Sorry I haven't posted in a long while, some stuff has come up and I had no stories to write. Just wrote this today. Hope you enjoy. I suppose i learned that writing stories, you dont need an amazing plot, or something crazy happening, so here's nothing... my seinfeld of bl fanfics haha!
There's an established relationship here- well, not relationship, but... you know. as much as it can be.
There were times Revy made herself almost sad, dreaming about if she were to be shot while fighting on Dutch's boat. Jumping over one of the torpedo launchers, only to have two bullets in the chest, torn past her faded tank and in between her ribs. She'd flop gracelessly over the side and into the water, too weak to scramble back up. The boat flied past her writhing body, and Revy sinks.
She sinks into the ocean, floating down to rest between dumped weapons and old tires. Until bits of flesh stripped away like a ruined watercolor, only to leave a cold skeleton.
But in the last moments of her nightmare was a slow view of her two handguns, strewn across the deck.
If Rock, the dumb shit, were to hear this, he'd remark that it sounds almost romantic. Romanticizing shitting your pants and the fat pooling around where your body sticks to the ground.
In real life, she doubted she would fall into the water, instead it would be a slow, sure death. Blood staining the sofa below deck- as usual, but not dripping Dutch digging tweezers into her stomach as Revy convulses. And when she finally dies, lying sweaty in her bed, they take her to a landfill or truly dump her in the water. Benny would bring a broken microwave, some old cassette tapes- just to make the trip efficient.
Yukio made everything into fucking romantic-ass poetry and now she was another rotting corpse, blood foaming around the corners of her mouth; lips still stained with pink lipgloss. She's just another girl who was buried.
At least death was certain.
Because she and Balalaika were sure as hell not. In her humble fucking opinion.
This trip to Taiwan proved uneventful- cargo got stolen, a lot of it, a lot a lot. Enough that Hotel Moscow sensed an insult, and decided to make a trip down alongside the Lagoon Company, to say, "have a proper conversation with these groups of pathetic bandits," as Balalaika put it to Dutch.
Revy rouses painfully, feeling cotton in her throat. Her head fucking throbs and her back aches and the mascara crinkles underneath her eyes. The faded sound of a faucet fills the air. She resorts to swallowing her saliva while rubbing her eyes. Blinking down at the two torn eyelashes on her left knuckle, she feels rather empty in the hotel's large bed. It's a large, stiff creature, not made to have a lazy Sunday, but to sleep for six hours to get through the day. Revy's used to her worn mattress, beaten into submission.
But again, the bed is fucking empty. Revy yawns, stretching her skinny limbs before sitting up, noticing the yellow light of the bathroom on, shining through the door. The Russian must have fought tooth and nail to have her own room, to shit without her men knocking on the door every fifteen minutes. "Kapitan? Kapitan? Kapitan?"
Revy smirks, mouthing the word slowly, savoring it. Would Balalaika want to be called that in bed?
She hears the sink shut off.
Balalaika's silhouette contrasts the light, and with a click they're alone in darkness. Revy would be lying if she still didn't feel a low chill of fear.
Instead of meandering to her side of the bed, Balalaika sits next to Revy's stomach, hand splayed between the gunslinger's jutting hipbones. Her fingers are so long that her pinkie brushes the left and the thumb the right. The nails scratch the thin skin. "It's as if you haven't eaten."
"You'd fuckin' think so right? I guess I've always been some skinny kid." Revy let's a low breath of air out. Saying kid now feels foreign. She's twenty-five, a turning point in her life. At twenty four the brain supposedly stops growing, right? She envisions all the cigarette shit coating her lungs black and crows feet lining dead eyes.
Revy would be lying to think she'd would have lived this long.
"Kid?" Balalaika's voice is teasing, not malicious, nails curling in ever so slightly.
"Yeah, I know, I'm over the damn hill." Revy mutters, rolling her eyes. Even though the Russian wouldn't see them anyway. She palms a hand out in the air, feeling for the other woman, before accidentally finding the scarred cheek. A zone she'd usually avoid.
Her middle finger darts out and feels the smoothed scar tissue, the rippling where it meets regular flesh, the natural wear of the blonde's skin. Her face is wet. There are no places in Balalaika's face where she looks young.
Benny's face looks like a teenager with stubble, Rock's eyes and cheeks are that of a sixth grader, and Dutch's sparkling eyes hold the mischievousness of a tween sneaking out to his friend's tree house, Penthouse and Playboy in hand. Revy supposes everything about her is a child, all stretched out to five foot five, minus her chest. Despite of course, lacking said childhood. That's a vital part of being a child.
Balalaika's face looks older, there's no spark in her eyes, and Revy can't see what she looks like as a child when she gazes into her face (on rare occasions, of course. Revy doesn't gaze. She glares), or a giddy schoolgirl's grin.
"I wonder what that makes me," She seems ancient, like she was never a child.
"Yeah, speaking of which, who built fucking Stonehenge?" Revy bites lightly, but any sass dies on the way out and she traces the lines under Balalaika's eyes, the curve of her cheekbone.
"Couldn't tell you, Two Hands." Balalaika whispers, turning her hand so the gunslinger's fingers sweep over her parted mouth. Revy traces where the lip begins to become wet, and she shudders, remembering where just hours before that mouth was. Sliding up her thigh, open mouthing kissing her throbbing cunt. It was to make up for the long nails, freshly manicured, Revy might add. For their 'date'? It was almost too much, too much passion in one setting, too real for just dinner and a fuck.
Dinner was difficult, Revy pronounced nearly every single thing on the eggshell white, not just white! menu that Balalaika calmly corrected, relishing in the gunslinger's angry embarrassment. She ate ravenously, attempting to use her fork and knife, trying not to tear into the steak like some rabid animal. The glint in her dinner date's eyes suggested that, it wouldn't have been off putting to do so. It was a restaurant that politicians would take their whores- and don't think Revy gets the idea, because she does, and for a minute she stood outside the plaza debating on walking off to find a random dive bar instead.
She felt strange in her fifty dollar dress; a black thing that she stole from some clothing store ten years ago. The dress stretched down to mid-thigh. and only a slight flash of cleavage showed from her braless chest.
Balalaika wore her usual suit ensemble, hair brushed until it shone. Revy's hand shook around the stem of her wine glass (she struggled not to just chug it down- and failed) at the tautness of the outfit. They ate food Revy couldn't really pronounce. Near the end, after endless refilling of glasses of wine, Balalaika reached an arm over and brushed her fingers against the small, crescent-shaped scar on Revy's wrist. The mercenary felt herself near liquefy at the touch. Neither of them didn't need to say it: it's been weeks.
After dinner, they'd gone back to the hotel, to Balalaika's room filled with bare necessities. Revy unzipped her dress, before turning to face the blonde.
And now, after several orgasms and a grip on her throat so hard she already knew there'd be purple bruises, Revy continues to trace the scar from her face down to her chest, ending where her nipple night have been before it got choked by scar tissue. Balalaika leans down and presses a hot, open mouthed kiss against her collarbone, no doubt leaving a harsh purple bruise. She could do that.
Revy hisses through her teeth as the bite gets deeper, before Balalaika pulls away, a soft smirk on her face. When Revy presses a fingertip to the spot it comes away with soft beads of red.
Balalaika could kill her now, kill her anywhere. All the gunslinger dreams of is beer and death. The Russian's eyes sucked the light surrounding them and returned nothing, dull icy disks peering out from a tired face. Her hand drops from Balalaika's face, falling limply at her side, itching for a cigarette.
"I can't fucking sleep." Revy mutters, already uncomfortable from the near-sensitivity of the comment.
"Neither can I, Two Hands. I suppose the dead don't need to sleep," the blonde replies, brushing a strange of burgundy strand of hair from Revy's face. She froze at the unexpected soft touch. She'd known the Russian to manhandle, throw, bite, scratch. Not this.
Revy squints at the red-hot electric display of the alarm clock, reading 3:15. She sits up a bit, her face pressing into Balalaika's hair. It always smelled of cigars, gun oil, and luxurious shampoo- and she fights the urge to press her face into the Russian's neck and whine for more. To have her fingers stroke through her hair and down her back. To press her flush against muscular skin. Unlikely, obviously, but a girl can dream.
"It's time for me to head out, Dutch'll ask more questions than usual if I don't get the fuck out now,"
"Of course." Balalaika pulls away, standing up, her figure washed in polluted moonlight. Revy pulls on her shoes, shutting the door behind her. The hallway is awash with tan colors and flickering lights- utterly dead.
As she heads down the hallway, Revy stops abruptly, leaning against the wall next to the elevator. She rubs at her eyes, ignoring the burning that presses slick on her eyelids. Looking back, she watches the hotel room she just left shut it's door again; a soft click echoing throughout.