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: 2011-10-14 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.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-19 04:01 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 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.

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-23 08:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 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."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-24 03:47 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 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."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-24 05:04 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"Don't have to know it was an elevator," Dean returns with a tired but cheeky smile, his skin tender beneath her fingertips. "Could've been any number of places down here."

He lifts a hand, smooths down the tumble of her hair himself just to feel it, and smiles again. "Good as new. And if not, you can tell anybody who asks we had a tussle. Wouldn't be a lie."

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-24 05:20 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
"Yeah?" Dean asks, unconsciously shadowing her movements through the cramped space of the bathysphere. He remembers his shirt when the thing lurches back into motion, arms tangled in the sleeves and the winding straps of ammo he'd let fall to the floor.

Any illusion Dean might ever had of being smooth with a woman he cares for is just that. "What'd you tell them if you did get asked?"

(no subject)

Date: 2011-10-24 05:36 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weary-head.livejournal.com
Dean's eyebrows climb over his sudden and stupid grin. "Glowing report, huh?" His mouth is still open to say that his report would earn her similar, but Dean realizes he doesn't want her to have a line, anymore than he really wants one himself.

"That's, uh," he says, dropping his gaze, "yeah. S'afraid I was getting rusty."

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Faye Valentine

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