#papa aramis

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Constance: How's parenthood treating you?

Anne: I wasn't expecting so much crying

Constance: That's normal for babies!

Anne: What? The baby is fine. I was talking about Aramis

Aramis, sobbing from Louis' room: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

[canadiangirl-82]

Happy Father’s Day to all Dad’s and Happy Santi Sunday as well.

[emiko-matsui]

fabian seacaster THEE most character of all time

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Les Trois Mousquetaires, Chapter 19

This one's called "Plan de Campagne" which means something like "mission plan", and thank God d'Artagnan is smart enough to make one.

It's always a good idea to ask an adult for advice, so d'Artagnan goes to Papa Tréville. He doesn't fill him in on all the details, but it's enough to conspiratorially whisper that it's "about honour and possibly about the Queen's life", and the Captain is in.

He's going to get d'Artagnan 15 days leave from M. des Essarts, and he also advises him not to go on this mission alone and take Athos, Aramis and Porthos with him, because "dans les entreprises de ce genre, il faut être quatre pour arriver un." (for this kind of undertaking, it takes four for one to make it through.)

Mark these words, mes amies...

D'Artagnan picks Aramis up first, then Athos and Porthos.

There's some discussion about how to get to London, but since d'Artagnan is a genius (yes, Athos mentions it two or three times), they go with his plan to ride to Calais together and take a ship to London from there. He's carrying the letter, and if any of them get killed on the way, the survivor(s) are supposed to ride on and go ahead with the mission.

Oh, and they're all bringing their servants, because it's what you do.

Aaaand we're off!

[silvermillenniumqueenneptune]

Chapters: 1/7 Fandom: The Musketeers (2014) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Constance Bonacieux & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan, Aramis | René d'Herblay & de Tréville Characters: Aramis | René d'Herblay, Athos | Comte de la Fère, Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires), de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires) Additional Tags: Age Regression/De-Aging, BAMF Constance Bonacieux, Parental de Tréville, magical well, Post-War, Magic, Child Aramis | René d'Herblay Summary:

During a search for a man accused of using magic, Aramis falls down a mysterious well whose waters have been granted magical powers. How will the Inseperables cope when their marksman has been reduced to a child who needs constant care? Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan are forced to ask their captain for support to look after the young Rene, and he finds his hands are fuller with this precious gift than they have ever been in his time running the Garrison. Written for The Garrison's Winter Secret Solstice 2022. A gift for my dear @enigma-the-mysterious, I am sorry it isn’t completed yet.

[annailujjay]

BDS BOYCOTT & BDS SAFE LIST!!!

If there’s any mistakes please let me know and I’ll fix it but these are the brands that are owned by big brands supporting Israel.

BOYCOTT LIST;

Estée Lauder brands:

Aveda

Becca

Coach cosmetics

Smashbox

Tom Ford

Aramis

Bumble and Bumble

Aerin

American Beauty

Clinique

Bobbi Brown

Darphin

Donna Karan

Ermenegildo Zegna

Flirt!

Goodskin Labs

Grassroots Research Labs

Jo Malone

Kiton

La Mer

Lab series skincare for men

MAC

Michael Kors

OJON

Origins

OSIAO

Prescriptives

Tommy Hilfiger

Too Faced Cosmetics

Tory Burch

Ahava

Revlon

L’Oreal

Lancome

Giorgio Armani Beauty

Yves Saint Laurent Beauté

Biotherm

Kiehl’s

Ralph Lauren

Shu Uemura

Cacharel

Helena Rubinstein

Clarisonic

Diesel

Viktor & Rolf

Yue Sai

Maison Martin Margiela

Urban Decay

Guy Laroche

Paloma Picasso

Vichy

La Roche-Posay

SkinCeuticals

Inneov

Rogers&Gallet

Sanoflore

L’Oreal Paris

Garnier

Maybelline New York

Softsheen.Carson

Essie

L’Oreal Professionnel

Kérastase

Redken

Matrix

Pureology

Shu Uemura Art of Hair

Mizani

NYX

Good American

KKW beauty

Skims

Poosh

Skin by Kim Kardashian

Kylie skin

Kylie baby

Kylie cosmetics

Kylie clothing

818 tequila

Goop/Super Goop

Elf

Fenty beauty

Fenty skin

Savagexfenty

Rare beauty

Amika

Tower 28

Zara

Starbucks

McDonald’s

Popeyes

KFC

Taco bell

Pizza Hut

Papa John’s

Dominos

Burger King

Always

Tampax

Luvs

Pampers

Bounty

Naturella

Tempo

Charmin

Whisper

Dodot

Puffs

Crest

Gillette

Oral-B

Scope

Vicks

Venus

Clearblue

Fusion

Braun

CoverGirl

Herbal Essences

Max Factor

Nice ‘n Easy

Pantene

Vidal Sassoon

Dolce & Gabbana

Ivory

Aussie

Head & Shoulders

Old Spice

Secret

Olay

Clairol Professional

Cheer

Bounce

Daz

Era

Gain

Mr. Clean

Comet

Downy

Fab

Gala

Mr. Proper

Ariel

Cascade

Dash

Dawn

Dreft Laundry

Fairy

Joy

Myth

Swiffer

Febreeze

Duracell

Johnson & Johnson

Johnson’s baby products

Aveeno

Lubriderm

Aveeno

Neutrogena

Vendome

Clean & Clear

Roc

Bebe

Band-Aid

Bengay

Neosporin

Cortaid

Listerine

Rembrandt

Tylenol

Sudafed

Pepcid

Nicorette

Motrin

Immodium

Dolormin

Benadryl

Mylanta

Zyrtec

Splenda

Benecol

Lactaid

Visine

Acuvue contact lenses

Kimberly-Clark

Kotex

Depends

Poise

Kleenex

Scott

Viva

Cottonelle

Wondersoft

Thick & Thirsty

Huggies

Pull-Ups

GoodNites, Little Swimmers, Snugglers, etc

BDS SAFE BRANDS;

ABH

Beauty bakerie

Charlotte tilbury

Cover FX

Dose of colors

Gerard cosmetics

Huda beauty

Inglot

Kevin aucoin

KVD

Laura Gellar

Laura mercier

Makeup forever

Makeup by Mario

About face

Af94

Nars

Pat McGrath

Stila

Uoma

Viseart

Hindash

Ardell

Rimmel London

Nip+fab

Chi

Beauty of Joseon

Cosrx

Sol de Janeiro

Kayali

Little Caesar’s

Sunset makeup

If there’s any I missed or are no longer BDS safe let me know.

[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]

[queenofmoons67]

Hey! I just read your fic for the Musketeers and I really liked it! I was wondering if you could do a fic that has all 4 InseparableswiInseparable a focus on hurt D'Artagnan. The tropes I was hoping you would be able to include are: gotta stay quiet to avoid discovery, "breathe, just breathe", desparate hand holding, DIY bullet removal, frantically feeling for breath or pulse, stubbornly standing only to have their legs give out. And could the bullet be in his shoulder? Thank you!

Hi! I'm happy to say I managed to include FOUR of the six tropes! I hope you like it!

WARNING for canon-typical violence.

D’Artagnan shivered in Porthos’s arms. He knew the summer day was really a warm twenty-seven degrees centigrade—had felt the perspiration running down his skin as he and his three mentors rode out to the mercenaries’ stronghold, and even once they were inside, the sturdy stone walls heating the corridors—but the perspiration had turned into a pained cold sweat, trapped between his body and the leather of his uniform, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but burrow deeper into Porthos’s hold, seeking the heat of another body.

It helped that Porthos was bigger than most, his broad chest and wide biceps encircling more of d’Artagnan than another musketeer would have, but again the leather uniform turned against them: Porthos’s heat refused to seep past all the layers.

The burrowing action must have betrayed d’Artagnan, with nothing but a still quiet to otherwise hold Porthos’s attention, and he found himself under his companion’s worried gaze. 

Porthos’s brow had been tight since the beginning of the mission; sneaking into an unknown stronghold to take stock of the weaponry within wasn’t the way the musketeers typically worked, and everyone—even Porthos and Aramis, who seemed to find thrill in an open fight—had been subdued and focused.

And then they had been discovered, Porthos and d’Artagnan separated from Aramis and Athos, d’Artagnan shot in the left shoulder, and Porthos’s carefully trimmed black eyebrows had furrowed lower and lower, closer and closer together even as he had gathered d’Artagnan in his arms and hurried them away from the fire fight, losing both their pursuers and themselves in the deep stone halls of the stronghold.

Now, they sat together in what once had been a bedroom, hidden on the floor using a perfectly good bed as cover from the doorway, d’Artagnan nestled between Porthos’s thighs so they sat back to chest, Porthos’s heavy arms around him and heavy gaze upon him.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos hissed, voice a mere breath on the wind, “you ok?”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan managed. If there was one advantage to the cold, it was that it numbed the pain in his shoulder, as did the steady pressure Porthos had put on it for the last—how long had it been?

D’Artagnan couldn’t remember. Didn’t know if he had ever known. But the light coming in the only window had changed, hadn’t it? The long-reaching shadow of tree branches on the floor—that hadn’t been there before.

Had it?

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, louder than last time. “You with me?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan managed. He was with Porthos. With Aramis and Athos, too, even if only in spirit at the moment. With them forever. For as long as they would have him. The four musketeers.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, quiet again. “You’ll be just fine, you hear me? Just gotta wait for Aramis to patch you up, and then Athos’ll bust us out, all papa bear-like.”

D’Artagnan snorted at the thought. He knew—he thought he knew what Porthos meant. Athos only cared about himself because others did, but if anyone threatened someone Athos cared about, the rapier came out.

That was a nice thought. D’Artagnan being someone Athos cared about.

D’Artagnan liked the thought of that.

[line break]

Something jostled d’Artagnan, and he moaned in pain, gazing blearily through half-open eyes. Had he closed them? The room was dark now, no light left to slip past the window curtains.

“Shh,” Porthos murmured. A broad hand brushed over d’Artagnan’s head, thumb sweeping sweaty bangs away, the softest touch d’Artagnan thought he’d ever felt. “Just breathe for me, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

And then the touch fell away, and Porthos laid d’Artagnan back against the stone wall. It was an awkward position, only half-supported, his lower back on the floor but his neck and head tilted up enough to see, but d’Artagnan knew why when the familiar polished wood of a pistol slipped into his hands, his finger guided to the cool metal of the trigger.

D’Artagnan struggled to focus, to put his sleep-heavy mind to work figuring out the danger he knew was coming. To think past the pain, throbbing in his shoulder now even as the cold persisted, worse in the nighttime.

There was a sound in the hall, the scuff of a leather boot on stone, but nothing else. Someone trying to be quiet. Sneaking. Searching for people who weren’t supposed to be there.

Porthos was quieter. Had learned the art of creeping in the Court of Miracles, d’Artagnan knew, where it was a matter of survival for him, Flea, and Charon, and had perfected it as a musketeer. Porthos used the skill now, tucking himself to the side of the doorway, rapier in one hand and the shorter main-gauche in the other. There would be no gunshot to alert other mercenaries—not unless they made it past Porthos and d’Artagnan had to defend himself.

For a moment, Porthos looked back at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan nodded back. The motion made him dizzy, head swimming with the pain of head pulling on neck pulling on shoulder, but it was worth it to see the way Porthos steadied himself, expression clear for the first time all day as he focused on the door creaking open.

From d’Artagnan’s point of view on the floor, door opening towards him and blocking his view, all he could see at first was a narrow steel blade, held at the ready—

And then Porthos moved, his own rapier slipping under the intruder’s before pulling back, the blade now slick with blood. There was the clatter of a body falling to the floor—leather, metal, and weapons, all guided down by a heavy weight to hit the roughly carven stone—and then several people shouted at once, the door flew open, and d’Artagnan watched as Porthos braced himself before the onslaught of several angry armed mercenaries.

His sight was blurry, clouded by pain and exhaustion and tears, and it made it hard to track the movements at the door. But d’Artagnan had been trained by the best men France had. One of them stood before him now, and d’Artagnan traced the way Porthos’s rapier—heavier than most, because Porthos was stronger than most—beat down the swords raised against him, distracting the mercenaries enough for the main-gauche to stab past their guard.

The doorway provided an excellent chokepoint, limiting the number of people able to come in. But even just the second mercenary falling to the ground forced Porthos back so he wouldn’t step on the bodies.

The other two mercenaries in the group had no such cares, and they both moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, so Porthos had to fight them both at once.

Porthos could have won the fight. Of that d’Artagnan had no doubt; he had witnessed Porthos win against worse odds.

Most odds didn’t have a fifth man hanging back, pistol raised and finger finding the trigger.

D’Artagnan didn’t have to bother finding his. Aiming the best he could with his blurry vision, praying to Aramis’s god that he didn’t hit Porthos, he braced himself and pulled the trigger.

The pistol’s recoil hit his shoulder before he saw where the bullet flew, and d’Artagnan screamed, dropping the pistol to the side and hunching over his injured arm. For a time, nothing existed but the pain—and then a hand fell on his good shoulder, over his pauldron, and d’Artagnan forced his eyes open and his head up till he could see broad brown features, a hat askew on a patterned bandana, a silver fleur-de-lis splattered with blood, and eyes wide with worry.

Porthos. It was Porthos, and d’Artagnan let his head fall down again, chin to his chest, and breathed.

For a moment, Porthos let him. And then, “We gotta go, pup.”

Just four simple words, but d’Artagnan heard a lot more. His pistol shot had saved Porthos’s life, but it had given away their position. Every mercenary in the stronghold would be headed their way—and already was, by the sound of the chaos outside the room. If they wanted to make it out alive, they had to go.

They had to leave Athos and Aramis behind. Had to trust that their brothers would find their own way home.

D’Artagnan said nothing, but held up his hand.

Porthos grabbed it and held it tight as he leveraged d’Artagnan up, around the room past the five dead mercenaries, and onto the bed closest to the window. D’Artagnan grit his teeth against the pain, squeezed Porthos’s hand, and forced himself to keep breathing. He couldn’t pass out again. Not if he wanted to give Porthos any help at all in their escape.

At the window, Porthos drew the curtains back, revealing the night of a new moon. They had the cover of complete darkness, and there, so close they almost brushed the window, were the branches that had cast shadows into the room during the day.

An entire forest lay at the stronghold’s back. It stretched as far as the eye could see, hiding the stronghold from sight of the main roads, and was in fact the way the four musketeers had gotten in in the first place. And a few kilometers into the forest, a thirty minute walk without any bullet wounds slowing them down, their horses had been hobbled by a stream.

If they could climb down without alerting any guards, they were home free.

They had been close to leaving the whole time, d’Artagnan realized. As many halls as they had passed through, all the corridors doubling back on each other and the sound of the mercenaries right behind them, there were only three floors: The basement, the main floor, and the second floor. They were on the second, and the rope Porthos pulled now from his belt would easily reach the forest floor.

The only thing holding him and Porthos back had been the mercenaries looking for them, the unwillingness to face them when Porthos would have to carry d’Artagnan and fight at the same time, and the desire to leave only once reunited with Athos and Aramis.

But now they had no choice. Already, he could hear running footsteps and the clanging of swords.

Porthos tied the rope around a bed post, then tossed the first few feet of its free end out into open space. Holding still, they both listened.

Nothing. Just the sounds inside. Any guards who might have been on the rooftop were probably summoned by the pistol shot.

Grabbing the rest of the rope, Porthos tossed it out the window so that it pulled tight between the curve of the windowsill and the knob of the bed post.

Porthos moved back towards d’Artagnan—and the door, which d’Artagnan hadn’t even realized had been shut again, banged open.

For a moment, d’Artagnan regretted letting the pistol go. As painful as it would be to use it a second time, he wanted a weapon in his hands as he looked towards the doorway and—

“Mon Dieu, merci,” Aramis breathed, and he and Athos hurtled into the room, swords out and coated in blood. “We’ve been searching for hours.”

“So have they,” Athos said, noting the bodies on the floor. “Did they fire the pistol shot, or did you?”

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, and it was both an answer and a call. D’Artagnan tore his gaze from the two brothers he had feared they’d leave behind, met Porthos’s eyes, and nodded. In an instant, Porthos had hauled him into his arms, chest to chest so d’Artagnan could wrap his legs around Porthos’s waist and avoid pulling at the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Porthos was a whirl of movement as he grabbed the rope and dropped out the window to climb down, hand over hand and feet braced against the outer stone wall, and d’Artagnan did his best to focus on a line of rivets along the collar of Porthos’s leather jerkin instead of letting his head swim.

But the fast movement meant they were on the ground quickly, and by the time Aramis and Athos had also slid down the rope, Porthos had shifted d’Artagnan so he lay back in his brother’s arms.

This wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had been carried by someone else; as a child, he had been fond of climbing into his mother’s arms, and as a teenager, he had once broken his ankle and been carried home on his father’s back.

All the times d’Artagnan had been carried before, he had bounced with even the gentlest movements of the other person.

But not with Porthos. Even as they pushed into the woods and hurried as fast they could over tree roots and around bushes, casting glances over shoulders to make sure they weren’t being followed, Porthos held d’Artagnan so tightly he barely moved. There was no extra pain, and so when they finally came to a stop and Porthos sat him down against a tree trunk, well into the woods but still a ways from the horses, d’Artagnan met the gazes of Aramis and Athos with relatively clear eyes.

Though d’Artagnan was sure they had already figured out something was wrong, this was the first time they had gotten a good look at his injury, and Athos blanched while Aramis dropped to his knees.

“How long?” Aramis asked. His hands worked carefully to peel away d’Artagnan’s leather jacket, shirt, and makeshift bandage.

When the bullet wound was finally revealed, d’Artagnan thought, Oh, as he looked at his bared chest. Some of what he’d thought had been sweat had been blood all along.

“Soon after we got separated,” Porthos said. He knelt beside Aramis, and Athos squeezed into a space between d’Artagnan and the base of a tree.

“Bullet’s still in there, and he bled a lot and went into shock, but—” Porthos held d’Artagnan’s gaze “—you seem to be doing better now?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan sighed. “‘M still cold, but at least we’re out of there.” He grinned at them, and Aramis and Porthos both huffed a laugh.

Athos just nodded firmly. “Aramis?” he checked. “Can we keep going?”

Aramis patted the bandages and clothes back into place, then nodded. “He’ll have to be,” he determined. “The bullet needs to come out soon, or we risk lead poisoning. But I can’t take it out here. I don’t have the materials to do it safely, and we’re not anywhere near far enough away from that stronghold that him screaming won’t bring them all down on us. Better to move now, while he’s conscious, than halfway through surgery.”

D’Artagnan scrunched his nose up, offended at the idea that he’d give away their position, but also unable to refute it when he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue against the pain. Still, he wasn’t able to resist planting his palms against the ground and fighting to get his feet under him and stand, just to show he was still capable and helpful while he had a bullet in his shoulder.

The moment d’Artagnan put pressure on his left arm, it shot up to his shoulder. D’Artagnan fought for breath, lungs seizing and arms shaking as he collapsed back to the ground. That had been a mistake. He had managed before to fight through the pain and focus on his friends, but now, the pain was too much.

His good hand shot out, searching for something to hold onto, and it clenched around something solid and hard, digging his fingers into grooves and around some kind of metal inlay, holding onto—holding onto—

“D’Artagnan?” a voice asked. It sounded familiar, like he had answered it many times already that day, like it had pulled him back from the dark, but it sounded so far away now. How much effort would it take to return to it again?

“D’Artagnan!” another voice said, rough and fearful, and something tightened around his ankle and a spike of pain shot through his shoulder and—

D’Artagnan opened his eyes to see Aramis’s pauldron, all fancy curls and floral vines. One hand, gloved in an old brown leather, gripped the pauldron tight while another hand, gloved in a nicer black leather, held the first. As he watched, the black glove squeezed, and he blinked in surprise when he felt that in his own hand.

Oh, he realized. The brown glove was his own, with dirt worn into it from farming and nicks cut into it from sparring, which meant that hand was his own.

He had grabbed Aramis’s pauldron when he felt like he might pass out.

D’Artagnan could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and hoping his friends would just think it because of his wound, he raised his eyes to meet Aramis’s.

The medic breathed a gusty sigh of relief, and his hand squeezed d’Artagnan’s again. “You scared us, mon ami.”

Aramis’s voice was soft, but d’Artagnan didn’t have time to worry for his friend for another hand cupped his own cheek and turned his head.

“Never,” Athos said, “do that again.”

D’Artagnan crooked the best grin he could considering the circumstances. Like he had a choice on when pain grew too much to handle.

But then again he knew what Athos really meant. Never get hurt again. Never put himself in harm’s way again.

Like he could promise that any more than the first. All he could really do was rest his head in the palm of Athos’s hand, take a shaky breath, and cough, “Leaving?”

“Just waiting on you, pup,” Porthos said, quiet and low. D’Artagnan turned to look at him. Porthos’s brow had grown tight again, but he had already positioned himself to pick d’Artagnan up again.

D’Artagnan braced himself for the pain—and then he nodded.

They had the rest of the walk ahead, followed by a horseback ride, a surgery, and questions about what to do with the mercenaries. They left behind bullet cases, dead bodies, and a rope dangling out a window.

But they were headed home, and they were together.

In the end, that’s all d’Artagnan wanted.

[line break]

I hope you all enjoyed, and please leave a comment and/or reblog: It gives me fuel to write more! (Nie Bros Prompts are up next!)

[tinyjaskier]

The Bumblebee and the Ladybug.

. . .

“Of course not!” Blue-green eyes glance over at Aramis, and that’s when the metaphorical lightbulb above Athos’ head makes a little ding! noise. He’s been suspicious of Aramis ever since yesterday evening when he started to go quiet, because Aramis doesn’t just go quiet . But, as usual, the stubborn idiot has been insisting that he is fine the entire time and focusing his attention on helping Raoul instead of himself. “How about we stick a bumblebee on Aramis’ forehead? He can show you how it works.”

Now, it is not like the man can argue against it. Because if he is as fine as he claims to be, then the pinkness to his cheeks will indeed just be sunburn or whatever excuse he may come up with next. Athos is already peeling off the bee shaped sticker before he can receive any noises of protest from the other, and he gets to his feet to walk closer to his newest patient. Gently brushing back his curls, and sticking the bee to his forehead. “You do feel quite warm,” he comments gently, an eyebrow quirked upwards in accusation.

“It is Spring,” Aramis casts a tired smile his way. “See, Raoul?” Back to strategically focusing the attention away from himself. “It does not hurt. I can even peel it off to show you that—“

“Ah, ah!” Athos tsks in his Dad voice, even earning a little flinch from Aramis. “We must read the number first. Raoul, can you see the number on the bumblebee for me?”

He gives an excited grin to have a little job to do, and scrambles his way across the sofa to reach Aramis. Standing up and being careful at pushing the hair out of the way, with a small giggle at how messy his hair is. “It’s… a three… seven and dot nine!” Raoul announces proudly. “You see it, Papa?”

Athos leans over and inspects the bee, holding up his hand to give Raoul a high five. “You are a very clever Doctor, Raoul.” He praises, turning back to Aramis. “Thirty seven point nine, that is very close to a fever and I think we ought to fetch Aramis some medicine… now—“ he reaches for the sticker sheet. “Would you like your ladybug?”

Raoul plops himself back down onto the sofa cushions, nodding. “Yes! Like Aramis, so he is not lonely.” Athos gives a quiet, relieved sigh and reaches over to carefully place the ladybug sticker against Raoul’s forehead. Waiting a moment or two for the reading to show up, and not exactly being surprised when it reads ‘38.4.’ Raoul is never grumpy, he’s always a happy and bouncy little thing; with far too much energy for his Dad to keep up with. Seeing him all grumpy and tired is always a sign that something is wrong.

“Now, Raoul… I have a very important job for you. Are you listening?” Athos joins his hands behind his back, and ignores the glare that Aramis is giving him.

Staring up at his Dad, Raoul nods.

“Will you make sure Aramis is resting? I am going to fetch you both some medicine and make us all some sandwiches. Does that sound like something you can do?”

. . .

(Continue reading on ao3!)

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Post Season 3

Anne: Aramis, we need to talk about the example you are setting for Louis

Aramis, standing on his desk: Bold words coming from someone standing in lava

[cinquecolonnemagazine]

I tre moschettieri, il trailer

Il capolavoro della letteratura francese, I Tre Moschettieri di Alexandre Dumas, tornerà in un nuovo, colossale adattamento cinematografico. Eva Green, Vincent Cassel e Louis Garrel saranno i protagonisti del primo dei due lungometraggi che completeranno il racconto, entrambi diretti da Martin Bourboulon (Eiffel, Papa ou Maman e Papa ou Maman 2), I Tre Moschettieri – D’Artagnan. Eva Green si calerà nei panni di Milady de Winter, Vincent Cassel interpreterà il ruolo di Athos e Louis Garrel sarà Re Luigi XIII. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8FSd8K7hpU Il cast Nei panni dell’iconico protagonista, François Civil (Wolf Call), affiancato da Romain Duris nei panni di Aramis e Pio Marmaï in quelli di Porthos, mentre Vicky Krieps sarà la regina consorte Anna d’Austria. I film introdurranno anche un nuovo personaggio: Hannibal basato sulla vera storia di Louis Anniaba, il primo moschettiere di colore della storia francese, interpretato da Ralph Amoussou. I Tre Moschettieri – D’Artagnan sarà distribuito in Italia da Notorious Pictures a partire dal 6 aprile 2023. Sinossi D'Artagnan, giovane e vivace guascone, viene dato per morto dopo aver cercato di salvare una ragazza da un rapimento. Quando arriva a Parigi, cerca in tutti i modi di scovare gli aggressori ma non sa che la ricerca lo condurrà nel cuore di una vera guerra che mette in gioco il futuro della Francia. Alleandosi con Athos, Porthos e Aramis, tre Moschettieri del Re, D'Artagnan affronterà le macchinazioni del Cardinale Richielieu. Ma, innamorandosi di Costance, la confidente della Regina, si metterà in serio pericolo guadagnandosi l'inimicizia di colei che diventerà il suo peggior nemico: Milady. Read the full article

[nie-narzekam]

Who has two thumbs and sings the best lullabies? This guy.

[canadiangirl-82]

Santi Sunday. ❤️⚜️

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Muskie reading update

“You musketeers are all the same. Sometimes I feel I would have fewer foolish actions and intemperate, unconsidered plots to contend with had the King put me in charge of the royal nursery at the palace.”

… and now you can all guess which character is saying these words. 🤣

[themusketeeranon]

[hj-creates]

Just a few pics of the boys being casual. It looks like Athos and Porthos were photoshopped into the last one for some reason.

Anyway, I know I haven't posted in a long time. Work leaves me with little free time to write/draw.