Mariah.

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Everything posted by Mariah.

  1. I will say though that Batman v Superman wasn't nearly as bad as it was made out to be. It dragged? Sure. Was bleak? Absolutely. But it didn't deserve to be panned the way it was. All that to say Justice League was pretty shit, so I at least believe this will be a MARGINAL improvement even though it's entirely unnecessary.
  2. I really wish the fanpeople would let it go, let it rest in peace so we can move on. Like nothing that happens in this movie even matters anymore, with or without an edit  
  3. It's really gonna be so sad and dumb for them to go through their entire adult life fighting killers, only to wind up dead. Can Sidney live in fucking peace, damn.  
  4. had a hunch it was gonna go left when I saw AJ punched out so soon, almost hit the x but wanted the hits
  5. They're gonna ruin everything!
  6. Bent

    .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: 8px; letter-spacing: 8px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together Dawson remains stoic despite his pertinent news falling on deaf ears. Meanwhile, through the irate Ethan's howling, the strong scent of liquor from his brother's mouth continues to travel up the slope of his nostrils, then to his lungs; the aroma being so potent it threatened to make the elder of the two just as noticeably inebriated. "Here we fucking go," a defeated, annoyed Dawson murmurs before running his hand through his unstyled hair to quell his migraine. Raising his voice and narrowing his eyes, Dawson retorts, using his hand to emphasize his ire once his mane is swept back into place. "We've already made that clear, Ethan, so I'm not about to retread the same fucking thing over and over and over. I've made the decision that there's no use in insulting what little intelligence you have left, by pretending that that isn't what I said in my angry fit. Especially when my plea for your sympathy has already fallen on deaf ears. But so be it. I take full accountability and am now trying to just get this fucking funeral over with, so you never have to hear from me again. And with that said, as I am under the impression that I am speaking to an adult, I'm telling you what duties need to be done and how we need to behave, regardless of our feelings toward each other. This has nothing to do with you and I, as the both of us have already expressed there is no 'you and I'. Now, if you're not willing to comply, you can show yourself the fucking door and not bother to appear at the funeral either, or I'll have you arrested on sight for public disturbance. Furthermore, I have nothing left to say to you, so if you feel the same, then farewell. For good! Actually, you know what..." A thought follows what Dawson believed to be his closing statement, which leads him to reach for his cell phone and make a call. "I'll have security or the police escort you off the premises right now, since you clearly aren't in your right mind; likewise, I barely am myself." MONTY @Charlie
  7. Closing Time

    .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 "See, I thought I was pretty good at hiding it. I might even still be. I mean, look at where I am now—undetected—when I have to be at my mother's funeral in a little while," Dawson attempts to jest, curling a miniscule smirk before the weight of his anguish drags his face back into a frown, then scowl, the latter which appears upon reflection of Jack's words. He turns his head toward his confidante, then gazes into his eyes, an act which habitually managed to seduce and inspire all the more devotion in and out of Jack, as history has shown. It was his regular play: leverage the deeper affection known to be beaming from one end, and use it to inspire passion, and thus, a strong reaction or action. "I think you're absolutely right, though. Everyone in this fucking city is a monster; a sinner. I've seen it myself," as his speech carries through its opening, his intensity and emotion grows, giving reason to why he such a revered, respected leader, and why power in his hands was such a danger to anyone who'd stand against him. He wasn't merely prince—he was a highly respected king. A God among men, he felt. The liquor in his bloodstream begins to conduct the flow, causing the tangent to continue with a harsh growl. "They'd sell their souls to me in a fucking millisecond to have what I have, but everyone wants us to pretend as though they're any different than someone like you. Or someone like me, according to those who claim they know me well. I'm growing exhausted of it. I'm exhausted of having to live out this double life and act as though I should be ashamed of what I do behind clothes doors, while having to be this symbol of virtue and American pride. This pure, All-American heartthrob, who they all dream of taking home to their mother for a slice of apple pie. It's all just a bullshit fantasy, an illusion, a facade. A distraction. There is no truly good person out there. They're a myth; they don't exist. And before someone like my brother positions himself to 'expose' me as a 'monster' and have the world lay judgement upon me, I think... I think we need to hold up their reflection and highlight their hypocrisy. This is my city, after all. Everyone within it is a puppet on a string, likewise with everywhere else. That includes Ethan and when... fucking Christ," he halts abruptly, before placing his aching forehead against his palm and massaging it. His voice buckles, though he tries to withhold further bawling and tears. He'd done enough. "He's so fucking selfish and ungrateful and he's going to destroy everything I've done to restrengthen the Clarke name, on behalf of my mother, and my father. Everything I've built. I wish I could just have him dealt with." MONTY  @Pablo
  8. Claims Masterlist

    #faceclaims { width: 500px; background: #fff; height: auto; position: relative; margin: 30px auto; border: 1px solid #ABABAB; outline: 1px solid #e59277; outline-offset: 10px; font-family: roboto; color: #ABABAB; line-height: 170%; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; } #faceclaims maintitle { position: relative; display: block; height: 60px; border-bottom: 1px solid #ABABAB; overflow: hidden; font-family: roboto; font-weight: 800; text-align: center; color: #ABABAB; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 230%; font-size: 30px; letter-spacing: 10px; } #faceclaims text { font-family: roboto; padding: 30px; display: block; color: #ABABAB; text-align: justify; font-size: 10px; line-height: 150%; } #faceclaims subtitle { position: relative; display: block; height: 20px; border-bottom: 1px solid #ABABAB; overflow: hidden; font-family: roboto; font-weight: 800; text-align: left; color: #ABABAB; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 130%; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: 6px; } #faceclaims descript { display: block; color: #ddd!important; font-size: 8px!important; } #faceclaims nameblock { width: 300px; height: 20px; position: relative; display: flex; margin: 2px auto; justify-content: space-between; color: #000000; line-height: 200%; font-size: 11px; text-transform: uppercase; border-bottom: 1px solid #ABABAB; } #faceclaims faceclaim { display: block; } #faceclaims a { color: #e59277; display: block; text-decoration: none; } Face Claims The name of the actor or model you will be using to portray your character. Face claims are limited to actors, models and musicians active/relevant between the years 1998 and 2003; they also must have reached 18 years of age by December 2000. Unfortunately, we will not be permitting politicians, athletes, wrestlers or other personalities from the decade, in order to be able to make references to the setting. For musicians, models and actors, the face claim must not be referenced at all in game if they are claimed. Also be sure that whichever face claim you decide upon matches up aesthetically with the year the game is set. Example being if you are using Brad Pitt as a face claim, make sure he looks as he would in the year 2000 or around that time/as close to that time as possible. Accuracy is key, so try to be as accurate as possible when selecting your face claim and your photos/GIFs. If applicable, also note that your face claim/character does not necessarily have to be the same gender as the god or goddess you have reincarnated from; however, we’d like to keep the male to female ratio as balanced as possible, so we’ll deal with it on a case by case basis. To reserve, just post your claim, your name, the time (EST) and date. Reservations will expire after five days. You are allowed one extension period of an additional five days, but you must notify admin. A-M Face Claim Character Angelina JolieJessica Taylor-Bloomwood Brad PittNathaniel Devereaux Britney SpearsEmma De Angelo Chad Michael MurrayRiver Hansen Colin FarrellEthan Clarke Freddie Prinze Jr.Andrew Avila James FrancoJulian De Angelo Johnny DeppJack Forrester Jordana BrewsterAurora Keller Keanu ReevesIra Brennan Leonardo DiCaprioAugust Keller Liv TylerCassandra Belmont N-Z Face Claim Character Paul WalkerRobert Carter II Penelope CruzMelisa Reyes Tom CruiseDawson Clarke Usher RaymondRomeo Moore RESERVES Face Claim Name / Date Neve CampbellPalpatine, 04/19 at 9:42 PM EST Lucy LiuKiki, 04/25 at 7:26 PM EST Jessica AlbaJake, 04/25 at 9:40 PM EST Tom WellingDelvorn, 05/15 at 11:20 PM EST Natalie PortmanDaphne, 05/16 at 9:55 PM EST MONTY
  9. Rain King

    .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 was right that not every individual served a use—Dawson would ponder to himself—his agreement punctuated by a scornful titter in mild amusement, while the stylish sports car they were riding in continues to scorch across the pavement to their destination. His new recruit was already proving more useful, in terms of valuable insight, than most other cohorts had been thus far. Ira was definitely off-kilter, however the man seemed weathered and worn, having braved many disasters, physically, mentally and emotionally; far more than the royal, eldest Clarke was made aware of by his kingsmen. This, perhaps, made the native Irishman quite wise and less mentally frenzied than he led on. That was the educated guess, anyway. Was there indeed wisdom buried beyond the terrain colored eyes and dishevelled raven hair? If true, Dawson mused that maybe the Ira in the way he presented himself was all part of his act as the self-proclaimed “puppeteer”, thus making him a threat. But while Dawson was exceedingly cautious and guarded as an individual, he was ultimately fearless. Nothing could shake him from his throne or threaten his space, least of all not this rundown nobody from overseas. His mind ventures back to Ira’s rugged exterior, the moment the pair arrive at the location of Dawson’s private penthouse, resting atop the city’s most lavish hotel. Not quite the tallest building, the tower extended high enough to escape the murky, treacherous waters laid across the expanse of the Olympia underworld, and was the perfect location to get his company better acclimated, as he’d yet to trust the pauper enough to allow him into his glass castle in Ida Hills. They’d exit the vehicle and Dawson flashes an aloof grin to both Ira and the stationed valet, before he tosses over the keys to the hospitable employee and gives Ira a pat on his back to direct the way indoors. As the two men swagger through the revolving glass doors and toward the savvy concierge, they then are led on path of the exclusive elevator in silence. The small, confined space is caught by a very bitter, boreal draft, as nothing else but silence fills the air. Dawson glances over and folds another smirk into his lips while the elevator continues to travel up, then finally they arrive, the reflective elevator door opening to the lavish suite. The entire room is based with ebony wood and black marble, with the furniture various shades of black, whites and grays to match. Slowly, Dawson guides Ira in, meanwhile Dawson’s personal barber waits at the suite’s center with a chair and his tools configured immaculately. “There’s a black cashmere robe as you enter the bathroom parlor just down that hall over there, in addition to some black towels. Pardon my brashness, but please go take a fucking shower, put on the robe, and come back here,” the sovereign demands, his entire attention having instantly diverted to pouring himself a short, cold glass of his exorbitant Louis XIII cognac. MONTY @Palpatine
  10. John Campea going on a TIRADE calling him all types of asshole, ungrateful, disrespectful. Like...
  11. Asuka's Title Challengers

    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!
  12. Sleep to Dream

    .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
  13. Asuka's Title Challengers

    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.
  14. 3AM [M]

    .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
  15. 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
  16. The Perfect Drug [M]

    .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
  17. .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
  18. 3AM [M]

    .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
  19. Closing Time

    .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
  20. Live-Action "Hercules" In the Works at Disney

    what in the 2009 fancast hell  
  21. Rain King

    .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
  22. The Perfect Drug [M]

    .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