Oh King Louis, you fabulous boy~ (See? This is why I can't watch movies.)
"d'Artagnan, is it?" His eyes looked the young man over quickly, secretly taking in the tanned skin and strong frame.
"Yes, Your Majesty." He bit back the urge to say more - something along the lines of a stumbling apology. Even he knew to hold his tongue in the presence of his king. His head was bowed slightly in reverence, though if he had looked he would have seen the interested twinkle in the eyes of King Louis XIII.
"You are not my musketeer," he noted with a disdainful pout, "Your clothes are...modest, at best. Do you not have more suitable wear to humbly greet me?" The bow deepened and d'Artagnan felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment.
"No sir - I mean, no Your Majesty." The slip up brought on the embarrassment moreso. He could hear the ladies to his side giggling, including the rather beautiful one - Constance was her name, he believed - he'd met just the other day. "Your Majesty, my family is incredibly poor. These are the only clothes I have."
"Oh," His Majesty looked somewhat contrite to disguise the amusement; he'd been ogling a farm boy. How scrumptious.
"Well that simply will not do," the king continued, "All four of you will be sent to a tailor for some proper clothing. Perhaps some gold for the trouble Richelieu's men caused you, my musketeers. Ah, but no more fighting. Am I understood?" He pursed his lips slightly, as if scolding children. The men, far older than he was, nodded and murmured "Yes, Your Majesty" in an offset unison.
"Now you are dismissed." Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan stood from their kneeling position. But as they turned to leave, the king cleared his throat to attract their attention.
"d'Artagnan, though I admire your pluck, you are not a musketeer yet. I have only dismissed those who can be pardoned for their actions." Cardinal Richelieu made an attempt to argue that their actions were unpardonable, but the king did not relent.
"You will, however, need to be properly clothed if I am to decide your fate." Public appearances, after all, were of grave important in society.
"But surely Your Majesty knows that the boy would...h-he would attempt to escape his deserved fate," the Cardinal argued, "it would surprise no one if these very musketeers help him do so." The king seemed to contemplate this and, after a moment's thought, an idea crept into his mind.
"Very well, then my personal tailor will see to his attire. D'Artagnan will then return to present himself and his punishment will be decided." He looked to Richelieu, who seemed somewhat satisfied with the answer.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the young man spoke, his head still remaining dipped. Louis strutted closer to him, bringing his groin deliciously close to the brunette – though not close enough to arise suspicion, of course.
"Summon my tailor for this young man, then. I will see you once you are properly dressed, d'Artagnan. Now…you are dismissed." The blush that tinged his somewhat sallow cheeks was nearly irresistible to Louis XIII. Finally, the country boy lifted his head to meet the eyes of his king. Oh, what a beautiful face he had. Still youthful, but mature around the edges. His Majesty knew it would prove difficult to let this boy go. Such determination to serve his country, such honest actions, and such a handsome appearance…
"And d'Artagnan?" The boy had stood and now looked at his ruler with worried eyes.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Why don't you stay for supper as my guest?" He smiled down at him cheerfully, knowing full well that it was impossible to deny his request.
"Of course, Your Majesty," the young man bowed deeply, though his eyes suddenly flicked over towards one of the Queen's handmaidens – Constance, the King recalled. No matter, he thought, such a frivolous attraction could be dealt with.
"Good," Louis replied with a perked smile. He remained that way, his eyes undressing and scourging the ripe body before him, until his tailor came and escorted the boy away. The Queen had missed the seductive glances and bowed at the side of her beloved.
"So he will be joining us for dinner, Your Majesty?"
"I hope you do not mind," he stated, a sort of hesitancy around his words. When it came to men, he was bold in his affections – he had to be, if they were to "get the hint." But with women, with the wife he was truly falling for, everything seemed delicate and difficult around her. He was never sure what to say or if his words would offend the Queen. But she smiled back at him, something genuine behind her flawless mouth.
"Of course not, Your Majesty. He seemed quite the man. I hope he pleases you enough so that he can become a musketeer," she commented, "France could certainly use nobler men like him." She resisted the urge to glance at the Cardinal, who was desperately trying not to scowl. After all, four men slaughtered his soldiers and were rewarded for it. Such impunity…
"Yes, you're quite right, Ann." She curtsied, dipping her head so graciously he might have mistaken her for an overtly humble goddess, before strolling out of the room to likely prepare for the supper ahead. Cardinal Richelieu began to speak about proper appearances or the war or perhaps the Earl of Buckingham, but Louis XIII could not focus for the life of him. All he could take note of was the fact that his tailor had passed a nearby hall, griping about missing fabric. Young d'Artagnan was all alone in the fitting room, likely stripping down to his undergarments. Unless, of course, the farm boy did not wear such "luxuries" as that…
"If you'll excuse me," he murmured, waving the old man off. The Cardinal fretted at that, but obediently left to his chambers – probably to plot against his King. The royal, however, disappeared around the corner in a hurry to get to his temporary Adonis. Just as he had hoped, d'Artagnan was lifting his shirt off.
The muscles that lightly rippled and flexed with each tug of the fabric made Louis's heart swoon; that is, until the shirt was on the floor. His heart was pooling at his feet while he watched the young man admire himself in the mirror. He suddenly had the fantasy of being a voyeur to this boy touching himself, watching his body as if it were another. Perhaps the notion was a bit paradoxical, but the way those rough eyes burned at his pectorals and abs was irresistible.
"…I think blue would suit you, d'Artagnan," he spoke up suddenly, striding into the room towards the fabrics that had been delivered properly. The country boy's cheeks tinged a barely noticeable rouge and he felt as if he should cover himself back up. He was in the presence of his king, after all. So he bent down – giving the king a handsome eyeful – and snatched his loose shirt from the floor.
"Sorry Your Majesty," he murmured before moving to put his shirt on. Louis stopped him by placing a hand on the young man's bicep.
"Why should you apologize? Have you done something wrong that I have not heard of?"
"N-no, I just-"
"Then please, do not apologize," he squeezed the arm slightly before letting his hand trail over to the center of his chest, "And do not put your shirt on so hastily, my loyal subject. What makes you think I do not enjoy the sight?" This confession caused the farm boy to stagger backwards, away from his king's touch.
"I don't…Sir, I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said, his eyes watching as he circled around to fully examine this new prospect. D'Artagnan had to admit that the look he was getting sent strange shivers down his spine, but he didn't like the new attention at all. Suddenly, Louis XIII moved close enough so their bodies were pressed together and his hands slid up to stroke the man's chest, one hand even daring to tease a dark nipple.
"Y-your majesty?" the country boy gasped, unsure of how to react to the aristocrat's heavy petting.
"Yes, my dear d'Artagnan?" he cooed sweetly into the boy's ear. Public appearances were lost at this point; all he would acknowledge was this beautiful man and his own rather attractive self. Not to mention the sexual tension he was setting aflame with his well-placed touches.
"I would...like to...i-inquire...about..." his words were lost when warm fingers toyed at his waistband. Save for the girl he had once laid with a few years back, he'd never been touched before. Even then, her hands had never explored him this thoroughly.
"About what?" Again the words were whispered and fingertips teased by pushing the pants down slightly, enough to trace various shapes on the tanned skin.
"A-about…ahm." He bit down on his lip as the fingers crept further down his trousers. They came closer and closer to his growing excitement until, when they were just a hairbreadth away, the door began to open. D'Artagnan jumped away, straightening his appearance in an attempt to look as if he wasn't being caressed by His Majesty. The King casually strolled over to the fabric again, picking up the roll of blue he'd spoken of earlier.
"Yes, here we are young ma- Your Majesty?" the tailor frowned and would likely request an explanation, but the royal would not permit it.
"I think this color is proper for him, as well as some silver garnish. Not too much though," the King spun around on his heel to give him a once over, "Simplicity suits him well." His gaze was hot, hotter surely than the touches he had been administering to his new "pet."
He was hoping, however, that they could move further than the fleeting touches after supper. After all, who was d'Artagnan to resist his king?
Musketeers were to do whatever His Majesty ordered, after all.
"I would like to see you after we dine, d'Artagnan. There are certain…prospects that we must discuss if you are to be considered for my musketeers," he smiled, though the coyness of his expression assured the young man that there would be no discussion whatsoever. A frown graced his lips and an accompanying wrinkled formed on his tanned forehead.
"I don't know, sir…"
"Tut tut," the king chided as he wagged a finger at him, "What do musketeers say when their king gives them an order?"
"…yes, Your Majesty."