I Completely Forgot I Can Make My Own Posts On Here

at last, sans babysits…i never see sans and flowey as friends (and they weren’t, at first), but there’s a lot of potential there. almost no one else is as aware of multiple timelines and how they can mess you up

Take this grumpy flower with you on your journey, traveler. New part!! (yay) Check out this cool font I found, now my wrist won't hurt because of my terrible handwriting

tumblr staff will let the thousands of porn bots on here run rampant yet will take down trans comics with no actual nudity

i originally reblogged this post, but since staff took it down you can't fucking see my reblog anymore. well i liked this comic, i want it on my blog, and it does not include any fucking nudity. especially compared to all the straight up porn staff allows to go free

so here it is

untitled by Pas (paxiti), all pages from May 23, 2018 to June 22, 2023

the whole thing's devastating in itself, but would you guys believe me if i told you this part specifically makes me so super sad

flowey doesn’t allow himself to feel the snow. not really. he won’t talk about how the cold steadies him, or how it stirs memories of simpler times. he avoids thinking about the quiet. the way the world slows down under the weight of winter, how everything feels softer, almost bearable.

the peace feels too close. too easy.

thoughts like that aren’t for him. perhaps they never were. they belong to someone else. and flowey doesn’t get to be him. not anymore.

so, instead, he ignores it. kills it in its infancy. turns away from the idea before it drags up pieces of a life he refuses to remember. he acts like happiness isn’t something that should happen to him. a mistake. an error in the system that needs to be corrected.

there’s always this jaggedness to his words, something sharp enough to keep anything tender at bay. if something feels good, he cuts it down to size—turns it bitter, spits it back out as cruelty. it’s instinct by now, as natural as breathing.

that’s what flowey does. he tears things apart before they can convince him he deserves more. after all, it’s much easier to laugh at the world than to feel it.

this is just the way things are. the way they have to be.

the softness never feels right anyway. it’s awkward, like trying to cup water in clenched fists. like touching something delicate with hands meant only to destroy.

he’s flowey. he has to be flowey. and flowey doesn’t get to savor things. he doesn’t stop to enjoy the way the snow hushes the world or let the cold bite just enough to remind him he’s alive.

he knows better.

there's almost comfort in that. in shutting things down, in turning them brittle before they can take root. it’s neat. predictable. safe. no dangerous hope worming its way into places it doesn’t belong. no warmth overstaying its welcome. just the same old ache he’s carried for as long as he can remember—steady, familiar, dull.

manageable.

because if he let something good in… what then?

would it stay? refuse to leave? would it start to matter?

would he start to matter?

flowey knows exactly who he is. the villain. the failure. the one who tried to make things right and only made it worse. if there was ever a chance to be anything else, it’s long gone. whatever good might have existed in him has been buried beneath years of mistakes, smothered by everything he couldn’t save.

he had a plan once. a way to undo it all. make things right again. but it didn’t work. he didn’t work. he couldn’t save chara. couldn't save the monsters.

couldn’t even save himself.

and this… this is what’s left.

flowey. the version of him that learned to survive by not needing anything. the one who gave up on hope, joy, and peace because letting them in would mean the walls he built were never needed at all.

it would mean that somewhere inside, there’s still something soft. something worthy.

and he doesn’t know how to live with that. he’s not even sure he wants to.

control is all that makes sense anymore. he decides when the pain comes, how much, and from whom. he decides. no one else.

he’s built everything on that control—this image of who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to feel. but what if he stopped? what if he let the bitterness go? what would be left?

just asriel?

and what would that mean? that there had always been another way?

no. he can’t let that be true.

so he copes. he compartmentalizes. keeps things boxed up neatly. flowey and asriel. good. evil. pain. hope. life. death. they don’t touch. they’ll never touch. he’d lose control if they did. and control is all he has left.

he makes sure to break things down before they have the chance to become anything real. he’s always the one to close the door first—better to leave than to be left behind.

if not, he might remember what it’s like to be exposed. vulnerable. weak.

and that’s something he cannot accept. the possibility that asriel is still in there. that there’s still a way back.

that maybe… he was never as far gone as he wants to believe.

it’s almost funny, in a way, because he’s already changed, whether he knows it or not. the fact that he’s still here, still witnessing the world after everything that’s happened, proves he’s not as detached as he wants to believe.

the fighting stopped. the cycle ended. the monsters are free. and even if he won’t admit it, even if he’s not ready to come to terms with it—there’s a quiet kind of peace in that.

even so, he will dig in his heels. even so, he will play into the role in a war that’s long over. even so, he won’t let anything awaken the barest trace of what it once meant to be asriel.

he is flowey.

the snow will keep falling. it’ll land on his petals.

it doesn’t stay.

neither does he.

because it’s easier that way.

I found this camera on the subway and look what was inside...

flowey the flower!

the golden flower.

the plant that came from above. their favorite.

the bloom they had seemingly longed for with their final sigh.

flowey, who came to be in a world without them. who opened his eyes to find himself returned, not as he had been, but as this. a flower. their flower.

how dare he?

how dare he sprout in a universe where they were no longer there? how dare he exist here, in the soil where their feet would never tread? how could he rise, knowing they would never see the world from this height again?

he detested it. the golden glow of his petals. the way any stray sunlight that found its way down there seemed to favor him, as if he had any right to it. the way the wind would languorously rock him, as though he was meant to be part of something bigger. something whole.

but he wasn’t. he was loss personified. grief, given root and reaching. punishment. memoria. a living wound. every inch of him, a reminder of a breath that had long since stopped. every petal, an apology he would never get to offer.

was this atonement? or the most unsparing of mercies?

to take on the shape of their last wish, but now they’re not there to witness its morbid fulfillment. to be both their tribute and their executioner. to bear the figure of the very thing that witnessed what he had done. what he had failed to do, actually.

the golden flowers now surrounded him. they were all he had left of his best friend. and as much as he tried to curse them for everything they had taken, he couldn’t sever the bond. wouldn't.

because as long as these plants thrived, as long as the earth still held their roots—his roots...

chara hadn’t truly gone.

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merpy chrismahanukwanzica everyone

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