#petrichor thoughts

[pomdruzy]

I keep forgetting I have Tumblr still I need to either make a new account (so my art can be my main) or I need to deeply re-curate my feed

[petrichormeraki]

About Techno and Tommy’s streams.

•I still firmly believe that Techno is doing his best to support Tommy and I can see that he is actively trying to help Tommy through his trauma.

•Now hear me out, he isn’t perfect

•But, I think that’s because he’s trying to toe the line of being at least a little bit mindful that Tommy has been having a hard time and traumatic experiences

•But also knowing that in his position, Techno would absolutely hate pity

•And added to that Tommy is exactly the type of person to hate being pitied, to hate being seen as broken or weak or as if he can’t do things anymore

•So I think that while it may not be the kind of healing or help that maybe we would imagine

•I do think that the interactions on stream are showing that Techno is doing his best to help Tommy heal and move on

•Despite any other agenda that Techno might have

•I firmly believe that Techno has Tommy’s back right now

•And Techno would not hesitate to go to war for him

[petrichormeraki]

I think that in the misplaced AU, the reason that Dream gave for not allowing travel to the End was probably for “safety reasons” which, given the whole canon deaths thing makes sense, but imagine Impulse and Stress’s reactions of annoyance and even disbelief while everyone around them is silently wondering what kind of people ended up on their SMP that they were more annoyed than relieved at the concept of no End travel

[petrichormeraki]

You ever have that moment where you’re so touch starved and forcefully removed from society that it physically feels painful that you can’t be around the people you care about

[pomdruzy]

Thinking about doing commissions soon

[mothghhost]

"I don't have time for this"

She stepped away, a single step, to stare at lines and glue, as ink and paint etched in her hands. There it sat, eyes gleaming, soft gloating, brown paper. Three.

Three more between the hours, laughing, mocking, tempting.Twenty one in the closet leaning against walls with tales of victories carved into their skin, along their faces, scars crystalized across their flanks.

She sat back, old bristles between fast fingers. "A wolf devouring the earth": phrases chiming in ancient wood and yet the familiar ringing of the axe still chopping in the silence, in the repeated words.

Pacing, pacing, pacing, tea reaching tendrils across the floor. Caffeine stamped on the ceiling.

Where will he go when he has finished, a still moment trapped in black chemicals? Who will be there to pore over his frame? Gawk at the ink that fills her lungs; whisper about the paint that runs through her blood, but drain the oceans of iridescence and, without eyes, mar the face of eternity. Receipts engraved with leaves, candy wrappers embossed with faces.

And yet, she sits back. Tongues click and salt drowns but who has time. So fingers continue to dance, weaving patterns into the cracks of her heart because her veins are full of colour and her eyes full of faces and her skin full of leaves, and even as words shatter across broken canvas, ink seeps beneath her fingernails.