give us back a taste of the way things were before they made the laws

[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!"

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[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.

[attitude]

For a second, she thinks that she might really have scared him off. The way that the warmth of his hands leaves her, the way that he sets her gently down against the rail that winds around the perimeter of the bathysphere, even guides her hands and helps her find support. And the truth of the matter is, when Faye Valentine scares people away, she doesn't try to hang on. Not anymore. Sometimes, the fractures in one's heart dig too deep, and in this, Spike Spiegel is the one to blame. There's nothing more painful that Faye has experienced than losing something that someone fights hard to keep. Her breath stills, preparing for that sigh.

It never quite arrives.

There's a touch of alarm in Faye's eyes when she continues to watch Dean's movement, the panic arising from where Faye has, in her years, remained fairly inexperienced. Desire is something which isn't easy to wield. It's far simpler to lose oneself blindly in the pleasure than it is to remain considerate— or at least, Faye tries to convince herself of that fact, the only way to explain all the times she's been left rather unfulfilled in the rare evenings when loneliness turns into desperation. But this is different, the tough of rough fingers brushing gently over her skin, the bridge of his nose pressed against her side, and suddenly she feels impossibly young. No longer jaded, and instead overwhelmed.

"Oh god," she murmurs, breath hitching as her hands grip the bar tight, knuckles stretching to bone white. A whimper fights to escape from her lips even as she presses them tightly together, toes curling as a heel meets the wall with a clang of metal. "God, Dean."

Even through the haze of her mind, she can't help thinking: her cover's blown.

[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.

[attitude]

There's a warmth that dusts her cheeks and a chill that crawls down her leg as Faye stares down at Dean with a disbelieving expression, one that pierces through a haze. Even the feather-light sensations seem to light her afire, but still she tries to hold herself back, as though the slightest disturbance might pull her out of the dream, call them back to their senses. Even now, there's a part of her that's running, that has no idea what to do with that look in his eyes, even if she manages to return it unconsciously.

She's not sure she wants to know what this is. Whether or not anything will come of it. His lips press hot against her thigh, rough stubble brushing each kiss away, and there are words that threaten to tumble through her lips. Wanting this faster. Harder. To the point where she can't breath. "Dean—"

But his tongue brushes against her again, and this time her groan is lower, caught in her throat before it passes through her lips with a quaver. Somewhere along the line, her hands have dropped, fingers weaving through his hair. She hopes she hasn't tugged too hard, thighs hugging either side of him, chest rising and falling.

"Fuck," she whispers. "Don't make me get all sentimental, Winchester. That's supposed to come after."

[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."

[attitude]

In the back of her mind, Faye knows what's supposed to happen, knows the act that most quickly endears her to most of the hunters that she's swindled after a night of so-called passion— toss her hair back, arch her back, make use of her curves. Somehow, today, she can't quite follow through. There's nothing graceful in the way that her hand drops to the nape of his neck, nails dragging against the skin. Nothing graceful about the shudder of her breath, or the way her muscles tense. "Fuck," she grits. "Fuck, Dean, I'm not gon—"

Shuddering, Faye leans back, feeling her hair snag against the uneven surface of the cool metal behind her and heat cooling over, under she shivers by the time the wave hits her toes. The cry which passes through her lips is so high, it's embarrassing, Faye biting roughly down on her lower lip to stifle it as best she can. When he doesn't stop, her head snaps back and forth, lips gasping for breath as she presses into the wall.

Swallowing thickly, her throat parched, Faye grabs a hold of his chin as best she can, coaxing his gaze up.

"Give me a kiss before I change my mind," she instructs him, voice sharp and insistent. No obscenities, no softening of her tone— it's an order, for all that her arms feel weak and her fingers still shake.

[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.

[attitude]

All it takes is the heat of his lips and the feel of his skin pressed against hers as she wraps an arm around his shoulders— suddenly, she's alive again. Faye tastes herself on his lips, and that itself creates conflict in her senses, one detail so familiar, the other a freshly branded memory. Pressing her body flush against his, Faye feels her nipples harden against his chest before she shifts, wrapping long legs around his waist to yank him closer.

"Like your everything. 'Cept when you're telling me off," she breathes, letting her lips trail along his jaw, lightly sucking at the skin of his neck and feeling his pulse rush underneath. Trailing fingers against his abdomen, Faye lets her fingers find their way under his boxers again, pressing against his hardness before wrapping her hand around his cock with a swift stroke. Teeth tracing against the lobe of his ear, Faye whispers into the shell, surprisingly coy in spite of everything— usually, she doesn't spare many words for this. "Wanna feel you inside me."

[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 - "

[attitude]

"Don't talk to me," she breathes, voice deep and rough where she presses her lips against his temple, feeling her whole body freeze with the effort not to make a single misstep, "about wanting someone forever." Evenings spent alone quickly come to mind, the brush of fingers over the flat of her stomach, a movement that she repeats now, before letting her fingertips skim over to his skin, down the line of his spine, pressing against his ass. She hikes a leg, resting it against his hip and wrapping it around his waist, leaving him without a choice. His voice thrums against her skin, deeper than she expected. For everything that he was capable of earlier, all the direction her took, there's something vulnerable about this, right now.

Not in the frailty of a choice, so much as a fear of the future that she catches in his eyes, clouded. And it makes her feel safe.

Her mind doesn't linger tonight on what that means.

"Don't make promises," she continues, voice hitching. "Just make me scream."

[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."

[attitude]

She inhales, sharp, back arching. It's been too long. Too long since she's last felt the press of someone's warmth against her, skin practically alight with heat, the pulse of his heart hammering through every brush of skin against skin. Words pass by her without meaning. A cry falls from her lips, surprisingly open, unguarded, as she peers through shadowed eyes, watchful. Her hips roll, demanding— there's a place for a gentle touch, and this isn't it, not with the fire that practically sears through his very being, anger and determination in the set of his lips that she leans forward to quickly capture, words muffled against skin as she takes him further in. "Mmmphfuck," she cries against his lips, desperate, fingers dragging down his back, and the spill of shadowed light in the bathysphere over his face only makes her watch more, catching every turn in expression.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, today.

But there's a suspicion that lingers on the edge of Faye's mind as well, as she feels her heart hammering enough to practically leap from her chest. And that's just it.

"Who said anything," she manages, voice pulled taut and strained, "about not coming back for more?"

[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.

[attitude]

"Not me," she breathes, the word ending on a low groan as she bites down on her lower lip, arching back, raising herself to press against the lips on her breast. She can't remember the last time— can't remember it ever being like this at all. She can feel his anger wrapped around her neck like a threat, yet the shirt holding her flush against him is secure, doesn't let up for even an instant. Refuses to let go. That's probably the point, with him. A boy grown up too soon. "Won't promise to stay, won't promise to go. Isn't that perfect? You don't have to care, Dean."

But the words, her own, cut suddenly, and she blinks back the emotion in spite of herself, before ducking down to find his lips again. Breathes harshly again, a sharp rush of air as their lips part, another roll of her hips until they grind against his own, the pain nothing but a thrill. "Dean," she repeats, but the second time, it's his name alone as she cranes her neck, pressing further, tasting herself on his lips. Her thighs press against either side of him with each thrust, like she might keep him there a bit longer, under her terms, and hers alone.

[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.

[attitude]

It's the sound of a fist ringing against the metal wall that jolts Faye out of the haze, her entire body tense, and a flash of fear passing before her eyes. The last thing that she wants to see is this. Now. The days of expecting romance are long gone for her, and she knows this is only now, this is only the moment, a moment that may well disappear as soon as night turns to day, passing through their fingers like so much sand. God, it shouldn't mean anything. Shouldn't mean half as much as it does. But he's not looking at her, and somehow, it matters enough, enough that her hands scramble for his jaw, lips hovering only inches away from his.

She asks for an apology with eyes bright, though what it's for, she still isn't sure she entirely knows. Intimacy hangs around them like a shroud, one that the fire can't quite touch, and this time when Faye leans in, it's to kiss the corner of his mouth, her thumb running down his cheek, even as the kiss is punctuated by a gasp as a thrill passes through her, to her toes, sending a small shudder through her. Forcing her free hand to drag down his side, holding him close.

[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."

[attitude]

There's a part of Faye that already feels weak, drained to the bone. So tired of stretching herself thin, and holding walls around herself, built higher than they were ever meant to be. Her eyes close, because it's easier that way, easier than looking at him now, and letting a pair of eyes confuse her again, as they did once. Cutting off her words. Cutting off all chance to plead. "Fuck," she bites out, fingers around the nape of his neck, breath halting as she presses herself harder against him, against his hand, and more than anything, she wants to tell him to fuck off, that she's not going to come for anyone. That her days of doing anything for another person are over, and that this is ultimately for her.

But the gasp comes too soon, and frustration burns within her until it passes through her with a cry, ragged and rough, tearing through her with a muffled scream. Even as everything crashes around her, she holds on, holds on and refuses to let go until he falls as well, refuses to let his name drop from her lips again just yet. It has already, and too many times at that.

[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.

[attitude]

She inhales, sharply, when the rumble of his growl presses against her throat, and although she's spent the majority of her energy on resisting, the last wave of her orgasm rides out with a fast shudder. Painful, almost, for how spent she feels, a desperate whine muffled against his hair as her heel grinds into the small of his back one last time, pulling him as far in as she can, before strength gives way entirely.

With slow breaths, in and out, Faye shifts until her nose presses against his temple, lips parted. Though it takes a few seconds for sensation to set in fully again, the first thought she has is of how warm she feels. How safe, even like this, strength sapped to the bone. All an illusion, of course. They're still leagues under the ocean, in a place rife with death and corruption, but for now they've the time, and for now she simple breathes against him, arms still looped around his shoulders, somehow unwilling to be the first person to move or let go.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean's legs don't want to hold his weight. He's been running, fighting, been damn near to blown up, and yet it's pleasure that's stolen all his strength, Dean so weak with it that for a moment it's only the wall at her back that holds them up.

He knows he'll have to pull away eventually, but he waits until his breath has slowed, then waits some more, face tucked in against her skin where she won't see anything to scare either of them.

[attitude]

After a few breaths, it feels like neither one of them has moved. Feels like neither of them is daring to. Faye isn't willing to believe that Dean hasn't pulled himself back to awareness by now, isn't willing to believe that he'd take so much longer than herself to do so, her head turning just a touch, until her cheek presses against his hair, damp with sweat. She doesn't want to be the first to move, but as the seconds pass by, it feels like sand slipping between her fingers, less and less control resting in her palm, so she presses her nose against his temple, almost as though to ease him away, slow, leaving either one of them with a shred of dignity.

"I know I can be good," she remarks, light, a joke, too insubstantial after the weight of the evening. "But I'm not that good."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean exhales something that feels like gratitude, as much for the joke as for everything that came before it, and kisses her throat. "I got blown up," he says, pleasantly worn out but calmer now, "cut me some slack."

He winces, still sensitive skin tingling as he pulls out of her, his muscles tired but enjoying their reprieve. Faye's a mess when he looks up at her, and gloriously so, eyes bright over her flushed cheeks, mussed violet hair falling everywhere. Dean almost wants to start all over again, but her body must be sore, propped up against the wall like that. Dean curls his hands over her hips and starts to ease her down. "Elevator sex," he chuckles, "haven't done that in a while."

[attitude]

In lieu of an answer, not wanting to lie or give herself away— elevator sex isn't something that she's ever done, not until now— Faye offers Dean a smile, one that she hopes will put any questions to rest. Her body feels weak, impossibly so, every step skittish even without the burden of her heels, but still she carries herself with as much ease as she can muster, tugging her briefs up and shivering at the cool touch of damp cloth. She leans in to press another kiss, the last she has planned for now, under the line of his jaw, shockingly affectionate by her standards, lips lingering against his skin.

Save for the look on his face, Dean looks like the past half an hour haven't affected him at all, and she wrinkles her nose with momentary jealousy, imagining that she can't have escaped half as unscathed. "I wouldn't call it my venue of choice, but," she shrugs, glancing up again while she tugs her shorts up, slipping the button back into place, and works on getting her hair into any semblance of order before she even tries fighting with her shirt and the boots tossed around on the floor.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean gets his jeans back around his hips and forgets the rest, too caught up in the sight of her trying to put herself back together. His buckle clanks as he moves, takes the yellow pieces of her shirt in his hands and fastens it whole again. "Stop fussin'," he says, mouth as loose as the rest of him. "You look gorgeous and you know it."