[ficlet] not a dreamer
Jul. 11th, 2011 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
transient_wordsDisclaimer: I don't own a thing.
Rating: R (for profanity).
Warning(s): impromptu, so not the best writing ever. A bit heavy on the profanity (this is Revy we're talking about), and there's a conscious discrepancy between the language in the beginning and when the POV directly switches to Revy. Heavy brackets abuse -- you have been warned.
A/N: Black Lagoon, Rock/Revy: post-danger, reluctant admission of feelings, friends to lovers, clumsiness - I don't want a man / Who tiptoes up the stairs -- > Originally written for this in mind, but I don't really think it fits the prompt. You know, I just wanted to write Revy. IDK, if I did her character any justice at all, but I'm in such a bad mood today that I just had to write this.
***
The last thing Revy needs or wants is sweet tokens of love and affection -- stuff like ‘I’ll protect you’ and ‘we’ll be together forever'. Nor does she require those sweet butterfly kisses against her neck, the gentleness of those hands caressing her breasts – too shy to grasp or squeeze.
Everything about Rock is shy, even though – through the facade of shyness – Revy can tell that there’s passion lurking underneath those tender kisses (he’s holding back, but she can feel the tremble of his lips, the way his hands, now holding her waist, are shuddering too, obviously wanting to pull her closer).
If she were another woman – the kind who lives on stars and fairy tales – then, maybe, she’d be flattered and, with teasing coquetry, draw out those little touches (make him beg, make him shiver a little more, kiss him slowly, sweetly, softly until he goes wild with desire).
But Revy isn’t that kind of lady (she’s not a lady at all) and doesn’t need any of this.
None of that shit.
She wants to take and be taken, fuck and be fucked like there’s no tomorrow because you never know when shit hits the fan, and you’re the next lucky number on Death’s lottery ticket.
(We all go down sooner or later, Dutch always says, with that damned smile on his face like he fucking knows what he’s actually talking about).
“I can protect myself,” Revy says as she straddles Rock, taking in the widening of his eyes and his flushed face (and sees the desire in his eyes, the ‘fuck, fuck, fuck yes' look that tells her it’s all right to do this). “Don’t treat me like a princess.”
Because you’re not a princess if you kill for the thrill of it or had to scavenge trashcans for food when you were a kid.
No, Revy thinks, as she smashes her lips against Rock’s in a furious kiss, grinding her teeth against his lower lip – biting so hard that she’ll probably be tasting blood soon – she’s just lucky that she happens to be a damned good shot.
Not more (not the dainty Japanese bitches Rock must have been with: woman too afraid to say they want it harder and who clamp their mouths shut as soon as they reach orgasm).
Not less (Revy will never say ‘I love you’. Not because she can’t tell what this tightening in her chest is or that being with Rock makes her feel more alive and happy than anything else she’s ever known. No, it’s because once you get to that point, there’s just no going back).
There’s no going back today either now, Revy knows, but she’s still kissing Rock, still has her hands on his shoulders, is still straddling him in her cabin, and whispering ‘let’s finally fuck’ against his lips.
Yes, just 'let's fuck' because that’s the language Revy knows best, next to shooting someone’s brains off.
And, when Rock kisses her back, his tongue meeting hers now as his hands grip her hips, and she starts grinding against him, Revy knows that he’s gotten the memo, which is good cause it makes her press against him more, makes her take her shirt off and, with a smirk on her face, unbuckle his jeans –
Yes, it looks like it’ll be a fun night.
And yet, there’s a part of her that asks if it wouldn’t be equally fun if she just allowed Rock to have his way with her.
But she doesn’t have time for such musings.
She isn’t a dreamer, after all.
***
Rating: R (for profanity).
Warning(s): impromptu, so not the best writing ever. A bit heavy on the profanity (this is Revy we're talking about), and there's a conscious discrepancy between the language in the beginning and when the POV directly switches to Revy. Heavy brackets abuse -- you have been warned.
A/N: Black Lagoon, Rock/Revy: post-danger, reluctant admission of feelings, friends to lovers, clumsiness - I don't want a man / Who tiptoes up the stairs -- > Originally written for this in mind, but I don't really think it fits the prompt. You know, I just wanted to write Revy. IDK, if I did her character any justice at all, but I'm in such a bad mood today that I just had to write this.
***
The last thing Revy needs or wants is sweet tokens of love and affection -- stuff like ‘I’ll protect you’ and ‘we’ll be together forever'. Nor does she require those sweet butterfly kisses against her neck, the gentleness of those hands caressing her breasts – too shy to grasp or squeeze.
Everything about Rock is shy, even though – through the facade of shyness – Revy can tell that there’s passion lurking underneath those tender kisses (he’s holding back, but she can feel the tremble of his lips, the way his hands, now holding her waist, are shuddering too, obviously wanting to pull her closer).
If she were another woman – the kind who lives on stars and fairy tales – then, maybe, she’d be flattered and, with teasing coquetry, draw out those little touches (make him beg, make him shiver a little more, kiss him slowly, sweetly, softly until he goes wild with desire).
But Revy isn’t that kind of lady (she’s not a lady at all) and doesn’t need any of this.
None of that shit.
She wants to take and be taken, fuck and be fucked like there’s no tomorrow because you never know when shit hits the fan, and you’re the next lucky number on Death’s lottery ticket.
(We all go down sooner or later, Dutch always says, with that damned smile on his face like he fucking knows what he’s actually talking about).
“I can protect myself,” Revy says as she straddles Rock, taking in the widening of his eyes and his flushed face (and sees the desire in his eyes, the ‘fuck, fuck, fuck yes' look that tells her it’s all right to do this). “Don’t treat me like a princess.”
Because you’re not a princess if you kill for the thrill of it or had to scavenge trashcans for food when you were a kid.
No, Revy thinks, as she smashes her lips against Rock’s in a furious kiss, grinding her teeth against his lower lip – biting so hard that she’ll probably be tasting blood soon – she’s just lucky that she happens to be a damned good shot.
Not more (not the dainty Japanese bitches Rock must have been with: woman too afraid to say they want it harder and who clamp their mouths shut as soon as they reach orgasm).
Not less (Revy will never say ‘I love you’. Not because she can’t tell what this tightening in her chest is or that being with Rock makes her feel more alive and happy than anything else she’s ever known. No, it’s because once you get to that point, there’s just no going back).
There’s no going back today either now, Revy knows, but she’s still kissing Rock, still has her hands on his shoulders, is still straddling him in her cabin, and whispering ‘let’s finally fuck’ against his lips.
Yes, just 'let's fuck' because that’s the language Revy knows best, next to shooting someone’s brains off.
And, when Rock kisses her back, his tongue meeting hers now as his hands grip her hips, and she starts grinding against him, Revy knows that he’s gotten the memo, which is good cause it makes her press against him more, makes her take her shirt off and, with a smirk on her face, unbuckle his jeans –
Yes, it looks like it’ll be a fun night.
And yet, there’s a part of her that asks if it wouldn’t be equally fun if she just allowed Rock to have his way with her.
But she doesn’t have time for such musings.
She isn’t a dreamer, after all.
***
