Icanseeyou2007 - Tommy

AUGHH/pos HE IS THE SILLY!! these headcannons r my favorite now. the goober:o3

ermmm very self indulgent marker drawings/headcanons I think!!! (feat. some of death pact again hehe)

real and same

mainly just the bottom half lul

౨ৎ

where I post from 🎀

i don’t think i have did but this is so me fr.

fuck it we ball

SILLY PFPS!!! i lob silly pfps of the goober aka he is just like me fr:o3

Gregoriah (regretevator) pfps for @icanseeyou2007 (requested via comment)

all art found on the wiki

reblogs>>>likes

i cannot express the joy this post brings me, it’s so lovely!^^ just like me fr. the gender/otherkin envy from this is surreal

Awaken

Theres a rumble to the earth, a dull, soundless boom felt only by my body as I slowly come to.

Pebbles rattle as my eyes flare to life, vision clouded in a soft, sapphire glow.

My bones feel old and weary, weighted by the damp kiss of moss upon my temple, my jaw creaking with unuse while rot spills from my fangs.

My shoulders click into place as I press against the soft, muddy clay, fingers splayed out into bony talons before my own eyes, a sight that gives us pause.

Our hands are no longer clothed in stumpy flesh, no longer pale pink nubs but now stretch slender ivory sticks, centipedes skittering out from the cracks in the bone.

A gruff, snoring groan like the howl of an elk escapes the corpse we inhabit as we rise, blood and ichor spewing from our sinewy, crooked neck as we rise from the earth.

Dirt and debris spills from our back like the shaking of the earth, matted fur rustling with every shambling shake as we stretch to life under the dawn of the bleeding moon.

It’s cold where we are, where I am, who I am.

Our body is so cold, frigid puffs of air meeting the humid mildew of the crypt we stretch in, our bones clicking and popping into the place they last remember fitting, balls rolling dry in their sockets as the ichor and tendrils of the forest try to sew our pelt back together.

No organs reside any longer, fueled only by the moss and fungi that inhabit old drying flesh turned leather scraps and ebony fur, what remains of our hair feeling like rigid straw beneath our grasp and dyed green by the lichen that clings.

The only flesh that remains moistened is the tongue we expel from my throat like a pungent slug coated in oozing mucus as it gurgles up the staircase of bone and fur that is our neck.

The wet appendage moistens our bones, licks me clean of the cracked mud and rusting blood that clings to our revealed skull.

Another shake frees our tail from the creeping confines of thorny vines.

Our antlers too scrape off the forgotten velvet of ages past and we step our hooves out into the haunting night’s trail.

We are awake.

I am alive.