bbcmusketeerskink

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round 3

Round 3

Welcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme

The lowdown: You post your prompt, anon or not. Someone else will hopefully fill it (also anon or not). Not for profit, just for fun. And in this case, for king and country.

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Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
No prompts with characters under the age of 16 in sexual situations, please.
Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post

Mandatory trigger warnings/warnings for both prompts and fills:
non-con/dub-con
abuse (physical and mental)
issues such as racism, sexism, homo-/trans-/-bi-/ace-phobia etc
character death
suicide
self-harm
eating disorders
extreme physical or mental illness
substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, medication)
bullying
gore and horror

If this list misses anything, do let me know, though please understand that if absolutely everything is added this list will never end.

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Free For All Round 1
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html

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Cue the Rocky music :)

i hope it is not an easy pregnancy-- that is so evil of me

Milady becomes an agent for Anne, because every Queen needs a personal spy/mercenary she can trust. Anne compensates her work with a small estate so that she never has to depend on a man ever again. Milady apologizes for being Not Nice to Constance. Anne and Constance melt Milady's cold little heart. And the three of them rule France together the end

One of the four gets kidnapped. He escapes but is injured in the process and tries to make his way home. When the others get to where the brother was being held, they can't find him and his captors lead them to believe he is already dead. Which doesn't go over well with the Musketeers. At all.

wonderful, masterful job, author!anon. You capture everything about these two I only wish I could. thank you for sharing this great piece of work and I eagerly anticipate the next installment.

Yes please and thank you!

A thousand pluses for this prompt! A medal for the prompter! A new car for the filler! I live in hope :)

Please someone write that?!^^

A group of survivors living under the protection of Treville and his Musketeers (a nickname given to them by the survivors) helping keeping them safe from the dragons laying waste to the land. D'Artagnan joining then after loosing his father to a dragon fleeing the city to try find shelter in the countryside.
Rochefort threatening their haven by bringing his dragon hunters (The Red Guards) into the area.

Please make it Aramis?

I so second this

- oohh YES

I like this too.

AN There is going to be a bit more of obsessive insane Constance in these chapters, aswell as some endearing Athos/d`Art fluff, or as would be more accurate Fur.......

Fill

It had been ten days, ten long agonising days since d`Artagnan had moved out of her house.

Ten days in which Constance had taken to walking the Rue Ferou past Athos`s apartments in the hopes of seeing d`Artagnan.

She could spend long hours standing in the street, concealed from the sunlight and observing eyes by taking shelter in an ally just across the street from Athos rooms.
The wide guttering of the roof of the house she stood beside kept her shaded, and hidden from view, but also gave her a perfect view of the apartment d`Artagnan and Athos shared, saddly not d`Artagnan`s bedroom, but she could see the parlours window, and occaisionally caught sight of ehr beloved, leaning out the window to get the bucket of water inside, that Athos had hung outside every night, or throwing waste from meals out of the window, and of course the chamber pots.

On one such occaision, Constance got to see d`Artagnan shirtless, his tanned olive skin glowing in the sunlight, as he leaned out of the window to flung potatoe peelings down into the road, and paused for a few moments letting the sunlight warm his face, the golden light creating a halo over his head leaving him looking angelic and ethereal.

Constance had felt her heart skipping beats as she had watched this with rapt attention, her cheeks flushing, and thighs growing damp with desire!, right there in public, where anyone could have seen her, she had lifted her heavy skirts and petticoats, to reach between her thighs and pleasure herself, closing her eyes and holding the image of d`Artagnan bathed in sunlight in her mind, even as he left the window and went back inside.

Stiffling her cries of pleasure with her fist, Constance had shuddered and come right there in the ally, sagging back against the dirty wall panting and for a moment sated, but only for a moment, because as the ecstacy wore off, she was left desiring more and more, and needing something of more substance.

Which was how she wound up in the laundry rooms at the palace, where not only the clothing of the King and Queen went to be washed, but the gowns of the Ladies and maids in waiting, and the wives of the Nobles, the fine suits of the Noblemen who dwelt at court, the uniforms of the pages, valets, and grooms, and most importantly, the uniforms of the Musketeers.

With the visibility in the laundry rooms poor owing to the high levels of steam in the air, Constance was able to move unobserved through the rooms.
Those that did see her, dismissed her as another servent of the Palace, with so many in service to the King and Queen, a new face was nothing remarkable, so the washer women paid her no heed, continuing to scrub the shirts, and doublets, petticoats, kirtles, and skirts, wringing them out and putting them through giant mangles that took two women to turn the weel, and squeeze as much excess water out as possible before they went to be hung up to dry and then pressed and scented with lavender before being returned to their apropriate owners.

Constance made her way down to where the Musketeer uniforms were being stored before cleaning.
Each individual uniform was marked with the name of the owner, so there would be no difficulty when it came to them being returned.

Searching through the different names on the labels, Constance finally came upon d`Artagnan`s washing, a pair of breeches that were all but covered in mud!, a leather jerkin that was equally mud soaked, and a shirt, with a tear in the sleeve that was also stained with blood from where he must have received an injury during training.

Constance slipped the shirt out of the washing, lifting it to her nose and breathing in d`Artagnan`s scent her eyes closing as body warming with desire as she inhaled the familiar scent of her beloved.

As if the shirt was something precious, and fragile enough to brake, Constance carefully folded it and held it against her chest, looking longingly at d`Artagnan jerkin and breeches, but leaving them behind none the less, and making her way back out of the laundry room, pleased that she had something of her beloved to console herself with in his absence.

The ten days since d`Artagnan had come to live with him, had passed almost blissfully for Athos.
D`Artagnan was easy to live with, even if he did insist on "Making himself useful".

In that, he cooked them breakfast, and if they did not dine at the garrison, or go out to a tavern, then an evening meal to, and did the cleaning, albeit limited to sweeping the floor, and dusting the surfaces, but it was alot more than the rooms had seen previously, since Athos had generally been to drunk or hung over to care to do it himself!.

He also had to addmit that d`Artagnan was a damn good cook, able to make several tasty Gascon dishes that Athos readily enjoyed.
His company was also very much apreciated, Athos had not drunk himself insensate since d`Artagnan had moved in, prefering to spend time talking and laughing with his protege rather than drown himself in wine or brandy, which also meant he had more coin in his purse as the result, and was eating better too.

The increase of his food intake, saw his health improving, he had more energy to spare, his features becoming less pale, and more ruddy, his eyes brighter, and far less shadowed since he was getting decent nights sleep instead of just passing out when he finally drank enough to loose consciousness.

There was only one little complaint that Athos had to make against d`Artagnan, or rather four little complaints!.

The problem had began when he, Aramis, and Porthos had come back to his apartments following a days gaurd duty at the palace.

D`Artagnan had been on basic patrol, and had gotten home earlier than they, and by the devine smell coming from the rooms, had cooked a good supper too.

"He`ll certainly make a fine wife!" Porthos chortled as Athos opened the door, "I can see him now!, in a frilly skirt and corsets!"
"Would you mind not sharing your sexual fantacys about Aramis with all and sundry!" Athos dryly replied, getting a satisfying squark from Aramis, and an open mouth look of shock from Porthos!.

It was when they got inside the parlour that the trouble was discovered, taking off cloaks and hats, undoing doublets, and generally making themselves at home, the three men all shot grins at d`Artagnan who was sitting before the fire and turned with a smile himself revealing a large wicker hamper in which lay upon woolen blanket, a large black and white cat with three small kittens!, one black and white, one all black, and one silver tabby!.

"Gentlemen look!" d`Artagnan exclaimed stroking the head of the Mother cat who purred happily "Ar`nt they adorable!".

Aramis made a sound that would have been fitting for a five year old!, and scurried over to join d`Artagnan in the petting of the animals, lifting one of the kittens up to his face and kissing a black velvet nose making cooing noises at the mewling bundle of furr!.

"Oh my God!" Porthos whispered looking torn between amusment and shock!, the amusment growing as the silver tabby hopped out of the bed and padded across the floor to where Athos stood, sniffed his boot, and then pounced on it!
"D`Artagnan!" Athos cried half lifting his boot as if to kick the kitten off it, but not having the heart to do so, and instead bent down to lift it up by it`s scruff instead "What.....?"
"I found them!" d`Artagnan said proudly "Evie was in an ally!, Jasmine, Coal, and Amber were with her, all crying for warmth and hunger!".

"Um, Evie?, Jasmine, Coal, and Amber?" Porthos asked as Athos just groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose ignoring the kitten the was squirming in his hand
"The mother is called Evie!" d`Artagnan explained "And her kittens, are Jasmine" he pointed to the tabby that Athos held, "Coal", he pointed to the one Aramis was playing with, "And Amber!", he lifted the black and white kitten out of the nest and kissed it`s head affectionately, "Ar`nt they just the most beautiful things you`ve ever seen!?"
"They`re beyond adorable!" Aramis cooed using a feather from his hat to tease Coal with, the kitten batting at it with his paws, and making squeaking meows!
"This is beyond precious!" Porthos snorted, getting himself a seat, and frowning as Jasmine was dumped on his lap by Athos who crossed the room the glare down at Evie, who glowered back at him completely un-intimidated by the Musketeer!.

"D`Artagnan...." Athos began, sounding rather like an exasperated parent!, "Why did you think bringing......Evie, and her brood here was a good idea?"
"Because we can give them a good home Athos!" d`Artagnan replied, as if it were obvious "And she needs a good home to raise her family in!"
"She`s an ally cat!" Athos groaned raking a hand through his hair as he looked down at the cat and kittens
"Now she`s our cat, and her kittens are ours too" d`Artagnan said turning to give Athos one of his puppy eyed, pouting expressions that could melt a heart of solid ice!, "Don`t you think they`re beautiful?" he asked sounding like a six year old boy!.

Of course Athos of helpless under the power of those eyes and sweet voice, he wilted and sagged down onto the floor beside d`Artagnan, giving in to him!
"You`re cleaning up after them!" he grunted glaring as little Amber came over to inspect him and began to pat and play with the laces on his doublet, "You`re feeding them, and caring for them!"
"Of course!" d`Artagnan declared his face shining with a bright smile and planted a huge kiss an Athos cheek "Thankyou so much!",
Athos grunted once more shaking his head and looked down at the little kitten heaving a deep sigh, he use to be a respected Comte of great wealth and position!, a feared Musketeer with a deadly reputation!, now he was besotted with a boy almost young enough to be his Son, and housing stray cats!, life was just too cruel!.

Athos doesn't really laugh. I want the reactions when he does.

OT3, Athos/Aramis, Athos/Porthos and Gen are close to my heart.

Thank you anon. Hopefully the next part will be online tomorrow. :)

It seems to me that Aramis is the guy who is sent to talk to folk to gather information. I'm not talking interogation stuff just kind of like when he spoke to the guy by the docks. Its not that the others can't do the job, its just Porthos can be intimidating and impatient and Athos can be intimidating and accidently rude and And d'Artagnan still doesn't quite know when enough info is enough...

But Aramis can't be available every time so a 5+1 (or similar) on times the others had to gather simple info but it went wrong and one time it went wrong for Aramis and the others had to bail him out.

Looking for more humourous scenarios than angst ones but I would be happy if anyone gave this a go.

Examples of what I mean- Porthos has to get info off someone who he towers over and due to his rough and ready approach, the poor person is slightly terrified and stammers and stumbles through what they know.
Athos starts well but then he gets bored of it all and unfortunately forgets to at least look interested and then his mouth spills out something abrupt or rude and inevitably he gets told to sling his hook.
D'Artagnan takes far too long because he collects info and then some. He gets sucked into conversations. Can't end the chatter.

Aramis gets it done. No messing. Except that time when... You decide.

Aww, now I'm feeling sorry for Richelieu :( I suppose that was inevitable. His flash of angst was good to see, I like him a little vulnerable :) And at least he got a kiss! I don't blame Treville at all for remaining cautious. But I hope he'll come to see that Richelieu really didn't have a lot of choices.

Looking forward to more soon!

A/N: A couple of days later than usual, I know, but this chapter was a beast. The good news is, it’s a long one; there was simply no good place to split it.

Now would be a good time to re-check the warnings. This chapter hits a number of them. In general the warnings will be more regularly applicable as we begin to focus on the overarching plot, so please keep that in mind going forward.

Nineteen: Poachers in the King’s Forest

D’Artagnan rouses as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with shades of red and coral. Athos turns around from shaking out a blanket to find d’Artagnan sitting up, watching the sunset with quiet admiration.

“How does it compare to the sunsets on your family’s farm?” Athos asks quietly.

D’Artagnan lifts one hand and tips it from side to side. “Well enough, I suppose,” he says. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. I rarely saw the sun set. By the time dusk fell I was usually too exhausted to be outside watching. My father used to say I would have more energy when I grew older, that I’d start packing on muscle, but somehow it never happened for me.”

“He was judging you by Betan standards. You need a different approach to strength training. Aramis can show you the best way.”

“He’s already helping me with a weights routine.”

“Good.”

D’Artagnan falls silent again. Around them, the clearing is filling up with the sun’s dying light. And something else. The smell of heat is rising.

It’s not urgent yet, though. Athos finishes shaking out the blanket and folds it up again, setting it on top of the others. D’Artagnan is still sitting where he’d been dozing, naked on the ground. Athos has been preparing a better area a little closer to the fire. The day had been warm, but it’s still barely spring. They’ll be glad of the fire when the temperature dips overnight. And of some insulation between themselves and the ground.

When the sun’s gone, d’Artagnan sighs. Then he turns around to face Athos and looks surprised. “Did you do all that?”

Athos waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not much.” He’s stoked up the fire, so it should last though d’Artagnan’s next peak without needing attention. Near the fire – close enough for warmth, not so close to singe bare skin – he’s laid out some of their blankets and arranged the saddlebags nearby. Water and food are within easy reach. Everything is as ready as it’s going to get.

Honestly, heat in a forest is not Athos’ idea of comfort. He understands why they must leave Paris. But he regrets la Fère and the places like it, the places that were once safe for their kind, which have been slowly dwindling in number as the Inquisition presses ever onward.

“It’s nice,” d’Artagnan disagrees. He rolls to his feet and starts towards Athos, then gasps in surprise and nearly sinks to his knees. Athos, prepared for this from previous experience with stubborn Omegas, catches d’Artagnan by the forearms.

“Careful,” he scolds, leading d’Artagnan the last few steps forwards and settling him back down atop the layers Athos had spread atop the groundcloth. He hasn’t bothered to pitch a tent, though he’d brought his on general principle in case the weather turns foul. But it’s better to let the pheromones dissipate in the open air. The groundcloth makes good insulation, though, and the tent itself is folded and sandwiched between the groundcloth and another blanket, providing an extra layer of comfort.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan mutters, blushing endearingly in the firelight. “I was just, uh, not prepared for that.”

For the burn of knotting muscles stretched open for the first time, he means. “It’s all right,” Athos says comfortingly. “It’s like any other muscle. Sore the first time you work it, but as long as you take proper care it’ll grow accustomed soon enough.”

“Ah,” d’Artagnan says, still looking into the fire. “Yes, of course.”

“Here.” Athos hands him a water skin. “Drink.”

“I don’t feel thirsty,” d’Artagnan says dubiously.

“I know. But it will do you good.”

D’Artagnan shrugs and obeys. He drinks perhaps half the skin, then blinks at it, surprised.

“See?” Athos smiles at him, taking the skin and setting it away. “Now relax. There’s a little ways to go yet until your next peak. Conserve your energy.”

“Can I…” d’Artagnan blushes a little and scoots closer to Athos.

“Of course,” Athos says.

D’Artagnan comes closer still. Athos thinks he means to slide in for an embrace, but d’Artagnan surprises him by turning, lying down with his head in Athos’ lap.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Athos repeats. He drops his hand to his lap, cards it through d’Artagnan’s hair. D’Artagnan sighs.

They stare up at the stars for a while. Athos lets his mind wander slightly, gathering his thoughts and his courage. He needs to open himself up to d’Artagnan. It’s hard to know how to start. The silence stretches long. It’s not tense. But Athos is uncomfortably aware of how much he still has to say.

At last d’Artagnan sighs, breaking the quiet.

“What do I need to do to make this last forever?” he asks wistfully. There’s an air about the question, like it’s supposed to be teasing, but if that’s true then d’Artagnan misses the mark. It’s impossible to mistake d’Artagnan’s meaning for anything but the genuine, serious, longing question it is.

Nothing, is Athos’ immediate response. This time he bites down on the word before it can leave its mouth. He can predict, this time, how d’Artagnan will take it: as a rejection. Nothing you could do will be enough, is what d’Artagnan would hear. Athos has grown so used to Aramis and Porthos, who know his ways, that he’s finding himself completely at sea when it comes to talking to d’Artagnan. Athos’ preferred single-word answers don’t work for d’Artagnan.

Athos manages to stop himself from saying the wrong thing, but that doesn’t magically give him the right words to use. He fumbles after them as quickly as he can. Not quickly enough. D’Artagnan takes Athos’ silence as its own answer and smiles wryly, turning his gaze away and back to the stars.

“You’re right, of course,” d’Artagnan says, as if Athos had said something aloud. “I suppose I can’t change that much.”

In Paris, d’Artagnan never shows this kind of emotion. He can take a loss on the practice yards with a smile, a hit in a tavern fight with a witty comeback, or the casual disregard of the nobility with a cool air of detachment. But it must all be a front. During heat, d’Artagnan can’t hide himself.

Athos reaches down and turns d’Artagnan’s face back towards his. “You needn’t change a thing,” he says clumsily. Athos cups d’Artagnan’s cheek in his hands and wills d’Artagnan to see his sincerity. “Firstly because you are complete as yourself, and any Alpha who would demand that you change is unworthy of your attention. And secondly because – because – ”

“Because?” d’Artagnan asks. He reaches up to cover Athos’ hands with his own, holding them in place, holding his breath.

“Because I think you are perfect the way you are.” The words are hard to speak, but as they leave Athos’ mouth it’s like they tear something open in him and everything comes tumbling out. “Because I like everything about you, even what you think are rough edges. I like your scent, I like the way you talk, I like your country manners. I like that you’re different. I like that you have a new way of looking at things, that you’re not biased the same ways we all are from years of Musketeering. I like that you work so hard at everything you do.”

D’Artagnan blushes bright red. “Athos,” he whispers, awed. “What are you saying?”

“I’ve been pushing you away,” Athos admits. “I’ve been afraid. D’Artagnan, you’re so young. You could have so many others. I know I was the first Alpha you met when you came to Paris, but I thought that once you met others, you’d wake up and realize that your interest in me was a passing phase. I thought – ”

“You thought wrong,” d’Artagnan interrupts. He pulls himself up to a sitting position, and since his head had been in Athos’ lap he ends up pretty much sitting in it, arms winding around Athos’ body to keep himself upright, noses practically brushing. “I’m not some country hick who had their head turned by the bright lights of the city! I know what I want.”

“Someone who’s never seen a jewel may admire the first rock they see, but they soon realize that a diamond is better than a crystal,” Athos says ruefully. “I’m not exactly a prize.”

“I’ll thump whoever told you that,” d’Artagnan says in that direct straightforward way of his. “Why won’t you see your own value?”

“I’m old – ”

“Experienced,” d’Artagnan interrupts.

Athos raises an eyebrow. “Scarred.”

D’Artagnan traces one pale line down Athos’ chest, a souvenir from La Rochelle, a decade old now. “Brave.”

“Damaged.”

“Strong.” D’Artagnan shakes his head. “I know there are things in your past that you wish you could forget. I know you made mistakes and people died. But that doesn’t make you broken. Am I broken?”

“Of course not,” Athos says fiercely.

D’Artagnan spreads his arms wide. “I was born an Omega and my parents died,” he says steadily.

“That’s not the same thing. You were a pup. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I went into heat. That’s old enough to inherit under the old laws, isn’t it? Besides, what about my parents? They were grown. Should I blame them? Say they should have left when I was born, or turned me over to the Church to save themselves, or had me sterilized?”

“I had responsibilities,” Athos tries to explain. “And I failed at them. My mate and odem died.”

D’Artagnan nods. “So did my parents,” he says gently. “But I survived. I’m here, and I’m alive, and I’m going to keep on living. Don’t you think it’s about time you started doing the same?”

Athos gives in to the urge to reach out and touch. D’Artagnan smiles at the feel of Athos’ fingers on his cheek and turns into Athos’ hand, nuzzling the scarred palm fondly.

“I want you,” d’Artagnan says, enunciating each word carefully so there can be no mistake. “I’m not a pup. I’m not fresh from the countryside. I’m not even a novice anymore. I’m grown, and I’m a Musketeer, and I know what I want.”

“Then I offer myself as one who hopes to be worthy of your interest, and ask your indulgence to prove my worth in courtship,” Athos says.

D’Artagnan’s cheeks turn pink. “I would be honored,” he says. There’s a moment where his accent wavers slightly, changing from d’Artagnan’s usual Gascon cadence to a mimicry of Aramis’ more refined one, and they both laugh a little.

“If I didn’t already know who’d been teaching you manners…” Athos jokes. He feels a little giddy at the step they’ve just taken. It’s small enough on its own. But after decades of standing still anything is momentous.

“I’ll show you manners,” d’Artagnan retorts, launching himself forward and wrestling Athos to the ground with the aid of surprise. D’Artagnan ends up on top of Athos and takes advantage of his position by kissing the older Alpha senseless.

Athos kisses back. Lets himself enjoy the feel of d’Artagnan pressing against him. Runs his hands down the endless expanse of him, slender lines and smooth tanned skin. Wonderful. All of him, wonderful.

For some inexplicable reason d’Artagnan wants Athos. Even with his baggage and his scars, the difference in their ages and their experience. Even knowing how badly he’d failed Charlotte and Thomas. Athos doesn’t know how or why. But he’s tired of fighting it. He’s certainly tired of making d’Artagnan unhappy. He’ll be honest with d’Artagnan. He’ll make sure d’Artagnan knows everything there is to know about Athos’ past over the course of their courtship. But if, at the end of it all, d’Artagnan still says he wants Athos –

“Hey,” d’Artagnan interrupts, pulling away from the kiss. “Are you okay?”

He looks worried. Athos leans forward and kisses him again.

“More than,” Athos promises.

Letting his strength go is always a pleasure of itself. It aches sometimes to be careful in every move he makes, from sparring in the practice yards to something as simple as opening a door. Now Athos lets it out for a moment, long enough to tumble d’Artagnan off him and reverse their positions. D’Artagnan hits the blankets with a satisfying thump and stares up at Athos, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

There’s nothing to be done with that but to kiss d’Artagnan again. So Athos does.

D’Artagnan groans and twists, trying to tug Athos closer. “Athos!” he pleads.

Athos lifts himself up, arching a teasing eyebrow. A deep breath confirms what Athos had already suspected: the heat is rising again. D’Artagnan is flushed enticingly beneath him. His scent lures Athos in closer, beckons him with seductive promises of their compatibility, how good they’d be together.

“Please,” d’Artagnan pleads, breath catching as Athos gives in and puts his mouth on that appealing expanse of skin. D’Artagnan’s stomach is closest, so that’s where he tastes first, flat planes of muscle that stretch from groin to ribs. No scent glands here. Instead just d’Artagnan, salt and sweat and a faint earthy flavor.

D’Artagnan catches Athos’ head between his hands and tries to urge him downwards, but Athos resists. He goes up instead, and d’Artagnan keens when Athos fastens onto one pert nipple. Athos sucks and licks, aware that his hands have migrated to d’Artagnan’s hips and are holding him down. D’Artagnan obviously approves of his, bucking eagerly, making Athos press down harder until he’s using his full strength and d’Artagnan relaxes with a heartfelt moan of approval.

“Need you,” he begs. D’Artagnan thrusts his hips wickedly, rubbing their groins together. “Now?”

“You’re barely starting the peak,” Athos says comfortingly. This, at last, is something he understands. He’s familiar with the ebb and flow of heat, and how time dilates for Alpha and Omega both. He can tell the difference between a want and a need when hormones are high and self-control is low. And he knows how to make the pleasure build and build until it crests at exactly the right moment.

“So?” d’Artagnan demands.

“Come here,” Athos says, tugging d’Artagnan up from his supine position. One of the better things about the blanket-nest Athos had constructed is the large tree conveniently located next to it. Athos sits down his back against the tree and guides d’Artagnan into his lap. D’Artagnan tries to slide himself down on Athos’ cock, but Athos sees this coming in time and manages to settle d’Artagnan differently. Athos’ cock nestles comfortingly up between the cleft of d’Artagnan’s buttocks, present but trapped.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan pouts, bouncing up and down slightly. Athos slides his hands down d’Artagnan’s flanks, petting, then takes d’Artagnan’s hips with a firm grip. D’Artagnan flushes and swears in words he must have learned from Porthos.

“You’re mouthy during heat,” Athos says with a grin. “I like it.”

This makes d’Artagnan still. His eyes flick up and catch Athos’, wide and shocked. “You do?”

“I do,” Athos confirms, softer this time. He’s rewarded by d’Artagnan’s smile. Not the brash one befitting a Musketeer that d’Artagnan flashes around the streets of Paris, but a private one, sweet and glad and just the two of them.

Athos slips his fingers between their flesh, playing with d’Artagnan’s cock. “All right?” Athos asks. Some Omegas don’t like this, but d’Artagnan seems pleased, if his squirming is anything to go by.

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Just – surprised. I tried it once. But. Somehow it’s – it’s different when you do it.”

“Probably because I know what I’m doing,” Athos jokes. He’s spent a lot of time alone with only his right hand for company. D’Artagnan, by contrast, is only a year past his first heat. And any masturbation d’Artagnan may have done will probably have focused on his hole instead of his genitals. Vestigial organs in unaligned throwbacks aren’t usually erogenous zones outside of heat.

In heat, though, d’Artagnan’s cock is proving most interested in the proceedings. D’Artagnan moans and rolls his hips forward, shoving into Athos’ hand and nudging up against his belly.

“I love your experience,” he says, managing to sound eager and sly at the same time. “Why don’t you show me what else you know that I don’t?”

Athos is startled into a laugh. “Minx,” he accuses fondly. D’Artagnan smiles, and Athos can’t help himself. He has to kiss that smile, to taste it and experience it firsthand.

D’Artagnan comes willingly. And when Athos breaks the kiss, d’Artagnan allows Athos to settle him against Athos’ chest, his weight supported by Athos’, trusting and pliant. Which frees up Athos’ second hand to slip down d’Artagnan’s back and tease his hole.

“Ohh,” d’Artagnan moans, curling farther into Athos as he’s stimulated from both ends. A little fluid is leaking from d’Artagnan’s cock, sterile vestige of the testes d’Artagnan had never developed. By contrast, Athos’ cock is already soaked, not with his own fluid but with the slick leaking from d’Artagnan’s hole. The lubrication glands are as overactive as every other part of d’Artagnan’s heat, it seems.

“Do you like that?” Athos whispers teasingly into d’Artagnan’s ear.

D’Artagnan shivers with the pleasure of it, rocking back and forth on Athos’ lap, eager for more. “Oh, yes,” he cries. “Yes, please, Athos – ”

“Shh,” Athos promises, “I’ve got you.”

D’Artagnan’s scent is growing stronger. They’ll have to knot soon. Athos speeds his movements, abandoning teasing in favor of pushing d’Artagnan farther up the slope to pleasure.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan whispers. “Love, please, please.”

Love. Athos groans. He has to release d’Artagnan’s cock and pinch the base of his own, staving off the knot that tries to inflate at the endearment. D’Artagnan whines at the loss, twisting up and kissing Athos.

“Now?” he begs.

“Now,” Athos agrees breathlessly. His nostrils flare; d’Artagnan’s heat has jumped ahead dramatically. They’re nearly to the crest. Athos needs to be inside him. But first Athos needs to say –

“Wait,” d’Artagnan says breathlessly. He touches a finger to d’Artagnan’s lips. “Wait and tell me when you’re inside me.”

Athos groans again at the mere image. “Here,” he gasps, trying to maneuver d’Artagnan into lordosis. D’Artagnan’s too uncoordinated to help, though, unbalanced in Athos’ lap. Finally Athos simply picks d’Artagnan up entirely as the easiest way to position d’Artagnan the way he ought to be. D’Artagnan’s pupils blow wide in sheer lust. Athos has to coax him onto his hands and knees; d’Artagnan is abruptly too boneless even to move.

“Athos,” he whimpers. “Athos, please!”

“Almost,” Athos pants. He gets d’Artagnan positioned properly and has to grip the base of his cock again, hard, at the sight of that young brown body presenting to him. D’Artagnan is incredibly flexible: the arch he achieves would be the envy of every prostitute in Paris, assuming any of them were throwbacks.

“Now,” d’Artagnan demands.

Athos fumbles with himself, lining up and sinking home in a single thrust. D’Artagnan’s cry rings off the trees and echoes back to them, music to Athos’ ears. Athos drives into him hard and fast, not holding back his strength, and d’Artagnan responds in kind. The Omega thrusts back in demanding counterpoint. This time Athos reaches around, stroking hot eager flesh. One stroke – two – then d’Artagnan’s peak twists to its height and he spills helplessly over Athos’ hand.

“Athos?” he cries.

“I love you,” Athos gasps.

Athos sinks one last time into that welcoming flesh. Then his knot swells, and he’s coming inside d’Artagnan, locked together whole and perfect and complete.

Athos doesn’t doze – Alphas aren’t wired that way – but as the hours slide by he does fall into a light meditative state. His senses are as alert as ever but his metabolism slows, conserving energy. His mind wanders. He daydreams. Athos imagines returning to the garrison and admitting to Aramis and Porthos that they had been right all along. Envisions courting d’Artagnan. His mind spins a curious mixture of the possible and the improbable: the two of them dueling together in the practice yards, strolling under the moonlight at Olivier’s estates, drinking in Parisian taverns, going back to Gascony together on their mating journey with d’Artagnan’s parents alive and well and overjoyed to receive them.

In the dancing firelight Athos dreams of a world that had never been and never will be. In the darkness la Fère gleams, a jewel of the countryside, in a France that has never heard of the Inquisition. Twelve couple dance down a ball-room brilliantly lit. At one end of the room sires sit together around card-tables; at another, chaperones chatter over hors d’oeuvres. The whole is overseen by d’Artagnan, carefree and happy, long established as la Fère’s chatelain and round with pups. Athos’ parents sit in the corner of the room nearest the fireplace surrounded by their many friends and neighbors. In the center of the glittering throng Thomas dances slowly with Charlotte, the two of them smiling together over some secret Athos will never learn.

The sound of a branch breaking jolts Athos to full wakefulness. The beautiful, impossible dream flees. For a moment Athos is caught in his longing for it. Then his rational mind catches up. He’d heard something. What?

An animal? His rational mind scoffs: foolish as his daydreams have been, surely jumping over an animal moving through the forest is worse?

But no. Athos’ mind may play tricks but his instincts aren’t fooled as easily. He’s been listening to the sounds of the forest all day and all night. He’s accustomed to them. Whatever had snapped Athos out of his daydream hadn’t been a natural sound.

D’Artagnan stirs. He’s got his own set of instincts, attuned not to their surroundings but to Athos. And Athos is tense now, every sense straining, his sudden wariness leaking into his scent.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan mutters.

Another branch creaks. And then Athos hears it, barely: a quiet curse.

“Trouble,” Athos says in reply, voice low. He reaches for their muskets and passes d’Artagnan his, tucking it carefully under d’Artagnan’s body where it won’t be easily seen. “How’s your muscle control?”

D’Artagnan holds up a hand, testing. It’s not perfectly still, but – “Steady enough,” he says.

“Shoot center of mass if you need to,” Athos instructs. He slides his arms out from around d’Artagnan, freeing them. “Pretend to still be dozing. If they’re tracking us by scent – ”

“You know how much I love being the distraction,” d’Artagnan tries to joke. He wraps one mostly-steady hand around the stock of his musket and gives Athos a careful nod.

Athos kisses d’Artagnan’s forehead and passes him Athos’ musket, too. Just in case, he tells himself. Athos is naked; he can’t carry powder and shot to reload, so it’s better to leave the gun with d’Artagnan. A sword needs no reloading. He ignores the part of himself that wants to tear apart the intruders bare-handed regardless.

“Perhaps they’re just lost,” Athos says instead, trying to reassure.

“You don’t believe that,” d’Artagnan says. And neither do I, he doesn’t add. “Go.”

Athos slips away from d’Artagnan in the dark and fades into the treeline, holding his sword. Briefly he regrets the musket. But only briefly. There are at least two men in the forest – the noise of their passage has been overlapping, and few men would curse aloud if there were no one there to hear them. One musket-shot is therefore worse than useless. It would take out the first man easily, but then Athos would be left to face the other or others with no element of surprise. Athos could have taken both muskets, but then he couldn’t carry his sword, and he’d be in trouble if one of his shots missed their mark or if there were a third man.

He circles around, leaving the fire’s light and moving towards the sound he’d heard. Soon Athos can pick out movement and, after another moment, voices.

“Where is’t, Da?” a piping voice demands in a whisper. “By t’smell, we should be right ontoppa it!”

An older man chuckles quietly. “Some of ’em smell stronger t’an others, Maurice. ’S all breeding. This ’un must be a right mongrel.”

“Could smell it alla way from the road,” a third voice growls. “I ain’t never smelled one so strong.”

“’Ow many you smelled, Uncle Patrice?”

“’Least half a dozen, m’boy. Now hush. They can still hear you iffn you talk too loud. You just stay here and let your Da and I bag it, right?”

“You promised I could ’ave a fuck,” the boy’s voice protests.

“You’ll have a fuck,” Patrice promises. “But your Da and I gotta make sure it’s safe first.”

“Even animals have claws, Maurice,” Da says in agreement. “You remember that, you hear?”

“Yes, Da.” The boy sounds sulky.

Distantly, Athos is aware that he’s angry. Furious, even. And, even more distantly, frightened. A group of Betas stalking them in the forest at night: it’s like something out of Athos’ worst nightmares.

Detachment lets him function. The effects of heat make it easier, lets Athos run on pure instinct and set his rational mind aside. And he can still smell d’Artagnan clear as day. At first he’d thought the smell of heat merely lingered in his nose and skin. But now Athos realizes that it’s everywhere. The nearest road through the King’s forest is at least two miles away. But Patrice had been able to smell it even from there…

Athos sets that thought aside. That thought’s for later. Now, Athos can hear the telltale sounds as the three Betas split up. Patrice and Da will be moving on ahead, closing in on d’Artagnan. The boy has been left behind. Easy pickings.

Maurice can’t be far past puberty, and he looks even younger on the forest floor, bled out from a thrust to the heart with a look of utter surprise painted on his features. The boy had never had a chance against a trained fighter. The only mercy is that it had let Athos make it quick.

Athos stares at the body on the floor and thinks that in a different world, a better world, Maurice wouldn’t have had to die. Perhaps he could have been taken to the Church – a real, gentle, loving Church – and with time and patience his evil might have been undone. He might have been reborn as a better person, all his hate washed clean. Perhaps in a different world, Maurice’s family would never have taught him hate in the first place, and Maurice would never have tried to sneak through the King’s forest at night because his father and uncle had scented an Omega in heat and thought it would be a fine thing to rape them. And then Maurice wouldn’t be dead, and Athos wouldn’t have another youth’s blood on his hands.

Maurice looks nothing like Thomas. Features, coloring and build are all as dissimilar as can possibly be imagined. But the look of surprise on their faces is universal.

Athos doesn’t have time to think about that. Maurice had never been the real threat. Da and Patrice are, and they’re moving closer towards d’Artagnan with every beat of Athos’ heart.

Their trail is easy to pick out, even without the added advantage of knowing where they’re heading. Athos moves quickly and quietly through the night. The trail splits as it approaches the clearing. Athos makes a snap decision and moves right.

Right leads him, within a few paces, to a rough-looking man crouched behind a tree right at the edge of the clearing. D’Artagnan is in view, apparently dozing peacefully and unawares. Athos can see where the line of d’Artagnan’s body is curved around the muskets, but there’s no glimpse of wood or flash of metal to betray that d’Artagnan is armed. The man Athos is watching chuckles to himself, a piggish, self-satisfied sound.

Athos takes a moment to study his opponent. The man is wearing hunting leathers. No sword, but a knife gleams at his belt. and the weapon in his hand is a fowling-piece. Athos frowns, thinking.

This is the King’s forest. Well out of the way of Louis’ actual hunting grounds, but protected lands all the same, which makes them idea for heat purposes. No one is supposed to come here except the hunt-master, his assistants, and the King’s hunting-parties. Athos hadn’t stopped to consider it before, but now he realizes. These men are poachers. They’ve taken one kind of game already. And now they want to take another.

Athos and the man he’s stalking have approached the firepit from the north. D’Artagnan is facing them, though his eyes are closed in pretend sleep, with the fire at his back. Naturally, therefore, it’s the other man – the one Athos isn’t near – who emerges from the treeline, planning to sneak up on d’Artagnan from behind and take him out.

Athos represses the urge to swear. He’d chosen wrong. If he could have taken the other man from behind, d’Artagnan would have had a clear line of fire in front of him to the man Athos is currently stalking. As it is, d’Artagnan will have to twist in order to shoot. That means he’ll need more warning. That means –

Athos drops his sword and tackles his man from behind. The two of them tumble right out into the clearing, noisy and obvious. The man’s fowling-piece fires. Wide, but Athos feels the force of it going by.

He roars. The man beneath him shouts. “Fuck, s’an Alpha! Patrice! Patrice, get over here!”

The only answer the man gets is the report of d’Artagnan’s musket. Athos can’t risk the glance, but a wild tumble sideways puts the scene in Athos’ vision anyway. Patrice is down, gut-shot and bleeding profusely. D’Artagnan’s on his feet, sword in hand, ready to finish the job.

Athos has no doubt that d’Artagnan will handle Patrice. So complete is his faith that his world narrows to the man still wrestling with him, and Athos sees red. This, then, is the one Maurice had addressed as Da. The man who’d fathered a little boy and taught him to view throwbacks as animals, to be hunted, raped and killed. The man who’d brought his son here to end his life bleeding in the forest from a thrust to the heart.

Athos had felt regret over Maurice’s death. He feels none at all about slowly and methodically ripping Da to shreds.

The shaking on his shoulder is something he ignores at first. It’s unimportant, secondary to the need to hurt, kill, protect. Then it gets stronger, interfering with Athos’ motor control. He growls impatiently, going to bat the offender away. Instead he finds himself caught and pulled away from his prey. Athos snarls, ready to wheel on the offender, when the familiar scent reaches his nose and he stops short, shocked at himself.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan says again. Dimly Athos realizes d’Artagnan’s been calling to him for a while now. “Athos, can you hear me? Please, snap out of it.”

Athos tries to say something and finds that his throat is raw. Instead he reaches out for d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan seizes Athos’ hand in both of his and clutches it tight, breaking into a wide, relieved smile.

“Are you back with me?” he asks.

Athos manages a nod. The tinge of red is receding from his vision. In it place comes a sudden weariness.

“Did I – ” he asks, though it hurts to talk.

D’Artagnan nods. “He’s dead,” d’Artagnan says gently. “They both are.”

“All three,” Athos corrects wearily. “They had another with them. A boy. His first hunt.”

D’Artagnan freezes for a moment, shocked. Then he shakes his head and tugs on Athos’ hand. “Come closer to the fire,” he says. “You’re shaking.”

It’s adrenaline, not chill, but Athos does as d’Artagnan says. He doesn’t turn around him. He doesn’t want to see the state he’d left Maurice’s father’s body in.

It’s been a long time since his last full-blown rage. Rages are as dangerous heats are to Omegas; the Alpha loses rational control, becoming driven by instinct and an adrenal system nearly out of control. Necessary to claim and defend territory, clans, packs, mate and young. But fatal to a people trying to hide.

“You pulled me out of it,” Athos says to d’Artagnan, distantly surprised. Generally only an Alpha’s mate can snap them out of a rage early, much as an Omega’s mate can pull them out of heat early in times of danger. Sometimes their carrier can, or a littermate. But an unmated Omega?

“Here.” D’Artagnan presses a flask of water into Athos’ hands and settles him down next to the fire, back on the blankets. “Let me just deal with the bodies, okay?”

“I’ll help,” Athos tries to protest.

D’Artagnan shoves him back down. “I don’t want you raging out again,” he says. He’s obviously trying for a dry tone. Instead he just sounds worried. Worried and fond. No one’s sounded worried and fond in that precise combination since Olivier’s family had died.

Athos allows himself to be settled. He watches d’Artagnan shake out two blankets and roll the corpses into them, then roll them further off into the woods where the animals will deal with them. Athos avoids looking at the mess he’d made of Da. D’Artagnan’s right: Athos really shouldn’t rage out again. He’s grateful when d’Artagnan leaves the blankets behind, out of sight among the trees. They have enough, and the sight of it might have unpredictable effects, as angry and anguished as Athos feels.

“Are you okay?” Athos asks instead, when d’Artagnan returns and starts washing his hands clean.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Come sit next to me and I’ll be all right,” Athos says truthfully. The adrenaline is fading from his system quickly, leaving behind a primal need to make sure d’Artagnan is okay.

D’Artagnan nods and obliges. He’s visibly shaky when he sinks to the blankets at Athos’ side and makes no objection to Athos gathering him up and holding him rather tighter than is probably comfortable. Instead d’Artagnan clutches back. They’re both drawing strength from each others’ presence and closeness.

“I don’t feel hot anymore,” d’Artagnan says eventually. “Or prickly. Is that normal? Shouldn’t I be close to my next peak?”

Athos noses at d’Artagnan’s skin, then shakes his head. “Your heat’s over,” he says.

“But there were only two peaks!”

“We were interrupted.” Athos shudders a little, still bleeding off the rage hormones. “Heat can end early if there’s danger. The adrenaline probably did it.”

“Oh.” D’Artagnan sighs. “I suppose it’s for the best, but…” he shrugs a little, ruefully.

“I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Another day, another fight,” d’Artagnan says, falsely cheerful.

It’s a lie and they both know it. This hadn’t been a clean fight, in the practice-yards or against the Cardinal’s guards in the streets of Paris. This had been something from the barbaric times of their ancestors. One on one like animals in the forest at night with people as prizes on the line.

D’Artagnan is still trembling slightly. And he doesn’t feel calm. But he’s staring into the fire and picking absently at the nap of the blanket beneath them instead of saying anything.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos prompts carefully. “Are you truly all right?”

D’Artagnan ducks his head farther, keeping Athos from seeing his face unless Athos lets him go. Which he won’t do.

“I’m scared,” d’Artagnan admits finally. “Athos, how did they know I was here?”

“They scented you,” Athos says quietly.

“From how far away?”

Athos doesn’t answer.

“Athos? How far away were they when you found them?”

“Perhaps a hundred paces,” Athos says. It’s the truth, but it’s also a lie.

D’Artagnan sighs in relief. “That’s not so bad,” he says. “Maybe – ”

“They scented you from the road,” Athos interrupts.

D’Artagnan turns to stone in Athos’ arms. “That’s two miles off at the closest point.”

“I know.”

“Athos, they – they had me from two miles away?”

“They were poachers,” Athos tries. “They hunt for a living – ”

“Bullshit,” d’Artagnan interrupts angrily. He pulls back a little, and now Athos can see his face. Anger, yes, but underneath it terror. Terror and a creeping despair. “Two miles! If two miles isn’t enough, what is? Four? Eight? Where can I go that’s that deserted, and still safe? How can I get there and back four times a year without raising suspicion? And what do I do when someone tracks me there anyway?”

D’Artagnan’s voice is rising steadily, and his breath is coming faster. Athos takes him firmly by the shoulders and shakes slightly. This at least has the effect of getting d’Artagnan to look at him instead of staring blindly out into the forest.

“There are other ways to dampen heat,” Athos says, trying to sound confident, though there’s a sour feeling in his own stomach that’s disturbingly like fear. “Suppressants. We can talk to the Captain – ”

“Aramis tried that already,” d’Artagnan says helplessly. “Before he sent me to find an Alpha to spend heat with. The Captain said he’d try, but they were getting harder and harder to get.”

“The Captain gets them every quarter,” Athos says mulishly. “He can make something happen for you.”

“He doesn’t get them every quarter,” d’Artagnan says. “Not anymore. Didn’t you notice?”

Athos freezes. He thinks rapidly back over the past year. D’Artagnan has taken up most of his time, d’Artagnan and Aramis and Porthos. Not to mention his duties as a Musketeer and his work for the Underground. But now that he’s thinking of it…

Treville had gone out of Paris unexpectedly a month ago. An emergency on his estates back on Gascony, he’d said. And three months before that he’d been at his desk as usual. But six months before that had been the training exercise at Loire, unusual for the time of year, and nine months before Treville had been oddly delayed coming back from Le Havre.

“Morts touts les diable,” Athos says softly. He hadn’t noticed. Even knowing the added danger Treville is in with Rochefort’s attention focused on him, even with everything Athos owes Treville, Athos had let himself get so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn’t even realized that Treville’s access to suppressants had been so severely curtailed. His Captain has been in danger and Athos hasn’t noticed it. Has Treville even been able to unite with his mate during those heats, or had he gone through them alone? Which would be worse? Alone Treville is as vulnerable as any Omega. With his mate, he might be safe from garden-variety dangers, but the threat of Rochefort magnifies immensely. Probably best would be for Treville to have gone with other members of his pack. But whom might that be? The Musketeers are the closest thing Treville has to a pack, as far as Athos knows, and Athos is Treville’s second in command. If the Captain hadn’t felt safe enough to ask Athos to go with him, who else would he have asked?

“It’s the same with contraceptives,” d’Artagnan adds. “Aramis doesn’t care, but – ”

D’Artagnan cuts himself off suddenly. Too late. Athos’ attention jerks away from the Captain and back on the Omega next to him.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos asks carefully. “Are you saying that you didn’t bring any contraceptives with you?”

“I brought them with me. I argued, but the Captain insisted I accept them, so I did.”

Athos begins to nod, relieved. Then the precision of d’Artagnan’s word choice catches up to him. “And did you then use them?”

D’Artagnan’s gaze slides away.

“D’Artagnan!”

“Better me than him,” d’Artagnan bursts out. “I asked Aramis. He says Treville’s too old. If he tries to whelp, without medical help, it could kill him. If the Captain can’t even get suppressants regularly, where’s he supposed to get oxytocics? Besides, the Inquisitor is hot enough on our tail already without pups painting Rochefort a bright line!”

Athos boggles. “Aramis knew about this insanity?”

“Aramis thought I was just worried about the Captain. He didn’t know what I was planning to do. And I don’t care what you think either,” d’Artagnan adds, tilting his chin up defiantly. “The Captain will have to take the contraceptives once he knows I haven’t used them. He’ll be fine, and I’ll be – I’ll be fine too, of course.”

“You – you – ” Athos is a taciturn man, but right now all the words he wants to speak jam up behind his tongue. D’Artagnan hadn’t taken any contraceptives. He could be pupped right now. They’d had two peaks together. With d’Artagnan’s overactive heats, who knows what the odds are? And d’Artagnan – what had his plan been? What if Athos hadn’t had feelings for him? What would have become of d’Artagnan and the pups? Athos is sick just thinking about it. D’Artagnan is so young. And he’d had no guarantee Athos wouldn’t reject him. How could d’Artagnan have taken care of them all, if he’d ended up alone?

“D’Artagnan – ”

“Don’t,” d’Artagnan says. Begs. “Athos, please don’t. I know you’re upset, I know you’re hurt. You have every right to be. Especially after – what you said, earlier – please believe me, I had no idea that you’d ever feel that way about me. And I know that this changes everything. You don’t have to court me. You don’t have to do anything. I didn’t do this to try to trap you.”

Athos wants to pace. But that would mean getting up, and he wants to pace less than he needs to be near d’Artagnan right now. He also wants to scream. He oughtn’t to do that, either. It leaves him with no good way to let off the emotions bubbling under his skin.

“Athos – ”

Athos holds up a hand. “Just tell me something,” he says, keeping himself under control with an effort. “Did you really think I wouldn’t care?”

D’Artagnan sets his jaw mulishly. “I thought you’d care,” he says. “About the pups, of course I thought you’d care. But I won’t be reduced to my fertility. And I had no idea you might actually – well.” He shrugs a little, awkward and ashamed.

In the firelight d’Artagnan flickers through a thousand faces at once. The youth he’d been on his first day in Paris, scared and alone and determined. The trial novice, scared and determined and ready to risk everything. The novice, worried about his place in the pack, hardworking and tenacious and stubborn. The barely-fledged Musketeer, unsure and dismayed by Athos’ reserve. The terrified Omega, facing down too-strong heats, a scent that reaches for miles, and no access to the medicine that might help him.

Athos’ own anger slips away in the face of d’Artagnan’s fear. In every memory, behind every mask, d’Artagnan is scared. So many things have changed about him since he’d first set foot in Paris. But not the fear. The fear remains.

And Athos can’t erase d’Artagnan’s fear. No one can do that except d’Artagnan himself. But Athos can do something else, something d’Artagnan won’t accept from anyone else. He can help shoulder it. He can take half of it onto his own shoulders. Athos can promise to stand by d’Artagnan’s side, and face d’Artagnan’s problems alongside him, and give and receive shelter in turn until they both come through into safe harbor.

“Ask me,” Athos says. There’s something reckless in the air between them, something that crackles like thunder. Athos feels brave and daring and eager. He feels young, too. He feels different. He feels renewed. He feels as if all his chances are in front of him still, as if his choices have all come back around to be made again, different, better, stronger.

“Do you care for me?” d’Artagnan demands.

“Yes,” Athos says without hesitation.

“Even without the pups?” His gaze drops, skittering away.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to be with me?”

“Always.”

“Do you want to build a future with me?”

“Forever.”

D’Artagnan looks up. Their gazes catch and hold, desire between them, the fire beside them, the possibilities unfolding before them and stretching off into the horizon.

“Then come on a journey with me,” d’Artagnan says. It’s not a question.

“I will,” Athos answers regardless.

There’s a moment of sheer, fierce joy that crackles in the air like lightning. Then d’Artagnan is in Athos’ arms, or perhaps Athos is in d’Artagnan’s, and their lips are on each other’s, and if either of them needs to breathe they no longer remember it.

D’Artagnan pulls away with a gasp after a few minutes or an eternity. He reaches up and touches his neck. “Is it – can we still – if my heat’s done – ”

“The gland remains active for a few hours after heat,” Athos says breathlessly. “It’s not traditional, but – ”

“I don’t want to be muddled for this,” d’Artagnan says. “I want to remember.”

“I, too,” Athos admits. He doesn’t remember mating with Charlotte. He remembers meeting her, alone and nearly in distress, in the woods of la Fère. He remembers her begging him for help. He remembers climbing the first peak together. But the rest of the heat is a blur, and when they’d both woken up she’d worn his bite already, neither of them remembering the actual mating.

He wants to remember d’Artagnan. He wants to write the memory deep in his soul, indelible as the marks he’ll leave on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Here,” Athos says, tugging them both down onto what’s left of the blankets. They’re somewhat disarranged from the fight, and there are fewer of them now, but it’s enough for softness. “We don’t want to be standing when we do this, believe me.”

“All right,” d’Artagnan agrees, coming willingly. He arranges himself on his side, stretched by the fire, and looks up at Athos through long lashes. “Like this?”

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Athos accuses.

D’Artagnan chuckles. “Yes.”

“Good,” Athos says impulsively. He likes that d’Artagnan wants to be beautiful to him. He wants to always be captivated by d’Artagnan.

Athos drops to his knees, then leans over d’Artagnan. “Tilt your head,” he murmurs. “And take a deep breath.”

D’Artagnan obeys. “I love you,” he says.

“And I you,” Athos promises. He hesitates one final moment, hovering over d’Artagnan’s bared neck, watching the play of firelight over the creamy skin. No one on earth will ever see this sight again.

Then he bites down.

His senses contract, focused on the moment of connection. Then, when d’Artagnan’s blood hits his tongue, they explode outward in a kaleidoscope of sensation. It’s like the pounding of adrenaline after a fight. Like the animal satisfaction of a warm bath or a good meal. Like the pleasant, safe blur of a bottle of Spanish wine and a deep and dreamless sleep.

D’Artagnan cries out. He arches beneath Athos, deliberately or instinctively shoving his shoulder deeper into Athos’ mouth. Athos growls without conscious intent. It reverberates through the forest, a primal cry: he is mine, I am his, and God have mercy on they who dare try to tear us asunder.

Athos’ jaw unlocks. He releases d’Artagnan’s shoulder as gently as possible. Instinct drives him to lick the pinprick wounds. They close almost instantly under his tongue, leaving behind dark marks that look like they’ve been there forever. They’re like old scars in the firelight. Like brands.

D’Artagnan’s eyes are shining wet. He reaches up to touch the marks as soon as Athos withdraws slightly. At the first touch of d’Artagnan’s fingers to his shoulder, the tears in his eyes spill over.

“Oh, beloved,” Athos says, genuinely distressed. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not sad,” d’Artagnan answers, smiling through his tears. “Can’t you tell?”

Athos frowns in distress. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything. The place where Charlotte had lived, next to his heart, is still empty. It’s just as Charlotte had left it. Is something wrong with Athos?

“Shh,” d’Artagnan says. He presses his fingers to Athos’ chest. “Not there. Here.”

And suddenly Athos feels it: a joy so intense it’s almost weightless. D’Artagnan’s joy. It’s not in the same place within Athos’ heart that Charlotte’s bond had lived. Charlotte’s grave is undisturbed, peaceful, a tribute to the mate he’d failed and the young Alpha lord who had loved her, lost her, and died with her in spirit. Athos’ bond with d’Artagnan rests next to it, an addition, not a replacement. And the place it resides is new. It belongs to d’Artagnan alone, and in that place there are no bad memories.

“There,” d’Artagnan whispers. “Do you feel me?”

Athos buries his face in d’Artagnan’s neck again and breathes deep. D’Artagnan smells of love and life and passion and the pups he might even now carry. Best of all is the way the scent is already changing. It’s adding elements of Athos’ scent and losing the rough mongrel edge. Mellowing. Now that d’Artagnan has found a mate, he needn’t smell so strongly. He’ll be safer. It’s the least of the ways Athos plans to protect him.

“I feel you,” Athos whispers.

“And I feel you,” d’Artagnan says. He smiles.

“I love you,” Athos adds. He does. And he will do everything for d’Artagnan that flesh can do. He only hopes –

“I’ll never regret this,” d’Artagnan says shrewdly.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Athos swears, tugging his companion – his mate – close to him.

They drift off to sleep together, surrounded by the warm night, warmer skin, and the dreams they’re sharing between them.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 77 of 138

Round 3

Re: Fill Before you point your finger 34

Re: Fill Unexpected Love 16

Milady/Anne/Constance lady awesomeness

Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Milady/Anne/Constance lady awesomeness

Re: Domestic BroT3 living together at the garrison

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Reign of Fire AU

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Domestic BroT3 living together at the garrison

Fill Roses are red, Violets are blue, Obsession will be the death of you 10

Fill Roses are red, Violets are blue, Obsession will be the death of you 11

Others hear Athos laughing for the first time

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)

Chief Information Gatherer's Days Off

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19a/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19b/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19c/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19d/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Round 3

Re: Fill Before you point your finger 34

Re: Fill Unexpected Love 16

Milady/Anne/Constance lady awesomeness

Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Milady/Anne/Constance lady awesomeness

Re: Domestic BroT3 living together at the garrison

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Reign of Fire AU

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Re: Rochefort torturing aramis for baby confession

Re: Kidnapping rescue attempt/reunion after captivity

Re: Domestic BroT3 living together at the garrison

Fill Roses are red, Violets are blue, Obsession will be the death of you 10

Fill Roses are red, Violets are blue, Obsession will be the death of you 11

Others hear Athos laughing for the first time

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)

Chief Information Gatherer's Days Off

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We&#39;re getting somewhere)

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19a/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19b/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19c/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 19d/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Re: Fill: Cold Comfort 6/? (9-ish? We're getting somewhere)