Vampires Never Get Old Quotes

Merda! Her lace panties had snagged on his ring, the signet ring he'd inherited from his father, Giacomo Casanova. His father had seduced hundred of women without any problems whatsoever, and he was having trouble with just one. This was the real reason he never used the Casanova name. He could never live up to his father's reputation. The old man was probably laughing in his grave. Nine circles of hell," Jack muttered. Hell?" Lara asked. "I thought I was the Holy Land." You're paradise. Unfortunately, I am stuck there." Her eyes widened. "Stuck?" Normally, I would love being stuck to your lovely bum, but it would look odd if we go sightseeing with my hand under your skirt. Especially in the basilica." She glanced down. "How can you be stuck?" My ring. It's caught in the lace. See?" He moved his hand down her hip, dragging her undies down a few inches. Okay, stop." She bit her lip, frowning, then suddenly giggled. "I can't believe this has happened." I assure you, as much as I had hoped to get your clothes off, this was not part of my original plan." She snorted. "No problem. Just rip yourself loose." Are you sure?" It will destroy you undies." She narrowed her eyes with a seductuve look. "Rip it." Very well." He jerked his hand away, but the panties came with him. He yanked his hand back and forth, but the lacy, latex material simply stretched with him. "Santo cielo, they are indestructible." Lara laughed. He continued to wage battle, but to no avail. "They could use this material to build spaceships.

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

Words actually failed me. I felt as dumb as my lounge-less friend in the corner. "You injected me with vampire blood?" My words were said slowly, ensuring that I didn't get one wrong or accidentally call Francis a fucking asshat. "You're a vampire?" Francis' expression managed to convey how stupid he thought that question was. "I live underground, and you've never seen me outside. I'm pale in complexion ands obviously hundreds of years old. What did you think I was? Agoraphobic?

I used to think love was two people sucking on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger, but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape, traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth. I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers from a phone line, and you promised to always smell the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts. I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep’s clothing and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord around my ankle and yanked me across the continent. And now there are three thousand miles between the u and s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing at a cement-filled wall with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much I’d jump off the roof of your office building just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see what the other sees. But you’re here, I’m there, and we have only words, a nightly phone call - one chance to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver, hope they don’t disassemble in that calculus of wire. And lately - with this whole war thing - the language machine supporting it - I feel betrayed by the alphabet, like they’re injecting strychnine into my vowels, infecting my consonants, naming attack helicopters after shattered Indian tribes: Apache, Blackhawk; and West Bank colonizers are settlers, so Sharon is Davey Crockett, and Arafat: Geronimo, and it’s the Wild West all over again. And I imagine Picasso looking in a mirror, decorating his face in war paint, washing his brushes in venom. And I think of Jenin in all that rubble, and I feel like a Cyclops with two eyes, like an anorexic with three mouths, like a scuba diver in quicksand, like a shark with plastic vampire teeth, like I’m the executioner’s fingernail trying to reason with the hand. And I don’t know how to speak love when the heart is a busted cup filling with spit and paste, and the only sexual fantasy I have is busting into the Pentagon with a bazooka-sized pen and blowing open the minds of generals. And I comfort myself with the thought that we’ll name our first child Jenin, and her middle name will be Terezin, and we’ll teach her how to glow in the dark, and how to swallow firecrackers, and to never neglect the first straw; because no one ever talks about the first straw, it’s always the last straw that gets all the attention, but by then it’s way too late.

In the clear and steady gleam of electric lights, superstition turns to foolishness; in the crucible of the combustion engine, false beliefs are burned away.

But not acknowledging something doesn’t make it go away. Most of the time it makes it worse.

Mama always says to truly love something, you gotta hate it a little bit too.

In one hallway, the floor gleaming parquet and the ceiling festooned with golden cherubs, there was a boy in a grumpy cat mask and biker boots, not involved in any sexual activity, legs crossed and leaning against the wall. As a bevy of faeries passed the boy, giggling and groping, the boy scooted away. Alec remembered being younger, and how overwhelming large groups of people had seemed. He came over and leaned against the wall beside the boy. He saw the boy texting, PARTIES WERE INVENTED TO ANNOY ME. THEY FEATURE MY LEAST FAVORITE THING: PEOPLE, ALL INTENT ON MY LEAST FAVORITE ACTIVITY: SOCIAL INTERACTION. “I don’t really like parties either,” Alec said sympathetically. “No hablo italiano,” the boy mumbled without looking up. “Er,” said Alec. “This conversation is happening in English.” “No hablo ingles,” he said without missing a beat. “Oh, come on. Really?” “Worth a shot,” said the boy. Alec considered going away. The boy wrote another text to a contact he had saved as RF. Alec could not help but notice that the conversation was entirely one-sided, the boy sending text after text with no response. The last text read VENICE SMELLS LIKE A TOILET. AS A NEW YORKER, I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY. The weird coincidence emboldened Alec to try again. “I get shy when there are strangers too,” Alec told the kid. “I’m not shy,” the boy sneered. “I just hate everyone around me and everything that is happening.” “Well.” Alec shrugged. “Those feel like similar things sometimes.” The boy lifted his curly head, pushing the grumpy cat mask off his face, and froze. Alec froze too, at the twin shock of fangs and familiarity. This was a vampire, and Alec knew him. “Raphael?” he asked. “Raphael Santiago?” He wondered what the second-in-command of the New York clan was doing here. Downworlders might be flooding in from all over the world, but Raphael had never struck Alec as a party animal. Of course, he was not exactly coming off as a party animal now. “Oh no, it’s you,” said Raphael. “The twelve-year-old idiot.” Alec was not keen on vampires. They were, after all, people who had died. Alec had seen too much death to want reminders of it. He understood that they were immortal, but there was no need to show off about it. “We just fought a war together. I was with you in the graveyard when Simon came back as a vampire. You’ve seen me multiple times since I was twelve.” “The thought of you at twelve haunts me,” Raphael said darkly. “Okay,” Alec said, humoring him. “So have you seen a guy called Mori Shu anywhere around here?” “I am trying not to make eye contact with anyone here,” said Raphael. “And I’m not a snitch for Shadowhunters. Or a fan of talking to people, of any kind, in any place.” Alec rolled his eyes.

It’s no wonder we’re always getting’ mistaken for queers. Look at us—a bunch’a proper men, never growin’ old, ’angin’ about in the dark, bitin’ other men on the neck. They don’t fear us ’cause we got claws and fangs; they fear us ’cause they think we’re comin’ after their sons.

bartender arrives—a surly guy who looks like Oscar Isaac if Oscar Isaac had been dipped in the same vat of radioactive whatever that turned the Joker’s hair green.

I say anger is just as valuable as compassion, if it makes art like yours.

It’s not like I woke up one day and decided to become a vampire. My humanity was violently stolen from me. I’m continuing on, the only way I know how.

Brittany was a happy accident. Sometimes she’ll say the things I’m feeling without me having to explain myself.

He gave her one of his old, charming half smiles, a teasing one. "And you kissed a vampire. That's crazy. That's not usually what they do with their mouths, you know. I'm kind of jealous." "Oh, come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "Like you care what I do. You dumped me, remember?" "First of all," Aidan said, giving her his most insouciant smile and holding up a single finger, "I never said I was jealous of him. Maybe I was jealous of you for getting all his attention. He's not a bad-looking guy, if you don't mind a side serving of lunatic raving. Good mouth.

Jason Winters won't bother you anymore." He says it with such conviction that I almost believe him. But Jason's been bullying me since I was in fourth grade. He's not going to stop just because a couple of cowboys told him to.

When I was at the University I knew a law student named Yamada Uruu. Later he worked for the Osaka Municipal Office; he’s been dead for years. This man’s father was an old-time lawyer, or “advocate,” who in early Meiji defended the notorious murderess Takahashi Oden. It seems he often talked to his son about Oden’s beauty. Apparently he would corner him and go on and on about her, as if deeply moved. “You might call her alluring, or bewitching,” he would say. “I’ve never known such a fascinating woman, she’s a real vampire. When I saw her I thought I wouldn’t mind dying at the hands of a woman like that!” Since I have no particular reason to keep on living, sometimes I think I would be happier if a woman like Oden turned up to kill me. Rather than endure the pain of these half-dead arms and legs of mine, maybe I could get it over and at the same time see how it feels to be brutally murdered.

And you might also remember you are the greatest healer among us. That is unchallenged by anyone." "I am the greatest killer, also unchallenged." He tried to give her truth again. She touched his hard mouth. "I will hunt with you then,lifemate." His heart slammed against his ribs. Her smile was mysterious, scretive, and so beautiful,it broke his heart. "What is behind this smile,bebe." His hand caught and spanned her throat, his thumb brushing her lips in a gentle caress. "What do you know that I do not?" His mind slipped into hers, a sensuous thrust, the ultimate intimacy, not unlike the way his tongue sometimes dueled with her-or his body took possession of hers. She was familiar with his touch in her mind. She knew he tried to keep its invasiveness to a minimum. He allowed her to set the bounderies and never pushed beyond any barrier she erected, even though he could do so easily. Both of them needed the intimate union of their minds merging, Savannah as much as Gregori. And her newfound knowledge of him was secure behind a miniature barricade she had hastily erected. Wide-eyed and innocent, she looked at him. His thumb pressed into her lower lip, half mesmerized by the satin perfection of it. "You will never hunt vampires, ma cherie, not ever.And if I were ever to catch you attempting such a thing,there would be hell to pay." She didn't look scared. Rather, amusement crept into the deep blue of her eyes. "Surely you aren't threatening me,Dark One, bogey man of the Carpathians." She laughed softly, a sound that feathered down his spine and somehow took away the sting of that centuries-old designation. "Stop looking so serious, Gregori-you haven't lost your reputation entirely. Everyone else is still terrified of the big bad wolf." His eyebrows shot up. She was teasing him. About his dark reputation, of all things. Her gaze was clear and sparkling, hinting at mischeif. Savannah wasn't railing against her fate, of being tied to him, a monster. She was too filled with life and laughter, with joy. He felt it in her mind, in her heart, in her very soul. He wished it could somehow rub off on him,make him a more compatible lifemate for her. "You are the only one who needs to worry about the big bad wolf, mon amour," he threatened with mock gravity. She leaned over to stare up into his eyes, a smile curving her soft mouth. "You cracked a joke, Gregori. We're making progress.Why,we're practically friends." "Practically?" he echoed gently. "Getting there fast," she told him firmly with her chin up,daring him to contradict her. "Can one be friends with a monster?" He said casually, as if he were simply musing out loud,but there was a shadow in his silver eyes. "I was being childish, Gregori, when I made such an accusation," she said softly, her eyes meeting his squarely.

Michelle: Phone. That had to be my phone waking me up. My hand swept across the nightstand until it found the vibrating hunk of silicone. "Hello." "Michelle, It's Gordon from the Cobb County Sheriff's Office. We need you to deal with some illegally bred magical creatures." The sound of barking and shouting followed his voice. "What are they?" "We don't know. I can tell you what they look like. Henri was one of the responding and he's never heard of these things. I think they're new." Blech. I rolled out of bed to start getting dressed. Henri was an old vampire. I'm not sure how old. But old enough to take his word on something like this. "Gordon, tell me what these things look like." "I'd say someone found the stupidest chihuahua in the city and then did something to give it wings and magic." "Great! How do I get there?" I wrote down the address and a few directions. "That's the mayor's place, isn't it? "Yep and he's not happy.

You want antibiotic cream?” He shakes his head. “I'm good.” “The risk of infection from being hit with a ten-year-old statue is probably small.” Squinting, he looks at me, hair disheveled, drops of blood on his collar. He’s never been more attractive. Maybe I was a vampire in another life. Wait. That's not technically possible. Vampires are immortal, so how could I have been one in another life when they get one, eternal life? Never mind. Will's staring at me staring at his collar. 

I know that everyone in this room, Bernie Fain included, thinks I'm some kind of a nut with my so-called fixation on this vampire thing. OK, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he only thinks he is. But there are things here that can't be explained away by so-called common sense. Not even Bernie's report can explain some of them. 'I was at the hospital yesterday.' I looked directly at Butcher. 'Your own people fired maybe fifty or sixty rounds at him, some at point-blank range. How come this man never even slowed down? How come a man seventy years old can outrun police cars for more than fifteen blocks? How come when he gets clubbed on the head he doesn't bleed like other people? Look at these photos! There's a gash on his forehead... and whatever is trickling down from the cut is clear... it isn't blood. 'How come three great, big, burly hospital orderlies weighing an estimated total of nearly seven-hundred fifty pounds couldn't bring one, skinny one-hundred sixty pound man to his knees? How come an ex-boxer, a light-heavyweight not long out of the ring, couldn't even faze him with his best punch, a right hook that should have broken his jaw? 'Face it. Whether it's science, witchcraft or black magic, this character has got something going for him you don't know anything about. He doesn't seem to feel pain. Or get winded. And he doesn't seem to be very frightened by guns, or discouraged by your efforts to trap him. 'Look at these photos! Look at that face! That isn't fear there. It's hate. Pure hate! This man is evil incarnate. He is insane and he may be something even worse although you'd laugh at me because I have no scientific documentation to back me up. Hell, even Regenhaus and Mokurji have all but confirmed that he sucks blood. 'Whatever he is, he's been around a long time and this seems to be the closest any police force has come to putting the finger on him. If you want to go on operating the way you've been doing by treating him like an ordinary man, go ahead. But, I'll bet you any amount of money you come up empty handed again. If you try to catch him at night he'll get away just like he did last night. He'll...' 'Jesus Christ!' bellowed Butcher. 'This son of a bitch has diarrhea of the mouth. Can't one of you people shut him up?

I will give you my word that she will not be harmed if you help us." "No offense, but that's not enough." "You doubt my word." His voice growled low and warm, angry. "No, but you don't hold Aubrey's leash. Unless he answers to you you can't guarantee his behavior." Aubrey's laughter had softened to a few faint giggles. I had never heard a vampire giggle before. It wasn't a pleasant sound. The laughter died completely, and he straightened. "No one holds my leash, girl. I am my own master." "Oh, get real. If you were over five hundred years old, and a master vampire, you'd have cleaned up the stage with me. As it was" - I flattened my hands palms up - "you didn't, which means you're very old but not your own master." He growled low in his throat, face darkening with anger. "How dare you?" "Think, Aubrey, she judged your age within fifty years. You are not a master vampire, and she knew that. We need her.

Sam didn't need to hear the rest of it--- which was that before heading to the recycling center I planned to watch a few episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For research--- or so I told myself. The show had to be wildly inaccurate when it came to vampire details, but after two days of processing what had happened with Frederick the other night, my panic over the situation was fading. And my curiosity was growing. What was it like to be an immortal who drank human blood? Did Frederick's heart beat? What were the rules governing how he lived and ate... and died? It wasn't much, but without getting back in touch with Frederick himself, Buffy was about all I had for guidance. It had to be more accurate representation of vampires than Twilight or those old Anne Rice novels, right? Plus, it was an enjoyable show. The fact that Buffy also showed romantic human-vampire relationships had absolutely nothing to do with my interest, of course. Neither did the fact that I hadn't been able to get Frederick's pleading eyes, or his assurances that he would never hurt me, out of my head since the morning I first woke up on Sam's couch.

He caught her hand, his thumb feathering across the inside of her wrist. I am not a vampire. I have not turned. “I don’t understand.” He closed his eyes, smiled in his mind. She was back to using her professional, scientific voice. You were worried that I had turned. Earlier, in the woods, you were afraid I was a vampire. Just now you thought our people might be vampire. We are Carpathian, not the undead. Unless we turn. “Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste.

While sitting in a room, surrounded by powerful vampires, do you ever get the feeling that you’re completely out of place? That at any moment one of them would drink your blood? That at any moment one of them will drink your blood? And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it because you’re not a powerful vampire. You’re just a plain, old—well, maybe not old since I’m only eighteen—average vampire, which basically means I’m an eighteen-year-old girl with slightly above average pale skin, super pointy teeth, and a thirst for blood. That’s never happened to you before? Huh, strange. Then

Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste. She yanked her hand away as if he had burned her, rubbing her palm along her thigh. The feeling didn’t go away, and neither did the butterflies he had sent winging in her stomach. “How do you know you’re not a vampire?” She needed to distract him, distract both of them. “Maybe you forgot. You’re certainly capable of acting like one.” This time he laughed, startling both of them. The sound was husky, low, and foreign to his ears, as if he had forgotten what it was like. His black eyes leapt to her face almost in fear. “Not bad, wild man. First a growl, and now a laugh. We’re making progress.” Her eyes danced at him, reassured him. Joy welled up in the midst of pain. Shea. She had created a world where his soul could somehow touch light.

He's gotten into your head, too. Richard. You're a part of his insanity now.” I shook my head. “The plan was my idea. My uncle wouldn't go along with it, so he put me in touch with Richard. Richard said he didn't have an opinion on way or the other, he just said he didn't see a problem with a man taking his own vengeance.” Now it was her turn to shake her head. “Two men who've both seen terrible things in their lives, and they let a young man, with his whole future ahead of him, throw away any chance at a normal life, and you don't think you're being manipulated?” I was taken aback by this. “I can't imagine my uncle would let me get manipulated by someone like Richard. It doesn't make sense.” She leaned in to me now, only inches away. Her stare was shocking, piercing in its intensity. “Richard has made a pact with Death. He sold his soul, and to keep the Grim Reaper from collecting on the deal, Richard keeps feeding people into the mouth of Hell. It doesn't matter if he pulls the trigger, if you do it for him, or even if it's you who dies. Everyone who comes into contact with him gets sucked into oblivion. You, your uncle, everyone.” There was the beginning of a laugh in me, but it died when I realized she wasn't kidding. “Sold his soul?” I said. “You can't really mean that. No one makes a pact with Death. That doesn't even make sense.” She sat back. “There are certain men, certain violent men, who live through the blood and the death all around them, surviving when they should’ve died a hundred times. These men have made a deal, a pact, with Death. In exchange for their lives, they must offer up lives in return. It is an old magic. A dark magic, a warrior's magic. That is the magic of blood and murder, and Richard has practiced it all his life. He’s a sorcerer. A vampire. He may never die, he has seen and caused so much death.” She was breathing hard now, her eyes wild. For no reason I could fathom, the skin at the back of my neck and along my arms prickled, the hairs standing on end. An idea came to me. “The brotherhood,” I said.

Buffy: “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be funny to see each other sometime when it wasn’t a blood thing? Not funny ha ha.” Angel: “What are you saying, you want to have a date?” Buffy: “No—” Angel: “You don’t want to have a date?” Buffy: “Who said ‘date’? I never said ‘date.’” Angel: “Right. You just want to have coffee or something.” Buffy: “Coffee?” Angel: “I knew this would happen.” Buffy: “Really? And what do you think is happening?” Angel: “You’re sixteen years old, I’m 241.” Buffy: “I’ve done the math.” Angel: “You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you want.” Buffy: “Oh, I think I do: I want out of this conversation.” Angel: “Listen. If we date, you and I both know one thing’s going to lead to another.” Buffy: “One thing’s already led to another. It’s a little late to be reading me the warning label.” Angel: “I’m just trying to protect you. This could get out of control.” Buffy: “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?” Angel: “This isn’t some fairy tale; when I kiss you, you don’t wake up from a deep sleep and live happily ever after.” Buffy: “No. When you kiss me, I want to die.” —“REPTILE BOY”

A lot of people want to know ‘How do I get my hair to look like so-and-so’s?’” Jeri observes. “They go to their hairdresser with a picture and say, ‘I want to look like that.’ Now, first of all, styling hair in the television industry does not necessarily have anything to do with a haircut. It’s styling, and the audience has to realize that this is a style that is maintained all day long. They don’t walk out of the trailer and never get touched again, like normal people in the regular world. They have somebody chasing behind them, making sure that every hair is in place. So to take a photograph of an actor and expect to look like that, they can cut your hair the same way, but if you don’t do the styling, all you’re stuck with is a haircut you don’t know what to do with. “I think the most important thing is that everybody needs to seek their own look, what makes them beautiful. It has nothing to do with what the actress looks like and nothing to do with wanting to be like them. You have to be yourself. I’m hoping that’s what has evolved on Buffy. She kinda looks like herself. She doesn’t try to create a hairstyle that takes hours to do. Fifteen minutes. Sometimes you have to work with what hair that you have. She is sixteen years old. I don’t want her hair to look like she came out of a salon. I’m hoping that we’re creating things that people can do, they’re not difficult to do. It’s a matter of really liking your face and being able to stand in front of the mirror and move [your hair] around until you balance your face.” Jeri Baker

To The Vampire Diaries… Specifically seasons 1-6 For always being in the background of my writing sessions and never ever getting old. #TeamDamon