Havoc At Prescott High Quotes

Sometimes pain is pretty, to the people who have too much of it,

When you exist in the ugly, you learn to live in the beautiful.

Nobody listens when bad girls cry.

I’ve never heard someone say something as inane as “there’s a kettle in the cupboard” and have it sound like “I’m going to fucking murder you.” Impressive, I must say.

Some things break when you put too much pressure on them, but those shards they break into can be twice as deadly.

Havoc. They create it. They revel in it. They dispense it.

We might live in the darkness, but that doesn't mean we're not allowed to enjoy the moonlight

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” Oscar murmurs,

See, that's the thing with pain. Once it finds you and grabs hold, it doesn't let go easily. It's always there, a demon with reaching claws.

They used to be my tormentors, but now they’re my dark angels.

Every step closer to the grave is one step further away from this hell we call life.

Men have selfish motivation, want, and desire tainting their vision; little girls have dreams, ambition, and honesty turning theirs crystal clear

This time, I'm not kissing the prince to become the princess, I'm tonguing the villain to guarantee the destruction of others.

Virginity is an abstract patriarchal social construct that has zero validity and exists for the sole purpose of commoditizing young women but go on, I’ll wait.

I’m surrounded by my monsters now, but at least I hold the leash of some very pretty ones.

Some men sleep and dream. Some men have nightmares. You’re a nightmare, Bernadette, a beautiful nightmare.

When you accept a person for who they are, you don’t choose bits and pieces. You accept every part of them, right down to the rotten bits. Because everybody wants somebody to love their rottenness.

Nobody could ruin us, Vic; we’re already ruined

Predators. That's what they look like, like predators. The thing is, I'm nobody's fucking prey.

As Alice once said, there's no use going back to yesterday; I was a different person then.

We might live in the dark, but that doesn't mean we're not allowed to enjoy the moonlight.

He freaks me the fuck out, this motherfucker. Like, how does he materialize out of nowhere like that?

You aren’t going to speak to me like that anymore.

The monsters come anyway—whether you wear short skirts or sweats.

Little by little, a little becomes a lot.” Oscar

I’m Bernadette Blackbird, leather-wearing, face-smashing bitch from hell.

You thought you caged a kitty cat? You got a fucking cougar. Watch my claws when you take me to bed.

I’ve never stopped loving you; I just thought you should know that.

I’m going to marry the shit of you, and then tear that dress off,

Say something, Bernadette,” Hael whispers, his voice husky with pleasure. “I want to hear your voice.” His request hits me like a brick to the chest, and for a moment, it's all I can do to sit there, feeling his hard length inside of me. My voice? Why? “Shut the fuck up,” is all I can think to respond with, and Hael laughs, letting me push him back with a hand to the chest.

Sometimes, it feels almost impossible to see past one's own hurt, like looking directly into the sun. The brilliance of it is blinding. But if we close our eyes, we can feel the warmth of those rays on our skin.

When you’ve been lied to by everyone around you, when you have nothing else, you realize the one currency you can carry is truth. So a single word does have meaning. A promise does hold importance. And a pact is worth carrying to the grave.

Life is messy and weird and fucked-up, but even amongst all those thorns, there are roses.

A seventeen-year-old guy covered in tattoos scrubbing up stray droplets of pee to keep a toilet clean? Unheard of.

That's what they look like, like predators. The thing is, I'm nobody's fucking prey. Maybe they're more like lions looking for a lioness to mount.

Why is that always the salvation of the wicked, to pray? God doesn’t want to hear their lies anymore than I do.

I take another drag on the cigarette, certain that they’re stolen, positive that they taste better because they were obtained with crafty fingers and tomfoolery.

Sometimes, you just want to be left alone inside your fantasy.

Vulnerability leaves a person open to endless pain.

don’t care much about words—people lie, after all—but actions, now that’s another story.

I haven’t been afraid since I was five and here you come, sauntering in and shattering everything. That’s what you’ve done, Bernie, you’ve ruined me.

Chin up, Bernadette. There is no rest for the wicked.

We’re going to rule this city together, Bernadette. You and me, king and queen.

His hold on me is endless and eternal; it isn’t unbreakable because the possibility of being broken was never even an option. It just is. A fact. As sure as the moon rises.

The women are lusting after Hael, the men after the car. It’s pretty pathetic. But I can't say I totally blame them. It is hot. The Camaro, I mean, not the man.

Sometimes, we don’t get everything that we want. Sometimes, there are unknowns and we just have to learn to live with them. Life is messy and weird and fucked-up, but even amongst all those thorns, there are roses.

Confucius says dig two graves before embarking on a journey of revenge. But what if that revenge is the only thing keeping you alive? And what if the people you're seeking revenge on deserve it? If Batman had just killed the Joker from the get-go, how many more people would still be alive?

Callum looks like a fairy-tale prince, ready to ride in on a white horse and save the day. In all reality, he's the villain, the one you're supposed to hate, but can't because he's too damn pretty. That's how he gets you in the end, like a poisonous butterfly, too beautiful for the crow to resist.

Now that I’m in the same position, I can see why he did it. Why he knew he needed to do it. The dark will always play by its own rules. It’s all well and good to want a superhero, but it’s impossible to expect someone made of light to fight the shadows; they might disappear when there’s a ray of sunshine, but they’re not gone. They’ve just retreated. The night always returns, after all.

I cannot, for the life of me, understand how Batman sleeps at night.

The world simultaneously rewards and punishes pretty, doesn’t it?

Have you ever tried to get cum off a fabric seat? Fucking sucks.

I once read a book, some time loop story called Devils’ Day Party, where the main character said, “Lying to other people is insane; lying to yourself is suicidal.

stamina.

the girls rush

fuck all the way off.

Hopes, wants, dreams, they can all be destroyed in the span of a single exhale. A ragged inhale. A surprised gasp.

Make no mistake: when he smiles, angels cry.

Once you surrender to the dark, it gets easier.

he says, pushing his hood back, so I can see his Disney prince blond hair. Only, it’s strange because he’s not the prince; he’s the villain that slaughters the wide-eyed royal and buries his body in the woods.

Strength and bravery don’t come from outright defiance; you have to temper that shit with intelligence.

Light it up,” I murmur, taking the lighter fluid inside the house and squirting it all over the plush sofas, bearskin rugs, and leather recliners.

I decide on “A Little Wicked” by Valerie Broussard.

The one thing about royalty,” I start, quoting a song by Bohnes called “Middle Finger”, “is that we love to feast.

this book is dedicated to the rotten bits inside us all. mostly, it’s dedicated to the people who love us despite all that. or because of it.

The sound of Victor’s boots coming up the stairs draws both our attention. I can always tell it’s him in the house because he’s either silent as a mouse or, when he wants you to know he’s coming, has the loudest footsteps in the Pacific Northwest.

He looks up, and his lips tilt into a genuine smile. He only gives them to four people: the girls, including Heather … and me. His affection hasn’t escaped my notice. Actually, I find myself leaning into it the way a flower tilts toward the sun. Even a voodoo lily needs light.

Thanks,” she says, hooking a saucy smile my way. My cock stiffens at the sight of her pretty lips curving up at the edges. “I could get used to this: my man making me a sandwich after sex.” I just bark a laugh out because I don’t care about things like that; I’ll make the sandwiches every time. Society is broken and twisted, so what do I give a shit about some old sexist rules? This thing between me and Bernadette is older than that, ancient, primal.

Maman, je suis rentré!” Hael calls out when he opens the door and the spicy scent of cayenne pepper and oil drifts over to me.

We both have designs up and down both arms, just swirls of vibrant color that tell the world we’re not afraid to hurt, to bleed, to express ourselves.

What is it about Aaron that makes me want to submit? It’s because you know he loves you enough to always pull back, if you need it. That’s why. You can let go with him; you forget worrying about literally anything.

I think about Scarlett Force then, that race car driver from a few years back, the one with the three boyfriends. She was caught once, having an orgy in the girls’ locker room with them.

Mare’s nest. It’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it? Actually, it’s been around for hundreds of years. According to the 1811 edition of the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, you could say something like, “This man has found a mare’s nest and is laughing at the eggs” to indicate insanity. During that same time period, it also came to mean a place, situation, or condition of great confusion and disorder. As if, say, someone had wreaked havoc in their wake. That usage stemmed from what was very likely a misunderstanding of the original phrase.

Like everything else with Havoc, we create our own traditions. Skeleton faces and wolf howls and a girl that’s too wild for one boy to possess on his own.

He turns to leave, pauses, and then whirls around so quickly that a small sound of surprise escapes me. Aaron slams his palms against the shower wall on either side of me and takes my mouth like he honestly believes all problems in this world can be solved with the right kind of kiss.

What’s wrong?” Hael asks as he steps into the hallway, so close to me that the toes of our shoes touch. That’s when I know we’re soul mates for sure. He sees me upset, and then he gets upset for me. I like that. We’re connected in ways that transcend physical touch; this goes bone-deep.

We stare at each other for a long time before he finally speaks in that beautifully dark voice of his, like his vocal cords are shaped from the shadows of Halloween night.

Have you ever noticed that the good guys in these books are too concerned with their own morality to make hard choices?” I ask, staring at the conclusion of the story in my hand. The hero has locked the bad guy up, but on the very last page, he escapes, leaving room for a sequel. The thing is, how many people are going to die before the villain is caught again? How many have to suffer? It would be better if he were dead. But people who kill other people are murderers, right? Villains. Only a villain can truly stop another villain. There is no room in this world for heroes; they only get in the way.

But people who kill other people are murderers, right? Villains. Only a villain can truly stop another villain. There is no room in this world for heroes; they only get in the way.

That’s what pain does; it shapes your mouth. No, no, it owns your mouth.

...this dangerous dance of beautiful boys … I'm not sure I know the choreography just yet.

Each one of them is different, like a separate ingredient for the same dish. I need them all or it just doesn’t turn out right.

I’m not sure why people act like that’s such a difficult question. The meaning of life is obvious. It’s to fucking live it.

Sometimes, when you finish something so important, it feels both good and bad. You wish you were still working on it, but you’re relieved that it’s behind you.

Until the world stops favoring the wealthy and corrupt, until there are opportunities for girls like Stacey Langford, you have to accept that they’ll do whatever it takes to survive. They shouldn’t have to sell their bodies, but the world you’ve created gives them few choices. But go ahead, mansplain to me what a revolution looks like. I’ll wait.

I try, I really do, but nobody touched me or hugged me or loved on me as a child. It’s a struggle every goddamn day to remember how to behave.

I pull her face forward, so that our lips are touching. She tastes like tears when I lick her mouth, but that’s okay. Those tears belong to me as much as her smile or her laughter. When you accept a person for who they are, you don’t choose bits and pieces. You accept every part of them, right down to the rotten bits. Because everybody wants somebody to love their rottenness. Even me.

I take the jacket and slip it on. After all, the employees here are basically slaves to the wealthy. They’re paid a pittance that doesn’t even cover their fucking bills to wait on these people hand and foot. Why is it so much to ask, to just give people a living wage? How the fuck is this shit controversial and politically polarizing?

Victor's kiss is exquisite torture, a moment torn from the timeline of my life that I can never get back. It both hurts and excites me, all at once.

A deep, sick sense of satisfaction curls through me, and that’s when I know I’m truly evil, as evil as all the rest of them, my perpetrators and the Havoc Boys combined. They’ve twisted me, warped me, made me in their likeness.

He’s the biggest monster of them all, the leader of the monsters, the one who paints nightmares in the dark with a brush of shadows.

If the neighborhood, shopping center, or school has the word oak in it, you know you’ve reached one of the ritzy areas.

Did you know in some states, they won’t let people under eighteen buy morning-after pills without a prescription? Like for real. That’s some psycho Handmaid’s Tale bullshit right there.

There's nothing I want more than vengeance, and nothing that turns me on like danger.

It's an obsession I've had for years. Victor Channing, my dark, little secret want.

For a brief moment there, I feel like a helpless heroine in some scary teen Halloween slasher flick. Shit.

Black vodka and clove cigarettes, now that’s Halloween

To dark pasts, bright futures, and the power of Havoc.

Victor Channing has some serious fucking stamina.

Most students at Prescott would rather jump off a bridge than risk calling Havoc. And it's the way I start my first day of senior year. Stacey is right: I really do hope I know what I'm doing here. But the phrase is fight fire with fire, right? And I, I need an inferno.