#armand is over here holding back a whimper when he remembers how old and hot daniel is thank you

[microwaveratsetting]

Less Armand being repulsed by Daniel's medication riddled sour and acrid blood, more Armand likening Daniel to a ripe fruit, thin skin tearing apart to the juices underneath, blood syrupy sweet and aged like a fine wine!! Let Daniel's age be hot!! We say fuck that OLD man for a reason!!!

[freyalor]

Trevilieu-Smut-Prompt :D T+R are having fun in a dark, hidden room of the Louvres. A courtier comes in and T or R with Ts gun shoots him stone dead. They later find out that this courtier was planning to kill the King or R (imagine the irony of R shooting his own assassin :D) but they still have to explain the death to the king in front of the whole court and Louis wont accept Ts explanation that "we were arguing and yes I shoot people when I'm angry" (R is too relieved/giddy to be of any help)

This prompt is ages-old, but I told you, I never forget. 

Here’s a lighter, funnier fic, definitely more settled in the BBC Musketeers univers than true history of France, because the mood of that prompt couldn’t lead any other way. 

There you go, Schmetterling. 

Foutu Jurançon. Rated E, 3k words, also on AO3

As I findmyself gaping, staring at the brains of a dead man splattered upon thehard-tiled floor, his blood-soaked face frozen in a grotesque mask of surprise,all my blurred mind can come up with is “foutuJurançon”.

It is true.It’s all the Jurançon’s fault.

In themorning, a King realizes it’s the anniversary of his father’s death. In thelate hours of the evening a man dies, his head blown into bits. Right inbetween those facts, lies the bloody Jurançon.

The VertGalant, Lord bless his soul, was many things including a loving father, and hisson Louis’ adoration for him never receded with time. Every year, on the daythe fateful blade of a red-haired lunatic called Ravaillac had stolen hisfather from him, Louis orders the whole Louvres to remember. Henry the Fourth’swhite banner is to be hanged on every wall, his portraits covered in roses andcarnations, and at every meal, his favorite wine must be served.

Richelieumanaged to refuse the dammed white poison at noon without too much of a fuss,elegantly mentioning his health and the Council scheduled for the afternoon.

He refusedit all the same, three more times, during the council itself.  

But forsupper, considering the magnificentenergy the Cardinal had shown all afternoon in speeches and theatric moves,hints and allegations, threats and high praises, to persuade the King to cutthe Louvres’ costs in half and raise an army for the Southern border, Louislaughed away all excuses about his health.

-“Don’t youthink my father’s day deserves one drink, Cardinal?” The King muttered, andRichelieu never had been stupid enough to ignore the danger in Louis’ voice.

-“Of courseit does, Your Majesty” He breathed, bowing his head slightly as the Court’scupbearer poured the strong white wine in his glass.

Even fromafar, at the Officer’s table, I found it hard to hide a smile. I had sympathyfor Armand, I swear, because he barely drinks, and when he does, it is never strongerthan the regular red wine of the Court, which is basically water and spices.But something dark in me remembered how eagerhe can be when he’s drunk, and I was already, I must confess, preparing myambush.

I watchedbetween mirth and concern Louis keeping a heavy stare upon Armand all supperlong, ordering with a nod his glass to be refilled at a merciless pace.Richelieu accepted his fate, aware, no doubt, that most of it was Louis’revenge for the Hell he unleashed at the Council.

I myselfhad a taste of that deceitful liquid King Henry was so fond of, and I winced atthe fire it spread into my guts. God, how could one dagger kill a man who drankfive bottles of this a day?

Henry theFourth deserves every word of his legend.

It wasalready late in the evening when Louis grew tired of waiting for the Cardinalto do something embarrassing. Even through the King’s constant nagging andscrutiny, Armand bravely stood his ground, speaking clear and bright, movingsharp and quick. I wondered if anyone other than me noticed the deepening frownof his brow, a warning sign of his efforts.

Disappointed,Louis left the table, and Armand’s fingertips weakly rubbed his temple inrelief.

He excusedhimself no more than ten seconds later, and I followed unnoticed, because noone cares about the Officers table anyways.

I joinedhim in the gardens, under the wide arcades that led from the Great Hall to thePalais Cardinal. He walked straight, his chin held high, his stance flawless,but God, he walked slow. I gently touched his hand and he turned to me alreadysmiling, because he wasn’t drunk enough to be deaf to the sound of myfootsteps. I don’t think he ever will be.

We talked,this I am sure of, though I don’t remember what we spoke about. We talked inhushed voices, and at some point, I noticed the moonlight glow upon his hairagain, and I couldn’t refrain from touching it. He looked around, his eyesnarrowed, but still leaned into the touch with a low whimper, and soon enough hebreathed my name like only he can do, sealing my fate for that night.

I pushedhim backwards to the small door of an unused chapel under the clock tower ofthe Louvres. The place was cold and forlorn, stripped of its decorum since thebuilding of the magnificent Chapelle Royale and used from that moment as nomore than cubby for the gardeners. But I swear it was made holy by hispresence, even flustered and panting, his back hitting the ancient altar withbruising force. The door slammed shut and I kissed him hard, open-mouthed andmessy, tasting the infamous Jurançon on his fevered lips.

Oh, Lord, eager he was.

He grippedmy doublet to pull me against him, leaning back upon the cold stone wall. Thesight he was, framed by what was left of the ancient altar, like a moonlit iconpainted by the most skilled of all blasphemers. I would have been content witha few kisses I swear, but his eyes were blurred, and his hands fearless. Hegrabbed my crotch, giving it an expert squeeze, whispering the most sinfulpraise I ever heard. I cried out, catching fire, and started to open his robeswith a hunger I could hardly believe.

I pushedthe fabric down his shoulders, and he wore them like a stole once more, hiswhite skin offered to the chilly night air without the slightest shiver. He wasalready hard, flushed pink and twitching, which is rare enough to drive meinsane. Famished, I moved to kneel, licking my lips in raw want, but he refusedas always, making a quick work of my belt and pants instead. His fingers closedaround my shaft with confident accuracy, knowing how, and knowing when. ‘Take me’, he ordered, licking my ear,feasting on my shudder. ‘Fill me’, hebreathed, and I could come just to that sound.

Delirious,I think I just spat in my hand, stroked myself twice, then grabbed his thighsand lifted him up against the altar, thrusting in without a thought. Hescreamed, not entirely in pleasure, and I wished I could apologize, but he wasso tight I couldn’t focus. I was lost, I was damned, I was nothing more thanmoth to a flame. Drunk with wine and mad with lust, he forgot to bite on hiscries, and all I could do was to kiss them mute.

He’s neverbeen heavy, and I felt powerful. So, I took the time, played him a little, slowing down when I felt him tense, stoppingdead if I had to. He growled and hissed and cursed, one of his hands flying tograb the altar’s frame, his unfocused eyes rising to the faded Holy Crosspainted on the ceiling two hundred years ago, God, had this place even beendeconsecrated?

He didn’tlook like he cared much. He let me pound him against the ancient wall, hiscries echoing on the naked walls of the small, forgotten place.

At somepoint, mostly because I had reached my own limits, I grabbed his cock andthrusted harder, earning a high-pitched yell as the sweetest of rewards. Imight have lost track of the world at that time, I don’t remember much. Nothingmattered more than the fire in my guts, the violent pleasure he was giving me.I had no idea where my skin ended, when his began, lost to madness in the curveof his neck.

All I knowis that he started shuddering, spasming around me, soiling my doublet in hotsemen, and while I too came hard, moaning against his shoulder, I felt himdrawing my own pistol out of my belt in five quick moves, and the gunshot,right next to my ear, shattered my breath in pieces.

 I blinked,once, twice, dizzy and panting against him, before I dared to look aside andtry to understand. I hadn’t dreamed. He was still there, pinned against thewall by my whole body, his legs encircling my hips. Pale as a sheet, one handon the altar frame, this other arm stretched out, using my shoulder as support,he was pointing my own pistol right behind my back.

I gasped,panicked, and looked over my shoulder.

Armand hadjust killed a man.

 And here Iam, still deep inside him, staring at the way the dead man’s blood drawsarabesques upon the chapel’s floor, unable to do anything else than blaming theJurançon.

-“Holy shit, Armand!” I rasp, pulling outas gently as I could, easing his descent to the floor with my arms around hiswaist.

He looks calmenough, but he certainly still needs the wall to stand up. I quickly tuckmyself back in, and loosen his rigid fingers away from my gun one by one. Isheathe it neatly, asking him what the hell happened while I fold the lapels ofhis robes tight against his trembling frame.

-“I don’tknow.” He mutters. “He pushed the door and slipped in while we were… I didn’tthink it through.”

-“Oh,really?” I sneer, pointing at the corpse. “That’s what happens when you don’t thinkthings through?”

I walk tothe dead man, kneeling next to him with a flinch. God, bull’s eye. The bullet went right between the eyebrows, range closeenough to pop the back of the man’s skull right open. Even I wouldn’t have beenthat good of a shot during orgasm. Ihave a quick stare for Armand, between amazement and suspicion. Holding hisunbuttoned robes tight against himself, he just shrugs.

I sigh. That man is impossible.

I startsearching the corpse’s clothes. He is certainly no gardener. His clothes are avalet’s attire, but one of upper-hand quality. He must be a sommelier, or ahigh-graded cook, and since he doesn’t show any sign of recent traveling, hemust be working here at the Louvres, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen hisface.

-“Do youknow him?” I ask Armand, my hands deep into the man’s pockets.

Richelieusteps forward, gingerly, glancing down at the man’s broken face, and though Ididn’t think he could, he grows paler. He gulps, and shakes his head.

-“He hasn’tbeen around the King’s table this week.” He breathes. “I know, because as Itold you yesterday, we fear some revenge plot from Montmorency’s friends inParis, and I had all courtiers, servants and guests checked twice every day.”

I nod. Hetold me about Gaston’s latest comedy act. D’orléans paid the Duke ofMontmorency a fortune to secretly raise an army against the King. I had tobattle in two different cities to crush their troops, and Armand had to gatherall of father Joseph’s network of monk spies to intercept sufficient evidence.When Richelieu showed the letters to the King, Montmorency was still at courtbabbling praise to Louis’ every word.

Thedecapitation is scheduled next week.

I findnothing on the dead man. Armand keeps staring at the corpse’s glistening teeth,buttoning up his robes in anguished silence. After what the man had seen,Armand would have been likely to get him killed anyways, but shooting aninnocent man to the ground is quite harder to swallow than signing hisexecution order.

Thus,though I know I am speaking to a man who starved a whole city to death, I stillthink out loud, mostly to reassure him.

-“Listen,there are only two possibilities. Either this man meant no harm, and just heardus through the door, though that ancient gate is thick enough to hide aquartering,  or he didn’t hear us, andcame here looking for something, or to meet someone.”

Armand frowns,thinking quick, and slides to the door. He pulls it ajar, glances outside, butsoon enough he shakes his head. No one in sight.

-“Hadanyone been near, “ he lets out in resignation, “the gunshot might have beensufficient clue as to the adjournment of the meeting.”

I nodagain.

-“Let’sassume he came looking for something.” I add, sweeping a tired gaze around thechapel.

This isnothing more than a wide closet, barely large enough for ten men to stand in.The walls have been bared to the cold stone, only a carved frieze and a fewancient roman paintings surviving. Only the stone structure of the altar isstill standing, with the remnants of the wooden altarpiece.

The rest,all around, are gardening tools, firewood and old buckets.

-“Where doyou hide something in a place like this?” I ask Armand, before he startsworrying again.

He has anoncommittal wave of his hand while he ponders, then walks to the right side ofthe altar, pointing at a few dozen worm-eaten planks resting there against thewall.

-“Thereshould be a credence there.” He states. “Something like a cabinet, carvedinside the wall. Every chapel has one, for the chalice and Mass wine.”

I sigh,gently push him aside, and kick the thick rotten planks until they crumble tomush at our feet. Behind them, just as he assumed, a small hole in the wallwhere there used to be a cabinet, the iron hinges of the door still visible.

In that holein the wall, neatly stacked upon each other, twenty vials of what Armandrecognizes as pure monkshood oil.

On top ofthem, a sealed envelope from the Duke of Montmorency’s son, Philippe. Inside,very detailed instructions about how and when to mix each of these vials intothe meals of twenty members of the Court, including the King, Richelieu, and tomy utter shock, myself.

Armandshudders, and I am sure what he just hissed under his breath was quite nasty.He has a furious glance for the dead man behind us, murmuring:

-“Now Iwish I could resurrect him, torture him until he talks, and shoot him deadagain.”

I let out abitter laugh, still dumbfounded by the size of the catastrophe Richelieu justsaved France from. By shooting a man becausehe had seen us having sex.

Truly, whatwere the odds.

BloodyJurançon.

 I watch hisfingers fiddle with the instructions letter for a while, his eyes lost in thecrumbling wall paintings, his thinking no doubt already ten steps ahead of myown, and when I gently remind him we don’t have all night, he only declares:

-“We mustinform the King.”

-“Oh,absolutely!” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Tell Louis you just shot a man deadwithout a warning or a question. Go ahead, you’re not hated and feared enoughanyways.”

He clencheshis jaw, lifting his chin up, the storm of outrage brewing in his eyes, and Isense the speech coming, but I swear I don’t have time for this. I raise bothmy hands, a gesture of peace, and I whisper, resolute:

-“I’ll takefull responsibility of the shot. My gun, my hand. A blunt soldier can beexpected to act that recklessly, not the head of the King’s Council. Not abloody Roman Catholic Cardinal.”

The stormis washed away in a heartbeat, replaced by clear skies of surprise and thankfulness.He doesn’t speak, he just takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. His darkstare above my fingers is burning so bright I have to look away, because the limitlessintensity of that man often makes myhead spin. I can’t believe how tempted I am to lick a path down his neck again,while right behind my back, a fresh corpse is getting cold.

How insanehave I become?

-“Now,” hesoftly muses, “there’s only a small detail left : how exactly are we going to explainLouis what we were doing here in the first place?”

I wince,swearing loudly.

He tuts,and signs my forehead.

 ***

 -“Cardinal,Treville, your alacrity has saved us from unmeasurable grief.”

Armandpulls out his most elegant half-bow, a well-mastered lie forged specially tomake people believe he’s more humbled than proud.

I just nod.

Louis,still pale and shaken from having been roused in the early morning with news ofanother plot unveiled, sighs in relief, ordering five of his Guards to arrestMontmorency’s son today. As the men salute and leave, he bites his lips, staringat the letter Richelieu slid into his hands with a wooden box containing thetwenty vials.

-“This wasa slaughter in the making. That cook Montmorency recruited was among the mosttrusted of my staff. Is everyone around me so drenched into sin?”

I cough,avert my eyes.

Armandstands perfectly still.

Louisfrowns, looking up at us from his very bed, rubbing the last remnants of sleep offthe corner of his eyes.

-“How haveyou come to discover these?” he asks, alright,here we go.

Richelieustraightens his back a little, exhales, opens his mouth, and both Louis and I knowwe’re in for half an hour.  Since theKing looks tired, Armand looks worn-out, and I could use a fucking nap, I cuthim short and speak:

-“I waswalking the Cardinal back to his palace for safety reasons. The Cardinal and I starteddiscussing the strategy used during the two last battles against Montmorency’stroops. We had … slightly divergent point of views.”

Louis huffsa knowing laugh, and his worried stare softens with fondness.

-“You werearguing again, weren’t you?” He throws at us, and Armand takes half a stepback, suddenly captivated by the feet of the King’s bed.

-“Yes.” Inod

Louischuckles.

-“As it isagainst both our discipline to discuss military strategies in public,” I add, “wedecided to move our debate into a quieter place, such as the former East Wingchapel.”

-“Youwanted no witnesses in case you needed to punch him.” Louis deadpans.

Richelieugasps, joining his hands upon his chest in a perfect sign of flouted innocence,but as the King truly laughs this time, he is wise enough not to interrupt.

-“Yes, YourMajesty.” I claim. “The cook arrived in the middle of our… discussion. Myjudgement was clouded by my irritation. I shot the intruder.”

Armand sighs,squeezes his eyes shut, one slender hand coming to rub the brink of his nose inutmost lassitude. I have no idea, between my forgery and hangover, what bringshim that headache, but it isn’t going to be a soft one.

Silencefalls. Five, ten seconds.

-“You shot aman who happened to pass by, “ Louis gently states, “because you were angry.”

-“Yes, YourMajesty.”

The Kingstares at me with disbelief, amazement, and the slightest bit of fear. I standat attention, face as blank as I could, unable to tell if it’s worry orlaughter I’m fighting.

But after awhile, Louis slowly shakes his head, blinking a few times, and dismisses bothof us with a tired sentence about how wild voracious temperaments that might bevery useful to the Crown upon a battlefield should be tamed and controlled atCourt.

Armandpraises the king’s wisdom in carefully chosen words, and grants me five secondsof a heavy, reproachful bloodshot glare as I hold the door open for him.

But as wewalk in silence towards his apartments, I know he adjusts his pace to stayclose to mine, I sense his eyes softening, and if he thinks I don’t notice hishand twitching towards mine as he opens the doors to his study, well, he’s damnwrong.

I step in,close the door behind us, and watch him collapse on a chair with the funniestgroan I have never heard from him. He’s right, though, he’s right indeed.

What anight.

Foutu Jurançon.