Lj Shen Vicious Quotes

You were always mine. -Black

I loved her when I hated her. And I loved her when I didn’t want anything to do with her. I was so crazy about her, the lines had blurred together. Feelings were mixed, emotions twisted together.

Lust is when you want the person to make you feel good. Love is when you want to make the other person feel good.

We’ve waited a long time for this. I want the real thing. Not the watered-down version. And the real thing is not only beautiful. It is also ugly. I want your truth.

I used to think of you as a villain, but you’re not my villain. You’re your own villain.

Apologize for not being mine when you should’ve been. Because Emilia, baby...” I tilted my head sideways. “It was always fucking us and you know it.

...love and hate are the same feelings experienced under different circumstances. The passion is the same. The pain is the same.

My obsession. My muse. My enemy. “All

I just want you as you are. Broken. Misunderstood. Jerk. I want the real version, the dark version, the one who made me the saddest I’ve ever been in my life, but also the happiest.

Sacrifices were like vices. You made them, gave up something good, in order to get something better.

I wanted to dissolve into smoke, to crawl into him and never leave. It was crazy, but that was how much I craved this man.

I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Emilia. You.” I

Ask me what I want,” Vicious murmured into my face. The public display of affection from him—not sexual, not bullying, but pure, naked affection—filled my chest with warmth, but I tried to swallow down my hope. “What do you want?” I turned my gaze to meet his, and suddenly, we weren’t in New York, in a gallery full of people. We were in my old room. Ignoring the party and the world around us, a world that we constantly disregarded when we were together. “I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Emilia. You.” I

It was a receipt for my painting. My heart stuttered. He squeezed my hand in his and smiled. “It’s gonna look so fucking epic in my bedroom, don’t you think? I could fuck you and stare at myself as I do it. That’s some Napoleon shit right there.” It

And if I want to hurt the person, is that hate? - Black No, it's pain. You want to inflict pain on the person who caused you to hurt. I think if you hate someone, you just want them gone. - Pink

Ask me..what do I want?

In Japanese culture, the significance of the cherry blossom tree dates back hundreds of years. The cherry blossom represents the fragility and magnificence of life. It’s a reminder of how beautiful life is, almost overwhelmingly so, but that it is also heartbreakingly short. As are relationships. Be wise. Let your heart lead the way. And when you find someone who’s worth it—never let them go.

I’m just not sure how you can be both nice and compassionate and a terrible asshole all at the same time,” I muttered. He smiled. “It’s a hard job, but someone’s gotta do it.

The push and pull was back. She could push all she wanted, but she was going to be pulled back to where she belonged. My arms. I

He was toxic, poison, and he was going to kill everything beautiful in my life if I let him. He was the storm to my cherry blossoms. This

Grandmama said that the cherry blossom was life. Sweet and beautiful, but so darn short. Too short not to do what you wanna do. Too short to not spend it with the people…you love.

Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two. A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about. A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.

I love you.” He grinned like the boy I was once so desperate to impress. “I loved you first,” I teased like the girl who knew deep down he always liked her too. “Not possible.” He kissed me hard, his tongue sliding into my mouth. Then he leaned back. “I loved you since you told me your friends called you Millie. Even then, when I caught you eavesdropping, I knew I wasn’t gonna call you that, because you weren’t going to be my fucking friend. You were destined to be my wife.

I want the real thing. Not the watered-down version. And the real thing is not only beautiful. It is also ugly. I want your truth.

The cherry blossom represents the fragility and magnificence of life.

For a fraction of a second, we were together, and it had felt divine. Not nice. Not safe. Not taken for granted. It was short and beautiful and painfully memorable. Like the tree I was obsessed with.

Accepting the face that you loved someone was much harder than falling for that person. It took time. And courage. But when I finally took that time, found that courage, when I finally let my guard down, I'd discovered something spectacular.

Be wise. Let your heart lead the way. And when you find someone who's worth it never let them go

She used to leave chewed pencils on her desk every single day in calculus class. I may have picked them up. I may have saved them. They may still be in a drawer somewhere in my old room.

When reality makes the decision for you, it’s easier to accept your fate.

Vicious is Vaughn’s dad and the deadliest mofo in the neighborhood. I crushed on him when I was five. Baron “Vicious” Spencer is still a hottie, so #SorryNotSorry

I changed my mind about babies,” Emilia said through the chatter, leaning into me. “Maybe not right now or in a few years, but down the road, I want it. I think I really want it. What do you say?” I smirked. Emilia LeBlanc of Richmond, Virginia was asking me to put a baby in her. Then I shrugged and leaned back into her. “Don’t worry. I won’t stop trying to impregnate you, even after you get pregnant.” She laughed. “Deal?” I asked. “Deal.

It was a mistake of epic proportions, I knew that. And just like any huge mistake, payback was going to be painful. Sadly, it was a price I was willing to pay.

I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes.

I loved her when I hated her. And I loved her when I didn’t want anything to do with her.

This wasn’t an argument. This was foreplay. She just didn’t know it yet.

He’d treated me horribly in the past, but right now…he brought color into my life. Acrylic?

Good night, Em.” Em.

Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole was a different kind of asshole to Baron ‘Vicious’ Spencer. He fucked you over with a polite smile on his face. In that sense, he was the Joker. In his mix of confidence, cockiness, good looks, and money, there was a dash of insanity thrown in. Enough to let you know that he meant every word he said.

How could I not want to fuck this chick? Of course I was hard. She looked like a rainbow.

You were so clean, and I was filthy. I guess I wanted to dirty you up.

I smoked weed while she danced on the roof and threw me smiles every now and again. I watched her with a smirk. Life was good.

Spending time with my staff reminded me why humans were my least favorite

Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two.

A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about.

We weren’t switching back anytime soon. Not until I got what I wanted. He was staying in LA. Whether he liked it or not.

A sadistic jerk?

Lust is when you want the person to make you feel good. Love is when you want to make the other person feel good.

Apologize," I ordered, striding in her direction once again. "What for?"Her gaze shifted, and she looked like she was about to throw a punch at me. "For not kissing me back when you clearly wanted to, you little liar. For fucking one of my best friends. For making that year the worst year of my life since I was nine. Apologize for not being mine when you should've been. Because Emilia, baby..." I tilted my head sideways. "It was always fucking us and you know it.

Ask me what I want again,” I said softly, and she grinned, pressing her lips to my chest through my tee. “What do you want?” she murmured. Her hair smelled fantastic. Like flowers and how my fucking pillow was going to smell tonight. “Nothing. I’m done wanting things. I have everything I need now. Ask me how I feel.” “How do you feel?” “In love.” I breathed hard, burying my face in her hair. “I feel in love, and it’s you that I love. So fucking much.

Some people collect stamps. Some coins. Taxidermy. Fucking cards. I collect regrets. They don’t take up much space, not physically, anyway. But inside. . .they occupy. They eat away. They ruin. Because that’s the thing about regrets. They’re mistakes that left scars. Vicious, sensitive, searing wounds.

the drivers were New Yorkers too, so they didn’t mind running you over if it came to that.

Spending time with my staff reminded me why humans were my least favorite creatures.

Emilia, no disrespect, but who gives a flying fuck about your sister? Rewind. You’re moving with me to Los Angeles?

In all likelihood, I was going to be in charge of his entire business empire soon. I would hold the purse strings, and Jo was worried that my main vice—vindictiveness—would mean she was going to lose her cushy lifestyle. For once in her miserable life, she was right.

I wouldn’t want to live forever. What would be the point in that? Aren’t you hungry for something? Don’t you have dreams? What weight and significance do your dreams have if they don’t have a deadline? If you don’t have to chase them today because you can do it tomorrow, in a week, a year, or in a hundred years’ time?

The interior designer must’ve been a medieval vampire, judging from the cold, lifeless colors and the giant iron chandeliers hanging from the ceilings.

Accepting the fact that you loved someone was much harder than falling for that person. It took time. And courage.

Catering to me. Serving me. Envying me. She was going to stay small and insignificant. Uneducated and opportunity-less. And above all—mine.

I squinted at him. But he didn’t care. He was a kid from the hood. Nothing scared him, let alone my rich milky ass.

He said he doesn’t know any Emilia, but he does know a girl named Help.

It can be a date,” he muttered

He brought color into my life. Acrylic? Oil? It didn't even matter. He always thought of himself as blackness, but the truth was, he injected so many different pigments into my existence.

Because he’s who we’re going to see. I need you sharp. Are you drunk?” It stung, but I only arched an eyebrow and offered him a tight smile. “Vicious, please. We can work this out between us. Think about the kids,” I mocked. Vicious didn’t appreciate my joke. He scowled and moved away, allowing me to squeeze past him and walk out the door. I felt his eyes heating my back when he muttered under his breath. “Fuck the kids. I’ll stay for the ass.

Dickward had the kind of smirk that would make women moan his name even when he was in another continent. He was happily married to Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer and strictly off the market. Shame they rocked the happily-in-love vibe.

I’d finally found him. The one man scarier than my father. Not that I was looking. Because while Vicious made a lot of noise, Trent Rexroth was the silent hunter who would circle you for hours, striking when you least expect it.

He was richer than God, married to one of the most beautiful women in our zip code and a doting father. He won the battle, the war and conquered every obstacle that had stood in his way. He had nothing to prove and reeked of contentment.

She wore the gray Alexander Wang dress I’d bought for her birthday—it took me forever to find a cheap knock-off that’d make her rich friends laugh at her behind her back

Bluish light enveloped the angles of Vicious’s

It's a reminder of how beautiful life is, almost overwhelmingly so, but that it is also heartbreakingly short.

Lust is when you want the person to make you feel good. Love is when you want to make the other person feel good. —Pink.

She knew —Emilia LeBlanc fucking knew— she could bring a man to his knees.

Yeah, it's a souvenir from my very first XWL win. Vicious headlock, but I managed. The fighter ears definitely bring down my stock. It’s a bitch, for sure. I constantly have to drain fluid from them with a syringe.” “That’s disgusting, Tyler.” This, from my nana, who has a green, double-headed dildo on her nightstand. My mom still thinks it’s a decorative cactus.

Ask me what I want,” Vicious murmured into my face. The public display of affection from him—not sexual, not bullying, but pure, naked affection—filled down my hope. “What do you want?” I turned my gaze to meet his, and suddenly, we weren’t in New York, in a gallery full of people. We were in my old room. Ignoring the party and the world around us, a world that we constantly disregarded when we were together. “I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Emilia. You.

I wasn’t stupid. I realized that I was preventing her from being around her sister and her parents. Her boyfriend. I was banishing her from everything she knew. From a comfortable future. From money and opportunity. From family Christmases and blue-eyed kids with Dean, who was oh-so-fucking enchanted with her. From love. I was ruining her life. Because. I. Was. Jealous.

MY GRANDMAMA ONCE TOLD ME that love and hate are the same feelings experienced under different circumstances. The passion is the same. The pain is the same. That weird thing that bubbles in your chest? Same. I didn’t believe her until I met Baron Spencer and he became my nightmare.

Wrong fucking place and wrong fucking time. Next time I find you anywhere inside my house, bring a body bag because you won’t be leaving alive.” He thundered past me, his muscular arm brushing my shoulder.

I knew him well enough to know romance was simply not on the menu for him. He was as emotionally available as a jackhammer. This was pure lust, exploding after a decade of simmering quietly, brewed by frustration, jealousy, and hate.

I’ll call Rosie and see what I can do,” she muttered, her eyes shooting daggers at me. Blue with light purple hair. And that Harley Quinn courier bag. How could you not want to fuck this chick? Of course I was hard. She looked like a rainbow.

One hundred fifty K might,” he said, unblinking. Does he need a hearing aid? His eyes were so dark blue they sparkled like rare sapphires. He thought it was a negotiation. He was wrong. “It’s not about the money, Vicious.” I felt my teeth grinding together. “Do you want it in another language? I can write it down for you or even communicate it in the form of a dance.

Though I knew she was right. I was missing a few pieces. A few chips I needed in order to be able to love like a normal person does. That’s why I liked breaking things, and why I especially enjoyed breaking Emilia. She was the purest thing I’d ever met.

A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about. A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.

I know that they damaged you, and I still want you. I don’t even want to fix you. I just want you as you are. Broken. Misunderstood. Jerk. I want the real version, the dark version, the one who made me the saddest I’ve ever been in my life, but also the happiest.

I met him at the airport. He wore a long dark-gray pea coat, charcoal slacks, a cashmere sweater, and his usual scowl. He was standing outside, the freezing New York weather staining his cheekbones a dark shade of pink while he puffed on a blunt. On the sidewalk of the airport.

Anything,” I stressed, my face still blank. “Go get yourself a new chair. Or a table. Or ink, whatever the fuck it is you need. My treat. Go order food for the whole building. Buy the stray cat down the road a bed to piss on. I’ll give you ten minutes with my credit card if you give me ten minutes in this room with her. Alone.” “Is your boyfriend always so aggressive?” He arched an eyebrow in Emilia’s direction, throwing her a questioning look that asked: Do you want me to leave you alone with this asshole, or do you want me throw him outside and call NYPD? She laughed her syrupy Southern belle laugh that always seemed to stab straight to the pit of my fucking stomach. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Shakespeare’s eyebrow shot up. “You should tell him that. Doesn’t seem like he got the memo.

Ask me what I want again,' I said softly, and she grinned, pressing her lips to my chest through my tee. 'What do you want?' 'Nothing. I'm done wanting things. I have everything I need now. Ask me how I feel.' 'How do you feel?' 'In love.' I brethed hard, burying my face in her hair. 'I feel in love, and it's you that I love. So fucking much.

Her sense of style was juvenile and horrid, and the back of her hand was still inked with a cherry blossom tree she’d drawn in English Lit, so why the fuck was she still hot as shit? Didn’t matter. I hated her anyway. But her apparent devotion to trying not to be sexy, paired with the fact that she actually was sexy, always made me hard as stone.

I was stealing her pens and pencils, when actually, I was desperate for her words. All of them. Every letter and syllable. Every silly doodle.

He looked too good to be so evil.

If you hurt her, I will kill you.” She pointed her finger at me for emphasis. I was perfectly still, giving zero fucks about this five-foot-four gnome firing threats at me like she was Rambo. “Cock-blocking me first and threatening me? Should I remind you that the only reason you’re not living in a sewer with that rat who trains the Ninja Turtles is because of my generosity?” I

In Japanese culture, the significance of the cherry blossom tree dates back hundreds of years. The cherry blossom represents the fragility and magnificence of life. It’s a reminder of how beautiful life is, almost overwhelmingly so, but that it is also heartbreakingly short. As are relationships. Be wise. Let your heart lead the way. And when you find someone who’s worth it—never let them go.

So if I tell you I want to re-do our senior year in one day…to go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center and let you get to second base like two teenagers…” I erased the gap between us, kissing a sliver of his exposed neck, and his breath stilled. “And go eat at P.J. Clarke’s and move to third base in the bathroom…” I rasped the words against his hot flesh and dragged my eyes up to meet his stormy ones. “And end the day at a Broadway show where I’d do something very inappropriate under your seat…” We melted into each other, and sure enough, I felt the swelling in his slacks getting bigger against my stomach. “You’d say…no?” His face was the funniest thing on earth as it moved from surprised to eager, then finally to turned on. “Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his hard cock against me. From the outside, it must’ve looked like we were sharing the dirtiest hug ever. “I’m about to go ice-skating for a hand job, and I’m not even sixteen anymore.” “You’re totally going on a day date,” I joked. He rolled his eyes but followed me back outside and into the nearest subway station, buttoning his pea coat to cover the massive bulge between his legs. “Lead the way.

I knew it was important to box up these kind of moments, keep them locked away in my heart, and call them up when things got hard. Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two. A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about. A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn't necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.

I knew it was important to box up these kinds of moments, keep them locked away in my heart, and call them up when things got hard. Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two. A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about. A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.

Ask me what I want,' Vicious murmured into my face. The public display of affection from him —not sexual, not bullying, but pure, naked affection—filled my chest with warmth, but I tried to swallow down my hope. 'What do you want?' I turned my gaze to meet his, and suddenly, we weren't in New York, in a gallery full of people. We were in my old room. Ignoring the party and the world around us, a world that we constantly disregarded when we were together. 'I want you,' he said simply. 'Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,' he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. 'Fuck, Emilia. You.

Do you think we’ll ever crack the riddle of aging? Have you ever wondered if maybe we were born too soon? Maybe one hundred, two hundred years from now they’re going to find a cure for death. Then everyone who lives will look back at us and think, “Well, they were screwed. We’re going to live forever!” Muahahaha. I think I might be a pessimist. —Pink He answered the next morning. I think it’s more likely that these people will have to deal with the wrecked, polluted world we left them because we did fuck-all and partied hard when they weren’t even a sperm and an egg yet. But to your question, no, I wouldn’t want to live forever. What would be the point in that? Aren’t you hungry for something? Don’t you have dreams? What weight and significance do your dreams have if they don’t have a deadline? If you don’t have to chase them today because you can do it tomorrow, in a week, a year, or in a hundred years’ time? I think you’re just realistic, and possibly weird as shit. —Black

What’s that in your hand, Vic?” “This? I saw something I liked so I bought it when I got here.” He opened his fist and showed it to me. It was a receipt for my painting. My heart stuttered. He squeezed my hand in his and smiled. “It’s gonna look so fucking epic in my bedroom, don’t you think? I could fuck you and stare at myself as I do it. That’s some Napoleon shit right there.

I had nothing against Broadway shows, but when one was standing in the way of me and her long-awaited pussy, I was just about willing to burn the whole fucking street down. I’d already started doing the math in my head. Calculating the sentence for setting an occupied building on fire. Arson, possibly attempted murder. Those were heavy felonies. What was I looking at here? Hard time. Fifteen years, minimum. Different states varied, but New York was hard on its criminals. Fifteen years. Still fucking worth it.

Here’s my credit card.” I extended the plastic to Shakespeare, waving it between my fingers like a bribe. “You can use it for whatever you want. Just give us ten minutes alone.” Shakespeare opened his mouth, not touching the credit card, glancing between me and Emilia, who looked just as shocked as he did, if not more. But it was too late to take it back, and I didn’t want to anyway. Come the fuck on, Goatee. Turn around and walk away. “Anything,” I stressed, my face still blank. “Go get yourself a new chair. Or a table. Or ink, whatever the fuck it is you need. My treat. Go order food for the whole building. Buy the stray cat down the road a bed to piss on. I’ll give you ten minutes with my credit card if you give me ten minutes in this room with her. Alone.

She’d painted me. Not only did she paint me (and arguably gave me a better nose than the one I was born with), but it was also what I was doing in the painting that made me smile like a sleaze ball. I was holding a joint and laughing into a non-existent camera—though my eyes were still mine, kind of sad and dark and fucking scary—and I wore a simple black T-shirt that said “Black” in white. The background was stark, stupid pink. I was her black. And she was my pink. I bought the painting in a heartbeat, dragging her boss aside. Gay, thank fuck. He was there with his boyfriend, Roi. By that time, I noticed Emilia was standing next to my image, talking about it with a woman, and I hoped I wasn’t too late to buy it myself. I wasn’t. Emilia didn’t know it yet, but she was going to paint another painting, of herself wearing a pink shirt against a black background, and I was going to hang it next to mine.