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classicallyunprepared · 5 months

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Stolas would profess his love for Blitzo while drunk, but I feel like Blitzo would ignore his feelings no matter what. I stand by this.

#stolitz fanfic #stolas ozzie #pining stolas #stolas x blitz #blitz x stolas #helluva boss review

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twiggiesketches · 1 year

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I've been wanting to do some fanart for these disasters for like years??? but I'm intimidated by the sheer fucking talent that already exists in the fandom???? but fuck it here you go. I miss them.

#stolitz #stolas goetia #blitzo #helluva boss blitz #helluva boss fanart #helluvaboss #stolas #dumb sad boys #fucking dads #dumb sad idiot dads #i miss them so much #im just here for the angst and emotional pining #blitzø #blitz

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quillyfied · 2 months

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So. Spent the past week or so watching Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss. Been kinda interesting to see the polished version of these internet projects that have been kinda floating around my periphery for so long. And they both deffo have some juicy characters and meaty themes for me to sink my teeth into.

Also I need a Stolas plushy to hug into oblivion IMMEDIATELY.

#SAD PINING MESS OF AN OWL PRINCE HAS MY HEART WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED #and I’ve had Loser on repeat all week for my recurring panic attacks #so that’s been really nice actually #almost quit on helluva boss and then it grew plot and character development out of nowhere #yesssssssssssss #now I’m in the same boat as the rest of you sad sacks waiting on that loooool #STOLAS FIZZ ANGEL GIRLS NIGHT WHEN????

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januscorner · 5 months

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My Playlists!

Sleepover With Apple White

Partying With Beelzebub

The World Of Mr Plant

Experimenting With Stanford Pines

Interpreting Prophecies With Stolas

Horse Riding Lessons With Blitzø

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i-couldntfindanoncringeusername · 1 year

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Another Stolas!Ford-

#gravity falls #ford pines #gravity falls au #stanford pines #stolas

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hazbinhotelho · 11 months

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Stolitz week 2023 day 1: Family/Childhood (T)

I realized I should be cross-posting my stuff lol

Summary: Blitzø hears about one of Stolas' childhood dreams involving Loo Loo Land, and decides to make it happen.

Content warnings: sex/the full moon deal is mentioned, but other than that there is nothing graphic

Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47979379/chapters/120972745

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comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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shortbreadly · 8 months

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seeing blitzo slowly (very slowly) starting to realise stolas’ feelings for him, along with fizz being completely done with their pining, is exactly the kind of subtle stolitz i need injected into my bloodstream

#helluva boss #helluva boss season two #helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss oops #helluva boss blitzo #helluva boss stolas #helluva boss fizzarolli #helluva boss stolitz

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classicallyunprepared · 5 months

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Stolas and the Aftermath

Stolas closed the window and slowly started driving away from Blitz's house. That was one hell of a date. He'd been so stupid, so stupid. But all signs had pointed to this being their first date. Blitz invited him out outside of work to a lust club of all places. He even seemed nervous on the phone and the way he avoided Stolas's gaze. It had to be first-date nervousness, right?

He'd looked so handsome there, yet so vulnerable. He had no idea he'd start to fall for Blitz. He figured the relationship with the imp would be nothing more than a sexy distraction, a person to fulfill a sexual need that Stella couldn't. He was hoping for a break, something, anything to reduce the stress of dealing with Stella. Octavia barely talked to him anymore. She seemed like she was at that age where all teenagers find their parents annoying,

Stolas certainly had been there. His father was always talking about how he should act as a king, who he should spend time with and who he should stay away from. Kingly duties and rules about which spoon to use. Stolas would hide in his room when he could. He would lounge on bed and read novels with a lot of drama. Fantasy was one of his favorites; he liked traveling to other worlds and imagining other lives he could have lived. He liked the feeling of escape and the sheer drama that all these characters came up with. Cheating scandals, arranged marriages, professional assassins, Stolas couldn't imagine how anyone could go through these situations in real life, but something about them thrilled him. He loved the rush of excitement that they gave him and every time he read he felt like he was a part of something forbidden.

He couldn't picture what his father would say to all of this, well, he would definitely disapprove. That is why he made sure that Octavia always had access to good books. He bought her fantasy novels and science fiction. They used to talk about them, about what it might like to live in another life. He always encouraged her to read what she wanted--he never wanted her to think that she had to hide anything from him.

Stolas still loved a good drama to this day. He didn't have as much of an attention span or the time for reading as often, so he usually went with a good tv show. He felt that lately, melodramatic soap operas appealed to him. They were always so outlandish, but somehow, they worked out. There was the man who had amnesia and forgot all about the last five years with his partner.

Luckily, she ended up asking him out on a new "first date" so that they could get to know each other and fall in love all over again. Then there were the two star crossed lovers who had gotten together under the most impossible circumstances. They met on a trip to the Bahamas, instantly fell for each other, and had a beautiful love affair.

But of course, soap operas never make life very easy. The two met again at a party a few weeks later, but it turns out that she is betrothed to someone else. They decide not to pursue things, but their passion only grows for each other and they give in. Their relationship continues, but it must all be done in secret. No one can know about it. Her husband is a terrible man, always yelling at his wife and complaining about her.

Gabrielle is very insecure because of her past experiences. She lost her parents as a young girl and grew up with mean foster parents. He is of high status. He's a wealthy and successful son of a governor and she feels like she's not good enough for him. She feels like she does not deserve to be loved or even know how to start loving anyone. She worries that she's not good enough for him, and she starts to push him away. But Jack tells her that her husband is wrong and that she deserves love.

She is an amazing woman and she cares so much about the people around her. Her daughter loves her. Jack loves her. Stolas teared up at this part. It is her husband who is terrible and Jack feels bad that she's in such an unhappy marriage, and he wants to help her. So, the lovers decide to go to her and her husband's house and tell her husband about their love. But it turns out, the husband is sleeping with his boss and they catch the two in a compromising position.

Despite all this, the couple get together in the end. Stolas makes a turn from a stop sign. Now, where have all these thoughts come from? Ah yeah, Blitz. The man who broke his heart. He couldn't forget how Blitz had spit those bitter words at him.

"Don't pretend that what we have is anything other than you wanting to fuck me."

He'd done this all wrong.

He'd seen the look in Blitz's eye. He remembered the look Blitz had given him when he pulled the menu over his face at Ozzie's. Why don't you want to be seen with me? You're ashamed of me? You're fine with me in private but as soon as you're out you know that's not what you want. You don't want to lose Octavia or your marriage or your reputation. Them being together added a thousand little complications for reasons Stolas couldn't even process at the moment.

All he knew was that he wanted to talk to Blitz and be with him. No sex, well, he wouldn't mind it, but no, not tonight. He just wanted to be with him. He wanted to see him tonight and be in his company in whatever way Blitz was comfortable with.

Talking or watching a movie in the quiet, anything. He wanted to know more about him and to give him a hug. He pulled into his driveway, remembering that wasn't going to happen. Whatever they had. Whatever it had been--Stolas had messed up. He messed up big time.

#blitz helluva boss #blitz x stolas #blitzo x stolas #stolas x blitz #stolitz #stolas goetia #helluva stolas #helluva boss #helluva boss fanfic #stolitz fanfic #pining stolas #ozzie's #stolas ozzie

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girlboypersonthingy · 1 month

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Hey! I saw you were starting to write for Blitzø so I’d love to request something! Could you do Blitzø x fem or gn reader in which reader comforts him after he has a very bad day and reassures him about his insecurities? That man needs to let himself cry in front of someone and also needs a hug! I love him sm I need more works where we can comfort him!! 🫶🏻

SORRY NOT SORRY I SKIPPED OVER LIKE 6 OTHER REQUESTS BC I NEED TO WRITE THIS ANGSTY BLITZ REQUEST IMMEDIATELY ITS TOO GOOD IM SO- 😳🥺 I just wanna hold him…enjoy, anon~

Notes: imp!reader, gn!reader, not an established relationship but mutual crushing and pining, reader works at IMP, angst to fluffy comfort

Blitzø x reader- Bad Day 💔

Blitz had the shittiest shit day ever and was ready to fall asleep and stay asleep forever. Between feeling excluded and lonely after seeing Millie and Moxxie’s displays of affection during dinner at Ozzie’s, then Fizz and Verosika giving him shit in front of the entire restaurant and Stolas being disgustingly clingy as always, Blitz felt himself breaking down, deteriorating from the inside out. It really stuck with him when he heard a restaurant patron shout, “YOU’RE SLEEPIN’ WITH AN IMP?” when referring to him and Stolas. What an embarrassment for both of them. He already has a very low self-esteem and that comment just solidified all his intrusive thoughts- no matter who he’s with, how successful he becomes, how much money he has, he’ll always be just an imp.

Blitzø stumbled through the front door of his apartment, rapidly proceeding to Loona’s room with a small smile. His precious girl always cheers him up, even when she’s in a bad mood…which is always. At the exact moment he sees the note on her door saying that she is out at a party, his smile drops to a disappointed frown. With the upper half of his body hunched over, his arms dangling limply by his sides, he trudges over to the couch and collapses on it with a huff.

This feeling was way too overwhelming- he felt suffocated by his clothes, pushed around and beaten by his own mind. He felt defeated and had no idea how to get himself out of this state of mind. He pulls out his phone to scroll through some pictures, maintaining his lonely frown the whole time. Blitz rolls his eyes at an old pic of him and Verosika. Then, he finds himself looking at a photo of his mom, sister and him, so happy, so close. After only seconds of looking into the picture, all his feelings unexpectedly erupt from him. The tears forced their way to the surface, gushing down his red and white cheeks. His chest felt like it was gonna cave in any second now, his lungs forgetting how to breath calmly.

“Fuck…” He chokes out while tossing his phone aside and sprawling out over the couch. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He couldn’t stop the tears from welling up and overflowing, he couldn’t slow his breaths, he couldn’t even open his eyes they felt so swollen already. He had never felt so alone before. Laying on his stomach with his wet, snotty face in the pillows, he completely lets loose. A guttural, miserable, shaky moan leaves him as he weeps, his fists clenching around nothing in particular.

Just as he sucks in a quivering gasp of air, the sound of the front door opening caused him to hold his breath and stay completely still. “Blitz?” Fuck…of all people to walk in on him during his pathetic mental breakdown, why you? He’s literally praying that you’ll just go away but he knows you won’t, you’ll keep looking until you find him. He knows this, but he stays hidden and silent on the couch until you finally walk around and see him.

“Blitz? Whats wrong? What happened?” Stepping over to him quickly then kneeling on your knees beside him, he seems to retreat even further away. Blitz scoots into the couch more, turning his head away from you as he exhales then inhales and then holds it again. “Are you okay?” Obviously, he’s not okay but he nods his head anyways. “You can talk to me, Blitz.” Finally, he lets out all the air he was holding in. “I don’t wanna fucking talk right now.” He manages to mutter out between hiccups and sniffles. “Oh…okay.” Your voice a soft whisper now, Blitz again finds his hands balled up into tight fists, his fingers digging deeply into his palms. Dammit…he did mean to snap at you.

But instead of abandoning him, you shimmy your way onto the couch next to him, one arm coming to wrap around his torso as you lay your head against his back. You can hear everything with your ear to his back- his shaky breathing, his soft whimpers he’s trying so hard to hold back. “We don’t have to talk. We can just…lay here. I’m with you, okay?” You pull him closer, his back up against your stomach as you give him a gentle squeeze.

He tried so fucking hard to conceal it, to play it off in front of you, he really did but he lost it again, crumbling apart right in your arms. After hearing the sweet words of reassurance you offered him and the way your hand was now rubbing slowly across his heaving chest and the way you didn’t leave him…he can’t help but let it all out. Blitz softly shakes against you, making your heart ache for him. You’ve seen him in so many different moods and different situations, in so many silly costumes and you’ve heard some pretty vile things leave his mouth but you’ve never seen him like this. He was an absolute mess.

Slowly and carefully, you scoot closer, fitting your knees perfectly in the back of his. With a slight hum and one hand still rubbing his chest, you close your eyes as you rest against his back still. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Softly, you speak as Blitz exhales deeply once again. “Anything you need, just say the word.” Your hand stops the rubbing of his chest as you take a moment to squeeze him again.

“Don’t leave me…” With a crack in his voice, Blitz finally responds before curling in on himself even more. “I’m not going anywhere, promise.” As you nuzzle your cheek against his back. Your reply calms him, allowing his body to finally soften into your embrace. Together, you lay like this for a while, finding comfort in the sound of each other’s breathing.

Eventually, Blitz weakly turns himself around to reveal his somewhat improved mood. His eyes are puffy and glossy but the tears had stopped. His frown is a nasty one, one of the worst you’ve ever seen him wear but his eyes show a hint of something more positive as well- a look of hope? admiration? appreciation? Now facing you and looking at your face right there in front of him, hope, admiration and appreciation all swelled within him. He felt so lucky to have you, as an employee, as a friend… and maybe you two would be more one day. Maybe more…today? Right now?

“Do you think I’m… just a stupid imp? That I’ll always be seen as just an imp?” He can’t bring himself to look at you now, eyes scanning the ceiling instead. “Do you think I’m just a stupid imp? Is that all you see me as?” You immediately reply, watching as he starts to over analyze the situation. “No, no, of course not. You’re…fucking awesome.” His eyes land on your face for a second before they shift back to the ceiling. “So are you, boss.” Blitz scoffs lightly at your words, giving you a disapproving glare. “No! Really! I mean it, Blitz.” A soft sigh comes from him and he’s having a hard time believing your words.

“It’s gonna be okay.” You say with a light hearted tone and a small smile. Gently, teasingly you reach up to his face and use your thumbs to pull the corners of his mouth up into a smile. “Awww! There he is, there’s my guy!” As you pull your hands away, a smile finds your face as you notice his smile doesn’t fall, he’s smiling for real now. It’s not a big smile, honestly it’s barely a smile at all but it’s something. It’s better than the horrible frown he had on earlier.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to upset him anymore. “I’m sure.” His reply is immediate and short, making you stay quiet after. Instead of using your voice, you go back to comforting him physically. With one hand on his cheek again, cupping his face this time, Blitz leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. Simultaneously, you both close your eyes and let out a deep breath.

As you let your thumb trace back and forth over the skin of his cheek, Blitz opens his eyes again and takes this chance to just stare down at you, at your eyelashes, at your skin and any little scars or blemishes that decorate it, at your lips as they part momentarily to suck in a breath. Without thinking it over, he kisses you. It’s quick, not necessarily soft because he came in kind of fast but it wasn’t hard or sloppy or anything like that. It was sort of a test of the waters for Blitz. He wanted much more than a measly peck from you but he didn’t want go all in on you and scare you off or weird you out.

To his surprise, before he can get a good look at your reaction, you’re chasing his face as he pulls away. As you lean forward, a shocked ‘mmm’ rumbles from Blitzø’s throat when your lips meet his again. This time, the kiss lasts longer. It remains sweet and simple, there’s no tongue, no spit or even much movement from your mouths at all. After locking lips for a few seconds, you part to finally look at each other. Your smiles mock each other’s, both growing bigger and bigger.

This isn’t at all how either of you imagined your first kiss together. Blitz had something more rough and dirty in mind but he’s beyond grateful that you still respect him after seeing him in such a lowly position. You’re not sure what comes over him as he stares at your lips but he confidently yanks you back into him, kissing you again.

With his mouth still covering most of your own, he mumbles, “Earlier, you said anything I need and now I need you.” The kiss is deepened by Blitz carefully moving his lips against yours, both your heads tilting to find the perfect position. His hands roam up and down your back at an extremely slow pace as his mouth follows along, moving in tandem with yours.

“Yes, sir.”

And the rest of the evening is spent gently coddling and lovingly appreciating each other at such a close range. The kissing lasts so long, that eventually you’re both just lazily pecking each other on the lips over and over and over again with closed eyes and relaxed limbs. It’s nice, it’s simple yet romantic and Blitz has never felt more safe or comfortable in his entire existence.

“And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right, I won’t. But please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

#blitz helluva boss #blitzø x reader #blitz x reader #blitzo x reader #helluva blitzo #blitzø #blitzo #helluva boss blitz #helluva fanfiction #helluva boss fanfiction #helluva x reader #helluva boss x reader #helluva boss #hellaverse #blitzo helluva boss #blitzø helluva boss #blitzy #helluvaverse

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eyeofthetoto · 3 months

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What did Vivziepop put in her shows to make them so addicting AND emotional? You got me pining over Huskerdust, crying over Sir Pentious and feeling horrible for A MONARCH OF HELL, STOLAS, because of his unrequited love. You don't understand. I've never been one to ship characters like HARD. Usually I've just been like "oh, they're cute together". BUT HUSKERDUST??? I NEED THEM IN MY VEINS. I listen to "Looser Baby" like once a day. And now I started with Helluva Boss today, just binged straight through season one and I absolutely WEPT at Stolas being excited for his date with Blitzo and just getting nothing back. I seriously hope Stolas gets a happy ending (no double entendre intended).

#vivziepop #helluva boss #stolas #hazbin hotel #huskerdust #hazbin hotel husk #angel dust

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roguecs17 · 2 years

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So, I want to talk about Helluva Boss, namely episode 1 of season 2

I namely wanted to talk about a few main things, buts let’s go scene by scene

First of all, baby! Stolas is precious, and precious and gay

While it did break my heart it was good to learn he and Stella didn’t marry for love, considering their present situation. It wasn’t so much that they fell out of love over time, but that they never loved each other at all, only getting together out of the need to bare an heir.

Even if Stella were a good person (which she is definitely not!!!) their relationship would probably have never worked out considering that Stolas is completely, utterly gay.

I mean, look at his face when he sees Blitz, that is a boy with a puppy love crush.

Honestly learning they’d met when they were kids makes their later arrangement that much more heartbreaking for a number of reasons

While I don’t have the screen grab for it, one thing I did wonder is if ‘worm horse’ was foreshadowing (is it foreshadowing if we already know the shadow) to Fizz losing his arms and legs.

For one, while it clear that Blitz was made aware of why he was sold to the Goetias it might have been that Stolas was never told that his father literally paid for Blitz to be his friend.

Also isn’t it utterly fucked up that Blitz’ dad LITERALLY sold his son for five bucks, and manipulated is scared child into stealing for him, which if Blitz had been caught I have no doubt that Stolas’ father would’ve killed him for it, especially since he is just an imp.

It was especially difficult for me that when Buckzo (I think that’s his dad’s name) talked about ‘helping pa and ma’ and Blitz says ‘of course I want to help ma’ not you or you guys, just his mother, which is just really sad considering the end of the last episode.

It also makes me wonder if Stolas got into trouble because of Blitz’ stealing, as much as it was fun in the moment, and fun for the two kids that day, there had to have been an afterward

Another note, which really hurts is that Stolas told Blitz about his grimoire and how it could take demons to the human world.

Which is later how Blitz knows to steal it, using that knowledge from the day when they were friends.

While I don’t think Stolas was pining for Blitz all these years, he was his gay awakening, and it makes sense for those feelings to come rushing back when he says him again later, though it’s obvious that Stolas is not as suave and forward as normal, despite his flirting.

It’s, almost sweet how they end up flirting, especially since it wasn’t coercion. Stolas was openly and enthusiastically wanting Blitz, and Blitz definitely could have made up with the book, especially since they didn’t really keep it quick

The last thing I wanted to talk about was Stella. Originally had had some sympathy for her, and with the knowledge given that was understandable. Her husband cheats on her with someone she views as beneath her, and she rightfully gets pissed, to the point of actively wanting him dead.

However, my view point has changed with this episode.

We’re shown and told that Stella and Stolas never loved eachother, that isn’t why they got married, as mentioned earlier.

We’re also shown that Stella, even pre-adultery, was incredibly mean and nasty towards Stolas. Publicly humiliating him, throwing things, yelling, and insulting him- and shows sick glee and making him suffer.

I really like the scene at the end, here:

You can see that Stolas actually looks, frightened, of Stella, and throughout this scene you see his exhaustion turn to anger, and while he is drawing back in the end he really does stand up for himself and his happiness as he forces the divorce

I really love this last shot, the finality of it, that Stolas is truly cutting Stella out of his life

All in all, fantastic episode, well worth the wait, and thanks I didn’t need my heart

#Stolas #helluva boss #helluva stolas #helluva blitzo #helluva fizzarolli #helluva season 2 #stolitz #helluva stolitz #stella #helluva stella

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blitzwhore · 4 months

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29 (stolas) stolitz

Thanks! :3

Prompt 29: giggling while kissing.

1k words | Mature | morning after, cuddles, kissing, pining, angst, Blitzø is bad at feelings. Takes place between Truth Seekers and Ozzie's.

AO3

Everything was warm: the fine bedsheets draped loosely over his naked skin, the soft, royal pillow under his cheek.

The feathered body pressed snugly against his own.

The blurry memories of Blitzø's bizarre dream drifted quickly into nothingness as he took stock of his body's sensations. The warmth of the morning light that poured in through the window, kissing his shoulder lightly. The way he felt heavy and well-rested, curled on his side and sinking into the mattress. The way his hand was buried in the soft back of Stolas’ head, holding him unconsciously close to himself. And Stolas’ soft, hooting breaths filling the silence of an otherwise quiet morning.

Blitzø focused on keeping his breathing steady and his muscles relaxed even as the calm washing over him slowly seeped away. He didn't want Stolas to wake up. Not yet.

He wasn't ready to face the fact that all of this—Stolas’ leg slotted between his own, Blitzø's heartbeat lulling Stolas in his sleep, and all the vulnerability, the tenderness, the softness—meant nothing. That this was nothing but a monthly illusion—a trick of the light, one that felt so viscerally real in moments like this, but that inevitably slipped through his fingers when he opened his eyes. Just mere, stupid, play-pretend intimacy.

Blitzø could do nothing to stop the familiar, uncomfortable ache from trickling down his chest, making it painfully hard to breathe.

Satan's taint, how had he gotten himself into this mess?

Way sooner than Blitzø would've liked it, Stolas shifted his posture. Sighed. Nuzzled Blitzø's chest, and then hummed contentedly, his hand trailing up to cup the nape of Blitzø's neck and play with the spines at the back of his head.

Blitzø's nerves spiked, the ticking clock inside his chest quickly approaching the moment their stupid little bubble would finally burst.

Stolas curled closer to him with a grumble, and Blitzø tightened his hold of him before he could hold back the impulse. A moment later, a small kiss was pressed to his stomach. Then another, longer one. More purposeful. Wetter.

Blitzø's breath hitched. Stolas held the back of his head with one hand, his lower back with the other, and kissed his way slowly up—up to his shoulder, his clavicle, his neck. Suckling and licking and breathing hotly on his skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He was so fucking hard for this stupid owl already. It was embarrassing how good just a few touches from Stolas’ mouth could make him feel.

Stolas pulled back to look at Blitzø, and he was, of course, smirking, the asshole. He knew the effect he had on Blitzø, and he loved taking advantage of it every chance he got. The horny fucker seemed dead-set on making him lose his last thread of sanity.

Blitzø rolled his eyes at him with a grumble and tried to roll onto his back, but Stolas’ hand on his cheek kept him in place.

When Stolas leaned in for a kiss, Blitzø allowed it—allowed himself to melt a little bit into it, and kissed back, curling his fingers around thick feathers and trying to get the ache in his chest to fuck off for a little longer.

Somehow, even Stolas’ morning breath tasted too good to be true. Too good for Blitzø.

When they pulled back slightly to catch their breaths, Stolas giggled against his lips, a tiny, breathless little thing. Blitzø angled his head back to raise an eyebrow at him, and found Stolas was smiling, his eyes shining mischievously and his cheeks slightly flushed.

Was the obnoxious owl laughing at him, or just piss-drunk on their amazing after-sex sleep?

“What's so funny, huh?” Blitzø asked, determined not to find the fucker cute despite what the butterflies in his stomach had to say about it.

Stolas lowered his gaze a little.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice still croaky with sleep. He cleared his throat, thumbing nervously at Blitzø's cheek. “I'm sorry. It wasn't conscious. I… I suppose I'm just not used to feeling happy upon waking up.”

The silence that followed that confession felt heavy and uncomfortable. Stolas probably felt it too, because he shrugged it off, smirked, and buried his head in Blitzø's chest again, pulling him close, breathing him in. Kissing his way up his sternum softly.

Blitzø wanted so badly to brush off Stolas’ comment. To believe that Stolas hadn't really just confessed to waking up every morning feeling unhappy. To convince himself that Stolas hadn't just suggested that waking up next to Blitzø made him happy.

Now that last bit was laughably easy to believe. It obviously wasn't Blitzø’s presence he enjoyed, but how amazing of a fuck he was. Even now, as he kissed and lapped at Blitzø's neck, it was clear Stolas was just thrilled to have his impish toy in bed with him, ready and willing to pound his bird puss one more time before he left.

Ugh, and there it was again. The sinking feeling in his gut. Blitzø clenched his jaw. It was fine. This was fine. He didn't need anything more from Stolas than what they already had, and Stolas definitely didn't need anything more from him. He could take care of himself. Blitzø didn't need to start worrying about the pompous owl's well-being just because he'd made some stupid comment in passing.

Not even if Stolas’ face had seemed vulnerable and small for a split second.

Not even if, through all the pictures hanging from the palace's walls, Stolas only ever smiled in the ones he was in with his daughter.

Not even if the bottle of pills in his bedside table seemed to empty out faster with every passing month.

Stolas’ mouth found his, and Blitzø kissed him fiercely—harshly enough to push the spiralling thoughts away. He pushed Stolas onto his back and straddled his hips, taking control. Always taking control. Desperate to suffocate the anger, the confusion, the fear, before they burned him from the inside out.

Desperate to grasp the vulnerability constricting his chest and crush it to dust.

Desperate to stop his misbehaving heart from wishing for something he could never have.

#helluva boss #Stolitz #Blitzwhore writes #blitz helluva boss #helluva boss blitz #stolas helluva boss #helluva boss stolas #helluva boss fanfiction #stolitz fanfic #stolas x blitz #blitz x stolas

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viktheviking1 · 7 months

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The light streamed in from colored window panes as the first light of dawn shined onto Blitz’s face. He blinked his eyes open slowly, still half in a dream he was already forgetting. A small groan escaped his lips as he laid on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Strange . . . it smelt of pine trees and crisp night air, like a layer of dew drops covering a whole forest that went on and on forever. He liked this smell. He knew this smell. What was it again? He turned over to see a lanky mass of feathers turned away from him, chest rising and falling in even breaths.

Sh*t!

Usually on these full moon nights, Blitz left around 2 in the morning, and was home by the witching hour. The clock on the wall however, read 6:42 am. Blitz started slowly shifting his weight to sit up. He peaked over Stolas’s shoulder to see all his eyes were closed and he looked to be sleeping soundly. Good. He continued moving off the bed, cautiously, as not to wake him, but just as his feet were about to hit the floor, an arm wrapped around him and pulled him in.

“Full moon’s gone, pal. It’s long past time for me to go.” Blitz said against his chest.

The prince yawned and nuzzled the top of Blitz’s head, “But why would you want to leave? Won’t you be going back to a cold, empty bed? Isn’t it better here, where it’s warm?”

He was right, but Blitz pressed the issue, “You know I don’t do mornings. Come on, let me go.”

“I will, just . . . a little longer, please? I’d never hold you against your wishes, but won’t you let me persuade you to stay for just one more hour?”

“Never hold me against my wishes, huh? And what are you doing right now?” Blitz smirked as he retorted.

“I pulled you back in, yes, but nothing is preventing you from leaving again. Yet other than your words, I have yet to feel you move to leave.” Stolas stroked Blitz’s back.

Blitz blushed, curling partially into a ball, “That’s because I know that it wouldn’t work. You may be scrawny, but you’re f**king strong when you want to be.”

Blitz felt Stolas smile on top of his head, “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to make you feel forced or unsafe with me, my dear. As precious as every minute with you is, it wouldn’t be worth that.”

Blitz rolled his eyes, as he always did when Stolas started sweet talking out of his *ss, “Yeah, uh-huh. Good for you, I’m gonna go now.”

Blitz began moving, and to his surprise, Stolas let him slip free of his arms with no resistance. He sat up, and looked down at the owl who now snuggled up to his leg and cooed, “See? I want you to be able to trust me every once in a while.” He reached up a hand to touch Blitz’s face, “The way I completely and utterly trust you.”

Alright, Blitz was just about done with all these bullshit. He grabbed Stolas’s hand and moved it away, “Sorry, but that ain’t happening.”

He was starting to get off the bed again, when Stolas sat up, too, “Wait!”

Blitz stopped and looked at him, waiting to be released from his duties, “I just . . . I really do enjoy spending time with you. . . It gets quite lonely in the castle sometimes, and I’ve only ever been intimate with a woman who hated my guts, and . . . it’s just been nice having you here, even if it’s just for a few hours. I’m not trying to guilt you into staying; you may stay or go as you desire. I just . . . want you to know that there is always a place in my bed for you if . . . you ever feel cold.”

Stolas hoped that Blitz understood his double meaning. He often felt cold and alone; being a single dad could do that to you. He just wanted Blitz to know he had someone to turn to, full moon agreements aside.

“Yeah,” Blitz snorted, “I bet I do.”

Stolas realized that he took a different, more promiscuous double meaning out of his heartfelt statement, “No, that’s not what I-”

“Half an hour.” Blitz said, as he got back into the bed.

“Oh! R-really?” Stolas was surprised, but made more room for him.

“Don’t read into it. You were just right about it being too cold to do sh*t.” Blitz said as he snuggled into the warm beast.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Stolas tried not to squeal with joy.

A few minutes passed while they simply breathed together. Their hearts beat at an even rhythm, giving into a smooth lullaby for the broken pair who found each other on happenstance. Blitz inhaled that woodsy scent, but before he could get too lost in it, he checked the clock again, then repeated the cycle. It was one of those moments that Blitz looked down at Stolas’s feet poking out at the end of the blanket.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering. Why do you always have your sheets going the wrong way on your bed? If you had it the other way, the blanket would cover the whole bed and your feet wouldn’t stick out.”

Stolas looked down to see what he was talking about, “Oh! Yes, well that’s exactly the problem. You see, I have some very sharp talons, and if I put blankets over them, they would tear it to shreds with the slightest movement. So, this way is best I’m afraid.”

Blitz nodded thoughtfully, then he wiggled down, disappearing under the covers.

“Um, Blitzy dear, while I do appreciate the thought, it’s a bit early for a bl**-j*b, don’t you think?” Stolas said, before realizing that Blitz had tangled their legs together and was warming his feet with his.

Stolas blushed, “Oh, no, darling. I’m quite alright. I wouldn’t want to accidentally cut you if I drift off. I’d rather shred a hundred blankets before harming you-”

“Shut up . . .” Blitz whispered into Stolas’s stomach, “What’s another scar? Besides, I thought you said it was cold?”

A wide grin spread across Stolas’s face, and he curved his body down to hug the horns atop Blitz’s head, “You’re right. . . It was.”

— — —

Blitz sat up with a start; his head pounding the announcement of a hangover. He looked over to see sunlight streaming through a dirty window, blinds crooked and half closed. An alarm clock blared on his bedside table next to a picture of Loona giving him the finger. The room smelt of cigarettes and dirty laundry.

It had been awhile since he dreamt about Stolas. It had started out as a memory of the one time Blitz had accidentally slept in Stolas’s bed, but it ended differently. He had never gotten back into the bed with him, never accepted the invitation, never warmed his feet. After Stolas had begged him to stay, Blitz had left. An ars Goetian, a lonely and forgotten, sappy bird with sweet eyes, begged him for something, and he had gone without looking back.

Blitz turned to look at the other side of his bed. Empty, save for an old horse plush that was falling apart. He had loved that doll for years now, but he probably stole it. It had probably belonged somewhere else. Somewhere with a kid who would play with it around the house, give it a cute name, and cuddle with it at night. Blitz did do all those things, but he was a middle aged man who also spilled beer on it and couldn’t even remember if and when he had stolen it. How messed up was he if he couldn’t even have an honest relationship with a doll? It would’ve been better off without him.

Blitz laid in bed and let himself cry.

Read how they get back together on The Pompous and The Prick:

AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50092201

Wattpad

https://www.wattpad.com/story/352316721?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading_part_end&wp_uname=VikTheViking1&wp_originator=GnobwyzaH%2FriG1AH90KG4QDr%2BjBDWYToHzdheTblD%2B%2F91VyysBGDle2VF7JwUwVQGQYVEjkiJ5rwtL80QrNL7c9hXGYGmgLWX7lXXG62Aznj0x0wrwTjASufRFEa%2FuhL

Quotev

https://www.quotev.com/story/16057686/The-Pompous-and-The-Prick

Fanfiction.net

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/14279891/1/The-Pompous-the-Prick