Save your documents. Strive to be safe, not sorry.
Back-up your documents. Strive to be safe, not sorry.
Placeholder names can quickly turn into forever names. Picking name(s) on a whim can lead to great things, or it can become your worst nightmare (😁).
Your writing has value. Yes, even the most inadequate of writing. You don't have to boast or even like everything you've ever written, but even the most questionable of writing will have contributed to your growth as a storyteller. Cherish it for what it is.
You can take a break. It is absolutely okay.
First drafts are scary. But you know what's more scary? Not having a draft at all.
Using clichés or ''overdone'' tropes will not kill your story. Firstly, tropes are building blocks. Secondly, humans actively search to consume stories revolving around these tropes.
Write your heart out. Boast about your writing. Boast about your friends' and fellow writers' writing. Everyone deserves recognition, even you, from within your own heart. (Sorry. That's really cheesy. But it's true).
Sherlock Holmes modern adaptation but the main characters (Sherlock, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, and maybe even Lestrade) are all vampires and they’ve just been doing their thing since the time period of the original books
Irene gets to be from New Jersey like she is in canon and she’ll occasionally show up and help Sherlock with a case but they don’t ever date or hook up or anything
the latest one isn’t even a cop she works nights at the 7-11 and Sherlock keeps coming in at 2am to slam two gallons of Monster Energy and ask her what what the fuck an “amogus” is (it’s case related) and tell her how much better she is at lateral thinking than her tragically straightforward ancestor and also is her girlfriend still going to school to be a defense attorney, how’s she handling the workload
1) Irene adopts and yes she is The Cool Grandma for generations of children forevermore
2) Mary is also a vampire, she got turned at the same time as John, she and Sherlock have Wine Wednesdays every third Saturday of the month
3) Mrs. Hudson is immortal but she’s not a vampire and nobody can figure out what her deal is
4) absolutely 100% correct
whenever anybody asks how they got turned the response is something along the lines of “that was like. Over five years ago. How do you expect me to even remember that.” or “idk man I just woke up like this” or “got bitten by a mosquito on a case” and it’s never the same twice
Yes the Sherlock Holmes books exist and whenever they’re brought up Watson gets very upset that this dude stole his writing and considers him his archnemesis despite the fact that Doyle is a totally normal human and dead as hell
imagine Watson’s frothing rage at the Doyle estate insisting Holmes can never be shown having emotions. like he didn’t personally watch Sherlock weep during the moon landing.
Okay, but consider
The Problem (Aka Sherlock Holmes) doesn’t hit ALL The Lestrades, only those that Holmes can rightfully refer to as “Inspector Lestrade”.
Obviously, police inspectors and detectives are affected by The Problem (as family lore refers to Holmes) but, like, subsequent generations have learned how loose the definition is.
Our latest Lestrade, let’s call her Billie, gets called up by her boss one day, and her boss is like “hey, Corporate says somebody at the store needs to know about health regulations and stuff. If you take a couple night classes and get this certification, we’ll give you a bonus on your next paycheck, and one of your jobs will be to sign off that we don’t have mold everywhere”. And Billie is like “Sure, sound good, whatever” and goes to the night classes and takes the test at the end and the tired bureaucrat who runs the course is like “Okay, congratulations, you’re now a Certified Health And Hygiene Inspector (Class D-Small Retail Food Storage and Service)” And Billie just freezes and is like “Ummmm, is it possible to get something different? Maybe I can be a Health and Hygine Expert?
And the bureaucrat is like “No, you passed the test, you’re now a Certified Health and Hygiene Inspector (Class D- Small Retail Food Storage and Service)”
And Billie is just SWEATING as she leaves the building, because she knows about The Problem, but maybe this wouldn’t count? Like, it’s not like she works for the government or anything. It’s just a dumb piece of paper that says she’s allowed to fill out other dumb pieces of paper. That can’t count. It’s not like her JOB changed or anything.
But, as soon as she steps out into the night and makes her way to the Bus stop, a slim figure steps out of the shadows and falls into step next to her.
“Ah, Inspector Lestrade, congratulations on the promotion. I have a few questions for you about-”
And Health And Hygiene Inspector (Class D- Small Retail Food Storage and Service) Billie Lestrade repeats the three words that have become motto and mantra for her family.
“Go Away Holmes”.
Every 21st century piece of writing advice: Make us CARE about the character from page 1! Make us empathize with them! Make them interesting and different but still relatable and likable!
Every piece of classic literature: Hi. It's me. The bland everyman whose only purpose is to tell you this story. I have no actual personality. Here's the story of the time I encountered the worst people I ever met in my life. But first, ten pages of description about the place in which I met them.
Modern writing advice: Make sure your POV character goes through a significant arc! Make sure they are changed by the narrative! Make sure they learn a lesson!
Narrators of every book of the 19th century: the lesson I learned is these people fucking suck, sayonara you freaks
Modern writing advice: It’s all about the character overcoming obstacles and learning! They learn their lesson so they can fix their mistakes and make good choices in the future! It’s a character arc! It’s called growth! Readers love it!
Everyone from ancient times through the 19th century: would you like to watch a Guy fuck up twenty times in a row
modern literature: your character should have realistic flaws he struggles to overcome
folk heroes: the only problem my man gilgamesh ever had was his dick was so big he had to strap it down lest he club his enemies to death before they even reached the battlefield
Morax draws back, golden spear glinting in his hands as he spins it in a defensive arc in front of himself. Glowing bolts of Anemo energy disperse into nothingness, but the howling force embedded behind them makes Morax frown.
There is another god present here. An ally of Osial?
The thought occurs swiftly, then is instantly discarded. No, if it were any ally of Osial, then they would not have launched an indiscriminate attack towards the both of them… not unless they were a cowardly opportunist who seized the chance to attack them while they were both distracted in combat.
Morax glances down, in the direction of where the Anemo energy had originated from.
Lo and behold, there is a young god standing there. White-haired and blue-eyed and fearlessly drawing the empty string of the massive bow that she holds in her hands once more, raising it directly towards Morax –and the enemy Hydro god beside him.
Anemo energy condenses into the shape of an arrow in her hands.
This time, Morax does not wait for the young god to launch her attack. He raises a clawed hand, curling his fingers into a fist as he focuses on the surrounding Geo element, glowing stone spires forming in the air at his wordless command.
Morax points towards the Anemo god, and instantly all the stone pillars hurtle downwards.
“A bit overkill, don’t you think?” Osial whispers into his ear.
Morax spins around, but Osial is a step faster. The canny serpent had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to lash out with his trident –but the weapon comes to a harsh stop against the Geo barrier that springs into existence above his skin.
Still, the force of the blow is enough to send Morax skidding back, and then he is forced to raise his spear to defend against the torrent of water that crashes over him in a towering tidal wave. Blue flecks fall down around him like a glowing snowstorm as Hydro rapidly collides and crystallizes against Geo. Morax forces it all aside with a single long swipe of his spear and–
The space across from him is empty.
Osial–!
Morax instantly looks down. The Hydro god is atop the Anemo god, forcing her to defend using the bow in her hands as a melee weapon. But even a divine bow is ill-suited for close-quarters combat when one swings it like a bludgeon, and the trident that Osial wields is a powerful divine weapon as well.
The Anemo god’s bow breaks.
Osial’s lips stretch into a sharp, wide grin. The water dragging at the younger god’s every footstep instantly snaps up in the form of distinct chains, lashing out and wrapping around her limbs.
Instinctively, the younger god responds by struggling against her bindings. Anemo energy swirls around the water-chains, destabilizing its form –but the moment that the winds dissipate, the chain links instantly reform and clasp down on the god once more.
Morax narrows his eyes.
The most irritating aspect about the Hydro energy that Osial manipulates is the fact that it does not keep to a defined form, much like the tempestuous waters that Osial commands, thus making it difficult to break free from in a manner completely different to that of the Geo constructs that Morax himself favors.
Morax has his own ways of dealing with Osial’s tricks, but the unknowing little Anemo god is clearly not as experienced. The young bird adeptus by her side is clearly unused to it as well, helplessly attempting to shatter the god’s chains, only for the water easily reform again and again–
“Surrender and serve, or be devoured by the Lord of the Vortex.”
“You will pay for breaking that bow with your head.”
Osial laughs.
Then, his human shape changes. The Lord of the Vortex discards his human guise, and a six-headed Hydro Serpent takes its place, rearing back with a watery hiss, a needle-sharp sound that echoes through the air the way sound reverberates underwater.
Above them, the clouds darken. Rain begins to fall.
With a small start, Morax realizes what is about to happen. He hefts his spear and throws–
Too late, Osial has already descended upon the young god with wide, gaping maws–
Blood fills the air.… But it is a brilliant red-violet blood, heavy with Hydro energy. The majority of which is not from Morax’s spear finding its target through the Hydro serpent’s torso, but instead from the open wound on its neck, gushing out like a fountain as one of Osial’s six heads falls to the ground, cleanly decapitated.
So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.
I love the lawyer metaphor, because whenever I see “John knew that...” in prose writing I immediately think “how? How does he know it?” Interrogate your witnesses. Cross-examine them. Make them explain their reasoning. It pays dividends.
"Writing Advice": by Charles Palahniuk- In six seconds, you’ll hate me.
But in six months, you’ll be a better writer.
From this point forward – at least for the next half year – you may not use “thought” verbs. These include: Thinks, Knows, Understands, Realizes, Believes, Wants, Remembers, Imagines, Desires, and a hundred others you love to use.
The list should also include: Loves and Hates.
And it should include: Is and Has, but we’ll get to those, later.
Until some time around Christmas, you can’t write: Kenny wondered if Monica didn’t like him going out at night…”
Thinking is abstract. Knowing and believing are intangible. Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing. And loving and hating.
Instead, you’ll have to Un-pack that to something like: “The mornings after Kenny had stayed out, beyond the last bus, until he’d had to bum a ride or pay for a cab and got home to find Monica faking sleep, faking because she never slept that quiet, those mornings, she’d only put her own cup of coffee in the microwave. Never his.”
Instead of characters knowing anything, you must now present the details that allow the reader to know them. Instead of a character wanting something, you must now describe the thing so that the reader wants it.
Instead of saying: “Adam knew Gwen liked him.”
You’ll have to say: “Between classes, Gwen was always leaned on his locker when he’d go to open it. She’d roll her eyes and shove off with one foot, leaving a black-heel mark on the painted metal, but she also left the smell of her perfume. The combination lock would still be warm from her ass. And the next break, Gwen would be leaned there, again.”
In short, no more short-cuts. Only specific sensory detail: action, smell, taste, sound, and feeling.
Typically, writers use these “thought” verbs at the beginning of a paragraph (In this form, you can call them “Thesis Statements” and I’ll rail against those, later) In a way, they state the intention of the paragraph. And what follows, illustrates them.
For example:
“Brenda knew she’d never make the deadline. Traffic was backed up from the bridge, past the first eight or nine exits. Her cell phone battery was dead. At home, the dogs would need to go out, or there would be a mess to clean up. Plus, she’d promised to water the plants for her neighbor…”
Do you see how the opening “thesis statement” steals the thunder of what follows? Don’t do it.
If nothing else, cut the opening sentence and place it after all the others. Better yet, transplant it and change it to: Brenda would never make the deadline.
Thinking is abstract. Knowing and believing are intangible. Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing. And loving and hating.
Don’t tell your reader: “Lisa hated Tom.”
Instead, make your case like a lawyer in court, detail by detail. Present each piece of evidence. For example:
“During role call, in the breath after the teacher said Tom’s name, in that moment before he could answer, right then, Lisa would whisper-shout: ‘Butt Wipe,” just as Tom was saying, ‘Here’.”
One of the most-common mistakes that beginning writers make is leaving their characters alone. Writing, you may be alone. Reading, your audience may be alone. But your character should spend very, very little time alone. Because a solitary character starts thinking or worrying or wondering.
For example: Waiting for the bus, Mark started to worry about how long the trip would take..”
A better break-down might be: “The schedule said the bus would come by at noon, but Mark’s watch said it was already 11:57. You could see all the way down the road, as far as the Mall, and not see a bus. No doubt, the driver was parked at the turn-around, the far end of the line, taking a nap. The driver was kicked back, asleep, and Mark was going to be late. Or worse, the driver was drinking, and he’d pull up drunk and charge Mark seventy-five cents for death in a fiery traffic accident…”
A character alone must lapse into fantasy or memory, but even then you can’t use “thought” verbs or any of their abstract relatives.
Oh, and you can just forget about using the verbs forget and remember.
No more transitions such as: “Wanda remember how Nelson used to brush her hair.”
Instead: “Back in their sophomore year, Nelson used to brush her hair with smooth, long strokes of his hand.”
Again, Un-pack. Don’t take short-cuts.
Better yet, get your character with another character, fast. Get them together and get the action started. Let their actions and words show their thoughts. You -- stay out of their heads.
And while you’re avoiding “thought” verbs, be very wary about using the bland verbs “is” and “have.”
One of the most-common mistakes that beginning writers make is leaving their characters alone.
For example:
“Ann’s eyes are blue.”
“Ann has blue eyes.”
Versus:
“Ann coughed and waved one hand past her face, clearing the cigarette smoke from her eyes, blue eyes, before she smiled…”
Instead of bland “is” and “has” statements, try burying your details of what a character has or is, in actions or gestures. At its most basic, this is showing your story instead of telling it.
And forever after, once you’ve learned to Un-pack your characters, you’ll hate the lazy writer who settles for: “Jim sat beside the telephone, wondering why Amanda didn’t call.”
Please. For now, hate me all you want, but don’t use “thought” verbs. After Christmas, go crazy, but I’d bet money you won’t. End ID]
Oh, so now I will be going back - when I get my papers done, chores completed, and laundry done and put away - to edit the hell outta my fics that I've written and rewrite them STRONGER!
"People mostly write and read very character driven, specific ship focused fic, because what most people want out of fanfiction is to focus on the romance between characters they're not getting in canon so they can soak in the vibes."
Yes, absolutely. And thank hell for all the authors who write character-driven, ship focused fic for us to soak in the vibes to.
But also…
thank hell for all the authors who write angst, whump, and hurt no comfort, for us to luxuriate in blorbo's hurt and pain and cry or cackle.
thank hell for all the authors who write cheating, love triangles and affairs for us to consume large quantities of popcorn to and yell 'oh no, they didn't'.
thank hell for all the authors who write case fic, mission fic, and intricate, plot-driven stories to replicate the feel of canon, when canon has stopped or gone wrong.
thank hell for all the authors who write 'fix it' fics when canon has betrayed us with bad vibes, plot holes and deaths.
thank hell for all the authors who write poly ships when what we need is just for everyone to get along and screw instead of screw up.
thank hell for all the authors who write gen fic when we're not interested in romance.
thank hell for all the authors in fandom, and all the wonderful, different kinds of fanfiction they write for us.
sometimes instead of “why can’t they just be friends” i think it should be “why can’t they also be friends” because sometimes shipping feels much too much like forcing two pretty characters to kiss and be intimate without actually being interested in the dynamic the two people have. what about hanging out together. what about why they like being in each others company. what do they argue about. how do they patch things up. what do they laugh about.
There is a terrible silence that settles, following the Master’s declaration.
You shall faithfully obey your Lord and devotedly serve the Master of your soul, Decarabian!
The words almost seem to echo, among the restless winds that gradually pick up around them. Irritable and wild, sharp and stinging. There is a heavy pressure that coalesces and builds, a string pulled taut. The invisible tension that saturates the air before a storm breaks.
The young god –Decarabian– looks towards the Master expressionlessly.
A wide smile splits across the Master’s face, all teeth. “You’ve caused me quite enough trouble, little one. Now, kneel before me.”
There is authority imbued into that order, and the bird finds its knees slamming into the muddy ground even though the command is not directed towards it. A pained gasp escapes from its throat, not entirely of its own volition.
Its hands sink deep into the mud. The earth beneath its talons is a dark scarlet. Blood.
No no no no–
The Master revels in death and destruction. War forges strength, suffering tempers resilience; all dreams shall be achieved at the end of the road, when I ascend the Archon throne. The widespread ruin that’s wrought in the Master’s wake, according to the Master’s whims and desires… is something that already haunts the bird’s every waking moment, and every dream. An endless nightmare.
But if there is another god that becomes one of the Master’s thralls, one whose aspect is aligned with battle, then–!
Decarabian, kneel.
The Master’s irritation is compounded by impatience; it lances down through the bird’s spine, needle-sharp despite not being the target of the Master’s ire.
And yet–
Decarabian, the one that the command is targeted towards…
Does.
Not.
Kneel.
Instead, the white-haired god raises her blade, and proceeds to drive it through the Master’s chest.
There is a terrible scream. The Master is screaming. Black ichor splatters from the wound, and it burns upon the bird’s skin. Paralyzed and unable to move, there is nothing that the bird can do but tremble beneath the Master’s rage.
“How?!” The Master demands, furious and disbelieving in turn. Then, a choked-off cry of pain; the other god has twisted her blade, driving it deeper into the Master’s body.
“A spell of obedience, is it?” The adolescent god remarks, “How dull. It wouldn’t have made a difference even if it took properly; you’re far too weak to force me to submit to you. And…”
She yanks her blade out. The Master staggers, and crumples to the ground.
“Get up. I’m not done with you.” For the first time, there is emotion in the other god’s voice. A frigid, glacial anger. “How dare you attempt to taint the name of Decarabian like this.”
The Master spits out a mouthful of black blood, then throws back her head and laughs.
“Ah, I see it now… you’re not ‘Decarabian.’ To think that I would be fooled by a trick as simple as this…” the Master shakes her head, slowly rising to her feet. “I confess, I’ve underestimated you, youngling. But you… are underestimating me as well. I may not be a martially-inclined god, but I am a god nonetheless.”
The Master presses a hand to the gaping hole in their chest, adeptal energies coalescing to heal the grievous injury–
Nothing happens.
Black ichor continues to drip down from between the Master’s fingers.
“… What is this?” the Master hisses. “What is the meaning of this?”
The Master’s rage is a near-physical thing, and the bird is suffocated beneath the crushing weight that slams into it out of nowhere. But through that all-consuming anger, there is also a hint of fear.
The other god tilts her head. “Did you really think that I would let you walk away from this?”
“So that’s how it is…” A faint chuckle. Then, a laugh. With a jolt of terror, the bird realizes that there’s a note of madness to the Master’s voice, which cannot mean anything good. It’s– “But don’t think that you’ll be walking away from this, either. I shall teach you of the wrath of a dying god!”
The last words end in a shout, accompanied by the swell of divine power –more than the bird has ever seen the Master bring to bear before, and the force of the gathering energies is enough to burn the air and shake the ground underfoot.
Crazed laughter, accompanying an eruption of divine power–
The world tilts, sky becoming earth and earth becoming sea, and the surrounding waters rise up to eclipse the sun–
Silence. Blessed darkness.
…
…
…
… Am I… finally dead?
“Not yet.”
The bird’s eyes snap open.
Darkness. All around it, everything is pitch-dark. There is nothing that can be seen, as if the bird is floating in the very essence of the darkness itself–
“Pay attention,” the voice in front of him says. A girl. No, not a girl. White hair and blue eyes, divinity enfolded into a human form; this is Dec– … the god that the Master had been fighting. “And watch your step. It’s still dangerous here.”
What…?
A pale hand reaches out, pristine fingers closing over the bird’s own muddy, bloodstained ones with no trace of hesitation. It’s such an inexplicable, oddly gentle motion, and the bird experiences a brief moment of mind-numbing panic, completely at a loss as for how to respond to this.
What’s going on?
“Your god killed herself,” the white-haired girl tells the bird, tugging it along… somewhere. Woodenly, the bird moves to follow. Each step is accompanied by a new jolt of pain from its injuries, “I’m containing the Mistress of Dreams’ mess in my barrier so I can take care of it properly. Right now, we’re in… the rift between dreams and reality, I suppose. I’m taking you outside with the other survivors.”
“… You won’t kill me?”
“No. I can’t,” the god shakes her head. “Not right now, at least. It’s one of the conditions for raising a barrier like this, with precisely zero preparations beforehand and such a large range.”
The bird blinks, faintly confused. But it understands that the god does not intend to kill it, despite having fought its Master –resulting in the master’s death. As the victor, then, that… means she’s the new Master, right?
So then, “What are your orders, Master?”
“… I’m not your Master,” the Master –not Master?– tells the bird, much to its mounting confusion. “And I don’t have orders. Just go.”
“T-That’s–”
“You can wake up now.”
The bird’s eyes snap open.
… Sunlight. Bright, and blinding. There is warm sunlight shining down upon its skin, accompanied by a cool breeze. And around it, there is the soft, unmistakable murmur of startled human voices… and the bird realizes that the shores are filled with humans.
Humans who all look confused and disoriented. Varying degrees of fearful, as well. There are also those who are openly weeping, kneeling down and bowing in the direction of–
A solid wall of darkness.
The bird’s head cranes back; up and up and up.
There is a dark dome, rising high up from the ground and stretching into the sky. It covers… quite a significant portion of the Master’s… the former Master’s territory. Is this… the ‘barrier’ that the white-haired god had mentioned? The barrier within which the catastrophic aftereffects of a god’s death were contained? … And the god had… evacuated everyone within it as well…?
…
“Well, well,” a lighthearted voice suddenly sounds jovially behind the bird. “Isn’t this an interesting –oh, no need to look so startled, little bird.”
Long blue hair tied up in a high ponytail, tanned skin the color of sand submerged beneath the waves. This is a god who’s grinning at it, who–
“Your mistress is dead, and yet you, the most powerful of her thralls live… how curious,” the man smiles sharply. Then, in a commanding voice that brooks no argument, “Tell me what happened inside there. Osial, the Lord of the Vortex, demands it.”
The caged bird jolts from its chained perch, eyes flying open at the call from the Master. A summons. Fear and nervousness flutter together in an unsettling swirl inside the pit of its stomach; the master sounds angry, furious, and that’s not a good sign.
Then, Anemo energy crackles up around the bird-demon of its own volition; the Master who owns it has called for it, and so it must answer.
… Whether it wishes to, or not. For the Master holds its name, and so the body obeys swiftly, even when the mind hesitates. Even when the mind screams and refuses–
The Master’s orders are absolute.
I want to die.
Anemo energy whips around his bruised, bleeding body. Then the entire world turns on its head and shifts, and the bird is no longer inside its cage, nestled deep within the caverns of a mountain where light does not reach. Instead–
Light. The sun is blinding, and the surrounding wind howls like an enraged storm.
(Blood lingers in the air, so thick that the bird can almost taste it upon its tongue.)
Battle-honed instinct immediately draws a spear into its hands, blocking the swing of a sword before it can even take stock of its surroundings. But the force behind the sword is unexpectedly strong, and the bird finds itself thrown to the side, violently flung away–
I want to die.
TO ME, [ ], YOU USELESS WRETCH.
The bird gasps, pain exploding across its abdomen as it’s forcibly summoned in front of the Master to block the blade with its body. For the first time, the bird is able to take a proper look at its attacker –the Master’s enemy– and they’re–
Wearing the shape of an adolescent girl, with long white hair and blue eyes that shine with an unearthly light–
A god.
There’s no mistake. Their essence is the same as its master’s. That’s a god.
And clearly, a powerful one.
The girl-god’s blade is dripping with blood –and the bird finally realizes the reason for it. Around them, the bodies of the Master’s other thralls lie broken and bleeding; some of them dead, others on the verge of death. Even the Master –the Master is bleeding, clutching at the bloody stump of a severed arm that drips black ichor onto the ground.
The bird stares at the young god. Blue eyes regard it dispassionately in return.
I want to die.
“You know what to do, my little bird,” the Master snarls from behind it. “Stall it using every means at your disposal. Do not allow her to harm me.”
I want to die.
[ ], defend me.
The bird jolts, and darts forward immediately at its master’s command. A new spear materializes beneath its hands, and it stabs forward. The weapon lances through the air, Anemo energy rippling around it in a wild vortex–
But the winds dissipate before they can reach the young, nameless god. Who simply raises her blade again and easily cuts through the god-killing metal of the very spear that the bird holds. Clang, clang. The broken halves of the spear do not last long beneath the sharpness of the nameless god’s sword, and the bird finds itself staring down the pointed end of that crimson blade.
I want to die.
[ ], fight with all your strength.
The bird screams. Anemo energy surges up around it, but it’s not the pain of uncontrollable winds slicing into its flesh that causes it to scream, but instead the sensation of a clawed hand digging in and crushing its soul, forcing it to obey fight kill devour–
The bird flies forward, slamming into the nameless god with sharp talons, losing grip on its human shape. Bloodied, mangled wings beat behind it, feathers as sharp as knives.
It’s no use. The bird is unable to leave so much as even a single scratch on the nameless god, whose expression does not once change towards it.
… Please let me die.
“It is finished!” The Master proclaims, triumph threaded through their words. No, no, no! “Powerful though you might be, you are but a youngling, unknowing of arcane magics beyond your comprehension. Upon mine authority, the Mistress of Dreams hereby commands you: Henceforth, you shall faithfully obey your Lord and devotedly serve the Master of your soul, Decarabian!”
Naoya stares at the tiny, gurgling baby, and makes a face.
“Don’t be like that.”
The young boy makes a ‘tch,’ crossing his arms and looking away. “Whatever, it doesn’t look interesting at all.”
“Use ‘he,’ not ‘it,’ Naoya-kun,” Jinichi says dryly. “Also, that’s your nephew.”
“Yeah, and?” It still didn’t change the fact that this was a small, wriggling little lump of uselessness. Then again, all infants were like that in the beginning, so Naoya wouldn’t hold it against him. Eventually, time would tell if this kid ever developed his own strengths and merits like Toji. Naoya is looking forward to it.
… But for now, the kid is still mind-numbingly boring. Naoya reaches out a hand and cautiously pokes the kid’s cheek.
He gets a wet bubble in response. Gross.
The lady holding the baby –Toji’s wife, Naoya doesn’t remember her name– laughs. “Try not to agitate Megumi, please. I only just managed to get him to settle down this morning”
Naoya blinks, recalling recent memories of a screaming set of twin girls wailing at full volume, and winces. He immediately slinks down, as if that will somehow hide him from the baby’s gaze.
The lady laughs again. Then, with a mischievous light in her eyes, “Want to try holding him?”
Naoya wants to sink into the ground and disappear.
“No thanks,” he mutters. Babies are boring and delicate, and Naoya doesn’t want anything to do with them at all. He’s only here in the first place because this is Toji’s son –possibly Toji’s heir– and he’d gotten curious. Clearly, that’s a mistake on Naoya’s part, though.
… Ugh, he would’ve been better off waiting until the kid was older before swinging around to take a look. Hopefully, he’d grow up to be interesting, and not weak and gutless like some of the other clansmen whom Naoya found an utter disgrace to even share the same bloodline with.
Then again, not everyone can be like Shiki-sama and Toji. Naoya isn’t going to hold it against the kid if he doesn’t inherit a cursed technique, but if he’s weak –then yeah, Naoya is going to hold it against him forever, Toji’s kid be damned.
The first time Blade meets the girl who will kill him someday, she’s sitting on one of Silver Wolf’s cushions with an armful of sweets.
“You should definitely try one of these, too,” Silver Wolf is saying to her. Her words are an uninterested drawl, and Silver Wolf’s eyes do not stray from her glowing phone screen. But the distinctly unsubtle way that she proceeds to use one of her legs and nudge over another bag of candies to her new companion belies her true feelings.
The other girl does not respond.
… Not until Silver Wolf prods her again, at least, this time directly kicking at the round, cat-shaped cushion that the silent girl is sitting upon. However, the end result of abruptly kicking out and unbalancing a spherical cushion… is, naturally, its unresisting occupant being unceremoniously upended onto the ground in a spilled heap.
A few candies are dropped from the girl’s arms, skittering wildly across the ground. There’s a lollipop that comes to a rest by Blade’s foot.
He crouches down, and picks it up.
When he looks up again –the new girl is staring at him.
She’s still lying on the ground, not making any attempt to pull herself upright. Blade takes a moment to study her in return.
The clothes that she’s wearing… they look like one of Firefly’s spare outfits, although the jacket is probably Kafka’s. White hair surrounds her like a halo, and there’s something about the sight of long, snow-white hair that stabs down, needle-sharp, in something within the recesses of Blade’s mind. For a moment, the haze of something red flickers at the corner of his vision, as the whisper of mara threatens to spill forth–
But the faint stirring of madness subsides swiftly, as Blade gets a good look at her eyes.
Blue, not red.
And… there are no particular emotions that are reflected in them, either. There is no pain, no loathing. No hate, nor guilt. Neither steely determination, nor unspoken sorrow.
The gaze that looks back at him is placid, neutral.
If anything had to be said about her eyes at all, then perhaps–
“Hey, how long are you going to –oh, Blade?” Silver Wolf finally looks up from her phone. “What’s up? Is Elio giving us another script?”
“Not yet.” Elio had not given any orders, merely suggested that Blade go visit Silver Wolf, who had taken surprisingly well to their newest addition to the Stellaron Hunters. Even now, Blade can see her tossing her phone to the white-haired girl –so it hadn’t been her own phone that Silver Wolf was preoccupied with; she’d been setting up a phone for the new girl– and pulling her upright.
“Don’t be such a sack of potatoes,” Silver Wolf complains, albeit without any real heat. “Okay, now you finally have your own phone and can play games with me! … And you too, Blade! You told me last time that you’d game with me once your hand was better. No more excuses from either of you!”
Blade pauses, and instinctively glances down towards the white-haired girl, who reacts similarly in this moment.
“Oh, right. This is your first time actually seeing each other, isn't it?” Silver Wolf drags over another cushion, this one in the shape of a penguin. “Blade, Shiki; Shiki, Blade. Alright, now we’re done with introductions! Hurry up and make an account! … What do you mean, you haven’t downloaded the game yet, haven’t I already–”
You are the adventurer who went on an epic quest and defeated the evil king, all to gain the sacred amulet and use its one wish to revive your sister. Now everyone expects you to accept her death and use the wish to undo the damage instead. You refuse.
Blood has stopped streaming from the wound bisecting your brow, but it still stings your eyes something fierce. You take your gauntlets off, grimacing as the grime and soot from battle tries to keep the metal welded to your skin. There’d been an explosion during the final fight with the king – no, the tyrant. Explosions, maybe. Your magic’s been erratic lately, the sudden growth of your mana pool far outpacing your control. You wipe your eyes with the back of your cleaner hand.
There’s pressure in your chest you’ve never felt before. You want to laugh. No, you want to scream. Your body is too tired to jump around like you did when you were a little girl, but you find yourself bouncing in place regardless. The thrill of battle and of escaping the castle as it collapsed is thrumming through your veins. You did it. You did it.
You are so happy, so devastatingly happy, that you can feel yourself shutting down. You need—you need rest. Food. Sleep.
Then you can save her. Then you can bring her back.
“Roksala,” Prince Eloyn says. You squint past the last rays of day to see him frowning at you. The ruins of the tyrant’s castle don’t appear to interest him. His eyes narrow. “Are you ignoring me?”
You will wear the crown, you have no choice, the spikes growing on your head have a metal sheen to them and coalesce into a mock halo. You will command, for your voice is a terrible thing, you are a terrible thing. You will be just, and you will be fair, for any grievances you cause to your people scar your body and leave lasting pain and false promises sizzle on your tongue like hot oil. Your god is watching and it won't forget what your ancestor did and it won't let you go
Hello. I was wondering if you could you write a platonic angst story where the reader is Blade's child. I was thinking that because Blade barely spends any time with the reader unless it's during one of their extremely harsh training sessions the reader decides to run away especially after one particularly rough training session where the reader was injured after they accidentally talked back and that night the reader starts packing their stuff but they accidentally left behind their late mother's pendant and Blade found it the next morning. (I hope you're okay with writing this and I wish you a good morning, afternoon or good night ☺️)
Family.
A/n: Hello Anon!! Thank you for your request!! I am so sorry this took so long- school + extracurriculars started so I had way less time to work on writing outside of school (TvT) But this was so much fun to write! I got a little bit carried away and it ended up being a found family type thing with all of the Stellaron Hunters– I tried to focus on Blade being a father figure as much as possible though! I hope you have a fantastic day, and I hope you enjoy!! ૮꒰ ˶• v •˶꒱ა ♡
Warnings: all relationships are platonic, found family trope, betrayal, suicidal ideation (Blade), mentions of death, reader's parents are dead, flashbacks, reader runs away, mention of bullets + broken glass, overthinking, Blade being insecure, reader uses a sword, reader gets injured a couple of times (If i forgot anything, please let me know!!)
Genre: angst, slight fluff
Pairing: father figure!Blade x gn!child!reader (PLATONIC), mother figure!Kafka x gn!child!reader (PLATONIC), sister figure!Silver Wolf x gn!child!reader (PLATONIC)
Word count: 7.3k
Blade is a cruel man.
There is no love in the red pools of his irises, no signs of any humanity. Dark circles adorn the skin just below his merciless stare, eyebrows slightly furrowed in an eternal state of aggravation. It was no wonder enemies cowered at the mere mention of him. He holds nothing back, and if an enemy was unfortunate enough to meet the steely edge of his sword, they were sure to be broken and lifeless by the end of the encounter. Unfortunately, he isn’t much different off of the battlefield either.
Blade is bitter and selfish and cold, to the extreme that even Kafka and Silverwolf are convinced that he has forgotten how to feel.
The thorns of the mara in his veins torment him constantly, the pain never faltering, even after decades. The other Stellaron Hunters had begun to wonder if those thorny, agonizing vines had punctured through his heart as well. It would be understandable, to an extent. After all, he is a man who has experienced endless with suffering and loss, his mind poisoned with grief and the sole desire to die. No more pain, no more fighting, just darkness- the mere thought was enough to drag a bitter smile out of him.
He was used to the dark, used to feeling like an empty vessel.
But why, if he was so familiar with agony, would he impose that same feeling on you as well?
You had always been alone. You were only a toddler when your parents were taken from you, the only proof of their existence being a necklace your mother left with you before she died. You had spent your youngest years void of any parental guidance, hopelessly wandering between foster homes and planets, hoping someone would take you in. You gave that up by age ten, running away from your home planet to travel the galaxy. From that point on, most of your time was spent sneaking onto Starskiffs, hiding in empty cargo compartments on any moving vehicle you could find, and even stealing authorization keys to search occupied space stations, all in search of someone whom you could call family.
But what exactly did the word family mean?
You always thought it was a strange word. It had such a subjective meaning, yet it was talked about so often. You didn’t understand what it meant, and no textbook definition could help you. All your efforts to find its meaning were in vain. And yet, your curiosity haunted you.
With every new destination, the word family buzzed among the crowds constantly. No matter where you had landed yourself, all you could do was spectate. You watched as children laughed and clung to the legs of their guardians, as relatives sobbed in unified grief over flower dressed gravestones, and as teenagers linked arms with each other, growing away from the protective grasps of their parents.
Every planet you traveled to, every dragging, lonely step you took, that sickening, seemingly joyous word that made you feel so isolated was there.
Six months after you had ran away, you went out alone to buy food. It was late at night, and you were preparing to head off to another planet the next day. Luckily, you bumped into a nice shopkeeper earlier who gave you some extra credits because she thought your coat was cool (in reality, she was just worried about you wandering off all alone, but didn't want to pry about your parents' whereabouts). So, you headed out amongst the crowds as you always did, pouch of credits in hand and determination plastered on your face.
But a woman stopped you on the way there and asked why such a young child was wandering around alone at night. She had a little girl with her, who looked no older than you.
She asked you if you had any family she could call to come and get you, with the assumption that you were lost. You couldn't say anything. Instead, you just stared, your wide-eyed gaze pinned on the child that almost mirrored you. Almost. Perhaps if the world were kinder, your eyes could have donned the same innocent, joyful light. One of her hands was encased by her mother’s, while her other hand kindly reached out towards you. A cheerful “hello!” rang through the air as she tried to shake your hand.
You stepped away from her. It was hard to breathe. You had seen all this before. Yet why was it so painful this time?
Internally, you demanded the Aeons to tell you why the truth of your situation had to be rubbed in your face so blatantly. You were alone. You wondered if it might be good to explain that to them, to create some kind of connection with these people, but no words would leave your throat. Your heart felt like it was splintered in two.
You didn’t know how long you stood there staring, but you were sure the devastation tearing you up inside was evident on your face. The woman called out to you one more time, her worry falling on deaf ears as you backed away slowly. You took one more look at the girl before turning on your heel and running as fast as you could, sobs wracking your chest so deeply it hurt.
You hadn’t returned to that planet since then.
You wanted the life that little girl had. You wanted to have a guardian.
But as the years went on, nothing changed. Your travels continued, and you came to terms with the fact that you might never know what family felt like. You made acquaintances as you traveled, friends, even. They never stuck around for long, though. The darkness always swallowed them up one way or another. And with every loss, the painful void in your chest numbed and steeled over a little more.
You thought that your life would always be this way. In truth, you had forgotten that there was any other way to live.
However, that was before a certain group of Stellaron Hunters swept you away from your life of solitude, and recruited you into their dangerous yet thrilling world.
A year later, you found yourself on a sand covered planet. You were on a train, heading to one of the planets' larger cities from a smaller town. There wasn’t any way you walk- it was too hot and the distance was too far. Otherwise, you would have spent your savings on something other than train tickets.
The trip was uneventful and for most of it you just stared blankly out the window, exhaustion and boredom settling in your bones. You were tired from running errands for the previous town's residents- it was onerous but it happened to pay well. Though you were happy to have a break, your mind wasn’t used to the quiet. The barren landscape outside did nothing to help. It was a dry, flat expanse that was dotted only with dead weeds and the scraps of broken automatons. In short, nothing of interest.
Aside from that, all was going well. You had enough credits to last you at least six more train rides and get food and extra supplies, and you had several acquaintances with whom you could stay in the next city. You made a point not to talk about your budgeting skills, as it would usually spur a torrent of questions from whoever you were talking to. You couldn’t blame them though, children your age typically didn’t devote themselves to a life of aimless travel.
The train stopped right on time, and you stepped onto the platform that was crowded with people. As usual, you were met with the sight of teary-eyed relatives hugging each other, children running around and playing, and couples greeting each other. You kept your head down, feeling more inconvenienced than sad. In their excitement, the crowds always seemed to block your path to the other platforms. Besides, they say time heals all wounds, so why would you care, anyway? You awkwardly shoved your way toward a nearby stairwell, grunting as several people bumped into you. Just as your fingers made contact with the stair’s banister, ear shattering sirens echoed throughout the station.
Emergency lights flashed on and off in a blinding rhythm, the red glow engraining itself into your mind. Suddenly, pixelated bullets flew towards the ceiling, shattering several of the glass panels. Screams rang out in response, and the previously happy crowd flew into a panic, ducking to avoid the broken glass. However, the glass shards evaporated into more pixels before they could hit the crowd, preventing any damage from being done.
Amidst the swarms of people trying to escape, you cautiously walked closer to the source of the commotion. You really shouldn’t have, but the nagging curiosity in the back of your mind compelled you to do so. And even if it seemed dangerous, there was something off about this incident. After all, if the initiators were out for blood, wouldn’t they have attacked the crowd directly? If whoever caused this wasn't intending to cause harm, they must be looking for something.
As you got closer, you saw three figures: A magenta haired woman with lightless eyes, a pistol in one hand, and a glowing thread of purple silk in the other. She was leaning back against one of the platform’s pillars, watching the whole scene with fake amusement. The second person you saw was a smaller girl decked out in a myriad of purples and blues, her drill style ponytail swaying as she typed up coordinates on a hologram screen. And lastly, you saw a red eyed man with a glare so sharp it made your heart sink. You certainly did not want to be subject to whatever rage he had stored away. From the looks of it, he could kill you in a split second.
For some reason, all three of them seemed familiar. You couldn't quite place it, but you quickly realized, you knew who they were. Their faces were plastered on all of the IPC’s wanted posters, which were scattered on literally every planet you had been to so far. You couldn’t remember their names exactly, but you knew that, together, they were known as the Stellaron Hunters- the universe’s most wanted criminals. You should have recognized them from the pixelated bullets earlier- how could you have been so naive?
You could have tried to run, but it would be futile. You were already out in the open, and they had already seen you.
Your eyes widened in sheer panic as the man dressed in black set his gaze on your shaking form. There was no way you’d survive this encounter. Absolutely zero chance. He stepped toward you but was interrupted by the sound of a clanging of a spear. The station’s security officers surrounded the Stellaron Hunters, demanding that they freeze and turn themselves in immediately.
You covered your ears and ducked as a fight broke out, the Stellaron Hunters throwing themselves into battle. Your eyelids were screwed shut in fear until the sounds of fighting had ceased. When you opened your eyes, you looked up to see that all of the guards had been knocked out, and that the taller woman standing above you, watching you in a way that was eerie, yet... comforting somehow. Even so, your better judgment caused you to back away, frantically scrambling on the hot cement of the platform. The red eyed man yanked you to your feet before you could stand up, and a panicked noise left your throat as he dragged you toward his two companions. you caught a glimpse of his sword that was poised in his other hand, taking note that he was ready to strike if necessary.
“It’s a kid.” He grumbled, still glaring at you.
The tall woman chuckled and took a step forward, observing the way you struggled to get out of her companion’s grasp. You were getting more anxious by the second, she could tell. No matter how strong and collected you acted, you were still just a kid, and you had the minimal strength of one.
“Let them go, Blade. I don’t think they mean any harm.”
Small, scared breaths left your throat as you were released, your shaking legs failing to hold you up. You fell to the ground, staring in shock at all that had occurred. What would have happened if they didn’t let you go? How much danger were you really in, and how the hell were you still alive?
Then, the monotone voice of the grey haired girl met your ears.
“What a waste. Looks like those signals were nothing but a glitch.” She sighed. “There's nothing for us here.”
The scary man who grabbed you- Blade, as the woman called him- looked down at you crumpled form, eyes softening just the tiniest bit. Your fearful gaze met his, and you didn’t dare move. The two other hunters made conversation about their next moves in the background, while Blade narrowed his eyes coldly.
“Why aren’t you running?”
…What?
“Go. Lingering here will only bring you suffering”
Your fearful gaze then turned to one of confusion. It was unclear if his words were meant to be a warning or advice. Either way, it gave you the strength to pull yourself off the ground and attempt to respond, but all that came out of you was a strangled groan. Your body hurt, and everything had happened so fast that your mind was still trying to catch up. It wasn’t that you were trying to make an impression by staying, you just couldn’t bring yourself to run because of the adrenaline coursing through you. You hunched over and placed your hands on your knees to get your bearings. After a few minutes, you finally responded.
“Y- yeah, I… uh…” You hesitated, unsure of what to say. “...I have another train to catch...?”
It came out like a question, which was unintended. It was the truth, but you were so nervous that you would say something wrong and provoke him. Your life may have been spared for the moment, but they could still change their minds, and you didn't want to re-dig your own grave.
The man beside you let out a small sigh before turning his gaze back to his two companions.
“Fine.” He muttered.
A few moments passed with you and Blade sitting in comfortable silence. or, it was comfortable him, at least. He was still and silent, ignoring you entirely. You just kept fidgeting the whole time, unsure if you should stay or run for the hills. It was borderline suffocating. thankfully, the tall woman came over again, ending your misery.
“Well, we’re off.” She said to Blade, prompting him to walk towards the edge of the platform where the smaller girl stood. Before walking off, she turned to you one last time.
“Take it easy, kid.”
Something in your heart screamed at you to speak up. A strange urge began eating away at you, telling you that if you didn’t do something right now you’d regret it for the rest of your life. But do what? What could you do without potentially dying? It was stupid. And dangerous.
But that old feeling of longing, that desire to be a part of something wouldn’t leave you alone. Your desperation to attain a family of your own had been reawakened. Your undying hope, which laid dormant for years, was now ruling your judgment.
Just as they turned to leave, you stumbled forward and cried out.
“Wait!”
All three heads turned towards you.
A purple set of eyes knowingly scanned you as you trembled, a smirk growing on the woman’s face.
You anxiously gripped at your clothing, trying to summon up the courage to put on some kind of brave face for them. Before you think, pleas for them to take you with them were spilling from your throat. You told them that you wanted to see the universe and that if they gave you that opportunity, you’d do whatever you could to assist them. It was a partial lie- exploring the universe did sound fun, but it wasn't what you were truly after. Your true motivations were far too personal to tell them just yet. It felt like a wound had unexpectedly reopened ever since they arrived, and you were sure you’d crumble if you forced yourself to explain.
Luckily, you didn’t have to. You had the strangest feeling that they already knew your story to some extent. Even without the influence of your longing, you couldn’t deny that it was the opportunity of a lifetime. It wasn’t every day that you came across three highly skilled fighters who could quickly travel anywhere they wanted. You could save years worth of credits and injuries if you went with them.
Once you had finished your frantic explanation, you took a breath to calm your pounding heart. The silence you were met with was deafening, which you took to be a bad sign. A deep chuckle reverberated through the elegant woman’s chest as she took a decisive step closer to you. She hummed in amusement, holding her hand out for you to take.
“You may not be crucial to our mission,” she leaned down to your height, voice almost a whisper, “but if that’s what you want, then who are we to disagree?”
You took her hand, heartbeat slowing to a calm pace as you did so.
The days you spent with the Stellaron hunters were some of the most peaceful days you had ever experienced.
You weren’t constantly slinking around trying to find information and resources for your travels, and it was the first time you had slept in a room that had officially been dubbed as your own. You weren't hopping between inns and the homes of your few friends. Even expenses weren't an issue anymore. It felt strange to have time on your hands. Guilt inducing, even.
You didn’t get too caught up in that though, since the confusion and questions plaguing your mind happened to be stronger than your melancholy. It was beyond your understanding how three of the most dangerous criminals in the entire universe could be so kind and willing to take you in. Perhaps it was because you had seen too much. You were a witness to Blade knocking out over ten armed guards. However, they were so powerful that they seemed to be able to get away with anything. Either way, you were a part of their goup, and that's what mattered.
As time went on, you grew closer to the Stellaron Hunters. Especially Kafka, who you learned was much less intimidating in regular life, and Silver Wolf, who was still as deadpan as before, but seemed subtly happier with you around. You also were officially introduced to Blade, and were promised that he wasn't always so brooding. That was hard to believe, though.
Silver Wolf was like a sister to you. She dragged you with her everywhere. She said it was a part of your duties to accompany her on errands, but in reality, she just enjoyed having you with her. Whenever a battle presented itself, she would have you on the sidelines cheering for her as she obliterated enemies in the blink of an eye. It was clear that your support went straight to her ego, but she also secretly wanted to impress you so that you'd view her as some sort of mentor. Silver Wolf wanted to be a reliable guide and friend to you, especially after you had been alone for so long. Thankfully, you didn’t mind spending time with her. In fact, chatting and playing video games with her became one of your favorite ways to kill time. The latter was clearly her passion– after all, her combat techniques were solely revolved around her exceptional hacking skills.
Silver Wolf taught you how to play all her favorite games, staying calm and patient with you when you kept losing. Often, she would discreetly take you out to arcades during your free time, and every time it would be humbling due to your lack of gaming experience. However, losing meant that you had more time to watch her win, which was never boring. In any other situation, you might have been jealous, but it was just so mesmerizing to watch her play. Besides, she gave you all her prizes, so you weren’t going to complain. But what you found to be even more amusing was watching her lose it over the few games she hadn’t mastered yet. Her face would contort into one of sheer disbelief and anger as she held onto the machine tightly, aggressively mashing buttons and mumbling insults. You would always laugh and try to cheer her up in response. It always gave her a huge ego boost, and convinced her to try again, despite still being angry. You never expected to gain such a dear friend when you joined the Steallaron Hunters, and you wouldn’t trade any part of your friendship for the world.
Kafka was another story, though.
At first, Kafka terrified you. She held so much power over the other hunters- well, really over everything, that you were sure she’d destroy you if you stepped out of line. Her empty eyes and ruthless reputation didn’t help either.
Ever since your arrival, Kafka kept a close eye on you. She made sure that you were alright as you settled in, and that you weren’t feeling unsafe or lonely in your new environment. She offered you comfort and advice and cared for you like the mothers you had witnessed on your past journeys.
One night, a month after you had arrived, you hurt your leg on a walk and Kafka was right there to patch you up. She shushed you gently as you tried to protest that you were fine, and dragged you to the nearest chair so you could sit. She took a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet, and began tending to your wound. You winced as rubbing alcohol combined itself with your blood, and you quietly explained that you had been doing this your whole life- that it wasn’t her job to take care of you. Kafka paused and looked at you, eyes showing a rare glint of sadness. She whispered to you that those days were over. You weren’t alone anymore, and you should ask the three of them for help whenever you needed it. You weren’t a burden to them.
Kafka wasn’t sure what the cause of it was, but something in her chest began to ache when she saw you injured. She had never felt fear before. She deemed it impossible before you came along. She had always been known as a ruthless, unshakeable force of danger, who would stop at nothing to achieve her goals. But now, she had to keep you safe. Part of her wanted to berate herself for getting so protective over someone, for willingly weakening herself by caring about you. But you needed safety and a group of loving people to return to. You were just a kid, after all, and even after the short time you had been traveling with them, she had begun to feel like your guardian.
Tears filled your eyes, her words weighing down on your lungs. You couldn’t truly believe her. Not after all you had been through. But even so, Kafka was right in front of you, smiling softly, waiting and willing to take care of you. She wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. It was a foreign feeling, one that scared you more than anything else. But you were safe. You were at home.
So you let yourself cry. Your heart split open, all the bottled up agony from your past finally bursting out. You curled into yourself, the gash on your leg long forgotten. Kafka kneeled before you and gently wrapped her arms around your shaking form. One of her hands carded through your hair, while the other rubbed your back soothingly. Gentle whispers fell from her lips, promising you that she was with you. You were safe.
You weren’t sure how long had passed when you calmed down. Maybe it had been hours. Whatever the truth was, Kafka remained by your side, not pulling back until she was sure you were okay. After you had stopped crying, she leaned back, meeting your sad, exhausted stare. She looked down at your bleeding wound, grabbed a roll of bandages, and cautiously wrapped it around your leg. When she was finished, she smiled and stood up, placing a hand on your shoulder. You matched her smile, assuring her that you were fine.
However, after a moment, Kafka’s comforting smile was replaced with a teasing smirk. Confusion sparked in your eyes and your eyebrows furrowed as if to silently ask what the problem was. She just chuckled and took a seat across from you, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head back as though she was assessing you. Her next words not only shocked you but caused your entire being to wilt in annoyance and anxiety.
“I think it’s about time we start training you in combat. If a scrape has you in this much pain, imagine the damage a real battle would do. We can’t have you dying on us, now can we?”
She paused, thinking for a moment before reaching her conclusion.
“Yes… I’ll have you train with Blade. His abilities never disappoint.”
And that was how your ongoing feud with Blade began.
When Kafka decided to pair you up with Blade, you were pissed. However, you knew she was right. If you were falling apart just from accidentally scraping yourself, how were you supposed to handle actual threats? You would be utterly useless in a fight. And if anyone managed to get past the Stellaron Hunters and attempt to harm you, you would be dead on the spot. There wouldn't be a fight, just abrupt darkness, and a very disappointing end to a life such as yours. It would shatter the hearts of Kafka and Silver Wolf, who had already sworn to protect you at any cost. As you got older, the target on your back only became bigger. With the Stellaron Hunters’ reputation becoming more notorious by the day, civilians and authorities alike were bound to find out about you. Self-defense was a necessity.
But Blade never spoke to you. You felt as though you were a nuisance to him. Just another issue to be dealt with, another soul to pester him throughout the day. The way he glared at you made you wonder if you had done something wrong, or if you were imposing by being around. He made you feel out of place. Even after thorough reassurance from Kafka and Silver Wolf that his behavior was entirely normal, you still couldn’t help but worry. It was only after several months had passed that you came to understand that it truly wasn’t you- he was just grumpy. And that began to annoy you. If he wasn’t open to being somewhat nice, then why should you bother? You could glare back just as hard, and ignore him just as easily. If that's what he was getting at, then so be it. However, Kafka was the leader of both of you, and she wanted you to train. Despite your mild hatred of Blade, Kafka already had done so much for you. She only wanted the best for you. You could at least attempt to abide by her wishes.
So you gave in and begrudgingly stated training with Blade.
For a few hours every day, you and Blade would find any open area and he would walk you through different defense techniques. You expected the technical side of it, but you did not expect that you would be sparring right off the bat. On the first day of training, he threw you into your first match and charged at you with the assumption that you had sharp enough reflexes to block him successfully. Obviously, you weren’t at all prepared since you had zero experience with combat. Turns out Kafka really wasn’t kidding when she said Blade knew how to fight.
Lessons carried on like this for weeks. You would return from sparring exhausted and bruised, feeling completely done with everything as you limped to your room to sleep. You felt generally bitter, making it hard for Kafka or Silverwolf to help, and Blade just acted like it wasn’t his problem. The most he did was help you up, and that was only if you put up a good fight. But thankfully, after a while, Blade began to notice how badly the sparring affected you. It wasn’t like you were on the brink of death, but you were still in pain. And given your age, there was no doubt that it was a lot more overwhelming than anticipated. So Blade subtly began to take care of you a little more. It wasn’t much- he mainly just gave you icepacks whenever you needed them and helped you walk, but it was the most he knew how to do. He was clueless when it came to caring for people, especially children.
You were a persistent kid, which Blade found surprising. He thought you would have given up within the first week of training, but you just kept working at it. And while Blade found your stubborn behavior annoying most of the time, it assured him that you had enough courage to fight alongside him and the others. He knew you didn’t like him much, and he knew a part of you blamed him for the injuries you got, which was reasonable. As annoying as you found him, Blade never gave up on you, even when you messed up or got so frustrated that you cried. He never babied you during these moments either. Instead, he would walk you through what went wrong and have you run through the solution until you had it down cold. Even if you were upset, he wanted you to push through it and use your anger to become stronger. You had been fighting your whole life. You had the tenacity and potential to gain the strength that you required. Blade could tell that, even after joining them, you wanted a purpose. You wanted to explore the universe and find your place among the glowing webs of stars. However, the beauty of the galaxy came with dark and unfamiliar territory. If you were to traverse the universe, you had to learn how to handle to darkest parts of it.
Little by little, you improved. You worked as hard as possible until you were able to withstand Blade’s strength and evade his attacks properly. You had a long, long way to go before you could actually defeat opponents, but you could at least hold them off, which was just as important. Despite how grueling Blade’s teaching methods were, you did come to respect him more as your mentor. He looked out for you in his own distant ways and seemed to actually care about you. In truth, Blade had started getting protective over you- not that he would admit it. It wasn’t an overbearing kind of protectiveness- he just wanted you to stay out of trouble. It was nice to pass knowledge onto someone, and protect them from the world's dangers by doing so.
The truth was, even if Blade acted indifferently toward you, he secretly was really proud of you. He admired your kindness, even after all the pain you had been dealt. You kept smiling and picking yourself up, finding your back to the light time and time again. Perhaps that's what made you so different from him. His will to keep fighting was growing fainter by the day.
Even with your differences, you both became closer. Blade kept an eye on you whenever you left the ship, talked with you whenever you got bored, and even helped you whatever chores you had to do. Sure, you were stubborn, but Blade never grew to dislike you. Your relationship felt routine and safe- it held a sense of comfort that felt normal. Blade caught himself questioning if this was what family was meant to feel like. He couldn't remember, but a faint, distant memory assured him that it was. If he could contribute to the familial safety you longed for so much, he would gladly do so.
Was that even possible, though?
Blade had very little experience with love of any kind. Any memories he had of his past friend and family were long gone. His own sense of self was unstable, so how could he provide stability for you? He couldn't bear the thought of causing you pain. Or, there was a chance that he would rub off on you. That you would start to become like him. That prospect was enough to make him feel sick. So he began distancing himself from you in any way he could.
Now, whenever you crossed paths he would treat you especially coldly. Most times he saw you, he walked past you and pretended you didn't exist at all. He was back to being rude and dismissive, even more so than when you first met him.
Instead of encouraging you during training, he would call you weak and pick apart everything you had done wrong. This was not received well by you. After all, you didn’t know if Blade’s behavior was your fault, or if this was just how he truly was. You felt dejected and lonely, even with the support from Kafka and Silver Wolf. Though you loved them immensely, Blade was also someone you cared about, and you didn’t want to lose another parental figure. After weeks of being ignored, hatred replaced any good image you had of him. What used to be a safe, happy friendship soon morphed into an incessant rivalry.
It felt like Blade only wanted to see you unhappy. You imagined that he was secretly gloating over your distress- that you were nothing more than a temporary amusement to him. But you were wrong. So, so very wrong. Blade hated seeing you upset because of him. He was failing you by ignoring your wellbeing. You were just a kid. More importantly, you trusted him.
But it was for your own good, wasn’t it? His past was dark, and perhaps he was too, by nature. He would never forgive himself if he allowed harm to come to you. Even if that meant leaving you behind. No, he would much rather watch you grow up and live happily from afar.
Kafka still wanted you to train though, so Blade couldn’t avoid you entirely. Sparring was the only time he saw you anymore. Your sessions with him were difficult, but not because the material was hard. In fact, it was harder for Blade than you. You would glare at him constantly and show complete indifference to everything, making it nearly impossible to communicate with you. He wasn’t doing much better either- he couldn’t bring himself to say anything to you. It felt like the consequences of his neglect were crawling up his back, ready to snap at him at any moment, and he knew that any day now, you would finally break. Soon, everything would fall apart.
You knew Blade was heartless, but his cruelty was amplified when you trained with him now. He went all out, forcing you to scramble for scraps of knowledge he had previously given you to win. But that wasn’t enough this time. You were too tired, physically and emotionally, to continue. You felt smaller and weaker than you had ever felt before.
Lightning-fast blows struck you from all sides, the scent of bloodstained spider lilies clouding your senses. You weakly pulled your sword out of its sheath and tried to block his attacks, but doing so would knock you off balance from the force of his blows. You fell back on the ground, coughing and clambering to your feet, promptly hurling yourself towards Blade with hopes of hitting him just once. Built-up anger from the last few weeks rushed through your heart, tears of desperation dripping down your cheeks. God, you were tired of this. Blade used to be your friend. You wanted to know what changed, and you wanted that piece of your family back.
In your fury, your reaction time fell short. Blade darted behind you and shoved you to the ground, watching coldly as you crumpled over in defeat. A glint of regret shone in his eyes, but he quickly covered it up by turning his back to you. Once more, you picked yourself up, your throat burning from the lack of a break. It must have been hours since the start of your match, but it might have just felt that way because you were the one getting injured. Never before had Blade fought you this hard. You weren’t prepared, and he knew that. You internally questioned if he was actually trying to make you despise him, albeit sarcastically. It hadn’t occurred to you yet that it might actually be the case. You shakily lifted your head to look at him, angrily mumbling something that Blade couldn’t understand.
Blade took a breath and turned around to face you, blank expression unwavering.
“What was that?” He growled. The world seemed to fall silent as you locked your gaze with his in an act of defiance.
“I said, I hate you!”
You hated that you were crying. You hated feeling weak. You hated what he had put you through.
But you didn’t hate him. Not entirely.
You wanted to hate him fully. You wished you were strong enough to. But even then, as you wiped your tears and walked out, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. Maybe it was the memories you had of when he felt like family, maybe it was inherent kindness or just plain stupidity. You couldn’t feel hatred. All you felt was dejection. So naturally, you began spiraling.
If Blade didn’t want you around, there was a chance Kafka and Silver Wolf didn’t want you either. If it was possible that they secretly hated you too, you wouldn’t allow yourself to withstand their rejections as well. You might as well just get out of their way, and save yourself the trouble. It was nice feeling happy for a while. But it wasn’t what you were made for. It wasn’t how you were used to living. Perhaps this was a sign that your destiny rested in the familiar arms of solitude, away from the glowing crowds.
That night, when you returned from training, you bid Kafka and Silver Wolf goodnight and began packing your bags. When you were sure everyone had gone to sleep, you took your leave. You slipped out of the ship’s main entrance, the frigid night air numbing the uncertainty in your chest. You started walking, not sure where you were headed. You were out of practice with your usual travel routines, but that wasn’t important. As long as you were away from the Stellaron Hunters, you would be safe. Lonely, but safe. But even with your half hearted reasoning, you still felt a sinking feeling that this wasn’t right. That you might regret this. You shoved it off, cursing at yourself quietly for getting so softhearted. It was time to cut ties. It was for the best.
However, you had made one vital mistake. While preparing to leave, you had purposely left behind any photos or items given to you by Kafka, Silver Wolf, or Blade. In your rush to leave, you accidentally left behind something incredibly important to you: your mother’s necklace.
You took it off and left it on your desk by accident. It was the last existing link between you and your biological parents and you cherished it because of that. So when Kafka found it the next morning, along with your neatly made bed and discarded photos, she knew something was very wrong. Silver Wolf burst into your room shortly after she found them, questioning Kafka about your whereabouts. She had no answer, all she could do was say she hadn’t seen you. Silver Wolf left worried and agitated, grumbling about how they had to find you. As Silver Wolf left, Blade approached your doorway with the intent of finding you for your training session, because at this point you would have been late. Gripping the necklace tightly, Kafka turned to face Blade. She knew there tension had been growing between you and him for the last month. If he was the cause of your absence, she would not let him get away unscathed.
Blade’s expression was serious, but Kafka could see the glint of confusion in his eyes. He seemed entirely clueless, so perhaps interrogating him wouldn't do much.
“There’s no sign of them anywhere on the ship,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “There’s only this.” Kafka gestured to the thin chain that lay forgotten on your desk. Dread immediately shot through Blade’s heart.
You had left.
And it was all his fault.
He neglected you. You had every right to leave. He was meant to be a guardian to you. It was his job- no, his privilege to keep you safe, and failed to do so. And now you could be anywhere in the galaxy, wandering aimlessly once again. Blade carefully took the necklace, trying to keep his composure as questions and visions of the worst raced through his mind. What if they never found you, or what if you had gotten hurt? What if it was too late, and you were already–
He didn’t allow that thought to finish itself. Catastrophizing would only slow the process of finding you.
But would you even want to come back? Why would you, when you felt unwelcome enough to leave in the first place? And even if, by some miracle, you came back, would you ever trust him again? If you ever granted him forgiveness, would he even deserve it?
This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? That was why he pushed you away- so you would leave him alone. You were gone now, and he had gotten what he wanted. Was he truly so terrible that he would still be unhappy, even after he had achieved his desire?
It wasn't meant to go like this.
You weren't meant to leave them. It was his fault though, so maybe it was best to let you go.
Kafka’s piercing gaze bored into the side of Blade's head as she watched the gears turning inside his head. She took a short breath before heading towards the door. She was scared of losing you, and angry that they hadn’t noticed your absence until now. There was no time for emotions such as anger. You were missing. They had to find you.
Blade stood in the center of your room, now entirely alone. The metal of your necklace dug into his skin as he clutched onto it for dear life, his eyes falling to the pictures on your bed. You seemed so happy before. So did Kafka and Silver Wolf- he was happy too, though he was reluctant to admit it out loud. He had broken the loving family you had brought together. A strange family, but a family nonetheless.
Blade kept staring. He wished he could go out looking for you. Unfortunately, wishes are not reality.
Blade would not search for you that day. He would be chained to where he stood, fighting with himself internally as time slipped by quietly. You could have died already. And he was just standing there, staring.
No, he would not look for you.
Because the truth cannot be denied, nor masked with excuses- in the end, Blade is a cruel man.
Steve was hard of hearing and kept putting off getting a hearing aid despite Robin's instance. He's gotten pretty good at lip reading when he needs to. He can still hear when someone's close, but Eddie tends to move when he talks. At this moment, he was going on one of his rants, and Steve really wants to hear him better. Desperate, he hopped over the coffee table and jumped directly in front of Eddie. He cupped Eddie's face to keep him still.
"Okay. Now talk," Steve said.
"Uh. . . ," Eddie blinked at him.
"What?" Steve asked.
Eddie stared at him, and Steve could feel his cheeks warm underneath his fingers. Eddie's cheeks were surprisingly soft, and Steve couldn't help but caress his cheeks with his thumbs. He really liked holding Eddie like this. . . and if he were to lean in, he could close the distance, but Eddie wasn't a girl. Suddenly, Steve found that he didn't care that Eddie wasn't a girl. He wanted to kiss him anyway.
"I suddenly can't seem to remember what I was talking about," Eddie said.
"Yeah, me neither," Steve said softly, and he moved closer to Eddie.
"Steve. . . " Eddie trailed off, and he could feel Eddie's breath against his lips.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm having a sexuality crisis," Eddie said.
"Me too."
Eddie's fingers ran up Steve’s arms to his shoulders as he moved closer, and he let his hands trail down until they rested against the small of Steve’s back. Steve shuddered.
"Fuck."
It was Eddie who closed the distance. Really closed the distance. He slammed into Steve, nearly knocking him over as he crashed his lips to Steve’s, and wrapped his arm's completely around Steve’s waist. Steve gasped against his mouth, causing it to fall open, and Eddie immediately slipped his tongue in. Eddie grinned as Steve moaned against his mouth. He let his hand slide down lower and cupped Steve’s butt before giving it a squeeze. Steve squeaked, and Eddie giggled delightfully before breaking the kiss. Steve wrapped his arms around his neck.
"What is this?" Steve asked.
"Well, it felt a lot like we just made out a little," Eddie said.
"Ass, I know that. Like, what are we?" Steve asked. "I mean, I still like girls, I think."
"Me too," Eddie nodded. "Are we boyfriends?"
"Do you want to be boyfriends?" Steve asked.
Eddie looked thoughtfully at Steve and cupped his face.
"Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. Boyfriend!" Eddie grinned. "Yeah, I like it."
"Heeeyy, boyfriend," Steve said slyly and squeezed his hips, causing Eddie to giggle.
"I've never really been boyfriend material. I've come close once, but I fucked that all up and I broke her heart. Not my proudest moment," Eddie said. "I don't want to fuck this all up and break your heart too. I want this to work."
"I want this to work too," Steve said softly.
A little while later, they were cuddled up on the couch with Eddie's head in Steve's lap as they watched TV. Eddie turned his head to look at Steve.
"Hey, you know Robin, right?" Eddie asked.
"I vaguely recall my platonic soulmate," Steve said dryly.
"You know how we both know about Robin?" Eddie asked.
"Because she told us. I was there when she told you. You called her pretty, and she was like, "Oh God, not another one. Why do I keep attracting boys when I want to attract girls? GIRLS?!" Steve said.
"I was being platonic when I called her pretty," Eddie mumbled.
"Anyway, yes, I know we both know about Robin," Steve said.
"Do you think on some level she knew about us before we knew about each other?" Eddie asked.
"You mean, because she's queer, too? Like some sort of spidey sense?" Steve asked.
"God, it's so hot that you read comic books," Eddie said. "But yes, like that."
"Hmm, maybe we could ask her to hang out and see," Steve said.
"Okay, because this is not going to be our first official date," Eddie said. "I'm going to woo your ass off."
"Looking forward to it," Steve grinned.
A little later, Steve went to pick up Robin so they could all hang out and left Eddie at the house.
"You are lucky that I am not seeing Vickie today," Robin said as they walked through the door.
Eddie jumped into the hallway, a grin spread across his face.
"There she is, one of my best friends, and there's my boyfriend," Eddie said.
"Settle down, Munson. You saw me two days ago," Robin rolled her eyes and walked past him. "So, what are the plans?"
"It didn't even phase her," Eddie said.
"Give it a moment," Steve said.
Robin came to a sudden halt, froze for a minute, and then whirled around. Her eyes were comically wide.
"Did you just call Steve your boyfriend?" Robin asked.
"As of today," Eddie said proudly.
"So. . . you two are dating?" Robin asked slowly.
"Yep," Steve asked.
"You two do know that you two are guys, right?" Robin asked.
"Yeah, I was very aware of that when he crawled into my lap earlier and felt him rise up against me," Steve said.
"I like girls but I also like Steve," Eddie said.
"I like girls, and I also like Eddie," Steve exclaimed.
"Yeah, thanks because I didn't know what bisexuality is," Robin rolled her eyes.
"There's a word for it," Steve whispered to Eddie. "Did you know there's a word for it?"
"No!"
"But you two apparently didn't," Robin said and shook her head fondly at them.
"So, you didn't know about us before we knew about us?" Eddie asked.
"I'm just as surprised as you are," she replied. "How did this start anyway?"
"Well, I was talking, and Steve suddenly grabbed my face. . . By the way, why did you grab my face?" He asked.
"You were talking, and I'm hard of hearing, but you kept walking away. I wanted to hear what you had to say, so I held you still," Steve said.
"That explains so much. . ."
"Get a hearing aid, dingus!" Robin exclaimed, and then her face softened. "Thanks for telling me, the both of you."
Sometimes, people just know who they are, and sometimes, it takes others a while to figure it out. Everyone grows their own way.
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