Assistant To The Villain Quotes

We're all monsters in the end. At least mine lives in the light.

You just can't kill people and be pretty. It's confusing.

There is so much that can be fixed by honesty, if you're brave enough to use it.

She wasn’t light; she was color. Every single one…

You're not all bad, are you?" He looked offended. "How dare you.

I feel like my life keeps happening to me, rather than me living it.

It was a hard lesson to learn that sometimes it was better to remain lonely than to waste companionship and energy on someone undeserving.

Are we changing the subject because you're embarrassed that you were an Evil Overlord in Distress?

Granted, she didn't want to become evil, but when you spend most of your life trying to see the sun, you begin to wish for rain.

Was that your first?" Evie interrupted... The boss's head knocked back in surprise. "My first what, you little tornado?" "Your first joke.

Of all the foolish, horrific things he'd ever accomplished, falling in love with a woman he so completely didn't deserve made the top of the list.

Sometimes family isn’t a thing we are born into but a choice we make. Sometimes”—Evie smiled—“the people who love you most in your life are the ones who choose you.

She’d been called many disparaging things in her life. Alarmingly all beginning with the letter F. Flighty, foolish, forgetful, and, by a strange turn of events, she was finally able to add the final F. Fucked.

I don’t run from my demons. I welcome them. I let them envelop me until I grow stronger.

Attractive murderers were always good kissers; she was pretty sure she’d heard that expression before.

Adulthood should be illegal.

If life was built on regrets, we’d have monuments the size of giants.

She wasn’t light; she was color. Every single one, dancing otherworldly and bright over his unworthy eyes. She was the explosion of the vivid gleams and glows of the world around him, like a constant rainbow, shining not after the rain but during.

Caring about other people is very irritating.

she wanted to find her reflection somewhere and smash it just to watch herself break.

He was ruined. But he loved her anyway.

Normal" was for those who didn't have the ability to stretch their minds past the unreachable end.

Are you ... crying?" He was horrified, it was so plain in his voice, and she wanted badly to shrink away from him, but of course her injured ankle kept her locked in place. "No. I have a condition where my tear ducts produce an excess of warm, salty water when I'm tired or in distress.

Maybe that did make her a monster, but she was quickly learning that it took more to make a monster than a monstrous act.

She was afraid, but she knew now: fear usually meant you were standing on the edge of something new, something self-altering, something potentially good. Fear was not something she would shy away from ever again.

You're touching my face," he said flatly. "...Yes." "Are you happy with that decision?" He raised one dark brow again.

It had occurred to her many times over that "impossible" was merely a word people used to describe limitations they wished for you to adhere to, so you wouldn't upset the balance.

There was no emotion in his voice when he said, “Does your mind live in the gutter?” She shook her head, tapping a finger against her lips. “No, but it rents there on occasion.

I am not afraid of the dark, sage. I am the Villain - the dark fears me.

She breathed, “It’s so beautiful.” Her boss had been silent beside her, but now he replied hoarsely, still gripping her hand, “Yes, it is.” And when she turned, he was looking at her.

I’ll remind you that, at your bequest, I haven’t actually killed an intern in several months.” Evie shook her head hopelessly. “Sir, I hate to belittle your successes, but there are people who go their entire lives without killing anyone.” His face remained serious. “How dull.

I do not and cannot make 'hugs' a regular occurrence.

The Villain didn’t miss light. He missed color.

You’re not a machine, sir. You can still be your evil, brooding self with a good night’s rest.

I do not lack equilibrium,” she argued. “The ground merely lacks the courtesy of letting me know when it is coming closer.

His chin tucked on her shoulder, and he fully let himself settle against her. His body let out such a deep, contented sigh, it was almost a growl. Like it had been waiting for her, and now that she was here, it would only live half as what it had been before, forever waiting to be whole again.

He would follow her off a cliff without question. And Evie knew she was in love with him. Right then, right there.

He was happy… How positively vile.

A sudden, small squeak came out of her, sounding suspiciously like a sneeze. She looked up at him sheepishly. He was a puddle on the floor, and every speck of dust in that room was his enemy.

When it comes to the thing one loves most, it is always better to be trapped together then free and apart.

You laughed.” “I know,” Trystan said, shaking his head, hoping to knock the building ache out of it. “You’re fucked

It’s hard enough to put something back together once. A second time, I’m afraid, is too much to hope for.

Fluffy? You looked at me and thought to yourself, He looks like a Fluffy?

She was the personal assistant to The Villain, after all. She chuckled at the job title, imagining the ridiculous way the employment posting would appear in a news pamphlet. Must be well organized. Must enjoy working late nights and relish writing long documents. Must be comfortable and even supportive of arson, torture, murder. And must not scream when there is an occasional dead body lying across your desk.

She’s in big trouble,” Evie said grumpily. “Go easy on her—she’s young,” The Villain said diplomatically. Evie turned toward him, planting her hands on her hips, a look of mock outrage on her face. “Aren’t you supposed to be evil?” “Encouraging children to neglect their education fits under that bracket, does it not?

I am going to regret this with an alarming intensity, but what were you expecting?

Because we are always expected to plaster a grin on our faces even when we don’t wish to. I used to do it so often, I stopped being able to tell when I was smiling for me or for someone else. So now, I don’t smile unless I’m one hundred percent sure it’s something I want to do, not something someone else wants me to do.

Losing someone didn’t mean the end; it merely meant the beginning of the life you’d lead without them, the beginning of letting in the people you’d gain in their stead.

I can say with the utmost assurance”—his eyes raked over her, and she stopped breathing—“when given the privilege, I have no issue performing.

Danger isn’t attractive, Evie; it’s scary. Or…it’s both, her brain countered.

She took each moment of her life with a natural good humor, no matter how painful, no matter how tragic. She trekked on with nothing but her will. No magic to protect her. Just faith and optimism and belief in her survival.

She steadied him like an anchor to a wayward ship, and he couldn't resist bringing her near so that he would not drift too far into his hatred.

This woman was unraveling him like a bloody ball of yarn.

Emotions didn’t always know right or nuance; they just knew to be hurt when someone caused pain.

I think I am very sad. But I won’t be forever.

She’d straddled her boss and the quit her job, all in one day.

I would never make the mistake of underestimating a woman like you. It would be a fatal one.

a dress should be worn to fit you, not the other way around.

She steadied him like an anchor to a wayward ship, and he couldn’t resist

A weak man pushes blame away from himself like a disease, to poison and spread over the rest of the unsuspecting world.

Women? Have legs? Alert the town crier!

demonize what they cannot understand. It isn’t our job to educate them, just to live the way we’re meant to with the knowledge that being called a monster does not make you one.

He never understood why people would say their vision went red from their anger. His vision was often the clearest and most colorful when he was feeling a powerful fit of rage.

He didn’t feel ruined with Evie, though. He felt reborn. What a fucking disaster.

Running had never been her friend, and running fast, she believed, was her mortal enemy.

The tiles were haphazardly placed in a design that altogether formed the shape of a vibrant sun shining its light down on an old book. An accurate description in Evie's eyes, since a good book often felt like the same comfort as the heat of the sunlight brushing your cheeks.

He wished to find Sage. He wished to tell her he was sorry. He wished to be better about revealing how he felt, bit by bit. And perhaps, most importantly—he wished to have a godsforsaken tea party with her little sister, Lyssa.

She smiled. But then her smile faltered, her brows knitting together as she realized this dress might be what she was buried in if she wasn't careful tonight. She sighed. At least it was sparkly.

What could be better...for The Villian's whore." Evie closed her palm and her eyes, feeling the burn of pain in every pore, feeling it pulse in her blood, "Actually," she rasped out. She opened her eyes. "I'm. His. Fucking. Assistant,

A smart person would cease speaking at that clearly taken-aback expression, but Evie was not smart. Or rather, Evie was smart, but her brain and her mouth seemed to have a swift detachment from each other.

I'll remind you that, at your bequest, I haven't actually killed an intern in several months." Evie shook her head hopelessly. "Sir, I hate to belittle your successes, but there are people who go their entire lives without killing anyone." His face remained serious. "How dull.

Granted, she didn’t want to become evil, but when you spend most of your life trying to see the sun, you begin to wish for rain. In her most private moments, she wondered what it would be like to never smile again, to be feared the way her boss was.

She was everything he never deserved but longed for anyway.

Normal” was for those who didn’t have the ability to stretch their minds past the unreachable end.

But she had one powerful and far more ridiculous tool in her arsenal. Spite.

I like anticipating the good—that way it’s easier to see it…even when the bad happens.

Sage…did you just call me cute?” She opened the door, a grin on her face.

Move on, her mind begged her. Nope, her heart said with a wild laugh.

She's beautiful. She's horrifying. Oftentimes, it's the same thing.

My stupidity is profound enough to be acknowledged, dammit.

But for now, he'd enjoy it and try to hold this memory in his heart until the day of his inevitable horrific death, which wouldn't matter because he's gotten to hold her.

When one spent their entire life feeling weak, it was quite thrilling to be viewed as a threat

The damn organ between his ribs continued to pound relentlessly. He cursed again, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles turned white, but his heart wouldn't slow. As if insisting on reminding him that he had one.

That dream I had about the boss last night," she leaned closer. "It was dirty. Giggling at the shock on Tatianna's face Evie spun back around, only to halt immediately in her tracks. Swallowing a lump in her throat, her eyes as wide as saucers, Evie said, "Hello Sir! Any chance you'd like to add my head to the entryway?

This is what you get for reading books with no naughty words in them.

impossible” was merely a word people used to describe limitations they wished for you to adhere to, so you wouldn’t upset the balance.

Why do men take pain as well as ice takes heat?

He belonged to this, the night, the darkness. It was his.

It is fiction for a reason, you menace. By the gods, what if you carried out every impossible act you read about?” It was a rhetorical question, but she couldn’t resist the urge to slip into the normal ease of their cadence, like no time had passed. “Oh, I suppose that I would need to become very, um—flexible.

we are always expected to plaster a grin on our faces even when we don’t wish to. I used to do it so often, I stopped being able to tell when I was smiling for me or for someone else. So now, I don’t smile unless I’m one hundred percent sure it’s something I want to do, not something someone else wants me to do.

She’d agreed to work for The Villain to escape her chaotic life, to have order. Instead, she had been handed a healer who dressed in frilly pinks, a boss’s assistant who was the human version of a cannonball, and a filthy dragon trainer who smiled so brightly at her it burned her corneas.

He’d just stared at her blankly. Completely devoid of all emotion. In fact, she thought she saw the little emotion that was there flicker out the minute he locked eyes with her. As if her silly comment was not even worthy enough to be embarrassed or outraged. My stupidity is profound enough to be acknowledged, dammit.

What sort of book?” The Villain asked, taking a sip. “I don’t know. I like romances, usually the dirty ones.” And suddenly he was choking, spraying part of his drink across the table. He brought another brightly colored handkerchief, this one yellow, to his mouth. “My apologies—I wasn’t prepared for quite such an honest answer.

Of all the foolish, horrific things he'd ever accomplished, falling in love with a woman he so completely didn't deserve made the top of his list. But he did love her. It wasn't a question or eve a sudden realization. He'd known, hadn't he? It was like a tether was between them, wrapped directly around his heart, that she had the power to push and pull at her leisure. She was woven into his being; in the blink of his eyes, in the crinkle of his smile, in his rusty unused laughter, she was there. From the moment he'd met her, he thought of her like the sun. Bright and vibrant, untouchable. But he was wrong. She wasn't light; she was color. Every single one, dancing otherworldly and bright over his unworthy eyes. She was the explosion of the vivid gleams and glows of the world around him, like a constant rainbow, shining not after the rain but during. She was everything he never deserved but longed for anyways.

There is nothing written in any text, gods-created or not, that says we cannot be more than one thing. You’ve been told for a very long time that you are made for destruction, but there is nothing that says you cannot be more. You can be capable of bad and do good. You can do good things and still be bad. Nothing is set in stone, and if it helps, I’ll stand by you no matter who you choose to be.

Who are you? Where do you fit into poetry and myth? Do you know who I think you are, Ramsay? I think you are Fifth Business. You don't know what that is? Well, in opera in a permanent company of the kind we keep up in Europe you must have a prima donna -- always a soprano, always the heroine, often a fool; and a tenor who always plays the lover to her; and then you must have a contralto, who is a rival to the soprano, or a sorceress or something; and a basso, who is the villain or the rival or whatever threatens the tenor. "So far, so good. But you cannot make a plot work without another man, and he is usually a baritone, and he is called in the profession Fifth Business, because he is the odd man out, the person who has no opposite of the other sex. And you must have Fifth Business because he is the one who knows the secret of the hero's birth, or comes to the assistance of the heroine when she thinks all is lost, or keeps the hermitess in her cell, or may even be the cause of somebody's death if that is part of the plot. The prima donna and the tenor, the contralto and the basso, get all the best music and do all the spectacular things, but you cannot manage the plot without Fifth Business! It is not spectacular, but it is a good line of work, I can tell you, and those who play it sometimes have a career that outlasts the golden voices. Are you Fifth Business? You had better find out.

Trystan walked around his desk and seated himself in his chair, ignoring Kingsley as the frog seemingly moved closer to Sage. Kingsley had sat on his desk every day for the past nearly ten years, giving Trystan quiet, unwanted counsel with his ridiculous one-worded signs. It was incredible how the amphibian only needed one word to irritate. It was a talent.

If you have read this far in the chronicle of the Baudelaire orphans - and I certainly hope you have not - then you know we have reached the thirteenth chapter of the thirteenth volume in this sad history, and so you know the end is near, even though this chapter is so lengthy that you might never reach the end of it. But perhaps you do not yet know what the end really means. "The end" is a phrase which refers to the completion of a story, or the final moment of some accomplishment, such as a secret errand, or a great deal of research, and indeed this thirteenth volume marks the completion of my investigation into the Baudelaire case, which required much research, a great many secret errands, and the accomplishments of a number of my comrades, from a trolley driver to a botanical hybridization expert, with many, many typewriter repairpeople in between. But it cannot be said that The End contains the end of the Baudelaires' story, any more than The Bad Beginning contained its beginning. The children's story began long before that terrible day on Briny Beach, but there would have to be another volume to chronicle when the Baudelaires were born, and when their parents married, and who was playing the violin in the candlelit restaurant when the Baudelaire parents first laid eyes on one another, and what was hidden inside that violin, and the childhood of the man who orphaned the girl who put it there, and even then it could not be said that the Baudelaires' story had not begun, because you would still need to know about a certain tea party held in a penthouse suite, and the baker who made the scones served at the tea party, and the baker's assistant who smuggled the secret ingredient into the scone batter through a very narrow drainpipe, and how a crafty volunteer created the illusion of a fire in the kitchen simply by wearing a certain dress and jumping around, and even then the beginning of the story would be as far away as the shipwreck that leftthe Baudelaire parents as castaways on the coastal shelf is far away from the outrigger on which the islanders would depart. One could say, in fact, that no story really has a beginning, and that no story really has an end, as all of the world's stories are as jumbled as the items in the arboretum, with their details and secrets all heaped together so that the whole story, from beginning to end, depends on how you look at it. We might even say that the world is always in medias res - a Latin phrase which means "in the midst of things" or "in the middle of a narrative" - and that it is impossible to solve any mystery, or find the root of any trouble, and so The End is really the middle of the story, as many people in this history will live long past the close of Chapter Thirteen, or even the beginning of the story, as a new child arrives in the world at the chapter's close. But one cannot sit in the midst of things forever. Eventually one must face that the end is near, and the end of The End is quite near indeed, so if I were you I would not read the end of The End, as it contains the end of a notorious villain but also the end of a brave and noble sibling, and the end of the colonists' stay on the island, as they sail off the end of the coastal shelf. The end of The End contains all these ends, and that does not depend on how you look at it, so it might be best for you to stop looking at The End before the end of The End arrives, and to stop reading The End before you read the end, as the stories that end in The End that began in The Bad Beginning are beginning to end now.

The destiny creature is searching for any ounce of goodness worth saving," Raphael called down to her. "It will test his resolve, his soul - and judging by his screams, he will not be saved. The creature will consume him and his soul. What can you possibly do?" She shrugged against the panic trying to consume her and reached Trystan in three long strides, hovering her hand over his. She closed her fingers around destiny and its overwhelming light as she said with a sureness that was absolutely faked. "I'll give him mine.

Our privileges are the things not within our own control that push us forward and move us ahead from that starting line. Acknowledging them does not mean you are admitting to doing something to purposefully contribute to someone else’s oppression or marginalization. Nay, friends. It means you recognize that some part of your identity puts you in a better position than others. It means something about you assists your progress in the race of life. It also means that whatever majority group you belong to has likely contributed to the oppression of another. Knowing our privilege does not make us villains, but it should make us more conscious about the parts we play in systems that are greater than us. It should make us be more thoughtful; it should humble us. We need to admit that some of us had a head start and aren’t just flourishing on our strength alone.