Title: [R]emix
Remix - July 2, 2008 04:19 PM (GMT)
.the roleplayer
Name/Nickname: Jiinxx, Jinx, or JX
Where did you hear about us?: I was on the first Niche, but unfortunately became inactive. My friend, Fuzz, found it last night, I guess, and gave me the link.
.the character
Name: Remix Xinth
Nicknames: Remme (Privledged)
Gender: Male
Age: Three years old
Breed: Mixed, 3/4 Grey, 1/4 Malaysian
Family: Father - Mirage (Alive)
Mother – Vitality (Deceased)
Brother - Resistance (Assumed alive; MIA)
Brother – Matrix (Alive)
Appearance: (Futuristic app.) Remix's basic fur color is a deep, murky coal black -- so much so that his fur has a mysterious sliver gleam. On either of his legs, there are three, vividly painted green bands. Two rings on his front left leg, as well as his back right leg. Three of them on his front right leg, and four on his left back leg. On his chest, where visibility is still known, there is a green 'x', of medium size. Around his neck, he wears three chains: one silver, and two formed from miscellaneous metals. The silver is the longest, molded in thick, chain link fashion. The two chains, perhaps once pricey looking, are now caked with churning brown rust. Both metal chains consist of a series of large, worn, metal links, some of which still possess their previous glamour, though most reflecting glided colors. In his ears, which are also black, and whose backs are shaded that same, vivid green, is multiple piercings, of studs and hoops, spikes and so on and so forth.
Beneath his eyes, are three, green, claw-like marks, all of which were perfectly positioned and slanted upward. A metallic stud pierces his tongue. In the corner of his left eyebrow hangs a silverish hoop. His eyes, which are normally so serious and nonchalant, are painted the deepest forest green. His build is nothing extraordinary, modified with a long torso and taunt, even muscles. . .
Personality: Far off and distant at times, though when no one thinks he’s listening, completely erudite. His effrontery with off-hand matters is shameless, and his malicious thinking hardly helps. He has a quick tongue, and a vibrant temper. Most of the time he’s more verbal than physical, for he believes it would be a shame to sequester one to humiliation. Remix never was a morning person, who was always ready, prepared even, to wake up, all bright and bubbly. No – actually—it’s the complete opposite. He loathes the morning, as well as the sun, and all of the genial personalities to go with it. Like most, normal, sane wolves, he enjoys closure, darkness, and the moon as his primary light.
On rare occasions, he’s known to be a comical ordeal. Hardly has time for such things as friends, and never ‘expresses’ and emotions other than anger and or hate. Mostly because he can, and that no one would, or has done in the past, anything about it. He’s not, per-say, a ‘bully’, because that is hardly the case. He’s just rather, well, malevolent. Again, just because he can. Remix isn’t exactly a perfectionist, but he’s not a hobo, either. He’d rather get the best for less than the worse for more. More sardonic than sane, is what he really should go by living life.
Fatal Flaw(s): Most definitely his attitude. His mouth gets him into more trouble than it legally should be allowed. His ego could do with some major deflation, as well.
History: Private : D
GOOD Role-play Examples: My baby, Chase, v2 of my wolf, Sangre.
Excerpt from Hydro
The inside of Chase's appartment was bleak.
It was dark. Too dark.
Still, you could tell it was some time in the early morning, because through the thick, shabby blankets - that were used in the stead of curtains - nailed to the wall just above his three tiny windows in his fifth floor living room, came almost invisible orangey dots of light. Chase's dark figure was sprawled out over what must have been a fifty year old couch, because yellow styrofoam stuffing and dangerous metal looking springs tore up the cushions and armrests. The back of the couch was nonexist; if it had one once, it was probably just as disgusting as the rest of it. Unidentifiable stains riddled the 'couch', on which the teenager's cheek and right arm (which was slung around the back of his head) came into contact with it, his left hand holding on to the area beneath the coushin and in looking as if it were going to fall. His chest was pressed against it, one leg tucked beneath him and the other kicked out in front of him. All of his clothes from the previous night were gone, save for red silk boxers that looked to exspensive and out of place. His thick silver chain still dripped from his neck, and the prestine silver rolex was strapped to his left wrist. Not too far away from where he was knocked out was a pile of clothing, on top of which lay a switchblade, his wallet that contained two razorblades, and a black and silver .25 Magnium revolver.
A black alarmclock sitting on a coffee table next to the couch with screaming neon green numbers told the time in flickering light to be 6:04 am. One more minute and its blaring voice was bringing a snarling Chase to life. His left hand flipped behind him, twisting his body so that he was no longer facing the couch to hit the snooze button. His touch was an automated reaction that made the two crooked lamps in the room blink to life with pale yellow light. The noise they made when they came on was like soft radiation, humming in the backround and sending minute vibrations throughout the entire appartment. Chase blinked, squinting at the unwelcome light and closed his eyes, proping the back of his elbows onto the couch and letting his head fall back onto it. He had a massive headache.
The creaking of floorboards above him, the trashy mexican music beside him, and the screaming match taking place below told him that it really was time to get up. He sighed, the heels of his palms rubbing his eyes then moving to massage his temples. What the fuck had he done last night? Blue eyes opened slowly, scanning the leaky, moldy mess that was growing around him. Besides the empty pizza boxes, half-full soda bottles, papper plates and ripped bags that advertised fast food joints, he saw no sign of what he knew must have happened - that he had been drunk. And now, was left with the reprecussion of an insane hangover.
Groaning, Chase threw his head back onto the couch and rolled over onto his stomach, hands gripping the ends of the cushions so that he pushed himself up to his knees and then into a crouch. His head was still hanging down to his chest when he raised both arms in a stretch, first straight up and then each hand gripping the opposite arm behind his head in turn. Standing up, he gave a huge yawn, fighting to stay awake and possibly make it to the bathroom before he passed out again. He stumbled around the coffee table, entering into a short, narrow hall sided by walls that must have once been painted white but were now a sickly shade of yellow with brown water stains running down from the ceiling. The beaten up door to his bathroom stood ajar, and to open it Chase literally had to place both hands on the handle and force it up and in. Bare feet met a shockingly cold pale pink and ivory tiled floor. His hand searched for the hanging chain switch above his head. When he found it and pulled it, dim white light highlighted a sandwiched bathroom, complete with a 2-in-1 shower and tub, a toilet built for a dollhouse, a matching sink, and a mirror. Fingers pressed against the outline of the mirror, causing it to pop open. Immediately a clutter of OTC pills clattered into the sink, followed by a used tube of toothpaste, toothbrush, and razor. Exhaling heavily, he picked everything up except the toothbrush and toothpaste and shoved it back into the mirror, slamming it shut before anything had the chance to escape.
Finished brushing his teeth, flossing, shaving, combing his hair, etc., Chase glanced at the shower. One look at the murky black and green remains of someone's lunch ended his thought of a shower. He washed his face, applied deoderant, and called it a day. The pulse in his head vibrated loudly in his ears, foreign smells starting to waft into his appartment as people started to wakeup. One hand covered his eyes, and he fell back to lean against the doorway. He could already tell today wasn't going to be a good one.
Shirtless, Chase left the bathroom and trapezied to the back of the appartment, also doubling as his room. This was by far the cleanest area in the place. A fresh pair dark, almost black demin jeans was laid out across his bed, accompained by hot white airforce ones and white socks. All this lay ontop of crimson silk sheets fitted to a king sized bed. Turning to his right, he found his mohogany dresser. A 36" x 12" mirror was mounted horizontally across it, showing the reflection of a few odd possessions, a tick wad of cash, and a bottle of Tylenol. Chase grabbed the bottle and popped four pills, swallowing without water. Opening the first drawer, home to a variety of soft, exspensive looking boxers, he reached his hand to the way back, digging under the fabrics and pulling out a large plastic bag, as well as a white pair of cotton boxers. He shut the drawer and threw the bag on his bed, grabbing first his boxers then his jeans and slipping them on. Holding them up, Chase sat down on his bed and then proceeded to put on both his socks and shoes beforing standing back up, grabbing the ounce of weed, and leaving the room.
Making his way back out to the living room, still holding up his pants with one hand, he spotted his clothes from the night before, and with it his belt. Slidding it out from the jeans he'd been wearing, he relooped it through his own, and buckled it closed. He paused, the room beginning to spin and the mexican music seeming to get louder. Glancing at the clock, it was now 6:30 am. Shit. . . He was going to be late. He turned around, one foot taking one step back to maintain his balance. In the corner was a plain wooden self, with three drawers. Chase walked over to it, opened the third drawer, and placed his hand underneath of it to slowly slide out the red and white hilted knife, its blade carved with deep, uneven teeth. He flipped it up and around so that the flat of the blade was resting against the skin of his forearm and the hilt was against his wrist. Deep pockets made for good storage, and both the knife and weed went into either on the side of his jeans. Looking back at his dirty clothes, Chase grabbed his wallet from off the top, slipped that into his back pocket, and walked to the door.
Once outside, Chase knew he fucked up. It was too late; he'd overslept. That, or he was extremely slow getting his shit together. The sun was too high and he knew it was now around seven or past it. Whichever the case, he found himself cursing under his breath, and trying to walk as straight and as fast as he could without tripping or passing out. Walking, his jeans began to sag so that the lip of his boxers stuck out, and his shirtless chest and iced out chain was drawing unwanted attention. The tattoo of thin and thick lines going vertically down his back was glaringly obvious, and paired with the fancy inscription on his biscept and the dagger reaching down to the inside of his palm did not actually shout out abnormal. If anything, he fit in to the scenery even better.
However fucked up he knew this deal was going to be, and how angry the customer was for waiting, or how made his boss would be when and if he found out, Chase still managed to make it to the spot where the deal was supposed to go down; the back of some foreign buildings that were still considered a part of Glen Oaks. Stepping into the shade, he placed his back against the cool brick building, tilting his head down and proping one foot against the bricks, as well.
Damn, did he have a headache.
- - -
WARNING: RATED M
Following example contains explicit sexual scenes, language, and violence. (Incomplete)
Chase x Rose
The car door of a black 2009 350z slammed shut, so hard that the car rocked back on its wheels and a small crunch was heard. A black pistol etched in 18k white gold was slung out from the back of baggy jeans, the hand in which it was being held gripped it so tightly that the flesh across his knuckles turned whiter than snow. Left hand reached for the slide, pulling it back with an acknowledging 'clink'. Feet pounded across the pavement, half-running, half-stomping to a white wooden door that was in terrible need of a new paint job. Left hand snaked toward the golden handle, turning it to the side and jerking it open, the wood splintering as he tore it back. The tip of the pistol tipped around the inside of the door, and with unnatural strength was sent hurling shut behind him. Chase proceeded into the facility, ignoring the shocked faces around him and someone who tried to call his attention. He couldn't hear them, anyway. All he could hear was his pulse pounding in his ears, feel his heart beating against his chest in erratic measures. He'd only come here for one reason, the only reason he ever did.
Two people were currently following him, one the female receptionist with whorish blue eyeshadow and black outlined lips - the other, a curious and obviously fawning girl, just around his age and most likely new to the business. He left them alone as long as he could, but once he had made it back to the dressing rooms, he turned on them. They both jumped back and admitted audible gasps, hands flying to cover their mouths with perfectly manicured fingers. He swung his right hand up, the gun held in his hand so that the weapon as a whole was lying vertically, the black, deadly barrel aimed equally between them. "Back. The fuck. Up," Chase whispered, his voice steely and seething with a wide range of livid emotions. The only stood there in their shock and he rounded again, and continued to stalk to the back of the dressing rooms. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, which hallway to take and which one to avoid. He ended up at a blank purple door with a gold star glued in the middle. No name was inscribe on it, though from the noise coming from inside it was clear it wasn't empty. Ignoring the handle, he kicked the door, once, twice - five times before it caved in on itself, one last kick sending it flying open. Smoldering blue eyes searched the room, noting the tv that was playing a commerical in one corner, and her in the next, sitting on a chair facing a large mirror looking unphased and unconcerned. He all but exploded when he saw her, and her nonexistent reaction. She didn't even glance up to see his reflection, but continued putting on pale lipgloss. This pissed him off even more. Eyes were slits as he appeared to lunge across the exspanse of empty space between them, left hand gripping her shoulder with crushing pressure and slinging her off the chair. She gasped and fell to the floor, anger flaring in her blue eyes, opening her mouth to spew a series of insults as revenge for her minor injury. Chase wouldn't let her, however, and went to grab a handful of her white t-shirt to drag her up and then throw her back against the wall. "What that fuck, Chase?!" Rose screeched, throwing her arms up to protect her face as he obtained another fistful of her clothing, this time doing nothing put stepping closer to her, so now that he was parallel to her, against the wall to one side of her.
"Fuck you!" Chase yelled, this time pulling her forward and then jerking her back against the wall. "Like you don't know what you did, you cheap bitch." His voice was thick and uneven, in danger of breaking. He pushed her against the wall one more time, softer than before, shoving his hand into her chest and then taking three steps back. His haunting eyes were set in a face trained to be emotionless; the one characteristic giving away his anger was the slight flare of his nostrils as he stared at her, hating her for what she did. Rose glared back at him, her anger more apparent in her labored breathing and pursed lips, as well as her clenched fists and stiff posture.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said just as evenly as he, and it was true - this time, anyway. Chase however, had no reason to believe her. He looked her up and down, eyes narrowed to slits. Something he thought once so beautiful know seemed revolting. She was used, and she was easy.
"You're a god damn whore, and you know it," He breathed, looking her in the eye before spitting on her, the gun in his hand forgotton and hanging limply at his at his side. When he had heard of what she had done - the first time - he didn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. Rose wouldn't do that to him, and he knew it. He honestly trusted her. Believed she'd never bring him harm. That had all been shredded and disolved once the rumor became a fact from eleven more similar conversations. How could he have been so stupid? Eyes zeroed in on the closest object next to him, which happened to be a coat tree. Seizing it with both hands, he picked it up and threw it across the room. It hit her Vanity table, shattering the glass and causing both coat tree and dresser to topple over one another, resting in a heap of ruined wood. Rose jumped at the sound, but besides that she returned to glare hatefully at him, arms lowered but still crossed protectively in front of her chest.
He stepped closer to her again. "I hate you," Chase said with a level stare. Rose pursed her lips tighter and brought up a hand with which to smack him smartly across the face. When he didn't flinch, her eyes narrowed, and she attempted to hit him again, but Chase's reflexes proved to be faster as he grabbed her wrist and pinned it against the wall above her head.
She began to struggle beneath him, though her attempt was in vain. "Get the fuck off of me, Chase. I told you, I don't know what you're talking about." Blue eyes met Chase's shocking ones, searching for a reason behind his madness. "You're drunk," she stated coolly, pushing her pinned arm against the vince like grip that held her in place. After all, he always was.
This, however, seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because his grip on her tightened, if that was even possible, and the pressure he was applying to her wrist was beginning to cut off her cirulation. "You fucked Brett," Chase's voice said coolly, though he started to shake, his blood pressure rising dramatically. "Is that what you don't know about?" He sneered, leaning in so that his mouth caressed her ear as he said, "Was he good. . ?" Then he was pressing himself against her, one leg sliding between both of hers so that they were forced to spread. His knee nudged her, and his hot voice was in her ear once more. "Or did you ride him?"
He didn't ease up on the pressure he was applying to her, but that didn't stop Rose from laughing. Light, muscial notes that were both a relief and release - to her. She looked up to the ceiling, closing her eyes as Chase's jealous accusation. "Now I know you're drunk," she repeated, trying once more to slide from his grip, but to no avail.
Chase wasn't ammused. He picked her up and slammed her against the wall, so hard that the air was forced from her lungs. "You think that's funny?" He shouted, voice rising. "I'll show you how fucking funny I think it is." The hand that held the gun was suddenly remembered, and like a forgotten memory it appeared at the side of Rose's head, the barrel pressed into her hair, burried so deeply and with such force the cold metal rim touched her skull. Her laughter was cut off, a hint of terror swimming behind once confident eyes. Chase cocked it, applying more pressure to it and her as he angled his hand so that the gun was slanting down toward her. "Now," he said softly, "you didn't answer my question. . . was he good?" He seemed serious about getting the answer, now blank, lifeless eyes looking into Rose's glassy ones.
"Chase - please - stop. I swear - I didn't do anything with Brett. Ever. Whatever you heard - whoever told you - was a lie. They were lying -" Chase shoved her against the wall again. "Chase I swear!" Rose screeched, dissolving to tears, only making his anger flare even more. Soft pouts came from her, though it was killing her to do so. She never did this - she never cried. Not in front of him. Not in front of Chase. But what he was proposing was rediculious! Her, fuck Brett? Why? Didn't he understand that she had him? True, she was a stripper, but she thought he was okay with that. Why did this happen, all of the sudden. . ? She felt him hesistate and immediately she cut off her sobs, daring to look at him, to see what he was thinking. She opened her eyes to his harsh blue ones, ones that expressed no emotion. The sympathy she sought was not present in his steely blue eyes.
"But they told me," Chase insisted, feeling himself faltering at her tears. 'They' were no one in particular, of course. Just minor gangsters working on imports and exports of his merchandise. If he thought about it, they really weren't the kind of people to be around Brett, anyway. They wouldn't assossicate with him, he didn't think, if he were ever around. . . Before he realized what was happening he felt a soft tug on the black pistol in his hand, still cocked and positioned on Rose's head. One finger slowly went to push back the hammer, and he semi-consciously let her take it from him, lowering it halfway to the ground before dropping it with a soft 'thud'. Chase's eyes searched her, his still narrowed and hers' half-consoling. Hesistantly, he softened his grip on her hand, his slipping down to her elbow before letting her go. He took one step back, eyes leaving her to look around the room at the smashed furniture and ruined door. Lastly it went to the gun, and his thick voice seemed forced as he said, "Well. . . I guess I should go. . ." A half a step backward and Rose's stinging slap shoved his face to one side, scorching his skin more than it should. He looked up at her just as another hand was flying for the other side of his face, catching it as well and burning like fire. One more hand was almost at his face when his hand snatched up her wrist. She didn't give up, however, and tried to hit him with her other. Chase grabbed that one, too. Rose brought her knee up to his chest, and he doubled over in pain. Through electric light he saw the heel of her shoe ready to stab him in groin, but he hopped back, her arms still in his grasp, and spun her around so that her back was to him. Still, she struggled and fought to break free of his grasp, trying and succeeding in kicking him. His grip on her tightened, and his arms forced hers to cross over her chest, his wrapping around her sides so that she wasn't able to move. The kicking, however, was still a problem.
Picking her up, Chase looked around the room for something to put her on where her legs wouldn't be a danger to him. All he saw was the broken pieces of furniture, a T.V., two padded chairs, and a couch. The only thing that even looked remotely reasonable was the couch, to which he carried her over to. Her struggling increased as he tried to turn her around and lay her ontop of the deep brown cushions, but it wasn't working. Strong hands grabbed her arms and turned her around, immediately throwing her onto the couch, and he pinning himself ontop of her, stradling her hips with his legs beneath hers and crossed over one another so that she couldn't move. Rose's eyes narrowed as she realized this, and stubbornly she continued to try, twisting her head from side to side and trying to hit him - kick him - she even wanted to scratch him. Chase shook her, trying to get her to calm down and stop trying to fight him. She wouldn't, however, and at this point he was close to giving up. Feeling his defeat, she took her chance and released her arm, her hand flying up to attack him. Momentarily shocked, his grip slackened and both of her hands were free, smacking him across his face and shoving him in his chest, hitting every inch of him that she could reach. "How. Dare. You. Put. A. Gun. To. My. Head." She yelled between hits. "You. Stupid. Drunk. Bastard."
By this time, Chase had had enough, and he recoiled, trying to get to his feet. He managed to stand up and turn around, almost making it to the door before Rose grabbed a fistful of the back of his shirt, managing to pull him half-way around. "Fuck you," she said, lunging at him again. But he wasn't in the mood for this, and his hand effortless caught hers once more. To silence her his mouth found hers, and suddenly Chase was forcing her backward, one slow step forward and then another, until Rose's back was once again pressed against the wall, though this time not as savagely as before. The hand that held hers was guided to the region of wall by her side, and Chase found her other hand, grabbed it, and did the same. His body curved against hers, slowly sliding her hands up the wall to be pinned above her head. His mouth opened against hers in small, luxoriously soft kisses. His head leaned to one side then the next as they became playful butterfly kisses, a smile curving his lips as she giggled into him. Chase's hands left her wrists, fingertips flattening out to palms as they trailed down her arms, up her neck; across her jawline; down her chest, where they lingered and curved underneath, cupping her breasts and pushing them up before the flat of his hand was sliding down her stomach and to her waist. There, he gripped her and picked her up, raising her centimeters off the floor, where their kiss deepened. His tongue parted her lips, brushing against the top of her teeth and then meeting her own. He pulled back slightly, mouth whispering against her lower lip as he kissed it, too, "I love you." She sighed, and his lips found her jawline. Rose smirked, dropping her hands onto his back as he nipped the skin just below her chin, continuing to decline down her neck with impressions of his lips until he found the depression in her neck where her collarbone connected. At first he did nothing but kiss it, but then his teeth bit into it, not too soft but not too hard. He heard her gasp with the pain, and he let go off her, sliding a little to his right and, pinpointing the spot on her collarbone, pressed his lips against it and sucked; hard. Again Rose giggled and attempted to push him off. Chase was removed easily enough, pulling away from her to look at his work. He smirked his crooked smirk once he saw, eyes blinking up at Rose with that devilish grin. Subconsciously, he felt his thumb stroke the mark, knowing that he was doing it only because he found himself looking at it again.
The hands that lay across Chase's back slid down to the hem on his black shirt, fingering it for a few seconds before attempting to tug it upward, a smirk curving Rose's lips. He let her, hands raised in the air, wrists crossed over one another as she pulled it farther and farther up. His collar brushed across his chin, but went no farther, when he realized that she was too short to take it off of him all by herself. He ducked his head down throught the fabric, catching his hair and sending it in messy directions. It fell across his face, catching in his lashes. She stood still, waiting for him to comply and bring his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, her hands slipped into them, spaced out and pulling back to make room for him. When he did, they came to rest on her waist, massaging her sides. Shirt forgotten, she let it drop to the floor, running the flat of her hands down his tanned, stoney abs and then back up to his diamond studded chain. She feigned interest in it, twisting it between her fingers until Chase's hands entered the back of her shirt, trailing his fingertips along her spine. Suddenly, Rose grabbed it, pulling him forward until their lips were forced to meet in another kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to bring him closer while he fought to push her away, hands scaling the inside of her shirt. Once they reached the nape of her neck, they came back down, tugging at the bottom of her tight fitted shirt and inching it up over her head. She raised her hands and let him take it off of her, revealing her black lacey bra with pink trimming. Chase's eyes narrowed with intensified lust when he looked at her, letting her top fall to the floor.
Not waiting for an invitation, Rose pushed him back, lightning fast hands grabbing his belt and working to unbuckle it. Once undone, she gripped the sliver clasp and slid it out in a single, fluid motion. It clattered to the ground, and before he knew it she had unzipped his jeans, making them sag considerably. His green silk boxers and sizeable boner were now visible and, not even pausing, Rose flicked the lone silver button that held his pants up, open, and they fell to the wood floor, pooling around his feet. Suddenly, Chase seized her by the waist, pressing her harder up against the wall as one hand cupped her face, placing her with a desperate kiss, she kissing him back with the same fiery passion. He stepped out of his jeans, kicking them away. His hands were all over her, fondling her breasts and rubbing up and down her sides, up her back, dipping into the waistband of her skirt. Rose had her arms between them, folded up to her chest so they covered her breasts, hands balled into lightly clenched fists. She moved them away from her, both hands grabbing his upper arms and feeling on his biscepts as he explored her, enjoying the feel of the taunt muscles there. She left his arms and went to his back, sticking both index fingers inside the lip of his boxers and slowly bringing them around to the front, teasing him as she added more fingers, and then would take them all away. His tongue parted her lips easily enough, licking, kissing, biting her until one hand dropped to her pink and white mini-skirt. He pulled at the pleated edges, forcing it down her hips as far as he could get them. Rose wiggled back and forth, trying to help him out, until her hand pulled them down the rest of the way.
Before they hit the ground, Chase's hands snaked around her back, gliding up and striving to find the clasp to her bra. He unhooked it and, confiscating it, he slithered them down her arms, freeing it from her hands and leaving it discarded on the floor. Rough hands gripped her waist and shoved her demandingly up against the wall. They moved up for mere, electricfying seconds to cup her breasts, before parted lips breathed raggedly onto them. But his mind wasn't there as he fell to his kness, the flat of his palms scorching her stomach as they slid oppressively toward her matching lacey black and pink thong. Fingers folded inside the thin elastic band, drawing them down her thighs and leaving them forgotten at her ankles. Rose stepped out of them, sending them off with a kick in no particular direction.
Chase spread her legs, red lips teasing as they alluringly brushed the inside of her legs, adventerous tongue licking the area just below her belly button. Rose moved her legs farther apart, but still he ignored her. Instead he let his hands caress the back of her calves, the curve of her pelvic bone and the small of her back. She tossed her hair back and stepped around him, where she bent over and her hands touched his sides and moved slowly up to his shoulders, one hand pushing forward and the other pulling back, trying to guide him in the position which she wanted. Chase turned around and stood up as told, so that now he was against the wall and Rose was on her knees in front of him. Before he realized what she was doing, his silky green boxers were no longer around his waist, and his eyes closed and head fell back against the wall when he felt her mouth around him. Shaking hands clenched at the sensation, and he tried to surpress the moan of pleasure when she deep-throated him, her tongue massaging the base and the shaft while her fingers played with his hair. His legs shook and nearly buckled, and he felt himself wishing to slide down the wall and to sit on something solid. He knew she knew she was getting to him, and therefore smirking at her accomplishment, but Chase wouldn't let her have the satisfaction.
Unsteady hands reached down to grab a fist full of hair, and instantly she released him with a perfunctory grin. Chase's face was blank with lust. Hircine blue eyes looked into her mischeivious ones, craving every inch of her with a ravenous desire. She seemed to think of this as a game, but that only made her more seductive. More tempting; more enticing, alluring, misleading. . . It was a game, but that's why he loved winning.
She looked devilishly innocent as he picked her up by the waist and turned her back around. She looked so angelic, though tantilizingly so, as she wrapped her legs around him, folding her arms placatingly over his slick, muscled shoulders. Her opaque blue eyes seemed to smirk as they narrowed, slowly closing and anticipating the moment he would shove himself inside her. Chase's hands slammed up against the wall, the only thing holding Rose up being herself, and he thrust into her, head tossing back and blonde hair falling, shattered, across his face.
- - -
Excerpt of Pistol, my pirate wolf, written a very long time ago. . .
“Welcome to Port Regal, Mate,” a voice said gruffly, eyeing the new civilian with contempt as he held out his hand for payment. Two soft ‘clinks’, the sound of brass hitting brass, followed the wolf’s words. He smirked, showing black and very yellow teeth, making the coins disappear in his hand before extending it in greeting. He stepped aside, wooden boots creaking on the old, rotting deck. Waves lapped around the deck’s seaweed covered planks and the poles that held the dock in place. Large gaps spaced the soft, squishy panels, clear, blue ocean visible beneath.
A wolf stepped off a gangplank leading from a British merchant ship, whose flags were painted, with the normal, formal royal blue. Its sails were made for expensive canvas; cream colored and all extravagantly hand crafted. The boat was made of fine, cherry wood, all polished and glossy, and shimmering with the glint of the mid-morning sun. Many men of arms were scattered across the ship’s deck, skittering about with mops and buckets of water. Some climbed the ropes up to the crows’ nest like the experts they were, while others shined and polished cannons. The Captain, an arrogant looking wolf, stood hovering over the wheel, his eyes scooping the sea like a ravenous hawk. His hands skittishly traveled and caressed the wood of the boat, one foot tapping a tuneless song quite loudly. He was dressed in the many rich fabrics a Captain was known to wear, his fur wind blown but surprising clean. A sword hung in its sheath around his waist, and a pistol along side it.
The wolf looked back at this now, at the ship that he had just used to bring him free passage to Port Regal. He had disguised himself as a regular sailor, a wolf in need of a job and money to feed his family that he had left back home. His mother, a poor bag woman, his father killed in an epic burglary attempt. His older brother, in some foreign land, trying to find a job and send his pay check back to his mother, in order for her to feed his starving little sister and baby brother. This was the story he had told the first mate while in a bar, ordering the regular watered down rum a poor, lowly sailor would buy. The first mate had had sympathy on him, and offered him a job on his ship, the S. S. Castell, and his name, Andy. He didn’t agree, of course, until Andy had told him that the Castell was a merchant ship, and that she was on her way to Port Regal to sell some of its goods to the residents there. Only then did he accept the job as a deck hand, and he had pretended to be Andy’s closest friend since, learning a few things from him, and pretending to be learning even more about the sea. But the thing was, the wolf knew plenty more than Andy had bragged to him about. Plenty more about the cannons aboard the beautiful ship’s top deck, and about the folded steel in a sailors sword and soldiers armor. He had dressed under the British colors, and even endured the prejudice talk, and even took part of a conversation or two while he waited out his stay. But today, today was the day that he left his little adventure behind, and without saying goodbye to Andy, he’d slipped away unnoticed off the ship and down onto the shore, using a wooden crate for cover as he swiftly walked behind it. Shedding the British sailor clothes as soon as he found an empty docking center, the wolf revealed his true clothes, and his true occupation.
“Thanks, Mate,” the wolf said in return to Port Regal’s record keeper, who stood ‘guard’ in the middle of the docks. He’d dropped two shillings in the ragged wolf’s hand, who in addition stepped back and fell into a little bow, rolling his hand out and wide and presenting him a way into Port Regal’s town. The wolf smirked, flipping an extra shilling in the air between his forefinger and thumb over to the keeper, who snatched it greedily out of the air. He tipped his three-cornered hat to him, walking past in a lazy stagger. The cloth of his very expensive, yet very stolen clothes rustled against one another, the many layers warm against his fur. He was one of the firsts ever to set foot in Port Regal, and not to be immediately arrested and hanged. He was, after all, a certain royalty, as the keeper had tried to display. He was Pistol; and he was indeed a Pirate...
The streets were fairly busy for a heated summer’s day, the regular street market open and buzzing with the loud voices of seller and buyers, and people who insisted on haggling for what they thought a ‘better’ price. Everyone was always trying to find a flaw in something that was perfect, demanding what was actually a piece of dirt was a very large bruise on a piece of fruit. A string of beads always had one bead that was smaller or larger than the rest, or even a design that wasn’t painted right. A scratch on a new sword; a crack in priceless pottery. Everybody was out to get something for less. Actually, Pistol was amongst them; today, at least. He was walking in his lazy swagger, with a slight, fake limp in his left leg. A hand was resting on the grip of his pistol, while the other swung freely by his side. As he walked, some of the wolves had turned to stop and stare, others giving him a fleeting glance, and the rest ignoring him entirely. He didn’t mind, really, for he found that he enjoyed the attention, and so played it up just a bit. Flashing smiles as young children and tipping his hat to all the gorgeous ladies, (gorgeous, meaning old and haggard and very poor) who in return blinked and went about their way. He smirked at this; Pistol had an irresistible charm, or so it seemed, and as he was often told.
“’Cuse me—‘cuse me, sir. Sir? ‘Cuse me!” A sharp hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him backward and spinning him around. Pistol closed his eyes slowly, tightly; nostrils flaring a bit as he tried to obtain his emotions. If it was one thing that he couldn’t stand, it was being touched, in any way, type, or form. Except, of course, by the fair maidens at the local pub, or those who stood on the corner waving and winking at him as he passed, sighing. He opened his eyes, one brow raising as he stared down his nose at the market seller who dared confront him. “My apple, sir, I’m afraid you took it,” the wolf had said to Pistol. “You have you pay for it, you know.” The seller looked serious, and it was evident that he meant to be timid and strong in his words, with both hands not only resting, but gripping his hips, his fingers playing irritably with his blue tunic. He was at least two feet shorter than Pistol, but the wolf’s black glare could kill. His brow rose to meet the other as he looked down at his hand, which was almost hidden by the billowy creamy white sleeve. In it he held the red, ‘stolen’ fruit, which in his haste he’d left four deep claw marks in its soft, juicy flesh. He made to hide it again, but too late – “That be it, sir. A shilling, if it were.” The wolf had caught him.
Pistol smiled, knowing that indeed the little wolf’s sharp eyes had seen what he had been trying to keep a secret. He brought up his hand with the apple out into the open, flashing a glance of the red skin to him, and then snatching it back, tossing it up in the air. Pistol’s eyes followed its movement once or twice before looking back at the seller, who was still trained on the apple being expertly thrown up into the air and then caught by Pistol’s hand in a flash. “This?” Pistol questioned, fully smiling down at the seller, showing silver and gold capped teeth. He tossed the apple once more, and then caught it in his hand, tucking it quickly behind his back and showing it to the wolf again, moving empty fingers teasingly under the baffled features of his captor. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, mate. That apple be mine.” He tipped his hat to him, and the turned around and tried to walk away as if nothing happened.
Again, he was held in that firm little grasp and spun back around. Pistol sighed loudly, quite irritated, rolling his eyes as well as his head. “Do you have a name?” Pistol said suddenly, bringing up a hand to examine the many rings on his fingers. On his right hand he had four; one thick, pure gold ring on his thumb, a pure, thick silver ring on his index finger that had intricate swirls and markings embezzled in it. Another on his ring finger, a bronze, thin ring made from copper. The last on his pinky made from metal and studded with small diamonds. On his left hand he had three – well – it looked like three, but it was really one. It was a gold ring that fitted on his middle finger, that came up and fanned out over his index and ring finger like brace knuckles. It looked like a golden raven, its feathers traced with onyx, its eyes small black pearls. A beautiful piece of ancient Egyptian artwork, made for the current prince at that time – when it was stolen – by Pistol himself. But that was an entirely different story.
The small wolf looked up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What? I was—“
“Do you have a name, mate,” Pistol interrupted him, putting down his hand and staring down at him.
“Wha-? Yes, yes I do…” He answered, and when he saw Pistol’s glare, continued, “Thomas, but here they call me Tick.”
“Tick it is, then,” Pistol said with a firm finality. He extended his hand, and Tick did the same, not as enthusiastic. Pistol smirked, “And how then, m’dear Tick, did you come by such a fitting name?” He enthralled, slipping out of Tick’s grip, as it suddenly became firmer with excitement at being asked such a question. As the older wolf began his lecture of how he got his name when he was a ‘wee little laddie’, Pistol sighed with profound boredom. The things he did to buy himself some time to squeeze out of such stupid situations…
Being somehow slow of noticing such helpful things that were enlisted in his surroundings today, Pistol failed to gather enough information that another fruit vender’s stand stood not but a few inches away. And in that stand there was a cart – full of red delicious apples, quite like the one Pistol had stolen from Tick’s own stand. An eyebrow twitched at how easy it appeared to be now that he had everything he needed right at hand’s length. Tick was still drooling over how he was outside in the Miller’s yard, searching for caterpillars, when Pistol began to inch backward. With years of strenuous practice, Pistol’s left hand reached for the wooden walls of the cart, which he found on his first attempt as he pretended to be interested in Tick’s story. He nodded when he felt necessary, and even laughed at times as Tick’s smile grew, hand movements increasing all the while. Pistol felt for all the soft, sun heated apples, and finding one that he hoped resembled the one that he took, grabbed it and slipped it inside his sleeve.
“And that’s how I got me name,” Tick finished with a broad grin, hands behind him back as he rocked forward on his heels.
“Aye, and a fine story at that,” Pistol said. “But as you can see, we’ve spent quite the time conversing, and I do believe it is best if I be going now, mate. Tick. ‘Ere’s your apple, and a fine day to you sir.” He finished, throwing the new apple in his direction and with his other hand lowering his hat once more. Ignoring the calls of farewell and thanks that Tick insisted on saying after him, Pistol put his head down and placed his hands in his British trench coat, walking swiftly away.
It was only when Pistol was at least a quarter mile away from the scene, and when Tick was walking back to his stall, that a rather large, well-muscled wolf stepped from behind a somewhat familiar stall that sold a bundle of fruits and apples. One apple, it seemed, was missing. The wolf was well scarred, and he had the many tattoos of a club bouncer. He had one set destination – Tick – and the apple that he was doing a very bad job of tossing up into the air and trying to catch it; the fruit had hit the dirt path at least seven times. The bouncer picked Tick up by the shoulders and whipped him around so that the two could face one another. Tick looked confused; the bouncer, very angry. “My apple, if you please,” the bouncer had said in a deep baritone voice. But Tick, being the strong-headed, stubborn wolf he was, resisted and insisted that it was his own…
We could go one about what had happened, but we shan’t, for it ‘tis a very long story indeed. Just know that more than one apple ended up missing that day, and Pistol collected two.
Name/Nickname: Jiinxx, Jinx, or JX
Where did you hear about us?: I was on the first Niche, but unfortunately became inactive. My friend, Fuzz, found it last night, I guess, and gave me the link.
.the character
Name: Remix Xinth
Nicknames: Remme (Privledged)
Gender: Male
Age: Three years old
Breed: Mixed, 3/4 Grey, 1/4 Malaysian
Family: Father - Mirage (Alive)
Mother – Vitality (Deceased)
Brother - Resistance (Assumed alive; MIA)
Brother – Matrix (Alive)
Appearance: (Futuristic app.) Remix's basic fur color is a deep, murky coal black -- so much so that his fur has a mysterious sliver gleam. On either of his legs, there are three, vividly painted green bands. Two rings on his front left leg, as well as his back right leg. Three of them on his front right leg, and four on his left back leg. On his chest, where visibility is still known, there is a green 'x', of medium size. Around his neck, he wears three chains: one silver, and two formed from miscellaneous metals. The silver is the longest, molded in thick, chain link fashion. The two chains, perhaps once pricey looking, are now caked with churning brown rust. Both metal chains consist of a series of large, worn, metal links, some of which still possess their previous glamour, though most reflecting glided colors. In his ears, which are also black, and whose backs are shaded that same, vivid green, is multiple piercings, of studs and hoops, spikes and so on and so forth.
Beneath his eyes, are three, green, claw-like marks, all of which were perfectly positioned and slanted upward. A metallic stud pierces his tongue. In the corner of his left eyebrow hangs a silverish hoop. His eyes, which are normally so serious and nonchalant, are painted the deepest forest green. His build is nothing extraordinary, modified with a long torso and taunt, even muscles. . .
Personality: Far off and distant at times, though when no one thinks he’s listening, completely erudite. His effrontery with off-hand matters is shameless, and his malicious thinking hardly helps. He has a quick tongue, and a vibrant temper. Most of the time he’s more verbal than physical, for he believes it would be a shame to sequester one to humiliation. Remix never was a morning person, who was always ready, prepared even, to wake up, all bright and bubbly. No – actually—it’s the complete opposite. He loathes the morning, as well as the sun, and all of the genial personalities to go with it. Like most, normal, sane wolves, he enjoys closure, darkness, and the moon as his primary light.
On rare occasions, he’s known to be a comical ordeal. Hardly has time for such things as friends, and never ‘expresses’ and emotions other than anger and or hate. Mostly because he can, and that no one would, or has done in the past, anything about it. He’s not, per-say, a ‘bully’, because that is hardly the case. He’s just rather, well, malevolent. Again, just because he can. Remix isn’t exactly a perfectionist, but he’s not a hobo, either. He’d rather get the best for less than the worse for more. More sardonic than sane, is what he really should go by living life.
Fatal Flaw(s): Most definitely his attitude. His mouth gets him into more trouble than it legally should be allowed. His ego could do with some major deflation, as well.
History: Private : D
GOOD Role-play Examples: My baby, Chase, v2 of my wolf, Sangre.
Excerpt from Hydro
The inside of Chase's appartment was bleak.
It was dark. Too dark.
Still, you could tell it was some time in the early morning, because through the thick, shabby blankets - that were used in the stead of curtains - nailed to the wall just above his three tiny windows in his fifth floor living room, came almost invisible orangey dots of light. Chase's dark figure was sprawled out over what must have been a fifty year old couch, because yellow styrofoam stuffing and dangerous metal looking springs tore up the cushions and armrests. The back of the couch was nonexist; if it had one once, it was probably just as disgusting as the rest of it. Unidentifiable stains riddled the 'couch', on which the teenager's cheek and right arm (which was slung around the back of his head) came into contact with it, his left hand holding on to the area beneath the coushin and in looking as if it were going to fall. His chest was pressed against it, one leg tucked beneath him and the other kicked out in front of him. All of his clothes from the previous night were gone, save for red silk boxers that looked to exspensive and out of place. His thick silver chain still dripped from his neck, and the prestine silver rolex was strapped to his left wrist. Not too far away from where he was knocked out was a pile of clothing, on top of which lay a switchblade, his wallet that contained two razorblades, and a black and silver .25 Magnium revolver.
A black alarmclock sitting on a coffee table next to the couch with screaming neon green numbers told the time in flickering light to be 6:04 am. One more minute and its blaring voice was bringing a snarling Chase to life. His left hand flipped behind him, twisting his body so that he was no longer facing the couch to hit the snooze button. His touch was an automated reaction that made the two crooked lamps in the room blink to life with pale yellow light. The noise they made when they came on was like soft radiation, humming in the backround and sending minute vibrations throughout the entire appartment. Chase blinked, squinting at the unwelcome light and closed his eyes, proping the back of his elbows onto the couch and letting his head fall back onto it. He had a massive headache.
The creaking of floorboards above him, the trashy mexican music beside him, and the screaming match taking place below told him that it really was time to get up. He sighed, the heels of his palms rubbing his eyes then moving to massage his temples. What the fuck had he done last night? Blue eyes opened slowly, scanning the leaky, moldy mess that was growing around him. Besides the empty pizza boxes, half-full soda bottles, papper plates and ripped bags that advertised fast food joints, he saw no sign of what he knew must have happened - that he had been drunk. And now, was left with the reprecussion of an insane hangover.
Groaning, Chase threw his head back onto the couch and rolled over onto his stomach, hands gripping the ends of the cushions so that he pushed himself up to his knees and then into a crouch. His head was still hanging down to his chest when he raised both arms in a stretch, first straight up and then each hand gripping the opposite arm behind his head in turn. Standing up, he gave a huge yawn, fighting to stay awake and possibly make it to the bathroom before he passed out again. He stumbled around the coffee table, entering into a short, narrow hall sided by walls that must have once been painted white but were now a sickly shade of yellow with brown water stains running down from the ceiling. The beaten up door to his bathroom stood ajar, and to open it Chase literally had to place both hands on the handle and force it up and in. Bare feet met a shockingly cold pale pink and ivory tiled floor. His hand searched for the hanging chain switch above his head. When he found it and pulled it, dim white light highlighted a sandwiched bathroom, complete with a 2-in-1 shower and tub, a toilet built for a dollhouse, a matching sink, and a mirror. Fingers pressed against the outline of the mirror, causing it to pop open. Immediately a clutter of OTC pills clattered into the sink, followed by a used tube of toothpaste, toothbrush, and razor. Exhaling heavily, he picked everything up except the toothbrush and toothpaste and shoved it back into the mirror, slamming it shut before anything had the chance to escape.
Finished brushing his teeth, flossing, shaving, combing his hair, etc., Chase glanced at the shower. One look at the murky black and green remains of someone's lunch ended his thought of a shower. He washed his face, applied deoderant, and called it a day. The pulse in his head vibrated loudly in his ears, foreign smells starting to waft into his appartment as people started to wakeup. One hand covered his eyes, and he fell back to lean against the doorway. He could already tell today wasn't going to be a good one.
Shirtless, Chase left the bathroom and trapezied to the back of the appartment, also doubling as his room. This was by far the cleanest area in the place. A fresh pair dark, almost black demin jeans was laid out across his bed, accompained by hot white airforce ones and white socks. All this lay ontop of crimson silk sheets fitted to a king sized bed. Turning to his right, he found his mohogany dresser. A 36" x 12" mirror was mounted horizontally across it, showing the reflection of a few odd possessions, a tick wad of cash, and a bottle of Tylenol. Chase grabbed the bottle and popped four pills, swallowing without water. Opening the first drawer, home to a variety of soft, exspensive looking boxers, he reached his hand to the way back, digging under the fabrics and pulling out a large plastic bag, as well as a white pair of cotton boxers. He shut the drawer and threw the bag on his bed, grabbing first his boxers then his jeans and slipping them on. Holding them up, Chase sat down on his bed and then proceeded to put on both his socks and shoes beforing standing back up, grabbing the ounce of weed, and leaving the room.
Making his way back out to the living room, still holding up his pants with one hand, he spotted his clothes from the night before, and with it his belt. Slidding it out from the jeans he'd been wearing, he relooped it through his own, and buckled it closed. He paused, the room beginning to spin and the mexican music seeming to get louder. Glancing at the clock, it was now 6:30 am. Shit. . . He was going to be late. He turned around, one foot taking one step back to maintain his balance. In the corner was a plain wooden self, with three drawers. Chase walked over to it, opened the third drawer, and placed his hand underneath of it to slowly slide out the red and white hilted knife, its blade carved with deep, uneven teeth. He flipped it up and around so that the flat of the blade was resting against the skin of his forearm and the hilt was against his wrist. Deep pockets made for good storage, and both the knife and weed went into either on the side of his jeans. Looking back at his dirty clothes, Chase grabbed his wallet from off the top, slipped that into his back pocket, and walked to the door.
Once outside, Chase knew he fucked up. It was too late; he'd overslept. That, or he was extremely slow getting his shit together. The sun was too high and he knew it was now around seven or past it. Whichever the case, he found himself cursing under his breath, and trying to walk as straight and as fast as he could without tripping or passing out. Walking, his jeans began to sag so that the lip of his boxers stuck out, and his shirtless chest and iced out chain was drawing unwanted attention. The tattoo of thin and thick lines going vertically down his back was glaringly obvious, and paired with the fancy inscription on his biscept and the dagger reaching down to the inside of his palm did not actually shout out abnormal. If anything, he fit in to the scenery even better.
However fucked up he knew this deal was going to be, and how angry the customer was for waiting, or how made his boss would be when and if he found out, Chase still managed to make it to the spot where the deal was supposed to go down; the back of some foreign buildings that were still considered a part of Glen Oaks. Stepping into the shade, he placed his back against the cool brick building, tilting his head down and proping one foot against the bricks, as well.
Damn, did he have a headache.
- - -
WARNING: RATED M
Following example contains explicit sexual scenes, language, and violence. (Incomplete)
Chase x Rose
The car door of a black 2009 350z slammed shut, so hard that the car rocked back on its wheels and a small crunch was heard. A black pistol etched in 18k white gold was slung out from the back of baggy jeans, the hand in which it was being held gripped it so tightly that the flesh across his knuckles turned whiter than snow. Left hand reached for the slide, pulling it back with an acknowledging 'clink'. Feet pounded across the pavement, half-running, half-stomping to a white wooden door that was in terrible need of a new paint job. Left hand snaked toward the golden handle, turning it to the side and jerking it open, the wood splintering as he tore it back. The tip of the pistol tipped around the inside of the door, and with unnatural strength was sent hurling shut behind him. Chase proceeded into the facility, ignoring the shocked faces around him and someone who tried to call his attention. He couldn't hear them, anyway. All he could hear was his pulse pounding in his ears, feel his heart beating against his chest in erratic measures. He'd only come here for one reason, the only reason he ever did.
Two people were currently following him, one the female receptionist with whorish blue eyeshadow and black outlined lips - the other, a curious and obviously fawning girl, just around his age and most likely new to the business. He left them alone as long as he could, but once he had made it back to the dressing rooms, he turned on them. They both jumped back and admitted audible gasps, hands flying to cover their mouths with perfectly manicured fingers. He swung his right hand up, the gun held in his hand so that the weapon as a whole was lying vertically, the black, deadly barrel aimed equally between them. "Back. The fuck. Up," Chase whispered, his voice steely and seething with a wide range of livid emotions. The only stood there in their shock and he rounded again, and continued to stalk to the back of the dressing rooms. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, which hallway to take and which one to avoid. He ended up at a blank purple door with a gold star glued in the middle. No name was inscribe on it, though from the noise coming from inside it was clear it wasn't empty. Ignoring the handle, he kicked the door, once, twice - five times before it caved in on itself, one last kick sending it flying open. Smoldering blue eyes searched the room, noting the tv that was playing a commerical in one corner, and her in the next, sitting on a chair facing a large mirror looking unphased and unconcerned. He all but exploded when he saw her, and her nonexistent reaction. She didn't even glance up to see his reflection, but continued putting on pale lipgloss. This pissed him off even more. Eyes were slits as he appeared to lunge across the exspanse of empty space between them, left hand gripping her shoulder with crushing pressure and slinging her off the chair. She gasped and fell to the floor, anger flaring in her blue eyes, opening her mouth to spew a series of insults as revenge for her minor injury. Chase wouldn't let her, however, and went to grab a handful of her white t-shirt to drag her up and then throw her back against the wall. "What that fuck, Chase?!" Rose screeched, throwing her arms up to protect her face as he obtained another fistful of her clothing, this time doing nothing put stepping closer to her, so now that he was parallel to her, against the wall to one side of her.
"Fuck you!" Chase yelled, this time pulling her forward and then jerking her back against the wall. "Like you don't know what you did, you cheap bitch." His voice was thick and uneven, in danger of breaking. He pushed her against the wall one more time, softer than before, shoving his hand into her chest and then taking three steps back. His haunting eyes were set in a face trained to be emotionless; the one characteristic giving away his anger was the slight flare of his nostrils as he stared at her, hating her for what she did. Rose glared back at him, her anger more apparent in her labored breathing and pursed lips, as well as her clenched fists and stiff posture.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said just as evenly as he, and it was true - this time, anyway. Chase however, had no reason to believe her. He looked her up and down, eyes narrowed to slits. Something he thought once so beautiful know seemed revolting. She was used, and she was easy.
"You're a god damn whore, and you know it," He breathed, looking her in the eye before spitting on her, the gun in his hand forgotton and hanging limply at his at his side. When he had heard of what she had done - the first time - he didn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. Rose wouldn't do that to him, and he knew it. He honestly trusted her. Believed she'd never bring him harm. That had all been shredded and disolved once the rumor became a fact from eleven more similar conversations. How could he have been so stupid? Eyes zeroed in on the closest object next to him, which happened to be a coat tree. Seizing it with both hands, he picked it up and threw it across the room. It hit her Vanity table, shattering the glass and causing both coat tree and dresser to topple over one another, resting in a heap of ruined wood. Rose jumped at the sound, but besides that she returned to glare hatefully at him, arms lowered but still crossed protectively in front of her chest.
He stepped closer to her again. "I hate you," Chase said with a level stare. Rose pursed her lips tighter and brought up a hand with which to smack him smartly across the face. When he didn't flinch, her eyes narrowed, and she attempted to hit him again, but Chase's reflexes proved to be faster as he grabbed her wrist and pinned it against the wall above her head.
She began to struggle beneath him, though her attempt was in vain. "Get the fuck off of me, Chase. I told you, I don't know what you're talking about." Blue eyes met Chase's shocking ones, searching for a reason behind his madness. "You're drunk," she stated coolly, pushing her pinned arm against the vince like grip that held her in place. After all, he always was.
This, however, seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because his grip on her tightened, if that was even possible, and the pressure he was applying to her wrist was beginning to cut off her cirulation. "You fucked Brett," Chase's voice said coolly, though he started to shake, his blood pressure rising dramatically. "Is that what you don't know about?" He sneered, leaning in so that his mouth caressed her ear as he said, "Was he good. . ?" Then he was pressing himself against her, one leg sliding between both of hers so that they were forced to spread. His knee nudged her, and his hot voice was in her ear once more. "Or did you ride him?"
He didn't ease up on the pressure he was applying to her, but that didn't stop Rose from laughing. Light, muscial notes that were both a relief and release - to her. She looked up to the ceiling, closing her eyes as Chase's jealous accusation. "Now I know you're drunk," she repeated, trying once more to slide from his grip, but to no avail.
Chase wasn't ammused. He picked her up and slammed her against the wall, so hard that the air was forced from her lungs. "You think that's funny?" He shouted, voice rising. "I'll show you how fucking funny I think it is." The hand that held the gun was suddenly remembered, and like a forgotten memory it appeared at the side of Rose's head, the barrel pressed into her hair, burried so deeply and with such force the cold metal rim touched her skull. Her laughter was cut off, a hint of terror swimming behind once confident eyes. Chase cocked it, applying more pressure to it and her as he angled his hand so that the gun was slanting down toward her. "Now," he said softly, "you didn't answer my question. . . was he good?" He seemed serious about getting the answer, now blank, lifeless eyes looking into Rose's glassy ones.
"Chase - please - stop. I swear - I didn't do anything with Brett. Ever. Whatever you heard - whoever told you - was a lie. They were lying -" Chase shoved her against the wall again. "Chase I swear!" Rose screeched, dissolving to tears, only making his anger flare even more. Soft pouts came from her, though it was killing her to do so. She never did this - she never cried. Not in front of him. Not in front of Chase. But what he was proposing was rediculious! Her, fuck Brett? Why? Didn't he understand that she had him? True, she was a stripper, but she thought he was okay with that. Why did this happen, all of the sudden. . ? She felt him hesistate and immediately she cut off her sobs, daring to look at him, to see what he was thinking. She opened her eyes to his harsh blue ones, ones that expressed no emotion. The sympathy she sought was not present in his steely blue eyes.
"But they told me," Chase insisted, feeling himself faltering at her tears. 'They' were no one in particular, of course. Just minor gangsters working on imports and exports of his merchandise. If he thought about it, they really weren't the kind of people to be around Brett, anyway. They wouldn't assossicate with him, he didn't think, if he were ever around. . . Before he realized what was happening he felt a soft tug on the black pistol in his hand, still cocked and positioned on Rose's head. One finger slowly went to push back the hammer, and he semi-consciously let her take it from him, lowering it halfway to the ground before dropping it with a soft 'thud'. Chase's eyes searched her, his still narrowed and hers' half-consoling. Hesistantly, he softened his grip on her hand, his slipping down to her elbow before letting her go. He took one step back, eyes leaving her to look around the room at the smashed furniture and ruined door. Lastly it went to the gun, and his thick voice seemed forced as he said, "Well. . . I guess I should go. . ." A half a step backward and Rose's stinging slap shoved his face to one side, scorching his skin more than it should. He looked up at her just as another hand was flying for the other side of his face, catching it as well and burning like fire. One more hand was almost at his face when his hand snatched up her wrist. She didn't give up, however, and tried to hit him with her other. Chase grabbed that one, too. Rose brought her knee up to his chest, and he doubled over in pain. Through electric light he saw the heel of her shoe ready to stab him in groin, but he hopped back, her arms still in his grasp, and spun her around so that her back was to him. Still, she struggled and fought to break free of his grasp, trying and succeeding in kicking him. His grip on her tightened, and his arms forced hers to cross over her chest, his wrapping around her sides so that she wasn't able to move. The kicking, however, was still a problem.
Picking her up, Chase looked around the room for something to put her on where her legs wouldn't be a danger to him. All he saw was the broken pieces of furniture, a T.V., two padded chairs, and a couch. The only thing that even looked remotely reasonable was the couch, to which he carried her over to. Her struggling increased as he tried to turn her around and lay her ontop of the deep brown cushions, but it wasn't working. Strong hands grabbed her arms and turned her around, immediately throwing her onto the couch, and he pinning himself ontop of her, stradling her hips with his legs beneath hers and crossed over one another so that she couldn't move. Rose's eyes narrowed as she realized this, and stubbornly she continued to try, twisting her head from side to side and trying to hit him - kick him - she even wanted to scratch him. Chase shook her, trying to get her to calm down and stop trying to fight him. She wouldn't, however, and at this point he was close to giving up. Feeling his defeat, she took her chance and released her arm, her hand flying up to attack him. Momentarily shocked, his grip slackened and both of her hands were free, smacking him across his face and shoving him in his chest, hitting every inch of him that she could reach. "How. Dare. You. Put. A. Gun. To. My. Head." She yelled between hits. "You. Stupid. Drunk. Bastard."
By this time, Chase had had enough, and he recoiled, trying to get to his feet. He managed to stand up and turn around, almost making it to the door before Rose grabbed a fistful of the back of his shirt, managing to pull him half-way around. "Fuck you," she said, lunging at him again. But he wasn't in the mood for this, and his hand effortless caught hers once more. To silence her his mouth found hers, and suddenly Chase was forcing her backward, one slow step forward and then another, until Rose's back was once again pressed against the wall, though this time not as savagely as before. The hand that held hers was guided to the region of wall by her side, and Chase found her other hand, grabbed it, and did the same. His body curved against hers, slowly sliding her hands up the wall to be pinned above her head. His mouth opened against hers in small, luxoriously soft kisses. His head leaned to one side then the next as they became playful butterfly kisses, a smile curving his lips as she giggled into him. Chase's hands left her wrists, fingertips flattening out to palms as they trailed down her arms, up her neck; across her jawline; down her chest, where they lingered and curved underneath, cupping her breasts and pushing them up before the flat of his hand was sliding down her stomach and to her waist. There, he gripped her and picked her up, raising her centimeters off the floor, where their kiss deepened. His tongue parted her lips, brushing against the top of her teeth and then meeting her own. He pulled back slightly, mouth whispering against her lower lip as he kissed it, too, "I love you." She sighed, and his lips found her jawline. Rose smirked, dropping her hands onto his back as he nipped the skin just below her chin, continuing to decline down her neck with impressions of his lips until he found the depression in her neck where her collarbone connected. At first he did nothing but kiss it, but then his teeth bit into it, not too soft but not too hard. He heard her gasp with the pain, and he let go off her, sliding a little to his right and, pinpointing the spot on her collarbone, pressed his lips against it and sucked; hard. Again Rose giggled and attempted to push him off. Chase was removed easily enough, pulling away from her to look at his work. He smirked his crooked smirk once he saw, eyes blinking up at Rose with that devilish grin. Subconsciously, he felt his thumb stroke the mark, knowing that he was doing it only because he found himself looking at it again.
The hands that lay across Chase's back slid down to the hem on his black shirt, fingering it for a few seconds before attempting to tug it upward, a smirk curving Rose's lips. He let her, hands raised in the air, wrists crossed over one another as she pulled it farther and farther up. His collar brushed across his chin, but went no farther, when he realized that she was too short to take it off of him all by herself. He ducked his head down throught the fabric, catching his hair and sending it in messy directions. It fell across his face, catching in his lashes. She stood still, waiting for him to comply and bring his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, her hands slipped into them, spaced out and pulling back to make room for him. When he did, they came to rest on her waist, massaging her sides. Shirt forgotten, she let it drop to the floor, running the flat of her hands down his tanned, stoney abs and then back up to his diamond studded chain. She feigned interest in it, twisting it between her fingers until Chase's hands entered the back of her shirt, trailing his fingertips along her spine. Suddenly, Rose grabbed it, pulling him forward until their lips were forced to meet in another kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to bring him closer while he fought to push her away, hands scaling the inside of her shirt. Once they reached the nape of her neck, they came back down, tugging at the bottom of her tight fitted shirt and inching it up over her head. She raised her hands and let him take it off of her, revealing her black lacey bra with pink trimming. Chase's eyes narrowed with intensified lust when he looked at her, letting her top fall to the floor.
Not waiting for an invitation, Rose pushed him back, lightning fast hands grabbing his belt and working to unbuckle it. Once undone, she gripped the sliver clasp and slid it out in a single, fluid motion. It clattered to the ground, and before he knew it she had unzipped his jeans, making them sag considerably. His green silk boxers and sizeable boner were now visible and, not even pausing, Rose flicked the lone silver button that held his pants up, open, and they fell to the wood floor, pooling around his feet. Suddenly, Chase seized her by the waist, pressing her harder up against the wall as one hand cupped her face, placing her with a desperate kiss, she kissing him back with the same fiery passion. He stepped out of his jeans, kicking them away. His hands were all over her, fondling her breasts and rubbing up and down her sides, up her back, dipping into the waistband of her skirt. Rose had her arms between them, folded up to her chest so they covered her breasts, hands balled into lightly clenched fists. She moved them away from her, both hands grabbing his upper arms and feeling on his biscepts as he explored her, enjoying the feel of the taunt muscles there. She left his arms and went to his back, sticking both index fingers inside the lip of his boxers and slowly bringing them around to the front, teasing him as she added more fingers, and then would take them all away. His tongue parted her lips easily enough, licking, kissing, biting her until one hand dropped to her pink and white mini-skirt. He pulled at the pleated edges, forcing it down her hips as far as he could get them. Rose wiggled back and forth, trying to help him out, until her hand pulled them down the rest of the way.
Before they hit the ground, Chase's hands snaked around her back, gliding up and striving to find the clasp to her bra. He unhooked it and, confiscating it, he slithered them down her arms, freeing it from her hands and leaving it discarded on the floor. Rough hands gripped her waist and shoved her demandingly up against the wall. They moved up for mere, electricfying seconds to cup her breasts, before parted lips breathed raggedly onto them. But his mind wasn't there as he fell to his kness, the flat of his palms scorching her stomach as they slid oppressively toward her matching lacey black and pink thong. Fingers folded inside the thin elastic band, drawing them down her thighs and leaving them forgotten at her ankles. Rose stepped out of them, sending them off with a kick in no particular direction.
Chase spread her legs, red lips teasing as they alluringly brushed the inside of her legs, adventerous tongue licking the area just below her belly button. Rose moved her legs farther apart, but still he ignored her. Instead he let his hands caress the back of her calves, the curve of her pelvic bone and the small of her back. She tossed her hair back and stepped around him, where she bent over and her hands touched his sides and moved slowly up to his shoulders, one hand pushing forward and the other pulling back, trying to guide him in the position which she wanted. Chase turned around and stood up as told, so that now he was against the wall and Rose was on her knees in front of him. Before he realized what she was doing, his silky green boxers were no longer around his waist, and his eyes closed and head fell back against the wall when he felt her mouth around him. Shaking hands clenched at the sensation, and he tried to surpress the moan of pleasure when she deep-throated him, her tongue massaging the base and the shaft while her fingers played with his hair. His legs shook and nearly buckled, and he felt himself wishing to slide down the wall and to sit on something solid. He knew she knew she was getting to him, and therefore smirking at her accomplishment, but Chase wouldn't let her have the satisfaction.
Unsteady hands reached down to grab a fist full of hair, and instantly she released him with a perfunctory grin. Chase's face was blank with lust. Hircine blue eyes looked into her mischeivious ones, craving every inch of her with a ravenous desire. She seemed to think of this as a game, but that only made her more seductive. More tempting; more enticing, alluring, misleading. . . It was a game, but that's why he loved winning.
She looked devilishly innocent as he picked her up by the waist and turned her back around. She looked so angelic, though tantilizingly so, as she wrapped her legs around him, folding her arms placatingly over his slick, muscled shoulders. Her opaque blue eyes seemed to smirk as they narrowed, slowly closing and anticipating the moment he would shove himself inside her. Chase's hands slammed up against the wall, the only thing holding Rose up being herself, and he thrust into her, head tossing back and blonde hair falling, shattered, across his face.
- - -
Excerpt of Pistol, my pirate wolf, written a very long time ago. . .
“Welcome to Port Regal, Mate,” a voice said gruffly, eyeing the new civilian with contempt as he held out his hand for payment. Two soft ‘clinks’, the sound of brass hitting brass, followed the wolf’s words. He smirked, showing black and very yellow teeth, making the coins disappear in his hand before extending it in greeting. He stepped aside, wooden boots creaking on the old, rotting deck. Waves lapped around the deck’s seaweed covered planks and the poles that held the dock in place. Large gaps spaced the soft, squishy panels, clear, blue ocean visible beneath.
A wolf stepped off a gangplank leading from a British merchant ship, whose flags were painted, with the normal, formal royal blue. Its sails were made for expensive canvas; cream colored and all extravagantly hand crafted. The boat was made of fine, cherry wood, all polished and glossy, and shimmering with the glint of the mid-morning sun. Many men of arms were scattered across the ship’s deck, skittering about with mops and buckets of water. Some climbed the ropes up to the crows’ nest like the experts they were, while others shined and polished cannons. The Captain, an arrogant looking wolf, stood hovering over the wheel, his eyes scooping the sea like a ravenous hawk. His hands skittishly traveled and caressed the wood of the boat, one foot tapping a tuneless song quite loudly. He was dressed in the many rich fabrics a Captain was known to wear, his fur wind blown but surprising clean. A sword hung in its sheath around his waist, and a pistol along side it.
The wolf looked back at this now, at the ship that he had just used to bring him free passage to Port Regal. He had disguised himself as a regular sailor, a wolf in need of a job and money to feed his family that he had left back home. His mother, a poor bag woman, his father killed in an epic burglary attempt. His older brother, in some foreign land, trying to find a job and send his pay check back to his mother, in order for her to feed his starving little sister and baby brother. This was the story he had told the first mate while in a bar, ordering the regular watered down rum a poor, lowly sailor would buy. The first mate had had sympathy on him, and offered him a job on his ship, the S. S. Castell, and his name, Andy. He didn’t agree, of course, until Andy had told him that the Castell was a merchant ship, and that she was on her way to Port Regal to sell some of its goods to the residents there. Only then did he accept the job as a deck hand, and he had pretended to be Andy’s closest friend since, learning a few things from him, and pretending to be learning even more about the sea. But the thing was, the wolf knew plenty more than Andy had bragged to him about. Plenty more about the cannons aboard the beautiful ship’s top deck, and about the folded steel in a sailors sword and soldiers armor. He had dressed under the British colors, and even endured the prejudice talk, and even took part of a conversation or two while he waited out his stay. But today, today was the day that he left his little adventure behind, and without saying goodbye to Andy, he’d slipped away unnoticed off the ship and down onto the shore, using a wooden crate for cover as he swiftly walked behind it. Shedding the British sailor clothes as soon as he found an empty docking center, the wolf revealed his true clothes, and his true occupation.
“Thanks, Mate,” the wolf said in return to Port Regal’s record keeper, who stood ‘guard’ in the middle of the docks. He’d dropped two shillings in the ragged wolf’s hand, who in addition stepped back and fell into a little bow, rolling his hand out and wide and presenting him a way into Port Regal’s town. The wolf smirked, flipping an extra shilling in the air between his forefinger and thumb over to the keeper, who snatched it greedily out of the air. He tipped his three-cornered hat to him, walking past in a lazy stagger. The cloth of his very expensive, yet very stolen clothes rustled against one another, the many layers warm against his fur. He was one of the firsts ever to set foot in Port Regal, and not to be immediately arrested and hanged. He was, after all, a certain royalty, as the keeper had tried to display. He was Pistol; and he was indeed a Pirate...
The streets were fairly busy for a heated summer’s day, the regular street market open and buzzing with the loud voices of seller and buyers, and people who insisted on haggling for what they thought a ‘better’ price. Everyone was always trying to find a flaw in something that was perfect, demanding what was actually a piece of dirt was a very large bruise on a piece of fruit. A string of beads always had one bead that was smaller or larger than the rest, or even a design that wasn’t painted right. A scratch on a new sword; a crack in priceless pottery. Everybody was out to get something for less. Actually, Pistol was amongst them; today, at least. He was walking in his lazy swagger, with a slight, fake limp in his left leg. A hand was resting on the grip of his pistol, while the other swung freely by his side. As he walked, some of the wolves had turned to stop and stare, others giving him a fleeting glance, and the rest ignoring him entirely. He didn’t mind, really, for he found that he enjoyed the attention, and so played it up just a bit. Flashing smiles as young children and tipping his hat to all the gorgeous ladies, (gorgeous, meaning old and haggard and very poor) who in return blinked and went about their way. He smirked at this; Pistol had an irresistible charm, or so it seemed, and as he was often told.
“’Cuse me—‘cuse me, sir. Sir? ‘Cuse me!” A sharp hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him backward and spinning him around. Pistol closed his eyes slowly, tightly; nostrils flaring a bit as he tried to obtain his emotions. If it was one thing that he couldn’t stand, it was being touched, in any way, type, or form. Except, of course, by the fair maidens at the local pub, or those who stood on the corner waving and winking at him as he passed, sighing. He opened his eyes, one brow raising as he stared down his nose at the market seller who dared confront him. “My apple, sir, I’m afraid you took it,” the wolf had said to Pistol. “You have you pay for it, you know.” The seller looked serious, and it was evident that he meant to be timid and strong in his words, with both hands not only resting, but gripping his hips, his fingers playing irritably with his blue tunic. He was at least two feet shorter than Pistol, but the wolf’s black glare could kill. His brow rose to meet the other as he looked down at his hand, which was almost hidden by the billowy creamy white sleeve. In it he held the red, ‘stolen’ fruit, which in his haste he’d left four deep claw marks in its soft, juicy flesh. He made to hide it again, but too late – “That be it, sir. A shilling, if it were.” The wolf had caught him.
Pistol smiled, knowing that indeed the little wolf’s sharp eyes had seen what he had been trying to keep a secret. He brought up his hand with the apple out into the open, flashing a glance of the red skin to him, and then snatching it back, tossing it up in the air. Pistol’s eyes followed its movement once or twice before looking back at the seller, who was still trained on the apple being expertly thrown up into the air and then caught by Pistol’s hand in a flash. “This?” Pistol questioned, fully smiling down at the seller, showing silver and gold capped teeth. He tossed the apple once more, and then caught it in his hand, tucking it quickly behind his back and showing it to the wolf again, moving empty fingers teasingly under the baffled features of his captor. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, mate. That apple be mine.” He tipped his hat to him, and the turned around and tried to walk away as if nothing happened.
Again, he was held in that firm little grasp and spun back around. Pistol sighed loudly, quite irritated, rolling his eyes as well as his head. “Do you have a name?” Pistol said suddenly, bringing up a hand to examine the many rings on his fingers. On his right hand he had four; one thick, pure gold ring on his thumb, a pure, thick silver ring on his index finger that had intricate swirls and markings embezzled in it. Another on his ring finger, a bronze, thin ring made from copper. The last on his pinky made from metal and studded with small diamonds. On his left hand he had three – well – it looked like three, but it was really one. It was a gold ring that fitted on his middle finger, that came up and fanned out over his index and ring finger like brace knuckles. It looked like a golden raven, its feathers traced with onyx, its eyes small black pearls. A beautiful piece of ancient Egyptian artwork, made for the current prince at that time – when it was stolen – by Pistol himself. But that was an entirely different story.
The small wolf looked up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What? I was—“
“Do you have a name, mate,” Pistol interrupted him, putting down his hand and staring down at him.
“Wha-? Yes, yes I do…” He answered, and when he saw Pistol’s glare, continued, “Thomas, but here they call me Tick.”
“Tick it is, then,” Pistol said with a firm finality. He extended his hand, and Tick did the same, not as enthusiastic. Pistol smirked, “And how then, m’dear Tick, did you come by such a fitting name?” He enthralled, slipping out of Tick’s grip, as it suddenly became firmer with excitement at being asked such a question. As the older wolf began his lecture of how he got his name when he was a ‘wee little laddie’, Pistol sighed with profound boredom. The things he did to buy himself some time to squeeze out of such stupid situations…
Being somehow slow of noticing such helpful things that were enlisted in his surroundings today, Pistol failed to gather enough information that another fruit vender’s stand stood not but a few inches away. And in that stand there was a cart – full of red delicious apples, quite like the one Pistol had stolen from Tick’s own stand. An eyebrow twitched at how easy it appeared to be now that he had everything he needed right at hand’s length. Tick was still drooling over how he was outside in the Miller’s yard, searching for caterpillars, when Pistol began to inch backward. With years of strenuous practice, Pistol’s left hand reached for the wooden walls of the cart, which he found on his first attempt as he pretended to be interested in Tick’s story. He nodded when he felt necessary, and even laughed at times as Tick’s smile grew, hand movements increasing all the while. Pistol felt for all the soft, sun heated apples, and finding one that he hoped resembled the one that he took, grabbed it and slipped it inside his sleeve.
“And that’s how I got me name,” Tick finished with a broad grin, hands behind him back as he rocked forward on his heels.
“Aye, and a fine story at that,” Pistol said. “But as you can see, we’ve spent quite the time conversing, and I do believe it is best if I be going now, mate. Tick. ‘Ere’s your apple, and a fine day to you sir.” He finished, throwing the new apple in his direction and with his other hand lowering his hat once more. Ignoring the calls of farewell and thanks that Tick insisted on saying after him, Pistol put his head down and placed his hands in his British trench coat, walking swiftly away.
It was only when Pistol was at least a quarter mile away from the scene, and when Tick was walking back to his stall, that a rather large, well-muscled wolf stepped from behind a somewhat familiar stall that sold a bundle of fruits and apples. One apple, it seemed, was missing. The wolf was well scarred, and he had the many tattoos of a club bouncer. He had one set destination – Tick – and the apple that he was doing a very bad job of tossing up into the air and trying to catch it; the fruit had hit the dirt path at least seven times. The bouncer picked Tick up by the shoulders and whipped him around so that the two could face one another. Tick looked confused; the bouncer, very angry. “My apple, if you please,” the bouncer had said in a deep baritone voice. But Tick, being the strong-headed, stubborn wolf he was, resisted and insisted that it was his own…
We could go one about what had happened, but we shan’t, for it ‘tis a very long story indeed. Just know that more than one apple ended up missing that day, and Pistol collected two.
Vienna Ri - July 2, 2008 10:28 PM (GMT)
Do I even need to tell you how much my Vienna is going to love Remix? He's going to have a staaaaalkerrrr! xD Ahhh, well we're glad to have you now, when things are much more active.
Please wait for another Admin's approval before posting In-Character, as said Admin will also assign your pretty symmmmbol! :D
Please wait for another Admin's approval before posting In-Character, as said Admin will also assign your pretty symmmmbol! :D
Jai - July 3, 2008 01:18 AM (GMT)
symbol on plain background (for graphics): http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/HYP.../Niche/sym4.png
o_o
omfg.
Remix is hoootttt.
I especially love his piercingss!!! AHHH -make out- xD