need your skull

Perks of Dating a Necromancer

(because I had this conversation with my friend and I feel like I should post this here)

1. Skeleton War will be an actual thing.

2. Your pet is dead? Not for long!

3. Receiving creepily adorable Valentine’s Day presents (eg. “Human blood is red, but some of their veins are blue. Last year I gave you my heart, so this year I’ll give you two.”)

4. Death puns.

5. You’ll be totally safe during a zombie apocalypse thanks to “Control Undead”

6. You’re dating someone who is totally capable of creating an invincible army of undead. I mean, come on.


8. They’re great if you need to hide a body.

9. Skeleton puns.

10. They’re massive help if you’re struggling with biology..

11. They can fix that poor little dead bird you found yesterday at the park.

12. “‘Till death do us part” no longer applies.

13. Neither does ‘YOLO’

14. They usually dress in black, so if you like that too, you can steal their clothes if you want. (oversized hoodies that smell a little like death, but only a little ftw)

15. They can make a few skeletons/zombies do a wide variety of silly dances to cheer you up.

16. Halloween.

17. They may tell you what happens after death.

18. Hearing them do an impression of Frankenstein when raising the dead. (”IT’S ALIIIIIIIIIIIVE”)

19. You know the skeleton rave from the music video of “Hey Girls, Hey Boys” by Chemical Brothers? Yeah.

20. Watching horror movies together and hearing them complain about how such-and-such is a wrong way to raise the dead, and anyway that’s not how the human skeleton works etc. etc.

21. “Are you a graveyard? Because I’m dead inside and want to bury myself in you.”

22. The whole ‘skulls, bones and old books’ aesthetic

23. Want to meet J.R.R Tolkien? Terry Pratchett? Christopher Lee? No problem!

24. The same as above, but with family members.

25. Hearing random facts about the human body/bones/life/death etc. everyday.

26. They can probably bring back extinct animals as long as they have the skeletons (I think)

27. “Jurassic Park: Skeleton Edition”. Only the dinosaurs aren’t trying to kill you.

28. Quiet walks through the graveyards.

29. Throwing a mini zombie apocalypse on Halloween and/or April Fools.

30. Since they stay among the dead for so long, they usually appreciate any living creature staying close to them. (ie. extremely adorable cuddling sessions. Necromancers make the best cuddlers, shut up.)


dinopants sketch

i wanna color it but i seem to really have built up a habit of starting things and never finishing…………………..

that’s what summer’s for right

(finished ver.)


summary: Thomas is heartsick after a rejection; Patton is taking it the hardest, but Logan is there to set everything right.

characters: logan, patton, virgil, roman

pairings: none (can be logicality if you want tho)

a/n: here’s the fic I wrote during the livestream! The prompt was given by @the-sander-snides <3 It was a lot of fun and I hope to stream again soon before college. (this is really not my best work though, I’m sorry)

It had been an entire day and a half.

The previous day, a Saturday, Logan had woken up to silence- this was the usual, as he woke up at a punctual 7:30 am each and every morning. He would make his bed, write down whatever he could remember of Thomas’s dreams, and proceed to sit at his desk and review the schedule he had made for the rest of the day.

Logan was a man of lists, facts, and habits. At 7:30 am, he would wake up, and dress accordingly. At 8:00 am, he would review what he needed for the day. At 8:15 am, he would take inventory of his room, assure that everything was where it should be (and that Roman hadn’t moved anything out of place).

At 8:30 am, he would meditate, clear his mind, knowing that everything was as it should be.

Finally, at 9:00 am, the muffled thud of socked feet would travel past his room, and the chaotic evolution of what would eventually become breakfast would clatter the other sides awake as Patton set to work in the kitchen.

Everything had gone smoothly until 9:00 am.

Keep reading

  • Doomfist: *petting a kitty* Socks, you are adorable. Yes you are.
  • McCree: Ha. And here I thought you were all about the tough guy stuff. Yer a softy.
  • Doomfist: I do not see how appreciating the companionship of a pet makes me a "softy". Especially one such as this *holds up the kitty*
  • McCree: Umm.
  • Doomfist: Perhaps you are forgetful?
  • McCree: I-I'm not tryin ta pick a fight.
  • Doomfist: Oh no. There will be no fight. I am not so insecure that I need to crush your skull between my thumb and index finger just to prove my strength. Now if you are done. Leave. Also don't talk to me or my baby ever again.
The Greatest Pretenders

Bossling drew this fantastic piece of art that I literally stare at daily because I am a loser and I just kind of felt like writing a small little drabble/character study for it.

And this was born, so.

*fart noises*

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The Truth About Your Body

1- You are not your size at Forever21.

2- Just because this shapeless dump of a see-through shirt at F21 makes you look like a weirdo marshmallow cloud does not mean you are not a true marshmallow cloud in real life. You are. You are the Beautiful, Reigning Queen of The Marshmallow Clouds.

3- Your body’s beauty is being smothered by this sweater you are attempting to try on at one of Forever 21’s many locations. Oh, wow, this sweater doesn’t even fit over your boobs. You can barely fit this studded cross with French words all over it over your boobs. And it’s your size! Oh, wait, I’m sorry. It’s a 13-year old girl clutching this sweater. You are 25 and trying on a teenager.

4- You are not the way you look in one of those insane hi-lo dresses at Forever 21. Why is the back on the ground, trailing like a snail? Why is the front so high it touches heaven? How can I wear this if I cannot walk? Why do I look like a chicken nugget trailing sweet-and-sour sauce?

5- Oh my god, you are NOT your body in Forever 21’s endless supply of bandage dresses, which I think just distribute your fat into one place on your back, Quasimodo style OR right in your tummy so it looks like you are going to give birth to many new fans of Forever 21’s gigantic statement necklace section. It is said from the mouths of dead men that hell is just a dressing room filled with these shit dresses.

6- Oh NO, please don’t try pants on at Forever 21, I did once and then the fire department had to come and coax me down from a tree. You are not the vast section of 12 dollar jeans with rips on them at Forever Fucking 21.

7- Your body is not meant to wear a novelty sweatshirt with shit on it like I BELIEVE IN LOVE or OUI OUI HAR HAR or I SPENT 23 DOLLARS ON THIS BECAUSE OF THE FONT or WHY IS THIS VAGUELY REFERENCING THE BIBLE?

8- Your true skin is not the skin that turns green from the 300 midi rings with little crosses and infinity signs on them. But these midi rings are of your body. Because they were 1.80 and they fell into a bag of chips and you accidentally ate them all.

9- Your body probably needs that studded snap-back hat and that neon pink beanie and 30 black tank tops and that denim shirt with the western details and that velvet peplum top that is only 8.90 and those knee-high socks with the varsity stripes on them and this pleather jacket and this maxi skirt with the slit on it! It’s so cheap! I came here for a t-shirt! Help me! I’ve been stuck here for 6 hours! Tell my family I love them—gotta try on this overall dress!

10- Your body needs MORE skull shirts. MORE! MORE!! Feed them imitation silk SKULL SHIRTS! OMG this one has STUDS for EYES! FEED IT TO ME, O DEMONS OF THE NIGHT!

11- Your body is not the pain you feel from wearing these cheap vinyl stilettos you got for 18.90 or 21.5666666. It’s ripping my skin off, you say! It’s so cheap, you say! It’s only π dollars! I can use the extra money I saved to buy cute little Hello Kitty bandages located by the register!

12- Your body wants you to buy this baby doll floral dress, which has been reincarnating on shelves since the beginning of time. When you die, all that will remain is this flowy black floral dress with tiny pink flowers, so 90s so grunge.

13- But seriously, what size is this? What is my size in a pleather jumpsuit with gold detailing on the sleeves, a cheap pleather belt that comes with the jumpsuit, and harem style pants at the bottom? Is there a size chart for a kimono that cinches at the waist and then turns into a bodycon knitted skirt? WHY IS EVERYTHING HERE SO TERRIBLE AND WONDERFUL?

14- You are fucking flawless, and you are NOT YOUR SIZE AT FOREVER 21.

15- On that note, please leave Forever 21. You’ve been here for seven days, and no, you don’t REALLY need that imitation letterman jacket, those pajama pants with macarons on them, and that tiny see-through neon yellow purse. Or yasss maybe you dooooooooooooooo!

toastyhat  asked:

Splickedy I am feeling kind of down will you put your Christmas book to good use and doodle some fancy trolls with tats for me?

HEY YOU SAID FANCY BUT FANCY DOESN’T SHOW OFF TATTOOS SO INSTEAD HAVE CULTURE OF A DUBIOUS NATURE besides I’m not very good at fancy and I wanted to do sweeping massive tattoos and full sleeves and stuff so HERE


"On the Second Anniversary of My Father's Death," Sherman Alexie

A bird

(Too big to be a robin,
But still shaped like a robin,
So it might be a robin)

Alights on our deck
And smashes its head
Against the clear glass.

What kind of dumb-ass
Bird thinks it can pass
Through glass like a door?

Amused, I keep score:
Bird 0, Glass 4.
Concussed, that bird learns

A lesson from hurt
And leaves, but returns
The next day to smash

Against the same glass.
How long can this last?
How about six days!

Until that bird’s pain
Transforms into rage,
Till bird’s rage becomes

Closer to human’s,
Then becomes human.
Maddest bird, my wife

Thinks that your crazed flight
Is meant to remind
Me of my father’s death,

    But the metaphor breaks a week later when I phone home from a business trip to ask about the bird.

    “It was gone for two days,” my wife says. “But then it came back and started smashing against the window again. And this time, it brought along a little friend.”

    “What little friend?” I ask.

    “A tiny bird, a sparrow, I think.”

    “Are they both smashing the glass?”

    “No, the little one just watches and sort of cheers on the big one.”

    “Come on.”

    “No, really, the little one squawks and tweets and flaps its wings, and I swear, it sounds like it’s laughing. Like flying into a window is the funniest thing in the world.”

    “Well, it is funny. But I don’t think the birds realize it’s funny.”

    “I know, I know, but it’s funny in a not funny way, too. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I had this thought, so I called that huge bird by your father’s name and guess what happened?”

    “Absolutely nothing.”

    “Well, yeah, almost nothing. But I swear that bird hesitated for a second, and looked at me from the other side of the glass. No, he regarded me, and, I know it’s crazy to say this, but I think that bird might be your father.”

    “I think you’ve been smashing your head against the glass.”

    “Yeah, maybe. But you know what else? I think that little bird, is, like, one of your dad’s old, dead drinking buddies, you know? And I’m worried your dad is going to bring home a big flock of his drinking buddies, his birds, and they’re going to shit all over the house.”

    And my wife and I laugh, because her fears are surreal, hilarious, and valid.

O, Bird!

(Too bird to be my father
but still drunk like my father,
So you might be my father)

I come home to find you gone
And I miss you, and am stunned
By how much I am bothered
By the doubts you have fathered.

Bird, are you my father?
Bird, you might be my father.
Bird, you must be my father.
Bird, you are my father.
Father, fly home.

    But the metaphor breaks again two days later as my wife and I sit on our deck and drink coffee.

    “Look,” she says. “There’s your father.”

    We watch that bird smash its head against our neighbor’s upstairs window. Then it flies down to smash against her kitchen window.
I later learn that bird has smashed its head against the window of the house across the street, and two more houses down the street, and the huge windows of the coffee shop on 34th and Union.

    If that bird is my father, then it is also father to every other child in this neighborhood.

    Ah, bird, which came first: your brain damage or the insistent need to crack your skull against the glass? And why did you come to our city, neighborhood, and house?

I think that God delivered unto us this bird
To remind us that life is finite and absurd.