Obie is my beautiful little baby 🥹

@fuck-the-patriarchy-forever hope you're doing well,, just wanted to say that it's actually called a mutagen

This little man turns 3 today! 🎉

The beast is on the loose, i repeat: the beast is on the loose.

(Also yes Corvus is sleeping under the blanket. He is cozed out)

Obie - @telltalecoyote

Gaius - @commanderhorncleaver

with a rainy spring comes greenery back to the harbor.

Obie

love of my life

This idea hit me like a truck and I had to. I spent like 5 minutes drawing each of them. Especially Gallon because I gave up halfway through drawing him.

@eldritch-spouse anyways yeah, also enjoy this other doodle I did:

Ludwig making fun of Obie’s shirt

yeah he is just straight yomping on a pineapple 😭😭

Just a little something for @toylandtours before I make the /other/ art with him >:3c

(Hobie does not approve of grading looks but will use the scale to make a point lol)

(just a tupper roleplay bot)

HBO Max has canceled Gossip Girl

+ Creator Joshua Safran

Oh. Okay yeah this may just be the cutest picture of Boots ever…my most photogenic boy…

god fucking DAMMIT @fuck-the-patriarchy-forever it’s not called a genome

Spot the difference

He'd been dreaming of them again. A human. Nothing particularly special, as far as beings in the world of existence went.

But their image wouldn't leave him alone. In his dreams, in the realm, in the castle, in his room. Phantoms of their voice, ghosts of their touch, a silent laughter.

Obie couldn't be rid of the mirages, the delusions, of the human's presence.

Worst, he knew they didn't exist. It was just his mind falling prey to the same affliction as his predecessors. Twisted by the very essence that steeped in his specific court: imagination.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Is it flipping the script if it's the fae dreaming of a human? lol

Again, I'm not sure what their story is going to be. Bits and pieces are floating around in a miscellaneous stew of my brain, but nothing particular yet. *sigh*

Outside in the yard that doubled as a parking lot and general hangout, the motorcycle club was gathering. Leather pants, jackets, silver studs spelling out names and threats, crushed hats or helmets, gloves, men straddling bikes or standing around profiling, the women seated waiting. Obie eyed the women sitting with their backs to the window, their asses splayed out on the black leather seats or leopard-skin seat covers, or held from spreading by thick denim or tight leather; their backs arched as they held on to fenders behind them; their backs bent as they leaned forward grabbing at the ape-hangers. Women. Women talking in bits and pieces, mostly waiting, mostly impatient waiting, waiting for the men to straddle the machines and turn on the power and take them somewhere.

from The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara