cleofox-blog1

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kas-ottenheimer‌:

When he told Nadia that he was going to get the car— assuring her that there was no rush to leave, even though they were both clearly waiting for the other to make this suggestion first— Kas saw himself out through the front doors and finally, felt the clean separation of stepping outside for the last time, leaving behind the crowded, low-lit rooms of the Doherty mansion for a temperate summer darkness alive with crickets. In the night air, he felt something oppressive lifting off of him. The din of the party grew muffled at his back; stray voices drifted up from the garden, still laughing and retelling the same stories, but they were as indecipherable to him now as a TV heard from another room. He loped down the front steps with one hand in each pocket, head slightly ducked. The kid at the valet stand glanced up from his phone long enough to trade back the BMW’s key for a corresponding blue ticket. Kas told him that he could drive the car out himself; the kid, visibly over it, shrugged and made no argument.

He’d confirmed to a few people that the after party was being hosted at their place without actively trying to promote it. Trev had seized control earlier that week, initiating his party-planning coup with an upgrade to a bigger, more “rager-friendly” Airbnb, and Kas had simply yielded to it, washing his hands of the whole thing. There’d be no avoiding whatever came next tonight. Still, he wanted to get home before the levees broke; he wanted to shed this persona he’d put on for the auction, more restrictive than his loose-fitting gray suit, and retire it to the back of his closet, forgetting that it was even there. He wanted the preferred version of himself; the self-established one, living a life which actually belonged to him. Not this false construct of his father’s making— firstborn son, future successor— which he was simply expected to adapt to, like water taking the shape of its container. 

The synthetic shutter sound of a camera brought his eyes up; Kas found himself looking at a figure stretched out across the hood of a car, dress cascading in folds of blush-and-rose-colored crystals, long legs kicking like a lazy swimmer. The car was, in fact, his car— the M5, its silver body taking on a grey-green cast in the garage’s weak light. Kas blinked, a frown forming. The girl, on the other hand, seemed neither alarmed or apologetic. She barely seemed to notice him at all until her voice floated up to address him, dreamy and indifferent. You don’t have to look on from there, you know. I’m only playing pretend. Kas gave her a surface-level smile: a polite curve which only held because he was too well-mannered to let it drop. By now, it was beginning to show the strain of a long, tiresome night. “Thanks. Gracious of you to allow me to approach my own car.” She shifted; he had to internalize a wince as the crystals of her gown skittered against the paint, no doubt leaving micro-abrasions in their wake. His gaze travelled around the other parked cars, the sleek, shadowed shapes of the Benzes and Bentleys, before returning to the BMW and the figure lounging on top of it, his irritation more obviously on display. “So— can I help you? Should I take a lap while you finish up the photoshoot, or what?”

Her smile, like the slim curve of the moon, dips for only a moment under the cloud of his tone and appearance. It’s instinct by now, both the smile and its counterpart, straddling the line between the reveal of emotion and the simple continuation of conversation — her lips form an upturned comma of a smirk, that singular transition which flitted from one instance to the next without risk of repercussion. 

She knows irritation when it looks her in the face, has seen a man’s nostrils flare at one childish act or another that she’s committed and aims to correct it through sheer, half-imagined charm. “Well,” she starts, the word accented like a street peddler attracting unsuspecting customers to her wares, “You must know that you have excellent taste.” Cleo puts on another pose, as though the simple extension of her body would prove enticing enough to sell the sight of her to someone who only cared for what was below the glittering dress, rather than the person contained by it. She anticipated another roll of his eyes or some other incensed remark, and offered, “This is just how I admire things. Beautiful things should be touched, you know? Sculptures, clothes, cars — fuck what the rules say. Art should be appreciated.” 

Cleo’s unsure what causes her hesitance to arrive at an apology; her brain, it seems, tells her to flit past that and move to something else, like evasion for the sake of entertainment. She instead tries to think of some exchange he might prefer, but quickly realizes she’s on the losing side when it comes to the haves and the have nots between them — an increasingly obvious comparison when she hops off the car and feels bare feet on the concrete floor, a result of her foray into the fountain as a result of losing her little game with Kelsey. 

“Alright, no more photos. But if you’re intent on heading to the afterparty, I am too.” She moves to open the door to the backseat, before realizing an opportunity when she spies her reflection in the dark-tinted windows. “Not as my chauffeur, but as my driving instructor.” The idea that she might finally reach a rite of passage she’s long dreamt of elicits a grin, wholly unstaged and unbearably bright. “Although, if you happened to want to pick up a friend of mine on the way, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

[cleofox-blog1]

indya moore for victor glemaud fw19

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closed to: @kas-ottenheimer

Cleo had long been of the belief that, if one wanted a reprieve from the world, one could simply attend a large party and wait for that inevitable moment of solitude to come along. For some, it occurred when they saw their lover dancing in the arms of another, while others found their isolation amidst a crowd of friends both old and new, watching from somewhere outside themselves. For Cleo, it’s all rather self-imposed, having escaped under the pretense of getting her social circle of the hour a round of drinks — during a party of this caliber that could take ages, she’d warned with a wink, already half out the door. Well past midnight, the sounds of lovers and friends shake the chandeliers, racous in their celebration now that the auction part of the night is over and the party has begun. Their energy paints the night sky shades of opalescent silver and white, fireworks and sparklers illuminating her path to the car lot as she walks alone. Admittedly, it wasn’t solitude she sought in her little escape. The pursuit of vanity was what she was after, that faint glow of a hundred hearts and a thousand new follows signifying a boost in her digital currency.

A scene of luxury unfolds mightily, with Cleo perched on a striking silver beast of a car that complements the pink and champagne of her dress. Her poses are ones copied from the pages of Vogue as she paints a perfect juxtaposition of graceful pastels against the heavy metal of leather and chrome. She retrieves her camera after about ten minutes of self-timed shutter clicks, ready to return to the party, but decides to linger atop the car hood anyway. Her fingers absentmindedly trail its sleek ridges as she selects the photos she likes the best, while her legs play idly in the air. The guest garage opens, and the sound of nearing foosteps which stop suddenly alert her to the presence of a spectator. 

“You don’t have to look on from there, you know,” she intones in a manner at once sweet and distant. It’s apparent that Cleo’s mind has risen with the stars and set in a digital landscape far and away from ocean tides and glittering chandeliers. “I’m only playing pretend.” At what, exactly — she didn’t know.

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kelseymartin‌:

Kelsey leaned back, resting her weight on the backs of her hands. Her hair was combed back and held that way with a touch of hairspray; the wispier locks wiggled free and framed her face. She was certain that her mother would have liked to see her in something more expensive, but her lack of presence at the gala had allowed Kels the creative liberties that she adored. Blue eyes followed her companion as she darted way, returning with drinks that earned her a bright smile. “Be sure to remind me to give you the address, it’s a little out of the community but the guest list is supposed to be stellar.” She was biased perhaps, she had had a hand in procuring some RSVPs.

Her shoulders straightened and she sat up, clapping her hands together at the idea of a game. The event was far too stuffy, she didn’t mind letting loose, especially if the loss would mean nothing more than a cool dip in what she knew was the Doherty’s very clean fountain. “Pity, I’m terrible at a waltz, wet or dry.” She filled her own glass appropriately, taking a sip as she considered. The pause lasted half a moment, nothing more. “You didn’t whistle— I can’t sing and I think I’d be incredibly put out if you had a musical talent that I can’t compete with.” Now it was her turn, and Kels lingered over her options. “My favourite colour is green,” she gestured towards the colour of her dress. “Like this one, I’ve never had a pet even though I’m convinced I’d be an excellent caretaker for one of those small exotic cats, and,” the syllables fell off her tongue as she laboured over a third choice, “I have never in my life managed to pack up for a long weekend in anything less than two suitcases. I don’t know how minimalists do it.” The blonde took a sip from her drink, “So, what do you think?”

Cleo’s easy half-smile dips its corners into an almost comical frown, giving her away instantly. As per usual, she’s too mercurial to keep to her own instructions and concedes immediately. “I can totally whistle,” she asserts, pressing her lips together in a vain attempt at something she’s never once been successful at. The resulting sound is something between a hollow blow of air and a raspberry. Cleo tips her head back in a fit of laughter that ends with a hiccup, the bouffant curls which frame her face shaking lightly in accordance with the act, golden-pink glow of her makeup shining bright under a slim, silver moon. It’s clear to her now that her current glass of vodka and the drinks from earlier have started to swirl her thoughts and words around into a bit of a jumbled, hiccup-accented mess. She wonders if she knew she’d be absolute crap at the game and continued on with it anyway just to keep her companion’s interest, or if her misfortune is simply due to a multitude of drinks consumed on an empty stomach. 

The former part of the thought lingers in her head for a noticeably prolonged time, but she attempts to brush it away with a bright smile. “Hmm... You've made this entirely too difficult, unnamed star-girl. I feel like...you can't have a favorite color, because you live your life in all manner of colors, in neon pinks and lilacs and bright sapphires. And you strike me as the experimental sort — your favorite color changes day by day, maybe even quicker than that. As quick as the hour passes, maybe. You know the old Stones’ song, ‘She’s a Rainbow’? I think they must've written that about someone like you. Just, you know, a thousand years too early.” She downs her glass in the ensuing silence, entirely too aware that she’s ranted on about her own vision of a veritable stranger — a stranger she can’t help but feel entirely too comfortable around, and it's that comfort that scares her, instills in her an edge of nervousness. Her eyes drift to the smooth stone surface of the fountain's edge as a means of escape. “That’s the story I’ve written for you in my head, anyway. But, for the record, I kind of think that a dog suits you better than a cat. They’re like me — immediately fond of shiny, new things.” She starts to unlace her heels in preparation for what she imagines is entirely unavoidable, the consequence of playing a game straight from the losing side. “Alright, alright. Tell me — Am I gonna be the one to dress down to my skivvies and take a dip?”

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griffinvelazco‌:

Griffin’s brows rose, looking back at the cufflink that she dropped in his palm. He’d never been to a party that gave away prizes simply for showing up. His thumb smoothed over the shiny metal before glancing back up, trying to give a name to the unfamiliar face. It struck him that he was just as foreign to most of the people in attendance as they were to him— it offered the opportunity for reinvention, but he instead preferred to settle into a skin more familiar, (his own). Griff held the link up, “You’re right, it does look good.”

He smiled, slipping it into his pocket before pressing back. “If it’s any excuse to not go inside just yet, absolutely.” He lifted his chin up, in the direction of the stairs ahead of them. “Maybe they lost another up here.” Gallantly, the male held an arm out for her to take, “Think she’ll be mad if we find the stash and end up selling them all on eBay by this time tomorrow?” He paused, looking back over. “I’m Griffin, by the way.”

“Cleo.” The smile she offers as she accepts his arm is broad but edged in curiosity, the gallantry of his actions a marked contrast to what she imagined as the undercurrent to his words. Other than as an antidote to boredom, the vast majority of the night’s attendees would have no interest in making a quick buck off of a bauble — after all, it had ended up on the floor, with no one but Griffin to take notice. And yet, despite his unfamiliarity and apparent reluctance to surround himself with the haves of the world, he looked like he belonged, in a sort of rough and tumble way that left Cleo imagining he was the prodigal son of a business tycoon, making a generous appearance just to ask daddy for a couple million before running off with an heiress or two.

In short, she was fascinated. 

“Though I doubt she’d notice, I have to ask — Do you always attend charity events with the hope of finding something to sell?” She smiles as she asks something that could be perceived as entirely too biting for a first introduction. To Cleo, however, it’s a clever presentation of a very simple question: have you been to one of these before? "It’d be smart if you did, honestly. Security’s low and you’d very easily come off with something that could be in MoMA or the like.” The words come off with a sense of mischief, a cat-like gleam in her eyes at the thought of aiding a possible art thief in their crimes of glamour. Her attention diverts to a row of glittering chandeliers down an empty, winding hall. “Let’s see what’s down there.”

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kelseymartin·:

Kelsey’s hand touched at her collar bone and she laughed at the compliment, “Looks like your lucky day then, angel.” She reached into the water, dipping the tips of her fingers into the cool surface of it, watching the fish dart away while she traced patterns. “You looked like you needed company.” Kels turned her head, her lips curving in a smile. “God, pizza.” The tail end of her companion’s words made her shake her head, “No, that’s quitter’s talk. There’s an afterparty I heard, you’ve got to stay strong until all the grown ups  decide we’re allowed to be excused.” She said the word like it was a bad one, Kels herself existed in the same state that Peter Pan did, she’d never grow up. The blonde settled down on the edge of the fountain as well, smoothing out the neon fabric of her skirt before considering the question. “I always hoped my thoughts were worth a dime at least,” she toyed. “Tonight so far seems,” A thin hand raised, the bracelets on her wrist sliding back as she gestured, “Ordinary.” Her shoulder touched the other girl’s as she rocked, and she smiled. “My wish would have been exciting company, do you think I’ve lucked out and saved the fountain and the fish a little bit of metal clinking around the bottom?”

It wasn’t humor Cleo had been after, and yet laughter seemed to find her as the star-kissed girl made her presence known, blinding and inescapable in her array of colors. From the white-blond of her hair to the neon of her outfit, the girl was a supernova against the nighttime darks, a welcome sight for sore eyes, a breath of fresh air — any number of phrases the poets and scholars agreed on when they mused upon rainbows or star explosions or things of beauty. “Well, thank goodness the Hamptons hasn’t lost its sense of style. The afterparties are the real parties, you know? All this is just... very expensive cocktail hour.” Cleo clinked her glass against the girl’s own, and shot the rest of her drink, brows furrowing slightly as the burn reached the back of her throat. When their shoulders brushed against each other, the sensation of touch brought along with it a keen desire, perhaps one-sided, to know the girl more, and to prove herself as something she might consider ‘extraordinary.’

“Exciting?” The single word sent her mind searching for something fitting of the occasion, mischief and inspiration writing themselves into her features. An idea hatched but not quite fully-formed, Cleo raised her index finger as though to say, wait here a moment. Spying an unattended bar cart at the perimeter of the garden entrance, she hurried over and grabbed a newly-opened bottle of vodka before running back to the fountain, heels clicking against the patio stones. “Two truths and a lie.” She stated matter-of-factly, offering little more than a lopsided smirk as explanation. “Best of two, and whoever loses has to take a swim in the fountain pool and then dance a waltz in the ballroom while soaking wet.” Entirely intentionally, she poured a double’s worth of vodka in her glass as she offered, “I’ll go first: My father owns the biggest whiskey distillery company in the US. I won my senior year talent show by whistling a medley of Lady Gaga songs. And, I chose the name ‘Cleo’ after seeing my grandmother perform in Antony and Cleopatra on Broadway. Pick the lie and take your turn, and then we’ll reveal all.”

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griffinvelazco·:

Griffin supposed that he’d never be used to events like these. His date had disappeared— likely in pursuit of a drink, leaving him to fend for himself as he stood by a garden bed. In ten minutes, he’d managed to make himself look awfully interested in the complexity of the autumn roses that were planted there, ignoring the curious glances that he was awarded by those who passed him by. Most of the Hamptons regulars didn’t know who he was and he was comfortable with that, their assumption that he was the date of someone more illustrious, but as more time ebbed— he found himself ripping away from the garden to head inside, where there were more people.

He kept his head down, fussing with a stray curl that had sprung back from the precarious pulled back look he’d attempted before leaving the house. Griffin had almost made it up the steps when something shiny careening towards the ground caught his eye. An earring? A cufflink? He reached down to scoop it up, tapping at the shoulder of the person one step above him. “Hey, sorry,” he said, holding out his palm to show off what he’d found, “I think you dropped this?”

Whether by means of virtue or fate — or the veritable storm of a woman known as Mrs. Doherty — Cleo spent the first hour of the event working her charm on the select few attendees notorious for being stingy with their money, and spent the second finding whatever strong drinks she could and downing them in one. Her head swirled now, half-filled with bourbon and half with gossip, her thoughts altogether too loud and too overwhelming to be contained to the opulence of the auction rooms. And so, she decided to take her chance at exploring the Doherty estate in all its glory, and ran up the stairs in pursuit of the unknown, hoping for nothing short of something magical. 

The brunette turned at the tap on her shoulder, smiling brightly when the boy presented her with something shiny. “Is this a sort of Cinderella story in reverse?” Cleo joked, taking the trinket from him and holding it up to the light. “I think it’s one of Mrs. Doherty’s party favors for everyone who’s come tonight. A Bulgari cufflink — I prefer Montblanc ones, myself, but this would look absolutely wonderful with your suit.” She smiled and placed it back in his palm before quickly scanning the nearby steps for its matching pair. Finding nothing, she leaned in to him, as though revealing a secret, to ask, “Want to search the rest of the place for its pair? See what else Mrs. Doherty’s giving out?”

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kelseymartin‌:

Showing up without a date had earned her a stern look from the infamously stuck up Mrs. Doherty, but it had suited Kelsey well enough as she walked through the event. Already, she’d secured a drink and at least three compliments on her bold choice of attire— a particularly geriatric looking old man had even called used the word striking, and was now seeking out company. It was still early in the night and most people worth talking to were still nestled in their couples, an irritating fact but she did her rounds, wiggling her fingers at faces she recognized and whispering about those she did not. It wasn’t until she’d gotten her third glass of champagne that she found someone alone, peering into the fountain that lay in the middle of the garden. Nude pumps clicked along the patio stones until she found her way by their side, glancing down into the water and the fish that darted within it. She grinned, peeking beside her. “I’ve got a penny, if you want to make a wish.”

Her eyes had been closed so long she thought she might’ve fallen asleep to the rhythm of the water, and blinked to find a girl with white-gold hair brightening up the evening with a grin. “You know, I thought I saw starlight walk into the room earlier. Never thought she’d chill by the fountain with me, though,” Cleo laughed as she stretched out along the fountain’s marble edge, unlacing her heels in the process. “Keep the penny. My only wish right now is for a perfect slice of pizza, but I’m thinking it might be more fun to dip out of the party in a bit and head out for some dressed to the nines.” Truly, she’d go in a heartbeat, if only the desire to see what mess or magic came of the evening didn’t hold her back first. She peered into the remainder of her drink, a cloudy amber liquid since diluted by melting ice, before flicking her gaze back up to the girl. “The other trouble with wishes is that you can’t share them with people. I always thought that rather sad, so... How about this: Penny for your thoughts? Did you place a bet for something absolutely divine?”

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Georges Hobeika fw 19/20

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nadiateymouri‌:

Nadia had managed to spend the entirety of her day on her beach blanket, soaking up the last of the summer sun as she flipped idly though the magazines that she had toted to the beach. Her bag was now empty of snacks and the papers were sandy and creased– but she decided to stay sprawled on her blanket to watch the sky dye itself a myriad of hues while the sun dipped below the water. She watched the last of the day’s beach goers filter from their places on the sand, but one remained, piquing her curiosity as she tore recklessly from her place on her blanket to race after something she didn’t quite see.

The brunette got up, curious now at the chase, but it seemed to find it’s way to her feet and she laughed when the explanation came. Shyness fled and Nadia smiled. “Very wise advice,”she noted, “But I think you’re safe and that was just a bit of tinfoil, you didn’t miss out on anything major.”

“I suppose that’s the misfortune of liking shiny things,” Cleo sighs, rising to her feet as she brushes sand off of long, tan limbs. “In my mind, it’s a precious little diamond, something called, hmm... ‘The Ocean’s Eye.’ No, maybe that’s too popstar.” She watches the other girl with a canted head; Cleo’s curls, naturally bouffant and untameable, block the waning sunlight, and she studies the girl’s countenance in her self-made shadow. Naturally, she takes to inventing a history for the stranger, as an artist would to escape the mundanities of life. A part of her can’t help but hope that her mind’s wandering proves true. As she studies the girl’s delicate features, she decides there’s a warmth about her, a naīve energy that likens her to a desert bloom — hardy, but shy under certain circumstances. 

Cleo guides them both back to her sprawling, silken towel, still half-levitating under the weight of her beach bag with each new gust of wind. “I’m Cleo, by the way. I’m that house over there,” she fixes the other girl with an amiable look as she gestures vaguely in the house’s direction, before leaning in conspiratorially to ask,“And do you happen to enjoy champagne?” 

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bvbyvalmxnt·:

           her eyes - bright like cosmos, watched the entire scene unfold, too focused on what exactly had cleo chasing waves to whip out her phone to record the entire downfall to toss up on her story. she spots something glittering under the sun but in a blink of an eye, the water encompasses it, hiding it from the world until its ready to be seen again. she lets out half a laugh,not bothering to hide she is indeed laughing at the girl, a dainty finger pushes up a pair of heart shaped sunglasses, the tresses that frame her face being pushed back by the plastic. “it’s a miracle a new york cab or an angry investor in a range rover hasn’t run you over on the streets,” her voice is teasing, eyes dancing with mirth - it’s the first she’s seen cleo all summer and nothing has changed. “looks like that theory is a pile of bullshit - it’s gotten your knees dirty and sand in your hair and aside from getting fucked sideways by mother nature, a romp on the beach hasn’t even been involved.” her nose wrinkles, her head ticking to the side slightly, “are you short on money, cleo? is that was has you chasing dimes? or did you lose your diamond earring? – in the wise words of kourtney kardashian, ‘ cleo there are people dying.’ ”  her tone taking on a dramatic flare before she lets a laugh ring out, and its a tone that’s joined forces with the hamptons soundtrack for years now. “do you want my brother’s metal detector? i think it’s still somewhere in our basement.”

Teasing invites teasing, Cleo decides as she listens to the slew of would-be insults coming from the smaller girl’s pout. “Consider me blessed,” she simply offers as a fake-out answer to everything, unbothered smile perfectly affixed to her face. “Trust me, doll — It’s not the sand in my hair or my dirty knees that signal a change in my luck. I know an omen when I see one.” The last sentence is punctuated with a raise of her hand to shield the sun from her eyes, making it clear that her words applied to none other than the Valmont girl. 

Cleo chuckles in spite of herself — it’s her own form of a warning shot, as if to laugh off the notion that anything Sienna might say would ever be taken as seriously as a trivial piece of trash along the beach, no matter real or imagined. “Well, bless your heart and all its generosity,” Cleo replies, the southern charm and its famous phrase dripping from her lips like venom laced in syrup. “But really, Sienna — don’t try to force a charity case when there simply isn’t one. It’s so unbecoming on you. And, if you’re the Kourtney to my Kim...” She pauses to contort her body dramatically to showcase the icon’s most famous asset on her own body. If Sienna chose to paint her as vapid and silly, then Cleo would take it in stride, embracing the new identity as easily as a chameleon changed its colors. “Then you can post this to your socials.”

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After a few hours, the blue of the summer afternoon slips into a precious dusky pink, heralding evening’s arrival. Cleo’s spent most of her day on the beach, drinking in sunlight and champagne in equal measure, and calmly riding out her own private high from escaping the city. Under the dimmer light of early evening, her eye catches the sight of something glinting in the sands, and she deserts her precious spot on the beach without haste. Some might argue the whole movement is rather reckless, but Cleo thinks there’s an art in ephemerality, a certain romance in the sight of a deserted beach towel billowing for escape as its owner runs off in pursuit of beauty.

The waves pick up a bit, and she runs towards the unknown, shiny thing, all in the hopes of saving it before the ocean calls it back, uncaring if it’s a pearl or a piece of trash. Her eyes misjudge the depth of her footing and she trips, rolling in the sand and sending the glittering object back into the waves. It’s an arrival full of wholehearted unintended aplomb, and she can’t help but laugh in the wake of the mess she’s made, stopping only at the impression of a shadow. She rotates herself, resting her elbows on the sand and her head in her hands, to explain, “I was taught you couldn’t let a shiny thing pass you by. It might bring you luck.”

[cleofox-blog1]

☁☼☁ ( indya moore. trans female. 24 ). welcome back to your summer paradise, CLEO FOX we were wondering when you’d finally show up! the town’s really missed how WHIMSICAL you are, even if you can be a bit SPITEFUL at times. we hear back home they call you the BON VIVANT, makes sense considering you remind everyone of SIPPING PERFECTLY-AGED WHISKEY FROM A TEACUP, RIPPED STOCKINGS UNDER SILK DRESSES, POSING ON THE HOOD OF SOMEONE ELSE’S MASERATI, PUTTING ON SHAKESPEARE PLAYS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. ☁☼☁

hello hello! below is some info about my lil beeb cleo fox!

[ trigger warnings for drugs; ]

history:

The lovechild of a whiskey distillery heir and former Playboy playmate of the month, Cleo was born in Nashville, Tennesse and spent the majority of her formative years in the American South. After her birth, Cleo’s parents regularly got together, then broke up, and got together again, effectively creating a pretty dysfunctional early family for the first ten years of her life. While her father sought refuge in the arms of other women, Cleo’s mother found it in drugs — nothing too hard, really, but enough to regularly leave her in a daze. As a result, Cleo pursued the arts early on as a means of stability, finding that it was one of the only school subjects that ever really stuck. She excelled in writing short stories, putting on plays, and playing the piano, and became a darling in the eyes of her father’s Southern high society friends.

Around the age of fifteen, Cleo transitioned. (She’d always known this was her truth, and knew that she would transition regardless of her parents’ feelings.) Her mother was supportive, but far too faded to really object or vehemently support her. Cleo’s father, however, refused to support her publicly, which meant cutting off her ties to his high society friends and sending her off to live with his somewhat estranged mother in New York City.

Her grandmother, a retired Tony-winning actress, was entirely supportive of Cleo, and brought her along to all the awards show parties, fashion shows, to demonstrate her support. She even helped the young girl pick out her new name, and made sure this new chapter of Cleo’s life was as easy and happy as possible. Her grandmother also instilled in her a taste for the finer things in life, as well as the confidence to ask for exactly what she wanted — with a pretty smile on her face, of course.

After graduating from a prestigious high school in NYC, Cleo declined opportunities to go on to learn in the Ivy Leagues like all her friends did, and instead toured around Europe with her grandmother. While her social media painted the perfect picture of croissants and lattes, museums and gardens, nightly parties and luxury suites, the truth was far from it; her grandmother was growing sicker by the day, and chose to spend her remaining time with her beloved granddaughter.

A few months after she turned twenty-two, her grandmother passed away, and left all of her possessions and properties to Cleo, including a NYC brownstone, a house in the Hamptons, and thousands in jewels and clothes — not to mention a hefty trust fund and a 1/5 stake in the family’s distillery company. 

With more money than she’s ever known what to do with, and a stake in a company she’d veritably been banished from, Cleo enrolled in Columbia University at the age of twenty-three and is in the process of getting a Bachelor’s in Business, with a minor in Theatre Arts. She has no passion for business, but anticipates that there are many money-related fights ahead when she shows up to her father’s next quarterly meeting. Simply put, she just wants to be prepared. Secretly, she wishes she could be pursuing Theatre and English, and write the sort of plays her grandmother would have been proud of. 

personality:

+ traits: whimsical, generous, extravagant, artistic, eccentric

- traits: vindictive, spoiled, flighty, pretentious, eccentric

facts:

age: 24

sexuality: bisexual

gender: trans female

pronouns: she/her 

occupation: business major @ columbia university

written by: daisy / she/her / est

wanted plots / relationships / connections:

One of my headcanons for Cleo is that she’s turned her grandmother’s Hamptons house (somewhat stunted in vintage glamour from grandmother’s days of glory) into a new arts collective — a place for people to put on plays, debate philosophies, throw fashion shows, and converse about art and culture, etc. More times than not, however, it’s used as a wine and cheese gossip club, but Cleo still puts on at least one play towards summer’s end out of tradition. So please give me members of Cleo’s arts collective / gossip crew !!!! (This would also definitely be open to people trying to mooch off of the free food and champagne, which I think would also be a fun dichotomy to play around with.)

Cleo’s an extravagant sort — her grandmother shaped her to be, and in some ways, she chooses this as a means of keeping her grandmother alive. Still, extravagance also comes with its own sense of wastefulness and eccentricity; give me people willing to go along with her flights of fancy, who wear ball gowns and tuxedos just to sit in the cheap seats at baseball games and glittering jewels to McDonald’s at 3am.

Somewhat uncomfortable with being alone, Cleo is almost always seen with a friend or two on her arm. These are the people who know everything about her, who maybe attended the same high school, or at least were in the same tight-knip social group in NYC due to their shared social statuses. Give me the best friends! (Part of me honestly wants at least one of these friends to be more of a frenemy, but we can sort that out later or have that naturally develop.)

The friends with benefits that are so secure in being both friends and lovers that they flirt endlessly in that casual, easy, somewhat ironic way where they talk about marrying each other while not meaning a word of it.

Anyone who doesn’t like her because she’s pretentious, spends too much money, goes through weird, arts and literature-inspired phases, is too flighty, etc. There’s a lot of reasons to be a hater. 

Cleo’s not a bad girl, per se, but it’s not impossible to see her committing some petty crimes for the sake of art, hunger, love, etc., — she’s pretty easily swayed by passions, and could be convinced to do most things if they tug on her heartstrings enough. (I could definitely see her doing something like this.) Give me the artistic partners in crime, or for something similar but darker, look to the next connection!

With a childhood spent around Southern debutante balls, and later teen years in the audience of Broadway shows and jazz clubs, Cleo has sort of lived in a rosy bubble of pretty and pleasant things. As such, she hasn't quite gotten to see the seedier clubs of NYC or experienced the darker side of the city — or even life, really. Give me a bad boy-type who  shatters her perfect little bubble.

[cleofox-blog1]

Um no offense but why doesn’t anyone memorize passages from books and then recite them aloud for everyone at parties anymore.

[cleofox-blog1]

I relate to the phrase “chillin like a villain” because it shows that I’m calm but also ready to sin

[cleofox-blog1]

by Sarah Bahbah

[cleofox-blog1]

I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.

Anaïs Nin (via cutecultleader)