#ssquote

[grimmpitchsnow-blog]

An endless list of my favorite Snowbaz quotes: 1/?

[grimmpitchsnow-blog]

An endless list of my favorite Snowbaz quotes: 2/?

[liinuliin]

Do you really love me?

Hold my hand and come let’s pray, tell me this is haram and this is halal, give me a quran and let’s read together. 

Wake me up from my sleep and tell me: don’t miss prayer, and do good, talk me about jannah,advise me on how to work for afterlife,

and what’s important: say my name even if it’s at the end of your dua. If you really love me, take me with you to jannah.

[thesunstone]

the greatest JOURNEY BEGINS, when you immensely DESIRE, to REACH for your DREAMS, for the PRICE is your LIFE.

[glitteringclausearchive]

Valentine whines like he's been hit. Lindsay squeezes his throat to make him stop. He finally finds what he's been trying to get at, and half a second later Valentine's breathing in ragged wet gasps because Lindsay's taken his hand off his throat and replaced it with the silencer fixed on the barrel of a black pistol.

"Can't believe you brought a fucking gun on a romantic Paris holiday," Valentine says. His voice sounds choked and raspy. Lindsay jabs the silencer into the hollow at the bottom of his neck, and Valentine makes a funny little sound and squeezes his eyes shut. "We playing roulette again?"

"I don't fancy your chances much with a semi-automatic."

"Is it loaded?"

"Why the fuck would I have an unloaded gun?" He racks the slide to load the chamber, and Valentine's eyes fly back open at the sound. "I told you not to..." What? Talk to anyone else? Smile, dance, smoke? Sit there at the table in the corner of the dark noisy bar with his chair shoved back and turned away from Lindsay so he can rest his hands on that chambermaid's thighs, just where her slutty miniskirt ends, and let her breathe the last of the blunt into his mouth? "I don't want you doing drugs," he says. It sounds lame. "Not even that."

"You're gonna shoot me cos I had a smoke?"

"You kissed that girl."

"No I never!"

"I saw you, do you think I'm blind? You were sitting right there next to me, I saw you."

"I never kissed her, it was just a shotgun, everybody was doing it." He almost smiles at that, even as he's trying to edge away from the barrel jammed against the underside of his chin. "Heh. Shotgun." Lindsay slaps him over the cheek as hard as he can, and Valentine stays there where he ends up, with his head turned to the side from the force of it and resting against the door. He's got his eyes closed again. He's breathing quietly, like he's trying to keep calm, and Lindsay hates him for it; he wants him to break. He can see the pulse beating in the kid's neck, and nudges the barrel up against the beat.

"I'll do it. I will. Don't you believe me?"

"I believe you."

"Why aren't you scared?"

"I am."

"Why aren't you trying to get away?"

"Cos you'll shoot me."

"Why..." This is what he wanted, the kid motionless and scared and doing what he's told but it's not helping, everything's just making him want to burst out crying. He won't, not over this stupid whoreish little shit and his utter lack of understanding about what's acceptable behaviour. He just needs to get a hold on himself, swallow hard to clear his throat, try to concentrate past the alcohol buzzing round his brain. Very slowly and deliberately, he moves the gun up to press hard against Valentine's temple. "You cried last time. Why aren't you crying?"

"Thought you were gonna kill yourself before."

"I'm going to kill you. Why aren't you crying?"

"Will it help? I can, if you want."

"Shut up. Shut up."

"Sorry." He doesn't move his head but he's looking at Lindsay now, sideways. He's clearly frightened but he's calm, he looks much more in control than Lindsay feels, and that makes it so much worse. "Shoot me cos you want me gone, not cos of something you think I did when I never."

"Shut up." The kid nods his head, just slightly, and goes silent again, except for another pained little noise when the gun digs in a bit more. "You have to do what I say."

"I do. I will."

"Don't... you can't... I don't want you to..."

"What?" Valentine says, quietly. "Tell me. So I won't."

"I don't know." He swings the gun around and shoots the wall, up in the corner near the ceiling. It's still noisy, even with the suppressor, and it makes Valentine flinch, but there's nobody else staying on their floor to hear. "Loaded, see?"

"I said I believe you."

"Why aren't you scared?" he demands, but the noise and recoil seem to have snapped him sane again and he suddenly feels tired and stupid. Slowly, very slowly, Valentine reaches out for his hand, stroking gently over his clutching fingers until he relaxes them and lets the kid slip the gun out of his grasp and put it on the table next to the door.

"You are gonna shoot me," he says. "One day." He's still holding Lindsay's hand, he's looking down at where their fingers are wound together and not at Lindsay's face, but his voice is clear. "I ain't thick. I know you'll get sick of me. You can't just let me go, I know too much, you'd be freaked out forever in case I snitched. You'll get proper sick of me one day, not just annoyed, and then you'll shoot me. It's okay."

"I won't get sick of you," Lindsay says. He feels numb and far away, as if it's somebody else talking, and almost like he's going to throw up, a sort of lurch in his stomach like when you're at the top of the Angel tube station escalator and somebody a bit too eager to get on the train shoves you from behind.

"Yeah you will. I'm gonna be with you til I die, though. Least I can say that and know it's true, how many people can do that? Bit romantic, really. If you squint, and look at it sideways."

"I don't like you talking to people," he blurts out, and Valentine finally looks up at him. His eyes are bright and his slapped cheek is dark, but he's smiling just a little.

-Stockholm Syndrome, Richard Rider (pg. 326)

[glitteringclausearchive]

"But it's broccoli," he whines, mashing at it again with his fork and setting his mouth into a sulky, mutinous line. "And cauliflower."

"It's good for you. Make you grow up big and strong, you little weed."

"It's disgusting. You know what'd make this taste better?"

"What?"

"If you tipped raw sewage over it."

He has a drink, watching the kid calmly, then puts his bottle down next to his empty plate and says, "Come here."

"I'm sorry," the kid says immediately, going completely still again. "Don't-"

"I'm not going to smack you. Come here."

-Stockholm Syndrome (Pg. 136)

[glitteringclausearchive]

He can sense Valentine there in the doorway but he doesn't look up, he won't be the first to speak. Of course he is, though. He's always the first to crack.

"Care to tell me where you've been?"

"Walking." After a while, when Lindsay doesn't speak again, he adds, "It's raining," and then Lindsay looks up and stares at him, as blankly as he can manage. His hair's plastered to his head and face and neck, he's splattered with mud, there's rainwater streaming off him like he's just jumped in the sea fully clothed. He's clutching himself and shivering, trying to rub life and feeling back into his bare forearms – still, he's remembered to take off his muddy boots in the kitchen, like he's proving he still knows how to behave himself.

"Go and get changed," Lindsay says, very calmly. "Dry your hair. You'll catch pneumonia, if I don't murder you first."

"Lindsay-"

"I'm sorry, did I just say that last bit in my head? I thought I told you to go and do something."

He hesitates a second more, then nods and goes. Lindsay can hear him in the bedroom, the slam of the wardrobe and the faint roar of his hairdryer. He just carries on rolling smokes, very slowly and methodically, taking his time to make them neat and exactly the same size in the hope it'll keep him from exploding.

-Stockholm Syndrome, Richard Rider (pg. 120)

[glitteringclausearchive]

"Don't you like Nutella?"

"I hate Nutella."

-Stockholm Syndrome, Richard Rider (page. 85)