From various points in Rain Summoner:

[Redacted] would have to be carried, but the simplest methods of doing so were barred due to injury.

"Here." He knelt lower and had the thin arms loop around his neck without breaking their circle a second time. It was difficult, but with the anchor, he managed to heft the boy up by the legs, supporting the weight on one side. At least this would see them out faster.

I will never stop lying to myself about you. I will never stop wishing, but I gave up hoping a few lifetimes ago.

Finished with his own things, Quintus buckles his belt and shrugs on his coat. He finds Miriam hanging wet clothes on nearby shrubbery, and shirtless Nikolaos tussling with his trousers. “Perhaps you might cut them off,” he observes. “So that they’ll have to be restitched tomorrow with inferior skills?” Nikolaos retorts. “Think again, Quintus. Perhaps you may like to go into battle and find your pants around your ankles, but that joyful image isn’t to everyone’s tastes.”

It does something to Quintus, Miriam notices, to see strong, ever-large Nikolaos a pale shadow of himself. It does something to her too, but Quintus seems to vanish inside himself for hours at a time, emerging wan and unsteady. He sleeps within touching distance of Nikolaos, although the gap between them is never crossed, at least, not when Miriam glances their way.

He looks up, lit by the orange glow of the firelight, and frowns. He gestures, and Nikolaos moves closer, kneels down beside him. Quintus’s gray eyes are pale, narrowed. He touches the corner of Nikolaos’s mouth, which stings. “I’m fine,” Nikolaos says. Quintus’s hand doesn’t move. “You’re soaked through, you’re limping, your face is cut open, and you look like something that’s been dragged through the mud and hung out to dry.”' “So, I look normal.”

“Quintus,” Nikolaos says, like he’s been saying it for some time. “Quintus, look.” Quintus battles his exhaustion. There’s nothing to see but Nikolaos’s pointing finger. Nikolaos’s finger wiggles, and then Quintus realizes that the fact that he can see that far is noteworthy indeed. “Dawn,” they say together like a prayer, and find a little more vigor in their frozen limbs.

Concern makes me twitchy, but I know exactly how to manipulate attraction.

I lean into his touch and try to memorise this moment of stillness, of connection.

I ate on the first day, but it tasted like shit-flavoured cardboard so I didn’t eat after that.

A gloved hand on my shoulder and another around my throat with enough pressure to tilt my chin back.

“God, Mingo, what do you see in him? I mean, I get he’s your type, I have eyes, but Christ on a fucking cracker.”

“If you could change one thing about your place within our organization,” she begins without preamble, “what would it be?” “Nothing. I’m perfectly content.” “Hmm.”  Aster stares at him with casual innocence. Octavius stares back.  She breaks first, because of course she does, because she's not breaking, not really, it's just more strategy in an endless tournament of three-dimensional chess. “What’s it going to take to convince you I’m on your side? You’ll be the death of me, you will."

“Excellent,” he says lightly, edging a bit further down the boy's body to cut a good angle. “Oh, and Milo? Feel free to scream.” He raises the belt, and the glass wall shatters. Pain rips through his bicep and the force of what is quite obviously a bullet sends him to the floor. The boy does scream.

“Oh, wow, he breathes, staring slack-jawed at the splendor of the place. “Why... why is there a swimming pool in your living room?” Octavius arcs an eyebrow. “Why not?” Milo tears his gaze away from the backlit pool of water covered in - he supposes - retractable glass. “Can’t argue with that, I guess.”

from kiss me with your fist

I've never been particularly driven, never really had a big, lofty goal in life or whatever. So instead, I kept drifting along, trying to ignore that lingering thought in the back of my mind that I wish I had some kind of purpose. And at the same time, I was always convinced I would never amount to much anyway - that even if I had a goal, I'd fail. So why bother trying? And that's fine. It's not like I disliked my life. I probably could have gone on like that. But I died, for fuck's sake. I was dead, and I got brought back to life. Shouldn't that be the ultimate sign, a second chance at living a life actually worth living? Not just floundering along, but be happy, somehow? Doing something with that potential that must be inside me, somewhere, for once.

She dashes off toward the bar, ordering our drinks, which gives me the opportunity to study her for a moment. God, she looks absolutely stunning once again, it's unreal. And she has that air of confidence that just makes you want to stare at her in awe - which is almost the opposite of how Helena usually works on people, because with her, there's always that urge to avert your gaze. Like she's so intimidating that you shouldn't risk eye contact. But Addie draws you in with her magnetism. It's very strange. She returns, two glasses in hand and a cheerful smile on her face, settling down beside me, and I realize I am really happy to see her.

No, stop! I jolt up, feeling my heart beat way too fast in my chest. A few deep breaths later, I sink back down into my pillow and pull the blanket over my head. I would really love to not wake up from a nightmare for once. It's getting a little old. I blindly feel around for Helena's pillow and drag it under the blanket with me, hugging it tightly and inhaling that faint, familiar scent. I wish she were here now instead, wrapping me up in her arms, because that would definitely calm me down. The pillow is only a very meager substitute. Well, it'll have to do, I guess, because she's too busy doing important work and talking to important people and all that.

"There's our guests! Welcome!" A tall bearded man greets us cheerily, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Oh, great. Your insufferable husband is here, too," Helena states dryly, taking a sip from her drink. I stare at her, flabbergasted, because being so overtly rude directly into someone's face is very unlike her. He just laughs and slaps her shoulder. "Still as charming as ever, I see." Maybe it's an old inside joke? Because he doesn't seem offended at all, and Addie doesn't react to it either. But Helena definitely meant it, judging by the way she looks at him - she's usually a lot better at hiding her disdain. So maybe he simply doesn't care that she doesn't like him?

“What do you need?” Nikolaos asks. “Clearly Miriam did not succeed last night,” Quintus says around a bite of potato. “Therefore, she is still in the enemy camp. Sendrhys is also in the enemy camp. I am going to kill him and assist Miriam.” Nikolaos stares, his curls wet and dripping miserably down his face. “Oh,” he says. “Anything else?” “Well, winning this war would be great,” Quintus says. “But that might be biting off a little more than I can chew.” Nikolaos stares a little more. “Wouldn’t want to do that.”

“Keys,” Birdie says, tugging on his sleeve. “I want you to throw me in!” “It’s too cold for that, duckling,” he says, prying her off his sleeve. She clings to his leg instead and he sighs. “You’ll catch something.” “No I won’t,” she says with a pout. “Yes, you will,” he laughs. “You’ll freeze your braids off.” He tugs on them affectionately as he speaks and Maura smirks at him from her seat on the bench. “And after Maura put in so much hard work doing them for you.”

Arthur laughs, the tension in him draining out. He picks up his spoon and examines the food Meja brought out. It’s some kind of fish stew over rice, but he’s only ever smelled the spices in the market. Steam is still rising off it, the smell wafting up with and making Arthur’s mouth water. He takes a bite and closes his eyes. The savory flavor is perfectly balanced by salt and and earthy spices, all in a creamy sauce that seems to soothe his whole throat on the way down. He opens his eyes and sees Meja watching him, her brow furrowed a bit. He quickly smiles at her. “It’s delicious,” he says. She smiles back at him, patting his cheek again, and goes back to shelling nuts into a bowl.

The sun's reflection on the water gives his eyes a soft green glow, and with him surrounded by the flowers and leaves, she can almost forget all the blood on his hands. He gives her a soft, sad smile. She curls her fingers against the smooth stone of the statue.

“We’re all worried about Birdie,” Jack says, grim-faced. “You can’t go running off and putting her in danger—” “She’s already in danger!” Fabin shouts, feathers falling from his hair. “How do you know?” Jack shouts back. “Because I can feel her!” Fabin screams, his eyes glowing green. Jack pulls up short and Fabin clutches his chest, his claws digging into his shirt. “Alright? I can feel her, I know she’s in danger—just—get the fuck out of my way!”

He understood, then: This was what the Flame wanted. It wanted him to burn. He had taken in its light, and carried it, like a lamp lighting the way. But his wick had expired, his use had run out. And now there was nothing left to do but burn. Burn until there was nothing left.  Well, if it wanted him to burn, then he would burn. He closed his eyes and reached for the flames.

Carrion threw himself forwards, leaping over the embers of the fire as he barreled toward the monster. As he lept, his body began to grow. His bones lengthened and his flesh swelled. Strange bony ridges bulged under his skin, and short, thick spines erupted from his arms. Long, clawed nails extended from his fingers until each was at least the size of his pocket knife. His horns grew and split, fanning into a spiked crown-like growth. The world blurred and took on a dusky haze as his eyes were engulfed in purple. By the time he landed beside Ricard, he towered over the man by several feet. Ricard spun to face him, tentacle raised in defense. Carrion batted it aside and tore a clawed hand into Ricard’s side. Hot, sticky blood coated his skin, caking under his nails, and he remembered Valeska’s warning. Don’t touch him. It might be contagious. 

Rook drifted in and out of consciousness, alternating between freezing and sweltering. Often he found himself soaked in sweat, which only made the chills worse. Sometimes he heard voices or saw the faces of people he knew, but he could never tell whether they were dreams or hallucinations. Some were kind and encouraging, telling him to be strong, that this would be over soon. Others berated him, calling him a worthless fool, saying that this was what he deserved. Yet others told him he would be lucky to die. On the rare instances when his thoughts were clear enough to understand the words, he tended to agree with them.

Quintus closes his eyes. In the sunlight, everything behind his lids is buttery warm.

Perhaps because they are moving towards a clear goal, or because the breaking dawn casts a soothing light, Quintus speaks for the first time. “It’s not your fault.” [Miriam's] gaze latches on to his, and her large, dark eyes fill with tears. “Or Andromeda’s. Or Camille’s.” Quintus doesn’t know what to do with her tears, so he ignores them. “It’s not even Nikolaos’s fault.”

“What do the others use?” “Honey, sometimes oil,” Quintus listed off, on one hand. “Quills to cover the tips. Tongs of some sort to grasp the arrowhead. Knives to carve away the skin around it.” Nikolaos turns away and retches. “Stop,” he says. “Stop. I’ll find you some quills then, shall I?”

“Do you know most people have twelve ribs on each side?” [Quintus] blusters. “Yet, inexplicably, some don’t. I’ve come across bodies with less, and bodies with more.”