#barf asks

[sleezeboss]

Here as a pallet cleanser: can you tell us about rex and bub's first relationships (either first hookup or first long term relationship)? What were they like, how old were each of them?

oh my god a genuine question... it's been 84 years (thank you)

Let's do Bub first: so Bub's age is kind of nebulous to me, so i can't give you a deifned number, but one of his first serious relationships was with Belphi, my blue Sloth devil.

Bub and Belphi are around the same age and were fledgling devils together back in Hell. In a lot of ways, they were together out of complacency. They found each other easy to be around, and their sins, Sloth and Gluttony, complimented each other in a way that made it easy to just chase oblivion together.

Bub saw their arrangement as a "friends with benefits" situation, someone to jack off with, a hole to fuck, a someone to get high with, a friend to lounge around and forget his responsibilities with.

But he also used Belphi as a shoulder to cry on. A source of comfort when he was feeling sorry for himself. Someone to make him feel strong when he felt weak.

Suffice it to say, Belphi saw more in their relationship.

Belphi saw Bub as his whole world.

In the current canon, Belphi is still desperately in love with Bub, but he is his embittered ex sworn on dragging him back to Hell himself. he feels betrayed that Bub left Hell and his duties to his kind for a human, let alone a famed demonslayer. It is Belphi's personal mission to kill them both.

But, being kind of devil he is...he'll get around to it. Eventually. Maybe... He's just not ready yet, you see!! (insert list of excuses here) Now, for Rex:

I haven't fully committed to this yet, but I am....really enjoying the angst potential of Rex having a wife and child. A comp-het betrothed wife he ran away from when he met Bub.

I think they were married when they were both 20. It was an arranged marriage, preordained by the Fontaine witchunters seeking to form good-will with an allied cleric clan. You see, Rex was in line to be the next leader of the Holy Fontaine Witchhunters and Slayers, and he would need to further secure his lineage with an heir, a family.

I actually tried designing his bride a while back. I took inspiration from various media-witches, but nothing really stuck for me.

anyways- his wife would've been a good Christian woman. Chaste, (ignore the titty-out sketches xjkfhgnx) dignified, gorgeous. She was funny, kind, sincere, but strong-willed and had back-bone. And she loved Rex.

And Rex really thought he loved her. Who wouldn't? She was a wonderful young woman, and he was really good at playing the part. Rex is nothing if not charming, and he had everyone convinced he was happy. Even himself. Everyone except for his wife, however.

His wife, (this poor woman who I have yet to design or name...) knew she never really had her husband's heart, and in a way, Rex knew that she knew. Without ever exchanging words, they just knew. She was supposed to be happy because she was the esteemed wife of the leader of the prestigious Fontaine Family, and he was supposed to be happy for being in such a great position of power with a beautiful wife and child.

And yet they were miserable.

It's easy to have a sexless marriage when you're in a god-fearing, sex-is-sin environment, so Rex aside from consummating his marriage, he was able to avoid the elephant in the room for as long as possible.

Until he met Bub, at least

[teaboot]

I've been stuck in bed all day today and I'm morbidly curious

[frownyalfred]

do you think bruce has ever gotten drunk before? i don't mean brucie flirting about at the gala either i mean well and truly intoxicated lol. like the type where you wake up and have the worst headache known to man

Thank you for reminding me about one of my long lost headcanons. Which is that yes, Bruce has gotten that drunk (stealing liquor from the pantry as a child, normal stuff) but the only time he woke up and truly prayed for an end was during training with Ra’s Al Ghul when, as a reward, he and the other trainees were given a night off and a mysterious local liquor (something grain derived) spiked with something. and their “night off” became a test the next day, where they had to meditate and work through the after effects, flushing the toxins from their bodies while still completing their regular duties. it was all a lesson — learning that being poisoned can happen when you least expect it; that alcohol is a poison; and that sometimes you will have to work through it no matter how awful you feel. and so poor, pitiful hungover Bruce learned how to do what he does with ease as Brucie Wayne later — work through anything, whether it’s drugs, poison, fear toxin, alcohol, and be largely unaffected.

[spacenintendogs]

DRAGON TIME, BAYBEE!!!!

[meownzter]

You know, we could’ve had girldad Evan.if Habit didn’t Eat That Thang.

[elericelery]

Hi! I’m Ron!

[askthestans]

Stanford, in a previous post you said you’ve ate way worse in the portal. May I ask what things you have ate that could’ve been horrible compared to the gorgon and eel meatloaf?

Ford: Having been drinking some Mabel Juice, he spits it out and coughs. Ford wipes his mouth properly on a napkin - unlike Stan who is sitting across the table just wiping his mouth on his sleeve while eating some fried chicken - and chuckles nervously.

Ah, well... that's... a fascinating question, Anon. Let's see... the weirdest thing I've eaten...

Ford gets a thousand yard stare of what must be decades of strange experiences, his eye occasionally twitching, looking a bit nauseous at some of the memories. Whatever he's remembering, it sure isn't anything Michelin 5 star. Or 1 star. Er... or 'questionable origin gas station sushi in the most disgusting reaches of the Multiverse' level edible, for that matter.

Realizing he's taking too long to answer, he chuckles nervously again.

Apologies, it's just... there were so many culinary delights that I-

Stan: He spits out a bone from the chicken he's eating and, looking quite unimpressed, he answers for Ford. Well, there's the time he ate a literal planet. Oh, or the time he had to eat the thousands of years dead corpses of some aliens where the only thing left on 'em by that point was their, er... "bottom" ends. Somethin' about bein' made of different stuff than us that makes 'em decompose slower, he said. He shrugs. Said it tasted like roasted dust and, well... ass, go figure. But that's not even the worst thing he told me. Because one time-

Ford: Looking rather pissed and embarrassed. Stan, we probably should just leave it at that. It was pure survival, nothing more. There was nothing else in that dimension for me to eat.

Stan: With a grin. Oh, you're sayin' I shouldn't talk about the "secretions" meal you had once?

Ford: Yes! That's precisely what we shouldn't talk about!

There's a long pause, where Ford looks ready to slaughter someone, and Stan is just smirking and chewing on his chicken without a care in the world. Then he shrugs and blurts it.

Stan: Long story short, it involved Ford, some starvation, and some fresh - what he called - "secretions" from-

Ford: Getting up from the table and ready to lunge. Can it, Stan! I was desperate! I'd have starved had I not-

Stan: He interrupts. What's that? He turns the camera of the laptop towards Ford's face. Is that a shit-eating grin I see on your face, Sixer?

It is definitely not a shit-eating grin. It's an "I'm going to turn my brother into taxidermy" one. At that, Ford actually lunges, and Stan cackles as he gets up and starts running with the laptop in hand, finishing his reply over the video.

Ha! I'm gonna tell 'em all your secrets, and you can't stop me!

Ford: IT WAS EDIBLE IN THAT DIMENSION, IT WAS NOT SHIT, AND I WAS STARVING!

Stan: Oh really? It came from the ass-end of somethin' weird. Sounds like shit to me!

Ford: SECRETIONS, Stanley! Like milk from cows!

Stan: What!? How is alien ass-udder juice any better!?

The view on the laptop from here on out is a mix of Stan cackling, Ford looking about ready to kill Stan, all set in a wobble of the camera bouncing as Stan runs with Ford in close pursuit behind him.

Stan: HE SAID HE LIKED IT, TOO! Ford: Incoherent rage noises.

[pwhl-mybeloved]

Why do you hate the monarchy? You're Canadian it doesn't effect you? It's just hating for hatings sake

hey bro have you heard of colonialism

[tendermiasma]

Halsin getting Clover to smile for the first time since Clover was a kid????? T^T wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh that's so sweet aaauuughhhhhh I'm going feral for these two

He grew up clinging to a knife's edge between the fey realm and a mortal death-- he didn't understand things could be different. He didn't dream of a night where he could sleep deeply and without fear in someone's arms that would hold him until he woke or that he would have company when he went foraging in the foggy mornings. It didn't even enter his mind that he would waste a spell warming tea when it was too rainy to start a fire and it somehow felt like the most important thing he did that day when he saw those kind eyes crinkle up in surprised gratitude. He would smile again :)

[blu-ish]

Oh god, if they have Shadow actually take off his ring inhibitors in that scene.....I wouldn’t know what to do XD

NIYANA YOU DONT UNDERSTAND I WOULD LOSE MY ACUTAL SHIT

[sleezeboss]

HEY i was in the shower and i remembered an old old sketch you did of Satan getting a spa day done with like an imp giving him a pedicure while he was yelling on the phone or smth. anyways- i was wondering if Satan still had a "not-so-retired" businessman vibe after Bub leaves Hell, or if he goes in a different direction instead! ❤️

OKAY I had to run and look for this image cuz I love it and I haven't seen it in a while

so I still want this to be his "final form" re: "not so retired business man." i think I really cooked with this concept and I still really like this vibe for him. a lot of the exploration I'm doing with regards to bub and rex's backstories is definitely focused on their respective pasts, and Bub's past, being a magical creature who has a long lifespan, goes back a lot farther than Rex's. Satan as a Warlord, Belphi as a Prince, Bub as a king consort- all that is from an age past.

So i guess what I'm saying is- yes this is still the vibe intended for Satan!

[frownyalfred]

cat pictures? please? for the poor cat pictureless folks such as myself?

I close my Hinge inbox, full of horny men begging me for nudes, and open tumblr, where people want to see pictures of my cat and hear about my headcanons...juxtaposition is thrilling

[dragonnnfly]

I look forward to your memes all the time they literally give me life <3

WELL IN THAT CASE

Httyd + AO3

For you

[gin-juice-tonic]

I've been thinking about helscome my wedsite all day. Is it a reference to something or

Yeah it is the welcome message of popular web cartoon character Homestar Runner's personal website that he made. (An easter egg from one of the cartoons)

[loupy-mongoose]

Why does Tumbler like eating MOLD so much. I'm surprised it hasn't gotten sick from the adorable wyrm

Mold and worms. Tumblr's hunger is really going too far now. XD

[yoimix]

「 from eden 」

if the rtawahist theory of parallel universes is true, you are certain that you would hate ALHAITHAM in every single one of them. 

it is an ambitious theory, however. alhaitham calls it fiction.

“that’s not what the algorithm does,” he grumbles, lowering his head to rest his forehead against his palm. he looks nearly as distressed as a pyro fungus on water.

“i did not draw the wrong chart.”

“you filled in incorrect values.”

“no way.”

“i can’t believe i’m here with you at 3am.” he heaves his deepest sigh yet, mingling into the cold air outside puspa cafe. you prefer the warm, coffee-scented interior, but to get your words across, you need them to ring inside his thick skull.

“well, what else were you gonna do? sleep?” you roll your eyes.

“yes.”

you pull a face at his expressionless response. 

“now, let’s go over the algorithm again,” he presses, eyes piercing enough to draw you closer, and bowlike lips sporting his regular frown. there is no need for him to be here. he just happened upon you at the cafe five hours ago, just to point out the mistake in your assignment. of course, that didn’t end well. you’d rather deep fry and eat a consecrated shell than let a man tell you how to solve your problems. so, he didn’t need to be here. he just never left.

the answer to that is simple: in every single universe, he will choose you over anyone else.

not that you’re aware. alhaitham makes sure you never will be. he’s unfamiliar with languages of the heart; and no amount of your biting remarks and teasing voice, your pensive smile and zaytun perfume, will get him to pronounce the syllables right.

he looks over at you, your full lips moving at rapid speed as you reiterate the contents of your lecture. the side of your neck is exposed, and the distance isn’t so wide that he can lean in comfortably. no, if he did, his shoulder would touch yours, and his hot breath would be against your skin. then maybe he’d get to hear your words die in your throat. these few inches are haphazard, bordering the lines between friends and a face you cannot stand. 

what a wonderful caricature of intimacy, he thinks.

“even if this language has the structure you claim, it’s nearly impossible to know. this poem could be dating to thousands of years ago!” you exclaim, growing frustrated, “are you sure about this? i’m starting to think it can’t be deciphered.”

you’re done with translating the first part. it is as abstruse as can be, and you’ve been scratching your head over it for the past three days. you’re not sure if you’re supposed to solve it like a riddle, or agonize through the steps of the translation algorithm to complete. though, the embodiment of agony is already seated beside you.

what is the difference between me and the sky? 

hell, if you know. you’re not even sure what’s happening anymore. the letters float across your vision, little taunts in their movement. teetering on the edge of dropping out, you groan again.

“i think you should get some rest,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

your shoulders sag, and alhaitham wonders if he said something wrong. 

“don’t patronize me.”

“i am not.”

“i never know what you mean, and what you don’t,” you mutter, picking up your pen again to scribble notes on the corners of the paper. it contains alhaitham’s neat explanations, arrows indicating grammar and some numbers signifying the presumed utilization years of this lost language. yours looks like a little kid’s next to his.

but i say what i mean, he thinks. is there a point to saying it out loud? his chest constricts at the idea of you curling your lips, dismissing his chest laid bare for your predefined ideas. he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. but something in your voice betrays this thought of his. 

his aventurine eyes settle over you. but you bear no distaste, only mild annoyance from this wall you’ve hit. he must say, you’re a commendable scholar. the relentless pursuit of knowledge has far more meaning than simply possessing it, and he’s seen your weary form in the house of daena at too many midnights. you are self-sufficient and he’s certain you’ll arrive at the answer anyway.

“i’ll be leaving then,” he says, standing up. “i hope your darshan doesn’t find you groveling by a stack of papers in the morning. it’s rather unbecoming of their paragon.”

a shout of exasperation leaves you, your shoulders tense.

“it’s because of you the haravatat are known as snobs!” you shoot, crossing your arms.

“it is your choice to believe in rumors,” he responds, idly gazing at your form. “it reflects you more than me.”

“do you always have to be so robotic?”

“i’m more well off than most, so i doubt changing my mannerisms will be of benefit to me.”

you exhale, on the verge of exasperation. “do you ever hear yourself? i can’t imagine the agony your poor roommate goes through.”

“kaveh has nothing to do with this.” he grits his teeth. 

“no one has anything to do with you, alhaitham.” you stand up, glaring at him. “to you, people are no different from cats, or dogs, or- or flies—you don’t seem to understand that our languages were made to bring us closer.”

“they were invented for communication. a group that understands each other survives longer.” 

that is true. but you’re not wrong either, even if you’ve chosen more romantic phrasing. 

“i think—”

“archons,” you fume. “what about poetry? and literature, and dedication pages at the start of novels? we do it for each other.”

“your own perception adds substance to sentimental texts. i cannot agree with the poets. they led far different lives than i do.”

you scoff. “your little bubble of comfort is all you care about, don’t you? pray tell why you bothered with this anyway. was it to stroke your own ego? i... i genuinely believed you wanted to help.”

that one stung a little.

“you seem to have an entire image of me already. do i have to be present here?”

you heat up in the face, nearing a boiling point. you’ll have to apologize to enteka for causing a commotion; but your mind is heavy and you cannot quite think clearly. 

“i understand that you don’t bother with what people think of you. but you could at least be honest with me- without- without your damn glaring, or sarcasm or—”

“i don’t look at you with the intention to glare.” he raises his voice for once. “i cannot let you see what i’m experiencing because i don’t know what it is yet—and it is imperative you don’t poke your nose into this.”

his chest heaves as he steadies his breathing. there is nothing you can say, not when you’re taken aback by his quiet outburst.

“and i’m not frowning like you think i am. i am simply not wearing an expression at all. my collection is unordered but i mark my books alphabetically when i lend them to you. i say i bring an extra cup of coffee to have a second fill even though i know you will ask to have it. i despise the conditioning in people that they must pair up in meaningful ways for a good life. and despite that...”

he catches his breath, not realizing he was holding it in.

your eyes have softened by now, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“...if i were to end my speculations and call this love, i would be satisfied.”

you part your lips and close them again. to expect an answer, perhaps, is a grave overestimation on his part. some things are better left unsaid. it’s how languages die.

alhaitham sighs. “right. it’s too strong a word. i mean to say i feel comfortable around you. and content. though i never thought there was anything amiss in my life. as for affection, i am not familiar with this kind. and—”

you cup his face, still at a loss for words. “you talk so much. i never realized.”

“last time, you said i don’t talk enough.”

“i just like the sound of your voice.”

he purses his lips, and swallows his words. once more, you have decided to speak in a language he has no expertise in. the drumming in his heart says he cannot wait to read poetry in it.

“no more sighing, haitham. and no more glaring. no sarcasm. and no irony.”

he furrows his brows, but he makes no attempt to release himself from your touch.

“say it again. your conclusion.”

his lips part, a sharp breath running through his lungs.

“i believe this is the notion of love. every gesture points to it.”

“is your head clouded?”

“no. it’s never been clearer.”

and he lets you lean in closer, closer till your lips are brushing against his.

“so?” you whisper.

it takes him a moment. he closes the distance, and though he has rarely felt devotion, he moves his mouth against yours in a fervent prayer. carefully, he rests his hand against the small of your back, more to steady himself than you.

this makes sense to him. you’re so familiar. like dragging his fingers on his mirror from ages ago, he finds you a perfect image of what could’ve been. you and him are pages of the same incoherent book, dancing between the same two sentences.

“for clarity’s sake,” he whispers, pulling away. “i say what i mean. i’ve lived long enough to know misunderstandings are beyond my control, and truth is something to be actively pursued to gain. but i cannot stand the screen between my words and your ears.”

his gaze is focused, unwavering. it’s the way he’s always looked at you.

“i know,” you respond, after a moment. “i know what you mean. and if it is your words that you want me to actively pursue—”

he clears his throat. “that- that is not what i said.”

“—then i will do so.”

you smile, and he can feel his lips twitch.

“well, i’m no genius...”

“neither am i,” he interjects softly. “but i’m persistent. i will keep trying, over and over. and if i’m not wrong, you’re the same.”

“you’re not wrong.”

have you always looked at him this way? he thought he’s seen all of your faces before. a new language blossoms in his mind. for once, literary devices are more than just devices.

“the poets are wrong,” you state, laughing bashfully, “it’s not so earth-shattering as i thought. maybe... maybe you were right on that part.”

a small smile forms on his face, and your breath hitches in your throat. “that’s ironic. i thought i finally understood them.”

“really? then do you know the answer to this ancient poem from the sands of hadravameth?” your eyes are curious as ever. “what is the difference between me and the sky?”

he recalls the lines from a long-buried poem, and they click in his head. the sands cannot swallow words as well as it swallows life.

“the difference, my love, is that when you laugh, i forget about the sky.”