rabbitsquish - Tumblr blog

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Andreas Achenbach (German, 1815–1910), "Clearing Up, Coast of Sicily", 1847

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Jean-Honoré Fragonard, Pastoral Landscape with a Shepherd and Shepherdess at Rest (details)

1756-1761

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Wilhelm Bernatzik - Peonies, 1906 (detail)

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Reply to this with your DPxDC hot take

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Shoutout to all my fellow ppl who see themselves as being simultaneously a boy and a girl. People who often wear clothes traditionally associated with their agab, or who don’t feel extreme dysphoria towards their body. People whose gender issues stem from within, and from knowing that they can’t just metamorphosise on a whim. People who’re a multiplicity in of themselves. People who’ve never known a life of gender singularity. People who’ve always been this way, people who’ve never known different. People who live exactly how they are, as confusing and conflicting as it may be sometimes. People whose friends and family would be beyond shocked and surprised if they told them they weren’t cis. People who love being this way. People who love having their own unique version of the masculine and feminine experiences, who use contradictory sets of pronouns. People who don’t really know if they can call themselves trans, but definitely aren’t cis, and altogether definitely don’t really care. People who are boys and girls and men and women and both and neither all at the same time. I love you. We’re the coolest. <3

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PINES. PINES. PINES. PINES.

[Image description: art of Mabel and Dipper from Gravity Falls. They're grinning, and they each have one eye glowing yellow. They have their arms around each other, and they make a triangle symbol together with their fingers.

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"Countless souls have fallen under my saber. But I have never killed out of my own desires, let alone for power"

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Doodles and design notes,

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my special little guys!!!!!

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Summer Berry Mix 🍓🫐 ♡⊹˚₊

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hiiiiii :3 I don't know how to use tumblr but I've been wanting to post these mdzs screencap drawings somewhere :DDDF !!!!!!

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Art inspired by one of my fav timkon fics "buy back the secrets" by @vinelark ✨

The fanart is not exactly accurate to the fic but i loved the concept and everything about it so much it made me wanna draw this😭💕

A silly little extra doodle too:

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batkid fit doodles

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I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.

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finally started to post to my tumblr and like the first few pieces are me going AHHHHH inside my brain and my fingers go oh okay so tumblr coded purple prose cool cool cool

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This is your family

This is your home.

Your home. Your home.

Scorched earth and charcoal awnings. Where did the great lakes go? The stunning pavilions?

Gone?

But not gone, not in the way that matters - never in the way that matters.

Not whilst you carry your brother's love in your chest. His hope, his memories. His life, his time. His voice seems to hiss at you from under the eaves of the rotting houses.

What did you do? Brother, what did you do to me?

You pay the voice no attention, your brother may be dead, but he’s not gone. Not like that.

You walk through the grounds and pretend that the ashes you kick up are just the remains of the tree in the main courtyard. Pretend you don’t see the feeble attempts at burial shrouds hiding in the shadows, made by hands younger than yours.

Jagged edges welcome you into the family quarters, the door a great black maw, ready to swallow you whole. You can almost hear your mother's voice ring out.

You foolish child! Look what you’ve done, don’t you see you’ll ruin us all?

It’s only a memory - not even your own - but the harsh crack still stings against your cheek. As if you were the one Mother refused to acknowledge. But no matter how painful the reprimand is, it is only a phantom. You push it away. you were not the ward, you were legitimate. There is a stone lodged right where your brother’s heart beats, and you console yourself with the knowledge that he got over it, so you should too.

(The feeling doesn’t go away)

Passing your father's room, you bow your head in acknowledgment. You do not enter to offer respects, nor to see his burial shroud. You don’t need to see it to know that it is expensive and gaudy. Unfitting for a man who surrendered to the first porter of war knocking upon the front gate. Not even properly dead, the man roams your halls as a mere spectre, destined to never be heard.

You reach your destination, the only intact room in the complex. Inside are the only two things you care for anymore. A young maiden clothed in red, and the machine keeping her here - teathed - to this world.

‘Sister,’ you say, ‘he is gone.'

'Sister,' you say, 'we’re safe.’

You do not say it is his heart that beats in your chest, preventing you from suffering the same fate as the one in front of you.

You do not say it’s his life force keeping the both of you here.

You ignore the whispered cries of your once-sworn brothers and sisters as they cry-

Traitor.

This is your family, not theirs.

This is your family.

Your family.

Your family.

Not his.