armedagainstlove | (no subject)

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faith,
vegas

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He has been drinking for some time.

Apparently, in this city of bright lights, gold coins go a very long way. Athos hadn't travelled very far from the door, sitting himself upon a stool and beginning to make his way through as much wine as he possibly could. Two bottles in, he has made a great friend of the bartender, who does not mind that Athos has little to say to him. There are gold coins for the taking and Athos has no care for money. He has plenty of money. He is a Comte living in a hovel. He has more money than he knows what to do with.

The wine of the future tastes empty, though, as though it lacks in strength. He has been given many odd stares for his weaponry, but Athos will not dismiss them, knowing that he is not so dangerous when he is drunk. After all, he can still shoot from five paces away and if Porthos can shoot a melon off Aramis' head when drunk, then Athos can wear his weapons.

When he looks up, after another glass, he now realizes that he is not alone. "How long have you been here?" Athos asks of the beauty beside him, puzzled and rather worried that he is lapsing time.

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In certain lights, it is almost like he is with his Anne again, down to the way Faith moves her body and drunk as he is, Athos leans towards her, as if leaning for the familiarity of such a body. "You've been here before, I take it?" he surmises, given her ease with the city.

"Nope," she replies with a smirk. Not only does inebriated mean she's less likely to lie or mislead the truth, but it also means she doesn't so much mind having her personal space invaded. His closeness is met with a nudge to his shoulder.

"But I'm future-chick, remember? I got this." She points to the corner, which looks like a pretty big intersection. "We make a left up here, we're home free."

"I prefer to call you Faith," Athos informs her, with a nod of his head as he feels his control begin to slip precariously away from him at the sight of so much bustle before them. It's a frightening thing, to stare at that and not know what to do with it. "I come from Paris, which is all noise and idiots, at times. Why on earth do people come here?"

"Gambling. Wicked addictive. Also the outside noise tends to drown out the inside noise."

The Southie in her still comes out every once in awhile, slang and rough edges borne of a childhood unlived and buried under years of learning how to function in a world of slayers and vampires. She reaches out to tug at Athos' arm once they get to the corner, making sure he's following along as she makes the left.

Among the blinking lights is an assortment of establishments, none of which begin with a B. Faith is starting to wonder who misplaced the Bellagio on her. "C'mon. That place looks OK."

If OK is defined by a pretty rundown facade and the promise of themed weddings.

He blinks at her terms, thinking that his grasp on English cannot be so steady if he is to be confounded so often by what Faith has to say. Or perhaps he's simply that drunk that he cannot comprehend it. He follows after a pause, staring at the building before him and thinking that it is suitable for him.

"It reminds me of my own home with its dilapidated charm, but I doubt it has half as many liquors," he says, almost fondly and missing such things. The liquors, that is, and not the home.

"Not often I ask to go home with a guy, but you're really selling it, now." Her smile is easy and comfortable. Normally, Faith's flirtations are concocted with care and exacted with an indifference that belies how purposeful they truly were.

But she's got enough alcohol in her to kill a small horse and Athos is actually really easy to be around. Things that don't happen all that often for $500, Alex.

"Come on, look -- says they have a deal." One night for $40 bucks with marriage license obtained on premises. Does Athos read fine print?

"I assure you, it is with all unintention," is Athos' wry reply, given that he has not disavowed the company of beautiful women, but has learned to be wary of it after Anne. He squints at the sign, the words blurry and English and he is far too drunk for both reading small print and English and though Faith is yet a stranger to him, he feels himself capable of defending himself should a perilous situation arise.

He nods, gesturing forward. "Ladies, first."

Well, expert use of his sword were he to find himself in a sticky situation would only make Faith respect him in the morning. Since his etiquette only gets a mildly derisive snort out of her before she leads the way inside.

At the desk, the receptionist is talking too much and Faith just keeps nodding and rolling her eyes. She hands over the credit card after what she figures is the mandatory ramble explaining what happens if they trash the room. She ignores the next parts, to turn back to Athos.

"I'm getting two queens, in case you're shy." It's an offhanded remark, but a gesture that is actually a big step for Faith. She can make fun of his super uptight morals until the cows come home, but she's not about to stomp all over them, either.

The women in his life of late, particularly Ninon, had taken the first steps with him. Athos has found himself quite the passive participant in his own romantic life, but when Faith mentions having two beds in the room, he inclines his thanks with a simple nod, feeling dreadfully as though he is sobering up and decides that perhaps a drunken mistake might be initiated by him and it will not end the world.

So rather than cower to impropriety, Athos thinks that Ninon would be quite proud of him as he steps into her personal space and slides his hand down her side in order to press a drunkenly lingering kiss to her lips, as if to inform her that he would not mind, no if there had only been one bed.

Well, at least they're speaking the same language now. Faith has no qualms with some casual tonsil hockey, especially because it's not the kind of thing you forget how to do no matter how long it's been since you last did it.

And she likes impulsive, as evidenced by the way Faith kisses back. Her hands make a connection soon after, pulling and pushing at the same time. Her inner conflicts never really go away -- the ones that tell her not to trust anyone (not even herself) but to still give them the chance.

"I don't do happily ever after," she murmurs when she finally pulls away. The words rush out like a warning she is practiced at giving. Athos is a good person and Faith is a black hole. He deserves the chance to bolt off in the other direction if he wants.

She really hopes he doesn't.

Athos' responding sound is wry and half disbelief. It is as though she has plucked the words from his own mouth, from his own conversations. "As I said to two very dear friends of mine, I am not the marrying kind," he assures her quietly, still clasping her cheek with one hand as though he'll break the spell if he eases it back. It's a rather hungry kiss he follows it up with, starved for affection as he is. "I assure you, the long term isn't on my mind."

Athos' desperation is clear, but to Faith it just feels like being needed, which is just as nice. The aggression and insistence help her not to think about whether this is morally acceptable, and it keeps her from thinking about the document she signs moments later before sliding the paper to Athos to sign.

She hands him the pen and doesn't process the words marriage license as her hands move back to his body. Breaking contact for even a moment runs the risk of her changing her mind. Athos is a grown man. He can make his own decisions.

And there being no strings attached doesn't hurt, either.

He signs with the flourish of a nobleman who's signed a hundred things of no consequence many times before in his life. He has little care for whatever he has signed and knows he has the money to cover the costs, intending rather to sweep her closer and stagger away from the odd desk once a key is provided, breathing in sharply as though he has merely traded one vice for another.

The last time Faith let herself get this close to another person she wound up on the bad side of a failed relationship. Right now, though, every side of Athos seems just fine.

In fact, she doesn't really remember the ride in the elevator or unlocking the door. In the narrow moments where contact must be broken it's brief enough only for her to regain her breath. The door swings solidly shut behind them, hiding the world away and as the latch clicks, Faith shifts again into a different creature. When it comes to intimacy, she has never been offered the chance to pursue her own desires.

"You like top?" She stalks toward him now, more akin to predator than lover. It's an obvious facade, built for the likes of men who serve only themselves rather than an act shared to exchange and communicate. No, she was never taught that sex was anything other than a power display. "Or should we play dominatrix? I know you aren't as shy as you look, you just gotta say the word, A."

Athos' look turns grim at the suggestion. While he prefers to be in a position of control, often in the bedroom Anne would take over and lead them. He finds that though he enjoys it, doing that here would be a rather frightening reminder of his past and he thinks they had best avoid it, through whatever means possible. "I'll top," he says curtly, because he wants to avoid memories of Anne wherever possible.

"Which means you should find a position you think comfortable on the bed," he says, beginning the arduous task of stripping off his weapons.

That stern little shift in Athos' expression turns Faith's own sharp as she makes her way to the bed lifting her arms in a lazy surrender to peel her shirt off. She reaches down to begin removing her pants, revealing unmatched black and nude underclothing.

"You sure you want to do this?" While her relationship with another man out of time is strictly platonic, Faith has picked up on the subtle differences in cultures when it comes to dating and hookups. Angel, she imagines, has never had a one-night stand. Maybe Athos is having second thoughts.

She's not unfamiliar with the concept of too drunk to say OK, and the air in the room is becoming tinged with something she's not sure she understands. He's from a different time, that's been clear from the start. Now she's wondering if she's stomping all over how he does things. The personal edge to his demeanor is lost on her, but she's observant enough (even drunk) to know when something's not quite right -- though it hasn't stopped her from undressing.

"Just say the word. I got no feelings to hurt, here." She smiles, as encouraging as someone who kills for a living can manage.

Athos has quite a considerable amount of more clothes to contend with, given that he hadn't stopped to update his wardrobe to the modern chic. He is in the midst of prying loose all his weapons, though his gaze drifts to her and breath catches in his throat. He might be utterly drunk, but it has been a terribly long time since he's been given the chance to truly regard a beautiful woman without anything on. "Not to alarm you, but I fear if I don't allow this pent-up energy out, I may explode," he says matter-of-factly. "As if a spark on a powder keg."

"You should get on the bed," he suggests, mild, but without any hint of regret as he kicks off his boots.

Though she's still quite unsure, Faith's movements are easy and casual, as she climbs atop the too-soft mattress and props herself against the headboard. Knees bent, her toes wiggle into the thin extra blanket but her focus is on all the pillows that she one by one tosses to free up the space around her.

"Hard to alarm. Don't mind it so much when it does happen, though..." she replies. Faith means it to sound off-handed and unimportant, not necessarily challenging or showy. Watching Athos, she's impressed more than worried. His cache of weapons, his determination -- parts of him that she might not have otherwise seen had they not ended up here, are obvious to her now.

She almost offers help, before she remembers he's now told her twice to get comfortable. So instead, she simply admires as he peels away his layers, thinking that it's particularly worth the wait.

The doublet stripped off and laid over a chair, boots done away with, Athos slowly winds his way through the remainder of his clothes until there is nothing but the laced up braies that he will work on later, crawling onto the bed until he is suspended above her, running his fingers through dark hair that is so much like hers that in his drunken haze, he can almost see the line of present and past blurring.

To stop them, he bends down to kiss her, where he won't see her hair, where he can close his eyes and lose himself in sensation, hand sliding down her torso and gently working back up, teasing and light.

Softness is a thing that Faith has always desired but never allowed for herself.

Her own kiss is desperate and fast. A life spent communicating violence, she at least knows that it is not the right response. But there is also little in her arsenal that does not require being drawn out of her at the guidance and behest of someone else. His hands prompt her own to move through the gaps made by his elbows and smooth along Athos' back.

Faith does her best to match his own pace, though it is one she has never quite been comfortable with. It's hard not to let the sharper kisses through as her impatience drives her to nip at the soft skin of his lips.

Athos nudges her legs apart with his knee, reaching down to unlace his braies rapidly as he bears down, his kisses turning messier and clumsier for his attention split. Cursing under his breath in French, he does manage to get them loose, wiggling his hips to push them down and off, easing back to look her in the eyes one last time before they go further.

"I'm not entirely drunk past the point of awareness, but if something becomes too much, tell me," he requests of her.

Oh, but she could fall into that mess and the rush.

It's familiar; somehow comforted by the chaos where she can stuff away her own thoughts and make herself feel more and less human all at the same time.

So when he does pull back to ready himself, and offers yet another assurance, Faith doesn't protest or peacock about being tough and unbreakable. The truth is that she's already been broken too many times for any more cracks to matter.

She finds herself nodding, once, before reaching down to wriggle cotton off of her own hips. Her knees decide to make things difficult, and for a brief moment the clumsiness seems to become Faith's as the woman beneath the soldier is revealed. She chuckles, low, before her hips shift and she flings the underwear away and off her foot.

Then her hands move to smooth over Athos' chest, her legs move around him to box him in and get him to dive back into the chaos with her. Insistent and more needy than she'd like. Desperate for contact.

Now that he's here, trapped and secure (for they are both one and the same), he finds it easy to shift until he can slip his cock into her, thrusts slow and steady and constant as he works to bring himself to a place where he doesn't even have to think, only to move. "My god," he gasps, as though shocked by the heat of her, the wetness. "It's been an age..."

Though they are plenty, Faith's noises tend more toward the types that don't produce words, but Athos' obvious joy is contagious and impossible to ignore. She grins, moving her hands to his hips to encourage him to slow his pace a bit.

"Make it last, then," she advises through a chuckle. It's an unexpected turn, that she's suddenly concerned with making sure Athos enjoys himself. She's not quite breathless yet, but her words come out rushed and fervid. "Don't want you to pop before you've had all the fun. I don't even know what you like, yet."

His stuttered protest is nearly let out when she slows them, but he thinks perhaps that might be the best thing for it. While he has little patience for waiting, he also doesn't want to create a reputation for himself that he isn't able to hold off. Breathing in slow and deep, he finds himself brushing kisses over her neck with his beard creating pink marks, beginning to fuck her in a way he's not touched a woman in years (and usually, it had been someone Porthos and Aramis had quietly procured for him).

"With this much wine in me? I like nearly everything."

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slutbomb - 2014-08-10 16:51 (UTC) - Expand

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armedagainstlove - 2014-08-11 00:58 (UTC) - Expand

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