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If asked, Ryōshū would tell you that Rodya was—above all else—a fighter at heart.
It is a high compliment, coming from her. She, who was born to hold an armament. She, who was destined to be painted with blood the colour of roses. She, she, she.
Ever since the first time they met, Ryōshū had known there was something about Rodya that made her different. Something about her that made Ryōshū interested. But now? Rodya is Rodya, and that is enough.
On the surface Ryōshū seems much like the blade she carries; all wicked edges that could, and would, cut you if you weren’t careful. Ryōshū is careful. She is so very careful. Weapons are known as instruments of violence, though she views them more as the former than the latter.
Her work is an art form in itself; ruby swathes that emerge in bucketfuls from cleaved-open flesh, bones snapped and shattered like toothpicks. It’s… Well, there’s no proper word to describe it. Some may say it’s ‘garish’ or ‘gruesome’ but they don’t understand. They could never, too simple-minded to think big and see what Ryōshū sees. The mind of an artist is a scattered place; abstract, in the way the blood-splatters that fall from downed enemies end up on the floor are.
It could be called pretty, if such a simple word could encompass the depth of the feeling Ryōshū’s art evokes in her. Pretty seems too small, too incorrect, but it is close enough to what emotion Ryōshū feels when she looks upon her art, blade in hand, so it will have to do. In a similar fashion, Rodya could also be called pretty. It may be too small, too incorrect, to properly describe but it is close enough so it will have to do.
Pretty the way a well-sharpened sword is, when it cuts through flesh and bone in a single strike. Pretty the way the light drains from the eyes of her victims as they bleed in waterfalls of red. Pretty in the way a rose bloomed amidst the thrill of violence is.
Ryōshū wonders; if she told Rodya all this, how would she react?
“Rodya,” Ryōshū says one day after a successful mission, her sword stained. This is not the first time they’ve worked together, nor will it be the last. Ryōshū finds Rodya strangely more tolerable than the other Kurokumo Syndicate members (aside from a certain Hong Lu, of course) and it shows. “CWT.”
“Mm… Talk? Sure.” Rodya’s slow drawl is a welcome sound now. Ryōshū is unsure when the change happened, but over time Rodya’s voice is something Ryōshū finds akin to the lullabies you sing to children. Her voice is low and smooth, and it has a way of loosening Ryōshū’s defences. Perhaps it has something to do with how pretty Ryōshū finds her. “What is it~?”
Never one to beat around the bush, Ryōshū says, “I think you’re pretty.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Ryōshū is no coward, so she looks up to meet Rodya’s eyes. They’ve narrowed into slits, and she seems torn before, quick as a flash, she’s pinning Ryōshū against the wall. Strong hands, corded muscle, whip-sharp, and Ryōshū finds her eyes dragging slowly over the curve of Rodya’s body.
The press of metal against her throat like the ghost of a kiss. Ryōshū smiles, a sharp slant of bone-white teeth.
“What, DLT?”
Rodya seems to think it over. “No, it’s not that I didn’t like it…” She eyes Ryōshū with evident wariness. Not of her combat prowess, no, because Rodya is strong enough to hold her own and, right now, she has the advantage. Rodya is wary because they don’t talk about it, ever, this strange tension between them. “Are you being serious?”
“Yes,” Ryōshū says, honest with her throat bared to Rodya. Take the shot, if you’d like. It might be a welcome challenge. I would like to see you with my marks painted all over you. Rodya is pretty, has always been pretty, but never more than she is with blood in her hair—in her clothes—across her face, with her blade at Ryōshū’s throat. “Yes.”
“Hm~” Rodya hums, considering. Ryōshū’s heart beats faster, adrenaline pumping, rushing, a tidal wave of red. Rodya’s lips are painted cherry-red, heart-shaped; the colour of blood. Ryōshū wants to taste, just a little.
“Rodya. I think I WTKS.” Ryōshū’s words are flat, yet the way she twitches with eagerness says otherwise. Rodya is so close. “Yes or no.”
“Sure.” Rodya says, eyes gleaming. A challenge is coming Ryōshū’s way, she can feel it. “Sure. If you mean it. Prove it.”
Ryōshū laughs, wild and unrestrained. Rodya knows exactly how to get her going, how to make her head spin; dizzying, this feeling is. She shakes in Rodya’s hold, shoulders trembling with the force of her cyclone laughter.
Her eyes meet Rodya’s over the line of the knife’s edge. Rodya quirks an eyebrow. Ryōshū bares her teeth in a grin and drags her tongue across the flat of the blade.
It’s so like Ryōshū, it seems unlikely. The blade tastes of metal, the sting of frost, the cold steel soothing. It’s a perversion of sorts, the way her tongue lolls over the dips and grooves, follows along the edge, like a panting, slobbering dog. Spit coats the weapon, shiny and reflective. It feels like something not meant to be seen; the sin of lust, the draw of want, the allure of desire. Rodya’s mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise.
Ryōshū tastes blood in her mouth, feels her tongue and lips split from where she kisses the sword.
Rodya’s grip slackens, and Ryōshū takes the opportunity. Grabs her by the waist, hooks an ankle around her foot, tips her off balance; uses the momentum to swing her around, reverse their positions—Rodya pressed up against the wall, Ryōshū atop her. “That enough?”
“Yes,” Rodya says, breathless. Breathless in the way a good fight gets you, chest heaving and pupils blown wide. Ryōshū has always been a good fight. “Yes, it was.”
“Good.” Ryōshū says, simply, before she’s kissing Rodya. It’s gentle at first, a slow press of lips, an exploration; seeking, seeking, seeking. It’s not enough. Ryōshū wants blood, she wants nails raking down her back, she wants pain and pleasure in equal measure. She wants the sting of desire, she wants a tongue in her mouth, she wants. She pushes against Rodya with her tongue, insistent, and Rodya pushes back.
Now it’s devolving. It’s not a kiss so much as it is a fight, a battle. They are both seeking the upper hand, they are both attempting to take the lead. Rodya’s nails dig into Ryōshū’s shoulders, seeking holds, clawing through the fabric. Ryōshū bites down on Rodya’s lips in retaliation, brutal, and tastes blood in her mouth.
They come apart, they come undone, then rise back together. Rodya pushes Ryōshū away from her face. Ryōshū goes with little resistance. They are both breathing heavily. “That was…fun.” Rodya says, slowly getting her rhythm back. Her voice is a little hoarse and her lipstick is smeared.
Ryōshū inclines her head. “Mm,” She swipes her tongue over her lips, tastes copper and violence. Just the way she likes it. “We should DTA.”
“I wouldn’t mind~” Rodya purrs, a laugh caught in her throat.
Here, in this alleyway, they kissed. Here, in this alleyway, they tore each other apart. There will be marks, tomorrow. There will be battle-scars. It will ache and hurt. They smile through the pain.