𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 .

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘹 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘦 : 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 . 𝙩𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙖𝙠 .

[thmolineux]

*     ◟    :    𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐚𝐤 . 𝙳𝙹 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 . 𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚌. 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛. 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 & 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 .

𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙳𝙸𝙶𝙰𝙻 𝚂𝙾𝙽 … ? ●●    𝚁𝙴𝙶𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚈 : 𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚄𝙰𝙻 .    ●    𝚁𝙴𝙶𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚈 : 𝙺𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝚃 .    ●●●   𝚁𝙴𝙶𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚈 : 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙳 .   

*     ◟    :    〔   jacob elordi  ,      cis  man    +   he/him    〕      theodore  'teddy'   novak  ,     some say you’re a  29  year  old  lost soul among the neon lights.    known for being both  a  flop  era  survivor ✨  and  a  fuck-up  magnet,  one can’t help but think of  marching  powder  by   hyphen  when you walk by .    are you still a  dj headliner  at the  gravity  nightclub  &  an  associate  of  the  jade  tribe  as  the  prodigal ?    i think we’ll be seeing more of you and  loose  ends,  burner  flip  phones, off-label  jeans  &  glitter  stickers, although we can’t help but think of :  the   son ( bullet  train ),  christopher  moltisanti ( sopranos // many  saints  of  newark ),  michael  gray  ( peaky  blinders )  whenever we see you down these rainy streets .      (     j.  ,      25  ,      they/them  ,    N/A  ,   GMT    +    none  .     )

full googledoc intro tbd pending plotting so for now this is what we get 💅

keeping the bar low like teddy would've wanted <;3

your honour he is literally a wet rag frankensteined from different media babygirls that have one thing in common: serving c*nt and abject failure

𝚃𝚆: 𝙳𝚁𝚄𝙶𝚂/𝚂𝚄𝙱𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙰𝙱𝚄𝚂𝙴 , 𝙺𝙸𝙳𝙽𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶, 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁 (<𝟹 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽), 𝙽𝙴𝙶𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃, 𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝙻 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚄𝙼𝙰 𝙴𝚃𝙲. 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙻𝙻.

𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃 … 𝙷𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈 ?

novak is not his real name.

teddy is also not his real name.

red flaaaag 🚩

born to a criminal family, with origins in southeastern europe but activating primarily in london & manch. ( stay tuned to see this in a wanted plot coming soon in your area ... tbd. if any of his former relatives/connections can still come into play somehow or if they're more of a past coming back up to bite situation )

family dealt with auto theft & stolen goods tr*fficking (esp. machinery & comm tech) and synthetic dr*gs as their specific niche, but they started to branch out into the ✨international hit list✨when teddy was in his teens

as a result of his father's enterprising spirit & determination to piss off every criminal white collar and blue and black, teddy spent his critical development years getting k*dnapped a lot 💗 literally worst school trip ever

initially, teddy was raised as the company's inheritor (sins of the father sins of the sire etc.) and primed to take the reins. however, it soon became obvious that he is a) a liability b) sitting ducks leverage because he's just here getting his ass kidnapped on the daily and c) more damaging to the family capital alive than dead bc homeboy does not have what it takes to hack it in the big bad world

if early years teddy was trauma central, 20s teddy was in his true delulu element. between rehab stints & dropping off the face of the earth whenever he felt like it, he didn't just fumble the bag - he actively jeopardized every one of his father's assignments. he really made dynastic disappointment his brand

𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃 … 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴 ?

it's hard to see the straw that broke the camel's back. hell, sometimes it's even hard to see the camel. maybe it was that one invoice from a private clinic in maui that offered 'energetic detox' as a cure for addiction. charge it to the game, mate. maybe it was the payphone pleas for bail money, each from a different jurisdiction. maybe it was the chain of untenable business ideas (replicant fight club anyone?) in the already-tanked entertainment industry. maybe it was the off-shore ransom calls, really. how many times can a man be asked to ransom his son from a serbian halfway house? it's not like they give air miles for that, do they?

whatever it was: a few years ago, his father stopped.

everything stopped.

the rescue missions. the cash flow. the security back-up.

teddy's father didn't just stop saving him from himself. he stopped saving him from everyone else.

for all the world knew, the fastest rising criminal in the european underworld never had a son at all.

teddy was stunned. struck dumb, that he could be cut off like this - like deadweight. not because he was under any illusion of being anything else, but because he thought he covered his base. he thought he leveraged his charms enough to be loved despite it. after all, he'd been relying on his mother & her side of the family for help for years. he assumed that line would never run slack, regardless of where his father stood on his waste of a son. only it did.

at first, he was convinced it was all over. this, his life - whatever he tried to make of it. if one of his father's rivals wouldn't get to him, then surely the job market would. because honestly, what's a quicker death sentence than capitalism?

then, he thought that maybe being dead to the world isn't as bad as all that.

there's a certain freedom that comes with no longer being the son.

𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃 … 𝙾𝙽𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 ?

he went to the place where all lawless, turned-out creatures go - and all things without a name. new york. waste and dead-ends, sure; and boundless opportunity.

surviving the city in its first hungry, desperate years wasn't easy. it's a breakneck tie, what was worse about the whole affair: the poverty or the fear. having fuck-all to fall back on. always being on the lookout. constantly scouting for any hint of recognition; for any guy that knows a guy placing a call behind his back.

for two years, he holds his breath. the drugs help, sure; and then the popularity, the fame, the flow of people and offers and gigs - those help a little, too. he had always been loved; even at his lowest, even when he was not respected, perhaps - he was still loved. sought after. he couldn't be anything but used to it.

he falls in with the jade tribe, recruited on a white night. who knows what came first? maybe they picked him because of his downright psychic fucking knowledge of everyone's predilections; the cued-in awareness of what the gravity clientele needs. or maybe it went the other way around; maybe he somersaulted ranks at the club, made headliner courtesy of his name in some jade capo's pocket.

much like his downfall, teddy doesn't know where his luck began. he can't see the starting point. he just places his bets. he places it all on red.

two years, three years; five. a new moon and a tide changing. and still, theodore novak holds his breath.

the stakes get higher. he starts asking for more; he charges higher people, silent people. he trades in different bargaining chips. he collects data. that's what he is, now: a close kept book of names, and numbers, and needs. of weak points.

he rises higher.

if he was a betting man? if anyone asked him, back there at the start?

he'd have given himself five days.

but to his own surprise, new york has a magnetism for disaster. the only real way to win is sticking it out; staying alive one second longer than the other guy. that guy, there on the floor.

new york isn't conquered; it is survived. and if there's one thing teddy could do, it was enduring.

𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃 … 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 ?

for anybody who cared to look, for anyone who knew how, the boy who goes by theodore novak is everything he's ever been. liability. leverage. treasure. it all depends on who gets to him first. only this time, he isn't sitting idle.

it's a matter of potential; it's a matter of the right offer. the right question. could teddy be turned as a weapon - and if so, against who? his family? their contacts in the new country? the jade tribe?

what is theodore novak, the prodigal son - the boy that was once solomon 'sonny' belkov, looking for? a way out - or a way back?

most days, he doesn't know himself. besides, anyone who's been in new york long enough understands this: too often, a way out and a way back are the same thing.

what matters is that he will not have to wonder whether he's more valuable alive or dead ever again. what matters is not only that he survived, but how he did. what matters is that, when all is said and done, even if new york burns: teddy is covered.

he still has his family's training. better yet: he still has their secrets.

[murdcrofcrows]

who: @thmolineux ( teddy )

where: faceless ship, second floor

he didn't know how he ended up on the second floor of all places, it certainly wasn't the vibe he was ever going for and classical music just made him sleepy. reminded him of piano lessons and metronomes. something to keep the demon child busy so he wasn't out terrorizing the neighborhood. not many things made him contemplate committing acts of violence in particular, but whatever the hell was ringing in the air at that moment was certainly pulling the homicidal out of the very shallow depths of bash's mind.

lucky for him, he had the jolly PRODIGAL giant with him which meant things would not be boring for long. it never was when they were together and nor should it be - they were two deviants on the same fucked up wavelength making the best of each day this shitty world threw at them. here for a good time, why waste time on anything else? not when the world was crumbling around them since the moment he crawled out of the landfill of staten island.

"i think it would be cool to stab someone," he said out of nowhere, pulling another drink from the straw ( he insisted on having in his drink despite the distaste on the bartender's face ). "just once, y'know? to see how it feels. i bet it would be fun until the person starts screaming."

[thmolineux]

𝐅𝐔𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐓 . It's a Bash word, actually, and thrown around with Bash-like voltage; all random intent and no care for consequences. Teddy throws him a glance. If you asked him? Not that anyone should, really, but if you did? Fun isn't exactly how he'd call the experience. Not the term he'd fish for, in Jeopardy and the like, to describe his first close-contact kill.

But then again: it also matters, doesn't it, what the stabbin' is for. Like all of a person's firsts, a first kill is all about the variables. An ambiance thing, reckon. The when and where and why matter. The who - oh, that... that fucking matters, too. That holds up something fierce. And what else? How old you are, probably. How much you understand of it. If you're young enough, it is fun; it is. You don't know any better. Bash is right on the money. It's fun almost exactly up until the point they start screaming.

He could tell him this; could, won't. What Bash-boy knows about Teddy's past is limited. It was passed on in that vague, Jade Tribe trickle-down economics kinda way. What is it that could be said about Theodore Novak? What is it that he could be known? That he comes from a bad sort. A bad seed. A seed that might still turn useful. No specifics, is the point. Far as Teddy is thrown, no one can have specifics.

He leans his cheek in his fist. Somewhere, there is a memory zoning in, faint like condensation. A man barking at him to finish the bloody job. Twist upwards, right, not on the downswing like a fucking butcher. Teddy shakes it away. His head whips to the side, and when his gaze is back on Bash, he smiles. His lips curl against his palm. "Shut the fuck up." He's still looking at him like that, corner of the eye sort of thing. Not judgey, nah. Judgement doesn't have many legs to stand on between them. Bash and Teddy, the deal is - the two of them move on a level that has fuck-all to do with the rest of the world. It's like the pitch is higher: industrial-size frequency.

Not judgement, then. Fondness? That's how he rolls: misguided sense of kinship. It makes some twisted sense. Instead of following that thought to its source, Teddy scoots up in his seat. Uncrosses his ankles. Then, quick and certain, he reaches across the distance to filch the glass off Bash. He takes it slowly, fingers late on the grab. His other hand comes up and tussles Bash's hair. "Shut the fuck up, eh?" He pats the side of his jaw. "Tosser." He jerks his head somewhere over Bash's shoulder. "You couldn't stab an olive."

[ofcruelheart]

"Forgive me for thinking you'd be a fucking mind-reader and be one step ahead of my grievances. Isn't that your specialty, anyway? Or has being away from your home turf and usual vendors rendered you less than spry?" She interlaces her own coarseness with a subtle grin, signaling, in his parlance, a playful banter. She's just fucking around. Partially, at least. The sparring session lacked the ferocity she desired, and it's truly a crime they couldn't take a literal leap off the boat. Yet, blaming Teddy for that wouldn't be fair. The peculiar amalgamation of nepotism-bred delinquent and DJ-cum-drug dealer may be a misfit in numerous respects, but not in the ways he might assume—certainly not in Azusa's eyes.

Falling short of earning the approval of his psychopathic father? Not a fuck-up.

Falling short of impressing the congresswoman he was meticulously introduced to, who's now campaigning for re-election? Yes, tremendously. Just put on a tailored suit and tell the cameras you're so honored to be front and center to her triumph or some flowery bullshit.

She loops an arm around his, guiding him toward the cacophony of screams and howls, lifting her chin to meet the winter's breeze that tousles her hair. He's warm, and though she's accustomed to plunging into and cutting through frigid currents and reemerging into biting winds, it's a respite.

"Well, well, Teddy. I make the effort to set you up with an entire congresswoman, and what do I get in return? Not even a tooth from the spoils of the battle. I ought to take it from you myself."

[thmolineux]

𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 , 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 . Not the jab about his specialty - that one, he manages to catch on the chin - but her second question. It takes a while for him to remember what she's even talking about. The notion of a congress existing out there, beyond the metal railing and the tortoiseshell decking, beyond those two guys who just punched each other's cunts in, feels pretty far removed. Totally separate, really, from the issue at hand. That being: why are you not having fun with me?

Azusa, now that he thinks about it, did try to set him up with someone. And that someone might've been, now that he wrenches the memory from its dregs and pull it apart like a tootsie roll, a big baller in politics. But this still tells him jack. The list of women Teddy has disappointed stays about yay high. Stage indication to look to the sky. Yeah, up there. And if you make that older women he's disappointed? In the state of New York? In recent 20/20 vision? We're going to the stratosphere, cowboy.

Teddy pulls a grimace. His brow jumps, his tongue hits ridges, his face does a thing where it's not sure if it's going to go slack or apologetic. He can practically feel it; like someone knocked a emoji down the side of its head.

"Well," he says, again, and then realises he can't shove his hands down his pockets because she's holding on to him, and just how is that fair? "Thank God, innit, that it was an entire congresswoman. Imagine if you've shacked me up with half of one."

But he did drop the ball, and he knows it. The very point of liaising with Azusa is that she introduces him to valuable - single, seeking, rat-race edge of desperate - people to befriend. Befriend, lick into, whatever; it all goes down one end. Azu shows him where, and Teddy pounces. Except for when he doesn't. That congresswoman would've been more valuable in his bed (no matter that his years of playing sugar baby were a little on the cooked side of over) than in his blocked list.

God - at least he hopes he blocked her.

He steers them both into the open air. The wind cuts him off, this far up the galley, and Theodore shoots his collar against it. Underneath the tux jacket, he's wearing nothing else. Some choice, that. The lapels split low enough that it reveals a V-patch of muscle, pebbled blue with cold, and the glint of a piercing. The stray thought moves through him, right, that perhaps Miss Fujiwara shouldn't have tried to matchmake a politician with someone who wears his nipples out to a gala, but that... as they say, neither here nor there. Strangers things happened in the silver city.

By way of an answer to her blood threat, Teddy does as Teddy would: he grins. He flashes teeth. One incisor, in particular, shores up the front row - two studded gems. "Now, now. Is this punch you're talking about business or pleasure?"

[gravefed]

While not attuned to those flirtatious natures of other warm-blooded people in the crowd,    she does tend to notice when someone is studying her.     Had she been a sliver of skin upon a microscope slide,   she would look muddied and torn.      War had transformed all those leeches of trauma and force-fed her until she wanted to burst.      Wounds are easy to mend.     They are predictable:    where the spleen is,    where the bullet trail leads,     where the spittle grows rosy with blood.      Social interactions that included those men who seemed to have a performance for companions was not particularly something she was versed in.     His voice is familiar,    but she doesn’t pry.     Some use these masks as a comfort   —   she didn’t feel right exposing anyone with a name.      “That sounds like a very busy night    [ … ]    do you like the attention?”      A blink,   slow and naturally dazed.     Pulls the focus from the sparkle of the lights behind his head,    to his covered face.     Tall and large,   overwhelmingly shaded with some sense of confidence    —   falsified or simply perfected to appear so.     Selena continues,     tone warm and buttery,     a curiosity that causes her to fidget slightly in her seat.     “It’s quieter here than other places   [  …  ]     I would be content to just look at the moon outside.”      A pause,    is she sounding too elusive here?    Too enigmatic?      An inhale to encourage another question,    gaze drifting absently to that masked stranger once more.     A genuine offer without any ulterior motive,         “Would you like a drink?    Or maybe just water?”

[thmolineux]

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐓 . Teddy's head snaps up, fast . He has it now , yeah . He did hear this voice before . He heard it around those exact words : a glass of water , maybe ? But why would Selena be here ? Isn't it - you know, give to God what is God's and to Caesar what's Caesar's ? What does somebody who deals with madmen and veterans have to do with this crowd ?

They're not gathered here to think back on memories , are they fuck . They're here to be celebrating . Another year . Another turn 'round the sin and the sun . Oh, Theodore just does not, he does absolutely fucking not need to be asked how he's doing right now . Not in that voice . Not in any bloody voice .

He reels around so that his back is facing the crowd . He does it a bit too quickly, but smooth on the revolve, even so; a tilt from the hip, a look past his shoulder . He does it more calculated than he usually does anything - as if being out of earshot can somehow compensate for where this is going . And how have you been , Teddy ? How are the nights ? He sets his jaw . Not a first instinct - but an overridden one . It checks out, doesn't it ? You can't show weakness if you're getting the head start on shutting up and shoving it . "No," he draws, finally . "Isn't this whole gig a bit -"

He wants to say, out of your depth. But he doesn't know bare shite about Selena, does he . She's more than the girl at the clinic . She could be a lot of things to a lot of people . A lot of questions over the years, no ? Questions posed in that voice of hers , lilt like a tapering light . A lot of questions with a hell lot of answers . A lot of knowledge, then, that warrants her being here ; on this guest list , on the turn of the sun . "I didn't know you go to these things, is all. Bit of a... different context, and allat."

[ofcruelheart]

level 4 on the faceless ship / open to everyone

A tilt of the scales has never presented itself in a more savage spectacle, and Azusa has never preferred it any other way. She watches the fighting within the ring with rapt candor, dark eyes fixated and wide behind her mask of seafoam and Mikimoto pearls—pools of ink hungering for the merest smattering of crimson. A victor emerges, his fist defiantly thrust into the air, yet disappointingly, he selects another adversary from the distant right flank of the benches.

"Well," she sighs with an air of exasperated finality, her grasp tight on a handful of her silver dress as she rises and descends the tiers. A fleeting glance through one of the windows captures her attention, and she swallows wistfully. "Since this round proved a bust, pray, how many glasses would it take for you to take dip in the ocean alongside me?"

A smirk. Tepid and taunting, not unlike the deceptive allure of a placid current. "Or not. They probably have someone waiting with a fucking net on the side." She shrugs, the sinuous slope of her shoulders lifting. "Besides. You can't win me a drone or whatever else they call prizes sopping wet. What kind of message would that send to our governmental overlords?"

[thmolineux]

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 , 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 . Theodore watches her fingers graze the dark, dropping off knuckle by knuckle. They trace all the things wrong with the evening - and his company, if you wanna get specific - in one quick curl. Like - bye, baby, bye. He could keep time by it. The ABC's of do fucking better.

She finds it boring, he realises. It, this; the ship, the fight, the stage he proposed to meet at. The fact that he's not wowing this particular crowd of one shouldn't surprise him, but. Still bloody stings, a little. He's gotten used to cherry-picking the perfect events for people. Is there such a thing: too used with being brilliant at something?

That's the essence of Teddy, or at least the Teddy of this season: matching vice to audience. Predicting what a customer might want to do, by way of wasting some time - and what else they might be tempted to waste along with it.

Azusa fujiwara, now... she is not an easy game to entertain. If Teddy is minded to be grateful for anything, just about here, it's that she's here as a friend. That she's not a client, or a target, or anyone that would make it imperious - fucking critical, you follow? - to raise at her level. Because Teddy? Boy, Teddy cannot raise this high.

He clasps his hand to his neck. Her own hand holds out her dress - four-fingers tight and three inch apart from skin. He watches it disappear in the space between them, perfectly still as they pad down the stairs. He follows the way it sticks to her thigh. He follows, really, the white line of it - then the line of her gaze. Long, distant.

And at the end: the ocean.

Goes to figure. He should've known blood wouldn't put her mind off it.

"Jaysus, Azu. Drones? Tough fucking crowd." Teddy waits until they're both eye to eye - figure of speech, in these circumstances - to stare her down. At the top of the deck, someone begins to scream. "We-ell," he begins, a slow huff while he rounds his head through the foyer, "forgive me for thinking you might find gratuitous violence an agreeable start of the night. It's not like we live in New York or something, right?"

[gravefed]

* ◟ : @thmolineux

She had potential.        A separate sort of substance from other women.    This being the nature of self-destruction  —   or was it self-prophecy?       Either way there is something ticking in her that resembles a clock.    Selena has only so many months left,   it would seem,    before her organs begin eating themselves.       Her ambition brings risk,     and she knows that errors in this line of business teeters between death and desolation.       But still,    the clinic is open.    It illuminates the smog-filled sky with the blood orange lights of warmth.      For some it bodes safety,    for others it is that stark reminder that war eats at all of them.     House or battle.       This scene is different,   however,    and she observes other masked patrons with that curious gaze of an analytical scientist.      Otherworldly distinct only through that half-lucid smile along her lips before she takes another sip of her champagne at the quieter end of the lounge on the second floor.      An approach from her right side,    head angled slightly as she tries to decipher who’s behind that mask.      A hum of a laugh,     amused and flushed with self-awareness.      “Are you looking for a quieter part of the festivities as well?”    

[thmolineux]

𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 , at the middle-mark between risque and boring. Tasteful. Safe? Maybe. He wonders if there's anything left to that word these days. At any rate, it comes together rather nicely, Theodore finds: a cute pattern of almost-errors. Tonight, every part of someone's costume could be a giveaway. Knowing this crowd, of course, it's likely that nothing was. And her? He can't make out whether the risk she just took - the risk of talking first, never as casual as it seems - was calculation. Or just chance.

He knows, distantly, that he's thinking too much. Not very common, this bit. Not very welcome, either. It's her voice, he realises - the waiting room it opens around him. The space it carves. Teddy leans back. Stretches out a leg. Does he know that voice? ‶Is there any? Quiet, I mean?″

There's something he should be doing with his hands, probably. He locks them behind his back. If he's honest? He's banking on the fact that this pose - schoolboy, a little? and in black tie? - is kinda hot.

‶Nah. I don't do quiet, me. I was just in between having my ass kissed and having to go kiss someone else's. Feels nice, to give all this ass-centric situation a break.″

[thmolineux]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂 … 𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃 . *     ◟    :    𝗳𝗼𝗿 : 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹 .

𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 , even in the press of bodies. of course he does; what's the use of intimacy, if not this? he's lost more nights with angel than he's remembered with pretty much anyone else. teddy knows how she moves in a crowd like he knows his own name. well - poor point of comparison.

truth of the matter is, he can scout angel from a wasteland of suits and sequins for many reasons. take your pick. partly because, you know, look at her. they're all movement, all dynamic circles. in a room of calculated turns and closely held elbows, they stand out like a track turned twice the reverb of everything around it.

partly, sure, it's because teddy has danced with her long enough to read her body in the air. like wavelength; like forecasting. by this point (and what has it been? three, four years at the gravity?) he recognises the way she seesaws her way through open space. it used to be that he could time his music by it.

intimacy, see. who says the world above has a monopoly on it? gravity invented its own way of knowing. the only element that could've made this harder to guess - because there is a catch, always - is that, right now, they both have more clothes on than usual. theodore novak and angel cardona have a fucktruck of things in common, chief among which: forgettable they are not. on average, decent they are also not.

she is toying with something, when he spots her. a glass or a trinket; it catches the light like a lesser pair of eyes. teddy sidles up to them and hooks his arm around their elbow. ″ready, set, go? I heard there's a tarot-reading octopus on the higher floors. and like, I don't even care, ange. you're with me? we have to find a way in.‶

he clicks his teeth. somewhere behind him, chairs get pulled out. cards get pushed in. people's futures get timber-chopped at the poker table. not waiting for an answer, teddy fixes him with a levelled stare. ″have you, angel amadis, ever had a marine creature read you for filth? no? fucking thought so. what's the plan?‶

[thmolineux]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂 … 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽 *     ◟    :    𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 .

the crowd is milling, splitting in fits and starts around the entrance. it's too packed to move; too early to make a run for it. hands in tux pockets, itching for a lighter, wishing he'd taken the elevator when he was asked to, teddy sits at the bar.

he's waiting. for? fuck-all in particular, really. things have a way of turning up.

so, waiting. he's stuck, in fact; hemmed in next to someone that could be anyone. the mask betrays nothing. felt and silken, it shutters the lines of them to the world. soft? hard? no. it could be anyone. we covered this part. a civilian. brass. low-end brass, at that.

even worse? they could be ugly. great. just bloody mint. this mask bullshit just knocked down both networking and hooking up off the possibility list. teddy pushes to stand a little higher. even knowing it's a dead-end, he finds himself burning to strike up a chat. just because. he clears his throat a bit. he even hunkers down, really, actually scoots out of his chair just to catch their eyes. no fire wasted, right? he's here. they're here. he might as well figure out if they're friend or canon fodder.

with a sigh, and just a swish of a smile, his hand comes down to tap on the bar mat between them. ‶listen. I can't even see your face and I somehow just know you're glowering.″ he tucks his chin; holds back from winking, but just barely. the edge of the better part of wisdom. ‶like, chill. people are going to think you owe them money.″ his smile turns up. ‶do you? owe them money, that is.″

[cocosugars]

𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻    𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋    –    capping    at    five    [    0/5   ] 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾  +  𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇    –    the faceless ship event

touch   of   silk   fresh   against   skin   ;   a   shame   for   a   mask   to   disguise   such   a   beauty.   manicured   tips   push   up   the   cat   eye   mask   ---   a   fleeting   glimpse   of   bronze   skin   shimmers   through.   "god,   this   gag   is   getting   tired."   priya   laments   catching   a   flute   of   champagne   as   a   waiter   passes.   "when   is   the   weird,   freaky-deaky   eyes   white   shut   shit   supposed   to   start   ?"

[thmolineux]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 . teddy watches the woman sweep up a crystal flute. she does it in one smooth, unbroken motion, planing over the tray. he lifts a shoulder; not really a shrug. can't help you there. he grows a little focused, though, at the bite in her voice. a little cold. something - not quite instinct, not quite memory - puts him on guard. because people are supposed to enjoy things, aren't they ? it suddenly feels elemental to him, that people enjoy things. that he's the one responsible for it. then teddy realises that he's not the host, actually. weird, that. for once, the night that opens before him is not a night he has to micromanage. it's not an event to brush and powder and amp up into a better, fuller thing. so he stares down at her; even-faced.

‶now that's a reference I haven't heard in... ever? not firsthand, I don't think. pre-millenium cinema knowledge is def one way of making an impression.″