armedagainstlove | (no subject)

Entry tags:

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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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."

She moves with Athos, turning her head to the side to allow him better access, moving her hips with him. She hooks a leg behind his back, trusting him to keep holding her weight up while they twist and tangle.

"I'll make it easy then. Hard...?" Faith gets words out between breaths that are quickly sucked in and just as eagerly released.

Up from his hips, Faith lets her nails digs across his stomach and up to Athos' chest, where her touch becomes feather-light as she watches for a reaction. She prefers a little pain with her pleasure, but Faith's come a long way -- she knows not everyone likes the same things. "Or soft?"

He has never been a man who appreciates soft things. His life is hard edges, sharp swords, and brutal battles. "Hard," he responses, hissing out with pleasure at the touch of her nails against his stomach, his lips parting in order to use his teeth slightly more. "Hard," he insists again, thinking of how Anne had never been kind in the bedroom, but oh, how he had loved it.

His locket dangles in the space between them as he cannot take that off, and he leans down to devour her lips in a fierce kiss that once again demands this to be hard, without saying the word.

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