#which is Not Good

[morgana-ren]

I want to fuck this nasty little fictional man so bad I could die

[kimmiessimmies]

Wistfulness (14/34)

As Sarah sat down again, she turned to James. “Mum wants to know if you’re bringing anyone to the funeral. And she added that as long as you’re not calling ‘that girl’ your girlfriend, it would be very inappropriate to bring her. Her words, not mine.”

“Seriously?” James asked, “Her mother just passed away, and this is what she’s worried about? That woman never ceases to amaze me…”

He shook his head, “Either way, no, I won’t bring anyone to the funeral. I assume that, by ‘that girl,’ she meant Leona, and Leona has moved away. I wouldn’t have brought her even if she hadn’t, anyway.”

Everyone now looked at James. “What?” He said.

“Leona moved away?” Sarah asked, “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” James said, sounding agitated. “Leona and I had sex, that’s all. Now, I’ll just have to do that with others. And on that note, please excuse me.”

He stood up and approached a girl sitting at the counter. His friends looked at him in silence.

[ozzybutweirdthistime]

ranboodles (ranboo doodles)

[seashoes]

Blue and orange are so so pretty together.

[pastafossa]

hi pasta! idk if u remember but a few months back i told u about me being zooted and wondering what matt would think of cheezits when he’s high. just want u to know i am having a not great high rn and i am once again, thinking about how matt would think of cheezits. the individual salt grains, bro.

TW: matt is high af in this one

He has no idea where the cheezits come from.

He's never bought a box of cheezits.

In his drifting mind, it's as if they simply... appear on the coffee table, a strange scent that ripples through the air like swirls of paint and over-processed fire.

He swings his head blearily, inhales slowly a few times, and he swears he can feel each individual molecule tickle the hairs in his nose, each one singing as it impacts his sinuses.

Wheat flour. Vegetable oil. Skim milk-

Cheese.

Cheese sounds nice.

Does he like cheese? Maybe he does. Foggy's grown bad cheese before, but he shouldn't judge all cheese by what science experiments Foggy cooked up in their little college dorm fridge.

He's a lawyer. It would be unfair.

He makes a noise where he's sprawled out on the spinning couch, which he also does not remember laying out on. His throat feels too heavy to make any further noises, especially when he's distracted by the way the sound waves ricochet inside the fridge like a drunken trumpet. A hand appears from the ground, flapping heavily and rustling air currents so loudly they sound like the gusts of a hurricane or maybe a particularly loud condor.

Matt wouldn't know; he's never heard a condor, so he can't rule it out. "Want cheezit?" Foggy says, very slowly, syllables making him twitch pleasantly.

Another affirmative noise. He can feel each individual fiber on the pillow below his head, but they're nice fibers that smell good and feel like tiny fingers, so he doesn't mind, even if that's a little creepy.

The floating hand makes its way to the box, and the plastic wrap inside tastes like Michigan and lake water. The roar of each cheezit striking its neighbor sounds like battle, like the bellow of cheesy, salty elephants before Foggy's retrieved one and plucked it free with another rush of air currents.

He can't lift his hand, not when his body feels like it's composed of five hundred pounds of sand inside a tube sock. He is once again reduced to a noise, and holding his mouth open.

It takes Foggy a while to find his mouth, but eventually he makes contact and clumsily drops the cheezit into Matt's mouth.

Matt's pupils cannot dilate. This is fact.

And yet... they do.

He suddenly understands why it is called a cheez-it, for this is not cheese. It is only a mockery, a mimic, an idol of lead beneath bright orange paint... an it.

It is... an abomination, and God leaves him in that moment.

It sits on his tongue, each jagged, individual grain of salt razor-sharp, hooking against his tastebuds like the jagged suckers of an octopus, like the reverse fangs of a serpent, digging in and prepared to assault his tongue for as long as possible. The scent of over-processed, overcooked cheese dust shoves its way up into his sinuses, beats at the roof of his mouth in sheer rage in the manner of all foul things that know they are evil and curse God for their own existence.

The edges are jagged, an army of lines and furrows, there is a dot in the center, a lie to tempt his tongue into thinking there is an escape from the cursed food he has placed upon it.

He wonders if it will get better if he bites-

It does not.

He's not sure how long he sits there with the cheezit on his tongue.

Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

Years.

Millennia.

He is an ancient, minuscule planet in the uncaring universe, held beneath the endless weight and universal laws of fake cheese and salt grains shaped like shark teeth and diamonds.

He is a temporary gasp of atoms and stars made alive, made to remember the fiery pain of their origination billions and trillions of years in the past thanks to the fleeting, hellish synthesis of processed chemicals produced by metal machines made of fractured stardust.

"Yay or nay on the cheezits, Matt?" Foggy slurs, each letter bursting in the air like bubbles.

Matt... inhales. And slowly swallows the melting cheezit.

It grinds its way down, each nerve it passes relaying in adequate detail that Matt has just swallowed something unholy, something not made for Mankind's throat.

He swallows the cheesy Tower of Babel, swallows Mankind's baked hubris and their attempts to play God, to create what should never have existed.

He... blinks, and inhales, drawing in the spiraling currents of air for strength, drawing in the atoms of the multiverse, filling his lungs with fire and light and individual particles of millions of lives that have touched and hated cheezits, particles that will touch millions and billions more people who love or hate cheezits, before eventually all grows cold and man's chance to render such abominations upon the universe will be ended, and says in a tone that carries the weight of one who has just had a deep, cheesy, unpleasant pot-related revelation:

"Gross.”

"More cheezits for me, then."

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia, I hope this doesn't come across rude in any way, but I was wondering if it will go back to two Underline updates a month for the Patreon at any point?

Possibly! But possibly not.

In the past, I actually only used to put one early access chapter a month up on Patreon (which was The Nascent Diplomat for a while), and it was like that for years.

Then it was two chapters - one Nascent Diplomat, and one Underline - for quite a few months.

And then it was three - one ND, and two Underline

And then it became four - one ND, two Underline, one Constellations.

And then that just became really unsustainable. And I've had to cut back to keep writing at all. So I've cut one of the early access Underline chapters. It's still more than I used to offer for years, but if anyone feels like they're missing out, or like that's the only thing that's acceptable via Patreon, they also aren't obligated to stay! I have to do what works for me as a human being, but other people have to do what works for them too, and that's definitely understandable.

For the time being - at least for January and February - it can only be one Underline update. Right now I'm writing at such a slow pace that I can't justify a faster schedule, I can't actually keep up with what I'm currently writing. And that's like... my journey as I figure out what works and that will change over time. But yeah if the only reason you're hanging around is for those two updates, you don't have to.

You can always check the schedule at the beginning of a month to see when it happens again. I hope it will in the future, right now everything's scaled back to deal with burnout, so folks are still getting 3 early access chapters a month (or 2 if they're not on the Gary+Efnisien tier), but sadly not 2 Underlines.

[floofanflurr]

A scene that takes place after chapter 11 of Heart on the Table. Please mind the trigger warning in the tags. Papyrus... is not having a good time. This is not necessary to read in order to read Heart on the Table.

Just a warning. A lot of my chapters tend to end on a slightly more hopeful note. This... just kinda hurts. Though, we will get comfort in story eventually!

Red-tinted water swirled down the shower drain beneath Papyrus.

The blood, it—

It was still covering his hands. Deep in the joints between his phalanges and metacarpals. Mechanically, Papyrus reached for the brush that he used to clean hard-to-reach places.

The bathroom smelled like cleaner, strong enough to make Papyrus dizzy. He’d scrubbed it. Kneeled on those tile floors and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. He’d done the same to the sink. Scrubbed and washed and cleaned until he couldn’t see red anymore, until the cleaner stung his bones from how strong he’d been using it. 

But he could still smell Frisk’s blood.

He poured more soap than he would normally use on his brush, the scent of cinnamon strong in the air. And then he scrubbed at his hands, trying to reach the little flecks of dried blood that stiffened his movements. It itched. It wasn’t bright red anymore. No. It had darkened into a much deeper shade of red.

Papyrus didn’t like it. He hated it.

It wouldn’t! Come! OFF!

He scrubbed harder, but it didn’t help. All he could see was red, all over his bones now. Bright and stringing between his phalanges and metacarpals underneath the thick layer of soap. 

The relatively soft bristles of his brush weren’t WORKING!

He didn’t smell the cinnamon of his soap anymore. All he smelled was rust, thick and sickly sweet in the humidity of the scorching water pouring over him. He needed it gone. It wasn’t going. Frisk’s blood was covering him.

His gaze caught sight the scrub brush he’d used to clean the floor, made of a much sturdier plastic with coarse bristles that would scrub away anything. (That would scratch his bones, the material much too harsh. Using it was something Sans would do. Papyrus didn’t care.)

He lunged forward and almost slipped on the wet tile as he scrabbled for the brush. And then he brought it back to the shower with him and scrubbed.

He scrubbed and scrubbed. The brush was leaving faint marks along his bones, light scratches that stung with the disinfectant that was still on the brush from earlier.

It. Wasn’t. Working!

Red still covered his bones. He could still smell it. It was all he could smell; all he could see. He scratched so hard his hands were tense and aching. His movements were frantic as he ran the bristles over his joints and bones.

Soap wasn’t working. He needed—he needed to get clean.

He threw open the shower once more to grab the container of cleaner resting on the floor nearby. And then he poured it over the brush and scrubbed again.

(This was going to dry out his bones. Make them harsh and brittle. Papyrus a week ago would have been horrified. Papyrus didn’t care.)

He scrubbed. He got more faint scratches on his bones. They burned. The chemicals were drying out his bones. But Frisk’s blood was still COVERING HIM!

He clattered to the basin of the shower, his bones rattling as tears poured out of his sockets. His shoulders shook and he couldn’t see anything other than a smear of red through his blurred vision as he hiccuped and sobbed and scrubbed.

And then the tight grip he had on the brush slipped and it clattered down next to the drain. 

Papyrus reached for it. And stilled.

And then he didn’t pick it up again as he buried his face in his hands and shook. (His hands that didn’t actually have blood on them anymore. But they would always have blood on them. Even if he couldn’t see it.)

The water running down the drain was clear.

The blood was gone. It had probably been gone for a while.

Papyrus sat there, tears mingling with the water as it poured over him for a few more minutes. And then he clambered to his feet.

The air smelled like cleaner. …He smelled like cleaner. Sans would be worried. More worried than he already was. Papyrus’s breakdown probably hadn’t helped in that case.

So Papyrus reached for his body wash again. He poured the soap into his hand, watching as it seeped through his bones, and then brought his hands together to lather it. He didn’t grab a washcloth or his brush. Instead he ran his hands over his dried-out, achy, and still kind of burning, bones, covering them with a thick layer of bodywash, and then rinsing it off.

He repeated this. Again. And again. And he ignored the way he felt kind of brittle, with only some of that being due to the harsh cleaners he’d poured on his bones. He did this until the smell of cleaner on him was so faint that you couldn’t smell it over the strong scent of cinnamon.

He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. And then he reached around the sink and pulled out one of his tubs of lotion and brought it back to his room with him.

He sat down on his bed and stared blankly ahead for several more minutes. And then the dry, aching, feeling of his bones reminded him of the way he ruined his meticulously followed care routine. He reached for the tub of lotion that was designed to work with bones, and put it on in a thick layer. The faint scratches on his bones were more obvious to him now that he was out of the water. When the dry, chalky, sensation was somewhat soothed with the lotion, he stood up.

He walked over to his closet, and stared at his battle body for a long second. His armor. His costume. So that he could feel like a hero; like someone who helped others. Someone important that people cared about.

…Some hero he was. 

All he’d done was hurt Frisk. Hurt his little sibling.

And he certainly hadn’t saved them.

Papyrus didn’t grab his battle body. Instead, he grabbed his purple dinosaur sweater that was soft and comfortable, that Sans had gotten for him, and some shorts. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves, ignoring blood he could still see flashes of on his bones. 

He turned towards the door to go let Sans know he could shower.

[trainerbob23]

And now let's change the topic

[gxlden-angels]

I hate going to Christian-based hospitals. There's a bible verse slide show on the screens that other places usually have medical information graphics and resources on and I just got asked "Do you have a source of peace in your life?" like babygirl I'm here for neurological pain my source of peace is Lidocaine 4% and a heating pad

[eddyneedssleep]

Y'all ever be having a good day and then you briefly think about the stuff you have to get done and all of a sudden you're like

[elijah-loyal]

dying again guys

(tag rant)

[youretoosweetforme]

Getting the relational icky feelings again

[doglover-trait]

Can we just... be nice? if you don’t like a builder’s style? It’s fine! But you don’t have to complain and trash them or anything. Don’t like the new CAS item. You can say so, but don’t insult the people who designed it. It’s really not hard, and I’m honestly liking simblr less and less...

EA is not the best, but this game means a lot to a lot of people, and I’m just sad about all the negativity. Everyone can feel whatever they like! Just try to be nice. Please.

[staretes]

hi ik i already said i would go on a month long hiatus but please keep in mind updates might still be scarce even after exams!

long story short my mental health this time of year is usually more dismal than usual (prolly cuz its exams period) but this year it's especially bleak as my national exams loom closer

like usually when i have nothing to do i cannot get out of bed which is already quite bad but recently my appetite and sleep have gone haywire as well which is not good ahaha if only i had access to mental health services...

also im getting surgery in a month so yeah i'll also have to recover from that

[cloudselkie]

Baldur's Gate 3 and Gale Dekarios have stolen my life. I feel a new hyperfixated coming on. Just scrolling through fan art and planning some of my own. No big deal.

[galaxythreads]

rereading YSFSLWFTCA chapters 8-12 so I can remember what the heck was going on as I work on chapter 13. Here we GO. Hiatus is officially over.