Work Text:
After the events of the capture and release of Mazarin, d’Artagnan had some weeks before him to sort out the measures of his new situation and to ensure there was to be no recurrence of the various tribulations of the past year, namely his own imprisonment. Aramis had been quick to inform him, through private letter, of Athos’ concerns regarding the oubliettes of Cardinal Richelieu, now in possession of his successor, and while he had shared in laughter over the absurdity of the situation he could not help but recognize both the sincerity of his friend’s fears and the very real fact that, despite the general toothlessness of Mazarin’s bite, there was a chance it could have happened, and still could. He was, in all honestly, likely at more risk now than he had been previously.
Aramis was, thankfully, entirely correct, and d’Artagnan was not rearrested, though he was certain not for lack of evil will from his employer, and Paris slowly returned to its natural state of semi-calm. During this time he wrote his three friends feverishly, eager to reestablish the same level of personal understanding they had enjoyed amongst themselves all those years ago, and for the most part they indulged him. Athos was of course he to whom d’Artagnan wrote the most. He could not wait to see him again to ask all the questions in his heart, and he knew that if he tried he would forget them all, or invent so many new ones as to bury the old. D’Artagnan was, however, far more pragmatic than in his youth, and so his writings contained mostly small and efficient things; assuring him of the safety of his and Raoul’s position under the regime, updates regarding the settling of the people back to their daily lives, and details of his own life intended to draw from his companion reciprocal revelations.
By the time his first leave was permitted, d’Artagnan knew about the history of Athos’ family home in La Fere, about how he had moved there with the infant Raoul in tow, about his land dealings and his leadership of the small community surrounding him, and various other minor details which would have bored him to tears from any other man but which in Athos’ case he devoured. Athos had, he knew, indulged him with this, still as taciturn and private a man as ever, particularly through the mail, but d’Artagnan had reserved his most honest speech for an honest meeting, and he spent the ride bursting with thoughts, sometimes pushing his horse to the limits in an effort to keep up with his racing heart, sometimes plodding in deep, somber silence.
Athos’ household greeted him with a respect and hospitality he knew had been ordered of them. D’Artagnan could hardly appreciate it, though he did take notice, because his mind and body drew themselves to what lay inside the estate so powerfully he was almost sick with it. He knew when Athos met him at the door without being called how justified this feeling was, and the anxiety of his journey melted in his friend’s arms. They held one another, and they kissed, and Athos had murmured joyfully into his hair, “It’s good to see you, my boy.”
After that the hours flew by with how they talked. Athos showed him around his home a second time, walking slowly arm in arm as he discussed things small and large. D’Artagnan marveled at the ease he felt, and how perfectly Athos filled his role here, standing amidst his gardens with the quiet nobility of an Olympian god. He still did not divulge much personal about the time before they had first met. D’Artagnan did not expect him to. The life of that man had ended, and Athos was born anew from what remained. He pointed out his ancestor’s portraits and answered questions when asked, but it was clear that such things were regarded with an almost alien perception, distant and revered. He wanted to know of d’Artagnan’s achievements under the late king and under the current, unfortunate, administration, which d’Artagnan rather stiffly enumerated. Somehow, it all felt small and ugly to repeat in this context, despite Athos’ quiet lack of judgment. He could not think of a single battle fought or intrigue won that seemed important now, beside Athos, who had seen all manner of excitement with him before. Though his stories were often repeated by soldiers new and old with wondrous excitement in Paris, he could only think of what may be done in the future, freed, he hoped, from the dull obscurity to which he had been banished in years past.
After dinner they sat in silence, simply enjoying one another’s company. Athos still smoked, and d’Artagnan drank, watching him puff little clouds into the evening light. Given time to truly admire his companion without imminent danger, d’Artagnan could only feel that he had somehow grown yet more beautiful in their time apart. The ravages of his faults melted away, Athos’ sharp features had deepened majestically, his mustache and beard clean and his eyes clear. He was every bit the man he had been at thirty, but washed of the grime of his pain. D’Artagnan was moved so powerfully by the thought that he had to restrain himself from reaching to press his hands.
“I still find myself wondering if this is a dream.”
Athos looked up at him with a questioning air. D’Artagnan chewed his lip nervously, but did not break his gaze.
“Sitting with you, in this manner. I admit that I’ve dreamt of it often.”
Sighing out a dragon’s breath, Athos cast his grey eye to the fireplace.
“My dear, I cannot tell you how many times I myself imagined the same thing.”
He was quiet for a moment, before offering d’Artagnan a small, sad smile.
“Perhaps we dreamed it at once, together, and in this way God returned us to one another in spirit.”
D’Artagnan could not bear that smile, that softness, that wound in Athos’ bleeding heart that wept with endless sorrow. With a fury of impulse he had not been subject to in perhaps all the time they had been apart, he leapt from his chair, prostrating himself before Athos, grasping one delicate, pale hand and bringing it to his lips voraciously. Athos drew back, not in horror but in a sort of breathlessness, as if d’Artagnan had stolen the air from his lungs as their eyes locked. D’Artagnan kissed his hand, his fingers one by one, the peaks of his knuckles, still so soft and smooth, then his wrist, where the lace of his sleeves did little to prevent his lips from finding his forearms. Without sound, he spoke words of devotion into Athos’ flesh, deeply, longingly, desperately.
“My dear boy,” said Athos with a soft cushion of wonder, and d’Artagnan sighed voluptuously against him, suddenly soft and tender inside his sharp angles.
“Athos,” he breathed, eyes wide and lustrous, “will you have me again?”
To speak it made his heart jump in terror, and he saw his emotion reflected in Athos’ eyes, soothed in a moment by his pulling d’Artagnan up halfway into his lap and to his lips, kissing him with full, open warmth.
“My love, my love. You honor me.”
They clung to one another like drowning men, like they had escaping the doomed vessel that had brought them part of the way home from their torturous journey to England, but here their bodies were warm and dry by the fireside and the sound of the cruel sea was replaced by the soft gasps and sighs of the bliss fostered between them. It was not until d’Artagnan attempted to properly seat himself in Athos’ lap that he was stopped by a hand upon his breast.
“Come.”
With the lightness of a sleepwalker, d’Artagnan followed Athos from the room to the hall, up stairs and down corridors and into the den of his beloved. Athos’ quarters in Paris had been the home of a ghost; sterile, stately but empty, a forgotten tomb whose occupant yet walked. His chateau at la Fere was so unlike it that at first d’Artagnan had been unable to believe in its reality, still troubled by his doubtful visions of the man he adored reduced to poverty and sickness by the demons with whom he consorted, but now that he observed it in a more natural manner the signs of Athos were illuminated clearly. He saw within these walls the same grace, the same nobility, the same ordered honesty that made up the gentleman before him, whose blood was as old as the land around them. No longer was this veritable castle the haunt of uncertainty – it was Athos, and so it was to d’Artagnan a home.
Moonlight streamed through the curtains across lush ancient carpets to meet with the warm glow of the fireplace, lit in advance by some attentive servant on an order d’Artagnan had not noticed being given. The austere posts of the bed rose like the columns of a temple before him, drawing d’Artagnan in with the esoteric mists of an unknowable power, imposingly Uranian. Athos led him on to worship.
They kissed again as the door closed, hands held together and chests pressed tight. D’Artagnan’s doublet was cinched at the waist by a sash, which Athos easily undid, the silk fluttering like a ribbon to their feet. His buttons seemed to undo themselves while d’Artagnan coaxed at Athos’ collar, still knowing after so long to allow Athos the initiative, handing himself over eagerly. When this obstacle fell away too Athos’ hands found his breasts immediately, peaked from the cold behind the thin veil of his shirt, and he arched his chest into the touch sighing joyfully against Athos’ mouth.
“Tell me what you want of me,” d’Artagnan breathed into him, as close as he could be, “Ask anything of me and I will obey. Please.”
Athos separated them so that he could look at d’Artagnan’s face fully, and d’Artagnan could not mourn the loss of their close embrace when he saw the pride that shone before him. Athos was not a man who expressed emotional freely, but in their time together d’Artagnan had devoted himself to the deciphering of even the most minute of his physical reactions. He knew what every turn of the wrist or twitch of the brow symbolized and he hung upon each turn of the lip or flex of the jaw. None of that was needed now, however, not when Athos presented to him an open look of earnest adoration, unguarded and glimmering with the unspoken. It struck d’Artagnan again how beautiful his friend was, washed clean of the drink that had so often despoiled his majesty, and he was so moved in that moment that he thought he may collapse and weep.
“Is such a thing truly still your desire?”
Throwing his arms around Athos’ neck, d’Artagnan spoke every word as a kiss upon his lips.
“More than anything, my beloved Athos; more than I crave food or drink or air, more than I can say to you in any Earthly language. It is not desire, it is need, as the grass needs the sun. I have wilted without you, dear Athos! Order me, command me, take control of my body, for it is yours just as much as my heart.”
“My boy,” Athos murmured, and they lost themselves in one another’s mouths again.
Athos returned to massaging d’Artagnan’s small breasts through the fabric of his shirt, and as he did so d’Artagnan’s arms wove between his and rested delicately upon the buttons of his own doublet.
“May I,” d’Artagnan asked between kisses, “Monsieur?”
“You may.”
It was impressive how he managed to suppress his hunger. D’Artagnan’s skilled fingers undid him with speedy meticulousness, distinctly practiced in the art of removing formal dress as a man of the means and vanity to wear it but not to own a valet. As dedicated as Planchet was, d’Artagnan could not hold him as a poor man in good conscious forever, something Athos approved of but regretted for him. Often he had thought of the poverty of d’Artagnan as he sat within his chateau, wishing with longing fervency that he might support him with gifts as would a proper lover, even if he saw him not – but that would be an insult to d’Artagnan’s pride graver than he could bear to deal.
This was not the kind of thinking that absorbed d’Artagnan as he nudged Athos’ doublet from his shoulders, graciously accepting the assistance as Athos released his teats long enough to doff the sleeves. He had seen Athos enough in their time together to know that his strength had not waned, but it was another thing to be permitted to feel him like this, at a time where he was not distracted by bullets and threats. In his fifties Athos was no less the masculine presence d’Artagnan had known him as, solidly built and nobly bred into a shape that was irresistibly handsome beneath his fingers. He could feel how Athos’ muscles gently flexed with each movement, the rise and dip of his pectorals, and upon them the small hills of his flattened breasts. Neither of them were particularly well endowed in the chest, but Athos in particular had apparently bound and beaten himself back as he aged to the point that his profile hardly showed his nature at all. Due to this he felt very little in the area, but d’Artagnan loved him regardless, enamored by his small nipples just as Athos enjoyed his large and dark pair. Boldly, half drunkenly, d’Artagnan leaned down to Athos’ chest, nuzzling aside the ribbon hanging about his lace collar, and pressed his lips to his breastbone until the fabric was mottled with wet spots.
Grunting softly, Athos twisted the fabric between his fingers to pinch d’Artagnan’s tits just enough to send an edge of pain zinging through his abdomen.
“Take this off,” he breathed gruffly.
“All of it.”
Nodding enthusiastically, d’Artagnan straightened, moaning as Athos gave him another lingering before relinquishing his hold. Too long had he waited for this, the total, easy ownership of his body Athos possessed, and he showed little decorum in undoing the ties on his breeches and shedding them in a loose heap over his bootcuffs, followed right after by his shirt. Barely had he time to shuffle down his shoes and kick them aside before Athos was back upon him, taking him by the hips and holding him steady.
“Beautiful,” he said, with such an abiding passion in his voice that d’Artagnan again felt sick with love of him.
“Athos,” he said, “please, please show me yourself as well. I beg you as I would no other.”
Smiling his fey smile, Athos began his own, far steadier undressing. D’Artagnan watched with rapt attention. He no longer had the blessed lack of self-awareness young men did, and the long-winded professions of poetic adulation remained spoken only in the soul, but he did not need to ramble for Athos to recognize how happy he was, or how wet. When Athos was in only his shirt and hose, d’Artagnan’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of a slight convexity at his groin.
Then, he was naked, and d’Artagnan fell to his knees.
Athos was as a statue, ageless and timeless in his perfection. His hands and feet had not widened with work, nor grown lined with veins, still as smooth and graceful as a doll’s. His musculature showed comfortably through his soft skin, and the old scars d’Artagnan used to spend hours mapping remained light and almost ornamental upon him, as embroidery on a gown. Though time had rounded his sharp features some, it did not detract from their majesty, the gauntness of vice trimmed away to reveal only the lush comeliness beneath. There were some new marks upon him, light and fluid around his stomach and hips, but they were so pale that he could not be certain if they were scars or merely the path of age upon him. Athos was to d’Artagnan a thing of such unimaginable loveliness, such bountiful wisdom and kindness, that at times he wondered if he had dreamed him, conjured his form in memories unreal when at his most alone; yet, here he was, naked and brilliant before him.
And oh, how he was naked. Athos’ chest stood proudly, dusted lightly with pale hairs that matched the ashy brown of his handsome locks. Between his legs he was as d’Artagnan remembered, if not more so – the thicket of his pubic hair parting gently where his cock rose, pink and dignified, from the lips of his modest labia, far thicker and longer than any other such prick d’Artagnan had laid eyes upon. Nature itself had recognized Athos and molded into life the tool of his passions to fit him accordingly. Even though arousal only just began to rise in him, Athos was already prominent, the round head nosing from his hood with a glimmer of wetness.
“May I suck your cock Athos,” said d’Artagnan with such a grave timber that it implied the declining of this request would result in his immediate expiration. Smiling with the utmost fondness, Athos said, “Come here, come here.”
D’Artagnan was at his feet in an instant, wrapping his arms around Athos’ legs and pressing his cheek to him in an adoring embrace. Simply touching his bare skin was so powerfully erotic that d’Artagnan could feel his cunt open, a rush of fluid spilling from him in thick, hot droplets. He could not say that Athos was unchanged, but only in as much as one could describe the change in silver polished or a gem shined. His scent was still recognizable, but now only the human parts of it remained, the alcohol and the grit and the blood washed away. It was as if he had known the smell of his lover only through a veil until now, and he was all of a sudden released of this constraint, given access to ardor’s spoor in complete purity.
In fact, every facet of Athos’ being was somehow enhanced, though d’Artagnan, always pragmatic, admitted in some part of himself that this may have simply been due to the long time apart and the joy of reunion. Athos’ skin was softer and firmer than ever, his touch more sweet and tender, his voice stronger and yet more melodic. When d’Artagnan turned his lips to Athos’ thigh, even his taste was divine, and for a moment d’Artagnan was almost distracted from his end goal by the simple pleasure of being close, of being able to finally again find himself totally enveloped in Athos. In that same state of pleasure d’Artagnan knew that he needed to return this favor of enjoyment to Athos, to envelop him in kind, wrap himself around Athos and let him know that he was again his.
Of course, his desired method of enveloping was not the same as what he expected from Athos, and imagining it had him throb with another empty pang. That was enough to spur d’Artagnan to shift his attentions back to mouthing along Athos’ firm abdomen to where the hair grew thicker and the scent deeper. No amount of passions could scrub out his training, and, as taught, d’Artagnan paused, mouthing still at the rise of Athos’ pubic mount, and turned his large eyes upwards to seek the command he needed.
Athos was looking down on him, smiling. In response to d’Artagnan’s stare, he let one hand fall upon the crown of his head as one might pet a dog.
“To the bed, my dear boy.”
D’Artagnan scrambled to comply, remembering where they were as if part-way waking from a dream. He was pulling his way back onto the luxuriously stuffed comforter before he had time to register his own movements, as if his body and mind were out of sync. He didn’t care. He was a whirl of hyper focused sensations and absent notations on his surroundings; the moonlight’s angle making clear the time, the number of logs remaining in the fireplace and how long they would last before needing replenishment, Athos’ measured breaths swelling in his chest, the pile of personal papers on the writing desk that looked to be organized into neat piles composing one massive project, Athos’ cock already half hard without being touched, the call of a female night owl in the yard, that he had forgotten to remove his hose and they were still neatly ribboned mid-thigh but that he was not going to have time to remove them before Athos’ frighteningly quick approach erased all other thoughts from his brain.
Pulling them both to the middle of the mattress, Athos laid d’Artagnan underneath himself so that they were all stretched out together, stomach to stomach, breasts pressed close, the heat of their cunts mingling. D’Artagnan clung to every inch of flesh he was able as Athos kissed down his throat and chest, sucking his tits till each shone with saliva before he began again to move.
“Lay back.”
Recognizing immediately what was coming, d’Artagnan eagerly shuffled on to his side, watching with a kind of awe as Athos turned his strong back to him for a moment before bedding down himself. They fit themselves together quickly, thighs parted about the other’s head so that they each found before them the treasure of their desires.
“Suck,” was all Athos needed to say. D’Artagnan had his mouth to Athos’ cock before he could breathe. Burying himself in between his friend’s legs, he lapped indulgently across him, from tip to base and occasionally fully down the slit of his cunt, gathering as much of him back across his tongue as he was capable. His arousal was thick against his pallet and twice as intoxicating as any wine d’Artagnan had ever tasted. He was so immediately immersed in the primal pleasure of sucking Athos that d’Artagnan had almost entirely forgotten that he too was exposed and within the line of fire until Athos descended upon him.
Where d’Artagnan’s attentions were direct and flattering, Athos in this as with all things commanded. He lapped hot down d’Artagnan’s cunt, swirling about his clit with the dexterity of a finger before plunging without hesitation inside him. At the same time his hands moved to spread d’Artagnan’s legs wider, creeping in to tug his pussy open. D’Artagnan moaned around him, launching into a desperate effort to earn what Athos gave him. Athos’ cock sat perfectly on his tongue, which he used to rub across every inch in rhythmic patterns, twitching lightly with enjoyment when he managed to stimulate the right spots just so. His own cunt in turn was lavished attention on, sucked marvelously well. When Athos focused upon his clit it was heavenly, particularly as he added the attentions of his fingers to the places his mouth abandoned, teasing the mouth of his hole as his bud was engulfed in wet heat. Every time he sighed or moaned his pleasure Athos would apply his teeth just so, gently scraping or nipping, tugging at his labia or menacing his clitoris in a manner that very quickly had d’Artagnan flowing with an apparently endless river of ecstasy.
They moved in tandem, pressed as closely as they could manage while allowing access to the necessary portions of their bodies. D’Artagnan was all but glued to Athos, sucking him with such abandon that his own saliva overflowed the seal of his lips and soaked his beard and mustache into a glistening mess. When one, then frighteningly quickly two, of Athos’ fingers worked their way inside of him, there was a sense of familiar correctness to it that had tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. D’Artagnan had not been celibate during their time apart, but there was no one whose touch could compare to that of Athos; from the confidant manner of his caresses to their firm but gentle nature to the unparalleled nobility of his construction, Athos had a manner of caring for him no other came even close to replicating, even he himself when attempting to soothe the lonely ache between his legs.
Athos’ hands were as if a part of his sex, as intrinsically linked to the nature of his eroticism as his mouth and his cock. Unlike d’Artagnan’s wide, tough fingers that approached all acts as work, Athos manipulated him as if employed in the creation of a great art, weaving the fibers of d’Artagnan’s being into something of greater substance than he could have dared attempt on his own. Currently he was stroking up against the pressure point at the top of his cunt, stimulating from the inside what his tongue did from the out. The way his fingers curled back was as if coaxing the orgasm out of him. Despite his age, d’Artagnan’s excitement was so great that he felt close to crisis with an almost shocking quickness, and he found himself attempting to repay Athos’ efforts by redoubling his own, loudly sucking him until he was light headed.
Knowing already, Athos huffed against him, the warm air of his smile enough to draw a deep and needy sigh from d’Artagnan.
“Do you want to cum, d’Artagnan?”
Frustrated by his own body, d’Artagnan did not reply. His tongue massaged Athos against the roof of his mouth, wanting more than anything to do well by him.
“My boy,” Athos purred, kissing at him, “you do, don’t you? It’s alright. Let yourself go.”
Frowning around his mouthful, d’Artagnan grunted in dissent, but Athos continued to toy with him, pulling him closer to the edge of ecstasy.
“Athos,” he finally said, “I want to make you cum. I want… I want you to use me.”
“Oh, I will use you.”
D’Artagnan’s entire body was struck with eroticism so harsh he felt sick.
“Athos!”
He rubbed his cheek against Athos’ thigh like a child seeking comfort.
“We have all the time in the world,” Athos said, pulling at his insides.
“You will stay in my bed until I permit you to leave it, should that time ever come.”
D’Artagnan clamped so hard around his fingers that a lesser man would have been shocked. Athos frigged him harder.
“Please,” d’Artagnan groaned, trying to get Athos back into his mouth between moans.
“Cum for me,” Athos purred, leaning back in for another lingering suck.
D’Artagnan orgasmed instantly, hips jerking in a surprising slip of self control. Even as he came undone, he managed to take Athos’ cock between his lips, granting him the benefits of his desperate moans as rhythmic shocks of pleasure rocked him one after another. It was so great a sensation that he was trapped by it for some minutes, writhing and clinging to Athos’ hips as the tumult of his ecstasy battered him from all sides. Through it all Athos continued to suck and finger him, patiently wringing as much pleasure out of him as was possible until d’Artagnan lay shaking in his arms, spent and tender.
When he pulled away, strings of saliva and cyprine glazed his chin, which he gathered between his fingers and swallowed. D’Artagnan, watching, still in the clutches of aftershocks, groaned.
“Good boy.”
If d’Artagnan could have cum again right then, he would have. Athos smiled at him with his eyes.
“Athos,” d’Artagnan said, voice low and ragged, “I meant what I said.”
“As did I, my dear.”
But when d’Artagnan went to suck at him again, Athos pulled back, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Rolling on to his stomach, d’Artagnan crawled forward, watching with an almost embarrassed anxiety as Athos brushed back his hair, breathing carefully, cock still jutting forth hard. With the moonlight white as his back but the fire glowing red on his face, he appeared as some kind of dangerous angel, gazing judgment down upon d’Artagnan, naked and cold in the bed.
“I would like to fuck you, d’Artagnan,” he said.
“Would you like that?”
“Yes!”
Squirming forward, d’Artagnan made as if to stand and follow him, but Athos held out a hand urging patience.
“Do you want my cock inside of you?”
“Yes, Athos, yes!”
Thrumming with excitement, d’Artagnan watched Athos move to his desk, retrieve a key, and then pad to a large armoire at the back of the room, taking in every detail voraciously. Inside, Athos retrieved a smaller chest, ornately wrought and too locked, which he brought back to the desk to place and slowly open. Turning to make clear d’Artagnan’s viewpoint, Athos displayed to him the velvet interior, molded specially to hold a fine array of weapons d’Artagnan remembered all too well. Just the sight had him clenching again, remembering Athos’ fingers, wet and empty. He must have been obvious in his enthusiasm, because Athos’ brow rose in delicate amusement.
“Which of these would you like tonight? I have kept them all in pristine condition, I assure you; as mementos, at first, as I believed I would have no more use for them. I must admit, however, that this past month I had them all inspected and restored.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes were like dinner plates.
“May I?”
When Athos nodded, d’Artagnan slid from the bed to the floor, not on his feet but on all fours, uncaring as his hose rubbed at the knee, crawling to Athos, wanting him to know how badly he needed this. His orgasm now felt as if it had been nothing but an appetizer, wonderful but nowhere near filling, what he really needed. Approaching Athos’ feet, d’Artagnan rose up on his haunches, squatting as Athos went to stroke his hair.
“Choose for me whatever you like, Monsieur,” he purred, eyeing what he could see from this angle.
“I will accept whatever I am given gladly.”
Charmed, Athos nodded, and from the box withdrew a leather harness. Simply hearing the buckles jingle was aphrodisiac to d’Artagnan, who was visibly beginning to drip. The process of Athos adorning himself was all the foreplay d’Artagnan had ever needed; simply watching with rapt attention as the straps tightened upon Athos’ pale skin, coming to encircle his legs and hang around his hips, the ring perched neatly in place waiting for its lance to be mounted.
“Your trust in me is moving,” Athos said, withdrawing and affixing to himself a beautifully carved ivory phallus. It was an older one, one that d’Artagnan did indeed remember from their time spent together fifteen years ago, one whose carefully wrought ridges would grind against him in the most exquisite manner.
“Of course I trust you,” said d’Artagnan with a force that made Athos hesitate, remembering how, not so long ago, he had stood in this room on a warm night regretting fiercely the lie he had told to the man sleeping a room above. They both remembered, and their eyes met.
Before Athos spoke, d’Artagnan crept forward, leaning in to press a kiss to the head of his dildo, eyelids fluttering closed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Thank you for giving me such pleasure, Monsieur.”
Athos rubbed against his lips slowly, encouraging more kisses to peck sweetly along the shaft. It was yet another sign that d’Artagnan had not forgotten him, a response trained so well into him that he was incapable of letting slide the etiquette of worshiping the tools used to manipulate him. How often had he been in this position, on his knees, lips pressed to the cock, to the hand, to the whip, the paddle, the birch, anything and everything Athos would subject him to, lavishing his love upon even the cruelest of instruments brandished against him because he knew that Athos used them only with love, to teach and to correct, to please and to inspire? D’Artagnan, now older, harder, unshakably certain, did not offer his trust, but insisted upon it.
Reaching for him, Athos pulled d’Artagnan to his feet and kissed him firmly. The cock was pressed between them, hard as stone, and d’Artagnan wished he could place it between his thighs as they entwined their tongues but he was too short and could only dream of how it would feel as it prodded his belly. Again they danced back to the bed and he fell upon it willingly, spreading his legs as he did so, but Athos wanted him not over the side but further up, head placed upon the pillows, and d’Artagnan felt an odd urge to cry because it was not just fucking when they lay like this.
“I waited for you,” he gasped out, surprising them both, quick and nervous as if holding off a moment longer would prevent him from managing it.
“I waited, but I did not always behave myself.”
Athos did not show surprise or anger. Serene and sad, he bent his pale neck to press their foreheads together, his waves of long hair enveloping their faces in a curtain of darkness. D’Artagnan, as Leda, was helpless in his submission to this divine swan.
“I did not expect you to,” said Athos kindly, “and I could never have wanted you to. My desire was to free you from me, wholly and completely.”
“Impossible,” said d’Artagnan, rising up to meet him for a kiss. His entire body was surging towards Athos as if drawn to him by the same invisible force that drew the cosmos along, God’s hand at his back. His confession freed him, in part, because he had known Athos would not have any illusions regarding his behavior and yet they had not spoken of it. They had not spoken of so many things, but they lay belly to belly, Athos’ cock between them, in bed, by the fire, in a private universe. In an almost deliriously juvenile moment of fantastic conceit, d’Artagnan felt the weightless rush of love that he had at eighteen, a feeling that denied reality to anything but the moment, the warmth of Athos in his arms, the pleasure of their closeness. He did not care for anything else; not his name or his title, not his purse or his lodgings, not the king and not France. This was the passion that he had crossed oceans for, that had made him enemies whose whims could crush countries gladly, that he would crawl naked through the fire of Hell for without fear. There was again four walls to protect him and a roof overhead, food in the pantry and rain in the fields. If called upon he would throw away his life to live in poverty at the feet of his beloved and regret nothing.
But d’Artagnan was a man of prudence as great as his passion, and he could not help but murmur, “and you too, my Athos, found comfort away from my arms.”
He shifted languidly, not quite gesturing to the world outside their silken cocoon. His fingers traced Athos’ stomach, those little white lines.
“Raoul did not spring from your garden fully formed.”
There was no anger in his tone, but Athos retreated enough to see his face in full and to take in the hesitancy displayed thereupon. The thought that d’Artagnan was jealous crossed his thoughts – never before during their relationship had such a threat been necessary to consider. D’Artagnan had his fancies, and Athos tolerated them, provided they were had in honesty and fairness to him, but he himself had eyes for no other. Though d’Artagnan spoke often in light banter of how his friend’s beauty and poise made him eligible for the affections of kings and queens alike, no such conditions ever arose. Only now, like this, did the concept come to find its hold upon reality, distant and yet bearing permanent fruit.
However, it was not jealousy that he perceived in d’Artagnan’s expressive gaze, but fear, and Athos at once knew that he had been remiss to allow this uncertainty take root between them. He had lied to d’Artagnan when they were first reconnected, a guilt that still gnawed its acrid teeth against his belly when he thought of it, and though d’Artagnan insistently trusted him, it was a trust that now carried the potential of pain. This was the hazard of true adult life, and in his own way Athos found himself drawn back to the mind of a younger man, of himself when he first was given the gift of d’Artagnan’s adoration and how precious a thing it was, and then yet further back, to when he himself had been innocent and trusting.
“There was no passion in his making. My love for Raoul was born with him, not before. This I promise to you with whole and complete honesty.”
D’Artagnan relaxed back against the sheets, a black ghost in the shadows of firelight, but there was more.
“Raoul is fifteen years of age,” he said.
Athos closed his eyes.
“I was not a good man to you then, d’Artagnan. I was a drunk, and selfish.”
“It happened before you left,” d’Artagnan intuited.
“It did, but I did not know it yet when I retired. Only a month passed between then and when I left Paris for the last time.”
“You remember the date exactly?” d’Artagnan asked, more sharply than he had intended.
“A penitent man remembers well his mistakes,” said Athos.
D’Artagnan’s brows furrowed, and his upper lip trembled slightly. He could not hold Athos’ clear gaze, flicking his eyes about, in pain.
“Were you hurt?” he asked.
“Oh, d’Artagnan.”
Cupping his face in both hands, Athos kissed him on his eyelids and his nose and his forehead, a deep tearing in his heart.
“No, no, my boy, I was not hurt, not by that. I was wounded, but I had been for years, and that night I only hurt myself. Myself, and you.”
Shuddering with emotion, d’Artagnan reached for him again, pulling him in close and wishing he did not feel so much like weeping. He would have to tease out his thoughts later, but his emotions he knew.
“I forgive you,” he said firmly.
“You do not have to,” said Athos.
“I do so anyways,” d’Artagnan replied, and kissed Athos’ mouth again.
They shifted against one another, and for a moment that was all it was. D’Artagnan’s forgiveness was not passive though and soon his grasp became a cage, legs clutching at Athos’ hips, mouth open and insistent.
“I will never hurt you again, d’Artagnan.”
Athos cupped his neck, sliding fingers over his breast.
“I would rather plunge my sword through my own chest than to misuse your heart.”
“You may hurt anything but my heart,” d’Artagnan hissed.
“I want to be yours in every way again, Monsieur, and even more than before. I give you all of me, every part, in honesty and truth, and I always will. You know that I will. I cannot change what I am, what you have made me, and I would too rather find myself destroyed than to attempt it-! Oh! Oh! Athos, Monsieur, my dearest, fuck me! Please! My God!”
Athos had dipped his head to mouth between d’Artagnan’s breasts and as he did so grasped his cock, lining it up with the flushed and twitching mouth of d’Artagnan’s pussy. Having not taken another inside in some time now, d’Artagnan was tight, an attribute retained by thin hips and strong musculature, but he spread around Athos wonderfully, taking him even as the stretch burned and craving yet more. D’Artagnan’s body rocked, rising into Athos, urging him onward, his lips parting in a lascivious sigh. Still, Athos was careful in his approach, pausing when d’Artagnan’s body resisted too greatly and withdrawing some, only to return and take further ground. With a series of rolling thrusts he bottomed out, their hips meeting as he sucked a bruise into d’Artagnan’s chest.
“My love,” Athos crooned, “you are so wonderful.”
D’Artagnan moaned quietly, gazing at him with unabashed adoration. He had not been filled so well in years, far too long, and he squeezed down meaningfully, desiring to flatter Athos as much as he was able. Despite the dildo being an object separate from Athos’ flesh and blood, he moved as if he had a real connection with it, teasing out d’Artagnan’s weak points one by one. D’Artagnan himself had practice with such a device, desiring a different place in the bed of his various conquests than that he took with Athos, and he knew well how time and attention gradually attuned one to the minute gestures inside a partner, how one could grow to feel the dildo as a part of their own body. Even so, he was still in awe of Athos’ mastery of the art, seemingly not at all dulled by the years of inactivity since their last encounter.
No time was spent waiting for d’Artagnan to adjust, which was as he desired, craving the burn of his body being forcefully opened up. The ridges did indeed feel as incredible as he had remembered, particularly as Athos lifted his hips to the correct angle to ensure they ground against the top of his pussy just right. Together they rocked back and forth, already perfectly in sync and giving to the other exactly what was needed as if it was their nature and not the product of hours of long sessions of training. D’Artagnan was free with his voice because he knew Athos loved it, lavishing praise upon him in a melodic series of sighs and groans and little phrases of love. Athos held him firmly, so that d’Artagnan could feel the strength in his hands and know he was within his control.
His earlier orgasm and Athos’ remaining saliva had d’Artagnan soaking, and the noise he made as Athos moved within him was obscene. The stretch was intense, but the glide of their movements was easy, and very soon they were fucking with wild abandon, hard and fast. Athos had already been in his thirties when they first met and so d’Artagnan had never known him in his sloppy teenage years, had only ever known him as a man well versed in the art of sex, but he himself had needed much education. The signs of what he was to be were there, but he had bloomed fully and was now gratified in being allowed to show it, to display to Athos how he could approach with more patience and skill and accept without selfishness. Even then it was not enough, for he found himself repeating through his cries the words, “I am yours, I am yours!”
“I know,” Athos replied, cradling him in his arms, “my beautiful, perfect d’Artagnan. My wonderful boy.”
Rolling his hips in a rapid staccato, he leaned in to kiss d’Artagnan, pressing their foreheads together and breathing in his lover’s rhapsody.
“You may touch yourself,” he whispered, and d’Artagnan’s heart hurt terribly with love as he realized Athos was growing close. Offering himself up, d’Artagnan angled his hips back and reached between them, quickly finding his hard little clit and beginning to rub at it hurriedly.
“I’m going to cum again, Monsieur,” he ground out, tongue flicking between his teeth.
“Oh, Athos, I am so full-! You’re so good to me, Athos!”
Athos rode him hard, face drawing tight and focused. D’Artagnan laid his thighs wide open and clung to Athos’ shoulders, inviting him in as deeply as he might manage.
“I missed you so terribly, Athos! All these years, how I wanted you! I love you, I love you, my Monsieur, my husband-!”
The use of this title had the both of them groaning in mutual pleasure, weightless because of it. In an act of amorous retaliation, Athos cradled him close and, sliding in hard and deep, growled softly, “Say that again for me, dearest d’Artagnan. Call me what I am as you cum for me, my little wife.”
D’Artagnan jerked and let out a harsh cry, swept by Athos’ request directly into orgasm.
“Athos, my husband, my-!”
He could not finish, but he did not have to. His body curled in against Athos, tight and kinetic with his spend, so powerful that it was as if he were seized by some great malady, some possession, no longer the master of his own form, and in many ways he was; Athos had again lay claim to him, returned to what was his all those years ago, body and soul and heart alike, writing their love back into one singular phrase whose separation rendered both sides meaningless. Fucking him yet more vigorously, Athos raised him through it, rocking shock after shock of ecstasy into him until d’Artagnan’s face was streaked with his own happy tears and his limbs lay weak around them, sapped of all their strength in the face of love’s majesty.
It was not until he was certain he had wrung the very last drop of orgasm from him that Athos stopped, and in a flurry of excitement undid the buckles keeping the strap upon his hips, freeing himself. D’Artagnan, hardly sensible yet never inattentive, watched Athos reveal again his flesh and blood and take himself to hand.
“Athos,” he croaked, reaching for him, “allow me, please. Please.”
Athos hunched forward, grabbing d’Artagnan’s hand and bringing it to himself, and as soon as he had d’Artagnan had his cock between his fingers and was frigging it with an expertise that heavily juxtaposed his exhausted appearance. It was only a few strokes before Athos’ hips were pumping against him, cumming with a deep, relieved exhalation. They collapsed together, fingers finding and absently caressing one another’s sex as the passion of their union encircled them like sun painted clouds. Athos on one side, d’Artagnan on the other, they were little more than a tangle of limbs and lips and heartbeats, glowing.
After, as they lay so enmeshed, melded into one being, their breaths one air upon the pillow, Athos spoke suddenly.
“I left because I found myself dreaming of doing something terrible.”
D’Artagnan, who had been so soothed by their coupling as to be in a near somnambulous state, opened his eyes, black pearls in the night, frighteningly beautiful.
“I had this dream so often that I knew it was imperative I left, before my fantasies somehow pierced the veil of night to day and became true.”
Not saying anything, d’Artagnan cupped his cheek. Athos smiled sadly.
“You think that I mean some harm against myself, but I do not. Unfortunately, my visions were of a crime far worse in the law of man and God. I dreamed of hurting you.”
There was visible shock on d’Artagnan’s features, though without any fear. He parted his lips but Athos did not allow him to interject.
“I did not imagine such things out of a malice, you must understand, not from a hatred or an anger inside of me, nor were they creations of a mind addled with a lust, as you might imagine. It was out of love that I would hurt you, love so cowardly and so selfish that it was despicable to me, and yet I could do nothing to stop its growth within my breast, a cancer fed by drink and battle-weariness and age.”
Here he did pause, pulling d’Artagnan’s palm to his lips so that he might kiss it, far more tenderly than any lover kissed that of his mistress. Stirred, d’Artagnan remained silent, remembering, with an almost shameful clarity, the night he had pulled his drunken Athos from the store room at the inn all those years ago and had heard, for the first time in his life, a story that shattered his understanding of the world. He felt quite as he did then, small and new before the majesty of this man whose inner life was so rich and so private and so utterly terrifying.
“I have sometimes wondered,” Athos continued, muffled only slightly by kisses, “what the circumstances were that had my soul placed within this body upon my birth. I have faith that we are born without flaws, intended to be as we are, made in His image in all its multitudes, but no man is above questioning the plan intended for his form, particularly when that form comes shaped uniquely. It was you who brought me true understanding, in this and so many other mysteries.”
There was something so grave in his tone that d’Artagnan, still so warm from mating, became cold at the core. He at once wanted to further embrace Athos, as if his breast might suppress what he was to say next entirely out of existence, but remained painfully still, captured by Athos’ severity.
“If I was able, I would have destroyed you. I know this, without question. Some dark night, or some early morning, some lonely hour in which evil came into my heart with the ease that silence brings, I would have forced a child upon you. I would have you pregnant, and made my wife by law, and taken you away from the battlefield entirely to live with me, here or some other place, safe and coddled and mine. I wanted it so badly that it haunted me, an apparition initially distant but whose shadow came closer day by day, looming at your shoulders, beckoning and mocking in turn.”
D’Artagnan felt ill. Had he been standing, he would have turned to spare Athos his expression, but he could not here. Athos accepted it with dignity.
“It would have killed you, I know. To deprive you of your life, of your manhood, to complete the cycle I had failed at with my first wife, it would have been the greatest cruelty imaginable, and I was entirely aware of it. It made me turn from the healing powers your presence had offered me with even greater frequency, and I knew that too was hurting you, but I could think of no other way. None but to leave. So, when the opportunity was afforded me, I did.”
He set d’Artagnan’s hand down upon the sheet between them and left it there, allowing its owner the freedom of determination regarding its fate. D’Artagnan did nothing with it, quietly contemplating. Then, he said, “I see.”
“It was God’s intervention that saved us,” Athos said sincerely.
“Saved us both. I could not live with myself as the murderer of your spirit any more than I can imagine you could. Our child would have been an orphan, in heart if not in body. I had to go, and rid myself of that poison.”
“And did you?”
D’Artagnan was thinking of Raoul, asleep in his room across the chateau, younger than his years.
“I did,” said Athos.
It was difficult to comprehend what Athos had told him. D’Artagnan had always known that Athos was a creature ruled by his heart, even if his mind and body were a strong fortress around it. He felt deeply, too much so, and it had almost destroyed him. To know that it had almost destroyed him as well was harrowing. D’Artagnan still did not find himself angry for it. Instead he felt only the sort of hollow horror that came with seeing yourself intact after a charge, miraculously having evaded the barrage of bullets and blades despite everything.
“I love you, Athos,” he said, because he could say nothing else.
Athos held him tightly.
“You are everything to me. Everything. I promise you that I will never again endanger you like that.”
With a sort of push, d’Artagnan buried his face in Athos’ neck.
“I do not believe I could have hated you even if you had done it,” he said, “but I am glad that you didn’t.”
“As am I.”
In Athos’ embrace the horror dampened quickly to a sort of mild distaste, and the hollowness was filled with the ceaseless affection he felt, still so intense. He was no longer a boy as he had been then, and he no longer had to fear his own inexperience. No matter what he said, he certainly did not fear Athos, not in that way, even if perhaps he should have. Things would be different this time.
“I meant what I said before, that I trust you. That you have told me this now is reason enough for me to still do so. I trust you not to hurt me, Athos.”
As he spoke, light filled his chest, because to say it made it so. Athos had long been his teacher, his master, and defender, but d’Artagnan had fought through blood and death for him too. He gripped Athos and kissed him fiercely, eyes shining with emotion that he buried in his neck.
“I will not let you go again,” d’Artagnan said, almost laughing into Athos’ clavicle.
“No excuses this time. If you leave me now, I am old enough and wise enough to hunt you down.”
He felt Athos relax into him, felt his heart beat slower, his breaths come easier, and they were again wed.