#Portho's eyes are really big?

[errruvande]

Love bites

Pairing: Porthos x Fem!Reader

Summery: you're sharing a very intimate morning with Porthos after he returns back from the front

Warning: smut, oral sex (f receiving), p n v, really nothing else, just a morning sex with your man ✨

Word count: 2 337

A/n: a special thanks to @whitedarkmoonflower for cheering me up this whole time lmao now you can actually read it, can you believe that???

It was that very type of mornings you've been longing for for a very long time.

The musketeers have returned home from the front just yesterday, bringing Aramis, the prodigal son, back when he belongs.

No one knew that they returned, not even Treville, so when you saw them walking through the halls of Louvre you needed a whole solid minute of staring and blinking at them with the blank face to realize that they were indeed them. Athos, Aramis and Porthos. You saw them smirking at your round eyes and dropped jaw, your hands curled around your chest as surprising shortage of air befall you. You rashed to them, sharing gentle caressing of hands with Athos as you passed him by to wrap your hands around Porthos' waist and kiss him greedily.

It took you a nice few minutes of hanging on Porthos to remember there were three of them.

"Aramis!" You wouldn't lie to anyone you missed the joyful, restless man. "You're back!"

"And she finally noticed me!" He teased, as he always did, straightening his hands and pulling you into a hug, being curious for how long will Porthos allow him to linger. When Aramis saw his friend's adorable smile fading into one unpleasant grimace he let go off you and laughed. "I missed you too!"

You've been working at Louvre as one of the Queen's favorite ladies, and that day you have asked Anne for a night out of the palace to celebrate your man's homecoming.

So here you were, lying on a big bed of your big man, stretching the muscles that you've exhausted during the night, as the shining sunlight warmed your face.

You groaned softly when you didn't find Porthos lying next to you as you turned to kiss him a good morning: the empty chair signalled you that he has already gone and that you should have started to ready yourself as well. You worked though the thin sheet, light material tickled your bare skin.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, the marks of Porthos' passionate love embellished your body from your ribcage down to your calves. The urge to relive the ravenous moments from that night forced your hand to track each and every mark on your belly, touching them lightly with your fingertips and watching your own chest raising up on a touch in the mirror, your body recalling Porthos' heavy kisses, the contrast of his tickling beard to the softness of his full lips on your delicate skin.

"I can give you more..." You jerked on the sound of Porthos' voice and the warmth of his breath on your skin as he planted a kiss in the crook of your neck.

"You scared me, Porthos..." You craned your neck to other side, giving him more comfortable space to kiss you, as he let his hands slide down your sides and embrace your waist. "I thought you were gone already."

You tried to caressed his neck as he kept kissing you, now moving to the back of your neck, sliding your hair to your shoulder. You turned your face and tried to kiss his cheek as you spun around and pressed your body to his. The leather armor catching on your skin.

"I have a little time to spare." Porthos grinned and bit his lip slowly, before he pressed his lips to your neck once more, nippling on the soft, thin skin.

"Not the neck..." Breathing out, you pushed his face gently, tearing his soft lips from your skin.

He growled. Porthos loved your neck, he adored your collarbones, your breasts. He wanted to kiss it and bite it and to hear you moan into his ear as he does so.

"Please, just one?.."

You felt your limbs softened on the sound of his low pleading voice, but as soon as Porthos pressed his lips to your breast, sucking on fragile skin, coaxing a tiny whimper from your mouth, you cupped his cheeks in both of your hands and lifted his face up.

"It's gonna be seen, Porthos."

"I know." His eyes glinted and he chuckled softly, lowering his heavy lusting gaze from your eyes to the little love bite he just left on your breast. "This one is gonna look good when you put on your corset."

Porthos cupped your breasts in his hands, kneading them with his fingers, while he was lowering his face to kiss the same reddish spot again, his eyes glued to yours. It's never failed to work on you, his bottomless eyes. Perhaps it was your favorite feature of his: dark as the night, and shimmering like a stardust when Porthos was with you. He truly could lure you into hell itself with this devouring gaze.

The soft moan escaped your lips on the warmth of Porthos' breath and on the light pleasurable pain of his teeth digging into your skin. You buried you palm in his think hair, the curles tugging in between your fingers as you massaged his scalp.

Porthos already moved to the cleavage, leaving the trail of wet kisses on your breast. The way he whimpered into you every time he nipped your skin was turning you on at extreme speed. You didn't really care about the hickeys at this point and wether anyone would be able to see them or not, you only wanted for Porthos to complete the map of love he called your body.

He was gaining speed and appetite, but the softness of his kisses haven't changed. Porthos moaned, the muffled sound melted into your skin, as you lunged your lower abdomen into his groin when he nipped the side of your breast. The feeling of his hardening cock against your naked pubis coaxed a sweet moan from your mouth and unconscious pull of Porthos' main hard enough for him to tear his face off your breast and hiss.

He looked at you, gaze so enveloping in desire, his eyebrows cocked up and a soft cackle left his mouth as he slithered his tongue through his teeth on the feeling of your fingers working through the laces of his leather pants. "Oh, I like the way you think, love."

Porthos finally let go off your breast, cupping your face with his hands and pulling you into devouring kiss, breathing in your scent and hissing on the feeling of your touches all the way down. You were so ready to take him again, your core throbbing with desire, warmth spreading across your belly. Porthos deepened the kiss, lowering his hands until he reached your bum, grabbing it and pulling you up. You wrapped your legs around Porthos' waist, your already wet core rubbing against the rigid leather of his jacket as he was carrying you to the bed, borrowing another soft moan from you.

He slowly lowered you down on the bed, rearranging his hands to your back first, gently sliding your back on the bed, and then to the futon right above your shoulders, towering above you. Porthos looked you over, biting his lip in a wide smile before bending his arms and kissing your jaw, you moaned on the tension, squirming under his tights.

"Porthos..." Moaning, you clinged into the collar of his jacket and pulled him closer, untill you were able to put your lips on his neck, kissing and biting him just as Porthos did with your whole body this very night.

"How much spare time do you have?" A wave of confusion belled in your voice as you tried to unbutton Porthos' jacket and slide your hands under his shirt.

He chuckled, nodding. "I got you..."

Porthos slid from the bed, wrapping his palms around your ankles and tugging you closer to the edge of the bed along with your light laughter. He kneeled in front of you, parting your legs slowly with his hands. He bent your legs in the knees, planting kisses to your knee and the inner side of your thigh, the gentle caressing had quicken your breathing. Your eagerness was agonizing, heading to its peak when you thrusted your core forward on the feeling of Porthos' warm breath over your wet folds. He hadn't even touched you yet, but you already squirmed and whimpered from the titillating anticipation of his full soft lips on your bud. You knew the pleasure all too well.

Porthos placed his hand on your cunt, parting your wet folds just a bit he brushed his lips over your clit, making you groan and take a hold of his mighty shoulder with your fingers.

"I've missed you so much..." He moaned into you, the ministration vibrated throughout your core and left you mewling.

"I know it from all the letters you've sent..." Every word you said started with the drawing of air, as your clit was covered with Porthos' lips still, devoured in his ever lasting craving.

Those letters Porthos had been sending you from the front consisted only of his longing for the lust-clouded morning exactly like this one. You knew them by heart, never realizing how good Porthos could be with words.

"Porthos, please..." It was unusual for you to plead for his touch. Porthos knew exactly what you wanted and needed and never let you waiting, always putting your pleasure first and his own second. He brushed his finger through your soaked folds, finger sliding into your cunt without any pressure.

He sucked in air, giggling softly while looking you in the eyes. "I forgot how fast you're getting so messy, eh." He deepened his finger, coaxing another whimper from you, your fingernails digging into the leathered shoulder of his jacket.

He curled his finger inside of you, rubbing the wall of your cunt very lightly, looking how muscles of your abdomen were playing under his touch. He was very smug about it, you thought if he looked at how much pleasure he gives you longer he would start drooling.

"Please..."

Porthos stood up and came closer to the bed, placing one of his knees on the edge of the futon, he wrapped his fingers around your calve and lifted your leg, placing it on his shoulder, showering the soft skin of your calve with nippling kisses. You spread your thighs wider, sliding closer to his rock hard cock, as the feeling of your own lube sliding down your folds sent shivers down your whole body.

Finally, you felt his hot head slid through your slippery folds and you bucked your hips up against the feeling. Your thoughts became hazy in a moment, everything blurry and incoherent except Porthos. He slid inside you with ease, stretching you well and this feeling alone rendered you speechless, only your lips parted in soundless gasps.

You were ready to take him fully and Porthos knew it, and your dripping wet, throbbing core gave your desire away, clenching around Porthos' thick cock as he was slowly moving inside you, placing one of his palms flat on your belly and feeling your insides rearranging with each and every stroke he made.

Porthos always loved you slowly, with trepidation and a hint of teasing, pulling his cock out and brushing it against your clit every now and then, awarding himself with your pathetic sweet weiling and wiggling. He slid his cock back into your core and kissed your belly, softly moving from one spot to another, filling in the blank unmarked space on your skin, as he growled low on the feeling of your clenching walls. You slid your hands down your belly to cup his face and tug it up to your face, kissing Porthos' face greedily, arching your back under the pinching pleasure of his thrusts, feeling your breast pressing to his muscular chest, as you devour yourself in the kiss.

At once, Porthos felt your body started tensing, his sides squeezed hard in between your legs as every muscles of your body were twitching as if you were pinched with needles. The kiss was over with your rapid breathing, everything became hazy again, you swear you could feel the blood flowing through your veins making every limb of yours heavy and warm. You whined on a sudden absence of movement inside you when Porthos tear himself off your body, spreading your clenched around his waist legs apart.

"I think I know just what you need, baby..." With these words, Porthos continued moving inside you slowly and teasingly, but you let a muffled cry when you felt his finger on your clit again. The thrusting of his cock inside you and the rubbing of his finger on your clit were giving you too much pleasure. You felt your belly becoming hard and numb, your nipples were burning in pain and your fingertips curling under Porthos' touch. The painful bliss of his thrusting felt as the whole world's weight suddenly crushed on your ribcage, beating the fathomless gasp out of you as you broke loose, your body soft and weak on the futon, still twitching slightly.

Just a moment later you felt the viscous warmth spilled inside you, when Porthos did last thrust and froze, gasping silently as he finished right after you, letting himself fall next to your body.

Porthos laid his head on your belly, brushing your hip with his wrist lightly. "Hey, dove?"

"Hey..." You mumbled lowly, caressing the back of his neck slowly, curling the long curles of his hair on your finger.

"You know I'll never live you, right"

"I know."

Smiling, Porthos pressed a kiss to your solar plexus, not being able not to nipple on the soft skin.

You heard the noise from the garrison, people coming closer to the window of your shared room.

"Porthos!"

"We know you here"

The way Porthos growled into your skin when you both heard Aramis' voice from outside calling for him.

"Never in my life I was that disappointed at hearing him speak..." Porthos sighted heavily, laying his head on your breasts.

You chuckled softly. "I think your spare time has ended."

"Don't make us come inside and drag you out!"

Porthos smirked at the words. "You wish you could, Aramis!"

"Treville has asked for us, it's a bad form, making a minister wait for you! Kiss her and let's be on our way!"

You laughed at Porthos' soft sob. His hands were pressed to your waist, not wanting to let go off you, your skin stack to the leather of his jacket that was still on him.

You kissed him, biting his lower lip as you pulled from the kiss, awarding yourself with his soft low moan. "Go, or he will come here." You chuckled, and slightly pushed Porthos to the door.

"Y/n, come here quickly!.."

You saw the amazed exclamation in Anne's eyes as she saw you in the palace. She called for you, asking you to follow her into her private quarters.

"Your majesty." As the maidens closed the door behind you, you bowed your head slightly, seeing how Anne was trying to find something in one of the huge chests.

"I'm glad at least your night was nice, Y/N." Anne smiled a bit childishly, giving you a scarf in color of your dress. She giggled. "Cover yourself please, or you'll make someone jealous."

You glanced in the mirror and saw a love bite shining on the top of your breast. You chuckled sheepishly while trying to hide the bite under the fabric of the scarf, muttering silently "I told him..."

[prismatica-the-strange]

All I Am Belongs to You | All for the Love of a Dear Little Girl

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy.

Aramis and Athos return to Paris to find they had not left Amélia as alone as they thought

Each ship is a separate timeline with the same s/i

Aramis x Amélia | Athos x Amélia

Athos's story focuses more on what Amélia went through right after season 2, her experience with Aramis is similar but without the correspondences.

These were supposed to be short, but Athos's kind of got away from me... really got away from me

All for the Love of a Girl by Johnny Horton (Aramis) | Wanderer's Lullaby by Adriana Figueroa (Athos) | Banner by @cafekitsune | Dividers by @steddiecameraroll-graphics | Picrew

Aramis

Aramis thinks of Amélia often at the monastery, praying for her health, her happiness, and that she finally find a man who might actually deserve her.

He never expected to see her again, let alone see her hanging laundry in the courtyard of the garrison as soon as he came back to Paris.

She seems just as surprised to see them, quickly setting aside the sheet in her hands and hurrying over to them.

Athos gladly accepts her hug and kiss on his cheek, holding her back for a moment and kissing he temple, "It's good to see you."

"Do I get as warm a welcome?" Porthos teases, arms open and awaiting his own embrace. And he does, squeezing her back and lifting her off the ground when she hugs him.

"Where is D'Artagnan?" She asks. Athos points behind her toward his and Constance's shared quarters and she nods, "So that's where she ran off to."

"And what of me?" Aramis says, anxiously twisting the rim of his hat in his hands, finally bringing her attention to him.

Porthos watches her smile falter at the sound of his voice and both he and Athos narrowly avoid being hit when she spins around to slap him.

"You're lucky you get that much after what you did to me!" She spits at him and he refuses to meet her eyes. He deserves this. He broke her heart again and again, he knows he'll never be able to regain her trust.

He bows to her, knowing now isn't the time, and walks away, only to be stopped by a small girl, no older that three, at his feet.

"Hello, darling," His smile soft yet confused, "What are you doing here?"

She doesn't say anything, squinting up at him as though studying his face.

"Marina!" Amélia swoops in to pick her up and settle her on her hip, "You're supposed to be inside napping, where I left you."

"'M not sweepy," She huffs.

"You were twenty minutes ago."

"Is he my papa?"

He freezes when she points at him.

Amélia squeezes her eyes shut, sighing in defeat before shaking her head.

"Yes, dear one," Aramis's eyes go wide at her casual admittance, "This is Aramis, your father."

"Aramis, this is- Aramis?"

His whole body is rigid, his mind not processing the information given to him.

He looks at the girl, studying her in a similar fashion to how she had him. Soft brown hair, big dark eyes...

"How... old is she?" He asks.

"Dis many!" She proudly announces, holding out three fingers.

"Are you?" He doesn't notice how Amelia's face softens when tears begin to rim his eyes, "Yes, you would be, wouldn't you? May I?"

Amélia nods, letting him take her from her arms.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" He asks, holding her with practiced ease.

"Mawina."

"Marina?" He smiles when she nods, "Now that's a beautiful name, isn't it?"

Amélia scoffs at how suddenly her resolve to hate him crumbles seeing him hold their daughter.

"Oh, you're precious," He sniffs, cupping her little cheek.

Four years of seeing his face in hers displaces her anger, diminishes her hurt. She finds her chest flooding old love for him.

He laughs when she puts her tiny hands on the sides of his face, pushing his cheeks and gently touching his hair, "Curious thing, aren't you?"

"Bold is more like it," Amélia scoffs, "Like her father."

"You never seemed to mind," He grins at her, his attention going back to Marina she turns his chin back toward her, "Amélia, she's beautiful."

"To think I left so close to knowing you," He mutters, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Damn it. Damn her and her stupid weak heart because that's all it takes.

"Aramis."

He looks back at her, only to be surprised by her lips pressing against his.

He looks at her in awe when the kiss breaks. He strokes her cheek, unable to tear his eyes away, "I thought..."

"You're infuriatingly difficult to hate," She sighs and he can't stop himself from smiling.

"Am I?"

"I have no idea what she's talking about," Porthos mutters and Athos chuckles. He claps Aramis on the back, "You fell in love with a Saint, you lucky bastard."

"And I truly don't deserve her," He murmurs, "Ah- careful dear."

He carefully untangles Marina fingers from his hair, kissing them softly.

She keeps staring at him, completely enthralled with him.

"So much like you're mother, aren't you," He teases, then in a hushed tone, "She likes to look at me too- Hey!"

He jumps back when she slaps his chest, catching her hand and pulling her close.

"How did I ever let you go?"0

Athos

Amélia realized not long after Athos and the others were sent to the front line to defend France, that she was with child.

She knew, even then, it was Athos's, that fate had tied them together forever through their drunken dalliance. She knew she loved him then, even if her heart wasn't ready to admit it so soon after the pain she had gone through with Aramis.

She planned to tell him everything as soon as the baby was born. She couldn't live with herself if she had lost the baby after declaring such a thing to him through a simple letter.

But then the thought he may not even wish to have a child with her crossed her mind. She'd always thought she understood his unspoken feelings for her, but he truly never told her he loved her, not once in the many letters they'd exchanged.

She couldn't bear to put the thought of an unwanted child on his mind when he had much larger things to concentrate on.

Constance insisted she move to the garrison with her to help and keep each other safe, so she made her home there with her daughter, trying desperately to summon the courage to tell him.

It's nearly three years later that she is finally able to when she receives a letter from the front. Athos worries a lack of supplies to his regiment will make the coming battles impossible. He fears for his life, but he simply can not die without telling her once and for all that he loves her. He goes on to say that if she doesn't return his feelings to not tell him, for he would rather die imagining she accepts his love than with a broken heart.

That letter is precious to her and she keeps it close to her heart her every waking moment, even after she replies, fervently returning his affections, assuring him he'll see her again, and that he will meet his daughter.

Unfortunately, her message never makes it to the front.

So when he returns to the garrison months later, he's surprised when she throws herself in his arms.

She's shaking out a blanket over the rail of the upper floor, sighing when she feels little hands grab the back of her skirt.

"How many times do I have to tell you," She sets the blanket on the rail and bends down to poke her stomach, "No muddy boots on the bed!"

The little girl shrieks with laughter and squirms away.

"Go get your boots and wipe as much of that mud off as you can, yeah?"

"Okay mama!"

She smiles as she runs off and stands to gather the blanket again, but then she sees him, "... Athos?"

He, Pothos, and Aramis have just ridden into the courtyard and her feet move before she even knows what she's doing.

He's barely dismounted when he sees her stumble down the last few stairs, lifting her skirts past her knees as she runs to them, "Athos!"

She nearly knocks him over barreling into him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He does his best to return the hug, his surprise obvious to his companions.

"I missed you," His eyes go wide when she kisses him, her hands holding his face, "I was so worried when you didn't write back."

"I..." He's worried for a brief moment that he died. She didn't reply, but here she is, looking at him adoringly, this must be the final images of his dying mind. "What do you mean? You never..."

His eyes flutter shut when she brushes his bangs asides and presses her forehead to his, her voice a whisper, "But I did! Did you.... did you not get my letter?"

"Your letter?" He shudders, cupping her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek, "You wrote back? You..."

"I love you, Athos," She grins at him, "Of course, I love you."

"I love you," He murmurs as though he can't believe he's finally saying it. He pulls her back against his lips, kissing her adoringly, "For so long I-"

"Mama?"

His eyebrows furrow and the three men look over at the small voice coming from the foot of the stairs.

"And who is this?" Aramis asks, he takes off his hat as he kneel down to her level.

She hesitates, looking to Amélia when he motions her over.

"It's alright," She holds out her hand and she runs to her side, hiding behind her skirts, "This is Aramis, Porthos, and Athos."

She steps into view, no more than three, sleeves of the dark brown leather coat, big on her still, rolled up to her elbows, as she timidly waves at them.

"This is Celine, my daughter, " She looks to Athos, disbelief staining his features, "Our daughter."

He steps back, shock washing over him like ice water, "O-our...?"

She watches him turn and run a hand through his hair, her eyes going wide when he collapses.

"Athos?!" She rushes to his side and rolls him onto his back, wiping mud from his cheek as she settles his head on her lap, "Athos?"

He finds himself suddenly looking up her, not entirely sure how he'd gotten in her lap.

"Mine?" He croaks after a moment and she sighs in relief.

"There's no question," He looks over when Aramis speaks. He's holding the girl with a smile, "She looks just like you."

"Poor girl," Porthos snickers and Athos glares at him as he gets up, Amélia on his arm.

"May I?" He looks to Amélia for permission when he reaches to take her from Aramis.

"She is yours," She reminds him watching him gently hold her to his chest.

"Mine, yes," He parrots as though he doesn't quite believe it, smiling down at her, "Hello."

"Mama?" She looks to Amélia, unsure, then back to him.

He laughs breathlessly seeing her face up close, "She has my eyes. She's beautiful..."

"M-mama!" She cries, not really understanding who any of these men are.

"It's alright," He tries to soothe her, but she squirms in his arms, reaching for her mother until she takes her.

"She doesn't know you yet," She says apologetically, settling her in her arms, and petting her hair, "But she will. She just needs a little time... I mean, as long as you wish to-"

"You're joking?" Athos grins, cupping her cheek, "It would take an act of God to tear me away from her now."

"From both of you," He corrects, his hand holds the back of her head as he leans in to kiss her temple.

Celine continues to fuss, having exhausted herself running around with Constance all morning, 'protecting' her favorite aunt.

"Alright, little musketeer, you need a nap," Amélia chuckles, nuzzling her cheek before leaning over to peck Athos's lips, "I'll be right back."

His face falls as he watches them walk away.

"You alright?" Porthos asks. He and Aramis laugh when he sighs, both of them patting on the back, "You look like you need a drink."

The fire burns low in the hearth, just warm enough to stave off the cool night air.

Athos leans over her, his kiss is slow and heavy against her lips, with Celine alseep just in the next room and wary if the man in her mother's bed, they'd dare not be more intimate than this.

He sighs contentedly, forehead pressed against hers.

She smiles as she kisses him again, reaching up to cup his cheek.

They stay like that a while more, soft touches and lingering kisses leaving them lightheaded.

His fingers trace the features of her face as he lays beside her, still in awe of all of it.

"You never told me," He breathes, his tone more curious than accusatory.

"I was scared," She admits and his brow furrows, "We were drunk, Athos, then you left and I no idea if you still wanted me let a lone a child."

She turns to face him, her hand on his chest, "I wanted to tell you, I did. I tried, many times, but I never had the courage. Not until you sent me this."

She lays back for a moment, reaching to pull a letter from a small box on the bedside table. She holds it to her lips for a moment, a routine motion to her now when she needs strength.

"This. Knowing you love me, for certain, gave me the strength and courage I needed to tell you," She holds it to her chest, "I've carried your love with me every moment since I received it. Keeping you near my heart."

"If only I had your words to guard mine," He laments, kissing her hand roughly.

"You have them now."

His breath shudders, pushing forward to nestle his face in the crook of her neck. Her hand strokes his hair before catching in it, holding him there.

"My heart is yours, Athos."

He wakes the next morning with his head on her chest, her fingers still caught in his unruly hair.

He's worried for a moment that he's still dreaming, but as he slowly moves to pull away, she shifts in her sleep, tugging his hair harshly, making him chuckle.

He quickly dresses himself, leaning down to kiss her forehead, before quietly walking through the next room to find the door left ajar.

Panic washes over him when he looks over to the cot in the corner only to find it empty.

He hurriedly opens the door, sighing in relief when he sees her sitting on the top step.

"You're not supposed to be out here," He says gently.

She scoots closer to the right hand rail when he moves to sit beside her, staring wistfully over at the horses.

"Do you like the horses?" He asks, leaning forward to see her face.

She nods but doesn't meet his gaze.

"Would you like a closer look?"

"Mama said I can't wit'out her cause 'm too small."

"I could go with you, if you like?"

That catches her attention and she looks over at him with bright eyes, "Really?"

He smiles softly at her, offering her his hand.

He still can't believe she's real, even with her hand, so small in his, holds tight to two of his fingers as he helps her down the stairs.

Just a few days ago he had nothing besides his friends and position as captain, fighting a seemingly endless war in the name of France. But now... the woman he has adored for years has returned his affections emphatically, and she's given him the most precious little girl. His heart could not be more full than it is at this moment.

"It's alright," He assures her when she hesitates. He lifts her easily and brushes her hair from her eyes, "I've got you."

Amélia wakes alone, her lover's heat lingering in the sheets beside her.

"Athos?" She calls, but she's met with silence, "Celine?"

Silence still and she wonders if she's still asleep. She rises to her feet and pulls on a linen robe, wrapping it around her to ward off the morning chill.

The other room is empty, neither Athos nor their daughter is anywhere to be found and she worries for a moment before looking out the window. She steps outside and leans on the rail, her shoulders relaxing as she watches him let her pet the horses.

Aramis comes out to greet the morning not long after, smiling at the sight of his friend taking to the role of father like a duck to water. Then he sees Amélia watching over them and carefully climbs the stairs to join her.

"They seem to be getting along well," He comments, his voice quiet as he leans on his arms next to her.

"I was worried," She admits.

"Athos has always been an honorable man, he would never reject either of you," He insist and she shakes her head.

"It's not just that," She sighs, "Or that he would be angry I lied to him... Celine doesn't take to new people well. I was scared he would be hurt if she rejected him, even if it was due to shyness."

"It seems you were worried for nothing."

She beams when they hear Celine giggle.

"I must apologize to you."

"It's in the past Aramis-"

"Please?" He begs, "I must say my piece."

She nods and looks to him with warm eyes. He'd expected her to be mad, to curse and spit his name as soon as she saw him, and he's grateful for her patience.

"I hurt you, Amélia, in ways no one should ever be hurt and I am genuinely sorry for that. I spent every day of the last four years praying for your forgiveness knowing there's I could ever do to earn it."

"Aramis..."

"I prayed for your happiness and prayed that you may find someone who truly deserves your love," He places his hand on her back, looking back over at the two by the stables, "I couldn't think of a man more deserving than Athos."

"Thank you, Aramis, that means a great deal to me."

He bows his head and they watch for a minute more until Celine sees them and points, "Mama!"

"There's just one thing I don't understand," Aramis says as they cross the courtyard and she looks up at him expectantly, "Where does the black hair come from."

"My mother," She says walking over to the top of the stairs to meet them, "I'm the only one of my siblings to take after my father."

"Hello dear one," She coos, taking Celine in her arms when she reaches for her, "Did Papa bring you to see the horses?"

Papa.

She doesn't even realize she's said it until she feels his hand brush against her arm and she looks over at him, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," He sweeps Celine's long hair aside to see her face again before Amélia turns to go inside.

"Let's get you dressed and fed, shall we?"

He watches them longingly as they disappear into their apartments and Aramis chuckles.

"I have never seen a man so smitten, my friend," He teases.

"I still can't believe they're real."

"You two are up early," Constance calls from below and they turn to see her, "You mind giving me a hand?"

"She's quite the wild thing, your little one," She comments as they help her hitch the horses to the wagon.

"Is she?"

"Oh yes," She nods, "It won't be long before she's giving these cadets a run for their money."

"She's fierce then?" Aramis asks, "Like her mother."

"And then some. Especially with how Treville encourages her," She leans back against the wagon, "That coat she never takes off? Treville had it made special and gave her a matching wooden sword a week later. That man spoils her like she's his granddaughter."

"I wana go wit Con'tence!" Speaking of whom, Celine comes stumbling down the stairs, toy sword in her hand.

"Not without breakfast you aren't!" Amélia scolds half a flight behind.

Athos doesn't hesitate to scoop her up, more than happy to hold her again while her mother catches up.

"Not this time, darling," Constance tells her, pinching her cheek.

"But Con'tance!"

"No buts! Mum's orders."

Amélia rests her forehead on his shoulder, breathless from chasing their daughter.

He can see the gears turning in Celine's head before she wiggles and twists her body just right to slip out of his hold, but he's quick to catch her again, "Where do you think you're going?"

She huffs in defiance, continuing to struggle, and he shakes his head, "So much like your mother."

"Excuse me?"

Constance laughs at the scene, wondering how it's possible he only met her yesterday.

Celine accidentally elbows him in the jaw in her attempt to escape and Amélia's eyes go wide, reaching to take her, "Here, let me. She'll settle once she eats."

"It's fine," He insists, content to hold her for the rest of time if she asked him, "Lead the way."

[thorin-is-a-cuddler]

Pot Plant Sister

A/N: Hello my sweetest people. I have finally gotten myself to writing, hallelujah! This fanfiction is especially dedicated to the most wonderful @cas-kingdom. I really wanted to write for the BBC Musketeers again. Aramis’ sister is 12 years old and her favourite thing in the world is not doing what her brother tells her to do.

You were once again doing what your brother had told you not to do.

Apparently window sills were not meant for people to perch on. They were meant for pots of flowers or for glasses or for drinks you preferred to consume cold. But not for curious musketeer sisters who wanted to hear what Captain Treville was saying to his soldiers.

Whether you brother was worrying you might fall down – Aramis, please, you scoffed in your mind – or whether he simply did not want you to eavesdrop on things he feared you might imitate – it was one time and shooting at things with your hat covering my eyes wasn’t actually the worst I could have imitated, your mind rambled on – you did not know for certain why he didn’t want you to perch on the sill.

Porthos had once kindly suggested they buy you a pot since you were apparently thriving for a career as a pot plant. “Maybe you’ll worry less when we put her in one, cover her up to the neck with earth and check once in a while whether she needs some water.”

You’d sent Porthos a glare, but his big grin never failed to infect you and so you had taken to hit him against the arm to get your point across nevertheless. “Be careful, I might grow thorns!”

“More than you already have?” Athos had asked with a sassy head tilt and a smirk that barely showed on his lips but lit up his blue eyes.

Aramis had grabbed you and pulled you on his lap to prevent you from jumping on Athos for that comment. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around you and had put his head on yours, gently rocking you from left to right. “Can’t you just promise me that you won’t climb on that sill again, (Y/N)?”

You’d worn a disgruntled expression that had made Athos and Porthos laugh. Obviously you hadn’t promised anything that day. And for a good reason, since you were not someone to break your promises… and since you were on the sill again, there was nothing you had to be ashamed of.

You could see your brother and his friends in the first row of all the present musketeers. They looked so different from when they were around you. Less friendly, less relaxed, less careless. They were wearing their professional soldier faces – barren of sympathy and covered by an icy mask. Cooly they listened to the orders of the day, multiple hat feathers ruffling in the wind. Aramis, Athos and Porthos were given a mission to go to the fruit market and search for a suspect. Your fingers were getting cold from holding on the wall next to the window and your nose started running from the cold breeze that was whistling around you. But none of that truly mattered to you – you were raised at a musketeer corps, you were tougher than most girls your age.

When Treville finished his speech, he left to go up the stairs to his bureau opposite of your position – you were lucky he didn’t notice you. When the door closed behind him, you looked back down to the murmuring musketeers who went to prepare their horses. Your brother was twirling his hat in his hand and was smirking at something Athos had said to him. Porthos was getting out one of his muskets, checking if it was loaded. A longing demanded its place in your hurting chest – you really wanted to go with them.

You didn’t want to practice your Latin – Aramis had left some work for you on the desk as he usually did; when he got home for his missions, he put on his glasses – yes, he wore glasses for reading, don’t tell anyone – and verified your work. It was how you had become quite fluent in English and German. But your Greek and Latin still needed pretty much work.

It wasn’t how you wanted to spend your days though. You longed to get out there. You longed to get in the saddle in front of your brother, feel his strong arms hold the reigns around you and go with him on his missions. You wanted to make adventures, meet new people, fight, win glory and fortune and most of all, share the experiences of the three people you loved most in this world. You knew you were young – and a girl – and that there was little chance they would take you with them, even if you were an adult. But reason could not take over the passion that was rising in your chest.

When Athos, Porthos and Aramis turned towards the stables, you couldn’t help yourself; you put your fingers against your lips and whistled as loud as you could.

All three of them turned around in an instant, muskets holstered up on their shoulders.

Gif by: https://www.tumblr.com/useyourtelescope (I couldn't resist, it fits my story so well :,))

You were fully aware of the fact that you were getting their attention while perched where you were not supposed to perch – but instead of looking sorry or feeling in the least ashamed, you just ran your hand over your nose and called to them: “Can I come with?”

Aramis’ shoulders sagged – so hard that you could see it from the other side of the garrison – and he bowed his head, shaking it while a cloud of his breath appeared in front of his face – a sigh the cold presented to the world like an exclamation mark.

Athos was blinking up at you, his tired eyes narrowed against the brightness of daylight that fell into the courtyard. His features were soft and you were sure that he was quite fond of the way you never did what anybody told you. Porthos simply broke out laughing when he saw you.

“Aramis, your plant is speaking again,” he chuckled, shaking your brother’s shoulder.

Aramis rarely got mad at you, the really, really, super angry kind of mad. And this moment was no exception. He shook his head with yet another sigh, but his lips were already forming a little smile. He knew, deep down in his heart, that you were not the type to conform to norms and that you would never change in that regard. And he was so proud of it, of you, of the way you were capable to hold a musket like he did and the way you could ride a horse while facing its back.

You were a wild child; and more importantly you were his wild child.

Still. There were boundaries. He was your brother, but he had responsibilities that went far beyond the jobs of an older brother.

“What do you think?” Aramis simply fired back at you, the amusement audible in his voice. He squinted his eyes at you and you squinted right back at him.

“I think … I would be a real support for you guys!”

Athos tilted his head with an honest to God chuckle, before looking at your brother expectantly. He always enjoyed these little exchanges between the two of you. It amused him to no end, when Aramis who was cooler than winter in combat, almost lost the entirety of his nerves in any dispute with you, his younger sister.

Athos was a calm and reassuring presence in your life. While Porthos was playful and never got tired of chasing you through the stables, Athos was taking his time to talk to you often, about all different kinds of things. He took your hand when you were close to getting lost in crowds. He only had to send you one look to make you stop when you were being stubborn. And he always encouraged you to get on Aramis’ nerves, simply by not intervening.

It was a recurring situation Aramis found himself in: all three of you against him. He knew the other two were mostly doing it, because it made you laugh – like some babies started giggling when someone got hit over the head. But he sometimes did wonder, if they were not enjoying themselves a bit too much at his expense.

“You know what would be very supportive of you?” Aramis asked, his brows raised high.

“What?”

“Getting down from that silly window sill.”

“It’s not silly! It’s made of wood which in Latin means … ”

“(Y/N)!”

Porthos crossed his arms in front of his wide chest, his mouth opened in a laugh. “I’m sure, we could actually use her to prick someone with her thorns. Especially if we need to part the crowd on the market!”

“You’re not helping!” Aramis groaned, running one hand down his face.

Athos smirked, looking at him with amusement. “He’s not wrong though.”

Aramis looked at him with bewilderment. “I am not taking her with us!”

“We could throw her after people who try to escape!” Porthos added, imitating the movement of someone throwing a ball. “She will cling to them like a cat!”

“No throwing!” You felt compelled to exclaim, making Porthos laugh some more.

Aramis sighed, looking up at you and speaking in a softer tone. “(Y/N), I can’t, okay? I’m scared I’d lose you in the crowd if we actually had to seize someone out there. What if I lose sight of you? What if bullets are fired and you are in the line of-“

“Ughh, alright!” You gave in, putting your chin on your knees, a pout pulling your lips down. “I get it. I’ll do my stupid Latin homework…”

“It’s not stupid,” Aramis responded, imitating your remark from earlier by altering his voice, “it’s made from paper which in Latin means-“

“Oh, stop it, you!” You barked at him, a laugh mixing into your voice.

He grinned up at you. “I promise I’ll take you to the city, tomorrow, okay? But now, please come down from there, will you?”

“From my silly window sill?”

“(Y/N)…”

“Alright, alright! But someone will have to catch me!”

Three pairs of eyebrows shot up.

“No, (Y/N), don’t even think about jumping!” Aramis said in a much sterner voice than before.

“Come on, it’s not that high!” You argued, your pout intensifying. “I have to say good-bye to you guys!”

“Well, climb back inside the room and use the bloody stairs!”

“That’s boring!! I’m a musketeer’s sister! I jump if I want to jump!!”

“Dear Lord, whatever did I do to-“

“On three, okay?” You yelled with an angelic smile on your lips.

“NO, no no no no no no!!” Aramis shouted up at you, raising one hand to underline his words. “You will NOT!!”

“’Mis, I know that you will catch me.” You said in a tone so confident, it made Aramis move his head back in surprise.

Athos and Porthos wore slightly concerned expressions on their faces, but they did not seem to believe it useful to argue with you on this. And you were sure that they as well knew, Aramis would never fail to catch you.

“Are you ready?” You asked with an excited light in your eyes.

Aramis shook his head at you and sighed for the thrillionth time that day. “Are you sure you want to jump straight into my arms right now, in this very moment, where you have already tested my patience for quite a while?”

You closed your mouth and narrowed your eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Are you sure you can take the consequences of your actions?” The expression on your brother’s face lightened up again; there was something smug in his eyes now and you were pretty sure you knew what was in store for you, were you to land in his arms.

You hesitated long enough for Athos to start grinning and for Porthos to start laughing.

“I wouldn’t underestimate the thorns of your brother.” Athos said meaningfully, a knowing expression in his eyes.

“I’m not scared,” you reminded them vehemently, preparing for a jump, despite the revenge that your brother most certainly had in stock for you.

“Sometimes, it’s wise to be afraid,” Aramis growled, cracking his fingers. “But by all means, do what you think best, I’m ready.”

“You better be!” You called, your stubbornness getting the better of you. “On three!”

“Alright!” Aramis smiled.

“One,” you started, your hands searching for a good spot on the walls to hold on to.

“Two,” Aramis continued, close enough to break your fall.

“… Three!” You screamed as your feet left the wooden sill. The fall was shorter than you’d expected, but the impact upon hitting your brother’s arms much harder than you’d hoped for. He groaned from the force and stumbled backwards, while you were squealing in his ears, from excitement, from adrenaline, from anticipation and from the smallest amount of fear.

He chuckled as you tried to push yourself out of his arms, tightened his grip around your middle and threw you over his shoulder. “Now where do you think you’re going so quickly?”

“Aramis, let me down!!”

“I’ll never let you down!” He answered, using the double meaning of the word to keep you pinned to his shoulder. “We have to say good-bye first!”

You threw punches against his back, but recoiled within seconds, when fingers started digging into the ticklish parts of your sides. “NOO!” You screeched, your elbows pushing down to cover up the spots your brother’s hands were already covering. “NO TICKLING!!”

“No tickling?” Aramis gasped, as if it shook him deep within his soul. “Should have thought of that before provoking me the way you did.”

You started laughing uncontrollably, your forehead colliding with his shoulder as you twisted and struggled within his grip to get away, away, awayyy. But your brother was a master at this game. He swayed your body from left to right until you were almost hanging upside down, with his fingers crawling over your belly. You barely managed to get a breath in amidst your helpless squealing.

“STOP IT!!” You giggled, trying to hold on to his fingers that somehow escaped and started poking all over your sides.

“Just one more good-bye kiss, yes?” He teased, lifting your upper body towards him as you continued to wiggle and twitch with laughter.

“NO NO NO, not THAT!” You screeched, but your brother was merciless and already a long and ticklish raspberry found its way underneath your chin. Laughing silently, you tried to protect your neck, but Aramis put one hand on the side of your face to hold your head against his chest and have full excess at the other side of your neck. It tickled terribly, what with his beard adding to the sensation and his nose teasing another spot on your sensitive skin at the same time.

“PLEASE NO MORE!!”

Your brother lifted his head with a smirk and looked down at you, his eyes lit up by the glimmer of mischief. He was holding you like a sleeping child, both arms around your body and your head on the height of his shoulder. Gasping for air, you held on to his shirt unconsciously – he noticed it and was quite endeared by it. After a few seconds, you had calmed down enough to focus and send a half-hearted glare at his fond face.

“That was mean.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely!”

“Drama queen!”

“Hey!” You used your free hands to attack his neck with tickles of your own, making him snort and chuckle softly before he carefully let go off you, making your feet land back on the floor. You tried to continue your little attack, but he caught your wrists and lowered them decidedly.

“You best not provoke me again straight away!” Aramis chuckled, covering his sides, when you tried to tickle him more. “I don’t have time for you to get revenge now. We have to go, (Y/N)!”

“This is not fair! Why is there time to tickle me, but none to tickle you?”

He was too amused by your attempts to get your hands on his ribs that despite not succeeding, you made him laugh which was definitely better than nothing.

Eventually he did manage to get you to stop, grabbing your shoulders and looking you deep in the eyes. He was slightly out of breath from laughing which made you grin. “No more of that now, pot plant! Go up and plot your revenge there, okay? And do your homework!!” He gave you a kiss on the cheek and turned around to get to his horse.

“Damn it, I must have pulled a muscle when you did your little stunt.” He made a grimace and started massaging his shoulder while walking.

Porthos and Athos were wearing equally endeared expressions on their faces, standing next to their horses and waiting patiently for Aramis’ and your good-bye ceremony to be over.  

“Don’t worry,” Porthos winked at you, “We’ll help you get your revenge later!”

“I heard that,” Aramis said, raising a reprimanding brow at his friend.

“Good,” Athos smirked at him, rearranging his hat to protect it from the wind that would weigh against them while riding.

“You three will be the death of me,” Aramis sighed while getting on horseback. He looked back at you and winked, a smile on his face. “Do your homework!”

“Yes, I heard you the three first times you said that,” you wailed, but ended up sending him a good-bye grin, before he rode out of the courtyard.

“No more window sill jumping, pot plant!” Porthos demanded, raising a finger at you half-seriously.

Athos tilted his hat at you, ever the courteous musketeer. “I second that!”

You watched them leave and started doing maths instead of Latin: Aramis had told you, you could accompany them – if at all – when you were at least 16 years old. You sighed when you realized that you had to do four more years of Greek, Latin and window sill perching before that. Hopefully you wouldn’t turn into an actual pot plant until then.

Plotting your revenge, you started climbing the stairs to your and Aramis’ apartment. If Athos and Porthos were to help you, Aramis would wish he’d never tickled you in the first place.

[general-du-vallon]

i started making a fic once where aramis holds his baby and thinks like 'well i did one treason how worse could it be if i stole this baby away', and he thinking about he could put another baby in its place and then i thought WELL WHY NOT

Anyway now am thinking about the stolen baby au

Porthos waiting on a horse to spirit the baby away (just have the image of him waiting in the dark. He takes the baby cus like i s2 final where he rides off alone to be heroic)

Aramis having a moment to talk to Q.A (quee ann) before the baby is born and saying it as a joke and they both just look at each other

the other musketrs being like 'u decided what now with Q.A?!'

where they gonna get a baby?! well. Porthos can be like 'i know a guy'. I'm sure Flea could find them a baby needing a nice home.

Aramis being like '...and then i will slide the baby in' and Constance being like 'uh huh mm hhmm. WHILE THE QUEEN IS HAVING THE OTHER BABY?!? HM?!? u gonna GO IN THERE WHILE SHE PUSHES A WHOLE HUMAN OUT OF HER?!'

aramis after constance rant, as if there been no interuption 'and then constance will swap them' and constance being like THAT IS WHAT i THOUGHT

I mean the baby is already not king of france so who cares?! it could be ANY baby. Who says this ISNT what hapened?

anyway one of the big reasons i think this is hilarious is we already know there's a safe place for accidental french not-quite-heirs cus that's where Agnes and Henry went.

Aramis and Agnes and king of france (but louis did it instead) and the king of france (but random baby from court of miracles did it instead).

aramis giving in his commission; 'GONNA GO UH.... JOIN A MONESTARY. THATS IT. THATS RIGHT. THAT'S WHERE IM GOING'.

imagine in s3 if he was in that monestary and the others staring around at the hundred of babies aramis is sherpherding about like 'is it that one... is it that one... is it that one' (I know this is diff to the living in bliss with agnes plus king 1 and king 2 like the cat in the hat. but whatever. Did i say it all has to cohere?!?! HUH!?!)

it is actually surprising to me hwo much i could just... slide this into canon. That's really funny. Aramis coming back to paris with a couple of refugee babies and beingn like 'and this one I'm keeping FOR NO REASON he gonna live with me. um. better. really. nenver ever go to the palace. eek'

It would be fun reversal. Q.A sneaking into the garrison to see her baby. aramis being like 'you so really absolutely totally cannot be here' standing at the end of a corridor full of men used to living in barracks like not entirely dressed and sort of being awful all like O_O O_O O_O like those picures where the light in rats eyes.

Q.A being like 'and now this is aramis he is coming to court to be honoured and the king has decided in his generosity that aramis's baby is coming also and oops louis jr just happened to meet him oh look at that oh dear i tripped over and my two babies are friends what a big oopsie daisy no aramis i didn't do anything at all'

Q.A loves BOTH her babies. for the record. baby number 2 is GONNA BE LOVED.

I think porthos watching the king dote on miracle court baby would be fun. Porthos "shall we show him what being poor in paris is really like" du Vallon.

the king doesn't know. the king doesnt care.

the rest of the show can be p much the same. tbf i only watched bits of s3 and skipped a lot of the more plotty stuff so i dont actually know this. the version I watched could fit this change easy and who cares what other ppl watched.

Sylvie being like 'he is the king of france' abt the dauphin and constance being like '....well. technically u r correct. but. uh.' and sylvie being like 'this is another of those treason things isnt it' and constance like 'a bit' and sylvie like 'yesssss tell me tell me'

[anamelessfool]

For One Creature's Sake (pt 2 of 2) P1

(AO3 Link) GEN | Primo & Young Copia

Submitted to @cirrus-ghoulette Whump Month Prompt. June 10: "Stay? Please?"

Family Drama, Phobias, Young Characters, Brotherly Affection, Caring, Family Bonds, Time Skips, Sickbed, Hospice Care, Curses, Hurt/Comfort

Even monsters need love, don't they?

PSA in my AU the Ghost Project timeline is much earlier. 1969-1972, 1996--ongoing.

2001

Primo lately had taken on a sallow gray color. The veins radiating from his white Infernal Eye were black, angry, twisting across his face and down his neck and arms like cruel lightning. When Brother Copia had visited him Primo was either boiling hot and soaked with sweat, or nearly frozen to the touch. A few months ago Primo had climbed into bed and since then he had not gotten up on his own.

“Primo?” Copia put on a cheery voice, walking deeper into the room with a tray of food and fresh flowers. “Primo, I’m here! Coming closer.” He narrated his actions, since recently Primo confessed he was losing his sight too. He carried the tray carefully across the room, resting it on the side table. “Lunch, soup and a half cucumber sandwich. All from your garden of course. It’s still doing well. Shall I…shall I help you up?”

“I would like that,” said Primo. He coughed and stirred. Copia pulled him up by the shoulders, adjusting the pillows behind him. Today Primo felt clammy but not uncomfortably so. The man grunted his appreciation, settling into his new upright position. “How are you today?”

“I should be asking you that.” Brother Copia gave him one of his shy smiles. He was a mousey, lanky young brother of sin in his mid-twenties, with a weirdly elegant ski-slope of a nose and a soft smattering of freckles. His fingers twitched excitedly as he spoke. He replaced the wilted flowers on the bedside table with new pink fluffy peonies from Primo’s well-tended garden.

Primo coughed a laugh. “I don’t change too much from day to day. You said there’s soup, sandwich?”

Copia brought the tray to Primo’s lap and cut small pieces of the sandwich for him, putting them in his hand piece by piece, chattering with the older man about the random goings on in the Ministry. What the new gardener was planting, Terzo’s latest weird project. If Sister had finally killed Nihil yet (she hadn’t). Copia carefully helped ladle soup into Primo’s mouth and showed off his little sling bag strapped across his chest.

“Rat carrier. It was crocheted as a gift for me,” Copia explained. He moved the tray of dishes away, and helped Primo wipe his mouth. “By Sister Alice.” He opened the drawstring and a black rat’s head emerged, its nose twitching. Copia scratched the creature’s cheek and it let out an appreciative squeak.

“Oh yes, and how is she?”

Copia frowned and he hoped Primo didn’t notice. “I'm afraid we're no more,” Copia muttered. “She…um…said it was her, not me. I don't really know what that means.”

“You’ll find the one,” Primo said, smiling. “Who do you have with you today, Copia?”

“Aramis,” said Copia. He placed the large black rat in Primo’s lap, guiding his hand to rest on the soft glossy fur. “The largest of the brothers.”

“He is quite a big one!” chuckled Primo.

“He eats Porthos and Athos’ food constantly,” Copia sighed. “But it makes him too sleepy to get into trouble, so it ah…all evens out.”

“You used to be so terrified of rats.”

“I don’t remember ever being scared of them.” Copia watched Aramis in Primo’s hand with fatherly pride. “They have little hands, how could you be afraid of them?”

Primo laughed aloud, and Copia gave him a confused look, but joined in. They shared a few moments of mirth before Primo’s hoarse laughter petered off into rattling coughs. Copia grabbed Aramis, who was fleeing from Primo’s lap, and dropped the rat on his own shoulder. He brought a cup of water over to Primo, helping him drink.

There was a tense silence. Copia pet Aramis, and the rat’s soft fur and happily twitching tail calmed him. But the lingering dark cloud had settled in on their afternoon.

“Secundo is now Papa Emeritus…and it seems like Terzo will be next.” Copia swallowed. “You don’t think Sister would um…would pick me for the Ghost Project, would she?”

“And why not? You have exceptional musical talent, Copia.”

“Yes, but…erm…I don't…I worry—”

“You don't want to end up like me,” Primo interrupted, a sarcastic expression on his face. “Maybe by your time you'll be stronger. More prepared. I lasted longer than the other three before me.”

“Three in eighteen months,” Copia whispered. “One died halfway through a set.”

“And I got through five years,” Primo said. “Some of the greatest five years of my life.” His chest swelled with air, and it seemed like the veins across his body throbbed painfully. “If I could meet my younger self and tell him all that I have accomplished, he would choose the same fate for himself. I assure you.”

“The Ghost Project is…something. We’ve never seen anything like it.” Copia sighed. “Expensive, volatile…dangerous.”

“Yes, it’s the most Papa Emeritus has channeled the Void in centuries. But Sister has a plan. Sister…” Primo turned his head away from Copia, his near sightless eyes distant. He was always terrible at lying. “Sister knows best.”

Copia cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Did you want me to read to you this afternoon? Where were we in the book?” Copia pulled a thin paperback from the side table drawer.

“Frankenstein's bride,” said Primo, his face cracking into a weak grin. “At least I remember that much.”

Copia smiled back, nestling Aramis in his lap. The huge black rat curled up and started to snooze. Copia opened the book, flicking the pages to where they left off. “Ah, yes, this is the monster speaking here… ‘If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me…’’ Primo?” Copia caught his breath in his throat. “Primo, did you…fall asleep?”

“I’m here,” Primo replied. “I'm just…thinking.” He let out a rattling sigh. “Even monsters need love, don't they?”

“Of course.” Copia pet Aramis, smiling. “They need love most of all.”

Primo laid his head back, presumably staring up at the ceiling. It seemed like his mind was far away. Copia's earliest memories was of Primo’s broad smile, his good humor, his laughter. But one day Primo had stopped. Copia distinctly remembered moments where even his child brain felt that something inside his father figure had died. Some gray shadow faded the smile, some occurrence broke a piece of his heart off within him and it had painfully rattled there, trapped ever since.

“I'm sorry, Copia,” Primo finally said, his voice creaking. “I was miles away. You can keep going.”

Copia nodded, settling in. “Well then the monster continues. 'It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.’ “

“I think that is enough,” Primo muttered. “I’m tired. I cannot think about this.” He held out his hand and Copia took it.

“I’ll come by tonight, for dinner? We can finish it then.” Copia carefully herded Aramis back into the pouch, closing the drawstring. He stood up, placing his hand on Primo’s shoulder. Primo looked up, finding his eyes. Copia’s heart dropped but he managed a crooked smile.

“That would be excellent.”

“Would you be interested in coming to my organ practice tonight? If you are up for it.” Copia lowered Primo back onto the bed so he could get his afternoon nap in.

“I will see how I feel. I can have the nurse open the window. I can…sort of hear you play from here.”

“Right,” Copia said, wincing. He started backing away. “I’m leaving now. I hope you rest up. I…I care about you, Primo. Like…like a brother. Like a son.” His stomach turned. The slackness of his father figure, his adoptive brother as he lay there in bed felt like an ill omen. Something in him turned on, dark thoughts lapping at his feet like the encroaching tide. I need to prepare for this. One day Primo won’t be talking back.

He closed the door, and pretended he didn’t feel like the sound reminded him of a coffin lid.

Me on AO3!

If you're up for seeing some 70s era Dark Magic Noir, please subscribe to my AO3 or the "Scenes from the Void" Series there. This fic will be released very soon. Thank you!

[hannahhook7744]

Red Hearts headcanons;

Her name isn't actually Red, that's just a nickname.

Her actual full name is Róisín Evangeline Hearts.

Her father is the king of Hearts.

Her favorite colors are pink and red.

She has brown eyes and black hair with red streaks.

She's been nicknamed 'Red' since she was a little kid because of her extreme love for the color.

Red has a nack for getting herself (and her friends) in and out of trouble.

She has been described as rebellious, troublesome, and whip-smart.

She loves elaborate dresses but also loves a nice, simple, comfy outfit from time to time.

Red loves provoking her mother against her older brother, Hardy's, wishes because she knows she'll never gain her approval.

She loves pulling pranks, playing cards, solving mysteries, and ghost hunting.

She has a card symbol choker necklace with matching earrings.

She usually travels with a playing card hoverboard.

Red's weapon of choice is a flamingo croquet mallet.

Her favorite holiday just so happens to be Chloe's least favorite and that's Halloween. She likes it because no one looks at her weird and Chloe hates it because of the dragons.

Red also enjoys acting, musicals, croquet, and poetry.

Red and Hardy both inherited their mother's temper. She's just better at hiding it than he is.

She is also a big fan of unbirthday cakes, princessy stuff, and roses.

She doesn't get along that well with her mother or her father who she thinks is spineless but she still loves them.

Trials bore her.

Red met Chloe when they were 10 after the barrier was brought down and they instantly became bestfriends.

She swore to Chloe that she'd help her find Chad after he disappeared and never gave up on it.

Eventually, they somehow managed to drag Danny Darling, Maddox Hatter, and Hadie into it and even convinced the Badun Detective Agency and the other protégés to give them a hand occasionally.

She is 18 by the time the events of the pocketwatch occur.

Flamingos are her favorite animal and eventually Chloe gets her one as a pet.

She names it 'Ruby' and Ruby gets along great with Chloe's pets (Her dog, Bailey. Her horse, Speedy. Her cat, Bumpsy. Her mice—Athos, Porthos, and Felthos. And her elephant, Peepsy).

Red made herself a toy back on the isle that she named 'Ace'. It was made with a card, goggly eyes and glue.

She still has the toy in her room on her desk.

She and Chloe are roommates at Auradon Prep.

Red and her brother help out at her mom's salon.

Red's mother use to be (and may still be) a teacher at Dragonhall.

Her favorite sport is foul ball.

Her favorite video games are Storm the Castle and Crown of Duty.

Gil fixes any rips in her outfits because her brother is in his crew.

Her favorite classes are Flying Ed (Flying Carpet driver's ed) and Jousting class.

Red is apart of the following: Jousting club, Debate club, croquet club, and the school newspaper.

She looked up to Dizzy alot since she is younger than her.

Every year on Unification Day Holiday and King Beast's Honorary Holiday, she vandalizes the museum and his statues.

She hates Beast, obviously.

Of the boys, she's closest to Maddox.

She doesn't take Hadie or his 'minions' seriously because she doesn't really believe their evil.

She gets along with him and his friends just fine though.

She also gets along great with Danny.

She gets along fine enough with Ally despite their differences.

Red's favorite bands are The Bad Apples and The Dragon Slayers but cannot stand The Sorcerer's Appertinces or Aladdin and the Lamps.

She loves Heavy metal and rock music.

Her favorite social media is InstaRoyal.

Her favorite candy is licorice.

Her least favorite class is Remdial goodness and Ethics.

Red has nearly been kicked out of the School Newspaper writing team and the debate team several times for making people uncomfortable. For bluntly stating the truth.

She also has a sister named 'Quinlynn'.

Also despite their vastly differing appearances, the three of them are (despite popular belief) full-blooded siblings. Genetics are just werid sometimes.

That's all I got for now. Hope you guys enjoyed.

[wench-and-jezebel]

The Musketeers Reaction: The Exiles

Jezebel (@typicalopposite) reacts [with occasional asides by Wench (@scripted-downfall)]

Sheep

[Bebby]

“Don’t get…” Buddy.  You.  Have.  No.  Right.  T- Actually neither of them do.  WHY WERE THEY CHOSEN FOR THIS?  [*simultaneously*  "Don't get involved"  Aramis, you're one to talk]

That… Looked sus

Bby!!

PRIEST BE DED

HOW  [?]  IS THAT BABY IN THAT THING?  [There are straps or something; don't question it]  That’s so unsafe!  The mom in me is like HOW TF!  Ack!

[Legitimately, though, why did they have d'Art and Aramis teaming up and think this a good idea]

Welp… they left the wrong one with her [alsdkfj True]  He just gonna replace the baby  [ALKDSFJ]

[Sir, she was by a grave; where do you think hubby be?]

If Flirt removes and puts this hat back on one more time ☠️☠️ I know why he’s doing it but ☠️

[Dude.  Athos should have had a hawk.  Is it at all in his character?  Nah, not really.  But it'd be cool.]

All I heard from Louis was whine whine whine… whine whine

[asdfasdf We've found the two competent members of les Inseparables]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

Whine.  Whine.  Whineeeee.  [I recognize that he's not actually being unreasonable here but he's very whiny.  I guess he could rescind his own ruling maybe?  idk for sure.  But like... she really did commit a rather serious crime]  I just 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨  This man.  

["Decapitating one's mother is rarely popular with the people sire - it always looks a touch ungrateful."  I love the Cardinal's sarcasm ngl]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️ Very true

Poor baby!  I’d be crying too.  He’s like WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU MAN.  And getting flip flopped all around

Do they think she’s a witch?  [I don't actually remember]

Bbys like OH GOD WHY D’ART I’m screwed

Athos got them crazy eyes now

You just wanted to kill your mother???

Oooop y’all don’t be looking at each other  [Another instance of Treville and the Cardinal being on the same page btw]

Wot.  The.  Fuck.  This man?!!??!  [Louis is… a character]

Buddy you think your cape is big enough?  [Nope… You know what they say about men with big capes-]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️

["Aramis and d'Artagnan aren't back yet"  No shit, you paired those two together… The mission went to shit the second those orders were given]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️ Then again… Had he sent Porthos with Aramis…. They would have never arrived at all  [Ah, then you've come to the (correct) conclusion that Athos has the braincell; I've taught you well]  😂😂😂😂  And he needed the brain cell with him guarding the king. Alas his hands were tied

Oooohhhhh poor bby king… Don’t cry… Uuuuwuuuuwuuuuu  [It must be said... I do like the actor who plays Louis.  He does a good job at being... this]  He does!

It’s very obvious she’s faking  [Ma’am is manipulative af]

[Ma'am.  Treason is not a "misjudgement" most of the time]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️

Ma’am why does dart need to be joined?  [*simultaneously* "I'll go and join d'Artagnan"  I'm not surprised, dearie]  You!  Are married!

[Good news... Aramis knows ways of healing wounds *cough cough*]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️

Have you, Flirt? Have you?

I thought they were gonna kiss I was like oooop

She looks like the queen of hearts in the live action Alice

Beauty and the beast 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[Wait.  Hold up.  Oh shit.  Huh]  Wait Wot? Lol  [Nothing]

Well shit… Flirt, stop talking

That’s so fecking sad omg ack

[Whoa, there, d'Art]  ☠️☠️

☠️☠️ [THE SIDEGLANCE]  I knowwww  ["You'll have children of your own someday"  "If it's meant to be *stares at d'Art*"]  Lol

Poor Constance  [She's gone from running the risk of dishonoring herself because d'Artagnan asked her to in Athos's name to running the risk of dishonoring herself because d'Artagnan asked her to]

– – – 

Jezebel: I honestly don’t know how Aramis can breathe… Buddy has shoved his foot so far down his throat this episode 😂😂

Wench: asldkfjalkdsfj it's true

Jezebel: And the king! I just can’t get over how childish he is! 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 poor Anne I could never live in an arranged marriage! (That’s what these like always are right?)

Wench: This was def an arranged marriage, yes.  As part of an alliance between France and Spain

Jezebel: Ohhh! 🙂 Then you got the queen of hearts being sneaky and conniving! And Athos being the only one with sense!

Wench: Oi, Porthos hasn't done much, but he's still not lacking sense!  It's only when Aramis is there that trouble ensues

Jezebel: Very true!  I swear: you got the brains, the brawn, the beauty, and d’Art

Wench: asdkfhjaslkdfj  Also known by their alternative titles: the traumatized, the traumatized, the traumatized, and, oh, yeah, the traumatized

Jezebel: ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️  And these are the famous musketeers whose story has been told for centuries (?)

Wench:  I mean.  Yes

Jezebel: The ? Was because I wasn’t sure when the book came out ☠️☠️

Wench: I know al;ksdjf

Jezebel: Honestly?  I love it

Wench: Though, again... d'Art was a great deal less traumatized in the book.  And I don't remember Savoy being a thing for Aramis either.  idk... it's been a bit since I read, but I only really remember book!Athos having a Traumatic Backstory alksdjf

Jezebel: So trauma, poverty, religion, and…. And d’Art.

Wench: Well, again, I'm not sure about the poverty even.  For Porthos, I mean.  I don’t remember it being a big part of the book, aside from the fact that he’s described (iirc) as marrying well, and that’s why he has a title.

Jezebel: Unless it’s just the show that has Port come fro- Yeah, that!

Wench: I don't know for sure… I need to reread 😭  The Wikipedia article seems to agree with me (picture not included)

Jezebel: Oh, so brawn works! And ☹️☹️ He dies?

Wench: Not in the first book… I told you this; he dies in Man in the Iron Mask

Jezebel: The book one tho right?

Wench: Yes.  Ma'am, I've said this like three times 😭  I knew you never listened to me (aff)

Jezebel: ‘Cause in the movie it’s d’Art. Is he the king’s father in the book?

Wench: No

Jezebel: Also… Ma’am.  Memory is shit you know this

Wench: HMPH.

– – –

Oh my gawd!  She’s behind thieving the bby!

[Our wish, their command; Porthos returns to the front lines :)]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️  [Y'all, why are you walking that closely.  You're Asking to get seen]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️  [Athos is back too]

Ooooop.  OOPPPPP!  OHHHHHHHHH PHILLIPE!  [Now you see the cause for the earlier “Wait.  Hold up.  Oh shit.  Huh.”  NOW DO YOU SEE]  I seee!  Le gasp!  OH MAH GAWDDDD

Shit, this baby is the prince

Oooooop she ain’t nothing in there

“He folds”  [Athos, I love you]  

[Constance, my beloved]   Lord… Flirt’s gonna be getting heart eyes for the married lady d’Art’s got heart eyes for

Isss not all about looks flirt

*Sigh*  He’s about to his thigh now. He’s going to have eaten himself by the end

🙂 I like him.  I see what he did there  [This has the same vibe as "just so you know why I can't help"]  It does!!

[I love that Athos knows what happened within one second alskdjf]  😂😂😂

Lady… Don’t be stupid

[Off-topic, but… The temptation to write a Musketeers/Firefly fic is strong with this one]  👀👀👀👀  [I still don’t know firefly but I’m listening]

Maaam!  The king is more a child than the baby!

[Also, Aramis... spare nothing why don't you.  Like... she needs to hear it but also.  Tact?]  He’s definitely eaten his torso by now

Well, the red queen is back  [Do.  Do you mean Helena Bonham Carter]  The character is who she looks like with that hairdo

Wah wah wahhhh  ["Being king can be so boring"  I promise you wouldn't want to be a subject either.  Also "It's so unfair!'  Bitch, you have soooo much privilege.  It's literally not even funny]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️ I can’t even with him!

["No, no, let's keep it suicidal"]  😂😂😂😂  [Did you expect any less from Athos?  I mean... buddy's a bit.  Self-care-less]  Very true

[I mean.  She makes a good point]  True ☠️☠️☠️☠️

Henry, Louis, Phillip… Do the people back then know there were other boys names 😮‍💨  [Ma'am, they're French: Henri.  Louis.  Phillipe.  But also… No]

“These barrels contain brandy. A rather good Armagnac, I believe.”  “Athos, now is not the time.”  AND THEN THE LOOK]  ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️  I LOVE IT

SIR!  [YOU ALWAYS LACK FAITH]  I KNOW ITS FAKE WOMAN BUT YOU COULD HAVE WARNED HER [OH]

BRUH How can she be like this about her kid?!!?  Damn.  Like, he’s whiny but I feel bad for him.

Is she…. Is she good?  [WHY WOULD YOU POSSIBLY THINK HER GOOD?]  I meant the little moan thing she did

Well shit… Poor priest 

Damn

Aight, Flirt pulled himself back out to like the ankle.

She’s like nah, I was thinking this man’s a fucking idiot

– – – 

Jezebel: That didn’t feel like it was long enough to be a whole episode I have been robbed

Wench: lkasjfdlksajdf  I'd say do another but it's the time of night where you usually abandon me, so... 'sigh'  Although... next ep is rather a good one.  Deserves focus.  (aka: it’s Athos-centric)

Jezebel: I can’t stay up past midnight again I’m dying in the mornings lol 😂😂😂😂 If it was the weekend I 100% would 😭 cause I’m loving this show sm!

Wench: Hmph.  Shoulda known... you just like me for my shows

Jezebel: LIESSSS

Wench: Mmmhmmmmm… Do endpoint, problem child

Jezebel: This was so fucking sad omg!!!!  This is not what I wanted when I said I was curious if Phillipe was in the show

Wench: I didn't even connect the two last time, if it makes you feel better.  I also didn't connect Savoy to all the dead Musketeers in episode 1 until this go-round.  Or how this episode must have been painful given the similarities to Milady.   I hadn’t seen Man in the Iron Mask (or read the book) in any close proximity last time I watched this

Jezebel: I thought of it when I heard the name but again that was a very common used name ☠️😂  Wait, Savoy was mentioned in the first episode?

Wench: No, but it had the ambush wherein the Musketeers were attacked for the letter they carried as a means of setting up Athos' frame-job.   And it was very similar to the story we hear in ep4 about Savoy.  Thus, that was likely even more unfortunate for Aramis than we knew.  I think there was even snow on the ground

Jezebel: Ooooooh!  And as for the Milady thing… What do you mean?

Wench: Technically it was the King’s duty to execute his mother — largely because he’d made that ruling in the past, to be fair, so he could just revoke it as he did in the show (but no one said Athos POV parallels had to be fair/accurate) — and he didn’t; thus, what does it say about the character of a man who went ahead with it when even Louis didn’t.

Jezebel: 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 Well! Damn! That’s more pain than I originally thought it would be! Ack! Now I’m hurt! 😤😤 rude. 

Wench: You're welcome!

Jezebel: bUt yoUr NoT eViLlllll.

Wench: I'm nottttt

Jezebel: Anyway! 😤😮‍💨 This poor woman… Fell in love with a man who was a good person but shunned for his appearance, watched him die, saw her baby kidnapped, finds out he is actually the rightful king only to have that idea squashed because royals are actually quite evil, tries to escape just for her baby to be yeeted into a river…. I mean at least he is alive and they got away but I’m sure she probably has mentally lost like ten years of life from that

Wench: And she had to deal with Aramis for three days

Jezebel: Very true… how this man gets all the ladies is beyond me. He is 😮‍💨😮‍💨 an idiot

Wench: You... you ain't seen nothing yet.  Suffice to say that Athos' statement from the first episode --- "Tell me he's not that stupid," immediately followed by him being, yes, that stupid --- is highly accurate as a personality guide

Jezebel: 😂😂😂😂😂  And I say this as affectionately as possible as he is still my favorite. But he is still an idiot

Wench: Naturally... I like him too :)  My ranking, btw?  Athos = high favorite, Portamis = tied for high second, d'Art... somewhere in a distant third.  (Sorry to d'Art fans… I don't dislike him though.  He's just.  Not a fave)

Jezebel: I read portamis as just Porthos and was like you like dart more than flirt for shameeeee!  But, see, what has happened is this show has taken Dean and split him into two characters

Wench: Tbf, the flirty part of Dean was never one of my favorites.  Like, nothing against that side of him, but it's not what endeared him to me.  Thus, I'm not surprised that I didn't hyperfixate over Aramis despite that as a commonality

Jezebel: Very fair 😂 I think for me it’s more the goofiness that I’m liking but the flirting is cute

Wench: The goofiness is also not one of my favorite traits, so... the point stands.  Like.  I appreciate it in both.  But it's not fixation-worthy

Jezebel: Does. Does this make Cas port and Sam Dart ☠️☠️

Wench: You do realize that not every ship is Destiel-coded

Jezebel: It was a joke ☠️☠️☠️ 

Wench: I know.  As was mine  

(EDIT: We’re accidentally paralleling the scene from this episode… “You do realize that not every ship is Destiel-coded” = “These barrels contain brandy; “It was a joke ☠️☠️☠️” = “Now is not the time”; “As was mine” = Athos’ Look)

Jezebel: But also no I don’t I will spread my Destiel fixation to every fandom I want thank you very much.  (Idk why but the image that went through my head was coloring pictures of the other fandoms with a dual color green and blue crayon… It’s late.  I’m feeling it)

Wench: Weak

Jezebel: It’s true.  It’s what happens when you get old

Wench: False

Jezebel: 😊  Anyway… am I missing anything?

Wench: Not that I can see

Jezebel: Goood! Well Athos ep tomorrow!?

Wench: That works

Jezebel: Perfect… ‘til then!

[groundcontrol21]

Ohhh. It's so hard to pick! I love all of these! But I think I'm going to go with Dec 14th: an "unfortunate"gift. 😉😉

It's no longer December 14th, but here is December 14th's prompt, made extra long to compensate for the wait :) Merry Christmas to the wonderful and patient @sniction-fiction, and to the rest of those who celebrate.

In the distance, and above the frigid howl of the wind, the bells of Saint Sulpice chimed a quarter past the hour. D’Artagnan looked to his friends who were gathered at the table with him, still awaiting the fourth friend whose idea it had been to gather at Athos’s apartment before the Christmas feast and exchange gifts. Porthos had taken to tapping the table with his knuckles. Athos was draining the dregs from his third cup of wine. 

Porthos frowned, sparing a glance out the wintry window. “He’s fifteen minutes late.”

“The weather probably delayed him this morning,” Athos said drily, pouring himself more wine. “Where was it this year, Tours?”

“Amiens.” Porthos shook his head. “I think. Or maybe Angers. I can hardly keep track of his ladies.”

“It’s a wonder he can.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’d need a roster to help me remember.”

“I think Aramis could use one,” Porthos laughed. “Free up a bit of space in that little head of his.” Porthos tapped at his own skull for emphasis, before turning and wagging that same finger with gusto at the young Gascon. “Hey, maybe that should be your present to him next year. A neat little accounting book, where he can keep a list of his mistresses. Names in one column, gifts they give him in the other.”

Athos hummed in bemused approval, and D’Artagnan snorted. “Is it really that bad?”

Athos and Porthos shared a long, knowing look, before Athos cleared his throat. “I think his record is the year he came home from the newly widowed Lady D’Bouconvilier’s country estate with another horse to carry all his gifts.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Porthos laughed. “Or when he came home from Rouen with a big bottle of Persian perfume swaddled to his chest–I thought he’d come home with a son!”

D’Artagnan guffawed and listened with rapt intent as Porthos and Athos took turns relaying the details of Aramis’s other Christmas tradition besides the Mass: the week prior to the holiday he spent making a tour of his wealthiest paramours from the year. From the sounds of it, Aramis had hardly bought himself anything in his life; item after item which D’Artagnan had seen the man possess turned out to be gifts, from the saddle on his horse to the knife he used to trim his beard. Porthos was just about to tell the story behind a pair of braes when the door handle turned at last and Aramis slipped inside, shivering in his overcoat and clutching a satchel.

“Well, speak of the Devil, here he comes,” Porthos cried. “What was the gift from the mistress this year, eh?”

Aramis closed the door behind him wordlessly. He dropped the satchel from his shoulder so abruptly that it collided with the floor with a resounding thump that had a note of precarious breakability. For a moment, it seemed as though he had not heard the question directed at him, but the real reason for his silence became apparent when, in one swift and well-honed gesture, he whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face. “Heh’ETCHHH!” 

Aramis lowered the handkerchief just enough to give his reply. “A cold,” he croaked bitterly, though of course such a resounding sneeze had been answer enough in its own right. “She claimed to be well but… Heh’Heh’KSHHHH!” The handkerchief was back in place, his speech muffled into the folds. “Clearly that was–EHhh’KMPSSHH! Ugh, God.” 

With a miserable sniffle and a wipe, Aramis tucked the handkerchief back away. He dragged a chair back from the table a bit, until its back was flush with the wall, and plopped unceremoniously into it. He slumped, tipping his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a long blink. He waved his hand. “Don’t come too close, this isn’t one of the gifts I want to give to you.”

“Rotten gift,” Porthos said, brow furrowed, voice full of gruff sympathy. “Did she give you anything else?”

Aramis blinked his eyes back open. “A lovely tortoiseshell hair comb but–Snf!” He rubbed at his rapidly reddening nose with the back of his knuckles, his nostrils glistening and twitching. “This is the gift which is most memorable. Ihhh’KRSHHHH’uhh!” Aramis dipped forward into his cupped hands, lingering in such a position for a silent, sniffling moment before straightening again. He rubbed at his throat.

 “Ow,” he pronounced clearly. “And which I’m least grateful for.”

Athos poured him a cupful of wine, and Aramis took it gratefully, downing it all in one go with a pronounced wince and a cough. They spoke a bit with Aramis about his travels, asking after the food (lovely), the ride (easy), the weather (horrid), before Aramis shook his head with an airy cough. 

“But I’ve wasted enough time with my tardiness!” he cried, and retrieved his satchel. “Let us not waste any more with such idle chatter. Let us exchange our gifts, now four of us instead of three.”

D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his own bag at the floor between his feet. “Who should go first?”

Athos inclined his head as he set down his cup. “How about Aramis, since he’s already received a gift?”

Aramis flashed a smirk at him. “Funny.” His voice was so occluded he could not help a rather unseemly throat clearing and snuffle combination, but still Aramis brought the satchel to his lap and begin to sift through its contents. His downward gaze created a veritable flood out of his already runny nose, and he sniffled on each breath as he considered what was in the satchel carefully, deliberation over whose gift to give first written clearly across his twitching features. 

At last, he reached decisively into the pouch, but had to abort the action almost as soon as he had done it, for a massive sneeze came over him. The hand came up to hurriedly cup over his nose. “Hh’TSCHHH!“ Hehh’ISHshhh! Oh, excuse me,” he said, voice all congestion, as he pinched and wiped away at his nose. He looked down at his fingers, and blushed. “Could I trouble one of you for a handkerchief? This cold is all in my nose.”

His friends had seen the mess upon his hands as clearly as he, and so D’Artagnan, perhaps just as eager as Aramis to be rid of such a sight, was up and offering his own handkerchief to the man in an instant. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said, and cleaned up his hand as much as his face. 

“Please, keep it,” D’Artagnan said forcefully as he took his seat again. “Merry Christmas.”

Aramis gave a grateful nod as he buried his nose into it and gave a blow so soggy and forceful that D’Artagnan winced. “Well, since our Gascon has so generously given me a gift already,” Aramis said with a smile, giving the handkerchief a demonstrative wave. “I will start with him.”

He reached into the satchel, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves lined with fur, and leaned forward to pass them to D’Artagnan. “To preserve the warmth of your fragile, Gascon hands against the cruelty of the Paris wind.”

D’Artagnan gaped a bit as he took the gift from his friend, and his mouth dropped open further as he tugged the snug leather over his fingers. He flexed and clenched his fist, examining his gloved hand from all angles. “They fit perfectly, Aramis,” he said in a hushed voice. “How did you know–”

Aramis grinned cheekily. “How soon you forget just how many times I had to reposition those very hands on a musket.”

D’Artagnan blushed crimson at the reminder of his green incompetence. “Thank you,” he said after another long moment spent gazing at the leather. “This is truly a thoughtful gift, my friend.”

“Now I better not hear you complaining of the cold ever again,” Porthos said, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them obnoxiously loudly, a mimic of D’Artagnan’s chosen method of warming and passive-aggressive complaint whenever the wind had the slightest nip to it. D’Artagnan removed one of the gloves and swatted Porthos on the shoulder with it. 

“Careful!” Aramis admonished playfully. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to violence against your friend once you see what I’ve gotten him.”

This time, Aramis produced a small knife in a delicately patterned wooden casing from the satchel, and held it in an outstretched arm. “Take it, Porthos, I have to–” The precarious waver in Aramis’s breath left no ambiguity to his meaning, and so Porthos quickly snatched the item from him. Aramis snapped forward, tucking his chin to his chest and involuntarily squeezing the satchel close. “HETCHHH!” 

He dug out the handkerchief again and held it hovering just inches away from his quivering, dripping nose as his breath hitched in preparation for another. “Ihhh… Oh…Snf!” Aramis teetered a moment on the precipice. His eyes, glazed and misty, looked nowhere in particular as they fluttered shut once more. “IHHH’KSHHH’uhhh!”

Porthos unsheathed the knife from its casing, and turned it over in his hands, recognizing at once that it was a woodworking knife. It felt instantly more comfortable in his grasp as he mimicked a whittling motion than did his dagger. 

“It’s beautiful,” Porthos murmured. “Thank you, mon ami.”

“So that you no longer have to sully the blade of your dagger when boredom strikes on a mission.” As he spoke, Aramis rubbed his nose with the handkerchief, making slow and squelchy circles, trying to draw out the remaining tickle. “Hehhh’ISHHH’oo!” The sneeze which he had coaxed forth was harsh and wet, leaving moisture behind not only beneath his nose but also his eyes. Aramis huffed an annoyed laugh and scrubbed at his eyes and his nose a couple times with the handkerchief. “Ugh, I’mb leaking.”

The three friends shared a look while the fourth cleaned himself up, but nothing more was said on the matter. Aramis let the handkerchief fall into a sad, sodden bundle on his lap while he retrieved the last item from his satchel. The glass bottle had been the source of the clatter when the bag had hit the floor earlier, but fortunately the wine was undamaged.

“And for Athos.” 

Athos took the bottle reverently, his eyes widening as he realized its contents cost about ten times the amount he usually spent on his vice. “Aramis, this is… expensive.”

Aramis smiled, even as his nose dripped. “Your skills of appraisal are astute as always.”

Athos shook his head. “No, Aramis, I mean it, this is–”

“Heh’KSHHHH’oo! Ehhh’HISHHH!” Aramis gave a clogged laugh as he squeezed his nose between two folds of the handkerchief to wipe it. “See? Snf! Even my nose has no patience for your foolish protestations.”

“Then, I see no other option but to open it and share it with friends.”

Athos uncorked the bottle and poured from it into each of their cups, mistakenly dribbling a bit on the table near where D’Artagnan’s gloves lay. Horrified at their proximity to destruction, D’Artagnan snatched the gloves away and squawked at Athos, who rallied with a calm, choice set of words of his own. Porthos laughed as they squibbled and Aramis, for his part, merely slumped a bit in his chair, unnoticed. 

Porthos opened his mouth to quip something at Aramis, only to find the man had leaned his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. When Aramis seemed about to stay that way indefinitely, Porthos scooted his chair around the table, closer to his friend. Aramis gave no indication he had heard the move. Porthos frowned and nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, are you feeling alright?” 

Aramis lowered his hand and blinked, a bit heavy and startled as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Yes, I’ve…” He blew out a sigh, and even that sounded stopped to the brim with congestion. “I’ve just got this terrible headache.”

Porthos’s frown deepened. “Just now?”

Aramis’s gaze flicked from friend to friend, as they were all watching him intently now. He sighed again, finishing with a tickly cough. “All day,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only been getting worse.”

“Why don’t you go lie down?” Athos said, voice as gentle as it was firm. “We will fetch you before Reveillon.”

Between the tenderness in his ordinarily stoic friend’s voice and the incessant pounding in his own head, there was little room for resistance to such a sound suggestion, and so Aramis rose gingerly, feeling his muscles sore from the cold, his cold, and all the riding he had done. He gathered his satchel on his shoulder and began to shuffle toward the door, when Athos’s voice stopped him. 

“Where are you going?”

Aramis fixed him with a bewildered expression. “To go lie down?”

Athos huffed, as close to a laugh as anything he ever did. “Surely your brain is not so addled with cold that you don’t remember my bedchamber is that way?” He pointed in the opposite direction. 

Aramis blinked as Athos’s intention broke through the mist in his brain. “Your bed… Athos, no.” He sniffled and coughed. “Not with a cold like this.”

“Well,” Athos said, reclining disinterestedly in his chair, “if you prefer to trudge all the way back to your apartments in the biting wind, I shan’t stop you.”

Aramis chewed at his chapped lip. “Still, I hate the thought that I could pass this along… I hate the thought of giving you such an unfortunate gift. Any of you.”

“We’ve all gotten our fair share of unfortunate gifts.” Porthos chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember when Athos gave me a book before I could read?”

Athos’s cheeks blushed the faintest of pinks, but his eyes narrowed at Porthos. “Remember when you gave Aramis what you were convinced was lavender oil, but which made his hands red and blistered and itchy for weeks?”

D’Artagnan shrugged and added, “My cousin gave me a collar for a dog I didn’t even have.”

Aramis gave a congested, but happy-sounding laugh, and coughed wetly into the handkerchief. He smiled tenderly at his friends, who were laughing too, but before he could add to the conversation, a sneeze stole his breath, sending him hitching into the sodden handkerchief. “Hhhh’ehhh’EHHDSKHH!”

“Go lie down, my friend,” Athos said, and Aramis nodded through his snuffling. He raised his hand and the handkerchief it held in a haphazard farewell before crumpling back into it as he shuffled away to Athos’s bedchamber. “Heh’RSHHH!”

The trio who remained turned their gifts over in their hands, discussing them all in subdued marvel. When enough time had passed that the three friends were sure the fourth had fallen asleep, they assembled a tray to leave on his bedside table for when he woke. Sure enough, the congested snores which filled the bedchamber advertised that they had been correct in their assessment, and so they shuffled quietly in, depositing their gifts beside their sleeping friend, bundled beneath the bedcovers. They had left him two handkerchiefs–Athos’s and Porthos’s sacrificed to the cause now just as surely as D’Artagnan’s–as well as a mug of tea and some mint paste Athos had found in his cupboard. They were unconventional gifts for Christmas, to be sure, and likely not exactly what Aramis envisioned himself in want of, but that was no matter. There would be time for more exchanging of gifts when Aramis was well again. 

[dreamerinthesun]

“Sorry for the burned cake...”

{Captain Treville x reader, platonic!musketeers x reader}

A/N: Soo, here's one of my first one-shots. It's for the amazing birthday girl @rose-edith ☺️🤍 I hope you'll enjoy it as much as you enjoyed your big day! Love you!

Athos wasn't the best cook in Garrison, in fact he hated being around in the kitchen more than anything. How he was assigned with baking cake for his captain's wife birthday remained mystery but he still tried his best. Of course, today was a big day for the whole courtyard of Musketeers and Captain Treville decided that his beloved's birthday should be a perfect day. Why he wanted musketeers to help was still unsure but from what Athos understood, they show show their thanks to the madam Treville. “You know, the cake won't make itself...” Someone spoke up from the door with obvious amusement in their voice. The second in command looked up with a frown to see Aramis standing there with embrace full of flowers. 'Of course he was assigned flowers', thought Athos bitterly as it didn't surprise him at all. “I have never baked anything in my life”, confessed Athos beginning to move around the kitchen in a hope there was some hidden cookbook which could help him out of his misery. “It's not that hard, really. You just need to use eggs, flour, oil and sugar...” Aramis started to count on his fingers, enjoying the view of his friend in such an awful situation. Helping Athos out didn't even came to his mind. “Oh really? Well if it is that easy why don't you just do it yourself!”, snapped Athos back with a frown between his eyebrows. Turning around to face the younger musketeer Athos would love to see Aramis try to bake it. “It wasn't a my responsibility to bake the cake... But since you need my help, I will do it. You owe me one tho” Aramis sighed trying to act as if he was hard to convince but Athos's glare made him put the flowers down on the table as he began to show Athos what he should do as both of them teamed up to make at least something which was close to the birthday cake their captain imagined.

“What is taking them so long?” Porthos wondered leaning against the one of tables setted outside. His right arm was loosely put across barrel filled with the finest wine, his dark eyes watching the windows from the kitchen. After hearing sounds as if few things broke, Athos swearing loudly and Aramis's cheeky responses the oldest of musketeers began to worry for his brother's safety. Turning his head to take a questioning look at D'Artagnan, the longer haired male shrugged. "Maybe he's trying to put Aramis's body into the cake? Who wouldn't love birthday dessert with Aramis's head on it?" Suggested D'Artagnan with an amused chuckle while making sure everything and everyone else was ready. Few tables were decorated with flowers Aramis brought in, set up with multiple delicious courses captain was able to get from palace's kitchen as it was all ready for arrival of Madam Treville and Captain. Thinking about what else was missing both musketeers were taken out of their thoughts when they heard clapping of hooves on the city's ground.

“I really hope you enjoyed today” Jean Treville spoke to you with small but loving smile. He hoped today's day was the best for you and he made sure you didn't have to worry about such a things as making dinner as he nudged his horse towards Garrison. Everything inside of it was a surprise he was planning for a long time. Jean was slowly counting the days till your birthday, he couldn't wait for making the special day of yours even better.

As they arrived into the courtyard, both Porthos and D'Artagnan were waiting down by the stairs, happy to see you with their captain. It was no secret both men adored your relationship with their boss, it could be seen by the way they shared glances before yelling out "SURPRISE!”

Jumping off the horse Jean helped you down as well as he took your hand into his. His eyes were searching for the emotions in your own eyes, he wanted to see the happiness lighting up behind them and the beautiful smile of yours. Small wrinkles appeared by his own eyes at the sight of your breathtaking smile, he could stand there and stare at you forever but he was interrupted by someone barging out of kitchen door.

Everyone's attention turned to both Athos and Aramis coughing and trying to catch a breath as they were holding onto a sheet on top of which sad something what used to be dough. As the two men were trying to not die out of lack of oxygen, there was a lot of smoke coming from the kitchen. Something bad definitely happened. Aramis spotted his captain with his wife as he helped Athos back on his feet, the two men trying to ignore the tears in their eyes while they showed the completely burned dough. That was supposed to be a cake. “Happy birthday?” Aramis spoke up with questioning tone on the end of sentence. “Sorry for the burned cake...”, Athos added mumbling as his scratch the back of his neck nervously.

The sight of his two musketeers burning such a simple thing made Captain sigh under his breath. He now regretted his choices of cooks but it didn't matter at all if it was still the best day of your life.

[live-logs-and-proper]

Pieces falling into place.

Pairing: Malcolm Reed x OFC (event tough it's just the name. I'm not big on the y/n thing)

Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort and some smut.

Words: 2.7K

“Are you coming to movie night tonight?” Hoshi asks while sitting down beside you.

“Nope, missed training the other day with the MACOs, Reed’s having me catch up after my shift.” You explain and she chuckles.

“Just training.” She teases.

“Stop that.” You say.

“What. You’ve been dancing around each other for god knows how long now.” You roll your eyes at her. “And I’m certainly not the only one that’s noticed.” She adds as you look at your food.

“Well, I’m not sure what y’all have noticed cause there’s been nothing to notice.” You say just as the mess hall door opens and Malcolm and Trip walk in. “I have work I need to finish. T’Pol is most likely waiting for me already.” You say before downing the last of your soda and picking your tray while standing.

“Enjoy your training.” She calls out, earning curious looks from some of your crewmates and if looks could kill yours would’ve been enough to end her right then and there.

The day goes by slowly, helping T’Pol analyse some data gathered after passing by a binary system. Your mind keeps going back to what Hoshi said during lunch, and you keep telling yourself that there’s been nothing to notice. Yeah, you and Reed had grown close and became friends since the mission had started. But that’s all you were. Friends.

“Ensign.” T’Pol’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you apologized. “Are you done with the preliminary analysis?” She asks.

“Yeah, I should have the report ready in a few minutes.” You reply.

“Good, when you’re done, the Captain would like to talk to you.” She informs.

“Of course.” You say with a smile that she doesn’t mirror. Not that you expected her to.

As you finish your report you go see Archer. When you get there, you’re greeted by Porthos as soon as the door opens, and you pick him up happily.

“Captain.” You greet letting the dog go and stand before the man, hands behind your back.

“At ease, ensign.” He says with a smile and you relax your stance. “How are you feeling?”

“Quite alright. May I ask why?”

“Lieutenant Reed told me you missed the last MACO-Starfleet joint training due to feeling unwell.” He explains.

Of course he did.

“I’m alright sir, I had just received some rather unhappy news of a personal nature that same evening that affected my capacity to either train or work for the remaining of the day.” You explain, not wanting to elaborate too much since you didn’t really want to discuss it. “But I’m alright now.” You reassure.

“Cassie…” This was not the Captain talking to you anymore, this was just plain worried Jonathan.

“I’m fine, John.” You reassure him, eyes meeting. “I’ll talk to you about it when I feel ready to do so.” You add and he just nods his head in understanding. “Are we finished, sir?” You ask.

“Dismissed.” He says gently and you nod at him before leaving the room.

You checked the time on the way to your quarters, you had half an hour to get ready for your training session with Reed. You changed into your gym clothes, grabbed a towel and a bottle of water, and headed to the cargo bay.

“You’re early.” Reed points out when you walk into the empty cargo bay.

“So are you.” You reply and he chuckles. “You ratted me out to Archer.” You add leaving your stuff on the floor by the wall.

“I just did what any superior would have done. I was worried about you.” He explains as you both start stretching.

“What’s it gonna be today?” You ask, changing the subject and referring to the training session.

“Self-defence.” He replies.

“You should know better than to set up a sparring class with me when I’m cross with you.” You say, half playful, half serious and he chuckles.

“Oh, so now you’re cross with me. For doing my job.” He says before lunging towards you.

You use his momentum to flip him over your shoulder, making him fall to the ground with a thud.

“Still thinking it was a good idea?” You ask as he stands back up.

You keep at it for some time, either of you ending up on the floor several times, each of you squaring a few good hits too, knocking the air out of the other.

“Now, don’t you go soft on me.” He says as you lay on the floor, trying to catch your breath, starting to feel rather frustrated.

“Just because you know my fighting style.” You san sitting and looking up at him. “I just don’t wanna bruise your ego.” You say standing.

“I’m a big boy, I think I could take it.” He urges you on and you take a deep breath as a switch inside you clicks and you let out all the anger and frustration you had been holding in for the past few days.

He manages to keep up with you for what seems like an eternity and it’s not until you’ve got him pinned to the floor looking up at you with concern and your vision starts to blur that you realize you’re crying.

You let go of him and stand in a hurry, turning your back at him and wiping the tears away.

“Cassie.” He says approaching you.

“I’m okay.” You say picking up your towel and water bottle. “Really.” You reassure, turning to look at him before leaving, letting him know you were done training.

When you get back to your quarters you take a shower, then put on some leggings, a white t-shirt and your favorite cardigan and decide to get ahead on some work for the next day.

It’s about an hour later that you door's chime goes off.

“Come in.” You say. “Hoshi, I’m really not-“ You start turning on your chair, but you stop mid-sentence when you see Reed standing before you.

“You’re not what?” He asks as you turn off your computer.

“Can’t I catch a break?” You say making him chuckle as he sits on your bed.

“What’s going on with you?” He asks, eyes searching yours.

“What do you mean?” You ask toying with the sleeve of your cardigan to avoid his gaze.

“I mean. What’s wrong?” He says. “What happened today in the cargo bay?” He adds as you finally look at him.

“I’ve just got a lot going through my head lately.” You say. “That’s all.”

“Bullshit.” He simply says and you shoot him a questioning look. “I know you well enough by now to know that’s just you trying not to talk about it.” He explains and you look away again.

You both fall silent for a few minutes as he just waits for you to tell him what’s really bothering you.

“I got a letter.” You finally say looking down at your hands, voice almost a whisper as a stray tear finds its way down your cheek, prompting you to wipe it away with the sleeve of your cardigan. “My mother died.” You add and feel your heart drop as you say the words out loud.

When you finally look up at him, there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart skip. You follow his movements as he stands and takes one of your hands from your lap, pulling you up towards him and into a hug.

Tears run freely down your cheeks as he wraps his arms around you, rubbing your back as you silently shake against him. He holds you as your arms find their way arounds him, holding him close as he buries his face in your hair. And so he waits until you start calming down.

“Does the Captain know?” He asks softly and you shake your head no. “Does anyone know?” You shake your head no again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, pulling apart slightly so he can look down at you.

“I don’t know. I-“ You let out a deep breath as he brushed some of the hair off your face, his touch gentle and caring as he wipes the tears away from your soaked cheeks. “I didn’t want it to be true. Reading that letter felt like a bad dream.” You explain as he cups your face, his eyes tender looking down at you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m so sorry.” He adds.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, one of your hands finding its way to the nape of his head. “Please.” You add, closing your eyes to keep more tears from finding their way down your face.

He complies, kissing you deep and slow and sweet. As if he were trying to kiss the hurt away, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. When you finally pull apart trying to catch your breath, he keeps his forehead on yours, thumb caressing your cheek as your fingers run through the hair at the nape of his head before pulling him in for another kiss. More urgent but which carried the same plea. “Help me not to think about it.”

He pushes the cardigan off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as your hands find their way under his t-shirt, pushing it up and making him break apart so you can pull it over his head. He starts kissing down your jaw and neck as he does the same with your t-shirt. He walks you back until your calves hit the edge of your bed making you sit. He kisses you making you lean back on your elbows before kissing down your neck and the valley of your breasts, you gasp as his mouth finds your nipple, you hand finding its way to his hair as your head falls back as he sucks and licks and bites gently before moving on to then other and doing the same, then continuing his way down your body, his fingers toying with the waistband of your leggings, kissing your navel as he finally pulls both the leggings and your underwear down your legs.

He kisses up your leg and the inside of your thigh, purposely leaving a bright red mark there and making you bite back a moan as he gets closer to where you really need him.

“Malcolm.” You warn him as he continues teasing, making him chuckle against your skin just before his tongue runs through your folds making you swear.

It doesn’t take him long to make you come, a mix of his name and moans falling from your lips as you ride your first orgasm of the night. He rests his head on your hip, hands caressing your thighs as you catch your breath.

“You good?” He asks when your breathing starts to slow down again.

You position yourself properly on the bed as he stands to take off his shoes, sweats and boxers before crawling on top of you, knees gently nudging your legs apart.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, brushing some hair off your face before leaning in to kiss you.

You moan into his mouth as he runs the tip of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance. He kisses your neck as he slowly slides into you, both of you groaning at the sensation when he finally bottoms out. He stays still for a few moments, allowing you to get used to him and you relish the sensation of having him inside you.

“Move.” You choke out. “Please, move.” You repeat, fingers running through the hair at the nape of his head.

He slowly pulls out, thrusting back in just as slowly, making you gasp at the sensation. He sets a steady pace as you moan underneath him, your nails leaving crescent marks on his back. You can feel yourself climbing closer to the edge as his mouth leaves bright red marks all over your neck and chest before searching for yours to kiss you, lips claiming yours and drowning your moans as your legs wrap around him pulling him even closer, deeper.

“Malcolm. Please.” You breathe out as he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the sounds falling from his lips making your head spin.

“I’ve got you.” He says.

Understanding what you mean, his thumb finds your clit, giving you that last push you need making you come, your walls clenching around him, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. He fucks you through your orgasm, thighs quivering around his hips as his own pace starts to become erratic. It doesn’t take long until he finally stills and comes too, white ropes of cum painting your walls as he fills you up, the warmth spreading through you.

You wince at the loss of him when he pulls out. He kisses your forehead before getting off the bed and walking into the bathroom, coming back moments later with a warm, wet cloth and gently cleaning you up, sweetly kissing your hip when you wince due to the overstimulation.

After discarding the cloth, he puts back on his boxers then comes back to bed, pulling the sheet from underneath you, laying beside you and pulling you towards him before covering you both with it. You lay your head on his chest, one leg between his as his arm comes around you.

“You alright?” He says softly, hand running through your hair and you hum in reply.

You both fall silent, and you just enjoy his closeness and the warmth he irradiates, breathing him in as he plays with your hair, eventually lulling you to sleep.

When you wake up the room is dark, the only light source is the stars shooting past your window, and the only sounds you can hear are the ship’s engine’s hum and Malcolm’s steady breathing as his chest rises and falls against your back. You turn to face him, and a soft smile pulls at your lips, the frown between his brows gone and replaced by a serene expression.

“Weren’t you taught that it’s rude to stare?” He says softly, a smile pulling at his lips as he opens his eyes to look at you.

“Been holding myself back for too long.” You reply as he dives in, claiming your lips into a sweet, slow kiss. “I think I owe Hoshi an apology.” You say when he breaks apart.

“Me too.” He whispers, chuckling and kissing your neck before getting off them bed and walking into the bathroom.

You stretch, a few bones making cracking sounds, the slight discomfort between your legs making you blush furiously. You watch him as he walks out of the bathroom shortly after, hair damp from the shower and checks the time on your computer.

“I should get going. Get ready for my shift.” He says as you get out of bed a well and pull on your discarded underwear before walking up to him and wrapping your arms around him, head resting on his back. “Have lunch with me today?” He asks, turning in your embrace and tilting your head up to look at him.

You just nod before standing on your tiptoes and giving him a peck on the lips.

You let him get dressed while going into the bathroom yourself and taking a quick shower. When you walk out, wrapped in your robe and drying your hair with a towel he’s sitting on your bed putting his shoes on.

You drop the towel on the bed as he stands, and you follow him to the door before he opens it.

“Thank you.” You say, leaning against your door frame as he looks down at you.

“What for?” He asks, toying with the end of the belt of your robe.

“Everything.” You say before pulling him in for a kiss that he welcomes gladly.

You smile against his lips then chuckle as he playfully starts pushing you back into the room.

“There will be enough time for that later. Now go get changed.” You say, stopping him by putting a hand on his chest.

“I knew it!” Trip’s excited yell makes you both look towards the hall as he had just turned the corner. “Finally.”

“Trip.” Reed calls after him as he just keeps walking to wherever it is he’s headed. “Trip!” He repeats and you bite back a laugh.

“Go, we both know how talkative he gets when he’s excited.” You say turning him towards the hall by the shoulders.

He stops after a few steps, turning and coming back to hurriedly give you one last peck on the lips, making you laugh before rushing after Trip.

Today was gonna be an interesting day, you thought while closing the door with a chuckle.

[cactusnymph]

matters of the heart

“Sir Caroline, I must ask your advice in an important matter.”

 “You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’ anymore, Angelo. We’ve been over this.”

 “Excuse me, Caroline. Now, this important matter—“

 “Is this about Ale? Because, and I cannot stress this enough, I do not want to hear anything about your love life, Angelo.”

 Angelo has to admit that this is not the way he had hoped the conversation to go. He feels himself deflate a little as he looks at Caroline’s disapproving face.

 “But S—Caroline, I wouldn’t know who else to ask! Usually my best friend and former rival would be my first choice, but he’s not available at the moment.”

 Caroline looks at him for a moment then sighs, lowering her head into her hands for a heartbeat before looking up at him again.

 “Fine. Just this once. Next time you can just write Damien a letter.”

 “Yes, Sir—I mean. Yes, Caroline.”

 Caroline starts massaging her temple.

 “So. Spit it out. What is it?”

 “I almost can’t believe that I am saying this—truly, I think it is the first time I understand my friend Damien. I must speak my heart—“

 “Oh, for the love of—“

 “You are married to Miss Quanyii, are you not, Caroline?”

 “Yes, I am. What does that have to do with anything?”

 “So you must be well-versed in matters of the heart! How did you court your wife? I admit, I have never attempted this before and I have no idea how to go about courting a man—“

 “And why should it be different than courting a woman, Angelo?”

 Angelo pauses for a second. It was brought to his attention many times now that the distinctions between men and women he has learned about all his life might not actually be as accurate as many people make them out to be. Truly, Caroline is the best example. And now he has met Ale and Miss Quanyii, who is sometimes not Miss Quanyii but Mr Quanyii.

 Angelo considers Caroline’s words.

 “So you’re saying I should court Ale in the exact same way I would court a woman”, he says.

 Caroline rolls her eyes.

 “I do not see how gender has anything to do with this, Angelo. The way you court a person depends on the person. Not all women care for flowers and candles and love letters. I have no idea what Ale would prefer as courting; maybe he doesn’t want to be courted at all.”

 “Like Sir Talfryn, yes. I have learned about this. You are correct, Caroline and I am glad to have asked you. I shall speak to Ale about this to make sure that I am not overstepping any boundaries! I thank you for your wisdom! Hophophophophophop.”

 *

 Angelo is not afraid of anything.

 He’s not afraid of pain or fighting or dying or even things as complicated as numbers even though he is not very good at them. But when he finds Ale sitting next to Olala, showing her how to start a campfire with her little hands, something tightens in Angelo’s chest and all he can do is stare.

 Ale is beautiful. Dark skin, long hair, big eyes and long lashes, a soft smile as he tells little Olala that she’s doing well.

 Angelo feels his stomach drop; a sensation that is very similar to falling and his heart beats so rapidly in his chest that he has trouble breathing for a moment.

 Maybe he should have rehearsed this. Maybe it would be better if little Olala was not there with Ale. Maybe he was hasty when he concluded that speaking directly to Ale would be the best course of action. A warrior’s approach. Head on. The same way he always approaches difficulties.

 Ale looks up when he notices Angelo and he flashes him a grin that makes Angelo’s insides squirm around like very lively snakes. Saints, if he starts using more metaphors for how Ale makes him feel he might turn into Damien before he knows it.

 “Hey schoolboy, what can we do for you?”

 Angelo isn’t sure why it makes him feel warm and tingly when Ale calls him ‘schoolboy’, but it absolutely does.

 He clears his throat.

 “I was about to—hm. Well.”

 Angelo wishes Damien were here so he could tell him how to find the right words for this. Damien has such a knack for language and beautiful words, while Angelo—well. Angelo has never in his life understood one poem that Damien showed to him.

 “We’re making fire, Sir Angelo! I made a small flame, all without magic! Look!”, Olala proclaims excitedly and waves at the little wisp of smoke her efforts have conjured.

 “Very good, Olala. I—uh. I must take my leave.”

 And for the first time in his life, Sir Angelo The Strong turns around and flees.

 *

 “Aw, Angelo, what is it?”

 Angelo looks up as Quanyii appears out of nowhere right beside him.

 “I am afraid that I have become a coward, Miss Quanyii”, he says as he looks down at his big hands.

 “I highly doubt that, sweetie. Is this about our beautiful vigilante boy?”, Quanyii wants to know as she scoots closer to Angelo, her colorful hair surrounding her head like a cloud.

 “Yes. I have spoken to Si—to Caroline about this and she gave me important insight on the matter of courting rituals.”

“She did?”, Quanyii asks, sounding surprised.

 “Yes. She explained that courting is not a matter of gender but of the individual’s personality. She also pointed out that Ale might have no interest in romantic relationships which I had not considered before.”

 Quanyii puts her index finger to her lips and taps them thoughtfully.

 “Yes, yes, such wisdom. But have you considered asking me about this? Romance is a magical thing after all and sweetheart, I’m a witch! Caroline doesn’t know one itsy-bitsy thing about romance, let me tell you that”, Quanyii says and pouts a little.

 Angelo raises his head.

 “So you would help me in this quest to court Ale?”, he asks. The grin that spreads on Quanyii’s face makes Angelo pause. This might not be a good idea.

 “Oh, sweetie, don’t you worry your silly little head. I will give you one tip for free because we have become such good friends during those past few weeks! I know a little secret and that is that Ale does like romance!”

 Angelo feels his face light up with a smile as relief courses through his entire body. He feels like he could do a hundred push-ups right here and now. Maybe even lift Porthos. Or the whole, fallen tree he’s sitting on.

 “Why thank you, Miss Quanyii, that is most helpful!”

 He grabs both of her hands and shakes them as Quanyii giggles.

“You are so very welcome, Angelo. For every other piece of help I’m going to require a little bit of payment. A witch has to make do, you know.”

 Angelo doesn’t really understand but he nods anyway and gets up from the fallen tree trunk.

 “I do not believe that I will need further assistance, now that the issue of romantic attraction has been resolved! Sir Angelo The Strong is back on his feet! Ha ha! Hophophophophophop.”

 “Good luck, brave knight!”, Quanyii calls after him as Angelo runs back towards the camp.

 *

 Now that Angelo knows that Ale is not generally opposed to romance the path seems clear. That is, at least until Angelo arrives back at the place where Ale and Olala made their little fire before.

 The two of them are still there, but both of them are asleep. Ale is sitting with his back against a tree, his legs spread, and Olala has curled up between his legs, her tail gently snoring. Caroline sits by the fire and sharpens her blade.

 She looks up as Angelo enters the clearing.

 “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Angelo”, she says as Angelo stares at Ale’s sleeping form. His long lashes are feathered out on his cheeks and for a second Angelo imagines to brush his fingers over Ale’s cheek and give him a kiss.

 The thought immediately sends his heart into another gallop that would make Porthos proud and Angelo swallows heavily.

 “I cannot report any ghost sightings at this point, Sir—I mean. Caroline.”

 Angelo notices how Caroline’s eyes narrow as she looks him up and down and since Caroline has stated that she has no interest to know anything about Angelo’s love life he tries very hard to respect her wishes and to not look at Ale as if he’s the most beautiful thing that Angelo has ever seen.

 Which he very definitely is.

 “Oh for fuck’s sake, sit down, you oaf”, Caroline snaps and Angelo, still as an automatic response to her authoritative voice, walks over to the fire and sits down next to her.

 “Did you talk to Quanyii?”, she wants to know.

 “Yes. She cleared up a question I had and I thought it would make things easier, but as it turns out, it did not.”

 “I wouldn’t make any deals with her, witches are fickle and cunning creatures.”

 “Babe, you’re being so mean!”

 “Oh, shut it. You know it’s true.”

 “Yes, but when you say it like that it’s mean, mean, mean!”

 Angelo watches them bicker for a while before his eyes drift back over to Ale and Olala. Ale’s hand is resting on Olala’s back and Angelo looks at it for a while. Ale’s hand is much smaller than his and Angelo wonders what it would feel like to hold it. It must be rough from all the sword-fighting, much like Angelo’s hand.

 Maybe Ale doesn’t have any interest in holding Angelo’s hand. Maybe Ale doesn’t like men.

 “What is it now, Angelo”, Caroline asks with an expression on her face that says she might regret asking.

 “I forgot to consider another important thing regarding this whole courting business”, Angelo says and looks at Caroline. Quanyii seems to have vanished into thin air—something Angelo has seen happening multiple times during those last few weeks.

 “Which is?”

 “You made me aware of the possibility of Ale being averse to romantic relationships, but I forgot to consider whether or not Ale would be opposed to romantic relationships to men. I only ever knew one man who liked another man. Lizard. Does it count as a man if it is a lizard? I certainly don’t know. My point stands, though.”

 Caroline sighs deeply and cards through her short her.

 “It seems highly unlike you to ask all these questions instead of simply acting, Angelo”, she says and looks at him with a stern gaze.

 Angelo sighs.

 “Yes, I know. I am afraid I have found my most lethal opponent yet! Matters of the heart! No monster could ever best me in combat, but my own heart is betraying me.”

 Caroline puts her blade to the side and leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she looks at Angelo with her piercing eyes.

 “Just talk to him. It’s that easy. No one can ever truly know another person’s heart or thoughts unless they speak them out loud.”

 “Unless you’re a witch”, comes a disembodied sing-song from somewhere above them.

 “Unless you’re a witch in which case you should stay out of people’s heads”, Caroline barks up the tree and looks back at Angelo.

 “I cannot believe that I should turn into a coward for something as simple as talking. It seems highly ridiculous.”

 Caroline shrugs.

 “Emotions are hard. And I... understand your hesitance. But you should not let your feelings rule over your rational thoughts.”

 “That is a very Caroline thing to say, Sir Caroline.”

 “Stop calling me ‘Sir’ already!”

 “Certainly, Sir Caroline.”

 “Ugh.”

 *

 “Ale, can I ask you a personal question?”

 “You can ask anything you want, schoolboy. I can decide whether or not I want to answer.”

 “Oh—yes. That is very reasonable. Thank you. Uh—“

 “Sir knight, are you alright? Did you get sunburnt? Sir Caroline says it is important to not stay outside in the sun for too long!”

 “I am not sunburnt, little Olala.”

 “Ask your question, schoolboy. Is this about gender again?”

 “Uh—no. Not—huh. I suppose it is! But not in the way you think!”

 “Well then, shoot.”

 “This is more about the genders of others, I suppose! A potential paramour, one might say! I have a friend who has a fiancée but who is also involved with a man. Lizard. Male lizard? I am not entirely certain about the lizard’s gender and I was told not to assume. Anyway. What I wanted to ask—“

 “You want to know if I like lizards?”

 “No, that’s not—“

 “I was joking, schoolboy. Calm down. You want to know what kind of people I’m attracted to.”

 “Yes.”

 “I don’t much care about gender, but it doesn’t happen often that I’m attracted to people. Either romantically or sexually.”

 “Oh.”

 “I just don’t fall in love easily. And I don’t find many people hot.”

 “Hm.”

 “Any more questions?”

 “Yes, but I am afraid they would be borderline offensive and highly invasive.”

 “Well then. Let’s keep it at that, schoolboy.”

 *

 “Sir knight, are you feeling okay?”

 “Yes, little Olala.”

 “It’s just that you are usually very loud but you have been very quiet for a while. I recently learned about heatstrokes and it sounds awful and I hope you don’t have a heatstroke, Sir knight.”

 “I don’t think I have anything of the kind, Olala.”

 Olala sits down next to Angelo. He’s leaning against Porthos who’s lying down and nibbling on some grass. Ale and Caroline are investigating something and since Angelo is not the best at clues he offered to stay behind to guard their belongings and also Olala.

 “Most adults do not like to tell children why they’re sad. But if you wanted to, I would certainly listen.”

 “That’s very kind of you, Olala. Have you ever liked someone?”

 “Of course! I like so many people!”

 “Ah, yes. Hm. And were you ever scared to tell any of these people that you like them?”

 “No, Sir knight. I grew up in the Garden of Graves and we tended to the dead and my sisters always taught me that it is important to speak your heart while the people you love are alive, for you never know when they might die and then you can’t tell them anymore.”

 “That is... very wise, Olala.”

 “Thank you, Sir knight! My sisters taught me a great many things and I am honored to pass their wisdom on to others.”

 Angelo looks down at Olala’s small form and ruffles her hair.

 “I will take it to heart!”, he promises.

 *

 “Hey, Angelo. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

 They make camp by a river and Caroline takes Olala for a bath. Angelo turns around to look at Ale, who tied his long braids into a top knot. He’s wearing a white tunic that is a little too big for him and allows Angelo a view of Ale’s collarbone.

 Angelo tries very hard not to stare because he refuses to be disrespectful any more than he already was when they first met.

 “Of course, Ale.”

 Ale looks at him. Angelo would never trust himself to read people’s behavior—that has never been his forté. But he could swear that Ale looks almost a bit nervous; something that Angelo hasn’t seen on him so far.

 “So, remember that talk we had? About how I might like lizards or not?”, Ale begins and Angelo winces a little.

 “It was poorly worded and I apologize—“

 “It’s fine, Angelo. That’s not what this is about. But... you remember what I said. About not being attracted to people often?”

 “Yes. I remember.”

 “Why did you want to know that?”

 Angelo takes a deep breath and scratches the back of his head.

 “I—uh. Well”, he starts, then doesn’t know how to continue. He remembers the talks he had with Caroline and Olala and straightens his back. Sir Angelo the Strong will not back down from a challenge. Any challenge!

 “I would like to court you, Ale.”

 Ale blinks. Once, twice, three times.

 He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

 “You—what?”

 “Courting. I would like to court you. Woo you. Win you over. In the romantic sense. But I was not sure if that was something that would make you uncomfortable, so I tried to figure out if you might be opposed against courtship. By men. Or anyone.”

 Ale takes two steps towards him and Angelo has the great need to spread his arms and pull Ale close to him, but he doesn’t. He’s asking for permission and he will not ruin this by overstepping boundaries.

 A slight chuckle pulls him back to reality and he sees Ale’s eyes twinkle, the corners of his lips turned upwards.

 “Are you asking me on a date, schoolboy?”, Ale asks. His playful smile is doing things to Angelo he can’t describe because he is not Damien. But man, he almost feels the need to write a poem about that smile. That is how badly smitten he is with this wonderful, splendid man standing in front of him.

 “I suppose so! Ale, will you allow me to take you on a date?”

 Ale takes another step and raises his hand to softly flip one finger against Angelo’s forehead.

 “I thought you’d never ask.”

[queenofsantacarla]

I have no ideas for athos but,,, spare fic maam? spare fic please?🥺🤲

okay i also have zero fic ideas but here's some headcanons i have for musketeer husband

SFW

Athos is a very proper gentleman, he was a count after all, so any kind of courting is going to be sweet and respectful

That being said, he's also horribly out of practice. Poor guy hasn't had a lover since Sabine was arrested, so he's gonna be a bit clumsy

SHY, so shy, about flirting with anybody, it's adorable but he's mortified the whole time because once upon a time he was incredibly suave and flirtatious as a much younger man

Porthos and Aramis might try to step in and help, but frankly they are zero help and only make Athos more embarassed

Big fan of hand kisses, especially with eye contact. Loves to see you blush

Secretly a huge romantic, I'm talking hilltop picnics and hand-picked wildflowers and showing up to your home just to see you step out on your balcony so he can say goodnight again

▪NS/FW▪ under cut

Usually I describe switches as being top or bottom leaning, but not Athos

He is the perfect true neutral switch

Because obviously he would top the hell out of you, but you can't tell me this man did not sub for Sabine constantly and happily

PULL 👏 HIS 👏 HAIR

And holy shit, is this man touch-starved

Literally just worship him, it's been so long and he doesn't think he deserves it

And he will worship you too! Definitely a service top. He's just so honored to have you in his life and that you let him love you, he's not going to mess it up again

He can get rough with you if that's what you really want, but he's such a soft dom that it probably won't be anything extreme

However,,,,

Bare hand over the knee spanking when you've been naughty? Yes

To borrow an idea from @darling-disastrous : him having you kiss his hand before he spanks you

Threesome with Sabine because she totally didn't die not at all

thank you for the request cara 💛💛💛

[general-du-vallon]

Aramis and the babies, 3

part one is here.

‘So here I am’ turned out to be some sort of accidental under statement. Aramis bumped into Porthos everywhere, and every time got steadily more awkward. Passing on the stairs, coming out of the flats at the same time (Aramis pretended to have left something inside to avoid an awkward walk down together, Porthos did the same, and they walked down together in awkward silence), arriving at the front door together the time Aramis lost his key fob thing (the council charged for new ones, Porthos admitted to losing his within a week of getting it and usually just broken in, he was apparently ‘okay at locks’). In the supermarkets, at the playground, at the community food project the estate collectively ran out of a community room that was coming to bits around them.

“Papa, look,” Hugo said, one day. “Cat.”

It wasn’t a cat, it was Porthos, just at the next table. Hugo bounced happily in Aramis’s arms and waved to Porthos, he loved the car boot sale he was in a really sociable mood. Louis was at Anne’s and Rochelle had a sleepover, Henry and Agnes were with them, and Marie was staying for a little while. She was very very quiet. Aramis was worrying because he didn’t know where Luc was, usually when Marie got passed to him Luc came along too, but this time it was just Marie, and the social workers told him he knew as much as he needed to. Marie tucked herself behind his knees and he nearly tripped backwards, Porthos had come reluctantly over since Hugo had waved.

“Morning,” Porthos said, waving. He waved with the hand that was holding coffee. He looked bewildered when it spilled everywhere, Hugo laughing at him and waving a third and fourth time.

“I’m Henry,” Henry said, at the same time as Marie tugged at Aramis’s trouser leg.

“Ah, yeah, Henry, Agnes, Marie,” Aramis said, pointing them out.

“Cat!” Hugo said.

“She’s doing great, keeps climbing the curtains and sleeping on top of doors and things,” Porthos said. Hugo nodded seriously, waiting for more information about the cat. “Tried to get out the window the other day, probably after a bird.” Hugo’s eyes widened. “She didn’t get out, I keep the windows on those hook things.”

“The windows don’t open wide enough to climb out, we know that don’t we, Hugo?” Henry said, grinning. He was missing a tooth and looked rakish, white-blond hair even blonder from sun, long and plaited like Elsa from Frozen. Specifically like Elsa. He was obsessed with Elsa. Not the whole movie, just her.

“Yeah,” Hugo agreed. “Can’t sit out there.”

“Out where?! It’s just sky!” Aramis said, turning on the two boys, Henry was laughing at him, setting him off on purpose. Marie was tugging again. “Yeah, pipsqueak?”

He crouched to hear her, putting an arm around her since she could no longer hide behind him. She whispered her curiosity in his ear, quite a few questions about who Porthos was.

“He has a cat,” Hugo said, too loud, Porthos had been answering a polite query from Agnes, but his gaze came to rest on them instead.

“Are you a giant?” Marie asked, at a whisper but bold enough to be heard.

Porthos shifted. He seemed pleased about her misapprehension, chest swelling, standing taller in his boots. They had little heels, his jacket was big and leather and padded out his shoulders through sheer bulk, he was already big but he was dressed even bigger, and he drew himself taller and held himself wider and beamed down at them the bright day behind him, like some sort of benevolent sun god. He really was gorgeous, Aramis thought, regretfully, remembering that they’d so far found nothing to talk about.

“I won’t eat you,” was the answer Porthos finally settled on, then bent forward, widening his eyes, face quite serious, “yet.”

Marie kicked him, which Aramis thought was perfectly fair. He pretended he hadn’t seen a thing, ignoring Porthos’s surprised yelp. Hugo giggled, climbing out of Aramis’s arms and heading for Porthos. Aramis hoped Hugo wasn’t going to kick him as well, he’d have to either tell Marie off or wait and see, though, and he chose the second option. Hugo patted Porthos’s knee solicitously, looking up at him, singing wordlessly. Aramis opened his mouth to explain but Porthos was nodding, crouching down so Hugo didn’t have to crane up. Marie leant back into Aramis to watch.

“Tell me that again, kiddo, I was too high up I didn’t understand,” Porthos said.

Hugo groped for words, failed to find any, patted Porthos’s knee again, and sang incy wincy spider, showing Porthos the hand gestures he was learning at school. He tugged his jumper.

“He wants to tell you about his spiders,” Aramis said.

“You got spiders under there?” Porthos asked. “Not real ones, surely? On your shirt?”

Hugo flopped into the grass. He wasn’t much for standing up today. Aramis scooped him up and Marie clambered onto his back, Henry linking arms with them and Agnes, ready to get moving. Porthos stood as well and gave Aramis a helpless shrug.

“Ah, Agnes is staying with us at the moment,” Aramis said, not finding anything to talk about but not really quite finding a way to leave. “For a bit.”

“Philippe’s having a routine operation,” Agnes said, “my husband.”

“Oh, I hope it goes well,” Porthos said, very genuinely, body language softening and opening up somehow. 

“If you want to. Um,” Aramis stopped. What he wanted was to have sex with Porthos. Quite a lot of it. Preferably at Porthos’s house, tonight.

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos said. Aramis forgot for a second he’d not actually said outloud about sex. “There’s the pub?”

“Yes, alright,” Aramis said. The pub could definitely be a step on his way to having sex. Aramis could go with that. He smiled, and Porthos grinned back.

“Your passengers look about ready to be off,” Porthos said. “Are we friends, Marie?”

“Promise not to eat me,” Marie said into Aramis’s shoulder. “If you do eat my brother will come.”

“Tear your arms, boff!” Hugo called, which Aramis wished he’d never said. It was sticking.

“Alright. I like my arms, better just stick to eating cake,” Porthos said. “Maybe a biscuit now and then. A little bit of pizza.”

“And vegetables,” Henry said. “Some are quite nice, Aramis makes them so they don’t taste yucky.”

Aramis squeezed Henry’s arm, grateful for his off kilter wingmanship. Porthos clicked his tongue and looked around, faltered, asked if seven was a good time, and then wandered away. Agnes leant across Henry to squeeze Aramis’s arm, delighted by the whole thing. She asked him so many questions as they meandered the last few tables and ended up, as always, at the ice cream van, pleased as anything that he’d found someone to flirt with.

Aramis spent the afternoon tracking down Luc and checking he was okay and not going spare worrying over Marie. Without, of course, talking to Luc. He wasn't going to leave a trail. And then he was late to the pub because he spent the evening having a nice chat with Marsac and setting up one or two very little, very subtle things. Just a tiny little bit of manipulation, a miniscule amount of machinations. It wasn’t that he disliked Marie and Luc’s father, he wasn’t a bad man. But regardless of school being important and Luc not needing as much care as Marie and being able to stay, for their overall wellbeing, Aramis decided he’d just do a little bit of poking and prodding.

He was halfway to the pub at a jog when he got a call from Luc’s social worker. Then outside the door he got another call from Marie’s social worker with a stern telling off. Aramis admitted nothing, said he had no idea what she was talking about, made bewildered noises, and ducked into the pub. He saw Porthos holding up the bar, eyes on a darts game, and then he saw Porthos go over to tell the huge bloke playing that he was cheating, and then Aramis saw the huge bloke square off with Porthos.

“Hi,” Aramis called, going over, not sure if his intent was to break it up or join in. He’d see which way things went. Either or.

Porthos relaxed, though, and after a charm offensive the huge bloke was introducing himself as Amyot and offering to buy Porthos a beer.

“I’m on a date,” Porthos said, “he might think it was a bit funny if I let you buy the drinks instead of him.”

“What?” Aramis said.

“Seeing as he was late, I assumed he’d be paying,” Porthos said. That was to Aramis, not to Amyot, who’d quickly lost interest and gone back to cheating at darts. “Come on. We can sit out the back, the garden’s shut because of a mishap-”

“You and Flea breaking patio furniture is not a mishap,” the barkeep said, appearing all of a sudden and giving Aramis a start. He recognised Christoph from the community larder thing, but didn’t know him well. “You’re paying for your drinks until I’ve fixed that.”

“I’m paying tonight,” Aramis said, leaning on the bar.

“Aramis, right? I’m not letting any friend of Porthos open a tab, just a friendly warning,” Christoph said, Aramis had got distracted watching Porthos put on a chagrined ‘aw shucks who me?’ performance. “What am I getting you both, then?”

Aramis ordered whatever cinder was on tap, and whatever Porthos had been drinking already, paid up front, and headed them out into the closed garden. There was a broken table, a broken pot, a clearly repotted sapling, a couple of broken chairs, and a sturdy bench set against the wall of the pub which is where Porthos headed, sitting in a comfortable sprawl, long legs stretched in front of him, pint resting on one strong thigh. Aramis sat too close and took a sip of his cider.

“Why’d you ask me out?” Porthos said. “We’ve been doing the awkward shuffle as if we’ve already had awful sex and found out we sort of hate each other.”

“I wasn’t actually asking you out,” Aramis said. Porthos’s head came up and he froze. “I was about to suggest we had sex, but then I realised I was literally swamped under my children, and it might be a little inappropriate, and then you were suggesting the pub. I thought I might come along, do some flirting, do some wooing. I’m very good at flirting and wooing. I’m a romantic.”

“I see,” Porthos said, and his hand dropped to Aramis’s thigh and gave it a squeeze. “Alright then. We paid Christoph for his shit beer though so we should drink it. You want to smoke your terrible herbal things?”

“Not really, they are a balm only to be applied when the children are particularly baffling,” Aramis explained. “I love them more than my own life, and probably anyone else’s life too really, but my god they can be loud and unreasonable.”

“To be fair, so can adults,” Porthos said. “I like them.”

“Adults?”

“Daft.”

“Children?”

“Your children.”

Aramis preened as if it was a compliment, which it was since it was him who taught them manners.

“My specific children,” Aramis said, sighing happily.

“Yeah, although you seem to have an awful lot,” Porthos said, brow furrowing.

“I have three,” Aramis said, a bit surprised. “Hugo, Louis, and Rochelle. You met them. Louis lives partly with his mum, but he still counts.”

“And Henry, and Marie, and Marie said something about another brother, unless she meant Hugo was gonna tear off my arms,” Porthos said. “I mean maybe she did. Or Louis. Or Henry. And! You had a baby the other day.”

It sounded like an accusation and made Aramis laugh. He couldn’t remember for a second which baby Porthos might mean.

“Oh! Raoul. He’s Athos’s baby. I missed a lot of Louis’ baby years, and of course Roch’s, not so much Hugo but he was one when he came. So Athos lets me steal Raoul away sometimes, I think he has quite kinky sex when I have Raoul,” Aramis said. “Athos is a friend.”

“So Raoul isn’t yours. But I still count… six.”

“Henry is Agnes and Philippe’s kid, I’m not his Dad. They lived with me when he was a baby, him I got the baby years he was lovely, really lovely. They got their own place when he was five, they just come to stay when Philippe’s away nowadays. Or for fun. Or Philippe and Henry come down for the football, Philippe grew up around here.”

“Five,” Porthos said.

“Marie and Luc are on a foster placement,” Aramis said. “They come and go.”

“I know how that goes,” Porthos said, and raised his glass. “Alright, three. But to be fair, it still sounds like you have a lot of kids.”

“Yeah,” Aramis said, beaming, “I do.”

“I just have Grace,” Porthos said. “Charon and Flea’s kid. Sometimes… anyway. Bit complicated.”

“You moved down to be closer to them?” Aramis asked.

“Sort of. Not really. I was in the army. Not recent, it was back a while now, I didn’t like what I was being asked to do so I whistle-blew, and it didn’t go so well. Had a bit of trouble getting work, I was doing those oil rig gigs you know?”

“Vaguely,” Aramis said. “I’m sorry. I think it is admirable to stand by your convictions, especially in a situation like that. You’re talking around a lot, but I think that it sounds like you did something pretty impressive.”

“Sometimes it feels like it, sometimes it feels like it was stupid, and sometimes it’s more like I didn’t have any choice,” Porthos said. “Doesn’t matter. I decided to go back to school, I’m getting a degree. Doing some shifts at Tesco, and I get bits for a few construction companies, I know a few guys.”

“Army guys?”

“Sort of. Adjacent,” Porthos said. “You’re impressive too, you know. Giving kids a place that’s safe and home and good.”

Aramis shrugged and to his surprised Porthos went all intense, sitting forward, pint put aside so he could hold Aramis’s face. Aramis met his eyes, surprised, and then he was being kissed fiercely, wonderfully.

“It matters. It’s important,” Porthos said, low and gravelly. “It matters to me. I don’t know what to say.”

He kissed Aramis again instead of saying more, and Aramis was fine with that. He got a grip on Porthos’s leather jacket and pulled, getting a good angle.

parts:

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 [complete]

[wordsdrippinginink]

"You know," Ace states, staring up at Porthos, who had thrown himself up to get his paws on Ace's shoulders the moment that he stepped in the door. "Most dogs don't want to come to the vet."

"I don't think he cares much," Marco admits, grinning when Ace shoots him a glare. "And you know that most of the other vets are scared of him."

"You're a giant puppy," Ace states, pulling a face as Porthos licked his face. "Why couldn't you behave until I got off work, huh? What trouble have you been causing, you menace to society?"

"Would you like a list?"

Ace snorts, scratching Porthos' ears before snapping his fingers and gesturing at the ground. He repeats the action when Porthos whines but doesn't listen.

"You're too big for this, puppy," Ace whispers, kneeling to keep petting him when Porthos finally drops down on the ground. "What did he do to end up here this time?"

"Yarn. Again."

"What do you have against yarn?" Ace demands, keeping his tone playful, grinning when Porthos turns into a puddle, falling to the ground like his bones have vanished. "Huh? What's wrong with yarn? Aren't you supposed to be a good boy?"

Porthos pants happily, head on Ace's leg, watching him with eyes that are too big for his own good.

"I would have taken him to your partner, but she's out for lunch."

"This is what I get for marrying you. You bring this doofus into my life and now I have to keep saving his life because he can't wait until I'm off shift to cause chaos."

Marco laughs, rolling his eyes, "You love him."

"I do," Ace sighs, forcing himself to get up, even when Porthos whines in betrayal. "Alright, we're going to get a scan to see how bad it is. Hopefully we won't have to do surgery, because then you'll have to go and see Robin, yes you will!"

Porthos barks, twirling in a quick circle, tail whirling fast enough to cause damage to anything it hit. Ace doesn't laugh as it smacks Marco's arm hard enough to bruise.

"Come on, you dork, let's go see how much yarn you snuck this time," Ace closes his eyes and counts to ten, because he's not supposed to be working on his own dog, but small town vet clinics don't always have that choice. "We really need to hide the yarn."

"Well he found it on the desk, so you're going to have to think taller," Marco states, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "At least it's not something more dangerous."

Ace nods, tiredly, "If you jinx us, I'm getting a divorce."

"I think that's fair."

[thewizardlywyrm]

(( Big ol’ disclaimer that ALL of these thoughts relate only to the 1993 D*sney version and will not fit within the narrative of the source material whatsoever! No worries, I know it won’t make sense in canon, these are just random thoughts I’d had while revisiting this particular film. ))

Welcome to the I Can’t Draw Characters Consistently Because I’m Indecisive Especially When I Have Brainrot variety hour!

I was really intrigued by the brief interaction between the three main musketeers and Rochefort; a lot is implied but we’re never given specifics. 

I’ve been writing bits and pieces of a story where Aramis and Rochefort met as studying under Cardinal Richelieu ( which is canon for Aramis in the movie but totally non-canonical for film Rochefort, as far as we know ) and became Musketeers during the same time- I’d like to think they were all friends; Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan’s father, at around this time as well. And while the cardinal’s manipulation worked perfectly on a vulnerable and already somewhat wild Rochefort, it didn’t fall well on Aramis and eventually created a divide that couldn’t be repaired, when D’Artagnan’s father died at Rochefort’s hand.

 In this iteration, Rochefort and D’Aratagnan’s father came to blows once he’d discovered/overheard instructions from the cardinal that put the king in jeopardy, or something similar, and their ensuing confrontation just went too far ( Rochefort losing his eye, as is eluded to in the film, and of course D’Artagnan’s father being slain ).

( I’ve been making a little lazy storyboard about the scene of them discovering this immediately as it’s happened and standing against him, but... y’know, 7-4000 business days and all that. )

I wanted to play with the notion of them having a romantic relationship for a time, before the incident. ( Aramis can be bi/pan, as a treat ) The rift afterward, Rochefort delving completely into darkness and committing to the cardinal’s path once Aramis’ influence was no longer a part of his life. Angst and such.  I also am playing with an idea a bit closer to the source material in which Rochefort is not fatally wounded at the end, and Aramis comes back for him, granting him a second chance to atone for his actions and let their god help him set things right- and also for Rochefort to give them information ( at least, that’s what Aramis uses to keep the others from straight up stabbing him ). And, y’know, even though obviously they’re never all mended, Aramis and Rochefort rekindle and slowly, clumsily repair their relationship- to the others’ dismay, although eventually they all learn to get along as Rochefort slowly begins to mend his ways and truly repent for his past.  Some bridges mend more than others, for obvious reasons, and conflict does still very much arise. >__> ( since in the books, D’Artagnan and Rochefort end up as friends, BUUUUT also the whole dad-murder thing never happened there, so... bit of a spanner in the gears on that one )

Anyway, sorry for the long post! This is what I’ve been pondering lately. I will be making more MOTU stuff soon! I have a few Orko ideas and just need to stop delving into tangents! 

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober 2021

Prompt #5: Broken nose

“Aramis, the Musketeer?”

“Yes?”

Aramis, on his way to the garrison with Porthos, turned around to see who was addressing him - and his head snapped back when a fist landed square in his face. He heard and felt a nasty crack. His vision burst into stars. He stumbled backwards, clutching his nose. Blood gushed through his fingers.

Somewhere, in the haze of pain, Porthos was yelling.

“Oi! What in the Queen’s name-“

A scuffle ensued. Aramis more heard than saw it - he was perilously close to fainting from shock and pain. Next to him, fists hit flesh, cloth tore and yelps and gasps from a voice that wasn’t Porthos’ told him that his friend had the upper hand on whoever had attacked him. When his vision cleared, it was already over: hunched over in the middle of the street, Aramis stood dripping blood into the dirt, circled by aghast Parisians, with Porthos standing over an unconscious man.

The big Musketeer snorted angrily, fists still clenched, shoulders squared. Then he turned to Aramis, his fierce expression melting into worry.

“Y’alright, Aramis?”

“Yeah,” Aramis croaked nasally, gingerly fingering his nose. To his dismay, it felt crooked and hurt like hell. “Or no, that is. He broke my nose.”

“Are you serious?”

Porthos stepped closer and put his hand under Aramis’ chin, carefully tilting his head back to inspect the damage. Aramis sniffed, immediately regretting it. Pain stabbed up his nose, and his mouth filled with a copper taste so thick, it made him nauseous.

“Hell’s bells,” Porthos muttered. “It is broken.”

Aramis blinked tears from his eyes.

“That bad?” he asked nervously.

“It’s kind of bent to one side.” Porthos looked at him with a curious expression, as if he was looking at an interesting insect he’d never seen before. “And it’s swelling up really fast.”

“Wonderful.”

Aramis moaned and spit a mouthful of blood into the street. Around them, a few people were still standing and staring, whispering, while the rest of onlookers had gone back to their business. This was Paris. Street brawls happened and were of little interest unless someone died.

“What are ye starin’ at?!” Porthos waved a big hand. “Move! There’s nothin’ to see here!”

While their audience dispersed, Aramis had fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to staunch the blood. His beard was sticky with it, the front of his leather doublet splattered. Porthos, meanwhile, walked over to the unconscious attacker and shoved him with the tip of his boot. The man moaned a little, starting to come around.

“I s’ppose you know this man?”

Aramis squinted at the tall and overweight figure dressed in the practical but fashionable clothes of the Parisian middle class. The reddish beard and the golden signet ring on one of his hands left no doubt.

“Yes,” he said uncomfortably. “Yes, I know him.”

Porthos lowered his head to glower at Aramis. “And?”

Bleeding into his handkerchief, Aramis looked away. “I know his wife, too.”

Porthos threw his head back in exasperation. His accompanying eye roll was so pronounced, Aramis could practically hear it.

“Unbelievable,” Porthos muttered. And then, louder: “You’re unbelievable! One day, yer gonna get yourself killed! Haven’t you learned anything?!”

Embarrassed and fighting a headache, Aramis said nothing. Michèle was a sweet girl. Milky breasts, black curls, amber eyes and with a love for poetry and soldiers. Why did God put such beautiful, smart women in front of him when he didn’t want Aramis to be with them?

“Well, maybe this will teach you,” Porthos added darkly. “‘M not sure a lot of Paris women have a taste for a man with a smashed potato for a nose.”

Apprehensively, Aramis palpated his injured face. It didn’t feel like his anymore, his skin stretching as the swelling escalated, the tip of his nose off-center, his moustache caked in coagulating blood. Even if Aramis claimed he wasn’t vain, he knew it wasn’t the truth. He’d accepted his prettiness as a convenient gift from God, and he liked what he saw in the mirror when he trimmed his beard or adjusted his hat. It was an advantage he would not like to lose. Frankly, it scared him.

On the ground, Michèle’s husband groaned and began to make an effort at sitting up. One of his eyes was blackening.

“We should get outta here,” Porthos warned.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

XXX

They arrived at the garrison right after morning muster. The regiment had largely dispersed, turning to their daily duties. A few stragglers were still in the yard, casting curious glances when Porthos and Aramis passed through the arch. Against Aramis’ hopes, Captain Treville was among them. Face turning thunderous, he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Let me guess,” he said, taking in Aramis’ appearance. “It’s a little early for gambling, and Porthos looks unharmed, so it cannot have been a bar brawl. Since it’s morning, and it’s you,” - he pointed at Aramis and sniffed - “with the nosebleed and smelling of perfume, I’ll assume you ran into an admirer? As in: head first?”

His eyes were blazing and Aramis could swear he saw a wisp of the Captain’s thinning hair turn white.

“He got ‘im pretty bad, Cap’n,” Porthos came to Aramis’ defense. “Bashed ‘is nose right in.”

Some of the fury drained from Treville’s face.

“Let me see,” he said, eyebrows knitting to a frown.

Aramis took his hand with the balled-up handkerchief away from his face and revealed the whole extent of the damage.

Treville’s eyebrows rose.

“By God, it is broken.”

Aramis whimpered miserably.

“But you’re lucky, son,” Treville added. “A visitor arrived last night. Just in time to help you out, it seems.”

“Who?” Porthos asked.

“Go see for yourselves,” Treville said. “She’s in the infirmary.”

XXX

When they entered the garrison’s small infirmary, a woman was busy sorting through the medicine cabinet. She was wearing a coarse brown nun’s habit and turned around when she heard them, hazel eyes shining brightly out of a freckled, middle-aged face.

“Sister Marie!” Porthos’ joyful bellow turned into laughter. He crossed the room in four strides and enveloped the petite woman in a hug.

“What are you doing here?”

“Returning some of Athos’ books and bringing some medicines Aramis requested,” she answered cheerfully. Spotting Aramis, she added: “And it seems our Lord knew just when to send me.”

“You are, indeed, a gift sent from Heaven,” Aramis said, relieved. He’d been fearing he would have to attempt to set his nose himself.

“What happened?”

Sister Marie, pragmatic as ever, took Aramis by the shoulders and led him to a chair close to a window where the light was better.

Porthos scoffed. “I don’t think you want to know, Sister.”

The nun looked back and forth between the two Musketeers, her intelligent eyes boring into them. All of a sudden, Aramis felt very stupid.

“You don’t want to know,” he said guiltily.

She cocked her head. “Then I won’t ask. But this,” she pointed at Aramis’ nose,”needs to be set before the swelling gets any worse.”

“Do you think you can fix it?” Aramis asked with new hope.

Sister Marie gently probed his injured face, feeling for the break, and Aramis bit his lip while his eyes began to water again.

“Yes,” she finally stated. “Feels like a clean break. But we have to do it now and you must follow my instructions. Diligently.”

Aramis nodded. Of course he would if she saved him from looking like a monstrosity for the rest of his life. He hadn’t looked in a proper mirror yet, but on the way here, he’d seen his reflection in a window, and it was horrendous.

Sister Marie looked around the infirmary.

“We need cold water, a bowl, a towel, some wool and horsetail tincture. And my comfrey poultice from the cabinet. Thank the Lord I brought a large jar!“

Porthos nodded and fetched what was needed. Often enough, he’d helped Aramis take care of wounded comrades, and he knew his way around the infirmary. If Aramis hadn‘t been so anxious, dreading what was to come, he‘d be proud of him now.

Everything laid out within reach, Sister Marie pushed a bowl into Aramis‘ lap.

“Here,“ she said matter-of-factly. “Hold this. No need to ruin the floorboards, and it’ll keep your hands out of your face.”

Aramis grimaced.

“Are you ready?”

Taking a deep breath through his mouth, Aramis steeled himself. This would not be pretty.

“Yes. Do it.”

Porthos stepped behind him, holding his shoulders. Without hesitation, sister Marie clasped Aramis’ nose between her fingers and gave it a quick, hard wrench. Aramis, eyes widening in shock, felt the bone snap back into place. The pain was monumental. The middle of his face seemed to explode. Briefly, his vision blackened, and he bent low over the bowl in his hands, blood dripping into it, waiting to either throw up or pass out.

“Oh God..” he moaned.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, and waves of nausea washed over him. He felt a cold cloth on his forehead and then at the back of his neck.

“Deep breaths through your mouth, Aramis,” he heard Sister Marie say. “Deep and slow..”

A hand - Porthos’ or hers - was rubbing circles across his back. It helped. Or maybe the pain simply lessened as he sat there and breathed.

Finally, he was able to lift his head and let Sister Marie inspect her work.

“Is it straight?” he asked, trepidation and the swelling making his voice sound strange.

Sister Marie smiled triumphantly.

“Good as new! Once the swelling goes down, that is. And you’ll have to be very careful!”

Porthos slapped Aramis’ shoulder - gently..

“You lucky bastard!

Aramis sighed in relief.

He still had a few unpleasant minutes to suffer through: Sister Marie stuffed both his nostrils with wool dipped into horsetail tincture, and Aramis didn’t know what was worse - the stink or the pain. Afterwards, she had him sit in his chair for an eternity, carefully cooling his swollen face with cold cloths. When his nose at least stopped swelling and the bleeding had stopped, she moved him to one of the beds and applied a thick layer of comfrey poultice to the bridge of his nose that dried out into a hard, itchy crust.

“It’ll peel off, and we will have to reapply it once or twice a day, depending on how good you are at lying still.”

Porthos frowned at her.

“He’ll have to stay in bed?”

“For a few days, yes. I want the bone to start growing back together before you move around again,” the nun explained, giving Aramis an encouraging pat on the leg. “And you’ll have to be extremely careful afterwards. No musketeering for you for a few weeks, I’m afraid.”

Aramis didn’t care. In bed, his head aching and his nose feeling twice its normal size, he was tired and grateful. He knew he was in for a lecture from Treville, and once Athos found out- Aramis swallowed. Athos was going to kill him. And he’d be the target of endless teasing from d’Artagnan.

None of that mattered now. Thanks to Sister Marie, he would not have to live with a disfigured face, although he knew he would probably deserve it. He’d learned his lesson this time. The next time a married woman - any woman - turned her head to smile at him, he would look the other way.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said to Sister Marie, meaning it with all his heart. “You are a godsend!”

The nun nodded, rolling her eyes in playful reprimand.

“And you are a sinner, Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.” She chuckled. “But it seems even God is a little in love with your handsome face.”

(You can also read and comment on this story on AO3:)