pentavita elder sipping champagne like he’d earned the air he breathed. she was still there when he circled back. aleksey's smile curved, sharp as a knife, enough to draw blood if you leaned too close.

“didn’t catch the end of that sentence earlier,” he said, inviting either panic or conversation.

@trcnscendant ( zaina )

[seyxcoe]

the room hummed with forced elegance. laughter tuned to the right pitch, movements rehearsed in high-end fabrics, the kind of crowd that had been raised not just to wear power but to enjoy the taste of it. cipriani’s marble floors mirrored the glittering chandeliers overhead, and from a distance, the mayor’s framed portrait near the stage could’ve been mistaken for a gilded relic in a museum. but aleksey had drawn too close for illusion. he stood before it, silent, a glass of something expensive caught between two fingers, untouched. the photo was clean, official, one of those portraits meant to smooth over real men into digestible symbols. nothing about it gave away the truth, not the alliances made in dim stairwells, not the whispers traded for favors, not the mistakes that finally cost him his life. but aleksey watched it like it might speak anyway.

his mouth was pressed into a flat line, eyes unmoving, head tilted just slightly, as if he were reading something behind the frame. the air behind him shifted, someone passed too close and the scent of their perfume coiled into his awareness, but he didn’t turn right away. “he always did take better photos than decisions.”

@burningxheaven ( brooklyn )

[reveriixs]

Hero stepped out from the shadows like the heat didn’t touch him, boots scuffing against the gravel with that unhurried weight he carried everywhere. Arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze dragged over Jericho slow, like he was reading the side of a beer can he didn’t ask for.

“Well damn,” he drawled, voice like worn leather and desert road. “Ain’t this alley just drippin’ with therapy today.”

He came to a stop a few feet away, struck a match off his thumb with casual grace, and lit his cigarette with the kind of care usually reserved for last rites. The first drag settled deep in his lungs, smoke curling from his lips as he tilted his head just slightly. “You always talk like that,” he asked, tone dry as bone, “or am I just lucky enough to catch you mid-brood?”

There was no judgment in the look he gave—just quiet calculation. Hero didn’t flinch around anger. Hell, he’d been raised by it, baptized in worse. If anything, he respected a man who could bite down on his fists and still stand still.

“I ain’t tryna add shit to your diary, alright?” he muttered, glancing up toward the thick summer sky like it might offer a better conversation. It didn’t. “Just heard some hollerin’. Figured I’d come check no one was bleedin’ out on my damn sidewalk.”

A pause stretched between them, heavy with sweat and silence. Hero gave a small shrug, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and let a sliver of a grin tug at one corner of his mouth.

“But if you’re plannin’ to start swingin’?” he added, smoke curling out slow. “Let me finish this first. I hate fightin’ with a half-lit one. Feels disrespectful.”

[seyxcoe]

the guy talked like he owned the pavement — like j was the one trespassin’. “my damn sidewalk,” he said, like he was mayor of this piss-slick alley. cool voice, too, that kind of slow-cooked cowboy shit, like someone raised by ashtrays and desert heat. j didn’t move when the guy stepped closer. didn’t back up, but got ready to square up if that was were they going. which was usually it, when he was involved. 

“yeah, well,” he muttered, “therapy ain’t the worst thing i’ve done in an alley.” he dragged his cig, jaw tight, eyes flashing to the others. couldn’t punch out a frat boy, so now this guy — this fuckin’ guy with his leather-cooled stillness and that stupid little grin — was gonna get the leftovers.

he stepped off the wall, eyes raked the guy top to bottom. if he was dumb enough to talk like he ran the block, maybe he was dumb enough to take the bait. he took a step closer, gettin' even more up close and personal. “you can finish your cig. i’ll wait,” he said, voice low, grin mean and humorless. “but if you came out here to play sidewalk sheriff and flex for the cameras, lemme save you the trouble — ain’t no one fuckin’ watchin’”

he wasn’t curious about the guy so much as he was irritated by how unfazed he seemed. like nothin’ could touch him. like j didn’t matter. and maybe he didn’t. but tonight, with that heat in his chest and the ache in his knuckles, he wanted to matter enough to ruin someone’s night.