“‘Most men,’” he quoted, “‘are of naught more use in their lives but as machines for turning food into shit.’” Ivan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Who sa… - Lois McMaster Bujold

Why have these people so blithely handed me the right to risk their lives? God, I hate command.

“It’s true,” agreed Oliver, “that if your religion failed to deliver a miracle, that a human sacrifice would certainly follow.”
“Ah...quite,” Miles gulped. “You are a man of acute insight.”
“That’s not an insight,” said Oliver. “That’s a personal guarantee.”

“I made up a lot of instant barbarian folklore—I told ’em a Vor prides himself on self-control, that it’s not considered polite on Barrayar for a man to, you know, before his lady has. Three times. It was considered insulting to her. I stroked, I rubbed, I scratched, I recited poetry, I nuzzled and nibbled and—cripes, my fingers are cramped.” His speech was a bit slurred, too, Miles noticed. “I thought they’d never fall asleep.” Ivan paused; a slow smirk displaced the snarl on his face. “But they were smiling, when they finally did.”