attitude: (hard luck woman)
[personal profile] attitude
A deathwish is usually made long before it's realized. Before she was ever made Valentine, Faye was the type of girl who chased after dreams and would leap off the edge of a cliff without looking down. Reckless abandon was encouraged by a pair of parents so caring and attentive that she never wanted for anything, parents who cleared the path of brambles and branches for their daughter, never letting her feel so much as a scratch. To the girl who lived a life of safety, danger and risk were intoxicating and quickened the heart in a way that not even love could, forming thoughts that persisted even when memories had long since faded and broken away.

From early on, Faye was made to be a hunter.

It shows now, in the bright red that runs down from her knee and the harsh breathing that barely manages to fill her lungs. Her gun is held still and the aim true, save for the slight rattle of the weapon that comes from hands being raised through sheer willpower alone. All around Faye, their blood painting books dusty from disuse, are the bodies of Splicers. Figures, she's murmured to herself, that they'd all be hiding out behind stacks of books. Figures, that even men who lose their minds are nothing other than cowards.

Her breath is ragged with a slight protest, an unwillingness on Faye's part to let go. She just has one more. One more Splicer, who lopes around with predatory intent, that Faye needs to put down. She can do it. She could do it. But her vision is starting to swim and adrenaline is learning to fade, replaced by fatigue as her heel grinds against tile and startles the creature, inspires a flying rage.

"Shit," she bites out, raising her voice as she stumbles back, firing a couple of shots that barely clip its shoulder. "Dammit, hold still!"

(no subject)

Date: 2011-07-30 10:57 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
He wants to tell her he's not, that she's not the wrong person, she's the only one he's speaking to, but is that even true? Dean's lived so much in so few years, he has so much to mourn and to regret, more than he could ever fix with a one word apology. It doesn't seem fair that the same single word could invoke so much, but it does, and he reels with the lurch of the elevator, too.

Reels and just keeps falling, because she's back, warm and alive and with him, and Dean's hands are as helpless as they've ever been to stay away, spreading eagerly over the rich swell of her hips to drag her closer. His blood's been close to boiling all day, first the thrill of the fight, then anger, now this, want bubbling up and over, overtaking his senses and his good sense, too, because they're in a goddamn elevator and he wants to eat her alive, see her as bare as he feels, the quick catches of skin beneath his fingers not enough. "Faye," he says, reclaiming her mouth, kissing her with everything he has like he can will her not to stop. "Faye," he says, and then again, so at least she'll know that, despite all the ways in which Dean is fucked up, he knows who it is he's here with, who he wants.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-07-31 04:39 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"H-hi," Dean stutters, stupid with the hot bolt of pleasure that courses through him at her sudden touch, all the blood he might have used crafting a more eloquent reply surging downwards, hardening him in the loose circle of her hand. Even after everything, after the kiss, a part of him hadn't believed that this would happen, that she'd go for it, but she has, and Dean makes a shivery but steady effort to get his shit together. He might be a sadbastard shell of the man he used to be, but he still knows how to show a lady a good time, goddammit.

His hands shake when he lifts them, but he gets the one button of her shirt undone, nearly losing his knees all over again when it comes open just like that. "Faye," he says again, and he knows he sounds a little too eager, too desperate, but he's been alone for so long now, not wanting anyone for months, but here underground, surrounded by death and danger and Faye, Dean feels alive again.

"God," he exhales, unable to resist a moment longer, one hand curving around the heavy weight of her breast, the other at the back of her neck to steady her when Dean seals his mouth over hers, hungry for her in each and every way he can get.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-08-13 04:32 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"Thought I was comin' in here all business," Dean grunts before losing his voice to a groan, her teeth sharp and unexpected against his skin. He's half tangled up in machete straps and extra casings, slid from his shoulders and wrapped round his elbows, but Dean shrugs them violently off, the smallest bite of her teeth enough to having him moving rough and reckless. Surging forward, he grabs her up, hands beneath her ass and lifting until her long legs are wrapped around his waist.

"We're really doin' this," he murmurs, half to himself, and then he's lost to the soft warmth of her breasts, stubble scraping over delicate skin before he tempers himself, sets his lips to the spot and soothes with his tongue. It's been forever since he had his face between a woman's breasts, and he feels as eager as a child, but he only means to be half as clumsy.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-08-23 02:29 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
She rolls against him just right, just like she's been made to fit there, and Dean washes hot all over, toes curling in his boots. He hears the thunk of her own behind him, and knows instinctively that he'll never get that far. He wants her too much, too badly, but hell. Won't be the first time he's fucked with his boots on.

It's a filthy thought, but it seems to match everything about this day - the dank and dark of Rapture, the bodies they've left behind, all the unspeakable things he wants to do to the woman wrapped around his waist. He feels a sudden need to make up for it, make it good, but he thinks he'll settle for making her scream.

Peeling her hands from him, Dean wraps her fingers around the support rail of the bathysphere, drops her legs from his waist and then drops himself to his knees. Catching her waist in his hands, Dean nuzzles at the soft skin of her belly, deft fingers pulling those little shorts she wears open and down. "Definitely not stopping," he breathes hot against her, sealing his mouth over where she's already wet through her underwear.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-08-23 03:43 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean hums, his lips parting in a smile before he nips at her, fingers hooked in the waistband to peel her panties down. He goes slow, gives her time to protest, even after everything that's come before, but there's something almost shy in her voice, in the way she tries not to speak.

"I like the way you say my name," he says as he pulls her leg gently over his shoulder. They're words he's spoken before, usually with a cocky quirk of his brow, but this time he really means it. The words aren't a boast, they're an invitation. He wants her to enjoy this, to let go, be loud, god, he wants to hear it.

Ducking his head, he kisses up the delicate skin of her inner thigh, but this time he doesn't stop, and when he reaches the sweet, hot core of her, Dean's tongue flicks out, every part of him eager to taste her.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-08-27 02:57 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"I have my way," he murmurs, heady with the taste of her, her scent all around him, "there's gonna be a couple afters." Ducking his head, Dean sets himself to the task in earnest, and god, it's been forever since he tasted a woman. She's warm and sweet, hot when he narrows his tongue and pushes, seeking entrance.

He can't help but groan when he finds it, can't get far, not even when he grips her ass to bring her even closer, but it's still good, all tight, slick heat that he wants to slip his fingers through next, his dick. "Faye," he mutters into her skin, face a mess for the quick second he looks up at her, heel of one hand at his own groin and pressing hard. Christ, he could almost come from this, just from the sounds she makes. "C'mon, pull my hair if you wanna, I don't mind."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-08-31 03:09 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean looks up at her, color high in his cheeks and pupils blown wide as he stares, so turned on he's nearly uncomprehending. He gets with the program though, wipes the back of his hand against his mouth and stands to meet her.

"Like the way you sound," he murmurs, and fuck, he might as well just tell her he likes everything, because his body's not exactly making it a secret. He's so hard he's lightheaded, and even the smallest brush of her body against the tent in his boxers makes him want to die. He tries to be gentle, but he wants her so much, and when Dean kisses her it's hard and hungry.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-11 02:59 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean makes a sound like he's dying, and for a moment, the only sound of assent that follows is the sharp intake of his breath, each tiny shuddering exhale staccato sharp against her skin. "Want that," he growls into her throat, "want you."

Shoving his boxers down, he stills her hand on him as gently as he can with trembling fingers, so close already that if she keeps touching him, he's gonna go off. "Wanted you forever, god, Faye," he groans, lined up and ready though he doesn't slide home, some part of him afraid that somehow, in the next moment, this delirious fantasy will be gone. "Make it so good for you, I promise, just let me," he gasps, "Let me, let me - "

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-11 05:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Her voice whips through him like a wind, and for once there's no goad there, all this crap designed to make it meaningless something Faye really thinks she believes, and all at once Dean does want to make her scream. It's the same shit he tells himself every night, but right here and now he's sick of it, he wants to feel, and by god she's going to feel it, too.

There's a fuck you there when he opens his mouth, but he says it with his hips instead, slides forward and in in in, deep into tight, wet heat. "Gonna learn how you like it," he says against her ear, pulls his hips back to thrust again, his hands tight on her hips to angle her to take him just so. "Gonna make you wish you weren't too stubborn to come back for more."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-14 05:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"Who's making promises now?" Dean demands, yanking his mouth away to bite at her throat, teeth sealing roughly over tender flesh. Fuck you echoes in his head, but he's not sure who he's cursing anymore, and it doesn't matter. The fury in his heart is leading him somewhere good, and Dean follows, guardless, reckless, hips moving him into her deeper still.

God, he wants to take her apart. Instead, he bunches up his discarded shirt, pinned ridiculously between their bodies, and shoves it behind her back, providing a support he's not sure he'll soon have the wherewithal to ensure. Pulling back, Dean thrusts in hard, counts the painful strain in his neck as acceptable when he leans down and rolls her nipple hard between his teeth.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-14 05:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean doesn't hear the second, thoughts stuck on the first and skipping like a scratched and busted record. The fuck you makes it all the way out of his mouth this time, not in words but in stupid, pained little grunts timed to his every exhale. Don't care, yeah right. Might as well ask him to lay down and die, and even so, there are heavy days when Dean almost thinks he would if it could just be that simple.

But it isn't, and his fingers curl, knuckles striking hard against the wall even as his hips never miss a beat.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-14 06:15 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean feels her shiver, fingers gripping at her thigh to pull their bodies as flush as they'll go. He never knows what he's getting with her, rarely ever cares, the simple thrill of feeling his body respond to someone again enough, but today he doesn't know what he wants. It's too simple to believe it's only pleasure, but stuck down here, it's all they have.

"Just come," he says, reaching to press his thumb to her clit, and god, if he only gets one thing right this month, let it be this. "Please, just come for me."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-18 03:53 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"Please," Dean repeats, broken this time because all at once it's as good as over. She's too tight, feels too good, wrapped his neck and hips and dick, sharp fingers biting bruises into his sides. It's been so long since he's had this, and he can't hold on, pleasure gathering at the base of his spine and ratcheting dangerously high before he can even think to stop it.

Dean shouts, feels orgasm grab him and shake him violently out, as helpless in its grasp as any ragdoll. He sobs out the worst of his pleasure into the curve of her throat, eyes screwed up tight and mouth wide and gasping.

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Faye Valentine

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