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round 3

Round 3

Welcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme

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abuse (physical and mental)
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character death
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Free For All Round 1
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html

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Thirty-Three: The Hunting Grounds, Part Three

With the rain continuing to batter down on the roof, no one wants to go back outside. All six of them settle around the fire in various attitudes of relaxation. It’s peaceful, at first, and the good mood engendered by the proof of Treville’s survival carries everyone for a while. But eventually Athos stops stroking d’Artagnan’s hair and says, “We should talk about Rochefort.”

D’Artagnan makes a sleepy sound of protest. He’s sprawled over a chaise lounge with his head in Athos’ lap, lulled halfway to a nap by the warmth of the fire and the comforting scent of pack.

“There’s been no word from Paris,” Adele says. She’s sitting on the floor in front of Charlotte, who’s been braiding ribbons into her hair. Aramis is deeply involved in the selection of these ribbons, and the two of them have been chatting idly about Adele’s fashion preferences and how they’ve changed over time. Embroidery seems to have been a common theme. Aramis has shared a few stories about Adele’s childhood love of fancy dress, which have made everyone laugh, though they can all hear the moments when his voice slows and he picks up the story somewhat later in relative time, obviously skipping moments too painful to recall. Charlotte has been matching Aramis with stories from the last twenty years. The infamous blue cloak that she and Adele share has featured in most of them, to d’Artagnan’s amusement.

“Nothing passed through the Underground or the Resistance?” Athos asks.

“You’d know if there were. No one’s come here since Richelieu and I arrived,” Charlotte points out.

Athos shrugs. “We don’t know all your methods.”

“There’s been no word,” Adele says.

“Then let us assume, for the sake of argument, that your forces were able to conceal our destination from Rochefort,” Athos says. “What happens next?”

Charlotte and Adele exchange looks. “What do you mean?”

“We can’t stay here forever,” Athos says as gently as possible.

“The whole garrison mustered to go search for the Captain,” Porthos says. “They won’t have found him. They’ll be worried.”

“They may do something rash,” Aramis says worriedly.

“We can get them a message,” Adele says. “If you’ll write it, it can be sent through the Underground.”

“Or we could deliver it ourselves,” Porthos says. Adele stiffens at this, but Porthos presses on anyway. “The Captain’s in good hands. Now that we know he’ll make it, what’s preventing us from going back to Paris? We don’t want to all ride back in a bunch anyway. It’ll just give the Inquisitor more ammunition.”

“Do you want to leave?” Charlotte asks tentatively.

Porthos glances at Aramis. “I’m just asking the question.”

“No one leaves until Richelieu and Treville are functional again,” Adele says firmly.

“We won’t be held prisoner,” Athos says, quietly but with an undertone of steel.

“Please understand, it’s not that,” Charlotte says at once. “It’s for all of our safeties.”

“We know too much,” Aramis says from next to Charlotte. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Surely they know they can trust us,” Porthos protests to his mate.

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Adele says.

“Ella, be honest,” Charlotte says. “It does have a little bit to do with that, and there’s no good pretending it doesn’t.”

“You know we wouldn’t do anything to harm the Resistance!” Athos cries.

“It’s been twenty years,” Aramis says quietly. “People change.”

“Whose side are you on?” Porthos says grumpily.

“We are all on the side of the truth,” Charlotte interrupts. “Right?”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan agrees at once, pitching his voice to calm. “We just don’t understand. Will you explain?”

Adele and Charlotte exchange looks. Carefully, Adele starts talking.

As she does, several things become clear. As they’d already known, the snug hunting lodge in the center of the Richelieu hunting rounds is more than just a safehouse for wayward throwbacks who need a place to hide while the storm blows past. It’s the headquarters of the Resistance.

And they know now that the Resistance is not the puppyhood fairy tale Athos had always believed it to be. The Richelieu lodge is the nerve center of a massive, well-organized, shockingly powerful movement that has somehow managed to remain completely secret for nearly five centuries. Adele explains that their roots lie with movements that go all the way back to the Inquisition. Some of those early movements were disbanded, others succeeded in keeping the Inquisition from their countries’ borders, and still others were caught and destroyed. The ones that survived eventually linked up, country to country, beginning around the time of the current Cardinal’s grandsire. It’s been the life’s work of generations of Richelieus going back to the beginning of the Inquisition itself.

Learning this, Athos realizes with a cold certainty that none of them will be allowed to ride back to Paris, now or at the end of Treville’s heat, with only a few promises of silence. There’s too much at stake. Athos doesn’t know the exact shape of the decision they’ll have to make yet. But it’s obvious that they can no longer remain only Musketeers, running the occasional side mission for the Captain with no questions asked. The Resistance has them in its circle now, and the only escapes from it all end in death.

Adele’s stories fill in gaps in their Captain’s life that none of them had even known were present. They also paint an entirely different picture of Richelieu than the persona of the Bloody Cardinal. It’s easy to imagine a young, angry Treville breaking into the Inquisition’s most secure prison to rescue a Musketeer in danger. It’s much harder to imagine Richelieu doing the same. It’s practically impossible to imagine Richelieu doing the same regularly, as the leader of an organized group of vigilantes.

The Musketeers are all trying, with various degrees of success, to conceal and overcome this disbelief. The evidence of their noses is unmistakable. But there’s a lifetime of fear to overcome. Adele and Charlotte deal with their questions as patiently as they can. They share their personal journeys, their own experiences of the Resistance, as well as the quieter moments when their little pack might relax. They explain thoughts and motivations that had remained hidden before. Several situations take on a startling new light, and others are revealed to be all shadow and no substance, a play put on for the sake of appearances with little to do with reality.

“What about the previous Cardinal?” d’Artagnan asks finally. “The one Richelieu exposed as an Omega, and hunted and killed?”

Charlotte smiles. “Alive and well in Russia.”

“Alfonse, too,” Adele adds.

“Richelieu’s oldest brother?” Porthos asks. “The one who was killed by brigands?”

“Odem,” Charlotte corrects. “He’s in Bavaria, mated, with two pups and a child. Actually, you know of one of them.”

“We do?” Aramis asks in surprise.

“The eldest is Mazarin, who Richelieu is training as his successor.”

D’Artagnan gapes at the news. “Mazarin is a churchman!”

“So is the Cardinal,” Adele points out.

“The Resistance couldn’t survive without having infiltrated the Church to its highest levels,” Charlotte adds. “We learn about their methods of detection and control, so we can figure out how to evade them.”

Porthos’ thoughts are running down another track. “Richelieu’s raising his odem’s pup as his successor?” he asks. “Why hasn’t he sired any of his own?”

Charlotte opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“How could he?” d’Artagnan says quietly. It’s phrased as a question, but d’Artagnan doesn’t say it like he wonders. His hand steals to his own stomach, its swell visible now even through his shirt, and d’Artagnan frowns down at his fingers like he’s forgotten how they’d gotten there. “It’s a dangerous enough world to bring pups into without being head of the Resistance.”

“He’s going to have to come to terms with it,” Adele says ruefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh God,” Aramis says in horror. “I hadn’t even thought.”

“Would someone like to explain what’s going on?” Athos asks, as patiently as he can.

Adele and Aramis exchange looks. Adele gestures to her odem to go ahead.

“The drug they gave the Captain,” Aramis explains. “It’s not something the Betas discovered on their own. It used to be a standard part of Omegan medicine. An Omega who was having difficulty conceiving, or whose heats weren’t coming right, would go gather the leaves at midnight with a silver leaf, under the full moon. Properly administered, they weren’t dangerous. They were simply a stimulant.”

“A heat stimulant,” Athos clarifies.

“And a fertility stimulant.” Aramis stares into the fire as if it holds the answers to all of life’s questions. It lets him avoid the shocked stares of everyone else in the room. Porthos slides closer to Aramis and wraps an arm around his waist.

“How effective a stimulant?” d’Artagnan asks at last.

Aramis smiles bitterly. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on it for years. It’s almost impossible to grow; the Inquisition have the only hothouses in France. And it’s their most tracked and controlled substance, because it’s an infallible method for detecting Omegas.”

“And it’s one of their most effective means of torture,” Adele adds quietly.

D’Artagnan’s other hand finds its way into Athos’. Athos squeezes it, shivering without conscious intent.

“So the Captain’s pupped,” Porthos says slowly.

“Almost certainly,” Aramis agrees.

There’s a moment of silence as everyone absorbs this. Athos takes stock of the room. Surprise is visible in everyone’s face or posture, even Aramis’ and Adele’s; they know about this drug, but they obviously hadn’t put two and two together until d’Artagnan’s artless question.

It’s Aramis and Adele Athos watches most closely. Yes, they’re surprised. But fast replacing that surprise is worry. Athos feels that same worry sinking like a stone in his stomach.

D’Artagnan is stiff next to him, clutching his hand. After all, this had been why d’Artagnan had refused to use contraceptives in the first place, when he’d gone into heat last: to save them for the Captain, to keep Treville from getting pupped himself.

Carrying is hard on anyone who does it. But there are factors that increase the risk, and Treville’s got more or less every one of them. Chief among them are age and bloodline. Treville’s strong and fit, a career soldier, but the endocrine system doesn’t respect muscle tone. His body may simply fail to ramp up to meet his pups’ demands. If it doesn’t, the pupping may end in a miscarriage. Or it might end in hemorrhage and death.

“How old is the Captain?” Porthos asks, obviously thinking in the same direction.

“No one knows exactly,” Charlotte says.

“Old enough,” Adele says. “It won’t be easy.”

“You said you have a garden around back,” Aramis says to Adele. “If there’s room in it – ”

“Yes, we can start planting oxytocics,” Adele says almost immediately. “Let me see – we can dig up the cabbages – ”

There are herbs that can help boost Treville’s system and make his body do what it might not do on its own. They’re difficult to grow but not impossible. Cara had used them when carrying Thomas, too, though she hadn’t been nearly so old as Treville. That much is solvable at least.

But bloodline won’t be so easily fixed.

Treville’s an Omega, mating with an Alpha. He’s at least equally likely to conceive pups as children. But the Troisville line has a lot of Betas in it.

Betas hate throwbacks for many reasons, but Beta carriers have two particular ones that have dominated their thinking for generations. One is that sires, historically, have preferred Omegas. Omegas had therefore been competition for mates. And the Betan focus on gender had meant that while Beta men might hold positions of power and respect even in the old regime, Beta women had only been able to advance societally through marriage. With marriage to Alpha nobility closed off Betan women had lived decidedly circumscribed lives.

The other reason is that pups are much harder to whelp than children. They’re larger, and the labor they trigger is rougher. Omegas have biological mechanisms evolved to accommodate these needs. Additional whelping muscles, wider hips, additional flexibility. Beta women who don’t have those aids, who through throwback ancestry or marriage try to whelp pups regardless, die at far higher rates.

The preference of the old nobility for a pure lineage hadn’t only been a societal construct that functioned to keep Betas from positions of power. For centuries purity of blood had been a matter of life or death. Omegas without Betan heritage had survived whelping; those with it, for a long time, had largely died.

Athos has been kept up more nights than he can count, worried for d’Artagnan and his mongrel heritage. Aramis has assured them both repeatedly that d’Artagnan’s case is promising. D’Artagnan is young, which will help immensely. His muscle tone is good. Despite his bloodline, d’Artagnan’s as flexible as Aramis. And d’Artagnan’s overactive endocrine system is the best of all possible signs for a favorable outcome. At least, so Aramis swears. With a well-trained midwife, Aramis insists, d’Artagnan will be fine. Bloodline or no bloodline.

But Treville? Who is not young, who does not share d’Artagnan’s condition, whose bloodline may barely be better than d’Artagnan’s –

“I’ve been studying for d’Artagnan,” Aramis is saying. The d’Herblay siblings are talking rapidly, often interrupting each other, obviously agitated now that the matter’s been brought to the fore. “But age is going to be a factor – ”

“The Richelieu library,” Adele jumps in. “It’s nearly as good as the one at Alameda, maybe there’s a text – ”

“Is there anyone else? Anyone with practical experience?”

“We’re short on crisis midwives at the moment,” Charlotte says in worry. “We had a good one but she – ”

“Did she go abroad? Can she come back?”

“She was killed with Madame de Bois-Tracy,” Adele says grimly.

There’s a moment of silence for this.

“Exactly how pure is Treville’s line?” Aramis asks. He has the determined air of someone reverting back to first principles.

“We don’t know,” a new voice says hoarsely. Everyone looks up and over, shocked. Adele, Athos and Porthos jump to their feet.

Clinging to the doorframe, looking as if he’d fall over without the support, is the Cardinal.

“I came for water,” Richelieu says, glancing back over his shoulder. “Jean’s dozing – he barely woke up at all – but he’ll be thirsty, so I…” He sways forward and nearly falls. Athos and Adele catch him by the arms and help him to sit. The two of them exchange looks, for a moment completely in harmony, fond and a little amused.

An Alpha’s always exhausted during heat. Much more so than an Omega, whose bodies are largely sustained by the tremendous amount of hormones that rage through their bodies, metabolizing stored fat with incredible efficiency and pushing them into a light trace that reduces the need for sleep. An Alpha lacks those benefits; their evolutionary role during heat, beyond the obvious, is to guard the dazed Omega. This requires alertness. Alphas rarely sleep during heats. Instead they crash afterwards.

Judging from Richelieu’s haggard appearance and seeming inability to walk across the room, this heat is shaping up to be a doozy.

“Here,” Porthos says, returning from the kitchen with two sealed flasks and an open cup. He sets the flasks down on the table and shoves the cup into Richelieu’s hands. “You need water too. And you’d better not try to stand up again for a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Richelieu says, raising it to his lips and drinking quickly.

Athos takes the moment to study the other Alpha. Stripped of his robes, exhausted and generally disheveled, he looks very little like the Bloody Cardinal, that icon of the Church who inspires fear in the heart of every throwback in France. Even knowing now that it’s a front, Athos can’t think of that icon without a shudder. But the Alpha sitting before the fire now projects none of that menace. He’s tired, and worried for his mate, and beginning to visibly age. Athos feels an unwilling pang of sympathy for how much Richelieu looks like Athos’ own sire, shortly before his death.

Richelieu finishes the water and sets the cup down. “I heard you talking,” he says quietly, and looks at Aramis and Adele. “I know what the stimulants do, but Jean’s off-cycle. He’s always so regular. Surely that matters? And – and he’s got to be close to estropause. Mightn’t it not work?”

Aramis looks back at Richelieu steadily. “I’m not a doctor,” he says, a familiar, well-worn refrain that makes d’Artagnan smile briefly.

“But you’ve studied the medical texts that have survived. You’ve gained practical experience as a Musketeer. You may be the closest thing to a obstetrician our people have, René d’Herblay, odem de Alameda.” Aramis winces at the name, the old-fashioned style of Alphaic inheritance, and Richelieu’s tone softens. “Aramis. Please, just tell me the truth, or whatever part of it you know.”

“I don’t know where the kidnappers got their supply, or how they prepared it, or how much they gave the Captain,” Aramis says. “But, given how fast the Captain’s heat came on, and how quickly it progressed, and how strong his scent got… I would be very surprised if he doesn’t end up pupped.”

Richelieu closes his eyes for a moment. Adele lays a hand on the Cardinal’s shoulder, and Charlotte takes his hand.

“You probably already know… at his age it’ll be a hard whelping,” Aramis adds quietly. “More so the less pure his line is.”

Several expressions pass over Richelieu’s face in rapid succession. Athos tries, but he can’t read any of them.

“Is there anything I can do?” the Alpha asks at last, opening his eyes again.

“To make it easier? I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Aramis’ shoulders move in a loose gesture of negation. “I’ll do whatever I can,” he adds, holding the Cardinal’s gaze steadily. “Does your line have a midwife?”

It’s a reasonable question; all of the old lines that have managed to hide their throwback offspring depend on the aid of loyal Beta lines to help whelp and register their pups. But Richelieu shakes his head. “She and her children went abroad with my odems,” he says. “I… it seemed best. I never meant to mate, much less…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, seeming to run out of energy and dropping his face into his hands. Athos meets Adele’s eyes across the room. She nods slightly.

“Can you stand yet?” Athos asks as gently as he can. “You’d better get back in there.” It won’t do the Cardinal any good to dwell on it. The situation is bad, but little can be done about it now, and Treville will be needing Richelieu again soon.

“I think so,” Richelieu says faintly. When he goes to actually try it there’s a bad moment or two where he can’t quite get his balance, and Aramis shoots Athos a dirty look, but after a minute Richelieu steadies on his feet. He turns his head back towards the door he’d come out of and his nostrils flare, scenting.

Treville’s heat must be rising again. Richelieu snatches up the unopened flasks and strides back across the room, all traces of his earlier unsteadiness gone. Athos is familiar with the phenomenon. The drive to mate is strong enough to override nearly everything else. The pheromones an Omega puts out during heat act on an Alpha like a stronger form of adrenaline, banishing weakness and injury to increase the chances of successfully breeding.

Adele sits back down, this time on the chaise next to Charlotte. Aramis stays where he is, on the floor before the fire, and Porthos joins him there.

“Well,” d’Artagnan says, trying to lighten the mood. “Aramis, look on the bright side. You’ll have a chance to practice your midwifery on me before you have to tackle the Cardinal’s pups.”

Athos snarls involuntarily. He knows d’Artagnan doesn’t mean to imply his own life is disposable, but the Alpha in him hears the threat to his mate and unborn pups regardless.

“Calm down,” Aramis says to Athos with some asperity. “He’s young and strong. I keep telling you, he’ll be fine. It’s the Captain I’m worried about.”

“And Rochefort,” Porthos says darkly.

A chill settles through the room, despite the fire.

“Even if Rochefort doesn’t know about Richelieu, he knows about Treville,” Athos recalls with a sinking feeling. “There’s no way Treville’s absence from Paris will be seen as anything other than what it is.”

“So he might survive whelping only to end up dead at Rochefort’s hands?” Porthos shakes his head. “Over my dead body.”

Aramis shivers. “That’s assuming Treville even makes it to term. If Rochefort starts hunting Treville as soon as he has to withdraw from public life – ”

“We don’t even know for sure if Treville’s carrying yet,” Adele interrupts, looking alarmed at the way Aramis is growing paler. “Yes, he’s been drugged, but you said yourself you don’t know how his kidnappers prepared it or how much they gave him. You were right to warn the Cardinal, but let’s not borrow any more trouble until we’re sure.”

“Richelieu’s going to borrow plenty of trouble for us,” Charlotte says. Her shoulders and lips are tight with worry.

“Why?” d’Artagnan asks.

“It’s just Richelieu.” Adele sighs. “He’s good at worrying.”

“He worries a lot,” Charlotte adds.

“To be fair, it does seem as if worrying is his job,” Athos says.

“It’s not a good worry,” Adele tries to explain. “Not a healthy worry.”

“Doesn’t the Captain help?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Yes, usually. And so does Jussac. But this problem is with Treville, and we left Jussac in Paris.”

“We can’t do anything about it now,” Charlotte says practically. “Adele is right. We should wait and see.”

Athos glances at d’Artagnan. His mate is frowning down at himself, troubled, fingers tracing patterns over the swell of his stomach. Richelieu’s not the only one borrowing trouble.

“It will be all right,” Athos tries.

D’Artagnan shakes his head. “You have no way of knowing that.”

“Aramis?” Athos appeals.

Aramis tries to smile. “It will probably be all right,” he says weakly. His gaze skips from d’Artagnan to the closed bedroom door Richelieu had disappeared back through. He stands abruptly. “I need a walk.”

“It’s still drizzling,” Adele protests.

“Sounds bracing,” Porthos says. He stands, too, and fetches their cloaks. “I’ll come with you.”

Adele opens her mouth and closes it again. A look of frustration crosses her face.

“Poor Aramis,” d’Artagnan sighs, once Aramis and Porthos are safely gone. He shares a look with Charlotte, who also looks sympathetic.

Athos winces a little himself. Even setting aside the matter of Rochefort, all this talk about pupping and whelping can’t possibly be easy for Aramis. It will be made doubly worse by the fact that Aramis is, as Richelieu had said, the best obstetrician available. Aramis will have to help d’Artagnan and Treville. He’ll want to help them, as his behavior towards d’Artagnan has already shown. But treating d’Artagnan has already been a strain on Aramis. Adding Treville might be too much to ask.

“You are aware…?” Athos asks delicately.

Adele nods abruptly. “Yes,” she says. She looks like she wants to say something else, but doesn’t. The look she shares with Charlotte is troubled.

“You should talk to him,” d’Artagnan says earnestly.

Adele shakes her head. “Don’t you think I want to? Things aren’t right between us just because we had one conversation. I don’t know if he’d even want to talk to me about it.” She stares down at the floor, voice dropping. “I don’t even know how to try.”

“Don’t think of it that way,” d’Artagnan says. “Aramis doesn’t like talking about it, you’re right. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t appreciate sympathy and a comforting shoulder. Especially from you. Aleph or not, you and Charlotte are the only ones here who aren’t part of the problem in some way.”

Athos chokes a little at describing them as part of the problem, but for all the bluntness of the expression, it’s true. Athos and d’Artagnan are expecting; so, in all probability, will be Richelieu and Treville. Porthos has been Aramis’ rock for years, but Porthos had been the one who’d first wanted pups, and no matter how many times Porthos swears otherwise, Athos knows some part of Aramis feels like he’s failing his mate.

Adele and Charlotte aren’t part of any of that. In fact, though there’s still hope for Aramis with the right medicine, Charlotte can never carry. They can give Aramis an empathy no one in his pack can offer.

Adele flicks her glance over to d’Artagnan and smiles. “Giving me pack advice, little one?”

Athos blinks, looking at them all with new eyes. D’Artagnan hadn’t realized his was even doing it, probably, given how empty his puppyhood was of anything approximating the cultural norms of their ancestors. But giving pack advice is exactly what d’Artagnan had been doing. Some long-buried instinct had prompted him to speak up and assume the natural role of the baby Omega of the pack, smoothing over ruffled feathers and helping keep everyone and harmony. For d’Artagnan to offer counsel to others in his pack, when one of them is hurt or in pain, would have been as natural as breathing in the pack structure of old.

Athos looks around the room. In Paris the Cardinal lives as a Beta, but here, in the safehouse on the Richelieu killing grounds, he’s built a small pack. Just four people. Tiny by the standards of their ancestors. But, as Athos has reason to know, four is big enough when it’s more than you’d thought you could have.

When noble Alphas and Omegas had mated in the old days, the Omegas hadn’t been sent alone to their new pack as the Beta females are today, leaving their families and assuming a new identity. The Omega’s friends and seconds had come with them. Some might have chosen to stay behind, if they’d had mates or friends they’d been loathe to leave. But most would have been eager to start out on a new life, and find mates among their Omega’s new pack.

Here, in the odd situation in which they’ve all been thrown, the process has begun so naturally that Athos hadn’t even noticed it.

It’s far from perfect. There are almost as many things as divide them as unite them. But they all love Treville, to begin with. They all care about protecting throwbacks. And they are all threatened alike by the Inquisitor of Lille. Small as it is, that may be enough to go on with.

The decision Athos had sensed before, dimly, starts to take on a clearer shape now. He’s been looking at its component parts. Do Olivier and Charlotte reconcile, or leave each other in the graves they’d dug a decade ago? Do René and Adele forgive each other, or remain trapped in the cycles of anger? Do Porthos and Adele kill each other or become blood alephs? Does d’Artagnan accept that Athos chooses him, or dissolve their bond?

Does Athos’ pack join the Resistance, or stay apart? Do they fight, or hide? Do they accept Richelieu as Treville’s mate, and the Alpha who can lay claim to the clan of the Musketeers, or reject him?

Momentous decisions. And yet they start here, in the smallest, most natural of ways: d’Artagnan choosing to give advice, and Adele choosing to take it. Each involving themselves in the concerns of the other.

“Yes, he is giving you pack advice,” Athos answers for d’Artagnan.

He sees the moment when Adele blinks and really considers what she’s said. The moments tick by as she runs through the same line of thinking Athos had just pursued, and comes to its natural and obvious end.

Adele’s eyes come back into focus. She smiles in disbelieving joy. “Well then, little odem,” she corrects herself. “Why don’t you tell me what how you think I should approach René?”

Flasks in hand, Richelieu pushes the door closed and locks it behind him methodically. The habits of a lifetime hiding his sex fuse with his primal imperative to protect his Omega, heightened during the heat that still hasn’t quite dissipated. Once that’s done, though, he realizes that it’s also a stall.

Jean’s taught him better than that. Armand forces himself to turn around and confront the Omega in his bed.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asks.

“Everything,” Jean admits. He holds out a hand, beckoning Armand back to bed. Armand hands him one of the earthenware flasks instead.

Jean laughs a little, twisting the cork free. “Pampering me already?” he asks, tipping his head back to let the cool liquid slide down his throat.

It should be a joke. Lighthearted teasing between mates who have just received good news. It’s not. Armand watches Jean drink, the smooth exposed line of his mate’s throat, and thinks how easy it would be for the Inquisition to slit it wide open. Jean’s lifeblood would pour out, and with it the life sustaining their unborn pups. They’d die quickly. All things considered, a merciful death, by the standards of the Inquisition.

Rochefort wouldn’t give Jean such a merciful death. Underneath his robes and his lip service to God’s compassion, the Inquisitor’s a sadist through and through. He revels in pain and spends his spare time devising new and ever more inventive tortures to inflict upon the throwbacks who fall into his clutches. Too many times Richelieu has had to keep his mouth closed and pretend indifference or even approval while looking on atrocities he’s been helpless to prevent. And if Rochefort gets his hands on Treville, he’ll make the worst of them look kind in comparison to what he’ll do to Richelieu’s mate.

“Armand,” Jean says warningly, resetting the cork and setting the flask aside. “Don’t do that. Don’t get lost in your fear.” Jean holds his hands out again, beckoning, and this time Armand lets himself answer his mate’s call.

The sheets are chilly where he should have been laying. There’s an unpleasant feel of sweat from their exertions. They’ll need to be changed. Later. Jean is awake and talking, thank God, but they’re still in the first, intense phase of his heat. Armand catches the scent easily. He breathes deep for what comfort it may provide.

Jean slides against him languorously, still in the valley of his need. Armand revels in the contact. The strong, steady thump of his mate’s heartbeat is reassuring. Like this he can forget how still Jean had been, how close to death, when Armand had first reached the hunting lodge. Like this there is nothing but heat and need and love.

Another quarter of an hour, Armand estimates, before the heat will begin to drag them under again. Long enough for the conversation they need to have. But somehow he doesn’t know how to start it.

His mate has no such problem. “Will it be so terrible?” he asks gently. Clear blue eyes meet Richelieu’s, and reflected in them the Alpha can see all the pups they’d never made in the almost thirty years of their bonding. Each of those empty heats had taken something from Treville, something Richelieu had never been able to give back to him. His Omega had always yearned for pups.

Had always known, too, how impossible that yearning is. As the Captain of the Musketeers, he’d treated each of his men as his own pups, and channeled the longing to carry into the defense of the many hidden throwbacks who found their way to his command over the years. As head of the Underground Jean’s been a surrogate carrier to every orphaned pup who’s passed through his network, for the hours or days or months that pup might remain in his care until a more permanent family could be found. And as Richelieu’s mate, he’s fought for the defense of all the pups who might be whelped to other carriers, now and in the future.

Richelieu hasn’t done anything to persuade his mate that pups would be possible. He’d never even intended to mate; Treville had simply been like gravity, irresistible, and so Richelieu had fallen. But to sacrifice pups to their life had been the one thing Armand had always been adamant that he could not do.

But now – now –

“We’ll go somewhere safe,” Richelieu promises now. He splays his hand on Treville’s bare stomach and imagines he can already feel his pups move. “We’ll leave France.”

“We can’t,” Treville says gently. He lays his own scarred, calloused palm atop Richelieu’s. “Who will protect our people if we leave?”

“I – ” don’t care, the rest of the words die in his throat. He can’t say it. He does care. He’s too much a Richelieu to leave. But –

“I don’t want our pups to have to hide,” Armand whispers, burying his face in Treville’s hair so the traitorous words come out muffled. “I don’t want them to live in fear. I want them to be able to choose their own path. I want them to be able to call you Cara.”

It’s an old, old hurt. Armand had thought it forgotten, scarred over and lost to a puppyhood long past. But it comes rushing back now. Every scolding for using the forbidden word. Every time Armand had wanted to reach out to his carrier for comfort but been kept away by the reserve that had always been necessary. He’d never quite gotten used to the feel of the word Mama on his tongue; eventually he’d stopped using it altogether.

None of them had ever been permitted to call Susanne Cara. Armand can’t bear the thought of doing the same to his own offspring. Of denying them that vitally necessary bond. And of everything else it represents: the hiding, the lying, the erasure of their very identity. Of Jean’s identity, and Armand’s, and their pups’.

“But you do want them?” Jean asks, sounding so terribly unsure. “Even though we are who we are – even though it means bringing them into this life – you don’t want me to – ”

After all, there are drugs that can deal with a pupping. They’re grown in the garden outside, a lifeline for the Omegas and Beta female sympathizers who need to protect themselves and their freedoms. Unlike the fertility drugs Rochefort has plied Jean with, abortifacients are easy to grow.

Armand opens his mouth. He wants to reassure his mate. Needs to. But he doesn’t know how to say what’s really in his heart. Does he want pups? Of course. He’s told himself he hasn’t for so long, the same way he’d always told himself he didn’t want a mate. But one is just as much a lie as the other. How could he not want to give Jean what Jean so obviously desires? How could he not want to continue his line? How could he not want to see his offspring with Jean’s clear blue eyes and clever wit?

But now everything comes tumbling out, and with it his deepest fears. He imagines Jean, round with his pups, and his inner Alpha bursts with pride. Then Richelieu sees his mate hiding here in the lodge for nine long months. Longer. No excuse could cover the Captain of the King’s Musketeers being gone for so long. Not with Rochefort already hot on his trail, waiting for a chance to pounce.

They’ll have to fake his death, but once faked, it can’t be undone. Treville will be gone. Jean will be forced into the shadow world, along with so many others of their people whose gender and sexual characteristics fail to align with the expectations of a Beta-dominated culture. How often will Richelieu be able to get away from Paris? How many times during the long gestation will he be able to see his mate? Jean will be trapped here by his growing belly, unable even to venture out under a pseudonym. And the whole time he’ll be at risk because of his age and bloodline, wholly dependent on the inadequate medical care still available to their people, throughout the long gestation and the hard, difficult whelping.

What if Jean doesn’t survive it? What if their pups tear him open, and he dies, bleeding, as so many of their ancestors did? What if their pups lodge sideways in his womb, and have to be pulled out by the midwife, still and cold and dead? What if Armand loses them all because of his greed?

Jean’s soft hands are stroking his hair; he’s making gentle shushing sounds against Richelieu’s lips. Armand realizes he’s been speaking aloud this whole time. A torrent of his greatest fears, the nightmares of a lifetime under siege, all spilling out of him at once.

“I’m sorry,” Armand says, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for: the choices in their lives that have brought them to this place, his own fears, or his inability, for the first time in his life, to identify the correct path forward. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Jean says again. “Armand, please.”

It needn’t even end in their deaths, Armand thinks. Living can be terrible enough. Say Jean survives whelping and the pups all grow healthy and strong. Say they all pass successfully as Betas – say even that they have children instead of pups, that they are Betas. The inheritance of the Richelieu line is a lifetime of labor conducted in secrecy and constant fear. Will their pups be forced into following the life path laid down for them by their heritage? Will Armand be like his carrier, teaching his offspring to call him Papa? To call Jean Mama? To deny their very identities in a world that refuses to allow them simply to live?

Armand blinks tears from his eyes. “I want them to call you Cara,” he says again, the only thing he’s sure of.

Jean smiles. “Then they will,” he says. He breathes out deliberately. The scent of pheromones saturates the air; his heat is rising. “Once more,” he says, stretching his neck and tilting his head to expose the mating bite low on his shoulder. Armand’s bite, the outward, physical symbol of their bond. It still looks as fresh as the day that Jean taken it, so many years ago, when they’d both been so young and full of hope. “Come on, Armand. Now, while I’m still fertile. Put another pup in me.”

“Iesu Christe,” Armand groans. A wave of desire sweeps through him. It’s not just the heat. The scent of his mate, the sight of him, and the thought of filling him with pups are all intoxicating. Despite his fears, he can’t help reaching forward and rolling Jean onto all fours beneath him.

“Yes,” Jean gasps, dropping his forehead to the sheets and arching his back. The classic lordosis pose comes harder to him as he ages. He may not have many more natural heats left; estropause comes later to purebloods, but as Armand had told the group outside, even Jean doesn’t know how pure his line is. The records had been too effectively destroyed, a protective measure that left them dangerously ignorant. But even purebloods aren’t fertile much past fifty. Jean is approaching that milestone rapidly, and fertility fades with age even before an Omega’s heats end.

This artificial heat may be their last chance to breed. The thought drives Armand forward, suddenly desperate. In that moment, Armand doesn’t care about the Resistance or the Underground, Rochefort or the Inquisition or France. Nothing matters but he and Jean, coming together in the old way that the Inquisition will never be able to eliminate, not as long as there is a single Alpha and Omega pair left in the world.

“Love you,” Armand gasps. He buries himself deep within his mate, knot already swelling. Ready to lock them together and release another load of seed, questing to find the ovum this wave of heat will have caused to descend. “Jean, te amo.”

Jean is beyond words. But he twists his head to smile brilliantly up at his mate, and that’s everything Armand needs.

I hope it's to your taste! Feel free to spread the Cardinal's blessings as much as you'd like!

OP here: I will take any kind of Aramis wump!

Author's notes and WARNINGS:

Y'all are as depraved as I am--I love it ;) Below is just what I was able to write today; more installments to come.

Warnings: rape, violence, gore, torture (I am not kidding). This chapter is fairly tame and doesn't have any sexual content, but these warnings will definitely apply in upcoming installments (I will add more warnings as necessary). I know little of torture devices beyond my limited research, so please forgive any inaccuracies or anachronisms for the sake of the torture porn ;)

_____________________________________________________

“Stop.” Rochefort’s voice followed the slap of the scourge meeting flesh. A huff of breath escaped Aramis’ tightened lips.

The interrogator let the whip fall still at his side, its thongs curling their red-tipped fingers against his leg. He made no protest, but Rochefort thought he saw a touch of disappointment in the man’s eyes. One he shared. He had rather enjoyed watching as the musketeer’s back was flayed--how he shuddered with each lash of the whip that tore at his flesh. Not that Rochefort intended to spare Aramis for long.

“Step aside, and give me that,” Rochefort snarled, taking the scourge from the man as he bowed hastily and retreated to a darkened corner. With a smile, Rochefort stepped behind the musketeer and hefted the whip in his hand. As he surveyed his prisoner, his smile deepened.

Aramis was stripped bare, his arms shackled and stretched high toward the ceiling, enough so that only the balls of his feet touched the stone floor. The lithe muscles along his shoulders and back quivered under the strain. glistening with sweat and blood in the low torch light. Rochefort simply watched Aramis for a moment--his sides heaving with short, frantic breaths--before stepping closer.

“Aramis...” Rochefort said, his voice pitched low. “I am disappointed. You have not said a word.” He trailed the thongs of the scourge along the wounds that criss-crossed his back, and Aramis flinched at the ghosting touch with a pained hiss.

“I will not confess. I would gladly give my life before condemning the queen.” To his credit, the musketeer’s voice was steady. But the flinty glare of defiance he shot over his shoulder was rather lessened by the look of him--one eye bruised, lip split and trailing blood into his goatee.

“And so you will forfeit your life. But, no, I no longer desire to hear such things from you.” Rochefort leaned in close, and as he spoke, his breath stirred the dark hair at Aramis’ temple. “I want to hear you beg for my mercy.”

The musketeer parted his lips but then pressed them shut quickly, holding back whatever it was he had intended to say. Some platitude about bravery or honor, no doubt. Or love. Rochefort sneered and stepped back.

“Very well. I shall have to persuade you.”

Before the echo of his words had died in the chamber, he reared back his arm and flung the tendrils of the scourge with all his strength. The whip caught the small of Aramis’ back and he arched away from its biting cords. He let out a gasp before swallowing it back into a low moan.

Rochefort was careful with his lashes, alternating his aim between swaths of untouched skin and raw stripes already laid open and weeping. He then moved the scourge lower to strike at the tender flesh of Aramis’ backside and thighs. A particularly savage blow curled around the musketeer’s hip and drew out a strangled cry of pain. Rochefort felt his limbs thrill at the sight. At how the man’s taut body flexed and heaved and shivered with each strike.

Had he responded in such a way, Rochefort wondered, to Anne’s gentle touch? Had she trembled helplessly beneath his? Rochefort’s mouth went suddenly dry and he paused. For a moment, he could hear only Aramis’ panting breaths and the squeak of the scourge’s leather handle in his clenching grip, but all was soon overpowered by the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

“Tie him to the table,” Rochefort commanded the interrogator, his voice sounding strangled even to himself. “And leave us.”

You know how in Twenty Years After Porthos and d'Artagnan have to pretend Aramis and Athos are their prisoners for a while to protect them from execution in the enemies' camp until they can all escape together?

I'd like to see something like that with our version of the boys, especially combined with Aramis/Porthos and Athos/d'Artagnan pairings.

But I'll also take gen. Mainly I'd just love to see d'Artagnan in charge of prisoner!Athos as usually with these two it's the other way round with Athos having to protect d'Artagnan.

Excellent start, can't wait for more !

Riveting start! I can't wait to see more!

^_^ So happy! Hopefully there will be some new prompts soon for me to try them out on :) Thank you very much!

3 times during the season that Aramis almost told Porthos his secret and Athos talked him out of it.

Bonus if you give me an epic Bro3 or Bro4 hug "missing scene" for after the secret finally comes out.

Yes please!

How about a Omegaverse fic dealing with more then just the standard Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamic, there are also Deltas and Gammas running around and well as the regular issues of maintaining a pack?

Athos is not the biggest Alpha around, but is the unspoken leader of his small pack under (omega)Treville's larger command. Porthos is also a Alpha, but works with and excepts Athos' command (most of the time), d'Artagnan is the youngest and a feisty Omega (who's always getting into trouble). While Aramis is a rare Gamma, like Omegas Gammas have heats, can lactate and are not as aggressive as Alphas, but unlike Omegas their sterile and not submissive (they submit when they want to submit) and usually tend to be loners. Its a bit like having a fox in a wolf-pack. He used to run with Marsac (who was a aggressive Beta) before Porthos and Athos joined the Musketeers.

Alphas and aggressive Betas for the most part rule this world, there is also no such thing as 'Tradition-Marriage' instead there are Pair-Bonds, and families are Packs, there are plenty of lone Wolves as well.

Mpreg welcome, with Athos/d'Art, Portamis and Richiville

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3623349

Well those three years of Catholic school better find some use one day or another, don't they?

hello hello thanks for this great prompt, hope I don't screw up the formatting too bad!

###

D’Artagnan was distraught, which nine times out of ten improved his footwork.

Athos caught him on the tenth, and would have put his buttoned rapier through d’Artagnan’s eye had he been a less accomplished fencer. As it was d’Artagnan flinched to the left, very belatedly, as Athos interrupted the motion of his own flèche and put himself badly off balance.

“I beg your pardon,” said d’Artagnan, and reached down to help his friend upright.

Athos invoked a plague on the whole of Gascony before he took d’Artagnan’s hand. “Kill yourself at the peril of someone else’s reputation, next time,” he said, catching his breath.

“I am sorry, and I have begged your pardon,” said d’Artagnan. “I am distracted. Love, as you know -- ”

“I do not know,” said Athos, archly. “And consequently my fencing is matchless. Think upon it.”

Aramis, who had been watching from the stairs, laughed at this. “Do not think upon it too long, or you will end up, I am sorry to say, in the sad condition of our friend Athos, whose mean pleasures we have all just observed: le combat corps à corps, la fente, and l’estoc,” here Aramis paused to note, with satisfaction, that Porthos was laughing.

Athos did not respond to them. Instead he stripped off his gloves, put a hand in his hair, and sat down.

“Tell us what the trouble is, d’Artagnan, and let us advise you,” said Porthos.

“Constance,” said d’Artagnan, and then shook his head. “Madame Bonacieux. Has told me only this morning that my suit is unwanted. Therefore I am unwanted, I cannot hold myself in higher esteem than she does, and so I am bitterly unloved, the most wretched of mortals, and the sorriest.”

“So speaks a man with friends,” said Porthos, but he could not entirely conceal that he was laughing.

Athos, however, nodded. “Heartbreak is the natural end of love; the soul having recalled beauty, is condemned to disappointment.”

“Athos,” said Aramis, “has all the monotony of a Platonist, with none of the idealism. Tell me, d’Artagnan, for there is hope for you at least, with what words did Mme. Bonacieux refuse you?”

D’Artagnan looked sadly at his hands. “She called a plague on Gascony, and she turned very red, and denied me breakfast.”

“It is a good thing you have left home,” Porthos observed, “the region has been cursed twice before noon.”

“And you take this for refusal?” said Aramis.

“Of course I take it for refusal,” said d’Artagnan. “It is.”

“What had you asked her?”

“To run away with me,” said d’Artagnan, his face betraying that he had hope in the dream still, “fly with me to Gascony, and live on the farm, milking the --”

“Before breakfast?” Aramis lifted his eyebrows. “For one thing, that is an extremely discourteous hour. For another, you proposed not marriage, not even a proper episode of amor cortese, but Gascony?”

“You should not have proposed Gascony,” said Porthos gravely.

“Never. Talking to your mistress, or indeed to a woman you admire in any capacity at all, is a courtly skill you lack, d’Artagnan, and I tell you in all the generosity of friendship that you reflect sadly on the rest of us. We will return you therefore to school, at no cost to yourself.”

D’Artagnan looked at his gloves. “I beg your pardon?” he said at last.

“Imagine, for the moment, that I am your beloved Mme. Bonacieux, and you, as you are, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan squinted. “I am finding it difficult,” he said.

Porthos laughed. Athos put his chin on his hands, watching with interest.

“Pretend,” said Aramis, but for verisimilitude he removed his hat.

“I don’t really think I can,” said d’Artagnan.

“You wretched provincials,” said Aramis, “are perfectly content to picture good Parisian women milking the many goats of Béarn, but you cannot even for your own betterment comprehend a fellow soldier in the role of your mistress!”

Porthos, at this point, was laughing so hard that he had to sit down.

“I am trying,” said d’Artagnan, and the situation as well as the full attention of his friends made him blush.

“Was it not Don Quixote,” said Athos, using the flat tone he employed to joke, “who said that we must remember love and war are the same thing?”

“Exactly so,” said Aramis. “Therefore address me as you did this morning, only do not mention goats, or marriage, or anywhere south of Tours.”

D’Artagnan coughed, and looked to Athos and Porthos for help, and finding none, faced Aramis and spoke in a quiet voice: “Constance, I can stand it no longer, fly with me to -- to -- beyond Tours, possibly south, and we shall make a quiet life together, a life of innocent love, milking the -- on a farm, anyway. There, I have said my piece, what is for breakfast?”

Aramis lifted his eyes to heaven. “Did you wish her a good morning?”

“I thought you were playing a role!” said d’Artagnan, offended.

“Well, you were right, it is difficult. Try again, and this time with sincerity and immediacy. Put it to her, or rather me, with your hat in your hands, that you are very much in love with her and desire to know if she loves you also.”

“I have no hat,” said d’Artagnan. “I cannot pretend two things at once.”

“Use mine, then,” said Porthos, and tossed it over.

D’Artagnan pressed it to his heart. “Constance, I am most ardently in love with you.”

“Say why,” suggested Athos.

“If Porthos will stop laughing at me,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos refused.

“I do not have a week to wait while you find your words, sir,” said Aramis, without even the most vague affectation of his role.

“I love your -- eyes,” said d’Artagnan. “And your kindness. As I think you know. I admire you greatly. There is little I cannot learn from you, except perhaps what you can learn from me. I hope it is not ungallant for me to ask you, do you love me also?”

“Possibly,” said Aramis. “You had a weak start. Try again, and say less.”

“I am most pitifully in love,” said d’Artagnan, trying to affect a poetic stance. “With you, Mme. Bonacieux, what is to be done?”

Aramis smiled slowly at him. “Is it not commonly said? Love, and do what thou wilt.”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “Constance would never say that.”

“Mme. Bonacieux,” Aramis corrected. “And what a pity, I’ve heard that one quite a lot.”

“Have you?” said Athos.

“In religious circles,” Aramis confirmed.

“Perhaps an abbreviated version,” said Porthos. “On your way out. So you are not waiting there in the hall while she decides.”

“I admire you very much, Mme. Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, “in fact I am utterly in love with you. I will not ask you now if you love me also, for I must be away!”

“Quanto in femmina fuoco d'amor dura, se l'occhio o 'l tatto spesso nol raccende,” Aramis replied.

“Constance does not speak a word of Italian,” said d’Artagnan. He had been acting his part with such earnestness that he had dropped to his knees, with the hat still held over his heart.

He was rising from this position when a voice he feared about any other carried from the railing above them: M. Tréville’s.

“It seems Aramis, more than d’Artagnan, is the problem,” said M. Tréville, commanding their full attention before he had even spoken two syllables.

D’Artagnan dropped the hat into the dirt, and lurched up from his knees.

Highly entertaining, anon!

I am going to print this out and frame it and hang it on my wall because it is a perfect piece of art that deserves to be commemmorated.

I loved the way you did it in the voice of the original books. It lent the piece an amazing gravity which contrasted perfectly with the deadpan humor. Everyone was perfectly in character. Nearly every line made me laugh aloud. If I quoted everything I loved I'd be here all day... but I particularly wish to mention these favorites:

“It is a good thing you have left home,” Porthos observed, “the region has been cursed twice before noon.”

I had literally expressed this precise sentiment aloud only a moment before reading it! (It goes without saying that Porthos expressed it better.)

“Pretend,” said Aramis, but for verisimilitude he removed his hat.

Yes, Aramis, it is the hat that causes d'Artagnan's problems, and by removing it you have removed them! Bravo!

"There, I have said my piece, what is for breakfast?"

And this, my dear d'Artagnan, is why Constance does not find your charms so very difficult to resist.

“I have no hat,” said d’Artagnan. “I cannot pretend two things at once.”

HE CANNOT PRETEND TWO THINGS AT ONCE /dies

And Aramis quoting Latin. And Porthos kibitzing. And TREVILLE SHOWING UP AT THE END.

Dearest author, may we impose upon you for a continuation? For your ending has led me to imagine Treville stepping in to take Aramis' place, and desiring d'Artagnan to pretend that he is Constance, and subsequently I envision a merriment so great that only your pen could bring it to life.

(And you've got me talking like *I'm* Barrow. There is no higher compliment, I assure you, and beg you will not mistake it for jest.)

D’Artagnan coughed, and looked to Athos and Porthos for help, and finding none, faced Aramis and spoke in a quiet voice: “Constance, I can stand it no longer, fly with me to -- to -- beyond Tours, possibly south, and we shall make a quiet life together, a life of innocent love, milking the -- on a farm, anyway. There, I have said my piece, what is for breakfast?”

This was the part at which I started laughing uncontrollably while sitting at my desk. Lucky for you, dearest Author!Anon, that there is no one else in the office this morning. XD

(OP) I LOVE YOU SO MUCH *tackleglomp* THANK you for filling this! *Delighted squeals* It's perfect! It's better than perfect! That dialogue was a creature of beauty!

Thank you, thank you, thank you for picking Treville/Richelieu for this! It's fantastic!

This more than does the excellent prompt justice, bravo!

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3404789/chapters/7453616

thank you, fellow anon!

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Page 101 of 138

Round 3

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 33a/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 33b/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 33c/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Here, my child!

Re: Tortured Aramis

[FILL] Am I Not Merciful? (Rochefort/Aramis, explicit non-con, torture, WIP)

fake!prisoners. Aramis/Porthos, Athos/d'Artagnan

Re: [FILL] Am I Not Merciful? (Rochefort/Aramis, explicit non-con, torture, WIP)

Re: [FILL] Am I Not Merciful? (Rochefort/Aramis, explicit non-con, torture, WIP)

Re: Here, my child!

Spoilers S2: Secrets and Bro3

Re: Spoilers S2: Secrets and Bro3

The Inseprable pack of the Musketeer Tribe- Omegaverse

Fill: Such Divine Tragedies (Treville/Richelieu)

[FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: Fill: Such Divine Tragedies (Treville/Richelieu)

Re: Spoilers S2: Secrets and Bro3

Re: Spoilers S2 - Aramis h/c missing scene

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)

Re: Isabelle didn't want to be a mother...

Re: [FILL] Though we cannot make our sun stand still (gen)