12-16-2018, 08:50 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .woolf_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background-color: #1E1F21; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #6b899570; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .woolf_container p { margin: 0; } .woolf_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .woolf_gradient { position: absolute; z-index: 5; top: 553px; left: 0px; width: 600px; height: 200px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%, rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%,rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%,rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#1e1f21',GradientType=0 ); } .woolf_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; padding-top: 10px; margin-top: -110px; } .woolf_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #859191; padding: 20px 35px; } .woolf_quote { position: relative; text-align: center; width: 60%; color: #5b686c; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-bottom: solid 1px; } .woolf_name { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #2a3439; width: 100%; font: 40px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 20px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #000; } .woolf_quotetwo { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #5b686c; width: 45%; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-top: solid 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="woolf_container"> <img class="woolf_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/bpsaehnrf/jaroslav-devia-715052-unsplash.jpg"> <div class="woolf_gradient"></div> <div class="woolf_text"> <p class="woolf_quote">bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze <br>if you must drink of me, take of me what you please</p> <p class="woolf_message">
She moves closer and it causes the strangest of feelings to erupt in his chest, to remind him of a dream that felt like reality where her body pressed against his and something flared to life between them. But it was just that. Just a dream. Still, he curls around her possessively, feels something dangerous sink into his bones. Her fear of him triggers something, an instant displeasure that causes a growl low in his throat, a low sound that ripples through him, sending soft shockwaves into the dirt. He presses his eyes closed, does his best to maintain control, to get a handle on the fury that digs deep into his nerves.
When he finally opens his eyes, his expression is softer.
“I would never force you to do anything,” he says quietly, and he wonders at how he feels like he has said the words before—how his mouth wraps around them like they are an echo. He shakes his head though and just sighs, uncomfortable and unsure of how to pick through the alien emotions that litter through him like shattered pieces of glass. Instead, he just gives himself over to instinct and he drops his head lower, letting it rest on her, ignoring the way it kickstarts his heart, ignoring the reverberations throughout him.
He grows slightly as he slices open his shoulder, as the blood pours more freely. He is glad that she is closer now, glad to lean slightly against her, mouth still resting. Something tightens in him and then ripples outward, like an explosion of light and warmth. He grits his teeth against the effort, the magic of her own rising up in her, twisting around his as he pushes it into her veins. He finds the parts of her that are the most frozen, the most bitterly cold and he breathes heat into it. Not enough to harm her, to counteract what is now intrinsically part of her, but enough to soothe—to soften the blows of it.
Near them, a fire bursts into life and then floats into the air, an orb of heat that hangs above them.
A sigh as he drops his head, exhausted. He has pulled deep from his own well of magic lately and done little to restore it—done little to care for it. Now, warm and tired, he pulls her closer into his broad chest, draping his head and rubbing his cheek softly against her. “Your children always come first,” he murmurs sleepily, eyes closing as the heat of the fire sinks into his bones. “I remember. I remember.”
He ignores the question about him.
Ignores everything but how it feels right to have her here.
And wasn’t that an interesting problem to have? </p> <p class="woolf_name">woolf</p> <p class="woolf_quotetwo">I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste </p> </div> </div> </center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#1e1f21',GradientType=0 ); } .woolf_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; padding-top: 10px; margin-top: -110px; } .woolf_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #859191; padding: 20px 35px; } .woolf_quote { position: relative; text-align: center; width: 60%; color: #5b686c; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-bottom: solid 1px; } .woolf_name { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #2a3439; width: 100%; font: 40px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 20px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #000; } .woolf_quotetwo { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #5b686c; width: 45%; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-top: solid 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="woolf_container"> <img class="woolf_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/bpsaehnrf/jaroslav-devia-715052-unsplash.jpg"> <div class="woolf_gradient"></div> <div class="woolf_text"> <p class="woolf_quote">bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze <br>if you must drink of me, take of me what you please</p> <p class="woolf_message"> She moves closer and it causes the strangest of feelings to erupt in his chest, to remind him of a dream that felt like reality where her body pressed against his and something flared to life between them. But it was just that. Just a dream. Still, he curls around her possessively, feels something dangerous sink into his bones. Her fear of him triggers something, an instant displeasure that causes a growl low in his throat, a low sound that ripples through him, sending soft shockwaves into the dirt. He presses his eyes closed, does his best to maintain control, to get a handle on the fury that digs deep into his nerves.
When he finally opens his eyes, his expression is softer.
“I would never force you to do anything,” he says quietly, and he wonders at how he feels like he has said the words before—how his mouth wraps around them like they are an echo. He shakes his head though and just sighs, uncomfortable and unsure of how to pick through the alien emotions that litter through him like shattered pieces of glass. Instead, he just gives himself over to instinct and he drops his head lower, letting it rest on her, ignoring the way it kickstarts his heart, ignoring the reverberations throughout him.
He grows slightly as he slices open his shoulder, as the blood pours more freely. He is glad that she is closer now, glad to lean slightly against her, mouth still resting. Something tightens in him and then ripples outward, like an explosion of light and warmth. He grits his teeth against the effort, the magic of her own rising up in her, twisting around his as he pushes it into her veins. He finds the parts of her that are the most frozen, the most bitterly cold and he breathes heat into it. Not enough to harm her, to counteract what is now intrinsically part of her, but enough to soothe—to soften the blows of it.
Near them, a fire bursts into life and then floats into the air, an orb of heat that hangs above them.
A sigh as he drops his head, exhausted. He has pulled deep from his own well of magic lately and done little to restore it—done little to care for it. Now, warm and tired, he pulls her closer into his broad chest, draping his head and rubbing his cheek softly against her. “Your children always come first,” he murmurs sleepily, eyes closing as the heat of the fire sinks into his bones. “I remember. I remember.”
He ignores the question about him.
Ignores everything but how it feels right to have her here.
And wasn’t that an interesting problem to have? </p> <p class="woolf_name">woolf</p> <p class="woolf_quotetwo">I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste </p> </div> </div> </center>
