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#❝ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ❞ • ( aesthetic ) #❝ sᴏʀʀʏ ɪ·ᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ ❞ • ( queue )

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Musei Capitolini, Roma // 07.2016

#❝ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ❞ • ( aesthetic ) #❝ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ❞ • ( likes ) #❝ sᴏʀʀʏ ɪ·ᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ ❞ • ( queue )

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#i'm super sad now #❝ ɪᴛ·s ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ❞ • ( musings )

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#❝ ɪᴛ·s ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ❞ • ( musings ) #thanks

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#sTOP THIS #temp Raleigh tag

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traumahospital:

gender: “pretty boy”

#❝ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ❞ • ( aesthetic ) #❝ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ❞ • ( about )

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CATELL 16 FACTOR TEST.

RULES: Take THIS TEST for your muse and post the results and tag as many other people as you want! REPOST. DON’T REBLOG

TAGGED BY: @gazedlong

TAGGING: @wolfixis && anyone else who wants to!

#❝ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ❞ • ( about )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

     it all becomes too close  /  TOO UNCOMFORTABLE for andrew very quickly.  icarus fits himself under his flesh like an old sore and refuses to budge,  and he reckons it should be okay —- for the night.   but it isn’t !    bitter distress  give way to annoyance and anger,   and  suddenly he erupts with a great howl.   yes,  yes,    his breaking point is met and icarus is thrown from the bed along with the blankets and jeans that get caught up in the mess.  the imp rolls from one side of the tent to the other with little but a flick of his wrist, andrew following closely behind with a glare,  a growl that clings to each of his exposed teeth;  ugly.    ‘   out.  ‘    he knows little of the boy,   feels comfortable with less as he tries to cling to the jackal as if they were more than acquaintances.    something other is said in a strange tongue by the time he throws icarus from his tent,   head bowed.    

          everything about the exchange is UNCEREMONIOUS and rugged. Icarus almost fights to stay in the bed, limbs kicking out in surprise as he’s suddenly cast onto the floor, banished from the warmth he seeks. he wants to cry, wants to sob--because he’s so disgusting that even MR. JACQUEL dare not keep him in his bed. Icarus cries out, whines pathetically as he clings to the blanket, as if that will protect him, as if that’s what will give him love and strength.

                                     ❝ no. ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( saeviire;; )

    he’s   silent.   contemplates  the  work  of  art  with  reverence.   icarus  was ..  talented,  to  say  the  least.   his  artistry  was  exquisite.   when  rhiannon  had  come  across  the  other  in  their  regular  cafe,  he  hadn’t  thought  he  was  anything  more  than   one  more  of   those  uselessly   obsessed  with  him,  &   his  family.   oddly   enough,   it  had  not  been  so.   yes,  the  other  was  perhaps  OBSESSED,  but …  in   a  much  different  way  than  rhiannon  was  used  to.   icarus   adored   his  aesthetic,   not  the  juicy  secrets   his  clan  guarded.   

the  raven  haired  heir  canted  his  head,  drinking  in  greys,  blacks,  &    soft  reds.   ❛      it’s   beautiful,  icarus.      ❜     turning   towards   the  flame  haired  youth,   rhiannon   musters  a  coy   smile.    ❛      i’ll  have   another  project   for  you…   you’ll  be  handsomely   compensated,   of  course.       ❜      true   talent   was  incredibly   rare  in  their  day  &   age.   finding   someone   who    painted   like   art   was  an  extension   of  their  soul,   was  not   to  be  taken  for granted.      ❛      another   portrait.   of   myself   &   my  brother,   to  hang  in   one   of   the  mansion’s   many  halls.        ❜

         A BREATH is released, absolutely elated that Rhiannon likes his work, likes his creations. It’s like Rhiannon is calling Icarus BEAUTIFUL rather than the work he’s produced. Flustered and grinning wide enough to hurt his cheeks, Icarus nodded, biting his bottom lip.

       ❝ Thanks. I… tried my hardest. I wanted it to be something that… really seemed like you, you know? ❞

         He inhaled deeply, swallowing thickly as he wrings his hands together, listening intently to the details of his next project.

        ❝ Yeah, I can totally do another one, ❞ he says. ❝ How BIG do you want it exactly? ❞

#saeviire #❝ sᴏʀʀʏ ɪ·ᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ ❞ • ( queue )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

             o ‘   the  sweet  innocence  of  ignorance!   exhausted bones reap the benefit of the warmth that marks it’s hearth under his ribs,  no wet chill finds complaint as he moves and shoves the kid back under the blanket.  he knows of icarus enough,  HE’S HEARD THE STORIES:        mr. jacquel treats him like a pup,  his own,  and forces the top of the blanket under his arm,  ceasing any and all argument from resurfacing.   ‘   sleep.  ‘

       he whines unhappily as he shoved, hissing softly as he presses his face in Andrew’s chest. he’s not CHALLENGING the strong man; not manipulating him. why would Icarus want to fuck over a man who could so easily destroy him? he whines:

                                      ❝ can’t sleep. ❞

#icarus: loVE ME #prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( jagerbxmbastic;; )

     Okay, THAT was a low blow. For a hot second, Danny is almost genuinely offended — but then he remembers what Icarus had told him about some of his previous boyfriends (and he can fill in the blanks easily enough, too) and he quickly realizes he has nothing to worry about. What, is Icarus going to call up one of his abusive drugee burnouts and see if THEY want to go the opening this early?

          He figures now is as good a time as any to REALLY get the small male’s attention. In one fluid movement, he grabs hold of Icarus and rolls to his left — shifting their positions so the redhead is on his back and he himself is kneeling above him.

                 ❝ OR you could stay here and I can show you why you started                      coming to my apartment in the first place. how does THAT sound?❞

     As he speaks, a phantom hand begins to slide up Icarus’ thigh. Its intentions are VERY clear.

     Icarus MEANT to offend him, meant to some JEALOUSY coursing through those hot veins and maybe Danny would actually come to the museum with him, but it seems that all of that is backfiring… somewhat. The fox blinks blankly for a moment when Danny seems unfazed by his comment, and he knows then and there that he hasn’t convinced him in the least, but a smile blooms on his face as Danny rolls them over, giggling playfully as he hovers over Icarus.

             So his comment backfired—SOMEWHAT.

   He’s still getting something out of this; maybe it’s not the art showing, but hell—this is better.

              Icarus purrs, rolling his hips up against Danny’s, trying to guide his hand to where he wants it.

            ❝ I don’t know. Your apartment’s pretty SHABBY, ❞ he teases.

#jagerbxmbastic #❝ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴᴅʀᴇᴅ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ ʙʟᴏᴡᴊᴏʙ ❞ • ( Danny ) #❝ sᴏʀʀʏ ɪ·ᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ ❞ • ( queue )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

        ‘    you seem to be under the impression that i care what you want.  ‘    it’s rough,  insipid in it’s own right even. but this isn’t a regular exchange of favors.   he sees the need and desperation in icarus’ gaze,  can taste the thinly worn sanity that dangles by a thread  ——   icarus,  for all intents,  is perfect for what the jackal has in mind.  a moment of uninterrupted silence pushes him to grab at that hand,  pushing it away with a shiver:  he was cold. a shiver causes his teeth to clack against a hiss,  soon followed by another grunt.    ‘    i gave you a kindness,  icarus.   don’t take it as a favor,   you don’t want to barter with me.  ‘

              HARSH, but what does one expect from a jackal? he grunts a lot, Icarus notices, but he supposes that that’s the primary source of communication when one is as recluse as the strong man. a challenge presents itself to Icarus, bares its teeth and begs him to take it by the maw and shove his head inside, see the limits, test those boundaries, but he doesn’t want to test those boundaries with Mr. Jacquel  ( actually he does, but he doesn’t want to know the consequences should his actions lead him to failure and having that heavy maw snap his neck ). 

              he NUZZLES against Andrew.

                                        ❝ are you under the IMPRESSION that I do whatever ANYONE tells me? ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

        what an insipid retort.   the jackal moves again,  unaccustomed to the intrusion that clings to his hip desperately.   some part of it annoys him,  puts him on edge;  another part rather likes how easily icarus moves to show his belly.  submission,     it was always a good thing.  the adjustment is loudly heard as the bed complains under him   &  his bones CRACK.     ‘     washing my clothes,  beddin’ & the like.  ‘    andrew wets his lips,  eyes finally blinking open while he’s met with a sleepless gaze of icarus.   ‘   hopefully you take a shower first,  kid.  i don’ want my shit smellin’ like you any longer than need be.  ‘

              oh. he wants Icarus to UNDO what he’s done--the scent-marking. he wants Icarus’ scent off of his sheets, his body. fair enough--they’re not mates, they don’t know each other. there was no reason to scent any of Andrew’s things other than to bother him. sitting up slightly, he presses a hand to Andrew’s abdomen, disturbing his sleep and comfort. 

                                         ❝ what if I WANT my scent to stay? ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

            the frightful playfulness that icarus holds close to his chest,  it ferments andrew’s hot blood   &   makes the sourness turn sweet just as he swallows down the little sound.  who could blame him,  had he the mind to rip the little thing to bits?   he wonders, idly and mutedly, just how the heart of such a trickster must taste.  for a moment, some small grace,  andrew ponders about the very idea of a prophet.    why  not?     icarus could be of use, couldn’t he?  mr. jacquel turns in bed some,  grabbing and stuffing a pillow under his own chin to get comfortable.     ‘    tomorrow will come.  if you’re goin’ to be a nuisance i mi ‘ das well make you useful.  ‘

         AGAIN, Mr. Jacquel surprises Icarus, look up at him and contemplates his words for a moment. come back again tomorrow? he could do that--what Andrew would want him for, Icarus doesn’t know, and his curiosity always bests him, wanting to know what’s in store for him. he nods slightly, pressing his cheek to Andrew’s side.

                                          ❝ okay... what for? ❞

#yaS fuCK me UP #prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

        to   give   up   this  silence,   that muted repose that he wears so nicely,  it’s quite far off from where he should be in his many years.   the boy in his bed makes him feel ancient,  once again much too big for a world that was blatantly not for him anymore.    facade   or    not,    andrew finds the disturbance quiant.  innocent, even.   a test of will is played while he debates on whether or not he’ll turn his head to answer,   to give any sign that he’d heard the little tyke.      it doesn’t last long:   those under his blackened flesh,  they crack the surface of his curiosity.  soon he knows he’ll have to put icarus in his place,  soon never seems to come soon enough.     ‘   please jus’  go to sleep, kid.  i had one long - ass - day.  ‘

          Icarus YIPS quietly, ducking his heads underneath the sheets and shutting up. he doesn’t want to fall out of favor with the strong man, doesn’t want to be kicked out of the bed, but he scoots closer, resting nicely curled up against Andrew’s side, purring loudly as he makes himself comfortable. maybe Mr. Jacquel was kinder than he let on; maybe there was more to him than just brutish words and fists. 

                                            ❝ good night~ ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

      he   can   practically   smell   it,   the   relief that washes over icarus overwhelmingly.  everything about the mutt in his bed is sour,  ugly to his own nose but not so much that he wouldn’t be able to stand it:   he’d simply need to make his own scent mask icarus’ is all,  make it smother and consume the little flame until only andrew’s sharp taste was left.      confusion nips at his extremities playfully trying to bring his attention back to why he let him in his bed and not if they’d fit together on it.   

his bed isn’t lush by any standards,  though as he undresses himself with a sigh, he feels the exhausted turmoil disquiet the questions that linger.  the night is muted and a bit frayed about the edges,  a drunken drowsiness clinging to his heavy bones and finding hearth & home in the cage that are his ribs.   it isn’t long before he’s pushing icarus to the end so that he can slide in under the heavy thickness of the blankets,  grunting.   

         Icarus knows what he smells like--smoke, drugs, despair, ink, and desperation, but half of that fades away as he lays next to Andrew, breathes in new scents: warmth and dog, but... good dog. finding a comfortable spot beneath the blankets, Icarus quickly shimmies out of his jeans and tosses them to the ground, purring loudly as he curls up, unsure if Mr. Jacquel will let him press against him. 

         he stares at the big man, paws at the sheets softly as he just observes him, wondering what he’s thinking, what he wants, what he wants to say. Icarus swallows thickly before nodding up at him. 

            ❝ merci beaucoup, Monsieur Grand Homme~ ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )

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( prophetgrieved;; )

      he   can   sense   it,   the   other’s   desperational  state.     it   brings  a  growl  from  behind  clenched, crooked teeth,   followed then by a sigh.   he wasn’t going to let the kid into his bed,  obviously.   not after rhiannon and his pets had their way with him.    the jackal under his brazen flesh croons and cackles for something he has no interest in pushing his nose into,   especially something as callous as the imp in his bed.      andrew turns to pull the blanket from atop  icarus roughly. 

andrew  is quick to point a finger in his face,  followed by the sudden grabbing of his collar so that he can pull him in close.    what was this?  MERCY?      ‘    it  ain’t  ‘ bout  being  good,  kid. I ain’t about to hear from rhiannon that i let you sleep here,  am i?   there’s enough drama that goes around,  i aint advocating my own.  ‘    a pull of the shirt is the lasting impression given before he pushes icarus back into his bed roughly.   the night is cold.  mr. jacquel eyes up the ginger  —-   before promptly pulling his shirt up over his mop of hair.

          Icarus doesn’t want to be tossed out, doesn’t want to sleep out in the cold again tonight. he’s SURPRISED by Andrew’s fingers in his collar, pulled close. it’s shocking--the big, burly man taking in the small fox, the little creature so shunned. he shakes his head quickly.

               ❝ no. he won’t... say anything. he doesn’t CARE.  ❞

       he stares at Mr. Jacquel, pausing, wondering what he’s thinking, what he sees in Icarus, and he just whines softly, roughly handled and clinging to the sheets, begging for warmth. 

             ❝ I can STAY? ❞

#prophetgrieved #v. the black altar circus. #❝ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ﹠﹠ ᴠᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❞ • ( v. the black altar circus )