12-24-2018, 01:52 AM
<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 is a haze, a fog—and this moment feels more dreamlike than the dream ever did. He feels the brightness of the fire on the back of his eyelids, something warm and rippling, and the pressure of her against him, and it only serves to pull him further into the undertow, into something delicious and soft and unlike anything he has ever experienced in his life. He was not a stallion particularly prone to soft, kind moments. He has never done anything to earn them. Has never sought them out. Has never enjoyed them.
But he enjoys this.
Perhaps more than he should.
She accused him of stealing memories and it causes his lips to curve, a rare and hidden humor warming his features as he rubs his cheek against her. “Those are my memories,” he explains, voice husky and thick in his throat. “My dreams. Not yours.” One eye opens so he can look up at her, clearing for just a second. “Did you have it too?” It should be enough to waken him, to sharpen the edges of his consciousness, but it’s not, and he just murmurs sleepily in the back of his throat. “Strange that.”
But it doesn’t feel strange. Not really. In a lot of ways, it feels completely expected, like he knew all along that she had been there next to him. Not his version of her. Her. Her consciousness. Forming the dream right alongside him. It didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t have been possible. But that’s how it feels, and he doesn’t question that she had indeed had the same dream. Existed in that same reality as him.
“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” he whispers into her, feeling the soft brushes of her mane against his nose, her lips across his broad forehead. “I still plan on it.” His lips curve softly but pull into a frown that creases his face, pulling his lips down. “You didn’t want to dream of me?” He feels the other men circling her consciousness and it causes his gut to twist, even in this half-awake state. “That’s too bad.”
A heavy sigh.
“I wanted to dream of you. You’re probably,” he yawns, dragging the syllables out, “probably the first woman I’ve ever wanted to dream of. Isn’t that funny?” The skin beneath his neck begins to pulse with light, glowing beneath his weight, as he pushes his own memories into her, the same feelings he had shown her that night in the bar. The desire. The intrigue. The frustration. The hunger. The need.
The jealousy that courses through him now.
He pulls it back into him though, doesn’t let it simmer for too long.
Just grows quiet, contemplative, walking the razor edge of consciousness beneath her touch. </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 is a haze, a fog—and this moment feels more dreamlike than the dream ever did. He feels the brightness of the fire on the back of his eyelids, something warm and rippling, and the pressure of her against him, and it only serves to pull him further into the undertow, into something delicious and soft and unlike anything he has ever experienced in his life. He was not a stallion particularly prone to soft, kind moments. He has never done anything to earn them. Has never sought them out. Has never enjoyed them.
But he enjoys this.
Perhaps more than he should.
She accused him of stealing memories and it causes his lips to curve, a rare and hidden humor warming his features as he rubs his cheek against her. “Those are my memories,” he explains, voice husky and thick in his throat. “My dreams. Not yours.” One eye opens so he can look up at her, clearing for just a second. “Did you have it too?” It should be enough to waken him, to sharpen the edges of his consciousness, but it’s not, and he just murmurs sleepily in the back of his throat. “Strange that.”
But it doesn’t feel strange. Not really. In a lot of ways, it feels completely expected, like he knew all along that she had been there next to him. Not his version of her. Her. Her consciousness. Forming the dream right alongside him. It didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t have been possible. But that’s how it feels, and he doesn’t question that she had indeed had the same dream. Existed in that same reality as him.
“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” he whispers into her, feeling the soft brushes of her mane against his nose, her lips across his broad forehead. “I still plan on it.” His lips curve softly but pull into a frown that creases his face, pulling his lips down. “You didn’t want to dream of me?” He feels the other men circling her consciousness and it causes his gut to twist, even in this half-awake state. “That’s too bad.”
A heavy sigh.
“I wanted to dream of you. You’re probably,” he yawns, dragging the syllables out, “probably the first woman I’ve ever wanted to dream of. Isn’t that funny?” The skin beneath his neck begins to pulse with light, glowing beneath his weight, as he pushes his own memories into her, the same feelings he had shown her that night in the bar. The desire. The intrigue. The frustration. The hunger. The need.
The jealousy that courses through him now.
He pulls it back into him though, doesn’t let it simmer for too long.
Just grows quiet, contemplative, walking the razor edge of consciousness beneath her touch. </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>
