#when Binghe was like SHIZUN I HATE U I WANT TO BE UR LUNGS AND BLOOD

[lickthehilt]

Yandere! Blade x Reader Drabble

T/W: violence and toxic relationships. Choking. Death (brief). Allusions to body horror. Not edited 💀

There’s a stillness to Blade as he watches you bleed out under him. Your blood is liquid sugar, nectar bled by fruit cultivated by years upon years of tenderness. He finds himself knelt above your body, cradling your head between one gloved and one bandaged hand—the bandages soaking up the blood pooling from your nose.

“Will you run for me?”

An irritated flicker gleams in your eyes, a wet sheen gathering to the corner where it cascades down your cheek. When it mixes with your blood, it turns to a pale pink that looks similar to the gradient of the tassel hanging by his coat.

“Not… today. No more,” you wheeze.

A finger twitches from where your hand is splayed, palm upwards, beside you. Leaning back he hums in a low grumble.

His gaze is sharp as it trails down your beaten body. You can’t see clearly through your wet gaze, but you can feel his finger tips dance across the flower-like bruises and cuts that had been made by the thrashing of his nails from your earlier tussle. You would rather be trapped in the prison cell of a panopticon than be subjected to his surveillance, his wonder and curiosity.

Underneath him, his touches, your body stitches itself back together. Your cells rejoin in waves, weaving together as if someone had sewn ladder stitches to every single open wound and had just pulled the sting taunt. Your streams of blood runs dry. Your chest heaves with air. Your eyes can focus on him once more.

He has your hands in his, roughened arms bringing them to his body. Your limbs are slack as he presses your palm against his chest; beneath your fingertips his heart races like the beat of show horses galloping against dry soil.

Your palm is now on his throat as he helps you to squeeze your fingers. His fingers press yours to dig into his flesh.

“Choke me.”

Finding your nerves, you clench. His skin is tough, but your grip is firm as you leverage your nails to anchor itself into him. Fighting against gravity, you roll to have the upper hand, to now pin him to the floor as he had done to you. A flush of anger pools at your ears, the blood dancing in your veins as you squeeze tighter and tighter.

“I wish to turn myself into liquid.” He gasps as he pulls his hand to cradle your wrist. “To enter your body.” There’s a sting of saliva dripping past his lips. His eyes shake in focus as he continues to look, to gaze. He looks at you as if you were death, eyes round. There’s a fantasy passing though his mind that you could bring him this salvation, be the one to bring him to- to- “if I were liquid— I would eat away at your lung to replace it, would train myself— augh— to become solid so you could no longer breathe without me.”

His free hand slaps gently at your waist, holding it in a tender grip. “Would you like me— hng— to be your rib instead? To be a bone that you could live without? But for me to be removed from your system— it would— ah— change you. The soreness— your body would be different.” There’s a pain at your waist as he squeezes. “When you press to where I once was— ugh— all you would feel— is the impression of me— where we were once— joined.”

The seconds seem to creep by as your grip shakes. A grin is at his lips as he watches your tender cheeks get coated in the salty liquid of your tears. It’s a chore to slam him to the ground, so you settle at bringing your body weight forward.

He gurgles and you imagine his veins popping under the lack of air flow, the rush of warm liquid pooling from his lips. They’d drip into your fingers and coat them in a glove of crimson. But you’d stare at him in envy, that the fact that death would be successful at cradling him. But that isn’t the case. It never is with the two of you.

He no longer looks at you as his eyes roll backwards and his body slackens. He speaks bullshit to you.

Your head swims in warmth as you slowly release him, eyes watering and the nerves of your fingertips buzzing. When your head meets his chest, you can hear his body stitching itself to work once more. It’s like clockwork hearing his heart start up as his popped lungs gather itself. When he takes his first breath, the sound of Kafka’s heels echo through your ears and entrances you to dream.

Tucked into each other like lovers is how Kafka finds the two of you.