armedagainstlove | (no subject)

(no subject)

He'd made it to the crossroads, but not in time to do anything but find a waiting glove. The carriage had long gone and with it, his wife. Athos isn't even sure if he's disappointed or broken, because he still doesn't know whether he'd been going to see her off or to join her, but he cannot imagine abandoning the Musketeers completely, but knows that he could not leave her either. With her back in his life and all her debts gone, Athos can see them as who they are.

No more lies. No more deceit. They will simply be the people they actually are and they will try. For some reason, this is something that stirs Athos' heart in a way that he hasn't felt in years. He thinks back to Las Vegas and how Faith had been intoxicating then, with her dark hair and her knowing eyes, but even then it had just been Anne that he wanted.

And now, he has her glove, but nothing else.

He makes it back to Paris and finds himself standing at the door that he knows will bring him to the Nexus.

He doesn't wait at all before going through it, though he knows that yet again, his challenge will be finding Milady, when she is constantly one step ahead of him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It is familiar and yet new-again enough that Anne feels breathless and heady. Even as they move together, she pushes at the last of his clothes until they are both bare and she can feel the press of his skin against her. It makes her muscles tense, her core soften as she hooks a leg around his waist.

He feels somehow on display when she gets them both into the nude. Struck by their proximity and the closeness between them, Athos takes a moment to simply run his hands up and down her hips, holding onto her waist as he swallows back old nerves.

"I suspect this has not changed," he murmurs quietly.

"I would hope not," she says and her meaning is two-leveled: she sincerely hopes that what they feel when they are together is the same, and she thinks that really nothing can have changed.

She kisses him, urging him closer still. "Athos," she whispers in invitation, in desire, in love that never has had a chance to die.

Athos' gaze flickers lower over her lips, sliding back up in order to be closer to her, clasping onto her hip firmly. He's wanted her since they began this, and now the evidence presses against her firmly enough that he feels his cheeks flush beneath the hair.

"Are you ready?" he asks, once he has stolen yet another kiss.

He has not the only one whose desire has been present from the start. She has been more than ready. She nods, cradling his face. She wants to see him - to be looking at him - when she feels him press inside after so long.

Athos bends down to press slow kisses to her clavicle, brushing his beard against the soft skin as he eases his way in, subduing the choked cry that he wishes to release. For all that he has missed this and for all that it is perfect, he doesn't want to give away how much he had missed all of it. Instead, he bears down and slides into her as deep as he can go.

Holding on tight, he stays inside, not moving, for just a moment.

Anne's breath hitches and catches too and she's glad he's still; she can adjust, take him in. Her eyes close, her head falling back. For once, she's not hiding anything, letting him feel her reaction. When she takes another breath, it's slower, deeper. Good.

Athos wishes to hide, yet, but fears it is impossible. Everything is laid bare on his face, the expressions of need and love and lust and hope all echoed in the set of his lips and the gleam in his eyes. He is on display for her as he pushes in and sets this intimate, excruciatingly slow rhythm for them.

Each of those slow thrusts is met by Anne's low groan. Athos has his own special kind of beauty and what she sees in his face touches something in her. For so long, she hasn't allowed herself to feel much of anything, but now, she does, feeling her body respond as it always has to Athos's.

Soon, there is little control left. He has guarded it so close to him over the years that now that it is tumbling away, he hardly knows what to do and finds himself panicking slightly to see it broken apart piece by piece. At the same time, though, he is grateful that they are in this together.

She knows him. Every part of him, good and bad. And so he keeps going, even as the composure on his face falls away.

It doesn't take much for Anne to start crying out. There's not been anything like how this is with him. Her body is tightening around him, her fingers digging into the muscle along his spine.

He's lost his composure, she's lost her control. But they are together.

He gasps when her fingers find their groove, pushing ever deeper as if he had any more room to go, wincing as he feels as though he is hurting her, but then again, she seems impossible to wound or hurt or harm, an invincible presence. "Anne," he gasps out, speaking her name like this in the first time for five years.

In this moment, Anne is sure that he can't hurt her. She feels too good, too liquid and wanting. When he says her name, she shudders again. "Athos," she replies, arching her back, moving with him. It's a rhythm that is uniquely theirs.

"No," he gets out, choked and half-desperate. "Say it, say my name," he pleads, needing to hear someone say it once more, needing to be Olivier at least in this, though he has forsworn it for the other aspects of his life.

There's a slight jerking of her hips as she realizes what he's asking. It's a name she hasn't said in years, has tried to forget.

This must mean something; if nothing else in this encounter told her that, this tells her that.

She whispers his name into his ear. Olivier. It's just then that she feels her entire body tighten around him.

With Thomas and his parents gone, that name practically belongs to her. It is her name to speak to him, as powerful as it is, and he shivers and comes with a desperate cry of her name, kissing it into her lips, a breathless 'Anne' accompanied by a small whine as he tries to keep moving to bring her to her own climax.

For a moment, she's so close and yet feels like she won't find that peak. But then it happens, almost as a surprise, her body jerking. Her fingers rake up his back, leaving a slight reminder that he'll feel for a few of the following days. Then all she can do is breathe, hoping to catch breath, her entire body still tingling and her heart aching with that new sensation of hope.

Athos cradles her body with his two hands, holding her like she is far more delicate than he has learned her to be. His wife is all manner of new things that Athos had never known about and he finds himself greatly eager to discover all of them, as much as they scare him. Eyes closed and somewhat pleased, he is still fighting off the edge of worry, but only the edge. "Different than I remembered," he admits.

"Is it?" She asks with a smile. "How?" If there is one thing she remembers of their time together, aside from the idyllic peace that seems still so very out of reach, is the passion. Gently, she cards the hair from his eyes.

"More real," he admits, because their marriage had seemed to exist under a haze of perfection, both at the time and especially in memory. This, however, has been flesh and blood and ache and love. It has been everything that they were denying for so long. He leans into the touch of her hand desperately. "It felt good, as if I had dreamt it and yet it was real."

She's real. He's real. As strange as this place may feel, it is real. She can feel his heartbeat and presses his hand over hers. It's a sentimental gesture and she knows that, but perhaps this is a moment for such a thing.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" she asks, voice low.

His nod is slight and almost imperceptible, but it is there; a confirmation that he will stay with her and not move, though he knows she has a reputation for dealing with problems overnight, as d'Artagnan might be best able to attest to. And yet, for all their misgivings, he will stay and he already knows he will sleep well through the night.

Right now, for the record, there are no problems to be dealt with. In fact, Anne's life here in this strange hotel is nearly perfect. Almost frighteningly so. She shifts just a little, getting more comfortable against him. There is much she could say, isn't there? Feelings to express. It's too soon perhaps. She rests her cheek against his chest, staring at the far wall.

"When will you go back to Paris?" she asks.

"I do not know," Athos admits, given that he does not know. After all, it seems easy for them to exist like this here, but Paris is another story. "If you return, will you go back and join me from England? Or will you remain there."

That is the question. She is hardly welcome in Paris: she has little or no way to make a living (and still, even now, the idea of taking charity or pity sits ill on her shoulders). "Would you want me by your side?" she asks, and the question is sincere. Would he?

Could he?