Crimson Fists Quotes

Project Princess Teeny feet rock layered double socks Popping side piping of many colored loose lace ups Racing toe keeps up with fancy free gear slick slide and just pressed recently weaved hair Jeans oversized belie her hips, back, thighs that have made guys sigh for milleni year Topped by an attractive jacket her suit’s not for flacking, flunkies, junkies or punk homies on the stroll. Her hands mobile thrones of today’s urban goddess Clinking rings link dragon fingers no need to be modest. One or two gap teeth coolin’ sport gold initials Doubt you get to her name just check from the side please chill. Multidimensional shrimp earrings frame her cinnamon face Crimson with a compliment if a comment hits the right place Don’t step to the plate with datelines from ‘88 Spare your simple, fragile feelings with the same sense that you came Color woman variation reworks the french twist with crinkle cut platinum frosted bangs from a spray can’s mist Never dissed, she insists: “No you can’t touch this.” And, if pissed, bedecked fists stop boys who must persist. She’s the one. Give her some. Under fire. Smoking gun. Of which songs are sung, raps are spun, bells are rung, rocked, pistols cocked, unwanted advances blocked, well stacked she’s jock. It’s all about you girl. You go on. Don’t you dare stop.

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out - My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendent in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

Some desperate emotion flashed across Alex’s face, and guilt settled like a stone in Gideon’s gut. Alex’s hands dropped to his sides. “People like Rune don’t end up with people like you.” The guilt evaporated. Gideon knew precisely what Alex meant. People like him were damaged. Dirty. People like him didn’t belong in the ballrooms of people like Alex and Rune. His fists coiled. “That so?” “Yes.” Alex’s golden eyes flashed like electricity. “Enlighten me. What type of people do girls like Rune end up with? Men like you?” Gideon raised his fists. “Men who stand on the sidelines, pining in the shadows, too afraid to go after what they want? Have you gotten so used to being handed everything in life that you think she’ll hand herself over to you, too?” Alex slugged him. Pain exploded in Gideon’s jaw.

He doesn't love me in an ordinary fashion, with flower petals and saccharine words. He loves me sublimely, dirty words and filthy thoughts. He fists my hair and pushes me down. He grabs my face, he tastes my lips, devouring me with venom kisses and vampire bites. That's how he loves me; Recklessly, yet lovingly, down to the depths and desperateness of my lonely bones. He understands me: my needs, my hungers, my cravings, desires. He is the only one who has ever gotten to my core, my soul! He completes me, makes me holy. Cinder and crimson unite, infinite combustion.

It’s dark as a tomb in here,” she said, unable to see more than shadows. “Will you light the candles, please,” she asked, “assuming there are candles in here?” “Aye, milady, right there, next to the bed.” His shadow crossed before her, and Elizabeth focused on a large, oddly shaped object that she supposed could be a bed, given its size. “Will you light them, please?” she urged. “I-I can’t see a thing in here.” “His lordship don’t like more’n one candle lit in the bedchambers,” the footman said. “He says it’s a waste of beeswax.” Elizabeth blinked in the darkness, torn somewhere between laughter and tears at her plight. “Oh,” she said, nonplussed. The footman lit a small candle at the far end of the room and left, closing the door behind him. “Milady?” Berta whispered, peering through the dark, impenetrable gloom. “Where are you?” “I’m over here,” Elizabeth replied, walking cautiously forward, her arms outstretched, her hands groping about for possible obstructions in her path as she headed for what she hoped was the outside wall of the bedchamber, where there was bound to be a window with draperies hiding its light. “Where?” Berta asked in a frightened whisper, and Elizabeth could hear the maid’s teeth chattering halfway across the room. “Here-on your left.” Berta followed the sound of her mistress’s voice and let out a terrified gasp at the sight of the ghostlike figure moving eerily through the darkness, arms outstretched. “Raise your arm,” she said urgently, “so I’ll know ‘tis you.” Elizabeth, knowing Berta’s timid nature, complied immediately. She raised her arm, which, while calming poor Berta, unfortunately caused Elizabeth to walk straight into a slender, fluted pillar with a marble bust upon it, and they both began to topple. “Good God!” Elizabeth burst out, wrapping her arms protectively around the pillar and the marble object upon it. “Berta!” she said urgently. “This is no time to be afraid of the dark. Help me, please. I’ve bumped into something-a bust and its stand, I think-and I daren’t let go of them until I can see how to set them upright. There are draperies over here, right in front of me. All you have to do is follow my voice and open them. Once we do, ‘twill be bright as day in here.” “I’m coming, milady,” Berta said bravely, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve found them!” Berta cried softly a few minutes later. “They’re heavy-velvet they are, with another panel behind them.” Berta pulled one heavy panel back across the wall, and then, with renewed urgency and vigor, she yanked back the other and turned around to survey the room. “Light as last!” Elizabeth said with relief. Dazzling late-afternoon sunlight poured into the windows directly in front of her, blinding her momentarily. “That’s much better,” she said, blinking. Satisfied that the pillar was quite sturdy enough to stand without her aid, Elizabeth was about to place the bust back upon it, but Berta’s cry stopped her. “Saints preserve us!” With the fragile bust clutched protectively to her chest Elizabeth swung sharply around. There, spread out before her, furnished entirely in red and gold, was the most shocking room Elizabeth had ever beheld: Six enormous gold cupids seemed to hover in thin air above a gigantic bed clutching crimson velvet bed draperies in one pudgy fist and holding bows and arrows in the other; more cupids adorned the headboard. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, first in disbelief, and a moment later in mirth. “Berta,” she breathed on a smothered giggle, “will you look at this place!

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out—My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendant in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

But she didn’t leave. Instead, she dropped to her knees and began undoing my belt. I leaned on the edge of the sink, powerless to stop her. My fingers curled around the counter. “I’m going to bleed all over my floor.” A last-ditch effort to stop her. She pulled out my heavy, engorged cock. Her fingers circled it all the way without touching. I loved how tiny she was compared to me. How unlikely a pair we were. How people must’ve wondered how I fit into her. The delicious answer, by the way, was barely. “It’ll compliment all the green I splashed on your ceiling.” She wrapped her lips around my cock, taking it inch by inch. Her warmth engulfed it. I shuddered when she flattened her tongue against my shaft. I dropped my head back and groaned. Dallas was a great dick-sucker. She had the stamina, since her jaw worked out all day from eating. Andshe was enthusiastic. I could tell she loved going down on me. I’d had my dick sucked by enough women who only did it to warm my bed. They’d blink up at me, examining me through their lashes with what they thought were seductive grins, suckling gently, stroking my dick up and down like it was a cello. Not Shortbread. Shortbread loved it all—the sucking, the spitting, the kissing, the way my cock hit the back of her throat when I grabbed her hair and fucked her face. She loved gagging on it and often tried to take me all the way to the root. In fact, this seemed to be the only aspect in Dallas’s life in which she was not lazy. Tilting my chin down, I watched as she sucked me off. Crimson drops ran down her glossy hair, trailing along her forehead. Seeing her tainted with my blood did something to me. Gave me a sense of ownership I normally did not allow myself to contemplate. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but I didn’t want to finish like this. Coming in her mouth wouldn’t cut it. Lacing her long brown hair in my fist, I tugged her away from my cock. She pulled back, blinking at me expectantly.(Chapter 55)

We visited Gwangjang Market in one of Seoul's oldest neighborhoods, squeezing past crowds of people threading through its covered alleys, a natural maze spontaneously joined and splintered over a century of accretion. We passed busy ajummas in aprons and rubber kitchen gloves tossing knife-cut noodles in colossal, bubbling pots for kalguksu, grabbing fistfuls of colorful namul from overbrimming bowls for bibimbap, standing over gurgling pools of hot oil, armed with metal spatulas in either hand, flipping the crispy sides of stone-milled soybean pancakes. Metal containers full of jeotgal, salt-fermented seafood banchan, affectionally known as rice thieves, because their intense, salty flavor cries out for starchy, neutral balance; raw, pregnant crabs, floating belly up in soy sauce to show off the unctuous roe protruding out from beneath their shells; millions of minuscule peach-colored krill used for making kimchi or finishing hot soup with rice; and my family's favorite, crimson sacks of pollack roe smothered in gochugaru, myeongnanjeot.

the sound of my voice, Jadis lifted her ruddy cheeks. Blinking sleep-heavy, crimson eyes, she stretched two little arms in my direction as Nektas brought her to me. I didn’t know what to do, but when I lifted my hands, she grasped fistfuls of my hair and bent over, pressing her lips to my forehead. It was the messiest, wettest, and sweetest kiss I’d ever received.

Dex squeezed his fists. The pilot flinched back as four crimson triangular blades sprung out of each of Dex’s gloves, just over his knuckles.

Jackson?” “Hmm?” “Can I tell you something and will you promise not to get mad or make me feel bad or irresponsible or reckless?” “You’re pregnant?” “What?” She sat up resting on her elbow, giving him a scrunched-face expression. “I’m having my period.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t convinced if that’s what it was for sure since a few days ago you accused me of trying to ‘break your vagina.’” She jabbed him in the side with her fist. He chuckled. “It’s not funny. A few times I wondered if you were going to rip me straight up the middle in two. You’ve been weird … even kind of angry. That’s it … it’s felt like angry sex. Not even sex at times, more like just effing.” “Effing?” “Yes, fucking,” she whispered. He roared a big laugh that only turned her face true crimson. “Why…” he tried to catch his breath through his laughter “…are you whispering? Are you worried about Gunner hearing you or God? Because I’m quite certain that dog has already told me to back the fuck away from you in more than one language, and I know you haven’t been to church in a while, but as far as I know, God can still read minds.” “Well excuse me, Mr. Vulgar, I didn’t grow up using explicit language, and I had a baby before I had a chance to sow any wild oats and making a habit of using the F-word as an adjective and adverb to every single word in the English language. Don’t people realize it starts to lose its effect after a while? It’s like putting an explanation point at the end of every sentence. ‘I’m going to wake the F up tomorrow and roll the F out of my effing bed, and take an effing hot shower before I effing eat an effing bowl of cereal. Then I’m going to get the F going to my first effing job, then meet my effing amazing boyfriend for an effing good lunch, and then if I’m done with my effing period we might F a few times until we’re effing exhausted.’” Jackson’s body vibrated with laughter. “Am I the ‘effing amazing boyfriend’ in your little story?” Ryn kissed along his chest, following the lines of ink. “Maybe.” “Maybe, huh? I can work with that. So before you went off on your effing tangent, what were you going to tell me?

Come with me.” She stepped forward to meet him, only to feel an iron grip locked around her upper arm. “Like hell, she will.” Deep pulled her back behind him. “Deep!” she protested angrily but he ignored her. “We feel the same way about Kat that you do about Lauren,” he told Xairn, his voice a low growl. “If she goes, we go. It’s as simple as that.” Xairn frowned. “I suppose that is fair. But do not attempt to take Lauren from me. I have sworn that I will see her safely back to her planet but until then, I refuse to give her up to anyone.” “Even your father?” Lock said softly. Xairn’s eyes flashed crimson and his hands clenched into massive fists. “Especially him. Why do you think I need your help? He has four massive vat-grown guards with him. If they should catch us leaving I could only defend Lauren until I died. After that my father…” He shook his head. “I will not speak of it.” “Come on.” Kat shook free of Deep’s grip and gave him a glare which he returned with a blank expression.

The AllFather was calling her back, forcing her will to bend to his, luring her back to a living death, an existence of pain and madness and never ending suffering and agony. “No!” At the thought of the female beside him—his female, being used in such a way, Xairn felt something growing inside him. A rage so fierce it was like a red curtain dropped over his vision, tinting everything a bloody crimson. “No!” he bellowed again, turning to face his father, his hands clenched into fists. “You shall not have her. Lauren is mine!” The AllFather’s voice dropped to a soft hiss, sounding reasonable and coaxing at the same time. “Come now, Xairn, thisss is asss it must be. The girl is the future of our race, our destiny. You know thisss.” “Lauren is not your destiny. And she’s not your property to do with as you please.” Xairn glared, his eyes never leaving his father’s. “Here and now, I cut the ties that bind me to you. I never wish to see you again.” “But you will sssee me. Sssee me now. Come to me, my ssson.” The power was doubled, trebled, the drag of it like lead on Xairn’s limbs. But this time he had more to fight for than just a pet. Rage and a power of his own filled him—something savage that had been sleeping, or had only just started to stir, suddenly woke fully within his chest. “NO!” Bending, Xairn scooped Lauren into his arms. “I will die before I let you have her. And I will kill you if you threaten her again. I renounce you as my father and I renounce my race. For now and evermore I am no longer Scourge.” Xairn

He cast aside the mangled blade of grass and idly reached to capture both my hands in one of his, drawing them forward so that he could see my wrists. “You’re not wearing the bracelet,” he observed. I flushed crimson, pulling ineffectually against his grasp. “I cannot wear it,” I protested. “Faith, I cannot accept it, it would not be seemly. I meant to return it to you.” “I will not have it returned.” He looked seriously offended. “I bought it for you as a present, and I would have you wear it.” “My uncle would doubtless not approve, my lord,” I reminded him gently. Releasing my hands he rose to collect the grazing horse, gathering the trailing reins in his fist. “I care not,” he told me. “What business has your uncle in my affairs?” “None,” I had to admit, “but he takes a great interest in mine, and I would not wish to rouse his ire.” He turned at that, looming tall against the gray stallion, his expression serious. “If Jabez Howard dares to mark you in any way, I will hear of it.” I stood up, too, and faced him squarely. “I am flattered, my lord, but it is none of your concern. I am not your responsibility.” “You are wrong, mistress,” he informed me in a voice as smooth as honey. “You are very much my responsibility. I have made it so.

There was one way he could help her though—she was still shivering from the cold. Without saying a word he unsnapped his shirt and shrugged it off, baring his upper body. “Hey, whoa—what are you doing?” Olivia was looking at him with wide eyes as though he was about to pounce on her. Did she really think so little of him to believe that he would try to take advantage of her when she was injured and helpless? Baird felt his heart fist in his chest. “Only this,” he said gruffly, draping the crimson shirt around her shivering bare shoulders. “Oh…uh, thanks.” She was staring at him now, as though she’d never seen a male before. Baird looked down at himself to see if there was something wrong. He had spent a full hour in the bathing pool that morning preparing but was it possible he had spilled something on himself before getting dressed to claim her? The broad planes of his muscular chest looked all right to him—his dusky tan skin was marked by the whitish scars left by the AllFather’s torture but a Kindred warrior always wore such marks with pride. There was a small patch of black hair between the two flat copper disks of his nipples and a trail of it led down his corded abdomen into the black uniform pants he was wearing. Truly there was nothing to stare at—so why was she still staring? “Is there a problem?” he asked at last. “You don’t like the way I look?” “Uh, no, I…You look fine. Just fine.” Olivia looked down at her hands, her fair skin blushing a deep embarrassed red. “What’s wrong then?” “Nothing.” But her beautiful silvery eyes were still flickering up to his bare chest and back down to her hands as though she couldn’t quite look away. Baird resisted the urge to tilt her chin up so she would have to meet his eyes directly. Why did she keep looking at him? He looked down at his chest again. Maybe she preferred smooth skin only? If so she was out of luck, only Tranq Kindred grew no body hair. “What’s wrong, Lilenta?” he asked her earnestly. “Is there somethin’ you want me to change?” “No, it’s nothing you can change. You’re just so…” She made a helpless little motion with one hand. “You’re just so big. And…and muscular.” Baird frowned. “Sorry about that—a warrior has to keep his body in top physical shape.” “No, don’t apologize.

His hands clenched to fists inside his robes, his eyes flared red in the crimson moonlight.

We are future memories. When our flesh is dust and our dreams faded we will be ghosts living in a land of legends, made real only by the memories of others. What we take with us into that realm of the dead, what we are remembered for, that will be the truth of our lives.’ – Solomon Voss, from The Edge of Illumination

What did you do to her?” Calder’s voice is a low, furious growl, his fists clenched, ready to strike.

She loves her own virtue, not me." The words broke involuntarily, and almost malignantly, from Dmitri. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes gleamed, he flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist.

He passed the rutabaga and duck terrine toward me with the tips of his fingers. "Isn't this a little odd?" I wanted to like it, I did. I pushed the ingredients around with my knife and fork, trying to understand it and formulate an opinion. Then Felix swooped in. "Oh, miss. Pardon me, I was helping another table. That's supposed to be served with something else." He looked at Michael Saltz sheepishly, and Michael Saltz turned his toupeed head away. "We added this dish today, and I'm still getting used to serving it. The proper preparation includes just a bit of truffle." He took out a fist-size beige knot from underneath a white napkin. The shavings rained down in ruffled, translucent strands. Felix backed away as I poked my fork through the tangle of truffles, into the terrine. I had read about truffles- their taste, their hormonal, almost sexual aromas, their exorbitant cost- but I had never even seen a truffle in person before, and had a hard time understanding why people paid thousands of dollars an ounce for something so humble-looking. But at Tellicherry, I understood. I melted in my chair. "Mmm..." I couldn't stop saying it. "Mmmm." Michael Saltz, excited too, picked up a large pinch of truffle shavings and held them to his nose. "These are very good. The finest." "Oh God," I said, in a state of delirium. "This makes the dish so much better. Why aren't truffles on everything?" I had forgotten about the funky terrine. Now it was just a vehicle for the magical urgings of the truffle. A few minutes later, Felix came out again. "Here's your next dish, potato pearls with black, green, and crimson caviar in a cauliflower cream nage." The caviar shined like little jewels among the equal-sized potatoes. They bobbed around in the soup, glistening as if illuminated from within. I took a spoonful and in surged a soft, sweet ribbon of cauliflower essence. I popped the caviar eggs one by one. Pop, went one, a silken fishiness. Pop, went another, a sharp, tangy brine. Pop, went a seductive one, dark and mysterious and deep.

Love is patient, Gideon.” He clenched his fists. “So I should stand back and do nothing?” Taking the bottle of whiskey, Antonio uncorked it and poured some into the empty glass in front of him. “Not nothing.” Taking a sip, he said: “You could start by being less afraid.” It was what Gideon had accused Rune of: being afraid. “You could try trust instead. Trusting not only her, but yourself.

I gasp as Tairn’s massive fangs sink between the joints of Solas’s scales, piercing his neck, and Kaori sprints to get out of the battleground. Varrish turns and stiffens as crimson rivulets run over Solas’s orange neck scales, dripping off several of the ridges. “Tairn…” What will the Empyrean do to him if he kills Solas? “Only a rider can be the vice commandant of Basgiath,” Tairn warns, and Solas lets out a sound that’s half roar, half shriek. “Without a dragon, you are no rider.” Oh gods. My heart lurches, the beat rushing to a gallop. “Fine!” Varrish shouts, his fists balled at his side. “She will not pay a price for her dragon’s refusal to attend.” “Not good enough.” Tairn’s teeth reach the edges of Solas’s scales as I watch in slack-jawed horror. “This is about you.” Solas half roars, causing his blood to pour even faster down his exposed neck as he whips his tail toward Tairn, but he’s half Tairn’s size and has no hope of making contact, thank Dunne. “All right!” Varrish staggers forward, and for a second, I feel sorry for him. “All right,” he repeats, putting his hands up. “Humans have no authority to summon dragons.” Rhiannon sidesteps until her arm brushes my shoulder, and Feirge lowers her head, as do Aotrom and Sliseag. Hell, every dragon I can see in my peripherals takes the same stance. “Apologize,” Tairn demands, his voice low and sharp. “I’m sorry!” Varrish’s voice breaks. “Apologize to the one Andarna deemed worthy of her bond.” I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. “Did he really just…” Rhiannon whispers. “I think so.” I nod. “His apology isn’t necessary to me, Tairn. Really. I’m happy to just not die today.” “It is necessary to me, Silver One.” His voice rumbles in my head. “I speak for Andarna while she is in the Dreamless Sleep.” Varrish pivots toward me, hatred and terror filling his gaze. “I am…sorry. It is not in my authority to summon any dragon.” “On your knees.” Rhiannon sucks in a breath, and Varrish hits his knees. “You have my most sincere apology—you and your dragon. Both of your dragons.” “I accept.” My gaze darts frantically to Tairn’s. “I accept!” I shout just in case he didn’t hear me mentally.

Storm fists my hair, yanking my head back. “You’re mine. You belong to me, darlin’.