YOU DREW STARS AROUND MY SCARS ── blade + gn!reader, 918
blade hates the sick bay.
the fact that it’s called a sick bay makes him want to scoff. with the sort of crowd the stellaron hunters are, they hardly get sick. blade isn’t even susceptible to any sort of mortal illnesses or afflictions since that incident, couldn’t even come down with a cold if he tried.
but even then, there is something discomforting about the sterility of it all, the scent of unfamiliarity and something chemical. there’s the anxiety he hasn’t felt since the days of being mortal, stirring an unsettling feeling in his gut that makes blade want to take his sword and swing it, tear down this godforsaken sick bay and whoever else is unfortunate to go down with it.
it’s so unlike him, to be driven to such urges by a mere— a mere sick bay, of all things. but blade cannot deny how much he hates it; this constant reminder that even when cursed by immortality, he is still mortal. his skin is too easy to cut through, he bleeds the colour red, and his heart — this wretched thing that keeps his cursed body alive — still beats.
“with how often you try to slip away from your cot, i’d think you hate me,” you hum mindlessly, drawing him out of his pathetic state of mind.
blade's vermillion eyes glance up at you while you wipe a smaller cut on his palm with disinfectant. he does not grace you with a response, the same way you do not grace him with your gaze as you continue your duties.
it astounds him sometimes, how gentle you are with your hands despite the ferocity you wield them with on the battlefield. rarely does elio ever involve you in his scripts, for a reason only destiny's slave is privy to, and so blade often sees you haunting the hallways of the stellaron hunters' headquarters. you've seemed to have grown fond of lingering by the sick bay, tending to silver wolf's cramping hands while chatting with kafka and sam, with elio occasionally coming in with you to exchange words in hushed whispers. blade only ever comes in when you practically drag him by his ear to have his wounds treated, your scoldings directed at him forgotten the next time he bleeds red.
(is it an act of submission or a defiance? truly, it’s neither. blade doesn't want to put a name to whatever this is, doesn't want to think about it. it’s simple enough, him and you.)
he watches as you bend your head kiss his bandages, once on the left wrist and another on the right. there’s the searing heat of your soft lips on his skin even where the bandages are wrapped tightly over his wounds. the lightest pressure makes the areas where his skin has been cut sting, but some masochistic demon in blade sings when he feels the pain. his expression does not betray his emotions though, as he watches you bring his wrists towards you all while maintaining eye contact.
“not going to say anything?” you ask. blade’s eyes furrow when he sees the beginnings of a smirk playing upon your lips, his mouth opening to snap a retort at you— but all words die in his throat when he watches you tug lightly at the bandages with your fucking teeth, scraping hard enough to be felt, but lightly enough that it’d all remain intact.
it hurts— and blade realises what he feels isn’t the pain of his wounds under his bandages. it’s the heat of his skin, flushing at your touch, his heart racing rapidly under the wrappings on his chest.
“you little shit,” he snarls, his voice strained.
you just laugh, a smile of all teeth and canine, and blade wonders what he must do to face the same aggression your foes meet when you face against them in the battlefield; to have your mouth sink into the flesh of his pulse and devour him raw.
(he's died a million times before, but this time he wonders how it would feel to have you take his life for once. whether the heat of your mouth as it tears his flesh would be better than the cold metal of a spear, whether kissing you is enough to kill him already.
if you consumed his flesh, would he still be able to come back? or would he be finally be laid to rest, festering in your gut like a disease that never goes away? he wonders, and he yearns.)
blade shifts uneasily. you’re not normally this affectionate, this forward and precise. subtle nuances have always been your style, and blade knows this better than anyone else– but he is flushed. embarrassed, mouth parted and pink. he's weak, and he wants to kill you for it, or be killed by you– it doesn't matter anymore, because it's hard to tell where he ends and you begin.
your lips trail down the column of blade's throat, ghosting over his collarbones before you return to the bandages on his wrist, once, twice. your eyes meet his through your lashes, and something in blade whispers to him:
oh.
oh.
blade lets out a shaky breath, and the wretched creature that was once human allows his head to bow— lowers himself so his forehead touches yours. he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. and when your lips meet his and his veins are lit aflame, blade thinks he can live, even if it were just for this moment.
© trappolia 2024
