#this is so wonderfully written

[greensagephase]

"... and all the marigolds have gone extinct."

My honest reaction:

This was SO GREAT to read! It's past Día de Los Muertos, but I enjoyed it so much, even though my heart is hurting for Miguel. 😭 I want to give him a hug and reassure him that he did his best for his little girl! Also, I absolutely loved how you included him forgetting how to do something so close to his culture - something that he feels he should be highly familiar with, such as breathing.

I found myself having similar moments like that in the past both because of my youth and naivety (I was going to say stupidity, but I'm trying to be kinder to my younger self, who did what she could with what she knew and felt), and also due to being born and raised in a country where partaking in our traditions and culture is not always received well along with struggling to discover my identity when the feelings of 'being too Mexican' for those who aren't and 'too Americanized' for my own people exist. Thankfully, I'm older now and I'm lucky to still have a grandparent and parents to look up to and learn more from regarding my own culture and background, something our Miguel unfortunately doesn't have anymore.

Anyway, I appreciate that point so much! Thank you for including it and writing this lovely and angsty work. Your writing is amazing! 🥰💖 Also, I will not take marigolds for granted anymore - the fact they went extinct in your work made me SO SAD!! 😭

Día De Muertos is supposed to be a celebration. When the dead return home, the day is filled with festivals, family, home-cooked food, and the bright smell of marigolds.

But Miguel O’Hara has no family, is too miserable to leave the apartment, and all the marigolds have gone extinct.

They’ve been extinct since 2095, actually. How hadn’t he known? That should've been something he'd figured out sooner, right? But no, he finds out a week before the day itself while he’s trying to make Gabriella’s ofrenda.

What does his beloved baby girl, who he would’ve given the world a thousand times over, get instead? Paper flowers.

Paper flowers instead of real ones, possessions that represented her instead of properly being hers, a half-done altar that was done in a manic, grief-fueled haze.

It’s paltry. Miguel knows it is. But it’s all he can give, and by God, he hates it. He tried to make it up in home-made pan de muerto and fresh fruit and her favorite dinners, in the carefully arranged papel picado garlands, in finding actual copal to burn… but it’s not enough. It could never be enough.

It’s been a long time since he’d last made an ofrenda, actually. He fell out of the tradition sometime when he was in college, when he was young and unburdened and selfish and so, so stupid, and had convinced himself he had much more important things to do with his time than honor traditions.

Sometimes, he wants to reach out to that little twerp and beat him senseless.

No, he wants to laugh, or scream, or pull his hair out. It’s a sick joke; a cruel jab at his expense, that he only started giving a shit about his own cultural holidays again after Gabi died, when he could no longer share the homemade food with her, help her learn about the significance.

It feels so wrong, being unable to share this with his daughter. Having the altar be dedicated to her, instead of her helping him set it up; teaching her how to make the banners and arrange flowers and bake bread, entertaining whatever thousands of questions she’d have about the holiday and her great-great-whoever’s they’d be celebrating. What would she have thought of the chicken and chile rellenos? Of the Calaveritas? The toys he left out?

Hijo de puta. A parent isn’t supposed to outlive their child.

It’s a pathetic altar too, as far as he’s concerned. Miguel hadn't done this in so long that he'd nearly forgotten how to; having to go on the internet just to remember the guidelines. Even then, there were so many conflicting answers that it left him confused and flying blind the whole damn time.

Did he do enough as a father to honor her? Did the ofrenda do her memory justice? Did he do anything right? Is there enough salt to purify her body? Enough water and food to provide for her long journey? Was the copal actually supposed to be incense, or did it have a different meaning? Are the purple candles placed correctly? Would tissue paper marigolds, devoid of scent and life, be enough guide her safely back home?

These worries swarm like vultures to a carcass, picking at and tormenting him to the point where he can barely stand to look at the stupid, thrown-together thing any longer. He should know how to do this— today is much more than just a holiday; Día de Muerto and all of its rich traditions should be a part of who he is, steeped in his identity, his culture. It should be more familiar than breathing.

But now it just makes him ache, seeing how he couldn’t even properly commemorate his own little girl.

In a brief moment of clarity, Miguel realizes he really just should’ve just taken more time to research and plan it out better. If only it weren’t for the constant high-stakes responsibilities, the needs of far too many all on his shoulders, the people, people, people.

Not like he didn’t try; Halloween and all day yesterday, Miguel had been rushing uncharacteristically through work, trying to get caught up enough to take time off. But of course, God had it out for him and practically half the damn Society wanted to barge into his office to badger him about something. He ended up with a shock-ton of random gifts and baked goods on his desk that he’d unceremoniously pawned off to Peter B. (save for a bottle of Don Julio, but the other man didn’t need to know that), enough sanguine well-wishes to last him a lifetime, and high blood pressure.

And the time and effort he scraped up still wasn’t enough to get it done right. It could never be good enough. He could never be good enough.

Miguel can’t stop second-guessing himself, can’t stop that all too familiar spiral of guilt and self-loathing that rots away at his insides like necrosis. He’s a scientist and an engineer, for shocksake— logic and reason should override his emotions, should stop them from clouding him at all. But all he can do is sit there, staring at the sorry excuse for an ofrenda with a lump in his throat and a throbbing headache that won’t go away.

Today couldn’t have gone any worse.

His joints pop viciously as he gets up from the floor just to prove him wrong. Cristo en el cielo.

The only bright side to this whole thing is that… well, no one is here. No one to see his embarrassment, or his failure; no one to question him, or ask him how he’s feeling, or try to give a hug, or any more goddamn food. It’s just him and his ever-spiraling thoughts and the grief that threatens to consume him whole.

Carefully, with a trembling hand, he lights the incense, then the candles, the golden glow dancing around his otherwise dark apartment. It… almost makes it look better. Less like a broken down man’s sorry attempt at repentance and more like a proper ofrenda.

Almost.

Día De Muertos is supposed to be a celebration, filled with festivals, family, home-cooked food, and the bright smell of marigolds.

But Miguel O’Hara has no family, is too miserable to leave the apartment, and all the marigolds have gone extinct.

[the-lazyyy-artist]

Lol also just an addition: i think i got bamboozled when i thought Love In Paradise would be this summery vibe song ALONE. I didn't expect it to be a FLASHBACK song for Athena. Like, it's hurt disguised as a fun, bouncy song. I was so shocked at the beginning AND end of the song. The happy tune was sandwiched between hurtful moments ohmygod Jorge.

Also, sis, Calypso, you did NOT just say open arms to Ody. That's his TRIGGER WORD!!

[stormcallart]

Damn bioware men with double letters in their names always steal your heart huh? (idk what else to call it but you get what I MEAN)

Garrus, Varric, Emmrich.

[roguegrove]

what do you know, i CAN finish something. maybe. sorta. i mean i can honestly go back to it forever. but the idea is to get better at stopping before i get nitpicky.

i made this for my lovely friend ban (@brabblesblog) based on her fic(s) of her tav (also ban) and a different take on ascended astarion. not usually my thing, but i LOVE the way she writes and the way she uses canon's clues to tell her love story. ban is such a wonderful part of the bg3 community and is so supportive of artists and creators, i just wanted to give her a little something for how she and her story touched me. she's been such a good friend to me, especially during this weird period of my life, and i hope my little sketch gives her at least a smidge of the warm and fuzzies she's given me since meeting her <3

what's funny is that i have like 5 different versions of this couple. i started before i finished the story, and you can see as i tried each new sketch, i finally started to understand their dynamic.

anyway i hope you like!!

[all-i-do-is-live-in-daydreams]

LOOK AT THEM !! LOOK !! THEY ARE EVERYTHING TO ME !! ONLY 2 EPS ARE OUT BUT I ALREADY WANT 10 MORE SEASON IDC

clark and lois are so sweet already !! and look at their height difference 😭😭 idc height difference always gets me man I eat it up EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

[dangerousdan-dan]

Sometimes, liking a complex, well-written character means holding her close to your chest and protecting her from the "She did nothing wrong" blorbofication

[finisnihil]

I'm thinking about Sunday again and how we're shown that Robin is his weak spot over and over and really he probably wouldn't have slipped up if not for the people trying to exploit her death.

In 2.0 we see them hanging out together and the like but we don't see them interact much, Robin very obviously cares for Sunday but Sunday maintains a quiet atmosphere and professional facade and as such one could wonder how much he actually cares about her as his sister.

But then at the end of the quest we see the cracks start to show a bit. Sparkle pretends to be Robin and Sunday becomes enraged. Until then he's pretty subdued in his behavior in the aftermath, but the mockery of his sister's death is too great a slight and when Sparkle offers to pretend to be Robin so nobody gets suspicious, Sunday tells her to stuff it and go away which she does. It's a really telling scene that when Robin is involved his careful mask cracks down the middle and he begins to not think clearly or strategically because later in 2.1 it's noted he went back to accept the offer.

Aventurine notes that Robin's death is an entry point for the IPC to exploit but not for the overall Family, just for Sunday. Sunday is reeling to find control with the other heads pressuring him and the IPC closing in like a pack of hungry vultures. Sunday was always alone except for Robin and they're both pretty aware of the corruption as Sunday is desperately trying to root out the traitor while Robin left and is helping him research Death. Aventurine knows this and he knows Sunday is off balance and prone to overlooking things in his rage and grief that's potent in everything he does after 2.0's quest. Sunday went to Ratio for informatiom because he understands Aventurine's a threat needing to be taken seriously and he needs to handle him quickly and efficiently and that makes him sloppy enough to get duped by the Jade cornerstone.

When Welt and Acheron investigate his office they find all the letters and lists and investigations into the problem but they also find a beloved lightcone of a young Sunday watching his sister preform on a toy stage. Robin is noted as finding this preformance her favorite and most cherished one. Is Sunday clapping to applaud her or is he keeping time for her? Sunday keeps things running himself so she can free to persue her dreams. He does care about Robin, they really only have each other.

Finally... Gallagher. You really see the persona Sunday puts on finally shatter all at once. This is the man who murdered his sister and who's caused him so much trouble and stress. Nobody's around to fool, nobody's around to witness, and you finally see all his pent up rage and grief spill out. That's his mistake, he's so distracted letting out his bottled up feelings Gallagher's able to get him before he can even react.

Small side analysis, Robin's name and signature song come from the Emily Dickinson poem of the same name. She's an American Poet who mostly wrote works of Romanticism and Transcendentalism. We haven't see much of Robin but she seems to match Romantacism, a literary movement that focused on emotion and individualism with no regard for logic. Sunday seems to match Transcendentalism, a literary movement that focused on the relationship between humanity, the divine, and nature with little regard for science. The three aspects of Transcendentalism also match Xipe's motif of threes, like their three heads.

[yetanotherexhaustedalchemist]

Random discussion on Rollo

the first part of this is a kind of analysis, then it kind of spirals into chaos.

I think Rollo's actions always felt worse to me (personally) for a few reasons. While it's never stated directly that being drained of magic would kill someone, it's still a strong enough possibility to concern me. Even if it didn't directly kill anyone, it would be like removing electricity from our world. People relying on modern medical equipment would be killed. People who needed the ability to use magic in their daily lives would suffer. Communication, transportation and such would be set back centuries. Not to mention the amount of aspirations, careers and livelihoods that would be destroyed. People would die, whether directly or indirectly.

I also always saw overblot as something akin to a magic-fueled psychotic break. Actions before overblotting people are absolutely responsible for, but during? Everyone who woke up from an overblot didn't remember what they did, and their actions were at least somewhat controlled by the phantoms. (I also feel like Vil was probably already dissociating after hearing RSA's practice performance, but that leans into hc territory.)

Riddle was a tyrant, but he never actually tried to harm anyone until he was in the process of overblotting. Leona, Azul and Jamil orchestrated their plans, but no one was supposed to actually die until they overblotted. Vil seemed to act without thinking and then was overcome by regret when he snapped out of it. Ortho was literally possessed by his own ghost and Idia wasn't doing great either. And Malleus put everyone to sleep, but that was specifically to protect them (even if that was a terrible method of doing so). The worst of the overblotter's actions were closer to mindless crimes in the moment, with most of them regretting what they did when they were back to being sane.

Meanwhile, Rollo had been planning this for years. That's years of time to reconsider the problems it would bring even non-mages, the lives the plan would ruin. He never overblotted. He was, comparatively, completely sane and aware the whole time. (If not attempted genocide, it was at least bio-warfare.) He also never regretted his plans and still intends to double down in the future.

But with all that said: Rollo is, ultimately, a traumatised teenager like the others. He should have known better, yes, but these are also fictional characters. The point isn't for them to be examples of peak morality. They're supposed to be entertaining and thought-provoking. They're meant to be love-to-hate and hate-to-love. (Hey, I've liked characters who have done worse things than he did.)

Also everyone in this game is morally questionable at best and that's some of the appeal. There's only so much point in debating who's worse and who's better.

I don't like Rollo, and that's because he's a well written character! His characterization and writing gets me riled up! It's also cool for him to be a blorbo or little meow meow! I have a bunch of respect for everyone who looked at him and said 'I can fix him'. (Well, someone's gotta and it's not going to be me.) You have my blessing. I will give you a thumbs up from across the room.

you don't have to agree with my interpretations of course, but please be polite if you want to discuss anything! At the end of the day these are fictional characters that we all interact with uniquely, and every interpretation is based in one's own expirences.

[commanderfreddy]

people are discoursing about the laios and shiro fight bc that was always going to happen but i do hope that wave crests quickly and we can all come to see it as what it is: literally one of the best written fights between two people who are both entirely justified in their actions and acting without any malice or cruelty of all time

[starryluminary]

This is my poem called “Kiss”:

Kiss:

“It’s just a scene,” I said when I stepped onto the scene

Our roles are ready to play

Even though my director was kind of mean

I feel confident today.

As we begin the scene, both of our eyes meet each other

It was a kiss scene, wasn’t much of a bother

But when we slammed our lips together, our words collided

I wanted to do it again, it made me quite excited

Not because I was in love, that was not the case

But I felt safe with him

As he wrapped his arms around my waist

“It’s just a scene they say”

“It’s just a role”

Now when I go to kiss him for the scene replay

My mind loses control.

What’s wrong with you Noah?

Focus on your part

I should’ve ignored these feelings

I should’ve ignored them from the start.

It’s too late to go back though

I wonder how he feels

When we hug each other for the scene

We both know that it’s not real

.

.

But my feelings are real

I can’t deny

I love him, I love him!

If we part then I might die!

I wonder if he knows my true feelings

Or is just completely oblivious

I mean my feelings aren’t discrete

So it should be obvious

.

.

. 

.

As we walk on the red carpet

To watch our progress

He pulled me aside

And told me that his inquiry could not rest.

He asks me on a date

Of course, I approved

Then he kissed me again.

For real this time too.

THE BOLDED LINES ARE MY QUOTE~

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Side request that isn’t on your WIP list at all, but if you ever wanted to share any snippets or to have an excuse to work on your hockey au (perhaps as a way of coping with watching the Bruins), then like

🌹

🏒🥅⛸️

Hockey AU my belovedddddd And thank you for encouraging me and listening to me drone on about it months ago. It has been on my mind as I watch my B's (which I am doing currently and they are actually winning!). For your generous ask, here is the (current draft) to the opening that gives insight into the fic itself:

Rebecca watched the movers take the David Hockney painting off the wall with a mixture of regret and disappointment. She should have asked for it in the divorce. Instead-she got the hockey club. She was now the proud owner of the Richmond Greyhounds, no matter how hard Rupert tried to destroy the team prior to her takeover. No matter how hard Rupert tried to destroy her. 

She survived him. And she wouldn’t let him take this team from the fans. Now Rebecca simply had to figure out exactly how she was going to do that. 

“Oh, surely not the Hockney, too?” Higgins grimaced, watching the mover carry it out the door of Rebecca’s office as he entered and took one of the chairs across from her desk. “That must be worth a million pounds.”

“I know Higgins, but we have bigger problems at the moment.”

Higgins made a strangled noise, “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with why you’re still here,” Rebecca said. “And why you didn’t follow my ex-husband out the door?”

Another startled sound escaped his lips. 

“Well, I believe in this team, and I’m not willing to walk away when I think it can still be saved,” Higgins answered. 

“We have a lot of work to do. Rupert did his best to run this team into the ground.”

“Unfortunately, I am well aware,” Higgins said. “And with all due respect, Mrs–Ms Welton, why are you here? Why do you want to be here?”

Rebecca sighed. She knew there would be a lot of questions regarding her position, so she might as well start swinging. 

“Did you know Rupert bought the team for me? It was a wedding gift. Not for me to be involved, of course, but my present was him owning the team.”

“Don’t tell that to Mrs Higgins; she’ll have much higher hopes for our next anniversary.”

Rebecca smiled sadly, “He forgot our anniversary the next year.”

Higgins winced. 

“But! Not the point!” Rebecca said with a forced cheer. “The point is we need to turn this team around and we only have eight games left to do it. If you’re ready to help me do that, I’m promoting you to team General Manager. Patrick has not built the team that we need. I think you will do a much better job of it than he has.”

“Patrick left with Rupert, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

Higgins nodded a few times as if unsurprised by this development. Higgins has worked at Richmond since before Rupert bought the team, working his way through the ranks, becoming loyal to Rupert and Rebecca wondered how loyal he would be to her, but she had little time to find a replacement.

“Let’s start with the team itself,” Rebecca said. “We are severely under the salary cap, Rupert choosing to save money rather than pay players.”

“While there aren’t many players available in free agency at the moment, and we don’t have enough assets for many trades, but I do have a lead on a sniper from Manchester City we might be able to get for under-market value. He’s an up-and-coming talent, but seems like he’s worn out his welcome with his current club, and no one else is willing to take a chance on him ruining a changing room. He’s a free agent at the end of the season, so it would just be a loaner, and there is absolutely no chance he’ll resign.”

“Make it happen. We need whatever help we can get for the rest of the season.”

[lilidawnonthemoon]

[klbzplb]

"Look at it! They're different, aren't they?"

i drew a scene from chapter 9 of i am weary with contending by the incredible @ari--anon bc that fic is stuck in my brain and hasn't left it thank you

[twnj]

'Her legs, like spindly cotton buds, trembled as she rose, but the strong hand that had pawed at her leg splayed out across her back to support her, drawing her flush against him.

Before she could process how every nerve in her body screamed at her, she suddenly lost the taste and instinctively surged forward a few centimetres to find nothing.

Shikamaru towered above as her eyes fluttered open, his dark eyes suddenly plagued with a thousand fleeting thoughts Temari couldn’t even begin to decipher. She barely made it past her own. For a second, she considered how far this strayed from her father’s instructions — from staying away. But Temari dismissed the thought as someone else’s problem. [...]

[...]When had Shikamaru become so tall? Was it before or after the apparent stubble on his chin had started appearing? And when had he become so pleasant to look at? His pointy nose, his crooked mouth, his upsettingly kind eyes…

Even with his back to the lampshade, gold danced through them.

Temari’s mouth grew dry with a series of infinitely short breaths, and once again, she felt herself staring at the sun, unable to look away. The pads of her fingertips burned as she reached up to trace his jawline, just as intricately as he had hers, until Shikamaru bit down on his bottom lip.

“I locked the door,” he said quietly.'

Grandmaster on ao3 by @notquitejiraiya

[ask-akira-shimizu]

She leans against the wall, glass of grape juice in hand, watching Jin and Haku perform on stage. She feels almost nostalgic for their reign before the Clash.

Looking around the room, she sees cheerful faces, some stuffing their faces with food, others dancing with their partners or friends. A smile falls on her face.

It's wonderful, she hopes the day doesn't come to an end soon.

[fictional-men-enthusiast]

Old Flesh + The Parliament is conservatism.

I said what I said and I’m not taking it back.