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Winter calls for stoked fires and furs and wool. Philippe sits on the hearth, prodding the firewood between his naps on the rug. He keeps the fireplace fed and collects a hot clump of coals to warm the bedroom with. During the longest nights of the year his tasks dwindle until this is all that’s left; Philippe stays here, kept warm and dry at the task of sustaining the fireplace for his Mistress. The hair on his forearms singes away from perpetual heat and Philippe’s lips crack from facing the fire. Day barely seems to visit anymore and all there seems to be worth doing is sleeping.
Philippe wakes occasionally to the weight of Navarre’s hand in his hair as he either comes or goes. The Captain pauses and kneels on one knee and pets Philippe where he sleeps on the wool side of a sheepskin on the floor as if he’s a loyal dog, a content pup laying near the fireplace. Navarre whiles away the dark nights either in his Lady’s bed or made warm in his office by the small iron wood stove there.
Philippe wakes one morning to one such petting. Navarre is dressed warmly for walking the cold stone halls and his cloak drapes around him. Navarre’s hand is bare and stays long enough to press his thumb into the meat of Philippe’s neck and shoulder, a kneading sort of thing. The tips of his fingers are already cold. Philippe stays where he is, barely showing signs that he’s awake at all and noses further into the throw pillow he took from the couch. He tilts his head and makes his neck more available and relishes any moment of Navarre’s time that he can steal. Eventually Navarre takes his hand away and stands and Philippe hears the heavy bedroom door clunk into place. Longing bells in Philippe’s heart. It’s a call to rise and check the fire.
Barely does Philippe add another log, smearing sleep from his heavy eyes with the back of his fist, when a sound from the bed makes him look over his shoulder.
In the pile of down feather comforters and wool blankets, pillows and wealthy silks, Philippe watches one ivory forearm stretch out into the air. Isabeau spreads her fingers. The bedclothes shift like she’s turning over underneath them, though Philippe can’t see an outline of her in the folds. Then the arm floats down and disappears into the bed again.
“Navarre?” The Lady speaks quietly as if from a half sleep. It’s a light voice on the air, wondering where her lover has gone.
Philippe swallows and rolls the handle of the coal rake in his fingers. His throat feels dry when he speaks up. “The Captain’s gone out, Milady. He left just now.” The quiet makes him wonder if she even heard him. “Do you need him? I can go after him.”
“No…” Isabeau sighs. The bedding shifts again, the folds giving way like an avalanche sinking down a far away mountain. Philippe wonders for a moment if he should go after the Captain anyway now that he’s heard that forlorn sound she makes; denying that she misses him at all. But the bed settles and Philippe turns back to the fire and idles away on the sheepskin.
An hour later Isabeau calls him quietly.
“Mouse.”
Philippe lifts his head off of the pillow to look at the bed.
“Milady?”
When Isabeau doesn’t answer Philippe gets to his feet, feeling stiff and bruised from the floor. He pads on quiet feet to the edge of the bed.
Isabeau is completely hidden from him. Philippe sees her forearm resting across a blue and white flower embroidered duvet before he ever sees her face. Even then, all Philippe can find in the nest of a bed is wisps of her blonde hair against the red silk pillow and her ear with a pretty silver droplet hanging from the earlobe.
“Milady,” he whispers, leaning over the bed without touching it. “What is it?”
Isabeau draws her palm across the blankets, finding an opening where she lightly paws the bed open, the suggestion of an invitation.
Philippe’s face feels warmer than it does beside the fireplace.
“Come in and keep me warm,” she mumbles and then her arm slips back into the depth of the bed.
“In the bed?” Philippe pulls off his fingerless gloves and unties the scarf loosely coiled around his neck, putting them both on the floor beside the bed stand. Bracing his hands on the edge of the bed Philippe balances and scrubs the soles of his socks against the opposite calf, scuffing away any dirt from the stone and carpet floors. Finding the bottom sheet, Philippe slides his palms against it and slips them under the mound of blankets. He goes carefully, despite his excitement, and crawls into the warmth.
The sheets tickle and caress his bare arms. The dip in the mattress leads him to Isabeau. With a shift and slide, Philippe finds her and marks her position as they make contact, the bump of her hip, the back of her thighs to the front of his. Her hand wraps around his wrist and guides it over her middle. Philippe needs little encouragement to plaster himself against her back, to breath deeply at the back of her neck and inhale the warm skin smell of her and Navarre all around him in the nest. She’s slim and soft in his hands; Philippe cups her against him instead of grabbing.
Isabeau is naked. She spends hours at a time like this, only getting up to stretch and find a new book to read, or to wander to the window and peek through the heavy drapes and shutters at the snowy courtyard and the ice on the river. She looks beyond the rooftops of Aquila to the mountains and wilderness, a vague pastel shape across the valley.
The pads of Philippe’s fingers skate over her ribs and stomach and tuck between her and the bed. His right arm, trapped between him and the bed, wiggles awkwardly to find a position. Philippe tries tucking his hand under his chin, but that keeps him from being close to her. When he slips his arm between her neck and shoulder, blending with the pillow, Isabeau lifts her head a little to let it through. Philippe curls his hand back in and carefully rests his fingers against her sternum.
“Like this, Milady?” he whispers. The blankets come up to his ears and lay heavily over them. Her hair tickles his nose. Isabeau doesn’t answer and Philippe twists his mouth, wondering at what he could do better to receive a more enthusiastic response. While he thinks, Philippe closes his eyes and relaxes against her and into the bed. He shifts here and there, slotting closer where he finds a mere inch of opportunity. They press together from knee to shoulder. Philippe rests his face into the curve of her neck.
Beneath the fringe of her short hair the Lady’s skin is warm and soft. Philippe touches his cracked lips to her spine.
Isabeau;s sigh is more felt than heard. Philippe kisses her neck properly and Isabeau ducks her chin to invite him to continue. He goes about it lightly and slowly, eyes slipping closed.
Philippe’s a poor substitute for the Captain, he thinks to himself. Navarre is much taller than them both and makes for a warmer bed partner all around. Memories of being smothered by the man make him hold a little tighter to Isabeau. It’s something they share. If he can’t replace Navarre here, at least Philippe can idle the day away with Isabeau, both of them dreaming a little about him.
“He’ll be back this evening, Milady,” Philippe says in consolation for them both
Isabeau’s hand slides up his forearm to press his hand stronger over her chest and Philippe responds by holding her tighter in order to comfort them both.
“It won’t be long until the Captain returns,” he continues.
“Quiet, Philippe,” Isabeau sighs, muffled slightly by the blankets.
“What can I do, Milady? Tell me how to keep you company,” Philippe goes on.
“Quietly,” Isabeau repeats, giving his wrist a little squeeze.
Navarre is quiet with her, Philippe thinks, at least during this season. They keep a gentle companionship in the cold.
“Did…?” he starts to ask and then goes quiet, remembering her request for peace. Philippe rambles on in his mind, supplying a sad conversation where he asks how lonely the long human nights of winter had been for her. Philippe imagines her in the cold wilderness with little but a wolf for company and warmth. Navarre’s days would have been short and unproductive, and Isabeau’s nights would have been full of freezing trials to face alone. No wonder she stays in bed. Like Philippe, the Lady has known more cold nights than she should have. It makes them good company for one another, he thinks to himself. If only he can keep quiet for her.
It’s not as hard as he thinks; Philippe falls asleep and they nap together in the bed. When he wakes to her fingers stroking across his hand on her chest he feels loose like he’s floating in the nest of blankets, and overly warm, especially where they press together.
Philippe clears his sleep scratchy throat and shifts. The soft bed is a mystery to him after weeks asleep on the floor. He pulls away and clambers to the edge of the bed where he can sit up without letting cold air in to freeze his bed mate. Quickly, and invigorated by the cooler air of the bedroom on his skin, Philippe strips out of his undershirt and unties his socks. He leaves the clothing on the floor with his scarf and gloves and slips back under the covers wearing only his long underwear, a loose set of cotton pants that go to his calf and tie with a drawstring around his waist. Isabeau’s back is hot against his bare chest when he fits back into place with her again.
While sliding his arms around her, Philippe bumps the underside of the Lady’s breast. He blushes and flits his hand away to her stomach, mumbling an apology. Isabeau is naked as a fact, not as an invitation.
“Clumsy Mouse,” he hears Isabeau mumble in good nature. She takes his hand and brings it up again to palm her left breast. “Make it better.”
Philippe presses his warm forehead to the back of her head and closes his eyes tight. With her hand still over his, he gently squeezes her breast. “Yes, Milady.”
For a while he massages Isabeau, acutely aware of the taut chord of heat building between his heart and cock. Philippe flares his nose, inhaling the smell of her hair. The Lady takes her hand away and rests it behind her on Philippe’s hip.
Philippe rubs Isabeau’s nipple with the pad of his thumb, stroking back and forth across it until she hums and it goes stiff. He pinches it gently .
“Mmgood.”
Philippe ducks his head and kisses her neck. Isabeau sighs. When Philippe opens his mouth and tastes her, finally, his cock throbs. He has to pause, tongue against the Lady’s spine and brows drawn together, as his heart starts to rabbit against his ribs.
Isabeau arches and stretches in the circle of Philippe’s arms, unmooring him before settling in again. She fists the cotton pants at his hip and pulls him in. The half mast of Philippe’s erection bumps and nudges under the curve of the Lady’s ass. He twitches, dying to reach between them and touch her.
“Milady.” He breathes against her neck where he made her skin damp with his tongue. Philippe’s voice cracks while he whispers and squirms. "What more can I do? I’d like to distract you, entertain you…” Philippe can hear the deep little chuckle she makes and his face goes even hotter. “Have mercy, Milady, please .”
“Get my book off of the nightstand,” Isabeau says and lets go of him.
Philippe drags the blankets with him in his haste to do as she says and he has to pause to put them back into place. There are two volumes on the nightstand beside the empty breakfast plate and the cups of tea the maid brought in for the Gentleman and the Lady before Philippe woke up. He takes the top book and rolls back to Isabeau.
While he was turned away, Isabeau had shifted onto her back. The blankets slip off of her shoulders to settle around her stomach as she pushes herself up and back against the other pillows. Philippe blinks at her, the spine of the leather bound book waiting against his palm while he looks at her face for the first time that day. Her hair is a wispy and wild blonde halo around her head. Creases from the sheets left marks in the skin of her right arm. Philippe’s touch and the cool air draw her nipples into tight pink peaks the same color as her mouth. Despite, or perhaps due to her long days in bed, the delicate skin under her eyes is puffy and sleepy and darkened. Isabeau glances at him with heavy half lidded eyes as she lays back, now slightly propped on the pillows for reading.
In his dazed distraction, Isabeau plucks the book out of his hand and then lifts the blankets to indicate that Philippe should join her again. He twitches and comes back to himself and slides under the blankets again where it’s warm. Isabeau shifts and nudges his head with the book. Philippe goes where he’s bid and slips against the shape she’s made with her body in silent direction.
Philippe feels clumsy as he kneels between her legs, hovering on hands and knees over Isabeau with the blankets draped over him.
“Here…” she says before he can feel awkward. Isabeau’s palm rubs against the rigid line of his cock. Philippe closes his eyes and tips his head back.
“Oh…” he sighs on a shaky breath from his mouth. Words catch in his throat. Philippe goes willing and thoughtless when Isabeau gives him a welcome squeeze.
Then she lets go.
“Milady, your hand ,” Philippe mumbles, opening watery eyes to look at her face below him. “Would you put it back? Please. I’ll beg if you want me to. I’ll beg now even though you didn’t ask. If you touch me again I think I’ll be yours forever. Please ?”
“If you’re happy with my hand then you can have it. But I thought of something warmer for it,” Isabeau says with a straight expression, only her eyebrows lifting in a bit of amusement. Her mouth finally cracks into a smile at Philippe’s excitement.
“You mean…? I’ll take it. I can’t believe I’m saying it but I’ll forget all about your lovely hand if you mean what I think you mean.”
Isabeau tugs the drawstring around Philippe’s waist and the bow comes loose. She pushes the pants off of his hips and draws Philippe close with her palm against his lower back. Philippe tentatively lowers himself over her until they press together from their ribs to their-
“Sweet mercy,” Philippe moans at the touch of warm wetness against the sensitive underside of his cock. His forehead drops weakly to the Lady’s collarbone. A shiver runs through him as her hand slips up his spine between the hollow of his shoulders and threads into his short hair.
The scrape of Isabeau’s nails makes his skin prickle with blooming sweat. It can’t be helped when Philippe rocks against her, rubbing them both into a sigh. He keeps on and lays over Isabeau more broadly until he can feel her chest pressed up against his and her cheek at his temple.
“Isa…” Philippe whispers her short name, just between them, as he grows more lovesick. Isabeau welcomes his mouth on her neck by the tilt of her chin. Something here smells darkly of Navarre; no doubt the Captain had been at her neck before dawn. Isabeau shivers like she’s remembering it and Philippe kisses her lips while he thinks of Navarre’s mouth.
The slide between them becomes slippery.
Isabeau’s heels press the backs of Phillip’s thighs.
“Push in ,” she tells him. Philippe can’t find the angle for all his eagerness. “ In , Philippe.”
“A moment, I promise,” he whispers. With his right hand, Philippe reaches between them and pets at Isabeau lightly with the backs of his knuckles. Then he guides himself into the corner of her that feels like a dream. Philippe floats on a full breath, his stunned open mouth pressing up under the Lady’s jaw.
A long low moan rises out of Isabeau. Philippe can’t help but smile. They both make that sound, she and Navarre, when they get what they’ve needed.
“Good,” Isabeau says when Philippe rests inside of her half way. She pets his hair and Philippe feels like purring.
Philippe takes his hand away and brings it up to his mouth. His knuckles are sticky and salty against his tongue and-
Navarre .
The two of them shiver and moan.
Philippe can see through half lidded eyes that Isabeau’s hand rests limply against the book on the bed, forgotten. He takes his knuckles from his mouth and kisses her jaw, kisses the corner of her open mouth. Philippe noses into her hair and breathes.
“He was here ,” Philippe whispers by her ear and pushes deeper in. His skin is both cool and overly warm. He chases what Navarre left behind with little nudges of his cock, urged on by Isabeau’s heels on the backs of his thighs.
“Navarre,” the Lady moans.
Philippe is far from envious. Jealousy is not what makes him press and press and press -
Philippe wants Navarre just the same as Isabeau.
“Was it this morning? Before he left?” Philippe asks. He reaches down and cups her thigh closer to his hip. Isabeau responds by taking her hand from the book and dragging her nails down Philippe’s back, causing him to stutter and twitch before resuming his rhythmic rocking. He barely pulls out, only grinds them closer together.
“It was. I thought I was dreaming it; caught between sleep and waking with my face still in the pillows.” Philippe whimpers at the image she draws to mind, one of Isabeau gentled by broad, sure hands into a hazy kind of thing.
“He loves you,” Philippe mumbles. “Navarre.”
They dissolve into a desperate kind of grinding, a rubbing that tightens Isabeau like a chord drawn from both ends until she’s stretched out and arching under Philippe. His eyes water at the sensation around his cock, both torturous and heavenly at once.
The Lady is certainly on her way now. She moans and shivers and squeezes at Philippe until he’s drawn to the edge himself.
And before he can follow, Isabeau’s tension melts and she sips full breaths again.
“Philippe,” she sighs, petting his hair with a loose and languid hand. He pushes into her, suspended on a precipice and whimpering his pleasures at the Lady’s jaw. “Shhhh.”
It’s comforting and frustrating to be drawn to stillness.
Words are hard to form in his scrambled mind. Philippe utters a needy sound into Isabeau’s skin and gets hugged close and shushed. Isabeau kisses his hair.
“Mi-milady?” Philippe mumbles once his breath is caught.
“Quiet, darling,” Isabeau says in the softest of ways. Her legs shift and stretch and Philippe has to shift with her as the Lady gets comfortable. Still Philippe stays lodged inside and trembling minutely. “Keep me company,” Isabeau whispers to him. “Just like this.”
A shock of thoughts wash over Philippe, but ultimately he is bidden to do as she asks, too strung out to muster a complaint. The petting and the quiet hushing soothes Philippe into a slower breath. In the haze of suspended pleasure Philippe melts and trusts and goes pliant. When he goes loose and fully accepting, Isabeau takes her hand away and reaches for her book.
Philippe twitches and shifts as he gets comfortable. The Lady lets him slip a hand underneath her to palm her low back, keeping them close and passively leveraged together. He’s overly aware of his hard cock yet Isabeau makes no comment on it, only plays with the hair at the back of his neck and balances her book open in one hand. Now and then she takes her hand away to turn the page.
Isabeau finishes the chapter and reads on. Philippe’s eyes get heavy and slip closed. The trembling eases out minute by minute, page by page.
Philippe becomes a bookmark for the Lady, a placeholder for her other lover. Philippe revels in it as he hazes quietly. Clever words and pleas escape him. Soon all he thinks about is his cheek on Isabeau’s warm collarbone and the task of desperately missing Navarre.
+
A sure and solid hand squeezes the back of Philippe’s neck. For a moment he dreams that he's asleep on the rug by the fire and Navarre is only just leaving for the day.
Philippe knows that it's Navarre before he even opens his eyes. Philippe is bleary and sleepy and hot. He blinks watery eyes at the sight of the Captain kissing Isabeau mere inches from his face. A little shift and shiver shows that he’s still wholly inside of Isabeau; perhaps softened, but no less sensitive.
Philippe closes his eyes and kisses Isabeau’s neck with an open, drowsy mouth. The hand on his neck squeezes like a kneading and Navarre’s bare thumb rubs back and forth behind Philippe’s ear. For a moment he lingers on the image of the Captain removing his glove before palming up his boy, before touching Philippe.
A sigh moans out of Philippe and he uses his hand beneath Isabeau to pull them flush again from the place he’d slipped to in his sleep.
Isabeau draws her knees up and Philippe again receives the eager treatment of her heels against the back of his thighs and he throbs in return.
“What do we have here?” Navarre murmurs against Isabeau’s mouth, curious and amused. “What makes you kiss me that way, Isabeau? What is it you’re doing with our little Mouse?”
“He keeps me company.” The sound of a small kiss. “When you go, what can we do but comfort each other?”
“ Comfort .” Navarre kisses Isabeau hard enough to make her tense under Philippe. He can feel her reaction along his own body, every small indication of desire and relief and heat provoked.
Distracted by the intensity of Isabeau’s response, Philippe yelps when the hand on his neck grabs the hair on top of his head and pulls him up and above Isabeau. Philippe balances himself on his knees and hands, his back arched by the tight hand in his hair. His scalp stings.
Navarre is still fully dressed and leans slightly over the bed to reach them where they lounge, supported on one hand. His blue eyes flicker between them. Philippe is still too surprised and nap-dizzy to offer more than his open mouthed panting. Then a softer look melts the Captain and he takes his hand from Philippe’s hair and presses at his chest.
“Show me,” Navarre says, easing Philippe back until he sits on his heels and the blankets have slithered off of him. Briefly, Philippe glances at Isabeau only to see that the Lady is also fixated on Navarre and stunningly exposed like he is.
When Philippe sits back fully his cock slips from Isabeau and he whimpers, looking down between them. She’s colored pink and slippery and Philippe is getting hard and full again, looking dark and rigid. Philippe swallows and blinks away the stinging in his eyes and his lashes clump together from a film of tears.
“Sir,” Philippe says, looking at Navarre again, desperate and blushing. “I haven’t finished at all Sir and I’m aching so badly I can hardly think. She’s had me inside for hours and I’ll go horribly dizzy if I have to continue like this.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “We’ve been dreaming about you all day.”
“Look, Philippe,” Navarre commands quietly.
Philippe opens his eyes again and looks at Navarre’s hand resting on Isabeau’s pubic bone. His thumb dips down and swipes back and forth at her sensitive nub while she subtly squirms.
“Good boy, comforting my Isabeau,” Navarre rumbles as they both watch her. Philippe’s cock twitches strongly. The Captain is focused on Isabeau, yet Philippe preens and goes warm from the praise. Philippe feels joy when Isabeau receives pleasurable attention. Despite being desperate moments ago, a calm washes over him just by watching Isabeau’s squirming build into an erotic sighing. Philippe feels lovesick when his Lady twists the sheets in her hand and breaks her gaze on Navarre to roll her head back into the pillow and moan outright.
Perhaps Philippe can wait a little longer.
“Down.” The other hand is on his neck again and pushes Philippe into position. He goes willingly. Philippe crawls backward on the bed and opens his mouth to tongue at and around Navarre’s thumb.
Holy God, he can taste Navarre’s spend.
“Wait a little longer for me, love,” Navarre whispers to Isabeau. Once he’s assured that Philippe is at his task, Navarre’s hands slip away. Philippe is vaguely aware of the Captain kissing the Lady one more time before stepping away from the bed.
Isabeau gives a sad sound. Philippe closes his eyes and gets his chin wet in his effort to distract her. Her moaning resumes a pleasurable tone. Isabeau starts to rock against Philippe’s mouth.
Philippe’s heart leaps to hear her sorrowful sounds turned into wanton sighs. He reads her every shiver and press and responds accordingly to drive her into a keening climax. Isabeau pulls his hair and her warm thighs press against his ears.
The relief makes his eyes sting, or maybe that’s from her clutching fingers. An emotion wells up in Philippe until he’s blinking blurry tears away as Isabeau goes over-sensitive and pushes him away.
Upon rising to his knees, blearily drawing the blankets over Isabeau’s legs, Philippe sees Navarre returning to them. The Captain had been away undressing and walks back to the bed wearing nothing.
Philippe can still taste them both.
Navarre climbs onto the large bed with them; it’s big enough for all three of them to tumble in. He comes straight to Philippe and takes him by the jaw in one hand. Navarre’s thumb smears across Philippe’s wet lower lip. The thumb pushes inside and hooks against Philippe’s teeth, drawing his mouth open. After a moment of dark tension, Navarre kisses Philippe, slipping his thumb out of the way.
The Captain is taller than him even on their knees like this. The blonde stubble on the other man’s face scratches Philippe deliciously as they kiss. Navarre sucks at Philippe’s tongue and Philippe offers himself up, eager to show the Captain how good he’s been just by the taste of his mouth. Philippe cranes his chin upward and presses in close. His prick bumps and slides against the Captain’s hip and thigh. Navarre’s own cock rubs against Philippe’s abdomen. Now that Navarre is here, in the bed, like he’s been dreaming of, Philippe takes all that he can.
Navarre’s upper arms are solid under Philippe’s hands. The man is muscled and sure from horse riding and sword wielding and rugged travel. Philippe squeezes Navarre’s arms then slides his palms to the man’s chest and down. He grabs at Navarre’s sides and anchors himself against the man. Philippe wants to stay here, pressed close against his Master.
Part of Philippe doesn’t want to share a moment of Navarre’s attention. It has nothing to do with Isabeau and everything to do with Philippe and the passionate, desperate clinging that Navarre inspires in him if they are apart for too long. Isabeau has needed Navarre during the long nights; her memories of cursed evenings are not quickly shaken. They keep close together when the Captain isn’t out with the Guard. They spend hours in bed and on the couch in a warm tangle. They take quiet walks in the snow while holding hands. Philippe stays close by, always, but there’s barely any room for him the way they are attached; not like in the other seasons when Philippe can travel with the Captain and the Guard, having Navarre to himself, and also the Lady when she needs Philippe’s tending in court.
It suddenly dawns on Philippe that it has been too long; he truly hasn’t been in bed with Navarre for weeks and hasn’t gone with the Captain to the barracks during the freezing days. Isabeau rightfully needs Navarre’s attention, but Philippe has forgone the man’s strongest affections. All that has sustained them are the considerate gestures of pettings, or the times Philippe has woken to a blanket being pulled over him.
“Shh.”
Philippe wasn't aware he had been making a desperate sound on the end of each breath.
Philippe comes back to himself and out of his mind as Navarre gentles him away. He unwraps Philippe’s clinging arms and makes him lay alongside Isabeau on the bed. She presses to Philippe’s side and wipes his cheeks dry and Navarre divests him of his pants, dragging them down and off of Philippe’s legs and tossing them aside to the floor. Navarre lays on Philippe’s other side on the right and pulls the blankets up over the three of them, finally returning them all out of the cool air of the bedroom and into a place of softness that warms quickly with so many bodies.
“He’s crying more than usual, love,” Isabeau says, still patiently wiping Philippe’s wet jaw. He clings to them while he lays on his back; her thigh and Navarre’s hip. Navarre drapes his arm across Philippe to cup Isabeau’s side and just like that they’re all tied up together, calves tangling.
“I’ve barely begun,” Navarre says.
“But we’ve been at it for hours. He slept with me while I waited for you.” Isabeau’s mouth kisses his wet temple and Philippe closes his blurry eyes. “And you were very good,” she says and some of the tension and heart ache bleeds out of him.
Philippe hasn’t been alone . He’s had Isabeau. Is this not just like the times during the Spring or Summer, when Philippe is needed with her in Aquila more than with Navarre in the country? At first it’s always a joy; Philippe misses the Lady just as fiercely as he can miss the Captain. But if parted from one or the other for too long the ache becomes all too strong.
“What is it?” Navarre asks him and it hurts in Philippe’s heart like a deep bell ringing.
The Captain can’t possibly ask him that, can he? Doesn’t Navarre notice when they’ve been apart for weeks?
“Come and tell me.”
As Isabeau eases back Navarre touches his mouth to Philippe’s hair. The man’s hand slips away from the Lady and splays across Philippe’s stomach.
“Tell me.”
“Missed you, Sir,” Philippe hears himself whisper, mustering the courage to say it when he fears the sentiment will not be returned; that he’s reaching to take something immaterial that isn’t actually there.
Navarre inhales in Philippe’s hair and scrapes his nails across the boy’s stomach, making Philippe shiver between them.
“Love,” Navarre says, lifting his head to look across at Isabeau who has returned to her nesting in the blankets. “If you’ll wait for me…”
“Always,” she’s says simply, with a breath of amusement.
“But-” Philippe starts to protest. He couldn’t possibly take Navarre’s attention away from Isabeau.
“Quiet, now,” the Captain tells him. Both of them love to shush him.
Navarre hooks his leg over Philippe’s and lays half over the boy. They start to kiss again, slower this time, until Philippe’s protests melt. He opens his mouth to the man on top of him and Navarre doesn’t rush to satisfy him with a deeper kiss. They proceed at the Master’s pace until Philippe is whimpering only from the kiss and the hand kneading at his hip.
Philippe was so desperate to steal any moment with Navarre that he forgot that he is the one being kept . Navarre isn’t something to be taken. It makes the keeping of Philippe only that much sweeter to realize.
“Ah!”
After hours of delay, Philippe’s prick is oversensitive. The steady hand wrapping around his cock is so deliciously painful.
“ Hurts , Sir.” Philippe clings to Navarre. He grabs anywhere he can find a hold. If it were possible he would have swallowed his own tongue at the sensation of Navarre’s calloused palm stroking him from the base to the tip. Navarre quiets him with his mouth again and continues.
Oh, and the sweet dizzy feeling that overtakes him when Navarre deviates and takes him by the balls. Philippe pushes his heels into the bed and arches and drags his nails across Navarre’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” Navarre says against his cheek while Philippe gasps and flounders. Navarre’s fingers press at him behind his sac and Philippe shudders. The blankets above them rub and tickle the underside of his cock when he pushes up. He thinks about the warm silky grip inside of Isabeau and Philippe reaches out for her. The Lady is still loosely moored to his other side in the tangle of blankets.
Navarre squeezes his cock by the base and Philippe doesn’t see the ceiling anymore; he knows not whether he closes his eyes or goes blind. He feels his voice crack in his throat and the tension of hours come to a snapping conclusion against Navarre’s steady naked body.
Shivering and melting and moaning between his gasps, Philippe listens to the quiet things Navarre rumbles into his temple.
“That’s it. That’s better, isn’t it? That’s what you needed.”
Philippe turns his face and finds Navarre’s mouth with his. Yes, what he needed.