armedagainstlove | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.