Patti sat cross-legged in the middle of their dormitory, white faux fur coat enveloping them completely (three sizes too big). They even had a matching Russian hat atop their shaggy mullet; it was a clammy kind of cold, this comedown, a lot of shrugging on and off. Another snip of kitchen scissors. Glossy magazine paper fluttered to land besides their knee. They'd been completely engrossed moodboarding their latest short and would've remained that way, jaggedly cutting around eyes and gluing them inside of open, laughing mouths, closed eyelids sprouting monstrous crows wings, if it weren't for the shrieking meow Doom let out from the hall. Pushing to their feet, the scissors clattered forgotten, and Patti padded much alike their black cat to find her, claws scrabbling to demand entry to the room next door. "Bad slime. Cursed territory." Clearly the scratching had garnered attention from inside, because suddenly Cyrus was opening the door, finding Patti barefoot and cradling Doom, the cat's left fang sticking out like a spiky exclamation point. Rather than acknowledge their part in anything, Patti raised an eyebrow as if responding to a grievously unjust disturbance. "Well? Can we help you?" @kismutt
someone had once told cyrus, 'don't fuck around where you sleep', which .. okay, admittedly, that someone had been his father. and the advice had been in relation to getting caught in his home office with one of cyrus's nannies sitting on his desk, singing an off key rendition of marilyn monroe's happy birthday while cyrus shredded papers downstairs. he went through a phase when he was that age, eight or so, where he loved to watch things fall apart: elaborate lego builds that he'd have someone else make for him just to smash to bits, each click of pieces snapping apart scratching a strange itch. block puzzles, where it felt as satisfying to lose the tiger shape all together than to drop it neatly into place. THAT is the natural order of things, he would say now. things fall apart .. the center cannot hold! he would quote now. maybe it's okay sometimes to fuck around where you sleep, he'd say now, opening his door to a scratching he'd been fairly certain was a friend come to pry him out of his own dribbling hangover. "cachau bant," he was already saying before his eyes fell to the floor. "oooh, now this. this is worse." resisting the urge to slam the door back in patti's face - it's hardly even nightfall, he wanted to groan, lips twitching downwards in a prudish grimace - cyrus allowed himself to squat, which was admittedly an awkward gesture. he struggled, at first, to decide how to bend, to lower himself, twisting like a vine that hadn't soaked up enough water before sprouting. when he did finally reach the ground he was left balancing on the tips of his fingers like they were small ballerinas on pointe, waiting for their count. "doomie. doom and gloom. professor doom. pleasure." and he pantomimed lifting a limp wrist, nodding in the cat's direction politely, face puckered and tart. the act fell like his wrist when he returned to patti's sharp gaze. they reminded him of cassandra, sometimes. someone who saw something more than he did. it unsettled him deeply. "so. i assume you're here to tell me off for something, yeah? you hear how good i did with my tour? think i have myself a fan club now. genuine. try not to be jealous, it's a really unbecoming look on you. too human."
staying put was more of a challenge than the langston transfer was willing to admit – in her defense, she was scheduled for a show that evening, which meant she’d harassed the rabbithole staff enough for them to agree to give her the post-lunch pre-dinner opening, no coincidence half the place’s customers were still broken off on campus tours. avarice was smiling, an expression that was decidedly unsettling to anyone familiar with the dj. her fingers moved like circuits, as one might type a strongly worded letter, forceful and erratic. she’d been told more than once she really knew how to push someone’s buttons. if only they knew, she’d hum to herself, how good i am with a launchpad. the crowd gathered before her only fed her undeniable god complex, and the tickle that set off in her chest ( where a heart might likely be, one day, excavated in all its fossilized glory ) was pleasant, indeed. it was, unfortunately, embarrassingly easy to stroke avarice’s ego. the ten or so college students, and the real fans she could count on .. less than one hand, were jumping, off beat so that the small crowd seemed to pulse. this is why she always felt as though she were pulling on puppet strings as her fingers sprayed – more bullets, now, than triggers – against her equipment.
“requests? requests?” she finally looked up from her own hands, though she still felt them buzz just below her line of vision, almost glowing with heat. “you look like you’ve got a song on your mind,” finally, with a finger like a knife, she called from the small stage. “if it’s good, I’ll let you touch the buttons.” her eyebrows wriggled like dainty, carnivorous worms.
( jonathan daviss. twenty4. cis man. he/him. ) thank god you’re here, man - have you seen CYRUS BOSTICK anywhere? i totally lost them after their rendition of house song by searows last night. no? they’re like, aye - high and go to PALLADIAN - i think they’re a SENIOR studying FOREIGN LANGUAGES (LATIN, WELSH, GAELIC)? but who knows, these days. all i know is that they’re POSH, DEBONAIR and a CAPRICORN . last night they kept going on and on about how they won LEAST LIKELY TO BENEFIT OFF THEIR NEPOTISM last year, which is cool and whatever, but i just wouldn’t expect it out of them, considering they’re so, like, COMPETITIVE AND SHREWD, you know? anyways - i’m going to check down by wickham-on-heath park and beach, i think that’s where they like to hang. text me if you see them, okay? bye! / as penned by alli. twenty5. cst.
DID YOU WANT TO BE SOMETHING MORE ...
cw: divorce tw, neglect tw
profile.
full name — griffin cyril 'cyrus’ bostick iv
nickname(s) — cyrus, literally he’s just cyrus
place of birth — cardiff, wales
date of birth & age — december 24 & twenty four
gender / pronouns — cis man & he / him
major — foreign languages with specializations in latin, welsh, and gaelic
interests — horses/equestrian riding, animals, the ocean, surfing and swimming, tennis, poker, history and anthropology, classic novels, red and white wine, champaign, wales, languages, math, travelling
aversions — rosé wine, being underdressed, frugal spending, his dad, golf, opera, pickles, football (all kinds), planes, silence
notable features — preference for luxury and subtly, how straight he stands so he can claim that yes he is 6 feet how did you notice? i’ve been told since i was young i have a really tall aura, so yeah, obsessively clean hairline, like bi weekly touchups, smells faintly of leather
character study — tybalt and romeo ( romeo and juliet ) & macbeth ( macbeth ) & henry winter and francis abernathy ( the secret history ) & kendall roy ( succession ) & oberyn martell ( game of thrones ) & robin swift ( babel ) every rich guy asshole mean dad stereotype ever
history.
in cardiff, cyrus had his mother, he had his brother, he had his horses and the estate. returning each summer to the lifeless frame of his father’s hamptons home, his only company the often frantic hunting dogs his father kept plenty of, was more than a bother. cyrus was never quite sure of his father’s job. his halfbrother often teased that griffin cyril bostick the third was an mi6 agent, like the bond films that filled their childhoods, but cyrus wasn’t convinced. he spent enough time with the man to know he wasn’t capable of much bravery, even if he understood the draw to corruption.
kept tucked away from the city, cyrus’s world was small in america.
as long as the bostick’s had held property in america, rumors of succumbing to the ‘karmic resolution of their immense greed’ spread like plague down the bloodline. his mother had instilled this in him young, but the draw to luxury must be sincerely genetic, because though he tried to resist, cyrus grew particular with age.
he has a preference for the thread count in his sheets (over one thousand), the brand of bag he stows his bridles in (longchamp), the type of car his father rents for him (german). his mother did little to temper his desires. why should she feel bound to discipline when his father stole so much time from her? she could afford to buy cyrus the catalogues he would produce before her, so she would.
cyrus also demonstrated an impressive intelligence very early on. he is incredibly adapt at picking up languages, and spent his youth picking up every local language he could get his hands on. village children, vacationers in the hamptons, local immigrants, cyrus was fond of bothering them all until they gave up the keys to a new language to him. the most he allows himself to hope for, beyond retiring to a horse ranch, is opening an international branch of his father’s investment firm. so he studied, and studies, relentlessly.
this is not to say that cyrus grew up without joy, or with much strife back in europe. his mother was a constant lighthouse, if not prone to treating him, sometimes, with more reluctance than his brother. if she says no to cyrus, will she lose him to his father? and is it right to deny him something good, when he has to go away again come summer?
cyrus isn’t one to answer that question. for his own part, his world is relatively small. while he loves social events, company, parties, chatter – he has trouble opening up much. he can be attention-seeking, a product of his father’s cold shoulder. he can be manipulative, a product of his father’s modeling clay.
context.
he has a small hoard of animals he attributes to being owned by his .. ‘lordship..’ lol. with the exception of his favorite riding horse, teddy – government name superted, after his favorite (welsh) childhood cartoon – these animals live at the family estate. wallace the sheep dog, bronwyn the barn cat, and rupert the retired race horse.
he wants to be the best at everything he does. competitive because he is a child of neglect oh…. everyone play a violin for him actually it is sad. but he needs to work on it he will push over a child in an easter egg hunt type beat. and he does not celebrate easter, but there is $20 in one of those eggs. does money even mean anything to him, you ask? well. you’re being rude.
he is intense. he is dramatic. he has a fragile ego that he will happily admit he needs stroked. he’s a simp. he’s a douche bag. he’s your father’s worst nightmare and your mother’s best daydream. he contains multitudes. we all do.
he hates the monarchy, he hates the american government, he’s honestly pretty anarchist considering how comfortable in the upper echelon he is as well. like i said. we all contain multitudes (unethical things we like).
wanted.
group of beautiful people – anyone else in the chat kind of shallow and vain and love pretending to be better than everyone? anyone else love being expensive and dramatic and like television if it was real life? let’s link.
exes. – any gender cyrus is an open opportunity clubhouse. he probably cheated. he thinks he wants monogamy because he wants to prove his dad wrong but. who is going to tell him. he’s toxic asf.
tutors/students – he is really freakishly good at languages!! let him tutor you!! he is really crazy bad at history and science! it makes him so mad and he needs these grades to be perfect so please help him.
student government – i feel like cyrus would do this. anyone who runs against him. anyone who is also into student government. anyone who wants to rule the world and go out for drinks and pretend to know more about the world than other people. pretentious – hey. i am not a tory - cyrus. yes he thinks he’s doing it in a les mis way. no he will not admit he’s seen les mis.
horse girls – he’s on the equestrian riding team at palladian… his horse, teddy, lives here in the stables and everything. maybe your muse works in the stables or also has a horse here or etc etc. he plays polo, too. yes he’s annoying.
rumor mill. – cyrus will start a rumor for you and he will spread it like wildfire. i do feel like he kind of knows everyone to an extent. he’s good at memorizing names. he remembers that thing you said to him at a party when you were really, really drunk. he won’t tell anyone. as long as u tell him something else he CAN tell someone.
etc….. i am so down for whatever. they mean in our thread and we go based on chem?? yes. i love. cyrus fits a wc?? beautiful. anything else…. childhood friends? family friends? american (hamptons) friends? drama.
i need to turn my phone off i need to drive somewhere big and quiet and walk around in the cold and dark and see my breath and the stars and tell people to please stop expecting things of me for just a little while..
annaxmalina
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
titsay
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
