Bared Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-just-bared-my-soul-to-you-all-i-get-is-okay-abbi-glines
not-every-smile-is-genuine-some-are-just-bared-fangs-wolves-about-to-eat-you-rjs-rassool-jibraeel-snyman
turn-your-face-toward-siege-jerusalem-with-bared-arm-prophesy-against-her-ezekiel-47
he-bared-his-teeth-in-happy-feral-grin-my-own-personal-psycho-ilona-andrews
so-our-narcissism-has-bared-forth-unflattering-nakedness-that-shames-our-species-but-this-is-humanity-this-is-our-condition-zack-love
i-still-feel-like-there-are-lot-things-in-me-that-people-havent-seen-my-soul-hasnt-been-bared-yet-gedde-watanabe
gwydion-stood-as-wolf-at-bay-his-green-eyes-glittering-his-teeth-bared-lloyd-alexander
richard-pryor-is-in-my-mind-most-honest-comedian-he-bared-his-soul-to-people-i-think-thats-why-everybody-loved-him-much-joe-rogan
gideon-was-untamed-animal-behind-closed-doors-lover-who-bared-me-to-soul-every-time-he-made-love-to-me-sylvia-day
you-asked-what-i-wanted-im-not-going-to-lie-to-you-what-i-want-most-is-naked-truth-i-want-to-strip-away-every-stubborn-layer-until-youre-bared-to-me-and-then-im-going-to-show-you
yet-smelt-roast-meat-beheld-huge-fire-shine-and-cooks-in-motion-with-their-clean-arms-bared-lord-byron
on-ship-there-was-battle-she-amongst-rest-did-fight-the-wind-blew-off-her-silver-buttons-breasts-were-bared-all-snowy-white-bardic
king-assyria-will-lead-away-stripped-barefoot-egyptian-captives-cushite-exiles-young-old-with-buttocks-baredto-egypts-shame-isaiah-204
when-people-dont-like-film-i-can-take-bullet-i-dont-mind-you-talking-about-me-but-im-protective-my-actors-because-they-bared-their-soul-for-me
til-shade-is-gone-til-water-is-gone-into-shadow-with-teeth-bared-screaming-defiance-with-last-breath-to-spit-in-sightblinders-eye-on-last-day-robert-jordan
i-closed-my-eyes-immediately-i-pictured-brooklyns-full-lips-parted-on-moan-her-eyes-glassy-her-pupils-dilated-her-cheeks-flushed-her-body-her-smoking-body-bared-only-for-me-steph
bra-already-forgotten-he-was-working-on-her-pants-he-kissed-every-inch-he-bared-from-her-waist-to-her-knees-then-to-her-ankles-then-her-toes-one-by-one-he-laid-path-kisses-down-o
She kept her stare locked on his as she let go of his face and slowly, making sure he understood every step of the way, tilted her head back until her throat was arched and bared before him. "Aelin, " he breathed. Not in reprimand or warning, but... a plea. It sounded like a plea. He lowered his head to her exposed neck and hovered a hair's breath away. She arched her neck farther, a silent invitation. Rowan let out a soft groan and grazed his teeth against her skin. One bite, one movement, was all it would take for him to rip out her throat. His elongated canines slid along her flesh-gently, precisely. She clenched the sheets to keep from running her fingers down on his bare back and drawing him closer. He braced one hand beside her head, his fingers twining in her hair. "No one else, " she whispered. "I would never allow anyone else at my throat." Showing him was the only way he'd understand that trust, in a manner that only the predatory, Fae side of him would comprehend. "No one else, " she said again. He let out another low groan, answer and confirmation and request, and the rumble echoed inside her. Carefully, he closed his teeth over the spot where her lifeblood thrummed and pounded, his breath hot on her skin. She shut her eyes, every sense narrowing on that sensation, on the teeth and mouth at her throat, on the powerful body trembling with restraint above hers. His tongue flicked against her skin. She made a small noise that might have been a moan, or a word, or his name. He shuddered and pulled back, the cool air kissing her neck. Wildness-pure wildness sparked in those eyes.

Sarah J. Maas
she-kept-her-stare-locked-on-his-as-she-let-go-his-face-slowly-making-sure-he-understood-every-step-way-tilted-her-head-back-until-her-throat-was-arched-bared-before-him-aelin-he
in-cage-wireribs-the-size-mans-head-macaw-bristles-in-staring-combustion-suffers-stoking-devils-his-eyes-in-old-ladys-parlour-where-aspidistra-succumbs-to-musk-faded-velvet-he-ha
Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping." "Mr. Rochester, I must leave you." "For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair - which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face - which looks feverish?" "I must leave Adele and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange scenes." "Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about parting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs. Rochester - both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error - to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic." His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: still I dared to speak. "Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical - is false." "Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man - you forget that: I am not long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and - beware!" He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity - looked for aid to one higher than man: the words "God help me!" burst involuntarily from my lips. "I am a fool!" cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. "I keep telling her I am not married, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing of the character of that woman, or of the circumstances attending my infernal union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in opinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in mine, Janet - that I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove you are near me - and I will in a few words show you the real state of the case. Can you listen to me?" "Yes, sir; for hours if you will.

Charlotte Bronte«
oh-mention-it-if-i-storm-you-have-art-weeping-mr-rochester-i-must-leave-you-for-how-long-jane-for-few-minutes-while-you-smooth-your-hair-which-is-somewhat-dishevelled-bathe-your-
Because this painting has never been restored there is a heightened poignance to it somehow; it doesn't have the feeling of unassailable permanence that paintings in museums do. There is a small crack in the lower left, and a little of the priming between the wooden panel and the oil emulsions of paint has been bared. A bit of abrasion shows, at the rim of a bowl of berries, evidence of time's power even over this-which, paradoxically, only seems to increase its poetry, its deep resonance. If you could see the notes of a cello, when the bow draws slowly and deeply across its strings, and those resonant reverberations which of all instruments' are nearest to the sound of the human voice emerge-no, the wrong verb, they seem to come into being all at once, to surround us, suddenly, with presence-if that were made visible, that would be the poetry of Osias Beert. But the still life resides in absolute silence. Portraits often seem pregnant with speech, or as if their subjects have just finished saying something, or will soon speak the thoughts that inform their faces, the thoughts we're invited to read. Landscapes are full of presences, visible or unseen; soon nymphs or a stag or a band of hikers will make themselves heard. But no word will ever be spoken here, among the flowers and snails, the solid and dependable apples, this heap of rumpled books, this pewter plate on which a few opened oysters lie, giving up their silver. These are resolutely still, immutable, poised for a forward movement that will never occur. The brink upon which still life rests is the brink of time, the edge of something about to happen. Everything that we know crosses this lip, over and over, like water over the edge of a fall, as what might happen does, as any of the endless variations of what might come true does so, and things fall into being, tumble through the progression of existing in time. Painting creates silence. You could examine the objects themselves, the actors in a Dutch still life-this knobbed beaker, this pewter salver, this knife-and, lovely as all antique utilitarian objects are, they are not, would not be, poised on the edge these same things inhabit when they are represented. These things exist-if indeed they are still around at all-in time. It is the act of painting them that makes them perennially poised, an emergent truth about to be articulated, a word waiting to be spoken. Single word that has been forming all these years in the light on the knife's pearl handle, in the drops of moisture on nearly translucent grapes: At the end of time, will that word be said?

Mark Doty
because-this-painting-has-never-been-restored-there-is-heightened-poignance-to-it-somehow-it-doesnt-have-feeling-unassailable-permanence-that-paintings-in-museums-do-there-is-sma
Suddenly, the man was thrown off her. Darcy looked around, but saw nothing. She rose up on her elbows to see the man climbing to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. His four comrades were looking up to the sky nervously. A huge, dark shape descended from the sky, vanishing quickly. Along with one of her attackers. Darcy was afraid to move and be taken as well. She remained still, her chest heaving. Another shape formed out of the dark sky. She could only stare openmouthed at the dragon coming right for her. Just before he touched down, the dragon shifted, taking the form of a man-a man that left her breathless and awestruck. There was no denying she was looking at a Dragon King. He stood naked, his hands at his sides while his gaze was riveted on the men who accosted her. The shadows kept much of him out of sight, but the streetlamps shed enough light of the hard sinew of his body that she wanted to see more. His lips peeled back in a snarl as he fought the four remaining men. He moved quickly, as if it were as effortless as breathing. The men began to throw huge bubbles of magic at the Dragon King. He dodged many of them. The few that hit him barely made an impact other than to infuriate him, if his bared teeth were any indication. The man-or whatever he was-who had stopped her in the pub was struck down with lethal force by the Dragon King. Darcy almost cheered, but it got lodged in her throat when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Had she not turned right then, Darcy would never have seen the second dragon swoop from the sky and wrap its talons around another of the men before flying away, crushing him. That left just two of her attackers. They and the Dragon King circled each other on the street. 'She's ours, ' one of the red-eyed men said. The Dragon King merely raised a brow. 'Think again, Dark.' More globes of magic flew from the two Dark, but the Dragon King was too fast. He came up behind one of the Dark and ripped out his spinal column. The same instant the dragon grabbed the other. Both Dark fell lifeless to the ground a moment later. Darcy hadn't moved a muscle in the few minutes that had passed. The need that had assaulted her earlier with the Dark was now gone. But she wasn't alone. The Dragon King's gaze turned to her. Darcy watched him standing in the glow of the streetlight, completely mesmerized by the dragon tat that ran from the King's right shoulder, under his armpit, and down his side to the top of his right thigh. The dragon's head was at the front of the man's shoulder and had his mouth open as if on a roar. He was rearing with his wings up and out. It was his long tail that stopped at the King's thigh. The King glistened with sweat that made his muscles gleam in the light. Darcy had the absurd notion to run her hands all over his body, learning the feel of his hard muscles and warm skin. Her gaze traveled down his wide chest to his washboard stomach and narrow waist. Then lower...

Donna Grant
suddenly-man-was-thrown-off-her-darcy-looked-around-but-saw-nothing-she-rose-up-on-her-elbows-to-see-man-climbing-to-his-feet-shaking-his-head-to-clear-it-his-four-comrades-were-
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