Who: Maxwell & Revy What: Max needs to get shitfaced, she just makes sure he does it somewhere affordable When: Tonight Where: The Rear End, and literally a shack for a bar Rating/Warnings: Language, lots of it Status: Complete!
Revy didn’t think she could do this full-time. It all started out as something of a favor, y’see, because they were short-handed and needed someone who had the muscles to break a few bones if necessary and haul someone out. This particular mercenary (pay her enough, fuck, she was yours, but there were certain jobs she wouldn’t do) fit the bill - it was the scowl, probably the sleeve of solid ink too that gave her that extra dose of intimidation. Most of the time the gig involved guarding the doors, checking for weapons, and making sure no one underage walked through the doors.
Video editing threesomes with maids was so much more entertaining, even if she’d done it ten fucking times at this rate.
But tonight they had a fucking weirdo enter, and while there weren’t any complaints she already saw the looks of annoyances on the dancers. Maybe he was being too forward, maybe he was being too grabby, or wasn’t paying enough. Could be anything. It was why Revy stayed close to the bar and to keep a close eye, elbows propped up while she leaned back, and a fresh cigarette between her lips. Typical attire too - ripped skinny jeans (her fly was down, so classy), untied combat boots, and a sleeveless top that could barely contain the plump chest puppies.
Try something, cocksucker. I dare you.
Well, Trevelyan wasn’t the weirdo in question (at least...he wouldn’t have stooped that low, in his opinion, to be dubbed ‘the weirdo’ in a strip club of all places) but he was more like ‘the guy who was a touch awkward because he didn’t want to offend anyone, and was just looking for the manager, please, get the hell away from him rainbow-haired waitress.’
A long title, but fitting for this environment.
He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking relatively clean-cut and groomed with strategic dark scruff, and he side-stepped the aforementioned overzealous cocktail waitress to head over to the bar and order a drink not from someone with multiple infected lip piercings. Bourbon, straight up - sometimes he drank it as a bourbon and ginger, sometimes he didn’t. Tonight he most definitely didn’t want to.
Were people allowed to smoke in here? Obviously the woman with the combat boots didn’t seem to care. He slid closer, and not like he tried to chat up people in bars often but what did it even matter? It was a thorn in his side that he couldn’t quite shake the otherworldly sensations which came with an attachment to someone from another world - who clearly didn’t want him in this one. But shit happened, as the saying goes.
“Those are nice tat - “
“Hey, cutiepants, don’t even bother with her,” spoke up the rainbow-haired monstrosity, sashaying back to put in a few orders at the bar from her tables. “I heard she once bit a guy’s dick off.”
Well, that was charming. He’d just sit here and sip his drink, thanks.
Uh, what? Someone tell her the pimple popping pussy wasn’t talking about her, was she? Oh, wait, she was, and no, you actually weren’t supposed to smoke in here but obviously there wasn’t a single fuck spared in regards to following the rule. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll put this cigarette out on your twat, after I rip out the staples Isabela put in it,” came Revy’s response with a little less loud bark and a little more death threat in her voice.
Keep that up, Rainbow Brite, and she was going to do Beardo a favor by drowning you in a used toilet.
Smoke blew from her mouth and in her direction, right before she gave the creepy fucker across the room a long glare and turned away from the stage. Notably towards the dolled up nerd with the drink - someone looked very out of place, and a little familiar.
“Beardo’s friend, right? Didn’t we talk about pirate porn once?”
That sounded like an affectionate nickname, Beardo. And of course Max knew who she was talking about - because Garrett Hawke’s facial hair was pretty infamous by now. “His friend, though I guess he’s not around tonight. And yes, we did, pirate porn - “ That was such a great thing to associate with him, he was positively chuffed, “I also owe you magic lessons which is a good way to learn anyway,” he grinned, and it was conjuring up amusing images the more he looked at her. Granted, those chestnut eyes of his didn’t quite know where to focus on, between the open fly (definitely super classy), the tattoos, and the cups that runneth over.
It was rude to stare solely at those, however - so, face. Face was good.
“I’m still waiting to see how mine turns out.” To demonstrate, he snapped his fingers - nothing happened, naturally. “One of these days, that will light something on fire. But right, good to see you, Revy.”
Ah, right. It all clicked, officially. A name with a clearer face and a trademark conversation - porn and Legally Blonde, all in one exchange. That was a first. “Like fuck would I forget future magic lessons,” she chuckled, slipping the cancer stick from between her lips. “The hell are you doing here anyway? Here for the tits or the chicken?”
Typically people came for the combination, not the concessions. Drinks were always so overpriced, and the chicken wasn’t that cheap. Tasty as hell, sure, but she guessed the charm of this place was that you can tear meat off bones and appreciate a live set of dancing breasts and ass in your face.
It was pretty genius.
Max probably wouldn’t have guessed that a place called the Rear End would have really good chicken fingers, but life was funny sometimes - and he’d sampled the wares, they really were crispy and delicious, just perfect with a touch of barbecue sauce. But he wasn’t there for the cluckers tonight, unfortunately. “I was looking for Hawke,” he explained, swirling the contents of his glass a little to mix it more - to release more of the aroma, really. “Someone from my dreamworld filled me in on a few things, so I just wanted to catch up with him.”
But since he was here, and Hawke didn’t seem to be around, it wasn’t like Trevelyan would just turn and go. The...ambiance was nice. Right, the ambiance.
“What about you, are you...working? Or?” He wasn’t sure if Revy was just hanging out or on the job - he knew she edited porn, but obviously did something entirely different here.
Whatever floated his boat. Dream business meant baggage, usually, and made you particularly parched for liquid courage. If Max stayed for the overpriced drinks, it’s probably because he needed one - hope he could afford it, then. Revy thanked her fucking lucky stars for an employee discount, which meant zero money down and a cold, bottled Heineken slid her way.
“Only working for a little longer,” she explained, and looked over her shoulder to catch a glimpse at her shithead of interest. Nothing yet. He seemed behaved. “I fill bouncer duties as needed to help.” It wasn’t awful, and the extra cash was nice. Maybe she wasn’t burly and massive like the stereotype of club bodyguards implied but she was all lean muscle with thunder thighs that could snap a spine like a fucking twig.
Tigress eyes looked back to him and squinted. “You do realize that if you need to drink your bullshit away, there’s cheaper places than this, right?”
She looked like she could, and would, tapdance on his face if he stepped out of line (not that Trevelyan was planning to), and he was counting his own lucky stars - mainly for the fact that Revy hadn’t decided to clock him in the jaw for complimenting her tattoos, but luckily Rainbow Brite had interfered because he could potentially make an idiot of himself (though he meant it, her ink really was nice - well done, in fact).
The fact that she’d probably gotten half those tattoos in prison was ever the more intriguing.
But, oh, sure. Cheaper places than this. That was a given, maybe? Like hell he had a list of those other places at the ready, however. “I just...well, I’m not really one to drink my bullshit away on a regular basis,” he admitted, glancing down into the depths of his glass then back up at her. “But if you have suggestions, I’m open to hearing them. Not really picky as far as ambiance - especially if the idea is to get hammered quickly.”
Revy chuckled, the sound so very rough - she didn’t have the vocals of angels or mermaids thanks to years of relentless smoking. And yelling, she did a lot of yelling when she was shooting people up. “Dream bug must’ve bit you hard in the ass, eh?” Another puffpuff of the cigarette, the lit end brightening, and the white paper slowly burned. “I can fuck off early and walk to you the place a couple blocks away. Smells like something died in there but the drinks are cheap, and they’ll get you blitzed fast if that’s what you’re aiming for.”
Hell, she’d take her beer with her too, like hell she was letting that go to waste. It went so well with the taste of tobacco. And truth be told she wanted to get the out anyway, there wasn’t anything exciting going on other than the creeper in the crowd and there was another bouncer around. Literally the size of a fucking giant. The brute could handle it while she knocked back a couple shots of rum and got herself unnecessarily smashed elsewhere.
“Did something die in there?” Max teased, but alright, sounded good to him. He picked up his glass and finished the remains of the bourbon, the liquid slithering down his throat in a few gulps. Maybe it was meant to be enjoyed and savored by a fireplace, but he was obviously not in a mood to give fucks about that. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
As for his dreams, they were probably just going to get worse. Actually, his talk with Leliana sort of guaranteed that. Could he really be surprised though? “I don’t know about biting in the ass but...” He wasn’t sure how to describe it, because everything felt like shit rolling downhill too fast to even catch. “It’s definitely complicated. Feelings are complicated, the end of the world is complicated, I can’t stop whatever’s going to happen and instead have to just let it run its course while I look on in horror, that sort of thing.”
He hoped that damn mark didn’t appear on his hand though. Could do without the explosions and the Herald of Andraste bit - that was a little much.
Always had to watch out for the ones that always looked like they had their shit together - they always had the spiciest of centers deep down, and Revy didn’t think he could swallow the contents of the glass without even gagging. “In this neighborhood, who the fuck knows,” she answered - very seriously, actually - and put out the cigarette, by rudely leaving the bud on the bartop. Let Rainbow Brite take care of that, the little whorebag.
There wasn’t a purse to gather. Everything was tucked into her denim pockets, the beer was in her hand, and she took a generous swallow of it while Max relayed all his dream woes. “What the fuck,” she huff, and her expression legitimately relayed that sentiment. “I’m no shrink, buttercup, only thing I can offer is a drink and an….ear, or something.” Magic things were complicated, they always seemed to yield some kind of ominous ‘end of times’ bullshit - it was the one part she about that package she wasn’t envious about.
But before they stepped out of the club of such reputable standards, she exchanged some words with the pack of bulging muscle left on shift, and they were on their merry way through the darkness of the night - where everyone lurking was outright suspicious, someone was writing their name on a brick wall with their urine, and somewhere there was a freshly lit joint.
The moonlight made it almost romantic.
An intelligent observation indeed - Max most certainly looked like he had his shit together (he was a dolled up nerd, that hadn’t been wrong either) but dig a little deeper and there was a lot of what he didn’t show to the public, the average person, there in that heated, spicer center. Not because he had built up walls, or whatever else, but because his aura was one of professionalism - however, get him behind closed doors and it could potentially be a lot different.
No one would book appointments with a therapist who swirled designs with piss on a brick wall, for example.
“It’s okay, I’m technically the shrink,” he laughed, with a shrug, walking beside Revy toward the less than savory destination. That cloying smell of pot tickled his nose - brought him back to the days of undergrad and late nights, usually culminating in a 24-hour diner somewhere. Maybe even IHOP. “But an ear is good - sometimes even we shrinks need that. It’s mostly that I met with someone who dreams of the same world and she told me a little about what happens. As in, a literal hole in the sky that separates the waking world from the place we go to when we sleep - it’s chock full of spirits and demons and things, your typical nightmares. Apparently I’m the one tasked with closing the rift.”
“So you’re the chosen one,” Revy simplified. Goddamn, way to have the weight of the fucking world resting on your shoulder. No pressure or anything, and she decided to enact a sign of pure kindness - she offered him her beer. “You need this more than I do.”
That way her hands were free to fire up another cigarette. Burn, baby. And the shithole really wasn’t far at all, but it didn’t really look like anything habitable at first. Just a shack squeezed between two brick apartment like buildings, and there was some light and the sound of a jukebox, but the wood was rotted and they were either operating with an illegal business license - or sucked someone’s dick hard enough to pass the inspections.
Neither would surprise her here.
It was dim inside, lights above the old pool tables flickering, and she led him to a series of empty barstools with rips in the fake leather. “That perk’s gonna come with the magic, I bet? But what the fuck is there to close, it’s not like we have holes that crap demons out.”
Or did they? Christ, she wouldn’t be fucking surprised if they did.
Max would go with the assumption ‘sucked someone’s dick for liquor license’ but the place was...charming. In its own way. He was flattered to receive Revy’s beer, however, and thanked her for it before he took a swig from the bottle. Then he settled on the stool to order a shot of something strong for himself - he didn’t think the place had top shelf anything, or anything beyond ‘a step below moonshine’ level so he would take whatever did the job. Even if it tasted like paint thinner.
“Actually, a hole that craps demons out seems like exactly what will happen,” he sighed. “Everytime the hole does something, expands or what have you, it apparently affects the mark on my hand - makes sense, because they’re connected, but that type of magic isn’t really for mortals to wield. So it can’t be healthy, exactly.”
If that mark ended up killing him, he would probably be displeased - but hopefully that wouldn’t happen. There or here.
“But the way things carry over, I don’t know, prepare yourself for battling demons?” Revy seemed like she could hold her own in a fight. Surely demons wouldn’t present much of a challenge for her.
Revy wasn’t a professional demon slayer or whatever the fuck, but she’d been able to stand her own against the psychological monsters of the fog several weeks ago alright. Up until Henry’s personal demon choked the shit out of her, but next time something of that nature was popping up she was going to make sure she had the big guns. Dreams had given her two grenade launchers - she was going to make some damn good use for them.
And maybe finally ride Midna into battle as intended while she went full-blown Twili arachnid. Sounded like a motherfuckin’ party.
“I don’t mind the random bursts of action,” she admitted, flicking ashes into a the tray next to her, and her poison of choice was a shot called the Slippery Sailor. Nothing special, just spiced rum and Bailey’s Irish cream, which seemed to be one of the more ‘pricier’ liqueurs for this decaying hole. “How the fuck do you get rid of the mark? Or is it going to swallow you up the more this astral glory hole expands?”
“Probably the second,” Trevelyan admitted, commending Revy’s shot choice with an eyebrow raise. Sounded very pirate-like, which was appropriate for her. As for him? He went with the Three Wisemen set - one shot Jim Beam whiskey, one shot of your friend Jack, one of the third best friend forever Jose Cuervo. This was also called Liquid Cocaine in some parts of the more drunken world - he could see why.
But he wasn’t shy about knocking those suckers back either, oh no. They went shooting down his throat in a blaze of glory, leaving a shiver in their fiery wake.
Yes, back to that glowing green nuisance. “Admittedly, that part was not mentioned so I really can’t say for sure what my fate will be or how I end up getting rid of the mark. But the rift was closed so I’m going to hope it disappeared with that.” He really wasn’t that lucky though, was he?
“Did you ever figure things out with your...?” he motioned, as if trying to think of the right word. Someone you were sleeping with but had something of an emotional attachment to as well, or else you really wouldn’t give a crap what they did. “...friend? In your own dreams?”
That combination of booze was enough to make someone with a seasoned liver such as hers to be almost a little grossed out - Max wasn’t kidding tonight, was he? More power to him. Drink ‘til you black the fuck out, dollface, sometimes nights like that were needed to cleanse the brain, and to wake up with a new (and hungover) perspective. Revy would stick to what she knew, personally, but one of the reasons why she liked coming here was for their Bumbos.
It wasn’t a fancy cocktail by any means. Rum, water, sugarcubes, cinnamon and nutmeg. It was popular in the Caribbean during the era of piracy - something she learned from the bartender of this drink-slinging hut. He was old, a little smarmy, but riddled with strange as shit knowledge and made it for her when he got a glimpse of her pirate-inspired guns (speaks a lot in regards to this place). Since then it’d been a favorite and precisely what she ordered next.
“Uhhhh???” Odd thing to bring up after discussing the sky and it’s possibility of it raining demons - she liked that conversation much better. “No, not really. I don’t think anything would be figured out. It’ll be one of those complicated things that will run it’s course and come to a bloody end. One of us will get killed, or fuck, the both of us. My head’s not screwed right there anyway, I don’t think a relationship would do any good with that.”
Rock had helped smooth her rough edges but she didn’t know to really show much affection unless it was fucking him until there was a hole in the mattress. Or being rabidly protective. Having him around had been making her better, sure, but there was so much bullshit festering beneath the surface that she was a volcano ready to blow in all the wrong ways, and not even he could fix it. It was something she needed to do herself.
“That makes sense. I’ve never been believed the idea that someone has to change for someone else. Because you can’t ever hide from yourself - no matter what situations you put yourself in or who you surround yourself with, you’re always there,” Max hiccuped - holy shit, that tequila may have been a bad idea especially. “So it’s like you’re your own common denominator and it has to be internal. But there’s still something about having another person to sort of steady your moral compass, in a world you dream of - it seems very violent, like people thrive on bloodshed instead of oxygen.”
And that drink Revy had looked very piratey. Wasn’t rum like currency, in ye olde days of pillaging and plundering? Even for modern-day scallywags, he supposed.
“However, if you saw him here,” Trevelyan continued, blinking to clear the slightly blurred vision brought about by knocking back nasty shots in one go, wow, it had been awhile since he’d done that sort of thing. May as well drink more. “What would you do? I’m just wondering because...I don’t know.” Perspective. Reasons. Things.
Sage advice from a fucking therapist. Max wasn’t going to bill her for this ‘session,’ was he? But he had a point, one she mulled over while taking a long sip from her hooch in a cloudy glass. Rock wasn’t the solution, but an encouragement. Sort of how whatever shadows of friendships she developed over here - something she never all that genuinely had - helped her along. Born and raised in literal and metaphorical filth, the only friends you had were the people that wouldn’t fuck you over too bad or wouldn’t at least shoot you in an instant-kill spot. Too much murder over money, over power, your occasional crime of passion, and so forth into the pot of shit of just being an overall terrible fucking person on the wrong side of the law.
Now most of her friends were awkward, fairly harmless with barely a bad bone. Backstabbing wasn’t in their blood, and they all strived for that slice of normalcy living here could sometimes offer. It was contagious. Like ebola, or something.
But the more Revy sipped the more he took shots, and she clapped a hand over his shoulder to steady any swaying. “Christ on a dick, your liver better be tough enough to handle all the shit you just swallowed,” she warned - she wasn’t about to clean up vomit, fuck that. “But if I saw that dweeby cocksucker here? I don’t know, depends on the circumstance. Maybe jump his bones. Assuming he’s available. But if he’s not, be sorta-friends and find someone else to get off with.”
For all she knew he was probably off somewhere, living a boring life and hopefully settling down nicely. The kind of life she’d want for him. He didn’t belong in the bloodshed she helped pour down like a storm.
Not to worry, the Inquisitor’s liver was made of tough stuff. Probably titanium - and if it wasn’t yet, it would be soon enough, once he really bulked up that alcohol tolerance. “I know what you mean,” he nodded, and wait, was he out of shots now? No more Liquid Cocaine? Maybe he should get one of those Bumbo things, did it come with a swirly straw?
“I think I might need to do that. Find someone else to get off with.” Instead of sulking about what he clearly couldn’t have, because that didn’t seem productive. Maybe he counseled people for a living but Max didn’t often give advice to the ones who came to his office (for friends, for free - different story). Only in certain circumstances would he give professional advice though, and carefully; his job was really to be an understanding witness to his clients doing that complicated-as-fuck dance with the human psyche. And ask the questions that would get them to think about things a little more.
But Revy’s advice in this instance was golden. He squinted coffee-colored eyes in her general direction, considering. “I wasn’t suggesting anything though. Unless you wanted to, sometime, then I was. But if you don’t want to then I was just agreeing with you, that’s all.”
Niiiiiiice save.
Bumbos didn’t come with straws, sorry Max. But Revy was almost done with hers, and she was at the stage of the night where the buzz was comfortable - it relaxed those usually tense muscles and mellowed her out, which was probably for the best considering what the fuck he was asking her.
Not that it was the strangest proposal to fuck that she’d ever gotten. Ladies had needs, even those with that weren’t exactly always ladylike, but messing around without pants was never a top priority so, alright, it’d been awhile. She put out the rest of her cigarette and let her eyes rake over him, head to toe, eyebrow quirked.
Well-spoken. Somewhat of a nerd. Dressed well, like Rock. Almost exactly. The shrink fit the bill for her ‘type.’
“Yeah,” she finally answered, casually with a shrug. “I’d let you put me on all fours and plow me from the back.”
Fuck. A response that Trevelyan was not expecting - though it wasn’t like he assumed Revy was into a ten-minute missionary-style jaunt between the sheets, boring enough to zone out to (that would just be awful, pretty much no one was into that - if you were going to mess around without pants, make it memorable) but to speak of doggie style sex so casually almost made him blush.
Almost.
“Well,” he coughed. “That sounds like fun.” It sounded like he wanted to book his Friday night - oh, wait. “...what are you doing on Friday?”
Getting through that dinner party might be more bearable and less awkward if there was the promise of plowing for both parties afterward.
Revy never had a scheduled night of getting laid. But maybe it was better that way anyway - Max was a little beyond the realm of tipsy and for fuck’s sake, if he was prone to whiskey dick then she’d have problems, and it’d be an awkward night all around.
For a minute she thought. What was she doing? No shift at the club, not unless something was needed last minute. It’d probably be her, pudding cups, and her pet rat watching some shitty movie. “Nothing,” she then answered, narrowing her eyes. “This better not be a fucking dinner invite.”
He’d never had problems with whiskey dick before, how terrible would that be? But while sometimes being a little tipsy was nice, for relations of the coital variety, he was kind of close to ‘drink to blackout’ as opposed to ‘drink for the pleasant buzz.’ But what the shit, was Revy a mindreader and she just didn’t tell him?
Somehow, Max thought it was best to be honest. Probably because she could shank him with a bottle right now if she wanted.
“It...sort of is,” he admitted. “But there’s this man. I’m pretty sure something happened between us in the dreams, only he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. He and his partner are hosting a dinner party and...it’s just going to be unbearable otherwise, however, I said I’d go.”
One more shot for the road? Yeah, he was tanked. Mission accomplished, skeezy bar.
“We wouldn’t stay long, I promise.” Look, he was fine with making an appearance and then getting right to the banging, no shame in that. Like she said before, be sort of friends and then find someone else to get off with - it really wasn’t a bad plan, and was a lot safer than heartbreak.
‘What are you doing on Friday’ was the most common question that came right before the let’s go out to dinner and a movie bomb, something she wasn’t even genuinely interested in but she had the patience to listen to exactly what the situation was - no fucking wonder he was loading himself up with drinks.
Well, if it was just that, to cushion the weird tension between him and some other-life honey, Revy didn’t see the problem in obliging.
“Yeah, fine, as long as I don’t have to bring anything,” she agreed, and motioned to the guy behind the bar to cut him off. No more drinks for the night, Trevelyan. And Revy didn’t know these people, like fuck was she going to go out of her way for gifts. Most she’d do is smoke outdoors so their new house wouldn’t reek of tobacco. “Let’s get your drunk ass home first before you faceplant into my tits and drool on them.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Max insisted, especially since he wasn’t even sure what to bring. He’d probably just go with the wine and play it safe - he didn’t want to potentially bring something that Dorian’s boyfriend would side-eye him over. There was certain to be enough of that going on as it was, considering the attendees. “Just bring yourself. And I’ll owe you one for later.”
But heading home was probably a good idea - he obviously couldn’t drive, but he’d attempt to keep his face from Revy’s tits on the cab ride back. “They’re too nice to drool on,” he chuckled, setting his empty glass down. A genuine, drunken compliment.
Just like the stench of pot on the way over, and urine art under the silvery glow of the moon, it was almost romantic.