#i-write-sometimes-blog

[i-write-sometimes-blog]

I'm obsessed with Arcane season 2. May take a couple request, especially for Vi and Sevika omfg

[hatsbuckets]

"Soap and Ghost are like a good cop bad cop routine" I'm about to touch a scary hot pot

I hear you. I do... But hear meeeee

the good/bad cop thing implies some sort of ethical foil or moral leverage. But for them, in the moment I'd argue, it's not about conscience, it's about control.

for example, that scene in MW3 where Shepard’s like “and what is the purpose of this little pow wow?” and Soap says “a choice” Shepard says, "do I have one?" and Ghost just shuts it down with “no”?

yes yes we all love that moment, especially Ghost but but it is NOT good cop bad cop. Soap's not like "yeah, you can chose the option you like or the option we like" no. He also isn't like "haha a choice, look at my one liner."

I believe Soap knows it’s not a real choice. he’s. not. stupid. but he still wants to frame it like one. it’s all theater. it’s intimidation with flair. like “you can pick death or being useful. that’s the choice.” AND CHOICES BETWEEN DEATH AND NOT DEATH ARE NOT CHOICES.

and Ghost, who’s like: no. no pretense. no performance. just facts and judgment. BUT they’re both doing the same thing, just with completely different energy. Ghost just breaks your hand. Soap holds it first... then breaks it.

and they get each other. they don’t need to do it the same way, because they trust that the other will follow through. (*Unpack the scene with Milena*) two different kinds of scary.

Idk I wrote this in a rush after a quick chat with one of my buddies not understanding that Soap is a theatrical kind of scary, but just as much as scary as Ghost

Soap's style's not good cop, it's eloquent threat.

[tshortik]

I love you messy artstyle i love you visible brush strokes I love you textures and rough edges I love you imperfections I love you roughness and colour blobs I love you scratchy sketches and bold stylisation and dirt and imperfections I love you ugly and raw emotion!!!!! ❤️

[tnypawzz]

remember kids there's so right or wrong way to regress

if you want to regress to horror media rather than children's media you're not "scary" or "weird"

its not wrong to not want a cg or simply wanting only one

baby talking or having gear aren't requirements for regressing

you don't have to be a toddler / baby regressor to be valid

you're still valid if you have meltdowns / tantrums when you regress

not being a white skinny girlre doesn't mean you're less valid

it's okay to not have an agere aesthetic

you don't need to have a lot of gear to be valid , if you only have one type of gear & you're happy with it that's okay !

alt regressors you're just as valid as pastel tinies

tinies with "scary" mental illnesses you're loved just the same

there's no rulebook for how to be a "proper" regressor you're still valid & loved regardless

remember internet isn't reality some people only show a certain side of them online while they're actually another irl don't compare yourself to what you see online

[gothamite-rambler]

Batman: You can do as I say or do what you want, the stupid decision in my opinion.

Red Hood nodded silently, then booked it, running the other way into the danger.

Batman (frustrated): Why do they always- Have kids, I said. It's not a headache.

Batman calmly walked down the path ready to fight bad guys and try to get his son to listen.

[mother-athena]

it's morning and you're working on something at your desk when your little one quietly shuffles into the room, looking for you. "Good morning, angel. Did you sleep well?" You spin around in your chair as they come up to you.

quietly, your baby whines and lifts their arms up. "Are you feeling too little for words this morning?" You smile. "You wanna sit with me until you wake up a little more? Mommy just has to finish this really quickly and then we can have something yummy for breakfast."

you easily lift them into your lap and they immediately latch onto you, gently resting their head on your shoulder while you went back to finishing your work.

[deerspherestudios]

Hi!

Question about Alma, what was they favorite food? Or they favorite flavors when she was still alive, I would like to know

(✿︡❛ ᵜ❛︠) bye~

I've answered before they're a major snack food junkie, so they pretty much go for anything sweet and salty. I think their most favorite would be popcorn and chocolate-dipped churros! Especially if it's homemade.

[clj-art-blog]

girl i’m in such a drama slump because of clj, i can’t move on 😩😭😭 your blog is everything, thank you for your service and giving us more of them 🙏 and your artstyle is gorgeous! 🥹🫶

I feel you 😭 And for all this I just hug you so tightly as DFQC does XLH

[ssuburban-legendss]

please, please, please | m.v

summary: it's race week in hungary and the house of red bull is breaking down 

word count: 3k+

- July 20th, 2024. Hungary. -

There was nothing like a race weekend.

Milliseconds seemed to stretch for lifetimes, and a mere blink could last for an eternity. The hum of blood rushing in one’s ears, the burning, beating heart… it was everything. Every race was just as thrilling as it was terrifying and tense. 

Even now—even after years of living between breaths, you still weren’t used to the singing adrenaline. Maybe you never would be. 

How could one get used to screaming wheels and blinding lights? How could one stand that ache in the chest and tension of the heart? And how could you overcome the worry and fear that consumed your very being every time Max stepped into that car? 

Oh, Max. 

You sat in the garage, staring up at the live feed and cradling a crackling headset over your ears. Around you, various crew members were watching the televisions closely or busying themselves with screens and tools. Everyone else was along the pit wall, crafting magic in real-time. 

Part of you wished that you could listen to their live chatter instead of the F1 TV broadcast, but an even greater part of you knew that such constant and unfiltered coverage would make your head spin. There was already too much happening on television; you didn’t need extra noise.

In some ways, qualifying was worse than the actual race. The desperation for a faster lap, the frustration, and the bubbling tension. Some days, it was just too much. And today, with the rain and the endless media coverage… 

Maybe you needed more coffee.

“Mate, I don’t think we can improve like this.” Max’s voice crackled across your headphones, flooding through your ears and sparking your nerves alight. He sounded… nervous. Or maybe it was tension. You weren’t sure, but neither emotion was appealing.

Even from a distance, you could imagine the furrow between Max’s brow and the slight pout of his lip. His every expression was known to you, but what good would that do now? You felt trapped behind glass, watching him spin circles as his voice echoed in your ears. The only person that could reach him now was GP, and even then…

The past few weeks had been tense. Between the constant media attention and the slow decline in form, cracks were beginning to sprout in the marble pillars of Red Bull’s house. Even Max seemed less sure lately, falling behind on the circuits he once called home. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to forget the exhaustion in his voice. It was only Q1, yet it felt like you had been here for days.

“What’s your concern?” GP responded, his tone steady and smooth. “The temperatures or the…”

“The rain! The rain!” Max shouted back, instantly turning all nerves into boiling blood and burning rage. The sharpness of his words made you cringe, and a slight nervous nausea began to bloom in your stomach. Oh dear. A million thoughts rushed through your head at once, mixing into a crumbled cloud of anxiety. 

It was hard to pull Max back down once the frustration bubbled over. There was no such thing as “Mad Max”—at least not to you, but the anger was real, and it was hard to take or tame. And it was unending. Rage clouded some people’s judgment, but not Max. If anything, he seemed to find clarity in burning breath and bitter words. The ache and anger could keep him going for hours on end—lap after lap. But it also sent him spiraling downward, lost in his head and a faraway place you couldn’t find. He was unreachable in those moments, and you hated it. 

“Okay, calm down, Max.” GP replied, “Then, if you’re concerned about the rain, we can box. We can come back to the garage, it’s not a problem—“

Another voice cut through the conversation, screaming in your headset and flashing across the live feed, “Perez!”

You refocused your attention on the present and scanned the screens, looking for the F1 News Feed. At last, your eyes landed on the television, and the camera zoomed in hungrily on Checo’s smoking car. 

Red Flag.

One of the workers along the barrier gave a thumbs up. Okay. He was okay. A strangely tense sigh left your throat. 

“One Red Bull driver being calmed down on the radio, the other one—in the part of the track that we were just referencing—finds the barrier. And as a driver under pressure coming into the weekend—“

You turned off your headset and ignored the rest of the broadcast. Checo was fine, and that was all that mattered. You made a mental note to call Carola later and tried to keep your face indifferent and easy. You were certain that cameras were scanning the garage now, looking for some misplaced expression or glance to sensationalize into another disaster or distraction. 

Oh, disaster. 

One Red Bull driver being calmed down on the radio... You heard the commentary echoing in your head over and over. Was everyone thinking the same thing as you? Was everyone worried that Max was slipping into inconsolable anger? He had never been good at hiding his frustration, but now was not the time for such lapses in judgment. You mentally begged for his ease of heart but knew such things were impossible. The stress was beginning to cut into everyone’s skin. 

After a few moments, Max returned to the garage and his car was pulled back into place. Now, all anyone could do was hurry up and wait. 

It was hard being so close to Max and yet so far away. Being in the garage was a blessing, but sometimes it felt like you were forced apart and held at arm's length. Sometimes, the two of you could talk between sessions and during 

breaks, but it was probably best to stay out of everyone’s way with things so tense. 

Before you could search for a distraction, however, one of the engineers waved you over and nodded to Max’s car. A helmet covered the man’s face, and it was hard to focus completely on anything, but the message of his gesture was clear: pep talk time. 

Oh. That bad, huh?

You wove your way through the mess of technology and restless bodies and found yourself beside the still humming car. Endless words drifted around your head, but choosing the right thing to say felt impossible. Things had been tense for weeks, and today felt like the final straw. Control was slipping, and Max was sinking back into the unease of his youth. You could already see the headlines and tweets. You could already see the comments under your posts. You could already hear the commentary. Mad Max. Mad Max. Mad Max.

Taking a deep breath, you stuck your head into the cockpit and flipped up Max’s visor, trying to seem bubbly and calm—yet Max was already glaring. 

“Hi.” You said, making sure to enunciate the word. He couldn’t hear you, but it didn’t matter—you just wanted to see him, and you hoped that was enough. 

Max blinked, his blond eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks. His gaze softened slightly at your words, but the ice in his eyes didn’t melt entirely. Hi. 

A million words flashed through your mind. What now? What could you possibly say now that would change all this? How did you pull Max back from the edge? Thousands of statistics and hundreds of practiced speeches floated through your thoughts, but none seemed good enough. All you could think about was the tension in his voice and the mocking commentary and—

“I love you.” Your heart spoke without permission, pulling forth the only thing that truly mattered. “I love you, okay?”

A slight crease wove between Max’s brow as he watched your mouth—trying to decode your words through the senseless sound. After a delayed second, realization twinkled in his eyes, and he smiled. Instantly, the cold glare faded from his gaze, and he seemed like your Max again, with flushed cheeks and crinkling eyes under the blinding garage lights. I love you, too.

———

Later that night, the waves of uncertainty returned. 

P3. 

The position rattled around in your head and made your heart sting. Last year, this race had been easy. Though qualifying had ended with Lewis on pole, Max had regained the position on Sunday and crafted a lead of thirty-three seconds. That had been his best gap all season. So, how had thirty-three seconds turned into P3? Of course, the position wasn’t terrible, but something was definitely wrong. Everything felt wrong these days. You just hoped that Max would keep his head long enough to correct it. 

You glanced across the table, carefully observing the strain in Max’s expression. His brows were furrowed and tense, hanging low over his eyes and casting deep shadows across his face. Even his gaze seemed cloudy, as the clear blue-green of his eyes appeared dull and distant. An exhausted flush still stained his cheeks, but the red made him look sickly and sad in the fading daylight. 

Seeing him like this was agony. 

The media and the internet could rave about “Mad Max” all they wanted, yet you saw the truth in the dim light of his trailer. The anger and sharp edges masked a trembling lip and bleary eyes.   Your Max was lost somewhere in his head, caught between the kart from years before and the car of today—and it hurt. 

“You did your best.” You said, pushing scraps of dinner around on your plate. “It’s just a hard run, yeah?” Despite yourself, your voice cracked. It had been at least an hour since either of you spoke, and between the emotion and strain, your words shattered in the tense air. 

“It’s a shit run.” Max corrected sharply, pointing his spoon at you, “I don’t think everyone understands that. It’s a fucking shit run.” Though his eyes were set on your face, Max’s gaze seemed miles away, and the bitterness of his words felt directionless. 

Still angry, then. Not your Max, just Mad Max. 

“I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, m’just saying,” You replied, pushing his accusing spoon away with yours, “You just do your best tomorrow. News said there shouldn’t be rain, so that’ll be good.” 

Max huffed, unconvinced and frustrated, “We’ll see.” 

He was fighting with himself again, battling ghosts in his chest and competing against a past that would never truly fade. Yet the sinking spiral and flames of rage wouldn’t do any good. The media was crazy enough right now, and frankly, you felt crazy too. You needed him beside you, and you needed him to be calm. You wanted your Max back. If the car, the team, and the whole thing were going to hell, you just wanted him to make it out. 

You thought about Carola, stuck at home while her husband’s car smoked and sizzled on live TV. You didn’t want to remember how that felt. You didn’t want to recall the trembling hands and shaking breath. You needed Max steady and safe. Mad Max crashed cars and sent your head spinning—your Max needed to be something more.

With a tired sigh, you leaned across the table and kissed his cheek, relishing in the warmth of his skin below your lips. Some of the tension in his expression melted below your touch, “Just be good, please.” You breathed, hoping the warmth of your words against his flushed face would find a place in his heart. “And safe.” 

Max pulled back and smiled a little too brightly—his eyes glittering with mischief, “I’m very good.” 

With a huff, you sat back down and gave him a playful kick under the table, “Yeah, right. You’re yelling at GP, and suddenly everyone on Twitter is going on about Mad—“

“It’s actually X.” Max corrected in a superior tone. 

“Don’t start.” You tried to sound serious, but a teasing smile bloomed on your face, and laughter bubbled from your chest. It was nice to see him relaxed, even just a little. “I’m trying to scold you.”

With a laugh, Max leaned back in his chair and stretched slightly, reaching for something unseeable. The casual motion and the gentle crinkle of his face eased you a little, soothing something in your pounding heart. This is the Max you needed on the track tomorrow—this is the Max you needed in the media pen and in the garage. This is the Max that would live long enough to come home. 

“I’m going to play,” Max said, breaking your spiraling thoughts, “You’ll come?”

You glanced at your watch. It was getting late, but you hadn’t spent extended time together in weeks. You hummed and gave in, “Sure, just for a bit.”

Max beamed, and suddenly, everything was worth it—the extra coffee you’d have to drink tomorrow, the extra time you’d have to spend getting ready. It was all worth five more seconds of peace and grins. Still smiling, Max pressed several disorganized kisses to your face until you were beaming, too. 

———

Max’s gaming room was connected to the main living space, overflowing with electronics and blinking lights. 

You trailed behind Max, swinging your linked hands and flicking on your phone so you could scroll through social media. The qualifying results consumed most of your feed, as did senseless speculation.

“Did you get a look at Checo’s car?” You asked, still looking at your phone and curling into a chair beside the computer. “I’m sure the boys will be up all night on that.” 

Max let go of your linked hands and settled into his seat. From this angle, you were just out of the camera’s vision, but still within Max’s peripheral. Though he hardly spared anything else a glance during streams or gaming sessions, you quickly realized that he didn’t like being alone. Max seemed more at ease even when the two of you simply sat in silence. Besides, you didn’t really like being on camera anyway—the very last thing Red Bull needed right now was extra attention or scrutiny. The common narrative that having a girlfriend only distracted athletes always arrived just in time to bite you in the ass. You didn’t need that right now. Max didn’t need that right now. You were barely hanging on as it was. 

“Might have to start in the pit tomorrow,” Max said, slowly flipping switches and bringing his computer to life. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something else, but he simply shrugged, “Shit weekend.” 

You hummed, scrolling through your phone and trying to change the subject. He had relaxed slightly after dinner, and you didn’t want him falling back into despair and rage, “How long you got until lights out?”

During race weekends, every second was meticulously arranged. Meals were crafted according to specific weight and energy requirements, interviews were slotted between breaths, and curfew was enforced so drivers met perfectly planned out sleep schedules. 

Technically, you weren’t even allowed in here after dark, but you and Max stole seconds whenever possible. 

“Don’t care,” Max replied, shooting you a pleased, dazzling grin. 

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, trying to fight a scarlet blush, “Alright.”

His manager would certainly have something to say about that, but you let it go. There was no point in arguing. It had been a long day for both of you, and this was how Max relaxed—video games and vitriol. 

The following two hours passed by in a blink. Max played and chatted with his friends while you relished in the happiness of his cheers and the joy in his laughter. He seemed most himself in these moments—late at night, away from the garage and speaking nonsense with his friends. He loved racing, you knew he loved racing, but in soft seconds like this, you wished he would just retire. You would give anything to sit with him all day long, intertwining your legs under the table and smiling while he laughed. You would give anything just to kill time with him. 

Eventually, though, your yawns and bleary eyes won out over your heart. You needed sleep. He needed sleep. Ugh, if only you could sleep here. How much was that fine again? 

Unwilling to find out, you sent Max a text: Camera Off. 

After a slight delay, a chime sounded through the room, and Max glanced sideways at his phone. Without hesitation, he mumbled a quick dismissal and switched off his camera and microphone. 

“What?” He blinked at you, hanging on your every word. For a second, he seemed tense—still half on the track. 

“I gotta go,” You said, standing. “Getting late.” You reached for Max’s face and brushed a light touch along his cheek, trying to memorize the curves of his features to hold you off until tomorrow. Oh, how you wished the ease in his eyes would last forever. 

“Going to bed?” He asked, leaning into your touch immediately and staring up at you with electric blue-green eyes. He wanted you to stay. 

You laughed lightly, gently combing a hand through his hair and twisting blond strands around your fingertips, “I was gonna call Carola but m’tired. I should be sleeping. You too. Long day tomorrow.”

Max rolled his eyes, though the gesture had no malice behind it, just playful exhaustion. He leaned forward and rested his chin on your stomach with a childish sigh and slight pout, “Whatever.”

His easy closeness made your neck flush with warmth, and suddenly, that imaginary fine didn’t seem so steep. All reason and reality melted away as your eyes scanned the sunspots on his face and traced the twinkling in his eyes. 

Then you remembered the yelling, Checo’s crash, reporters, endless speculation, and… You needed to stay focused. 

Summer break was coming up fast. You could wait until summer break. All the light and laughter in the world could wait a few more days. 

“I’ll see you later,” You said, running your fingertips across his features, “Go to bed soon, okay? Please.”

“Okay,” Max said brightly—definitely lying. He quickly kissed the inside of your wrist as you traced an invisible line down his nose, “Night.”

There was no such thing as “Mad Max”—at least not to you, at least not right now. 

“Night.”

[ask-the-pioneer]

"Yes, I am now heading towards Five Pebbles, the local iterator. I find it funny how I was born and spent my first cycles in the shadow of his superstructure, while being completely oblivious to the existence of this demi-god. And now that I came back here... it feels even more uncanny."

"Though, I really... I really wish Hunter did not abandon me like that. I thought we were meant to go on that mission together? I'm not blind, I know something is wrong with him. We used to go on expeditions in the past, but now that he has a very important payload to deliver and could use some help, he suddenly doesn't need it? I don't understand... I'm more than capable in combat, we make a good team, I thought he was happy with my company?"

"We separated earlier at Farm Arrays. Hunter kept insisting he has to do it alone, despite my pleading. Instead, I was told to head straight to Five Pebbles. I thought we had to visit there anyway? Iterators often use slugcats as messengers, I've learned..."

"Sigh... I feel a little lost all on my own. I miss Hunter already. I hope that, despite everything, he's okay and we will return to NSH soon. But first, I need to pay the local iterator a visit. I'm hoping for some guidance in regards to... ahem... rot, yeah. I heard they've been affected by the disease, too. Maybe they've got an idea on how to manage it? It doesn't hurt to try. Maybe I'll hang around this area for a while to collect as many pearls as possible, then have Five Pebbles read them to me? One of those has to have some kind of instruction on how to treat rot, it has to... I refuse to believe that the disease which plagued iterators for countless cycles is untreatable."

"Uh... the Red One?"

[i-write-sometimes-blog]

So...

I may or may not be working on some fics related to some Star wars girls...

And i may open request again (after a whole ass year of not writing anything at all)

Would any of you be interested?

[secondbeatsongs]

sometimes you look down at your own writing and think, "god, how self-serving can I be with this?"

the answer, my friends, is yes

[everestgale]

Why?

[This is a direct continuation of my half-Opportunist angst half-Skeptunist comic from February "It was in your nature," it takes place right as the comic is ending. This is your spoiler warning! Also it's a lot shorter than my last writing attempt, just under 1000 words (rather than 4000 it was last time-)]

[If I can't finish making drawings for my favorite ship, I will write them instead. Beaming these birds, they won't leave me alone (T v T)]

[Content warnings: blood, dead body]

[Hope you enjoy!]

_________________________________________

So why did you–

Opportunist slid off onto his knees, the blade uselessly clattering beside him. He dragged his right hand and smeared a dark stain across the ground beneath; copper scent lingered in the back of his throat. His eyes froze in a dazed, petrified expression, locked onto the viscous pool of crimson. 

Why?

The question lingered, ringing endlessly in Opportunist’s head. His own inner voice sounded foreign, as though someone else from deep beneath kept asking why. That question would never have a clear answer now. How ironic, Opportunist thought, he would’ve hated that.

He will never hate anything again.

He will never ask anything again, either.

Opportunist winced, tasting the bile in his mouth. He tried to lift his body and stand up, but he staggered and tripped forward, his elbows now deep in blood. The deep indigo cloak loomed before his eyes, drenched and stained red. Opportunist tried to push himself away but lacked the strength–

Like always.

The stray thought got caught in Opportunist’s mind. He wasn’t always like this, no, he couldn’t be, he wasn’t weak, he was a sensible person looking out for himself, he had to–

Why?

A vision flashed before Opportunist; he suddenly sat at the kitchen table, waving a deck of cards in his hands at Skeptic. He was back at the card game night, the same night that Skeptic had ambushed him, tried to weasel his way into “cracking” Opportunist open like one of his many unsolved cases. He knew that Skeptic had tried to get close to him for a while, extensively studying his habits and mannerisms, but he couldn’t get a solid reason why. There had to be a reason Skeptic tried to get close to him… so naturally, what else would it be other than Skeptic’s vain attempts to find his weakness, to gain an advantage over him, to use it and abuse it against him–

Why?

Why would it be anything else?

Why?

Because–

Why?

…

Opportunist wasn’t sure anymore.

The very fiber of his being screamed at this creeping doubt; you fool, it thrashed in Opportunist's mind, he was a smart one, he knew too much, he planned to betray you. Better him than you.

As that thought crossed his mind, Opportunist's gaze focused on the body in front of him. For the briefest of moments, he saw blood-soaked brown feathers, rather than indigo, his body growing colder. He could hear a whistle; the sound of metal hitting flesh rang through the air, just as the sharp pain pierced down his back. That's what would happen, his very instinct whispered in his ears, better him than you–

Why?

The wretched question repeated itself, and another sharp pain arose, but this time, it was in Opportunist's heart.

If Skeptic truly schemed against him, wanted to gain the upper hand over him, tried to gain his trust to betray and backstab him later–

Why didn't you fight back?

Tears pooled in the corners of Opportunist's eyes; he squeezed them shut before his hands instinctively reached forward and grabbed Skeptic's lifeless body by the cloak. He brought it closer, acting on nothing but pure impulse and regret, and buried his face in one of Skeptic's wings, desperately clinging onto his dead flockmate.

Why did you let me kill you?

He let out a couple of quiet sobs, muffled by the soft flight feathers, still warm and comforting like they always were, almost like they belonged to someone living.

Opportunist could never let himself completely relax when he was with other people, he was so sure of it. And yet one gentle, fuzzy memory returned and lulled him out of this false confidence.

A nightmare. One brightly lit, stifling torch, surrounded by eternal, biting cold. He, no, everyone was supposed to celebrate its kind, blazing warmth… when it was the very thing that smothered life out of the air. Just as he was about to suffocate, Opportunist woke up with a shriek, shaking and desperately gasping. Everything afterwards was a blur to him, Opportunist could not recall what really happened that night… except, he distinctly remembered soft indigo wings, gently wrapping him in a warm embrace. He remembered relaxing into them, clinging to them, before drifting back to sleep. He remembered a gruff, but caring voice whispering something; he could not make out the words, but he knew they were tender… and honest.

He felt comfortable. 

The most comfortable he had ever felt in his entire life.

And yet Opportunist could not find the strength to trust him.

So why did you believe in me?

Was it for the same reason that Opportunist's heart broke as the blade hit Skeptic's back?

…

No.

No.

No, no, no, Skeptic, you fool, you– Opportunist could not let that thought linger for too long, for if it did, then that means…

Then that means Skeptic–

No.

loved–

No.

Opportunist jolted away from the lifeless body. 

No. 

He wiped the blood off his hands before brushing off the leftover tears. He took a shallow, ragged breath before he lifted his own body off the ground, the smallest movements requiring sustained effort. His heart ached as his wobbly legs moved him away from the pool of blood beneath his talons. But he couldn't let himself–

No.

Opportunist knew he wasn't safe right now. With Skeptic gone, the flock surely would erupt into chaos. And several of them would surely suspect Opportunist–

Luckily, he had a plan.

Whatever other thoughts or feelings or regrets wanted to surface, Opportunist buried them deep beneath. He had to keep going; he had to come out on top; he had to ensure his safety.

Better them than you.

It was in his nature.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

hey! wanted to say i appreciate you talking about how malleus doesn’t appeal to you :,) he doesn’t quite appeal go me either, but i couldn’t find anyone that didn’t either hate or love him, both sides often mischaracterizing him. i felt like i was going mad. but you put my feelings about him into words in a really eloquent and well thought out way, so, yea! thanks for saying your honest opinions on the internet haha

[Please check my pinned post’s FAQ section if you’d like to read about why I personally dislike Malleus!]

Thank you!! It’s not often that you get gratitude for being critical of a character (as opposed to, like, outright praising them) so this ask genuinely took me by surprise.

I find that Malleus is one of those characters that’s quite difficult to talk about. Because he’s so well-liked by English-speaking fans (fandom-run polls consistently show that he is liked by at least 50% of responders), his presence has become almost stifling… which formed a counterculture (ie hate) against him. In any case, whether you think negatively or positively of Malleus (or feel nothing at all for him), that can really color how his words and actions are perceived. But sometimes it feels like you can’t even talk about him without walking on eggshells. People tend to feel so strongly about Malleus and you never know how they’ll react to the thoughts you express.

It should be recognized that both extremes will blindside you. The most ardent Malleus lovers will make everything about him or enable and defend him to the bitter end even when Malleus has done reprehensible things. The most passionate Malleus haters will nitpick what are just normal or innocent actions as The Worst Possible Thing Ever or claim he’s aggressive all the time. Neither truly compasses who he actually is.

As I’ve mentioned in other posts, I’d like to think that even though I dislike the guy, I try and give him a fair shot 😅 Some of the issues I have with him are no fault of his own and result from the narrative’s failure to capitalize on his intrigue or the nature of gacha games and the main story being limited. Other issues I’ll admit are completely my own annoyances and gripes (like how I take issue with OP characters with few setbacks, how I don’t like characters that try to force their views onto others, or how I have had bad Malleus-related fandom experiences). Then there’s just the objective truths, like how Malleus is extremely arrogant but is rarely called out for it or rarely faces consequences for his actions in-universe (or from the fandom). He’s still a complex character, just… not one I enjoy.

Looking back on it 💦 I almost can’t believe I have like… 8 or 9 posts detailing my frustrations with Malleus, and each of them expressing significantly different issues from the last. I’m glad that this blog can be a space for me to discuss my thoughts and opinions without angry fans of X or Y character coming at me 😭 I unfortunately can’t say that this is always the case… But for the most part, it’s pretty peaceful here and I really appreciate that!

I’ll close this post off by shouting out the Malleus fans who don’t take it personally when someone else says they’re not a fan of their blorbo. The Malleus fans who are willing to come to the table and listen, the Malleus fans who acknowledge his imperfections and faults, the Malleus fans who accept that others can choose to dislike him for any reason, whether big or small, and don’t push for “correcting” the “wrong” opinion. I know that it sounds like such a low bar to clear, but trust me when I say I’ve witnessed and experienced much worse behaviors (from a loud minority of Malleus fans) and would not wish that upon anyone.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

I am blocking jikookers everyday now ever since AYS aired. I don't care if someone wants to answer all the trolls, akgaes, ex-jikookers. Whatever, do what you want. But keep it on your blog and don't clog the jikook tag with all the bullshit. And for what? For a snarky remark as a reply? As if that actually puts the anons in place? They achieved their purpose, you gave a platform to trolls. Well done.

[ethosiab]

👀👀👀

-Jam

Snippet from the slabtek christmas fic i was talking about with you last week :D

end of year wip ask game