『Old Blade drabble from months ago that I finally have the motivation to finish』
<In which, Blade has existensial crisis while cooking dinner>
-◆ No ship pairings ◆ Other characters mentioned ◆ Barely any dialogue ◆-
〔No AI was used in the making and DO NOT feed my writings to it〕
Author Note: Ahhhhhh Idk if I managed to write this drabble well. Im just taking my shot and see how it goes...if you find it boring tell me what part bores u. (This was rlly fun tho.)
He once again ruminates, of his hands that are no longer dexterous.
The reminder not of a visceral tug that throttles him along with his cognisance dragged painfully. It instead flares like a series of gentle ripples barely noticed. Quite alike to a swamp that is congruous in essence with the repetition of mundane activities.
A gentle, gradual, dreadfully slow sink.
Only every now and then at least. This moment simply happens to be part of it, a slow dip.
The sink into the vacuum enables a silent crowd; Abruptly aware of the heel of his sole, of the soft high-pitched creak of his sandal as he shift his knees, the slight rough crease of his denim apron, and of the circulating cool breeze kissing his throat to brush past his tied up dark sea-blue hair.
With quiet restlessness, his attention flows to his tucked right hand which is currently gloveless. And his gaze shifts to his other hand, unhealed. It remains bandaged.
His fingertips prickle as he drums them leisurely, the sensation of stiff movement and strained tendons tickled the sweat of his nape.
The man with magenta tipped locks exhales without realising it. An undercurrent seethe gently blooming.
The disquiet follows the flare of this remembrance. A brief empty pondering later, he untucks his right hand in discomfort. Occasionally, the sight of his bare palm feels unfamiliar with how easy it is to be drowned.
To be reminded.
As he gazes upon his palm, tracing the shape of his fingers and the feeling of his calouses, scars, the roughness and softness of his weary skin–
The ghostly image of -------- flickers once more in brief.
Foolish --------...
And so did he lament. His heartbeat pangs and ache as every pulsate of it spread bile across his trachea.
He narrows his sight and attempts to focus on his breathing. Easier to be done unlike usual.
Humming noises of the outer space's vacancy pass through the walls of the spaceship as always. He became less and less aware of his own breathing as he registers faint noises from other compartment rooms within this spaceship. Melodies of a soft, classical music reverberates as he recognized it. Kafka's been humming this piece in their mission breaks, or when some particular climax of a scenario happens.
He seems to also hear... muffled screeches of frustration accompanied by solid tap sounds of Beep!...Beep-Beep! in fury. The screech overlaps with another voice of Firefly's sheepish laughter.
They are still playing...?
He thought he had reminded them to rest multiple times this evening which...was a few hours ago.
Yet he is unable to resist the subtle tug on the corner of his lips, sighing in exasperation as he is. These faint rackets are unable to overwhelm the tiresome flare. It is only a natural phenomenon that when the world floats in silence, it is the damnable thoughts of sentient creatures that rings the loudest.
But this...it is plenty in it's limitations.
It reminds him of the ground which his feet lays on top. It reminds him of the empty ingredients that he plans to write on the grocery list. The blasted wall of their training room caught in the crossfire of his spar with SAM, weary vintage phonographs that Kafka collects with content in her eyes, and Silver Wolf's tactless self-preservation yet strategic manouver in the battle which she calls 'a game'.
It reminds him of the name he gave himself, of the purpose he has been sentenced and therefore, of this place where he currently ends up.
The rackets dissolve in the remembrance, though anchoring him still.
Swept in the tides of it, bygone memories resurfaced and slammed him altogether with desperation.
Assaulting memories does not give him the grace nor the mercy of clarity.
What appears in the brief flickering memories has always been something less of a coherent vibrant scene, and far closer to that of vague silhouettes with huge blotched ink. A fragile, ripped and soiled draft of a paper; objects as the element of the scenery, colors from the weather and environment, scripts of conversation long gone, all aspect remains present and stagnant as ever, excluding clarity of the memories.
He inhales with a shudder, the ache reverberates in this lightless ocean that offers him no succor.
Yet, he somehow could taste a boisterous cackle from those vague recollections.
He could see a cup raised by the audacious white haired man as he flashed his companions an infuriatingly endearing grin.
An old man, wistful and whimsical in his imperious cheerfulness.
Ah. --------.
He could blindly trace the shapes of --------'s wrinkles and the abrupt choke in his throat as a mauve furred foxian lady smugly snicker with the owner of a viridian paired eyes by her side, tilting his horned head with feigned ignorance.
"—jie...!" He heard --------'s flustered groan. "—ot a k–– —nymore." He grumbled like a teenage brat instead.
The amused vidyadhara and master craftsman cocked their head sideways with curiosity along with the suddenly quiet foxian as they witnessed the arrival of another two.
The snow haired swordmaster with her white haired disciple had arrived.
Her face solemn and seething as one of her hands dragged the collar of her soon to be awake disciple. Bright red eyes flashed with danger before the golden eyed young adult yelps as he was manhandleld and thrown like a pebble through the air.
"Jing Yua—!"
That day, the joyful toast still carried on. Even in the series of exploded cackles and narrowly avoided danger.
The bygone dialogues are brushed blur and only fragments of it's scenery are able to be perceived by him. In good faith, at least the high-elder statue remained... unharmed until now.
Indeed. It has always been this scenery that has managed to be seared in his eyes, this nightmare of euphoric toast and laughter beside his companions. Of the tender banter and the sweet sigh as they discuss their reschedule of this many more to come meeting.
He watches these countless fragmented images drag on in numb acceptance until their voices and his voice, joy and laughter, fury and cries melts and intertwines with no way of identifying the long lost individuals.
When he returns, he is able to trace and feel his breathing. His red-gold eyes remains in their stoic stillness even as they waver, just like how the scenery of this kitchen remains unchanged in the faint smell of evenly cut coriander, shimmering fish soup, messy placement of the cooking utensils and—
Ctaak!
...The rice is done.
Leave it be for another few minutes...
He silently note, reaching a box of tissue to wipe the sweat on his forehead. He stares at the vacant view of the outer space with stable breathing.
Moments later, as he is about to call his companions for dinner, a lingering image of a toasted cup and disarming indigo eyes flashed.
Blade found himself musing with a rare gentle smile,
I want to get a drink.
【 End 】
《—————————
Thank you for reading this drabble ^^ Hope you enjoyed it and pls tell me your thoughts if you have any.
yessssss <3 of course! three more just for you ! <3
It shouldn’t make sense— it didn’t make sense… Tommy stared up at the hospital he’d just driven like a bat out of hell away from… and yet somehow circled right back around to.
“Well…” the man said, lightly bumping Tommy’s shoulder with his own. “What are you waiting for?”
Any of this to make sense… Tommy thinks to himself.
gn!reader, wc 0.8k, vampire!blade, blood mention, tension between blade and reader, blade’s a sweetie towards the end, headcanons + drabble
synopsis: If Blade was a vampire, what would he be like?
a/n: Bladie’s here!!!!! good luck to everyone pulling, I was so happy when i got him <33 this idea came around the time where i first seen him and was listening to bite me by enhypen
Vampire!blade who has drank the blood of many humans in the past and acquired a taste for a favorite– blood that is both bitter but sweet all at once. He especially loves when it is first bitter, but has a sweet aftertaste. After all, when you become his favorite human subject, he vividly tells you the flavor of your blood.
Vampire!blade who purposefully bares his fangs so deeply into you just to see you writhe and squirm from the pain of his bite, you crumble into his arms so easily and whine with such a sweet voice, how could he not?
Vampire!blade who drinks so much of your blood at once that you get lightheaded and almost faint. He holds you tightly in his arms any time his fangs so much as graze your body because he knows all too well you’ll end up falling into them as your knees get weaker and weaker.
Vampire!blade who will drink your blood even if he’s not low on his blood supply, because he’s so fixated on your taste that he practically craves you. He doesn’t even have to utter a word– you know exactly what he wants from you and he likes it when you don’t put up much of a fight to let him have it.
Vampire!blade who can be a bit mean and direct at times, but he isn’t heartless. He will personally wrap up any part of you he has bitten with bandages, and makes sure to be gentle as he cleans you up. When all is said and done, he treats you so delicately, because he has no true intention of really hurting you.
—
Blade stood ways away from you, red eyes filled with a look of insatiable hunger. You knew exactly what this meant– exactly what he wanted from you. Only just recovering from the last time he drank your blood, you found yourself backed up to a wall as he slowly approached you, eyes completely unmoving from your neck.
You uttered his name weakly as he reached you, grabbing hold of your face. “I don’t know how much more I can take. I felt dizzy the last time you—”
Your breath hitched as Blade leaned in, making room for himself by tilting your face away from his own. His hand engulfed your jaw with a powerful grip, one you know you wouldn’t be able to escape from.
“Just don’t make it messy,” you swallowed and shut your eyes as you anticipated his bite. The warmth of his breath made you more and more attentive to him, as his other hand held you still by your waist. You grabbed hold of a bunch of his hair and clothing as his mouth inched closer and closer to your neck– but he hesitated. For what felt like an eternity, he stood idle, lips only a slight movement away from your neck. When they finally made contact, it was in the form of a gentle kiss– a location that he had previously bit that hadn’t fully healed.
As he pulled away, his eyes met yours before he moved to the other side of your neck. “Stay still this time,” he simply said as he tilted your head back all over again. His fangs bore into your neck without much of a warning, other than the friction of his tongue momentarily grazing the spot he intended to bite. The pain made you wince, both your grips on each other only tightened as he drained you of blood. Blade was relatively quiet as he drank, opposed to you who had heavy and staggered breaths.
When he was finished, he made sure to clean up any blood that had spilled. After he pulled away, you took notice of the blood that dripped down from the corners of his lips to his chin. You watched wordlessly as he used his thumb to clean it off.
“Blade,” you started, catching his attention. “What does blood… taste like?” His eyes softened at the sound of your voice, though his previous expression did not waiver.
“Everyone’s blood tastes different,” he answered, picking up the gauze he had set aside for after he was finished getting his fix. You leaned your head back, allowing him to carefully wrap your neck.
He had always made sure to be gentle when he wrapped your wounds, similarly to when you would take care of his own. “Why do you drink my blood so often?” He could tell it was an innocent question, your voice was filled with genuine curiosity.
He tied off the gauze just enough to where the pressure wouldn’t be painful for you. When he was done, two of his fingers trailed over his now covered bite markings.
What if Blade not only craved death to just end his pain and all but cuz his s/o (you ofc) is litteraly the grim reaper?
Like on his first death he met them and he was so enamoured and captivated by them the moment he was revived he just...missed them sm...which only contributes to his hatefulness of being healed when he u play him
I just imagen grim reaper being confuse and ngl i bit concerned to see this guy appear and leave over and over again lol (but also sad cuz they can see how bad this is affecting him)
A Bouquet Bloomed In One's Stomach ✧ Honkai: Star Rail, Solo Blade Fic ➞ (( HURT NO COMFORT ))
Blade is left at the Stellaron Hunter's home base, when mulling over how he got to this point the telltale signs of Mara start to interrupt his alone time.
But this there is no Spirit Whisper here to catch him.
CONTENT WARNINGS !! Body horror, vomiting (it’s stomach acid & plant-based stuff mostly bc he does not have a regular diet!) Blade-typical suicide ideation, thoughts & self-harming tendencies (mentioned). He does not take care of himself & he’s fighting the Mara alone.
A/N ✧.* hey.. i let my demons win. the demons being my two blade tattoos, my blade themed accounts, my e2 maxed blade, 3 keychains, 2 blade bags, blade hoodie, blade rings, acrylic standee, my 2 blade plushies & my letter opener replica of his sword… i’m so normal about him actually
wanted to play w/ my headcanons of his mara
I FORGOT TO ADD it is my hc that he ate the flesh of an abundance monster/shuhu bc if /i/ gotta' have a fucked up digestive track than my fave has one too :>
no beta no editing, also ppl may not agree with how i write blade but this is my !!PERSONAL!! preference so do not jump me ples
Rarely was there a time that Blade was left to roam the expanse of the Stellaron Hunters’ base alone, even off the base he was paired with someone to keep him company. More often than not it was Kafka, some would say he almost considered the magenta-haired woman a friend, *he* would say she was a little more than an acquaintance, or a caretaker (she often took that role, when he was Marastruck or otherwise).
It wasn’t like he *needed* supervision, he did just fine without it — he *had* done fine without it, but apparently someone thought otherwise.
Elio, the Stellaron Hunters’ own little crystal ball, would rather avoid the opportunity of his special immortal weapon being alone, due to his… tendencies. Big talk for someone who wouldn’t dream of being the offending party babysitting said immortal weapon.
Blade couldn’t even die, he had plenty of examples of that moment of death so short he couldn’t even savour it, mostly self-inflicted at the beginning of his journey into new life. The crew remember too, though it was much more jarring for them to see.
His first year in the Hunters was a tough one for everyone, except for maybe Elio.
He does remember, however, that even Elio was hesitant to let the newest member at the time, Silver Wolf, meet him or work with him. Understandable, the kid was only, well, a kid when she joined. Some nine-year old shouldn’t be sent on missions or even be in this ship without parental supervision & definitely not introduced to the flight risk that was Blade.
They didn’t know if his immortality had limits, & they didn’t want their newest member getting too attached if somehow there was a way Blade figured out how to cheat his immortality.
They didn’t even let him near the cockpit for the first decade.
Probably for the best…
Even if his body was unaffected by his multiple attempts to feel *something* other than the dull ache of guilt & the dreaded mara that fell heavy on his soul, Elio believed his psyche was more fragile.
*Fragile.*
That wasn’t a word people used to describe Blade, except for Destiny’s Slave.
But now, all three of the girls were gone & yeah... Blade could see why Elio had called him that. Even that stupid black cat that roamed around the base had hopped ship in the pod Kafka, Firefly & Silver Wolf had boarded.
It’s like the thing couldn’t wait to get away from him.
Now he was alone, except for Elio of course, but his fellow collegue was in the cockpit of the ship with the doors sealed. Blade doubted that he would open up & let him linger quietly in the doorframe to ease the loneliness that blanketed him.
Sometimes if he couldn’t access Kafka’s Spirit Whisper, just being in the presence of something living was enough. Just enough to temper the telltale feeling of nails pulling apart his layers of skin, trying to separate his viscera from the encapsulating organ. It helped him subdue the urge to claw his skin off to help finish the job.
Even the cat helped.
He could call her… but the mobility in his hands were a lot less than before (even worse when mara threatened him), it hurt to try scroll or type something — he didn’t even know why Kafka had given him a phone. He never uses it, just hands it off to the girls whenever they asked.
She wasn’t online anyways, Kafka’s Spirit Whisper was *good*, it could effect people over the phone but Blade was unfortunately not one of those people.
Now he was alone, & *fragile* is begrudgingly the word he would use.
Even if he acted aloof or uncaring he craved to be in the presence of others, he tried to train himself out of it but clearly, he failed.
He was either with the whole of the Stellaron Hunters, like when they gathered in the living room for Firefly’s suggested ‘bonding time’ once a week (he pretended to hate it), or when the time called for a team mission.
When that wasn’t the case, he was most likely in Kafka’s room, even if was a bit too grand for his liking. He did however enjoy listening to the music from her prized gramophone or when she practiced her violin.
When he first had tried to linger in the door of Silver Wolf’s room, she had thought he wanted to play with her & begged him to pick up her spare controller — now she had gotten older she played it off as not caring, but she always asked when his hand was better. Despite his continued utterance of the fact; ‘they were only together until their goal & when it was done they would separate’, he had grown fond of the grey-haired teen. The fact he had been tasked to babysit her whenever they stopped by a planet that Silver Wolf just *had* to go & experience didn’t help either.
He didn’t think teenagers could kick up such a fuss, especially not one as ‘cool & nonchalant’ as Silver Wolf, or however she called herself.
Firefly had gained some similarities to the typical teenager, but she was much older— older than Blade himself. He assumed she was making up for all time she lost. He didn’t blame her, there wasn’t anything wrong with that & he couldn’t care less. Most of the time he was tasked with chaperoning the woman, even though Kafka definitely knew how to drive & was the one to convince Blade it’d be useful to own a license.
He thinks Kafka did it to try force them to bond, which worked.
No matter how cold or calculating he acted, there was a part of him that did care & felt *something* for these people. It made his chest feel tight whenever he was without them, sometimes he’s turn his head expecting someone there & when there wasn’t, he’d feel a twinge of disappointment.
It wasn’t much, it reminded him that he wasn’t a husk, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of that. To describe himself with the word living wasn’t something that made sense.
It had been years since he felt anything other than guilt, seven centuries in fact. He knew there was a time where feeling came easy to him, but that time was long lost & the memories of then refused to stick. What he was before had already succumb to the steady eroding of time.
Trying to think back on pleasanter times, times that belonged to a different soul that just so happened to wear this same body, always brought a more pronounced throbbing against his skull.
His heart beat louder & more presently in his chest, the chambers pulsing in time with the steady thumping in his head that he had more or less grown accustomed to.
A heartbeat.
He believes he shouldn’t have one, it doesn’t fit into the preconstructed idea of something like him. The thrum of a healthy heart shouldn’t be something that relates to him. He knows he is a rotted thing, his expiry date had long passed, seven centuries in fact, & yet he stands here with a living throb in his neck.
It felt wrong, he could feel every beat. It felt as if his arteries had wrapped around his throat to *choke* him, not keep him alive.
Pulses were for those whose souls’ did not weigh heavy with the sins of their past, it was for those who didn’t ‘live’ with an insurmountable debt that weighed heavy on their mind. He was supposed to repay his debt the only way he deserved, but the Aeons had stripped him of that mercy once the flesh of monsters had touched his stomach.
He can’t help but be selfish in his want for a swift death, when his retribution finally comes.
Blade sat on the wooden floor of his quarters, his gaze fixated past the floor length window & into the deep abyss of space.
His only companion for the next week, except this one had the added bonus of silence (he thought he might enjoy the quiet, but he missed the quiet buzz of life sounding around him)
He was nestled in the indent where the wall met window, his back hunched as he laid his head on folded arms propped up by his knees.
Sometimes he swore he saw cracks in the window, as if they weren’t spaceship-grade panels made from high-quality something-or-other, he couldn’t help but think maybe the vacuum staring back at him would be the solution to his problems.
One could only wish.
The hard wall behind Blade’s back rubbed his bandages out of place, his wandering mind finally recalibrating to his here & now. He had forgone the constricts of his usual shirt, he didn’t like to be stuck in it for long, it was a size too small despite the intense stretching he forced the fabric through. It was a relic from a different time, where his body wasn’t as youthful (a loose description) as it once was.
Some may mistake his fixation with his clothes as something similar to nostalgia, but they’d be wrong. Yes he clung to one of the last links to his old life, but out of guilt.
His old self was torn from him that day, even if he no longer identified with the man he once knew, the one thing he knew for certain was that man was better than the husk he had turned out to be.
Dull red eyes met the wall In front of him. The graze of heavy eyelids eventually dimmed, the feeling replacing itself with a deep pulsing pain in his back.
The telltale sign of Mara.
Blade became rigid, his eyes now focusing on the phone that now laid face down on the carpeted floor of his quarters. Nothing expressed itself on his face as usual, his expression locked into his usual tight poker face despite the fear that he felt crawling up through his belly & into his throat.
He could call Kafka.
But he never called, he never texted— she was always just there.
He never had to steel himself into asking for help before, he never needed to, he was far to arrogant.
Maybe a sliver of that previous life remained the crevices of him now.
An uneasiness settled in his stomach, which was followed by the all too familiar lurching.
Thankfully he was able to stumble unceremoniously to the attached bathroom, narrowly escaping joining the room when it tilted. With his mind spinning accompanied by the sound of his blood rushing all throughout his body, his brain refused to filter all the other obnoxious feelings to try & lesson his load.
A sharp pulsing pain wrapped around the column of his spine like a constrictor, almost knocking him off his feet while simultaneously locking his muscles into place. The intake of breath he managed only unsettled his stomach.
An unbecoming feeling of dread ran through him, he knew what was going to happen now but it had been so long since he had to experience this specific part of his affliction. Kafka was usually able to swoop in before it got seriously bad, but now he was alone in a desolate spaceship with his *boss* that couldn’t give a trotter’s ass about him.
He tasted a floral flavouring coating his tongue like a second mucosa, the bitterness of the all too familiar lycorine foreboding the emptying of his Mara-Stricken stomach contents.
Blade’s stomach lurched, the pressure on his spine & the squeezing of his stomach made him feel like doubling over. He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink hard enough he swore the porcelain would crack.
He started to feel the building of bile from the bottom of his stomach, followed with the painful seizing of the organ. Cramping racked his gut as the foreign buds of Mara nestled in his digestive track started to spill their petals from the stem. The pain was merely his consequence for when he foolishly let the flesh of an Abundance Monster coat his gullet & germinate it’s seeds into the warm linings of his own.
With coughs that bordered on vomiting, Blade clasped a hand over his mouth to attempt to prevent the bouquets worth of blood red petals & accompanying stomach acid he knew was coming. His throat ached & his nerves blistered all while he felt the Mara’s roots dig deeper into the vulnerable softness of his innards.
Vomiting was so unbecoming…
Blade emptied his stomach into the sink, no need for anywhere else, it’s not like he had eaten since the rest of the Hunters left. The ***abundance*** of those spindly, blood red petals coated the bottom of the sink basin, even his gastric acid had started shifting to an off-putting red, dyed by the pigmentation of his Mara’s chosen flower.
Or maybe it was blood, one could only wish.
A painful pressure built behind the scarred tissue marring his body, sprouts of Abundance-poisoned spider lilies desperate for release from the constricting home behind his damaged skin.
No matter how much he was healed from the brink of death, or how quick his flesh threaded back together after being wounded, his affliction never deemed it worthy to heal the scars they left — he assumed it was for this, so the Mara could torture him more than it did so already.
Hunching over the sink, he didn’t bother to hold his upper-half up while buds breached all three dermis’ with a sharpness that belied what one would think of when imagining something as ‘delicate’ as flowers.
Blade knew better than that now.
A shaky breath forced itself from his gullet like the petals that's bitterness still coated his tongue.
Stumbling on his feet, he lifted his head just slightly which resulted in him unfortunately catching a glimpse of his pallid face. His face was gaunt now, as he took no effort in caring for himself now he was a husk, but now he noticed the Mara somehow sucked whatever little colour had been left in his skin. Veins made themselves known beneath the skin around his eyes, dark, sunken circles rested heavy beneath his eyes like they compensated for the amount of sleep Blade never took.
The image of himself almost made him throw up again before he was able to peel his eyes from the matching fiery sunset-coloured pair staring back at him.
He was an abomination now, not dissimilar to the one he had dug his mortal hands into.
Hands that once created renown weapons & beautiful artifacts that the High Elder Vidyadhara himself once wore, now only knew how to destroy & cling to a past that he no longer deemed himself worthy of.
With now hands that still held callouses, now from solely wielding the unforgiving weight of his Shard Sword, managed to turn the wall mounted shower despite his shaking. His bandages became warm & heavier, soaking up the blood that escaped from his reopened wounds.
After a moment the showerhead hummed to life, a steady flow of freezing water hitting his back, only adding more weight to the bandages that he could feel constricting the pulsing spider lilies attempting to fan out from his back.
Resting his forehead against the now wet tile wall, he sucked in a shaky breath when deciding to unwrap his soiled bandages. He hadn’t changed them in weeks, he supposes now if the best of times.
Every pull of fabric against the even a petal of those vengeful Marastruck blooms caused the roots coiling around his bones & arteries to tighten — he felt it, the constriction on his spinal chord, his lungs, his heart; one he wished one day those roots would squeeze hard enough to pop it & be done with it.
The gentle pour of water against the scars that now were now tears hurt, not more than the unwrapping of his bandages but enough to keep him clenching his teeth hard enough to shatter.
He didn’t bother shedding anything else, he’d stay in drenched slacks & socks until the mara subsided, or when Kafka eventually came back to come & rescue him.
He never thought he would be in need of rescuing.
The world spun, leading Blade to lower himself to the floor of the shower agonisingly slow, he wasn’t willing to fall — he’d rather be caught dead than having fallen in the shower, even given his intense circumstances.
Sitting down with his forehead to his knees, he continued to endure the pain of water assaulting the now sensitive skin of his back. He wouldn’t be surprised if the mere spray of water broke his skin open even more by how fragile it felt; like a piece of rubber stretched too thin.
Fragile.
He ate the monsters flesh so he wouldn’t be as much.
you cant put this out there and not expect me to grab at it with my grubby paws. <3 ;)
yassss I knew exactly who would ask for this one and y'all never let me down lol! <3
here you go maniac! continued from here I just wrote until the fic spirits said that's enough!
“So…” the man says after a long awkward silence. “Who are you running from?”
Tommy stares at the man, confused. “I’m not running from anyone.”
The man stares at Tommy, unconvinced. His lips twitch upward. “Ah, I see. So you’re running from a thing, then. Or maybe… a feeling?”
“What— No. I’m not running!”
“You definitely looked like you were running.”
Tommy opens his mouth— okay, he was walking fast to get to the bench. “I just… needed to sit down.”
“Hmm…” the man hums. “Do you feel better?”
“Not really,” Tommy admits. He doubts there’s really any way to make himself feel better, now.
“Then maybe you should try going back?”
Tommy glances over at him. “Back?”
“To… wherever— whoever, whatever— it is that you’re not running from.”
“I’m not—” Tommy wants to argue. He wants to tell this random guy to fuck off… To leave him alone. But he can’t. Because it’s true… he’s running. Like he always does. Why? “I… can’t.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s better off without me.”
The man stares at him. His eyes are soft, but tired. “You sure about that?”
first of all, your rb surprised me cause it’s the first time i’ve been invited to yap my thoughts this way, but here i am!! this is my main account!! (blade themed, shocker)
but yes, in short: i do believe blade to be much kinder than a lot of people seem to think he is. ik that his mara-stricken self is shown more often in the game, so i get why this version of him is so popular, but!! if we just! dig a little deeper!!
he’s actually a pretty neat guy :((
i’m citing his interactions with the other stellaron hunters for this. take, for example, his conversation with firefly in the car. he speaks softly and in a reassuring tone so as to ease her anxiety regarding his driving skills (and legality SHHDBSBDB).
or with silverwolf! this one’s bittersweet :( . iirc, blade tells silverwolf that he will, one day, play games with her. he just needs his hands to heal!
…but that’s likely not going to happen given his constitution. his hands will never truly heal. theyre arthritic. dying, living, dying, then living again. but blade tells silverwolf he’ll play eventually, just to placate her :(
or with kafka, how his respect for her is shown in the way he asks the trailblazer not to disappoint her. how he values her strength and capabilities.
sure. the mara does strike and will continue to strike, and that will forever now be his curse. he’s bound to fall into madness when it calls. but when it stills, when it recedes back into the deep, fractured crevices of his mind, blade is a quiet and well meaning soul :(
reserved, yes! but not cruel. not to you. never to you. he wouldn’t treat you violently or aggressively. you’re his treasure, first and foremost. he respects you. loves you. it takes a long time and a great deal of trust to get there, but he cares for you. he would do good by you. be so good to you :(((
sorry if this was long!! i’ve got more to say, i love him so dearly, but i think this is quite a lot already :)
I didn't think u would actually come in BUT PLS THANK U THSNK U SO MUCH U GET IT U GET ITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TD7TUFCGIITCVTIVOTVICT7TCRUCUCVTICTICTIUVGVOGCYOVOYVIVGIVG OMG I DIDNT KNOW ABOUT THE INTERACTIONS THING OMFG I CRY I CRY CRY CRY FUCK HE LOVES THEM SM FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
Silverwolfs hitting at me hatd HE SO DAD TO HER HOYO WHY DO THIS TO USSSSSSSS
"reserved, yes! but not cruel. not to you. never to you. he wouldn’t treat you violently or aggressively. you’re his treasure, first and foremost. he respects you. loves you. it takes a long time and a great deal of trust to get there, but he cares for you. he would do good by you. be so good to you :((("
Op why i just???????? Scream and cry rn huh?????????? What i just bang my head to the wall????????????????????????????
IMAGEN THE MOMENT WHERE HE JUST LET HIMSELF FULLY TRUST????? Him being awkward at first at showing affection but fully melting into your touch cuz!!!!! He SO touched starved I cry.....
He so grandpa coded too like!!!!! Him asking you what certain memes means cuz he don't get it or when him having difficulty using his phones like pls u cannot tell me this man knows how to use WhatsApp CICTCGVYVTIITVVTVGIVUGGVUVFVFUUFVUFVUFV
wtf I missed your 500 follower post!?! (Insert Eddie Diaz wtf emoji) first of all…
CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!! 🎉🎈🎊
I’m so flattered to be considered a friend, you’re incredible!
two - back to the task at hand, I won’t do what you did to me 🤭😜
But I WILL politely request 🪚🪚🪚
🩷🩷🩷 love ya!!!
🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 Chrissy!!!! Jokes on… one of us I planned on doing 500 words no matter the number of emojis 💀💀💀💀 ha hahahaha! 🫶🫶🫶 thank you for choosing this one 😍 take more of the the confusion!
Chapter 4 - in the blink of an eye - (Blade Fic)
Tommy’s eyes continue to bounce between the road and his rearview mirror until the hospital is no longer in view.
His head is swimming— what did he just do? Did he really just leave? Why did he just leave? Eddie is going to kill him… Maddie is going to kill him… Bobby is going to— probably just be extremely vocally disappointed… which is just as bad. He can’t even blame them. He’s pissed at himself for being so weak. He couldn’t handle the idea of Evan loving him… now faced with the idea of Evan leaving him… it was too much. So he bolted? Nice one Kinard… he definitely won’t love you after this.
Maybe that was the plan all along.
He drives past his exit onto the freeway, that will take him home. He drives straight through the intersection where he would have needed to make a right to go back to Harbor. He drives until it is clear he is on no particular path, and has no particular destination in mind.
All he does know is that his headache is back, but he keeps driving anyway. Keeps driving until he is struggling to keep his eyes open against the blinding sunlight, and only then does he turn off the road. He pulls into a lot for a park, considers just staying in the truck… but it’s hot and he needs some air, so he gets out and walks the trail until he comes to a clearing with a covered bench facing a small pond; thankfully it’s empty and he jogs over to it, all but collapsing down onto the wooden seat.
“Whoa there,” a voice says— Tommy jerks, looking around until he sees the culprit, he’s shocked because he could have sworn there was no one around this area. “Are you alright?” The man slowly approaches him, eyes furrowed with concern. He’s wearing a white doctor's coat, and smiles at Tommy; it’s soft, friendly, and feels familiar in a way he can’t quite put his finger on.
“‘M’Fine…” Tommy mumbles, before leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.
“Here…” the man— doctor…whatever— says, and Tommy feels something bump his arm. A bottle of Advil. He looks at the bottle then up at the doctor, lifting a brow quizzically. “I swear I’m not attempting to drug you,” he laughs, shaking the bottle at Tommy. “I’m just pretty good at recognizing a headache.”
“You carry pills on you?” Tommy asks, but his head is splitting open so he takes the bottle. The doctor shrugs, then pulls a bottle of water out of his pocket, holding it out as well. “Okay, Dr. Poppins… what are you going to pull out of there next?”
The doctor laughs, and sits down next to Tommy as he inspects the bottle. It’s unopened. He turns it and squeezes it and thinks… if this man is trying to kidnap him he’s going to look mighty weird dragging a man at least twice his size away from the park. Fuck it. He opens the bottle of Advil, takes one out and takes it with the water.
