#Atticus Owle

[jellybeanfeind]

Final ionogrph taken of Atticus Owle, with research colleague Kotyn Mist and their last test subject.

The circumstances of his disappearance baffled the academic world of Astrozoda for years. Mist, herself a well-decorated spellcrafter, had taken up collaboration with Owle to research the origins of certain species. Inspired by Owle’s previous fiasco with long chickens, she hypothesized that lizards and birds may share a common ancestor, and further wondered how Astrozodan fae are related to one another, and to other life in Astrozoda.

Through blood testing and lumiotyping— the study of magical signatures left by different groups of magical creatures— Mist and Owle discovered that the jewel-like eyes of unicorns and fae were not merely coincidental. Mist confirmed that the magical signature of her own blood, and indeed the blood of other equisapiens, was strikingly similar to that of pixies and fairies. And with Owle’s mastery of biological alchemy, the two spellcrafters collaborated to combine the “deep fae” lumiotype into a mundane domestic horse in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what ancient equisapiens may have looked like.

The above ionograph depicts the resulting test subject: a colt with pink and white hair, a horn, and the typical elongated features and jewel-like eyes seen in extant fae. Interestingly, it also has a trait not seen in any known fae: in addition to the expected auditory antennae, it has mandibular antennae as well. The purpose of these extra antennae was unknown to Mist and Owle, and according to their research logs, they intended to investigate the matter, but Owle’s sudden disappearance put an end to any further experiments.

Owle’s laboratory was found vacant of crafter and crafts, and Mist was found wandering the mountains several miles away, disoriented and suffering a magical injury which would force her into an early retirement.

[mossphorescent]

Reposting these as their own thing so people can actually see them

[saywha413]

I just realized I never posted the individual lil doodles from my pinned- so here they are! (only like 8 months late-)

[atticofthings]

Happy Halloween

This one is a redraw of the first Halloween image

[lordquiver]

People I Want to Be My Parents

Aziraphale and Crowley

Din Djarin

Atticus Finch

Eda Clawthorne and Raine Whispers

[sapphic--kiwi]

tholomule family portrait 💛🤎 (full tholomule parent designs under the cut!)

the posthoot friday night inspired me to finish my mom and dad tholomule designs - their names are Atticus and Fiona 💛 Atticus is both boys’ bio dad, but Fiona is Matt’s biological mother and adopted Steve when she married Atticus. They both work in the Construction Coven which takes them away from home a lot, which is why Steve had to help raise Matt 💛 they attended Hexside, but worked in Latissa for many years before moving back to Bonesborough sometime during Season 1 (in order to put Matt into Hexside after Steve brought it to their attention he was being bullied at school). (I also worked on designs for Atticus’s siblings, one of whom is Boscha’s three-eyed-mom - I’ll post those hopefully soon but yeah the matt and boscha cousins HC is so personal and real to me)

[keepsakesloft]

The Chinese Owls have cleared quarantine! Meet Ophelia (grizzle), Atticus (almond), and Sawyer (qualmond).

They’re a little flighty and very wary of us still, but we are sure they’ll come around. 💕

[noodlenoodlenoodlenoodle]

in honor of rewatching toh start to finish i drew luz <3

[kittytale-i-do-what-i-want]

[deathclawstudios]

OWL HOUSE OC!

[mossphorescent]

The rest + textless Steve version 😋😋

RAAAAHHHH !!!!💯💯💯🔥🔥 !!!!! 🔥🔥💥!!!💥💥💯💯🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅💥🔥💥💥💯🦅🦅 !!!!!!!

[saywha413]

you ever get the unexplainable urge to draw ur otps

(vague ship thoughts that are kinda long (I would’ve put them in the tags but I literally reached the max. what.))

crunchyvelvet- you’ve seen my icon right

tomco- “svtfoe ended like 4 yrs ago” shut up /j. I started the show like 4 days ago. anyways tomco is real, have u seen friendenemies

soriku- never played kindom hearts, but they’re cute together ok

luminerik- they sit like 3 inches apart in a sauna

goldric- I just like them

sonuckles- friends to lovers is real

satogou- they’re THE otp. Literally the reason I’m in Tumblr

kohahika- Chloe needs a gf. Dawn is a gf. Picking up what I’m putting down?

eloquentremix- they just vibe so well with each other?

silvadion- they’re meant to be together. Actually.

bossbattle- they/she and she/they solidarity

hassius- gay old men.

[atticofthings]

Well- happy birthday to myself

[goodlucktai]

too well tangled

rise of the tmnt post-movie / canon divergent word count: 1k characters: disaster twins

this was my bonus piece for the digital @turtlestogetherzine !

title borrowed from atticus—“you will never be unloved by me / you are too well tangled in my soul”

read on ao3

x

So it turns out that sixteen minutes in the prison dimension is about six months outside it. Give or take. 

Donnie calls it a temporal differential. Leo’s third day back was spent being gently interrogated within an inch of his life. For every answer he gave, Donnie’s face got a little darker. 

He seems a lot older than the last time Leo saw him. Everyone does. They all look at Leo like he’ll disappear into thin air if they blink too many times. 

He expects it to wear off eventually. He’s only confined to the infirmary for a week and a half, and on bedrest for a week after that, but even a month later Raph and Mikey continue to stick to him like glue. 

“I’m okay,” Leo tells them, when his bad leg seizes up and he staggers on his way to the breakfast table and Mikey’s face crumples horribly. Raph just huffs and lifts Leo clean off his feet to carry him the rest of the way. Swallowing past the uncertain lump in his throat, Leo adds playfully, “I mean, I’m not one to complain about the all-star treatment, but—”

“Good,” Raph rumbles, “then don’t.”

“Sorry if we’re being annoying,” Mikey says with a brightness in his tone that doesn’t sit quite right. He’s said that like fifty times since Leo came back. “We just—we missed you, Lee.” 

And what is Leo supposed to say to that? 

“Annoying? Please,” he scoffs. “I’m the king of everything obnoxious. You couldn’t annoy me if you tried.”

When Raph lowers him into a seat, Leo lifts his arm in invitation for Mikey to scoot his chair up right next to his, and then wraps him up in a tight hug. Mikey slots into his side like he belongs there, and he does, he always will, but it’s just a bit different than Leo remembers. 

Mikey is still his little brother. But only by a few months now. Leo’s seventeenth birthday came and went without him. 

And a part of him—this nameless little part that lives in the back of his mind, that’s lived there ever since dad made him team leader and ripped the rug out from under his feet—thinks that’s why Donnie doesn’t know how to be around him anymore.

He’s a constant presence. He’s a solid pillar for Leo to lean against when his legs don’t want to hold him up. But they don’t know what to say to each other. That unspoken understanding, that twin thing—it’s gone. 

Or so Leo thinks. 

Big Mama is more of a weird estranged relative than a mortal enemy these days, but she’s an entrepreneur first, eccentric wine aunt second. When she gets a big business idea, all bets are off. Leo can kind of respect that. It’s really thrilling and a little fun trying to match wits with a criminal mastermind, like high-stakes 5D chess. 

But her invitations could use some work. Sending a bunch of burly yokai in Grand Nexus uniforms to intercept the turtles on their way to Run of the Mill for dinner is a scheme that could have used a bit more time on the workshop table. 

Immediately Leo’s brothers close ranks around him. He’s allowed to run around in his leg brace at this point, but he has, in no uncertain terms, NOT been cleared to fight. He can tell from the set of Raph and Mikey’s shoulders that they’re beyond ticked off, but he can’t read Donnie’s posture at all. 

It’s bad timing, but suddenly Leo is preoccupied with those dark little thoughts he’s been having recently. Maybe Donnie isn’t happy to have him around. It’s been a lot of extra work, right? Dealing with the prodigal brother’s physical therapy and night terrors aside, now Donnie can’t even pick up some pizza without having to play bodyguard. 

So Leo is distracted—sue him. He’s got a lot going on. When an owl guard grabs him by the arm, he’s not ready for it. The yank backwards causes him to stumble, bad knee bending underneath him. 

The guard seems to loom over him for a moment. The evening gloom of the alleyway and the lurid glow of a nearby neon sign makes Leo’s brain sprint right back to the prison dimension. A distressed chirp works its way out of him before he can fully reorient himself. Add that to his ever-growing list of Good Reasons To Fake His Own Death. 

Big Mama’s goon looks surprised by the sound, grip relenting on Leo’s arm immediately. He wouldn’t do that if he were here for villainous reasons. So Big Mama probably actually considers kidnapping via sudden ambush to be a halfway decent method of picking her nemeses-slash-nephews up for an evening visit. 

Leo only has a second to think, Okay, I can work with this, turning up the charm and pretending like he can’t still feel the aftershocks of panic, before he’s being yanked again. 

This time he’s pulled right in against Donnie’s side, a strong arm around his carapace. There’s a burst of light and warmth—bright purple and overheated electronics, he’d know his brother’s ninpo anywhere—and they’re surrounded by a gleaming, glowing arsenal. 

The owl guard didn’t have a chance in hell. Donnie still doesn’t really look at Leo, not once as Mikey and Raph rush over, not even on the empty-handed trek back home. 

But he sits next to Leo on the couch while Mikey enlists Raph and papa’s help with dinner since their pizza run failed. The bickering and Mikey’s cooking playlist create a familiar, comfortable backdrop where it swells out of the kitchen. Donnie’s shoulder knocks against Leo’s. It feels like how it used to. 

Before he can lose courage, Leo blurts, “The thing I miss most from before is being twins with you.”

As soon as he says it, he wants to take it back. This is more mortifying than all of those initial grueling physical therapy sessions combined. 

He’s scrambling for an escape route that isn’t just hobbling away as fast as he can, or portaling to the bottom of the ocean, when Donnie suddenly says, “Draxum said we hatched together. We’ve been together all our lives. You’re pulling our twin card just because I'm finally taller than you?”

Leo sputters. “By an inch!”

Donnie raises an eyebrow at him, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for Leo to catch up. Maybe that’s what he’s been doing this whole time. 

Eyes stinging, Leo slouches into Donnie’s side. The softshell matches him, his cheek coming to rest on the top of Leo’s head. It reminds Leo of hugging Mikey earlier that morning at the breakfast table. 

Leo still fits here. There’s a good chance he always will. 

“Guess this finally makes me the older twin, huh, Nardo?”

It surprises Leo into laughter, maybe the first big loud laugh to come tripping out of him since well before the invasion. Conversation in the kitchen grinds to a halt and Mikey and Raph come barreling out a second later all covered in flour, eager to catch him in the act, to get in on it. 

“Sorry, Tello,” Leo says, grinning, not very sorry at all. “Not in this lifetime.”

[theoxenfree]

NIGHTFALL

elk god x ranger!reader | wc; 759

no one dared to question why you chose the night shift; it was simply superstition that it was better not to ask. but, you were always in good company.

warnings; brief mentions of gore, ritualistic/cultish stuff, some lore things that may be confusing if you aren't aware of the series, roughly proofread

repost from 2kmps ➔ theoxenfree. would love to know if you guys would be interested in a full story!

No one dared to ask questions of you when you had volunteered to take up the lonesome night shift at the ranger’s station.

Workplace superstition wasn’t one to discriminate, whether that meant you were tweaking a bullet out of someone's chest in the operating room; sterile gowns splattered with carmine like a rorschach inkblot, adrenaline dampening the noise in the room while the surgeons honed into that sweet spot of impenetrable focus, or you were reclined in a creaky wooden chair, prodding agitatedly at your phone screen with a thumb because the service had turned to shit for the fifth time that night.

The reason why you were so adamant to burden the staggering quietness of the Atticus Forest behind aluminum walls that'd amplify the whispering winds and long claws of trees’ appendages trying to gain purchase into the metal went unchallenged, incurious—if no one knew why, they would be spared of knowing about you, bonding with you, catching your eye and expected to act in sympathy if you were to ever change your mind about the arrangement.

You, however, used the cover of nightfall, the endless shroud of darkness produced from a sprawling canopy of lush treetops to roam freely, uninhibited by the daytime shuffle of campers and hikers and other rangers scouting the trails for no-good-doers.

Every night you wandered out some ways from the station, somewhat nettled by the fact you were leashed from going far from the radio, needing to standby in case of contact, and whistled tunefully. It was a sweet sound that aroused the owls and sleeping doves, sometimes the tree frogs would chirp after you, suddenly turning the vast, placid place into a euphony of colorful sounds.

Only when the forest was at its noisiest did he come out from hiding. He did not know shame or fear of the sun, nor quail at the concept of walking among humans, but he preferred to share the forest with the untamed creatures and your company alone.

“Orruth,” you greeted the lumbering thing as he came away from the trees; the gray of his skin, and gleaming white elk skull were a seamless blend in the inky black all around. “Are you in the mood to walk tonight?”

He did not speak any human tongue, not any that you were aware of at any rate. You were no linguist, but the things he said couldn’t have been mistaken as latin nor some other dead language from forgotten empires and cultures buried by concrete and gentrification. They were guttural, strong echoes that anchored you with awe, overwhelmed by power, the unfathomable words of an ancient who always tried so desperately to converse with you. There could never be a middle-ground between what he said and what you understood because you were never meant to know.

So, he whined instead, lowered his hulking form close to the ground for you to reach his face. You felt the fissures in his long nose, how dry and brittle the bone felt under your fingertips and observed the glowing pupils within hollow sockets staring back at you. Apart from his arms and legs, which were long, sinewy, and gray, his head floated mysteriously by a thick vapor you had ever shied from touching and he seemed to not want you to touch.

“I heard a complaint about a fire about eight kilometers away. I'm hoping it's just a few campers thinking they're above the law of the land, but we can never be too sure.” You explained this while he tucked the flat bone of his nose into your chest, mindful of the sprawl of his antlers as you adjusted to petting him around the eye sockets. “We keep finding animals—gored, disemboweled, almost ritualistically at some campsites. If your old followers keep this up, they may try to ban people from camping out here at all.”

He would probably like that, you thought in hindsight once he had had his fill and pulled away from you. In his own tongue, he tried to say something else. It remained indecipherable to you, but you could have from how he nearly flattened his body to the ground that he was offering you a ride.

“Just try not to throw me into a bunch of tree branches again, yeah?” you sat on the broad shelf of one of his shoulders, arms wound in the network of forks and beams of his antlers as he rose to full height, walking onward off the trail and through the trees towards distant piles of smoke.