Does anyone know the name of the fanfic about Blade x Reader where the Reader is a Stellaron Hunter with a stellaron sword and her life was taken the Stellaron Hunters grieving for days but she was revived somewhere and reunited with them, including Blade?
I wanna read it again and put it on my list for Blade x Reader! 😭
That old man reacting to their partner asking for a divorce just for the excuse to get married to him again
A/N: more goofy things because I'm trying to keep my sanity while I figure out the Mr. Pants work progress is decent and I do not want to eat my keyboard nope not at all :V
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Varka feels his gut dropping at the moment his partner asks for a divorce and wonders just what he did or if they simply stopped loving him. Regardless of the reason he'd love to work through it with them and accept their decision and part amicably. Of course as he's mentioning this to them they look at him confused before blurting out that they just want to marry him again and they can't do that if they're still married. The relief he feels practically sends his towering form to his knees. Immediately brings them into his arms smothering them with affection. Begs them to be gentle to his old heart and not to ask him that again unless they actually mean it which may or may not pray later for them not to. Still doesn't want to get a divorce just to get married again but is down for renewing vows or getting married in another nation.
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Flins initially feels a deep sadness and anger at the words but takes one look at how excited his partner is and is more curious than anything else. Would question them about it before reminding them that marriage with a fae isn't something so easily broken. His partner reassures him and he can't help how happy he feels knowing they simply wish to marry him again even if it means divorcing first. Part of him wants to do so because of how novel it is and because it simply means that they love him so much they simply must marry him again. Another more greedy part doesn't want to divorce at all because they're finally his and he is theirs and it should stay that way until death even then. Suggests they simply get married in another nation close by or renewing their vows. He manages to wiggle his way out of an actual divorce and they find a new ring on each of their fingers for every time they remarried.
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Zhongli understands that divorce is sometimes unavoidable in a marriage though it still leaves a foul taste in his mouth at the idea of a broken contract sometimes the contract must be broken for the best interests of all parties involved. Divorce coming from his own partner though is something he never saw as a possibility in the slightest. He takes pride in caring for his partner and them in caring for him so he believes that if they are unhappy enough to wish for a divorce something must have been left unsaid or undone. Takes it seriously asking about what's made them unhappy, what the two of them can do to have a better understanding of the situation and etc. It isn't until his partner interrupts that they simply wanted to marry him again and they couldn't do that if they stayed married that he realizes that isn't such a bad idea. Sure he doesn't like the idea of divorcing but if it's to remarry the love of his life why wouldn't he want that? They talk it over for a while and settle on faux divorcing where they play the parts of having a divorce without the actual legal repercussions and in renewing their vows every ten plus or so years on their anniversary.
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Neuvillette is heartbroken and he's so distraught he almost doesn't hear his love mention the reason why they wish for a divorce in the first place. The relief he feels is immediate though he does scold his partner for bringing it up if they truly did not wish for a divorce to separate. He is curious about how they came up with the idea in the first placw and is touched that they love him so much they needed to marry him again and again. It makes his heart overflow with affection. Though he doesn't bring out the divorce documents as the meer idea of touching them for any reason regarding his partner makes his gut sink. His partner seeing his hesitation at the idea offers to instead have small ceeremonies on their anniversary instead. The melusines are more than happy to help set it up and celebrate their favorite people's love over and over again.
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Jing Yuan is more than aware of his partners idea simply because of their sleepy ramblings the night before. That night he felt a flicker of sadness but it washed away when his partner happily stated they want to be courted by him again and remarry over and over again. He's not against the idea but the paperwork is a headache he and his partner both do not wish upon themselves so they decide to marry in different locations that hold fond memories of when they were first dating. By the end if it all his partner is definitely decorated in all sorts of accesories representing their dates and marriages.
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Welt is surprised but listens to his partner before jumping to conclusions as they did blurt it out in the main cabin. Of course everyone is shocked by the words 'divorce' in the first place and even March and the Trailblazer try to patch up the marriage before they clear up the confusion with their reasoning. The shriek of excitement hurts his head but he feels warmth fill his heart and of course his face. He's blushing like mad and feels so much younger at the idea it's a little complicated to do as their place of origin is hard to access so they settle for having a celebration on the Astral Express where PomPom can witness a wedding for the first time.
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Blade was difficult to get into a relationship with in the first place let alone marry so why would they want to get rid of all that hardwork with a divorce? He's upset at first but when they explain why he's just done with their nonsense but this is who he married in the first place so of course this is the sort of thing he signed up for. It'll be difficult to get married officially anyways as with their criminal lifestyles they couldn't have a trail especially a legal one that could get them both put in jail. He's fine with having another ceremony other than their original one under different aliases on different planets if they're able with their busy lives. Even if it's not shown clearly he's pretty happy that they'd chose him over and over again
synopsis. existence draws a divide between that of mortals and those blessed with eternity, yet he cannot help but be enamoured by you, consuming his thoughts, his dreams, allowing you to lead his own mortal soul to ruin. as for a lifetime do you remain far from his reach, shrouded by legend—and all he can do is carve your name into memory.
Your name echoes throughout the Xianzhou, heard everywhere—seen everywhere Yingxing steps foot.
For you dance across his mind in a way that’s almost taunting, your movements as elegant as the sword you brandish, yet as swift and fleeting as the cool breeze that blows through the windows of his workshop. It’s a gentle momentary caress across his face, a sense of almost grasping something so incorporeal, so impossible.
It’s a distraction from the purpose that occupies his thoughts, the one that tears and slowly chips away at everything he is, as sweat pours from his brow and his body shakes with exertion, swinging the hammer in his hands.
The sound of it rings against red-hot iron in a repeated motion, a crude jarring noise that sends tremors up his arm and leaves him gritting his teeth. But his eyes remain unfaltering, focused wholly on tempering the steel atop an elegant staff, wrought from the finest materials he had managed to get his hands on.
Because there remains burning irresolutely, that innate desire of his, the one that strives to be the best, and furthermore, when it comes to the subject that is you.
He thinks of you, each time it meets the metal.
He thinks of you, as he carves your name along it, and each time the tool slips from his grasp and slices apart the palm of his hand, spilling crimson blood. It’s the same colour of the ribbon in your hair blowing in the wind, as a smile graces your lips beneath skies painted with aureate clouds.
It ripples behind you like a blazing trail of scarlet across his memories, whilst silver gleams in your hands in an almost brilliant reflection of the moon itself, crossing blades with him beneath the light of the setting sun, sweeping him up in this mesmerising dance of yours.
You’ve left him utterly entranced by your very existence, so much that he hardly notices it when you knock him off his feet, for even that fall is graceful by your doing.
However, his defeat doesn’t surprise him. Because who was he to compare to the likes of you after all? You’re the greatest swordmaster the alliance has seen in centuries, a living legend amongst those who gaze upon your image in equal fascination.
Against you, his existence is almost pitiful, reducible to a mere mortal with a bare scrap of talent in the art of craftsmanship. He’s forgotten easily, a human who presumes to walk amongst gods, a faint, fleeting existence amid the illustrious and divine.
Even at the end of your dance, when you’re smiling, beaming with the radiance of the sun itself—it’s never at him who lingers in your shadow. Your attention drifts elsewhere quickly, endlessly seeking records beyond the sky, enraptured by clouds and moonlight whilst he’s left to grasp at the fading trail of stardust you’ve left in your wake.
His eyes forever remain fixated upon your back. It’s the only thing he can behold, yourself turned to greater things.
For something far more brilliant catches your own eyes.
He sees the way your eyes brighten at the sight of the Vidyadhara high elder who approaches, dark hair swaying in the breeze and piercing green irises that glisten like emeralds. You greet him like an old friend, slinging your arm around his shoulders, embracing him whilst Yingxing watches from afar.
Deep down, he knows he cannot blame him for holding your attention. Those slender, unblemished hands fit perfectly in your own divinely wrought ones—their complexion is far from his own which remain calloused and marked with faded scars. They’re imperfect, etched from the flawed creation that is mortality. He should not behold you with them.
It’s incomparable.
There are no greater existences than the ones that stand before him, when both of you seem to glow with that ethereal grace, an almost timelessness to your figures, eternal and everlasting.
And the high elder is brilliant in his own right, he’s created to be that way and nothing less, unlike the mortal craftsman who can only hold the desire to reach such heights. For in the end, as one casts their eyes to the sky, a faintly flickering star would not outshine the moon itself, no matter how brightly it burns.
But why does he still desire to burn?
Your bright figure drifts away before his eyes, further out of his grasp, as you have always been. It should kill the fire which flickers in his heart, swallowed by a void he cannot fill. You’re destined to lead great lives, its possibilities stretched before you—in fact, you shouldn’t need to spare a glance back at him.
But when you do, all it does is make him unable to move on, allowing himself to be caught up in the struggles that tether you to him once more. Because when words leave your mouth, even if it’s spun about your own woes, he’s entranced again. And the one you speak of, he knows in an almost bittersweet manner, similarly mirrored in the grim look the high elder casts his way.
It echoes a hopelessness, pokes the fire that had once been left to die, reigniting the part of him that cannot stand the pridefulness of the long-lived, tearing at him to be better.
Yingxing thinks, had he been the one blessed, he would be the one able to stand by your side, to reciprocate the feelings you hold for another. For you who is perfect in his eyes, is it not expected that you too are deserving of perfection? He would lay the world at your feet had you asked it of him.
But alas, he’s always been doomed to walk a separate path, whilst watching the greatest ones split.
He’s heard both confessions beneath the light of two moons, upon two tranquil nights.
From he who parted the sea, forged the seal of the ambrosial arbour, master of the cloudhymn art, a being equally as great as you, upheld by glory and legend—he sheds this title, this facade, before his oldest friend. His emerald eyes are clouded with a pained sorrow, his wearied emotions bared before him, as he speaks the truth upon his mind.
“I cannot love them, Yingxing. No more than any other friend.”
The high elder is not blind to your affections. But as brilliant as you are, he does not hold the same freedom as you to love. He is still the high elder of the Vidyadhara, and to him, love is nothing more than another shackle against the one that is his duty. To share in the company of lesser beings and mortals was already loath enough, in the eyes of immutable laws the preceptors hold so dear.
He admits wistfully that he envies him, for being able to be so free—to roam the world, to speak his mind, to feel.
But Yingxing envies him, for being everything he could never be, and the object of all your attention. He doesn’t know the burden that is mortal emotion, nor the stinging pain that is love.
Because loving you hurts.
In all your greatness, you are clueless to love. Immortal beings like you do not grasp such emotions easily, brimming on an uncertainty you look to him to right. For he’s the most human out of the three of you, and the only one who could possibly understand. But he breaks, and he burns the easiest—the downfall that comes of feeling the way he does.
But you don’t know that. You continue to speak so highly of him, voice laced with awe, as you recount the events of your day to the craftsman. You describe the strange feeling that seems to blossom in your chest, and Yingxing wants to hate how you even do that beautifully, with sparkling eyes and a small smile gracing your lips.
Your love is like a gentle breeze blowing amid iridescent blooms of spring, bathed with the splendour of golden sunlight. You ask him, what flowers does the high elder like, what his favourite colour is—all the questions he wants to ask you. But he’ll never truly bask in such light, to know you in such a way.
Not when he hears you say that you think you love him.
Your words are uttered with innocent wonder, and there should be nothing more beautiful—yet they cut him in a place you don’t see, driving beneath flesh, aimed straight for his heart.
He clutches its bleeding, broken remains as you whisper of the joys of love, unburdened by the other side of it he himself is weighed down by—each utterance is like a knife digging deeper into those wounds. He can still hear Dan Feng’s words echoing in his mind, ringing in his ears, clinging to his figure like a vengeful ghost that threatens to tear him apart, to push its way past his lips.
Yet he can’t bring himself to speak this truth that has cleaved his heart in two, to dim the light that is you in his eyes. He swallows the feeling, turning away, retreating into himself, throwing all thoughts of you into his craft—the only thing he knows that remains unchanging amid the turmoil that overturns and divides his heart.
He trusts in these sheets of steel, for they do not speak of the woes that are love, able to be formed and shaped to his will, curbing his feelings. Yingxing grasps it in his hands with certainty, unlike your own faint love.
He loses himself within it, hammer ringing against metal, whittling away at the greatest pride of his fickle existence, eyes watering and blurring against the sweat that drips from his brow. He only pauses to breathe—that’s if he remembers, time trickling by him, day bleeding into night, and night fading to dawn.
And beneath its soft rays resplendent of you, does his first project form before his eyes, an exquisite bow carved in the shape of a crescent moon, your name engraved upon its edge. He ignores the wooden splinters that dig in his hands, continuing forth, the same hands forming a silver dagger that seems to reflect the light of the moon, a crown of golden laurels, a fine necklace encrusted with jewels—day in day out.
The sun is hanging high in the sky now, casting its brilliance upon the world, yet he continues to languish in its shadow. There’s a stinging pain that spreads across his hands, blistered in pink and red, but any pain is better than the one that sits heavy within him—the one that comes when he thinks of you, standing beneath such light.
All he sees is the longing you hold in your gaze, looking out at the waters of the distant sea, the light dancing across its surface reflected in your own eyes. A sigh escapes your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, poised to utter some sentiment.
And you’re speaking of him again, of the one who doesn't love you more than a friend, whilst the one who truly does, bears witness to this. You speak of his green eyes, how you adore the colour, whilst the craftsman looks at his own cerulean irises in the water’s reflection.
(They burn with blue fire, effervescent in its own destructive way—but alas, it is the soothing gentleness of water you crave, the one which snuffs out such fires.)
A singular droplet falls down into it, casting a small, unnoticeable ripple.
His vision grows blind with this green.
He sees it everywhere, crushes it in his hands, reforming it so it will remain unforgettable by his craft, his touch—the closest he’ll ever be to you.
For Yingxing can create perfection, but he himself cannot be—the tortured poet amid pure artistry. And he mourns this, as he wipes his brow, stepping back to take in the completion of another weapon, a jade staff tipped with glistening silver, and behind the etchings of your name, lies every fragmented emotion of his heart carved onto this.
It's a weapon made for the only divine thing he’s ever believed in—you.
Yet the exalted feeling is only momentary, followed by the reminder of his mortal limitations, as it all comes crashing down again. His shoulders seem to sag, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over him, staggering backwards, slamming a hand on the crafting bench behind him to brace himself.
A part of him wonders, how much time has he spent? The clock on the wall has stopped ticking, its hands paused on its final moments. The sky outside is painted with overcast grey, with neither the sun or moon in sight.
It’s deathly silent, the corners of his workshop a hollowed abyss he stares into, when left with nothing but his own thoughts and the heaviness that lies in his heart.
Only momentarily, is it broken by the sound of a knock on the door.
But even that is muffled—he hardly hears it, unmoving.
But the knocking continues, more persistent.
He sighs.
“Yingxing?” Your voice floats from the entrance of his workshop, as if breathing life into him, rousing him from his trance, as he finally brings himself to raise his head.
It’s you.
It’s you.
You seem to haunt him at every waking hour, from your physical form, to the one that exists with the recesses of his mind. He thinks he’s imagining you, as you breeze through the doorway. You look so out of place, so bright and vibrant against the bleak backdrop that shrouds everything.
His traitorous eyes trace your form, outlined by the shadows that nip at the ivory draped over your body. White has always looked divine on you. He feels as if he is tainting such a pure colour with his corrupted eyes, defiling the fabric with fantasies of his parched lips and blemished hands being granted the chance to touch you, to hold you, to worship you.
His fingers twitch. How wonderful would it be to feel your skin beneath his callused digits, so unworthy to lay upon a being such as yourself? How wonderful would it be to have your eyes set on him for more than a lingering moment, allowing a starving soul like him a minute of satiation, a second of mercy to slake the desperate hunger he has just for an infinitesimal amount of you?
But you do not grant him that reprieve. You never have. Not even for the barest moment, when he’s grasped the silk that trails in your wake, graced by the smallest sliver of your presence—it slips through his fingers just as quickly as his hopes, dashed by the condemned words that spill from your lips.
You’re going to confess, pour out your heart, devote your soul—all for folly, your brilliance soon to be consumed and faded by this failed act.
As beneath the inscrutable gaze of the high elder, this visage of yours is fated to crack.
And a part of him knows he is responsible for this, withholding the truth from you, desperate to preserve this image of you.
You don’t know this. You continue to beam, asking to practise the lines you wish to say with him, reaching out your hand in divine offering, a promise of heaven that you paint before him. You’re regretfully innocent, clueless of the things that can be ripped from you, after having peered down from a pedestal all your life.
Yingxing wonders how quickly such dreams will collapse upon itself, stricken with the truths of reality. It’s a temporary illusion he too wants to believe, to indulge in—to savour that for a moment, the eyes you cast toward him are truly meant for him, and not the ghost of another, whose words will soon haunt both of you.
He hates himself for wanting to take your hand despite knowing this. He knows he doesn’t deserve to look into such light, to take that hand, to let you be defiled by his sin of mortal existence—even when every fibre of his being burns with such desire, tempted once more by this forbidden fruit, to indulge in something he knows he is unworthy of.
It takes everything in him to flinch away at your touch.
He feels it for a moment, a cold featherlight brush against his arm. But even that is enough to leave him yearning for more—more of what he cannot have.
Your countenance shifts just as quickly, the smile fading from your face. “Yingxing…?”
You’re frozen in place, cut off mid sentence by his sudden movement, hands still suspended in the air, your gaze slowly travelling down to his own hands where bandages peel away to reveal jagged half-healed cuts and the faded scars of old wounds—so unlike your unmarred, unblemished skin.
He’s the furthest thing from the perfection you dream of. And to think you dare ask him what’s wrong?
There are so many things Yingxing could say that are wrong. Loving you is wrong, he should not hold such feelings within his heart. It’s never been anything he could handle, daring to gaze upon the true forms of such celestial beings. A mortal like him should never have even formed such thoughts of you, to entertain you within such imperfection.
He must be punished by fate, cursed to obsess over such perfection nonetheless, to strive for it until it consumes him with the same fervour that is equal to destruction, wreaking judgement upon his flawed existence, leaving him nothing more than a shell that is infinitely more broken, scattered at your feet, his own fragilities laid bare.
How he wants to say that you’re throwing yourself down the wrong path, for the wrong person—but he stops himself. For he cannot accept you are the one flawed, to correct you, for does that not go against every construct that is the universe? He cannot defy heaven, and to defy you is to go against everything he believes, to move his very faith.
He can only shake his head, in what he prays is gentle inclination. “Don’t do this.”
Your eyes narrow. “What?”
“Don’t do this to yourself.” He repeats, quieter this time.
You don’t understand the words that are coming from his mouth. They’re contradictory, so unlike what you’ve previously heard. Uncertainty laces his voice, so unlike the self-assured image he had presented to you on countless occasions, brimming with confidence—there’s no playfulness in his tone, nor the usual wry smile across his lips.
That image cracks before your eyes, dying before you in this moment of solidarity. His hands tremble, wrapping around your exposed forearm, and your head snaps up, forced to meet his eyes, watery and bloodshot, looking back hopelessly at you.
It’s traitorous, everything from his outstretched hands to his words that now touch upon your figure, in defiance of everything he had once held himself to, grappling with fate. But you’re teetering on a crumbling precipice, prepared to plummet headfirst—you leave him no choice but to leap forward and catch you, to stop both your falls. He would rather you live, cursing him forever than to lose you to the same heartbreak.
Even now he’s waiting for judgement to rain down upon him, as he watches for your reaction. Yet you still don’t understand. You don’t presume to even try.
“You must be tired. You can’t be thinking straight—”
“No.”
His pupils seem to dilate in response. It’s a blatant lie, as your gaze flickers from the bags under his eyes, to the way his hand shakes despite the grip upon you. His chest rises and falls, as if he’s struggling for words, a single utterance having left him breathless.
“Yingxing, listen to me.” You try to dissuade him, trying to pry your arm out from his grasp, which only seems to tighten, his nails digging into your skin as he drags you closer to him, your arm pressed against his chest, your foreheads practically touching.
You can hear his shallow breaths, and the rapid thumping of his heart against your own. A bitter, broken laugh escapes his lips moments later.
“Listen? What is there to listen to? You’re in love with him, I know.”
It’s a hollow admission, one you both know with an unfortunate certainty.
You’ve uttered such a fact in front of him multiple times, and he’s heard it the same amount of times. Despite the ache in his heart, he’s not blind. He can see the truth with piercing clarity before his eyes—there’s no denying the way you look at him is far different from another.
Because who was he in your eyes? He could compose a thousand eulogies on your very existence, your histories long and unforgettable. But to you, to every immortal being, whose lifetimes span a hundredfold of his own, he is someone easily forgotten and felled—even now, you’re looking at him like that, as if you pity him.
He’s incomparable to the high elder you profusely love, incomparable to you.
“So why—”
“Why…?” He echoes vacantly. “You wish to know why?”
Yingxing wants to laugh at the irony of it all. How many times has he asked that question to himself, wondering why he is drawn to such brilliance, and the desire to hold it in his hand? He knows he should not behold you in such a way, his fingers twisted around a strand of your hair, transfixed by the divine being that looks up at him so hopelessly.
But he is. He’s touching you, cradling your face as he had once dreamed, the feeling of your skin the fulfilment his rough fingers crave to grasp. Even now, you invite temptation—a part of him craves more, rearing its ugly head from being denied time and time again.
Your eyes flutter shut.
He thinks, white truly looks divine on you.
But as he leans closer, lips hovering dangerously close to your own, he sees the parts of you stained by his touch, grasped by his blackened fingers, painted with the colour of smoke and the dust that is his own hopes, snatched away by the breeze that had accompanied your presence before him.
He’s stained your cheek too, a marking of black charcoal smudged across the perfectly smooth porcelain, bled from his own hands that have greedily laid themselves upon you, in the lingering moment of almost human vulnerability you had granted him. Do you know it’s inescapable, etched into the very markings of his nature, this inclination toward sin?
He should not defile you any further—but his lips have already brushed against yours, however briefly. It’s long enough for realisation to dawn.
He lurches back at this realisation.
It takes both of you a second to come to your senses, he’s still leaning over your figure, eyes wide in horror, while you stare back at him equally dumbfounded. Neither of you can comprehend what it is he’s done.
He speaks first.
“I’m sorry.” He manages to get out, straightening himself up again, already turning away. It takes everything in him to not look back at you. He doesn’t know if he can stomach it, to see your reaction.
“Yingxing—” This time it is you reaching for him, but he’s gone before you can stop him, his figure retreating out of the door without so much of a noise, dissipating like smoke before your outstretched hands.
“Yingxing!” You call his name out again, but you know he can’t hear you.
You make an attempt to follow him a moment later, but your head is still spinning from the rush of the moment, there’s uncertainty in everything you do.
You don’t even know where you’re going. You’re stumbling over your own two feet in your desperation to follow after him, any other thoughts having left your mind.
You grasp onto a nearby table as if to steady yourself, cursing a stray object you’ve tripped yourself on, eyes swivelling around the interior of the workshop, from the door to the bench you had just been standing by.
But your eyes suddenly catch upon the weapons and intricate creations strewn across the tabletop. They’re unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, each of them more beautiful than the next, the metal glistening brightly in the light.
There’s no doubt of their creator.
Still, you think of the cost all this must be worth. You wonder who this is all for.
But you get your answer just as quickly, as you turn over the jade spear you had just picked up.
They’re all inscribed with your name.
─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·
likes comments & rbs are greatly appreciated! <3 chat this was genuinely my magnum opus of 2023 can we run it back
Trying to relax with his eyes on you is just about as easy as it sounds.
BOOMBAYAHHH this MANNNN. This is not your first but your second bath with him. Bro is so fucking bathable.
Content warnings include: GN!Reader I believe (aside from your bare chest being treated as possibly risqué), the general stuff that comes with yandere content (obsessiveness, possessiveness, imprisonment...), non-sexual nudity (aside from the mild comedy factor), one very vague boombayah mention, (half-)forced non-sexual touch, but overall fluffy in nature, I would argue.
⋆ Around 3,6k words.
⋆ Genre: Fluff
You’re trembling from head to toe. Every last square inch of skin on your body, down to the most shielded nooks and crannies, is blooming with shivers born of the winter’s sheer, icy cold.
Standing beneath the small shelter above the doors leading back inside the Inkford Hermitage hotel, completely nude, you listen to the clacking of your own teeth and try not to let your wistful eyes wander too close to the steaming water mere meters ahead of you. Despite practically having wanted nothing more in your entire life, the warmth, as inviting it is, isn’t something you’re going to get to touch tonight.
Though you know that the effort is virtually pointless, you’ve folded your arms over your chest and tried to awkwardly cross your legs in an attempt to guard yourself from both the biting wind and a certain someone’s eyes.
Showing no signs of interest towards your presence, Blade rests in the hot spring with his pale, scar-riddled back turned to you. His dark hair, wetted by the moisture in the air, is glued to his skin, and droplets of sweat have formed to adorn the curves of the muscles in his arms. Not a single ripple disturbs the spring’s serene surface as he sits perfectly still, visibly savouring the lingering silence only broken by the faint breeze that occasionally travels across the pool.
There is not a single soul aside from the two of you around. The hotel’s springs have fallen into a sense of dormancy in the night, barren of the life that usually grants them the calm yet revitalizing effect.
It has been a long day. Even on a planet like Planarcadia, what is supposed to be joyful merely leaves you overwhelmed: Life with him already feels like dancing on the keen edge of a sword, and now, the only thing that has been added is the raucous audience waiting for your fall below. You don’t understand how the man himself stands it — how he’s able to rid himself of all the noise and just repose in the water — but the one thing which is for sure is that you can’t. You cannot abandon the anxiety, cannot let him invade your privacy so, cannot allow yourself to rest for even a single moment in case it would open a window for him to strike through.
It’s what he would wish for you to do, however, you assume. He hasn’t outwardly expressed it, no, but the choice of pastime for the precious few hours he gets to spend all alone isn’t a purely hedonistic one. He has never been one for the hot baths, commented Silver Wolf in passing as you mentioned where the two of you would be going, and even now, though it appears that he’s silently enjoying himself, you couldn’t help but notice the glances he sent towards the ice pools earlier. You almost would have preferred it if he headed for them instead — at least, that way, you would’ve had actual motivation not to dip yourself in — but, at any rate, you have no choice but to stand in the freezing air and wait for him to be done.
The milieu is breathtakingly beautiful, yet you're in no headspace to enjoy the view as you’re so terribly cold that the stray snowflakes which land on your bare form have begun feeling like tiny, burning pricks on your skin. Whatever is left of the colour in your fingertips is slowly but steadily vanishing, every last hair on your body is standing up, and each passing second only adds to the cumulative torture of having to stand so close yet so far to the heat emanating from the spring.
Still, with your shoulders at your ears, you remain by the door and direct your gaze at your blueing feet. Without making a sound, you bend at the knees and press yourself into a ball, wrapping your arms around your legs and hiding your face into the crevice between your thighs. Smothering the noise of your sniffling, you take in a slow, shaky breath and try to find the tiniest bit of relief in how your exhale fleetingly warms the freezing skin it puffs against.
You don’t know how long it has been. It’s a challenging task to keep track of the time while you’re actively wishing for it to pass faster. Each minute, rather than aiding you in getting used to the temperature, only seems to double the urge to walk over to the spring and submerge yourself in its comfort. You would like for nothing more than to enjoy the peace and quiet on your own, letting your eyes and thoughts rest on the picturesquely snowy landscape, but as long as your captor remains in the way, you’re settling for the chill.
It’s laughable; just how much you let his demeanour affect you. The amount of times he has seen you naked hasn’t been countable with your fingers in a long, long time, and by now, you should have become accustomed to the dread that follows you whenever he’s near, yet even in your fatigued state of mind, perching where you are, you don’t pursue the warmth that is riddled by him. You wonder if you would really, truly rather succumb to the cold than share the bath with him, but at the same time, in a counterintuitive way, you’ve made up your mind: When both options mean suffering, you’re choosing the one that doesn’t include him.
However, just then, as if your thoughts had been spoken out loud, the silence of the spring is disturbed. You lift your face up from your knees just in time to pick up on the movement.
Blade stirs. In sluggish movements, he raises his dripping arms out of the water and sets his elbows onto the pool’s wooden edge. With his eyes still closed, he rolls his neck back and exhales through his nose, blowing out a swirling cloud of vapour into the frigid air.
The corners of your mouth turn into something akin to a frown.
It’s like he isn’t even aware of your existence. He doesn’t turn around to look your way, doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t show any sort of concern towards your well-being, to the point where you start getting bitter over having been dragged to the hotel in the first place. You could as well be resting back at the hideout, curled up in the frayed blanket on the bed and catching up with the sleep your disquiet has lately been gnawing away, or even just getting to sit in the dark room all alone would be enough, but no. It has long since become clear that the one making your decisions is no longer you, and no matter the circumstance, you don’t think you’ll ever grow to be able to relax with him in the same space with you.
With weariness written all over your features, you stare at Blade’s form until finally, after a prolonged moment of tense stillness, he parts his lips.
”You are given a rare opportunity to unwind, and this is how you choose to while it away”, he speaks, posing the words as not a question but a toneless, observational statement.
You don’t have an answer to give him. There’s no excuse you could come up with, no smart remarks, nothing you could say to mask the reason behind your hesitance. So, instead of responding to him, you proceed to lower your face back to your knees.
He sighs at the silence. Though the tone of his voice is gruff as always, his manner doesn’t convey any particular sense of irritation as he cranes his head to the side and opens his eyes. Then, after gazing into the distance for a moment or two, he directs his piercing red irises towards your form.
The weight of his attention lingers on you, heavy and unsettling. You allow your own to flicker to him for a fleeting moment before hiding behind your thighs once again. Suddenly feeling horribly vulnerable, you bring your legs closer together and slide your arms further down your shins.
Again, Blade’s eyelids fall shut. Raising his hand to his head, he runs his fingers through his hair, brushing the black strands back and revealing his sweat-clad forehead.
”It hardly matters to me how you decide to make use of your time”, he then continues, ”but you are a fool if you plan on freezing to death as you are.”
You purse your lips together.
His statement feels humiliating, almost, like he didn’t believe you to have any common sense at all. You furrow your brows ever so slightly but don’t move from your bunched-up position, instead pretending like he never even talked to you, merely swallowing up your misery like you've done so many times in the past.
It’s what the whole thing is, precisely: miserable. You’re caught in between two equally uncomfortable options — one mentally, one physically — and the question is simply about which one you’re more willing to tolerate. You grow even more certain of your earlier choice on the matter as your eyes meander towards his form yet again: The thought of sitting next to him sends far worse shivers down your spine than the weather ever could.
The stalemate persists. By this point, if he had plans to leave the matter be, he would already have returned to his original position and forgotten about you entirely, but now, it looks like his peace has been perturbed for good.
You barely resist the urge to withdraw further into yourself as Blade turns around and plants his palm on the pool border. Getting on his feet, he rises out of the water, revealing his naked chest, abdomen and crotch, at which point you make the decision of promptly covering your eyes and frantically backtrack on your earlier reticence.
”I’m fine”, you claim in a muffled, frail voice as if the words alone could cause him to recoil.
You don’t know if anyone in the whole wide world could pull off the lie you just spoke out, yet the believability of the fib quickly proves to be the least of your worries. With an entirely unimpressed expression on his face, Blade stares you down from the short distance away, seemingly contemplating on whether he has the energy to spare on your reluctance or not.
Your gaze locks with his. Though the moment is brief, the wordless exchange of stances manages to elicit a soundless huff through his nose.
Much to your dismay, rather than permitting you to continue your pitiful defiance, he reaches down by his feet and picks up a wooden bucket, fills it with hot water, and steps out of the spring. He doesn’t give you enough time to wonder if now would be the moment to try and slip back inside as even with measured steps, he crosses the gap between you in a mere few seconds, and before you can even begin to stand up, he has already reached your side.
The warmth radiates off of his body, breathing the hot mist against your freezing skin. Though he hasn’t yet even touched you, the mere proximity almost burns you. Exhausted yet all the more jittery, you refuse to look up at him, instead bunching yourself up into an even smaller form and settling for staring at his legs, low enough where there’s zero, absolutely zero risk of your eyes straying anywhere near what dangles between his thighs.
”Your feet.”
The two-word command is so strict in nature that you nearly obey it out of reflex. Still, you manage to stop yourself in time, only gently shaking your head in response to his demand.
He sighs. For a second, you mistakenly believe for your meek rebellion to have earned you a little slack, but right after the hopeful notion sparks in your mind, a searing sensation lands between your shoulder blades.
”Ow-ow-ow-burns-!”
An involuntary whimper slips past your lips as you arch your back and try to rid yourself of the water Blade pours on you. He isn’t having any of it, however, and rather than letting you get used to the sudden change in temperature, he rips the band-aid off in a single stroke. Your whines land on deaf ears, and the entire bucketful of heated water soon streams down the curves of your upper body.
You could swear that the heat chars your skin, but after a good few moments of shuddering in place, the twinging is replaced by the pleasantness of slowly, finally getting some circulation back into your extremities. With patience, he lets the water flow out of its container in a leisurely, even stream, covering you in the warmth as if spreading a liquid blanket on you. It cascades past your sides, down your arms, wetting a few stray strands of your hair, and forms a puddle on the planks beneath your feet.
The feeling is so soothing that you almost find yourself relaxing under his scrutiny. However, soon enough, the dribble narrows: As the last droplet of water falls from the bucket, he waits but a moment to bend himself down along with its trail. Opening your half-lidded eyes, you’re yanked out of your newfound, cosy trance when he slips his free hand around the length of your upper arm.
You don’t resist the wordless request. Finding your balance on your chill-numbed feet, you let Blade drag you up from your position. With your head hanging low, you settle for covering your chest with one arm and follow his lead towards the pool.
Yet another breeze travels over the dead-silent, steaming sanctuary, mocking your quivering form one more time as the man guides you to the spring in measured steps. However, his grip, though obviously tactile, is barely firm enough to qualify as one. Whereas you’re used to him putting much more force behind his touch, he now seems to hold onto you with a distinct sort of tenderness in his manner.
Setting the bucket down, the man lets go of your arm and casts an expectant look your way, patiently waiting for you to make the next move. A shaky exhale escapes your mouth as you take a hesitant step leg-deep into the pool, but it only takes a second for the initial, scalding sensation to subside, after which you slowly but surely crouch further into the water and gradually sink your entire body into its comforting embrace.
Lowering himself down next to you, Blade takes a seat on the stone ledge beneath the surface, leaving a bit too narrow of a gap between the two of you for your taste. As inconspicuously as you’re able to, you scoot away from him — the spring is nowhere near cloudy enough to conceal your form in case he were to get curious and let his gaze roam — but a quick, sharp glance from the corner of his eye promptly stops you in your tracks. It is not a mean one by any means, not the kind he would give as a warning, but rather, it seems as if the movement simply caught his attention. Nevertheless, he lets the look linger for a moment before he closes his eyes again, and you decide it might be best to just bear with the unease.
The night is completely silent. The atmosphere, despite the light flooding out of the hotel’s entrance, is eerie — so much so that you suddenly feel an instinctive pressure to start a conversation to loosen the violin string-taut mood. The idea is obviously scrapped as soon as it forms in your mind, but the sentiment remains.
Against your better judgment, once more, you steal a peek at Blade. The action backfires immediately, however, as you make eye contact with him, only succeeding in wringing the tension even tighter than before.
You wish you could bear to look at him for longer, to stand your ground even in the smallest possible ways, but you can’t. After a mere few seconds worth of staring at his slit pupil, you drop your chin to your chest and hide your face from his view, shying away from the confrontation like a fawn retreating back into its cove.
Your insides squirm with equal amounts of shame and trepidation, steadily keeping you from allowing your shoulders to fall or your rigid posture to rest, yet he doesn’t even allow you the peace to tumble around in your own unease. You can feel his glare boring into the side of your head, your bare back, your chest which you’re still doing your best to hide. The overwhelming urge to put more distance between the two of you has your legs trembling in place, and seizing the opportunity to scamper out of the spring and back inside the hotel seems like a better and better idea by the second, but just then, the soundless disarray in your thoughts is abruptly dispersed by a touch on your back.
You resist the urge to whisk your face towards the interruption. Instead, with wide open eyes, you peep at him from behind your damp hair, following the length of his arm to where it now connects with your shoulder.
Blade’s intentions are difficult to predict even after the countless days you’ve had to spend with him: His face conveys no emotion, and the hand on you could entail anything from the carnal to yet another violent outburst, albeit the latter is something you haven’t had to weather in a while. Still, your habitual reaction is to pull further into yourself, tensing up and leaning away from him the tiniest, tasteful bit you pray doesn’t ignite his wrath.
His hand follows your movement. You let out a nearly inaudible gasp, a sigh, the smallest possible signal to impart to him that the touch is uncomfortable, unnerving.
His brow twitches ever so slightly.
Instead of obeying your wordless request, Blade lets his fingers climb further up your back. Sliding his hand underneath your hair and to the base of your skull, he pays very little mind to how petrified you appear at the approach. A strange, garbled yip of fright slips out of your throat as your shoulders once again jump to your ears to resist the invasion, but then, after a few seconds of what you think is the end of the calm before the storm, you snap back into the reality of the pads of his fingers now gently digging into the taut muscles on the back of your neck.
The gesture, despite having happened a few times before, feels so foreign that your irrational mind still struggles to classify it as non-threatening. With unmistakable tenderness in his caresses, he presses his thumb and middle finger on each side of your spine in a pinching motion, kneading the bony flesh firmly yet carefully. Then, after spending a few moments on the area, he moves a little further down to the juncture of your scapulae where he continues his ministrations.
Frankly speaking, what he’s aiming to do is downright impossible with how tight you’ve forced your posture. Still unsure of what to make of his actions, you don’t think to lower your shoulders until he himself takes the initiative: Momentarily leaving your neck be, he spreads out his hand span — more than wide enough — to set his fingertips on the outer ends of your collarbones and gently pushes down on the protrusions, tacitly urging you to relax.
Your brain doesn’t know which direction it should go in. One side is screaming at you to shriek and wade as far away from the man as possible while the other is telling you that shrinking in on yourself and sobbing is just as good of an option, but ultimately, against all the anxiety bubbling in the pit of your stomach, you comply with his suggestion. Taking in a deep breath, you will your shoulders to fall back in their place.
Blade resumes his actions without a further complaint. Carefully, he massages the back of your neck in round patterns with one hand, slowly climbing up the vertebrae one by one before then switching directions and moving back down.
Cautiously, you allow yourself to feel the sensation his touch produces. As soon as you do, a violent shiver forces you to abruptly arch your back and shake your head, causing him to once again pause for a second, but right after, you come to find that what he’s doing feels pleasant. The word, as it pops into your mind, is so far from what you’ve gotten used to thinking about when with him that you now have no idea what to think about at all. However, in a way, you find that perhaps, it’s the best outcome you could have hoped for; entirely voluntarily, you slowly allow the frightened part of your brain to simply shut down.
The water ripples as Blade shifts a little closer to you, setting his elbow onto the pool border behind you. With his thigh now just shy of touching yours, he continues to massage you.
”Does it ache?” he asks, speaking in the dry, low-pitched tone you’ve long since grown habituated to. ”Your nape.”
”... A little.”
Right after speaking the word, you stop to think whether or not your answer is a ”correct” one, but judging from the simple lack of reaction on his end, it looks like the moment has reached a stable state of tranquillity. You exhale through your nose.
Blade does the same thing in response. Resting his head back, he closes his eyes and breathes in the chilly, still air. His hand disconnects from the back of your neck, instead moving up to the narrow, malleable spot right above your atlas where he presses the pad of his thumb flat against the curve, rubbing it in a firm, circular motion.
Languidly, you blink a few times. Then, after taking in the sight of the dark, snow-covered landscape, you let your lashes flutter shut.
𝓨eah boy and doll face⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ blade x fem!reader smau
for your friend's birthday, you'd bought him the game you'd always talked about to him through aliexpress. you thought you'd entered the right address, until your friend told you he had never received the package ?!
cw: some kms/kys jokes, mostly crack, lowk unserious. reader & her whole fg are game nerds. ooc. dan heng never met blade before in this au. lots of swearing and college au. multiple games are mentioned (primarily final fantasy 7) but there are no spoilers. time stamps do not matter !!
ˋ°•*⁀➷ mutual pining & blade is a fake nonchalanter
