The flames in his chest aren't jealousy, surprisingly. It's something else entirely, though the way they burn hurt just as much.

He didn't want to waste the woman's time, nor did he want to waste his own time, and even if it meant sitting in a white room while someone scrutinizes your every word... he'd do it.

But Hildr's office isn't white. It's painted a specific pale beige color, and were he more versed in psychology, he might would attempt to make the connection between a soft pastel and healing.

It's admitted quietly, as if he's terrified of someone else hearing those words. Because if there's one thing he's afraid of, and there's a lot he's afraid of now, it's of losing the bonds he's cultivated now.

"But I've decided that I want to remain in your life, in whatever capacity you'll allow me." His gaze doesn't waver as he speaks these words, and maybe it's the adrenaline coursing through him but... "As a friend, or some annoying former co-worker or... just know that I'm going to put aside my feelings to keep what we've got going... going?"

He knew the right thing to say in order to grab their respective attentions. For the honor-bound Albaz, he just had to say that someone had tripped an old lady and stolen her purse. For the mischief-loving Aluber, he just had to say that there was an untripped old lady with an unstolen purse nearby.

The sand was scorching hot, as if walking on burning coals, while the sweltering heat caused the air in a far-off distance to shimmer like a mirage. The ocean's cooling water was the only reprieve from this living Hell.

It’s the first campfire of the summer. A large crowd threatens to swallow any sight of the flame, and following the quest Hathorne and Rosenbach left for, most of the camp remain in gossip. The routine is standard by now, all according to some bygone plan.

Omnipresence really doesn't fucking do much in the long run, huh.

Thian Lê is baking.

[...]

There's only one small problem, left pocketed as not a goddamn issue until it has to be, about the fact.

This isn't his fucking kitchen.

"I'm not one to seek dashing looks and grand titles alone," is the card she plays now, as she shifts into a step closer, then back. "If I'm to dance with dukes and princes, it will be because they bow and ask with offered hands."

A handsome monster, oathsworn to insentience with a name unnamable, unmeant to be invoked. For power, like lovers hands, have pried open their thighs and yielded themselves to the sanctum of pleasures. Their form is emptiness and emptiness is their form; deities in pairs, female and male and all in between. Discordant elements confused, congested into a shapeless heap.

As calm as the breeze, tepid in shadow. She is life and she is death; in all its peace. Her tone is not burdened by fear, yet she is wise enough to hold it in her heart.

A hunger reflected in her eyes and they feasted upon every unsteady gasp of air, every shudder of anguish and every bead of sweat that coated his flesh. It is a buffet of agony, and she is an indulgent patron savoring every last crumb.

"Please..." Akira felt the life starting to slip away from the only person that actively cared for him and he curled up above him, his shoulders shaking under the weight of it. "You can't... Not for me..." The man didn't deserve it. It had been meant for him, not Ken.