#'there is not a warmer kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light'

[brittlebutch]

Elementary!Holmes talking about his somewhat abrasive personality / social skills using phrasing that could have been pulled Directly from popular autism acceptance essays, like ok man. i see you.

[brainvttic]

I am not a nice man...

It is important for her to understand that. It's going to save her a great deal of time and effort. There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light.

I am acerbic. I can be cruel. It's who I am. Right to the bottom. I'm neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my work, my nature has been an advantage far more often that it's been a hindrance. I'm not gonna change.

So why am I good to her? Yeah for the most part I consider her to be... exceptional. So I make an exceptional effort to accommodate her. But she must accept that for as long as she chooses to be in my life, there will occasionally be fallout from my behaviour.

That must be a part of our understanding and I know no one can accept that forever.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Ten Sides (Part 20)

She finds that it is more or less a matter of sorting out her feelings. It is quieter in her mind now. Less chaotic. She has a lot to think about, a lot to process. But at least it is organized. At least it feels authentic.

This semi-clarity comes as a relief especially with the palace in view. She can’t imagine returning with anything less than a clear head. She sits cross legged on the deck and watches as it looms closer. Admittedly, even with a wholly unclouded mind, she is apprehensive about returning.

Fully aware or not, Zuko had left her to get re-shaped and reformed beyond recognition. Fully aware or not, he hadn’t bothered to check in on her. Perhaps if he had she wouldn’t have fallen so far.

Azula inhales deeply and looks at her palm. She hasn’t yet gotten around to firebending yet, hasn’t mustered up the willpower to do so. She braces herself to see lapping and licking orange, but doesn’t think that she will be ready at all if that is what she finds. She closes her eyes and closes her fist. With the opening of her hand, comes fire. She waits for just another moment or two before opening her eyes. She just about cries with relief when she sees a gentle dance of blue. It is her fire.

“You must feel a lot better now.” Aang remarks, taking a seat next to her.

She manages a nod. Truly she does; the sun on her skin feels that much warmer and the breeze keeping it’s head at bay feels kinder as it rushes around her. Her tummy flutters with a feeling of exhilaration that she hasn’t felt in a very long time. A feeling that is perhaps optimism. Hope.

She watches the flame dance on her palm for a very long while before finally letting it sputter out and putting her hand down.

“Feel more like yourself?”

Azula nods again. At the very least she feels strong again. At the very least, she is better able to start picking up the bits of her confidence and piecing them back together again.

“We should arrive at the palace a little after nightfall. That’s what the captain told me.”

“That will do just fine.”

She never actually turns to face him. At last he takes the hint and mumbles something akin to, “alright, great, glad you’re feeling better.”

.oOo.

She is in better spirts and yet he is still reluctant to approach the princess. She is still dwelling on the deck and he isn’t sure if it is because she simply enjoys the fresh air or because she is trying to avoid being below deck with him.

Based solely on the way she has herself laid out with the sun warming her back, he would guess that it is a pretty solid mix of both. She does seem rather relaxed for a change and he isn’t sure that he wants to ruin this for her. But at the same time he has to know…

He takes a deep breath and, once again, takes a seat next to her. He waits for her to crack an eyelid and acknowledge his presence before stating,  “you’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

With a sigh, the princess sits up. “Not particularly.”

“You haven’t talked to me since we balanced your chakras.” Evidently, he feels used. And maybe he deserves it. “I guess I can’t blame you if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Avatar.” She says softly. “I just can’t think about you right now.” She pauses. He isn’t exactly sure what emotion flickers across her face, but is something very close to desperation. Conflict, he realizes. Azula seems to wear the two emotions the same way. “I don’t want to...I don’t want to lose you. I don’t have many friends. But there are other things that I need to focus on.”

“Like your bending?”

“Correct.”

“And how you’re going to confront Zuko?”

Another affirmative nod.

“You do realize that you can do all of those things and be social, right?”

This time her nod is disagreeing. “Not with you.”

He leaves her to herself and she leaves him contemplating the implications of that. He thinks that at least a part of him knows exactly what she is trying to tell him. Another part crave denial and yearns for him to stop thinking about it. It could be that he has it all wrong anyhow. He isn’t sure if he’d prefer that he were wrong or if he is secretly thrilled at the prospect of being correct.

Somewhere, somehow, he has grown quite fond of Azula; she has an admirable amount of determination, a resilience that he doesn’t come by often. In her own stern and stand offish way she is good for conversation. And beneath all of that hurt and fear, he has felt nothing but love and a protectiveness. He knows that he would not have been able to coax those emotions from her were they not already there.

And yet, she so stubbornly refuses to truly let people in.

.oOo.

Zuko is waiting at the docks when the ship pulls into port. The stars have just risen, they reflect tantalizingly on the water’s surface. He hears the hasty clinging of hammers as dock workers make their final repairs for the night.

The sea splashes him with a light spray as the vessel in front of him drops its anchor. Late traders and buyers bid each other hurried goodbyes and scramble back to their dwellings. Every now and then he hears a coin ping against the wood and roll away.

He watches one gain momentum and come to settle at someone’s feet. Her hair is shorter now and she isn’t as well groomed and pampered as he remembers, but he recognizes her immediately.

He has an impulsive urge to rush over and embrace her the way an older brother ought to, but her temperament keeps him at bay. After days at sea and a significantly longer period cooped up in an institution, he isn’t sure what mood she is in. He imagines that it is somewhere between exhausted and furious. Certainly, he can’t imagine that Azula is in any manner of a pleasant mood.

He keeps his distance, only offering a small wave, until Aang comes to stand next to her. “Hi, Zuko!” He greets with a smile.

Zuko come closer and slings his arm over Aang’s shoulder, “good to see you again.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed talking with you and the others.” Aang agrees. “Has Appa been good?”

“You’ll have to ask Sokka and TyLee, they’ve been watching he and Momo.”

With Aang’s nod, Zuko turns to Azula. He grits his teeth and tries to come up with some sort of greeting. She offers him no help. He wonders how much energy she is investing into not frying him on the spot. But the more he looks, the less likely this seems to him. The more he looks, the more tired she seems. And for what it is worth, he can’t particularly sense any hostility.

At last she speaks, “aren’t you going to welcome me home?” Her tone is caught between a jest and a genuine inquiry. But she doesn’t seem particularly resentful.

Somehow this is more pertubing than the notion of having to fight her. His stomach grows queasy; have they successfully shaped her into someone else entirely. Is that why she is home?

He knew that they would be utilizing spirit energy as part of her recovery process, but would they really go so far as to have twisted her spirit into something it was never meant to be.

He forces a smile, “yeah. Welcome home, Azula. You’re probably looking forward to sleeping in your own bed again.”

“Among other things.” She confirms.

Some of his unease subsides; she, at the very least, still sounds and talks like Azula.

“Was Sangyul able to help you at all?”

Azula cuts Aang a glare, “just how vague was your letter?”

Aang shrugs, “I just told him that we were on our way back to the mainland and needed a boat.”

Azula sighs, “let’s head back, I’ll tell you along the way.”

The reach the palace before she finishes her recap. For a good while they linger on the steps as she covers the last stretch of her journey and boasts about how she has balanced her chakras so she can give him the ass kicking he deserves for leaving her in such a miserable facility.

And by the end of her story, Zuko still isn’t certain that he has all of the details. He has a sneaking suspicion that she has left a lot out; whether it is because she doesn’t want him to know or because she simply can’t bring herself to talk about it, he doesn’t know. But he is decently disturbed all the same.

He looks between Aang and Azula as it all settles in. “I...I didn't realize…”

“Why didn’t you come by to visit, Zuzu?” She asks, tone simmering in accusation. At last he feeling the resentment he had been expecting at the harbor.

“I thought that seeing me would upset you.”

Azula shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have. They would have had me nice and happy and sub…” she trails off, “relaxed, just for you.”

His stomach lurches.

.oOo.

Where Zuko’s stomach sinks, Aang feels bizarre pangs of relief. Azula is angry. She is all fire and icy fierceness. He hasn’t seen this from her in quite a while. Perhaps he should have just brought her right to Zuko; he seems to have a very special way of bringing out her lashing tongue and her merciless wit and sarcasm.

Aang puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” She snaps. She shakes his hand off before he can retract it on his own. “Sorry.” He grumbles. “I was just hoping that the two of you would give each other a chance.” Granted Zuko has given her a chance--he vocalizes as much--it is Azula who has thrown up her walls. Even so he doesn’t want to aggravate her more. “I think that it would make things easier if you two weren’t arguing.”

“He left me with him.” Azula snarls. “With you.”

Aang swallows, he thinks that Azula’s eyes betray at least a little regret.

“I’m due for a bath.” She grumbles, with an almost sheepish folding of her arms.

“Azula! Calm down.”

“Grab your spirit vines and make me.” She hisses. It is equally devastating and reassuring. Doubly so when she ignores his requests that she stays and finishes talking things out. He very nearly goes after her but Zuko holds him in place at the shoulder. “Let her have her bath, she might be less cranky after

Aang nods.

“And besides, I was hoping you could tell me things from your side. Without side commentary.”

Aang allows himself to chuckle.

.oOo.

Where Azula had left blank spaces, Aang fills him in. He goes quiet when she reappears, smelling freshly of jasmine shampoo. She spares him a glance before disappearing into her room. This time Aang lets her have her way quietly.

“She didn’t tell you, but she lost her fire for a while--I mean I did take it but even after I gave it back she was having trouble. Zuko, it was bad. Really bad.” He steals a glance at her bedroom door. “I’m still kind of worried about her.”

Zuko doesn’t particularly need him to elaborate. He has a hard time picturing his sister without her fire, even if it is only for a span of time.

“And then for a while, when it came back, it wasn’t even blue.”

And the implications of that are jarring. “Is there anything else I should know about.” Exactly what could break her to the point where her fire faded.

Aang grimaces and seems to contemplate whether or not he should share. “He--Sangyul made her cut her hair. She called him, ‘father’. And he...he did things to her. Humiliated her. He would make it seem like she had choices and then he would make these little remarks until she changed her mind.” He takes swallows hard. “And for a while after our escape she wasn’t making decisions on her own…”

“What the fuck, Aang!?” The Avatar flinches at his outburst. “How could you let that happen? I told you to work with her spirit energy to help her not...do that!”

“I know.” Aang replies quietly. “I don’t know how I let it happen. I guess...I guess that Sangyul is good at what he does. He convinced me that I was helping her and by the time I realized what was going on…” He makes a vague gesture. “She says that she isn’t angry with me but I think that she is.”

“I am.” Comes a declaration from behind a closed door. Zuko can vividly picture her laying on her side, arms folded, face fixed in a pout.

.oOo.

Quieter, Aang mutters, “I’m not sure if she’s angry that I just told you all of the details or because of everything that’s happened.  Happened.” He has a feeling that it is a blend of both, perhaps with a more heavy lean on him blabbing away.

He imagines that her resentment had been carefully put aside while he helped her through everything. And now that it has come up, it is coming out. And maybe that is a good thing, maybe he needs to let her work through it.

“Let her sleep it off.” Zuko confirms. “She hates long boat rides, she complained almost the whole time when we went on family trips to Ember Island.” He laughs to himself.

Aang nods. “I just don’t want to lose her as a friend. I know that you two don’t get along but she’s…”

“I know that she’s not a bad person. She sure as Roku’s beard isn’t friendly, but she’s not a bad person.”

Aang smiles. At least that’s some progress. “She’s actually kind of nice when she’s in a good mood.”

.oOo.

Azula stares up at the ceiling, head spinning with frustration and unease. Aang had told Zuzu much more than she wanted him to know and now she has an extra helping of shame and indignity to work around on top of all else. Likely he sees weakness where he used to see strength.

She inhales sharply. He’d already seen her thrashing about, tethered to a grate, he can’t possibly view her anymore pitifully than he does already. She inhales again and tries to focus on what she’d learned from her meditation.

There is depth in shame. Pride in shame. She rolls onto her side and rests her head on her hands. And maybe they see strength in her ability to overcome and carry on. Maybe they see dignity in the reclaiming of her autonomy.

At the very least, she can see the dignity and strength in it.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Tremor III

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen (may wibble upwards into AO3′s Mature later) Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Scott Tracy, The Hood

Here we go again!  This week our sense is Hear from @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday challenge.  Part 1 | Part 2

I think it’s time to wake Scott up, although he might disagree with me on that one.  While there’s nothing overly graphic, there are depictions of torture in this part.

There was the hum of machinery all around him and passing through him.  Some sort of engine, a monster of a beast from the low rumble. It wasn’t the rumble of a Thunderbird; not even Thunderbird Two’s acoustics reached quite as low as this.  Certainly, it was nothing like the comforting cry of his own ‘bird.

He shifted, his back resting on something solidly uncomfortable, and there was a heavy clink, like metal hitting metal.  Attempts to pull his arms to his sides – why were they above his head, he never slept like that – resulted in a louder clank and he was forced to stop moving by pressure on his wrists.  That didn’t bode well.

Where was he?  This could be one of Gordon’s pranks, but Gordon knew better than to mess around on a mission, and the last he could recall, he’d been on a rescue.  A collapsed mine, a distressed woman, and then- he’d been attacked?

He stilled, running through everything he knew again.  He was lying on something hard and unforgiving, with only a thin layer of what felt like rough cotton between his back and the surface.  His uniform was gone, as well as anything else he’d been wearing from what he could tell, and there were chains holding his wrists in place.  A heavy weight on his ankles suggested that his feet were similarly restrained, legs splayed just past the edge of what would be comfortable.  All in all, not a favourable position to be in.

There were other little noises, barely audible over the thrum of engines.  A shuffle, the almost silent passage of air in and out of someone’s mouth.  Wherever he was, he wasn’t alone.

“I trust your sleep was pleasant?”

Scott considered feigning further unconsciousness.  If he didn’t respond, they might just leave him alone and he could work out how best to get himself out of the predicament he’d ended up in.  Even if he was no longer wearing his uniform, it should be nearby, and if nothing else John would be tracking it.

“Come, now, Scott,” the voice continued.  It was male, silky, coaxing.  The sort of thing he heard from the businessmen he trusted the least.  It was also bordering on familiar.  “You and I both know you’re awake.”  He was sure he’d heard that voice before, somewhere.  If he could just remember where…  “If you wish,” the man continued, “I’ll let you know where you are.  You’re currently in one of the sections of my ship; I must apologise for the accommodation – I don’t often entertain guests.”

That told him nothing new, which he suspected was the purpose.  Offering useless information to bait him in was a common tactic, and one he’d pulled on younger brothers when required.

His companion sighed.

“A conversation ideally requires more than one participant,” he said neutrally.  “Of course, we could get down to business without preliminary small talk, but that would be so impolite.  What would your father think?”

A rush of rage flowed through Scott.  Who was this man to talk about Dad so casually, so familiarly?  How dare he-

All of a sudden, he realised where he knew the voice from, and something unpleasant coiled in his gut. Reluctantly, he pried his eyes open, squinting against the bright light directly above him, and looked over to his side.

The Hood was not someone he’d ever met in person, but he’d watched the Zero-X footage a thousand times, with the same, slimy bald head and drawn cheeks etching themselves into his mind over and over again until he invaded his dreams.  This was the man that killed Dad, and – Scott’s stomach lurched – now he was at his mercy.  He didn’t think the Hood had much of that.

“Ah, much better,” the Hood said lightly, a patronising smirk twisting his features.  There was nothing remotely pleasing to the eye about the entire visage.  “We have much to discuss, after all.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Scott snapped back, his voice still laden with the rasp of groggy awakening.  Hazel eyes, a sickly green-yellow rather than Kayo’s much warmer, kinder, gaze, took on a glint of amusement.

“Oh, I assure you we do,” the Hood responded, inspecting his hands lightly.  “I think we should begin with the exact nature of your so-called ‘Eye in the Sky’.”

Thunderbird Five.  John.

“A space station of some sort?” the man continued, as though he was discussing the weather and not threatening his younger brother.  “Presumably one with a Thunderbird callsign, like the rest of your admittedly impressive fleet.  Let’s see… a Thunderbird Five?”

Scott glared at him, hoping he couldn’t hear his heart thumping.  It was all conjecture, understandable leaps of logic.  He didn’t actually know anything, he was just trying to get a reaction from him, to see how close his theories were to the truth.  Scott refused to let him know how accurate his guess was.

“You killed Dad,” he accused.  “Why would I tell you anything?”

The Hood gave a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Misunderstandings and defamation of character,” he said with an exaggerated patience.  “I did not kill Jeff.  He was not invited to join the show, nor did I force him to remain on the ship instead of bailing like a sensible individual.  Your father’s tragic demise was entirely of his own creation, I’m afraid.  Oh, don’t give me that look.  Glaring doesn’t change the truth.  He could have saved his own skin at any time, and you know it, Scott.”

His name falling as slick as oil from those thin, bloodless lips did nothing to improve Scott’s mood, and not for the first time, he wished glaring daggers was a more literal description. Anything to get this man away from him, saying half-truths as though they were gospel with a honeyed tongue.

“But we’re not here to discuss the tragedy that was the Zero-X,” the Hood continued, “although I would be willing to commiserate Jeff’s life with you after we get the business out of the way.  After all, he was my friend.”

“Liar!” Scott spat, without thinking.  “Dad would never be friends with, with-”

“With me?” the Hood finished, leaning forwards and delicately taking hold of his chin.  His fingers were spindly and just warm enough to be living, but slimy and raised goosebumps where they touched his skin.  “Oh, Scott, don’t you remember me?  Captain Taylor might have been awarded with the title of godfather, but I held you back when you were an infant before he ever met you. I dare say the man’s still never got his own godson’s name right.”

It was phrased as an observation, but there was a questioning tilt at the end of the sentence.  Scott set his jaw and didn’t answer.  That couldn’t be right.  He was lying – he was a crook, lying was what he did best.

“Oh, Lucille was never my biggest fan,” the Hood continued when it became apparent he had no intention of confirming or denying.  “But you adored me, always crawling to my feet whenever I walked in the house. Never in anything more than a nappy – oh, I’m speaking to an American, diaper.  You weren’t the biggest fan of clothing, as I recall.”

Scott felt sick, although he kept his glare up, jaw set against saying anything and waiting for the spidery fingers to release their feather-light touch on his face.  His parents and grandparents alike had commented more than once on infant-Scott’s protests against clothes, reminding him as a child whenever he despaired over Gordon’s similar dislike over wearing anything.  How the Hood knew that – if it wasn’t a lucky guess – he didn’t want to know.

Those weren’t the sort of details available to the public.

“But we can reminisce later,” the Hood said, finally taking his fingers away.  “Business before pleasure, of course.  So, International Rescue’s Eye in the Sky?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he spat, and the Hood sighed.

“Such melodramatics.” He shook his head.  “I must say it gives me no pleasure to do this.”  There was a glint in his eye that told Scott he was lying, but before he could begin to determine what this was, his wrists burned like a wildfire, shocks streaking down his arms and contracting the muscles involuntarily.

It lasted no time at all, but to Scott’s dismay he was panting, forcing his muscles to relax again.

That gleam was still there when the Hood gripped hold of his chin again, fingers pressing in to the delicate flesh under his jaw, and forced him to face him again.  He didn’t remember looking away.

“I’m afraid I can’t accept no for an answer,” he said, voice still in the smooth businessman tones.  “If you won’t tell me willingly, I have no choice but to resort to somewhat harsher methods.  I will ask you again: tell me all about your Eye in the Sky.”

“Go to hell!” Scott spat, tensing up in anticipation of another shock.  None came, and the Hood gave a grin that would have looked more at home on a tiger as he retracted his hand again.

“Now why would I want to do that?”  He checked his watch, a flash of gold, and hummed.  “I’m afraid I will have to bring our conversation to an end for the moment. My attention is required elsewhere.” Scott watched him stand, brushing invisible lint from his suit.  “We shall resume later.”

The door was out of Scott’s line of sight, but he heard it lock and relaxed.  Time to find-

Pain lanced through him, electricity dancing through his muscles and once again forcibly contracting them.  He clenched his teeth through the pain, his back arching away from the table and his limbs coming up short against the clinking of chains.  Unlike the first dose, it didn’t cease after a split second, instead wracking his body into spasms.  He couldn’t breathe, it hurt, it burned, he couldn’t breathe.

Black spots danced in his vision and somewhere there was a keening sound, like a distant scream.  He couldn’t breathe, his nerves were on fire, his body wouldn’t listen to him-

As suddenly as it had started, it stopped again, leaving him heaving for breath and blinking away the black spots.  His back cautiously lowered to the probably-table he was chained to, and oh so slowly, he got his trembling limbs back under control.  He had to escape; while he had every faith that John and Kayo would find him, he couldn’t just lay back and wait.  Not with taser-infused chains that needed no clear provocation to activate.

Given their resistance to his pain-induced thrashing, it was unlikely that the chains would break easily, but with nothing else to go on, Scott forced his aching arm to extend until his hand to wrap around the chain linked to him and tugged.  There was a rattle, but no give.

Clenching his teeth, Scott tried again.  And again. And again.

There was the hiss of an opening door and he dropped the chain as though it burned.  Hurried footsteps, unlike the calm and measured ones of the Hood, approached him until a person with a ridiculous mask over their head was stood next to him.  He couldn’t see where they were looking exactly, but the helmet moved in a slow turn, giving off the appearance of taking in his entire restrained – and, oh, undressed – self, before settling on his face.

“Water,” a heavily disguised voice said, holding up a clear plastic bottle in front of his face. Scott opened his mouth to point out that he was hardly in a position to drink, but before he could say anything, the cap was popped off and the water upended over his mouth.

Unprepared, and in what was quite possibly the worst position, there was nothing Scott could do except splutter and choke as some of the miniature deluge found its way down his throat.  There was no way to breathe, no way to escape – attempts to turn his head sideways, out of the path of the water were thwarted by a large hand gripping his chin with none of the Hood’s faux finesse and forcing his mouth open.

Then the water was gone, and he was coughing and choking in an effort to keep it out from his lungs. Water erupted onto his face, running off his cheeks like tears, and he turned his head to the side, vomiting up what he could.  The masked person was gone by the time he got control of himself again, now uncomfortably aware of the rough cotton below him absorbing the moisture and turning damp.

The chains on his wrist flared up again, and he had a split second to panic about the water dripping off of him and into the material below him before his awareness sharply narrowed to agony, can’t breathe, muscles wound tighter than a spring and his vision alternating black and white as that background keening started again.

Him, he realised dimly when the pain came to an abrupt end, leaving him gasping and heaving.

“I trust you’ve had some time to reconsider.”  The Hood’s silky tones draped over him as the man himself stepped back into view.  How much time had passed?  Scott didn’t think it had been that long, but he had no way to tell the time.  Any attempts at keeping track mentally had been well and truly thrown off.  “I would rather dispense with this uncouth method and discuss this civilly.”

Scott spat some leftover water at him as he carefully persuaded his muscles to unclench, one group at a time, and took some glee in the fact it landed on his face.  Aside from the twitch of a brow, there was no response.

“We were discussing your Eye in the Sky?” the Hood prompted instead, just as he managed to release the tension from his left calf.  Scott turned his head away and a sharp burst of electricity shot up from his left ankle, jerking his leg taut again and travelling up to his hips before fading away. “It’s polite to look at someone when they’re talking to you, Scott.  I’m sure your father taught you that.  Your mother certainly would have.”

Scott reluctantly rolled his head over to glare at him, once again trying to unwind his leg muscles.

“You don’t get to talk about my parents,” he rasped, throat unpleasantly raw.  He tried not to think about that.

“I would prefer to address International Rescue,” the Hood reminded him.  Scott shut his mouth and glowered at him.  “Really, Scott?  I was hoping to have a mature conversation with an adult; who knew the commander of International Rescue was such a child?  I imagine you’ll be sticking your tongue out at me next?”

Scott refused to rise to the bait, and the Hood sighed.

“No matter,” he said. “We have time.”  Scott inwardly scoffed.  His family would arrive soon, even if he couldn’t get himself free any time soon.  He only had to hold out until then.

He had military training. He could do that.

The Hood headed for the door again, calm and measured footsteps that stopped just out of his sight.

“Oh, and Scott? Everything you had on you was left by the mine.”  Scott suddenly felt very cold.  His tech, his trackers…  “I do hope you weren’t expecting a rescue.”  Without those, they couldn’t track him.  The Hood’s ship had constantly evaded everything they had for eight years now – it had been a point of contention for John and Kayo alike.

The Hood made a noise that was clearly amused.

“You were?  Oh, dear, Scott.  It’s a good thing I told you – we wouldn’t want you clinging to some false hope, would we?”  Scott barely listened to him, dread pooling in his gut.

He had to get out of there.

The door hissed shut, locking with a thud, and for the first time, he felt truly trapped.

Part IV

[ajokeformur-ray]

📝 👀

Clarissa!🥺😭

I asked you to send in this emoji weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for this whole time for words to come to me, I’ve been waiting to hear and to understand what to say, but I think this is one of those things in which you’re never ready... so I’ll start now and see what happens.

First, and most importantly... I love you. I love you I love you I love you. 

I love you. 

💜💙🤍💜💙🤍💜💙🤍

You are... radiant.

Every day I think I can’t be prouder of you, that I can’t miss you more, that I can’t love you more, that I can’t admire you more... and every day I’m proven wrong. You are the coffee in my mug. You are That’s Life blasting through my headphones to block out you-know-who when I’m doing chores around the house. You are my light, my life, my love. You are my everything. My bestest friend whom I love the mostest. My one and only.

You are so beautiful a soul inside and out. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You are so warm and gentle, so empathetic and wise, so tender hearted, strong and brave (though I’m so sorry that you have to be), so kickass and so fiercely protective of your loved ones. Your interests and personality are always valid and worthy of being heard, seen and paid attention to, just as you are, and I cannot say enough how much better you deserve in everything.

My love, you’re working so hard and you’re doing so much and I’m in awe of you and your strength. Every single day, you inspire me. You make me want to do more and to be more, you make me want to try. When I’m lying in bed watching Joker dancing down the stairs to coax myself into starting my day, my thoughts most often turn to you. Clarissa would tell you to get up, Erika. Just sit up. Then peel the duvet back. Then one leg over the side. One step at a time... and my thoughts turn back to Joker. You guide me through my day, every day. I wake up thinking of you. I think of you while I’m at work; excited am I to come home to any messages I got from you during the night (our five hour time difference is more palatable during the day)... I think of you when I’m doing the chores and trying not to lose my temper. I think of you all the time, my love. You are so important and so loved, more than you know. 

I love you so so much. Ironically, I have no way of telling you just how much I love you because there are no words. You are so much more than you know. You are braver, stronger, more intelligent. Gentler, kinder, more loving, more tender... you are so loved. By me, by your F/Os, and by others here; you have many silent lovers, darling, though that doesn’t pay the serotonin bills, of course. You are worthy and valuable, valid and real, alive and so much more than you’re aware of. Ironically, that’s your strength. You are so creative and so passionate, so compassionate and so empathetic, so sympathetic and so intelligent creatively, emotionally and in other ways too. Everything you do is worthy, valid and valuable and creating and loving for their own sake is so brave. You are brave. And good. And strong. You’re everything I never knew I needed until I did. You have changed my life in so many ways and you’ve given me so many reasons. You are my reason. I adore you, cherish you, treasure you and I love you. My home.💗

I miss you, so much. I love you. I’m proud of you, and I’m here, angel. Always. I know you’re hurting badly, darling, and I want you to know that I see and recognise your pains, your efforts, your trials and your successes. I see you, I know you, and I’m so proud of you, as are your F/Os, and we all love you deeply! Please put yourself first and look after yourself, Clarissa; you’re an angel. So beautiful inside and out, and the world is warmer and brighter with you in it. I’d be so lost without you. I love you I love you I love you.

Forever and a day.

[sillyeverydays]

Sherlock: I've given further consideration to your rebuke regarding my capacity for niceness.

Joan: I didn't mean it as a rebuke. I was trying to have a conversation.

Sherlock: Either way. You have a point. There is unquestionably a certain social utility to being polite. To maintaining an awareness of other people's sensitivities. To exhibiting all the traits that might commonly be grouped under the heading nice.

Joan: I think you'll be surprised how easy it is to earn that designation.

Sherlock: No. I am not a nice man. It's important that you understand that. It's going to save you a great deal of time and effort. There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light. I am acerbic. I can be cruel. It's who I am. Right to the bottom. I'm neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my work, my nature has been an advantage far more often than it has been a hindrance. I'm not gonna change.

[dewdropinthesky]

“I’ve given further consideration to your rebuke regarding my capacity for niceness”

...

“There is, unquestionably, a certain social utility to being polite. To maintaining an awareness of other people’s sensitivities, to exhibiting all the traits that might commonly be grouped under the heading ‘nice’.”

...

“No. I am not a nice man. It’s important that you understand that. It’s going to save you a great deal of time and effort. There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light. I am acerbic, I can be cruel, it’s who I am. Right to the bottom. I’m neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my work, my nature has been an advantage far more often than it has been a hindrance. I’m not going to change.”

...

“Good to you? Yes, for the most part. I consider you to be exceptional. So I make an exceptional effort to accommodate you. But you must accept though, for as long as you choose to be in my life, there will occasionally be fallout from my behavior. That must be a part of our understanding.”

...

“No one could accept that forever”

“To thine own self, Watson”

Elementary Season 2, Episode 9

[thedemonconstantine]

adventurepunks​:

“Sh, I’m thinking” Zatanna tapped her fingers on the kitchen counter in thought and then rushed to her bedroom, to her notebook where she would spend the next two hours refining her work. It made her think of the days before Nick was her Nick and was just Nick.

The acerbic neutral faced mentor that insisted to her that there wasn’t a kinder warmer version of him waiting to be coaxed into the light, the mentor that had to put up with Zatanna’s insistence of trying to redeem him, to see him as a good man that was stuck in bad situations.

“That’s funny” Zatanna praised the idea of the sketch. “I like that about you, your humor.” she was clearly amused by his antics. “I have been pondering about Nick, our recluse mentor. I told him years ago I heard a rumor that he was a cruel tutor but I couldn’t see it. You know what he said?”

“ I can be cruel. It’s who I am.I’m neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my work, my nature has been an advantage far more often than it has been a hindrance.” Zatanna quoted word for word. “It makes you think a little doesn’t it, how hard it must be to be a necromancer. To look at a cadaver and not be struck by grief or horror but to think of it as parts. The cool detachment it takes, dark magic too. Nick said it a plenty it’s more dangerous, more costly to your health and yet he chose it just for the power. “Makes you think, don’t it?” she asked swirling her cup under the tap and made another cup of tea.

“Do you ever wonder what he sees in you? Or us?Because I do, all the time wonder. Couldn’t accuse the guy of falling in love out of convinience, that it’s us because we were happening to be nearest to him, the man is as shut off as a threatened clam”

“I have been trying to come up with the basic traits it takes to be a master practitioner of the dark arts and..”

The traits that Nick claimed were not exactly ones Zatanna wanted to encourage into young students.

“Wossat? Just me ‘umor ‘n nuhfing else?” John’s pout would put Monroe to shame, perfected with a raised eyebrow and his puppy-dog stare.

What Zee was asking for was a groping of her full breasts and that was exactly what John did as he body slammed her from behind, cupping her and kneading his handfuls with a chortle of his own. So warm, so soft...!

“Eugh yeh sound like someone I know,” He groaned into her hair and hugged her tightly just so he could squeeze out the rest of that quote to get it over and done with. Give him his Zee back!

There, much better. Heh!

“Aye well th’ spirit’s gone innit so woh’s left’s just meat ‘n bones. ‘ow different is it from lookin’ at animal carcasses? Yeh still eat chicken ‘n lamb ‘n beef now amirite?

Just coz we’re supposedly made in God’s image so our bodies should be treated differently from th’ rest which we so carelessly butcher? Nah. A carcass is a carcass, is a bloody carcass. As long as th’ spirit’s gone, is all th’ same. Just organic ma’er sittin’ dere goin’ ‘ta waste if yeh dun makes full use o’ it.

Is nah detachment at all. More like e’eryone else been conditioned ‘ta socially accepted morals, fanks ‘ta a certain bloody religion. Same fing as ‘ow yeh kin justify almost anyfing wiff religion anyways, even if it doesn’t make any logical sense.

Tell me ‘ow different is usin’ parts o’ a carcass fer spells compared ‘ta usin’ a carcass fer scientific research? Boff desecrate th’ body dunnit? Buh yeh dun see as many folk frowning at th’ science bit o’ it, on top o’ tha’ is a noble act when organs are donated ‘ta ‘ospitals after death. Aye well is th’ same wiff th’ Arcane now innit? More often den nah, th’ parts we use from a carcass is ‘ta save anover livin’ person or be’er yet, save th’ eternal sufferin’ o’ a soul. If yeh quantify a good deed in terms o’ time or agony spared, isn’t tha’ a whole lot o’ value den usin’ th’ very same fer organ transplant?”

John sat by the kitchen counter and held up his cup for some of that tea.

“...I dunno. I dun wants ‘ta fink abar shite like tha’,” Said John eventually after he fell into a minute of silence.

“Cor, Zee-zee, yeh mental? I mean, lookitchu, yeh perfect. Sugar ‘n spice ‘n all fings nice. Yeh clever, yeh quick. Yeh e’eryfing a bloke wants. Woh’s nah ‘ta luv?” It was so easy to fall in love with her. 

“Aye well mebbe Chief ‘as a secret kink fer being annoyed, just like yeh. Heh!” Yes, that will do to get her off his back.

“Basic traits? Aye tha’s lemon squeezy it is! Tenacity, an iron stomach, luvs gothic romance novels, heh!” John started counting off his fingers right under Zee’s nose.

“Addam’s Family, eyeliner, nocturnal, affinity to spirits, likes cemeteries. Heh!”

There was absolutely nothing wrong with all of the above!

“I know, I know!! Tattoos! Heh!”

[paths-and-songs-blog]

Small Betrayals

           Neither of them had the slightest idea he was there. Somehow that bothered him almost as much as watching the two of them. Osaryn was smiling in a way he didn't think he'd ever seen, and the altmer was looking at him in a pleased, possessive sort of way that made Velidran want to peel the skin from his bones. He had been trailing them for weeks, but it was not nearly enough time to get used to the fury that rose in him for the possessive way the altmer's hand curled around Osaryn's cheek, or the feeling of betrayal that answered when Osaryn rose up on the balls of his feet and tugged him down to kiss.

           Osaryn had never kissed him. He had tasted the smaller mer's lips countless times. Pressed his own down on them and taken them the way the altmer did now. But it had never been at Osaryn's prompting. And Osaryn had never kissed him back like that.

           He could not tear his eyes away, no matter how fury and jealousy and desire rose and tangled in him. He could not seem to stop watching the movements of their lips against each other, the way the altmer's hands slid down to curl around Osaryn's waist and drag him closer. They drank each other in like they were starving.

            He could almost taste it in his own mouth. Could almost feel the heat of the smaller mer's lips on his and the supple press of his body, with all the force of distant memory. He ached for it, and he hated for it.

           And then he thought of Mir. He could remember his brother's lips on his the last time, the hungry warmth in them that was so like this. Mirandros' kiss had tasted of wine and the antidote he'd swallowed, and his mouth had tingled with the drug he'd smeared on his own lips. He could still sense his brother when he closed his eyes, still feel the hungry, possessive curl of fingers in his hair that made his scalp burn. He could still taste his own twisted desire in that memory, and he wondered why Osaryn had never kissed him.

           He had been kinder than Mirandros was. Gentler. And he loved Osaryn the way he had never loved or been loved by anyone in his life. So why was it that he could kiss Mirandros, but Osaryn could not kiss him?

           Perhaps he hadn't been able to take Osaryn on extravagant dates as Mirandros had sometimes done for him. But he had given him the only precious thing he had ever been able to spare. And he had loved him. Even now, he loved him. And surely, he told himself, Osaryn must love him back. When he found the right moment and showed himself then Osaryn would stop looking at the Altmer the way he did now that they'd paused for breath, and turn that look on him.

           This was not the right moment. The streets were just a bit too crowded, it was too likely to make a scene and he was growing more and more aware he had only one chance. Mir would be behind him somewhere, closing in. And if this did not go right... He wasn't sure he could imagine what Mirandros would do to him now. A chill tingled at the place between his shoulder blades and he looked back once more, all too aware that he expected to see Mir standing there, smiling the hard-edged smile that would tell him he'd lost again.

           He wasn't there. But the feeling of him lingered in his memories. The altmer curled his hand possessively around Osaryn's waist, guiding him further up the street and into the inn, and Velidran could almost feel the echo of that touch around his own waist.

           Mirandros' hand rested light against the small of his back, steadying him as though he needed that help to step down into the waiting space atop the silt strider's back. Velidran tried to tell himself he minded it. Part of him did, but part of him loved these moments when Mir treated him like he was something precious, even though he knew every second of them was a lie.

           His brother had had a nest made of that little compartment, spread with soft rugs and strewn with pillows. There was a basket of food and a bottle of expensive wine, just as though he was one of those weak, too pretty mer Mirandros was so fond of bringing home. "It's nice." he whispered, a little hesitantly.

           "Didn't I tell you so, Velidran? And you almost made me give it away."

           There was a small sting in the reply, a little reminder of the cruel tricks Mirandros so often played with his words, even if at the moment they remained almost kind. Velidran settled himself slowly into the seat beside his brother, but though he had been told it would be alright, he did not yet reach for his mask. He wanted its protection for a moment more. "I'm sorry." He said, his voice as contrite as possible even if behind the immobile owl's face that hid his own, he scowled.

           There was no real affection in this treat, he knew. It didn't mean anything had changed, even if for tonight Mirandros might manage to make him believe it had. He was almost as afraid of that trick of belief as he was of the pain his brother so often caused him. That hope and the moment Mir broke it again hurt as much in its way as any beating ever could.

           He sucked in a breath as Mirandros reached for his mask, steeling himself as though for a blow. But his brother's fingers were tender, almost reverent, peeling leather and feathers from his face as though revealing something priceless. He swallowed, lowering his eyes no matter how it stung his pride to do so and then tearing his attention elsewhere as the great beast stirred to life beneath them.

           He looked sideways to avoid his brother's gaze and then sucked in a startled, pleased breath at the view the height offered them. It was beautiful, trees and mushrooms gleamed in the moonlight and small sparks of light danced over the water beneath them. Mirandros' hand slid around his waist and after breath he let himself ease against him, leaning into the embrace. "It's beautiful."

           Mirandros hummed his agreement. "It is. And there's dinner later. And your favorite wine."

           He breathed out a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment and letting his head tilt to rest against Mirandros' shoulder, a small surrender. "Thank you."

           His brother's hand slid up, fingers sifting their way into the strands of hair to comb through in gentle caresses. "I don't know why you refuse to appreciate the things I do for you and the way I treasure you, Velidran." His voice was almost soft. With his eyes closed, Velidran could almost pretend he believed in their sincerity. Almost.

           A thousand retorts chased themselves through his thoughts and despite his best efforts he could feel the edges of them showing on his face. He took a deep breath, leaning into the slow sway of the great insect beneath them. "I won't forget this." He answered finally, opening his eyes enough to watch the play of the moon on the water for a little while.

           But somehow his gaze caught itself up on something far closer, the lines of Mirandros' face under the moon. His brother was beautiful, and dangerous in a way he thought those who knew their house best still managed to underestimate. He despised him. He hated him with all the force of the thousand hurts Mirandros had written into him over the years.

           His brother's fingers slid through his hair once more, the tip of one sliding a slow and gentle caress down the length of his ear. Shivering he leaned up, pressing a kiss at the corner of Mirandros's jaw, letting his lips follow the line of it. It was his hand that lifted, the tip of his finger brushing the side of Mir's chin, coaxing him to turn the small amount it took to let their lips meet.

           There was fire in that kiss he didn't have a name for, an urgency in the press and slide of his own lips that surprised him. And for just a moment he was the aggressor, his tongue driving his brother's lips apart, stealing the taste of his mouth. It was only a moment before Mirandros reclaimed control, the sliding caress of his fingers becoming a gentle grip, head tilting to let him claim and demand.

           Desire sparked hot in Velidran's belly, a lust he had no other name for, no matter how hate and something warmer warred in his chest. He did not resist that kiss, only took advantage of the occasion that allowed him some small control in touching in return, trailing his fingertips along the pulse that pounded in Mirandros' throat. It stole his breath and for a moment he forgot his wariness, and the hurt he knew would follow.

           But it did not stop him from thinking, finding one small moment of clarity when Mirandros' lips left his long enough for them both to draw in a ragged breath. If he ever needed to catch his brother off guard, this was how he would do it. With a kiss.

           It was how he had. He could still taste that kiss, still remember it just as clearly as those he had taken from Osaryn. He had broken something with it, he thought, in a way he could never repair even if he ever wanted to. It didn't bother him. Yet, for all of that he found himself frowning as he tore his eyes from the door of the inn and turned to walk away, he couldn't help remembering that Osaryn had never kissed him. Not even once.

@clan-of-whispers  for Mirandros and Osaryn mentions

[kvothes]

yes it was :D another "Learning to see the puzzle in everything (has its costs). They’re everywhere. Once you start looking, it’s impossible to stop. 
It just so happens that people, and all the deceits and delusions that inform everything they do, tend to be the most fascinating puzzles of all" or "There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light. I am acerbic. I can be cruel. It’s who I am. Right to the bottom. I’m neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it, it simply is"

elementary sherlock is so so good

[west-door]

I am not a nice man. It's important that you understand that. It's going to save you a great deal of time and effort. There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light. I am acerbic. I can be cruel. It's who I am. Right to the bottom. I'm neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my life, my nature has been an advantage far more often than it has been a hindrance. I'm not gonna change. Good to you? Yeah. For the most part. I consider you to be... exceptional. So I make an exceptional effort to accommodate you. But you must accept that, for as long as you choose to be in my life, there will occasionally be fallout from my behavior. That must be a part of our understanding.To thine own self, Hamlet.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Ten Sides (Part 6)

The world passes by in smudges of green and blue and brown. The rush of trees, mud, and sky as they fall behind. But mostly her world is grey, even the most vivid of the blues and greens and the purples of the odd flower are dulled. Her world is muted and she can’t bring herself to care. She isn’t sure if there is anything to gain by caring.

The wind is warm on her face. The sun through the canopy is warmer still. Warmer and loving as the rays caress her cheeks. But she is beyond feeling things like affection and hope. She knows that she should be thrilled to see the light of day and see so much of it. For a flicker she tries to muster up joy. That flicker passes as the leaves rustle.

She isn’t sure how long he has been running for, she isn’t sure how he isn’t yet tired of carrying her but he finally comes to a stop. He sets her down, propping her up against a tree trunk before making his way to the water. The sound is quite lovely, a soft burbling with a plop every now and again. Sometimes a bird will add to the music of the jungle. Distantly, a small waterfall churns and stirs the lake. And every once and a while she will hear something small, likely a toad-squirrel, skitter through the brambles creating such a soft and alluring ambiance. She closes her eyes, she would like them to remain that way.

After a few minutes she hears him shuffling towards her, his hand falls on her shoulder and she opens one eye. He gives her a slight smile and brings a makeshift waterskin to her lips. She knows that he is using his shirt because she can taste him in the water, but can’t muster up the ability to be disgusted by it.

“It’s exciting to be outside again, isn’t it?”

She stares at her palms. When she looks back up, she finds that his eyes have dimmed.

“It’s really warm.” He tries again.

Yet she feels no warmth at all. She is so, so cold, right from her very core. She presses her hand to her belly, hovers it over her fire chakra as though she can poke or prod it to life. There is nothing left of it to rekindle and she has no matches to strike.

She closes her eyes again. She thinks that they should keep running, keep putting distance between themselves and the facility. But then, what is the point? They have taken everything from her. They have accomplished what they had aspired to achieve; they have taken her essence.  They have taken her. They might as well have her body too.

.oOo.

Aang swallows as he observes the princess. He finds that there isn’t much to observe at all; she has barely moved at all; only her hand slides down to her stomach. And he isn’t even sure that it is anything more than a reflex. She isn’t supporting her own weight, if the tree were to gather its roots and step to the side, she would flop right over and she wouldn’t get back up. He thinks that the only thing that separates her from a corpse is the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He has an urge to take her into his arms and run his hands over her hair. He can’t imagine that she would take it well. He shudders, as he comes to decide that she probably wouldn’t react to it in any sort of way at all.

He knows what he has to do but he doesn’t think that it will be enough anymore. He wanders back to the water’s edge, sits down, and plants his feet in the crystalline water, feeling the sand and eroded pebbles between his toes. It smells like seaweed and banana tree. He too closes his eyes.

He shuts them and shuts the world out as best as he is able. The ebbing of the creek steals his regrets and, for the time, carries them downstream and away from him. The wind, as it whistles by his ears, blows his anxieties safely away. He savors the way it wisps like soft bison fur or threads of seaweed on his face. Basks in the way it rustles the small hairs on his arms, the strands that have grown on his head that he hasn’t found the time to shave away. The rustle of the leaves drowns out the shouting voice of his anger.

He inhales deeply and exhales again. Inhales again, the world smells of life, of wildflowers and fresh fruit. It smells of hope, he thinks that hope has its own unique scent, though he isn’t sure exactly what it is. Peace also has its own unique odor, never has he smelled it as strongly as he had in the days after Sozin’s comet had come to pass. But he smells hints of it now and he lets it carry him away into the Spirit World, he has questions to ask and answers to chase down. The babble of the water, palm fronds beating against palm fronds, and crabs scuttling over sea stones carry his spirit off and away.

He might fret over Azula had the wind now gust his worries away. At any rate, he can’t imagine that she’d be taking off on her own..

.oOo.

Sleep comes easily to her. More easily than it has in months. Mayhaps it is because she so terribly yearns for it. Or because there really is nothing left for her to do. It takes her in arms that are much kinder and warmer than she has know before. It wraps her in gossamer blankets and carries her off. Off to a friendlier place. A place where she still feels the faintest pulse, even if it is only the smallest fragment of an ember.

In her mind’s eye, she watches it spark several times but it never quite ignites. In her mind’s eye, her aura dances. It dances in bleak shades of grey and black and a dismal, forlorn shade of navy blue. A blue more akin to deep sunset than what her fire once was.

She watches her aura dim at the mention. It swirls and stirs until a face appears. It is her father and Sangyul at the same time; occupying the same space in the same moment in a way that can only be in a horrific nightmare.

“What are you now?” They ask. “Nothing at all.” And then they step back. “You are mine.” They insist. She thinks that she always was; considers that there was never truly an Azula to wipe away at all. That she was always some extension of her father. So maybe Sangyul hasn’t done her any wrong at all. At least not in that regard. She casts a look back at the pile of ashes. They no longer smoke. She takes them in her hand, they have gone cold.

“You know what to do.” Ozai says.

“Do as we did a few days ago.” Sangyul coaxes.

It appears in her hand, she feels the weight of it’s metal.

“Go on.” They both say. “You’ve done it before.”

And they are right, she has always bled for her father before. What difference would it make to bled for him again. If she bled for both of them. She raises the blade to the soft part of her neck and takes pause. Something in her, something foolish and naive, waits either of them--for her father mostly--to tell her to pick a different spot.

She looks up and her aura shifts, their face distorts for a moment before coming back into a more human alignment. Their eyes bare into her. She swallows, the knife gives a small nip. It is alarmingly not unpleasant. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so hard to bleed for them again.

But she hears it, ever so faintly. So quietly, in fact, that she doesn’t think she has heard it at all. But it comes again, a soft pop.

“Look at me, Azula.” They say as she slightly turns her head. She looks back at them. They are furious now and she doesn’t understand; she hasn’t done anything this time. That is it. She hasn’t done anything. She presses the knife a bit harder to her neck. This time it stings.

The crackling draws her attention again, this time she lowers her knife to look.

“Azula.” They growl slowly. Dangerously.

She takes a step towards the ruins of her fire. If it isn’t aglow, then why does it crackle? She drops to her knees in front of it. And then she sees it. It is such a meager thing and it is only a pitiful orange but it flickers deep down in the fire pit.

The waves of her aura flare up, “pick the knife up, Azula.” They demand of her, voices cool and slick as they weave in and out of one another. “Pick it up and do as you're told. Pick it up and…”

Another face appears in her aura. A white amid the black but she hates it all the same. She can’t seem to close her eyes so she turns back to her fire pit. “Look at me!” They roar over the fire. “Look at me. Now!”

She stands and steps into the fire. She’ll let it burn her down to her bones before she turns around. She’ll let it melt her eyes away before she spares them another look. And it does, oh Agni, it does.