Campbell Sheng
Advisor to the Deimos on Finance, Economics, and the Treasury

Campbell stared at the report on her omni. Her report. Her ridiculously long title and signature. A shudder ran through her and she dropped the omni.

Luckily it didn't have far to fall, clattering onto the tabletop in front of her. She stared at it, worrying the pad of her thumb against one of her fingernails. Her clothes felt heavy and stiff, new to her and far finer than anything she was used to.

Gods. She wasn't going to be able to do this. She couldn't possibly be prepared. It was never...

Ms. Russell interrupted her thoughts by appearing in the doorway. "Are you ready, Miss Sheng?"

Fear pushed her into honesty. "No. I don't think..."

Ms. Russell was laughing at her. Campbell frowned.

"Nervous, are we?" Ms. Russell asked.

Campbell gave a small nod. "Terrified. I'm sick with it."

Ms. Russell crossed the room and patted her shoulder. "Did you sit for exams at school?" Campbell could only nod in response. Ms. Russell squeezed her shoulder. The weight of her hand was something of a comfort, Campbell had to admit.

"It'll seem awfully familiar to you, then," Ms. Russell continued. "Nothing to worry about."

"Threw up before exams, too," Campbell whispered, without thinking, then blushed when she realized she'd spoken aloud.

Ms. Russell gave a wry sort of smile. "If it helps any, the Deimos won't be at the Council today."

Campbell blinked in surprise. "She won't? But the report is... she asked...who will..."

"I will." Ms. Russell cut her off before she could vocalize fully any of the thoughts in her head. "It's my job. The Deimos only very rarely attends the daily councils."

Campbell must have been gaping, because Ms. Russell squeezed her shoulder again. "You'll get used to it all, eventually. Now, we should hurry."

Campbell nodded and gathered her things as Ms. Russell headed towards the door. When she'd nearly reached it, she turned back. "If you're still nervous, just imagine that there's no one in the room. That's what I do nearly every day anyway."

She grinned, something much warmer and cheekier than the public smiles that Campbell had seen so far and it soothed the nerves. Taking another breath, she steadied herself and walked out the door.

Tags: campbell, fic, li

I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar's chair

alex and andrade




The Alcazar is easily the most imposing place he's ever been. Each hall and chair and table is deliberately placed, to his practiced eye, but the effect is the same. The intimidation might, he supposes, have something to do with the fact that there is a very real possibility he won't be leaving the building in one piece.

It's not a thought that he's particularly comfortable with. It certainly isn't the first situation he's gotten himself into where his life was on the line. It might be the first he won't be able to talk himself out of. He shifts in his chair, which manages to be luxurious and uncomfortable at the same time.

Briefly, he thinks of Quentin.

Quentin, who doesn't know where he is right now. Alex sighs. Being locked in the depths of the Alcazar will be hard to explain. Biting his lip, he tries to focus on something other than the stab of inexplicable guilt in his gut. Hearing the door behind him swing open, he immediately smoothes his face into a smile.

A middle-aged man comes into view and Alex recognizes him at one of the ministers of justice. At his side is a lovely blonde woman with her face down, scrolling her finger down a scheduling omni. She looks up and hands the omni to the minister, and Alex stops breathing.

"Hello, Mr. Bjertness," Li says. "Welcome to the Alcazar."

It takes twenty whole seconds for him to process what she said. "I..." he starts, but Li cuts him off by turning to the minister.

"That will be all, Minister Chan. Thank you for brining this matter to my attention." The minister nods and quickly exits without a backward glance.

Alex still can't believe he's looking Li Russel in the face. He had always sort of believed she was dead, though she occasionally appeared on the evening 'casts, the mouthpiece of the Deimos. She smiles at him, sweet and pretty as she'd ever been.

"Alex," she says with some inkling of humor he'd never heard in her voice at the house. "Seems that you still can't stay out of trouble, can you?"

He finds his voice. "It comes naturally, I guess." He is so not comfortable with this situation. Not in the least.

Li smiles and settles in a chair next to his. "Minister Chan informs me that you've left the House and are spending your time with Dr. Lang." It's a statement and an accusation and a pleasantry all in one. Li had always been good at that. She leans forward and puts a hand lightly on his forearm. Her skin is soft and she smells absolutely divine.

It's the second thing that stops him short. He draws a deep breath. "You're wearing a Rose scent."

Her head inclines ever so slightly, the picture of innocence and casual believability. "I am? I suppose, yes. It's one of the Takken blends. Takken always made such beautiful scents, do you remember?" She smiles at him and he feels himself smiling back, remembering the tiny busybody of a man who forever called on the rest of the Roses and apprentices to give opinion on his newest blend.

"I always liked Takken," she continues. "He had such a kind heart." She pauses for a moment. "Has, perhaps. I haven't spoken to him in years. Have you kept up with him at all?"

He shakes his head at the question and felt a little regret rush into him. Takken was one of his favorite people at the House, everyone was rather fond of him. Li knew that. She knew...

Dammit, he thinks. He feels his body tense up, unaware that he had been slowly relaxing as she spoke, filled with old memories. Just as suddenly, he realizes he doesn't want her to know he's tense and wills his body to relax before the surprise reaches his face. And then he looks down at the hand on his arm and back up at Li and understands why it was there in the first place. She knows exactly what he can hide and what he can't.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, he thinks and smiles sweetly at her. "I haven't seen him for some time. He moved to Altos shortly after..." here he falters, just a bit, "after you left."

Li's looking at him like she can see directly into his soul. "Is that so," she murmurs, and then turns to look at the door. Alex trails his gaze after her, catching a flash of white in the corner of his eye, but sees nothing. Li squeezes his forearm, lightly. "Take whatever deal you can get, Alex. You're lucky you're not dead."

And with that comforting remark, she breezes out of the room and Alex is left to wait.


*


An hour later, he begins to feel thirsty. Thirsty and just on the edge of desperate when the door swings open again and a young man in a white suit walks into the room. He does not look at Alex, but glances around the room. Alex recognizes a security check when he sees one. The young man hovers near the door, stepping aside only when a woman dressed in flowing black enters.

She doesn't look like any of the images he'd seen of her, but he knows who she is instantly. The Deimos. Her eyes are deep and black and Li's gaze was nothing compared to this as the Deimos walks towards him. He wonders if he should should bow and then realizes he's already on his feet and had been since the moment she entered.

The man in white stays near the door, face completely blank but obviously observing every second. The Deimos walks across the room at a sharp clip, heels tapping on the white stone floor. She takes the seat that Li had occupied earlier and nods at him, once.

He gets the picture and sits down, waiting for her to speak.

"Mr. Bjertness, I know who you are and exactly what you do. I am here to offer you one chance, and only one. Do you understand?"

Her voice is not what he expected. It's... real, he realizes. Not the synthesized recordings on a 'cast or magically resonant like her title should afford her. It's lovely, really, deep and strong and two feet away from him. He's scared out of his mind.

So he smiles. Bright as anything, the most disarming, sheepish smile he has. He knows better than to say anything at this point, so he ducks his head in affirmation.

The Deimos stares at him. He meets her gaze, but softly, with no challenge. She raises one expressive eyebrow and studies him a moment before she speaks again.

"You will report to myself or to Ms. Russel. You will be told when to bring information. I want to have another set of eyes on Demeter Black." She pauses and looks like she's waiting for a response.

"Yes, Deimos," he says quietly. He wants to know what other set of eyes are on Lady Black, but wisely keeps the thought to himself. "Will there be anything else, Deimos?"

She rises from her seat. Alex rises, too, hastily. "You live with Dr. Quentin Lang in a flat near the University."

Alex doesn't question how she knows this.

"Dr. Lang continues to work only because I let him. If there is any reason I should cease to let him, you will inform me." She looks at him closely once more. "This is the work you will do if you have any desire to keep living."

Alex's smile fades of it's own volition. He nods mutely and the Deimos turns sharply and heads toward the door. Before she exits, she turns to the young man in white. "Mr. St. Albans," she says. "Show Mr. Bjertness to the door."

Alex's heart sinks to his feet as he realizes the he's in the company of the Deimos' assassin.


*


He's shown the way out with no words spoken. St. Albans walks the hallways like a ghost, and Alex trails after him. He leaves the Alcazar without incident, but the whole ride home his hands shake.


*


He climbs into bed, trying not to wake Quentin. It was early evening when he left the Alcazar, but his nerves wouldn't let him rest. There was a karisha waiting for him outside the Alcazar and he had just made it to his door when the whole thing hit him and he asked the driver to take him anywhere else.

He slides under the covers and Quetin stirs next to him. "You're home late," he mumbles, sliding a warm arm across Alex's chest.

Alex hesitates before answering. "Just had to run an errand for Demeter. Sorry."

"Mm. 's just fine." He feels Quentin press a kiss to his shoulder. "Get some sleep," Quentin says, sounding like he's half in a dream. Alex's stomach twists and it keeps him from responding. Quentin doesn't press, and after a moment his breathing is quiet and even, half hitching on a soft snore, sound asleep.

"It's been a while." Anatoly had eased from congratulations to asking for a dance to casual conversation with the same offhand grace he'd always possessed. They moved together well on the dance floor and Lukas thought that his wedding was a very bad time to be considering this seriously what might have been.

"It has," he said instead of pursuing that line of thought further. Anatoly executed a turn that Lukas wouldn't normally have tried and made them both look good while doing it. Lukas sighed. Anatoly smiled.

"Your husband looks like he could break me in half." He didn't sound the least bit intimidated, of course, but rather something closer to impressed.

"He wouldn't," Lukas said. "I probably could, though."

They spun again and Anatoly was leering. "Shall we find out?"

Lukas fight back the urge to roll his eyes. "It's my wedding night?"

"...and?"

"Bloody hell, Anatoly, you never change." He was aiming for something a bit more between exasperated and stern, but he never could manage it with Anatoly. Damn a schoolboy's crush, anyhow.

"Not in the least," Anatoly agreed and they spun again. He was silent a moment, and then: "Ianthe doesn't mind."

That, Lukas knew. Instead of responding to the remark, he chose a diversion. "Cam has a great interest in Ianthe's work."

"Most people do," Anatoly said simply and Lukas had to give him that. "Perhaps dinner, sometime. Ianthe could distract him."

Giving in, Lukas laughed. The musicians brought the song to a close and Anatoly pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"Yes, fine," Lukas said, pulling back. "Dinner, sometime." They walked back towards the edge of the floor and before they parted Anatoly grinned, full of cheek, and said loudly enough for half the room to hear: "Enjoy the honeymoon!"

Cam came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning close to whisper in his ear. "I think we will, don't you?"

Lukas felt a certain smugness begin to surface. "Yes," he murmured, "I think we will." Dancing with Anatoly was still as dizzying as ever, but Lukas was entirely confident that this time, he knew all the steps.

Tags: anatoly, cam, fic, ianthe, lukas

Andrade was vaguely irritated by the fact that the halls of the House of Roses actually carried the scent of roses.

It seemed too obvious for men and women so trained in the art of subtlety. She stamped down her irritation into a cool sheen of authority when the young man obviously meant to greet guests said to her: "It is a pleasure to have you in the House, Deimos. What is your desire?"

She suddenly realized that it was he who smells of roses, not the halls, and immediately dismissed him as an amateur or an idiot. Or possibly both.

"I will have Demeter Black." This she said clearly and without and pretense of upholding the title that Demeter had chosen for herself. The boy in front of her blanched, lowering him another rung in Andrade's marking. Before he could open his mouth and embarrass himself further, Andrade heard the quiet rustle of silk as the blonde woman who had been playing the harp in the receiving room stood to address her.

"Our sincere apologies, Deimos." She was beautiful, but so were they all. "Lady Black is in Sapphico, attending to House matters."

Her voice was lovely, and she made no attempt at excuses or explanations. Andrade studied her closely and the woman matched her gaze moment for moment-- not challenging, not disrespectfully, simply being, as befits a Rose.

"And who are you," Andrade asked after a moment. The woman stepped closer to Andrade, casually putting a hand on the young man's shoulder and dismissing him.

"Li Russell-West, Deimos. An assistant to Lady Black and a master of the craft."

Andrade nodded. "And what, then, Miss Russell-West, do you propose as a solution to this situation?" The room has been cleared, quietly, of the other Roses meant to adorn it and all that were left were she, Li, and Peter standing outside the door.

"If it is your desire, Deimos, I could find a way to arrange for the Lady's return within the next several hours." She smiled, almost, a ghost of an expression beyond the polite calm.

It pleased Andrade to think of Demeter being called back, being subject to her whim. And it pleased her further that the young woman had the presence of mind, and apparently, the influence over Demeter to imply that it was possible.

"Or, perhaps there is something else that suits your needs here within the House," Li looked at Andrade, the tilt of her head and the curve of her lip just so, whispering humility and grace and just a hint of lasciviousness. Here, Andrade thought, must Demeter's prized possession.

It is that thought that made her reach out her hand and touch Li's cheek. "Perhaps," she murmured. Stepping forward, she pressed her lips to Li's in a kiss.

Tags: andrade, demeter, fic, li

In times past he would have been stoned.

Or burned. Or hung. Or rent by fang and claw. The punishments for those who dare play with the oldest powers have been, throughout history, inventive and varied.

Now, the fact that he can coax flame from air, or call by name any of a hundred petty-daemons-- now, these things earn him entrance to the high place of the world, the Tower. He is granted audience with the Empress. Plays High Priestess for her and sits in council with the Hierophants.

( Gregor Krishna supposes he should be grateful... )

Tags: fic, krishna
Registering as: pessimistic

Tags: andrade, art
Registering as: artistic

She catches Andrade in a good mood, which isn't exactly rare, but unusual enough for her to know it would be prudent to take advantage. They discuss business, first, of course. The little matter of the Ambassador's arrival, and of course General Walker's ever-so-insistent opinion on -that- matter, as well as some of the more trivial summaries of the earlier meetings of the day.

Yes, business first, but then she smiles and steals a kiss. Andrade must be in a very good mood because she laughs into the kiss and lets it last for a few heady moments. Then business, again, and Li leaves for more meetings floating.

Then Peter finds her.

"Li." He says her name so quietly. He's right there behind her, without warning. The hair on the back of her neck raises.

"What is it, Peter?" She turns to face him. Better to meet the challenge head on.

His hand settles on her neck and suddenly there's no distance between them whatsoever. Her shirt is thin and silk and he's very, very warm pressing against her. She puts her hands on his shoulders, hoping to keep the distance.

"Peter. What do you want?" She does her best approximation of Andrade. Sometimes he listens. He stares at her, for a moment, then leans forward. His breath is hot against her neck, lips barely ghosting along her skin and his hair brushes her cheek. She closes her eyes and waits for the press of his lips-- and waits, and waits. He holds so still, but his grip on her neck is firm. She doesn't try to move away.

"...like her, just like her...," he murmurs, she can't quite make out the words. She opens her eyes when he pulls back from her.

"Peter," she says again. His eyes are dark, darker than normal.

"Kiss me." He said it the same way he said her name. It's not a request, but then it doesn't have to be. She hates that it doesn't have to be.

Heat, on her lips, on her neck where his hand rests, down in the core of her, she can't help but respond when he kisses her. He runs his tongue across her lips, first, and she shudders.

It seems forever. Her hands fist on the lapels of his suit and she tries very hard not to moan.

Then he's gone. The kiss stops, he pulls away and is gone practically before she has time to open her eyes. And she's alone in the hallway, late for a meeting.

Tags: andrade, fic, li, peter

She knows that Boy believes in the mind over the body. That Pseudo is the real, and there is no connection between what happens in his world and what happens in the world that belongs to the omnipresent Other. He believes his way is right.

But for her, things are more simple, much clearer. There is no world, only The Game.

And yet she loves his worlds. She is the first to admit that the 'scapes he creates are more perfect, more real that anything she could have ever imagined. There are no rules, nothing is clear, and it keeps her alive in The Game.

He's good. The 'scapes she plays have nothing on the things he can throw at her in their own private worlds.

"The next will be harder," he tells her, appearing by her side when she's beaten his game.

She grins. "I bet it will." She's won every game, lately. After each, he promises.

"It will."

"I believe you," she says, and then takes off running into the city 'scape, leaving him to chase.

Tags: boy, fic, sitona

The city of Altos is truly magnificent. She may not match Core for size or Sapphico for mystique, but she stands above all the other cities in the Union for her architecture and the cultivated sheen of quiet dignity she seems to carry.

Christopher knows this to be true, he sees it as he looks out the windows of his home. The pathways of his city are orderly, for the most part, save the makeshift workings in the ghettos. The buildings are well taken care of and carry a certain shape and angle that so clearly define them as Altos.

He has been to Core. It is the capital city, of course, but he finds the whirl of it less welcoming than his own city's relative peace.

On some days he can see the appeal. The Deimos keeps her city for a reason, and one never feels more a sense of opportunity than in Core.

The Deimos. Christopher smiles to himself and sips his wine. Little Andrade, ruling the world from her tower. Who ever would have guessed she would have done so well for herself, given the chance?

The smile turns into a soft chuckle. Chance had little to do with it. Andrade made her own luck. At the very most, Fate had simply offered her an opportunity, all those years ago. And she had seized upon it with a death grip.

Little Andrade, he thinks again, and feels very old. Fate was offering him fewer and fewer opportunities these days.

Behind him, Lukas enters the room.

"Magnate?" So formal, Lukas Taimur. Always proper.

"Yes, Lukas?" He doesn't turn from the window.

"I've taken care of the petitions for this morning. There was something you wanted to discuss?"

Christopher smiled and turned. "Yes. Do you know my grandson, Lukas?"

"Which grandson, sir? I'm...acquainted with most of your family, as you know."

"Cam." Christopher studied Lukas' face as he seemed to be sorting through the wealth of details he must keep locked in his head.

"I've met him, of course. I wouldn't presume to say I know him." His face was completely unreadable. Christopher only smiled.

"That's all, Lukas."

If Lukas was confused, his voice betrayed nothing. "Yes, sir." With a formal bow, he left the room.

Christopher continued to smile. There was an opportunity in this that he was unwilling to pass up.

Tags: christopher, lukas

Humans are vision-oriented creatures. As soon as their eyes open for the first time, sight is the primary method by which they process and understand the world. Color and shape, light and dark.

Janeiro drinks. Not fine wines or koju, but hard drinks, drinks that constitute fire hazard by level of their alcoholic content. Sapphican tajh and vodka and the hallucinogenic syrup from Ur called godseye which calls for one drop to a glass of water, and which he ingests at a much stronger concentration. He drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks. His father worries, he knows, but says little. (Not that it matters what he says aloud, no, not when he's so strong in Janeiro's mind whenever they're in the same building--) The last time he can remember his father speaking of it, it was to say, "Mijo, mijo, you're going to drink yourself blind--"

No. Not blind. Blindness is nothing, he doesn't care about that.

What he wants is deafness.

He couldn't care less about color and shape, they are nothing. It's the noise. It's the ever-present roar. At times it fades down to a manageable level, akin to that of loud conversation in the room, but more often it is the shout of a mob, the thunder of multiple cannon. A hundred voices at any given moment, all clamoring with individual needs and wants and ambitions and hungers and lies and secrets.

The liquor dulls it. The drugs too. The headache moves from something that will drive him mad to something that is merely painful, the noise mutes and the screams become mumbles he cannot make out.

And then he remembers that he has other senses; then he opens his eyes and sees things again and can almost pretend he is like the rest of his species.

Tags: janeiro
Registering as: morose

Juliet dreams in blood.

In blood and flashes of fire and, unaccountably, in the sounds of the harp her mother played many years ago.

She has given up on proper sleep. Instead she wanders the halls of her home, her's and Valentine's, never one without the other.

Except now. Now, at night, Juliet is alone. Valentine likes to sleep, wrapped in satin and velvet and the warm limbs of whoever happened to be entertaining him that evening. Sometimes Juliet watches him sleep in the arms of someone else, sometimes it is she who's wrapped around him as he drifts off. But she never stays.

She pauses a moment in the doorway of his room and sees Decker's body half-draped across her brother's chest and Valentine's hand caught in the tangle of Decker's long hair. It makes her smile, even as she leaves the room and walks towards the little shrine down the stairs.

The floors under her feet are uncovered, stone and metal, but they are warm to the touch. It's disconcerting. She shivers at the sensation.

She walks down the stairs and to the shrine almost by habit. The ever-lit candles in the little room give off more than enough light to see by. Juliet kneels and touches one of the sticks of incense to a flame.

The smoke is powerful. She prays with the scent of it caught in her senses, quietly speaking prayer rhythmically until they become a chant and then a song, soft and low.

She feels the magic in the room even before she turns from her prayers to see Decker in the doorway. He hadn't bothered to dress and his skin looked even paler under candlelight, the whiteness standing out against the black ink of the equations and runes tattooed across his body.

She sees…no. She senses the golden flicker of magic in the tattoos and in patterns traced across his body. Her brother's handiwork, mostly. Candlelight with flashes of red underneath. The spells Decker cast himself shimmer black like the ink of the tattoos and her own spells, she knew, ride silver and white on his skin.

Decker watches her watching him, his expression quiet and only half-caught in the present.

"Can I stay?" His voice is quiet, so quiet, and she thinks he sounds young.

"If you want." She turns back to her prayer, grateful that he didn't ask… that he doesn't ask questions or want answers, the way others might. He sits down on the floor behind her.

The old words, the women's words her mother taught her fall uncomfortably from her lips. She changes the words to fit what she's feeling, asking for strength and for power. The smoke beings to linger in the air, more gathering with each stick of incense she lights. She feels the power behind the ritual swell in her veins and for a moment the world stills.

The moment passes.

She is very tired.

Decker makes a soft noise behind her and she turns to him. He looks as though he is struggling to stay away and she has no doubt that he is. Some weeks he is as much of a stranger to sleep as she.

"You should go back to bed."

He shakes his head. "Got an idea, had to write it down."

For the first time, she notices the Omni in his hand—it's an old model, decades old, but he's never without it. The Omni and his tattoos… she thinks they're the only things he actually owns. Or cares to own. She considers asking him about what he's writing, but time has taught her that isn't always the best idea.

"Will you go back to bed?" His hand is on the screen, but not moving.

"Will you come with me?" He looks up to catch her eye. It's a long leap from his expression earlier, a moment of clarity and living in the present. She smiles thinly.

"I will." She rests her hand on his head and his eyes instantly close, he is so fond of being touched.


*

She follows him back to her brother's room and Valentine remains asleep. She climbs into the bed between them and lies contentedly, even as Decker's breath evens and deepens beside her, but she does not sleep.

Tags: decker, juliet, valentine

Brothers fight; it's nothing new. Ivan Dmitrivich Walker knows this. His own childhood was a long history of trading bruises with his sister Anya. That his sons fight and squabble is nothing new, no cause for disapproval. It's good that they fight. They're going to be soldiers.

Sergei is, anyways. The boy is solid. His father's son. His eyes dark like the sky, like a gun's polished barrel. His spine steel. As a child, he was constantly taken as the older son, despite being three years Anatoly's junior. They were of a height, and Serge always the one with the broader shoulders, the larger hands, the voice other children obeyed in their games and sports.

A born leader. His father's son.

Anatoly, though-- if Serge is his son, then he would say Anatoly is his mother's, save that China is black steel too. Wherever Anatoly got the pale eyes, the body that is skinny beyond just adolescent lankiness, the silver tongue, it wasn't China. That much is plain. Some throwback to the Kedinah side of the family, maybe. Regardless. Anatoly is not solid. Touch him and one's fingers find not iron, not steel, not stone, but something that yields at the touch, that shapes itself to the fingers. Walker is an expert at sizing up prospective soldiers, and he knows that Sergei, were his destiny not among command, would make an admirable infantryman, gunner, hard trooper. But Anatoly? A sniper, at best. Perhaps a spy. Ch'an knows the boy can talk his way out of anything.

Bad quality in a soldier. That verbal sidestep to avoid responsibility and blame. If it reminds him of anything it's.... the Roses, with their soft voices and arguments that you don't realize are arguments until you've lost.

Ha. Yes. Anatoly isn't his son, isn't China's, but Bahiyya's. No steel, but plenty of silk, suede, leather. A strike against it encounters no resistance, but isn't very satisfying either.

Brothers fight. Ivan Dmitrivich watches Serge leave bruises on Anatoly, always a one-way exchange of them, watches Anatoly always backing away, mounting what little defense he does with words and jokes.

The boy will have to learn that silk is pretty, but easily torn. Kronos Deimos has had enough of smooth tongues and suede, and will have uses for good Walker steel only.

He knows Serge will never lack for a place, will always have the Deimos's trust. And so, even if one son is something of a disappointment, Ivan Dmitrivich Walker counts himself content.

Tags: anatoly, serge
Registering as: content

Andrade remembers that in the beginning, Li often had bruises. Blue-black smudges in patterns of fingerprint-five. Or thin red reminders of nails, or the half-moons of fading bites. And once, a burn on the tight taut skin of her belly-- a small detailed rose.

Demeter marks what's hers, and she had put marks in places Andrade would see them. But Andrade had owned it all, so she had merely smiled, and kissed the little signs of ownership.

Years ago, now. Years and years. Li is not as young now, her skin not quite so taut, but it is unmarked, and she is still beautiful, more beautiful.

( Li is sleeping now, in the big bed... )

Tags: andrade, fic, li
Registering as: sad

Tags: art, li
Registering as: artistic

Tags: art, lionel, lukas
Registering as: flirty

Tags: art, peter
Registering as: cheerful

Ye adulterers and adulteresses, know ye not that the friendship of the world is enmity with God? Whosoever therefore will be a friend of the world is the enemy of God.

Nathaniel muttered the words into his hands, working a hangnail on his thumb with his teeth. When he noticed he was doing this he stopped, folded his hands together in his lap. He sat on the edge of the chair-- upholstered in leather-- in LEATHER-- as if fearful the luxurious cushion would swallow him whole.

The room was huge.

( He twitched... )

Tags: fic, nathaniel, peter
Current Location is: the alcazar
Registering as: despairing

Tags: art, juliet

( Five people Li Russell never slept with )

Tags: anatoly, bode, cael, eliot, fic, li, rem, serge

Contact

The city is happening, tonight. All lights and glitter, saltwater kisses. Drinks flowing like the people. Find a party where the beat works with your particular pulse and you can forget the clock ticking away down in the corner. I've been going for three hours now and my night is yet young, all the edges and shapes still sweetly sharp with the buzz. I'm floating on cocktails and synaptic rush.

From the party at Indira's I weave on down the sidewalk that is wet with an earlier rain. Dressed to the nines because the city accepts nothing less: my dreads back from my face, the rest of me an exercise in burgundy satin and crisp white silk and pinstripes, a gold watch chain and matching shades. Black leather ankle boots that are practically a guarantee of sex some time this evening.

I can taste Indira's mouth still, and her alcohol. Remember the texture of her skin under my palms. The band was playing something Sino-Afrique and the rhythm of it is still thudding away in my eardrums.

And people say this isn't real.

Sure, my body's back home on the bed, occasionally giving a myoclonic twitch and possibly drooling (so attractive). Sure, this is all sim, psuedo, ersatz, chimera... whatever the hell you want to call it. All the terms which boil down to fake.

Bullshit. Just because this all takes place in my mind, and the minds of others in the psuedo, that makes it fake? Bullshit. Sometimes when I tell people that I program pseudo for a living, they give me the Look. That look. And the line, "Oh, how interesting... A shame none of it's actually real."

Real. What a stupid fucking word.

( I reject your reality... )

Tags: boy, pseudo, sitona
Current Location is: Sapphico
Registering as: busy