I'm gonna take your nightmare and BONK
he likes men now.
that's the gay agenda 👀

roma★
AnasAbdin
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸


@theartofmadeline

Kaledo Art
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
todays bird
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

JVL
d e v o n

Love Begins
KIROKAZE

Discoholic 🪩
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Janaina Medeiros
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

seen from Mexico

seen from Spain

seen from United States
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seen from Canada

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
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seen from Germany
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@scripttura
I'm gonna take your nightmare and BONK
he likes men now.
that's the gay agenda 👀

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i’m not in the mood to write, but since i’m playing pokemon, here’s each boy’s poketeams from a hc forever ago !
classic / impact — munchlax, staravia, marill, croconaw, alolan!cubone, and slacking! he’s more of a laidback trainer, takes care of his pokes plenty, and out of the others has the most potential to become champion, just not the motivation. you’re more likely to find him asleep and his pokemon having wondered off than him actually doing anything! but make no mistake - impact wins nearly every time, mostly through underhanded yet clever tactics.
fell / drux — vaporeon, bayleef, houndroom, poochyena, luxray! a rowdy trainer with a suspicion towards most, drux prefers pokemon above the company of others. he’s brash, bull-headed, and while his win to lose ratio isn’t the best, it’s obvious he’s got a passion that rivals even the most elite - that and he learns very quickly after every loss, so there’s hardly ever repeat failures. it’s only his ruthless anxiety and distrust towards others that really hold him back.
horror / acri — typhlosion, gardevoir, sandslash, aron, skarmory, and mawile! a quiet, sickly trainer, and yet from his first battle it’s obvious : he’s got a ruthless and unnerving skill for battling.
error / aevena — haunter, electrike, prinplup, glaceon, rotom, alolan!vulpix! difficult, angry, destructive. his prinplup shares the same destructive tendencies, and he’s a fumbling trainer at best. with his nasty and awkward attitude, he ofts get carried away and over-extends himself in battles or gets too cocky.
SURPRISE!! StoryShift Goblins! I wanted to put a bit more of my style with these so if they look a lil different that’s why. I still kept a lot of elements from the Goblintale style tho. Also, Storyshift is pretty confusing but I LOVE the idea of Papyrus and Sans being boss monsters….er…in this case goblins… I wanna boop Poppy’s nose…. @theskeletongames <– goblintale was created by this amazing person
1-*I made this image myself* WOWZERS! this is cool, it’s so lovely! 🥰 2- I’m glad that you’re doing fine 😆 😊
foihusfd thank you! i love making edits in photoshop, it’s a big hobby of mine!! it comes in handy for making roleplay blogs <3 ... and i hope you’re doing good as well! tomorrow’s my sister’s bday so i’ll be out all day, so i’m hoping before the end of today / tomorrow i can get the next chapter of sotak out ... i’ve already got impact’s part finished ^__^
a little snippet, tw for nsfw,
he’s too much, you know. too thorough, too all at once, and you love it. holding you down with a hooked grip to your navel, soft words of how good you feel, how soft you are, how beautiful you look like this, like always, he can’t ever get enough.
he loves you until you are spent. it’s less an act of fucking until you can’t — it’s more a time devoted solely to loving you, to making you melt, keen until you just can’t take it anymore. it isn’t about him. it’s about pulling and drawing every last thing he can out of this, out of you, and waiting until the last moment to sink between your legs and finally, finally bare his teeth in the thinly held restraint tested by how dearly he wants you. and even then, it’s not about him. it’s only you.
and when the time comes after that you both lay spent and your nose is tucked into his chest, the smell of chalk and sex and ketchup stronger than anything else, you know you will wake with the marks of the strength of his love for you streaked across you like stars on the night’s sky.
Hello! How are you doing?
got home to my house having apparently caught a slight case of being on fire, with a side of the ac control unit exploding into a glorious fuse-lit fireball. thankfully everyone’s okay and it’s all set and dealt with, so i’m great!

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Your writing are so great 😃 Keep it up! 😁
fdijhsdufsidf THANK YOU ………. this is so sweet v__v
i needed to get this out before my hand fully heals
i didnt really translate it well with the other sans drawing I did recently.
Always imagined sans saying “ I’M GOING TO HAVE ONE HELL OF A TIME”
aside from “ GREAT TIME” only because I was thinking of the forgotten underhell name…
ok bye have a good weekend everyone :-)
i rlly wanna write some shit w ink and it’s killin me
bruising, a drabble with classic ( “impact” ) sans. monsters mark partners with bruises / marks as a way to show commitment to a relationship. sometimes, it's a big turn on.
“hey.” soft, warm. impact’s voice is a good morning in of itself, draping over the two of you along with the morning sun daring to peak through the blinds. you greet him with a hum in your chest and a curl on your lips, meeting his doting gaze with your own.
it’s no surprise you’d wake to the both of you caught in the other, legs tangled and a skeletal hand laid in memory of last night over your hip.
“Hey yourself.” gentle rasp, and you lean forward to kiss his jaw - only to wince, his expression twisting in mimicry of your own.
“careful,” impact murmurs, “might’ve overdone it last night.”
you crook a brow. “Might’ve?”
with you awakens the memories of the night prior, the aches and sated need all alike, and impact watches you with those quiet, appreciative lights as you shift, a gentle laugh breaking from his ribcage.
“you complaining?” navy dusts the lines of his cheekbones, humor the feature of his smile. it’s good to see, par the way he’d held you down with hard fingers and a snarl as he kept you pressed beneath him just hours prior, that he flushes more so than you at the memory.
you try again, mindful this time as you reach, and press your lips to his nasal ridge. “Always.”
“ wh -” warm appraisal at whatever he thought you were going to say dies, and skeleton rumbles with his amusement, those lights of his near twinkling. his nasal ridge scrunches up, “uh huh. sure. and here i was gonna make you breakfast.”
a distrustful noise erupts from your throat, and impact laughs. “- in bed! ”
“Like i trust you to -”
“- i’m not sure i like where that thought is going -”
“- shut up , oh my god.” you can’t help but giggle, even if it cinches at your insides. “It’s too early for this.”
his hand upon your hip grows familiar, a soothing sweep of his thumb over your navel. there’s an endearment there that will always catch your heart in your throat, and a look - a look he has for you that has you lost for words. he knows it, too, and his voice is but another soft touch among others.
“yeah, but i don’t think it is.”
“ Impact ,” gentle warning, but it’s not quite a plea to stop. skeletal grin only crooks, and he’s slow, painfully so, as he pulls the sheets from your hips to the bedside, laying you bare. the way he intakes for a pseudo breath is all you need to hear for that familiar ache to thrum within you, in tune with the path those star-lit eyes of his map across your skin.
“... damn. i, uh…” you’re watching him, the way he glances from your sure to be bruised thighs and hips, thoroughly bitten collarbones and fingerprinted waistline, all up to you, as if he’s unsure quite where to drink you in - and drink he does, shameless, that hand on your hip now hovering, unsure, phalanges twitching in want to follow that taste with touch. that navy flush returns, and dimmed, flustered lights look back to you with a slight, if abashed grin. “... yeah. i don’t think ‘overdone’ does it justice. you look…”
“Like yours.”
his smile catches. it’s such a small, obvious thing, the way his entire expression stutters, like he’s caught in the middle of something, snagged at such words. you love it, love him, and reach a hand to tangle it in his, and bring it up, close enough to press a kiss to the ridge of those phalanges that marked you as such.
“yeah.” he sounds choked, but can’t help but smile back. “yeah, like … mine.”
kissing, a short foray on how each sans kisses you. classic / undertale = impact, underfell = drux, horrortale = acri, error is error, ink is ink.
impact kisses you like he’s afraid something might break. be it you, him, the very world, it’s a tentative thing where his skull tips up suddenly, and he almost startles you (he’s caught you like that a couple of times, craning up and catching your chin; nevermind the time you were pressed so close his head hit your nose, and you jumped, only to further slam into him), but never on purpose.
you really can’t blame him for being so careful. he loves to wander the lines of your face, your skin at times, noncommittal touches that leave bruises without even trying, and even now, teeth pressing to your lips, he tucks your hair behind an ear and hums into you, slow, seated heavy into your body.
he kisses carefully, but he kisses thoroughly. taking as much time as you’ll give him and more, there’s no such thing as chaste when he tugs you down by the hair or the front of a shirt, or the way he nestles up into an open lap and begins teething at your bottom lip, slow to the rising heat of a moment, and slower to conjure magicked tongue, enjoying all of the build-up and not afraid to put the breaks on things if only to leave you wanting.
drux drinks in your lips like a monster starving. no such thing as sacred when he’s seen it all, kissing is less a cherished thing, more a prequel, a teaser to bigger, better things. if the skeleton had it his way all together he might not bother with kissing at all - it’s too intimate for him, too even for a playing ground, little way to gain an advantage with but teeth and tongue, both better meant for breaking skin and making you cry.
that doesn’t mean he’s bad at it. no, far from the contrary, skeleton has a masterful use of tongue and teeth, pulling at your lip until it’s bleeding and suckles at it with bite to spare, swiping along your own teeth before diving, drinking you in. kissing is either done fully, sloppily and roughly with too much pain and too little time, or not at all.
in the end, fellan leaves the kissing up to you, for the moments you catch him by surprise. for all his blustering and that ragged, bandaged soul, he’s quite the nervous creature, and when you catch his teeth with your lips, quickly, sweetly, the way he shades red is worth the look he gives and the curse spat in return.
acri kisses to conquer. there is little room for misintent in his world, facades and deflecting. if he wants you - when he wants you, he takes you quickly, roughly, by the pull of a chin, towards his own teeth and kisses hard, commanding in the way the world has turned him. he doesn’t want back-talk, he wants you pliable to a tongue that tastes of blood and teeth too thin to be so strong, tugging without any of the bite (for both your safety and his).
he kisses you to remind you he loves you, for whatever words can’t say, for whenever he forgets to, in that consuming, encompassing way of his. acri refuses to let there be room left for you to breathe, to think, to doubt, for a single moment in the way he tugs you close, presses hands to skin, digs in to bruise, that you don’t belong to him just as much as he does to you.
it’s the only way he can do things, here. all at once without a single doubt or not at all, and it’s often once he’s started he doesn’t stop; not until you’re heaving, a mess, spoiled and ripe all the same for his taking, and how he loves you like that, kissing you so richly that you’re ruined for anyone but him.
error doesn't kiss you. he might claim he doesn't care for it, spitting static slurs with the taste of battery acid in the air, but you know that's not true. he knows how, you're sure, and par his hesitation to partake, is far weaker for it than you'd give him credit for.
kissing for error is a daring, daunting thing and it comes after the harrowing flings with his archenemies, comes after returning covered in dust and static and marrow, comes after the frightening idea of tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with shaking phalanges and barbwire sharp teeth pressed into a thin line. kissing is dangerous, error says without words. kissing is reckless.
so you kiss him. when the hiss of the antivoid is but a soft cradle against your ears, when his hands are still and steady on those rare days between, when he seems at peace, maybe, if his scowl wasn't so heavy set; when he's got thick red-rimmed glasses set on a dark nasal ridge, and isn't expecting it - a soft press of lips to his skull, his cheekbones, his eye-socket. quick, stolen before he can erupt into a flurry of strangled snarls accented with a bumble-bee blush. before you can enjoy the moment between, when shattered eye-lights had widenned and teeth fell in surprise, and error must have thought to himself, what did I do to deserve you?
ink often forgets to kiss you at all, between the mischevious, innocent way he takes your hand in his and leads you about, place to place, and the blunt, blatant way he regards you when he’s got that passion-fruit colored paint betwixt his teeth. it’s not his fault, you know, because artist is oft either far too grounded and focused to really remember such trivial things, or somewhere between jupiter and saturn with how distant in orbit that soulless one-track mind has taken him.
but when he remembers? oh, when he remembers.
there is no mercy from an artist’s plunging tongue or pointed fangs, no refuge or hiding from the way he maps you out every single time, as if he’s forgotten ( he probably has, and yet, you would not be surprised to find your taste and texture scribbled out upon his scarf like some treasure map for him to follow, time and time again ) how you feel beneath him, always hands-on and eager to tumble into you, head first. ink has no such thing as modesty or restraint, not when he kisses you with a fevor that near demands to swallow you whole - learning, thorough, kissing until you’re just as drunk as he is on the taste of acryllic paint and that chalky, sweet musk that’s all him. he kisses you until you’re more desperate for air than his touch, catching little glimpse of that mink’s grin he wears so well - before he dives in again, always chasing after more.

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For the people who are out there “fighting the good fight” and “trying to make fandom a better place,” I have two important questions for you:
1. Is the author dead? x
2. Is your baby in the bathwater? x
What do I mean by those things? Let’s start with #1. The Death of the Author is a type of literary criticism, the extreme cliff notes version of which is that art exists outside of the creator’s life, personal background, and even intentions. I’m using it slightly differently than Barthes intended, but that’s okay, because the author is dead and I’m interpreting his work through my own lens.
In fandom, the author is dead. In fact, the author was never alive in the first place, not really. The author has only ever been the idea of a person, because unlike published fiction, the only thing we know about a fanfic author is that which they choose to tell us about themselves.
Why is that important?
Because it might not be true. Hell, that happens in real life with published authors, who have SSN’s on file with their publishers, who pay taxes on the works they create and have researchable pasts. If the author of A Million Little Pieces could fake everything, why can’t I? Why can’t you? Why can’t the writer of your favorite fic in the whole wide world?
Stop me if you’ve heard this before: “you can only write about [sensitive subject] if [sensitive subject] has happened to you personally, otherwise you’re a disgusting monster that deserves to die!!” Or maybe “you can only write [x racial or ethnic group] characters if you’re [x racial or ethnic group] otherwise you’re racist/fetishizing/colonizing!”
You can play this game with any sensitive subject you can come up with. I’ve seen them all before, on a sliding scale of slightly chastising to literal death threats.
Now, I could tell you that I’m a white-passing Latina whose grandmother was an anchor baby. I could tell you that I speak only English because my family never taught me to speak Spanish, something which I’ve been told is common in the Cuban community, though I only know my own lived experience. I could tell you that I’m mostly neurotypical. I could tell you that I’m covered in surgical scars. I could tell you lots of things.
Are any of these true? Maybe! I could tell you that my brother has severe mental development problems, so uncommon that they’ve never been properly diagnosed, and that he will live the rest of his life in a group home with 24-hour care. Is that true? Am I allowed to write about families struggling with America’s piss-poor services for the handicapped now?
Am I allowed to write about being Cuban? After all, I did just say that I’m Cuban. But is it true? Can I instead write a character that’s Panamanian? Maybe I really am Panamanian, not Cuban. Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m really French Canadian. Should we require people to post regular selfies? I can’t count the number of times I’ve had someone come up to me speaking Arabic, and I’ve been told that I look Syrian. What’s stopping me from making a blog that claims that I am Syrian? Can you even really tell someone’s race and ethnicity from a photo?
Am I allowed to write about being a teenager? Am I allowed to write about being a college student? Am I allowed to write about being an “adulty” adult? Can I write a character who’s 40? 50? 60? How old am I?
All of this is to say: you can’t base what someone is or is not “allowed” to write about on a background that may or may not be real. No matter how good your intentions. And I get it - this usually comes from a place of well-meaning. You’re trying to protect marginalized groups by stopping privileged people from trampling all over experiences that they haven’t suffered. I get that. It’s a very noble thought. But you can’t require a background check for every fic that you don’t like.
If you say “you can only write about rape if you’re a rape victim,” then one of three things will happen:
Real survivors will have to supply intimate details of their own violations to prevent harassment
Real survivors will refuse to engage and will then have to deal with death threats and people telling them to kill themselves for daring to write about their own experiences
People who aren’t survivors will say “yeah sure this happened to me” just to get people to shut up
Has that helped anyone? I mean really - anyone??
So now let’s get to point #2: is your baby in the bathwater?
If your intention is to protect marginalized people from being trampled upon, stop and assess if your boot is the one that’s now stamping on their face. Find your baby! Is your baby in the bathwater? Which is to say: find the goal that you’re advocating for. Now assess. Are you making the problem worse for the people you’re trying to protect? Does that rape victim really feel better, now that you’ve harassed and stalked them in the name of making rape victims feel safe?
Let’s say you read a fic that contains explicit sex between a 16 year old and a 17 year old. Is this okay? Would it be okay if the writer was 15? 16? 17? Should teenagers be barred from writing about their own lives, and should teenagers be banned from exploring sexuality in a fictional bubble, instead of hookup culture? Is it okay for a 20 year old to write about their experiences as a teenager? Is it okay for a 20 year old to write about being raped at a party as a teenager? Is it okay for a 30 year old? How about a 40 year old? Is it okay so long as it isn’t titillating? Is it okay if taking control of the narrative allows the writer to re-conceptualize their trauma as something they have control over? Is it okay if their therapist told them that writing is a safe creative outlet?
Is your author dead?
Is your baby in the bathwater?
Now let’s take a hardline approach: no fanfiction with characters who are under 18 years old. None. Is the 16 year old who really loves Harry Potter and wants to read/write about characters their own age better off? Should they be banned from writing? Should they be forced to exclusively read and write (adult) experiences that they haven’t lived? Will they write about teens anyway? Should they have to share it in secret? Should 16 year olds be ashamed of themselves? Should we just throw in with the evangelicals and say that the only answer is abstinence, both real and fictional?
Let’s say that no rape is allowed in fiction, at all. None. What happens to all the hurt/comfort fics where a character is raped and then receives the support and love that they deserve, slowly heal, and by the end have found themselves again? Are you helping rape victims by banning these stories? Are you helping rape victims by stripping their agency away, by telling them that their wants and their consent doesn’t matter?
Is your baby in the bathwater?
Fandom is currently being split in two: on one side, the people who want to make fandom a “safer” place by any means necessary, even if that means throwing out all of the marginalized groups they say they want to protect - and on the other, people who are saying “if you throw out that bathwater, you’re throwing the baby out too.”
The whole point of fandom is to be able to explore all kinds of ideas from the safety and comfort of a computer screen. You can read/write things that fascinate you, disgust you, titillate you, or make your heart feel warm. This is true of all fiction. People who want to read about rape and incest and extreme violence and torture can go pick up a copy of Game of Thrones from the bookstore whenever they want. Sanitizing fandom just means holding a community of people who are primarily not male, not straight, not cis, or some combination of those three, to higher and stricter standards than straight white cis male authors and creators all over the world.
There is nothing you can find on AO3 that you can’t find in a bookstore. Any teenager can go check out Lolita, or ASOIAF, or Flowers in the Attic, or Stephen King’s It, or Speak, or hundreds of other books that have adult themes or gratuitous violence or graphic sex. The difference is that AO3 has warnings and tags and allows people to interact only with the types of work that they want to, and allows people to curate their experiences.
Are these themes eligible to be explored, but only in the setting of something produced/published? Books, movies, television, studio art, music - all of these fields have huge barriers to entry, and they’re largely controlled by wealthy cishet white men. Is it better to say that only those who have the right connections to “make it” in these industries should be allowed to explore violence or sexuality or any other so-called “adult” theme?
Does banning women from writing MLM erotica make fan culture a better place?
Does banning queer people from writing about queer experiences make fan culture a better place?
Is M/M fic okay, but only if the author is male? What if he’s a transman? What if they’re NB? Who should get to draw those lines? Should TERFs get a vote? What if the author is a woman who feels more comfortable writing from a male character’s perspective because she’s grown up with male stories her whole life, or because she identifies more with male characters? What about all the transmen who discovered themselves, in part, by writing fanfiction, and realized that their desires to write male characters stemmed from something they hadn’t yet realized about themselves?
How can we ever be sure that the author is who they say they are?
Who is allowed to write these stories? How do we enforce it?
Is it better for none of these stories to ever exist at all?
Have you killed your author?
Have you thrown out your baby with the bathwater?
this post is AMAZING.
YYYYESS! The whole “you can’t write x unless you’ve experienced x” is baloney. I once wrote a Merlin fic where he experienced regular seizures and I did a LOT of research for it. And someone commented on that fic saying that they had similar issues and that I actually had accurately touched on aspects of having seizures that they had never seen represented before!
Now obviously, that person could have written this fic instead of me, but what if they don’t like to write? What if they would have been too afraid to mention the less-than-exciting aspects of their disability because it’s so often ignored that they feel it would be boring? What if they just don’t want to? What if they needed to FIND this fic instead of create it?
I’m all for supporting people who write stories about minorities from their own experiences, but diversity in fiction is GOOD no matter who writes it, so long as they represent it properly and in a respectful manner.
diversity is always good and should always be welcome especially if it’s written and portrayed good and correctly and having it shown will always make /someone/ feel better
CHAPTER ONE: Not So Fresh
Rewritten: 4/28/2019 Characters: Error, Fresh Tags: Alternate Universe - Errortale, Alternate Universe - Underfresh, Monster heat, Dubcon, Choking, Gagging, Light bondage, Biting, Growling, Violence, Kidnapping, Smut, NSFW, Cursing A/N: sup bitches here it is fresh and hot. First chapter of the rewrite, three more before new content!
iiiii’m going to rewrite csch ,
headin to bed, but got! 18 of 72 pages so far rewritten, so if this trend continues don’t expect an update prooobably until... the first of next month? probably!
Skelebro content i need to see
Papyrus just picking Sans up at any moment and carrying his sleeping body around and just continuing to talk to whoever he’s talking to but with a koala Sans snoring in his arms.
Sans doing things that cat owners do with cats that jump real high, because Papyrus can fly. So Sans will just be on the balcony and randomly throw something and Papyrus will jump from the snowy ground to catch it in his mouth.
Sans having the philosophy “If it fits I sits”
Sans makes Papyrus an Easter egg hunt but he holds all the eggs and Pap’s job is just to find Sans sleeping with an egg and a note somewhere. He actually has good hiding spots and it gets extremely heated.
Papyrus realizing that when Sans goes down for a midnight snack he just eats cold mac and cheese cause he doesn’t want to wake Papyrus up, so he pre-heats mac and cheese for him and leaves it there.
Every time they go shopping together they can and will by at least one kazoo. They have a secret stash of cheap kazoos for special occations in Papyrus’ closet.
Papyrus starts getting overstimulated at a party and Sans is the only one to notice and takes him home and makes him a mug cake.
When Pap was little Sans would bury himself in the snow and leave a sticky note on the fridge saying “come sniff me out”. Papyrus got so tired of this almost daily ritual and woke up super early and buried himself in the snow. It took Sans all day to find him and that’s why Papyrus wakes up at 4:30 now.
They have gone trick-or-treating as Edward and Alphonse Elric.
They have very different taste in music except they both like Twenty-One-Pilots and Hamilton and they rock out to it in the car.
Both of them legit thought arson was legal until recently.
Someone suggested they watch Coco (because Skeletons) and they both really liked it but when “Remember Me” started playing at the end Papyrus looked over to see Sans fucking silently bawling. He was just sitting there, the usual smile on his face, and an entire waterfall coming out both eye sockets. No one knows why.
Papyrus plays exclusively string instruments and Sans plays only horns. But they are masters of their craft. The only exception is the xylophone bc they are skeletons after all.
Every time Papyrus hurts himself by accident, no matter how, Sans just says: “that’s what you get for being tall.”
Papyrus once came home to Sans upside down on the couch, leg detached, covered in ramen and blue glitter, and crying while watching Breakfeast Club. Papyrus joined him.
Whenever they watch Pooh’s Hefflump Movie and Roo fails to capture Lumpy Papyrus just says “GOD WHAT A FUCKING MOOD” without fail.
Once they were bored so Sans stuck a bluetooth disco ball in his skull and they headbanged to Living Tombstone with the multi-colored lights shining through Sans’ eye sockets.
Once Papyrus couldn’t find Sans anywhere, like anywhere, and was getting really worried. And then he looked up and saw Sans sleeping on the ceiling bc gravity manipulation is dank.
Whenever Sans is awake but zoneing out, Papyrus will prank him by T-posing and hovering over to him.
Papyrus once forcefully woke up Sans by playing Despacito real loud in his room.
back when u were still enemieswithbenefits i read csch (like in 2018 idk) and loved it to pieces n like a few months ago when i read the tl project i loved it ok. n then when u changed users n stuff and mentioned enemieswithbenefits i was like "wait. wait a minute." and fhghfgn i freaked out with glee dude. ur like. one of my favorite undertale writers ever. youre the best, man
jfiojoidsf ah oh my god yea it’s me... snas undertale... or... better known as... enemieswithbenefits
i spent a long ass time in the undertale roleplaying community, so trust me my dude i never dropped it!! i’ve loved and cherished it for going on four years now, but!! this is so sweet omg dfsh
thank you so much!! i’m actually at the very moment working on rewriting through the first chapter of csch, since i’m very,,, hot and cold with my interests. here’s hoping i get,, maybe,, a new chapter out by the end of the week!!
ur the best :knife: <3

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some designs of my storyfell take