Hazbin & Helluva Fics

Hey lovelies!! My inbox is officially OPEN for requests again! Drop your prompts, scenarios, brainrot, or chaotic ideas anytime — I adore seeing what you all come up with 💌💫

💀 Characters I Write For

Hazbin Hotel

🦌 Alastor 😇 Lucifer 📺 Vox ❤️‍🔥 Radioapple (Alastor x Lucifer)

Teen Wolf

🧠 Stiles Stilinski

Peacemaker (DC)

🔪 Vigilante / Adrian Chase

TVDU

🩸 Kai Parker 🐺 Klaus Mikaelson

The Amazing Digital Circus

🎪 Jax

Helluva Boss

🐴 Blitzo

KPOP Demon Hunters

👶🔥 Baby Saja

Rick and Morty

🧪 Rick Sanchez

📬 What You Can Request

✨ Headcanons ✨ Drabbles / short fics ✨ Scenarios ✨ Fluff / angst / crack ✨ Platonic or romantic content ✨ Soft yandere (case-by-case)

If you’re unsure whether something is okay — just ask!

🚫 Boundaries — What I Don’t Write

Please read before requesting 💛 ❌ Non-con / dub-con ❌ Incest ❌ Pedophilia/age regression kinks ❌ Beastiality ❌ Heavy/extreme gore ❌ Anything that targets marginalised groups ❌ Anything I’m personally uncomfortable with

(If in doubt, please message me, I don't bite!)

📝 Coming Soon…

I loved this concept — that kind of unsettling “folk horror meets office chaos” combo fits I.M.P. so perfectly. I went with a gn!reader and tried to keep that eerie, earthy energy throughout: the smell of moss and iron, the flicker of candles against fluorescent lights, the sound of something old humming under the floorboards. hope it scratches the creepy little itch you had in mind 🖤🌿

I.M.P. Crew x Witch!Reader Headcanons pairing(s): Blitzo, Moxxie, Millie, Loona, Stolas x GN!Witch!Reader (platonic/ambiguous) warnings/tags: minor horror themes, occult aesthetics, light gore mention, eerie/folk horror tone, humour sprinkled in, gender-neutral reader, no explicit content summary: the I.M.P. crew hires a new member — someone quiet, capable, and strange in ways even Hell can’t quite name. they’re good at killing... but even better at the kind of magic that makes lights flicker, blood run cold, and ancient things whisper your name.

Blitzo

Instantly markets them as a “mystic asset” — tries to monetize every minor trick (“hex that client into signing!”) but genuinely braggy about having them on payroll.

Covers for them when people in Hell get… weirdly respectful. He’ll joke about it but visibly flinch when their eyes go flat-black mid-chant.

Lowkey possessive: rough teasing becomes softer if anyone else treats the reader like a curiosity.

Loves theatrical rituals — shows up with overpriced incense and thinks it’s a vibe-check. Will clap the loudest and call it “a show.”

Secretly wants to learn one easy trick (telekinesis for opening jars) but gives up after three failed attempts and pretends it was a test.

If the reader does a protective ward on the office, he’ll sleep like a baby and brag about it to absolutely anyone.

Moxxie

Starts terrified and hyper-prepared: pockets full of salt, crosses, First Aid, and a notebook labelled “RITUALS? SCIENCE?”

Slowly becomes the reader’s academic project — asks a million questions, attempts to catalogue spells, and writes overly precise lists (with footnotes).

Won’t admit to believing until the hex works on a stapler. When it does, he’s equal parts scandalised and awed.

The reader gives him a small charm or calming draught, and it actually helps his anxiety; he becomes fiercely loyal for that alone.

Moral conflict: debates whether they’re “playing god” or actually helping. Ends up defending the reader from anyone calling them “demonic.”

Has the sweetest, most sincere “I don’t fully understand this, but I trust you” moments.

Millie

Immediate, unconditional simp energy. She loves the dark-wood aesthetic and will help gather roots and bones like it’s a picnic.

Joins rituals with enthusiastic clapping and battle cries — protective magic + Millie = chaos that keeps bad things away.

Finds it calming and motherly; the reader becomes her cozy, violent best friend.

If a charm binds to Millie, she wears it with pride and will punch anything that tries to mess with the reader.

Totally fine with the gore and blood symbolism — sees it as part of “ancestral strength,” not scary.

Will tease Blitzo if he treats the reader wrong and will physically drag him away for an apology.

Loona

Pretends not to care but observes the reader with quiet, focused curiosity. She keeps a protection token in her wallet that nobody knows about.

Enjoys the aesthetics silently — candlelight, old smells, pages of scratched script. Will steal the reader’s playlist and never return it.

Makes dry, sarcastic comments but will show up to rituals late and stand in the back like she never leaves (she does).

Shares a loner bond: the reader’s solitude resonates with her. They trade small, private gestures (a glove, a hair tie, a tucked note).

If called upon, she’ll act as their blunt, loyal bodyguard — not for mysticism, but because the reader matters to her.

Very rare, very soft moments where Loona actually asks about their past and listens.

Stolas

Academic obsession. He thinks the reader’s practice predates many structured occult systems and wants to compare notes immediately.

Delighted by archaic words, old hymns, and bone tools — offers dusty grimoires and theatrical praise.

People-pleasing flattery aside, he’s genuinely respectful: recognises boundaries and will fund their research if they want.

Will attend (and fund) a private ritual only if invited — shows up with candied fruit and scholarly questions.

If the reader is willing, he provides access to libraries that contain languages the reader nearly remembers.

Office headcanons

Small, uncanny things happen around the office: radios hum in archaic cadence, ferns restless at their feet, and coffee goes cold in seconds.

Technology glitches whenever a heavy ritual is near — Blitzo calls it “the haunted Wi-Fi.”

The reader’s rituals create small protections (a faint ring of moss or blue-smoking candles) that employees find soothing — or terrifying, depending on temperament.

Contracts sometimes come with a subtle sigil the reader unconsciously draws, which leads to more accurate hits and unnerving coincidences.

Fandom: Helluva Boss Pairing: Blitzø x Female!Reader Word Count: ~3k Warnings: NSFW, rough sex, dirty talk, mild angst, consensual smut

Summary: When you join I.M.P. as the new hire, Blitzø insists on giving you some hands-on “special training” after hours. What starts as chaotic flirting quickly spirals into something rough, dirty, and far more intimate than either of you expected. Blitzø’s desperate need for connection bleeds through his cocky facade — and you might just be the one demon who sees him for who he really is.

The fluorescent hum of the I.M.P. office was usually a symphony of low-grade chaos, a backdrop for screaming matches, gunfire, and the occasional demonic possession. But tonight, it was quiet. Too quiet. The oppressive silence after Moxxie and Millie had finally clocked out, grumbling about Blitzo’s “idiotic” new hire, was almost louder than the usual cacophony.

You, Y/N, leaned back in your newly acquired, slightly sticky office chair, a smirk playing on your lips. You were a hellhound-demon mix, your fur a sleek, shadowed grey, eyes glowing with an intelligent, almost mischievous amber. Your tail, currently flicking idly against the worn carpet, was long and expressive. You’d spent the whole day observing Blitzø, the company’s unhinged founder, and frankly, you were intrigued. He was a walking disaster, a magnet for trouble, and undeniably… fascinating. Confidence was your natural state, a result of years navigating the cutthroat landscape of the Lust Ring, but a small part of you hummed with a delicious naivety about what truly working with Blitzø entailed.

“So you’re tellin’ me, Y/N,” Blitzø’s voice, a gravelly purr that could turn into a shriek on a dime, cut through the quiet. He was leaning against the doorframe of his office, illuminated by the lurid glow of a neon sign that read ‘BLITZØ’ in flickering red script. He had shed his usual coat, just wearing his slightly-too-tight black shirt, the red stripes on his arm-fins stark against the pale skin. One eyebrow, a sharp red arch, was cocked. “You really get how this all works? The… the nuances of imp-level assassination?”

You chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “I’ve killed bigger things than the targets you send Moxxie after, Blitzø. And with less collateral damage, usually.” You watched him, your eyes trailing down his lean frame, noting the way his tail twitched restlessly. Even standing still, he vibrated with a manic energy.

He pushed off the doorframe, stalking towards you with that predatory, confident gait that was almost a caricature. “Oh, really now? Because I detected a certain… hesitation when I explained the finer points of tactical disembowelment with a rusty garden gnome. A brief blink, darling. I saw it.” He was close now, leaning over your chair, his unique musk—a mix of cheap cologne, sulfur, and something undeniably him—filling your senses. His horns, sharp and black, almost grazed your cheek.

“That was a moment of reflection, Blitzø. Appreciating your avant-garde methods,” you purred, a genuine, if slightly sarcastic, compliment. You tilted your head back, meeting his molten red gaze. “But I assure you, I’m quick on the uptake. I pick up on things fast.”

His eyes narrowed, a slow smile spreading across his face, not quite reaching his eyes, which still held a calculating glint. “Oh, I bet you do. And that’s exactly why I think you need some… special training.” He straightened, taking a step back, gesturing grandly towards his cluttered office. “After hours. Just you and me. Think of it as… advanced imp-ersion therapy.”

Your tail gave an involuntary twitch. The “dangers” you were naive about weren’t the physical ones of the job, but the specific, messy, sexually-charged chaos that was Blitzø himself. You knew exactly what kind of “training” he was implying, and you found yourself surprisingly eager for the lesson. “Imp-ersion therapy, huh? Sounds… hands-on.”

“Oh, it absolutely will be,” he practically purred, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Come on, recruit. Don’t wanna waste my precious, unpaid time.” He turned and strode into his office, leaving the door ajar just enough for you to follow.

You pushed off your chair, a slow, deliberate movement, your eyes never leaving his retreating figure. The office was a disaster zone: stacks of overdue bills leaning precariously, a half-eaten bag of chips on a stack of pornographic magazines, a surprisingly lifelike (and anatomically correct) horse doll propped in a corner, and various broken weapons scattered like morbid confetti. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and something faintly metallic.

Blitzø was already behind his desk, leaning back in his own decrepit chair, his tail lashing behind him. He gestured to the empty space in front of him. “Alright, rule number one of I.M.P. operations, Y/N: always be prepared for anything. Even if that ‘anything’ is me spontaneously deciding we need to, uh, ‘bone up’ on our close-quarters combat skills.” His eyes raked over you, a slow, appreciative sweep from your head to your clawed feet. “And you, darling, look very bone-able.”

You smirked, walking around the desk and leaning against the chipped wood, arms crossed. "Is that an official I.M.P. term, 'bone-able'?"

“It is now,” he grinned, his fangs glinting. He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial, flirty tone. “Now, the first lesson in this… intensive program is trust. You gotta trust your boss. Especially when he’s tellin’ you that this desk, despite its… character, is surprisingly sturdy. And occasionally used for… other things than paperwork.” He winked, a theatrical, almost painful-looking blink.

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, but your confidence didn’t waver. “And what exactly are those ‘other things,’ Blitzø? Because from here, it mostly looks like a shrine to chaos and unpaid parking tickets.”

He pushed himself up, rounding the desk, his movements fluid and quick. He was in front of you in an instant, crowding your space. “Oh, you know what other things, you sly little vixen. Don’t play coy.” His hand, surprisingly gentle, reached out and traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Or do you need a practical demonstration?”

The touch sent a shiver down your spine, but you met his gaze evenly. “I’m always open to a practical demonstration, boss. Especially if it involves you teaching me how to really… handle things.”

His eyes flared, a primal heat igniting them. “Oh, you’ll be handling plenty, sweetheart. And I’ll be handling you.” His voice was a low growl, rough with barely contained desire. His other hand slid down, finding your hip, his fingers digging in playfully. “First rule of combat: disarm your opponent.” With a surprisingly nimble movement, his hand reached behind you and unzipped your tactical vest, pulling it off with a flourish. “There. Already lookin’ less… restricted.”

You shivered again, not from cold, but from the sudden rush of air against your skin and the sheer audacity of him. “Bold move, boss. What’s next, are you going to demand I strip down to my… ‘essentials’ for better mobility?”

“I wasn’t going to demand it, Y/N. I was going to suggest it very, very strongly,” he corrected, his voice a low thrum. His hands were already on the hem of your shirt, not quite pulling it up, just teasing. “Unless you’re cold? You look a little… tense. Special training involves loosenin’ up.”

“I’m not tense,” you breathed, your eyes locked on his. “Just… evaluating my instructor’s methods.” Your hands, almost on instinct, rose to his chest, pushing gently against the taut fabric of his shirt. “Are you sure you’re qualified for this level of… ‘combat’?”

His grin widened, a flash of fangs. “Darling, I invented this combat. And I’m about to show you why I’m the best there is.” With a swift, fluid motion, he tugged your shirt up, his eyes never leaving yours. You let him, lifting your arms slightly as he pulled it over your head, dropping it to the floor with your vest. You were left in a simple black bra and tactical pants. Your fur was sleek, your form athletic and toned.

His eyes devoured you, a hungry, possessive glint in their depths. “Oh, you are perfect. Every damn inch. That’s gonna make this training session so much more… intensive.” His hands, rough but warm, settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The difference in height was negligible, but he still managed to make you feel enveloped, claimed. “Now, lesson two: close quarters. You gotta get right in there. No holding back. Like this.”

His mouth descended, hot and demanding, his lips parting yours with a raw urgency that took your breath away. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a hungry, open-mouthed assault of tongue and teeth, tasting of sulfur and something fiercely primal. You met him with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his short, spiky mane, tugging just enough to elicit a low growl from his throat.

He pulled back just enough to gasp for air, his forehead resting against yours, eyes blazing. “Fuck, you taste good. Like… chaos and regret. My favorite combo.” His hands had moved, finding the snap of your tactical pants, fumbling slightly in his eagerness. “Get these damn things off. They’re… a tactical disadvantage.”

“Are you sure it’s the pants that are the disadvantage, or just your lack of patience, Blitzø?” you teased, but you leaned into his touch, already helping him with the snap, your hips pressing against his.

“Patience is for losers, Y/N!” he snarled, his voice half-choked with desire as he finally got the snap open. He pushed the pants down your hips, and you kicked them off, stepping out of them. You were now only in your bra and a pair of simple black panties. His eyes, still burning, lingered on your body. “Alright, third lesson: vulnerability. You gotta expose your weaknesses, let your guard down. Just… for me.”

Before you could respond, he swept you up, almost comically, into his arms. You let out a surprised yelp, wrapping your legs around his waist on instinct. He carried you to the desk, not gently, but with a forceful possessiveness that was surprisingly thrilling. He practically tossed you onto the cluttered surface, sending papers and pens scattering. Your back hit a stack of files with a thump, but the adrenaline coursing through you drowned out any discomfort.

“Whoa, easy there, instructor,” you gasped, bracing yourself with your hands as he crowded over you, his knees pressing against the desk on either side of your hips.

“No easy here, darling. This is Hell. And this is my office,” he growled, ripping open his own shirt, buttons flying. He barely gave it a second thought before tearing at your bra, his claws snagging the fabric, popping the clasp with a snap. Your breasts, freed, swelled with a sudden sensitivity as his gaze devoured them. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Ready to learn how to really take a hit?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth was on you again, fierce and demanding, trailing fire down your throat, to your collarbone, then lower, suckling at your breasts with a desperate hunger. His hands were everywhere, kneading your hips, tracing the curve of your thighs, pulling at the elastic of your panties.

“Blitzø, wait,” you managed to gasp, not because you wanted him to stop, but because the sheer intensity was overwhelming. You wanted to meet him, match his energy. “You’re forgetting a step. Equal footing.”

He paused, his head lifting, eyes still clouded with lust. “What the fuck are you talking about, equal footing? I’m the boss, I’m always on top!”

“Not in this lesson, you’re not,” you panted, your fingers already on his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “You said ‘trust.’ Let me handle some of the… ‘tactical maneuvers.’” You unbuckled him, and while his eyes were wide with a mix of surprise and arousal, you pushed your hips up, pressing against his obvious hardness through his pants. Your hand dipped down, finding him through the fabric, squeezing.

A guttural moan tore from his throat. “Fuck, Y/N! You’re a little demon, aren’t you? You really do pick up fast!” He ripped open his zipper, reaching in to free himself. “Alright, fine. Equal footing, for a bit. But I’m still leading the charge, you hear me? I’m the one with the… experience.”

“Show me,” you challenged, your voice a husky whisper, your legs parting wider on the desk.

He wasted no more time. With a single, decisive thrust, he was inside you, a rough, powerful invasion that made you arch your back and cry out. He was thick, hot, and utterly overwhelming. Your body clenched around him, a tight, desperate grip.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck, his horns digging slightly into your shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight. Like you were made for me.” His thrusts began, deep and relentless, rocking the already unstable desk. Papers scattered to the floor, pens rolled, and the horse doll in the corner seemed to wink in the dim light.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm, your hands clawing at his back. “Harder, Blitzø! Don’t hold back!” you whimpered, your body rising to meet every thrust. He was a whirlwind of raw, uninhibited desire, and you met him, scream for scream, grunt for grunt.

“You got it, darling! This is the real training!” he snarled, his voice rough with exertion. He drove into you again and again, his cock pressing against your deepest core, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire being. Each thrust was a declaration, a guttural growl of possession. His hips slammed against yours, a rhythmic thud that filled the office.

As the intensity built, a flicker of something else crossed his face – a fleeting vulnerability. After a particularly fervent thrust, he squeezed his eyes shut, a low, almost desperate sound escaping his throat. “Fuck, Y/N… just… don’t… don’t leave. Don’t fucking leave me.” It was a whisper, almost lost in the sounds of their coupling, but it was there, a raw plea that hinted at the deep insecurity beneath his chaotic exterior.

You instinctively tightened your hold, hooking your ankles behind his back, pulling him even closer, letting him feel your own desperate pleasure. “Never, Blitzø,” you panted, your voice thick with lust and something akin to burgeoning affection. “As long as you keep this up, I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes snapped open, a flare of something akin to relief mixed with renewed feral hunger. He pounded into you faster, harder, chasing that final, shattering release. Your vision blurred, the cluttered office swimming around you as the friction built to an unbearable crescendo.

“Oh, fuck! Gods, fuck!” he roared, a guttural sound that tore from his chest as he emptied himself deep inside you, his body going rigid, then slumping against yours, heavy and spent.

You cried out his name, your own climax a violent tremor that shook your core, leaving you trembling and breathless, your muscles spasming around him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the room. He was still buried deep inside you, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his horns tangled in your hair, his tail twitching weakly around your leg. The scent of sex, sweat, and something uniquely Blitzø filled the air.

Slowly, his weight shifted slightly. He extracted himself with a reluctant sigh, then carefully, almost tenderly, (for Blitzø, at least), rolled to his side, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled on the desk, tangled in each other’s limbs, your legs still hooked over his, his arm draped across your bare midriff.

He stared up at the ceiling, one hand reaching up to absently pick at a loose thread on the ancient office carpet. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “So,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, “that’s… that’s pretty much the gist of the ‘advanced’ training. You, uh, you think you got it? All the… the thrusts and the… the ‘staying power’ and all that?”

You chuckled, a tired but satisfied sound. You pressed your face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent. “I think I got the gist, boss. Though I might need a few more ‘refresher’ courses. For… ‘tactical reinforcement,’ you know.”

He grunted, a small, almost bashful sound. “Yeah, yeah. Tactical reinforcement. Right. Don’t wanna mess up the… the curriculum.” He was silent for a moment, then shifted slightly, his arm tightening around you. “You know, you’re… you’re pretty good at this, Y/N. Better than… than most. Not like Moxxie, always whining about ‘boundaries.’ You get it. You, uh… you really get it.”

You smiled against his skin, feeling the awkward sincerity in his words. “I’m glad I could meet your… expectations, Blitzø.”

He cleared his throat, his tail thumping softly against the desk. “Yeah. Expectations. You, uh… you got nice… fur. It’s… it’s very… grey. And, uh… soft. Like… like a… a really nice… hellhound. Yeah. A very nice hellhound. That’s you.” He finished lamely, his attempt at a sweet compliment stumbling over itself, his face scrunching up in a way that suggested he was already regretting every word.

You laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the quiet office. “Thank you, Blitzø. You’re… very… imp-ressive yourself.” You lifted your head, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. You knew this was his version of affection, his clumsy way of baring just a sli sliver of the needy, insecure imp beneath the insane facade. And for now, tangled on a messy office desk, surrounded by the remnants of his chaotic life, it was more than enough.