Faye Valentine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anythingbutblue) wrote2008-01-18 01:36 am
anythingbutblue) wrote2008-01-18 01:36 am
(no subject)
One thing Faye Valentine knows is that she's a hell of a woman. She's heard it said before, and she doesn't really care what the reasons for it have been. She is exactly who she is, and she has no apologies to make to anyone.
Every action, every word, every decision she's ever made has been for herself alone.
When she dabs on the same cinnamon scent that Gren complimented her on the day before, that's solely for herself, too.
It's not her fault she liked the attention. If it gets him to linger over her wrists or bury his nose in the hair behind her ears or seek out the base of her throat with his mouth, it's well worth it.
She could say Gren's the most indulgent lover she's ever had and it would be true, but it's not like he's got much competition in that department. Her first was as old as she was at the time -- seventeen -- and she remembers it being as much of an educational experience as anything else. They were both young and fumbling and tittered with laughter that became more breathy than nervous, and there wasn't much indulgent about it.
She was a different person then.
Witney kissed her a few times, but they only ever did anything really juicy in the occasional daydream. In her mind, he was attentive and sweet and knew exactly how to make her knees weak without ever needing to be told. He never would've lived up to the fantasy.
She was a different person then, too.
About eight months after she left Mars for the first time, about the time she started dressing like she does now, she let herself have more than just an idle thought or two. It wasn't planned, rehearsed, or expected. She wasn't all that attracted to him: his hair was dull brown and long enough to curl under his ears, his nose was a little longer than she liked, his eyebrows were too thick. He beat her at a card game before she was as difficult to beat as she is now -- he cheated, she's sure -- but before she did her famous disappearing act in the dark early hours of the next morning, she found his wallet and helped herself to what she'd lost at cards and then some.
Plus his cigarettes.
She'd just been frustrated. With everything. People complain about going a year or two without sex or relationships, but she'd slept for over fifty.
She was a different person even then, but she was closer to being who she is now.
Gren is definitely the most indulgent.
He's also the nicest to look at, and the mornings she wakes up beside him, especially the mornings she wakes up before him, her eyes tend to roam over every inch of him visible between the sheet that clings jealously and the dark hair that drapes like a curtain.
Until she feels the weight of his eyes, and then she stops as if she'd never started.
Mornings are when she feels the most like being curious, being honest, asking questions. Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't, and she's asked a few brazen questions of him before but never what are we doing? or why do you like me so much? or how did we get here? or anything like that.
Besides, she really knows exactly what they're doing -- she likes it, too -- and she knows part of the reason he likes her and she knows -- intimately -- every step that's led them to playing poker for each other's clothes, sharing glasses of champagne, spending nights in each other's rooms.
Sometimes she thinks what she told him about it being inevitable because they're both pretty isn't at all far from the truth.
And she never thinks she minds.
Every action, every word, every decision she's ever made has been for herself alone.
When she dabs on the same cinnamon scent that Gren complimented her on the day before, that's solely for herself, too.
It's not her fault she liked the attention. If it gets him to linger over her wrists or bury his nose in the hair behind her ears or seek out the base of her throat with his mouth, it's well worth it.
She could say Gren's the most indulgent lover she's ever had and it would be true, but it's not like he's got much competition in that department. Her first was as old as she was at the time -- seventeen -- and she remembers it being as much of an educational experience as anything else. They were both young and fumbling and tittered with laughter that became more breathy than nervous, and there wasn't much indulgent about it.
She was a different person then.
Witney kissed her a few times, but they only ever did anything really juicy in the occasional daydream. In her mind, he was attentive and sweet and knew exactly how to make her knees weak without ever needing to be told. He never would've lived up to the fantasy.
She was a different person then, too.
About eight months after she left Mars for the first time, about the time she started dressing like she does now, she let herself have more than just an idle thought or two. It wasn't planned, rehearsed, or expected. She wasn't all that attracted to him: his hair was dull brown and long enough to curl under his ears, his nose was a little longer than she liked, his eyebrows were too thick. He beat her at a card game before she was as difficult to beat as she is now -- he cheated, she's sure -- but before she did her famous disappearing act in the dark early hours of the next morning, she found his wallet and helped herself to what she'd lost at cards and then some.
Plus his cigarettes.
She'd just been frustrated. With everything. People complain about going a year or two without sex or relationships, but she'd slept for over fifty.
She was a different person even then, but she was closer to being who she is now.
Gren is definitely the most indulgent.
He's also the nicest to look at, and the mornings she wakes up beside him, especially the mornings she wakes up before him, her eyes tend to roam over every inch of him visible between the sheet that clings jealously and the dark hair that drapes like a curtain.
Until she feels the weight of his eyes, and then she stops as if she'd never started.
Mornings are when she feels the most like being curious, being honest, asking questions. Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't, and she's asked a few brazen questions of him before but never what are we doing? or why do you like me so much? or how did we get here? or anything like that.
Besides, she really knows exactly what they're doing -- she likes it, too -- and she knows part of the reason he likes her and she knows -- intimately -- every step that's led them to playing poker for each other's clothes, sharing glasses of champagne, spending nights in each other's rooms.
Sometimes she thinks what she told him about it being inevitable because they're both pretty isn't at all far from the truth.
And she never thinks she minds.
no subject
Then he leans forward and whispers a suggestion so outrageous, so private, so full of innuendo that it almost makes him blush but he can't help it: Faye brings it out in him. After rocking back on his heels, he smiles again and shrugs, one eyebrow raised in suggestion, and now it's his turn to study her.
And he takes his time doing it, starting with her eyes and letting them travel down and down and down, lingering on all the right spots, then up again until he's transfixed by the perfect plum of her lips. His stomach tightens with memory and a little bit of hopeful anticipation and he has to laugh at himself for it: he spent a long time at this place before his relationship with Faye moved to this new and different level, and while they've always had a pretty torrid flirtation going, he never imagined it would turn into... this. He's not even sure how to classify what they have, but he doesn't have to label it if he doesn't want to. It's just what's happened with Faye, and it makes him very happy.
It doesn't look like it's bothering her either. From the casual way her arm drapes over the chair to the way her legs cross -- and they go on forever, her legs, until they disappear into the cuffs of those little white boots -- to the smile on her face, she's just about the image of smug satisfaction.
He happens to think she makes the perfect poster girl for it.
Often, when he contemplates this relationship of theirs, he feels like he's won some sort of contest he didn't know he'd entered. There are plenty of men at this place and a lot are more rugged, more virile, more handsome, more macho. Faye probably could have had almost any one of them just by gesturing them over with one finger, but he's the one she chooses to stay with.
Of all people, he's the one. Despite all his flaws, she's here, and he's... absolutely enchanted by the whole idea.
no subject
Another thing she's confident of is her tendency not to blush. As much as she might like to be, it's been a long time since she's been much of a pampered princess. It's been a long time since she's been sheltered in any way. She's seen enough -- and done enough -- that blushing isn't something that comes easily to her.
But it's a fact that Gren is responsible for the last two times she did blush. One was when she first saw him naked -- she can well remember the hot, disbelieving flush she felt in her face once her eyes had traveled down his body -- and the last time was when she admitted the little kiss she'd planted on his cheek before leaving his room when she had that temporary bout of amnesia wasn't just for his benefit.
(Of course it wasn't just for his benefit. For someone so aware of exactly how pretty he is, she couldn't believe he didn't seem willing to believe she'd just wanted to do it.)
It seems his tune has changed by now.
When he leans back from her -- and she can practically feel his eyes skimming her skin -- a self-satisfied smile creeps onto her face. "I know I'd be a very appreciative audience in that case."
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When he leans over to kiss her mouth just so, his long hair falls over her like a cape; he's been wearing it tied back less and less these days for the simple purpose of letting Faye's fingers run through it, clutch at it, tangle in it. There's something so tactile and beautiful about the whole thing, and for someone who thrives on contact of all sorts, that sort of touch -- the oblique, flirtatious, not-quite-hands-on-his-skin-but-can't-keep-them-off thing -- is such a turn-on. It speaks of hints and promises, of pleasures yet to come, of lazy hours curled up together with more and more and more touch.
Maybe it's an artist's thing or a musician's thing. All he knows for sure is that it's his thing and he loves it, drinks it up, lives for it, craves it like the addict he is. No twelve-step program can wipe the desire for this out of his system. Somewhere deep down inside he suspects it could get overwhelming with the wrong partner, but this feels good and right and there certainly haven't been any complaints from Faye.
Like she says, she's an appreciative audience, and he doesn't care if lust is supposedly a deadly sin: he's probably already dead, so why not indulge to his heart's content?
"You want to try it out?"
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For a guy who lived in a small apartment in what he claims was a slummy neighborhood on Callisto, there's always been something that seemed very luxurious about Gren, some kind of innate and restrained sensuality.
She doesn't find herself thinking things like that about very many people, but Gren never has been like anyone else. It was in the music she remembers him playing at the Rester House, the slow seductive measure of his voice, the silken hair that fell down his back, the old pictures he'd posted on his apartment walls, the warmth of the drink he served her and the way he subtly watched her lounge on the couch.
The only reason she uncrosses her legs is to let one claim a spot on either side of him.
"I'm always up for a good show."
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She's so tiny, but she's such a huge presence: she fills the room, every inch of it, suffuses it with this sweet fragrant light all her own. It brings a sort of balance to his life, fills this great huge void he almost didn't even know was there until she stepped in.
When she does stand, his arms go around her and he picks her up, settles her on his hips. This, he decides, is the ending he likes best for the song today, and he'll show her exactly how it goes, lead her through every intricate twist and turn, make sure she knows the melody intimately.
Even if it takes hours and hours.