allegory of the blade.

ceaseless-edge ✧ 25 ✧ she/her

dedicated to the furnace master, stellaron hunter, & novarch of strength, 刃.

∘─────✧₊∘ OVERVIEW

𖤝 blade-centric writing blog, featuring only blade/yingxing from the honkaiverse (hsr & hna)

𖤝 mainly fluff, comfort, & miscellaneous scenarios

𖤝 gender-neutral reader unless specified otherwise

𖤝 occasional 18+ content; will be tagged. tread accordingly

𖤝 inbox is currently OPEN. requests may normally be attended to around the end of the month

∘─────✧₊∘ NAVIGATION

𝐎𝐝𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞: fluff

𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: comfort

𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐈 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 (tba)

Aww, I see the vision!

I can imagine her skills rising to the surface and being made obvious very early on just like him as a boy, with her having inherited his sheer will and perseverance. At first Blade may be a little skeptical of the utility of her crafts, as simple and juvenile they may be, with all the added bells and whistles (sometimes literal bells and whistles). But of course he’s quickly proven wrong in his doubts when he actually sees her using them, or uses them himself, admiring the masterful make and perfectly-smelted material, not an imperfection in sight.

Thinking about blade with a reader who draws. Def not me or anything 🥺 especially focusing on how they both create now like.. bro imagine drawing out some design of some weapon or maybe something else idfk.. and blade making blueprints of it with you ouugghh couple activity goals fr

oh gosh yes! allow me to take this a somewhat silly route-

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

In different ways, both you and Blade are artists. You draw brilliant pictures—portraits, landscapes, abstract ideas, really anything that strikes your fancy, and Blade crafts weapons and everyday items for use.

So while your creations are limited to the paper, Blade has the ability to bring them to life on the anvil. It starts simple: you show him your ideas for new swords, and Blade studies the drawings and expands upon them through blueprints of his own.

“Close enough?” he’d ask you, gripping a sleek fencing sword in one arm that he’d just made from one of your sketches.

You’d grin and nod, touched that he’d even bothered to take the time and effort to bring your art to life. It had been a simple drawing, but it means a lot to you. “It’s a perfect copy.”

But of course, you want to push the boundaries further and see just how well your Bladie can rise to the challenge.

You approach him with a new drawing of yours eagerly. “Look here, Blade, it’s a sword that can spew flames for long-range attacks!” You hold up the drawing proudly. “Bet you can’t do that in reality.”

If you were expecting him to concede to that, you would be sorely mistaken, for Blade peers at the drawing, nose slightly scrunched in concentration, calculations evidently running behind his crimson eyes. Then, he leans back and nods.

“It would have to be a longsword or a claymore rather than a slim sword, but I can certainly affix an ignition core into it that generates flames based on the user’s kinetic energy.” He delves some more into the specifics of it, much to your enthusiasm, and so—

It’s no surprise when he does turn up with a flame-spewing longsword only a couple days later, his chin held high in pride.

Now it feels like a competition. You get to work drawing more inane weapons: a lightning-summoning boomerang, a sword that traps its foes in shadowy tendrils, and a bow that can summon snowstorms with a pluck of its string—that in particular should be impossible, right?

anyways I have a request if they're still open!

Bladie with a gn s/o that has wings. Pretty big ones. They're soft and warm.

He helps reader preen and clean their feathers and ends up falling asleep with his face in them because they're warm (..also maybe cuddles and kisses)

I think he'd be gentle with them tbh knowing that they're sensitive as heck

Thank u thank u anon! I try :]

As requested, Bladie with a winged s/o~

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

“You always do so much for me, Bladie.”

You tilt your head to gaze affectionately at your lover, who’s clasping an artificial beak-shaped comb he made himself for this very purpose. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from your wings, his brows slightly pinched in concentration. He hums in response.

“It’s nothing.” He continues preening your feathers with the care of a surgeon, one by one, making sure all the dirt is purged. There isn’t much to begin with, because Blade is always oh-so-meticulous when it comes to grooming your wings, but it’s a process he enjoys nonetheless. He’s the one who offers to do it before you even have to ask.

Smiling, you close your eyes and start to hum a tune you’re particularly fond of. It goes well with the delicate rhythm of his fingers softly stroking and cleaning your wings, and Blade, recognising the tune, finds himself humming along quietly as well.

You’ve never counted the feathers your wings are made up of, but there’s certainly so many. Anyone else would do more of a desultory preening, aiming for the feathers that seem visibly dirty, but not Blade. Patience has been his companion for centuries, and it’s evident in moments like these. Using the same meticulous methods for each individual feather, a slow and purposeful brush along the length of each, until he’s certain not a modicum of dust remains.

“A couple of feathers are loose. I’m going to remove them.” A pause as he kneels on one leg behind you. “Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

He says that every time, and every time you don’t feel a thing because he’s just so—so tender with you. So you nod and let him deal with the loosed feathers, fingers slowly, deliberately pulling at the ones slightly jutting out. As always, you don’t feel a thing, but Blade still pauses after each one just to make doubly sure.

“Keep going,” you urge him. “I’m not that fragile, you know!”

As a swordsmith, being meticulous runs in his blood—although where smithing requires precise strikes, this calls for quite the opposite. And he does it so well, you have to wonder if there’s anything he cannot do.

Finally, Blade is done. He sets the comb down and strokes your wings, almost pietistic in his ministrations, wonderment at these glossy appendages of yours. Soft, shiny, warm, and so so comforting. For both you and him.

Wordlessly, he moves round to your front and kisses your forehead, gathering you in his arms, his fingers still idly running through your clean feathers as he does.

“Thank you, Bladie.” You hug him back just as tight, enjoying the moment in such close contact; you barely notice when he shifts you so that you’re both laying down.

“You’re always welcome, flower.” He peppers your face in little kisses, his hands finding your wings once again, unable to resist their softness. You almost purr as he continues to caress them, folding them over yourself so he can have better access.

Blade, pleased, half-clambers over you so his head rests on them, that pillowy bed of feathers just for him, and he begins to kiss them as well, relishing in the occasional giggle he elicits from you.

He stays there, his hands moving slower and more languidly with each passing moment, until he’s gone still, save for the steady beat of his heart against you, palpable.

Your smile widens as you stroke his hair, his face buried there among your shiny, freshly-preened feathers. He’s gone and fallen asleep like this again.

Blade loathes this.

No, not this. He loves the bonds he’s created with his fellow Stellaron Hunters. They’re irreplaceable, far too significant to compromise on. And he’s gotten used to the precision that’s often called upon by the script, making sure not to tread further than required. Do what needs doing, then wait for further instruction, whenever it comes.

What Blade loathes is that the work he does means his time with you is often fleeting.

Most of his missions are far too dangerous to bring you along. His excursions to other planets take somewhere between days and weeks, occasionally even longer. And when he does find the time to seek a haven in your arms, he cannot afford to be seen, lest a target is drawn on your back.

He worries for you. Every single moment apart from you is like an individual nail being driven into his heart, crushing and consuming.

And despite it all, you never fail to greet him with an eager smile and hands that are always so soft and warm, just for Bladie.

It’s one such moment of respite that he’s with you, dried blood streaked on the side of his face (it’s not his, and he couldn’t wait to wash it off before seeing you). You had wasted no time in getting him cleaned up, and now he sits by you, curled against you so tightly his body might consume yours.

“In another life,” he sighs into your hand cupping his cheek, “I would spend every waking moment of mine with you.”

“That would be the dream,” you hum, smiling as he kisses your hand. “What would you be? A weaponsmith full-time?”

“Yes.” His phone buzzes. A message from Kafka, likely pertaining to his next script. It buzzes again. And again. But he doesn’t pick it up, not immediately. “I would take commissions from clients of all walks of life.”

You giggle. “And work yourself to the bone as always?”

Blade’s eyes narrow, but only just. “…Perhaps. But with you by my side, I doubt I’d feel drained. We would live somewhere—peaceful. Not noisy, but not isolated either. Just sufficient enough for me to work.”

You squeeze his hand lightly. “That sounds nice.” Contentedly, you rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes in bliss as Blade reflexively reaches to draw circles on your shoulder. “What kind of house would it be?”

Blade’s phone buzzes once more. But he ignores it in favour of telling you of the kind of abode he would like to live with you in. The colour of the curtains, the fabric of the bedsheets, the kinds of flowers you would care for.

Only after you fall asleep does he quietly pull away, resting your head on a pillow before grabbing his phone and slipping away into the quietude, slated only to return Aeons-know-when.

Blade regards you carefully, suspicion already flecking in his eyes. He doesn’t trust that cheeky grin you’re wearing—that will certainly throw a wrench into this calm day.

But, you will amuse him regardless. So he answers with a curt, “Yes, it does.”

“So it’s like an awesome heater, yeah?” The grin on your face widens.

“That is one way to put it.”

“Well, then…” You hold out a plate of brownies. “These have gone cold. Mind heating them up for me?”

Blade blinks, incredulous. “Love…there is a world of difference between a furnace and a—a microwave.”

You pout dramatically. “So you can smelt weapons of mass destruction to slay all your enemies, but you won’t heat up a simple brownie for me?”

Blade conceals his little snort with a cough. “No. No, I will not.”

“How rude! How horrible! Downright inhumane!”

It’s okay. It doesn’t stop you from pretending he’s a microwave any chance you get. He’ll be sitting around, shirtless save for his bandages, and in you swoop, pretending to shove an invisible bowl of food into his stomach. Then you treat his abs like the buttons, going beep-boop-beep-boop as you adjust the ‘settings’ and then wait for your food to heat up.

And Blade doesn’t stop you in your pretend antics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his own lips, which he’d conceal with a scoff you both know is fake.

It’s safe to say HNA Blade is different from Blade of HSR. In HNA, he got his immortality from Amstradath, Sovereign of Life & Death.

Wehhh here u go anon, more drunk Bladie! Clinginess cranked up to eleven~ Might do more and make this a mini-series of sorts lol.

“How long has it been since I last saw you?” Blade stands before you, hands on his hips, his gaze boring into you with the intensity of a burgeoning star.

You throw your hands up. “It’s been three minutes! I just went to the bathroom!”

He fixes you with an impertinent stare. “That’s three too many,” he scoffs, before moving closer and pulling you into his arms. He nuzzles his face against your shoulder, placing a little kiss to your clavicle. “Do not leave like that again.”

You sputter. “But it—but I—I can’t ignore when I need to pee, y’know.”

“Then I shall come with you next time.” He’s deadpan, lip curled in a pout.

“To the…to the bathroom?!”

“Yes.”

Not wanting to deal with the mental image of him watching you like a hawk while you awkwardly do your business, you set about putting away his drinks for the night. Time to hydrate him and get him back to normal. And yes, while you bustle about doing so, he follows you like a Pokémon.

Bonus:

Considering, centuries ago, the man was notorious for going on drunken ramblings, the same characteristic might be carried into his present self.

Blade isn’t very open with his emotions, but when he’s upset, or jealous, or grumpy, you can tell.

By some miracle, Ashveil had had enough cash to get takeout for two and thusly invited you over to try some of Planarcadia’s famous pizza and pair it with a movie he’d wanted to show you. He makes for fine company, and the evening is finer still.

When you get home later after the hangout, you stop in your tracks and frown.

The halls are lined with crimson spider lilies creeping up the walls, shadowy tendrils snarling around them like vines. Tiny embers flicker and flitter about.

“Bladie?” you call out, kicking off your shoes (and the shoe rack seems to be growing a few small spider lilies with every movement), and when there’s no response you cock your head. The flowers rustle even without wind, and the teeny flames seem to be flickering towards the bedroom.

Nonplussed, you follow the trail. The flowers, too, get thicker and denser as you head on, and when you push open the bedroom door—it had been hard to find the knob amidst the warm flowers—you find Blade laying in bed, his back turned to you.

All is quiet for a time, save for the gentle wisps along the walls. “…You’re back,” Blade mutters, back still turned to you.

“What happened?” You look around the room, still encased in shadow and ruby-red like the rest of the house.

Blade ignores the question and rolls over to face you. “Did that man treat you to a good dinner?” His mouth is fixed in a pout, and he seems to have trouble maintaining eye contact with you. Little flowers bloom all over him at unfixed intervals.

“I…I guess so…” A crown of spider lilies materialises on your head; startled, you make to brush them off before Blade speaks up again.

“Did he call you his prey?” He plucks a spider lily growing from the area over his heart and flicks it away, watching it disintegrate into black dust.

What? “No…?” you stammer, “whyever would he say that?”

Blade only grunts in response. The shadowy vines, for their part, seem to get thinner. “So you had fun.”

“Uh…” You blink. Now is the time to just say what he wants to hear, so you straighten up. “Nah. I would have liked to stay home with you instead.”

“Come here, then.” It’s like a veil has been lifted, because you’ve taken only one step towards him and the room is back to normal In the blink of an eye; no shadows, no lilies, just you and him with the tiniest smile on his face.

Not that it fazes you. “Oh, hi Bladie.”

The man grunts in lieu of greeting and shifts audibly so that his arm now supports him against the doorframe. He looks rather awkward, but his gaze is still boring into you like molten lava, and now you’re slightly unnerved. You stop what you were doing and swivel your chair around to face him. “Why are you-”

“Are you a construction worker?” he asks suddenly. “Because you are”—he pointedly plays with a loose bandage, pulling it taut over his wrist—“building.” His eyes never leave yours.

You stare at him for a beat before breaking the uncomfortable silence with, “…What?”

“I…don’t know. Silver Wolf said you would understand.” He looks at you expectantly. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Did it work?”

You shake your head, hapless. “I don’t know what emotions that should make me feel.”

“Silver Wolf said you would feel—what was the word—ah. Rizzed up.”

Sighing, you offer him a smile. “I think you should take less advice from Wolfie.”

“But you are rizzed up, aren’t you?”

You laugh and stride up to him, bringing him into a much-needed embrace.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, planting a kiss on your collarbone. “Just answer the question.”

Imagine Blade getting drunk one evening and taking your hands and saying, “I love you so much. I am going to bake you a three-tier cake.”

You laugh as he kisses your knuckles fervently, brushing it off as his standard drunken ramblings.

Except. In the morning you awaken to the smell of something warm, buttery and delicious being prepared, wayward cinnamon notes making your stomach growl.

You slink over to the kitchen and find Blade, wearing the ‘World’s Pookiest Chef’ apron you bought him, carefully stacking perfect layers of cake on top of each other with generous dollops of cream in between. Three tiers, as promised.

He’s lost the pep that had come with his tipsy state, his usual reserved aura having returned, but that doesn’t diminish the pompous glow about him.

“I’m almost done making your cake,” he states evenly (Shuhu makes him immune to hangovers). “I would normally oppose eating cake for breakfast, but we can make an exception just this once.”

He’s calmly icing some beautiful flowers on top, and you’re still dumbstruck.

wherein Blade does not recognise you, even though he should.

Blade’s intense gaze upon you is full of heat, tempered gentleness…and confusion where there ought to be achingly fond affection.

“Who…are you?”

Those aren’t the words you expected to hear from your lover. Your soulmate. The one you’ve shared countless sweet memories with. Then again, ever since arriving in this strange realm, everything has felt like a hazy dream. Like wading through dense fog.

How did you even get here? Last thing you remember is ambling through the bustling evening streets of this unfamiliar city, the twinkling billboards occasionally flashing Welcome to Iia. The buildings, vibrant even in the setting sun, were smattered with posters of people smiling and cuddling strange creatures you’d never seen before.

And there atop an atrium, one of the biggest billboards of all, had been Blade, posing as though he wasn’t one of the universe’s most wanted criminals. Wearing a crisp and smart black suit and holding a sleek pair of sunglasses in one hand, his smouldering gaze oozed sheer power as he sat authoritatively in that shot.

And then you’d begun to run, weaving through alleys and narrowly dodging some of the creatures you’d seen in the posters, hoarsely calling out Blade’s name. If this were a dream, then finding him should be the awakening. Find him, like you always do, and everything would be all right. The fog would clear (or is the fog only in your head?), you’d be off this planet, and you’d be in his arms.

And you’d found him, because Blade always wants to be found by you. He was there, at the end of the lane you’d dashed through. Undoubtedly Blade, from his crimson eyes to his indifferent crossed arms to his long navy blue hair blowing gently in the wind. But he’d recoiled in surprise before you could reach out for his hand. And now he’s frowning at you.

He’s acting like a stranger.

“I—I don’t understand,” you stammer, taking a step back. He’s never looked at you with such blankness before. “Bladie…? Is this a joke?”

His frown deepens, and his shoulders tense ever so slightly. “Do not call me that like you know me personally.” His voice is dangerously gentle, like he’s reining in the bubbling magma of his ire only because you look so pathetically helpless.

“But I do know you!” you exclaim, louder than you’d wanted, and you try to calm yourself. Don’t be ballistic. “You’re Stellaron Hunter Blade, birth name Ying-”

His eyes narrow and he clicks his tongue before you can go on. “As the Novarch of Strength, I have many titles people refer to me by. However, Stellaron Hunter is new to me.”

Novarch of Strength…?

Static binds your mind, your soul, your tongue. You don’t understand. You don’t understand at all.

It’s only when something nudges your foot do you get pulled out of your murky stupor. There’s a puppy-like creature, blue fur and red eyes and a scythe-shaped bone protruding from its head. It’s sniffing at you and when you look down at it, it cocks its head at you.

Blade’s gaze flicks to his strange puppy. “Cublade has a sense for absurdity. Given he isn’t snapping or barking at you, you do not seem dangerous.”

You might just buckle to the ground. “Y-your—uh—Cublade is right. I swear I’m not a threat, and I’m not bullshitting you. You’re my…my…”

Now it’s Blade’s turn to cock his head, looking almost exactly like his puppy. It hurts, he’s got this close bond with this puppy and somehow you missed the entire burgeoning of that relationship. “Yes?”

“My…husband.” Your voice breaks. Was everything before this a dream, and this is the real world, where none of your memories together were real? The dam bursts and you tell him everything—who he was to the universe, to his companions, and most importantly, to you. All the while he listens quietly, his pup sitting beside him almost meditatively.

A long silence lapses. You’re afraid he might set his puppy on you and shred you to bits, or perhaps pull out his sword and do the job himself.

But Blade doesn’t sneer; he doesn’t scorn. Instead, he continues to watch you, contemplative. You might just cry.

The heavens do it for you first. From the dark sky comes a drizzle, one fat drop of water after the next, and then more and more until it looks like a downpour might beat down on you mercilessly if you don’t hurry and find shelter.

You’re afraid Blade might turn and walk away now, Cublade in tow, and leave you to fend for yourself. Alone, in a strange place. The rain begins its torrential fall.

But before you can feel the brunt of it, an umbrella blots out the sky overhead. Pristine white, glimmering with the borrowed light of nearby streetlamps.

Blade steps closer, umbrella in hand, ensuring you’re huddled under the safe middle of the canopy. A gesture you remember well, but an action he’s seemingly performing with you for the first time.

His other hand rises to your face, cupping your cheek. He’s still wearing that contemplative expression, even as you let out shuddering breaths, instinctively leaning into his touch out of habit. He doesn’t seem opposed to it.

“Show me, then,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your cheek. “If you are who you say you are, I wish for you to show me.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the rain patters down all around you both, but the heat of his touch, and the protection of his umbrella, so painfully intimate, keep you shielded against the bitter cold. The challenge in his words has been extended to you out of trust, of patience.

You can win his heart again. You must.

It can be safely said that, after chipping away at that stony exterior, Blade possesses a sense of humour. It’s just unfortunate that when he does make a joke that he thinks is funny, it never lands. It also doesn’t help that he delivers it completely devoid of expression, so the sanctity of the joke is always lost.

But you’re the only person in existence who meets his jokes with raucous laughter, sometimes even going so far as to slap your knee and double over with the sheer hilarity of it all.

No wonder the man loves you. You find him funny and he likes that. When others would meet him with confused silence, you’re always laughing your ass off and commending him for his impeccable sense of humour.

One night you’re at dinner with him and his fellow Stellaron Hunters when he says something about the salt shaker. It’s only when he glances around the table expectantly that they realise he’d just made a joke.

And as always, there you are to cleave the awkward silence, laughing heartily and nodding vigorously. Blade smirks, a proud gleam in his eye.

Firefly leans over to you and whispers, “I don’t get it.”

/silly obvi but omg hdhdhjsks I love your fics ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

Blade and you get into a heated argument that begets no winners, only two irked lovers. Things are icy until Blade finally swallows his pride and is the first to apologise—but you’re too stubborn to listen to him yet.

“Oh, please,” you scoff, checking out your nails, “unless you can give me a star plucked from the sky, I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

It’s meant to be a figure of speech to imply that he won’t be able to apologise, at least for tonight. You’ll probably be fine in the morning to talk things out maturely.

But you forget; you’re talking to Blade.

Furnace Master Ying-motherfucking-Xing.

The entire night Blade spends tinkering away in his little workshop, much to your confusion and chagrin. What in the world is he doing? Part of you wants to demand him to come to bed, but you’re still bitter from the fight. So you simply lay in bed in silence, arms crossed and eyes gazing at the ceiling while you listen to the occasional thunk of a hammer, whirr of a drill, and hushed whoosh of fire.

You huff. Honestly, even his dedication to his craft is ticking you off right now. Who does he think he is?!

After a long while the door opens, and in steps Bladie, torso bare and slick with sweat, his crafting goggles still on.

Holding a literal star in his hands.

Ignoring your flabbergasted expression as you sit up in bed and ogle, he deadpans, rather redundantly, “I brought you the star you asked for.”

The silence is only filled by a soft vibrating hum from the small celestial ball of light, fiery-gold in its lustrous sheen. You have it in you to sputter, “What—how—huh—”

Blade immediately launches into explanation. “Obtaining the star was the simple part. Given its original temperature and size, I had to smelt it down into a more mortal-friendly miniature through rigorous rearrangement of its gaseous particles, turning them malleable enough to reshape.” He holds it up. “Now it’s safe to touch and can also be used as decoration.”

“Wh-what..?”

The man takes this as avenue to go into detail about melting points, platinum and gold calibrating, and de-vaporisation, but you’re still sputtering in shock and disbelief. Everything’s going in one ear and out the other; your mind is buffering too much to process anything. And the damn star hums and flickers all the while.

Hugging Bladie is the best, mainly because he’s so warm. You swear his inner furnace hums softly at a soothing vibration whenever he pulls you into his arms.

It’s the perfect temperature for falling asleep. On cold nights, just crawling into his waiting arms is enough to lull you into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, coupled with the way he’d stroke your hair and press his lips to your forehead. And on days when you’re feeling down, his strong embrace and comforting caresses ground you, remind you that you will always have a safe haven in Blade.

And Blade really does love hugging you. It’s a reminder to him that you are something—someone—to cherish, and getting to hold you close is something he will never take for granted. So he does it every opportunity he can, just to feel you curl into him so willingly. He is a man broken and put together again, and here you are, a breathing symbol of the meaning of his life.

The problem is, Blade wants to hug you no matter what the weather’s like. It’s fine on moderate or cooler days; you’ll gladly melt into the hundred times per day he wraps his arms around you. But there could be sweltering heat and he’d still approach you with his arms out, expectant.

Fanning yourself, you’d shake your head and gesture about at the heat.

The way this man would then look at you like a soggy cat…he’d droop, his mouth ever so subtly curved into a pout, and he’d eye you with a look of pure disgruntlement, arms dropping to his sides like he just got told his cooking sucked.