“
That's what I've been for years. An unsister. An undaughter. An unperson. A girl with a hole for a life. How appropriate to have my tongue cut out, when silence has been my refuge and my cage.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
I suppose that if you speak long enough into the void, someone is bound to start listening.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
I am obnoxious to each carping tongue/ Who says my hand a needle better fits./ A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong/ For such despite they cast on female wits;/ If what I do prove well, it won't advance,/ They'll say it's stolen, or else, it was by chance.
”
”
Anne Bradstreet
“
A small smile turns up a corner of my mouth. I feel the sharpness of my teeth and roll my tongue over them. For the first time, I like the feeling.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
That alone made me want to find every Richelieu in the world and kiss them. With tongue.
”
”
Alyxandra Harvey (Stolen Away)
“
How appropriate to have my tongue cut out, when silence has been my refuge and my cage.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
With her eyes still closed, she looked right into my face, and said, “Tell the man in the hall…he needs to leave.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Why are you here?” I wanted to give him a snarky answer to compete with his responses. Something like, I wanted to eat stolen apples and read books all weekend. But I held my tongue. Maybe if he learned more about me, he’d realize I just wanted to leave.
”
”
Kasie West (By Your Side)
“
Whatever it was that had found us at the cabin had followed us home.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
To behold Queen Gwenhwyvar and the Lady of the Lake together was to peer too long into the sun's brilliant dazzle, to feel the heart lurch in the breast for yearning, to have the words stolen from the tongue before the lips could speak them.
”
”
Stephen R. Lawhead (Arthur. Un re nella leggenda (Il Ciclo di Pendragon #3))
“
Fear has a lot of flavors and textures. There's a sharp, silver fear that runs like lightning through your arms and legs, galvanizes you into action, power, motion. There's heavy, leaden fear that comes in ingots, piling up in your belly during the empty hours between midnight and morning, when everything is dark, every problem grows larger, and every wound and illness grows worse. And there is coppery fear, drawn tight as the strings of a violin, quavering on one single note that cannot possibly be sustained for a single second longer—but goes on and on and on, the tension before the crash of cymbals, the brassy challenge of the horns, the threatening rumble of the kettle drums. That's the kind of fear I felt. Horrible, clutching tension that left the coppery flavor of blood on my tongue. Fear of the creatures in the darkness around me, of my own weakness, the stolen power the Nightmare had torn from me. And fear for those around me, for the folk who didn't have the power I had.
”
”
Jim Butcher (Grave Peril (The Dresden Files, #3))
“
INEZ: To forget about the others? How utterly absurd! I feel you there, in every pore.Your silence clamours in my ears. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out - but you can't prevent your being there. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I'm certain you hear mine. It's all very well skulking on your sofa, but you're everywhere, and every sound comes to me soiled because you've intercepted it on its way. Why, you've even stolen my face; you know it and I don't ! And what about her, about Estelle? You've stolen her from me, too; if she and I were alone do you suppose she'd treat me as she does? No, take your hands from your face, I won't leave you in peace - that would suit your book too well. You'd go on sitting there, in a sort of trance, like a yogi, and even if I didn't see her I'd feel it in my bones - that she was making every sound, even the rustle of her dress, for your benefit, throwing you smiles you didn't see... Well, I won't stand for that, I prefer to choose my hell; I prefer to look you in the eyes and fight it out face to face.
”
”
Jean-Paul Sartre (No Exit)
“
I sit in the moon-viewing pavilion, the hem of my sleeves wet from tears, and I cannot see for the grief has stolen my eyes, and I cannot speak for the grief has stolen my tongue.
”
”
Nghi Vo (When the Tiger Came Down the Mountain (The Singing Hills Cycle, #2))
“
The believer and the atheist live inside of me together.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Don’t!” she yelled, slapping the back of my head. “Aren’t you the one who loves horror movies? You’re gonna get cursed or something, stupid.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
I don't know what I want.' The words come out a whisper, too true by half.
'Destruction and ruin,' she says with a clack of her tongue. 'I can practically smell it on you.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
I do not need a tongue for her to read the rage in my eyes.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
Tristan?”
He turned his face to me, and it was streaked with tears. I wanted to wipe them away, tell him that everything would be all right, but my body was locked stiff with pain.
“Promise me you’ll get better,” he whispered. “Tell me you’ll grow strong again. That you’ll gallop on horseback through summer meadows. Dance in spring rains and let snowflakes melt on your tongue in winter. That you’ll travel wherever the wind takes you. That you’ll live.” He stroked my hair. “Promise me.”
Confusion crept over me. “You’ll be with me, though. You’ll do those things too?”
He kissed my lips, silencing my questions. “Promise me.”
“No,” I said, struggling against him.. “No, you said you were coming with me. You said. You promised.” He had to be coming with me - he said he was and Tristan couldn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie.
He got to his feet and stepped into the water. I tried to struggle, but he was too strong. “Tristian, no, no, no!” I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I tried to hold on to him, but my fingers wouldn’t work. The cold of the water bit into my skin and I sobbed, terrified. “You said you would never leave me!”
He stopped, the weight of his sorrow greater than any mountain. “And if I had the choice, I never would. I love you, Cécile. I will love you until the day I take my last breath and that is the truth. “ He kissed me hard. “Forgive me.
”
”
Danielle L. Jensen (Stolen Songbird (The Malediction Trilogy, #1))
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
There is a brief moment at night when the brain is neither awake nor asleep, but somewhere in between. In that moment, I sometimes hear things – distant voices or odd sounds.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Destruction and ruin,” she says with a clack of her tongue. “I can practically smell it on you.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
But the state tells lies in all the tongues of good and evil; and whatever it says it lies—and whatever it has it has stolen. Everything about it is false;
”
”
Friedrich Nietzsche (The Portable Nietzsche)
“
Then I taste his lips and his tongue, I breathe in his scent, and it’s gasoline on an open flame. I’m the wood, he’s the accelerant. No matter how much we burn, we’re never used up.
”
”
Sophie Lark (Stolen Heir (Brutal Birthright, #2))
“
I’m scared,” I whisper to myself. Because it’s true. Because I need to know if my tongue belongs to me and will say the things I need I mean it to. “I’m so tired. I’m so tired of being scared.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
Faye rolled toward me so that our noses touched. Her eyes were open and rolled far back in her head. She smiled and ran a fingernail across my cheek, pretending to carve ribbons of flesh. She reminded me of a butcher delicately assessing a filet. “They’re gonna kill you,” she whispered–then licked my face.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Objects, too, have trickled through the doors between worlds, blown by strange winds, drifting on white-frosted waves, carried and discarded by careless travelers- even stolen, sometimes. Some of them have been lost or ignored or forgotten- books written in foreign tongues, clothes in strange fashions, devices with no use beyond their home worlds- but some of them have left stories in their wakes. Stories of magic lamps and enchanted mirrors, golden fleeces and fountains of youth, dragon-scale armor and moon-streaked broomsticks.
”
”
Alix E. Harrow (The Ten Thousand Doors of January)
“
Stolen Moments
What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory—an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge—
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels in
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.
Kim Addonizio, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems. (W. W. Norton & Company; unknown edition, August 17, 2005)
”
”
Kim Addonizio (What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems)
“
Our rental car was now encased in a brick of ice, waiting to be chipped free by future archaeologists.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
talking in her sleep, Faye invited dark attention to herself. I suppose that if you speak long enough into the void, someone is bound to start listening.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
I tended to group people into two groups: one that values politeness over honesty, and the other exactly opposite.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
The moment I cracked the door open, a blast of frigid mountain air stung my face. It burned the last bit of sleep from my eyes and sharpened all my senses.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
A man can only stare at the shadows for so long before they drive him insane.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
She's stolen his tongue as well as his heart. All his words are for her. He can spare none for us.
”
”
Patrick Rothfuss (The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1))
“
The possibility of vomiting becomes subconscious; I don’t really think about it anymore. I simply fear everything
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
It was nigh impossible to understand Howard's speech under normal circumstances. He favored a pidgin of his lost African tongue and slave talk. In the old days, her mother had told her, that half language was the voice of the plantation. They had been stolen from villages all over Africa and spoke a multitude of tongues. The words from across the ocean were beaten out of them over time. For simplicity, to erase their identities, to smother uprisings. All the words except for the ones locked away by those who still remembered who they had been before. "They keep 'em hid like precious gold," Mabel said.
”
”
Colson Whitehead (The Underground Railroad)
“
when a Native group is forced out of its homeland, the people sometimes forget their stories. History itself is lost. “What’s worse, they leave behind the places where their dead are buried – their mothers and fathers.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Wren?' he says. 'Talk to me.'
I don't reply. What would be the point? I know he will twist me around his finger with words. I know that if I give him half the chance, love-starved creature that I am, I will be under his spell again. With him, I am forever a night-blooming flower, attracted and repelled by the heat of the sun.
'Let me explain,' he calls to me. 'Let me atone.'
I bite the tip of my tongue to keep myself from snapping at him. He meant to keep me ignorant. He tricked me. He lied with every smile. With every kiss. With the warmth in his eyes that should have been impossible to fake.
I'd know what he was capable of. Over and over, he'd shown me. And over and over, I believed there would be no more tricks. No more secrets.
Not anymore.
'You have good cause to be furious. But you couldn't have lied, had you known the truth. I was afraid you'd have to lie.' He waits, and when I say nothing, rolls into a sitting position. 'Wren?'
I can see the leather straps running across his cheeks. If he wears the bridle long enough, he'll have scars.
'Talk to me!' he shouts, standing and coming to the bars. I see the gold of his hair, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the glint of his fox eyes. 'Wren! Wren!'
Coward that I am, I flee. My heart thundering, my hands shaking. But I can't pretend that I don't like the sound of him screaming my name.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
As I turned to leave, an inky form clambered up from the staircase and into the hallway, then moved into the spare room where I’d been working. The thing skittered like a human-sized spider, each limb moving independently and jutting from a rigid body.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
He had won. He could release her at any time. But her lips... those soft, sweet petals were parting tremulously at the touch of his tongue, and she was granting him entry to the warmth of her mouth. He thrust boldly inside, wanting but one taste of her. Only one.
”
”
Shelly Thacker (Forever His (Stolen Brides, #2))
“
I put the withered leaf in my mouth first. Then I place the bone on the cut root where my tongue used to be, close my eyes, and concentrate. Immediately, I feel as though my chest is being squeezed, as though my ribs are cracking.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong with me.
I fall to my knees, palms pressed against the ice of the floor. Something seems to twist inside my chest, then split, like a fissure opening in a glacier. The hard knot of my magic, the part of me that has felt in danger of unravelling when I push myself too hard, splits completely apart.
I gasp, because it hurts.
It hurts so much my mouth opens on a scream I cannot make. It hurts so much that I black out.
...
With astonishment, I realise my tongue is in my mouth. It feels odd to have it there. Thick and heavy. I cannot decide if it is swollen of if I am just oddly conscious of it.
'I'm scared,' I whisper to myself. Because it's true. Because I need to know if my tongue belongs to me and will say the things I mean it to. 'I'm so tired. I'm so tired of being scared.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
For those few stolen minutes, she found she could let go, second by second, of everything that haunted her until her mind was empty as a scoured bowl and all she knew was flavor on her tongue, air against her face, the small, dazzling details of her scrap of world.
”
”
Marisa de los Santos (I'll Be Your Blue Sky (Love Walked In, #3))
“
And then I kiss her. Her lips are parched from dancing. I lick those lips, tasting the salty skin, and then I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and I lick every part of that, too—teeth, tongue, palate. I inhale her scent and her taste. I fuck her mouth with my tongue.
”
”
Sophie Lark (Stolen Heir (Brutal Birthright, #2))
“
lower her to my side and pull her against me so that her head is resting on my jacket. Her breath tastes like starburst and it makes me want to keep kissing her until I can identify every single flavor. Her hand touches my arm and she gives it a tight squeeze just as my tongue slips inside her mouth. That would be strawberry on the tip of her tongue. She keeps her hand on my arm, periodically moving it to the back of my head, then returning it to my arm. I keep my hand on her waist, never once moving it to touch any other part of her. The only thing we explore is each other’s mouths. We kiss without making another sound. We kiss until the alarm sounds off on my phone. Despite the noise, neither of us stops kissing. We don’t even hesitate. We kiss for another solid minute until the bell rings in the hallway outside and suddenly lockers are slamming shut and people are talking and everything about our moment is stolen from us by all the inconvenient external factors of school. I still my lips against hers, then slowly pull back. “I have to get to class,” she whispers. I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Me, too,” I reply. She begins to scoot out from beneath me. When I roll onto my back, I feel her move closer to me. Her mouth briefly meets mine one more time, then she pulls away and stands up. The second she opens the door, the light from the hallway pours in and I squeeze my eyes shut, throwing my arm over my face. I hear the door shut behind her and by the time I adjust to the brightness, the light is gone again. I sigh heavily. I also remain on the floor until my physical reaction to her subsides. I don’t know who the hell she was or why the hell she ended up here, but I hope to God she comes back. I need a whole hell of a lot more of that. • • • She didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, today marks exactly a week since she literally fell into my arms, and I’ve convinced myself that maybe that whole day was a dream. I did stay up most of the night before watching zombie movies with Chunk, but even though I was going on two hours of sleep, I don’t know that I would have been able to imagine that. My fantasies aren’t that fun. Whether she comes back or not, I still don’t have a fifth period and until someone calls me out on it, I’ll keep hiding out in here. I actually slept way too much last night, so I’m not tired. I pull my phone out to text Holder when the door to the closet begins to open. “Are you in here, kid?” I hear her whisper. My heart immediately picks up pace and I can’t tell if it’s that she came back or if it’s because the
”
”
Colleen Hoover (Finding Cinderella (Hopeless, #2.5))
“
Surely you would not insult me with such a lack of extravagance?”
I am at a loss. Even if she could see into my dreams, she would find no garment of the sort she would have me imagine. “I don’t know what I want.” The words come out a whisper, too true by half.
“Destruction and ruin,” she says with a clack of her tongue. “I can practically smell it on you.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help thinking of the satisfaction I felt wrecking the glaistig’s spells. Sometimes it feels as though there’s a knot inside me, and were it to come apart, whatever emerged would be all teeth.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
Oak puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing my back to the wall.
'Pretend with me,' he whispers. And then he presses his mouth to mine.
A soldier kissing one of the serving girls. A bored ex-falcon attempting to amuse himself. Oak hiding our faces, giving us a reason to be overlooked. I understand the game.
This is no declaration of desire. And yet, I am rooted in place by the shocking heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the way one of his hands goes to the ice wall to brace himself and the other to my waist, and then to the hilt of my knife as they draw closer.
He doesn't want me. This doesn't mean he wants me. I repeat that over and over as I let him part my lips with his tongue. I run my hands up his back under his shirt, letting my nails trail over his skin.
I have been trained in all the arts of a courtier. Dancing and duelling, kissing and deceiving.
Still, I am gratified when he shudders, when the hand he was bracing with lifts to thread through my hair, to cup my head. My mouth slides over his jaw to his throat, then against his shoulder, where I press the points of my teeth. His body stiffens, his fingers gripping me harder, pulling me closer to him. When I bite down, he gasps.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
The face that Moses had begged to see – was forbidden to see – was slapped bloody (Exodus 33:19-20)
The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his brow…
“On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on – he grants the warrior’s continued existence. The man swings.
As the man swings, the Son recalls how he and the Father first designed the medial nerve of the human forearm – the sensations it would be capable of. The design proves flawless – the nerves perform exquisitely. “Up you go!” They lift the cross. God is on display in his underwear and can scarcely breathe.
But these pains are a mere warm-up to his other and growing dread. He begins to feel a foreign sensation. Somewhere during this day an unearthly foul odor began to waft, not around his nose, but his heart. He feels dirty. Human wickedness starts to crawl upon his spotless being – the living excrement from our souls. The apple of his Father’s eye turns brown with rot.
His Father! He must face his Father like this!
From heaven the Father now rouses himself like a lion disturbed, shakes His mane, and roars against the shriveling remnant of a man hanging on a cross.Never has the Son seen the Father look at him so, never felt even the least of his hot breath. But the roar shakes the unseen world and darkens the visible sky. The Son does not recognize these eyes.
“Son of Man! Why have you behaved so? You have cheated, lusted, stolen, gossiped – murdered, envied, hated, lied. You have cursed, robbed, over-spent, overeaten – fornicated, disobeyed, embezzled, and blasphemed. Oh the duties you have shirked, the children you have abandoned! Who has ever so ignored the poor, so played the coward, so belittled my name? Have you ever held a razor tongue? What a self-righteous, pitiful drunk – you, who moles young boys, peddle killer drugs, travel in cliques, and mock your parents. Who gave you the boldness to rig elections, foment revolutions, torture animals, and worship demons? Does the list never end!
Splitting families, raping virgins, acting smugly, playing the pimp – buying politicians, practicing exhortation, filming pornography, accepting bribes. You have burned down buildings, perfected terrorist tactics, founded false religions, traded in slaves – relishing each morsel and bragging about it all. I hate, loathe these things in you! Disgust for everything about you consumes me! Can you not feel my wrath?
Of course the Son is innocent He is blamelessness itself. The Father knows this. But the divine pair have an agreement, and the unthinkable must now take place. Jesus will be treated as if personally responsible for every sin ever committed.
The Father watches as his heart’s treasure, the mirror image of himself, sinks drowning into raw, liquid sin. Jehovah’s stored rage against humankind from every century explodes in a single direction.
“Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me?!”
But heaven stops its ears. The Son stares up at the One who cannot, who will not, reach down or reply.
The Trinity had planned it. The Son had endured it. The Spirit enabled Him. The Father rejected the Son whom He loved. Jesus, the God-man from Nazareth, perished. The Father accepted His sacrifice for sin and was satisfied. The Rescue was accomplished.
”
”
Joni Eareckson Tada (When God Weeps Kit: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty)
“
Faye rolled toward me so that our noses touched. Her eyes were open and rolled far back in her head. She smiled and ran a fingernail across my cheek, pretending to carve ribbons of flesh. She reminded me of a butcher delicately assessing a filet. “They’re gonna kill you,” she whispered – then licked my face.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Nothing human remained in her gaze now; I was staring into the eyes of a wolf, and they looked up at me with terrifying glee. She seemed to recognize me, but not in the way that two people who live in the same house recognize each other. It was as though I’d been missing a thousand years, and she had finally found me.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
You know when you’re a kid and you see a shadow on your wall at night, and it looks like a monster? Or when you see animals in the clouds? That’s pareidolia. And it happens with sound, too. The wind blows through a cave or something just right, and people think they hear a voice. Your brain even makes words out of it, in
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Dear lady,' says a faerie, coming toward us from a shop that sells jewels. He has the eyes of a snake and forked tongue that darts out when he speaks. 'This hairpin looks as though it were made for you.'
It's beautiful, woven gold and silver in the shape of a bird, a single green bead in its mouth. Had it been in a display, my eyes would have passed over it as one of a dozen unobtainable things. But as he holds it out, I can't help imaging it as as mine.
'I have no money and little to trade,' I tell him regretfully, shaking my head.
The shopkeeper's gaze goes to Oak. I think he believes the prince is my lover.
Oak plays the part, reaching out his hand for the pin. 'How much is it? And will you take silver, or must it be the last wish of my heart?'
'Silver is excellent.' The shopkeeper smiles as Oak fishes through his bag for some coins.
Part of me wants to demur, but I let him buy it, and then I let him use it to pin back my hair. His fingers on my neck are warm. It's only when he lets go that I shiver.
He gives me a steady look. 'I hope you're not about to tell me that you hate it and you were just being polite.'
'I don't hate it,' I say softly. 'And I am not polite.'
He laughs at that. A delightful quality.
I admire the hairpin in every reflective surface we pass.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
You know when you’re a kid and you see a shadow on your wall at night, and it looks like a monster? Or when you see animals in the clouds? That’s pareidolia. And it happens with sound, too. The wind blows through a cave or something just right, and people think they hear a voice. Your brain even makes words out of it, in the language you know best.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
they leave behind the places where their dead are buried – their mothers and fathers. The dead are bound to that place, and have returned to the land there. Because of this, Natives who are forced out of their homelands no longer have connections to their ancestors, and thus, to the spirit world. Their medicines no longer work. Their prayers are no longer
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
As my hands slid over the misshapen lumps of his face, I felt his bones shift and slide. I felt a mouth too wide to be human, and wet, sticky lips that draped across a hundred jagged fangs. And then it was over. The bastard had had enough. He took off on all fours, shrieking like a banshee in five different voices. He barreled up the kitchen wall and out the window, disappearing into the night.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
FATHER FORGETS W. Livingston Larned Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside. There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor. At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!” Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive—and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father! Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped. You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs. Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years. And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed! It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy—a little boy!” I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
”
”
Dale Carnegie (How To Win Friends and Influence People)
“
The sun is high, the day hot, and she lays the dress out in the grass to dry, sinks onto the slope besides it in her shift. They sit, side by side in silence, one a ghost of the other. And she realizes, looking down, that this is all she has.
A dress. A slip. A pair of stolen shoes.
Restless, she takes up a stick and begins to draw absent patterns in the silt along the bank. But every stroke she makes dissolves, the change too quick to be the river's doing. She draws a line, watches it begin to wash away before she even finishes the mark. Tries to write her name, but her hand stills, pinned under the same rock that held her tongue. She carves a deeper line, gouges out the sand, but it makes no difference, soon that groove is gone, too, and an angry sob escapes her throat as she casts the stick away.
”
”
Victoria E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
“
And they spoke of their Antigonie, who they called Go, as if she were a friend.
Leo hadn't yet written any music, but he had made drawings on butcher paper stolen from the kitchen. They curled around his walls, intricate doodles, extensions of the boy's own lean, slight body. The shape of Leo's jaw in profile, devestating. The way he gnawed his fingernails to the crescents, the fine shining hairs down the center of his nape, the smell of him, up close, pure and clean, bleaching.
The ones made for music are the most beloved of all. Their bodies a container for the spirit within; the best of them is music, the rest only instrument of flesh and bone.
The weather conspired. Snow fell softly in the windows. It was too cold to be out for long. The world colorless, a dreamscape, a blank page, the linger of woodsmoke on the back of the tongue.
”
”
Lauren Groff (Fates and Furies)
“
As the shadowy figure beat down on me, I freed a hand and clawed at his face, searching for eyes to gouge out. A row of teeth caught my fingers and bit down hard on them, and then I felt a mixture of blood and saliva drip down my forearm. I screamed and threw a wild elbow, rallying my strength as it collided with a wet smack against the creature’s jaw. He howled in pain and relented just long enough for me to get to my feet.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
In a single lunge, he covered fifteen feet and knocked the wind right out of me with a brutal head-butt. I toppled backward and crash-landed on the floor near the front door, my neck and shoulders bearing most of the impact. He was on me in an instant, unleashing a barrage of blows to my head. He raked my chest with razor-like claws. I tried my best to defend myself, but it was so dark in the house that I couldn’t see where the strikes came from.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
When he meets my eyes, his expression is anguished. He cannot help me.
I fight as they press me down to the floor. Bite when they try to pry open my mouth.
But it's all for nothing. Two soldiers hold my wrists, and a third hooks a barbed instrument through the end of my tongue. He pulls it taut.
Then a fourth begins slicing through it with a curved dagger.
The sharp, searing pain makes me want to cry out, but I cannot with my tongue nailed in place. My mouth goes from dry from being held open to full of blood. Flooded with it. Gagging. Drowning. I choke as they release me, the scream dying in my throat.
Scarlet flows over my chin. When I move, flecks of red fly.
The pain swallows me whole so that I barely can concentrate, but I know I am losing too much blood. It spills from between my lips, slicks my neck, stains the collar of my dress. This is going to kill me. I am going to die, here on the ice floor of the Citadel.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
She was crawling around on the floor, laughing and smiling with her eyes rolled back in her head. She gurgled and hacked a clot of phlegm from her throat, then stuck her tongue out and flicked it around, mouthing words I couldn’t begin to understand. “Faye?” I called. “What the fuck are you doing?” She loosed a wet cough, then dashed out from the room and zig-zagged her way toward me. Her arms and legs flailed wildly in exaggerated lunges and her head rolled about like a bowl on a stick.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
But hours later, near the approach of dawn, Faye sat straight up in bed and sucked in a huge breath. The sound woke me up, and I instinctively grabbed the trashcan I'd set near the bed, preparing to catch a volley of barf. Instead, she grabbed my arm with surprising strength. With her eyes still closed, she looked right into my face, and said,
"Tell the man in the hall...he needs to leave."
Petrified, I slipped away from her grasp and peeked out the door into the long hallway. There was no one.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Picture a summer stolen whole from some coming-of-age film set in the small-town 1950s. This is none of Ireland's subtle seasons mixed for a connoisseur's palate, watercolor nuances within a pinch-sized range of cloud and soft rain; this is summer full-throated and extravagant in a hot pure silkscreen blue. This summer explodes on your tongue tasting of chewed blades of long grass, your own clean sweat, Marie biscuits with butter squirting through the holes and shaken bottles of red lemonade picnicked in tree houses. It tingles on your skin with BMX wind in your face, ladybug feet up your arm; it packs every breath full of mown grass and billowing wash lines; it chimes and fountains with birdcalls, bees, leaves and football-bounces and skipping-chants, One! two! three! This summer will never end. It starts every day with a shower of Mr. Whippy notes and your best friend's knock at the door, finishes it with long slow twilight and mothers silhouetted in doorways calling you to come in, through the bats shrilling among the black lace trees. This is Everysummer decked in all its best glory.
”
”
Tana French (In the Woods (Dublin Murder Squad, #1))
“
Surely you would not insult me with such a lack of extravagance?”
I am at a loss. Even if she could see into my dreams, she would find no garment of the sort she would have me imagine. “I don’t know what I want.” The words come out a whisper, too true by half.
“Destruction and ruin,” she says with a clack of her tongue. “I can practically smell it on you.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help thinking of the satisfaction I felt wrecking the glaistig’s spells. Sometimes it feels as though there’s a knot inside me, and we’re it to come apart, whatever emerged would be all teeth.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
He covered her mouth with his ---and she felt as if she had suddenly been enveloped in a cascade of sparks. The tingling warmth from his touch did not compare to the sensations that whirled through her as his lips moved over hers. It was as if every part of her body had at once become brilliantly alive.
His beard was a startling, silky roughness against her skin. His other hand came to rest at her waist, drawing her in tight, and her body seemed to meld to his hard, lean lines, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her thoughts scattered. A sound escaped her, soft and deep, unlike any sound she had ever made in her life.
Then his tongue touched her lower lip and she gave a startled little squeak.
Her suddenly lifted his mouth from hers, his eyes midnight blue, his voice husky. "You have never even been kissed before, leannan. You are as innocent as the day you first set foot in the convent.
”
”
Shelly Thacker (His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides, #1))
“
Even if I hadn’t a gag of magic in my mouth, I wouldn’t have dared spoken.
Tristan peered at me as though I were a curious insect. “She isn’t mute, is she? That would be dreadful.” He leaned back against the chair, his strange eyes fixed on me. “On second thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be dreadful at all. I hardly need another woman in my life telling me what to do, and it would mean I could do all the talking and she the listening.”
“Perhaps our mistake was in not finding you a deaf one,” Marc said. “And her name is Cécile de Troyes, which you very well know, so quit pretending otherwise.”
“Thank you, cousin. It was on the tip of my tongue. Now Mademoiselle de Troyes, tell us your thoughts. Astound us with your wit.”
“Mmmmm hmmmm,” I mumbled around the gag.
“Could you repeat that?” he said, coming closer. “Afraid I didn’t quite catch the punch line.” A slender finger caught me under the chin, lifting my face. He frowned. “Release her, Aunty.”
“She tried to run.”
A noise of exasperation passed his lips. “To where? There is nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Binding her is unnecessary.”
His flippancy made my heart sink – the very idea of my escape was so improbable to him that it was little more than a jest.
I felt power brush over my skin, and I dropped to numb feet. If not for Marc taking hold of my arm, I’d have sprawled across the carpets in front of them all.
”
”
Danielle L. Jensen (Stolen Songbird (The Malediction Trilogy, #1))
“
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside. There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor. At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, ‘Goodbye, Daddy!’ and I frowned, and said in reply, ‘Hold your shoulders back!’ Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive – and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father! Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. ‘What is it you want?’ I snapped. You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs. Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding – this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years. And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed! It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: ‘He is nothing but a boy – a little boy!’ I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much. Instead of condemning people, let’s try to understand them. Let’s try to figure out why they do what they do. That’s a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism; and it breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness. ‘To know all is to forgive all.
”
”
Dale Carnegie (How to Win Friends and Influence People)
“
Glaring, I snarled, “Kiss me. Give me one fracture of human company, and I’ll never say another word to you again. I’ll be whatever you want. Just kiss me!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re an idiot.” “So you keep telling me.” “You’re wasting your time.” “So you keep telling me.” “I don’t want to kiss you!” I lashed out. My arms came up. I opened my palm. And I slapped the self-righteous, egotistical arsehole on the cheek. The moment went from lust-heavy to stagnant with violence. We stared, caught dead centre in war. “You’re a fucking nightmare,” he snapped. “Kiss me.” “You’re ruining my life.” “Kiss me.” “You’re—” “Kiss me, Jethro. Kiss me. Just fucking kiss me and give me—” His body crashed against mine. His hands flew up, grabbing my cheeks and holding me firm. His lips, oh his lips, they bruised mine as his head tilted, and with pure anger, he gave me what I’d wanted for weeks. He kissed me. My lungs were empty—he’d stolen all my air, but I no longer survived on oxygen. I survived on his mouth, his taste, his unbridled energy pouring down my throat. His tongue tore past my lips, taking me savage and hungry. There was nothing sweet or gentle. This was a punishment. A reminder that I hadn’t won. He wasn’t kissing me. He was fighting me in every underhanded way. His hands dropped from my cheeks, cupping my breasts. The violence in his touch throbbed instantly. I arched my back, opening my mouth wider to scream, but he swallowed my cries, kissing me deeper, harder, stealing every inch of sanity I had left. I thought a kiss would put me on even ground—show him that he did care. That he was human—just like me. I hadn’t gambled on being detonated into a billion tiny pieces that had no notion of who I’d been before he’d stolen my soul. He backed me up, faster and faster to the bed. His breath saturated my lungs. His touch skated from my cheeks, to my breasts, to my waist, to my arse. Jerking me hard against the huge length of arousal in his jeans. The bed stopped our motion, tumbling us onto the sheets, but nothing, absolutely nothing could unweld our lips. We were joined, kissing, frantic, desperate. He groaned as I slid my hands beneath his t-shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine. He was blood and fire and heat. So different to the glacier he pretended to be. “Fuck,” he grunted
”
”
Pepper Winters (First Debt (Indebted, #2))
“
Boy Lost
Picture a sunset in a small port town by the sea. Two teenaged boys sitting on the docks watching the ships as they fly across the water. One reaches out and takes the other’s hand. In this brush of skin for skin, a thousand unspoken promises erupt between them, and both are determined to keep them. This is what youth is. The sheer belief that you will be able to keep every promise you made to someone else. That you will be able to love someone into a forever when you do not even understand what forever means.
An evening spent in the headiness of love, they go back to their respective homes. One boy helps his mother with cooking and cleaning and looking after his little sister. His father is a good man, a sailor who brings home with him meagre wages, but a heart full of love and a quicksilver tongue that tells stories of faraway lands to enthral them all. But this boy, despite his blessings, is not happy. He may have been blessed with a loving family, but that faraway look is made of unrest and wanderlust, something about him says fae, changeling, wearing the skin of a boy who was always destined to fly, to leave.
The other boy returns home to a father who drinks and a mother who works so hard that she is never there. He is the unwanted creature in this home, a beating waiting for him at every corner. His father’s temper is a beast so powerful that a boy made of paper bones barely held together cannot fight him. He hides in his room. He lives for a boy at sunset, hope made into a human being.
Now picture this. This boy of paper bones alone at the docks the next sunset. And this boy alone on the docks again on a rainy day. And this boy alone on the docks every day after, waiting for someone who promised him forevers he never intended to keep. This boy becoming a man, a heart wounded so young in youth that it never quite healed right. Imagine him becoming a sailor, searching land after land for a boy he once loved, thinking he was hurt, or stolen, just needing to know what happened to him.
Now see him finally finding out that the boy he loved in his boyhood ran away to a magical land where he never grew up. That without a second glance, he just forgot every promise of forever. Imagine his rage, that ancient pain turning to a terrible anger and escaping from the forgotten attic of his mangled heart. Think of what happens when immense love turns into immense hate. An anger so intense it cannot be controlled. What he would give up to avenge the boy he once was, paper-boned, standing on the docks, broken without a single person to love him, simply all alone. A hand is a small price to pay for a magical ship that will take him to Neverland, a place that lives on a star. Becoming a villain called Captain Hook is a small exchange to show Peter Pan that you cannot throw away love and think you will get away unscarred.
”
”
Nikita Gill (Fierce Fairytales: Poems and Stories to Stir Your Soul)
“
Ophelia was surprised by how easily she lied. She had two stolen keys in her pocket, and the lies were sliding off her tongue. Soon, she'd probably be shoplifting. She expected that was how it started.
”
”
Karen Foxlee (Ophelia and the Marvelous Boy)
“
Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.
Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.
Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.
But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
”
”
Ted Hughes
“
His body pressed against mine while he deepened the kiss. Tongues collided and breath was stolen. My senses were consumed completely by this man who bewildered me with his complexity. One minute I hated him, the next I wanted to know every damn thing about him. I wanted to slap him, kiss him, yell at him, comfort him, understand him, tell him to fuck off. But in that moment all I wanted to do was kiss him forever.
”
”
Nina Levine (Nitro's Torment (Sydney Storm MC, #2))
“
I want to go home very badly.”
Loretta fixed her gaze on her captor’s medallion. All around her, the smell of his world permeated her senses, leather, dust, smoke, and unidentifiable foods. She was probably out of her mind to trust him. But, oh, how she wanted to. Home. To Aunt Rachel and Amy. It was a fact that he hadn’t lied to her--except for the time he had promised to cut out her tongue and hadn’t. She couldn’t very well hold that against him.
She scooped up a handful of nuts and berries, taking a small amount into her mouth. The sweet taste of honey washed over her tongue, activating her salivary glands. Her stomach growled in response. He heard the sound and cocked an eyebrow.
“It is good?”
“Mm,” she said, taking another bite and brushing her palm clean on her bloomers. “Delicious.”
“Dee-lish-us?”
For the space of a heartbeat she forgot to be afraid of him, and a smile spread across her lips before she realized it was coming. When he smiled back at her, the strangest feeling swept over her, an inexplicable warmth. He had smiled at her before, of course, but never like this.
“Delicious,” she repeated. “That means very good, much better than just good.”
His smile didn’t fade, and she found herself fascinated. On a civilized man, that lopsided grin of his could have been heart-stopping. His sharply defined lips lifted lazily at one corner to reveal gleaming white teeth, deep creases bracketing his mouth. Not the face of a killer, surely.
The mood shattered when he reached out to touch her cheek. The sudden movement made her recoil, reminding her of who he was and what he was. That he considered her his property. Because she jerked away, he settled for capturing a lock of her hair, twining it through his fingers.
“You are dee-lish-us. Like sunshine, eh?”
Unnerved by the gleam that had stolen into his eyes, Loretta caught hold of his hand to disentangle it from her hair. Just because there were no scalps in his lodge didn’t mean he was above taking one if the mood struck. “Only things you can taste are delicious.”
The moment the words passed her lips, she recalled how he had nibbled at her neck. Heat crept up her nape. As if he guessed her thoughts, his gaze dropped to her throat. She found herself longing for her homespun dress with its mutton sleeves and high neckline.
Mischief danced in his eyes. Or was it a trick of the light? “This Comanche is not a Tonkowa, a People Eater.
”
”
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
“
Okay. In that case, it’s nice to meet you. Can you make my fiancée stop doing Satanic shit in her sleep?
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
they leave behind the places where their dead are buried – their mothers and fathers. The dead are bound to that place, and have returned to the land there. Because of this, Natives who are forced out of their homelands no longer have connections to their ancestors, and thus, to the spirit world. Their medicines no longer work. Their prayers are no longer heard. “Eventually, the younger generations forget the names of sacred places. And as the names and history and wisdom are forgotten, the peoples’ spiritual power diminishes. The culture collapses. How they perceive this change affects their whole way of life.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
You could move to New York tomorrow and still keep your religion. Your god can still hear your prayers. He can still intervene in your life.” “It is not so with the Native!” Tíwé exclaimed. “It is much more difficult to recover those things when his land is stolen.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
It is said that the Ineho found out about these bribes and killed many of the Pozi, then dug holes and buried them with their feet sticking out of the ground. Legend says they wanted the wolves to eat the meat on their legs, so that the Pozi could never make the journey back to their homeland – even in death.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
He beckoned her in every voice she knew, calling out her name in all his stolen tongues.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
As I sulked back to the bedroom, I noticed something about the stains: they all shared similar features and looked like a man. And each time Faye threw up, the man seemed to get closer and closer to our bedroom.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
During the Great War, the German army occupied Kristóf’s village and forced the residents to use the German language. Upon liberating Hungary, the Soviets made learning Russian compulsory in school. In this way, Kristóf’s mother tongue was repeatedly stolen from her amid the ravages of war. As a result, she wrote in what she often called “an enemy language,” and when she wrote these three novels, she elevated the tragic loss of her native language into literature.
”
”
Hideo Kojima (The Creative Gene: How books, movies, and music inspired the creator of Death Stranding and Metal Gear Solid)
“
On one such occasion, I heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate. I found Faye opening cabinets, taking things out of the refrigerator, and searching for her car keys. We chatted a bit about how she was late for work and how she hated her manager. To the uninitiated, Faye might have seemed totally cognizant of her actions. If not for the fact that she was completely nude and trying to heat up a couch pillow for breakfast in total darkness, even I might have been fooled.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
There, Faye always orders the same thing, and calls it her “death row meal”: a barbecue chicken sandwich with macaroni and cheese, and a glass bottle of Coca-Cola. It’s the only soda she’ll drink; in fact, her blood is mostly Coke.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Instead, his lips brushed over the tip of my index finger in a kiss that was feather light and yet hummed through every part of me: my throat, my chest, my inner thighs, all the way to my toes. My mouth dropped open with a small “Oh.” A flicker of a smile crossed his mouth before it landed on my next finger. His dark gaze collided with mine as he moved to the next, and heat crept across every inch of my flesh, pooling at my core. With each kiss, that thrumming in my body rose, my nipples tightened, and the dark flavour of night built on my tongue, sparked with starlight and rhubarb. If he’d asked me to strip bare, to bend over the table and let him fuck me, to marry him, to anything at that moment, I’d have agreed in an instant. But all I could do was stare at his progress, my chest heaving as I tried to contain… everything. The magic, the thrumming resonance that threatened to shatter me, the burning, burning heat that must’ve made my cheeks as red as the jewels in their glass phials. When he reached my thumb, the pad dragged across his lower lip and I couldn’t have said whether it was him pressing it against his flesh or if I did. I didn’t care. By the time he moved to my right hand, starting with the thumb, I was swaying. When he whispered, “It is so,” against the very tip of my little finger, I almost swooned as a kick of pure energy throbbed through me. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, he caught me. “Are you all right?” He searched my face, concern in his gaze. “Yes,” I breathed. My fingertips tingled. “Just… that was…” “Sorry, I’ve never done that before, I didn’t realise it would be so”—he swallowed and wet his lips—“heady.” “That’s one word for it.” I huffed
”
”
Clare Sager (Stolen Threadwitch Bride (Bound by a Fae Bargain, #1))
“
My dreams have always tended to be elaborate and fantastical. They brim with surreal creatures, Dali-esque landscapes, impossible situations.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Dragging her lips to his as he devoured and ravaged, his teeth drawing blood and his tongue lapping it away as though it were the most intoxicating thing he had ever tasted. Because it fucking was.
”
”
Willow Prescott (Hideaway (Stolen Away Series Book 1))
“
Finally deciding to fuck it, Cade closed the space between them, fisted his fingers in Kara’s hair, and forced her mouth up to meet his. He kissed her viciously—more an attack than a caress—his lips claiming her, his tongue invading her mouth and sparring against her own, his teeth demanding destruction as he sucked her bottom lip between them and bit down hard. Hard enough to taste blood mingled with the intoxicating essence of her.
”
”
Willow Prescott (Hideaway (Stolen Away Series Book 1))
“
And everything smelled so delicious, Kara could almost forget the presence of Cade and the five other accessories to kidnapping sitting around staring at her. That was, until Cade opened his stupid fucking mouth and ruined the delectable taste of a warm, buttery scone on her tongue.
”
”
Willow Prescott (Hideaway (Stolen Away Series Book 1))
“
There is a brief moment at night when the brain is neither awake nor asleep, but somewhere in between.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Tell the man in the hall…he needs to leave.
”
”
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
“
Two tons of human hair destined for a wig maker has been stolen. Police are combing the area. Police have just arrested the world tongue-twister champion. I imagine he’ll be given a tough sentence
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Graham Cann (1001 One-Liners and Short Jokes: The Ultimate Collection of the Funniest, Laugh-Out-Loud Rib-Ticklers (1001 Jokes and Puns))
Felix Blackwell (Stolen Tongues)
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Then, Andrea kisses her passionately, sinking into her mouth with voracious desire, and the audience goes delirious. Applause breaks out, making the whole square tremble. Andrea gets lost in that stolen kiss, sweet like toffee. He anxiously looks for her tongue and chases her thirstily each time she eludes him. Pursuing her is exciting and her calm resistance makes it even more intoxicating. Nicolle’s breasts are pressed against his chest and her body moves, meeting his slightly trembling legs. Nicolle is pure cocaine! Andrea takes a vivid mental journey of what their bodies would do if they could abandon themselves to pleasure. He sees it, hears it, lives it. He keeps hold of her wrists with just one hand while the other climbs up her back to her neck; he goes on kissing her, feeling worse than a fallen angel. He had only worn the wings for a game, but now sees that with Nicolle they weigh on him tremendously. This is the most disturbing kiss of his life, precisely because it is forbidden. And the more he tells himself that, the more he sinks into her, his desire growing. He’s a sinner. He knows that now. He’s breathless when he lets go of her and pants into her face. She does the same and he just wants another kiss. Nicolle’s mouth, again. The
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Key Genius (Heart of flesh)
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For fourteen years Wiliam Walker alias Brown alias Shields alias Swallow alias Waldon alias Todd alias Watson had been a major irritant to British authorities on both sides of the world. To the London police he was an accomplished thief. To the colonial government in Van Diemen's Land, he was a clever and determined escaper; he had stolen one of its vessels and caused much embarrassment by making it back to England not once but twice, one of only a handful of runaways to do so. To these skills of theft and evasion must be added outstanding seamanship, a glib tongue, extraordinary resourcefulness and a capacity for leadership. Among his more admirable attributes his loyalty to his family should also not be forgotten. To the convicts of Macquarie Harbour and Port Arthur he was a living legend, tangible proof that escape from the island prison was possible. By any standards, he was a remarkable man...
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Warwick Hirst (The Man Who Stole the Cyprus: A True Story of Escape)
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Aren’t you going to finish?” His grin grew. “I had breakfast.” He stood up. “The food was a ruse. I got what I wanted.” I blushed. He pushed the plate in front of me. “You can have my bacon.” My tongue was tied. “I will see you after then?” I nodded dumbly. “Thank you, Mrs. Winston,” he called, taking a sip of coffee. He was about to leave, but turned back, and leaned toward me. I held my breath. His eyes softened on me. His eyes mesmerized me. They were a weapon on my defenses. Beautiful. He chuckled warmly and then snatched a piece of bacon from my plate. “Max!” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and smiled. “You’re right, it does taste better stolen.” Ok,
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Sarah Brocious (What Remains (Love Abounds, #1))
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Being loved by Dorian is like having the sweetest wine on your tongue while resting on a bed of clouds. But when that love is stolen away, there is no taste. No feeling. My heart and mind had become numb because I couldn’t stand to feel one more ounce of agony.
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S.L. Jennings (Light Shadows (Dark Light, #3))
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He kept trying to come up with words to say, but his brain and mouth were having a disconnect. So he crashed his mouth down over hers. She made a little gasp noise, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss, taking her stolen breath in and letting himself get lost in the feel of her soft lips, the familiar taste of her tongue.
He was half tempted to take her right here in the back of the truck, despite all the people nearby --the horse trailer mostly hid them, after all.
There was a small whispering in the back of his mind that they were gonna make a mess of things, but with her draping her legs across his lap and her nails running over his back, he couldn't help thinking that -- Well, actually it was more like he couldn't actually think at all.
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Cindi Madsen (Second Chance Ranch (Hope Springs, #1))
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It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Jo was the blind kid running off emotions; Jess was the thoughtful, careful pragmatist who’d married for so much more than the high of stolen tongue ring kisses and the smell of a leather jacket. Jo was the dreamer who thought love compensated for everything; Jess was the realist who searched for love that didn’t need compensating in the first place.
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Lauren Gilley (Fix You (Walker Family, #3))
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I didn’t want to go, but his arms were underneath me, easing me toward the edge of the gurney and a waiting wheelchair padded with pillows. I was afraid any resistance would result in another game of hospital gown peekaboo.
He settled me so gently in the soft wheelchair that my hip and my back hardly hurt. Pushing me past the curtain and into the bustling emergency room, he leaned close, over me, to say, “I fixed it. They’re going to lose the records of your visit, so you’ll never get billed. But you’re my girlfriend.”
“What do you mean, I’m your girlfriend?” What delicious blackmail was this? And was it worth the price? Perhaps I could stand it.
‘I had to make them think I have a vested interest in you,” he whispered. “They never would have agreed to lose your records if I told them you were my friend at twelve years old but not so much at eighteen and I had pretty much walked in and stolen the birthright to your family farm. See? Shhh. Hey, Brody.” He slapped hands with another man in scrubs wheeling an empty gurney in the opposite direction. The man eyed me, waggled his eyebrows at Hunter, and kept going.
“Couldn’t you have said we’re friends and left it at that?” I needed to keep up the façade that I did not like the idea at all. At the same time, I was a little afraid Hunter would call the charade off.
“I have a lot of friends,” he explained, wheeling me into a waiting room marked X-RAY. he rounded the wheelchair and knelt in front of me. Behind him, a door stood ajar. A contraption I assumed to be an X-ray machine was visible through the crack. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then turned back to me. “Sorry about this,” he murmured as he slid both hands into my hair and kissed me.
All I could do at first was feel. His lips were on mine. His hands held me steady, so I couldn’t have shrugged away if I’d tried, but I would not try. Bright tingles spread from my lips across my face and down my neck to my chest. I longed to pull him closer for more. I reminded myself that we were faking this for a reason. I didn’t want to make the kiss deeper than necessary in case it turned him off.
Hunter deepened it. His tongue pressed past my teeth and swept inside my mouth. One of his hands released my hair and caressed my shoulder, traveling down. The farther his hand went, the higher I felt. My hip hardly hurt and my back pain was gone. I wondered how low his hand would go.
I never found out. A shadow stood in the doorway and cleared its throat.
I stopped kissing Hunter back and braced for him to jump away. He did back off, but very slowly. He sat back on his haunches and glared at the X-ray tech as if she had a lot of nerve. His cheeks were bright red.
“So, Hunter,” she said mischievously. “This is your girlfriend.”
“Hullo.” I gave her a small wave.
“And you got hit by a taxi while you were crossing the street to visit Hunter? That is so romantic! Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle?”
“Not romantic,” I said flatly. “I hate that movie. They don’t meet until the last scene. They don’t kiss at all.” Too late I realized I sounded like I was begging Hunter for more.
“But in that movie,” the tech said, “they talk about An Affair to Remember. Have you seen that? Deborah Kerr is crossing the street to meet Cary Grant and gets hit by a car. Years later he comes back to her and she’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
“You call that romantic?” I heard myself yelling. “That is repulsive!”
Hunter stood and put a heavy hand on my shoulder as he pushed my wheelchair past the tech and through the doorway to the X-ray machine. “Erin is in a lot of pain,” he murmured to the tech, “and she doesn’t want to think about being paralyzed from the waist down.”
After that the tech was a lot nicer, because Hunter had a way with people. Hunter lifted me onto the table and left the room so he wouldn’t be irradiated or see my bony ass.
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Jennifer Echols (Love Story)
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Marya watched from the upper floor as once again the birds gathered in the great oak tree, sniping and snapping for the last autumn nuts, stolen from squirrels and hidden in bark-cracks, which every winged creature knows are the most bitter of all nuts, like old sorrows sitting heavy on the tongue.
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Catherynne M. Valente (Deathless)
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It has nothing to do with pity. I think it’s pretty fair: I give you something you want, and you give me something I want.”
Jared chuckled, shaking his head. “Shit, you’re actually serious.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t fucking believe you.”
“Why?” Gabriel’s voice was calm and rational, as though Jared was the one spouting ridiculous things. “Just think about it and it will make perfect sense.” His expression softened. “You know how much you mean to me. It won’t gross me out if you kiss me sometimes. If it means I get to keep you, I’ll do it happily.”
“That’s—that’s fucking crazy.”
Gabriel looked as stubborn as ever. “It’s not. I like when you touch me. I wouldn’t be grossed out.”
Jared let out a harsh laugh. “And you think it’d be enough for me? That you wouldn’t be grossed out? That you would stoically endure it? Really, Gabe?”
A myriad of emotions flickered across Gabriel’s face until they settled into one clear expression of determination.
Gabriel walked toward him.
“Don’t,” Jared managed before Gabriel grabbed his face, rose on his toes and pressed their lips together.
Jared was stronger and bigger than him. He could easily push him away.
And yet, he couldn’t.
Gabriel’s lips were very soft and plump—and Gabriel’s. His Gabriel’s. Jared couldn’t resist. Couldn’t fight himself. His lips moved. It was a stolen moment, something fucked up and hopeless, but all the years of watching and yearning had stripped away his control and he poured everything into the kiss. Everything he couldn’t say and everything he felt.
Gabriel didn’t kiss back. He was completely still, just allowing it, and rage swept through Jared, a rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Jared hardened the kiss to the point of bruising. He pried Gabriel’s lips open and thrust his tongue inside the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, the kiss becoming obscene and dirty. He wanted to shock him. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to repulse him.
But Gabriel didn’t push him away. He took it all, trusting him.
And that made him stop.
Jared wrenched his lips away and leaned his forehead against Gabriel’s, breathing raggedly. Damn you.
He felt Gabriel touch his hair and then cup his face gently.
Jared pulled back to look at him.
Gabriel’s face was flushed, his expression a little bewildered, but he didn’t look disgusted. He wet his lips. “Did you like it?”
Jared started laughing. He slid to the floor, rested his head in his hands and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It was an awful sound, as if his throat had been cut, but he couldn’t stop. He felt empty. Disillusioned. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He certainly hadn’t expected that Gabriel would suddenly realize he was gay after one kiss, but…
But maybe he had. A fool. A fucking fool.
Gabriel sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Jay—I’m sorry.”
Jared said nothing.
Gabriel leaned his cheek against Jared’s shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice tight with emotion.
Jared closed his eyes. “Don’t.”
Gabriel wrapped his other arm around Jared’s waist. “You can’t say I don’t feel it only because I don’t want you that way. I—” His voice thickened. “I love you in every way that matters. I love you so much it fucking scares me.
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Alessandra Hazard (Just a Bit Unhealthy (Straight Guys #3))