really liked their interactions; as limited as it was.
Revy squatted in the shallow water, wringing the maroon skirt. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. She squinted her eyes in the dim light of the fading afternoon sun.
"Fucking great," the gunwoman muttered, rubbing the bar of soap harder into the ruined fabric.
Her favorite (and only) pleated skirt. The one that she wore to Japan, worn when she needed to look casual and different from her normal outfit, when she knew there wouldn't be too many gymnastics. And it was stained. The stains belonged to one of the mooks who decided it was fine to just blow his own head off before she could manage to mow him down. Balalaika's ammo shipments had been randomly intercepted; and on the one day she wanted to look kinda nice for Rock.
The said Russian woman stood on the dock to the left of Revy, deep in conversation with Dutch. He was talking about their delay, why Rock was at Chang's - while Balalaika chuckled easily. They talked like old friends. Boris was by the tinted-windowed car, talking tensely in his native language.
Revy always wondered how Balalaika could stand in the tropical humid heat of Roanapour wearing a tight suit; where her thick military coat sat upon her broad shoulders. And while Revy snarled that being as far gone as the war-maniac was (remembering the fiasco with Rock not shutting his god damn mouth), heat and cold and pain and pleasure probably didn't register anymore.
The ocean lapped lazily at her panty-covered ass and thighs, and every time a larger wave would brush against her stomach Revy wanted to rip the skirt in half. With her luck the blood dye patches of it an ugly color that reminded her of shit and that was not sexy.
Dutch wandered back to the boat, probably to get the schematics that where stolen by the low-class criminals, which Revy shoved unceremoniously by Benny. And Balalaika was by herself on the dock smoking her stupid expensive cigars.
Awkwardness crawled by Revy's spine. Besides the many talks of business, she had little idea what the mafia boss liked to converse about. Guns? Death? Porn editing? She began to feel self conscious of how naked and messy she truly was. The black tank stuck to her braless chest; her faded panties painted on her ass, and her hair mussed from fighting and the ocean salt and sweat.
Looking up to bite out something, Revy looked instead into Balalaika's icy eyes pouring over her form.
A stubborn blush rose up the gunwoman's neck and capped off at her cheeks. She could feel it glowing on her tanned skin; like the faded neon signs dotted around the port city.
The Russian held her cigar stiffly in her long-taloned hand, eyes continuing to scan her form, unabashed by the fact she'd stilled in her scrubbing. Revy wanted to snark "Like what you see?" or "Can I fucking help you, sis?" But the words died on her tongue.
She felt stripped, dissembled, and lined up neatly; her lip nearly quivered. As if Balalaika was naming the bones in her body; each individual bone in her fingers. Revy now felt the older woman's eyes travel up the side of her body: up her kneeling legs, her stomach, her hardened nipples, dipping into her collarbones and up her neck.
There was no doubt about it. Balalaika in her own special way was enjoying the view. Her lips glinted with oily pink lipstick. They wrapped around a stubby cigar, before pursing to let out a steady stream of smoke.
"A ruined skirt? How disappointing, Two Hands," the Russian's voice was rough.
Revy's eyes snapped up in begrudging respect, an almost smile on her face. Her right hand grinding the soap harder. "Yeah, real piece of work it fuckin' is to get blood out of a skirt,"
"Try lime juice or your own spit,"Balalaika replied, stepping one pump on the smoldering end of the cigar.
"Dutch told me about trying the ocean cause of the salt, or even just buying another.." Revy spat on the skirt, taking care to have a thin line of saliva drip from her open mouth to follow the glob. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she returned to eye Balalaika.
Her soap pressed on the saliva, and continued scrubbing; seeing that all of the attention was indeed fading the stain. Revy used her elbow to push up her tank, until it pressed flush to the underside of her breast.
Revy was used to being looked at and lusted over plenty. Nameless goons have tried to flirt and bluff their way into her good graces, but that was before her cutlasses would find their mark. She was even sure Rock had managed one once-over on her, especially when she'd wander the apartment in her underwear. It didn't matter. She knew her gunslinging acrobatics made her body look good; and the high temperatures made sure to show that off. There was no one she wanted to please, except Rock, and even that she wasn't sure of. All in all, she wasn't used to being vulnerable. Revy liked to be dominating.
But this was different. Balalaika'd never flirted with her, or even spared her a glance that would make the gunwoman think things were different between them. She felt an angry weakness, the one who was being inspected, aware of her thighs and shoulders and stomach. She was aware she didn't shave this week, she didn't wash her face and she forgot to brush her teeth. And it pissed her off.
Revy stood up, her toes curling in the sand, her spine straight. She turned her body towards Balalaika, and raised her head questioningly. Her body was on full display, and she wanted to make the woman know she meant it. Her skirt in her had dripped wetly down her thigh.
They held a shared gaze, Balalaika's fingers curling around a lighter; her mouth around a cigarette.
Her panties stuck to her crotch, seemingly transparent; her top like plastic modeled to a figurine. Revy wanted to flip her hair like those Baywatch women, but when she did it stuck to her cheek and she let out a huff. Then, a nail-bitten hand moved up and she pressed it against her ow breast. Revy felt her gaze falter under the glacial look of Balalaika, so cold that she was sure that there was a strange heat to it.
"You want somethin', sis? If Dutch is taking too long I can run and rush him,"
Balalaika shrugged, taking a drag. "Mm. It's fine, he can take as long as he wants. After all, we already have the cargo safely, thanks to tricks of you and your comrades,"
Her words had a natural bite to them. Revy shivered despite the lack of cold. But she needed to get her own point across.
She freely let her eyes wander of the Russian's own form. The tight suit that clung to her waist, where is strained against her hips and breasts, where it wrinkled around her shoulders. Her hands that were always busy with something. Her acrylic nails. The thick scars that seemingly never ended. Once, when Balalaika had leaned over to throw a manila folder on her desk, her sleeve has pushed up and Revy saw a pink smear of scars. She wondered how badly they hurt, and almost wanted to ask.
The Revy let her eyes focus on where her cunt would be, and for a moment she wonders how she tastes despite living only on high-priced liquor and cigars from Havana. Then her gaze went back to Balalalaika's face.
The Russian let her cigarette fall between her fingers and for a second Revy is hoping she'll pin her to something- anything, as long as her muscular body was pressed close while shaking with rage.
"Sis," Her voice was strained.
"Ma'am, we need to leave," Boris's voice broke the enchantment with his usual brusqueness. Revy wished her cutlasses were in her twitching hands.
Balalaika turned, and nodded respectfully at the sergeant. "I'll see to finish the meeting once we head back."
The gunwoman clenched the skirt in her hands, trying to make it seem she wasn't as pissed as she was. She felt a dull throbbing between her legs.
The two ex-Soviets made their way to the black car, with Balalaika pausing mid-step, turning her head in Revy's general direction. "I do hope you get that stain out. If not, I'll be more than happy to buy you a new one. Since yours was ruined on Hotel Moscow's account."
The car drove calmly down the port until it dissipated into the maw of Roanapour. Revy took her skirt between her hands and ripped it in half.