Work Header


Work Text:

They're all together at the garrison, in d'Artagnan and Constance's apartment, and Aramis has almost forgotten how good it feels to be surrounded by friends. They're sharing a few bottles of wine, half-sprawled in various states of disarray around what serves for a sitting room, and Aramis can't stop looking at them all. At d'Artagnan, so sure of himself now; at Constance, easy in her skin at last and where she belongs; at Athos, smiling, wearing his command so well…

At Porthos, beside him, his heart as bottomless and forgiving as ever.

Porthos clearly mistakes Aramis' fond look for a request, and holds out the bottle of wine. "You really want more?" he asks, waggling it, and Aramis laughs and holds his goblet away.

"I think I've had enough for tonight." He tips his head back and smiles, sighs out happily. "It's been a while."

"Is it past your bedtime?" Constance asks, arch and cheeky as ever, and Aramis can't believe how happy he is to even just be teased again. By all of his friends together. All of his family, together.

He pushes his hair back from his face and glances to the candles, checks how low they've burnt. "I'd still have another Mass to say at the abbey, actually." They all groan, and he chuckles and sets his wine down. "But it's time to say goodnight to the wine before I lose my head completely."

He would have had to have lost more than his head to miss the look that goes around the room as he straightens. He arches an eyebrow at Porthos, expecting to be clued into what magic words he has somehow just said, and all Porthos does is smile.

Smile, and tip his head toward Athos with an eyes front look.

Aramis looks at Athos, and Athos looks right back at him.

And then Athos sets his glass aside with studied, deliberate slowness, and Aramis feels a frisson of--not excitement, necessarily, but awareness, a sparking of energy down his spine--as Athos' eyes trace over him


Oh, no one's looked at Aramis like this in years.

And Aramis has been trying to hold onto the very rational thought that it has been four years and he can't just assume that everything is exactly the way it was--that certain arrangements still stand--he doesn't want to presume anything--he doesn't want to--

Athos is looking at him like he wants to eat him, and Porthos and d'Artagnan and Constance are suspiciously quiet, and Aramis is not sure about anything anymore.

He tilts his head, trying to hold onto at the very least his dignity, even as his heart starts a steady thmp-thmp-thmp in his throat. "Athos?"

Athos lifts his eyebrows, the picture of bland aristocratic interest. "Aramis?" he parrots back.

Porthos laughs from the chair beside him, d'Artagnan and Constance chuckle from their couch, and Aramis feels like he's missed a step going down a flight of stairs. Athos is looking at him like he's a meal to devour, and when he looks around at Porthos, d'Artagnan and Constance--

They're all grinning various shades of filthy smiles. Constance is blushing a little, d'Artagnan's looking unabashedly wickedly between Aramis and Athos, and Porthos--

Porthos. Porthos is just looking steadily at Aramis, and while his grin is as roguish and dirty as ever, his eyes are a little softer, a little more--nostalgic.

Aramis' body decides to believe what's happening before he does. Because his heart starts to pound, his stomach flips in nervous excitement and his trousers start to sit uncomfortably tight, and when he licks his lips in pure reflex because his mouth has started watering--

When he licks his lips, Athos' eyes go warm and dark, and Aramis' heart stops beating.

"Oh, my God," he says aloud, unable to stop himself, and Athos' smile widens.

"I think," he says, his eyes sliding to the others, "Aramis has remembered that we have an initiation for new Musketeers."

"The forfeit," Constance drawls, dragging the word out as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her crossed legs.

Aramis looks at her, wild-eyed, because Constance was not a part of this the last time he was in Paris, and she beams at him, her tongue caught teasingly between her teeth.

"We don't have any secrets," d'Artagnan says, draping one arm over his wife's shoulders and grinning at Aramis.

"And I wasn't going to be left out," Constance adds, her eyes gleaming dark as she stares Aramis down.

"She performed her forfeit admirably," Athos murmurs, his warm and heavy gaze sliding to her instead of Aramis for a moment.

"The forfeit." Aramis' throat feels raw just saying the words. "The--" He swallows. "The usual forfeit?"

"It is," Athos says, steady and gentle as ever, "the agreed-upon initiation, Aramis."

Aramis feels a hysterical laugh trying to bubble up in his chest. He wasn't expecting this. He's not--not opposed, but it's all rather soon. "And you want me to do it?"

"You did leave," Porthos says.

It's the low, rough ache of Porthos' voice that makes Aramis' heart skip a beat. Not the adrenaline spike of the suggestion, or the flickering of nerves--but the still-present pain in Porthos' voice when he speaks of it.

Aramis doesn't dare look over at him, doesn't dare take his eyes from Athos to see the pain on Porthos' face. It'll send him to his knees here and now, and he needs a moment to be sure--to know that this is--to know--

Even though--even though.

He can't think. His thoughts are all a jumble.

"Just to be clear," Aramis says, and licks his lips again, "we do mean me, going to my knees, and servicing all of you with my mouth?"

"We do, yes." Athos really looks intent now, and Aramis can't repress the shiver.


He shudders again at Porthos' voice--at Porthos' command--and turns to him.

Porthos is sprawled in his chair, one leg cocked up and one arm on the back of it, but there is nothing casual about his face right now. His eyes are serious and dark, and the pain of Aramis' leaving still lingers around the edges of his eyes when the two of them share a look. Aramis has been trying to ignore it, but he can't anymore.

"It's for you as much as us," Porthos says.

How does that, more than anything else, throw Aramis off-balance? All he can do is stare at Porthos' serious dark eyes and feel like the floor is spinning under his feet.

"For me," he says, not a question, and Porthos' mouth tugs up in a smile at one side.

"If you want it," Porthos says, like it's private, just between the two of them, and Aramis' heart lurches up into his throat.

They're offering him this. He knows they won't really turn him away, or exclude him, if he doesn't do this "initiation"--doesn't drop to his knees and pleasure them all. They weren't going to really turn d'Artagnan away, they surely weren't going to push Constance into this if she didn't want to--

But they know him so well.

Porthos and Athos know, because they know him, how out of place he still feels. His skin doesn't fit right yet--he feels caught in between his two lives, and--


He's always loved touch, and heat, and--

It's been years.

If this isn't what's going to settle him back into his own skin, it'll at least be reconnecting with them, and Aramis isn't sure if it's a good idea or not but he hasn't been touched in years.

Surely they know how he's missed this, too. How out-of-place and nervous he feels, no longer sure if he's still himself if he can't be this. It would be just like them, these four people he loves and trusts more than anything, to give him this place to find himself again. And he's sure they know how much he's--

How much he's missed them. Not just sex and pleasure and sensuality, but all four of them, and the things they can do, all five together.

They're giving him the chance to have it again.

Arami feels that familiar old smile spread across his face, the easy, slow grin, and he wonders if this will be like the way his body still knows how to ride a horse. He hopes so. He really, truly does.

He's even better at sinking gracefully to his knees, now, and he does so with aplomb. He looks up at Athos, sees a warm look of surprise and pleasure flicker through those eyes he loves so well, and smiles wider. "I submit myself to your pleasure, my Captain," he says--nearly purrs, lets himself remember how it feels to be sexual, to feel wanted.

Porthos lets out a low chuckle behind him, Constance a teasing whistle, and Aramis closes his eyes and savors the feeling as it thrills through him.

"Now that's better than we could have planned," d'Artagnan says, amusement and arousal layered thick in his voice, and Athos' eyes flash warm to him, as well.

"I agree," Athos says, and he uncrosses his legs and stands.

Aramis trembles with anticipation as Athos walks--stalks, like a lazy predator--to where he kneels. These new leathers--his fingers don't know them, he doesn't know how they've worn themselves to Athos' body, how the laces will feel against the ridges of his fingertips, and Aramis finds himself half-lifting his hands, impossibly eager, before Athos has even crossed half the room.

But Athos smiles at him as he approaches, and when he's finally close enough, he nods minutely. Aramis reaches out to him without any grace or seduction, grabbing onto Athos' hips to steady himself against the sudden wave of nostalgia-affection-need crashing over him.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against the low slope of Athos' stomach, and Athos huffs out a warm breath, his hands coming to settle on Aramis' shoulders.

Aramis closes his eyes and lets himself be held, lets his body shiver and shake until it's settled again. When he looks up, Athos is smiling down at him, unmistakably tender, and his hands are gentle where they play with the hair falling long over Aramis' collar.

"Yes?" Athos asks him, so caring, so careful.

Aramis sighs out happily and nods, and Athos' hands slide into his hair.

"Then you know what to do," Athos says, command slipping into his voice, more well-practiced than Aramis has ever heard it before, and Aramis shivers with delight as he reaches for the laces of Athos' trousers.

He only fumbles a little, fingers unsteady in his excitement, and Athos indulges him. Athos is patient. Athos is probably the only person in this room, Aramis thinks giddily, who will be patient with him. For a moment, he has to rest his head on Athos' stomach again and breathe, breathe through his thankfulness for his quiet, steadying brother. Athos has him in hand. Athos will let him take his time, for this first act.

Athos' fingers tighten in his hair, a gentle tug of reminder (a question, as well), and Aramis shivers pleasantly and resumes his task, after pressing a gentle kiss to Athos' shirt just above the waist of his trousers. He hears Athos sigh softly, one of his rare sounds of contentment that Aramis hoards more precious than gems, and trembles again as he finishes untying Athos' laces.

Aramis can't contain the faint moan that escapes him when he pushes Athos' trousers down off his hips, when he sees Athos already rising hard in his linens. Athos huffs another half-laugh, stroking one hand through Aramis' hair, fingers tight and possessive. "How could I not, Aramis?" he drawls, and Aramis grins tightly up at him.

His heart's hammering hard and fast in his throat now, and Aramis unties the laces of Athos' linens and pushes them open, too. Athos' flushed cock jerks in his hand when he takes hold of it, and Aramis can barely hear Athos' soft groan over the pounding of blood in his own ears. He's dizzy. All at once he's aware of how real this is, with Athos' skin hot and flushed under his hands--skin that Aramis knows so few people have touched, even seen. And Aramis is one of them. Aramis gets to share this with the three other people watching this act, joining this act. He gets to hear them all catch their breath, make their soft sounds, as he strokes Athos' length, the familiar weight growing thicker and fuller in his hand while he watches.

He's so happy.

Athos strokes over his scalp, gentling him, and Aramis sighs out dreamily--his breath brushing over Athos' cock, apparently, since it gives an interested twitch in his hand.

Porthos' voice cuts into his thoughts, silencing the rush in his head with a single laugh. "He's barely gonna have to work for it at this rate, Athos."

Athos' scoff makes Aramis' blood sing (so affectionate, so familiar) in a very different, but no less heated way, than Porthos talking about him as if he weren't in the room. (Porthos still remembers what he likes, Aramis thinks, and shivers again.) "Give me some credit, Porthos," Athos says, and Aramis looks up to see Athos grinning at Porthos over his head. He's missed that grin.

"You two have always been rather handsy," d'Artagnan says from his and Constance's couch, and Aramis has to laugh, too, as they all do.

"It's not a hands forfeit," Constance says archly. "Sometime this century, Aramis?"

Aramis glances over his shoulder at her. "Is Madame eager for her turn?"

She's undone the laces at the top of her blouse, and Aramis can see the flush rising in the pale swells of her breasts under the edges of her shirt. D'Artagnan's got his chin resting on her shoulder as he watches, curled around her body behind her, and Aramis' marksman's eyes focus sharply on the faint--fresh--indentations of teeth where her neck and shoulder meet.

Constance sees him looking, and smiles sweetly at him. "Madame's going to start herself off if you don't get on with it."

Aramis finds himself stupefied with how absolutely lovely that mental image is for a brief moment--just enough for Athos' hand to tighten in his hair and jerk him back to face forward. Aramis can't stop his own groan at being manhandled--his face heats as his cheeks flush, and his own cock is making itself insistent in his trousers.

And Athos knows. Because Athos looks down into his face and sees Aramis' own need growing there--and Athos just smiles, his eyes darkening. "Should have stripped you naked first," he says, his voice gravel-low and dripping with lust, and Aramis shudders, feels his mouth drop open, can't help it. "We've missed having your beauty on display for us."

"Athos." He doesn't recognize his own voice, and his hand is shaking where it holds Athos' cock.

"But I find myself too impatient to wait," Athos says, and cups the back of Aramis' head in the steady, firm grip that undoes Aramis completely. "Get to your task, soldier." And it has been far, far too long for Aramis to bear that command with any kind of equanimity.

He makes the most undignified sound and ducks his head to swallow Athos down.

There will be time for finesse later, some dim part of his mind knows. This is not that time. This is the time to moan around Athos' cock and take him as deep as he can, to hear Athos curse viciously and hold onto his hair even tighter. His throat rebels for a moment, he's out of practice, and Aramis' eyes water--

Athos' hand gentles instantly, caressing the back of Aramis' head, and Aramis nearly sobs with how cared-for he feels, how kept. He arches forward, swallows hard, and this time Athos slides home into his throat, breaching him open, filling him.

He's been empty for so long.

Athos groans above him, grinds into his mouth, and Aramis moans out long and low, clinging to Athos' hips. It's overwhelming. All these years with next to nothing and all at once, every sense is full. Athos on his tongue, leather and musk filling his nose, warm skin under his hands and Athos' sounds of pleasure in his ears, and when he looks up, Athos' eyes are nearly black, gazing down at him with so much feeling it makes Aramis moan again around the cock in his mouth.

"You're amazing at this," Athos gasps, his hands so wonderful in Aramis' hair. "I'd almost forgotten, Aramis, that something could be this good."

Aramis flushes even deeper with pride, looking up at Athos through his eyelashes, and Athos growls lower and thrusts harder and Aramis is floating.

And Athos doesn't stop--the movement or the praise, and it's almost more than Aramis can stand. "Forgot how perfect you feel," he growls, holding Aramis' head tight as he takes his pleasure. "How much you can take, how much you love it."

I do love it, Aramis tries to say with his eyes, his eyes locked on Athos'. I love it, I need it, Athos.

Athos is a vision when he tips his head back, when his groan vibrates through his whole body and his legs tremble where Aramis holds them. He's close, already, and Aramis shakes at the thought of Athos coming in him, at getting to see Athos lose his control again. He whines around Athos' length in his mouth, fingers digging into Athos' thighs as he tries to urge him even deeper, and he moans again desperately when Athos does--

"Fuck," Athos snarls, and Aramis sobs out in utter joy when Athos grabs his hair and starts using him, fucking him hard and fast as he chases his own pleasure--it's perfect, it's rough and merciless and completely perfect. Athos is just this side of brutal, and all Aramis has to do is keep himself open, relaxed, ready.

God, he's missed this. He never quite managed, at the monastery, to just be a vessel--for God's love, for God's will, for anything--but here, now, he is a vessel for his brothers, for all of their passion, all of their need.

He wraps his arms around Athos' legs, looks up at Athos through tear-wet lashes and begs silently, and Athos gives in to him.

Athos grinds into Aramis' mouth and spends with a long, low groan, and Aramis' eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of Athos' cock pulsing and jerking on his tongue, the sheer bliss of being held and the pride of having made Athos feel this. He pulls back just a little before it's over, so he can have the taste of Athos' come in his mouth, to suck and coax every drop from his trembling captain, to feel Athos' hands gentle in his hair and stroke over his tingling scalp in praise.

Aramis draws back only regretfully, already missing the fullness, the taste, and with gentle fingers he sets Athos' linens and leathers back to rights. Athos strokes a hand down his cheek, murmuring a quiet thanks, and finally Aramis takes a deep breath and looks up.

Athos smiles at him with half-lidded eyes, so easy and relaxed in every limb, and Aramis could melt at the look of devotion in Athos' eyes. This is heaven, this look, here.

"Well done," Athos says, his rough voice soft and low, and Aramis shivers in pleasure at the praise.

"Such a sight," Constance sighs happily, and Aramis tears his eyes from Athos to see her and d'Artagnan sitting wrapped in each other. Aramis can't do anything but stare at the picture they present. She's taken her corset and vest off, sits in just her shirt and skirt now, and d'Artagnan's cupping one of her breasts, stroking so Aramis can see her nipple hard under the thin white fabric. She's kneading the palm of one hand over d'Artagnan's tented leathers, and they're both looking at him with so much want on their faces.

It feels good to be wanted again, and Aramis lets it ripple over his skin, shiver pleasantly down his back, and coil in his stomach, heavy and warm. Athos strokes his hair again, possessive in just the way Aramis likes, and Aramis closes his eyes to savor it.

"Do you want him next, Porthos?" Athos says, then, and Aramis' eyes snap back open at the feeling of the world lurching around him.

Porthos is still sprawled in his chair, unmoved since Aramis knelt for Athos, but Aramis can see him hard in his own leathers. His face is steady, calm, even though his wine-dark eyes roam restlessly (greedily? Aramis hopes) over the picture Aramis makes on his knees.

Athos, Constance, d'Artagnan--they all have a different hold over him, a different mastery over a different part of his heart, but Aramis can't deny that he's craving Porthos already, craving the sweet and special surety he always finds in Porthos' arms.

"Nah," Porthos says, and grins as if he can tell Aramis' stomach has flipped again. "I want him as used and messy as can be."

Aramis has to lean against Athos' legs to stay upright through the quiver of sheer want that rolls through him. Porthos still knows, he thinks dizzily, exactly what to say to put Aramis on the floor and keep him there.

Porthos' smile only widens--he hasn't missed any of Aramis' unsteady reaction to that, and he looks at the others. "Constance?"

"Mmm, yes," she purrs, sliding forward in her seat, and Aramis feels like he's sinking into a hot bath. He's warm and floating all over. He looks at Constance, sees her beckon him forward as d'Artagnan starts to tug at the lacing of her skirts.

Aramis doesn't even think. He just crawls.

He hears Porthos swear softly, hears Athos' chair squeak on the ground as Athos drops heavily into the seat, but he doesn't look away from Constance and d'Artagnan as he crawls to them. Hands and knees on the scrubbed wooden floors--he feels another missing part of himself coming back, falling back into place as he goes. He loves this. He loves giving himself so utterly to this.

"Oh, you perfect jewel," Constance breathes, taking his face in her hands as he reaches her and bending down to him. Aramis doesn't believe it's happening until she's kissing him, hard and hot, sweeping her tongue across his to taste Athos' come, and he shivers violently, moans into her mouth and presses needily against her legs.

When she lets him go, Aramis' head is spinning with her force, the softness of her lips, how undeniably powerful she is in this situation, and he almost misses what she says to d'Artagnan. "You never told me," and he's never heard her voice this much a growl, this hoarse, "how perfectly he takes this."

D'Artagnan's filthy chuckle makes Aramis shiver again. "I didn't want you to mourn something you couldn't have." Aramis looks up just in time to see them kissing passionately, just inches from his face, and his belly quivers and lurches with how much he wants.

When Constance lets her husband breathe and turns back to Aramis, he presses eagerly into her touch on his hair, so ready to do this for her. She smiles at him, caresses his cheeks and rubs her fingers against the grain of his beard. "You look so lovely on your knees," she tells him, low like a secret, like praise. "Are you ready for more?"

"Yes," he says instantly, because he is so light, so happy, he could almost weep for the joy of it, and Constance's smile bathes him in sunlight.

He and d'Artagnan help her lift up, to shimmy out of her heavy overskirt so all that's left is the light linen of her chemise, and when he pushes that up--

She's so wet she's soaked through the linen, and Aramis has to close his eyes and breathe, just breathe in her scent and her warmth and feel his mouth water in anticipation. He loves this. He loves this act, loves the intimacy and the sweetness and the way she's going to feel--

Constance pulls sharply on his hair, dragging him toward her cunt, and Aramis dives into her like it's all he was put on this earth to do.

He's wanted to do this for years. Wanted to drop to his knees and bury himself under her skirts nearly every day he's known her. When she was so unhappy, when she went through life so painfully isolated--he's wanted so badly, for so long, to show her that duty can go hand in hand with love, to let her lose herself. He's so happy she has d'Artagnan now--and Porthos and Athos, too, so happy that she can be fulfilled in all the ways she wants to be.

She gasps and bucks up against his mouth at the first long swipe of his tongue along her folds, and Aramis rides with her motion, drinking her in, filling his mouth with sweet, sticky slick and diving back in again to lap greedily at where she's just dripping wetness. Constance catches her breath, fingers twisting and tightening in his curls, and Aramis just presses the flat of his tongue against her and moans at the sensation.

"Have you missed this?" she manages to choke out, using her grip on him to nudge his head up and down, to coax him into licking her again, and Aramis shudders and nods, tracing his nose up and down the pink and swollen lips of her cunt. He's always loved this act, loved everything about pleasing his partners, and he's missed the smell of a woman's arousal so much. Constance's curls are russet here, too, tickling his cheeks, and Aramis licks all around her, thoroughly, cleaning all the slick she's smeared on her thighs, spread around herself. She tastes incredible, tart and sweet at once on his tongue, his own lips.

Aramis moans again, long and loud, and another hand joins Constance's in his hair. He knows long, slender fingers are d'Artagnan's, right away, and he moves eagerly when d'Artagnan guides him just--

His nose traces along the top of her clit, and Constance arches up and cries out, loud and sharp. Aramis' stomach clenches--oh, he's never heard her-- So he does it again, going back and forth, back and forth, licking over and over, and Constance squirms, gasps, bucks up and yells again--

And then one of her hands leaves his hair and swats d'Artagnan's away with a gasped laugh. "Stop teaching him your tricks, I want to see how he does it."

Oh, these are d'Artagnan's--of course, of course they are, but somehow Aramis' belly clenches and fills with heat all the same to think of d'Artagnan here between her legs, giving her this. He moans against her again, closing his lips on her and suckling, and he hears d'Artagnan laugh over the choked sound of her approval.

"I just wanted to be sure you were satisfied, my love," d'Artagnan chuckles, and Aramis hears the wet sound of a kiss over the sounds of his own sloppy ministrations. "But I needn't have worried, I see."

Aramis groans out an agreement and redoubles his efforts--he's been languishing, just soaking it all in for himself, and that's selfish, that's not what's needed right now. This is for Constance, for all of them watching.

For you as much as us, Porthos' voice echoes unexpectedly in his head, and Aramis's stomach drops in want.

He arches forward, thrusting his tongue into her, and Constance hisses out a full-throated yes of approval. She's so wet, and his mouth is watering so much that it sounds even more obscene than usual, and he knows his whole face is dripping now. He presses himself even closer, fucks her as hard as he can with his tongue, giving the best that he possibly can give, as much finesse as he remembers after four years--and Constance is sighing, groaning, riding his mouth, and Aramis is flushed all over with pride and excitement at pleasing her.

"You two are a sight together," d'Artagnan says, the sound muffled like he's whispering against her skin. "Is he going to make you come, love?"

Constance laughs breathlessly, her hips hitching up into his mouth. "And soon, he--he's so eager--"

"Yes, he always is," Athos drawls, and Aramis jerks at the reminder that they're not alone--that Athos and Porthos are still here, still watching--

"Try pulling his hair," Porthos says, and before Aramis can even get his thoughts in order Constance twines her fingers in his hair and--

He tastes a fresh rush of her wetness, and he realizes he's just moaning openmouthed against her cunt as Constance pulls on his hair in tingling pulses of pressure. And it's good, it's so so good, but he has to--he wants to-- He shakes himself and plunges back into her cunt with his tongue, still whining as she tugs again and again on his hair, gasping for air when he can get it, and it's so good, it feels so good--

Constance's breath hitches, her thighs clamping around his shoulders, and Aramis suckles harder at her clit, works his tongue in dips and flutters against her labia, aching himself for her release. "Oh--fuck," she gasps, high and thready, and Aramis chokes down his own need when he feels her start to shudder, her little tremors starting to clench around his tongue. "Oh, fuck, just like that--"

He keeps going, tears leaking at the corner of his eyes in pure gratitude, frantically lapping at her like his life depends on it--

Constance's hand closes in his hair, her body bows back in an arch, and she comes against his mouth with a cry loud enough to wake the gods in their beds.

Aramis could weep, her spend tastes so good. He drinks it up in long, slow licks, sweet-salty and savoring every moment of it--he's missed women, this woman in particular, but everything about women, their smells and their taste and the slippery wonderful heat of their most secret places, and he worships at her knees until she comes to enough to tug his face away.

Constance's eyes are heavy and dark when he looks up to meet them, post-orgasmic haze making her flushed and dewy and utterly lovely, and Aramis shudders out a thankful breath when she cups his cheek in her hand. "I can see where the reputation comes from," she says--nearly purrs, her voice throaty and rough, and Aramis kisses her palm.

She cuts her eyes sideways, then, and Aramis follows her sly grin to d'Artagnan, who's watching them with a sharp, calculating look Aramis has only seen him use in battle. "Do you want me to clean him up for you, husband?" she asks sweetly, and Aramis doesn't know what she means for a moment.

Then her tongue swipes a long lick up his cheek, cleaning her own slick off his skin, and when Aramis gasps in shock--he didn't know she was so filthy--

D'Artagnan just smiles at him, proud and sly and older than d'Artagnan has ever seemed, and Aramis is so grateful, suddenly, that their pup has grown into such a cunning wolf.

"I'll take him just like this," he says, reaching out, and Aramis can't help shivering in pleasure when d'Artagnan's fingers card rough and possessive through his hair. "With my wife's spend all over his face."

"You have the most discerning taste, d'Artagnan," Athos drawls from his chair, and Porthos' laugh is low, wicked.

"As you wish, husband mine," Constance says sweetly, and Aramis closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy just being held between them.

Then d'Artagnan draws him closer, and Aramis walks on his knees until he's before their youngest. It feels so right, down in his bones, and he looks up at d'Artagnan with a hot shiver of excitement in his belly.

D'Artagnan beams down at him, then strokes through his hair again with an appraising look. "I think I do want him naked, Athos," d'Artagnan says, his grin utterly filthy, and, yes, he looks a little smug about it when Aramis groans his own approval, but d'Artagnan, Aramis thinks, has always understood him best. Or rather, understood what Aramis enjoys about this, particularly, the best. D'Artagnan enjoys the act of service as well--though he seems to be enjoying his time on the top, if the visible hardness in his leathers is any indication.

"Very well," Athos says, the boredom in his tone so affected--and affecting, Aramis thinks he could come from this alone someday, the four of them talking about him like he's not here at all. "Aramis, strip."

Aramis starts to rise from his half-reclined hunch, so he can stand and drop his trousers, when Athos' voice cuts suddenly sharp across the room. "As you are, soldier."

He freezes, and he has to close his eyes and breathe for the perfect, blissful humiliation of what they want. He'll strip naked here, on his knees, struggle out of his boots, here, on his knees, and then keep servicing them. Here. On his knees.

"Yes, captain," he gets out, and lifts one knee so he can start unlacing his boots.

He feels all their eyes on him as he fumbles the laces, fingers tripping in his haste and need, and he deliberately slows himself, makes himself take a moment, a breath. Constance hums approval when he gets his first boot off, and he dares a glance up, craving the approval suddenly. She nods and smiles at him, looking softer than he's ever seen her, sated, and he takes another breath and gets the other boot off. They have him. They're not going to be cruel.

"There you are," d'Artagnan purrs when Aramis drags his shirt off over his head, and Aramis would feel self-conscious if he weren't on fire with need right now. He knows his body's a little softer, pale from long days indoors, but that doesn't seem to matter to them.

He hears a long, slow breath released behind him, and Aramis' spine prickles at the feeling of Porthos looking at him. Porthos knows the marks on his body better than any of them, and his eyes prick, too, to think that Porthos is taking the moment, too, to relearn Aramis' body.

With shaking hands, he unlaces his trousers and smalls, and lets those fall, too. D'Artagnan and Constance smile, identical pictures of mischief and want, at the sight of his flushed and dripping cock, erection flagging only a little in this pause where he's laying himself even more bare for them.

As soon as he's pushed them past his knees and kicked them off his calves, he barely has time to think, here I am, then, before d'Artagnan reaches forward and drags him into a sloppy kiss. He feels himself go slack instantly, his nerves and tension evaporating with d'Artagnan's clearly unfeigned desire, and he clutches at d'Artagnan's biceps, groans and clings and hauls himself up as much as he can.

"Missed you," d'Artagnan rasps against his lips, tilting his head to mouth over Aramis' still-damp cheeks, tasting his wife on Aramis' skin. "Missed this."

Aramis' chest tightens too much to speak, so he just holds on, twists his fingers in d'Artagnan's silky hair and pants for air. D'Artagnan kisses him again, playful and messy and biting gently at his lips, and Aramis lets his jaw fall slack so d'Artagnan can lick Constance and Athos' tastes off his tongue.

"Mmm," d'Artagnan purrs as he draws back, and he rests his forehead against Aramis' for a moment, brushing their noses together. "You're still so good."

Aramis smiles, basks in the feel of strong arms and stronger affection. "I try."

D'Artagnan laughs, and then he eases Aramis back and rises to his feet, his hands going to his belt. "No," he says lightly, tapping Aramis' hands away when he reaches up to help. "You sit right there and put your hands behind your back."

Constance laughs delightedly as Aramis hurries to comply, and he hears Porthos and Athos chuckle, as well. "He's running the show now, eh," Porthos says, and Athos' murmured God help me earns a playful two fingers from d'Artagnan.

Aramis soaks it all in, sits back on his heels and keeps his eyes riveted to d'Artagnan, as their youngest finally draws out his hard, slick cock.

Aramis kneels up, at that, like a dog craning for its treat, and d'Artagnan puts his other hand in Aramis' hair to guide him. D'Artagnan's smiling, no trace of tension in his face though he must be straining for his own release, and Aramis sighs out happily as he finally tastes d'Artagnan.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" d'Artagnan murmurs as he feeds Aramis his cock. "Do you have any idea?"

There's really nothing Aramis can do but moan in response to that, to blink slowly up at d'Artagnan in a silent, pleading tell me, tell me more, and d'Artagnan's soft, private smile makes him feel weak all over. He stays still, lets d'Artagnan set the pace, and when d'Artagnan starts to rock in and out of his mouth, it's bliss. Aramis moans around him, his eyelashes fluttering as he gazes up, d'Artagnan sighs and tilts his head back, his hair falling in a thick wave away from the long bronze line of his neck.

He's grown so beautifully, Aramis thinks with a sudden pang in his chest, looking up at d'Artagnan--he's a man, not the gangly boy they took in, and he's tall and broad and so perfectly stunning.

It makes him surge into motion, to press up on his knees and swallow around d'Artagnan, trying to coax him to thrust harder, to really take his pleasure, and d'Artagnan laughs breathlessly, looking down at him. "Yes?"

Aramis nods as best he can, wanting nothing more than to do this for him, to make up for all the time he's lost. He's missed so much. He doesn't want to miss anything else.

D'Artagnan laughs again and nods, cupping the curve of Aramis' neck in his hand, and he starts to fuck Aramis a little rougher, a little faster. Aramis can only groan out his pleasure, making himself as relaxed and easy as he can, and d'Artagnan echoes his groan a moment later as he fucks deeper, harder.

"Look at him," he hears Athos over the rushing of blood in his ears. "You made a good choice, d'Artagnan."

"You should see him from here," Constance laughs wickedly. "Cock twitching on every push."

Aramis shudders delightedly, begs with his eyes for more, and d'Artagnan holds him more firmly, doesn't give an inch as he works faster. Aramis has to wriggle on his knees as best he can to brace himself, spreading his legs just enough that he feels more stable, that he can take it. He feels flushed, a little dizzy, and he knows that spreading himself this little bit more has put his body that much more on display.

He hears a low growl of approval and doesn't know if it came from Athos or Porthos. D'Artagnan's half-gasped laugh is approval of its own, and Constance hums delightedly--and he doesn't know why he's embarrassed or humiliated, because they know him, they care for him, and they'll never be anything but appreciative of his body like this--

But it's the first time in a long time, and he just hopes that he still measures up.

"He look close?" Porthos asks, almost conversational, and Aramis feels every muscle in his body tightening just at Porthos' tone.

Constance laughs. "I bet he'll go off like a cannon the second anyone touches him."

"I can see him dripping from here," Athos says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Have you really been celibate this whole time, Aramis?"

Aramis nods as best he can, clutching at his own fingers behind his back to try and keep--he almost laughs--a hold on himself. Four years. It's been four years with barely another human touch, and Christ, they're right, he doesn't know if he can last even until someone touches him. He's almost ready to come just from the way d'Artagnan feels in his mouth. He swallows, hard, swallowing his feelings and d'Artagnan's arousal, and d'Artagnan sighs in pleasure.

"So good," he murmurs, his fingers pushing heavy and gentle through Aramis' hair. "Still so good, Aramis."

Good for you, Aramis can't help but think, and he has to swallow his feelings down again, relaxing and taking d'Artagnan even deeper. So good for you, for all of you, just for you. He's never been good at anything but this. He's never been as good without them as he is when he's part of them.

"That's it." D'Artagnan's voice is strained at the edges now, losing some of his gentleness and control, and Aramis lets out a muffled sob of need as d'Artagnan's hips snap forward. Yes, like that, like that, he thinks desperately, bouncing on his knees because he just can't contain everything he wants right now, and d'Artagnan groans and pumps his hips forward again. "Yes?"

Aramis sob-hums an assent, nodding as much as he can and begging with his eyes, and d'Artagnan bites his lip, cuts his eyes sideways. Aramis wonders for only a moment before he hears Constance say, "Let him have it."

Oh, Aramis loves these two, this way they are together, he feels so blessed to be a part of this love and trust and--

And then d'Artagnan starts fucking him properly, starts using him, and all thoughts fly completely from Aramis' head. It's even more intoxicating than it was when Athos did it, somehow, because it's like d'Artagnan is following orders, as well, that they're both tools of all the others to find their pleasure-- It's more of a performance, Aramis is more aware of their eyes on him, the way they're all wanting d'Artagnan to claim him, take him--

Aramis wriggles desperately on his knees, fingers twisting around his wrists behind his back, flushing hot at just the way his movement makes his cock hit his belly, the way he feels it flex and bounce and, God, drip, he's dripping on the floor and he's drooling around d'Artagnan's cock and he feels debauched and used and--

And he still has Porthos to go--

D'Artagnan spends down his throat with a soft, punched-out sound, and Aramis has to dig his nails into his own wrists not to come right then and there.

He's shaking as d'Artagnan comes down from it, whimpering against d'Artagnan's hips and suckling desperately, mindlessly, anything to keep his focus away from how desperately close he is to his own orgasm just from serving them all like this. D'Artagnan's hands feel so good in his hair, and as d'Artagnan draws back, Aramis licks up the last traces of come from his cock, and d'Artagnan's shaky sigh makes him whimper again with the need to please more, to do well for them.

"You're so good," d'Artagnan says, hoarse and sweet, and Aramis doesn't realize until d'Artagnan's thumbs trace over his cheekbones that he's crying from how much it all is. "Oh, Aramis," and then d'Artagnan crouches down and he's kissing the tears from Aramis' skin, lips tracing gently over Aramis' face and cupping his chin with his long, strong fingers. "Aramis, you're doing so well, it's all right."

Aramis shudders in a breath and gentles under d'Artagnan's calming touch, lets himself be pet and soothed until he doesn't feel lightning dancing under his skin anymore, until he thinks he can take more pleasure without dying of it, until he's pressing into d'Artagnan's kisses and giving as good as he gets again.

"There you are," d'Artagnan murmurs with a wicked smile when he finally lifts his head, and Aramis takes a deep breath and nods. "All right?"

"Yes," Aramis says, another hot flush coursing through him at how safe he feels, how cared-for, how loved (how hoarse his voice is, how raw his throat feels, how good it all is). His tongue tangles with the words he wants to say, so he just smiles and presses his face into d'Artagnan's hands and thanks his saints for how good their boy has become, how all the promise of his lanky adolescence shines out in him now.

D'Artagnan kisses him again, tender yet playful, then sits back on his heels and grins over Aramis' shoulder. "Well?"

Aramis hears the click of Porthos' boot heels settling on the floor, the creak of his chair, and goosebump ripple up Aramis' spine as he hears Porthos hum out a low laugh.

"Mmm, yeah," Porthos chuckles, his voice honey over gravel, and Aramis closes his eyes and trembles, every nerve in his body singing. He wants to savor this. He wants it to last--

"Yeah, I want him now," Porthos says, slicing through his thoughts in an instant, and Aramis is done, quite suddenly, with savoring the moment. Porthos still wants him. Porthos still wants him, and Aramis is more ready for this than he's been for anything in his life.

He turns and sees Porthos sitting in this familiar room, that familiar old wooden chair, legs spread and leathers tented, with his eyes black in the firelight and steady on Aramis, and he knows what to do, knows it in his bones.

This time he knows what he's doing when he crawls across the floor to Porthos' feet. He keeps his gaze on Porthos, watches Porthos' eyes glitter, and lets his body move how it wants to. He's not scrambling, ungainly, on all fours. He feels half-liquid, molten need making all of him loose and easy, and Porthos reaches out a hand as Aramis reaches his boots.

Aramis sits back on his heels, reaches up to Porthos feeling like he's in a dream. Porthos smiles when the motion puts Aramis' naked body on display, and Aramis can only arch his back a little more, put all of himself on view for Porthos' eyes. Porthos' hand is steady, warm, solid as ever when Aramis takes it between his own, and he kisses each fingertip with delicate, delicate care.

Porthos huffs a breath, twists his fingers to trace Aramis' face, his cheek and temple, and Aramis trembles under his touch.

"Do you still like it how you used to?" Porthos asks him, like a secret between the two of them. There's so much care in his eyes, in the worried slant of his brows.

Aramis wants to cry. "Yes," he says, reaching up for Porthos. "Yes, yes, Porthos--"

And Porthos' hands tighten in his hair, pull him forward, almost into Porthos' lap, and Aramis does sob a little for that--for how good it feels, for how raw-scraped his nerves are and for how much he wants it--

"Yeah, you do," Porthos says, confident now, and his smile grows until Aramis wants to bask in it like sunlight, safe and secure in Porthos' hands. "God, look at you. You want it so bad."

"I do," Aramis agrees, half out of his mind with it. "So much, yes."

Porthos cups Aramis' jaw in one hand, tilts his face up so Porthos can see for himself how swollen Aramis' lips are, how slick and well-used. "You missed it," Porthos says, not a question, and strokes his thumb over Aramis' lower lip.

Aramis can only nod. His whole body is heavy with his desire, and he doesn't dare speak for fear of dislodging Porthos' hands. He just wants Porthos to keep touching him.

Porthos grins at him. "I missed having you like this," he says, pressing down on Aramis' lip to watch his mouth fall open even wider. "In all these ways. In every way."

"I won't go again," Aramis says without even thinking.

He doesn't realize quite what he's done until Porthos stills, until the sound seems to disappear from the room and everything goes quiet and frozen.

And then he lifts his gaze to Porthos' dark, soft eyes, and nods, deliberately, letting his sincerity show in his eyes, in his face, in the way his body opens to them. "I won't," he says, and means it with every part of him. "I'm yours."

He hears d'Artagnan sigh, Constance whisper something too soft even for his sharp ears, hears Athos' rough breath like a prayer--

Porthos just nods. And smiles.

"Come on, then," he says, and sits back in his chair, lets his knees fall open wider. "You know how to do it."

"Yes, Porthos," Aramis says, the only litany he's ever truly loved, and reaches up for Porthos' leathers.

This is his penance and his absolution. This is everything.

Porthos is as beautiful as the first day Aramis met him. He has a new scar on his hip that Aramis finds when he pushes the hem of his shirt up to get at his laces; he breaks off what he's doing to kiss it, to lave it with his tongue and send up prayers of thanksgiving that he wasn't there but that it's still all right.

Porthos laughs, squirming underneath him, and he tugs lightly on Aramis' hair to bring his mouth back front and center. "Later," he says, like he means it, and Aramis floods with warmth to know he can go home, can truly and properly go home again.

"Porthos," he says, a prayer and a thanks all in one, and unlaces these new leathers. He can appreciate their aesthetics in passing; he'll give them their due once he's done with this, once he's gotten to his treasure beneath them. Leathers, smallclothes--Porthos.

"There you go," Porthos purrs, low and intent, and Aramis does his best to remember to breathe. He has. He has truly, truly. He has missed. This.

"Oh, Porthos," he sighs, rocking forward, his mouth watering--

And Porthos tightens his grip on Aramis' hair with the hand still there, and Aramis freezes in place. Oh. Oh.

"You want it?" Porthos asks, the gravel growl in his voice rippling through Aramis' whole body.

Aramis nods as much as he can with his head held still. "Yes, Porthos."

Porthos laughs, then, and reaches down to grip his cock at the base. He is--he is so hard, Aramis can't even think. And then Porthos guides Aramis' head closer, and Aramis shuffles helplessly forward on his knees, and then. Oh, then.

Aramis' mouth falls open, and he pants through his nose as Porthos paints his lips with the slick dripping from the tip of his cock. It's an obscene rouge and he loves it, bringing his tongue forward so he can brush the head of Porthos' cock as his love drags it over his lips.

"You want it," Porthos repeats, not a question this time. It's certain, as sure as the belonging that Aramis feels down in his bones, and Aramis sobs out his assent. He bounces on his knees again, a little. He can't help it.

And then Porthos laughs. "All right. Earn it."

Aramis lets out a desperate whine, pulling against Porthos' hands, but he can only lean forward enough to reach the tip of Porthos' cock. He drops his mouth open, holding out his tongue and begging with his eyes, and Porthos huffs a laugh and shifts his hips forward just enough for Aramis to lick the head of his cock, for him to suck up the slick beading at the tip. "Fuck," Porthos breathes softly, but Aramis barely hears him over his own panting, as he runs his tongue over and around the ridge at the head, as he does his best to just lick and suck as much as he can. He wants Porthos inside of him as soon as he can. He wants to earn that.

"Don't be cruel, Porthos," he hears Constance chide gently, and Porthos laughs.

"He loves it," he says, so soft and fond that Aramis nearly whimpers around his mouthful of cock. "You've all been giving it to him so easy, look. He likes to work for his treats--don't you, love?"

Aramis lets out his most obscenely grateful moan of the night, and Porthos laughs again, the sound shaking through his whole body, and Aramis is aching to touch him, to touch all of him, to mold himself to Porthos and feel whole again.

"He likes the game of it, see," Porthos says, and there's no judgment, no censure. Just affection and care and Aramis is so blessed to have this, to have such forgiveness--

"He forgets," Porthos says then, sharp, and in one fluid motion he stands and shoves into Aramis' mouth. Athos gasps, chokes, surges up on his knees to swallow and cough and take as much as he can--

"That it's not about him," Porthos growls, and then he plants his feet and holds Aramis' head in both hands, and Aramis goes limp.

Yes. God, yes, thank you, yes.

Porthos fucks his mouth, and Aramis floats away in bliss. Porthos slams, relentlessly, over and over and over, as deep as he can go, and Aramis takes every moment for the gift it is. Porthos' strength and grace and power, so beautifully given like this--because he knows Aramis needs it, he knows Aramis loves it, he knows he can let go and that Aramis can take it--

Aramis is choking and his eyes are streaming tears and his whole world is Porthos in his mouth, Porthos' hands in his hair, Porthos' breath coming hard and fast as he takes Aramis apart piece by piece.

Porthos needs this. Aramis will give all he can give to let Porthos never want for this again.

And then Porthos stops, holds trembling in Aramis' mouth, and Aramis sobs a garbled, pleading sound, held immobile in Porthos' grip (iron and steel in velvet, tender and gentle and implacable). He needs Porthos to come, to mark him, to fill him, Porthos--

"You forgot," Porthos says, and Aramis whimpers. "You forgot, Aramis."

Yes. Yes, he did.

"You forgot us," Porthos pants, rocking his hips forward to punctuate his words. "You forgot this." He does it again and Aramis arches into it, savoring the heavy slide of Porthos on his tongue. "But you know now, don't you?"

Yes he does he knows he's never felt so right and so perfect and so whole and loved as he does right now on his knees for them for Porthos--

"You were made for this," and Porthos' voice tightens, twists and frays at the edges, wound up like his control, and the pump of his hips is slow, deliberate, so measured that Aramis moans around him in overwhelmed adoration. "For us."

Aramis forces his eyes open--he doesn't know when he closed them--and stares hazily up at his friend his lover his partner his Porthos--

Porthos' gaze catches his and holds, and Aramis could die happily right this moment with the love he sees there.

Porthos' face twists in pleasure and he tips his head back-- "Ah, Aramis--"

His cock flexes and his spend floods hot in Aramis' mouth, and Aramis whites out in bliss.

He comes back to Porthos' hand caressing his cheek, and his eyes are still open and he's still staring up at Porthos--Porthos, whose jaw is loose in pleasure and whose eyes are full as he looks down at Aramis, and Aramis feels Porthos' cock pulse out another burst of come on his tongue. Aramis' throat hitches as he swallows, closes his slack lips and suckles the last of Porthos' come away, and vaguely he realizes that he's bucking his hips up into air, his cock wet and heavy and sending static crackles of pleasure every time it bounces against his stomach. He's a raw nerve, every single touch kicks his arousal even higher and he can't bear this, can't bear how good it is to be here, to be touched and held and loved--

Porthos draws back, and Aramis can't even sob out no please don't go before Porthos drops to his knees in front of him. They're level, they're equal, Porthos is still holding his head and--

And Porthos kisses him, soft lips against Aramis' raw and bruised ones, and Aramis falls forward into him, whimpering and sobbing and out of his mind with it, gratitude and joy resounding in the chambers of his heart.

If this were all he could have, he would be thankful, but he has so much more.

Because then he's surrounded, pressed in on all sides by the warm skin and solid bodies of his friends, his lovers, his family, God, his family, and Aramis sobs out a broken cry for how good it feels, after so long, after how alone he's been--

"We've got you," Athos soothes him, and Athos is at his back, pulling Aramis into his arms, holding him up, "we're all here, you did so well, Aramis--"

"You're perfect," Porthos breathes, catches his face and kisses him again, and Aramis thrashes in Athos' hold as Porthos kisses him senseless, as Constance's soft hands stroke over his chest, as d'Artagnan squeezes his thigh--he can't, he can't--

Athos' hand pulls tight in his hair and he tugs Aramis' head back when Porthos releases him, and the world spins as Aramis gazes up into Athos' face, all of their hands on him glorious warmth and life, resurrecting him after years alone in the cold.

Hands--too many, so many--on his skin his chest and hips and legs and and and--

Please never let me walk away from this again--

"Come," Athos orders him, and Aramis obeys.

Deo gratias, Deo gratias, gloria, gloria, gloria.


Porthos is holding him, and Aramis could happily never move from this place on the floor, for as long as he lives, as long as Porthos keeps cradling him close like this.

"You did so well," Athos says softly, stroking his hair where his head is tucked under Porthos' chin, and Aramis preens under the praise.

"He's still the best," Porthos says. The pride in his voice is unmistakeable, and Aramis lets it warm him through and through.

"Come on," Constance says gently, "let's not let him catch cold," and Aramis stays soft and pliable as they lift him, dress him, set him down on the couch and settle around him. They're all touching, in the aftermath--Porthos is still holding him, as loath to let go as Aramis is to be released; Constance's fingers trace over the back of Aramis' hand as she sits on Porthos' other side; Athos and d'Artagnan sit holding hands on the floor, Athos' hand resting on Aramis' knee and d'Artagnan's head tilted to rest on Porthos'.

It's perfect. They're perfect.

"All for one," Aramis says, his cracked voice raw in his well-used throat. He loves it. He loves them.

Porthos laughs and kisses his cheek, and Athos smiles up at him, and Constance and d'Artagnan hold him tighter.

"Yeah, we know," Porthos murmurs, and Aramis closes his eyes with a happy sigh.

He's home now.