Mariah.

John Campea going on a TIRADE calling him all types of asshole, ungrateful, disrespectful. Like...

    haHA!

Oh tea. Feed Nia to her first then since the lack of crowd won't make a difference for her unless she does a big spot!

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 10px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } I say tell me the truth, but you don't dare Cassandra's statement of 'control' struck a powerful chord within Emma, forcing her to reflect upon her own song and its melancholy melody. When she was a bright, beautiful young girl, control was what she often wished upon the stars at night, since the daylight hours with her mother brought on strict pageant preparations, and the subsequent abuse through her mother's unfounded jealousy and resentment. Then, into her adolescence, once older men took quick notice of her burgeoning womanhood and physical development, they'd circle her vulnerable body like vicious vultures, the lead to the flock being her own father. She still faced nightmares of the evening she thought her paternal figure finally took notice of her pain, depression and loneliness; that he at long last saw her. But once he ran his frigid fingers across her skin with an uncanny look in his eye, she was left to feel controlless once more, despite managing an escape from his abuse. Afterward, it was her first love who she thought would allow her to be free. But he, too, held control over her, until his death by overdose. As Emma unexpectedly became a parent herself—after her first love's plea for her to keep the child against her full will—she felt all control of her mind, body, sexuality and spirit was lost amidst her traumas. But with the years drifting past her, she found it again in her baby boy. Her son was the first person who loved her without expectation or abuse or demand for reward. He wanted nothing of her beyond her unconditional love back, shining light upon the boundless land love gave breath to. It's there she was finally able to run free, with her baby's hand in her own. And in wanting to provide for and reward her son for changing her life, she was able to take back control over her mind, body and spirit. On the stage, as the neon hues coat her naked form, Emma was irrevocably in control of all she lost, especially her body and her sexuality. "Yes. Yeah you're totally on the mark there," responds Emma following her fleeting daze. "I think I've managed to get that down to a science, specifically where it concerns the male species. Well..." she refrains momentarily while her mind flutters back to Bobby, who had proven to be more than meets the eye, the more the pair of them opened their hearts to one another. "For the most part, as far immediately seeing people for who they truly are is concerned. I've learned that some people may surprise you, in a good way. I mean, this interaction itself is pretty surprising. Like, I've never met another woman so fascinated by another in a platonic way. And one so vulnerable and open and honest... you said you're lonely?" As her empathy for Cassandra grew, the lock to her barrier would loosen and slowly turn open. MONTY @Jeigz

I think now would be a great time to truly elevate Liv with all the TV time they've devoted to her. It could be Liv's Jazz/Trish, Kong/Gail, Beth/Kelly moment.

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } She only sleeps when it's raining... Emma's climax surges through her core like the clanging of the loud thunder across the skies, and to follow was a torrential downpour of her own. But her orgasmic writhing doesn't halt despite the body clenched by her own having slowly melted into mud; just as well, such result would become of everything surrounding her, including the stranger who watched. Julian's gone once more, but though her tears begin their course across her sultry face, Emma's completely at peace, the saline symbolizing both sadness and relief. She finally felt freed from her long grief, which chained her for years from finding love again, and thus a family for herself and her son. But now—at long last—she was being given the power to move on and give her heart to another man. She wanted to move on to another man; one man. It's then she's able to remember his name once again. He who she had insurmountable early feelings for, and him for her. Shortly thereafter, she remembers his face, too, who she discerns was that of the unfamiliar voyeur from moments ago. Softly, she sighs out loud into the open space. "Bobby." While her hips grind at the center of the expansive mud pit her setting has morphed into, she paints the thick, wet clay substance across her sensitive naked body, still wrought with the utmost pleasure and jubilation. Her ample breasts, taut torso and fruitful ass play canvas, while a second pair of hands rise from the brownish colored pit to help stroke the rich color over her impeccable form. It was her new romantic interest, Bobby Carter, exalting the build before him, as she did with him in return. "Ares," she coos at him, amidst the pounding of the heart she was offering him. Sat underneath the rain and within the sea of clay, she pulls into his pink mouth for a heavy kiss, while they massage a blanket of the vast amounts of soaked earth over one another. "Aphrodite..." he replies, just before Emma's eyes flare wide open. Suddenly, she's awake from her long, vivid dream. The intake of oxygen into her lungs grows in amount with each inhale then exhale, but steadily she regains stability. Latching onto her sheet, she slowly closes her eyes and opens them again before she's able to reflect. But after time spared, her conclusion remains the same: she's wholly ready to move on and give Bobby a chance at loving her. The past shall remain buried, while her future with the one man she desired looks only to be paradise. MONTY @Fusrodah

It's a mess, but I still have to stan troll king! Also while I agree with the sentiment of propagating the pressures of unrealistic body goals, the very shallow part of me still wants to see a sexy body on the big screen! Especially since with Batman, he has no superpower that kinda renders peak physical form pointless (if the ability is there regardless). Batman's strengths literally are him being rich, smart, well-trained and fit as fuck. It's not superhuman, it's just human. Realistically, he'd need to be in good shape to be able to do what he does. All this to say I wanna see a sexy body on my man! But dumb rambling aside, I think he's trolling since he literally said in an interview before filming that he likes to work out and stay in shape the older he gets. This is the same guy who said all of this: I rest my case

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } You make me hard when I'm all soft inside "Perhaps a name and proper introduction, to start," Dawson arrogantly probes with a fixed gaze, running his eyes across the scape of the man's body once more, as the blood confined to Dawson's own continues to stir on its way to his shaft. "Unless you thought this was going to be a business transaction or something? In which case you'd be sorely mistaken. This is my bathhouse, after all, and my birthday party. The Dawson Clarke. So I don't intend to have to pay for your time or services. I'd rather do without. Which would be a crying shame considering the fact you're really, really sexy, and quite frankly, I'd do amazing, mind-blowing things to and with you. You deserve to be spoiled; worshipped. On my terms, of course, if I have your consent. May I?" His quick request for permission is immediately—without answer—followed by the friction of his hands over the dancer's abdominal muscles. His fingertips cut across every shallow ravine where the perspiration would gather, Dawson's heightened senses near able to accurately decipher the temperature of the liquid forming. The younger man felt so good, thus far. His skin was soft like cotton and likely tasted like candy. But despite his conjecture, he wouldn't be satisfied unless he knew for sure. As his loose hands drag across the waistband of the dancer's nearly non-existent underwear, the fabric slightly folds downward before snapping back into place, just as Dawson curled his fingers and pulled away. With every limb on his body overcome with tremors, his mind drifts further and further into the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and emotions while the ecstasy hit, all his senses mounting their peak. He'd reached his high, having swiftly forgotten those down below: his brother, his mother, his ex. The only entity capable of reaching him was the angel before him, if he'd submit to the wings on his back and drift upward in flight, toward the alluring, magnetic the royal. MONTY @parzival

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } WE'VE GOT THE DREAMERS DISEASE The cellophane squalls as Emma De Angelo unwinds the tape over her flyer. Battling the rush of wind to plaster the last sheet of baby blue paper onto the cement post of a glowing street light, she then takes a step back to review her request for a full time nanny for Lucas, having still not procured suitable and consistent help. While motherhood was a trade she found herself always managing well enough on her own, the increasing demands of her adult entertainment profession threatened her usual peace of mind. Strict criteria aside, by this point, her desperation was mounting. Desperation which grew tenfold the more she wanted to get to know Bobby Carter intimately, without forcing her child's presence on him. An insecurity which Bobby actively argued against, repeatedly expressing the joy of having Lucas around. Wrapping Lucas’ chilly hand with her own, Emma continues down the sidewalk and fastens her long, pale blue leather trench coat over her strapless light gray mini dress and matching thick choker. “So how does some soup sound for dinner, my love? Mommy knows this cafe that makes the best chicken noodle.” “Mommy, may I have McDonalds, please?” Lucas adorably requests as he looks up to his towering mother, her beauty shining down on him like the flare of the sun, despite the sun having set. “The McDonalds was just for when mommy had to take you with her to work and keep you quiet in the back. We can’t have it all the time. I'll get you a nice little treat for dessert, though,” answers back the amused young woman, still a cub herself. Out in the wilderness, however, her mother bear instinct was at its peak, especially once triggered by a group of passersby. Stopping Emma and her son along their path, the three young men attempt to make conversation. “Hey gorgeous! Don’t I know you from somewhere?”  interrogates one male with spiked hair, the scent of his strong cologne and pomade clogging the pathway to Emma's lungs. He seemed marginally familiar, but his eyes were hard to trace whilst cloaked by the shadow cast over it by his prominent brow bone. “You’re probably mistaking me for someone else,” Emma responds as she pulls Lucas closer toward her to create a shield. “No, no, I doubt I’d forget a face like that…” the man continues amidst the sliding of his tongue across the edge of his bottom bow shaped lip, “or a body. You dance at Sirens, don’t you? We’re all huge, huge fans of your show! And is this little runt your kid? How about you drop him off with a sitter, then you give me a private backstage pass?” “Move assholes!” the precocious Lucas exclaims with furrowed blond eyebrows, as Emma hoists him onto her hip and retrieves her Nokia cell phone from her pocket. “Please leave us alone or I’ll call the cops—” MONTY @Rainbow Heart

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } She only sleeps when it's raining... Emma’s head teeters back in reaction to the breathtaking feeling of Julian’s knuckle against the edge of her beige hollow, and his sultry mouth and tongue over her rigid nipple. She squeals—the air from her diaphragm escaping her lips like a deflating balloon—then swings her head back forward, whilst her long, damp locks fall onto her lover’s beautiful face. Her body weakening with pleasure, she rests her chin onto the top of Julian’s head, as he continues to entwine his tongue with her breast, then she makes space to stare down at his throbbing length waiting just by her pelvis, and the fingers with which her pelvis formed a glove over. She looks on and bites her lip as the thick, glossy cock is stroked on her behalf. Then together, with their fingers wrapping with one another, they grab the shaft and slide it between her mound at an easy, steady pace. Her body reaches the base of his length where both their natural oil would gather, inciting another falsetto note, and she begins to motion rhythmically, while fixing her gaze to his, still in awe of his return and his ageless allure. An arch forms in the small of her back, just above her ample ass, as she rides against him like the ocean’s wave. Her glute muscles in her buttocks widen and tighten in their soft clay mold once she reaches the top, then would be pulled by gravity once she nears the bottom once more, the pattern continuing amidst their current position, while her performance exceeds her most hypnotic dance routines. She holds her hand around his thumb, as his own hands are placed firmly to sculpt open the meat of her ass, while he buries into her. She feels exalted and out of body, his cock sensed throbbing deep in her core. Leaning forward, she takes his lips to her own in a raw, passionate, unkempt embrace, the sound of her heavy pants seeping into his mouth. Their song—Glycerine by Bush—still echoes throughout the room, hearkening back to that very night they had sex with one another, for the first time. And like that night, this time felt just as it did then. He’s painful for a brief, fleeting moment, but the pain soon melts like her fleshy insides into a smooth, irresistible sensation, her body succumbing to the demands of his physical offering. She adjusts herself slightly for more comfort and pleasure, then continues to grind on his tall length, bent low so he could watch in amazement as her lower half overtakes his own. She drips profusely before she slides off and turns her body around, so her back presses against his hard chest. The back of her head rests on his shoulder while he holds his cock into place, making certain it didn’t fall out its comfortable, cotton-like bedding during the swaying motion of her hips on his lap. The weight of her breasts cause them to move to their own free will, so she holds them as her body trembles and shivers. “I love you so much,” she sighs, her brows trenched the moment he turns to look at her. MONTY @Fusrodah

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 210px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Time for you to go out into the world Dawson always knew Jack's loyalty to him to be unyielding, but the speech given by his confidante served as a further reminder that he wasn't all alone; that in his found family within the underworld he presided over, he had people who did care deeply for him, despite the few who've turned their backs. Often inaccurately perceived as a greedy, narcissistic leader, Dawson thought himself to be simply misunderstood, wanting more than just to lord his power and cast final judgement as though he was the Messiah. His alternate desire was to covet the foundation of the family he felt robbed of. That, made evident in his support, was Jack's primary role. Not only did he trust Jack with the throne in his absences, but he also entrusted Jack with his life, his happiness, his welfare and prosperity. Jack was family—the brother he no longer had. Oddly, however, the intuitive monarch always sensed more from this 'brother'. Jack's words felt beyond simply nurturing, just through the look in his eyes; one of an eternal longing. This truth was something that was noticed for the years they'd known each other; the touches would often linger, the words drawn out as though something was eating through his beating heart and weakening his body. But Dawson had to ignore what he sensed to be a different type of love, respect and admiration from his peer, for he didn't feel Jack deserved his rejection. He didn't deserve to know any potential feelings were unrequited. And part of him wanted to ensure Jack's loyalty, by not leaving him heartbroken and scorned, like the long list of persons who were caught by the prince's own charm, seductive nature and physical appeal. A list which didn't include one Nathaniel Devereaux, who Dawson knowingly left out of his series of grievances while confessing to his right hand. Such knowledge of dejection over a romantic interest might warrant an undesirable, lethal reaction from Jack. And if Dawson were to get revenge on his former lover, things must remain quiet and meticulously planned. The vengeance of the prince was often pernicious. "He's already satisfied, I'm sure," Dawson retorts. Despite the speech being well-meaning, it had little effect at the moment. Tears slowly stream down his pointed cheek as he continues to softly speak, his voice trembling while he tries to maintain his stoic and poise public nature. He takes another mouthful of his drink. "I'm broken now. I feel fucking empty. But also so filled with rage. But if I show it, he'd be proven right that I'm a cruel, heartless monster. And the world would see it as well." MONTY  @Pablo

what in the 2009 fancast hell  

 

    Source

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Why don't you invite me in? "Ah yes," Dawson confirms as he pops opens the passenger seat butterfly door to his McLaren F1 and watches a bewildered Ira seat himself among the three seat vehicle. "But that's nothing compared to how much you're looking to make, yourself." He'd shut the door for his new ally, then strut around to the opposing side, before entering and sliding to the middle, where the driver's seat was specially designed to be placed—a rarity, as Dawson egotistically considered himself to be. The beige leather seats still carried their old, fresh scent, just as he liked. But slightly overpowering the aroma were the notes of Ira's own natural smell; a damp, moldy odor, likely brought on by whatever the capricious gentleman had gotten up to prior to his capture. "Please allow me to take you to get cleaned up," he comments with a snigger, while he ignites the engine with his key and speeds off. He didn't care for a response or resistance. As his focus on his driving strengthens with the velocity of the sports car, Dawson's eyes narrow and his steely, square cut jawline contracts, as it typically did with his solemnity. His statement to follow held strong meaning, as did his delivery over the song that began to explode through his radio and suffuse the confined space. "Like I said not too long ago, I take amazing care of all my friends. They'd all be fucking lost without me, to say the absolutely least. I help who I consider to be lost souls find their way, so to speak. Make sure they get to where they should be. I want to make sure you're where you should be, as long as you stick by me. Anything you need, I got you: clothes, shoes, accessories, cars, weapons... matter of fact, take a look in the compartment underneath your seat. There's a Buck 120 knife there, a couple of other hand crafted knives and two handguns: a Beretta 92FS and a Glock 17." The street and traffic lights before them pass through the window, and burn over the pair's skin, making Dawson's sculpturesque form appear as a modern art installation, in all his delicately crafted, well-maintained beauty. He's completely still, with his hand wrapped comfortably around the leather steering wheel, and his line of vision refusing to leave from the road before him, despite his engagement with the conversation being had. He was intense; filled with tenacity. "We'll get you a haircut, a shower, a good shave, some clean threads... sorry to interrupt my train of thought, but this is a brilliant song, by the way; Karma Police. You like Radiohead?" MONTY @Palpatine

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } You make me hard when I'm all soft inside Dawson just couldn't manage to look away, every muscle movement from the object of his desire he immediately had memorized like a monologue. But he was biding his time before he took center stage, having been here before—in front of a similar backdrop and audience—not long ago, and still reeling over the lover he was freshly scorned by. His deja vu was all consuming the more his senses would heighten, just as the elixir dissolved on his tongue, laced his saliva and seeped into his bloodstream, thereafter running with the strong river current to his cerebrum. His pupils dilate and the air in his lungs develop a saccharine taste. Or perhaps it was the lingering flavor of the sweet strawberries a rare naked woman would gleefully feed him, whilst he otherwise remained caught by the distant dancer's fine form, the flesh of the fruit being all he could imagine the younger male's ripe body very much tasted like. "Fuck," he'd murmur as his eyes stretch wide. He'd never seen a man more beautiful, more enchanting, more sexually attractive. The energy he radiated had the pull of Earth's gravity, Dawson finding his own bare body move closer and closer against his will, despite still wanting to remain far in attempt to hold to his pride. He couldn't approach the stranger—not as of yet. It was his own day; it was he who should be served and approached. And such was the case as time gradually swept by, many a man vying for the birthday boy's attention and battling to be a slave to the royal. Carved muscles create friction against Dawson's own, and mouths surf atop the shallow coating of sweat on his neck. Organs hidden away by the light of day were willingly exposed amidst the cloud of sin covering over the soirée, the lengths of the organs which would graze the inner surface of Dawson's muscular thigh. It all proved a temporary distraction. That was until, through the crowd, he catches sight of him again, timed as his own cock makes a mold out of the fabric of his white speedo. His shaft was perfused to near eruption, the girthy body part attempting to force itself to tear through its thin barrier while his muddled fantasies of the stranger are all he could manage thoughts of. Finally, Dawson decides to stroll over, but opts to order a drink instead of making the first verbal remark. It was his birthday. MONTY @parzival

Florida

  Pussy sweet, pussy tight, so he called it Lifesaver!

I apologize since I had an important real life situation (@Leigh can testify that I had a look ready since he made it), I would have gracefully accepted bottom two and ate it up, but I wish my peers good luck.

   

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Why don't you invite me in? A cheshire grin carves its way into Dawson's stone solid face, in response to Ira's own chilling smile and his verbal agreement. He was steeped by a slight sense of unease behind his mask, however, aware that his opposite might prove more disturbing than he anticipated; that something far more sinister was fighting to lacerate through his skin, and reveal itself as an uncontrollable monster. And it seems that the royal may be the one to awaken it... But Dawson wasn't at all afraid. If nothing else, the creeping feeling of dread served to excite him—the fact he'd be in control of a bomb nearing the end of its fuse. And oddly enough, he felt the two had much in common; a pair of kindred spirits, trying to take the reins of a world they've lost faith in and have grown to detest. "You're truly a beautiful man," he compliments, soft and smooth in his tone, while his eyelids sank until they were narrow, in an attempt to carefully read between the lines. He genuinely meant his compliment, too. There was an alluring, ethereal beauty in the darkness confined within Ira's attractive exterior. It was intriguing, beyond any measure he'd come by. That's how he chose his family, his closest allies being those who'd been so broken down by life, that the pitch blackness is where they'd find their light; their sins is where they'd find sanctuary.  "Follow me," Dawson promptly commands, then rises from his seat and smooths out the luxury fabric of his attire, before leading the way out the interrogation room. He acknowledges the guards standing by the doorway, in way of his path, with a pat on the shoulder, then pulls Ira close to him as though the two have been closely acquainted for ages. Daunted by Dawson and his apparent apprentice, the eyes throughout the police station would nearly be heard shifting away, once their line of sight was obstructed by the two men. Suspicious of the proceedings or not, it brought fear to even fathom the dubious nature, for they were powerless to a dangerously flawed and corrupt justice system. And their inevitable loss would yield more than just casual unrest.  As the chilly air of the February early morning meets the pair of men upon exiting the police station doors, Dawson turns to Ira with his silver McLaren F1 only feet away, the wind tousling his coiffed mane out of place. "Just taking a shot in the dark here, but I'm gonna guess you've never ridden in one of these before? Because not many have. Got my hands on this puppy thanks to a close friend of mine, when only about a hundred other people had access. Worth around a million bucks. Her and my little Lamborghini are my favorite pets; they brighten even my darkest days." It'd been proven that beyond wielding control over life and death with his own two hands, joy for Dawson was found in the most lavish, luxurious things, for which he could only access through his crime and corruption. Perhaps, then, the temptation of material possessions might further secure Ira as part of his army. MONTY @Palpatine

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This is fucking devastating to hear, my heart goes out to Nikki. I'm just so glad she was able to find strength and overcome because so many people who are sexually abused get trapped by it. I love you, Nikki  

In more "Disney only uses the same five people for everything" news:     Source

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Why don't you invite me in? Ira's statement appeared ironic to Dawson, given how his connection to life—and what was thought to give life meaning—slipped from his frozen fingertips with each single day gone by. But his existential crisis was buried toward the back for the time being, as it was time to get down to business. "What about death?" he bluntly queries with his suppressed growl fighting it's way out his gullet, each syllable drawn out as the pitch of his voice falls deeper. He takes out his index finger and runs it against the table top, almost to sketch his prospective cohort a visual aide to the word which meant 'loss of life'. Focused on the direction of his finger, his prominent, protruding brow bones cast a shadow over his eyes and his angular jaw clenches. "Have you ever experienced death, first hand?" he continues to press, disregarding the discomfort an even more personal question such as this would cause. "Watched someone die? Watched them bleed out until their heart stops beating? Struggle for the last sip of fresh oxygen? Cry out in pain as their body goes numb, just slow enough so each one of their nerves feels the unparalleled burning sensation of their flesh and skin tearing apart from itself? I apologize if that sounds morbid or if I sound like a sociopath. It's just that besides your apparent skillset, I do still require a certain familiarity with death and the ability to control it. As often times, you'll be taking the life and death of others into your own hands, whether you'd like to or not." In a rapid storm, lightning strikes of memories run across the scape of Dawson's mind, regarding all the lives he'd taken in secret... All the times he locked sight with his victim and could almost see their spirit separate from their bodies, the moments it took to do so feeling as though it stretched over years... decades... "I mean, speaking personally here, since we seem to have established that kinda rapport already. That's the most emotionally affecting part of my job. Contrary to what you might have heard about me, I do have a conscience. And on occasion, i feel pity toward those I have to kill or have had killed. But the reality, I've learned, is that some people absolutely deserve death as a punishment; quite simply, some people just deserve to die. Does that alarm you in any way?" Dawson looks back into the depth of Ira's eyes, trying to navigate through their shadows without light, searching for a reading of the thoughts he was having following this next, exigent stage of his interrogation. MONTY @Palpatine