#i still cant put the full measure of my thoughts into words and how angry and disspointed i am

[therewas-a-girl]

i was sitting here, thinking: 

so first, we have the break up last year framed as if oliver was ‘’’’caught’’’’ between two ‘’’’impossible’’’’ choices, even though the narrative was so flawed and hole-ridden that its logic did nto hold up to the faintest breeze. and that he was basically set up to lose everything either way and felicity punished him for this impossible choice by leaving him, and the narrative punished him further by making him lose fucking everything, and making us feel bad for him. while framing felicity’s choice in zero context from her pov. 

all the while, it feels like her choices have to be defended, because the show doesn’t bother to do so with even a fraction of the the same amount of time it uses on oliver. this in the end, amounts to felicity being portrayed as unfair on oliver.

i never thought so - but the show did, and that is what id fed me, and reinforced with her apology in 5.20

but  there is something else that bugs me. 

so felicity had sex with oliver, then told him she couldn’t be with him, that it didn’t change anything, because the real problem between them hadn’t changed. that she felt he didn’t trust her. 

then after this, she tells him she’s sorry she walked without giving them the chance to hash it out - that she wasn’t ready for that right now. (which i understand btw. i understand that her understanding this is actually character development for her, and that she is emotionally aware enough to get this about herself.)  BUT... wouldn’t talking about it give Oliver the chance to show her that maybe he does trust her. that something has changed? 

i just don’t see the logic. she wants to have his full trust but she cant even talk about what happened with them yet. which translates in, she wants something but she isn’t ready for it? 

i would get that, but i think that’s me trying to rationalize a stupid choice of the writers, that dont rly care about the character making sense, but that bend felicity’s choices to their plot.

then, she seemingly is never ready and tries to move on with billy. (im so rageful over this oh my god because it doesnt make narrative sense at all - billy i mean. and just for the record, i liked the guy - which is why im so angry that he was just there because prometheus needed to frame olvier into killing him. aka another felicity line of narrative that is about oliver. its becoming increasingly clear - the way the story itself is set up proves this) without ever hashing things out with oliver or even telling him that ‘look here my dude, i know we left things up in the air in the summer, but im really never gonna be ready for that talk and i really think we should close this deal, cause i cant do it.’ 

but she did not do that. because that makes perfect sense. felicity ‘i am so confrontational that i cant wait five minutes for the party to be over to ask you about why you haven't proposed, and i cant give you space even though i know you yourself just found out about your kid’ smoak. that felicity smoak... doesn’t face oliver about this new resolution she made. doesn’t tell him. cause she is now, apparently, just as much non-confrontational as oliver is about all emotionally difficult decisions. 

where is the consistency, i just can’t find it. ‘am i missing the point or is it not there’: a saga on me and arrow’s writing. 

dont even get me started on the fact that this whole s5 arc was built around felicity losing billy and her reaction to THAT, instead of... idk, acknowledging the trauma and the hurt that she has been through, acknowledging its effect on her, on her understanding of the world, on the way she now makes her choices; acknowledging that she might have the PTSD that these fuckers advertised shamelessly and that was never shown. 

no... it’s just because of billy and the fact that he died. 

which is horrible that he did, but its also really fucking reductive of felicity’s feelings over it all - over everything. her shooting, her being shoved in a gas chamber, her losing a dear friend, her losing her father again, her feeling responsible for thousands of deaths. 

and then i see people being angry that this was about billy because - why billy right? he was insignificant! why couldn’t her emotional collapse onto herself, her isolation and change have been about OLIVER instead!!!!

like... do people even see felicity at all? 

i have no words. none. 

at the beginning of s5b, i was linked to an article promising felicity’s arc and its importance and how great it would be for her character. how important it would be for arrow this season - and i said to the friends who linked me that i was cautious, because i know how arrow works. arrow seemed to prove me wrong till 5.20, and i felt so fucking good to be wrong. it felt wonderful.

and then 5.20 happened 

im just sitting here wondering, does that ^ -- the dismissal of felicity’s arc as sth caused by ‘i lost my brand new bf pain’ and her change built on this flimsy excuse just so that she could tell oliver ‘yeah sorry, i judged you, you made the right call in doing what you did, i totally understand that now’, basically PROVING that that is how arrow sees their relationship... - proving that the whole framing of the break up in s4 as felicity being a non-compromising, blind judgmental douche and oliver being the one who was being punished for something he had no choice on; this whole thing was in fact, not accidental or a poor execution, but deliberate. ... -- does that really upset nobody, just because we have softcore porn images of olicity kissing? 

i saw no even ground between oliver and felicity in 5.20. i saw  felicity’s potential emotional depth being skewed and felicity admitting to all the blame in their break up. 

meaning that all that fantasizing i did about these two people being people that made mistakes - its not a lie, exactly. but it’s not the narrative the show supports. it’s simply not. 

‘arrow’s’ narrative is - -  felicity was wrong. she wasn’t emotionally mature enough, she hadn’t gone through enough ‘emotional pain/suffering’ to really be on oliver’s level, to really understand his choices, his reasons. she wasn't his equal. and she needed to be hurt and lost and alone so that she could understand him. felicity smoak, as she is, as she was conceived to be, is not enough, you see, for the emotionally complicated hero.

and this whole thing.. i wish i was smart enough to put into words why this kind of vision repulses me so. it reminds me of this article i read once about how fundamentally differently women and men gain their hero status in stories. how women are not allowed to just find the magic sword and go on an adventure. there has to be pain involved. and not the kind of pain that means you’re going places - but debasement, humiliation. negation of the identity the woman has, in order to grasp at something ‘higher’, something ‘more’ that she was not. some expansion of her mind that she was not capable of before. 

i find it so alienating, i cant even put it into words. 

it makes me feel the same way reading joss wheadon’s idea of the wonder woman movie made me feel: dirty. 

[mortuarybees]

do u have any more good omens fic recs?

oh boy do i. some of them are fics that i have included in my fic rec tag so if you’ve been in that bear with me there will also be others. basically my preferred and only accepted genre of anything is “unbearably tender” and “aziraphale is extremely neurotic and crowley loves him anyway” it’s therapeutic

at some point im going to update the original reference post with like. all the amazing content ive come across since making it but until then:

one may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel by lumosity aka @femmeaziraphale aka my very best friend

they have started another fic intended to destroy my life in which hell wins the next round and divines a special torment for crowley pls read it and encourage them to finish it because they don’t believe me when i tell them it’s amazing and i am  d e s p e r a t e  for more.

 “You know, you’re very familiar,” Aziraphale said, breath stinking of the sweet wine.

 “Oh? I guess I look like many goat herders,” Crowley allowed. Aziraphale snorted, nudging Crowley’s shoulder clumsily.

 “No! I mean that you just seem like someone I’ve known before,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt that familiar ache in his chest. Suddenly he wished he was sober.

 “I have a common face,” Crowley dodged.

 “Say whatever you like, but I feel like we fit together quite nicely,” Aziraphale said, resting his head against the bark of the tree. Crowley took the opportunity to watch Aziraphale while he had his eyes closed. There were the same old blonde eyelashes against his cheeks, the one little drop of sunlight that formed a mole at the corner of his eye. Crowley wished to kiss his cheek only once. An apology for not losing. For not giving Aziraphale an eternity of listening to celestial harmonies.

wings and how to hide them by triedunture

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? // if you follow me you’ve probably seen me post or quote certain excerpts a million times you may recognize it as His Body Is A Place And It’s Filled With Love.

He swallowed. So bloody awkward, staring up at Aziraphale like this, having his face held. Was he supposed to maintain eye contact? It seemed impossible. His gaze darted away.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Aziraphale admonished, giving his cheek a little pat. "Try to imagine, I don't know...slipping into my body the way you'd slip into a new coat." His smile was weak.

Crowley made a face. "Sounds grotesque."

"It isn't! Come now." His voice and eyes softened. "Please. Try."

Deep breath in. He would try. For Aziraphale's sake. "All right." He opened his eyes, held Aziraphale's plaintive stare, and pictured how it would feel. To be a part of Aziraphale. To be held inside him, to surround him at the same time.

To be loved.

hand in unlovable hand by courfeyrock (les mis solidarity)

“Goodnight, my dear,” he says, and Crowley swears, Aziraphale could call him my dear for six thousand more years and he still wouldn’t be able to get used to it. // it’s tender it’s bed sharing it’s “i love you in the human way” it’s quoting that unspeakable broadchurch scene its title is from no children by tmg; in short, it’s specifically designed to torment me.

Crowley’s head snaps around as if on a swivel. “Shall we… what?”

“Go to sleep? Normally I would love to stay up and have a drink or a chat but you see I really am exhausted and I--”

“Yes, yes, of course.”  Idiot,  Crowley thinks.  I am such an idiot.  "I'll uh, I'll sleep underneath the covers, and you can sleep on top." He waves his hand in a forcefully casual gesture that he hopes conveys just how normal it is for two platonic friends to be having this conversation.

everything just stops by witching

they are drunk and crowley wants to take a bath so he miracles one and they have. the most unbearable conversation ever fucking put to fiction literally returning to it to select one single quote was nearly impossible for me emotionally. god the tenderness the yearning!!!! “i like your silly aziraphale things”!!!!!!!!!! “i love you deep, angel”!!!!!! i hate it! just read it please i cant actually keep describing it or i’ll have to lay down for a little while.

 “Are you –” the angel’s voice was hoarse, and he paused to clear his throat, “are you playing some sort of game right now?”[....]

“I am not,” Crowley whispered fervently, his face frighteningly close to Aziraphale’s. “Six thousand yearsss, angel. You’re a part of me, and I jussst – just wanted you to know, is all.”

 Without warning, Aziraphale reached with both hands to pull Crowley in closer, forcing him to drop his own hand from the angel’s face. Aziraphale held him gently, pressing a single chaste kiss to the demon’s forehead, his lips lingering as his thumbs slid tenderly along his cheekbones, his fingers wrapped up in dark, dripping hair.

 When Crowley responded not by recoiling, as Aziraphale had expected, but by melting against his skin and sighing contentedly, the angel placed another kiss on one cheek, then the other. He moved to kiss Crowley’s eyelids, his jawline, his chin, the corners of his mouth, all the time cradling Crowley’s head in his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Crowley to rebuff his affection.

Crowley, ever one to defy expectations, continued to allow the angel to kiss his face to his heart’s content. It was only when he heard Crowley sniff and let out a pitiful whimper that he pulled back, looking at the demon with concern.

hard feelings/loveless by witching

Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. Crowley understood love all too well. // crowley. crowley can’t sense love bc he is so goddamn full of love that he can’t see past it he’s just so full of it that he can’t separate it from just how he always is  c r o w l e y. also angelic/demonic mindmelding.

“What about - I mean, if that’s… love,” he struggled to get the word out, “then what’s this other feeling? The one that I’ve been calling love for all this time?”

 “I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t possibly imagine.” He didn't have to voice his surprise at the fact that Crowley had an emotion he called love. It wasn't that he had truly thought Crowley was incapable of such an emotion; he was deeply aware of the power and range of the demon's feelings. He simply hadn't thought that Crowley was in tune with his own mind enough to understand it in those terms.

 “Can I show you?” Crowley blurted without thinking.

come as you are by punkfaery (explicit; trigger warning for body dysmorphia and disordered eating)

Aziraphale visits a modern art gallery, goes on a diet, and submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Not necessarily in that order. // this mugged me in an alleyway and ruined me emotionally for a whole night but like whatever. it starts with a mary oliver quote so idk what i expected

He dragged a kitchen chair out and sat in it, looking like he wanted to set fire to things with the power of his mind. He was probably angry enough to try it, too. Aziraphale moved a nearby copy of The Earth Compels out of the way, just in case. “It wasn’t really because of him,” he said. “It just made me realise, that’s all.”

“Realise what?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “That I’m not… quite as I should be. That you deserve better.” He lowered his head, feeling wretched. “That’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t say something from the start, but it seemed like a difficult sort of thing to bring up.”

Crowley’s face was indescribable.

“You thought I’d stop liking you because you’re not thin,” he said. His voice was utterly toneless. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Well, naturally when you say it like that it sounds – ”

“Seriously? After six thousand years of, of whatever you want to call this? After we literally saved the fucking world together?”

salinity (and other measurements of brackish water) by drawlight

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching. // michael sheen has read and recommended it. god. it starts with a quote from eros the bittersweet. it took me a full half hour to read past the first paragraph or so it’s so Much.

"I want to see you cook." (Something made from his hands. Something purely Crowley. Nothing pulled from the ether. Nothing sourced and given, no. Something made from his hands.)

He looks at his hands. Holds them up, splays them against the shale backdrop of his ceiling. His hands are always the same, day to day. They are clean but stained. His long and dawdling fingers, his bit of knuckles, his veins and tendons beginning to show a little more. Yes, more, he doesn't know the age of his body but he keeps it somewhere here, at indeterminate forty. There is a hangnail on the ring finger, there are stains of belladonna on the sides, on the rough spots.

Belladonna, that green plant sick with chlorophyll, sick with poison. Crowley is a gardener and he grows belladonna in his bedroom. He knows poisons the way Aziraphale knows the Dewey Decimal System. Yes, he knows them intimately, bent over his long counter, pulling the leaves apart, peeling the stems. Crushing the seeds. He knows not to lick his fingers after, that the leaves and berries are toxic to a grown man, that maybe even Livia had used it once, dripped into Augustus' wine. Not, really, that poisons would  matter  . It’s one of those little perks of the demon gig, that whole  immortality thing. What can get at him; what can cut it short? Only holy water and other blessed things. (Aziraphale is an angel, made out of blessed things. Crowley does not know how it might be to kiss him, mouth to wet mouth. If holy water might burn him, what can he expect from the freshwater mouth of an angel?)

birds of a feather by idiopathicsmile

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals. // look....im weak for home decorating as proxy or metaphor for domesticity and familiarity and this trope is literally this. i die

“Demons definitely don’t court,” says Crowley. “They fuck sometimes, but it’s—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anything about the mating practices of insects but it’s more—like that. There’s no guarantee all parties will come out in one piece. Never seemed worth it, frankly. I like my pieces where they are.”

Aziraphale takes this all in with a series of slow, horrified nods.

“Wait,” says Crowley, “what do angels do?” He’s never pictured angels engaging with each other at all, outside of maybe mandatory team-building exercises.

“They nest,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley waits for this to all make sense. “What, instead of fucking?”

“No,” says Aziraphale primly. “Not  instead. It’s—it’s part of the courtship ritual. You have to be able to build a decent nest if you want to be seen as a viable mate—”

“Like birds,” Crowley repeats, disbelieving.

“Not like birds, birds got it from us,” shrills Aziraphale.

men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that by mercuryhatter

Aziraphale finds an age slipping away from him. // aziraphale and crowley attend robbie ross’ funeral, and aziraphale mourns the loss of the old circle. also there’s some brief dunking on bosie. i adore this fic with my whole heart

“Listen.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and dragged him out of earshot of the funeral, releasing him under a nearby tree. “It’s not that I’m not glad you’re back. Remember that, because I’m about to be very short with you, but it’s not that.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly and Crowley nodded.

“That being said.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. His voice was shaking slightly and he tried to press it back to steadiness inside his throat. “You will not get near one more human under my charge this decade, are we clear?”

“Angel–” Crowley started, surprised, but Aziraphale cut him off. Fury was bubbling up inside of him, bright and brittle and with a deeply-buried thread of exhaustion that he couldn’t afford to think too long about.

“No.”

where you stay i will stay by mercuryhatter

at the hundred guineas club, men went under women’s names. aziraphale went by naomi and he paid! to keep ruth free! for crowley!!!! while crowley slept! it stopped my tender heart

“Let’s see. We all know Victoria, of course. Betsey, Henrietta, Georgiana, Chastity, that’s rich, and Temperance too, particular friends of each other, I imagine? A few Elizabeths, not particularly creative… oh.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale until he peeked up from his place hidden in Crowley’s sweater. “Aziraphale.”

“No, dear, I didn’t put that one down.” Crowley huffed in fond exasperation.

“No, honey, you put Naomi.”

“So I did.”

“And… I don’t see a Ruth.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “No, I paid them an extra hundred pounds a year to hold that one for me.”

“For you or for…”

and this isn’t a fic but another essay that means the world to me, making an effort: queer (trans) masculinity in the ethereal & occult beings of good omens by elegantidler and irisbleufic

[marshmallowgoop]

Doing yearly writing reviews isn’t really a thing. But once you start doing ‘em, it doesn’t feel right to stop, you know?

Seeing progress in other arts is of course a lot easier than seeing progress in writing, but I think there is some forward movement for me, especially when I also consider my compilations from 2017 and 2018.

In regards to 2019, I’ve selected various kinds of writing for this post: analytical essays, opinion pieces, news articles, creative fiction, and maybe some works that can’t be categorized so easily, too. It was a very difficult year on many fronts; I dealt with job struggles, financial insecurity, destroyed relationships, medical hardships, seemingly endless cyberstalking and online harassment. 

But there were good things, too. New friendships. New passions. New outlooks. I feel like I’ve learned and grown a lot more in these past couple of months than I have in a long, long time.

The end of 2019 is more than just the end of one year. It’s also the end of a decade. But I think the best advice I’ve received all decade comes from this year:

✄ Sometimes, you have to say yes to saying no.

✄ If you can’t do something well, do something poorly!

✄ The best option may be to simply not engage.

✄ You don’t have to apologize for disappointing others.

✄ Your worth isn’t measured by how much you “accomplish.”

✄ You have rights: the right to have your needs and wants respected, the right to make mistakes, the right to determine your own priorities, the right to not be responsible for the actions or problems of others, the right to express yourself, the right to be human. It’s not selfish or narcissistic to stand up for your rights.

And, since it is the end of the decade and all, here’s also a comparison between one nerdy fandom essay from August 2010 and another from August 2019:

2010 (with added spaces because yes, this really was just a huge block of text originally):

Also, in my own opinion, nobody really gave a damn for Xion all that much save for Roxas. I mean, yeah, Axel cared a little, but in the end, he got totally mad at her, got mad any time she was mentioned, got mad whenever Roxas worried about her, got mad when she showed up at the clock tower. She was his friend, yeah, and he didn’t want her to go, but in the end, he would have chosen Roxas above her anytime.

The other “mean villains” didn’t really care. Luxord didn’t care, Demyx didn’t care, Xaldin got exasperated once at her, but overall didn’t care, Xigbar didn’t care, Xemnas outright said he didn’t care, Saix was rather cruel to her, but really, in the end, he didn’t give a damn for her. The others weren’t around long enough to have an impression on her. I think even Riku didn’t really care all that much for her, in all honesty. He just wanted his best friend back.  

Also, you have to keep in mind that we played the game through Roxas’ perspective, and it’s in my personal belief that he fell in love with Xion. And if you’re in love with someone, when she gets into a coma, or goes missing, or ignores you, you’re gonna be upset, and talk about it. So Roxas did. 

But you know, he doesn’t actually do a lot of it until the end of the game. Before that, it’s all about the THREE of them. He loves his friends (even if he doesn’t know it), and he wants them to be together forever, but when Xion goes missing or whatnot and they can’t ALL have ice cream together, he gets upset.

2019: 

I’ve written more on the subject here, but to keep it short, Ryuko only tries to take Nui’s life when she’s convinced herself that she’s a monster, and her development is less about her becoming less okay with killing people and more about how she won’t let her anger and rage control her. What makes Ryuko’s attitude so different in the end isn’t that she’s reconsidered her thoughts on murder but that she’s composed. Come episode 22, Ryuko ain’t saying that she’s gonna kill anyone to sound tough or to intimidate. She keeps her cool even against her worst enemies.

But that’s just what I think! Maybe I’ve interpreted the character all wrong. But Ryuko’s freak-out after she goes berserk and hurts others in episode 12, her devotion to defending even people she’s just met… I just struggle to see her as someone who’s actually a-okay with killing. The fact that Ryuko’s perfect fantasy in episode 20 depicts her as a sweet girl without any of the violent tendencies that she has in reality also points this way; not to mention, Ryuko outright admits that her picking fights and causing trouble are bad things when remarking on her childhood in episode 8.

And Ryuko? She doesn’t want to be bad. All the poor girl’s ever wanted is love, and I can’t imagine she’d ever think that getting angry and killing people would get her a lot of that.

Progress may be slow, but it does happen.

At least, I think so.

Image Texts

January 2019

And personally? I find that sweetness just absolutely, utterly charming. When I understood what the rap was trying to communicate, I couldn’t imagine listening to the song without it. Heck, even before I understood, I found the “without rap” edits empty and barren. No matter how “silly” the lyrics might come off, the unabashed cheese is fantastic. The rap section that I was once “meh” about legitimately became my favorite part of the song.

Plus, I really can’t stress enough how sad the song is when it’s purely Ryuko. The official [nZk] remix replaces Senketsu’s rap with a reprise of Ryuko’s first verse, which recounts how she and Senketsu met. And it’s tragic! She says, “But I’m all alone,” and she is. Senketsu isn’t singing with her, no matter her claim that she can hear his voice. Considering what happens to Senketsu in the end, his absence in the song hits even harder.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/182361051017/oomoj-marshmallowgoop-the-rap-is-good

February 2019

The focus then shifts away from Ragyo, but Kill la Kill ain’t at all done with building the audience up yet. As the scene moves to the following day, viewers are met with quick, close-up shots of Uzu’s note to Ryuko, timed right to the beat of “Blumenkranz.” Uzu wants to duel, and we soon get to see his full request in an engaging low-angle shot where Ryuko looks up to this sign looming over her. The weight and gravity of the situation is effectively conveyed: the smooth transition from Ragyo to here, as well as the music and shot composition, let us know in no indirect terms that this fight isn’t something to be brushed off. Uzu’s duel is a big deal, and it’s very much connected to Ragyo’s expansive empire.

And the tension just keeps growing. Ryuko’s reaction to Uzu’s note is presented with a dramatic canted, high-angle shot. The camera—which is just slightly tilted—peers down at both Ryuko and the sign, communicating a sense of danger and unease. Viewers already know that the upcoming battle is important, but here, we also understand that it’s not going to be easy.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/182841724817/all-the-discussion-around-episode-6-of-kill-la

March 2019

Kill la Kill the Game: IF is currently being featured at the 2019 Game Developers Conference that runs until March 22nd in San Francisco, and a flurry of new gameplay videos are now available for viewing. Notably, these videos feature full English subtitles for the character dialogue for the first time since EVO 2018 last year and never-before-seen stages, such as what seems to be the Fiber Castle in the Kiryuin Manor.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/183766224117/kill-la-kill-the-game-if-gameplay-footage-from

April 2019

I mean, Kill la Kill ended over five years ago now. There’s been fairly minimal new content ever since—an OVA in September of 2014, a few pieces of merchandise here and there, a small crossover with Grand Summoners last year. And then, not even 11 months ago, out of seemingly nowhere, there was confirmation for a full-blown Kill la Kill video game. That we now know will be released in just 14 weeks!

Lots of jokes were made about the announcement for a game so many years after the series finale, but, like, seriously, as a longtime Kill la Kill fan, it’s hard to wrap my head around. Ever since the show ended, I’ve dedicated over half a million words to writing about it, spent tens of thousands of yen on books and Blu-rays and CDs, devoted nearly 60 GB to my own GIFs and edits. I’ve loved this thing to death. I’ve always found more and more that I want to write and create from this series, but I never really imagined nor expected that we’d ever get much more official content from the original creators themselves. And now we are getting so much more, and???

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/184228103137/kill-la-kill-the-game-if-releases-on-july-25th-in

May 2019

Kiznaiver: Oh, I was so excited to love this show! I was lucky enough to see an advanced screening of the first two episodes, and I was totally hooked. It was drop-dead gorgeous—and probably the prettiest series Trigger has ever put out—and I was very intrigued by the plot and characters. I remember just coming back to my hotel room at like 3:00 am after the premiere, utterly filled with excitement. I mean, Kiznaiver  was directed by Hiroshi Kobayashi, the episode director behind the two episodes that got me hooked on Kill la Kill (episodes 5 and 18)!

But… my excitement quickly died. The story tried to develop way too many characters in way too little time, and I never enjoyed the romantic pairing of Katsuhira and Noriko, finding it shallow, undeveloped, and nonsensical (in a bad way), which… kind of ruins a lot of the series when that’s arguably the heart of the whole thing.

Kiznaiver is still super, super pretty, though. That last episode’s animation got me shook.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/184700944732/so-have-you-watched-the-other-stuff-studio-trigger

June 2019

I do recognize that many, many matters do not warrant conversation. I do recognize that the phrase “I’m just trying to have a conversation” can be—and has been—utilized as a means of directing criticism away from inflammatory, unacceptable, inhumane remarks. I in no way feel that hateful, discriminatory comments should be promoted.

Simultaneously, however, “conversation” should not automatically be a dirty word in the field of analyzing and seriously engaging with fiction, and thoughtful reactions should be supported and striven for. Nothing in fiction is ever black and white. There are so many nuances and complexities to the storybook realities of our media. I want commentators and critics of fiction to be passionate about listening, considering, and rethinking those nuances and complexities. Isn’t that why we do this work at all? To share our own point of view and open ourselves up to others?

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/185289615202/we-need-to-change-the-way-we-seriously-discuss

July 2019

Initially, I was really bummed by this lack of development. But as I thought about things more, I… didn’t mind so much. If this dream or universe or whatever is something that Satsuki “experiences” before the events of the anime, of course she won’t grow as a character here. Maybe this game is kind of the Kill la Kill prequel I’ve been begging for for over half a decade.

And as much as I didn’t get anything, I thought the ending bits between Ryuko and Satsuki were so good.

Like, I suppose Ryuko’s absorbing the Life Fibers or something?? But wow, pretty.

And the part where they talk before Satsuki disappears? That’s my kinda anime bullshit. It’s the kinda anime bullshit I wanted from the OVA between Ryuko and Senketsu.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/186648065467/goop-plays-kill-la-kill-the-game-if-satsuki

August 2019

That book, Log. 2, is a fan doujin from Kotaro Nakamori, who worked as an animator and animation director in Kill la Kill. There’s a bunch of assorted fanart in there, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Nakamori is a fan of Urusei Yatsura and wanted to make a little crossover between that series and Kill la Kill.

Personally, though, as someone not too familiar with Urusei Yatsura, I kinda just saw the image as oni-Satsuki (with oni being demon/ogre-like creatures in Japanese folklore). Oni are traditionally depicted wearing tiger skin loincloths, and Lum herself is definitely basically a space oni. So, I saw the cover and got super excited about oni-Satsuki because I love oni a lot, haha.

Fun fact: character designer Sushio has also drawn Kill la Kill characters as oni for setsubun, a celebration that’s held on the last day of winter (February 3rd). During setsubun, you might see folks dressed up like oni—who get beans thrown at them in an effort to bring in good luck and chase naughty demons away.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/187228888187/do-i-see-satsuki-wearing-lums-outfit-in-your-last

September 2019

Though I don’t see it much anymore, I remember lots of comparisons between Ragyo and the villains of Saturday morning cartoons back in the day. She was described as a generic, two-dimensional “evilz for the sake of evilz” baddie and criticized for her simplicity.

And though I did admittedly agree to an extent—I craved a lot more depth and insight, particularly in regards to her haunting line about “still having something of a human heart” whilst brutally attacking her own daughter in the final episode—I also found Ragyo to be a remarkably compelling, powerful, and horrifying villain even without tons of backstory and explanation. Perhaps my write-up on her first scene in episode 6 best details why; this woman has such a presence, and the visual language of the series amplifies that presence spectacularly. Ragyo’s intimidating and scary without the audience even needing to know anything about her.

And… I’d say that’s a good villain. That’s exactly what a villain should do.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/187987858537/on-ragyo-kiryuin

October 2019

And, though there are no visuals, so I can’t be sure if it’s an “Ocean of Light” or not, the fourth Drama CD also has the same kinda deal happening. In the CD—which takes place immediately after Ryuko learns the truth of her origins—Ryuko’s pain manifests as an explosion of light that knocks both her and Senketsu unconscious and pushes Senketsu away from her. The sound effect here is familiar, and I’m personally convinced that this is another “Ocean of Light” moment.

Which brings me to the “light” part of the terminology. Light is often associated with good, yes, but light is also associated with heat, and heat is associated with pain. In the Drama CD, Ryuko’s light is so hot that Nui even remarks that Senketsu “almost burned” from it, and when Mako embraces Ryuko after swimming through her “Ocean of Light” in episode 12, Ryuko’s touch scorches Mako’s skin.

I’ve already written an essay on the symbolic and narrative use of fire, warmth, and heat in Kill la Kill (that you should totally read because it’s actually maybe Kinda Good, Maybe), and relating to that, I see the “Ocean of Light” as a physical representation of Ryuko’s fiery spirit. That fire can be used for good, and that fire can also be painful, but no matter what, that fire is a part of Ryuko.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/188247077227/i-always-wanted-some-explanation-you-are-smart

November 2019

She looks around her cottage. Her eyes find the walls and the furnishings. Her eyes find the scratched floors and stained wood. She does not voice it to the once-emperor, but she had never been able to remove the stains from the attack. Her son's blood has painted the brown wood red. It is a reminder of what she cannot remember. It is a reminder of the past she has forgotten.  

“This home feels so desperately lonely,” she admits. “I do not know who is missing. But it is not complete.”  

The man is quiet. He did not expect to find himself feeling sympathy for the woman's plight. Perhaps she is a fool, to have given her heart to a demon. But kindness ought not be punished, he thinks. Or has he grown so cold that he believes it should be?  

December 2019

🏀 Michiru and Shirou’s relationship may be the focus, but Nakashima emphasizes that Michiru’s relationship with Nazuna is also involved in the story in a big way.

🏀 Nakashima stresses the importance of depicting teen girls realistically. Two women screenwriters are on board: Kimiko Ueno and Nanami Higuchi. Both wrote for Little Witch Academia. Ueno also wrote for Space Patrol Luluco, and Higuchi was behind the production reports in Trigger Magazine (and, interestingly, wrote the script for the anime adaptation of BEASTARS).

🏀In regards to Michiru and Nazuna’s relationship, producer Naoko Tsutsumi (also an animation producer for Kiznaiver and Little Witch Academia) provides input as well. Nakashima says that they greatly value and take to heart the opinions of the women creators.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/189928986922/otomedia-winter-2020-bna-brand-new-animal

[curiosity-killed]

borders

in which Aeridian is a bastard language and Bastan almost has a Bonding Moment

Word count: 1906

The worst of it, Bastan couldn’t help thinking, was that he was just a boy. A pissy, hissing little shit – but so young. All this time, he’d thought of the Black Prince in caricatures – looming, leering, and grizzled. The kid before him, though, inspired only pity; he sat curled over his legs, eyes wide and blank and back a raw mess of red. Mamán and Aven were applying ointment that would help him heal, but at the moment, it just made the ragged, bloody edges glisten. It had been easier, before, when he was snapping at them like a cornered fox. He’d still seemed young, and Bastan hadn’t been able to shake the image of him pale and half-drowned – but at least he’d been fighting. Now, limp and wrung out, he seemed to have simply given up. It made regret seep through him like a water stain. “I can’t believe you tried to hide him,” Mamán muttered as she came over to put away the salve.

Behind her, Aven was finishing the bandage around the prince’s back, and the prince sat has he had, unmoving and unseeing.

“We didn’t think it was safe to tell anyone till he was a little sturdier,” Bastan said. In truth, he thought, he could have stopped with ‘We didn’t think.’ Even if the prince had been in full health when he was discovered, he would never have had a chance against the full wrath of the village. From Mamán’s look, she knew it, too. She turned to scrubbing at her hands, a measure that was equal parts fastidiousness and frustration. “We thought they’d kill him if they knew,” Bastan tried. “You were right,” Mamán said shortly with a jerk of her head back at the prince. Bastan fell quiet. Though he’d never been under the lash himself, he’d seen others whipped before. Ten strikes from a strong arm was enough to dissuade most anyone from a repeat offense. He’d never seen someone beaten to death the way Romilin had clearly intended. It made his stomach twist tight with nausea to remember to wet thud of the lash, the broken little whimpers Callebero had made towards the end. He hadn’t realized the latent cruelty in his neighbors. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” he said now. “We thought we had everything under control, but clearly, we didn’t. We should have asked for help.” Her lips pursed, though he couldn’t tell if it was because she was still angry or because she thought he was trying to play her. He hoped it wasn’t the latter; his apology was genuine. “No changing the past now,” she said brusquely, drying off her hands. “All we can do is make sure we don’t repeat yesterday’s mistakes tomorrow.” Bastan’s lips quirked up despite himself. “I don’t know how many chances we could get to fish the Black Prince out of the river,” he pointed out. Mamán shot him a warning look, but her lips had already curled up in amusement. She sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Your malán would be proud of you,” she said. “And happy to have the chance to speak Aeridian,” Bastan added, aiming for levity. Not that he would have shown it. For the twenty-odd years Bastan had known his father, he had been a stoic man with a face like a cliff’s edge and a silence as impenetrable as granite. The only reason Bastan had ever even guessed that he missed his mother tongue was how he’d sit up late into the night with Halle just to talk. The language had been quick and rolling, nothing like the sharp rhythms of Capallan, and it was the most expressive he’d ever seen his malán, as if, by returning to his native tongue he had tapped into some deeper part of himself. Bastan had wanted to learn it, had wanted to understand this part of their history his father had shut off when Alir was killed and the border closed. But Aeridian was a difficult language to learn and his malán disinclined to help. It was dangerous knowledge, he claimed. Like his lean build and his height, it would bring Bastan more pain than benefit. Bastan had persisted, but without instruction, he’d only picked up so much. It was enough for stilted conversation in Ninimon. It was enough to understand what the prince said in his fever dreams. Maybe that was why he looked at Callebero with pity now. It was hard to draw up a lot of anger towards someone after hearing them beg for their mamán, hearing them plead for help. “Will he be alright?” he heard himself ask. “I don’t know,” Mamán admitted with a sigh. “He’s young and in good condition, but he was injured before whatever attack left him in the river, and neither nearly drowning nor being flogged helped. It’ll come down to his will as much as anything.” Bastan frowned, unsurprised but still a little disappointed by the news. Of their family, he’d always been the optimist. “He doesn’t seem to have much left,” he said, hoping she would refute him. “No,” she said slowly, “he doesn’t. But he’s made it this far. Perhaps there’s a stronger core than we can see.” Aven stepped over, drying her hands on her skirt. A few hairs had escaped from under her scarf, but he didn’t bother pointing it out. She’d fix it before going outside. Probably. “What do you think?” she asked. Mamán shrugged. “We’ll see,” she said. She didn’t voice the opinions she’d told Bastan, but he had a feeling that was less due to secrecy than a lack of a need for it. Mamán and Aven had always seemed to communicate on a level above the rest. Whether it came from some mother-daughter bond or from sharing the same profession, he couldn’t say. “You should get some rest,” he said to the both of them. “I can stay with him.” There was a moment of hesitation, where they both seemed reluctant to go. As always, Mamán was the first to decide. “Very well,” she said. “Get Halle if there’s any trouble.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and let them shuffle out the door. Across the room, the prince hadn’t moved from his position, slumped against his thighs. His right arm was bound in a sling to his chest, but his left arm hung limp over his knee. The tattoos stood out stark against his ashen pallor and the bandages striping his body in white. The black designs made something uncomfortable twist in his gut, a mix of disgust and fascination. Years of the Goddess’ teachings told him that it was wrong to brand the body so, especially with the color of death. But curiosity made him want to keep looking, to ask what each shape meant. It was part of his own heritage, no matter how little it was valued here. He walked over in three easy steps, conscious of the noise his bare feet made on the wood. If the prince heard it, he gave no sign. “Hey,” he greeted. Though the prince was taller than him, he came only partway up Bastan’s leg with the way he sat. Realizing it, Bastan crouched. The prince gave no acknowledgment. “Mamán and Aven went to get some sleep,” he explained into the silence, “but I’ll be here if you need anything tonight.” At the first word, a little jolt ran through the prince, and he turned to Bastan. With his brow furrowed into a dark line over his eyes, his gaze was almost uncomfortably intense. He said something in Aeridian, quick and questioning. Bastan winced and held up his hand. “I only speak a little,” he said, finishing in Aeridian and making a ‘tiny’ gesture with his lifted hand. The prince deflated immediately, that brief purpose slumping into defeat. “You used ‘mamán’,” he said. “I thought –” His Capallan sounded like he’d learned it from some stuffy noble; his accent was nearly perfect, but the edges were too precise and polished. It sounded nothing like the slushed accent of the border. Bastan hesitated a moment, chewing at his lip. “My father – malán – was Aeridian,” he explained. “I learned some but not very much. And it…sounds different from yours.” The prince canted his head, apparently thinking. It was hard to read his expression, but Bastan thought he almost seemed curious. When he spoke again, it was in the Aeridian of Bastan’s father. “Did it sound more like this?” he asked. “Yes!” Bastan answered in the same tongue. A surge of delight rushed through him, but his vocabulary fell short of his glee. He could only grin as the prince gave a slight, satisfied nod. “It’s an eastern dialect,” he said. “Common along the border.” For Bastan, the explanation meant little to nothing. He didn’t mind; here was someone who spoke his father’s language, who knew it more intimately than anyone else Bastan had ever met. He wanted to press for more, to ask questions and stumble through conversation. He felt almost childlike in his delight. The prince, though, didn’t seem to share his giddiness. He just looked tired as he lifted his hand to press against his bandaged shoulder. “I’ve never met someone who knew it,” Bastan couldn’t help saying. “Even Halle speaks it differently.” “Halle speaks Ancelmic,” the prince said, rubbing his eye tiredly. “Likely a merchant family.” He paused, brow furrowing as if some thought had just occurred to him. Whatever it was, he let it go without a fight and dropped his arm back down. Watching him, Bastan felt his excitement subside. There would always be tomorrow. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” he suggested. “I’ll be here if you need anything.” The prince nodded slightly, as if too fatigued to say more, and eased his body back down gingerly onto his left side. He made no move to pull the blanket up over his torso. For a moment, Bastan nearly did it for him, as he would for Aven when she fell asleep before she meant to. He held back, though; given how proud the prince was, how standoffish, he couldn’t imagine he’d appreciate being treated like a child. Despite lying down, the prince still held himself tense. After a moment, Bastan stood and made his way to the hearth. He angled himself so that he could keep an eye on the prince but so that it was clear he wasn’t just watching him. It took a while longer, but finally, from the corner of his eye, Bastan saw the prince exhale and settle a little more fully into the bedroll. He still didn’t look relaxed, but at least that taut wariness had abated. Bastan turned his attention to the fire, nudging a half-burnt log further in. It was hardly the first time he’d kept watch over one of Mamán’s patients, and it was easy to split his attention so that he was peripherally aware of the prince while his mind turned elsewhere. They’d said he didn’t seem to have much will left, but Bastan had seen the intent in the prince’s eyes at the mention of Aeridian. There was will there, he was sure. It was just a matter of finding some purpose onto which he could seize. It was an easier question to ask than answer, and he stewed over it as the fire burnt low.

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 23

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

The old man moved unhurriedly about the room, taking tea from a small tin on a shelf, and then a plate of sweet rice balls rolled in sesame seeds, which had been sitting by the window sill under a laminated paper cover to keep them fresh. Zuko watched him, examined the unhurried cant of his walk and the certain, delicate movements of his fingers, searching for trickery, or illusion. Perhaps the guards had hit him over the head on the way up, and this was a symptom of concussion. Whoever he really was, the Grand Master glanced at him often, measuring him with more thoughtfulness than caution as he bustled about the small room. Every time the aged brown eyes flickered to his scar, Zuko’s temper wound tighter and tighter until he could no longer stand the silence.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The old man smiled at him. “It has been a long time, Nephew. I understand this must be a shock you.”

“A shock?” he repeated. “The Dragon of the West is supposed to be dead! Where have you been? What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

“Be calm, please,” Iroh replied, holding up a fire-callused palm. “I will explain matters to you, but first, I would be neglecting my duties as a host if I did not offer you tea.”

He ambled over with the kettle of boiled water and knelt opposite Zuko, careful not to spill. This was the Iroh Zuko remembered, the general who liked everything in its proper order, in war and at home, and who could not be rushed or dissuaded once he put his mind to an action. How, then, had this meticulous man ended up here, perfectly calm and collected as he poured hot water over the porcelain to warm he cups, the leader of the rebellious faction working to disrupt everything the Fire Nation was working towards? He had breached the walls of Ba Sing Se, had been lauded as a hero and blessed with honours bestowed upon no other general in history, poised to take the throne of the greatest nation in the world, so why had he not come home? Zuko knew enough of the official line of events to understand he had somehow colluded with the avatar to gain his current position, but that was as far as reasoning could take him.

“Does this mean Cousin Lu Ten is alive as well?” he asked. The implications for the line of succession if so –

“No,” came the muted reply as his uncle scooped tea into the pot. “No, my son died six years ago, at the siege of Ba Sing Se.” The old man cleared his throat. “This blend of tea is particularly fragrant, mixed and dried with jasmine flowers from the slopes of Lu Long Shan. It pairs particularly well with Air Nomad sweet pastry.”

“All tea is just hot leaf juice.”

“A member of my own family, saying such a thing.” Iroh shook his head. “I see your cultural education has slipped in the years since I have been away.”

Zuko only frowned. A lot of things had happened in the time since they had received news of the Crown Prince’s death before the walls of the Earth Kingdom capital – a lot of things that, now with hindsight, had been allowed to happen. The left side of Zuko’s face itched. He ignored it, and dropped his eyes to watch the smooth, practiced motions of the tea ceremony that took years to fully master, first the initial pouring to wash the leaves of impurity, swirling the water around the teapot with precise rotations of the wrist before it was discarded, then the second pouring to steep the tea until it was ready for the drinkers to taste.

“This is one of Katara’s sets,” he realised as his uncle completed the last movement and filled two delicate cups with the finished tea. The porcelain was of finest translucent quality, with intricate patterns painted in blue beneath the glaze, and the more he looked, the more of the interweaving lines resolved themselves into the shapes of animals at play.

“She is a most agreeable young lady,” his uncle said. “Quite the scholar, and skilled in her element. She told me she spent time with you while she was staying in the capital.”

Zuko scowled, then scowled harder at the sympathetic look Iroh gave him, ignoring the ache of stretched, healing tissue in the left side of his face. “Did she tell you she tricked me, and then betrayed me?”

“No, she did not. How is your tea?”

The cup remained untouched on the mat in front of him. He recalled a sunny afternoon, back in another life, when another person had served him tea, and then mocked him with a wry smile for thinking the drink was poisoned. Had he been caught even then? Had she seen it, and spun her web of lies accordingly?

“It’s very… fragrant,” he allowed as he took as sip and put the memory from his mind. “Uncle, all this time, why didn’t you ever come back?”

“I could not.”

Rage boiled inside him. “Why not?”

A sigh. “Prince Zuko –”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

“Please be calm,” his uncle repeated. “I know you are angry.”

“Angry?” Zuko scoffed. He slammed his teacup back on the table and shot to his feet. “What do you know? You’re a traitor! You’re working for the enemy – no, you’re leading them! You could be ruling the Fire Nation and yet you’re – you’re here, drinking tea, acting like everything’s okay! Do you even know what –”

The door burst open. Flames sprang to Zuko’s fists, to defend or attack he couldn’t say, but before he could move, Iroh darted between him and the intruders, palms out to ward off fire from both sides.

“Grand Master – we heard shouting –”

“All is well, Juro,” he assured. “Please, leave us.”

The two guards glanced at each other, expressions wavering between uncertainty and obedience, but finally they bowed and retreated back into the corridor.

“Please, Nephew,” Iroh continued once the door closed with a clang, “master yourself. I am aware of what my brother has done, what he continues to do to our people –”

“Our people?” Zuko sneered. “Your orders are killing Fire Nation soldiers.”

Iroh folded his hands across his stomach, hiding them in the ends of his sleeves, and sighed as he shuffled back to his seat, no longer the proud general but an old man who had seen too much, who felt the cold in his bones. For an instant, all tension dropped out of Zuko’s limbs to see such an abrupt transformation, such a difference from the larger-than-life figure of his childhood memories. That, however, only led to a confusion that once again stoked his anger. He wanted to fight, to demand an explanation or at the very least shout blame down upon the one person who could have stopped it all, from the destruction of the South Pole to his own disfigurement. And yet, his would-be opponent offered nothing for him to rail against; he only sat and watched the lazy curl of steam rise from the pot of fragrant tea, frowning at it like a diviner waiting for inspiration.

“When Lu Ten was killed,” Iroh began, “I began to reflect on what I had done, what we, as a people, had done. My eyes were opened. I retreated into myself, let my captains take over the campaign while I grieved, and for a time my madness allowed me to wander farther than most humans ever do. It was in the spirit world that I met the avatar, who was still a young boy at that time, pushed into war before his time. He is the link between worlds and between people. Reflected in him I saw all the evil the Fire Nation had ever done, but also hope that the world could see an end to it.” He looked up. “I am grateful that a similar tragedy was not needed for you to take action.”

He was talking about the Blue Spirit.

Zuko looked away, his skin itching under the steady gaze. “You should have come back,” he repeated, bitterly.

“No.” Iroh shook his head. “The moment I read the message that told of Fire Lord Azulon’s passing, I knew what my brother would do if I returned, and I knew that I could not stop it. So instead, I came here to fight alongside the avatar and help him restore the balance the world sorely needs.”

“It’s that simple, is it?”

“It might be,” the old man replied. “It would depend, however, on the reason why you are here.”

In one of the lower courtyards, the snow had been cleared away and turned into a training yard. While White Lotus guards patrolled the outer perimeter, they left the centre space clear for the avatar and his inner circle of friends and bending teachers, having learned the hard way that despite being young, Aang’s masters possessed formidable skills and the will to use them to devastating effect. Word had spread of Katara’s feat with the three Fire Nation troop carriers, her control of blood, but besides her there was Toph, a prodigy discovered scamming and pickpocketing her way through the southern Earth Kingdom. The full story there was unknown, but she had no issues with bending whole boulders at people nosy enough to intrude on the avatar’s training.

At that moment, a cacophony of explosions shook the surrounding walls, echoing with shouts of encouragement and grunts of effort by turns as the avatar battled air with water. He evaded well, stepping in circles, throwing gusts of air to redirect Katara’s attacks, but unlike the solidity of earth or the charge of fire, the water only twisted around it, folding to the shape of the wind and relentless as it drove him back. Toph had blindfolded him, trying to mimic her own way of sensing the world to train him out of limitations, but so far, thrown off-balance and struggling not to evade the barrage of attacks, the results were… mixed.  

“Spirits, Katara, let up a little, will you?” Haru cried. He was one of the few White Lotus who dared to show up to their training, mostly because he was of a similar age to them and felt more at ease in their company than among the older guards. He had wanted to join up when he heard his father had been broken out of prison and joined the Water tribe to fight through the western wilds, and had proven himself.

Toph punched him on the arm. “How’s he gonna learn then, huh?”

“Do you think the Fire Nation will let up?” Katara demanded breathlessly as she redirected a water whip towards Aang’s head. “Do you think the Fire Lord would just let up?”

“He won’t get the chance if there isn’t an avatar left,” the young guard answered, and winced. The water whip solidified into an ice dagger at the end and ripped through the trailing edge of the avatar’s robes. “You’re meant to be sparring, not doing Ozai’s work for him.”

Katara only growled.

“Keep your guard up, Twinkle Toes!” Toph yelled.

Aang groaned from the other end of the yard. “Do you really have to keep calling me that – whoa!”

“You’re the one who persuaded me to leave Daejeon, don’t complain,” she shot back, just as he rolled to avoid a wave coming to freeze him in place.

“Come on, Katara, what’s going on with you?” Haru pressed, ignoring the familiar argument.

She puffed loose strands of hair out of her eyes and didn’t look at her friend. “Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Sweetness.”

“It’s that guy in the mask,” Aang said, taking off his blindfold and ducking away. “The one who tried to sneak in here.”

Katara growled again. “We’re not finished yet.”

“Nah, I think it’s time to call a break.” Toph’s smirk cut a devious line behind the hang of her hair. “Get over here.”

Aang eased a sigh of relief and carefully stepped around the carnage wrought by the mock battle. A few years ago, he might have used an air scooter, but the time since the siege at Ba Sing Se had worn away the short, bright-eyed boy and left in his place a tall, lanky young man who had witnessed as much as any seasoned warrior. His pace was measured, his gaze on Katara sympathetic in a way that felt heavy on her shoulders. She thought about the gold of Zuko’s irises, how earnest they could be, and how last time she had seen him they had been narrowed in livid, violent hate. That scar…

“It’ll be alright,” the avatar said, laying a light hand on her shoulder. “Sifu Hotman is with him now. He’ll sort this out – he always does.”

“You do know who that is, right?” Haru asked. “Prince Zuko, heir to the Fire Nation throne? Son of the man who keeps sending people to try and kill you? He’s probably here to have a go himself or something.”

“Or maybe he’s here to join our side,” Aang reasoned with a frown.

“Keep dreaming, Twinkle Toes.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Katara shook her head and stepped away with a placating smile and a roll of her shoulders. “Toph, do you mind stepping in? It’s getting a bit too hot to train and I promised Sokka I’d go find him.”

The earthbender cocked her head, listening to her heartbeat, or maybe just considering whether it was worth her entertainment to be perverse. Finally, the younger girl shrugged and waved her away. “Do what you gotta do. He was getting too used to dodging iceballs anyway.” She grinned. “Time for the big leagues.”

Aang groaned again, but Katara barely heard what he called after her as she collected her things and wound through the maze of corridors that made up the Northern Air Temple. Truthfully, she had no intention of finding Sokka – he was probably holed up with the mechanist anyway, coming up with new war machines that grew ever more inventive by the week. The work kept him focussed, distracted from the march of the Southern winter and the slow countdown of what little time she had bought with her months of being a Fire Nation puppet. With just a few more ships, a few more weeks to let the rescued waterbenders recover, they might have taken the capital. With Ozai deposed, they might have been able to rebuild without fear of having it all torn down again. The war here too was one of attrition, a slow glide meant to slow down the enemy while they figured out a way to get the avatar within striking distance of the Fire Lord. As far as Katara could tell, nobody yet had a plan for what would happen afterwards.

And now Zuko.

She huffed, and started down a twisting path that led away from the temple complex towards a spring she had discovered while collecting herbs. The place was in a grotto screened from the nearest overlooks by thick trees and tall cliffs, and it was her secret, as far as she could tell. The only tracks besides hers belonged to fox-mice and the black, spiral-horned goats that made the mountain their home, and of everywhere she had been since coming to the Earth Kingdom, it was the one place she felt peaceful. The wind through the trees created a white noise like the sea, while the sweet clearness of the water pooled under its thin film of mountain ice like the pond in her garden. Another life.

“At least it’s not snowing today,” she grumbled as she stripped off her outer layers and settled into a beginning stance. The altitude made her a little lightheaded – gave her nosebleeds every now and then – but out here that mattered as little as everything else. She pressed through her forms, lost herself until the sway of her muscles occupied her whole mind. She definitely did not think about the meeting taking place in the Grand Master’s tower room, or about Zuko’s snarling accusations, or the feel of his ruined flesh under her fingers and the unavoidable, unnerving fear that it was entirely her fault.

[shardclan]

Under the great obsidian disc was an air of keen agitation that was so potent it was almost a solid object. Though it was unclear just what the source was, locals gave it wide berth.

Even Lutia stood in the outer rings of the columns, glaring out into the light of day with raised hackles. Constant unease was a struggle she had dealt with ever since returning from the Circle with Apokathisto. She was the Steward of the Seat, and that was certainly safe, but the stones that comprised the Circle were the power source. It might take an Age, but eventually the Seat would run dry of its power without them.

(And if she was honest, it irked her a little that the young guardian had formed some sort of connection with the Circle that even she was not fully privy to.)

None of that was what bothered her now. This was the kind of irate foreboding that she usually only experienced when Crucis had tampered with something he really shouldn't have. But it wasn't Crucis. It didn't feel like him, didn't smell like him. And the unfamiliarity of it only set her on edge more.

Apokathisto was either very brave or very desperate to have approached her.

"Something you need, Imperator?" 

“Invigilavi,” he corrected numbly. He had heard that word spoken with scorn many times since the paper announced it. At this point, it was all he could do to just direct his clan mates to his new name instead of drawing attention to his eventual title.

“Lavi it is,” the Archmage said distractedly. “Can I help you?”

He awkwardly joined her under the disc. His shape was still new to him and he couldn't change or remove the glamour. No one else in Aphaster barring transient mercenaries took such half-beast shapes. Yet he still had his characteristic air of reticence, despite a standing several heads taller than Lutia and having significantly more bulk.

"I would like to confide in you," he began. "If you don't mind."

Lutia gawked. No one had confided much of anything in her in eons. "Do I really seem the appropriate choice for that? You have the Gale Wolf for a mother!"

His face pinched. "It's because she's my mother that I don't want this to reach her. Perhaps it oversteps my boundaries but... I am coming to you because of your experiences. With your son."

Lutia's face froze into a mask, but her coat nearly doubled in size. The ghosts of ancient scents toyed with her sensitive nose, like a forgotten perfume with a thousand attached memories half-remembered.

"I know how you were raised, Lavi. I know you wouldn't bring that up on passing curiosity." Her voice was at once stonily meditative, as though she were talking herself out of her anger, and subtly cold with a fear he hadn't thought possible from her. 

"Can you be saved?" she whispered.

The question caught him off guard. He had been raised on the stories of the past, of how Lutia's rage had razed everything they used to be and chased them from their homeland. But hearing the slight quake of her voice and seeing the tight expression on her face, he knew he was treading into a place in her heart that wasn't full of anger but of old loss and barely healed devastation.

"I don't know," he answered quietly. "I suppose I'm telling you because I'm hoping you might find a way to make the answer into a yes before it's too late."

He held out his palm, displaying a small golden crack in his flesh. Lutia traced it quizzically. It wasn't opalescence, though it bore a resemblance. It was more like a scar, but the magical nature of it was obvious. The gold color confused her. Numb to his magic or not, he was Arcane.

"Is this a new gene?" she demanded. "Something expressing after your contact with the Circle?"

He laughed dryly. "I don't think so. This is..." He frowned, and let his hand drop from hers. "My magic isn't numb, Lutia. It's not inside of me any more. It's been displaced."

"Ashes didn't find anything of the sort wrong with you!" she countered hastily. "You have magic, you just cant feel it."

"Because it isn't mine. That's why I can't feel it, or command it. Not even to change this body. The Circle took my magic from me, and left something else. Something that lets me feel them...forming out there."

He rubbed his scaly fingers over the crack, feeling the almost metallic sensation of whatever had solidified in it. "The magic inside me belongs to the Circle. To Abankhit, in particular."

"Who the hell is Abankhit?"

"The name of the stone I touched. You have their names on your scroll. Abankhit would be the last." His eyes turned away, more out of frustration than avoidance. "I have a lot in my mind recently, Lutia. Knowledge that doesn't belong to me. But it's like the knowing you experience in a dream. It's an understanding that doesn't make sense in the waking world. I only know for certain I am charged to see Abankhit and all the rest back among the stars."

Lutia stared ahead, worried immensely at that not one but a full three dozen unstable astrals were working on manifesting into Sornieth. "And when you complete this mission, it will save Rebis somehow...But cost you your life a well?"

"It is not the completion may kill me.” He smiled bitterly at the crack in his palm. "Just like the Radiant could not house his essence in a body that wasn't his, my body isn't going to last forever on Abankhit's energy. It's astral magic. Horizon was born as he was and had both energies in equal measure. I was born a dragon, and was never meant to exist with anything but a dragon’s magic in me."

She remembered with painful vividness how hard it had been for both Horizon and herself. Day in, day out, meditating and controlling themselves at the risk of sublimating to another plane. What Lavi was describing was worse. He wasn't at risk of going on to some glorious other form of life. He was going to deteriorate and he couldn't even take refuge in exaltation because he wasn't whole without his birth magic inside of him.

"We can do the opposite of what Rebis is doing," she insisted fumblingly. "Magic infusion is just as routine as siphoning. A pain in the ass but you could live if the problem is not getting enough draconic magic."

His jaw clenched. He was almost grateful when the soft blue-white light under the disc took on a harsh magenta color. The Celestial Vault screeched and groaned and the crystal shot outward in brittle, hastily formed masses of unstable geometry, cracking and breaking only to be replaced be even more poorly generated spires of celestine. The multi-layered barriers of elements that rose over arcane hissed, and it wasn't long before Lutia doubled over, claws digging at the Arcanist's emblem blazed into her abdomen.

"It's burning!" she gasped raggedly. Her fur and the cracks of her opalescence glistened in angry pink neon, the focuses lining her limbs sizzling white hot. Even the spellscroll around her neck was shining with ferocious intensity. "Get back! Something's wrong, the Seat writhes--!"

Without flinching, Invigilavi reached out and placed his hand over her emblem. There was a faint hiss as the magic singed his scales, but the focuses quieted. Her fur settled back to its usual plain charcoal. The surge passed. He breathed a cloud of stardust that nearly pushed Lutia to vomit, but unlike Horizon, he did not seem otherwise harmed.

"You're..." she fumbled, her eyes widening with her rising horror. "You're immune...?"

He nodded grimly. In his hand, the crack had grown, tracing a curving golden leyline from thumb to wrist. He had siphoned away her magic, to seemingly no other detriment at all. No signs of inundation sickness--not even the drunken giddiness that accompanied exposure to high levels of one’s home element. 

But the booming of the earth barrier collapsing left neither of them the time to fully appreciate the trust he had just placed in her, nor the magnitude of what he had just done, nor the implications of the enlarged crack in his palm.

"You're the Steward," he said firmly. "Control it."

The words brought her agitation back in full force. The Seat was reacting to something. As much as she hated to think that it had a mind of it's own, it was confused and angry. For just a moment,  something had caused a ripple in the connection between it and Lutia. And while it's only goal had been to find her, left to its own self-expression it was only good at expelling raw energy.

Lutia put it back to sleep with the certain promise that she was would certainly raze something when she found out who was responsible.

@boyonetta

[darveyfics]

Darvey angst where she is feeling down on Christmas Eve and wants to be with Harvey. They don’t work together any more and she barely sees him any more.

Since Donna kissed Harvey they’ve been at a loose end, not talking for months and it gets to Christmas Day and Harvey realises what a dick he’s been and he turns up at donna’s parents house and admits he loves and wants her 

Concept: Your arms are wrapped around me as we lay in bed. We talk and make jokes and call each other empty insults to make each other laugh. You press kisses to my cheek every so often and I can feel your fingers tracing my side. We’re finally together and everything feels right and happy. hungover in bed on New Year’s Day 

AN: I may have gone a bit off prompt here, seeing as how this is only a NYE fic, and I took liberty with adding/omitting some details, but this was inspired by these set of prompts. Anywho, I hope you still enjoy and happy New Years!

“Resolutions”

“Ugh,” Donna turns off the television with a hard press on the remote, a sour expression on her face. She had spent the better part of the last half an hour summoning all of her effort to try and enjoy what she could during the last few hours before the new year. But in doing so, she had to succumb to seeing happy couples being displayed near Times Square, kissing and huddling close in the cold, even witnessing a couple of too-cheesy proposals. She couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t watch any more of the festivities when her heart was already in shambles.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she pushes herself off her couch, picking up her empty wine glass and walking over to her kitchen, where she pours herself another helping of red. Her eyes grow watery then, blurring her vision as she watches the crimson liquid filling the glass she held. Donna mentally curses herself, angrily wiping away a tear in the corner of her eye before it could make its way down her cheek. Picking up the glass, she lets out a small dry laugh as she brought it up to her lips. As the bitter taste meets her tongue, a knock nearly makes her spill her drink.

She freezes in place, her breath hitching as two familiar knocks follow. Slowly, the redhead deposits the glass on her kitchen island, watching as a few scarlet drops make their way to tint the white marble countertop.

“Donna,”

His muffled voice makes her eyes close on their own accord, her heart racing its way to rest in her throat, where an uncomfortable lump begins to form.

“Donna, it’s me.”

She stays frozen, hovering over her kitchen island, her knuckles turning white with the visceral grip she held on the counter, a meek attempt to keep herself upright lest she pass out. It’s the first time she’s heard his voice in days, the two glasses of wine already seeping into her system, making her limbs feel like jello upon hearing the low timbre in his voice. She finds herself unable to move, silently willing her former boss to leave, hoping he would get the hint with her lack of response.

“Donna, please, I know you’re in here. I went to your mom’s- she uh, she told me you’d be here.”

Donna finds herself cursing under her breath then. She had only told Louis of her New Year’s Eve plans- telling the name partner that she would probably make a trip up to Connecticut to visit her mom after having been invited to an end of the year party she was hosting alongside her latest flame- one apparently slightly less annoying than the last. And she had planned on going… until she found herself standing in front of her closet, trying to find something to wear, when another sudden wave of sadness washed over her and she couldn’t draw in enough energy to make herself look presentable, the thought of hanging around other other people, putting on a bubbly facade just to mask the current pain she felt and prevent an unwanted conversation with her mother making her feel dizzy. So, she had phoned the older woman, an apology on her lips as she lied through her teeth and told her mom that she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t go.

Now, as she continues to grip her countertop, the metaphorical and physical wall separating her from Harvey seemingly growing thicker by the second, her mind starts to cloud over with a plethora of thoughts.

I went to your mom’s.

She wasn’t surprised he had towered over Louis until the shorter man broke under Harvey’s gaze, spilling her plans with no other option. What she did find surprising was that the man in question had driven all the way to Connecticut and back just to talk to her.

Donna shook her head, opening her mouth to speak, hoping her voice could carry its way over through the wall that separates her from the man that she had been equally avoiding for the past couple of days. It had been a mere two weeks since she had kissed him, planted a long-awaited, tension filled kiss as soon as he walked into her office. The arguments had started that night, when she found him on the rooftop of PSL, looking as confused and hurt and angry as she had ever seen him. The hurtful jabs hadn’t stopped there either. It had been a grave experience, having to dive into work everyday with someone she had considered to be her best friend- her confidant- her everything- only to fall victim to the backlash he had expelled on her.

It had been bite for bite, blame after blame, and she had stood her ground, never once faulting under his fierce gaze as he looked at her with what she could only surmise to be hurt, distrust, and something akin to betrayal. His words had cut deep, but she still showed up, countered his words with her own, exuding all the confidence she could muster so as to not break every time he looked at her.

She never expected him to jump into her arms after having kissed him, didn’t expect them to be anything, but she never expected the full continuous wave of anguish she felt every time he spoke to her. Even when she had caught wind that he and Paula had broken up, she still faced his wrath on occasion, until she had blown up on him. She had looked him square in the eye, told him she wouldn’t stand for his shit anymore, and would leave without so much as looking back if he didn’t stop treating her like his enemy. 

That had been a few short days before, the sting of having spent Christmas alone growing ten-fold when he had all but bitten her head off the next morning, and she couldn’t take it anymore. He had backtracked with a look of surprise, and something reminiscent of guilt that she tried to push out her mind. Since then, they had barely crossed paths outside of important meetings, and even then they would use Louis as a buffer, the other name partner oblivious as to what was happening- either that, or he was uncharacteristically stepping out of the way.

Another set of taps on her door shook her out of her thought, his voice mirroring the defeat in his soft knocks.

“Donna… please.”

With a final sigh and a bitter taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with the wine she had been drinking, Donna makes her way to her front door. Her steps were measured and unsure, dragging herself until she stood in front of the piece of wood that separated her from him.

Before she could overthink it further, her hand reaches out, unlocking the door as she swings it open.

Her words catch in her throat as she looks him over- suit disheveled and sans tie, hair sticking up in all directions from when he must have raked his hands through it a dozen times. His brown eyes were nearly rimmed red, underlined by heavy bags to highlight his lack of sleep. She mentally thanked herself then for still donning that day’s makeup, hoping it would mask her own heavy eyes.

Clearing her throat, she musters up as much control as possible, “What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” His gravely voice takes her by surprise, and if it weren’t for the lack of alcohol she could smell on his breath, she would’ve guessed he had been drinking.

“Talk about what?” Donna crosses her arms, shuffling her feet and glancing away from his pleading eyes, willing her heart rate to slow down.

“You know what.”

She scoffs then, tilting her head to fix him with a glare that was making her eyes sting, “You weren’t done yelling at me yet? Had a second wind you needed to exercise before you rung in the new year year?”

Her sarcastic words made his lips turn thin, his shoulders slumping at the way her voice cracked and he felt his heart doing the same. “That’s not what-”

“Thats not what?!” She demands, body canting forward in an effort to tower over him, the attempt falling short seeing as she was barefoot and a mere couple of inches shorter than him, “That’s not what you came here for? I’m sorry, I’m also not in the mood for another round of the blame game you were throwing at me, Harvey.”

“Donna,”

“No, I don’t want to hear it, I’m tired, okay? Can’t you see that? If you don’t-” she heaves out a breath, taking a moment to collect herself before continuing, “If you don’t… feel anything, then just let is rest, Harvey. Because I can’t take this anymore.”

Without a word, he’s stepping into her apartment, the sudden bold move taking her by surprise and she steps to the side in reflex. “I do!”

His expel makes her cant backward again, “Do what?” She presses, her eyebrows creased as she stares at the half flustered man before her.

“I do… feel something,” Harvey hisses, his eyes beginning to cloud over, chest rising and falling.

Donna closes her eyes at his small admission, flashbacks to a time in his office taking over her mind.

Love me how?

I told you that so I could make you feel better.

That’s because we have everything.

No, Harvey! You have everything! 

So, are you saying you want everything?

“Feel what?” Donna finally opens her eyes, “Disgust? Betrayal? Because,” she lets out a humorless laugh, “That’s how you kept looking at me for the past two weeks.”

“I-”

“You’ve never been able to tell me how you really feel, haven’t you? Goddammit, Harvey, I really don’t know how much more of this I can take,” a few tears slide down her cheek as her voice breaks, hugging herself close in a futile attempt to protect herself. 

“Donna, please, I just-” His mouth hangs open then, the rest of his words caught in his throat again, and he swallows past the lump that blocks his untimely confession.

“What, Harvey? I’m right here, what the hell is it that you have to say?” Her hazel eyes plead with him, and she hears the distinct sounds of fireworks going off in the distance, knowing that midnight was just right around the corner and the festivities outside her apartment were in full swing now.

“I love you,” he growls in the next second, propelling forward to cup her face in his hands, slanting his lips over hers in a bruising kiss.

Donna always prided herself in seemingly knowing what was going to happen next, what people were thinking, were feeling… but in that moment, with Harvey’s lips firmly pressed against hers, she could confidently say, she never saw it coming.

Her body stays frozen against him, lips barely pursed against his own unmoving ones. It wasn’t until his head tilts to the side, pulling on her upper lip with the gentlest of tugs, does she come alive. Her hands grip the the lapels of his jack, needing something to hold onto as she feels herself falling under a dizzy spell as his tongue snakes into her mouth in a torturous pace. Their lips move over each other like long time lovers, his familiar taste intoxicating her senses, fueling an inner desire she had thought she had suppressed. Her hands find their way to his hair, pulling on the short strands and eliciting a low groan to leave his lips. Before she could fully mold her body to his, he’s pulling back, and it takes her a near full minute to open her eyes.

What she sees makes her knees buckle, and if it weren’t for his hold on her, she was sure she would’ve fallen. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” his eyes are screwed shut, tears free falling down his cheeks as his voice breaks with every word.

Donna feels herself swallowing, her own eyes blurring as she watches Harvey- the man she has only seen cry purely two or three times in all the years that they’ve known each other. His hands slide down from her cheeks then, making their way to rest on her waist as his forehead lands on hers, prompting her own eyes to close.

“God, Donna, I’m-” he shakes his head, lip caught between his teeth as he tries to render in some control, “I’m so sorry,” his eyes finally find hers when he lifts his head, his tears clouding his vision.

“Harvey-”

“I was an asshole, I- I treated you like shit and- I don’t deserve you,” She tries not to get distracted by the way his hands caress her skin over the sweater she wore, his eyes boring into her own in the dim light of her foyer. Donna swallows back the ever-growing lump in her throat, trying to breathe through the stuttering in her chest.

“I fucked up. I screwed up everything because I was too damn proud, too upset, too- confused to tell you…” His voice trails off as he looks at her, the rest of his words getting clogged up amidst the fear and uneasiness he felt bubbling up inside.

“Tell me what?” His earlier confession echoes in her mind, those three little words replaying like a broken record, making her feel dizzier by the second 

“I’m not good at this Donna,” he admits on an exhale, looking every bit as nervous and vulnerable as she had ever seen him.

She purses her lips then, shifting slightly in her stance as her hold on his biceps stays in place, “At telling me how you really feel? Yeah, I’ve noticed,” agitation pulls at her again, and she tries to keep her frustration at bay, hoping he could somehow find it in him to tell her. 

“You think this is easy for me? Being here? Pouring myself out to you?” She nearly flinches at the way his voice grows an octave higher, but she holds her ground, stepping away from him in the next second.

“Do you think it was easy for me? Having to go into work everyday to see the man I’ve considered as a best friend for over a decade look at me like I was the worst thing to ever happen to him? To treat me like absolute crap because one little thing I did?” 

“You kissed me while I was still with Paula! How else did you expect me to react?”

“I expected you to not talk down to me or make me feel like absolute shit after the one time in the last thirteen goddamn years I decided to put myself first!”

Her outburst is like a splash of cold water on him, her voice growing hoarse as the tears slide down, staining her already flushed cheeks.

“Donna,” guilt rises in him, and he takes a step forward again, wincing when she takes a step back in response.

“God, we always end up here, don’t we?” Her dry laugh is followed by another set of fireworks going off in the distance, preceding an echo of laughs and cheers from the street patrons outside of her apartment.

“Where?” He asks her gently, staying put this time.

“Here! With us arguing and you not being able to tell me whatever the hell it is that you want!”

“I want you!” 

She doubles back at his words, her eyes widening and matching his own as he tries and fails to keep his emotions and breathing in check.

“Goddammit, Donna, I-” he rubs his hands over his tired face, his eyes appearing more red than they had been when he had arrived just minutes earlier, “I want more,” he echoes the words she had told him almost a year before. Her mouth hangs open in surprise, silently willing her brain to come alive and provide her with a set of words to throw back in his face, but none come.

“I want- everything with you,” Harvey takes a tentative step toward her, taking advantage of her still frame to take her hands in his own, using his thumb to run circles over her smooth skin.

“Harvey-”

“I’m in love with you,” his eyes study her, taking in the way her lips part at his confession, the words finally slipping out with an unexpected ease. He brings a hand to wipe away the tears that continue to slide down her cheeks, his fingers lingering on her warm skin, “I’m sorry it took me too damn long to realize, to tell you.”

Donna can only nod in turn then, blinking back more emotions as they cascade down her face. “Why-”

“Did it take me so long to tell you?” He murmurs his question, taking another tentative step toward her to gather her in his arms. At her nod, he heaves out a breath, shaking his head, “I’m a goddamn idiot, for one, but I was scared.”

“Of what?” Comes her hoarse response, reaching up to wipe away his own set of tears and he can’t stop himself from taking hold of her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist, the action making her breath hitch.

“Of losing you,” he whispers, his face nearly growing numb when she starts to caress his cheek, “of- misreading your signal, and potentially screwing things up, which, happened anyway because I’m a complete moron, and I was upset with you, but mostly at myself, and I was angry because you kissed me and I was with someone else and I didn’t know what to do, not at first-”

“Harvey-” She tries to interrupt his rambling, but falls short when he continues to rant.

“And even after I broke up with Paula, I was still angry and confused, and it was just an excuse, because that was easier than dealing with what really mattered, who really mattered-”

“Harvey-”

“And God, Donna, I know there’s no excuse, I treated you like shit, and I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve your forgiveness or even your heart, but I do love you, in every goddamn way I know how to love and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you to just that, because I don’t just need you in my life, I never did just need you, I want you,” Harvey takes a moment to expel another breath, watching her own face nearly crumpling and he curses himself for putting that amount of pain in her, “And if you’ll let me…” 

Her lips are on his in a flash, her arms winding around him, nearly making him tumble forward as she pulls herself up on her tiptoes. It only takes him a second to react, his own arms wrapping around her until she was flush against him. Their kiss grows frantic quickly, their lips tangling with their teeth, tugging and pulling in between slides of tongues that has them spilling out twin moans of pleasure and want and need.

“Donna,” Harvey breathes in between kisses, groaning when she pulls at his bottom lip, sliding her tongue inside his hot mouth again, and it takes everything in him not to push her up against the nearest surface. 

“Donna, wait,” she lets out a whimper of disapproval when his lips detach from hers. If it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation, for the way his pants started to grow tighter against every hot breath she exhaled against him, he would’ve laughed at the cute way in which she pouted at him.

“Hey,” he breathes out, using a hand to lock a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, reaching forward to press a feather light kiss to her cheek.

“What is it?” She whispers on a low pant. 

“I’m just- I’m really sorry. For everything. I- I hurt you and I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” 

Donna frowns when another tear slides down his cheek, and she reaches out to wipe it away, her raised feet planting themselves down on her hardwood floor, “I know. You already said-”

Harvey shakes his head, “I just don’t feel like it’s enough. Like it won’t ever be enough.”

Her hand slides down to his lips, slightly caressing the swollen flesh as her eyes look up to meet his, “You did screw up, I think we both did in some way,” she lets out a sigh, “but I already spent the last two weeks feeling miserable and sorry for myself, and hating you just a little bit for how you made me feel,” she doesn’t miss the way his eyes cloud over more at her words, “and I think what we both deserve right now is to be happy, don’t you think?”

“So… you forgive me?” His voice is small when he speaks, and she lets her lips curl up slightly at the ounce of hope in him.

“Yeah, Harvey, I do.”

“Why?” He croaks out, his forehead knit as his eyes rake over her form, nearly becoming dizzy as her scent fills him.

“Because, so help me God, I’m in love with you too.” Her half shrug and laugh makes his chest flutter with something he doesn’t think he’s felt in a long time. He struggles to fight against the way his lips twitch at her words, and he shuffles his feet forward until their lips are grazing each other, their eyes brightly transfixed on one another.

“I’m not going to screw things up,” he promises her then, determination growing in his voice.

Donna hums in response, her hands sliding up his chest until her right hand is resting over his heart, “You better not,” he lets out a watery chuckle at the way she quirks an eyebrow at him, and her own mirth mirrors his.

They sober up in the next second, matching serious expressions on their faces as the gravity of the situation settles in then.

“I am sorry,” Harvey finds himself repeating, his voice low against her.

“I know,” Donna whispers back. Their arms are around each other the next second, pulling each other close together, a tight hold forming around each other.

“I’ve missed you,” her whispers against her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she tells him, though she has an inkling as to what he means. 

“Felt like you did, and I know it’s my own damn fault,” his defeated sigh makes her pull back, her eyes raking over his tired form, eyes still reddened from his tears, guilt written all over his face. She hears more fireworks echoing in the distance now, followed by another round of cheers, and she guesses they were slowly inching their way to midnight.

“You really need to stop beating yourself up, Specter,” she murmurs against him, lifting up on her toes to plant a kiss against his mandible.

“I’m not sure I know how,” he lets out a sigh, his eyes pleading and tired all the same.

“I think I can find a way,” Donna whispers, running a manicured hand through the short strands of his hair.

She almost laughs at the way his brows furrow, confusion written in his still slightly solemn expression, and a sudden giddiness overcomes her when she realizes she can kiss the pout right off his face.

So she does just that.

It takes him a moment to register what’s happening, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, much like the way he had done when she had kissed him a mere weeks before. And just as he had done then, his demeanor relaxes within seconds, melting right against her, except this time, she doesn’t pull back, his hands are around her, and he reels her in further.

When her hands slide down his chest, blindly undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, his lips pull back from her, “Donna,” he nearly lets out a whimper when her nails sneak inside his shirt, lightly scratching against his skin, “Donna, are you sure?”

Her lips part from his with a smacking sound, hazel eyes appearing black at the way her pupils have dilated. In the distance, she can vaguely make out a countdown.

20… 19... 

Her hands slide up to his shoulders, and in anticipation, he’s hoisting her up, her legs wrapping around his form, the move making them stumble forward. Twin laughs leave them, their teeth clashing in a hurried kiss as he tightens his hold on her, making sure she’s safely secured in his arms.

“Careful, mister, you’re carrying precious goods here,” she murmurs against his lips.

17… 16…

Harvey chuckles at her words, moving in the direction of her bedroom when he finally finds his footing, “Trust me, I’m well aware.”

15… 14…

It’s a mission and a half to get to her bedroom without dropping her, thanks to the way her lips are teasing the curve of his jaw, taking her time to nip and suck at his skin.

12… 11…

When he finally reaches her room, he makes a beeline for the bed, maneuvering in the dark through a space he had only occupied once before.

9… 8…

Depositing her on the bed, she lets out a fit of giggles, the sound nearly foreign to her after weeks of tears and anger. He lets out his own string of chuckles, reaching down to plant a kiss to her lips, his hand moving her golden locks out of the way, until he’s fully able to look into her eyes.

6… 5…

“Hey,” he whispers, his lips hovering over hers.

“Hey back.”

4… 3…

“I love you,” 

2… 1…

Before she can register what’s happening, his lips are landing on hers in another toe-curling kiss, the force of which nearly knocking her off kilter, and she thanks her lucky stars she was already lying down. A string of fireworks go off right outside, one after the other, repeatedly for what feels like ages. She nearly chuckles against him then, the humor of fireworks going off while the love of her life was kissing her not missing her.

“Happy New Year’s, Donna,” his Cheshire Cat grin evokes one of her own, and she’s suddenly feeling light-headed with an overwhelming sense of joy.

“Happy New Year’s, Harvey,” the second the words leave her lips, his mouth is slanting over hers again, and the cacophony of fireworks outside is soon diluted by the rapid beating of her heart, the rhythm growing ten-fold as his own starts to match hers in perfect synchrony. 

His body is molded to hers, right arm strewn across her form over the covers, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

“You okay?” Harvey presses a kiss to her temple, watching as her breathing now settles into a full leveled rhythm.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” she sends him a grin over her shoulder, reaching up as best she could in her current position, angling her head to meet his lips in a chaste kiss.

“I could just hear you thinking pretty loudly,” his fingers caress her arm in an up and down pattern, the feeling evoking goosebumps on her skin.

She lets out a snort at his words, “What? You a mind reader now?” 

He chuckles against her, the vibrations alighting her skin on fire, and she bites her lip at the sheer memory of what they were doing just minutes before.

“No,” he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, settling his head on the pillow they shared and coaxing her to turn around until she was fully facing him, “You just seem quiet, is all.”

Her face softens at his words, and her lips curl up into a coy smile, “Yeah well, you tired me out,” she playfully pokes his chest then and he squirms in response.

“Ooh, I forgot you were ticklish,” her eyes grow brighter then, and Harvey takes hold of her hands, swallowing back the slight fear that bubbles up.

“Don’t you dare, Paulsen,” he warns in a low growl.

Donna rolls her eyes in response, a smirk playing on her lips at his sudden semi-panicked demeanor.

“Relax, Harvey,” she lets out a dramatic sigh, bringing her hand up to comb through his hair, “I’m a little too tired to play right now.”

His eyebrows comically wiggle at her words, and she lets out a snort that mixes in with a girly giggle, “You’re ridiculous,” she lets out.

“I’m a very lucky man, is what I am,” he puffs out his chest the best way he could whilst horizontal, causing her to shake her head.

“And cheesy,” she retorts, leaning forward to peck his lips.

“Hmm, I think I’ve found my rights to a couple of sappy words tonight.”

“You were pretty impressive,” Donna purrs against him, teasingly pulling on his bottom lip, causing him to emit a low growl.

“I thought you were tired,” he hums against her, shifting until he was hovering over her again.

Donna licks her lips in response, her eyes hungrily raking over his bare chest, “I changed my mind,” she shrugs.

Harvey shakes his head at her antics, leaning down to start a torturous trail from her jaw to her neck, where he pauses to suck on her pulse point. She finds herself closing her eyes then, the feel of his lips mixed with his tongue on her skin making the room around her start to spin.

“I can’t believe you really drove all the way to Connecticut to look for me,” she breathes out when his lips leave her skin for a second, and the fog in her mind clears up. His head lifts from its place, hovering just over her exposed chest.

Her sudden admission makes his forehead knit in confusion, and he wills his mind to clear up just long enough to take in her words. “What?”

She lets out a small chuckle at the perplexed look he gives her, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “Earlier, you said you went to my mom’s in Connecticut, and then you drove back… on New Year’s Eve, when you realized I wasn’t there.” 

“Would it be cheesy if I said I would’ve gone to the ends of the earth to look for you?” He kisses the inside of her palm, giving her a shy look as he still hovered over her.

Donna snorts, “Yeah, a bit.”

“Thought so.”

They share sheepish smiles before Harvey leans down to press a kiss to her lips, just because he could. “I would’ve, you know?”

“I know,” she assures him quietly, her lips turning up.

“Because I’m a goddamn idiot in love,” he sighs dramatically, and realizes all of her dramatic flares have already started to rub off on him.

“That makes two of us,” she murmurs against him before pulling him down for a kiss, “except for the idiot part,” he chuckles against her when she pulls him down for another kiss, their lips melding together, their tongues taking turns to sneak in and tease, tasting each other all over again.

“What?” She giggles against him, watching him in amusement as he breaks their kiss with an uncontrollable fit of chuckles.

Harvey shakes his head, his eyes crinkling with humor and love and something so light he dares to call happiness- pure unbridled joy- settles in his chest.

“I just realized… we basically rung in the new year with a bang.”

She stares up at his slightly flushed expression, eyes bright and wide, staring down at her like she was the best and only thing that mattered in this world. It takes her a full two seconds before she’s doubling back with laughter, the sheer noise making him falter and he’s nearly crushing her as his cackles grow alongside her own.

It’s a while before their laughter subsides, the room saturated with their mingled heavy breathing. Still, little outburst of giggles tumble out of her every time she meets his gaze, and she finds herself wiping away the tears that escape, this time solely due to the joy he had elicited in her.

“That- really shouldn’t have been as funny as it was,” She chuckles, drunk on the feeling of laughing alongside her best friend turned lover, the thought alone enticing another string of endorphins to run along her body.

“And yet…” Harvey grins, kissing the corner of her mouth before he settles next to her again, his body falling heavily against the mattress and he’s reeling her in to him again.

Donna shakes her head, her eyes rolling on reflex. “God, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”

Harvey’s face sobers up for a moment, his smile fading ever so slightly at her words, “Well, I may have just found my new year’s resolution.”

She sends him a quizzical look, her eyes curious and amused, “And what’s that?”

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the year,” he leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek, “the rest of my life,” he presses another to her parted lips, “making you laugh, making you happy.”

Her eyes sting with a fresh new wave of tears and she blinks them back in attempt to keep them from falling. A fluttering settles in her stomach and she heaves out a shaky breath as she inches herself closer to him, her hand finding its way to rest on his cheek as she finds her smile mirroring his.

“Well, you’re already off to a great start, Specter.”