❀ Minesha ❀

“I don’t believe you,” said Conté. “I wouldn’t fucking believe you if you told me my name was Conté. I wouldn’t believe you if you told me fire was hot and water was wet.”
― Scott Lynch, The Lies of Locke Lamora

“You love my art?"

Adam laughed. "Jesus, I tell you I love you and you're more interested with the fact that I love your fucking art? Yeah, Miles, I love your art. I love your smelly paints and weird concoctions and the way you run your hands throught your hair so it stands on end. I love your crazy-ass bird. I love the way you completely lose yourself so deeply in what you're doing that an atom bomb could go off next door and you wouldn't even notice. I love how you look when we've just made love, and I love when you're all pissy and cranky and yelling. I love this cottage and this resort and I love this room and I love your room. I love you." He took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Mile's eyes. "I love you. Do you...can you..."

"Moron," Miles said with a grin. He took Adam's hand and dragged him to Miles' own room.

There had to be six-no-eight-no, eleven portraits of Adam hanging on the walls of Miles' bedroom.”
― Rowan Speedwell, Illumination

“Why me, Bailey?” Ambrose shot back, his voice too loud for the sober setting. “Why not you, Ambrose?” Bailey bit back immediately, making Ambrose start as if Bailey had convicted him of a crime. “Why me? Why am I in a flipping wheelchair?” “And why Paulie and Grant? Why Jesse and Beans? Why do terrible things happen to such good people?” Ambrose asked. “Because terrible things happen to everyone, Brosey. We're all just so caught up in our own crap that we don't see the shit everyone else is wading through.”
― Amy Harmon, Making Faces

“He cleared his throat. “You need to pick a safe word.”
“What on earth is a safe word?”
He smothered a sigh. This was proving to be more work than he thought it’d be. “It’s a word you use when you want things to stop.”
“How about I use the word ‘stop’?” She sounded sarcastic.
“That’s not how it works. You need a word that you wouldn’t normally use during sex.”
“Fine. How about ‘dumbass’?”
“I don’t think you’re getting into the spirit of this.”
“Really? You think?”
“Fine. Dumbass it is.” There was no dealing with her when she was in this mood. “If you use your safe word, everything stops.”
“Good.” She took a deep breath. “Dumbass,” she shouted.
Andrew wasn’t sure what to do next. This was not going the way it did in the books.”
― Janet Elizabeth Henderson, Goody Two Shoes