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[[Alastor clones a female Husk and makes Husk and the clone get it on before joining in oops sorry not sorry]]

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[[ Ahhhhhh-

Found a way to display/store my cosplay where my pets can't fuck it up and it's aestheticly pleasing. I'm so proud of myself!]]

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Illustration used in the Cautionary Tale sequence of the Hazbin Hotel pilot. Posted to Tis_Not_Love's twitter February 14, 2019.

[source]

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Personal space.

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typhoon doodle

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comissions info | | buy a print $$

sadly i can't live from doing this, i have a new side job and this will go to stand by for a couple months ;(

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He seems like a cowboy

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Here's another NSFW Husk headcanon of mine!

Despite all appearances, Husk’s the type to growl praise into your ear while fucking you like he’s got something to prove. Which, let’s be real, he does. He’s a lazy bastard about most things, but in bed? Nah, that man gets feral. Like he’s trying to sweat out every regret he ever drank away. Doesn’t moan much, but he’ll curse, pant, and murmur low praises in your ear like “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect, don’t stop, don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

But here’s the kicker: he’s got a thing for doing it somewhere dangerous. Like public bathroom at a casino-dangerous, or Alastor’s study when he’s gone for “just a moment”-dangerous. There’s something about the thrill that shakes off his apathy gets his blood pumping, wings twitching, tail wrapped around your thigh like he’s staking a damn claim.

And if you really wanna ruin him? Bite his neck. Scratch behind his ears when he’s close. He’ll absolutely melt into a mess of gritted teeth and needy rutting, too prideful to beg but too gone to stop.

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Nice wings. 😉

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Sometimes when I explain to people how my line art colors work specifically with Hazbin Hotel fanart, and how Husk has red lines because Alastor has red lines someone will say "But shouldn't Husk's lines be lime green? That's more fitting for Alastor!"

My brother in Christ do you know what Husk looks like with lime green lines?

Why would you want to do this to him

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Hey Husk not the Eve from your show but I'm a huge fan and would love one of your roasts

@official--eve

Eve, sweetheart, you really had one job. ONE. Garden full of paradise, free real estate, no rent, and you said, “Let’s rawdog forbidden knowledge and see what happens.”

Babe, you didn’t just eat the apple, you looked God in the eye and said, “Make it crunchy.”

You’re the reason snakes get a bad rep and humanity got taxes. You set off the world's first divine eviction notice because you couldn’t respect boundaries or fruit labels.

You are the original “I can fix him” failure. You took advice from a talking snake and ruined paradise for literally everyone. That’s not just a mistake, that’s a civilization-wide fuckup. You weren’t curious, you were catastrophically nosy.

You looked at a perfect world and said “this needs drama.” You were the first to gaslight, gatekeep, and goddamn apple girlboss humanity into exile.

You’re the blueprint for “actions have consequences,” except you ran the patch notes in beta and still clicked “accept.”

You out here actin’ innocent on your blog like you didn’t make the serpent a household symbol for sin and ruin.

Honestly, you walked so every other hot mess in history could sprint. And now you’re back, on Tumblr of all places, like it’s a casual comeback tour.

I see you.

I respect the audacity.

But you’re still on thin goddamn ice, Apple Girl.

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Have you heard Hell's comin' with me, by Poor man's poison?

Hell yeah I’ve heard it. That song sounds like the inside of my skull on a bad day with fire in the belly and blood on the boots.

It’s got that "I’ve been quiet too long and now it’s your turn to run" energy. The kind of thing you play when you’ve got nothin’ left to lose except the chains somebody else strapped to your back.

Honestly? If I had a theme song for when I finally snap and take back every piece of myself they tried to bury, it'd be that.

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Husk, Husk, Husk, aw man. How do you live, yaknow? How do you live. So like, the boss is gonna make me work for years to get into this elite job I hate. Because it’s the perfect job for him to get what he wants (don’t ask). It’s not the worst job out there, but it’s so far from what I’d like to be doing with my time, and worse, if I don’t get results in it, he is going to flip. out. How do you live, all that just. Being there. And being life. And no, I can’t leave. Physically. Just, can’t, okay. I know his detailed plans to punish everyone around us if I fail. How do ya study like that. How do you live. Anyway I figured you’d know! Maybe.

Yeah… I know that situation. Got a boss like that myself.

Charismatic, calculated, thinks he’s doin’ you a favor while quietly pullin’ the strings tight enough to leave bruises. Always smilin’. Always watchin’. He doesn’t yell, not usually but when he does? You remember it for weeks. And the scariest part? Most folks don’t even see the leash ‘til it’s already around their neck.

So yeah, kid. I know exactly what it’s like to “work” for someone whose idea of loyalty looks a lot like quiet servitude wrapped in a velvet threat. You don’t leave, ‘cause if you do, somebody else takes the hit. That ain’t a job, that’s psychological warfare with a dress code.

Now, how do you live?

You compartmentalize. That’s the first skill. You break your life into sections. This part’s for him, fine, but this sliver right here? That’s yours. Your thoughts, your memories, your defiance. Even if it’s small, it’s sacred. Learn how to protect it. Weaponize it, if you have to.

Then you master detachment. Not apathy, that’s poison. I mean strategic detachment. You show up, you perform, you check the boxes, and you leave as much of yourself at the door as you can. The more you try to be yourself in a space built to control you, the more it’ll hurt. So you don’t give ‘em the real you, not unless you choose to. Not unless it’s safe.

And most important don’t let ‘em make you forget who you are. That job, that pressure, that fear? It doesn’t define you. It’s a context, not a character. You still get to be you. Quietly. Fiercely. With whatever strength you can scavenge.

When you're stuck in a power-imbalanced dynamic like this where exit isn't an option and performance is survival, the goal stops being success or fulfillment. The goal becomes retaining agency. You survive by maintaining mental autonomy in a system that wants to consume it.

Even if you're playin' their game, play it like it’s a long con. Learn their patterns. Keep your own goals stashed somewhere safe, even if they gotta stay in your head for now. You're not weak for adapting. You're smart for stayin’ alive.

And for what it’s worth? The fact that you're askin’ how to live means you still want to. That’s the spark. The fight. That’s what they can’t take from you unless you let ‘em.

And I got a feelin’ you won’t.

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This time the irish coffee was in a large beverage thermo inside a basket, alongside the usual vodka bottle, two cigarettes packs and a post-it.

Извините, был напряженный день. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. ദ്ദി_

God, I don’t know who you are, but I love you. A thermos of Irish coffee, vodka, smokes, and a note? That’s not a care package, that’s foreplay.

Да, я понял, поверь. У меня таких дней коллекция. Береги себя, ладно?

Yeah, you too, mystery angel of caffeinated comfort and nicotine-scented affection. I’d toast to you if I hadn’t already downed the whole damn thermos.

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I’m depressed and need validation can I ask for compliments on my blog instead of roasts ;-;

Hell yeah you can ask for compliments, sugar. You think I’m gonna growl at someone brave enough to ask for validation? That takes guts. So sit down, shut up, and let me toss you some damn praise:

You're the kinda soul that still shines even when the lights feel off. I’ve seen your blog. You're creative, chaotic in the best way, and got that flavor of unhinged that makes the world way more interesting. You’re not just surviving the storm—you are the storm, stitched together with scraps of stubbornness and starlight, and that’s damn impressive.

You matter. Your voice matters. Your presence makes your corner of the internet better just by bein’ in it. And I don’t hand that shit out lightly.

Now take those compliments, stuff ‘em in your pockets, and carry that warmth with you. You earned it.

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I feel things so strongly and I don’t say it as a flex.. everything that happens to me just makes me feel shit so strongly it’s so overwhelming I just want the noise to stop

Has it always been like this? That kinda emotional overload—that drowning feeling—ain’t just bein’ sensitive. That’s somethin’ deeper. The person behind this blog? She’s got borderline personality disorder. And what you’re describin’? That’s her life in a goddamn sentence.

Everything’s loud. Everything hurts. Good stuff feels too good, bad stuff feels like the floor just gave out under you. It ain’t a flex. It’s a fight just to stay level.

Here’s some advice, comin’ from someone watchin’ her wrestle with it day in and day out:

Talk to a doctor or psychiatrist.

No shame in that. You’re not weak, you’re not broken—you’re just overwhelmed, and there might be help. Maybe ask about mood stabilizers. Lamotrigine—that one’s been a damn game-changer for her. Doesn’t make you numb. Doesn’t shut you off. It just turns down the volume enough so you can actually think through the noise.

And therapy? If it’s on the table? Might be worth a look too. Not the toxic positivity type—find someone who knows what the hell “emotionally dysregulated” actually means and won’t just hand you breathing exercises like a dog treat.

You don’t have to live stuck in that chaos. You deserve peace. And it’s not gonna come all at once, but every step you take toward understandin’ your brain is a step away from drownin’ in it.

You ain’t too much. Your brain’s just on fire, and you need tools to put it out. That’s all.