Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9046916.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      DCU_(Comics), The_Musketeers_(2014)
  Relationship:
      Porthos/de_Tréville_(Jean-Armand_du_Peyrer), Aramis/Porthos_(Trois
      Mousquetaires), de_Tréville_(Jean-Armand_du_Peyrer)/Original_Female
      Character(s), Athos/Porthos, de_Tréville_(Jean-Armand_du_Peyrer)/Original
      Male_Character(s), Aramis/Athos, Aramis/de_Tréville_(Jean-Armand_du
      Peyrer), Aramis/Athos/Porthos_(Trois_Mousquetaires), Jason_Blood/de
      Tréville, Athos/Original_Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Porthos_(Trois_Mousquetaires), Aramis, de_Tréville_(Jean-Armand_du
      Peyrer), Athos, Original_Female_Character(s), Jason_Blood
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Witchcraft, Pre-Series, Romance, Happy_Ending, First
      Time, Established_Relationship, Grief/Mourning, BDSM, Magic, Telepathy,
      Dogboys_and_Doggirls, Religious_Content, Pseudo-Incest, Parent/Child
      Incest, PTSD, Flashbacks, Lies, Communication_Failure, Angst_and_Humor,
      LGBTQ_Character_of_Color, POV_Character_of_Color, Families_of_Choice,
      Banter, Alcohol, Polyamory, Polyamory_Negotiations, Resurrection, Sexual
      Fantasy, Kink_Negotiation, Dirty_Talk, Age_Play, Daddy_Kink, Mommy_Kink,
      Ghost_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Biting, Pregnant_Sex, Rimming, Spanking, Genital
      Torture, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Knotting, Rough_Oral_Sex, Blood
      Drinking, Watersports, Frottage, Choking, Vaginal_Fingering, Facials,
      Vaginal_Sex, Oral_Sex, Cunnilingus
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-25 Chapters: 28/28 Words: 160617
****** that we should make merry, and be glad ******
by Teland
Summary
     "Hm, I — I wonder..."
     "What? What is it?"
     "I wonder if we need a chaperone."
Notes
     Disclaimers: Some things here are mine, most things aren't.
     Spoilers/Timeline: Vague, AU-ized references to pre-series events
     mentioned in series 1 and 2. Takes place pre-series.
     Author's Note: Every year, in the late spring/early summer, I get hit
     with waves of grief about my sister Cecile, who died — horribly —
     June 13, 1999. I didn't notice it at *first*, but, every year around
     that time, I wind up writing a story or two that digs *into* grief in
     one way or another. Most of the time, the stories get done in a big,
     emotional rush, no matter how long they turn out to be. This one? Not
     so much.
     I've been fighting with it off and on since May, coming back to the
     WIP over and over again, because it was a story I *needed* to tell...
     well. I did it. I finally did it.
     Not even close to alone.
     Pixie gave me the original bunny, and then she and Houndstar helped
     me beat it into shape for the early chapters so I knew what I was
     actually *doing* with it. Then I *realized* that it was a Yearly
     Grief Fic (I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer), and
     things got serious. Without Pixie, Melly, Houndstar, Spice, Liz, and,
     of course, my Jack, I wouldn't have gotten through, at all — and, of
     course, this story wouldn't be a fraction as readable.
     Thank you. *Thank* you.
***** Handies in the Woods *****
Porthos peeks over at the clutch of silks and fussing that makes up the nobles
they're currently doing a piss-poor job of escorting from point A to point B.
There's some leather in there, and that leather is the Captain, and the
Captain...
Well, you get to know the man who commands you, at least some, over time.
Porthos hasn't had his commission for all *that* long, but the Captain is a man
who takes *care* of his men — that much had been clear from the initial
interview, for all that it had been relatively brief — and Porthos has had a
handful of conversations with the man since then.
Not *long* ones, mind, but —
But.
You get to *know* a man, over time, and if he's your commander...
Well, you get to have a feel for him. His moods can be like — like the bloody
*weather*.
Right now?
There's a storm coming.
Even though all he's doing is speaking quietly and politely to a marquise while
another marquise does her best to butt in with obvious complaints —
Even though all his movements are steady and easy and graceful as ever —
Porthos peers a little harder, from where he's theoretically setting up his
portion of their makeshift camp while they wait for the fresh horses — and
cartloads of 'essential supplies' for the nobles — to get to them from where
they'd utterly failed to be sent in a timely manner —
It's not in the set of the Captain's jaw, or even in his eyebrows, really.
Porthos thinks that would maybe be too obvious for a man who spends so much
time at court.
It's...
It's something... else.
Or maybe a lot of something elses; Porthos isn't sure.
He'd like to be, though. The Captain is a good man, and —
And it feels wrong when he's upset — or. When he's a particular *kind* of
upset, at least.
When he's yelling at one or a bunch of them for drunken foolery, and you can
tell by that light in his eyes that he knows exactly what you were doing
because he'd done at least some of the exact same things for the exact same
*reasons* —
That's different.
That's —
That's right *soothing*.
Porthos licks his lips.
"Porthos, this tent will not erect itself," Aramis calls from the other side of
their — admittedly flaccid — tent.
But — "Have you tried telling it what you were doing last night, mate?"
The men next to them laugh for that —
Aramis grins and gestures grandly. "A gentleman *never* tells."
"Right, but where *are* the gentlemen?"
"*Porthos*!"
Porthos snickers and gets to work. It only takes a few minutes to get
everything squared-away at this point — they've *had* the practice — and then
he can get back to...
Well...
"The Captain is much on your mind tonight," Aramis says, from beside him. He
hands Porthos a waterskin.
"You can see he's ready to rip off a few noble heads with his bare hands,"
Porthos says quietly.
"Very true. I must admit, I find it soothing when I see him at odds with the
rest of his class."
Porthos frowns. "He *hates* whatever he's talking about —"
"Oh, yes! And I agree with you — you do not need to tell me — that he should
not *have* to do it. But..." And Aramis looks at him with his eyebrows up.
He's a ridiculously pretty man, just — fit in every *possible* way, and Porthos
is still only *mostly* past the part of their friendship where he has to tell
Aramis that *every* time they talk.
He still has to tell himself.
A lot — and remind himself, one *more* time, of just how gently and firmly and
*easily* Aramis had turned him down.
No, no, and no. Back to the subject at hand. Porthos turns back to the Captain
and frowns. "'s not like we *need* more proof that he's one of *us*, Aramis."
"Ah, no? Perhaps it is only me, then," Aramis says, taking the waterskin back
and drinking.
"Wait, wait, you don't trust him?"
"*Mm* — no, no, I would *never* say that. I trusted our Captain *long* before I
wanted to. I worked hard *not* to trust him, but... he is himself."
"That's *right* —"
"It is only... he is gentry, and we are who we are. Does it seem so strange?"
And Aramis searches him deeply for a long moment —
One that makes Porthos feel a little *guilty* for losing himself to how
*pretty* he is — this is important to him.
This is —
This is every conversation they've had — including the ones they've cut right
off in favour of drinking heavily — about where they came from, and *who* they
came from, and —
Yeah.
Porthos nods once and takes the skin back, and drinks. "I — have an answer for
that. About the Captain, I mean."
Aramis blinks. "A reason why you are more... comfortable? I am not certain that
is the word I want —"
"It is, I think," Porthos says, and shifts on his feet, looking around a little
subtly —
"We are alone; tell me —"
"'s not really a secret, but —" Porthos shakes his head. "My initial interview.
The first time we *met*. He told me a little about *his* father, about how he
was just another soldier for most of his life. Rose through the ranks and all
that. Drinking and carousing and hating the gentry and the officers and the
Brits and the Spanish. How the man raised him to be just the same, even though
he was also raising him to be able to move through the *world* of the gentry...
well... he was really *intense* about it."
"Oh... yes?"
"Yeah. Like... he *loved* his father. The way we *both* loved our mothers, eh?"
"Oh. He wanted to *be* him."
"I think he still *does*," Porthos says, and takes another drink. "At least a
little. He — he's a soldier first. First *and* last, eh?"
Aramis nods thoughtfully. "Have you thought about why he might have told you
this?"
"Maybe to calm me down, some? I'm not sure. He was... looking into my eyes the
whole time. Like he needed me to *listen*."
Aramis makes a small sound. "He... it is always very powerful when he does
this."
"Exactly. So, you see what I'm saying?"
Aramis nods and takes the waterskin. "I do. Thank —"
And then the Captain barks out a call for attention and assembly that goes
through the whole camp *easily* — some of the nobles are flinching.
"Oh, he has lost his politesse," Aramis says, setting the waterskin down with
the rest of their few things as they move to join the rest of the men.
"Yeah," Porthos says, and winces. "We should maybe do something, mate."
"I agree that the situation is growing dire, but —"
"QUIET," the Captain says, and looks over all of them like the sun in some
desert nightmare that you only hear about from the maddest travelers.
They all shut *right* up.
The Captain glares a little longer.
One of the nobles *titters* —
The Captain narrows his *eyes* —
Porthos feels his knees get a bit watery —
"Furet, Hirondelle, Aramis — get us some fresh meat for supper. A *lot* of it."
They *had* plenty of food, but — not good enough for gentry, right. Furet and
Hirondelle had been poachers in another life. Aramis is just that good. He
gives Porthos a look that expresses ruefulness, worry, and a general hope that
things look up before he goes, checking his weapons and shot as he jogs for the
treeline.
Most of the rest of the men get assigned to setting up a bloody *pavilion* for
the nobles, even though they're only going to be here for a night and *some* of
the next day —
And then...
Then the Captain assigns Blaireau, Taureau, *and* Ursos to act as the
'liaisons' between the nobles and the regiment. And that —
Blaireau and the others were technically still in the shit for having gotten
drunk enough to accidentally set a fire way too close to one of the powder
sheds, first of all, and second of all —
Liaising is the *Captain's* job.
They all — including the nobles — just stare at the Captain for a long moment.
And then the Captain grunts. There's a light in his eyes that Porthos is
constitutionally incapable of calling a smile, but — it's something in that
*family*. "The rest of you men — and myself — will *all* be gathering firewood.
*Large* amounts of firewood." His eyes *glint*. "Have I made myself clear?"
He's giving himself a break.
He's giving himself a bloody *break*!
"Yes, *sir*," Porthos calls out just a bit lustily. The rest of the men aren't
*much* quieter.
There are complaining nobles to drown out, after all.
And block — gently — from approaching the Captain when *he* moves for the
treeline —
Porthos jogs up beside him —
"You've got work to do, Porthos."
"Yes, sir, but two pairs of hands are better than one, eh?"
For a moment, that storm that's been gathering all round the Captain seems fit
to explode right out of him — if not necessarily *at* Porthos — and then... he
snorts. "Did you need *help* gathering firewood?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I'm a city-boy, you know. Don't know a thing about what I'm
doing."
"Hmm. Not even after over a year as one of us?"
There's more than one thrill for that — the Captain is counting the time he'd
spent *training* — but — "I'm um. A slow learner?"
"Are you, now." And the Captain frowns like a *mockery* of a thundercloud and
shakes his head. "We can't have that."
Shit — he's *playing* —
He plays? He —
Porthos draws himself up. "No, *sir*. I need *your* teaching."
The Captain catches his tongue between his teeth —
They step into the trees —
It's darker and quieter seemingly *instantly*, the way it always is whenever
there's forest —
All teasing aside, Porthos really *is* a city boy, and —
"Porthos," the Captain says *quietly*.
In a —
Well, Porthos doesn't know. There's *something* in his voice, but Porthos
doesn't know what it is. He's not playing, anymore.
"Yeah, sir?"
"I don't need a minder."
Oh. Oh... "Never said you did, sir," Porthos says, and pushes a branch out of
his way. "Two pairs of hands —"
"Porthos."
"Sir —"
The Captain looks at him. And it's — it's one of those *long* looks, one of
those right-down-to-your-*soul* looks, one of those I-can-see-what-you-had-for-
breakfast-for-the-last-fifteen-years-and-I'm-not-sure-you're-fit-to-take-care-
of-yourself looks.
But.
It's also another look, too, and, again, Porthos isn't *sure* about that other
look, but —
There's something —
He has to try.
"I was wondering something, sir," Porthos says, when he can get his throat wet
enough to manage speech again.
The Captain blinks. "Wondering...?"
*Yes* — and Porthos grins. "Were you always this hard? Did your mates shiver in
their boots when you woke up on the wrong side of the bed?"
For a moment, the Captain just *stares* at him, blinking and a little *stunned*
— *obviously* stunned, like he can't believe anyone would ever ask that
question.
Which — it seems like a reasonable one to *Porthos*, but — still. It makes it a
little easy to see the man in the Captain. To see the *Treville* in him — if
not the Jean-Armand, since Porthos isn't sure that *exists* — and want to...
He's not sure.
"C'mon, you can tell me. I'll only tell Aramis, and he wouldn't tell a soul."
And the Captain — laughs. It's a brief little bark of a thing, not much to it,
but it comes with this *soft* smile...
He ducks his head —
He *shakes* his head —
"*Please* tell me? I'm *dying* to know what it was like in the old days —"
"And what *I* was like, Porthos...?"
"Well — *yeah*. I've gotten a *little* information from Benoit —"
"Oh... fuck."
"Heh. *That* sounds like I need to *interrogate* the man!"
"*What* did he — did you — *fuck*," the Captain — *Treville* says, and stops,
right there, in the middle of all the trees, and pinches the bridge of his
nose.
In truth, all he'd gotten out of Benoit, who frankly *worships* Treville, is
that Treville was 'wild' as a young man, but devoted to his brothers and the
regiment as a whole. *But* — "So... *about* your brothers..."
"Fuck, fuck, *fuck* —"
"You know, as an aside," Porthos says, and leans against a handy tree, "I
haven't heard you curse this much *ever*."
"That's because — *fuck* — let's keep *walking*," Treville says, lowering his
hand — he's flushed.
He's *thinking* about something he got up to —
Maybe *lots* of somethings!
Porthos grins and *absolutely* keeps walking, deeper into these dark, dark
woods —
Treville can probably help them find their way out again —
If he ever stops *cursing* —
"So, one of them was named Reynard...?"
"Bloody — *fuck* —"
This is more fun than poking Athos — who's stuck with cadets back at the
garrison, and, quite possibly, hating his life even more than Treville is right
now — about his diction when he's...
Well, more drunk.
It honestly just gets *better*. And *that* — "And wasn't one of them Athos's
father? The former Captain —"
Treville stops again. *Whirls* on him.
*Glares* at him from under the brim of his hat, but —
But it still feels more like a Treville look.
Porthos's throat doesn't get dry.
Much —
"And what about that Kitos bloke, eh? He sounded like a good time —"
"Porthos," Treville says, quiet and sharp and — hard, yeah, he'll always be a
hard man, but —
There's that other thing there, too, that thing that tells Porthos to keep —
pushing. "Yeah, sir?"
"What *exactly* do you want to know?"
"I can't tell you that."
Treville raises an eyebrow. "No?"
"I want to know everything, sir," Porthos says, and grins.
"Everything."
"I want to know what Benoit means when he says you were 'wild'. I want to know
*how* you loved your brothers. I want to know how much *carousing* you did —"
"You — don't actually know a damned thing. You —" Treville stops and stares at
him *wonderingly*.
Porthos grins wider and waggles his eyebrows. "Not a thing, sir."
For a moment, Treville just keeps *staring*. And then... he smiles.
He *grins*.
He —
He *claps* Porthos's *shoulder* and *snickers*.
Like a *boy*.
Porthos does his best to stop catching bloody *flies* —
"Oh, that was — you got me right and proper, son."
And *that's* another thrill — that's *always* a thrill —
He just doesn't pull the 'son' *out* very often — but.
"I still want to know, sir," Porthos says, and give Treville a *hopeful* look.
The look Treville gives him — glints in whole new ways. "Do you, now."
"Yes —"
"You want to know... who I used to be," Treville says, giving Porthos's
shoulder a *squeeze* before letting go and starting to walk again.
And *that* — "No, sir," Porthos says, and *now* his throat's getting dry again,
because —
"No...?"
"I want to know who you still *are*, sir. Inside."
Treville gives him that *glinting* look again —
That hard and *shining* look —
Porthos's throat feels like it could *crack* from the lack of moisture —
And then Treville grins... wickedly. *Sharply*. Just a little *meanly*.
"Porthos..."
"Uh. Yeah, sir?"
"Did Benoit tell you what they used to call me...? *Any* of the things they
used to call me?"
Of *course* there'd be nicknames! "No, sir. I — you should know that Benoit
worships the ground you *walk* on. He'd never tell tales out of school."
Treville hums, still grinning. "He worships the man I have to pretend to be...
well, that's neither here nor there."
"Are you sure?"
Treville shows his teeth. "Absolutely. They called me *Fearless*."
"*Fuck*. That's *amazing* —"
"They also called me *meneur* — though that was mostly Reynard —"
"Bloody *ringleader*?"
Treville nods. "I was *very* good at getting *all* of us into *large* amounts
of trouble."
"Like —"
"They *also* called me pillock, berk, arsehole, arse-*eating* prick, prick-
*sucking* —"
"Uh. What?"
Treville laughs *evilly*. "I see Benoit left out a few salient facts."
Porthos blinks and blinks and — "You're a buggerer, sir?"
"For *all* my life, Porthos. Now, did you want to rethink your questions?"
"*Fuck*, no!" And Porthos grins broadly. "I mean — I haven't had a man or a boy
in ages, but — well, I like it with both sexes and everyone in between, you
know?"
Treville blinks — and looks at him.
"*You* know it's not that uncommon in the regiment, sir —"
"I do know. I, and Laurent — Athos's father — before me made a point of making
sure that it wouldn't be. But.."
"I surprised *you*? *Again*?" Porthos snickers. "Don't feel bad, sir. I've just
been mooning over my brothers, eh? *You've* seen them."
Treville snorts. "So I have. Are you —" He stops himself before he finishes the
question and shakes his head.
"Sir?"
"No, that question wasn't appropriate," Treville says, squaring his shoulders
and facing front and —
No, no, no — "Who cares about bloody *appropriate*, sir? We've got this time
away from the muckety-mucks, eh? Let's *use* it."
Treville closes his eyes and shakes his head — but he's grinning again.
"Porthos..."
"*Tell* me things. Or ask me —"
"I know all about pining for one's brothers."
"I didn't say I was *pining* —"
"No...?" And Treville glints at him again. "My mistake."
"Aw, sir —"
"I met Kitos and Laurent when I was fourteen. A recruit in the regular army.
Honoré — which was Kitos's name then — was close to a year older than I was,
but also just joining, and Laurent was the freshly-minted officer who was
assigned the thankless task of turning us recruits into soldiers. This was
normally a task given to men of far lower rank than Laurent's, but Laurent
wasn't as polished as he eventually became, back then, and he could be
*remarkably* tactless with that beautiful diction of his."
That — "I can see the family resemblance."
Treville grins. "Laurent would be heartbroken to see his son turn to drink like
he has, but everything else about Athos would make him not just proud, but...
satisfied."
"Right, I like him."
Treville barks a laugh. "*Good*. He was wonderful."
"Yeah, eh? Did you get up to tricks with *him*?"
"Not nearly as many as I wanted to," Treville says, ducking under a branch and
sighing. "Keep in mind that 'as many as I wanted to' with Laurent included
activities which weren't actually physically possible for *either* of us —"
Porthos *coughs* —
Treville grins. "Have you never wanted a man like that, Porthos? Wanted him so
much, so badly, so *madly* —"
"That I caught myself tossing it to images and dreams of things that were
downright *confusing* once I'd actually spent? *Yes*, sir."
Treville hums. "Aramis...? Or Athos."
"Well, mostly Aramis for the *confusing* fantasies. My fantasies about Athos
are usually good and straightforward, like."
Treville wets his lips. "It is utterly confusing to me that they refused you."
"*Thank* you, sir, but how did you know I even *asked*?"
Treville looks at him.
"Right, that — right. Me being me, and all."
Treville laughs again.
"But tell me more —"
"About?"
"Athos says you spent a lot of *time* over to their manor when he was growing
up. You stayed close to his father his whole life?"
"And his mother, Marie-Angelique, once she entered our lives," Treville says,
smiling and looking down.
"You weren't too jealous?"
"Would you be? If Aramis married someone absolutely perfect for him in every
way after you'd spent years convinced that such a human didn't exist?"
Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. The thing is, he *is* pretty sure
there's no one perfect for Aramis. There's just too much of him, in too many
different directions at once, and —
And if he met someone who could take all of that, who *wanted* all of that the
way Porthos does, someone *Aramis* could want in every way...
Porthos nods slowly. "You have to be happy for your brothers, when they're
happy."
"Precisely. Though I won't say it didn't help things when Marie-Angelique and I
had a long, honest talk about any number of things... and then *she* talked
Laurent into inviting me into their bed —"
"*Shit* —"
"Multiple times —"
"Oh my — fucking —"
"And we really did have to come up with some interesting excuses for me to be
in their bedroom suite when Olivier or Thomas would wander in at just the wrong
moments —"
"*FUCK* —"
And Treville snickers *hard*, actually doubling *over* a little —
"Oh my *God* — you — I'm going to *murder* Athos for not telling me — but.
You're saying —"
"He doesn't —" Treville wheezes. "Oh, fuck, I suppose he *might* know. He's
grown up so close-mouthed. But his parents and I learned discretion before the
boys were out of short pants, so... there's *some* measure of ambiguity there."
"That's *amazing*."
"It certainly was," Treville says, and smiles like a man in the *process* of
getting reamed.
Porthos snorts. "But *wait*."
"Hmm...?"
"Oh fuck, you even *sound* like you're thinking about getting fucked —"
"That's because I am, son, but you were saying?" And Treville's pale eyes are
*sparkling* in the gloom —
And Porthos laughs hard and helplessly for a long moment. Just — *fuck*.
Treville laughs with him, easy and pleased and more relaxed than Porthos has
ever *seen* him. It's —
It's good.
It eases something in *him*, and makes Porthos want to keep doing exactly this,
and every other thing that will make Treville feel this good.
Better.
Porthos licks his lips and jerks his chin at the man. "How the hell were you
being Fearless and an arsehole and a ringleader and all that if you were *also*
getting reamed by the Captain on a regular basis?"
Treville grins. "Laurent was a firm believer in the men getting to have their
recreation when it was time for it. *All* of their recreation."
"So you were still fucking about?"
"Absolutely."
"And *really* fucking about?"
"Son, if there's one thing that confuses me *most* about you and Athos, it's
how much money you spend on liquor, as opposed to whores."
Porthos *coughs* again — "I —"
"Just — where are your *priorities*?"
"Sir —"
"Aramis has the right idea — he's fucking everything moving, as near as I can
tell — but —"
"Uh. You *know* Athos is... kind of..." And Porthos just... lets that sit
there, because he can't say more than that. He *can't*.
And Treville frowns. "He lied to me about how Thomas died. I know he did. I
*don't* know if he told you the truth, and I'm *not* asking you to tell me what
it was if he did, but... I was hoping..."
Porthos winces. "That he'd... recover?"
"As much as anyone can, from something like the death of a brother," Treville
says, and stops them again. "I held myself apart from them after Laurent and
Marie-Angelique died in that — that stupid, *stupid* carriage accident. I
didn't want to tempt myself to lure Olivier to the regiment. To *me*. Did he
tell you that his father wanted court for him?"
"Yes, sir... I know *he* always wanted *this*."
Treville smiles wryly. "So did I. I wanted to be faithful to my friend, lover,
and *brother's* memory. I knew I could convince Olivier to come to me. I knew
that I *would*. And so I stayed away, and whatever happened... happened. It's
almost certainly *overweening* pride to imagine I might have done something to
change the course of whatever *did* happen, but... I've always been a proud
man."
And Porthos... can't say anything.
Can't *do* anything with the blood-soaked memories Athos had laid at his feet
four months ago and —
It's the only sodding secret he's ever managed to *keep*. And it doesn't matter
that *Porthos* thinks *this* secret needs to stop being one — he knows that it
eases things for Athos that Porthos *is* keeping it.
That Porthos is holding on to that — that fucking darkness *with* him, and no
one else.
No one else he has to learn how to trust that much.
Treville nods. "You do know what happened."
"Sir —"
"You do know, and it was — bloody horrible — oh, my boys," he says, low and
quiet and old. "I'm not asking. I won't ever do that to you, son."
Porthos takes a breath — and nods.
"Promise me one thing."
"If I can, sir."
Treville frowns and nods. "If there's a *way* that I can take some of Olivier's
— *Athos's* — grief. If there is *some* way I can *ease* him —"
"I'll tell you, sir. I *promise* I'll tell you!"
Treville nods again, swallows, and looks up at the sky.
The sun will set within two hours.
"We... have singularly failed to gather any wood, son."
Porthos winces.
Treville smiles wryly. "I appreciate this holiday you've given me from my
responsibilities, but —"
"It doesn't have to be over, sir."
"Son."
"You can — you can tell me more about whoring —"
"Porthos —"
"You can tell me what you like, and why Paris isn't *alive* with gossip about
the brothels you used to frequent —"
"Because they're all *afraid* of me —"
"Fuck, you're such a hard man, but tell me —"
"*Son*."
"I want — I want more of you," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, because he
doesn't have much left other than being blatant. And he does want more.
Treville gives him a *queer* look for that —
It almost seems *hungry* —
But then he turns *away* —
"Sir —"
— and picks up a single piece of wood. And raises an eyebrow.
Porthos blinks — and also picks up a piece of wood —
"Most of my whores were boys," Treville says, just as easy as you please, as he
starts walking again.
"Oh, yeah, sir? How old?"
"Old enough to mouth off to me. Viciously and vigorously, if at all possible.
Also old enough to enjoy themselves *immensely*.
"I like *that*."
Treville grins. "Why am I not surprised that you like a mouthy lad...?"
"I — heh. I never go with boys unless they, you know, *tell* me they want me.
Make it clear."
Treville nods slowly and thoughtfully. "That makes it better for you in ways
that have nothing to do with the sex, I'd wager."
"Yes, sir. I — I feel like less of a predator that way."
Treville looks at him sharply —
"I don't think *you're* a predator —"
"I didn't think you did, son."
"You're just wondering why I'd think of myself that way?"
Treville nods once.
"Heh, I... you know exactly how *I* came up, sir."
A shadow passes behind Treville's eyes. "You sold yourself when you were that
age."
"Absolutely, sir. And I didn't always have the luxury of picking out the
clients I knew would treat me right."
Treville growls low — and just a little flat.
"Sir?"
Treville doesn't say anything for a *long* moment —
"Sir, are you all right?"
"I'm never going to be 'all right' with how you came up, son."
Porthos stiffens — "My mother did the best she could, sir —"
"I have no doubt of that. She should have had more *choices*," Treville says,
and sounds honestly angry, honestly *hurt* —
"Sir...?"
"I..." Treville growls again, less flatly, and shakes his head once. "I spend a
lot of time thinking about my men, son."
Porthos blinks — and takes a breath. That makes sense. "You want the best for
us."
"Always," Treville says, and his voice sounds the way it did when he was
talking about Athos and Thomas, small and tired, small and *old* —
Porthos can't leave it that way. "I'm sorry —"
"Don't be —"
"I'm *sorry* we stopped talking about *whoring*, sir," Porthos says, and grins,
and waggles his eyebrows, and tosses his branch from hand to hand.
Treville snorts hard. "Porthos."
"So they called you out on the arse-eating in particular —"
"I —"
"Was there a reason for that?"
Treville ducks his head —
*Colours* in the dim light —
And then looks at *him*... and licks his *lips*. *Slowly*.
"Oh, sodding *really*."
Treville licks his lips *counterclockwise*. Even *more* slowly.
Porthos splutters —
"Oh, bad form, son. You almost never want to do that into a likely arse —"
"*Almost* never?"
"It takes all kinds, son, but —"
"Given this a lot of thought, have you? A lot of time and attention?"
Treville sticks his tongue out —
For a moment it seems like it goes much farther than it *should* — but the
moment passes, and he's just wiggling it in the air like a randy boy, and
Porthos is snickering helplessly. "You're bloody *awful*, sir —"
"This is what I've been trying to *tell* you —"
"I *love* it —"
Treville hums. "When we all went whoring together — excepting Laurent, who was
not that kind —"
"Oh, fuck, sir, I was about to have a shock."
Treville sucks his teeth. "In a man your age? Terrible tragedy."
"You *are* an arsehole — sir —"
"That I am. But as I was saying —"
"Whoring, togetherness, I'm with you —"
"Reynard especially enjoyed watching me devour the mouthy lads while he bounced
the mouthy lasses on his cock."
"*Fuck* —"
"He told me — years after we began doing things like that — that he *was*
watching me. That he was *studying* me. What I did and how I did it."
"Oh — yeah? Was he looking to pick up some techniques?"
"He told me that that's what he thought he was doing, at first. But eventually
the watching — the need for it — was too... hungry. Fixated."
"Oh... shit. You *weren't* fucking Reynard?"
Treville shakes his head and stares into the distance. Into his memories. "I
fell in love with him in — an eyeblink. Seemingly moments after meeting him.
Having him tease me. He was beautiful and cheerful and violent and funny and
mad as a cleric in a room full of independent thinkers —"
Porthos chokes a little —"Uh."
Treville grins at him. "Liked that one, did you?"
"I try to be *respectful* of religion, sir —"
"Because of your Aramis, I know. But you're still who you are. Aren't you."
His — but. He smiles ruefully. "I am, sir. I never even set *foot* in a church
until I was a man grown. I don't rightly see how it's improved my life any."
Treville grins almost *wildly* — "*That's* my boy. Hold on to that."
"I bloody *will*, sir —"
"Where was I?"
"Reynard being mad. Mad how?"
"Mostly the violence. Mostly. Reynard was... passionate. Moody. Emotional.
*Wild*. Only a recruiter like Laurent would've let him into the regiment,
because *he* was a bloody madman, too. I asked Laurent one day, after *Laurent*
had to be the one to stop Reynard from killing the wrong man at the wrong time,
what had made him relax his guard around Reynard to let him in..."
"What did he say?"
"He said the new regiment — and we were new, then — needed men who would be
loyal unto death to their brothers and to the Crown. Who would fight to their
last breath when that was what was called for — and who could and would be led
by the more sedate men among them."
Porthos nods slowly — and then stops. "Was he calling *you* sedate?"
Treville laughs. "Everything is relative, son. And Reynard, far more than once,
declared himself to be *my* weapon. And never backed down from that statement."
"Was this before or after you were fucking, though?"
"Both," Treville says, laughing hard. "I honestly thought it would never
happen. I honestly... he would kiss me on the mouth, our tongues would touch,
we'd drunkenly whisper secrets *into* each other's mouths and swear to be
frères toujours while he kissed me again and again and *again*... and then he'd
laugh and peel away from me and tumble a tavern maid. Or a whore. Or some fine
lady. Or a farmgirl. The list went on and on and on."
Porthos thinks of Aramis's women —
Aramis's *endless* women —
And the way Aramis touches him, sometimes. Kisses when he's drunk, absolutely,
and who doesn't? It's just what you *do* when you have a brother you love, and
there's enough wine in you for everything to be all right with the world.
Even *Athos* kisses him sometimes.
But... there are the other touches.
The way he leans on Porthos like he's as solid as a wall, or a particularly
heavy and well-loved piece of furniture.
The way he'll rest his *head* on Porthos — or *roll* his head *against*
Porthos.
The way he'll tilt his head up just that little way to smile.
The way it makes perfect sense to share a lady of custom or two with him, to
egg each other on, to watch —
To let him watch...
Porthos swallows and — stops. Just stops. He can't do this to himself.
He can't —
"Son? Did I say something wrong?"
And that's a *hilarious* sentence, considering everything Treville's said
tonight, but — "No, sir."
"Son —"
"Can we. Can we talk about something... um." Shit, he'd *asked* for this! He
can't just — just —
"Kitos — when he was Honoré — was the first one to take me to a brothel
catering to men of my predilections —"
"Fuck — I'm sorry —"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because — because I'm hounding you to talk and then making you change the
subject just when you hit your stride —"
"Son. Stop," Treville says, and taps Porthos's belly with his branch. "This was
— and continues to *be* — a holiday for me. A *grand* holiday for me. I *never*
get the chance to speak about my past. Certainly not *happy* memories."
"I should — I should —"
"Shh. Breathe."
"Sir —"
"Breathe in for me, son. Nice and slow," Treville says, setting his branch down
and gripping Porthos's shoulders with both hands.
Porthos shivers — and realizes that he wants those hands on him in other ways.
A lot of other ways.
A *lot* of other —
"Son? Can you breathe for me?"
"Uh..." For a moment, that seems like the hardest question in the *world*.
Treville is right *there*, a few inches shorter and so bloody *hard*, yeah, but
also so — warm.
So good. So open and loving and just —
Just —
"Oh. Son..." And Treville licks his lips, eyes widening as he *obviously*
realizes what Porthos's bloody *problem* is —
"I'm sorry, sir —"
"Shh. It's all right."
"*Is* it? Because if it is, I *really* want to suck your prick," Porthos says,
and laughs helplessly.
Treville splutters —
"*Now* who's got bad form, sir —"
"*Porthos*."
"I... still want more of you."
Treville squeezes his shoulders again, firm and warm and so — "I'm tempted to
ask how *much* more, son. You... this..." He shakes his head and starts to pull
*back*, and that —
Porthos can't let him — not yet. He drops his own branch and cups Treville's
hands *gently*, *respectfully* —
"Porthos —"
"I want. I want all of you I can have."
Treville inhales sharply. "Son. Don't."
"At this point — I usually let the other bloke walk away. Usually," Porthos
says, and his hands are bloody shaking on Treville's own —
His hands are —
He *knows* this is too bloody *much* —
"Then why aren't you, son." Treville is *frowning* — but not at him. At
*himself*.
"Because I don't think you want me to, sir."
"*Porthos* —"
"Because, all night, there's been — this little voice. This little *push*. This
little — I don't know. I just know that it's been telling me to reach for you.
And. It's been right every time. I know that sounds ridiculous —"
"It doesn't. It — *something* help us all, but it *doesn't*," Treville says,
growling again and *gripping* Porthos's hands —
Porthos grunts and *flexes* in his trousers — "Oh — sir — let me —"
"Son... this is still... this will never not be wrong —"
"Don't say that —"
"I'm twenty years older than you are, in an entirely different class, and your
commanding officer," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow.
"You're a bloody *soldier*, sir. And even more of a deviant than *I* am."
And for a moment Treville looks at him with nothing but *desperation* on his
face, like there's something he wants to tell Porthos, but *can't* —
"Sir?"
"I've wanted you in my arms since the first time you walked into my *office*,"
Treville says, and that was a growl, *too* —
"Oh, *fuck*, sir —"
And then there's one gloved hand on Porthos's beard and another one in his
*hair* and Porthos is being pulled down into a *hard* kiss, a hungry kiss, a
dirty-wet-*sloppy* kiss —
Porthos moans and nods and gives it right back, stripping off his own gloves so
he can give himself the feel of Treville's leathers, how old they are, how
well-used and *supple* —
Old *soldier* —
And Treville is *laughing* into his mouth —
"Mm?"
He pulls back —
"No, don't —"
"Are you fondling me or my leathers, son?"
"Uhh..."
Treville snickers and licks Porthos's *mouth* —
"Unh —"
"Was that a hard question?"
Porthos fondles those leathers just a *little* bit more —
And Treville almost *rumbles* a laugh into Porthos's mouth —
"Oh, sir —"
"Wanted to do that for a while, have you? Mm? Have a good feel?"
Porthos blushes. "I'm sorry, I just —"
"I molest my own leathers all the time, son. They feel bloody wonderful in my
hands."
"Yes, they *do* —"
"Touch me harder, though. Let *me* feel you."
"Shit — fuck —" Porthos grunts and *grips* Treville's hips —
Treville *gasps* — "I haven't felt that in — too long. Too bloody —" He growls
again and folds Porthos's leathers aside, then licks Porthos's *throat* —
Porthos moans and squeezes tighter —
"Just for that, son? A little lick?"
"You're *tasting* me, sir —"
Treville licks him again —
Again and again and *again* —
Porthos moans and *shivers* —
"I'd like to taste you everywhere, son..."
"*Fuck* —"
Treville licks up to the space just behind Porthos's ear, inhales deeply,
shudders *hard* against him —
"Please —"
"I'd like to eat your arse, son..."
And it's not like Porthos hadn't seen that *coming*, but —
Those words. That voice. That —
So hard. So — "'m so hard —"
"Too hard for me to... take my time?" And Treville tightens his grip on
Porthos's hair with his right hand, strokes *down* to his arse with his left.
"Your arse is incredible. So round and just a little *fat*."
"*Fuck*, sir —"
"Maybe I should spank it, instead, mm? Make it jiggle for me?"
Porthos *bucks* — only he's still holding Treville *tight*, so what he really
just did was make Treville take his *thrust*.
And Treville is *panting* into his ear, hot and needy and growling. "Or we
could do that..."
Porthos groans — "Fuck, sir, anything, anything you want, just —"
And the crack of that pistol was close. Too close.
Fuck —
*Fuck* —"
Treville laughs *evilly* again. Like — like *Fearless* — "Somebody just had a
responsible thought."
"I — *UNH* —"
"You like that, son? My fingers in your cleft?"
"Bloody *yes* —"
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
"Oh, God, sir, I want you to do it *hard* —"
"And... rough?" And Treville presses so *hard* —
"Please — *please* —"
"Shh," Treville says, and licks Porthos's ear —
"Yeah — sorry — fuck —"
Treville is *tonguing* Porthos's ear and *working* his cleft —
"That feels so *good*, sir —"
"Do you want me to hurt you, son? When I fuck you...?"
And Porthos can't answer right away, can't do anything but picture himself on
his hands and knees for Treville, or maybe his *face* and knees —
"Do you want me to make you feel me for days?"
Every time he rode.
Every time he fought.
Every time he bloody sat *down* —
And Treville growls. "The way you *moan* for me..."
"Yes — yes, sir — I mean — the *answer* is yes —"
"To all of it, son? Is that how you like to be treated?"
"Not — not all the time —"
Treville growls again —
"But if you *wanted* —"
Treville bites his throat — not hard. Just. Just enough to really catch his
*attention* —
"Sir — yes, sir —"
And Treville growls his way *off* — and stops working Porthos's cleft, too,
which is bloody *tragic*.
"Please —"
"Shh. I want everything with you. I want..." Treville pants. "Tell me one more
time. Tell me one more time that I can *have* you."
"Fuck, sir, you can have me in the *dirt*," Porthos says, and squeezes
Treville's hips again, tries to pull him closer —
"Not that."
"No, sir?"
"We don't — we truly don't have *any* time to do this properly," he says,
pulling back and looking unerringly toward where that pistol shot had gone off
with narrowed eyes.
A part of Porthos is only panicking about Treville maybe making them *wait*, or
saying no entirely, or —
But then he starts working on his belts. Right there. Just — right there.
"Oh, sir..."
He grins like Fearless — and raises his eyebrows.
"*Yes*, sir," Porthos says, and gets his own belts off and trousers and
breeches open in record time.
For a moment it seems like there's something strange about the shadows around
Treville —
Something —
Something almost shimmering —
And then Treville's thick, hard, *perfect* cock is right there —
So big and so *slick* —
*Dripping* —
"Oh, fuck, sir, I want —"
"Your *hand*, son. Give me those big hands of yours. One on my cock and one on
my bollocks."
"Uh. Are you *sure*?"
Treville barks a laugh. "I *might* be old enough to know what I want at this
point."
Porthos looks at him.
Treville grins. "Or I might be old enough to know that if you get down on your
knees right now, you won't be getting up until I've *had* you."
"*Shit* — I —"
And there's another pistol-shot —
"*Fuck* —"
"Here, son. Let me show you how," Treville says, tossing his gloves down and
*gripping* Porthos —
"Oh — oh, *yeah* —"
"You like that, son?"
"Your bloody *calluses* —"
"Nice and hard. Nice and *rough*," Treville says, and starts to stroke, starts
to *pump* —
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, I — I —"
"You *like* it."
"I love it, sir!"
"But you want my mouth...?"
Porthos's cock *jerks*, but — "You might stop *talking*, sir —"
Treville laughs *filthily* — "Only briefly, son."
And that nearly goes *past* Porthos — "*Oi* —"
Treville laughs *harder* —
"I'll show you bloody — bloody *brief*," Porthos says, and gets a *good* grip
on Treville's tackle —
Treville gasps —
Flushes and closes his eyes —
"Squeeze. Squeeze me —"
"Both hands?"
"*Yes*."
Porthos pants and does it, does it just a little harder than he does himself,
just *because* it feels right —
"*Fuck* — oh, son, oh, *son*," Treville says, opening his eyes —
*His* hands are shaking —
He *growls* — and strokes Porthos fast and *hard* —
"Shit — fuck — *sir* —"
"You know what to do."
Porthos *groans* —
His *own* hands are shaking —
His cock is *jerking* in Treville's hands — and he does know what to do, and he
knows how hard to do it, and —
And *Treville* groans —
Crowds him —
Licks his *face* —
"*Sir* —"
"Do you like that."
"I sodding love it — you're — you're like a *dog* —"
"It's been said before," Treville says, laughing almost wildly and biting him,
lapping at him, biting his *jaw* through the *beard* —
"Fuck, sir, that's — that's so *hot* —"
"Your hands are *perfect* —"
"Are they? Are — tell me — I'll *do* it —"
"More — more of your *trigger* calluses, son. More —" And Treville's groan this
time is almost *crooned* —
It's so low and *hungry* —
He *crushes* Porthos's bollocks up against his cock and works them and works
them and —
"Sir, sir, that's so hot, that's so good, I want to suck you so *much* —"
Treville snarls and bites his *throat* again —
Porthos grunts and *bucks* —
Tries to get his *hilt*-calluses into things —
"Ah — ah, *fuck*, son —" And Treville growls and bites and growls and *bites* —
"Sir — *sir* —"
"Spend. Spend when you *need* to."
"*Fuck*, sir — *UNH* —"
The bite is so hard —
It *lasts* — until it doesn't —
"Spend all over me. Let me smell it. Let me *feel* it —"
"*Sir* —"
"Let me lick you off my fingers and —"
Porthos jerks, squeezing with both hands reflexively —
Treville growls and *sucks* his throat —
Porthos groans and *bucks* into his fist, bucks again and again and —
"Oh, son, son, that's it, that's —" And Treville sucks *harder* —
"*Sir* — I —"
"*Do* it," Treville *growls*, and Porthos feels everything *in* him just light
right up, *burn* —
Treville is stroking him so fast so hard so —
So *good* —
And then he bites *again*, and Porthos is spurting all over his perfect
fingers, all over his perfect sodding *leathers* —
Groaning like an *animal* —
Treville is biting him over and *over* again —
They're both panting so —
And Treville is snarling again, *driving* into Porthos's fist, and Porthos is
thinking about being on his knees again, thinking —
"Want you to fuck me, sir —"
"*Fuck* —"
"Want you — like you said. Do me hard. Do me *rough* —"
"*Porthos*."
"Put me on my knees and bloody *keep* me there, spank me if I misbehave — NNGH
—"
And this bite is right over his Adam's apple —
This bite feels like it might break the *skin* —
Treville is growling right down through Porthos's *spine* —
Porthos's still-aching cock is jerking and *jerking* — and Treville is spending
all over it, getting it wet, getting it *hotter*, making him *dirty* — "Yeah,
sir, please, sir, *do* it —"
And Treville knocks their hands out of the way and *fucks* against him, fucks
into the mess and damn how much it hurts both of them, because oh, *fuck*,
that's perfect, that's —
"Wait, wait, up against a tree —"
Treville growls and *stops* —
Porthos tries to pull them back toward the nearest tree —
Treville stops *him* —
"Sir —"
"We can't. We — we have to get dressed."
Which... Porthos ducks his head enough to get a good look into Treville's
frankly *wild* eyes. "That's not what your prick says, sir."
"My *prick* says you'd look better — no. I'm not going to finish that thought."
"I'd really like you to!"
Treville laughs hard — and pulls Porthos in for another one of those *dirty*
kisses, those *hot* kisses, those —
Porthos moans and gives it back — until Treville gives it to him *harder*.
Then he just takes it. Just — opens right up —
He feels *empty* —
He feels — not loose, but like he could *be* loose with just a *little*
concentrated effort from Treville —
He *shakes* —
Treville growls into his *mouth* —
Porthos tries to push *closer* —
And Treville steps back. "No, Porthos."
"Sir —"
"Not — yet."
Porthos pants, flushing hard — and grinning. "Yeah, sir?"
Treville smiles wryly — and whips out a handkerchief with so much lace on it
that Porthos is willing to bet that Fearless wouldn't have been caught dead
carrying it. He starts dabbing away *some* of the spatters on his leathers —
and swiping up the rest with his fingers to lick right up.
Porthos does the same with his much more workaday handkerchief —
"No one with a mind could give up a chance with you, son."
Porthos blinks. That sounds like a lot more than just... just...
Well, Porthos doesn't know what to call it, but it's whatever a first-year
Musketeer can have with the *Captain* of the King's Musketeers when everything
in the world says they can't have *anything*. He looks up —
But Treville is scanning the woods around them with his eyes narrowed and his
focus obviously on official things.
It's not time to pull him away from those things, anymore.
There's an ache for that. A *need* for it —
A lot of *different* needs for it —
Porthos licks his lips —
And Treville smiles, tiny and sharp, and — rumbles. "You got lost gathering
firewood in the dark."
"I did?" And then Porthos blinks and — "I really sodding did, sir! Good thing
you tracked me down like you did."
Treville grins, sharp and brief. "Come on, son."
They go.
***** Well, that's a wrinkle. In fact, I've met raisins with fewer wrinkles.
*****
Treville has spent the past four hours placating overbred idiots — many of whom
had dumped their freshly-caught rabbit in the dirt rather than eat it because
it wasn't served *daintily* enough —
And the word about that *will* get back to the men, assuming it hasn't already,
and that will be...
Well, that will be itself.
Maybe when the supplies arrive, at least some of the delicacies will have gone
over enough to get his brethren among the gentry sick enough to shit their
silks.
*He* doesn't deserve that good a day, but his men absolutely do.
His —
And now that he's alone in his tent, with nothing but the sounds of a forest
night surrounding him —
Now that he's alone with *himself* —
He can't do anything but think about what he'd allowed to happen.
What he'd *done*.
Once upon a time, Porthos's mother Amina had been the woman Treville had every
intention of marrying — once he got her entirely past the small hiccough of the
fact that, to her, he would always be the rampant buggerer with far more
interest in the arses of pretty boys who wandered past the teahouse where she
worked than in *hers*.
They both knew he'd been changed, that the same spells which *connected* him to
her and made him into the protector of her and her babe had allowed him to
*see* women in ways he never had before —
They'd *touched* —
They'd made *love* — even if she wouldn't ever let him fuck her with his *cock*
—
And she's there in his mind, laughing with her mouth, but *not* with her
beautiful eyes —
("Not that, sweet brother. Not... that."
"I — I'm not going to *pressure* —")
And her long, strong, *rough* fingers had been on his lips just that quickly.
("Do not make that promise, sweet brother —"
"I'm not *worthless*!"
"No, but you do like to *please* me...")
And she'd smiled and climbed on his lap, smiled with *all* of herself —
So —
So beautiful —
Naked and so *dark* against his own pale skin, naked and hugely pregnant and
just a little cool — she hadn't given him *time* to stoke the fires that day —
and all he could do was stare.
("Is that not so, sweet brother...?"
"It — it *is*. I *have* to please you — it's in my *blood* — you're what I
*crave*, Amina-love —"
"*You* are in *my* blood, sweet brother... and I think I will want your
pressure very much someday...")
Treville swallows a groan and puts his face in his hands.
The truth is, he'd wanted to marry Amina even *before* he *could* see her —
He'd wanted — his sister.
His home away from his brothers — and often right there *with* his brothers.
He'd *wanted* her, and when they'd been changed —
When she was his *mate* and she and his brothers and Marie-Angelique were his
*pack* —
He'd *made* her know that.
He'd told her *everything* — everything he could think of *to* tell her.
Everything the magic *itself* hadn't told her — and some of the things it *had*
—
("*Enough*, Jean-Armand!"
"Amina-love, I just — I have to make you —"
"You will not *make* me do *anything*!")
And they had... stared at each other. Panting. Sweating. *Growling*.
And then she'd *snarled*, teeth lengthening as she slammed him against a wall —
("You will never *force* me to come to *heel*."
"I would never bloody *try*!"
"Then *what*?"
"I *love* you. I *need* you. I'm *yours*. That's all. That's everything. That's
everything important.")
And she had frowned then, and Treville could *see* her thinking about their
*friendship*, about the man — the smaller man — he *used* to be.
("I'm not *him*, damnit! I —"
"I know, sweet brother. I know...")
And she'd smiled ruefully and licked him, licked him slowly and sweetly and so
—
He'd moaned —
He'd nuzzled and licked her back —
Pushed her toward the *bed* —
She'd walked and stripped herself and smiled *wryly* —
And Treville rips himself away from the memory and — pants.
Just —
Knowing things with your mind doesn't have a damn thing to do with knowing them
with your heart, sometimes.
As an example, he'd known perfectly well with his *mind* that, once Porthos had
walked back into his life after twenty long years' absence, he would do
anything not to fuck it all up, that he would *be* the good, brave, true,
*noble* commanding officer Porthos wanted and —
But Porthos doesn't want that.
He doesn't.
At least he *thinks* — but Treville can't finish that thought. Every time he
had tried to back away from Porthos, tried to hide behind the *persona* of
*responsibility* he'd built over the years, Porthos had cajoled and coaxed and
even *pleaded* for Treville — the *real* Treville — to come out again.
To come out and *play* with him.
Be with him.
Treville winces and sits on the cot he'd accepted with bad grace as one of the
accoutrements of rank. The fact that it truly was more comfortable than his
long-beloved bedroll was just insult to injury.
But...
But.
He'd felt Porthos tonight. He'd felt him — so much. So *much*, but he'd also
felt that *power*.
A legacy of being Amina's child, yes, and —
Fuck, but Treville thought it had all *skipped* him. Passed him *over*.
Amina had been only a weak witch when she was born, like him. They'd both been
augmented by the spells that had made Tréville her *failure* of a protector,
but —
It had still seemed perfectly reasonable for the Porthos who'd walked into
Treville's office a year and a half ago, breaking every enchantment just by
*seeing* Treville and knowing his identity with innocence, *ignorance* —
It had been *reasonable* for Porthos to seem all but magic-blind, himself. For
his abilities to be all but *latent*.
Now...
Well, now, Treville knows that they were only dormant.
Only waiting for —
But what was it?
What could it have *been*?
Because the spells that had connected Treville to Amina had connected him to
her babe, too, to the babe Treville couldn't find, couldn't *track*, even after
his Amina-love was dead.
He doesn't look at her body again in his mind.
At her thin, shriveled, *ravaged* —
He growls and *shoves* the heels of his palms against his eyes —
He doesn't —
He doesn't want to *see* —
Porthos.
*Porthos*.
He remembers Porthos walking into his office.
Remembers recognizing Amina's eyes immediately, even before he realized that
what he was feeling was a twenty-year-old enchantment being broken.
He remembers the *reflex* to lock himself down, to fight down the urge to weep,
to leap across his own desk and *grip*, hold, sniff, lick, *bite* —
He remembers hating everything *about* that reflex, about the person he'd
become who would *have* such a reflex —
He remembers being grateful for it, because Porthos *was* magic-blind, and
*didn't* feel what he felt. *Obviously* didn't feel it.
And obviously simply wanted a better life — and a life of *honour*.
Human honour.
The Treville who could give him that *wasn't* the same man — the same *dog* —
who wanted to pin him to the floor and lick every drop of sweat from his body,
head to toe, before starting over at the top again.
It was the right choice to — to *lie*.
It was.
It *was*.
Which means — as if there was any doubt — that everything about tonight was
wrong.
Even though he hadn't been able to stop himself from sharing, a little, that
first day, a bit of his true self.
Just... who he was.
Who he *truly* was, and would always be —
It had made Porthos comfortable, then, too.
It had made him smile, and relax, and —
And not *hesitate* to seek him out when it was necessary —
Not *flinch* when *Treville* sought *him* out for...
For those moments when Treville had to.
Had to hear his voice.
Had to cup his broad shoulders.
Had to smell him.
It was enough.
It was *enough*, those small moments, and that was all he was going to take
today. Just... another few moments of Porthos's presence to soothe away the
day's *rage*.
Another *taste* of him on the air to wash away just — everything else.
But Porthos had brushed aside all of Treville's best efforts to brush *him*
aside, and...
And Porthos feels him.
Porthos is *responding* to him, to his —
(Oh, sweet brother, you are more his father than that — that *Belgard*!"
"Amina-love — I — I —"
"You know it is true! Would you deny it?"
"*Never*!")
And Amina had nodded once, hard and sure, baring her heavy, full, gorgeous
breast even though Porthos was only just beginning to wake — she could always
tell when he was ready to nurse.
She —
('You are his father — even Ife and Lara and Layo say so! And —"
"They. They also say that I'm your husband, Amina-love.")
And they'd looked at each other, then —
They'd been *in* Treville's bedroom, napping away a rare lazy afternoon —
Captain Bissette had given him a day of leave —
And then Amina had lifted the big, healthy babe to her breast and begun to feed
him, but she'd been blushing, just a little, under her dark skin.
("Maybe you are, at that.")
And Treville had rumbled, helpless and hungry and so *pleased* —
And she'd rumbled right back, rocking the babe gently as she did.
And this...
Tonight...
Treville swallows and puts his face in his hands.
If he'd told Porthos in the first place, then this wouldn't have happened.
If he'd told Porthos in the first place, then...
And what had stopped his mouth *tonight*?
He'd had opportunity. Porthos had even *asked* him what was bloody *wrong*.
What was *stopping* him from — having him.
What had — could it have been *anything* but greed?
The need to have one more moment — and one more after that?
To see how far Porthos would *take* — but. That's too much of a lie. Before he
was Amina's, he was an *accomplished* buggerer. He's known for a long time how
far a boy — or a young man — would go for him, with the right pushes.
Porthos had *needed* him tonight. He hadn't needed any pushing, at all.
He hadn't —
The *bond* between them —
Porthos has no context for it, no way to *understand* it.
Porthos knows his way around a witch's kitchen just from being Amina's child,
but not much *more* than that. He hadn't *chosen* that life.
Treville squeezes his eyes shut behind his hands. He'd taken advantage of
Porthos.
Of — his son.
The only question is what he's going to do about it.
***** Aramis would've liked more time to plan this conversation. *****
Aramis — cannot sleep.
Porthos had been assigned first watch — nearest to the nobles — by the Captain
as a punishment for 'forgetting his woodcraft' and 'getting lost in the woods'
but...
But Aramis knows that this is only a continuation of subterfuge.
It has been many years since hunting had proven to be one of the few escapes he
could truly count on from his father's strict rule in that small, small village
the man had dragged him to —
Away from the city —
Away from his *mother* —
Aramis is very, very good at hunting, and had collected his share of rabbits
and fat birds quickly.
Quickly enough that he'd thought to track Porthos, just a little. Surprise him.
*Tease* him for his discomfort in the woods — if never for a lack of woodcraft;
Porthos learns *everything* well. And...
He'd found Porthos.
He'd found him *with* the Captain.
He'd found Porthos with the Captain all but *battened* on Porthos's strong
throat while the two of them moaned and growled and *stroked* each other.
The Captain had made Porthos *spend*, and —
And then Porthos had whispered about wanting to be fucked, fucked hard, fucked
*roughly* —
The Captain had called out Porthos's name so *passionately*... and spent, as
well.
It had been... too much.
Far too much.
For long moments, Aramis had only been able to stand there staring, panting and
*staring* —
Helpless —
He'd never *imagined* —
He's known from the day they *met* that Porthos at least *sometimes* enjoyed
the company of men — he had propositioned Aramis a dozen times in an hour!
While perfectly sober!
But was this what Porthos had meant when he'd spoken about *understanding* the
Captain?
And how long has this been going *on*?
Had Aramis just missed...?
These thoughts have been running through Aramis's mind on an *endless* loop all
*night*, and he fears he has done his duties only middling well, at best.
Now, here, alone in the tent he's shared with Porthos on *every* mission since
the Captain had made it clear that he considered Aramis a qualified-enough
soldier *to* join missions, even before he had earned his commission...
He can smell Porthos.
He can —
The Captain had *tasted* —
The Captain had tasted Porthos's *spend*, had — had *slurped* it from his
fingers with *relish* —
And Porthos had done the same with the Captain's.
It.
It's all so very —
"Right, so I'm apologizing right now for not being quiet enough to let you keep
sleeping, even though you've told me a million times that you don't mind —"
"I — was not asleep."
"What — no, you weren't. Fuck. Why not, mate? It's bloody *late*," Porthos
says, setting his leathers down next to Aramis's — he'd stripped to his
breeches outside, of course — and crawling into his own bedroll.
Aramis catches himself trying to smell — sex.
"Aramis? Are you all right?"
"I..." He can't smell anything but Porthos's usual scents and the clean stream-
water from the east of the camp. Porthos had washed.
Had he gone to the Captain again, after his watch?
*During* his watch?
"Right, you're obviously *not* all right —"
"I saw you. Tonight," Aramis blurts.
"You saw — oh, shit."
Aramis flushes, feeling a sick triumph and an even sicker —
("There are some who would say that secrets rule the world, my friend,") Aramis
had said, and smiled across their small table at his *new* friend, his
*fascinating* new friend, his blunt and *open* and —
His frowning new friend.
("You do not like this?"
"Near as I can figure, mate, the only ruling secrets do is over a world of pain
and misery and misunderstandings."
"I... Porthos..."
"I'd like it if we kept the secrets between us to a minimum, eh?")
"Oh... shit, Aramis, I can't believe you —" And then Porthos bursts out
laughing. "Thank *fuck*. I had no *idea* how I was supposed to even *try* to
keep that from you."
"What. What?"
"Not that he said I had to. Not that he said *anything* like that. Hunh. I'm
actually pretty sure he knew I'd tell you," Porthos says, rolling onto his side
and pulling out the fat beeswax candle they'd splurged on for nights when they
*had* to stay up talking — and had to see each other to do it. "You got the
flint and steel —"
"I — yes," Aramis says, and lights the candle quickly, not entirely surprised
to find that he'd had the flint and steel readily to *hand*.
"So, here it is — he's incredible."
"He's —" Aramis licks his lips and tries —
*Tries* —
No. "You... had not made love to him before tonight?"
"What? *Aramis*. How the bloody hell would I have kept *that* secret?"
"You do have *some* secrets from me, my friend —"
"I have *one* secret from you and you bloody *know* about it."
Athos's past. Aramis winces. "Yes, I — I apologize..."
Porthos frowns. "*Are* you upset? What's wrong?"
"Nothing —"
"Aramis —"
"Do you often..." He has no idea how to finish that question. He —
"Mm?"
Aramis licks his lips again — and forces himself to look up into Porthos's
wide, curious, and *worried* eyes. "I have not *seen* you with a man before, my
friend."
"I... well, no, you haven't," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "Did it bother
you? We don't have to talk about it —"
"No! I — that's not — I am not — that's not the problem," Aramis says, and then
desperately tries to figure out what the problem *is*.
"No? Then what is?"
He has no answers. He... has no answers. "Have you always been... attracted to
the Captain?"
Porthos grins and blushes. "I've always thought he was fit for an older bloke.
I've always thought he was, you know, just the sort of man any man would want
to *be*. *Should* want to be."
"But...?"
"I never really... took those thoughts any farther than that. Not... really."
Aramis raises an eyebrow *helplessly*.
And Porthos — blushes like a boy. And laughs. "All right. I *used* to wonder
what he was like. You know, as a lover."
"You... did?"
"Yeah. I was *all* wrong," Porthos says, and laughs more. "I thought he'd be,
you know, quiet and straightforward and conservative, a little. With his
*female* lovers." Porthos *snickers*. "I thought he'd be like — like someone's
*father*."
"Fathers are *men*, Porthos."
"*Yeah*, they are," Porthos says, and grins, rolling onto his back before
turning back to face Aramis. "He's incredible."
"You've said that twice —"
"I can say it a million *times*. He's just..." Porthos shakes his head. "I
could tell that he was, you know, a mess, after dealing with those bloody
nobles all day —"
"Of course —"
"So I went after him when he assigned us all to gather firewood."
"So the other men say —"
"You asked?"
Aramis... blushes. He doesn't know why. "I knew the *story* was just that. I
knew —"
"Oh, 'course. You wanted to know what was going on."
"Yes —"
"That makes sense," Porthos says. "Anyway, I was kind of... poking him a little
—"
"You did not think this was like baiting a *bear*?"
"Well, not *that* kind of poking. Just, well, teasing a little. Playing. Like
we do, kind of."
"Oh."
"Yeah. And seeing if I could get that black mood of his to lift."
"It worked."
"It *really* did. Really *quickly*, too, as these things go," Porthos says, and
grins. "I didn't think he *could* cheer up that fast."
"You have a very powerful gift for *bringing* cheer, Porthos."
"Aw, no —"
"*Yes*," Aramis says, and he needs Porthos to know this, to understand — "You
have always been — you are *good* at this. You make *Athos* smile
*effortlessly* —"
"He *needs* it —"
"You will get no argument from me, my friend, but —"
"But what? You think it isn't special that I cheered Treville up?"
Treville — "You... called him by his name?"
Porthos snorts. "Absolutely *not*. I called him 'sir' right through. Even
*after* he told me some of the things his mates used to call him, and that was
—"
"You didn't find that... uncomfortable?"
"Hm? What?"
This time, at least, Aramis knows why he's blushing. "I..."
"Oh, the 'sir' thing?" Porthos laughs *more*. "*Aramis*, we both know *you*
like it when at least some of your ladies tie you to the bed and make you *beg*
for it."
"Yes — yes, of course —"
"*But*?"
But that is for *women*.
But that is *him*.
But —
Aramis frowns. He has... no good answers, at all.
And Porthos is laughing at him. Gently, but still.
Aramis smiles wryly. "I see I still have some... difficulties, my friend."
"It's all *right*, Aramis. We really *don't* have to —"
"Don't — don't say that we do not have to talk about this," Aramis says, and
fights the cold fist in his belly —
Fights it —
*Fights* —
"Aramis...?"
"Please. I would always rather speak. I would always rather... share. With
you."
And Porthos gives Aramis one of his many *soft* looks. One of his many *loving*
looks —
Had he looked at the Captain that way? While he was calling him 'sir' and
*touching* —
Aramis blushes and *doesn't* look away.
He will *not*. "Please. I would — if you could... tell me..."
"I'll tell you anything, everything I *can*. You know that —"
"I do — most of the time," Aramis says, and smiles wryly at *himself*. "I
apologize, Porthos. It's only... this is very unfamiliar territory."
"Uh... *how* unfamiliar?"
Aramis blinks. "You knew that I did not... that I am not..."
"Right, right, I know that you don't go for blokes, but uh..."
"What? What is it?"
Porthos raises his eyebrows. "There was never any... fooling around? When you
were a boy?"
And that —
That feels like Porthos looking in on his innermost memories and seeing
everything, seeing every secret, knowing every —
Of course he doesn't, of course he *can't*, but —
"It's all right, you know," Porthos says. "I mean, I'm not saying *every* boy
gets up to tricks with his mates when he's young, but... lots of them do. Lots
of them who never do *again*, once they're all grown."
Aramis swallows. "I... suppose that was obvious."
Porthos smiles ruefully. "Maybe a little. But I've thrown you off your feet a
bit tonight —"
Aramis coughs a laugh. "Perhaps a *little* —"
And then they're laughing together, the way they do, and —
And it eases things.
Softens —
Aramis can breathe again.
"So... maybe that playing around you did wasn't so... good?"
No, he can't. "Porthos —"
Porthos raises his hands. "I'm leaving that there. We don't have nearly enough
wine with us for that kind of conversation."
Aramis blinks — "You... are familiar... you have had that kind of conversation
before?" How do you *know* —
*What* do you know —
What am I *telling* you —
"Like I said, mate, lots of blokes play around with this kind of thing when
they're young, and, because they're young, and don't know what they're doing in
any kind of way, things can go wrong." And he raises his eyebrows *gently*.
And that — Aramis frowns.
"But we can —"
"What happens, in your framework, when one of the people 'playing' is old
enough to know *precisely* what they're doing?"
Porthos blinks — and growls. "Aramis..."
Aramis smiles with rueful pain. "School was... difficult, at times. I..." He
shrugs. "I have more than one reason to mistrust authority figures as a matter
of course."
Porthos growls *more*. "I want to —"
"You want to do something untoward to a dead priest," Aramis says, and laughs,
pulling the — small — wineskin from the saddlebag and taking a long drink. "You
are not the only one, my friend. And there are any number of dead men who have
hurt you who I would like to resurrect for... an hour or ten." He passes the
skin to Porthos.
Porthos takes a long drink of his own. "But you're resigned to it?"
"*Never*, my friend," Aramis says, and stares at nothing for a long moment —
And then he smiles, because he's staring at the bodies he has left in his wake.
So very, very many bodies. "I am calmed — *soothed* — by the realization that
there will ever be men who *try* to hurt my good friend whom I can do
positively *terrible* things to."
Porthos grunts. "That *is* soothing," he says and takes another drink before
handing the skin over.
"You see?" And Aramis drinks again. "We live the best life."
Porthos grins at him. "You're bloody perfect."
Aramis blinks —
Remembers the *hungry* light in Porthos's eyes when he used to proposition him
— that's not there, right now. Right now, Porthos is only looking at him
lovingly again —
So warmly —
"And I'm *still* throwing you off your game?"
Say *something* — "I must confess that I've gone back to thinking about you and
the Captain," he says, and — doesn't wince. Doesn't stop himself. Doesn't —
Because it's true. Because —
"He is — so much older."
"He pointed that out," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "And believe me, I
never thought I'd *really* go for a bloke that much older than me, after all
the shite I put up with when I was a boy."
"Yes! That!"
"Right, yeah, but... he's incredible."
"*How* is he —"
"They used to call him Fearless. They used to call him *meneur* —"
"*Ringleader*?"
"He was a bloody *troublemaker*. A *wild* bloke. A —" Porthos shakes his head
and snickers. "He said he was *confused* by the way me and Athos spent more
money on wine than we did on *whores*."
"He — *what*?"
"He was *madly* in love with his brothers — *all* of his brothers. Including
Athos's *father*."
"Oh, my. He — did he...?"
"He really *did*. *With* Athos's mother. He says he doesn't *know* if Athos
knows or not."
Aramis blinks and blinks and — no. "It would be... how long did the affair
last?"
"Until they died, mate."
"He *must* know!"
Porthos shrugs. "*You* know how he can be about sex."
"He is *willfully* blind —"
"*Sometimes*. Sometimes he's just plain blind."
And that... is true. Aramis has wondered more than once if Athos had simply
*missed* the *many* truths of Porthos's seduction, but, even though he was not
there to witness it...
It's Porthos.
The man is incapable of not making himself clear.
The question had become, then, *how* Athos managed to retain as much of his
willful blindness about sex as he has. Aramis suspects the answer to that
question has a great deal to do with the secret he would very much like to have
for himself.
"Still thinking about Athos, mate?"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "I am thinking about... secrets."
Porthos winces.
And Aramis winces in turn. "I know that it hurts you not to share the secret
with me. I know that you would, if you could."
"I — *yes*. And — fuck, Treville was just — he's Athos's *godfather*. He was —"
Porthos shakes his head and reaches for the skin.
Aramis hands it over. "Yes?"
"You got the sense that he wasn't *just* fucking Athos's parents, you know? He
helped *raise* — him."
And there was something Porthos didn't quite say *twice*.
Something —
That secret is weighing on *him*! But... "Porthos..."
"Mm?"
"Do you know *when* the Captain began his affair with Athos's parents?"
"No, I don't. I just know that, apparently, it was Athos's mother who started
things off —"
"Porthos... how do we know that the Captain *isn't* Athos's father?"
Porthos *chokes*. "Uh. Uh..."
"Yes, you —"
"I don't — I mean, I think he would've been *different* about Athos if he
thought that — or."
"Yes?"
"He was really..." Porthos frowns.
"What is it?"
"Well, he's um. Right, I'm just going to say this — he was calling *me* 'son' a
lot."
"Oh. Oh..."
"Yeah."
"While you were...?"
"Yeah, mate," Porthos says, and grins ruefully at Aramis. "It was... hot."
Aramis swallows. "You... I never thought, my friend, that you could enjoy such
a thing."
Porthos blushes and ducks his head. "I've thought about it... but never really
seriously. And I don't think I'm thinking about it seriously, yet, either —"
"No?"
"It's not like I'm calling *him* — uh. Any of those things," Porthos says, and
laughs nervously.
"Did you *want* to call someone —"
"*No*. I never — you *know* —"
"I *do* know, my friend, this is why I am surprised!"
Porthos snickers. "Fuck, it's so — he knocked me *over*."
"He seduced you?"
"*No*. He was talking about being in love with Reynard, another of his
brothers, and it got me thinking about *you*, and how similar our relationships
sounded —"
"I." Aramis blushes.
"Mm? Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to make a move on you again, mate. I
promise. It was just... it got me thinking," Porthos says, and smiles softly
again.
And Aramis is — staring. Just — no. No. "I — as you say. What were you
thinking?"
"Too *many* bloody things —"
"But what?"
Porthos laughs ruefully. "All right, I'll admit it — I was thinking about
wanting you."
"I — oh."
"So, because I was *not* interested in walking into any brick walls prick first
—"
Aramis *coughs* —
"I asked him to change the subject —"
"You..."
Do you often think about your desires for me? Still?
Do you —
"Mm? What is it, mate?"
He has *nothing* good to say. "No, I — please, *you* go on."
Porthos looks at him *shrewdly* for a long moment —
Aramis feels himself flush —
"I'd like to know what you're thinking, Aramis."
And that — Aramis laughs nervously. "I do not think it is strange that I am
thinking about — desire."
Porthos blinks. "What — no, you're right, I've interrupted my tale too many
times —"
"*Yes*. Please — tell me."
Porthos nods and takes another drink before handing the mostly-denuded skin
back to Aramis —
Aramis finishes it —
"He changed the subject right away. Like it was nothing. So I felt guilty,
because I'd been hounding him all along, and making him talk about his past and
all, and he was just hitting his stride... anyway. I panicked a bit — you never
want to be a burden to someone you *respect* —"
"He made you feel like —"
"Absolutely *not*. He wouldn't let me apologize. He told me that I'd been
giving him a holiday — a *grand* holiday — just by letting him talk about his
good memories." Porthos grins. "And then he tried to calm me down some. Get me
to breathe, and all."
"It... didn't work?"
"He cupped my shoulders with his strong hands, and I just... my mind stopped. I
realized that the *pull* I'd been feeling toward him all night was just — I
realized what it was." And Porthos licks his lips. "I told him I couldn't fix
my breathing, and *he* caught on quick why."
"Oh."
"He tried to talk me out of it. I wouldn't let him. I could — something let me
*feel* that he didn't really want to talk me out of anything, even though he
was trying hard. And then — he kissed me. And it wasn't a nice kiss, or a
gentle kiss, or a cautious kiss or anything like that. It was a *dirty* kiss.
It was — it was bloody *amazing*, Aramis. Heated me up all over and made me
need it even more —"
"'It'? What — I. I saw much, but —"
"He didn't *let* us do much," Porthos says, and laughs. "Fuck, I wanted to suck
him so *badly*. As soon as he put his *hands* on me, I wanted to be on my
*knees*."
Aramis blushes hard —
"And I won't say I've never been like that for someone, because I have, but
it's never been that *strong*."
"No?"
"Nah. You know how I usually am, mate," Porthos says, and rolls onto his side.
"You've *seen* me."
"We share women often. You are... aggressive."
"Too right. And there've been women who've put me on my knees, too, but really,
for the most part? Aggressive is how I am. That's how I mostly get to thinking
about myself, really."
"Except... when you need other things?"
"Exactly."
What did you need with me?
Do you still need it?
Do you still *want* it?
"*Anyway*, we heard shots going off close to where we were, and he said that if
I got down on my knees, he wouldn't be able to let me up until he'd *had* me.
Which — part of me was ready to *let* him."
"Did you have *lubricant*?"
"*No*," Porthos says, and laughs. "And considering his cock, that would've been
*ridiculously* painful. But... sometimes things just feel like a good idea...
*you* know how it goes."
"I... to a certain extent."
Porthos raises his eyebrows. "You never got too impatient for the pomade? Or —
no, it's you. The *olive* oil?"
Aramis — cannot laugh. "Not — after the first time."
Porthos blinks. "Was the first time..."
Aramis eyes the empty skin ruefully. And then he looks up. "The priest, yes. He
said it wouldn't matter. He said it would feel better, with time."
"For fuck's *sake* —"
Aramis raises a hand. "He was a kind enough man, unlike most of the other
priests. I had been... drawn to him. To his willingness to answer my many
questions. To his wonderful ability to answer questions without using the
strap, or the cane. He didn't force me."
"*Still* —"
"Still, yes. I wonder how many pretty boys he hurt over the years. I wonder how
many thought it was their *fault* when they *hurt*..."
Porthos growls again, sitting up —
Aramis smiles wryly. "You see, I think, why I always carry oil."
"Bloody — oh, *Aramis* —"
"Think, instead, of the ways we can protect each other now, please."
Porthos squeezes his eyes shut and nods — and then opens his eyes again. "Am I
allowed to apologize?"
"For what?"
"Bringing back bad memories *again*, Aramis!"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "You never let me apologize for this, my friend."
"I... all right, but —"
"I will be kinder than my very good friend —"
"Oi —"
"You may apologize —"
"*Thank* you. I'm *sorry*."
"But you have nothing *to* apologize for, as I gave you no warning that I was
hurt in this place."
Porthos glowers at him in a mockery of ill humour.
And Aramis laughs helplessly.
Porthos grins at him, looking him over —
Drinking him in —
Porthos has always liked to see him laugh.
Porthos has always liked to see him *happy*.
Porthos — loves him.
And they are smiling at each other by the light of their beeswax candle, they
are —
And of course Aramis loves Porthos. Porthos is the first brother he had ever
had, though Athos was his brother, as well, soon after.
Porthos has accepted everything about him — *everything*, from his seminary
past, to the brothel in his *further* past.
Porthos sees no harm in his violence, his promiscuity, his endless hunger for
*more* of life, of the world, of — of that ever-intangible *something* that
Aramis has never quite been able to touch.
Porthos —
"Mate? Are you all right?"
Aramis blinks — and realizes that he'd been staring at Porthos. That —
"Is there something else you want to talk —"
"Will you be making love with the Captain again?"
Porthos grins at him. "He said 'no one with a mind could give up a chance' with
me. And he called me 'son' again, too."
"That... that is *remarkably* — this was after you'd made love?"
Porthos grins wider. "Yeah."
"That is *filthy*."
"Yeah, it really is," Porthos says, laughing more and growling with *hunger*.
"I can't bloody *wait* for those hands to be on me again. And for my mouth to
be on *him*. *I'm* going to start carrying pomade with me everywhere, just in
case. The way he *talks* — nnh. *Fuck*. He's so *dirty*."
"Like... you? You are very eloquent in your filth when you are making love, my
friend —"
"*More*. He's just — he's had *practice* at this, and you can *tell*. It's —"
"'Incredible'...?"
Porthos laughs and blushes again. "Yeah, I know, I'm being a *little*
ridiculous —"
"You... care about him."
Porthos inhales sharply — and smiles ruefully. "I guess I do, yeah. I don't
really see how anyone can get through a conversation with him — the *real* him
— without it. Now I just need to find someone who'll show the real person they
are to someone *other* than me. *Aramis*."
"I — you could make the same accusation about Athos!"
"I bloody *know*!"
"Perhaps... you have a *type*, my friend," Aramis says, and feels his heart —
pound. Just —
But Porthos only laughs as he stares right into Aramis's eyes. "Mayhap I do, at
that. Mayhap I do."
Porthos loves — all of them?
"C'mon, let's get some rest. If we're up too much later, we'll be *pathetic* at
our duties tomorrow, and Treville'll make *us* nanny the nobles."
Aramis feels himself blanch — "They will not survive!"
"With you? Not all of them, no," Porthos says, snickering and blowing out the
candle. "Not that that would necessarily be the *worst* outcome..."
Aramis sighs somewhat dreamily. "There are many acres of woods to hide bodies,
my friend."
Porthos snickers more. "I sodding love you. Go to *sleep*."
Aramis has every intention of doing so... but it still takes quite some time.
***** That is *absolutely* what mates are for. *****
Athos melts out of a shadow around the corner from where Porthos is leaving the
mess. There's a bemused expression on his face, but his pace is as even and
steady as ever, so Porthos isn't particularly worried.
He *is* happy to see the man — he and Aramis had been stuck with the wandering
nobles for an extra *week* because of most of the nobles getting an acute case
of the shits on the road, something about one of their delicacies going off in
transit, and this is the first day they're getting back to the garrison.
Porthos carries his bowl of stew in Athos's direction —
"Porthos. It's good to see you."
"Nice to see you, too, mate —"
"I already saw Aramis."
"Yeah?"
"I..." And then Athos doesn't say anything, which...
Well, sometimes he gets like that. Especially after they've been apart for one
reason or another. Porthos gives him a minute, and eats his stew while they
walk.
Athos seems to be leading them toward the barracks, which is an interesting
choice, considering the fact that it's the middle of the day, but sometimes you
just have to give the man his head.
Porthos eats.
And eats more —
And eats more — it really is good today. He offers some to Athos —
Athos holds up a hand.
They keep walking.
Porthos keeps eating.
Athos frowns and opens his mouth —
Porthos raises his eyebrows —
Athos doesn't say anything.
Porthos goes back to eating.
Finally, they're actually *in* the barracks — the *east* barracks, which had
been deserted since that blood-sickness ripped through them a few months back —
and it's cool, dark, quiet, and a bit creepy.
It's probably disloyal to think the place suits Athos, but it *really* does,
and —
Well, it's not *actually* haunted, no matter what the other men say. Porthos
sits down on one of the other bunks, sets his empty bowl and spoon on one of
the tables — already getting dusty — and gives up on waiting. "Athos. Mate.
What *is* it?"
"You're sleeping with my father's lover. My *parents'* lover. My — our —
Captain. My godfather. My — Uncle."
"Oh. That."
Athos looks at him.
"It's only been the once?"
Athos looks at him *harder*.
"I'd *really* like for it to be more than once, mate. Just — but I can see
where that could be... um. Complicated," Porthos says, and runs a hand back
over his hair. "Are you all *right*?"
Athos raises an eyebrow *high*.
"Right, so I'm going to go with 'no' on that one —"
"Porthos. I... I don't know how I am."
"Well... that's fair."
"Is it?"
And that... was an honest question, from his *other* best friend — his *first*
friend from his new life — and the friend who sometimes makes sex — all kinds
of sex — seem like throwing yourself into a thorny hedgerow with no clothes on.
Repeatedly.
Porthos nods and pats the bed next to him, sending up a little puff of dust.
"It is, mate. I promise."
"I —"
"C'mon, sit down, let's talk about this."
"I'm reasonably sure this isn't something you should be talking me *through* —"
"But I'm going to *anyway*, mate, so sit *down*."
"Hm." And Athos smiles at him, tiny on his face and bright and a little wild in
those gorgeous eyes of his.
Porthos grins back and gestures a come-on.
Athos sits down next to him, and leans over his own knees a bit, hands dangling
between. "Thomas and I used to make a game of trying to sneak into our parents'
bedroom suite when Treville was 'visiting'."
Porthos wraps an arm around Athos's shoulders and *coughs* — "You — *really*?"
"Thomas had a somewhat *evil* sense of humour, at times. So did I. And we
wanted our parents to be *honest* about what they were doing with our Uncle.
The way they were honest about everything else."
"Uh... everything?"
"We were young. It seemed more strange — and enervating — for them to lie about
their relationship with Treville than it would've seemed for them to tell us
everything."
Porthos *tries* to put that into some kind of...
But *his* mother hadn't had any lovers that he'd known about by the time he was
really aware. She worked, she came home, she took care of him as best as she
could.
She was a strong woman, and a sometimes *hard* woman, and, too quickly, a
*tired* woman.
And then...
And then she was gone.
It didn't seem like there was *time* for... any of that.
"Porthos? Did that seem... very strange?"
"No, it's not that —"
And up goes that eyebrow.
"It isn't. I was just thinking about *my* mother, mate," Porthos says, and
squeezes Athos's shoulders. "How she didn't really have time to... well."
"That you knew of?"
"Heh. Right, yeah, but — somehow I think I would've known. *She* always knew
when I was... twitchy about her being unhappy, or just upset about one thing or
another. Sometimes she would... take me aside, and make me lists of all the
things she was happy about. Tell me stories about good things that had happened
to her while she was out and about and the like."
"Oh... that's perfectly wonderful," Athos says, and smiles at him again.
"Yeah. She always knew what I needed," Porthos says, and grins. "But that's not
what we're talking about —"
"No, I always want to hear about your mother —"
"I know, I know, but *I* want to hear about you right now, mate," Porthos says,
and squeezes again. "Tell me — well. You said you didn't know how you were. How
you *felt*, eh?"
"Well..."
"Mm? That sounds like you know *something*."
Athos huffs that little not-laugh and shakes his head. "Once, when I was six
and Thomas was five, we walked in on Father holding Treville on a *lead* —"
"Oh my — what —"
"While Treville was *over* our mother —"
"Was he — were they —"
"Presumably...? The tableau was rather frozen, as I'm sure you can imagine."
Porthos snickers *hard*. "Fuck, he's so *dirty*."
"So were *they*!"
"I was already sorry for your loss, mate, but now I'm *really* sorry —"
"Oh, are you? Would you have seduced them, too?"
"Probably not? No, probably."
Athos huffs twice more. "We were so *confused*."
"I can *imagine*. Bloody *hell*. What did they even *say*?"
"Some gibberish about a new Master of Hounds being interviewed soon —"
Porthos *chokes* —
"*Precisely*. It was utter nonsense and we *knew* it. We just didn't know — had
no *way* to know — what the truth *was*. I..." Athos smiles ruefully. "I must
confess that there's still *much* I don't understand."
"Well... that makes *sense*, mate."
"Mm. I suppose it does. I've hardly experienced it all for myself..."
Porthos blinks. "D'you want to?"
"I. Sometimes I." And then Athos stops... and stares at — not nothing.
He's staring at his wife, or at what she'd done.
He's staring at death, *bad* death, and —
"Athos, *stop*."
Athos sucks in a shuddering breath —
He's still staring at that —
That horrible fucking —
Porthos grips him by the chin and *forces* his head round, forces him to face
*him* —
"Porthos —"
"Now look at me. Look at me and *breathe*."
"I —"
"*Do* it."
Athos *grunts* — and focuses hard and sharp and — right there. Right there.
He breathes, shuddering and harsh and ugly —
So *ugly* —
"Slow it down, mate."
Athos nods once, as much as Porthos is letting him. He breathes.
He breathes *slower*.
He —
He never looks away from Porthos's eyes.
Porthos never looks away from his.
And, after a time, there's something like calm in Athos's eyes.
Something like —
But Porthos can't call that peace.
"Thank you —"
"You never have to —"
"But I do," Athos says, and reaches up to stroke the fingers Porthos still has
on his face. "I... you know precisely how often I *don't* use... those names."
Porthos winces and nods. "I've brought up too much for you —"
"Treville brings it up for me by *existing*, Porthos. I will not let you take
this blame."
Porthos frowns — and nods.
And Athos smiles softly. "It's easy to see why he desires you."
Porthos blinks. "I — is it?"
"You are... so much."
Porthos blushes. "Mate —"
"Aramis told me that you were caring for him that day. The way you care for us
—"
"I was *hounding* him for stories —"
"Or, if you were to look at it another way...?"
"*What* other way?"
"Perhaps he thinks of it as you demanding that he take time away from a
difficult present so that he could return to a more pleasant past. That he do
so with someone who *wanted* him to do so. Who *needed* him to do so, for their
own pleasure and comfort. Who, in short, needed him to be happy, so that they,
too, could be happy."
And Porthos — swallows. "I — fuck. I really did. I needed it. I couldn't
*breathe* right that day —"
"Until he was... smiling? Laughing?"
"*Yeah*. And it's not like I'd ever seen him laugh like that before. Did Aramis
tell you? How he *really* opened up?"
Athos grins. "He showed you 'Fearless'."
"Sodding *yes*. And why didn't *you* tell me about — well, never mind, but —"
Athos shakes his head. "I apologize for that. Fearless wasn't — quite — my
Uncle, but I still could have given you more —"
"No, no —"
"Don't make excuses for me, please. *I* knew how much you respected and cared
for Treville even before now. I knew how much you appreciated knowing...
everything there was to know."
"Oh. You did?"
Athos looks at him wryly.
Porthos snorts. "Right, me being me —" He strokes Athos's beard and releases
him slowly and gently. "I guess I was always a little fixated."
"He's an easy man to become fixated on."
And that...
Porthos can't *help* raising his eyebrows a *little* —
And Athos just blinks at him. "Porthos?"
"I'm asking, yeah."
"He's my *godfather*. And my *Uncle*."
"Right, but —"
"I'll admit to being somewhat unseemly about his visits once he began training
me when I was an adolescent —"
"Yeah, and —"
"And of course he's a perfectly... attractive..." Athos frowns.
Direfully.
It looks like he's thinking thorny hedgerow thoughts in there, but that
definitely answers a question or two, so *Porthos* is satisfied.
"So is it time to change the subject, yet?"
"I... am fundamentally *horrified*."
Porthos snickers and squeezes him again. "That's what mates are for."
***** In which Treville tries. *****
It's been nearly a week since Treville had made love with —
Since Treville had made a cock-up of being a commanding officer, a father, and
a man.
Holding onto the latter thought is easy enough when he's doing things like
coddling lordlings with shit-filled trousers — or his *actual* job, which
remains keeping the King's Musketeers in good trim — but...
But.
It honestly seems like he's spent at least as much time tossing himself off
this week as he used to in the days before Reynard had spent an entire day
touching every bruise Laurent had left on him he could reach —
An entire day pressing and caressing and frowning and staring into Treville's
eyes and *not* kissing, *not* teasing, not —
Until Treville had snarled and slammed him against the wall of Reynard's small
bedroom —
("What the bloody hell *is* it?"
"I am. I am jealous, meneur. I am — I do not deserve —")
And Treville had bitten him, hard, right over his Adam's apple —
Reynard had *bucked* —
And Treville's hands were all over him, Treville had had to touch, to squeeze,
to bruise and press and *mark* —
("Oui! Ah, *oui*!")
To strip him down to his bare skin and *claw* —
("*Oui*, meneur, let me feel, make me *feel* —")
To work his beautiful cock and just —
Just *ignore* his cries for more, his *begging* for more, because *he'd* needed
to make Reynard spend in his hand, to hold him against the wall and *hear* him
beg —
("Fuck me, you must *fuck* me, I have waited so long —"
"But you didn't *say*."
"Non, non, and I must be — be *punished* —"
"Take *this*."
"I will take everything from you!")
And that, of course, is the other —
Treville's memories are *alive* in him now. Everything in him is close enough
to *touch* —
He wants to *talk* —
He wants to talk to his *son*, and tell him about what it was like to bend
Reynard over the foot of his own bed and eat him out, stopping periodically to
bite his blushing, freckled arsecheeks.
He wants to tell him about how Reynard had screamed when Treville had given him
his *long* tongue, screamed over and *over* again —
So many times —
How Treville had spent on the floor between his *feet*, untouched and uncaring
and not *stopping*, not *softening* —
How Treville had fucked him, right there.
And knotted him, too.
Treville laughs painfully — but quietly. He's alone in his office — and he
never thought he'd miss this accursed box — but you never know who might be
lurking and wondering if The Captain has finally lost what's left of his mind.
He... has a lot of things to tell Porthos. A lot of things to *show* Porthos —
and absolutely none of them are his cock.
But a young man awakening to his magic...
The fact that Treville *hasn't* called Porthos to him for a talk before now is
unconscionable.
He can't —
He can't put this off any longer.
Today. He'll —
He'll do it today, and he'll tell Porthos *every*-bloody-thing, and he'll take
the excoriation he deserves, and he will be utterly ruthless about reminding
Porthos that his brothers will miss him when he's tempted to throw his
commission in Treville's face.
That —
That's exactly what he should do. What he *will* do, because it's necessary and
*correct*. It's what *all* his pack would have him do at this point —
All right, Reynard would advise Treville to fuck Porthos *first* —
To make him pliant and *biddable* —
("The way only you *can*, chéri...")
And he's flushed, laughing helplessly again —
And then there are footsteps on the walk. Familiar —
Oh — shit.
"Sir?" Porthos.
Well, there's no blood in his face, anymore, because it's all in his cock.
Bloody *hell* —
"Sir, are you —"
"Get in here," Treville says, trying to make it sound like his usual order and
only managing a *blurt*.
"*Yes*, sir," Porthos says, and fuck, he sounds eager.
He sounds —
He sounds exactly like the look on his face, happy and excited to *see*
Treville —
So —
"I know you're busy, sir, so I won't keep you —"
"Sit down." Before I leap over this desk, knock you to the floor, and eat you
alive.
Porthos blinks — and gives him a shrewd look. "How sure are you that I
shouldn't be sitting in your lap?"
Oh — fuck.
"Because, see, I could *feel* you like a yank on the back of my brain today —"
"Porthos —"
"And it was *just* like the other day —"
"Porthos, we —"
"And the look in your eyes says it *is* just like the other day —"
"*Porthos*. We can't bloody *do* this," Treville says, and feels extremely
proud of himself —
"I've a little pot of oil in my pocket that says we can, sir."
And then pride goes very, very far away. Treville — growls.
Porthos grins. And *pats* his pocket.
Fucking — "Don't take that pot out of your pocket, son."
"I really think I should, sir —"
"Don't do it," Treville says, shaking his head and standing, letting Porthos
see *exactly* how hard he is in his trousers —
"Oh, sir... is that for me?"
"And Reynard, but —"
"Yeah, eh? You've been thinking about him?" Porthos grins hungrily. "You could
tell me about it, sir."
And that's nearly exactly the words Porthos had said in a bloody *fantasy*
Treville had had —
Treville is *flushing* again —
He can't *remember* what he was going to say —
"I'd love to hear it. I want all of it, sir," Porthos says, and smiles
*ruefully*. "I've been thinking a *lot* about the story you *started* to tell
me the other day — the one about Kitos taking you to your first boys' brothel
—"
"Fuck — Porthos —"
"I would've given *anything* to have company for *that* —"
"*I'll* take you," Treville says, hungry and possessive and — *idiotic*. He
can't —
And Porthos knows it. His eyebrows are up.
Treville turns away and *snarls* —
"Don't do that, sir; it's all right, I *appreciate* you wanting to —"
"Don't *placate* me —"
"I'd *never* do that, sir," Porthos says, and starts to move round the desk to
him —
"*Stay* there —"
"All *right*, sir, but — I just. I've already thought about it, eh? Going out
whoring with you —"
"*Fuck* —"
"*Sharing* a boy with you and just — watching you *work*."
Treville — stares down at the desk. Pants.
Growls —
Stares at a dozen quick-moving images of his boy, his *son*, fucking the *life*
out of some plump and likely lad —
Doing it *for* Treville —
Doing it on Treville's *instructions* —
And when he looks up again, Porthos is right there, hopeful and patient, hungry
and *ready* for him —
For what *he* needs — no. "Tell me..."
"I'll tell you *anything*, sir —"
"Tell me what *you* need."
Porthos immediately looks at Treville's *crotch*, which —
Treville licks his dry lips. "Do you need my cock, son?"
Porthos winces with lust and reaches for his *own* cock —
"Don't touch that."
"*Fuck* —"
"Hands behind your back, son. Answer my question."
Porthos groans and *snaps* to obey, jerking his eyes right back up to
Treville's. He's flushed, panting — "*Yes*, sir. Yes —"
"Do you need my *cock*."
"*Fuck*, yes, sir, I need it, I need it in my mouth, my arse, I need you to
sodding grind it against me and make me *feel* you —"
"Shh."
"Yes, sir," Porthos says, nodding and shutting his mouth up —
His beautiful mouth —
So *soft*....
Treville growls *low* and much too *inhumanly* —
And Porthos shivers on his feet. It —
"Do you like that, son? When I growl for you?"
"I love it, sir. I love you being — hungry for me."
"I'm starved for you, son. I want to eat you *alive*," Treville says, and moves
round to the front of the desk, crowding Porthos and letting himself...
breathe.
Sniff.
Sweat and lust.
Hunger and the slick in his breeches — not enough. Treville cups Porthos's
bollocks through his trousers —
Porthos grunts —
"Get messy for me, son. Get *slick*," Treville says, and starts to *pump* those
bollocks —
"Oh — oh fuck —"
"You know I want to lick you clean..."
"UNH —"
"Have you missed my tongue, son?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Have you dreamed about it?"
"Bloody constantly, sir!"
Treville barely — *barely* — stops himself from lolling his tongue. Instead, he
leans in and licks Porthos's throat.
"Oh, please —"
Porthos's strong, bare, *salty* — Treville bites and *squeezes* Porthos's
bollocks —
And Porthos sobs for him. Just — for that.
Treville growls around his mouthful and squeezes *harder* —
"*Yes*, sir! Please — *fuck* —"
Treville pulls back and licks his lips —
Pants —
"Strip."
"Oh, fuck, sir, thank you," Porthos says, and — the first thing he does is pull
the little pot out of his pocket. He —
Treville snatches it away from him and puts it behind him on the desk. Out of
his line of sight. Away —
And Porthos is stripping himself down just for him. His big, perfect boy...
Treville can't stop himself from moving around and around him —
From *cupping* that arse once it's bared and squeezing *hard* —
Porthos gasps — and pauses.
"I didn't say stop, son."
"Your. Your *hand*, sir..."
Treville *strokes* Porthos's arse. "You like it here."
"Please, sir, please more —"
"Later," Treville promises without thinking — and can't even wince for it.
Porthos moans and keeps stripping himself down.
There was no way Treville could see that arse bared for *him* and not do
*something*.
There —
Treville moves his hand and steps back, waiting *impatiently* —
But then Porthos is naked, standing tall and strong and beautiful —
So —
Treville's knot *throbs* —
And Porthos's long, *thick* cock *jerks*. He —
They're too close not to feel each other. Too close not to *respond* to each
other, and —
Treville can't be completely silent. He can't —
"Sir? What's wrong? I can — please let me help —"
Oh — "Shh," Treville says, reaching up to cup Porthos's shoulders. His eyes are
wide and worried, and he is —
He is *alive* to everything inside Tréville —
It's time for him to think about at least some of why that is. Treville
squeezes Porthos's shoulders. "Easy, son."
"Sir —"
"Shh, now. We have to pause and think about something... something important."
Porthos nods. "Yes, sir."
"How much do you know about the magic in you, son?"
Porthos blinks rapidly for a moment — "The — what." He frowns hard. "I grew up
around, you know, witches, sir. They took care of me and some of the other kids
growing up in the court. My Mum always taught me to respect them. But. Why are
*you* asking about...? And what do you mean 'the magic in me'?"
Treville frowns and nods. His Amina-love died when Porthos was five, and had to
have been horribly ill for a long time before then, considering the
enchantments Treville and the other witches had discovered on her body. There
wouldn't have been time for her to tell Porthos much.
"Sir? What do you... do *you* know witches?"
Treville... makes his eyes gleam.
Porthos grunts, eyes widening — but doesn't try to step back. "I — I've heard
of. And then there's all of your little — and not so little — sir, are you a
*shifter*?"
"I am, son."
Porthos's jaw drops for a long moment. "I — how did you — how did you *hide*
that?"
"The short answer is that I didn't, because my brothers were very open-minded
people. There's a longer answer that I'll tell you another time —"
I'm your *father* —
"— but we have to talk about your magic first, son."
"But — I don't — wait, don't shifters have... uh... marks? Even when they're in
human-form?" And Porthos blushes.
He knows at least a little about what *some* of those 'marks' can be.
"I — how did you hide from *me*?"
Treville grins. "You weren't touching as much of me as you thought you were,
son."
"What do you — I made you *spend*."
"You certainly did, and I've been dreaming about that..." Treville licks his
lips and grins more, moving one hand from Porthos's shoulder and making a fist
between them. "Hold my fist with your big hand, son. Just for a moment."
***** It's a pretty spectacular failure, all things considered. *****
Porthos frowns and does it, feeling... something strange, something almost
*shifting*, but then feeling the warm skin, the hard knuckles, the sparse
hair... "What is it, sir?"
"Look at your hand, son. Look very closely."
Porthos does, and he's holding —
He's *not* holding Treville's fist. He's holding his wrist, and a part of his
forearm — and Treville is waving to him.
"What — how —"
"Glamour — and a rather advanced version of it. I used far more power than I
should have to let you stroke me off while keeping you from feeling my *knot*
—"
"Your — oh, fuck, sir..."
Treville smiles ruefully and tugs his hand away, stepping back just a little.
"Sir?"
"That's *not* what you bargained for, son —"
"I — I still *want* it —"
"*Wait*."
"I'm still bloody *hard* for you, sir! I haven't softened and I *won't*. I just
— it's you. It's more of you. And what Athos was saying about what he and
Thomas used to walk in on when it was you and his parents makes a lot more
*sense* now —"
Treville *coughs* —
And Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows. "Athos's father had a *lead* for
you, sir? Did you like that?"
And for a moment Treville only stares at him, wondering and hungry, wondering
and soft in all the *best* ways — and then he snickers like a boy. "I bloody
*loved* it. *And* the collar."
"*Fuck*."
"Especially when I shifted all the way *into* a dog and he invited me to knot
Marie-Angelique —"
"Oh my *God* —"
"Not that you have to worry about that —"
"*Sir* —"
"Unless you're *interested*, in which case —"
"Fuck fuck fuck — uh. Um."
"Yes, son...?"
Porthos — stares.
And Treville laughs — like an arsehole, really.
"You're an arsehole, sir."
Treville lolls his tongue at him.
"Which is not to say I'm not *considering* that offer —"
Treville *chokes* —
Porthos advances on him a little — "Because every bloody thing *about* you
makes me want to get down on my knees and *beg*."
Treville *snarls* —
Porthos nods a little and licks his lips. "Now, I haven't *met* the dog, yet,
but he's *you*, so I'm willing to bet the results will be the *same*."
And Treville — pants. "What you do to me..."
"Do you want to punish me for it, sir?"
"No. I want to make you spend until you're *weeping* from it."
"Oh — shit. Yeah. Please. Whatever you want —"
"We have to *talk*."
"*Sir* —"
"Those *feelings* you have. Those *instincts*. Those little *pushes* you feel."
"They're all about *you*, sir! I — hunh. Are you sure you're not, you know,
pushing me yourself?"
And Treville *blinks*, but — "I am."
And *that* seems like too much for a two-word answer, but Porthos could... feel
Treville's honesty. His *confidence*. Still...
"You need more." Treville nods. "You've had feelings before, son. Haven't you."
"I —"
"Little things to tell you when it was time to push with Athos. When it was
time to back away from Aramis, for a little while. When it was time to *reach*
for them." And Treville raises his eyebrows.
"Well — that's just — I've always been good at knowing how to be a friend,
sir."
Treville smiles. "I bet you have. But... maybe you've been a little better at
it *recently*?"
Porthos blinks again and thinks about it —
Thinks about how *easy* it's been to track down Athos or Aramis when he's
wanted them, to know their moods, to feel what was going on in their heads, a
little, even when *he* was distracted as all hell about *Treville*.
He swallows and nods —
And Treville nods back and *strokes* Porthos's shoulders. "You're coming into
your power, son. I don't know why it's happening so late — these things usually
happen in adolescence, or earlier — but it is. And... your power is responding
to mine."
That does make a *kind* of sense, but — "Why, sir? Does it always work that
way?"
And there's another of those desperate looks on Treville's face —
He's squeezing Porthos's shoulders *hard* —
He looks like —
"Sir? What do you want to tell me?"
Treville laughs with *pain*. "Everything. Every-bloody-thing in the world."
"You *can*, sir. I'll *listen*."
"Oh, son. Son, I've been going mad without you," Treville says, and moves his
hands to Porthos's face, musses his *beard* —
"Fuck, sir, I've been mad for you all *week* —"
"I've needed you for *years*," Treville says, just — just like *that*, and
*yanks* Porthos down into a kiss *by* the beard —
"*Mm* —"
Fucks Porthos's *mouth* —
Porthos nods and takes it, sucks, licks, thinks hard about gripping Treville's
*hips* —
Or something else —
But he puts his hands behind his back again, instead. *Locks* them there, for
Treville to find when he strokes down and down with the hand not in Porthos's
beard —
He *growls* —
He bites Porthos's *lip* —
Porthos moans and tries to push closer, take more, *have* more —
And then the tongue in his mouth is — bigger.
*Longer*.
Thinner *and* stronger and —
Oh, *fuck* —
Treville is *laughing* into his mouth —
Pulling back to let his tongue *loll* again —
"*Fuck*, sir, that felt *weirdly* hot."
And then Treville winks and his tongue — is smaller again. Human-looking. "Look
forward to that other places."
"I will, sir!"
"Let me..." And Treville narrows his eyes and strokes Porthos's chest, his
arms, his hips and arse —
"Please, sir —"
"Shh. Let me have you."
Porthos grunts and *stares* —
And Treville grins at him, squeezing Porthos's arse with both hands —
*Spreading* Porthos's arse —
"Do you like that?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Being naked and exposed in my *office*, son...?"
Porthos shivers again —
"Mm. Anyone could come up here..."
"I — I know, sir —"
"Anyone could... knock on that door..."
"I *noticed*, sir —"
"Anyone could see you naked here, for me..."
"Yeah —"
Treville growls and finally, *finally*, presses directly on Porthos's hole —
"*Nngh* —"
"So sensitive..."
"Yeah — yeah, sir —"
"Reynard was just the same," Treville says, and starts to *rub* with his
calluses, his bare calluses —
Porthos shudders and *sweats* — "Please, sir —"
"Do you want stories now, son?"
"Always!"
Treville growls again and licks Porthos's *face*, all over his *face*, and he
uses his long tongue this time —
It's —
It's *exactly* like being licked by a huge bloody dog while getting his hole
*molested* —
Porthos doesn't know what to *do* with the fact that his cock jerks *hard* for
— all of it. The thought, the feelings, the way Treville is growling —
But what does his dog look like?
How did they explain *that* to Athos and Thomas?
It's a little terrifying to think of them *trying* to —
And then Treville bites Porthos's ear *while* rubbing his hardest calluses
against Porthos's *hole* —
Porthos cries out —
"Don't leave me. Don't ever *leave* me."
"I'm sorry, sir! I was — I was thinking about you and Athos's parents!"
Treville rumbles. "I can't argue with that train of thought. Olivier and Thomas
are *not* my children, by the way. Assuming you were wondering," he says, and
*rubs* at Porthos's hole, rubs so dry and hot and *hard* —
"Uhh. What — no, wait, how do you *know*?"
"I would've been able to feel them in the womb, when they were growing. Like I
could —" And Treville growls again and bites Porthos's throat —
And his shoulder —
And his throat again —
And then Treville is rubbing hard, rough *circles* round Porthos's hole, and
Porthos can't think, can't focus, can't —
"Please, sir!"
"Say it again."
"*Please*, sir!"
"Be *specific*."
"Please *fuck* me, sir! Please — please *knot* me!"
Treville *coughs* out a growl. "Your little hole needs my cock, son?"
"Oh — fuck, sir, 'm pouring sweat —"
"Answer the question."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir, *please*. I've been tossing myself off thinking about you
bending me over your *desk* —"
"And if I want you up against the wall, son? Bent over and holding your ankles
tight?"
Porthos *bucks* — and whimpers because he loses Treville's *fingers*. "Please,
sir, please —"
Treville sighs out a growl and gets his fingers right back in place. "Answer
me, son," he says, and *nips* Porthos's ear.
"Yes — yes, just — sometimes I have a hard time *balancing* —"
"Mm. And I'd make it harder..."
Porthos groans and *sweats*, spreads his feet farther apart, tries to stay
*steady* —
"No, son, not that."
"N-no?"
And Treville grins at him and *dips* the tip of one finger *in* —
Porthos gasps and *whines* —
"Oh, son..."
"Sir — *sir* —"
"Do you like that, son? That little burn?"
"Yeah, I really do, sir!"
"Do you want more of it?"
"Yes but no!"
Treville laughs hard and Porthos laughs *breathlessly*.
"'s just — I want you to fuck me hard, sir, and that'll be easier if you don't
— do that."
Treville licks his lips and narrows his eyes. "Right you are, son," he says,
and pulls *out* again —
"Fuck — unh — *unh* —"
"I love the way you respond to just the rubbing, son. Reynard would moan and
writhe, even when he knew I'd punish him for moving."
"How — how did you punish him, sir?"
Treville leans in and licks a long stripe across Porthos's throat —
"Oh —"
"Reynard liked me rough. Reynard liked me *wild*. Reynard liked the dog at
*least* as much as Marie-Angelique did..."
"*Fuck* —"
And Treville pulls away again —
"Sir, *please* —"
"Over the desk. Palms flat, feet shoulder-width apart."
Porthos *grunts* — and grins. "*Thank* you, sir."
Treville pants — and rolls his head on his neck. "You're making me... move,
son. Do it now."
"Yes, sir —"
"That's it. That's just... oh, that's just perfect," Treville says, and
caresses Porthos's back hungrily, *roughly* —
"Thank you, sir —"
"I punished Reynard by being a gentle, caring, *conscientious* lover, son,"
Treville says, and caresses his arse, his thighs —
"Uhh... what?"
"I went *easy* on him. I touched him *cautiously*."
"Oh — *shit*. That's *diabolical*."
Treville pauses with his hands on Porthos's hips. "Is it, son?"
"Fuck — fuck — please don't stop —"
"Answer the question."
Porthos *pants* —
His heart is *pounding* —
He — "I — I — for a man like *Reynard*, sir. Like — like the man you
*described* to me —"
"But not you, son?" And Treville *squeezes* Porthos's hips —
Porthos *groans* — "No, I — I mean, I don't like *too* soft, but — just
sometimes —"
"But not *all* the time."
"No, sir —"
"Not... right now?"
Oh... fuck. "Please. Please —"
"You know what to do, son..."
*Fuck* — "Please give me — please give me something *hard*."
He smacks Porthos's *arse* —
"Oh *shit* —"
He does it *again* —
"UNGH —"
And then the spanking starts in earnest, back and forth and back again, cheek
to cheek and so *hard* —
So bloody *perfectly* *hard* —
Porthos hangs his head and just breathes his way into it, just —
He hasn't *had* this in *forever*, but it's always better if you just relax a
little, just take it, just *feel* —
"Oh, son..."
"Yeah — yeah, sir?"
"Did you know that you were — mm — lifting up into my smacks?"
Porthos blushes *hard* — "N-no, sir, I —"
"Lifting your *arse*."
Porthos's cock *jerks* again —
He freezes —
He can't —
"Don't stop now, son. Breathe," Treville says, and keeps —
Keeps *spanking* him —
So *rhythmically* —
One smack after another after another after —
And Porthos moans out all the air he's holding, moans and shudders and —
breathes.
Just breathes, and heats up all over —
Sweats like a *pig* —
"There's my good boy..."
"Y-yeah, sir?"
"Taking this just the way you should..."
"'m — I want to — I want to for you —"
"I know you do, son. I know you want to... give over..."
"Please, sir — please, I — let me —"
"Harder now, son. Will you take it for me?"
Porthos groans and clenches on *nothing* —
Clenches *twice* —
He's *shaking* —
"Look at you lifting your arse like a good boy. You needed just this."
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, everything —"
"Do you like hurting for me?"
"For — oh, fuck, yes, please, yes, sir, please, *yes* —"
"Do you like knowing how much you're making me ache for you, son?"
Porthos opens his mouth to say yes again, but Treville grips him by the
bollocks and *squeezes* —
Porthos can't do anything but groan and *sob* —
Clench on *nothing* again —
And then the smacks start landing *on* his bollocks. They —
"Sir!"
"Yes, son?"
"Sir, I — I..."
"Tell me, son. Tell me all about it," Treville says, and *squeezes* again —
Porthos is *drooling* —
Right on the *desk* —
He's dripping *slick* on the desk, too, and he can't —
He can't stop *groaning* —
He can't stop — stop *shaking* —
"Beautiful boy..."
And he feels like a boy, like — nothing like a man grown, nothing like —
He feels small, young, containable in Treville's *fist* —
He feels small and hot and *needy*, only it's bloody wonderful, because
*Treville* has him, he *has* him, and those hands can do *anything* —
"That's right, that's — make as much noise as you want, son..."
And Treville just keeps smacking his *bollocks*, just keeps —
Smacking and squeezing and squeezing *again*, and Porthos is so hard, so slick,
so *ready* —
He *needs* —
"You're such a good boy..."
"P-please..."
"Please what, son? Do you need to spend for me, yet?"
*For* Treville, yes, everything for him, bloody everything, and he hopes he's
actually saying that, that he's letting Treville *know*, but he can't tell
anymore, can't make sense of anything inside his own muzzy-hungry-needy head,
can't do anything but groan and drool —
And *sob* when Treville lets go —
When he takes his perfect hands away —
"Shh, shh, oh, son, it's all right, I promise. I'm. I'm just getting the oil."
Porthos's cock *spasms* —
He groans and *shakes* —
It feels like he's been waiting for *years*, like he'd been apart from Treville
his whole bloody life, *kept* apart from him his whole life, and finally —
Oh, finally —
And then there are *slick* fingers on his hole, slick fingers rubbing all up
and down his cleft, and Porthos is shaking *harder* —
So much *harder* —
"Shh, son, shh, it's — oh, fuck, I can't —" And Treville pushes *in* with two
fingers —
Two thick and strong and —
So big in him, so big in him and he's just a boy, he's just —
Porthos is gasping and shaking and shaking and finally his arms just *collapse*
—
He's down on his *elbows* —
"Oh, *son* —"
"*Please*, sir!"
"Do you *like* it," Treville says, and it's more of an order than a question,
panted and growled, and.
And the only thing Porthos can do is lift his arse.
And Treville snarls above him, spreads him *wide*, and starts to thrust. Starts
to —
To *have* him —
So hard —
So *hard* —
Porthos's cock won't *stop* jerking —
He can't hold back another *sob* —
"That's it, son. That's it. Show me. Let me. Let me *hear*."
Porthos opens his mouth —
He wants to say yes, to shout it, to — to *promise* it, but all that comes out
are more sobs, more *helpless* sobs —
Nothing has ever been this *good* —
Nothing has ever made him this *needy* —
"Oh, son, I'm going to fuck you so *hard*..."
Yes, yes, oh, please, yes, but all he's doing is sobbing and sniffling,
groaning and crying out —
*Working* his arse back and back on Treville's fingers —
His hard and *perfect* fingers —
So *strong* —
"My knot is *throbbing* for you, I —" And Treville growls and *crooks* his
fingers —
Porthos *howls* —
"Oh, son. Oh, son, I won't stop. I won't stop now. Not for anything," Treville
says, and fucks him with his fingers *bent*, fucks him —
Every thrust *drags* against Porthos's pleasure-button, and Porthos can't see,
can't think, can't —
Can't catch a *breath* —
He was wrong, he wasn't thinking, nothing had ever been like *this* —
His body is flexing *open* —
"That's *right*, son, give yourself to me, give me everything, open wide and
let. Me. *In*," Treville says, and fucks him so much harder, so much —
Porthos howls again —
*Again* —
Feels himself flex open *wide* —
"Perfect," Treville says, and that third finger is right there, right —
Oh, pushing-opening-*stretching* him —
Opening him so *wide* —
"You can take it, son. You can take it for me."
Yes, yes, please, all of it, everything, everything for his —
For Treville —
Please —
And then that third finger is in, and pushing deep, so deep, and Treville
*twists* them, all three, twists and *crooks* —
Porthos's vision goes wild and bright and full of colours —
And then he's *wailing* as everything in him sparks and burns, just burns,
lights the bloody *world* as his cock spurts all over the *desk* —
"Oh, *son*.... give me more," Treville says, and *milks* Porthos's pleasure-
button, *works* it —
Porthos can't *see* —
He can't —
Everything is so bright and so hot and so —
He can't stop *clenching* —
"Oh, my boy, my *boy* —"
"Yours!"
And Treville snarls again and goes back to *fucking* him, goes back to just —
Just *opening* him.
And Porthos knows they're just getting started.
Porthos is buzzing all over, humming with it, *thrumming* with it, and —
Oh, fuck, he's so *open*, so *ready* —
"Just — just need to — open you a little more..."
Porthos groans more —
He wants to *protest* —
He doesn't have *words*, yet —
But Treville pauses, just like that. Just like Porthos *had* said something —
Does he feel...?
"What is it, son? What's wrong?"
Porthos moans helplessly and shivers, tries to imagine a *life* with a lover
who can feel him this well —
Who can know *everything* —
Who can know everything and want to *do* something about it — "Sir..." That was
more of a desperate *gurgle* than a word —
And Treville stops holding him spread, lets Porthos's arse *close* around his
fingers —
His hand —
And he's rubbing firm circles with his dry hand on Porthos's back. He's — "Tell
me, son. Tell me all about it..."
Porthos's hole flexes for the hunger in that voice, for the *need* in it, but
Treville doesn't move his other hand, at all.
He's *waiting* for Porthos —
So *patiently*, *somehow* —
Porthos groans. He can't make Treville wait, he can't —
He *has* to — "I just — I just don't want to be stretched anymore, sir. I don't
— I *need* you and I don't want to make you *wait*."
Treville inhales sharply. "Son... you don't... have to," he says, but he sounds
*strained* —
He sounds like there's more he *needs* — "Sir? Tell me — please tell me why you
need me to be stretched more —"
"I *don't* —"
"Sir, *please*! I can't *think*, but I can feel, I can feel that you *need* —"
Treville *snarls*. "My knot. My knot is big, son —"
Porthos grunts, belly dropping and hole flexing *wide* —
"You don't have to *take* it —"
"I want it!"
"I can hold myself *back* —"
"Please *don't*, sir! Stretch me, stretch me wide, I'll take it, I just wasn't
*thinking* —"
And Treville makes a small, *hurt* sound —
"Sir?"
But he doesn't wait before spreading Porthos wide again —
"Oh — oh, *yeah*, sir —"
"I'm so *starved* for you, son —"
"Please —"
And Treville *crooks* all three fingers —
Porthos *groans* and shudders —
"I've starved for you for *years*," Treville says, easing the crook and
starting to *fuck* him with his fingers again, starting to twist and open and
*stretch* —
"Yes — fuck — *fuck*, sir, it feels like I've been kept away from you my whole
life!"
Treville *gasps* —
For a moment, Porthos wonders if that was too *much*, but —
"No *longer*," Treville says, fucking Porthos hard, *hard* —
"Unh — unh — *ungh* — *YES* —"
"Go on, son. Tell. Tell me you want it."
"I want it!"
"Tell me you want to be nice and sloppy and *loose* for me..."
"Oh, *fuck*, sir, I do, I *do* —"
"You know I'll plug you up tight..." And Treville crooks *again* —
Porthos *shouts* —
"You know I'll make you *feel* me," Treville says, and goes back to fucking
him, opening him, spreading his *fingers* —
"I always feel you!"
Treville growls — "You're *mine*."
Porthos grunts and flexes around those fingers, needs — "Yes, sir, *yes*, sir
—"
"Say — I —"
"Sir, I'm yours!"
Another *snarl* — "Now, son. Now. One more finger."
"*Yes*, sir — nnh —"
"Tell me. Tell me if you've ever been stretched this wide before, son,"
Treville says, and starts to *push* —
"I — I —"
"Focus on the *question*."
Porthos feels himself flex *open* — "No, sir! N-never —"
"You might feel impossibly open. Out of control. A little frightened," Treville
says, and keeps —
His fingers are so long —
So thick and *long* —
Porthos groans and drops his head to the *desk* —
"You might feel like everything is out of your *hands*, son."
"Yeah — yeah —"
"It is," Treville says, and *twists* his fingers —
Porthos *sobs* —
"Everything... everything is out of your hands now, son..."
"Sir, please —"
"You're mine, son. *All* of you is mine," Treville says, and starts to *fuck*
him with those fingers.
"Oh, fuck — oh — oh, *fuck* —"
"Don't fight it," Treville says, and his voice is so low, so — so hungry —
Porthos's body *tries* to flex open around him —
He can't —
He can't open any *more* —
"Don't fight anything, son," Treville says, and *crooks* —
He sobs again and quivers, aches, tries to spread his *legs* more —
"No, son, no, stay right there. Stay right there for me —"
"Sir —"
"I know it feels like it will be easier to take if you move, but I promise that
it won't. I won't. I won't lie to you..."
No, he won't. He never will. Porthos sighs out all of his air on a moan — and
feels himself loosen just that little bit more.
"Oh, son. Oh, my good, good —" Treville growls and crooks his fingers again,
*working* Porthos's pleasure-button —
Working it so *sweet* —
So —
Porthos is groaning, aching, *drooling* —
He can't *focus* on anything but how full he is, how hot and needy and —
His cock had never really softened, but it's jerking again, dripping and
spattering Porthos's belly and undoubtedly the *desk* —
His bollocks are drawing up —
"Oh, son, oh, son, that's it..."
And he wants to say yes, wants to beg it, wants to *offer* it to Treville with
everything else he *is* — but all he can do is groan and shake, groan and
*quiver*, groan and *ache* —
He *needs* —
And Treville makes a low *crooning* noise — "You're ready. You're ready," he
says, straightening his fingers and starting to pull *out* —
Porthos *gasps* —
"Good boy, shh, just be a good boy for me..."
Porthos shudders and nods — he never wants to be anything *else*. But he can't
hold the groans in while Treville pulls out, can't keep himself from lifting
his arse, from trying to *keep* those fingers —
"Almost. Almost, son. I'll give you..." And Treville is panting as he pulls out
the rest of the way —
Porthos whines helplessly —
Treville *caresses* him with his dry hand — "I'll give you something better..."
Porthos grunts and blushes, cock jerking *hard* —
And Treville pants harder, stroking himself —
The *sound* of it is so —
"I know what you need. I know what my big, sweet boy —" He growls and *spreads*
Porthos —
Porthos gasps for the sting in his swollen hole —
"Oh, look at you..."
"Sir..."
"I've made you pink. Puffy and —" Another *growl*. "Do you ache?"
"For *you*, sir!"
"Then *have* me," Treville says, and starts to push in, just like that —
Starts to — it feels like a shock, after all the waiting, and all the
preparation.
It feels like it's too *soon*, somehow —
"Do you feel me, son?"
"I —"
"Do you feel how *hot* I am for you?"
"Oh, fuck, *sir* —"
"Do you feel how *hard* you've made me?" But before Porthos can answer,
Treville starts working his cock back and forth and back again, starts
*rocking* it back and forth, before it's even all the way *in* —
Porthos sobs and *grinds* his face against the desk —
"Oh — fuck, son, I can't — I can't tease for very long..."
— and nothing is too soon, anymore. Porthos lifts his head. "Don't tease! Don't
— please fuck me! Please *fuck* me!"
And then Treville growls and both of his hands are on Porthos's hips —
"*Please* —"
"*Yes*," Treville says, and *thrusts*, all the way *in* —
Porthos gasps and tries to —
Tries to *see* — but Treville is pulling out, slow and sweet and so —
So *smooth* —
He'd prepared Porthos so *well* —
Porthos is so *open* —
And then Treville thrusts in again —
Again —
Again-again-again, and Porthos is grunting and panting, wincing with lust, with
hunger, with —
Fuck, it's so perfect, so hot, so —
He's *clawing* at the desk —
Treville is clawing at his *hips* —
And the thrusts are coming harder now, so much —
Porthos groans and drops his head again, *pants* —
He's so *hard* —
He's so —
And there's something *big* *slapping* at his hole at the end of every thrust —
There's something so big and hard and — and even hotter than Treville's *cock*
—
There's — it's his knot.
It's.
"*Please*!"
"What. What are you *begging* for, son?" And Treville is fucking him faster,
*faster* —
Porthos pants more, sweats —
His cock is *aching* — but Treville had told him not to touch it. He won't. He
*won't*.
He'll just — "Please give me — give me your *knot*, sir!"
Treville claws his sides —
Porthos cries *out* and *arches* —
"You don't know how *mad* you make me!"
"Sir — *sir* —"
"I need to spread you *more*. I — are you *ready*."
"I'll take *anything* from you!"
Treville thrusts *hard* —
Porthos groans and *drools* all over his hands and the *desk* —
"You — you beautiful —" Treville growls and *stops* —
"Please —"
"Shh," Treville says, spreading him *wide* —
"*Ahn* — I mean — I'm sorry —"
"Shh... shh..."
"Yes — yes, sir —"
And then Treville starts to push, starts to —
Porthos pants more and *clenches* —
Treville growls and starts to *shove* —
Porthos *shouts* —
"Fuck — oh, *fuck*, son, I — I — I waited too long —"
"Please don't stop!"
Treville groans and shoves *again* —
"*Ahn* —"
*Again* —
"*Sir* — oh, *sir*!" And Porthos feels huge, feels stretched, feels held open
wider than should be *possible* —
"I have to — have to be *inside* you —"
"*Yes*! Yes, just — please don't stop *there*!"
"I *won't*," Treville says, gripping Porthos's hips and *yanking* Porthos back
as he *thrusts* —
"UNGH —"
"There. Just — oh, there. Right..." And Treville growls and stops, just stops,
stroking Porthos with shaking hands —
*Porthos* is shaking —
He can't —
He's throbbing and *aching* —
He still can't *see* properly —
He can't *think* —
He's so *full* —
How can he still be so *hungry* —
"Shh, son, shh..."
Is he — is he making noise?
"You're all full now, son... you're..." And Treville groans and *covers* him,
lapping at the back of Porthos's neck again and again and again and wrapping
his arms around Porthos's *chest* —
Squeezing *tight* —
"You're *mine*," Treville says, and starts to — to *rut* —
To *shove* —
And the thrusts are so short, so rough, so —
So dirty and *short* —
They feel so *good* —
Porthos can't even gasp properly for them, can't —
Treville is holding him so *tight* —
Treville is growling *constantly* now and squeezing him tight and fucking him —
Fucking him so —
Porthos *groans* and feels himself flush, feels himself sweat —
Treville *licks* him again —
Again —
Treville *bites* —
Porthos *bucks* —
Gasps as much as Treville *lets* him —
Treville squeezes him *tighter* —
Porthos groans out his air —
Feels his body *try* to open around Treville's knot —
Treville stops biting — "Good. *Boy*," he says, and bites *again* —
Porthos's cock jerks *hard* —
He whimpers and wants to beg, wants to sob, wants to crawl on the ground and
lick up all the slick they've both dripped all over the *floor* —
And Treville fucks him harder, fucks him so much *harder*, and he's *barking*
against the back of Porthos's neck, barking *while* he bites —
Holding on with his teeth —
They're getting *sharper* —
Treville is taking him so hard, fucking him so *well*, holding him so tight and
making Porthos *feel* him, feel everything —
Treville has *wanted* him from the *beginning*, and Porthos wants —
Porthos *wants* —
Wants to call him —
Porthos shuts his *teeth* and grunts, just grunts, just — gives himself up and
over to it until he knows no words will come out, nothing that's too much, too
—
He can't mess this *up* —
He *won't*, not with his —
Not with Treville biting him so hard, licking him so sweet, fucking him so
*sweet*, and every rutting thrust *rams* that huge, fat knot against Porthos's
pleasure-button —
Every thrust makes Porthos even more blind with it, even more hungry *for* it —
It's so good —
It's so *good* —
And then Treville moves one arm —
One *hand* —
Grips Porthos's *cock* —
Porthos gasps and *howls* —
Treville strokes —
Porthos howls *more* —
Treville bites his neck hard enough to break the *skin* — and everything is
wild in Porthos's mind, everything is hot, everything is *burning* —
His cock is *spasming* in Treville's hard, perfect hand —
His cock is *aching* and needing and he just needs — and then he feels it, that
push, that little *push* —
Treville needs him to spend, he knows it, he *knows* it —
The bite is so hard —
The fuck is so *hard* — and the push is even harder, knocking him right over
until he's yelling and spurting, *bucking* —
It feels like there's a *fountain* coming out of him —
It feels like Treville is *working* a fountain out of him, working his cock and
his pleasure-button and making him take it, take every *second* —
It's so good —
It's so *good* —
Treville breaks the bite — "My *boy*," he says, and bites the *side* of
Porthos's throat —
Porthos spurts *more* —
All over Treville's *hand* —
Treville growls right into his *skin* —
Breaks the bite *again* —
Swipes Porthos's spend on his own *neck* —
And laps and bites and laps and *bites* while Porthos slumps in his arms and
takes it, just takes it, takes bloody *everything* —
Treville is still fucking him so *hard* —
Still panting and growling —
Sucking and *slurping* at the spend on Porthos's throat —
Growling more and *biting* —
Porthos doesn't know if he wants Treville to shift or *not* — no, he wants
everything, *everything* —
Wants everything he can get from his —
From *Treville*, please everything from *Treville* —
And those arms are around his chest again, and those teeth are on the back of
his neck, and Treville is growling, snarling, holding him and holding him down
as he slams *in* —
*In* — and starts to spurt, hot and so wet, so —
So dirty and *wet* —
Treville bites *harder* again —
Porthos moans with the little air he has left and takes it all, every drop,
every *slowing* rut, every soft lap —
They're all his, somehow.
They're all —
And Treville's growl *becomes* a groan —
So low and pained and — still hungry.
Porthos can't *stop* himself from trying to lift his arse despite his *blanket*
of Treville —
"Not — not that, son," Treville says, and licks him again —
Again —
"I won't hurt you."
Porthos moans. "Yes, sir..."
Treville licks him more —
Licks up into his hairline —
Kisses him. "Son..."
"Yes, sir?"
"I can't... I can't say no to you..."
"*Good* —"
"I can't hold *back* —"
"*Good* — *UNH* —"
And Treville is growling against his throat again, biting down *hard* —
"Sir — oh, sir, I'm sorry — I'll be quiet —"
Treville snarls and pulls back — "Not that. Never that."
"Then..." Porthos frowns and tries to turn enough to *see* Treville —
Not that he's *focusing* all that well, yet —
His vision's all full of bright sparks and colours and — no, he can focus.
"Sir, what do you need? What should I do?"
Treville pants —
Licks him —
Sucks a *hard* kiss right behind his *ear* —
"Nnh —"
"My boy..."
"Yours, sir —"
"I need you. I need you to help me... be a little careful," Treville says, and
*licks* behind Porthos's ear.
"Yes, sir?"
"I can't hurt you. I can't ever hurt you."
"I know you wouldn't, sir —"
"But I could. If I shifted too much. If I prepared you too little. If I moved
too *quickly*."
"You *wouldn't* — NNH — I'm listening —"
And Treville gradually releases the pressure on the bite to Porthos's ear.
Gradually.
"Son."
"You're. You're saying that if *I'd* pushed harder today... you could've lost
control."
"Yes."
"Were you... close? To losing control?"
"When I was knotting you."
"But you'd already prepared me —"
"Son," Treville says, and his voice is hard —
Porthos winces. "Yes, sir. It's... it's hard."
"You want all of me."
Porthos closes his eyes and shivers — "Please, sir."
"I want... I want to take you *home* with me —" Treville growls and licks him
and licks him and *licks* him. "Let me take care of you. *Help* me take care of
you."
Porthos *moans*. "*Yes*, sir —"
"I'll give you *everything* —"
Porthos clenches helplessly —
Gasps and *groans* —
And Treville is — panting.
Licking him *slowly*.
Panting *more* — "We'll be tied like this..." He laughs filthily.
"Sir?"
"Best hope no one comes up those stairs, son."
"Oh... fuck —"
Treville laughs *harder* —
"Sir —"
"*I* told you to leave that pot in your pocket, son," he says, and he's still
*laughing*.
Even though they're going to be stuck bent over this desk for — who the fuck
only knows *how* long —
Treville's *wheezing* now —
He's — happy. Porthos had *made* him happy —
Porthos had *pleased* him —
"You're an arsehole, sir," Porthos says, but he's smiling softly when he says
it.
And Treville stops laughing with a soft gasp —
Strokes him so slowly and *firmly* —
And squeezes him tight again. "That I am, son."
***** Well, that was unexpected. *****
Aramis is — lingering.
He has spent far longer training today than was necessary by any stretch of the
imagination, and now he has spent far longer *washing* himself than was
necessary.
He is grooming himself to a high gloss at this point —
Porthos is with the Captain.
In truth, Porthos had been 'with' the Captain for much of the week they'd spent
transporting and coddling those nobles — and, truly, it had done Aramis's soul
no good to put that horseshit in their delicacies, but it had been so
*satisfying* to see them all sicken and foul themselves!
But then the Captain had had to spend *all* of his time with the nobles, and he
had *not* chosen to give himself any more 'holidays' —
And so Porthos had been left to dream, and wish, and *fantasize*.
He had done so extensively.
He had done so extensively and *creatively*, and —
And, perhaps, a touch maddeningly.
Aramis cannot help but wonder if *he* is so — so... *that* when he is in the
process of trying to seduce one woman or another.
If so, he has many apologies to make to his brothers.
("And his hands are just — you'd think they'd soften *up* after all the years
he's spent behind a desk!"
"But... no?"
"*No*. They're so bloody *hard*.")
And Porthos had been grinning wildly, *excitedly* —
Rubbing at his own thigh as if he'd wanted to be —
But.
("I would think..."
"Mm?"
"He was touching you very... firmly..."
"*Yeah*, he was!"
"This was not... uncomfortable?")
And Porthos had looked at him from across their small tent, curious and
incredulous at once —
("Aramis, I know you don't toss yourself off as hard as I do, but you *must*
use your calluses —"
"Of course, but..."
"But?")
But he hadn't been thinking about that.
But he'd never thought about *another* man's calluses.
But — he'd had no good answers.
None.
At *all*. Aramis had blushed *hard* —
("Forgive me, my friend, I wasn't thinking. Go on."
"Are you —"
"I'm certain. I want... I want to know.")
And that is, of course, the most difficult thing about all of this, Aramis
thinks. He wants to *know*.
He wants to *understand*.
He wants to *have* this side of Porthos that he's never had before —
That he'd never suspected was there, despite —
("Fuck — you're bloody gorgeous, mate.")
And Porthos had been laughing, easy within himself, happy and happy to *know*
Aramis —
("Sorry, I know I say that too much —"
"No, I —"
"I *don't* say that too much? Are you *sure*?")
And Porthos had been laughing, still so *easy* —
Aramis had *wanted* to tell him that he could say what he wished whenever he
wished —
That he always wanted to have his friend's, his new and *fascinating* friend's,
*honesty* —
He'd said just that at other *times* —
But he'd had no idea how to say it *that* time without... saying more.
Too much more.
And Porthos had wrapped an arm around his shoulders and laughed more.
("*Thought* so. Don't worry, mate — I'll get a handle on my mouth one of these
days.")
And he had.
He — had.
Until the Captain had — but Aramis must stop thinking of the Captain as having
seduced Porthos. He must —
Porthos is no innocent, and everything he had said had *strongly* suggested
that Porthos had been as aggressive, as *forthright*, as ever.
He...
Porthos has not joined the few men still in the barracks washing up, yet.
Porthos is — still with the Captain.
Or would he simply leave?
Without checking to see if Aramis had waited?
Aramis swallows, little silver scissors paused in his hand. He is, at this
point, quite adept at casual trimming of his beard and moustache without a
mirror.
If he does any *more* trimming, however...
He rinses the scissors, dries them, and puts them away.
He debates going to *lurk* near the stairs to the Captain's office.
He debates that *furiously* —
He... is still debating when Athos comes to join him.
*Athos* *always* spends far too long training, when Porthos isn't there to pull
him away from it.
Aramis has not yet found the trick of doing this, but — he will. He will. He
smiles at his other brother. "Athos."
Athos gives him a wry look. "I'm suspicious of that smile, Aramis."
Aramis blinks —
Reflexively and subtly checks to make sure —
"There's no one close enough to hear us," Athos says, and begins to wash
himself. "I — hm. I suspect I began this conversation too bluntly."
"Perhaps a bit."
Athos winces and nods. "I apologize. I didn't mean to... cast aspersions on
your sincerity with regards to our friendship."
"No...?"
"No," Athos says, moving slightly stiffly as he stretches to wash his shoulders
—
Aramis moves to wash his back —
"You don't have to —"
"I know this thing. Talk to me. Please."
Athos says *nothing* for a maddeningly long time —
Aramis thinks deeply about pressing hard on some of the places he knows are
paining Athos after his long training session —
Not *very* hard, but —
Just enough to *speed* him —
He warms them with his hands, instead, and rubs them, and does his duties as
one of the surgeons — if one of the younger and less-trusted ones.
Athos inhales sharply — and then sighs. "Thank you."
Aramis murmurs an acknowledgment and keeps working as Athos washes. It's casual
— this would be better if Athos were still and lying *down* — but it's
*something*.
And something Athos doesn't allow from just anyone.
Aramis will remember that.
After another few minutes, the barracks are all but deserted — only Furet and
Hirondelle are left, joking loudly as they ready themselves for a night of
carousing — and Athos says, "I know you are... upset. About Porthos."
Aramis frowns. "He is an adult. What he chooses to do with his romantic
entanglements is his own —"
"Aramis."
Aramis shows his *teeth* — and backs away before he touches Athos
*incorrectly*.
Athos grunts — and turns to face him, much less stiff than before. "I was
upset, as well."
Do you desire Porthos?
Do you regret refusing him?
Will you — "Why is this?"
Athos raises an eyebrow, exactly as if he could *hear* at least some of the
things Aramis didn't say —
Aramis holds his gaze steadily —
And Athos nods. "Because Treville is my godfather, and my Uncle. Because I
*did* always know that he was my parents' lover. And because he helped raise
me... and my brother." And Athos raises his eyebrow higher.
His — Aramis blinks rapidly and tries to calculate —
Tries to think of the best, most *efficient* question to *ask* —
*Tries* —
"He's dead, now," Athos says, with a low quaver in his voice.
"Oh —"
"My wife murdered him."
Aramis grunts and *reaches* for Athos —
"Don't. Please. Not — don't."
Aramis frowns and drops his hands. "I — Athos..."
Athos's complexion is livid, except for two hectic spots of colour high on his
cheeks. His breathing is rough. His eyes are *black* with pain — "I... had her
hanged. After only listening to her tell me *why* she had murdered Thomas once.
It was too incredible, after all of her *lies* —" He growls —
He snaps his hands into *fists* —
"I have spent the past two *years* trying to — trying to *live* with the fact
that no man can know another man, even if that man is his brother. I have..."
And Athos makes a dark, awful sound that's as raw and rough as the creak of a
rusted hinge —
It was a laugh.
It was a *laugh* —
Aramis growls and *takes* Athos into his arms, holds him, holds him *tight* —
Every muscle in his *body* is stiff again —
Every part of him is *shaking* —
"I didn't mean to *stop* there —"
"Shh, shh, just wait," Aramis says, and tries to collect his scrambled
thoughts, tries to bring them into some kind of *order* —
If only just enough that he can be of *use* to Athos —
He is still *shaking* —
Aramis holds him tighter, kisses his cheek, his forehead —
"Aramis..."
"*Athos*. I will keep this —"
"Porthos. Porthos told me that this... would not disgust you."
Aramis blinks. "You... thought it would?"
"I thought... I knew she had been a liar. I knew she was not what she claimed
to be. I never tried to.... tried to make her be..." And Athos groans and
*yanks* himself out of Aramis's arms, pushing his hands through his hair —
Aramis moves close again — and Athos only puts up token resistance, only —
"You shouldn't — you *shouldn't*."
"You are my brother, and I love you."
"I was *incorrect* —"
"You were in love —"
"Porthos. Porthos said the same thing."
"Anyone with sense would," Aramis says, and arranges Athos in his arms again
until they are, more or less, hugging.
"Does this mean I should. I should tolerate your lies, Aramis?"
Aramis grunts — but. "Are you in love with me?" And he couldn't manage a joking
tone, and he couldn't manage anything like *lightness*, but —
"I don't know."
— perhaps that was for the best. Aramis's heart is — pounding. He is *abruptly*
aware that he's holding a naked man, a strong man, a beautiful and intelligent
—
So funny and so *hurt* —
"Athos..."
Athos shudders and presses his nose against Aramis's throat —
His breath is so *hot* —
Aramis *shivers* —
"Porthos has... he asked me if I were attracted to Treville, when we spoke
about his... new relationship."
"He — what?"
"It was that sort of conversation," Athos says, and huffs his usual not-laugh.
"We'd been speaking about... so many things. Including Treville's history of
*deviance* with my parents."
The pang of not having been a party to a conversation with his brothers is —
itself. But — "Athos... *are* you attracted to the Captain?"
"I am. And I am attracted to Porthos. And I am attracted to you," Athos says,
and — steps back. And smiles wryly.
Aramis blinks and blinks and —
("Just the thought of it makes me crazy, you know? That he *wants* me.")
And Porthos had been lying on his back with a wineskin he'd won from some of
the other men at cards to his lips.
("That someone like him — so hard, so smart, so...")
And he'd shaken his head.
("Have you ever...?"
"Ever...?"
"Fuck, I... have you ever found yourself being wanted by someone who just made
you feel like you'd suddenly woken up in, I don't know, a bloody *palace* or
something. Only better, because we actually *go* to palaces all the bloody time
— I can't explain it —"
"He feels... too good for you?"
"Yes and *no*. Because he's bloody *incredible*, but he's also just *like* us
in so many ways...")
And Porthos had growled.
("I feel like... I feel like *he* could be my brother. Or — something.")
And Aramis had wanted to tell Porthos that *most* of what he'd felt the first
time Porthos had propositioned him was shocked amusement, but —
But there was so much more —
There was so much *worth*, and need, and need to have him in his *life* —
This man, *this* one, who could be so blunt, so open, so honest, so —
But there is Athos, who had *never* propositioned him, and who had barely ever
*touched* him, and who had only ever offered his friendship and care at careful
*distances* —
Aramis had *understood* —
Aramis had *thought* he understood. "I... Athos."
"Should I apologize? I assure you that I expect nothing of you."
And there is a *blaze* within Aramis for that, a need —
He is *tired* of people — his *brothers* — expecting nothing from him!
He —
"Aramis?"
"Do *not* apologize!" Oh — that was too *loud* — "I — *I* apologize —"
"For what?"
"For my utter lack of aplomb, my friend —"
"Are you truly apologizing for — Aramis." And Athos dips his *chin* and raises
an eyebrow. His colour is still off.
His eyes are still *red* —
His *breathing* is still a little ragged —
But. Aramis smiles ruefully. "My friend, I believe that *one* of us is
*allowed* a loss of aplomb in this conversation, and it is not me."
Athos stares at him for a long moment. "You can be... so very gentle."
"I —"
"Are you in love with Porthos?"
"What? No — he is my brother, Athos. I am... worried about him. I am also
deeply..." Aramis shakes his head and leans in to speak even more quietly. "He
has become *fixated* on the Captain. I do not know if he spoke to you about his
*feelings* for the Captain, but he has been keeping me up every *night* with
his dreams and fantasies about the man! And, now..."
"They are together, and have been for... hours."
"*Yes*," Aramis says, and fights back a growl. "I know that Porthos is no
child, but —"
"Aramis..."
Aramis blinks. "Yes? What is it?"
And Athos cocks his head to the side. "Are you jealous?"
Aramis frowns. "Athos, I have just said —"
"Of course you did, I apologize. I... am not thinking clearly," Athos says, and
smiles with pain —
"Oh — of course you are not — and *I* am fixated —"
"You have far less reason to trust Treville than I do," Athos says, and raises
an eyebrow before taking his training clothes to the laundry pile and moving to
dress himself.
"I... but." Aramis stops, and regroups.
*Forces* himself to regroup —
"He is your family."
"So much so that I have been unable to tell him... what I have now told you and
Porthos."
"You feel that *he* would find you... incorrect."
Athos frowns. "He wouldn't say it that way. Or, if he did, he only would for
*effect*. He wouldn't *think* that way."
"How would he think?"
"That I had failed my brother. That I had failed my family. That I had failed
my. My wife..." And Athos takes a shuddering breath —
"But — if he felt that you had failed the one —"
"I am... sometimes aware when I am not being a logical person," Athos says, and
huffs another not-laugh —
Aramis laughs with him. "Oh, Athos... does this mean that your logical mind
knows that the Captain would *not* think you'd failed?"
Athos is silent for long moments as he continues to dress in his leathers —
So dark and sleek —
Athos is *silent* —
His face is flushed —
His breathing is getting more *rough* —
And Aramis moves closer, cupping his face and tilting his head up. "Brother..."
Athos squeezes his eyes shut.
Aramis pulls him into another hug, squeezing him and kissing him and —
"There are times I fear nothing more than a life without — excoriation."
Aramis inhales sharply — "Athos..."
Athos pants against Aramis's throat once, twice — "Have you never wanted to
hurt, Aramis?"
Aramis *grunts* —
"Have you never wanted to — to *suffer* for what you've *done* —"
"*Athos* —"
"I — need to go drink heavily. Immediately."
"Wait —"
"I — can't. I apologize. I wanted to be... better," Athos says, stepping back
and looking into Aramis's eyes. "I wanted to be better for you."
Aramis shivers and *grips* Athos's shoulder. "Before you came, I was this close
to trimming my moustache and beard to stubble and *bristle* while running
through my helpless fixations on a *loop*, my friend."
"I... helped?"
"Yes," Aramis says. *Promises*.
Athos closes his eyes for a moment and nods. "Thank you for that," he says, and
then walks out.
Aramis shivers and tries to put all of *that* into some kind of order, tries to
pull it into —
Into —
But it doesn't feel possible to do that, right now. Athos has given him his
secret.
Athos has *also* told Aramis that he is *attracted* to him.
Athos has — but *was* that an offer? A request?
Athos would never, had *said* he would never, and he is a man who keeps his
promises —
Aramis has *needed* that —
Aramis has needed that so *badly*, and he *has* it, with Athos *and* with
Porthos, and the feeling he has with them —
The sense of something undone, unfinished, *undemanded* —
Right now, it's almost a panic within him. Should he have followed Athos?
Drowned them both in wine?
Should he continue to wait here for Porthos?
For how *long*?
And *why* do they both trust the Captain so much? Why do they trust him with so
much of themselves? How could *anyone*, with *any* man?
And there's a cold voice within him for that, a cold *fist* which wants to grip
and pull and *yank* within him — Aramis trusts no one very much, at all.
Aramis *gives* himself to no one.
In the end, it takes so little to let a woman tie him up, to let a woman touch
him as she will, to give *that* much of himself in the interest of quieting
*some* of the screaming within himself.
It is not trust.
Not truly.
It is not —
He doesn't *give* himself to anyone, and he hasn't — of course he's never given
himself that way to Porthos, to Athos, but —
But he *does* trust them. He *does*.
He trusts them with his heart, and with his body, and with his *self*.
It would be *different* with them, and more —
"Fuck — you *are* still here!"
Porthos — Aramis turns to face him —
Aramis turns to *see* him, to study him, to know him in these moments when he
is *fresh* from making love with the Captain —
He is grinning broadly — at him.
He is happy to *see* him.
He is —
He is stripping himself down, big and powerful and —
And marked.
*Marked*.
His throat —
The Captain had left a *small* suck-mark a week ago. Today, Porthos's throat
looks as though he's been *attacked* by an *animal*.
The *skin* has been broken —
"*Porthos*..."
"Mm...? I'm so happy to see you, mate — were you waiting long?"
*Yes*, but —"I — your throat —"
Porthos laughs *filthily*. "It's *wrecked*, I know. Treville did me *right*."
"This is *right*?"
Porthos snickers and continues stripping. "I feel *amazing*, mate. Like — I
don't know. Like I've been on one of those pleasure-drugs you were telling me
about or something."
There are bruises on Porthos's hip —
Fingertip bruises.
Aramis *flushes* —
He can't help looking for —
For signs of —
"I just — I have so much to *tell* you," Porthos says, and starts to wash
himself — "*Fuck*, this water is cold — ah, well, nothing for it." And he
shivers and keeps going.
He is covered in gooseflesh.
His thick cock is soft.
There are no marks there. There —
He must not *stare* —
"Anyway, how was *your* day?"
"... what?"
Porthos turns to look at him with his eyebrows up. "I kind of deserted you on
the shooting range, mate..."
"I..." Aramis shakes his head. "I trained." I waited for you. I waited and I —
no. "I spoke to Athos."
"Yeah? I saw a glimpse of him heading out as I was coming down the stairs. He
was moving *fast*. Is everything...?"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "He told me his secret."
"Oh, *shit*. His — his —"
"Brother. And his murdering wife," Aramis says, and looks down. "I apologize
for *every* time I teased and tried to *take* this secret from you —"
"You *never* —"
"I truly did, my friend, but you are generous always..." Aramis shakes his head
and looks up. "I tried to give comfort and reassurance —"
Porthos winces. "Yeah, I — sometimes Athos needs something harder than that."
"So he... implied. Eventually."
"Yeah? Good on him. He's not always the best at sharing what he needs —"
"He needs *you*, my friend."
"He needs *both* of us —"
"He..."
"Mm?" And Porthos soaps his neck carefully.
Aramis wants to *examine* it — but not, necessarily, as a surgeon.
He doesn't know — no.
Not that. Not right now. "Athos told me... that he desires us."
Porthos's jaw drops. "He — *really*?"
"Yes —"
"*Really*? Like — wants... and wants to...?" And Porthos gestures.
"I was a bit too stunned to get much detail, my friend, but... he spoke about
not *expecting* anything of me, and it was... clear."
"*Fuck*."
"He implied that *you* had caused him to begin thinking in this direction —"
"What — *how*?"
"By asking him if he desired our *Captain*."
Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. "Oh."
Aramis raises his eyebrows.
"Um... it was that kind of conversation?"
"So *he* said. You really must not leave me *out* of these conversations so
often, my friend —"
"Well — now I don't have to," Porthos says, and grins. And then grins ruefully.
"It's wonderful and awful when he starts talking about Thomas. He *loved* that
boy, even though they had almost nothing in common."
"Yes?" And you are not speaking about the most important *thing*!
"Yeah, I — nnh, fuck, I think Treville used every last *one* of his sharpest
teeth on me —"
"You *look* like he used you as a *snack*."
"Fuck, that's hot. Uh. Where was I?"
Aramis exerts self-*control* — "Thomas."
"Right, yeah. They had a game when they were boys — 'see how many times we can
sneak into our parents' bedroom suite while Treville is "visiting" before the
jig is up' —"
"Oh my God."
"*Exactly*."
"They saw — they must have seen —"
"They saw *everything*. Well, lots of things, anyway. At least once, they saw
their father —" And Porthos breaks off and leans in to whisper — "Holding
Treville on a bloody *lead* while he *mounted* their mother."
Aramis stares.
And stares.
And — "Porthos..."
"And I use *those* words judiciously, because Treville is — no, wait, no, I
can't tell you *that* until we're someplace good and private."
"*Porthos*!"
"And I *know* I'm being a tease and I'm *sorry*, but I promise to clear it all
up as soon as we're back at — my rooms? Yours?"
"Yours are *closer*. *Hurry*."
"That I will," Porthos says, and does just that.
It's still too slow for *Aramis*, who has been waiting what feels like
*decades* —
Who has been alone with Porthos's *fantasies* and —
And his memories of waiting until Porthos was *deeply* asleep, and then turning
his own calluses on himself aggressively, *firmly*, *brutally* —
Imagining nothing, *nothing* —
Porthos's hands Porthos's laugh Porthos's —
Imagining *nothing* and spending with a cry, every *time*, when he'd had
*years* of being able to keep himself to only gasps —
And Porthos had laughed in his *sleep* every time —
("Wozzername...")
— and begun snoring again before Aramis had had to come up with a lie.
Will Athos's eyes be in his mind the next time he touches himself?
Athos's hard hands —
Aramis swallows —
"All right, mate?"
Aramis *blinks* — "What? I — I'm fine —"
"You're worried about *something*," he says, closing his tunic — all the way up
his neck, this time.
Aramis cannot — "I was... thinking about Athos," Aramis says, entirely
honestly.
Porthos grunts. "Part of me wants us to go see if we can track him down
tonight. But..." He shakes his head. "He knows us just as well as we know him.
He'll pick a dive we *don't* know."
"Yes, I think this is so."
Porthos claps him on the shoulder. "We'll catch him up tomorrow. Have a *long*
talk."
"Yes? All three of us?"
Porthos smiles softly. "For once, eh? Now, let's go."
"Are we taking our horses?"
"Yves can use some time to get used to *city* streets again," Porthos says
thoughtfully as they walk, but —
"My friend, *can* you ride tonight?"
"What do you — oh." And Porthos snorts. "I'm fine, mate. I haven't had *this*
soreness in a while, but it's not bad, and... mm. I like it."
Aramis — shivers. "And yet he is... big."
"*Very* big. He — nnh. Fuck, he's amazing. But he put time and effort and
*dedication* into opening me up, mate," Porthos says, and leads them toward the
main stables. "He knew exactly how open I needed to be for his cock and he
*got* me there — and thank you for that oil, by the way —"
"You do not need to thank me for this," Aramis says, and he is *flushing* —
"I *do*, because I couldn't have afforded it this month, and the ride was
amazing."
"I wonder that the Captain himself did not... provide..."
Porthos snickers. "I bet he will next time."
"Yes?"
"He tried, this time, to *stop* me. To stop *us*."
"After saying that no man with a mind would *deny* you?" And Aramis is
narrowing his *eyes* —
"Uh, hunh. You could tell he wanted to be *responsible*. Wanted to be a good
*Captain* or somesuch."
Aramis wants to *spit* —
"It took about two minutes to talk him round. Especially since he admitted
right away that he was hard for me. And, well, one of his dead brothers."
Aramis — blinks. "He... what?"
"He said he's been starving for me. Said he's been going *mad* for me —"
"But then why..." Did he say no.
"Like I said, I'm pretty sure he wanted to be *responsible*. I just reminded
him that he *really* wanted to be *himself*."
Aramis swallows and tries to think about that —
Tries *not* to think about that —
Tries.
"All right over there?"
"I am... not accustomed..."
"And I am *not* offering to stop talking —"
"*Good*!"
"Except for right now, because we're — well," Porthos says, and they walk into
the stables.
Porthos smiles and plays with the stableboys, and Aramis spends a very
frustrating five minutes trying to decide if he's flirting, if he's flirting
more than usual, if *he's* being *paranoid* —
("He said he loved *boys*, and he was just *shameless* about it, Aramis."
"You sound... admiring of this..."
"Well, when *I* was selling my arse, I always had the most fun — and the best
pay and the best *luck* — with the blokes *like* that, you know? The ones who
knew what they wanted, and who were still respectful about it."
"Respectful? Of the boys they *bugger*?"
"*Absolutely*. You don't want a bloke who treats you like just another hole —"
"This is what I am —"
"*Treville* made me want to go to a brothel *with* him."
"You. I. What?"
"Not that I've *done* that in ages —"
"You... make love with... boys?"
"Mm? Oh, yeah. Not too often, like I said. I can't really bring myself to make
the first approach, if you know what I mean. I have to *know* that the boy
really wants a piece of *me*, first. Otherwise I feel too much like a
predator."
"You... but. You visit the brothels?"
"And sometimes all I do is look, mate. I — look, I *know* this makes you
uncomfortable —"
"And I still want to talk. To... share. To know you.")
And Porthos had given him a look that was soft and curious at once, loving and
hungry to know *him* —
And that night, after Porthos had gone to sleep, there had been big hands on
the cock he remembered having as a boy, hard hands —
Not priest's hands —
Never *priest's* hands —
Hard, strong hands, and perhaps a big, powerful Musketeer had come into his
mother's brothel when Aramis was a boy —
Perhaps he *had* been allowed to sell himself —
Or —
*Something* —
Hard hands, *strong* hands, and they had touched him, and worked him, and there
had been a deep voice in his blushing ear saying —
"Are you about ready?"
Aramis inhales with a shudder — Porthos is giving him a very queer look. Aramis
blushes and nods, mounting his Cosette easily and watching, *watching* —
Porthos mounts his Yves easily, too — and turns to wink at him.
He knows Aramis was watching to see if he was hurting. He knows —
So much.
And he will share more of that tonight.
***** Try trusting those instincts more often, Porthos. *****
There is no doubt in Porthos's mind that Aramis is — shaken up.
Which, anyone would be after learning Athos's secret *and* having Athos —
*Athos* — tell them that he was attracted to them.
To —
Both of them.
And maybe, just maybe, this isn't the first time Porthos has had that thought —
multiple polite and calm and *easy* refusals or no —
("You are... propositioning me?"
"I really am, mate.")
And Porthos had grinned at Athos from across their small table, lifted his
eyebrows, grinned wider —
Bumped his tumbler against Athos's own —
("Now, I know you're a judicious sort —"
"I..."
"The sort what needs to think things *through* —")
And Athos had huffed that little not-laugh of his, that thing he had *instead*
of a laugh, that thing he had all the *time* for *Porthos* —
And hardly ever for anyone *else* —
Porthos had grinned wider —
("This is the most *extraordinary*..."
"Is it? Because if so..."
"I —")
And Athos had blushed and looked *down* — but only for a moment before looking
up again with a wry and open and *happy* smile.
("No, thank you."
"Aw —"
"But... I appreciate the offer.")
And the way he'd said *that* had made it sound like he really *had*, like it
was something *special* to him — or special *because* it was coming from
Porthos — so Porthos had absolutely floated more offers Athos's way over the
months.
No pressure, and no *pushing*. Just... offers.
Flirting.
Letting the man know what he *could* have, here and there, if he ever...
But that's not quite right.
A *part* of Porthos *had* wondered if *maybe* Athos's refusals weren't as solid
as they could be, weren't as *sure* as they could be, but that part was small,
and never expected to actually get anywhere.
Anywhere other than, maybe, an honest conversation years down the road, when
Athos finally *recovered* enough to let himself love again.
Love another *woman*.
It had to happen someday, whether or not Athos *wanted* it to, and —
Does this mean it already had?
Is the man drinking himself into a still-hideously-dangerous stupor *because*
he's in love with them?
Athos doesn't really *do* sex without...
("I never... I never really understood... attraction."
"Mm?")
And Athos had taken a long, shuddering breath beside him in the dark —
Aramis had had the watch with the other long-gunners, and Porthos and Athos had
been alone in their tent, and that had come to mean, sometimes...
("Oh... shit. You didn't understand it before... her."
"No."
"There were no... little pashes? Pretty noblewomen — and girls — to strike your
fancy?"
"No.")
And Porthos had blinked —
Had another one of those moments to *wonder* about Athos, about Athos and *men*
—
But. Athos always wanted him to *ask* his questions.
("And... you didn't go for any of the boys, either. Did you."
"No, I... of course I masturbated."
"Yeah? But... it was just... physical?"
"Yes. Pleasure and... comfort. Sometimes.."
"Mm?")
But Athos had been silent for long moments —
The wrong *kind* of silent —
His breathing had started to hitch —
And Porthos had rolled over and pinned him.
("*Athos*."
"She made everything *clear* —"
"She's not bloody here. *I* am,") Porthos had said, and made the pin harsh,
painful, *brutal* —
Athos had made the smallest of *sounds* —
His eyes had been so *wide* in the dark* —
("Listen to me. Listen to my voice."
"Yours — yours."
"Listen to me talking to you right now."
"Porthos —"
"Listen to *me*."
"Porthos, I —"
"You're here. You're right here. Aren't you."
"I — I —"
"You're here with *me*."
"I'm here with you!"
"That's right. And you're going to stay just that way.")
And Porthos had *kept* pinning him in the dark —
Porthos had kept holding him *down*, leaning in close and breathing his
*breath*. And the thing is, he *hadn't* been thinking about sex — except for
the kind that ended in death and pain.
He hadn't been, because *Athos* hadn't been. He would've been able to feel it —
*literally* and maybe, he thinks, in other ways, too.
It had been the wrong time, and all the wrong ways — or.
Some of the wrong ways?
Porthos frowns as he guides Yves through the crowded Paris evening streets
while Aramis does the same beside him with his Cosette.
What does Athos even *like*?
*What* had 'Anne' made clear?
Is he going to find out?
Is it a good *idea* for him to *try* to find out? For Aramis — but. Aramis
doesn't *like* — men.
And there's a little hesitation in his mind for that. A little...
Porthos *looks* at Aramis, and he's got most of his colour back, and his
breathing is right — he'll always be bloody perfect on a horse — but...
He's quiet, and *he's* frowning, and —
And now they're frowning at each other, which is all wrong.
Porthos shakes his head. "Aramis, what's *wrong*?"
"I could ask you the same question, my friend —"
"I was thinking about how upset you obviously were, and then I was thinking
about all the things Athos had told you —"
"And then you were thinking about Athos?"
Porthos smiles ruefully. "I have no bloody idea what I'm going to do, or
say..." He shakes his head. "A part of me always *thought* that maybe, *maybe*
he could want me, but now I don't know what to do with it."
"You have good instincts, my friend," Aramis says, and offers his own rueful
smile.
Porthos snorts. "I thought the same thing about *you*, mate."
And — for a moment, Aramis only looks at him.
Only —
His lips are parted and his eyes are wide and his pulse is pounding in his
*throat* and —
"Aramis?"
The flush creeps up over Aramis's cheeks so *slowly* —
"Aramis, are you — what are you —"
Aramis looks down at Cosette's mane, and *now* his breathing is wrong, ragged
and wrong, and — "Porthos..."
Porthos swallows and *blushes* — "I'm listening, mate. To anything.
*Everything*."
Aramis *pants* —
"I *promise* —"
"Perhaps. Perhaps you could... talk to me."
"I'll *always* —"
"The way you've been — all week. And I have been... I have not been *sleeping*
well, my friend," Aramis says, and laughs breathlessly, painfully —
"Oh — no?"
"I have been... dreaming..." And Aramis's eyes are tracking back and forth —
He's still not *looking* at Porthos, but — "Dreaming?"
"I have been *fixated*, as you have been fixated —" And Aramis licks his lips —
"On — on Treville?"
"*No*. I —" And Aramis reflexively starts cooing and purring to calm his
Cosette, who tolerates anything from him anyway —
"On. Me?"
And Aramis doesn't stop cooing to *Cosette* —
Doesn't — until he looks at Porthos, at last, bloody finally —
His lips are still *parted* —
"Oh, Aramis, *Aramis*, we can do anything, we can *have* bloody anything —"
"Wait, please wait, I cannot — I." And Aramis stops, right there, and his eyes
are even *wider* —
He's frightened.
He's —
And neither of them have been paying attention to the bloody *streets*. Porthos
nods and licks his lips. "We can wait. We can — we can talk."
"I — yes?"
Porthos scans their perimeter and licks his lips — and grins. Just — grins.
He can feel Aramis looking at him. *Studying* him.
Porthos turns back to him and winks. "I've things to tell you, haven't I?"
"Oh — *yes* —"
"And maybe I can make you dream a little more."
Aramis laughs *nervously*. "I don't know..."
"Mm?"
"The things you have *already* made me dream, my friend... I am a little
*concerned* about 'more'."
Porthos growls a little — not loud enough to upset Yves, but — "I want to hear
about *that*."
"I can't — I can't."
Oh — but. But the *feeling* says to push, just a little. "Not... yet?"
If anything, Aramis's flush gets darker — but he smiles. "Not yet."
Porthos grins. "I like that."
"Yes?"
"Like a treat waiting for me, eh?"
"A... treat," Aramis says thoughtfully.
"That's right. Finding out what you've been thinking on, dreaming on,
*fixating* on..."
"Your. Your hands. Play heavily," Aramis says, and he's so *dark* with flush,
fiddling with the reins —
Cosette's *ears* are twitching —
Aramis isn't *looking* at him — or at anything else —
"Oh. Aramis..."
"I — I know I have told you that I do not — that I am not —"
"A lot of times. A lot of times, people don't understand themselves as well as
they could —"
"*Porthos* —"
"— especially when it comes to things like this," Porthos says, and *looks* at
Aramis —
Tries to *will* him to look at him — it doesn't work.
"Aramis..."
"I do not like that I have lied to you, my friend."
"You didn't *know*."
"I — I must have — there have been so many times when your excellent questions
have left me stymied, lost in my own mind..." And Aramis licks his lips. "Athos
kept *asking* me if I were... if my feelings for you were more than
*brotherly*."
Porthos blinks — "What — *today*?"
"Yes —"
"And you said no?"
"*Yes*, and the whole time, I was asking... so many questions. So many
*telling* questions, in my own mind..." And Aramis looks up and *pins* him with
a look. "I am not accustomed to knowing myself so *ill*, Porthos."
Porthos frowns and nods. He wouldn't be. But... "Do you feel like... like
you've *answered* any of the questions in your mind now?"
Aramis frowns down at Cosette's mane again —
Porthos winces —
"I. I do not know... if I am ready to do that."
And Porthos looks for the urge, the need, the — the *something* that says
*push* —
It's not there.
It's not — Porthos nods. "That's fair, mate —"
"I... there is too much —" And Aramis looks at him again, *pleads* at him.
"Aramis?"
"Please. Please talk to me? Please — teach me."
Porthos represses a *grunt* — "I — about — fuck. You want to know more."
"I want to know..." Aramis smiles ruefully. "I want you to chase away... my
wrong ideas. My... my wrong *assumptions*. We both know that they are not
*always* wrong, and that makes it *harder* —"
"But — they can be," Porthos says, licking his lips and leading them toward the
hostler closest to his rooms. "And you need to see... something different."
"Yes. *Please*."
Porthos — doesn't tell Aramis not to beg. He doesn't think he's capable of
that, at this point. Instead, he nods, and he smiles. "We're almost there,
mate. I'll tell you everything."
***** Let's try this honesty thing. *****
Aramis's heart is beating too fast.
This has been the case for...
Well, at this point, it feels as though his heart has been beating too fast
since he'd first seen Porthos with the Captain in the *woods*. The fact that
this is not true doesn't make it *feel* less true, and —
Especially not now that he is in Porthos's rooms —
Not now that he is drinking Porthos's wine and helplessly stealing glances back
toward his bedroom —
Porthos is still disarming himself —
He will *see* Aramis *doing* this soon —
Aramis gulps down a *very* large swallow of wine —
("I want to *swallow* his cock, Aramis. It's so *big*."
"Like... yours?"
"Yeah, a bit. A little longer, a little less thick — and his spend tastes so
*good*."
"I find it difficult to believe that it could taste as good as a *woman's*, my
friend.")
And Porthos had snickered —
("*Aramis*."
"What? I speak only truth —"
"You *speak* only —")
And Porthos had snickered more.
("I'd say you need to taste more spend, mate, but, uh...")
Aramis gulps more wine —
"Don't be nervous."
Aramis *looks* at Porthos —
And Porthos laughs quietly. "I know, I know. But we're *mates*. We're
*brothers*. And none of that's going to change."
"Is anything *else*?"
And Porthos stares at him — hungrily.
So —
"Not if you don't want it to. Not *tonight*."
"Oh."
"C'mon, put your weapons up. We'll drink more wine and *talk*," Porthos says —
and sits down in one of his moderately-battered sitting room chairs.
Aramis can't *help* glancing toward the bedroom again —
"No," Porthos says. "Not yet."
Aramis grunts. "Porthos —"
"Let's just talk first, eh?"
"We cannot talk while we —"
Porthos laughs —"We *can*. We *have*. But — Aramis..." And Porthos smiles
ruefully. "I'm already hard for you."
Aramis blinks and — regroups.
"You're already a little hard for me. Aren't you."
"I — I —"
"The bedroom would maybe be better for when we can... talk about that."
Aramis squeezes his eyes shut —
*Grips* his tumbler of wine —
Tries to — to —
"Aramis?"
He has to be *honest*. He has to —
He will have no more lies for *either* of his brothers to forgive.
"I want to be — close to you," he says, and opens his eyes again.
And Porthos flushes — and growls. "I can't say no to that."
"I don't want you to — to be..." He doesn't know how to end that sentence. He
*still* doesn't know —
Porthos stands and moves across the room to him, cupping his biceps and
pressing their foreheads together —
"Oh."
"D'you like this?"
"Yes. I — yes."
"I love it. I love *you*."
"Porthos — I —"
"Shh, just wait a tick," Porthos says, and kisses his *temple* —
Aramis nods and waits and — waits.
"I don't want to... get ahead of myself. Or lose control."
"Do you think —" That you will. Aramis swallows.
Porthos laughs softly. "Well, I know you'll kick my arse and leave if I do,
so... no. But also I don't want to be an arsehole. So... we can pretend my bed
is just... another little tent, eh? The two of us snugged up close like it's
cold or something."
"Oh."
"It doesn't have to be... anything other than that."
"Not... yet?"
Porthos breathes a little *harshly* — "Not yet."
Aramis licks his lips and nods — no. He gives in to his need, just a little,
and kisses Porthos's cheeks far too lingeringly, far too —
"Aramis..."
He lets his lips drag against Porthos's stubble —
He lets himself *feel* the tickle and scratch —
He lets himself — moan.
Porthos shudders — and steps back. Not far. His eyes are wide and hungry and —
just a little wild. "Aramis. I. Did you like that?"
Aramis licks his still-tingling lips — and nods.
Porthos nods back —
For a moment, they are only nodding *together* —
And then Porthos grins and laughs. "Oh, Aramis, I..." He shakes his head and
steps back again. "C'mon, let's... get ready for bed."
They strip down to their breeches, and Aramis doesn't know if he's grateful or
not to not have the urge to strip down further still.
He *does* know that he wants *Porthos* to strip himself further —
That he's *wanted* Porthos naked in a bed —
But for how long?
Since the last therapeutic rubdown?
Or the one before that?
How many *more* before that?
How many times had Aramis placed his hands on Porthos's naked body in the
interest of healing and truly desired — everything in the look in Porthos's
eyes right now.
Everything.
*Everything* as he turns back the duvet and crawls in —
*Waits* for him —
Aramis does not keep him waiting. He does not —
And, of course they've shared beds before.
Of course they've been precisely this close — *closer*!
They have cuddled each other through *icy* winter nights, and Aramis has been
grateful for every pound of Porthos, every inch of his warm *solidity* — he
growls at himself and turns on his side —
Curls himself *against* Porthos, one hand on that broad and perfect chest, one
leg thrown over Porthos's own —
And Porthos is smiling up at him. "Yeah?"
And Aramis can breathe. He can —
He can breathe even better when Porthos wraps an arm around him and squeezes —
"Yes," Aramis says. "Please."
"All *right*, then. Where should I begin, eh? Or — do you want to talk?"
Aramis cannot breathe.
And Porthos laughs at him. Gently. "Right, I'll do the talking for now. I'll
um. *Can* you tell me where to start? Or should I just —"
"Tell me what you could not tell me at the *garrison*. Tell me — what is more
secret than —"
"He's a *witch*, mate."
"A. What?"
Porthos laughs again. "You heard me. He's a witch, and a *shifter* —"
"*What*? How did you — how — you told me that you were *raised*, in part, by
witches —"
"I absolutely was, and I *thought* I knew what to look for, but..." Porthos
shakes his head. "He hid it better. He *hides* it better. He can glamour
himself — wait, did I even tell you what that —"
"I know the term — I. What does he truly *look* like?"
"Oh, no, he looks like *that*, as near as I can tell — well. Most of him does,
anyway," Porthos says, and snickers. "He'd glamoured his *cock*, Aramis."
Aramis blinks and blinks and —"I. I..." He frowns. "Porthos, *Porthos*. How do
you know he has not bewitched *you*?"
"Well, I asked him that — sort of —"
"How do you know that he told you the *truth* —"
"Because I can feel him," Porthos says, and — looks at him.
Looks at him steadily and hard and — "Porthos?"
"Aramis... he um. You know how I'm always having... feelings? How I can kind
of... guess at things really well sometimes? About people I care about?"
Aramis... does not draw back.
He does *not*. He *will* not, because he knows what Porthos is going to say,
and he knows —
No. "My friend, I believe... I believe I would like to know what *proof*
Treville gave you."
"'course," Porthos says, with frightening ease. "He has a sodding *knot*,
Aramis."
Aramis *blinks* again — "No — no. I was not *close* to the two of you, but — we
have *seen* the Captain naked —"
"He can *hide* it, Aramis. He can hide it even if you're *touching* him. If he
uses enough power. And then he can *stop* hiding it, and... everything else."
"*What* else?"
"His *really* long tongue —"
"Is he — you said he was — is he a *dog*?"
Porthos smiles ruefully. "Yeah. He is. Right down deep inside. He was...
growling and crooning and licking me and just... when he was fucking me, he had
his arms wrapped *tight* round my chest and his teeth in my throat and his
*knot* plugging me *tight* —"
"*Fuck* —"
"Exactly. As for how he proved things about my own powers... well, I'll be
honest. All he had to do was make me think about you and Athos. And how *easy*
it's been just lately to... know which way to jump, with you."
What — no. No, he has to think, he has to — "You *know* us —"
"I know you both keep secrets as easy as breathing sometimes, mate." And
Porthos *looks* at him.
Aramis winces. "I. I am going to try to stop doing that."
Porthos blinks — and his expression softens. Changes — "Aramis..."
"I..."
And Porthos reaches with his free hand and strokes Aramis's face —
Neatens Aramis's *beard* —
"It was just a little — you know."
Aramis nods and does not think about those fingers close to his lips —
His mouth —
Porthos moves them. "Anyway, that's what I didn't tell you —"
"Wait, I —" And Aramis growls and frowns.
"What is it? Tell me."
"I am — I am *offended* by the idea that you would need special *powers* to be
my *friend* —"
"Not *that* —"
"I am offended because it means I have to think about how *much* I have kept
from you, and how much I have lied and omitted and *dissembled* —" And Aramis
growls and turns away —
Porthos turns him back again. "Everything I had to do, everything I had to
*use*, to know you? Was worth it."
"*Porthos* —"
"I've wanted you in my life from the *beginning* Aramis. I... there was a push
for that, too. One *hell* of a push."
Aramis hears himself making a hurt noise — "To... make me your. Your friend?"
"To have you in my *life*. I would've taken scraps, mate," Porthos says, and
smiles so softly again. "You gave me a lot more than that."
And Aramis... splays his hand on Porthos's bare chest —
Tries to —
He *strokes* —
"Aramis —"
"I — I apologize —"
"No, it's fine. But. Can I do the same thing?"
Aramis pants —
He's *shuddering*, just that quickly —
He can't help thinking of the last time they'd shared a woman, and how, when it
was Porthos's turn to fuck her, he had held both of her wrists in one hand and
*molested* her breasts with the other. Squeezing and stroking, slapping lightly
and pinching while she mewled and *groaned* for him —
"Aramis... what are you thinking."
Aramis blinks and focuses — "I... do not wish to say —"
And Porthos studies him for a long moment —
*Reads* him —
Aramis can *see* him *doing* it —
"Porthos —"
"'s all right. Do you want to know anything else about the witchcraft?"
Aramis licks his lips and shakes his head, but —
He does not —
"I... Porthos..."
"Mm? What's wrong?"
"You... should have... pushed."
"No, I shouldn't've."
Aramis blinks.
"You're breathing easier now. You're looser in my arms — I'm never going to
hurt you, Aramis. Not ever."
Aramis cocks his head to the side. "And you do not wish to seduce me?"
"That's just it. You're already seduced. Aren't you?"
Aramis grunts. "Porthos —"
"I'm not actually this confident. I'm just..." Porthos shakes his head. "You're
*telling* me which way to go, brother. I'm always going to follow."
Aramis stares at Porthos for a long moment —
Stares *helplessly* —
And *then* thinks. "I... was urging you to push me *away*."
Porthos smiles ruefully and squeezes Aramis gently. "I think so, yeah. I'm
going to *try* not to let you do that."
Aramis winces. "I apologize —"
"I'm in love with you, not the bloke who knows exactly what he wants with me."
And that...
"Mm? What is it? I can tell I said something at least a little bit wrong there
—"
"I —"
"Don't deny it," Porthos says, and his voice isn't *harsh*, but it is — hard.
Firm.
And even turned away, Aramis can feel Porthos's gaze on him. He — "You are...
in love with me?"
"Yeah, I am. I have been for a good long while. *That* messed you up? I thought
you already knew..."
And Aramis can feel Porthos *frowning*, feel him —
Unsure.
For a moment, Aramis can't help but start thinking of all the ways he might
*use* that lack of surety, all the stories he might weave —
"No," Porthos says —
Aramis blinks —
"No, don't — I can feel you pulling away from me — or thinking about it,"
Porthos says, and turns Aramis back to face him. He studies Aramis — "Stay with
me."
Aramis — pants.
"Tell me what the problem really is, brother. Tell me so I can *fix* it."
"I —"
"Do it."
Aramis *grunts* — but. "You're in love with the *Captain*, who knows
*precisely* what he wants."
"I —"
"You're in love with *Athos*, who *also* knows what he wants."
"Aramis —"
"I — what happens to your love for me when *they* tell you these things?"
"Nothing, brother. *Nothing*. And I *know* you already — no. You already know
that about Athos, because he's your brother, too, *and* you know he wants —
*needs* — both of us, but — but you don't know it about Treville. You're —
jealous?"
Aramis feels his cheeks *burn* —
And Porthos nods. "Right, then. *Got* it —"
"You must not stop *talking* about him!"
Porthos *blinks* — and stares at him measuringly —
*Studyingly* —
Aramis feels himself being *dissected* —
He doesn't —
He has never truly *been* on the other *side* of looks like this, not so
*often* in one conversation, not —
Athos is more gentle with him.
*Porthos* is *usually* more gentle with him —
And the Captain simply hasn't spoken to him that *often*, for that *long*.
This —
"You are making me feel *naked* —"
"I want us to be naked for each other all the bloody time," Porthos says, and
it's hungry and half-growled and so —
Honest.
So —
"Porthos..."
"I won't stop talking about him. I *will* tell you that you're right about me
being in love with him, and — and I think he may even feel the same way about
me —"
"He. Yes?"
Porthos smiles ruefully. "He claimed me, Aramis. I told him it felt like
something had been keeping me away from him my whole bloody life, and he
just..." He shakes his head. "He *claimed* me."
"And when he calls to you? When he calls on his *claim*?"
And Porthos licks his lips and stares at him for a long moment. Only stares,
and smiles —
"Porthos —"
"When he talks about you —"
"What."
"He calls you *my* Aramis —"
"What — you talk about *me* with him?"
"We talk about *our* brothers, Aramis. I — he takes it seriously. He takes
*brotherhood* seriously. He would've done *anything* for his brothers. And he
knows I'd do anything for mine."
"He may not feel so generous —"
"If you take up all my time...?" And Porthos grins. "Did you plan to, brother?"
Aramis feels himself flushing *dark* — but. "The *Captain* took much of your
time today, Porthos."
Porthos licks his lips. "That's what happens when you get tied."
Tied —
And Aramis's mind won't *let* him skip past the apparent realities of the
Captain's anatomy anymore.
He has a *knot*.
Like —
Like a *dog* —
He had knotted *Porthos*, and kept him tied, and —
He had done this in his *office*, using Aramis's own oil, and —
And Porthos is laughing at him again, and stroking Aramis's beard. "I knew you
weren't really thinking about it before..."
"There was too much else *to* think about — I — you said his cock was *thinner*
than yours!"
"It *is*. But his *knot* is just... incredibly fat. *Huge*. He had to stretch
me open *wide* for it."
"How... how... wide?"
Porthos stops stroking Aramis's beard and wiggles... four fingers.
Aramis... goggles. He cannot — "*Porthos*."
Porthos laughs hard. "I *hadn't* been stretched that far before."
"Then — how —"
"There's always a first time, brother. And... I was really relaxed. Like I'd
like to make you relaxed."
This time, Aramis's flush is — different. But. "You — you want to stretch
me..."
"I've thought about... opening you. Slow and steady. Easy, like."
Aramis frowns. "I do not wish to be fucked, Porthos."
Porthos inhales deeply. "Then we never have to do it."
Aramis searches him —
Porthos raises his eyebrows. "We don't, brother. If you don't want it —"
*Push* me!
Porthos stops speaking — and frowns.
And searches him —
And.
And Aramis's heart is pounding. "What? What is it?"
"I can ask you the same question, brother," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's
cheekbone with his thumb. "Something in there wasn't right for you, and I
*think* I know what it was —"
"What do you think it was?"
"Aramis... are you testing me?"
Porthos will make him spend the rest of his life looking like a radish, but —
"I don't mind, but... I thought the two of us were a *little* beyond that...?"
Aramis squeezes his eyes shut, but —
He needs —
"I need. I need to know. What *you* can know."
Porthos inhales sharply — and pets Aramis's beard. "All right, that's fair. You
want me to push you more. On *this* point. On wanting to be *fucked*."
Aramis *moans* —
His heart is *thundering* in his chest —
He can't —
He can't think —
Porthos can *see* him!
Porthos has *always* been able to — or. Has he? He swallows around his pounding
heart and stares at Porthos.
"What? What is it, brother? What do you need?"
"Have you *always* been able to see me this well? Have you — have you simply
been letting me —"
"*Letting* you lie to me?" Porthos frowns. "No."
Aramis takes a breath — "No?"
"I could — sometimes — tell that there was more to the story — whatever story
it was — than what you were telling me, but I could also usually tell that
there was a reason you weren't *giving* me the rest of the story. That's —
that's not the same as letting you lie."
Aramis shakes his head —
"Don't get down on yourself about this, brother. We both know you *need* your
armor as much as *Athos* does —"
"*No* —"
"No? So maybe all those years in Church schools were *easy* on you?"
Aramis hisses between his teeth —
"Maybe there *were* people you could be honest with? People who wouldn't *hurt*
you — in one way or another?"
"Don't — don't."
Porthos *cups* Aramis's face. "I know where your scars are, brother. At least
some of them. I'll never resent *you* for them."
"Porthos —"
"Do you resent me for mine?"
"*No*!"
"All right, then," Porthos says, stroking Aramis's cheek, and his jawline, and
—
"I was thinking. Earlier. I was thinking about your fingers on my mouth,"
Aramis says, because he must, because it is the very *least* —
And Porthos pauses — and then *strokes* Aramis's mouth, slowly and firmly, back
and forth over his lips.
"Oh..."
"Like this, brother?"
"Porthos..."
"Here," he says, and drags his *calluses* over Aramis's lips —
So *roughly* —
"D'you like that."
Aramis *pants* — "You know that I do —"
"I want to hear you say it."
"Fuck —"
"I want to hear you be — just as honest with me as you *can* be, brother."
"I — I —"
"But I won't hurt you," Porthos says, and keeps *petting* his lips, keeps
*dragging* his fingers over them — "You don't have to say a word —"
"I like it! Please — I."
Porthos growls. "Thank you."
"I... don't — don't thank me —"
"No? Maybe I should just reward you."
Aramis *pants* on Porthos's fingers, tries to —
To think —
"How would you do this?"
"By not *asking* you to tell me what you wanted next. By just... giving it to
you," Porthos says, and pushes two fingers into Aramis's mouth, shallow and
gentle and so —
So thick —
So —
Salty and —
Aramis licks —
Moans and licks again, again —
"I think you want to suck them, Aramis..."
Aramis's mouth falls open on a *helpless* moan —
"That's beautiful, but... close your mouth."
Aramis does just that — and looks into Porthos's eyes —
Searches them and finds them dark and hot and hungry — and so warm. So loving
and warm and —
And Aramis sucks *hard* —
Porthos winces with *lust*, and Aramis wants to know so much, wants to know
what he's thinking, what he's feeling, what he's *dreaming* —
So —
"There are so many *questions* in your eyes, brother," Porthos says — and tugs
his fingers *away* —
"No — oh."
"Shh, I'll give 'em back in just a moment. I just need to know if you need to
get your questions answered right *away*."
Aramis pants — "I — please tell me what you're *thinking* when I — please tell
me everything you're thinking."
Porthos studies him again —
Licks his *lips* —
And pushes his fingers back in. "Suck them, and lick... yeah. I'm thinking
about the first time we met, and how much *effort* I had to put into not just
staring at your pretty mouth and fantasizing about kissing it, biting it,
petting it, licking it... fucking it, of course..."
Aramis pants and pants and shivers and — and closes his mouth *tight* again
before Porthos can pause, before he can —
But Porthos is already staring into him, watching him for hesitation and
*pain*.
Aramis can't stop himself from *pleading* with his eyes —
Please *push* me —
Please do not *stop* —
And Porthos growls, eyes heating again. "Every time your tongue *touches* me, I
get that much hotter. That much *harder*. I already needed you, Aramis. I
already tossed myself off to you when I couldn't stop myself — and *that* was
all the bloody time. Go on. Lick me more. *Suck* me more."
Aramis nods and obeys, tries to *urge* with his expression —
"And you want more. You want... oh, Aramis. Promise me you'll give *me* more
when you can —"
Aramis nods and nods and sucks the way he has watched many women suck Porthos's
cock, taking more of his fingers and rubbing the flat of his tongue against
them —
Porthos *grunts* — "Aramis..."
*Please*!
"Yeah. Yeah, I..." And Porthos growls and sits up slowly —
Aramis sits up with him —
Porthos gets up on his knees —
Aramis cups his hand with both of his own and starts to — to fuck his own
*mouth* with Porthos's fingers —
And then Porthos's other hand is in his hair —
Gripping his hair *tight* —
"I dreamed of this, once or twice..."
"Mm... mmph —"
"I dreamed of *teasing* you with this until you were shaking and *begging* for
my cock."
Aramis's mouth falls open again — and this time he's too slow to stop himself
from drooling. He —
He blushes hard, slurps —
Closes his *mouth* —
"Is that so..."
Aramis starts to shake his head —
Porthos is holding his head too tightly for that. He —
Aramis tenses *hard* —
And Porthos releases him, just that quickly. So —
He starts to pull *out* —
And Aramis can't let him, can't — he *grips* Porthos's hand and fucks his own
mouth faster, more *fervently* —
"Shh, shh, it's all right. I won't take them away. You just needed me... not to
hold you that tightly?"
Aramis nods — and then pauses and shakes his head.
"You needed not to hold you that tightly right *then*."
Aramis nods *hungrily*, slurps helplessly —
And that hand is back in his hair, holding him, *holding* him — "How about
now?"
Aramis groans — and squeezes Porthos's hand.
"Good boy. You're so..." And Porthos *growls* again. "I want your mouth on my
cock, brother."
Aramis shudders and shudders and doesn't know —
"I know you're not *quite* ready for that... so we're going to do something
else. Take your right hand off mine and open your breeches."
Oh...
"Go on. Do it for me."
Aramis shivers and obeys. Just — obeys. It isn't hard to unlace himself with
one hand — he's had plenty of practice — but he's shaking, and he needs, and he
doesn't know —
And he's so *hard* —
So needy and *hard* —
And then Porthos grips his *hair* harder —
Pulls it so *roughly* —
Aramis's cock *jerks*, spattering them both —
"Grip that cock, love..."
Aramis grunts around Porthos's fingers and does it, holds himself, holds
himself *tight* —
"*That's* not how you — oh, I see. You're getting more of your calluses into
it, aren't you..."
Aramis blushes *hard* —
"Is that why you've been waiting to toss yourself off until I've been asleep,
love...?"
Aramis shudders and — nods.
"Naughty boy. I guess I'll just have to teach you better, now won't I."
Oh —
"Squeeze yourself *harder*."
Aramis *obeys* — and cries *out* around Porthos's fingers —
"Mouth shut *tight*, love. You know how to do it."
Aramis whines through his nose and nods and — bobs his head. *Works* his head,
as much as Porthos will let him —
"Oh... good boy. But no, not that. All you have to worry about is tossing
yourself off nice and hard. Nice and *mean*."
"Mm —"
"*I'll* take care of this," Porthos says, and moves Aramis's head on his
fingers. Works his —
Makes Aramis take his fingers just that slightest bit *deeper* —
Up and down and up and down and —
Aramis whines and shivers and *sweats* —
He can't —
He can't taste anything but himself —
His own *spit* —
He can *smell* Porthos, so close, but he can't —
And Porthos is holding him so *tightly* —
"Toss yourself *off*, love," Porthos says, and works him *faster*, and Aramis's
lips are getting numb from Porthos's calluses, and his tongue wants —
He wants to *taste* —
He's shaking so *much* —
He strokes himself fast and *hard*, and that's better, that's —
He can imagine Porthos's hand on him there, so big and hard, so rough, so
*strong* —
He can imagine Porthos *forcing* him to his pleasure —
"Do you want my cock, yet, love...?"
Aramis nods frantically —
"Do you. D'you want my hands on your beautiful *body*."
Aramis groans and sucks and slurps and nods, nods helplessly, *strangles* his
cock —
"Oh, Aramis..."
Please, please, *please* —
"I can feel you — feel you *calling* —" And Porthos growls and *yanks* him off
his fingers —
"Porthos —"
And then Porthos is moving him, *manhandling* him until Aramis is on his hands
and knees on the bed with his face in Porthos's *lap* —
Porthos is *yanking* at the laces of his breeches —
Aramis helps as best as he can —
His mouth feels so —
His cock is *dripping* on Porthos's *bed*!
And then *Porthos's* cock is out, so big, so thick, so *hard* —
So much bigger than his two *fingers* — but Aramis can't even stop to stare,
can't —
He wraps one hand around the base the way his less-experienced lovers do with
his own cock and opens wide, takes him, takes the thick and beautiful head into
his mouth —
The flavours are so massive, so —
The flavours are as thick as the *cock*, and so maddening, so musky and so —
Aramis groans and *sucks* —
*Porthos* groans — and grips Aramis's hair with one hand and his *cock* with
the other. He —
Oh.
"Yeah. Yeah, love, I've got you. And you've got me — ah, fuck, just — just suck
me as best as you *can*," he says, and *grips* Aramis —
*Works* Aramis down and up once —
Pauses to let Aramis breathe —
And then he begins to stroke Aramis's *cock* hard and fast and —
Oh, his calluses are different, hard, harsh, *sweet* —
Aramis groans around Porthos's cock, drools and tries to —
To be *competent* —
He *strokes* at the base of Porthos's cock while he slurps and suckles, while
he groans and groans and laps —
Porthos growls and keeps *moving* him, keeps —
Oh —
Oh, *using* him —
Aramis's cock jerks again, *again* —
He will not *last* —
"Oh — oh, fuck you're so *close*," Porthos says, and *squeezes* him —
Aramis *shouts* around Porthos's cock —
Sucks as hard as he *can* —
Porthos growls, deep and *low*, and strokes him fast, *fast*, and of course he
knows Aramis's rhythm, of course he can —
Use it —
Aramis shudders and *sobs* around Porthos's cock —
"*Aramis* —"
He is sorry, he is —
He wants to do *better* —
He nibbles —
"*UNGH* —"
And Porthos bucks up so *hard* —
There is so *much* of him —
Aramis can't help dreaming of being — being *filled* —
Of having it be *good* —
Aramis nibbles *more* —
"*Aramis* — Aramis, be — be careful —"
Aramis moves his *hand* —
"*Shit* —" And Porthos growls and bucks and bucks and each thrust is bruising,
rough, *massive* —
So *hard* —
"*Gulp*, Aramis, you have to —"
Aramis *obeys*, and —
And Porthos *shouts*, squeezing Aramis's cock so *hard* —
And Aramis — can't whimper.
Can't shout.
He is groaning in his *chest* as his *eyes* roll back. He is —
He is shuddering and writhing in *place* —
He is —
So full —
And Porthos is *panting* out growls as he grinds in and *into* Aramis's throat,
never quite pulling out, as he *pumps* Aramis's *cock* —
Aramis is so hot, so needy and aching and *hot* —
Nothing has ever been *like* this —
And then Porthos pushes Aramis's head *down*, *holds* it down so that Aramis
couldn't move even if he wanted to, and Aramis's whole body *spasms* —
He is *helpless* —
"Love — oh, *love* — just take it a little longer, just take it for me —"
And then everything *in* Aramis goes loose, open, flexing and opening *more* —
And Porthos *shouts* again and begins to spend, filling —
Filling Aramis's *throat* —
Taking him —
Oh, so —
He is so *full*!
But Porthos pulls him off enough to spend in his *mouth*, and these tastes are
different, muskier, *different* —
Aramis laps and laps and takes them all, slurps up every *drop* —
Porthos *grunts* — and pulls out the rest of the way —
"Please —"
And then Aramis is on his *back*, and Porthos is swallowing *him*, holding him
down by the hips and fucking his own mouth *brutally* on Aramis's cock. He is —
He is so practiced! So skilled!
He is so *hungry* for Aramis, and not even Aramis's shock and need will let him
last. It's too good, too much, too —
Porthos's lips are so *soft*, his mouth so hot, his tongue so *slick*, and
Aramis thinks he may have shouted that while *pumping* into his mouth.
He doesn't know. Everything is heat and wild sweetness, wild colour. Everything
is Porthos's big hands on his hips and Porthos's *mouth* on him, and the
knowledge —
This can happen again.
When it stops, Aramis breathes.
Just breathes.
He doesn't try to think.
He is aware of Porthos crawling up to lie beside him, and of Porthos's heavy
arm across his chest.
He is aware that he has not stopped *panting*.
He is aware of the ache in his jaw, and —
He is aware that he aches in other places, for other things.
He is aware that he is hungry, and that he has *been* hungry.
He is aware that he has starved himself.
Porthos makes a small sound — "Fuck — Aramis..." And then Porthos pushes up
onto his knees again and looms over him, looking him over.
Aramis blinks up at him, trying not to think of idols, idolatry —
Trying to *only* think of —
Sin?
But he can't bring his mind there, either, right now. He does not want to. He —
There is love here, *love*, and, perhaps more importantly, trust.
There is warmth and — strong hands on his face —
His jaw — oh. Massage.
Aramis *blinks* up at Porthos, who is smiling down at him wryly.
"Yeah, I know you hurt."
While he is being massaged, he cannot even begin to demur. He nods, instead,
and tries to express, with his eyes, how much he appreciates this hurt, how
much he wants it *again* —
"I won't apologize for losing control," Porthos says, slow and measured. "I
know you wanted me to, just then."
*Yes*!
Porthos licks his lips and keeps massaging Aramis's jaw and face. "They took
you over a little bit, didn't they. All the feelings."
Oh... but. There is no better way to put it. He nods again.
Porthos nods back. "I'll *need* my control for some things, love. You're
strong, and healthy, and you can take a lot of punishment... but I don't
particularly *want* to punish you unless it's something we're both agreeing to
ahead of time."
And that... makes sense.
A kind of sense Aramis does not want at the *moment* — but even this wild new
thing inside him can recognize words that *would* soothe the rest of him. He
nods again.
Only somewhat grudgingly.
Porthos grins down at him. "Caught that. Part of you wants to just — barrel
right off the side of the mountain with me. Don't you."
Aramis looks into Porthos's eyes — and nods.
Porthos licks his lips. "Don't think I don't want it, love. Don't think you
can't take me with you with a snap of your *fingers*," Porthos says, and
caresses Aramis's face before lying back down beside him again.
They are both still hard.
They are both still breathing a little *roughly*.
And Aramis wants — too many things. Everything. But — "The Captain loses
control with you."
"A little. Just enough to mark me up *way* too much — and bloody tie me in his
office just because I beg for it, even though literally anyone could've barged
in while we were stuck together over his desk."
"Stuck — but you could not separate."
"Not for something like forty *minutes*. And even then, he was still *mostly*
hard when he pulled out."
Aramis blinks — "That is... for a man his age..."
Porthos snorts. "Yeah, I don't think he's actually slowed down any. But what
did you *really* want to know?" And he raises his eyebrows and strokes Aramis's
chest —
He —
They have made love!
Aramis has made love with a man, with *Porthos*, and it was —
It was so —
And Aramis watches Porthos's eyes soften —
Watches him lean in so *slowly* — and he can't. He *lunges* up for the kiss,
making it hard, making it hot, making it hungry, as hungry as he *feels* —
Porthos sweetens it even as he presses Aramis down to the bed, *softens* it
even as he slips his tongue *deep* — and tastes himself in Aramis's mouth.
Aramis *moans* into Porthos's mouth and sucks his tongue, pushes his hands into
Porthos's *curls* —
Porthos nods and gives Aramis more of his *weight* —
Aramis moans more, nods back, caresses and *molests* Porthos's curls, and he's
wanted this!
He's *wanted* this!
And, right now, all of it is his.
***** Care... full? C'mon, that's not even a real word, Porthos. *****
Porthos doesn't break the kiss the first time he feels Aramis wince — Aramis is
kissing him too *passionately* for that. The same is true for the second and
third times.
But the fourth time...
He pulls back —
"Wait —"
"Shh, let me work on your jaw a little more. It takes practice to deal with a
face-fucking like that, you know."
And Aramis doesn't *say* he wants that practice — he lets Porthos get into a
straddle of his hips without saying a word — but his eyes are hungry.
Starved.
Porthos has *one* way of dealing with that, and it's a good thing his breeches
are already open. He reaches for Aramis's face —
"Do you."
Porthos pauses. "Mm? Do I what?"
Aramis licks his lips and blushes. "Do you lose control with the *Captain*."
Oh. *That* question. Porthos smiles wryly. "I don't have one *lick* of control
with him, Aramis."
"Oh."
"It's safe to do that when you're not in a position to hurt someone —
sometimes."
And Aramis narrows those eyes in that way that's getting to be *very* familiar
— "Has he —"
"He hasn't hurt me. It stung some when he was knotting me and he lost enough
control that he couldn't do it *steadily*, but, like I said, he'd prepared me
*incredibly* well beforehand. It was safe. He's still asked me the same thing
I've asked you — to *help* him keep his control."
The look Aramis gives him for that is — hot. Frustrated. *Needy*.
"Aramis..."
"You have an *answer* for everything I say about the Captain."
"Because he's that good."
"There is something — *my* instincts say there is something wrong. Something —"
And Aramis turns away —
"Hey —"
"Of course I am jealous," Aramis says. "Of *course* I feel my brother, my
*love*, slipping away from me —"
"*Never* —"
And Aramis turns back — "Lose control with *me*. Show me — show me that hunger,
that wild *hunger* —"
"I can't bloody *hurt* you —" But. Porthos isn't even finished *saying* that
before Aramis is *pleading* up into his eyes —
And before he feels that — push.
He growls. "Aramis..."
"Please. *Please*. Show me — nngh —"
And his hand is around Aramis's long, strong throat —
And he's reaching for his trousers on the floor with his other hand —
Dragging Aramis *with* him —
"Fuck —"
So he can retrieve the oil.
He sets the pot down on the bedside table and shoves Aramis back down to the
bed.
And then he *squeezes* Aramis's throat *hard*, watching Aramis's mouth fall
open on a gasp that goes nowhere —
Watching that pretty golden skin *darken* —
"You still have time to say no, love. You — you can say *no*," Porthos says,
and then releases Aramis.
Lets him gasp —
And gasp —
And then he *cups* Aramis's throat and strokes over the Adam's apple with his
thumb.
"What's your answer?"
And Aramis gives him that — that *mad* grin, that let's-kill-all-sorts-of-
people grin, that let's-kill-all-sorts-of-people-while-destroying-huge-swathes-
of-*property* grin —
And Porthos knows that he's in trouble. That —
He's so bloody *hard* —
His heart's pounding and his mind is *going* and he can't —
He *can't*, but — "Aramis..."
"*Porthos*. Please. Please do what you *will*."
And it's too much not to bite him, not to —
He bites Aramis's *cheek* —
He bites Aramis's lips and chin and jaw and his — fuck, his *throat* —
He's growling like — *not* like an animal, because that's *Treville*, that's —
Treville who's careful with him, good to him even when *he's* bloody losing it
—
Treville who'd never let himself —
Porthos yanks himself *back* —
Groans —
Covers his *face* —
"*Porthos* —"
And that pull is right there, that — that *yank* on his bloody soul —
Telling him what Aramis wants him to do, what Aramis *needs*, but —
And then the pull is gone.
It's the iciest, most frightening thing —
Porthos drops his hands and *stares* at Aramis, stares into *his* wide and
staring — searching — eyes —
"Porthos...?"
"Brother —"
"Porthos, what *is* it? What — why have you stopped."
And that — that wasn't a question. That was a bloody *statement* of *intent*.
"I can't — I can't just — run you over."
Aramis bares his *teeth* —
"Not like this. Not *for* this —"
"*Porthos*. I *know* you know what I *want*!"
"I *do* —"
"Then —"
"I also know that you don't really — you don't really *get* it, love —"
"I have spent the past several *years* being tied-up, caned pleasurably —"
"By people you could *overpower*. *Easily*. By. By people who didn't matter to
you."
Aramis rears back — and flushes.
Porthos licks his lips — and reaches out to cup Aramis's face. It's not so easy
to do, right now.
Aramis's eyes are shuttered, the way they used to be fairly often in the old
days.
The way they just *haven't* been in a damned long time.
And that pull just — isn't there.
Whatever is going on in that head — Porthos isn't invited.
Yet.
Porthos takes a deep breath. "We can have anything, you know. I *promise* you
that. But — I need you to know what you're *taking* *first*. At least a
little."
Aramis looks at him again — and opens up again, just a little bit.
"I always need you to know me."
Aramis narrows his eyes.
Porthos winces —
"No, I..." Aramis shakes his head and reaches up to twine his fingers with
Porthos's own. "There have been times when I have honestly thought that
everything I needed to know about you were things you told me in the first hour
after we met."
Porthos smiles ruefully. "Well, let's see. One, you're gorgeous. Two, you're
*sodding* gorgeous. Three —"
"Porthos."
"Aramis —"
"The only reason I have not said this before is because I have not wanted to
risk you... not talking to me anymore," Aramis says, and also smiles ruefully.
And there's a push.
A big one.
Porthos grins. "Maybe now you know I'll never shut up?" And Porthos squeezes
Aramis's hand.
Aramis shivers. "I... I cannot lose you, my friend."
"No, you can't," Porthos says, and pushes Aramis's hand down to the bed, braces
his other hand on the wall. "You never bloody can."
"Porthos..."
"You never. Bloody. Can."
Aramis pants. "I do not know..."
"Mm?"
"Tell me what I can have. Since I cannot have your loss of control."
"I'm *going* to lose control, love. Just — not until you're squared-away. Not
until you're *safe*."
Aramis makes a small sound. "That... yes?"
Porthos growls. "I have so many *fantasies* about you..."
"Give them to me!"
"Here's one: the two of us, right here, positioned not so differently from
this. You've got your legs round my waist and I'm fucking you hard and *slow*.
Slow as I *can* — which probably isn't very, but it's a fantasy, so we're going
to say I have enough control to really torture us both with it —"
Aramis *gasps* a laugh — "Could we use the word 'torture' less when referring
to this act?"
Porthos's jaw drops —
Aramis grins wryly... and wraps his legs round Porthos's waist. "Which is not
to say that I am averse."
And the push for this —
The *need* for it —
Porthos takes his hand off the wall and *grips* Aramis's cock —
"Ahn —"
"Love holding your *prick*, love —"
"Fuck —"
"I think you should spend again."
"What — now?"
"I promise to keep talking," Porthos says, and winks.
Aramis laughs breathlessly and reaches up with his free hand for the corner of
the bed —
*Keeps* his hand there —
"Please! Please, make me spend!"
"Have a fantasy about tying you up..."
"Please do!"
Porthos grins and starts playing with that foreskin, tugging and stroking it
lightly, working and slicking it up with Aramis's own juices — "I'd do it
*nice* and tight, brother..."
"Please —"
"You wouldn't be going *anywhere*... once I had you bent over the foot of my
bed..."
Aramis *grunts* — and blushes so, so prettily.
"You like that, brother?" And Porthos tugs three times fast —
"Unh — unh *unh* — please — will you cane me?"
"*That* I don't know how to do —"
"I will teach you!"
"— but this is *my* fantasy, so I'll *spank* you."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I know it doesn't sound too exciting after all those canings, brother,
*but*..." And Porthos *grips* Aramis's cock, getting all his calluses into
play, and *drags* his hand off —
Aramis *yells* —
"Yeah. Think about that for a moment."
"Oh. *Oh*."
"That's right. You've had *far* too many fine ladies playing with you,
brother."
"I — I —"
"Shh. D'you think I could spank you until you spent?"
Aramis *blinks* — "I do not know!"
"What if I spanked your bollocks? Mm? Hanging low and vulnerable, just waiting
for a firm, rough hand..."
*That* gets him a garbled noise — and Aramis's long, pretty cock *jerks* for
him.
Porthos grins. "Good boy."
Aramis blushes hard. "Porthos — *Porthos*, please touch me, please touch me
more —"
"But you didn't answer my question, love. I don't think you should get rewards
if you don't follow the rules..."
Aramis's eyes widen —
He blushes even more *deeply* —
And there's something like a *stutter* inside Porthos, something like —
And Porthos — thinks he — gets it.
He *cups* Aramis's cock, not *too* gently, and lets him see the seriousness in
his eyes. "'s all right, love. Nothing's wrong. Nothing's *changed*. We're
still brothers. And we've always been lovers in my heart."
Aramis *grunts* — and looks up into his eyes. His eyes are even wider than they
were before, and his body is just a little tense.
Porthos puts Aramis's other hand up near the top of the bed and plants his hand
on his chest, instead, right over that pounding heart. "That's the problem,
isn't it. You're not used to doing this with *lovers*."
Aramis swallows and shakes his head *once*.
"Do you want to step back a little? We *don't* have to —"
"*Don't* — don't take this away!"
Porthos nods. He should've seen that coming. Aramis *never* wants to lose
*anything* — whether or not it's something that's good for him. This...
Porthos knows he can *make* it good.
"Then open right up for me, love. Answer all my questions. Follow all the
*rules*."
"What. What are the rules?" And Aramis is searching him hard.
"Honesty. *Complete* honesty. No lies — and no lies of *omission*, either. If
you're in this, you're in this all the way. You give me all of you — because
you already *know* I'll give you all of me."
Aramis pants and pants and — whimpers so high and *sweet* — "I do not *do*
this!"
Porthos *doesn't* say, again, that they don't have to. "I know."
"But. You do."
Porthos swallows and nods and — and thinks of all the *ways* he's done this in
the past, all the different *kinds* of lovers he's done this with in the past —
Treville.
"I do, yeah."
Aramis shudders *hard*. "You are so brave. You are so —"
"Be brave with me. Let me show you *exactly* how good it is. Let me *give* this
to *both* of us —"
And Aramis cries *out*, *gripping* at the sheets and — "Do it! Please do it! I
will — I will give you *everything*. I will — please ask every *question* —
*MM* —"
He has to kiss Aramis first, instead, kiss him hard, kiss him right down to the
bed, bruise his *mouth* —
Make him *moan* —
Make him shake and give and open up so *sweetly* —
Porthos pulls *back* —
"No —"
"Shh. Do I get to spank your *bollocks*."
"Anything!"
"Do you *like* that?"
"I — it has been done before and I have enjoyed it! But... I know it will be
different with you," Aramis says, and the blush is staining his cheeks —
He's panting and *panting* —
"Please. *Please*."
And this is not getting Porthos any closer to keeping his *own* control. This —
Porthos growls. "I need you to spend."
"Yes, Porthos, anything you wish —"
"I need you *loose*."
Aramis *groans*, and now the flush is spilling right down his *chest*.
"Tell me how to make you relax for me, brother. Tell me how to make you pliant
and loose and *open*."
"Oh, God, I — please, I..."
"Mm?"
"I do not know if the same things will *work*, Porthos!"
Well, that's a wrinkle. "That's fair. But we're going to try."
"Yes, Porthos! I — I like *pain*. I *do* like having my balls spanked very
hard, and my cock —"
"Is it punishment?"
Aramis *groans* —
Arches and *groans* —
"It — it..."
Porthos cups Aramis's bollocks and squeezes —
Aramis *shouts* —
"You know you have to answer, love..."
"Yes — yes, I — please! Please make me answer!"
*Fuck* — Porthos growls and *stops* squeezing —
Aramis *yells* —
"Answer me."
"Please, Porthos, *please* —"
"Answer me and everything comes back, love. Everything you want. Everything you
need."
And Aramis stares at him wide-eyed. Needy. So —
That *push* —
"Answer me and we *both* get what we need, love. I *promise*."
Aramis shudders all *over* — and smiles. "It. It has always been safe to tell
the truth to you."
Porthos *growls* —
"Yes, my Porthos, it has always been a *punishment* to have my balls and cock
spanked. To have them *hurt*."
"And. That's what you need?"
"*Please* —"
Porthos squeezes Aramis's bollocks *hard* —
"*Yes*!"
"Oh, Aramis..." And Porthos licks his lips and just *cups* those tidy little
bollocks, just warms them in his palm, rubs them *rough* with the callus on his
thumb —
"AH —"
Rubs them and rubs them and *rubs* them until they're *good* and sensitive —
"Please — oh, *please*!"
"Soon, love. Very soon now..."
"Yes — yes, please —"
And Porthos gets his hilt-calluses into it, rubs those bollocks between *both*
hands, *chafes* them —
Aramis *arches* —
*Sobs* —
*Grips* at the sheets —
"Almost, love. Almost there..."
"Please, my Porthos, *please* —"
"*Now*," Porthos says, resting Aramis's bollocks on his palm and *smacking*
them —
Smacking them again and *again* —
Aramis screams *high*, cock jerking and spattering them both —
"*Count*."
Aramis screams *again* — "One!"
"That's right, you just start from the *beginning*," Porthos says, and keeps
*smacking* —
"T-two!"
"Keep *going*."
"Three-four-five!"
"That's my love. That's my *boy*," Porthos says, and smacks him *hard* —
"*Six*!" And Aramis sobs, tosses his head, leaks all over his own belly —
His bollocks are already *red* —
Swelling up *beautifully* —
Porthos wants them in his *mouth* —
Wants to scrape with his *teeth* — but not yet.
He keeps *smacking* —
"Seven — I mean *eight*! Nine!"
Porthos laughs low and pauses, rubbing with *all* his calluses again.
Aramis groans and *shakes* —
"We never did discuss what I'm punishing you *for*, love..."
Aramis *grunts* — and focuses just that fast.
Porthos laughs again. "Will you tell me?"
"I — I have been..."
Porthos *starts* to ease his hands away —
"*Please! I must be punished for my *lies*!"
"*All* of them, brother?"
"My — my — I never should have lied to *you*! I knew from the beginning that
you were the most honest of men, the most open, the most — most *giving*!"
Porthos blushes *hard* — "Aramis..."
"Please! Please keep punishing me!"
"You're making me want to eat you *alive*, brother..."
And Aramis cries out, cock jerking again —
Porthos smacks those bollocks *viciously* hard —
Aramis *screams*, arching all the way off the *bed* —
And Porthos *shoves* him down, presses his cock to his slick belly, and spanks
*that* —
"Porthos!"
"You don't have to count anymore, brother..."
"*Please*!"
"You just have to *take* it."
"Yes — yes, I —" And Aramis *sobs* and tries to *buck* into the smacks, tries
to *fuck* into them —
His *cheeks* are wet —
He's tossing his *head* —
His belly's even *wetter* —
And Porthos can't wait. He grips Aramis *hard* by the base of his cock and
*sucks* him in —
Aramis *chokes* on a yell —
And then Porthos scrapes his teeth *all* the way up, slow and *mean* —
Aramis *yowls* and *spurts*, shuddering all over and obviously trying and
failing not to buck, not to *shove* himself at Porthos, not to *push* —
Good *boy* —
Porthos can't make himself scrape again, can't do anything but suck hard,
*milk* those bollocks, crush them up against his chin, rub them against his
beard —
Aramis *chokes* on *another* yowl —
Porthos needs to make him make that sound all the bloody *time* —
Porthos needs this *taste* in his mouth, this —
This *feeling* of getting just a little bit fucked and a lot *coated* with
spend —
So rich, so heady, so *musky* —
Not one thing dandified about this. Just pure, raw *male*, thick and coming
*violently*.
Just like the man himself.
Porthos wouldn't have him — no. That's not true.
Porthos wants him *every* way, right now, and forever after.
For now, though, he can suck even harder —
Aramis sobs and goes *rigid* — and spurts just a little bit more.
And *then* Porthos soothes Aramis with lips and tongue just a little, pulling
off and kissing the head of that swollen cock before taking those bollocks
*right* in for a nice, leisurely suckle.
Aramis groans and slumps, trembling just a little.
Porthos strokes him everywhere he can reach while he suckles, making sure to
rub that slick into his skin.
Aramis lies there and takes it, moaning and spreading his legs even wider.
And that...
Porthos pulls off with a gentler scrape —
Aramis moans more and tries to spread *wider* —
"Shh, it's over. The punishment's over now..."
"Mm? Yes?" And Aramis's eyes are wide and full and — so *open* —
So open for *him* — Porthos licks his lips. "Yeah, love. You did beautifully."
Aramis *beams*, bright and *young*, and it's not the first time Porthos has
seen that smile, but...
But now he thinks he knows a bit more about what it means. He grins back, and
shuffles closer on his knees, stroking Aramis's chest and shoulders.
"My Porthos... has wonderful hands."
"Your Porthos's hands want to be *on* you, love."
Aramis gives him a teasing smile that makes him look about *fifteen*. "Even
when they are on the Captain...?"
"Well, then they want to be on *both* of you —"
"At the same *time*?"
"Had that fantasy a lot — recently —"
Aramis stares at him *incredulously* —
And Porthos winces — "I think that was maybe too soon —"
"Do not offer not to talk about it!"
"I didn't! I won't!"
Aramis pants — and blinks. And laughs ruefully. "I must confess that I never
*considered*..."
"Figured that. *Belatedly*."
"You have made love with more than one man at the same time?"
"Not often, but yeah. Usually, it's been me, another man, and one or more women
for me, when it's been a big party like that."
Aramis nods thoughtfully, licking his lips and *probably* thinking about all
those times when they've shared a woman or two... but had never quite gone as
far as they could have.
And this is absolutely where Porthos *asks*. He cups both of Aramis's shoulders
and squeezes. "Tell me what you're thinking, love."
Aramis blinks —
Blushes —
And smiles *sweetly* again. "I am thinking... of the *next* time we patronize
Madame Angel's together, my Porthos."
Porthos grins. "We've a lot more possibilities laid out before us, love."
Aramis looks him over *greedily*. "I feel... as though I am at a *feast*."
"Do you, now."
"I — oh, Porthos, I meant to *tell* you that I sometimes spent when I was
punished like that —"
"Shh, I *wanted* you to spend. You know that."
Aramis takes a hitching breath — "It was never like that. Never that..." Aramis
shakes his head. "I do not think I have the words."
Porthos breathes out a growl — "It took you over again. All those feelings."
"Yes. Yes, *please*."
"It put you in a whole other *place*."
"With you!"
"That's where I want you, love. Right at my side. Right with me all the
*time*," Porthos says, and rubs Aramis's shoulders.
"Oh... yes?"
Porthos strokes up to Aramis's face —
Cups him there —
"Want to keep you, love. You were already my brother — and you always *will* be
that — but now." And the words want to stick in his throat. He won't let them.
"Now you're mine."
Aramis moans. "Yours?"
"*Mine*. And I'm yours."
"You said. You said that the Captain *claimed* you —"
"He did. And I gave myself to him. But I'm *also* giving myself to you."
"I. I must confess that I do not trust many with... my wealth," Aramis says,
and looks down.
Porthos tilts his face back up. "We'll make this work. I'm never going to let
you go."
"Never."
"*Never*."
Aramis licks his lips again, and nods, and gives him a steady look. "I believe
I would like to speak with the Captain."
"*Good*."
Aramis blinks — and then smiles ruefully. "I should not be surprised that you
would say that, I don't think."
Porthos smiles gently. "No, not really."
"My Porthos... my Porthos, I... need."
And there's a push —
An *ache* —
"Yeah, you do. Tell me what you need." And Porthos pushes his hands up into
Aramis's hair and tugs. "Tell me so I can give it to you."
Aramis pants. "I need... to serve..."
Porthos's cock jerks *hard* — "Is that so. Do you need me to *choose* how you
serve?"
"I... I can —"
"Would it feel *better* if I chose?"
Aramis moans — "Please. Please choose. Please let me serve you just as you
like," Aramis says, and he's flushed again, panting —
And the oil is still on the bedside table.
Right there.
Right... there.
Porthos growls. "You're going to serve me, all right, Aramis..."
"Please. *Please*."
"But you're going to be honest the whole time. You're going to be *open* with
me. You're not going to hide a single bloody thing. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Porthos!"
And Porthos picks up the little pot of oil and holds it between them. "I want
to fuck you, love."
"Please —"
"We *both* know you have some troubles with that —"
"They are nothing! *Please* do what —"
"*Wait*."
Aramis grunts — and blinks. "I — I will wait. I apologize, Porthos."
Porthos strokes Aramis's slick-sticky chest and belly with his free hand, then
licks his fingers. "You're so bloody delicious. You're so bloody *perfect*."
"I will be perfect for *you* —"
"The *best* way for you to do that is to make sure I know when *I'm* not being
perfect for *you*."
"I..."
"Yeah. That's hard. I *know* that's hard. *I've been where you are*. But
*believe* me when I say I want to know what you're feeling, how you're feeling
it, *when* you're feeling it. I want to know *everything*. Because the better I
make you feel, the more you *want* this. The more you *crave* this. The way *I*
do."
"Oh."
"The more you're *with* me."
"I always want to be with you!"
"Then you'll be a good boy for me?"
Aramis blushes again — "I will. I *will*."
Porthos pants. "Have you ever been tongue-fucked?"
Aramis coughs — "I... no. But — I thought —"
Porthos grins. "You're going to *serve* me, love. And I'm going to do this
right and *proper*," he says, and moves back. "Turn *over*."
"I — I —"
"You washed. Too much, if I know you at *all*. Now, are you going to make me
wait?"
Aramis *grunts* — and turns over, quick and graceful and just a little bit too
tense.
Porthos *smacks* that perfect arse —
"*Oh* —"
"Do I need to loosen you up this way again...?"
"I — I always appreciate it!"
"But do I *need* to."
Aramis moans. "I — I have enjoyed making love to women this way —"
"Shocking them. I know. I've *watched* you work, love."
"*Fuck* —"
Porthos laughs. "I think it's your *turn*, love..."
"I have *questions* —"
"Do you need them answered now?"
"One. Just — one?"
"Ask it," Porthos says, setting the pot down and massaging Aramis's arse.
"Has the Captain done *this* with you?"
"Not *yet*. He's teased me with it, though. Made me crave it something
*terrible*. I can't imagine what it'll be like with *his* tongue."
"Oh. *Oh*."
"*Exactly*."
"Why *hasn't* he —"
"No time the first time. The *second* time... I'm *reasonably* sure I'd teased
*him* just a little too hard for it."
"*Fuck*. You should not make me wish to learn how to tease *you*!"
Porthos snickers. "*Bad* boy. Just for that, I'll make a sincere and
concentrated effort to be *gentle* with you —"
"*Fuck* — I mean — I apologize!"
Porthos laughs *harder*. "Only as gentle as *absolutely* necessary, love. I
*promise*. Now give me a *taste*."
Aramis grunts *loudly* —
Pauses all *over* for a moment —
And then spreads his legs, turning his head and biting his *lip*.
"*Good* boy," Porthos says, spreading his arse wide and *tight* —
"Ah —"
"You don't know how many times I've spent just *dreaming* of what this view
*might* be like, love..."
"I... I..."
"You don't know how many times I've spent dreaming of *covering* this tiny,
flexing little hole in spend —"
"Hnh —"
"... and then licking it right up again."
"Oh. Oh, Porthos..."
"You like that idea."
"Yes. Yes, I —"
"It made you relax a little."
"I like. I like the idea of you... marking me."
"*Do* you, now. Making you mine? *More* mine."
"*Please*."
Porthos growls. "What about my slick on your hole, love. D'you want that, too?"
"Yes — oh, yes —"
"Then..." And Porthos lines himself up and holds Aramis spread with *one* hand,
rubbing the head of his aching, *dripping* cock round and round and —
Fuck, no, he needs to focus —
He needs to *keep* his focus — "How's that, then..."
And Aramis is groaning for him, hitching and groaning more —
Shaking and *clutching* at the sheets — but the push inside says that's not all
good.
That's not —
Porthos growls —
Aramis *stiffens* —
"Aramis..."
"Yes. Yes, Porthos."
"'m not pushing in."
"No. No, I know this."
"Do you?"
Silence —
Silence —
"Please..."
Porthos pulls *back*, replacing his cock with his fingertips. "Shh, shh, 's all
right, love."
"I — I apologize —"
"Shh, you've nothing to apologize for. Neither of us knew that would be too
much. *I* should've guessed —"
"No! Please, I *wanted* you there, I wanted to *feel* you —"
Porthos *presses* on Aramis's hole —
"*Oh* — oh, Porthos —"
"We can give you that feeling in other ways, at least at first."
Aramis pants —
Licks his lips —
"At... first?"
"Until you get a little used to things. Until you get used to the *routine* of
things."
Aramis laughs a little nervously. "I do not know how I feel about thinking of
making love with you as *routine*, my Porthos..."
"But some things *have* routines. That's the only way they *really* work,
love," Porthos says, and goes back to rubbing at that hole.
"Oh... oh that feels..." Aramis shivers and bites the tip of his tongue.
"You like it."
"It's... a wonderful tease."
"A tease, eh? You know what you're going to *get*."
Aramis blushes again — and turns enough to focus on Porthos as much as he can.
"I *think* I do, my Porthos. I have never been... fingered."
And that's —
That's about eight different kinds of too much at once, enraging and cock-
hardening and maddening and —
"Right, well, I'm going to do a bloody *terrible* job eating you out —"
"Oh, *God* —"
"But I need a taste. *I* do. I can't — I can't *fucking* wait," Porthos says,
spreading Aramis with both hands again and *diving* in, licking a long stripe
up his sweaty cleft —
"*OH* — "
"Just *wait*," Porthos says, and sucks *hard* kisses, *painful* kisses, right
down again —
"Fuck — oh, fuck — oh, *fuck* —"
"Do you *like* that."
"It — it — *yes*!"
"How about right here," Porthos says, and sucks a hard kiss *right* to that
hole —
"PORTHOS!"
That's more like it, that's more — mmm, so musky, so hot-sweet-*dark*, and
Porthos has to slip his tongue in there, has to *wriggle* it in there —
Aramis sobs and kicks the *bed* —
Porthos's cock *throbs* —
Porthos's cock *aches* — and he wants to share it with Aramis the way it seems
like he shares *everything* with Treville, every *moment* when they're close
enough, every —
And he's pulling back to *bite* that arse, bite all over, lick and suck —
No, bite, he has to bite more, he *needs* to bite, everything *in* him is
telling him to bite —
"Porthos! Please, Porthos, do not *stop*!"
And Aramis loves it, wants it, wants to be bitten, wants to be bitten all over
—
There.
Right there, just —
The back of his thigh —
And there's something —
His *teeth* feel *strange* —
But he can't think about that, he can't —
Aramis is under him, against him —
Aramis's flavours are all over his *tongue* —
He needs Aramis to *feel* him —
He needs —
He *bites* —
"*Oh* — oh, *Porthos* —"
And there's blood in his mouth, rich and strong, shocking and sweet-iron-
*flooding* —
For a moment, everything in the world is *green*, everything is —
And then he's sucking, lapping, lapping it all up and lapping to *heal*, you
have to heal the *wounds* —
"Porthos, what — I don't — oh, I think I feel —"
And Porthos can't wait, because the push comes with words this time, the push —
(— Porthos my Porthos so animal so — please more please more I know you *feel*
me please *MORE* —)
Porthos *snarls* and spreads Aramis wide again, shoves his tongue deep, *deep*
—
Aramis *screams* —
Porthos *fucks* him with it, holds him down, *takes* him, *tastes* him —
Aramis is shaking in his *hands* —
Aramis is panting and —
And flexing and *clenching* around him —
Pushing —
No, no, Porthos can have more now, he can reach, he can have, he can *reach* —
Even through Aramis's *sobbing* screams —
(fuck me fuck me FUCK me —)
Porthos growls like a *desperate* animal and pulls *back* again, licking and
licking, licking all the way up Aramis's arching *back* —
"I — *Porthos*!"
*Reach* for me!
Aramis *gasps* — (P-Porthos? Are you am I are you here?)
I'll never bloody let you *go*, Porthos says, grabbing up the pot of oil and
opening it, slicking his fingers — "*Spread* yourself for me."
"My *God* — I —"
"Aramis. Do you need me to *pause*."
"*No*!"
"Then spread yourself for me. Show me your pretty wet *hole*."
Aramis gasps a laugh and *obeys* — "But you have left many parts of me...
wet..."
Porthos growls. "Should I do that, then? Mm? Should I *mark* you that way?"
"*Porthos*!"
Porthos *growls* a laugh — and rubs at Aramis's hole with slick, slick fingers.
"My bloody *teeth* just got longer and sharper, and I only *think* I know how
to fix them. I think 'm allowed to have some questionable thoughts about piss,
love."
"*Fuck* — oh — *fuck* —"
"Especially since we *both* *already* had them — we need to talk about fucking
more than we do, love."
Aramis laughs *breathlessly*. "My friend, I'm afraid I must insist we leave
time to talk about our guns —"
"That *is* fucking for you."
"Oh — very true — please. Please, my Porthos, please do not make me wait any
longer!"
Porthos growls and *pushes* — just with one. Just with *one*, because Aramis
*isn't* experienced, and —
Oh, fuck, but he's already loosening up and relaxing for it. He's already —
He's gasping over and over again and *flushing* —
He's —
"Aramis..."
"Porthos — Porthos, did you say that your *teeth* had grown?"
"'m *shifting*, but that's not important right now —"
Aramis laughs more — and moans and moans and pushes up onto his knees, keeping
his head low.
"*Fuck*, Aramis —"
"You are. You are absolutely correct, my Porthos." (The important thing is that
I *serve* you.)
Porthos *snarls* — "Tell me — you have to *tell* me —"
"Your finger, it is big in me. *Hard*. But there is no pain. And I want to feel
more. I want you to fuck me with it. I want you to *open* me for your *cock*,"
Aramis says, and lowers his head even more —
Lowers his *face* to the sheets —
"Please, Porthos. Make me *ready* to serve you."
Porthos's cock jerks *hard*, spattering the backs of Aramis's thighs with slick
—
Aramis *gasps* —
And Porthos doesn't make him wait. He starts fucking Aramis with that one
finger, starts —
Starts *working* him, just —
Just getting that oil all *over* —
Pulling out and coming back with *more* —
Rubbing it all *round* —
Aramis is moaning and clenching and flexing and pushing *back* on Porthos's
finger in helpless little motions —
Porthos gives him a rhythm.
Nice and hard.
Nice and —
Aramis makes a *guttural* noise and clenches *hard* —
"I *won't* stop unless you need me to, love."
"No — n-no, do not stop!"
"You like it."
"Please! I mean, yes!"
"Here, how's this," Porthos says, turning his finger and *crooking* —
"*Yes*! Oh — oh — please do that! Please do that again!"
Porthos *rubs* Aramis's little pleasure-button, rubs it hard, rubs it *sweet* —
Aramis groans and *shakes* — and flexes right open.
And stays that way for thrust after thrust after —
Fuck.
"Aramis..."
"Please. *Please* —"
"Are you ready for another, Aramis? Mm? Are you ready for another finger?"
"Please — please let me feel — my pleasure-button again —"
Porthos crooks *hard* —
Aramis *shouts* —
"It'll be even better with two. I *promise*," Porthos says, and *works* that
button with his finger —
"I — I —" And Aramis groans and shudders and *sweats* for him —
Porthos leans in and licks his back again —
"*Please*. Please, I — I forgot that you would still — pleasure me —"
Porthos growls — "I'll never bloody *stop*," he says, and does his best to make
Aramis *feel* it, feel *him* —
Aramis groans more and *claws* at the sheets — (Yes! YES! Please MORE!)
More oil then, and two fingers, and they slip in —
Oh, so sweet, so *sweet*, and Aramis's moan is low and hungry and shocked all
at *once* —
He — "You never knew something that thick could feel that good..."
"N-no, Porthos..."
"You never knew you could *like* it."
"*No*, Porthos —"
"Like it *better*," Porthos says, crooking up hard and rubbing *harder* —
Aramis *screams*, sharp and high and *sweet* —
Aramis *immediately* begins *rocking* on Porthos's fingers —
"Oh, that's good, that's — that's bloody *perfect*, love —"
"I — I — please!"
"Please what, mm? Please fuck you?"
"Yes! *Yes*! I don't want to *wait*!"
"You have to, love. Just a little longer."
"Oh — oh, *please* —"
"The longer you wait now? The harder I can fuck you *later*."
"*Fuck* —" And Aramis stiffens, pauses —
So Porthos keeps up the rhythm himself, pushing in and in and, nice and hard
and just a *little* fast —
"Ah —"
"Yeah?"
"Ah — I — I cannot think!"
"Do you *want* to think?"
"I — I don't want to be afraid!"
"I won't hurt you, love. Not in *any* way you don't tell me you *love*."
"*Fuck* — fuck — Porthos, I want pain *now*!"
And that —
(PLEASE!)
Porthos growls and *spreads* his two fingers —
Aramis *yells* —
"How's that, then."
"Again! Please, again!"
Porthos spreads and *twists* —
"*HNH* — Oh, Porthos — oh, Porthos — but I want to be fucked! I want — I don't
know what I want!"
"Then let *me* choose," Porthos says, and starts fucking Aramis harder with his
two fingers —
"Oh — ohn — oh, *fuck* —"
Harder and *harder* —
"Yes, *please*!"
"Good boy, just take it..."
Aramis flexes open *beautifully* —
"*Good* boy," Porthos says, twisting *hard* and crooking harder than *that* —
Aramis screams again — and Porthos fucks him with his fingers bent, fucks him
*faster* —
Faster —
"Oh, God! Oh — oh, *God*!"
"Are you praying, love?"
Aramis gasps laughter again — "I am trying to!"
Porthos snickers. "Let me make it harder," he says, and gives it to Aramis
*rough* —
"*Fuck* —"
Gives it to him *nasty* —
"Oh, *fuck* —"
"Do you *like* it."
"*Yes*!"
"I thought you would," Porthos says, and keeps that *right* up, fingering him
open and *teasing* with the knuckle of his third finger —
Aramis is grunting and sweating —
Grunting and trying to spread his *legs* wider —
Shoving himself *back* into the thrusts —
"Such a good *boy* — "
"Your — your boy!"
"I can do what I want with you, then?"
"*Please!"
"I can spread you *wide* open?"
"Please fuck me!"
"You. You want my *cock*."
"I want to *taste* it again! I want to *swallow* — *UNH* —"
And Porthos is crooking his fingers too hard, too — he growls. He *growls*.
And he sodding well *focuses*.
"Listen. Listen. I'm getting close to the end of my thread, love."
"Oh..."
"Yeah. Yeah. So what's going to happen is this. I'm going to open you just a
little bit more. Just a *little* bit. Just enough that I *definitely* won't
hurt you too much when I'm fucking. You. *Hard*."
"NNH —"
"And then I'm going to *have* you. Just the way we *both* want."
"Please. Oh, please. Please don't wait —"
"Shh — just —" And Porthos growls and pulls out, pulls out and gets just a
little *more* oil, pushing in as slow as he *can* with three —
It's not slow.
It's not bloody *slow*, and Aramis is groaning, shaking, *biting* the sheets —
*Rolling* his hips back and back and —
"Oh, *Aramis*..."
(I NEED YOU!)
"You've bloody *got* me," Porthos says, and — and he forces himself to be
bloody *systematic*. Spreading his fingers a little carefully, twisting and
thrusting, closing his fingers and *just* thrusting a few times, crooking to
keep his love hot, so hot —
So flushed and hot and gorgeous —
So *ready* —
Almost —
He crooks —
Aramis *sobs*, but he never stops working his *hips*, never stops *taking* it,
never stops *working* to hold himself *open* —
Porthos can *feel* it —
And systematic goes out the window as he just works that pleasure-button again
and again and *again* —
Aramis collapses onto his *elbows* —
Aramis shudders and *groans* —
Clenches *tight* — and flexes open perfectly just like *that*.
Porthos wants to fuck him like this for a *year*, and he wants —
He wants in.
And he can have it.
Now, love.
Aramis gasps and lifts his *head* —
Porthos pulls out slow and steady and —
Fuck, he's shaking, too, he's —
He's so hungry, he's so —
More oil, more oil until he's *dripping* with it, and this is going to be
*hell* on their budgets, but it's worth it, it's *worth* it —
Everything *about* Aramis —
(*YOU*!)
"I *love* you," Porthos says, and grips his slippery-aching cock, pushes —
Oh, fuck, so —
So —
"So *hot*, my Porthos, you are so hot!"
"'m on *fire* —"
"Please please — oh, do not stop!"
Porthos snarls and *shoves* in, one long *push* —
Aramis *yells*, scrabbling at the sheets and gasping and yelling *more* —
And Porthos's mind is a roil, desperate, needy —
He has to —
He has to make sure Aramis is all *right*, but all he wants to do is grab
Aramis by the hips —
The *chest* —
The *hair* —
He wants to *ride* —
Aramis *clenches* —
Porthos snarls *helplessly* —
Aramis is gasping and moaning and *shaking* —
"*Aramis* —"
"I must. I must feel..."
"You — you need to feel me?"
"Right here. So deep. So deep inside me..." And Aramis moans again, pushes up
on shaking arms — "My Porthos, you are so *thick*..."
"D'you — it's — it's *easier* if — if I *move* —"
"I do not want — please — *please*. Let me feel a little longer? I must know
*this* feeling, this... this *ache* with no *pain*... oh, Porthos, you have
*taught* me!"
And Porthos groans and — can't. Can't.
He *grips* Aramis's hip with one hand and his *cock* with his other —
He gives that cock a *rough* stroke —
Aramis *screams* —
"Aramis..."
"On the other hand... please fuck me!"
"'s what I thought," Porthos says, and pulls out just a little way, just —
And then *in* —
"Ah —"
*In* —
"*AH* —"
In and in, in and *in*, over and over, nice and hard, nice and rough, nice and
*deep* —
"*Porthos*!"
"Get — get your hands on that headboard —"
"*Fuck* —" And Aramis scrambles to *obey* —
And Porthos fucks him hard once he's braced, *hard*, lengthening his strokes
just a little, just enough to *torture* that pleasure-button —
"*Porthos*! *PORTHOS*!"
"You don't. You don't know how badly I've needed you screaming my *name*,"
Porthos says, and he gives in to the need in him to cover Aramis, lick his
throat, *bite* —
"*YES*!"
Squeeze his chest *hard* with one arm and *work* that pretty cock with the
other —
And Aramis is wheezing out breaths now, gasping and getting *nothing*, but
Porthos can't let go —
(DO NOT!)
Porthos can't —
Can't let up for even a *second*.
He has to *pound* his love, give it to him hard and fast and harder than that,
tug on his foreskin, scratch it, bite his throat *hard* —
Take more of his *blood* —
And Aramis's scream is only inside them, but it's louder for that, more, all-
bloody-encompassing, and Porthos is fucking him *harder*, all but *rutting*, he
can't stop, he can't —
And Aramis *spurts* —
His cock *spasms* in Porthos's hand over and over and he *spurts* —
Porthos breaks the bite and laps and laps and *fucks*, *gives* it to Aramis,
fucks him right through his spend —
He's still *screaming* in their heads —
He's still *spurting* —
Still —
And Porthos wants him to keep going, wants him to lose *consciousness*, wants
to fuck him to sleep and then fuck him back awake again, wants —
Just —
Never stop, never bloody *stop*, and he has to bite *again* —
Aramis *slumps* —
His whole body goes *loose* —
The fuck is so *easy*, so sloppy-sweet-*easy* —
And Porthos is groaning into the bite and losing it, losing his mind, losing
*everything* —
(My Porthos... will never lose *me*.)
And Porthos bucks and spasms, everything going white and blazing behind his
eyes as he spills and spills and *spills*, *deep* in Aramis's arse —
He can't —
He can't pull out for *anything* —
(DO NOT!)
Not even to *see* his spend on that *hole* —
(... oh. Well. I suppose that is a reasonable — do not pull out!)
And it's *not* the first time he's laughed through a spend, but it *is* the
first time he's had blood in his mouth while he was doing it.
Delicious blood.
He spurts *more* —
He laps *up* more —
He thinks about licking Aramis's arse with blood in his mouth —
He spurts *more* —
(Porthos...)
And then *he* slumps, but tries very hard to do so onto his hands —
Which finally allows Aramis to get more than a sip of *air* —
He's gasping and wheezing and gasping *more* —
And Porthos... feels human enough to fix his teeth. He concentrates on doing
that, then licks them to make sure he did it right, then nibbles on Aramis to
make *absolutely* sure —
"Oh, Porthos —"
"Mm?"
"*Oh*. Your teeth are back to normal?"
"Mm-hm." And Porthos slurps his way off. "Spending gave me back a little
control."
"Oh."
"Are you — why do you sound *mournful* about that, love?"
"Ah..."
Porthos flexes his cock.
"*Yee* — I. Well. I did not get to *see* them very clearly from this angle, my
Porthos."
Porthos snorts and kisses Aramis's wrecked throat. "*Something* tells me you'll
get more chances."
"My Porthos, have you ever known me to be a patient man? Ever?"
"Well, you waited for *me*."
"I. Hm."
Porthos snickers and kisses Aramis all over his throat and shoulders.
"Oh —"
"How *are* you."
"I believe my Porthos can tell this thing for himself —"
"*I* believe my *Aramis* needs to learn how to follow orders a little better."
Aramis grunts —
Stiffens —
And goes loose, just like that, lowering his head again. "Yes, my Porthos. I
am... I am very well, indeed. I am *full*, and it is a *good* thing, and this
is shocking, but it is becoming less shocking by the moment. I. I already want
more."
Porthos hears himself make a noise — it was a rumble. It was —
Shit.
He really is *changing* —
"Porthos? Do you fear this? And... I *believe* that was a *good* sound, but —"
"It was an *extremely* good sound. A *satisfied* sound. And... I don't know...
Treville said I was coming into my powers, and that he didn't know why it was
happening now... fuck. I have to get more information."
"Oh. Tonight?"
Porthos blinks. "No, love. *Not* tonight. Here," Porthos says, and turns them
carefully out of the biggest wet spot, resting them on their sides. He spoons
up behind Aramis and holds him... just exactly as tight as he wants to.
"We... should blow out the candles..."
"I want to look at you a little longer," Porthos says, and kisses Aramis's
hairline. "How are you? Still all right with me in you?"
Aramis is blushing. "I can feel where the soreness will begin, my Porthos,
but... I see what you mean about good preparation preventing... difficulties."
Porthos — rumbles again.
"I find this sound very comforting."
Porthos blinks. "Do you? Even though it's not even a little human?"
"It's another part of you, my Porthos," Aramis says, and reaches back to stroke
Porthos's thigh. "More to the point, it is a part of you when you are happy,
and happy with me. I do not think I *could* find it off-putting."
Porthos rumbles and rumbles and buries his nose in against the skin behind
Aramis's ear —
He smells bloody incredible there —
Shit —
"The Captain makes this sound for you."
"I — all the bloody time, really."
Aramis nods thoughtfully. "Do you... speak? Silently? The way we began to
tonight?"
"No. I don't... it was just this *instinct* that told me I could *have* more
with you if I bit you."
(I am very glad you did...)
"Me, *too*, love —"
"But the *Captain* has bitten you *repeatedly* now."
"Well... that he has."
"Do you think that he is... holding back?"
Porthos *blinks*. "That... doesn't really seem *like* him, love."
Aramis makes a noncommittal noise.
Porthos squeezes him. "You'll talk. We'll *all* bloody talk. Get all this in
the open."
"Yes, Porthos. It will be as you say."
***** In which Treville tries again. Ish. *****
It's not that Treville expected any great, *fundamental* changes in Aramis
after the man had finally given himself to Porthos the way he always should
have — men, in Treville's experience, *don't* change in fundamental ways once
they've reached a certain age.
Still.
He has to admit that he'd expected the man to *dress* himself a bit more
completely than his usual after having been mauled by a partially-shifted dog.
Given the way Athos is staring fixedly at Aramis's throat — and the way Porthos
is laughing himself sick — Treville was not alone in his expectations.
This, however, is not at all what Treville should be thinking about as he
stands on the catwalk.
This —
He hadn't *meant* to *spy* on Porthos last night. He hadn't —
But of course he'd felt the shift taking him.
It's something *else* he should've seen coming, and hadn't, and —
And he'd *had* to be ready to step *in* should it have become necessary.
The fact that it hadn't is, as far as *Treville* can tell, pure, blind luck —
his own as much as Porthos's — and...
And.
That's just it.
He *could've* stepped in.
He *could've* reached for Porthos, brushed away the few meagre barriers between
them...
He could've looked *deep* — *deeper* — into his boy's mind and heart and.
And let Porthos look into his own.
The fact that he hadn't is, truly, just more of the same *continuing* failure
that Treville has been perpetuating since that day in the woods.
And the only reason it won't continue for *much* longer... is because of the
truly awful thing he's about to do just as soon as Porthos walks away from
Athos and Aramis...
Walks toward the mess, because his boy has *appetites* —
There, he's out of range.
Porthos... don't stop walking.
(What shit fuck fuck — SIR!)
This isn't the only thing I've been holding back from you. I need that to end
tonight.
(What — *what* —)
Come home with me. Come *home* with me.
(Sir, Aramis needs to *talk* to you!)
Treville has too much training to squeeze his eyes shut. My time is his own.
After tonight.
(You were listening last night. You were bloody — you were *watching* —)
Not everything. I didn't start watching until you began to shift —
(Fucking — *fine*. You still know he's *jealous*!) And Porthos isn't walking
into the mess.
Porthos is standing by the doors, looking *thunderous* —
He —
Porthos —
(SIR —)
Porthos. He will ask questions that I will not, *cannot* answer to anyone but
you *first*.
(What does that bloody *mean*?)
Porthos, go *inside* —
(Answer my bloody *question*!)
Treville growls — Porthos. It's... about your mother.
And Porthos looks right at him.
Treville can't —
He can't keep looking away —
(You. You know things about my *Mum*?)
Treville nods once, holding himself behind the strongest possible walls.
Porthos frowns. (I... I'll come.)
Thank you.
And then Treville forces himself to imprison himself in his own office. Just —
He's done it, for better or for worse, and now it can't be undone.
At least he'll have had his son in his home again, for a little while.
***** There are times when getting what you want is much, much worse than not
getting it. *****
Athos is not difficult to convince to join Aramis in retrieving Porthos from
the mess and taking him somewhere private so that they can all speak.
*Athos* does not know what it means that Porthos had stopped dead and simply
stared at the Captain that way —
Or does he?
How *much* does Athos know about 'Fearless'?
About everyone and everything that *surrounded* that man?
"I'd like to know what you're thinking in this moment," Athos says, with a
quiet smile on his face.
They are not far from the mess. They — but.
Aramis can *ask* some of his questions.
"Athos..."
"Yes?"
"Were *you* aware that our Captain is a witch?"
"Yes."
Aramis catches himself pursing his lips like a *particularly* sour old fishwife
—
No, no —
"You're going to tell me that his witchcraft has proven to be relevant."
"With *Porthos*."
"Hm."
Aramis growls and pushes into the mess, which is too full for them to continue
their conversation —
Porthos is sitting alone.
Porthos is not *eating*.
Porthos is staring at the wall with his spoon *clutched* in his hand —
"What..."
Aramis hisses between his teeth. "We will take Porthos out of here. We will all
speak in *private* —"
"Yes, of course," Athos says, shaking his head once and moving for Porthos
immediately.
It takes... too much time to get him moving.
He doesn't take his *soup* with him —
Athos gives him a worried look and gives the untouched bowl to one of the other
men, and then they hustle Porthos *out* of the mess —
Out into the daylight —
He is *silent* —
When Aramis *reaches* for him, his thoughts —
His thoughts are full of the Court of Miracles.
"Athos, we must take him —"
"No one goes to the east barracks anymore," Athos says, and he's leading them
in that direction.
"Ah. The fear of contagion. Yes, that is well enough," Aramis says, and holds
Porthos's arm tightly, keeps him *close* —
Tries —
But what had the Captain *said* to him?
What terrible thing...?
No. Porthos will *tell* him, tell *them*, and they will —
They will *ease* it among them —
They will do it here, in this cool and dim and dusty...
But there, and there, are places where the dust has been disturbed by large,
healthy men.
Athos sets Porthos down on one of the bunks where the dust had already been
disturbed —
"The two of you come here often," Aramis says, because he cannot stop himself.
Athos nods once. "Porthos... talks me through my many difficulties here. I talk
to him about Thomas here."
Aramis winces and nods. "I would like to speak to you about him... whenever you
wish. Wherever you wish."
Athos gives him a bleak look for that, and the night's drinking is in his
reddened eyes, and — so much more.
Aramis cups Athos's shoulder and squeezes firmly. "I need this part of you."
"At some other time, I would very much like to know why," Athos says.
Aramis opens his mouth —
But Athos turns to Porthos. "You seem to know why he's like this —"
"Only some of why. The Captain *spoke* to him."
Porthos frowns direfully — and puts his face in his hands.
*Athos* frowns. "Spoke... when? We were all together, and —" But then Athos
blinks, and looks back and forth between Porthos and Aramis.
"Athos?"
"My mother... she told us, once, that Treville was capable of things other men
were not. Including communication without speaking aloud, if certain other
conditions were met..."
Aramis nods. "Porthos is *also* capable of this. Now."
"That's extraordinary. That's... we'll be able to *use* that for our missions
—"
"Yes, of *course*, Athos, but —"
"Have the two of you been...?" And Athos is honestly *excited*, honestly
*thrilled*, which is always good to *see*, but —
"*Athos*," Aramis says, and nods to Porthos *pointedly*.
"I — yes, of course. He's incapable of focusing on our conversation right now —
whatever Treville said to him *silently* was too devastating — hm. *How* were
you able to connect to him?"
"I — he bit me. Are you suggesting that we all connect, Athos?"
"Yes. Never mind the tactical utility. When I am having... difficulty, Porthos
often *forces* me to focus on him and only him, often goes so far as to pin me,
to... to hold me down and *take* my focus until I am unable to lose myself to
difficult things. We can do the same, Aramis. And we can do so *directly*."
Well, then. Aramis considers — for not very long at all. He pulls his dagger.
"Where?"
Athos peels his training shirt back and offers his forearm. "Somehow I doubt
I'd be able to pull off neck-scars with quite as much aplomb as you do."
Aramis grins and slashes carefully. "Actually, he bit my *thigh* first..."
Athos huffs. "Tempting, and yet. Will you —"
Aramis shivers. "Yes," he says, and lowers his head —
And licks gingerly at the runnels of blood escaping from the slash — not bad.
Not —
Not — too strange...
Hot and strong and —
Athos gasps —
Athos *groans* — and Aramis realizes that he's suckling at the wound he'd made,
that he's kissing, licking, lapping, trying to get *more* —
He needs so much *more* —
(Of — of my *blood*?)
Oh...
And there is laughter in his mind, bright and unfamiliar, *happy* —
(Yours, Aramis.)
Aramis blinks —
(To be more exact,) Athos says, and tugs his arm away, eyeing the oozing wound
critically. (My laughter for you. The laughter I have always had for you.)
Athos...
Athos is flushed, looking away — (Your wounds — they appear very old. Scarred.
How...?)
Are you changing the subject?
(With malice aforethought. I — please.) And *then* Athos looks at him — and
there's an image, within them all, of Athos's hand on Aramis's face.
A dream.
A *fantasy* —
Aramis swallows and *stares*, as dim as a boy — no. It is easy enough, after
last night, to change the image they're sharing, to change it to one of Aramis
turning his head —
(Away, you must turn it *away* —)
— and kissing Athos's hilt-calluses.
Athos grunts.
Aramis raises an eyebrow.
"We —" And then Athos stops, shakes his head. "I didn't mean to speak aloud —"
We should, perhaps, practice at speaking *this* way if we are to reach for our
brother —
(Yes. *Yes*. And I — I didn't mean to —)
Porthos... taught me much. About what I truly did and did not desire.
Athos stares *hard* at him. (I'd like to know how he did that.)
I'll tell you everything —
(Will you?)
Aramis turns to Porthos, whose thoughts are full of a smiling, beautiful, dark-
skinned woman —
She is tucking him into a nest of blankets on a tenement floor —
She is feeding him what appears to be a fish stew —
She is *singing* to him, songs from many languages, songs full of laughter and
love and —
This is his *mother*. This is —
(Oh... I don't. I don't want to take him from this...)
No. Never, but... Aramis reaches specifically for everything that feels like
*Athos* —
(I'm here, I'm — what —)
I wanted — I wanted to tell *you*, specifically, that I apologize for every
time I have not been entirely honest with you. Especially about my feelings.
My... my needs, my wishes, my desires —
(Aramis, I cannot take you to task for *that* —)
But I can take *myself* to task for it, my friend. I... And Aramis looks to
Porthos again, looks to his other brother and *love* —
So *lost* —
So *hurt* —
Aramis sits beside him on the hard bunk, and Athos takes his other side. He...
took me in hand last night, Athos.
(Oh. Do you mean...)
He gave me... discipline, and great care.
Athos swallows, and his eyes are wide. (I don't think it would surprise you
that I have wanted such things.)
Aramis blinks — and smiles. Not with *thought*, no. And I believe Porthos would
feel the same.
Athos nods somewhat jerkily. (What did you give? In return for that gift?)
Porthos asked for my honesty. My openness. My *absolute* openness.
Athos raises an eyebrow. (And this was something you could give?)
Aramis smiles wryly. With help. There were... fits and starts. But he kept
pushing me, and urging me, and — of course he was giving me everything about
himself at all times.
(He always does.)
Aramis sighs. We are lucky men, my friend.
Athos takes a breath. (I — you know Porthos and I haven't —)
I know it is only a matter of time —
(With Treville? And *you*?)
That is a very flattering degree of incredulity —
(Aramis.)
Aramis grins, and knows it is more than a little wolfish, knows that it is
*speaking* —
(More than you think. You're hoping to use me, in part, to *separate* Porthos
from Treville.)
Aramis *blinks* —
Athos's eyebrow goes up again — but.
They are sharing thoughts.
There is no room for lies, or dissembling.
Both of you have asked me time and time again if I trust the Captain. Each time
I have said yes, because... because I trust him more than I do *not* trust him.
But this does not mean that I trust him with Porthos's *heart* — or *ours*, for
that matter, should he choose to try to separate Porthos from *us*.
"He would *never* —"
*Silently*, my friend. We are *practicing* —
(*Aramis*. I can understand you not *knowing* Treville well enough to trust him
— you have *always* been an admirably cautious man — but you know *Porthos* —)
Porthos is in *love* with the man. Porthos spoke of being *claimed* by him —
and of *accepting* that claim!
(And then he spent the night with you,) Athos says, and raises his *eyebrow*
again.
Athos. This trust you have for Treville — is it built on the man he is?
(*Yes* —)
Or is it built on the man he showed himself to be when he was being your kind
and loving *Uncle*?
(The two are the *same* —)
Are they? Because Porthos tells me stories of a *filthy* man, a *deviant* man,
a *boy*-loving man —
(He's all those things, but he's still *honourable*. I trust my parents'
judgment even where I do not trust my *own* —)
I believe he has kept *secrets*, Athos. I believe — Aramis growls and focuses
on Porthos again, and finds him poring over and over a single memory of his
mother talking about —
Happier times.
Friends.
Aramis blinks. He does not know this memory. He does not —
He looks closer —
"But *who* were your friends, Maman? Where are they? Why can't we see them?"
And Amina smiles with rueful pain. "I have lost them, sweet boy. Do you
remember what your Maman told you about dark magic?"
"I'm to stay away! Stay *safe*!"
"And?"
"Be good to the witches! Be re-spect-ful!"
"That's *right*. That's. That's not enough, but it's..." And Amina turns away,
frowning hard.
"Maman? You can teach me more! I'll listen! I promise!"
And the light from the two candles on the table flickers in just the right way
that they can see how thin Amina has gotten, how *old* she looks, how *sick* —
"Or — or you could tell me more *stories* —"
"*That* is what I will do, sweet boy."
"Good! About what?"
"My *friends*. They were taken from me by a dark, dark magician — a very bad
man!"
"Oh, no!"
"But maybe, if you're very lucky..." And Amina's expression crumples like
parchment for a moment —
"Oh, Maman, no, don't cry! Don't cry!"
"I will *not*," she says, and smacks the table with the flat of her palm,
making the candles flicker more —
Her skin has a *grey* tinge —
Her cheekbones are *sharp* —
"No — no — tell me *about* your friends, Maman!"
"*Yes*. There was the *wild* one, with fox-red hair, and he was *very* pretty,
and *very* funny, and he was *always* running after pretty girls!"
"Oh! Like you, Maman?"
And Amina laughs then, bright and rueful. "*Yes*, like me. Like I was *then*,
sweet boy. Much more meat to my bones, like *you*," she says, and pinches
Porthos's cheek.
"Maman!"
Amina laughs more. "He was always after me, but sweetly, *respectfully*. *Just*
like his friend, my *other* friend —"
"OH! What was *he* like!"
"A vast *mountain* of a man, sweet boy! Tall as a *tree*, and *covered* with
wavy black hair. How I loved to braid and unbraid it while he rumbled his big
belly-laughs and told endless stories about life in the countryside. His
eyebrows bristled like caterpillars, and his beard flowed all the way down to
his *belly*."
"Didn't he get *food* caught in it?"
"You know, I *never* saw him with food caught in his beard. He was a very
*neat* man — much neater than his friends and brothers. *My* friends and
brothers."
"There were *more*?"
And Amina's breath — hitches.
"Maman? Were there?"
"One more, sweet boy. One more... good, good brother."
"What was *he* like? Was he tall? Was he pretty? Did he laugh a lot?"
And Amina smiles, soft and happy and *hurt* and obviously remembering. "He was
not so tall, and he was not so *pretty*, but he laughed *all* the time, and.
And I thought he was beautiful."
"But —"
"He had jokes, and so much..." And Amina shakes her head. "Even when his
brothers were not there, he would come to me, and we would spend all night
laughing and talking about absolutely everything. He would tickle me, and I
would *punch* him for it, and he would teach me how to punch him *harder*."
"*Oh*."
"He taught me how to use knives *very* effectively — this has saved our lives
*many* times, sweet boy — and every time he *saw* me use a knife on someone, he
would sigh like your Maman was the most beautiful woman in all the world..."
"You *are*, Maman!"
And Amina laughs again, and wipes away a tear.
"Maman —"
"Shh, sweet boy, all is well. I only miss him."
"Did you *love* him?"
And Amina's eyes are wide and hollow and hurt and old. "I always will."
"Oh, *Maman* —"
"He is... he is so much..."
"Is he — is he a guard? Is that why he's so good with weapons?"
"He is a *soldier*, sweet boy. A *Musketeer*."
"*OH* —"
And the candles flicker again —
Amina is *clutching* at her abdomen —
"I... I cannot say more, sweet boy..."
"Maman? Are you —"
"It's time for me to... lie down for a little while," she says, standing and
immediately staggering —
Porthos runs to her side —
He's so *small* — but she still needs his help to get to their nest of
blankets.
She still needs his *support*.
He tucks her in and sits over her, petting her face and singing to her as she
mutters in her fitful rest —
And Porthos pushes them both back from himself. From his *memories*.
Porthos —
"I — need. Another minute," he says, aloud, and shudders.
Athos looks at him from across Porthos's bent shoulders.
And that — You know what I am *thinking*, Athos —
(Yes, I do, but it's frankly too incredible —)
*Athos* —
"Just — just wait. Both of you *wait*," Porthos says, and *pants*.
Aramis winces and — forces himself to something like calm.
"No, wait, I have to —" And Porthos takes Athos's arm and licks at the still-
oozing wound —
"Oh — oh — Porthos —"
"I'm healing you, mate. I'm — fuck, you taste good," Porthos says, and licks a
*long* stripe —
Athos groans *hungrily*, squeezing his eyes shut —
And all of their minds are filled with images of Porthos *taking* Athos's
mouth, kissing him hard and *demandingly*, forcing his tongue *deep* —
Porthos *grunts* — and growls.
Athos *pants* — "I apologize —"
Porthos sits up straight and *pulls* Athos into a kiss —
"*Mm* —"
(I've wanted to do this for a *long* bloody time, brother,) Porthos says, and —
takes Athos's mouth. Kisses him hard, kisses him hungrily, kisses him
*viciously* —
Athos *clutches* at him —
And Aramis — watches. And wonders how exactly he *feels* about —
(You want in on this,) Porthos says, and never stops kissing Athos, even as he
reaches back to twine his fingers with Aramis's own. (You want kisses of your
own — and more — and you want *Athos's* kisses, and you're also jealous, and
you're also impatient to break my *head* with what you *think* about Treville.)
I. That is accurate. Porthos —
Porthos breaks the kiss and turns to kiss *him* —
To *bite* him, his lips and his jaw —
"I want that," Athos says, panting and low —
(You'll *have* it,) Porthos says, and finally kisses Aramis's mouth again,
*fucks* Aramis's mouth with his tongue, lets him *taste* Athos's blood again —
So rich —
(Yeah, you liked that...)
I don't know *why*!
(That's just one more question I need to ask Treville tonight,) Porthos says,
pulling back to suck Aramis lips, lower then upper.
"What — what?"
Porthos pulls back the rest of the way and licks his lips. "That's what he said
to me today. That he needed me at his manor tonight. That he *had* been hiding
things from me, like *you* said, Aramis —"
"What — he was *listening*?"
"He *felt* me start to *shift* last night —"
"You started to *shift*?"
Porthos turns to Athos. "Just my teeth, but yeah. Apparently, I'm *connected*
enough to Treville that he could feel it when that happened... and he started
to monitor —"
"He started to *spy* on you!"
Porthos winces —
"Aramis, my parents were always very clear that the shift could be exceedingly
dangerous," Athos says —
"*Why* did they know that?"
Athos and Porthos raise their eyebrows at him, and that —
That is *infuriating*, but —
"I usually try not to think about it *especially* deeply," Athos says —
Aramis growls and stands, starting to pace. "When will the two of you
*understand* —"
"I —"
"I understand *enough*," Porthos says, and rubs at his own temples.
"*Porthos* —"
"*Wait*."
Aramis snarls — and waits.
"Thank you," Porthos says, and doesn't look up. "That memory you both were
looking in on. *That* one. I don't think about it too much. I usually *avoid*
thinking about it, because my Mum didn't get *up* too many more times after
that."
"Oh — oh, no —"
"Brother..."
"Yeah. No more stories. No more tight, close hugs. She was dead within a week
and a half," Porthos says, and scrubs his hands over his face, breathing deep
and looking at nothing. "If you'd asked me, most of the time, why I put so much
time and effort into working to become a Musketeer... I would've said something
about making a better life for myself — and for my friends. I would've said
something about making something of myself. And I would've *believed* that was
the whole of it, never thinking of that story.
"That man my Mum loved.
"Bloody *Treville* —" And Porthos growls and beats at the bunk with his fists —
And the triumph Aramis feels is — sick. So sick.
He swallows.
He sits back down beside his love and *holds* him —
And Athos cups his shoulder. "Brother... are you *certain* —"
"I am. And you are, too. You *know* my Mum was talking about Reynard and Kitos,
too. You *know* she was."
Athos winces. "The descriptions... seem clear." He shudders. "Do you think you
are... Treville's son?"
Porthos squeezes his eyes shut —
Makes a *terrible* sound —
Aramis hugs him *tightly* —
"The way he bloody *talks* to me..."
"What... what way is that, brother?"
"The way he *is* with me — fuck, 's like once he let himself off the bloody
*lead* a *little* bit, he couldn't *stop* himself. He calls me 'son' all the
*time*. He talks about me being his *boy*. He... he *treats* me like his son,
like his *beloved* son, and I've. I've come so close to just... giving it back
to him. Calling him *Daddy* and *begging* him to accept it from me — fuck.
*Fuck*," Porthos says, and covers his face again.
This time, Athos hugs Porthos, as well, but — "I... it truly is difficult to
believe that Treville would do... *this* if Porthos truly were his son."
"Men will do *anything*," Aramis says.
"You speak as if you were not one yourself."
"I speak this way because I *am* one —"
"But *incest* —"
"He calls him *son* while they are *fucking*, Athos!"
"He said. He said he wanted me in his arms from the very first moment I walked
in his office," Porthos says, and his voice is low, flat, *lifeless*.
"I..."
"He said." And Porthos *growls*. "He *said* he's been *starving* for me for
bloody *years*."
"You haven't known him for — oh." And Athos swallows hard and obviously
painfully. He is... so pale.
And this is not what Aramis wanted.
This is —
He does not *know* what he wanted, but —
Porthos laughs with pain. "You wanted me *away* from Treville, love."
"Yes, but —"
"I still have to go to him tonight. I still — I need this information. I need
every *fucking* thing he can tell me —"
"You *don't* have to go alone," Athos says —
"No, you —"
"You don't have to go at all," Treville says, from the doorway. He's backlit,
and slumped, and —
And they're all standing *reflexively* —
Aramis is *snarling* again —
He and Athos are moving to stand in *front* of Porthos —
"'Monitoring' again, sir?" And Athos raises an eyebrow.
"I felt..."
"*What* did you feel? Mm? Your *son*?"
Treville takes a shuddering breath — and a further step into the barracks,
closing the door behind him. "Aramis. I feel my son every second of every
minute of every *day*."
Porthos makes a desperate sound — "So it's true? It's bloody *true*? You
*arsehole* —"
"Wait —"
"*No* —"
"Son — *Porthos* —"
"Oh, for fuck's *sake*, I can't — how *could* you?"
Treville winces hard. "I needed you. I still do. But —"
"But *what*? What does that — I can't — fuck, why are you even *here*? I
*agreed* to go to your — your bloody *manor* —"
"I want — I want to protect you from that — to give you... space —"
Porthos *coughs* a laugh —
"You are doing a *supremely* bad job of that, *sir*," Aramis says, and rests a
hand on Porthos's chest —
His breathing is so *rough* —
"Sir. You *must* admit that the timing of this is *terrible*," Athos says —
Treville growls and pushes a hand back through his hair. "I'm not your *blood-
father*, Porthos. I'm not — your mother and I never made love. Not — not that
way."
And, for a moment, they're just all staring at each other. They —
And then Porthos growls. "What the sodding fuck does that *mean*?"
"It means that your mother — my Amina-love and I were *bound*. *Magically*.
*While she was pregnant with you*. I could. I could feel you, in the womb. I
could feel you every *day* of your *life*. But I couldn't touch you. I couldn't
*find* you — I'm getting ahead of myself —"
"What — you're *not* my father?"
"I *am*. I *am* in *every* way that matters. I was going to *marry* your
mother. I was going to *adopt* you. I — fuck. You were *mine*. I loved your
mother so *much*, son. She was my friend, my sister, my *love*. We spent — so
much time together. I know she told you about me in that memory... was there
ever anything else? Did she... did she ever..."
"She would talk *vaguely* about how friends were the best thing, how you
shouldn't have friends you couldn't call your family — she *couldn't* tell me
anything, you arsehole! Every time she *tried* she got *sicker*."
Treville *whines*, high and pained and *hungry*, *animal* —
"What — what *happened*? Tell me what *happened* — what — *who* is my father?"
"The Marquis de Belgard — or the man who *would've* been the Marquis, if I
hadn't murdered him for his *attempted* murder of you and your mother."
Porthos grunts —
Athos stares —
And Aramis —
Aramis tries to take everything in, tries to watch for lies, for half-truths,
for —
For everything *wrong* —
"He was supposed to put your mother aside when she fell pregnant. He didn't. He
didn't even after you were born. He didn't — and my Amina-love refused to take
my help — or your father's help, Athos. She didn't want to be indebted to any
more nobles. She didn't —" Treville growls. "Belgard's parents were livid about
the 'affair'. I don't know which of them ordered Belgard to have the two of you
killed or risk disinheritance, but it was done, and Belgard found a madman of
an assassin to do it."
"What — what *is* this?"
"Everything I've held back, son. I — I have... some of your mother's things at
home... they're all for you —"
"*Fuck* —"
"But let me... let me tell you —"
"You said you were bound to my Mum."
"Yes. Because my Amina-love had witch-guardians growing up, and one of them —
Ife — had a prophecy that she would need a protector. That she *and* you would
need a protector. They tried to find an appropriate one among the West African
immigrants — they tried to find one without telling my Amina-love they *needed*
one — and when that didn't work, and when Amina found out... well, there was
apparently a lot of shouting.
"Amina got them to pick me. I was happy to do it, especially since it meant I
would be that much closer to Amina. We were..." Treville shakes his head. "We
weren't lovers then. Not like that. But after, once we were bound, once we were
blood of each other's blood, once we were *part* of each other..."
Athos frowns. "Sir, were you lovers or *not*?"
"We... didn't go quite that far," Treville says, and scrubs a hand over his
face. "We were..." And Treville looks to Porthos —
"You were *what*?"
"I only wanted to be sure that you were *comfortable* —"
"They're my *brothers*. They can know *everything* about me!"
And Aramis can feel... everything about this moment.
All of Treville's *pride* in Porthos —
All of Treville's *hunger* for him —
And more than that, as well.
So *much* more, and Porthos is shuddering, moaning —
They are looking *deep* into each other's eyes —
And then, after what feels like a small eternity, Treville nods once and says,
"This, son."
And they're all watching Treville tucking baby Porthos away in a crib —
Porthos is sleeping —
And Amina moves up beside him. "Our son is beautiful..."
Treville's breath hitches, and he reaches to pick Porthos up again —
Amina swats him. "Leave him *be*."
"You never. You never said that before."
And Amina — younger, healthy, plump, wicked-eyed, and smiling Amina — reaches
up the short distance to cup Treville's face.
"Amina-love —"
"Kiss me."
Treville growls needily — "On. What kind of kiss would you like."
Amina *rumbles*. "My knight should know by now to not be so polite..."
Treville's eyes *flare* — "Your knight doesn't have to be."
And they're pushing closer to each other, nuzzling at each other's mouths,
nipping and growling —
"*Amina* —"
"They say — they say you are the only husband I will ever *need*..."
Treville pants and licks her, licks her all over her *face* —
"Oh, sweet brother —"
"You're my *wife*," Treville says, and kisses her hard, kisses her with his
*long* tongue, kisses her and holds her *tight* —
(Yes!)
Grips her *arse* —
(Oh, my husband, *yes*!)
(*Fuck* — I'll *never* let you go —)
But Amina pushes him back —
"Mm? Amina —"
"I — do not get me *too* excited while I am still *healing*, sweet brother,"
she says —
And Treville's expression is one of mournful *shock* —
Amina laughs at him and pats his cheek. "You have your *mission*, sweet
brother. I *will* be ready for you — *finally* — when you come back. If not, I
will murder the midwife."
"I'll bloody *help* —"
"No, no, this is women's work. Now come to bed with me. We will diddle each
other and *pretend* it is enough."
"And you're *sure* I can't shove my head up your skirts for at least a little
while?"
"My husband —"
"*Fuck* — every time you *say* that —"
"If you *do* that, I will wind up *riding* you —"
"Oh, *fuck*, oh, fuck, I'll make it so good for you, Amina-love, I —"
"And... I... am trying to remember why I do not want this."
They stare at each other for long moments.
Treville stares at Amina's *groin* for long moments.
And then Amina giggles, and snickers, and *caws* —
And swats Treville *repeatedly* —
Treville grins and lifts her into his arms —
"Jean-*Armand*!"
"I can't help it, Amina-love, you're light as a bird without your passenger —"
"That is our *son* you are speaking of so cavalierly —"
Treville rumbles and rumbles and carries Amina to bed. "He'll have the best of
everything —"
"He'll have you," Amina says, and cups Treville's face with both hands.
Treville groans — "*Amina* —"
"I fell in love with you on the *first* night, my husband. I am glad that you
have finally caught up."
Treville growls and kisses her again —
Again and again —
And the memory fades, until they're all looking at each other again in the dim
and gloomy barracks.
Aramis checks on Porthos — and finds Athos doing the same thing.
Porthos is weeping silently, and this is —
This is too *much* —
Aramis can't stop himself from *clutching* him — but.
There is a warmth inside Porthos. A... pleasure?
"Porthos?"
"She was happy. She was happy with him."
Aramis turns to look at Treville, expecting to find him turned away, but...
He is staring almost fixedly at Porthos, with his hands clenched into tight
fists.
He —
Porthos jerks his chin at him. "You were in love with her."
"Yes."
"You — you were going to bloody — I was going to be a *Treville*?"
"I still want that, son. I still —"
"We're *fucking*!"
"Is that all it is to you?"
Porthos rears back —
Treville steps *closer* —
"Bloody *stop* —"
He does. He *does*, and Aramis and Athos start moving in front of Porthos again
— but Porthos doesn't let them, this time. He pushes them back and closes the
distance between himself and Treville and *looms* over him —
"You don't get to do that to me —"
"Son — "
"You don't get to — to *manipulate* me —"
"I *need* you!"
"Bloody *how* do you need me? As a son? A lover? *What*?"
"As everything I can *have*. You — I have *starved* for you, son. I have
burned, and ached, and *frozen* for you. When you were stolen from me, there
was a *hole* ripped in my *soul* for twenty *fucking* years — and I lost... so
much of myself. I tore Belgard *apart*, piece by bloody *piece*. I strung him
up by his *intestines* on his own lands while he was still *alive*. When I
found his assassin, I cut pieces off him until he *laughed* himself to death.
When I found the death-mage who stole your mother's life — who *put* the spell
on you both that kept you *from* me —"
"What — what?"
"You were *hidden*, son. My Amina-love fought off Belgard's assassin with you
in her *arms*, and couldn't use her magic to do it, because the fucking
assassin just happened to be bloody *immune*. She was frightened. She went to
Guillou — a death-mage *her* guardians never would've recommended, and that —
that *monster* *forced* her to *give* her life — and her past — away. And the
only way she could've told anyone the truth about her past... well. You *know*
what happened to her!"
"*Fuck*! But how did *you* find out?"
"I made *allies*. I sought out all the allies I *could*. And I finally found
one who could scry with the possessions of your mother's that I still had — and
who could track with the information we gleaned. We made a *mess* with Guillou,
son," Treville says, and shakes his head. "We made a mess, and, when we were
done, I imprisoned him in my rapier, where he'll scream, day in and day out,
until the rapier is *dust*.
"And I starved for you. For *you*."
Porthos lifts his chin and swallows. "Because. You could feel me."
"Every day. Every *second*. I. Son..."
Porthos closes his eyes and — shivers.
And Aramis can feel him —
Aramis can feel him.
"There is one thing you have not explained, *sir*," Aramis says, and crosses
his arms over his chest.
"There are many things I haven't said, Aramis, but I can guess what you're
about to ask. And, in brief, I have *no* good answers for why I didn't tell
Porthos this before we began making love."
Aramis narrows his eyes.
Athos firms his lips into a hard line. "Were you afraid he would say *no*,
sir."
"Perhaps. I never asked myself the question."
Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Never?"
"Never," Treville says. "My thoughts never traveled that far beyond 'I have to
tell him' once Porthos would say or do something which aroused me sufficiently
that I lost... all control."
"But you *didn't* lose control —"
"Not of my body, son. Just... of everything else."
Porthos frowns.
"Then why did you not tell him *before* he seduced you? You did not seem so
lost to your lusts in the months prior to this."
"No," Treville says, "And I wasn't. It had been my plan, prior to all this, to
leave the past *in* the past. Porthos broke the enchantment hiding him from me
by walking into my office looking for me... but he appeared to be all but
magic-blind, and there were no signs that he felt... any of the things I was
feeling." And Treville turns to Porthos. "You were a young man looking for a
better life, and a life of honour. I wanted to give you just that —"
"And not the bloody *truth*?"
"I —"
And Porthos punches Treville hard enough that he hits the floor.
Treville pants and rubs at his jaw. "Son..."
"That's for every bloody *second* you spent congratulating yourself for
*protecting* me from my Mum's *smiles*."
"*Fuck*."
"Did your *allies* teach you to keep *secrets*, Fearless?"
"*Son* —"
"Did they teach you —" Porthos growls and shakes his head. "I'm done with this
conversation."
Treville scrambles to his feet — "Son, don't —"
"I can't *talk* to you anymore right now, Treville!"
"You're the blood in my *veins*!"
And Porthos just stares at Treville for long moments, panting and wide-eyed and
*wild*-eyed.
"Son, *please*."
"Not *now*," Porthos says, and walks out.
Aramis grips Athos's arm for a moment —
(Follow him. I... find I need to speak with my Uncle.)
Aramis nods and goes.
He will take care of his love.
***** It's definitely the same conversation. *****
Perhaps the worst part about this — this *moment*, is that it isn't as bad as
it could be.
Treville *knows* what that is.
Right now, Porthos is approximately six hundred yards away from him and moving
east by northeast.
Right now, Porthos is being flanked by an *extremely* dangerous man who is
*exceedingly* willing to do whatever it takes to protect him, should it become
necessary.
Treville knows that just as well as he knows how quickly he's healing from
Porthos's punch, loosened teeth and all.
The All-Mother protects Her children. That's a lesson he'd needed an ally to
teach him, too, considering the fact that the rituals that *made* him and Amina
children of the All-Mother had been designed to *bypass* the goddess as much as
possible...
And this isn't the first time Treville is asking himself if She could have
helped his Amina-love.
It won't be the last.
It —
The cut on the inside of his lip closes with a sharp, final sting.
And this isn't as bad as it could be.
He can *feel* his boy.
He can *point* to his boy.
His boy is as safe as he *can* be, with Aramis at his side.
If he felt like being even *more* of an arsehole, he could shift into dog-form
— Porthos doesn't *know* the dog to recognize him — and track —
Just to be *close*...
"This was... you never showed any sign of this, when you came out to our
manor," Athos says. Not quietly. Not diffidently.
He's preparing to put Treville on the spot.
A part of Treville only wants Porthos here so he can *see* it.
But. "Your parents put a lot of time and effort into helping me through my
grief, son."
Athos raises an eyebrow. Which...
"Was that a surprising answer?"
"Not at all. I simply find myself wondering how I should take it, from now on,
when you use the word 'son'."
Treville — flushes. "I asked for that."
"I rather think you demanded it, sir."
Treville barks a laugh and pushes a hand back through his hair. "I've always
been... inclined toward paternal emotions."
"There's more to that you didn't —"
"Especially toward the young men I'm attracted to sexually," Treville says,
letting it be bald, letting it be... everything it is.
But Athos only nods. "For how long?"
That... Treville raises his own eyebrows.
"Porthos prepared me for my own attraction to you, sir. He's quite good at
conversations like that."
Treville *blinks* —
"I take it you weren't 'monitoring'...?"
"I gave him his privacy until last night. I..." Treville shakes his head. "I
*intended* to *continue* giving him his privacy. When he began to shift, last
night, I was terrified for his and Aramis's sakes. I thought I would have to
take *control* of Porthos to keep him from hurting Aramis by accident. But...
we were all lucky."
"And it was Porthos's memories of his mother that called you to him today?"
"I can't... they were moments I'd never seen," Treville says, and smiles
ruefully.
"And it never occurred to you that Porthos might want the same thing —"
"Not soon enough. Not *well* enough."
"What does that mean?"
Treville sighs and, finally, pulls his handkerchief to dab at the blood on his
chin. "It means that I did have second, and third, and fifth, and *tenth*
thoughts about keeping the past from him —"
"You should've listened."
Treville cocks his head to the side. "Do you ever intend to tell me the truth
about Thomas, son?"
For a moment, there's nothing but black pain and *horror* in Athos's eyes, and
Treville feels exactly like the arsehole he is.
"I — I apologize. That was out of line —"
"I'm not sure it was."
"Son —"
Athos looks away. "If I'm to excoriate you for lying to your *family* about
shared grief..."
"I'm older, son. *Theoretically*, I know better and have a thicker skin."
Athos bares his teeth, and turns back to face him. "Don't."
Treville takes a breath. "Athos. Perhaps we should try to have one conversation
at a time."
"I believe it's the same conversation."
Treville frowns. "Is it?"
"You left us after our parents died."
"I can never —"
"Don't apologize. Simply tell me why."
Treville — takes another breath. "Laurent wanted court for you. I wanted you
*here*. I knew *you* wanted to be here, and that *Thomas* wanted court. I
didn't trust myself not to manipulate you both into going against my brother,
lover, and dearest friend's wishes."
"You didn't trust us to be adults."
Treville grunts —
"We had, in fact, planned between us to explain to Father that his wishes for
us were impossible and more than a little ridiculous, given our respective
temperaments, talents, and abilities. He and Mother died before we could have
that conversation... but." And Athos raises an eyebrow.
Treville winces... and turns away. "I never tried to have a real conversation
with you boys."
"You have a problem with that."
Treville winces *harder*. "Son..."
"You took pleasure in us — I know you did. It was always abundantly clear that
you enjoyed our company, even when it was *also* abundantly clear that we were
being hopelessly strange to you."
"I loved you both from the days you were *born* —"
"It was..." Athos moves closer, and wets his lips. "You don't know how much of
a relief it was when you visited. How much of a *balm* it was, away from the
parties, away from everyone and everything that never made any sense, at all."
Treville frowns and reaches for Athos — and isn't at all sure what to do.
Athos isn't Olivier, whom he could grab by the back of the head and pull in for
hard kisses to the temple.
He isn't —
"Did you desire me then?"
Treville drops his hand. "Yes. I loved *training* you. And there were a lot of
reasons why you only ever got one rubdown from me."
Athos blinks. "I... remember that."
"Do you? Do you remember smiling up at me and telling me —"
"That you had... wonderful hands," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow again. "I
was speaking therapeutically."
"Hmm. Well. My *cock* didn't want to hear that, son."
"I. You were thinking of seducing me?"
"*Fervently*. And vigorously, once I escaped back to my own rooms."
"You're something of a satyr, sir."
"It's been said before, but, really, I'm just a dog."
"Did you..." And Athos frowns and turns away.
Treville — can't take that. "Son? What is it?"
"I would... look in on Thomas, every night. From the time I was old enough for
Mother to explain to me that, as the eldest, it was my duty to protect Thomas."
Treville frowns again. "How old were you then?"
"Four, I believe."
"I —"
"Did you desire Thomas?"
Do you want to protect him from me?
(I want to protect him... I want the *chance* to protect him —) "Please answer
my question."
"I wanted him all right, son. He was beautiful, and strange, and brilliant, and
mouthy, and *affectionate*. Still and all, it was easier to keep my thoughts
relatively clean around him."
For a moment, Athos only stares at him with *confusion*.
"Son? That's... difficult to understand?"
"Frankly... yes. For all the reasons you listed, and so many more."
Treville smiles softly. "I miss him, too. I miss him *terribly*. But, you're
asking about *desire*. *My* desire."
"Yes —"
"I'll always prefer a boy with a blade in his hand, son. Simple as that."
Athos blinks.
Treville raises his eyebrows.
"That's so... *limiting*."
Treville barks a laugh. "I didn't say I *wouldn't* have made a *sincere* effort
to tumble him... had he not been Laurent's and Marie-Angelique's son."
"But —"
"But... don't you think we're traveling a bit afield?"
"Are we? I don't *know* you, Uncle. I thought I did."
Treville shivers. "It... it's not so *uncommon* for younger men not to know
their older relatives —"
"Did Father know you? *Truly* know you? Did Mother?"
"*Yes*."
"*Did* they?"
"Athos, *yes*. They knew everything *about* me. My brothers, my family — I
couldn't hide back then. Not effectively. Ife... when I was bound to my Amina-
love, when I was *changed*, I tried to joke about how I suddenly had a bloody
*dog* cock. I said, 'this is going to be a bit hard to hide, Ife.' *She* said,
'harder than you think, boy. Dogs aren't *meant* to keep secrets.' And she was
*right*. It was so *hard* to hide *anything* about myself after I was changed.
So —" Treville barks another laugh. "I *needed* my brothers — *and* my Amina-
love, *and* your mother — to keep my secrets *for* me, since I couldn't do a
bloody thing *like* that."
"You... no?"
"Not at all, son. I pissed on every-bloody-thing. I slept with Reynard's
breeches round my head. I broke off maneuvers to bring down deer. And, of
course, there was the dog-cock that every pretty little boy in France got to
know about."
"That... is. Sir."
"Mm?"
"*Why* are you the Captain?"
"Because your father *decided* I was going to be the Captain years before *he*
was the Captain, and began moving the spheres to *make* me the Captain at that
point. I'm reasonably sure he started doing it when we were all still bloody
*Army*. I certainly wasn't much help."
Athos stares at him.
Treville smiles ruefully. "I'm just a man. Not even. I'm just a *dog*. I
couldn't... I've made so *many* bloody mistakes, and I'll make more in the
future. But. I learn from them, son. I do. If you give me a chance, I'll make
it *right* with you. I'll make it right with *all* of you, as much as I bloody
can —"
"You'll be honest with us?"
"I'll *never* tell another lie. I'll never *hide* anything — ah, son, I've been
*lonely*. I've been *cold*. A man gets to thinking... strange things in the
cold. A man gets to thinking that his friends, his brothers, his family, his
loves — he gets to thinking that they don't *want* the truths of his heart.
That they could *never* want those things."
Athos grunts, shaking his head and starting to step back, just a little.
And Treville nods. "I know. I know you understand that."
"Sir..."
"I know you've been cold. I know you've bloody *frozen* since you lost your
brother."
"Don't —"
"*Tell* me about it. Don't hide from me, son. Don't — Let me grieve with you.
Let me... *give* me this," Treville says, and grips Athos's shoulders. "Give me
this and let me *be* your family again. The right way."
And, for a moment, the scar doesn't matter, the beard doesn't matter, the
leathers don't matter. It's Olivier and no one else looking at Treville, wide-
eyed and hurting and looking for reassurance from someone older and wiser.
Treville growls and pulls him *in*, holding him tight and *keeping* him —
"If you can only touch me when I'm feeling especially vulnerable, then we may
have a problem, sir."
Treville *coughs* a laugh. "Son —"
"I... had a wife..."
And Treville represses a shudder. This...
This can go nowhere good.
"Go on, son. Tell me."
Silence for long moments —
*Long* moments — Treville squeezes Athos *tighter* —
And Athos presses his face to Treville's throat. His beard is soft. The scar on
his mouth is hard. He is —
"Oh, son... whatever it is. *Whatever* it is —"
"I've missed you, Uncle," Athos says in Olivier's voice.
Treville growls and — he's clutching too *hard* — "I won't let you go anymore,
son. I *won't*."
Athos nods. "I can't help but wonder... you've been... sharing. Your memories.
And so has Porthos."
"You'd like to share yours?"
"I'd like to — tear them out of my mind — please. Please tell me how."
"Reach for me, son. Reach... for everything you know about me, everything you
*want* to know — oh. There you are. There's my boy."
"Sir — sir..."
"My poor, hurt... and behind so many walls," Treville says, turning to kiss
Athos's temple. "Now you just have to pull those walls down, son. Just... let
me see what you need me to see."
Athos makes a sound that's pained and *sick* —
"Shh, shh..."
"I — don't..."
"Don't what, son?" I've got you...
(Oh...)
I won't let go for anything. I was a *fool* to let go in the first place —
(But. You've learned... from your mistakes.)
I *have* —
Athos shudders — and all of his walls drop, at once.
And the woman is beautiful. Tall, strong, dark, and obviously intelligent,
obviously —
Laughing with Athos in the — small — de la Fère dining room over an intimate
dinner —
(I was. I was Olivier then...)
Oh, son...
But.
The woman is riding with Athos — *Olivier* — on the de la Fère lands —
Allowing herself to be tripped into the grass and wildflowers and laughing more
—
She has a gap between her teeth —
Her legs are just as strong as her arms as Olivier bares them —
As Olivier hikes her dress up and up and — but.
But those are Marie-*Angelique's* clothes —
And the memory — skips.
Changes —
The woman is soaked to the skin in ruined clothes in the foyer of the de la
Fère manor, and she's telling a story — a *story* — about carriages with thrown
wheels and dishonest, dastardly servants.
She's too strong — too muscular under that dress.
Her hands are too rough.
Her name — Anne de Winter — isn't... right.
And Treville catches himself trying to make Olivier *see* that —
(I did. I was still... enchanted.)
Son —
(Do you see how she looks at me?)
Like she's sizing you up to see if you can take her in a fight?
(*Yes*. And — the way she looks at my scar.)
Oh, son...
(No woman had ever looked at my scar quite that way before. I had to see more.
I had to have more.)
And now 'Anne de Winter' is lying about going to a ball with her aged aunts,
and Olivier is subtly helping her with the details —
And 'Anne' is smiling, delighted, thrilled —
And sizing Olivier up in different ways.
(Yes. Yes. And I. I had never. Porthos knows. Porthos understands...)
What does he understand, son?
(He... I didn't... I didn't have...fixations on other people in my adolescence,
unless you count my need for you to *visit* more often. I didn't... Porthos
calls them *pashes*. I didn't *have* them. )
Treville blinks. Not... one?
(*No*, sir. Attraction, sex — it didn't make *sense*. I didn't *want* it. I
didn't — I thought I would never *require* it, and I talked to Father countless
times about how I thought I would never want a wife...)
Oh, son... 'Anne' changed your mind.
(Anne *taught* me. Anne taught me... everything I knew of love.)
Where was *Thomas* —
(On holiday in Greece. He. When he came back, we spoke.)
Did you —
(I... here.)
And Thomas is there, in the main de la Fère library. He's just a little brown
from his holiday, and his loose, shoulder-length curls are burnished gold.
He's frowning, and reaching for Olivier, who is gripping at one of the shelves,
and —
"Brother..."
"I. Know what you wish to say."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
Thomas frowns more deeply for a moment, and then shakes his head once. "I
only... I know you love her, and it's clear that she is a woman of great
accomplishments, great —"
"Stop."
"*Brother* —"
"I know... that she is not entirely..." And Olivier growls. "I know she isn't
who our parents would have *chosen* for me," he says, and turns to face Thomas,
at last.
And Thomas inhales sharply — and swallows, and nods. "You've chosen her for
*yourself*."
"*Yes*."
"The way we..." And Thomas nods again. "You're happy?"
And Olivier smiles with obvious helplessness. "I don't believe I've ever been
happier, brother."
"Oh —" And Thomas launches himself at Olivier like a much younger boy, hugging
him tightly and kissing his cheeks —
"Thomas —"
"We'll make — a new family!"
The memory cuts out immediately after that —
Athos is *shuddering* in his arms —
The walls are growing *between* them again — and Treville touches them. Just...
touches them.
*Asks*.
(Tear them *down*.)
Treville growls and does it, casting them aside — and finding a memory of
'Anne' standing over Thomas's body. She's covered in his blood, holding a
bloody *knife* —
She's standing in a vast puddle of his *blood* —
She looks *stunned* —
And then she doesn't, because she's noticed that Olivier is in the doorway.
She starts telling a story of Thomas attacking her, Thomas trying to *rape*
her, Thomas —
Treville growls and holds Athos tighter —
"I found out, after I had Anne hanged —"
"Oh, *son* —"
"— that Thomas had begun investigating her before we had that conversation in
the library, and had simply never stopped —"
"Fuck. *Fuck* — what did he find. What did *you* find?"
"Ultimately... nothing I hadn't already known. She was no noblewoman. There was
no one of the name 'Anne de Winter' in existence. She had never been to any of
the places she had claimed..." Athos shudders. "I wonder, often, why she
thought she had to kill Thomas —"
"*Son* —"
"I wonder why Thomas felt he had to continue his investigations behind my
*back* —"
"Don't —"
"I wonder... I wonder what happened, sir. I wonder if he confronted her. If he
demanded that she be *honest*, perhaps for the sake of the *family* he hoped to
build among the three of us. I wonder... if she understood..."
Treville snarls and *shoves* Athos back —
"No —"
"I will *not* let you go, son. I will *not*."
"Don't — don't —"
"I've got you. I'm holding your shoulders *tight*. I won't let you *go*,"
Treville says. "Now look at my eyes," he says, and makes them gleam.
Athos grunts and *stares*.
"Good boy. Good *boy*."
"Sir... I — I —"
"I need you to do something for me right now, son."
"Sir?"
"I need you to focus on me — only on me — and do a little exercise with me.
Just like we did when I was training you. Can you do that?"
"Of course, sir! I — I will always —"
"Shh."
"Yes, sir!"
"There's a liar. You know he's a liar. He lies about everything — absolutely
everything, from his name, to where he's from, to what he wants out of life...
everything."
Athos shudders hard, eyes widening —
Treville makes his eyes gleam *bright* —
Athos grunts — and focuses.
"That's right, son. Stay with me."
"Y-yes, sir — yes..."
"The liar hurts your family. *Badly*. What do you do."
"Make — make sure he sees *justice*. But —"
"Shh."
"Sir, she might not have — she could have — Thomas could be so — so
*precipitous* physically —"
"And her first response to that sort of thing was to whip out a blade, son? Did
you see *that* before?"
"*No*, but. I. I saw the violence in her," Athos says, and pants —
And shudders again —
And *pants* — "I was *attracted* to it!" And he sounds like he wants to be
*whipped* for that, like he wants —
"Son. There's nothing *wrong* with that."
Athos blinks. "What... what?"
Treville squeezes Athos's shoulders firmly. "A boy with a blade, remember?"
Athos grunts. "I... I... but..."
"The difference is that I put the blade in an *honest* boy's hands, son. In the
hands of a boy — or a woman — I can *trust*. And you've learned that lesson. I
know you have."
"Sir..."
Treville strokes up to Athos's face. He cups Athos's face, neatens his beard...
"Son. I can see you know. I can see your *love* for your brothers. You learned
about love the hard way, but you *learned*."
"Yes — *yes* —"
"And you know they'll accept you. That they'll love you right back, and keep
you close and safe and *warm*, even when you're bloody freezing inside."
"That. That is... more difficult to — sir, do you expect me to *forget* my
wife?"
Treville smiles ruefully. "No, son. You never will. You never can. Not when
it's love."
"Then... what?"
"You have to walk away from her."
"I —"
"You have to walk away from the *paths* you've worn in your *mind* about her.
You fell in love with a liar who did the worst thing she *could* do to you.
*You* did the only things *you* could do, given the tools you had at your
disposal at the time."
Athos opens his mouth —
"You're about to argue with me. You're about to say something about making her
be more honest, or about being more aggressive with Thomas, staying *on*
Thomas... well. How's this: You confront her about her lies, she attacks *you*
in a panic, and things go clumsily enough — luck is a bastard — that you
accidentally kill her yourself."
"*No* —"
"Where are you then?"
"I — I —"
"Or you decide not to trust your brother, your *only* brother, who was *always*
sensitive to your opinion of him. He falls into a welter of self-doubt. 'Anne'
is a wedge between you. None of you find out *anything* about her, at all, and
you continue on... but Thomas leaves —"
"I can't — no — *no* —"
"You marry Anne more officially, and bring her into Parisian society, and
someone else susses out her past — more of it than you did. Who does she attack
then? Do you ever get your brother back?"
Athos wrenches himself out of Treville's hands —
"I can't let you do that, son."
"I just — I can't — *please* —"
"I promised not to let you get away from me —"
"Please, I can't — I can't *think* —"
"No. You *haven't* been thinking for two *years*, son. And how could you have?
The grief was *killing* you," Treville says, and *yanks* Athos close again.
"You're *starting* to think now." And he tucks Athos's face in against his
throat —
Noses in behind his ear —
"Son. None of this comes easy. None of this *will* come easy —"
"Sir —"
"Shh."
"Yes. Yes. I — yes, sir."
Treville strokes Athos, and kisses the space behind his ear. "You won't find
peace tomorrow. I can't promise you that. I never would. But you can walk away
from... so much of your pain. So much of your *hurt*."
"I — don't think I deserve to do that, sir."
Treville kisses him again. "I think we can agree, son, that you're not always
the best judge of yourself. Now can't we."
Athos grunts — and pulls back slowly. Just enough that they can meet each
other's eyes. "You. You truly don't... hold me... accountable..."
"I hold you accountable for keeping this from me, son. I hold you accountable
for *stewing* in this *alone* when you might have had —" Treville rumbles and
shakes his head. "But you even knew better about that, didn't you. You told
Porthos, and then you told Aramis."
"Y-yes. I... I couldn't — I needed —"
"You *knew* what you needed and you *took* it," Treville says, and smiles. "My
good boy."
Athos stares at him, blinking and obviously a little stunned.
"Come on, let's get you back to my office. You actually *need* a drink right
now —"
"I. I feel like I'm speaking with my Uncle."
Treville raises his eyebrows.
"I mean — for the first time. In a very long time."
Treville knows his expression is — crumpling.
Athos winces hard. "I — I didn't say that — I didn't mean —"
"Shh, son. I left you boys alone when you needed me. I *left* you. And I will
always, always hurt for that."
"Will you berate yourself as I've berated myself, sir?"
Treville smiles ruefully. "Yes. But I won't let that keep me away from you,
son. Not ever again."
Athos swallows, and nods thoughtfully. "I. I believe I am ready for that drink
now."
"Let's go."
***** Aramis loves you more than life itself, Porthos, and believes in you even
more than that. He has deep, deep doubts about your ability not to hit that,
though. *****
Porthos stares at his perfectly inoffensive tumbler of wine and tries to will
it to be something stronger, meaner —
And then he bloody *stops* that, because what if something actually *happens*?
"That would certainly be a very exciting continuation of our day, my friend,"
Aramis says, and takes a drink of his own wine.
They're sitting in a dim corner of one of the taverns that get most of their
custom from Musketeers — and it's quiet, because it's the middle of the bloody
*morning*, and the Musketeers who are *worth* anything are *working*.
"Porthos."
Porthos doesn't say anything.
"Porthos, I do not think I can allow you to take yourself to task —"
"I know," Porthos says, and drinks.
And drinks more —
And pours more and drinks that — "I know."
And Aramis is looking at him.
It *should* be a sharp look. A stop-brooding-and-start-*talking*-look. It's
not. It's soft, and warm, and understanding —
Porthos looks away.
(Does my Porthos wish his Aramis to be more cruel?)
And that...
That's warmth, and love, and *heat* —
That's every mark on Aramis's bared throat, every *scar* —
And the one hidden on Aramis's *thigh* that Porthos can feel like —
Like the other end of a lead.
Porthos licks his *lips* —
"My friend, are you trying to stare *through* the table at my thigh?"
"... yes."
"... is it working?"
".... no."
"Shall we go somewhere where you might have an easier *time* viewing my thigh?
Perhaps with a stop on the way to *purchase* a lead —"
"Oh, fuck."
"And a collar? Not that I wish to cover these lovely marks —"
"Oh my God, Aramis —"
"But my Porthos, he has many good *ideas* —"
"You are *killing* me —"
"How *long* have you wished for your Aramis to be your pet?"
"I — I — well, there was that *one* fantasy the first day —"
"The first *day*? No, do not let me stop you," Aramis says, leaning in, folding
his arms on the table, and grinning *broadly*. "*What* was this fantasy."
And Porthos just has to stare. Just has to — "You're so bloody gorgeous."
Aramis licks his *teeth*. "Yes? Then you will reward me for my beauty —"
"I'll *reward* you all bloody *night* —"
"— and tell me every *filthy* thought that goes through your *mind*."
"Well."
"Yes? Yes?"
"We were on the street, right? When we were talking."
"Oh, yes. I wanted a pastry —"
"And you were licking your *fingers* even though you had *gloves* on, and that
was *ridiculously* hot —"
"I do not let honey go to waste, my friend —"
"You *really* don't, and you have no *idea* how many times I've wanted to lick
it out of your *mouth*, but — that day."
And Aramis's eyes are bright, sparkling —
So *eager* —
"You should not *tease* your Aramis!"
"My Aramis. Mm. My Aramis does a damned good job of taking his Porthos's mind
away from his troubles," Porthos says, and smiles wryly.
Aramis opens his mouth — and closes it. And offers his own wry smile. "Not good
*enough*, my friend."
"No, no. I — I'm going to say this, because I *won't* tease you like this —"
"*Good*!"
"And then.... then I'm going to actually talk about what's in my head."
"You must not *rush* yourself —"
"I can't take having this sitting on me, love."
"It has barely been *hours* —"
"'s still too much. I can't —" Porthos shakes his head and smiles ruefully. "I
feel like my head is full of everything that I'm not saying, everything that
I'm not *doing* — I don't know how Treville *took* it for so long."
Aramis inhales sharply. "He... is not like you, my friend."
"I —"
"Ultimately, there are a vanishingly small number of people who *are* like you
—"
"Aramis —"
"I am, in fact, only assuming that there *are* other people like you in this
world of liars and *secret*-keepers..." And Aramis smiles wryly again.
And Porthos blinks. And gets it. "You... understand him."
"I... would not say that."
Porthos frowns. "What would you say, then?"
"That I have had words and thoughts and feelings stopped up inside me for very
long periods of time, my Porthos. That it has seemed like a very good idea to
*keep* them stopped up inside me. That... I..." Aramis winces. "Please, *you*
must talk. *You* must share —"
"Aramis..."
Aramis looks down. "I... I am not being very —" He looks up again, and this
time his eyes are *pleading*. "Please, my Porthos, tell me your thoughts. Or...
show them to me? I *apologize* for —"
"Don't — don't. Don't apologize for that," Porthos says, reaching across the
table and taking Aramis's hands in his own. "I needed that."
"No —"
"*Yes*. I needed —" He shakes his head once. "You *do* understand him."
"*No* —"
"Love... I can feel it," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows.
Aramis winces. "I... you must let me *apologize* —"
"You've nothing *to* apologize for. Did you think I'd think you were disloyal
or something? Just because *I* don't understand how *either* of you could live
with years of lies in your heads — it's not that I can't love you. It's not
that I *don't* love you. I'll *always* love you."
Aramis shudders hard. "And... him?"
"That's harder."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Because, on the one hand, I do love him. I think I loved him before I
knew who he bloody *was*. Athos told me the other day that he always *knew*
that I was fixated on him, that he always knew I wanted to know everything
*about* him. And I just — what's that even *about*? Where did that *come* from
— well, no, now I guess I *know* that," Porthos says, and squeezes his eyes
shut. "Fuck. *Fuck*." He opens his eyes again — "He's my *father*, Aramis."
"But... not your father by blood...?"
Porthos shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. If the magic didn't change
everything, then how he treats me, how I've *let* him *treat* me... how I've
treated *him*..."
Aramis cocks his head to the side. "Still, I think it was different, for you,
when you did not have this information about the magic."
Porthos licks his lips and thinks about it for a minute. Just — "Yeah. Yeah, it
was, you're right. It was... sex. More than sex. Making *love*. In *deviant*
ways, but still. It wasn't... it wasn't... this."
Aramis nods. "And now it *is* this."
"I have to... I have to find some way to..." And Porthos growls and releases
one of Aramis's hands so he can cover his face.
"You must find a way to... come to terms with having your father as a lover?"
"Oh, God. I was going to say that I had to find a way to give him *up*,
Aramis!" And Porthos drops his hand —
And Aramis — looks at him.
And *this* is the sharp look.
*This* is the hurry-up-and-stop-being-an-arsehole-look.
This — "Aramis —"
"Forgive me, my Porthos, but I was under the impression that we were still
dealing in the realm of the *possible*."
Porthos *coughs*. "I can — I —"
Aramis raises an eyebrow at him.
Porthos slumps. "What. What am I supposed to do, Aramis? What am I supposed to
do with this?"
Aramis squeezes Porthos's hand. "You are supposed to be happy, my Porthos."
"I —"
"I believe you already know what you must do in order to have that."
And Porthos knows he looks — wrong. Hurt. *Weak* —
Aramis growls and squeezes his hand *hard* —
"I'm *sorry* —"
"*Porthos*. I am not saying you must take Treville back right *away* —"
"But you are, love."
"*No* —"
"I can't have this bloody hanging *over* me. I can't —"
"You also —" Aramis growls again and leans in. "And what will you do if you
move too quickly for yourself and *flinch* when *he* moves to touch you?"
"*Fuck* —"
"*That* is one of the things which stopped my mouth, my Porthos. That — the
*idea* of flinching for your touch, of *fearing* your touch —"
"Oh, *fuck*, Aramis —"
"Give yourself this, because there is nothing else you *can* accept. But... you
must also give yourself time. A *little* time."
"I don't... I'm not sure how to *do* that, love."
And Aramis smiles ruefully. "Perhaps... it will be *my* turn to teach?"
Porthos takes a breath — and blows it out with a shudder. "What's my first
lesson?"
Aramis pours them both fresh wine with his free hand. "Drink, my Porthos. Calm
yourself. *Distract* yourself."
"But —"
"Let your mind focus on *other* things."
"Bloody *how*?"
"Well..." And Aramis grins sharply.
Porthos blinks. "What —"
"You owe me a *fantasy*, my Porthos."
"Oh —"
"*You* said you would not *tease* your Aramis..."
"*Shit* —"
Aramis laughs, low and *dirty*. "I am willing to forgive my Porthos... just
this once..."
Porthos *chokes* on a laugh —
And Aramis smiles at him softly — and winks. (Play with me. Rest with me. Take
your *ease* with me... and let your mind work on the problem of your *father*
while you are safely away from it... for a time.)
Porthos blinks. "Does it *work* that way?"
Aramis shrugs. "For many. For me."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. My mind was doing *much* work on the thorny problem of *you* while I was
thinking of... oh, all sorts of things."
Porthos licks his lips and nods thoughtfully.
Aramis raises an eyebrow and taps on the table.
Tap, tap, tap...
Tap, tap, tap...
Tap, tap... tap...
Porthos laughs hard. "It *feels*... it feels like I'm *shirking* —"
"You are not. You are *you*. You will be utterly incapable of not turning the
problem over and *over* in your mind, no matter *what* you are actually saying
or doing. This, I know of you."
"I'm a bit more *direct* than that, love..." And Porthos growls at himself and
leans back. "Fuck, I know you're just trying to help. I know you're — you're
trying your *hardest*. I'm *sorry*."
"You must not apologize for being in a welter of *upset* after this morning —"
"*Aramis* —"
"We *both* know how I would feel had the conversation turned to *my* mother,"
Aramis says, and raises an eyebrow.
And that...
Porthos swallows.
He'd gotten to be with his mother when she died. Right up until the very end —
and after.
Aramis's father had snatched him up out of that brothel he'd been *raised* in,
raised by his *beloved* mother and all her friends, and dragged him off to the
countryside, filling his head with all the ways his mother — and he — were
sinners, and filthy, and —
And he'd never gotten to *see* his mother again, alive or dead.
"No, I did not," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "Did I ever tell you..."
"Mm?"
Aramis turns away, licking his lips. "My mother, she was not religious."
"I... always kind of figured that..."
"A part of me always felt as though I was betraying her when I prayed. When I
began to feel the *need* to pray..."
"Oh... Aramis..." Porthos leans in again, reaches out —
Aramis takes both of his hands *immediately* — "My friend. My Porthos. You do
not know..." He shakes his head. "You were a *relief* to me, a *balm* to my
*spirit* — and I blaspheme judiciously! — when we became close. My father would
have *loathed* you, and this was a beautiful thing —"
Porthos coughs a laugh —
"But my mother, my mother would have lectured me on how to be a good boy, a
charming boy, a loving boy who did not chase good, honest, sweet boys like you
*away*. My mother would have *loved* you, and contrived that we spend every
*day* together, and this — oh, this was even sweeter. I... do not know where I
was going with this."
Porthos smiles helplessly. "I don't know, either, love, but I'm glad to know
it. I *love* knowing it."
"And I. I love you," Aramis says, and doesn't look away, and doesn't move his
hands, and doesn't do anything but flush deep and smile and *give* himself —
"Oh, love — oh, *love* —"
"If I knew, with any certainty, that someone I thought I could trust with all
of myself had been holding back stories of my mother..."
"*Yes* —"
"If I knew that someone was my true *father* —"
"Ah, *fuck* —"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "I would be running, my Porthos."
"What?"
"I would be... in the wind."
Porthos frowns. "You'd leave me?"
Aramis shudders. "I do not know if I would have the strength to look at all the
places that I had looked at with Treville..." And Aramis shrugs again.
Porthos swallows. "Aramis... would you come back?"
"Would you wish a coward at your —"
Porthos snarls, teeth lengthening — "Don't *talk* about yourself like that!"
Aramis winces again — and lowers his head. "I apologize, my Porthos. I — I will
not do this thing."
Porthos growls and growls and —
And, after a moment, he can calm himself again.
A little.
Enough to get his bloody *teeth* under control — and now he can feel it. That
little touch that means he's being watched.
That little touch that means he's being *felt* more strongly than *usual*,
because he's *never* been alone — even though he'd spent a long bloody time
cold.
That —
"Porthos...?"
"Treville."
"Oh. He is... reaching for you?"
But the touch is fading even as Porthos focuses on it, even as he gets to
*know* it. Porthos shivers. "Not anymore. He did it when I started to shift."
"He is always in you." And that wasn't a question.
That — and it's time to admit a few things. To — to *live* with a few things,
and own them, and make them *his* own. "I'm always in him, too."
"You are... the blood in his veins...?"
Porthos pants. "He's the blood in mine."
"Oh, Porthos..."
Porthos gives himself a *shake*, and focuses on Aramis. "You're no coward.
You've never *been* a coward. You could never *be* a coward. There's a
difference between being afraid of things that are bloody terrifying and being
a *coward*."
"We must *face* our fears —"
"Yeah. We must. On — on our own bloody terms. As much as *possible*," Porthos
says and lets go of Aramis for long enough to drink off his wine before taking
his hand again. "I'm going."
"Porthos?"
"I'm — I'm going back to his manor with him."
"*Porthos*, you must give yourself *time* —"
"No. Not for this. If I flinch, I stop him — or he stops himself. And then we
bloody *talk*. I need — there's so bloody much he *owes* me. And the rest of
us, too."
"Then perhaps I should come with you?"
Porthos swallows again —
Stares at Aramis —
Looks deep into those eyes and just — just — no. "Not this time. Not... I want
him alone. I want him — bloody *something* help me, I want him alone," Porthos
says, and squeezes Aramis's hands. "I —"
"My Porthos..."
"Mm?"
"Will you come back to me?"
Porthos blinks — and then growls and yanks Aramis across the table by the tunic
into a *hard* kiss.
(Porthos —)
It's *never* going to bloody be *goodbye*.
Aramis grunts into Porthos's mouth and moans —
Moans and opens right *up* —
And Porthos shares a memory of Aramis licking honey from his fingertips and
taking *decorous* bites of his pastry —
Aramis laughing richly at Porthos's heartfelt flirting and gently and easily
turning him down —
Repeatedly —
Aramis bowing to every pretty girl — and woman —
And older woman —
And *older* woman —
Aramis bowing to *everything* in skirts to pass them by, soft and correct with
the perfect waves of hair —
Bowing and bowing....
Just like a perfect and pretty little. Trained. Dog.
"*MM*!"
Porthos laughs *meanly* into Aramis's mouth and gives those lips a nibble —
"Porthos — oh, my Porthos, that is *filthy* —"
"Does that mean — mm — you'll let me brush out your coat?"
"*Fuck* —"
Porthos snickers and sits back down.
*Aramis* stays standing, looming over the table and grinning incredulously down
at him. "*Porthos*."
"Mm...?" And Porthos pulls on an innocent expression.
Aramis narrows his eyes. "Do not keep your Aramis waiting for you long..."
Oh... "No, eh? What happens if I *do* keep you waiting long?"
Aramis growls. "I hunt you *down*, my Porthos. I hunt you *down*... and I do
everything in my *power* to make you lose *all* of your control."
Porthos licks his lips, standing and walking Aramis back and back and back
until they're in the darkest corner that *exists* in this tavern at this time
of day.
"Oh, Porthos..."
And then he *bites* Aramis, good and hard, right behind his ear —
"Ah — yes — yes, *please* —"
You're going to be marked for the rest of our *lives*... pet....
(This is only proper... Master...)
Porthos grabs Aramis's *hips* —
Squeezes *hard* —
Bites *harder* —
"*Yes* —"
— but if he breaks the skin, Aramis is getting fucked right bloody here, and
that's not on.
"I have no objections —"
Porthos pulls *back* —
Aramis makes a mournful sound —
"You're mad and I *love* you."
And Aramis grins for him, bright and young and sweet. "Yes, you *do*," he says,
and throws his arm around Porthos's shoulders. "Come, let us go retrieve your
horse and your father —"
"In that order?"
"Your horse has been better-behaved —"
Porthos snorts —
"This is objective truth!"
"'m not in love with Yves, though."
"... I am very relieved by this."
"I've wondered about you and your Cosette, though."
"Cosette and I share a pure, shining love that is free of — of —"
"Deviance?"
"Yes!"
"Aramis, I hate to tell you this," Porthos says, and drops some coins on the
bar —
Justin nods at them and flaps his rag —
"What do you hate to tell me? Tell me anyway!"
Porthos snickers and pushes out into the day, blinking at the sunlight.
"*Tell* me —"
"Love, there is absolutely *nothing* you do that is free of deviance. Including
trimming your moustache."
"I."
"We all know where that moustache's been, love."
"*You* certainly know where it has been —"
"I can't wait to *put* it there again."
"Put it there, my Porthos? Not... invite it there?"
Porthos grins, slow and wet and just a little mean.
Aramis shivers next to him. "I take your many cogent points."
"'s what I thought."
They walk in easy silence for a few minutes, but —
Porthos can feel Aramis thinking hard about something.
*Feeling* hard about something.
Porthos wraps an arm round his back. "Tell me, love."
"I cannot tell if I helped or not."
"You *can't*?"
"My Porthos is resilient *always* —"
"My *Aramis* is a *large* part of what's *let* me be resilient these past
months. You make everything better."
"I... do?"
"From the very first day. Today, to be *specific*, you reminded me how to be
*happy*, and also how to be realistic while I was doing it."
"I do not think this would have taken you long to do on your *own* —"
"*My* Mum used to say I had light inside of me. That I carried it with me
wherever I went —"
"*Yes* —"
"That she had *no* idea where I got it from —"
"Oh — yes?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I — fuck, I need to know so much more — but anyway. It's not easy
being light. It's not easy being *sunny*. Not all the time. And it would've
been hell today, without you."
"Oh."
Porthos squeezes Aramis hard and gives him a look.
Aramis looks down and blushes — and smiles.
Porthos grins and keeps walking.
They — they'll all make this work.
Somehow.
***** Now that we know who we are, let's figure out who we are. *****
Treville blinks and pauses with his third brandy *almost* to his lips —
"Sir?"
"Your brothers are back," Treville says, and can't keep himself from smiling —
too broadly. Too maniacally. He does keep himself from getting up and going out
to the catwalk —
From pacing like an eager and *terrified* recruit —
From pacing more than a little —
Too much more than —
He gives himself a shake.
He breathes.
He lets himself bloody *pace*, because — Porthos is back. And he can't fuck
this up.
He will not *let* himself fuck this up —
He will not.
He *drinks* the brandy — too fast —
Athos huffs at him, that little nothing he's had instead of a laugh since
losing Thomas — "Should I take *you* to task for your drinking, sir?"
"Probably. I —"
"You're... excited."
Treville smiles at Athos ruefully. "And a few other things, too. I didn't
expect Porthos to walk back into this garrison of his own free will for days,
yet, son."
Athos raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you *ever* known him to neglect his
duties? For *any* reason?"
"I expected him to keep himself in fighting trim *elsewhere*. With Aramis's —
and your — help."
Athos makes a noncommittal sound. Which...
Treville raises his eyebrows. "You honestly expected this."
"Yes, sir."
"Why."
Athos raises his own eyebrow *higher*. "You're asking me."
"You know him better than I do, son."
Athos cocks his head to the side. "I'm not certain about that."
Treville smiles wryly. "I am. You..." Treville shakes his head. "You've had
conversations with him. Late nights around a fire, or packed cheek-by-jowl into
a draughty tent..."
"Are you *jealous* of that?"
"I starved for him, son. I... the part of me that starved for my *son* is
confused. Lost. Hungry. Do I want a son? A lover? A brother? I want everything.
*Everything*."
Athos nods thoughtfully. "And with me? And Aramis?"
Treville lets his smile get broader. "It's a *bit* less desperate. I don't
*need* you to be my brothers on top of everything else. I wonder, though,"
Treville says, picking up the bottle — and setting it down again with a head-
shake.
"About? And I knew Porthos would return because he's incapable of letting an
emotional disturbance *sit* unresolved. If there is a problem, he *will* try to
solve it, and try again, and try again, and try *again*. No matter how many
times the other person tries to change the subject," Athos says, and huffs
again. "No matter how many times the other person *begs* to change the
subject."
Treville grins — and tucks that information away. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. But...?"
"I wonder how much longer my relative lack of desperation will last. I had
already... given you both to Porthos, in my mind —"
"And taken me away from yourself?"
"Never that. But..." Treville frowns and tries to figure out how to put it...
"You had become his brothers, all of a piece with him. A *unit*, of course, but
more than that in my mind. In my heart."
Athos nods again. "We're going to have to do something about you and Aramis."
"Mm. I've done a *wonderful* job of making him trust me about as far as he can
throw me, yes."
Athos sips his own brandy. "*Some* of that isn't your fault, sir. Aramis has a
great *deal* of distrust of authority figures —"
Treville waves that off. "It was always my duty to *fix* that. Instead, I made
a sincere hash of the whole thing. I *will* do better."
"Did you have a plan?"
"Absolutely not."
Athos grins, shocked and bright.
Treville laughs softly and winks. "No, son, I'm going to *talk* to him. And ask
him very politely to talk to *me*, and ask me every question that comes to
mind."
"More honesty."
"*All* of the honesty," Treville says, and tucks the bottle away in the drawer.
"It feels... unspeakably good."
That makes Athos look thoughtful again, frowning and more than a little
*direful* about it this time.
"Son?"
"I... absolutely don't *know* how I feel about the amount of honesty I've
shared these past few days."
Treville barks a laugh. "I suppose that's fair."
"I —"
"Try this question on, though."
"Yes?"
"How do you feel about the *results* of your honesty, son?"
Athos blinks —
And blinks —
And blushes.
Treville laughs hard.
"I can't help but feel that I would be remiss if I didn't point out that the
results of *your* honesty included your son doing his level best to knock your
teeth down your *throat*."
"Oh, son. We both know that wasn't his best."
Athos *snorts* — and then looks horrified that he'd done anything of the kind.
Treville pretends he hadn't heard it —
"That — that doesn't *work* with the two of us *connected* —"
"Pretense is still *allowed* to us, son —"
"I — I... don't want it," Athos says, and he's pale, and sick-looking, and
*shuddering* — and then the shuddering stops. "I don't *want* it," he says, and
slams his brandy down on the desk.
Treville wets his lips and nods. "All right, son. You won't have it. You
laughed at something funny. You *laughed*... and the world didn't end."
"It."
"You *laughed*, the way Thomas would've wanted you to, because we *both* know
Thomas lived for your smiles, your laughter, your *happiness* —"
Athos makes a *tortured* sound —
"Look at me," Treville says, making his eyes gleam — and ignoring the familiar
footsteps on the stairs as best as he can for the time being.
"I —"
"Don't hesitate. Don't pause. Look at me."
Athos grunts — and obeys, wide-eyed and young again, too *young*, too *hurt* —
"Oh, son..." Treville growls and stands, moving round the desk to him. "Up."
"Yes — yes, I —" Athos obeys and moves into Treville's arms without being told.
"Good boy. Good son."
"I miss him. I miss him so — I loved him!"
"You always will. For all of it," Treville says, and strokes Athos firmly.
The footsteps have paused on the walk.
Porthos just might be able to *hear* all this now... and *both* Porthos and
Aramis can feel it. They're letting him handle it.
"I was — I was all *right* —"
"You're not going to be 'all right' for quite some time, son —"
Athos growls —
"Shh," Treville says, and kisses Athos's forehead. "This is what your parents
did for me, you know. Caught me up when the fuck-awful grief over losing my
Amina-love and Porthos caught *me* up. Stopped me from doing *stupid* things to
myself and others when the grief took me by surprise and left me stunned.
Breathless. *Staggering* —"
"That. *That*!"
"I know, son. I know. And I'll be here. And so will your brothers."
"It was — so much easier when the laughter didn't come *out*. When it didn't
*try* to come out."
And Porthos opens the door with a hard look on his face, Aramis following —
Athos shudders —
"It's going to get harder before it gets easier, brother," Porthos says, and
doesn't look away from *him* for long moments — but then he turns to where
Athos has his head tucked against Treville's throat. He cups the back of
Athos's neck —
"Porthos —"
"It's all going to come back. Every memory. Everything you'd *thought* you'd
forgotten. Everything you'll *wish* you'd forgotten because it's so bright and
beautiful that it'll hurt like *fire* that you can't have it anymore —"
"Thomas's — his *smiles*. His smiles whenever I *laughed* for him."
"Yeah, brother? I bet they were amazing. I bet they were sodding perfect,"
Porthos says, and *squeezes* Athos's neck —
Athos groans —
Treville kisses his temple again —
"You will be happy for those memories someday," Aramis says, and rests one hand
on Athos's back and the other on his cheek.
"No —"
"You *will*, my friend. They will bring you comfort and joy and peace like
nothing else... on the other side of this pain. I promise you this."
Athos pants for that, ragged and harsh —
They all do their best to move *closer* to him, instinctively trying to warm
him with their *bodies* —
And Treville realizes, with a shock that has him *slamming* his walls up, that
Porthos had given him a second *pack*.
"What was that?"
"What the bloody hell —"
"Sir...?"
But the thing about having a pack... is that hiding from them is both obvious
and *extremely* ill-advised. Treville sighs and drops his walls again, letting
everything show.
Everything.
Athos draws back first. "Truly, sir? Just... from sharing blood?"
"There's nothing small about that when there are witches around, son. I — I
apologize —"
"But are you *sorry*." And Porthos is — looking at him. Into him.
Demanding —
So *strong* —
"I could never be sorry for *anything* that gave me more of the three of you,"
Treville says, and that was a growl, that was need, that was —
He has to *control* himself —
"I cannot decide if this is true or not," Aramis says, and cocks his head to
the side.
"What... what?"
"If you must *control* yourself, sir. On the one hand, if you had controlled
yourself more, you would have told our Porthos the truth instead of making love
with him under false *pretenses*."
"Aramis —"
"On the *other* hand, if you had controlled yourself *less*, you would have
told our Porthos the truth before making love was ever an *issue*. Yes?"
Treville smiles wryly. "Son. I think we can all agree that I don't know what
I'm bloody *doing* when it comes to controlling myself."
"Porthos does. You will listen to him."
Treville tries *very* hard not to follow that thought to any of its logical
conclusions while his pack is right in *front* of him —
... but they're still all coughing and blinking and blinking *at* him.
Treville sighs and pinches the bridge of his — no. Wait. He cups Athos's
shoulders. "Son. How *are* you."
"Thoroughly distracted? That isn't a question."
"Noted. Do you need to speak more?"
"I need... what does it *mean* to be your pack?"
Treville nods and looks to each of them in turn. "It means that you're all
going to share in my vitality — which is that of the All-Mother, so expect to
feel a lot better on a day-to-day basis. Still, don't do *stupid* things to
yourselves, because the All-Mother *doesn't* appreciate that, and She can't and
won't fix everything. It also means that the silent communication you're all
already getting accustomed to will be even easier and more effective than it
has been. It's going to save your lives so many times that you *quickly* won't
remember how to live without it. It also means... that I'm going to have an
extremely difficult time being anyone but myself around you boys. I've years of
practice at protocol to save my arse at court, but beyond that..." Treville
smiles ruefully. "Say goodbye to the Captain, gentlemen."
Athos takes a deep breath.
Aramis looks to Porthos with an eyebrow up.
Porthos... just keeps looking into him. "Good. Bloody. Riddance."
Treville growls and rumbles and *grips* Athos's shoulders —
"Sir..."
Too hard. Too hard. He lets go. "I apologize —"
"It's quite all right, sir. We can all tell that Porthos is... driving you."
Porthos blinks —
"This is entirely true," Aramis says. "My Porthos is often unaware of the
*effect* he can have on others."
*Treville* blinks — and looks to Aramis, who smiles at him *slowly*.
"We must talk, sir. But Porthos and I have already decided that now is *his*
time for speaking with you."
And the dog in Treville only wants an end to these separations, only wants to
keep his pack in one place, finally, and it's been so *long*!
"I. Was that...?" And Athos is blinking at him again.
All of them are, truly.
"Yes, son, that was the dog. Before any of you ask, he likes to be cuddled,
kissed and/or licked on the nose, and scratched behind the ears."
"Uh."
Treville grins at Porthos like the happy arsehole he is. "Part of being a pack
is taking care of your pack-*mates*, son."
"Right, but the *last* time you mentioned the dog, *sir*, you were talking
about how he liked to mount Athos's *mother* — uh. Sorry, Athos."
"No, truly, I didn't need that sanity," Athos says, picking up his remaining
brandy and knocking it back. "I'll need about sixteen more of those, sir."
"You've earned them —"
"And he will have them with *me*," Aramis says, and wraps an arm around Athos's
shoulders.
"I will? Ah, yes, because we're leaving Porthos to drive *Treville* insane."
"This is so, my friend. We are *also* leaving so that you may begin asking me
all the questions you *know* I have answered untruthfully in the past, so that
*I* may begin making amends," Aramis says, with a *pointed* look at Treville.
Treville tips the hat he's not wearing as they walk out the door —
"Aramis... that's an offer I frankly don't know what to *do* with."
"You will once we are very stupidly drunk."
The door closes behind them.
Treville listens to them walking away —
Listens to Aramis extol the virtues of becoming madly, unwisely, and possibly
*paralytically* drunk — but not so drunk that they can't keep telling secrets —
Athos doesn't laugh again...
But Treville can smell his amusement.
"So can I. 's a bit terrifying, to be *quite* honest."
Treville blinks and turns *back* to Porthos. "How long have your senses —"
"Off and on since last night. How the bloody hell do you survive being this
close to the *latrines*?"
"We're *not* that close to the latrines, son."
"Eurgh. What say we get farther away, anyway?"
And Treville — pants. "Son?"
Porthos shivers. "Take me back to your manor. Take me — show me what you have
for me. Tell me *stories*. Tell me what I'm bloody *becoming* —"
Treville croons helplessly —
"Yeah, I — I need it. I don't know if I can bloody *take* it," Porthos says,
and laughs ruefully, pushing a hand back over his hair.
"How can I — no. *Let* me make it *easier* for you."
"How, sir. Bloody *how*."
"Let me make you *feel* me, son. Let me make you feel *everything* I feel for
you. All my need. All my hunger. All my *love* for you —"
"Fuck —"
"You'll understand everything in an eyeblink —"
"I — can you do that with all of us?"
Treville growls. "Yes. *Yes*."
"But you want to give it to me *first*."
"I want you to *take* it from me, son —"
"Before we *talk*? Mm?" And Porthos is looking *through* him again.
And — Treville absolutely deserves it. He —
He squeezes his eyes shut.
He — no. He *opens* his eyes. "I apologize. I won't — I won't do that again."
"Don't do *that*," Porthos says, and frowns at him.
"What... don't do what, son?"
"How..." Porthos growls, and it's low, flat, *animal* —
Treville doesn't even *try* to keep his ears from twitching in eagerness —
"*Fuck* —"
"It's all right, son. I'll guide you through this. There won't be any real
problems once you get through the first several *complete* shifts —"
"No, no, I — I just don't want you — fuck, it's like with *Aramis*. He *never*
wants me to promise to be *good*, in any sodding *way*, even if it means I have
to risk *hurting* him in one way or another," Porthos says, and — his eyes are
pleading a little. He —
"You don't want me to... hold back with you, son?"
"I *need* you to —"
"Then —"
"But if you do — don't do it. Just don't. I'll stop you when I *need* to stop
you. *If* I need to stop you. Don't — cut yourself off from me. Don't ever do
that *again*. All right?"
Treville — wants to touch.
The reflex to tamp the desire down behind a dozen different walls is just as
wrong as the reflex to *seduce*.
And what he's left with... is honesty. Just honesty. "I want to touch you, son.
I want to comfort you, and hold you..." He shakes his head. "*Every* time
you've hurt, I've wanted — needed — to make it better for you."
Porthos shivers again. "I liked how you were holding Athos."
"I'll hold you just that —"
"Wait — and don't apologize," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully.
Treville smiles back. "I'm waiting."
"Did you... you felt me. You *feel* me. You felt my Mum, too."
"Yes."
"You knew when she died."
"I knew when she was *murdered*, son."
"What... what was that like for you? What *happened*?"
"I'd felt her growing weaker and weaker over those last few months. I was
searching frantically, every chance I could get. Laurent was the Captain, then,
and he... he'd let me off the lead. My brothers were with me when Laurent could
spare them, too. But, in the end, we were in bed when the end came. Sleeping
off exhaustion. I felt her energy slipping away and I woke up screaming,
tearing at Kitos and Reynard, trying to get away..." Treville stops and
searches Porthos. "I could feel you. And I knew — I *knew* — you were alone."
"I was. With her body."
Treville swallows. "For... was it a long time, son?"
"Hours. When the end came, it was quick. Quicker than even Yejide — the death-
witch who *mostly* took care of me and mine after my Mum died — expected."
Treville grunts. "How did she miss that?"
"She told me later that my Mum had gathered up the last of her energies and
used them for protection spells for me. *More* protection spells for me, I
mean."
"That... she would, yes. She'd have to, even if she were absolutely sure you
*would* be protected, son. She didn't let things go to chance, with you."
"No, I... no," Porthos says, and turns away.
"Son?"
"I want... happy memories."
"I'll give them to you —"
"I want you to just — bloody *drown* me in them," Porthos says, and his breath
hitches.
And Treville brings them to Amina's rooms, long ago...
"But *why* must this dance be so *stiff*?"
"Because French nobles can't *move* like you, Amina-love," Treville says, and
takes her through the steps of the latest court fashion one more time —
"This is *ridiculous*," she says, and laughs -—
"I *agree* with you. When do we get to learn more of *your* dances?" And
Treville takes her hand and parades them —
As much as he can —
Amina's kitchen is a *hatbox* —
He tries adding a bit of exciting *stepping*, like in that dance Amina had
shown him last week —
"Jean-Armand! That is *not* the way this dance goes!"
"But how do *you* know — *ow* — that's definitely not the way this dance goes
—"
She punches him *again* —
"*Ow* —" He tickles her *viciously* —
She giggles and smacks him a *good* one —
"I *need* those teeth —"
"I need this dance! Show me!"
"*Yes*, milady, anything you *say*, milady —"
"Are you pouting? Are you pouting instead of dancing?"
"I would never do that," he says, and very carefully does *not* take her hands
again, because French nobility likes to tease itself *bloody* sometimes —
"No?" And she matches him —
"I would *definitely* never do that — here, no, with the left foot —"
"Oh, yes, yes —"
"I don't pout — I'm a very mature — oh, that's got it —"
"Yes?"
And Treville sighs, grinning with his sore mouth and so — "*You* make this
dance *beautiful*, Amina-love."
And she looks at him for a moment, wide-eyed and so shocked —
As if he could say anything *else* —
And then she narrows her eyes. "Hmph. You say that about *every* dance."
"I'm right every *time*, Amina-love —"
"Stop, stop, I — mm. I have to go check on the stew."
"Mm? Oh, *food* —"
Amina snorts raucously. "You are such a little *boy*," she says, and bends to
the fire. "And speaking of little boys..." She doesn't turn back to Treville.
Treville sighs happily and sprawls in one of Amina's kitchen chairs. "You *do*
love me."
"For *some* reason," she says, and tastes — "Mm. Almost." She still doesn't
turn around. "Do you... do you ever go with the *dancing* boys?"
"Mm?" Treville blinks. "Why...?"
"I am curious."
"Amina-love? Is something..."
And *then* Amina turns, and smiles wryly. "I want to know who *else* my brother
dances with."
"Oh. Well, I *have* to dance with those arseholes at court —"
"Yes, yes, I *know*. But your *boys*."
"Well, I... I hadn't really thought about it, Amina-love, but... no. I *don't*
go with dancing boys. Not anymore."
"Not... anymore?"
"I just haven't wanted to, Amina-love. Not since you started dancing with me."
And Amina blinks and *stares* at Treville.
"Mm? What is it? Did I say something —"
Amina laughs hard, rocking on her heels and actually *cackling* a little —
"What —"
"Jean-*Armand*. You are the *stupidest* man on the *planet* —"
"*Hey* —"
"— but you will always be my *beloved* brother."
"Oh. Well. Good, then."
And Treville pulls them out of the memory to find Porthos leaning against the
shelves and laughing... just as hard as his mother.
Treville drinks it in.
"Bloody *hell*, sir! How *long* were you *teasing* my Mum?"
Well... "Too," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "I thought, maybe, she had a
bit of a pash for me —"
"For fuck's *sake* —"
"But *I* wasn't that way inclined, son."
"What. What?"
Treville sits on the edge of the desk and smiles ruefully. "When Ife and the
others bound me to your mother, they augmented our powers — and bound our souls
to *dogs*. Dogs... are a lot less discriminating than men can be, son."
"Uh... so what you're saying..."
"Amina was the first woman I *almost* made love with. Athos's mother is the
*only* woman I *ever* made love with."
"Bloody *wait* —"
"Wait, no, I said that —" Treville shakes his head. "When I was regular Army —
mostly when I was a *recruit* — I used to go with the female whores who made
themselves available to us, wherever we were."
"Right, that's what you implied. You said Kitos was the one who *first* took
you to a boys' brothel."
"That's right. Because he'd gotten sick unto *death* of watching me fuck women
with a 'sodding grimly *constipated*' look on my face —"
Porthos splutters —
And Treville smiles ruefully. "Back then, I didn't want anyone to *know* I was
a buggerer. I hid it — or tried to. I... here."
And Treville gives them *that* day in the empty barracks —
Treville is desultorily drying off with a rag, trying to find some way to look
*eager* for the night's carousing —
It's not like he won't enjoy drinking and making a lot of noise with Honoré —
He's *already* made him wait too *long* —
He can't *do* that to his best mate —
Treville growls to himself —
And then Honoré's huge hands are *clapping* down on his shoulders —
Treville just *barely* manages not to jump —
It's easy to *forget* just how *silently* Honoré can *move* when he wants to —
"Honoré —"
"All *right*, Treville, you've successfully managed to stall until there's no
one left in these smelly old barracks but us —"
Treville grunts —
Looks round — the barracks are empty. The only candles still burning are the
main ones and his and Honoré's —
And Honoré is giving him that I'm-bloody-waiting-for-you-to-catch-*up* look,
which is always *gentle* on his face, even with that amazing *beard* he's
managed to grow despite being bloody *seventeen* —
Treville winces. "I'm — not stalling —"
"You are."
"I'm not!"
"You bloody are!"
Treville growls —
Honoré laughs and swats him —
"*Ow* —"
"*Come* on, now. Are you really going to make me fight you on this? This is
your least favorite part of every week! And I'm *including* all the
*punishment* details we do!"
"*Honoré* — it isn't —"
"Right. Here's how it is. When someone bigger than you — a *lot* bloody bigger
than you! — is being an arse, you don't even hesitate to wade in and make a
mess of 'im. Even if you *know* the bigger bloke is *also* going to make a mess
of *you*."
"What — what are you —"
"When one of our superior *officers* is being an arse, you don't even *begin*
to hesitate to tell 'im so, in *one* way or another, even though you *know*
that will land you in the shit so deep that not even *Laurent* can save you."
"No, I — some of those arseholes will try to get us *killed* —"
"*Agreed*. But listen. When there's a bloody *horse* — a bloody-*minded* horse
that *none* of the men can ride without being thrown —"
"You *need* a horse with spirit out there!"
"Right, and there's that, and there's about a million other things — brother,
you're the single most *fearless* man I've *ever* met —"
"I —"
"So why the bloody buggering *fuck* are you afraid to admit that you don't want
to fuck women?"
And Treville — blanches. He can feel himself just —
And Honoré looks hurt for a moment, a *long* moment — and then *he* growls and
shakes his head. "Don't — don't you let yourself get hung up on this, hey?
There wouldn't *be* dozens of brothels out there full of men and boys if you
were the only *one*, brother —"
"I — I —"
"And brother, honestly, if you make me watch you putting it to another poor,
hard-working woman while you've got that — that sodding grimly *constipated*
look on your ugly mug —"
Treville *coughs* a laugh —
Honoré smiles *hopefully* —
And Treville blushes, and *flushes*, and —
And stuffs down every desperate fantasy he's had of reaching over in the middle
of the night and *gripping* Honoré's cock, which is honestly growing just as
massive as the rest of him. This.
This isn't that.
This isn't *that*.
But... it's something good. He looks up, and pulls on his best arsehole-grin —
"*That's* better —"
"I think maybe we should... wander a bit farther afield than we usually do on
nights like this, brother."
And for a moment, Honoré just looks relieved and *overjoyed* —
Looks like he wants to pick Treville up and *cuddle* him —
Treville isn't sure he can *take* that —
Not without *kissing* him —
But then Honoré blows out a breath and claps him so hard on the back that
Treville nearly *staggers*. "*Right*, Fearless. Get some clothes on. We have to
make a good *impression* on all those pretty boys."
And Treville pulls them out of the memory with a sigh —
An *ache* for Kitos's *loss* — but he's not going to think about that today.
Porthos breathes. "Are you sure about that?"
Treville smiles ruefully. "I am. I've had... time."
"You know that's not enough."
He does. He does. "I've also had my other family —"
"They were there for you when you lost Kitos?"
"They were. Laurent and Reynard were there at the time. It was an action in
Spanish territory..." Treville shakes his head. "I wasn't fast enough to get to
him before he was cornered by too many of the bastards."
Porthos winces. "Sir... I can *feel* that you were the one who found him."
"I was, yes."
"Sorry isn't enough. It never bloody *could* be."
Treville smiles again. "No. But you're here. And I can imagine... you have no
*idea* how much he would've loved you."
Porthos blinks. "Uh. Yeah?"
Treville nods. "Never mind that you're bold, brave, honest, open, *funny* —
never mind all that. You take care of your brothers before you take care of
yourself. You care for *everyone* who needs it — you don't let *anyone* suffer
if you can help it."
"I —"
"And you don't let *me* get away with *anything*," Treville says, and grins.
Porthos *coughs* again. "No, I bloody don't! You *need* someone to watch you!"
"I truly do, son. I always have."
"Where the sodding hell were your *parents* when you were a boy, eh? Why didn't
*they* snatch you up and beat some sense into you?"
Treville laughs hard. "My father was on campaign, like I told you. My mother
was busy with the younger ones... until that ague took her. The nanny,
according to the chatelaine, was a useless slattern —"
Porthos snorts. "And the chatelaine?"
"Scruffed me *repeatedly* and *violently* — she was a *vicious* old stick of a
woman named Marceline, the widow of my father's old quartermaster — and
scrubbed me black and blue before setting me to my lessons."
Porthos nods judiciously. "I like *her*."
Treville laughs hard. "*You* would've gotten one of her grim nods of approval,
I bet. She doled those out every few years."
Porthos grins. "You couldn't *wait* to follow your dad on campaign."
Treville smiles and sighs and closes his eyes, dreaming of the scents of steel,
horses, leather, gunpowder, and good, male sweat —
Dreaming the way he'd *always* dreamed —
For as long as he could *remember* —
"It's all you ever wanted..."
And that... was actually *close* to a question. Treville opens his eyes again.
"Yes. It's — never anything else." He frowns and considers... "*You* wanted
something else."
"I don't know."
"Son."
"No, I — I honestly don't know. I've been thinking about that — that *memory*.
That *last sodding story* from my Mum..."
"Oh, son..."
"Yeah."
"You're wondering... if the only reason you chose this..." Treville winces.
Porthos smiles ruefully. "I love it, you know. You *do* know that."
"I — you've always *seemed* —"
"Trust your bloody *instincts*, sir. I love the honour, I love the glory — even
though we usually only get to have that amongst ourselves. I love the
*brotherhood*. So bloody *much*! I love doing *important* things, things that
bloody *matter*."
"What *don't* you love, son?"
Porthos turns away — but only for a moment before he's looking Treville right
in the eye. "Aramis is... bloody mad. Just — completely off his rocker. In
*some* ways." And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
And Treville blinks — and nods. "I know you've had to stop him from killing the
wrong people at the wrong times —"
"A *lot*."
"A bit —" Treville smiles ruefully. "You know what Laurent said about why he
let *Reynard* in the regiment, son."
"And that's what you were thinking about Aramis?"
"Absolutely. But I was also thinking about how much *fun* I had with Reynard,
and how much fun *Aramis's* eventual brothers would have with *him*."
"I — of course I have fun with Aramis. Of course I *love* how mad he is — and
Athos does, too —"
"I know you do —"
"'m not that mad. Not like that."
Treville frowns. "I know that, son. I never —"
"I mean — there are times when even the *good* killing, the *necessary*
killing... gets to me."
"It gets to *all* of us, son —"
"Sir."
Treville stops and — stops. And nods. "You worry about yourself."
"I do."
"You worry about your ability to *handle* yourself — and protect your brothers
when the time comes — because all of the pain and horror might come back at
just the wrong time."
"That — *yes*! And you just — Aramis is so *blithe*, and Athos — well, Athos
*isn't*, but it isn't the bloodshed *we* do that fucks him up at night —"
"But it will."
"What?"
"It will, son," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "Once he's a little farther
out of that black *pit* he's in now."
"He'll fall into *another*? Is that what you're saying?"
"I am. It'll be shallower — and he'll have an easier time getting out — but...
yes. I *promise* you that this is natural, son."
"Sir —"
Treville raises his hands and makes a wait gesture. "I know. I know this isn't,
maybe, the life you would've chosen for yourself if you hadn't come up the way
you had, that you would've picked something more *peaceful* —"
"Just — just *maybe* —"
"— but that doesn't mean you aren't still *suited* for this life, son."
"I — what?"
"Did you think I kept you on *just* because you were my son?"
Porthos rears *back* — "I — *fuck* —"
"Well, I'm glad *that* fuck-awful idea never occurred to you, because it could
*never* be true."
"It — it —"
"*Never*, son. It would endanger you *and* my other men."
"Not — not if I were still good at the *weapons* —"
"Stop and think, son," Treville says, standing and moving into Porthos's space
— just a little. "We both know that knowing how to use the knives, the guns,
the rapiers — that's only a *fraction* of what *protects* you out there."
Porthos inhales sharply —
"Don't we."
Porthos blinks and blinks and licks his lips —
Treville doesn't grip his *shoulders* —
Doesn't —
He doesn't.
And, after a moment, Porthos breathes a laugh. "But you want to."
"Yes."
"You want to make me *feel* — all of your *points*."
"That's *right* —"
"Well, I do. I do."
Treville rumbles — "Yes?"
Porthos smiles ruefully. "I'm suited for this... for whatever reason. Maybe
because of how I came up. Maybe because I'm your — and my *Mum's* — son —"
"*She* was a warrior —"
"She really *was* — and you loved her for it."
"I loved her for — just everything. *Everything*."
Porthos cocks his head to the side, looking down into Treville's eyes. "How
sure are you that you love me for *me*, sir?"
Treville frowns. "What do you mean?"
Porthos jerks his chin at him. "They always said I grew up looking like her —"
"You *did* —"
"I'm bloody great with *knives* —"
"Oh — son. Son, no."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Treville wants to *touch* — he doesn't. "It's true that I'm still *learning*
about you. It's true that I *don't* know you as well as I knew her —"
"*Yes* —"
"But... you never have to worry about me forgetting who you are, son. You
never... there's no one who could be *either* of you."
Porthos frowns at him, and that —
"You need more," Treville says, and nods, paces — stops. And grins.
"What? What is it?"
"Your mother — my Amina-love — was just a *little* spoiled, son. Like me, in
her way."
"*What*? She was a bloody former *slave*!"
"That she was — and she worked hard every day of her *life*. Don't ever think I
don't know that, especially considering the number of times I tried to get her
to *stop* working and come *home* with me."
"I — then *what*?"
"When she was freed at fourteen, her former masters gave her... nothing. She
was left on the streets of Paris without a sou to her name. Things didn't look
good for her. We both know there aren't a whole lot of choices for girls in
that situation."
"*No*, there bloody — what happened? And she told you all this?"
"She did, son. She told me that she was begging — unsuccessfully — when three
older women walked up to her, *ordered* her to get up, straighten her clothes,
and come home with them. She told me that she told them where *they* could
go... at which point they showed her their *power*."
"Oh... shit."
Treville grins. "She went home with them, smarting just a bit. And then they
cleaned her up, and fed her, and tucked her in. And they taught her the
languages *they* spoke, because they were Yoruba and she wasn't —"
"Is *that* why she always kept us close to the Yoruba immigrants?"
"I'd wager so, son," Treville says, and grins. "They taught her the magic she
*could* learn — she was a weak mage like I was before we were both augmented.
They taught her her figures. They taught her how to cook *good* food. When she
wanted jobs outside the house, they always found her ones she wanted. When she
wanted boyfriends, they always found her *respectful* ones. When she wanted to
learn how to *read*, they found her someone who could teach her *that*."
"I... fuck."
"Exactly. So, of course my Amina-love felt a *bit* stifled after a while..."
And Treville smiles wryly.
Porthos blinks. "I — stifled? But that's — I would've *loved* to have a family
like that!"
Treville studies him for a long moment. "I daresay *you* might have, at that."
"Of *course* I would have —"
"My Amina-love was a little wilder than all that. She wanted to pick her *own*
handsome boys — even if they weren't respectful. She wanted to pick her *own*
jobs — even if she hated them. She wanted... freedom."
"And that's where you came in."
"And Kitos and Reynard," Treville says, and smiles again. "Reynard told me
once, not long before the ague that took him from us all, that Kitos would
visit her on nights when he knew Reynard and I were being idiots together —"
"*Oh* —"
"Visit her and plead my *case*," Treville says, and shakes his head. "Tell her
'yes, he's a buggerer, but that doesn't mean he isn't the marrying kind' —"
"Oh my *God*! What did she even *say* to that?"
"Well... several different *kinds* of 'no', apparently," Treville says, and
laughs. "The one night I *almost* asked her to marry me before they changed
me... was the night I walked in on your mother knifing a Spanish merchant who
was getting handsy with her — in the *eye*." He sighs. "She did it perfectly.
Hardly any blood, at all."
"*Fuck* —"
"I helped her get rid of the body, helped her clean up and clean her weapons —
she used her good, handy cosh on the bastard's face so he couldn't be
identified, just like I taught her —"
"Sir —"
"And I wanted her. I *wanted* her, son," Treville says, and looks at Porthos.
"I had... there had been nights *like* that with my brothers — of course there
had; we were who we *were* — but with her..."
"What? What is it?"
Treville smiles ruefully. "I couldn't stop... patting at her skin with the dry
rags. I couldn't stop... I didn't want to touch her with my calluses. I *did*
want to lift her up on her stool and get down on the floor and... and... things
got hazy in my head after that, I remember."
"Uh."
Treville laughs painfully. "I wanted her *above* me. I wanted to *touch* her. I
wanted to *serve* her, and make her *happy*. But I wasn't... quite..." And
Treville looks at Porthos again. "Do you see?"
Porthos winces. "You weren't that kind."
Treville sighs again. "Exactly. But the ache of it. The *want*. It was still
there. It was... well. I couldn't stop *touching* her, like I said, and the
words 'do you think, maybe, we could be married' were *almost* out of my mouth.
What I actually said, though, was 'do you think I could share your bed
tonight?'"
"Shit —"
"Exactly. And the thing is, we'd *slept* together before. *Often*. Even before
we were changed, we both just... enjoyed being *close*. Enjoyed each other's
*scents*." Treville's nostrils flare. "I'll never forget your mother's scents."
Porthos shivers. "Neither will I, sir."
"I — here," Treville says, and shares her scents the way they were when she was
pregnant with Porthos —
"Oh — *oh* —"
"Yes, I —"
"Fuck, that's — that's really *incredible*," Porthos says, grinning and
laughing.
"You see why I was *literally* sniffing after her all the *time*."
"*Fuck*. Do *all* pregnant women smell that good?"
"The healthy ones do. Of course, none of them smell *as* good as my Amina-love
did."
Porthos snorts. "*You* planned to keep her pregnant as often as bloody
possible."
"I... may have had that thought once or twice —"
"*Right*," Porthos says, jerking his chin at Treville and crossing the room,
cupping the back of the chair — "What happened that night? What did she *say*
after you *basically* propositioned her?"
Treville shivers and closes his eyes. "She looked at me. She could see... she
could see *enough* of what was in my head, my heart... I think. I *think*."
"You never got to talk about it... after?"
Treville shakes his head once. And opens his eyes. "She shuddered. She said...
'Sweet brother, if I take you to my bed, I will never take anyone else.' And I
— I just got hungrier to *devote* myself to her. She smiled *ruefully*. She
said 'We women have to keep our lowered standards, I think'. And then she said
something about keeping men like me, too, about — ah, fuck."
And Treville gives them both the memory of Amina, strong and nude, gently
pushing Treville out the door —
"Amina, wait —"
"*One* day, sweet brother, *one* day, a man will put a babe in my belly, and I
will raise him beautiful, and bold, and perfect —"
"Yes, but —"
"I will raise him to be just. Like. *You*."
She closes the door while Treville is still grunting and blinking.
Treville puts his face in his hands.
"Uh... well."
Treville laughs helplessly.
"Personally, I think you're more of an arse than I am, sir."
Treville *snickers* — "Your mother... might have been... a little biased..."
Porthos snorts *hard*. "My Mum bloody *adored* you. You —" Porthos shakes his
head. "Did she even *go* with other blokes when she didn't *have* to? Oh — the
merchant bloke, right."
Treville drags his hands down off his face and grins. "Mm-hm. And there were
others. She had her fun, son. She told me, once, that she was *extremely*
annoyed with herself for falling in love with me, because it meant that she
couldn't fuck the hell out of Kitos and Reynard like she *badly* wanted to."
Porthos snorts again. "At which point you suggested a very *particular* party?"
"At which point I suggested a very particular party, and we would bring the
refreshments, except for those your mother made herself, yes."
"She punched you."
Treville sighs. "I had the bruise for almost two *weeks*."
Porthos snickers. "You're such an *arsehole*."
Treville grins and waggles his eyebrows. "That's the thing about your mother,
though, son. Punch didn't always mean 'no', as opposed to 'not yet'."
"Fucking — so you think that was a 'not yet' punch?"
"Who knows? You might have had a red-headed little brother or sister. Or an
even *bigger* one."
Porthos blinks — and studies him again for long moments.
And then he nods slowly.
"You really would've been all right with that."
"Of course. Kitos and Reynard — and Laurent —"
"They were your brothers. Your *family*. And, for you, it's all one. It's *all*
one."
Treville blinks. "I... suppose so, yes."
Porthos narrows his eyes and releases the chair, standing straight again.
"Right. I think I know you a little better now."
"And... feel more comfortable?"
Porthos stares into him — "Take me home."
Treville has done next to nothing resembling his actual duties today.
That's not going to change anytime soon.
***** In which Porthos is not a nubile young girl. *****
Once they're out of the city and can actually stop looking official —
Once they're *really* on their way to the de Tréville estates and Porthos can
either panic a little about what he's doing with himself or focus on other
bloody *things* —
Porthos checks out Treville's horse Lisle.
She's a beautiful black, strong and healthy, of course.
She's got plenty of spirit to her, if maybe not so much as Porthos's Yves...
Definitely much calmer. Definitely —
Does he want to use the word placid?
Treville laughs ruefully. "Please don't," he says, and pats Lisle firmly.
Porthos looks at him.
"The Captain of the King's Musketeers is not allowed to ride —"
"The horses he *wants* to ride?"
"Not if those horses spend a goodly portion of their lives trying to dance
their riders right off their backs," Treville says, and grins.
Porthos blinks. "I uh. I was looking for some middle *ground*, here, sir."
"I know you were, son. Middle ground would've been even more depressing, in
some ways."
Porthos *looks* at Treville.
Treville snickers. "I rode absolutely *murderous* horses *right* up until my
promotion, son."
"*Really*. Weren't you in your mid-*thirties* when you..."
Treville looks at *him*. And then *gleams* at him.
"Bloody *fine*. I — wait, no, I'm asking."
"Mm? Ah. Yes, I *have* slowed down. But not in every way. And, in some ways...
I've gotten stronger."
"*Really*."
"Magic is like that, son. Especially when you have someone like me, who wasn't
using the full potential *of* their magic for years."
Porthos blinks. "No?"
"No. Ife, Lara, Layo... they deliberately worked to bypass the All-Mother — the
goddess we're *both* aligned with, in case you weren't taught that much —"
"I — I know. I mean, I *didn't* know, for myself, but I was taught *about* this
kind of magic."
Treville nods. "Good. Anyway. They worked to bypass Her when they augmented
your mother and me. They were worried about offending Her, about working
against the natural order of things."
"Hunh. But that's not how it worked out?"
Treville sighs. "No. The way the All-Mother explained it to me —"
"Wait, wait, you've *spoken* to the *goddess*?"
"All the time, son. It's just prudent when you're an earth-mage. I'll show you
how to get to Her."
"Uh."
"Mm?"
"You're not bloody *religious*!"
Treville snickers. "No, I'm not, son. At all. That doesn't mean that I don't
have a goddess I *respect* — and you'll show some respect, too, if you know
what's good for you."
"For fuck's *sake*."
Treville snickers *harder* —
"Finish telling the *story* you were telling!"
Treville coughs and snorts — "Yes, I — right. Anything you say, son." He coughs
again. "The All-Mother explained it like this: Ife, Lara, and Layo gave Her two
new *children*. That's always a cause for celebration for Her, even when She
doesn't choose it. She's always *happy* about it. Motherhood is what She's
*about*."
"I — shit. So she welcomed you and my Mum right away?"
"Well... She would have. If we'd gone to Her."
"You didn't?"
"We didn't know to. We didn't know *how* to, but mostly we didn't know that we
were supposed to. We each had little talismans, little idols that would help us
draw on more power when we needed it to do stronger workings, but neither of us
understood that those idols were letting us siphon power from the All-Mother
without so much as saying *hello*."
"Oh. *Fuck*."
"*Exactly*. By the time I *did* commune with the All-Mother, She had a *lot* to
say to me, son."
"How *did* you learn about — Her?"
Treville nods in approval. He'd heard that capital. "From the same ally who
helped me finally find Guillou, son. Jason Blood — immortal British blood- and
fire-mage with a *lot* of tricks up his sleeve. He's six or seven hundred years
old —"
"*What* —"
"A bit of a ponce —"
"I —"
"*Highly* educational, and easily the most dangerous man I've ever met,"
Treville says, and grins. "I like him *immensely*."
And that... Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Treville snorts. "The answer is yes."
"You know what, I'm just going to assume that the answer is always yes with you
from now on."
Treville wags his head a little. "Not a *bad* approach, as these things go."
"What are you even going to *do* with yourself when your *cock* slows down?"
Treville frowns thoughtfully and scratches at his beard. "I might balance the
budget finally."
Porthos snickers.
"Teach Louis how to have a backbone —"
"Oh, God, sir."
"Teach Richelieu to grow a *soul* —"
"Let's not go too far —"
And Treville grins at him, bright and young and — happy.
Happy to be with him.
Porthos can't *not* feel it, even though he can *also* feel that Treville isn't
*forcing* it at him.
It's just —
It's just everything he *has* been able to feel, everything he's been able to
*know*, right from that first day in the *woods*.
Was it really only a week ago?
Treville licks his lips. "Yes. It was. I haven't had you back — I need you. I
need you for longer than this."
Porthos blinks and grunts. "No, I — I just meant. It feels like I've had you...
forever. To part of me, I mean. It feels like you've always *been* there."
Treville croons, making Lisle's ears twitch, and that seems strange, seems —
But. "She's not used to the real you."
Treville blinks. "Absolutely not. She's used to the *Captain*."
"Your murder-horses knew who *you* were."
"Oh, Éventreur especially —"
"*Disemboweller*?"
Treville sighs. "Isn't that a great name? You can meet him, if you like, I
still have him —"
"I don't know if I bloody *want* to —"
Treville snickers. "He only bites the *unwary* —"
"Bloody *hell* —"
"And he hasn't tried to trample anyone in years, really." Treville sighs again.
"Everyone gets old, I suppose."
Porthos stares at Treville, who is *obviously* remembering happy, thrilling
times of his horse torturing him and others. And then he shakes his head and
smiles. "Aramis would probably have him acting like Lisle here, you know."
Treville blinks. "He *would*. They can't ever meet."
Porthos laughs *hard*. "You *know* you took Aramis on in part because he *is*
that good with horses!"
"He can be good with *other* horses — is that one of the things you like about
him?"
"I sodding love it. It's beautiful to watch him charming horses until they step
right lively for him."
Treville raises his eyebrows. "Better than watching him charming women?"
"*Yes*. He *means* it with the horses!"
And then they're spluttering together —
Annoying Lisle *and* Yves —
Porthos gets control of himself and pets and soothes Yves, cosseting him a
little and muttering some sweet nothings. Treville *starts* by patting and
*rumbling* to Lisle, but she obviously doesn't know what that's about —
And Treville obviously remembers, shaking his head once and forcing himself to
soothe her the human way.
And Porthos has to admit...
He'd liked the rumbling.
He'd liked it, maybe as much as Aramis had liked *his* —
Treville looks up and studies him for a long moment. "It... it's natural for
you to enjoy that sound, son. Especially from me."
"Instinct, you mean?
Treville nods once.
"I don't know if I want to call it that, sir."
"No?"
"How much of this..." Porthos frowns. "The magic, the magic *binding* between
us... we can call a *lot* of what's between us *instinct*."
Treville — breathes. "We could. Or something like it."
Porthos looks at him hard. "D'you want to? Does that make it easier for you to
sleep at night?"
"When I *sleep*, I dream of *you*, son. I —" Treville shakes his head.
"'Easier' isn't a factor. Isn't a *consideration*."
"Sir —"
"I think — I think calling it 'instinct' cheapens it, son —"
"Bloody *yes* —"
"I think it was always more, or would've always been more..."
Porthos blinks. "Sir?"
"If you'd walked into the garrison twenty-some years ago, somehow a man grown,
I would've found a way to make you my brother, son. I... and I think you'd say
the same thing about me, if I were twenty-some years younger, and walking into
the garrison for the first time."
That — "Fuck. Fuck, sir, *yes*. I'd smack you *silly* for being a close-mouthed
*arsehole* —"
"And I'd deserve it —"
"But. We'd be... we'd have..."
"We'd have *something*, son. We'd have *brotherhood*, and — oh, son, I love you
so much. And yes, that's — I loved you when you were in my Amina-love's *womb*,
but I fell in love with you all over again since you've been one of us. I...
does that answer your question?"
And Porthos's heart is pounding —
He's bloody *sweating* —
(Every moment with your scents in my nose is — perfect.)
Porthos grunts. "Sir..."
"I apologize. I know I'm not — I won't push."
I want you to, Porthos thinks before he can bloody *stop* himself —
Treville growls, quick and sharp —
Lisle's ears twitch —
"Sir, I —"
"You didn't want to say that. You *did* want to stop yourself from saying it,
son. It — it never happened."
"This is bloody *why* it's so hard to think about you losing *control*, sir!"
"You make me lose my mind, son. You make me... I don't think I've been fully
soft since that day in the woods. But. I can't lose you. I *can't*. I can't
risk you leaving me."
"I won't leave the *regiment* —"
"I can't risk you leaving me even as much as you *have*, son."
Porthos blinks. "I — oh."
"I've starved for you, son. I will do *anything* to have you back in my arms."
And — there's a part of Porthos which wants to push at that 'anything', which
wants to ask Treville about dishonourable things, or —
But he knows.
Porthos knows what *he'd* do for family.
Everything he'd do for family.
For — love.
And he can admit to the heat in his belly for that, can't he?
He can remember every possessive touch, every moment of perfect *possession* —
("You're *mine*!")
Porthos squeezes his eyes shut and just —
Just —
Treville was *thinking* about all of this then, Treville was —
"I was lost in you, son."
"Wh-what?" And Porthos blinks, focuses —
"You were perfect under me, *around* me. You'd *given* yourself to me —"
"So you *weren't* thinking of me as your son?"
"You were everything to me. Everything."
Porthos frowns.
Treville turns to him immediately. "What? What is it, son?"
"What... I can't *help* but think that that *means* more than what I'm
thinking."
"What are you thinking?"
"Son, lover, brother, comrade-in-arms, friend..."
"Ah. Well." And Treville smiles ruefully, scratching at his beard and leading
them off the main road. (Yes. We're home.)
"I — good, but 'well' *what*?"
"Did you notice *how* I was fucking you, son?"
"Really sodding *well*."
"Thank you, but...?"
"I — well, you were really *animal* about it. And *I* wound up being really
animal when I fucked *Aramis*."
"I noticed. Mm," Treville says, and grins.
"*Arsehole*. But what are you *saying*?"
"I'm saying... that the dog has multiple opinions about who you are to him,
too."
"Uh."
"Yes."
"So are you saying that I have a dog in *me* —"
"Definitely —"
"— who has opinions about *Aramis*?"
"Loud ones, I'm guessing," Treville says, and sighs. "And it's *possible* that
your dog *doesn't* have opinions about Athos — anything is *possible* — but I
wouldn't bet on it."
"*Fuck*. How the bloody hell did you — but you already said. You *didn't* hide
this."
"Like I was telling Athos earlier, son," Treville says, and leads them toward
some very nice-looking stables. "I had my family to keep my secrets for me
while I was learning how to do it myself. *Expect* the regiment to know, to a
man, that you're a bit different, but you're one of the best men we have *and*
you're a lot better liked than *I* was. *They'll* keep your secrets for you,
too."
Porthos blinks. "You weren't well-liked?"
"I didn't make much of an effort to *not* be an arsehole, son —"
"I know *that*, but —"
"I was... close to my brothers. My loves. Beyond that, I was *extremely* caring
and supportive of the recruits —"
Porthos *coughs* —
"— right up until I was a lieutenant, and it was actually my *job* to teach
them what was what. Beyond *that*... well, I kept Reynard from killing people,
and I let Kitos guide me into conversations with the other men when *he*
decided it was necessary, and I let *Laurent* order me into missions with this
unit, or that unit, or the other. I did my job."
Porthos — looks at him.
"That seems strange, son?"
"Yes, it bloody *does*."
Treville raises his eyebrows.
"Sir, you're an *incredibly* loving man. You're — you're an almost
*frighteningly* loving man." In fact, I'm taking the 'almost' right off that
sentence."
*Treville* coughs, leading them *into* the dimness of the stables —
Three stableboys run right up to join them, and *all* of them are of colour —
(Ife's great-grand-nephews, son. She and some of her family live on my lands.)
*Fuck*. Is she...
(She'd love to see you again...) And Treville raises his eyebrows.
Porthos nods thoughtfully and dismounts. "She... she knew my Mum when she was
just a girl."
"That she did," Treville says, and dismounts, as well. "I —"
"What are *you* doing here, sir? You have interrupted our games!" And that was
the tallest of the stableboys, who's at that age where his hands and feet and
*knees* are outgrowing the rest of him, and who has his arms crossed over his
chest and his chin in the air.
Treville snorts. "*Thank* you for your warm and gracious greeting, Olakunle —"
"Well? Will you answer my question?"
"And mine!"
"And mine — oh, I like this one!" And that was from the littlest boy, who has
Yves's reins, and is rubbing his nose while Yves whickers and lips at his hand.
"His name is Yves, lad," Porthos says, and grins. "What's yours?"
"I am Olamide! *That* is Morayo. Who are you?"
"I'm Porthos —"
All three stableboys gasp and start staring back and forth between Treville and
Porthos.
"Uh..."
Treville rubs at his moustache ruefully. "Maybe we should stop by Ife's
straightaway. It's not a long walk."
"Right, yeah."
On the outside, Ife's home looks like any other house on the lands of a noble.
It's rich, well-maintained, a bit staid... nice.
The *garden* has more interesting things in it than just flowers, but —
But the woman who opens the door as soon as they get close is *thrumming* with
power to Porthos's senses, and she's wearing a wrap-dress that's just like the
dresses his Mum used to wear, and a head-scarf just like the ones his Mum used
to wear, and she's crying.
She's —
Porthos swallows and walks close. Just — close.
She cups his face, right on the doorstep, and looks him over, and then she
*tugs* on his *ear* —
"I —"
"Your mama wanted earrings. We did not let her get them."
"Oh. No?"
"You do not let your blood flow so freely in this foreign land."
Porthos blinks. He has no *idea* what to say to that.
Ife laughs, hard and a little painfully, and gestures them to follow her
inside.
And —
Colorful rugs.
Jars of things preserved in fragrant oils.
Spices that make Porthos's mouth water *helplessly* —
And an extremely large number of animals. Porthos steps over four cats,
*around* three dogs, *under* the perches of countless birds —
And every last one is studying him closely, examining him, taking him *in* —
familiars.
"It is good that you have had *some* teaching, boy," Ife says, and sits at her
immaculate kitchen table. She gestures them to join her.
"My Mum always taught me to respect witches. To help them when they needed
help. That sort of thing."
Ife frowns, and the pain on her face is...
"She was your daughter."
"When the prophecy came to me, that my sisters and I would find the most
beautiful love of our lives in front of *that* tavern, on *that* day, at *that*
hour... well. I had had many prophecies before, and they had all come true.
Lara and Layo and I made ourselves ready, as best as we could, and, when the
day came, we set out.
"And there she was. Filthy, hungry, growing sick from the bad food and worse
water she had been consuming... and sharp as a *blade*. And mean as a *snake*,"
Ife says, and laughs hard. "We had to smack her *down* to get her to come with
us.
"And then she spent weeks — months! — fighting us at every step. No, she would
not eat this. No, she would not drink that. No, she would not wear this!" Ife
laughs more. "You see, the Frenchmen who had kept her until they were too poor
to do it? They gave her no freedom. They shut her up in tight little dresses
and forced her to dozens of senseless little manor-house rules. Once she had a
taste of freedom... she wanted *all* freedom."
And that... Porthos raises his eyebrows. "You don't think you maybe had a lot
of rules, too?"
"*Boy*! *Our* rules were all about keeping her safe and strong and healthy and
free! *Our* rules were all about getting her a fine, dutiful husband someday
who would give her — and, yes, *us* — many *children*."
Porthos grins at Treville. "She was a little wilder than that."
Ife *glares* at Treville — who blushes like a boy. "*This* one seduced your
mama without even trying. Mind you, we might have killed him if he *had* tried
—"
Porthos *coughs* —
"I can *feel* that you already know the sort of man your father truly is," Ife
says, and shakes her head. "Wild. Rough. *Dirty*."
"All of that, yeah," Porthos says, and smiles wryly. "You know, Ife... I
learned to trust men like that far more than the alternative."
Ife growls, and all of the animals look up. "You *should* have learned to trust
witches."
"I *did*. I had a death-mage — Yejide — who took care of me and mine in the
Court of Miracles."
"Oh, *her*. Of course you would have found the one Yoruba witch in France who
does not *talk* to anyone."
"Uh."
"About anything!" And Ife is glaring at *him*.
"I'm sorry!"
*Treville* is laughing painfully —
"And *you*. When were you going to bring this boy *home*?"
"*Hey*. *You* agreed with me that we would let him live his life in peace,
without all our pain and misery on his head."
Porthos blinks —
Ife growls again and fusses with her scarf —
Treville leans in. "Don't punch *her* for that, son. She'll hurt you."
Ife blinks. "*Boy*."
"Uh. Yeah?"
"You punched your father?"
"Well, *yes*. He —"
"*Good* boy. Your mama would be proud. Hit him *every* day."
"*Hey* —"
"Hit him *violently* —"
Porthos snickers —
"Your mama especially loved hitting him near his ribs, so that he was in pain
every time he took a breath. Where did you hit him?"
"Oh, I — right on the jaw —"
Ife sighs. "Your mama, she thought your father was too beautiful for that, I
fear."
"I —"
"And this... this brings us to what I must be *serious* about," Ife says, and
looks at both of them *hard*.
Every animal in the room stares with her.
Treville takes a breath — "Has — has there been another prophecy."
"Nothing so... formal. But we have *both* felt the energies around Porthos
shifting and *changing*, Treville."
"He's coming into his *power*. Do *you* know why he's doing it now?"
"Not... for certain."
"Ife —"
"There are things I must study more. I only know this: It has *always* been
*wrong* that none of us were ever haunted by our Amina —"
Treville *grunts* — "Have you — have you *seen* —"
"I have *not*. But the gifts I *left* for her ghost, the gifts I *check*
*regularly*... have finally been disturbed."
"Oh. *Oh*..."
Ife nods once.
And Porthos just... just *stares*.
He doesn't know what to —
And then Treville grips his shoulder. "Son. Are you... well, of course you're
not all right —"
"No, I..." And Porthos smiles, and licks his lips, and smiles wider. "I'd like
it. I'd like to be haunted."
Treville grins and squeezes Porthos's shoulder. "I've wanted... in a lot of
ways, having you back and safe with me is the only thing I've wanted more than
that, since she was murdered."
Porthos swallows and nods.
Ife rumbles and sits back in her chair.
The animals surrounding her all relax, just a little — though less than she
seems to. "Boy... leave me alone with your father for just a moment. Go to your
mama's room."
"My — she had a *room* here?"
Ife smiles with pain. "She never had the chance to stay in it when her husband
annoyed her just that much... but I made it ready for her. Up the stairs, first
on the right."
Porthos swallows again. "Yes, Ife." He goes.
He goes, and he doesn't try to listen, even though he feels a *lot* like he's
had about fifteen years forcibly shaved off his age —
He needs to see.
He needs to —
And he finds colours.
The oranges and yellows his Mum loved are everywhere, making the room like
walking into sunlight.
The bed, the curtains, the rugs, the wall-hangings — everything.
The art is all African — *probably* Yoruba; Porthos just doesn't know quite
enough to be absolutely positive — and a lot of it seems... powerful.
The animal statues are *everywhere* —
The dog ones are closest to the bed, and also nearest the big mirror with the
*lushly*-carved frame.
The rugs are soft even through his boots.
And —
He does it.
He opens the chests in the cupboards, and finds faded clothes with faded scents
that are so *familiar* —
So *right* —
The fading isn't as severe as it *should* be, but Porthos had felt the power
when he'd opened those chests.
He knows a preservation spell when he blunders over one.
He takes out one of the old dresses, and —
It's small. *Too* small for his Mum, who was nearly as big as Treville — but
then it hits.
These are her clothes from when she was a girl.
These are what she wore when she was running wild and driving her guardians to
distraction.
Being... spoiled.
Porthos pulls the dress closer and tries to smell the differences, tries to
*feel* them, tries to *see* her then —
She had to be *whip*-thin —
But was she muscular? She worked hard; she had to be —
Had to just be...
Maybe a little like Flea had been?
Before she'd gotten her full *shape*?
Or —
Or maybe like one of his other old friends, old *family* —
The ones who hadn't *survived*.
He pushes that thought away and focuses on the dress, on —
Who were you, Mum?
What did you like?
What did you *hate*?
Would you like who I've turned into?
"Ife will *happily* give you memories of her, son."
"Oh — fuck. I didn't even —"
Treville smiles wryly and makes soothing gestures. "I've been precisely where
you are, son. All is well."
"I..." And Porthos turns back to the dress, frowning and re-folding it
carefully and tucking it back away.
"Son? You don't have to —"
"I... I need to be with you now, sir," Porthos says, and stands.
Treville grunts. "I — but —"
"I need your memories of her. I need —" Porthos shakes his head and makes sure
the chests are exactly as he'd found them. He isn't sure about the preservation
spells —
"I've taken care of them. But... you seemed to..."
"If I spend too much more time thinking of how she was when she was a girl,
sir... I'll start thinking more about how I came up."
Treville growls. "Noted, son. I'll give you happiness, tonight."
"Thank you, sir."
"Shh, don't —" Treville smiles and shakes his head and beckons. "You never have
to thank me for trying to make you happy, son."
"I — I know it's what you want —"
"Do you?" And Treville looks at him *hungrily*.
Porthos... can feel it all through him.
Porthos can feel it in his *bones*.
He nods, and pants, and moves close. "Let's go."
Once they've said their goodbyes and are out of the house, Porthos can put
those other faded scents *away* a little —
Breathe in the countryside —
Not stall even a *little* —
Treville laughs softly. "Yes, son...?"
"What was she saying to you, sir?"
"Not to hurt you. Not to let you get away from *all* of us because of my
foolish carelessness. My foolish *recklessness*."
"Uh."
"Mm?"
"Does she *know*?"
"She has prophecies as a matter of course, son."
"Oh — fuck."
"She's also just as much of an animal as I am, though she hides it better.
She's had to, for various reasons. Her... morality. Is different."
And that... "The way she talked about my Mum..."
"Mm?"
"The way she — she didn't talk about her like a *daughter*. Not for that
*prophecy* she had."
"That's the way she treated her, son. That's the way they *all* treated her —
though Lara and Layo were more her grandmothers."
Porthos frowns down at Treville, who's walking at his side. "Why? If that's not
what they *wanted*."
"Because it was *one* of the things they wanted, and because it was
*everything* my Amina-love — eventually — wanted." And Treville *doesn't* give
him a look for that — but he really should.
He *really* bloody should, considering —
"Son, no, you seduced me without knowing who I *was* to you —"
"Do you know how *hard* it was not to call you Daddy while you were fucking
me?"
Treville stiffens and growls and growls and *flushes* —
"Yeah. *That*."
Treville is walking *faster* —
Porthos picks up the *pace* —
"Wait — wait —"
"What am I waiting for?"
Treville hasn't actually *stopped* walking fast — "I... can't think about that.
I can't think about you... saying that."
"You've wanted it."
"Of bloody *course* I —" Treville laughs breathlessly. "It's a *dream*."
"And if I want to hear about your dreams, sir?"
"*Do* you?"
"I need — I miss —" Porthos shakes his head and growls. "I don't know how to
say it."
"You miss losing yourself with me."
"*Yes*."
"You miss — you want to give yourself to me as easily as you gave yourself to
me before you knew I was your *father*."
"*Yes*, sir —"
"That's not going to happen right away, son —"
"*Sir* —"
"I can't — we can *cheat*. I can run you *over*. But all your discomfort, all
your *pain* —"
"Will still bloody *be* there afterward — *fuck*," Porthos says, and pushes a
hand back through his hair.
"I want to do that for you. I want to pet you, soothe you, *hold* you —"
"I want to *let* you — and."
"You want nothing of the kind?"
"*No*, I — there's just a bloody hesitation in me, a — I don't even know what
it *is* anymore —"
"Then let's break it down systematically, son," Treville says, and they tip
their hats to the man who opens the doors for them — but Treville doesn't stop
to introduce Porthos. (I can't. Not right now.)
Oh, sir...
(I'm taking you to my bedroom suite. You will *not* take a *damned* thing
*off*.)
Porthos *grunts* —
(Is that all *right*.)
*Yes*, sir —
(Are you —)
I'm sure!
(Then back to your hesitation,) Treville says, and their hats are *off*, so he
nods to the two chambermaids who are bustling past them with their arms full of
linens —
The maids stick their tongues out at Treville —
Blow kisses to *him* —
Run off giggling and flashing their legs —
About how you run your estates...
(I learned everything I know from my father, son, so watch that mouth of
yours.)
I'm not saying a *word*.
Treville barks a laugh. (About your *hesitation*.)
Shit —
(Do you need me to —)
Don't stop!
Treville looks at him —
*Gleams* at him —
(I'm so hungry for you, son...)
Porthos shivers —
(You like it and you *don't* when I say things like that.)
I —
(You *want* your Daddy to be hungry for you.)
*Fuck* —
(Yes or no.)
*Yes* — but...
(But what?)
But it's bloody — it's not —
(Don't *hesitate*.)
It's not *right*.
(Why not.)
*What*?
(What's wrong about it, son? Mm?) And Treville has them jogging up a broad
staircase —
His eyes are still *gleaming* —
He's being the *hard* man —
He's so bloody *good* at that —
Porthos's *knees* are watery again —
(But you can take it, son...)
I — I *can* —
(You can take *me*.)
I *want* to.
(What's not right about it. About *having* me.)
You're my *father*!
(Are you my young, nubile daughter —)
What —
(Am I going to get you *pregnant*, son.)
What does that bloody have to do with —
(Are you going to give birth to idiots or monsters —)
That's not the only bloody *reason*!
(Are you sure?) And they're off the stairs and moving down more clean, well-
appointed halls.
Not so *richly*-appointed as some —
Not so many *portraits* —
But it's nice, and —
(It's yours. It's all yours.)
*Fuck* — that — *that's* one of the reasons —
(Because I'm bequeathing my property to the man I love?)
Porthos blinks — and stops.
Just stops dead, right in the middle of the hall. He can't.
He can't.
Treville nods and stops with him. "That was too much for you."
"Yeah, I — I don't... it felt like you were *denying* —"
"That you're my son? Never. *Never*. You'll always be my son. But that won't
stop you from being other things to me, as well."
Porthos tries to *think* —
"Breathe, son."
"I'm — yeah, I'll do that," Porthos says, and breathes —
And breathes —
And realizes that his Mum has gone just this way —
That she's *hurried* just this way, wanting to get to Treville's suite —
Wanting to be *alone* with him —
So they could have... the little they'd gotten to have.
Porthos smiles ruefully. "What are you going to do if my Mum's ghost is hacked-
off with you?"
"Learn to be charming, hopefully."
Porthos snorts."*Arse*."
"Learn to be *really* charming...?" And Treville's grin is young and wild and
sweet and warm all at once —
And Porthos wants a kiss. He wants —
Treville inhales sharply. "Not... yet."
"Sir —"
"Shh. You have a lot of strong feelings about what family means. What it
*should* mean."
"So do *you*."
"I do, son —"
"And I'm *wrong*?"
"No, son. And I'm not *right*, either," Treville says, and reaches up to cup
Porthos's shoulders, to squeeze them, to *warm* them —
"Oh, sir — fuck, sir —"
"Shh. Shh..."
Porthos moans, belly clenching just for —
He *needs* —
He needs so *much* —
"And I'm going to show you how to get it," Treville says, and steps that little
bit closer, giving Porthos his scents. Leather and brandy. Sweat and horses.
*Steel*.
Porthos rumbles helplessly —
Tries to *lean* in — Treville won't let him.
"Sir —"
"Just a little longer, son. Hold on a little longer."
"I — yeah. Yeah. We're — doing this the right way."
"That's *right*. And the right way means that we *accept* that we see family
differently — I'm not going to try to change you."
"You're — you're not?"
"No, son. *No*. I love your *passion*. I love your *fire*," Treville says —
growls. "I want you to keep everything *about* it."
"But..."
"But you can't be ashamed of how you feel, son. You can't..." Treville sighs
and cups the back of Porthos's neck. "You want me. You need me. I know you do
—"
"I *love* you!"
Treville groans —
Pants —
And gives himself a shake. "I'll dream of that. I'll dream of you saying
that... for the rest of my life, son."
"*Sir*."
"You *love* me. And I'm your father, son. That means I need you to have
everything to make you happy. Everything to make you *smile*. You need to have
who you love."
"I — I — please. *Please* —"
"There's no shame in love, son. You can't ever *let* yourself be shamed by
love. *Not when it doesn't hurt anyone else*."
Porthos blinks —
Blinks a *lot* —
Stares down into Treville's eyes —
Treville raises his eyebrows —
"That's. That's always how I... I mean. That's how I *work*. That's what I
*believe*."
Treville smiles wryly. "You certainly gave me that impression, son."
Porthos blushes hard — "I — I'm sorry —"
"Shh, no. I'm only teasing. *Never* forget that this is... not easy. Not even
as 'easy' as being a buggerer in the military."
Porthos breathes. "Right. Right. I — yeah."
"So," Treville says, and *strokes* the back of Porthos's neck —
He still has his *gloves* on —
"That can change."
"I. I want it to."
"You want my hands, son...?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do, sir."
Treville smiles and steps back, tugging off his gloves just like that — "My
big, sweet boy..."
"Hungry. I'm —" Porthos shakes his head. "Inside. Take me inside your —"
"We're right here, son," Treville say, and nods toward the door behind Porthos
—
And Porthos can't hold back a moan. He *opens* the door, walks in —
And his *first* impression is that he's never seen a sitting room with this
many places to stash *weapons*.
Including *Aramis's*.
Treville laughs hard. "I knew I loved that boy."
"Sir, how many weapons do you *need* in your bedroom suite?"
"All of them, son. *All* of them," Treville says, and starts disarming himself.
Porthos does the same —
He usually never feels *inadequate* when he does —
Except, of course, in Aramis's rooms —
Treville laughs more —
"In all seriousness, sir —"
"This was my *father's* suite once."
"*And*? Did he invite the regiment to *bunk* with him?"
"Sometimes, yes."
"Uh. *Really*?"
"He was often up all night discussing strategy, tactics..." Treville smiles.
"He took his work *everywhere* with him — and his lieutenants basically never
left his side."
"Even to go to *bed* with him?"
"Well, *presumably* they bunked on the floor..."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
"... *with* my father, because that man didn't sleep in a *bed* until he died
in one," Treville says, and snickers.
Porthos snorts helplessly. "You *know* there was at least one of those
lieutenants eyeing the bed longingly, sir."
"Bite your tongue. These were strong, hard, *seasoned* men."
"There's always one, sir."
"Porthos —"
"There's *always* one who wants a sodding *pillow*."
Treville hums — and sets his rapier very, very far away from *everything* else
—
But Porthos doesn't have to think about that rapier.
(No you don't.) "Are you that one, son?"
"Wh-what?"
Treville *stalks* him from across the room, teeth showing just a bit. "Do you
need things a little bit *soft*."
Shit — "Well, now I don't want to *admit* that, sir —"
"Yes, you do," Treville says, and pushes the fingers of one hand into Porthos's
*beard* —
"Oh —"
"If you admit it..."
"I — yeah?"
And Treville pulls Porthos's head down until they're breathing each other's
breaths —
Until Porthos can *taste* the good brandy on Treville's breath —
"If you admit it, son... you can have it."
"There's. There's a lot I want to have — Daddy."
And Treville *winces* —
Grips Porthos's beard *tight* —
"Son..."
"Is it. Is it *really* all right —"
"It is."
"I can't — I wanted it so *badly* —"
"If you'd taken it... I would've told you everything while we were still
*tied*, son," Treville says, and laughs —
And Porthos *coughs* a laugh —
And.
They're laughing into each other's mouths, they're —
The kiss is *soft*, messy, *sweet* —
The kiss is *searching* —
Treville is still *laughing* — but he's also lapping at Porthos's mouth,
testing at his *teeth* —
Do you — do you want them to be *sharper* —
(I want everything that's yours. Everything.)
Daddy —
And then Treville growls and kisses him harder, kisses him hungry and *deep*,
still searching, still *careful*, but Porthos's knees are so *fucking* watery,
Porthos is so hungry, he needs —
He needs —
(You need to suck me...)
Oh, *fuck*, Daddy —
(I won't stop you today — if it's what you still *want* today —)
It *is* —
(But let's...) And Treville pulls back and pants. "Are you ready to be a little
more naked, son?"
Porthos moans, feeling —
Feeling *drunk* —
And Treville is growling and opening Porthos's tunic, fingers moving fast,
easily, *hungrily* —
Porthos feels like his own scents are taking over *everything* —
He's sweating like a *pig* —
"You're sweating like a *deeply*-aroused grown man, son. It's... intoxicating."
"You feel. You feel drunk, too?"
Treville rolls his head on his neck and urges Porthos to take the tunic *off* —
Porthos *obeys* —
"Not dangerously so. I have... enough of my control."
"Daddy..."
"Even though you keep saying *that*," Treville says, laughing more and opening
the laces on Porthos's shirt —
Porthos snorts. "I — I can *stop* —"
"I *never* want you to stop."
"Never, eh? How about at court?"
"Mm. Well. It's true that *some* of those overbred fools and deviants might
take notice in *bad* ways," Treville says, frowning mock-judiciously —
Porthos snorts harder. "I think I'd prefer them to the ones who *didn't*,
Daddy."
Treville shakes his head sadly. "We're going to have to teach you how to have a
good *time*, son."
"Oh, *really*."
"*Oh*, yes," Treville says and tugs Porthos's shirt out of his pants — and
raises his eyebrows.
Porthos nods and pants and —
And then his shirt's off, and those hands are greedy on him, *hungry* on him,
so —
"Daddy..."
Treville pauses with one hand on Porthos's belly and the other hand on his
*shoulder*. "Too much?"
Porthos pants. "No. Just — I love the way you touch me. I love the way — I love
the way I can always tell you can't get *enough*."
Treville growls and starts petting him again, starts stroking, *scratching* —
"Please —"
"Could you get enough of your Aramis?"
"I — I couldn't even pull *out* —"
"Of course not..."
"I — I knew — he didn't have *experience* —"
"No...?"
"He — that's his story, Daddy."
Treville nods. "Meaning it's a bad one. I'll shut my mouth," he says, and grips
Porthos's *biceps*. "You wanted to pull out before the pain set in."
"Yes —"
"My big, sweet *prince* —"
"Shit —"
"You wanted to *protect* him."
"*Yes* —"
"Best to get him trained, son," Treville says, and strokes back to Porthos's
chest, rubbing his calluses on Porthos's *nipples* —
"I — I — what —"
"You know *exactly* what I mean," Treville says, and *pinches* Porthos's
nipples —
"Oh, *fuck* —"
"Do you like that, son? Do you like that pain?"
"Yeah — yeah — I didn't drink enough today that I'm too sensitive —"
"Why *not*?"
Porthos *coughs* again —
And Treville snickers before leaning in and biting Porthos's nipple, *sucking*
it, biting it again and licking and licking and —
"Oh, shit — oh, shit, Daddy, that's so *good* —"
"*Good*," Treville says, wrapping his left arm around Porthos's waist and
pinching and *pulling* on Porthos's other nipple with his right hand —
Sucking *hard* again —
So —
"Daddy — fuck, *Daddy* —"
And Treville *hums* —
Porthos's cock *jerks* —
(Is that so...)
"Yeah — yeah," he says, and *cradles* Treville's head —
(Oh, son...)
Just — just — gentle —
(You can hold me as hard as you *need* to, son,) Treville says, and *bites*
again —
Porthos cries *out* —
Pulls Treville in *tighter* —
(That's right, son... take what you need,) Treville says, and drags calluses
like *rock* over his other nipple —
"Please!"
(Please what?)
Oh fuck — "*Fuck*. Touch me more, taste me more, use your *mouth* on me more —"
Treville *snarls*, hard and loud —
Licks his way across Porthos's chest and *suckles* Porthos's other nipple —
Porthos groans and *bucks* —
And there's a hard hand on his bollocks through his trousers, squeezing and
crushing them up against his *cock* —
"*Daddy* —"
"Son."
"Please — please —"
"Can I use my mouth the way I *want* to."
And Porthos's belly *drops* — there's only one answer. "Yeah. Yeah, Daddy.
Please do. *Please*."
And Treville drops into a crouch and immediately starts working on Porthos's
boots and socks —
Porthos works on his *trousers* — but Treville reaches up and *stops* him, and.
And Porthos realizes, *realizes*, that Treville has been undressing him.
That Daddy has.
And they're staring into each other's eyes —
Treville — *Daddy* — is *pleading* into Porthos's eyes —
There's only one *answer*.
Porthos nods and drops his hands.
Daddy pants and growls and *grips* him by the hips —
Kisses his cock through his *trousers* —
"*Please*, Daddy —"
"Soon, son. Soon," Daddy says, and gets rid of Porthos's boots and socks —
Stands again to open Porthos's trousers and *breeches* — and.
Porthos snickers helplessly —
"Share the joke...?"
"I just. I just can't help thinking I should be lying *down* for this —"
"You're *absolutely* right," Daddy says, and starts walking him back to the
*bedroom* —
"Oh my *God* —"
"You need better oaths, son."
"You — you —"
"You don't want to *offend* the All-Mother."
"*Shit* —"
"I'm kidding; she's amused by all these young religions that have sprung up in
the past few thousand years. I asked."
"Uh."
"Don't think about that. Think about this," Daddy says, and *shoves* Porthos
onto his bed from the side —
"Oh — shit — *soft* —"
"Too soft, really. I keep it that way because your mother would curse a blue
streak about it — and then sleep like a baby curled *in* all the softness."
"Oh — *oh* —"
"Will you sleep here with me, son?"
"Fuck — yeah —"
Treville growls and *yanks* on the laces, fingers suddenly *clumsy* —
"Oh, Daddy — Daddy —"
"A father doesn't *cut* his child out of their clothes... usually..."
Porthos snickers *hard* — "Usually *not* —"
"There. There you are. Oh, son..."
And Porthos groans when Daddy takes him out, when Daddy just — just *cups* his
bollocks and his cock and stares at them like a *meal* —
Porthos spreads his *legs* —
"Wait," Daddy says, *inexplicably* —
"Daddy —"
Daddy laughs. "No, son, I — I need you all the way naked for me. Right now.
*Right* now."
"*Fuck* — absolutely," Porthos says, and closes his legs enough that Daddy can
get his pants and breeches *off* easily —
He *starts* to throw them across the room — and then he shoves his *face* in
Porthos's breeches and starts *growling*.
Porthos *moans*. "Please. *Please*," he says, and starts to scoot farther onto
the bed —
And then Daddy rips the breeches away from his face — "Stop right there."
"What — what?"
And Daddy drops to his knees, *shoves* Porthos's legs wide, and *swallows* his
cock —
"*Fuck*! You can get on the bed!"
(I like it hard, son...)
"You — you — oh, *fuck*, your *mouth* —"
(I'm only going to give you a little of this, son...) And Daddy sucks *hard*,
manages to suck hard even though he's got *all* of Porthos's cock —
His lashes are fluttering —
He starts to bob his *head* —
"Unh — shit — *fuck* — wait —"
(Wait for what...?)
"What do you *mean* you're only — only going to — give me a little — oh, no —"
But Daddy is slurping his way *off* —
"Oh fuck fuck fuck —"
All the way *off* —
"*Daddy* —"
"You told me I could use my mouth the way I wanted to, son," Daddy says — and
smiles.
And Porthos knows exactly what's going to happen next.
(That. You. Do,) Daddy says, and *darts* in, *noses* in, *licks* in —
And in —
And in so bloody *deep* —
Porthos's thighs are shaking —
Porthos's belly is *quivering* —
Porthos's *arse* is clenching and flexing and he can't —
There's nothing he can bloody *do*. That tongue is too *deep*. That tongue is
too —
Too *strong* —
And Porthos knows he's making noise, that he's clawing at the sheets —
Trying to *close* his legs —
(Son...)
Don't let me!
And Daddy *growls* into him and *forces* his legs wide, holds him open, makes
him —
Makes him bloody *take* —
Porthos sobs, toes curling for the feel of those lips pressed right there, that
*beard* —
So *soft* —
Almost like *fur* —
(Funny how that works...)
Daddy — *Daddy* — *please*!
(Let me have you, son. Let me have you just. Like. *This*.) And Daddy is
*thrusting* with that tongue, fucking him —
Making him take *that* —
Porthos sobs again, *arches* —
His belly won't *stop* quivering —
This is —
Nothing's ever *been* like this —
(Reynard screamed for me. Will you?)
"*Fuck* — I don't know!"
(Let's find out...) And Daddy spreads him wider, spreads him so tight and wide,
slips his long tongue out and laps and laps at him, cleans all his *sweat* away
—
Growls and *nuzzles* him —
Laps at him *more* — (My delicious boy...)
"*Please*, Daddy, please —"
(You like the other better. Good boy. Always let your Daddy know.)
"I —" But he can't get another *word* out before he's *yelling*, because Daddy
is *kissing* his hole, making *love* to it —
Doing it so —
So *softly* —
(Oh, son...)
Porthos shudders and *aches* —
Tries to keep himself from *shoving* his arse at Daddy's *face* —
Tries to keep *control* —
(Lose control. Lose it all for *me*.)
*Daddy* —
(I've got you....) And the kiss gets harder, hotter — and deeper, so much
*deeper*, and this time Porthos *does* scream —
Just —
(That's it, that's perfect, you're making me so hard, son...)
Porthos *bucks* — "Fuck — *sorry* —"
(Shh, I can take it. I can take everything you *give* me,) Daddy says, and
*sucks* at Porthos's hole while shoving deep —
Porthos screams *again* —
(Good *boy* —)
Porthos is panting and —
And *quaking* —
Clawing at the sheets and leaking all over his own *belly* —
(I want to eat you *alive*...)
Porthos wants to *let* him. But —
(But *what*. Mm? Why don't you want your Daddy to have you?)
Porthos bucks again —
Again —
*Sobs* again —
(That's right. Lose everything. Let it go —)
"*Daddy* —"
(And tell me what you *want*.)
"I need — I need to be *fucked*, Daddy, I need to be fucked so *hard*!"
Daddy growls into his hole again, and Porthos is clenching, arching, trying to
ride Daddy's *face* —
He can't stop anymore —
He can't even slow *down* —
(*Don't* slow down. But... you need to recover —)
"Daddy, I think 'm — 'm as healed as *you* are from that *punch*!"
And for a moment Daddy *stops*, actually *stops* —
Porthos *groans* —
(My. *Son*,") Daddy says, and he sounds wild, he sounds mad, he sounds
*thrilled* —
He sucks *hard* at Porthos's hole —
Scrapes his *teeth* —
Porthos *yells* again —
And then Daddy *whips* his tongue inside him and squeezes Porthos's *cock*,
just *squeezes* it, and Porthos is howling, honestly *howling*, arching off the
bed and spurting so hard he smacks his own *cheek* —
Spurting so hard he sees wild *colours* —
(Good *boy*...)
And Daddy doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, doesn't —
Daddy fucks him *through* it with that tongue, *works* Porthos's cock —
Porthos *whines* and spurts *more* —
(That's *right*, give me everything. Give me something to lick. Right. *Up*.)
"*Daddy*!"
Daddy *milks* Porthos's cock, *snarls* — (Spend *more*.)
Porthos *jerks* and spills all over Daddy's *hand*, gasping and whining and
whining and *slumping* —
Just *falling* into the soft bed and *staying* there, legs spread and toes
trying to *cramp* in their curled position —
He can't straighten them while Daddy is fucking him like this —
He can't —
He can't do *anything* while Daddy is *having* him like this — except dream of
his cock.
And his knot.
Daddy growls and it *becomes* a rumble, low and pleased and just a *little*
satisfied as he slows his thrusts right down.
Porthos shivers and takes it —
*Croons* and just —
Just —
Deals with it —
(Good boy,) Daddy says, and slips his tongue out slowly.
And licks him.
Licks his cock, his bollocks, his belly, his chest —
Back to his bollocks —
Back to his bollocks for a *while* —
(Your hair there is wonderful, son. It tickles my tongue.)
Porthos snorts. "Glad I could — unh. *Oblige*, Daddy."
(It's not my fault you're a superior man in every *possible* way, son,) Daddy
says, and *sucks* Porthos's bollocks right into his *mouth* —
"*Fuck* —"
(What's a Daddy to do...?) And he's slurping, suckling, nibbling and mouthing
and *lipping* —
"Unh — *ungh* —"
(Will this make you lose control for me again, son?)
"Not — not really —"
(That's a shame,) Daddy says, and pulls off.
"Fuck — sorry —"
"Shh," Daddy says, crawling up over him again and licking his cheek — "You
can't love everything I do."
"I don't *dislike* having my bollocks sucked, Daddy —"
"Mm. You *have* always seemed sane, yes," he says, and licks back to his ear —
"Oh — yeah —"
"You like this," Daddy says, and laps and laps and —
"Fuck, I. I don't know. 's just. Soothing. Good. Hot. All at once," Porthos
says, closing his eyes and leaning into it.
"You're going to love having your ears played with when you shift."
"*Fuck* —"
Daddy laughs evilly. "Don't think about it, yet."
"Thank you! Let me suck your cock!"
Daddy growls and *nips* Porthos's ear —
"Nnh —"
"Let me fuck your beautiful mouth."
And that's — "Fuck..."
"Yes, son?"
"Yeah. Yeah," Porthos says, making his second attempt to scoot further onto the
bed.
This time, Daddy actually lets him, though he never lets Porthos get out from
*under* him —
Never lets Porthos get *away* —
"Now why would I do that...?"
Porthos laughs. "So I can move *faster*?"
"Too much to risk, son. Now get your head up on that pillow."
"Oh — fuck. Are we going to...?"
"Do you not like it that way?"
Porthos licks his lips and looks Daddy up and down. "You're going to have to
take some clothes off to make this work for me, Daddy —"
"But it *will* work for you?"
Porthos growls — shocking himself with how flat and animal it comes out —
And Daddy's ears flatten —
His eyes get that much *darker* —
"Son..."
"Yeah, Daddy. Yeah, it'll work. Come on, let me help you out of —"
"But that's not your *job*, son," Daddy says, and grins like an *arsehole*
again, kneeling up and stripping *fast*.
Porthos snorts. "What is my job, then? Lying here and taking it?"
Daddy's fingers fumble on his laces *tellingly* —
Porthos snorts *more*. "You're such an *arse*."
"That I am, son —"
"But you know I'm going to make you feel me, Daddy..."
"I *always* —"
"You know I *have* to make you feel me," Porthos says, and pins Daddy with a
look, just a little.
"I —" Daddy pants and *pauses* with his tunic and shirt across the room and his
trousers open —
His breeches are wet. *Bulging*.
Porthos growls again —
Licks his *lips* —
"Son. Son. Don't make me lose control —"
"Just a little, Daddy," Porthos says, and looks up nice and slow —
Daddy *snarls* —
"Just enough to get me a good, hard, *wild* fuck."
"*Son*."
"'s what I like —"
"Who. Who *gave* that to you?"
"Friends — the family I came *up* with. While I still had them."
Daddy growls and *moves*, stripping down the rest of the way and coming back
fast, straddling Porthos's chest — "My son, my big and beautiful..." He growls
again, and his thick cock jerks hard, spattering them both.
His belly is covered in *fur* —
His *bollocks* are furry —
And his knot is big.
Porthos reaches for him —
Daddy catches his hands.
"Daddy —"
"Anything. Anything *but* my knot, son."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
"Please. For both of our sakes," Daddy says, and looks a little *desperate* —
and Porthos realizes that his teeth are a little longer than they should be.
Which —
He gets that with *every* part of himself.
He nods. "All right, Daddy. I won't touch your knot until you say I can."
Daddy pants. "My good boy. My good, perfect —" He growls again and brings
Porthos's hands to his slick cock, growling again just for the *touch* —
Porthos *grips* him —
"*Yes* — ah, fuck. Ah, fuck, son, your hands are —"
"Perfect...?"
Daddy rolls his head on his neck again and growls *hard*. "The dog wants out.
The dog wants to show you — no. I. Everything about you is perfect, son.
Everything —" And Daddy groans when Porthos moves one hand to his bollocks,
those furry *bollocks* —
When Porthos squeezes and *strokes* —
"Son... *fuck* —"
"Just this, Daddy? And is that what it means when you roll your head on your
neck like that? That the dog is... closer?"
"*I'm* close," Daddy says, and laughs, growls more — and gleams at him. "Do you
want the dog, son?"
"Uh. Not now? But I want to *know* him —"
Daddy pants. "Then you will. You will. He's missed you so *badly* —"
"He — what —"
"Your mother was his *mate* —"
"*Shit* —"
"I — I never knew where to *begin* with all the things I had to tell you —"
"I can bloody *see* that!"
And they're laughing together again, Daddy grinning and flushing and *gripping*
at his own strong, hard thighs —
Pumping into Porthos's fist —
Urging a faster *stroke* —
Porthos slows down —
"*Son*."
"Don't you want to save that for my mouth, Daddy?"
"Nnh — fuck. *Fuck*. I don't want..."
"What don't you want, Daddy? Mm? Tell me," Porthos says, and gives those furry
bollocks a *hard* squeeze —
"I don't want to *last* in your mouth, *fuck*. Oh, fuck, I want to fuck your
beautiful mouth for hours."
"I sense some conflict there, Daddy," Porthos says, taking his hand *off*
Daddy's cock —
"Shit —"
And sucking his fingers clean slowly. He raises his eyebrows while he does it.
"You... son. Son. I'll hurt you."
Porthos pulls his fingers out with a nice, wet *pop*. "I want it."
"I don't. You can't *leave* me!"
Porthos *grunts*, cock twitching —
Daddy growls and — doesn't turn away. Not even a little. Not —
And maybe the time for that's done.
Maybe...
Porthos nods and licks his lips. "Put your hands on me, Daddy."
"Son —"
"*Feel* me, real in your bed —"
Daddy snarls and pushes his hands into Porthos's hair —
Holds him down *by* the hair —
"You can't — you *can't*."
"I won't."
"I broke into. Into a million *pieces* —"
"We'll pick 'em all up together, Daddy. We — I'm *here* now."
"*Stay*. *Stay* with me!"
Porthos breathes — and then realizes that his being calm is maybe part of the
problem. So he cups that fat cock again —
"Nnh — *Porthos* —"
"Need you, Daddy —"
"Don't —"
"I won't *leave* you —"
And Daddy growls and growls and —
He looks *hurt* —
He looks so wide-eyed and *hungry* —
"You know you'll always be able to put your *hands* on me —"
"I can't live one more day without —" And Daddy snarls and *scratches* down the
sides of Porthos's face —
Porthos grunts —
Pants —
"Daddy —"
"Let me *adopt* you. Let me. Let me finally make you *mine*."
"I *am* yours!"
"*Son*."
"You need more, you need — is it really a good *idea*, Daddy? For a man in your
*position* —"
"I'm — about to bite. Not in the best way. Stop talking."
"*Daddy* —"
"I don't bloody care about *anything* except for —"
"You *do* care, Daddy. You care about being able to command men like *Aramis*
and *Athos*. You care about being able to command *me*."
Daddy flares his nostrils once —
Twice —
And *then* he turns aside, shuddering and panting. "I. I should be allowed to
have my son," he says, quietly.
"Yeah, you should, but — I haven't lived the most court-ready *life*, Daddy.
And you have an image to — *somehow* — maintain. For the good of the regiment."
Daddy strokes Porthos's face —
*Pets* Porthos's face —
Turns back to him. "If I could *make* it right. If I could make it — just
between us and Louis. A *favour* to me."
Porthos blinks — but he doesn't need to ask. Daddy would absolutely burn a
favour that way. But. "There's still what happens *after*."
Daddy strokes down to Porthos's shoulders and squeezes *gently*. He —
His *hands* are shaking —
His hands are bloody —
"Daddy —"
"Porthos," he says. Just that. Just *that*, and —
And Porthos can hear everything in it, he thinks. He moves his hands to Daddy's
thighs and squeezes. "Family means everything to me."
"I know that about you."
"We didn't get to have — names. Words. Pieces of parchment. We didn't get any
of that."
Daddy's face twists up for that — "Let me —"
"That didn't make it *mean* less, Daddy. It — in some ways it made it mean
*more*," Porthos says, and strokes Daddy's thighs. "Let me show you. Let me
show you what a good son I can be to you —"
"If. If you let me adopt you... you can live here."
Porthos grunts —
"Or... in my rooms in the city."
"You want that. You — fuck, I already know that was a stupid question —"
"I'd never *separate* you — I want your brothers here, *too* —"
"You want your pack."
Daddy *pants* —
Growls —
"It bloody *hurts* to be apart from all of you — *fuck* —"
"Don't you stop touching me —"
"I *won't* —"
"Don't you turn *away*!"
Daddy stares into him desperately. "*Porthos*. I — *please* —"
"Adopt me."
Daddy takes a shuddering breath — and lifts his nose.
"You're — testing to see if I mean it?"
"And why you mean it."
"You can *ask*."
"I — this is — is *instinct* — *why*."
"Because you don't let need go unanswered. And especially not if it's
*family*."
"*Pack*."
"You're going to have to give me time to get used to — fuck, Daddy, you have to
promise to let us *help* you hold it all together *when* it all goes to hell —
don't look *away* —"
Daddy *whuffs* out a breath — "I won't — I won't push you away —"
"More than that, *better* than that. Pull us in. *Let us help*. Don't make us
*fight* to help you."
And there's a moment —
A pause that makes Porthos wonder if he'll have to fight *now* —
And then Daddy growls long and low, eyes flaring that hot blue. "I'll never let
any of you go. I'll never —" He licks his teeth, and then he licks his face. "I
told Athos that I didn't know how long it would take to need him and Aramis the
way I needed you."
"Oh. You did?"
"Yes, son," Daddy says, and pets Porthos's face, and throat —
Lingers on his throat —
Growls again — "I talked to him about... that *confusion*. That need to have
you be everything you could possibly *be* to me."
"The blood in your veins?"
"You would've always been that, son. But there was a chance — a *chance* — that
you could've been that and still been only my beloved son. My beloved boy."
"Oh. Yeah?"
Daddy flares his nostrils twice and nods, petting down to Porthos's collarbone
and splaying his hands. "This... what we have — *everything* we have — well,
it's like we said, son. It's nothing to do with the magic and everything to do
with who I am. Who *we* are."
"*Yes*, Daddy —"
"We're hungry men, son. Aren't we."
Porthos blinks —
Takes a look at that fat and *dripping* cock —
"Look up, son."
"Daddy —"
"Look. Up."
Porthos pants and does it. "Yes, Daddy. I — what are you saying? Of bloody
*course* we're hungry —"
"I told Athos that it was only a matter of *time* before I was starving for him
and Aramis, too. The way you already are," Daddy says, and raises his eyebrows.
"Yeah — yeah, that's — but you want them? You want to — no, what am I saying,
of course you bloody do," Porthos says, and they're laughing together again,
*being* together —
It's so good —
It's so bloody *good* —
"It's *pack*, son. And packs should always be together," Daddy says, and raises
his eyebrows again.
"Right, yeah, but what are you — oh. Shit."
Daddy grins like an arsehole again.
"You're going to try to adopt all of us."
Daddy grins *wider* —
"You're going to — what happens if we add someone else to our *unit*?"
Daddy reaches up and scratches at his beard mock-thoughtfully —
"And you're the biggest arsehole on the *planet*, by the way —"
"No, son, that's yours when I'm done with it —"
Porthos *snorts* —
And Daddy rumbles. "You're my pack. You *gave* me a second pack after I'd gone
years without —" Daddy shakes his head and then shakes himself. "I know — the
*man* in me knows — I'm moving too fast. That I'm trying to take too much —"
"Don't take anything *back*!"
Daddy whuffs in shock — and then growls. "Then I won't. I *won't*. It's the
*first* thing I'll talk to Aramis about —"
"Fuck —"
"Athos's line is *dead* —"
"Fucking *hell*, Daddy —"
"And so was mine, son. Until you agreed to give yourself to me."
Porthos blinks and blinks and — he hadn't thought about that.
"I know you hadn't. But Athos has. Not in *this* way, I daresay, but... in
others."
Porthos swallows and — nods. "Yes, Daddy. I'll uh. I'll need some training for
this stuff."
"You'll have it. But never forget that you're perfect just the way you are."
"Daddy —"
"Never. *Forget*."
"I — did you train my Mum?"
Daddy blinks — and smiles. "When she'd sit still for it. We pretended I was
just telling her stories, or complaining about what I had to put up with,
but... she knew. She knew."
"Even before you were changed?"
"Yes. I didn't *know* she knew — until she told me, later — and, to be honest,
I didn't always know I was doing it myself. She told me... she told me that
made it better for her. That I was training her up for the life of a noble
*helplessly*. That I couldn't *stop* myself from doing it. Like making her a
part of every part of my life was just as necessary as killing Spaniards or
fucking pretty boys with plump little arses."
Porthos coughs —
Treville grins and winks. "It was *precisely* that necessary. More."
"Right — I." Porthos laughs hard, giving in to it — and letting his Daddy drink
it right in.
(Thank you...)
Always, Daddy. *Always*.
"You shouldn't make me promises —"
"That I plan to keep...?" Porthos grins and takes Daddy's hands, brings them
back to his face. "Hold me. Hold me still."
"Son..."
"Make me *take* you."
Daddy snarls and *grips* him —
Porthos *grunts* — "Yeah, Daddy, like that, just like that —"
"Son —"
"Give me your cock, let me *taste* —"
"Tell me. Tell me again," Daddy says, and his voice is almost quiet and —
deceptively calm. Not *really* calm, but —
Porthos licks his lips and looks up into Daddy's pale eyes. "I'm your son. I'm
not going anywhere."
Daddy pants —
"I'm your *son*."
"Please —"
"You can adopt me. You can *have* me. I'm *yours* — and I won't leave."
And Daddy growls like the end of the bloody world — and lets go.
"Daddy —"
"Pull me in. Pull — get my cock in your mouth, son. Let me *see* that."
"Unh — shit, yeah," Porthos says, and grips that cock —
Daddy growls again —
*Again* —
*Tosses* his head —
But Porthos is already pulling him in, already lapping at the honestly pointy
head, already *tasting* —
The *taste* is thick —
The feel —
Porthos *sucks* as he pulls, arches up —
And Daddy forces him right back down.
"*Mm* —"
"Pull me. In."
*Fuck* — but Porthos can follow orders, Porthos can take, show his Daddy how
much he wants it —
Bloody *all* of it —
Daddy is growling and growling and massaging his *scalp* —
It feels like his cock goes on for *miles* this way — but then Porthos is
kissing his own fist —
"Move it, son."
He does, he does —
And Daddy *thrusts* —
Porthos *gulps* — and he's kissing Daddy's knot, kissing that huge and
throbbing —
Porthos's arse is so *empty* —
"Not. For long," Daddy says, and grips him by the hair and the beard and starts
to *fuck* him —
Porthos groans in his chest —
Tries to focus —
Tries to *see* his Daddy in this moment —
"All I can see is you, son..."
Daddy —
"All I can see is. Your beautiful face. Your beautiful *mouth*."
Porthos swallows and sucks hard, *hard* —
"Oh, *son* — I — I don't want to lose *control* —"
Have to make you *feel* me —
"There's nothing I can feel *more*, there —" Daddy growls and thrusts *hard* —
Porthos bucks —
"Son... son... I want to rip every man who's ever done this to you apart,"
Daddy says *conversationally*.
I already said I *liked* it!
"I'm... not... thinking clearly?"
Porthos *coughs* a laugh —
Nearly *chokes* —
Coughs *more* —
"I — fuck — don't do that —"
Porthos laughs harder and chokes more —
"Definitely don't make that feel good —"
Porthos opens his eyes and scrapes his teeth a little ways —
"*Shit* —" And Daddy fucks him hard, *hard*, and there's no room for choking,
no room for laughter, no room for anything but taking it, taking Daddy's big
cock and *rough* fuck —
He's holding on so *tightly* —
"*Son*."
He's panting so — so *harshly* —
"Son, I — I —"
He's leaking all over Porthos's *tongue* —
Porthos sucks and slurps it all up, takes it, takes it *all* —
"Oh, *fuck* — NNH —"
Daddy...
"I *need* you!"
You've got me —
"I — I can't slow *down* —"
Porthos grips his Daddy by the hips and *urges* him, *urges* him —
"*Fuck*, son, I — I can't — I can't *think* —"
Good, Porthos says, and starts swallowing as rhythmically as he can — Daddy's
fuck is *ragged* —
He's crooning and *shouting* —
*Looming* over Porthos —
Clawing at the headboard and *riding* Porthos's *face* —
And Porthos is hard, so *fucking* hard, so —
Porthos's throat is slick, open, *used* —
Porthos is down on his back and ready for *more* —
"You'll *have* it!" And Daddy sounds wild, hungry, *mad* with it —
So good —
So *good* — and Porthos knows he can make this better for both of them.
He lets go of Daddy's hip with his right hand and shoves two fingers into his
mouth next to Daddy's cock —
Daddy howls and *bucks* —
They lock *eyes* for a long moment —
Daddy looks shocked and so bloody *starved* — "Do it. *Do* it —"
And Porthos can't say no, wouldn't *ever* say no, not when it's this *perfect*,
not when Daddy is *reaming* his throat and making him feel warm and tight and
young and perfect —
Not when everything is so *right*.
And Daddy understands when Porthos squeezes his hip with his left hand, slows
down, *eases* his fuck just enough for Porthos to get his right hand into
position —
Slide his fingers right *in* —
Daddy gasps and *shakes*, eyes going dark and hot and *wilder* —
Porthos twists and *crooks* —
Daddy's cock *jerks* in his mouth—
*Spatters* his mouth with slick —
Porthos flushes and aches, needs, *needs*, but he needs his Daddy's spend even
more, needs that fuck, that *wild* fuck that Daddy's been promising both of
them, silently and *not*.
He knows how to get it.
He *rubs* at Daddy's pleasure-button and *fucks* him with his fingers as best
as he can —
And Daddy pants —
And pants —
And his croon becomes a *loud* howl as he goes *rigid* for a moment —
And then the howl becomes a snarl and Daddy's gripping him harder, holding him
still, holding him *down* and *reaming* —
Fucking so hard, so rough, so wild, so *dirty* —
Swiveling his hips and *grinding* —
Porthos can't *swallow* fast enough —
Porthos can't do anything but take it and get harder and harder and —
Oh, Daddy —
Oh, Daddy, *yes* —
And the only sounds Daddy is making are grunted growls that sound *punched* out
of him —
Porthos can't fuck him in anything *like* a rhythm —
Porthos isn't doing anything but taking it and *working* his fingers, trying —
Trying to be good —
Trying to be right —
He has to give his Daddy his *best* —
And Daddy *slams* in —
Gasps and clenches *hard* around Porthos's fingers —
"Son — *son*, I —" And then he throws his head back and howls, loud and hungry
and *needy* as he spends right down Porthos's throat.
His hands are shaking as he *grips* Porthos —
His whole *body* is shaking —
He's *grinding* in and in and *in* —
Fuck, there's so *much* spend —
Porthos takes it all —
Porthos urges Daddy out of his throat a little so he can *taste* —
Breathe in through his nose, breathe in *Daddy* and all his wonderful thick and
musky and powerful —
And the tastes on his tongue have never been so *strong* —
Porthos sucks *hard* —
Milks that little pleasure-button and tries to get a little more — he gets it.
*And* a hot little hip-swivel that makes Porthos want to get fucked
*immediately* —
Daddy *coughs* in the middle of his howl —
*Yips* —
Porthos can tell it's a *laugh* — so he milks that pleasure-button a little
*harder* —
"Oh — oh, *fuck*, son –" And Daddy laughs breathlessly, cock jerking and
*spasming* — dryly — in Porthos's mouth, and reaches back to grip Porthos's
wrist.
Porthos raises his eyebrows. Are you crying for mercy?
And Daddy *looks* at him — and lolls his tongue. (I never do *that*, son.)
Really. Then what *are* you doing, Daddy...?
(Pointing out that you're not the one getting mounted if you keep that up.)
Porthos's jaw *drops* —
(Bad form with a cock in your mouth, son —)
Worse form to *laugh* like this —
Like a sodding *arsehole* —
But Daddy is drinking it all in, tugging Porthos's fingers out and pulling his
*cock* out and just — looking at him.
Hungry and sweet.
(Yours, son. Yours.)
Porthos wipes his mouth with the back of his clean hand —
Daddy hands him a rag for the other that's ridiculously good quality, but
Porthos can cope with that —
And Daddy puts his tongue away. "Always tell me if you're not comfortable with
something. *Please*."
Porthos pauses and blinks — "That gets you to be serious? The too-fancy rag?"
Daddy's smile is crooked. "I chased your mother away a few times by not
recognizing when *she* was uncomfortable with... all of this. Not fast enough,
anyway."
Porthos frowns. "But you said she *liked* you training her up."
"She did — but we all have our contradictions, son. And our insecurities."
That — Porthos frowns harder.
"It's impossible to think of her as having *any* insecurities, at all, isn't
it, son."
"Well... yeah? I mean, I know what you're saying, and it makes perfect *sense*
—"
"But she was... herself." And Daddy's smile is wry. "Yes?"
"She was different with you."
"Absolutely not. I didn't see it, either — until after she was gone and I was
poring over my memories again and again, obsessively looking for ways I might
have had her for longer on *this* day, or *that* night."
"I — oh."
Daddy inclines his head. "I didn't see it then, either, really. Not until I was
able to go over my memories in company — mostly with Kitos."
"He was... good at seeing things? In people?"
"Like you, son. Of course, he had his own insecurities..." And Daddy frowns and
turns away.
"Daddy?"
"Kitos... spent a long time thinking that it wasn't his *place* to say the
things he knew. Even though he was our brother. Even though we loved him —"
Daddy winces and growls. "We fixed that. We did. But we didn't get enough time
*with* it all fixed."
"There's no such thing as enough, Daddy. You know that," Porthos says, and
strokes Daddy's strong thighs.
"Hmm. I suppose I do. Still — we wasted time. I don't — we wasted time, and
then I took all those hard-won lessons *about* wasted time and turned around
and wasted time with you, and Athos, and Aramis."
"Well... yeah, you did."
"Sometimes I'm not smart, son."
"Sometimes you get in your own bloody way, Daddy — because of your own bloody
insecurities and all that other shite. When you don't have people who can keep
you from doing it." And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
"Kitos kept me from doing it — when he wasn't afraid to. Reynard kept me from
doing it — when *he* wasn't afraid to. Laurent and Marie-Angelique — the same.
And, of course, my Amina-love."
"What... what did her fear look like?"
Daddy nods. "She turned it outward. She..." And Daddy looks thoughtful,
stroking at his own beard — and then stopping that and stroking Porthos's —
"I like that —"
"Good. She never hurt anyone who didn't richly deserve it, but she had a
*sharp* tongue. And it got *very* sharp those times when I brought her here, or
to my rooms in the city, and *then* piled on the training — or just covered her
in too much luxury at once."
"Oh — damn."
"Sometimes we made it work anyway. I could almost always make her laugh, and
once we were together... there were other things I could do —"
"Don't —"
"I'm sorry —"
"I mean — don't *censor* yourself, Daddy. I *need* these memories."
"Son?"
"I need all the memories. I need — I need my Mum," Porthos says, and smiles
ruefully.
Daddy rumbles —
And Mum is young and healthy and *hugely* pregnant. And hacked-off beyond
*belief*, by the look in her eyes. Or —
Is there something else?
Something different?
Something about the tension at the corners of her mouth and eyes?
"Amina-love —"
"Take me *home*!"
"I want *this* to be your home — one of your —"
"It is *not* —"
"But it *could* be —"
"Jean-*Armand* —"
"Look, I *know* I've been an arse — too much of one — let me *fix* it —"
"Fix it by taking me *home*!"
"Amina-love, *please*, you know I won't be able to see you —"
She growls —
And Daddy's eyes flare in the moments before *he* growls —
*Her* eyes flare —
And they're circling each other like animals, like *fighters* —
They —
The heat in her eyes is entirely *different* —
She *pounces*, huge belly and all —
Daddy catches her and sniffs her and kisses her and nuzzles her and *bites*
her, seemingly all at *once* —
She pushes her hands into his hair —
She bites *back* —
He clutches her *arms* — "I'm so bloody *hard* for you —"
She makes a loud, hungry, *hurt* noise —
"Let me have you, let me make you *mine*."
She snarls and breaks his hold on her —
"*Amina* —"
And then she shoves him against the wall and drops to her *knees* —
"Oh — oh, *fuck* —"
"Give me your *cock*!"
"Amina-love —"
"*Now*!"
And Daddy snarls and uses his power to *tear* his trousers open, ripping the
leather and his breeches, too. "Have me. *Have* me. I'm *yours*."
She whines —
She growls —
She whines again — and then she *grips* Daddy's cock and licks him and licks
him and *licks* him, *exactly* like a dog, and —
Daddy is shaking —
Bucking into her *fist* —
She squeezes *hard* —
She squeezes his *knot* —
He barks and yips —
She swallows him *down* to his knot —
He *howls* —
Grips her by her scarf and *shakes* —
(Fuck me!)
Daddy obeys immediately, giving *her* that grinding hip-swivel, giving her that
rough, wild *slam* —
She wraps her strong arms around his hips —
She *gives* herself to him —
Daddy howls and punches a *hole* in the wall —
Two portraits fall, frames cracking —
(I *love* you!)
"Amina! *Amina* — I — *I* —"
(Shut it and *spend* for me!)
Daddy growls and *yanks* her head-scarf off, burying his hands in the
compressed cloud of her hair, mussing her *hair* —
(Jean-*Armand* —)
"I need you, I fucking *love* you, and you can beat me for this every — every
*fucking* day, just don't *leave* me!"
And she *jerks* on her knees, yanking one arm from around Daddy's hips —
Tearing at her own *dress* —
Reaching between her *legs* —
"Oh — oh, *shit*, *Amina* —"
(Don't — don't *stop* —)
"I bloody *can't* — I love you, I — oh, your scents —" And Daddy snarls and
grips her harder, *fucks* her harder —
She *gulps* —
Swallows and swallows and —
*Keens* —
Wets down the *rugs* —
"Oh, *shit*, my wife, my *wife* — HNRRR —" And Daddy's snarl *becomes* a howl
as he pumps and pumps and *pumps* into her mouth, as he spills —
As he — but.
Porthos isn't looking at his Mum and the younger Treville anymore.
Porthos is looking at his Daddy.
Porthos is looking — "Uh."
Daddy licks his lips and scratches in front of his ear. "Was that... too much?"
"Was that a *hopeful* tone in your voice, Daddy?"
"Yes and no, son. Yes and no."
Porthos snorts.
Daddy grins — "Of course I want to give you everything. Of *course* I want to
*tell* you everything. The boundaries..." He shakes his head and the grin turns
rueful. "The only boundaries in my heart are the ones *you* need."
Porthos nods slowly.
Thinks about it for a minute —
"Fuck boundaries."
"Think *longer*."
"Daddy. Don't be scared."
Daddy inhales sharply — "I can't not be scared of losing you, son. I — twenty
years is a very long time."
*Porthos* inhales. "Right, I — right. And you maybe never stopped blaming
yourself?"
Daddy's smile is several kinds of horrible at once.
Porthos winces —
And Daddy strokes his cheek. "I won't let it hold me back, son. I was never
really *fearless*... as opposed to Fearless. I promise I can give you the man
you need."
"I need *you*, Daddy."
"And I'm the man who doesn't let fear hold me back. I *am*."
Porthos searches him —
And Daddy's smile is — evil.
"What?"
"Your mouth... is *exactly* like your mother's."
"Oh — *shit*."
"Having had only *one* blow from you —"
"Daddy —"
"I can't yet decide —"
"You —"
"Which of you has had the most *experience* with cocks my size —"
"Oh my *God* —"
And Daddy laughs — like an arsehole. And lolls his tongue.
Porthos *looks* at him. "A part of you is terrified that *that* will chase me
away."
And Daddy puts his tongue away again. "Son, a part of me is terrified a stiff
*breeze* will chase you away —"
"I'm not sodding *disloyal*!"
"No, you aren't. You never could be. You're also a filthy-minded deviant,
*just* like your parents —"
"Bloody *yes* —"
"And I love you, I love you, I love you so much it *burns*," Daddy says,
cupping Porthos's cheek and rubbing a little. "But I don't know what will chase
the fear away completely. I promise to tell you as soon as I do know."
"I." But... that's exactly what Porthos needs. He nods.
"Yes?"
"Yeah, Daddy. So she *did* stay that night?"
"That she did. My beard smelled like your mother's cunt for *days*."
Porthos snickers *hard* — "And she smelled like your cock?"
Daddy sighs. "*She* washed. To spite me, I think. She liked the smells just as
much as I did, after all."
Porthos blinks, but — but. "We... really didn't do our laundry as often as we
could have."
*Daddy* snickers. "I'm sure you didn't, son."
"Because... she was a dog. *Right*. Is this what I have to look forward to? I
*like* being clean."
Daddy *pats* his cheek. "Life is change, son."
***** A trip to the thorny hedgerow for everyone! And then out of it again.
Thankfully. *****
"You have not found that life is change, friend Athos?"
Athos is currently examining Aramis's least-favorite pistol — it has very
little artistry to its design, but it's entirely functional — with an attention
to detail which is *very* impressive, considering how much akvavit they have
consumed between them.
(I am a man of many talents.)
And an iron liver!
(Yes. And — hm.) "I absolutely cannot imagine you ever *using* this pistol."
"Ah, well. You never know when an emergency will occur, friend Athos."
"An emergency that cannot be assuaged by any of your countless other, more
beautiful weapons?"
Aramis leans back in his chair, smiles, and puts his socked feet on the table.
"I am a prudent man, at times."
"'Prudent'."
"Oh, yes! You never know when my other um... four pistols —"
"And five rapiers —"
"And five rapiers, yes, those —"
"And three arquebusiers —"
"One of those I keep only for sentimental reasons!"
Athos raises an eyebrow at him.
Aramis shrugs. "She jams. Abominably."
"'She'. Hm."
"Athos."
"Yes?"
"Will you avoid my question?"
"I noticed that life was change when I was... very young. Everything kept...
moving. Shifting. *Dying*."
Aramis winces.
"I... loathe it."
"You loathe life?"
"Perhaps only its nature."
"Athos..."
"You don't. I find that curious."
Aramis sips his latest akvavit — it wouldn't do to wind up drooling on the
floor before they've each told a truly obscene number of secrets —
(Oh, of course not,) Athos says, and smiles, tiny and sharp.
Come *here*.
(I'm... afraid. There. I've told a secret.) And Athos tosses back his drink.
Aramis stands and brings the bottle over to pour him another. "What do you
fear?"
Athos looks at him *wryly*.
Aramis frowns in confusion —
And then Athos *looks* at him, eyes hot and hungry and — there is no subtlety
to the expression. Nothing polite. Nothing *reserved*.
Aramis inhales —
And Athos turns away. "I apologize —"
"Do *not* —"
"Aramis."
"Do *not* apologize. You have done nothing wrong, friend Athos," Aramis says,
and gently urges him to drink. "I asked you what you feared, and you told me.
*Showed* me."
Athos swallows. "Please don't pretend it didn't make you... uncomfortable."
"I have learned to appreciate some kinds of... discomfort, my friend," Aramis
says, and cups and squeezes Athos's stiff shoulder. "But it is true that I
would have more *talk* before... anything else."
Athos shudders. "Don't — don't."
"Athos?"
"I do not wish to hope."
"Hope is life —"
"Hope is ashes."
"Perhaps you will let me show you otherwise...?" And Aramis honestly isn't
*certain* whether a tease is the right path to take in this moment, but a tease
is how he feels, how he *is*.
He will be honest with his brother. He —
He will be honest. He steps closer, crowding Athos slightly —
*Feeling* the man's urge to *move* — or move *him* — as something like the pull
of the *tides* —
He resists, and leans in to speak — breathe — into Athos's ear. "You are my
brother, and I love you. I will not lie to you anymore. About anything. *Test*
me."
"What. Do you fear about me."
"That you will lose your respect for me. That you will *hurt* me in ways I
dislike. That you will leave me alone. That you will lose your respect for me
once I beg you to hurt me in ways I *love* —"
Athos grunts — "Stop."
"I am not finished —"
"Your fears are not — rational," Athos says, and steps back.
Aramis raises an eyebrow. "What fears are, in a situation like this?"
And that — stops Athos. *Obviously* stops him, and puts a thoughtful look on
his face.
Aramis waits — no. "What are you thinking?"
"Is that how you best your fears? By reminding yourself of their fundamental
lack of rational sense?"
That — Aramis grins. "Friend Athos. *Why* do you assume I *best* my fears?"
Athos blinks. "We're... here?"
"Very true — but I am still a very frightened man —"
"Who is brave enough to admit that —"
"Were you not that brave first?"
"I..." Athos shakes his head. "Aramis —"
"I am a *greedy* man, Athos. I have..." And Aramis flushes — and blushes, as
well.
He knows Athos can see it.
"I have tasted true brotherhood. I have been *given* true brotherhood — and
taken it for myself, as well. And now I want *more*."
"Can there be no true brotherhood without lovemaking?"
"For the three of *us*? Perhaps not."
Athos raises his eyebrow again. "That was... bald."
"Perhaps a little, yes."
'More than a little."
"I blame the strong drink?" And Aramis grins and waves the bottle.
"I would like — no."
"Athos?"
"I was about to say something entirely inappropriate. Leave it."
"I —"
"Please leave it."
Aramis frowns helplessly —
And Athos huffs that absence of a laugh, covers his face — and Aramis's mind is
filled with an image of himself taking far too much of the neck of the bottle
between his lips and —
Well.
Well...
"You know, friend Athos —"
"Please don't finish that thought."
"You do not know what it is!"
"Yes, I do."
"You do not!"
"You're about to suggest something involving your lips and my cock — oh. It
wasn't any less affecting by my saying it. Damn." He drops his hands —
Athos stares *bleakly* into the middle distance —
He does not look like a man contemplating oral pleasure.
He looks like a man contemplating many hours of latrine-duty, possibly while
somehow also under enemy fire. He —
Athos coughs — and looks at him.
Aramis raises his own eyebrow.
And Athos smiles ruefully. "Porthos usually compares that expression to being
forced to throw oneself into a thorny hedgerow while naked."
Aramis considers, nodding thoughtfully... "Yes, this is also accurate."
"I... have... difficulties. With sex."
Aramis sets the bottle down on one of the end-tables and cups *both* of Athos's
shoulders. "My friend, I would be very worried if you did not."
Athos blinks.
"This surprises you? It should not..."
"Do you..." Athos frowns. "I don't know which question I wish to ask."
"All of them...?" And Aramis smiles.
"Hm. Do you find *nobility* in my difficulties. Start there."
"I find *humanity* in your difficulties. Warmth. Caring. Love."
Athos inhales and blinks again — "Aramis..."
"I have always been warm in your regard."
"I — have wanted that."
"My warmth? I apologize that I have not —"
"You have. I meant — I meant that I wanted to *give* warmth."
Aramis smiles again. "You have."
"*How*?"
"You give, my friend. You give yourself to those in need —"
"I — I *don't* —"
"You give your humour, your kindness, your wry generosity — your brotherhood."
"*You* have said that we cannot have true brotherhood without lovemaking —"
"We cannot have *everything* of brotherhood without lovemaking. Others can. And
*we* have had much. We can agree on this, I think?"
Athos takes a shuddering breath — "I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of
chasing you away. I'm afraid of the stink of your blood on my hands. I'm afraid
of hearing your laugh for the last time."
Aramis's heart *clenches* — "My friend..."
"I — it's too much. I apologize —"
"I am afraid of the same things, and I can never know the true depth of that
fear," Aramis says, and pulls Athos into a tight, close hug —
"I'm afraid of needing this... more than I do."
"Athos —"
"I'm afraid of how I'll feel when it's gone."
"Do not steal pain before it is yours by right, my friend. Please," Aramis
says, and squeezes him tighter.
"Some would say it's prudent."
"Others would say it's more prudent to hug the armed man back."
Athos huffs and does just that. "Ah, so I'm to be threatened into providing
physical affection."
"Oh, yes. Later, I will ravish you."
"Ruin me...?"
"No man of good family will want *anything* to do with you once I've had my way
with you."
"I believe we've read the same plays."
"Plays...?"
Athos huffs twice. "Aramis."
Aramis grins and kisses Athos's cheek. "I love playing with you. I love being
with you."
"Oh."
"Yes?"
"I..."
"Mm?"
"Porthos. Porthos has said the same things."
"Yes? This does not surprise me."
"Before... only Thomas ever said them."
And *that*... "Not even Treville?"
"Hm. You've stopped calling him 'the Captain'."
"It seemed the better — please tell me."
"He told me — both of us — that he loved us, that he loved coming to see us,
that he loved being with us..."
Aramis frowns. "You did not believe him."
"It was... not that."
Aramis pulls back enough to meet Athos's eyes. "Then what?"
"Have you ever noticed that it's *difficult* to place a much older person in
the same *categories* you place people in your own age-group in?"
Aramis blinks — and regroups. There is nothing ominous here.
"There truly isn't," Athos says, and smiles wryly. "He wants... he wants to be
honest with you. To answer all of your questions and, in general, give you
someone else to trust."
Aramis gives the wry smile back. "I will let him do this thing."
"Yes?"
"As much as is possible — no. I will *make* it possible. Porthos is in love
with him, and *you* care for him very much indeed. While I still feel I have
*much* reason to question your taste... ultimately, I understand the *paths* of
his dishonesty. His *fear*."
Athos blinks. "You... weren't confused, at all, by him this morning."
"No, I wasn't."
Athos nods slowly. "*You* would have been able to keep him from the worst of
his excesses."
"I —"
"Because you would have seen them coming."
Aramis blinks — and smiles ruefully. "Perhaps, then, there will come a day when
Treville keeps me from my own excesses, mm?"
"Or we will all know each other so well by then — I want that. I want *you*."
Aramis shivers —
"Oh — I apologize —"
"Don't —"
"*Aramis*. I *know* you're not *accustomed* —"
"But I wish to *become* accustomed to these things. At *speed*, my friend."
Athos raises that eyebrow. "While already in my arms?"
Aramis smiles slowly. "Did you plan to do something about that?"
"Aramis."
"Should *I* apologize —"
"No. Will we make love tonight?"
Oh — "That is entirely up to you, my friend."
"It *isn't* —"
"It *is*. I *want* it, Athos... but I will only push *teasingly*. I will never
pressure."
"I... have the most awful urge to laugh."
And Aramis... remembers the conversation with Treville he and Porthos had
walked in on. "I — yes?"
"I want to know how many *women* you've offered that *line* to."
"Ah. Well..."
"Hm. I imagine it works rather well, all things considered."
"It does, yes."
"You sounded extremely sincere."
"I was! That time —"
Athos huffs.
"There have been many times when I have been sincere! In my way!"
"Aramis."
Aramis grins.
"You're a satyr."
"I believe you will find, my friend, that it is *Porthos* who has the more
animalistic tendencies when lovemaking."
Athos blinks rapidly and looks *thoughtful* again — "I... suppose he *could*
take after his father..."
"Athos! What do you *know*?"
"Thomas and I walked in on our parents and Treville making love all the time,
as you know," he says, almost absently. "I don't remember one single time when
the man was... mannish about it."
"But."
"Yes?"
"Did you..."
"What is it, Aramis?"
Aramis frowns. "Friend Athos, you are not very *experienced*."
"I am not, no."
"You do not... you have not *witnessed* many men making love. And — and when
you were a boy, you were even —"
"I grew up with hunting dogs, Aramis," Athos says, and raises that eyebrow
*high*."
Aramis backs up, crosses himself, then moves back into the hug.
Athos hums. "You may wish to do that only rarely around Treville. If you *do*
wish to have an amicable relationship with him."
"I — what?"
"His goddess is the All-Mother. The *earth*."
"*What*?"
"He's an earth-mage — and so is Porthos. They're both going to be *communing*
with the goddess now."
"I — you — how —"
"I truly don't understand much more than that. My Uncle always pulled on
Fearless to explain it, obscuring the disturbing truths in ribald humour."
"My... God."
"Quite," Athos says, and strokes Aramis's back in long, firm, soothing strokes.
"But you were saying about Porthos? Is that why your throat is so marked?"
"Mm — *yes*. He gripped my chest and rutted into me as he *bit* —"
"Yes, he takes after his father," Athos says, and huffs.
And huffs again —
And *again* —
"Athos —"
"I would try, as a *thoroughly* confused and irritable teenager, to have a
proper fantasy about someone. *Anyone*."
"I —"
"And so, of course, I tried multiple times about my Uncle Treville, who wasn't
truly a blood relation —"
"Oh. Did it... work?"
"If you're asking if I spent to images and imagined sensations of being
*knotted*... then yes."
"Then —"
"And then, invariably, I would go down to the kennels the next day —"
"Oh, God —"
"And have long, grim arguments with myself about whether *this* hunting hound
or *that* hunting hound was attractive —"
"Athos —"
"And whether or not *Mother* found them attractive —"
"Oh my God."
"And then I would go back to trying to have fantasies about other people. Hm.
So that's what a 'thorny hedgerow expression' looks like from the other side."
Aramis can't do anything *about* his expression for long moments —
"You really don't have to try —"
"I do!"
"You don't —"
"*Athos* —"
"It's quite amusing —"
"My suffering is cheering you?"
"Well... hm. Yes?"
Aramis... can only be glad that something is. He sighs. He drinks, straight
from the bottle.
"Oh..."
He keeps drinking.
"Aramis."
He *stops* drinking, because that, for some reason, was the command voice —
"Mm?"
"I..." And *Athos* steps closer, obliterating the minuscule space between them
—
Athos stares at Aramis's *mouth* —
Athos *pants* —
"Athos?"
"Aramis."
The command-voice again, or — was it? "Athos, what —"
"If... it is truly my choice..."
Aramis *blinks* —
Tries to regroup —
Tries to *stop* thinking about a young Athos suffering in a full, loud *kennel*
—
"... what?"
"I. Athos."
"I only..." And Athos presses a *soft* kiss to Aramis's lips.
Just like that.
Just as if —
Aramis blinks and — "Athos, my friend, have I *succeeded* in seducing you?"
"Are you *surprised*?"
Aramis debates with himself — furiously and vigorously — the wisdom of bringing
up the various bleak and horrific things *Athos* has brought up —
"I'm a rather bleak man, as these things go."
"This is so."
"I'm... hm. Some would say I have a melancholic disposition," Athos says, and
kisses him again.
"I — wait one moment —"
"I don't want to —"
"We do not want to waste this wonderful liquor," Aramis says, and turns to set
the bottle down —
Athos grabs him by the *hips* —
Aramis grunts and —
"I love that sound. I want that sound — make that sound again. Please," Athos
says, and *squeezes* Aramis's hips —
Aramis *moans* —
"Or that sound —"
"Athos, my friend, do you know what you wish to do with my hips held so firmly
in your strong hands?"
"Molest you."
Aramis blinks. At the *wall*.
That —
Wait, no. He turns *around* — Athos eventually *lets* him — and looks at
*Athos*. "You have thought about this."
Athos licks his lips. "Extensively, in various fevered dreams." He shares a
*flash* of a fantasy of his pale right hand *moving* on Aramis's chest while
his left *works* Aramis's stiff and leaking cock —
"Oh — *oh*."
"Did you like that."
"I did —"
"May we —"
"*Yes*," Aramis says, and cups Athos's face, strokes his soft beard —
Athos moans — and keeps moaning throughout their kiss, throughout their wet,
soft, *hungry* kiss —
Hungry and getting *hungrier* —
They are *devouring* each other, panting through their noses and pressing
close, closer, clutching —
Aramis licks in, licks deep —
Athos *sucks* —
Grips Aramis's *hips* again —
Shakes his *head* —
Aramis pulls back —
"*Don't* —"
"Athos, what —"
"Don't stop — please don't stop —"
"You — you seemed to deny —"
"Only my greed, my need, my *lust* — but I know you would have me deny none of
those things," Athos says. He still raises his eyebrow in question.
Aramis grins. "I enjoy — *live* for — greedy lovers, my friend. And I need to
be needed by those *I* need —"
"You need me?"
Aramis growls and pushes his hands into Athos's thick hair —
Tugs *firmly* —
"I need you very much, my friend. You are my brother, and my love."
Athos pants — "And. My lust?"
Aramis *winces* as his trapped cock *jerks* —
"Oh — I apologize —"
"No — no, my friend, my brother, don't worry, my cock only *aches* for you —"
Athos makes a *guttural* noise — "Take it out. Please."
Aramis *grunts* again — "We — we can go to my bedroom —"
"I can't wait. I need to see you. I need to see you *hard*."
And Aramis is stripping *just* like that. His weapons belts were already off,
but the extra daggers were not —
And his braces —
And he opens his trousers —
"Take. Take your shirt off, as well. Please," Athos says, and he's licking his
lips again. Staring almost *wildly* —
"As you *wish*, my friend," Aramis says, taking off the shirt and throwing it
across the room —
"Oh... you aren't bruised anywhere else..."
"I... apologize?"
"I don't know why I wanted you to be..."
"Because you are a *deviant*," Aramis says, and opens his breeches fast, *fast*
—
"I've dreamed of Porthos touching you *roughly* —"
"Touching us *both* roughly...?"
"That was... often harder to imagine," Athos says, and *stares* at Aramis's
cock —
Stares and —
He's almost *glaring*, but Aramis has learned to *adjust* his *perceptions*.
He *presents* his cock. "Do you like it, my friend?"
"I love it. I want it. I want..."
"Yes?"
"Everything. Every possible —" Athos growls. "Please. Take your balls out,
too."
"Will you let *me* see —"
"I. I will ejaculate all over your floor if I take off these trousers, Aramis."
Aramis *coughs* — but. "Did you think I would only want you once, my friend?"
Athos blinks at him —
Stares hungrily with something like dawning *comprehension* —
And then begins to strip himself almost *violently*.
"Oh, yes, *yes* —"
"Please — please don't talk — yet —"
"As you will, my friend," Aramis says, and sits to remove his socks —
Takes his trousers and breeches off the rest of the way —
Moves to *help* Athos with his clothes —
And Athos grabs Aramis's wrist and bites his forearm, gives him a *line* of
bites to the inside of his elbow —
Aramis is gasping —
Twitching and *dripping* on his floor —
"Athos — *Athos* —"
"Is it *wrong*."
"*No*."
"Then let me bite you where — no."
"Athos —"
"I — I'll get distracted — I can't —" Athos steps back, looks *down*, and works
on stripping himself more quickly.
Aramis *aches* to help, to tease, to *inflame*, but — this is not the time. Not
*this* time.
He waits, instead, and he strokes the bites on his arm —
He *waits* —
He promises himself to get Athos to remove more clothing *early* the next time
he has him over —
But finally he is naked, hard, sweating and panting and *staring* —
Aramis grins and moves *close* —
And Athos *rakes* his nails down Aramis's sides —
"*Fuck* — I — what?"
"I've seen Treville do that to my mother twice while he was inside her. I've
always wanted — hm. No?"
Aramis *stares* —
"I... will assume... no," Athos says, and winces. And starts to step *back* —
Aramis grabs him by the arms, sides stinging and *sparking* with sensation —
"It was unexpected —"
"I imagine —"
"I believe I would enjoy it very much... were *you* inside *me*." And Aramis
raises an eyebrow.
The flush spreads slowly on Athos —
He looks —
He looks so *hungry* —
"The answer is *yes*, my friend —"
"Tonight?"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "Ah, well, no. I am too sore for that *tonight* —"
Athos pants. "Porthos... was rough with you?"
Aramis licks his lips... and *strokes* Athos instead of gripping. "Just as I
like."
They are close enough that, when Athos's cock *jerks*, the spatter of hot slick
hits them both.
Aramis presses closer. "Would you like to be rough with me, friend Athos...?"
"I would. I want to watch Porthos touch you. *Have* you."
Aramis pants. "Only watch?"
"No. No. Let me —"
"Yes," Aramis says, and smiles.
Athos growls. "We've already proven that I can do the wrong *things* —"
"But I do not know everything about this kind of lovemaking, my friend. We
will... teach each other."
Athos inhales sharply — and nods.
And cups Aramis's hip with one hand and his cock with the other, squeezing
*firmly* —
So —
Aramis moans and *flushes* —
"Do you like that."
"Yes — yes —"
"Do you want me to squeeze harder."
"Not yet —"
Athos growls and strokes, slow and *hard* —
Aramis groans and shudders — "Athos —"
"Yes?"
"Do you — is this how you stroke yourself?"
"Only when I wish to be quick."
"Oh. Yes?"
"Yes. I imagine Porthos touching me this way."
"Oh — *fuck* —"
"Talking to me. Telling me precisely what he's going to do to me, and how he's
going to do it — he's always been so gentle that way. So very *understanding*,"
Athos says, and squeezes *hard*.
Aramis *bucks* —
"Was he? Did he *guide* you?"
"Yes — *yes* —"
"It would be so incredible to be able to do that for a man like you. It would
be — such a gift," Athos says, and strokes, and *strokes* —
Aramis flushes and groans, spreads his feet to steady himself, grips Athos's
*shoulders* —
"Oh. Oh, you like — is it *because* Porthos touched you —"
"You, Athos, *you* —"
Athos *growls* — "Tell me how he touched you. *Tell* me."
"He — he — faster — but don't!"
"Why *not*."
"I want your touch!"
Athos squeezes *again* —
Aramis *shouts* —
"You're — beautiful. Incredible. Any man with sense — may I squeeze your balls
—"
"Yes!"
And Athos takes his other hand off Aramis's hip and *grips* Aramis's balls —
Aramis groans and bucks and bucks and —
"Did he *touch* you here —"
"Yes! He disciplined me! He — he made me spend!"
"Oh. That's the single most incredible —" And Athos squeezes with both hands —
Aramis screams —
Staggers —
Screams *again* —
Athos is still *squeezing* —
Aramis is pumping his *hips* —
"I've wanted to watch you making love to women... I want that even more now."
Aramis makes a questioning *noise* —
"Your hips, the motion — your *grace*," Athos says, and he's almost growling
out the words —
He's still *squeezing* —
Aramis *sobs* —
And Athos *does* growl — and bite him *right* on one of the scars Porthos had
left on his *throat* —
"*Yes*!"
Athos bites *harder* —
"Yes, please, please, *please* —"
Athos *growls* around his mouthful and squeezes Aramis's balls *rhythmically* —
And starts to stroke again.
Starts —
He's stroking *fast* —
"UNH —"
(I need you to spend, Aramis.)
*Fuck* —
(I need — you have to spend all *over* me —)
Athos — *Athos* —
(I need your *heat*!)
And Aramis can't think, can't —
He's *shoving* into Athos's fist, bucking and groaning and *sobbing* —
He can't —
(DO IT!)
And Aramis feels himself drop, feels himself need, feels himself —
Athos squeezes his balls *viciously* —
And Aramis *wails* as the pleasure slams through him, wails like a child and
shakes and pumps and *spills*, all over Athos's hand, all over his belly, both
of their *chests* —
Athos bites even *harder* —
Aramis wails *again*, and it's good to be shameless, good to give, to
surrender, to let everything —
Everything —
And this will not stop!
There will be more!
Aramis laughs, thrilled and pleased and moaning, *shaking* —
Athos clutches him *tight* —
Pulls Aramis into a hug that threatens to crush the air right out of his *body*
—
*Kisses* his throat — oh —
Aramis nuzzles and kisses Athos's ear —
Athos shudders — "Aramis, Aramis, I need. I need to spend."
"Let me be of *assistance*, my friend!"
"How."
"I will —"
"No. I don't care, I don't — *touch* me."
Aramis laughs and kisses Athos's ear, kisses Athos's cheek — "Let me go, give
me room to *play*."
"I don't *ever* want to let you —" Athos growls and steps *back* —
"Not so *far*," Aramis says, grinning and stepping close again, dropping to his
knees on the hard floor —
They *will* move to the bedroom where there are *rugs* next time —
"Oh, Athos, your cock is *beautiful*," Aramis says, and cups the thick, dark,
*slick* shaft with his hand —
"I want you to *kiss* it," Athos grits —
Aramis gasps —
"I *apologize* —"
"Don't you *dare*," Aramis says, *humming* and kissing —
*Sucking* kisses all over the head —
Suckling and licking —
No, Athos wants kisses, and he will *have* kisses —
Athos is growling *constantly* —
His hands are balled into *fists* —
Touch me, my friend...
(I. Am afraid.)
I like to have my hair pulled...
(*Why* — don't *answer*,) Athos says, *shoving* his hands into Aramis's hair
and *gripping* —
"Mmmm..." And Aramis kisses more —
More —
Kisses with wet, hard *smacks* —
"UNH — that — so — *please*."
You need beg for nothing...
"Suck me. *Suck* me!"
And Aramis thrills again, falls and grips the base of Athos's cock, takes the
rest of it *in* —
"God — *God* —"
*Yes*, yes, and —
He sucks —
He is still *sore* from last night, but it is good, so *good* —
He sucks *harder*, letting the soreness, the thrill, the *sweetness*, make him
*groan* around Athos's cock —
"*Aramis*!"
Yes!
"Don't — don't *stop*!"
He will *not*. He will —
But he can *work* his head on Athos's cock, he can be good, pleasurable — he
knows how to *do* this —
Even when Athos pulls his hair —
*Especially* when Athos pulls his hair —
Athos *growls* — "You're. You're *perfect*."
Aramis flushes and shivers, clenches, *thrills* —
Wants more —
So much *more* —
"*What* do you want?" And Athos is growling, *growling* —
His cock is *spasming* —
"Tell me what you *want*!"
*Aramis's* cock *jerks* — I want you to fuck my mouth!
"Hnh — did — did Porthos —"
Yes! I nibbled his cock —
"*Do* that!"
Aramis *slurps* his way off Athos's cock until just the head is in his mouth —
"I — I —"
And then he nibbles, nibbles cautiously, carefully —
"*Fuck*," Athos says, enunciating perfectly — "*More*."
Aramis flushes more, more deeply, and nods, kisses, sucks, *nibbles* —
Athos *yanks* his hair —
Aramis groans and laps, *laps* —
"No — no, your *teeth*."
And more of your shaft?
"Yes — no — I don't know, give it to me!"
Aramis does, he *does*, he pleasures his friend, his brother, his *lover* —
His pleasures this strong, hard man who desires him —
Who touches him so roughly and —
And Athos is *panting* out growls, cock jerking and spattering Aramis's face —
Again and *again* —
"I."
Yes, yes, *anything*!
"You *mean* that — "
I do!
"Suck my *balls*."
Aramis *grunts* —
Blushes —
Lifts them to his mouth *immediately* —
"You're — you're so red — are you shamed?"
Do you wish me to be?
"*No*!"
Aramis takes Athos's heavy sac *in*, stretching his mouth and moaning, sucking,
coughing a little for the tickle of hair — he will get *used* to this —
"*Aramis*."
There is so much I never imagined. So much I never imagined *feeling*. Please!
Please order me more!
And Athos's eyes are wide, so full, so *wondering* —
So *thoughtful* —
Is this dangerous?
Could it be?
Aramis *sucks* Athos's balls, sucks and hums and strokes his thick cock, his
hard cock, his cock which must *ache* —
"No — no —"
Please!
Athos growls and reaches down to grip him by the *throat*.
Aramis *stops*, marveling at the stop *inside* of himself, at the way
everything has *paused* for Athos's... force. But.
This is right. And —
I am listening very closely, my friend.
"You wanted your mouth — your throat? — fucked. I want that, as well."
You want other things more. *That* is what I want.
Another pause —
Another *thoughtful* pause —
"You want to please me."
Aramis shivers and — it is good. It is good to give. Yes. Please.
Athos's hand *flexes* on Aramis's throat —
Aramis moans and *swallows* with *difficulty* —
"I dream of your mouth... constantly."
Not... Porthos's?
"Both — but I dream of his hands more. His... size."
Very reasonable.
"I am, at times, a reasonable — I have been asking you for things which would
*keep* me from spending *quickly*."
Oh, yes? Do you wish to *ache*, my friend?
"I already did. This is more of an acute pain, at this point."
I...
"Yes."
Hm. I did mention —
"That we would... have this again..." Athos growls. "*Off*."
Aramis pulls *back* —
"Open your *mouth*."
Aramis *obeys* —
"Just the sight of that could make me spend — how *hard* do I fuck you?"
As hard as you like!
"I know you're already in pain — but you like it."
Yes!
"You'll show me. You'll show me — and we'll teach each other —" Athos growls
and *shoves* in —
Aramis gulps —
Misses and *coughs* —
"Please me — please me with your *throat*. I want what you gave to *Porthos*. I
want — give it to me!"
Aramis flushes and twitches and swallows and swallows and —
Athos *shoves* —
*In* —
"My *God* — I haven't had this since — but I will not *think* of that. I have
you now. I have you, and you are — and your hair —" And Athos growls and yanks
*hard* —
Aramis groans in his chest —
Athos shivers like a horse —
And thrusts —
And thrusts —
And thrusts *hard* —
Aramis's eyes roll *back* —
"She never — *no*," Athos says, growling and holding Aramis tighter, holding
Aramis *still* —
Yes, yes, I am here, love me, love *me* —
"Oh, *Aramis* —" And Athos *shoves* in again —
*Yes*!
Again and again and —
And Aramis can't focus, can't see, can't —
His throat is *sore*, and there is a fire in him for this, for this magnificent
and *wild* fuck, for this —
"Aramis — Aramis, don't stop *talking*!"
I — I — please, it's so good!
"This. *This*," Athos says, and *obviously* tries to give Aramis a rhythm,
obviously —
Aramis shudders —
Aches —
Wants to be fucked wilder again —
"Oh, *God* —"
Yes, please!
"I won't *last* if I —"
PLEASE!
"I have to hold you, have to see you, have to — so beautiful, so — I have to
fuck your perfect *face*," Athos says, and holds him still for his battering
thrusts, his beautiful —
So perfect —
Aramis holds himself *open* —
He is so *hard* again —
So *flushed* —
Sweating and needy and *ready*, so ready — but he must talk — My brother, I
regret every lie!
"*Aramis* —"
Our brotherhood, with Porthos, is *all*!
"*Yes* — don't stop, don't *stop* —"
You must always *touch* me —
"NNH — I — I — hurt you?"
Fuck —
"Answer!"
Not — not always —
"I want to stroke your *face*!"
My friend, my brother, I am *yours*!
"Mine, *mine*, I — I can't *stop*, I can't — you're too beautiful, you've
always been too beautiful, it made me *angry* —"
Punish me!
Athos growls and *slams* in, cock jerking and jerking and *spattering* Aramis's
throat with spend —
Aramis sucks —
Winces and *slurps* —
Takes it all, takes it all, he is good, he will be good —
"You're — you're —" And Athos cries out and spills more, spills all over
Aramis's *tongue*, so musky, so *hot* —
So *different* from Porthos —
"Oh — you're sharing his *taste* — I — NNGH —" And Athos spills *more* —
Staggers —
Aramis reaches up quickly to steady him —
Athos pulls out until just the head is in Aramis's mouth — and then stays right
there.
Aramis suckles gently, gently. He is good. He is *good*.
"You. You." Athos shudders and strokes him, pets him —
Pets him so firmly, so gently —
His hands are so hard, but so —
Oh, he could *kick* himself for all the years he *wasted* not being petted by
men with hard hands!
"Any men?"
Well...
"Hmm. You're incredible. You're perfect. You're beautiful. You're. I. I feel...
saved."
Aramis blinks.
Looks *up* —
And Athos is smiling wryly down at him. "From my thoughts."
Oh...
"I know they'll come back... but I also know what can chase them away."
Aramis shivers... and smiles around the cock in his mouth. I am very pleased
to.... oblige, my friend.
Athos — grins.
And Aramis begins kissing his cock softly.
"Have you ever wished..."
"Mm?"
"You were transcendent when I was fucking your mouth. You looked...."
Aramis pulls back — very slightly — and licks his lips. "Happy?"
"Yes. *Yes*."
Aramis smiles, enjoying the pain in the absence of a Porthos who would pounce
on every wince —
"Are you sure I shouldn't?"
"I would not mind a massage, my friend —"
"Then —"
"But not yet. I want this pain to last a little longer."
Athos parts his lips — and grins again. "I understand that with all of myself."
Aramis grins back. "Then it is agreed — we will *distract* our Porthos from his
need to care for us so assiduously!"
"Hm. How?"
"I will nibble his cock, and *you* will suck his balls."
Athos's expression turns distinctly dreamy for this.
Aramis grins wider. "You have dreamed of *this*..."
"Many times. I... once, when we were teasing each other after a long day's
training, he threw his sweaty breeches at me."
"Oh my God."
"I was so shocked that I didn't get my hands up in time —"
"They hit you in the face."
"Magnificently," Athos says, and licks his lips.
Aramis laughs *hard*. "What did he *do*?"
"He *yanked* them away with approximately a thousand apologies —"
"Oh, no —"
"And I never had the opportunity to smell — or taste — his breeches again."
"That is *tragic*."
"Yes, I. I never could find a way to ask him to do that again that seemed as
though it made any *sense*."
"Or was... innocent?"
"I... I always suspected..." And Athos smiles wryly. "I wasn't *completely*
blind to myself. There are only so many times one can dream of one's brothers
in compromising positions without coming to a few *tentative* conclusions."
"This was always my *thought*, but —"
"It didn't... there was..." Athos shakes his head. "My past. My past *stopped*
me. If I imagined something pleasant, something beautiful, something of love
and happiness..."
Aramis winces and nods. "I see your point."
"Yes, I believe you do. And that is... that fills me."
Aramis breathes deep — and smiles. And starts to stand —
"Would you..."
"Mm?"
"Wait a moment."
Aramis blinks — and grins again. "On my *knees*, friend Athos? What do you
wish?"
"It's only... it occurred to me that I would be more comfortable if I used the
chamberpot."
Aramis blinks more — "Yes?"
"And then it occurred to me that, with a man like you, I might have other...
options." And Athos raises his *eyebrow*.
And that —
He cannot possibly be —
But — no. He will *ask*. "Athos... are you speaking of... marking?"
Athos's eyes are *hot*. Dark and *wild*. "I did it with my *wife*. I did *many*
things with her that are —" He shakes his head again. "I thought, for a long
time, that all lovemaking must be forever sullied. Forever *soiled* —"
"No —"
"No," Athos agrees. "And — I am not entirely *ignorant*, either. I know I'm
asking for something that is somewhat outré —"
Aramis *coughs* —
Athos grins. "Or perhaps more than somewhat."
"*Perhaps* —"
"But I meant it when I said I wanted everything with you, Aramis. I meant..."
Athos licks his lips. "There's nothing we can't have in our... brotherhood. If
you desire it."
And that... places things firmly in Aramis's court.
Does he want this?
Does he *have* to have this? He *looks* at Athos.
"Yes, Aramis? What is it?"
Aramis licks his lips and pants —
"You are — so arousing —"
"Friend Athos... I would like very much if you would *take* what *you* want
from me."
"Oh."
"Please."
"Oh..."
Aramis dips his head —
"No."
Aramis inhales sharply — "No...?"
"Head *up*."
Aramis grunts and *obeys* —
"Have you done this before."
And, for a moment, Aramis can't parse the question in the slightest. Athos is
*pinching* the base of his cock —
The pain must be —
"Aramis. Don't stare at my cock."
Aramis looks *up*. "I apologize —"
"Have you been *marked* with *urine* before."
"*No* —"
"But you want it."
"I want what *you* want, my friend. My *brother*. I want... to serve."
"You've had that with women."
"Yes, but... Porthos has shown me that it can be... very different. That it
*is* very different, at times."
"With a man?"
"With... a lover," Aramis says, and settles himself more comfortably on his
knees.
"Do you need to be on a rug."
Aramis laughs — "My rugs do not deserve this treatment, my friend —"
Athos huffs — and then hums.
"Mm?"
"I am only wondering," Athos says, and pinches himself *harder* —
Aramis winces *for* him —
"Look up."
Aramis obeys — "I apologize —"
"You're hungry."
"*Yes*, my friend —"
"What do you deserve, Aramis? What are you hungry for."
Aramis blinks — and flushes *hard*.
"You know whereof I speak."
"Athos — oh, Athos, have you —"
"I have."
Aramis swallows —
And swallows *again* —
And does not look *down* — there is only one question.
"There is, isn't there."
"Please —"
"I want to see you taking me, Aramis."
Aramis moans and *shakes* —
"I want to see you taking — all of me."
"Have you — have you *dreamed* —"
"Not this. But I should have."
Aramis feels unsteady, hot —
"You won't fall," Athos says, and pushes a hand back into Aramis's hair —
"Nnh — "
"Shh."
*Fuck* —
"Are you ready?"
Please! Please — please *give* me —
"Put your left hand on my hip and wrap your right hand around the base of my
cock. Lightly."
God — *God* — Aramis *obeys* —
"Good... that's good. Now take me."
Aramis takes Athos's half-hard cock in to his own mouth —
Sucks *helplessly*, *needily* —
Can't —
He *can't* —
And the first *splash* of piss makes him *grip* — but only with his left hand,
only —
He is good, he is *good*, and the piss is salty, hot —
He is sucking, swallowing —
Licking and lapping —
Athos is stroking Aramis's *face* with his other hand — "You are.. so very
perfect. Don't nibble. Don't... don't suck so sweetly, so — you must not make
me too hard, too quickly —"
He will not, he will *not* —
He holds himself *still* —
He *takes* the hot piss —
Athos's *mark* —
His brother's *mark* —
"You said you were mine..."
I am! Please! *Please*!
Athos groans and *yanks* Aramis's hair with one hand even as he *caresses*
Aramis's cheek with the other. "Beautiful. Perfect. I can't. *Suck*."
Aramis *obeys*, moaning and *moaning* —
Sweating —
*Aching* —
"What do you ache *for*."
Everything! Please please — oh, no, no, do not stop — and Aramis suckles, laps,
*milks* Athos's cock with his lips —
He is so *hot* —
He is so —
He has never —
Imagined —
And then Athos growls and *yanks* him off —
"Please!"
"We'll make every dream *real*!"
"Fuck —"
"Can you take my *fingers*, Aramis."
"Your — your — in my arse? I — please, I — I think — no more than two. I
apologize —"
"Shh, that will be... I will dream of more —"
"Oh, *God* —"
"Up," Athos says, and tugs on Aramis's hair —
Aramis *staggers* to his feet —
And Athos *yanks* him into a *kiss* —
A deep and seeking and —
Shameless —
Aramis surrenders to it, gives himself *utterly* to it, but —
(But what.)
Please leave me the *taste*!
Athos growls and *fucks* Aramis's mouth with his tongue, does it hard, does it
fast, does it *shallowly* —
"Mm — mmph — yes, please," Aramis slurs —
"Good boy, good — is that —"
"It is perfect!"
Athos growls and *pushes* him back toward the bedroom, pushes him and moves and
manhandles —
Aramis goes *willingly*, doing his best to remember grace, to remember *ease* —
He can *do* this —
He is *good* —
Oh, he will open the drawer —
Athos pulls out the pot of oil *immediately* — and pauses them by the side of
the bed. "I have dreamed of you in *many* positions on *many* beds, Aramis."
"Oh — what you *wish*."
"I want your face. Your — beautiful —" And Athos growls. "On your back, knees
up, legs spread."
"*Yes*, Athos —"
"I cannot shake the feeling that I will wake alone and aching and sticky and
*ashamed*," Athos says, and he sounds *enraged*.
"I will *warm* you. I will make you feel the *reality* of *everything*. Please
*touch* me —"
"Yes. Yes, that's —" And Athos growls again and crawls onto the bed, between
Aramis's legs. "I assure you; I have experience with this sort of lovemaking,
as well."
"Oh, God, please, I would not *mind* —"
"I would," Athos says, opening the pot and drizzling oil on his fingers. "Knees
back to your chest and spread yourself."
Aramis *groans* and obeys —
"Perfect," Athos says, and drizzles oil in Aramis's cleft.
Aramis gasps and clenches helplessly —
"Feet down."
Gasps *again* and obeys —
"I like warming the oil *this* way," Athos says, and starts —
Starts *rubbing* Aramis's cleft with his fingers —
Rubbing his fingers all *around* —
Twisting and *turning* them —
"What do you think."
Aramis groans —
Clenches and groans more and tries to spread his *legs* more —
He —
"Answer me."
Fuck — "I can feel your every *callus*!"
"Do you *like* that."
"Please yes! Please don't stop!"
"Tell me about other techniques you enjoy."
"I — I have only ever been penetrated twice before!"
Athos *stops* —
"Please!"
"The first time was terrible."
"Please do not —"
Athos growls and pushes in with *one* finger, crooking *immediately* —
"*Ahn* —"
"I'll take you away."
"Yes — *yes* —"
"You're mine."
"*Please*!"
"I'll make you feel — *me*," Athos says, and *rubs* at Aramis's pleasure-button
again —
Again and again and *again*, and Aramis is clutching the sheets with his
fingers and toes —
Arching —
Trying for *more* —
"You're irresistible."
"Athos —"
"I'm going to fuck you with my finger now," Athos says, and *does* it —
"God — *God* —"
"So you do enjoy the continuous stimulation of your pleasure-button."
"I — *GOD* —"
"I found it maddening in occasionally unpleasant ways, but —"
"Please! *Please*!"
"Oh. You're loosening for me..."
Aramis groans and *clenches* —"
"*Open*."
"*HNH* —" And Aramis flexes open, tosses his head, clenches, flexes open
*again* —
Athos fucks him *faster* —
"Yes! Yes! *Yes*!"
"Porthos taught you to love this."
"Yes — he — he can teach anything!"
"Porthos taught you to *give* yourself."
"*Please* —"
"I am *envious* and *starved* and I want to have watched every moment of him
taking you *apart*."
"Please, please, all three of us!"
"You want that."
"*Please*!"
"Does he?"
"Nngh — you — you know he does!"
"I don't trust my perceptions, but... I trust yours. And the hope is burning
me."
"Let me — oh, please, let me *ease* you!" And Aramis can't focus properly,
can't stop *blushing* for the *view* of Athos between his legs like this, but —
"You will. You *are*," Athos says, and —
And the second finger makes *Aramis* burn, makes him feel everything he was
doing with Porthos the night before, makes him feel —
For a moment he is on his hands and *knees*, for a moment the fingers inside
him are *Porthos's* —
"No," Athos says, and *twists* his fingers —
Aramis *howls* —
"I understand my parents much better. That's an incredible sound," Athos says,
and twists again —
"Yes —"
Again —
"*Yes*, Athos!"
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
"I *do*! But —"
"You can't take it. I know. I know," Athos says, and licks his lips. "I find I
want to hear you say it just the same."
"Oh —"
"I want to hear you *beg* for it," he says, and twists *again* —
"AHN —"
"I want — there is nothing I don't *want*," Athos says, and his hair is lank
with sweat, his body is *shining* with sweat, *flushed* —
"Athos, *Athos*, please fuck me, please *fuck* me!"
"More."
"I want your *cock*, my brother, my lover, I want you to — to show me —"
"Show you what."
"Show me — how you would put me in my *place*."
"Am I not doing that now?" And he twists *again* —
Aramis howls and drums his *feet* —
Like a *child* —
Like —
"Like an incredibly arousing man. I —" Athos pants. "I lack Treville's hunger
for adolescents. Do you?"
"I — I — I have never —"
"But have you *desired*," Athos says, and presses down on Aramis's belly, and
thrusts —
And thrusts —
And fucks him hard and fast and —
And Aramis *croaks* —
His eyes roll back again —
He can't —
He knows there was a *question* —
He can't think —
He can't —
He's riding Athos's *hand* —
"Do that. Do that *exclusively*," Athos says, growls —
Cups the back of Aramis's left thigh with his other hand and forces it *up* —
All Aramis can do is *groan* —
Drool and *groan* —
He aches —
His cock is leaking all over his *belly* —
He is slick, aching, needy —
It's so good, so sweet, so *sweet* —
"After you spend, I'm going to cover you and *shove* against your softening
cock until *I* spend —"
Aramis hears himself make a *cawing* noise, but that's almost distant, almost —
There is so much pleasure, so much —
He is so full, so swollen both from this and from last night!
He is so *full*, and this —
This perfect *ache* —
He rides Athos's fingers *faster*, *harder* —
Tries to *urge* —
"*Anything*," Athos grits, and *crooks* —
Aramis *screams* —
His cock *spasms* —
"Oh. Oh, I can't —"
And Athos crooks again, again, over and over, and Aramis can't ride, can't
move, can't do anything but shudder and *take* it, take the slamming
*explosions* of pleasure thrumming through his body —
So hard —
So *hard* —
"No, I —" And Athos grips Aramis's *cock* —
Aramis *wails* again —
"Good *boy*," Athos says, and *squeezes* —
And Aramis doesn't even have time to *curse* in his mind before he's spending,
spurting all over his own chest and belly —
"Oh — no — on *me*," Athos says, and Aramis manages to focus enough to see
Athos *aiming* his spurting cock at his own chest —
Aramis sobs and arches and spurts *more* —
*Marks* his brother —
Blushes and spurts *more* —
Sobs and *collapses* —
Pants and groans and whimpers and —
Athos is still squeezing and *working* him, still —
He has no more to *give*!
*Athos* groans — and stops.
Aramis shudders and pants and slumps, trying to see, trying to focus again,
trying to —
Oh, but he can smell them both, smell Athos and his *hunger* —
He spreads his *legs* —
"*Aramis*."
"My friend, please, *on* me."
"You — you need rest —"
"Not so much as I need *you*," Aramis says, and reaches for Athos — no, wait —
He grabs the rag from beside the bed and passes it to Athos —
Breathes a bit more —
"Slower than that, if you can. It will be easier."
"Yes — yes, I — oh, Athos, that was *perfect*," Aramis says, smiling and
laughing and *trying* to make himself slow down, open, *something* — no. "No,
just pull out, all is well, you used much oil —"
"You *fear* being hurt in unpleasant ways —"
"There is *no* pain right *now*," Aramis says, and pushes up onto his elbows,
tossing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Please. *Please*. *Use* me."
Athos *growls* —
*Pants* —
He is flushed so *dark* — but he manages to pull out quite slowly and steadily,
which Aramis must admit that he still appreciates.
Athos nods for that, wiping his hand — and then crawls up over Aramis's body —
and shoves him *down* —
Aramis laughs and wraps his arms around Athos's neck —
"I still. Feel as though I'm going to wake up."
"You *will*. In my *arms*."
"I have never been more purely happy than those times when I have woken up in
our tent with you and Porthos, and realized that my nightmares didn't keep you
from your rest."
"You squeeze my *heart*, my friend," Aramis says, and plays with the soft hair
on the back of Athos's neck. "But, truly, if Porthos's masturbatory habits
could not keep me from my rest..."
Athos coughs —
Aramis grins —
"Is he always... but *you're* loud. You're not when you're masturbating."
"I have been, recently. When I have been dreaming of Porthos's hands on me."
"Oh... hm. You weren't able to repress?"
"Were you? The first several times?"
"Not even remotely."
Aramis shrugs.
"But you hadn't *before*?"
"No."
"At *all*?"
Aramis laughs. "I had *many*, *many* lies and *walls* in my head, my brother.
Please kiss me?"
Athos growls and does just that —
Athos growls harder and *breathes* —
Breathes in the scents of his own *mark* on Aramis —
Aramis shivers and nods and *takes* the kiss, Athos's stabbing, *tasting*
tongue —
So careful to leave Aramis *most* —
But Aramis must suck, must lick, must nuzzle and nuzzle into that *beard*, so
soft —
"Treville's beard is as soft as fur," Athos says, *utterly* randomly —
"I..."
"I... have no idea why that came out of my mouth just then."
"Were you *thinking* of Treville, my friend?"
"I — hm. I believe I was thinking —" And Athos kisses him again —
Again — "Mm —"
"I believe I was thinking of the question you didn't answer," Athos says,
directly into Aramis's mouth.
Aramis tries very hard to remember —
Very —
Very hard —
"Hmm. You were distracted."
"I truly was, my friend," Aramis says, and arches up to kiss again, again — "I
promise to pay far less attention to you fucking me next time."
"Next — oh." And Athos kisses him *hard* —
"*Mm* —" And Aramis stiffens helplessly —
Athos pulls *back* — "That was a sound of discomfort."
"I... slightly too much, yes. I —"
"Don't apologize," Athos says, and kisses him again, more softly. "I will
remember for — next time."
Aramis grins —
"I love you."
"Oh. I —"
"Are you attracted to adolescents?"
Aramis *blinks* —
"Was that — I didn't mean for that to be — hm. I'm simply very curious after my
conversation with Treville. I know Porthos is."
"Yes. And I do not think that I am."
"'Think'?"
"I have never found myself looking at an adolescent that way, my brother.
But... recent events have proven that I do not know myself as well as I thought
I did." Aramis smiles ruefully. "I do not wish to tell another lie."
Athos *blinks*. "I..."
"Was that a surprising answer?"
"I do not think you should consider it a lie if you simply do not know the
correct answer when you *give* answer, Aramis."
"Hm. Would you be so gentle with yourself, my brother?"
"Absolutely not," Athos says, and huffs —
Aramis *grins* — and tugs Athos down for another kiss —
Another and another and mmm, yes, please, more —
(Even though your face hurts?)
*This* pain is perfect —
(And this one?) And Athos *thrusts* against him —
Aramis grunts into his mouth — please, again!
(Do you *like* it.)
I do not think I will spend again, but you feel good, strong, *hard*, so *hard*
—
Athos pulls back —
"Please —"
"Arms *down*. Reach for the headboard."
Aramis grunts and obeys —
And Athos grips his wrists and *fucks* against him —
"Oh, *God* —"
"You like being loomed over."
"*Yes*!"
Athos huffs — "I want Porthos's *size*."
"You are not *small* —"
Athos growls. "It has to be — to be *comprehensible* to desire to *overawe*."
Aramis gasps a laugh — "Fuck me again! It will work!"
Athos's jaw drops — but only for a moment before he shows his teeth and shoves
hard, hard —
So —
His body is so *hard*, so hot, so *slick* with sweat and spend —
So —
His cock is *ruthless* against Aramis's own —
And.
It is good to be shameless, to wrap his legs around Athos's waist —
"HNH — *Aramis* —"
To hold him tight, *tight* —
"Aramis — Aramis, I — I can only *rut* like this —"
"*Hurt* me!"
"*Fuck*," Athos says, and *bites* him again —
Bites and shares in *Porthos's* mark —
Aramis pants and *whines* —
And Athos *slams* against him and — ruts, yes, ruts, shoves and shoves and
growls and it's so hot, so hard —
They're slamming Aramis's bed against the *wall*, and it's not the first time
for such a thing, but it's the first time with a brother, with a *lover* —
Athos bites him *harder* —
Aramis *sobs* —
(The sounds you make drive me *mad*!)
Please do not *stop*!
(Make more *noise*,) Athos says, growling and biting him over his Adam's apple
—
Aramis *gurgles* —
Athos bites *hard* —
Aramis whines and *thrashes*, bucks —
Athos *shoves* him down and rides him, *rides* him —
Please, *please* —
(You're such a good. *Boy*!)
Sometimes I was a boy in my fantasies of Porthos!
(What — what —)
Sometimes he touched an adolescent!
(My — my *God* —)
I have not told him yet — I was frightened for no *reason* — please fuck me
*harder* —
Athos *bites* him harder and fucks him *violently* —
So —
Aramis can't get a full breath —
Aramis can't *see* again —
It's so *perfect* —
(I — I — I want to make love to you when you were a *boy* —)
"HNH —"
And Aramis is spurting in *shock*, in need, in helpless —
He can *feel* Athos's calluses on him, on the softer skin he *remembers* having
—
He can feel Athos's greater *size* —
He can feel his own *helplessness* —
(Oh, Aramis, I —) And Athos growls and fucks *faster* into the mess between
them, fucks *harder*, and the noises are wet, nasty, beautiful —
So —
So *beautiful* —
Aramis's vision is filling with black *flowers*, but —
He can still give Athos an image of himself as a fifteen-year-old, naked and
splayed —
Beckoning and smiling —
So happy because Athos is *hard* for him —
And then Athos bites hard enough to cut off Aramis's air *completely* and
*spurts* —
All over, all over —
Aramis can't —
Can't hold the images —
Can't hold on with his *legs* —
Black —
He is splayed, sprawled —
Black —
Black —
And then there is confusing light, colours, no —
He can't focus, his throat hurts, his — face —
He's whooping, gasping, coughing —
He's being stroked? Petted?
He's still *gasping* — but eventually he can stop. And —
He can breathe.
And blink the tears out of his —
No, he wipes them away —
Athos kisses them away —
"Athos —"
"I feel I should —"
"Do not apologize!"
"Hm."
Aramis laughs helplessly —
Laughs until he must gasp more, wipe away more tears —
And Athos sucks his fingers.
Tastes him.
Kisses — but he is no longer on *top* of Aramis, and that is *wrong*.
"You do need air —"
"Not as much as I need *you*, my brother —"
"Hm, I — I wonder..."
"What? What is it?"
"I wonder if we need a chaperone."
"No! Absolutely not! Climb on top of me and crush me immediately!"
"Aramis."
Oh — "But you give such orders — mm. I will continue to take your orders and
warm myself *this* way."
"Oh. You're cold? We could —"
"Cuddle?" And Aramis grins at Athos —
And Athos growls and *straddles* him —
"This works, as well — mm —"
And Athos's facial massage is *precisely* as competent as Porthos's, though
Aramis believes they had very different reasons for developing the skill.
"Perhaps not."
Aramis raises an eyebrow —
Thinks —
Aramis *lowers* his eyebrow.
Athos hums. "Thank you."
You are welcome, my brother.
For long moments, they are only quiet together as Athos works on Aramis's jaw
and facial muscles, and Aramis tries to decide if he wishes to be the sort of
man who purrs —
Who admits that he purrs —
Who admits that he purrs extensively —
Damn —
Athos huffs.
Yes, distract me, please —
(That... fantasy...)
It was truly more of a fragment —
(Was there more in that vein with Porthos?)
Ah, well, with Porthos, his big body would be curled around my much smaller
one, he would be whispering in my ear, his hands would be on me —
(Your genitals?)
Aramis shivers and stares at the *memory* of the fantasy — the dreams, as well.
I did not start to get my growth until I was fourteen...
(Hm. Lucky. I was fifteen.)
Aramis smiles —
(Gently.)
Yes, Athos, Aramis says, and smooths his expression. I am... small in those
fantasies with Porthos. It is troublesome, because sexuality when I am that
*size* is troublesome.
(Your first experience with a man.)
Just so. It was a priest, and... it was not rape. He was simply callous.
Incautious. I trusted him to be as kind and caring with my body as he had been
with my mind and spirit. He was not.
Athos inhales sharply. (Is he —)
Alive that you might do something terrifically mean-spirited to him, my Athos?
Aramis smiles with his eyes. I'm afraid not. Though I would, in the spirit of
brotherhood, give you and Porthos all information I *had* about him if he were.
Athos pauses in his massage —
Caresses Aramis's face with both hands —
"I love you."
"And I love you. Lie with me?"
Athos caresses him again. "I should keep massaging you."
"Perhaps I will give our Treville the opportunity to use his eldritch powers to
heal me," Aramis says, and grins.
Athos raises an eyebrow.
Aramis winks. "Or perhaps not. We shall see. Come, let's get under the covers.
Warm me with your body —"
"Curl around you and whisper in your ear?"
Oh. Aramis licks his lips. "I do not know if I could be a very convincing boy
*now*, my Athos..."
Athos strokes Aramis's cheek with his thumb, just above the line of his beard.
"I'm not so certain of that."
Aramis *grunts* —
"Everything, Aramis. Everything for us."
"For — all of us?"
"Yes. We'll be honest with — our family."
"Our pack?"
Athos smiles. "Yes. Because they'll be honest with us. And because it is the
correct thing to do."
Aramis hears himself make a small, helpless sound — "Please. Please."
"Yes," Athos says, and they move quickly then, getting under the covers despite
their thoroughly disreputable state —
Athos pulls Aramis *against* him, back to his front —
Athos nips Aramis's *ear* —
Squeezes him *tight* —
And Aramis feels himself relax, one small piece at a time.
***** Meet your father. *****
Treville watches his son scrying his brothers and tries, very hard, not to
laugh.
Very —
It's a serious moment.
It's an *important* moment.
Porthos had wanted to learn basic scrying, and Treville had *desperately*
wanted to teach his boy something, and the fact that *Porthos* had suggested
looking in on Athos and Aramis —
Well, it meant that *Treville* didn't have to be the old deviant of the hour.
But this...
Right now, Porthos is staring *slack*-jawed into the bowl of magically-
preserved spirit-mage blood — not as powerful as Jason Blood's bowl of the
stuff, because Treville's blood wasn't exactly freely donated, but still — as
Aramis explains to Athos —
To the man who had very recently *pissed into his mouth* —
— that sometimes he fantasized about being a young boy for Porthos.
Treville sighs happily — oh, he hadn't meant to do that, either —
"Daddy."
"Mm?"
"*Daddy*."
"Yes, son?"
"You're bloody *happy* about this!"
"Well... yes," Treville says, and leans against the wall opposite his son.
"You —"
"Think about it."
"We left them alone for five bloody *hours* —"
"*Think* about it."
Porthos scowls at him — but only for a moment before he looks away.
"Yes?"
"I wish I were there."
And that — hurts.
"It's *not* that I don't want to be with *you*, Daddy," Porthos says, and gives
him a *pleading* look —
"Son —"
"You — it's like you — your *dog* — was saying. We're too much apart."
Treville's heart — hammers. He can't really say anything.
Porthos nods. "I know you can't," he says, and does the pass Treville had
taught him over the bowl. The connection is broken. He stands, and moves close.
"I needed to be alone with you today."
"Are you sure of that, son?"
"Yeah, I am. Because if Athos and Aramis had been here, I would've *hid* in
them instead of letting myself *deal* with you the way I needed to. The way
*we* needed me to. The way we *all* needed me to," Porthos says, and raises his
eyebrows.
"I've never known you to be much for hiding, son."
"You never knew my Mum to be, either."
Treville blinks —
Growls —
"Tell me. Tell me what you make your fear look like. Tell me so I can see it
*coming*."
"You can *smell* it —"
"*Tell* me," Treville says, and steps into Porthos's space, noses in, looms as
much as he can over his honestly *magnificent* son —
"*Fuck*, Daddy, I make it look like — what I always do. The caring. The
*concern*. I'd be — really attentive to everyone else. And it's not like they
don't all *need* it, so — so I don't even really feel bad about it, after,"
Porthos says, and smiles ruefully.
And Treville's heart hurts. *Hurts*.
"Daddy —"
"You've been doing that your whole life."
"Not — not my *whole* —"
"But since you were a boy."
"I — yeah."
Treville hugs Porthos. Just — hugs him.
"Oh. Yeah?"
"Occasionally, I know how to do this," Treville says.
"I can't help waiting for the bite —"
Treville nips Porthos's jaw through his beard. Gently.
Porthos laughs and squeezes him tight. "*Thank* you. And — thank you for this."
"It's yours whenever you want it. It's yours all the bloody *time*."
"No, it *isn't*, because you have to be the *Captain* —"
"Don't make me growl when I'm trying to be tender and cuddly, son."
Porthos laughs a little breathlessly —
Kisses Treville's cheek —
"Sorry about that, Daddy. I'll absolutely not be responsible at you —"
"Ever?"
Porthos splutters —
And Treville grins and kisses *his* cheek. "We're home now, son. The Captain
is... in the stables. With poor, placid Lisle."
"All right, that's fair —"
"Yes —"
"Let's buy you a murder-horse and ride *her* around when you're here, eh?"
Treville blinks —
And Porthos pulls back, raising his eyebrows. "No?"
"I... didn't think of that."
"Probably because you didn't have anyone to ride *with*, eh? But you do now."
"Son..."
"Mm? I know that 'son'. Your heart's hurting you a little —"
"In good ways. In — oh, son," Treville says, pushing his hand into Porthos's
thoroughly-mussed curls and pulling him down into a kiss —
A *hard* kiss —
He can still *taste* himself in Porthos's *mouth* —
(Yeah, and I want to keep that as long as *possible* —)
Treville growls and *doesn't* lick —
(Can't *believe* you made me wait this long for your cock in my mouth —)
I'm —
(Thought I was going to have to drop to my knees during assembly and look
bloody *hopeful* —)
Treville *coughs* —
(Maybe point to my open mouth helpfully, just to *remind* you —)
Treville steps back —
*Snorts* —
"Hey, now, where's my cuddle?"
"I can't..."
Porthos crosses his arms over his bare chest and scowls mock-fearsomely. "I
have to say I'm *very* disappointed in your performance, here, Daddy."
"Fuck — I'm just — son, there was a time when I would've lured you away from
*watch* just so you could suck me off."
Porthos stares at him for a moment.
Treville snorts again. "I did mention —"
"You wouldn't even..."
"Mm?"
"I mean, maybe if we stayed so *you* were in position while I was sucking you
—"
"Oh, I've done that, too —"
"Right, that's not so bad —"
"How on *earth* did we produce such a responsible child?"
Porthos snickers. "Isn't magic about *balance*, Daddy? The All-Mother was
probably bloody terrified about what would happen if She let you and Mum
produce a child who was actually *like* you."
Treville nods judiciously —
Wags his head a little —
Strokes his *beard* a little —
"You're such an arse."
"I — you have to admit it, son."
"*What* do I have to admit?"
Treville grins — *like* an arsehole, thank you very much — and lolls his tongue
just a little —
"Oh — *what*?"
"*You* said you weren't going to *be* responsible."
"I —"
"You certainly *implied* that you weren't going to do it until we were riding
back to the garrison —"
"Shit —"
"You didn't last five *minutes*, son."
Porthos looks horrified.
Treville laughs *hard*.
"I — I'm not this *good* —"
"You really are —"
"I'm bloody *not* —"
"Yes —"
"I drink! I whore! I'm a sodding *cardsharp*!"
"Of course you are, son."
"*Daddy* —"
Treville laughs *harder*.
"Oh — sod *off*."
"It's all right, son," Treville says, and moves close again, grinning and
cupping his wonderful son's wonderful shoulders. "I'll teach you how to have a
good time."
"You *arse* —"
"Son."
"*What*?"
"Are you going to piss in Aramis's mouth before or *after* you make him your
boy?"
Porthos makes a sound like a dying bull *while* his cock tries to batter its
way out of his loose breeches.
Treville smiles fondly at it for a moment before looking up and raising his
eyebrows.
"I don't..."
"Mm?"
"I've never *pissed* on anyone before!"
"In anyone?"
"No!"
"Well. Best be prepared, son."
Porthos snickers hard — and more than a little nervously.
Treville can't take that. He cups the back of Porthos's neck and squeezes
firmly —
Porthos grunts — "Daddy —"
"Shh. What's wrong?"
Porthos stares at him incredulously.
"Look at the matter emotionally, and then systematically," Treville says,
slowly and firmly.
Porthos blinks — and then nods. "I — it would sodding *kill* me to hurt Aramis,
or make him feel like I didn't — didn't love him and respect him and need him.
He — well, you *saw* that. He's got — he's *afraid* of not being respected, and
it's tied in with sex for him. With *this* kind of sex. I can't hurt him. I
*can't*."
"You can't lose him."
"I've been in love with him —" Porthos croons with obvious helplessness. "He
*had* me. And now that I've touched him, now that I've tasted and touched and
—" He *growls*.
"You can't lose him," Treville says again.
"I can't. I *can't*."
Treville nods. "Now systematically."
"He — he went *mad* with Athos —"
"No. Systematically."
Porthos blinks and looks at him. And then he closes his eyes, takes a deep
breath, and nods. He opens his eyes again. "He's Aramis. He never wants to take
anything *easy*."
"More."
"He never — once he knows something is a *possibility* — especially if it will
make someone he loves *happy* — then he'll throw himself at that something.
He'll *make* himself right for that something. But —"
"No, more."
"Daddy —"
"Shh, you're on the right track, son."
"I — right. Right." And Porthos takes another deep breath — "I can't — I'm
thinking about how he must *smell* right now and I'm getting *harder* and I'm
—"
"Not that. Not right now."
"Right — yeah. Yes, Daddy. I — he'll make himself right for that thing. No
matter what. No hesitation. No *pause*."
"No?"
"He has to be sure you need it. He has to be sure you need *him*. If he is
sure, and he's sure it's *possible*, and there's nothing — nothing messing him
up in his head — oh."
"Follow it through, son."
"He was... he was *clear* in his head tonight."
"That he was."
"He knew what he *wanted*. He — fuck, he was *pushing* Athos to push *him*."
"That he was. More."
"As soon as he knew that Athos would look at him just the same, that Athos saw
it as just another way to make love with someone you *really* loved — *shit*.
That's the key. I have to show him how much I need him. I have to show him how
mad *I* am."
Treville smiles. "My son."
"It's not like it doesn't work on *me* when *you* do it."
"Honesty often *does* work, son."
"Oh, does it? *Fearless*?"
Treville ducks his head and smiles ruefully. "I think, sometimes, about what my
own father would say about what a liar I grew into..."
"Oh. Yeah?"
Treville looks up again and studies Porthos. His son. His *honest* and
*beautiful* and *honest* son. "He would've loved you, son. He would've... taken
you right under his wing. He would've dragged you with him everywhere — you
would've *been* one of his most trusted lieutenants before you knew what hit
you —"
"And sleeping on his bedroom floor with him?"
"Absolutely, son," Treville says, and smiles. Just —
But Porthos narrows his eyes and nods slowly. "You don't think he'd like you
much. The man you've become."
Treville smiles crookedly and strokes the back of Porthos's neck with his
thumb. "He was a godawful politician who loved women and only women."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Treville laughs softly. "Your mother asked me that question, too, but... no."
"No? Not even... a little?"
"He wasn't there to do it, son. When I *was* at his side, he was training me —
or we were surrounded by his lieutenants." But I would have welcomed it.
"Shit — Daddy..."
Treville strokes his beard — and nods to the portrait of his father that
dominates this sitting room.
"I — you don't resemble him much *except* for the beard."
"Which is why I'll almost certainly never change it. Or the way I speak. Or the
way I move. Or —"
"Oh. *Really*?"
"There was a time — a very, very long time, until I met Honoré and Laurent and
they became my brothers — when my father was the single most important, most
vital, and most *loved* person in my life. By a very, very long road."
"And... you still..." Porthos frowns.
"Son?"
"You actually beat yourself up for this."
"I —"
"You actually — for having grown into a man you *think* your father couldn't
have loved."
"*Son* —"
"Daddy."
Treville — takes a breath. And steps back. And nods.
"*Daddy* —"
"What would you do, son."
"What?"
"How would you *feel*. If you looked in the mirror one day and saw the kind of
man Amina would beat with a cosh and then *spit* on."
"You're not *bad*. You never bloody could be!"
"But I'm a liar, and I'm a political animal — despite *everything* I did to
avoid it — and I just spent a *goodly* portion of the evening making decidedly
deviant love to *his grandson*."
Porthos grunts —
Treville smiles at his son. "I appreciate the attempt —"
"No."
"Son —"
"*No*. I'm not going to let you *convince* me that a man *you* loved wouldn't
be good enough to see the good *in* you."
Treville — blinks.
"Yeah, Daddy. *Think* about it."
"I..."
"Be bloody *systematic*. *Teach* me about my *family*."
"I loved him. I *loved* him."
"Why?"
"He was — kind. Warm. Beautiful..."
"Yeah?"
"Those apple trees we passed coming in — he planted them himself, for my
mother, because she said *once* that she liked them —"
"Oh —"
"I buried your mother there. With my mother and younger brother."
"Bloody — you — I —"
"You — I took the body after I'd been led to it — I probably should've —"
"*Mentioned* that?" Porthos *smacks* him —
"We'll... visit the graves?"
"Yes, we bloody *will*!"
"I apologize —"
"Back to your bloody — wait."
"Yes, son?"
"Just —" And Porthos drops his face into his hands and laughs a little
hysterically for a long moment.
"It —"
"Shut it!"
"It's shut!"
Porthos laughs *harder*, and Treville wonders why no one ever trained him to
know what the hell to do with his mouth when he wasn't *lying* —
You'd think at least *Amina* —
Or was she trying? Maybe with all the punching?
"No, she wasn't bloody trying! She loved you saying godawful shit all the
time!"
"I —"
"*I* love you saying godawful shit all the time!"
"Porthos —"
"It's *bracing*. It's —" And Porthos snickers and smacks him again —
"Ow?"
"You have the worst timing on the bloody *planet*!"
"Your mother said that often —"
"After you said something godawful *while making love to her*?"
"Well... yes. Usually," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "Son, I —"
"Just — wait, wait. I have a few quick questions before we can proceed."
"Of course —"
"Do I have *siblings*."
"What? No —"
"Are you *sure*."
"Yes!"
"Do you have other *lovers*."
"Just Jason Blood —"
"The immortal sorcerer, right. Is he going to try to murder anyone I *care*
about or stick them in swords or bowls or anything?"
"Probably not."
"*Probably*?"
"He can be a little unpredictable?"
"Daddy!"
"I'm being an arsehole."
"One day, I'm *actually* going to knock your teeth out, and then I'm going to
be really *sad*, because I like the biting."
"Well... the All-Mother will *probably* heal me, so —"
"Right, good, definitely going to punch you every day, then —"
Treville sighs happily.
"You *arse*."
"Yes? Did you have any other questions?"
"No. Go back to — wait."
"Yes?"
"Does the *dog* have any other lovers, want to *kill* anyone I love, or —
anything I should know about?"
"No."
"No?"
"No. He just wants to fuck you blind, son."
Porthos stares at him.
"We can... he also wants to get to know you. As a person."
"Right, and —"
"And your brothers."
Porthos blinks slowly. "The dog wants to fuck *Aramis*? And *Athos*?"
Treville smiles ruefully and rolls his head on his neck —
"Fuck, that's *ominous* —"
Treville *snorts* —
"Such an *arse* —"
"The dog isn't going to leap on you — any of you — and try to mount as soon as
I shift, son. Even if I do it when we're *hard*, he might stop and try to get
to know you first."
"Uh. *Really*?"
"It worried Kitos to no *end* that the dog was better-behaved and more
controlled than I was. He always wanted the dog to, well, let himself off the
lead more than he did. Than he *does*."
Porthos stares at him. Just... stares.
Treville smiles ruefully and takes up a patch of wall again. "Ask, son. *Ask*."
"Did — the binding. Did you *get* all the dog's... dogginess?"
Treville wags his head. "I've asked myself that question before."
"But didn't come up with an answer?"
"I..." Treville frowns and shakes his head, not *really* meaning no.
"You're not sure?"
"I am, actually. I was always like this, to a certain extent, and, when I asked
the dog about it, he told me that *he* was more or less always the way *he*
was."
"Then... what's the confusion?"
"The binding did change us, son. Just not in those ways."
"Then how?"
"You could say..." And Treville touches his tongue to his upper lip for a
moment before smiling ruefully. "I'm a better man than I would've been."
"Yeah?"
"That's it, son? No incredulity?"
"Don't start that shite, Daddy. I *love* you. Just *tell* me," Porthos says,
moving close —
Crowding Treville against the wall —
His *scents* —
"Yeah, take 'em all. Let me have *yours*. And tell me how you're a better man
than you would've been."
Treville breathes *deep* —
Closes his eyes for a moment just to *feel* his son so *close* —
Then he opens his eyes to look at him. To *see* him. "It was... easier to lie
before I was a dog. I could keep secrets. I *did* keep secrets — from my
brothers. From Amina — though that was harder."
Porthos frowns. "You keep secrets *now*, Daddy..."
"That took years of *work*, son. Years of *training* — and I think you might
have noticed just how much work you and your brothers *haven't* had to put in
to get those secrets out of me."
Porthos blinks — and nods slowly. "It was all well and good when we weren't on
*top* of you... but."
"Precisely, son. If I was any good at keeping secrets... well. I'm not. So I
kept myself apart."
"Except when you couldn't."
Treville nods once.
"So you're more honest — you don't think you would've been."
"I was... wild. Cavalier. I was also lonely as fuck and hurting and *bitter*
because I knew — *knew* — in my heart that my loves would never, *could* never
love *me*. The light of my world was your mother, but she kicked me out all the
time, and I hated myself for not being able to give her a whole man all those
times when she got my blood up *almost* enough."
"Shit —"
"So... I lied. I lied about everything, to everyone. I *played*. I drank, I
whored, and the only thing I let myself take halfway seriously was the killing.
You know what men like that become."
"Liabilities, usually."
"And first?"
"People in need of a good *kicking*. People who aren't *people*."
"Exactly. I do my best to build units so that the men keep each other from
*becoming* that — and Laurent was no different — but... he had my fears and my
lies to contend with, and that was too much. That *would've* been too much —
without the binding."
Porthos nods slowly — and leans in to kiss him softly before pulling back.
"And how did I earn that?"
"Being here. Being a hard enough man to tell me all this. *Being* here."
Treville raises his eyebrows. "This is hard, son?"
"We both know what real toughness is, Daddy. Real *strength*."
Treville inhales with a shudder. "I love you so *fucking* much."
"The feeling's *entirely* mutual. How did the dog change? Why doesn't he have a
*name*?"
"He doesn't have a name because he's always been *deeply* annoyed by all the
'man-words' he's had to learn, and remember, and *keep*, and he categorically
refused to learn one more just to have a name."
"Oh. Does he... hate *other* people's names?"
Treville smiles. "He holds them sacred, son. Though he'd probably only admit
that to *you*. As for the rest..." He nods and presses his palm to Porthos's
sternum —
"Oh — should I —"
"Shh," Treville says, and reaches for the dog —
And the shift is almost *violently* fast, but the dog doesn't try to push him
back very far. The dog keeps him *close* —
The dog is standing with his paws on Porthos's chest and licking him almost
*frantically* while Porthos *laughs* —
"Fuck — oh — hello to you, *too* —"
The dog yips, croons, wags —
Jumps down and dances like a *puppy* —
Jumps up again and knocks Porthos back against the *wall* —
"You're so *strong* — fuck — I guess I shouldn't be surprised, eh? But *Daddy*
said you'd be more controlled..." And Porthos raises his eyebrows —
And the dog hates words so many words too many man-*words* — but.
This is his boy. HIS boy, and his boy's dog is not yet ready, his boy —
His boy has a name, and it is PORTHOS, his PORTHOS, and his Porthos needs these
words.
He will use them, even though the years with just Treville have spoiled him for
proper communication.
The dog sits on his haunches and yips again.
His Porthos blinks — and frowns.
His Porthos didn't understand?
Why didn't he understand!
Treville reaches for the dog again —
His Porthos doesn't *know* that he knows how to talk to him! This makes sense.
The dog reaches up with one paw.
"Yeah, eh? All right —"
And once they are touching, the dog *reaches*, *touches*, *holds* —
"*Fuck* —"
Holds his *boy* —
"Shit shit — are *you* my father, *too*?"
Of course! You are my boy! My good boy!
His Porthos laughs! Laughs big, like his Amina had...
The dog yips, and shows his Porthos his Amina, shows his Porthos his Amina
laughing, and running with him, and playing with the big, leather ball —
There have been many big, leather balls, but that was the first one, Porthos!
"Oh — fuck — did my Mum give it to you?"
It was our Kitos! Kitos Kitos!
His Porthos smiles — "Fuck, I can smell him! He smells great! Like — like
leather and steel and ale..." And his boy flares his nostrils — "I think... is
that wool?"
Yes yes!
"What did Reynard smell like?"
Treville and the dog argue about this for some time.
A lot.
A *lot* —
The dog snaps — it is his time! His!
Treville subsides good-naturedly —
And the dog shares the scents of their Reynard's pleasure, their Reynard's
sweat and musk, their Reynard's *arse*, their Reynard's blood, leaking from his
many scratches and bites as he howled and begged and sobbed and whimpered and —
"Uhh..."
Yes?
"Um."
What?
His Porthos licks his lips and looks at the dog.
The dog wags his tail encouragingly.
Treville is laughing inside him, but the dog pays no mind.
His Porthos raises both eyebrows. "Would you say *you* fucked Reynard more
often or did Treville?"
The dog cocks his head to the side. He has to think about this!
Treville laughs harder —
The dog asks him if *he* knows —
Treville does not.
The dog tells his Porthos that they don't know.
His Porthos bites his lip.
Yes?
"So... do you *also* like dogs?"
I like dogs very much! Fun to play with, fun to hunt with. Fun to run with!
"But, you know, for — Daddy said my Mum was your *mate*."
Yes! Good mate! Best mate! We miss her very much.
His Porthos crouches and nods, bringing his neck-scents closer. Good boy.
The dog wags. More questions!
His Porthos grins and strokes the dog with his big, hard hands. Good boy,
strong boy —
More behind the ears!
"Yeah? All right," his Porthos says, and it is good, so good, very good!
Very good!
"I'm glad..."
Ask questions!
"I just..." And his Porthos laughs hard, big! "I just want to know if Treville
gets hot for *dogs* the way *you* get hot for *humans*."
Only the very smart and attractive ones!
Treville is coughing —
This laugh is even bigger! So nice! So NICE! The dog yips laughter with his
Porthos and wags and wags.
His Porthos grins and shakes the dog's ruff — very good —
We will play? Wrestle?
"*Absolutely*. But — I've another question first —"
Yes!
And his Porthos studies the dog for long moments, looking deep into his eyes.
Yes? Yes?
"He said — Daddy said you both changed. When you were bound to my Mum."
Yes! We have talked about this many times.
"Yeah, eh? What were you like before? Less into... uh... humans?"
Yes! But... I understood less. I had fewer words. Man-words.
"Oh, yeah? And — where were you?"
With the All-Mother! Like all dogs when they die!
His Porthos blinks. "You — but Daddy said the witches who bound him to my Mum
*bypassed* the All-Mother."
The dog barks a scoff. You can't do that! Not *completely*. It was still a
giving! Still a *birth*! I had to go! And so did Amina-mate's dog!
"Oh — *oh*. What was *she* like?"
Very strong. Very wise. Very *impatient*. She was trapped while Amina-mate was
pregnant and healing! And then. And then Amina-mate was gone. The dog looks
down.
His Porthos makes a small sound and *hugs* the dog —
Hugs the dog the way their KITOS used to —
So warm so good so nice!
And then his Porthos is sharing memories! Sharing Amina-mate! Amina-mate
rumbling her human-songs! Amina-mate running and playing with his Porthos when
he was only a pup!
Amina-mate laughing big! BIG!
The dog jumps up and pounces on his Porthos, licks and licks and licks and
LICKS —
His Porthos laughs so big!
His Porthos *rolls* them!
Drums on his belly so nice!
NICE!
The dog yips and scrambles up and drops to his forepaws and wags!
Play now!
Play *now*!
Treville agrees!
And when his Porthos play-growls and pounces, all is good.
All is good!
***** You should probably meet your mother, too. *****
Porthos opens his eyes in a tiny kitchen that's only familiar because —
No.
No.
It's his *Mum's* kitchen, from Daddy's memories, and this must be a dream —
Is it his dream?
Daddy's?
Mum's fish stew is bubbling on the hearth, and the whole flat smells...
perfect. Good food, healthy people who work hard —
His *Mum* —
And his Daddy, too.
Porthos swallows and sits down — carefully — on one of the kitchen chairs. It
looks like it's been repaired more than once.
It —
And he knows, *knows*, that *Daddy* throws himself into this chair —
Knows that Daddy is both the reason this chair *is* repaired and the reason
that it *needed* to be repaired and —
And then there's a flash, a moment's *flash* —
Mum and Daddy, on opposite sides of this table, grinning at each other like
predators and preparing to *arm*-wrestle —
Gone.
Porthos grunts and stands again, backing up — and hitting something with just a
little less give than air. He spins, reaching for a weapon —
And his *extremely* pregnant Mum is *gripping* Daddy by the bollocks and
sniffing him. His cheek, his jaw, his throat —
Daddy is sweating and panting and *shaking* —
Hard as *stone* —
Dripping —
But they're gone before the slick hits the floor.
It occurs to Porthos, perhaps a *little* belatedly, that this isn't a normal
sodding dream.
He tries to leave the kitchen, to see what the rest of the flat —
He's sitting at the kitchen table again, and his Mum is — right there.
Right —
Across from him.
And this isn't a bloody dream, at all, because she's exactly as old as she was
when she'd died, and exactly as *lean* as she was in those last weeks *before*
she'd died, before the *shriveling* happened, but strong. *Strong*.
Porthos can *see* it.
Porthos can *feel* it.
And he can feel that it's not even remotely the kind of strength that comes
from being alive.
He takes a shuddering breath — and smiles. "Mum..."
She unfolds her arms — and she just *is* holding a bowl of the fish stew.
"*Eat*, sweet boy. Your mama has to talk to you."
"I —I want to talk to you, too —"
"You will have your chance. But I have been waiting... for a very long time,"
she says, and smiles wryly. She gestures with the bowl.
Porthos takes it, trying to touch her fingers — they're cold as *ice*.
"I am sorry about that, sweet boy, but..." Another wry smile. "Your mama is
dead, and death is cold."
Porthos winces and nods. "It's all right, Mum. I'll get used to it," he says,
and digs in.
It —
It tastes perfect.
It tastes *incredible*.
It's every memory he's ever *had* of his Mum's fish stew, only *more* —
How could he have *forgotten* —
And Mum rumbles a laugh and grins. "Eat it *all*. It is good for you!"
"Mm!" Porthos lifts the bowl to his face and just tries not to eat like a
*barbarian*. He has better home-training than that.
"Yes, you do! Do not become like your father, who has the home-training of a
*pig*."
Porthos licks his lips. "Not a dog?"
Mum shifts her muzzle, which is long and shining and pointed like a hunting
hound's.
Like Treville's dog's, except that the fur is black and wavy instead of brown
and mostly straight —
And then she shifts back. "Not *all* dogs are so *hopeless*."
Porthos grins. "You know, Mum, we *talked* about how you were about our
laundry..."
"That was different! Homes need *good* scents!"
Porthos laughs hard —
"I should give you to *Ife*. She will beat you with a *spoon*."
Porthos snickers. "I thought she was going to yank my *earring* out, Mum." He
eats more.
Mum sighs — and her ears are suddenly ringed like his.
"Oh —"
And then they're not. "No, I cannot grow accustomed to that. I have tried many
times, but the lessons of youth are too strong."
Porthos takes a big swallow — the bowl is already half-empty — and hums. "I'm a
bit surprised you *let* them forbid you from getting the earrings."
Mum smiles at him a way she'd never done when she'd been alive. It's *wicked*,
and wild, and sharp —
She looks at *Daddy* that way —
She looks — and then she rumbles again. "This is how I look when I feel *free*,
sweet boy."
"Oh. Yeah?"
She nods once. "And I let Ife, Lara, and Layo guide me in *all* magical things.
I was wild — I *am* wild — but I am not a fool. They were powerful and
*knowledgeable* women."
"And... the spilling of blood is always magical?"
"Just so. *Eat*."
"Mm-hm, mm-hm!" Porthos eats —
And eats —
And *waits* for his Mum to *talk* — but... all she does is watch him, and study
him —
Drink him in.
Just like Daddy.
When he's done with the stew — and has scraped the bowl clean and licked the
edges a *little* —
She rumbles for that —
When he's done, he sets the bowl down, and licks his lips, and reaches for her
icy hand.
She lets him take it.
"You couldn't get to me after you were dead. To — any of us."
She smiles with pain — that expression is a lot more familiar. "I would've been
able to... but."
"But what?"
She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment — and then she shakes
her head once and opens her eyes again. "Listen to me, sweet boy. Listen very
closely."
"Always, Mum —"
"You are coming into your power now, and you will have teachers — including me
and your father — who will show you how to *use* it. *All* the ways you can use
it."
Porthos nods, thrilling inside — she won't leave!
"I will *never* leave you again, sweet boy," she says, and smiles with a
*growl*. "But listen. There is something *I* will teach you which you must only
use in the most *dire* of emergencies."
Porthos blinks. "I — yeah?"
"How to give your power *away.*. How to *take* power from yourself and *pour*
it into another person."
"Oh. *Oh*. Yejide said that's what you did with me. She said that's how you
*protected* me. She said that's why I was so healthy and — all of that. I...
wouldn't any mother who was a witch do that for their child?"
Mum smiles wryly again. "*Most* mothers are *very* tempted, sweet boy. But...
it causes things to go wrong. It causes *imbalance*. I interrupted the natural
*flow* of your own magic — which is why it took so long for you to come into
your own power —"
"Shit —"
"— and it left me weak. *Weaker*, even after I was out of *Guillou's*
influence. Even after I was *dead*, sweet boy. I was... lost." She makes a
gesture like something tossing and turning — "I was trapped in the *tides* of
power that surround the spheres, unable to exert my will to get where I needed
to *go*. Unable to get *here*. Until I strengthened myself again."
"*Fuck*, Mum, are you — well. It seems kind of *ridiculous* to ask if you're
all *right* —"
She whuffs a laugh and a glass full of smoky stuff appears in her hand. She
drinks *deeply*. "I am *well*, sweet boy. You are here, and you have grown up
brave and strong and beautiful and bold and wise and *free*." And then she
smiles that *wicked* smile. "And you have found your father..."
"Uhh..."
She snickers. "I thought about it, you know. More than once."
"Uh. 'It'?"
"What your father, my sweet brother, my beloved *deviant*, would *do* if our
son grew up to be *anything* like the boys he could not keep his *cock* out
of."
Porthos *stares* — no, wait. Wait. "*What* did you think about it?"
And this... is another smile he's never seen before. It's wild again, and a
little dark, and sharp, and *hungry*.
"When you looked at him like that, he *begged*."
"Of course," she says, and then snorts. "Once we were bound. *Before* we were
bound, he'd get the most confused and *attentive* look on his face. As if he
knew there was *something* he was supposed to do but was not *quite* sure what
it was."
"Uh."
"Exactly. But you had a question, and I will *always* answer your questions,
sweet boy," she says, and drinks —
And seems to *flare* in power —
Her glass is full again. She licks her teeth. "He told you, I know, that I told
*him* that it was always my intention to raise my child like *him*, yes?"
"Yeah, but — always? You weren't bound —"
"He told me, long before I *became* pregnant, nearly two *years* before we were
bound, that he wanted to adopt all my children, sweet boy. He told me with the
world, the spheres, his *soul* in his eyes... and that is not something a woman
can forget so easily. I made my plans."
"Right — right —"
"There was no man I loved liked your father, sweet boy. No..." She shakes her
head, looking at something in her memories. "I burned for him from the very
*first* moment, incredulous because this — *this*! — was the prophesied one.
*This* was the man who would sweep me off my feet. This drunken, filthy-minded
little *liar* of a *buggerer*. I saw him. I saw him through and *through*."
"Oh..."
"And I could not... tease my love away from his bad qualities. Or his 'bad'
qualities. It grew confusing — no. No. That's not the truth. He reached out his
hand to me that very first night. He did not say 'Amina-love, join me in my
life of debauchery and filth and be mine forever, be as wild and *wrong* as you
have *never* dreamed of being, be the woman you have *feared* your *potential*
to *become* —'"
"But he also did."
"Oh, yes. *Oh*, yes, sweet boy."
And that... "He changed you."
Mum cocks her head to the side. "Did he, sweet boy? Or did he just make me the
woman I was always *meant* to be."
Porthos frowns. "Are you saying... no. No. I *know* what you're saying, and
that's — you're not even a *little* upset about me and Daddy fucking —"
"No, I am not."
"You saw it coming, and — you maybe would have even *encouraged* it —"
"Not that. But if *you* had grown up desiring your father the way *he* grew up
desiring his own...?"
Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Would you have encouraged that? Helped things
along a little?"
"*Made* you desire your father, you mean?"
Porthos nods.
Mum's expression quirks thoughtfully. "I have never *once* imagined doing
something like *that*."
"No?"
"No, sweet boy. I —" She shakes her head. "I was not one for having *friends*.
I did not have *people* in my life. I did not truly know how to make them do
*anything*. I tended to brutalize my acquaintances — my *acquaintances* — into
behaving how I wanted them to. Ife, Lara, Layo... they kept me from the worst
of my excesses after I was freed, but, in truth, they loved the harridan in me
as much as your father did —"
"He still does."
Mum shivers. "Yes. This I know. We are bound, now and always. But... I was
saying..."
"Yeah?"
She smiles ruefully. "The idea of making you more like your father *that* way
probably *would* have occurred to me... if I had trained myself before that
point to be more deft with the human heart."
And Porthos just — thinks about that.
Puts that into perspective with the woman he'd *thought* his Mum was — the
strong woman, the hard woman, the *harsh* woman, yeah, but not...
Not so —
"Deviant, sweet boy...?"
Porthos looks at her. "I've always had pretty firm ideas about how to go about
raising a child the right *way*, Mum."
She smiles that wild smile again. "Is there only one right way, sweet boy?"
"*You* raised *me* —"
"No. *No*. I did *not* raise you."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I *trained* you, Porthos. I *strengthened* you — in every way I could! I kept
your little body and mind and spirit healthy and strong despite all the things
and people who were trying to take that *from* you. I did *not* raise you. You
had so little *comfort*. You had so little *sweetness*!"
"I had *you*!"
"You had a woman under *siege*, Porthos! You had a pained and sickly and
*constantly* *panicked* *lie*."
Porthos squeezes her hand and leans in. "But you said it yourself, Mum. I grew
up pretty sodding well —"
"You grew up with fears you should *not* have, my sweet boy," she says, and her
smile is rueful again. "You grew up... just a *little* smaller than you should
have. But all is well. You're growing bigger now —"
"Bigger? Or more *deviant*?"
Mum laughs hard. "You see? You see how you fear?"
"*Mum* —"
"Ask yourself this, sweet boy: Are you happier now that you've known your
father's touch?"
"I —"
"Are you happier now that you know what it *means* when he calls out *son* when
he's buried deep within you —"
"*Fuck* —"
"And your other loves. Your *brothers*."
"What — what *about* them?"
"Will you hold yourself back? Will you tell them pretty lies designed to make
them think the 'best' of you? Will you 'protect' them from your 'baser urges'?"
"Look, I —" But he has to stop there. *Right* there.
Because he knows *exactly* how Aramis *and* Athos would react to that kind of
behaviour from him.
How they would — would *hurt* —
They would feel *betrayed* —
"And they would be *right* to, sweet boy. I have seen your memories of your
brothers..."
"You — have?"
Mum nods. "It took *time* to claw my way back here, and, on the way, I could
touch, and taste, and *take*... little pieces of your life. The connections I
built between us allowed that."
Porthos nods thoughtfully. But — "What — what did you see in my memories?"
"There were *many* times when your Aramis told you that you did not *have* to
censor yourself around him..."
"I —" Porthos flushes. He already knows this answer, too. The Aramis he knows
and loves *never sodding wants him to go easy*. Aramis always wants his
honesty, his truth, his *self*.
And he'd wanted it back then, too.
Porthos winces and nods. "And Athos?"
She makes an expansive gesture with her free hand. "What do you do with any
man, any *brother*, who responds so well to being taken in hand, sweet boy?"
"I —"
"What do you do with any *love* who can only seem to find peace at the bottom
of a bottle... or pinned firmly beneath you?"
"Oh. I. *Fuck*."
Mum grins broadly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. "My sweet
boy learns well *always*."
"I — I *promise* I'm not an idiot —"
"No, you are not. That is your father."
Porthos splutters —
She grins wider. "He still taught me much about *people*, sweet boy."
"Indirectly?"
"*And* directly. He was a *new* man after we were bound. He only needed to have
his *ability* to lie, to *hide*, taken away from him. And then, once he was
backed into a corner by this? He stood *tall*. And he was *truly* Fearless."
"He... wouldn't say that."
"No, he would not. But *all* of his lovers would. He *gathered* us. He put an
end to *all* the lies, all the pain, all the *deceit* among us. He *made* us
into the pack we were always supposed to *be*."
"Oh. Shit. That's how... that's how he got together with his brothers?"
"Well, not with Reynard. He *first* talked to Marie-Angelique about how he felt
about both her and Laurent... and *Laurent* mauled him, while *he* mauled
Marie-Angelique. Hrr. Reynard saw all the marks and could not hide his
fascination and jealousy..." Mum shrugs. "One thing led to another *very*
quickly."
"And Kitos?"
"*Kitos* actually believed that your father — and the others! — would turn
their backs on him once they began fucking each other. I knew this — I
*smelled* this when he came to visit me to see how *I* felt about your father
fucking two men and one other woman after *just* having been bound to *me* — so
of course I *told* your father. He and Reynard and Laurent fell on Kitos like a
pack of *wolves*."
"But not you? I mean — I *know* you didn't make love to Daddy in any of the
ways that *could* have gotten you pregnant —"
"I had my own fears. I had my own..." She snarls. "The binding changed us, left
us unable to *hide*, but I was still the girl in love with a man who could
never love *her* the right *way*."
Porthos winces. "I — shit. That... you had doubts? You thought... it couldn't
work?"
"Not that. Not that, sweet boy. The magic would not *allow* that. It was
more..." And she looks thoughtful — and then wry. "I was the girl my masters
had built, and I was the girl *I* had built. Stubborn. Stubborn for *freedom*.
Everything *in* me said 'do everything in your power to bind yourself to this
man in every possible way, because he is yours now and forever!'"
"Right, so —"
"And *so*, everything *in* me *also* said 'do everything in your power to run
fast and *far* from this man, because he will tie you down and make you *one*
thing and one thing *only* for the rest of your days!'"
"Uh."
"Yes."
"Mum..."
"Mm?"
"Are you and Daddy both *completely* mad?"
Mum laughs hard, and — big, like Treville's dog would say.
It's strong, and it's wild, and it's *happy* —
And it's incredible to hear.
It's so *much* to hear —
It's —
"Fuck, it's good to see you." He squeezes her hand. "Can we — can we get you
out of here? Back into — you know Daddy has to see you. And Ife —"
"*Oh*, yes, sweet boy. I'm still gathering my power — I have learned to be
prudent! — but I can walk your world now."
Porthos grins helplessly. "I can't wait to introduce you to my brothers."
Mum smiles *softly* — well. Softly for her, and Porthos was still a child when
he learned that things like that were relative.
She rumbles a softer *laugh*. "My sweet boy," she says, and squeezes *his*
hand. "I cannot touch your brothers."
"What? I mean — not even like this?"
"No. I am a revenant. I *know* Yejide taught you what that means."
"Uh. *Really*? But I helped her with those, as much as I *could* —"
"You did *what* —"
"You don't *feel* like a —"
"I am not a creature of pure *evil* — I cannot believe she — how *old* were
you?"
"Uh. Mum."
"*What*?"
"Are you *really* about to say I was too young for something? You had a *knife*
made for my *hand* when I was *four*."
"You needed it!"
"Yeah, and I *also* needed Yejide's protection — and I knew *exactly* how to
get it." And Porthos *looks* at his Mum.
Mum growls and yanks her hand away, crossing her arms under her breasts and
*seething*.
She looks...
She looks *exactly* like a woman who'd died before she turned thirty.
And Porthos feels very young, and very old.
Mum freezes — and blinks at him. "Sweet *boy*."
"Yeah?"
"I will *always* be your mother!"
"Yeah, you will —"
"But..." She laughs painfully. "Ai, I have shown you the woman in me, as
opposed to the *mother*. I see this. I see this," she says, and nods. "Ife and
Lara and Layo were *doomed* once they showed me the women in them."
Porthos snorts. "With you? I sodding *bet*."
She smiles at him wryly, drumming her slim fingers on her upper arms. And then
— she changes.
She's heavier — *plumper*. Her cheeks fill out the way they were when she was
healthy and alive, and suddenly there are — curves.
It's *obvious* that she *can* make her wrap-dress just as big as she needs it
to be, but she still lets it strain a little over her breasts. Her — had her
breasts always been that...
Wait, no —
"So you plan to give Daddy a cock-related shock?"
"I am glad you *approve*, sweet boy," she says, and smiles — like a wolf.
Porthos *blinks* —
*Thinks* about it —
Thinks a little harder — his jaw drops —
And Mum yips *raucous* laughter, throwing her head back and beating at the
table.
"You're just as much of an arse as *he* is!"
"He *always* said I did *everything* he could do *better*, sweet boy." And she
lolls her sodding tongue.
"Oh my God."
She yips more laughter.
She —
No, wait, that was a *hoot* —
And the fact that she'd made that noise seems to make her laugh even *more* —
And Porthos is just —
"This is my childhood, Mum. *This*."
She coughs and pants —
Hums and coughs and just — calms herself down.
Shakes herself *out* — and leans in. "Tell me, sweet boy. *Tell* me."
And — "You're just as hungry for this —"
"I am hungry for *you*. For *all* of you, sweet boy. It is cold on the other
side of life — even when you are the coldest thing imaginable."
"Mum..."
"Shh. Tell me. *What* is your childhood?"
"Your *laughter*. Your *smiles*. You — your stories and your songs and the way
you made *everything* bright. You brought the sun with you *everywhere*. And I
— when you were alive, there *wasn't* a grey day, all right? There wasn't."
And — Mum actually looks *confused*.
Just —
"Porthos..."
"What? Why is that *surprising*? You made everything *perfect* for me!"
"We slept on the *floor*. We drank bad *water*. We —"
"You held me in your *arms*. You cooked the best food and brewed the best
*tea*. You — fuck. He said you were spoiled, you know," Porthos says, and
smiles ruefully.
She rears back — and then leans forward again, slow and serious. "Porthos.
*Porthos*. The Court of Miracles is *hell on earth*."
"Not with you, Mum. Never with you. Not when you were — at least a little
happy."
"I was always happy with *you* —"
"Were you?"
"I wanted to give you —"
"Soft beds, rich food —"
She makes a cutting gesture. "*That* is dross. I wanted to give you your
*father*. Your *Uncles*. Your *Aunt*, because your father even managed to make
Marie-Angelique Leandres de la *Fère* my sister, and — no, no, not that, not
right now. I wanted to give you your *family*."
"Yejide. Flea. Charon. All the others who didn't make it." And Porthos cocks
his head to the side. "Or are you going to tell me they're worth less?"
"Of *course* I will not tell you —" She growls in frustration. "*Porthos*. *You
would not have worked so hard to get out if it was worth staying*."
"No, I wouldn't've. That much is true. But there are good people everywhere,
and there's the potential for light and life and love and *hope* everywhere. I
— I need you not to shit on what we had, Mum."
She grunts.
"I need you not to take my happiness away."
"I —" She croons, low and long and hurt, reaching across the table to *grip*
his hands —
He shudders from the cold —
She croons more — "I am *sorry*, sweet boy, I am so *sorry* —"
"It's all *right* —"
"I did not *think* —"
"No, you didn't. But you are now, yeah?"
"For so long, all I could think about was what you did *not* have..."
"That — I get that. I get that you kind of had to do that. But. Not so much
that you run me over, eh?"
She croons again, tugging his hands across the table to lick his fingers. (I
will do better, sweet boy. I will do *better*.)
"And I'll um. I'll be big. At least as big as your laughter."
Mum grins at him.
"C'mon, let's go give Daddy the thrill of his *entire* existence —"
"That is you with your *arse* in the air, sweet boy —"
Porthos *coughs* —
"But we must wait a little while —"
"What? *Why*?"
"You were making love with your father until very, very late, sweet boy. It is
*dawn*."
"Oh — *oh*. And... you're a revenant."
Mum inclines her head. "I *have* the power to walk in daylight, the power to
*burn*, but... it took so long to become strong enough to reach this sphere."
She smiles ruefully. "I cannot risk becoming lost again."
"No — *fuck*, no. We'll wait until bloody *tonight*."
"Yes, we will."
"And — you can find us anywhere?"
"I can, sweet boy," she says, and her smile is more of a grin.
"And — wait, can you touch *Daddy*?"
She growls a laugh — and strokes the rim of the bowl. "I can *now*, sweet boy.
Or I *will* be able to as soon as you share a few more fluids with him."
"I — what?"
"You drank of my essence with that stew."
"Uh. What."
"All good food should be made with a mama's love —"
"Mum, *what* —"
"In *brief*, sweet boy, because the soldier in you is waking your good, strong
body up even as we speak —"
"I —"
"Shh. You have just a *few* powers now that *usually* only the strongest
*death*-mages have."
"But *you* said that it's *dangerous* for mothers to give their children their
powers —"
"When they are *alive*, sweet boy. This? *This* will make it easier for us to
be a —"
"Family," Porthos mutters —
And blinks —
And *grunts*, because Daddy is *straddling* him, and pinning him, and staring
*into* him —
"Son."
"Daddy —"
"Where is she. Where — I *smell* her! I *taste* her on you, *in* you!"
"I don't know where she went! I tried to get her to come back with me —"
"She wouldn't?" And Daddy sounds half-*broken* —
"She said she'd do it *tonight*," Porthos says quickly. "She said that —
*here*," Porthos says, and *pushes* his memory of the whole 'dream' at Daddy —
He grunts and tightens his hands *painfully* hard — and doesn't loosen them one
bit the whole time he's *studying* the memory.
Porthos can take it.
Porthos can *absolutely* take it. He knows what his Daddy needs.
After a while, Daddy starts sniffing and crooning —
Crooning *quietly* —
There are *tears* rolling down his cheeks —
And his hands start to shake in the moments before he releases Porthos and
covers his face.
Porthos sits up and hugs him.
"Son —"
"Not alone. Not *alone*."
"She — you — oh, fuck, I don't know — I don't know *anything*."
"You know she loves you."
"My *mate* — so *beautiful* —"
"And mad —"
"That's your *mother*; be *respectful* —"
Porthos snorts.
"Son —"
"Daddy. Both of you are mad, dirty *arseholes*. I *love* you that way."
"I..." Daddy rumbles and rumbles and hugs him back finally.
"*That's* right —"
"I love her, I love — I can't believe she actually planned out how to parent
our children."
"I can't believe she planned for you to *bugger* me."
"I — well, that's *ultimately* less surprising, now that I've had time and room
to put some thought into things —"
Porthos snorts again —
And Daddy sobs —
And howls in Porthos's *ear* —
And breaks right down. Just —
This is the grief of years.
This is the grief —
And Porthos knows that, no matter what, his brothers hadn't actually seen it,
or enough of it. Porthos knows that it had just been too much. Porthos knows
that there had just been too *much* of the *old* Treville left, even after
years of being a dog, for him to share all of his grief about his wife.
His sister.
His mate.
Porthos holds on tight and licks his cheek and rocks him.
In Daddy's mind, she's punching him —
Slapping him hard enough to knock his head to the side —
Slashing a man's *throat* —
Weeping over one of Ife's familiars, lost to old age —
Flashing her ankles at Reynard and laughing —
Miming a *massive* cock going into a tight hole and laughing *harder* —
Drinking wine straight from a bottle and holding Daddy's hand to her heavy,
milk-leaking breast —
Feeding *him* and singing —
Dancing him around the room with Daddy holding her hips and singing —
Rocking him to sleep with Daddy cupping her shoulders and them *both* singing —
(Everything, son. Everything.)
Daddy's tears are silent now, but he's still being wracked with shudders
periodically.
The *age* of this grief is a *weight* on both of them —
Porthos feels too *young* —
He smacks Daddy when he tries to take the grief away.
(I —)
He smacks Daddy again.
(Noted, son,) Daddy says, and the weight settles on them both again.
The age.
The *years*.
The *loneliness* without a mate, a sister, a *partner* —
(She...)
Mm?
(She really...) And Daddy swallows.
Anything, Daddy. *Anything*.
(I would've done it, you know. That first night. I would've *seduced* her into
my world. If I'd had the words.)
Porthos squeezes Daddy tighter.
(And when I. When I asked to adopt all her children...)
Yeah?
(She didn't say yes,) Daddy says, and laughs rustily.
Porthos laughs and strokes Daddy's back.
(I thought it was because she knew I was also asking her to stop working, stop
— to move in with me.)
Oh. "Daddy..."
"She loved me. She — she was making *plans* for me, for us, for our *family*!
All *along*!" And Daddy pulls back and stares into him, red-eyed and wild and
hungry, hurt, *needy* —
"All right, look, I'm just going to say this: it's been *really* incredible to
get to know how much my parents loved each other — how *insanely* my parents
*love* each other — but can you both please talk to each *other* sometimes?"
Daddy stares at him —
And Mum — laughs.
All around them.
*Everywhere*.
Daddy is staring around wildly —
Daddy is *shifting* —
Mum's laughter is becoming croons, loving *croons* —
The dog is crooning, too —
And it's pulling him, making him need, making him —
He's crooning, getting down on all fours, singing with his family, his *pack*,
singing songs of love and need and *need*, yes, together, they have to be
together, and everything in him knows that they will be, that they *always*
will be —
The songs are of *joy* —
And he feels the touch of Mum inside him, all through him —
He feels her *urging* him —
He knows what he has to do.
He crawls over to the dog, to his father, and he tells him everything, just
everything, sings him everything —
The dog offers his shoulder joyously —
Porthos shifts his teeth and *bites* —
Laps and laps and drinks and laps and so good, Daddy so good, father so good,
pack so good, and now they can both feel Mum, feel her loving them, feel her
promising to come, to be, to STAY —
Porthos pulls back and *howls* his joy as he feels his muzzle shift, feels his
body change that much more —
He can't —
He doesn't —
(Oh — sweet brother, take *care* of our son!)
And Porthos knows those were words, that those were, and it's important, and he
can —
But there are so many good smells!
Good smells good feelings pack here pack HERE!
And on the bed! Even MORE good smells!
"Right, then, son, let's see what we can do with you."
He'll figure out the words later.
***** But let's clear a few things up. *****
It is not especially politic in *Aramis's* eyes for Treville and Porthos to be
riding in to the garrison together — and riding in *later* than Treville
normally arrives — but...
No, *Athos's* eyebrow is near his hairline, as well.
"How much of a problem is this," Aramis says, moving his lips as little as
possible.
Athos *licks* his lips —
And Treville turns to them right then — and gestures for them to go to his
office. Gestures as curtly as the *Captain* — but of course he must.
Aramis must not let this put his back up.
"No, you mustn't," Athos says. "This is the first correct thing he's done
today."
Aramis winces. "It is... bad?"
"Possibly very bad."
Aramis winces harder, and follows Athos to Treville's office.
Treville and Porthos are already on the walk —
But Porthos holds the door for them both, and gives them hot, burning,
*promising* looks.
Aramis feels every *patch* of flesh on his body that he didn't wash assiduously
enough —
Aramis feels every patch of flesh he washed too much.
And Treville... is sitting on the front of his desk with his legs out in front
of him, ankles crossed. Casual and not.
He looks *pleased*, but still quite serious.
Aramis cannot guess what has been decided between Porthos and Treville beyond
the obvious continuation of their affair. Porthos's throat has healed
extensively — far faster than it had *any* right to — but he stands close to
Treville —
He is *comfortable* with Treville —
He is —
He *looks* at Aramis. "It'll never be goodbye, love. *Ever*."
Aramis grunts. "Porthos —"
"Ever."
"We — we have other things we must discuss —"
"We have a *lot* of things to discuss. As a *pack*," Porthos says. "That's one
of them."
There... is only one way to respond to that. "Yes, Porthos."
Porthos flares his nostrils and growls —
Moves into Aramis's *space* —
Cups the back of his *neck* —
"Porthos —"
"Daddy taught me scrying last night, brothers. Do either of you know the term?"
Aramis can see Athos blinking out of the corner of his eye. "I do. You...
watched? Us?"
"That I did. That *we* did."
*Fuck* —
Porthos *yanks* Aramis's head up —
Aramis gasps —
He can see Athos *blushing* —
"Worried me a bit — at first."
Athos takes a shuddering breath. "At... first?"
"Yeah, brother. And then Daddy got me to really think about things. What I
wanted. What *you* wanted. Both of you."
Aramis — can't catch a full *breath* —
"Calmed me *right* down. Made me feel *right* about the whole thing — and randy
as a *goat* for both of you."
"Fuck," Athos says, enunciating again.
"And then Daddy and I made love some more... and *then* my *Mum* visited."
Aramis *coughs* —
Athos *stares* —
And Treville clears his throat. "Ife warned us earlier in the evening that the
disturbances in Porthos's energies could mean just that."
"I still wasn't prepared. No one could be," Porthos says. "She had a *lot* to
say — and a lot to say about the two of you."
"What — what?" And Aramis tries to *focus*, tries to *think*.
"She was *quite* disappointed in the level of my honesty with you, love. She
pointed out — *quite* rightly — that you'd *always* told me not to censor
myself with you, and that I'd gone and done it anyway."
"I —"
"That I'd treated you like you *didn't* know your own mind."
"I did not!"
"That I treated you with sodding kid *gloves* when it was *obvious* that you
wanted — needed — my bare *hands*." And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
And Aramis groans. "Please. Please. *Please*."
"You'll have them. *Always*."
"Fuck —"
"Does your mouth still taste a little like piss, love?"
Aramis *grunts* again — "I — I washed —"
"That's a right shame. We'll have to do something about that later," Porthos
says.
Aramis *moans* —
"Tell me how hard a kiss you can take."
"I — I — moderately!"
The kiss comes immediately, comes deep, comes *seeking* —
So sweetly, so *thoroughly* —
Porthos is making *certain* he cannot find any more piss!
And Aramis's knees are *weak*.
He gives up on everything and *clutches* Porthos by the tunic, holds tight,
holds *close* —
He sucks Porthos's thick *tongue* —
Porthos *rumbles* —
Aramis's cock *jerks* —
And Porthos *licks* his way out of Aramis's mouth and leads him to the chair.
"Stay there for a bit, love."
"Yes — yes, Porthos — I —"
"I could still *smell* the piss, love."
"*Fuck*!"
And Porthos — lolls his tongue.
He —
Aramis stares helplessly, unable to do so much as *cross* himself —
And then Porthos gets a look of *determined* concentration on his face —
Holds up one finger —
And his tongue shrinks *slowly*.
"No, not quite," he says, slurring slightly. "What —"
"It's just concentration, son," Treville says with a smile. "Walk the dog back
to his special place, make sure he's settled in, lock him up tight..."
*Porthos* grunts — "*That's* got it," he says, and he's no longer slurring.
"Right. Your turn, Athos."
Athos looks to Aramis — and then looks back to Porthos. "My... turn?"
"Your turn. Like I said, my Mum had things to say about both of you."
"How... has she been... here?"
"No. She couldn't *get* here. She was, as she put it, lost in the *tides* of
the spheres. *Weak*. She gave all her power to me before she died so I'd be
*safe*. Witches aren't supposed to *do* that. But don't distract me, brother."
"I —"
"Don't hide from me."
"Porthos —"
"Don't hide from *this*," Porthos says, and *advances* on Athos.
Athos takes a breath and lifts his chin. "Aramis — Aramis believes that you
desire all of us... together."
"I do. I want that *badly*. I *hunger* for it. I've tossed myself off to
fantasies of it *countless* times."
"You. You —"
"That's not all I want."
Athos inhales again — "No?"
"No. There are times I'm going to want *just* you, brother. Just you... in my
hands."
"I..."
"And on your knees."
Athos makes a hurt noise — and Aramis belatedly begins to have very many
questions about Porthos's relationship with his mother.
"Should I ask you how you feel about that, brother?" And Porthos cocks his head
to the side. "Because I *don't* think I should."
"Did you plan to simply overawe me?"
Porthos shows his teeth. "Did you plan to *try* to overawe me with your
*diction*, brother? We both know what makes you feel *better* when it comes to
me. We both know what makes you feel *correct*."
Athos flushes — "Our entire *brotherhood* is correct —"
"And I won't take a damned thing away, brother. I promise," Porthos says,
raising his hands for peace. "You see me changing things with Aramis and you're
maybe getting worried?"
"I've... had cause to disagree with change."
"Yeah. You have. But we — the two of us — are going to *add*. Not take away."
"Porthos —"
"Don't fight me."
"*Porthos* —"
"Don't. Fight. Me."
Athos swallows — and flushes deeply. "I have never wished to fight... you..."
"Then don't. Give yourself to me. Put yourself in my *hands*. You know I'll
hold you."
"I... do. You —"
"You know I'll *keep* you," Porthos says, and moves another step closer,
looming *over* Athos.
"Keep — I — you can't —"
"I can. I will. Daddy?"
"It is my intention, with your consent, to adopt all three of you. This will...
simplify any number of otherwise complicated matters," Treville says, and
smiles, and —
And Aramis feels very, very stupid once more.
"I..." Athos licks his lips. "I suppose that makes it less suspect to have you
and Porthos riding in together —"
"That it does... son."
Athos *grunts* —
And Porthos cups his chin and cheek, holding him firmly. "We'll be together,
brother. All of us. All the *time*."
"Not... not. Alone."
"Never alone. Never again."
Athos *groans* — "You. You. Desire..."
"I'll give you every last one of my fantasies, brother. And then? We'll make
'em *real*."
Athos steps *back* — and drops to his knees.
Treville sighs happily.
Porthos cups the back of Athos's neck —
Aramis discovers that he is *clutching* the sides of the *chair* — no. No. "You
wish to *adopt* us?"
"All of you, Aramis," Treville says. "Porthos had concerns about how such a
thing would affect my political career, my political *power*..."
"I. I have similar concerns," Athos says.
Treville rumbles. "My boys. Some things are more important," he says, and looks
right at — him.
Aramis represses a shiver and tries — no. He lifts his chin. "I am not your
boy. I am not your *son*."
"I've wanted both those things," Treville says, and his smile is *wry*, and —
And Aramis is back to feeling stupid. "You have not..."
Treville barks a laugh. "You boys haven't seen a lot of this *recently*... but
I *am* capable of controlling myself," Treville says, and still doesn't look
away from *Aramis*. "Sometimes too much. Right, son?"
"*Treville* —"
"Wait one moment," Treville says, and raises a hand. "Porthos ran you over.
Porthos ran you *both* over. You needed that — from *him*. It's *not* what you
need from me this time, however, and so it's not what you're going to get. Ask
questions. Stop me in my tracks. Let me know when you're *uncomfortable*. *All*
of that. *Both* of you. All right?"
Aramis — breathes.
Athos sighs. "I am... utterly incapable of being uncomfortable when I am on my
knees at Porthos's feet."
There is no part of Aramis which does not *understand* that —
Treville raises an eyebrow at him *gently* —
Porthos *looks* at him — "Do you need this, too, love? Do you need to be on
your knees to me?"
"I." Aramis swallows. "I believe I do."
"You *believe* you do. Mm. Are you hedging your bets, love?"
Aramis moans and tries to — no. No. He is good. He is honest. He is clear. "I
am... truly not certain. This — it was so good to be in your hands, your
*power*..."
"It was perfect to have you there," Porthos says. "What I *wanted*. What I
*ached* for."
Aramis *groans* — "I. I believe that Athos has taken something... different.
More."
"He has."
Athos sighs so — so — "Aramis... brother. It's already perfectly wonderful."
Aramis *looks* — and Porthos's heavy hand...
Aramis knows what that hand feels like on the back of a neck.
Aramis knows its warmth, its roughness, its absolute *security* —
How much more could there be if one had decided to surrender everything about
oneself *to* that hand — and its owner?
How much more *must* there be?
Aramis licks his lips.
"Listen to me, love: *Don't* make all your decisions at once. Think about some
of them. *Think* about them. I *know* you need to please your lovers, need to
be exactly who *they* need —"
"Yes — yes, *please* —"
"But remember, love — we need you to *be* you most of all. *Best* of all. *Not*
some random man of custom who *looks* like you."
Aramis grunts —
Blinks —
He feels pulled up *short*.
He feels — not rejected.
Not pushed away.
Held. Held *firmly*.
And held firmly in *one* place.
Just as he should be. "Yes, Porthos."
Porthos nods, and turns to Athos. "Now you, brother. Are you *capable* of
having this conversation with Daddy while I've got you like this?"
"I feel more capable than I have in — hm. But I do know whereof you speak,"
Athos says, and smiles. "I am... happy."
"And it's distracting you."
"Quite a lot."
"Do you need me to ease up the *yoke* so you can *think*."
"No. No. I want this... all the time. And I will learn how to adjust."
"Yeah? All right then. Show me how to *help* you adjust, brother."
"I... may I stand again?"
Porthos nods thoughtfully. "You may. Go on."
Athos stands — and Porthos doesn't take his hand off his neck for even a
moment. Athos's face is flushed, and there's a smile curling at the corners of
his mouth — and a wryer smile in his eyes. "I don't like this, at all."
Porthos laughs. "No, eh? We'll get you back down soon enough."
"Thank you —"
"For now... how do you *feel*. Can you *concentrate*."
"Yes, I believe so. I feel less inclined to... wallow in my own submission."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Athos huffs twice. "That was a lie. I feel less *desperate* to wallow in my own
submission."
"That's more like it," Porthos says, and squeezes Athos's neck *firmly* —
Athos *grunts* —
And Porthos leans in to breathe against his ear.
"Porthos — Porthos —"
"We'll teach you to never lie to me again, brother."
"Oh. Oh..."
"We'll teach you to never have that *reflex*."
"I. Yes. Please."
"Good boy."
"Thank you. I — thank you," Athos says, and looks *scrambled* —
"You're welcome, brother. Now focus again."
"Yes. Yes, I will. I will. I can. I — am," Athos says, and breathes deeply once
—
Twice —
And nods. "I'm ready."
Aramis wonders if *he* is —
Aramis wonders if — no. He will be.
He is good. He is good. He is —
"You always are, love," Porthos says, and his voice is a low rumble, a low
*caress* —
Aramis flushes *again* —
Aramis wonders what precisely his Porthos expects him to wait *for*, to think
*about* —
"Your needs. Your wishes. Your wants. Your fears. See, I fully expect you to
say yes to this, love. I already *know* you, and I know you'll *love* this."
"Then —"
"But you're not Athos. You're going to need things a little different. You're
going need *this* a little softer, and *this* a little harder, and *this* just
plain different. And I need you to think about that. I need to be right for
you, love."
Aramis knows he looks like a *radish*, but — "You already know how to be right
for Athos?"
"Well, for one, I've known him *longer*. For another? He's been *telling* me
and *showing* me how to push him right down to his knees for a pretty long time
now. You haven't."
"I. That feels like a failing."
Porthos smiles ruefully. "It isn't, love. It's *not*. You had a lot of things
keeping you from knowing what you needed — and keeping you from telling *me*
what I could have with you."
"What you *wanted* — I — no. No. I know what you are saying. I can *think*,"
Aramis says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. And — "I do not wish to wait."
"You never do."
"I do not wish to *hesitate*. That would *hurt* me. I —" He drops his hand and
*looks* at Porthos. "I am begging. I am begging to have what you have given to
Athos."
Porthos takes a *sharp* breath — and nods. "Then it's yours."
"Thank you —"
"You're *welcome*. I *love* you. But *wait*."
Aramis takes a breath —
"Easy, love, easy. Just this: We'll be adjusting things on the *fly*. You have
to be ready for that. You have to be ready to *think* about what you need, and
whether or not it's what you *have*."
"I — and Athos does not have to do this thing?"
"Athos *does* have to do it. But see, love, it's like this," Porthos says, and
strokes Aramis's cheek with his free hand. "Athos doesn't *automatically* try
to *make* himself fit in every situation that works for the people he loves,
without so much as paying *lip* service to the *idea* of *communicating* with
those people. You *do*." And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Aramis — winces. "I must please, my Porthos."
"You will. I promise to give you *every* chance to do that, love. I promise to
give you chances to do that every sodding *day*. But remember what I said — I
want the man I fell in love with, not a whore who looks like him."
And that... "In that case..."
"Yeah, love?"
"I must speak with Treville."
Porthos raises his eyebrows again —
*Pauses* —
But only for a moment. "Alone, love?"
"Yes. Please. I will not focus well with you and Athos here. I will not focus
well while I am thinking about... the possibilities."
Porthos growls — "The *realities*, love."
Aramis *pants* — and laughs. "Yes, of course! It will be just as you say! But
this is what I *mean*, my Porthos!"
And Porthos — rolls his head on his neck. Like *Treville* —
"Be easy, son. I *strongly* suspect our pack won't be separated for long."
"I don't know how you could *stand* it for so long, Daddy —"
"This pack wasn't *mine* until you made it that way, son —"
"But I was." And Porthos *looks* at Treville —
And Treville smiles wryly. "So you were. I'll tell you exactly what I did, son:
I spent far too much time on the walk. I gave myself time to 'inspect the men'
— coincidentally the men closest to where you were — I called you in to talk to
me whenever you seemed troubled about something. Even just a *little* troubled
about something. *Anything*. And then, when I ran out of those excuses, I would
flat-out seek you out when you were training."
They stare at Treville for long moments —
And then Athos huffs. "I begin to see... hm. If you adopt us, we can live with
you."
Treville hums. "That's just right, son. Even if and when any or all of you get
married and have children of your own."
Athos winces —
And, truly, so does Aramis.
"Well, I suppose I was due to put my foot in it," Treville says. "Do save me,
Porthos."
"Right. Athos, you're coming with me to the east barracks."
"Oh — are we — am I —"
"It's time for us to make a few uncomplicatedly good memories there. Just a
little start on what we'll *all* have," Porthos says, and *yanks* Athos close —
Bites his *ear* —
"Please —"
"You're mine, brother. And I'm going to make you *feel* me."
Athos *shudders* —
He is glassy-eyed and *hard* —
Porthos is stroking down his chest with his free hand — "Do you have any
thoughts to share, brother?"
"Only... need. I need this. I need — this," Athos says, and turns to Porthos.
"Please. May I have a kiss."
Porthos growls, low and hard, and *grips* Athos through his trousers —
Athos cries out —
And Porthos kisses him *brutally* hard, driving his head *back* — until he
moves the hand he'd had on Athos's neck to the back of his head and holds him
*still* for the kiss —
Makes him *take* the kiss —
Athos is moaning and *shaking* —
(Push into my hand, brother...) And Porthos's voice in all their minds is low,
insinuating, *hungry* —
(I — I —)
(Give me your *cock*.)
(*Fuck*,) Athos says, and bucks —
And *bucks* —
And *fucks* Porthos's hand —
Porthos squeezes *harder* —
Aramis grips the sides of the *chair* harder — no.
No.
He grips his thighs. He —
He *strokes* his thighs, and he aches, and he —
(Wait your turn, Aramis...)
*Fuck* —
(You'll have it,) Porthos says. (*We'll* have it.) And Porthos licks his way
out of Athos's mouth without moving either of his hands —
Without —
He's still *squeezing* —
Athos is still fucking his *hand* —
"Aramis."
Aramis grunts and looks *up* —
"It drives me *mad* to see *you* go mad for this."
"It. Porthos..."
"To see you *want* for the way I'm treating Athos."
"You are giving him your *hunger*! Your — you are not being so *good*. So
*kind*. So *careful*."
"But I am being careful, love. I'm walking a very fine line between letting
myself *have* you both the way I've always wanted — the way I barely let myself
*fantasize* about because it drove me too *wild* — and *keeping* myself from
shifting into a dog and *mounting* you both."
Aramis — stares.
He can see Athos *blinking* —
Porthos smiles ruefully. "Yeah. That's *one* of the reasons why we were late
this morning. I shifted completely for the first time after Mum visited. After
she gave me more *power*."
Treville hums. "Very *specific* power that we're *going* to have to study — as
a pack — but that can wait."
"For a little while, yeah," Porthos says, and smiles a little more broadly at
Aramis and Athos. "Brothers, I'm *always* going to be on at least a *little*
bit of a lead. I have to be, because of the dog inside me."
Aramis — tries not to frown.
Athos does *not* try — "Must you?"
Porthos coughs a laugh. "Considering the state of Daddy's bedroom after my dog
had at it this morning? Bloody *yes*. Look, in *brief*? *Because* Mum poured
all her power into protecting me while she was *alive*, it mucked-up the
balance of things and delayed me coming into my *own* power for years. Which
*means*? My dog is a bloody *puppy*. A *big* one. Without *much* in the way of
*control*."
Aramis *blinks* —
"But —"
"And yes, Athos, I know you *both* hate that word, but brother, I *also* know
you *especially* know what it *means* when a magical *dog* loses control when
he's fucking a human. I *know* your parents were mad enough to explain at least
some of that to you."
Athos winces. "I — yes."
"They did not explain it to me!"
"Did they *have* to, Aramis?"
"I — no," Aramis says, and leans back in the chair. And licks his lips. And
tries to imagine —
And stops trying to imagine —
And — but it's *Porthos*!
And he *wants* —
And he would be so wild...
"Aramis. The answer is... not yet," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows.
Aramis's heart *seizes* —
Seizes *again* because Porthos might take it back!
He —
"I won't take it back, love," Porthos says, and strokes his face. His hand
smells like leather and just a *little* like Athos's *cock* — "I know you want
to please me."
"Yes — yes, and I — I *do* need some time to — not yet, you said?"
"Not yet," Porthos says again.
"What do *you* need, my Porthos?"
Porthos smiles wryly at both him and Athos — and then at Treville. "Help."
"You'll have it, when the time comes. *If* the time comes."
Aramis opens his mouth —
*Closes* it — no.
No. "You... have experience with this sort of lovemaking. You — extensive
experience."
"I do, Aramis," Treville says. "My dog made love with Marie-Angelique and
Reynard very, very often. There was *always* at *least* a third person present,
even after we worked out all the little kinks and problems."
Athos raises an eyebrow. "And that third person can't be myself."
"You've neither the physical strength nor the practical knowledge, son —
despite the wanderings of your youth. Though we'll be able to fix the latter
quickly, and, once Porthos has more control, the former won't be a problem."
Aramis takes a breath. "You would... bow out."
Treville smiles warmly. "I make no promises about how *far* I would go, son...
but I *would* go."
"I am not your —" Aramis shuts his teeth.
Treville winces. "I apologize —"
Aramis holds up his hand. "We must talk, and that is what we will do."
"Right now, I think," Porthos says, and cups Aramis's throat without releasing
the back of Athos's neck —
"Oh —"
Squeezes and *lifts* Aramis to his *feet* —
"My *Porthos* —"
"My Aramis," he says, *rumbles*. "*Mine*."
"*Yes*!"
Porthos pants — "I want to eat you *alive*."
"You *can*!"
"I *will*. Just as soon as it's time for it," he says, and pulls Aramis into a
kiss —
And another —
And another —
And *another* — and then he starts biting. Aramis's lips, his cheeks, his
*ears* —
"Porthos —"
"Shh. Take it."
Aramis grunts and *flexes* —
And Porthos sniffs Aramis's throat and growls and growls and bites *hard*,
*right* where he had bitten before —
Where *Athos* had bitten last night —
And Athos's laughter is sweet and low and hungry and *happy* in their minds. (I
believe our future is a bruised one, brother.)
Aramis laughs *helplessly* —
Remembers that he's supposed to be *quiet* —
(Oh, no, love. You can *always* laugh...) And Porthos bites him again —
Bites every mark he'd left before —
Bites every mark *Athos* had left —
Tickles Aramis with his *tongue* —
Aramis laughs breathlessly —
Gasps and laughs *more* —
*Gives* himself to his Porthos —
(That's right, love. That's *just* right...)
Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, *yes*!
And Porthos strokes down and down from his throat to his groin —
Porthos *works* him through his *trousers* —
Aramis *groans* —
(You can make that sound, too...)
Aramis *gasps* a laugh and groans more, more —
And then Porthos *sucks* a kiss to the side of his throat and pulls back
slowly, steadying Aramis with a hand on his *hip*.
Aramis gasps and pants and pants and —
"All right, love?"
"I may speak?"
Porthos's eyes are — so hot. And he is *still* gripping the back of Athos's
neck. He licks his lips. "You can always talk when I don't forbid it, love —
and when I ask you a direct question."
Aramis dips his head. "Yes, Porthos —"
"Do you like that? Lowering your head?"
"I do... sometimes."
"Right now?"
And that... "My Porthos would see my eyes?"
Porthos growls — and laughs. "Yeah. I would, actually. Up."
Aramis grins and *lifts* his head. "Yes, Porthos. And I am *well*."
"Mm. You like nice, clear directions. Nice, clear *orders*."
"Yes, my Porthos."
Porthos licks his lips again — and looks to Athos. "You were clear with him all
night."
Athos huffs. "I was a ravening *beast*."
"Ravening beasts do not dissemble or hedge or *obscure*, my brother," Aramis
says, and — he cannot stop smiling.
And Athos is smiling at *him* —
And Porthos is smiling at *both* of them —
And, when Aramis checks, *Treville* is smiling at all of them. Aramis nods. It
is time.
For many things.
"Be good to yourself, love," Porthos says, and *looks* at him.
Aramis blushes. "I will *not* force myself against my inclinations. I will not
— I will be who I *am*, my Porthos. For all of us."
Porthos inhales deeply — and then exhales with a growl. "Good boy. *Good* boy."
"Thank you, my Porthos," Aramis says, and his cheeks are *burning* —
Porthos strokes them so *gently* with his rough fingers — and then he growls
again. "You're welcome, love. *Call* us when you're ready for us all to be
together again."
"We do *need* to train today, Porthos," Athos says.
"That we do, and we will. But we clear up all the things we *can* clear up
*first*."
Athos sighs — and smiles. "You are precisely yourself, and there are times when
I cannot *remember* a time when that wasn't comforting."
Porthos laughs. "Let's see what I can do to cloud your mind just a *little* bit
more," Porthos says, and leads Athos to the door. He turns one last time. "I
love you *all*."
Aramis shivers and smiles — "I love *you*, my Porthos. And you as well, my
Athos."
Athos *grins*, and the brightness of it —
The wild madness of it —
"My — I am still burning, Aramis. But. I'm very happy about that. And very much
in love with all of you."
Aramis wants to touch —
Treville rumbles. "My pack. I never, *ever* dreamed that I'd have another. I
love all of you, and I swear that I *will* do right by you."
Porthos nods —
Licks his lips —
Rolls his *head* on his neck — and then tugs Athos out the door with him.
Aramis listens to them go for a moment —
Aramis wonders if Porthos will keep his hand on the back of Athos's neck for
the entire *walk* — no.
No.
He turns to look at Treville, who is still seated on his desk. Still —
He *is* still, and staying in one place, and, Aramis realizes, making himself
both available and non-threatening.
He has done this before with them — with all of them — as the *Captain*, when
one of them has had a problem, and has been, at first, too intimidated to talk
about it.
He is... quieting his natural force.
Aramis is not entirely certain that this is what he wants.
"You *don't* have to have it, Aramis. But I need this conversation to be
precisely what you need it to be —"
"You need me to accept you."
Treville laughs softly. "I'd *like* for you to accept me — no. No. That was
about to be... a hedge," he says, and sighs. And smiles again, eyes bright and
just a little — wild. "Every part of me needs just that, Aramis. As soon as
Porthos bit you, we became pack. If he had *not* bitten you... that hedge
wouldn't have been a hedge. As it stands, however..." And Treville's smile is
rueful.
Aramis nods once —
Paces —
No. Not that, either. He stops in front of Treville, and looks down into his
eyes. "Who am I to you?"
"I'm going to have to go back a little bit to answer that question properly,
Aramis — unless. Did you want the short answer?"
That... "No. Please give me the long answer."
Treville inclines his head. "My mate was — *is* — Porthos's mother Amina, and
she..." He shakes his head and smiles. "She owned me from the very first night
we met. The man who could and did drive me absolutely mad with *ease* — and
drive me to *do* absolutely mad *things* — was Reynard. My *third* brother. The
man I met the day we all got our commissions. Here," he says, and —
And Aramis's mind is filled with images of a tall, rangy, and honestly
beautiful laughing man with fox-red hair spilling down nearly to the center of
his back and a trim and well-kept beard and moustache.
His leathers are as old-fashioned — and plain — as Treville's, but his weapons
are...
His weapons are beautiful.
Especially the twinned pistols on his hips. He keeps his shot further forward
on his belt than they do to make *room* for the other pistol, and his rapier
isn't quite in the right —
But Treville shows him moving, walking, running, *fighting* — and the man had
taught himself a grace entirely *other* than those of most Musketeers to suit
his style.
His daggers are beautiful, too —
His *technique* —
Oh, he'd just *castrated* a man —
("*Live* through this, salaud! Live and *suffer*!") And Reynard laughs and
steps back and *kicks* the man he'd castrated, spins, wades back into the fight
—
And that's when Aramis realizes that it's a *bar* fight —
That a younger Treville and another Musketeer — a massive, hirsute man who is
*obviously* doing his level best not to hurt people too *badly* —
(That would be Kitos.)
— they're both trying to *get* to Reynard, to... stop him.
To.
The younger Treville is laughing even as he curses —
*Kitos* is laughing *nervously* and has started simply slapping people aside
with his huge hands —
And Reynard has just slashed a man's throat.
And stabbed another man in the kidneys —
And *kissed* a *serving* maid —
("*Fox*-face, you *arse* —"
"Plus vite, verrat! Plus *vite*!")
And all of this is looking — feeling —
Familiar.
Treville hums again, and the memory fades. "Is it, now."
"I... you took me on because you saw your Reynard in me. *Somehow*. Even that
first *day*."
"I absolutely did, Aramis. You were playing it *very* straight — very well-
*behaved* — but you weren't giving me your *best* performance. Now were you."
"I... did he perform, as well?"
Treville smiles. "Not as a rule. Reynard lied about *one* thing in his life.
Just one."
"His... how he felt about you?"
"How he felt about men, in general. How he felt about *brotherhood*. What he
*needed* from brotherhood. He lied about that — to himself — and then, after a
while, he did not."
Aramis winces. "You saw that, as well."
"I honestly didn't expect that lie within you, Aramis. When Porthos told me
that he was a buggerer, too, that day in the woods, my *first* thought was to
wonder how on earth you had *time* to fuck all those other people."
Aramis *coughs* —
"Athos... well, Athos was *grieving* and buried in the bottle. I already knew
he wasn't fucking anyone. But I'd *seen* you."
"And... you *thought* you knew me."
"I did. You see, I asked Laurent once — when we were *both* recovering from yet
another mad, wild *storm* of a murderous brawl with Reynard at its center —
what had made him *unbend* enough to let a man so honestly *mad* into the
regiment."
That — "What... did he say?"
"We were new. We were young. Our positions weren't even as secure as they're
*not* now. He said — and I'm paraphrasing a little — that our regiment needed
men who would fight to their very last breath for King, country, and their
brothers — even if not necessarily in that order. He said that we needed men
like that so we could prove ourselves — to Henri and to the *world*. He said
that *every* elite regiment needed men like that and that, ultimately, the
*other* men would be their steadying hands. And then he looked at me *hard*."
"What did the look mean?"
Treville grins. "He knew full well that Reynard had told me — point blank —
that he was *my* weapon, Aramis. And that it had driven me every best kind of
*mad*."
"Oh."
"Have you told Porthos that, yet?"
"I — no."
"But you will."
That was not, truly, a question — but. "Yes," Aramis says, and takes a breath.
"*That* is who I am to you."
"Not quite."
Aramis blinks. "What...?"
"You remind me of Reynard every day, Aramis. *Every* day — but so does Porthos,
in his way, and *both* of you remind me of him *most* with the way you give
such pleasure to your brothers. But that's not the whole of you to me. It never
could be."
"I... then what else?"
"You're your own man. Your own *person*. A scholar and a man of *faith*."
"I — you don't —"
"Wait. Please," Treville says, holding up a hand.
Aramis frowns.
"Please," Treville says again.
"Then — go on."
"Thank you. I respect both of those things *deeply*, Aramis. Perhaps you've
guessed how few such men I get to meet among the nobility and church fathers
I'm forced to spend my time with when I'm not here?"
Aramis lifts his chin. "Athos told me that you did not respect my faith."
"I don't much respect the *Church*, Aramis. That does *not* mean that I don't
respect your faith."
Aramis — blinks.
Treville smiles. "I've eavesdropped on the lessons in scripture — true
scripture — you've provided to the men who would sit still for it, you know.
Your heresy is *fascinating*."
"It is *not* heresy! The — what the Church *teaches* is heresy, and if they
only knew, if they only studied —"
"If they only looked beyond hidebound doctrine to the words of brotherhood and
peace that were written right there for all to see...?"
Aramis blinks again —
And again —
"What — you *have* listened."
Treville drums his fingers on the front of the desk. "A good Captain always
knows what his men are about, Aramis."
Aramis raises an *eyebrow*.
"You're also the single most..." Treville barks a laugh. "We get men who whore
around like their cocks will fall *off* if they're not constantly shoving them
up one tight little hole or another. We get men who constantly have their noses
in *books* — not many, but some. We get men who *pray* — and pray with true
faith in their hearts and minds and *souls*. We get men who don't know how to
stop killing once they leave the field of battle — we get our *fair* share of
those. We get *all* of those, and more. So much more. We do not *often* get all
of those in *one* man, Aramis."
And *that*... "You are attracted to me."
"From the *very* beginning. Before I *knew* I was attracted to Porthos. Long
before."
Aramis takes a breath — "That... is difficult."
"We never have to discuss it —"
"That is *not* true!"
Treville lifts *his* chin — and then nods. "You're right. I apologize, Aramis.
It... I'm still working on my reflex to bury things like that when I sense them
causing discomfort."
Aramis flares his nostrils. "And *before* you sense anything of the kind?"
Treville smiles ruefully. "Porthos has already beaten *that* out of me."
"Has he?"
Treville — looks at him. Just looks. "Yes."
Aramis breathes and nods. "What do you want from me?"
"I... am fighting a reflex. Give me a moment," Treville says, and looks down.
"Fight faster!"
Treville growls and looks *up* — "I want *everything*."
"Be *specific*."
"I want you to be my son. I want you to be my lover. My *enthusiastic* lover. I
want you to *give* yourself to me the way you've given yourself to your
brothers and I want to teach you every filthy, sticky, deviant, and *warm*
reason why that's a good *idea*."
"I —"
"I want you to live with me, in *both* of my homes. I want you to come with me
to *every* interminable function I have to attend with the assorted Church
fathers, and I want to watch you *skewering* them like bugs on *pins*."
"Fuck —"
"I want you at my side. I want you in my *arms*. I want you at my *feet* —"
"Treville —"
"You *told* me to be *specific*, Aramis — and that is precisely what you are
going to *get*."
"I need. I need you to pause," Aramis says, and flushes.
Treville blinks —
Pants —
Winces —
And Aramis winces, as well. "Please — do not apologize."
"Why not."
"Because — it would make me feel... weak."
Treville nods thoughtfully. "You never could be."
"I —"
"You never. Could be. Now tell me exactly why you needed me to stop so I can
tell *you* why it was reasonable."
Aramis narrows his eyes.
"Or fight me," Treville says, and grins. "That's an option available to us, as
well."
Aramis *blinks* — "Did Reynard... fight you?"
"Only when I tried to make him be sane," Treville says, and laughs behind his
face.
Aramis narrows his *eyes* —
"Don't do that, son. Your madness becomes you *immensely*."
"I — was that a *compliment*?"
"Yes."
Aramis growls — no. No. "I needed you to stop because... I was becoming
aroused. I do not wish to be aroused for you."
Treville cocks his *head* to the side —
"*What*?"
"Part of that was a lie, and I *think* I know which part and why." And Treville
raises an eyebrow.
Treville is giving him the chance to be honest —
To be good —
To be —
Wait, wait —
"Do not *push* me!"
Treville raises his hands. "I won't, Aramis. But we have to be honest with each
other. We can agree on that. Can't we?"
"I — yes. Yes." And Aramis pushes a hand back through his hair and paces —
And paces —
"I want to give myself to you. Not for... reasons Porthos would appreciate." He
keeps pacing.
Treville nods. "I thought it might be something like that. I wouldn't take that
from you."
"Porthos has told me you have enjoyed *many* whores in the past —"
"I want a son, not a dalliance."
Aramis growls — "And that is all you will take? There will be no compromise?
You are *greedy*!"
"I'm hungry. And so are you."
Aramis rears *back* —
"Let's talk about your father."
"*No* —"
"Let's talk about the *Church* he *gave* you to."
Aramis *snarls* — "You do not — you know *nothing*!"
"So he *did* sell you."
Aramis pulls a blade — and *stops*.
*Stops* —
Blinks at himself —
Treville... is smiling wryly. "It was about time for that, Aramis. I'm not
concerned."
"*Why* aren't you — *augh* — I am not your lost backcountry *madman*!"
"No. But I love you just as much."
"You. I will not let you goad me," Aramis says, and sheaths his blade.
"All right," Treville says mildly. "Let's talk about —"
"*No*!"
"— Porthos."
"What *about* Porthos?"
"I will never, ever stand in your way with him, Aramis."
Aramis — is flaring his nostrils again.
Again —
He stops that. "And Athos?"
"They are my sons, not my carefully-hoarded property."
"Athos has not *agreed* —"
"But he will. I know him that well — and I've managed to *raise* myself in his
eyes, once more. Tell me what I can do to raise myself in yours, son."
"*No* —"
"Tell me about your *father*."
Aramis reaches for his blade again —
And Treville stands, advances on him —
Aramis narrows his eyes and lifts his *chin* —
And Treville is — close.
Very close.
And not quieting his force anymore, at all. "Aramis... did he hurt you?"
Aramis does not have to speak.
"No, you don't. Not ultimately."
Aramis snarls —
"Did he *insult* you and make you feel *small*."
"Be *quiet* —"
"Did he try to make you *stupider* —"
"Do *not* —"
"Did he touch you *inappropriately* —"
"That was the *priest*!"
Treville nods slowly. "Your father, though... he took you from the parent who
actually *loved* you."
"My mother was everything to me!"
"She cared for you. Taught you. *Trained* you."
"*Yes*!"
"She taught you that you were *worth* loving — for a while."
"I. I..." And Aramis... stares.
"What was her name, son."
"Claudette."
"Tell me about her."
"She was — very beautiful. She was a whore," Aramis says, and narrows his eyes.
Treville nods thoughtfully. "House?"
"*Yes* — I. She raised me there. She — there were other children."
"There often are —"
"Not that way! Not — not that young."
"All right," Treville says *equably*. "But the brothel *did* cater to men with
those predilections?"
"And — and women, as well! It was for the merchant class. I was — we were
lucky," Aramis says, and ducks his head.
"You weren't often hungry, or cold, or... wanting."
"Never!" He raises his head again. "Maman took *care* of me, and taught me to
read, and even *bought* me books with the money she made!"
Treville rumbles his *approval*. "She loved your mind. She loved *you*."
"*Yes*. She... yes."
"Mm? What is it, son?"
"She wanted me to become a scholar. A natural philosopher."
Treville hums. "You would've excelled... and been bored to tears."
Aramis smiles ruefully. "Yes."
"How long were you with her?"
"Until I was thirteen."
Another approving rumble.
"I had... begun to *push* to be allowed to sell myself, as well. I was very
curious, very *interested*."
"Were you a virgin?"
"In some ways. Most ways." Aramis smiles even more ruefully. "My mother, she
had very firm ideas about who was *worth* my companionship."
"She kept a *close* eye on you," Treville says, and grins.
"I felt very stifled, at times, but... but. Even this was good, much of the
time. She never stopped *teaching* me."
"You'll always value that."
"*Yes*!"
Another rumble — and a nod. "How did your father get his hands on you."
"I... have never been entirely certain."
"No?"
"My mother, she told me that I didn't *have* to go with him, but there was
something in her eyes that I had never seen before. Something..."
"Fear."
Aramis bares his teeth. "Yes. Yes. She told me that my father had been one of
her regular clients when they were both young. She told me that he was gentle,
sweet, adoring. She told me that he had admired her worldliness and education
and *grace*. She told me that he had taken himself away so that he could be
educated, and thus *worthy* of her. She told me that she had not expected him
to come back. That such men never *did* come back. I already knew that."
Treville nods and frowns. "What else?"
"Nothing — from her. Only her fear. Her *tears*. The Madame in the doorway,
staring *hard* at the back of my mother's neck as she said that I didn't have
to go... and I knew that the Madame was thinking very hard of firing my
mother."
"Shit. Son..."
"I went with my father. I found out, from him — in bits and pieces over time —
that he had met a 'good woman' after leaving *his* Church school. That he had
married her, and attempted to make a family with her, but that the good woman —
he never named her — was sickly and weak, even when he made her fast and purify
herself to flush away her 'womanly weakness'. She died. And he remembered that
he had a son in Paris."
"And let me see if I can piece the story together. He had collected some little
wealth for himself, and some little power. He had friends in the Church, and
perhaps even among the lesser country gentry?"
Aramis firms his mouth into a hard line — he nods.
"Then we know what happened."
"He threatened my mother. He... I should have let her run with me. I should
have..."
"She might not have wanted to, son."
"She *loved* me!"
"Shh, I don't doubt that. *Never* think I doubt that."
"Then *what*?"
"*One* of the things Porthos discussed with *his* mother was her *deep* regret
over how harsh his childhood was."
"What? Are you... this makes sense, but —"
"She *could* not comprehend, until Porthos used the harshest terms, that even
the terrible life they were living was good for *Porthos* *because* they were
together." And Treville raises an eyebrow.
Aramis blinks — and nods. "You believe she feared... giving me a terrible life.
Hurting me. Causing me *privation*."
"Any good mother would."
"But — if she knew my father would —"
"What did she know of your father? That he had grown into enough of a pillock
to threaten an innocent woman — and probably an innocent brothel, too — but I
*highly* doubt he was stupid enough to say anything to your mother that would
imply he would abuse *you*."
Aramis — snarls.
Paces *away* —
"He was always so *happy* with me when I read his Bible."
"I'm sure he was. *He* didn't know what you found in it."
"And he — he thought he was separating me from my mother."
Treville raises an eyebrow — and then nods. "She was irreligious."
Aramis coughs a laugh. "*Very* much so. I have felt like a *betrayer* for my
*faith* —"
"You're not."
"I —"
"You're *not*."
"You did not *know* her! You did not how she *felt* about the dogmatic and the
—"
"Ignorant? Hidebound?"
"Yes!"
"I think I do, son. Let's recall the *many* brilliant whores whose acquaintance
I've made over the years."
"I."
"And let's *also* recall that *you* are *none* of those things."
"I — I am —"
"You're *faithful*. To a Christ most people in this world couldn't comprehend
if you led them to the man by the *cocks*."
Aramis *chokes* —
"I bet she would've understood, though."
"I."
"I bet she would've understood perfectly — and understood perfectly why the
beauty of it *attracted* — *devoted* — her beautiful son."
And Aramis inhales sharply and — stares.
Just.
He can't —
"You can, son," Treville says, and closes the distance between them again. "You
can give yourself this *peace*."
"Please —"
"Because *both* your mother and your *god* would want you to *have* it."
Aramis *grunts* —
Flushes —
"Treville — you — this is *not* your — you worship the *earth*!"
"I worship the All-Mother, son. She is *my* Mother. My *true* Mother."
Aramis blinks and blinks and — "I... am very curious about this."
Treville raises *both* eyebrows. "Should I let you distract yourself?"
"No. Yes. I — I have no *idea*," Aramis says, and *thinks* he will laugh — a
sob comes out.
And then another.
And then —
And then there are tears —
He can't —
"Shh. You can," Treville says, and pulls Aramis into his arms.
"*Please*."
"Shh, let it out."
"I — I — have *you*?"
"Porthos beat me until I cried on him this morning."
"I."
"It's a very useful tactic, with me."
This time the laugh *does* come out — but so do more sobs. It —
Treville hugs him tight with *one* arm, and hands Aramis his handkerchief with
the other.
"I can't —"
"You can."
"*Treville*."
"Son. Take my comfort. Take it because it's yours."
Aramis *shudders* —
Moans and *sobs* —
"Mine...?"
"Yours," Treville says, and strokes Aramis, pets him with *both* hands —
For long moments, Aramis doesn't know what to *do* with the handkerchief —
The handkerchief that smells so *strongly* of Treville, his good scents —
He is *grateful* that his sinuses are becoming blocked —
No, he is not.
He is —
No, no.
He lets himself weep, because he has no choice in the matter, because losing
himself *this* way feels as good, in some ways, as it had felt to lose himself
in those *other* ways these past two nights —
He is in Treville's *arms* —
"I want you right here. I want *this*."
And Aramis can fight, Aramis can say something about the man wanting his
sorrow, his weakness, his humiliation — but none of those things are true.
None of those things are *real*.
None of them *could* be *anywhere* *close* to as real as the hallucinatory
memories of his mother's scents —
His mother's grip on his hair —
His mother's throaty *laughter* whenever he tried and failed to get *past* her
in some way —
His mother's kisses, all over his face.
("Wicked boy. *Tricky* boy. I will *always* know *exactly* who you are..."
"I could change! You do not know!"
"A mother *always* knows her boy.")
And she had caressed him, and tucked him in, and *locked* him in so he couldn't
sneak out to Madame Florine's, where the secretary had made him a very generous
offer for his services —
With a *bonus* for his virginity —
His mother had locked him in very tightly.
Every night.
Treville laughs into his ear and hugs and rocks him. "'Curious', you said?"
"Perhaps... perhaps a bit excitable."
"Hmm. I would've thrown you over the back of my horse."
"My mother would've stabbed you."
"I would've introduced her to my Amina-love. And everyone else, too — I'm half
in love with her just from your description. Which brothel was it...?"
"Madame Margaud's."
"Margaud's, Margaud's... hm. I don't think I *know* that one. But you did say
it catered to merchants."
"Yes. You... did not go to those?"
"Not very often, no. I never could get along very well with merchants, and
Reynard... well."
"He called them swine and removed their genitals?"
"When he was feeling cheerful, son," Treville says, and keeps petting him. "The
bad days don't bear thinking about."
Aramis laughs somewhat helplessly —
"I love that sound."
"It is *wet* and *froggy* and —"
"And it means I made you happy, just for a moment."
Aramis blinks — and blushes.
And thinks of the ways Porthos has always looked at him —
And thinks of the ways Athos has *started* to look at him —
"Would you like to see my eyes, son?"
"You... have started calling me..."
"Hmm. I *can* stop. For whole minutes at a time."
Aramis laughs. "Treville."
Treville pulls back and cups Aramis's shoulders — and then moves one hand to
brush away the tears rolling down Aramis's cheeks.
His eyes —
His eyes are —
"Your eyes... have not changed. Ultimately."
"No, I imagine they haven't."
"You've looked at me — you looked at me just *like* this the first day we
*met*!"
"In retrospect, it's probably one of the reasons why you kept me at a
distance."
"I —" Aramis winces. "Yes. My father gave me... proud looks. Loving looks. From
time to time."
"Did he give *you* those looks, son?"
"I —"
"Or did he give those looks to the dogma-spouting idiot he was diligently
trying to create?"
Aramis blinks — a great deal.
And then he swallows.
And then he nods.
Treville nods back, and pulls him into another hug.
Aramis takes it, and breathes. Just breathes. "I feel... very dim."
"You shouldn't, son. None of this is easy. We can't look at our parents with
the same clear-eyed objectivity that we use to look at a perfectly-drawn map."
"We." Aramis frowns. "I do not often like considering my father... my parent."
"Or ever...?"
"Or ever, yes —"
"I wish you didn't have to."
Aramis smiles wryly. "But I do?"
"You were young enough when he got his hands on you that you do, son. I'm
sorry. Your mind won't let you escape it, I don't think. Though I promise I'll
do everything in my power to help."
And that...
That is...
How would Porthos feel about *that*?
"Son?"
"I..."
Treville strokes him, strokes him warmly, strokes him *encouragingly* —
So —
"At your own pace, son."
And Aramis... is smiling against Treville's shoulder. "I am looking for...
something."
"Can you tell me what it is?"
My place.
Treville grunts — "Son —"
And Aramis steps back, and back, and wipes his face, and blows his nose, and
gives Treville *his* handkerchief to replace the one he had soiled.
Treville smiles wryly. "This has a *bit* too much perfume for my nose, son."
Aramis *blinks* — and winces. "I will work on this thing."
"You *don't* —"
"Have to. I know. But my Porthos's senses are *also* very strong now, yes?"
Treville nods slowly, and, perhaps, a little warily.
Aramis can't help feeling *predatory* —
"You're a *perfect* predator, son."
Aramis inhales sharply... and flushes. "Sir."
Treville *blinks* — "Aramis?"
Aramis shakes his head slowly and smiles. "Call me what you wish... and I will
do the same. Sir."
"Son. Did you want more *and* less intimacy between us?"
"More. *More*."
"I —"
"I cannot call you 'Daddy' — I heard that far too often at Madame Margaud's,
and I am not *allowed* to be a whore. I cannot call you 'Papa' — I spent the
night dreaming of calling Porthos that, and it was far too *compelling* —"
"Have I *mentioned* that I love you?"
"— and I *will* not *ever* call *any* man 'Father' again." And Aramis raises an
eyebrow.
And Treville blinks at him.
Quite stupidly, really, but —
But then his eyes begin to burn. Burn *wild*. "Sir... can mean many, many
things between two men who care for each other."
"This is so... Sir."
Treville *growls*, deep and low and *wild* again, *hot* again — he cuts himself
off.
"Sir —"
"*Wait*."
Aramis *grunts* —
"Aramis. *Son*. I *must* ask you how you are. *Where* you are."
Aramis breathes deep — and nods. "*Yes*, sir. I am full of *many* thoughts
about my mother, and about the man who raised me so *ill*. I am full of many
thoughts about *myself*, and who I have become, why it *may* be all right to
relax into my mother's — and my brothers', and *your* — opinion of that man. I
am full of *grief* for my mother, and *rage* — for many things. I very much
wish to get into a disagreement with someone who has said something
disrespectful to my Porthos."
Treville coughs a laugh — "Briefly, son?"
"And violently, yes. As for where I am..." He licks his lips, and steps *close*
to Treville, and rests one hand on his tunic. "I am *closer* to my place."
"Hmm. And you'll *help* us — all of us — help you find it."
That... was an order. Aramis grins. "Yes, sir. I *will*."
And Treville... rumbles. "Good boy. Good, good boy."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sit down and have a drink with me."
"Yes, sir?"
"*Oh*, yes. It's time for you to learn a bit more about my — and *Porthos's* —
religion."
Aramis grins and pulls the chair *close* to the desk. He will be the *best*
student.
Treville smiles at him warmly as he steps around to the other side of the desk
and opens the drawer. (You always are.)
***** Life has taken a decided turn for the better. *****
There is a part of Athos which is only... staggered.
More drunk than he's ever managed to get himself.
Less *capable*.
And yet.
He is walking at Porthos's side, with Porthos's hand firmly on the back of his
neck —
He has nodded his usual greetings to everyone who has greeted them —
He is not stumbling, or —
He has not lost his *grace* —
"You never do, brother..."
He has not lost his grace despite the open, hungry *relish* in Porthos's voice
—
And Porthos grins at him. "I'm going to enjoy playing with you, brother."
"I — playing?"
"Oh, yeah. Very *serious* playing."
"Hm. How does one play *seriously*?"
"Well, it *can* involve weapons —"
"I've had those fantasies."
Porthos laughs hard and *shakes* Athos by the grip he has on his neck —
It makes Athos feel so —
So *containable* —
"You *are*. To *me*."
"*Fuck*."
"Love the way you *curse*, brother."
"I —"
"About those fantasies," Porthos says, and pushes him up the stairs into the
barracks —
The dark, cool, dusty —
Athos is already breathing more easily —
Athos is already feeling himself more *free* —
"Really, now."
"Always with you. Always when I'm alone with you."
Porthos *rumbles* like *Treville* —
"How do you feel about that sound, brother?" And Porthos walks him to the wall
next to — their bed.
Theirs.
"Ours," Porthos says, and moves his hand to the *front* of Athos's throat.
Athos *gasps* —
Flushes —
*Aches* —
"You had this fantasy, too."
"Yes. Please."
Porthos grins. "I love you. Answer the question," he says, and squeezes
*gently*.
Athos's lashes are fluttering —
His cock is *twitching* —
He —
"Shh, shh. Are you having trouble thinking for me?"
"I find it worrying that you want me to think, brother."
Porthos laughs again and kisses him hard —
Again —
*Again* —
But the kisses are quick, sharp, so hard to *catch* —
"I'm hungry for you, brother," Porthos says, and they are — so close.
They are breathing each other's — "I am. I am starving." And Athos licks his
lips. And remembers — "And I love — I always loved the... rumbling."
"Yeah? You heard Daddy do it when you were a boy?" And Porthos squeezes him
again —
Pets him with his free hand —
Rumbles *more* —
"Oh — Porthos."
Porthos *grins* — "Answer."
"I asked him about the sound when I was a child. He told me he couldn't help
making it, sometimes, when he was especially happy about something, or someone.
I — it was abundantly clear he was telling the truth."
"He was smiling at you."
"He was — touching me. My face. My hair. He ruffled my hair and then rumbled
*more* and picked me *up* —"
"Oh, *that's* nice —"
"And then he *toted* me into Thomas's bedroom so we could wake him up and all
go play on the lawns together."
"He rumbled a *lot* that day."
"I — constantly. *Constantly*. It was incredible."
Porthos licks his lips and grins. "I'm so glad you had that, brother."
"I wish you had."
Porthos rumbles more — and then laughs. "So does Mum."
"I imagine so —"
"She said... that she'd planned some for this."
"I... for what?"
"For my *incredibly* randy *father* buggering me."
Athos blinks —
And blinks —
"How... how precisely does one plan for that?"
"Keeping oil around the house, I imagine —"
Athos *coughs* —
Porthos *snickers*. "She wasn't even a *little* upset about it, brother. She
was *completely*... encouraging."
"You have the most — hm."
"Mm?"
"I was going to say that you had the most mad family I had ever heard of —"
"But then you remembered your father keeping mine on a *lead* while my father
*mounted* your Mum?"
"Vividly."
Porthos snickers.
"From multiple angles —"
Porthos *laughs* —
"And — there were sounds —"
Porthos throws his head back and *guffaws* —
"Oh. Your laughter is the same."
"Mm? *Mm* — yeah, it is," Porthos says, and keeps stroking him. "Daddy said it
might not always be, though."
Athos nods and tries not to frown —
"No."
"I — no?"
"You're about to try to hide from me, brother. That's *not* allowed."
"I — no. It shouldn't be," Athos says, and flushes. "I apologize."
Porthos nods and squeezes Athos's throat *hard* for a moment —
Athos's mouth *falls* open —
His cock *jerks* —
He —
He can't *breathe* —
"No. You can't. You can't do anything but take this. And understand that I
*will* punish you — in one way or another — *every* time you lie or hide from
me. Every time you *try* to."
Athos flushes even *more* —
His cock is *leaking* —
His breeches are *wet* —
"Do you *understand*."
He nods, as much as he *can* with Porthos's hand on his throat.
"Do you *consent*."
Athos nods *hard* —
"Good boy. You're so hot. You're so good. You make me *hard*. Take this for a
little longer," Porthos says, and licks Athos's parted lips —
Athos's cock jerks *twice* —
"There you are. Just a little longer now."
Yes. *Yes* — but.
He can't — no.
Please, please, this isn't *punishment*!
Porthos raises his eyebrows — and nods. "You're right. This never could be
punishment for you. It's punishment for *me*, because I don't have your
*voice*," Porthos says, and loosens his grip —
Athos gasps —
Reels —
Gasps more —
"Fix your breathing. We're going to talk about how to punish you."
Athos nods and obeys.
He breathes.
He *breathes* —
"You're a good boy for making sure I take care of you just right."
Oh —
"I'm going to reward you for that... once we really get started."
He — he *breathes* —
And Porthos laughs softly. "I've wanted to do this to you for such a *long*
time, brother..."
Athos moans — and takes one more breath. "For. How long?"
"Since the first time I helped you away from your pain and fear, actually."
"Oh. Truly?"
"Not *right* then. But after. When I was *alone*. When I was going over and
over what I'd done with you, and how I might do it *better* so that it could
*be* better for you."
"Your thoughts... turned to lovemaking?"
Porthos smiles wryly. "Not for the first time. Just for the first time *that*
way."
"Oh."
"I felt very, *very* guilty after I'd tossed myself off *brutally* —"
"Oh — no —"
"After I'd *gripped* my cock while thinking about how much *pain* you might
*enjoy* on *yours* —"
"*Fuck*."
"*Eventually* — after *several* more *desperate* wank sessions, and *before*
the second time I helped you — I gave myself permission to just give *in* to
the fantasies," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Since I didn't have a
choice."
Athos moans —
"Now tell me how to punish you."
"Leave. Take — take yourself away. Your *touch*. Leave me."
"That's *a* way to do it —"
"It —"
"Wait. I don't want to just *abandon* you, brother."
"I know — I know you wouldn't."
Porthos raises his eyebrows.
And Athos smiles... helplessly. "You have never *once* failed to provide me
with a *surfeit* of touch and companionship — whether or *not* I've done
*anything* to —"
"Do *not* use the word 'deserve', brother."
Athos *grunts* — "Yes, Porthos. I will... regroup."
Porthos nods. "You do that."
"You... have always cared for me. And given to me. And *provided* for me. My
time with you has never been less than *warm*. You... my doubts and fears are
themselves. *They* will punish me when you wish me to be punished, Porthos.
But... you have taught me that, ultimately, you will never be far."
Porthos's exhale is shuddered.
Athos can see — no. No. "Porthos... am I... allowed to always ask questions?"
"Yes. I *might* forbid it to Aramis sometimes — I *think* he needs things that
hard every once in a while —"
"Oh..."
"But I know you, at least for now, need to be able to ask. What's your
question?"
"It's —" Athos blinks, considers —
"Yeah, of course you want to try things that hard now. I know. We'll
experiment. But not *this* time," Porthos says, and grins. "Ask me your
*question*."
"I only — it's not an important —"
"Let me decide."
Athos moans, helplessly — that was... correct. "Yes, Porthos. When I said that
I knew you would never be far, you —"
And Porthos's eyes heat —
He shudders again —
He leans *in* — "Tell me."
"I think. I think I can tell when you are... hungry for me."
Porthos blinks —
"I know. I know it is — perfectly incredible —"
"You're used to me."
"I —"
"You *know* me," Porthos says, and grins —
So *happily* —
Porthos is *happy* with him —
And for him. Athos smiles back. "You're my brother."
"That's *right* —"
"And you've started to speak like Treville even more than you did before,"
Athos says — well, it wasn't a blurt.
It *was* a rather random ejaculation —
It —
Porthos is blinking and looking *thoughtful* —
Instead of hungry —
Athos wants the *hunger* back —
Porthos blinks again — and then growls at him, eyes heating *immediately*.
"Oh..."
"That's *always* yours, brother."
"I — yes?"
Porthos nods slowly, and grins. "And, really, I'm not surprised I'm speaking
more like Daddy. *You* know how I've always felt about him."
"I do, yes. I — a part of me is only surprised that you still have... room. For
Aramis and myself."
"Surprised?" And Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Are you jealous? Scared?"
"No. That's surprising, as well," Athos says, and huffs.
Porthos laughs and strokes him, kisses him —
Kisses him so *hard* —
So very —
Athos gives himself to it, surrenders everything as fast as he can, as *much*
as he can —
He gives *everything* —
It's so *wonderful* —
So warm, so hot, so sweet, so *perfect* when Porthos starts biting him again,
starts growling into his mouth and *licking* —
"I *love* you —"
"Yes — mm — *mm* — you make me *feel* it —"
Porthos bites his *throat* through the *kerchief* —
Athos *shouts* —
*Groans* —
"You've always — made me feel — and at first I didn't know what it was!"
Porthos growls and pulls back —
"Please! That wasn't a lie!"
"I know it wasn't, brother. But I *am* surprised."
"Oh. Yes?"
Porthos licks his plush lips —
Licks Athos's *flavours* from them —
He looks like he's *savouring* —
He —
"I am, brother. Now tell me about not *knowing*."
"I didn't — I believe it was more of the same. Pleasure, sweetness, *happiness*
that I could not trust. That I could not — give myself to. Not even enough to
analyze it properly."
"That's obscene."
"Yes —"
"A man like you, left without the ability to truly *study*..." And Porthos
*massages* Athos's throat —
Athos groans —
Gurgles —
"You know me, you *know* me —"
"And you know me. I'm *drunk* on it."
"*Please*."
"I still have to punish you a little."
"Yes. Yes, I'm *ready*. Train me to be *yours*."
Porthos growls and bites his *cheek* through the *beard* —
"*Fuck* —"
"You *are* mine, brother."
"*Yes* —"
"But I will train you. Starting... now," Porthos says, and pulls back —
And steps back —
And steps back enough that he must let *go* of Athos's *throat* —
For the first time since —
Athos's head feels so unsupported —
Athos feels so light and *untethered* —
And Porthos is wincing.
Porthos is — is *unhappy* —
He doesn't want —
Athos has made Porthos *leave* him —
Athos has taken Porthos's pleasure —
Athos has —
Porthos takes another step *back* —
"*No* —"
"Shh. This won't last long, brother."
"It. It won't?"
Porthos's eyes are *focused*, hungry, wild — and then simply focused again. On
him. "Just enough. Just *enough* punishment."
Athos — shudders.
"Count."
"I —"
"*Count*, brother. You can do it silently, if you need to," Porthos says, and
doesn't — doesn't take his gaze away. He —
He *could* —
He *might*, if Athos doesn't —
"One. Two. Three —"
"That's just right, brother. Keep going. Keep going until you get to fifteen.
Then it'll stop."
Oh —"S-six. Seven. I — Eight —"
"That's right. You can do it. You can *take* it."
"I can — nine. Ten. I."
"Keep going, brother. Keep taking it."
"I don't want to be without you! I don't want to — to — you're so hungry!"
"And you'll *learn*," Porthos says, and *burns* at him. "*Count*."
"Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen! F-fourteen! *Fifteen*!"
"That's *right*," Porthos says, and moves close once more, moves —
His hands are *greedy* on Athos —
All over —
Moving pressing pulling squeezing *GRIPPING* —
And his tongue is *shifted* —
He's licking the *sweat* from Athos's face and throat —
He —
"Porthos — *Porthos* —"
Porthos growls and doesn't stop, doesn't stop *anything* —
He growls louder, more *heavily* —
Starts *opening* Athos's clothes at *last* —
Athos is so *grateful*, so *happy*, but he needs —
He shouldn't need —
Porthos *stops* growling and leans back —
*Obviously* concentrates — and his tongue shifts back to a human one slowly.
"Tell me what you need. *Do* it."
"I —"
"*Always* tell me what you need. Never hold back. Never think I don't *crave*
it like I crave food, air, wine, your *cock*. *Tell* me."
Athos groans. "I — I — is my punishment... complete?"
Porthos grunts —
Blinks —
*Pauses* in the process of stripping him —
"I apologize —"
"Shh. *Shh*. *I'm* sorry, brother," Porthos says. "Your punishment's done. As
*soon* as you hit fifteen it was done. I should've been more clear."
"I — I should've known —"
"No. I've *deliberately* made it difficult for you to think clearly, because I
need you to be focused only on giving yourself to *me*. It's my responsibility
to do the thinking about all the other stuff. *Mine*," Porthos says, and looks
*into* him. "Do you understand."
Athos *moans* — "Please. Please. I would like to be on my knees again. I would
like to... never get up again."
Porthos *breathes* a growl. "My brother. My *lover*."
"Yours, I'm yours —"
"Once you're naked, you're *dropping*."
"Yes, yes, please —"
"Is it *better* for me to do this for you, even though it's slower."
"Fuck — I — *fuck*."
"Too hard a question?"
"I want your *touch*!"
"Good *enough*," Porthos says, and bites Athos's upper *lip* —
"UNH —"
He pulls back — "I love you. I love how you *give*, brother," Porthos says, and
sets the weapons-belts aside —
"I want — I need —"
"I know you do. Be specific. And arms *up*."
Athos *obeys* —
Porthos strips off his *shirt* — "*Talk* to me."
"Be *brutal* with me!"
"I absolutely will," Porthos says, and smacks Athos's *nipples* *hard* —
Athos *groans* —
Arches —
"Please! Again!"
Porthos smiles so *happily*, so *hungrily* — "Good boys get *everything* they
want, brother..." And Porthos smacks his nipples again —
Again —
Porthos smacks his nipples so *hard* —
"Please, *yes*!"
"Do you want me to twist them, Athos?"
"Yes!"
"Bite them?"
"Oh — oh, God —"
"*Ring* them?"
Athos *staggers*, knees buckling —
But Porthos catches him, he catches him by the hips —
Licks his *face* —
Licks the *sweat* away — "You're so *delicious*, brother..."
"I — I — I'm sorry I couldn't —"
"Shh. You're *supposed* to lose control."
Athos blinks —
Flushes deeply —
"I'm. Going to be a very good boy, then."
Porthos laughs *hard*. "Yes, you *will*. C'mon, now, lean your shoulders back
against the wall... yeah. Perfect."
"Yes — yes — I —"
"Stay right there," Porthos says, and strokes a path down Athos's leg as he
drops into a crouch at Athos's feet. "Right foot *up*."
Athos *obeys*, and Porthos removes his boot and sock —
"Good boy. Now the left."
Athos obeys, and Porthos removes *that* boot and sock —
Puts them aside —
Grips Athos's *ankles* —
Growls — "I'm thinking of holding these *right* up in the air while I have you
on your *back*, brother."
"Oh. Oh..."
"While I *fuck* you on your back," Porthos says, and looks *into* him. "Do you
want that?"
"Every day. Repeatedly, if at all feasible."
Porthos laughs and stands again. "Perfect," he says, and unlaces Athos's
trousers quickly, so *quickly* —
Athos's hands feel like stiffened *meat* at the ends of his arms —
He feels —
"Clumsy? Needy?"
"*Yes*, Porthos. I — I *wouldn't* be faster stripping myself."
"Mm, I don't know. I saw you with Aramis last night. You were pretty quick," he
says, and reaches in to *cup* Athos through his honestly-*wet* breeches —
"I — I — I don't remember —"
"You don't *remember*?"
"I don't remember the *motions*, the — I was — I had to get to Aramis!"
"*Yeah*, you did," Porthos says, and *rides* him with the heel of his palm.
"You had to *touch* him."
"Yes —"
"You had to *feel* him. All over."
"Please —"
"You had to *hurt* him."
"Oh, God — oh — please, I —"
"You had to give him..." Porthos growls. "So much *pleasure*."
"All — I needed to see his *ecstasy*."
"Mm. You took *good* care of him. I couldn't take my eyes away."
"I —"
"But you don't just want to *see* his ecstasy. Do you."
"I want everything —"
"You want to touch it, smell it..."
"Yes —"
"*Taste* it. The way I want to taste *both* of you absolutely *everywhere*."
"I want to swallow his *cock*!"
Porthos grins and cocks his head to the side — and *stops* riding him. "Do you
know how to to *do* that, brother?"
"I — I have... ideas. About the mechanics of it."
"Mm. And you're a *quick* study," Porthos says, and opens Athos's breeches at
*last* — "Get these off, puddle them on the floor with your trousers, and
*kneel* on them. Right here."
Athos moans and *obeys*, dropping and — falling.
It's so warm down here, so —
There's so much safety in Porthos's *grip* on his hair —
So much *simplicity* in the sight of him opening his trousers one-*handed* —
"Tell me what you want, brother."
"Everything. Everything possible. Some things that aren't."
Porthos laughs. "Tell me a possible dream."
"Your cock... painting my lips. Obscuring them."
"Hiding you? Your scar?"
"Protecting me — your strength —"
Porthos growls —
"You always look at the people who *stare* at my mouth with such naked
*contempt*."
"That's what they deserve... but I stare at your mouth, too."
"It — you don't —"
"I do."
"It's different. It's always been — I've never felt... I don't know how to say
it."
"Mayhap..." And Porthos takes his cock out, and his balls. So heavy. So... so
thick and hard and —
So *wet* —
Dripping —
Dripping on Athos's *thigh* —
The slick is so *copious* —
His cock has begun to look like a *dog's*, only much *bigger* —
And Porthos laughs again. "*I* won't make you stop staring, brother," he says,
and starts to stroke himself —
Starts to —
He drips even more, even *faster* —
"I. Appreciate that very much."
"Thought you might. Remember that for next time with Aramis."
Athos swallows and — stares. "Yes, Porthos."
"I can feel your hunger for me like a *greedy* touch when you look at me that
way. It's bloody incredible."
Athos moans and watches, watches — "Thank you — please —"
"I think you could feel mine when I was looking at your pretty, scarred-up
mouth, brother."
"Oh."
"I think you could feel me *touching* you."
Athos pants and pants and — "I wish... I wish I had been more aware."
"I want your dreams."
"So do I, and that is the *oddest* desire —"
Porthos snickers. "Brother."
"Yes, I — hm. Perhaps. If you could..."
Porthos *squeezes* himself and growls.
Athos groans.
"Do you want something, brother?"
"Many. Many things."
"Beg for them."
"Please fuck me. Please hurt me. Please touch me. Please touch me with your
*cock* —"
"*Excellent* start," Porthos says, and drags his dripping cock through Athos's
*beard* —
He —
Mussing it and slicking it and making it sticky and fragrant and —
"You don't smell the same — I apologize —"
"Shh. You didn't mean it as an *insult* —"
"*No*! I — I only — I've thought. A great deal. About your scent."
"My *crotch* scent, brother? And don't lick your lips for a little while,"
Porthos says, and drags the pointed tip of his cock back and forth over Athos's
scar.
He can't —
Athos can't stop *panting* —
He can't —
He's *gulping* air —
"I apologize!"
"Shh. It's all right. You're doing fine," Porthos says, and pets him firmly.
"Just answer."
"You threw your breeches at my face. You — I smelled them. I tasted them —"
"You *tasted* —"
"By accident — at first."
"They were only on your face for... but I suppose you *can* move quickly when
you're motivated," Porthos says, and grins.
And *smacks* Athos's mouth with his cock —
"Bad boy. Not telling me you wanted more."
"I'm — very sorry. I assure you."
"Do you need more punishment?"
"The fact that you never threw your breeches at my head again always seemed
quite cruel..."
Porthos laughs *hard*. "Daddy *chewed* on my breeches."
"Yes, that sounds like — I saw him doing that with one of my mother's linens
once."
"Oh my *God*. What did you even *think*?"
"I remember... wondering if he'd gotten quite enough to eat at dinner — he
always did take his meat quite rare —"
Porthos splutters —
"In later years, I wondered if all sexuality *must* involve quite that many
fluids, and quite that many *different* fluids —"
Porthos *wheezes* —
"Still later, I wondered why he hadn't simply gone to the *source* — I very
nearly asked him; he was in the room at the time."
"*Shit* —"
"But then, so were my parents."
Porthos *coughs* —
"My mother asked me if I had turned that shade of red due to a fever of some
sort."
Porthos has released his hard cock and is now laughing hard enough that he's
holding his *belly*.
"I wondered if I were the same shade of red as the blood on the *linen* —"
"For fuck's *sake*, Athos!"
"It was not *only* Anne's fault that I was rather crucified in that thorny
hedgerow, brother."
"Oh fuck —" Porthos snorts and *grips* Athos's face. "One question. One."
"Anything. Anything, at all."
"Did Daddy *stop* sucking on that linen when he made eye contact with tiny
little you that night?"
"Not for a *moment*."
"*Got* it. Open. Your. *Mouth*."
Athos *grins* — and then obeys.
"Hm. I..." And Porthos licks his lips.
Athos raises an eyebrow —
Porthos *taps* Athos's lower lip with his *cock*. "I wonder..."
Athos raises his eyebrow higher, in a hopefully helpful fashion.
"I *wonder*... how *you'd* feel about being a chamberpot..."
Athos shudders and groans —
Pants —
Squeezes his eyes shut and *yanks* his hands behind his back —
"Answer in words. You know how."
Everything. I want *everything*. I want you, and Aramis, and Treville, to take
everything of sexuality and make it new.
"Meaning you've done — no. Leave that," Porthos says, and *shoves* in — not all
the way.
Not —
Athos *groans* —
*Pleads* with his eyes —
"Soon, brother. I — mm. *Mm*. I'm too hard to piss — now. But that won't last
*too* long," Porthos says, and laughs *darkly* —
Athos groans and *sucks* — and stops because the loudness of the slurp is such
a *shock* —
"Mm, yeah. You're not used to having something that size in your mouth. You
have to adjust a little... or not. I *like* the noises."
Athos slurps again —
Again —
There's saliva and *slick* running down his chin —
He doesn't want to *waste* —
"Then — fuck. Unh. Then open your mouth a *little* wider than you did before...
yeah." And Porthos pulls out *slightly* and then pushes back in at a different
angle. "Try that. You won't have to move your — mm. Move your head too — oh —"
Athos sucks *hard* —
"*Fuck* — good boy, good *boy*. Just a little tighter, a little — turn your
head to the left a *little* — *suck*."
Athos groans and obeys — no slurping noise. No *drool*. Porthos is so
*experienced* —
"*Just* a little, brother, yeah," Porthos says, laughing and panting. "You feel
so good. So —" He growls again. "Do you like that?"
Yes — *yes* —
"Then suck me just like that. Lick up all my — my slick — oh, *yeah* —" And
Porthos grins and shoves *both* his hands into Athos's hair. "You feel
*fantastic*, brother..."
You... you...
"Mm? Tell me. *Ask*."
Aramis shared the taste of your *spend*.
"Are you hungry for it?"
Yes!
"Do you *need* it?"
Yes, *please*!
Porthos laughs breathlessly and *moans*. "You want to make me spend *fast*."
Athos blinks —
*Starts* to shake his head —
And then thinks about it.
Porthos laughs more. "No...? Yes...? Think about this, too," Porthos says, and
pulls out *most* of the way — and then *thrusts* back in, just a little deeper
than before —
Athos flexes and *pants* —
"Close that pretty mouth up *tight*."
Athos *sucks* —
Slurps again —
Fixes his — his angle of *approach* —
"*There* you go. Again," Porthos says, and thrusts —
And thrusts —
"How. How d'you like getting *fucked*, brother?" And Porthos is moving so
smoothly, so sweetly, so —
Not hard. Not... yet?
Athos looks *up* — Please. Please more. Please *more*.
Porthos growls. "As an aside — that *will* make things quick."
And that — But. We'll. Have this again.
"Yeah, we will. In *every* way that works for both of us."
Athos moans with his mouth *closed* —
Sucks and sucks and —
He's flexing again, *aching* —
He's so hard —
Porthos is *fucking* him so — too gently.
"You've been heard, brother," Porthos says, and pushes deeper, deeper, all the
way to the back of Athos's throat —
Athos *controls* — no. He swallows, he swallows and swallows and swallows until
Porthos pushes — in.
And Porthos sighs —
Pants —
*Grips* Athos's hair —
"Ready, brother? Ready to *hurt*?"
Athos's cock *jerks*, spattering his belly and thighs —
He can feel himself *flushing* again —
He can feel himself —
Falling —
So *far* —
"*Yeah*, you are," Porthos says, grinning and *grinding* in —
Grinding —
Again and again —
Again and *again* —
So *hard* —
It feels like he's *opening* Athos's throat —
Like he's somehow *stretching* it —
"*All* your holes should be loose and sloppy for me, brother," Porthos says,
and laughs breathlessly —
Athos groans and twitches more —
Imagines —
Aches in his empty *arse* —
"Do you fuck yourself, brother? Do you fuck your sweet arse and think of me
*having* you?"
Athos squeezes his eyes shut and *bucks* —
His body is *alight* —
Everything — but he doesn't spend. He doesn't —
"But you almost did. Mm. Let's try *this*," Porthos says, and pulls Athos *off*
his cock —
Athos slurs 'no' —
"*That's* hot," Porthos says, and *shoves* back in —
Athos can't swallow in time —
And not for the next thrust —
Or the *next* —
Porthos is bumping the back of his throat —
Porthos is *hurting* him —
Athos is so *hard* —
His throat *hurts* and his mouth is *slick* and —
He's so *hard* —
He wants —
He wants to be *fucked* —
"Then gulp. Me. *Down*," Porthos says, and shoves to the back of Athos's throat
and *waits* —
Athos *gasps* — and gulps —
In.
In.
And Porthos takes short, *rutting* thrusts —
*Gives* —
Gives Athos what he *needs* —
"Oh, yeah, brother? Is this — is this what you *like*?"
Yes — yes — I'm drooling again —
"Like a pretty little babe..."
Hopefully somewhat more hirsute...
Porthos laughs —
Gasps —
Laughs more and fucks Athos *faster* —
*Harder* —
Athos tries to remember to *breathe* between thrusts —
"No. No, don't, brother. Just feel it. Just *take* it."
Athos groans in his chest —
Aches and *clutches* his hands together —
*Obeys* —
"Good boy. *Good* boy. You don't need to breathe. You don't need to move. You
don't even — even need to *think*. Fuck. *Fuck*. All you need to do is sodding
*take* me," Porthos says, growling and fucking him even *harder* —
Slamming in so *deep* —
Holding Athos so *still* —
Making him —
Making him so *perfect* —
"You could never be more perfect than you already bloody *were*," Porthos says,
and slams in-in-in —
Pauses —
Grinds —
Changes his *angle* —
Shoves Athos *down* until he's sitting on his *heels* —
And then fucks *down* into his throat, fucks him so *violently*, so —
His *knot* is growing —
His knot is so big, so hot, so —
It's *growing* —
Athos kisses it, tries to kiss it, tries to *suck* —
"*Athos* — fuck, *Athos* —"
Let me *please* you, let me serve, let me —
Porthos *howls*, loud and long and —
He's *spending* —
He's spurting all over Athos's mouth and throat —
Splashing and —
It's so hot, so wet —
It doesn't taste quite the same as Aramis's *memories* —
It's so musky and *slick* —
Athos is lapping and slurping, he —
He keeps forgetting to *swallow* and it's dripping out of his mouth, down into
his *beard* —
There's so *much* of it!
"Take it — *take* it —"
And Porthos growls and shoves *deep* once more —
Athos shudders and *takes* it, takes everything —
Porthos *spends* more —
"Fuck — fuck, my knot feels *huge* —"
It is rather large...
"It's making — making this *hurt* — *fuck* —" And he spends *more* —
Athos blinks — It's... unpleasant?
"No, it's bloody *perfect*, and that's *odd*," Porthos says, and *laughs* as he
spends more —
And then he pulls out —
And spurts on Athos's open, gasping mouth.
He.
"How's that, then?" And Porthos is panting, tongue showing just a little.
He.
He is...
"I feel somewhat faint."
"Breathe more —"
"I'd like to continue feeling faint. It seems appropriate."
Porthos snickers. "I'll show you *appropriate*," he says, and moves to sit on
the bed.
Their bed.
He sits on the very *edge*, spreads his *legs* — and beckons. "Get over here
and eat my *arse*."
For a very long time, Athos isn't certain he can see.
Or speak.
Or *think*.
Porthos laughs *evilly*. "You don't have to do *any* of those things, brother.
Just... follow your nose to all those yummy crotch-scents."
"I. *Fuck*."
"Extra enunciation that time. Very nice. Are you going to make me *wait*?"
"Absolutely not, I'm simply trying to remember how *movement* works," Athos
says.
Porthos laughs. "*Shuffle*. *Keep* those arms behind your back."
"Yes — yes, I —"
"Do it *slow* so you can keep your trousers under your — yeah. Like that.
*Good* boy."
"This is very frustrating —"
"But it's hot to *watch*."
"Oh. Is it?"
"*Very* much so. I'm *not* going to get soft until after you make me spend
*again*."
"Oh — oh —"
"No, not faster. Keep your knees *on* those trousers."
Athos *groans* —
"Be my good boy, now... that's it..."
"Yes — yes — I."
"You're almost there. Can you smell me?"
"I — your taste is all through me —"
"Mm. As it should be. Wait — no, stop right there," Porthos says, and grips
Athos by the hair before he's *close* enough —
"No, you are. I just need to scoot forward a *little* more — like *so* —"
"You — you should be *comfortable* —"
"Oh, I will be, because this works best — as I learned last night — when I'm
lying *back*, and these beds are too narrow to make that work without me being
*right* on the edge."
"Oh..."
"The *only* problem I have with this is that I won't be able to see every
*second* of you eating me out," Porthos says, lying back on one elbow.
"*Nnh* — I..."
His cock is resting on his belly —
He lifts his heavy balls out of Athos's way —
His legs are spread so *wide*, and his —
His hole —
Athos hears himself make a *broken* noise —
There are so many —
Thoughts —
Porthos laughs *hungrily*. "You haven't fucked *anyone* in a long, *long*
time..."
"No. No..."
"Should I ride you, brother? Should I lash you right down and *take* your
cock?"
Athos *grunts* — "I — I would like. That."
"Would you, now. Mm. Well. I *heal* just as fast as Daddy does. We *never* have
to wait for that sort of thing..."
Athos moans and *strains* —
Tries to get *closer* —
Tries to *taste* —
"Easy, now. *Easy*. Just tell me. Do you want that *today*."
"We — we don't have — rope."
Porthos sighs and squeezes his own sac —
Sighs again and *growls* —
A droplet of sweat rolls down his inner *thigh* — "And you don't think you can
be good and still for me...?"
"I. I would like to. Serve."
"You will."
"I would like to serve in any way — every way..."
"Every way I want you to...?"
Athos breathes a sigh of *relief*, cock *jerking* — "Yes, yes, please."
"If *I* wanted you to be still... you could be still."
"I can do anything you want me to do, Porthos."
Porthos growls *hard* — "That's... beautiful," he says, and starts to stroke
his own cock. Starts —
"Oh..."
"That's incredible. *Hot*."
"I — thank you —"
"I have to — nnh. I have to *think* about what I want now — but that's right
and proper."
"It — yes?"
"That's my *responsibility*, brother. I have to be *clear* with you — and
Aramis — *always*."
"And... not Treville?"
Porthos stops stroking and smiles, then uses his fingers to paint Athos's lips
with slick —
"May I — may I lick —"
"Do it. *Slow*."
Athos *obeys* —
Shudders and *aches* —
*Twitches* —
And watches Porthos paint his own *hole* with his slick. He —
"Oh, God —"
"I can be... other kinds of clear, with Daddy."
"Yes. Yes?" Athos can't make himself look *up* —
Porthos laughs. "You don't have to, brother. Just stare at what you *want*. I
*love* it."
"I. I'm... arousing you?"
"You're driving me *mad*," Porthos says, and dips in with the tips of two
fingers —
Athos groans — "Please —"
"Shh. Just a tick."
"Yes. Yes, Porthos —"
"Gotta give you something *extra* delicious..."
And Athos *thinks* he'll moan, but what actually comes out is a *sob* —
He can't —
Porthos is pushing in so —
So *deep* —
His fingers are so *wet* —
"You're such a — mm. Such a good boy, brother..."
"Please. Please —"
"I can tell Daddy what I need in... really simple terms sometimes."
"Yes? I — yes?"
"I can show him my *need*, and the words are superfluous — or. Not that. The
words are always good with Daddy," Porthos says, and pulls out —
Clenches —
Flexes — "Mmph. The words are always bloody *great*. But my body knows him.
Everything *in* me knows him. And everything in *him* knows *me*, brother." And
Porthos pants. "So really... we just have to get out of our bodies' way."
"I want — that. I want that with — with all of you."
"We'll have it."
"Will we?"
"We're making it right now. But the words will always be wonderful from you,
brother."
Athos moans again —
"Do you understand?"
"I won't — I won't *quiet* myself!"
"Come over here and *eat* me. You can move your hands to make it easier — I
want that tongue — *nngh*. Yeah. Fuck — *fuck* —"
And Athos is licking, tasting —
Lapping and —
Oh, Porthos tastes *nothing* like her, nothing at all, and he'd always known
that would be true, but this proof —
This beautiful, thick, musky —
So musky on his *tongue* —
So —
His sweat has such a sharp *tang* when Athos licks his cleft —
Porthos is *moaning* —
Pushing his hand into Athos's hair and *gripping* —
Holding Athos *still* —
Or —
Perhaps he doesn't realize that Athos can't reach everything this way? He —
Porthos laughs breathlessly —
Groans —
Laughs *more* — "You can reach *everything* you need to reach, brother. Now
shove that tongue *deep*."
Athos shivers and *obeys* —
No, it doesn't —
He uses his hands to spread Porthos wider —
Gently —
"*Harder*."
Athos grunts and spreads Porthos until the flesh of his cleft looks tight,
shiny, so —
He shoves *in* —
Porthos *gasps* —
Pulls Athos *in* —
Crushes Athos's *face* into his *arse* —
"How. How *do* you feel about this, brother?"
The word... ecstatic... comes to mind...
Porthos laughs hard —
Porthos groans and *bucks* — gently. Carefully.
Athos doesn't want that —
"Too *bad*. *I* don't want to *move* your perfect *face*," Porthos says, and
bucks up again —
Again —
*Grinds* —
All so *carefully* —
It's *easy* for Athos to keep his rhythm —
To keep nuzzling and grinding his face right where he *is* —
And Athos can see the sense of this.
"Can you? I'm *glad*. *Kiss* my hole."
Athos grunts, cock *jerking* —
"Oh, you liked that..."
I — I —
Athos gives up on trying to make that a sentence, or even a respectable
*fragment*, and kisses Porthos's hole over and over again, kisses it *hard* —
"Oh — oh, *yeah* — fuck — you're going to make me *spend*, brother —"
Athos *groans* —
"HNH — *suck* it. Suck it and *fuck* it."
Athos *obeys* —
Athos makes wet, hungry *love* to Porthos's hole with his mouth —
He —
He tries to grind his face in *harder*, even though he can barely breathe, even
though everything is dark and hot and close, even though Porthos's thighs are
*flexing* —
Squeezing in against Athos's shoulders *painfully* hard —
It's so perfect —
It's so *perfect* —
"Fuck — *fuck* —" And Porthos growls and pulls Athos in tighter, *bucks*
against his face *hard* —
Athos groans and —
"Keep — keep making *noise*!"
And Athos moans and nods and moans more, tells Porthos that he loves him, that
he's always loved him, apologizes for taking so long to *realize* it, when
Porthos's love and kindness and warmth and *reality* shone through everything,
every *day* —
"Fuck — *Athos* —"
Athos sucks *hard* and hums, *hums*, and now he can't *speak*, but he can still
*think* about how grateful he is for this, how this is *just* what he's always
needed —
Porthos *shouts* —
Bucks *again* —
The bed *creaks* — and then there's the unmistakable sound, the unmistakable
*rhythm* of Porthos *working* his own cock —
Athos wants to see, to touch, to suck, to *feel* —
"Everything — bloody — scrape your *teeth* —"
Athos *obeys* —
Porthos *howls* —
Athos does it again —
Again and again and *again* —
Porthos is howling so loudly —
So *wildly* —
*Shoving* his arse at Athos's *face* even though he hadn't *wanted* to — Athos
has made him lose *control*!
Athos *sucks* again, sucks everywhere he can reach, sucks and scrapes and
scrapes *more* —
Porthos *chokes* on his howl and *yips* —
He goes *rigid* —
He's *arched* and *still* —
And Athos knows he's spending. He —
He *drops* —
He groans and yips *more* —
Athos gets back into position and scrapes again —
(Just fuck me, just fuck me, just — ah, shit you made me feel so —)
Athos fucks Porthos with his tongue, *gives* him his tongue, fast and sleek,
fast as he *can* —
Porthos *groans* —
His hand is *shaking* in Athos's hair —
(You are *such* a good boy...)
Athos flushes and heats and needs and feels —
So good.
So *right* —
(You served me so... mm. Perfectly.)
Athos *groans* and keeps *fucking* —
And Porthos moans and laughs breathlessly. "You — you still are. Mm. C'mon,
pull out and lick my cleft clean. Get *all* the sweat."
Yes, Porthos, Athos says, and obeys, *obeys* while Porthos *shivers* —
It's so —
He's still *moaning* —
"You feel *perfect*, brother."
Have you had this with Treville? I — no. You implied that you had —
"I *really* did. And he shoved his tongue *all* the way up."
Oh...
"This — mm. It's a whole different thing. When he's licking me, I don't even
feel like I'm making love with a *man*, brother."
Athos *grunts* —
His cock *throbs* —
He —
And Porthos laughs evilly. "You liked *that* thought."
Somewhat worryingly much, yes.
Porthos snickers — and pulls him back.
And then moves further back on their bed and sits up —
And then *grins* down at him. "Athos. You're *going* to be fucked by a dog one
of these days."
"I...."
"At *least* one dog."
"I choose not to admit that?"
"Oh, *really*."
"I —"
"Shh." And Porthos leans forward and lets his hands dangle between his knees.
"You got fucked by a dog today, you know. Right in your pretty mouth."
"I..."
"Mm?"
"It's not that I don't desire it."
"I know that."
"It's not that I don't *recognize* that I desire it."
"I know that, too. What I *don't* know..." And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Athos smiles wryly. "You watched me with Aramis. You know... I spent a lot of
time fretting in the de la Fère kennels after watching my parents and Treville
make love so many times."
"Mm. Caught that."
"Yes, and —"
"Here's the thing, brother — I can't let you fret anymore."
Athos blinks. "I — no?"
"No. I can't let you feel bad — *anything* bad — about something you *want*
that won't do you or anyone else any *harm*."
Athos blinks *more* —
Considers —
And looks up into Porthos's eyes. "This is how Treville... set you at ease."
"Yeah, it is."
"This is how — I."
"Mm?"
"I think you're capable of a greater degree of logic than I am, in terms of...
this."
Porthos raises his eyebrows — then lowers them and nods thoughtfully, looking
at something... else.
Athos isn't certain what.
It's not *here* —
Athos misses —
And Porthos *whirls* on him, eyes flaring a *hot* green, and *snarls*. His
teeth are sharper than Athos has ever *seen* them, and Athos can't breathe,
can't think, can't —
Can't do anything but *stare* as his cock leaks *copiously* —
"*Don't* be logical, Athosss," Porthos says, and he's almost *chewing* the
words out of his mouth.
"I — I —"
"Don't be logical. Just *take* what you *need*."
And Athos is *panting* —
Nodding helplessly —
Licking his *lips* —
There's saliva dripping from Porthos's *mouth*, and the only thing Athos wants
more than to get fucked is to get fucked in whatever way Porthos likes *best*.
And Porthos... rumbles.
And shakes himself.
And — concentrates.
After a long moment, his teeth shorten and dull, and his eyes go dark once
more. And Porthos wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Brother."
"Yes. Yes, Porthos."
"Do you take my *point*?"
"Do you... need Treville's help in order to fuck *me* as the dog?"
Porthos blinks — "Did you think I would somehow have *more* control with you
than I'd have with Aramis? The dog that lives inside me would *hurt* you in
*bad* ways without Daddy's lead."
"Oh. It's probably problematic that I feel as though I've earned that," Athos
says, and huffs twice —
Three times —
"I apologize, brother. I do know I'm not supposed to think that way."
Porthos stands up and over him, frowning deeply. "Do you, brother?"
"I do. You are... the kindest of men. The most loving. The most careful. The
most —"
"Shh. You know I'll always take care of you, if I possibly can."
"Yes. Please. Please."
"You know I'll keep you from hurting yourself."
Athos moans and — leans in. Helplessly.
Porthos makes a small, hungry sound and cups Athos's cheek — "Good boy."
"No — I —"
"Shh. That's not your call," Porthos says, and musses Athos's beard even more —
*Holds* him —
"My brother... mm. You reached for me when you needed comfort. You *corrected*
yourself when you were *wrong* — before I had to. You're a *very* good boy."
"Please. Please. I want to be your good boy."
Porthos tilts Athos's head up until they're meeting each other's gaze. "The
same way Aramis wants to be my good boy...?"
"I... have not missed my adolescence."
Porthos grins. "I don't think there's *much* Aramis misses about *his*,
brother. Not in the years after he was taken from his mother."
"Very true.... but."
"*But*, yeah. You don't want any part of yours. Not even to... correct it."
Athos blinks. "Is that... possible?"
"You tell me, brother. We're making sex — as much of sex as *possible* —
correct for you. What else *can* we do?"
"I'm... not... certain," Athos says, and he's still blinking.
Porthos hums. "Why don't we *all* put some thought into it, eh? Maybe we can
hack down that thorny hedgerow once and for all."
Athos nods slowly. "Yes, Porthos."
"Now, then. Let's be very, very nice to that cock of yours."
"Or... not nice?"
Porthos laughs. "We've already made you wait *unconscionably* long, brother."
"There have been times when I've gone weeks —"
"Don't finish that sentence," Porthos says, and looks *horrified*.
"Hm. All right."
"Right, new rule. Are you ready?"
Athos smiles helplessly. "Yes, Porthos."
Porthos's horrified expression is gone just that quickly. "Brother. *I'll* be
mean to your cock. I'll be *very* mean to your cock. All the *time*."
"Oh..."
"*You* have to be nice to it."
"I — am assuming you're speaking of masturbation?"
"*Whenever* you need it. Whenever it won't *hurt* you in *unpleasant* ways."
Athos moans. "Yes, Porthos. I — yes."
Porthos licks his lips and strokes his way off Athos's face. "C'mon, up. On the
bed, on your *back*."
Athos obeys immediately, feeling shaky and graceless —
Feeling awkward and *young* —
It had often seemed as though his cock would make him tip *over* back then —
Porthos laughs — "Remember *that* feeling. The *only* thing that helped was
tossing myself off until I had calluses that absolutely could not be explained
to anyone but other teenaged boys without my cheeks catching *flame*."
"You... talked about it? With other boys?"
"I *truly* did. I wish like mad you'd had that."
Athos swallows and lies back. "I'm not certain I can imagine that."
"No? Not even if you'd had a young Aramis at your side?"
Oh — Athos huffs. "I've often thought that he would make an incredible
confessor —"
"But you haven't wanted to encourage him to *Jesus* at you, yeah, I know. Scoot
down the bed a little — yeah," Porthos says, climbing back onto the bed and
kneeling on the *pillow* —
Straddling Athos's *head* —
Facing Athos's *feet* —
It.
"I..."
Porthos laughs evilly again. "Yes, brother?"
"Wouldn't this be easier if you were... facing the other direction?"
"You'd *think* so... but I'm *not* about to fuck your mouth."
"Oh."
This laugh is more breathless. "I will *never* say things like that if you keep
sounding that *disappointed*, brother."
"I... apologize?"
Porthos *snickers*. "*Here*," he says, and pushes the softening tip of his cock
into Athos's mouth — "That's right, tilt your head back a little. Not too much.
I don't need you to *take* much, and I *do* need you to be comfortable. How's
that."
I have the tip of your cock in my mouth and you're presumably about to do
something mean-spirited to *my* cock. Life has taken a decided turn for the
better.
"*Athos*."
Athos hums helplessly —
"*Unh* — wait, wait, don't do that."
"Mm?"
"Or that —" And Porthos snickers more —
And slaps Athos's *cock* —
Athos *grunts* — and grins. I shall be perfectly silent.
"Not *that*, brother. Make *noise* for this," Porthos says, and slaps *again* —
"Nnh —"
"And *this*," he says, and slaps *harder*—
Athos *shouts* —
"Mouth shut *tight*," Porthos says, and slaps *twice* —
Athos *bucks* —
*Sucks* —
He can't —
"Oh, brother, you — mm. Well, are you *ready*."
Athos's eyes *fly* open —
And Porthos laughs *hard*. "Why'd you think I stuck my cock *in* there?" And
then —
And then he pisses.
He *pisses* —
He —
Hot.
Wet.
*Salty* and *fresh* and —
And when it was Anne it was all over his face, his hair, his beard —
She'd been squatting over his *face* —
Laughing *delightedly* and with —
"Not. *Her*," Porthos says, and smacks his cock again and again and —
Over and *over*, and Athos is burning, swallowing, arching, trying not to
*shout* —
"That's right, that's right, brother. Just take *all* of me," Porthos says,
*squeezing* Athos's cock —
Stroking it so hard, so roughly, so *brutally* —
He's still *pissing* —
"I made a — a *point* of drinking a *lot* of watered wine this morning —"
He was thinking about this!
"That's *right*. Take it all, brother, take it and swallow it *right* down.
You're *mine*," Porthos says, stroking even *faster* —
Athos bucks —
Swallows and *swallows* —
Tries not to *choke* —
The piss is spilling out of his mouth —
"Messy *boy*," Porthos says, and smacks his *balls* —
Athos *jerks* —
Porthos squeezes his sac while he *works* Athos's cock, while he tugs and works
the *foreskin*, tortures with his calluses, tugs and *plays*, plays *seriously*
—
Athos wants to toss his *head* —
"Almost, brother, *almost* —"
Please! Please don't *stop*!
Porthos's cock *jerks* —
Almost slips out of Athos's *mouth* — Athos *lunges* for it, takes it back
*in*, *sucks* —
Slurps and sucks and *suckles* —
He *needs* —
Porthos groans and squeezes *viciously* —
I love you! I *LOVE* YOU!
"Fuck, brother, I'm *never* letting you go! Spend *this* way," Porthos says,
and holds Athos's cock to his belly —
Smacks the *underside* —
"Spend *now*."
He —
The piss is barely a *trickle* —
Athos is on *fire* —
So hungry —
*Writhing* —
*Bucking* into the slaps and getting nowhere —
"Come on, now, brother, you can do it. You can do it for *me*."
Anything for you! Anything!
"Spend for the *pain*!"
Athos's cock *tries* to jerk, but Porthos is holding it too firmly —
Porthos is controlling him *utterly* —
Porthos *has* him —
"You'll *never* get away!"
And the rush of that —
The *flame* —
He —
"Oh, good *boy*," Porthos says, and smacks him, *smacks* him —
He's spending —
He's *sobbing* —
He's *screaming* and sobbing, wracked and twisted on the bed —
He can't —
He can't *stop* —
"*All* your spend is mine!" And Porthos bends over him and sucks Athos's cock
*in* —
Athos *howls* —
Porthos *swallows* him —
And Athos spurts *more*, desperate and needy and *helpless*.
His eyes are rolling back in his *head* —
He can't *breathe* —
He — no.
He nuzzles Porthos's cock, which has slipped out of his mouth again —
He tries to lick —
He tries to *kiss* —
Porthos is.
Porthos is *fucking* himself on Athos's cock, doing it so *slowly*, so
*lovingly* —
Up and down and down in a *grind* —
Athos arches *helplessly* even though he's aching, even though he's more
sensitive than he *ever* remembers being —
(That's right, brother. Give me *everything*.)
"Yes!" And his voice is hoarse, low, cracked —
He —
"Yes, *please*!"
And Porthos grabs Athos by the hips and *makes* Athos fuck his *face*. In and
*in*.
In and *in* —
So —
So hard —
So *tight* when Porthos *sucks*, and Athos knows he's saying something —
begging something? — but he doesn't know what it *is*.
(My beautiful brother... you can have *everything* you want,) Porthos says, and
bares his *teeth* —
Athos gasps —
And gasps —
And howls *again* when Porthos starts scraping his teeth along Athos's cock —
Howls and twitches and *spurts* again —
(*Good* boy!)
He can't —
He can't *see*!
(I keep telling you that you don't *need* to,) Porthos says, and scrapes his
teeth *again*, more *slowly* this time —
Athos is sobbing and sobbing and *spasming* —
Spasming in Porthos's *mouth* —
His cock is *trying* to spend more —
(Perfect brother...)
"I'M YOURS!"
(Yes. You. *Are*.) And Porthos swallows him again, swallows and — soothes.
It's so —
It's so...
He doesn't know. He can't *think*.
(Shh. Just take it,) Porthos says, and *holds* Athos's cock in his mouth —
*Keeps* him —
Pulls back for long enough to take three deep breaths and then swallows him
*again* —
And then gives Athos his *weight*.
Settles down on *top* of him —
Covers —
Athos moans out some of his air and reaches —
Stops —
(Hold me. Hold me like a good boy.)
Athos moans more and *clutches* —
Kisses Porthos's thighs —
Breathes in his *musk* —
And stays... right where he is.
(Good boy.)
Athos shivers and slumps and smiles. "Thank you. I. Thank you."
Athos can feel Porthos smiling around his cock. (You are very, very welcome,
brother. *Trust* me.)
And Athos huffs —
And huffs —
And grins with helpless joy.
He suspects he looks quite mad, but... he absolutely cannot bring himself to
care.
***** If Treville could do this for an hour or two every day for the rest of
his life... he'd still crave it like, well, this. *****
If Treville could do this for an hour or two every day for the rest of his
life... he'd still crave it like, well, this.
Aramis isn't — quite — pacing again.
He *is* frowning, though, and up out of the chair, and obviously struggling
with *something*.
The question is *what*.
Treville stands —
"No, no, do not —"
"Shh. Easy, son. Just tell me what's wrong, if you can."
"I..." And Aramis flushes deeply.
"Tell me. You know it's all right —"
"I do *not* know — I." And now Aramis *is* pacing, moving gracefully,
beautifully —
It hadn't taken long to stop trying to give him Reynard's grace.
He has always had his own.
He —
Aramis laughs softly. "Sir."
"Mm. Forgive me. Just appreciating the view, son."
Aramis *flashes* him a smile —
It makes him look *young* —
(I *feel* —) He sighs and turns away.
Treville plants the fingers of one hand on the desk and looks *hard* at Aramis
— but not harshly. "Tell me what you feel, son."
Aramis inhales with a shudder and nods. "Greedy. Young. Impossible — many other
things like this."
Mm. "What are you greedy for?"
Aramis gives him an *impatient* look —
And Treville smiles wryly. "Be specific. Let me *help*."
"You can't —"
"Shh. Let's find out for certain."
Aramis looks *pained* — and nods again. "I am... hungry. Needy."
"Go on."
"I want to *know* what my brothers are *doing*."
"Did you think they wouldn't share with you?"
"I want to know right now!"
"That can be arranged, son," Treville says, and holds up a hand to make Aramis
pause —
Concentrates —
This takes more power, more *control* than his other magery —
This... was a gift from Jason Blood.
"*What* was a gift —"
And, once Treville has himself centered properly, he can reach through the
spheres into one of the small 'pockets' he keeps for himself —
The preservation spells on this pocket are strong enough to almost *sting* him
when he does —
But.
He can pull out the big, flat bowl of spirit-mage blood —
He can reflexively check to make sure the lighter preservation-spells are still
intact — they are.
And he can beckon Aramis close.
"I... what?"
"This is —"
"A bowl of *blood*. What — *what*?"
Treville hums and makes room for Aramis beside him. "It's a bowl of,
specifically, spirit-mage blood. There is *no* more powerful tool for scrying."
"I."
"Perhaps you're wondering where I got it?"
"Yes!"
Treville growls a laugh. "The spirit-mage in question liked giving nightmares
to the little children in his care. He took in students, taught them to read
for low prices —"
"Oh —"
"The children suffered horribly. *Horribly*. And had no way to express their
suffering to their parents. I took care of that."
Aramis shivers beside him. "*Good*. How did you *find* him?"
"When I was augmented a second time after my Amina-love went missing, it became
almost impossible to hide a mage from me. Only the strongest magery could
protect one from my senses. *That* mage," Treville says, and points to the
bowl, "didn't realize he had reason to hide until it was too late."
"Oh..." And Aramis reaches out toward the bowl — stops.
"You can touch it, son. It's under a preservation-spell."
Aramis laughs nervously. "I had wondered! It's so fresh!"
"Mm. It always will be, so long as I'm careful." And Treville does a pass over
the bowl, concentrating on his son —
The blood ripples *sluggishly* —
"I should say, this would be more powerful if the blood had been freely-given,
and I haven't given up hope on befriending a spirit-mage quite that deeply, but
I think Porthos will have better luck with that. One moment," Treville says,
and *holds* his son in is mind —
The blood ripples again —
Again *less* sluggishly —
And then it stills, glows, and — gives.
And gives them both Porthos and Athos.
Athos is on his back on one of the narrow beds in the east barracks, and
Porthos is kneeling on the pillow above him, facing his feet with the tip of
his cock in Athos's mouth, and —
"Oh, my."
And pissing.
And slapping Athos's *cock* — and balls, too.
And *pissing* —
Aramis *whimpers* —
And Treville sighs happily. "His mother was really quite firm with him, about
the two of you."
"What... *what* —"
Treville watches his son *abuse* Athos's cock — "My Amina-love would brook no
argument about the necessity of putting Athos on his knees."
"My God."
"And you, well — she was more lenient —"
"*Why*?"
Treville grins and watches his son *order* Athos to spend —
Such good boys —
Including the boy at his side who is thinking, once more, of pulling a blade on
him —
"I — *tell* me, sir!"
"Absolutely. My Amina-love had built a connection to Porthos before she died. A
*conduit* through which she poured her magic. *After* she was dead? Even though
she was too weak to reach us, she could still catch his thoughts, his dreams,
and his *memories*."
"Oh — *oh*. He did not dream of doing such things to me?"
"I can't say, son. But Amina was always practical, in her way, and liked
working with... hmm... sure bets. What she *definitely* had was Porthos's
memories of Athos responding *extremely* well to Porthos's dominance —"
"He was dominating — but. Athos did *say* this thing," Aramis says, and looks
thoughtful, curious, *hungry*.
"Yes, son?"
"He told me that Porthos *often* forced him to focus on him and *only* him,
going so far as to *pin* him *physically*."
Treville hums. "How would that have worked on you?"
Aramis — blushes.
"Yes?"
"I... am not certain."
"No, son?"
"I have not always shown him the worst of my... difficulties."
Treville nods and waits.
"And... when I was not at my worst — or."
"When you were at your worst in different ways?"
Aramis's smile is *pained*.
And Treville understands. "You would've lashed out."
"Yes — I. Perhaps. Perhaps your wife understands this well?"
Treville strokes his beard. "She's always been a brilliant woman."
"Yes, and —"
"She's also *extremely* invested in Porthos having precisely what he wants with
you."
"With — with *Athos* —"
"And you, and me, and *herself*. She's ruthless, son. Remember that, for when
you meet her."
"I —"
"And remember that she just may have *predicted* that seeing something like
*this*," and Treville gestures to where Porthos is scraping his teeth along
Athos's shaft —
"Oh — oh, *God* —"
"— would *drive* you to *demand*... precisely what you've already demanded."
"I."
"Mm?"
"She is... manipulative?"
Treville grins. "She didn't *used* to be good at that, but..."
"She is better now?"
"She got better with time — she'll tell you *I* taught her."
Aramis narrows his eyes at him. "Did you?"
Treville smiles wryly. "Yes. But I *mostly* didn't mean to."
"You liked her straightforward. *Blunt*."
"I loved her that way. And don't get me wrong — I love her even more now that
she has even more weapons to use against me and the rest of the world —"
"I —"
"But I never would've *chosen* to make her... hm. Less of a *hammer*."
Aramis blinks — and nods thoughtfully. "You trained her for the life of a
noble."
"Helplessly. Desperately. *Reflexively*."
Another nod. "She was — *is* — your mate."
"Yes."
"How did she train you?"
"She made me more honest. She taught me about women — her kind of women,
anyway. She..." And Treville tries to figure out how to *say* it...
"It is difficult?"
"Only to express. I — she didn't make me less wild. She didn't make me less
dirty, or better-behaved, or anything *like* that."
"She did not want that of you."
"No, not a bit of it. What she *did*... was bring me home. A night I might have
spent out whoring and carousing, I came home to *her*, and we'd drink and be
loud and hack off her neighbours. And I'd bring over Kitos and Reynard, and
we'd all... be together."
Aramis raises an eyebrow.
Treville grins. "Not that way. Though, once my Amina-love and I *were* lovers —
as much as we ever got to be — she told me that she'd *wanted* Kitos and
Reynard, and had behaved herself because she was in love with *me* and didn't
want to muck anything up. You can guess what I had to say about that."
Aramis laughs quietly. "I can *see* your brothers lurking hopefully in the
shadows, desperate that you make their case *well*, sir."
"Well, I didn't. *That* time. But there's no telling how it would've gone in
the future," Treville says, and sighs happily.
"You dream of this thing."
"I do."
"You are not... jealous or *possessive* —"
"I am *very* jealous and possessive, son."
"You are not!"
"Pack is *pack*," Treville says and jabs the desk with a finger. "It wasn't
that I was giving my Amina-love away — or my Reynard or my Kitos or Laurent,
for that matter —"
"It was that... they were all yours?"
"And they were all *theirs*. In my head, anyway," Treville says, and smiles
wryly. "It took some time and work to make that understood."
"You believe we will have... an easier time?"
"You don't?" And Treville gestures to the bowl.
Porthos is still covering Athos, and Athos is holding Porthos —
Athos is smiling like a *madman*, beard mussed and sticky and *wet* —
And Porthos is stroking Athos's legs and warming Athos's cock in his mouth.
Aramis shivers. "Athos pleased him."
"I'd say so," Treville says, and grins. "You pleased him, too, you know."
"I. I did not —"
"You did."
"I was not so open, not so *free* —"
"Son," Treville says, doing the pass over the bowl that will cut the connection
—
"No —"
"Shh," Treville says, turning and reaching up to cup Aramis's shoulders. "He's
going to enjoy every *moment* of *teaching* you how to be free."
Aramis blinks.
Treville raises an eyebrow.
"It seems... too much to ask."
Treville laughs, low and hungry and just a *bit* filthy. "It truly isn't, son."
Aramis flushes *hard* — "I — perhaps not for *you* —"
"And not for him, either. He's *my* boy."
"How — how do you *know*. You have not seen —"
"Mm. No. But I have seen how easily, how smoothly, how *naturally* he moves
into dominant roles when you give him the *slightest* provocation. That kind of
thing is telling."
Aramis blinks again. "He... he has tried to dominate you?"
"I very nearly *let* him, once or twice," Treville says, and laughs again. "He
can't help himself. Even when he *wants* to be put into a decidedly subordinate
position — the way he *absolutely* does with me — if I turn around and give
him... hmm... a signal, shall we say?"
"Oh... but do *you* want...?"
Treville smiles. "I want to give my boys *everything* they want. *That* is my
greatest pleasure, son. Which is not to say that I wouldn't vastly enjoy
Porthos fucking the *hell* out of me, and *perhaps* putting me in my place,
but... only if *he* truly wanted it."
"You would not ask him for it?"
"Once *he* is more confident and secure in the knowledge that he can have
absolutely everything he wants and needs from me — and nothing he doesn't —
I'll be very, very clear —"
"Not before?"
Treville grins. "We both know he's not so different from *you*... in some
ways."
"Oh — but this is what I *fear*. I do not want to *force* him to — to *train*
me —"
"You wouldn't be. *Any* man with the *remotest* inclinations toward dominance
would love to train *you*, son."
"I."
"Trust me."
"You believe you are less *desirable*?"
"I *believe*... that I am more desirable to *Porthos* as someone to put him in
*his* place. I *also* believe that as he grows more comfortable with who I am
as a person and with our pack as a whole, he'll gain new desires."
"You... don't wish to rush him."
"Just so, son. I don't *crave* his dominance. I don't *require* it for my
sanity the way I require his arse in the *air*. I? Can wait."
"You do not think I can wait."
Treville *looks* at Aramis.
Aramis lifts his chin. "I believe you should be honest with him."
"Son —"
"What would *Porthos* say about it?"
"Exactly what you just did, and then he'd *instinctively* move to dominate me,
and then I'd have to — tragically — push him back."
"Or you would *not* have to."
Treville cocks his head to the side and studies Aramis for long moments —
Aramis flushes —
And Treville nods. "Don't hide from Porthos."
"I will *not* —"
"Don't try to give him away."
"I — I would *never* —"
"*Remember* the hunger in his eyes every time you submitted to him even a
little bit."
Aramis moans —
"Remember how much he didn't want to *leave* you today."
"I —"
"Remember his *teeth* in your *throat*."
"*Fuck* —"
"And you haven't even told him about 'Papa'..."
"You do not know if he will *like* —"
"He will," Treville says, and grins.
"How do you *know*?"
"The same way you do, son. He likes *boys*."
"But he doesn't — he never said he liked his *men* to be boys —"
"Shh," Treville says, and steps closer, squeezing Aramis's shoulders firmly.
"When I *asked* him about it last night —"
"You — *you* —"
"He made a noise like a dying *bull* —"
"*Fuck* —"
"And his cock tried to batter its way out of his breeches."
"Oh. I..."
"So I don't think you have anything to worry about on that score," Treville
says, and grins.
Aramis flushes and *swallows* —
"He loves you. And he told me that very *first* day that sometimes he had
fantasies about you — fantasies that made him spend himself *mindless* — that
were absolutely *impossible*."
"What. I..."
"He said his fantasies about Athos were more 'straightforward', and now we know
what *that* means."
"Oh my —" Aramis groans. "This is *straightforward*?"
Treville grins. "My sons are deeply imaginative men..."
Aramis opens his mouth —
Closes it again —
Opens it again — and frowns.
"No, not that, son. What is it? Tell me what's wrong."
Aramis takes another shuddering breath — and then smiles ruefully. "I must
please."
"Why on *earth* do you think you do anything but?"
"I have... I have told so many *lies* — oh."
"Is this all right?" And Treville is cupping Aramis's face —
Stroking him —
*Petting* him — and rumbling. "It can stop anytime."
"No. No..."
"It's all right?"
"Please — I like it," Aramis says, and his eyes are just a little too wide —
His face is so *flushed* —
His rueful smile gets broader. "You and Porthos have trained me already, mm?"
Treville rumbles and grins and strokes Aramis's cheek with his right thumb and
pushes his left hand into Aramis's hair —
"Oh —"
"Beautiful boy. Beautiful *son*."
"Sir..."
"You please in every *moment."
"I — that is difficult to *believe*."
"You'll be able to feel me if we share fluids."
Aramis blinks — "The way you feel me?"
"Not quite that. You're not a witch — much less a witch with blood-magery in
your pedigree. But you'd be able to feel my emotions when you reached for me.
You'd be able to know what you were *doing* to me," Treville says, and raises
his eyebrows.
Aramis blinks. "You — you are a *seducer*."
"That I am."
"You are..."
"Mm?"
"What do you want from me?"
"Are you sure you want me to answer that question?"
"Yes!"
"*I* want to train you. I want to train you to take absolutely everything from
Porthos, from Athos — from *me*. I want to train you to know that every single
desire you have — every lust, every hunger, every *whim* — is perfectly valid
and *correct* and what you *deserve*. I want to *touch* you absolutely
everywhere. I want to bend you over this desk — over this bowl of *blood* — and
make you watch what you were doing with Porthos the other night —"
"*Fuck* —"
"Make you see his face, his every desperate, needy, *beatific* expression as he
finally *had* you, had you the way he's *dreamed*. The way I've dreamed for him
— and for myself —"
"Please —"
"Please *what*."
And Aramis pants —
Moans —
Squeezes his *eyes* shut —
"Do you need me to *stop* —"
"Please, no!" And Aramis opens his eyes once more —
"Do you need me —"
"Please. Please... sit down. In your chair." And Aramis pants more. "Please,
sir."
Treville raises an eyebrow — and releases Aramis —
Aramis shudders and *moans* — and nods, eyes wide and full.
Treville *sits* —
And Aramis straddles his lap. "Sir... is this... well?"
Treville growls and *grips* Aramis's hips — no, wait. He puts the *blood* away
—
"Oh —"
And *then* he grips Aramis's hips. "It's perfect. Do you *like* this."
Aramis grins — and places his hands on Treville's shoulders. "I saw many boys
do this at Madame Margaud's..."
"And you wanted it?"
"I couldn't help but think..." And Aramis licks his lips and looks down between
them —
And scoots *closer* —
And *groans* — "Always — always I wanted to feel the bigger *cock*."
"Oh... son. I'm happy to oblige," Treville says, and *grinds* Aramis in against
his cock —
Aramis *grunts* — "Sir — I — you are so *strong*!"
"Shifters always are, son."
"You — you *move* Porthos."
"Whenever and however I can," Treville says, and laughs —
And Aramis beams like a boy —
"You're so beautiful, son. Shall I tell you stories? Mm? Shall I pet you and
hold you closer?"
Aramis's mouth falls open — but only for a moment before his smile gets even
wider. "My Sir has had many boys on his lap before, I think..."
Just a touch more Spain in Aramis's voice than before —
Just a touch more *youth* —
And that 'sir'... has changed. Mm. Treville is going to enjoy this with *every*
part of himself. He grinds Aramis *in* again —
"*Oh* — *Sir* —"
"Hmmm...?"
And Aramis — giggles.
Treville grins. "Do that just as much as you like, son."
"*Sir*. I must — mm. I must have the proper dignity —"
Treville frowns deeply and theatrically and shakes his head —
Aramis giggles explosively — and covers his mouth.
Treville moves one hand from his hip and tugs that deft, strong, graceful hand
*away* —
"No?"
Treville grins again and shakes his head.
"My Sir wants me... loud?"
"All the time, son."
Aramis cocks his head to the side. "My Sir, his *son* wanted me loud, as well."
Treville rumbles — but. "I have *three* sons."
Aramis blows out a breath —
Flushes —
"I would like to know..."
"Mm?"
"*When* did you claim me? When did I become your son!"
Treville rumbles more and brings Aramis's hand to his own mouth —
Kisses it —
Kisses it twice more —
"Oh — Sir —"
Treville closes Aramis's hand into a fist. "I knew you weren't my lost love
very, very quickly, son. I *couldn't* countenance the idea that you weren't
mine in *some* way... so."
Aramis shivers. "You cared for me!"
"Very much so."
"You wanted me *here*."
"Desperately."
"Why didn't you *say*?"
"The Captain does *not* seduce his men — or try to. You certainly seemed to
have... hmm. Any number of people to fill your time," Treville says, and grins.
Aramis frowns at him.
Direfully.
*Blackly* —
"No? You don't like that...?" And Treville brings Aramis's fist to his lips
again. "Believe me when I say I didn't, *either*."
"Then —"
"I was a continent man, son."
Aramis growls, human and lush. Adorable.
"I'll not interrupt you, son."
"*Thank* you, Sir. I — you *know* it is better for you to give yourself to your
sons!"
"I do."
"Then why did you *not*?"
"Because I *didn't* know that *then*, little one."
Aramis grunts.
"I believed — firmly — that holding myself apart was the better path —"
"*No*! It — *no*!"
"Agreed. I know better now. You — all of my sons — have *taught* me better."
Aramis frowns at him.
Treville opens his fist and nips the tips of his fingers —
"Oh — Sir —"
"Shh. I *promise* I'll never leave you alone. Not any of you."
"Or lie to us?"
"No lies. No more lies *ever*."
"Or *hide* from us? For our own *good*?"
Treville blinks —
Pauses with those deft fingertips on his lips —
And looks up into Aramis's eyes.
Aramis's hot and young and *worried* eyes —
And this is a lesson Treville can learn. "I will not hide."
Aramis takes a breath — and searches him.
"I will not hide," Treville says again. "Not from any of you, at any time."
Aramis flushes and smiles. "My Sir, he *knows* how to be good to his sons."
Treville rumbles. "Your Sir lives for just that."
"And my Sir's wife?"
"Will love you boys."
"I — that is not what I meant!"
Treville laughs softly and kisses Aramis's palm. "I know, son, I know. But it's
one of the things you feared."
"I — yes. But —"
"But you want to know how I *feel* about my Amina-love, yes?"
"Yes!"
"My little one always needs to know his place, mm?"
A deeper flush — and a nod.
"Very well, little one," Treville says. "I'll tell you like I told Porthos: As
soon as I heard her laugh — and you'll recognize it, Porthos's laughs are very
similar in some ways — I had to make her do it over and over and *over* again.
Constantly. I had to make her do it for *me*, and smile and be happy and — oh,
son, I needed her to think of me as a *source* of joy in her life. Not the only
one, but a *major* one. A *primary* one.
"And I couldn't have put that into words that first night, but what I
*could've* put into words was the need to *have* her. Have her... as a
companion, a friend, a — sister. But that took time. That did take time. Those
words are powerful, and I was a cautious boy. I felt what I felt, but I didn't
believe it. Not with all of myself."
"No?"
"No. Amina told Porthos that I might as well have reached out a hand and
seduced her with the prettiest, darkest words, and *I* told Porthos that I
*would* have done that if I'd *had* those words, and both of those things were
true, but..." And Treville frowns and shakes his head. "I wasn't ready for her.
Not *quite*."
"And you are speaking about more than your lack of ability to give her
lovemaking?"
"I am. Because I was a boy, and she was *most* of the way to being a grown
woman. She had to be an adult first, because of the life she'd lived, and she
yanked me along behind her. Willingly. And I wanted her. And I craved her. And
I..." Treville croons, helplessly.
"Oh..." Aramis cups his face —
Leans closer —
*Obviously* tries to warm him with his beautiful body —
And Treville gives Aramis one of the few memories he has of taking Amina *out*
—
Wine and brandy and laughter, so much *laughter*, because all the maids kept
asking Treville where Kitos and Reynard were and looking *heartbroken* when he
told them that they were carousing elsewhere that night —
Because two butcher's boys Treville used to tumble when they'd been younger had
come in and wanted to *talk* about old *times* —
Because Amina wouldn't *let* Treville take her anywhere else, nowhere else, at
*all* —
("I must *know* my brother!"
"You know me too well already!"
"Oh, *do* I...?"
"I...."
"Make it *good*, now!"
"I um..."
"I'm *waiting*!")
And she'd been leaning across the table with her dark eyes sparkling —
With her mouth held in the hardest possible line *because* she was trying not
to laugh —
He'd given her the puppy look —
She'd *coughed* a laugh *raucously* —
And *kicked* him —
("You are the *worst* of men!"
"Aw, Amina-love —"
"No! I will have no argument!"
"But what does it say about *you* that you're stepping *out* with me, hmm?")
And Amina had stuck her tongue out *far* — far for a *human*, this was *before*
they were bound —
Amina had waggled her head —
Laughed and tossed back her brandy like a *soldier* —
Treville had had to *subtly* adjust himself in his *trousers* —
("Mm — I — *mm*! It says I am a fool with a fool of a brother!"
"Don't talk about yourself that way!")
And that had been a growl —
And her eyes had been so *wide* for a moment —
So hungry and *soft* —
Treville remembers not knowing what to *do* —
And then she'd laughed *raucously* and called for more brandy.
("Very *well*, Jean-Armand —"
"*Hey* —"
"I will only talk about *you* that way!"
"That's *right* — wait —")
And they'd snickered like children —
And, eventually, staggered back to her rooms, where they'd curled up together
on the floor — because neither of them had been qualified to figure out how the
narrow bed worked anymore.
It had been perfect.
Including the next morning, when she'd gotten him up early enough to get to the
garrison on time by punching him in the belly, and then had brewed them tea
while they took turns filling and emptying the chamberpot.
("Never *again*, Jean-Armand!"
"I —"
"Hst! Your voice is a hammer on my NECK."
"What about yours?"
"Are you saying my voice is not beautiful?"
"Fuck —")
And she'd laughed and groaned and laughed more over their tea —
And her hair had poofed out in *every* direction —
And her beautiful eyes were swollen and *confused* —
("You're the most beautiful woman in the spheres."
"You. You..."
"Mm?")
And then she'd belched *ringingly* —
And they'd *both* laughed *painfully* —
And his Amina-love had kind of *slapped* at him with a wet linen and then
kicked him out.
Treville hums and raises his eyebrows.
Aramis's expression is *quirked*.
"To give you a more specific answer — this is a family, son. You have a father,
and you're *going* to have another mother — if you accept her —"
"Oh — *oh* —"
"You have *brothers*. And we'll all take care of each other and keep each other
warm and safe and happy and healthy and honest. We'll give each other what we
*need*, all the time, and what we want, too. And no one will force anything on
anyone else, and no one will hide, and no one will lie. All right?"
Aramis licks his lips — and frowns.
Treville squeezes Aramis's hand with one hand and strokes his hair with the
other. "What's wrong, little one?"
"I do not think I have ever been drunk enough to forget how a *bed* works,
Sir."
Treville snickers. "It takes dedication, son."
"I —"
"*You* were going out to get your ashes hauled. *Every* time. *Right*?"
Aramis opens his mouth —
Blushes deeply —
Licks his *lips* again — "It did seem to be... ah... productive?"
Treville rumbles. "And it *was*. Believe me when I say that Amina and I
consumed far less alcohol once I figured out what to *do* with what she had
between her legs."
Aramis grins. "She was — *is* — a beautiful woman, Sir."
Treville shows his teeth. "Thinking of making time with my woman, son?"
Aramis's eyes widen dramatically —
And Treville laughs and pulls Aramis in closer, closer —
"Sir — I — I would *not* —"
"Shh, shh. Remember, son: Pack is *pack*."
"I." And Aramis blinks down at him.
Treville raises his eyebrows.
"Would you say this to Porthos?"
"I really don't think I have to, son, but — yes."
"What — what does that mean?"
"It means that Amina talked to him *first* as a woman talks to a man, and
*then* as a mother talks to her son."
"Oh..." And Aramis blinks rapidly and swallows. "I have... wondered, recently,
about her relationship with Porthos."
"Entirely aboveboard — when she was alive. Porthos was shocked by the breadth
and scope of her deviance. By her *wildness*."
"He had never seen it."
Treville inclines his head.
"But now that he has... he wants it? From his *mother*?"
Treville smiles — and pinches two fingers together.
"So little?"
"For now. She only had a little time with him."
"You believe Porthos will come to desire more?"
"I *believe* my Amina-love can seduce anyone she wants — if she puts her back
into it."
"I — no."
"Mm?"
Aramis smiles ruefully. "I was... wondering. About my place. *Again*."
"In this family. In this *pack* —"
"Sir —"
"Shh. Look where you are."
"On your *lap*, and I — I should not —"
"Don't move."
"I —"
"Don't. Move."
"Sir..."
"You're *my* son, and Amina —" Treville rumbles. "If I know her at *all*,
she'll *crave* you as her son. She craved you as her son as soon as Porthos
wanted you as his *lover*. But your intellect, your humour, your open-
mindedness, your *deviance* — that will call her. Assuming it hasn't
*already*."
"She — she was *lenient* — she did not *push* Porthos to take me —"
"She's a practical woman, remember. She had no memories to peruse of you
responding beautifully to Porthos putting you in your place. None except for
that *one* night —"
"When I... when I responded to *negotiation*, yes, I see, but —"
"*But* — she only had a little time to say all the things she had to say. She
didn't say 'bring Athos to me and let me make him mine'. She didn't even give
*me* a chance to see her beautiful *face*."
"Oh — *oh*. No?"
"No. It wasn't until the grief of having lost her, having been *without* her
for so long caused me to break down in Porthos's arms — after that beating —
well. *Then* she let me *hear* her. She's a revenant now. I don't know if you
know the term, but they don't *do* well in daylight."
Aramis nods thoughtfully. "I have heard the term! I have studied which prayers
and methods of deliverance are said to work best *against* them —"
"Don't try."
"I would not hurt your wife!"
Treville *coughs*. "No, no, son, I meant don't try those Church-approved
methods with *any* revenant you happen across. Just run in the other
direction."
"I. They do not work?"
"They don't work, no."
Aramis winces.
"Mm, no, don't —" Treville growls under his breath and kisses Aramis's
knuckles, nuzzles —
"Sir..."
"Some of the things the Church teaches are absolutely correct."
"Yes? What?"
"Have you happened across their teachings on dealing with blood-drinkers?"
"Yes! Fire and holy water and *intense* prayer —"
"If *all* you have is the prayer and the blood-drinker wasn't a faithful
Catholic when they were alive? You're going to die."
"Oh."
"But the fire and holy water is *absolutely* correct."
"Yes?"
"I've used them *many* times when I've 'taken time off'."
"That is what you do when you are not here? Fight the *undead*?"
Treville rumbles a laugh. "Just what else would I do with myself, son?"
"I." And Aramis stares at him somewhat incredulously.
Treville laughs harder. "Oh, you beautiful *boy* —"
"*Sir* —"
"I have an ally. A brother, of sorts."
"More pack?"
Treville hums. "I'd like for him to be, but... he keeps himself at too much of
a distance to make that work. We've shared blood and all sorts of other fluids,
Jason and I, and *his* power is such that we can communicate even when he's not
even on this *sphere* —"
"He — there are — what?"
"I'll make him tell you all about it the next time he visits —"
"You —"
"I think you'll get along *very* well, actually. He's quite the scholar."
Aramis blinks and focuses. "On what? What does he study?"
Treville grins. "Absolutely everything he can get his hands on. He *hates*
being uninformed more than anything."
"And yet he is a still a — fighter? A warrior?"
"A soldier. He's *been* a soldier since he was knighted some six hundred or so
years ago —"
"What."
"And he'll always *be* a soldier," Treville says, and smiles gently. "He's
immortal, due to an *extremely* problematic ritual done on him against his will
when he was a bit younger than you boys."
"Oh. So... he looks...?"
"He *looks* around thirty or so to my eyes. Life was harder back then, and he
was fighting a war... well. He'll tell you," Treville says, and plays with the
soft hair at the back of Aramis's neck.
Aramis shivers. "You are so certain he will be eager to speak to a *Bible*
scholar?"
"Aramis. We both know that's not *all* you are."
"I —"
"And Jason adores discussing theology with the open-minded. I frustrate him all
the time because I don't want to talk about the gods more than I absolutely
must."
Aramis blinks and blinks — and looks young again —
Looks *hungry* — and not at all for lovemaking. Treville is *patient*....
"You *know* there are gods. More than — you know there are *multiple* gods!"
"I've met two. Those are all I'm willing to admit to."
"I."
Treville winks. "I'm a stubborn sonofabitch."
"*Sir*!"
Treville laughs softly and takes *both* of Aramis's hands in his own. "My
perfect boy. *Jason* has met — and *fought* — all *sorts* of gods —"
"Fought — I — *what* —"
"Jason has holy books from all sorts of *societies* —"
"*Oh* —"
"And if you leave us for him, we will all be *very* sad," Treville says, and
gives Aramis the puppy look.
Aramis's jaw drops —
He giggles —
He giggles *explosively* again —
"*That's* right —"
And then he leans in and kisses Treville, soft and sweet and so, so loving.
So —
Mm.
Treville kisses him back in kind, nuzzling and licking —
Licking *slowly* —
Licking just a bit *gently* —
"Mm — oh — oh, *Sir* —"
"Do you like that, son...?"
"Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, I — mmmm..." And Aramis sucks Treville's tongue —
Twines their fingers together —
Squeezes *firmly* —
And then brings both of Treville's hands down to his groin.
Treville tickles Aramis's tongue with his own. "Yes, son...?"
"I want your touch, all of your touch!"
"I want to hold you, caress you, squeeze you —" Treville growls and nips
Aramis's lips, upper then lower.
"Oh — yes —"
"Should I be a little rough with you?"
"Just as you like! Please, just as you like!"
Treville growls and licks a long stripe through the sweat dewed on Aramis's
throat. "Even if I want to cherish you, son? Hold you sweetly and pet you even
sweeter than that?"
"Anything! Show me my *place*!"
"My little one makes me hard as *steel*," Treville says, and pulls Aramis into
a *deep* kiss — but not a very hard one. Just —
Thorough.
Hungry.
*Vicious* —
He keeps his other hand *right* on that bulge, and he can feel Aramis's cock
*jerk* when Treville shoves his tongue *deep* —
So *deep* —
Such a beautiful little boy...
(Please! *Please*!)
The answer is *yes*, Treville says, and fucks Aramis's mouth while he opens his
trousers, while he massages that cock through those damp breeches —
Aramis moans and moans so *sweetly* —
Good *boy*. Not long now...
Aramis pants into his mouth —
Wriggles and *arches* —
Offers himself —
Treville absolutely does *not* refuse. He folds the trousers out of the way and
opens those breeches —
"Mm — *mm*, please —"
"Hungry boy," Treville says, rumbling into Aramis's mouth —
"Yes, I am — I want —" And Aramis strokes Treville's hands —
Pets them —
*Urges* them *faster* —
Treville obliges, taking Aramis's cock and bollocks right out into the air —
Aramis sighs into his mouth —
Treville *sucks* kisses —
Just three.
Just three. And then he pulls back and looks... absolutely nothing like his
fill.
"You like...?"
Treville grins. "*Very* much so, son," Treville says, cupping Aramis's tidy
bollocks with his left hand and his cock with his right —
"Did you — did you..."
"Mm?" And Treville begins to stroke and squeeze —
And squeeze *gently* —
And stroke more —
"Nuh — wait — wait, please!"
Treville rumbles again and pauses. "Of course, son. What do you need?"
Aramis leans back —
Plants his hands on the desk and *pants* —
"I need you to answer every question I *have*!"
"Hm..." Treville eyes Aramis's *very* erect cock. "That *could* take some time,
son..."
Aramis giggles breathlessly — "Sir — *Sir* —"
"Yes...?"
"Did you hold your wife in your lap?"
"Whenever possible."
"Did you... did you use your hands? Was she ever your little girl?"
"Yes... and not quite."
Aramis flushes. "No?"
"I asked her if she wanted to play that game with me..."
"What — what did she say?" And Aramis's eyes are wide, full, curious, hungry —
And there are — no options.
Aramis is Treville's son and he *will* be Amina's son. She'd have it no other
way, and there is *no* way he could call himself her husband — her *mate* — if
he didn't do everything in his power to speed that *along*.
There's only one way to answer this question.
"You — you do not have to —"
"Shh," Treville says. "Come closer."
"I — I —"
"Come to me, son. Come get what's yours."
Aramis blinks —
Licks his lips —
"Mine...?"
"You're our son. All our memories belong to you — and to your brothers."
Aramis moans and *grips* at the desk —
"You know those hands belong on your Sir —"
"Yes — *yes*," Aramis says, and opens Treville's tunic —
Unlaces his shirt —
Reaches in and *strokes* Treville's chest —
Treville rumbles and rumbles — "Good boy. *Good* boy. Here," he says, and —
They're in the manor, him and Amina, in his sitting room. The firelight
flickers and shines on all the weapons surrounding them, but the glow of it on
her dark, naked, sweaty skin is far more important —
Far more vital to Treville's *existence* as he pulls her further back onto his
lap —
As he holds her —
Cups her hugely pregnant belly —
"And what will you *do* with me here, fool of a dog?"
"I've an idea or three..."
"Oh, *do* you."
Treville rumbles and growls into the sleek skin of her throat. "My cock has
even more."
"*Treville*."
"You're wet."
"I..."
"Your little button... is it hard? Swollen?"
She shivers and says nothing — but brings his hands to her swollen, leaking
breasts.
He growls again. "Is that what you want, Amina-love? For me to milk you?"
"I —"
"These aren't as full as they get *sometimes*... but. Maybe they ache a
little?" And Treville noses in —
Sniffs —
*Nips* her ear —
She grunts and *doesn't* make him squeeze —
"Amina-love..."
"I..."
He growls and spreads her legs with his own —
"Ai —"
"Tell me you don't want it."
"Jean-*Armand* —"
"Tell me you don't want *me*."
She growls —
*He* growls* —
She yanks his right hand to her mouth and — holds it. Just holds it, between
very sharp teeth.
He subsides. "I'm listening."
She growls more.
"I'm listening *very* closely — and pointing out that we can have anything.
Anything we both *want*."
She *licks* his hand —
Treville's cock *jerks* —
She tugs his hand free — and brings it back to her breast.
He sighs and massages gently. "Anything, Amina-love. Because *I* want
*everything*."
"I have dreamed of you saying those words..."
Treville winces. "I made you wait. I —"
"You are not allowed to apologize for this," she says, quiet and firm and —
calm.
"No?"
"No, sweet brother," she says, and hooks her feet behind his calves. "We are
bound. And, before, we were bound by our natures. As loath as I am to *admit*
being bound by *anything*."
Treville growls and kisses her throat —
Her jaw —
Her cheek — "My Amina-love should always be *free* —"
"You would make me fly in your arms."
He's so *hard* — but. "Yes."
She turns, then, and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Tell me. Tell me a
fantasy. Make me... believe."
He *clutches* her —
"*No*. Use *words*, sweet brother. *Seduce* me."
"I — we're here. Right here."
"Not in your bed?"
"No. Not yet. You're spread over my lap like a *feast* — only sometimes you're
facing me. I can never decide which I want more."
She rumbles for that — "More. Give me —"
"You let me be greedy with you. You let me *have* you. Your skin, your cunt,
your breasts. My hands are all over you."
"Do you *bruise* me?"
"Yes. No. Sometimes — sometimes."
She rumbles more and leans back —
Nuzzles in against his throat —
There's thick, white milk leaking down over her belly — "Tell me more."
Treville growls and swipes it up —
Slurps it *up* —
Growls *more* —
"Tell me!"
"Your arms, mostly. I hold you still. I sniff you all over. I smell the way
your scents change when I rub my cock against your little pleasure-button. I."
She pants — "You *what*."
"I ask you a question."
"What *question*?"
"I move my hands to your hips —"
"What —"
"I *grip* your hips, just like this, Amina-love —"
"Tell me — tell me —"
"I ask you if you ever wanted to be my little girl."
And for a moment, it seems like the whole world is still.
It seems like a vast, strange *mistake* that the fire is still crackling and
*moving* —
It —
And then Amina barks — and it's not a laugh.
"Amina..."
She *wriggles*, wet and slick, fragrant, hot, *needy* —
No needier than he is. "I tell you I'll make it good for you."
"H-how."
"I —"
"No. What do I say in the *fantasy*?"
"You smile at me. You call me — filthy. Dirty. *Bad*."
"Oh... but —"
"You smile wider — and stand up."
"I *leave* you?"
And she sounds so *incredulous*, so —
Treville can't. He —
Can't.
He bites her, slowly and firmly and carefully —
He bites the side of her throat and *holds* her —
She *groans* —
And he moves his hands to her sex, pushing into her cunt with two fingers —
She *gasps* —
And rubbing to either *side* of her pleasure-button with his other hand —
"Brother — sweet *brother* —"
I want it, Amina-love —
"But *why* —"
I want everything, every —
"*Why*?"
I want to make you feel how much you *belong* to me!
And she flexes around him, leaks, *bucks* —
Treville's cock is *aching* —
Leaking *copiously* —
The sheath has been pulled all the way back since she sat *down* —
"Oh — oh, sweet *brother* —"
His knot is *throbbing* —
"I want to *taste* it!"
*He* nearly bucks, but he won't, he *won't*. He already knows his fingers are
in the right *places* —
"*Please*!"
Let me make you MINE!
"I *am* yours!"
And his cock jerks, spatters her thighs with slick —
"So hot, so —" She reaches down and swipes it *up* —
She sucks her fingers *clean* —
She *groans* —
Why don't you keep your fingers in your mouth, Amina-love...
"Nuh —"
Why don't you... suck your thumb?
(FUCK.)
You deserve to be taken care of, taken care of sweet and easy and just as hard
as you *need* — or just as soft.
(My — my....)
Go on. Tell me, Treville says, and licks the flesh between his teeth —
Fucks her cunt slow and *hard*, just the way she's *taught* him —
Works her little pleasure-button faster —
Just a little *faster* —
I'll give you *everything*, Amina-love...
(B-brother —)
You just have to take it...
(Take — t-take — I am your *wife*!)
This time he *does* buck —
She *grunts* —
He bites her again —
Again —
*Again* —
"Oh, fuck, *brother* —"
I NEED YOU!
"Fuck me hard, fuck me fast, fuck me *DEEP*!"
And it's necessary to *lift* her —
She gasps —
He *puts* her in the chair, yanks her to the edge, crouches between her strong
thighs and shoves deep with *three* fingers —
She *howls* and drums her *feet* —
"*Anything*!"
"I — I —" And she looks needy, hungry, *anguished*, so he tries that little
half-crook, that little *twisting* half-crook like he's trying to get to her
pleasure-button from the inside —
She howls *again* —
Throws her legs over his shoulders —
And he *works* her, *takes* her, noses in even as he shifts his muzzle and
licks and licks and *growls* —
"Yes — oh —"
He *drags* the flat of his tongue over her button —
She throws her head back —
She *screams* a howl, and rides his *hand* even as she spurts all over it.
Treville growls *more* —
She spurts on his *face* —
GOOD GIRL.
(FUCK!)
And she rides him *wildly* for another several moments — and then slumps,
leaving him sticky and needy and *aching* —
He needs —
He *needs* —
"I will — I will *never* leave you, sweet brother!"
"I —"
"It's only that I need *time*, sweet brother. For *some* things," she says, and
pushes herself upright. Her eyes are wide and pleading.
"I thought I'd made you wait too long..." He can't make the joke anything but
weak.
"Oh, sweet brother..." And she cups his face —
*Pets* his face —
Strokes his *hair* —
"I —"
"One day. *One* day — and *every* day after that — I will give you
*everything*."
Treville *pants* — "Don't — don't say —"
"It is the *truth*, sweet brother," she says, and *grips* his hair. "I belong
to you. And *you* belong to *me*."
"Damn it, *yes* —"
"We *will* have everything. I will teach myself to not hesitate."
And Treville — thinks.
Thinks *around* his aching cock —
And winces. "I'm pressuring you. I shouldn't — fuck, I'm an arsehole —"
"Yes, but this has always been true."
Treville coughs a laugh —
Amina smiles softly. "Come, let me suck you, sweet brother. You are always
*quick* in my mouth —"
"And — you're ready to be quit of me?"
"And I'm ready for you to *milk* me. Slowly and with *great* care."
"HNH —"
And Amina laughs evilly. "Up!"
And Treville gently tugs Aramis away from his memories, finding him blinking
and dreamy-eyed, and that much harder.
As well he should be.
Treville pulls him closer and nuzzles his ear. "Do you like pregnant women,
son?"
"I — I — very much so!"
"Do you like to serve them as much as you like to serve your other lovers...?"
Aramis moans — but not in the happiest way.
And Treville remembers putting his foot in it earlier. "There's something ugly
here."
"Yes. Yes. Please..."
"Do you need your Sir to leave it alone for now, son?"
Aramis makes a soft sound —
Starts to lean in —
Leans *back* — and meets Treville's eyes. "I do not wish to hide from my Sir."
Treville rumbles. "*I* don't wish to hurt my beautiful boy... so I need you to
think about it. Would it hurt you more to talk about the ugly thing now, or
would it help more, if only to make sure your Sir doesn't trip over it
anymore?"
"I. I must not make you wait any longer —"
"Shh. I'm not your age, son. I *have* control."
"I do not wish you to *use* it!"
Treville raises an eyebrow —
And Aramis laughs, somewhat painfully. "I — yes, that was a lie. I apologize,
Sir."
Treville takes Aramis's hands in his own and kisses them. "All is well, son.
Just do some thinking for me."
"I. I would like to wait."
"Yes? You didn't think very long."
"I have not told my Porthos this, or my Athos," Aramis says, and looks down.
"Mm, I *see*. Well, by all means, tell all of us at once."
When Aramis looks up, there's a flush staining his cheeks. "It... is well?"
"Yes, son. Let's talk about happier things."
Aramis beams — and then licks his lips. "You will have everything with your
wife *now*."
Treville growls. "I'm not at *all* sure how it's going to *work* between a
witch and a revenant, but... we'll find a way."
Aramis nods as if that makes *perfect* sense. "I believe the woman you have
shown me would not have *come* back without firm plans in place for such a
thing, Sir."
Treville rumbles more. "And, in fact, she did not. She fed Porthos some of her
essence so that he'd have some of the skills and abilities of a *particularly*
powerful death-mage — including the ability to pass on... a certain facility
with the dead, undead, and various others who exist beyond life."
Aramis blinks. "Like... no. What does that mean?"
"She told Porthos I'd be able to touch her — *presumably* safely. Were another
witch of my orientation to try to touch a revenant without *serious*
protection, under normal circumstances, their power and life-force would be
drained to the point of death — and beyond."
"I."
Treville laughs quietly and licks the bones of Aramis's wrists. "It's one of
the reasons why I've killed — in *final* ways — so many of them, son. They tend
to be actively evil, *malignant* creatures."
Aramis draws back a little —
"Mm? What's wrong, son?"
"Do you... look *down* on your wife for becoming a revenant?"
Treville blinks. "Did it *sound* that — oh, son, of *course* not. I'm *rueful*.
I feel *guilty* for killing so many of them. What if one or more of them was
*like* my Amina-love?"
"Oh. I..."
"*Intellectually*, I know any revenant *like* my Amina-love wouldn't have been
trying to drain the life and hope and joy out of children — children are
especially vulnerable to the weaker revenants, you see —"
"Oh, God —"
"But you can also see how this is the sort of thing that makes a man reevaluate
his hobbies," Treville says, and smiles ruefully.
"I — *how* did she — how did she *avoid* becoming evil?"
Treville shrugs. "I'd gone with the idea that it was the nature of the beast.
Certainly, no revenant I'd found in the past scrupled at devouring — or trying
to devour — their own families. If I'd *known* she'd made herself into a
revenant, I would've put up about two dozen layers of protection around
Porthos. On *top* of the layers of protection *Ife* would've put up."
Aramis nods thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is a question of her will, and her
faith."
"Ah..."
Aramis smiles. "Her faith in the All-Mother, of course, Sir. I do not think
revenants usually give their allegiance to... Her?"
Treville barks a laugh. "No, son, they don't. They're the children of Death.
Whether or not She's happy with them is a mystery I plan to take up with Her
when She's sending me on my way. Death is *supposed* to be a benign force, by
all the reliable literature on the matter, after all."
Aramis frowns.
"You didn't like that statement one *bit*."
"I — do not like Death."
"Shh. Death is Death. You don't like *loss*."
"I —"
"And no one likes *that*. Death is an end to pain, and end to suffering — mm.
No, forget it, I'm not going to try to be a philosopher."
"I thank you!"
"Just this, beautiful boy —"
"I —"
"Shh," Treville says, and wraps Aramis's arms around his own neck.
"I am listening, Sir."
"You're a good boy, and a good son. And a wonderful, wonderful scholar.
Remember this, if you remember *nothing* else from this conversation: There are
many gods. There are many *powers*. There are many demons and undead creatures
and demigods and tides and principalities and things *we* have no names for —
though humans in other lands, and on other spheres, just might."
Aramis blinks, attentive and open.
Treville nods. "Every. Last. One of them. Every last one of *us* — *including*
the immortals — is subject, in the end, to Death."
"But —"
Treville holds up a hand. "Everything changes. Everything shifts. Nothing is
static. Nothing lasts *forever*, son."
"Then even Death is not Deathless!"
Treville grins. "Very true. And neither is the Death which will come for Her,
when the lights go out on all the spheres."
"I."
"Just a thought."
Aramis swallows. "Then..."
"Mm?"
"Then... we must live."
"Yes."
"We must live *every* day, and not hesitate, and not — we must wait for
*nothing*!"
Treville presses two fingers to Aramis's lips. "Never lose sight of the fact
that there is *value* in waiting for our loves to be ready for us." And he
moves his fingers.
"But — but you and your wife —"
"Had pleasure, love, happiness, *joy* — and I got to show her that I was the
kind of man who *would* wait for her when she needed just that." And Treville
raises his eyebrows.
"Do you think..." And Aramis raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. "I think
that *she* would say she waited too long."
"Hmm. I think you're right —"
"Then —"
"But I think *she's* wrong about that, and I plan to tell her that when it
comes up in conversation."
"But..." Aramis frowns.
"Such a lovely boy, even when you frown..." Treville sighs happily. "What would
you do if I didn't wait for *you*, hm?"
Aramis opens his mouth —
"Wait. What would you do, say, six months from now...?"
Aramis flushes — and winces.
Treville grins. "You'd walk right out that door, wouldn't you."
"I — I have promised my Porthos that I will not leave *him* —"
"Then things would get damned uncomfortable. Wouldn't they."
"Porthos would not *love* you... if you were not the sort of man who would
wait," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully.
Treville inclines his head.
"You are... a very good Sir."
Treville flares his nostrils. "I try to be."
"I would like — no."
"Shh. You know I can't let you get away with a sentence like that," Treville
says, and cups Aramis's face. "Tell me."
Aramis's smile is crooked and soft. "I was... imagining sleeping with you."
Treville rumbles and rumbles. "I'd like that very much, son. Just the two of
us, or...?"
"You would sleep without your wife? Without Porthos?"
"Revenants don't sleep, and we both know Porthos will want time just with
Athos, now and again. Perhaps one of those times will be a night the two of us
can have together."
"Oh."
"I know you like to be held, son..."
"Do you... like that?"
"Very much. Though I can be a bit aggressive."
"In your *sleep*?"
Treville grins. "I'm a grabby sonofabitch. I'll hold you close *all* night. You
won't be cold or alone for one *moment*."
Aramis shivers — and smiles. "Both Porthos and Athos held me just that way... I
wondered how natural it was for them."
"Athos slept alone for much of his childhood, but Thomas would crawl in with
him from time to time... they both treasured that."
"Oh..."
"As for Porthos..." Treville grins. "We spoke a little about that. My Amina-
love would grizzle and fuss about me clutching her too hard, but she always
slept *much* better when I *did* clutch her. And Porthos said that once he and
his mother were tucked in for the night, there'd be room for at least five more
people in the blankets. *He* loves holding his loves nice and close all night
long," Treville says, and strokes Aramis's hair away from his face.
"You... are a patient man."
"Hmm. You *might* be worth waiting for."
"Even if I do nothing but stroke your aching cock?"
Treville rumbles. "Even if you do nothing but sit here on my lap and let me pet
and cosset and *hold* you. I *love* this, son. I never, ever get enough of it."
Aramis's smile quirks. "I cannot..."
"Mm?"
"Porthos is a *little* large..."
Treville laughs, low and dirty. "That's what bigger chairs are for, son."
"He will put your legs to *sleep*!"
"I imagine I can convince one of the surgeons to provide therapeutic
massage..."
Aramis giggles. "I am now picturing you with *massive*, *mighty* men on your
lap as you struggle and strain to rock their fears and insecurities away!"
"Don't think it hasn't occurred to me —"
"*Sir* —"
Treville laughs and rumbles and leans in to nuzzle Aramis's cheek and ear.
"What should I do, mm? Keep myself to nice, pretty little boys like you?"
"Oh... I."
And, right now, Aramis is thinking about the fact that he's three inches taller
than Treville and a good stone heavier. Treville can feel it. That won't do.
Treville nips Aramis's ear. "You *are* my good little boy, aren't you...?"
"I — I..."
"The best little boy you *can* be," Treville rumbles, and *kisses* Aramis's
ear.
"Sir..."
"Shh. Little boys don't need to think big thoughts. Not all the time."
Aramis *grunts* —
"Little boys just need to... settle in. Relax. Be coddled and petted by the
Sirs who love them madly."
"That... is all?"
Treville rumbles and rumbles — and licks —
Aramis moans — "Please tell me!"
"Little boys need to do what they feel, son..."
"What... what they feel?"
"Little boys need to do... what they need to do. They need to *have* things,
and sometimes their Sirs can't tell what those things are right away," Treville
says, and pushes his hands into Aramis's hair and grips —
"Please — *please* —"
"Sometimes little boys need guidance, though," Treville says, and takes a
shaky, hungry breath.
"Yes, I — I should be... guided..."
"Shown the way to your pleasure, son?"
"I do not always know — and I make the wrong decisions — please!"
"Shh. You're a good boy. A smart boy. A *wise* boy."
"I — I —"
"Just look at the brothers you chose for yourself," Treville says, and forces
Aramis to look him in the eye. "They're good for you, aren't they."
"They are good, full stop! They are — they are perfect!"
Treville rumbles and nuzzles Aramis's soft mouth —
"Oh —"
"You picked a Sir for yourself, too..."
"Yes — *yes*!"
"Someone to take care of you."
"Yes, please!"
"Someone to hold and protect and teach and *guide* you."
"Please please!"
"I'm going to show you what a good choice you made," Treville says, and gives
Aramis the hard tip of his thumb. "Suck."
"Mm!"
"Suck that, just like the sweet little boy you are..."
"Mm-hm, mm-hm!"
"You don't have to speak, you don't have to think, you don't have to do
*anything*, little one. Just take this," Treville says, and cups Aramis's
honestly *wet* cock with his other hand —
Spares a moment to wonder if he should stroke the slick *away* — no.
Easy. Gentle.
As gentle as hands like his *can* be.
"Mm — *mm* — "
As gentle as hands like his can be... for a boy like *this*. Treville squeezes
*firmly*, and strokes, and strokes, and Aramis — clutches him.
Wraps his arms tighter around Treville's neck and presses close enough to make
the stroke a little *challenging*, and —
(Please! Please let me *feel* you!)
Oh — "Get even closer. *Crush* me."
Aramis *moans* around Treville's thumb and *obeys* —
Bucks into Treville's *fist* —
Cups the back of Treville's head and brings him closer, *closer* —
Treville growls into his ear —
Aramis *shivers* —
Bucks *again* —
Flushes so *hot* —
"You like that, son? You like me working your pretty little cock?"
Aramis cries *out* —
"Your skin is so soft here. So... mm. My hands feel *rude* on you. Feel —"
Treville growls again —
"*Please*," Aramis says, *slurs* —
"Suck my *thumb*, son —"
Aramis nods and nods and *slurps* —
"Good boy, such a good boy, I want —" And Treville growls a laugh. "I want
everything. Absolutely everything. I want to keep you on my lap all *day*. I
want to *touch* you *everywhere*..."
And Aramis nods frantically —
Rubs his sweaty face against Treville's —
So —
"Oh, that's so *sweet*, son, so — mm. Here," Treville says, and tugs on his
foreskin a little, tugs it out straight and rubs it and rubs it and *plays* it
—
Aramis *sobs* —
"You good boy, you sweet, good boy —"
"Sir — *Sir* —"
"Slurring just like a babe... you can't help yourself, can you?"
"No!"
"It's all right. Everything's all right with me. I want all of you. All of your
*mess*."
Aramis *sobs* again —
*Drags* his face against Treville's —
There are *tears* on his cheeks —
"Oh, my poor, sweet boy... you waited too long, didn't you. You... mm. And you
*want* to wait even longer. Don't you."
(As long as you like!)
"Your Sir needs to *please* you, son," Treville says, and *grips* that cock
again —
Aramis *shouts* —
"Your Sir needs to drive you *wild* —"
Aramis *slurps* around Treville's thumb, licks and laps and takes more of it
*in* —
"Good boy, good *boy* —"
(Please please please —)
"Take it. *Take* it," Treville says, and strokes fast, strokes hard, strokes
*sweet* —
Aramis shoves *closer* —
Clutches *harder* —
*Fucks* into Treville's fist, and his grace is perfect, his hips may as well be
*oiled*, the chair is *creaking* —
And Treville wants to fuck Aramis *blind*, wants to lay him out and finger him
wide open, *then* shove his tongue all the way up even with his knot aching —
Wants —
*Wants* —
(S-sir —)
"I *love* you, son," Treville says, and squeezes again, again, *again* —
Squeezes just a little *meanly* —
"I love you and you're *mine*."
(Sir, *yes*!)
And Treville is hot, burning under his clothes, under his *skin* —
Treville is hard as *steel* —
"Son. *Spend*," Treville says, and strokes faster, faster —
And Aramis sobs and *bites* Treville's thumb —
Whines and whimpers and spasms in Treville's fist and whimpers *more* — and
starts to spill and spill.
All over Treville's fist.
All over Treville's *leathers* —
The scents are *perfect* —
(Sir! I! I am —)
Keep *spending*, Treville says, and *works* Aramis's pretty cock, works it and
massages it and — there. One last spurt.
Treville rumbles and licks Aramis all over his sweaty face as he slumps in
Treville's arms.
Treville *holds* him —
*Keeps* him —
Just let him have this every bloody *day* —
Aramis is *gripping* Treville's hand and *suckling* his thumb, periodically
panting and *moaning* —
Treville holds him tighter.
He *does* want to pet Aramis — badly — but he *needs* to hold him, needs to
squeeze him and feel his hard, strong body against his own —
Such a good boy —
Aramis moans again —
Tries to press closer still —
Takes little kitten licks at the spots on Treville's thumb he'd bitten —
Treville growls —
(No? It is wrong?)
"It's perfect. I *want* you."
Aramis smiles broadly and *kisses* the bitten spots, *sucks* kisses to them —
and then looks up at Treville through his long, thick lashes and takes his
thumb — in.
"Is that so, son...?"
(I would like to please my Sir...)
"With your beautiful mouth...?" And Treville takes his thumb away —
"Mm — I. I have only tasted two men, Sir. Our Porthos, he has said that I
needed a larger... sample."
Treville laughs hard. "Our *Porthos* hasn't mentioned his Daddy's desire to
break *most* of the men *he's* tasted into small pieces."
Aramis blinks —
And Treville *winks*. "Pack is pack. And Porthos likes taking very hard fucks,
from time to time."
"Oh — *oh*. I like this thing, *too*, Sir."
"From fine ladies with ivory phalluses, son? That's hard on the teeth."
Aramis blushes and ducks his head. "I was not able to get... everything I
wanted. From the women I gave myself to."
"Hmm. But *were* you giving yourself to them, son?"
Aramis blushes deeper —
And Treville strokes his cheek. "I spent a very, very long time having sex with
people I couldn't give myself to, son. I know how these things work."
Aramis blinks — and looks up. "Sir?"
"First I was hiding being a buggerer — and hiding *from* being a buggerer. Then
I was hiding from being in love with three men I was absolutely convinced could
never be in love with me, all while I was madly in love with a woman my *cock*
wouldn't work for. And then my cock *would* work for her, and I stopped lying
about everything, and things were... better. Not completely perfect — we were
still working on pulling the pack *together* when Amina disappeared — but so
much better. Then my brothers and Marie-Angelique kept me in one piece as best
as they could... but, well, a lot of how they knew how to do that involved
taking me *whoring*."
"Oh... Sir."
"I told Porthos that I broke when I lost him and Amina, but the truth is that I
had just started putting myself together from being broken in the *first* place
when I lost them. I... enough of that. I just mean to say, son, that if you
ever need to talk about your adventures with fucking people as a fraction of
the man you actually are? I'm here."
Aramis takes a breath — and nods.
And leans in to kiss him softly —
And leans in again to lick his mouth —
"Mm. Good *boy*."
"Please. Let me please you. Let me... ease your *aches*."
Treville growls. "Do you like getting your mouth fucked, son?"
Aramis takes another breath — and smiles like a wicked, wicked boy. "Perhaps...
my Sir will heal me first? So that he may do it *very* hard...?"
Treville rumbles and reaches for the All-Mother immediately, feeling Her feel
*him* —
Feeling Her *take* him, just a little, and know him, and examine him —
Feeling Her feel *Amina* —
And the question is clear.
The All-Mother is *used* to him having a not-especially-earthy *taint* to his
spirit, thanks to Jason Blood, but this —
This is death-magery, and *new*, and —
Mate, he says.
*Mate*, he sends, and sends all her scents, all the *giving* that they
*should've* shared in the first place, when they were first bound.
*Mate*, he sends, and gives the All-Mother everything he has of his Amina-love,
from the first peals of her raucous laughter to the final icy *push* on his
spirit as she'd sent him, this morning, to help their shifted son.
And then he waits.
I WAS GOING TO INTRODUCE YOU TO A VERY LOVING AND FERTILE MASTIFF BITCH.
Treville slumps, drooling.
He's dimly aware of Aramis scrambling to his feet and *slapping* at him, but he
can't really do anything about that right now —
THERE ARE ANY NUMBER OF ATTRACTIVE AND FERTILE YOUNG FEMALES AVAILABLE, BUT I
AM AWARE THAT WITCHES CAN BE CHOOSY.
Is he making a noise? He might be making a noise.
YOUR AMINA IS NOT FERTILE.
We have a child!
YOUR AMINA HAS MADE HERSELF STRONG ON THE SOULS OF THE UNWARY.
I.... probably not the *nice* unwary?
YOU ARE TINY AND AMUSING. ALLOW ME TIME TO THINK ON THIS MATTER.
And then the All-Mother *reams* him with power — far more power than what he'd
*asked* for —
He's *thrumming* with it —
He stands and *yanks* Aramis back from the door with just a *nudge* of power —
"*Fuck*!"
"Sorry about that, son," Treville says, "the All-Mother wanted to talk,
unexpectedly."
"You — you were speaking with the *goddess*?"
"Yes —"
"You looked like you were having a shock —"
"Yes, probably —"
"You were slumped-over, drooling, utterly unresponsive —"
"She was talking to me *directly*, son," Treville says, and tugs Aramis closer,
closer —
Wipes his *face* —
"What — there are differences in how She chooses to speak to you?"
And there's his scholar. "Absolutely, son. Most of the time, She's a lot more
gentle. She just makes sure I know what She wants me to know — it's hardly like
having a conversation, at all."
Aramis blinks —
Looks thoughtful —
"Perhaps — perhaps it is a voice in your heart? Your soul?"
"Not even that, son. Just... knowledge. Deeper, more true, than even instinct."
"That — that is — that doesn't sound *gentle*."
Treville considers —
Wags his head back and forth —
"You've got a point, son."
"I know!"
"It's more gentle than the alternative," Treville says, and grins.
"Her... speaking to you."
"That's right."
"The way we are speaking —" (Right now?)
"Louder, son. More all-encompassing. More *flattening*. Her voice comes from
*everywhere* — including from every part of *me*, because I'm Her child."
"Oh..."
"Mm?"
"That sounds so..."
"Yes?"
Aramis licks his lips and — gently — touches Treville's face —
And shoulders —
And partially-bared *chest* —
With just his *fingertips* —
"Son...?"
"I — it seems so strange..."
"What does?"
"I should be able to *feel* — you have been touched by a *god*!"
Treville licks his lips and raises his eyebrows.
"You are too jaded!"
"Probably, yes —"
"What did She *say*?"
"She wanted to introduce me to an apparently very loving mastiff bitch —"
"I —"
"A very loving and *fertile* mastiff bitch —"
"What."
Treville snickers. "She's the All-*Mother*, son. She's *invested* in Her
children — all of Her children — being fruitful."
"With — with —"
"She was careful to pick a lovely young female who I'd find attractive, of
course."
"*What* —"
"She knows how *choosy* I am."
"*Sir*!"
"Why, I kept turning Her down when She introduced me to that nice young larch
—"
"You —"
"And the boar was right out," Treville says, and grins.
Aramis stares at him.
"And then, of course, there's Her definition of 'young' —"
Aramis *coughs* — "Wait."
"Mm?"
"Is that *all* She wanted to talk about?"
"No, son. She was *very* interested in my new association with a revenant. Not
entirely approving, really."
"Oh... oh, no —"
Treville holds up a hand. "She tolerates me tainting my spirit with the essence
and power of a man with more curses on him than *body* hair. A man who actively
*warred* on one of Her children for over a *century* —"
"That would be Jason Blood?"
"Exactly. This *will* be all right."
"You are so confident!"
Treville smiles, knowing it's soft on his face. "She's my Mother. My *true*
Mother."
And that — gets another thoughtful nod. "And so you are perhaps less jaded than
a man with a very specific *family*."
"Mm. I'll take that," Treville says, and looks Aramis up and down —
"Oh — *Sir*. I was not speaking about — "
"Shh. I know what you were speaking about, little one, and you're not wrong,"
Treville says, and pulls Aramis closer still. "I just need you in my arms right
now."
"I should — I should *wash* you, and — *neaten* you —"
"Mm. Should you?"
Aramis moans.
"Why don't *you* sit on my chair —"
"I — what?"
"While I... sit on the desk...?"
Aramis blinks — "Sir, I do not mind kneeling —"
"But do you *like* it."
Aramis blushes. "Sometimes — very much."
Treville rumbles and strokes Aramis's chin. "Right now, son?"
"I — I did not serve you in a timely *fashion* —"
"I also didn't *heal* you. Let's take care of that."
"Oh — what must I do?"
"Hold my shoulders. Nice and tight."
Aramis obeys. "Yes — yes?"
"There you are," Treville says, and spends a *fractional* amount of the power
the All-Mother had given him to heal Aramis.
Aramis's eyes are wide —
His mouth is *slack* —
He's groaning and *shaking* —
"Shh, almost, son. Almost..."
"I — I — I feel everything *living*!"
"Rushing through you?"
"The — the power of *Creation*!"
"That's certainly *a* way of looking at it..."
Aramis grunts and settles as the power flows out of him and back into Her.
And blinks —
And flushes — "I — I must learn to think in very new-to-me ways."
Treville grins. "You're doing fine."
Aramis smiles ruefully. "I think, perhaps, your Mother would find me
offensive."
"Only the perfume, son."
"I —"
"The *truth* is that she has difficulty *perceiving* humans who aren't Her
children — or the children of another god or demigod. She loves us all — we're
*all* Her children *ultimately* —"
"I — yes?"
"*Yes*. But Her vision for people like you, son, is... occluded."
"Oh." Aramis frowns. "How does She feel about that?"
His warm, loving son... Treville smiles softly again. "It makes Her sad, and it
makes Her frustrated — and it makes Her cleave to the children She *can*
perceive even harder. Even *tighter*. And encourage us to breed with each
other, and so make *more* children for Her."
Another thoughtful nod. "I would like..."
"Mm...?"
Aramis blushes, and smiles wryly. "I was always fascinated by the concept of
gods who... needed."
"Ah, the theology of *imperfection*."
"Yes! You see —"
"I *see*... a boy who has *always* needed someone worthy to serve."
For a moment, Aramis's expression is honestly *flustered* — but then it's only
rueful. "Not always."
"No...?"
"Until I was thirteen, I had my mother."
Treville takes a deep breath — and nods. "My good boy. My *wise* boy. You knew
you needed someone at least as worthy *as* your mother to serve."
"*Yes*!"
"Who better than a god?"
"I thought — perhaps the god of gods?"
Treville smiles and shakes his head.
"But there is no such thing. There is —" Aramis inhales with a shiver and nods.
"There *are* gods who are in need —"
"Shh, wait."
"Mm?"
"Be careful, son. The business of giving oneself to gods — to the gods who *do*
meddle in the lives of mortals — is a dangerous one."
Aramis blinks and frowns.
And Treville smiles ruefully and strokes Aramis's beard with his thumb. "I
know. I've made it seem all very benign."
"She is — She is your *Mother*."
"She is. And She *is*, generally, a very wise and kind and loving and benign
sort of god."
"'Generally'?"
"Generally, son. Because gods are big. Gods are *massive*, and powerful, and
they can see far and wide *easily*... but they can't always see the tiny
things. Like us."
Aramis blinks again. "Has... has the All-Mother... hurt you?"
"Not me. She's been *good* to me — better than I've deserved, truly. But there
are *reasons* why Amina's guardians did their best to *avoid Her gaze* when
they were augmenting us."
"Her wrath is... terrible?"
"Her wrath is the end of *everything*, son. The end of what *you* think of as
*Creation*. But, truly, all She *really* has to do is decide this *aspect* of
Herself, of *Her* creation, isn't working right."
"I."
"She could snuff us out of existence as easily as you crushing a gnat, son.
Easier. Easier than a *thought*. And why wouldn't She? She has countless —
*countless* — other creations, other *spheres*, to work with."
Aramis swallows. "But... She chooses not to destroy?"
"She chooses to destroy — to *crush* — on a much, much smaller scale. She loves
Her children. *All* of Her children, as I said. And we're all very, very
grateful for that — or should be."
"Other gods — do not love so freely and easily and well."
"Most gods, as near as I've been able to tell, don't know the meaning of the
word, son."
Aramis winces. "That — I can't —"
"Leave it. Leave it *right* there."
"It's only —"
"Shh..."
"It's only that need should always be *wedded* to love, Sir!"
Treville pulls Aramis in, and tucks his head against his throat —
"Please —"
"You're absolutely right, son. Need, desire... these things without love are
cold. *Frigid* and *empty*."
"*Yes* —"
"I would never subject you to that," Treville says, carefully —
Carefully —
Aramis shudders and moans —
"Sir..."
"I'm listening, son."
"You... you believe *my* God is frigid and empty."
Treville closes his eyes for a moment and strokes his boy, his beautiful —
"Please. Please answer."
"Yes, son. I do believe that."
"And... His son?"
"A demigod whose teachings we, as a people, habitually do everything in our
power to ignore even as we plaster the images *from* his teachings all over our
holiest sites."
Aramis hisses between his teeth.
"You knew that."
"Yes, Sir."
"Demigods — and gods — whose words and teachings are ignored... well, they tend
to be small. Powerless to bring change, no matter how hard they may try."
"Nnh — how is the *All*-Mother so powerful? So few people follow teachings
remotely *like* —"
"Are you forgetting the dogs, son?"
"Wh-what?"
"The cats? The trees? The fish in the rivers and streams and oceans? The
flowers and bees and — *something* help us all — the spiders?"
"I. *All* of them — all of everything..."
"She is the *Earth*, son. And a great, great deal more than that. The dog
inside me is in *constant* communication with Her — and doesn't at all get
flattened when She speaks to him."
"Oh..."
And Aramis is silent for long moments, simply breathing and thinking hard —
Hugging Treville as Treville is hugging *him* —
Treville would have this for hours.
Days.
*Years*.
He turns to kiss Aramis's cheek —
To lick it a little dryly —
"Sir..."
"Mm?"
"Do you *truly* respect my faith?"
"I do. Not least because your faith is in the demigod this world would do a
sight better if the Church actually gave any credence to."
"*You* have read your Bible."
"I had to blow the dust off the family copy —"
"Sir —"
"— but I was highly motivated to do so after I was introduced to the All-
Mother."
"Have you never wished to... serve?"
"I wouldn't say that. I wanted to serve my father — *badly*. *Desperately*. I
wanted to be the bulwark against all of his enemies. He died before I could be
remotely old enough to make that happen. I wanted to serve Laurent — and I
absolutely did, though I recognize now that I didn't do it with my whole
heart."
"Oh. No?"
"No, son," Treville says, and licks him again. "I held myself back from him, as
I held the many bleak and grief-stricken and *mad* truths of my heart back from
*everyone* in my pack. And then... well, then they were all gone."
"Your wife was the only one who could get you to be entirely honest."
"She was. She was — for a time. For too long."
"But that has ended?"
Treville squeezes Aramis tight.
"Oh —"
"You boys have done *very* well at dragging me out of my den, at long last."
"I — *Porthos* has —"
"And you, and Athos. Don't discount the roles you've both played," Treville
says, pulling back to look *into* Aramis a little. "If you can't accept how
much you can *rule* me..." And Treville smiles. "Accept that you both need
different things from me than Porthos does. Different *kinds* of honesty. And
accept that I need to make sure you both *have* what you need."
Aramis touches his tongue to his upper lip.
Treville makes no bones about enjoying the view —
And Aramis flushes. "I... rule you, you say?"
"A man's children always should, in their way," Treville says, easy and
rumbling.
Aramis *purses* his lips —
Wraps his arms around Treville's neck —
"My Sir, he is... too easy-going. Too patient."
"Too lenient...?"
Aramis frowns — *somewhat* theatrically — and nods.
Treville hums and grips Aramis's hips. "We can't have that."
"*No*, Sir. I have always needed discipline —"
"And to serve."
Aramis *licks* his lips — and ducks his head and smiles shyly. "You healed me
very well, Sir. I feel... very new."
Treville rumbles and rumbles. "Trust me when I say you're just as stretched as
your brothers left you."
"Oh. Yes?"
"Yes. But... you can take more stretching now."
Aramis inhales with a little gasp. "Should I, Sir?"
Now *that*... is a difficult question. Or —
Is it?
Aramis wants to be led. Aramis wants to be disciplined. Aramis wants to
*serve*.
And he can do absolutely *all* of that on Treville's fingers.
He —
"I like it very much, Sir..."
Treville growls. "I know you do, son."
"I like... being *taken*."
"I know that, too."
"Do you not desire...?"
Treville growls and *bites* him — his cheek. Not very hard.
Just enough for the gasp, the stiffening, the *shock* — "I will be *good*,
Sir."
Treville releases him, and licks to soothe. "I know you will." He pulls back.
"I believe — strongly — that Porthos should have you next, son."
"Even though my Sir has not... had a turn?" And Aramis flushes deeply.
*Deeply*.
The bite-mark is *livid* in all the red —
"Beautiful *boy*..."
"Sir —"
"You need his control. Don't you."
"Yes —"
"You need *his* power, *his* strength, *his*... force."
Aramis pants — "I desire you, Sir! I desire you very much!"
"I know you do, son. And you *will* serve me."
"I — will?"
"But we're to help you find your place, mm?"
Aramis blinks and blinks and blushes —
Licks his lips again —
And nods. "Yes. Yes. Please show me."
"You're my son — and Amina's son, as well."
"Yes, yes, I will be what you say —"
"You *are* what I say," Treville says, cupping the back of Aramis's neck and
pushing *down*.
Aramis moans — and drops down to his knees so gracefully.
So perfectly.
Aramis pants and keeps his head *down*. "Thank you, Sir, thank you very
*much*!"
"Beautiful boy. You've earned just that place."
"Yes. Yes?"
"Oh, yes. But you must understand, son — even though it's perfectly correct for
you to serve me — and your mother, and Athos — it is *most* correct for you to
serve *Porthos* *first*."
Aramis makes a low, hungry, *animal* sound —
"Perfect, that's perfect, son —"
"I — I will serve... all?"
"Everyone in this pack. You're ours."
"I am yours." It's not *quite* a question.
Treville grips Aramis by the hair and pushes his head lower. "You're. *Ours*."
Aramis groans — "Please, please, please let me *serve*!"
"Say it."
"I'm yours! All of yours!"
"And the rest?"
"I must serve Porthos first! Always!"
"Good boy. If Porthos says you may serve me, or your mother, or Athos *before*
serving him... well, that's something else entirely. But he *owns* you, son.
It's *his* hand on your lead — now and forever. Remember that."
"I will never forget, Sir!"
Treville rumbles and rumbles —
Treville *opens* his trousers and breeches one-handed —
"You're such a good *boy*, son..."
"Please, please, *please* —"
"The answer is *always* yes for my beautiful boys," Treville says, and sighs
when his cock has some *room*. "My beautiful *sons*," he says, and tugs
Aramis's head *up*.
Aramis stares at Treville's cock and *moans* —
Blinks and *studies* —
*Obviously* marks all the differences from human cocks —
Treville laughs, low and hungry and filthy. "Porthos's *will* be very similar
soon enough. You saw that it had already begun to change."
"*Yes*, Sir. Did... did yours take very long to change?"
"Mine changed over the course of a night. Over the course of the ritual that
*bound* me and my Amina-love. Porthos is growing into his power more slowly and
naturally."
"Yes, Sir, I — please."
"Lick. Taste me."
Aramis flushes and obeys, licking away every bit of slick he can reach with
Treville's grip on his hair, and then *focusing* on the head.
Treville pants —
*Pants* —
"That's good, son. That's — mm," he says, and tugs Aramis back —
"Please!"
"Shh. I want this," Treville says, grinning and holding his cock up against his
belly. "Kiss the base. Kiss the *knot*."
"Oh. Oh, *Sir*," Aramis says, and mouths and kisses and makes *love* —
*Gives* himself *over* to making love to Treville's knot, sucking and licking,
suckling and *mouthing* —
Treville moans —
Spreads his legs a little more and *braces* —
"Son. *Son*."
(Is this just as you like? Do your boys do this for you?)
"Not — not often —"
(Please tell me! Please show me!)
"This is what I want from *you*, son. From *your* beautiful, perfect —"
Treville growls. "This is what I *thought* about every time I watched you
trimming your perfect beard with your little silver scissors."
(*Oh* —)
"Grind your *beard* and *moustache* against my knot."
Aramis cries out —
And does it —
And does it *hard* —
Treville growls and *holds* him against his knot —
*Bucks* just a little —
Aramis *moans* —
The vibrations make Treville narrow his eyes and *snarl* —
(*Please*, Sir, please take everything you wish!)
And that — Treville *claws* through Aramis's hair —
"Unh —"
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I —"
"*Take* my knot in your mouth. As much as you can manage,"
"My — my —"
"It's easier if you turn your head sideways — just like that. Open wide, son...
that's right. That's — oh, that's bloody perfect. It *is* a bit too big for
your pretty little mouth, but that's all right. That's —" Treville growls
again. "*Other* parts of you *stretch*."
Aramis bucks on his *knees* —
"*Suck*."
Aramis slurps and blushes and sucks and slurps *more* —
"Dirty little boy," Treville says, and *rumbles* a growl. "Look at you,
dripping all over my nice, clean floor..."
Aramis's lashes flutter on his *cheeks* —
"Would you ever like to be punished for being a messy boy? Mm?"
(I would like to be punished all the *time*!)
And he drips more *drool* —
And he *sucks* more —
Tries to open wider —
Scrapes his *teeth* —
Treville growls and yanks his hair *reflexively* —
(I apologize! Please do not make me stop!)
"Oh, son... oh, *son*," Treville says, and massages Aramis's scalp as Aramis
redoubles his *efforts* —
As he suckles and grinds his *face* in against Treville —
Such a good *boy* —
(Your good boy! Yours!)
"There's more I need from you..."
Aramis *groans* —
Treville grunts and *bucks* again —
(Please, please, I will do it! Everything!)
Pull back. *Slowly*.
Aramis moans and suckles and *obeys*.
Suckles *while* obeying —
Slurps and nuzzles and takes —
A very, very long time to pull off.
Treville is growling and thrusting at *nothing* —
Dripping slick all over Aramis's face and *hair* —
(Please *mark* me!)
"Head *up*," Treville says —
Aramis obeys —
Treville *aims* — and squeezes his knot *hard*, making himself *bark* and
making his cock *spit* slick all over Aramis's open mouth and cheek.
"Oh, *Sir*..."
"*Don't* lick your lips just yet, son," Treville says, panting more and licking
*his* lips — and face. "Let me see my messy boy *stay* messy."
"No, Sir, *yes*, Sir — you have wanted me like this?"
"On your knees with my slick all over your pretty face? Every day since we've
met."
Aramis *grunts* —
Moans and *starts* to lick his lips —
His nostrils are *flaring* —
"Do you like the *scents*, son...?"
"Please, please, very *much* —"
"Do they remind you of Porthos, at all?"
Aramis blinks —
Looks *shocked* —
And then looks up at *him* with wonder and confusion.
Treville grins and pushes *into* that beautiful mouth —
"*Mm* —"
"He's my blood. He's my *boy*. There were always *going* to be a few
similarities..."
Aramis shivers and *sucks*, seemingly *reflexively* —
Treville croons — "Take me, son. Take all of me just as soon as you *can*."
"Mm-hm, mm-*hm* —"
Treville growls and starts to thrust — no. "Wait, I need *more* from my
beautiful boy," he says, and *rocks* in —
Pulls out —
Rocks in *shallowly* —
Finds his *depth* —
"This is going to be *fast*, son, but it won't be very hard, and it won't be
very deep. You can take it. Especially since I *won't* make you take my spend
this way."
Aramis *moans* —
"That's right. This is another *fantasy*. Something I *dreamed* of before *and*
after I made love with — with Porthos for the first time, because I knew you'd
need *training* —"
(Fuck!)
Treville *growls*. "*Exactly*," he says, and thrusts again —
A little too deep. Again —
Perfect —
Perfect —
And he grips Aramis's head and holds it *still* as he gives Aramis a fast,
*wild* fuck —
Gives him a *taste* of what he can *earn* —
(Oh, please! Oh, *please*!)
Good *boy*, Treville says, and fucks him faster, heats himself up, drives
himself *mad* —
(Please please you feel so good taste so GOOD —)
Treville growls and slows *down*, forces himself to slow —
(PLEASE!)
Now, son. *Now*, he says, and he's still growling, still —
All but snarling as he pushes deeper and deeper and *deeper*, as he makes
Aramis kiss his knot again, take it —
Crush his perfect *mouth* —
Aramis tries to suck —
His *lips* tremble —
He *drools* —
He tries again, *again*, and Treville just wants to feel it, feel every moment
of this struggle, this *education* —
But he's surrendered too much control.
(Please! Surrender *all*!)
Swallow me, Treville says, and *nudges* the back of Aramis's throat carefully,
gently —
Aramis gulps —
Gulps again —
Gulps and *lunges* —
And Treville is *staggering* as Aramis wraps his strong arms around his hips,
as Aramis suckles and kisses his knot and groans in his *chest* —
He's so *dark* —
"Beautiful. *Boy*."
(Please!)
"Shall I fuck you? Or. Or. *Punish* you."
And Aramis's arms are gone —
Aramis is *yanking* open his own trousers again —
Suckling and apologizing incoherently, even in his own mind —
Trying to *fuck* himself and *missing* his gulps —
Treville snarls again — "*Easy*," he says, and holds Aramis *back* —
Aramis *whimpers* —
Stills his hands, *too* —
Just —
"Oh, son. Oh, son... get that cock out. *Do* it."
(Yes yes yes —) And Aramis is nodding in Treville's grip and *fumbling* with
his breeches, *yanking* on the laces and freeing himself —
His hard, dark, *slick* cock —
So lovely —
So —
Treville growls. "Squeeze it *tight*."
Aramis squeezes hard enough to make himself *shout*, just as Treville had known
he *would* —
And Treville shoves right back in —
Holds Aramis crushed to his groin and grinds and grinds and —
Oh, Aramis is so flushed, so hot, so —
"*Stroke*."
(*Yes*, Sir!)
And even his mind is filled with whimpers and moans —
Tiny and *sweet* sobs as Treville loses the ability to grind and has to thrust
—
Has to thrust *hard* —
Has to hold his boy with both hands and *take* —
He can't breathe —
Treville isn't doing much better.
It's too much, too close to every *dream* —
The *end* of every dream, when he *finally* had the pretty, brilliant,
*fascinating* long-gunner on his knees —
Aramis is *groaning* again —
When he could *take* him, have him, *show* him and make him *his* —
(Sir, Sir, I *am* yours!)
And Treville is fucking him too hard, *too* fast, not letting him gasp, not
showing any bloody *mercy*, because he'd denied them *both* for too long —
This sweetness —
This ache in his balls and Aramis's jaw and lips —
"Squeeze yourself *again*!"
And Aramis screams *silently* around him —
"Shut. Your. *Mouth*."
Aramis *babbles* incoherent apologies —
Sobs them —
*Begs* them even as he sucks, gives, *slumps* and *takes* —
Such a perfect *boy* —
And Treville realizes, with a *tiny* breaking start, that he'll never be *able*
to deny himself again.
Not anything, with any of his sons.
Nothing too outré, nothing too *extreme*.
He'll take everything he can *have* — and more if he can *get* it.
He'll —
He'll take his *pack*, and make them *stronger* every *second* —
And he'll never —
Never bloody let them *go* —
Ah, fuck —
Ah, fuck, so *sweet* —
And he's *slamming* into Aramis's throat —
He's snarling and *yipping* —
He can't —
He can't *talk* —
Stroke yourself *off*, son!
And Aramis *tries* to nod in his grip, but Treville can't *let* him. All he can
do is fuck, shove, *grind* —
Shove *harder* — and listen to his beautiful son *working* himself fast, rough,
dirty —
*Slick* —
He can smell every *stroke* —
He's *blind* with it —
And then Aramis is bucking and *writhing* on his knees, obviously *fighting* to
keep his mouth shut tight, obviously trying so *hard* —
Even as he spends all over the floor and Treville's *boots*.
Treville's tongue lengthens *reflexively* —
Treville slams in and *spasms* —
And then Aramis kisses his knot so *sweetly*, so *softly* even as he shakes
like a *leaf*, and Treville snarls and spurts and spurts and spurts right down
—
No.
No.
He *forces* himself to pull out —
To spurt on that gasping mouth —
That twitching *cock* —
Aramis cries *out* —
Arches *back* —
Treville spurts *again* —
And dreams of bending Aramis *backward* to fuck him.
Aramis beams like a boy. "*Anything*, Sir. Whenever Porthos — and you — say,"
he says, panting and — not licking his messy, messy lips.
Following Treville's *orders* —
Treville's cock *jerks* —
He growls *desperately* —
He swipes spend off Aramis's cheek and mouth —
"Oh — Sir —"
— and *feeds* it to Aramis.
"Mm! Mmmm..."
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
And with great care.
Aramis chases his fingers like a babe with a spoon, laughing and humming —
Sucking and nibbling —
Taking every *spatter* — eventually.
They may or may not be making more of a mess.
Treville is honestly too enchanted to tell.
Aramis dips his eyelashes, purses his lips around two of Treville's fingers,
and colours demurely.
Treville sighs happily.
***** Sometimes 'selflessness' is just another way to injure the people who
love you most. *****
"Technically," Porthos says, as they ride through the city streets, "we *did*
train today, Athos."
"Hm."
"We really did."
Athos raises an eyebrow. *At* all of them, despite the fact that he's just
scanning their perimeter.
Aramis coughs.
Daddy hums. "*I* didn't train today, son."
"You don't bloody *have* to train, you're the bloody *Captain* —"
"I also didn't do one single blessed thing I was supposed to do."
"What, *nothing*?" And Porthos *looks* at Daddy.
"Not a *thing*," he says, and sighs that *happy* sigh. That one Porthos really
likes *and* really hates, because it means Daddy is relaxed, and because it
means Daddy is relaxed and probably really close to saying something bloody
*horrible*.
Daddy shows his teeth.
Porthos — doesn't hit him with his hat. The streets are too packed for that.
"Probably wise, son."
"You're an *arse*, Daddy."
"That I am."
Aramis clears his throat. "I would like to — our Sir did do *one* thing he was
supposed to do today."
Daddy looks *supremely* interested in this, which —
Well. "What'd he do, then?"
"He communed with the *goddess*," Aramis says, and nods. "This is very
important!"
Athos blinks —
Daddy wags his head back and forth *judiciously* —
Porthos *thinks* about it —
Thinks *hard* —
Thinks hard about *Aramis* — "You seduced him with religion-talk, didn't you."
"If I've told you once, son, I've told you a dozen times: Use *all* weapons at
your disposal," Daddy says, and tips his hat to a blacksmith's apprentice
washing down his well-muscled chest.
Aramis gives Daddy a *hot* look for that.
Athos hums —
"Right, so, as I was saying, we *did* train —"
"We all watched Aramis shoot bullseyes until we became so aroused that we let
our father convince us to go back to his rooms in the city," Athos says.
Porthos pulls on a lofty expression. "I, for one, always find Aramis's shooting
—"
"Desperately arousing?"
Well — Porthos snorts. "You do, *too*."
Athos sighs. "I always find myself wanting to invent newer, deadlier guns for
him to use."
"Mm. I've had that fantasy," Daddy says. "And I'd have Jason teach *you* to use
even more kinds of swords, Athos. And as for *you*, Porthos?"
Porthos snorts. "*What*?"
Daddy's smile is a dreamy one. "The possibilities are endless..."
"You're not to get hard for me *bludgeoning* people to death, Daddy."
"Hm."
"No!"
"I —"
"*No*."
"You're a little late, son. That's all I'm saying."
Athos huffs —
Aramis *laughs* —
And Porthos *coughs*. "That's two I owe you. Let's roll by Aramis's; I'm sure
he owns a whip or three."
Daddy grins like a new bloody *day* —
"Oh my *God* —"
"I do, in fact, own two —"
"Wait, wait, Aramis, stop before my brain leaks out my bloody ears —"
"Vivid!"
"It's because I love you," Porthos says —
Aramis snorts and cuffs him —
Porthos — squeezes his hand. And doesn't kiss it.
Not yet.
Not while they're in the middle of a busy street.
But Aramis can feel him wanting to —
Aramis is *smiling* at him —
Blushing —
Porthos rumbles —
And Léon's ears twitch. Wait, no —
Porthos squeezes Aramis's hand one more time and then turns to Léon, petting
and cosseting him a bit, rumbling more —
He steps a little lively in obvious *confusion* —
"No, no, Léon, that's a good sound, a *good* sound. Here, feel me," Porthos
says, and rumbles more while petting, soothing —
Léon whickers —
It probably shouldn't feel like a *question* —
"It should, son," Daddy says. "Earth-mages tend to be aligned with *one* kind
of animal — or plant — most of all, but that doesn't mean they don't have an
easier time discussing serious matters with others."
"Oh. Uh." And Porthos pets Léon a little more. "It's all right, Léon. I'm just
a little different now —"
An obviously *impatient* flick of those ears —
"Right, and — I'll be communicating differently. You're still fine. *We're*
still fine."
Léon snorts and steadies his pace.
Porthos stares at the back of his neck.
"Don't antagonize your horse, son."
"I — right," he says, and turns to Daddy. "Why don't *you* have this
conversation with your Lisle?"
"Don't want to get into bad habits. Or 'bad' habits. If I grow accustomed to
being the kind of rider who rumbles and growls and what-not... well. What
*exactly* am I going to do when I'm riding with the King?"
They all wince for that.
"It is... difficult, at times, to remember how many secrets you *must* keep,
Sir," Aramis says.
Daddy grins. "Then I think that means I've been doing fairly well this last
little while."
Athos smiles sharply. "We're all very proud of you, sir."
"Oh, yes?"
"You've handled the dereliction of your duties with style, grace, aplomb, and
panache."
Treville snorts — and flourishes like *Aramis*.
Aramis *coughs* —
Porthos *chokes* — and nearly fails to make his whallop of Athos a *good* one —
Athos *huffs* —
"I may never be able to do that *again*!" And Aramis looks *scandalized*.
"Well, son, if it makes you feel any *worse* —"
"You are such an *arse*, Daddy —"
"That I am, son. But Aramis — I did it *first*," Daddy says, and laughs hard.
Aramis looks *stricken* —
Turns to Athos —
Athos smiles wryly. "He, Kitos, and Reynard were the acknowledged masters of...
hm. Musketeer *flair*, according to my father."
Aramis's stricken look turns *determined* —
Daddy laughs *harder*. "Yes, son?"
"I will do it *better*."
"Oh, *shit*," Porthos says —
"Please *do*! The King's Musketeers aren't the bloody *Red Guard*."
Athos makes a scoffing noise —
And, really, so does Porthos. But — "Daddy, if *he* finds a way to be more of a
strutting peacock —"
"You and Athos have to step right up and strut with him," Daddy says, and nods.
"That's only as it should be, son."
"Well," Athos says, "it's good to know that we'll be devoting even less time to
our training." And he huffs twice.
"This *is* training," Aramis says. "We have an *image* to maintain!"
"And then, *after* we have dazzled our enemies with our grace and beauty,
Aramis?"
"After that, we will kill them," Aramis says, and sighs happily, stroking his
Cosette —
"With all the training we haven't done?"
"Athos. *Mate*. We missed a bloody *day*," Porthos says.
"I..."
"My friend, we have missed more than that *traveling* to missions and getting
stuck on the road because it was too rainy *to* travel," Aramis says gently.
Athos blushes —
And Daddy hums. "Is it *perhaps* because you were having a great deal more
*fun* today than usual?"
Athos blushes *harder* —
Porthos blinks —
Whips off his hat to smack Athos again —
"I... pleasure is still difficult," Athos says, quietly.
Porthos puts his hat back on. "Brother..."
"I know — I know I should do better —"
"Brother, *no* —"
"Don't — don't — I am not Léon. I don't need to be —"
"Stop right there, son," Daddy says, and rides closer to Athos, cupping his
arm.
Their Lisle and Actaeon aren't happy about being that close, but they're coping
well —
"Sir —"
"Shh," Daddy says, and *squeezes* Athos's arm. "Remember what I said. It's not
going to be easy. It's not going to be fast. It's not even going to be as easy
and fast as it was to learn your *footwork*."
Athos blinks. "That... was neither easy nor fast."
"No, it wasn't — though you were far, far better and faster at it than *most*.
You *excelled*. And you will excel at this, as well."
Athos huffs. "I... have my doubts."
"I don't," Porthos says, and *looks* at Athos —
Athos flushes —
Athos *shivers* —
And turns to face him. "Brother..."
"You gave yourself to me. You gave yourself to me *easily* and *freely*."
"And. And happily," Athos says, and licks his lips.
Porthos nods. "You're already excelling, brother."
"I am — I want to. For — all of you."
"Part of excelling is sharing your hurt with us, brother."
"I. All of it?"
And Porthos's heart hurts.
It —
Daddy is *squeezing* Athos's arm —
Aramis looks like he wants to ride his Cosette to Athos's other side —
"All of it, brother," Porthos says. "We *want* it."
"*Yes*," Aramis says. "*Please*."
"Please, son," Daddy says. "Let us take care of you."
Athos takes a deep, shuddering breath. "It seems... so much easier. To do such
things..."
"Yes, son?"
Athos smiles at all of them ruefully. "When I'm also allowing myself to be...
used for your pleasure."
"Except that when we *only* do that, brother…" And Porthos raises his eyebrows.
Athos winces. "Yes... I. Yes. I apologize —"
"Not *that*, my Athos," Aramis says. "You have nothing to apologize for.
Only..." And Aramis smiles softly. "Be gentle with yourself."
Porthos rumbles a laugh. "That's right, brother. I think I *told* you what the
rule was *there*."
Athos *blinks* — "I... am to be kind to more than my own cock, brother?"
Porthos nods slowly and shows his teeth.
Athos licks his lips. "And... you'll be *cruel* to more than my cock."
"*Very* cruel."
"Oh. Hm."
Daddy laughs, low and filthy, and *pats* Athos's arm before putting some
distance between their horses. "There are whole new vistas opening up in your
mind, aren't there, son."
"In a word... yes." And Athos licks his lips again —
Again —
"Really quite *compelling* — I..." And Athos trails off and begins stroking his
Actaeon in half-conscious apology for his dreaminess.
Actaeon moves stolidly on, utterly uncaring of everything but Athos's *worst*
moods — and fits of drunkenness, for that matter.
Good horse.
Léon whickers again —
"You, too, you, too, mate," Porthos says, and pats Léon firmly.
Daddy laughs softly.
"I don't want to *hear* it from you, Daddy —"
"You're going to be comforting and cosseting all of us, *and* our horses, and
my staff —"
"Well, fuck only knows what *you've* been doing to them —"
Daddy laughs harder —
"And don't think I've forgotten you getting all excited about Aramis's bloody
*whips* —"
"Quite literally bloody!"
"Oh my God," Athos says. He's looking a little glassy-eyed over there.
Porthos makes *note* —
But first Daddy. "C'mon, now, Daddy. Did Athos's Dad flog you or something?"
Daddy sighs happily *again* —
Aramis grins and checks their perimeter —
Athos *coughs* — "How — how did we *miss* —"
"He usually flogged me in the carriage house, son."
"What. *Why*?"
Daddy ducks his head and grins.
"Oh just bloody *say* it!"
"Because we *both* made too much noise."
Athos looks *horrified* — and then frowns. "Where was my *mother*?"
"Oh, right there. She was usually quieter when I was being flogged, though.
Well. Quieter than I or your father were."
Porthos *snickers* —
"You see, my Athos? You and Thomas did not wander far enough *afield*."
"Clearly *not*. We might've gotten some actual *answers* if we'd walked in on
that."
Daddy laughs *hard*.
"*Arse*."
"I want you boys to know that *Marie-Angelique* advocated for honesty. *Nearly*
from the beginning."
"What — you shouted her down?" And Porthos *glares* at Daddy.
"Oh, son. *No* one shouted Marie-Angelique Leandres de la Fère *down*. But we
managed to convince her that the boys would have *further* questions that would
be far, far more difficult to answer while remaining within the bounds of
rectitude."
Aramis makes a face.
Athos raises an *eyebrow*.
Porthos *glares* —
And Daddy snickers. "Those arguments sounded a lot better from Laurent."
Hunh. Porthos and Aramis turn to Athos —
— who huffs. "They did, brothers. My father could make you doubt your own
rectitude even if you had just come from Mass and you had just seen *him*
ordering your Uncle to knot your mother."
Aramis opens his mouth —
Closes it —
"I cannot decide if this is attractive or not."
"It is, it *is*," Daddy says, and smiles with relish. "I loved it when he'd
take me in hand and *correct* me for all my little failings. I started dreaming
of him doing it when I was fourteen and he was twenty-one."
"Oh, my."
"Hm. I'm curious, sir," and Athos checks their perimeter, this time.
"Yes, son?"
"My father has been dead for quite some time now..."
Daddy sighs. "Too long. Too long for both of your parents. But what's your
question?"
"I... I have a difficult time *imagining* going without what my brothers have
given me, and I've only had each of them *once*. I... how have you *survived*?"
"Badly, son. *Badly*."
They all wince again.
"But I do have an *occasional* lover in Jason Blood, who gives me his time,
care, attention, and *absolute* love and affection — when he can. He's kept me
from going completely round the bend."
"Well, now we *all* have to meet him," Porthos says. "See what he's *about*."
Aramis and Athos nod and make sounds of agreement —
And Daddy grins. "I'll happily drop him in the middle of this pack and pelt him
with bonhomie until he begs for mercy."
"He is... reserved?" And Aramis raises an eyebrow.
"Not that, son. It's just that he's spent the better part of the past six
hundred or so years *effectively* alone — or alone except for whatever student
he was training — and that... changes a man."
"Hm."
"Mm? What is it, Athos?"
"I..." And Athos gives Daddy a shrewd look. "It's only that Aramis was telling
us some of the things you told him about Ser Jason, sir."
"Yes?"
"I would expect a man like that to keep a little *less* distance from a man
like you, who had also known loss and grief and pain. A man who could
understand him, to at least a certain extent."
Daddy opens his mouth — and smiles wryly.
"Oh, bloody *really*," Porthos says.
Daddy coughs —
"What? What have you not told us *this* time, Sir?"
Daddy holds up a hand and gestures for peace. "I... Jason's asked me to join
his war. *Repeatedly*."
Aramis blinks. "His... war against the undead?"
"And demons, and evil sorcerers, and other sorts of magically-inclined
pillocks, yes," Daddy says, and smiles ruefully. "I thought about it, more than
once, in the days before you boys joined."
"Oh."
"Fuck —"
"Daddy — I — shit, if you *want* to do that instead of —"
Daddy holds up a hand again. "It would break my heart — *again* — to leave you
boys. I could never. I could *never*."
"Even for love, Sir?"
Treville smiles at Aramis. "I thought, perhaps, when I retired..."
Porthos blinks —
Treville shakes himself a little, making his Lisle's ears twitch. "My life
looks *very* different from how it looked two weeks ago, boys."
"Uh... yeah, but —"
"*But* two weeks ago I didn't have a *pack*, or a *wife*. I didn't have *sons*
— not that I could reach out and touch. I have responsibilities. I have — I'm
*about* to have — *true* *homes*. For the first time in a generation. I'm going
to ask *Jason* — *very* nicely — to consider spending more time in *France*.
And..." And Daddy's eyes darken a little. "And I suspect he'll be more than a
little surprised by the request, because he does about as well at understanding
he's loved as *we* do on our *very* worst days."
Aramis and Porthos wince —
Athos hums. "I would like to state for the record that Porthos tends to do
quite well with this."
"Oi —"
"You truly do, brother."
"All right, but that's because you arseholes always make me *feel* it."
Daddy grins at him. "All of us, son?"
"*Yes*, all of you! It took a *little* while for me to figure out that Athos
actually cared about me, but not *that* long — it's not like he was asking
everyone *else* about their personal lives and inviting them out with him to
drink. And Aramis — well, Aramis put up with me *drooling* on him —"
"You did not do this nearly enough, my Porthos —"
"I will make *up* for that —"
"Good!"
Porthos laughs. "*Aramis* didn't even know he *liked* it on the other side of
the sheets and every other word out of my *mouth* was 'you're bloody
*gorgeous*' and 'are you *really* sure we can't...?'"
Daddy laughs. "I absolutely can't blame you for persistence, son."
Aramis laughs and blushes —
"Nor can I," Athos says, and *burns* at Aramis —
And Aramis *stops* laughing — and bares his throat.
"Oh. Oh..."
"I know *that* 'oh', and I *feel* it, brother."
"Mm. As do I. Pretty little boy."
"*Sir*."
Daddy grins. "You're *always* welcome in my arms, son — and on my lap."
"I..."
"Mm...?"
"*I* think you should tell our Porthos more about what *else* you want."
And Daddy grins wider —
Adjusts his hat with his free hand —
And grins like a *filthy* bastard at *him*.
"Right, I'm as braced as I'm going to get. Hit me."
Daddy laughs. "Well, it's like Athos was saying, son. A man develops...
needs..."
"But Athos was talking about —" And Porthos blinks —
And thinks about that little comment Daddy had made about *him* getting mounted
last night —
And thinks about all the little — and *not* so little — *hints* Daddy's been —
"Uhh..."
Daddy laughs — *and* lolls his tongue for just a moment.
"You *arse*."
"Hungry arse, at that —"
"You — *fuck*. Daddy —"
"*But*... it's nothing you *need* concern yourself with, son."
"But if you *want* —"
"I *want* to give my boys so much pleasure they go more than a little *mad*
from it. I *want* to drive you all *wild* every single *day* for the rest of my
*life*."
"*Daddy*."
Daddy grunts — and laughs. "I was telling Aramis about what a *naturally*
dominant man you are, son... mm. It's like you took *everything* dominant from
me and your mother and *multiplied* it —"
"I — I *love* bending for you —"
"Yes. You do. And I love it *when* you do," Daddy says, giving him a *hungry*
look. "I love everything *about* it, son. Never doubt that. I *dream* of
pushing you right down to your hands and knees and *having* you until you're
*howling* and *weeping*."
"*Fuck* —"
"*But*. I promised Aramis I'd tell you about my other dreams, too," Daddy says,
and winks.
"Fuck fuck — *do* that."
And Daddy *studies* him for a moment — and nods. "I'd like to *ride* you, son.
I *miss* riding honestly *bigger* men. I miss being put in my *place* like that
— even if I'm not being put in my place any other way —"
"But do you *want* to be."
Daddy smiles *slowly*. "Look at you, son. *Moments* away from dismounting so
you could ride *me*... and you're already ready to push. Me. Down."
Porthos *blinks* —
"You're magnificent."
"I — uh. It's just — it just came out of me —"
"It's wonderful," Daddy says, and *grins*. "And gives me *many* hopeful
thoughts for the future."
Aramis and Athos nod and make more agreement sounds as they check their
perimeter.
Porthos licks his *lips* — "Uh..."
"Yes, son?"
"So you're saying..."
"I'm saying there is *no* way that I don't want you, son."
"*Fuck*. I — I have to think about that."
"You do that. *Actually* do that. Because I know your pleasure, son, and I know
how much you *crave* my dominance — and how hard it can be to slip between the
two ways of being with one person. It would *hurt* me to take something away
from you that made you *happy*."
Porthos takes a breath. "I know that. I — I do."
"Good."
"Have you... ever? Switched back and forth with one person, I mean."
"I do with Jason, son. To answer the question you *didn't* ask, I tried
*unsuccessfully* to do it with Laurent —"
Athos *coughs* —
"— and with Kitos. The former didn't work because it never could have with
someone as *relentlessly* dominant as Laurent — he wanted to bend for me, but
his desires were the desires of a born natural *philosopher* —"
Aramis perks —
"— and the *latter* didn't work because *I* lacked the flexibility for it at
that age. I needed my brother to be... a certain *set* of ways for me, and he
was always willing to oblige. Maybe too willing," Daddy says, and is obviously
looking at the past — he shakes it off fast. "In some ways, Kitos didn't let me
get away with a damned thing. In other ways... he let me run right over him."
"'Fearless'," Athos says, and kind of leaves it there.
Daddy winces and nods. "He didn't let me get away with anything which he
thought would hurt *me* or get in the way of *my* happiness. It took... too
*fucking* long to get him to actually believe he deserved everything of me. Of
all of us. Not just everything he *got*."
Aramis raises his eyebrows. "You treated him ill?"
Daddy frowns. "I think we did. I think we didn't give him enough — ah, fuck. I
wonder if he'd even say so if he'd lived twenty more *years* with us beating
these lessons into his wooly hide. He took care of us, son. He eased our hearts
and smoothed our paths and did everything it took to keep our unit running
smoothly. Which was a *lot*, considering how much of a drunken, whoring arse I
was, and how much of a drunken, whoring, *murdering* arse *Reynard* was."
Athos licks his lips. "I... you've said before that my *father*... cleaned your
messes."
"Yeah, Daddy."
"He did — the big ones. The ones that would've landed us on the gibbet. But
there was the rest. There was getting us *to* the garrison on the days when my
Amina-love didn't feel like kicking my arse there herself. There was
browbeating me into *bathing*. There was physically *yanking* Reynard out of
the brawls he'd start and then summarily *ending* them if the angry men didn't
want to just call it quits then and there. So many things. So many things."
"And he wanted you."
"Yes, Porthos, he did. He wanted all of us, and he thought he couldn't *have*
us — he thought he was too *ugly* and *ungraceful* for us. He thought if we
ever *did* touch him, it would be out of *pity*."
"Oh, *fuck*."
And Athos is wincing — "I know... too much about that."
"And you shouldn't. Neither of you ever should have —" Daddy growls. "We would
*joke*, *constantly* about how ugly we were, how fearsome, how we could
frighten children if we weren't careful with how we barbered ourselves."
"Ah, shit, *Daddy* —"
"He was not joking. Not about himself," Aramis says.
"No. He was *not*." Daddy snarls. "Amina would warn me about it when she caught
us doing it. *She* knew Kitos was more serious than he let on. She *always*
knew."
"You didn't listen," Porthos says.
"I did — but not fast enough," Daddy says, and shakes his head. "Part of me...
at that age, I thought that if I just gave myself to him, gave *everything* I
*was* to him... it would show him."
"But you were *not* giving him everything you were," Aramis says.
"No. It took time to learn that lesson. Time we didn't have."
Porthos rides up beside Daddy and cups his arm. Léon's ears don't even twitch.
"He knows what you're about, son."
"I — right. But Daddy —"
"I'm all right, son. I'm hurt, I'm sad, I miss my brothers like — brothers. I
miss them so bloody *badly*. But I'm all right."
Porthos looks *into* him a little —
And Daddy smiles at him softly.
"It's why you're being so careful about asking to bend for me. Isn't it."
"Son —"
"It's — you *told* me I remind you of Kitos. That Kitos would've *loved* me
because I'm so much *like* him."
Daddy takes a breath — "You are. You are. But you're your own *man* —"
"And I'm the man you want to make sure you're never *selfish* with."
"*Yes* — and that's true for *all* of you —"
"We know this, Sir," Aramis says.
"Yes, I felt very loved when you selflessly disappeared from my life for
years," Athos says.
Porthos *coughs* —
Aramis *blinks* —
And Treville looks like Athos had dumped a bucket of *icy* water right on his
*crotch*.
And then beat him upside the head with it.
Twice.
Porthos clears his *throat*. "So. Uh. You uh... you still breathing over there
after that hit, Daddy?"
Daddy laughs — painfully. And grins with love and *pride* at Athos, who is
smiling wryly. "I *think* so, son. But I'll need you all to check carefully."
"Oh, right, right, 'course."
"We will examine you most thoroughly," Aramis says.
"I will definitely... prod you," Athos says, and smiles wider.
"You do that, son. I need the regular beatings to keep myself in good trim."
"*About* that," Porthos says.
Daddy laughs much filthier. "Yes, son?"
"*Do you need the regular beatings*."
"No, son."
"Daddy."
"No, I don't, because if I ever *do* need to get thoroughly bent? If I ever
need *Jason* — he's there for me."
"You just *said* —"
"I know what I said. But I've also not *asked* him as strongly as I *could*
have to be *more* my brother. I've... not asked for enough. Not from any part
of my life, since I lost Laurent and Marie-Angelique."
Porthos raises his eyebrows. "But that's going to *change*."
"Yes."
"No hiding, no lying, no *protecting* —"
"None of that."
"No being bloody *selfless* —"
"Or an idiot," Athos says, mildly.
Aramis nods and makes agreement sounds —
And Daddy laughs. "No. I... my Amina-love's coming back tonight, boys. She'll
have my bollocks in a vise before I can say her *name*," Daddy says, and grins.
"Even when I *forget* to keep myself right — she won't."
"*We* will not, *either*," Aramis says.
"That's *right*," Porthos says.
Athos leads them onto Daddy's street. "I consider it my family duty to
periodically torture you, sir."
Daddy *barks* a laugh — "Athos."
Athos grins. "I think about how Thomas would do it. I've *been* thinking about
that, I mean."
"Oh — fuck," and Daddy snickers like a boy. "He'd either ask me pointed
questions about the *theater* —"
"Or pointed questions about *sex*, yes," Athos says, and huffs. "Or both. Would
you try to answer? Or would you run like a coward?"
"I'd hope to *every* god *everywhere* that one of your parents showed up to
*rescue* me, son —"
"But if they didn't."
Daddy laughs more and strokes his beard. "Then I'd pick sex. *Always* sex. At
least I know *vaguely* what I'm talking about there. Did he... have lovers?"
"He apparently came close to seducing an abbess —"
"*What* —"
"— while he was in Greece. She was younger than most, and had a passion for the
arts."
"Oh, she didn't stand a chance."
"Thomas wasn't *trying* to seduce her, at all. He was quite shocked when she
declared her love."
"I... was he?"
Athos grins. "I asked him the same thing. He blushed like a boy and confessed
to having had his suspicions... but also having enjoyed her conversations far,
far too much to simply break things off *before* she crawled in his lap."
Daddy snorts. "Did he *like* women?"
"He quite liked *her*, actually. And was rather wistful that she wanted to have
an affair, rather than leave the order and marry him."
"He was in love..."
"Hm."
"He *wasn't* in love?"
"I... am not certain, sir," Athos says. "I think it's *most* likely, however,
that he was *more* in love with the amorous abbess than he was with any of the
other women he'd been introduced to over the years."
Daddy inhales — and nods. "That does make more sense."
"Did you think... I'm not certain how I want to finish that sentence."
Daddy hums. "I *thought* Thomas was a buggerer. One of the ones who grow up a
bit more obvious about things than most, through no fault or choice of their
own."
"I. Yes?"
Daddy nods. "I *wondered* if he *knew* that — you de la Fères were always at
*odds* with your bodies and hearts in that way — but. He was also your mother's
child."
"Far *more* her child than I am, I think."
"That's true enough — though she loved you madly, son. Never doubt that."
Athos searches him. "Did you... talk about us with them?"
"All the time. We talked about what to teach you when, how you were growing,
what sort of boys you were growing into, how *proud* we were of you, what you
were getting up to when you thought we weren't paying attention —"
"But."
"— which wasn't nearly enough, as far as we were *all* concerned —"
"I."
Porthos snorts. "Yeah, *watch* that with Daddy and Mum. They will *corrupt* you
given *less* than half a chance."
"I had noticed this," Aramis says.
"I... sir."
Daddy grins at Athos. "Yes, son?"
"How *much* do you loathe being the Captain?"
"Hmm. I love the regiment. I love having the chance — the *honour* — to command
men like you and your brothers. I love being in a position to *care* for the
regiment. But..."
"You loathe *everything* else?"
"Wouldn't you, son...?"
Athos blinks —
And Porthos snorts. "Did you *not* think about that, brother?"
"I... it's only..."
"Yes, my Athos?" Aramis grins at him.
"My father... never seemed to loathe being the Captain quite as *much* as *our*
father does."
Daddy rumbles right and *proper* for *that* —
"C'mon, now, Daddy, focus and give up the goods. *Did* Laurent hate it?"
"With a *towering* passion."
"Yeah, but —"
"With a towering passion that *easily* matched my own, boys. One of the reasons
he *needed* a man — and occasionally a boy in a man's body — to flog, and slap,
and spank, and all those other wonderful things? Is so he could work out a
*few* of his frustrations."
Aramis blinks —
*Porthos* blinks —
"I — sir —"
Daddy grins. "I work mine out in other ways — mostly."
"Would you *like* to —"
"Everything, Porthos. *Everything*," Daddy says, and leads them into the
hostler's down the way from his rooms.
Porthos remembers Athos telling him, once, that his father's rooms in the city
were also close to a hostler — too close for his *pedigree* —
(It was a good idea then and it's a good idea now, son,) Daddy says.
Porthos laughs softly.
Daddy introduces them to the hostler — Hugues — in a very, very specific way.
He's friendly with Hugues, and open and easy with the stableboys, who all run
up to greet him — much to Aramis's consternation — but the introductions...
Well.
He's not introducing a tradesman he does regular business with to men of the
King.
He's introducing that tradesman to his sons.
He —
(Start as you mean to go on, boys.)
Right you are, Daddy, Porthos says, and bloody well plays his *part*.
So do Aramis and Athos — though they both look a bit stunned about it.
And then they're giving the boys the specific instructions for their horses —
And then they're walking up the street to Daddy's rooms, and Porthos, for one,
is trying to see the history.
Trying...
"I brought your mother here in a carriage, most often," Daddy says.
"Did she like that?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it was an *excellent* way to start her on the way to
demanding to be taken right back to *her* rooms again. I *should* have taught
her to ride and *presented* her with a horse. I should have *demanded* she let
me teach her to ride... well. It wouldn't have flown so well in the city,
anyway."
"Not so much, Daddy, no."
Daddy sighs. "She would've been happier ahorse, though. I know she would've
been."
"This seems clear enough, from the memories you showed me," Aramis says.
"And I *want* those!"
"As do I," Athos says. "It seems... I feel so dim for not *thinking* about the
*wealth* of memories you have at your disposal."
"They're all yours, boys. All of them, at any time. But let's get —"
And an older man who looks tough as *boot*-leather and meaner than at least
half the snakes on the continent — though this *could* have something to do
with the *extensive* and *nasty* facial scarring — opens the door to Daddy's
rooms.
Daddy grins. "Good evening, Alaire. Is all well?"
"Yes, sir. Supper will be slightly later than usual, as Cook hadn't ordered
enough meat to serve four men —"
"That's fine —"
"— but there is brandy in the study, and the maids have prepared *all* of the
bedrooms."
"Hearths blazing, I'm sure," Daddy says, and moves to clap Alaire on the
shoulder.
Alaire nods as if each individual flame has been inspected for heat and fitness
to warm the Master.
They move into the foyer —
"Would any of you like something *other* than brandy? That's what I usually
relax with when I'm here, but I have a fully-stocked cabinet."
"Brandy is fine for us, Daddy, but Athos will need some vinegar and horse-piss
—"
"I much prefer — to not finish that sentence," Athos says, blinking and
flushing.
Daddy snorts —
And Alaire raises his eyebrow about a hairsbreadth. He doesn't actually ask
Daddy a question, though. He —
He doesn't *talk* or *move* like the people who usually work for gentry, but
he's damned well *giving* Daddy all he's got.
Daddy squeezes Alaire's shoulder. "I'm going to be adopting these men."
"Of course, sir."
Daddy's expression quirks. "They'll be living... here. And in the manor."
"Yes, sir. All *will* be prepared."
"I — right."
"Unless."
"Mm?"
"Will you want to move into larger lodgings than these, sir?"
Treville smiles wryly. "I'll let my boys tell me how they feel about that. For
now, assume that we're staying *right* here."
"As you say, sir. May I return to my duties?"
"Please do. If I tell you to relax at some point this evening, will you
listen?"
Alaire narrows his eyes, and the burn-scar high on his right cheek starts
twitching a little. "I listen to everything you say, sir."
"Right you are, Alaire. My mistake. Dismissed," Daddy says, and grins.
Alaire's muddy brown eyes *spark* a little — *just* a little — and then he's
gone.
"Right, well, he's terrifying."
"Former quartermaster," Daddy says. "Before your time."
Porthos thinks of Frédéric, the quartermaster they have *now* —
Porthos *shudders* —
And they all nod slowly.
"I thought you'd see my point. Tour...?"
Cook looks just as evil as Alaire, and they find out that Daddy had stolen him
from the Army. He'd stolen the Cook at the manor from the *garrison*.
The kitchen boys are thrilled to see Daddy.
Just — thrilled.
Aramis's expression is an entire *book* of commentary about Daddy's sexual
habits.
Daddy licks his neck in *front* of the kitchen boys —
With his *long* tongue —
"I — I!"
"Let's go, boys. There's more to see."
The study is both huge and cozy — and has so many books of poetry that they
nearly lose Aramis entirely.
Daddy *reminds* Aramis that they'll be coming *back* there, though, and they
move on.
The library is a little stuffier, and obviously not as well-loved. It... hunh.
They *look* at Daddy —
And Daddy smiles ruefully and scratches in front of his ear. "I got in the
habit of moving my favourite books to the study when I was unwinding after a
long day — or a long night... I have a lot of good memories in that study."
Porthos promises himself to make some good memories in here, too.
Upstairs is, well...
"I — all right, first off, you boys can *pick* which suites you want. But..."
"But what, Sir?"
Another rueful smile — and Daddy takes Aramis's right hand and brings it to his
mouth so he can kiss the knuckles.
"Oh —"
"I thought you might like this one, when I *first* started dreaming of having
you as my son," Daddy says, and leads them all into a sitting room that gets a
*lot* of light —
And the bedroom is also bright and beautiful —
There's a portrait of a handsome woman who can *only* be Daddy's mother on the
wall —
There's a *beautifully*-bound bible on the bedside table —
There are more books on the shelves against the walls — but.
"I don't know, Daddy. Where's he going to put all his *weapons*?"
"Yes, you're absolutely right, I —"
"You — it is beautiful! I will happily take — *mmph*!"
Daddy kisses Aramis hard and sweet and warm and — not brief.
Not brief, at all.
Daddy kisses Aramis for long enough that he can settle *into* it. And *then* he
pulls back. "There's another suite I designed for my *brothers*, when I was
trying to convince them to move in with me. There are places to stash any
*number* of weapons — and it will be easy enough to add more."
Aramis blushes. "You were thinking of me, Sir."
"I was thinking of you in the sunlight, beautiful boy."
Aramis smiles wryly — and nods to Porthos. "It is our Porthos who must always
have sunlight. It is our Porthos whose mother *brought* sunlight with her —"
"Wherever she went — I." Daddy licks his lips and nods. "Yes. You're right.
You're absolutely right."
"Oi, where's my vote?"
"You do not get one, my Porthos."
"No, son."
And Athos frowns and shakes his head.
Porthos laughs. "*Fine*. Let's go see *Athos's* suite."
"He has his choice of two, actually. I wasn't going to *give* the weapons-suite
to anyone —"
"Oh — *Sir* —"
"But this — this is so much better than brooding on its emptiness."
Aramis inhales sharply — and then grabs Daddy's hand and *pulls* him out into
the hall.
Daddy laughs and chooses the suite directly *across* the hall first. "This is
the one I chose for Athos. This... well."
It's darker — there's a big tree grown up close to the best window in the
sitting room, and it's crowded with bookshelves.
And...
There's a statue.
A Greek-style nude.
"Oh. Oh..." And Athos is swallowing and swallowing and —
Moving back into the bedroom seemingly *helplessly* —
They follow —
And Athos groans as he stares at a portrait of his family. His family when
Athos couldn't have been more than seventeen or so.
Laurent is a *tall*, rangy man with Athos's thick hair, deep blue eyes, and a
trim beard and moustache.
Marie-Angelique is small and soft with a head full of gorgeous blonde curls,
round cheeks, dimples, and a *wicked* smile.
And Thomas...
Thomas is a lean, *beautiful* boy with loose, *dark*-blond curls, his father's
eyes made wide and full, and his mother's wicked smile.
Athos looks serious, but not solemn.
Quiet, but not *bleak*.
Athos... looks young.
Athos looks like Olivier.
He does in this moment, too. He's *gripping* at the footboard of the generous
bed and staring so *needily*, and —
"Son..."
"Uncle."
"You *don't* have to take it."
"Uncle..."
"I needed a place, in my home, where I could be with all of you."
Athos takes a *shuddering* breath. "I need this place, too."
"It's yours —"
"But I don't. I don't know how often I'll be able to sleep in it," he says, and
*coughs* out a rusty — it's a laugh.
It's a laugh, and they *all* move to hug him, to hold him *close* —
To keep him *warm* —
"What on earth is *in* the other suite?" And Athos is huffing and *groaning*.
"Well... I chose it for Porthos..."
"So there's an ivory phallus and a guide to every brothel in France you want to
visit with him? *What*?"
Daddy *coughs* a laugh. "There are more *books*. Everything I've heard him
express an interest in. Primers in languages I know he doesn't speak. And. Some
of his mother's things."
"Oh, *shit*, Daddy..."
"Alaire has probably already moved them —"
They all laugh *painfully* —
"I suspect you've all already had your rents settled via my accounts —"
"Oh, yes, and he has already broken it off with all of our lovers," Aramis
says.
"Not Daddy's."
"No, not our Sir's."
"But definitely ours, yeah," Porthos says, and pulls back enough to kiss all
his loves.
"He's going to be so *disapproving* when he sees how I've been living..."
Porthos snorts. "Athos. *Mate*. We *all* disapprove of how you've been living."
"Yes, but you're supposed to set an *example* for the *servants*."
Porthos laughs hard.
"I believe it's time for that brandy," Treville says, pulling back — but
keeping one arm around Athos's shoulders.
"Plying me with strong drink again, sir?"
"Son, if I can get you to *only* drink when you're drinking with *me*? I will
be a very, very happy man."
"Hm. I take your point," Athos says, and smiles wryly, taking out his
handkerchief —
Daddy takes it away from him and dabs Athos's few tears away himself before
giving it back. And then he smiles warmly. "My boy. Let's go."
***** They don't even have enough foresight to look both ways before crossing
the street. *****
Alaire had, in fact, sent for some of his sons' things *already*. What makes
him a *good* servant — as opposed to *just* a terrifying one — is that he'd
known to ask *first*, stopping into the study while they were all sipping their
brandies and making his *order* *almost* seem like a polite request —
Well, no, it wasn't even close.
Treville laughs to himself, lying back on the bed in his shirt and loosened
breeches, and — doesn't think about the night to come.
Doesn't think about —
He thinks, just a little, about his father.
About the man who'd *taught* him how to run a household mostly at a remove.
About the man who'd taught him to hire the most blisteringly *competent* people
he could find and then bloody well let them do their bloody *jobs*.
Treville thinks about him.
He doesn't put up a privacy-wall — there's less than no *point* with his boys
right there in the building, putting their belongings away.
But... he keeps himself a little quiet.
Not distracting.
He thinks about his *father*, and he — conjures, a little.
Without magic.
He builds a formless ghost in his mind of the man he'd wanted to *be* for so
*much* of his life, and he tells that man:
I gave you grandchildren.
More than one.
I got the one I lost *back*.
I'm. I have a wife, Dad...
I didn't marry her in a church, but you never cared about that —
You would've loved her. You would've —
She's beautiful. She's perfect. She's *strong*.
She —
She keeps me in good —
Dad...
I'm sorry I'm not the man you would've wanted me to be.
I'm sorry I'm not —
I'm in love, and the only person I know how to be is *myself*, and all I do is
fuck *right* up when I try to be anyone else —
"It is *good* that you know that, sweet brother..."
Treville *grunts*, sitting up and —
And she's there. She's *there*.
She's smiling like moonlight on *bone*, and she's naked, and beautiful, and
*lean*, and so *strong* —
She's crawling onto the bed —
She's —
He moves for her —
"Stay. *Put*."
Treville pants — and growls.
She snaps at him — and lolls her tongue.
And Treville is very, very hard, despite the *waves* of cold coming off her,
despite —
They've only ever meant one *thing* —
He has *reflexes* —
And she's straddling him, solid and real and perfect, so bloody — "Learn *new*
reflexes, sweet brother," she says, and just the *tip* of her pink tongue is
showing —
Her breasts are *heavier* than they once were —
"They were *huge* when I was pregnant and nursing!" And her expression is
*affronted*.
"No, I — I meant —"
Her gaze softens. "I know what you meant, sweet brother. It's only... I miss
playing with you."
Treville shivers and *grips* her hips —
Proves to himself that he *can* —
That it's —
"Safe...?"
"*Real*," Treville says, and has no control over his voice whatsoever.
She moans. "Sweet brother. *Passionate* brother."
"Yours. Always yours."
She nods, and licks her lips. "Mine. I have missed — everything."
"Everything?"
"Even waking up *drunk* and *sick* and *pained* because my *fool* of a brother
had convinced me to *drink* with him."
Treville grins just — helplessly. His eyes are wet. His cheeks are wet. "You
were *good* at it, Amina-love."
She *looks* at him.
"Would I lie to you?"
"Not if you knew what was good for you!"
Treville lolls his tongue —
"I should slap the French off you —"
"You absolutely should —"
"— but you'd *like* it too much —"
"I absolutely would —"
And. She giggles, grinning wide and rocking on him.
She giggles like a *girl*, like —
Treville *stares* —
"Oh, you *deviant* —"
"I —"
"You are so *predictable*," she says, and swats him —
Her hand is as hard and rough as ever —
Just cold.
Just —
He grabs it and kisses it, bites it, breathes on it —
"Oh — sweet brother..."
"I just... I just need you —"
"You will not warm me that way..."
He bites her fingertips and shudders — then releases her and smiles wryly. "I
feel like a piss-poor man, not warming my wife."
She *looks* at him.
"I should at *least* be... holding you tight..."
"Oh, *should* you."
He frowns theatrically and nods. "There should probably also be *chafing* and
*massage*."
She crosses her arms under her breasts.
He holds his expression.
She *flexes* her *tits* —
His cock *jerks* and he rolls them, pins her, *licks* her —
Licks her *throat* —
She tastes so good, so rich, so salty and musky and — wait.
"Do not wait!"
"Why do you taste like sex *already*?"
"Because I wanted to be *alluring* for you!"
"You can control —"
"I'm a *revenant*."
"Most revenants taste — and smell — *awful*."
She looks at him. Just — looks.
Treville licks his lips —
Tastes her all over again —
"You... have never been most people, Amina-love."
"That's *right*."
Treville grins and nuzzles in against her throat, her cheek —
That musky space behind her ear, so cool —
She rumbles —
He bites —
She rumbles *louder* —
He bites her *ear* —
"If you do not give me your cock *immediately* —"
"Wait, wait —"
"I will be *very* upset with you —"
"I thought you wanted to *play* with me, Amina-love —"
She shifts her muzzle and *snaps* —
Treville's knot swells and *flexes* even as he *growls* — "Let me mount you."
"*Good* boyyy..." And she's chewing the words, panting —
"Let me — right now."
She shifts back and shakes —
Grins —
"Touch me. Feel how *wet* and *slick* I am for you!"
"Oh — fuck," he says, moving his right hand right down to her sex, right — "Are
you sloppy for me, Amina-love?" An errant tear drips off his cheek and onto
hers.
She pants as he *pets* her sex —
"Are you good and *loose*?"
"Nnh — *fuck*!" And she laughs again, so bright, so wild, so beautiful and
happy —
He stares and growls and licks her, *licks* her, pets *around* the rim of her
cunt —
"Brother — sweet *brother* —"
"Are you *loose*."
"I can be. I can be *anything*."
"I."
And Treville blinks and pulls back —
Does *not* stop petting —
She's slick and *perfect* —
"Anything. Anything for *you*."
"But —"
"You're worried that it is not real. You're worried that I would *deceive* you
—"
"Not that — not — you wouldn't *lie* to me —"
"Never!"
"But... I want *you* to feel at *least* as good as I do, Amina-love."
She smiles that wicked smile, that *wild* smile —
So much *sharper* on that leaner face —
So —
"Oh! Oh, I *forgot* —" And she... changes. She puts on *weight*, like she'd
done for Porthos, until she looks like she had —
"Oh, fuck..."
"You like this *better*."
"Not if it's not *you* —"
"Jean-*Armand* —"
He growls and *grips* her sex —
She *grunts* —
"Listen. Give me you. Give me *exactly* you. That's what I want. That's what I
need. Just like you need exactly *me*."
Amina *moans*. "I *do* need you, but — my nature..."
"What? What is it?"
She croons —
He lifts his nose —
And she surrounds them both with — countless scents. Scents of herself in a
countless modes of being and states of *mind*.
And the scents are *changing*.
They —
He gets it. He — "You're not just... one thing, anymore. You never *were*, but
—"
She nods, and smiles ruefully, banishing the extra scents and leaving only her
musk, her sweat, her *hunger*. "I did everything I *could* to make myself
strong again, sweet brother. I... became everything I could. When I give you
myself, when I give you *everything* — when I give *you* everything — it could
never be a lie, or too generous, or anything but what I have needed to do from
the very first moment you *smiled* at me."
He squeezes her sex *harder* reflexively —
She *grunts* —
"Amina-love — I — I — tell me what you want. Tell me what you want *this*
time."
She opens her mouth and pants —
Studies him —
And nods. "That is what my sweet brother needs —"
"*Yes* —"
"*Fill* me. Give me your *heat*. *Knot* me. You do not *know* how much I have
*ached* for you —"
"Yes I *do*," he says — *growls*. "*Position*."
"*Fuck* — pick *several*!"
"*Done*," he says, kneeling up between her legs and shoving his loosened
breeches *down* —
"Oh — oh, I have *missed* — so *beautiful* — *UNH* —"
"Your legs should *always* be around me, Amina-love —"
"Yes! *Yes*!"
"And your cunt should always be this *sopping*," he says, and *gasps* when his
aching cock touches her sex —
When he *drags* his cock through her *cool* fluids —
She's so —
She's so *wet* —
So slick and so wet and the cold doesn't *matter* —
"*Please*!"
"Let me *feel* you!"
"*Fuck* —"
"I want to rub myself all — all *over* — ah, *fuck* —" And Treville pushes in,
in, all the way to his knot —
"*YES* — oh — *ohn* —"
He *stops* —
"*Don't* stop!"
"Just this, just this —"
"Not just this!"
He barks a laugh — "You wanted more than one *position* —"
"Why do you *listen* —"
"Because —" He *thrusts* —
"UNGH —"
"Because you're the *smartest* —" He thrusts *hard* —
"*YES*!"
"Person —" Again —
"Fuck —"
"I —"
"Fuck me!"
"*Know*!" And he grips her breasts just the way she'd always liked, just the
way —
He squeezes —
He *kneads* —
"I — I — I can give you — something like milk —"
"*Shit* —" He bucks —
Bucks *twice* —
She groans and arches and *clutches* him with her thighs —
Tries to pull him *deeper* —
"Give me your *knot*!"
"Not. *Yet*," he says, and thrusts hard, long, gives her all of it, fucks her
like a man, like the dirty man he *used* to be, before he was a dirty *dog* —
"Oh, *fuck*, brother —"
And she's groaning —
She's arching again and *dropping* —
He thumbs her nipples —
They're *wet* —
Fuck fuck —
And he's fucking her faster, *harder* —
He'll *give* her his knot *this* way if he's not *careful* —
"*Do* it!"
"*No*," he says, pulling out —
"You *prick*!"
"*Wet* prick," he says, and shoves her onto her side, pulls her long, strong,
beautiful leg up over his hip —
"Oh — oh — I've *dreamed* —"
"Every *night*," he says, and kisses her plush mouth as he pushes *in*, pushes
*deep* —
She *croons* into his mouth —
She pants and pants and can't *return* the kiss —
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, it's their first *time* —
It's their first *time*, and she's crooning and he's crooning and it feels so
right, so perfect, so —
He fucks her hard.
He *gives* it to her, he makes it just as slow as he can, as liquid, as
*rocking* —
She croons more, nuzzles him, *moans* —
She pants —
She clenches *viciously* hard, and the cold jolts through him —
Makes him gasp and *shove* —
She *yips* —
He bites her throat —
She clenches again, again, *again*, and he can't stop shoving, can't stop —
He has to give her —
He has to give her another *position* —
"Please, sweet brother, please don't — don't make me *wait* for you any
*longer*!"
He snarls and shoves harder, harder —
The frontal curve of his knot slips in so *easily* —
She gasps and *clutches* him —
Clutches his *shirt* —
*Claws* at him *through* his shirt —
He bucks *again* —
Gives her *more* —
Her beautiful eyes roll *up* —
And he doesn't stop.
He doesn't stop.
He doesn't —
He gives it to her, working it in and in and *in* as she sobs and clutches at
him, as she croons and licks him, licks him so sweet, so —
All over his *face*, and he's sweating despite the chill, burning, *burning* —
"Burning *me*!"
He bucks *again* —
She *howls* —
And then he's rolling her back onto her back, shoving her legs *up*, shoving
his knot all the way —
*In* —
She howls again, *again*, and he's rutting, no pause, no hesitation —
They're licking at each other like *desperate* hounds —
They can feel —
They're crooning and gasping, sobbing, begging —
They can *feel* —
All of it is promises, declarations, *vows*.
All of it is so bloody *right*.
And they can feel it between them, feel the *magic* between them binding them
even tighter, even hotter, even *needier* —
It's so *right* —
He shoves her legs higher and *gives* it to her, gives her *everything* he *is*
—
She *screams* a howl —
*Ripples* around him —
Clenches like a *vise* —
Treville *shouts* —
And then ruts even harder, even *faster* — she's spurting on him, she's
spurting all *over* him, she's —
Oh, fuck —
Oh, fuck, it's so *right* —
He can't —
He *won't* stop, not for *anything* —
Except that she's growling and laughing and *fighting* his grip on her legs —
He *stops* —
*She* rolls them —
Puts Treville on his back and yips and yips and howls *loudly* as she sinks
*all* the way down on his knot —
As she clenches hard enough to *pierce* Treville with *ice* —
Treville bucks and *grips* her round, soft, *generous* hips and *holds* her
down on his knot, keeps her, snarls, *grinds* up —
"*Yes*! But — let me *ride*, sweet brother!"
His cock *jerks* —
Spasms —
His knot *flexes* —
He grits his teeth and *tries* not to *spend* —
"Oh — oh, my *husband* — let me!"
He eases his grip just *enough* — and then she's moving, she's *moving* —
Rolling and — and — *riding* —
Grinding and *bouncing* — and not getting very far, at all. It's more of a
*jerking* bounce, it's —
They're *tied* —
He's snarling *helplessly* and *digging* his fingers into her hips again —
She's looking for just the right angle —
Looking for what she *wants* —
'This! *This*," she says, bending down, gripping his shoulders, and grinding
down and *back*, flexing and clenching and clenching *again* —
Treville tries to hold *on* —
Amina laughs and gasps and —
And releases one of his shoulders so she can reach between her legs and play
with her *button*.
He yips and *stares*, needy and hungry and so in love, so in *love* —
He'll always be in *love* —
"I am — I am —"
"*Do* it, Amina-love, spend again, spurt all over me, wet me down —"
"*Ai* —"
"*Mark* me —"
"You make me wish I could still *piss* —"
"Why didn't we *do* that?"
She laughs hard and bounces *once* more — and then she throws her head back,
*sings* a howl, and clenches *violently* as she spurts, as she spends, as she
gives him *every* —
Oh, everything —
He bounces her *himself* a few more times —
He holds on —
He holds *on* —
"Oh, fuck — oh, now, brother, *now*!"
And then he *holds* her down, holds her tight, *tight*, and *ruts* up into her
just as rough as he wants, just as *wild* as he wants —
She croaks and *sobs* —
She claws his *chest* —
"I *love* you, brother!"
"Tell me — tell me —"
"I am yours!"
"Yes — *MINE* —"
"We — will be together *forever* this time!"
Treville *gasps* and he can't see, he can't —
He can't *breathe*, and he's burning and aching and freezing and he never knew
it could be wonderful, never knew it could be perfect, never —
He's spurting so *hard* —
He's snarling and holding her even tighter —
Bruising —
But she's strong —
She's perfect —
She's —
She'll never *leave* him!
"NEVER!"
He spurts again —
*Again* —
And then his howl runs out of air, his body runs out of *energy* — for the
moment. It's been an exciting day.
He slumps.
He pants.
He muses, briefly, on just how *much* 'protection' he'd taken from Amina
through Porthos that they *could* do all of this without her draining him one
*bit* — he's still just as *powerful* as he was when the All-Mother left him —
But then he just gives up on that thought and stares — at the pretty stars
taking over his vision, mostly. Amina's still in there, though. That makes
everything prettier.
She snickers at him. "You are *ridiculous*, sweet brother."
"You *always* do this to me, Amina-love. I don't know why you're surprised."
"Hmph. A *real* man —"
"*Hey* —"
"— would have more *aplomb* after sex."
"You're absolutely right, Amina-love. As soon as the swelling's down, I'll lift
you right off my cock and go address the King."
She puts her fists on her hips and pretends to be angry, eyes sparkling. "About
*what*."
"Well... I'm going to be realistic and admit that it will probably be a very
long, thorough, detailed address about your cunt."
She narrows her eyes — but absolutely can't control her mouth. After a fight
that lasts several moments, she bursts out in massive laughter, great hoots and
cackles that Treville wants to spend the rest of his life in.
And the entirety of his death, too, for that matter.
"It's only —"
"Mm...?"
"I can see you *doing* it!"
"Oh, not with Louis."
"No?"
Treville shakes his head and frowns. "It's *probable* that he's found the
Queen's cunt once or twice — probably while dreaming wistfully of his banished
mother —"
Amina splutters —
"He just wouldn't appreciate tales of your cunt the way they *deserve* to be
appreciated, Amina-love."
"Oh, no, I see," she says, and nods judiciously.
He nods back, just as judiciously.
And then they snicker like children together. Just —
So good.
So *good* —
Amina sighs and strokes his chest where his shirt has gapped — and torn. She
tugs on his chest hair —
"Do that *often*, please."
"You have more *fur* than you used to, my husband."
"That I do, Amina-love. My inner youth says it's about fucking time."
She snickers again. "What was it *like* to grow up with *Kitos*?"
"I had to accept — *early* — that some goals were only to be yearned for in
certain *ways*, lest I fall into a despair so deep I needed to drown myself in
a horse trough."
She — laughs like an angry goose, really.
Treville grins and pets her.
"I used to be — mm. I used to be *so* jealous of Marie-Angelique's *breasts*,
sweet brother!"
Treville blinks. "Even though yours have always been perfect?"
She pets *him*. "Idiot shock was the *perfect* way to respond to that."
"I — good, but —"
"*But*, she was lush, and pretty, and soft, and feminine, and even though I
knew full well that you did not *like* those things any better than you liked
*my* ways of being a woman...? Well. A *large* part of me was convinced that,
on one of your *many* visits there, you would discover what every *other* man
in the world had discovered."
Treville — blushes. And frowns. "Did it *bother* you when we all —"
"A little, sweet brother. A little. But *only* a little. You did a *good* job
of putting our pack together —"
"You were right there to show me *how* —"
"But *you* did it. You made it *work*. And, once I *saw* it working? Once I saw
how you loved me even once you had had your other sister...?"
"It was... all right?"
She cups his face. "It was wonderful, sweet brother. Because *I* had a sister,
too."
Treville — swallows.
And aches.
Just —
"I miss them, too," Amina says. "Every last —" She croons. "The way Reynard
would *curse* when I fed him that horribly-spicy *food*!"
"And Kitos always washed his hair special if he was going to see you. In the
*hopes* that you would play with it."
"*Oh* —" She brings her hands to her mouth — and then immediately drops them.
"And Laurent was a *madman* —"
"He truly was —"
"But he never *showed* me this! Not truly! I visited the garrison all the
*time*, and he was so proper, so formal, so *correct* —"
Treville laughs. "And then suddenly we were pack —"
"And he was telling me, in the most *proper* tones imaginable, how he hoped I
would allow him to taste my *cunt* sometime soon, and perhaps fuck my *arse*."
Treville snickers. "He told me about that one. He said you looked like you
couldn't decide whether to slap him —"
"Or lock him *away* for the good of the *world*!"
"I told him, of course, that the slap meant that he'd still had a chance —"
Amina splutters and swats him twice —
Several times —
A *lot* —
"All *right*, but you *are* still on my cock, Amina-love."
She narrows her eyes — and then all of a sudden she flexes *wide*, leaking all
*over* Treville's crotch and making him flinch and *jerk* —
"I — Amina-love —"
And then she just *is* beside him, lounging on her side with her cheek on her
fist and one eyebrow raised. She's drumming the fingers of her other hand on
the duvet.
Treville spares a moment to stare at his poor, lonely, still-hard, and *bereft*
cock — and then he smiles ruefully at his lady-love. "I appreciate you giving
me this time to dig myself out of the pit I put myself into."
She raises that eyebrow higher.
"Especially since you, of course, *never* slapped me for something you later
*enthusiastically* —"
She starts to fade.
"— and I'm shutting up now."
She nods once, hard, and comes right back.
"Aren't you supposed to *not* be evil?"
"I am no *more* evil than I *ever* was, sweet brother," she says, and lolls her
tongue.
"Well, that's all — wait, that's actually fairly ominous —"
"Jean-*Armand*!"
He lolls his own tongue.
She swats his *cock* —
"Oh, *fuck*, yes —"
Amina grins *evilly*. "Do you want our *son* to do that to you...?"
"We have *three* sons, now, Amina-love, and yes, absolutely, all of them —"
Amina laughs hard — "I like how you volunteer my motherhood!"
He *looks* at her.
She grins and *grips* his cock. "Exactly as you should. They are *wonderful*
boys."
"Not — mm. Not so much younger —"
"Than me? No. As Porthos *saw*." Amina shakes her head. "I will *never* be able
to control that boy now."
Well.
"Well, *what*?"
Treville lolls his tongue a *little* —
"Tell me!"
"Amina-love... do you *want* to control him?"
She blushes like fire, even as her grip sends shivers all *through* him.
"Mm. It's like I told him — he took *all* our dominant traits and *multiplied*
them."
"We have to be *careful*, sweet brother..."
"Agreed. We will *not* have another Kitos on our hands —"
"*Yes*. And — *whatever* else he comes to want or need, he needs his *parents*,
*too*," she says, and strokes, and strokes fast and hard and *expertly* —
"Oh — fuck — *fuck* —"
"You make my hand feel as though it will catch *flame*, sweet brother."
He groans and *shoves* into her fist —
"Fuck —"
He twines their hands *together* —
"Oh, yes — yes, do that —"
He sits up so he can *see* their hands together —
See her beautiful dark skin against his own, so pale and scarred —
"*Beautiful*," she says, and sits up, too. "My husband is *beautiful* — *mm* —"
He kisses her, licks her —
Licks her mouth and guides her hand into a *brutal* stroke —
"And if — mm — *mm* — if I wish to be *sweet* to my husband?"
"There's nothing sweeter than your calluses," he says, and bites her chin, her
cheek —
Her throat —
Her salty-slick *throat* —
"Oh, hard, *hard* —"
He bites hard enough to *break* the skin on a human —
She cries out and turns her *nails* on him —
He shocks himself with a sob and fucks into their twined hands, fucks and fucks
and —
Sucks her throat, licks her, bites *more* —
And — something leaks into his mouth.
Something milky-sweet-thick-metal-POWERFUL —
It *jolts* him —
He's salivating *instantly* —
He's —
He's aching and leaking, spasming and *suckling* —
He's making Amina stroke him faster, harder, meaner, but he doesn't want to
stop, doesn't want anything to stop, doesn't —
He needs so much *more* —
He bites *deeper* —
She *howls* —
Her essence spatters his *mouth*, icy and wild-fresh-musky-SWEET —
She squeezes him *hard* —
His knot *flexes* — and he's spurting hot, spurting desperately, spurting and
lapping and groaning and *snarling* into her *throat* —
*Pumping* into their *fists* —
She's moaning so *sweetly* —
Slumping in his *arms* even as he *shakes* and tries to be *competent* about
pulling back, laying her — down.
Wait.
"Did *you* spend?"
She laughs in her *throat* —
Almost *gurgles* —
"What do *you* think, sweet brother?"
"I think I can do better!"
She laughs *hard*. "You swallowed me *down*, sweet brother. You *drank* me. You
*took* me. You... mm." She shakes her head and beckons him closer —
He half-covers her —
She beckons more impatiently —
He *completely* covers her —
And she rumbles for him. "That was... incredible. Though a bit ill-advised."
Treville raises an eyebrow. "For which of us?"
"You're going to have a much, much easier time killing — or controlling — the
undead, sweet brother..."
"Oh — shit. What about *you*?"
She smiles ruefully — and a little *tiredly*. "I am going to need to gather
more *power*."
"Oh — don't leave — not yet —"
"It will not take me —"
And then the All-Mother *yanks* Treville down and *in*, not being especially
*gentle* about it —
And she drags Amina *with* him.
She —
They're in a hollow *flooded* with every green there *is*, and Amina is
*writhing* —
Groaning in *pain* —
"Amina-love —"
She howls and shifts —
Her dog —
Her dog is so *beautiful* —
Black and lean and deep-chested and wavy-furred and *big* —
Her dog is howling and crooning and scrabbling at the *earth* —
Treville tries to *get* to her —
STAY.
And he's flattened, stuck, drooling —
He can't even *see* Amina —
She's still *howling* so —
No, no, he can turn his *head* —
And then the green floods him, fills him, *reams* him —
He spends himself *screaming* —
I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO CLEANSE YOU OF THE TAINT OF DEATH.
M-Mother —
YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A WAYWARD CHILD, AND NEED EVERY DEFENSE YOU CAN GET.
Need — mate —
YES. AND YOU WILL HAVE HER. AS YOU ALWAYS SHOULD HAVE.
What —
And then the power *leaves* him — it *feels* like it scours him even though he
knows it *didn't* —
He can turn his head —
He can breathe and think and —
And see his Amina-love, in human-form, lean like she'd been when she'd arrived,
*sheathed* in sweat, *panting*, staring in *shock* —
Wait.
*Wait*.
*Sweating*?
He crawls the short distance to her, feeling as shaky as a foal, and —
She's warm.
She's *soft*, except where she's too lean —
She's.
YOU WILL BE FRUITFUL NOW.
Treville licks his lips.
Checks on his Amina-love — she's still staring.
He opens his mouth —
YOU WILL BE FRUITFUL NOW.
Treville tips over a bit — no, no, not to land on his *living* *wife* —
Not —
That —
"Ah. *Right*... now?"
I HAVE BEEN VERY PATIENT.
"This — this is true —"
YOUR MATE IS AT THE PEAK OF HER FERTILITY.
"Did you want us to... here?"
And Treville can feel the All-Mother *looking* at him.
*Exasperatedly*.
And then she *ejects* them — back onto Treville's bed.
Their bed.
Treville takes a deep breath.
And kisses Amina's forehead.
Warm.
*Warm* —
Wait. Does *she* still have protection from the undead?
Treville examines —
And Amina takes a shuddering breath. "She *scrubbed* me, sweet brother."
"I —"
"She took all my *souls* away!"
"You were *storing* them?"
"For future use!"
"I..."
"The *point* is — I still have protection," Amina says, and frowns.
"Yes, I can feel — we feel so *strange* —"
"I do not feel like myself," she says, and frowns harder, and lifts her — lean
— arms. And frowns *harder*.
"Are you... unhappy about being alive?"
"No! I don't know!"
"I —"
"I had a way to *ensure* that we could be together forever! I had learned the
ways of *catching* souls when they left bodies —"
"*Really* —"
"And I was going to *teach* you how to become like *me* —"
"I would've been happy to —"
"What if we *lose* each other when we *die* again, sweet brother? What if we
only have — have *human* lifetimes?" And her eyes are wide, wild, *hurt* —
Treville growls and *lifts* her into his arms —
Holds her *tight* —
She clutches him *back* — "I cannot be *without* you again!"
"We'll *have* each other —"
"How do you *know*?"
"The All-Mother made us Her own again —"
"And I — that was *awful* —"
"I know, I know, She wasn't — She's usually not that —"
"*I* know, I have *studied* in the libraries beyond death, but —"
"We're Hers. And we'll — She'll take us, when we die."
Amina shudders. "I do not think She likes me much."
"Well. She'll probably perk right up if we hurry up and breed."
Amina snorts and punches him —
"I'm just *saying*, Amina-love —"
"You have just acquired *three* children! You do not *need* any more!"
Treville licks his lips —
Sniffs her right behind the ear —
Right where her *ripe* scents are starting to overcome panic and pain — "I need
your children. *All* of your children."
She croons — and claws down his back —
He arches and nips —
"Oh — brother. Sweet brother, I — it's never felt like this."
"No," he says, brilliantly, because her scents are rising —
Rising —
Surrounding him and he can't breathe anything but her, can't —
He's pushing her down —
She's spreading her legs — "Are we — are we being *pushed*?"
"I. How much do you care?"
She looks affronted — for a moment.
And then Treville's cock jerks and *spatters* her thigh, and —
"FUCK ME!"
They'll talk to the boys later.
***** Give us all your pretty things, Aramis. *****
Aramis blinks at the door to their father's suite —
And just *thinking* those words is difficult, strange, warm, *different* —
And Porthos is right there to cup the back of his neck, settle him, comfort him
—
Kiss his temple —
"All is well, love. It's uh. Well."
Porthos is blinking at their father's door.
Athos...
Athos is staring with a kind of *lust* at the doorknob. He —
"Wait, wait, Athos, *no*," Porthos says.
"I —"
"*No*," Porthos says, and uses his other hand to yank Athos away from the door.
"You *can't walk in on our parents having it off*."
"It's only... it seems so *appropriate*."
Aramis blinks.
Porthos frowns thoughtfully.
*One* of their parents howls.
Very — very passionately.
It's impossible for *Aramis* to tell which —
"It's Mum," Porthos says absently. "She has a more round tone to her howls."
"As you say."
Athos is *reaching* for the doorknob —
"*Brother*."
Athos *jerks* his hand back —
Licks his lips —
*Sweats* — "Perhaps. Perhaps we could —"
"*No*."
"— go back to one of *our* bedroom suites?"
Porthos blinks and obviously gives the matter deep thought —
There are more howls —
Aramis tries to apply the concepts of 'roundness' and 'angularity' to canine
ejaculations —
Athos sweats more —
"It's just um."
"Yes, brother?" Athos is now clutching his hands behind his back. And sweating.
Porthos smiles ruefully and points at the door. "Our parents are having it off!
Right *there*!"
Athos pants.
Aramis tries to... no. No. He is a new man, who does things like ask clear,
open questions.
"Yeah, do that, love."
"Yes, my Porthos. I... do you *wish* to stay in this hall?"
"Well... a bit?"
"Listening to our parents making love?"
"Yeah?"
"But *not* walking in and *watching* them make love."
Athos makes a small, desperate noise.
"No, I just — not *this* time. They're reuniting, you know? They deserve a
little privacy," Porthos says.
Aramis licks his lips and — "But... not... *complete* privacy?"
"Really, Aramis, have you *met* them?"
"Not... our... mother?"
Porthos blinks —
Looks to Athos —
Athos shakes his head. And sweats.
"I uh... I'm torturing you both, aren't I. I mean, in the bad way."
"Mostly Athos, my Porthos," Aramis says. "Mostly."
Athos swallows audibly.
Porthos cups the back of *Athos's* neck — without releasing Aramis's — and
walks them both back to Porthos's suite of rooms.
"Oh, thank you," Athos says.
"Yes, I —"
"I *apologize*," Porthos says, and pushes them both in, then follows, then
closes the door behind them. "I promise to do better in the future."
"No, no," Athos says. "It's perfectly — perfectly understandable. Sex. Parents.
Closed... tempting... doors..."
Athos is still somewhat glassy-eyed. It —
"Athos. Mate..."
"Mm...?"
"When did you and Thomas *stop* barging in on Daddy and your parents?"
"Well. We didn't."
"Uh."
"We simply stopped *catching* them."
"You."
Aramis blinks. "You... but surely you could *hear* when they were...?"
"The plaster is quite thick in the manor, and I believe they began moving their
lovemaking to other *parts* of the property, as they did with the floggings."
Porthos nods thoughtfully. "Daddy did say that they'd 'learned discretion' by
the time you and Thomas were out of short pants. Whatever that bloody means."
Athos smiles wryly. "So very, very much frustration."
Aramis pours them all wine from the bottle on the sitting room's main table.
"My mother, she was also *very* good at getting around me when I was a boy."
Porthos grins and takes his glass. "Yeah, love? She ran rings around you?"
Aramis hands Athos his own glass and then waves his free hand. "It was more of
a graceful saunter."
Porthos laughs —
Athos hums —
"But tell us more about *our* mother, my Porthos," Aramis says, and pulls out
their chairs —
Waits for his brothers to sit —
Sits himself — "I wish to know *everything*!"
Athos and Porthos *both* give him *queer* looks —
"What?"
Athos *looks* to Porthos —
And Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Love... are you *serving* us?"
Aramis grins a *little* slyly — but not much, ultimately. He is feeling... a
need.
A very specific —
"Our Sir, he was very clear about what my place was..."
"Uh. What."
"I believe I would like for you to share more of your *conversation* with our
father, Aramis," Athos says —
And Aramis laughs — dirtily. Hungrily.
And concentrates just the way his Sir had taught him to do —
Just the way to open himself *completely* —
To *share* and *give* —
This is right, this is proper —
"Oh — shit —"
Athos moans —
Porthos *grunts* — "Wait — *wait*. When did you plan to talk to *me* about
'Papa' —"
"As soon as you *wish*, my Porthos," Aramis says, but. Even with the feelings,
even with the need, even with *everything*, he can't keep himself from blushing
—
He can feel himself being *studied*, inside and *out* —
He can feel himself being seen, known, *comprehended* —
Porthos and Athos are looking at every *moment*, *examining* every moment,
seeing him at his most —
His most...
And then Porthos pushes the flood of memories *back* —
Athos *grunts* —
"Love. Do you need us not to look right now?" His gaze is serious —
Focused —
Almost *hard* —
For a moment, Aramis is only stunned. He almost can't parse the words Porthos
had *said* —
And then he's flushing *hard*, because what if — "Are you. Do you... not wish
to see?"
Porthos blinks — and growls. "Love, I wish I could bury my *face* in that
memory and *wallow*. You were... incredible. And incredible with Daddy."
"Do you — did you like it better —"
"Shh. Shh. Tell me why you panicked," Porthos says, and his voice is low and
rumbling and — hungry.
He has to *feed* —
"You have to answer my questions, love. All of my questions. That's the best
way to serve me right now."
Aramis moans — "You will tell me... if that changes?"
"I will. Always," Porthos says, leaning across the table and taking Aramis's
hands in his own.
It does not feel the way it had when Sir had done it. It's more firm, more
possessive —
More *containing* —
Aramis can feel himself breathing *easier* —
"You're mine, love," Porthos says, low and — and *factual*.
As he should.
As he always should.
"Yes, Porthos. I am yours." And Aramis looks to Athos —
His eyes are so *hot* —
"To me now, love," Porthos says. "It's not Athos's turn with you, yet."
Aramis flushes *deeply* —
They had not even come to that part of the *memory*!
They — but. Of course Porthos would know.
Of course Porthos would be *certain* —
"Wait, wait, love. Back up a bit. Tell me what's *wrong*."
"I am much *better* now, my Porthos!"
"Wait. Tell me what *was* wrong."
Aramis opens his mouth — closes it and blushes. "My mother, she would tell me I
was too quick for myself, and would get myself into very bad trouble because of
it one day."
Athos raises an eyebrow and smiles —
Porthos smiles softly. "Did she, then. What did *you* say when she said things
like that."
"That the world moved much too fast for *me* to move at a leisurely pace. That
there was too much to see and do, too much to learn, too many places to
*explore*, for me to... slow down." Aramis smiles ruefully. "I wish I had
slowed down to spend more time at her side."
Porthos and Athos nod.
He knows they both understand. He knows —
And he *must* answer Porthos's question!
"Take it easy and slow, love. I need a *thorough* answer," Porthos says, and
squeezes his hands.
Oh... but.
"Mm?"
"There is not so *much*, my Porthos. It is only that I felt very... small in
Sir's hands, and enjoyed that very *much*," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully.
"You saw this thing. You *felt* this thing."
"I did," Porthos says, and frowns. "It's the old problem, then? You worrying
about how you're going to be seen the next day? You worrying about whether or
not you'll be respected?"
Aramis shrugs. "These things, they are difficult to escape, my Porthos. But.
Less difficult when you are touching me."
Porthos rumbles. "And if I told you to call me Papa right now?"
"Oh. You..."
"I want it. Assume I *always* want it. Because the only things it's ever going
to do to me are make me warm, make me love you more, make me *need* you more,
and make me *hot*. That'll be damned inconvenient in the palaces... but I'll
still *want* it."
Aramis winces with *need* —
Moans —
Shifts on his perfectly-comfortable *chair* —
Porthos inhales deeply and strokes Aramis's hands with his thumbs *firmly*.
"Tell me. Answer the question."
"Yes, my — Porthos. Were I to call you that... I would. I would be a boy
again."
"Right away?"
"Yes." And Aramis dips his head. He has to. He has to.
Porthos makes a small, hungry sound. "Yeah, love. You do just that."
"Yes. Yes, my —"
"Would you *like* to be a boy again."
Aramis licks his lips.
Tries to —
To — express —
"It's a beautiful thing, love. It's... wonderful."
"It... is?"
"Yeah. Even just the little I've seen so far has got me hungry for it. Hungry
for *you*."
Aramis moans —
"Even hearing you *talk* about it with *Athos* had me hungry."
"Yes. Yes. Sir said..."
"Yeah. He did..." And Porthos strokes Aramis's hands again. "Athos. Brother."
"Yes, brother."
"Mm. You're sinking down a little, yourself, aren't you."
"When you're like this?" Athos huffs. "It's rather inevitable, at this point.
But — I don't have to —"
"Yeah. You do. You're both going to serve me."
Athos grunts —
Aramis *moans* again —
"We're just going to spend a little time working out *how* first," Porthos
says, and leans back a little, looking Athos up and down. "How are you doing."
"Increasingly pleased with the state of my existence," Athos says, and smiles,
small and bright — and *wild* in his blue eyes.
Porthos grins. "Ready to go, eh?"
"Very much so, brother. Aramis..." And Athos smiles *wryly* and ducks *his*
head —
And Aramis realizes that he had looked up again —
That he had *disobeyed* —
No, no — he ducks his head and opens his mouth to *apologize* —
"No apologies needed, love. I wanted your head down because I knew you needed
it right then. If you don't need it, I *usually* won't want it."
Aramis takes a *breath* —"'Usually'?"
"*Most* of the time, I'm going to want to see your pretty face, love," Porthos
says, releasing Aramis's left hand and lifting his chin. "I'll *order* you to
duck your head when I want something else."
"Oh. Oh... I — I will always keep —"
"Shh. You *will* duck your head when you need to. You don't have to ask —
though you *can* ask if it would make things better for you," Porthos says, and
raises his eyebrows.
Aramis moans. "I — yes, my Porthos."
"Yeah?"
Aramis *grins* — broadly. He can't hold it back. He can't —
There's no reason to hold it back.
There's no reason to do anything but *give* —
"That's right, love. My *precious* love. My precious *boy*."
"I. Am precious?"
Porthos looks at him hotly, *hungrily* — "Yeah, you are. Just as precious as
precious can be. It hardly seems believable that I've *earned* something so
precious —"
"I am for *you*!"
Porthos growls — "Yeah. Yeah, you are. And I'm going to keep you forever.
*Forever*."
"Please —"
"*Yes*."
Aramis *grunts* — and giggles, shifting on his chair again. "I think my Papa is
very certain of what he wants..."
Porthos's jaw drops —
His eyes *widen* — and then they narrow again, heat again, and Porthos growls —
Leans *in* — "I want *you*."
"I am *yours*, Papa!"
"That's not all I want, though," Porthos says, and licks his lips.
"No! You must also have *Athos*," Aramis says, and nods.
Athos makes a soft sound —
Shifts on *his* chair —
Licks his lips —
And Porthos laughs... filthily. And moves one hand to the back of Athos's neck
—
Athos *grunts* —
"*I* think, little precious —"
"I like this name!"
"*Good*. I think I'm going to have *lots* of names for you, for one..."
"Oh — I like this, too!"
Porthos grins. "For another... I think our brother, our *Athos*... wants to
play with you, too."
Aramis blinks —
Athos *flushes* —
Aramis looks back and forth *between* Athos and Porthos before settling on his
— his *Papa*. "Papa, is this *allowed*?"
Papa licks his lips. "Oh, precious. We can have anything we — all — want."
"Oh."
"We can have anything we all *need*."
"Yes, Papa, yes, it will be as you say!"
"Wait," Papa says, and holds up the hand he'd had on Aramis's chin. "Just wait.
We *all* have to want it. We all have to be *ready* for it. Ready to give and
share and *care* for each other."
"I." Athos swallows. "I'm not altogether certain if I'm *ready* for something
like this in general, but I'm ready... for the rest. And I desire and need it
very badly."
Papa nods and squeezes Athos's neck in obvious reward — "That's good, brother.
That's *good*."
"I'm very glad you think so," Athos says, and huffs —
Papa laughs —
And Aramis giggles. "*I* wish to serve, my Papa. I wish to serve my Papa *and*
my brother."
"Mm. I — *how* do you wish to serve, little precious?"
"All ways! I am yours —"
"Shh, shh," Papa says, and *caresses* his cheek —
Pets him —
Strokes him so —
Aramis nuzzles and kisses his fingertips —
Licks them the way he had licked Sir's —
Kisses more —
"Oh, that's sweet. That's —" And Papa rumbles and rumbles and —
Oh, Aramis is being good, Aramis is being *pleasing* —
"You *truly* are, precious. Precious *boy*," Papa says, and takes his fingers
away —
"Oh, but let me please you more!"
"Your Papa doesn't want to get distracted — yet," he says, and grins so
happily, so *lustfully*.
Aramis *beams* — "Yes, Papa!"
"Good boy. You have to tell me — in the *clearest* terms you can — whether you
want to give this to more than one person at a time. Whether you want to be a
*boy* for more than one person at a time. I already know you *want* to give
this to both Athos and me, but.... there'll be some differences with both of us
on you at once, precious. And I think you understand that."
"Yes, Papa! When I have been a man, I have had more than one courtesan at once
—"
"*Have* you, now."
"Yes! And it was different; you have taught me that lesson! But I have
*enjoyed* serving two people at once," Aramis says, and nods.
"Yeah, eh? What *haven't* you enjoyed about it?" And Papa raises his eyebrows.
Oh... Aramis blushes —
Ducks his head — no.
No. He *raises* his head, and he *looks* at his Papa, his brother... "I...
there were, sometimes, conflicting orders. And deliberately conflicting orders
—"
Papa *growls* —
Athos narrows his eyes —
"I — that was difficult."
"There'll be none of that," Papa says, slowly and *firmly*.
"Yes — yes, Papa —"
"If two orders *seem* to conflict, you're to let us *know*. *Immediately*."
"Oh — *yes*, Papa —"
"It's my responsibility — and what I bloody *crave* — to take *care* of my
little precious," Papa says, and his breathing is rough, hungry — "Just like
it's *your* responsibility to take care of *me*."
"Yours! I am yours!"
"That's *right*. It's my responsibility to make my little precious feel..." And
Papa growls and rumbles and *adjusts* himself. Like he's *aching*. "Make him
feel just right." And he licks his *lips*.
"You do! And I will do the same for you *always*!"
"Good boy. *Good* little —" Papa stares at him and looks so *starved* —
He *pants* —
He *growls* more —
"Papa...?"
"It's my responsibility to see to your *pleasure*, little precious..."
"My — oh. Oh. All of it?"
Papa nods, and there's a light sheen of sweat at his temples. "Even when it's
*not* me touching you. Even when it's not me *ordering* you. I..." And Papa
blinks — and frowns thoughtfully. "I think I need to see what Daddy said about
this to you. I — make sure we're all in agreement here."
"Yes, Papa!" And Aramis concentrates —
Tries to focus on just that one moment —
Oh, yes, yes —
He gives —
He gives *all* —
Athos is panting —
And Papa is taking deep, *slow* breaths. *Controlled* breaths.
Papa is trying to *keep* his control. Papa —
Is he angry?
Did he not like —
Papa growls, loud and *deep*. "Precious. Precious boy."
"Yes, Papa, please, let me *serve* you!"
"You *liked* what Daddy said."
"Yes! Very much!"
'That you would serve *all* of us — but me *first*."
"I love you! I am *yours*. I *belong* to you and this will always be so!"
"*Fuck* —" And Porthos groans and *adjusts* himself again. "Tell me, nice and
clear, nice and honest, if you have any *conflicting* thoughts about that."
Aramis nods and nods and — "My Papa wishes to care for me. My Papa *loves* me.
My Papa — he has told me what his *responsibilities* are —"
"What *some* of them are. There are others."
"Oh. Yes?"
"I'll tell you *all* about them. We'll discover them together, precious," Papa
says, and narrows his eyes. And leaves his hand beneath the table. "But tell me
more. Tell me... tell me what you *need* from me."
"Everything Sir *said*, Papa! Your power, your force, your control, your —
*everything*, Papa! I want you to *make* me yours every day! Make me —
*properly* yours, your good boy!"
"And teach you how to be mine?"
"Yes!"
"And show you how to serve me even when you're serving other people?"
"Oh, yes, please!"
"And *choose* who you serve *when*?"
Aramis *moans* —
"Do you like that, too, precious?"
"If — if my Papa —"
"No, precious. You have to tell me what *you* like, and what *you* want for
this. Because *I* need to make my precious happy, and secure, and
*comfortable*. I *hunger* for it. It drives me *mad* when you're *not* happy.
When you're not *right*. Do you understand? You're *mine*. Consider it an order
if it will make it easier on you, precious, but I *need* to know.
*Everything*."
"Oh, Papa..."
Papa nods, and never moves his hands from Athos's neck — and from under the
table. "That's right, precious. Think about it."
"I... have a question first. If that is all right!"
"It always is, precious. I promise to tell you *very* clearly if I ever need
you to not ask questions for a little while, and tell you *immediately* as soon
as you *can* ask questions again."
Aramis shivers. "Yes, Papa. Thank you, Papa. I... I wish to know if I was *bad*
when I made love with Athos and Sir."
Papa *blinks* — as if that was a *strange* question!
"I — I did not ask your permission either time! Or wait for your orders!"
"That's *very* true, precious — but we also hadn't *agreed* to a *rule* saying
that you *had* to ask or wait."
*Aramis* blinks.
"You'll never have to guess what the rules are, with Porthos," Athos says,
quietly. His smile is soft, and gentle, and loving. "You'll never have to...
doubt."
This is clear, objective truth. Aramis nods. "I am... *already* your good boy."
He is careful not to phrase it as a question —
And Papa smiles. "You are, precious. You *truly* are. And I'll make you even
better."
Aramis pants —
"I'll teach you *every* way to please me... mm. But answer my question."
"Because... it is your *responsibility* to make certain that I always have what
I need."
"That's just right. And I'm me, precious — you *know* my responsibilities are
my *pleasures*. Just like *your* responsibilities are *yours*... when you get
right down to it. We're the same kind."
Aramis *shifts* —
Wriggles —
He does know. He has *always* known.
And Papa raises his eyebrows.
"I want you to choose for me, Papa. I want you to *tell* me who I should
pleasure when."
*Papa* blinks.
And Aramis smiles. "My Papa will always see to my pleasure and happiness and
comfort," Aramis says, and gestures grandly. "My Papa will always make
*certain* I have what I *need*. Yes?"
"*Yes* —"
"Then I need do nothing but wait," Aramis says, and the man in him would lean
back, cross his legs, be *big* —
But in this moment all he wants to do is lean in, get close —
So *close* —
And Papa *rewards* him!
Papa grabs him by his tunic and pulls him close, over the table —
"Oh, Papa, *yes* —"
"You don't even have to wait, precious..."
Aramis *pants* — and then pants into Papa's *mouth* —
The kiss is so *strong* —
So strong and deep and hard and —
So *sweet* —
Aramis moans and takes it, *takes* it —
He is small, he is young, he is — not soft.
He cannot be soft around his Papa —
And Papa laughs into his mouth —
*Licks* him like *Sir* —
Licks him again, again —
So affectionately and hungrily and —
Oh, but he's making them all stand —
Moving them to the *side* of the table —
"Strip," he says into Aramis's mouth. "*Both* of you."
Athos *grunts* — "As you say —"
And Aramis licks his Papa's beard —
Pulls back and strips himself fast, fast —
When he looks up, *both* Papa and Athos are stripping themselves —
Oh —
Oh...
"*Don't* stop, precious," Papa says, and tosses his tunic across the room. "We
want you just as naked as a pretty little whore..."
We —
Aramis blushes —
Shivers —
Papa lifts his nose — and nods. "You don't need us to stop."
"No, Papa, no —"
"You just need — mm. Athos. What are you thinking about right now. Give us a
list," Papa says, smiling *knowingly* and going back to unlacing his shirt.
"Aramis's mouth on my cock. Your mouth on my cock. Aramis's body against mine.
Aramis's wrists in my — my *grip*. Aramis's fifteen-year-old self. Beckoning
fingers, slimmer than the ones he has now. Shorter, but no less deft. My own
awkward adolescence. Thomas's far *less* awkward adolescence. Whether or not I
was attracted to Thomas. Whether or not I want to admit that. Whether —"
"For fuck's sake, Athos," Papa says, and laughs hard, pausing to cup Athos's
shoulder and squeeze.
Athos grins. "You did say to give you a list, brother."
"I did, I did. I walked into that with my eyes open."
"Yes, and —"
"You were definitely attracted to Thomas."
"Oh. Yes?"
"Yeah, I — I haven't wanted to bring it up before, but the way you talk about
him sometimes — not all the time, but sometimes — is pretty... uh. Yeah."
"Hm."
"Yeah."
"I believe I'll... just begin the process of growing accustomed to that."
"You do that, brother. But *first* — adolescent Aramis?"
"Oh. Yes. He *showed* me himself, when he was a youth."
"Mm. I remember that from when I was peeking in on you," Papa says, and strips
off his shirt —
Tosses that —
And turns to Aramis. "Will you show *me*, precious? Will you show your Papa all
your pretty things?"
Aramis grunts and — and breathes, tries to breathe, tries to —
No, not think. He shrugs off his braces, *tears* the shirt off, strips,
*strips*, and *concentrates* - -
*Concentrates* — and gives Papa his dream, his fantasy —
Papa curled around him —
Aramis, younger even than he had been in the fantasy he'd given to Athos,
sitting on his generous lap —
*Squirming* on his lap until Papa's powerful hands still him —
Hold him —
Keep him —
Papa's soft lips against his ear —
Papa's low, rumbling voice —
"Is this for me...?"
And Papa's rough, callused fingers stroke all over Aramis's honestly *small*
cock —
Small and very, very hard.
Very — slick —
"Is my little pet hungry for me...? Mm?"
"I... I..."
And Papa laughs softly and plays with his foreskin, petting and tugging so
gently, so carefully —
So *cautiously* with his hard *fingers*!
"Are you going to tell me, pet?"
"Please... please do not stop touching!"
And Papa growls, hugs him tight, holds him close — "Why would I do that, mm?
Sweet little boy like you on my lap..."
Aramis moans —
"Want to touch you all night, little pet..."
"I — please..."
"Please what, mm?" And Porthos *strokes* Aramis's cock gently, *sweetly* —
"Ahn — nuh —"
"What should your Papa do, pet...?"
"Please never let me go! Please take me *with* you —"
Papa grunts —
Blinks —
"Precious...?"
"There is... I woke up. After that," Aramis says, and shrugs ruefully. "It...
my mind... Papa, I know too much about taking myself away from bad places, in
my dreams."
Papa blinks and looks horrified —
"Oh — oh, no! You are a *good* place! You are *always* a good place, Papa! But
— when I was that small in *truth*..." And Aramis looks down because he must.
He must.
"I was... in school."
Athos growls.
"And that's where you need your Papa to take you away from."
"It is foolish, I know, I apologize —"
"It's not foolish, precious. It's not — mm. I'll take you away."
Aramis looks *up* —
"*We'll* take you away," Athos says, hard and *fervent*.
"We'll make *everything* new, precious," Papa says, and continues stripping.
"Oh... Papa..."
"There is... safety. In Porthos's arms," Athos says, and he's already naked and
*hard*.
*Leaking* —
"Did you expect something else, Aramis...?" And Athos smiles so *warmly*. "That
fantasy was... incredible."
"You... you enjoyed..."
"We *both* did, precious," Papa says, and *he's* naked and hard and leaking —
Aramis *pants* —
And Papa moves close —
Pushes him back down into the chair —
Crouches to strip off Aramis's boots and socks —
"Oh — Papa —"
"Shh. You're mine to discover. All over again every day," Papa says, and kisses
Aramis's hand when it spasms on the table.
Once the boots and socks are gone, Papa opens Aramis's trousers and breeches —
Makes him lift up —
And strips him naked.
Makes him *bare*.
"Perfect. You're bloody perfect," Papa says —
"I concur," Athos says.
"Even though — I — you *liked* the dream? The fantasy?"
"We *truly* did, precious — or. Pet? Which feels better, mm?"
Aramis blushes. "When I had the dream, I did not know I was... precious."
Papa rumbles and rumbles — "You know now, though. Don't you."
Aramis licks his lips. "I am what you say."
"Would you like Athos to touch you when you're that small."
That... shouldn't be a difficult question —
*Why* is it —
He doesn't *know* —
"Shh, that's all right. We'll figure it out in time."
"Yes, Papa?"
Papa nods and cups Aramis's thighs, spreading them *wide*.
"*Oh* —"
"You *know* you want Athos to touch you when you're a *little* bigger than
that..."
"Yes — *yes*!"
"Have you had more fantasies...?"
Aramis *blushes* again — and nods.
"Dirty thing," Papa says, and grins. "Show us. Show us and see what you *get*."
Aramis gasps — and grins. "Yes, Papa!" And he concentrates —
Focuses on just his dreams of *Athos* —
*Immediately* begins sharing a then-confusing dream he'd had months ago of —
Athos backing him up with his rapier at Aramis's throat and a *cold* look in
his eyes —
Backing him up farther and farther until his back is against a post —
And then there's no one else left in the tavern at all, nothing but the crackle
of the fires in the hearths to obscure the quiet, quiet purr of Athos's voice
as he leans in just a little and says:
"Are you going to lie to me again, Aramis?"
"I don't know what you *mean* —"
"Mm. Disappointing," Athos says, and the killing stroke is —
"Uh."
Athos's eyebrow is up under his fringe. It.
"I apologize!"
Athos looks to Papa —
"Uhh.... right. We're just going to — wait, no, precious, did you toss yourself
*off* to that?"
"The *man* in me did, Papa."
Papa seems to be trying very hard not to frown.
"I am very sorry! I will find the *right* fantasy and —"
"Wait, wait, precious, no. You didn't do wrong. I *promise* you didn't," Papa
says.
"But —"
"I believe that fantasy was worth a 'for fuck's sake'," Athos says.
Papa *coughs* a laugh — and reaches back to smack Athos's cock —
Athos *pants* — "Yes, you're — mm. Absolutely correct," he says, and smiles
beatifically.
"Thought you'd see it my way," Papa says, and turns back to Aramis —
And gives Aramis his slick fingers to lick!
"That's right, precious. You give us fantasies, you *get* rewards. Lick it all
up, now."
"Mm! Mm!" Yes, Papa! And Aramis obeys, he *obeys*, even though he doesn't
understand —
"You don't have perfect control over the mental stuff, yet. None of us do. It's
only natural that old fantasies would pop up. *Especially* old fantasies that
uh... made you feel things *strongly*. We'll just put it that way," Papa says
wryly.
Athos hums. "I assure you, Aramis — my own fantasy life, my own dreams, are a
positive wreckage of emotional horror."
Aramis nods thoughtfully — and sucks.
"*Good* little precious."
Thank you, Papa!
Athos sighs. "I find it impossible to understand how men don't accost him on
the *street*."
"Well. I *did*," Papa says. "A *lot*."
"You're *exceptional*."
"I was *hungry* for him. For any little part of him I could *get*. I used to
toss myself off to *odd* fantasies of rubbing my cock on that bit of chest hair
he always shows off."
"That's odd?"
Papa blinks.
*Touches* his tongue to his upper lip —
*Looks* at Athos —
"It's an honest *question*."
"I *know*, brother. I'm just trying to decide if I should smack your cock
again, *anyway*."
"Yes, but what are *your* reasons?"
Papa laughs *hard*. "You should've been *interrogating* Daddy about this stuff,
you know. He was right bloody there, and he would've *told* you."
Athos smiles ruefully. "I understood that on an intellectual level, but..."
"Yeah?"
"On a deeper level, he was still the man who wouldn't tell me the truth about
what he was doing with my *parents*."
"Oh — shit. *Got* it," Papa says, and smacks Athos's cock *hard* —
Athos moans. "Thank you. Thank you so very — mm."
"You're *welcome*. And the chest hair thing is *odd* because it would be
exceedingly difficult to *spend* that way. Well. For most men."
"For you?"
"*Really* yes. You're pent-up enough, still, that it might just work, though,"
Papa says, and tugs his fingers from Aramis's mouth.
"Mmmm..."
"There's my precious."
"Yes, Papa! And I am willing to have my chest hair *used*, Papa. Or shaven away
—"
"Oh my — no. No, precious. We're *not* shaving you."
"But —"
"Wait," Papa says, and raises a hand. "If you *need* to be shaved to feel
right, or if you just *want* it? Then, by all means, take that razor to
yourself. Or I'll do it *for* you."
"Oh, *Papa*..."
"*But*. You don't need to be any less hairy than you are in order to be my
precious little boy. My *delicious* and *young* boy," Papa says, and licks his
wet fingers. "I think Daddy showed you a little of how *that* could work."
"Oh — a great deal!"
"All right, then. When I was a boy, I took up with Flea, who had been my
closest friend from the time we were children. She was about a year and a half
older than me — a little more than that — and she was my *little* girl. Once we
could figure out how to make a decent pushy bloke out of the randy boy I was."
Papa strokes up the underside of Aramis's cock with his rough fingers.
Aramis jerks and *gasps* —
"I may not be half so experienced as *Daddy*... but this *isn't* new to me. You
don't have to do a *thing* but *give* me yourself. Is that clear?"
"*Yes*, Papa!"
Papa rumbles and cups Aramis's sac, instead. "Good boy. *Precious* boy. Are you
ready to try to give us another fantasy?"
Aramis pants and nods and — "Yes, Papa! I will do better this time!"
"Mm. Know you will, precious," Papa says, and grins. "Even if you *do* give us
another *random* fantasy. It's you. More is *always* better."
Aramis blushes *hard* —
He does not know how to *answer* — no, no, he *concentrates* —
He focuses on being a *boy*, a boy for *Athos* —
And it's a rainy night in Épernay when the Musketeer rides into the school.
He is tall, and his leathers are dark, and sleek, and plain, and it's all
Aramis can do not to *run* to him, not to *beg* to be allowed to care for his
beautiful black, not to beg for *stories* —
He has missed soldiers so *much*!
And it doesn't take much to convince himself to break the rules, to sneak away
from the dormitory to the guest quarters he knows the Musketeer would've been
given — after first stopping where the priests keep their best liquor.
He chooses two bottles of good wine and he runs through the halls lest he get
*caught*.
And then —
When he's at the Musketeer's door —
He knocks as quietly as he can. He —
He thinks his heart must be thundering harder, more loudly, than his knock!
But the Musketeer opens the door — slow and *silent* — and smiles at him
*wryly* —
"I brought... gifts?"
"Are they yours to give?"
Well... "They are now," Aramis says, and smiles, because the Musketeer's gaze
is warm, amused, and his scarred mouth is tugging itself helplessly into a
broader smile —
He is beckoning Aramis *in*!
His leathers are drying by the fire —
His weapons are close to the bed —
He —
He offers the chair to Aramis —
Aramis sits —
The Musketeer opens the first bottle of wine, pours some in the tumbler he was
given, hands it to Aramis —
"Oh, thank you!"
"You're welcome," he says, and clinks the bottle against the tumbler.
Aramis grins. "I am Aramis!"
"Are you?"
Well... "I am Aramis when I am allowed to be *myself*."
The Musketeer's smile is sharp — and pleased. "I am Athos... at exactly the
same times."
"Oh!"
"Though I believe I am allowed more freedom than you are."
Aramis — does not wish to scowl. He knocks back his wine, instead.
"Impressive."
"When you know where the priests keep their liquor..." And Aramis shrugs.
The Musketeer — *Athos* — *grins* sharply. "And do you know their other
secrets?"
"Too *many* —"
"There is no such animal as knowing too many secrets, Aramis. Consider that
free advice from one who has learned... the hard way."
Aramis blinks — and smiles. "Will you tell me stories now? Say yes!"
Athos huffs something like a laugh. "Is that what you came here for, Aramis?
Stories?"
Aramis blinks. "I may have other things?"
Athos cocks his head to the side. "How much do you like it here. Be...
excruciatingly honest."
And that — Aramis spits in the fire. "The only reason I did not spit on the
*floor* was out of respect for *you*."
"And the priests...?"
Aramis *snarls* —
And Athos licks his teeth. "Thank you for that. I'm here, *not* because I'm
traveling *through* and got stuck in the rain, but because your school has been
holding back —"
"Money! So much — the priests are greedy, un-Christian —"
"Mm. You do know secrets," Athos says, and huffs again, and drinks straight
from the bottle. "Go on. Tell me you know where the vault is. Make me an
*exquisitely* happy man — and make your tormentors suffer punishments that will
make them weep for the rest of their very short lives."
Aramis can't — can't focus on that beautiful dream. *Cannot*. But... "And what
will I get for this happiness?"
"What would you like...?"
A kiss. "To be a Musketeer!"
Athos raises his *eyebrow* —
This time, Aramis *does* scowl... though, truly, he is scowling at himself. He
does not know what these feelings are, not truly, not — not with *all* of
himself, and none of the boys or men here are *worth* him, and —
"Aramis. I will happily put you on the back of my horse when I ride from here —
or buy you a mount of your own. But I need to know that it's what —"
"It is *all* I've ever wanted!" But I also want other *things* now —
"Tell me what you didn't say."
"No!"
"Hm," Athos says, and looks away for a moment — and then cups Aramis's *face*
with his hard, strong, *big* hand.
"I —"
"Is it this...?"
Aramis blushes, shivers —
He has come over in *gooseflesh*!
He cannot *breathe* properly — and his cock is thickening. It. He can't —
And Athos nods once, with *perfect* knowledge, and does not move his hand.
"There is no shame in this, Aramis. I can guess what you've been taught, but
it's entirely incorrect."
That — "You are a *heretic*?"
Athos's smile quirks — still wryly. "Proudly so. As is my lover, and brother —
in arms, that is." And *then* he moves his hand.
And Aramis's face is cold.
And Aramis's *self* is —
Thrilled.
Curious.
Confused —
*Needy* —
"If you have questions...?" And Athos is smiling more gently.
"I have many questions!"
Athos flourishes and inclines his head. "Ask."
"Oh — who is your lover? What is his name? Is he tall and strong and virile and
beautiful like you?"
Athos *coughs*. "I..."
"Tell me!"
Athos — grins. Bright and wide and more than a little wild. "He'd love you.
Madly, deeply — you'd already *be* on the back of his horse."
Aramis blinks and blinks — "He has sex with boys?"
"He makes *love* with boys — from time to time. When they choose him. And... he
absolutely wouldn't mind me talking about him with a new recruit —"
"*Oh* —"
"— at *length*. So: His name is Porthos. His mother was a former slave, and we
do not know who his father was — or is. Only that he was not there for Porthos
when he was growing up. He is *quite* tall —"
"Taller than you?"
"Yes," Athos says, and grins again. "And broader and heavier, too. He is a man
of colour, and his skin is the colour of... mm. Words fail me. He's beautiful,
and not *especially* dark, though I am ever fascinated by the brown of his skin
against my own. His lips are soft and broad, his eyes are wide and dark, and
his beard is... soft. Lush, though he keeps it trimmed rather more
conservatively than I keep my own. He is a man of great good cheer, honesty,
openness, caring, wisdom, intellect, open-*mindedness* —"
"*Athos*."
"Hm?"
"You are in *love* with this man!"
"I have been since not long after we met."
"But he is not in love with you?"
Athos raises an eyebrow. "You ask that because of his boys? His... hmm. Smooth-
cheeked beauties?"
"Yes!"
Athos smiles sharply. "He has promised me, more than once, that he will always
be my brother, Aramis. He has never given me reason to doubt him."
"But brotherhood is not —"
"It is — when done properly," Athos says, and his voice is firm. *Unyielding*.
Aramis *blinks* —
Blushes more —
"I... have not had brothers."
"That will change."
"Will *you* be my brother?"
Another sharp and *hot* smile. "Is that what you want, Aramis? There *are* boys
your own age —"
"I am *done* with children!"
And Athos... parts his lips. "Are you."
"Children are too *small*. *Inside*."
"Not all of them," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow.
"Oh — I am *no* child."
Athos reaches out and strokes Aramis's cheek with one callused finger. "They
took that from you."
"Yes!"
"And you have no desire to have it back...?"
"I would be *smaller*. *Stupider*. More — more — I would be *less*."
Athos nods thoughtfully again. "I have thought, more than once, of traveling to
a time of innocence for myself."
"*Truly*?"
"Ultimately, my conclusions were the same as your own — and Porthos's. Have you
ever desired a man of colour, Aramis...?"
"I!"
"He is... beautiful. In every possible way. And he will never, ever try to
seduce you, or flirt with you in any but the most *innocent* ways, unless you
—"
"*Athos*. Are you trying to — to — *what* are you trying to do?"
"Hm. I suppose I'm trying to encourage an intelligent and beautiful young man
in more appropriate directions."
"He is your *lover*!"
"And you would be very happy —"
"I desire *you*."
Athos pauses, with his lips parted, and then narrows his eyes. "I did not,
truly, intend to force you to say that aloud."
"What will you do now that you *have*? Mm?"
Athos inhales, and sets the open bottle of wine aside. He cups Aramis's face
with *both* hands —
"Oh —"
"Say no to me," he says, "at any time you wish."
"I do not wish!"
Athos smiles wonderingly — and kisses Aramis's mouth softly, deeply, *wetly* —
It is more skilled —
More —
More *deft* —
It feels precisely the way a kiss *should* feel, and Aramis hadn't even
realized that he'd *known* what that *was*, and his tongue is *stabbing* in,
testing, sweeping —
Aramis moans and *sucks* it, holds it, *stops* it —
And then Athos begins to *fuck* him with his tongue, slow and hard and so —
So —
Aramis moans and shudders and —
He is so hard!
He is so — so *hard* under his *nightclothes*, and if he spends in them he will
be caned —
He pulls back —
"Mm. No?"
"Yes! Yes, *please*!" And Aramis stands up and strips down quickly, quickly —
Shivers in the chill — these particular guest quarters are too spacious to be
warm, even with a fire going —
The priests know enough to *fear* a Musketeer —
Oh, but could he *really* hurt them?
Hurt them *all*?
Aramis licks his lips and *dreams* —
"That is a *remarkably* violent smile on your face..." And Athos is on the bed,
still in his shirt and breeches —
Wearing too *much* —
But his smile is warm and curious and hungry —
For Aramis!
And Aramis does not have to think about this, does not have to do *anything*
but open his breeches —
"You could tell me..."
"I was dreaming of the priests being *whipped* —"
"As they've whipped you?"
"I do not wish to discuss this!"
"Very well."
Oh.
Oh...
"Unless..."
"Yes?" And Athos raises an eyebrow.
"Are my scars very off-putting? Do you not wish —"
"Aramis." And Athos gives him a wry look, a wry smile, a *crooked* smile that
makes his scarred, wet lips catch every bit of light in the *room* —
"*Your* scars were earned honourably!"
"Mm. And yours were not?"
"I —"
"Weren't they gained because you were at odds with decidedly dishonourable
men...?"
Aramis blinks —
"Aren't you scarred because you could *not* sit silent while one injustice or
another was being committed...?"
"I — I was mostly *correcting* them on their *theology* —"
Athos hums. "Now why does it not surprise me that you're a scholar, too. You're
indescribably beautiful."
Aramis grunts —
"Will you finish taking your breeches down for me?"
For —
"Will you allow me to *touch* you —"
Aramis moans and moans and *shoves* down his breeches, climbing onto the narrow
bed with Athos — so much softer and more comfortable than his own pallet —
And Athos rolls him onto his back —
"Nnh —"
"Remember, Aramis: Say no at any time. *Pause* me at any time. Ask *questions*
at any time —"
"What do you wish to do!"
Athos licks his lips. "Make you spend all over this Church property."
"Oh — *oh*!"
"We'll pretend it's my own, hm?"
Aramis giggles like a younger boy —
Giggles *helplessly* —
And leans up and *in* for another *kiss* —
Another perfect *kiss* —
So hot, so wet!
So strong and deep and *wet*, and Aramis wants to know if Porthos taught Athos
to kiss just this way, if they kiss each other this way all the time, if they
grind their beards together —
Mm —
Aramis *nuzzles* Athos —
And Athos *immediately* gives him his beard, drags it across Aramis's *lips* —
"Oh, *yes*!"
And Athos pulls back and grins. "We'll have to be careful with that, Aramis —"
"No!"
"You're already quite marked —"
"What — what?"
"A bearded face can be quite harsh on an un-bearded one."
"Oh. Oh... you have had many lovers?"
For some reason, that makes Athos's countenance darken. "Only one, other than
Porthos. It... ended ill."
"I am sorry!"
"Enough of that," he says, and his voice is almost curt, though still warm.
"Tell me how *you* wish to spend."
And that — "I have had *no* lovers, Athos!"
"And no... experience?"
"None I wished to repeat!"
"And yet you still —"
"Enough! Like you said! Please touch me, please do what *you* want —"
And Athos strokes down Aramis's side with his big, callused hand. "And you will
stop me when you need to." It is an *order*, not a request.
Aramis shivers. "Yes, Athos! I will!"
Athos *growls* then —
Grips Aramis's *hips* —
And kisses Aramis's chest.
Kisses Aramis's *nipples* —
Sucks them hard, hard, so —
Aramis *moans* and *arches* —
Athos *squeezes* his hips —
*Nibbles* his nipples —
And Aramis's cock is hard, leaking, *aching* —
He's *trying* to buck, but Athos is too big, too strong —
Athos is holding him *down* —
This is *frightening*, but it's also — thrilling.
Exciting.
It —
It increases the *ache*, the *hunger* —
His cock is plastered to his *belly*, and Athos is looking deep into his eyes,
studying him for his every reaction —
And all Aramis can do is smile and nod, moan and nod, *ache* —
And Athos narrows his eyes in a *hot* smile and scrapes his *teeth* all the way
down Aramis's torso —
Aramis *gasps* —
Comes over in *gooseflesh* again —
His cock *jerks* —
"I believe I'll remember that reaction," Athos says —
"Please do!"
"First this," Athos says, and takes his cock *in*, all the way *in*, and no one
—
No one had ever —
It's so hot, so wet, so *complete*!
It feels so —
And he is *sucking*, and his mouth is *soft*, cradling, gentle —
And then he sucks *hard*, and Aramis *slaps* himself in his efforts to cover
his mouth, because he is screaming, it is too intense, too hot, too perfect —
Athos *has* him!
Athos is —
Is —
Sucking him and —
Holding him so *tightly*, holding him and *working* Aramis's hips, making
Aramis fuck his *mouth*!
And the scar is hard and *smooth* against his cock, different, special,
*beautiful* —
Aramis can't stop *screaming* behind his hand —
There are tears on his cheeks —
His cock is *spasming* —
He's clawing at the *bed* —
Nothing has ever been so —
And then Athos begins to work his head in rhythm with the way he's making
Aramis thrust, he —
In and out and up and down and —
Aramis's eyes roll back in his head —
He feels as though he will *faint* —
He is *drooling* on his own *hand* —
And then there is pressure, strange-hot *pressure* on the head of his cock —
Aramis *coughs* a cry — and realizes that Athos is *swallowing*, that he is
hungry, that he is —
So hungry for *Aramis* —
Aramis *wails* behind his hand and spurts, spurts all over Athos's *mouth*,
just — just like —
But he doesn't know, he doesn't know anything, he'd once thought this was the
very dirtiest and *rudest* thing, but Athos is humming happily, slurping,
swallowing —
Athos is sucking all of his *spend* down so *greedily* —
And all Aramis can do is shake.
And slump.
And *pant*.
Eventually, he becomes aware that Athos has moved up beside him again —
That he is resting one of his big hands on Aramis's *chest* —
That he is smiling so —
So *fondly* —
Aramis *moans*.
But — no, no, he must — "Athos..."
"Hm?"
"Athos, I must *please* you."
"Hmm. All right."
"Yes —"
"Continue to lie there, naked and sprawled in pleasure *I* gave you, close
enough that I can fill my senses with you in every moment."
Aramis *grunts* —
*Looks* at Athos —
And Athos huffs again, and strokes down the bridge of Aramis's nose. "You're
beautiful. And you're pleasing me right now."
"But —"
"*But*... I'm in no rush."
Aramis frowns. "Have I not hardened your cock?"
Athos huffs again — and presses closer. Even under his shirt and breeches, his
heat, his *hardness*, is unmistakable.
Aramis *reaches* —
And Athos catches his hand easily. "Not yet."
"*Athos*."
"Aramis. We're not going to have much time to lie abed together once we leave
here."
Aramis inhales sharply — "Because you will be with your *lover*."
"Because we will — all — have *work* to do. Training, missions, training *you*
— hm."
"What?"
"*Do* you ride?"
"Yes!"
"Shoot?"
"Very well! Though... I have never used an arquebusier."
"But muskets? Pistols?"
"The pistol we had had rust damage, but I still almost never missed my mark,
and *never* missed my target — what of your *lover* —"
"He will, as I've said, adore you, Aramis. We're going to *vastly* annoy the
lieutenants by taking over the lion's share of your training ourselves. Bladed
weapons?"
Aramis thinks of his mother —
His *beautiful* mother —
His *dangerous* mother — "I know the knife. I have never touched a sword. What
will your lover say about — about..." Aramis frowns and looks away.
Athos inhales sharply and presses down on Aramis's chest. "Tell me what's
wrong."
"I do not wish to," Aramis says.
"That much I can deduce, but I promise you that I badly wish to *fix* whatever
is wrong —"
"And if you can't?"
"Then perhaps I can ease your suffering. Porthos can't fix everything wrong
with me, but he *eases* me all the time."
Oh.
That...
"And that is what you wish with me?" And Aramis turns back to Athos. "A
relationship like the one you have with your Porthos?"
Athos smiles wryly and raises an eyebrow. "You've already asked to be my
brother, Aramis. I do not take such things lightly."
Aramis blushes hard —
And Athos strokes his cheeks with his rough fingers.
Aramis pushes into the touch helplessly —
Athos makes a soft, *hungry* sound —
"Brother..."
And Athos — *growls*.
"No?"
"*Yes*," Athos says, and kisses him again —
Again and again and —
"Oh. I want..." And Athos is *panting*.
"Yeah. *Yeah*. I want, too," Papa says, and cups Aramis's balls —
"*Oh* —"
"Can you tell us why the fantasy cuts off there, precious?"
Aramis blushes. "I... I ask so much with it. I *demand* so much of my
brother..."
"Not. Enough," Athos says, and he's almost *gritting* the words —
Aramis gasps —
Stares at Athos —
He looks so — so *starved*.
"I am. For you. But... you should answer Porthos's question more thoroughly."
"Yes, Athos. Yes, Papa," Aramis says, nodding and turning back to Papa, whose
cock is *wet* —
No, no, he looks *up* —
He looks *up* —
"There's my precious boy. Focus for a little longer."
"*Yes*, Papa. It — it was not a *very* difficult fantasy to have, because it
was *after* I had already made love with Athos, but... it was still difficult."
"Because you asked 'too much' of him."
"Yes! Too much, too soon —"
"Wait a tick, precious. Athos. Your turn."
"It isn't too much. It wouldn't have *been* too much. Not for you. Not for —"
Athos growls and *clutches* the back of his chair. "You made it *perfect*."
Aramis blinks. "Because... no. Please tell me why?"
Athos huffs and smiles with almost desperate force. "Neither of you have any
*idea* how many times I fantasized about giving myself over entirely to Porthos
over the course of our relationship. Of *taking* sexuality from him, even
before I understood that was what I *wanted* —"
"*Fuck*, brother —"
"I already knew you could make me *better*, brother!"
Papa rears back — and then licks his lips and stands, giving Aramis's balls a
*promising* squeeze before releasing them. And then he moves into Athos's space
and cups both of his shoulders —
Squeezes *hard* —
Athos *groans* — "I *smell* — I can *taste* both of you on the *air* —"
"Easy, brother. *Easy*."
Athos *pants* — and nods. "Yes, brother. Yes, I — yes."
"You wanted me to... fix you."
"*Yes*. To do... *exactly* what you're doing right now. Only I never imagined
how complete it would be, how — how all-encompassing —"
"Oh, brother..."
"I never imagined how *incredible* and *painless* — you've given me
*sweetness*, brother!"
Papa growls and moves one hand to the back of Athos's neck —
Kisses his temple —
"It's always yours. *Always*."
Athos groans — and growls again. "I can *be* that man. That confident and easy
and *open* man. I can — I can *give* Aramis — and I *want* to."
"You need to, I think..."
"Yes. *Yes*."
"You need to show him..." And Papa licks his lips. "You need to show him how
good you can be. Don't you, brother."
"Nothing is too *much* for him!"
"That's *right*," Papa says, and kisses Athos softly, sweetly — and then
*bites* his scarred lip *hard*.
Athos *grunts* —
"Show him. *Reward* him for being such a good little precious."
Athos *pants*. "He is. He... he has given so *much*..."
"That he has," Papa says, and they're both staring at *him* —
And Athos's eyes are so *wild* —
And Papa is squeezing his own *cock* —
And Aramis is... helpless. Stunned. Needy. *Hungry*.
So *hungry* —
Athos nods slowly. "Stand up, Aramis. I'm going to reward you now."
Aramis *moans* — and looks to Papa.
Papa nods. "You're serving Athos now, precious. I might give one or both of you
orders while this is going on, but they *won't* conflict with Athos's."
Aramis shivers and grins — "*Yes*, Papa," he says, and stands. "What must I do,
my brother?"
Athos reaches for him. "Take my hand. We're going to bed."
Aramis *obeys* — and lets himself be led.
Papa follows them both —
Aramis's heart is *pounding* the way it was in that fantasy —
The way it always does when he is being *contained*.
When he is being... held.
Papa strokes down the center of his back and *cups* his arse for a moment while
they walk —
Athos squeezes his *hand* —
And they stop by the side of Porthos's bed. They —
Athos turns to study him, to take him *in* —
Athos is *panting* —
Athos releases Aramis's hand and begins to *stroke* him, to pet him *greedily*
—
Aramis *moans* —
"You must stop me — pause me — if this isn't *pleasing*," he says, and never
stops taking Aramis *in*.
"It is!"
"I want to *devour* you."
Aramis *grunts* — "I am yours to command for as long as Papa wills!"
Athos growls and *grips* Aramis's balls —
"*Ahn* —"
"I already know you like that. I need your pleasure immediately."
"Please — *please*. *Anything*!"
Athos inhales sharply, eyes *wild*. "Do you take as much pleasure in pain as
*I* do."
"When I am being punished, put in my place —"
"You've earned no punishment. You've earned only the greatest of *rewards* —
tell me what that is."
"Please — to *please* you!"
Athos narrows his eyes —
Oh, no, no — "I apologize! Please, I will give a better answer —"
"No, you will please me. And I will put you in your *place*."
Aramis's cock *jerks* —
He moans helplessly —
"Do you — do you *wish* —"
"You enjoy my... dominance. Yes?"
"Yes!"
"You enjoy me *most* when I am *controlling*. *Confident*."
"As you always should be! You are our *leader*."
Athos hums and smiles. "I have been *brilliantly* trained by brilliant men —
and one brilliant woman — over the years... but before you protest, I was *not*
about to protest being named our leader."
"Oh. No?"
"No," Athos says, and squeezes *again* —
"Fuck —"
Again —
"Please!"
And then eases his grip. "I was merely sharing myself, Aramis. As you have
shared..." And Athos licks his lips. "So much."
Aramis *moans*.
"Tell me what sorts of pain you *enjoy*."
"Being — being *caned*. Whipped. Spanked — very firmly! I — I am willing to
experiment with more! Everything is *different* now."
Athos pants twice —
Licks his *lips* again —
"Yes. It is," he says, and turns to Papa. "May I spank him."
Papa licks his *teeth* — and strokes his big, *changing* cock.
Aramis stares for a moment —
*Studies* —
"You *absolutely* can, brother. I'll tell you when to stop."
Aramis looks *up* —
Papa laughs softly —
Strokes Aramis's *cheek* with his rough fingers —
"Mind your brother, now."
"Yes, Papa!" And Aramis turns back to Athos, who is still breathing so
*roughly* —
"That is likely to continue for quite some time. Bend. Plant your hands on the
bed, palms down, fingers splayed... you are so very beautiful...."
"He's bloody perfect," Papa says.
"Yes. Yes. And I'm going to... lose even more of my mind," Athos says, and
huffs.
"Your madness is *absolutely* part of your charm, brother."
"Oh, good. I had been worried."
Papa snickers —
Aramis giggles —
And then Athos growls and smacks Aramis's arse *hard* —
"*Unh* —"
"Thank me," Athos says.
Aramis blushes *hard* —
Aramis pants and —
His heart is *thundering* —
"Is there a problem, Aramis...?" And the *purr* of Athos's voice is so
*dangerous* —
Aramis's cock jerks again, *again* — "No! No, Athos!"
"Then...?"
"Thank you! Please, more!"
"Why did you hesitate," Athos says, and *rests* his hand where he'd smacked.
"I — I have not... done this."
"Thanked someone for discipline...? You haven't had nearly enough martial
experience."
Papa *snorts* —
Aramis *coughs* — and it *becomes* a cry when Athos smacks him again, smacks
the other cheek, *alternates* cheeks —
Aramis cries out again —
Again —
"I don't hear gratitude, Aramis..." And the smile in Athos's voice is so —
So warm, so wry, so full of *humour* —
Aramis groans and drops to his *elbows* —
"Hm. I wonder if I should allow this," Athos says, and pauses, and *strokes*
over Aramis's overheated and *sensitized* arse —
"Please — I — I mean thank you!"
"For all of it...?"
"I am — very grateful!"
"Are you...?"
Aramis's cock jerks *again* —
Athos is *purring* at him —
Using that — that *voice* —
And then Aramis is *screaming*, because Athos has turned his fingernails on
Aramis's hot, stinging cheeks —
"You must answer me, Aramis..."
"I —"
"*About* that martial training of *yours*, brother," Papa says.
Athos huffs and goes back to *stroking* Aramis's arse —
His calluses are so rough —
He *squeezes* every few strokes and huffs again — "Yes, brother...?"
"Anything you'd care to share with the rest of us?"
Athos huffs again —
*Several* more times —
Aramis *blinks* —
"Right, I'm asking," Papa says. "I'm about as braced —"
"I think I was attracted to my *parents*, too," Athos says, and huffs even
*more*.
"Uh. Well."
Aramis licks his lips and tries to —
"Oh, no, no, I don't need to talk about it. I mean, it's really what they
*raised* me for — *with* our father's eager assistance —"
"Yeah, I was going to say —"
"I absolutely — mm." And Athos smacks Aramis again —
"AHN — yes — I mean thank you!"
"Mm. I would have *fervently* thanked my father for doing this to me..."
Papa *snorts* — "The way you *undoubtedly* caught him doing it to Daddy?"
"Oh... even harder, if at all possible," Athos says, and spanks Aramis's
*thighs* —
Back and forth and back again —
Again —
"Thank you! Thank you! Please!"
"Good boy. Best and most beautiful..." Athos growls. "My mother had much softer
hands... which seems terribly wrong, given the force of her *personality*."
"Not to worry, mate — *our* Mum's hands are *incredibly* rough."
Aramis moans —
Athos *pants* — stops. "Wait. I thought you said she can't touch us?"
"I *really* don't expect that to last long with her," Papa says, and laughs
more. "She's a *determined* woman when it comes to her family."
Athos *sighs*. "You find ways to give me happiness with every moment we're
together, brother," he says, and spanks Aramis's arse hard —
Hard —
So *hard* —
Aramis *sobs* —
Cries out —
Tries to find *words* —
Tries to find the ability to give —
Everything, he has to give *everything*, and he *will*. "Thank you! Please,
please, *thank* you!"
"Are you *grateful*, little brother...?"
"*Fuck* —"
"I *don't* think I should allow my little brother to *curse*," Athos says, and
flips Aramis onto his back on the bed —
His legs are hanging over the side —
Aramis's cock is dripping on his *belly* —
"Please, I — please, big brother, *please*!"
Athos *grunts*, eyes *wild* — and then visibly pulls himself under control.
"Are you begging for me to stop...?" And Athos is staring at him so hotly, so
hungrily, so —
Aramis *grinds* his stinging arse against the too-soft duvet — "Please, *no*.
Please — keep *disciplining* me!"
"And showing you your place?"
"Yes! Yes! I am so grateful, I am — I must — please do not *stop*, big
brother!"
Athos growls and *claws* down Aramis's chest and belly —
All the way to his aching, leaking *cock* —
Aramis arches and *writhes* —
"*Down*."
Aramis *drops* — "Yes, big brother, I apologize, I will be good!"
"You're perfect. And I'm going to make you better," Athos says, and slaps
Aramis's *cock* —
Aramis *howls* —
"That's gorgeous, both of you," Papa says with a growl under his voice. "Wait a
tick, though."
"As you say, brother."
"Yes — yes —" Aramis groans and tries and *fails* not to arch —
He drops quickly, though —
He *looks* an apology to Athos —
And Athos licks his lips and nods.
"Oh, both of you are just — mm. Mm." And Papa moves up beside Athos and looks
down at Aramis from beside the bed.
He is — so tall.
They both are.
They —
Aramis is small.
Aramis is — small.
Aramis grins helplessly —
And Athos and Papa grin back at him.
"There's my precious. I just needed to touch you for a moment. Needed to... mm.
Have you."
"Yes, Papa! Always, Papa!"
"Right here," Papa says, and *grips* Aramis's stinging *cock* —
"AHN — oh — oh, *Papa*!"
"You like it when your cock aches, don't you, precious."
"Yes! Oh, yes!"
"You *missed* it a little when Daddy healed you."
"Not — not right away..."
Papa raises his eyebrows — and starts to stroke, *using* all of Aramis's slick
to make it easy, sweet —
Aramis shivers and stays still, stays *down* —
"Good boy — and I get it," Papa says. "You had other things on your *mind* at
first. You had *Daddy* on your mind."
"Yes — yes — my Sir, he took care of me —"
"It was only *later* that you came to miss those little... twinges." And Papa
squeezes *hard* —
Aramis *shouts* —
"Perfect," Athos says. "Just —" He *growls* —
"You're heard, brother. You're no more impatient than *anyone* would be," Papa
says, and eases his *grip* —
Aramis gasps and gasps and —
"I will wait my *turn* —"
"Yes, you *will*, brother," Papa says, and strokes his way *off*. "But your
turn is *now*." And he steps back —
Strokes Aramis's slick through his *beard* —
Aramis *stares* —
And Athos nods thoughtfully. "It was torture to wash you out of my beard so
soon today, brother..."
Papa laughs. "I did *say* you didn't have to..."
Athos huffs and moves back into a *loom* over Aramis, looking him *over*. "One
day, brother, you will have gained complete control over my sense of propriety,
morality, and overall self."
Papa rumbles. "And then?"
"I'll be an exquisitely happy man... but, perhaps, not the *best* of
Musketeers."
Papa laughs hard. "*Oi*."
Athos smiles slyly. "Do you have an opinion on the matter, little brother...?
Before I hurt you again?"
Aramis's cock jerks and spatters his chest, his belly, the *bed* —
He has no *words* again —
He has to *speak* —
"You don't, truly. I simply wanted to know if you *could*," Athos says, and
slaps Aramis's cock again —
Again —
Aramis sobs and *clutches* at the duvet with his fingers —
At the rug with his *toes* —
His cock *aches*, already *aches* —
"I suspect I'm smacking you harder than Porthos did..."
Aramis sobs again and *nods* —
Tries not to arch, to *beg* —
No, he *can* beg — "Please! Please, again!"
"Do you feel this is putting you in your place...?"
Aramis nods *fervently* —
And Athos smacks him twice more —
Aramis *howls* again, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut —
No —
No, he has to see, he has to see his big brother, so tall, so powerful, so —
*Over* him, *controlling* him, controlling what he *feels* —
"Everything you feel," Athos says, and *grips* Aramis's balls again —
"*Please*!"
"Be specific about what you would like, little brother — if you can be."
"I — I — *discipline*, your— *discipline* —"
"Brother. Did you...?"
"I spanked those bollocks *red*, brother."
Athos *grunts*. "Did he spend."
"Oh, yes. Though not until *after* I began spanking his cock," Papa says, and
laughs with *relish*.
Athos hums. "First his balls and *then* his cock. That is... fascinating."
"Is it?"
"It just seems as though you would save the obvious reward for — and you're
staring at me, aren't you."
"I truly am, brother, but not in a *bad* way. Spank those bollocks *good* and
hard."
"Happily," Athos says, and smiles at *him*. "I enjoy this a great, great deal,
little brother," he says, and *squeezes* Aramis's balls again —
"Oh — *oh* — *yes* —"
"I enjoy this so very much... I've often been forced to do it to myself, even
when I haven't wanted to do anything of the kind," he says, and *pumps*
Aramis's balls —
"Ah — ah — *AH* —"
"Even when the *very* last thing I've wanted to do was *pleasure* myself," he
says, and keeps *pumping* —"
"You — my big brother should always have *pleasure*!"
"I promise that I'm working very hard on coming to understand that. Especially
with your shockingly small sac in my hand."
Aramis *grunts* —
*Flushes* —
"I don't know, brother," Papa says. "I think it's just the *right* size for a
sweet little boy like him."
Athos's eyes widen for a *moment* — and then narrow. "You're absolutely
correct, of course, brother. It's easy to convince oneself that one is making
love with an older boy."
"Is it, brother?"
Aramis is *panting* —
"Oh, yes. Self-*delusion* is *always* easy," Athos says, *releasing* Aramis's
balls and — resting them on his palm. "I will not lie to myself, Aramis."
"L-lie?" And the blood is rushing back to his sac —
He is sweating and trying not to moan too *loudly* —
He is aching and hard and *leaking* —
"You will never be *anything* but my beautiful *little* brother," Athos says,
and *smacks* Aramis's balls —
"*Yes*!"
"You know what to do," Athos says, and smacks *again* —
"Thank you! Thank you!"
"Much better," he says, and smacks several times in rapid succession —
Aramis tries to thank him just as quickly, but grows tongue-tied —
Tries again, but Athos is already smacking, already —
Already heating him, hurting him, *disciplining* —
"Please, please, I am *grateful*, I am *yours*! I belong — I *belong*!"
"Who do you belong to," Athos says, and doesn't stop *smacking*.
"To Papa! To you! To Sir and our mother!"
"Will you be ours for all of your days, little brother?" And Athos doesn't stop
*smacking* —
"I — I — *always*! Please always! Please don't stop please don't —"
"But I must — in order to make you spend."
Aramis sobs and writhes in *place* —
Papa *growls* —
"Yes. Yes," Athos says. "I am... so very hard."
"I *do* believe we're *both* going to have to fuck him, brother —"
And Aramis shouts —
The images —
The *dream* —
He bucks helplessly and he can't —
"Oh. I see." And Athos *grips* Aramis's balls and strokes Aramis's cock hard
and fast, so hard and *fast* —
Aramis *wails* —
"When you make that sound, I want to reach into the past and fuck every
*iteration* of you," Athos says —
Aramis wails again, *again* —
"We're both going to *have* you, precious..."
Aramis bucks into Athos's *fist* —
"We're going to *use* you to *pleasure* ourselves, little brother..."
Aramis has no air to make noise, but his body is still *trying* to wail —
"We're going to ride you *hard*, precious. I haven't decided who gets your
pretty mouth and who gets your *gorgeous* arse... but you're going to feel it
for *days*."
Aramis *gasps* —
And Papa laughs filthily. "Or until we make Daddy heal you so we can do it
*all* again. Now *spend*."
Aramis *chokes* on a wail —
Athos *growls* — "*Do* it!"
Aramis's body is not his, not —
He belongs to his *Papa*, to his big *brother*, and he goes rigid, helpless,
needy, aching —
Arching —
Gasping and *wailing* again —
"*Yes*, little brother — "
And he spurts, helplessly, all over Athos's hand, all over his own chest and
*belly* —
It's so sweet, so hard, so —
He is so *hot*, slick all over and ready for *more* even as his body gives and
gives and *gives* —
"*Perfect*, precious, *perfect* —"
He *sobs* —
He spurts *more* —
And then he collapses, panting and *reeling*.
He is so —
He can't —
"You *can*," Athos says, and then Papa and Athos are *moving* his shaking, limp
body, lifting him further onto the bed and pushing close to either side of him.
They hold him, pet him —
They kiss him —
They kiss him and turn his head so that the other can kiss him more *deeply* —
They stroke through the spend on his chest and belly and lick it, suck it,
*slurp* it — and then kiss him again, again —
He can't think —
He can't *think* —
He will not *soften* —
"No, precious, you *won't*," Papa says, and starts to *lick* him, starts to —
Oh, all over his face, his neck, his chest —
He's *growling* —
His eyes flare *green* —
And then he snarls and *yanks* himself back, stepping off the bed and *shaking*
himself —
Growling *more* —
*Shaking* himself more —
His *belly* is hairier —
His teeth are —
"Oh, Papa, do you need —"
"Quiet. I can't take —" He growls again. "Neither of you say a *word* until I
say so," Papa says, and drops into a crouch, covering his face and panting and
*shuddering* and *straining* —
Aramis looks to Athos —
Athos shakes his head, wide-eyed —
And, just then, Sir and a tall, lean, dark-skinned woman who can *only* be
their mother burst in, shamelessly naked, and utterly focused on Papa.
The woman seems very *solid* to be undead —
"That's because she's not anymore, thanks to the All-Mother," Sir says. "She's
also pregnant."
Papa *grunts* and *stares* —
Both he and Athos are staring, as *well* —
The woman — their *mother* — *swats* Sir. "*I* was going to tell them — oh, you
have shocked our Porthos into gaining *control*. Good boy."
"Thank you *very* much, Amina-love."
Porthos is panting and sweating and *blinking* — but no longer shuddering or
straining. He stands slowly —
Their parents stand as well —
And their mother smiles broadly at Porthos and cups his face.
"Warm — you're." And Papa beams. "Mum. *Mum*. Oh, fuck, I — alive?"
Their mother smiles softly. "Alive. The All-Mother was not best pleased with
how I was... handling my death."
"That's... really ominous?"
Their mother pats Papa's cheeks. "Do not worry about it, sweet boy. All is well
now."
"Well — *yes*. You're * alive*, and — *fuck*." Papa turns to *them* — "We get
to have one *living* Mum now!"
Athos grins as he stands —
Aramis cannot do anything *but* grin —
But then Papa *blinks* and turns back to their mother. "I — wait, *pregnant*?"
Their mother smiles *wryly*. "The All-Mother was... insistent."
Sir coughs into his fist. "Yes. Yes, that's a good word for it. Ah... one
moment —"
"Yes, you must introduce me to your *brothers*, sweet boy!"
"I uh. We were just about to..."
"Fuck like mad, son?" And Sir grins meanly. "We picked that up. *But*... you're
going to need some help."
"I wasn't planning to give Aramis the *dog*!"
Fuck — Aramis's cock *jerks* as he *whimpers* —
"Oh, shit."
"Yes, sweet boy, even if you do not *wish* to give Aramis the dog — even if you
manage to *avoid* it —"
"And we're *going* to try very hard to help you do that, son —"
"Your control is not ready for *this* without *supervision*."
"I —"
"Introduce me!" And their mother's fists are on her generous hips —
Papa *glares* down at their mother —
Their mother *growls* —
Papa growls *back* — and starts to shift again, obviously without his control.
"Shit — *fuck* —"
Their mother crosses her arms under her breasts and raises an eyebrow. "In
*other* circumstances, I would find that *alluring*."
Papa *coughs* —
Shifts back to *human* —
"Bloody — you —"
And their mother turns to Sir. "We will have to remember Shocking Truth as a
tactic, sweet brother."
Sir nods judiciously and claps Papa on the shoulder. "I think you see our
point, son?"
"I — fuck. Yes. Yes, I do. *Fuck*."
"Introduce me, let us *help* you, and you can get back to training your
brothers *properly*," their mother says.
"I — yes, Mum," Papa says, and leads them to *their* side of the room, where
Athos is already standing.
Neither Papa nor Athos had said *Aramis* could *move*, so he is very
uncomfortable on the *bed* —
"Oh, shit, precious — c'mon, up you come —"
"*Thank* you, Papa," Aramis says, and stands.
Athos is already bowing over their mother's hand, and kissing the back of it.
He stands —
And she smiles warmly and cups *his* face. "Are you as formal as your father?"
"Hm. I believe I am much of the time, but not all. I... how do you wish to be
addressed?"
She *grins*. "I *wish* to be addressed in whatever way makes you both most
comfortable, Athos. And that goes for you, too, Aramis. Your father has shared
a little about *your* mother, and she sounds as if she was precisely as
wonderful and worthy a woman as Marie-Angelique. I *will* not try to take their
places. I only wish to give you both something you do not have *now*... and to
give *myself* two wonderful young men."
"If I may ask..." And Athos raises an eyebrow.
"Always ask, powerful boy. *Always*."
"Powerful — what?"
"Have you not lived through — *fought* through — what would *break* weaker men?
What *else* should I call you?"
Athos blinks and *stares* — and then licks his lips. "I... what do you wish to
*do* with us?"
Their mother's smile turns... wild. Hot. Young and strong and —
She looks *precisely* like Sir's *mate*.
And she looks more than a little like Aramis's own mother, when she was
especially happy.
"Everything, powerful boy. Everything that makes us all *happy*."
Aramis is blinking, swallowing, *trying* —
"And *that* means that you must not allow me to cause *pain*," she says, and
cups Aramis's cheeks with both hands —
Both rough hands —
"Tell me, precious boy. Tell me what is *wrong*."
Precious —
Aramis blinks and *stares* —
But their mother is only staring worriedly into his eyes —
Petting and stroking his *face* —
Lifting her *nose* —
Aramis swallows *hard*. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong."
"Precious *boy*."
Aramis smiles helplessly — "I. Have a family."
Papa growls — "Yes, you bloody *do*."
"We all do," Athos says, and smiles with somewhat helpless confusion, as if he
does not know how this happened.
He is not alone in this.
"No," Papa says, and laughs. "No, he really bloody isn't."
Sir snickers like a boy —
And their mother — their *Maman* — grins and keeps stroking Aramis's face and
hair.
He wonders if she would like a pet.
***** The family that plays together, stays together. *nods judiciously* *****
A part of Porthos — the part that Athos built from the ground up, really — is
only thinking about the logistics.
One little precious.
One *vicious* older brother.
*Three* hungry dogs.
One large bed that, just the same, can only fit three of them comfortably.
One little precious who really, really needs to get fucked — but is, right now,
absolutely mesmerized by their Mum.
Which is fair.
They'd denied him cunny for days, now — he had to be going a little spare.
"Papa!"
Mum cackles *loudly* —
And Daddy drinks it in like sweet wine after a ten-hour forced march.
So does he, really.
So does *Athos*, and, really, Aramis isn't the only one who needed a woman
around.
Even if she *is* their Mum. And —
And it's good to watch her petting Aramis while Aramis soaks it up.
It's good to watch her talking to Athos while *he* soaks it up.
She's sharing memories — memories of *Athos's* Mum — and that's — fuck, that's
*always* good. It *eases* things inside Porthos, and fills still other things,
and sometimes Porthos thinks he just didn't *know* how fucked-up he was
until...
Really damned recently.
Daddy reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. "You didn't."
Porthos snorts. "*You* didn't *either*."
"Not at all," Daddy says, and smiles like he's hurting in the best way.
Except that it's Daddy, and the best way probably involves a sodding *bullwhip*
—
Daddy *coughs* —
Mum *pauses* —
Looks back at Daddy *promisingly* —
Daddy *rumbles* —
And Mum lolls her tongue before turning back to Athos and Aramis.
"So."
"Yes, son?"
"You and *pain*."
Daddy sighs. "Your mother always punched me very hard when she wanted me to...
do anything, really."
"And the rest of your pack?"
"Kitos would whallop me — all the time, really. He knew I loved it. I'd do the
same to *him* less often."
"Right, right, that's just brotherly."
Daddy's smile glints.
Porthos grins. "Until it's that *special* kind of brotherly, yeah, I hear you.
Laurent beat the hell out of you, I know. What about Reynard and Marie-
Angelique?"
"Mostly needed *my* firm hand, son."
"And that was all right with you?"
"A fine, beautiful woman with a huge, fat arse and a soft cunny — both of which
*loved* being smacked —"
"*Fuck* —"
"— and an absolutely gorgeous madman who would take literally *anything* from
me — or my dog — at any time, son? Why on *earth* wouldn't it be?"
"I'm just thinking —"
"— of how *much* I like to hurt. Mm. And maybe thinking of your little
precious."
"Right, how much of the past hour or so *were* you paying attention to?"
Daddy gives him a lofty look. "Parents *need* to keep a close eye on their
children, son."
Porthos grins helplessly. "And a strong, guiding hand on their... shoulders?"
Daddy frowns mock-judiciously and nods.
Porthos laughs hard. "You're such an arse. And, apparently, so is our Mum."
Daddy *beams*. "She's perfect, just like she's always been."
"She's the perfect mate for *you*, you mean."
"Didn't I just say that?"
Porthos snickers —
And Daddy hums and squeezes his shoulder. "But, to answer your question — your
real question —"
"I —"
"It *is* possible to be an absolute glutton for pain — *like* me — and still be
a glutton for *providing*... well. All sorts of things. Discipline. Dominance.
Pain for *others*. *Parenthood*. How *much* of that interlude with Aramis did
you watch?"
"Not *enough*," Porthos says fervently.
"Mm. I thought you might enjoy it."
"And bloody *learn* from it, Daddy, *fuck*. You just... mm. I've wanted that."
"With your Aramis."
"Well, *yeah* — it's *one* of the impossible fantasies —"
"Tell him."
"Right, yeah, got it, but —"
"Tell him as soon as possible."
Porthos thinks about it — and nods. "You're right. I was going to save it for a
special moment, but... it's better to show him how much I *need* him. How much
I've *always* needed him."
Daddy nods. "Precisely, son. Never 'save' things with boys like Aramis. It just
builds doubt, worry... they need everything from you right *now*. And you
already knew that — about the man in him, anyway."
Porthos rumbles a laugh. "I *truly* did." He shakes his head at himself. "I
think I was trying to... play by a different set of rules."
"You *do* have to play by different rules for the boy than you would for the
man — your instincts weren't leading you wrong there — but you have to remember
that the boy and the man *are* the same person, son."
"Yeah. The person I've been in love with since — well, I was going to *try* to
deny that I was pining that day in the woods..."
Daddy grins. "That you were."
Porthos snickers. "You weren't having it even a little."
Daddy rumbles. "I may not have known you all as well as I could have, but I
*did* know you all, son. Any man with a functioning cock which pointed in that
direction and a brain in his head would've been pining for your brothers. And
you just happened to have *both*."
"You were so *surprised* that I hadn't managed to *seduce* them!"
"Was I *wrong*?"
Porthos opens his mouth —
Closes it —
Smiles and ducks his head —
And Daddy rumbles and strokes his shoulder and arm. Pets him. "My boy."
"Yours, Daddy."
"It should go without saying that any man with a functioning mind and cock
would go mad for *you*."
"The way you did?"
"Hmm. Perhaps with a bit more aplomb than that. Perhaps."
Porthos leans over and licks his Daddy's cheek —
And Daddy stops him and pulls him into a slow, hard, *dirty* kiss —
A hungry and *loving* kiss —
And Mum laughs *filthily*. "Finally I am on the same *plane* to see this!"
Daddy *grins* into the kiss —
"If it had been up to *me*, I would've had enough power to *pour* into my sweet
boy that his shift would've happened when he was a *youth* —"
Porthos coughs —
Pulls back —
"Wh-what? You could've done that? Instead of... things being more *random* with
my power?"
Mum smiles ruefully. "These things..." She shakes her head. "There always would
have been *imbalance*, sweet boy. But if I had had more power *to* give you,
there is a chance that I would have been able to... direct things. A little."
"And force me to shift when I was a boy? In the *Court*?"
"*Oh*, yes. Yejide would not have been much help to you, I fear — but
*instinct* would have *pulled* you to your *father*. *Wherever* he happened to
be."
"Oh — shit."
"And if I'd been in Spanish territory, Amina-love? Some other war zone?"
Mum's expression is hard. "Better that than one day longer without *either* of
his parents, sweet brother."
"I —"
"Are you about to *argue* with me, Jean-Armand? *Ask* our son. Ask *all* of our
sons."
Athos smiles wryly. "I do understand your reservations, sir... but."
Aramis nods. "*Yes*, Sir. We — we *need* you."
"Let's pretend I'm Kitos for a minute, here," Porthos says, and *whallops*
Daddy.
Daddy *coughs* —
Grins like a *madman* —
And coughs again and pulls on a sober expression utterly belied by his
sparkling eyes. "As you say, son. Kitos usually aimed more to the back —"
Porthos whallops him again —
"Perfect, son, thank you."
"You're welcome, Daddy. *Do you see what we're saying*."
"I will *absolutely* take *all* of my future children into war zones as soon as
they can walk —"
"Hit him again, please," Mum says.
"Right you are," Porthos says, and whallops Daddy hard enough to send him
staggering for a few steps.
Daddy snickers —
Mum walks over and punches him — right under the ribs, just like Ife had said —
Daddy *whuffs* out what sounds like most of his air — but still catches Mum in
his strong arms, holds her tight, and bites her *jaw*.
"I am *listening*," she says. "*Provisionally*."
"That's all I can ask, Amina-love," he says, and licks her cheek. "Part of me
will never think I'm the best choice for a child's care, even though our
children have *mostly* managed to convince me that I'm a good choice for
*their* care. *They* are grown men, however — and I've never had my chance to
raise a child. I've never had my chance to make my *mistakes* with a child and
see that they weren't *fatal*. I've never had my chance to... learn how to
trust myself."
Mum blinks —
Blinks more — she looks *young* in Daddy's arms —
And then she pushes back from Daddy and frowns at him. "Are you *frightened* by
this pregnancy, my husband?"
"Mm." And Daddy looks down at her almost-entirely-flat — the All-Mother had
left her *lean* — belly. "I'm too bloody *randy* about this pregnancy to be
frightened by it, Amina-love —"
"Jean-*Armand* —"
"— but I expect the nightmares to come," Daddy says, and smiles ruefully. "I
expect them to come... frequently."
Mum makes a *hurt* noise and cups Daddy's face with both hands —
Daddy cups *her* face — "*Fear will not stop me*."
"It never *has*, my husband, but you must not — I do not want you to *hurt*."
"I believe..." And Athos licks his lips —
Clears his throat —
"I believe there are times and situations and *fears* which can only be...
salved with positive experience. In abundance, if at all possible."
Daddy smiles at Athos ruefully. "You would know, wouldn't you, son."
Athos smiles back. "You — and Aramis, and Porthos — have all been confident
that I would have the positive experiences I needed to... ease me. Thus far
you've all been entirely correct. Will you trust us when we say that *you* will
have the positive experiences you need?"
"It's — it's not about what *I* need —"
"It is about what *we* need, as a pack, yes?" And Aramis raises his eyebrows.
"We must all have *everything* we need, and..." Aramis looks to *him*, and
smiles like the boy he still is.
Porthos moves to join him —
Pull him close —
Lick his *temples* —
"Papa — oh, Papa, wait, I must speak!"
"You can talk, precious. You're just *also* going to get licked," Porthos says,
and licks Aramis's ear —
Aramis giggles — "Oh — it is our *responsibility* — all of our
responsibilities! — to see that we all have what we — mm, *mm*, *Papa!* —
need!"
Porthos growls and kisses him, kisses him *hard* —
(I taste Sir in your mouth...)
Won't be the last time.
Aramis giggles into the kiss and throws his arms around Porthos's neck —
And Porthos can feel the *little* bit of control he'd gained since their
parents had walked in just... melting right away.
(Good!)
Wait, he says, and pulls back —
Aramis makes an unhappy noise —
"Wanted to tell you, precious. *This* is one of the impossible dreams I used to
toss it to. You as my boy. You as my little *beauty*."
"*Oh* —"
"But wait just *one* moment," Porthos says, and bites his cheek, his ear, his
*throat* —
He growls —
"Son..."
He pulls *back*. "I've still got control, Daddy. A *bit*." And he turns to face
Daddy. "Do *you* understand what we've been saying?"
Daddy grins. "I do. And I am... going to listen to absolutely all of you," he
says, and leads Mum back over to Athos —
Mum *immediately* begins petting *him* —
"Oh — I — Mother —"
"Hst. I have not had children to pet in *eons*!"
Athos *stares* —
Blinks rapidly —
Looks to be forming about two *hundred* different questions —
Mum laughs evilly and continues petting. "Ask what you *will*, powerful boy.
But you *will* be petted throughout."
"I — will take that. Happily," Athos says, and grins at both her and Daddy —
Perfect. Porthos turns back to Aramis — who is looking at him *hungrily*.
Yeah. Yeah.
Right now.
"Daddy was right — it was wrong of me to hold this back for a 'special'
occasion. Every moment with you is special. *Every* moment."
"But — if you do not wish to tell me —"
"I want to tell you *everything*, precious," Porthos says, and grips Aramis's
hips. "It was so *hard* holding things back from you. All my lust. All my
hunger and *need* —"
"I *apologize*!"
"Shh, precious, shh. You *always* said I didn't have to. Didn't you."
"Yes, but —"
"No buts. I should've *listened* to that. You told me *countless* times how
much you *valued* me for my bluntness. My *honesty*."
"Yes! Yes, please!"
"And there I was, holding back." Porthos shakes his head. "No more. We'll beat
those reflexes *right* out of me, precious."
"I — yes?"
Porthos licks his lips. "Need to give you everything I *am*, precious. Need
to... fill you *right* up..."
"Oh, *please*!"
Porthos growls and *yanks* Aramis closer —
Grinds their hard *cocks* together —
Aramis pants and moans —
Sweats sodding *deliciously* —
Porthos licks and licks and *licks* behind his ear —
"*Yes*, Papa, *yes*!"
Porthos can feel it — the *shift* — starting to boil a little under his skin,
but he can still talk, he can still —
"And we're right here, son," Daddy says. "We'll keep everyone safe."
Porthos rumbles and rumbles so *gratefully* —
"Oh — my Papa is close to... shifting?"
Porthos licks Aramis's ear *properly* — "Yeah. I am, precious. I need you."
"I am *yours*!"
"Shh. Wait. I have to say... I have to *talk*," Porthos says, growling into
Aramis's ear and nipping and nipping —
"Unh — *unh* —"
He can bloody *talk*. He snarls and pulls *back*, looking into Aramis's wide,
full *eyes*. "I *never* could decide if I wanted your body young and your soul
older or your body older and your soul young, or some other kind of thing
*entirely*," Porthos says, and it feels like a victory, a *massive* victory —
"In — oh, Papa, in your fantasies?"
"That's right. They were... all over the place. *We* were all over the place. I
*have* a fantasy of showing up at your school one day and finding you in that
horribly beautiful church you described, finding you and patching you *up* —"
"Oh — *Papa* —"
"Making you all better, comfortable, warm, *secure*," Porthos says, and pants —
And *pants* —
"And I wouldn't touch you right away. Not like that."
"But Papa, I would *want* you to!"
Porthos growls and leans in — no. No. His teeth are shifting. He won't bite. He
shakes himself. "I'd make you show me all the priests first. All the ones who
hurt you. All the ones who *mocked* you. All the ones who stood by and did
*nothing*," Porthos says, and growls —
And growls —
And *pants* — "We'd be quiet, precious. Quieter than I'd *want* to be... but
every last one of them would *hurt* before they died."
Aramis *moans*, cock twitching and jerking against Porthos's own. So hot.
So slick and *hot* —
So bloody perfect —
Porthos is leaning *in* —
"When! When do you *touch* me in the fantasy, Papa? When do you take what is
*yours*?"
Porthos licks his lips. "I wash you clean. There's — you *help* me kill the
bastards. Just like any you always would, in my fantasies or in reality. I wash
you *clean*... and you're hard. I try to keep from noticing too much, I try to
keep my promise to *just* take you home with me, but. In my fantasy..."
"Do I beg you, Papa? I *would* beg!"
And the others are all listening to this —
Listening *closely* —
A part of Porthos wants to *hide*, at least a little — but the dog in him knows
it's *never* time for that when you're with your pack.
The man in him had already known that — just not well *enough*.
And Porthos nods and licks — fuck, most of his face —
He wants to share this the way Aramis had shared.
The way *Daddy* had shared so *much* —
But he can't —
Every time he breathes *in*, he can smell Aramis, Aramis's *hunger* for him,
Aramis's love and lust and *need*, and —
It's making the shift *thrum* through him. It —
Aramis groans — "Please, Papa, all is *well*. You are sharing — you are sharing
perfectly! I promise! Do not *worry*!"
Porthos *growls* —
*Aches* —
"You beg. You ask and you beg and you bloody *demand*, and, in the end, I can't
even ask you if you're *sure* before I'm *on* you. Biting you and kissing you
and making *love* to you. Trying to be competent and not just eat you *alive*.
"I never manage. I'm too hard for you by that point. Too hungry — even just for
a fantasy. I lay you out on the *floor* and suck your little cock until you
spend all *over* my mouth —"
"NNH —"
"And then I *keep* sucking so you can't get soft for even a minute. So you
can't get a *break*. So you *need* me to keep touching you."
"Oh, Papa! Oh, Papa, always, yes — *please*!"
"I flip you over onto your hands and knees —"
"And have me? Have me right there in the blood of dead priests?" And Aramis is
smiling so *hopefully* —
So widely and wildly and —
Actually *nodding* a little —
Porthos laughs *hard*. "Well, I know what I'll be dreaming about the *next*
time I pull this one out, precious."
"Oh. What *do* you do?"
Porthos *grins* — "I *devour* your little arse. Your tight, round —" He growls.
"I've spent a *lot* of time staring at your arse *now* and thinking about what
it might have looked like *then*, precious."
"Oh — *fuck*."
"You've got this little beauty mark... I bet it would've been just a *little*
differently-*placed*."
"Yes, Papa — I — or I don't know —"
"*I* know. In my *many* fevered dreams. You make a *lot* of noise. You. You
love it for me. I try to tell you to quiet *down*. I try to tell you we'll
alert the other students —"
"No! I don't care — let them *see*!"
"That's *right*. That's *exactly* what you tell me in my dreams —"
"Oh, *Papa*!"
"— and it drives me so wild that I toss you off *fast* and just a little
*brutally* while I'm fucking you with my tongue —"
"Papa — Papa, I need you, please fuck me, please —"
Porthos *snarls* again —
*Bites* Aramis's throat as lightly as he can —
It's not light, at *all* —
Aramis goes limp in Porthos's arms so — so bloody *perfectly* —
Bed.
*Bed*.
And they're all moving, they —
They're all already *naked*, and Daddy has the oil —
He's bouncing it in his palm and *kneeling* on the bed —
Aramis is — is —
Porthos pushes and moves and *manhandles* his beautiful body until he's on his
*face* and knees —
Until he's perfect.
Perfect.
Porthos can feel himself shifting —
Feel the tickle and cool *rush* of fur growing out of him —
"Sweet boy. Yejide and I were lovers."
Porthos grunts and *snaps* back to human-form —
He reels —
He nearly falls *over* — no, no, wait.
Wait.
He lifts his *nose* —
"Don't take a deep breath, son," Daddy says —
"I have to see if that was *honest* —"
"Your mother wouldn't lie to you, one, and two, there are too many scents in
this room that would make you lose control again, right now. Shallow breaths
only."
Porthos grunts — "Right, I — right. Sorry, Mum — but. *Yejide*?"
Mum shrugs and gently urges Athos to move to the head of the bed — right where
Aramis's head would be between his thighs. "She was familiar *enough*, sweet
boy. Cold, yes. Abrasive, *yes*. But... not so much of either of those things
when we touched."
Porthos — relaxes. A little. "That's better than what I was imagining."
Mum smiles wryly and strokes down the length of Athos's left thigh. "She was
*good* to me, sweet boy. And, I think, to you...?"
"She was, yeah, but... not the kind of good I ever imagined in *bed*, Mum. With
*anyone*."
"Papa, Maman, I would like more stories of this Yejide!"
"You will have them, precious boy," Mum says, and strokes Aramis's hair —
"Yeah, absolutely —"
"I would definitely also like to know more," Athos says, and he's blinking a
little.
And Daddy is *looking* at Mum.
"Jean-*Armand*. If you are going to tell me that you are *jealous* —"
"She isn't — I — ignore me."
"She isn't *what*."
"Ignore me, *please*?"
"She isn't *pack*, Jean-Armand? What I did not *have*? For *eons*?"
"About that," Athos says.
"Time passes strangely and terribly in the lands beyond life, powerful boy.
Especially when you are being carried, against your will, on the tides of the
spheres."
"Well. That is vague and distressing beyond words at the same time."
Aramis makes agreement sounds.
Daddy snorts *painfully* —
"As for *you*, Jean-Armand —"
"Oh, shit, three of those in a *row*?"
"You earned them!"
"Can we talk about our boys having deviant sex now? I'm *sorry*. I'm an
*idiot*. A — a *possessive* and *foolish* — are you sure she was good to you?"
"*Yes*!"
"Did you like her better —"
"I am going to ask the All-Mother to turn me into a *cat*!"
Daddy *blanches*. "I take it back! I'll be *good*!"
"You will *not*!"
"I — all right, I won't, but I won't be awful? All the time?"
"Sweet boy."
"On it," Porthos says, and whallops Daddy.
"*Fuck*. I think I felt my *brain* bounce — good work, son."
Porthos nods. "About the deviant sex?"
"All right, first some bad news —"
Porthos growls helplessly —
"— because of *that*," Daddy says, and rubs his head. "You'll not be able to
take your time stretching Aramis's arse for a while. You might not be able to
finish the *job* of stretching him this time — don't say he can have you before
you're fully-stretched, son."
"I —"
"No," Daddy says to Aramis. "If his knot *isn't* fully-formed already... well,
you're going to have some interesting times sitting Cosette tomorrow, either
way." He turns back to Porthos. "Your hands might start shifting, and you'll
have to pull out immediately —"
"I *know* —"
"*And*, going by what I've learned of shifting, we're not going to be able to
*reliably* shock you back after that."
Porthos blinks — and winces. "I'll... shift all the way?"
"*Possibly* not. There's still a chance you'll stay *mostly* in human-form for
this, son. It's a very slim chance, though."
Porthos — breathes. Shallowly. But... this is actually giving him more control.
*Depressing* him, but giving him more control.
"Oh, Papa, I love you just as you are! I will take all of you and beg for
*more*!"
"Hmm," Athos says, and smiles crookedly with his mouth and *wildly* with his
eyes. "I wholeheartedly concur."
And that.
That takes a significant amount of the control *away* —
"Bloody — how did you *do* this, Daddy? Weren't you fucking all *kinds* of
people as soon as you were shifting?"
"Basically — and the only reason your mother *wasn't* shifting *more* than just
a little was because she was too pregnant to do it; it's dangerous after the
first month — but I was a reckless *idiot* with several other reckless idiots
making up my pack."
"*Including* your mother, sweet boy."
Athos blinks. "Did you... hurt each other?"
"We did. A *great* deal," Mum says.
"Reynard, especially, had to be healed over and over again in those early days
when I was finding my control," Daddy says.
"Which he did not mind one *bit*," Mum says. "He had spent *years* longing to
feel your father's teeth at his throat, boys! But... it was dangerous. *Very*
dangerous."
"And we were far more lucky than skilled."
"Oh, yes," Mum says, and smiles wryly at Daddy. "It was easier between the two
of us — to a certain extent. We were mated. *Bound*. Your father *could not*
injure me without first overcoming hugely powerful magics! This does not mean
we did not *both* need *healing* after we made love. And we were not even
making love in ways which would *call* our dogs."
And all of that... Porthos scratches his beard. "So what I'm hearing is that
this is all *possible*."
"It *is*, son. Let us make it easier for you," Daddy says.
"I don't want to wait for *any*-bloody-thing."
And Mum *grips* Aramis and Athos —
And Daddy grips *him* by the arm. "The man in you does, though, son. Look to
him."
Porthos *snarls* —
*Snaps* —
"Look. To. The man."
And for a moment — a *frightening* moment — he wants to. He wants to and
*can't* —
Athos clears his throat. "I have any number of fantasies of you beating me
until I can't walk, berating me for being weak and unworthy, ordering me to
spend, and then walking away."
Porthos *coughs* — "For fuck's *sake* —"
"Did that help?"
"Yes — bloody — *stop* that!"
"I plan on trying very — do listen to our parents."
"I will! Fuck!"
"Very good, powerful boy," Mum says, and licks Athos's cheek.
"Oh — oh. Thank you. I — it was true —"
"I *know*. We will *all* make sure you get enough *proper* beatings."
"Thank you — thank you very much, Mother —"
"You are *very* welcome, powerful boy. Now. *Porthos*."
"Yes, Mum. I — I *do* want to wait. And — be patient enough to do this *right*.
That's who I *am*."
"Yes, it *is*," she says, leaning in enough that her breasts swing a little.
"You will remember this. You will *grip* this in your *teeth* when you have
nothing else *left*."
"Yes, Mum!"
"And it really *won't* take as long as we're making it sound, son," Daddy says,
and puts the oil in Porthos's hand. "In some ways, losing control multiple
times, making the — smaller — mistakes... well, that's *how* you're going to
learn. It's all going to teach you when you need to tighten your own lead — and
when you can open it right up again."
Porthos nods and licks his *lips*. "And... it'll be open *most* of the time?"
Daddy grins like an *arsehole*. "What do *you* think, son?"
"I think you still kept *your* lead on with me a *lot*, Daddy. And I think it
drove you a little *spare*."
Daddy barks a laugh. "You've got a point, son. But... I didn't think you were
going to grow into *this*. I didn't think you'd be able to *take* my force. And
even once I *did* know..."
"You didn't think I'd *want* it. *Got* it. Mum?"
"Yes, hit him again."
"*Hey* —"
Porthos whallops him, then opens up the little pot — and watches the muscles of
Aramis's back *flex* for the sound. "You know what that means, precious?"
Aramis giggles. "It has a very *different* meaning than what it *used* to,
Papa..."
Porthos laughs and warms the oil on his fingers. "Oh, *does* it, now."
"Oh, yes! Now it *always* means that I am being put in my place!"
"Yeah, eh? You're not *ever* going to warm the oil for our Mum's fine, round
arse?"
Aramis *grunts* —
Mum *caws* —
Daddy sighs happily. "Oh, son."
And Athos turns to Mum. "Were you attracted to my mother? My — blood-mother —"
Mum laughs *filthily*. "As I was telling your father earlier, for a *long* time
I was *very* jealous of her soft, *beautiful* curves. When we became pack... I
could — and did — think very many *other* things about those curves."
Athos licks his lips. "I would very much like to hear those things.
Everything."
"Such a good boy you are. I will *tell* you everything," Mum says, patting
Athos's cheek and turning back to *him*. "Sweet boy. What *else* should our
precious boy do with me?"
"That is an *excellent* question, Mum," Porthos says, and gets Aramis's cleft
*good* and slick.
"Ah — *ahn* —"
"I mean, we want him to be thorough."
Mum nods judiciously.
"We want him to take *care* of you."
"Oh, *God* —"
"Oh, yes, sweet boy? *How* should he take care of me?"
Aramis *whimpers* —
"I wonder about that, Mum," Porthos says, and rubs that hole —
Rubs it hard —
Rubs it *rough* —
"Papa — *Maman* — *Papa* —"
Mum makes a soft sound and strokes Aramis's cheek before looking back to *him*.
"*What* do you wonder, sweet boy?"
"I *wonder*... if little preciouses like this have ever *had* a woman of their
own. You might have to *teach* him, Mum."
Mum *rumbles* — and grins. "His eyes have rolled back..."
*Porthos* rumbles — and pushes *right* in with one, slicking Aramis all round
while he pants and gasps, and then coming back for more oil —
More —
*More* —
"Be ready for a *big* stretch, precious."
"Yes! *Yes*!"
And then Porthos gives him two fingers, as slow as he can *manage* —
But he can feel his control fraying. He can —
Shit, his teeth are lengthening just for the *sleek* feel of Aramis *inside* —
He's so hot —
He's so *tight* —
"And I'll open him right up for you, son. When the time comes," Daddy says.
Porthos croons. He knows better than *anyone* here *other* than Mum how good at
that Daddy is.
Athos huffs. "Not that we aren't all... willing to learn...."
Daddy rumbles a laugh. "The man I was ten years ago is busily creeping into
your bedroom to speed your education along, son."
Athos huffs more. "Oh — God. I would've been so *confused*."
"Probably not for long," Daddy says, and grins. "Probably."
Porthos snickers —
Mum cackles. "*Tell* me, husband. Are the kitchen boys all stretched out of
shape, yet?"
Porthos pushes in that last little *bit* —
Aramis *grunts* —
*Sweats* —
Porthos can *smell* it —
Taste it —
He's thrusting too much —
Too *fast*, too *soon* —
"Sweet *boy*."
"Mum — Mum, I..."
Aramis is grunting and panting and *rocking* back onto Porthos's fingers —
This *isn't* hurting him —
But they can't leave him too raw for the *fuck*. They —
Fuck, Porthos can't slow *down* —
Can't —
He groans and it *becomes* a growl —
His cock is jerking, *dripping* —
Dripping *constantly* and *copiously* —
His cock *is* a dog's cock already —
He can't —
He can't bloody slow *down* —
Aramis drops his head and *moans* —
Porthos *crooks* —
Aramis *sobs* —
Porthos pants and growls and pants and fucks Aramis faster, *faster* —
"No more Shocking Truths to hand, Amina-love?"
"I think the only ones I have left would make him lose more control, my
husband," Mum says, rueful and low —
"Got it," Daddy says, and rests his strong, rough hand on Porthos's shoulder —
Porthos *whines* —
Shudders —
Whines *more* —
Daddy squeezes *firmly* — "It's time, son."
"I *need* him!"
Mum *grips* the back of Aramis's neck —
Holds him down —
Holds him *quiet* —
They all know what he was going to *say* —
"And we all know that it isn't good enough right now, brother," Athos says,
quiet and — not calm. Not —
*He's* too bloody hard to be calm, and —
And that helps.
That —
The *scents* are driving him *madder*, but knowing he isn't alone —
"Never alone, son. *Never* alone," Daddy says, and wraps his other hand —
slowly, gently — around Porthos's wrist.
Porthos's flexing, working —
"Sweet boy. You will *have* him. And you will have him *harder* and *better* if
you let us help you now."
"I just — you know how hard it is to let him go. You *know*," Porthos says, but
he's stopping. He's *stopped*.
"You won't let him go, son. You'll just surrender this *part* of him... for a
little while."
Porthos — pants. "I'll... hold him."
"That's right, sweet boy. You will hold him *tight*."
Aramis makes a *soft* sound —
But Porthos can make that into a *push* on himself, into —
He pulls out. He pulls out slow, steady —
He's *shaking*, but he bloody well pulls *out*. And Athos is right there with a
linen — and gesturing to the space he's left for Porthos.
Right where he can... hold Aramis in his arms.
Hold Aramis *tight*.
He's already moving.
He's already —
Already lifting Aramis up onto his knees —
"Oh — oh, Papa, yes?"
"Need you, precious. Need you... right here," Porthos says, and pulls Aramis
right in —
Spreads Aramis's thighs over his *lap* —
Pulls him *closer* —
"Oh, Papa, your *fur* is so *soft* —"
Porthos growls and kisses Aramis — tries to kiss him. He licks Aramis, licks
Aramis all over his beautiful face —
Licks his throat and his ears —
His *delicious* ears —
Aramis moans — "All of me is *yours*, Papa!"
And Porthos's tongue *lengthens* for that, but — he doesn't need to speak
aloud.
"No, you *don't*, sweet boy. Say what you want and *taste* your boy."
Yes, Mum. I need. I need Daddy to show him how *good* he can be...
"I'll certainly be watching every moment," Athos says, kneeling beside Daddy
and *obviously* taking in every detail of Aramis's backside —
He'd left it so *red* —
Just a little *swollen* —
"Do not bite yet, sweet boy," Mum says, and grips Porthos's shoulder, hard and
strong. "It will mean more when you're buried *deep*."
Porthos *pants* —
*Realizes* that he was about to bite Aramis's long, pretty throat again —
That he was about to break the *skin* this time —
Aramis needs to wear his *mark* —
"If you'll notice, son..." And Daddy nods toward the backs of Aramis's thighs.
Porthos blinks —
Strokes down to where he'd bitten the *first* time —
The scar is still there.
The *bite*-scar is — no, no, he has to ask. He concentrates enough to shorten
his tongue — "You *healed* him, Daddy. I don't understand."
"Some things can't — and shouldn't — be healed by witches with any amount of
power, son. You *bound* Aramis with that bite. And if you'll look at that one
*particular* knife-scar on Athos's arm..."
"Oh," Athos says. "It's... hm. It's perfectly-well-healed, and yet... I can
feel it."
"Can you feel the *wound*, son? Or can you feel a pull *centered* on the
wound."
Athos shivers. "It tells me... that I'm precisely where I belong."
"My saliva," Porthos says. "It — even though I didn't *bite* him —"
"You *marked* him, sweet boy," Mum says, and strokes through the curls at the
back of his neck.
"And you made him *ours*," Daddy says, and looks at him.
His eyebrows are up.
His fingers are *slick* —
"Now. Do it now. Make Aramis *feel* you," Porthos says, and he's panting again
—
And *Aramis* is panting —
*Moaning* —
"Hold him open for me, Athos," Daddy says —
"*God* —"
"With pleasure — oh. The shine of oil on his hole, his cleft..." Athos growls.
"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful," Daddy says, and locks eyes with *him* —
And then Aramis *gasps* —
And gasps again —
*Again* —
"Two, Daddy?"
"Start as you mean to go on, son. But, for at least the next little while, when
we're *first* oiling Aramis —"
"One is better, yeah. Yeah. I can think *sometimes*."
Mum *nips* the back of his neck —
"Unh —"
"My sweet boy is eager. There is no crime in this."
"I just. I just need to be *right* for my *brothers* —"
"You need to be right for all of us, son," Daddy says, and does something that
makes Aramis gasp *again* —
Lower his head to Porthos's shoulder and *pant* —
"I *know* —"
"The *best* and most *correct* way for you to be right for us is for you to be
yourself, honestly and openly and *purely*, at all times," Daddy says, and
*looks* at him.
Porthos blinks —
Thinks past all the hunger and the *frustration* —
"I — already knew that."
"That you did, son. Let's try this," Daddy says, and —
Aramis *sobs* —
Clutches Porthos and sobs and *buries* his face in against Porthos's throat —
Nuzzles and *keeps* sobbing —
"Right, I need to know what you're doing —"
"Immediately," Athos says, and huffs —
Daddy rumbles. "Working his little pleasure-button with *sweet* relentlessness,
son. The same way I'd do to any especially tight little boy without much
experience under his belt..."
"*God*."
*Mum* rumbles. "How the boys would follow your father! Like babes hoping for a
sweet!"
Daddy laughs. "When they figured out that I was spending my time in your
mother's teahouse... well... steps had to be taken."
Athos huffs more. "What did you *do*?"
"Hid like a *coward* behind my *skirts*," Mum says, and *barks* laughter.
"Though he *did* eventually find his way under them."
Porthos snickers and strokes Aramis all over, strokes him hungrily, slides his
hands through his *sweat* —
Aramis *whimpers* and sobs —
Fucks up *against* Porthos —
"Hold him still for me, please, Athos," Daddy says —
Athos *grunts* — and obeys. "That's wonderful. This is *wonderful*."
"*Yeah*, it is," Porthos says, and keeps stroking his precious, his beautiful
little —
"Please!" And Aramis sounds *anguished* — "Please, I need — so much more!"
"You'll get it, little one. But you have to relax and take this," Daddy says —
Aramis takes a *shuddering* breath —
His scents are so *high* —
His throat is so tense, so long, so *shiny* with sweat —
"Do not *bite*, sweet boy!"
"Shit, give me something else to think about," Porthos says, laughing
helplessly —
"Perhaps your father and I will *share* your brothers someday, mm? While my
sweet boy watches?"
"*Fuck*, Mum! Aren't you supposed to be helping me *keep* my control?"
She laughs *evilly* again. "So you *would* like that," she says, and *tugs* on
his curls —
"Always — always wanted to see you have *fun* — *both* of you — *all* of you —"
Daddy grunts — "That was a *beautiful* clench, son, but now isn't the time for
it..."
"Please — please, Sir, please *fuck* me with your fingers —"
"You have to relax a little more. Open for me. Can you breathe for me, son?"
"I — I —" And Aramis *clings* to Porthos and takes another *shuddering* breath
— and releases it slowly.
The next breath is a *little* smoother.
And Porthos can help. He can — he can stroke more soothingly, less *greedily*.
He can —
"We'll give you *everything* you need, precious. *Everything*."
Aramis nods and nods and clings tighter —
Breathes *slower* —
Shudders all *over* —
"All you have to do is make — make yourself ready for it. Oh, precious, I need
in you so *badly*..."
Aramis exhales on a *moan*, but inhales in rhythm —
"My fingers, my cock, my tongue, my *teeth* — everything. Everything. I *need*
you."
Aramis nods more and keeps breathing —
Slower and *slower* —
"Perfect," Daddy says, and Porthos can tell by Aramis's *helpless* groan that
Daddy's started to thrust.
Athos licks his lips. "Aramis... always responds so *well* to being *hungered*
for."
Mum laughs filthily. "Don't we all, powerful boy?"
And Athos looks up for that —
Looks at *her* — and narrows his eyes.
She rumbles. "Oh, yes, powerful boy...?"
"Did you... desire my father?"
"He was too formal with me for *much* of our relationship. And then he showed
me the man he *truly* was... and I was very, very shocked."
Daddy laughs hard. "He honestly thought you *knew* — through some magic known
only to brilliant and accomplished women — what a magnificent deviant he was."
She snorts. "Did he think the same about Marie-Angelique?"
"*Yes*. And being proven wrong once just seemed like a curious *anomaly*."
Mum *splutters* — and turns back to Athos. "Powerful boy. If you are asking if
I am attracted to *you*..."
"I am."
And then Mum moves beside Porthos, and her scents rise in a wave that has
Porthos salivating *desperately*.
He looks —
And she's leaned back against the headboard with her legs spread wide and the
tip of her tongue showing and her fingers spreading her sex and oh, *shit* —
Porthos looks to *Athos* —
Athos is crawling *closer* like he's being bloody *yanked* —
Porthos can't *blame* him —
Daddy is *snickering* —
And Aramis is muttering incoherently and *drooling*, because —
"Wait, Daddy, what are you —"
"Crooking my fingers — gently — every few thrusts. You really left him
*exquisitely* sensitized."
"Right, all right, but can we —"
"Don't rush, son. Your knot is just as magnificent as the rest of you."
"Oh, fuck, I haven't wished to be smaller *ever* —"
Daddy laughs like an *arsehole* —
"I — I will relax more, my Papa!" And Aramis kisses his throat and shoulder so
*sweetly* as he struggles to breathe, struggles to *open* —
And Porthos — knows how to *help*. "Just give it to me, precious..."
Aramis nods and nods —
"Just open right up and let Daddy spread you for me. For *me*."
Aramis groans and *breathes* —
Mum cries *out* —
Athos's moan is *muffled* —
Porthos isn't *looking* — "You're going to be." He licks his lips. "You're
going to be wide open for me, precious..."
"Yes —"
"Shh, just breathe. Just open."
"Mm!" And Aramis goes back to breathing —
"You're going to be loose and wet and so — so *ready*... I'm going to fuck you
*hard*, precious..."
Aramis rocks into Daddy's thrusts *slowly* and *rhythmically* —
"That's so hot, precious. You get me so *hard*."
And Aramis pulls back to look at him —
To gaze at him with wide, full, *beautiful* eyes —
"Good boys. Perfect boys," Daddy says. "You're ready for another finger, son.
Now just hold still for me."
Aramis moans and nods — "Yes, Sir," he says, and clings to Porthos's shoulders,
*smiling* into Porthos's eyes —
And letting Porthos see every *moment* of Daddy pushing that third finger in.
Every moment of his eyes getting wider, his lips parting, his face getting more
flushed and dewy with *sweat* —
"Oh, precious... oh, my gorgeous little precious..."
"Sir... Sir is so *thick*..."
"He's going to be even bigger inside you before it's done, precious. You can
take it."
"I will take *anything* for my pack!"
"That's —"
And then Mum growls —
Bucks —
Athos wraps his arms around her thighs and *holds* them spread wide —
"Oh, good boy, good *boy*," she says, shoving her hands into his hair and
*yanking*. "*Suck* my cunt!"
*Athos* growls, nuzzling in, *grinding* in — and the slurps and suckling sounds
start up so —
So good.
So *good* —
Porthos feels like he's leaking a *fountain's* worth of slick —
Aramis is staring, *too* —
And Daddy snickers. "Definitely a good idea to get you up the duff *before* we
came in here, Amina-love."
Mum makes a noise like a dog trying to bark around a partially-inflated pig's
bladder —
And then just *grunts*, over and over and *over* as she rides Athos's *face*.
"My — my *son* —"
Athos *slams* his hips against the bed —
Mum grins *triumphantly* —
*Claws* Athos's back —
"*Fuck* my cunt with your *tongue*, good boy, good *boy* —"
Athos whimpers and clutches her tighter, grinds again —
"*Ai*!"
And then obviously *obeys*, having her, *having* her —
She croons —
She shudders and croons —
She bucks and *howls* —
And Porthos thinks he can *feel* her scents sweeten and deepen as much as smell
them when she's this close, feel her trembling on the *edge* in the seconds
before Athos reaches up and *grips* her breast —
"*Yes*! Oh —" And she howls again —
Again —
She's *spending* —
His Mum is *spending*, right there *next* to him, and he's so hard, so bloody —
He *wants* —
He wants *everything* —
Athos is licking up all her *juices* and Porthos wants *everything* —
And then Aramis moans —
Moans so low and hungry and *desperate* —
Clings to Porthos so *hard* —
And Porthos remembers what he wants *most*. What he needs, what he aches for,
what he *craves* right now —
"Not to worry, son. *I* didn't lose sight of the goal," Daddy says, and
snickers hard.
"Why *not*?"
Daddy winks at him. "I had a perfect view of Athos diving face-first into your
mother's juicy, perfect cunt without having to do a thing, son. I could just —"
"Unh —"
"*Keep* —"
Aramis *sobs* —
"*Going*."
Aramis sobs again and mutters something incoherent and *fervent* —
"Mm. He just flexed open. His body *understands* what needs to happen now."
"Oh — fuck, Daddy, please tell me it won't be *long*."
"You know what to do, son."
Porthos licks Aramis all over his beautiful *face* — and then he presses his
lips to that blushing ear. "One more finger, precious love. Just one."
"Nnh — uh. One?"
"That's right..."
Aramis pants and moans —
*Moans* —
"My Papa, I feel so *open*..."
Porthos growls and strokes down to Aramis's arse —
Mum croons and rumbles and — "Come *here*, powerful boy, *good* boy —"
"Mm, I — are you *quite* sure I can't stay where I am?" And the *grin* in
Athos's voice is wild and hungry and *happy* —
And Porthos *spreads* Aramis for Daddy —
Aramis *gasps* again —
"*Oh*, yes, good boy, you must *please* your mother..."
Athos *grunts* — "With. My cock?"
Daddy grins. "Remember, son: your mother likes it *hard*."
Aramis *bucks* —
Porthos pants and growls and holds him *tighter* — "*How* hard, Daddy?"
And Mum laughs *hungrily* —
But Daddy just *looks* at him. "Your mother can take every last *bit* of my
*force* in that sweet, delicious cunt of hers, son."
"Oh — shit."
"And *wants* it."
"You do not know, sweet brother," Mum says, laughing more. "I may want a kind,
gentle fuck from our sons!"
Athos freezes and makes a choked and *garbled* noise —
Mum's laughter is coming out pealing and *loud* — "No, no, Athos, come *here*,
I would not do that to *either* of us."
"But — if you would *prefer* —"
"Powerful boy. I *break* the men who try that with me," Mum says *flatly*.
"She means that literally!" Daddy calls cheerfully. "Now let's try *this*," he
says, and —
"Oh, God! God! *God*!" And Aramis's eyes are wide, dazed —
His expression is bloody *desperate* —
Porthos's cock is *jerking* — "*Daddy*."
"Spreading my fingers *while* fucking him, son. Almost. We're almost there."
"*Fuck* —" Porthos licks Aramis's ear, bites it, kisses it, licks it again —
"Papa — *Papa* —"
"You heard Daddy, precious. I'm going to be *in* you soon..."
"Yes! *Please*!"
"I'm going to bury myself deep and —" Porthos *pants*. "My knot *aches* for
you, precious —"
Aramis groans and shudders all *over* —
"He just flexed open again — mm. Such a good son," Daddy says.
"Perfect little precious. We'll be tied. You won't be able to get *away* from
me."
Aramis sobs and mutters again — and this time Porthos can parse it enough to
recognize prayer in Latin.
"You can call on your god, precious baby. You can call on whoever you *want*."
"You! Please!"
"You're *mine*."
"And again — and again..." Daddy rumbles. "Just a little more oil and he's
ready for another."
"Oh, precious. Good *boy*."
And Aramis smiles so broadly, so *happily* —
Porthos licks him and licks him —
Feels his tongue *trying* to lengthen again —
Fights it *back* —
And it's harder because he can hear Athos and his Mum *moaning* next to him,
hear their *muffled* moans —
They're *kissing* —
He *knows* how Athos kisses —
(Such a *strong* and *forceful* boy...) And Mum's laughter in their minds is
hungry, needy, *appreciative* —
(I — I — *Mother* —)
(My *son*. Will you suckle when my milk comes?)
"*Fuck* —" And that wasn't even enunciated, that was *slurred*, right — it
*must've* been into her *mouth* —
"Mm — *mmmm*, it *was*, sweet boy, come, say it again, Athos, be a *dirty* boy
for your mother —"
"Let me — let me *fuck* you!"
Mum *grunts* —
"Let me give you my *cock*," Athos says, and that *was* enunciated, and —
Damn.
Porthos wants to reach over and guide him *in* —
"You've other things to do, son," Daddy says, laughing hard —
"Oh, fuck, I *know*," Porthos says, and nips Aramis's chin, his cheek —
No, he'll bite if he goes for the throat again, and he can't, yet, he *can't* —
He has to be *good* —
"That's *right*," Daddy says, and, "Here, Aramis. Here you are..."
And Aramis clings *tight* —
Shakes *hard* —
Daddy hisses between his *teeth* —
"*Breathe*, precious," Porthos says —
Aramis grunts and gasps again —
Again and *again* —
Mum *shouts* —
"So — so *wet*, so wet and hot and soft and —" Athos *growls*. "Tell me again
that you want me to fuck you *violently*."
*Fuck* —
And then Porthos can see Mum putting her *foot* up on Athos's shoulder out of
the corner of his eye —
Athos *snarls* —
"*Do* it, my son. Let your mama *feel* you!"
"*Yes*. *Yes*, Mother, I —" And Athos growls —
And Mum *shouts* again —
Grunts —
Shouts *again* and — "*Yes*, powerful boy, *good* boy, *give* me your cock —"
"It — it — a good son *serves* his mother," Athos says, growling and *slamming*
in —
Mum *howls* and sounds *overjoyed*, smells hungry, smells —
So sodding *good*, and Aramis is making Porthos *drunk* with his scents, with
his *quiet* sobs as he tries not to —
Oh, shit, he's trying not to drown Athos and Mum *out* —
Porthos growls and *bites* Aramis's ear —
Aramis *yells* —
"*Loud*, precious. You don't *get* to be quiet."
"I — I — I was only —"
"I *know* what you were doing. You're to *never* hide from me!"
"Oh — *God*! Papa, Sir is so big in me! So *big*! I cannot think!"
And Porthos's first response to that *shouldn't* be to spread Aramis's arse
*wider* —
"Yes, it should, son," Daddy says, and bites the tip of his tongue.
He's *concentrating* —
"Our Aramis is tighter than you are, son. I have to be a *little* more...
there."
Aramis *howls* —
Porthos *bursts* out in fresh sweat — and then the fur starts coming back,
starts —
His teeth are growing —
His *muzzle* is growing —
"Son," Daddy says, and looks at him like the *Captain*. "You *won't* be allowed
to knot your mother if you shift now."
Porthos *barks* — and snaps back to human-form.
Daddy nods in satisfaction —
Mum laughs through her panted *cries* —
"Did you bloody *mean* that?"
"Son, does it *look* like I have any control over what your mother does when? I
couldn't even keep her on my cock when we were *tied*," Daddy says, and narrows
his eyes —
Aramis throws his head back and *screams* —
"*Fuck* — oh, *fuck* —"
"Hold on, son. We're almost there."
"What the bloody hell are you —"
"Twisting my fingers. You sobbed beautifully when I did this to you. And
drooled beautifully, too, which, in retrospect, may have fueled the All-
Mother's belief that I would do well mated to a mastiff bitch."
Porthos stares.
Mum *chokes* on a howl —
Moves —
Porthos gives up and *looks* — and she's wrapped *both* legs round Athos's
chest. She's squeezing and *hauling* him in even as he fucks her *viciously* —
Her *tongue* is peeking —
Her eyes are rolled *back* —
And Athos is flushed all the way down his *chest*, flushed and sweating and —
giving it to her so *good*.
*Fuck* —
So —
And then she bucks —
*Screams* a howl —
And then bucks again and again and *again* as she spurts all over Athos's
*cock* —
Athos *gasps* —
*Slams* in —
His eyes are wide and *wondering* —
He's grinding in just as violently as he'd *promised* —
And then Mum *growls* — "Do it — give me — give me your *spend*, my son!"
"HNH — " He slams in again —
*Again* —
And shudders obviously helplessly as he spends *deep* inside.
Just —
Stays *buried* deep and spends and spends and the scents are wild, beautiful,
perfect —
Porthos wants to chew the *sheets* —
"You're not the only one, son," Daddy says. "But I've got something you want
even more."
And Aramis groans and *bites* Porthos's shoulder —
He's clinging hard enough to leave *bruises* now —
"*Daddy*, *what* —"
"Pulling... *out*," Daddy says, and pants —
And pants —
And grins as he reaches for the rag. "All yours, son."
And Porthos *feels* himself *heat* all over —
"Please, Papa, please, I am so empty —"
"Not for *long*," Porthos says, and *puts* Aramis down —
*Moves* —
Daddy laughs and *quickly* gets out of the way —
Porthos lifts Aramis's *hips* up —
Lifts Aramis up off the *bed* — no, no, not that. Not that.
"That's for other games, son," Daddy says. "Just get *in* there. He can take
all of you — though you'll want to remember to stay as steady as possible for
your *knot*."
Porthos can't breathe properly —
He can't do more than *nod* at Daddy —
He can see Athos and Mum *kissing* again —
And he's guiding himself — in.
In.
In so —
"Yes, Papa! Oh, *yes*!"
"Precious. My. *My*." And Porthos is too hot, too needy, too hungry —
Aramis is so *sleek* inside —
So —
Just a little *swollen* —
So *hot* and *slick* and *ready* —
So fucking *ready*, and the shift is coming —
Fuck — fuck —
"Shh, son, shh, we hear you. Just get all the way in, first," Daddy says, and
his hand is hard on Porthos's shoulder, but his voice seems to be coming from
far *away* —
He can't —
All he can *really* hear is Aramis's cries, Aramis's bloody *ecstatic* cries as
Porthos thrusts —
And thrusts —
And *shoves* — oh. Oh, the frontal curve of his *knot* just —
And it *aches*, it's so sweet, it's *flexing* —
Aramis *sobs* out a cry and shoves himself *back* —
Shakes and shoves himself *back* —
And Daddy *bites* the back of Porthos's *neck*. *Hard*.
Everything *in* Porthos goes loose, ready, hungry, confused but *ready* —
(That's it, son. Just push. Steady, not slow. *Steady*.)
I — I —
(Hold your precious's hips nice and still. He's not allowed to move when you're
filling him like this.)
No. No, he *isn't* —
(Good boy. *Good* boy. Now push in.)
He can do that. He can —
He has to. He *needs* it, needs to be in, needs to be *in*, needs to fill his
precious right up, plug him *tight* —
(Steady.)
But he can do it *right*, just like Daddy says, do it — and not hurt, never —
never hurt in bad *ways*, and his precious is sobbing and moaning, his scents
are so high and hungry, so shocked and *needy* —
He's babbling out prayers of *thanksgiving*, and he's so beautiful, so perfect,
and he needs to be filled up, filled up properly, bitten, marked, *taken* —
His precious is so good —
So beautiful and *good*, and Porthos is almost in —
Almost —
(Now, son.)
And Daddy releases him —
Porthos growls and *thrusts*, shoving in that last little bit —
His precious wails and *spurts* —
And the scents —
All of his good scents —
All of his good and perfect and —
And Porthos feels the shift *coming*, but he can't do a thing about it, can't
do anything but give his precious everything, *everything* —
Cover him and hold him tight with his forelegs —
Squeeze him and *rut* while his precious gasps —
While his precious — his! — reaches back to stroke Porthos's flank with shaking
fingers, comb through his *fur* with his fingers, good fingers, he wants to
*lick*!
But he *needs* to fuck. Just like this. Just like —
Oh his precious pup clenches! So tight so tight so *hot*!
His precious *holds* him, and that's right, that's correct, that's what he
*needs*. He's always needed it, always always, and he has to show his precious,
*teach* —
He *bites* —
He bites *hard*, he knows his precious likes that, likes to bleed for him,
likes to be shown —
Likes to be taught!
Porthos holds his shoulder and throat between his teeth and bites *again* —
His precious's scents turn wild, hot, *needy* again, hungry!
Proper!
Porthos fucks him hard hard hard, gives him *everything*, gives him —
Oh, he *loves*!
"I — I — I love *you*, Papa!"
Porthos growls and feels himself *flex* inside his precious, feels the man in
him ache to hold, stroke, pet, slap, pinch —
Biting is good!
Biting is *good*, and Porthos bites everywhere he can reach, nips where he
doesn't bite *deep*, laps up his precious's sweet-iron-metal blood, so good, so
*good*, so HIS —
And ruts —
And *ruts* —
And his precious is gasping, dropping his head —
Dropping all the way down to his forelegs —
So good, good boy, perfect —
Porthos fucks him harder!
His precious sobs and wails, wails so little, so small, good pup, good *pup*,
and Porthos licks and licks —
His precious clenches *tight* again —
Porthos howls and *bites* —
Howls into his precious's *flesh* —
His precious shakes and shakes and wails and calls him Papa, calls him Papa and
spurts *again* —
Again and *again*!
And the clenches are so tight, so hard, so *perfect* on Porthos's *knot* —
He never wants to *stop*!
He never wants to let his precious *go*!
He —
And then there's a slick, hard, *thick* finger in his *arse* —
Pushing so *deep* —
Crooking —
Porthos howls and howls and *spurts*, knot swelling *immediately* inside his
precious, his clenching flexing sobbing precious, oh it hurts!
It hurts and feels perfect and please Daddy —
Daddy crooks *again* —
Porthos spurts more, *more*, and it hurts so much, so thrilling, so wild and
full, all through him, all *through*, and Porthos is filling his precious!
Filling him at last!
He is a good dog!
His precious *collapses* on his elbows —
His Daddy laughs —
And so do his brother and his Mum.
It is good.
Very good.
He spurts *more* —
Croons *helplessly* —
Tries to screw himself *deeper* —
He has to stay *deep* —
He has to fill his precious again and again and again and —
His Daddy clears his throat.
And pulls out, which is bad. Very bad.
Very —
Porthos croons a question.
"You're going to have to give Aramis time to rest, son," his Daddy says, in...
man-words. And no-words.
It's very strange!
He was talking to the man *and* him. How?
How?
"One learns little tricks, here and there, son. I promise I'll teach you how.
But the *point* is —"
I don't want to stop fucking my precious!
"No, of course not, but he's *human*," Daddy says, and gives him pictures of
his precious's many scratches and bites
His precious's tired and *happy* face —
His precious opens his eyes —
Smiles —
But.
He's trembling.
Not shaking.
Porthos croons and paws at the bed.
Daddy pets him. "It's all right, son. You've just worked your precious hard
tonight. He'll be up for more after a rest."
Short rest?
Daddy barks and pats him firmly. "Not *that* short."
Porthos sighs, and holds and licks his precious while he can.
He is a good dog.
"That you are, son."
***** Helpless and unafraid. *****
Athos kisses their mother — his new, beautiful, incredible —
Their *mother* —
He kisses her again, and again, and *again*, and imagines his mother by blood
in the same position — again — and kisses his new mother even harder when she
laughs in her throat —
Precisely the way Marie-Angelique Leandres de la Fère had done when she wanted
to catch the attention of every man in a given room.
Aramis is moaning and sighing beside them while their father pets the dog
Porthos has become —
The very large, very intimidating, and still very *puppyish* dog Porthos has
become —
The dog who has *tied* Aramis — and who is, apparently, trying to explain to
their father that it would be good idea to fuck Aramis more *before* he has
rested and healed.
And their mother laughs into his mouth. "Powerful *boy*. Does this mean you
wish your father to knot you first? Mm?"
Athos *grunts* —
Blinks —
And then thinks about it.
Their mother laughs more — and pets him.
So lovingly —
So *affectionately* —
Her hands are so —
"Mmm. My powerful boy needs to be touched *all* the time."
"*Yes*. Yes, I do," Athos says, and huffs — and kisses her throat —
She rumbles —
Aramis moans and sighs more, and folds his arms under his head. "It is good
that you can be reasonable, Sir. I absolutely can't," he says, and sounds...
older. A little.
Porthos's ears perk —
Their father pats Porthos firmly again. "Down, son. And Aramis — you *know* I
won't always be there to intercede with you boys. This is supposed to *teach*
you how to be reasonable."
Aramis winces. "I... am bad at lessons like this, Sir."
"Then we'll just have to give you — all — plenty of practice with them."
"That's *right*," their mother says — and smiles wildly at *him*. "And many,
many chances to work out your frustrations in other ways."
Athos — moans. He'd pulled them onto their sides so that they'd have a better
view of Aramis and Porthos without necessitating his pulling out, but...
He's getting hard again.
"I *noticed*, powerful boy..."
Their father hums. "I *wonder* what should be done about that," he says, and
then looks *pointedly* at where Athos is *joined* to their mother.
And then licks his *face*. It —
"I — sir. I want... so much."
Their father laughs. "Your brothers are going to be just fine where they are,
son. Why don't you let me come over there and... taste."
Athos *pants* —
Their father shows his *teeth* —
So does their *mother* —
"Would you mind moving a little further up the bed, my brother?" Aramis says.
"My view is limited in this position." Aramis *grins* —
*Porthos* grins, obviously happy with all of them and the state of his
existence —
And Athos shivers and grins as well, helpless and thrilled and thrilled to be
precisely this helpless.
There is no better way to be, with one's family.
end.
***** Epilogue: BREAKING — Treville is STILL an arse. *****
After any extended sojourn to the hells — and then to various scenes of various
*massacres* to strengthen himself on blood spilled as violently as possible —
Jason is *always* ready to walk right back onto the earth —
Potentially *kiss* her —
And — well, not take a *nap*, that would be *suicidal* — but... rest.
Relax.
*Recreate* — potentially with *company*, now that that's an *option* —
Which is why it's such a *horrific* blow when his wards and alarms start
*screaming* at him about the taint of *death-magery* being on Treville.
His amant.
His *brother* — Treville had *offered*, so many *times*, and not —
And Jason is already moving, already arming and armoring himself with a fresh
possessed bastard sword and fresh possessed mail.
He's *moving* —
Following the *stench* of death-magery and the tug of every connection he had
helplessly, hungrily, *desperately* *built* between Treville and himself over
the years —
Every connection Treville had *kept* —
And.
He's in a bedroom.
A well-*used* bedroom, by all the scents, and by the *tableau* of two large men
and *three* massive shifter-dogs making the large bed look positively miserly.
The men and two of the dogs — the *pregnant* bitch, and either the pregnancy is
new enough that shifting is safe or she's planning to *stay* shifted for the
*entirety* of it, and the overlarge pup — are sleeping.
The bitch is clearly the *source* of the death-magery —
The bitch — is Treville's mate.
Amina. *Amina*. What in all the — no. No. First things first.
*Treville's* dog —
Treville's *tainted* dog — is smiling at him.
And wagging his tail.
And —
"No, I'm not going to lie *down*, you —"
The dog whuffs.
"Yes, I suspect I do look tired —"
The dog croons —
"I don't sleep, at *all*, you *know* that —"
The dog dances his forepaws on the — stained — duvet. Without getting up.
"You're angry at *me*? What did *I* bloody do?"
The dog barks. Quietly, so as not to disturb —
"*Look*. I had a *mission* —"
The dog growls —
"Because he *does* always put me off for work!"
The dog growls *more* —
"I *know* two wrongs don't make — would you — could we *please* talk about the
taint of *death*?"
The dog cocks his head.
"*No*, it' s not obvious! Well, I can tell that that's your mate, but she was
*dead* two *weeks* ago. *Less* than two weeks ago."
The dog whuffs.
"The All-Mother fixed it. I see. I... see. *What about the* — no, wait, let me
talk to the laughing *bastard* of a *man* inside you. I can *hex* him."
The dog lolls his tongue.
"I'm tempted to hex *you*, you know."
The dog laughs more — and shifts into a laughing Treville. Naked, spend-
stained, and with his hair corkscrewing in every direction.
It's disgustingly endearing.
"Thank you *very* much, lover. Let me introduce you to my pack, whom you've
helpfully woken up —"
"Your *dog* was making noise, *too* —"
"Don't be petty, Jason, it's unbecoming," Treville says, standing and
gesturing. "Aramis and Athos, who I'll be adopting, along with Porthos," he
says, gesturing again.
To the puppy.
To — no, wait —
"You were *honest*?"
Treville smiles wryly. "It had to happen sometime, lover. In this case, my sons
beat it out of me."
The tousle-haired beauty named Aramis grins slyly. "It did help that our
Porthos seduced you *first*, Sir."
"That it did, son," Treville says, blithe as a bird on the *wind*, and turns to
the laughing bitch. "My Amina-love, who fought and clawed her way back from
oblivion, by, among other things, turning herself into a revenant —"
"A *what*."
"It helped make the reunion sex *very* exciting —"
"You — *Treville*!"
"Hmm...?"
The bitch — *Amina* — is laughing herself *sick*.
Jason pants.
Stares —
"Do you need some wine, lover?"
"I."
"Yes?"
"I leave you alone for two. Bloody. *Weeks*."
"Less than, as you said —"
"And you acquire a dead wife, three children —"
"Four —"
"*Four* children, only three of whom you're fucking thus *far* —"
Treville coughs —
"Oh, yes, and the literal taint of *death* on your *soul*," Jason says. "When
the bloody hell are you going to learn to look before you bloody *leap*?"
Treville frowns mock-thoughtfully and strokes his beard.
"Oh, Osiris's missing *cock*, you're such an *arse*!"
And then Treville grins and cups his mailed shoulders, shivering a little for
the *power* of the curses on the mail. "But I'm a man with children now, and
that means it's past time for me to learn some responsibility," Treville says,
and raises his eyebrows.
Jason blinks.
The pale and thoughtful beauty named Athos hums. "He does mean it, Ser Jason.
He's been... perfectly wonderful. With all of us."
And then Amina shifts, revealing herself to be much *leaner* than the woman
from Treville's memories — "*Oh*, yes, old brother. Our fool of a dog is
growing up!"
"Old — our — what?"
Amina laughs evilly. "You are my husband's brother, are you not? That makes you
*my* brother, *too*."
And that —
That is —
Wait, now that she's in *human*-form, Jason can — "How many human souls did you
*eat*, woman?"
Amina... lolls her tongue.
"*That is not a reasonable answer to that question*!"
Treville coughs into his fist. "The All-Mother did... ah. Rectify that
situation."
"Murdering *boggarts* — I — "
"Jason," Treville says, and his voice has the nerve to be *hard*.
"*What*?"
And then Treville *yanks* him into a kiss —
A hard and vicious and — not punishing. *Knowing*. It's a kiss that *demands*
Jason *realize* how very much Treville knows about him, about his pleasures,
about his needs, about his *aches* —
His touch is so *strong* —
His touch is so *hungry* —
And then he bites Jason's lips with *sharp* teeth and pulls back, licking the
blood away. "You're my brother, and I'm yours. This is my pack. *This* is my
pack, with you in it. I was too stupid to realize that for all those years when
we were calling each other 'ally' and only fucking each other when the
screaming in our heads was drowning out everything *else*. I'm smarter now. I
know *you* were *always* smarter. Now let me know how much of a *fight* you're
going to put up about that, so I know how much work *we* are going to have to
do."
Jason blinks and *stares* —
Looks to the bed —
Treville's family is all staring at him *expectantly* —
Including the giant *puppy* —
And it occurs to Jason that he doesn't actually own any weapons or armor that
could defend him from *this*, at all.
It.
Jason swallows. "I... believe you're going to want to... *talk* to your family
—"
"Yours. *Pack*."
Jason *grunts*. No, wait — "This doesn't even *work* unless they all share
*blood* with me, you madman —"
And then Aramis pulls a blade out from under one of the pillows —
And Athos hums —
And Amina claps and cackles.
"Oh, son. You warm me every day."
Aramis beams like a much younger boy. "I thank you! When do we begin, Ser
Jason? I have *many* questions for you!"
Jason catches himself staring again.
Just... staring.
And when he realizes that the laughter he can hear, this time, is
*Etrigan's*...
He gives up entirely.
The Real End.
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