They're more alike than they know, in that. Men raised to serve their people, to be nothing more, to want nothing more. It will be a good topic eventually, probably.
But for now, every non-answer gives Olivine all the information he needs. He'd have done the same thing, a couple of years ago. Dismissed his own discomforts with harmless little lies to take care of them alone.]
I'm reasonably sure most people would worry that I wasn't myself if how others felt ceased being concerning to me. [wryly spoken. ] ... to answer your earlier question more properly though, I imagine the fact that we're in my personal room can answer how "bad" my requests could be.
[is it misdirection if he earnestly wants to know? Probably. Olivine's gaze drifts as he considers how to word his answer.]
I'll be fine; my essence is stable. My memories... ah. They've been there since we stepped inside, yes. I spent a fair amount of my life in this place, after all.
[indeed, there's no shortage of memories stirred up in his soul—most of them inappropriate, and many of them colored with a searing pain and subsequent calm, and tinged with frustration bordering on hatred.
Quiet hiding places that conceal all but the sounds of ecstacy. Here, beset by arousal and struggling to keep quiet whenever a noise rose beyond the door. The dimly lit basement where dozens of students engaged in a whole-ass orgy, and the urge to join it besides. Less guiltily, kneeling behind his teaching desk. Hands pulling up fabric to the thin, decorative ropes beneath. You're worth more than just your role.
... you needn't suffer alone here. If you'll allow it, I'd like to help you.
no subject
god, a mood. So many shortcutsThey're more alike than they know, in that. Men raised to serve their people, to be nothing more, to want nothing more. It will be a good topic eventually, probably.
But for now, every non-answer gives Olivine all the information he needs. He'd have done the same thing, a couple of years ago. Dismissed his own discomforts with harmless little lies to take care of them alone.]
I'm reasonably sure most people would worry that I wasn't myself if how others felt ceased being concerning to me. [wryly spoken. ] ... to answer your earlier question more properly though, I imagine the fact that we're in my personal room can answer how "bad" my requests could be.
[is it misdirection if he earnestly wants to know? Probably. Olivine's gaze drifts as he considers how to word his answer.]
I'll be fine; my essence is stable. My memories... ah. They've been there since we stepped inside, yes. I spent a fair amount of my life in this place, after all.
[indeed, there's no shortage of memories stirred up in his soul—most of them inappropriate, and many of them colored with a searing pain and subsequent calm, and tinged with frustration bordering on hatred.
Quiet hiding places that conceal all but the sounds of ecstacy. Here, beset by arousal and struggling to keep quiet whenever a noise rose beyond the door. The dimly lit basement where dozens of students engaged in a whole-ass orgy, and the urge to join it besides. Less guiltily, kneeling behind his teaching desk. Hands pulling up fabric to the thin, decorative ropes beneath. You're worth more than just your role.
... you needn't suffer alone here. If you'll allow it, I'd like to help you.