A Little Comic

Ok, who is this Trick fool that's causing a pain in everyone's ass?

He's an idiot that just shouldn't even be in this fandom. Radiotrickster basically said that Michael Kovach wasn't respectful to aces, despite being ace himself, because he was being sexual on Hunicast as he did requests for Angel Dust to say certain things. And, apparently, he thinks that Michael forgot Angel was Italian, even though his inspiration for Angel's voice was Joe Pesci, who is of Italian descent.

However, that hardly matters because Trick also doesn't believe that there are any white Italians. If you're from Italy, you're automatically POC. The only places that have mainly or solely white people are Britain, Canada, and America. Um, he also calls me racist because I said Angel has the potential to be white, even though he thinks all these things.

He also accuses me of stalking, despite making a whole blog dedicated to collecting "receipts" for me, constantly makes callout posts, and sent me multiple hate anons.

There's also this other person called Hearts, but meh, whatever. All I did was ask her if she was okay, so she responded by pointing out the three year age gap, as if that meant anything, and then called me "sweetie"/"honey" more than once. To which I said that was very condescending. Now they're saying I was being rude to her....because she's mentally disabled, even though i didn't know that or cared. Besides, that's not an excuse to be an ass.

Valentino Guide

A short guide I made giving free advice and tips for those who struggle to draw Valentino

Hello! I really love your fic with Strixxie! It's so good! 😍 I'm new here and a new fan of the ship. If you want could you give some recommendations for other fics with them? And something super short on why they're worth a read?

I have a feeling you got good taste since you are a good writer! I'm down with whatever for tags. Thanks

Oh, I definitely have some Strixxie fics that I love! I'll tell others to read the tags for these fics. Just posting tags cause I'm going to work soon. Ive recommended some of these fics before, but I have no problem doing it again

Here's the progress I'm not done I just need to color it that's it @petitprincess1 hope you like it so far I struggled 😂😅

Pathetic Vermin

Ao3 Link

Fandom: Helluva Boss

Pairing: Strixxie, Striker/Moxxie

Summary: Striker doesn't often mix pleasure with business, especially not when he was on the job but ever since he'd seen that little vermin Imp, he'd been enjoying making him all kinds of angry flustered and embarrassed - especially in front of his wife. So when the damned Imp just waltzes right into his room alone, well hot Satan ye can't expect him to not get a little fun out of the little vermin. But he doesn't know exactly how much fun he's about to get.

WARNINGS: Noncon/Rape, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

Striker meant to stalk after the damned Imp, maybe rustle up his fur a bit like he'd been doing through out the entire festival - watch the way his sharpened teeth grit and his tail flick about angry, cheeks flushed dark with prideful indignation in his gaze - that when the little Imp just waltzed right into his room, well Striker saw his chance to have a little fun before the main event of his job.

He hadn't however taken into account that the little Imp would see his gun nor that he'd accurately be able to identify it and it's dangerous capabilities. His cover was damn near blown.

Or was it?

They were alone in the house after all. Everyone else outside. He had the upper advantage here.

There weren't no way the preceding events were gonna go differently. Not with how much he was wound up and raring to go after watching the little Imp scuttle about. Add the danger of his cover being blown and wanting to wrap his tail around the little imp's throat was intoxicating. He had to play, had to feel the little Imp's body pressed close, struggling - maybe even arcing up against him all wanton like.

He closed the door behind him, Moxxie's posture stiffed yet he continued yammering on about the gun's danger. Striker couldn't very well have that, not to mention with his mouth free he could call out for help.

Striker lashed out his tail, wrapping it expertly around Moxxie's throat. Then he tossed him against the wall.

He wasted no time and pounced. He landed right on top of Moxxie, his body squirming under him, as he held him down with one hand. Moxxie hissed and seethed. And there is was, the indignation glaring up at him. Exactly what Striker wanted, add in the pure as sin darkening of his cheeks, and he was damn near hard against the back of his buckle. Striker shuddered, his teeth dripped as he salivated. He couldn't wait to see what other expressions Moxxie could make.

He raised his free hand and snipped off the cute bowtie Moxxie wore and slid one talon down his button up, revealing red flesh. Moxxie froze at the action. The thumping of his feet behind Striker slowed until they stilled when Striker tugged the last button free and teased the flash of skin that he could see.

Striker glanced up at Moxxie to find his eyes wide and his shoulders shook. There was fear there, oh yes plenty of it. But what was more pleasing and far far more surprising was his lips. Striker caught the words being rasped, listening closely to make sure of the order.

If possible, Striker's mouth filled with more saliva and the hissing rattle he emitted sent Moxxie shuddering against him. Especially when he slid a hand to pluck and scratch Moxxie's nipples and chest. Trailing down and down until he worked open Moxxie's pants and revealed how hard Moxxie was.

"Oh, look at the mess yer about to make." He chuckled with dark intent. Moxxie panted, squirmed left and right - all in a vain attempt to escape Striker's clutches. But all it did was work his little trousers down his hips, revealing more and more of himself, until it was just enough that Striker hitched his thrashing legs up and dropped trou with a flick of his belt buckle. Even with all the saliva he'd built up, it still wouldn't be enough. So he used his tail to grab the lube from his bedside table and worked it around and in Moxxie's vulnerable yet puckering hole.

"This'll hurt just a pinch," Striker growled into Moxxie's ear. He slid in, slow at first - always slow. He expected Moxxie to hiss in pain, to renew his efforts to fight Striker off. But much like the words Moxxie had rasped, his actions made him want him more.

Because Moxxie groaned. Not an in-pain kind of groan, but an, oh-fuck-yes kind of groan. A kind of groan that let you know he was used to the stretch of his hole by a significant cock.

"Yer taking me like a real saint." Striker growled as he inched more inside of Moxxie. "Let me guess, yer little lady likes to top ya?"

Moxxie's head shook back and forth and his hips, by Satan, thrust impatiently against Striker. He laughed. Honest to the seven demon lords of Hell, Moxxie was impatient.

"Quit stalling and just fuck me already, partner." Moxxie growled, impatient and indignant.

Striker howled with laughter. "Sure thing, vermin," and he thrust fully into him.

What followed next was a series of hissing, rattling, and scratching. Striker loved it when they put up a fight. Moxxie sure tried. Which just tickled Striker pink, at least until he was grunting as he rutted against Moxxie, who squirmed and rolled his hips to meet his thrusts.

They got a little enthusiastic with their rutting, they bumped against the side table and whatever had been perched there fell on Striker. He hissed, letting Moxxie go to push the stray bits of glass away.

Moxxie took this opportunity to run, or attempt to. But Striker was faster, and Striker wanted in that hot piece of tail to finish the job. He grabbed his tail, yanking him away from the door that was now open and wrapped both arms around him. He pulled him flush against him. Moxxie struggled, pitching a fight. But Striker was stronger. He clamped a hand over his mouth and all but crushed his throat as he crouched while holding the smaller Imp.

"Pathetic." He hissed softly into Moxie's ear as the longer he held him the less he struggled.

He would have taken the moment to thrust back into him, but the wife - Millie - caught him with his pants around his ankles, as it were.

Stabbed, he hissed and rattled as it came in quick succession. Millie jumped on his back to grapple him. Striker clawed her arm and threw them against the wall, knocking her out. He watched her fall over and he hunched over Moxxie who reached for her.

"Ain't you two paint a darling picture." Striker's grin widened. "Let's add to it." He picked up Moxxie, ensuring he faced his wife when he thrust back into him.

Millie, for all the bluster that she'd entered the room with gaped as she watched him fuck her husband. Moxxie had nothing holding him back now, save for his wife's gaze.

"Why don't you roll your hips like ya did a second ago fer me." Striker ran one lone talon down Moxxie's back and Moxxie did as instructed, moaning in the process.

"Oh honey-" Millie whispered as Moxxie panted and scrambled to keep up with Striker's pace.

Striker for all he'd done so far, didn't care much for Millie. If it weren't for the rush of dark as sin red running up Moxxie's neck, he would have flipped Moxxie over to really watch his expressions. It was more fun that way, especially when he slipped one hand around and teased Moxxie's length until he was spilling.

The smaller Imp tensed when he came, his mouth hung open and his body wound tight against Striker. And then when he finished, his body fell limp.

Which was exactly when Striker thrust with wild abandon until he fill his little vermin up with cum and let him drop.

Satisfied, he stood up and glowered at the two. Moxxie reaching out for Millie, faintly calling her name.

Well, better he hide the both of them now.

Later, when Striker had been chased off, Moxxie and Millie were on their way back to the city, and Blitzo was - thankfully - asleep on the car ride.

"D'ya enjoy yerself hun?" Millie asked.

Moxxie caught the insinuating look his wife sent him.

"Was it everything ya hoped it would be?" Millie followed up with a taunting grin.

Moxxie groaned and covered his face. "Yes!"

Millie giggled. "Too bad he ended up being a brownnosing cocksucking daddyfucker, woulda invited him over for a repeat on account of how ya went spineless when he made ya-"

"Can we not talk about it with our boss in the backseat."

Millie giggled louder, which only woke Blitzo up with questions - questions Moxxie was not answering.

NSFW DOWN BELOW!

This isn't the new chapter of Just This Once. It's not PWP, but....I just needed something. Dont you dare judge me. Y'all ain't innocent either. Just a small preview

Something bad happens and Copia’s plans are ruined. He’s so pissed off he can barely control himself. You offer he can take the anger out on you. Hate-fucking ensues

Delightful prompt, nonny. 🔥 

*hate sex; angry sex; rough sex; spitting; penetration*

Even if you hadn’t heard the stage whispers around the Abbey today, Copia banging around his office would be warning enough that he’s in A Mood.

You eke open the door to find papers strewn about his desk, books sprawled out like drunks on the floor, and his chair upturned. 

The man himself is hunched over himself the sofa, his back heaving in rage.

“Papa?” you ask softly.

Copia freezes, then turns to you, smoothing down his ruffled hair before clearing his throat.

“Ah, amore. Perhaps not now, yes?”

You pick your way carefully through the detritus, as his eyes track your form the entire way. Even when you take his hand to kiss his knuckles, Copia’s body is still a taut wire, ready to snap.

“I am no good being around at the moment, amore.”

But you are not a fair-weather partner. You know some of Copia’s past lovers were in it for the favors or the infamy…but you’re here for all his moods.

“You’re angry about the—”

“Ai! Do not even speak it,” he hisses through cleaned teeth as his white eye flashes.

You touch his face to smooth away the anger, but—while he doesn’t flinch away—the sour look remains.

“Let me help, Papa.” You kiss his nose. “My Papa.”

He grumbles, but allows it.

“Oh? And how would you be doing that?”

You’re already tugging off your habit.

“You can use me to fuck it out.” 

Copia goes as still as a predator observing his prey, even as his eyes take in the snatches of revealed flesh. 

“Your personal stress reliever.”

You toss the habit to the side, now clad only in your underwear.

When you meet his eyes, he rolls his hand at you.

“Continuare.”

You reach for your bottoms, but Copia growls low in his throat and stalks over to you. He fists the fabric and jerks you into the line of his body.

“I have your permission to use you as I see fit?”

You press yourself into him and nip lightly at his throat.

“Yes, Papa. Use me hard.”

“Bene,” he rumbles.

And then he’s rending the cotton in two.

You gasp, but he’s already biting into your neck and raking his blunt nails hard down your skin. His one hand travels up to grip into the roots of your hair before he’s yanking your head back with a harsh jerk.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and then he spits in your face.

He’s pushing your head back painfully as he smears it into your skin before shoving his fingers harshly into your throat.

“Your dare,” he hisses as you try not to gag. “I will show you who is in charge here. Who is Papa.”

His nails scrape your scalp as he digs his fingers into the hair at the top of your skull.

“On your knees,” he growls. It’s a command, but he’s pushing you down before you have a chance to comply.

Free from his fingers, you cough and wipe the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. When you look up, Copia’s face is twisted in hate as fumbles to undo his pants. You barely have time to admire the flush and fill of his hard cock before he’s ramming it down your throat, a hand at the back of your head to keep you in place.

“You will take it whether you like it or not.”

(You like it.)

He shoves it down as far as you can take it—and then some—and you choke and wheeze as you try to breathe through your nose. He grunts as his hips twitch into your mouth, his curls rubbing against your nose.

Your eyes are streaming, and you don’t think you can last much longer, so you tap at his thighs. He yanks you off his cock in a mess of spit and mucus, and you double over as you suck in air.

“You can dish it out but not take it, eh?”

When you lift your face to his, his expression is smooth—but his nose and lips twitch with restrained anger. One pointed boot comes up to push your flat with a press to your forehead. It smears down your face to press at the hollow of your throat.

“Are you chosen by the Olde One?”

You shake your head as much as you’re able.

“Are you anointed by our Dark Lord?”

Another shake, and he leans down, resting his arm on his thigh.

“Do you think I have this eye for shits and giggles, eh?”

He points at his blazing eye, and all you can do is stare at the fire in it.

“If you don’t know it, I will make you know it,” he hisses through clenched teeth at you.

Your body responds with a heated desire, and you wonder if he registers the flush of your skin.

Copia makes a growl low in his throat, and suddenly you’re being manhandled up and onto his lap.

“You will feel it when I fuck the sense into you.”

The first crack of his palm on your ass has you letting out a startled gasp. It’s followed quickly with another smack. And another.

And another.

He’s raining down open-palmed smacks on your bare flesh, and you’re letting out little hitched breaths while squirming in his lap at the stinging sensation blooming across your ass. Despite the sting, you’re leaking, and while your reflex is to jerk away from him, all you want is more.

“Oh, Papa!” you cry.

He mistakes your cry for one of mercy, and he rumbles as his hands grab at your burning flesh.

“Had enough, eh?”

Your response is to moan and press into his lap. His hand winds into your hair to yank your head back again.

“I’ll show you enough,” he breathes into your ear.

Copia slips out from under you, and you rub into his couch, leaving the evidence of your arousal over the soft leather.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” you groan because it seems like the correct thing to say.

(You're not sorry. Not at all. Copia can come get it.)

“Oh, I’ll show you ‘sorry’,” he snarls, and then he’s grasping you here and there to bend you over the back of the couch. When he kicks your knees apart with his own, you go easily, practically wiggling your ass at him.

You know he’ll like what he sees—even if you weren’t getting it from Copia on the reg, you love to play with your toys (and you love to play with Copia and your toys), so you’re open and ready for him.

Lube might still be seeping out of you from some earlier play.

When his blunt teeth sink into your raw ass, you do yelp, and that only encourages him to continue his bitey journey across each cheek. His hand comes up to fondle you as you jerk and gasp. The pain from his bites is only enhanced by the pleasure his hand elicits, and you pound your fist into the couch.

“Papa, please…”

His tongue slips across your throbbing skin—no doubt tracing the outline of his teeth—before the heat of him recedes. You don’t even have time to look over your shoulder before you feel the rasp of his pants and the bite of his zipper against your ass. Your back arches toward him, but his warm hand at the small of your back presses you forward.

“Now, for some correction.”

His fingers trail down your skin to your hole; there’s a slight pressure, and then a wet splatter when Copia spits. Moaning at the sensation of his fingers in you, you ooze forward more…and when he hits your sweet spot, you drool onto the leather.

Copia’s nails scrape across your heated flesh, and you gasp out an Oh.

“Mm…sí. You will feel every,” he rumbles low in his Mummy Dust register, “thrust.”

And then his lips are back to tickle your ear.

“And I want to think about what you did with every,” he presses into your sweet spot and you gasp. 

“Single.” Press.

“One…”

Press.

“PAPA!”

He replaces the pressure of his fingers with the press of his cockhead, and then he’s pushing into you roughly.

“Papa what?” he growls as his hips snap into you and as his hand yanks your head once again back by the hair.

“I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”

You feel him acutely every time his hips slap into your stinging ass and the material of his pants rub against your sore spots; you throb between your legs with his every hard thrust into you.

Spreading your knees even further to accommodate the drill of his cock only has him snarling with more feral energy. The hand in your hair slips down to clasp at your throat, and his body drapes across your back as he fucks harder, faster, into your supple, willing body.

“I don’t fucking care,” he rasps, and then he’s pounding into you like he’s a fuck machine set to high, his hand shifting up to your face so he can shove his fingers back in your mouth. You moan and gasp around his fingers—the only other thing you can do besides just taking him. 

At some point, he pulls out so he can rearrange you face down, legs together on the couch, but you submit languidly. He boxes you in with his arms and the pressure of his chest on your back as his cock treats you like his very own fleshlight.

“Take it…fucking take it, you stronza,” he wheezes into your ear as he presses your face down hard into the cushions.

You throb again, clenching around him, and he snarls, sitting up.

“This is not for you.”

When he pulls out, you whine at the loss, but then his hand is pushing at the nape of your neck, making sure you’re muffled by the couch.

You can hear the sound of skin on skin, and you groan right before the splatter of Copia’s cum hits across your back and ass; you jolt in surprise when he shoves his cockhead into you again. And then out.

And then in.

“Fuck you. Fuck you…fuck you…” he chants.

By the time he tumbles down on you panting at his release, you’re panting at your unsatisfied arousal. You let him catch his breath for a few beats before you speak.

“Papa?”

His hand comes up to clumsily pet at you.

“So good. So good for me, amore. Grazie.”

You wiggle around so that your front is pressing into his, and you apply little kisses to his collarbone as you grind into his leg.

“Papa…” you plead.

His hand strokes your hair. “Sí. Sí, amore.”

And then your eyes roll back as he goes about thanking you.