Forehead Tattoo Quotes

Gods of Olympus.” Piper stared at Leo. “What happened to you?” His hair was greased back. He had welding goggles on his forehead, a lipstick mark on his cheek, tattoos all over his arms, and a T-shirt that read HOT STUFF, BAD BOY, and TEAM LEO. “Long story,” he said.

I am a rapist and a sadistic pig,' if you get that tattoo removed I will carve it into your forehead, do you understand?

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having ‘Property of Trey Coleman’ tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considered you his, could he?

I'll repeat something you might consider tattooing on your forehead: What we fear doing most is usually what we most need to do.

She had platonic all but tattooed on her forehead.

The newcomer stood well over six feet, as tall as any Warden. His hair was dark, the color of obsidian, and it reflected blue in the dim light. Lazy locks slipped over his forehead and curled just below his ears. Brows arched over golden eyes and his cheekbones were broad and high. He was attractive. Very attractive. Mind-bendingly beautiful, actually, but the sardonic twist to his full lips chilled his beauty. The black T-shirt stretched across his chest and flat stomach. A huge tattoo of a snake curled around his forearm, the tail disappearing under his sleeve and the diamond-shaped head rested on the top of his hand. He looked my age. Total crush material—if it wasn’t for the fact that he had no soul.

She wanted commitment? He's tattoo her fucking name on his forehead if he had to.

When is the last time you were a tourist?” she asked archly. He just looked at her. Charles, she had to agree, was not tourist material. “Right,” Anna told him. “Buck up. You might even enjoy it.” “You might as well have ‘hapless victim’ tattooed across your forehead,” he muttered.

Do I have clueless tattooed across my forehead?" Narrowing my eyes,I leaned toward him. "Yeah,I think maybe you do.

All men should be required to have their marital status tattooed on their foreheads.

So you’re the music note, Beckett’s obviously the knife, who’s the cross?” She stroked Blake’s tattoo. “You’re about to find out. We’re headed to church.” Blake leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Of course we are. That makes perfect sense.” From hell to heaven.

I placed my hand on his chest. “You don’t need to worry about Reece.” “I know, I know. He’s nothing compared to my magnificence.” His fingers stroked mine and his eyes softened. “But just out of curiosity, how do you feel about getting my name tattooed on your forehead?

Fuck them all. I ought to have that tattooed on my forehead, for all the times I've thought it.

... once you were in, they put a note in your file that said you were in therapy, and all your teachers saw that file. They might as well have tattooed CRAZY on your forehead. The next year every teacher would be watching you for the first weird thing you did—and has there ever been a kid who never does anything an adult considers weird?

I frowned at him. "You didn't let anyone write on you? How does that happen? He gave me a disapproving look. "Seriously, Ellie?" "Ah," I said. "You must have glared at them just like that. I'm the only one who's not afraid of you. Maybe I could draw over your tattoos so they glow and write BADASS on your forehead. All I've got is pink, though. Hope you don't mind.

It was like staring into the face of a familiar stranger. You know, that person you see in a crowd and swear you know, but you really don't? Now she was me - the familiar stranger. She had my eyes. They were the same hazel color that could never decide whether it wanted to be green or brown, but my eyes had never been that big and round. Or had they? She had my hair - long and straight and almost as dark as my grandma’s had been before hers had begun to turn silver. The stranger had my high cheekbones, long, strong nose, and wide mouth - more features from my grandma and her Cherokee ancestors. But my face had never been that pale. I’d always been olive-ish, much darker skinned than anyone else in my family. But maybe it wasn’t that my skin was suddenly so white ... maybe it just looked pale in comparison to the dark blue outline of the crescent moon that was perfectly positioned in the middle of my forehead. Or maybe it was the horrid fluorescent lighting. I hoped it was the lighting. I stared at the exotic-looking tattoo. Mixed with my strong Cherokee features it seemed to brand me with a mark of wildness ... as if I belonged to ancient times when the world was bigger ... more barbaric. From this day on my life would never be the same. And for a moment — just an instant—I forgot about the horror of not belonging and felt a shocking burst of pleasure, while deep inside of me the blood of my grandmother’s people rejoiced.

But just out of curiosity, how do you feel about getting my name tattooed on your forehead?

The truth is a tattoo on your forehead. You can’t see it yourself. I am your mirror.

The man-nurse was his age and had sleepy eyes with dark circles under them, and a jutting Cro-Magnon forehead. His name tag said, improbably, BIBLO. He had a spaceship tattooed on one hairy forearm: Serenity from the TV show Firefly. "'I am a leaf on the wind,'" Lou said, and the man-nurse said, "Dude, don't say that. I don't want to start crying on the job.

Never mind that. What's going on with you and Heath?" Annabelle pulled a little wide-eyed innocence out of her rusty bag of college acting skills. "What do you mean? Business." "Don't give me that. We've been friends too long." She switched to a furrowed brow. "He's my most important client. You know how much this means to me." Molly wasn't buying it. "I've seen the way you look at him. Like he was a slot machine with triple sevens tattooed on his forehead. If you fall in love with him, I swear I'll never speak to you again." Annabelle nearly choked. She'd known Molly would be suspicious, but she hadn't expected an outright confrontation. "Are you nuts? Setting aside the fact that he treats me like a flunky, I'd never fall for a workaholic after what I've had to go through with my family." Falling in lust, however, was an entirely different matter. "He has a calculator for a heart," Molly said. "I thought you liked him.

Who was she in high school? Little Miss Nobody. She could have embroidered it on her sweaters, tattooed it across her forehead. And in small letters: i am shit, i am anonymous, step on me. please. She wasn't voted Most Humorous in her high school yearbook or Best Dancer or Most Likely to Succeed, and she wasn't in the band or Spanish Club and when her ten year reunion rolled around nobody would recognize her or have a single memory to share.

Cynthia didn’t mind Confederate flags. She’d like to see a law that required every white trash hillbilly to have one tattooed on his or her forehead. You would see them coming that way.

What if we all carried little timers that counted down the days of our lives?  Maybe the timer's a bit dramatic. Just the date would do. It could be tattooed on our foreheads like the expiration date on a milk bottle. It might be a good thing. Maybe we'd stop wasting our lives worrying about things that never happen or collecting things that we can't take with us. We'd probably treat people better. We certainly wouldn't be screaming at someone who had a day left. Maybe people would finally stop living like they're immortal. Maybe we could finally learn how to live.

Always be careful who you trick with. I should have that tattooed on my forehead so I can see it every morning when I shave.

My greatest fear was appearing stupid; a fear I will carry with me for the rest of my life—a tattoo across my forehead only I can see. All I wanted was to be invisible.

The man-nurse was his age and had sleepy eyes with dark circles under them, and a jutting Cro-Magnon forehead. His name tag said, improbably, bilbo. He had a spaceship tattooed on one hairy forearm: Serenity from the TV show Firefly. “ ‘I am a leaf on the wind,’ ” Lou said, and the man-nurse said, “Dude, don’t say that. I don’t want to start crying on the job.

Fuck them all. I ought to have that tattooed on my forehead, for all the times I've thought it. Usually I am in transit, speeding in my Jeep until my lungs give out. Today, I'm driving ninety-five down 95. I weave in and out of traffic, sewing up a scar. People yell at me behind their closed windows. I give them the finger. It would solve a thousand problems if I rolled the Jeep over an embankment. It's not like I haven't thought about it, you know. On my license, it says I'm an organ donor, but the truth is I'd consider being an organ martyr. I'm sure I'm worth a lot more dead than alive--the sum of the parts equals more than the whole. I wonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poor asshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.

Wayne,” I said to Cassie, while we were getting him a Sprite and watching him pick his acne in the one-way glass. “Why didn’t his parents just tattoo ‘Nobody in my family has ever finished secondary school’ on his forehead at birth?

She suggested that...I should examine what I had been trying to shoot at and punch and kill for so long- whether or not I had, perhaps, denied some more gentle part of my nature, and if so, what had it cost me. "And don't get a tattoo for your forehead," she said, smiling. "It's entirely unnecessary." As proof, she held her hands in front of her. Wiggled her fingers and smiled. Our being human made us tragic and comic both, she has said; the gods both laughed and wept.

RIDE A WHITE SWAN" "Ride it on out like a bird in the skyway, Ride it on out like you were a bird, Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam, Ride it all out like you were a bird. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long,babe,you can't go wrong. Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead, Say a few spells and baby,there you go, Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder, And in the morning you'll know all you know. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long, babe ,you can't go wrong. Da di di da, da di di da

The room floods with Finlay’s friends and I have to keep myself busy because I’m convinced I have JUST ORGASAMED ON FINLAY’S FACE tattooed across my forehead.

All our sins and secrets might as well be tattooed on our foreheads.

...every day we fill up with anxiety just makes life much harder than it needs to be." Those are words I need tattooed to my forehead!

David started rattling off the names of the bands he liked, and in that moment Connor decided to get a tattoo on his forehead that read “I love my kid brother.

Come on, I want to add. But doing so would be like tattooing “I am up to no good” on my forehead.

Shit not on the books I love – or I will end you. I should probably get that tattooed on my forehead.

What did those people teach you?" he asked me one night, mystified. "What exactly do Catholics believe?" I'd been preparing my whole life for this question. "First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he's also dead, and he's also immortal, but he's also made of clouds, and his face is a picture of infinite peace, but he also always looks like one of those men in a headache commercial, because you'rec causing him so much suffering whenever you cuss. He is so gentle that sheep seem like demented murderers in his presence, but also rays of sunlight shoot out of his face so hard they can kill people. In fact, they do kill people, and one day they will kill you. He has a tattoo of a daisy on his lower back and he gets his hair permed every eight weeks. He's wearing a flowing white dress, but only because people didn't know about jeans back then. He's holding up two fingers because his dad won't let him have a gun. If he lived on earth, he would have a white truck, plastered with bumper stickers of Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin who is not a Catholic." Jason was aghast. "Thorns?" he whispered. "But that's the most dangerous part of the rose.

THEY WOULDN’T LET LOU WALK ANYWHERE, DIDN’T WANT TO TAKE A chance that the fat man might get dizzy and fall onto his face, so after his examination he sat in a wheelchair and a man-nurse wheeled him to recovery. The man-nurse was his age and had sleepy eyes with dark circles under them, and a jutting Cro-Magnon forehead. His name tag said, improbably, BILBO. He had a spaceship tattooed on one hairy forearm: Serenity from the TV show Firefly. “‘I am a leaf on the wind,’” Lou said, and the man-nurse said, “Dude, don’t say that. I don’t want to start crying on the job.

It’s practically tattooed on his forehead. Ooh—let’s get a tattoo.” “Yeah!” Jaime rolled onto her side. “We totally should. Let’s do it tomorrow.” “Totally. Definitely. What’re you getting? I’m thinking of getting ‘Nick Axton Is a Fuck-Ass’ right across my forehead.” Jaime pursed her lips as she considered it. “I like it. It’s different. It has an edge to it.” “I know, right?

Next, he dropped a note to Dr. Frederick Chilton in federal protective custody, suggesting that he would be paying Dr. Chilton a visit in the near future. After this visit, he wrote, it would make sense for the hospital to tattoo feeding instructions on Chilton’s forehead to save paperwork. Last, he poured himself a glass of the excellent Batard-Montrachet and addressed Clarice Starling:

It’s a stupid question, really, as we’ve all got an expiration date. I guess the real question is not if, but when. As I was walking through the South Dakota Badlands—before I knew something was wrong with me—I had this thought: What if we all carried little timers that counted down the days of our lives? Maybe the timer’s a bit dramatic. Just the date would do. It could be tattooed on our foreheads like the expiration date on a milk bottle. It might be a good thing. Maybe we’d stop wasting our lives worrying about things that never happen, or collecting things that we can’t take with us. We’d probably treat people better. We certainly wouldn’t be screaming at someone who had a day left. Maybe people would finally stop living like they’re immortal. Maybe we would finally learn how to live. I’ve wondered

It had only two points of egress, the door to the hallway from which I’d just entered, and against which I’d been pinned-and now leaned against for support-and the other to the stable yard where a man dressed all in black leather had shoved John’s dog, and where I was assuming John kept his horse, Alastor, another creature from the Underworld who hated my guts. He was going to have to get in line, though. The boy who’d pulled Typhon off me was standing a few feet away, next to the wooden plank table that ran down the center of the room, staring at me with a look that suggested he disliked me even more than the dog had. It was difficult not to notice the size of his bare biceps-not as large as John’s, but still impressive-since he’d folded his arms across his chest, and this had caused the muscles to bulge. The fact that they were circled in vicious-looking rings of black tattooed thorns did even more to draw attention to them. It was hard to figure out if that was why he was so much more noticeable than anyone else in the room, or if it was because he was what my friend Kayla would have called smokin’ hot, despite a jagged scar that ran down one side of his forehead, through a dark brow, and halfway to the center of his left jaw. Whoever had wielded that knife had thankfully-for him-spared his dark eye. Not so thankfully for me, however, since he was able to use both eyes to give me a deathlike stare. “Um,” I said, finally feeling the blood flow returning to my limbs. “You might want to think about getting that dog neutered.” The boy with the thorn tattoos sneered. “I’m guessing she’ll be wanting to get us all neutered,” he said.

Toadvine glanced at the man's forehead but the man's hat was pushed down almost to his eyes. The man smiled and forked the hat back slightly with his thumb. The print of the hatband lay on his forehead like a scar but there was no mark other. Only on the inside of his lower arm was there tattooed a number which Toadvine would see in a Chihuahua bathhouse and again when he would cut down the man's torso where it hung skewered by its heels from a treelimb in the wastes of Pimeria Alta in the fall of that year.

Usually, what we most fear doing is what we most need to do. That phone call, that conversation, whatever the action might be—it is fear of unknown outcomes that prevents us from doing what we need to do. Define the worst case, accept it, and do it. I’ll repeat something you might consider tattooing on your forehead: What we fear doing most is usually what we most need to do. As I have heard said, a person’s success in life can usually be measured by the number of uncomfortable conversations he or she is willing to have.

Picking up his own gun, he checked the ammo, and then lined up the shot with one hand. He turned his head toward her and pulled the trigger, watching her eyes go wide when he hit his mark. “Holy shit,” she said. “You hit him.” He lowered the gun and put it back in his waistband. “You told me to.” “Yeah, but…you hit his neck without looking.” He glanced up. “And?” She was still shaking her head in apparent disbelief. “And you’re kind of a badass.” “What the hell do you think I get paid for?” … She laughed. “You’re not even modest about it either, are you? Hell, I wouldn’t be. I’d get badass tattooed on my forehead if I could make a shot like that.

Well, forgive the fuck out of me for being shocked senseless when I realized he wasn’t dead. Why didn’t you tell me he was the beast, Ryodan? Why did we have to kill him? I know it’s not because he can’t control himself when he’s the beast. He controlled himself last night when he rescued me from the Book. He can change at will, can’t he? What happened in the Silvers? Does the place have some kind of effect on you, make you uncontrollable?” I almost slapped myself in the forehead. Barrons had told me that the reason he tattooed himself with black and red protection runes was because using dark magic called a price due, unless you took measures to protect yourself against the backlash. Did using IYD require the blackest kind of magic to make it work? Would it grant his demand to magically transport him to me no matter where I was but devolve him into the darkest, most savage version of himself as the price? “It was because of how he got there, wasn’t it?” I said. “The spell you two worked sent him to me like was it was supposed to, but the cost was that it turned him into the lowest common denominator of himself. An insane killing machine. Which he figured was all right, because if I was dying, I’d probably need a killing machine around. A champion to show up and decimate all my enemies. That was it, wasn’t it?” Ryodan had gone completely still. Not a muscle twitched. I wasn’t sure he was breathing. “He knew what would happen if I pressed IYD, and he made plans with you to handle it.” That was Barrons, always thinking, always managing risks where I was concerned. “He tattooed me so he would sense his mark on me and not kill me. And you were supposed to track him—that’s why you both wear those cuffs, so you can find each other—and kill him so he’d come back as the man form of himself, and I’d never be any wiser. I’d get rescues and have no clue it was Barrons who’d done it or that he sometimes turns into a beast. But you screwed up. And that’s what he was mad at you about this morning on the phone. It was your failure to kill him that let the cat out of the bag.” A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. He was pissed. I was definitely right. “He can always circumvent the price of black magic,” I marveled. “When you kill him, he comes back exactly the same as before, doesn’t he? He could tattoo his whole body with protection runes and, when he ran out of skin, kill himself so he could come back with a clean slate, to start all over.” That was why his tattoos weren’t always the same. “Talk about your ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card! And if you hadn’t botched the plan, I would never have known. It’s your fault I know, Ryodan. I think that means it’s not me you should kill, it’s yourself. Oh, gee, wait,” I said sarcastically, “that wouldn’t work, would it?

Just last week I was telling a dear friend how I'd rather not exist in a world where toxic thrives. There are so much enmity plaguing this creed, how we hurt others because we think our idea of faith is supreme, how our interpretation of knowledge is above theirs, how every little whisper we turn into a howl. We forget that only He knows. Our existence are but mysteries; who are we to scar, to burn, to leave marks, to solve this enigma for others, to play God. The Friday prayer sermon just this afternoon, spoke to me in such illuminating affirmations. Knowledge, especially in faith, is akin to Light. Light binds, not divides. We seek light not out of fear of the darkness but at a promise to gain clarity. This is our intimate journey, how we move towards that Light is ours to make. Like a blind man, like moths at night, a child yearning, just do not stand in their paths, my friend. Your forehead kisses the same Earth like they do, your knees bend the same curve, and each night, your spine collapses just the same. Do not be the lips that question an arm sleeved with tattoos or hair uncovered by cloth or sins not yours, instead be lips that observes silence, kindness and always, prayers for all. I hope your heart does not make space for words like "Kafir", "infidel", "shirk" and instead be a room with gardens and an ocean of calmness. Even our Beloved won't be a judge for another being; Let God You seek knowledge not to draw boundaries between yourself and others, you seek for this overwhelming gravity of unknowing needs you to always be finding ways to be closer to Him. You seek knowledge to know Him not to make known to others. You have every right to continue seeking, to have your palms heavenwards every night begging to be illuminated. This is your deeper conversation, go on, just you and God.

The front door is locked—what’s up with that?” “Logan fixed the lock,” I tell her. Her bright red, heart-shaped mouth smiles. “Good job, Kevin Costner. You should staple the key to Ellie’s forehead, though, or she’ll lose it.” She has names for the other guys too and when her favorite guard, Tommy Sullivan, walks in a few minutes later, Marlow uses his. “Hello, Delicious.” She twirls her honey-colored, bouncy hair around her finger, cocking her hip and tilting her head like a vintage pinup girl. Tommy, the fun-loving super-flirt, winks. “Hello, pretty, underage lass.” Then he nods to Logan and smiles at me. “Lo . . . Good morning, Miss Ellie.” “Hey, Tommy.” Marlow struts forward. “Three months, Tommy. Three months until I’m a legal adult—then I’m going to use you, abuse you and throw you away.” The dark-haired devil grins. “That’s my idea of a good date.” Then he gestures toward the back door. “Now, are we ready for a fun day of learning?” One of the security guys has been walking me to school ever since the public and press lost their minds over Nicholas and Olivia’s still-technically-unconfirmed relationship. They make sure no one messes with me and they drive me in the tinted, bulletproof SUV when it rains—it’s a pretty sweet deal. I grab my ten-thousand-pound messenger bag from the corner. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Elle—you should have a huge banger here tonight!” says Marlow. Tommy and Logan couldn’t have synced up better if they’d practiced: “No fucking way.” Marlow holds up her hands, palms out. “Did I say banger?” “Huge banger,” Tommy corrects. “No—no fucking way. I meant, we should have a few friends over to . . . hang out. Very few. Very mature. Like . . . almost a study group.” I toy with my necklace and say, “That actually sounds like a good idea.” Throwing a party when your parents are away is a rite-of-high-school passage. And after this summer, Liv will most likely never be away again. It’s now or never. “It’s a terrible idea.” Logan scowls. He looks kinda scary when he scowls. But still hot. Possibly, hotter. Marlow steps forward, her brass balls hanging out and proud. “You can’t stop her—that’s not your job. It’s like when the Bush twins got busted in that bar with fake IDs or Malia was snapped smoking pot at Coachella. Secret Service couldn’t stop them; they just had to make sure they didn’t get killed.” Tommy slips his hands in his pockets, laid back even when he’s being a hardass. “We could call her sister. Even from an ocean away, I’d bet she’d stop her.” “No!” I jump a little. “No, don’t bother Liv. I don’t want her worrying.” “We could board up the fucking doors and windows,” Logan suggests. ’Cause that’s not overkill or anything. I move in front of the two security guards and plead my case. “I get why you’re concerned, okay? But I have this thing—it’s like my motto. I want to suck the lemon.” Tommy’s eyes bulge. “Suck what?” I laugh, shaking my head. Boys are stupid. “You know that saying, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade’?—well, I want to suck the lemon dry.” Neither of them seems particularly impressed. “I want to live every bit of life, experience everything it has to offer, good and bad.” I lift my jeans to show my ankle—and the little lemon I’ve drawn there. “See? When I’m eighteen, I’m going to get this tattooed on for real. As a reminder to live as much and as hard and as awesome as I can—to not take anything for granted. And having my friends over tonight is part of that.” I look back and forth between them. Tommy’s weakening—I can feel it. Logan’s still a brick wall. “It’ll be small. And quiet—I swear. Totally controlled. And besides, you guys will be here with me. What could go wrong?” Everything. Everything goes fucking wrong.

You okay?” he asked quietly. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” “Brad. I know you were crushing on him, and now he’s packed it up and moved next door. I wanted to make sure you weren’t having trouble dealing with it.” “I can’t believe Allie told you about my crush.” “Give me a break, Kate. I’ve known since family weekend. When was the last time you wanted to take a picture of me? Document my freshman year? What? Do I have clueless tattooed across my forehead?” Narrowing my eyes, I leaned toward him. “Yeah, I think maybe you do.” Even in the shadows I could see him grin. This was so totally weird. Sitting out here, having an almost normal conversation with my brother. “He’s not your type, Kate.” I scoffed. “How do you know my type? I don’t even know my type.” “Trust me, when you do figure your type out, you’re gonna realize it’s not Brad. I mean, I like him, and he’s a great roommate, but what I want in a friend and what you need in a boyfriend aren’t the same. He’d just end up hurting you. Then I’d have to beat the crap out of him.” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Would you really do that for me, Sam?” “You know I would.” His voice was totally serious. And I realized that he was so not joking. His revelation stunned me almost as much as Joe’s kiss. No, wait, nothing would ever throw me off balance as much as that kiss. “You do know that, don’t you, Kate?” Sam asked. “You’re my sister and I . . .” He waved his hand. “That L-word. You know.” “Love?” I asked. “Don’t make me say it, okay? Just know it’s true. I know I give you a hard time, but hey, that’s what brothers do. It’s part of our genetic makeup, a little chip inside our brains that gets activated when our parents shove a screaming baby sister in our face.” “Like you’d have a memory of that moment. You were only fifteen months old.” “Whatever. Look, I’m out here right now because I’ve been a little worried about you, and I haven’t really been able to get you alone to talk.” “You’ve been able to get Allie alone.” And for a lot more than conversation. He grimaced. “Yeah, she told me you know about us. Are you okay with that?” “What if I’m not?” “Then tough. Get over it.” “Some understanding brother you are.” “I’ve got my limits.” “So you really like her, huh?” “Yeah, I have for a long time, but geez, she’s my sister’s best friend. How weird is that?” “Totally weird. When she described the way you kiss—” “What?” Horror echoed his voice. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. “Payback for the snowball,” I said snidely. “I already paid you back for that.” “So? Maybe there’s a little chip inside a girl’s brain that gets activated when her brother is a jerk and erases paybacks as soon as they happen so we need a steady stream of them.” “You’re definitely not playing nice, Kate.” I heard him heave a sigh. “You know, that’s part of the reason I’ve steered clear of Allie. I don’t want her discussing my . . . moves with my sister.” “Yeah, like you’ve got moves.” He gave me a cocky look. “Hey, I’ve got moves.” I held up a hand. “Definitely don’t want to hear about them.” “Definitely don’t want you to hear about them.

Narian was walking restlessly around his parlor when I entered, and my worry increased tenfold. Was he moving about because he was in pain? I glanced around the room, noticing an empty wineglass and a half-eaten bowl of soup. “You’re out of breath, Alera,” he said with a smile. “I hope that means your conversation with Nantilam went well.” I hesitated, unsure how to begin, unsure how to tell him what she was demanding, what she had done to him. Unsure how to tell him she had meted out one last betrayal. “How are you feeling?” I blurted, and he laughed. “I’m fine, but you don’t seem to be. Come and talk to me.” He took my hand and led me to the sofa, pulling me down to sit beside him. He winced as he did so, an indication he was experiencing some discomfort. I brushed his hair off his forehead, subtly checking for a fever, then told him of the High Priestess’s desires. “The terms of the actual treaty are not a problem, Narian, but Nantilam won’t enter into it unless you agree to make Cokyri your home. She wants to control your power, now and in the future, even to the point of progeny.” “Alera,” he calmly said, taking both my hands in his. “Those decisions are not hers to make. Besides, she’s a little late.” “I don’t understand.” He looked at me, bemused, then rolled up his right shirtsleeve, revealing an intricate tattoo encircling his forearm just below the elbow--the Cokyrian symbol that a man was voluntarily bound to a woman. I stared at it; I stared at him; and I burst into tears. His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nonetheless took me into his arms. “That’s not the reaction I expected,” he drolly commented, “but it’s convinced me something is wrong.” “How….are…you…feeling?” I managed between sobs. “You’ve already asked me that, and I’m fine.” When I finally had my weeping under control, words tumbled from my mouth. “Even if the revolt has been successful, the High Priestess won’t enter into a treaty unless you stay in Cokyri. Otherwise, she’ll attack Hytanica again, and this time she will kill all of our military leaders and enslave my people. And she wants you to bind yourself to a woman of her choosing because if your powers pass to a child, she wants the child to be Cokyrian.” “That’s all well and good, but this time, she won’t be able to have things her way. There’s no need for you to worry about this. We are strong enough to take her on, Alera.” “But we’re not.” I glanced once more toward the food he had been given, and a flicker of understanding appeared in his eyes. “We have no choice, Narian, because she’s poisoned your food and drink and only she can heal you. And I don’t know what to do, only that I cannot let you die!” “Shhh,” he soothed, holding me close, and I couldn’t understand how he could be so calm. Not when panic rose higher inside me with each passing moment. When I had quieted, resting with my head cradled against his chest, he tried to sort through the things I had said. “So Nantilam, in her wisdom, has linked Hytanican’s freedom to my willingness to stay in Cokyri, and she has effectively taken me out of the fighting by poisoning my food?” I shudder, then nodded. “If I stay here, she is willing to sign a treaty, but if I’m not, she will never relinquish Hytanica and I won’t be around to prevent it.” “Yes,” I murmured. “So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.

I will win this battle each and every time.               You have found the perfect love.               You are in the golden period.                 Understand this. Say it to yourself repeatedly. Tattoo it on your forehead.               It is not real it is an illusion.               I do this purely for my own benefit.               It is not real it is an illusion.

March 11 Radiance Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.—Psalm 34:5 Many of us have walked down paths of shame, scattered with bumpy places, broken roads, and dead ends. We have experienced the pain that comes from shattered dreams, relationships destroyed, and wrong choices. We carry the consequences that come from not choosing God’s best and the thoughts of never being good enough. However, as followers of Jesus Christ we are able to find relief from the darkness. We are able to take off the shame and wear his light. Complete freedom comes from Christ and Christ alone. There was a time in my life when I wore the shame tattooed on my forehead for all to see. I walked into the church convinced that everyone knew my sins and no one would want to be a friend because of them. The fear that came with the shame tormented me day and night. I did not understand how God could truly forgive me for all my sins and then release me from them. By God’s design, I had friends who understood what I was going through. They gave me permission to release my shame. As I began to walk closer to Christ, I realized that God would cover the hurt and humiliation. We all recognize when someone’s life is truly a reflection of Christ. They are radiant and ever reflecting His glory. What are you carrying in your trunk of shame today? You may have experienced divorce, loss of a loved one, a relationship forever lost, or abuse. You may be carrying the results of a sin holding you captive. You may be suffering from an addiction to drugs, alcohol or to a relationship. Whatever it is, know that you do not have to wear the shame on your face any longer. Look to Christ. Walk towards Him with an open heart and allow His radiance to shine on you.

Up top, we saw a party on the verge of a breakout. The three respectful men were, in fact, security guards. On the far edge of the plot, four scraggly dudes were fiddling around with a PA. A guitar and a drum set lay in the grass behind them. A stand-up bass had been propped up against a gravestone. Surrounding a folding table stocked with handles of Costco booze were six or seven men with fuck-you-Dad piercings—septa, cheeks, foreheads—and tribal facial tattoos. I counted seven, maybe fifteen dogs running around, yapping at one another, and at least twenty or so old hippies, each one dressed in his or her referential, Harold and Maude best, smiling and drinking out of red plastic cups.

He could have had “dull” tattooed across his forehead, but that would have made him too exciting.

What exactly do Catholics believe?” I’d been preparing my whole life for this question. “First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he’s also dead, and he’s also immortal, but he’s also made of clouds, and his face is a picture of infinite peace, but he also always looks like one of those men in a headache commercial, because you’re causing him so much suffering whenever you cuss. He is so gentle that sheep seem like demented murderers in his presence, but also rays of sunlight shoot out of his face so hard they can kill people. In fact they do kill people, and one day they will kill you. He has a tattoo of a daisy on his lower back and he gets his hair permed every eight weeks. He’s wearing a flowing white dress, but only because people didn’t know about jeans back then. He’s holding up two fingers because his dad won’t let him have a gun. If he lived on earth, he would have a white truck, plastered with bumper stickers of Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin who is not a Catholic.

God save the girl who was going to become this man’s daughter. Might as well tattoo the word UNDATABLE on her forehead.

elaborate tattoo had been etched into his skin years ago, that of a leafless hawthorn tree, its naked branches stretching wide across his forehead.

I shrug. “I’m a little insecure, okay?” He huffs out a breath, then kisses me once. “What can I do to make you feel better about it?” Reaching up, I run a finger along his forehead. “Get my name tattooed right here.” He laughs. “Just A V A?” Nodding, I say, “And Diaz. Just so it’s clear. Maybe Ava E. D. Diaz.” “That’s a lot of letters, babe.” “Well, lucky you have a giant head.” His head throws back with his laughter, and I smile, pull back a little to give him room to breathe.

On a smoggy spring day, the midday sun baked two California Highway Patrolmen in dark blue uniforms and a bearded dirt biker astride his Yamaha. They stood on a dirt road between the San Andreas barren earthquake faulted hills crisscrossed with biker’s trails. The sergeant stood next to the still body of Eduardo Sanchez, a thirteen-year-old boy clad in a t-shirt and oversized shorts, lying on his back with three bullet wounds and powder burns tattooed on his forehead. An astonished look captured his small immature cold face.

THE GLANCE-OFF is even more important than the parry in causing deflection. The guarding positions of your hands and arms, and the hunched left shoulder in your normal punching stance were designed to give the upper portion of your body a wedgelike effect. That wedging of hands, arms, shoulder and forehead should enable you to (1) keep inside an opponent's attack as you step in to lead or to counter, and (2) cause most blows to glance off to the sides or up into the air. The glance-off is more dependable than the parry because there's more solidity, if necessary, in the glance-off 1 than in the parry. The reserve solidity is there only in case your glance-off has to be turned into a block. However, the less solid the glance-off, the less your own balance is disturbed. Your glance-off movements are not the solid, chopping movements of hand or arm blocks; they are lightning, knifing or sliding movements. They interfere little with your balance, but they spin your opponent slightly out of punching position. If you watch a professional fighter punch the light bag, you'll note that more than half his bag-work comprises a rhythmic tattoo achieved like this: straight left - backhand left - straight right - backhand right -straight left - etc. You may ask, "Why this backhand striking, when the backhand blow is illegal in boxing?" The answer to that is: He's sharpening his backhand for glance-offs and blocking. If you get a chance to use the light bag, spend half your time on that tattoo. A power-backhand for glancing and blocking is almost as useful for a fighter as is a good backhand for a tennis player.

Has nobody not told you, Brian, that you've got this kind of gleeful preoccupation with the future? I wouldn't even mind, but you don't even have a fuckin' future, I don't have a future. Nobody has a future. The party's over. Take a look around you man, it's all breaking up. Are you not familiar with the book of Revelations of St. John, the final book of the Bible prophesying the apocalypse?... He forced everyone to receive a mark on his right hand or on his forehead so that no one shall be able to buy or sell unless he has the mark, which is the name of the beast, or the number of his name, and the number of the beast is 6-6-6... What can such a specific prophecy mean? What is the mark? Well the mark, Brian, is the barcode, the ubiquitous barcode that you'll find on every bog roll and packet of johnnies and every poxy pork pie, and every fuckin' barcode is divided into two parts by three markers, and those three markers are always represented by the number 6. 6-6-6! Now what does it say? No one shall be able to buy or sell without that mark. And now what they're planning to do in order to eradicate all credit card fraud and in order to precipitate a totally cashless society, what they're planning to do, what they've already tested on the American troops, they're going to subcutaneously laser tattoo that mark onto your right hand, or onto your forehead. They're going to replace plastic with flesh. Fact! In the same book of Revelations when the seven seals are broken open on the day of judgment and the seven angels blow the trumpets, when the third angel blows her bugle, wormwood will fall from the sky, wormwood will poison a third part of all the waters and a third part of all the land and many many many people will die! Now do you know what the Russian translation for wormwood is?... Chernobyl! Fact. On August the 18th, 1999, the planets of our solar system are gonna line up into the shape of a cross... They're gonna line up in the signs of Aquarius, Leo, Taurus, and Scorpio, which just happen to correspond to the four beasts of the apocalypse, as mentioned in the book of Daniel, another fuckin' fact! Do you want me to go on? The end of the world is nigh, Brian, the game is up!

She began removing visible tattoos—from the face, neck, and hands—of those leaving Kenton County jail, at no charge. From one youth’s forehead she removed “13.5”—“Twelve jurors, one defendant, and a half-assed chance of winning,” he told her. This is coming off, she told him, and all this will be behind you; he broke into tears. “I’m like the den mother,” she said. Along the way, she removed a branding: a pimp’s name—Charley—from a woman’s thigh. One man had a Hannibal Lecter mask tattooed across his lower face. She saw “Life’s a Bitch,” “God’s Child,” and “I’m a pornstar. I f— teenage sluts” etched on necks and foreheads. And when I met her, she was removing the spiderweb from the back of Will Pfefferman’s left hand. “We also take off a lot of swastikas,” she said, “and teardrops.” Jo Martin’s Tattoo Removal Ink is important to the story of Kenton County because by the time it opened, it fit naturally into an ecosystem of recovery support outside the jail, yet rooted in the Unit 104 experiment. For

remember Bill Gates’ RFID tattoos from the last update??? Have you had your temperature taken in public lately? THEY SCAN IT ON YOUR FOREHEAD!! They want to familiarize you with this simple action of reading information coming from your forehead. They. Want. To. Track. YOU…!!!

In 591, the Byzantines were puzzled to find that Turkish envoys from Kyrgyzstan had crosses tattooed on their foreheads: “They had been assigned this by their mothers; for when a fierce plague was endemic among them, some Christians advised them that the foreheads of the young be tattooed with that sign.

Jackson was surprised she didn’t have “Up for It” tattooed on her forehead.

Over the decades, the slogans of the young changed, like the seven stages of grief – except they were nowhere close to acceptance. It seemed as though it took everything to get to anger and bargaining, so depression was as far as anyone could get. First it was the armor of irony: YOU DROWNED SANTA CLAUS I MISS FISH Then the anger and the threats: WATER IS NOT FOR PROFIT WHEN DID YOU KNOW MONEY WASN'T ENOUGH? As the decades progressed, revenge took over: NO FOOD NO MERCY BEG AND WE MAY NOT KILL YOU BEG AND WE MAY NOT EAT YOU The most popular was the simplest. Two words. It was everywhere – physical and virtual graffiti, songs and movies, hacks on phones and computers, chants at public events, clothing, even on their bodies. It was a popular tattoo. Some even had it inked – scarred – into their foreheads so anyone looking at them would see it. Turning away was impossible: YOU KNEW

Jaylynn has a halo of spikes and thorns over her head, which digs into her forehead, and the blood runs down her shadowy brown wavy wispy hair. Her eyes can glow the color of pink. ‘I call them Olivia Cooper eyes! You know, with the black teardrops!’ and her dark cherry black blood flows from them too, as we talk. I think I saw from time to time a black widow crawling on her, making webs on her body. (So- hair-raising.) Along with the markings of unlucky, thirteen were tattooed on her and chiseled into her chest. Other insignias are cataloging her, she has numbers on her marking her like a beast. She has the cereal barcode numbers of- (J-N-0069699611) on her left butt cheek, which glows lime green in the dark! You are nothing but a number along with your first and last initials when you are a dark angel. She can have fire readily available at her fingertips, sharp retracting claws. Along with withdrawing fangs and horns. She also has a very elaborate samurai-like sword with a curved blade. As well as, yes you guessed it! She can sparkle like many thousands of little reflective broken mirrors in the brilliant full moonlight. I never thought I would speak to a black angel, yet she is my little girl, how could I not? ‘To live is to be haunted, to die is to be unperturbed.’ I remember back when she was on the edge of fifteen, and my life was entertaining, pleasurable, and stimulating. Not at all like now; I remember her first days of high school everything seemed flawless, little did I know, that the tower's children had their children, and their evil spirits were passed down to the next demons in the circle of pain; his clan started torturing my little girl until her end. Just as there, mothers did with me. All my life I have tried to prove this story… but how do I write a story that seems so silly to other people that do not understand?

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having Property of Trey Coleman tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considers you his, could he?” Very true. In addition to those marks that Trey had left while they consummated the claiming, there were those that he had made during the second, third, and fourth rounds that followed through the night. There was a bite at the hollow of her throat, another on her inner wrist, a third one on the swell of her breast, and also claw marks on both upper arms—and those were only the ones that weren’t hidden beneath her black T-shirt, navy jeans, and black leather knee-high boots.

No,” Winter said in a bored voice. “He has a dragon-skull tattoo for every dragon he’s ever killed,” said Qibli. “He’s covered in them.” “Sounds a bit obvious.” Winter yawned. “Why not just tattoo ‘I’M TOTALLY MENACING’ on his forehead.

You mean aside from the big ‘FUCK YOU’ you’ve got tattooed on your forehead?” He gestures at my face with his hand. I purse my lips. “Oh, so you can see it. Good. For a minute there, I thought it must have washed off in the shower.

Religion is not intrinsic to humans. No child is ever born in this world, even from a fundamentalist family, displaying any trace of religion anywhere on its body or mind. However, after each birth, society tattoos the name of its religion on child’s forehead and inside. Society moulds its new generations into the belief system it follows. Each child acquires the knowledge of its religion through teachings of its parents, priests and peers.

It’s not a tattoo people have on their foreheads labeling them as monsters. There’s this sliding scale to toxic masculinity. Over time you learn where these bros are on the scale. Do they make a couple of out of line comments and then backpedal when I call them out? Or are they the guys that make the waitress’s skin crawl by the way they talk to her? Do they think consent is optional and just a bunch of people being too sensitive? Then there are guys that just hide it well and you only see it slip every now and then. It’s confusing because, like Jake, getting women is not a problem for them. It’s not some resentment about rejection. It’s about conquering something, a need to dominate someone.

And what do I get?” His eyebrows raise. “Besides an expensive, shiny fucking ring?” “I have plenty of those already. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll wear this fucking ring if you get my name tattooed on your forehead.” He chuckles as he lies back beside me. “That’s a big fucking no.” “Then no can do,” I say but find myself opening the box again and studying the ring because it’s fucking beautiful. “What if you thread it through a necklace and wear it around your neck as a collar until you come around to the idea?” “It better be a really nice necklace.” “Don’t you have a beautiful necklace from the set I’d bought you that you haven’t yet worn?” He challenges. “I want another one.” I say trying to hide my smirk. His lips crush mine as he smiles. “Anything for my queen.

And Zach can feel the tattoo of Eugenio’s pulse, the strength of the muscles in his forearms, the way he inhales, shoulders expanding. He has his mask tipped up on his forehead, and Zach almost wishes he were wearing it now so that he didn’t have to see his expression: impassivity mixed with something more heated. Something Zach can’t want, not shielded from the rest of

Any guy who dates Taylor Swift knows she’ll eventually write a brutally vindictive yet insanely catchy pop hit that drags his name through the mud and trashes his reputation. Jack pursued you even after he knew you worked for the competition. You may as well have Date at your own risk tattooed on your forehead!

Now she held on to it because she had no choice. It had been Micah’s punishment for her rebellion: to trap her within this body. Forever. No more changing, no more trading up for something newer and sleeker. For two hundred years, Vik had been contained, forced to weather the slow erosion of the body, now plainly visible: the thin lines starting to carve themselves around her eyes, the crease now etched in her forehead above the tattoo’s twining band of thorns.

This woman is not someone he would have forgotten. She is extraordinarily tall and slender, her body wrapped in overlapping fronds of shimmering blue silk. Silver bangles encircle her velvet-sheathed arms in serpentine coils. Her scalp is smoothly shaven save for a braided topknot that blooms out to cover her ears and shoulders in an indigo cascade. A web of fine black lines covers her face, weaving a ‘third eye’ upon her forehead, its spiral iris framed by widespread wings. The traveller cannot tell whether the pattern is tattooed or incised into her alabaster skin, nor decide upon her age, for she seems suspended between youth and maturity, but her allure is unquestionable. Timeless. The name he knows her by is Euryale, though he suspects that is only one of many and not the truest.

Don’t let this get to your head.” “Are you kidding? I might get the words and today’s date tattooed across my forehead solely so you’re stuck staring at the reminder.

Ice skating,” I deadpanned. “Then I want to get a giant tattoo of an asshole on my forehead because it symbolizes me.

I understand. I’ll call my brother and he’ll come get me.” Gracie’s hand flew up and her eyes went wide. “Wait, what?” “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” After thirteen years, she was used to giving up her desires to do the right thing; she only wished it wasn’t so hard. “You’re right, it’s best if I go home.” “No!” Gracie shouted. She straightened and stepped closer to Maddie. “No! That’s not what I meant. I was only trying to say, ‘be careful.’” The men chose that moment to burst in the door like a bunch of rambunctious puppies, filling the room with chaos and testosterone. Gracie placed her hand over her forehead. “Oh, shit, he’s going to kill me.” Mitch stopped on a dime, his attention going first to Maddie and then to Gracie. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “What did you do?” All three men turned to Gracie. They advanced on her, gleaming with sweat. Alarm stirred. Maddie didn’t need to see their faces. The aggression was clear in their stance. The sheriff crossed his arms over his broad chest, and the muscles in his back rippled with the movement. Like Mitch, he also had a tribal-looking tattoo, although it was on his left shoulder instead of wrapping around his bicep. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, huh?” Gracie seemed to regain some of her composure, and her chin tilted. “I was only . . .” She cleared her throat. “Being friendly. And helpful.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Didn’t I tell you to leave it alone?” “Yes, but . . .” Gracie glanced at Maddie. “I was worried, and—” Mitch sliced a hand through the air. “What happened?” The men reminded Maddie so much of her brothers and their tactics lit her temper. “That’s enough!” They all swung around. The men’s eyes were sharp, hard with leftover adrenaline. It gave her a moment of pause, before she brushed their daunting presence aside and vaulted off her position by the sink. They tracked her as she stomped around them to stand in front of Gracie. “Stop intimidating her.” Charlie laughed, a wry, amused sound. “Honey, we couldn’t intimidate her if we tried.” His gaze slid over Gracie in a familiar, intimate way. “Although I do think she’s angling for a spanking.” “Ha! You wish.” Gracie placed a hand on Maddie’s shoulder. “Thanks for trying to rescue me. You’re a doll.” She sniffed. “It’s nice to have another female here. I never have anyone on my side.” Sam shook his head. “What did I tell you?” Maddie planted her hands on her hips. “She didn’t do anything, so stop it.” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “What did she say, Maddie?” “I was just—” Gracie said. “Nothing.” Maddie cut her off as a sudden loyalty toward the woman behind her swelled in her chest. “It has nothing to do with any of you. Now back off.” Charlie’s lips curled into a smile. “Aren’t you a feisty little thing?” “I might be little,” Maddie said, in a righteous tone. “But I’m used to dealing with my brothers, who are all bigger and scarier than you.” Charlie laughed and elbowed Mitch in the ribs. “That sounds like a challenge.” Maddie risked a glance at Mitch to find his expression still hard, not amused at all. He crossed his arms. “I want to talk to Maddie. Alone.” Sam jutted his chin toward the door. “Let’s go.” Gracie squeezed Maddie’s shoulders. “Thanks for sticking up for me. And remember, I’m right next door if you need anything.” “She won’t,” Mitch said, his tone matching the dark expression he wore. Strangely,

She was ecstatic. And they really were beautiful. Like art. Can I see your tattoos?” she asks hesitantly. I’m wearing my coat, so I have to shrug out of it to show her. I want to show her my art. I drew most of them, and my brothers put them on me. But I take my coat off and lay my hands face down on the table. She leans over, looking closely. I have full sleeves, which means I have tats from my neck all the way to my wrists. She touches the lips on my forearm with a light finger. The hair on my arms stands up, but I pretend I don’t notice. “Why did you get this one?” she asks. I smile. “That one goes with this one.” I point to my other arm. “It’s something my mother used to say.” Her forehead crinkles as she looks at the cross on my other arm. “From your lips to God’s ears,” I explain. “In my case, I have a lot of distance between my lips and God’s ears. That’s why they’re on different arms.

Where’d you get that?” I looked at the ring and itched to hide it, not that it would do much good now. I shrugged as nonchalantly as possible and answered around a bite of food. “Chase.” His face fell and it took a few seconds before he continued chewing. “Chase gave you a ring?” “It’s not a big deal.” “A ring.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Everyone in the family gave me a few things Brandon.” “A few? What else did he give you?” Crap. I took my time chewing and swallowing that next bite, but forced my eyes to stay glued to his. “My tattoo.” “Chase did your tattoo? You didn’t think that was something I’d want to know?” No, I just knew you’d be mad. “I didn’t know it mattered that much to you. Would you have rather me gone to someone you didn’t know?” “At least that guy wouldn’t have a history of trying to take you from me.” “Babe, that never happened, and even if it had, he didn’t succeed. You need to get over it.” “Not li–” “Can we not do this please? I just got you back and I want to enjoy my night with you.” “Fine. But next time, I would really appreciate if you didn’t let him touch you for four hours.” My cheeks flushed thinking about Chase’s touch. Think about something else, think about something else, think about something else. “Brandon you’re not – are you jealous?” “Extremely.” “Well take it down a notch Hulk.” I giggled and rubbed his arm, “Whose bed am I in?” He continued to glower at the ring, “Mine.” I crawled off the bed and gathered up the empty Chinese boxes, hating the fact that I had just turned that around to his jealousy issues with Chase. Leaning over to press my forehead to his, I held his gaze and spoke slowly before heading to the kitchen, “Then you have nothing to worry about.” I lightly brushed my lips against his, “I love you Brandon.

Jon spat on Tom, thumbing the thin saliva into him before spitting again, this time into his hand to stroke his cock with. When he pushed himself into Tom’s body, it was with a low moan of pleasure, and he moved slowly for a few strokes, letting Tom’s passion catch up as the first mate jerked the thick cock between his legs. Jon fell forward with one arm locked around Tom’s neck, the other around his torso, and his forehead pressed to the scars and tattoos on the first mate’s back as he slid his length into Tom’s heat. He brought himself close twice, three times, four… stopping each time on the very brink to rest shaking and panting against Tom. Jon could feel the first mate’s heart beating hard and fast, his tanned skin slick as he also held himself back. Finally, even the slightest movement became too much, and Jon pushed himself up off Tom to pound quickly into him, his hands tight around the first mate’s narrow hips. With a strangled cry, Jon spilled over, his cock throbbing as the hot, liquid current crackled through him, and he shuddered, blind and deaf to anything but his fevered, breathless climax.

He tips his glass and drinks. So does Matt. And everyone in the crowd. Except me. “What’s wrong?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I say. I motion my mother forward, and she puts a box in my hands. It’s small, but it’s weighty at the same time. “I have a present for you.” “I thought our honeymoon was our present to each other,” he reminds me with a scowl. We’re leaving for the Carolina coast for a week with the kids tonight. I can’t wait. I motion for him to take my package. “The vacation is our gift. This is just extra.” I blink back the tears that are already forming in my eyes. He makes a face and opens up the box. He looks inside and then gets confused. He pulls the tiny little item out of the box. It’s a onesie that has tattoo designs all over it, and on the back, it has the name Reed. “What’s this?” he asks, confused. Then his eyes grow wide. Friday gasps when she realizes what’s going on, and the rest of the crowd rumbles and fidgets. “Is this…?” he asks. He stops, because he’s choked with emotion. “Yes,” I say. Tears roll down my face, and I don’t care. I lean close to him. “You knocked me up.” He takes me in his arms and pulls me close, and a sob rolls through him. “Are you serious?” “Completely serious, Matt,” I say. “But wait.” I look down and shake the onesie out. A second one falls out, and Matt catches it in the air. “Two?” he asks. I nod, so broken by his reaction that I can’t speak. “Two tiny little heartbeats,” I say as soon as I can. “Holy fuck,” he breathes into my ear. He squeezes me so tightly that I chirp. “I love you so fucking much,” he says to me. He takes a second to breathe me in and compose himself, then he drops to his knees and lays his forehead on my belly. He says something quietly to his unborn children, and I’m not even sure what it was, but I do know it was between him and them. Or him and God. I’m not sure which. Then he stands and looks up at the crowd. Half of them are as teary-eyed as we are. “Do you know what this means?” he asks our friends and family. They rumble, but he can’t hear one voice over another. He points to Logan. “This means my sperm are better swimmers than yours, little brother!” he says. He signs while he talks, and Logan flips him off. But he’s laughing. He wraps his arms around Emily and lays his hands on the small swell of her belly. I slap his shoulder. “What if it’s my eggs that are amazing and not your sperm?” “What if it’s just us?” he asks quietly, and he kisses me. “Us together.” “I told you I believe in miracles, Matt,” I say when I can finally lift my head. “You’re my miracle,” he says. “You. Just you.

Will you let me move into your fortress with you?” I blurt out. Her brow furrows, and she looks so damn cute that I want to kiss her, but I know I can’t. “What?” she breathes out. I get up and walk to her. “That fortress where you reside? Will you let me live there with you?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “I don’t want to blow all your walls to bits,” I say. She has a piece of hair stuck to her lips, so I pull it away and tuck it behind her ear. “I just want to live inside them with you. Fuck,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I fucking love your walls. Every single brick. But let me move in. Let me be there with you. Then you can find out if you love me, and you can invite me to stay if you find out that you do. Just let me inside.” I take a deep breath and watch her. “Did you hit your fucking head on the way to work?” she asks. I laugh and rub my forehead. “No, but Logan just slapped some sense into me.” “Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” “I’m in fucking love with you, Friday!” I cry. “I fucking love you, you irritating, obnoxious, sexy-ass woman that I can’t get out of my fucking head.” I hit myself in the head with my fists like I’m knocking. “I’m in love with you.” I drop down onto my knees in front of her, and she steps back, so I inch forward until I can pull her belly to touch my forehead. “I’m in love with you.” I look up at her. “I’m on my knees, and I’m not going to try to get you to marry me or make you do anything you don’t want to do. Just let me in, and I’ll be happy with it.” “So, you don’t want to talk me into marrying you?” I shake my head, staring up at her like a puppy. “You’re not going to hold it over my head and refuse intimacy until I cave to what you want?” “No.” “You’re not going to keep asking me again and again?” “No.” “You’re going to stop being stupid?” I grin. “I don’t know about that one.” “You have testicles,” she says, and she shrugs. “I can’t have it all, can I?” She sinks down onto her knees in front of me. She bites her lower lip and stares at me. “Say it,” I coax. She goes back to glaring at me. “Say what?” “Whatever you’re thinking.” “I’m thinking that my knees are uncomfortable on this fucking floor, and I’m wondering how long you’re going to fucking make me stay down here.” I laugh. God, she’s so contrary! She takes my face in her hands. “Tonight, can I make you dinner?” she asks. My heart does that pitter-patter thing again. “Like a date?” She rocks her head back and forth like she’s weighing her words. “I guess you could call it a date.” “Then yes, I’d love that.” Then I remember. “But I have Hayley tonight.” She brightens. “Good.” She kisses me quickly and grins. “Because that’s about as close to a threesome as you’ll ever get with me.” She points to the floor. “Can I get up now?” she asks. “Get the fuck up,” I growl. I get to my feet, too. She falls against me and wraps her arms around my waist. “So does this mean that you don’t want to marry me?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest. Her words touch the tattoo I just got, and it stings a little. But I don’t pull back. I don’t want her to see it yet. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t say the opposite.” I set her back a little and look down into her upturned face. “Are you telling me you do want to marry me?” She shakes her head and jabs a finger at me. “But I want to leave the door open.” Oh, holy hell. She’s opening a fucking door and I didn’t even have to threaten her or withhold anything or torment her in any way. I might pass out. “Okay,” I say.

What are you putting off out of fear? Usually, what we most fear doing is what we most need to do. That phone call, that conversation, whatever the action might be—it is fear of unknown outcomes that prevents us from doing what we need to do. Define the worst case, accept it, and do it. I’ll repeat something you might consider tattooing on your forehead: What we fear doing most is usually what we most need to do. As I have heard said, a person’s success in life can usually be measured by the number of uncomfortable conversations he or she is willing to have. Resolve to do one thing every day that you fear. I got into this habit by attempting to contact celebrities and famous businesspeople for advice.

Among the chattering, cheerful, well-dressed crowd of people waiting at the gate were a number of quiet young men, each with a pleasant but neutral expression, each rather short even for a Japanese, and each with a Japanese calligraphy character tattooed on his forehead. As I walked past, one of them smiled and raised his hand. "Mr. Rawson?" At my puzzled nod he bowed and his smile broadened. "Welcome to Japan. I am a robot working for the Convention and Visitors' Bureau of the Japanese government, and I have been assigned as your guide and interpreter while you are in our country. There is no charge for my services, but you are free to accept or decline them. I should add that the bureau wishes to extend special hospitality to a visitor from such a great distance, and that it will probably ask the favor of an interview, which will then be published in one of our tourist magazines. My name is Toshio Takata, and most of my English-speaking guests call me 'T-Square.'" Before this last sentence he had clasped his

over his body. The skin of the thorax that had been removed was draped over his legs. On it was a large tattoo of a Viking. A small Nazi swastika was tattooed in the center of his forehead. “Why a Viking?” Jack asked. “Hello, Jack, dear,” Laurie said brightly. “Have you finished your first case already? Have you met Agent Gordon Tyrrell? How was your ride in this morning?” “Just fine,” Jack said. Since the questions had come so quickly he only responded to the last. “Jack insists on riding a bike around the

I could still feel the distinct sensation of her lips pressed to my forehead, as if the last kiss she gave me before her new husband drove away was permanently tattooed onto my skin.

Sophie could sense Aidan’s attraction to Morgan.  Could he be more insane? Not that Aidan was ugly.  Sophie just figured his black clothing, studded eyebrow and ears, and tattoos were something the Queen of Ice wouldn’t be interested in. Morgan shook her curls off of her shoulder with a silent glare for the group. Aidan grinned again and turned to Jackson.  “You play for the football team?”  He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the arm. “Could you please stop that?”  Morgan speared Aidan with another look. “Sure thing, Princess.” “Shut up.” Jackson watched their exchange with a small smile.  A curl fell over his forehead that made him look devastatingly virtuous.  “Tristan and I are on the same team.  We’ve played together since we were little.

I love tattoos on women,” said Henry. “Although the last one I saw was on Sally Mae, a friend of mine at the nursing home. Her tattoo was supposed to be a clover-leaf, but damn if it didn’t look more like a beanstalk. Course, the thing must have grown over fifty years.” Tiny laughed and started the engine. Paige rubbed her forehead. “God, I’m not going to even ask where that was located.

Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured. “This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?” The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn’t help but notice, was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn’t wearing a shirt. Randy didn’t say anything. Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn’t have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn’t know if guys wore those or not. “What are you looking at, Butt-face?” Myron said, “Absolutely—and I mean this sincerely—absolutely nothing.” There

Catholicism, he saw at once, had more kings than he could ever keep track of. “What did those people teach you?” he asked me one night, mystified. “What exactly do Catholics believe?” I’d been preparing my whole life for this question. “First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he’s also dead, and he’s also immortal, but he’s also made of clouds, and his face is a picture of infinite peace, but he also always looks like one of those men in a headache commercial, because you’re causing him so much suffering whenever you cuss. He is so gentle that sheep seem like demented murderers in his presence, but also rays of sunlight shoot out of his face so hard they can kill people. In fact they do kill people, and one day they will kill you. He has a tattoo of a daisy on his lower back and he gets his hair permed every eight weeks. He’s wearing a flowing white dress, but only because people didn’t know about jeans back then. He’s holding up two fingers because his dad won’t let him have a gun. If he lived on earth, he would have a white truck, plastered with bumper stickers of Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin who is not a Catholic.

Fuck, I never got enough of my wife. She was the sexiest woman alive. I loved every inch of her. I loved her stretch marks and her scars, the specks in her eyes and the birthmark on her neck. All her flawless imperfections. I was grateful every moment of every single day that Brandon brought me to her. She was my everlasting gift from a man I’d never forget for the rest of my life. I broke away and put my forehead to hers. “So you want In-N-Out for lunch and steaks for dinner, right?” She nodded and put her hand over my heart where the tattoo of her name was. “Josh? I think I could be ready again to keep trying. Should we start talking about surrogacy? Carmen is still down for it, right?” I knew why she was asking. She still wanted to give me my baseball team. But my dreams had changed. Seeing the strain of the in vitro process and how much it took out of her emotionally and physically—I just wanted her to be happy. I wanted her to enjoy our son. She never complained, but I knew she was tired of the doctor’s visits and the hormone injections and the disappointment. If she was up for it in a few years, maybe we’d try again or look into the other options. We were young—we had time. But I didn’t want her to do it for me because she thought she owed it to me. She’d done enough. I put my hands on her face. “Let’s take a break, Kristen. I’m happy where we are. And if this is our family, I’m good with that.” The relief was visible in her eyes. “Are you sure?” My mouth curved up into a smile. “I’m very sure. I have everything I need.

This is the guy. Raven. This is the guy that Juanita is looking for. The guy Lagos told him not to mess with. And Hiro has seen him before, outside the entrance to The Black Sun. This is the guy who gave the Snow Crash card to Da5id. The tattoo on his forehead consists of three words, written in block letters: POOR IMPULSE CONTROL.

Hey, check this out," Eric said, pulling up his sleeve and holding out his arm. The name Ariel was written out- in mer runes! It circled his arm like the sort of band a warrior would wear, and glistened with oil he had rubbed into it. "Eric! What did you do?" "What? Don't you like it?" "I love it, but..." "Until we have wedding rings, I thought it was a nice permanent commitment. Argent did it! Sebastian helped me with the letters." "It... must have hurt." "You have no idea. That's how much I love you," he said, kissing her on the forehead.

His arm comes around my waist from behind. He slides a hand up my stomach and takes a firm hold of one of my breasts. His other hand feathers my shoulder as he moves the hair away from my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut, just as his fingers begin to trace across my skin, up to my shoulder. He slowly runs his finger over the heart and a shudder runs over my whole body. His lips meet my skin, right over the tattoo, and then he sinks his teeth into me so hard, I scream. I try to pull away from him, but he has such a tight grip on me he doesn’t even budge. The pain from his teeth piercing my collarbone rips through my shoulder and down my arm. I immediately start crying. Sobbing. “Ryle, let me go,” I say, my voice pleading. “Please. Walk away.” His arms are cutting into mine as he holds me tightly from behind. He spins me, but my eyes are still closed. I’m too scared to look at him. His hands are digging into my shoulders as he pushes me toward the bed. I start trying to fight him off of me, but it’s useless. He’s too strong for me. He’s angry. He’s hurt. And he’s not Ryle. My back meets the bed and I frantically scoot back toward the headboard, trying to get away from him. “Why is he still here, Lily?” His voice isn’t as composed as it was in the kitchen. He’s really angry now. “He’s in everything. The magnet on the fridge. The journal in the box I found in our closet. The fucking tattoo on your body that used to be my favorite goddamn part of you!” He’s on the bed now. “Ryle,” I beg. “I can explain.” Tears streak down my temples and into my hair. “You’re angry. Please don’t hurt me, please. Walk away, and when you come back, I’ll explain.” His hand grips my ankle and he yanks me until I’m beneath him. “I’m not angry, Lily,” he says, his voice disturbingly calm now. “I just think I haven’t proved to you how much I love you.” His body comes down against mine and he takes my wrists with one hand above my head, pressing them against the mattress. “Ryle, please.” I’m sobbing, trying to push him off of me with any part of my body. “Get off me. Please.” No, no, no, no. “I love you, Lily,” he says, his words crashing against my cheek. “More than he ever did. Why can’t you see that?” My fear folds in on itself, and I become diluted with rage. All I can see when I squeeze my eyes shut is my mother crying on our old living room couch; my father forcing himself on top of her. Hatred rips through me and I start screaming. Ryle tries to muffle my screams with his mouth. I bite down on his tongue. His forehead comes crashing down against mine. In an instant, all the pain fades as a blanket of darkness rolls over my eyes and consumes me.