#polarean

[andessence]

@polarean // starter call.

"...The colors are getting lost when we bring up the spotlights on the scrim. A slight fade is antique and appealing, but too much and we spoil the ambiance of the projection, so I am speaking to Tuan about reworking the palette. But I am not decided on— Louis?" His eyes have risen from the table to find Louis' distant look turned out to the lamp-lit glow of the street beyond the café. Where have his thoughts drifted?

Armand reaches deftly, nimbly into his mind, though he restrains himself from prying. He would rather Louis surrender his thoughts willingly. 'Louis?' comes the voice, voiceless, and those curious eyes drink in his expression. 'Where have you gone?'

[stygicniron]

is it nico hc question time upon ye! we know how he holds his anger.... how does nico hold his love and affection? how does he show affection, and how does he like affection to be shown to him?

Speaking of emotions Nico doesn't allow himself to feel.

Before, love and affection are tangled with excitement. He loves sharing things that he loves with people that he loves, spending the time together pouring over different Mythomagic cards--admiring the artwork or practicing different battle strategies. It's not an excitement matched with adrenaline, and indeed anyone looking on would see two siblings sitting calmly near each other, although one seems to be much more invested in the conversation.

Nico has trouble recalling any time when he isn't near his sister, just the two of them. The Lotus Hotel might have muffled his memories of his time inside, and the River Lethe stolen the rest away, but the consistent presence of his sister is what love and affection mean to him.

(It's a warmth that settles in his gut, spreading up to his chest, his fingers, and down into his toes. It's a comfort that he doesn't even realize he has until it's gone.)

But then it's shattered and that love and affection is bound up inside the anger.

He begins feeling new experiences of love, mottled with anger and confusion, which make it a painful, searing cut to his chest rather than the former comfort of love. This love is mingled with guilt and shame, not only for the feeling alone but also for who it's directed at. How could he love someone who broke their promise? How could he love someone who would never love him back?

So he buries the love and affection even deeper so that even as the anger begins to fade, it does not reveal the love within. It takes some rather direct, forced conversations to crack Nico open, and this comes after wandering through Tartarus and being kept in a jar to the point of suffocation.

He's still learning to rekindle his love and affection. It's a delicate thing, something he's not used to minding--like a fire over nearly spent kindling--but he's slowly coaxing it back with help. He's starting to enjoy quality time with others again, starts to enjoy having hobbies and shared interests. He's learning the importance of giving and receiving kind touch, even the not strictly romantic touch, but it's a slow process.

[desperuntion]

@polarean

the ground is soft and padded beneath his sneakers. he looks down to see asphalt that glistens, coated in a thin midnight drizzle. his mouth is dry and the taste of cheap cigarettes sits comfortably in the back of his throat. brilliant headlights cut across the horizon, far too bright to be slicing through a city infested with life that dances through all hours of the night.

he has been calling for some time, armand, armand, come take me home, please I want to go home, and a voice has answered. oddly frantic, oddly misshapen.

armand? you’ll come get me? where are we going?  

the voice says it’s not him. the voice asks him to tell him where he has gone. he does not know what to make of these. who else could it be? who else would know where he is?

hunger crawls around under his skin, and it is almost comforting. a familiar ache, so effortlessly ignored. it might as well be a companion.

another car careens by far too quickly. rainwater splashes up ( yes, it is raining hard. it must have picked up ) as the van flies across a divot in the road.

he knows exactly where he is when, not a voice, but a too-gentle hand touches his shoulder. when his name is spoken, he knows exactly where he is.

safe. home. safe.

with thin fingers, he follows the hand that grasps him, turns to find one who is neither expected nor unexpected. one who is perfectly familiar. he is not armand. he is home. safe. home.

daniel’s lips form the syllables of his name, but no sound trails to follow them. he reaches, grasping fistfuls of the other’s coat, desperate to crawl closer.

home, louis? you’ll take me home?

[reedraws]

Another commission for @polarean of their oc Sylvain. I adore him so much, and I'm so grateful for the chance to have drawn him!

❃❀✿ Commissions / Ko-Fi / Store ✿❀❃

[hatigave-a]

@polarean Andrei said : “ here, take my hand. “ to Jackson

HE WAKES UP IN DARKNESS yet there are shapes so clearly recognizable to his eyes       ⎯⎯⎯⎯ he would recognize Andrei anywhere. In memory, in dreams, in death. He turns around in favour of burying his face against his lover's chest. HIDING AWAY COMES EASILY TO HIM, especially so when his hands are allowed the mercy of clutching Andrei's. Grip too tight, until eventually his palms recall the strength it takes to hold on. Jackson is never letting go.

A ragged breath ; an exhale through gritted teeth against lover's skin. Jackson knows he must have woken Andrei, or perhaps the other has never gone to sleep in the first place. It barely matters, he is nothing but glad that the both of them are awake at the same time once more. Jackson has long since mastered the art of folding himself to fit the spaces laid out by other men. SHAPING HIMSELF TO BE WHATEVER OTHERS NEED HIM TO BE. They must have stripped all evidence of his existence off the HMS Atlas now. An empty sheet tossed to the sea to bury the body they never found. He is a ghost taking shape in the memory of war, just as his bones have become the graveyard for it to rage on.

❝ I did not mean to wake you. ❞ Voice trembles when words are finally pushed out through a dry throat. Caught on the edges of everything he wishes to say but won't. DON'T LEAVE ME ! ❝ Go back to sleep, soul, we have a few more hours until dawn at least. ❞

[frxncaise]

@polarean asked: [ SPARK ]: the sender builds a make-shift fire in a hurry in order to warm up a freezing receiver during a snow storm. (congrats, ange's man knows how to start an illegal garbage can fire like a champ)

just her luck, the heat and electricity has gone off in the middle of one of the worst snowstorms the city has ever seen. there are bound to be some backup generators somewhere in the shelter. but the winter chill is quickly seeping into the underfunded building, leaving the its most vulnerable patients at risk. at least, charles is working the same shift with her. at this rate, angélique is bound to get a little frazzled and he knows exactly how to round her in. using her flashlight, she goes around to ask him if he had the keys for the storage room. however, there is a pause in her step upon seeing him being illuminated in the warm light of fire. “it seems like you found a way to make things work?”

[intothewildsea]

“it’s just me now. you don’t have to be brave anymore.” -- hear me out . from sylvain platonically. traumabonding time. get in the bath.

At first, Niamh protests. She pushes away Sylvain's hands, reluctant to remove her gown. She doesn't want him to see the bruises, doesn't want him to see her scars. Then he gently rests his hand on hers and tells her you don't have to be brave anymore.

She breaks down. Tears begin to drip down her cheeks and a sob catches in her throat. She relents this time, though, and lets Sylvain help her undress so she can get into the hot bath. She sinks down into the water, wishing that it wasn't a bathtub, but was instead the sea.

[blackclothed]

@polarean

It was almost a relief when she asked him ‘what would fix this, siggy?’ because he knew both the context of the question ( what would fix you, siggy? ) and the correct answer. dread had been rotting through his stomach in the hours he waited for her to come for him. she took her time. he had been trembling, a pack of cigarettes lying untouched by his hand. he both was too nervous to smoke as he waited and unwilling to part with them being in his vicinity. he does not wish to be tortured staring down the barrel of a gun he knows is going to fire, just not when. he does not wish to beg or negotiate— it will do no good with someone who does what is necessary.

he looked her in the eye the way a doe might dully observe headlights, and he told her what would fix it. he is so afraid of forgetting or growing too comfortable to understand that his house is on fire. if he stumbles, if he becomes unruly, he won’t just die— he will burn. he will hurt.  

it is almost a relief to brush against the flames, almost a relief to be reminded.

he did not ask gummy how long he was gone, nor did gummy offer the information. with siggy stretched out in the back seats, gummy kindly draped his coat over him and drove them in silence back home. there wasn’t anything to acknowledge.

gummy is patient helping him out. he does not bother offering his hand and giving siggy the option to consider. he pulls him to his feet, sticks his skinny, sun-starved arms through the oversized khaki bomber jacket and leads him through the front door, but doesn’t follow him inside. they have worked together long enough that gummy knows to check the perimeter of his home for signs of intrusion, bugs, or otherwise, and will then inspect the interior.

siggy shuffles inside in clothes that do not belong to him, feeling as if the house does not either. he has not formed an intention of where to go yet, though his feet seem to be leading him in the direction of the couch, but are thwarted by the sound of rushed footsteps descending the stairs. he is a cleaved second away from shrieking for gummy, a bolt of terror ripping through his heart, but recognition overrides the instinct. it is only jameson. he intends to ask what he is doing here, and he is uncertain if he does say it out loud. he watches jameson with a flicker of foggy uncertainty.

[reastless]

@polarean

LUKE SINKS TO HIS KNEES ON THE GRIMY SIDEWALK, wet with a misting of midnight rain, and touches the shoulder of the man collapsed in a heap about fifty feet from the seediest bar he’s ever seen. bizarrely, this is not the first time luke has found someone passed out drunk in an alley. his brows furrowed, he examines the poor guy for bruises ( he could’ve hit his head ) but finds nothing other than the ugly stench of alcohol clinging to his skin.

“ excuse me, sir? ” luke shakes him gently, pats his cheek. “ hey, are you able to wake up? I wanna get you to your feet. ” he tugs his arm, seeing the man starting to rouse. “ come on, now, you can’t lay here. it’s not safe. ”

[miss-polly]

@polarean liked x (for rhae);

"You don't have to wear a costume if you don't want to," she said. He didn't even have to come downstairs if it got to be too much, really, but Polly wouldn't dare go without inviting her friend. "It's just that I stay open late tonight to celebrate and hand candy out to the kids who come by. I thought you'd want to try joining me for a few minutes and see if you like it?" Her own getup was fairly practical, but perfectly on theme. Polly felt more alive this time of year than the rest of it, and put extra effort into her autumnal dress and a black-and-orange apron. She even had little cat ears and painted whiskers on her face.

Marius, for his part, was barely tolerating a little bowtie with black wings on his back, but seemed half ready to chew them off at any second. "I'll get you a fresh pie for the trouble and everything." She'd make him a pie regardless, but she could at least pretend to be coy for a second or two.

[1end]

EVERED HAVE MERCY

[andessence]

“It’s my life. Why am I not allowed to have any say in it?” armand and lestat 🚨🚨🚨🚨

@polarean | 'i don't like being controlled' starters

Armand regards him with the patience of the dead – cold, supremely unaffected by any outburst. But if he were truly unaffected, if Lestat's fit of insolence did not move him in some way, he should not deign to answer. And he does.

"Your worries are those of a child, arrogant, obsessed with the self. I offer you the wisdom of ages to spare you the trials it takes to learn it. It is generous of me. Take it — not as an order, since authority turns your stomach, but as a service. As you like it. But take it all the same."

The infusion of vitality Lestat has brought after the destruction of the coven is has changed much, but it has not yet melted the frigid demeanor Armand has adopted in so many long years at a remove from humanity. How still and reserved he looks among Lestat's effects, as if he can never fully sink into any seat, never manage the mechanisms of comfort.

"You should not have made him, and now you have, and he has failed to thrive. By right it should be you that destroys him."

[stygicniron]

@polarean || [ cont. ]

Nico gives Hyacinth a long look before he obliges, settling down on the ground. The guy has always had the favor of the gods, he wants to point out, or at least one god in particular, and that makes a huge difference as to how the gods treat you. But then again, Hyacinth didn't have a terribly happy ending despite having the god's favor. Nico's not sure if he should be the one to tell about the experience of being particularly un-favored to Hyacinth. "I'll ask," he relents eventually, massaging at his injured ankle gently.

[desperuntion]

@polarean: [ OUT ]: sender grabs the receiver and lifts them into their arms after noticing them swaying and beginning to lose consciousness.

Whether or not the danger that sits like teeth against his collarbone is real or not, he can never say for certain, and it never truly matters. he does not know where his feet are taking him as he spirals in directions that lead to places that will slip away from his mind in an instant. they will dissolve into colors and smells and sensations instead of anything tangible, and fear is his companion. he wants to go home, but he does not have one anymore.

he recalls sitting, pen in hand, bleeding ink onto a notebook page as he tried to recall his mother’s face. When that was too hard, he tried to remember her name. when he could not settle on an answer he felt confident in, he tried to remember any familiar face. then, he reached instead for something more familiar than anything else, and he started wandering. movement won’t save him, but it will buy him breathing room.

he is somehow, still upright.

his thoughts have only ever been fragmented whims that do not weave together into meaning and sense, and so in that way, he has always been this way. he is hungry. he has always been hungry. it pulses in his veins and scrapes his bones hollow. this too is his companion.

his legs have scarcely failed him in life, but he asks too much of them now, half starved and infected with weakness as he chooses a direction with no destination. he stumbles, the world flickering, dipping drunkenly. his gaze falls, and he watches his shoes step stiffly in front of each other.

and then something steals away his need to stand at all.

thin arms ‘round his shoulders that gift him steadiness. not for a moment does he think to care who they belong to before he collapses into them.

[blackclotheda]

@polarean

SIGGY CAN ONLY REPAIR WHAT DAMAGE HAS BEEN DONE to the extent of endless funds and resources, but he cannot undo what happened. he cannot take that away.  

where siggy sits at the bedside, his clothes are crisp and neat, his hair is combed, and his face holds more exhaustion than perhaps it ever has. his dark hues are bloodshot and hung with dark shades of purple. he has never experienced such an intense and unsatisfiable craving for a cigarette. maybe he’d feel better just holding one between index and middle, but he is in a hospital and it would be an unprofessional look.

siggy has been on his phone for hours. it has an amazing battery life, really. he’s been organizing the fallout of the previous evening— keeping four men alive and contained is not as simple as it should be, and of course there is cleanup, hefty compensation, medical care for his injured men. he has been starved completely of sleep to the point that he no longer feels tired, just like years of his lifespan are being siphoned away to feed his extremely caffeinated soul.

the second jameson rouses his dark eyes flit to observe, to wait and hope he goes back to sleep. this time, he does not.

“ jameson? ” he speaks soft, almost almost a flicker of uncertainty. “ I’m here. ”

he has no idea what to expect; confusion? panic? lividness? lethargic drugged nonsense? he’ll catch all of it.

[hatigave-a]

@polarean Andrei sent : [bath] - Sender catches receiver bathing. for Jackson

IT IS NOT OFTEN THAT INDULGENCE comes in another shape than his mouth on skin that lingers as if it belongs to a starving man. The sea remains with him even now that he has made peace with the mere thought of staying behind ; he has never been away from her for so long. Like a child ripped from their mother's arms, he yearns and yearns and wails into the silence of the night when the steadiness of the ground underneath his feet becomes a discomfort rather than a delight. Then, when he is close to re-opening the scars on his palms from rough ropes and splinters caught underneath the skin, he turns his body underneath heavy sheets AND SUDDENLY ALL IS WELL ! For he is loved and welcome in a home that does not fill with water and hold the lifeless remains of those who he loved before. Andrei is real, alive, warm, and dry when Jackson's hand finds the curve of his cheek in the middle of the night.

The indulgence is not in the make-believe safety of firm walls and unshakable earth tonight. Now it is in a bathtub far too grand to contain a man with no money or status to his name. Where the water is still lukewarm even when winter scratches and mewls like a cat at the glass of the window. There is even actual swear-to-god soap that does not crumble away into dust at the slightest touch of his hand. THERE IS ALSO THE CREAK OF THE DOOR, and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that he is being watched. Come, lover mine     ⎯⎯⎯⎯ do not play coy with longing and cross the threshold. ❝ I know it is you, Andrei. Your staff would have excused themselves either with shame or out of duty by now if it was one of them. ❞

Laughter bounces between the walls when Jackson turns his head to glance in the direction of his love. A well-aimed soft smile, an even better aimed batting of his eyelashes ( mother taught him to hunt in his childhood, and he remembers part of her lessons well even now. ) ❝ It is your house and bathtub — ❞ a come here motion of his hand accompanied by the slight tilt of his head. ❝ — you can come in if you want. I promise I don't bite, my love. ❞