#large men are a true weakness when it comes to snz

[irosenpinetree]

A man with a large nose that wrinkles and flares with every hitch, his chest swelling larger as he desperately tries to avade his captivity of a freshly bloomed flower at his septum.

Especially if there's a lightly pollen coated handkerchief waiting for him in your other hand.

[groundcontrol21]

BBC M/usketeers Drabble (M)

In a rare turn of events, I inspired myself in this post. Have a little M/usketeers drabble (side note, I’m surprised that the snz fandom has largely missed out on these legendary bros of Bromance Past, they need to be made So Sick™️)

Five minutes. It was nearing five minutes of blissful silence, or at least the blissful lack of any other sound but that of three men breathing to various degrees of exertion and difficulty, before Porthos spoke up again. “I could carry him, you know,” he gasped, even as he held his side, even as he breathed as though they were running a drill as opposed to shuffling along a gravel path. “Really.”

Athos did not wish to dignify such stupidity with a response, not least of all because he himself was currently a bit short on breath, but he could feel the man watching him, like a hulking apparition, and so he scoffed. “Yes,” he ground out as he shifted the weight upon his shoulders. “I’m sure your ribs would love that.”

Said weight spoke up, his voice hoarse and sore and weak. “I could probably walk,” he said, and an Aramis who did not express absolute certainty in his ability to be independent was an Aramis who was absolutely certain of his inability to be so. He coughed, the sound wet and sick, before adding softly, “If I’m getting too much for you.”

“Walk, hmm?” Athos said shortly. “On what legs?” They had had this conversation once in the aftermath of the ambush, once on the road, and they were again repeating its inanity, as if Porthos’s ribs had magically snapped back into place or Aramis’s broken ankle, slashed thigh, and sodden head cold had vanished along the way.

Athos jerked his head. “Nonsense, the lights from the village are just up that way. Now, be quiet and stop making me waste my precious breath arguing with you both.” He panted a bit more than strictly necessary, for good measure, and was gratified when his companions fell silent once more. It was a bit below the belt, playing to his friends’ guilt like that, but Athos was nothing if not a skilled tactician and it was true–one really did need all the breath he could get to carry a grown man and his weapons to safety. Or at least, to an inn in a proximate village where he would hopefully not come down with pneumonia.

Aramis had awoken sick that morning, when they were to complete their journey back to Paris, but had assured them he was fit to ride. He likely would have been, had they not had a run-in with bandits that, due surely in part to the marksman’s illness-induced sluggishness, had resulted in a collection of injuries and bolting horses. Only Athos had escaped unscathed. For now, at least, for he would surely be stiff and sore tomorrow.

And perhaps, stiffness and soreness was not the half of what he would be facing in the coming days. Aramis, slung across his shoulder and nearly limp from fatigue and blood loss, gave a wet, warning sniffle. “Hehh’TSCHoo! Ehhh’TSCHoo!”

Athos bit back a grimace as he felt spittle hit his face.

Aramis, for his part, sounded devastated, but there was only so much he could do in his position. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Athos, I–KSSHHeew!”

“Luckily for you,” Athos said drily, “I have the constitution of a horse.”

Aramis gave a weak, congested chuckle. “Hopefully one that fares better than ours.”

Porthos piped up again, voice tight with pain. “By the looks of things, I’d say they’re probably faring better than us right now.”

That Athos could say with near certainty. What a trio they must look: one man hunched over an injured chest, another stumbling under the weight of a battered and bloody third. “They’ll probably make it back to the garrison in time for an evening drink.”

“Jealous?” Aramis said lightly, biting back another cough.

“Extraordinarily,” Athos said, and pushed onward.