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“Just… Make it quick.” Blade groans. As he always does. But Luocha doesn’t retaliate, going against their verbal choreography after every battle fought side by side. She strips him, removing the shreds of cloth soaked in blood swiftly as sepsis overtakes the deep wound on Blade's stomach.
The tissue forming above it throbs, leaking dark brown, contaminated blood. Luocha takes out the small, sharp knife she carries inside her white coat’s pocket, the handle carved in patterns of branches and thorns.
“Remind me why I have to stand this? Just so you can go to sleep with a clear conscience?” Blade clutches the edges of the tub, it’s cheap and stained just like all the ones he has seen these past months. Today it’s a cheap and stained tub, an uncomfortable sofa, a bed that’s too small for the two of them here, tomorrow more or less the same but only miles away.
“You’re an ally to me for the time being.”
“That’s it?”
“What else?” Luocha chuckles and dives in with the tip of the knife.
“There’s no…” Blade winces at the sharp pain, “...moral principle behind it? No holy mission, no sacred objective?”
His head falls back as the sensation intensifies. Had he not argued against it right after the battle, Luocha could have fixed it up without going through this unbearable ordeal.
“You look out for me, so I look out for you. Eventually, we will go our separate ways, but until then, my abilities should serve both of us.”
She drags the blade along the anomaly, detaching it from the healthy tissue underneath.
“This can’t kill you anyway.” she glances up at him, then back down, “No point in subjecting you to more misery.”
“So, your life is precious bullshit doesn’t apply to everything, then.”
“Neither does your life is meaningless bullshit.”
The oversimplification shuts him up, serving as a distraction from how he’s being ripped apart.
“A knife can sever, a knife can heal.” Luocha mutters, softly and absent-mindedly, “Depending on how merciful the wielder is.”
Blade lets out a pained chuckle, “Merciful… I’ve seen the way you use yours when push comes to shove.”
“What do you think of it?” Luocha smiles.
He's always so eerily calm, even as fibers of tissue come undone.
“It’s… quite elegant, actually. A quick, swift death... You don't even blink.” he lets out a long exhale, eyes darkening ravenously.
Death.
Something he always thought he craved in the most twisted way possible. In a way that makes him feel doom ring through every corner of his skull, with finality filling his veins and rupturing his flesh.
He always thought that at his final moments—if they were to ever approach—he would want nothing more than to taste every bit of his demise, to suffer for as long as possible with a peaceful smile on his lips. But, perhaps at the tip of Luocha’s gracious sword, with a clean cut, as precise as a surgeon’s incision—it would provide him with the same elation.
It’s written all over Blade’s face whenever he thinks of it, shut down immediately every time without fail.
“Death should be as instant as it is certain, though I only kill what has suffered enough.”
His enticed expression soon vanishes with the realization that Luocha won’t even let anything else kill him, let alone kill him herself. Blade doesn’t like the implication, how she doesn’t see him worthy of death, but he bites his tongue to remain quiet—as long as the edge of her knife is imbued with peace, her fingers laced with tranquillity, even though it’s momentary.
He watches his own blood run, a thick river of crimson mixed with chunks of infected, filthy tissue flowing over both their laps. Luocha’s gloved hand closes over the wound as familiar, viridescent vines wrap around Blade’s torso. The pain dies down even before they begin to repair him—as soon as a cold touch is laid on his skin over dark cloth, soothing and grounding. Hues of red and orange dance around in his mind, reins of sanity slip from his fingers.
“Hey.” Luocha calls out as her fingers lightly caress his arm, “Stay with me, Ren.”
Her voice is muffled, drowned out by a flame brewing deep within—corrupted power demanding autonomy, calling for him to vacate the corpse he occupies.
Ren.
A hand slides across his cheek, slick with warm blood.
When he re-opens his tightly shut eyes, all that remains is a red stain on his face, a healed wound on his stomach and an empty spot across from him in the bathtub.
“Take the bed. I’ll sleep here.”
Blade tilts his face to the side at the lack of a response, realizing how Luocha’s asleep on his shoulder with arms crossed at her chest. In deep slumber she easily mistakes the movement of his head for affection and nuzzles his chin without realizing.
Blade remembers how she used to keep watch all night when they first set out. He can’t pinpoint when it stopped, but he assumes it’s the fatigue accumulating over time. She falls asleep, dozes off, spaces out—more than usual. There isn’t much he can do except carry her to bed in his arms.
As he covers her up, his fingers graze the small, exposed window on her tummy peeking below the turtleneck. Luocha guards it like it’s life or death with every inch of skin locked away. Witnessing it feels like stealing candy from a child or kicking a puppy. It's wrong, immoral.
His hands dive under the covers and shove the edge of the fabric into her pants.
She doesn’t move, even her chest barely rises with her breaths. She sleeps like the dead, to the extent that Blade could never tell if she actually was to die in her sleep one night.
His hands linger on the tightly-woven garment, pressing down on Luocha’s stomach softly. Right where she touched on Blade, the spot where she cut through and stitched back up until the two edges of the cavern opening up met again in the middle with a cicatrix as a reminder.
He tucks her in more comfortably, but not out of gratitude—he is certain of that.
“Blade…” she calls on him faintly.
Blade. It’s Ren only when a distraction is needed.
Blade. That’s all he is. Raw power and retribution. A sealer of many fates yet never his own.
An instrument. A knife that severs.
“You’re in bed. Go back to sleep.”
Luocha turns on her side with a hmphhhmm and pats the side across with weak, languid movements. Blade lays down, an argument with her is futile. Not that he minds. It’s certainly more comfortable than the couch, so there’s at least one redeeming quality to it.
Her hair is scattered over both pillows, brushing against Blade’s face. When she doesn’t fall asleep she usually puts it in a low ponytail before going to bed. He knows too much, he realizes. She would tie her hair and unclasp her bra, put on a second layer of socks because it gets cold at night, stretch so that her neck doesn’t hurt in the morning.
Blade is familiar with every step of this routine and the morning version of it as well, unsure of why he pays attention to it. He gets closer to the edge, as far away from Luocha as possible—unsure of why he always does so despite wanting to inch closer.
She mumbles a good night, barely intelligible.
“Rest well.”
Blade feels something stir in his lower belly, warmth down his spine, burning atop his thighs. He clutches the edge of the pillow without realizing, waiting for it to pass. There's no use in paying attention to it, besides he is already furthest away from the cause of it as possible—so much that one small shift to the back and he'll end up on the floor.
His breath is hot, mind fuzzy—disintegrating the more he stays awake with rifts deepening. He takes a final, good look at Luocha's face before closing his eyes.
She looks peaceful, pure and well-intentioned unlike her mischievous demeanor when awake.
Her hands are clasped together near her chest, as if she's praying. They must be stained with blood still. In the small cracks of skin along her knuckles and under her nails, there must be parts of Blade lingering, hanging on because that's the type of affliction he is—the tumour that evades the knife.
When they're both asleep, finally, the gap closes rather fast. Per usual, Luocha crawls to the warmest thing nearby and Blade pulls her close by the waist. He wraps his arms around her trembling body, unaware of what he's doing, unaware of the head resting on his chest and the hands entangled in his hair.
It's a pact that blooms only in the dark.
As the first one to rise in the morning, Luocha holds up the final clause by pushing him to the edge of the bed again and settling on the opposite side.
At the next bump, Blade grunts in the direction of the driver. He’s supposed to take them halfway to the town’s border and discreetly hand over the carriage at a secluded spot—which is not ideal but considering that he will get paid handsomely, his careless method of driving paints a frown on Blade’s face.
He sits at the middle, to the right of Luocha who is unbothered by the rocky ride. She hums every now and then when she encounters a nice sight to the side of the road, a flower or a flattering ray of sunlight, plains covered in green as far as the eye can see. Since she can always leave it to Blade to be the displeased one, she enjoys the view with a gentle expression and both hands on her lap.
Blade doesn't bask in the serenity of it all that much, but he does stare down at his own lap, and then Luocha's.
Her knees are parted, the outside of her right leg lightly touching Blade's left. Coat, gloves, boots all in place even in this warm weather.
Blade forgets. He holds Luocha's upper arm and slides down through the crease of her elbow to her wrist. He doesn't realize how it's not only a thought but truly the action that he's performing, and Luocha's statuesque mannerisms don't dispel the illusion either. She studies his expression carefully from the corner of her eye, “Is it striking? You're acting peculiar.”
Blade scoffs, “This is how I always act, don’t bring the mara into this.”
He retracts his hand and crosses his arms at his chest, defeated and a tad bit embarrassed.
“Alright, well…” Luocha leaves the weight of her hand on his knee fully, “By all means, go ahead then.”
She gazes out the window again as if nothing happened. Blade feels the mass on his leg, a demanding presence. He reaches to hold her wrist as the coat’s sleeve slides back. Even while resting, sleeping, healing—her hands are never bare, and Blade never wants to create the impression that he cares by asking.
They are, undeniably, beautiful.
Long, graceful fingers lined up perfectly—probably not calloused, scarred and torn like his own. Ferocious with a sword within her palm, yet tender while caressing the petals of flowers, petting stray cats, healing him.
“You never take them off.” he states.
Luocha nods, still facing away, “My hands get cold.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” she chuckles at the bluntness. It’s typical of Blade, yet for some reason it never feels aggressive or malicious—not to Luocha, at least. She isn’t lying, but as always, she isn’t telling the truth either. A pair of red eyes burn through her face as Blade finally gains the courage to hold her hand. He turns Luocha’s palm to face up and slowly rests his own on top of it. Their fingers are stacked over each other until Luocha separates hers and Blade follows. A few synchronization issues later, they end up intertwined in a loose hold.
With every bump, Luocha’s hand bounces on his leg. Blade frees himself from the lock after what feels like forever. He slips one finger inside the soft, black, elastic fabric hesitantly. Inching closer, waiting to be stopped. It's the equivalent of stripping an ordinary, non-Luocha person naked. Therefore, Blade's index finger slides over her palm as if he thrusts in deep, the rest of his fingers wrap around her wrist like he's holding onto her waist.
He adds another finger, slowly pushing them back and forth, separating them every now and then to explore the shallow lines inside her palm.
Luocha doesn’t react. She watches the hills they pass through, undisturbed at the intrusion as Blade's breathing get heavier.
It feels—odd. It’s appetizing enough to terrify him. Luocha’s fingers curl up around the back of his fingers in an unconventional hand hold.
Blade adjusts his grip, placing his hand on Luocha's again like he did a few minutes ago but this time under the glove. His fingers don't reach as far to hold it fully, but it's his skin against hers. He can't see, but he feels—her palm is soft while the back of her hand is riddled with small scars, which is unexpected.
Blade laps over the space between her index and middle fingers, the small crease with limited fat tissue unlike her boney fingers. He drags his finger back and forth along it, hearing Luocha's breath hitch. It's impressive and shame-inducing, how one of the most romantic acts ever can turn so grimy and unclean. Luocha moans softly when his finger slides between hers at just the right intensity, like finding the right spot that makes one's toes curl.
The air turns sticky and disgusting—filthy, wet and heavy just like the feeling between Blade's legs. He tugs on the edge of it, but Luocha is quick to let out a breathy no. He stops fiddling with the sleeve of the glove and tightens his grip instead. Even when covered, even with Blade’s warm hand stuck in the tight space with her own, she’s cold as ice.
He tries and tries, forces more fingers inside, holds the back of Luocha’s hand with his left to warm it between his two palms, but it’s no use. Blade reaches in with three fingers, only thumb and pinkie left out and stops moving—as a retreat.
“Do you believe me now?” Luocha finally turns toward him. Blade sits upright with back muscles unreasonably tense, getting a rare sight of her from above, looking up at him with a smirk of victory.
Her eyelashes are too long. They have always been so unreasonably long. Blade always notices while looking at her face—which he usually never does when she’s awake, but now is an exception, an unprecedented event in their months of traveling together. Long, curled upward and blonde, their shadows fall far enough to reach her cheekbones.
Blade doesn’t know what she is, or what he wants from her—if he wants anything, that is. He doesn’t gain from or lose against people anymore, it doesn’t hold any meaning, yet he finds himself gazing at her face with want—a desire of something unknown to him. She’s captivating, and for once Blade doesn’t shy away from staring.
“Luocha—”
“You can pull over here.”
She hands the thick envelope to the driver as the carriage leaves the road.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your patronage.”
He tips his hat and steps out, walking to the other lane to catch another vehicle back.
“Spread your legs.” Luocha coos softly, and adjusts her gloves. Though Blade wants to ask a million questions, he parts his thighs until his knees point in opposite directions. Luocha’s hand caresses the seat below him as he asks hesitantly, “Is that it?”
Is that it, what I need?
“I think so.”
Luocha isn’t a stranger to the turmoil inside that clouds his judgement. Someone has to call the shots and the way he looks at him with thighs pressed together doesn’t bring to mind anything but that.
Blade trusts her, even though he would never say it out loud.
Even though he probably shouldn’t.
Luocha’s fingers creep up to his inner thighs, then to the zipper of his pants, running two fingers along it.
"It's warm here, right?"
Blade nods. It's an act he has no recollection of. There are urges, remnants of what was once felt and experienced, but nothing of substance. He doesn't know how to tend to it—besides he's rarely on his own to find the time to figure it out.
He can't even get a glimpse of her hands but she strips him with ease. Blade crumbles when his pants are lowered to his ankles and a finger is stroking his cunt over the thin fabric of his underwear.
"Does that relieve you?"
Blade realizes how she is now turned to him, whole body, no longer looking out the window but facing the opposite one with Blade in between.
"It…" he tries to figure out what it is. There is no relief, that's for sure, but it's not bad or uncomfortable either.
"Makes it worse."
It's something insatiable, hungry and greedy—he wants it gone but not before seeing what can come of it.
Luocha nods and slips her hand underneath. Blade gasps, but obliges as two fingers separate his folds. Silk pets the dark hairs on his groin, grinding into the sensitive, smooth tissue inside. A vein deep within pulsates with every stroke, every flick of her wrist. She moves up and down along the slit, rubbing him in circular motions when she reaches the top—over a sensitive bundle that Blade has never felt for himself, now swelling with lust.
It's a rare moment where his mind is neither plagued by unwanted thoughts of his own nor by the mara. Instead it's fully blank. There is Luocha, crouched over his body; there is Luocha's hand, blessing him like always—and the rest is null. Blade settles deeper into his seat and places his hands next to his hips, using them to grind himself into her fingers in a pathetic, desperate attempt. The more he tries, the slower Luocha goes but it doesn't stop him from leaking all over. He's soaking wet, dripping with clear, viscous fluid in such a staggering amount that some trails down Luocha's wrist and over the wooden floor.
“You’re ruining my gloves…”
“Then—hah—take them off… I can’t… can’t really control it now, can I?”
Luocha halts momentarily to admire how broken he is. It’s the most vulnerable she’s ever seen him. Even the way he snaps back is watered down, losing its effect with voice cracks and whimpers.
“Is this what decades of celibacy does to you?” she teases, and unlike a snarky response like always, Blade replies by lowering his head, hiding behind the front parts of his hair in shame. Luocha pushes a finger inside, amused by how he bites down on his lower lip to muffle a moan—so intensely that a drop of blood runs from the corner of his mouth. She brushes the red black strands away from his face and licks the strip of blood from his chin to the source—to his lips damp with hot breath.
Blade leans into her lips, seeking relief from the insufferable heat. He wants to go back to a time of comfortable numbness instead of his skin being ablaze at the tip of Luocha's fingers. He shrieks when another hand slithers over his stomach. He can no longer tell what goes where, as if his lower body is fully caged in slender fingers—one rubs his clit with fast motions, a few are stuffed deep inside him, sometimes joined by a few more, sometimes all gone for a moment as he whines at the loss of her touch. Luocha's hands always return, prying him open mercilessly, digging into him viciously with veiled hands.
It’s a mistake, and a fatal one at that, to think of those hands, to touch them, to want them near. As gentle as they are when Luocha runs them on his chest with an emerald hue radiating, now they show him no mercy—milking him for all that he has until he forgets how to speak. It’s a mistake—a beautiful, liberating mistake that leaves him crying out for more. Who is Luocha to deny him? After he rejects every helping hand, now he wants a pair to grace him with the sweetest release, one he denied himself for so long. It would be cruel to leave him with that debilitating aching between his legs.
So, Luocha indulges him, reveling in how he spasms under her touch. Blade kisses her lips in between moans, dragging his tongue over the few spots he's allowed to savor until he shakily cums a final time. They're probably behind schedule, though he can't tell whether it was five minutes or five hours. Strands of damp hair stick to his forehead with legs trembling so intensely that Luocha stabilizes him by pressing down on his thigh with her knee.
Her hands pull out with a wet noise, soaked in cum, gloves hugging Luocha’s fingers even tighter than usual. She finally, finally slides them off for the first time and dumps them on the floor.
Below it is nothing extraordinary. Just a pair of hands. Hands that work diligently, hands that have memorized every corner of his body, hands that poured life into the cavities of flesh laid all over his body. His wounds that used to cry for the grave beg, scream for her touch. What’s left of his soul searches for meaning in the hands that tear him apart and build him back up.
How much more does he have to sacrifice until she’s all that’s left? How many cuts, battles lost, promises made, organs reconstrued, debts created, debts paid until he can make sense of her?
"Luocha..." he calls out with glossy eyes. Before he can push out the second syllable, her hands slip inside a fresh pair taken out of her bag. She pulls up his pants and lays him on the seat.
"Rest, Ren. I'll drive."
His vision turns blurry, body so heavy on the piece of damp wood. He wants to object, to tug on her arm so she stays for just a bit longer. A pair of lips press against his forehead before the carriage starts moving again, this time smoothly over every bump and pit.