Does Blitz Prefer To Be The Big Spoon Or The Little Spoon?

Does Blitzø prefer to be the big spoon or the little spoon?

The big spoon, always the big spoon. Given how pokey he is, it's the safest for whoever he is sleeping with, because he's less likely to accidentally hurt them that way. With spines on his head, horns that absolutely could be a deadly weapon if he needed them to, or if he just forgets and fucks up with the tip of a horn in a dangerous spot like against someone's throat, and spines on his shoulders that he prefers don't get squished or pressed on? He's hard to cuddle from behind.

That being said, he really does enjoy it when someone manages to get comfortable behind him and he trusts them. But given how rarely that happens? Blitz prefers to be the big spoon. He likes to hold his lovers close and listen to them breathing, listen to their hearts. He likes to know, really know that they are safe, and the only way to be sure of that? Is if they're in his arms, where no one can get to them without him knowing, where the world will never be able to sneak in and steal them away.

....Blitz is fine and absolutely not terrified of losing people, what do you mean?

It feels like a shameful, selfish thing to want, but goddamn does Blitz crave that anyway. He will fight for the people he loves, he will fight for fun, he will fight for himself. He'll absolutely refuse to remember his own safety if one of his family is on the line. Fighting is safety for him. As long as he can fight, the world isn't so terrible. So when he can't? Snuggle him. Snuggle him, and teach him that maybe, once in a while, he doesn't have to fight to be loved.

All of that being said... if he's exhausted, like genuinely exhausted, dehydrated, and in all around poor condition, the spines between his shoulders will flop more easily to the side without hurting him so much. They're the only ones that aren't deeply anchored in his muscle or to bone (their structure is very different and they have a huge blood supply, and quite a few nerves especially around the base), and so at times when they're limp, he would love to be the little spoon. To just be held for a while, when he can't be the one to do the holding?

per discussions with @doublejango

To some, it is a horror to behold, revolting to imagine or encourage. To them, it is a custom; a ritual, a gifting, and a statement of devotion.

Blitz on more than one occasion has brought the hearts of his foes [ and those bold enough to attempt flirtations or courtship towards Stolas ] to him. Some are left upon the doorstep whilst he carries on with his next hunt or adventure, others are hand-delivered. While Stolas does not keep every heart brought to them, they do take care to keep a great many of them. He uses different methods to preserve or otherwise craft them into something decorative for their home. Some are merely placed into enchanted cases, set on display for visitors to behold. They may not be his own kills, but Stolas takes pride in them, happy to explain in clear and vivid detail the memory of Blitz bringing it to him.

The very first heart every gifted to them has been carefully preserved and encased in a polished onyx box lined with wine-red velvet and small, black satin pillow for it to rest upon. It does not require a key, but is locked using a special mechanism. It is among one of his most prized possessions, and the only heart which is not openly on display for just anyone to see. This one is kept within their private chambers upon the vanity.

One of his favorite things to say or have said to Blitz is: "I would have died happily with your claws wrapped around my beating heart, bleeding for your volatile affections."

Those words hit harder than maybe Elsa meant for them to. As he listened, Blitz's eyes widened and his tail drooped a little. The way Elsa spoke of the sister who had presumably died long ago was warm and loving, but the grief? The grief.

For an immortal to love any mortal at all, whether they were family or not, and to be left living on without them--carrying memories, loving ghosts... to have the entire world change without them... Was that what he was going to do to Stolas?

The assassin got up and walked away a few paces, hands on his hips. tail starting to swish. "Do you ever--would it be--I don't..." Sighing in disgust at himself, he pressed a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. "Is it better? For immortals. Better if you don't have to--if those of us who are just going to die... just stay away? So you don't have to... remember us?" He had just taken the conversation completely off topic and he knew it, but it was too late to turn it back now.

"He reminds me of my sister, Anna. I miss her. Her love could hold up the world. Sometimes I think it did because nothing feels the same without her. So it's wonderful when I can feel that warmth in others. I hope Peter gets all of the good things you hope for him. He deserves happiness."

Copyslut bitch? Copyslut bitch? Blitz didn't think he had ever actually been insulted in a way he liked more. The way the doppelganger said it gave him a bizarre and sudden hit of dopamine, and he wanted to give him a thumbs-up or at least tell him he was a good boy for that one, but it was too late. Everything happened so quickly, that asshole grabbed him and--

Shit, shit shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshitshitshit!

Broken glass was suddenly exploding all around them, and no matter how furious Blitz was at the audacity of whoever the fuck this was, because how fucking dare someone dress up like him? A protective instinct kicked in. This fucker was probably still an imp, even if he was under some kind of disguise, and with that glass falling--Blitz gripped the other him, rolling with him as they smashed through the mirrors. And, albeit awkwardly, he pulled his jacket up and over the other's guys face.

"Close your fucking eyes!" he snapped, holding him maybe a little too tightly--legs wrapped around hips that felt weirdly familiar, tail snaking in hard around the other's thighs, his other arm focused on holding the jacket over both of their faces. All around them, more mirrors were breaking, the funhouse floor having shaken just a little too much with the force of their attacks. Glass burst and shattered, and Blitz tried to hold this fucking asshole as close as he could, wanting to protect him--and blissfully unaware just how ironic it was to want to protect someone he had just attacked.

"Listen, just, fuck, fucking like, chill, okay?" As if he himself hadn't been the one to start causing the problems in the first place. "I mean, fuck you," he grunted, their faces way too close together, "but let's try not to fucking bleed to death in our sexy fucking suits, huh?" At least the cascades of breaking glass seemed to be ending, but holy shit they had set off a damn domino effect.

There was some yelling coming from outside--great. Fuck. With a groan, Blitz let go of--of-- Blitz Prime? Glowering at him, he bared his teeth and got to his feet. "I'm still going to kick your ass, but let's get the fuck out of here before someone comes in and tries to make us fucking pay for this shit." He offered his hand, frowning hard, hating this, but absolutely not about to let any of this circus fucks get their grubby little claws into his bank account.

Or their bank account--the guy smelled exactly like him, and looked like him, and sounded like him, and--fuck. Whatever. This was fine. Everything was fucking fine.

【𐂃】 What the actual fuck — did he roast himself back?! He knew his mirror image wasn't mimicking him correctly, but his counterattack echoes threw him for loop. Taken aback, confounded, thinking this had to be some kind of prank. It was too unorthodox, it had to have been? It would accommodate with a funhouse's concept.

❝ wait, wha— ? ❞ words were abruptly ceased when the two made head-to-head impact. Prompting his eyes to render shut with gritting fangs as his body went tumbling backwards. Barreling a few summersaults against the ground for a couple of feet before landing with a heavy THUD. Letting out a snarling "COPYSLUT BITCH" as he quickly sat up. Pissed beyond comprehension.

❝ Now you've done it. THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!? Y' wanna put on a shitshow then fuckin' do it! but leave my FACE out of it. I AIN'T GOT TIME FOR SILLY CHARADES. ❞ Hell, he didn't even pay for any of this shit. In fact... he didn't know HOW he got here. One thing is certain -- he wasn't going to take his "doppleganger"s actions lightly. ❝ I don't care how GREAT your magic is. PLAY STUPID GAMES WIN STUPID PRIZES DUMBASS! ❞ springing back to his feet he immediately took the initiative to charge right back. Grabbing hold of their waistline as he ram their back into the mirrors behind them. Sending the two tussling in the midst of raining shattered shards.

Whoever this copycat was -- he was about to find out how FERAL he can be, because nobody held more hate for Blitzø than Blitzø himself. He had to face his inner demons, himself, constantly day by day. If they wanted a fight, they certainly picked the perfect form to peak his bloodlust.

"Not at all. I never open a can of worms unless I wish to see them squirm," Vepar answered, unable to stop smiling. Vox loved them! He loved them, clearly loved them, and so this was all worth it. "And they do indeed. As far as each shark is concerned, they are in an environment they've always known--the temperatures, the salinity, the types of food, even the angle of the light they perceive. It has been... a complicated bit of magic to pull off," he said, well-aware that he probably sounded like an ass for putting it that mildly, immediately blushing, "but well worth while. They are from different oceans, and some..." He nodded towards a massive shadow far off to the side. "Such as that giant, no longer exist on Earth. Still others never have at all, but evolved all the same in other worlds.

"And just as the sharks experience their own physical realities, so does each guest. Even if there are a hundred Sinners in this particular exhibit, they'll only see the party they come in with; every group will have a staff member with them, of course, to ensure safety--for the sharks. No offense intended, of course, but I don't particularly care if one of my sweetlings takes a bite out of a Sinner for misbehavior.

"Each party is always in their own pocket of reality, so this can be an escape from the... rather crowded confines of Hell, at least for a little while... No, my love. Let go of my finger. Thank you." A disappointed little chain catshark swam up and settled onto Vepar's arm instead. He stroked it idly. "And while I am delighted to share this with you, I won't pretend not to want something from you in return, Vox, nor will I wait to spring it on you at the end. I do not... anticipate my own death happening anytime soon. But if it does? I do not want this place to fall into the hands of just anyone. If you are amenable, I would like you to be my heir. It will take some doing, of course, for me to create the necessary magic that will prove self-sustaining and yet malleable by your will, but I will gladly craft such a thing if you will consider accepting it.

"And that is it. That is all I hope to gain from you: assurance that if I am killed, you will do your best to care for this place. The magic and the funding will be provided for, but the creatures within? They require not just care, but caring. Love. An eye to notice if one is ailing. Even if you were only able to stop by for a brief while each night... it would be a comfort to me, to know that there is someone who understands--inherently understands... how beautiful all of these lives are.

"You needn't answer now, of course. There is much more to see. But I do not wish to--leave you wondering when the proverbial trap will be sprung, or the pitch made.

"While you consider... do you shapeshift? Or would you enjoy being shifted? I thought we might swim with them, take on their forms for a while. Conversation will not be possible, but it might be... pleasant? To taste and feel the ocean as they do."

There’s a first time for everything, Vox reflects, apparently even being bowed to by a Goetia. He raises his eyebrows slightly, but otherwise takes it with as much grace as he can muster in the moment. Already this particular bird has leapt to the top of his list for the handful of Goetia he’s dealt with thus far (not that it was hard, as the few he’s met were generally pompous stuffy sticks-in-the-mud who felt that they could demand very niche shows out of his networks).

Such polite behavior is a rare commodity in hell, and Vox will admit that after seventy or so years he’s been guilty of stooping below on more than a few occasions. Sometimes it’s all other sinners respond to. But moments like these pull out the natural businessman in him, and he thinks that he’s going to get along with Vepar just fine. Even if it turns out to be an act– well, he can appreciate someone who understands the power of basic respect.

Vox tilts his head back to the waiting car. “Hey, Jordan. Free food, or do you want to head home for the night?” he calls.

The driver seems to consider this for a moment before stepping out of the car, revealing herself to be a muscle-bound Sinner of mostly humanoid shape, bar the miniature stoplight that takes the place of her head. The bottom light flashes green, resembling a half-lidded eye with its movements.

“Cool. Enjoy yourself, then. No need to wait up on me.”

The pair of them leave Jordan behind in the lobby, with Vox only lingering on the reef for a moment. He doesn’t want to hold Vepar up from whatever he has planned, but he shamelessly casts his gaze around to take everything in. The candles in particular make his processors stutter for a fraction of a second, the barest flicker of his screen. Were this anyone else but a Goetia, Vox would place a substantial bet on the individual in question wanting to either fuck him or kill him. (Or both.)

He supposes both options are still technically on the table, but he’ll give Vepar the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Though the comment Vepar makes about seeming forward does seem to tick the needle in favor of the former. Vox listens patiently, his gaze bouncing between the tank and his companion.

...Offering a hand to help him down also adds another point to the ‘fuck’ category. Vox is rarely on the receiving end of such gestures, but hey, he can work with it–

The moment he’s underwater, Vox gives a yelp that is rather unbecoming of an Overlord with as much power as he holds.

It’s a fleeting second of mostly shock, not even lasting long enough for a proper fear to set in. None of his sensors are screaming; there is no water rushing into his hollowed-out corpse seeking to corrupt the electronic components within.

There is no freezing lakewater rushing into his lungs, no television tied to his ankle to assure his descent to the depths-

No warning of imminent shutdown.

He is fine.

Well–he is fine, apart from the abrupt understanding of something he had been warned about many times before and never truly understood until now.

This was what they meant when they said Goetia were more powerful than sinners. Here his companion holds the power to drown Vox, to render him stuck and unable to regenerate for as long as he wished. Nevermind the consequences that would follow: for Vox, being submerged was second only to angelic weaponry itself. No hope of escaping on his own, no awareness, not even a subconscious mind to immerse himself in in the interim; just pure nonexistence.

Instead... Vepar uses it to show him sharks.

...Huh. He hasn’t been humbled like this in quite some time; at least not in a way that he’s willing to admit to himself.

“...Holy shit,” Vox mumbles. His eyes are enormous, filling up most of the screen, and it takes him a moment to remember himself, to find his foothold as an Overlord again. “Apologies for my language.”

“...Heloise.” Lovely. Fuck, he fucking loves hammerheads and their goofy-ass heads. A small smile fights for screen real estate with his eyes, winning out the battle for a space at the bottom. “No harm, you have my word.”

He follows Vepar’s movements, his hand held out and still, claws relaxed. He won’t reach for any that come by, but allow them to come to him if they choose– and some of them do, such as the black-tipped reef that seems as fascinated by Vox as he is by it. Oh, he loves it. He fucking loves it.

He’s unaware of his smile pushing bigger, sincere in a way that had become rather rare for him.

“This is… kind of amazing? I mean. Not kind of, just amazing. Full stop.” Vox laughs, his fans kicking up speed a notch. “Shit, I’m usually better with words than this.”

When the black-tipped reef noses against him, his haptic sensors register the roughness of the skin. Vox can’t help but marvel. After all, this is the first time he’s ever actually touched one–well, one from topside, anyway.

Not many chances to touch sharks in fucking Ohio.

“...You know, I can’t believe you think this wouldn’t appeal to more sinners. All the magic and beauty aside, most of them would jump at the opportunity to see things from their old lives, or even to see things they never got the chance to in life. This place could be packed tomorrow with the right advertising, if you wanted.”

Maybe he doesn’t. Vox would understand that; he already feels a deep-seated satisfaction in his bones, having not only this experience but in private with the man who’d made the whole thing possible. No other racous patrons around to disrupt the view, cracking crude jokes, tapping on the glass and doing whatever the hell else the worst of sinners down here could do in a place like this. He’d freely admit to the part of him that wants to sink his claws into the building foundations and never let it go. No one else would –could– appreciate it like he would.

But he also likes a crowd. And moreso, Vox loves being the intermediary, the educator, the entertainer. The person to introduce others to the next big thing, to show them something new, to point them to the experience that would put a light in their eyes and a smile on their face. Not the artist, necessarily, but the curator.

And oh, would Vox happily do that for this. Easily, willingly, paid for in the entertainment value he’d get and maybe garnering some goodwill with Vepar if he’s lucky. The whole of Pride Ring would seethe with jealousy if they knew just how quickly the Duke of Loss had been able to gain Vox’s approval–no, his enthusiasm, even.

“All these species from different parts of the world… How do they all live together? Do they all experience different temperatures and salinity? Are there any ecosystem conflicts you have to account for?”

“...I have so many questions. I hope you don’t regret opening up that can of worms.”

Eris hadn't expected him to yield so quickly.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but not this. Defiance, useless hissing and posturing, threats, or maybe weeping? But the way Hans simply gave in, agreed and gave himself over? That struck a chord in the High Lord, because he recognized it. With a sudden pang of pain--familiar pain, old, a memory that left its secret scars--he recognized that adaptability, the drive to do whatever it took to survive.

He knew--he had been there.

Eris immediately absorbed the heat that had begun gathering in Hans's chest, easing away any trace of the burn that might have been starting, and rested his palm against the now-bare skin instead, standing far too close to him.

Mine. My human. The realization was a sobering one, for even as the human now belonged to him, if Eris accepted him? He would belong to the human in return. He would be bound to protect him, should someone else threaten him--although, in a darkly twisted irony, Eris himself would be able to do whatever he pleased to the human.

His human.

His survivor.

"Remove the chains," he told a guard, without ever looking away from the human's eyes. "And very well. Tell me your name."

As long as you belong to me, I will defend you. Let the monsters come for you; I will fight for you. But I will never, never tell you that.

Stay ever at my side, and you will be safe. So long as you are mine.

"Yes" The man didn't even hesitate.

20 seconds was an awfully short time and everything that had happened to him had happened so quickly it felt surreal. He wished now he had listened to his brother and read more stories about the mythos out there, he had been a nonbeliever in anything and everything magical until he met Elsa and was somehow struck by lightning twice in life running into magic twice it had to mean something, right?

But he was aware no god or deity would come to his aid, at least he was consistent that way. He knew was on his own, always has been, and unknowingly he echoed the lord's thoughts.

What was he to do? In the face of bounds and magic?

Choosing to live now, he swallowed hard hoping he would at least have that decision in his hands later if he came to regret his decisions but Hans knew, he just knew the world wasn't the fastest or the strongest, it was of those who could adapt themselves better to the circumstances, and that was Hans' strongest suit, he had survived Ulrich, his father, he had survived Arendelle. He would survive this somehow.

"I give myself to you, uh... my lord" he tries with the first title that comes to his head.

His palms were sweaty, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute and he was sure his eyes were wide like saucers.

He was terrified. Yet Hans' will was that of the strongest steel. He would do what it takes to survive. Even if at this moment, it was painful or demeaning.