#athos x reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandom-imagines-stories · 6 months

Text

Phantom

Aramis x Reader (The Musketeers)

Words: 3631

Part One of Three

Summary: Aramis’s paramour is proclaimed dead by the man she was set to marry. Having escaped her murder attempt, the reader tries to reach Aramis before a worse fate can befall him at the hands of her betrayer.

Notes: I really wanted to write my own interpretation on what happens to Adele and what Aramis’s reaction would be. I didn’t use the Cardinal though because I wanted a character more expendable for revenge purposes. I also know that Pinon is much farther away, but for the sake of the story, I’m making it closer. Also was only meant to be one part, but we all know I can’t write short things. Sorry!

Warnings: The usual- violence, mentions of death/assault, Aramis steaminess (of course)

More Musketeer imagines: HERE

“She died screaming your name, musketeer scum!” Visage sneered. The horse trampled over fallen leaves, each step thundering in Aramis’s ears. “She pleaded for you to come to her! To save her.” The wretch aimed his pistol, but Aramis continued running after him. “You failed.”

He fired. The shot rang past the musketeer’s ear. He kept running but his speed was no match for Visage’s horse.

“Come back and fight me you coward!” Aramis screamed. “Visage!”

Athos broke through the trees, followed closely by the other two.

Visage fired again. Again, it failed to find its mark. Porthos called out to Aramis. He didn’t hear him.

“I’ll be back for you, filth! The embarrassment you’ve forced upon me will be nothing compared to the pain I have planned for your death!” Visage shouted. He took something from his bag. “Have this token as a promise.” A glint of gold fell to the forest floor and Visage disappeared into the morning mist.

“Aramis!” The three chased after him. D’Artagnan stopped to examine the item from Visage.

He ran until his lungs felt that they’d burst. Even after he couldn't see him anymore, he sprinted with fire in his blood and tears in his eyes. It couldn’t be true. He’d catch Visage and force him to confess the lie.

It couldn’t be true.

“Aramis, stop!” Athos called. He caught up to his breathless friend and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Stop. He’s gone.”

“We can’t allow him to escape,” Aramis gasped. His mouth tasted bitter. His lungs heaved for air.

“We won’t.”

Porthos joined the two. In the distance, D’Artagnan hurried after them, examining something in his palm intently.

“What the hell happened?” Porthos asked. “Was that who I thought that was?”

Realization struck Athos first as Aramis hit his knees. His shaking breaths turned to sobs he couldn’t bring himself to suppress.

“Where is she?” Athos froze in place, his words carrying his understanding panic. “Aramis, where is she?”

Aramis looked at the ground.

“What is this?” D’Artagnan held up a lilac-colored ribbon. Aramis reached a hand to take it from him. At the end of the ribbon was a metal locket, spattered with the gore of dried blood. Aramis opened the latch and a small note of his writing fell to the ground before him.

Paradis.

Heaven.

It was the name he’d given Y/N, whispered in intimate moments in the dark.

“He killed her,” Aramis said, words heavy with the guttural pain gnawing at every inch of his being. He glanced up at his companions with tearful eyes. “He killed Y/N.”

The charcoal swooped across the page, creating the line of the sheet draped over his stomach, concealing what lay underneath. You shaded the defined curves and lines of his chest, biting your lip in concentration.

“Are you nearly finished?” Aramis teased, eyes still twinkling in the way you’d drawn them on the paper in your hand. You peeked up over your sketchbook. His gaze grew lustrous and wanting. “I’m not sure I can be still much longer with you looking at me like that.”

You smirked. “I’m nearly there. Be patient.”

“Patience is a virtue I haven’t quite gotten the hang of.” He cocked a brow and lifted his foot to graze against the flesh of your thigh in an attempt to coax you back to him. Though his touch left a tingling spark in your nerves, you persevered in your resistance for a few more strokes of your charcoal.

“Just a few more details…” You mused. You finished the shadow on his arms, crossed comfortably beneath his head, and added a few more strands to his dark, unruly mane. “There. Finished.” You beamed proudly at your work and flicked your eyes up to your bedmate to compare the drawing’s likeness.

“Let me see,” Aramis said, holding out his hand for your book. You clutched it to your chest. He sat up to reach, but you jumped up, scurrying away from his grasp. His mouth fell open with an amused whine. “I’ve just laid here for an hour so you could draw. I think I’ve more than earned a preview.”

“Well, then you’ll have to come and get it.” You stepped back, your back brushed against your curtains.

“Very well.” Aramis tossed the blankets aside and stood before you.

Naked.

You erupted with laughter.

He marched across the room, prompting you to hurry away again, but he gave chase despite his lack of clothing. Your squealing giggles filled the room and his arms locked around you. He plucked the notebook from your hand and examined his portrait with a victorious smile.

“This is actually quite good,” he said.

“Madame de Visage doesn’t fund me for my looks,” you snorted, wriggling to try and escape, but his arm was firmly clamped around your waist.

He set the sketchbook aside and flipped you around. “Now, we have approximately an hour before your patroness returns, correct?”

You nodded, beaming.

“Then may I suggest…” He peppered kisses across your decolletage. “We finish what we started before your artistic endeavor?”

“Aramis-” You sighed breathily, cut off by his lips on yours. His hand slipped under your chamise while he leaned you back onto the bed, muttering what he often did when wrapped in your arms. The same phrase over and over as he hovered over you, continuing his nipping across your shoulder.

“Tu es mon paradis.”

Porthos lifted the water-soaked towel to dab at the cut across Aramis’s brow, but his hand was swatted away. The four men sat in silence, each with his eyes fixed on the table where Y/N’s necklace sat, ribbon frayed and metal tarnished with dried blood. A heaviness filled the room and sunk into their hearts.

“I thought she’d left me,” Aramis spoke quietly, lips pressed against his clenched fist. “When her servant told me she’d gone through with Visage’s proposal and moved with him to the country I did nothing.” His throat burned with a hatred directed inward. “I thought she betrayed me. So I. Did. Nothing.”

He slammed his fist on the table, making the necklace skid across the wooden surface. Aramis lifted his eyes to the others and all they saw was loathing. For Visage. For the world. But, most of all, for himself.

“He strapped her to a tree and beat her like a dog because she loved me,” he said. “And then he shot her through the heart while she begged for my help.” Each word choked him until he felt he couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved as it had in the forest, the guilt and despair overtaking his body like a disease. “I doomed her the moment I laid eyes on her.”

“This is because of that pig, Visage, not you,” Porthos said, fury boiling with every word his friend spoke. “We’ll find him and make him pay, Aramis, I promise you that.”

D’Artagnan nodded in agreement. Athos said nothing. He just examined his companion’s despondence with an understanding eye.

Aramis stood and left them, an air of emptiness in his wake.

“If I find Visage…” Porthos seethed.

“That’s what he wants,” Athos said, finally breaking his silence. “You heard what he said. He wants Aramis dead next.”

“Of course, he wants him dead,” D’Artagnan said. “The woman he sought to control fell in love with another man. And now that he’s killed her…” His words reflected the disheartened feeling deep in his chest. D’Artagnan knew Y/N well. She’d come around the garrison often and befriended each of the musketeers. She was sweet and bright and courageous. It pained him to know that such a light had gone from the world. It pained all of them.

Porthos clenched his fists. “We’ll be ready for him. And when he shows his face again, we’ll show him the same mercy he gave her.”

“We have to be smart about this. Visage has a small army of men to do his bidding. It’s how they were able to overtake Aramis once already,” Athos sighed. “If we hadn’t shown up, Aramis would have joined Y/N in the grave.”

Lord knows how much he wished he had and Athos knew it.

They sat for a moment, contemplating this. D’Artagnan looked toward Aramis’s quarters.

“Should one of us check on him?” He asked.

“No,” Athos said grimly. “No, I think he needs to be alone.”

From behind the closed door, the sounds of items thrown and glass shattering filled their already heavy hearts with woe. When the destruction ceased, there was a silence, and then a deep, desolate scream burdened the air.

Porthos moved toward the horrible sound, but Athos put a hand on his shoulder. He knew, better than either of them, that Aramis needed to feel.

Aramis had the biggest heart of all of them and he’d given it to Y/N completely. Athos worried that, even if they did kill Visage, it would destroy him.

The small room filled with barely conscious, painful groans. Jeanne called for her father to hurry.

You were waking up.

“Where…” You opened your eyes, finding them sore and still recovering from being so swollen. “Where am I?”

“We brought you to Pinon,” the girl hovering over you said. “My name is Jeanne, my father is Bertrand. This is our inn.” She brought a towel to your forehead. The cool drip of water down your jaw was a welcome sensation compared to every nerve in your body screaming at you as you started to remember what happened.

Visage.

Every blow, every cut, and every cruel word resurfaced in your memory. His threat- No. His promise sent a jolt of energy through your aching limbs.

“He’s going to kill him,” you gasped, sitting up. A sharp pain rattled in your ribs. The girl held you down. “I have to find him before he… he…”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for nearly a week,” she said. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

The terrible ache in your battered body prevented much resistance on your part and you laid back down. You blinked, taking in the room around you. Where were you? How did you get here? Who were these people? The echo of a gunshot pierced your brain.

How were you alive?

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in,” Jeanne blew out a low breath, “but you definitely angered the wrong person. You’d be dead if it weren’t for that thing under your cloak.” She motioned to the table beside the bed. Your eyes grew wide.

Your sketchbook sat, the leather cover and pages curled around the scorched chasm in the center. Reaching a shaking hand, you opened it and, sure enough- though singed by the hole in the middle, the drawing you’d done of Aramis smirked back at you. Somehow, the pile of papers and sketches saved your life. For a long while, you just laid there, staring into the smudge-drawn eyes of the man you loved. The man you put in danger.

“I can’t stay here,” you sighed, letting your body adjust to every movement as you again tried to get out of the bed. Jeanne moved to stop you, but you held up a hand. “The man who did this to me isn’t finished.” She pursed her lips and moved to the other end of the room where a pile of your clothes and pair of boots sat. You stretched, catching a glimpse of your reflection in the bowl of water beside your sketchbook.

You gasped.

Your cheek was swollen and turned an awful purplish color. A large cut stretched from your temple to the inside of your brow, just missing your eye. Your lip was marked with a bloodied scab. Worst of all were your hands. You hadn’t looked at them until now, but the flesh of your knuckles was badly torn apart and your fingers trembled terribly. You wondered if you’d ever be able to draw again. It seemed such a stupid thing to fret over now, but it brought tears to your eyes.

“W-where did you say we are?” You asked through the shock.

“Pinon.”

You turned back to Jeanne, the name striking something in your mind. “I know a man who speaks of this place. His name is Athos.”

Jeanne stiffened.

“Do you know him?”

“He was the Comte de la Fére,” she spat. “He doesn’t do anything for us now.”

“Do you think you can send word to him?”

“We’ve been trying for ages, but it just won’t work.” Her anger softened with sadness that came from desperation. “He just ignores any letter we send as far as I know.”

“Trust me.” You tore a sheet of charred paper from your scrapbook. Your hands shook as you tried to hold the charcoal steady enough to write. “He won’t ignore this one.”

Perhaps he would spend the rest of his days in that blinding numbness that consumed everything. Perhaps he would drink away any feeling and pretend everything was fine, as Athos had for years. Perhaps he would die by Visage’s hand and find an end to this misery.

But not yet. Not now.

Now, he had his rage.

Aramis sat at the base of the steps, sharpening yet another blade. The sun had not yet risen over the city, but he could feel the approaching daylight signal his need to hurry before the others awoke. Three more, two short swords and one rapier, lay out before him, glistening and prepared for battle. He could see your face in it, like a phantom reflection in the blade.

When that was finished, he moved onto his musket.

“You’ll have to teach me how to handle it one day,” you’d said once.

He remembered chuckling and shaking his head, taking your sweet, soft hands in his. His fingers had traced splotches of paint and charcoal under your nails.

He’d smiled. “Your hands are made for artistry. Not violence.”

It felt as though your hands were upon him now, your touch haunting his every motion. He readied his weapons and gathered them in front of him. It was certainly enough for a one-man army.

He knew the others wouldn’t hear of it. They’d insist on coming with him and taking on Visage’s men together. But Aramis wouldn’t allow them. This was his fight and he intended on going alone.

Of course, the other three had already figured this out and had been plotting for the past hour.

“Visage can’t have gotten far from the city if he’s left at all. Luring Aramis into the forest was merely a ploy to get him alone,” Athos whispered.

“A ploy he’s about to fall for all over again,” Porthos huffed. His fists clenched at his sides. If it’d been up to him, they would have started the hunt hours ago. But Athos said they needed a plan, especially if they were going to convince Aramis not to lose his head.

Athos put a hand on his shoulder. “Not if we can help it.”

“He’s moving,” D’Artagnan said.

Aramis gathered his weapons, hooking his pistols onto his belt and strapping his musket to his back. One rapier hung from his hip while he gripped the other in hand, ready to fight at a moment's notice. He would not be surprised again.

The three stood from their place in the shadow, forming a line before the entrance and blocking Aramis’s exit. He halted, grip on his weapon tightened, along with his jaw, setting his face in a deep frown.

“You didn’t think we’d actually sit by and let you get yourself killed, did you?” Porthos asked.

“Move aside,” he growled. He kept his eyes over their heads, staring down the enemy he knew lay beyond the buildings around them.

“We’re going with you.” D’Artagnan stepped toward him.

Aramis’s sword was at his chest in an instant.

“Get out of my way!”

Two more swords crossed his, forcing the blade away from the youngest member of their group. Aramis’s chin trembled.

“I have to do this,” he whispered.

“But you don’t have to do it alone.” Porthos lowered the sword and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let us come with you. Visage has a small army, you’ll never reach him.”

“I cannot ask you to join my fight.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, again stepping forward. “Y/N was a friend to all of us. It is our fight as well. I’ll gladly give my sword in the cause to avenge her gentle and kind spirit.”

Aramis still opened his mouth to argue. Athos silenced him with a wave.

“Think about it, Aramis,” he urged sternly. “What do you want? A fruitless death? Or justice?” He looked at him with such intense feeling, that Aramis couldn’t ignore it. “What would Y/N want?”

She would want to live. Aramis wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words on his tongue. He could only nod and let the fire in his chest cool with thoughts of her. Athos was right, of course. The only thing that mattered was making Visage pay.

Porthos gave him a reassuring smile with a determination that matched his own. “Then let’s go find this bastard, eh?”

Aramis allowed himself to be led by the three to saddle their horses. As Porthos and D’Artagnan kept an eye on him, Athos was drawn away by a young man waving him down with a letter in hand.

“A letter for you, monsieur. From Pinon.”

A shot like ice rushed up his spine. He crossed his arms in dismissal. “You may dispose of it. There’s nothing there that concerns me.”

“I’m told it’s urgent.” He held the parchment toward him.

Athos started to deny him again, this time with a tinge of annoyance, but the writing on the front stopped him. In soft, swooping letters read his name- Athos of the King’s Musketeers. He took the letter from the young man, perplexed. Of the letters he received from the home he wished to forget, he’d only ever been addressed by anyone there as the Comte de la Fére- something he’d never call himself again. Perhaps they’d finally accepted his decision.

He could still throw it out. What good could come of it? Anything from Pinon could only bring him heartache. And yet, the letter weighed heavily in his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, paying the man for his efforts.

With his back still to his companions, he tore open the envelope, finding two papers inside. The first, a small note, and the second a sketch, charred in the middle from what appeared to be a gunshot.

I’m sorry to contact you in such a mysterious manner, but my circumstances have given me little choice. I’m sure Visage has revealed the news to you and my dear Aramis that I am dead. I write this letter to tell you he has failed. By the grace of God, I survived Visage’s attack and am now recovering in your former home of Pinon. I provide this drawing I once did of the four of you training on a sunny day several weeks ago. You told me it seemed the swords moved right off of the page. I hope this is enough to convince you that this is no trick.

I write to you because I know you will grant me this request- do not tell Aramis. Not yet. I fear that Visage will find him too easily if I were to reveal myself to him. I beg of you to ride to Pinon to help me save him before Visage can enact the final part of his terrible, jealous plot. Urge Aramis to stay away from him, to stay safe. I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to him. Though I know prolonging my return can only cause him more grief, it is for his own protection.

Please, Athos, I need you now more than ever. If this letter has been intercepted by any but you, I fear my hope will be lost.

Y/F/N Y/L/N

Athos’s eyes darted between the note and the drawing. Sure enough, it was the very image Y/N had drawn during a particularly laid-back day in the early days of summer.

But it couldn’t be. Visage was a violent, unforgiving man. He would not have just let the woman who fooled him escape. And the necklace D’Artagnan had found was filthy with Y/N’s blood.

The writing of the letter could be hers. He hadn’t seen enough of her handwriting to be sure. And the drawing… who else would know what he’d said to her that day?

“Athos!” Porthos called. “Aren’t you coming?”

The somber musketeer stuffed the letter and the drawing into the top of his boot and turned back to his friends. As he rejoined them, he could feel Aramis’s suspicious eyes before he even spoke.

“Something has come up,” Athos said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to join you later. When you find Visage, do not attack. Wait and send for me.”

“What could be more important than this?” Aramis spat. His hands tightened his grip on the reins and his horse whinnied.

“I assure you, I would not leave if it wasn’t absolutely essential.” He mounted his own horse, feeling the burning stares of all three of them as he moved. While he wished to tell them, to give Aramis even the slightest bit of hope, he couldn’t in good conscience until he confirmed it was true. “You will understand later.”

He rode off before they could ask anything else.

D’Artagnan watched until he could no longer see him. “What could that be about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aramis said. He urged his horse forward. “Come on.”

The three departed shortly after Athos, driven by vengeance, while their separated friend almost dared to hope.

#aramis x reader #aramis bbc #the musketeers imagines #the musketeers bbc #santiago cabrera #athos #d'artagnan #porthos #all for one and one for all

80 notes · View notes

writesick-lover · 5 months

Text

Please don't leave

D'Artagnan x fem!reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

A/N: Hiii, so yeah, this is basically my first post of a one-shot I wrote like a year ago but I am still proud of it to this day. At first it was written based on D'Artagnan from the movie The Three Musketeers but later on I realised that it works perfectly with the one from the series as well so you got both of them here haha. I also decided to leave this in a 3rd pov despite reader's involvement in this story. Anyway, please enjoy and let me know how you like it ;D

Warning: none it's just fluff

Summary: D'Artagnan and his wife wake up to another morning in their bed until they realise the daunting truth of what is to come.

♦️ ♦️ ♦️ ♦️

Another cold morning had hit the residents of Paris. The early busy streets were haunted by a mysterious fog and the warm breaths of people talking with each other in hopes of buying something for what little they had. Amongst the civilians, a bunch of feathered hats moved around. The musketeers, the pride and joy of the King's army, were up early and ready to protect their country and their King. All of them but one.

She pulled her bedsheets up, trying to hide from the merciless cold that had crept into her usually warm bedroom. She could use the feeling of his body to fight the cold but found no strength to search for his touch as her place in the bed was partially warmed up by her. As if her thoughts called him, his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to his chest. It felt just like the usual morning they were to spend together. Except it wasn't.

The reality hit her like a wild horse and broke all of her dreams of a lovely morning into pieces. "Charles," she croaked. There was no response but she knew he was up, he was a light sleeper, his profession made him to be one. "Charles," she tried again. A sound returned to her voice and finally hit his ears as he snuggled closer to the crook of her neck.

"Oui, mon ange?" he mumbled against her skin, placing a small kiss. It was prickling like a needle as she slowly realized it might have been one of the last kisses she was to receive from him.

"You have to go," her voice shook and she gulped, to swallow the lump in her throat caused by the urge to cry.

He groaned, realizing the truth as well, but choosing to ignore it in favor of more cuddles. "No, we still have time."

She sighed as she glanced at the clock, "No, we don't, the musketeers will be here any minute." She started wiggling, trying to break free from his grip that only tightened, making her break a smile whilst she kept on trying. "I have to prepare you a bath. And get your clothes,"

"No, you don't, I can do it later," he muttered sleepily, pulling her as close as physically possible.

"I do, or you'll have to go through the embarrassment of being dragged out of the bed naked by one of your brothers in arms," she giggled, hitting his hand which had proven to be the right method to make him let go.

"Please don't leave," he begged, setting off a tear down her cheek. However, it quickly dried as she gasped when the freezing air hit her skin, biting into every inch of her naked body.

She quickly dressed herself, and he, unbeknownst to her, was watching her with adoration. All of her motions, the way she tied her hair into a ponytail with a black tie, creating a small bowtie at the top. How she quickly put on her underwear to fight of the spreading goosebumps on her skin, small almost inaudible gasps escaping her lips with each movement. The way she perfectly slipped into the black dress he gave her last winter, the one she wore every time he had to leave her. And after all those times, he learned to despise the dress, wishing he never had given it to her. Wishing she never had to put it on, on another of those mornings.

As she left the room, it was as if a symphony he didn't even realise was enveloping his entire world came to a halt. But then her voice rang across the house and he found himself fighting the cold outside their bed just to get to her. As he washed, she made sure everything was ready for him. She always did. She didn't even forget the small package of food for the way, no matter how many times he had told her that Porthos would bring something. And every time, he made sure to eat everything she packed for him instead of what Porthos had brought.

He was drying himself up when he noticed the unusual silence coming from his significant other. "Why so silent, amour?"

"Just a lot of thoughts," she shrugged, forcing a smile onto her lips, even though her eyes glistened with tears.

His posture softened under her teary gaze, but it didn't stop him from his usual habits. "You don't have to mourn, you know I will be back," he grinned arrogantly, letting out his boyish attitude to reduce her worries. But it was very like him to laugh in the face of Death and then escape, no matter how carelessly he threads the line between life and death. She smiled honestly this time, a small giggle escaping her lips and he wished he could trap it in a jar and take it with him. She opened her mouth to retort back but was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

"D'Artagnan, you better not be sleeping or I will break this door down and drag your ass out whether it's naked or not! Athos is already waiting for us on the academy grounds." Aramis' voice roared from the outside. Her eyebrow lifted, glancing at D'Artagnan who was half naked with a towel in his hands. "I suppose you are at the risk of a major embarrassment."

"I'm not if my love makes sure to hold them up for me," he smirked devilishly as she rolled her eyes, already heading for the door. "Sometimes I wish to not do as you say and witness the actual threat getting fulfilled, I think I'd find it more than hilarious," she yelled at him in the middle of her tracks, a mischievous smile, he could see in his mind, painting her lips. "You wouldn't do me that dirty, you love me too much for something like that," he managed to answer while frantically trying to put on his pants.

"Do I really?" she teased, grabbing the door knob and twisting it.

"Hello, gentlemen," she smiled brightly at the two musketeers in front of her. They bowed their heads while holding their hats in an elegant matter, both smiling at her, Aramis appearing to be more joyful than any other time. "My lady."

"Definitely not yours!" D'Artagnan's voice thundered from the other room.

"She will be if you don't come out ready this instant!" Aramis snapped back, throwing a bold wink at the lady of the house. She could only roll her eyes at the cheesy gesture as she leaned on the door frame, preventing the two men from entering any further. She smiled politely. "You will have to forgive me, but I oppose to that idea, unfortunately,"

Aramis grabbed her hand and placed his lips on top of it. "Oh, what a shame, my gorgeous lady," he sighed after holding it for longer than appropriate, only making her chuckle.

"Fortunately!" Charles yelled out again.

"Mon amour, I cannot hold them much longer. Aramis is gonna be all over me if you don't get here soon," a smirk on her face met Aramis' similair one in front of her as Charles D'Artagnan appeared from behind her, accompanied by a loud crash.

He puffed out his chest after his 'graceful' entrance. "Weren't you the one who taught me not to profane the lady?" he send daggers Aramis' way, towering over the two of his friends, "And here you are, dragging my wife into whatever is going on in that head of yours. I think this matter cannot be resolved any other way than a proper fight upon our return," her eyes widened upon the words of her husband as she noticed the challenging sparks in the musketeers' eyes.

"In no way are you fighting after your return. I will be more than thankful to have you come in one piece after those few weeks so don't you even think about getting yourself killed the very next day," she turned around to fix his shirt and coat that was visibly put on in a hurry. However, she did not fail to handle his clothes with rough tugs, a heat rising in his chest from the warning fire in her eyes. "And you better not let him do anything stupid, I know he will try anyways," she turned around again, eyeing the other musketeers who bowed again under the urging flames.

"At your service, my lady," they smirked in Charles' face and set off running when he gave chase and chased them all the way to the front yard and to where the horses were already prepared to set off. She followed them, walking to the front yard slowly with a soft laugh but quieted the second she saw them by the horses. D'Artagnan was still with his feet on the ground and waiting for her with a glint in his eyes. Oh, how she was going to miss his dark loving eyes only ever laid on her and the warmth of his body on all of those winter mornings. Oh, how he was going to miss the sweet, sweet smile of hers and the way her voice sounded between the walls of their house. How he was never looking forward to the deafening silence around him without her presence, despite Porthos' mouth never shutting up during the missions. It was a list of unspoken vows they never told to each other out loud but they could always feel it, the way the world stopped at that very moment.

And without any wait, when she was within his reach, he pulled her into a bittersweet kiss, sending thousands of painful but sweet needles down their lips as both of them knew this may be their last. It was long, full of longing and pain, but mesmerising enough to deafen Aramis' scoff in the back. "Please don't leave," she begged after their lips finally parted, her forehead resting on his. She begged again after he hopped on his horse and she again right before they departed. "You know I will come back," he reassured her. And yet, she kept on begging in silence, hoping that he would keep true to his word again just as he did up until now.

♦️ ♦️ ♦️ ♦️

24 notes · View notes

monstercampus · 28 days

Note

Which wolves like a fiesty human and which orefer a more submissive? Who's got the biggest dominance kink/problem??

HEH.

(cws: mild lewd, dom/sub dynamics, brat taming, knots)

Hate to say it but Athos loooooooves a fiesty little brat. He's so sweet on you you'd think he's just the gentlest, most darling wolf to bed--aside from Elliott and Ollie, probably--but those fangs will snap as soon as the attitude comes out. He hates how much he likes it and how he likes it, but it's in his blood, so how much can he really help it?

He likes the fight for dominance, the moments where you're first entangled with each other, when it comes to deciding who is going to stake their claim over the other--he wants to make you regret all that biting and wriggling as you try to break his grip, wants to watch that snarky smirk melt as he pushes you down on his knot. You think this is humiliating? You just wait and see what happens when he turns. Bigger knot, sharper claws, and droolier fangs to sink into the nape of your neck; you'll break if he wants you to break, and when he mounts you you'll know for sure there's no escaping a good, hard breeding from him. Sometimes he'll hit you with that plap, plap, plap of his knot driving into you, while both of those massive hands just hold down your head and grip your hair as he stretches you out on his cock. You can earn his mercy if you try--but you're gonna have to try reeeeallly hard to make him proud of you again, pup.

On the flipside, Portia's one to just adore a submissive partner. He likes fiestier ones for sure, but there's something about the implicit, loving trust and sweetness of a doe-eyed little human that really gets him dialed all the way up. If you can loop your arms around his neck and cling to him while he touches you it's even better. Even if it's just playing pretend and you aren't usually that way, he really likes the feeling of acting like you need to be taken care of--it scratches an itch in the core of his self, it makes him preen at the idea of giving you all that you ask for because you trust that he can provide. He's a giver, what can he say? He likes to be needed.

The rest of the wolves are largely on the sliding scale between those extremes. Ollie likes to be praised and Nick's more on the daddy-ish dom side than the aggressive brat tamer that Athos can be. Kirk is similar to Portia in the sense that he also really needs to be needed, but he also likes flipping that into a dominant role. Julian really just likes to please and will use overstimulation as his tool to dominate you. And Elliott is more of a switch that likes to be submissive on occasion, so when he's dominant he's not usually too aggressive about it. Priam is...well, he's kind of an anomaly. Mostly a big wolfy teddy bear, but there are times when, under the right circumstances, he just goes...feral. So he can kinda flip the switch between ultra aggressive/possession to super gentle and sweet.

#werewolf team #werewolf x reader #werewolf roommate #spicy writing #athos (mc)#portia (mc)#monster campus #monster boyfriend #ellie writes #anons

89 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 29 days

Text

Old Wives' Tale: Athos x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @incorrect-mcdanno fandomhype sherberrt @sekretwindow sweetpeaswife keyweegirlie anele-anomis caffeinatedwoman thebejeweledwatercat jessevans swanfan17 burningpeachpuppy lit-swallow

Athos had always hated mornings. It was when the darkness was always at its worst. It had clawed at his insides, scratching it’s way into his mind.

Every day it was the same, the agony, the self-loathing, the grief. His world was tapered with misery, his steps stalked by the black dog. It had been that way for five years, he’d imagined it’ll be for five more.

Now though, now his life is different. He wakes up in soft sheets with the sunlight kissing his skin through the open window. The scent of lavender in his nose because you always dab the oil onto his pillowcase to ward away the nightmares that plague him.

He’d been sitting in the chair in your surgery, grinding his teeth as you cleaned the musket wound in his shoulder, when you had first suggested it.

“You’ve not been sleeping.” You’d murmured, cupping his chin to study the dark circles under his eyes.

Part of him had wanted to pull away but the other hadn’t. It had been the first time a woman had touched him in years, that she’d looked at him with tenderness. He thinks that’s the moment he falls in love with you because he found himself lost in the hues of your eyes, wondering if God plucked the stars right out of the sky and given them to you himself.

“I have nightmares.” He’d found himself saying as your thumb trailed along the line of his jaw.

“Lavender oil.” You said softly as you draw away. “It’ll help.”

“An old wives tale.” He had told you dismissively because the spell was broken once you’d pulled away. He betrays himself when he’s with you, he tells you things that he would never admit to anyone else including his brothers in the musketeers.

You’d laugh at his comment and he’d felt a flush begin to creep up his cheeks because he’d forgotten that you were a war widow, that by society’s standards you should be remarried with a several children.

That’s not the path you’d chosen and he’d been grateful for it. You’d saved more of his men than he can count in your tenure as the garrison’s ‘doctor’. You can’t hold the official title but your skill set is second to none. Your husband had been a field surgeon during the war and you had followed him to the front with many of the other soldier’s wives. He’d believed in women’s education, teaching you his trade in the quiet moments, putting you to work in the more chaotic ones. Athos doesn’t have to imagine what you’ve seen, he’s lived it.

When your husband had died and the war was over you’d returned to Paris and set up your own establishment.

A woman doesn’t have the stomach for that kind of work many had scoffed. You’d proven them wrong time in the aftermath of the carriage accident, taking control of the situation, tending to the wounded. Now they come to you for their injuries and your compassion. You have a soothing nature, you’re both kind and pragmatic.

The war, your husband’s death, it could have broken you but it didn’t, he thinks what he really sees in you is hope. Hope for the days where he isn’t a ruined, broken down soldier, hope that tomorrow will be the day he wakes up and he doesn’t feel the agony of his history choking him.

“Maybe you should listen to this old wife.” You had teased him, wringing out the warm cloth in the small porcelain basin. He watches his blood intermingle with the water turning it pink and he wonders if maybe he should.

“You know I could have patched up your shoulder.” Aramis had remarked afterwards when the two of them were leaving. “Of course, my bed side manner isn’t anywhere near as charming as Juliette’s and I’m not quite as pretty.”

Athos had scowled at the comment instead tugging his hat down over his features to hide the warmth that flooded his cheeks.

A week later he returns to your surgery. You’re restocking some of your supplies, writing their numbers in an inventory that’s laid out across your desk. It’s lined with textbooks on anatomy, plant properties and oddly a small leatherbound book of sonnets.

“The lavender oil.” He says gruffly as he removes his coin purpose from his belt. “I was thinking maybe I should try it after all.”

“Put that away.” You say gesturing to his purse before you select a small bottle with a dropper from the shelf. He refuses, taking out several coins and leaving them in a neat stack upon your desk.

You sigh as you press the bottle into the palm of his hand. The brush of your fingertips ignites something in him, something powerful and torrid and it takes everything in not to capture your hand when you pull away.

“One or two drops on your pillow case before you sleep.” You tell him and he nods his understanding before he tucks it into his pocket.

That night he forgoes the wine and instead dabs his pillow case with the oil. The aroma fills his senses as he begins to slip away and he thinks of you in his twilight moments, the press of your skin against his, the loveliness of your eyes.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by your stirring. You bury your face into his hair as your fingers comb through it and he moans against the hollow of your throat because when you tug his curls just a little…

It’s enough to a make a man see God.

“You are misbehaving.” You murmur as his calloused his hands begin to wander, palms caressing your bare skin, hips arching against yours.

“You bring out the devil in me.” He whispers, his lips seeking out that sensitive spot just underneath your ear and you make that noise for him, that sweet deviant little sound that he never gets tired of hearing.

“Athos…” You breathe and he smiles because he will never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.

Waking up with you is a gift, one that he treasures every single day.

Love Athos? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#athos #athos x reader #athos x you #musketeers #bbc the musketeers #bbc musketeers #tom burke #the musketeers

22 notes · View notes

imagineteamfreewill · 4 months

Text

Gentle and Kind

Title: Gentle and Kind

Pairing: Prince!Sam Winchester x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, Christmas, threats, angst, fluff, and mentions of death, wounds, war, violence, and sex (nothing happens)

Summary: Y/N’s kingdom has been at war for a long time, and when King John offers her respite in his castle for Christmas, she eagerly agrees.

A/N: This fulfills trope #21 on my 25 Days of Tropes list! It was honestly going to be a short one shot, but it got away from me and now I think it’s the longest thing I’ve written all year. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy and that you had a safe and happy holiday season!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your muscles ache from weeks of fighting with the knights in your first garrison, and the dried blood in your hair is not likely to come out on its own, but for the first time in a long time, you’re relaxed. The carriage is driving through safe territory—the safest you’ve been in since Crowley invaded your kingdom and declared war on you and your people. There’s no fear of being ambushed here.

When King John sent a messenger to your war camp, you had been surprised. He isn’t known for reaching out, and to send a personal, royal messenger straight into war territory is a dangerous move. Nonetheless, the King of Ashela had invited you for a short respite in his castle, just in time for Christmas. You’d accepted after much consultation with your closest advisor, Sir Robert.

You begin traveling east to Ashela four days before Christmas Eve. Your armies travel west, back to Athos. Newer, freshly trained knights had arrived a few hours before your departure to relieve your weary soldiers and allow them rest of their own, though Sir Robert had carefully selected four of them to travel with you as your personal guard for the journey. They ride horseback outside the carriage, and Sir Robert is in the second carriage with the gifts you’ve brought for the royal family.

Charlie is resting across the carriage from you. She’s abandoned the formal dress that you know King John will expect of her as your lady-in-waiting, but you don’t blame her, nor do you correct her. Wearing trousers is easier nowadays, and you’ve done the same. You’ve gotten into the habit of wearing the traditional captain’s uniform, or even a soldier’s armor, rather than the gowns you used to wear before the war. Even as the horses carry you down the tidy forest road that leads to Ashela, you’ve donned your armor. It's a habit to put it on each morning, and you wanted to display your strength and empathy for your men even as you left them behind on the battlefield.

You let out a restless sigh and shift in your seat, and your armor clanks as you move. You wince when something bumps into a bruise on your back. A small part of you wishes you’d chosen to wear something else, but there’s no point in stopping to take the armor off when you’re already so far into the journey.

“Do you think I’ve made the right choice?” you ask when Charlie looks over at you, no doubt checking if there’s something she can do to ease your discomfort. She’s a good friend, and you’re often grateful that you chose her to be your closest lady-in-waiting. “Do you think that leaving my men during this time is the right thing to do?”

In response, Charlie offers you a tired smile. She’d journeyed overnight to your castle—Eryas Court—then back to the war camp, in order to collect the gifts for John Winchester and his two sons. Even if they were inviting you for respite during a war, you didn’t dare show up empty-handed.

“My lady, you can only do so much. You may be a queen, but you are also just a woman,” she replies.

You sigh again and look out the window at the stars as you mull over the most recent battle plans your captains had shown you before you’d left the camp. The Elciums have been encroaching slowly upon the village that surrounds Eryas Court, but you’ve been able to keep them at bay since winter began. You’ve even managed to take back some of the territory they’d taken over the hot summer months.

The carriage falls back into silence, except for the clatter of the wheels and the constant rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the packed dirt. After a while, you find yourself nodding off with your head against the sturdy carriage wall. You don’t fight it, and you let yourself be lulled to sleep for the remainder of the journey.

Charlie’s hand over yours wakes you. You startle, and she sits back in her seat as the carriage rocks with your movement. Your hand immediately flies to where your sword would be, but you’ve unstrapped it from your side for the journey. Sir Robert had said it wouldn’t be proper for you to show up dressed for battle, so you’d met him halfway. He would keep hold of your sword, at least for the trip to Ashela. Once you arrive, he’s to return it directly to you for safekeeping. It was your father’s sword before it became yours, and you don’t trust many with it.

“It’s okay,” Charlie soothes, and you stare wide-eyed at her, gasping slightly for air. “We’ve arrived in Ashela. You slept all night, and for most of the morning.”

Nodding, you close your eyes. It’s shocking that you weren’t plagued with nightmares. The last time you left the war camp, you struggled to sleep, even in the chambers where you’d spent every night since birth, at least until the Elciums invaded.

Your mouth is dry and you swallow a few times to try and get the sandy feeling to abate. You wish you had some water, or at least something to drink. There’s a knock on the carriage window and you flinch away, sliding toward the center of the bench.

You sense Charlie shifting in her seat. “It’s one of the guards,” she says a moment later. “Are you ready to meet King John?”

You’ve never been to Ashela before, nor have you met John and his sons. They’ve been fine neighbors, however, and you have no complaints. You hear what others say about them—the Winchester sons are strong soldiers and scholars, and King John is exacting in everything he does. They’d be formidable foes, and you’re here to make sure that your kingdoms are allied, if only informally.

You nod again, and you open your eyes as Charlie pushes open the carriage door. You lift your chin as the sun immediately floods in through the opening.

Charlie exits first, and she helps clear a path for your exit. A strong hand is offered and you use it to climb from the carriage. Your legs are stiff from sitting so long, especially after months of fighting, and you have to bite back a groan as your muscles stretch.

“Your Majesty,” a deep voice greets.

The winter sun is practically blinding and it takes you a second to get your wits about you. Tall, lush evergreens stand in clusters around the castle, reaching toward the bright blue sky. They’re interspersed by dark green bushes and several boulders. A forest continues behind the clearing you stand in, and the trees grow so closely that light can’t reach through their branches. The darkness this creates is both intriguing and a bit terrifying.

Snow covers the grounds and all the trees surrounding it, except for a gray stone path that has been cleared for you. King John and his entourage stand on a larger patch of gray stone a few feet away, and you bow politely in his direction. He returns the gesture.

“King John,” you say. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“You’re very welcome, Queen Y/N. I expect your journey was a pleasant one?”

“As pleasant as can be expected.”

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as Charlie adjusts the chainmail hood you’ve let fall from your head, revealing the blood caked in your hair and the healing cut that follows your hairline. There’s a sizable bruise on your temple as well, from when an Elcium knight hit you with his shield.

The man to John’s right clears his throat and steps forward with a small bow. “Your Majesty, I’m Prince Dean, head of Ashela’s royal guard. Please allow me to provide you with new armor while we repair yours, and your knights’,” he adds, gesturing to the four men standing near you.

Each man stands with one hand at his side and the other resting on the hilt of his sword, and though they hold their heads high, you recognize the weariness in their stance and in their taut expressions.

“That’s very generous, Prince Dean. Thank you.” You answer with a bow of your own, and he smiles kindly before you turn your eyes to the man on the other side of the king.

He’s tall, taller than any of the men in the King’s entourage and in your guard, and his hair just barely brushes over the collar of his jacket. It’s almost chestnut in the light. When he smiles at you, the urge to smile back is so strong that you can’t fight it. You meet his eyes, and you smile for the first time in a while.

“Prince Samuel, Your Majesty,” he says. He bows, short and sweet. “If you’re ready, I can show you and your lady to your chambers. I’m sure you’re eager to rest.”

You bow back, still smiling. “Thank you, Your Highness.” You nod politely to the King and to Prince Dean, then follow Prince Samuel toward the stone castle at the end of the cleared path. Two of your men travel with you, and Charlie is close behind you to the right, but the other two knights stay with Sir Robert. You realize only as you enter the castle that you’ve left your sword behind.

Samuel leads you through the halls of his home, explaining the history of various paintings and rooms, but you only catch bits and pieces. He walks quickly, and while your armor is protective, it’s made to help you fight on horseback, not take extensive walking tours through beautiful castles.

“Here are your chambers,” Samuel finally says, and you clatter to a stop.

Charlie bumps into you, and she grabs your arm for stability. You catch Samuel’s eyes flickering down to her hands on your arm before he collects himself. Your time on the battlefield has caused your decorum to slip just enough that you know you’re being much too informal for the occasion. Suddenly very conscious of your mistakes, you clear your throat and straighten your posture, fixing him with the most composed, diplomatic look you can muster.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” You allow one of the guards to enter after Samuel opens the door, leaving you feeling a little more exposed. You’ve grown used to being surrounded by people fighting for your kingdom—fighting for you. “Your father was very kind to invite me here. We’ve brought gifts for him, and for you and Prince Dean.” You gesture back the way you’d come. “I’m sure that Sir Robert, my advisor, has already passed them along.”

Samuel dips his head in thanks, smiling. “We’re happy to have you. We’ve been trying to show more diplomacy than in the past.”

You raise an eyebrow. Most kingdoms are not so open about their goals, at least in your experience.

The guard exits and nods his approval of the chambers you’ve been given, and Charlie takes that as a sign to enter and make sure the room is prepared to her standards as well. You don’t move.

“Ashela has always been diplomatic,” you carefully reply. You’re not sure what to make of his disclosure.

“But not always welcoming. I’m trying to change that.”

“You? Not your father?”

Samuel lifts his chin slightly at the question. There’s a hint of pride in his expression, but none in his voice as he answers, “My father has put me in charge of our relationships with neighboring kingdoms. This is one of many steps I’m— we’re taking,” he corrects, “to strengthen those bonds.”

“I see.”

You glance through the open doorway, where Charlie is instructing a chambermaid how warm you like your rooms and how often to tend to the fire. Mentally, you file away the information that Sam has just given you, then turn your focus on more concrete matters.

“I suppose there are festivities I should like to attend?”

He nods, and you can feel his gaze still on your face, even as you watch your friend peek out the windows to see the view from your chambers. “Indeed. There’s a feast tonight, shortly after sundown. I can instruct someone to fetch you.”

“I would like that very much, Prince Samuel,” you say.

You turn back to him, and he takes that as a cue to take your hand and kiss the back of your knuckles, where the skin is rough and scarred from so much fighting. The gesture is simple, but it surprises you nonetheless. Prince Samuel is gentle and chivalrous. It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated that way. Your hand seems to tremble as you pull away, and your breath catches over a lump in your throat.

“Very well. I will see you tonight, Ma’am,” Samuel says. He bows low. It’s a sign of respect he’s not obligated to, and it makes you want to cry. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep over the past few weeks or maybe it’s something else, but to be treated like a queen—not just a captain—is something you didn’t know you’d missed.

“No need for titles,” you find yourself saying, your voice thick with sudden emotion. “You may call me Y/N, if you wish.”

If Sir Robert were here, he’d be interrupting and excusing away your brash actions, but you’re practically alone and the only remaining guard won’t speak up, even if he wanted to. It’s up to Sam to respond, and he only stops and stares at you for a long moment. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you wait, desperately hoping he won’t be cruel.

“Sam,” he finally replies. He offers you a small smile. “You may call me Sam.”

You nod and smile wide, glossy-eyed as Sam turns and heads further down the hallway, opposite the direction he’d first brought you. Once he’s around the corner, you step into the warmly lit chambers, where Charlie has moved onto the wardrobe of clothes that has been prepared for you. Clearly, they hadn’t expected you to show up with all of your finery, and you’re thankful that they had the forethought to provide something for you.

The other guard exits and closes the door behind him, allowing you privacy as the two knights take their places in the hallway. You stay close to the door, where you can see the whole space.

“The Prince seems very polite,” Charlie says after a few moments. Her back is to you as she sorts through the dresses.

“Very.” You don’t say anything more.

“And handsome, too,” she prods.

“Charlie,” you warn. “I have other, more important matters than a polite and handsome prince.”

She sighs and you can picture her rolling her eyes at you. Finally, she pulls a plain dress in your favorite color from the wardrobe, then turns and holds it up for you.

“This will do for now,” she decides. “But I’ll have to find you something else for the feast.”

You glance at her, not bothering to ask how she already knows about the feast, before turning in a circle to take in the enormous room that has been given to you for your respite. It’s bigger than the counsel tent at the war camp. The bed itself could fit the entire map table, and the size of the fireplace reminds you of the enormous bonfire that the men use to cook their meals. The walls and floor are made of the same tan stone as the rest of the castle, but the stone is so smooth that it reflects the light from the flickering flames. There’s a dark wood door in the corner, which you guess leads to a room for Charlie, if Ashelan castles are built like your own.

Everywhere you look, there are lavish curtains, tapestries, and paintings framed in gold. There’s a mound of pillows to lounge on by the fire, and several dark wood chairs standing behind them in a semicircle. Their carvings are so elaborate that you hesitate to sit in them. The bed is draped with soft, plush fabrics in deep greens, reds, and a creamy white that reminds you of the milk your nursemaid brought for you as a young girl. Evergreen boughs are wound around the posts of the bed, though they’re partially hidden by the fabric curtains that have been fastened against the wood. The whole room has been decorated with more sweet-smelling pine branches, as well as clumps of red berries that glisten in the light from the fire and the candles in the window. It’s amazing to you that the candles are already lit, given that it’s only midday, but Ashela has many customs that you’ve always found strange. For instance, Prince Dean was married several years ago in an arranged marriage. Your father had explained the ancient custom to you, explaining the benefits to each kingdom. You still remember that conversation so clearly, and even though your father has long since passed, his words are forever imprinted in your memory.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

“It’s too much,” you murmur, and you escape back out into the hallway, leaving the door to your chambers wide open as you flee. Your heart is racing again and it feels like the walls are starting to close in around you. The panic is irrational. You know it is, but you can’t stop it as it pushes you forward down the hallway.

The guards give you worried looks, but you ignore them as you hurry around the corner where Sam had disappeared. You walk quickly, following the sound of loud voices until you reach an open-air chamber where Sam and his brother are lounging at a table. Two gold goblets sit in front of them, and a candlelit tree has been placed in the corner of the room. An enormous dark fur blankets the floor. The fireplace here is as big as the one in your guest chambers, if not bigger.

Both men stand as soon as they see you.

“Your Majesty,” Dean greets, and he frowns slightly when he looks at you properly. “Is everything alright?”

You clear your throat in an attempt to compose yourself. “I desire a moment alone,” and then you add, “With Sam.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and glances at his brother, who nods slightly but doesn’t say a word.

“Very well,” Dean says. He picks up his goblet and drinks the last of its contents, tilting his head back to get the last drops. “I’ll be in my study.” He nods politely at you before leaving through a passageway just to the right of the tree.

Sam waits until the sound of his brother’s footsteps has disappeared completely before he speaks up.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“I apologize, but I must ask for new chambers.” Sam’s face twists in confusion and, predictably, he opens his mouth to ask why. You continue before he has the chance. “I have been fighting with my men for many moons, and the rooms you have given me are much too lavish. I’m afraid I simply won’t be comfortable in something so big, as foolish as it sounds.”

Though your words are composed and formal, you wring your hands in front of you, hoping Sam will ignore the way you can’t stop fidgeting. You feel so flighty that it makes you irritated even with yourself.

His expression turns sympathetic. “I see. There must be something I can do to convince you to stay, Y/N. Those chambers have been carefully prepared for you by some of our most trusted servants. If I were to request the change, I’m afraid they might take offense.”

“You care deeply for them,” you say, quieter now. Something about him and the sound of his voice calms you, and the anxiety you’d felt only moments before has started to diminish.

“I do,” he answers. “They work hard, and they deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I agree.” You nod and fall silent, looking down at your hands. Suddenly, you feel very foolish to have searched him out to ask for something so trivial. You’re a queen, after all. You should be used to nicer things than this. You shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by a room so similar to the ones from your childhood.

“It wouldn’t be offensive, however,” Sam begins, and you look up at him, holding your breath, “to only have one Ashelan maid to assist you.”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, as small as you can manage without being completely obvious. “I suppose one would be sufficient. She could help Charlie. Lady Charlie, I mean.”

He smiles. “I’m sure Lady Charlie will grow accustomed to our castle soon enough. She seems very intelligent.”

“Oh?” You can’t help but ask what he means. Charlie is smart, there’s no denying it, but many men have mistaken her for a frail, unassuming creature before. Sam would be one of the first to correctly identify her.

“She has the same look in her eyes as you. You are not one to be underestimated. I’ve heard about the way you fight on the battlefield.”

Before you can respond, there’s a noise in the hallway and you look over your shoulder to see what it is. One of your guards in the entrance. Your stomach sinks, knowing that he’s most likely been sent to retrieve you.

“I should allow you to get settled,” Sam says. He nods politely at the guard before looking back at you. “Though I hope you will tell us about your traditions in Athos at the feast. I am eager to learn more.”

You watch him for a moment, judging if he’s earnest in his request, and then you nod. Offering him a small smile, you follow the guard back to your guest chambers, where Charlie is waiting patiently for you, a warm bath already drawn.

The night is hard. After your bath and a meal brought up by the Ashelan maid, you try to rest before the feast, but the nightmares come quickly this time. You toss and turn, and you wake up screaming. The guards burst into your room as Charlie rushes to you from where she’s been inspecting your armor for what needs the most care and attention.

Once it’s determined that you aren’t in any danger, she convinces the guards to withdraw. She holds you then, letting you cry in her arms as you tremble, remembering the horrors of the dream and the reality that shapes them. You cry yourself to sleep, and you’re certain that you only stay asleep because Charlie decides to stay with you. She tucks you back under the heavy blankets and drags one of the carved chairs over to your bedside. There, she curls up with one hand holding yours and the other propping her head up so she can rest as well. You have minimal nightmares after that, though her presence beside you is reassuring enough that the few times you do wake, you aren’t too afraid to fall back asleep.

You sleep through the feast, much to your dismay. John, Sam, and Dean are waiting for you when you enter the Great Hall to break your fast with them the next morning, however.

“I trust you slept well,” Dean says to you once you’re settled in the seat across from him. Charlie sits beside you, and Sir Robert is on your right, across from Prince Sam. John is at the head of the table. There’s another man across the table, opposite Charlie, and another on her left. You don’t recognize them, but you suspect that they’re friends of Sam and Dean, or that they’re the lords-in-waiting. John doesn’t seem to have an advisor with him, but there’s an empty seat at the far end of the table.

“As well as can be expected,” you reply. Your smile is strained, but you offer it anyway, then move your hands out of the way of the servant who comes to bring you your meal. “I apologize for missing the feast. I so badly wanted to come, but it was best that I stayed in my chambers last night.”

“We understand completely,” John tells you. “We are not strangers to war.”

You nod, and everyone goes back to eating. The Great Hall is silent. It’s a complete change from your meals in your tent at the war camp. Though you always dined with just Charlie and Sir Robert, you’d always been able to hear what was happening outside the tent walls. There’d be shouting and laughter, songs and teasing. Sometimes there was crying and men groaning through their injuries, but you ate those meals quickly.

As you eat, you look around the room. The Great Hall is decorated similarly to your chambers, with evergreen boughs, red berries, and candles that burn even in daylight, but there’s also an enormous tree at the far end of the hall. It’s lit with candles, just like the one you’d seen when you’d searched out Sam the day before. The tree stretches dozens of feet up, and you wonder how old it must be to have grown so tall.

“We do not decorate like this in Athos,” you say, and all three Winchesters look at you in mild surprise. A bit embarrassed by their eyes on you, you falter slightly, but the interest on Sam’s face when you don’t continue spurs you on.

“You use plants here.” You gesture to the tree. “But we decorate with wooden carvings of our ancestors, and woven tapestries that we hang beside every door and window.”

“What are the tapestries?” Sam asks. His father and brother have gone back to eating, even though they still watch and listen, but he’s set down his fork and is now giving you his full attention.

“They’re different for each family. My family has tapestries that show the beginnings of our kingdom and the first king of Athos, and over the years, I have created many simple ones as gifts.”

“I’m sure they were wonderful,” Sam says. He holds your gaze for a moment before he smiles, and you smile back.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach. The clinking of John’s fork on the table makes you look away. There’s heat in your cheeks, much to your chagrin, and you exhale shakily. It’s strange to be so rattled. You’re not even sure why the conversation is affecting you so much. You’ve talked about Athoan traditions countless times before today with countless royals and monarchs. Something about Sam simply shakes you to your core.

John sips from his goblet, then gestures at Sam with the cup before he sets it back on the long table. “Samuel will show you the grounds today. I’m sure he can answer any questions you have about Ashela.”

Somewhat surprised that the King doesn’t plan to meet with you himself, you nod. It’s not atypical for kings to pass you off to one of their advisors, but you don’t mind it in this instance. You’re still weary from battle, and Sam is excellent company.

“Very well,” you reply, dipping your head just a little. You pick up your own goblet to take a sip. The drink is warm, thick, and rich, and you frown a little before peering inside the cup.

“Is everything alright?” Dean asks.

You nod and glance over at Lady Charlie. She picks up her own goblet and takes a sip as you set down yours. She pauses for a moment, her cup paused in midair, then smiles.

“Hot chocolate,” she murmurs. “It’s a traditional drink here.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you whisper, “How do you know that?”

She gives you a sly smile and shakes her head. You know the look—she’ll tell you later.

You sit back in your seat and turn your attention to Dean, who’s still watching you. His father and Sam are both watching you now too, and Sam is frowning with obvious concern.

“Everything is fine,” you reassure them. “I’ve never had hot chocolate before. It’s delicious, John. You have fine cooks here in Ashela.”

He nods in response and stands. You stand as well, as does the rest of the table, and you watch as the King leaves through a door on one side of the Great Hall.

Dean clears his throat. “I have duties to attend to, brother.” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Remember that Father said—”

Sam cuts him off. “I remember. Thank you, Dean.”

A moment later, Dean excuses himself, and you watch him leave, too. Sir Robert mumbles some excuse and bows to Sam before leaving as well, no doubt to study policies and look over ledgers in his own guest chambers. He’s always been a bit of a recluse, and there’s little privacy at the war camp. You suspect he’ll spend most of his time hidden away while you’re on respite.

You turn to Charlie. “You should rest,” you quietly tell her. “I know that you did not sleep much last night—”

“I’m fine,” she replies.

Shaking your head, you grab her hands and squeeze. “Please. I’ll feel better, even if you just relax by the fire. I feel awful that I’ve kept you up.”

Charlie nods, though you can tell she’s reluctant to leave you by the way her eyes cut to Sam. He’s pointedly staring at the candlelit evergreen and sipping his hot chocolate, giving you the semblance of privacy even though he’s mere feet away.

You squeeze her hands again and offer her an earnest smile. “I’m okay. I don’t mind being with him,” you say, soft enough that you’re certain Sam can’t hear from across the table. “He’s… nice.”

This makes her smile wide, and you can practically see all the possibilities she’s conjuring up in her head.

“Nice?” Charlie teases.

You playfully scoff and drop her hands, smoothing your skirt. Turning to Sam, you say, “I’m finished eating, if you’re ready to begin.”

Sam hums and sets his goblet down. “Will Lady Charlie be joining us?”

She takes that as her cue to shake her head and curtsy. After years of practice, the action is smooth, despite the fact that she hasn’t worn a formal gown in almost a year. She’d complained in private to you that morning that she wished the two of you could continue wearing trousers, and you’d agreed. The dresses that have been provided for you in Ashela are all too big, and you’d spent part of your morning being poked and prodded by the castle seamstress as she frantically altered the bodice to fit you. They might’ve fit before the war, but the fighting has given you more lean muscle than anything. Your own dresses back at Eryas Court will likely need altering when you finally return home.

“I have other things that require my attention, my Queen,” Charlie says, and she gracefully exits the Great Hall, though not before throwing you a meaningful look before the doors close behind her.

“Shall we?” Sam asks.

You jump, surprised to find that he’s come around to your side of the table and stopped alongside you while you watched your friend depart. He offers his arm and after a very brief moment of hesitation, you take it.

You and Sam traverse the grounds on foot, and he shows you the snow-covered gardens, the stables, the knights’ training field, and the arboretum where his mother is buried. Finally, he leads you to a frozen lake set far back from the castle. It’s surrounded by the same pine trees that seem to be everywhere in Ashela, and there’s a small wooden hut sheltered by the two largest. From inside, Sam pulls out sharpened blades with leather straps. It takes you a moment to realize that they’re for skating on the ice.

“Would you like to skate?” he asks.

“I’ve never been skating before,” you admit, and you look at the lake. It’s smooth and glossy, with few imperfections on its icy surface. You can’t help but wonder if it’s actually safe. Though ice skating has grown popular in Athos since the start of your reign, you’ve never allowed your court to participate. You’ve heard too many tales of the ice breaking under the skater’s weight. A small girl in the village had drowned just last winter.

“I’ll keep you safe, Y/N. You have my word.”

Scanning Sam’s face, you try to determine whether or not you can trust him, not just to lead you around and show you the castle grounds, but with your life.

You place your hand in his after a long moment of deliberation. “You’ll have to show me how.”

He smiles, and it’s almost as bright as the sun on the snow. You let him lead you by the hand to the edge of the lake, where a downed tree has been positioned lengthwise. Sam helps you to sit, and then he very carefully kneels in the fresh, powdery snow to help attach the blades to your boots. The knees of his trousers are soaked with snow when he stands, but he doesn’t seem to care as he sits beside you and attaches the blades to his own boots. He helps you up with both hands, encouraging you as you wobble and sway in his grip.

“Move slowly,” he advises as he steps onto the lake, leading you onto the ice as he skates backwards.

It takes all your effort and concentration to stay upright at first, but with Sam’s encouragement and gentle guidance, you quickly get your bearings. You’re able to skate around the lake on your own after only an hour’s practice.

“You’re a natural!” Sam says as he skates beside you. His pace is surely slower than it would be on his own, and you smile over at him.

“Your assistance was a great help,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head a little. “I have the feeling that you would have been fine on your own.”

You fall into silence as you skate side by side, but a quarter hour later, you carefully stop a few feet away from the fallen tree. Sam stops as well and he holds his hands out to help you just in case something is wrong.

“Y/N?” he asks.

“You’ve been skating for a long time, haven’t you? For several years, at least?”

Though he seems confused by your sudden question, Sam nods. “Since I was a young boy.”

Smiling, you gesture with one hand toward the open expanse of the lake. “Show me what you can do, then. You must be very skilled.”

“I don’t know if “skilled” is the correct term…” He rubs the back of his neck with his dark green mittens, and you chuckle. His nose is pink, as are his ears from where they peek out from his furry hat.

“I’m not your queen, so I can’t command you, but I am your guest. Please show me?” you ask.

He’s smiling again. “Very well. Do you want to sit?” He gestures towards the tree, the other hand already reaching for your elbow.

You shake your head. “I will stand, thank you. Now go!” You shove at him, not enough to put him off-balance, but enough that he laughs and ducks his head before he skates away.

Sam is skilled. It only takes you a minute to figure out that he had been telling the truth—he’d been skating a long, long time. He moves with great ease over the ice, and you marvel at his speed. He flies by you three times before he slows, then stops sharply. A shower of ice flies up into the air before it rains down again. His breath comes out in heavy white puffs of fog and his chest heaves with exertion, but you’re smiling wide, giddy from the show.

You clap for him. “You underestimate yourself! You’re very fast!”

He laughs as he catches his breath. “Dean and I would race as children.” He points toward the far edge of the lake, where there’s a large gap between two trees. “There’s a river there, and we’d race from here to where it meets the forest road.” He pants for a second before looking back at you. “We should return. We’ve been out in the cold for a long time.”

Nodding in agreement, you let Sam lead you off the ice and back to the log, where you clumsily unstrap your skates. He takes them and puts them away while you fix your skirts, hat, and boots. When he returns, you stand and take his arm, and the two of you head back to the castle.

You eat a small meal when you return—mostly bread, cheese, and sausage—and it’s while you’re eating that you ask Sam for a second tour of the castle. He’s more than happy to oblige.

“All of these paintings,” you say as he escorts you down a long, decorated hallway, “They have similar styles, but the others you’ve shown me do not. Who painted these?”

“I did,” Sam replies.

You stop to stare at him. “You did?” You can’t hide your surprise, though you know it’s rude. “You painted them? All of them?” There must be at least two dozen in the hall.

He nods, and his cheeks are a little pink, though the castle is much too warm for it to be from the cold. “Yes, all of them.”

Turning back to the landscape he’d just named, you marvel at it. The colors are vibrant, matching the rest of the castle, and the gold details glimmer in the candlelight. Though the sun is going down outside and there’s little light coming in from the windows, you can still see everything clearly.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Would you like to see where I paint them?” he asks.

You look away from the painting to nod. “I would like that very much, yes.”

Sam smiles and offers you his arm again, and he begins to lead you down a narrow hallway that you hadn’t noticed before. You would have labeled it a servant’s passage had the lush carpet not continued down its length. There are wooden doors every few feet, but Sam ignores them and keeps walking.

After several minutes of walking, you come to the end of the hall and the last door, which is slightly higher than the rest. There are two steps leading up to it, but Sam needs neither to step into the room. You opt to take them, and he places a hand over your head so you don’t hit it against the wooden beams that border the opening.

Though the door is smaller than normal, the room is not. The ceiling stretches high up into one of the castle’s towers, and windows let light in even from high above. The wooden floor is swept clean, and an easel is set up near the largest of three windows at eye level. It’s big enough that you could sit in it and let your legs dangle outside of the tower. The window faces the arboretum, and if you squint, you can see the frozen lake in the distance.

A table with paints and brushes is set up beside the easel. Sam approaches it so naturally that you’re sure he must spend a lot of time in this room.

“It reminds me of my study back home,” you quietly say, and Sam looks over at you as he picks up a brush and dips it into one of the pots of pigment.

“Do you like to paint?”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s not one of my talents. But I like to look at art. My castle is full of paintings, tapestries, and carvings.” You pause and watch as he adds brushstrokes to the painting on the easel, easily picking up where he’d left off. “You must paint something for my castle before I leave.”

“What would you like?” he asks.

You pause and look around the room as you think. There are several paintings leaning up against the rounded walls, along with piles of supplies that look like they might topple over any second.

“Could you paint the lake? In winter?” you finally request.

The room is quiet for a moment as Sam paints. When he doesn’t reply, you look over at him. He’s staring at the canvas in front of him with his brush in mid-air, but then he turns and meets your eyes, as if he can feel you watching him.

“Why not in summer, when the grass is green and the sunlight makes the water glow? Or in spring, when the wildflowers are blooming? Or in autumn, when the wind blows clouds through the sky?”

He describes the seasons so well that you can picture the paintings in your mind, but you shake your head, not looking away.

“No. I want the lake in winter, so I can remember skating for the first time,” you explain.

He stares at you, and you stare back. Your heart feels like it’s out of control and you have to force yourself to break eye contact. All the while, your thoughts are scattered and though you know in your head that you should be more composed and that you shouldn’t be alone with him in such a remote part of the castle where there are no guards, Sam makes you feel safe.

“We should prepare for dinner,” he finally murmurs, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room.

You glance up at the windows to find that the sun has disappeared from the horizon. Darkness is creeping in, and shadows are stretching across the floor of Sam’s tower. Have you truly been so distracted that the time flew by that quickly?

Nodding in agreement, you step back out into the hallway and make your way down the narrow passage. Once in the main hall, Sam escorts you to your room in silence. Charlie is waiting for you there, and she helps you change into a more formal gown for dinner. She doesn’t utter a single word about the strange expression on your face, nor does she mention the fact that you’ve been without a guard all day.

The dinner is less formal than you were anticipating, and you fall into comfortable conversation with the King. He knew your father before you were born, though the last time they’d met was when you were a young girl. He tells you story after story of their times together, and you’re learning about their last visit when one of the Ashelan guards posted outside the Great Hall bursts in.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, hurriedly bowing to the King. “A messenger has just arrived for Queen Y/N. It’s an urgent matter.”

“Send them in,” John replies. He gestures toward the door and you stand as a haggard soldier in your colors staggers through. He’s supported on one side by another Ashelan guard, and your blood runs cold at the frantic look in your soldier’s eyes.

“Your Majesty.” He starts to bow but loses his balance. He only remains upright thanks to the guard beside him. He’s gasping for air.

“Peace, soldier,” you tell him, though you feel anything but. Your heart is pounding in your chest again and your hand trembles as you place it on the back of your chair. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. “What news do you bring me?”

“A m— message from King Crowley, Ma’am. He says that if you do not surrender by Christmas, he will take Eryas Court.”

You stare at him for a moment, then scoff. “He cannot so boldly assume I will surrender! Have our armies held the camp?” you ask.

“No, Ma’am,” the soldier replies, and it feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath you. Your stomach twists as the soldier continues, “His men slaughtered our armies, and they have infiltrated the village. They have surrounded Eryas. The men returning to their families are at the keep, and are holding it as best as they are able, but they are tired, Ma’am.”

Lady Charlie gasps beside you, and you lift your chin, silently sending up a prayer. Crowley has caught you off guard, but you can’t show it.

You turn to look at John. “Is there a room I can use to speak with Sir Robert and send word to my captains?”

John nods and stands, directing his attention to the first guard. “Prepare my study for Queen Y/N and Sir Robert. Escort them there once it is ready, and have one of the servants available to fulfill any requests she might have,” he orders.

The guard nods and bows before hurrying back out into the hallway.

“And you,” John continues, looking at the guard supporting your weary soldier. “Take him to see the doctor. Get him a meal and fresh clothes, and prepare him a place to sleep.”

The soldier still has his eyes on you, and you quickly cross to him before the Ashelan guard can take him away. His entire body is covered with blood, sweat, and grime, and he smells like the worst parts of the battlefield. His legs shake when he struggles to stand straighter as you approach.

“You can trust the people here,” you gently tell the man. “Thank you for what you have done. You have brought your people great honor. Now, rest.”

The man salutes you and you bow your head, then watch in silence as the guard leads him out of the Great Hall and towards the servant’s door you’d passed earlier that day on your tour. Once he’s out of sight, you turn and face Sir Robert, who has moved to stand at the end of the table closest to you.

“I apologize for cutting our dinner short, John,” you say. He nods once. “Can I ask that Lady Charlie be escorted back to my chambers once she is finished dining?”

Charlie stands from her seat. “I’m already finished, my Queen, and if it pleases you, I shall stay to assist you.”

You could cry at the loyalty and care from your friend, and you almost do. You catch yourself, however, and you swallow the lump that forms in your throat. John and Dean are talking in hushed tones, but Sam is watching you. His eyes are sad and you have to look away as soon as you notice. You’re barely holding it together as is, and you’re sure that he can tell.

The guard assigned by King John to escort you to his study appears in the doorway, and you quickly follow after him. He leads you down the main hallway and up a set of stairs to a dark wooden door that you’d glimpsed earlier. He opens it in silence, then closes it once you, Sir Robert, and Charlie are inside.

Almost immediately, you brace your hands on the large table in the center of the room and hang your head. A sob escapes you and Charlie places a comforting hand on your back as you let out a few more. The tears run across your cheeks to the bridge of your nose, then drip onto the table beneath you as you cry.

Sir Robert stands in silence until you’re able to compose yourself a few minutes later. He’s watching the flames flicker in the fireplace with his back to you.

“How many men have we lost today?” you ask, dabbing at your face with the handkerchief Charlie has somehow produced.

“ There were 6,000 in the garrison when we left,” he answers. There’s no emotion in his voice and a small part of you feels ashamed for crying, but you push that thought away before it can fester.

“And how many do you think are defending the keep right now?”

Sir Robert turns. His expression is grave and the light and shadows from the fire deepen the wrinkles on his face.

“Less than 5,000, if I had to guess.”

You sigh heavily and look back down at the table, then straighten until you’re standing tall again. You cross the room to stare out the window. From the King’s study, you can see the gardens, which means you’re on the opposite side of the castle from the tower where Sam paints. Silently, you start to pace the length of the large fur covering the floor between two shelves of ancient books. Lady Charlie sits at the table while Sir Robert remains by the fireplace, and both of them watch as you walk back and forth.

Nobody speaks until you stop, but there’s a knock at the door right before you can admit that you have no solution that won’t end in a sorrowful amount of bloodshed. You turn to look as the door opens, revealing King John.

“Y/N,” he greets. “I may have something that will assist you.”

You turn to face him fully. “What is it?”

He walks to an elaborately carved chest on the mantle and carefully removes a rolled parchment. It’s sealed with wax, but there are two seals. Curious, you meet John at the table. Charlie stands to make room for the two of you. It only takes a second for you to recognize the crests imprinted into the seals.

“What is this? Why does this hold my family’s crest?” you question.

“And mine,” he adds. “This decree was created and signed by your father and I during our last visit together. I promised to keep it safe until the right time had come.”

“The right time had come? For what, John? How come I’ve never heard of this?”

He glances at you, then breaks the seals and unrolls the parchment. It’s yellowed with time, but the words are written in black ink and they’re as clear as day.

“Let it be known that on this day, Y/N Y/L/N of Athos and Samuel Winchester of Ashela are betrothed in marriage. Upon agreement from both parties or in time of need, they shall be wed and the marriage shall be consummated within a fortnight,” John reads, and you feel yourself falter. Charlie places a hand on your back to help keep you upright.

“Athos shall be ruled by Y/N as the heir apparent, and any heirs produced by Y/N and Samuel shall become the next heirs. An alliance shall be formed between Athos and Ashela at the time of marriage. This betrothal can only be broken by death or upon act of God.”

At the bottom of the parchment, there are two signatures. Only one is familiar to you, and the world tilts around you for a moment when you see it.

“I beg your pardon,” you say, your mouth suddenly very dry. “But this cannot be true. I would know if I were already betrothed.”

John places the parchment on the table and it rolls up again. “Nonetheless, your father has signed it and stamped it with his royal seal. You are betrothed to my son, and in agreement with the decree, our kingdoms will be allied after your marriage is consummated.”

A dark shadow in the doorway makes you look up. Sam ducks into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the people in the study. When he sees the distress on your face, he frowns, but he answers to his father first.

“You called for me, Father?” he asks.

“I did.”

John picks up the parchment again and hands it to Sam, who unrolls it and reads it over. You watch his eyes scan the words once, twice, then three times before he looks up. He glances at you for a split-second.

“This must be false,” Sam finally says. “I would know if I was betrothed! You would have told me a long time ago!”

“Why do you think I never pressured you to marry, as I did your brother?” John asks.

Sam clearly doesn’t have an answer because he turns his attention to where you’re standing behind his father. “Did you know about this?” he asks.

You shake your head, hands clasped in front of you. “I did not. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

“I can’t believe that you are treating Y/N like this! She is in the middle of trying to save her people and you’re scheming!” Sam accuses. He’s glowering down at his father, even though he’s only a few inches taller.

John scoffs. “Samuel—”

“You say that this was created when we were children? And yet it has remained hidden from us until now? Why wouldn’t my father have told me about my own betrothal?” you ask, relieved that Sam is just as angry and surprised as you. It stings a little that he seems disinterested in marrying you, but you have more important problems than your feelings.

Sir Robert speaks up from where he still stands by the fireplace, and you whirl to face him when he says, “The betrothal is real. I witnessed the decree when it was written.” His expression softens when you meet his eyes, shocked at his revelation. “I had just been appointed as your father’s advisor. It was the first decree I helped him create.”

You can’t help but feel betrayed. “You helped him? All this time, you knew about this, and yet you never said a word?”

He nods, and there seems to be genuine regret in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Why now?” Sam questions. “Of all the times, Father, why would you tell us now?”

John gestures to the parchment in Sam’s hands. “You’re to marry whenever you agree there’s an opportune time, or if there’s ever a time of great need. If you marry, an alliance will be formed between our kingdoms. I can send our armies to help defeat Elcium and save Y/N’s people. Your people, once the marriage is consummated. Your enemies will become my enemies.”

Torn between a mix of anger and humiliation, you turn your back on the men, taking a few steps away from the table to stare out the window. Has it really come to this? Will you really have to marry to save your people?

There’s a shuffling of papers behind you, and the crackle of the fire, but nobody dares to speak. You know that they’re all waiting for you to make the decision. Though you’ve only known him for a few days, you’re certain that Sam would never force you to marry him and follow through with the decree.

“Would you form an alliance without marriage?” you finally ask, without turning around.

A beat passes, and then John answers, “Think over what I’ve said, Y/N. I will be in the Great Hall, awaiting news.”

He leaves after that, and you hear Sir Robert and Charlie excuse themselves as well, which leaves you alone with Sam. He keeps his distance from you as you continue to stare out the window with your arms wrapped around yourself. Despite the fire, you’re cold all the way down to your bones, and you shiver.

“What are you thinking?” Sam finally asks. His voice is gentle, hesitant even, in the silence of the study.

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “This isn’t…”

“Did you dream of marrying someday?”

Surprised at the question, you have to stay quiet and mull it over. Then, after a few moments, you nod. “Yes,” you tell him, quieter than before. “Someday. I knew it was probably expected of me too, but then Crowley invaded…”

“And you had to put the needs of your people before your own desires,” Sam guesses.

“It’s my duty as queen.”

Your father’s words return to your head, ringing loud and clear as a bell.

“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”

Turning around, you smooth your skirt and meet Sam’s gaze. “As is marrying you,” you say.

“You’re not going to oppose the decree?” he asks. Sam sounds genuinely surprised, and he steps closer. He’s still in his dinner clothes, though you know he had time to change.

“I don’t have a choice,” you admit. “If I don’t marry you, your father won’t aid my men, and my people will die. My kingdom will be taken and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison or as a servant to Crowley, unless he decides to kill me, which is unlikely. Crowley is a ruthless king, and he tortures for sport.”

Something hardens in Sam’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. “You can stay here indefinitely as my guest. I wouldn’t let him do that to you.”

“And I wouldn’t live in hiding while my people suffer,” you counter. Closing the distance between you, you reach out and grasp Sam’s hands in yours. “I will understand if you choose not to marry me. It is your choice, and I will live with whatever decision is made.”

“Why wouldn’t I marry you?” he asks.

“I don’t wish to force you—”

“You wouldn’t be,” Sam says, cutting you off. “Though I haven’t known you long, Y/N, I find you wonderful company. You’re kind, intelligent, brave, and you care deeply for your people. I could not ask for more in a wife, though I hope we can become friends first.”

You duck your head, caught off guard by his praise. Sam crooks one finger underneath your chin and lifts it until your eyes meet his again.

“You’re beautiful, too,” he murmurs. “Far more so than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“I… Don’t know what to say,” you admit. After months of fighting and living in the war camp, the tenderness in Sam’s voice and his touch is foreign to you.

“Say that you’ll marry me. Say that we’ll save your people before any more harm can be done.”

Silently, you nod. You don’t look away as Sam smiles wide, his eyes full of a joy so complete that it makes your chest ache just from witnessing it. He pulls you close, crushing you against him as he hugs you tightly, and you gasp in surprise.

“I’ll tell my father to make the necessary arrangements,” Sam says as he pulls away. “The sooner we are married, the sooner we can rescue your men.”

You nod again, a bit numb as Sam kisses you on the forehead, narrowly missing the bruise, and hurries out into the hallway. His footsteps are quick and the sound fades before you can even recognize that he’s truly left you alone in the study.

“Y/N?”

Charlie appears in the doorway and you turn to her, trembling hands clasped in front of you.

“Are you well?” she asks. She steps into the room and you can immediately tell that she’d heard the whole conversation between you and Sam. The walls and doors are thick here, but Charlie is an expert at eavesdropping.

“I— I’m getting married,” is all you can reply.

She gives you a knowing look and then carefully guides you to sit in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The warmth helps to soothe the shock from finding out your kingdom was most certainly doomed, then from finding out it would be safe once you were married. Your world is changing so quickly that you can hardly keep up.

“He’s a good man,” she tells you.

“I know he is,” you reply, staring at the fire. It makes your eyes water but you can’t look away. If you do, you might cry for real for the second time today. Your emotions have been twisted by so many things and people today that you’re unsure of how to feel.

“It’s okay to be scared.”

You turn your head just enough to show that you’re listening, but you don’t look away from the fire.

“You’ve been through so much, Y/N, and I know you believe that queens should not show their weakness, but you forget that you are also just a woman,” Charlie continues.

This time, you turn to look at her. “But I am not just a woman, Charlie.”

She gives you a gentle smile, then reaches out with one hand to squeeze yours. “When you’re with Prince Samuel, you are.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice breaking. You clutch her hand with both of yours when she moves to pull away, turning in your seat so you can better face her. “What if he expects me to spend more time being a wife than being a queen? I cannot afford to give up who I am because of a man.”

Charlie considers your question for several long moments before she sighs and collects your hands completely in hers. She holds your gaze as she says, “You are brave for doing this. I cannot tell you what to expect, but I can tell you that I have heard many things from the ladies and the servants here in Ashela. All of them, every single one, has told me that Prince Samuel is as wonderful as he seems. I do not think that you have very much to fear, but I will be by your side no matter what you face.”

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes, and then breathe out. Charlie waits patiently as you try to collect yourself, and her presence is enough reassurance that it doesn’t take you very long.

Finally, you nod and stand.

She does the same, dropping your hands. “Now, I need to get you ready!”

“Ready?” you ask, and Charlie laughs. She guides you out of the study and into the hallway.

“For your wedding! I can’t give you the prettiest dress, but I’ve asked around and we’ve come up with something that I think will work.”

A spark of excitement grows inside of you as she chatters on about her plans for the impromptu wedding. It’s amazing to you that she’s managed to work so quickly, but you don’t question it. Charlie has many ways of doing many things, some of which are better left unsaid.

Soon, you find yourself back in your guest chambers. Charlie helps you into a plain ivory dress, then fixes your hair. You sit quietly as she works, and when a handful of Ashelan maids and ladies start to swarm around you, you simply close your eyes. It’s been a long day, and exhaustion is starting to creep in.

“The Queen needs to rest before the ceremony,” Charlie announces, and you open your eyes just enough to see the women leaving. She starts to blow out the extra candles, until there’s only one remaining beside your bed.

“You only have an hour,” she murmurs as you carefully climb under the covers. She helps you arrange your dress so that it won’t become wrinkled.

Nodding tiredly, you rest your head back against the pillow she props up for you. “Thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

She smooths a hand over your hair and sits in the chair beside you, closing her eyes as well. She doesn’t have to say anything for you to know that she’s staying close to help you sleep.

The ceremony is simple. You don’t expect much, but John rouses enough servants for there to be an arch of evergreen placed at the end of the Great Hall, and there’s a bouquet of branches and berries for you, as well. Sam dons his royal robes and a thin crown with vibrant gemstones that sparkle in the candlelight from the nearby tree. John and Dean change clothes too, and somehow Charlie finds a new dress just in the nick of time. Only you aren’t wearing something elaborate. It stings a little—you’d once imagined your wedding day as an occasion to remember, but now you could simply melt away into the background and it’s quite possible that nobody would even notice. It gives you a miserable feeling in the pit of your stomach, and when you pass by a mirror on the way to the Great Hall, you have to look away. Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them.

A priest marries you with little grandeur, and in only a few words, you find yourself bound to Sam in marriage. It’s not even dawn on Christmas Eve when he leads you by the arm back out of the Great Hall. Charlie stays behind with Sir Robert to help prepare the carriages for travel while he advises John on where to send his armies, and when you arrive at Sam's chambers, they’re empty. You’re alone with him for the first time as husband and wife.

“We should leave for Athos immediately,” Sam says, and you nod in silence. He lets go of your arm once the door shuts behind you, then hurries into a separate, adjoining room. You set your bouquet down on a nearby table.

Through the curtained archway, you can see a bed similar to the one in your guest chambers, as well as a writing desk and another easel. Sam’s sword is propped up against the wall near the fireplace, and a bow and arrow are laid haphazardly on a nearby dining table. The room is decorated for Christmas, just like the rest of the castle, though the greenery here is minimal. Where you would expect to see much of his personal belongings, there are empty spaces that leave you feeling strangely out of place. His chambers are practically bare except the furniture and the decorations.

Sam goes behind a dressing screen and you look away, heat in your cheeks at the thought of being alone with him while he undresses. It’s not the first time you’ve been alone with a man in a similar state of dress—you’ve lived in a camp full of soldiers, many of whom are careless—but it’s the first time where something could be expected of you.

“Sam?” you call out, staring at the candle on the window ledge nearest to you. Outside, the sun is just barely beginning to rise. Its rays are slowly stretching over the snowy landscape, revealing the hundreds of pine trees and the lake whose frozen surface glitters in the light.

“Yes?” You hear him pause and the room falls silent. When you don’t immediately answer, you hear some quick shuffling, and then he’s coming out from behind the screen and approaching you.

“Y/N?” he asks.

You turn, and Sam is standing before you in plain clothes. There’s no trace of the robes or the crown. The only thing that would give away his royal status is the signet ring on his left pinky. There’s a plain gold ring on the finger beside it, which matches the one he’d given you during the ceremony.

“Your father said our kingdoms would only be allied once our marriage was… consummated,” you say, deciding to use the same language as John, though you know there are easier ways to say what you mean.

“I do not expect anything of you,” Sam gently replies.

“But your father—”

Sam shakes his head. “He does not need to know what’s between you and I.”

You’re holding your breath; you can’t breathe a sigh of relief until you’re absolutely sure Sam will go along with the ruse. “You will lie to your own father? Your king?”

He’s quiet for only a moment before he answers, “He is not my king any longer. I am married to you. I am your husband, and you are my queen. I will tell him whatever I must to ensure that your people are safe.”

You gingerly take his hand and allow yourself to breathe again. “Our people, Sam.” You pause to look up at him, offering him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and leans in to kiss you on the cheek. “We should leave. I am ready, if you are.”

“Don’t you want your things?” you ask, glancing around his chambers.

Sam lets go of your hand, then walks around his room. He gathers his sword, a book from beside the bed, and a small wooden case from near the easel before he returns to your side. You take the book and the case from him so he can strap the sword around his waist, then hand them back to him.

“The servants have already brought many of my things to the carriage. The rest can be brought another time.”

Nodding, you take Sam’s arm and let him lead you out of his chambers, through the castle, and to the waiting carriages. There are three of them, two of which belong to you, and another that is clearly Ashelan. It rocks as the occupants move around.

John, Dean, and two of your guards are waiting at the open door of the middle carriage when you arrive. As you walk the gray stone path leading away from the castle, you catch a glimpse of Sir Robert as he climbs into the carriage at the front of the line.

“Y/N,” John greets. He nods politely to you, then to Sam. “My men are already on the way to Athos. Sir Robert has been helpful in ensuring they will be of sufficient help to you. I have also sent word to Crowley to inform him of our newly formed alliance. I suppose everything went well after you retired to Sam’s chambers?”

He raises an eyebrow at his son, who nods once. The implications of his words weigh heavily in the winter air, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look nervous or uncomfortable. You cannot give away the lie.

“All is well,” Sam replies. He smiles a little and places a hand over where yours rests on his arm. “She is ready to travel now.”

Dean hugs his brother goodbye, then leads you toward the carriage. He stops a few feet away and holds his hand out to one of your guards, who produces a familiar sword.

“I believe this is yours?” Dean asks.

You smile, relieved that you’re once reunited with your father’s blade. “Yes, thank you.”

Taking the sword, you fasten it around your waist. The weight is comfortable, and it bumps against your thigh as Dean helps you into the carriage.

Meanwhile, Sam talks quietly with John. You’re too anxious to eavesdrop once you’re alone, so you sit back on the seat and try to keep your breathing even as Sam finally climbs into the carriage and the door shuts behind him. He sits opposite you, where Charlie would normally sit. It feels strange to not travel with her by your side, but you remind yourself that she’s in the next carriage, and that you’ll see her again when you arrive in Athos.

Moments later, the horses lurch forward. You sway with the movement, and Sam reaches out to place a steadying hand on your arm. You offer him a small smile before you sit back once more.

The sun rises as you journey to Athos, just like it does every day, and you cling to that normalcy. Even as you wring your hands, your mind whirling with every possible outcome of the coming battle, the sun continues on its path. You find yourself glancing out the window at it more often than usual. The snow outside is beginning to melt and drip from the tree branches as the temperature warms from the light, and as the horses carry you closer to home, the snow starts to disappear entirely, replaced with mud and trampled grass left in the wake of tired soldiers and weary knights.

Suddenly, Sam shifts to sit beside you, and he takes your hand without a word. You stare at him, baffled by his strange actions, but he doesn’t say anything, nor does he look at you. Finally, you look back out the window. His thumb rubs over the dry, scarred skin of your hand, and though it’s foreign to hold hands with a man you barely know, there’s something comforting about his presence. It’s soothing enough that you doze off for a while, grasping at what little rest you’re allowed during the journey. He holds your hand the entire time.

After the half-day ride, the carriages arrive in the village that surrounds Eryas Court. You release Sam’s hand and sit forward on the bench to give yourself a better view through the window.

The houses and shops that you’ve grown up around have been burnt and destroyed, and there’s rubble lining the cobblestone paths. Wooden stalls and stables have been smashed into splinters, and stone buildings have begun to cave in on themselves. Your breath hitches when you see blood staining a wall.

“Where are the people?” you ask, your voice cracking. “Where are my people?” The question is desperate, meant for nobody but the world, and you feel Sam pulling you away from the window a few seconds later.

“Let me go!” you bark at him.

He pulls you back a second time, and you twist in your seat, angry and aching with grief, but you stop when you see him.

Sam’s expression is grave. “We don’t know who’s out there. You are not dressed in your armor, and you are giving Crowley’s archers an easy shot. Until we know what’s happening, you need to stay hidden,” he advises.

You stare at him for a moment, then nod mutely. All the anger drains out of you, because he’s right, and you’re no use to your people if you’re dead.

While leaning back against the wall of the carriage, you can still see enough through the window to tell that the destruction starts to lessen as you near the keep. The pressure in your chest starts to ease when the noise of villagers and soldiers talking reaches you, and you exhale shakily when you hear someone call out,

“Make way! The Queen is here!”

There’s a commotion outside the carriage. Cheering erupts as soon as the first person spies you through the windows. Sam’s hand finds yours again. He squeezes, and you squeeze back even harder, clutching his hand as the carriage moves through the crowd and into the guarded castle.

When the carriage stops, you and Sam wait until the door is opened by guard. They help Sam out first, then you. You don’t know what to expect as you exit, but you’re relieved to find that most of your castle is still intact.

“Eryas Court lives on, Your Majesty,” someone says, and you turn to find Sir Robert walking from his own carriage. Charlie is close behind, and you start to smile.

“Indeed, Sir Robert,” you tell him. “It seems the battle was over before we even arrived.”

After a moment, you laugh and pull him into a hug. It’s improper, but you find tears brimming in your eyes when he murmurs in your ear, reminding you that your father would be proud of how you’d handled the invasion.

“Welcome to Athos, Your Majesty,” Charlie says.

You release Sir Robert and turn to where Sam and Charlie stand off to one side. He gives her a short bow as she dips into a curtsy. An Ashelan man is standing on the other side of Sam. You recognize him as one of the men from your breakfast the day before. There are several Ashelan servants helping yours unload the carriages, as well.

“It’s a beautiful kingdom,” Sam says to you. “How long has Eryas Court been standing?”

“Four generations,” you proudly reply. “Would you like a tour?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but the conversation is put to a halt when the captain of the guard approaches and bows in your direction.

“Your Majesty,” he greets. He does the same for Sam before turning back to you. “I bring word from the fields.”

“How are my men?” you ask. Your expression grows serious as you focus on the matter at hand. Sam stays silent, allowing you to do your job without interference.

“We have lost many, but we have made it through the darkest nights. Elcium has retreated, and they have dropped their banners. They stand with white flags now.”

You raise your eyebrows, unable to keep your expression neutral. “They have surrendered?”

He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s very good news, Captain,” you tell him, smiling. “Tell them that we will negotiate terms after Christmas. I will expect a full report then, but I have other matters to attend to tonight. I will also expect to see your wounded, and I would like a full list of the dead. Please ensure that any news about the Ashelan soldiers is sent to King John, and also reported to King Sam.” You gesture to Sam without looking his way.

Your captain bows to both of you, then heads back the way he had come. Satisfied with the news, you turn back to Sam with a wide smile.

“Let me show you my home.”

Sam smiles back at you, then offers you his arm. Before you leave with him, you instruct Charlie to make sure everything is in order after the maids unpack your and Sam’s belongings in your chambers. She agrees with a smile brighter than you’d seen on her in a long time.

You and Sam walk the castle grounds most of the afternoon, stopping only to have tea. You show him your favorite spots, tell him stories of your childhood, and you show him the study you’d abandoned after inheriting your father’s. The windows there overlook the wildflower fields, and the river beyond. Though there’s no flowers in bloom now, he assures you that the frozen river is subject enough for his paintings.

As the sun begins to set, you and Sam retire to your chambers. They’re smaller than you remember, and it feels cramped as the two of you prepare for sleep. You’d never opted to take on your father’s chambers when he passed, instead choosing to stay in the rooms you’d had your whole life.

Charlie helps you change into a sleeping gown, and behind an opposite dressing screen, you hear Sam and the Ashelan lord—Castiel—talking quietly. When the two of you emerge, you share nervous smiles as Castiel and Charlie leave to go to their own quarters.

“I’m not quite ready to sleep,” you say after the door finally closes behind them. You keep your distance, unsure of how to act now that you’re alone.

Sam nods. “I’ll try to keep to myself, so there’s room when you are ready to retire.”

You glance at the bed, then back at him. “Perhaps I will go to bed early then.”

He frowns a little and searches your face for something, clearly trying to figure out why you’ve changed your plans. Truthfully, you don’t want him to have to try and make himself small. You’re already feeling too many emotions; you don’t want to add guilt into the mix.

You smile as if you don’t know what he’s thinking, then head to the bed and climb under the covers on one side. Charlie has warmed the heavy blankets with irons, and the furs from last year’s hunts still provide you with plenty of warmth.

Sam watches, still standing in place, until finally you let out a sigh.

“I’m perfectly okay sharing a bed with you,” you tell him. “We are husband and wife. If we don’t lie together, it will raise suspicions.”

“And I am prepared to face them.”

“Do you really not want to share a bed with me?” you ask, a little hurt by his resistance.

His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. “I do not want you to be afraid of me, nor of expectation that I might—”

“I am not afraid of you.” You sit up in the bed, suddenly aware of the nighttime chill in your chambers as the blankets fall from your chest. “I have fought in many battles, and I have seen many horrible things. Sharing a bed with a kind, gentle man who is now my husband is not a fear that I possess, Sam Winchester. Even so, I am capable of much more than you may realize, and I am not afraid of anything you could possibly do to me.”

He stares at you for a moment, and then a small smile appears on his face. “Very well.”

You lay back as Sam crosses the room and climbs into bed beside you. Both of you lay on your backs, staring up at the fabric canopy. You want to talk—you feel like you should, anyway—but the events of the past few days start to catch up with you, and you find your thoughts beginning to wander as Sam’s breathing grows slower on the other side of the bed. He falls asleep before you, but not by much.

When you wake, there’s a heavy weight over your waist and hot breath against the back of your neck. Your legs are intertwined with Sam’s and your back is pressed up against his chest. It’s not uncomfortable, but you lie and stare at the wall, trying to figure out how you and Sam have become so entangled. Surely, you would have kicked him during your nightmares.

“Are you awake?”

His question is barely a whisper, but then Sam shifts and you feel him raise himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He’s checking to see if you’re asleep, you realize.

You turn your head to meet his eyes in the darkness. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m awake.”

He sighs softly and lays back down, resuming the close contact from before. You wonder if you should push away. Is it improper to sleep like this if you don’t know each other, even if you’re married? Does it matter?

“Can I ask…” You finally begin, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room again. “When we went to sleep, we were not touching.”

“No,” Sam answers. His breath tickles the hairs at the nape of your neck and you fidget under the covers, but you don’t pull away. “You were dreaming. It was a nightmare.”

“Oh.”

You can imagine why he’s pulled you close now. Without Charlie sitting by your bedside, there had been some anxiety over if you’d sleep through the night, but Sam’s comforting touch seems to have soothed you. For the first time in weeks, you feel well-rested.

“It’s Christmas,” you say after another minute has passed.

Sam yawns and his thumb strokes against your stomach. His voice is drowsy in your ear.

“So it is,” he replies.

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and you carefully place one hand on his chest. It feels natural to be this close and to lean against him, and Sam watches you with half-mast eyes as you get comfortable. When you do, however, you don’t know what to say. You stare at each other, listening to the castle stir awake. Finally, you lay your head down on him. He helps you get comfortable, and then you close your eyes. You can hear Sam’s heartbeat.

“We’re married,” you murmur.

He hums. “So we are.”

“What do we do now?”

“Celebrate Christmas, I suppose.”

You move your hand, unconsciously fidgeting with the tie on Sam’s sleep shirt. “Can we stay here for a while first?”

Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head and you smile to yourself, even though you know he could probably see.

“Yes, Y/N. We certainly can,” he answers.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

If you want to support me further, consider buying me a ko-fi.

If you would like to be added to my tags, please send me a message or an ask! I tag for Everything, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and Castiel.

Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @alexwinchester23 @shaelyn102 @lyarr24 @supermoonpanda @ultimatecin73 @musiclovinchic93 @shamelesslydean @mlovesstories @ellie-andthemachine

Sam: @fandomoniumflurry

118 notes · View notes

thorin-is-a-cuddler · 11 months

Text

A little convincing

A/N: I made it. Despite uni actually forbidding such things. I had to write this. It made me feel happy and I hope it will make you feel happy as well. Imagine whichever Aramis you like best. Romain Duris has my heart. Aramis x littke sister reader.

You were quietly sitting on the windowsill, overlooking the busy, dusty, loud street of Paris that led alongside the musketeer‘s corps. It was a fresh, lovely morning, the sun peeking out behind an array of clouds and the smell of spring whispering promises about the upcoming summer. The sun light reflected in the tin rain gutters on the Parisian roofs blinded you, so you looked behind you, eyes fixing on your brother putting on his jewelry in front of his mirror. Yes, it was HIS mirror. Neither Athos, nor Porthos ever spent any time in front of it. He did that sufficiently for the three of them. He was humming softly, fixing his moustache the way he liked best and trying not to make a tangled mess of his twelve different necklaces. No one in Paris walked about as extravagantly as he did. It made you feel proud of your brother. He was carrying about a security of self that was charming and good-natured, never rude and rarely arrogant. When someone mocked him, he just smiled. When someone tried to outdo him, he just laughed. Aramis‘ face only ever darkened when you or his brothers were in trouble. He could be terrifying then, even to you. His dark side was just as dark as his bright sight was shiny.

While tending to his appearance that very morning, he seemed particularly shiny. You couldn‘t help but smile, when he noticed your attention and moved his head around in a swift motion, granting you a waggle of his eyebrows. You tried not to show it, but a sadness was wearing you down. He would be gone for an entire week and despite the fact that Treville and Constance never allowed you a quiet moment in the reoccurring absence of your brother and his friends to keep you from worrying, you were always on the brink of dropping into the terrible imagination of losing him. He must have noticed a weakness in your smile - he always did - because he suddenly altered his voice, talking in the most comedic American/English accent and getting to his feet dramatically.

„MISSUS!!“ He exclaimed and you felt your lips twitch. „Is that a saaad little twaankle I see in your moonyshiny eyeess?“

With a huff, you started shaking your head at him. „You‘re such an idiot!“

He gasped, so overdramatically offended, he almost threw himself off his feet. „MADAMMME, do you have the faintliest idea who ya talkin to??“

You tried to glare at him to keep from laughing or grinning, but he merely mimicked your expression and hunched over in a most concerningly predatory way.

„Oh, I see,“ he growled, back to his normal voice, sending a feeling of fearful anticipation through your stomach.

„Aramis!“ You warned, tenseley sitting up straight on the sill.

„That laughter needs a little more convincing, huh?“ He continued to growl, slowly advancing in your direction. You were getting really bouncy there, extending your hands defensively in front of you and slowly backing away from the window. A nervous smile slipped on your features.

„No, thank you, I think it‘s not available today!“

He laughed softly at that, his eyes glittering. There was a silent consent shared between you: in the way you didn‘t really try to get away, in the way he blinked slowly and knowingly, reassuringly. It was your game and you would play it the way you wanted to.

„I think I can coax it out of you!“ He grinned fondly and suddenly the backs of your knees hit his bed. Your eyes widened and he was too freaking fast. With a squeal you tried to avoid his arms coming for your middle by throwing yourself on the sheets. You quickly robbed backwards on your back, hysterical sounds leaving your throat in a melody of your own design. He was right there with you, trying to get a hold of your arms and cackling at the way you kicked him in the ribs.

„Ooooh, feisty!!“

You shrieked in panic, when his hand managed to hold on to your leg and quickly tried to pull yourself away from him, but he pulled you right back into the middle of the bed and caged your body with his arms.

„Well, well, looks like you‘re in trouble,“ he huffed with his deep voice, smirking as his eyes locked with yours. You were already smiling wider and brighter than the tin roof gutters of Paris, feeling the love for your brother flush out all the anxiety for the moment. In an attempt at self-defense, you shoved your hands under his arms and tickled the mostly unprotected armpits, making him recoil and break out into a short flow of laughter, before he got a hold of your wrists and pinned them above your head.

„You little snake,“ he mused, humming happily when you started to shout out breathless, giggly „No“s, all pinned down and delivered.

„No, no, no?“ He teased, delighted at the way you already tried to protect your neck by shaking your head quickly from left to right. „You still think I cannot convince that laughter to come out?“

You cursed yourself for the breathless giggles that were already shaking you, despite him not having even come near to tickling you. With a deep breath you put your head back and looked at your brother smiling softly at you. In a last attempt at defying him, you stuck out your tongue and said: „Actually it‘s harder NOT to laugh at you in general, but somehow the boys and I manage i- NOOO!!!“

You squealed with laughter when he dipped his head down and blew a raspberry under your ear, his beard bristeling against your skin ticklishly.

„Dohohohohon‘t,“ you got out half-suffocated, before a second and third raspberry sent you into more delirious waves of laughter.

„Are you laughing at me right now??“ He asked fake incredulously when he moved his head back up to look at you shaking with mirth. You could barely breathe as you shook your head from left to right, pulling at your pinned wrists.

„Nohohoho, I swear!!“

He chuckled and dipped his head down anew, meeting a particularly mean spot on your neck. You bucked your body up and tried to throw him over, but he simply repeated to blow on the same spot several times, succeeding in making your laughter explode too much to still have any strength for that manoeuver.

„Plehehehease stop,“ you giggled when he‘d moved his head up again, smirking triumphantly.

„Oh, come on, I have to make up for an entire week here.“ He chuckled, but the mentioning of his absence quickly changed the mood.

Your smile vanished and your eyes grew less bright than before.

„Hmmm,“ he made, letting go of your wrists as a sadness tinged his carefree expression a shade less happy. „Little sister doesn‘t like me going.“

„No, she hates that really.“ You answered, pulling your arms down and starting to play with one of his necklaces hanging a little lower than the rest.

He put his head up on one of his palms, the other arm still keeping you from getting away. The kindness in his eyes never vanished, a huge amount of sympathy weighing you down like a warm blanket.

„I would take you with us, if I could.“

„Would you?“ You asked, using the crucifix pendant of his necklace to draw the lines of his chin.

„Mhmmm,“ he answered, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. „I would keep you in a saddle bag the entire time to make sure you don‘t get lost, but yes I would!“ He chuckled when you gently punched him in the chest for that, but quickly turned more serious again when he saw how worried you really were.

„You know, (Y/N), when I‘m gone, I know exactly what and who I come back for and that creates a power you can hardly imagine. I would slice, slash, burn and kick my way back to you, always. Even if I‘m hurt, even if I‘m dying, I will always come back here to you. The last time you see me will never be when I leave.“

Your eyes started to burn as you looked into the honey brown eyes of your brother during his little speech. His words made you sad, but all the more they reassured you and made you want to cling to him for as long as you could.

Your arms were thrown around his neck in one swift motion and he caught and held you against him with one arm, nuzzling your hair and breathing you in.

„I love you so much,“ you whispered, allowing one single tear to drop onto his shirt.

„Oh, if you knew how much I love you, if you only knew how powerful that makes me.“ He answered gently, smiling against your ear and holding you even tighter than before.

„Powerful enough to crush me apparently,“ you wheezed, laughing when he dropped you back on the sheets all of a sudden. The mischievous sparkle was back in his eyes.

„Right, where were we actually? Wasn‘t I very busy doing something funny right there?“

„Oh no no no,“ you protested, giggling with a new wave of nervous laughter, your hands quickly coming up to push against his face, to keep that beard away from your neck.

He chuckled softly, not even seeming bothered when he used one hand to brush your own away and pin them on your side now, using his body to keep them stuck between you two. You were already wiggling around hysterically, twisting and turning but never escaping. And soon his ticklish beard on your neck and his skilled fingers raking over your ribs had you shaking with laughter again. Until Athos and Porthos entered the room and Aramis was off of you in milliseconds. They were always on your side. And he was painfully aware of that.

A similar cornering situation like the one between you and your brother took place and Athos and Porthos had your brother down in seconds, making him burst with adorable giggles in the most practiced manner, cutting off his access to his sides and tickling him there until they could have made him promise anything in the entire world.

You loved watching them play, feeling good about yourself and the morning spent with your brother. Seeing the fondness in the eyes of his friends reassurred you further that Aramis was well protected by the eagle eyes of the two of them. They would never let anything happen to each other if they had a say in it.

You couldn‘t wait to hear him laugh like that again.

#the musketeers #tickling #tickle imagine #ticklish!aramis #little sister reader #aramis little sister #the three musketeers #athos #porthos #hurt/comfort

40 notes · View notes

readercognito · 1 month

Text

A Wicked Spell

Palladium x Reader

I was rather shocked to see two students fly into my infirmary, not walk. Fly. If students were using their Winx on campus, that meant only one thing. Someone was hurt, badly.

Staying calm, I quickly gather my portable medic kit. Holding up a hand to quiet their nervous rambling.

"We don't have time for explanations, just take me to them." I said, urgently.

If someone is seriously hurt I don't have the time to translate flustered teenager babble. They mean well of course, but first year students don't do very well under pressure.

I followed the girls to the courtyard where my blood ran cold upon seeing who the poor soul was.

Professor Athos Palladium. He looked pale, and was moaning quietly. With a worried Faragonda kneeling beside him.

I rushed over to his side, using one of my physical diagnosis spells. Nothing, no poison, or any lesions of the body, no deep brushing either. That wasn't good, that meant there was a problem with his magic. Which for an elf, whose magic runs through their own veins just as their blood could be deadly. "This isn't good," I mutter.

Faragonda and I looked to the two students who were still hovering nearby.

"Alright girls, help Ms. (L/n) get Professor Palladium to the infirmary! Time is of the essence!" Faragonda commanded.

The girls and I quickly picked Palladium up and carried him to the infirmary. The girls helped me get him on to one of the sterile white beds. A loud groan escapes him as I settle him in. Dismissing the girls back to their classes. Using my strongest magic diagnosis spell I discovered there was a large corruption on his left shoulder. While it hasn't gone too deep yet, if it goes beneath the skin and gets into his bloodstream it could reach his heart and could do one of two things. It would destroy him from the inside out, or he would be transformed into something monstrous.

Acting quickly I take off his shirt, pausing for only a second to whisper an apology that he certainly wouldn't hear.

There was a blackish-purple, spidery, mark on his left shoulder. It was spreading visibly down his torso and up his neck. This just went from bad to worse, I'm going to need a cleansing ritual, a strong one. I won't be able to do it myself.

"Oh Palladium, what did they do to you?" I whispered, stroking his cheek wistfully.

After a call to Faragonda, who gathered a few of the other professors and Flora. Even though she was a student she was always a fantastic healer, and her natural affinity for nature based magic would help in this specific case. The ritual was long, and hard. The corruption fought tooth and nail, but we were finally able to confine it and eliminate it from his system.

Unfortunately, due to how far the corruption got in the first place Palladium was too weak to be moved. He would have to rest in the infirmary until his magic regenerates. The professors retired to their beds, naturally the process of cleansing dark magic is exhausting, I was tired myself.

"Is there anything else I can do Ms. (L/n)?" Flora asked, in her sweet gentle way.

"Oh no Flora, you've done more than enough! Go get some rest, I can handle everything from here sweetie." I said.

Flora floated back to her dorm, I simply smiled and shook my head.

“I swear that girl is from a whole other plane of existence…” I laughed quietly to myself.

I looked down at Palladium, he hadn’t really moved since we finished the cleansing. But the mark on his shoulder was gone, only a faint paleness was still there. He would be in a magically induced healing coma for the next three days, and probably have to remain in the infirmary for at least one week.

My face grew warm at the thought of spending that much time alone with the handsome professor. Shaking that thought out of my head quickly I moved to set up the required monitors. Settling in for a long night of caretaking.

It was only two in the morning when I was woken up by Palladium groaning. I scrambled to check the monitors, but everything was stable. Palladium seemed just as still as before. Until he shifted letting out another groan and what sounded like a whisper, but it wasn't intelligible. So I leaned closer, trying to make out if he was having a nightmare or not. Palladium spoke again after a moment with a furrowed brow.

"Ugh- (Y/n) I- no, no…" He murmured to himself.

So it was a nightmare… And it had something to do with me. I leaned back again, and without thinking much about it. I started to stroke his cheek, tenderly. His brow softened and his frown settled into a gentle smile. A smile I had grown to adore from afar. Then he spoke again this time a little louder and more distinct.

"I think I love you (Y/n)…"

I halted in my movements, my very thoughts stuttered.

"What?" I ended up whispering to myself. So in a state of shock I was completely numb to Palladium turning to his other side with a contented sigh.

I shook it off sure I was only dreaming, or at least that his whispered confession meant nothing. So I resumed my night watch.

It had been a week since then. Palladium is wide awake and is finally able to feed himself without aid. He also has grown more talkative, making small talk with me during check ups and food deliveries. Though one morning during his breakfast he asked me something I hoped he wouldn't.

"(Y/n)?" He said.

I turned to him from the monitor I was checking over.

"Yes, Athos?" I replied. We had long since been on a first name basis. He had requested my first name and to use his fairly recently after he woke up.

"Did I say anything while I was asleep?" He asked, fingering the bed sheet nervously.

I froze for a moment thinking back to that first night…

"A-ah, umm… well. You said that- you said you loved me at one point." I said trying to sound casual, and failing miserably.

Athos went red, stuttering out a simple "o-oh, well… Oh d-dear."

I scrambled to retrieve the ease that had fled the room.

"Well I'm sure it didn't mean anything. You were deep in a medical coma and fresh off of a dark magic infection! I wasn't bothered by it." I said, lying through my teeth.

Athos didn't brush it off and resume our jovial atmosphere like I thought he would. Instead he looked me directly in the eye. While still a little flushed, he looked more serious than I had seen him in quite some time.

"But what if it was- it is true?" He said

"What?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"I do love you (Y/n), I'm not quite sure when it happened. But I have been in love with you for quite some time…" He said, looking me directly in the eye.

His sudden confidence seemed to waiver then, and he turned down the bed. Staring intently at the light blue sheets, though if his ears were anything to go by he was hiding a furious blush. One which I’m sure I was mirroring to some extent, judging by the heat of my own cheeks. Then I decided to do something, something I wasn’t very sure of.

I sat down on the chair by his bed, gently taking his burning face in my hands. Turning him towards me I leaned forward and kissed him.

I felt him stiffen with a bit of shock and a mix of nervousness, then I got a soft but stalwart response.

It was wonderful, honestly I think it was the best kiss of my entire life. His lips were soft, and gentle, sparking a rush of adoration down my spine. I could feel myself smile into the kiss, his hand moved to my cheek. The tender brush sending fireworks across my skin, both taste and smell wrapped around me. Orange with a hint of mint, when we broke apart it was like he had taken a piece with him. So I chased him to get it back, but to my surprise he got to me first. It was fireworks, and gentle caresses all over again. Then we broke away for the final time, panting a bit to get our lungs filled again. I couldn’t help but laugh, I was so incandescently happy.

“So if you didn’t catch my meaning, I love you too Athos..” I giggled with a sigh.

He let out a mirthful chuckle of his own. Then his eyes with a deep affection, and softness touched his forehead to mine and said.

“I’m sure now, more than ever…”

#Professor Palladium #Palladium x Reader #reader insert #x reader #female reader

8 notes · View notes

dreamerinthesun · 2 years

Text

“Sorry for the burned cake...”

{Captain Treville x reader, platonic!musketeers x reader}

A/N: Soo, here's one of my first one-shots. It's for the amazing birthday girl @rose-edith ☺️🤍 I hope you'll enjoy it as much as you enjoyed your big day! Love you!

Athos wasn't the best cook in Garrison, in fact he hated being around in the kitchen more than anything. How he was assigned with baking cake for his captain's wife birthday remained mystery but he still tried his best. Of course, today was a big day for the whole courtyard of Musketeers and Captain Treville decided that his beloved's birthday should be a perfect day. Why he wanted musketeers to help was still unsure but from what Athos understood, they show show their thanks to the madam Treville. “You know, the cake won't make itself...” Someone spoke up from the door with obvious amusement in their voice. The second in command looked up with a frown to see Aramis standing there with embrace full of flowers. 'Of course he was assigned flowers', thought Athos bitterly as it didn't surprise him at all. “I have never baked anything in my life”, confessed Athos beginning to move around the kitchen in a hope there was some hidden cookbook which could help him out of his misery. “It's not that hard, really. You just need to use eggs, flour, oil and sugar...” Aramis started to count on his fingers, enjoying the view of his friend in such an awful situation. Helping Athos out didn't even came to his mind. “Oh really? Well if it is that easy why don't you just do it yourself!”, snapped Athos back with a frown between his eyebrows. Turning around to face the younger musketeer Athos would love to see Aramis try to bake it. “It wasn't a my responsibility to bake the cake... But since you need my help, I will do it. You owe me one tho” Aramis sighed trying to act as if he was hard to convince but Athos's glare made him put the flowers down on the table as he began to show Athos what he should do as both of them teamed up to make at least something which was close to the birthday cake their captain imagined.

“What is taking them so long?” Porthos wondered leaning against the one of tables setted outside. His right arm was loosely put across barrel filled with the finest wine, his dark eyes watching the windows from the kitchen. After hearing sounds as if few things broke, Athos swearing loudly and Aramis's cheeky responses the oldest of musketeers began to worry for his brother's safety. Turning his head to take a questioning look at D'Artagnan, the longer haired male shrugged. "Maybe he's trying to put Aramis's body into the cake? Who wouldn't love birthday dessert with Aramis's head on it?" Suggested D'Artagnan with an amused chuckle while making sure everything and everyone else was ready. Few tables were decorated with flowers Aramis brought in, set up with multiple delicious courses captain was able to get from palace's kitchen as it was all ready for arrival of Madam Treville and Captain. Thinking about what else was missing both musketeers were taken out of their thoughts when they heard clapping of hooves on the city's ground.

“I really hope you enjoyed today” Jean Treville spoke to you with small but loving smile. He hoped today's day was the best for you and he made sure you didn't have to worry about such a things as making dinner as he nudged his horse towards Garrison. Everything inside of it was a surprise he was planning for a long time. Jean was slowly counting the days till your birthday, he couldn't wait for making the special day of yours even better.

As they arrived into the courtyard, both Porthos and D'Artagnan were waiting down by the stairs, happy to see you with their captain. It was no secret both men adored your relationship with their boss, it could be seen by the way they shared glances before yelling out "SURPRISE!”

Jumping off the horse Jean helped you down as well as he took your hand into his. His eyes were searching for the emotions in your own eyes, he wanted to see the happiness lighting up behind them and the beautiful smile of yours. Small wrinkles appeared by his own eyes at the sight of your breathtaking smile, he could stand there and stare at you forever but he was interrupted by someone barging out of kitchen door.

Everyone's attention turned to both Athos and Aramis coughing and trying to catch a breath as they were holding onto a sheet on top of which sad something what used to be dough. As the two men were trying to not die out of lack of oxygen, there was a lot of smoke coming from the kitchen. Something bad definitely happened. Aramis spotted his captain with his wife as he helped Athos back on his feet, the two men trying to ignore the tears in their eyes while they showed the completely burned dough. That was supposed to be a cake. “Happy birthday?” Aramis spoke up with questioning tone on the end of sentence. “Sorry for the burned cake...”, Athos added mumbling as his scratch the back of his neck nervously.

The sight of his two musketeers burning such a simple thing made Captain sigh under his breath. He now regretted his choices of cooks but it didn't matter at all if it was still the best day of your life.

#captain treville #jean treville #bbc musketeers #the musketeers #musketeers x reader #captain treville x reader

33 notes · View notes

fandom-imagines-stories · 5 months

Text

Heaven

Aramis x Reader (The Musketeers)

Words: 6968

Part One; Part Two

Summary: The final hunt begins and Athos and the reader rush to find the others before Aramis’s recklessness leads him into Visage’s clutches.

Notes: Finally! This trilogy has taken me a while to write, so I hope you guys have enjoyed it! Since this part switches around the reader and Aramis a lot, it jumps quite a bit, so I hope it isn’t too confusing. (Also, I can't believe how long this is compared to the others. oops)

Warnings: Violence, assault, death (some intense stuff, so just be aware. I tried to keep the opening scene impactful without being super descriptive)

More Musketeers imagines: HERE

“I demand to know where you are taking me.” You kept your tone as calm as possible as the carriage jerked and jostled over the unknown road.

The man who’d dragged you from your rooms made no reply, keeping his indifferent gaze toward the window. Trees loomed like soldiers in the twilight, the sun sinking ever further into the horizon. Abandoning you.

You wanted to argue more, but your voice had gone hoarse from shouting. Surely your fists had bruised form banging on the window. But he couldn’t hear you. Whatever your treacherous stable boy had told him had forced him away. Still, you held onto the hope that Aramis would come for you. A rat like Visage may have power, but even his brigade of idiotic followers lacked the skill to take on the musketeers.

“I know that Visage put you up to this,” you scoffed, eyeing your riding companion. “But whatever ‘claims’ he believes he has are nothing more than delusions. He has spouted nothing but lies ever since the death of his mother.”

While you weren’t sure where you had been taken, you knew it was further than you liked. You’d been traveling since early afternoon and you hadn’t the faintest idea where you were or why you were here. What could Visage possibly be planning?

You were trying to discern which direction you’d traveled when the carriage abruptly halted. The man with you grabbed onto your hands and tied them with a rope. He knotted it so tightly you were sure it cut into your flesh.

“Enough of this,” you exclaimed as you were shoved out of the carriage. “What crimes have I committed? What right do you have to imprison me and cart me off like a common thief? I am a personal friend of the queen and I order you to-”

‘Oh enough with your screaming.” The cold voice sent shivers down your spine. “No one can hear you out here.”

You turned slowly, lifting your chin and blinking back any fear in your eyes. The man you’d suspected scowled back at you.

You smirked. “Ah yes, I thought I smelled vermin.”

Any smugness in your expression was instantly slapped away, the sting of Visage's hand radiation from your cheek. Fuming, you opened your mouth to speak, but he roughly took hold of your chin.

“You have humiliated me for the last time,” he snarled. Visage shoved you back and you hit the forest floor hard, knocking the breath out of your lungs so that when he kicked you, you couldn’t even scream.

Three of his men stood by and watched as he switched between his foot and his riding crop. You tried not to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry, but tears flowed with your permission. You were too delirious from the pain to care after a while.

When you thought you’d surely faint, Visage took you by the hair and lifted you off the ground.

You spat in his face with the strength you still had.

He threw you back down and took the riding crop to your hands, bound in front of you still with a rope that had turned red from bleeding wrists. Every hit sent an unimaginable pain up your arms, shaking your whole body and shattering your heart. Your hands that were once kissed and praised for their delicate beauty by Aramis. The hands of an artist. By the time he dragged you to your feet, you couldn’t feel anything but the throbbing in your fingers and bloodied knuckles.

Visage nodded to his men and they pulled you up to a large cedar, pinning you back and tying you around the middle. Your cloak felt suffocating, pressing the sketchbook in your bodice into your chest.

“It is lucky your mother is not alive to see you now,” you said through the blood on your lips.

“Do not speak of her,” Visage snapped. “You preyed upon my mother’s generosity, all the while spitting on her family name.”

“You fail to remember that I have never been betrothed to you. Your mother knew this. She knew my heart belonged elsewhere.” The thought of him made your voice crack. “She knew my heart belonged to Aramis.”

The men finished tying the rope.

“It will always belong to Aramis.”

Visage slapped you again.

You took a deep breath and stared him in the eye. “I love Aramis.”

Again.

“I love Aramis!”

His hand gripped your throat, pushing your head back against the bark.

“This I swear to you, you ungrateful bitch,” he sneered, leaning so his lips were by your ear. “I will tear him limb from limb for the embarrassment the two of your sordid relationship has caused me. And I will revel in every second.”

He stood back, taking his pistol from his belt.

You knew then that you didn’t want to die.

“Aramis!” You cried, hoping that the heavens would hear you.

“It seems like such a waste.” Visage loaded his weapon. “There was a time when all I could think about was your touch. The way the dresses my mother bought you fit your body.”

“You will never get away with this,” you exclaimed. “I am friends with the queen and the best fighters of Captain Treville’s regiment. They will see justice is done.”

“That’s where you're wrong, Y/N.” He took aim. “Nobody will miss a musketeer’s whore.”

You tried to yell one last time, but with the final shot, Aramis’s name died on your lips.

With no rain and with this part of the forest being relatively remote from Pinon, there was nothing to wash away the blood. The dark, dried stains coated the leaves on the ground and left horrible marks on the tree where you’d been bound. Looking at it felt as though you were being brutalized all over again. But when you thought of Visage’s sneer or the sting of his hand, you only imagined them directed toward your beloved Aramis.

Any harm that should come to him would be put squarely on your shoulders.

“This is where it happened,” you said quietly.

Athos was stopping to give the horses water. He looked over at you with a grim expression.

“It’s a miracle they found you.”

You shook your head. “It’ll be a miracle if we stop him. If Aramis and the others go after him tonight…”

“You underestimate us,” Athos tried to give you a smile to reassure you, but he was never known for his ability to comfort. “We are musketeers after all. They won’t charge in without a plan. Besides, they don’t know where Visage and his men are.”

“I do.” You turned your back to the tree of your torture, holding your head high with new determination. “Madam de Visage owned an orchard just east of the city. I’d bet my life that’s where Visage is hiding while he plots Aramis’s death.”

Though you tried, you still couldn’t hide the growing fear in your voice.

Athos walked across the clearing and put a hand on your shoulder. “Luckily we will be there to take him off guard and put an end to his schemes.”

“I hope you’re right,” you sighed, shaking your head. “Oh, Athos. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t defied him, humiliated him, then-”

“Then you would have married a foul man you hate and abandoned the one you love, living out whatever days Visage allowed you to live in utter loneliness and misery,” he reasoned. “The only one to blame here is Visage. And we will see to it that justice is dealt and that you may reunite with Aramis.”

His blue eyes bore into yours until you couldn’t take it. You lowered your gaze to the forest floor.

Athos sighed. He knew that you were still warring with yourself over your return and he was fairly certain as to why. You didn’t see yourself as the same woman Aramis loved and you were afraid, when he saw you now, changed and broken, that he wouldn’t not love you. But after the past week of his friend’s utter despair, Athos knew that there was nothing that could take Aramis’s heart from you. Not even death.

He clutched the bloodstained locket like a rosary. Aramis stood a ways from the other two while they gave their horses time to rest and their lungs a moment to breathe. The trio had been searching all afternoon for Visage’s camp and, though the place the stableboy had indicated showed signs of a brief settlement, Visage and his men were long gone now.

“Tell me where to go,” Aramis muttered, holding the necklace to his lips as if in prayer. “Help me find him, my love.”

D’Artagnan nudged Porthos in the arm. “He’s doing it again,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’m worried about him.”

“We all are.”

“I know, but look at him.” The youngest of the group motioned to their friend’s tense shoulders, trembling frame, and perpetual fighting stance. “Even if we find Visage, will it matter?”

“Y/N deserves justice,” Porthos growled.

“And I want to get it as much as any of us,” D’Artagnan sighed, “but what is the pursuit of it going to do to him? What will be left?”

Aramis stiffened, having pretended not to hear their conversation. He turned around.

“Let’s go. We still have a few hours of daylight. If we don’t find anything, we’ll return to the boy and force him to tell us the truth,” he said, mounting his horse.

“He told us all he knows,” D’Artagnan reasoned. “Scaring him more won’t do us any good.”

Aramis took off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “You’re right. It would just be a waste of time. We’ll just have to search through the night.”

D’Artagnan’s worried expression deepened, casting a glance to Porthos, who took a deep breath and nodded.

“Let’s find this bastard,” he muttered, though the concern he shared with D’Artagnan was becoming clearer in his voice.

Aramis urged his tired horse on with the two others trailing behind him.

They traveled for several more hours until their horses simply refused to go any further, much to Aramis’s annoyance, who was usually very gentle with the animals. Porthos plucked a couple of apples from one of the trees and tossed one at his friend. Aramis stared at the ripe red fruit.

“Wait,” he gasped. “How far east have we traveled?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “Ten, eleven miles. Why?”

Aramis thought of a map you had once shown him of the Visage’s property. The orchard.

“He’s here,” Aramis said. “He must be.”

His companions exchanged the same worried look from before.

“How can you be sure?” Porthos asked.

“This is his mother’s land. The land he inherited. He’s a coward, he would have gone somewhere familiar. He must be here.” He drew his sword.

“We should think about this,” D’Artagnan interjected. “He practically has a small army working for him. We can’t just barge into their camp.”

“I know that,” Aramis snapped. “I had a plan before you three insisted on coming with me.” He paused, remembering the absence of their fourth friend. The others seemed to notice as well.

“Right,” Porthos mused, “where is Athos?”

You tried to urge your horse forward, the forest growing darker and darker by the minute.

“We should stop,” Athos said, slowing his horse from its trot. “We won’t arrive back to Paris before morning anyway, we might as well get a few hours of rest.”

“At best, Visage and Aramis are still hunting each other in circles,” you said. “At worst…” You shook your head and pulled on the reins. “We cannot stand to lose any more time.”

“I told you. Aramis will have a plan. Even if he didn’t, D’Artagnan and Porthos can reason with him to make one. He is not alone.” His eyes softened. “And neither are you.”

“Honestly, Athos,” you scoffed, reluctantly dismounting from your horse and sitting at the base of a tree. “You can stop looking at me like I’m going to break.” Your statement was not supported by the trembling of your hands or the way you avoided his gaze, but your tone was laced with determination. “I have to find Visage.”

Athos sat beside you with a light chuckle and a shake of his head.

“He’s been saying the same thing.” He plucked a blade of grass and held it to the light. “Both of you, so willing to throw yourself into harm's way to save each other, even if he believes he’s doing it for your memory alone.” Athos dropped the grass, watching it flit back down to the ground. “Love.”

“You say it as if you know it yourself.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

You laid your head on his shoulder. Staring at your hands, you removed your leather gloves, wincing as the fabric grazed your scabbing wounds and bruises. No matter how hard you tried, you could not make them still, for they twitched painfully with every breath.

“You were right, Athos,” you whispered. “I am afraid that when I see him again… I won’t be the woman he wants anymore.”

Athos leaned his head back against the bark, drawing his arm around you a little tighter. And though he didn’t say anything, you took comfort in his reassuring silence. He knew there was nothing he could do to dissuade your troubled thoughts any more than you could banish his painful memories.

So instead, you both slept while, somewhere on the other side of Paris, gunshots echoed through the trees.

They found them in the dark of night. A few seemed under the heavy sleep of drink, but there were still some more alert standing guard. Visage was nowhere in sight. Any exhaustion plaguing the three men dissipated with a new wave of fury-fueled adrenaline.

A figure appeared from the largest tent, bottle in one hand and sword in the other. Even in the pitch black, the man’s arrogant swagger and barking voice gave him away.

Visage.

Aramis stepped forward.

D’Artagnan grabbed his arm, raising a brow.

“Surprise is everything,” he said, recalling his companion’s words from years past.

Aramis took a breath and nodded, though every nerve burned. Just one shot was all he needed. All of this could be over. He remembered his friends’ concerns. Once this was over, what would become of him?

Did it even matter anymore?”

“Those four on the left, they’re the drunkest,” Porthos pointed out. “They’ll be easy to deal with.”

“That still leaves twenty against three. Inebriated or not,” D’Artagnan sighed.

“All that matters is taking down Visage,” Aramis said.

“And,” Porthos started, “not getting killed in the process.” He shrugged, “At least until Athos gets here.”

Aramis tensed with a new surge of frustration. “Where is he? What could possibly have kept him from something as important as this?”

The other two couldn’t answer, for they had the same questions.

A branch cracked behind them and all three bolted upward, turning to face a wall of Visage’s men. Pistols clicked, ready to fire.

Aramis went one way, D’Artagnan the other, and Porthos down the middle. Ten men attacked from the trees, followed by the others from the camp. The musketeers fought valiantly and impressively, killing several of their opponents before Porthos was struck with the back of a musket.

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan exclaimed.

Five men surrounded him, forcing him to drop his weapon. One slashed a sword at his side.

Another group grabbed Aramis from behind and pulled his arms behind his back until he screamed.

“I’ve heard of the recklessness of the musketeers, but I must say I expected better,” Visage called over the commotion as the three were overtaken.

D’Artagnan glanced over at his captive friend grimly as the men pinned them both to the ground. “Surprise would have been everything.”

With his arms still behind him, they shoved Aramis’ face into the dirt while his anger swelled in his chest, and tried to jerk free.

“Don’t worry,” Visage sneered, now standing over him, “you’ll be with your whore soon enough.”

He looked the man in the eye, brought up his heel, and kicked Aramis in the back of the head.

The world and his hopes of revenge went black.

Visage let out a hearty, despicable laugh, pushing Aramis’ face further into the mud with his foot.

“Get him up,” he ordered. “We’ll take him to the tree where that sniveling girl died. Let them hang there together.” He flourished a hand and smiled. “I’m feeling poetic.”

“You bastard!” D’Artagnan growled.

The men stood him up as they lifted Porthos and Aramis into a cart nearby. He watched his friends go with a sinking heart. He had to do something. But he couldn’t fight this many men on his own, no matter how much more skilled with a sword he may be. Then, it struck him.

Athos.

Athos would know what to do.

But how could he find him?

Visage slapped him across the cheek. The sting in his face added to the growing ache in his side, but if he could just get his arms free…

“I can see why she left you,” D’Artagnan chuckled. “What woman would choose a man who lets others do his work for him? What woman could ever want to hide behind this army of mindless brutes?” He leaned forward and spat in Visage’s face. “If you want to fight, then fight me. One on one. Like men.”

The other man’s face reddened with fury. He snapped his fingers. The men holding D’Artagnan released him.

His stomach churned as he glanced at his unconscious companions one more time. How could he just run? How could he leave them here and flee like a coward after accusing Visage of being the very same? D’Artagnan closed his eyes and remembered Aramis’ words.

“All that matters is taking down Visage.”

If he could get help, they could defeat Visage and still, maybe, live to honor the woman they were doing this all for.

So he ran.

As D’Artagnan dashed into the trees, a group of men started to follow him, but Visage stopped them, his laughter booming in the youngest musketeer’s ears.

“Let the coward go,” Visage said. “He’s not the one I want.” He looked to the cart and smirked. “Now move! All of you!” The darkness in his eyes returned. Hungry and wrathful. “We can get to the spot by morning and make it a musketeer’s grave.”

“Hold still,” you whispered. The needle shook in your hand and you tried to force it still.

“I’m not the one I’m worried about,” Aramis smirked. He took your arm in one hand and put the other under your chin. “You’ll do fine. I’m right here to guide you.” He tried to keep the nerves out of his voice. Frankly, he was used to being on the other side of this situation and he didn’t care to have it the other way.

The wound on his chest continued to slowly seep with the deep scarlet liquid overtaking your vision.

“Just take a breath and steady your hands,” he instructed, releasing your arm but keeping a hand on your cheek. He nodded.

You began.

Aramis breathed through a hiss as the needle pierced his flesh and you muttered a string of apologies.

“It’s alright. Just keep going.”

“This is ridiculous,” you almost laughed. “I’m not the one with a slash in my chest. I should be comforting you, my love.” You leaned down and kissed his forehead. Aramis directed your lips down to his, letting his kiss reassure you.

You continued stitching until the wound was closed and the blood more or less stopped. Aramis craned his neck to examine your work.

“I don’t believe I could have done it better,” he grinned.

You were glad to see the color return to his face. When he’d come to you, he was pale and shaking from adrenaline. Whatever fight he’d won, was won with a cost.

You kissed him again, this time with all of your fear and concern and startlement. Aramis’ hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer.

It settled then, in both of your minds, that this was more than a mere flirtation. What began as little more than a series of private rendezvous in your bedroom had turned into something else entirely. Neither of you had intended it. In fact, it frightened both of you so much that you had to break apart to hide the panic from the other person.

You moved to the other side of your bedroom and stood before your vanity, where a bowl of water turned pink as you scrubbed your lover’s blood from your fingers.

Aramis watched you in the reflection and conquered his own cowardice.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips.

You froze.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But, lying there in your bed, with a wound over his heart, he realized that perhaps this was exactly what was meant to be.

He spoke louder. “I love you.”

“Aramis…” It took only seconds, but to you, your mind seemed to reel for hours. How could you put it into words, for those simple three didn’t seem like enough? There wasn’t a way to describe what he’d become for you. He was a wild, untamable, excitement that still somehow grounded you. Both the shelter and the storm in every wonderful way.

You crossed the room and sat beside him. And, as you watched his dark, adoring eyes, you answered his unspoken question.

“I love you,” you said. “Of course, I love you.”

Your hands were steady now as you took his face in your palms and pulled his lips to yours.

Against your skin, he whispered the same, sweet phrase you’d heard time and again, and yet, no matter how often you’d heard it, it still lit a soft flame in your heart.

“Tu es mon paradis.”

D’Artagnan did not know where he was running, but somehow, he knew it was the right direction. He could feel it. The image of Porthos and Aramis in that cart fueled his sprint, even after his lungs felt as though they’d burst from exhaustion and his legs wanted to give out. Even when the wound in his side continued to throb and bleed to the point of concern.

He would find Athos. They would get help. They would bring the wrath of the entire regiment down on the scum Visage.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he heard the distinct thumps of hooves riding over fallen leaves.

He ducked behind a tree and braced himself. Luckily, Visage’s men hadn’t had the opportunity to take all of his weapons, leaving him with a single pistol and a dueling dagger. D’Artagnan again saw his friends overtaken and despairing. He would at least take out a few of Visage’s mindless soldiers on his way to Athos.

D’Artagnan took a deep breath, loaded his pistol, and leaped out into the path with a furious cry.

The horses alerted and reared back.

D’Artagnan aimed.

“Wait!” A familiar voice shouted.

The youngest musketeer met eyes with the clear blue eyes of his noble friend and a sigh of relief left his lips.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he grinned.

Athos met him with a grim stare.

“D’Artagnan?”

The other figure dismounted from their horse, still hidden by the animal’s body. But D’Artagnan knew that voice.

You stepped out into the moonlight and D’Artagnan looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Of course, for him, he had.

“You’re alive?” He gasped.

You answered by taking him in your arms, the darkness in your chest lifting enough for laughter. His arms enveloped you, still stiff with shock. He pulled away to look at your face.

“But how is this possible? How could…” He trailed off, dark eyes wide and glistening.

You laid a gloved hand on his cheek. “I will have to explain later. I’m afraid we don’t have time.” Your eyes scanned the trees behind him. Athos did the same, realizing at the same moment as you. You looked into D’Artagnan’s eyes. “Where is Aramis?”

His gaze fell to the ground.

Your heart sank.

“Where is he?”

The youngest musketeer gulped. “He and Porthos were taken by Visage. I barely escaped.” Guilt washed over his features. “I only ran so I could find help. So I could find Athos. I didn’t want to leave them. I swear. I didn’t…” He trailed off with shame in his voice.

You put your hands on his shoulders. “If you hadn’t escaped, you wouldn’t have found us and all three of you would be dead by now,” you reasoned, though panic was rising in your throat. “The best thing now is for you to help us find them before Visage-” You stopped, unable to even think the words.

“Did Visage say where he was taking them?” Athos asked.

D’Artagnan tried to gather his thoughts, mind still reeling from your survival. He closed his eyes and heard that awful man’s instructions.

“He wants to kill him at the spot that he killed-” He opened his eyes, finding yours. “Well, where he thought he killed you.”

“That means they’re coming this way,” you exclaimed. “We can stop them on the road.”

“Wait.” Athos held up a hand. His eyes darted between the two of you. A thoughtful smirk played on his features. “I may have a better idea.”

Athos gathered the two of you and noted every detail, every possible variation. D’Artagnan’s face lit up with a confident smile. He patted his friend on the back. Despite Visage’s numbers, it could actually work.

You only prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

Aramis awoke, tied back to back with Porthos, in a wagon surrounded by at least a dozen men on foot and at least half that on horseback. He pulled at his restraints.

“Tried that,” Porthos huffed. “No use. They know their knots.”

“Where’s D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked.

His friend did not answer.

A hopeful man may have believed their young companion had escaped. But Aramis was no longer a hopeful man.

Aramis hung his head, the claws of defeat sinking into his chest.

“I shouldn’t have brought you into this,” he sighed. “Visage is my fight and now D’Artagnan is-”

“We don’t know that,” Porthos interrupted. He nudged Aramis’s shoulder. “And don’t start on that again. Your fight is my fight. Always has been, always will be.” Porthos leaned back as best he could, trying to give his friend a reassuring glance. “All for one, remember?”

Aramis couldn’t bring himself to respond.

Porthos just nodded, having enough hope for both of them. “We’ll figure it out.” His tone darkened. “And then we’ll get Visage.” Porthos’s shoulders tensed, searching the riders around them for their villainous leader. While he let his anger keep his head clear, the same couldn’t be said for his fellow captive.

Aramis stared out at the trees behind them.

Did Visage tie D’Artagnan up, shoot him, and beat him the way he had to Y/N? Another life gone… because of him.

Hours must have passed, for the sun had begun to peak over the horizon. He watched it with a heavy heart and a numb mind. Perhaps it would be his last sunrise. Worse, perhaps he wanted it to be.

“This is it,” Visage announced.

He sneered at the empty clearing. Animals must have picked the body apart and dragged it off. Too bad. He would have liked to see the musketeer’s face when he looked upon the broken form of the woman he’d stolen.

The wagon halted. Men roughly grabbed the two musketeers and pulled them to the ground. It took four to subdue Porthos as they cut them apart.

Visage grabbed Aramis by the hair and forced his face toward a tree with splintered, rust-colored bark.

“This is where she cried for you,” he sneered, pulling his head back until Aramis winced. “Where she bled and begged. Where the heart you stole stopped beating.” He threw Aramis down hard enough that when he hit the ground, he saw spots.

He almost thought he saw movement in the trees behind Visage, but it must have been the impact of the tree trunk against his temple.

“And now,” Visage pulled out his pistol. “It’s where I will put an end to your miserable, dishonorable, foul life.” He looked at the man before him with hate in his eyes and aimed at Aramis’ heart.

“No!” Porthos cried, almost breaking free. Another man had to help hold him.

Your hand shook more than it ever had before.

“It has to be you.” Athos had said. “D’Artagnan and I must take on the other men. You will have to kill Visage.”

But your hands wouldn’t allow you. You could hardly keep the pistol in your grip. It was as if Visage was crushing them all over again. Then you heard Aramis speak.

“I love Y/N. I love her with every breath I’ve ever had. I love her with every beat of my heart. And I will love her after my soul has left this body because I know she loved me all the same.” Aramis took your necklace from his pocket and brought it to his lips. He stared up at Visage, whose hand quivered with rage. Aramis accepted his fate. “And not even death can take that from us.”

Visage cocked his weapon.

You took a breath, steadied your hands, and fired.

A shot rang through the air and a mass pushed Aramis against the tree, slamming his already pounding head against the bark. Blurred chaos broke out around him. All he could see was light.

The pressure on his chest lifted and another figure appeared above him, enveloped by the rising sun.

“Please wake up, my love,” said the angel. “Please, Aramis.”

A smile spread across his lips. “I never believed I deserved heaven.” He lifted a hand to your face. “But I must be there.”

You took his hand in yours and, forgetting the battle around you, crashed your lips into his. All sound dropped away. Everything seemed still. All vanished except for you, Aramis, and the rays of the sun.

“You’re alive, Aramis,” you breathed against his lips. You pulled back, running your still-gloved fingers through his hair. “I’m alive.”

Aramis stared up at you, his fingers still grazing your cheek, not believing that it was truly your flesh that he felt. Then, the shock passed, and joyous tears took its place.

But your reunion was short-lived, for the body beside you stirred and you felt the sharpness of a blade slide across your arm. You held up a hand to defend yourself and another latched onto it with crushing strength. You cried out, feeling your bones whine in his iron grasp.

“Impossible!” Visage shrieked, eyes blazing. He lunged at you, but Aramis rolled on top of you, shielding you with his body and dodging Visage’s strike.

The battle around you continued. Porthos, now freed, tried to keep his focus on his opponent, though his gaze kept slipping over to you. After a moment of surprise, a victorious smile spread across his face and he fought with new vigor, a strong battle cry roaring through the trees. Athos and D’Artagnan were keeping Visage’s men at bay while their leader stumbled to his feet.

“You have crawled up from Hell,” he spat. Blood dripped down his chin and seeped from the wound in his chest. “I killed you. I watched you die on this very spot. Demon. That’s what you are.”

“If I am anything, it is a phantom of your own making, Visage.” You stepped towards him. Aramis tried to keep you behind him, but you gave him a reassuring nod.

Visage couldn’t hurt you now.

“It isn’t possible.” He stumbled. He held Aramis’s confiscated sword in his hand and raised it. “You are mine. Your life belonged to me. Your death is my right.”

He moved, hands trembling weakly.

You were faster. Your sword plunged into his heart, eliciting a final gasp from his lips. He leaned forward, sinking further onto your blade. You glared at the instigator of all of your pain, the master behind your nightmares, and knew that you had one.

“I belong to no one.”

You drew your weapon out of his chest swiftly and watched his body fall to the ground where he believed he had killed you.

How’s that for poetic?

You let your sword fall to your feet, blood-spattered metal glistening amongst the leaves. Something inside you burst and the emotion behind it drowned you. Relief and fear, anger and shame, love and hatred, all combined to fuel the tears that flowed freely down your face. More than ever, looking at the body of the man who made you into a killer, you knew that you were broken.

The rest of the battle subsided- the head of the snake was severed. Visage’s men surrendered to the musketeers and Porthos and D’Artagnan gathered them into the cart to take them back to be tried for the attempted murder of several of the king’s men, as well as a close friend of Queen Anne. Visage would pay for his crimes, even after death.

You collected yourself and removed your gloves. The bruised and scabbed state of your hands still appalled you, a symbol of everything that had been shattered inside you. You threw your gloves onto Visage’s chest, now forever still.

“It’s real,” Aramis said, voice soft and breaking. “You’re here.”

You crossed your arms, hiding your hands as best you could. Fear kept you from turning around. The joy of seeing him had once again been replaced by the terror that kept you from revealing yourself sooner. You lifted your eyes and met the cool blue of your traveling companion the past few days. Porthos and D’Artagnan stood beside him.

Athos saw your fear and opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. Instead, he just nodded. It gave you enough strength to face what you were truly afraid of.

But you didn’t even have the chance to turn all the way before you were taken up into Aramis’s arms, strong and yet shaking with emotion.

“I had wanted him to kill me,” Aramis breathed against your hair. “I did not want to walk in a world that you had been taken from. I thought I’d lost you. I thought…” He pulled away, smiling brightly through his tears.

“I may not be the woman you loved anymore,” you cried, broken hands gripping the leather of his coat. “I’m afraid he has damaged me beyond repair. He has taken everything from me and he almost took you.”

In the clarity after the chaos, he could see the welts and bruises, the forming scars and cruelly made marks on your skin. Aramis gently ran his finger over the bruise on your cheek, wiping away your tears.

“Tu seras toujours mon paradis,” he whispered. Aramis kissed the bruise, then the cut on your lip, then the gash across your brow. “Not even God can change that.” He pulled you closer. “I have been granted the miracle of holding you again, my love.” He kissed your lips, a reaffirming action that filled you both with warmth. “And I don’t intend to take it for granted."

“Aramis,” you sighed, letting yourself melt into him.

The three others joined you. As soon as you left Aramis’s embrace, you were pulled into Porthos’s.

“I knew it’d take more than a bullet to stop ya,” he cheered, nearly lifting you off the ground.

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, but she’s still injured, so be careful.”

“It’s alright.” You hugged the strong musketeer back. “I missed you too, Porthos.”

Utter happiness and relief surrounded you, lightening your spirits and lifting your heart. Aramis kept an arm around your waist, your closeness helping him convince himself this was real.

“We should go,” Athos said. “Captain Treville will want to hear a report and I’m sure the queen will be relieved to know her favorite artist is alive and well.”

The musketeers nodded. It was decided that another team of men would come out and dig proper graves for Visage and his fallen soldiers. D’Artagnan gathered the horses while Porthos manned the cart.

“Alright, you lot!” He boomed. “Anyone tries anything and you’ll be joining your master in Hell!”

Needless to say, the men obeyed.

You remained behind doubt and worry returning. Aramis stayed with you, brows furrowed with concern.

“What is it, darling?” He asked.

You stared down at your hands. They were shaking again. “My hands. I don’t know if I’ll ever paint again.” Your eyes fell to Visage once more. “Another thing he took from me.”

Aramis stepped around you, blocking your view of the body and bringing your hands to his lips, kissing them gently as he had your other wounds.

“These hands saved my life,” he said. “I’m sure they will endure, just as you have.”

Keeping your hands in his, the two of you walked together, leading you back home.

One Year Later

“Would all of you just please hold still!” You giggled, peeking up over your canvas.

“Aren’t you nearly finished?” D’Artagnan whined. “It’s been hours.”

“Yeah, my limbs are all seizing up,” Porthos added.

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Great art takes time, my friends. Let her work.” He met your gaze and winked.

The four of them stood together, noble and daring in their uniforms, but lacking the stiff detachment that many soldier’s portraits often had. They loved each other and you tried to capture that with every stroke. D’Artagnan was right. The painting had actually been done for the past ten minutes, but you enjoyed teasing them.

All four pairs of eyes snapped to the door and they fell into a bow.

Your brush fell to your side with a huff. “Boys, I told you not to-”

“How is it coming?” The queen’s voice sounded from behind you.

You whirled around and curtseyed, face reddening. “It’s just about complete, Your Majesty.”

Anne appeared beside you, admiring your work over your shoulder. Her smile brightened with awe.

“It’s beautiful,” she praised, laying an affectionate hand on your arm. “It’ll make a wonderful wedding present.”

Aramis beamed from across the room.

Porthos held up a hand. “Speaking of which.” An excited grin spread across his and D’Artagnan’s faces. The two broke away from the others and hurried to the large table in the corner.

“I told you not to move,” you said.

“This’ll only take a second.” Athos followed them and Aramis walked to you.

“They wouldn’t tell me either,” your fiance smirked. He stood on his toes, trying to peek over the top to see the painting. You swatted at his nose with your brush.

“You will see it when it’s finished.”

“It is finished,” the queen laughed. “It is perfect.” She motioned for Aramis to come around the easel.

“Well, now you’ve ruined my fun.” You gave Anne a mock pout.

Aramis wrapped an arm around your waist and gazed at your work with loving admiration.

The painting depicted the four musketeers grouped together like brothers. In front of them, you had painted a rendition of yourself working at the canvas, painting the same image. That, of course, had been his plan. While you had just wanted a normal portrait of him and his companions, he had insisted that you include yourself, somehow.

“You’re facing away.” He noted.

“Well, I can’t very well paint my own face while I’m looking at all of yours, hm?”

He nuzzled your cheek. “I suppose I’ll just have to commission an artist’s self-portrait so you can see how lovely you are, hm?”

“We’ll see.”

It had taken a long time for you to allow yourself to look in the mirror. The idea of painting a reflection of your face was not something you had in mind quite yet.

The three others returned, holding a box and a scroll.

“You’ll have plenty of time to work on it here,” Anne smiled.

Athos held out the box while the other two unrolled the scroll. It was a blueprint. A blueprint for an artist’s studio and a home to match.

Aramis’s jaw fell and you turned to the queen.

“What is this?”

“Consider it a wedding present of my own to the both of you.”

Porthos cleared his throat.

“Our present,” Anne corrected. “It was these noble gentlemen’s idea. I merely funded it.”

“Which was greatly appreciated, Your Majesty,” Athos said. He bowed again, the others following suit.

“I don’t know how to ever repay you,” Aramis said. “Any of you.” He pulled you fully into his arms. His miracle. His world. “Thank you.”

“After everything the two of you went through, it is the least I can do to contribute to your future happiness.” Anne retrieved a quill from your station and handed it to you. “It shall be a great house and a great house needs a name.”

Aramis chuckled. “I am no nobleman, Your Majesty.”

“You are all more deserving than any nobleman I’ve ever met,” she argued. “Believe me, this is more than deserved.” She leaned to you. “Besides, it’s fun.”

You looked to your fiance and to his friends- your friends- and beamed. You took the quill in your hand, now bearing a simple and perfect ring promising you to the man you loved. Aramis smiled and kissed your cheek, standing behind you as you signed your future home’s title.

Heaven.

#aramis #aramis x reader #the musketeers #bbc the musketeers #porthos #athos #d'artagnan #anne of austria #the musketeers imagines #santiago cabrera

64 notes · View notes