Musk Plant

There were precious few places where Stregoni felt comfortable. Of those few, the apothecary was by far his favorite.

It was as familiar to him as his reflection. From the time he was a boy he had been set simple chores within it, and once he was old enough, he began to learn the ways of the various plants and powders, tinctures and potions. It was here he had learned the art of healing, and that sometimes healing meant hurting, and that there was a fine line between cure and poison.

Only once had he explored on his own, and he would never forget his mother's face, his father's quiet, as Stregoni was ill for days and weak for months.

It was also where his happiest memories were stored—cleaning the floor while his parents stocked the shelves and mixed medicines, laughing and joking, exchanging kisses when they thought he wasn't looking.

The smell of the flowers, the more pungent herbs, the bitter unguents and some of the just plain gross tinctures. People coming and going at all hours, some bright and cheerful, others hassled and angry, some red-faced with embarrassment…

He was not his father, nor his grandfather, and people never really let him forget it—but enough saw him for himself and said he would be great one day, and was nearly so now. He was young, yet, to be the primary doctor on hand—but he was better liked than the others in town, or so he was always told.

In the back, he could just hear his mother call that she was going next door for a bit. Calling back a reply, he resumed cleaning the counters until they gleamed in the afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. A rare reprieve, that sunlight, and the only reason he had been able to make it home a couple of days ago.

Soon he would be going back to Sangre Manor, since the majority of his winter was always spent with Carmilla, studying the elusive disease which kept her weak and sickly, helping in her greenhouse and workshop.

Stregoni put away his rags and checked that his hair was still secured. That done, he washed his hands and then began to pull out the various ingredients and tools he would need to make a fresh batch of the various potions, tinctures, tonics, and ointments that were always in demand during the cold months.

He whistled as he worked, enjoying himself despite the chill that permeated the room. Grinding down leaves in a pedestal, lost in concentration, he did not really hear the bell, which chimed as someone opened the door.

The amused throat clearing he did hear, and looked up with a start. "Oh, Terry. Good afternoon. How's your mother? Come for her tincture?"

"Aye," Terry said lightly, sliding onto one of the stools always kept at the counter for people waiting on this or that medication, or while someone else was being treated. "Take your time, though. I'm in no hurry to get back. Can't walk a step without tripping over some niece or nephew or bossy sister."

Stregoni laughed, absently shoving back an errant curl before he combined the paste just created with a waiting solution, stirring all together vigorously before corking the bottle and setting it aside. "Your turn to put them all up, eh? They didn't all go having more babies, did they?"

"Oh, aye," Terry said with a long suffering sigh. "My mother and aunts want a hundred or more grandchildren, I think. They keep demanding to know why I'm not contributing to the count."

Laughing again, Stregoni began to pull down various selections from the mass of herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, combining them in seeming haphazard fashion, keeping track of everything even as he chatted.

Terry had four aunts and five sisters, and more relatives than he could stand to count. They all took turns hosting the family during the winter months, a tradition common in most families.

It always made Stregoni feel a bit left out, that he had no family to share such a tradition. His mother had never been able to have more children, much to the dismay of her parents. His father's family, always distant, had grown even more so after he'd passed away from illness.

"So where do you put them all?" he asked as Terry continued to grouse about nieces and nephews.

"In my room," Terry said sourly, but with a faint smile that took any real ire from the words. "I'm about ready to sleep with the horses, if it'll get me a full night's rest. I envy you, my friend, this whole house for just you and your mum. Must be nice."

Stregoni smiled. "Well, when it's quiet and I'm actually here, it's not always so bad. As often as not, though, I'm woken at the oddest hours for one emergency or another. Sometimes company would be nice."

"Well, if you ever want company, I'm more than happy to oblige," Terry said with a wink.

"I'll keep it in mind," Stregoni said, realizing with a start Terry was flirting.

He looked again, and sure enough—it wasn't just a dread of nieces and nephews keeping Terry sitting at the counter.

Stregoni resumed his work, abruptly realizing he'd stopped.

Not that he was interested, not really…but it was a nice change to be smiled and winked at. Flirting alone was a novelty. Gilles—

He swallowed, cursing silently that his thoughts had gone precisely where he did not want them to go. Gilles didn't flirt. François didn't wink—he didn't even smile. Yet between Terry's smiles, and Gilles's stormy demeanor and François's unfathomable looks, there was simply no contest.

Stregoni wondered what that said about him.

"Here, now," Terry said, breaking into his thoughts. "Did I cause offense?"

"What?" Stregoni said, head jerking up. "Oh, no. Far from it. I'm sorry, my thoughts wandered down an unpleasant path." He forced a smile, willed thoughts of Gilles to leave him the hell alone. "If you want to hide out more often, you must know you're welcome to linger here as long as you like." He shrugged. "I'm rarely here, of course, but that does not mean you cannot be. My mother would like the company, and she's always thought you a good sort."

Terry only smiled.

Stregoni smiled back, and finished off what he was working on before pulling down more herbs to begin the next round. "So what else are you doing today?" he asked congenially, maybe flirting back a little bit because there was no harm in flirting, and it was a pleasant surprise that someone might want to flirt with him.

Nothing would come of it, of course, but it wasn't a bad way to pass the afternoon for either of them.

An hour or two had passed when he finally finished the bulk of his work, and he pulled down what he needed to make up the tincture for which Terry had come in the first place. Stirring it all together, he carefully funneled it into a delicate-looking blue glass bottle. Placing the stopper, he slid it across the counter, bracing on his folded arms as they talked about the weather and a small soiree to which Terry had to escort a sister.

Stregoni startled when Terry abruptly reached out and caught up a stray curl of Stregoni's hair. "My sisters envy your hair, you know. 'All those copper curls' they say, going on and on. It really is—"

He paused as the door slammed open, turning around to see who had entered so noisily.

Of all the people Stregoni had thought to see today, Gilles and François were nowhere on the list.

His heart hammered in his chest as they stalked across the room like a pair of wolves, a thought that sent a not entirely unpleasant shiver down Stregoni's spine. He knew what it was like now to face down wolves, and still he apparently didn't mind when those wolves were a certain two men.

"Gilles—"

Whatever he was about to say died as Gilles reached out with a snarl and yanked Terry to his feet, then all but threw him toward the door. "Get out," he said, the words angry and sharp, brooking no argument.

Mouth agape, more than a little afraid, Terry turned and bolted.

Stregoni clenched his fists in fury. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, Gilles?"

Gilles only gave him a nasty, furious glare as François stalked to the door Terry had left hanging open. Slamming it shut, he flipped the sign to 'closed' and pulled down the shade, yanking the curtains over the picture window hastily shut before he stalked back across the room.

"The better question, Carrot, is what do you think you're doing?"

"Working," Stregoni hissed, slamming one hand down on the counter, leaning forward angrily. "You just threw out a good customer."

"Customer? For what services?" Gilles demanded. "You were all but panting for him, Doctor. I didn't know you sold such things here."

Stregoni's face burned. "You have some nerve calling me a whore. It's none of your business, anyway." He drew back, resisting an urge to throw something, but only barely. "Get the hell out of my shop."

"No," Gilles said.

He stood in shock as Gilles gripped the counter and neatly leapt over it. François was less dramatic, and simply came around the counter, but he was no less intimidating—or enthralling.

Stregoni stumbled back as they prowled toward him, swearing softly when he realized he'd only trapped himself between them and the wall.

"Go the hell away," he snarled, but could not miss the edge of desperation in his own voice.

"No," Gilles repeated.

Stregoni flinched as Gilles reached for him, and went still from shock when instead of whatever he'd expected, Gilles only sank a hand into his curls, dislodging the ribbon holding them back, and carded roughly through them.

"What—"

"If you were desperate for attention, Carrot," Gilles said in his mocking tone, "all you had to do was say."

Stregoni glared at him, even as he tried not to lean in to the touch of those hands, the way they sorted through his curls as though it were natural, when he knew for a fact Gilles never bothered with his hair save to hold Stregoni where he wanted him. "I'll never be so desperate as that," he hissed.

Gilles smirked, then abruptly tightened his grip in Stregoni's hair and yanked him close, other arm like a band around Stregoni's waist. Then Gilles was kissing him hard, and Stregoni's lip split with the fury of it.

He struggled futilely in Gilles's hold, but the bastard was having none of that, merely shifted to shove him against the counter, hand digging into his hip, and Stregoni knew he'd have bruises there.

When the kiss broke, he attempted to gasp out an angry protest, but the words were cut off by François, who devoured his mouth like it was a banquet made exclusively for his pleasure.

 The hand in his hair moved down to stroke the back of his neck in a way that turned Stregoni's gasp into a needy moan, and he hated himself, he really did, for always giving in so goddamn easily.

François's hand slid down his body to cup his hardening cock, and Stregoni could feel the smirk against his lips before he was being kissed dizzy again.

As François drew back, Gilles took his mouth again, shoving a thigh between his legs, pressing hard, making Stregoni groan and move, beg for more with sound and body.

He broke away from the kiss only with the greatest of effort. "Why—"

A hard nip to his ear made the question fly from his thoughts.

"Do you honestly think that stupid clerk could give you what you want, Carrot?" Gilles demanded, voice rough as he bit down harder on the soft skin below Stregoni's ear, sucking up a lurid mark.

Stregoni fisted his hands in the fabric of their jackets, but he was helpless between them, pressed against the counter and wholly at their mercy. He hated most the way that thought just made his cock harder. "None. Of. Your. Business—damn it!" He groaned as his breeches were undone, and François shoved a hand inside to pull out his cock, stroking with a familiarity Stregoni loved and hated in equal measure.

Gilles shoved his pants and underthings down to his knees, then skimmed his fingers back up to spread Stregoni's cheeks and tease at his hole.

Then just as suddenly, the hand was gone, leaving Stregoni gasping in surprise and dismay.

He got another hard kiss, his split lip throbbing now. "You must have something of use in here, Doctor."

"What?" Stregoni stared uncomprehendingly a moment before Gilles's smugness made everything click into place. "No," he hissed. "You are not—"

François grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, kissing him dizzy, leaving him reeling, breathless, slumped against the counter desperate to stay standing and not give in to the way his knees wanted to give out.

As Gilles vanished to explore the apothecary, Stregoni was met again with the full force of François's hungry mouth and knowing hands, teasing and tormenting, extracting every noise and plea that Stregoni tried uselessly to hold back.

"Come for me," François ordered, and Stregoni gave a trembling cry as he did precisely that, spilling messily over François's hand, slumping against the counter as his legs lost strength.

François then held up his hand, and Stregoni obeyed the silent order to lick it clean. His face burned with embarrassment, but more from the heated approval in François's gaze as he watched Stregoni lick away his spilled seed.

The scent of yellow roses washed over them as Gilles returned. They turned him around and removed his breeches entirely, pushing him to bend over the counter and spreading his legs. Then they took turns working him open, one of Gilles's fingers followed by two of François's, and then it was a finger from each of them, stretching him, twisting and turning and stroking just right. Stregoni's just-spent cock twitched and began to fill again, and he moaned helplessly, hot and dizzy and consumed, as he clung to the smooth counter.

The fingers withdrew, and damn it, this was not happening in his apothecary—his sanctuary, goddamn it.

But it was happening, there was no denying it. Stregoni groaned loud and long, head dropping between his shoulders as Gilles fucked him first. He started slowly, but soon was pounding into Stregoni with fervor, until it was impossible to think of anything but the mouth trailing wetly across his shoulder and throat, the scents of velvet and lace, sweat and musk, mixed dizzyingly with the medicinal odors of the apothecary.

He stared blankly a moment at the ribbon on the counter, wondering why the color was wrong. Then he realized it must have slipped loose of Gilles's hair. Stregoni clung to it for dear life as Gilles took him, thrust hard again and again, until finally he buried his face in the hollow of Stregoni's throat, sank in deep one last time, and came hard.

Stregoni didn't even get a chance to catch his breath before François took Gilles's place, his cock not quite as long, but definitely thicker as he slid into Stregoni's body like he owned it. He didn't work up to speed slowly as Gilles had, simply fucked Stregoni hard and fast, those fangs teasing the back of his neck, tongue lapping up the sweat.

François came a few minutes later, his come joining with Gilles's, leaving Stregoni feeling overfull and used in a way he refused to think about because then he'd be forced to admit how much he liked it.

He was turned roughly around, and his heart stopped as Gilles sank to his knees and swallowed Stregoni's cock down, sucking him quick and dirty until Stregoni came a second time.

Not a single drop of come escaped, Gilles seeming to swallow with ease. He rose gracefully, and Stregoni moaned to taste himself and François in Gilles's mouth. He knew they fucked, of course they did, but when he was present, they only ever seemed to focus on him. Would he ever get to see the two of them together? He shivered at the thought, and then ruthlessly squashed it.

Reality returned as Gilles drew back, and he and François began to set themselves to rights. Gilles plucked the lost ribbon where it was still tangled in Stregoni's fingers, and a moment later he looked as perfect as he had when they'd stormed into the apothecary. Only their mouths, red and swollen, gave any hint to what they'd been doing.

Stregoni looked away, shame overtaking him with the return of his senses. But there was anger too, and it was that which brought his head back up. "Goddamn it, not here! Anyone could have—"

François kissed him, an edge to it that left Stregoni feeling like a man lost at sea.

Behind François, Gilles said, "Do not let me catch you doing such things again, Carrot."

"Why would you flirt with someone like him, anyway?" François asked.

"Terry is a good man! It was just harmless flirting."

"Terry is beneath you," François replied.

"Harmless or not, stop doing it," Gilles said.

Stregoni glared at them. "Who are you to tell me what I may or may not do? I'm allowed to flirt where I please—to do whatever I please."

With a snarl, Gilles yanked him close, crushing his mouth all over again, until Stregoni could not remember the rest of what he'd wanted to shout about.

"No, you are not," Gilles said when they broke apart again. "You belong to us."

Stregoni stared at him, at François, love and hate, longing and shame, roiling in his stomach, lodging in his throat. "To you?" he asked bitterly. "I'm not allowed to flirt where I like because I'm your dirty secret?"

"That's right," Gilles said. "Remember it—or else."

With that, Gilles gathered up his things and left as suddenly as he had appeared.

François lingered, and looked for a moment like the man who'd sat with Stregoni in the snow. He stepped in closer and gently rubbed his thumb over Stregoni's lips. "Terry gambles and is in debt to dangerous people. He's also a mean drunk. You should stay away from him." He pressed a soft kiss to Stregoni's mouth, then slipped away to follow after Gilles.

Stregoni waited until he knew they were well and truly gone, then sank to the floor, buried his face in his arms, and cried.

It was only the realization, sometime later, that his mother could return at any moment that forced him to his feet. With an effort, he dragged himself to his bedroom, quickly stripping out of his ruined clothes, washing off in the basin near his bed, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw and no traces of Gilles and François remained.

Refreshed, ignoring the twinges of pain that were beginning to flare up, he returned to the apothecary.

The smell of sex was strong, making his cheeks heat with mortification—and perhaps a little more, because as much as he hated himself for it, there was no denying that he would never be capable of refusing those two.

He just wished…

Shaking his head, he fetched supplies and scrubbed and cleaned until the scent of sex was gone, until he could no longer smell the yellow roses which infused the oil Gilles had used to—

Swearing, he put the cleaning things away again and went to fetch his Pharmacopeia and the various notes he had yet to transcribe, pulling up a barstool to work at the counter—which reminded him suddenly that the curtains were still drawn, and the sign still said closed.

Wincing slightly, for they had used him well and thoroughly, Stregoni went and set all to rights, then returned to the counter.

He was just sitting down when the glint of jewels caught his eyes, and he slid off the barstool again to kneel on the floor, retrieving the glittering object.

A cravat pin, in the shape of a fleur-di-lis made of diamonds and sapphire, set in silver. It must belong to Gilles; François didn't normally where anything quite so flashy.

Stregoni wrapped his hand around it, gripping it so tightly he could feel the hard jewels digging into his palm.

Then he tucked it away in his jacket, and bent to his work, losing himself to the comfortable familiarity of solving other people's problems.