BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE WILL RUIN YOUR LIFE //

"Her beauty is a symptom of her disorder, Of her soullessness.” S Y L V I A N N E     B E S N I E R - L I U the vacant heart 4TH YEAR ART HISTORY

[sylvianneliu-blog]

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basdecsey‌:

He nodded, echoing, “Yes, she is very disrespectful…”

Were they intimate? In a sense, he could agree with that conclusion. They had not spent very much time together, but every instance felt impossibly tangled in something corrosively personal. His theory was that Gia was unintentionally transparent and, as a result, her shows of strength were remarkably revealing. Whatever Sylvianne might have heard, it was surely just as equally transparent. Everyone knew the story. What was Gia in the collective mind of Saint Augustine but something too unfortunate to forget but too ugly to ever acknowledge?

‘ Oh, Sylvianne, I would like her so much less if anyone else noticed her. ’ 

“I know what you’re insinuating,” he said finally. “It’s untrue. Which,” Regardless of if she meant to protest, he held up a hand. “I admit, truth hardly matters where reputation is concerned. That is what we were interested in, no? But, is that really the issue here? I know what Gia wants from us — well, you — and I can assure you she’s not getting it, not even the perception.” This was a promise as much as a status report. 

“And, that I would think so little of you?” He scoffed. “Now you’ve insulted me.”

She took a pull from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl from her lips out the windows. Smoking in the dorm rooms was a violation, Sylv was sure, but it was one that she had seen yet to be enforced. Had she of been in a better mood, she’d of offered Bas one. Since she was not, she tapped the ash onto his window sill.

“She’s an annoyance,” Sylvianne said, refusing to allow Gia any more space in her mind. “Nothing more.” The girl was more than that; in truth. An annoyance, but also a fascination-- a rival who should have no means to compete. Someone as ugly as she felt. “I can imagine as well what she wants from me,” her gaze fell back to Bas, still in seated. “But, you make your own choices.”

Sylv lifted a shoulder, finally returning to the foot of the bed. “What do you think of me these days?” It was a broad question, but like most posed by beautiful women, it was a trap.

[sylvianneliu-blog]

basdecsey‌:

“I’ve — ?”

He wanted to laugh. It was the natural reaction, prompted by deep discomfort, but it would have also articulated his feelings more effectively than any words. He did not know Gia by her full name; he had never known her when she was that person, somehow more than the clipped diminutive that fit her present persona better. She had been wholly insignificant then – a mere plaything, boring and passive. Sylvianne had known her then. She herself had subsequently been villainized and, as it presently stood, seemed to be constrained by that. The significance of Sylvianne dropping the name in such a way, then, wasn’t lost on him. That she had taken offense — insult, as she put it — and sought to press the fact so forcefully is what he found laughable.

But, he only smiled. Her statement hung in the air for a long moment as he strung together a response.  She hadn’t been invited into the game, and she was sore about it — perhaps, more specifically, because she didn’t know the rules as well as she thought. Perhaps prematurely, whatever anxiety had built up about the situation began to dissipate. 

“That’s a very weighty charge. You’ll need to be more explicit in your explanation because …” He shrugged, letting go of her hand as he did. “I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

His smile made her own mouth, painted crimson-- as was to be expected, form a harder line. Jealousy, it was a foreign feeling to her, one that she swore to not be polluted by. It was a swampy emotion and it bogged at her ankles, stuck hazily in her mind. This was what she preferred to inflict upon other people, not to suffer from first hand. 

What was her evidence? Sylvianne was ruled more by passions than she was thought-- she had none. Her freed grip allowed her to reach into her jacket pocket to free a cigarette. It found it’s way between her lips, and she stood. Before she lit it, the brunette cracked the window open, letting the cold February air filter in. His malady could be damned.

“She was wearing your coat at the bonfire. She’s brazen, has no respect. The way she touches you in public--” Her head canted, she wouldn’t get too ahead of herself, “If you’ve taken a liking to her, you know I’ve no qualms.” Sylv’s lies were easy, mumbled around the cigarette. “But it’s reached my ears that you’ve become intimate, and that disloyalty reflects upon my reputation.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

@kieranrowley

Tonight, Sylvianne didn’t bother with knocking at the door. Kieran’s room was rarely locked when he was inside (who would think of robbing a penniless Viscount?) and as a result, when she twisted the handle, it opened immediately-- allowing her spirited tirade to go from hallway to bedroom with little pause or diffusion. “Do you still have that bottle I got you for Christmas?” She asked, tugging off her gloves and shoes before pulling the blanket back on his bed and sliding in. “Because I think this counts as a special occasion.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

basdecsey‌:

The light streamed in, and he turned away to stare at the grainy patterning of the wall. Bastian was habitually a creature of darkness, much preferring to occupy the shadows than broad daylight; it was only exacerbated by his apparent mental anguish. Yet, Sylvianne’s arrival cut through the dramatics — nicely, with a flourish, in her characteristic way. He turned back to look at her, wondering what she might have brought with her, noting the way she looked at him in return. She’d have brought nothing, judging by the way she had moved through the room.

It seemed she carried in something, intangible as it may be, to add to the miasma.

“Of course you did,” he responded, squeezing her hand. “But, why?”

Her head tilted down, Sylv’s eyes studied his. He had always been a clever boy, but this evening-- she could gather nothing from his clear irises. Her mother had told her that once when she’d complained about her own, dark gaze. Brown eyes hold everything, they mirror their emotions-- but blue, they were like glass, like smoke. 

“Georgiana Fox.” Her name fell between them, the syllables pronounced like the worst part of a curse. And that’s what she had been, the former darling of their once mutual friend. A curse.

“You’ve insulted me--” Sylvianne’s free hand gestured, “And our arrangement.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

alekjanik‌:

He hadn’t actually devised a plan that went any further than finding a place to sit. If anything, he should probably have been hiding from the prying eyes of the other students. The girl didn’t really seem like the friendliest he could happen across, but of course, Alek was determined to make the most out of the situation regardless.

The young man didn’t really seem like your typical slacker; if anything, he probably had a goody-goody air to him most of the time, but he was certainly not perfect. “Well, yeah. The thing is I’m kinda already in the bad books so I’m pretty sure that one more skip won’t hurt.” Though after this, he would have to get his ass back in gear.

Sylvianne grinned, looking at him. “You look like a tiny blonde angel, if anyone has you in their bad books, it must be purely for comedic purposes.” She imagined him as a kitten, the sort of thing that yowled in a school like Augustine, but ultimately had the tiniest of claws. The brunette stretched out in her seat, long legs crossing at the ankle as she extended them.

Curiosity prompted her to ask further questions, a dark brow lifted and she glanced down at the books that poked out of his bag. “What are you studying— when you’re actually studying?” Her own bag was laden with tomes on art history, as a result of her assignment, they were mostly Byzantine focused.

[sylvianneliu-blog]

gia-fox‌:

“Did I say we were friends?” She hadn’t. Not in her own tongue, anyway. A language that wasn’t hers was so easily disowned; with a few words of denial that sharp, stolen, easy ‘mon amie’ became another slip, an error, a mistranslation. Untouched, it was a taunt. 

If I get one wish, then can I use it to ask for more wishes?

Her gaze fell to Sylvianne’s lips. The other girl always wore such pretty, unnatural shades of lipstick, and even with its almost imperceptible fine lines and pores Sylvianne’s skin was one even tone. Gia had never seen her in the midst taking all of that immaculate makeup off, undone, skin stained with those half smears of pink and black that came with the territory of being a beautiful woman who wore beautiful red lipstick. There it was. Sylvianne’s question was not one to agonise over: she knew what she wanted. That was what she want to know: how they had seen her, sweat-slick, hair ruined, ravaged.

She reached out — they were so close now that it felt like her every inhale had been exhaled by Sylvianne a few seconds prior — one hand gripping Sylvianne’s chin, to keep her from moving, dragging her opposite thumb across the her red bottom lip. Someone else had taught her that. She did it harder than their shared sovereign did, intending to ruin the colour, to strip her of it. 

One truth. Make sure it’s something you actually want to know. 

“Take it off. Show me what you look like without it.” She withdrew her hands, her thumb stained the colour of blood and hanging limp at her side, the fingers of her other hand still curled inward, as though she was still holding the other girl’s chin.

The grip was unexpected and unwarranted. Sylvianne wanted to snarl, to tug herself away— but her mother had raised someone more calculated. Like something feral trapped with a chain around her throat, she paused, waiting. Dark eyes welled, no longer were they honey hued they were something darker, like ink, akin to hate. Someone would see her like this and it was unacceptable. The touch wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t erotic. Still, something within her tremored.

Gia was a child weaned on poison.

Her chin lifted now, free of it’s grip. What had they made Gia into? A silvery scarred monster, something bolder than either dared to deal with. She had power now, because she had nothing to lose. Sylv reached up, her finger subconsciously moving to clean the lip line: to maintain perfection.

This was what happened when someone’s shovel hit rock bottom. Her spine straightened at the request, she wanted to laugh at it. “Alright.”

From her bag she freed a handkerchief. (Who still carried those around anymore? It had been wrapped around her compact to keep it from getting scratched. She was sentimental.) Sylvianne  shook out the square of fabric, bringing it to her lips. Three swipes bloodied the cloth, the pigment would never come out of the thin cotton and after glancing down at it, she cast it into the blaze.

Someone would rationalize it as burning a part of herself, she was certain. The colour would cling to the insides of her lips, it would stain, but she felt a fierceness to prove herself as fearless to the other girl, even without her usual mask.

The words fell by Gia’s ear, cold and cruel. “See? Still beautiful.”

[lou-stat]

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“Come under my wings, little bird Come under my wings, little bird Come under my wings Unmade, unmade.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

basdecsey‌:

He hesitated to answer the door. The knocks were somehow recognizable, though he was startled nonetheless by the interruption. What had he been doing, after all, but soaking up the unending silence of the room? This was why he had been so delighted by no longer having a roommate. Self-imposed catatonia and an abrupt sequestering were discomforting. When the knocks happened, he had been staring at the door, eyes watering from the effort, perfecting the absolute blankness that was his present state of mind.

The worry had imploded. All that remained was ash — perhaps, also, a bad taste.

“Sylvianne — ”

It was too quiet. He threw back the quilt that had been pulled up to his chin and sat upright. The room was pristine as usual, if unconscionably dark. He reached for the lamp while clearing his throat to try answering again.

If it was her — and it was — then she wouldn’t just walk away.

“The door is open. Come in. I’m … under the weather.”

If he was anything, Bastian was handsome— he had the sort of face that lent itself well to easy forgiveness. A full pouty mouth, light eyes framed with long lashes (though they did look more red and tired than usual) were what greeted her after she opened the door, while he remained in bed. Her head canted, studying him. “You don’t look well, you should have said something.” The brunette pulled her gloves off with a medical efficiency, setting them aside on his desk. “I’d of brought you something.”

Long legs made her stride across the room nothing more than three paces, she stopped by the window to pull open the shades. Cruel light filtered in before she herself took seat at the foot of Bas’ bed. Her hand reached out, finding his hand and threading her fingers through his. His was the grip of an artist, delicate almost— she wondered if her rings made hers unbearably cold. “I wanted,” She paused, she was still angry. “Needed, to talk to you.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

@basdecsey

Since the bonfire, something in Sylvianne had been simmering. The coals of the fire had long since cooled, they stayed on the top of the mountain, blackened and waiting-- but the spark stayed inside her chest. It had burned a hole and it ate at the nice things that padded her thoughts and she recognized this feeling as anger.  She didn’t like to dwell and as a result, she found herself in a familiar doorway, raising her fist to knock on Bastian’s door. 

Three short, sharp sounds before her hand came to a rest by her side. Perhaps her emotions were unwarranted, she was certain he’d tell her if that were the case-- but jealousy, a sickly yellow feeling, raised up and gripped her by the back of the neck. They had an arrangement, and beyond that, something akin to a friendship.

And so, dressed in clothes the colour of soot, the brunette waited for the door to swing open. The hard expression on her face didn’t smooth, he could receive her without an edit: their relationship afforded him thus.

[charm--bomb]

[sylvianneliu-blog]

abeldewit‌:

“Maybe,” Abel said with a shrug of his shoulders. He wouldn’t particularly know that much, he didn’t even do his own shopping. “I do hear it happens, but I was speaking more about sports. Football matches can get out of control sometimes…” He hadn’t been to any that crazy, and if he had he was always safe up in one of the private boxes. Even so he wasn’t sure if Sylvianne would have much experience with those crowds either.

For some reason Abel couldn’t help the amused look that crossed his features. “You’re right, it is.” She was, it was a grim thought, and he usually wasn’t the sort to dwell on death, and things of that nature. He was the sort who typically ignored it. But for some reason the idea was just amusing to him. That in and of itself was pretty grim, and he didn’t really want to dwell on it so he moved on.

“Yes, I am. I have a few books I ought to be picking up from the library for study, but other than that nothing planned until tomorrow morning.” He stowed his bottle away in one of his jacket pockets, “are you off to do anything in particular? I could walk with you somewhere, if you’d like.”

"Football, I went to see a few games with Kieran this summer.” Sylvianne lifted a shoulder, her interest in the sport was as committal as her shrug. They’d been tucked away in a box, watching the experience with glasses of champagne and nibbles. There was little in her that could comprehend what it was like to be stuck in the midst of those who shouted and jostled and spilled their fountain drinks onto the sticky theatre seating. “I suppose they get rowdy.”

That was all that she had to offer on the topic, but the flash of his half smile made her own tug on her lips. The events of last year had likely warped her personality, made the uglier bits shine. Sylv now laughed at crooked things, found fascination in those that she should not.

“I was going to go to the cafe to pick up some coffee, I’ve got a long night ahead of me apparently.” The brunette flashed her mobile, as if Abel had the ability to read the screen before she tucked it away. “My partner for my Middle Ages art history class is proving to be a nightmare. It’s on the way, you can tell me about how you enjoyed the bonfire.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

jacklevesque‌:

Jack had expected a headache as soon as he saw the notification from Sylvienne Lieu. Before he even opened the message, he felt the phantom grip of an oncoming migraine.  He knew how their conversations usually went, they both were on the offense which usually sent the possibility of a “normal” conversation straight down under. He did not expect their shared texts to lead to an impromptu meeting. He did not expect himself to be someone Sylv texted when she needed cheering up. It felt strange. It was almost as if someone flipped over an hourglass. It wasn’t like time starting again. It was just a complete flip in the atmosphere. He couldn’t think of a moment where he and Sylv had met that was not due to accidental circumstance, or a commitment such as studying or a secret meeting with all the other redhanded students.  This was something else. And it made him uncertain.  He was sitting at the corner of the bar, glaring at anyone who tried to take the seat beside him. Liam kept tossing curious glances over at him. The barkeep was used to his unfriendly antics, but he’s been saving the seat beside him for about forty minutes. He was already at the bar by the time Sylv had sent him the first text. So, to anyone watching, Jack looked like some sad sap whose date had skipped off on him or just some sorry motherfucker who wanted to be completely and entirely alone.  “People’ve got to sit somewhere, you know,” Liam said as he took Jack’s empty glass and refilled it. Jack just glared at him, knowing that the other man wouldn’t do anything further.  He had only sipped at his glass for a moment or two before he noticed a subtle shift in his surroundings. A couple of bargoers paused and pointed their chins towards the entrance. This only made Jack hunch a bit more and bring his glass up to his lips for a heavy sip. Sylv had a way of arriving that had kinetic properties. Some sort of gravitation pull or whatever. Jack just waited for the seat beside him to be occupied.  “I thought the cable car broke down,” he said, waving his hand as he spoke, which was not much of a greeting, to no surprise at all. “Final destination style and everything.”  After a beat, he motioned Liam over with his crooked index finger. “Tell the nice barman what you’d like,” he said, meeting her eye. His smile was twisted, perhaps the way one would feel with their head tipped back beneath a willow. It was in his nature, the same way that to be nothing but twisted, heavy ends was the willow’s.  “And then, tell me what’s got you seeking solace with an asshole like me.”  @sylvianneliu

Being late for informal engagements wasn’t often something that she considered rude anymore— in fact, Sylvianne rarely glanced at the time if it wasn’t deemed to be terribly important. After texting Jack, (an action that surprised even herself) she took her time getting ready. A squirt of a new perfume graced her skin, her lips were outlined in a new shade; less crimson— more raspberry. Dark hair was scraped back from her neck and was pulled into a severe ponytail, shiny and black. It was when she finally deemed herself ready that she made her way to the cable car, traipsing down to the village to meet Jack.

She wasn’t sure what it was that had prompted her to reach out to him in the first place, perhaps it was that Kieran was busy (he always was, these days) and her other lifelines seemed dried up at the source. Maybe it was their mutual sin that made her feel as though there was an aspect of the man that could hold him as trustworthy, or perhaps she simply needed someone to be unkind in the way that a friend would. Jack at the very least, could be counted on to be unkind.

Sylv pulled off one glove, pushing open the door to the bar and stepping inside. She’d been there once, during freshman year, but had deemed the warm and homely atmosphere to be something unsuitable to her usual tastes, and had never been back since. Now, she stood in the doorway, glancing around with the lambskin gloves in her fist, trying to find a scowl that she recognized. He was at the bar, of course, slumped but still tall. One hand smoothed out her pants; they were a wool blend, too fine for such a place— and then she settled down onto the stool beside him.

“I lost track of time,” she said easily, dipping her head to look at the bartender as instructed. “French 75.” His brows tugged in and she sighed. “Do you have a Riesling? I’ll try that.” Wine was easy and he nodded, spiriting away to get a clean glass. Sylv resented the way that Jack looked, his smile warped and hungry. “I suppose I’ve got no one else to go to.”

The glass was passed to her and she took it by the stem, taking a sip. It was dry, and far too cold but she forced a smile at the barkeeper that waited for approval. “It’s fine.” And then he stepped away.

“Sad wasn’t the right word,” she said, the tip of her finger circling the rim of her glass. “Maybe it would have been better to say angry.” Sylvianne’s head canted, “You know about anger, I imagine.”

[userspree-deactivated20250328]

[sylvianneliu-blog]

abeldewit‌:

There is a simple nod of his head, and instead he brought the bottle to his own lips taking a drink of it. Abel tried not to drink too deeply. Not that he was a ‘light weight’ or anything, but he didn’t have as much … practice as some others within the school did. He was not going to be some sloppy drunk out here in the middle of the night who couldn’t handle keeping his shit together. But he took enough of a drink to suppress another shiver that threatened to run through his bones.

Abel listened to Sylvianne speak, his expressing remaining a bit too impassive for the topic and the nauseous feeling that sunk low in his stomach. “I haven’t. I have heard of people being trampled to death in large crowds.” There was something of a grimace, or maybe a sneer that flitted across his features as he spoke. “Imagine being in a large enough group that they are able to kill you, but unwilling to help you… Grim.” It was honestly a little terrifying. He knew what it was like to be just a part of the crowd. Not anymore…

“I appreciate it deeply. I would never wish to be the one to make the de Wit family name synonymous with closing down such an important establishment. Even if it would be amusing, I would want to be here to witness it happen.”

There was a darkness in the conversation that ribboned between them, shiny and slick-- Sylvianne wondered what his fascination with the topic was; though she imagined it was much alike to hers. It was a morbid time, so close to the anniversary, Frederick Wells was on all of their minds. The brunette took another sip of her drink, letting the warmth settle in her stomach. 

“I suppose I should be glad that I have no business in massive crowds-- those are for,” she paused, gesturing with her hand as she tried to pluck the word to the forefront of her mind. “Boxing day, right?” Had anyone ever seen Sylv at a sale? She almost snickered at the thought.

“Technically, you wouldn’t be here to witness it happen.” Her lips quirked, “That’s grim, even for a Monday afternoon. Are you done with classes for today?”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

basdecsey‌:

He thought about what she’s said — ‘ the sweet looking ones ’ — as he turned around to reach for the gift box. Sweetness was unlike purity in that it lacked an absolute quality. It was delicate and pleasant, but there was another side: sugared, sticky, cloying. It could be excessive or jarringly paltry. Unlike the kind and virtuous, sweet people were unpredictable.

And so, of course, Sylvianne was correct.

“I’m sure I will love it,” he answered. With care, he kept the paper unripped and folded the ribbon into a neat bundle. “I trust you to know exactly what I want.”

He ran his fingers along the accent lines of the jacket after lifting it from the box. “Suede and whipstitching…? So delightful. I suppose leather is our theme, then.” Unlike her, Bastian had been undeterred by the impracticality and had brought her boots to Marrakech. 

“You’re a gift in your own right, as you know.”

Sylvianne’s lips stayed bowed as Bastian’s careful fingers slipped under the folds of the paper, lifting the tape and slipping off ribbon. He had an artist’s hands, she’d remarked once, long and tapering-- unmarred and beautiful. His was a grip that could do no harm, one would think, but she supposed she knew better. Often, she thought back to the night of the bonfire, where had bad been as cold and dark as a moon around Saturn. Sylvianne wondered if that was what she liked about him; the fact that he was unchangeable: there was a measure of Bas that would never be affected by any of them.

“I saw it and immediately thought of you.” She had pictured him in the soft black leather, it would fit his shoulders perfectly; the drape was meant for his narrow frame. “Leather tonight, perhaps I’ll get you in brocade tomorrow.” The brunette smiled, satisfied with his reaction. It was his next choice in words that almost prompted Slyvianne Liu to blush.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me,” she said, revelling in it regardless. “We should leave soon, though.”

[sylvianneliu-blog]

@sylverlining: get your viscount for a discount