The elevator ride to your apartment was quiet, but thick with tension. Blade leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, blood soaking through his shirt. You stood close, watching him pretend he wasn’t hurting.

He didn’t argue when you told him to come up. He just followed. Quiet. Obedient. As if he trusted you more than he wanted to admit.

Now, your bathroom was filled with steam. He stands under the spray silently. Water paths down the sharp lines of his jaw, over his collarbones, tracing old scars and fresh bruises.

You told him to undress so you could treat him - like it was a routine, like it meant nothing. But Blade wasn’t stupid. He saw the way you looked at him. You had ulterior motives.

When you step into the bathroom, your hands move across his body on their own. Slow. Sure. Intentional. Fingers trailing down his ribs, gliding over bruised skin and cuts. He holds his breath, trying not to react.

You press your lips to a healing wound. Lick... Then bite.

His breath catches. He smirks faintly. But you noticed.

A curse slips through his lips. “Fuck…”

Without a warning, he grabs your wrist and presses you against the shower wall. Not to hurt. Just to remind you what he is. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “You’re trouble.”

Water drips from his jaw onto your skin, his body close, too close. His control is slipping, and you can feel it in every line he utters.

Then he says it.

“I like the pain. You figured that out, didn’t you?”

“So go ahead… bite again.”

“Make me feel it.”