#polarean

[andessence]

What a thing to ask him! Is this what you want? He gives it. Isn't that enough? What Armand wants... The question that seems much more mysterious is what Louis wants. Louis looks him over with hungry eyes, lets his hands card through Armand's curls and caress his features (memory, again: hands freckled with paint turning his head this way and that, lingering over lips, pushing past them...) but for all these sure signs of desire there are doubtful doubles: the withdrawal, the asking and re-asking, the untouched camera.

Armand knows what he wants; he merely loathes to speak it. Louis seems not to know his own desire at all.

To be teased like this with such an ambivalence in the face of his own too-eager abasement smarts horribly.

What does Louis want? If only he can find it, he will be it. So Armand weaves through the tendrils of thought that Louis exposes, back to what is unoffered, what Louis does not mean to show him, and he sees Louis's desire, in harmony with his own. Yes, yes, tear at him, mark him, crush him so that he can that adoration that consumes. ... And then he sees Louis's evaluation of him — just another mask. Turning his stomach. As if the embarrassing, overt desire Armand shows down on his knees is cheap, false.

Amadeo opens his mouth and bites Louis's thumb. Just quick, just a moment of tensed jaw and searing eyes, and then Armand is turning his face away, letting the digit slip from his lips. "The moment's whim passes. You lose a thousand instants of opportunity with your indecision." And he stands, takes a turn about the room, locks eyes with that ghost of his hanging in the line of a thousand other of Louis's little voyeuristic conquests. Does Louis merit another glimpse of this break in him again? Just because Armand wants to give it does not mean that Louis deserves it.

He lands at last on the daybed concealing Louis's coffin, leaning on one palm planted on the mattress, drawing one leg up and letting the other rest in a loose extension— a pose his Maker's fellow artists had liked for its long, sweeping lines and softly tilted head. "Maybe here. The light is better. Should I make myself comfortable? It seems I'll be waiting quite a while for inspiration to strike." That earnest, longing look that had haunted his features has been cut with a smoldering impatience. "Do you think you'll manage before the sunrise?"

impossible not to touch him, to want to cover armand's skin in loving kisses and tender bites, to have him here, on his knees, to bloody him, heal him, bruise him, and kiss the bruises away. louis is no longer the restrained catholic he'd once been, no longer wallowing in denial of himself. paris has opened him as a flower blooming beneath impossible sunshine, and his fangs are biting the insides of his mouth, sickening him with the taste of his own blood. uncontrolled, too impulsive. what is this sensation inside him that makes him want to tear armand apart? his evil nature, wretched sin, seeping in when he tries to be gentle, when he tries to be gentle. ( show me the only way you know how to love. )

armand upon his knees is not the same bared creature in the photograph hanging above him. a new mask, then. is this what he wants louis to capture? a vulnerable shred of him, but not the whole of it. louis could raise his camera, snap this second into an eternity. armand, always there on his knees, showing louis the pieces he wants louis to see. why does the idea of it make his stomach turn?

he doesn't lift his camera to this moment. lets it rest against his chest, staring down at the floor, as though ashamed to see the pair of them like this. he wants to see armand true. no more lies, no more hiding. ( he does not understand what this means. he cannot begin to understand what it means : and maybe if he did, he wouldn't want to see it. ) louis doesn't wanna ambush him into it. ' is this how you're comfortable? '

louis reaches his hand to armand's head, placing his palm atop it ( a priest giving benediction, a saint and a sinner, but then, shouldn't louis be on his knees? ) then carding the sharpness of his fingers through armand's hair, the course of his hand loosening his curls. his hand traces the points of armand's cheekbones, his jaw, his shin. his thumb brushes over armand's lips, pressing over the bottom one. ' is this what you want? '

[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]

@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. ❞

[pluresque]

@polarean | sc.

figuring this shit out's been— weird. trial and error, mostly, with copious thanks to louis's step-by-step how-to manual on being a brand-new vampire. thank god the interview happened before any of the rest of it; he doesn't know what the fuck he'd do out here completely on his own.

and it's not like he's really suffering, or anything. being a vampire is fucking great, as far as daniel's concerned — nothing like what he'd imagined it being, when he was twenty and blitzed out of his mind and only half-listening to louis rant about lestat, but still. hard to beat. " testing, testing, is this thing on— " he calls out, through the minds of the world's vampires, aiming for one mind in particular. " louis, is that you in town, or am i imagining things? "

[intothewildsea]

@polarean (sylvain)

Niamh had pressed herself into a corner of the room, sitting on the floor, with her knees hugged to her chest. She made sure to keep an eye on the door, waiting for it to open, so that she could make a break for it. Maybe. Probably not.

She couldn't go anywhere without her sealskin and she knew that.

She supposed, at least, this room was better than what Niall had kept her in. She tried not to think about that time in her life. Tried not to think about the dark, damp cellar with no windows and no furniture. Those years spent alone and terrified and hurt.

She finally rested her head on her knees, trying to blink back the tears, but they fell anyways.

[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.

[frxncaise]

@polarean asked: [ BREATHE ]: sender takes the receiver's cold hands and begins to gently blow warm air over them in an effort to keep the receiver warm

the human embodiment of a shivering chihuahua in an somewhat silly coat; angélique leclair was not made for cold winters. in spite of following the advice of others, layering could only help so much. whoever said young people did not feel the cold could go fuck themselves: she feels everything and more to her core. charles can probably feel her shaking hand in his at the two strolled down the busy street. being the new york native that he is, he seems relatively unaffected by the weather. her suspicions are only confirmed when he gently brings her mittened digits up to his face and blows warm air on them. for a moment, she forgets that how numbed by the chill she has become. dark hues shine with an unmistakeable tenderness. oh, how smitten she is with him. “ such a gentleman, ” ange coos with a breath laugh. “ you didn't have to that, thank you. ”

[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. ”

[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.

[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.

[andessence]

@polarean // continued.

“Well I can’t know everything,” Ganymede murmurs evasively, eyes searching the bank as his feet shift in the water. “I know he’s supposed to get it, but you...” 

Someone knows, surely, whichever fate is spinning the thread of this man’s life, but Ganymede has never been good at puzzles, and so he isn’t very fond of prophesies. He knows that the other one, the golden, war-gloried one, will die before this ends, and even though he doesn’t want to — doesn’t think he can — imagine that brute beloved, soft in a friend’s arms, worthy of sympathy, Ganymede can understand that to the man before him, that brute is everything. He can feel bad for what this one will lose. He’s still human enough to remember what that kind of loss is.

His is another story of an unwilling survivor.

“I don't know that, though I know that to be left behind when those you love have gone is more painful than words can say. If that is your fate, then I’m sorry for it. But you mustn’t ask any favors, or for me to do anything about it. I wouldn’t, not to help him. Even if he is one of mine,” he grumbles petulantly. “Zeus is the only one who can turn the tides now, the way we’re all divvied up on Olympus, and he won’t be tempted, even by me. ... Have you guessed who you’re speaking to? Do they talk about me in Greece, or do they try to forget that the king of the gods’ favorite is a Trojan? Tell me...” His eyes cut back to the Greek, searching for a moment, as if the name will come to him, but it’s no good. “Oh, you’re going to have to tell me your name, because I can’t remember it. What else does he call you, philtatos?”

[1end]

EVERED HAVE MERCY

[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]

@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. ❞

[flcralist]

@polarean liked x ;

"HEY. BOSS." N.imona's voice echoed down from the shadows where she hangs, knees hooked over a pipe, pizza all but falling out of the box. "You ever heard of a bush baby?" Between one moment and the next, she'd snatched up a slice of pizza and bitten into it, giant simian eyes staring wall-eyed down at the man below her. She let out a long, drooling, "duhhhhhh..." even as chunks of cheese and sausage fell out of her mouth and onto the floor.