a/n: I totally couldn't get this out of my head. Note that Aramis has no romantic relationship with Queen Anne.

Summary: Aramis had a tendency to get involved with women that he shouldn't, so what it all that much of surprise when he falls for a certain Gascon and his French Mistress?

Pairings: Aramis/d'Artagnan, (m/m);Aramis/d'Artagnan/Constance, (m/m/f); d'Artagnan/Constance, (m/f).

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

A Spaniard, Gascon, and Frenchwoman

Aramis has had many different kinds of lovers through his life. Single, married, old, young, male, female. He felt a fondess for all people, and so many drew his affection. It wasn't necessarily their looks that always caught his notice. Sometimes, it was a laugh heard across the tavern or the scent of her perfume. Though he had a silver tongue and a way with words, he was also a physical man. He was a devoted lover.

But he'd never been with anyone, like the pair he was with now. He could be shy and bashful or bold and passionate. And she could be stubborn and truthful, or soft and fragile like the silkiest rose petal.

They were the two halves to his whole. And he counted his lucky stars with God everyday, but that didn't mean Aramis wasn't cocky and flippant or just generally stupid and overly flirtatious.

"Alright?" Aramis smiled, looking down at the sprawled Gascon in the dirt at the garrison yard. It widened at the responding scowl and held out his hand.

Feeling almost childish enough to refuse, but not wanting to somehow offend his friend's offered help, d'Artagnan took Aramis' hand, pulling him to his feet. Aramis helpfully dusted his off, a few touches here and there lingering and caressing, and d'Artagnan raised a pointed eyebrow at that.

Aramis wrapped an arm companionably around the young man's shoulders. "Afraid of being found out?"

"Yes and no." He said quietly, now really was not the place to be talking about this. "We agreed that the three of us have to be okay with it before we tell Athos and Porthos about us."

"An' what secrets are y'two ladies gossipin' about?" Porthos wondered, sneaking up behind them; both men jolted in surprise. The big man raised his brows as he saw it, before he narrowed his brown eyes. He'd only been joking, but how they reacted to his sudden approach made him think there was some weight to it after all. "What were ya talkin' 'bout anyways?"

"Just telling our little friend here, that he needs to firm his footing more." Aramis said easily.

"Little?" d'Artagnan scoffed indignantly.

"'E's right, ya know." Porthos nodded, his arms cross over his chest. "You tend to have loose feet."

"What does that even mean?" he groaned. "That's like saying someone had fat teeth!" he pushed Aramis' arm from his shoulder.

"Squabbling already, gentlemen?" Athos approached them from the bottom of the stair, having come from Treville's office. "It's still morning yet."

"A mission?" d'Artagnan begged desperately of his mentor, anything to not be a part of this conversation anymore.

Athos gave him head a minuscule shake.

"A slow day in Paris, what is the world coming to?" Porthos wondered.

Aramis chuckled lightly and clapped the bigger man on the shoulder. "Breath in the air, smell the roses, brother. With our luck, it won't last long." He mused.

"You're right." Porthos nodded solemnly, but then he grinned, "but on days like this, I don' mind!"

"Lunch?" Athos suggested. The other three nodded their agreement. "And I believe what these two failed to get across," Athos looked at d'Artagnan, "is your footing can be loose and lack form, hence Aramis grounding you so easily."

The young man gaped. "How did yo-"

"I see everything," he intoned, before turning his back on them and walking towards the garrison gates.

d'Artagnan gave a small shudder; that was what he was afraid of sometimes.

"Scary, isn't it?" Aramis whispered in his ear, making him jump.

He glared at the man. "Keep it up, Aramis. Keep it up." He followed after Athos with a stubborn chin.

Porthos laughed and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. "You're in fer it now. Never get on a Gascon's badside, mate!"

"I can't help myself," Aramis shrugged and smirked, "It's just so easy sometimes."

Porthos shook his head and wrapped his arm around his friends shoulders as they followed after the pair. "You're just askin' fer trouble now,"

Aramis just smirked in response. The truth of it was, sometimes, when he was riled up, d'Artagnan brought that Gascon fire to bed with him, and it was him and Constance that reaped the rewards.

Their lunch was uneventful, but sometimes that was a good thing. Though each man craved the action and adrenaline for their various reasons, a still moment like this was always welcomed — because who knew when another moment like this would receive them. For all any of them knew, by this time tomorrow, they could be surrounded in gun smoke.

After eating, they stuck around their claimed table for a bit. Having some drinks and joking, until they each went their separate ways.

It was scarce pickings for a good card game, but Porthos had the smell of a hound when it came to sniffing a ripe one ready for his habitual cardsharping skills. Athos needn't go far, if anywhere at all but to the table in the corner for his usual pastime. And if either man noticed the fact that the Spaniard and the Gascon headed-out in the same direction, neither mentioned it to the other.

"Bad boys," Constance remarked, coming home to find both d'Artagnan and Aramis laying naked and in bed.

d'Artagnan looked sheepish, laying on his stomach and looking over Aramis, who on his back, looking cocky more than anything.

Even now, she couldn't help but feel the slight twinge of jealousy as she looked at these two beautiful men — both were hers now, but they were each other's as well. They got to spend most days in each other's company, while she was stuck at the Palace. But it was times like these that she got to remedy the matter.

"Can't expect us to wait around for you and not amuse ourselves." Aramis put an arm behind his head, not at all embarrassed at his exposure.

"Unlike the pair of you," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I was doing my job."

The house was in Constance's name, after her husbands death, and though she was now the Queen's Lady and lived at the Palace, she kept the place. It was as much for her, d'Artagnan and Aramis, as much as she leant it out to the Musketeers if they needed a place to hold up, keep a third-party, or heal where the foursome would have room enough.

"Captain Treville had no assignments for us." The man said. "We had lunch with Athos and Porthos before we came here and sent the letter to you. d'Artagnan got a little hands-y," he smirked, "what was I supposed to do?"

"Hey!" d'Artagnan protested and sat up. "That's a complete lie." He looked to Constance and the apparent cross look on her face. "Constance..."

She couldn't hold her stern expression any longer, not when she was put under d'Artagnan's puppy-dog big brown eyes, and sighed, rolling her eyes and smiling. Aramis looked gleeful, they always caved under that expression and the Gascon knew it.

d'Artagnan grinned at her happily

"I don't have much time," she said as she started to undo the straps on her dress. "The pair of ya better be up for it."

She approached the bed and turned her back to her men. d'Artagnan straddled Aramis so that he could reach her and undo the laces at her back. The dress puddle onto the floor at her ankles, leaving the woman in nothing by her shift. Aramis sat up, d'Artagnan still in his lap, and with her back still to them, traced his fingers up her arm, down her ribs, hip and thigh, and slowly pulled the shift up over her head.

She let out a little exclaim of surprise, about to turn, only to find an arm wrapped around her naked waist and tugging her into bed. She instantly found herself pampered with two pairs of lips, two tongues, twenty-fingers, and manner of all else.

With their combined ministrations, she forgot her rush, forgot a great many things, in fact, and found herself being taken away with waves of the tingling, pleasurable climb.

Both were well endowed below the belt, to this she would admit. And both had skills that left her wet and elated, and in a very unlady-like picture.

Aramis leaned up on an elbow, smiling down at her.

"Well, now." She gasped.

He chuckled as he brushed his lips across the flesh of her breast.

d'Artagnan leaned up on her other side, his palm flat against her stomach. "What was that about us not being up for it?"

She blew her bangs out of her eyes in a huff of breath and rolled them. "Not exactly what I said, but I can definitely feel just how up the pair of ye are." And she reached down between them and grasped where she could feel their hardness against either of her thighs. She smirked at their twin inhales, before she started to pull them against her.

They were like butter in her hands. Their hips rutting against her, desperate for more friction, a faster pace. Pressing close to her sides, burying their faces on either side of her neck. She could feel their every gasp, feel their every moan rumble through their chests. Their arms across her stomach, holding onto each other even as they held onto her, connecting them all in a big web of limbs, gasping breaths, and building climaxes.

And then they were both grunting, jerking and straining against her, pressing as close as they could as their warmth spread on the outside of her thighs. It was their turn to look unlike the soldiers they were, their defences and guard down.

They snuggled against her as she wrapped her arms around them, and just relished in their togetherness — until Aramis had a mind to reach over and tweak an unsuspecting d'Artagnan's nipple.

He hissed surprise and glared at the unprovoked attack and then smirk as his hand darted across her, returning the favor with fast flourish that even the Spaniard hadn't expected. Aramis narrowed his eyes and she knew that look well enough.

"Aht!" Constance stopped their tweak-and-pull retaliation with a single sound. "You're like a bunch of children, the pair of ya. What am I going to do with you?"

d'Artagnan pouted, but the his eyes lit up. She gave him wary look, and a moment later felt right in it at his hopeful suggestion, "Punish us?"

She looked at the young man in disbelief, Aramis was really rubbing off on him. She was still trying to figure out how scary that would be, to have two Aramis' in her bed, when said man leaned over her latched onto d'Artagnan's nipple.

The Gascon moaned at the attention, leaning back and tangling his fingers in Aramis' hair, his previous suggestion forgotten — thankfully, Constance was sure. She preferred her one Spaniard and one Gascond thank you very much!

She shook her head, but traced her fingers down the line of the Spaniard's spine as he laid across her, already able to feel his semi-hardness poking at her ribs. She remembered the time when it was just her and d'Artagnan, even as tarnished as it was with the presence of Bonaciuex; but while she would cherish those times, she wasn't sure how she'd feel if she'd missed out on their chance with Aramis.

It was a thought that didn't deserve volume.

"What did ye two get up to yesterday?" Porthos asked aside to Aramis and d'Artagnan as they lined up for roll call at the garrison the next morning.

The corner of Aramis' lips stretched up, and Porthos knew exactly what that meant — one of his special lady friends. d'Artagnan tried to fight the flush as her remembered the afternoon spent with Constance and Aramis, limbs so tangled in bed they could hardly tell whose was whose. He wasn't sure he quiet succeeded because Porthos gave a low chuckle and shot him a wink.

Oh, yeah. Porthos knew exactly who put that bright-eyed look on the young Gascon's face. Constanc and d'Artagnan were the worst kept secret in Paris.

Athos was not amused in the least at the pairs response to their adventures last afternoon. Times past, and right now, he regretted his early start on chosen pastime; even as he lowered the brim of his hat over his eyes, it was like the sun thought it its personal job to shine brightly today or all days. He groaned internally, promising not to go overboard next time — but whenever he made that promise, he never kept it. Just another meaningless group of words.

As each man suspected, their day-off was just that, and Treville handed them an assignment along with the other gathered Musketeers. Delivering a notice to the Baron of a small community two days ride out of Paris.

Athos gave them 30 to get their gear together and saddle their horses before they were out the garrison and heading out of Paris itself.

The delivery itself went fine. There was no attack by bandits on the road. They spent the night in an inn before they headed back to Paris the next morning. But then it seemed to was one thing and then another.

d'Artagnan had been riding a little in front of the others, and shot a glare over his shoulder at the other three as they again seemed to think it fit that they brought of the incident at the inn. He'd gone to use the outside latrine before he headed up to his room for the night, and came upon a mother raccoon with her brood of babies, who had claimed the outbuilding as a nest. Suffice it to say, he'd opened the door, got a bit of a fright. He might have fallen down on his arse and their might have been a pistol fire in response. The other three had run out, saw him, and immediately went into fits of gut peeling laughter — and they hadn't shut up about it since.

He didn't see the snake that slithered from the undergrowth at the side of the road in front of his horse, and wasn't prepared when his mount reared up suddenly. The others horses started, but their riders were able to gain control. d'Artagnan wasn't so lucky.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis and Athos both shouted.

He clenched his knees and tried to grab the saddle, a better hold then the reins that were jerked from his grasp, but he was thrown from his seat. He hit the ground hard with a grunt, a stab of pain going up his spine. He had enough mind to roll out of the way of kicking hooves and Porthos leapt from his horse to quickly calm d'Artagnan's animal.

He bit back the groan and tried to sit up, another stab going through his tailbone, but a hand on his chest pushed him back down.

"Don't move," Aramis warned.

But the last thing that the Gascon wanted to do was stay like this. His arse was killing him! Before he could say any such embarrassing thing, Aramis was already running his hands over his limbs, checking for sprains or breaks. d'Artagnan had enough of those to know that he didn't have one — thankfully. The Spaniard finally seemed satisfied and helped the young man to his feet, who grunted at the movement.

"What is it?" Aramis asked instantly, having missed something in his cursory exam.

"Just my arse — and dignity — again." d'Artagnan muttered, rubbing at his lower back, hoping it might alleviate the pain. Aramis watched with narrowed eyes.

The young man jolted around and back a step, giving Aramis an angry look. To do such a thing, and right in front of Athos and Porthos, too!

Aramis winked at him. "Don't worry, that grope was purely for medical purposes only."

d'Artagnan gave him a warning look anyways, not quite sure he believed him.

Athos looked amused, and Porthos snickered, "Grope, 'e says!"

"Move your cloak and turn around." Aramis told him.

"No way!" d'Artagnan protested, reaching behind and adding extra protection to said area of attention. He caught Athos' look, a silent order to follow the medic's order. With and low growl, he moved his cloak and turned around indignantly, his arms crossed over his chest. "Well?"

"Hm." Athos said. "It's looks like blood."

"What — blood?" d'Artagnan questioned, all he could feel was the radiating ache in his tailbone.

"Alright." Aramis retrieved his kit from his saddle. "Off with the trousers, d'Artagnan."

"What! Here?"

Athos looked casually around. "No one around but us. Do it, d'Artagnan."

"Alright! That's it!" d'Artagnan spun around on them in a swirl, wrapping his cloak around himself protectively. "Bending over in front of you guys is one thing, but I ain't baring my arse for you — especially for free, I just ain't that kind of Gascon."

Porthos seemed to be having a grand old time from where he was holding two reins in each of his hands of their four horses and the young man turned his frustration and embarrassment on him.

"Why don't you show us your arse then!" he challenged.

Porthos smiled at him, even more amused. "My arse if jus' fine, lad. How 'bout yours?"

d'Artagnan glowered at him, because the truth was, it did hurt — like if a horse had kicked him. "I'm not puttin' on a show." He told them, his chin sticking out with dignity and challenge.

"Fine." Athos sighed, removing his hat briefly to run his hand through his hair before setting it back on his head. "Aramis?"

"Come behind this bush with me."

"Shut up, the lot of you!" d'Artagnan snapped at the starting giggles.

"Don't mind us!" Porthos laughed.

d'Artagnan gave them the cold shoulder and stomped off into bushes, despite that it did him more harm than good, Aramis following behind.

"We'll just wait right here!" Athos called after them.

The others had been saying suggestive things to him as of late that was making the Gascon suspisious, and Aramis' barely concealed moves towards him around Porthos and Athos weren't helping.

"Here." Aramis said, pulling him to a stop. "This is far enough."

d'Artagnan turned to him with an irate expression. "You need to cool your jets!" he said firmly, poking the other man in the chest pointedly.

Aramis cocked an eyebrow that.

"You keep saying and doing suggestive things to me in front of Athos and Porthos. We all agreed. All together or not at all."

"You're exaggerating," he brushed his hand through the young man's longer locks.

d'Artagnan lightly slapped his hand away. "Just promise me."

Aramis sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "I'm starting to think that it's not Constance that's not ready for the others to know — but you."

He stiffened at the accusation.

"Okay. Okay. I'll try." Aramis swore. "Now will you let me see to that wound?" he felt the Gascon relax slightly and nod. "Alright, trouser down."

d'Artagnan looked at him for a moment more before he turned round, swept his cloak around, and undid the laces in his pants. Aramis was the one that took hold of them and carefully lowered them down his hips, stopping them mid thigh.

"Okay, let's see what we're dealing with," he murmured and bent low.

d'Artagnan could distinctly feel the man's warm breath brush his exposed skin and his eyes flickered closed for a second at the things that he pictured.

"Ooh," Aramis remarked, drawing the Gascon back to the present and the persistent pain in his backside.

"What?" d'Artagnan cocked his head round and tried to see for himself.

Aramis chuckled and stilled him with a hand on his hip. "It looks like you picked up a piece of glass from the road when you fell. I'll just remove it, clean the wound... and you might need a stitch or two, depending on the bleeding."

He groaned. "Can't you just stick a bandage on it?"

"Sorry." He said. "You know the drill. Hands on your knees,"

"Har har. Very funny."

"I thought so." Aramis smiled. "Just hold still."

d'Artagna didn't much feel the first splash of wine on the wound through the ache in his tailbone, but he bit hissed when Aramis removed the shard and poured more wine on his buttock. He patted it dry.

"I'm gonna have to put some stitches in it. Sorry." He got his thread and needle from his kit and d'Artagnan sighed in defeat. "I would prefer to do this with you horizontal." Aramis heard him inhale for a remark, but quickly spoke over it, "for stitching — so nothing's taut."

"Well, I'm not laying on the ground like this." d'Artagnan said.

"I figured." He put in two stitches just to be safe because of its precarious position, and put a bandage over it.

Time ticked on as d'Artagnan stood there, waiting for Aramis to tell him he was finished, but the Spaniard was silent behind him. "Ar—" When he felt the fist kiss brush his cheek, he thought he'd imagined it, but when it happened a second time, he knew that it wasn't. "Stop that." He murmured when the brushes of lips continued, but he made no move to physically stop the man.

"Sorry." Aramis whispered after a minute, standing up and helping with his pants over the wound. "I couldn't help myself."

d'Artagnan tied his strings before he turned to his lover with an apologetic smile. He grasped the man's nape lightly and pulled him into a slow kiss. When he pulled back, the Spaniard looked bright eyed. The Gascon headed back to the others a bit of a devilish smile on his face, leaving Aramis to repack his kit and scramble after him.

"Took ye long enough," Porthos remarked when they finally returned. "'xactly what did ya two do behind tha' bush, eh?" He clapped the Gascon on the shoulder.

d'Artagnan glared at him threateningly. "How about I jab your arse with a shard of dirty glass and you can see for yourself?"

Porthos put his hands up and backed up a step. "Easy."

d'Artagnan put his foot in the stirrup of his horse's saddle.

"Easy on the horse!" Aramis warned him.

It was a little late as the young man jerked himself into the saddle, and nearly fell right back out, before he perched precariously on the saddle.

"Alright?" Aramis reined in beside him.

d'Artagnan nodded. "Can we just get home?"

All were in agreement and wasted no further time.

They'd been riding for a few hours already and d'Artagnan bit back the groan.

There was so much other pains he would much rather be going through, and this one seemed like a first. He'd never had an arse wound before. He despised horseback riding right now with a vengeance. The rhythm of the horse was a killer on his arse! Why didn't someone just slap him on the ass with a wooden paddle?

Fully seated wouldn't do, not with the constant jolting and jumping, so he tried to levitate himself a bit above the saddle, it strained his back and knees. And he was still undecided on which was better or worse when it started to drizzle out.

It was nothing to worry about, really. It was light enough that it didn't force them to stop and take shelter until it slowed or stopped, but it was heavy enough that after enough exposure, it soaked through their Musketeer traveling cloaks and dragged at them.

d'Artagnan was more miserable than ever.

They knew it was time to find some shelter when thunder clapped in the darkening sky. Luckily, just when the rain gave them a good splash, they came across an abandoned barn — a wary traveller's best friend.

d'Artagnan let out a low breath as he was finally able to be free of his torturer, his stead, inside the barn. He had tried with the energy of a desperate man, to feel the pain as if it was something else — something that didn't hurt so much, as was a welcome ache. He remembered the first time that he'd had sex with Aramis, and the morning after. The ache in his rear for the whole next day whenever he sat, reminded him of that night. But he'd been to miserable to really throw himself into it, though it also didn't stop the slight stirrings below the belt.

Porthos and Athos took care of the horses; relieving them of their saddles, making sure they got water and the dry hay that still garnished the barn's floor; it wouldn't due to leave them out all night in what was quickly turning into a thunder storm. So the four animals claimed one side, and the four Musketeers claimed the other. d'Artagnan helped Aramis with the building the fire, and after striping of their cloaks (to hang and dry) they crowded round the fire and ate.

d'Artagnan was the first to retire, the strain of riding refusing to let him stay up any longer. He piled some dry, mildew-smelling hay into a makeshift bed, and laid slightly on his side, listening to the storm. He used to love storms when he was a kid; he, like most boys, liked the excitement and fright it brought with each unsuspecting clash of thunder. However, for a long while, he hated them after he held his dead father in his arms during one. But then, during one particularly bad storm had him in a bad way, he'd been with Aramis and Constance and they had sandwiched him between them, had held him, showering him with kisses and touches that made him forget, made him replace that horrible moment with that good one.

He'd been dozing when Aramis laid down casually in front of him. "Hey."

"Mm." d'Artagnan unconsciously shifted closer to him.

Aramis smiled and brushed the hair from his face. d'Artagnan started and jerked away from him, remembering exactly where they were and who they were with.

"I just want to check your wound." The Spaniard explained, "Make sure you didn't pop a stitch on the rough ride."

"As long as you that's all you do." Before he could kick his tired body into action, Aramis had already done the deft courtesy of loosening his strings. He went round the other side of the young man, and with little help, managed to lower his trousers to the same level they had been in the wood.

He carefully peeled the cloth away and examined the wound in the dying light of the fire. The through a rough ride, the stitches stayed.

"Well?" d'Artagnan wondered after grimacing at the light prodding fingers. His brows furrowed drowsily as his pants stayed where they were, and Aramis laid at length behind him.

"The bandage should be left off for a bit," Aramis said, his voice in the young man's ear.

"Aramis—"

"Shh," he hushed gently, wrapping an arm around the Gascon's waist, pressing a little closer. "Athos and Porthos have already retired."

"That's beside the poi— a-ahh." His words were cut off in a unexpected gasp as Aramis pushed the crotch of his trousers down, and grasped his exposed cock. It took him a minute to get his head about him, but when he did, he hissed angrily at the other man, stock still, "You promised!"

Aramis sighed. "Sadly, I do remember the discontent moment when you made me promise to not to touch in the ways that make us both happy." Plus, he might have crossed his fingers when he agreed.

"You know that's not what I meant." d'Artagnan grumbled.

"Alas," he proclaimed, quietly dramatic into his ear. "You are exhausted—"

"So let me be to my sleep in peace."

"— are aching and sore— "

"So release me to rest."

"—and as the medic in this group, I feel it my responsibility to help you any way that I can. Anyway I see fit." His breath ghosted over the other's ear sensually.

In the end, d'Artagnan couldn't help himself. Aramis just drew him in like a spider web. He was a bad influence, Constance would tell him, with a mix of annoyance and love. He would agree, as said man slowly pulled on him, and he sucked on the man's free fingers to muffle his noises.

Despite his wound, d'Artagnan pressed his bare arse into the other man's lap, able to feel his semi-hardness through the layers. If for a moment, he wasn't in this abandoned barn that smelled like mildew, damp, aching, Porthos' occasional snore heard threw the rain, snorting horses — none of it. Aramis drew him away and pulled him into a place that was filled with pleasure. He was mewling quietly at Aramis' attention by the end of it, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth as he gasped, panted, and sucked around and at Aramis' digits like his life depended on it.

Until finally, he reached behind him and grasped Aramis' hip, pulling him closer, even as he pushed back, grunted and jerked as he came into his completion, spattering the ground in from of him with his hot liquid, before he went lax against the man, sated.

Aramis peppered the young man's neck with kisses as he leaned up on an elbow and watched in the stunted moonlight that leaked in through the holes in the roof (along with the rain), as d'Artagnan finally fell asleep.

He tried to think back on a time when he had ever felt like this, how he felt when he was with Constance and d'Artagnan, and the closest he could recall when he was just a teenager, but not to long ago, he had finally faced the truth that it was just his romanticism and young naiveté taking a firm footing in reality for all those years. What he had had with the Gascon and Frenchwoman was real, it wasn't imagined, and it wasn't just sex like with all the women he went with on a nightly basis to drown himself — similar to Athos and his drink (though for severely different reasons). He found that he wasn't running away with Constance and d'Artagnan, but he was coming home to them — finally, after travelling for so long.

When d'Artagnan was shaken awake the next morning by Porthos, it was to a line of drool down his chin, his trousers pulled back up and his laces tied. He shuffled over to the fire with a groan. And was starting to think he'd just dreamed Aramis pulling him off, until the man gave him a wink. d'Artagnan's cheeks inflamed.

He could believe at the risks the man continued to make. What if Athos or Porthos had awoken in the night to relieve themselves — what if they had been seen? d'Artagnan's heart raced frighteningly with just the thought and his flush had quickly drained from his face.

"What's with you?" Porthos questioned, noticing the sudden change.

"Nothing." He muttered, burring himself in his food, avoiding Aramis' probing gaze.

Surely they would look at the young man in disgust, they would despise him, give him the cold shoulder. He filled with dread at the thought. They would hate him. He couldn't allow that ridicule on Constance, on Aramis. He squeezed his eyes closed for a second, pushing those doubts down. They were his friends, his brothers, they would never do him a turn like that. He didn't know why he was having these cruel and unjust thoughts about these men. Was Aramis right, about what he said in the wood? That it wasn't Constance that was preventing them from revealing their relationship to their friends — but his own?

When they finally returned to the garrison and gave in their report to the Captian, d'Artagnan was allowed a two-day healing break, and as soon as the foursome was dismissed, the Gascon took his leave as fast as he was able. Aramis instantly made to go after him, as he knew the man would, but d'Artagnan gave a meaningful shake of his head that stopped the marksman in his tracks.

Constance found him at the house, laying in bed on his side, with his back to the door, alone in the forced dark, still clad in his traveling clothes.

"d'Artagnan!" she went to his side instantly. She perched on the edge of the bed and gently carded her fingers through his locks as he looked at her in misery. "What happened?" she asked gently.

"Why haven't we told Athos and Porthos about us yet?" he whispered.

She was caught off guard by the unexpected question. "Well—"

He interrupted her. "It's 'cause of me, isn't it? Aramis said as much!"

"Oh, love." She shook her head fondly.

"Why do I feel so uncomfortable about it?"

"It's natural to be scared," she soothed him. "Athos and Porthos are your friends, your brothers — they're family. You care what they think, not matter how little or how big. There's nothing wrong with that. But you know them. You know how much they love and care about you and Aramis — no matter what." She paused. "Are you happy?" he gave a small nod without hesitation. "That's all they'll care about."

"You make it sound so easy," he sighed.

"That's because it is." But she didn't sound condescending about it.

How many times had his unconscious agonized about this? And there she went, laying it out plain and true for him in under ten minutes. He was reminded just how amazing the woman in front of his really was — not that he could ever forget — not to mention how lucky he was to have bothher and Aramis.

"Now, why on earth are you wearing these filthy clothes in bed, huh?" She gave his arse a pat. He couldn't stop the hiss in time and she froze instantly at the sound. She narrowed her eyes on him, both scolding and worried at the same time. "What's happened?" His eyes flickered away in guilt and embarrassment. "Tell me now." She warned him. He gulped and told her about the fall, like a child caught telling a lie.

"W— It's fine!" he told her instantly.

The look she gave him made him cringe. Of course, she'd learned from experience to hardly believe him when he said that. "Show me."

Grumbling under his breath, he knew it would be useless to refuse. He untied his strings, and he pulled his trousers and underclothes off — but she didn't seem to stop there, and had him forgo his doublet and shirtsleeves, too — leaving him stark naked and laying on his stomach. While he did that, she'd gone and heated some water and gotten fresh bandages. Leaving behind her own dress and leaving on her slip, she carefully straddled the back of his thighs.

"Look at th' state of you." She scolded, careful ling pulling away the damp and soiled cloth. She tsked. "Next I see Aramis, he's getting a slap upside the head!"

"It's my fault—"

"Don't worry, you'll be next."

He expected no less. He knew this was more his fault than it was Aramis'. The morning after, the whole day's ride back to Paris; he'd pushed his way in next to his mentor, hardly made eye contact with the Spaniard, let alone talked to him or let him check his wound when they took a rest. He was punishing the man away unjustly for finally pointing out the truth to him. It had always been d'Artagnan who got the other two to hold off on telling Athos and Porthos.

"Even with the like pair of ya acting like children, he still should have checked your wound." She cleaned the wound and left the bandage off so the would could get some air and dry out.

She poured some oil into her hands that Aramis had brought around, warmed it up, before she started to give him a back massage. He grunted at the flare of pain, but soon, with skilled hands born of dough-kneading, pushed through the wall of pain and gave way to better things. It wasn't long before he gave a long moan and it caused him to start to go hard — which always seemed to happen.

She smirked, she had long learned to hear in his tone when his body reacted physically to her attentions and he went hard. Her blue eyes twinkled as she continued on. She was a bit surprised that Aramis hadn't tackled the Gascon down, no matter the wound; he was unusually sensitive to d'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos' health.

She gave a soft sigh as brushed her hands along his arms, ribs, and back, before she placed a tender kiss on the small of oiled back, and stood up.

He grasped her hand, stopping her exit. "I want you, Constance." He whispered. "I want to feel your warmth."

She blushed a little. "Not now, maybe later."

"I did it with Aramis." He so sensitively pointed out.

"If you think that's gonna work, think again, mister." She turned her chin away defiantly.

He murmured sensually, "I was nearly asleep when he pressed up behind me. Arm around my hip, he untied my strings and pushed my pants down, baring my arse. I could feel him through his own trousers, growing, even as he took my cock in his hand. I sucked on his finger to muffle the sounds of my moans as he panted in my ear. He kissed my neck as I sprayed to ground in front of me…" Of course he'd exaggerated a bit, but he knew that he had caught her anyways as he could sense the sudden heat that flooded her.

She bit her lip, even as she let out a little gasp, her hand tightening in his. "The pair of ya together, you know how that turns me hot."

He smiled as he turned on his side at the center of the bed, his back to the open door, showing her his erect cock. "I know."

Constance found it too hard to refuse him. No matter, he was sexy to her. She pulled her slip off over her head and laid on her side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her back against his chest. Her skin was so soft in his touch, as he gently pulled her nipple between his knuckles. She opened her legs and easily guided his stiff member into her wet entrance, his d'Artagnan and Aramis tale taking care of all the prep work.

The both gasped as he was fully sheathed inside of her, her entire heat engulfing him. His hips stuttered, the massage alleviating his lower back pain. But she took control of the pace, thrusting back onto him, his other fingers tangled in hers on her hip. It was fast, but with slow, smooth strokes, climbing them up to the high.

He kissed the crook of her neck, tasting the milky flesh.

"Constace. I love you!"

"Ahh! d'Artagnan!"

Together, they reached their climax.

Aramis stood in the doorway watching, just in time to witness the beautiful moment, unable to stay away any longer. Breathless. They were so beautiful together. They belonged with each other, and it was no wonder they fell in love together. Their bodies reflected the beauty of their souls — and sometimes, he wondered if he deserved them.

He didn't immediately announce himself, thinking himself viewing them unnoticed, his hat in his hands — little did he know of the keen Frenchwoman.

"It's been a while since it was just the two of us," she murmured, pulling d'Artagnan's arms around her stomach as he snuggled against her.

"Mm." He murmured in agreed and Aramis couldn't help the tightening of his heart. He always wondered if it was right to involve himself in d'Artagnan and Constance's relationship. They had been through so much trouble and heartache to finally be with each other, and then he entered in the relationship. "But — it doesn't feel the same without Aramis. When I found you Constance, when we were finally able to be with each other without Bonacieux, I found my heart. But it wasn't until Aramis came with us, that I realized their been a piece missing."

Aramis felt his heart in his throat, because the was the same way he felt about d'Artagnan and Constance.

Constance turned in his arms and kissed him, not 'seeing' Aramis. "Why don't you tell him that?"

"I gave him the cold shoulder," he sighed, looking at Constance with sad eyes. "Would he even want to speak to me again?"

"I would never do that to you," Aramis finally spoke, causing the younger man to start.

"Aramis!"

"I'm so sorry! What you said was beautiful, d'Artagnan." The Gascon blushed scarlet that the compliment. "I couldn't have put it better, the way I feel about you and Constance, both. I never meant to hurt you or make you scared to be with me d'Artagnan."

"You didn't!" he protested, pushing himself up and around with Constance. "You could never do that to me. I was just being stupid and childish."

"Can you forgive me?"

"Yes." He gave the made a critical eye. "Why are you still dressed?" he wondered after a moment.

Aramis let out an explosive breath and laughed. "The two of you are beautiful."

"The three of us, you mean." Constance said, crawling across the bed over to the man where she helped him from his clothes before pulling him into bed with d'Artagnan.

She smiled at the both of them, holding each other their hands. "My two foolish boys," she sighed fondly. "Sometimes, I really wonder who's the woman in this crazy love affair!"

There was a gleam in their eyes as the two men shared a look before giving her a devious one. Wondering what they had in mind, she didn't much mind when they did it to her — least of all not when she was out of her mind, crying out their names as they did things to her that made her forget her own name, at least.

It was few days later that d'Artagnan was able to put out a guise to get Porthos and Athos over to the house, via an invitation from Constace to have the three men over with the pair for supper. And soon, the they were all seated down at the table in front of a delicious meal cooked by Constance. (she at one end of the table, Athos at the other, d'Artagnan on her right and Aramis beside him and Porthos on the opposite side of the pair).

After a nod from Aramis and Constance, d'Artagnan cleared his throat, "Gentlemen," and drew Athos and Porthos' attention. "There's something that Constance and I... and Aramis have to tell you."

"We know." Athos said calmly, taking a drink of his wine.

"What?" d'Artagnan and Aramis said in surprise.

Constance was amused at the assertion, she didn't think there was much that could be kept hidden from Athos, and she was sure least of all this (especially where his men were concerned).

"Did the two of you really think you were master actors?" the older man mused drily.

"Honestly, yeah." Aramis told him after a moment.

d'Artagnan gave him a look at that and the other man looked offended. "I told you, you were too obvious with your touching and your smirking!"

"He is right, you know." Athos said, making both men pay attention. "You were too obvious, but d'Artagnan was quiet good."

d'Artagnan felt pride at the compliment. "And you're alright with it, right Athos?" he asked.

"To each their own." The older man said simply.

d'Artagnan felt relief knock through him, Athos' opinion always meant something to him. It kind of felt like asking his father's permission or something — he cherished the feeling.

"Porthos?" Constance asked. "You've been quiet."

"I kinda figured it out when you boths rolled 'round in the hay a bit ago!" Porthos laughed.

Aramis clapped on d'Artagnan's back as the Gascon choked on his food at Porthos' announcement, and he sent the sharpshooter as scathing told-you-so! The Spaniard gave him a sheepish smile and shrug; there was nothing he could do about it now.

"But... you've both acted so normal!" d'Artagnan said.

Athos and Porthos shared a look and a shrug.

"To be honest," Porthos said, "I wasn't really sure what t' think 'bout it. But then I saw yous, an' it jus' seemed to fit."

d'Artagnan grinned like a fool as they continued to eat, and everything was normal and nothing changed in their relationship, except that they knew more about each other, they'd all grown a little closer. He didn't know why he'd been so afraid of this. Other than Porthos witnessing what Aramis had done to him... but how much could the man have seen and heard in the dead light of the fire and rain storm? He glanced at the big man, who saw the look and sent a wink and grin his way, heat flooded his cheeks.

Aramis chuckled quietly next to him at the interaction, squeezing his lover's thigh under the table.

Their relationship was unconventional, but... then, so, wasn't love?

[fini]

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Note: Well? Huh? Huh? Love to hear your thoughts of this lovely and sexy threesome!

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