Neck Tattoos Quotes

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Yes you're getting your tattoo." I threw my arms around Dad's neck. "Thank you!" "Hey," Mom said. "I'm the one who had to persuade him it wasn't turning his little girl into a streetwalker." "I never said that," Dad said. "No?" I said. "Cool. Cause I've decided to skip the paw print. I'm thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says 'Hot in Here.' No wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys

Did I ever tell you that Alex loves you so much he got your name tattooed all over his body? Hell, he even got your name branded into the back of his neck." "They say 'LB,' Carlos. The initials for Latino Blood." "No, no, no. You've got it all wrong. He wants everyone to think that, but in reality it means Lover of Brittany. LB, get it?

He swapped the fistful of my shirt for one in my hair, and ground his mouth against mine. I exploded. I shoved at him, and clawed him closer. He shoved me back, and yanked me tighter to his body. I pulled his hair. He pulled mine. He didn‘t fight fair. Actually, he fought exactly fair. He didn‘t extend courtesies, not a single one. I bit his lip. He tripped me and pushed me down to the stone floor of the cavern. I punched him. He straddled me. I ripped his shirt down the front, left it hanging in tatters from his shoulders. "I liked that shirt", he snarled. He rose over me, a dark demon, glistening in the torchlight, dripping sweat and blood, his torso covered with tattoos that disappeared beneath his waistband. He grabbed the hem of my shirt, tore it straight up to my neck, and inhaled sharply.

After a week he was moved to a different wing and into a shared six-by-eight with a grizzled old con called Alf. He had faded tattoos that stained most of the visible skin on his hands, arms and neck a dull blue, sharp eyes and a thick beard that made his mouth look like an axe wound on a bear.

Promise me we'll stay together, okay?" His eyes are once again the clear blue of a perfectly transparent pool. They are eyes to swim in, to float in, forever. "You and me." "I promise," I say. Behind us the door creaks open, and I turn around, expecting Raven, just as a voice cuts through the air: "Don't believe her." The whole world closes around me, like an eyelid: For a moment, everything goes dark. I am falling. My ears are full of rushing; I have been sucked into a tunnel, a place of pleasure and chaos. My head is about to explode. He looks different. He is much thinner, and a scar runs from his eyebrow all the way down to his jaw. On his neck, just behind his left ear, a small tattooed number curves around the three-pronged scar that fooled me, for so long, into believing he was cured. His eyes-once a sweet, melted brown, like syrup-have hardened. Now they are stony, impenetrable. Only his hair is the same: that auburn crown, like leaves in autumn. Impossible. I close my eyes and reopen them: the boy from a dream, from a different lifetime. A boy brought back from the dead. Alex.

Oh. My. God. You're Rose Hathaway aren't you?" "Yeah." I said with surprise. "Do you know me?" "Everyone knows you. I mean, everyone heard about you. You're the one who ran away. And then you came back and killed the Strigoi. That is so cool! Did you get molnija marks?" Her words came out in one long string. She hardly took a breath. "Yeah. I have two." Thinking about the tiny tattoos on the back of my neck made my skin itch. Her pale green eyes—if possible—grew wider. "Oh my God. Wow." I usually grew irate when people made a big deal about molnija marks. After all, the circumstances had not been cool. But this girl was young, and there was something appealing about her. "What's your name?" I asked. "Jillian—Jill. I mean, just Jill. Not both. Jillian's my full name. Jill's what everyone calls me." "Right." I said, hiding a smile. "I figured it out." "I heard Moroi used magic on that trip to fight. Is that true? I would love to do that. I wish someone would teach me. I use air. Do you think i could fight Strigoi with that? Everyone says I'm crazy!" For centuries, Moroi using magic to fight had been viewed as a sin. Everyone believed it should be used peacefully. Recently, some had started to question that, particularly after Christian had proved useful in the Spokane escape. "I don't know." I said. "You should talk to Christian Ozera." She gaped. "Would he talk to me?" "If you bring up fighting the establishment, yeah he'll talk to you." "Okay, cool. Was that Guardian Belikov?" she asked, switching subjects abruptly. "Yeah." I swore I thought she might faint then and there. "Really? He's even cuter then I heard. He's your teacher right? Like, your own personal teacher?" "Yeah." I wondered where he was. Talking to Jill was exhausting. "Wow. You know you guys don't even act like teacher and student. You seem like friends. Do you hang out when you're not training?" "Er, well, kind of. Sometimes." I remembered my earlier thoughts, about how I was one of the few people Dimitri was social with outside of his guardian duties. "I knew it! I can't even imagine that—I'd be freaking out all the time around him. I'd never get anything done, but your so cool about it all, kind of like, 'Yeah. I'm with this totally hot guy, but whatever it doesn't matter!'" I laughed in spite of myself. "I think you're giving me more credit than I deserve." "No way. And I don't believe any of those stories, you know." "Um, stories?" "Yeah about you beating up Christian Ozera." "Thanks." I said.

He had a tattoo of a bird on his neck done by someone with an ill-formed notion of their appearance.

He felt a chill on the back of his neck. It was self-doubt, the black beetle that had pursued him all his life, pinching at him, poisoning his every success, whispering in his ear about his flaws and his failures and his unworthiness. He hadn't felt it in months, but the pinprick of its claws was instantly familiar. They informed him with their tiny tattoo that he had almost certainly done something immensely, irrevocably, and unforgivably stupid.

The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved. Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said. Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe. The ragged sound cut through the apartment again. “What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. “I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. “I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.” Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.” “Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?” In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex. “Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.” “She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.” “Can’t you keep her downstairs?” In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me.

Dan was shorter than me, especially as I was wearing sky blue silk stilettos. He appeared to be my age or a few years older,stocky, and thick necked with swirling tattoos just visible beneath the blue collar of his uniform.Dan gave me a plain once over as he walked me to an elevator and placed his palm against a glass screen. The screen retracted to reveal keypad. Dan then punched in a series of numbers and he said- “You’re very big.”I gave him a cursory smile, “Yes. I ate all my vegetables as a child.

I've never had a boy in here," Martin said in a serious voice. "I've never touched another man, as a matter of fact. . . .except for my father. That was my duty." Blomkvist's temples were pounding. He could not put his weight on his feet without being strangled. He tried to use his fingers to get a grip on the concrete wall behind him, but there was nothing to hold onto. "It's time," Martin Vanger said. He put a hand on the strap and pulled down. Blomkvist instantly felt the noose cut into his neck. "I've always wondered how a man tastes." He increased the pressure on the noose and leaned forward to kiss Blomkvist on the lips at the same time that a cold voice cut through the room. "Hey you fucking creep, in this shithole I've got a monopoly on that one.

I smiled and rolled onto my side, bringing my arms around her. She wiggled against me, letting me spoon her, and I swept some sweaty hair away from her neck to kiss beneath her ear. “How do you like your new tattoo?” “I love it. It makes me want to be a bird.” “You already are a bird.” “I don’t get to fly.” “You fly all the time. Haven’t you noticed?

Behind us the door creaks open, and I turn around, expecting Raven, just as a voice cuts through the air: “Don’t believe her.” The whole world closes around me, like an eyelid: For a moment, everything goes dark. I am falling. My ears are full of rushing; I have been sucked into a tunnel, a place of pressure and chaos. My head is about to explode. He looks different. He is much thinner, and a scar runs from his eyebrow all the way down to his jaw. On his neck, just behind his left ear, a small tattooed number curves around the three-pronged scar that fooled me, for so long, into believing he was cured. His eyes—once a sweet, melted brown, like syrup—have hardened. Now they are stony, impenetrable. Only his hair is the same: that auburn crown, like leaves in autumn. Impossible. I close my eyes and reopen them: the boy from a dream, from a different lifetime. A boy brought back from the dead. Alex.

He grabbed something off the floor and held it in front of his hips as he stood up. She drank in the sight of him: The tattooed slave bands around his wrists and neck, the plug in his left earlobe, his black eyes, his skull-trimmed hair. His body was as starkly lean as she remembered, all striated muscles and hard cut veins. And he threw off raw power like a scent.

But YOU hurt me. You ripped my heart out and spat on it.” He grabbed the neck of her blouse and tore it open, then placed a hand on her heart and pushed her against the wall. “Do you have a heart in there or are you just a stone-cold bitch who enjoys screwing with people’s lives?" (Dante speaking to Beth).

I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me. He turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep,but then our eyes meet and it's too late. "Your hands," I croak. "My hands are none of your concern," he replies. He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over me,slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away,I reach out to touch the cut on the side of his lip but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering. What do you have to lose? I ask myself. I touch my fingertips lightly to his mouth. "Tris," he says, speaking against my fingers. "I'm all right." "Why were you there?" I ask, letting my hand drop. "I was coming back from the control room. I heard a scream." "What did you do to them?" I say. "I deposited Drew at the infirmary a half hour ago," he says. "Peter and Al ran. Drew claimed they were just trying to scare you.At least,I think that's what he was trying to say." "He's in bad shape?" "He'll live," he replies. He adds bitterly, "In what condition, I can't say." It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first. But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Drew at the infirmary, and I squeeze Four's arm. "Good," I say.My voice sounds tight and fierce.Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me.I wantt o break something,or hit something, but I am afraid to move,so I start crying instead. Four crouches by the side of the bed, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes.I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free and, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone.His fingers are careful. "I could report this," he says. "No," I reply. "I don't want them to think I'm scared." He nods.He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth. "I figured you would say that." "You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?" "I'll help you." Four grips my shoulder with one hand and holds my head steady with the other as I push myself up.Pain rushes through my body in sharp bursts,but I try to ignore it,stifling a groan. He hands me the ice pack. "You can let yourself be in pain," he says. "It's just me here.

He sighed and grabbed my left arm, examining the tattoo. “What were you thinking? Didn’t you know I’d come as soon as I could?” I yanked my arm from him. “I was dying! I had a fever—I was barely able to keep conscious! How was I supposed to know you’d come? That you even understood how quickly humans can die of that sort of thing? You told me you hesitated that time with the naga.” “I swore an oath to Tamlin—” “I had no other choice! You think I’m going to trust you after everything you said to me at the manor?” “I risked my neck for you during your task. Was that not enough?” His metal eye whirred softly. “You offered up your name for me—after all that I said to you, all I did, you still offered up your name. Didn’t you realize I would help you after that? Oath or no oath?” I hadn’t realized it would mean anything to him at all. “I had no other choice,” I said again, breathing hard. “Don’t you understand what Rhys is?” “I do!” I barked, then sighed. “I do,” I repeated, and glared at the eye in my palm. “It’s done with. So you needn’t hold to whatever oath you swore to Tamlin to protect me—or feel like you owe me anything for saving you from Amarantha. I would have done it just to wipe the smirk off your brothers’ faces.” Lucien clicked his tongue, but his remaining russet eye shone. “I’m glad to see you didn’t sell your lively human spirit or stubbornness to Rhys.

Oh you have a neck tattoo?? Sure I'll have fries with that" -Lorna Daniels (Glass Screams)

Count, or we’ll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for. Unless you’d rather Elide Lochan receive these strokes.” No. Never. Never anyone else but her. Never. But as Cairn walked slowly, savoring each step, as he let that whip drag along the ground, her body betrayed her. Began shaking. She knew the pain. Knew what it’d feel like, what it’d sound like. Her dreams were still full of it. No doubt why Maeve had picked a whipping, why she’d done it to Rowan in Doranelle. Cairn halted. She felt him studying the tattoo on her back. Rowan’s loving words, written there in the Old Language. Cairn snorted. Then she felt him revel in how he’d destroy that tattoo. “Begin,” Maeve said. Cairn’s breath sucked in. And even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there was nothing to prepare for the crack, the sting, the pain. She did not let herself cry out, only hissed through her teeth. A whip wielded by an overseer at Endovier was one thing. One wielded by a full-blooded Fae male … Blood slid down the back of her pants, her split skin screaming. But she knew how to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it. “What number was that, Aelin?” She would not. She would never count for that rutting bitch— “Start over, Cairn,” Maeve said. A breathy laugh. Then the crack and the pain and Aelin arched, the tendons in her neck near snapping as she panted through clenched teeth. The males holding her gripped her firm enough to bruise. Maeve and Cairn waited. Aelin refused to say the word. To start the count. She’d die before she did it. “Oh gods, oh gods,” Elide sobbed. “Start over,” Maeve merely ordered over the girl. So Cairn did. Again. Again. Again. They started over nine times before Aelin finally screamed. The blow had been right atop another one, tearing skin down to the bone. Again. Again. Again. Again. Cairn was panting. Aelin refused to speak. “Start over,” Maeve repeated. “Majesty,

He takes my right hand and places it palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins. 'What are you doing?' He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. 'I worked out a tattoo - if I had one.' I look at what he's done. He's got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it he's written, Her.

He looks different. He is much thinner, and a scar runs from his eyebrow all the way down to his jaw. On his neck, just behind his left ear, a small tattooed number curves around the three-pronged scar that fooled me, for so long, into believing he was cured. His eyes-once a sweet, melted brown, like syrup-have hardened. Now they are stony, impenetrable. Only his hair is the same: that auburn crown, like leaves in autumn. Impossible. I close my eyes and reopen them: the boy from a dream, from a different lifetime. A boy brought back from the dead. Alex.

No hay problema," Orlando agreed. "But you haven't said where?" His eyes grazed over the rumpled tux, Aiden not having thought about where the tattoo might go. Isabel had an answer. "His neck." "My neck?" "Tiene cojones," Orlando said slyly grinning. "Yes, your neck. It'll be your thing, you know, when you're famous--like an insigna. It's sexy and dangerous. Aidan's going to be a famous rock star, Orlando." Aidan admired her confidence. "From her lips ..." "I surely hope, mis amigos, because putting that thing on your neck does not say nine-to-five employment.

No hay problema," Orlando agreed. "But you haven't said where?" His eyes grazed over the rumpled tux, Aiden not having thought about where the tattoo might go. Isabel had an answer. "His neck." "My neck?" "Tiene cojones," Orlando said slyly grinning. "Yes, your neck. It'll be your thing, you know, when you're famous--like an insigna. It's sexy and dangerous. Aidan's going to be a famous rock star, Orlando." Aidan admired her confidence. "From her lips ..." "I surely hope, mis amigos, because putting that thing on your neck does not say nine-to-fice employment.

I used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never appreciated it. I did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the name of religion, until I saw the iron arguments that Christians used. I saw the Thumbscrew—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end a screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of baptism, or may be said, 'I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed a man to keep him from drowning,' then they put his thumb between these pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began to screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, 'I will recant.' Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would have said: 'Stop; I will admit anything that you wish; I will admit that there is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves; but stop.' But there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a hair. There was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for an intellectual conviction. Had it not been for such men, we would be savages to-night. Had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed upon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetich. Let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly, in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be the truth. Heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not recant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumbscrews down to the last pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the fabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of mercy, in the name of Christ. I saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles. This argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured, by these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and suffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, 'I do not believe that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition any of the children of men.' I saw another instrument, called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a circle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the lower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of the victim would be forced. In this condition, he would be thrown prone upon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that insanity would in pity end his pain. I saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass at each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer; others to his wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints, began turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony. And they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. What for? To save his life? Yes. In mercy? No; simply that they might rack him once again. This was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of Christ.

It’s not the tattoos, my dear boy,” Jack’s father said, standing naked before him—the shocking white of William’s hands and face and neck and penis being the only parts of him that weren’t an almost uniform blue-black, some of which had faded to gray. “It’s everything I truly heard and felt—it’s everything I ever loved! It’s not the tattoos that marked me.

Aramaic has no vowels. So MLK spells Moloch.” “Or milk,” Deborah said. “Really, Debs, if you think our killer would tattoo milk on his neck, you need a nap.

watch myself in the mirrors at work constantly. It makes it more interesting. I used to do this ages ago out of worry of my body not looking right. Now I’m curious about what my “work moves” look like, my whiteness with a slash of dark lace underwear, my tattoos (my “permanent epaulets”) in contrast, in profile, my back arching doing a downward dog over the guy’s back before I slide down it, serpentine chin first to rub my cheek against his neck. I think about sex all the time because it’s my job. I want to make room for other stuff. I want to think about other stuff. I think? …it’s strange to watch because it’s really just a long-ago choreographed dance, every time with a different partner. There are slightly different turns and dips, but I can almost do the counts. I feel unfair for offering this processed sex. They don’t care. Maybe I am good enough of an actress, or good enough of an empathy to make it seem authentic. Sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes they catch me watching myself bend and writhe. They usually watch. I watch myself kissing them out of the corner of my eye, to see what it looks like.

Why does everything good happen when I’m not there? I swear, the next time Janie’s hot boyfriend saves ya’ll from neck-tattooed skinheads, ya’ll better wait ‘til I’m done with my shift or else I’m gonna be pissed.

Never have I seen such a motley assemblage of characters. Except that we are at sea, I would believe that I had been abducted by a traveling circus. There are men here of every hue and size, also men whose race cannot be determined due to the indigo tattoos that cover their faces and arms. There are men with bullrings through their noses, with turbans large enough to hide a samovar, with gold thread braided into their hair, with scimitars lashed to their hips; some with teeth sharpened to points, some with no teeth at all. Many of the men have lost fingers, one has no ears, and not a few of them sport blistered patches upon their faces, necks, and forearms.

But before that there’d been summer days in the barn while he rebuilt the Mustang. There’d been John Prine on the radio, the sweet smell of hay baking in the heat, and afternoons filled with her lazy, pointless questions—a never-ending interrogation that was, at turns, tiresome, amusing, and erotic. There’d been her body, tattooed and icy white, with the bony knees and skinny thighs of a long-distance runner. There’d been her breath on his neck.

Adam's gaze quickly shifted from the full tattoo on my face, to the V-neck of my T-shirt and the glimpse of tattooing across my collarbone, down to my palm, which was also covered in the same filigree tattoo. "I didn't know vampyres were getting additional tattooing done. Is your artist here in Tulsa?" I grinned. "Yeah, sometimes. But mostly she's in the Otherworld." I could see he was trying to process what I'd said, so I took the opportunity to blurt, "Hey, you said you don't have a girlfriend, but how about a boyfriend?" "Um, no, I don't have a boyfriend, either. At least not currently." Adam glanced at Damien, who met his gaze. /Success!/ was what I was thinking.

I touch the double row of silver hoop earrings hanging from his left ear, trail along his jawline, his neck, down his shoulder, to the flaming tail of the dragon on his arm. He leans into the caress, and my own body feels on fire with the continued way his eyes gaze upon me. The first moment I saw him, the night people clamored over each other to step out of his way, I was frightened. The guy with earrings and tattoos and an energy radiating danger. Now—inside and out—all I see is beauty.

He came forward, holding his belt by one hand. The holes in it marked the progress of his emaciation and the leather at one side had a lacquered look to it where he was used to stropping the blade of his knife. He stepped down into the roadcut and he looked at the gun and he looked at the boy. Eyes collared in cups of grime and deeply sunk. Like an animal inside a skull looking out the eyeholes. He wore a beard that had been cut square across the bottom with shears and he had a tattoo of a bird on his neck done by someone with an illformed notion of their appearance. He was lean, wiry, rachitic. Dressed in a pair of filthy blue coveralls and a black billcap with the logo of some vanished enterprise embroidered across the front of it.

I skanked deep on Wolt's pipe an' four days march from our free Windward to Kona Leeward seemed like four mil'yun, yay, babbybies o' blissweed cradled me that night, then the drummin' started up, see ev'ry tribe had its own drums. Foday o' Lotus Pond Dwellin' an' two-three Valleysmen played goatskin'n'pingwood tom-toms, an' Hilo beardies thumped their flumfy-flumfy drums an' a Honokaa fam'ly beat their sash-krrangers an' Honomu folk got their shell-shakers an' this whoah feastin' o' drums twanged the young uns' joystrings an' mine too, yay, an' blissweed'll lead you b'tween the whack-crack an' boom-doom an' pan-pin-pon till we dancers was hoofs thuddin' an' blood pumpin' an' years passin' an' ev'ry drumbeat one more life shedded off me, yay, I glimpsed all the lifes my soul ever was till far-far back b'fore the Fall, yay, glimpsed from a gallopin' horse in a hurrycane, but I cudn't describe 'em 'cos there ain't the words no more but well I mem'ry that dark Kolekole girl with her tribe's tattoo, yay, she was a saplin' bendin' an' I was that hurrycane, I blowed her she bent, I blowed harder she bent harder an' closer, then I was Crow's wings beatin' an' she was the flames lickin' an' when the Kolekole saplin' wrapped her willowy fingers around my neck, her eyes was quartzin' and she murmed in my ear, Yay, I will, again, an' yay, we will, again.

There are cameras and mirrors watching us everywhere. I fix my hair and try not to look too drunk. At the checkout stand we line up on the border of sanity holding our passports, our visa cards. Some women will make it. Others will be asked to stay with their carts, they will be given different clothes, lobotomies, and schizophrenic outbursts, until they look like they grew out of the pavement without mothers or fathers. A number will be tattooed on their neck and they will be ushered outside through special doors that never let you back in.

Without looking at him, I said, “Mal, tell me about the tattoo.” He was silent for a time. Finally, he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and said, “It’s an oath in old Ravkan.” “But why take on that mark?” “This time he didn’t blush or turn away. “It’s a promise to be better than I was,” he said. “It’s a vow that if I can’t be anything else to you, at least I can be a weapon in your hand.” He shrugged. “And I guess it’s a reminder that wanting and deserving aren’t the same thing.” “What do you want, Mal?” The room seemed very quiet. “Don’t ask me that.” “Why not?” “Because it can’t be.” “I want to hear it anyway.” He blew out a long breath. “Say goodnight. Tell me to leave, Alina.” “No.” “You need an army. You need a crown.” “I do.” He laughed then. “I know I’m supposed to say something noble—I want a united Ravka free from the Fold. I want the Darkling in the ground, where he can never hurt you or anyone else again.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “But I guess I’m the same selfish ass I’ve always been. For all my talk of vows and honor, what I really want is to put you up against that wall and kiss you until you forget you ever knew another man’s name. So tell me to go, Alina. Because I can’t give you a title or an army or any of the things you need.

It wasn't beautiful people like Celeste who were drawing Jane's eyes, but ordinary people and the beautiful ordinariness of their bodies. A tanned forearm with a tattoo of the sun reaching out across the counter at the service station. The back of an older's man neck in a queue at the supermarket. Calf muscles and collarbones. It was the strangest thing. She was reminder of her father, who years ago had an operation on his sinuses that returned the sense of smell he hadn't realized he'd lost. The simplest smells sent him into rhapsodies of delight. He kept sniffing Jane's mother's neck and saying dreamily, "I'd forgotten your mother's smell! I didn't know I'd forgotten it!

He leaned closer and she swallowed the rest of her words as he pressed a kiss to her lips. He lifted his head slightly and looked into her eyes. She stared back at him, stunned, her heart thudding against her breastbone. He palmed the nape of her neck, and then he was kissing her again, his tongue sweeping into her mouth this time, turning her legs to jelly. She pressed her body against his, her skin on fire, desire beating a tattoo through her veins. His tongue stroked hers gently, provocatively, and she reached out and gripped his shoulders with both hands. After a long, long moment he drew back. “Come home with me?” he asked very quietly, his voice a low husk. Dear God, I thought you’d never ask.

The hairs on the back of her neck tingled and she shivered. She turned toward the door and blinked once. Twice. The sexiest man she'd ever seen in her life stood in the doorway. No, stood wasn't a good word, not with the way his presence filled the shop. Dear Lord, was she panting? His broad shoulders were encased in a suit that had t cost more than her rent, but she didn't care about that. His thick chest tapered into a trim waist and strong thighs. Just the thought of those thighs made her clench her own. He had his hands fisted at his sides, and oh God, those hands. Large, thick and they looked so out of place compared to his classy suit. It looked as if he actually used his hands rather than merely sitting behind a desk as his attire suggested,

Long feathery eyelashes have been planted along her tattooed eye line, and she does routine light therapy on her skin, which glistens cloudy white, like skim milk. Earlier, she was waxing on about the benefits of lotus leaf masks and ceramide supplements for budding neck lines. The only unaltered part of her is surprisingly her hair, which unfolds like a dark river down her back.

He takes my right hand and places it palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins. 'What are you doing?' He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. 'I worked out a tattoo - if I had one.' I look at what he's done. He's got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it he's written, Her.

The bed was swathed in black cotton; turning her head, Danika saw that she was draped by a half-clothed man. He possessed skin of chocolate and honey, taut muscle and ripped sinew. No hair marred his chest, but there was a menacing butterfly tattoo that stretched from one shoulder to the other and up his neck. Menacing butterfly—two words that could be used together to describe only one man. Reyes. “Oh,

We stayed a step behind the three boys. Every once in a while they would turn around and look at us, wondering, I guess, why we were following them. Sometimes they stared openly at Ema. There may have been derision in their eyes, I couldn’t say for sure. Ema was decked out in her customary black—black clothes, black hair, black nail polish, black lipstick. Tattoos ran up and down her arms and across her neck. I

People love to say, “There’s someone for everyone.” It’s one of those ‘feel better’ things your mom tells you after your relationship has crashed and burned, or your normally noncommunicative dad mumbles as he slaps you between your shoulder blades, then announces “good talk.” But it’s mostly true. If you consider how many people are walking around this planet, there has to be someone you could fit perfectly with, right? The person who makes your heart say super-cray things like “I’ll love you forever” and “I can’t wait to meet your parents” and “Oh, sure, let’s definitely get each other’s names tattooed on our necks.” The problem is we spend most of our puny lives chasing someone else’s someone, and, if we’re lucky, we end up with only a third of the time we could’ve spent with the person truly meant for us. That is, if we don’t wind up missing them altogether.

I have something to show you." He sank down next to me and handed me a sketchbook. I opened it. And saw the mermaid. She was drawn in colored ink, exquisitely detailed; each scale had a little picture in it: a pyramid, a rocket, a peacock, a lamp. Her torso was patterened red, like a tattoo, like coral. She had a thin strand of seaweed around her neck, with a starfish holding on to the center. Her hair was a tumble of loose black curls. She had my face. I turned the page.And another and another. There she was fighting a creature that was half human, half octopus. Exploring a cave. Riding a shark. Laughing and petting a stingray that rested on her lap. "I'm calling her Cora Lia for the moment," Alex told me. "I thought about Corella, but it sounded like cheap dishware." "She's...amazing." "She's fierce. Fighting the Evil Sea-Dragon King and his minions." I traced the red tattoo on her chest. "This is beautiful." Alex reached into my sweater, pulled the loose neck of the T-shirt away from my shoulder. I didn't stop him. "It looks like coral to me." He touched me, then,the pad of his thumb tracing the outline of the scar. It felt strange, partly because of the difference in the tissue, but more because in the last few years, the only hands that had touched me there were mine. I set the book aside carefully. "Guess I don't see what you do." "That's too bad, because I see you perfectly." I curved myself into him. "Maybe you're exactly what I need." "Like there's any doubt?" He buried his face in my neck.I didn't stop him. "So." "So?" "We'll kill a few hours, watch the sunrise, have pancakes, and you'll drive home." "What?" I felt him smile against my skin. "I got you swimming with sharks. Next on the Conquer Your Fears list is driving a stick shift.Right?" "One thing at a time," I said. Then, "Oh. Do that again." In another story, the intrepid heroine would have gone running out and splashed in the surf, hypothermia be damned. She would have driven the Mustang home, booked a haircut, taken up stand-up comedy, and danced on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. But this was me, and I was moving at my own pace. Truth: My story started a hundred years ago. There's time.

A horn sounded in the distance and as Stella turned towards the sea to look at the enormous ship that had produced the sound, her gaze was locked on a scene so beautiful that the picturesque beach paled in comparison. A lifeguard was emerging from the water, his orange trunks stuck to his legs and water dripping from all over him. He shook his head to get rid of some of the water in his hair and Stella felt as if everything started developing in slow motion – tiny drops of water slid from his neck down his broad chest and muscular arms, along a weaving tattoo design on his right shoulder, and continued downwards towards his chest and washboard stomach, finally getting lost in his trunks’ waist. A part of another tattoo was peeking over his trunks on his left hip, the other part hidden under them. His golden, tanned skin glistened in the sun and he moved with such grace that a panther would be deemed clumsy next to him. It was a total Baywatch moment.

We could probably go in without invisibility glamours,” said Isabelle, craning her neck to look down the street. “Half these people have more tattoos than we do.” “But none of them are nearly as attractive.” Jace narrowed his eyes as his Farsight rune took effect, following Isabelle’s gaze. Halfway up the line he saw a flash of something bright. Red hair. A girl with bright red hair was standing in line next to a dark-haired boy who was gesturing animatedly. “Well,” he amended. “Almost none of them.

A complete back tattoo, stretching from the collar of the neck down to the tailbone can take one hundred hours. Such extensive tattooing, then, became a test of strength, and the gamblers eagerly adopted the practice to show the world their courage, toughness, and masculinity. It showed, at the same time, another, more humble purpose - as a self-inflicted wound that would permanently distinguish the outcasts from the rest of the world. The tattooing marks the yakuza as misfits, forever unable or unwilling to adapt themselves to Japanese society.

I slide to the floor. I feel something warm on my neck, and under my cheek. Red. Blood is a strange color. Dark. From the corner of my eye, I see David slumped over in his chair. And my mother walking out from behind him. She is dressed in the same clothes she wore the last time I saw her, Abnegation gray, stained with her blood, with bare arms to show her tattoo. There are still bullet holes in her shirt; through them I can see her wounded skin, red but no longer bleeding, like she’s frozen in time. Her dull blond hair is tied back in a knot, but a few loose strands frame her face in gold. I know she can’t be alive, but I don’t know if I’m seeing her now because I’m delirious from the blood loss of if the death serum has addled my thoughts or if she is here in some other way. She kneels next to me and touches a cool hand to my cheek. “Hello, Beatrice,” she says, and she smiles. “Am I done yet?” I say, and I’m not sure if I actually say it or if I just think it and she hears it. “Yes,” she says, her eyes bright with tears. “My dear child, you’ve done so well.” “What about the others?” I choke on a sob as the image of Tobias comes into my mind, of how dark and how still his eyes were, how strong and warm his hand was, when we first stood face-to-face. “Tobias, Caleb, my friends?” “They’ll care for each other,” she says. “That’s what people do.” I smile and close my eyes. I feel a thread tugging me again, but this time I know that it isn’t some sinister force dragging me toward death. This time I know it’s my mother’s hand, drawing me into her arms. And I go gladly into her embrace. Can I be forgiven for all I’ve done to get here? I want to be. I can. I believe it.

Shh! She said. The waiter. He's about to take their order. She leaned back and to her left, closer,closer,closer,her body like a giraffe's neck, until her chair shot out from under her and she landed on the floor. The whole restaurant turned to look. I jumped up to help. She stood up, righted the chair, and started in again. Did you see the tattoo one of them has on the inside of his arm? It looked like a roll of tape. I took a gulp of margarita and settled into my fallback option, which was to wait her out. Know what one of the guys at the drive-through Starbucks has on his forearm? Bernadette said. A paper clip! It used to be so daring to get a tattoo. And now people are tattooing office supplies on their bodies. You know what I say? Of course this was rhetorical. I say, dare not to get a tattoo. She turned around again, and gasped. Oh My God. It's not just any roll of tape. It's literally Scotch tape, with the green-and-black plaid. This is too hilarious. If you're going to tattoo tape on your arm, at least make it a generic old-fashioned tape dispenser! What do you think happened? Did the Staples catalogue get delivered to the tattoo parlor that day?

I got dressed to go hunt for someone, anyone, to help. The elevator door opened. You wouldn’t believe the band of degenerates that tumbled out. They looked like those horrible runaways who gather across from the Westlake Center. There were a half-dozen of them, full of the most unspeakable piercings, neon-colored hair shaved in unflattering patches, blurry tattoos top-to-bottom. One fellow had a line across his neck imprinted with the words CUT HERE. One gal wore a leather jacket, on the back of which was safety-pinned a teddy bear with a bloody tampon string hanging out of it. I couldn’t make this up.

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.

Blessedness is within us all It lies upon the long scaffold Patrols the vaporous hall In our pursuits, though still, we venture forth Hoping to grasp a handful of cloud and return Unscathed, cloud in hand. We encounter Space, fist, violin, or this — an immaculate face Of a boy, somewhat wild, smiling in the sun. He raises his hand, as if in carefree salute Shading eyes that contain the thread of God. Soon they will gather power, disenchantment They will reflect enlightenment, agony They will reveal the process of love They will, in an hour alone, shed tears. His mouth a circlet, a baptismal font Opening wide as the lips of a damsel Sounding the dizzying extremes. The relativity of vein, the hip of unrest For the sake of wing there is shoulder. For symmetry there is blade. He kneels, humiliates, he pierces her side. Offering spleen to the wolves of the forest. He races across the tiles, the human board. Virility, coquetry all a game — well played. Immersed in luminous disgrace, he lifts As a slave, a nymph, a fabulous hood As a rose, a thief of life, he will parade Nude crowned with leaves, immortal. He will sing of the body, his truth He will increase the shining neck Pluck airs toward our delight Of the waning The blossoming The violent charade But who will sing of him? Who will sing of his blessedness? The blameless eye, the radiant grin For he, his own messenger, is gone He has leapt through the orphic glass To wander eternally In search of perfection His blue ankles tattooed with stars.

Trip Advisor: Travel America with Haiku [Texas] Grackles roosting, sentinels on miles of phone line. Don't Mess with Texas. Austin rush hour, "Go down Mopac. You don't wanna mess with I-35." Athens, Texas, Blackeyed Pea Capital of the World. Yup, just another shithole. Killeen, Texas, Kill City, Boyz from Fort Hood. Spending every paycheck. Texas A&M;, Aggies football, the wired 12th man. Too lazy to plant in the Spring. Fredericksburg, Texas. Polka Capital of Texas but I could swear I saw Hitler there. Ft. Worth, Texas, Where the West Begins and a great place to leave. San Antonio, Texas, Fiesta! Alamo City! Northstar Mall! I've been to better tourist traps. Dallas, Texas, D-Town, City of Hate. Don't miss the Galleria. Lubbock, Texas, Oil wells, Hub of the Plains. Stinks like an armpit. Waco, Texas, The Buckle of the Bible Belt. Lossen it up a notch. Neck dragon tattoo, piercings, purple haired kindergarten teacher. Keep Austin weird.

Better check on him,” Cara says, nodding to Tobias. “Yeah,” I say. I cross the room and stand in front of the windows, staring at what we can see of the compound, which is just more of the same glass and steel, pavement and grass and fences. When he sees me, he stops pacing and stands next to me instead. “You all right?” I say to him. “Yeah.” He sits on the windowsill, facing me, so we’re at eye level. “I mean, no, not really. Right now I’m just thinking about how meaningless it all was. The faction system, I mean.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the tattoos on his back. “We put everything we had into it,” he says. “All of us. Even if we didn’t realize we were doing it.” “That’s what you’re thinking about?” I raise my eyebrows. “Tobias, they were watching us. Everything that happened, everything we did. They didn’t intervene, they just invaded our privacy. Constantly.” He rubs his temple with his fingertips. “I guess. That’s not what’s bothering me, though.” I must give him an incredulous look without meaning to, because he shakes his head. “Tris, I worked in the Dauntless control room. There were cameras everywhere, all the time. I tried to warn you that people were watching you during your initiation, remember?” I remember his eyes shifting to the ceiling, to the corner. His cryptic warnings, hissed between his teeth. I never realized he was warning me about cameras--it just never occurred to me before. “It used to bother me,” he says. “But I got over it a long time ago. We always thought we were on our own, and now it turns out we were right--they left us on our own. That’s just the way it is.” “I guess I don’t accept that,” I say. “If you see someone in trouble, you should help them. Experiment or not. And…God.” I cringe. “All the things they saw.” He smiles at me, a little. “What?” I demand. “I was just thinking of some of the things they saw,” he says, putting his hand on my waist. I glare at him for a moment, but I can’t sustain it, not with him grinning at me like that. Not knowing that he’s trying to make me feel better. I smile a little.

His expression was perturbed, as if he’d been reminded of something he had wanted to forget. But as his gaze slid over her bewildered face, his mouth curved a little, and he settled into the cradle of her body with an insolent familiarity that temporarily robbed her of breath. “Mr. Rohan … how … why … what are you doing here?” He replied without moving, as if he were planning to lie there and converse all day. His infinitely polite tone was an unsettling contrast to the intimacy of their position. “Miss Hathaway. What a pleasant surprise. As it happens, I’m visiting friends. And you?” “I live here.” “I don’t think so. This is Lord Westcliff’s estate.” Her heart thundered in her breast as her body absorbed the details of him. “I didn’t mean precisely here, I meant over there, on the other side of the woods. The Ramsay estate. We’ve just taken up residence.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from chattering in the aftermath of nerves and fright. “What was that noise? What were you doing? Why do you have that tattoo on your arm? It’s a pooka—an Irish creature—isn’t it?” That last question earned her an arrested stare. Before Rohan could reply, the other two men approached. From her prone position, Amelia had an upside-down view of them. Like Rohan, they were in their shirtsleeves, with waistcoats left unbuttoned. One of them was a portly old gentleman with a shock of silver hair. He held a small wood-and-metal sextant, which had been strung around his neck on a lanyard. The other, black-haired man looked to be in his late thirties. He wasn’t as tall as Rohan, but he had an air of authority tempered with aristocratic arrogance. Amelia made a helpless movement, and Rohan lifted away from her with fluid ease. He helped her stand, his arm steadying her. “How far did it go?” he asked the men. “Devil take the rocket,” came a gravelly reply. “What is the woman’s condition?” “Unharmed.” The silver-haired gentleman remarked, “Impressive, Rohan. You covered a distance of fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds.” “I would hardly miss a chance to leap on a beautiful woman,” Rohan said, causing the older man to chuckle.

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For Childhood is short—a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day— And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen

Our eyes meet and the look in his gaze is so intense, I shut mine. He pulls me forward and leans into me, his mouth finding mine. He lightly nibbles my bottom lip, and I let out a moan. He whispers into my mouth. "A little bite isn't that bad, is it?" "No," I say. His mouth, his lips, become more ravenous, and our heated breaths become one, his chocolaty and spicy. His hands envelop my jawline as he pulls me into him even more. Our tongues explore each other's, gentle and demanding, and my hands slide down his sides. The kiss is urgent, fervent, and so utterly delicious. I'm clinging onto his back now, light-headed and dizzy. Wild tremors rush down my spine right into my loins. I grip him tighter, about to lose my breath as I breathe him in. He pulls away, groaning softly. "Do you want me to stop?" "No," I say breathlessly. "Let's get comfortable on the couch." I can only nod. He picks me up in his strong muscled arms, and I stroke his tattoo as he carries me into the living room. The next kiss is better and more intense than the first---the kind that makes me see fireworks, the kind that makes me want to explode. Every nerve in my body throbs, the weight of his body pressing against mine, his hardness. My hands explore his back as he kisses my neck. It's like I'm starving and thirsty and I want to eat him, drink him in. This is too good, too much, too delicious. Between the taste of his mouth and his scent, I think I'm going to pass out.

I opened the door with a smile on my face that soon melted when I saw his messy appearance. The doorframe held him up as he leaned all of his weight against it. Expressionless, bloodshot eyes stared back at me as he lifted his hand and ran it roughly down his unshaved face. His hair was disheveled and there was blood on the front of his shirt. Panic rose up as I took him in. I rushed to him and ran my fingers down his body, as I checked for injuries. “You’re bleeding! Oh my God, Devin! What happened? Are you OK?” “It’s not my blood,” he slurred. I took a better look at his gorgeous face. His unfocused eyes attempted to meet mine and it was then that the smell of liquor reached me. “You’re drunk?” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He attempted to move toward me and almost fell over. I wrapped my arms around him and helped him into my apartment. Once we made it to the couch I let him collapse onto the cushion before I went straight to work on his clothes. I removed his blood-stained shirt first and threw it to the side. Quickly checked him over again just to be sure that he wasn’t injured somewhere. His skin felt cold and clammy against my fingertips. His knuckles were busted open, so I went to the bathroom and got a wet towel and the first aid kit. I cleaned his fingers then wrapped them up. I felt fingers in my hair and looked up to see a very drunk Devin staring back at me. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered as his heavy head fell against the back of my couch again. Shaking my head, I dropped onto my knees on the floor and removed his boots. Once I was done getting Devin out of his shoes, I went to the hallway closet and pulled out a blanket for him. When I got back to the couch, he was standing there looking back at me in all his tattooed, muscled glory. He was still leaning a bit to the side when his eyes locked on mine. “Come here,” he rasped. He looked as if he was about to crumble and I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or if something was really breaking him down. “Are you OK, baby?” I asked. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I love it when you call me baby.” I went to him and he groaned as I softly ran my hands up his chest and put my arms around his neck. On my tiptoes, I softly kissed the line of his neck and his chin. “Tell me what happened, Devin.” When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me differently. The calm and collected Devin was gone and an anxiety-ridden shell of a man stood before me. His shoulders felt tense beneath my fingers and his eyes held a crazed demeanor. “I need you, Lilly.” He captured my face softly in his hands as he slurred the words. “Please tell me what happened?” “Make it go away, baby,” he whispered as he leaned in and started to kiss me. I let him as I melted against his body. He collapsed against the couch once more, but this time he took me with him. Not once did he break our kiss, and soon, I felt his velvet tongue against mine. I kissed him back and let my fingers play in the hair at the back of his neck. He broke the kiss and started down the side of my neck. “I need you, Lilly,” he repeated against my skin. “I’m here.” I bit at my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. “Please, just make it all go away,” he drunkenly begged. “I don’t know what’s going on, but tell me what to do to make it better. I want to make it better, Devin.” I stopped him and stared into his eyes as I waited for his response. “Don’t leave me,” he said desperately. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it better.” I wanted to cry. He looked so hurt and afraid. It was strange to see such a strong, confident man so lost and unsure. He flipped me onto my back on the couch and crawled on top of me. His movements were less calculated—slower than usual. “I want you. I need to be inside you,” he said aggressively.

And maybe I was exhausted and broken, but I breathed, 'I killed them.' I hadn't said the words aloud since it had happened. Cassian's lips tightened. 'I know.' Not condemnation, not praise. But grim understanding. My hands slackened as another shuddering sob worked its way through me. 'It should have been me.' And there it was. Standing there under the cloudless sky, the winter sun beating on my head, nothing around me save for rock, no shadows in which to hide, nothing to cling to... There it was. Then darkness swept in, soothing, gentle darkness- no, shade- and a sweat-slicked male body halted before me. Gentle fingers lifted my chin until I looked up... at Rhysand's face. His wings had wrapped around us, cocooned us, the sunlight casting the membrane in gold and red. Beyond us, outside, in another world, maybe, the sound of steel on steel- Cassian and Azriel sparring- began. 'You will feel that way every day for the rest of your life,' Rhysand said. This close, I could smell the sweat on him the sea-and-citrus sent beneath it. His eyes were soft. I tried to look away, but he held my chin firm. 'And I know this because I have felt that way every day since my mother and sister were slaughtered and I had to bury them myself, and even retribution didn't fix it.' He wiped away the tears on one cheek, then another. 'You can either let it wreck you, let it get you killed like it nearly did with the Weaver, or you can learn to live with it.' For a long moment, I just stared at the open, calm face- maybe his true face, the one beneath all the masks he wore to keep his people safe. 'I'm sorry- about your family,' I rasped. 'I'm sorry I didn't find a way to spare you from what happened Under the Mountain,' Rhys said with equal quiet. 'From dying. From wanting to die.' I began to shake my head, but he said, 'I have two kinds of nightmares: the one when I'm again Amarantha's whore or my friends are... And the ones where I hear your neck snap and see the light leave your eyes.' I had no answer to that- to the tenor in his rich, deep voice. So I examined the tattoos on his chest and arms, the glow of his tan skin, so golden now that he was no longer caged inside that mountain. I stopped my perusal when I got to the vee of muscles that flowed beneath the waist of his leather pants.

She said, “Why can’t you see that people care for you?” She said, “I care for you.” “I know that you care. But…” He searched her face. “Anyone would, for a friend.” “You’re more than a friend.” “On the battlefield, you stayed--” “Of course I did.” “You have a strong sense of honor. You always have. I think you think you owe me something.” “I stayed because I love you.” He flinched and looked away. “You don’t mean that.” “Yes, I do.” The night outside seemed to swell against the tent. The lamp smelled like a hot stone. His face slowly opened. He touched her hand as it pressed against his heart. His caress was light, secret, almost unsure of her knuckles, the thin tendons as strong as bone. She felt him become sure. There was no sound when he kissed her. None when she unthreaded the ties of his shirt and found his skin. He grasped her dagger belt, flexed his fingers once around the leather, then simply held on. He whispered something into her mouth that was almost a word. It lost its shape, became something else. He let go. She heard the brush of linen as he drew the shirt over his head, his fingertips grazing the tent’s sloped ceiling as if for balance. His ribs were bound with gauze, his body marked by scars. Old ones, badly healed and raised. Others, pink and fresh. His shoulders bore pale gouges; they looked like sets of claws, almost deliberate, like tattoos. Curious, she touched them. He bit his lip. “That hurts?” “No.” “What is this? What happened?” “I’ll tell you,” he said. “Later.” His hand strayed over her shirt, which was eastern, as Arin’s was, with no collar. Threadbare in places. Frayed at the neck. He worried the cloth there, rubbing it between fingers and thumb. Then he drew her shirt open, and she felt as if reality had grown larger and tremulous: a drop of water on the point of a pin. “Kestrel…I’ve never--” She whispered that this was new for her, too. There was a long pause. “Are you certain you want--” “Yes.” “Because…” “Arin.” “Maybe you--” “Arin.” She laughed, and then so did he, aware that they’d already found the bed. Words had fallen away. Maybe the words lay on the earth, nestled among clothes, curled into the undone dagger belt. Maybe later, language would be recovered and pieced together. Made to make sense. But not now. Now there was touch and taste and sound. When he eased into her, she was glad for the burning lamp, the fuzzy glow of it on his skin. The way it showed the black fall of his wet hair, the flesh and scars that made him. She didn’t look away.

It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?” She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest. “You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.” I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.” “I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself. “What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask. “What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me. “Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.” Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear. “If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way. “Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact. I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes. “Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.” Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed. Friday,

The boy's smile was a mockery of innocence. 'Are you frightened?' 'Yes,' I said. Never lie- that had been Rhys's first command. The boy stood, but kept to the other side of the cell. 'Feyre,' he murmured, cocking his head. The orb of faelight glazed the inky hair in silver. 'Fay-ruh,' he said again, drawing out the syllables as if he could taste them. At last, he straightened his head. ''Where did you go when you died?' 'A question for a question,' I replied, as I'd been instructed over breakfast. ... Rhys gave me a subtle nod, but his eyes were wary. Because what the boy had asked... I had to calm my breathing to think- to remember. But there was blood and death and pain and screaming- and she was breaking me, killing me so slowly, and Rhys was there, roaring in fury as I died. Tamlin begging for my life on his knees before her throne... But there was so much agony, and I wanted it to be over, wanted it all to stop- Rhys had gone rigid while he monitored the Bone Carver, as if those memories were freely flowing past the mental shields I'd made sure were intact this morning. And I wondered if he thought I'd give up then and there. I bunched my hands into fists. I had lived; I had gotten out. I would get out today. 'I heard the crack,' I said. Rhys's head whipped toward me. 'I heard the crack when she broke my neck. It was in my ears, but also inside my skull. I was gone before I felt anything more than the first lash of pain.' The Bone Carver's violet eyes seemed to glow brighter. 'And then it was dark. A different sort of dark than this place. But there was a... thread,' I said. 'A tether. And I yanked on it- and suddenly I could see. Not through my eyes, but- but his,' I said, inclining my head toward Rhys. I uncurled the finger of my tattooed hand. 'And I knew I was dead, and this tiny scrap was all that was left of me, clinging to the thread of our bargain.' 'But was there anyone there- were you seeing anything beyond?' 'There was only that bond in the darkness.' Rhysand's face had gone pale, his mouth a tight line. 'And when I was Made anew,' I said, 'I followed that bond back- to me. I knew that home was on the other end of it. There was light then. Like swimming up through sparkling wine-' 'Were you afraid?' 'All I wanted was to return to- to the people around me. I wanted it badly enough I didn't have room for fear. The worst had happened and the darkness was calm and quiet. It did not seem like a bad thing to fade into. But I wanted to go home. So I followed the bond home.' 'There was no other world,' the Bone Carver pushed. 'If there was or is, I did not see it.' 'No light, no portal?' Where is it that you want to go? The question almost leaped off my tongue. 'It was only peace and darkness.' 'Did you have a body?' 'No.' 'Did-' 'That's enough from you,' Rhysand purred- the sound like velvet over sharpest steel. 'You said a question for a question. Now you've asked...' He did a tally on his fingers. 'Six.' The Bone Carver leaned back against the wall and slid to a sitting position. 'It is a rare day when I meet someone who comes back from true death. Forgive me for wanting to peer behind the curtain.

sidewalk, passed out next to his friend. “Who are these guys?” her oversized companion asked. Abigail held up the arm of one of the men and showed it to Elliott. On the back of his hand was an image of two winged dragons on either side of a fleur-de-lis. “Does that answer your question?” she asked. Elliott said nothing but instinctively reached up and touched the tattoo on his large neckTogether, Abigail and Elliott, dragged the unconscious men away from the store and down a narrow side walkway. Inside the store, Uncle Al settled his transaction with the clerk, folded up the now empty blanket and placed it back in his satchel. He tucked the satchel under his arm and stepped out the door, carefully looking up and down the street before heading on his way. Back in the confines of the narrow walkway,

Do I need an attorney or something? Because really, I feel like a criminal. I mean I could have had my cellmate’s name tattooed on my neck in Old English lettering for as long as I’ve been in here.

Don’t know.” Milo crumpled the schedule and tossed it in the trash. Then he bent down to pet a passing poodle that promptly bared his pointy white teeth and growled. “Sorry,” said the owner—a hipster in skinny jeans with a tattoo of a dragon on his neck and a bowler hat on his head. “He’s kind of a jerk sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” “I won’t,” Milo replied, standing up straight again. The jerky poodle reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what. Oh, wait—that’s it. Dog walking! “I’ve got to walk Nofarm this afternoon!” I said. “But it’s Saturday,” said Milo. “Don’t you take weekends off?” “Usually, but Nofarm’s family just moved, so they asked me for this special favor.

Hopefully he’s got a good view of the tattoo on the back of my neck, the one I did myself last year using ink from a pen I found in the laundry and a shard of metal, telling him and anyone else that cares to read it to FUCK OFF.

Probably?” I said, and I really was surprised. Everything pointed to the kid with the neck tattoo, and Deborah was dithering.

Miss Burel?" In one second flat, Genevieve's thoughts died and her entire body went up in flames. Standing on her rickety porch, with the chipped white paint and the sweet double swing, was the owner of that deep, demanding baritone. Genevieve stared at him like a mole who had just seen the sun for the first time. Hot, blinding and impossible to turn away. She was sure she had never met him before. She would have remembered if she had. Her gaze moved over him. Yes. This male in dark blue jeans and a worn, black leather jacket wasn't someone you walked past without either staring, double-taking or running into a tree. He was so tall his head grazed the roof of the porch, and so broad across the chest, the white T-shirt he wore strained against all that muscle. But it wasn't just his size and fierce manner that had her skin vibrating with awareness, or the thick, dark hair, or the light dusting of stubble around his mouth - or, God, even those incredible liquid amber eyes that equally mocked and studied her. No. It was the brightly colored tattooed skull interwoven with tribal markings that covered his collarbone and ran up the length of his neck.

I was just a friendly thirty-four-year-old TV actress looking for a boyfriend who didn’t have a neck tattoo.

He had a warrior’s body, all lean muscles and strength. Her hands tingled even though she carefully skirted his bicep. When he realized what she was doing, he caught her hand, brought it back up, and placed it directly over his tattoo. “I can protect you from that, now that I know you’re sensitive to it.” After a few seconds, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “I am sorry that happened, Lena. That darkness is my burden to carry. You shouldn’t have to share it.” She twined her hands behind his neck and leaned into him, pleasing them both with the press of her breasts against his chest. “We all have darkness that haunts us, Sandor. Yours may be worse than most, but I have a few nightmares of my own.” He sat back on his haunches and lifted her to straddle his lap. “Then share them with me. Maybe I can ease them for you.” She shot him an incredulous look and gave his erection a long, low stroke. “You want to trade bad memories right now?” “Actually, no.” His chuckle was low and rough. “Remind me later.

Why do you have Pete’s name tattooed on your neck?” I ask. He grins widely. “When we were twelve, our dad still couldn’t tell us apart. So, he decided to tattoo our names on our necks.” He smiles even more broadly. “When he sat us down in the chair, he asked which one I was, and I said Pete. And then he put my name on Pete’s neck. Our mom was so angry. You have no idea.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I kind of like it.” “I do, too.

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.

I want to show you something,” I say. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be angry at me.” She’s suddenly on guard. “Why? What is it?” I turn my wrist over and point to her tattoo on my inner wrist. It’s a bare spot I’d been saving for something special. She leans toward it, and all of her breath rushes from her body. I can feel it across my hand when she exhales. “That’s my tat,” she says. She takes my hand in hers and lifts it toward her face. “Are you angry?” I ask. She looks up at me briefly and then back down at the tattoo. She’s taking in every facet of it. Her hand trembles as she holds tightly to mine. “You changed it.” “I felt like you needed a way out.” I put it on my wrist because I was intrigued by the secrets inside. It’s art, and I appreciate art in all its forms. She swallows. Hard. Then her eyes start to fill with tears. She blinks them back for as long as she can. And then she gets up and runs toward the bathroom. Shit. Now I fucked up. I made her cry. She runs by the waitress, who startles. The waitress starts in my direction, a sway in her hips, but I get up and follow Kit. I stop outside the door to the ladies’ room and press my hand against it. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. She’s in there crying, and I obviously can’t hear her to be sure she’s all right. Fuck it. I’m not leaving her in there upset. I push through the door, and I don’t see any feet in the stalls when I bend over. Where the fuck did she go? I push doors open, but the last one is locked. I stand up on my tiptoes and look over the top. She’s standing there with her forearms pressed against the wall, her head down between her arms, and her back is shaking. She’s crying. I knock on the stall door and say, “Let me in, Kit.” The door doesn’t open. I step back onto my tiptoes and look over. She’s still crying. “Let me in,” I repeat. She doesn’t move, so I walk into the stall next to hers and stand up on the toilet. I rock the partition between the stalls gently. It might hold my weight. There’s only one way to find out. I hoist myself up and over the wall, bringing my legs over the top slowly and carefully, and then I hop down. Before I can reach for her, she’s in my arms, her hands sliding around my neck. She’s still sobbing, and her body shakes against mine. I tilt her face up because I can’t see her lips to tell if she’s saying anything to me or not. I need to apologize. I didn’t expect her to get so upset. I’ll have it covered up with something else if it bothers her this much. My heart twists inside my chest. I really fucked up. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, looking down into her face. Her cheeks are soaked with tears, and she freezes, looking up at me. I can feel her like a heartbeat in my chest. She steps on the toes of my boots and then rocks onto her tiptoes. She pulls my head down with a hand at the back of my neck. Her brown eyes are smoldering, and black shit is running down her cheeks again, but I don’t care. She’s never looked more beautiful to me. I hold her face in my hands and wipe beneath her eyes with my thumbs. Her breath tickles my lips, and she leans even closer. She’s standing on my fucking boots, and I don’t care. She can do whatever it takes to get closer to me. “Why did you do it?” she asks, moving back enough that I can see her lips. I already told her: I thought she needed a way out. All I added to the tattoo was a keyhole right in the center of the guitar. It’s a simple design really. “I don’t know,” I say. I want to explain it to her, but I can’t. Not right now.

She looks up at me, a soft smile on her lips as she sees me in the mirror. I walk up behind her and put my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you cry,” I say. She shakes her head and talks to me in the mirror. “No one has ever done anything like that for me before,” she says. Her eyes fill up with tears again, and I’m sorry that I came out of the stall. I’ll go back in there if she’ll stop crying, but I’m not leaving her. I can see that now. I’m not leaving her, no matter what. “The lock?” I ask. She’s leaning back against me, and she wraps her arms over mine. She nods. She wipes her eyes with a paper towel, swiping the black makeup from under her eyes. Her face is splotchy, but she’s never looked more beautiful. For that one split-second, she isn’t hiding anything from me. “The minute I saw the tattoo I knew it needed to be changed. I’m sorry if I defiled your art.” She could take exception to my change, but I have a feeling she doesn’t. “It’s perfect,” she says. She lifts my arm from around her waist and looks down at it. “It’s perfect,” she repeats, sniffling. “I don’t know how to tell you what I’m feeling.” I’m the one with the hearing impairment, and she can’t tell me something? I laugh and lift her hair from her neck and press my lips there. “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. She turns around and cups my face in her palm, her hand stroking across my five-o’clock shadow. I take her hands in mine and lift them to my lips, kissing them one by one. Then I look into her eyes and open my mouth to ask her the one question I need to know the answer to. “What’s your name?” I ask. She freezes. It’s like there’s suddenly a wall between us, and I haven’t even let her go. “No,” she says. I feel like she’s kicked me in the gut. I let her go and take a step back. “Why not?” I ask. “I just can’t,” she says. I nod and let myself out of the bathroom. My legs are shaking. The waitress shoots me a glance as I walk back to the table. I sit down. Kit’s still in the bathroom, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever going to come out. Her guitar is still under the table. So, she has to come back, right?

Who is Aaron?” “He and I own a tattoo place,” Cooper said, wrapping me in his arms. “I shelled out the cash and he’s the artist. Known him since middle school. Solid guy and he’ll make sure you’re safe.” I wasn’t sure what my face did, but a smiling Cooper caressed my cheek. “He’s not scary. Yes, he’s sporting a snake up his neck and a shaved head, but the guy’s the real sensitive type. Probably writes poetry.

If you die, I’m dating your corpse.” “I’m being cremated.” “I’ll date your urn.” “My urn already has a boyfriend. They’re really serious too.” Cooper laughed against my neck then wrapped himself around my waist, swallowing me up with his warm embrace. “My pop has my mom’s name on his wrist,” Cooper whispered against my cheek. “Underneath, he has my name along with the lesser crap kids he got stuck with.” “I’m in college,” I blurted out. “Yeah, I remember you mentioning that.” “Tattoos. Kids. Dating my corpse. Seems serious.” Leaning back, Cooper adjusted me so I rested against his chest. “I always planned to settle down when I was an old fart like my pop. Meet some cute piece of jailbait and make a few bad seeds plus one decent kid I could trust with the family business. Instead, here I am not even done with college with a tattoo of my girl’s name on my wrist.” “You could change your mind.” “I won’t. You’re a keeper.” “I could change my mind,” I said, wiggling my brows at him. “Who would you replace me with? Seriously, look around and see what shit pickings you have to choose from. I’m the best you’ll ever do, baby.” “You are pretty sexy. Tall too. Yeah, I can see keeping you around.” A grinning Cooper glanced at Aaron. “I’m so whipped.” “It’s pretty nauseating, yeah.

I don’t give a shit who you think she can see. I am her best friend. Let me in there.” Drea’s protest carried down the hallway. Cujo stood up, smoothing down the legs of his jeans. He took a deep breath, and creaked his neck from left to right. “I’ll go get the feisty one,” he said, flipping his head in the direction of Drea’s raised voice.

She had white-blond hair cut pixie-short, and a black rose tattoo on the nape of her neck. From behind I could see she had one of those dainty cartoon frames: curvy hips, tiny waist, and mysteriously, no shoulders. I could probably bench-press her.

His lips and tongue and teeth attacked my neck and throat as he worked me, teasing me, torturing me with softness and hardness combined, lust and power and submission. I wanted him. I needed him.

The photos showed a light-complexioned black man with cornrows, a prison tattoo around his neck—ragged dashes and a caption that said, “Fill to dotted line”—and three or four facial scars, along with a nasty jagged scar on his scalp. A photo taken from his right side demonstrated the effects of being shot in the ear with a handgun with no medical insurance. Some intern had sewn him up and sent him on his way, and now his ear looked like a pork rind.

Up ahead, a shadowy building loomed. It looked more like a gothic cathedral than a school, with grossly elongated black spires jutting into the night sky. They unnerved Tony. Somehow, they resembled horns silhouetted against the moon. He counted ten of these protuberances, each with an arrowhead as its tip. Tony found the structure difficult to make his mind up about. It was beautiful, that was for sure, but its beauty was intermingled with an ill-masked sense of horror. The black exterior had a pair of peculiar projections on either side of the building resembling a bat's wings. His feet on concrete now, he pulled up to a webbed gate— also reminiscent of a bats with the hind, bone-like array supporting an oily black, translucent texture. He saw some girls a few dozen feet from the gate at the entrance of the building. They were garbed in black sailor fuku skirts too high above the knees to facilitate concentration upon anything academic. The males were also dressed in black corduroy pants and black dress shirt. A throng by the massive doors stared holes through them as they approached. Up close, he noted some of the girls were quite pale, sporting piercings and tattoos on their necks and hands. He even saw one with a spider web inked on the side of her face. When he followed Silver Man into the building— his toes squeaking in his soaked shoes—he was awed by the aesthetics. There was a rather large gathering in the hall that looked more like large shadows with all the children in black. Tony felt out of place in his brown pants and long sleeved white shirt. The hall was bleak; the only source of illumination was a pair of horizontal cylindrical lamps set upon wooden rafters near the ceiling. Silver Man proceeded toward the platform where Tony could just make out the form of a thin man donning a monocle. He looked like an old scientist. He was sitting cross-legged, stroking his chest-length pearl white beard. The man appeared to be watching them as they progressed through the hall. Then he stood as they neared the stage, now caressing his bald head. He had a monkish appearance. His black robe— quite similar to the one Silver Man wore— was tied at the waist by a red cloth. The bald, monocled man extended a spindly hand which Silver Man gave a firm tug before leaning in and whispering something. The man nodded, turning to Tony. Tony flinched as he regarded him through his peculiar eyewear: a single gold-rimmed, circular lens. He now folded himself into an accentuated bow. "Listen up folks!" he shouted. Tony saw the students rushing inside the castle pell-mell, summoned by the voice of the bespectacled man. “We have a late recruit ladies and gentlemen,” the man said. His voice was much stronger than his thin frame suggested. “Join me as I induct him into the hallowed spirit of Imajinaereum.

The massive wardrobe, decorated with stickers and posters of Jack’s favourite bands, stood in the corner. I went to it and opened both the doors – then stepped back in amazement.   It was like something out of a fashion spread. Footwear was aligned in two perfectly straight lines along the bottom of the wardrobe, with boots at the back and shoes at the front. Each pair was polished and had a pair of socks folded up in the left shoe or boot. Above the shoes, Jack’s clothes were hung up on fancy padded hangers, organized by colour going from black through grey, white, pale pink, dark pink, purple and then blue. One quarter of the wardrobe was taken up with closet shelves, where every item, from T-shirts to jeans to scarves, was folded into a perfect geometric square that I wouldn’t have been able to achieve with two helpers, a ruler, and sticky tape.   I turned my head and looked at the chaos of the room. Then I looked back at the wardrobe.   No wonder she never let me see inside before.   “Jack, you big fat fake.” I let out a laugh that was half sob. “Look at this. Look! She’s the worst neat freak of them all, and I never even knew. I never even knew…”   Trying not to mess anything up too much, I searched through the neat piles of T-shirts until I found what seemed to be a plain, scoop-necked white top with short sleeves. I pulled it out, but when I unfolded it, there turned out to be a tattoo-style design on the front: a skull sitting on a bed of gleaming emeralds, with a green snake poking out of one eyehole. In Gothic lettering underneath, it read WELCOME TO MALFOY MANOR.   Typical Jack, I thought, hugging the shirt to my chest for a second. Pretending to be cool Slytherin when she’s actually swotty Ravenclaw through and through.

I didn’t think you were coming back until later,” he says. He eyes me up and down but not in a creepy way. “Who’s your friend?” he asks. He sticks out a hand to shake, and I take it. “I’m Paul,” he says. He’s huge, and he has even more tattoos than Pete does. There’s another guy behind him. He’s thin and has long, blond hair, and it’s held back with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. “Matt,” he says as he sticks out his hand to shake. Then I notice a guy and a girl sitting on the couch. She’s the blonde I saw at the prison, and she eyes me with the gaze of an antiques dealer, as if she’s looking for all my imperfections. “Emily,” she says with a little wave. “Logan,” she says, as she pats Logan on the chest. He extends his hand, and I take it. But there’s one more, and my breath catches in my throat when he steps out from behind Logan. He looks so much like Pete. He has to be Sam. I look from Pete to Sam and back. “I’m the pretty one,” Sam says. He reaches out like he wants to hug me, but I recoil. I can’t help it. I’ve come a long way, but not that far. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says with a nod. I extend my hand, and instead of shaking it, he lifts it to his lips. His short little moustache tickles the back of my hand. I twist my fingers out of his grip, and Pete glares at him. “Keep your fucking hands off my girl,” he growls. But then he opens his arms, and Sam falls into them. They hug the way men do, with lots of backslapping and murmured words. “I’m glad you’re here,” Pete says. “You called. I came. Like a good big brother.” “Eight minutes,” Pete growls playfully. He drops an arm around my shoulders. “He was born eight minutes before me and he thinks he’s the shit because he’s older.” He coughs into his fist. “Excuse me. I am the shit.” He grins. He looks so much like Pete that it’s almost disturbing. “I think you’re both shits,” Paul says as he goes to fridge and gets a beer.

Beneath had his arm slung around a woman’s neck. She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo-infested skinhead—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the Jerry Springer show. Both

Myron put the phone back in his pocket and crossed the path. Dog Collar had his hands jammed into his pants pockets as though he was searching for something that had pissed him off. His shoulders were hunched. He had a tattoo on his neck—Myron couldn’t tell what it was—and he was pulling on his cigarette as though he meant to finish it with one inhale. “Hey,

I love you, Harper.” His hands reached up but he only cupped her hips, letting her continue on her journey. She pressed a kiss to the scar across his right deltoid, an old injury from one of his first deployments, then his left collarbone, broken on a training trip to California. Then, moving carefully, she pressed kisses to the new scar still healing on his chest. That one had been too close to taking his life. Thank goodness he had been able to receive medical care as quickly as he did. Cat moved down Harper’s muscled abs and the slim line of black hair there. “I think everything about you is beautiful.” He puffed out a little laugh but she looked up at him with reproach. “I do. Your body is superb, even wounded. It always has been. That’s why I always have to beat the nurses off you.” She flashed him a grin. “Your mind is devious and brilliant, but I love that. The loyalty to your family and your men is humbling.” She stroked a finger over the tattoo that echoed those sentiments on his right pectoral. “Your unfailing courage in the face of everything that has happened is astounding. I know whatever we have to face you will conquer with that same indomitable, dogged, Navy SEAL will. And your heart,” she moved back up his chest to press a kiss to his sternum, “your heart is more loving and willing to try than I ever could have hoped. We’re going to put our family back together,” she promised. Harper stared up at her for several long seconds before he closed his eyes, but not before she’d seen the shine of moisture in their depths. He pulled her down on top of him, burying his face into her neck. “You are every bit the woman you’ve always been, calm and understanding, willing to put up with my shit. And I have to tell you. All of those things you see in me? I wouldn’t be any of them without you. And I mean that. You’ve supported me through everything. You flew across the country to be at my bedside even though you didn’t know the kind of reaction you’d receive. It amazes me that you would take that chance. But I’m so glad you did. I love you, Catherine Marie Preston. I always have.” She flashed a smile at the use of her full name. “And I love you, Harper Broderick Preston. I always will.” They

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.

Tomcat,” he said. “Help Jon out of his clothing.” Jon’s heart hit a new peak rate as he watched Tom turn around and look at him intently. He was absolutely gorgeous, and terribly intimidating; the tattoos on his bronze skin outlined and enhanced Tom’s musculature, making him seem even more brawny than he was, while his green-blue eyes recalled the warm waters of the tropics. Though Tom was staring at him with open desire, there was also the hint of how completely astounded and still somewhat skeptical of the situation he was. Jon wanted to recapture those stolen moments during the storm, but with the captain present, how were they supposed to… “Tom?” repeated Baltsaros from the bed. Tom stepped forward as if pushed, and he grinned despite the tension in the room. Ducking his head, he reached for the front of Jon’s grey shirt and undid the laces holding the neck closed. When he saw the terrible scar on Jon’s chest, Tom’s eyes flicked up to his in concern; Jon just shook his head and smiled grimly. Later. Tom’s brows came down, and he suddenly leaned forward to capture Jon’s mouth with his own, urgent and protective. The bigger man’s hands came around him as he savaged Jon’s lips and yanked his shirt free of his pants; Tom released him only long enough to pull it over his head before pressing himself hard against Jon again. Jon was flooded with relief. He had not been wrong about Tom’s feelings for him.

A person au fait with the millenarian edict of knowing oneself does not need a tattoo, pierced ear, or gaudy neck chains to declare who they are. Eccentricity for its own sake is simply a boring fashion statement and not a thoughtful statement of what comprises a wholesome self. A self-poised person does not need to own a luxury car to determine their degree of self-worth. Nor does a self-determined person need to idolize celebrities, hate other people whom they do not wish to exemplify, or live vicariously through other people’s admirable deeds. A person with unique and contented self-identify does not flip through fashion magazines or scan the headlines of gossip magazines when loitering in the supermarket checkout stand. A person who contemplates the meaningfulness of their existence is not fixated with posing in other people’s raiment or observing other people’s nakedness. A person who knows who they are and realizes how to accomplish all of their life goals does not dally by people watching or become distracted by envying other people.

A chill fog had blanketed the world the night before, seeping in through every nook and cranny. Nestled under layers of quilts and down blankets, Aelin rolled over in bed and stretched a hand across the mattress, reaching lazily for the warm male body beside hers. Cold, silken sheets slid against her fingers. She opened an eye. This wasn’t Wendlyn. The luxurious bed bedecked in shades of cream and beige belonged to her apartment in Rifthold. And the other half of the bed was neatly made, its pillows and blankets undisturbed. Empty. For a moment, she could see Rowan there—that harsh, unforgiving face softened into handsomeness by sleep, his silver hair glimmering in the morning light, so stark against the tattoo stretching from his left temple down his neck, over his shoulder, all the way to his fingertips. Aelin loosed a tight breath, rubbing her eyes. Dreaming was bad enough. She would not waste energy missing him, wishing he were here to talk everything through, or to just have the comfort of waking up beside him and knowing he existed. She swallowed hard, her body too heavy as she rose from the bed. She had told herself once that it wasn’t a weakness to need Rowan’s help, to want his help, and that perhaps there was a kind of strength in acknowledging that, but … He wasn’t a crutch, and she never wanted him to become one. Still, as she downed her cold breakfast, she wished she hadn’t felt such a strong need to prove that to herself weeks ago. Especially when word arrived via urchin banging on the warehouse door that she’d been summoned to the Assassins’ Keep. Immediately.

Powerful, rough hands under her shoulders, the world tilting and spinning, then that tattooed, snarling face in hers. Let him take her head between those massive hands and snap her neck. “Pathetic,” he spat, releasing her. “Spineless and pathetic.” For Nehemia, she had to try, had to try— But when she reached in, toward the place in her chest where that monster dwelled, she found only cobwebs and ashes.

I would have you beside me,” he told her huskily. “But you promised to take me home.” The stallion nickered and sidestepped, pulling both of them off balance. Hunter released the horse to catch her, his arm encircling her waist. Loretta snapped taut when his hard thighs pressed intimately against hers. He bent his head and nuzzled her hair, his breath sifting through the strands to her scalp. A shiver ran through her. For a moment she struggled against him, but then she felt as if an invisible web were entwining itself around her, the silken threads binding her so she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She closed her eyes, wildly afraid, of him and what he was making her feel. She tried desperately to conjure an image of her mother, anything to break the spell. Perhaps he knew how to be gently persuasive after all. She knew she should pull away, yet an unnameable something held her transfixed. His mouth trailed to the slope of her neck, sending tingles down her spine. A treacherous languor stole into her limbs. Heat spread through her belly. For an instant she wanted to lean against him, to let his wonderfully strong arms mold her to his length. The shock of his hand on her bare back brought her to her senses. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. She tried to arch away from him and succeeded only in accommodating his mouth when her head fell back. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat a rapid tattoo. His callused palm slid slowly but inexorably to her side, his thumb feathering against the underside of her breast. Horrified, she groped for his wrist, her fingers finding feeble purchase through the leather. “Ah, nei mah-tao-yo,” he whispered. “You tremble.

Because right after I realized that at some point Hawke had removed his wedding band and was now wearing it on a chain around his neck, I saw the new tattoo on his chest, right above Revay’s. The tattoo that was a perfect replica of the picture I’d taken so long ago of the two birds I’d hoped to one day follow to freedom.

flanked by two incredibly bulky nurses who dwarfed her. One nurse had a black eye, and ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ tattooed on her knuckles. The other had a tattoo of a spider’s web on her neck and what looked like stubble on her chin. Both scowled at the boy. They were the ugliest nurses you could ever hope to meet. Jack’s eyes darted to their name badges – ‘Nurse Rose’ and ‘Nurse Blossom’. Miss Swine was twirling what at first glance looked like a baton. Holding it in one hand, she then rhythmically tapped the palm of her other. The effect was one of quiet menace. At one end of the baton were two little

You are a little chubby - doesn't matter. You are a little skinny - doesn't matter. You don't know any table etiquette - doesn't matter. You prefer jeans over tuxedo - doesn't matter. You have tattoos all over your body - doesn't matter. You don't have a tag hanging from your neck saying religious - doesn't matter. What matters is, how you behave with those whom the society has placed at the bottom of its egotistical, megalomaniacal and barbaric hierarchy of class and pedigree.

I’d never really had much of an opinion on whether I thought tattoos were that much of a deal breaker when ogling a guy but…from the heat that had flamed up my neck, I was a fan. A big, season ticket holding fan.

Jared felt as though he hadn't seen Kota in years. His cousin had neatened his haircut to better show his neck tattoo and wore strategically ripped jeans and a T-shirt that indicated how much workouts meant to him.

He was such a powerful man, strong enough to break my neck with a twist of his tattooed hands, but instead, he’d only shackled me with one. He let me feel all that considerable violence leashed tenuously by his control.