OF THE POLES

i think there is no innocent landscape   ( anselm kiefer )

[polarean]

POLAREAN.       a study in   :   the violence of landscapes, the isolation of the arctic winter, and the bone - biting cold.   or  a multimuse, featuring muses from classic and contemporary lierature, mythology, and more.   written by evered.

current activity level:  medium

                                           carrd.   rules.    muses.

[bringthunder]

𝐈𝐅 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐋 for  every  time  someone  wound  up  blocking  him  from  leaving  while  hard,  verso  sachs  would  have  two  nickels.  it  isn’t  an  impressive  amount,  but  it  is  strange  that  it’s  happened  twice  in  his  life.  the  first  time,  granted,  was  far  more  entertaining  and  substantially  less  tragic:  a  hook-up  who  thought  verso  had  ROBBED  HIM,  insisting  that  the  son  of  zeus  had  a  wallet  shoved…  SOMEWHERE.  gods,  looking  back  on  it,  verso  wonders  if  he’s  ever  laughed  harder  than  he  did  in  that  moment.  

this  time,  though,  he’s  not  laughing.  he’s  rummaging  about  for  his  shirt,  looking  here  and  there  for  it.  it’s  spotted  a  beat  later,  then  pulled  on.  he  takes  a  second  to  refamiliarize  himself  with  the  texture  of  the  fabric  and  finds,  much  like  with  his  pants,  that  the  bites  and  bruises  do  NOT  appreciate  the  closeness.  he  tells  himself  to  suck  it  up:  he’ll  find  some  way  to  numb  them.  it’s  usually  charles’  job,  but  evidently  he’s  unknowingly  gotten  FIRED.  

oh,  right.  that’s  still  UNKNOWINGLY.

verso  rubs  the  back  of  his  neck.  his  eyes  lack  the  manic  want  for  MORE,  MORE,  MORE  that  they  had  only  a  few  moments  ago,  and  in  its  wake  is  a  certain  ANNOYANCE  hovering  about.  he  finds  his  sunglasses  without  too  much  effort  and  puts  them  on  before  the  world  can  give  him  a  WORSE  migraine.  gods,  he  hates  his  eyes.  would  that  tartarus  had  just  blinded  him  instead.  at  least  then  he  wouldn’t  have  the  aching  temptation  to  turn  his  head  to  the  sky  still,  knowing  full  and  well  that  doing  so  will  HURT  every  goddamn  time.  

he  puts  his  hands  together,  palm  to  palm,  and  fixes  his  attention  on  charles.  

❝  you  said  the  thing,  ❞  verso  replies  plainly,  as  if  THE  THING  is  a  universally  known  fact.  ❝  the  whole…  the  CARING  thing  ??  yeah,  no,  mistake  made.  don’t  care  about  me.  it’s  a  HUGE  turn  off,  and  also  a  mistake  of  ORPHEUS-LEVEL  proportions.  ❞  he  punctuates  that  untrue  fact  with  a  pair  of  fingerguns.  ❝    as  for  where  i’m  going,  PROBABLY  hell  in  the  longterm,  but  in  the  short  term  i’m  going  to  get  shitfaced  and  or  high  off  my  ass,  so…  ❞  his  voice  trails.  he  motions  to  the  other’s  naked  form.  ❝    move  your  bare  ass,  and  next  week  we  can  do  this  again  like  it  never  happened.  COOL  ??  cool.  great.  glad  we  had  this  talk.  MOVE.  ❞    

[polarean]

absolutely not fucking cool ---- if this is what verso considers a talk . . . but then again, he is attempting to flee the scene of something charles had considered almost innocuous. not meaningless, not by any stretch, because charles cared about people as hard and fierce as a train derailing. but, as far as verso should have been concerned, nothing to run away from. and not a mistake. never a mistake.

his head cants and he leans one of his elbows into the door frame so that he can rub his palm over his face, mutters, " you gotta be kiddin' me. " centers himself, because he wants to laugh and cry, because this is as ridiculous as it is tragic. gods, he really, really thought verso would've seen through to the feelings that charles had done pretty much nothing to conceal. the son of eris does not draw easily to others. it matters to charles, when someone wants to be around him enough that he can find he cares for them in a way that isn't just his normal bleeding - heart bullshit.

of course, his expression isn't gonna soften into concern or some nonsense ---- until he can't feel verso's mouth on him, he doesn't think the fire in him is gonna go down while he's still inconveniently aroused. when his palm reaches his mouth, he bites it. it's the best he can do before violence.

" okay. i made that mistake before sayin' it today, but what the hell, if you're gonna leave, let's consider it unsaid. i don't care about you. not even a little. does that turn you on? " wouldn't eris love to hear it said in any tone but sacastic. charles can't offer anything else up. he levels his eyes on verso's, stares through the tinted glass to the amber he'd beheld moments before, that had been so, so beautiful to him. fuck, he can't keep that up. " i mean, fuck, verso, i thought you knew. i'm not out here sharing any sorta deep secret. did you think i was hangin' out with you just because you're fun to fuck? that's part of it, sure, but damn. "

he wants to reach out and touch verso. he wants to hit him, or to hold him, or maybe do some combination of both. he wants to ask who the fuck orpheus is, and why verso believes someone caring about him is even worse than whatever that guy did. instead, he repeats incredulously, " mistake, " and then, " what the actual fuck are you talkin' about? "

[bringthunder]

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓.  beyond  the  taste  of  whiskey,  verso  has  grown  AVERSE  to  losing  consciousness  in  most  forms  (he  would  not  need  so  many  empty  glass  bottles  to  fall  asleep  if  he  were  fine  with  it,  if  he  were  HEALTHY);  he  has  grown  so  trigger-happy  whenever  the  world  starts  to  slip  out  from  around  him  that  it  will  DAMN  HIM  if  he  ever  goes  under  without  a  fight.  never  again  will  he  be  caught  unawares  on  the  shores  of  some  flaming  river,  NEVER  AGAIN  will  he  be  but  meat  for  a  monster  to  rip  into.  

the  heat  of  charles,  the  tightness  ‘round  him,  the  others’  mismatched  eyes  STARING  into  his  own  -  all  of  this  should  ground  him,  and  he  knows  it.  all  of  this  should  bring  him  some  uncertain  peace  not  because  he  is  in  the  hands  of  someone  who  he  TRUSTS  nor  because  he  is  in  the  hands  of  a  WELL-VERSED  PARTNER  (this  is,  perhaps,  the  MESSIEST  first  hook-up  verso  has  EVER  had),  but  because  he  knows  that  they  share  a  bond.  charles  cannot  kill  him  because  if  he  does,  the  game  STOPS.

chiron  will  be  mad,  certainly,  but  the  bigger  consequence  is  this:  a  dead  verso  is  a  loss  of  a  high,  and  he  reckons  charles  is  already  something  of  an  ADDICT  in  his  own  right.  

this  does  not  stop  him  from  tensing.  hands  tighten  ‘round  his  throat  and  verso  recognizes  within  the  MILLISECOND  that  the  grip  is  too  tight.  his  lungs  ache  worse  than  before.  his  throat  SCREAMS  in  some  strange  bliss-hell.  the  world  begins  to  tip,  spin,  TWIST  -  breaking  from  his  exhaustion,  verso’s  hands  abandon  charles’  hips  to  GRAB  at  the  other’s  wrist.  electricity  flicks  about  him  more  as  a  THREAT  than  FLIRTATION;  without  saying  a  word,  verso  draws  a  line  in  the  sane.  perhaps  one  day.  but  NOT  today.  not  here.  

this  is  the  only  objection  he  gives.  charles  rises  slowly  just  to  fall  against  him  again,  and  verso  props  himself  on  his  elbows  to  meet  the  man.  again  he  seeks  charles  neck,  his  LIPS,  but  there’s  a  sloth  to  it  now.  it  won’t  last.  already  he  can  feel  need  boiling  back  up  in  his  stomach,  ALREADY  he  feels  a  craving  for  that  wrath  again  -  but  for  a  moment,  there’s  an  exhaustion  to  it.

this  is  the  only  reprieve  most  of  his  lovers  get.  charles  will  receive  the  same  privilege  only  as  much  as  verso  thinks  it  is  DESERVED. 

[polarean]

an animal want has raced his veins. charles is barely conscious of it. he'd barely conscious of anything, twitching across verso's thighs, that isn't an immediate bruise or bite. thrill - seeking has always been a dangerous game, and charles has learned to be cautious. forced himself to be restrained when his hands find another's flesh, all too aware of the damage he could do.

coming down from his high, charles knows, recognizes, that this is something entirely beyond his good sense. it's coming clearer, through the ache in his body, that letting this feel good may have been a mistake. it's hard to feel bad about it. damn verso.

and, by the way, it's on verso, too, that charles can mistake a warning for a tease : so far, every electric jolt has been a promise that he'd found something needing and hungry, something to chase. he'd ached to hear verso ask for his hands to squeeze tighter, and fuck, he'd had fun leaning in to each plea. thank fuck, for the first and only time, that real hurt twists in his gut : a divine sense, more than the burn in his wrist, reads this intention.

in an instant, charles' hands are releasing verso's throat. wrapping around the back of his neck, not soft but not hard either, wrapping his fingers in the hair at the scruff of the other's neck. let him breathe, or whatever. blood on his hands is more fun when verso's alive to moan about it.

instead, a kiss, and the slowness nearly catches charles off - guard, but oh, there's teeth in there : sweetness does not pass between their mouths. he moans something feral as his hips rock in verso's lap, even the tiniest movements jarring up through his insides, a kind of strained want that hurts to feel and that he won't do anything to stop feeling. this is new, this part ---- still wanting more, haven consumed his fill. he breaks from verso's mouth, and scrapes his teeth along the bruises he'd made on the other's throat.

" you said tighter, " he admonishes into verso's skin, breathless and raw - throated and laughing quietly, " i didn't know you were such a softy. " maybe charles isn't quite done wringing everything he can out of this fight.

[polarean]

had a very upsetting and busy day, but. i am doing a few replies & then im gonna be a revamp of my roster.... gonna add someone new, and maybe retire a few who i haven't written in a very long time

[polarean]

sorry for radio silence over here, im hoping by thurs all the stressful stuff at work will be over and i'll have spoons to be around here again <3

[polarean]

hi

[sanguinisa]

They're very close, Nan realizes. She can't help but glance down as Roksana licks her lips, mouth going dry at the sight of it. She shakes her head, sitting back on her haunches if only so she couldn't feel Roksaa's breath on her skin, allowing herself to focus more clearly. The usual images push their way to the front of Nan's mind -- dismemberment, disembowelment, stabbing -- but she keeps her hands to herself.

"No, wait. What d'you mean a strange noise? Was I snoring?" That didn't make sense. Roksana would know what snoring sounds like. Same with wheezing and snarling. What noises did that leave? "You look upset." That was the last thing she wanted. Nan held Roksaa in the highest esteem, dutifully doing anything the woman told if only to earn that frustrated huff that meant she was happy, but didn't want Nan to know. This, however, seemed to be pure discomfort, unsettled by whatever Nan had been doing while asleep.

[polarean]

her bedevilment breaks with distance : nan sits back, and roksana is freed to look askance, her face burned with an angry dusting of crimson. it is bad to be so close. every day, roksana reminders herself, as she allows the creature to stay, as she lets nan help around her home and sleep comfortably on the hearthstone and become useful and even pleasant company. roksana stands back up, over the taller woman, and smooths her skirts.

" not snoring. it was different. like the sound a cat makes ---- " she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, searching for the word in common, and not finding it. " i thought something was wrong in the house. i did not know you make these sounds. "

[shesnows]

❝ i always thought the good samaritan thing was just an overused trope in books and movies but here we have one in the flesh.❞ she muses as she studies him through narrowed eyes. that he’s not only doing this of his own volition but also by himself is puzzling to her for she’s far more accustomed to those who do such deeds of goodness solely because there are eyes watching them or some sort of reward for them at the end. is this guy really just one of those bleeding hearts? surely not. in this day and age, a person who embarks on such virtuous endeavors is as mythical as a unicorn. in fact, she’d bet she’s more likely to run into a unicorn than such a person.

❝ not really. ❞ and there’s no hiding the curtness of her response (as if she actually even tried to bother masking her irritation). if they can stop the talking and pick up the pace, they can hopefully finish sooner rather than later and she can go on with her life and pretend this odd interlude never occurred. ❝ minding my own business. very happily, i might add. ❞ his question is little more than small talk and utterly harmless for it asks her to reveal nothing save for the mundane but she has never been one to avoid embracing a contrarian response when a moment presents itself.

aurelia forces her furrowed brow to relax and some of the lines of tension upon her visage ease as she shifts the conversation to what she believes to be more relevant territory, ❝ do you do this every saturday? or is this just a once in a blue moon type of thing? ❞ if it’s the latter then the gods must really despise her because what are the chances?

❝ i’ve only been here for like five minutes but i do have to say that this seems like a lot of work.❞ his intentions are certainly commendable, she’s not so stubborn as to try and say otherwise but does he not find it taxing? and how much is he really changing? the cynic in her is tempted to point out the possible futility of his kindness but to do so might lead to a real conversation and that’s exactly what she’s looking to avoid.

❝ how many people do you usually manage to hand out bagels to whenever you do this? ❞ she is most definitely an unwilling helper but that doesn’t mean she can’t be curious, right? after all, if she has no choice but to help then she might at as well satisfy her questions.

[polarean]

she doesn't wanna talk about herself. charles gets the message quick, and honestly can't begrudge it. he'd interrupted her day, and was leading her in this winding path through winding blocks. good samaritan could become creep easy enough, and charles is beyond aware of it. he's even been sticking to main drags ---- once the first bag is empty and he's alone, he'll dip into darker alleyways and rougher company.

so, that's fine, charles doesn't need to pry more than he already has. he'll forget that wintery air cutting the summer heat 'round her, and will drop his active suspicious that if he did something, like mentioned the empire state building, it'd draw a weirder than normal reaction. if any : icy is a word he'd use to describe more than just the space around her. it doesn't bother him. there are worse things to be than cold.

" i think you're being sarcastic 'bout the good samaritan thing, but thanks anyways, " he retorts, easy, not used to being called good, not willing to think very deeply about it. " it's something that needs to be done, though. plenty of places make leftovers inedible before tossin' 'em, which just seems kinda, you know . . . shitty, when there are people within a few blocks who don't wanna blow whatever cash they got on some artisan fucking bagel or whatever. plus, havin' to dumpster dive for whatever sucks, so bad. so, i'm thinkin', why not make life a little easier for everyone? "

everyone . . . except for himself ---- and for this stranger. but, that said, charles usually does operate alone. it just makes it harder, slows him down. he'll tell her later, in a way he's imaging she's not gonna appreciate, how grateful he is to have not been flipped off and left to his own devices on this little mission.

" i try 'n' get out doing something a couple times a week. isn't always handing out food. depends on the day, you know? and the food isn't always bagels ---- just whatever can be bought cheap and passed out pretty easily. 'm not working on a great budget. usually i can get thirty, forty people if the weather's decent and people are out. takes a bit, but hey, someone's gotta do it, right? "

[stygicniron]

"Uh, sort of an anti-green thumb," Nico says, blinking slightly as he considers what Sylvain said. Truthfully, he hasn't had that much experience with the nymphs, but he has had experience turning into various plant life. Hopefully that's not about what's going to happen. Maybe they'll just throw sticks at them for stealing. Sure.

"Growing things tend to whither when I touch them," he continues, because this seems like a safer topic than being turned into a plant. And he follows Sylvain's lead to the strawberry fields. "It's worse if I'm angry."

[polarean]

sylvain isn't very tactful ---- he actually winces when nico says what his touch does to plants. the nymphs would be really, extra unhappy if they came upon a patch of plants that had withered into rot. actually, sylvain thinks he would be upset too, even if nico didn't mean the harm. the strawberries would grow back, of course, but his strawberry picking privileges might be gone forever.

" i think you should keep your thumbs in your pockets, then, " he says, holding his hand out to take the bowl, and then turning toward the sun - drenched rows of the fields. immediately, though, he feels bad, and as they head down, he turns and says, encouragingly, to his friend : " if you can't touch the plants, then you can be in charge of the chocolate. "

[frxncaise]

splayed over his shoulder like a ragdoll, a ghastly groan leaves her. she is quite the dead weight, there is no use in fighting back ---- angélique has accepted her fate. moments like this remind her of the strength. the amount of he restraint he displays in his attempts at tenderness with her do not go unnoticed. the couch is a welcome change from the harshness of the two had faced. in the short time he is away, hands tear away at her cloth confines until she is left in nothing but her undergarments. her pyjamas cannot be changed into until she's washed away the day. ( it's a rule she made up for herself. ) the burst of energy depletes once more and she sprawls herself like a victorian woman on a fainting couch.

“ dying tomorrow, then. ” ange concludes, eyes fluttering close upon feeling the wetness of the clot against her flushed skin.

[polarean]

" sure. let's see how tomorrow goes, and if it really sucks, like so, so bad, we'll reconsider dying. " charles responds with a raised brow, a smirk tucked into the corner of his lip. he moves the cloth from angelique's forehead to her one cheek, and then to the other, determined that the red - heat in her skin cools back to her more usual color. as he does this, with his other hand, he searches around for the dirty clothes she'd abandoned ( entirely familiar with his love's rules about street clothes in and around the bed ) and tosses them towards the hamper, where they thump against the rim, then slink the rest of the way in.

" before that, though . . . how 'bout i get a showing going for you, so you can clean up and get comfortable? how's that sound? "

[polarean]

@sanguinisa forces [ roksana ] to look at them

roksana does not want to look. she does not want to see sharpened teeth and demon eyes, does not want to see the curve of a lip and cheeks the color with exertion. distance has been her goddess since youth : she cannot be good, or sweet, or magnanimous to anyone. her moods reject it, her actions are always wrong. she'd let nan stay here because it was convenient for her, and because nan didn't seem to have anywhere else to go. it had never been a kindness, and she resents that nan would ever think roksana better than she is. she doesn't want to look.

but the claws pressing into her jaw ( and somehow, not breaking skin ) demand roksana's attention. brown - black eyes go first to nan's, so familiar now. the rest of her head follows, chin lifted high. she's frowning ---- when is roksana ever not frowning? and so maybe the crimson flushed in her cheeks will be mistaken for burning anger. " i know what you are. " it is the accusation she falls back on, over and over. monster, creature, hellspawn. as though roksana herself couldn't wear these curses in her own fashion! " don't think i ever forget. "

[polarean]

@frxncaise said, " i know you love me, but do you like me? "

it's a no - brainer, and charles brushes it off ---- " of course i like you, silly. " elbows - deep in the dinner dishes, he reaches for another handful of cutlery and plunges it into the sink, scrubbing over them willy - nilly as he nods his head absently along to the radio playing in the background. it takes charles a second ---- distractions pushing aside in his mind ( food bank donation sorting night tomorrow, and before that he said he'd meet so - and - so, and then he needs to take an hour or so call into cps to argue about his sister again, as he does every week or so . . . ) until what angelique had really been asking comes clear. he stops scrubbing, and turns to regard her, holding her in a mis - matched gaze. " wait, what do you mean by asking that? of course i like you. did i ---- is there somethin' that happened that's making you doubt that? "

[hatigave]

there  are  moments   ⎯   those  which  feel  quite  alike  this  one   ⎯   that  mimic  the  sense  of  the  all-encapsulating  darkness  of  the  night's  watch  on  open  sea.  he,  wide-awake  and  wide-eyed  through  the  night.  andrei,  the  sparkling  fire  ship  on  the  furthest  point  of  the  horizon.  jackson's  heart  picks  up  to  the  rhythm  of  want  at  every  sight  of  him,  but  especially  when  the  night  or  day  is  still,  and  he  is  the  only  thing  jackson  can  bear  to  focus  on.  andrei  is  both  land  and  sea      ;      the  aftertaste  of  ash  after  a  fire  and  saltwater  that  lingers  in  the  cuts  of  jackson's  cracked  lips.

it's  nearly  cruel  to  put  the  weight  of  being  everything  on  andrei's  shoulders,  but  frankly,  jackson  doesn't  know  how  to  look  at  him  as  anything  less  than  his  whole  world.

jackson  doesn't  know  what  it  feels  like.  his  scars  are  superficial  at  best,  and  no  turn  of  events  has  ever  brought  him  close  to  death.  and  so  he  moves  gently,  like  a  man  possessed  by  affection  and  love,  or  perhaps  like  a  cat  who  tenderly  tries  to  seek  out  where  to  curl  up  to  prolong  the  sharing  of  warmth.

❝  an  awful  deal  you  struck,  leaving  something  gold  with  me  while  you  are  gifted  slop  of  flesh  and  blood  in  turn.  ❞  his  head  tilts,  chasing  after  andrei's  touch,  trying  to  leave  a  gentle  kiss  against  the  tip  of  wandering  fingers.  his  own  hand  moves  too,  settling  down  against  andrei's  chest,  covering  where  his  own  heart  apparently  currently  resides.  the  beating  is  comforting        ⎯⎯⎯       for  it  is  proof  that  death  remains  outside  of  the  door  a  moment  longer.  ❝  i  dare  not  think  about  it   ⎯   about  the  world  in  which  either  one  of  us  dies.  but  when  i  do,  i  come  to  the  conclusion  that  had  the  wound  killed  you,  i  would  have  died  that  moment  too.  a  weak  heart,  a  bloodless  death.  ❞

[polarean]

andrei does not believe there was ever gold in his breast. even blooded, his heart thudding his aliveness out through wounds ---- it had been steel or gunmetal, at its very strongest, and mere exhausted flesh at every other moment. and andrei had not been brave, or great, or strong. he'd disappointed his name, his legacy, his father. he'd seen himself an inconsequential ant in the great sweep that was history, marching towards cause, subsumed and devoured by it, and willing it to tear his ribs asunder and find the cannon - warm heart that grew tired of pounding. there are no golden - heartened men amongst soldiers.

" it is a very dear slop of flesh and blood, because it is yours, " he retorts, drawing his hand still through jackson's waves, slow and adoring. " i would cherish it, no matter its composition. "

jackson ---- jackson has a heart, andrei's heart, that has been torn and shot and scarred. a deficient, desperate piece of survival. it will fail one day not too long from now. he is glad he'd met jackson first : he wants many, many more hours with him. but andrei does think about the world where one of them dies. he shivers, when his wounds are glazed by loving fingertips, aches over smarting skin, cannot move as he once does, because of the way his body healed. even when jackson touches it, even when he wants to be touched, it hurts him.

no, andrei does not hide himself from a harsh reality, as he once had. and it does him well : he carries with jackson's love none of the inexperienced idealism of his prior romances, because he knows, now, that love is not a lofty idyll, but instead, fleshy and bleeding and hungry to live in the short time it has.

" you did not know me, anyways, when this would nearly end my life. we hadn't met ; i believe you would have lived on, and done many a splendid thing. " he reaches to take jackson's hand in his own and draw it to his lips. " you are a better man than i ever was. even before napoleon's invasion, i saw the world dead, and myself with it. "

[polarean]

hm time to get a tasty drink and read in the park i think! hope everyone is well

[fatestaken]

and is such an implication false? to state outright that she finds the company of andrei's kin to be...well, dispiriting, would be tactless and undoubtedly foolish even if it is the truth. his sister means well, that much has always been apparent, but it would be foolish to delude herself into believing that they have anything in common. here there would be no swift-paced conversations about the latest fashions from paris nor would there be any titillating gossip to be had about society's most prominent beings. away from society, she felt as though she was being shut out of the world, that she would find everything utterly rearranged and confusing were she to wait too long before her return.

'it is not that i feel the lack...i simply wish for more laughter and companionship, both of which i feel one can never enjoy too much.' it seems a safe, diplomatic way in which to concede her disappointment in a manner least likely to cause offense. and is she not stating the truth? there is no gaiety here, no peals of breathless laughter or dances that go on into the hours of the early morning. 'no, such conversations are not repellant to me though they clearly are to you.'

she should feel a sense of victory when he concedes, and indeed she does taste a sliver of triumph, but it is relatively disappointing. after all, he is not actually eager, he is merely resigned. he will be there only because she asks it of him and the entire time, she will know he is counting down the moments until they leave. lise graces her husband with an affectionate smile, dark eyes beginning to brim with the excitement that she will soon wholeheartedly embrace.

'nonsense, my love. you will find diversion there, i am sure of it, and you may even come away regretting your hesitation in the first place.' she opines with optimism before her dark brows rise upwards at the mention of a person of whom only her husband has ever spoken kindly. 'he may be in tow with prince vassily though i daresay the prince may be wishing to keep him away from the eyes of society given all the antics they say he and anatole kuragin enjoy.' she may not be schooled in the art of war or classic histories but in the gossip of society, lise is well versed. 'but i hope for your sake that he is there. ' a pause before she continues, 'i think him a dear man, a harmless creature and charming in his own way, i suppose, but you should exhort him to temper his ways and find a proper place in society.'

[polarean]

in his wife's excitement, prince andrei search for charm. he searches, not in vain, an easy happiness which, to him, has always seemed unreachable. maybe appeasing her here will ease the tension that thrums ( noticed or unnoticed : it is there ) in their home and in his chilled demeanor. it is not likely, he reflects. but she will be content, and will have gossip to share with mlle. bourrienne and masha, even if the pair do not much listen, and prince andrei will be able, for some time, to retreat to his study.

" if it would please you so much, then i won't further deny you. " gone is the icy bite of his words, turned lukewarm in his concession. even her diplomacy is nearly impressive, and he has no reason to take offense to what is true : even when he will hold his disgust for society against her longing for it as a mark against her character. " i only wish you will better see the peace of a country life in time. "

and if pierre is at this soiree, much better. pierre had written him several times as the young man had travelled through the continent, and his last several letters, andrei had neglected to answer, citing to himself the ever - changing addresses to which pierre instructed him to direct a response. and then, once he'd returned to moscow and taken up with kuragin, andrei had ignored him to punish him. at least prince anatole is too frivolous to be truly wicked company.

still, andrei winces at the name, and nods, attentive to perhaps one bit of society drama . . . " i have been written regarding pierre kirillovich's poor choice of company, yes. it is this which i must set him straight on ; his father his quite helpless, and i am given to believe that pierre will inherent his title upon his passing. now, he is harmless, you are right. should he become count bezukhov, i think he antics will quite lose their charm, and kuragin is a lout that will become more bothersome, if pierre does. "

[frxncaise]

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i don't expect you to drop everything, every time i get hurt.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] it took him five minutes to get the kids off, he's tending to the burn now.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] he just told me off in three different languages, so things could be better.

[polarean]

[ SMS : ange ] and i won't, not every time, but it sounded like you were kinda at the end of your rope, and i didn't wanna leave you dealin with it alone, when you don't need to

[ SMS : ange ] glad he's tending to the burn. telling you off uncalled for. are the kids looking like they're gonna clear out soon?

[ SMS : ange ] i'm not too far away. 3 more stops

[frxncaise]

eyes momentarily flutter close, a sharp gasp parting her lips as he pushes into her, stretching her out. he could easily flip the situation, though this is much more interesting. their heart beats have seemingly synchronized, paired with the pulsing felt at her core. “ what would happen if i do? ” she teasingly ponders before her words devolved into mewls. tilting her head to allow him better access to the tender flesh, angélique presses herself closer to him. charles has managed to distract her ---- even momentarily. how much longer can she continue to will this game of push and pull? even she is not infallible to their mutual desires.

[polarean]

even the idea of it draws from him a pained groan, and more pleading, " don't, please, don't, " even as his voice is near lost in the crook of her neck, where he has buried his face. never present from those early, rushing days and not yet gained is patience ---- and even when he'd tried to hold back earlier, as they are fast and close, he doesn't find himself able to even further restrain the need tearing through him, building, pounding ---- " 'm so close, please don't stop, please! "