blooberri-rabbiteye

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Hey, you ever wonder how Christians invented Hell, said, “That’s where all the bad people who value selfishness over selflessness to the point of ruin go,” and then turned around and said, “If you don’t believe in God, you go to Hell too!” ?

Like. What? You’re saying that someone who tries their best to live a good and honorable life despite—and maybe because—of the Horrors will end up in Hell right along murderers and thieves purely because they don’t believe in the Christian God? You’re saying that not believing he exists is as high a moral crime as infanticide? What on Earth are you on?

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Digital art was pissing me off so I pulled out the sketchbook 2 nights ago

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i love the -with mama trend but sometimes i get sad because that is clearly papa and he aint getting any credit raising those darn kids...

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Hardest part of writing is accepting that some people will not fucking get it & you just have to like cope with that because over-explaining it just makes it worse

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Odydio sketches, Iliad vs post odyssey

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found this today

Please use these terms correctly. Not doing so will deeply harm the people who actually have experienced trauma, gaslighting, triggers, and people who have NPD.

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Asclepius and his father. (Part 4)

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Obligatory pride month art

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PSA: Writing a book can take a looooong time. If you've been working on your project for a year, two years, five years... you're not doing anything wrong. If you've written three drafts and thrown them all away, if you can only write a hundred words a day, if you put your book down for six months and pick it up again only to be baffled by what you've written... Congratulations. You're not inefficient or slow. You're just a writer. Welcome to the writing life.

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Do not the horses

Never the horses

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OK LAST BATCH OF WIFEY DRAWINGS FR @commonrur MEOW

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@commonrur MEOW MY AHH DRAWS SM

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MORE ART OF ME N MY WIFEY @commonrur B4 I DRAW MORE NEW ONES MUEHHEHE THE 9TH ONE IS BY HER(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

[blooberri-rabbiteye]

gonna draw more art of me n my wifey @commonrur esp after our 2nd trip(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) but here r some old ones hehehehe PT 1 CUZ WHY ONLY 10 ALLOWED😔😔

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the angels have come for your gluttony

[blooberri-rabbiteye]

"Jon," Tim says suddenly, puffs of grey still trailing from his lips, "Where do you keep your feelings?"

"My- feelings?" Jon echoes flatly, his own cigarette dangling between his fingers. The air is hazy with smoke, the stench of it curling lazily in his gut.

"You know," Tim gestures vaguely, "your emotions- feelings- even you must have them, I'm sure."

Jon steals a glance at his face, turning back at the slight quirk of his lips, an indication that Tim was joking. He takes another drag, whistling out the next exhale. Exasperated, he replies, "In my brain, I suppose? Isn't that where all emotions originate?"

"Well, yes," Tim says, "but you're going about it too literally."

"Was I not supposed to?"

"No. Not like that, at least. For example," Tim puts the cigarette between his lips, takes a drag, and holds his breath. His cheeks puff out from the effort. After a few seconds, he releases his breath, smoke rolling out of his mouth like a creek. "I keep my happiness here, in my cheeks. When I smile, I feel it pulling. When I'm happy, it almost hurts."

"Or--" Tim's hand lowers, lightly patting his abdomen. Jon eyes the still lit cigarette nervously. "--I feel fear here, in my stomach. Sometimes I get so nervous I want to puke."

He flicks his hand up again, staccato, stopping by the hollow of his throat. The tips of his fingers run over his adam's apple, lightly tracing the skin of his neck as he swallows. His voice is significantly softer when he says, "I feel grief in my throat. It almost feels like choking."

"And my anger," he says, turning his hand over, fingers spread out and reaching, "I feel it in my palms, my fingers." He closes it into a fist, hard enough that Jon can see his knuckles turn white. "Like lightning."

Jon stares at his own hand thoughtfully, brow slightly furrowed. He says, haltingly, "Well- I suppose my happiness is in my hands," lightly grazing his fingers over his palm, "they've their own mind sometimes."

"And," Jon taps his collarbone, expression still pinched in thought, "my sadness is in my lungs. Sometimes I can hardly breathe." He huffs a quiet laugh, "Though that might just be all the smoking."

His hand travels to his jaw, hovering before dropping to his side. "My anger is in my tongue, in my gritted teeth. The words fly out before I can reign them in."

Tim snorts. "I can attest to that."

Jon shoves a bony elbow into his side, pointedly ignoring the expletives that follow. His hand wavers in the air for a second, before he tucks it into himself, arms crossed and cigarette dangling from his fingertips. "I guess feel fear in my bones. They burrow into me, like- hm- a worm?"

"A worm." Tim echoes, teasing. "You've got fear worms in you?"

"You asked." Jon shoots back, face warm. "I've never tried to put it into words before. You know what I meant."

"I guess I do," Tim says, leaning back against the wall. His head knocks against the brick with a soft thump. He takes another drag of the cigarette and heaves out the smoke like putting out a fire.