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The blue had taken some getting used to.
Once A.B.A. had collected herself after her initial reaction she had become even more attached at the hip, resulting in a long-needed conversation about personal boundaries. For the first time, she had listened.
And to her credit, she had been trying. He had noticed that the festering jealousy that used to result in his immediate harm had found another outlet, though it had taken some trial and error. They had gone through several stress toys already.
In his own way, Paracelsus tried to assist. Reciprocal touch, he found, was a useful tool in calming (or at least distracting) an enraged A.B.A., and he found himself enjoying the peace that came from something as simple as laying his bow upon her shoulder. He had also decided to sprinkle the occasional pet name into their conversations, though after reciprocating her "dear" for the first time resulted in a joyous but alarming fainting spell, he had shied away from that particular endearing term for a while.
They talked; about all the things worth talking about. A.B.A. was a terrible singer, while Paracelsus found himself to be an adequate whistler by comparison. A.B.A.'s favourite food was strawberries and cream. Paracelsus found the spoons of white and red she allowed him enjoyable, though not alltogether comparable to the past ecstasy of blood. They both loved birds and their irreverent sunrise song.
Eventually, even the bandages had come off, and Paracelsus found himself impromptu and amateur fashion advisor as she poured over various options; wide-eyed at colours and patterns that had never crossed her mind before. After some time, she offered to remove his chains permanently, though he reasoned that it remained a sensible option for him to keep it on so she could carry him, given his limited mobility. He didn't mention the fear that shot through him when she first suggested it.
It was like this that they continued, sometimes with caution and sometimes with swift abandon, to reach the state of contended codependence they both strived for.
It was a few months in before Paracelsus noticed something was amiss. Over the last 3 weeks, A.B.A. had started engaging in a particularly unusual behaviour. He would sometimes catch her staring at him, flushed and unblinking, before making a sudden retreat to the bathroom.
At first, it hadn't bothered him; why would it? But after minutes had passed he hopped his way over to the door and leaned in, concerned. Muffled noises could be heard from within but he didn't feel any pain or distress, nor the syrupy waves of tranformative anger that had become commonplace during their fights together. Not wanting to intrude, he had backed off and left it at that.
Now though, this had become somewhat of a regular occurrence. He knew, rationally, that he had nothing to fear. A.B.A. wasn't in pain or distress, nor exercising some form of unhealthy self-dstructiveness in there as far as he was aware. She always emerged, healthy and whole, no scratches or marks to be seen, though she did seem...exerted. Yet something about it tickled him the wrong way. Like it was something he should know.
It took some moments of blank-faced thinking before it inevitably dawned on him what these bathroom activities might entail, and he flushed despite himself, unsure and bashful.
It's not like they hadn't engaged in more the more dubious activities humankind had associated with. On more than one occasion, he had seen himself reduced to nothing more than a mastabatory tool in the wake of her insatiable obsession. At the time it was just another thing to dismiss. To bear. To endure in the hope of experiencing the irresistable violence he craved and that she could provide in swathes. But they had promised to themselves and each other that things would be different. Better. And on this new path there appeared to be somewhat of an impasse.
He decided, one day to brooch the subject with caution.
"A.B.A.? D-darling?"
A.B.A. had been eyeing up a sink full of dishes after an experimental cooking phase. Dirt and grease may have presented much less of a challenge than the brutal sport she had grown accustomed to but she faced it down with no less eagerness, determined to live out this domestic fantasy. She responded without looking, a feat that had taken some weeks to accomplish, and there was an ember of something akin to pride that kindled in him.
"Dear?"
Paracelsus felt himself squirm a little, his neck bending with uncertainly before he continued.
"I've been noticing some...uh...strange behaviours from you recently."
"Oh?
Well. This was it. "You take rather...extensive bathroom breaks, o-on occasion."
There was a clatter as the saucepan hit the floor. She had turned this time, her eyes wide, fingers gripping the sink edges as if to tear it from the counter.
"W-what makes that so unusual?"
He sighed, relaxing into a slouch. "I'm not...unaware, A.B.A. I know what happens in there."
A pause, then she seemed to collapse on herself, defeated.
"I'm sorry, Paracelsus! I thought I could be better...be better for you, for us! And yet! And yet...I still...crave..." She petered off. His next words surprised them both:
"Show me."
Silence. Had he misspoke?
But then she was approaching him in characteristic hunch, crowding him towards the couch, and he wobbled a little trying to keep upright at her unexpected advance.
She hesitated, at first, before the last of her razor-thin restraint was worn away. In a flash she had pushed him onto it, straddling his shoulder. For a long time, she simply sat over him, frowning, strands of teal brushing against his bow, and he began to feel the squirming awkwardness build inside. Perhaps this was a bad idea, after all. Maybe they weren't ready.
Then a smile, as that familiar, intense look in her eye gleamed, and a slender hand teased it's way down her figure, dipping into the waistband of her skirt. Her eyes were on his, wild and piercing, as her questing fingers found their goal. She braced herself against the cushion with her free arm, and Paracelsus felt her tense as she began to move.
The hand beneath the skirt was slow and teasing as she made small circular motions. He was not particularly familiar with human anatomy, beyond the sliced flesh and disembodied parts he had made in his time as a weapon. Though aggressive, her movements were certainly not violent, rather she seemed to be searching for something as increased her speed.
She had started making small noises, whimpers in which he thought he could hear the whisper of a name. He tried to motion his head upwards to hear but only served to press their brows together, causing a hitch in her breath. She was so warm.
Her movements started to become erratic, eyes hooded and voice hitching as she bit her lip to suppress an intensifying whine. He took in her struggle with awe, thinking, wondering. With some hesitation, he moved one of his bow arms to touch her free hand, and looked into her eyes.
"I've got you, A.B.A."
And she fell apart.
She slumped against him, barely catching herself on her elbows, panting. Beads of sweat threatened to fall against his face as she came down from her high, her eyes still unfocused. In her haze she pressed a messy kiss to his brow and collapsed beside him.
For a moment, Paracelsus wondered if she was okay, before he heard the soft sounds of sleep beside him. He stared blankly at the ceiling. What was he supposed to feel in this moment?
In some ways it had been very much the same as before; simply a way to appease A.B.A. for a time. Maybe something was different; at least in her eyes. A.B.A. was never a creature he would have defined as "soft" (he wouldn't have chosen her as his wielder in the first place if that were the case). But this time, he thought he saw something...perhaps the ghost of something new?
What was this feeling? He imagined it must be akin to those small creatures that saw colours unknown to humans. Was this too a fluttering thing beyond his grasp? He looked at her pliant shape lying next to him, huddled close on the small space they shared, and closed his eyes.
They didn't talk about it. Not at first. It seemed like some invisible line had been crossed and now neither was sure how to broach the matter.
He supposed the stalemate had to break eventually, beyond the furtive glances each tried to pretend they couldn't see. A.B.A. had been the one to come to him with an offering. Arms outstretched, she held a microfiber cloth in one hand, a bottle of brass polish in the other.
Paracelsus was puzzled, though endeared. "That is unnecessary, A.B.A. I am quite capable of self-cleansing." It's probably easier than changing colour! went unspoken.
She was persistent, and though she remained slumped where she stood, a determined look had entered her eyes.
"I want to."
And so he found himself straddled on the couch once more as she attended to him. He thought, perhaps, that she would polish his face to a suitable standard and leave it at that, but his eyes boggled in alarm as she turned around where she knelt, facing his bloodied blade.
"U-uh...A.B.A.?"
His face was astoundingly close to the hem of her skirt from this angle. He couldn't see her face but somehow he felt the smile that was creeping over it.
"Something wrong, Dear?"
"Not at all! I just thought...maybe...you meant to polish my face?"
She chuckled lightly. "But that part's already clean!"
"Ah. Yes. Well. Carry on," He mumbled nervously, as she reached for the zipper of his casing.
It was ridiculous really; he was a weapon, after all! And yet! And yet...as she slowly unzipped him, kissing along his neck as she slowly revealed the vast expanse of blue, he felt...exposed somehow.
Then he felt the touch of the cloth against metal and shuddered. He was used being bitten, scratched and thrown around but this...this was something different. He felt the warmth of her fingers through the cloth as she made a grand gesture of polishing her way down his neck before working her way slowly back up in one long stroke.
He could only stare helplessly as A.B.A. continued her profane ritual, stopping only momentarily as she reached his blade.
When had he started sweating?
Smooth cloth moved deeply into long-forgotten places, wiping years (or had it been centuries?) of dried blood, corroded metal and ichor from each notch as she worked her way down the tip. He felt wound up and heated, frustrated and wanting. More than that, he felt cared for.
A headiness had started to arise in him, bringing a purple hue to his face. Though he remained still, rigidly so, there was an itching within; a squirming crawling thing that knew not what to do with this unexpected intimacy.
Is this pleasure? Is this joy?
Her eyes, though not on his, were plainly visible, and he thought be could see the flicker of something unfamiliar but not unwelcome. After a moment, she paused to press a kiss gently to his blade and he felt like he could explode; was he exploding? But there was no erruption of black ichor, no jutting of jagged edges or serrated teeth. He was himself, though feeling less like it by the second. Like melting, like burning, like becoming.
There was some kind of whining...was the kettle on?
It took a few seconds to realise he had arched himself upwards, unbalancing A.B.A. off of him in his throes. He blinked awkwardly, forcing himself back into rigidity, and realised the noise had stopped. He flushed purple with recognition as she leaned over him, a smirk playing with the edge of her mouth.
"So that's new," He said blankly.
"Good new?" She asked, stroking an idle finger against his neck.
He nodded slowly, still dazed, and she beamed. As the sunlight hit her smiling face, he could make out the faint sound of birdsong.
Soon, they had settled into a routine. Once a week, A.B.A. would come to him with a look in her eye and an insatiable fire in her navel, and he would hold her best he could as she reached her pinnacle. Once a week, the cloth would come out and Paracelsus would have to subdue his tremors of excitement at the sight of it.
It was during one such time where he had a thought: how could he make these shared moments together more reciprocal? A.B.A. had the all the advantages of a human body, and put all to good use. By comparison, he felt...inadequate in his share of the work.
He tried to focus as he felt the caress of a tongue against the blunt edge of his blade, shivering hotly. Then it hit him that, in one area at least, he was more than adequately equipped.
He gritted his teeth. If he was going to take a chance, now was the time.
He nudged her legs with his bow arms, tapping lightly. She looked back from her ministrations and nearly fainted when saw him delving under the pleats of her skirt with a long tongue, a question in his eyes.
"Y-you don't have to!" She stammered, though her body betrayed her through a vigorous nodding that shook her whole nody. Yes, yes, YES!
"I want to." And he took the plunge.
Licking into her, he began to wonder where she ended and he began. As she started to shake with pleasure, calling his name like a prayer, he decided to stop caring.
After she had come down from her high, A.B.A. had collapsed with her face against the blunt of his blade. She lazily probed the notches with her nails, and he gazed down in blissful agony at her once blood-red hair. He didn't miss it anymore.
The future for them now stretched ever onwards; an endless score upon which to stumble their messy, hopeful notes, and only time would tell what beautiful music would arise from the chaos of their union.