#skeletal leaves

[more-than-ideas]

Sonia Chabas

[crudlynaturephotos]

[sun-snatcher]

♧ ⎯ THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

summ.  Something is wrong with Gambit. Deadpool & Wolverine are attacked— but they aren’t the target.  pairing.  Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader , (established in #WELUCKYFEW) w.count.  3.6k a/n.  Kickstarting a potential storyline?! I’m gonna be so honest I don’t know either but. Maybe not. C’est la vie. Warnings for canon-violence & gore!

CURRENTLY, IN DOWNTOWN NEW YORK:

WADE HAS A BLADE EMBEDDED through his throat. 

He hadn’t expected his Friday night to go like this.

This, by way of meaning: getting glass shards straight to the eyes after some asshole decided not to use the front door, and proceeding to wreak absolute havoc throughout the entirety of Wade’s apartment in an attempt to kill him. 

Which brings us to now.

“Can we— eurgh— please ta— ack—!” Wade retches, gargling in his own blood as he slowly unsheathes the sword out his neck. 

He spits the metal-tang-curdle of saliva to the floor with a hiss. His teeth and the house carpet stains an ugly vermillion. Somewhere amidst the long fight, Dogpool has scampered for cover with the roomba.

“Canwepleasetakeatimeout?!” 

A picture frame shatters above him in reply. Wade dives to the living room, booting the coffeetable onto its side for cover. “Fuck me, this’ll all be a pain in the ass to clean up once we’re done h— ooh, what’s this?”

The tipped over IKEA table Blind Al set up two days ago reveals, stunningly: a concealed Glock 47. And knowing the old lady, these— alongside every weapon she’s likely squirrel-stashed around this house— is probably loaded.

(It’s by no means a gold-plated Desert Eagle from Nicepool— God rest his soul— but Wade makes a mental note to kiss Al on the mouth once she’s back from the laundromat.)

He unholsters the pistol; unclips the magazine; gauges— only 5 bullets. (…Does she kill people in her spare time? He’ll have to ask.) “You couldn’t’ve attacked me in my superhero suit? Would be so much more visually appealing for the audience, y’know.”

The assailant lets out an accented snarl beneath the dark of her hood. “D’ya ever shut th’ fuck up?”

“Uh, no? Wow, it’s like you don’t even know who you’re trying to kill here—” 

Wade slides across the floor and fires. With a sharp dodge, the first bullet narrowly misses, bursting brick and drywall instead; The second clips the assassin’s shoulder as she curses.

“You sure you’re not supposed to be after Elektra instead? I mean, the whole hooded ninja-assassin-lady fit is kinda giving edgy early-2000’s era.”

A scowl. Ninja-lady hurtles a dagger just as he stands, slicing a whistle into the air. Wade only just deflects it with a timed swing from the same sword he’d yanked out his neck. 

“Aw, all out of steel? This is why you shouldn’t bring a gun to a knifefight, beautiful.” He narrows his eyes. “Hold on I said that wr—”

“All this fuckin’ chatter!” she groans, brandishing another sword. Dusklight scatters through the drizzling rain and the window curtains, glimmering against her blade— and for a moment Wade catches it reflecting in her eyes: crescent-like; amused. 

She’s smiling. Purposefully. 

“Where did you even—? Did you pull that out your prison-wallet?”  

“We been fightin’ a while now, Wilson,” the assassin ignores, looming like a living shadow in the dim of the kitchen. There’s blood splattered against her plain mask and the edges of her cowl. Most of it belongs to him. “Y’know y’self that this shoulda ended, say, ten minutes ago, now?”

“Well, that’s why I politely asked for a time-out, genius.”

“Makes y’wonder if this whole fight’s really ‘bout you, non?”

Wade stutter-steps.

His gut twists. 

Logan, he thinks, instinctively. Then: Vanessa, Blind Al, Laura, Gambit, and you— Stray.

This has been… a stall. A fucking distraction.

“Hah! See, now you’ve just pissed me off,” the merc sing-songs, tone falling flat. It’s one thing to come after him; another to come after his family. 

He tamps down the worry, rolls his shoulders. “Right, well.”

Deadpool recalls his rounds. 

Three remain; one already chambered. More than enough. 

“Let’s fucking dance, shall we?”

…ALSO CURRENTLY, SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK:

“WHO—” 

Stab. 

“THE FUCK.” 

Stab. 

“SENT—” 

Stab. 

“YOU?”

The mountain of a man— if Logan can even call him that anymore after the absolute carnage he’d dealt to him in this seedy back alleyway— cries out a desperate ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ just as he rears back for another strike.

“God, wish they never assigned me to the fuckin’ Wolverine. Goddamn suicide mission,” he coughs out. His curly beard looks near black from the fountain of blood dribbling out his lips, and pooling down his neck where it stains his torn hood with gore.

Thunder rolls in the distance. The flash in the nightsky swaths Logan into cutting edges; paints him menacingly in every sharp crease and divot of his features. Rainwater mix with the streaks of red on his arms, dripping down, down, down to the blade-edge of his claws.

“Tell me what I wanna know and I might just let your sorry ass live.”

“I wasn’t told who sent us, okay—?” The answer has Logan snarling. “—Dude, I said wait, I said wait! You pointy prick— Jesus. None of this is personal, okay?”

A grunt. It’s nigh animalistic in sound. “Holding a gun to my head when I was mindin’ my own business is pretty fuckin’ personal to me.”

And they were Adamantium bullets too. He’d come prepared.

“Chill,” he laughs. “We’re not here for you. Or Wade Wilson, for that matter.”

Logan’s hairs stand on end. “What the fuck did y’just say, bub?”

“I said,” the man heaves, head lolling under its own weight and eyes heavy from the bloodloss. “This ain’t about you, or your cancer-fucked boyfriend.”

The crunch that resounds from between his jaw and Logan’s fist is monstrous. He’s half-sure he may have unhinged something, or dislodged a row of teeth. 

He snatches the assassin by the collar and slams him against a dumpster, hard enough to leave a dent. “How many else of you are there? Who the fuck are you after?”

“Not enough to be honest,” comes his wheezing answer. It’s a laughter churned in derision and obvious resignation. He knows he won’t survive this. The corners of his vision have already begun to vignette.

“Do you really want to measure your pride against my fucking mercy, bub?”

A huff, akin to the flap of a white flag. The behemoth relents. “Four… of us. Too many… and we’d cause an incursion.”

There’s no time to question what the hell that meant. He’s slipping.

“You didn’t come here to kill me,” Logan repeats, grip loosening. “So why’d you bother trying?”

The assassin grins, teeth shining crimson with fresh blood. 

“To buy ‘im time.”

5-ISH MINUTES AGO:

If war had taught you one thing, it’d be that instinct will save your life.

And something is definitely wrong. 

It needles over your skin and nape, makes your insides pace like a caged animal— you feel it whenever you turn the cornerstone down 5th Avenue, when you pass the pour of newsstands at the end of the street; feel it at the cafe just opposite the X-Men’s Academy grounds where you go to mark papers. 

You tell yourself to shake it off. That it’s just you settling into a new Universe, but—

“Rain caught you?” you ask, between the vinyl-croon in your shared downtown apartment, “Dinner’s ready soon. Allons manger.”  *

“Ooh! Smellin’ mighty fine up in here.” The front door is closed shut. Remy slides his coat off and tosses it lazily to the sofa armrest. Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t comment. “And oui. Rain caught me out a bit.”

“Them brigands give y’any trouble?” he asks, taking the plates from your hand to set once he’d come up to the kitchen island.  *

You make a noise as you shut the fridge door and turn with two beers in hand. Remy laughs. “Mais, y’been dealt a bad hand today, chèr?”

“How could you tell?” you feign a gasp, sliding a bottle his way and leaning back the counter as you sigh. “Students were restless today. And, my phone’s dead too. Drenched in the rain the second I stepped out the school. Stuffed it in rice and praying it’ll live.”

Then, suddenly— your nose wrinkles. You turn sharply towards the stove to check if anything’s burning. “Smell’s like smoke.”

A pop of his beercap. It clatters as he makes a hum of assent. “Probably me. M’sorry, chèr, I’ll change—”

“You smoke—?” 

Remy colours a little. 

“—Since when?”

There’s blatant surprise in your eyes more than there is confusion. Your gaze flickers to his hand. He has a deck in his palm; Charlier cut. One-handed shuffle. 

Anxious tic. You haven’t seen him do it in a while.

“Mais…” 

Needles, you’re reminded. That reflexive needling at the back of your mind is creeping at the margins again. 

“I, I’m not stopping you,” comes your quick answer. Your hands are raised in surrender; you aren’t here to interrogate or stop him from his will. “Just— I didn’t expect it. Is, Is everything okay?”

“Mais oui,” he nods, trying to reassure you. “S’not often. S’just t’help me blow off some steam. Ain’t gotta worry that pretty lil’ head a’ yours, chèr, I promise.”

Your Remy had been a smoker. You’ve told him this before. Perhaps it’s a Multiversal thing, too. “No smoking indoors, though, deal?”

He purses his lips, looking sheepish. “Deal.”

The topic is dropped; A bated silence falls as he watches you dish dinner for the both of you. His intuition has always been precise, however, and it’d only been a matter of time before he spoke up again after he watched you sidle into your high-chair opposite his and push your food around.

“And you?” he presses, carefully, “Can hear the gears in y’head turnin’ from here, chèr. Talk t’me. Quoi ça dit?”  *

It’d be pointless to lie. You glance at the rain pelting like hellfire at the window, then back at him, shaking your head as if in dismissal. “Nothing. I just feel like there’s someone out there, lately. Like we’re being… I don’t know.”

“Watched?” he offers, gauging your reaction.

Yes, you think to say, but you didn’t want to appear paranoid. You’ve had this conversation with Logan before; the thrown looks over your shoulders, the twitchiness, the habit of sitting with your back against the wall; Unending disquiet that simmers to a slow boil in your marrows. 

(The war in your Universe may not have killed you, but it’d broken you beyond repair.)

“...I feel like something bad’s coming. Like someone’s gonna break through the window or—” You shut your mouth with a click before that thought goes off on a nervous tangent. “My, my body keeps preparing for a fight. Like there’s something out to get me all the time.”

Remy’s eyes are curious. Observing. He’s stopped fidgeting as he listens, deck resting in ready position. 

“Chèr,” he begins, gently taking your hand from across the table and—

You almost yelp.

His touch is cold.

(Needle-like.)

You very nearly pull away.

(Instinct.)

Dread crows like a song; a banshee’s cry in your mind’s eye.

“Easy, hey,” he frowns, worry painting across his face when you slide your hand from his. “Chèr.”

“I—” Panic roars in your chest. Your lungs expand. It’s the beer bottle, you reason, that’s why his touch is cold. Maybe even the rain. Hell, this could just be an anxiety attack.  

“I’m fine. I’m fine, sorry, I’m just— tired. Yeah.”

His gaze softens.

“Hey. Look at me, chèr. Y’home. Y’safe. Y’know that.” 

You nod. Press your eyes shut. Take a gulp of beer, focus on the burn; on the distant New Orleanian croons of the record player just under the window. 

“Gambit ain’t gon’ let anythin’ happen t’you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling tightly. It doesn’t reach your eyes; does little to dispel your razor-edged wariness. 

He notices. He always does.

“How ‘bout a game t’clear y’mind, chèr?” he offers, nudging his plate an inch to make way for his deck of cards. “Go fish?”

You laugh. It’s fragile. “You’re gonna let me win, anyway.”

“There’s that smile,” Remy hums under his breath, just enough that you can catch it. “—An’ no, chèr. Cross my heart, Gambit ain’t gon’ let y’win. Mais, y’know how I get wit’ games.”

He does cross his heart, playful, then shuffles his cards. You try to let yourself sink back into familiarity in his flourishes and its sounds; watch his hands work deft to chase away the anxiety still clawing under your skin. 

He deals.

You adjust your cards. 

…ven of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts, Nine—

Your blood runs cold.

“Is…” 

You try to swallow back the horror as you look at the neat fan in your hand. “…Is this a new deck, Remy?”

The next bit of what he says sounded off to your ears; a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. 

“Mais non, this the same deck Gambit been usin’ since the start.” He shoots you a confused look.

(It’s like a muslin-thin veil has been lifted: 

The nerves and paralysing paranoia, his precious brown leather coat thrown carelessly over the couch instead of being hung reverently on the rack, the grotty scent of cigarette smoke beneath the rain, the anxious shuffling of his cards at the table, the uncanny observation and scrutinising— and perhaps, what should’ve been the most damning of all— his ice-cold touch. 

No warmth. To the touch. In his gaze. In his smile. In energy.)

“Chèr? Y’alright?”

No. No, you’re not fucking alright.

Because this deck has a Nine of Hearts. That card has been with you, since the Void; since the start.

This…

This man is not Remy.

“Yes,” you say, and you internally scream at your reply— too quick. Too quick to hide the obvious lie. “Sorry, I just gotta— I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Chèr—?” he frowns, chair scraping as he stands to try reaching out and steadying you.

Your heartbeat skyrockets. Instinct howls inside you. Everything has been recontextualised, and suddenly every difference about him jumps out: the rough edges, the muss of how his hair falls, the cut at the tip of his ear you never noticed.

“No, stay. Stay, I’m fine—” You teeter your way off the stool. It’s not entirely a lie that you felt like throwing up, but the omission is: there’s a gun you keep under your pillow, and another under the bathroom sink.

Your phone is dead. This will have to be a fight. 

And against a mutant? You have nothing but a slim chance.

“Stray,” he calls. His voice would be soft to anyone else's ears, but you hear it now— the difference, the rasp, the hardness as his heavy footfalls draw close behind you in the hall. Frustration. Not concern. “Talk to me, chèr.”

You slam the bathroom door shut with a resounding click of the lock. You let the sink run and drown out the noise of your hands fumbling underneath the sink, and once the weight of the 9mm pistol is in your palm, there’s faint comfort. 

The rest is muscle memory: confirming a round in the chamber, unclipping to check the remaining 15 in the magazine; recalling the distance to the front door and whether you can even get through this whole thing without firing a single bullet, much less alive.

Remy— or, no, fake Remy? Fake Gambit? —is knocking at the door. His words are muffled. You barely pay attention as you place your pistol by the faucet, and dip your head down to splash water to your face and ready yourself for a scuffle.

“Stray.”

Your head shoots up. 

The door’s unlocked and wide open. Gambit’s loom behind you through the reflection of the mirror is harrowing.

You barely have time to scream.

His hand snarls through your hair— then, like a loaded spring, Remy rams your head against the mirror.

You cry out. Glass shatters in a spray.

“Tell me.” A gruff chirp, right by your ear. “What gave me away, eh? 

“Fuck… you,” you choke out, cringing when a shard cuts into your cheek.

“Baw, why ‘de bobin, Stray?” His accent is heavier now that the guise has been dropped. “Y’know, I ain’t never understood ‘dat nickname. Where’d’ya come from, eh? Y’aint from ‘round here?”  *

“C’mon, Raven,” you rasp, head reeling as red gushes down your face. “Enough games. Drop the skin.”

He laughs. It sounds painfully like the Remy you know. “Mais la, how disappointin’. D’ya really think I’m Mystique? ‘Dat couyon bleue could never nail ‘de Cajun accent even if she trained for it.”  *

You don’t care which Remy this is. The distraction buys enough time. Your hands scramble at the faucet; grasping for your pistol until—

“S’Gambit in ‘de flesh, chèr bébé, jus’ ain’t ‘de one y’used t’cuddlin’ with at ni—”

You fire blindly. A tile bursts. The gunshot booms like a church bell. 

Gambit recoils with a sharp yell, vision searing white from the piercing ring in his ears. You take the chance to book it past him with a gasp, nearly slipping on the floor as he barely misses snagging the hem of your shirt. 

“Son of a bitch,” he grinds out, shaking his head. He springs his collapsible staff, props himself to his feet. “Gotta give it t’you, chèr, y’got bite. Shame ‘de night had t’end ‘dis way. Was hopin’ we coulda’ got on by peacefully.”

Gambit descends like a reaper down the hall. His hand draws a card and you hear the cutting whistle of it in the air.

It’s too quick for you to react. The Ace explodes, and the blast has you rocketing to the floorboards by the record player. The tracks skip from the harsh impact:

 “-- ZZzrt -- I been in the right place! But it must have been the wrong time!” 

Comically perfect. Life sure likes making a joke out of your situations, huh?

You fire two pointed shots as you turn onto your back. One hits the cornice and the other is a near-miss, dodged by Gambit ducking into your room doorway with a curse. It throws him off his rhythm. His growl turns into a sour grimace instead. “Goddammit, woman.” (You’re a sharp shooter, Gambit admits. He had felt the wind on that one.)

Dr. John still croons his ‘70’s Cajun funk in your ransacked home. “---I been in the right world! But it seems like wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!---”

Pain lances up your leg as you stagger to your feet. You can’t pinpoint where, but nothing feels broken; a small mercy.

You make a break to the front door as you continue firing to keep him back. You’re not out of the woods yet. If you can just get out, dart for the stairs, you’d atleast get a better shot at surviving this insane manhunt—

The front door handle is busted. 

Busted, in which: Gambit must’ve charged the handle and melted the lock into nothing from the inside out when he first arrived. Sly bastard.

“---Refried confusion is making itself clear! Wonder which way do I go to get on out of here?---”

Thinking clearly is out of the question, so you think rapidly instead. Fire escape. Right outside your bedroom window. 

It’s too late, though. Gambit deals another card the moment you swivel on your feet— and the charge detonates just as you raise your gun.

The flash of purple is lightning hot against your fingers. The force sends you careening to the door and sliding down with a strangled hiss. 

Your pistol clatters. You scramble for it—

An aside on all the Gambit’s you have had the (un)fortunate opportunity to come across: all versions of him across the Multiverse are surely relentless. Be it in competition, or charm, or, in this case, pure fucking bloodlust amid combat. 

Some of his feats are impressively frightening.

Like charging his staff— and then spearing it straight from across the room and right between your pistol’s trigger guard.

Disarmed in an instant.

Deadly accuracy.

“---I took a right move! But I made it at the wrong time!---”

You really wanted to break that damn player.

“Nice try, chèr,” Gambit says, voice dark as he saunters over to you. The smile that spread across his face is like blood emerging from a quick, precise slit. (In another time, you might’ve considered it attractive.) “But Remy oughta teach you a t’ing or two ‘bout knowin’ when t’fold y’cards.”

That crisp accent of his almost makes the threat sing out sweet. He picks his coat up along the way and shrugs it back on.

“Yeah, well. Not your call,” you snap, scooting to your back with a visceral glare. “What the hell do you want?”

Another aside of Gambit: Like water in a river, Remy LeBeau always takes the path of least resistance. And yet he hadn’t killed you when he had multiple opportunities to do so, and every card he’d dealt throughout the fight was meticulously controlled, just enough to not do any real damage. 

The signs are clear— he needs you alive.

“Wanna put a damn gris-gris on you for ‘dis, first of all.” He gestures to his bleeding temple with a wince. Your first shot must have burst his right eardrum. “Mais la, I need me a cigarette.” *

A deep sigh. He fishes an odd gadget out his pocket, and you narrow your eyes. It looks familiar. 

“Listen, chèr.” Gambit rips his bō staff off with a grunt, wood splintering out the boards from the force. He lazily kicks the gun away, looming over you with a resigned look on his face. “I ain’t here to kill you, alright? ‘Dat’d make ‘dis a hit, and ‘dat ain’t in the nature of what Remy do.”

“---Head is in a good place, and I wonder what it's bad for!---”

You let out a defeated snort. “So? Is that supposed to make me feel any better?”

“So.” He exhales, triggers his device with a button. 

A TVA Time-door warbles open. 

…What the fuck?

“Don’t be harborin’ any bad feelin’s on me for what I’m gon’ do next.”

Remy re-grips his staff. You pale.

“Ah, shit.”

You’re out like a light before you register the blow.

No one’s home by the time Wade and Logan barge in, late by a matter of seconds.

*Cajun Footnotes

Allons manger — Let’s eat Brigands — Troublemakers Quoi ça dit? — What’s up? (Literally: “What that says.”) Bobin — Frown Couyon bleue — Blue fool Gris-Gris — a curse/bad luck

[spotlightstudios]

This post goes out to my Father for regularly giving my heart attacks.

Context: I am a sfw artist. I completed that Rouge piece today. I am living with my parents, and regularly show them my personal artwork because I'm a little prideful alright? My father is super excited to see this drawing of my dnd character, and he excitedly asks to take a picture and yeah, that's fine. I leave him unattended and go talk to my mom in another room.

I return, and this man has my sketchbook flipped open looking through it like a kid at the candy shop, and I am desperately trying to roll through my head to figure out if I somehow had nsfw art or a rude gesture or smth that'd make him judge me. I do not. I decide it's safe. I have forgotten about Baddie, my Helluvaboss oc. Pros: My father likes his design and asks about him. Cons: I almost instinctively, casually, referred to him as a 'manwhore' when questioned. I kept that thought inside, but instead got very flustered. He did not notice.

I am very lucky my father supports me and loves what I draw, but I am also very afraid because this guy has also seen my laptop open and started reading a (fairly embarrassing) oc/self insert fic I was writing about Voltron (it was not ship stuff, just me digging into worldbuilding) but I was like 14 and he'd gotten almost a full page or two in before I returned to the room and panicked.

So, half a decade and nothing's changed 🙏.

[spotaus]

Finally bringing Pretender to life!

[jrwiyuri]

More bitches need tails.. gonna start giving human characters tails just cuz

[knightofleo]

Found the Earthbore Cave.

[recurring-polynya]

(Inspired by your recent post on Haineko and also that fic you wrote about Hinamori getting the hogyoku) I bet Matsumoto and Hinamori could get an epic combo move, I read somewhere that if you tried to get too close to a volcanic eruption you'd get encased in volcanic ash and die inside the solid shell it'd form. Which feels somewhat thematic for them based on vibes alone.

yeah YEAH!

Rangiku and Momo are two characters I would love to see hang out more. It's clear that they already have a good relationship prior to Aizen's defection--we see them conspiring to do something for Hitsugaya on his birthday in the fireworks flashback, and Rangiku is the one who brings Aizen's letter to Momo when she's in prison, even though it's technically evidence or something.

It's actually a little weird that we know absolutely nothing about Rangiku and Gin's relationship once they left the Rukon. I kinda get the feeling that Gin blew her off completely, but maybe there was a period where they had a relationship again. I get the definite sense that they are estranged at the time of the defection. My point in this is: did Rangiku have any sense that Aizen was not what he seemed to be? I feel like out of all the people in Soul Society, Rangiku is the one who might look at Aizen and, in particular, his relationship and actions toward Gin, and say, "wow, there is definitely something about this dude that does not add up." In other words, I also don't know if she had any sense of Momo being gaslit by Aizen while it was happening. That being said, I am at the age where, a couple of times now, a friend tells me they are getting a divorce and it feels like it's coming out of nowhere, but at the same time it doesn't. It's a really complicated feeling of "I should have seen this" but also not, because hiding the broken parts of a relationship are often part of what makes it so broken. All of this is to say that I think that Rangiku would have really been there for Momo in the aftermath, partly as an exercise in dealing with her own lingering Gin-feels, and I love they idea of them working some of this out through developing some sick moves.

I do not know a lot about volcanos, but I know that they exist in one of those batshit regimes of physics where temperatures are so high that you run into all kinds of nonlinear effects dealing with the compressibility of air and ionization effects. If you wander through the rabbit warren of volcano-related horrible-things-that-will-kill-you-but-have-really-cool-names, it's all stuff like "oh, this happens when pyroclastic debris hits running water and accelerates to insane speeds" or "if the eruption column can't entrain enough air, it will collapse and rains molten material down on everything"

In other words, I think Tobiume and Haineko are two great tastes that would go even better together. Rangiku could embed Haineko into one of Momo's lava jets and use it to make a controlled lahar to throw in people's face. Momo could create a pyroclastic surge with Haineko, and sandblast the landscape, gaining the sort of +2 spiritual damage you get from hitting things with a zanpakutou. The possibilities are endless. It's not even just a case of being able to do unique things, but just taking advantages of each other's strengths. Maybe it's easy for Momo to create magma, but hard to move it around, but Rangiku can do that easily. Releasing Haineko in an area where Tobiume is going off is going to add auto-fire damage, that's a freebie.

This would take so much practice and be so much fun and Hitsugaya would be in favor of it in theory, except that he's sitting in his office with an ice pack on his head, doing all of Rangiku's paperwork because he knows she's going to be "too tired" later. That is, until Momo comes running in with the latest research journal she got Lisa to import from the Living World for her, because it turns out that with a combination of hot gas, ash and ice particles you can make volcanic lightning.

[arty528]

I did a drawing yayyyy

A clearer version of the faces:

His name is Max and he’s an immortal. I like putting him with skeleton imagery for that reason. I called this one “Skin and Bones”

[phantasmaw]

♢*   @sangdelune /  𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜-𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ↳ ( 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧 - matryoshka ft. world's end girlfriend )

  〈 ஐ* 〉┊  Sovann has never seen such little animation in the boy before. It's as though the events of the day have sapped all strength, all life, from him. They wonder if they should ask what troubles him so deeply. No-- they know they should. But their lips stay sealed shut in a distant frown as they observe him struggle with whatever it is that plagues him. What a pathetic sight. Deep inside their chest, their heart twinges. Silently, they cross the room until they came to kneel at his bedside. Gilded talons gently card through clouds of white hair. When they blink, an afterimage of long-list kin superimposes itself on top of him.

"Close your eyes," Sovann whispers, voice rich with unsung lullaby, "see everything you want to see." Their fingers trail through his hair again, then gently cradle his cheek, trying to convey what they can't quite manage to say: tell me about it, if you want.

[crudlynaturephotos]

[panicbones]

god i really hate mandalorian fandom cuz they love unmasking mando as much as possible. i love pedro pascal dont get me wrong but not at the cost of shitting on in canon cultural/religious significance

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Uncharismatic Fact of the Day

Ohhhh what's three times the size of an elephant, over 500 years old, and lives under the sea? Big Momma! She is a massive protites coral that's 6.4 m (21 ft) high and 41.8 m (135 ft) around at the base; her age was estimated based on samples of her skeletal core and the fact that porites corals only grow about 1 cm (0.39 in) per year.

(Image: 'Big Momma', a Porites species of coral (left) and a diver (right) by Wendy Cover via NOAA)

If you like what I do, consider leaving a tip or buying me a kofi!

[griffworks]

UAVHHHH Kobeni cares about calcifer sooooo much

[sukunas-wife]

Sealed 2

1 3

“Year after year after year the hours pass and it never ends, I’ve been here for millennia is Ryomen even trying?” You sat down onto the pile of bones, skeletons supporting you the best they could. The Prison Realm had become your domain, you’d molded every bone and skeleton to do your work. Your elbow resting on the spine of skeleton your cheek pressing against your fist as you stared bored.

Looking down the pile of bones and skeletons holding up your throne that you had formed to match Sukuna’s you saw two Skeletons battling for your amusement. Sighing you slouched back in your throne, watching the two headed four armed skeleton using sharpened bones as spears, fighting a towering 6 armed Skelton. His arms like vices ready to grab and shove whatever into its gaping rib cage to crush it. “This needs more!” The two skeletons looked up at you, before the rumbling of the skeletal centaur could be heard, a centaur of bone, his torso with 4 arms, it held an extended spine as if it were a chain. Lower two arms ready to grab at anything, more specifically rip off the head and spine of its opponents.

“YES! THIS IS what we need!” You smacked the skeleton who stood near you on the back. His bones shaking as you leaned forward, you’d find out soon which of your creations was truly the strongest. “Let’s get this show started-“ it was quick blur of red and black before you were standing head tilted to the side as you stared irked at the man in front of you. “Do YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST DID.”

“PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I BEG FOR MERCY I SPENT MUCH OF MY LIFE LOOKING FOR THIS TREASURE THATS BEEN hidden away heating the tales of how the sourcerer’s of old time had wrongly imprisoned a Diety of Fertility separating her from her son. I just come to beg and ask you give my wife your blessing to have a child were old in age but she’s always prayed and begged. I’ve run out of hope until i heard you tale, i beg and hoped you’d have mercy- Sit up” was all you said. The man went from groveling to sitting back on his heels. Sighing the conflict inside of you was great. You looked around tucking your arms into the sleeves of your worn Kimono. “Bring me your wife,” you looked up through the canopy of the trees you see the sun at mid day, “you have two sunsets and then I leave.” The man quickly bowed again at your feet thanking you before running off. You kicked the prison realm box “Damnit who won!” You snatched it up, the air was familiar, you started to look around. The reason it was so familiar was because it wasn’t to far from where you had been sealed. The skeletal remains of the sourcerers made you seethe. You found the remains of the man who sealed you grabbing his skull with your free hand making it look at you, “my child my husband,” you crushed it without fail, “you took it all from me and now everyone will pay.” Th tears falling down were hot. Dropping the remains you started your first technique “Reanimate.” A wave of purple radiated from you, hitting every border of the palace. Skeletal remains shaking and coming together to stand, “Get this place back into shape.” They started moving, you made your way inside the palace the inside help had been reanimated also, your ladies in waiting now remains, standing beside you as you enter “Find fabric I need new robes.” They rushed off and you made it to your old room, the massive bed your son had fallen off many times when he would try to sleep with you and his dad. The wardrobe filled with your husband’s old robes. The room was dusty and smelt humid, shoving the window open you tried not to cry, on the window sill was a talisman Sukuna had created for Yuji. Sniffling you turned your head, finding a small blanket and stuffed Tiger doll Yuji carried around that morning. A gift for his 2nd birthday that he loved and it showed on the tigers rugged appearance.

“My Yuji..” your faint whisper sounding so loud in the silence as you ran your fingers of the stuffed doll holding it close to your chest as you made your way around the room planning your moves. Your plans had always been to follow in similar steps to Sukuna. Except that you’d be known for good to balance out the evil perspective they had of your husband. First, fix your palace. Second, create miracles in the closest town or village to make profit and move into a bigger city to improve profits. Find wherever Sukuna had been sealed away, and break him free. Find Yuji and take him back from this cruel world.

❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️

It’s been over 100 more years and you’d grown accustomed to the changing in technology and times, passing the crowds into your shrine you smiled ruffling the heads of kids who smiled up at you, rubbing the plump bellies of pregnant women you passed and “blessing” the sick with instant health with simply laying a hand on them and smiling kindly.

Entering your shrine for the last time your Gentlemen in waiting was packing up what was left. The last thing left was the main room where your wide throne sat, you’d be leaving it being to your followers, the cushions you provided for your followers during your sessions. “Morí.” You called out and he came from the room he was in bowing and holding his hands out in front of him. “Yes Lady Y/n?”

“Morinozuka, we’re leaving tonight to Sendai City. The mark of my binding vow is burning more, but are you sure that’s where we need to go?”

“Yes Lady Y/n.” He spoke not looking up from his bow. You nodded, “then it’s final.”

❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️

“So this is the place?” You turned to Morí and he nodded. “It’s not as lavish but this is the closest we can get… Your excellency.. I strongly recommend you continue to hide your cursed energy until I suggest otherwise.” You nodded getting out of the car “Very well, I will.”

It was morning when you had arrived, standing in front of the door to the house you looked over an elder man was walking out of his house he looked over and you smiled at him and he had a very faint twitch of his lip. Until a man with pink hair came out, follows by a woman with black hair and you felt it. The pulse of cursed energy and instinctively you grabbed Mori by his robes and pulled him towards you, “That woman, she’s no woman that- is the carrier of your child.” You head snapped instantly to him, “The father of my child, that’s the sorcerer who knew Sukuna, and he is going to mother my child?” Your face showing your exact emotions Mori placing a hand over yours, “Lady Y/n, please recollect your thoughts. I can assure you he will NOT be mothering your child, and her husband will not be fathering him either.” Letting go of his robes you nodded. Looking over your shoulder you watched the couple get into a car the elder man scowling when they started to drive away.

Turning to look at you he tucked his arms behind his back walking over, “Good Morning I’m L/n Y/n.” You greeted bowing after you moved closer, he dismissed you with a wave of your hand. “Morning, Wasuke Itadori.” He cocked a brow and looked over at your house, “It’s been up for sale for a long time. Almost 3 years before someone has moved in.” You looked back at your house, “I moved in to get closer to work. I thought it was just a blessing for everything to line up so perfectly.”

He nodded, “Well, blessings only go so far here. My son’s wife is something I’d consider to be a curse.” You nodded, “oddly enough I wouldn’t disagree. I know a snake when I see one and from a brief glance I wouldn’t trust her at all.”

He nodded, “Have a good day moving in, if you need help my son and his wife will be returning soon. I’m sure either of them would be willing to help with any problems.”

“Have a good day Mr.Itadori.” You bowed your head slightly and you both went separate ways.

“Mori,” you sighed entering your house “count these days.”

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

i have become what i had seemed to destroy.

i am a tyrant.

i am no artist, no poet, no painter.

there is a longing for blood and a power within my fingertips no god has enjoyed before me.

i will cull these fucking bots from my notification feed if i must bloody my nails and eat through my tongue, i will see their advances halted should it cost the surface area of my skin