suzie_shooter (suzie_shooter) wrote,

Fic: First Hand Experience (The Musketeers)

Title: First Hand Experience
Pairings: d'Artagnan (/Athos)
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2,920
Summary: Wank!fic. D'Artagnan spends some alone time with Athos' riding glove. WHAT? DON'T JUDGE ME.


Having spent a good deal of the afternoon sparring with Porthos, d'Artagnan was feeling hot and exhausted, not to mention extremely self-conscious given that the majority of this had taken place under the critical eye of Athos, who'd been perched on the table and calling out observations on d'Artagnan's technique.

He was therefore heartily relieved when Treville rode in through the gate and beckoned Athos over to him, effectively ending the training session for the day.

As Athos jumped down from the table though, something fell to the ground behind him and lay there unheeded as he walked over to where Treville was handing his mount to the stable boy.

"Athos!" D'Artagnan realised it was one of his riding gloves, and snatched it up before it could sink into the mud of the training yard, hoping after the hours of critique to win at least a nod of approval if not an outright smile of thanks.

Athos though was by now deep in conversation with Treville and didn't look round, merely raising a peremptory hand in a gesture that could have meant anything from 'later' to 'don't fucking interrupt'.

The two men disappeared towards Treville's office and d'Artagnan tucked the glove into his belt with a sigh.

By the time Athos reappeared, this time with Aramis in tow, d'Artagnan had spent almost an hour playing cards with Porthos, and was in such a bad mood that restoring the glove to its owner didn’t even cross his mind.

"I'm going for a drink, who's with me?" Aramis declared cheerfully, clapping a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"Not me," d'Artagnan said gloomily. "I just lost my last sou to Porthos."

Aramis and Athos exchanged a glance that d'Artagnan didn’t understand, then both looked at Porthos, who shrugged with affected innocence.


"Porthos," Athos said warningly. Porthos sighed, and pushed d'Artagnan's portion of the pot back across the table towards him.

While surprised and more than a little flattered that Athos should intervene on his behalf like this, d'Artagnan's overriding emotion was one of wounded pride, that Athos should think he needed protecting.

"I don't need charity," he said stiffly.

Athos gave him impassive eyes. "It's not charity," was all he would say, and d'Artagnan looked at Porthos in hope of enlightenment.

Porthos sighed and lifted his cuff to reveal the cards nestling within. D'Artagnan sat up indignantly.

"You were cheating me!"

"Think of it as a lesson in spotting card-sharps," Athos drawled.

"Or in never playing against Porthos," Aramis added with a smirk.

D'Artagnan looked from one to the other then pushed the money back towards Porthos with a sigh.

"If I couldn’t spot I was being gulled I don't deserve to keep it."

Porthos considered for a second, then grinned. "What do you say we just go and drink it? Then everyone's happy."

D'Artagnan agreed willingly and Aramis patted him on the back, pleased he had taken it in such good part. Athos too gave him an approving smile, and d'Artagnan was so flustered by it all that they were already in the tavern before he realised Athos wasn't actually joining them.

"Is Athos not coming?" he ventured, hoping the disappointment wasn't as obvious in his voice as it sounded in his head.

Porthos deposited a large cup of wine in front of him, and he smiled. "Thank you."

"Thank you!" Porthos grinned, and toasted him. "And I dunno," he said in answer to d'Artagnan's question. "Aramis?"

"He had to run an errand for Treville," was all Aramis would say, indicating with a tilt of his head that whatever covert business Athos had been dispatched upon, the middle of a crowded tavern was not the best place to discuss it.

D'Artagnan sighed inwardly, realising he'd been hoping Athos would spend the evening with them. He was slightly taken aback to realise just how much he'd been banking on it. Athos was generally good company, that was all it was, d'Artagnan told himself - although that didn't quite explain the rather bereft feeling he was experiencing.

Still, Aramis and Porthos were equally good drinking partners, and several hours later d'Artagnan staggered his way back toward the garrison bunkhouse, steamingly drunk.

His route took him past Athos' lodgings, and as sight of the familiar door jogged his memory, d'Artagnan clapped a hand to his waist in sudden disproportionate fear that he'd lost the glove. It remained safely tucked into his belt however, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that Athos knew he had it, but it would have been annoying to have mislaid it after carrying it about all evening.

D'Artagnan considered knocking on Athos' door and returning it now, although even in his drunken state he was lucid enough to realise Athos might find the intrusion at this hour more than a little odd. As he stared up at the window though, d'Artagnan realised no light was burning inside.

It wasn't that late - perhaps half an hour before midnight - and Athos would ordinarily still have been up. D'Artagnan realised that the 'errand' he'd been sent on had clearly involved going further or been more complicated than Aramis had implied, and felt a sudden spike of worry. It was unusual for any of them to be sent out alone and he hoped that wherever he was, Athos was safe and well.

D'Artagnan finally got his legs to carry him past the doorway and onwards to the garrison, where he found with some relief the other three cots in his dormitory room were so far unoccupied. He slumped down on the bed, thoughts sliding all over the place and constantly returning to what Athos might be doing.

He'd partially undressed when a sudden raging thirst saw him stumbling back out of the room and dropping to his knees beside the well in the courtyard, drinking deeply from the bucket resting on the low wall. He accidentally sloshed at least a cupful down his shirt and the cold shock made him gasp. Splashing a little more in his face helped clear his head and d'Artagnan made his way unsteadily back to his room, groping his way along the rough wall.

Collapsing with a groan back onto the bed, d'Artagnan peeled off his sodden shirt and threw it in a bundle to the floor. Something rough chafed against his side and looking down he saw the glove sticking out of his belt. He tugged it out, abruptly worried he'd got it wet, but fortunately it seemed to have escaped the deluge.

D'Artagnan dropped it onto his pillow while he pulled off his boots, then once he was settled on the bed picked it up again consideringly. He was concerned for Athos' safety, that was all it was, he told himself. Why else should he be unable to get the man out of his head?

The leather was supple and strong, and d'Artagnan had raised it to his face to breathe in the scent of it before he quite realised what he was doing. It smelt of saddle oil and horses and faintly of gunpowder, and d'Artagnan experienced a faint shiver of pleasure.

He laid his own hand over the outline of the glove. It was bigger than his slim fingers and d'Artagnan had a sudden mental image of Athos taking his hand, curling warm fingers into his palm and squeezing reassuringly tight.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat, shifting restlessly on the bed. His dick had given a definite twitch of interest and his cheeks flushed hotly as he shot a glance at the door. Biting his lip, he gave into temptation and slid his hand into the glove.

It wasn't as big on him as he'd expected, the inside soft against his palm as he flexed his fingers.

Somewhere else in the building a door slammed and d'Artagnan ripped it off in a sudden panic far in excess of that proportionate to simply being found trying on someone else's glove. Heart pounding in his chest, d'Artagnan sat there in a frozen silence for a minute, until it became apparent no-one was coming this way.

He got up and closed the door, turning the key in the lock as an afterthought. If anyone did want to use the other beds tonight, they'd have to knock. He would at least have warning.

Warning for what though? D'Artagnan swallowed thickly, realising his subconscious desires had galloped ahead of him. Was he really half-hard in his breeches just from putting on Athos' glove? What the hell was wrong with him? Athos was a friend, a mentor, someone to look up to.

D’Artagnan lay back on the bed, distracted by his own thoughts. He realised he wouldn't say no to looking up to Athos right now. To having Athos above him, looking down at him, half stern, half smiling.


D'Artagnan rubbed a hand down the front of his breeches, drawing in a shaky breath.

Now he'd thought it, he couldn't un-think it, and the images crowded into his head as if they'd only been waiting to be summoned. All of them relatively innocent in their way - Athos astride his big black horse, handling the reins with masterful control. Athos leaning against a sun-baked wall, hat tipped low over his eyes and a sardonic smirk on his lips. Athos in combat, all hard lines and controlled fury.

D'Artagnan groaned, giving in to the inevitable and unfastening his breeches, fingers fumbling with the lacing of his underwear. His cock sprang free and he grasped himself with a sense of instant relief, running his palm up the shaft and thumbing over the head, bucking into his hand.

His eyes fell on the glove, lying next to him on the blanket and an awful idea stole into his head. Athos had had his hand inside it, probably as recently as that morning. How amazing would it feel to touch himself with it on? It would almost be like it was Athos bringing him off.

D'Artagnan shoved his breeches down to his knees and picked up the glove with a shaking hand. He pulled it on slowly, pushing his fingers up to the tips with a sense of illicit anticipation.

If Athos ever found out - but no, why should he. If d'Artagnan was careful to keep the glove clean, there was no reason he'd ever know.

The realisation that he was still intending to give it back to Athos shocked him more than anything he'd thought or done so far. Could he really watch Athos walking around wearing a glove he'd wanked himself off with?

Morally undecided, the mere idea of it triggered such a throb of arousal that d'Artagnan groaned aloud. His bare left hand had been resting around his cock but now he took careful hold of himself with his newly gloved right.

The leather, worn shiny in places, was warm and rough against his skin and d'Artagnan shivered with arousal. He drew his hand slowly up and down, biting his lower lip to stop from crying out. It felt incredible and he moved his hand a little faster, thrusting into the circle of his fingers.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to picture Athos leaning over him, Athos touching him like this. The stroke of his hand and the chafing of the leather felt smoother now, and it was a good few seconds before d'Artagnan looked down and realised this was due to the pre-come soaking into the leather.

"Shit." D'Artagnan sat up and examined his hand. The leather was dark where it was wet, and he couldn't help it, he put out his tongue and licked experimentally across his palm.

The taste of his own fluids mingled with the dusty, earthy tang of the leather was strangely exciting and d'Artagnan pushed a finger right into his mouth, pretending it was Athos using him like this, half gagging around the dry material. He summoned saliva, sucked around the leather until it was wet and heavy, then clamped his hand back round his cock, drawing a wet line up the sensitive skin before sliding his hand between his legs and rubbing the wet fingertip over his hole.

"Athos." He breathed it, even locked in this room afraid of somehow being overheard. He moved his hand back to his erection and started a fast, rough stroke, desperate now for release.

The slip-slide of his skin beneath the thick, awkward fingers of the riding glove was intoxicating and d'Artagnan arched up into his own touch, pumping himself recklessly and panting for breath.

He pictured Athos walking in on him at this moment, seeing, knowing what he'd done, and it was enough to push him over the edge. He came hard, spending his release in long spurts up his chest and stomach, drops even landing on his lips, his cheek. He licked some away, tasting salt, and shame.

The glove was covered in semen, the palm and fingers glistening with it.

D'Artagnan slipped it off and examined it ruefully. Rubbing would make it worse, he decided. Maybe if he left it to dry it would brush off in the morning.

He fitted it over the knob of the bedpost and pulled the blankets around himself, blowing out the candle. Maybe everything would look better in the morning.


Somewhere outside a cock was crowing. D'Artagnan cracked open his eyes, and the first thing he saw through the blur of his hangover was Athos' ruined glove gesticulating at him from the headboard, as if in silent admonition.

He groaned and sat up, clutching his head. Whatever had possessed him? The glove, clearly, was beyond all salvation - at least, beyond Athos not noticing something appalling had happened to it.

Perhaps he could buy Athos a new pair, d'Artagnan thought with a flash of inspiration - then remembered he had no money left. Oh well. All he could do would be to claim he'd never seen it, and hope no-one had noticed him pick it up.

This way also had the added advantage of meaning that he could repeat the night's activities at some point in the future. And without needing to be careful, he could be even dirtier with it. If he wanted, he could even come inside it d'Artagnan realised, with a guilty spike of renewed arousal.

He took it off the bed post and turned it over in his hand. This morning the leather was dry and stiff, and d'Artagnan climbed out of bed to tuck it deep into the chest holding his belongings.

As he dressed, d'Artagnan entertained the unworthy thought that if Athos realised one glove was lost, he might well discard the other, meaning d'Artagnan could have the matching pair.

Thinking of Athos made d'Artagnan recall the fact he was absent on a mission, and he finished his dressing and toilet quickly, hurrying out into the crisp morning air.

To his mingled relief and guilt, Athos was sitting at the table beneath Treville's office, making an early breakfast and looking like he hadn't slept.

"Morning." D'Artagnan slid in opposite him, and Athos gave him a sleepy smile.

"Good morning." He yawned, and as he raised his hand to cover his mouth, d'Artagnan caught sight of a sore looking blister across his palm.

"What happened to your hand?"

Athos looked at it in surprise. "Oh. Lost my glove somewhere. Had a hard ride to Meaux and back last night, with no time to fetch another pair." He shrugged. "No matter. It will heal soon enough, if I'm careful with it." He caught d'Artagnan's eye and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't tell Aramis. He'll scold me."

D'Artagnan laughed, feeling guilty on so many levels he felt dizzy.

Athos was yawning again. "God above, I'm dead on my feet."

"Why don't you catch some sleep here?" d’Artagnan said, concerned that at this rate Athos might slide off his horse before he was halfway to his lodgings.

Athos nodded consideringly. "That's not actually a bad idea. Thank you." He got to his feet and patted d’Artagnan on the shoulder, before making his way towards the bunkhouse.

D'Artagnan watched him go, slowly realising that Athos' thanks had meant Athos thought he was being offered d'Artagnan's own bed. He tried to remember what state he'd left it in. He was reasonably sure the bed itself was neatly made up; all musketeers staying on site lived in daily dread of Treville's random and strict inspections and he'd tidied it automatically.

Thank God he'd taken the glove off the bed post. D'Artagnan dissolved into nervous giggles at the thought of it. At least Athos would have no reason to go through his belongings. Would he? Surely Athos was far too honourable for that.

He got to his feet and went in search of Serge. The man was bound to have some kind of ointment to hand for burns sustained in the kitchens. He would take it to Athos for his hand, as the least he could do for being the unwitting cause of his injury. And then he would find some means of buying Athos a new pair of gloves, even if he had to borrow the money from Porthos.

As d'Artagnan went about his errands in a vain effort to redeem himself, he had another thought.

If jerking himself off with a glove that Athos had worn had been so intense, just how much more incredible would it be to do it in a bed Athos had now slept in?

Tags: fic, the musketeers
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened