#blade reader insert

"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. 

"What do you mean by stray?" Silver Wolf pops her hip. She's already dressed up in what must be world-appropriate clothing— robes and tassels, sashes tied tightly around her waist  

"You'll see when we meet them." Kafka pats her head, then turns her attention to Blade. "Listen, we'll be leaving within the hour. There's a parcel with your clothing. Don't be late, dearest. I think you'll like this one." 

Blade is sure he won't care either way. A mission is a mission, a script is a script. Regardless, Kafka's words soothe the ever-itching beast in his mind, and he concedes to her gentle command. He hardly inspects the package and its contents before stripping (to which Silver Wolf runs off after gagging), though Kafka remains in the room to watch, amused. She eyes the scars on his body shamelessly as she always does. 

Blade does not care either way. 

... 

You are the stray. 

Blade first sees you, during what would most appropriately be called a 'business transaction', or at least a meeting made under the guise of being one. Kafka has him carry on a silver briefcase as they enter the stuffy, metal room their host had reserved for them. The air curls with tobacco smoke. 

Kafka settles in a plush chair. She dresses finely, regally, even. The long swathes of fabric stretch over her curves and breasts are fine, soft to the touch and smell of the sticky sweet incense that the denizens of the Aiel Lasha binary system covet. Blade is dressed similarly, posed at her back. He does not care how he is dressed. 

He has read the script, up to a point. Just before leaving their home vessel, Kafka darkened the screen of his phone and forbade him from reading to its end. She told him, with a wink, "Listen, just follow my lead, okay?" She sealed her request with a kiss on his cheek, which he bore. He follows her order without question. 

The man they sit across from has you at his feet, kneeling on the gilded, bronzy flooring. (It must be hot.) There's a metal muzzle over your mouth, with slits only cut under the curve of your nose to breathe. It looks cruel but well-crafted. The metal gleams like itas been recently polished. (It must be very hot.) Your eyes are dulled, trained to the floor as the man pets you. 

"The Stellaron Hunters," he whistles and folds two of his hands together. One of the others from his lower set of arms reaches out to pet your hair. Perhaps not petting, more like tugging. Manicured nails dig roughly into your scalp. Blade can see the way you almost wince, almost rise to react, but settle in yourself. “I must say, I’m not entirely looking forward to this meeting. I’m well aware of what you lot tend to bring in your wake.” 

Kafka tilts her head, ever-confident, "Then, thank you for meeting today." 

“How could I not? Your offer is simply too lucrative not to entertain, though you must know that. You know how too...” 

The conversation drones on. The man is laying it on thick with Kafka. Silver Wolf, per the script, needs thirty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds to take down the solar system’s crypto-economic framework. Something about obliterating this planet's economic viability, disrupting in-galaxy trade, and crippling the two-star system for the next several millennia. "baby stuff", Silver Wolf had said, before taking a quantum ferry down to the planet's surface. 

Blade only half-listens to the current exchange, and counts the seconds before this excruciating ordeal can be done with.  

The man pets you more and more aggressively as Kafka swerves his advances. Whatever faux ‘deal’ she cooked up was being superseded by the man’s obvious lust. Kafka is used to such things, even if it's foolish.  

The man takes his frustration out on you. He yanks your hair and you squeeze your eyes shut. Your shoulders shake. 

(Something twinges, deep in his chest. Something that should be dead, but can't die.) 

"How about this," Kafka lays a hand on Blade's lower back, almost startling him. "You give me that little scrap you've got by your knee, and we'll call it even. Everybody wins, hm?" 

The man's eyes widen, before he leans back, belting out a laugh and dragging you to him. He winds your hair around his fist, and pulls your body up, over his lap. Your scramble to straddle him. Eyes dead. Lost. Almost vacant. 

The man grabs your cheeks in between one palm and squeezes over the metal of your muzzle. The others grope your waist, slipping under your gossamer sheer robes. They're hardly clothes at all, Blade realizes. Just sheets of thin, hardly-there fabric. He can see the shadow of your body underneath. Blade itches in his skin. 

"I'm afraid I can't accommodate that request, kind Kafka. This 'scrap' gave me such... trouble," your eyes scrunch, and the muzzle shifts over your mouth. "When I first acquired them. Training them was a hardship, but they're my most obedient thing now. I can't let my hard work go, just for a business deal, can I? You must understand." 

His eyes shift to Blade, regarding him fully for the first time since they entered. 

It’s not the first time he’s been regarded as something lesser and subservient. Hardly. It does not bother him. Not usually. And yet, he jolts and almost summons Shard Sword, but Kafka stops him with an arm, extended at his waist. 

"My companion is not trained, nor does he need to be. He’s a lovely tool, but he has his own two feet." Kafka says. "You really only speak in insults, don't you?" 

The man goes red in the face, and the arms around you constrict. You clearly try to steel yourself. You are trained. Poor thing. But there's only so much you can take.  

The man’s form changes... bursts, seemingly in anger. He is almost melting, half-corporeal as his hold on you becomes tighter. Like a lasso drawn too snuggly over your tummy. 

There's an audibly sickening snap (nothing Blade isn't familiar with, yet why—?), and your eyes blow wide. Alight. Awake. You shove against the man but sink into his oozing flesh. Your muzzle shifts over your face, panic in your eyes. 

The man roars something in a tongue Blade doesn't know and a wet looking... hand, more than likely, slaps across your cheek. He grips over your muzzle, liquid flesh clogging the air slits in the muzzle. 

Blade begins his count. 

"What a tantrum." Kafka sighs, stands, and stretches. "I thought you really liked that 'thing', yet you treat them so roughly." 

Thirty-two minutes and ten seconds 

"They like to struggle, I assure you. I made sure they do." the man says. Blade doubts that. "Besides, I do not need your judgments. I heard you were a wretched woman. I know of your calamities." 

Thirty-two minutes and twenty-two seconds. 

"And yet, you invited me all the way down to your planet for a silly deal you don't have the currency or sway to accept. Pretty bold move." 

Thirty-two minutes and thirty-five seconds. 

The man sputters, something like an excuse, who knows or cares. you struggle in his arms, a few more snaps of bone. Your shoulder may be dislocated. Blade could pop it back into place easily.  

Thirty-two minutes and forty-five seconds. 

The last thing Blade had been able to read on the script was the crashing of the ion grid after Silver Wolf's hack. Everything else from there is in Kafka's hands. Things are clearly going to plan as an alarm begins to blare, screens and projections go alight in the room. Disaster, disaster, disaster. Destruction and all. 

The man shoots them a look, enraged, and the dripping lump of his hand wraps around your throat.  

(The thing in Blade writhes. Violence does not phase him. It shouldn’t. It hasn’t been in a long... long time, right? He remembers— maybe?) 

Kafka draws her weapon and shoots the man in between the eyes. Or what's left of them. Blood and electricity shoot from the wound, spattering over your face.  

You flinch with it and shriek. You scramble away from his body once it melts to the ground in a puddle. You paw at the muzzle, trying to clear the clogged air slits. Kafka, however, is faster and more efficient. She's kneeling by your side in moments, brushing away remnants of a dead man from the muzzle. Blade follows at her heels. 

"Oh dear," she coos, soft and easy. "Let's get this off of you, hm?" 

You shake your head and push at Kafka. You do not know her. This is logical. 

Who is this stray? Blade only thinks to ask that now, but keeps his mouth shut as Kafka cows you enough to let her touch you. There's the whirring of sirens just outside. 

"Bladie, dearest, a hand please?" Kafka urges him and taps the clasp of the muzzle. A platinum lock keeps it flush to your face. more than flush, really. Painfully tight. 

Blade takes the lock in between two (shaking, arthritic ) fingers and crushes the mechanism. He pulls it off you a moment later—  gently— 

(When was the last time he was gentle?) 

Kafka unsticks it from your cheeks, and you let out a gasping breath now that your mouth is free. There are indentations across your jaw, cuts, and wounds all over you, now that Blade looks closely. 

Kafka does, too. She traces an angry-looking scar over your clavicle as you leer away, lip wobbling, "Oh, Bladie, look. You match. How cute." 

You try to say something, but your voice is nothing but a wisp of sound. Your throat must be so dry. Or maybe your voice is unused? Probably both, now that he thinks of it. You look to be in horrible shape— neglected. A stray. 

(Something in him screams. His consciousness is too fragmented and corrupted to trace the origin, other than that it is recessed. A dormant urge, yawning awake at the sight of a scared little thing. Yingxing— Blade— does not care to know. He knows the heat of a forge and the way flesh melts around molten metal and the swift flourish of a blade. He does not know the feeling growing in his chest like a lush rot. Birthed maggots crawling between his ribs. A fungus bloom on the inside of his lungs.) 

His dilemma is so swiftly interrupted. Kafka smacks the butt of her gun against your temple before you can panic any further, and you slump forward into her. Your cheek rests on the cushion of her breast, and Kafka looks pleased. She pets over your hair for a moment and shushes you. There's no need to, you're limp and still. But Kafka does anyway. Blade is unsure why. 

Blade is jealous— maybe. 

Kafka presses a kiss to your forehead, then turns her focus to him, pin-prick gaze all on him, "Could you, Bladie?" 

He complies. 

Blade throws you over his shoulder just as Silver Wolf arrives, dropping down from a vent in the ceiling. This is not necessary, but Silver Wolf likes the flare of these things sometimes. Some days, he thinks it's almost— 

(Endearing.) 

Maybe he needs Kafka to wipe his memory again. 

"All wrapped up?" Kafka asks with a smile. 

"Yup." Silver Wolf unwraps a sucker from their last mission and pops it in her mouth. It's bright green. Her mouth will stain. "The system is irreparable at this point. The infrastructure will be fried too." 

"Perfect, Elio will be delighted," Kafka hums. "Let's get back, then. We have a new pet to settle in." 

"Wait, we're keeping them? Actually?" Silver Wolf circles Blade, studying your slack features and bruised cheeks. "Why is their face like that?" 

"They were wearing a muzzle." Blade answers. Silver Wolf looks shocked that he replied. 

(Blade does not see the way Kafka is looking at him. Conniving, smitten, and so utterly pleased with herself.) 

"Gross." Silver Wolf scowls. 

"Let's get them home, then." Kafka walks lazily to the balcony, taking out her phone to presumably dial Sam and their transport. "Our new pet needs a good bath and a hot meal. Some care, don't you think?" 

Kafka flashes a look to Blade. Something in him twists. 

It makes him aware of you, over his shoulder. You're soft in a way he isn't used to. He's carried many bodies over his shoulder many times at the behest of Kafka. Those were flesh weighs to him. Dead and still. You feel alive to him. The thump of your heart, the pressure of your chest and your breath against him. He can feel the way the fat and flesh of your body curve around him. How you mold to him, naturally. 

It’s familiar, almost? It reminds him of— 

"Listen, let's get going. You can play with them later, once we find out if they bite or not. They may need their shots." Kafka says. Blade cannot tell if she's joking. 

Silver Wolf snorts a laugh regardless. 

And... who's to say if Blade ruminates longer than usual as they board the sky ferry back up to their ship. The alarms and sirens drone on as they ascend, idling in the cockpit as they debrief with Elio's emissary. 

Blade has not set you down. 

He runs a hand up the back of your leg, high up your thigh, squeezing flesh along the way. He drags his nails over your skin on the way back down, and you stir with a whine. Kafka looks at him, knowingly as usual, and guides him to your... room. It should be a cell, probably, but it’s not. 

(Kafka had prepared, it seemed. The room has been decorated, softened, with a plush bed replacing the cheap cot that reeked like petroleum and acrylic. Instead, there’s a gentle, floral scent. The bathroom looks freshened, with a bathtub big enough for two.) 

(There are seven locks on the door.) 

"Listen, set them down, Bladie. Nice and steady." 

Blade does as is directed. You grumble and groan, pressing your face into the sheets.  

"I'll fetch some medicine, hm? You stay with them. Greet them. Be good, alright?" Kafka says with a grin in her voice. 

Blade is not good. He is something awful. 

A high-pitched, breathy sound leaks from your throat as you fumble for the rising lump on your forehead. 

Blade is not good. He does not know how to be good. But he... he wants. He will— be something for you. Maybe it'll be poison, or maybe he will learn the language of the roiling, human thing in his chest that he can't believe still breathes. 

Blade shushes you and rubs over the scar on your collarbone with his thumb. You quiet beneath him, and Blade swears you almost turn into his touch.