#bladie blog

[bonkingcat]

… 👉👈 oh she’s so cute

[mspaintbladie]

kitren update i kinda stole this meme lol

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[enden-k]

did the devs not know ppl would picture blade tied up in other ways with that slutty ribbon on his back

im ppl bc i actually started to sketch smth with his ribbon bc it was stuck in my brain ever since he finally came and its constantly in my sight LMFAO

[douzheng]

❝ everyone's lied about the silver lining... it never comes. ❞

[ from dan heng ! ]

@astrcls

there was no denying the lies they told themselves to get through the day. make it to tomorrow, things will get better. make it to the end of the week, good things will come. the endless string of false hopes && failed dreams would always be left in the wake of realization. the sun never rises. the day never ends. and, as the man had said, that silver lining never does come.

❝ for those cursed with an endless life, would not death be that silver lining? ❞ it's strange to him how somehow at peace he feels speaking so calmly for once. there is no malice in his voice. only a sense of familiarity and a hint despair. oh how he did truly wish things were different. ❝ --and if that is the case... why do you run from it? ❞

[lycorisblooms]

any be honest questions for kave.h with any mentions of al.hai.tham will have ka.veh like:

[romaritimeharbor]

FAMILY, OF SORTS. — in which kafka, blade, and silver wolf are an odd but quite special found family to be a part of.

— trigger & content warnings. mentions of unspecified injury.

— pairings & notes. fluff, found family. kafka & teen!reader, blade & teen!reader, silver wolf & teen!reader. 1.3k words. reader is a stellaron hunter. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used).

— author's notes. the sillies <3 APHE POSTING???? APHELION POSTING REAL AND TRUE????????? i had a request for this on my old blog (from my dear beloved moot @starryshinyskies <3) so i decided to finish it 💪 nd tagging @www-brontide since i know you were excited for this post HEHE anyways how are we feeling about this formatting? if you guys don't like it i'm very open to changing it back. i'm just experimenting with my post format is all 🫶

kafka seems strangely motherly to me. caring and doting in her own unique ways, but also quite strange and odd in those same ways. an enigma of sorts.

she is the kind of person to always send the stellaron hunters' youngest member texts throughout the day; these texts range anywhere from silly and inconsequential to sweet messages letting [name] know that she was thinking about them.

(her doting nature is not dissimilar to how she thinks of and regards the trailblazer... hm.)

KAFKA

My coat got stained again :(

Won't you help me clean it when you get home, little one?

[ 1:22 PM ]

KAFKA

I saw a new movie today.

It made me think of you. It was quite to your tastes.

Perhaps we should go see it together sometime, hm?

Ah, but you're probably asleep by now...

That's fine. You do need it more than the rest of us.

Sleep well, darling.

[ 11:34 PM ]

she thinks of her little one quite frequently and has been known to pick up little trinkets from different planets that reminded her of them. a phone charm, a set of rings, something more practical like a new weapon... she once returned with a nice coat that matches one of hers. her gifts are always unpredictable but nonetheless very thoughtful.

and when or if they get injured, she is the one who treats their wound(s) with a tender hand.

she does chide them, however.

"you are a stellaron hunter, little one," she reminds, pulling the bandages wrapped around their wound a little tighter, making them wince. it is akin to a slap on the wrist—not enough pain to seriously harm them, but enough to force them to take her words to heart. "if it is not a part of the plan, try your best not to get caught or injured, hm? silver wolf doesn't like to see you this way, and it causes a unique stir in bladie. your getting injured causes quite the unrest among us all! do be more careful next time."

if there is ever a night during which they are struggling to sleep, they are more than welcome to seek out kafka's company.

she would be willing to read them to sleep, if that is what they desired.

however... a far easier method that would ensure they would stay asleep? her spirit whisper ability, of course.

they know kafka would not use it to harm them.

kafka finds their earnest trust beyond endearing. the trust of a little one like them is quite an important gift! the least she can do, she thinks, is assist them when her assistance is needed.

and sometimes, that just means lulling them to sleep.

blade is quite a difficult person to read, regardless of whether he intends to be so or not.

some days, he is distant and prefers to keep to himself. others, less so.

this, though, should not be mistaken for a lack of care. in fact, he cares quite deeply. his care is simply very quiet and he desperately, earnestly, truly does not wish to cause [name] harm.

he is also most likely the one who spars with them and trains them in the ways of combat, which... he isn't exactly the gentlest at doing. training sessions can be quite frustrating in that they often emerge sore and with new cuts and bruises (but really, these injuries are small and insignificant; they are confident in saying that blade would never truly hurt them, nobody in their family would). he does mean well in his tough methods, though.

the universe is not kind or gentle. it will never treat them that way. therefore, he does his best to prepare them so that they can effectively handle the universe's cruelty and defend themselves from it.

one of the ways in which his quiet care manifests is through his treatment of the small wounds he gives them during training. kafka has said many times that she can treat them, but blade always insists on doing it himself.

out of all of their coworkers, blade becomes the most restless when they're away. he gets particularly antsy when they've been gone for a long period or when they're out there alone. kafka always giggles and points out to him how utterly restless he becomes when such circumstances occur.

(he should be assured that they can handle themselves, given that he is their mentor—there is surely nobody else who would know their skills as well as he would—but somehow he simply isn't.)

blade is also, generally speaking, the most protective.

should they come back injured... if it is anything other than a shallow scratch on the cheek, a rage hotter than the brightest star burns under his skin. in those moments, he almost does not dare to touch them, for fear that he might harm them unwittingly... but he does. his hands are somewhat rough when he snatches their face and tilts their chin around to get a better look at the blood (is it theirs? he hopes not) and grime dirtying their face. there is a terrifying threat present in his voice when he demands, not asks, "who did this to you?"

(if kafka was not present in these moments, he might worry that his mara would get the best of him. thankfully, kafka is intentional and present in such situations.)

unless the ones responsible for the wound have already been adequately... taken care of, he will do so himself. there is nowhere in the universe that the perpetrators could hide from him.

it's about protecting them, but it is also about sending a message.

something along the lines of "anyone who lays hands on them will suffer a fate worse than death," perhaps.

death is anything but a terrible fate to blade, but he knows that it is the worst imaginable to some. he will be certain to deliver something infinitely worse, something beyond imagination, to those daring to hurt his younger teammate.

silver wolf is perhaps the least enigmatic of their little family. she isn't an open book, per se, but she's easier to read than kafka or blade... at least, for someone like [name], anyway.

she never fails to harrass them to play a few rounds (which tends to spiral into many, many rounds...) of a game or two with her. why them, specifically? she insists that blade isn't good at them and kafka is kafka. really, it may very well just be that she enjoys spending time with them, but she—of course—will not simply say that.

however... she bullies them terribly about how bad they are. it comes from a place of affection!

she is also the type to win them every single prize at carnivals, just because she likes the joy it seems to bring them. when she encounters rigged games, however, she becomes all the more motivated by her unadulterated annoyance to beat them.

what do you mean she of all people can't beat this awful and horrible rigged game? her???? the silver wolf????? seriously????????

unfortunately, it does not always end in her victory, even when she is infinitely motivated by her anger.

...and she really isn't above just taking one of the prizes when the stall's owner isn't looking. she has done so multiple times for [name].

she would definitely try to teach them hacking (keyword: try) if they aren't already familiar with it. since it has come in handy for her, she figures that they might also find use in it. it's her quiet way of looking out for them.

(her more obvious way of looking out for them is often seen when she is on missions with them. most commonly, it manifests as her snatching their arm and pulling them out of the way of an enemy before obliterating said threat.)

silver wolf is totally the sort of person to pinch their cheeks (to different degrees, kafka and blade also do this!). they are very cute to her.

overall they are a weird but very special little family to be a part of <3

please consider supporting your writers by reblogging and leaving a kind tag or comment. it really helps me out!

[lorelune]

bathtime

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 5.1k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

Even the best bath water will find it difficult to cleanse 'sin'.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c welcome to part 3 of the architect-verse :3cc been cooking on this one for awhile 🙏 yandere blade is such a guy and scummy manipulative mommy kafka is so fun to write :3ccc thank you for beloved @ofmermaidstories for doing a read through on this one 🥺♥!! enjoy enjoy enjoy 💓

CW: dark content, yandere blade, captive/pet reader, discussions of noncon, references to past noncon on blade while he was underage and as an adult, references to past noncon on reader, use of the word rape, violence/thoughts of violence, past yingxing/dan feng, toxic blade/kafka

It’s normal for Blade to return to the Stellaron Hunters’ main vessel covered in assorted types of gore. Scraps of rent flesh, smears of blood, bile, scales— tendons and sinew wrapped under his forearms, clinging from the pressure of impact light-years away. The smell of it clings to him, still fresh, just barely beginning to rot. He stews in it during his typical return in small, covert starships. He half-suffocates with the stench of death.  

This is typical. Blade does not carry any opinion about it. If anything, he welcomes the potential of asphyxiation, though it never comes. 

Most routinely, Kafka will greet him as he returns and take him to clean up. Occasionally, when she is indisposed, Silver Wolf will be forced to hose him down in the communal gym shower or Sam will dunk him in the bath by the scruff of his neck. Blade does not... particularly enjoy the latter two options. Though he isn't sure entirely why, and he doesn't tend to dwell on it either. 

When Kafka collects him, it is easier, if nothing else. Less fuss, less grimacing over the smell of burgeoning rot and complaining that Blade should do this prior to arriving home. Blade doesn't care about the other Stellaron Hunters’ complaints, not really, but it does make the ordeal longer than it needs to be. 

(And maybe, maybe, he does not like being drenched in bone-chilling water and soaked clothing. He hates it.) 

Kafka will lead Blade back to her own room, strip him, and give him a warm bath. Frequently, she’ll take off her own clothing and join him. She’ll hold him close, his back to her front. Kafka likes when she is able to cow him into resting against her front, cow him into resting his cheek against her breasts while she scrubs away the worst of the grime. 

Never mind that they share the same, red-tinged bathwater. 

(Occasionally, things escalate. Touch that volleys between innocent and clinical and sexual. Kafka will stroke down the planes of his body, reach for his cock, and bring him to release. It’s— it's nice. He thinks. He can't tell.) 

It's hard to tell anything in the steam of the bath. Though Kafka's presence renders his mara mute, proximity makes it writhe regardless. It is not a soundless beast, though it loses its words. Muddy feelings, rather than anything clear cut. It's a reprieve regardless. 

This is why Blade prefers to be cleaned by Kafka. 

... 

This mission, however, Blade receives a text from Kafka during his return journey that she will be out. Along with Silver Wolf. And that Sam is charging and shouldn't be disturbed.  

However— 

Kafka: 

why don't you see if our little stray is up for a bath, bladie? 

There's a thought. One Blade hadn't considered. 

(There's a whisper of a refusal in the back of his mind. 'No'. Blade is not sure why. It is quiet but sure of itself.) 

Blade: 

When will you be back. 

Kafka: 

tomorrow. don't wait up until then. listen, just ask. 

Kafka's mind weaving does not work over text. But it is, regardless, difficult to resist her command. This is habit. 

Blade idles outside of your room. He has dripped mess across the vessel and left little piles of flesh and muscle in his wake. The quiet sound of blood splattering against the floor (his, maybe, though his regeneration should be almost complete) makes him aware of this. 

It feels uncouth to enter your room like this. 

Blade shakes himself off and leaks scarlet droplets against the metal paneling. methodically, he releases the five locks on your door. Each clicks when fully disarmed, and by the time Blade enters, you're already looking up at the door, eyes wide. 

You're tucked into bed with a soft blanket over your lap. A tablet (a gift from silver wolf at Kafka's behest. For 'good behavior'. Not connected to any internet, but you've told Blade it helps pass the time.) 

The device is promptly forgotten as you push yourself out of bed, "Aeons, Blade, what happened? Are you hurt?" 

You approach him with no caution. It's reckless. It's foolish, especially with this much adrenaline tumbling around between his eyes and in his veins. He has the distinct urge to shove you away and into the floor. Compress you until you break and bleed and bleed and break. 

Blade does not. 

Instead, he lets you flit around him. He lets you draw your own conclusions. 

You are not foolish. You know he is dangerous; he knows you know this. It is your... good nature that creases the surely-soft skin between your brows. It's your kindness that has you frazzled, shaking in your hands as you hover over him. Searching for wounds that are mostly healed. 

"Blade, I said, are you hurt?" You ask, voice strained, bent at the waist while examining a slice in his pants. A lance had torn his calve wide open. It has already healed. 

"I'm fine." 

"Sure." You don't sound convinced, frowning. "You look like shit. Am I really supposed to believe that?" 

"I have already healed. my injuries are no longer a concern." 

"... Really?" 

"I am an abomination of Yaoshi. This is my nature." 

You already know this, yet you look defeated. Your jaw is tight. "Uh-huh. Alright. Fuck, do you feel alright?" 

"I'm fine. I need to be clean." 

"... Alright?" 

"I need to bathe." 

"... I see that... Do you want me to call Kafka?" 

"She's off ship." 

"Oh, fuck." you curse and shake your head. "I-is she going to be back soon?" 

"No. Help me instead." 

"M-me?" Your voice trembles and you take a fearful step back. Ever the skittish thing. something in him— sort of him— vibrates. 

"Yes." 

"Can you— not?" 

"It's cumbersome to wash on my own." 

"I see." You run a hand over your cheeks and adjust the wide collar of your shirt. It’s too big. It’s one of his— probably? A sleep shirt. One that Kafka stole from him to give to you. He knows you own several. "Alright. Okay. Fine. Fuck, I-I can help." 

You shoo him into your bathroom. 

You turn away from him almost immediately, poking around in a cabinet, plucking brightly colored products and muttering under your breath. Kafka mentioned that isolation is getting to you more than you think. She thinks it's cute. 

Blade wordlessly begins to strip. First off is his blood-soaked overcoat, shredded around his ribs and with massive gouges taken out of the back. Then his undershirt. Followed by his pants. One of his belts rings a metallic clink as he undoes it. 

You choose this moment to turn around and your eyes go wide. 

"BLADE!" You cover your eyes, dropping a bottle. "What are you— you can't just do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Get... naked?" 

"You are going to help me bathe. This is necessary." 

"I understand that." You sound exasperated. Your voice is shaky. The tone is pulling something in the back of his mind. The corners of his lips almost want to curl upwards. "But you can't just strip without warning. Aeons, have some manners." 

Blade nearly laughs— good-naturedly. The urge to is something dormant and poisonous. Seldom used. Usually it's a sharp impulse, but it's almost warm now. Tepid and pleasant.  

(All for you.) 

You cover your eyes as you fumble to turn on the tap, "At least go rinse off a little in the shower first, please?" 

Doable, albeit difficult. Blade grunts something akin to an affirmative and finds your shower. He turns the water on (hot or cold doesn't seem... relevant) and steps in. The spray pours down from the ceiling, sending the worst of the gore down the drain. 

Blade does not move for quite some time.  

"Blade?" you ask warily. "You... done in there?" 

It takes him a moment to reply. The cold spray lags him, "Yes." 

"... Can you come out? The bath is ready." 

He idles, thinking about your question. The softness of your voice. The candle that he can smell, lit on the countertop. You yourself, dressed in soft lounge clothes and covered in scars that strangers gave you. He thinks about the way skin and muscle rend under his blade. The way yours could. Under him. Under— 

"Blade." 

You open the glass shower door, worry-eyed. 

He blinks at you. 

Gently, you grab his arm. He flinches with it. Has half a mind to slam you into the tile until you pop like an perfectly ripe fruit— 

But he doesn't. 

"C’mon, bath time," you coax him out, dripping, careful to not look down. It’s a preservation of modesty. It feels useless, Blade thinks, as he pulls away to clamor into the bath. 

... There are bubbles. Fragrant and herbal, with a soft oil shimmering on the top of the water. It is the perfect temperature. It feels... good. He forgets how nice warmth is. He softens. You heave out a sigh and settle next to him, outside the bath. There's a dampened washcloth, already in your hand. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" You ask. 

"I don't care." 

"Give me a yes or a no,” you press him, glaring a little. You roll up your sleeves and rise to your knees. 

"Yes, then." He does not care. Do you not understand? 

(You probably don't. You definitely don't.) 

Your expression is unreadable as you dunk the rag into the bathwater and begin to wash him. First his right arm, then his left. Gently rubbing him down, taking extra care with his hands. The rag is gentle over his stiff fingers. You check under each of his nails individually. 

You’re meticulous. 

You ask a question or two about how he washes himself, specifically his hair, but Blade can't give you answers. Kafka stocks his bathroom. His bottles are numbered, and he never deviates from their preassigned order. It is easier that way. Even in Kafka’s tub, she tends to use the same order of expensive-looking products that she favors.  

The treatment you’re currently giving him is not routine.  

The ends of your sleeves dip into the water as you stretch over the tub, toward his legs. Your tongue peaks out from your lips, bitten in concentration. (It’s cute.) Blade feels... compelled to assist you. He raises his leg up at the knee. Just as carefully, you scrub him down, and then focus on his other leg.  

The experience fills him with a sense of unease.  

(It’s too tender.) 

(You treat him too delicately. Even Kafka acknowledges the damage he carries, and her touch is only gentle to punctuate a roughness later on. She toys with him— it’s a farce. The way you touch him is too kind. You are too kind for him. It reminds him— makes him feel the ghost of a touch from hands more delicate and powerful than your own. From a different lifetime, blotted by Mara, corrupted and molten in his mind—) 

“Blade—?” Your voice is shaking, shattering. You’re frozen at the side of the tub.  

Blade blinks. 

He has his hand wrapped around your wrist; his grip swallowing the fragile limb. The force of it is bruising. He holds it under the water, forcing you to lean over the tub. You are submerged up to your elbow. Your expression is pinched, afraid. Your pupils pinpricked.  

An animal snared. 

His grip tightens.  

“Let go, please.” You ask, lip wobbling.  

He does not want to let go. He really does not want to let go. Blade cannot trace the feeling, it’s miasmatic. It was a bad idea to have you assist in bathing him. Mara webs itself behind his eyes. His jaw locks and breathes hard through his nose. He wants to sink his teeth into your throat. 

“Please, stop,” You whine— whimper while tugging against his hold. You are half bent over the bath. Your eyes water, all shiny.  

The tone does something to him. Many people plead around him— for their life, mercy, favor. It’s useless. He does not care. He has no reason to care. There are scripts to follow. However— there’s no script here. Just the warm suds, the blood pumping through your veins, and Blade’s tunneling vision. 

With a sharp pull, he drags you into the bath. 

You fall in headfirst. Instantly, you clamor at the side of the tub and his submerged legs to get yourself back above water. You scramble. It’s— cute. Your hair is slicked down around your face and forehead, eyes wide as you pant. His legs bracket your body. He tightens his thighs around you.  

Your thin clothes are soaked and cling to you. Fabric over curves and folds over your flesh. Blade’s half-hard and feels bad about it. 

(He can’t trace why. It’s far from the first time he’s been physically aroused in relation to you. It always makes him feel bad. Not with Mara, but something personal and sour and less mad. He hates it. He’s almost torn out a rib over the feeling.) 

You hover, frozen, between his legs. The only sounds in the bathroom are your panting breaths and the drips rolling off your body, into the bathwater. You swallow, trembling, but remaining otherwise unmoving. It occurs to Blade after a few tense moments that you are waiting for him to strike.  

Always like a little, frightened animal.  

(Something in him writhes.) 

He moves quickly, shooting a hand out to fist into your hair. His grip is unyielding, giving you no slack (though, he doesn’t yank and pull as he could. He could tear out chunks if he wanted. He just doesn’t want you to move.) He wants you closer— maybe. He wants you far away, thrown through one of the ship's thick windows and into the vacuum of space and dead. 

(Though, it wouldn’t be as satisfying for the void of space to kill you. He’d rather do it. He wants to do it, if you’re going to die.) 

You whine and paw at his wrists, babbling something.  

Blade feels disgusting as he drags your body to his, his chest to your back, and he curls over your form. His arms wind around your waist and squeeze. You scratch at him, beg maybe— he can’t tell, his ears are ringing. Your fists that slam into his shoulders and skull feel like swats from a declawed kitten. He doesn’t budge despite your protests.  

You stop fighting when you realize he isn’t hurting you. 

Blade doesn’t... want to hurt you. He thinks. Not really. Not in the way that Mara is screaming at him to. He isn’t content, you’re too warm and too alive to be this close to his body, but it's not bad. Contact both scratches an itch under his skin and aggravates a wound. It’s like a bath with Kafka, but worse— 

(Because part of him wants this.) 

Blade flinches when you go slack against him, chest heaving out breath. Even this little ‘scrap’ has tired you out. You’ve become weakened in your confined state— even if you really wanted to fight him, you don’t have the physical strength to be able to. 

You sniffle, covered in soaked clothes and soap suds. 

“Don’t cry.” Blade says without thinking. His voice is shot, dead-pan.  

Trembling, you shake your head, “I w-won’t.” 

It’s a lie. You’re already shaking in his arms. 

It’s— unfair. You’re most used to him, and less wary of him than Kafka. Part of him, a loud but small part of his mind, thinks that a bath together could be enjoyable— if he wasn’t washing blood and filth from his hair, and you weren’t shivering in your soaked day clothes. 

(‘This could be nice’, it urges.)  

His hands rub over your sides in small circles at the idea. 

You gasp and squirm, looking back at him with wild eyes, “Blade, please—” 

He stops, but his hold around your waist doesn’t waver. You sigh and lean back into his chest, deflating. Your eyes go half-lidded as you look toward the ceiling. They look— dull. Light and life drained. Like how they did when he and Kafka first collected you from that gilded planet. 

Blade knows that look— a dull mind and an active body. Your breath is still a bit too fast. Your heart is the same, running a prey-like rhythm. He assumes that you have left your body, gone elsewhere. 

“Hey.” He shakes you lightly, dragging you back to the cooling bath. “Help with my hair.” 

“... Hair?” You ask, voice soft and dreamy. “... Do you need me to wash it?” 

“Yes.” 

“... Okay.” You nod after a moment and rotate in his lap.  

Your shoulders sag forward as you fumble for shampoo and squirt a generous amount into your palm. Half of it misses and the gel sinks into the bathwater below.  

It’s unfair— part of him says again— he wants to tear it out and shred it between his teeth or under his blade. It screams that it's unfair that you dote on a creature like him. It’s unfair that you must shiver while lathering and rinsing his hair. That your pretty lips tremble with fear.  

The Mara writhes. He has not been human in so long. He does not deserve the gentleness you so often give him. Especially now, when he has dragged you closer, made you filthy with the stench of blood, and forced you so close. He wants to bite out your throat as you tip forward to grab a brightly colored bottle of oil and begin to work through the knots in his air. 

You are frowning. You are crying. 

He wants to eat you. 

Blade reaches for your chest, studying the way that the fabric clings to your skin-gone-gooseflesh. He finds the top button of your soft blouse in his own unsteady hands and undoes it. You freeze when he does, breath catching. 

You don’t breathe as he undoes another button.  

Then another. 

And another.  

You don’t breathe until the garment is nearly off. Just one button secures the fabric. He can see the peak of your breasts under the fabric, nipples pebbled in the cold. You’re so cold.  

(Blade wishes, dead Yingxing wishes, that he were warmer.) 

Your hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, and in a small voice, you beg, “Please, d-don’t.” 

“You’re cold.” Blade says. He reaches past you, sloshing water, to turn on the spigot for hot water. “You will stay cold if you wear wet clothes.” 

You look at him strangely. At first, it’s wounded. Like you’ve been lanced through with Shard Sword, and now bear the gaping wound. It morphs to one of confusion, then you bite your lip. And grab his hands in your own and stare at them. 

“... That’s all?” You ask. 

“Mostly.” Blade replies. There’s— more. Far more. But nothing that is concrete enough, or important enough, to share with you. It would more than likely aggravate his spitting Mara.  

“Okay.” You reply, looking up from your joined hands. Your eyes are round and watery. “You’re not trying to rape me?” 

He freezes.  

The word ‘rape’ pulls something disgusting and festering up from Blade’s guts. Something he wants to purge. He has the distinct urge to lean over the side of the time and vomit, but he hasn’t eaten in the last forty-eight hours, so there’s nothing to heave up. So instead, he is still.  

It’s like he can feel the rot. He’s not sure why. He knows what the word means, he is pretty sure he has been raped. Probably. Either when he was a young child, a refugee fleeing a massacred world, or maybe when he was the bedmate to a dragon. Maybe, probably, from Kafka, any number of times. Maybe last week. His mind is cloudy.  

What constitutes rape is foggy.  

He knows it would mean that he wants to have sex with you, and you wouldn’t want to have sex with him. 

And Blade— 

(He— He— doesn’t want to have sex with you? Or he does. Maybe. He wants to be close to you, inside you. He wants to curl around you and make you swear to never leave. He wants— he wants so much. Blade is selfish. But—) 

Not like that, he doesn’t think. Others have been, he’s sure— he’s sure.  

Mara pours into his mind, and he remembers then. Pieces of times, fragments of old memories, of rape. Of violation of all kinds.  

(At the hands of borisins holding him down as he screamed and cried, his body too little to do any fighting in the jaws of an Abundance beast.) 

(A tradesman who allowed him to stowaway on a cargo ship, destined for the Luofu. ‘Payment’ — the man had called it. For safe passage and a little sack of rice.) 

(Dan Feng, during one of his draconic ruts. He was the Child of a Cosmic Horror, ultimately. That’s all Aeons are, anyways. Yingxing had been split on his cock so many times, so full, he bled for a day, even with Dan Feng fussing over him with his cloudhymns, lucid-in-mind and torn apart by so much guilt for a wildly proud man.) 

(Kafka, a few days after she first picked him up from the surface of the asteroid Jingliu had been beating him into. Kafka, a few weeks after that— in a hotel that stank of blue emory roses. Kafka, a few weeks ago, draped over his shoulders between missions. There’s more. Memories drenched in the smell of her rich perfume. They tangle in feelings of comfort and revulsion.) 

Blade doesn’t want to do any of that to you. 

(He wants something with you— but—) 

(Not like that. He doesn’t want you to hurt.) 

“I’m not going to rape you.” He tells you. He hardly sounds like himself as the Mara quiets. 

He thumbs over your lips. There’s a scar in the middle of them where they had been split, repeatedly, and then healed over. You’d told him once that one of your old keepers used to deprive you of water if he felt like it. Your breath is hot against his fingertip. 

You say nothing, but your breath is still fast and shaky. Your eyes are wide. A feral, wild animal.  

“I’m not.” Blade tries to reassure you. You flinch with the sound of his voice. “You’re freezing. The bath can be refilled with warm water. Bathe.” 

Tears break over your lower lashes as you stare at him. He stares back. 

(He wonders what you’re thinking. If you have as much trouble thinking as he does— you probably do. You’ve sustained head trauma. Traumas. You’re both torn-up wrecks, maybe. It could provide him with some solace.) 

“... Okay.” You rub your eyes with balled up hands and laugh. “Okay.” 

Blade then helps you peel off your shirt. Then your shorts and underwear. When you’re bare, Blade drains most of the water from the, leaving you both with a layer of clinging bubbles protecting the barest bits of your modesty. You cover your chest and center with your hands, keeping your head down. Hiding your throat. 

He refills the tub with more soap— too much probably. Mountains of bubbles appear as he dumps in a glug of shimmering, emerald-colored oil. It swirls into the water as it rises. You relax as it rises over your chest. Your eyelids droop. You look so tired. 

Blade washes you like you did him.  

You face each other as he does. Your gaze never leaves him, though it goes glassy again. Unfocused. Blade can feel your heartbeat through your skin, slowing more and more with each pass of the warm, soapy rag he is using. He massages products into your hair. He thinks that he may be doing so in the correct order. He hopes he is. 

This close, he can see all of you. Most of you. Feel you too. He feels ridges and bumps of scars. Chunks of flesh that have been torn from you, replaced by cicatrix, uneven and unnatural under his touch. You shudder when he touches you, shivering despite the heat of the room. You’re sensitive. He doesn’t want Kafka to know. 

You feel different like this. Blade is unable to place why. 

When he is through with you, steam and bubbles still rising from the bath, you drag him closer. Your fingers dig into his biceps, latching on and scrambling to get closer. 

“... You really mean it, don’t you?” You ask. Your eyes are still unfocused. “You’re not going to? You’re not fucking with me?” 

“... What are you talking about?”  

An unrestrained smile stretches over your face, “You do mean it. You do. You do.” 

Blade can only guess what you mean. You clearly will not (or cannot) tell him. You shiver against a full body thing against him. It makes him uneasy. He flips you by the hips, so that your back is to his chest, and he can curl over your shoulders. He cast a shadow into the water. 

Indulgently, he presses his nose into your cheek. You smell like fresh soap and skin. He thinks if he licked you, you’d taste like salt. 

He doesn’t. 

When that’s all he does, you laugh.  

It’s a belting thing, the kind of sound that’s punched from your gut with the same force that could break ribs. Blade can imagine the sound and sensation of it obliterating your insides as your laughter bounces around the tile of the bathroom. It’s manic. It’s an unwell sound. You clutch a fist over your chest as you howl.  

You don’t stop for a while. 

It’s clearly too much. Blade can feel it. The sound echoes in his chest. It must be shredding yours.  

His arm wraps around your midsection as you do, and he tries to press you closer— he thinks. He thinks it might help. Your breath starts to shake, each inhale pitching high and sharp. You’re hyperventilating around your laughter. You’re hysterical, but don’t fight his hold. Even as tears drip down your cheeks, splattering into the bathwater. 

Blade says your name— it should come out sharply. He means it to. 

However, it is gentle. His voice is hushed and rough. 

“You’re alright.” He squeezes you until the breath is forced from your lungs, and there’s no fuel for your laughter anymore. “You’re okay.” 

With a choked, quiet sob, you reply, “I know.” 

... 

It’s later— much later. Maybe the next day.  

Your room still doesn’t have any way to keep time other than your little tablet, which has been powered off and charges across the room on top of your dresser, so Blade can only guess. 

He lays beside you in bed, propped up on an elbow. You sleep next time to him, relaxed and soft-jawed. The soft duvet is pulled up to your collarbones, and you curl into Blade. He’s— warmer than the rest of your room. Even if he does run too cold to be properly alive.  

He runs the side of his index finger over your face.  

You had been so tired after leaving the bath, you’d hardly been able to dress yourself— you hadn’t been able to. Blade to pick out sleep clothes and help you get into them. He chose whatever he could find that seemed. Soft. 

(A flowing, soft teal top and white shorts with golden thread sewn in the seams.) 

You fell asleep quickly after that and have been ever since. Blade had only meant to sit on the edge of your mattress.  

That did not happen. 

Instead, he’s tucked next to you. One of your hands fists the front of his shirt, and your body is angled toward him. Seeking. Wanting. 

Blade could take. 

He recognizes that. 

It’s a thought, though, not a temptation. Not after the bath. Not after feeling the ways in which your body has been torn apart and so painstakingly put itself back together. You are not a creature of Abundance, you are not built to live forever and to repair yourself endlessly like he is. Your vitality is finite. Every scar your flesh must restitch takes something from you and it will not be replaced.  

You will end. 

Your bedroom door clicks, five times, then opens with a whoosh of air. Kafka stands in the doorframe. A sickly-sweet smile stains her mouth. Her lipstick is the is freshly applied and glossy. 

“I see you got all cleaned up, Bladie,” her voice is silken and smooth. He could drown in it. “Was our little pup helpful?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Good.” Kafka hums. Her heels click against the floor, and she takes a place next to you. Even as the mattress dips, you don’t stir. “You’re so helpful with training them. Good boy.” 

Blade pauses his petting of you to glare and grunt at Kafka. She looks delighted. 

“I wasn’t aware I was assisting with any sort of training.” 

“It’s all implicit. As long as they’re getting comfortable, that’s what counts. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything else.” 

Blade doesn’t like that answer.  

“I don’t want to see them hurt,” Blade says. 

“That’s sweet of you.” 

“I mean it, Kafka.” 

“I know, I know.” Kafka laughs. She sighs and falls into the bed, over the cushy duvet. She spoons you, flattening herself to your back and winding her arms around your waist. Your brow wrinkles and a little whimper scratches from your throat. “I’d like to see our new puppy kept in one piece too, Bladie. I’ve grown quite fond of them. However, we are both beholden to Destiny. If one of Elio’s scripts—” 

“I know.” Blade snaps. 

He does not want to think about it. 

His hand that had been petting you winds tightly into your hair and your face scrunches up.  

“Listen, Bladie, everything’s alright. You’re okay.” Kafka soothes, dropping a kiss onto your cheek. It leaves a smear. Kafka works Blade’s hand out of your hair. “Be good and keep them company while I give Elio a mission report.” 

“That’s what I have been doing.” 

“Then, keep it up.” 

Kafka rolls out of bed with a sigh, not a hair out of place. She leaves the room almost soundlessly, the door clicking as it relocks. Five times. 

Blade does as Kafka says. He keeps you company, sinking down into the mattress beside you. He wipes away the lipstick left over your cheek and presses a kiss to the spot. He lingers there.  

Kafka can have— a lot of him. But, perhaps, he will covet you, all for himself.  

(If the Mara in his mind had not been suppressed, perhaps he would have heard: 

(FOOL FOOL FOOL! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU COVET AND CLING? DO NOT FORGET YOUR SINS! DO NOT FORGET HIS SINS—!) 

Instead, his mind is quiet. He pulls you closer and sleeps. Space is dead around him, and you are dead to the world in his undying arms. 

Blade thinks he likes when you bathe with him.  

[decayical]

✦ ── SOFTLY, SWEETLY !

❝ blade loves you, he will never stop loving you . ❞

01 notes: i literally have nothing to put here like ever ... this was my first time writing soft dom im pretty sure i hope it's ok 🙏🙏

02 tags: praise kink, dumbification, unintentional edging, a bit angsty a but fluffy if you squint, creampie, afab/gn reader, puppy/sweetheart/baby used as pet names, blade is called bladie :3

03 mdni blogs do not interact! a minor wrote this. word count 848

“so pretty, so pretty, so pretty, so pretty, fuck—so pretty, just for me.”

blade let out a soft whimper as he continued to thrust gently into you, his tongue slightly lolling out of his mouth as he stared into space. he probably didn't even realize how tangled up he and you were in the blankets, because all on his mind was you, you, you. your pretty face, your flushed cheeks, your soft thighs and the oh-so-heavenly way you squeezed around his fat cock.

though, to be fair, it's not like you were much better—despite blade's slow movements, the drag of his cock along your walls was enough to fuck you dumb, making your head fuzzy in the best way possible. you had been teetering on the edge of a climax for so long you became much more sensitive than usual, and even though you desperately wanted to cum you still love, love, loved the feeling—being beneath him, completely at his mercy.

blade tilted his head down to connect your tongue to his, the sloppy kiss being the only thing to ground you as he let out a pretty little moan, snapping his hips into yours just once, but it was enough to make you squeal and writhe around under his hold. in that moment, he was so deep inside of you that his tip was probably kissing your cervix from how full you felt, the unfamiliar sensation quickly becoming too much as you arched your back, trying to make sense of the situation.

blade cursed internally, shushing you and pressing comforting kisses all over your exposed neck to distract yourself from the sudden pain. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, my love…” he continued to whisper to you, resuming his slow, sensual movements as he started to rub your clit with a calloused thumb.

you squealed again, your back arching as tears pricked the corner of your eyes and you reached out to tug at his hair. “blade, blade, ‘s too big! too much, hurts, fuck, more, so—ah—so full…”

blade let out a soft chuckle, his thumb doused in your arousal moving up to caress your cheek. “you're not making any sense, puppy. is it too much or not?” he asked teasingly, licking your jaw. “like that, yeah? right here?” his thrusts suddenly got more aggressive again, but not like he was trying to stab you with his dick—they were sharp, the thrusts inward so fast you could barely process what was happening, but he'd drag his cock out of your slick walls so painfully slow a frustrated moan left your mouth.

“blaaaade,” you whined, toes curling as your legs wrapped around his waist, “love you…”

blade’s chest panged with a sort of emotion he was unfamiliar with, yet somehow the sensation felt nostalgic to him at the same time. “oh, baby,” he cooed, tucking a strand of hair away from your face, “i love you too. taking me so well, hmm? ‘s just like you were made for this dick.”

his musings made your heart flutter as your cheeks burned up, you nodded vigorously in agreement as he moved his hands to pin your wrists above your head. “mm, yeah made f’ you, made just f’ you, bladie.”

you let out this bright smile that always seemed to make blade's day, and you nuzzled the forearm and hand that was close to your head. you peppered kisses all over his scarred wrists, feeling his hands twitch and tighten over your own.

“fuck, i—i love you.” blade's head swam, the coil in his stomach tightening as he let out another shy moan. “gonna let me cum inside you, pretty? gonna let me make you all mine?”

you whined, wiggling your hips to get more friction. “c–close,” was the only thing you managed to say, but to blade it was good enough.

“we cum together,” he mumbles, hand gently grazing your jaw as he kisses you softly, deliciously. he never once changed his pace, always keeping it slow, soft, firm, but it was still enough to have his thighs twitching and your walls fluttering around him, the comfort in each other more than enough.

you came first, letting out a high-pitched squeal as you tightened around him and your fluids covered the base of his dick. blade's eyes fell closed, he muttered “fuck”, before thrusting into you just once more before he let you milk his cock. he kept on moving, trying to prolong both of your orgasms, shaky breaths leaving his chest and he whined. his release filled you to the brim and then started to spill out, truly a mesmerizing sight.

his hands let go of yours and shyly, you reached for his neck, delving into a kiss. his tongue glided over yours, tasting everything you had to offer. “so good for me,” he whispered, trailing your jaw with his fingers.

“fuck… again, bladie,” you whined, moving to rile him up. “‘gain, please? wan’ your cock.”

blade huffed. “you have that, sweetheart.” he grabbed your jaw to make you look directly into his eyes. “you have that and more.”

[rinneverse]

࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞! — 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆. ˒ ⊹

syn. bladie brainrot. he is the only man ever. pair. blade x f!reader cw. biting / fem reader / p in v / exhibitionism (?) (they bone in an empty alley) / just a lil thirst i'm so very normal and sane about bladie note. blade my beloved. hes in my brain always. i meant to stay under 300 words but then it got a little bit out of hand—regardless, i hope u enjoy ♡. i love blade RAHHHHHHH

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

blade is not gentle in the way he loves you.

he's rough around the edges, and perhaps a little too possessive for his own good. he likes to press your buttons, rile you up and push you until you break. it drives you mad.

you still can’t help but be drawn to him, though; his aloof manner is alluring and the glint in his eyes is dangerous. and oh, watching him in battle—the flex of his biceps, the almost graceful way in which he brutally takes his enemy down—you think find yourself entranced.

and when it’s all said and done, blade still has so much pent up energy left. it’s almost like clockwork: he takes down his final enemy and then is whisking you away once the other stellaron hunters take over the scene. you can see kafka and silverwolf share a knowing glance and your face grows warm in embarrassment.

blade was insatiable.

the moment he gets you alone he’s already mouthing at the sensitive skin of your neck, canines pressing against the flesh almost like a warning—a reminder that he could so very easily pierce with them—and you find yourself thinking that you wouldn’t even mind.

his tongue laves up your jugular, drawing a sweet moan from your lips as he sucks a hickey right on your pulse point. blade knows exactly what gets you going and he does not intend to waste a single second.

a breathy sigh of your name against your neck, rough hands trailing down your sides to stop at your hips and give them a squeeze, blade wants to devour you. he slides a hand under the fabric of your skirt, pushing your panties to the side to expertly rub circles on your sensitive clit. he drinks in the moans you let out in a kiss, a heated exchange that melts your core and sends shivers down your spine.

"blade," you whine. "more.. need more."

he hums, crimson eyes glinting in the darkness of the alleyway as he turns you around, pressing you against the cold wall. it wasn't uncommon to have blade take you wherever and whenever he wanted, especially when he grows pent up—like he was now.

you hear rustling, and in seconds you feel the fat head of his cock prodding at your soaked cunt. your lips fall open in a quiet gasp as you feel him stretch you out, the familiar ache of him splitting you open a welcome one. you hear him let out a harsh sigh behind you, his lips attaching to your neck once again.

and there he takes you. his thrusts are harsh and his grip on your hips is bruising, but you wouldn't have it any other way. he leaves dark bruises along your neck and collar, marks of his possession over you that the sight of alone sends him into a frenzy.

blade is not a gentle lover. but he is an attentive one—he doesn't stop until you're crying from the pleasure, making sure he and he alone is the only thing on your pretty little cock drunk mind.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

[jean0farc]

LONG-TERM EFFECTS OF SUFFERING

Blade X Reader | 1.8k

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: gothic lit, dark fantasy, eventual smut.

𝖈𝖜: none, as of the moment.

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘:

“When will death come for me? My patience is wearing thin.”

A skilled swordsman, hunter, and consumer of blood, Blade’s name is feared with a body count of over fifty thousand deceased hunters in the battlefield. From hundreds of enemies, he stood amongst other Stellaron Hunters for his ability to ingest blood and guts of mere mortals, something not expected of his kind. Kafka knows this, in fact all his fellow hunters and swordsmen have long figured out his insatiable hunger for the weak and frail.

But in spite of his endless meals since he found the world, he has embarked on a personal quest. That is, to find the perfect mate worth consuming (and perhaps, killing) for the sake of lifting the curse that brought about his immortality.

Blade never played soft with his intentions, and he never portrayed himself as a sweet man with whom he went in for the kill. He was never gentle, not even in his pursuit of the little old you—a fragile princess protected by the security of your father’s kingdom.

You were but a princess confined to four walls for you held on a special ability which was able to slowly kill whoever got ahold of you. After accidentally poisoning your soon-to-be husband in a wedding, your father decided to lock you far away in his other castle, doomed to never experience the beauty of marriage or intimate affairs.

Blade craved death far more than you needed air to breathe, and upon Kafka’s discovery of your existence, she alerts him of a potential cure to his immortality—your soul.

The man himself keeps this in mind, and will stop at nothing but to hunt you down, granting he draws his final breath after one night with you.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

Just a heads up, because I have yet to admit this, but I don’t, and actually never played Honkai Star Rail. So perhaps you can expect some OOC Blade and canon divergence, though I also did some research. However, seeing this man made me go through some kind of brainrot. It’s official. I have the HOTS FOR THIS MAN. So I cooked up this fic.

Minors and ageless blogs don’t interact. I whipped this up last minute because I have a lot of spare time with my hands.

Not proofread. No beta we die like men!

CHAPTER ONE — CHAPTER TWO.

Chapter One || Haunted By Yours Truly

“Bladie…..ravaging your opponent at this point may seem a little….uncalled for. Perhaps you should take some time off.”

A tall, dark-haired man bent over to take a closer inspection of the body laid before him. Stretching out his arm forward to check on the corpse’s eyes, they turned out to be rolled all the way back, signifying that the body was lifeless indeed. Going by the name Blade, he looked up at his fellow Stellaron Hunter Kafka with those ferocious, feisty eyes of crimson hue.

“And what if I don’t?”

Kafka’s smile dropped, Blade hinting at the slightest sign of annoyance as she kept watch on his every move.

“Bladie….we can’t be stuck around dwelling on what’s already been ruined.” Kafka sighed. “You’re out for the princess, remember?”

“Suit yourself. I have yet another soul to devour, should death approach me upon consuming it. Out of my way.”

Thick air engulfed the dark hallways, Blade and Kafka standing before corpses that laid bare on the floor as a result of their attack on your beloved kingdom. After single-handedly killing almost every guard with their lethal weapons, they ensured no one shall be spared. That is, if it means finding the antidote to lifting Blade’s curse.

He was far too stubborn, just far too stubborn. Blade leaned closer onto the corpse’s neck, locating sensitive areas worth having his teeth to sink in. He searched far and wide for an erogenous zone with minimal difficulty, marking his territory by entering a halt once he found the right spot. His face leaned closer to the corpse’s neck in a rather intimate distance; the heat of his breath felt upon as he opened his mouth wide open.

And in that moment, Blade’s sharp canines sank and buried itself into the thin layer of skin. He bit hard enough in a way that sent piercing, prickling pain to the receiver, granting the corpse was still alive to feel the sensation. The approach was harsh, without falter. His teeth sank under and bit hard enough to draw blood. What wasn’t there, however, is its ability to kill upon consumption.

Blade dipped his tongue onto the wound, savoring the beads of blood that leaked out of the fresh cut. Bleh. The taste was nasty, leaving no room for Blade to keep suckling further. Instantly pulling away, he coughed at the sight of the mess he just caused.

“Too much iron. Not a good sign.” Blade scoffed. “Not the best way to bring about the limits of the flesh.”

“Bladie, we don’t wanna waste time. If all you’re searching for is the cure for your condition, I believe it is best if we start looking elsewhere for the princess.” Kafka announced.

“Tch. Fine. But convince me the search will be worth it.”

Kafka and Blade left the blood-stained halls as they embarked on a mission to find remnants of your presence. It was quite a long and tedious journey, traveling across different regions for the sake of finding a worthy cause for Blade’s incoming death.

It was but a miracle that Kafka has established some connections with the divine and spiritual—she recently made friends with a wandering witch amongst the people who told her of a possible cure to immortality. Upon remembering her comrade, she made it an essential task to tell Blade of the good news. Not even the members of the Astral Express knows about this plane of existence, but since Kafka believed helping Blade gave her a sense of fulfillment, she made it a goal to seek an antidote if it meant risking certain abilities. Thankfully, there was not much required of her upon meeting and consulting the witch for help.

“No one here,” Blade observes. “It seems as if this place is abandoned. Not even the Aeons know what happened in these ruins.”

“Let’s just keep searching, alright, Bladie?” Kafka winked.

“Halt!” yelled a guard who stormed out of nowhere.

Blade drew his sword, ready to charge his blade towards the guard only to suddenly stop upon an interjection.

“Wait, please!” the guard retorted. “I can explain!”

“Oh?” Kafka crossed her arms, smiling. “Very well, Bladie, let’s hear this man out, shall we?”

“If…..if you’re looking for the king and his daughter, they’ve moved to another castle!”

“Pfffft. Is that so?” Blade sneered. “Well then, show me the ropes. Where can I find this kingdom?”

“I-It’s….it’s located on the far north within the Xianzhou Loufu, I-I promise it’s not too far away! I’ve pers-“

“Enough talk. Let’s go, Kafka.”

“Wait, about the princess!” the guard exclaimed. “The princess is currently on lockdown, so it’ll be forbidden to visit her chamber, just a heads up!”

“Whatever. We’ll make sure to have a word with her.” Blade replied.

“But you don’t understand! If you try courting the princess, the king will kill you! I could go on about how the princess’ father is quite strict! He’ll come after you if you ever tried to harm his daughter!”

“Tch. Whatever. Let’s go.”

The guard’s wails waned as Blade and Kafka left the halls, footsteps echoing amidst the darkness. The sun set hours ago, the castle’s windows lighting up to mark the sight of night engulfing the sky like a wide blanket. Inside the castle were you and your father. You wore a cream-beige gown that faded to white at its base, much to your father’s choice of clothes. It’s not like you had any other choice, your father prohibited you from wearing anything skimpy and revealing, so as to not attract the eyes of unwanted men.

“Daddy, am I going to bed this early? I’m thinking it’s a bit too early.” you asked. “What if I’m not all that sleepy?”

“Your mother said so.” your father, the King of Xianzhou Luofu, replied. “While she’s out of town, you better meet her expectations of getting the most rest, for you shall need that energy when you reign Queen.”

“I’m not that sleepy,” you retorted. “I’m sure she’ll understand that. It’s not like I’ll loiter around the kingdom again.”

“You don’t get it, [Name].” your father frowned, looking at you with a dead serious expression on his face. “After you were scheduled in marriage with the man who has kissed you with his bare lips, his slow, agonizing death was uncalled for. We do not want to risk the lives of other men as well as your womanhood.”

“Is it….is it because of my special ability, dad? Why was I cursed with it anyways? Why am I cursed with poisoning whoever gets a taste of me?”

Your father was bombarded with numerous questions. He didn’t want to spill the secret there and then, but he had to. He bowed his head and started to speak hesitantly as you could only helplessly stare at him with that innocent curiosity.

“Fine, I’ll tell you everything.” your father frantically spoke. “Me and your mother…..were unable to conceive a child. It was obligatory for us to preserve the bloodline, so we had to contact a witch to actually carry out a remedy. She stated that provided we are granted a child, we must face the consequences—it is that you will be cursed with a fatal kiss that can only be healed through the right man’s touch. We were also reminded to never tell anyone of this curse, if we do not want to face bad luck.”

“And it turned out that the man I married during my wedding wasn’t the right one?” you asked.

“I’m afraid so. It is but a rare condition, I can’t imagine having to deal with such a burden. So hear this, you’re better off without anyone as of this moment. We are still on the lookout for offering you the right man to be your husband.” your father replied.

“Are we finished yet, miss [Name]?” a servant appeared from behind.

“Ah! Yes, yes…..!!!!”

“By the way, there’s a gift waiting for you outside the palace, my Lord. I assume it’s one of your favorite drinks.” the servant said, tapping the shoulder of your father. “Blueberry champagne.”

“Ah, hand it over, please. I’ll drink it before bed.” your father requested. “Who might be this guest?”

“I’m afraid there is no label from where the product came from,” the servant replied. “But a commoner called Kafka introduced herself before delivering it to the castle’s main entrance.”

“Very well then, might I invite Kafka to stay here some time. I would like to thank her for knowing my taste in liquor.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The servant left, leaving you and your father to dine. The conversation was pretty much nothing out of the ordinary—it was just another day of being showered with wealth and splendor exclusively celebrated by the royal families. You immediately got up from the dining area after a heartfelt interaction with your father, rushing to your room and changing into sleepwear. Your father always liked buying you dainty chemises, for he believed they suited your doll-like figure best.

Sounds of plates and glasses were being arranged along with other miscellany as the clock struck ten o’ clock. A princess like you was recommended at least ten hours of sleep, as to get rid of your dark circles and to prep you up for your everyday, luxurious skincare routine. It was only a week after you and your father moved castles. He spent all his wealth trying to cast you away from unwanted men peeking at you, let alone court you. Your father was surely an overprotective man who didn’t want his daughter engaging in unlawful acts, provided every man you hooked up with ended up poisoned.

The servants have already rushed to their rooms after a long day of tending to the dishes. You didn’t wait until midnight to drift off to sleep, it was only ten thirty when your eyes sealed shut without a care in the world. Your father was the one that stayed up, his sleeping schedule remaining inconsistent. But it wasn’t as if it mattered. After all, he makes the rules of his own castle.

A man of muscular, yet lanky frame took notice of your father still at the dining table from the windows. This man was revealed to be the one who has purchased a bottle of your father’s favorite champagne, your father not knowing it was drugged with a powerful sleeping pill.

“Ah, more glasses of champagne, please.” your father requested.

“As you wish, my Lord.” complied another servant.

Fizzy bubbles of champagne filled the glass, offered to the King like the drunkard he was becoming. The servants didn’t care much, some of them chuckling at the King’s gullibility. The lights at the dining table were dimly lit, and it wasn’t long before the King fell asleep, drugged at the dining table.

[bonkingcat]

laios’ shirt fighting for it’s life

[mochinoodle]

Do you have any advice for someone starting a character centric blog? Not on a daily basis no, but just in general? Maybe just needing a lil reassurance but wanted to dap my own feet into these waters,, like been liking that one character for over 5 yrs but now it feels like any oocness might crumble this ny resolve. Also big shout out to your mspaint bladie doodles they're very fun! keep doing what you do!

Hi anon!! I'm glad you like my silly doodles! If you want to create a character-centric blog then go ahead! There's no problem if you can't post on a regular basis, it is something you do for *yourself* even if you share it to others, it shouldn't turn into a chore. Remember that it's *your* blog and as such it's *your* safe space: you can go haywire with headcanons, theories, aus, sharing your art (and others' art too as long as you get permission to repost if you want to) and even redesigns, as long as you have fun! A character will always have different interpretations of them, especially if they're from a big fandom, but there isn't a right or wrong, and having takes that might seem ooc to others is completely fine. There's no opinion that's more or less valid than another! It's impossible to please everyone, but you shouldn't let the audience decide the content of *your* internet space. It's more of a matter of being selective of who is not allowed into your blog and who you can have a constructive interaction with.

That being said, I hope you have fun creating content for your favorite character <3

[silverwolf-official]

How do I change the background color.

-@blade-official-hsr

oh you wanna customize your blog? do you want help with like the header image part or the theme/colors

i can help either way but which one do u need bladie

[blades-bundle]

Welcome to the Stellaron Hunters, Trailblazer.

Hello, you can call me Blade/Bladie. I'm 18, and my pronouns are Xe/They/He/It/Neos. I write content for Honkai Star Rail on this blog. ----------------------------- What I will write: - Fluff - Angst - x Reader (Of any gender, but I typically do not do she/her pronouns unless specifically requested.) - Spice (Slight Smut but not super explicit) - SAHSR (Self-Aware Honkai Star Rail) - Headcanons What I won't write: - Smut (Yet) - Deaddove - P*do things - *nc*st - Anything I refuse

DNI: - Proshippers - Racist - Sexist - Under 13 - Homophobic - Ableist (Author is Neurodivergent.) - A p*do - Other basic DNI criteria - Fakeclaimers (Or people who don't believe DID/OSDD exist. You are not welcome here.)

----------------------------- Tags: #bladie_reblogs (Self explanatory) #blades_banter (For random blurbs of thought) #bladie_posts (For my usual posts) #blades_updates (Life updates. Mostly for if I go on Hiatus.) -----------------------------

Anons: None yet

[lorelune]

hell is a hound without a chain

|| blade x gn!reader || M || yandere wolf hybrid blade || wc: 3.8k  || ao3 ||

A bite is quite a burden.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: folds hands man ... hybrid blade is sure something. i chewed on this au for a minute because truly hybrid blade is such a flavor. a toothy one. enjoy loves!!

CW: dark content, hybrid AU, wolf hybrid blade, yandere blade, reader is not a hybrid, biting, claiming bites, caretaking, victim blaming, injured reader, references to reader drinking casually

You ache.

Your neck hurts.

It’s hurt for the past few days, and you imagine it will continue to hurt for the next several weeks, considering that Blade is not allowing you to heal in any meaningful capacity.

You sit on the bathroom counter, a bit teary-eyed, with Blade standing between your legs. A scented candle sputters on a small shift. Blade’s tail swishes. Annoyed. Ears twitching and jaw locked. There’s a first aid kit open beside you and it's running low on gauze and antibiotic ointment.

You sniffle as Blade pats at the wound on your neck. He’s being… gentle. For him anyway. The contact and disinfectant still sting and you hiss at the sensation and jerk away.  

Blade stills.  

"I’ll bind you again." His hand cups your jaw— too tightly. "Would you like to force my hand?"

"No, n-not really.” You sound pathetic. You want to cry. You probably will. "It hurts. I'm sorry."

Blade sighs but doesn't press you. He trades the disinfectant for a slather of ointment and prepares a gauze pad. The piece he cuts is larger than normal. It’s the size of his palm. You suppress the urge to feel for the wound on your neck and check its size and depth. You haven't gotten a good look at it yet. Judging by the red stain soaking down the front of your shirt, it’s a worse wound than normal. 

Blade has made it a routine to freshen the bite mark on your neck at least once a week. He always sinks his teeth into the same spot while other, less severe marks decorate your throat and shoulders (and chest and stomach and thighs, but those are easier to dismiss.) The mark he worries the most, the one that you know he associates with some animalistic claim, is on your side, broken flesh splitting where your neck meets your shoulder.

...

You first... 'earned' it after leaving Blade to his own devices for a weekend. 

It was just a beach trip with a few friends. Kafka encouraged it— you needed to stretch your legs. ‘Bladie’ as she so affectionately referred to your hybrid, was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was doing so long before you came into the picture and formally offered your home up to him. Besides, he’d had several months to settle into your home, hadn’t he? Kafka goaded you into accepting a “well-deserved” break. Himeko seemed... hesitant about the arrangement at the time. She warned that hybrids can get a bit prickly about being left alone, even if they are independent. 

("They tend to hold grudges.")

The trip was a mistake. 

It had been a lovely weekend. Kafka had thrown her card down for a beachside cabana at a resort. Drinking sweet fruity cocktails, lounging in the sun, and generally relaxing. It was... nice to be out and not worried about Blade. He knew where you were. He had a phone with an internet connection that he knew he could use, and he didn't bother to contact you. You figured he was enjoying the break from his typical vigilance. Perhaps he was enjoying not having an owner to stalk around and guard.

You were wrong. Wildly.

The moment you arrived home (you hadn't even set your bags down—), Blade was on you. Pressed into your own door, he growled and spat that you smelled “wrong”. You asked him what he meant— you nervously joked you could take a quick shower and make dinner. Whatever he wanted. Your voice had trembled, and your breath had started coming too quickly. 

His gaze pierced you a moment later, a growl ripping from his mouth, lips curling back. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the way he grabbed your jaw, jerked your head to the side, and buried his teeth in your neck. He covered your mouth with his palm when you screamed. Muffled any shout or cry for help. You knew Blade was strong, but you hadn't ever realized how strong. You were immobilized between him and his teeth and the door.

By the time he withdrew and lapped at the wound he'd made, you were sobbing, scrambling to get away, run, shut yourself in your room, and try to figure out how the fuck to handle this situation—   but Blade hadn't let you far. He cleaned the wound first with his tongue, then a damp rag, then dressed it properly as has become routine. He carried you to bed and curled around you. Arms locked around your waist, legs tangled. It would’ve been sweet if he was your lover.

(But, he is not. He is a wolf you foolishly allowed into your home.)

The reality of your situation began to sink in then. Slowly. Bit by bit. 

Blade freshens the bite about once a week, give or take. If he's feeling antsy, it's less. If you're more compliant, more tethered to home, or dare to take him in public with you, he leaves it alone. Allows it to almost heal before digging his canines into the rapidly thickening layers of scar tissue.

It's awful of him, but you don’t think he'll ever stop now that he's intent on marking you. You had been stupid to think of yourself as anything other than a claim to him, hadn't you?

A few tears drip down your cheeks as Blade secures the dressings. He dabs them away with the side of his finger, careful not to scratch you with his blackened claws. He brackets you in on your sides. He tips his forehead against yours and deflates.

"Bed," he says. It's something akin to a request. He'll take you there, anyway, but being given a warning feels like a luxury.

"Okay." Your voice is quiet. Scratchy from shrieking against his palm less than an hour before.

Blade scoops you up and ferries you to bed. He pauses to throw an extra blanket onto his... nest (even if it's on your bed). It’s a quilt he favors, worn through but soft. His preference for it would be endearing under different circumstances. 

He runs a hand through your hair, trailing his touch down to the wet collar of your shirt, “You need to change. You’re dirty.”

As is routine, he pulls your shirt off as you squirm. You lightly shove at his chest, if only to make yourself feel better. Resist a little for your own pride, despite knowing it’s useless. Your modesty doesn’t matter to Blade (not if it’s just him and you in the room. He’s permitted himself to your skin in the most non-traditional ways.) Regardless, you aren’t bare for long. He replaces your shirt with his own. It’s warm and too big. His frame is almost inhuman, and it gapes around your shoulders.

Blade cajoles you to the headboard and lets you fuss a bit along the way. He sits behind 

you and settles you between his thighs. The knit blanket is pulled over your lap and his arms wind around your waist, unyielding. Locking you there. Blade tucks his face into your neck on the... less injured side. He scents you there with a half-there growl. 

You rub at your puffy eyes. Your chest hurts.

"You need to rest." Blade tells you. He tells you this often. He's more in tune with your physical state than you are these days, so you appreciate the reminders. You feel half out of your body. 

"... Oh yeah?" you laugh, voice wobbly. "I should, huh? Don't I need to make dinner?"

"Unnecessary." Blade replies. He squeezes you. "You need to rest, first. I will prepare a meal."

"... Sure." Blade doesn’t do particularly well in the kitchen. "I can rest, then cook, okay? If you can wait that long? Otherwise, I can cook then rest later too—"

Then Blade really growls. It’s the kind that you feel between your ribs and makes you go stiff. His mouth opens, too hot against the fragile skin near your neck, and the points of his canines rest. Idle. You start to shake. 

"You will rest." Blade tells you. "I... went too harshly on you. You are weak. You need to rest. I will cook so you do not need to. I cannot guarantee that it will be any good, but you should not be on your feet."

You laugh. something rotten curls in your belly.

There’s care in the way that Blade speaks about you. He rarely speaks in such a forward way— it’s hard for him. You can hear how he struggles between certain words. How the sentences are harder for him to construct. The sentiment of care is not easy for him. This makes sense— as he is a wolf that has you in his jaws. There is not care in slaughter. An animal’s claim is just that. A claim. Baseless. Primal. A twitch that follows an instinct, maybe. 

Hearing him say things that could be kind makes you want to vomit.

You dig your nails into Blade's forearms. His hold constricts.

"Why would you care?" You snap. "Don't act like you give a shit about my wellbeing, as if you didn't just take a fucking chunk out of me."

It's the wrong thing to say. You know this. It’s better to not anger him. But it's hard to care when you’re this tired and worn down. Self-preservation is an afterthought. You feel spiteful, terrified tears burn your eyes. You wait for a wolf’s violence as Blade tenses and goes still behind you.

Preparing for the kill, you presume.

Instead, however, his mouth closes, and soft lips press into your throat. No teeth. No apparent ire. No mouthy attitude. And he stays quiet. Somehow drags you closer into the solid, warm line of his front. He is solid, maybe a little softer than when he first moved in with you. 

"My mark on you is protection, even if you do not realize it." Blade tells you. You figured as much, but it doesn't justify it. "Anyone who smells or sees you knows that you are claimed."

"Yeah, so everyone knows I've got some bully of a wolf at home, ready to tear my throat out?"

(You've read his file, you know he's capable of it.)

"I wouldn't." Blade's voice grates, low and angry. “I... I wouldn't. Not to you."

"If you say so."

"I mean it." He punctuates it with a kiss. He's half-hard against your lower back and you swallow. "I... I do not know how else to convey to you that you are cared for. That you are mine."

(You’re not sure you believe him. There are other, crueler ways he could. On your more anxiety-ridden nights, you’re grateful that Blade’s touch hasn’t strayed there. Never. He hasn’t ever touched you like that, with that part of him. Anything below your neckline is all teeth and tongue. Violence is his language of physicality, you've found. Pleasure he seems foreign to.)

"I'm yours?" You dig your nails in and his tail slaps the bed. good. You'll bear the consequences later. Best to get it all out of your system. "When did I agree to this?"

Blade thinks, for a moment. You doubt he'll be able to find when you did agree because you haven't.

"You allowed me into your home. Bed. I wear a collar with your name on it when I must leave this place." Blade tells you. His hand cups your chin, turning your face toward his, and his nails tease over your cheeks. "What did you think all of that meant?"

Your stomach drops. 

"... A kindness?"

“An offering." He corrects. He noses into your jaw, scenting again. His touch drifts under your soft shirt, resting over your tummy. "One that was accepted."

"Oh."

It hits you. All of it. Awareness is like being dunked in ice water, suffocating on it, and throwing it back up. Kafka had once warned you that hybrids think so differently from humans. You figured the differences would be... obvious. Easy to sort through.

You were, once again, so wrong.

You want to tell Blade that that's not what you meant. That you opened your home and heart because he was a beaten down stray who clearly needed a home— one where he was the only one of his kind. Where he had the attention he needed to thrive, and the space to do so too. That you signed your name on the necessary paperwork not as a proposition but as a gesture of care. 

In the same moment, you realize that even if you do tell all of this to Blade, it wouldn’t matter. This misunderstanding has been steeping for months beyond your control. You feel stupid. Foolish. So naive it hurts. There’s a bite mark dug into the flesh of your neck that will never really scar. If Blade can help it, it will never fully heal. You’ll bear it bloody... forever. 

“You smell wrong.” Blade huffs against your neck. He squeezes over your hips, rubbing little circles into the soft flesh.

Can he smell when you’re upset?

Probably. Blade always got particularly cagey when you would return home from the rare trip into the office. You were always exhausted, on edge, and overstimulated from a full day of endless everything. Blade would follow you around on those days, never letting you out of his sight. He’d wrap you up in blankets from his bed. Shove you in his clothes. Hand-fed you in his lap despite the fact his hands were too big and arthritic. 

Was that care? 

(So, so clearly.)

You don't realize you're on the verge of tears until you open your mouth to speak and nothing comes out but a wounded, awful cry. Like you're the pained animal and not Blade. 

"Hush." Blade tells you. He smooths your shirt— his shirt over your front, over your chest in a way that makes your breath hitch and squirm uncomfortably. He’s burning hot against your back. "You are safe. You can rest now."

Is that care?

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes. They’re angry, tired, and sad all at once. You try to suck them down the best you can.

Blade pulls you at you, sinking you into the sheets. He spoons you, flush against your back, hot and soft in all the ways that matter. You bury your face into your pillow when he runs a soothing, clawed hand up and down the back of your neck.

For a moment, you consider your options. It’s immediately overwhelming. Defeating. 

You know that there is nothing you can do about your position. You could rear up, slap Blade, and scramble for the door. There are organizations. Sections of government that handle situations like this. You might be able to get to your phone. At least text someone that things have gotten out of hand.

You also know that Blade would not allow this. He'd not allow you out of bed, let alone this room. He'd have you pinned, belly to the bed with a hand dug into your hair to brace you there. He'd let you squirm and kick and scream. He'd bruise you in return— leave his own marks. another set of molted hickeys across your shoulders.

He'd probably push at the freshly bloodied claim on your neck too. Never mind that he just patched you up. 

It's hopeless, and the knowledge hits you so hard that you feel winded. You scramble against the bed to grab onto the sheets, and you cry. It’s in your chest. You sob and cry so hard it hurts. The sounds you are making are ugly and broken. The feeling between your eyes is burgeoning into an acidic headache, and your mouth is somehow dry even as you get spit on the soft sheets. 

Despair is not beautiful. It’s toxic and infecting. 

Despite this, Blade does not move away. He is steadfast, and curls overtop of you. He hushes you with his simple, curt words and a low rumble in his chest that's hard to identify. It soothes something in your hindbrain you wish you could kill. His lips press into your hair. His touch is solid, bruising, but not maiming

Violence... shouldn't be comforting.

And yet— yet it is. When the tears come slower, and morph into hiccups as you desperately try and catch your breath, Blade... helps, you realize. His mane of hair spills over your face, like a curtain to darken the room. His hand slips to your front, under your shirt once more so it's his palm against the clammy skin of your chest.

"Breathe." He tells you. It's a command. "Like this."

His hand strokes up and down, in time with his own slow, deep breaths. There's the terrifying edge of his claws, blackened and sharpened, but they never cut in enough to gore. Only enough to remind you that they’re sharp— to maim, to protect— (what’s the difference to a wolf like him?) You're drained, and you can only follow his lead, sucking in breaths that become more steady with each one.

There's nothing left in you by the time you settle. You're wrung out, emptied and so tired. It's clarifying, maybe. As Blade pets you into sleep, you shakily bring a hand to press over the covered, weeping wound in your neck. A full moon of teeth marks. Even the light touch aches.

Blade nips at your hand, nosing it away. 

(How terrible, really. To be cared for by a beast who believes love and violence are one in the same. How terribly idiotic of you to not notice. How... cruel of Kafka for never connecting the dots for you. You’re sure she must’ve taken note, at some point, of Blade’s claim on you and its implications. She was once in your position, but knowing her own disposition, Blade never took her like he’s taken you.)

(Himeko probably noticed as well. But, she’s the type to only step in if she thinks she can make a difference. She has her own self-preservation in mind, and you can respect that. Mostly. Perhaps she saw Blade’s claim taking shape and realized that a Wolf’s bite is not something she had the claws to interfere with. She has her own hybrids to take care of. You ignored her words of caution in the beginning when she first offered them.)

(It’s hard to fault her.)

(And how can you fault Blade for his instincts? Perhaps you were too kind. You lacked caution— self-preservation— whatever you wish to call it. You put your own soft throat in the line of Blade’s bite. In retrospect, it’s frighteningly clear. It guts you. Over and over. The only thing that tethers you is Blade’s touch and breath against your neck. A reminder.)

(A reminder that you are his to tug and push and pull as he pleases. That he’ll leave bite marks where he desires, never to gore, but to show that you’re... protected.)

Isn’t there something alluring about that? 

It makes you shake all over again. It makes you muffle a fresh sob into your pillow and you beat your fists against the mattress. Blade lets out a growly word or two you can’t make out as he pins your wrists to the mattress.

It makes sense, now, why Blade always wanted to accompany you out on errands, if only to growl and bark at anyone who looked at you too long. You had thought he was just poorly socialized (partially true) — but he was snapping at strangers to make sure no one even thought of looking at you for too long. Let alone touch. Pursue. 

You have a hazy memory of a night at the cocktail bar. Kafka had asked you to come alone— ‘girls night’ again. Blade had given you the cold shoulder when you told him sheepishly that you’d be leaving him at home. Whatever alcohol dulls the memory, but you can recall Blade had thrown you over his shoulder the moment you had come home. You swayed and slurred your words and Blade looked ready to gut you. He threw you in bed, tore off the pretty dress that he had said was “far too revealing” and shoved you into one of his sleepshirts without listening to a single one of your protests. Your fighting and punching didn’t deter him— it didn’t make him any more aggravated. 

(“You’re stupid.” Blade had told you, roughly wiping a soft cloth over your face. Makeup smears on the fabric. “Why are you out in the dark? How did you get home?”

“... You’re silly. I took a cab.” You tell him with a frown. You bat at his ears and Blade grabs your arms with such force you’re scared they’ll break. 

“You’re reckless.” Blade had growled in your ear. “Do you know what you invite when you’re in this state?” 

“... A hangover?” 

Blade had stared at you, fuming. The next moment, his teeth were embedded in your neck and a pillow was shoved over your face as you wailed. Your vision swam as he pulled away, lips and chin smeared red. 

Blood stains his teeth as he drags you up by the collar, and spits— “Do you know how many men would eat you alive like this?”)

You realize now that there was an implicit— “And I’m not there to keep it from happening.”

There’s comfort in it. You feel disgusting, but the roiling behind your eyes is cut by how warm Blade is behind you. That he’s good at patching the wound on your neck, and attentive when you let him be. 

If you really can't escape Blade and your mutual incidental claim... maybe it could be okay. There’s some assurance that Blade will not gore you, only tenderly hurt for the sake of some instinct you will never feel, but are coming to understand. He is honest too. His words are solid. He is too straightforward to mince his words. They are never a riddle. There's safety in being underneath him as you are now. 

There's safety in him. You almost cry again. He'll hurt you but never rend apart into pulp as you know he could. He'll sink his teeth in but as a claim. His slaughter is accompanied by care— for you. Slaughter inflicted on others is instinctual violence born from different baser needs. It hits you, like a blow to the chest, that whatever brutality he could inflict on you, is only a fraction of what he would inflict for you.

"Oh," you say, so softly, as you realize. You feel foolish all over again. 

Blade makes a contented sound against your nape. Mouthing at you. His palm is settled at the base of your throat. "Your kind can be so slow. Now rest."

You laugh, blurting it out into your buttery sheets. There are specks of blood dotting the cream fabric, new and old. Fresh and faded. 

You'll have to restock your first-aid kit.

[alchemiclee]

i've thought about making a side blog for my daily tiny scrunkly bladies, but I have 3 blogs and struggle to keep them all active, so I just decided to post them here on my main. but I also feel like that will deter people from paying as much attention to him. people would probably be more likely to follow a separate blog for him to keep up easily. no one wants to follow the mess that is this blog 🤣 i'm sure most people that enjoy him won't care about what else is on my blog and they won't want to look through it for him as he gets lost in my reblogs and posts.

I want him to be seen and enjoyed as much as possible because the whole reason I got him was to try to make people laugh/smile. and I really believe people really need more laughs and smiles in their lives!!!! don't know how well that will work if he drowns in my main, so maybe I should just do a separate one... 🤔 but that's more work for me and I don't really want to if i'm honest LOL

i'm only 3 pics in though....I could still make a separate blog...it's not too late yet. do I do it or just keep posting here???? I don't think I have enough followers to ask this question to, but what if I did a small poll anyway to see what happens:

(I hate that the only choices for poll time are 1 day and 1 week. I wanted 2 or 3 days 😅)

edit: i was reminded you can follow his tag "itty bitty bladie" for more, so that's an option as well. that might solve the whole issue 😆