#but the quantity... eh

[phanomenology]

why is this essay 2500 words... how often do u want me to repeat that climate science needs to take social factors into account 😭😭🔫

[axewchao]

What's the most relatable or in common characteristic you have with Dalex? :3

Even tho he's not your sona anymore

Hard to say... since I don't see him as a sona anymore, it's hard to pinpoint something about him that is "me," and not "the me I wish I could be."

Physically? That's easy; similar skin tones, his natural hair and eye color (aka dark brown) is something I also have, his name is a variation of my own (Alexis vs. Dalex, plain as day-), and... no wait, that's about it =w=

But personality-wise? Uh... Hmm...

I guess... it's that neither of us can see certain positive aspects about ourselves. We always need someone else to point it out for us, and even when we're told, part of us remains skeptical of just how much of that aspect is within us.

Have you ever been told at any point in your life that you're "smarter than you think you are?" I have, and I never once saw my intelligence the way the other person did. For me it just felt like... general common sense. Logic. Things anyone would know, whether from a quick google search or some other reason. It didn't feel like I had any particularly special knowledge, hell it still doesn't.

Dal would react in a similar way. I more or less describe it as "knowing a little bit about a lot of things."

[lightbulb-warning]

16 classmates means 256 potential dynamics to explore if we only consider 1 on 1 interactions (which i will! ...until this sentence ends) and that means 256 drawings. considering that group interactions exist and it can be any combo that is... a way larger number.

i have 2 hands, 0 time and too much ambition!!

haha! oh no.

[crabknight]

How to find people that would be able to shore up my game making weaknesses and be willing to make a game with me

[marginal-effect]

there's actually something really funny about being sandwiched between two states where recreational weed is a thing and 20 minutes away in either direction. yeah its not legal here but it might as well be

[thewertsearch]

You and me both, king. Some things never change.

The Power Stance is probably my favourite stock pose in the comic. This isn't quite as hilarious as when Rose does it, but it's still kind of killing me.

Mr. Crocker is locked the fuck in. Eyes forward. Center of gravity lowered. He might not know what the hell's going on, but god damn, he is going to be ready for it.

Oh, god! I thought this was just another atmosphere flash!

Jane! Jane, come back! You were just supposed to tell me that it's going to be a long day!

Booby-trapped mail, eh? PM would be livid.

First of all, despite what Roxy thinks, I really don't believe that this was the Condesce.

Jane's in her custody. She's been at the mercy of this woman for her entire life, and if the Condesce wanted her dead, she'd be dead. Besides, the Condesce is fully aware that killing a Player at this juncture would doom the timeline, and she's not stupid enough to risk such a catastrophe just to intimidate Jane.

No, I still think these attempts reek of someone who has no idea what they're doing. If a Player is destined for the Medium, no one who actually understands Paradox Space would risk killing them on Earth - ergo, Jane's being menaced by someone who doesn't understand Paradox Space. An amateur.

I still have no idea who, though. The only unknown quantity here is UU - who, while certainly untrustworthy, does seem to understand Sburblore. I don't think it's her.

tl;dr: I predict that the 'mastermind' behind these assassination attempts is someone we've never seen before - and they have absolutely no idea what they're messing with.

END OF ACT 6 ACT 1.

(Also, for the record: Jane obviously survived this explosion. John survived a similar explosion at the end of his first Act - and besides, Jane's a Life Player. She's fine.)

[wandering-pirate]

How does a moon lose its glow?

Summary: Swansea always thought he was looking out for you, but now? Now that he learned what happened, something he could’ve stopped, what would the mechanic do?

Pairings: Father figure! Swansea x reader

a/n: Hey, everyone! Just a quick note before you proceed.

Trigger warning: angst, sexual abuse, violence against women and trauma from said experiences. There are no explicit contents, however, the trauma of a victim is detailed in the story. As always, take care of yourselves while reading <3

a/n: shoutout to @kobiisworld for requesting this!! ask box is open for requests!

1 day before the crash

Swansea's forehead never lost its wrinkles this week. The old man's face was always lined like he was constantly carrying the weight of the world, but now they were deeper.

The mechanic always knew you as the one to break the silence, the one who kept things light, always making the long stretches across space feel less like a prison and more like a field trip. The moon in Tulpar's darkness.

"Come on, geezer," you grinned, pointing to the a steel chain that’s almost comical in size compared to his rough, calloused hands. "You’ve been fixing engines before I was born, but is that lil thing too much for you?"

He may never outright say it, but you were like a daughter to him. But recently, you changed, and he could see it in the way you didn’t even try to lift the mood anymore.

No more jokes with Daisuke, no more corny comments that always made the captain groan, no more gossips with Anya, and no lighthearted banter with Swansea. Instead, there was just… emptiness. The mechanic didn't know how a moon would lose its glow, but somehow, you did.

You became a stranger. A shell. He could see it in the way your hands uncontrollably shook, in the distant look in your eyes. It scared him more than he wanted to admit. But he was never one to poke around on someone else's business. No, always kept his nose to himself.

Now, you were hunched over the inventory of the utility room, checking quantity when Swansea entered. You jumped at the hissing sound of the entrance, your breath catching in your throat.

"Ya alright, kid?" He did his best to keep his tone gentle, as gentle as a Swansea could be.

“Yeah… yeah, just thought…” You stammered, your voice faltering as you quickly steadied yourself and forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “What’re you doing here, old man?”

The snark was there, something Swansea didn’t notice he missed until it was gone. But it wasn't the same, it was like you were trying too hard to keep it up. Something you said, however, caught his attention.

“What?”

“Wh-what do you mean, ‘what’?” You laughed nervously.

“You thought what?” Swansea pressed, his brows furrowing and meaty hands placed on his hips.

“Nothing...”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, though he wasn’t supposed to poke around. Still, he had his suspicions: something was off. He needed to get it out of you. “‘Fraid I’m an alien out for blood, eh?”

Your eyes met, and he felt his heart squeeze. Your pleading look, the watery gloss in your eyes that signaled him of unshed tears, asking him something, begging. Your voice caught in your throat as you opened your mouth to speak. “I- Swansea, pleas--”

"Hey Swansea, Cap's lookin' for you." Suddenly, panic flashed back into you, and the mechanic could see that the man who entered just triggered the same fear from before. You quickly turned away, clutching the clipboard to your chest. "ASAP."

The old man eyed the co-pilot, wondering what the hell Curly needed so badly that he had to send his greasy bud over, normally the captain summoned Swansea himself. And what the hell was that reaction from you? "Heard ya the first time. Y/N! C'mon, grab your stuff, I need help.”

"Curly just needs yo-"

"He needs me, but I need me some help. If you've got a tantrum with that, speak up now." Swansea’s blood was boiling at the way Jimmy was eyeing you carefully, but the co-pilot's pressed in a thin line. "Nothin’ to say? Alright, we’re outta here."

The mechanic stomped off the room with you very quick and close behind him. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

On the way to the cockpit, you both met Daisuke with a suspiciously bulging Hawaiian shirt. The old man sighed; he swears the kid's going to get diabetes before Swansea would with his sweetener addiction. "Daisuke, bring Y/N to the kitchen and give her water. Don’t go to utility ‘til then."

"You got it boss!" The intern saluted, causing the sweetener to fall off his previous clutch while his poor attempt to catch it. For the first time in a while, Swansea saw you smile. Small, but still, a smile. "Come this way, m'lady."

The mechanic watched both of you retreat, and didn't even notice how his tense shoulders relaxed, at least you're safe… for now.

0 days before the crash

Your glossy eyes and desperate tone bugged the old man so much that his once unbothered and easy sleep was now avoiding him like a plague. You were about to say something before the roach entered. Swansea rubbed his face, frustrated.

You reminded him of his youngest daughter, back when she was your age: bouncy, full of life, and always full of questions. You were the same, so cheery, like the world had no weight and oxygen was your power source, keeping you charged up every day. Glowing that damn light of yours, infecting others with joy, even a gruff old man like him.

Swansea could only watch, helpless, as you slipped away.

The man stood up from his bed, he never realized how Daisuke's snores filled the whole quarters up. He trudged to the lounge area and he was surprised to see you, not to lounge, but quite the opposite.

Curled up on the floor, your knees pulled to your chest, rocking back and forth as you mumbled something to yourself. His brow furrowed in confusion, but what really caught him was how you were pressed against the LED wall, facing every possible exit, like you were preparing for something - anything - that might come.

The closer he got, the more he saw the tremors running through your body. His heart dropped, you were clutching a knife.

"Kid, you okay?" He winced, mentally scolding himself, you clearly weren't and even have a damn knife in your hand. Your head snapped to him. Uncertain of where to point the knife, you placed it between you. "Easy, alright, it's just me. Swansea, just me."

He looked at you, your face streaked with tears, sweat, and snot, everything a tangled mess, leaving your skin pale and raw. It was worse than the knife. You slowly lowered your hand, but the tears came faster now. Scrubbing at your already irritated face with your woolen sleeve, a large hand gently stopped you.

You flinched away from him, crawling backwards. Stumbling as if his touch was burning and it scalded your skin and dropping the knife. "Please, no, no-- don't hurt me-- please, please."

There you were at the corner, hands pushing down the sides of your head. Figure rocking back and forth, mumbling no's and stop’s, begging. And there he was, kneeling from where you once were, shocked, speechless and mortified at your state.

Something in his chest slowly bubbled, a steady warmth turned to a hot white rage. "Who did this to you?"

You were still a mumbling, sobbing mess, the LED moon shining its unforgiving brightness down on your pathetic frame. "I-I don't want to do this anymor-- i--"

His mind raced, piecing it together, the way you flinched when he opened the door, how you panicked at the sound of the co-pilot’s voice, how you avoided Jimmy. And then it hit him: the shift in Jimmy’s mood the same week you started pulling away. "That fucking bastard."

Swansea always harbored a deep-rooted belief: anyone who dared touch those he cared about, especially his young ones, deserved no mercy. It wasn’t just a philosophy; it was a vendetta shaped by a wound that never truly healed.

That wound reopened every time he thought of his Camie, his youngest, the one you reminded him of. She came home from college one winter, and something was... off. Her usual spark was gone. She barely spoke, quiet as a hill buried in snow. He didn’t press, thinking she just needed time.

But Christmas came, and out of nowhere, she broke down. Sobbing. Right there, in front of the whole family, on what was supposed to be a day of glee. Just like that, the holiday wasn’t about joy anymore. It was about pain. Hers. His. Everyone’s.

And it crushed him. He couldn’t stop blaming himself, for not being there when she needed him. He thought he paid up for it, sending her ex to the ICU for two weeks, but the pain his daughter went through will never be removed.

Years later, that same guilt came roaring back. This time louder, harder. He saw the same signs and once again, he regretted not pressing. He felt like he failed to protect his daughter all over again.

The mechanic didn't realize he left you, he didn't notice where he was heading. As if moving on autopilot, Swansea was now looking down on his barreling feet. He didn't even remember how the axe ended in his hands. But he knew one thing, the men's sleeping quarter was just around the corner.

Rounding up, he bumped into Curly, now standing straight and alert after meeting an axe-wielding Swansea, face full of murder. "What th-- What are you doing with an axe in the middle of the night?"

"Get outta way, let me see that piece of shit"

"Woah, woah, woah," The captain had his hands up, stopping the older man from proceeding any further. "Let's talk this out alright, just slo--"

"Jimmy! Come out you son of a bitch!"

That probably woke the whole ship up, but that was the least of his concerns. He's out for the co-pilot's head and not even his captain could stop him.

"Who the fuck's shouting this late!?"

"Ah, there you are." As soon as Jimmy stepped out of the quarters, the older man lunged at him, but Curly grabbed him just in time. Swansea cursed under his breath. "Come here and let me put your head on a chopping block, you mutt."

Footsteps shuffled in the dim hallway as Anya and Daisuke appeared, both disheveled. "Boss?" The intern was now snapping him out of his trance, his mind seemed to calm but the rage still pumped adrenaline in his veins. "What's happening?"

Anya lingered near the wall, her face pale, her arms crossed tightly over herself.

Curly’s grip on Swansea was firm as the mechanic fought to lunge at Jimmy. “Let me go!” Swansea snarled, his voice breaking with rage. “That bastard hurt her. And by God, if you don’t admit it right now.”

Jimmy, standing a few feet away, looked more defensive than calm. “Calm the fuck down, what are you even trying to accuse me of!?” His voice grew loud, frustration rising.

Swansea didn’t back down. “Don’t play innocent! You did something to the kid! You're going to pa--”

“Enough!” Curly barked, stepping between them. “You’re not laying a hand on anyone until we figure this out!”

"Figure what out?" Jimmy scoffed. "I didn’t touch Y/N. She’s probably just overworked. Hell, maybe she’s paranoid. You ever think of that?"

"Watch your mouth. She’s not paranoid, you bastard. She’s scared - no - she's fucking horrified."

“Stop…” A hoarse voice broke through as the hallway fell into a tense silence.

All heads turned to you, who stood in the doorway, clutching the frame like it was the only thing holding you up. Your tear-stricken face and shadowed form silenced the room.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, forcing a broken smile. “Please… just stop.”

Daisuke saw the opposite, your unsteady hands, weak knees, the way your eyes quickly averted from Jimmy.

Without a word, he stepped forward, placing an arm over your shoulders and positioning himself between you and the others like a shield. “Let’s get you out of here."

He flinched at how your body recoiled, but eventually, you broke down, collapsing into him, sobbing uncontrollably. Internally, it broke him, too. He had no idea what was going on, but he was sure of one thing: he'd always stand by his mentor over the co-pilot.

Curly’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked from your fragile state and back to Swansea’s anguished glare. He glanced at Jimmy, who shifted, his arms crossed.

“She said she’s fine,” Jimmy muttered, his voice defensive, almost annoyed. “Why is this even a thing? Can we move on?”

“You—” Swansea’s voice broke, raw with fury. He took a step forward, axe raised.

“Swansea, stop.” Curly’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the rising chaos. But even as Swansea temporarily lowered the weapon, his knuckles were still white around the handle.

“Are you really just going to let this slide?” Swansea’s words were sharp, biting. “The damned kid's a walking dead at this point, Curly! Can't you see that or are you just blind?”

Swansea’s chest heaved but he stepped back. The heavy clang of the axe echoed as it hit the floor. “But what can I say,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “Your bud's guilty but you're the cap right? Just let him run around like nothing happened.”

“Stop. Just stop. I’ll handle it,” Curly said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You two, to the lounge. Now.”

Daisuke stayed by your side, his hand steady on your shoulders and guiding you away from the mess. Anya lingered behind; her gaze on the floor and arms wrapped around herself. She raised her head and met Curly's gaze.

Curly’s stomach twisted, seeing the nurse's blaming stare. Anya shifted her eyes to you and Daisuke’s retreating forms. “I told you, captain.” After that stabbing sentence, the nurse followed the younger members out the suffocating hallway.

He’d seen it, hadn’t he? But he did not allow himself to process it, understand how serious it was. Because it was Jimmy. His co-pilot, his partner in every storm, his... friend. It couldn’t be him.

But now, looking at the man in question, so quick to deflect, so defensive in the face of Swansea’s rage, Curly felt the floor shift beneath him. His chest tightened. He’d believed Anya then, but he hadn’t acted, hoping time and caution would reveal the best course. What if his hesitation had been the mistake? What if waiting for clarity cost him, them, more murkiness?

As the three men stayed at the hallway, Curly looked at Jimmy’s avoiding gaze and Swansea’s held-back rage. For the first time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed them all.

The ship was still, but the tension was suffocating. The echoes of the fleeting chaos heavily clung to the air. Anya and Daisuke were in the medbay with Y/N.

With all the stress of Anya’s situation and the news from the corporate, he never noticed how Y/N slipped away from them. Not until it was too late anyway.

Swansea sat in the kitchen, his head bowed over a cup of cold coffee. Curly hesitated before sitting across from him, his hands pressed flat against the table.

"Where's the mutt?"

"I sent him to the quarters, have him cool off a bit. Makes us all have a mature and level-headed talk." The captain's hands were shaking, but he squeezed them together in a grip. "About the situation. Anya.. she--"

"Spit it out," Swansea muttered, not lifting his head.

Curly swallowed hard. "Anya told me. About what he did to her." His voice was barely above a whisper, but the words sliced through the quiet like a blade.

Swansea’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. If the axe were to be in the mechanic's hands, Curly's head would have been split in half. "And you did nothing?"

"I believed her," Curly said quickly, his voice tight. "I just—I didn’t know what to do. Jimmy’s my friend, Swansea. And we’re all stuck on this ship, more than a hundred days away from the others, from the police. I thought... I thought I had time to figure it out."

Swansea let out a bitter laugh. "And while you were figuring it out, he went for Y/N." His hand squeezed the mug tightly. "She trusted us, Curly. But one spat and trampled on it, another turned a blind eye and--" Swansea's guilt caught up on his throat. "And the last ignored the signs."

Curly didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the table. "You think I don’t know that?" he whispered. "You think I haven’t replayed every word of what Anya told me? I wanted to keep the peace, and now..." His voice faltered, images of Y/N’s tear-streaked face flooding his mind.

The older man's voice was low, the pain in it, sharp. "She’s just a kid, Curly. We were supposed to protect her, but what were we doing? Being fucking robots for money-hungry tyrants who doesn't give a fuck for their dogs."

Curly exhaled shakily, dragging a hand down his face. "I failed her. I failed them both." He looked up, meeting Swansea’s hard gaze. "But I can’t fail again. Whatever happens next, I won’t hesitate this time. Jimm--"

Before Swansea could respond, the ship lurched violently. Alarms blared, and the lights flickered. What Curly didn’t know was that the words he’d just spoken were ones he would never have the chance to live by.

a/n: got a bit carried away. part 2? maybeee??

Update: part 2 out!

Part 2

[gallapiech]

Give it up for art post number 3 for Highway of Hedoism!

[READ IT HERE]

+ some bts stuff because i enjoyyyyy doing that :)

Not much to comment on this one lol, it's a little rough I suppose. I think I prioritized quantity over quality here and that's definitely something I would've done differently if I could go back in time.

I'm still not sure it gets the image across? I hope it does. Sorry if it doesn't ehe...

I don't actually have a sketch for the outside one! I made it pretty fast and in one sitting lol.

a mimir. I loooove parallels! When we were discussing moments to be drawn I thought it would be really nice to have a little nod to their first time sharing a bed and seeing how much their relationship has changed over their journey!!

One of the issues I ran into while working on these is my struggle to keep the style consistent enough lol. ofc artists are their own biggest critics so maybe it bothers me more than it bothers everyone else ehe. In the end I do really like this one! Maybe a bit too cartoony? I hope it's not too distracting LOL!

I remember when we just started working on this I had asked Rory if they could get matching tattoos because I looooove that. But she was one step ahead of me and had already planned it hehehe ♥ We discussed some possibilities of their spelling qualities before settling on the current ones. I hope you enjoy the shoddy linework LOL I made sure to write them both with my non dominant hand. I also thought it would be funny if Ian wrote his name and then thought "fuck wait, i gotta add C for Clayton." And then quickly tried to squeeze it in. 🤣 (Also, once again me forgetting about clothing. Thank you Rory for reminding me about the bathrobe 🙏

Yeah. uh. I think mickey looks nice in this one :)

I think there will be one more art post after this one! The last one,,, aaahh! The end is nearing. I hope you're all enjoying the fic! I've been immensely enjoying reading everyone's reactions to it! Thank you so much for all your kind words ♥

[elfwreck]

I have a friend who isn't anti-porn but it makes her sad that fanfic has a reputation for being porny and usually not very good. I'm fine with both those things and my views mostly align with that of AO3. I disagree with the idea that porn and badness are treated as equivalent, but for most people that's just how they think. But I was wondering if youve ever written something about this?

There is a lot of smut at AO3.

There is a lot of bad writing at AO3.

There's a lot of badly written smut at AO3.

...None of those are problems except for the people who think there is something wrong with those existing, or that there needs to be some external value that "balances" those that make those acceptable to exist as unwanted side-effects of "the good stuff."

The badly-written smut is also "the good stuff."

It's part of the reason AO3 exists. It's not intended to be an archive for "the high-quality fanfic that could be published if it weren't about characters that someone else wrote first"; it's an archive for "what fanfic writers want to write." That makes the terrible writing and the tacky porn and the badly-written tacky porn part of the reason the archive exists.

Tangent 1 (I'll connect these points later): Theodore Sturgeon said "90% of everything is crud." He was more-or-less referring to the science fiction field in the 50s, but it definitely extended to politics, business, and writing outside of science fiction.

...He was talking about published books in the 50s. Turns out, a lot more than 90% of writing is crud when there aren't any gatekeepers between it and the readers. But also:

Tangent 2, from the book "Art and Fear":

[A] ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pound of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.

You don't get to "quality writing" without going through a lot of crappy writing.

That doesn't mean the crappy writing is garbage to be thrown out. If you make 50 pots or bowls or vases, and only one of them is The Good One... most of the rest are okay. Maybe not sale-quality good, but your-kitchen-table quality good. Maybe some aren't that good and are kids-toy-in-the-sandbox level good.

Bad writing has a purpose for the writer: they can use it as practice to get better. It has a purpose for the reader: It can serve as inspiration ("I can do better than that") or grammatical instruction ("that...does not work; why doesn't that work?") or just as entertainment ("eh, so it's missing a few commas; I can still understand it").

Smut and porn writing works the same way. It's of some value to the writer, and some to the readers.

It's not of value to everyone. That's what tags and filters are for, and why there's a summary and list of stats (like word counts)--so you can figure out if you're one of the readers for whom this piece of writing is useful or interesting.

But AO3, like any library, is not there to take the top 5% of Excellent Writing and provide it a showcase. It is absolutely for all 50 lbs of pots.

If your friend wants to read the good stuff, there are rec lists and collections to help her find it.

If she already manages that, and is just annoyed at how much of the not-good stuff (however she defines that) exists... she's picked the wrong battle. She's arguing with the ocean that it has too many kinds of fish and some are poisonous a lot of them are ugly.

[mysteryshoptls]

R Kalim Al-Asim - Night Sky Chiffon Vignette

"They're spinning round and round."

[Library – Entrance Hall]

Jack: Phew, my arms are really feelin' it. The Princess of the Tower's pretty tough… Can't believe she'd be climbing like this every day.

Deuce: Yeah. It feels like my arm muscles are practically screaming… Made me realize just how much more training I need to do.

Kalim: That's 'cause the two of you were like, "This is a perfect chance to work out!" or whatever, and tried climbing using just your arms.

Kalim: I used my feet with my arms, so it was easy-peasy. Ahahah!

Jack: It was surprising how nimble you were, Kalim-senpai… You got up to the ceiling real fast.

Kalim: I had so much fun climbing up and down! What should we do next?

Jack: We'll do laundry. Uhhh, what sort of equipment did we get delivered for that in the end?

Jack: If I recall, when we were putting together a list of supplies we needed, you wrote down a laundry machine. Of course, Riddle-senpai immediately said no.

Kalim: Ummm, I think I saw it over… Here it is! We got given this tub!

Deuce: Okay. My dormmates brought over the soap, so let's start wash…

Deuce: …Wait. How are we supposed to get water for this?

Jack/Kalim: Ah!

Jack: Damn… I didn't even think about the water, since I just always assume it's there when I do laundry.

Jack: That tub's actually pretty big, huh. Looks almost as big as a kid-sized pool.

Kalim: Maybe it's 'cause I asked for a 4-person washing basin.

Deuce: Yeah. With something this big, I feel like all four of us could wash stuff together all at once…

Jack: But it's not like there'd be a faucet we could use in the library, and it'd be pretty hard to get enough water to do laundry brought in through that window.

Riddle: You're right. We'll have to request a different container, or a long hose to be brought to us, and in the meantime, we'll do something else…

Kalim: Oh, what, we need a ton of water? I can help with that!

Kalim: If I use my Unique Magic, I can fill this tub up lickety-split.

Jack: For real? That'd be great. So then, let's figure out what to wash… I guess our PE clothes'll have to do.

Deuce: We worked up a sweat earlier, so it'd be great to get 'em washed. Thank you, Asim-senpai!

Kalim: Yeah, leave it all to me! Here I go! "A haven within the hot hands, a never-ending feast. Sing! Dan…"

Riddle: STOP RIGHT THERE!!!!

Jack/Deuce: HUH!?

Kalim: What's wrong, Riddle～?  You're gonna make me jump if you shout like that all of a sudden.

Riddle: I'm the one who should be startled here!

Riddle: You want to use your Unique Magic…? There are a plethora of books in his library of which only one exist of it in the world!

Riddle: If you produce such a large quantity of water, what if you get them wet?

Deuce: Eh, you're telling me that Asim-senpai's Unique Magic makes that much water…?

Riddle: Indeed. There was an incident during a Housewarden meeting once, where upon hearing "I'm a tad thirsty," Kalim sprung forth to produce water with his Unique Magic…

Riddle: However, he unleashed an extreme amount, and soon enough, the Headmage's office was completely flooded.

Deuce: That much water!? That's amazing… But, yeah, I agree, it wouldn't be good for the library to flood.

Kalim: Don't worry, all I gotta do is control how much comes out so it just fills this tub, right?

Deuce: Oh, can you control it?

Kalim: Yeah! To an extent!

Jack/Deuce: "To an extent"!?

Kalim: My Unique Magic can make a ton of water with little magic.

Kalim: To put it another way, even pumping just a tiniest bit of magic can produce a ton of water, so it's pretty hard to control it carefully.

Kalim: But I've been able to fill a cup with water without it spilling over, so I'm sure it'll be fine! Trust me!

Deuce: Y-Yeah, sure, I believe in you, since you're the Scarabia Housewarden and all…

Riddle: It may be your specialty, but you said it yourself, it is difficult for you to control. I should be the one to use magic to produce the wa…

Kalim: Thanks for trusting in me! Here we go, Oasis Maker!

Jack/Riddle/Deuce: AAAAH!

Kalim: Ooh, that went well. Ooh, that went well. Look at the PE unforms, they're spinning round and round.

Riddle: Whew, thank goodness…! It seems we were in luck today.

Jack: It's actually got a pretty strong current. I was expecting us to have to handwash it, but it feels like it'll be clean in no time at this rate.

Deuce: Yeah. You know what this spinning reminds me of…?

Riddle: It feels akin to a washing machine. Thanks to Kalim's massive stream of water, it makes it look like the water in the basin has a current of its own.

Kalim: I don't really get what you all are saying, but I'm guessing it means it's all good!

Deuce: Yes, it was. Because of your help, we were able to finish the laundry quickly. Thank you!

Kalim: Good, I'm glad.

Kalim: Mm, soo, what's next…? Ummm, we gotta do that, uh, rinse thing, right?

Deuce: Huh?

Kalim: I've never done laundry myself before, y'know. I always thought I'd like to try it sometime, though～!

Kalim: It'll feel good to have lean clothes, right? So now, I'll make some more water to help rinse off our laundry!

Jack: You're going to make more water!?

Riddle: KALIM, DO IT CAREFULLY! THIS TIME TOO, BE EXTRA CAREFUL!!

Kalim: Yeah, of course! I'll get it done no problem.

Kalim: I'm gonna make sure everyone's laundry gets super clean!

Requested by Feli.

[fall0utmind]

Cherry Powerade

'fruit' - pecco/marc ~ 2.5k

Under the cut or ao3

Marc's comfort drink is Cherry Powerade. Pecco is decidedly not okay about it.

It starts rather out of the blue, Pecco's eyes latching on the bottle in Marc's hand, watching as Marc raised it to his lips and sucks. They barely know each other, still awkwardly manoeuvring around being teammates under the burning Thai sun.

"Jesus, how do you drink that shit?"

The words spill out of Pecco's mouth, almost unbidden, if the way his eyes widened and cheeks flushed afterwards are any indication. The scattered members of the crew around them huff in amusement as Marc simply quirks a brow, as if to say, 'and what about it?'.  It has the desired effect, Pecco turning away in embarrassment.

Marc brushes it off with a sliver of amusement. Trust Pecco to care about what drink he has. He pointedly doesn't think much about Pecco's expression, his twisted mouth landing somewhere in between disgust, humour, and something more heated.

Marc looks away from the back of Pecco's neck, re-joining his conversation with Riga. It is only once Pecco looks over again that Marc eagerly downs more of the sickly sweet liquid in retaliation, a weird move of antagonism just for the off-hand comment. He doesn't see the Italian's answering swallow, thick and spasming all the way down his throat.

It isn't until Aragon that Pecco brings it up again, even though Marc has definitely been drinking his PowerAde in between. Limited in quantity, of course, by his sugar intake and his trainer breathing down his neck. The man says that he allows Marc to drink them for psychological reasons, so long as they're restricted to certain times. Marc just shrugs and plays along, pretends that he would abide by the rules if he weren't allowed the oversweet concoction.

Pecco watches carefully from across the table as Marc chews the lid of his drink, eyes focussed on the data in front of him as he bites and sucks mindlessly. It's unconscious, how Marc acts; he's been told that he does the most ridiculous things without even realising it, the same way people tell him he looks, eh, attractive without conscious effort. Marc can feel eyes burning into him, shifts in his seat, releases the cap from his mouth and takes a pull from the bottle instead, his mouth filling with sticky liquid. He feels awkward, the hairs on his arms standing on end. 

It's after the meeting when Pecco approaches, his eyebrows creased as he flicks his eyes between Marc and the half-drunk bottle clutched in his hands.

"You're always drinking that crap. Honestly, how can you stand the taste? It's so sweet. What flavour is it?" The words are rushed, tumbling over each other and followed by a hastily sucked in breath.

Mark stumbles mid-step, confusion swelling inside him. He turns, catches Pecco's wide-eyed look. He cannot fathom why Pecco cares quite so much about his choice of drink, nor can he understand his frankly baffling reactions every time. The way he always stares when Marc has a bottle, or the seemingly unplanned comments which spill from his mouth, surging into existence, unbidden.

To be honest, Marc is surprised Pecco is talking to him one-on-one at the moment. He knows the younger man's pride has taken a beating on track recently; if it were Marc, he would certainly be avoiding his teammate like the plague.

(It isn't Marc, it never is because he never gets beaten by his teammate.)

Maybe that's the difference between them - the gentleman and the devil.

Still, he doesn't expect the younger man to care, to bother himself with such trivial things. Marc certainly knows that Pecco won't understand his weird addiction to the freakishly red drink, which tastes more like sugar than much else.

Marc feels a little protective of it. It's a hangover from his childhood, if he's honest. The taste reminds him of cherry medicine and the syrups his mum used to blend into the milkshakes, which were meant to help him grow. As he got older, and the doctors finally decided that his height and weight weren't going to get much better than the 5 and a half feet he managed, the cherry-flavoured drink transported him back home, to the safety of being ten again.

It became a little bit of a habit as he got older, bringing them to events, drinking them to feel something akin to calmness, even as life threw him through turbulence at every turn.

Marc's brain clicks back online, realising that the two of them have been staring at each other for longer than normally deemed acceptable.

He turns away, continuing the conversation with his back turned.

"Cherry", he murmurs, and Pecco hums, as if expecting more.

Marc almost laughs, imagines trying to explain it to Pecco, how it reminds him of home, of a time when people told him that he was too small, too reckless, and dangerous, with weight added to his bike and calorie-rich drinks shoved down his throat. He thinks about how Pecco would react, Pecco who was supported by the academy from such a young age, knowing that Marc was the main breadwinner in the family, that his parents would go without food so Marc could get here, in this moment. It reminds him of humble beginnings and sacrifice.

Of course, he knows they all had sacrifices to make to get here. Pecco included. Marc just doesn't need the world to see the soft, fleshy part of his vulnerability; no need to give anyone else a knife to dig into the already scarred tissue. He made that mistake once.

So, Marc just grins instead, bringing the bottle to his mouth.

"Sweet tooth", he shrugs, watching the planes of Pecco's face shift once more as he wraps his lips around the bottle, gulping down the remaining liquid in one, two swallows. He hears the puff of air that Pecco exhales, smirks.

He walks off.

In reality, they get along quite well. For teammates. Especially for teammates who already have a complex and historic narrative pulling their strings like a particularly volatile puppeteer, teammates who have the expectations of their paths pre-written for them.

One of them was mentored by the person considered the greatest of all time, and the other almost brought down that mantle.

The student and the challenger. The gentleman and the danger. The new champion and the one who ruined their sport.

Marc knows how the game is played, he's been a part of it for long enough.

There was a time, when it was first announced, when Marc thought that things would be a disaster. Surprisingly, though, they've managed to remain quite civil, even as Marc defeats Pecco every weekend, again and again. Even as Pecco looks more and more sour as the weeks go by. He never hits out at Marc.

Marc has to remind himself that Pecco is not Valentino. He is different in the way that Pecco is able to swallow his pride, congratulate Marc and move on instead of holding a grudge the size of Italy.

Pecco isn't the type to play games, not in the same way as Vale, who took Marc's hero worship, his adoration, and twisted it to breaking point, then once it was deformed and unidentifiable, showed it to the media as if to say 'look, it was never true'.

Valentino, who joked about kissing Marc in front of the press and fucked him raw in his motorhome until it all went wrong and he stabbed him in the back.

It throws Marc off - their differences.

And yet there's an underlying tension building between them. It's been building since the testing in Thailand, where there was a weird dynamic sitting somewhere between admiration and fiery competitiveness. And well, Mark sometimes catches Pecco staring in a decidedly non-platonic way. Not in the way Marc expected when they first became teammates. More heated glances and searching looks when he thinks no one is looking. But Marc sees them, he sees most things these days - he had learnt about the dangers of being unobservant long ago.

He doesn't do anything about them, because it's categorically a bloody awful idea to fuck your teammate. Or anyone on the grid, for that matter.

(It hasn't stopped him before.)

*

"You're staring again", Marc comments after the podium has wrapped up and their press commitments draw to a close..

A one-two, Pecco finally finding that little bit extra, not enough to catch Marc, but something all the same. They're walking side-by-side through the bright hallways of the press building; behind them, Alex huffs, disgusted. He leaves without as much as a second glance.

Marc doesn't blame him.

Pecco blinks owlishly at him, flicks his eyes between the bottle held loosely between Marc's fingers and his face. Marc desperately wants to test a theory, one that has been nagging him for weeks, ever since Pecco started making his funny comments.

Marc licks his lips, the artificial remnants of cherry stinging his taste buds, just to watch the way Pecco's gaze finds his mouth, pupils wide.

Marc smirks, smug, and goes to turn away, to pretend nothing happened.

Good to know, he thinks. Something hot and pleased coiling in his gut.

A hand on his shoulder stops him, firm and searing as it spins him around, places him face-to-face with Pecco. Pecco, whose eyes are dark, his chest heaving, looks feverish.

Marc raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to begin his snarky comment, but doesn't get far before the Italian springs to action, cutting off the words dying in Marc's throat.

Marc blinks, and then he's being pushed backwards, through an entrance he didn't even see, and into a side room. Pecco's hands are firmly on Marc, one on his shoulder, the other branding his hip. Before he can catch his breath, he's spun once more, back against the door, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the otherwise quiet room.

It happens so quickly that Marc has to squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensory information. Pecco is close enough that Marc can feel the heat emanating from his body, the firm line of his torso pressed against Marc. Hot puffs of air from Pecco's mouth tickle the side of his face. The door handle digs into his lower back as his shoulders press against the solid wood, fully trapped between the other man and the wall.

Pecco's hands find their home bracketing either side of Marc's face, pushing him flush against the door. They're chest to chest, emphasising the slight height advantage which Pecco has; it makes something fizz in Marc's belly, hot and wanting.

Marc doesn't move, meets Pecco's gaze head-on, hungry. Unashamed.

He waits for a beat, urging the other man to make the first move, fed up of being the brave one.

Pecco closes the gap between them, bringing them impossibly closer and pressing their lips together. Marc wastes no time, pushing onto his toes to chase Pecco's lips. He groans when Pecco cups his ass, sinks into the feeling. He swipes his tongue against Pecco's lips, eagerly licking into his mouth, pulling back to bite at the younger man's lower lip. Pecco groans, low and dirty; it lights something inside of Marc. He grins, wants to hear that sound again. Pecco pulls away before he can, pinning Marc's scrabbling hands above his head in a move that makes his stomach swoop and his dick twitch. 

Fuck, Marc can't continue to be surprised by his teammate.

"You taste like cherry", Pecco groans against Marc's cheek, where he places a delicate kiss before licking into Marc's mouth once more. 

He keeps Marc's wrists locked into place, one of his hands encasing both of Marc's in a bruising grip as he slots a leg in between Marc's thighs and kisses him senseless. Marc loses track of time, melts into Pecco and lets himself be manhandled as the other pleases. Marc loves it like this, adores the way Pecco naturally takes control and lets Marc's brain turn off, for once.

He releases Marc's wrists, threads one of his hands through his hair instead, pulling lightly in a move that makes Marc jerk and whine, high and needy. Pecco grins, smug, and allows Marc to chase his kisses again, reconnecting their lips. When Pecco finally pulls away, he pants against Marc's mouth, pressing one final kiss there.

"Fuck do it you know how crazy that shit made me" he murmurs, gesturing to Marc's discarded bottle.

"You smell like it, always. Drink it like you're in a fucking sex film"

Marc quirks a brow, unfamiliar with the Italian word.

Pecco flushes.

"eh what is the word in English - A porno, yes?"

Marc giggles, blushing prettily, the sound reverberating through Pecco's chest.

Pecco smiles down at Marc, something soft, too honest, before his lips quirk and his gaze darkens as he stares at Marc's mouth.

"You know it stains your mouth, makes your lips and tongue so red", he mumbles against Marc's lips, trailing down his jaw, mouthing at his neck.

"You look like a fucking girl with lipstick on, it's insane. Look so fucking pretty"

Marc groans, unashamed and needy, tries to capture Pecco's mouth again, until the younger man holds him still with a hand on his hip, hard enough to bruise. "Open your mouth", Pecco requests.

Marc is slightly ashamed of how quickly he complies with the intoxicating mixture of the command and Pecco's gravelly voice. Pecco, who, once Marc sticks his tongue out, shoves a finger in his mouth, hooks his jaw down to open it wider.

"See. Stains your tongue so red. No wonder I can't stop staring, hm."

Pecco runs his thumb across Marc's lower lip, tracing the imaginary smudges of lipstick and goes to pull his fingers away. Marc clamps around them before he can escape, sucking the digits into his mouth and looking up at Pecco from below his lashes. Pecco groans, his hips hitching in an aborted motion.

Pecco recoils, tries to hide his face in Marc's neck, sucking on the bared skin there until it bruises. Marc mewls at the feeling, at the thought of the mark left behind, claiming. 

"Pecco", he whines.

Pecco flinches, awareness slamming back into his body that it's Marc under him. He tries to pull away, to create some distance, but Marc reels him back, strong hands on his waist, and Pecco can't resist.

Fuck, let them make mistakes, they can work it out afterwards. For now, Marc lets Pecco chase the artificial cherry taste out of his mouth until it is long forgotten.

He wonders if he should invest in some of that shitty flavoured lube and then promptly forgets everything when Pecco drops to his knees.

[olderthannetfic]

Look to one side and see writers saying it's okay just to leave a heart or short sentence or keyboard smash, all comments are loved and appreciated it's okay if you don't have spoons

Look to the other side and it's writers complaining how their comments aren't good enough, are disappointing, they wrote 20k and only got a loved it!!!! that people should explain their favorite parts in return for their hard work and even the second kudos comments are disheartening they read it twice and couldn't bother to craft an essay

Which is It then? These are separate circles on the Venn diagram. Being a reading ninja and not commenting or kudosing at all seems the less anxiety inducing option now

--

This is not new. Writers have always whined about the quantity and nature of feedback and readers have always pretended their reasons for not sending it were something other than "Eh, can't be bothered".

[helluvaartcritique]

I’d love if you critiqued the pride art helluva Twitter acc just dropped, I would but there’s way too much for me to even start with and I wanted to hear your opinion

just the art cause for some reason my brain is so confused.

Apologies for the late response, anon, but here we go!

My eyes.......

As someone who is queer myself, so many of these characters just fall into stereotypes or aren't the best representation.

1. Chaz wanting to fuck everything is a horrible representation of pansexual people.

2. The only Asexual people being a teenager (which is fine) and the fat man who abuses Fizz and is ugly yay /s (Vivziepop has a habit of misrepresenting asexuals, and as one myself, it can be pretty hard to watch.)

3. Sallie Mae is the ONLY lesbian we have? Nothing else? Wow.

4. I'm also including the lack of enby/nonbinary representation. For a queer show you'd think they include them.

5. There's a lot of pansexuals, and while it does seem nice, quality doesn't equal quantity. We have Chaz (mentioned before), Blitz (who sleeps with everyone), Barbie (a literal groomer), Ozzie (which isn't bad since he's the Sin of Lust, but eh), Queen Bee (I actually like this one, mostly because I like Bee) and a bunch of random background extras who I don't even know their names.

6. Why is that parrot guy here? Does he have a name?

7. Andre having feathers in his hair is typically a no go as it feeds into a harmful stereotype about Indigenous people.

8. Where is my boy Cole?

9. Also it'd be nice if these were confirmed in the show instead of the wiki. I don't have to do homework.

Alright, now onto the art! Hoo boy....

First off, all of the characters and flags are fighting for my attention to the point where I'm not sure what I'm looking at.

The first time I saw this, my eyes were led to Bee, as her and her lava lamp made her stand out.

The mishmash of colors made it hard to focus on Bee for long, as I was trying to figure out where everyone was. And yes, I get it, it's a Pride parade, there's gonna be rainbow colors, but at least make it so I know what I'm looking at here. They all blend in.

Apologies if my thoughts are a bit jumbled at the moment, I'm a bit sleep deprived right now.

[shaibonbon]

Was there a particular event in Bonbon's life that caused her shift in personality from happy Minibon to current adult Bon?

(For the lazy readers) Yes. As much as I say it was a gradual change, I can divide it up into 4 major events and from those events, the 3rd one is (imo) the most impactful one on her personality shift. Tdlr, in 7th grade she ends up changing classes and ends up with no friends and with falling grades, that spills into disaster. Warning, Big lore dump bellow:

(Now the yapping answer for Edu, since you are the only one reading all of it. If you aren't Edu and read all of this, please say something I will give u a cookie). To talk about it, I need to give some context about the previous stages. Her life doesn't happen in a vacuum, so the events that came beforehand, already changed shaped in ways that matter (and we have to be on the same page here).

I want to say, this is all a bit WIP, I don't have good names for the events despite having somewhat clear timelines, it goes: Birthday Party, School change, 7th grade, and graduation.

Birthday Party

This takes place when Bonbon is very young (the bon on the left in the drawing). It is also what I was drawing on that unfinished comic 💔. I still plan to BUT, I have been thinking, and I will probably draw some simpler episodes before that comic. Anyhow, the consequences of that party is in a way where it all began. Like I did put in the sheet, Mini Bon is a very energetic cute bunny, and in almost natural way she tried talking with the entire class and considered everyone, even some outside of it, as friends. That all stops after the party. Kinda like a harsh dose of reality is injected all at once on her special day. Her trust with everyone, including her closest friends, suffers greatly and she gets hugely upset. From the this point forward, she kinda pulls back from interacting with most of them. She becomes more cautious, more insecure and far less extroverted. And welp, from the pov of an outsider you would look at her after a few weeks the effects might seem "subtle", but they linger on for the next years and have an impact, even if she doesn't realize it or thinks about it. (This event is probably the one I need to work out more, so if it feels a bit empty thats why)

School change

it's fairly obvious how impactful this one can be. Bon unlike her former classmates, ends up changing to a school in a different on village. It's scary, new environment, new schedules and routines, lots of new people, teachers and expectations. Bon doesn't handle it well. For example, the new schedule means she has to wake up way earlier while arriving home later. While this isn't that bad, it does mean she is more tired and has less free time to have fun. While the new routine it's a bit brutal for her initially, she struggles a lot. Getting the wrong bus, leaving the wrong bus stop, missing the bus, and many other things she screws up that I won't dive rn (future comic episodes perhaps) Trying to make new friends is not easy either. All classmates already know each other and have their friends group formed. It leaves her into this situation when the bell rings, she is left awkwardly alone. Bon becomes more anxious, shy and bit more withdrawn.

It's not all bad luck, Bon gets "adopted" by Cinnamon (who's design I haven't shown yet) and they become such good friends they turn into besties. At this moment you see the previous event affect how she behaves, no longer being the extrovert, she was and being far more cautious with who she chooses to be friends, she ends up focusing on just this one friendship. Quality>quantity way. This for real helps her survive the next 2 years in that school. Sounds good eh? Still, the silly nerd mini bon you see me post around, only exists to those who are closest to her (Cinnamon). Rest of the class knows nothing about her, to them she is just a quiet ghost during class and outside nobody. They don't really care either. Neither does bon, she already has what she wanted.

7th Grade

Ah the breaking point! (middle bon in the drawing) After 2 years, due to the school system works and the subjects she picked, she gets shuffled to a total different class. Cinnamon, despite still being in the same school, stops passing most time with Bon. Not only their calendars don't match up, them having no means of contact outside of school, and having classes in different blocks of school meant they really only saw each other a few times a week. Cinnamon meanwhile just made new cool friends, ending up passing time with them instead. (dw bon, at least you had to be replaced by like 5 people) Bonbon on the other hand fails to connect with any new people (partly a lot due to the 2 previous phases). it's not for a lack of trying mind you, she really doesn't connect with anyone the same way she did with the fox, she got extremely unlucky.

Another factor into play, 7th grade is when school gets more serious. Bon is a intelligent person, but that actually backfired on her. She never felt the need to study or work outside of school. What she learned in class was usually enough for her to get average-good grades. But from this point onward you had to study and practice. But when you pass most of your life without studying, you don't learn or get the motivation to do it from one day to the other. Nor do you make it a habit. (hint: she starts falling) To make it worse, school calendar just got brutal, she could be waking up at like 7:00 and arriving home at 19:40. Aside from being extremely boring, it sucks the energy out of you. You arrive home and the last thing you want to see is a freaking textbook. You just want to relax and have fun for once, so you you game a little too much.

I want to put yourself in her boots. You have basically no friends, your grades in school plummet, no matter how hard you try. At the same time you arrive home constantly tired and drained, also you are a teen, puberty is a thing and it does affect your behavior. How would you feel? Welp, for this poor teen bunny girl, saying she got very upset is to put it lightly. It nukes her self-esteem, everything just starts feeling hopeless to her. Small things change, thinking of a pretty outfit becomes an annoying chore, and no one would care either way, so you skip that for the extra minutes of sleep. Quickly, trying to talk with people at school takes too much energy and feels like a waste. You become grumpy, closed of and rude sometimes. Hard to find reasons to smile when life sucks am right? I could go on but you probably get how this is the most significant "major point" bc she gets very similar to how Bonbon is later in life. It's basically the middle ground between the 2 phases, you can still make her smile, she still would appreciate if you talked to her. Her eyes will light up if you bring a topic she likes. This phase lasts for around 2 years, think of it as a big storm. (in the drawing this is Bonbon on the right) Afterwards she manages to enter contact with Cinnamon outside of school and they reconnect again. Her grades are no longer going in into hell, heck some improve. Later on she gets lucky and even lands in the same class of Cinnamon again. Life starts to look up til-

Graduation, it is the final one, which I will leave for another day or ask. The final piece for how she becomes nowadays Bonbon.

I hope you enjoyed reading this very WIP, cringe, badly written lore dump. Hopefully it gives y'all a clearer picture of what I'm aiming for tho, and that I in fact do have in mind a clear story and episodes layed out for Bonbon. (Granted i have to write them and draw them). Of course I didn't go into much detail, I mainly explained the consequences of each phase. I didn't go through the episodes of those phases, since many of these "events", (or the correct word would be "phases") last a few years and are a lot of episodes together. Welp thank you<33.

[stemclann]

"I promise you, I don't."

_______________________________________________

Phhhew !

I've been getting some asks regarding Salamenderthyme 🦎 and 🌿 Frecklebramble's relationship and i guees you could say that I got a little carried away with building up their backstory and the root of their... conflict ? I don't think that actually applies to them, but eh, feel free to make assumptions about how they got to this point afterwards 👀 Also, NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED !

Who could Icedrop be ?! ❄️🌌 I really wanted to emphasize the backgrounds and the flashback this time, I'm honestly really happy with these few pages !! I hope it was worth the wait, it took me a bit of time to work on this one.. Anyway I hope you'll enjoy this little not-a-moon post :P So sorry for all the anons and other messages that I didn't take the time to reply yet, I'm starting to have to make decisions regarding the quantity of work I put in a single answer, since there's a bit of them pilling up rn ! Also I can't answer some of them because that would be spoilers.. 👀 @heart-flower-cat 👇

[askviktor]

Do you ever worry about cavities with all that sweetmilk you're drinking ?

Eh, not particularly. I maintain decent dental hygiene, and I do not think the quantities are as a vast as you may believe.