#treville

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Porthos: You believe me?

Treville: Porthos, you’re the only good person in this place. I'd believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning

[wingsofhcpe]

(S1E08 during the Musketeers vs Red Guards competition)

Treville: *walking into the rink*

Athos, clapping: that's our father!

Porthos, cheering: LET'S GOOO!

Aramis, bouncing up and down: fuck 'em up dad!

D'Artagnan, still salty: yeah whatever get their asses old man

[bullet-prooflove]

To The Grave: Captain Jean Treville x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @@lovemissyhoneybee @sekretwindow @rey4kat

There is something cruel about digging your own grave, knowing that each shovelful of dirt takes you one step closer to oblivion. You almost refuse but you’ve seen what happens to a corpse when it’s left amongst the wilderness. You can’t stand the idea of the crows pecking out your eyes, of rats and foxes tearing at your belly.

It takes a while, the digging. Your muscles ache, your palms blistering as you follow the rhythm your body sets. Your mind is full of Jean, of his depreciating laugh, his warm smile, the roughness of his voice. You think of the last time the two of you were together. The scratch of his beard between your thighs as he took you to heaven, once, twice, three times before he made love to you on his bed in the garrison.

You’d slipped away long before dawn, leaving him sleeping heavily amongst the tussled sheets. You remembered pausing in the doorway, considering climbing back into bed alongside of him. You could give up the spy game, become a normal wife, one that cooked, maintained a home.

“You would never be happy with that life.” Jean had once told you. “You crave the adventure too much.”

He isn’t wrong, for years you’ve stayed one step ahead of France’s adversaries and there’s a vindication that comes with that, a satisfaction. When men look at you all they see is a woman, someone to conquer, to seduce. You toy with them, twist them, relieve them of the burdens they carry until all of those secrets spill right out of their heads, because men in positions of power, they like to boast especially to beautiful woman.

Your conquests are rarely about sex, they’re about finding that fundamental weakness and exploiting it. You know how to make a man beg for you, what he’ll offer up in exchange just for the promise of a kiss but that’s always as far as it goes, a kiss and nothing more.

Your heart, your body, your soul, all of it belong to Jean Treville, the man who will never know that you’re buried in an unmarked grave just a short distance outside of Paris.

That’s the other cruelty of what your captor is doing, he’s taking the one thing that Jean treasures most in this world and destroying it. He’ll wreak his revenge by sending your husband letters, detailing horrific, fictious things about what he’s doing to you. It will send Jean into madness, it will consume his waking thoughts, torture him in his dreams. He’ll tear apart this entire country just to find you.

And when he finally breaks, when he commits that deed he can’t come back from, when he begs on his hands and knees for your release that’s when the trick will be revealed.

There was never anything to return.

The woman he loved is gone, murdered because of something he did five years ago and that will be the thing that destroys him, that drives him to put his sword through his own heart.

“That’s deep enough.” Marsac says from behind you and you set the spade into the dirt alongside of you before turning to face him.

He’s had the pistol trained on you the entire time, his finger bearing down on the trigger. He’s under no illusion about your abilities, he’s studied you the same way he has Jean. He knows your strengths, your weaknesses, what it takes to draw you from your post in the Duke of Savoy’s convoy. When a musketeer turns up, requesting a private audience it gets your attention, especially when he’s bringing news of your husband.

The man that no one’s even aware you’re married to.

“Did you know?” Marsac asks you, his grip on the trigger tightening. “Did you know that the orders you were carrying that night condemned twenty musketeers?”

“Would it matter if I did?” You ask him and he shakes his head.

“No, you’re just as guilty as your husband.” He hisses as his footing shifts and he squares his shoulders.  

You know what a shooting stance looks like, the subtle changes in a man’s body before he pulls the trigger. You swallow hard against the well of emotion in your chest, tipping your chin up so that you can look at the sky. You want the vivid blue to be the last thing you see. It reminds you of Jean’s eyes, the brilliant hue as he looks at you during the height of climax.

When you hear the gunshot, you expect a rush of pain, a stab of agony, that’s the way it felt the first time you were shot. Instead there’s nothing.

You exhale, your gaze coming to rest on Marsac. Blood erupts from his mouth, a blush of crimson blossoms across the front of his shirt as the pistol slips from his fingers. He chokes out a word but the copper in his mouth stifles it as he falls to his knees in front of you.

Behind him stands Jean, the barrel of his pistol still smoking as his eyes come to rest on you.

“Terese?” He questions, holstering his weapon as he steps towards you.

“I’m alright.” You whisper but Jean he needs to see that for himself.

His calloused hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and steadying as he studies you intensely. There’s flecks of blood across your features, tiny droplets of Marsac’s life force staining your skin. His gloved thumb chases them away as his forehead comes to rest upon yours, his voice breaking.

“If he had killed you...”

He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to. The words hang in the air between the two of you as he cradles you close, his lips brushing over your hair.

… I would have followed you into the grave.

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[musketeermaiden]

Anyone else having a real moment over a father/son dynamic between Aramis and Treville or is that just me...

I mean I totally haven't been thinking about it for the last three days and already written a ficlet about it but- Aramis was the first out of The Inseparables to be a musketeer, and I'm big on the anti-Aramis' dad so it's perfect. Aramis is always loud and proud and Treville cares about all his boys, but there's something about Aramis. He acts constantly exasperated but he's not, not really.

And then you add on top of that Savoy??? Treville getting word of the ambush and the immediate guilt that would bring, knowing that technically he had a part of it. Twenty two of his men were there- thinking them all dead and then finding out that one is alive. Aramis is alive and was abandoned by the musketeer he was closest with. If you think Treville wouldn't do the subtle overcompensating thing that a dad does when they feel guilty??? WRONG.

They just have been meaning a lot to me recently (and I'm gonna be posting that ficlet today soo). Fair warning this might not be the end of this topic.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Honor and Espionage Part Two

Aramis x Reader

Words: 5013

Part One

Summary: Shut away in the ambassador’s mansion with a woman who knows her true identity, the reader attempts to complete her task. Aramis must wait helplessly as the fatal night ticks on. 

Notes: I cannot even begin to explain how much of a chokehold this man has me in. Aramis has stolen my heart, and I hope there are those of you who can relate! Let me know what you think, these are just such fun characters. (I also plan to do more with this reader/Aramis dynamic in the future, including the story of how they met)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst, more steaminess 

Find more Musketeers: HERE

-

The doors closed and the last of the guests appeared to be inside. Aramis tucked his spyglass away with a frustrated sigh. He could see you now in his mind, your dazzling smile winning over the guests and the ambassador, your charm earning your way to more secluded areas of the house. Areas with information. Areas with proof of his treason. Aramis had seen firsthand how skilled and precise you were at your job. But that didn’t keep the turning in his gut from adding to the pained worry in his chest. 

The musketeer leaned back against the bark of the tree he’d hidden behind. The others were in similar positions, all glancing up at the house for any sign of trouble. 

D’Artagnan shifted, leaning toward him with a raised brow. “How do you do it?” He asked. “I imagine marriage would be hard enough when only one of you is a musketeer, but both of you?”

Aramis looked up at the boy and found only innocent curiosity on his face, as well as a hint of admiration. He inhaled deeply and ran a hand through his hair. Aramis knew of the younger man’s complicated feelings for a particular merchant’s wife. Perhaps all he was looking for was a little hope. 

“It isn’t easy, but I’m sure you’ve gathered that,” he said, a small smile teasing his lips. “But I think it helps us understand each other more than we would if we lived in a cottage somewhere.” Aramis chuckled. “Perhaps understand isn’t the right word…” In all his years of knowing you, he found that your mind was one he had yet to comprehend. Luckily, trying was one of his favorite activities. 

“What is then?” D’Artagnan rested his arm on his knee and tilted his head. “The right word?” 

Aramis contemplated the question for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the forest around the ambassador’s property and the occasional laugh streaming from one of the open windows. 

“I don’t know, ‘appreciate,’ I suppose,” he answered. D’Artagnan noticed the intense sincerity overtaking his features. “I cherish every moment I have with her because of everything we’ve been through. I worship each second breathing the same air as her as if any inhale may be my last. Because when I even think of a world where her voice has been silenced and her heart has been stopped…” He trailed off, turning back to the house. “I know my soul would follow her, even if my body could not.” 

Porthos’s deep and thoughtful laugh joined their conversation. He sat with his head tilted back and a smirk on his face. 

“Always the romantic hero type, eh?” He said. “Both you and her.” 

“Yes, Porthos, I am a man guilty of loving my wife and she is guilty of the same. Tease all you like.” Aramis smiled to himself, still facing the place where his wife could be in danger and he’d have no way of knowing until it was too late. 

Porthos shifted so he was sitting beside him. He put a hand on his shoulder, gaze following his worried friend’s. 

“She’ll be alright, yeah? She always is.” 

“And if anything happens, we’re ready,” D’Artagnan added. 

Athos merely nodded but Aramis felt his support. All four men contemplated the situation in silence, each plagued with his own thoughts and concerns. Aramis forced slow breaths to calm himself but reached again for his spyglass to peer through any windows he had a clear sight of. 

D’Artagnan thought of the fierceness he’d already witnessed- had even been on the receiving end of- and had faith in your abilities. He felt sorry for anyone inside who’d be unfortunate enough to cross you. 

-

With the man who was to be your escort now rotting away with poison in his belly, you had to alter your story to one Treville would likely have a headache of explaining later on. Rather than the daughter of a prominent merchant in the area, you’d presented yourself as a friend of the king of France’s sister, the Duchess of Savoy, who was traveling with her brother- unable to attend the dinner due to a head cold he gained on the journey- and looking for an advantageous marriage. A forward approach, of course, but luckily it seemed the ambassador couldn’t resist a good challenge of pursuit. All of the other guests seemed to buy your story as well. 

Almost all of them. 

As you giggled mindlessly at something Laurent had said, you could feel the harsh, burning glare from your rival across the table. Milady de Winter, making conquests of her own, ensured that you couldn’t ignore her presence. Her intentions, you had yet to decipher, but you knew her presence could only mean trouble for you. 

Why had the cardinal sent a spy after the ambassador? Did he have the same information as Treville or were his motivations more sinister, as they often were? 

“Tell me, mademoiselle,” Milady began, the same knowing smugness in her voice as before, “what do you think of the rumors growing in Paris regarding the musketeers dueling with Cardinal Richelieu's noble Red Guard? I, for one, have been frightened of even stepping outside of my door.” 

Laurent grunted with an approving nod and took a drink of his wine. “A bunch of lawless miscreants, the lot of them.” He leaned forward so only the two of you could hear. “You know, I’ve heard that the imbecile Captain Treville even has some of his men following me.” 

“You poor dear,” you cried, placing your hand beside his, “how awful to be pursued by those brutes. I’ve personally spoken to the cardinal recently and he couldn't agree more with… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name madame.” You stared pointedly at Milady. She didn’t blink. 

“Lady de Bonacieux.” 

You kept your face politely neutral, but inside you wanted to reach across and slap her. The use of your close friend’s last name was surely not a coincidence, but you failed to understand how she could know about your relationship with Constance. And her degradation of the musketeers was certainly meant to frustrate you, which meant she knew about your marriage to Aramis. But why not reveal you now? Why keep your identity a secret when it would benefit her much more to see the ambassador throw you out, or worse? 

“Ah, yes, we’ve met before,” you said. She wasn’t the only one with veiled threats up her sleeve. After all, you were not the only one here under false pretenses. “The cardinal introduced us once, did he not?” 

“I believe that was the occasion, yes.” 

“How lucky am I,” Laurent cheered, “to have friends of the cardinal’s on either arm.” 

You noted his boisterous tone and genuine glint in his eye. Either he was a much better liar than you anticipated, or there was something you had yet to discover. 

After dinner, Ambassador Laurent insisted on showing off his gardens to his guests before the men would separate to discuss subjects they felt were ‘too intense for the women’s delicate sensibilities.’ It always made you laugh, having to play the part of the naive ornament that they foolishly believed women to be. If any one of them could look into your mind and discover what you truly knew and understood, the burdens of knowledge you carried, they’d be terrified. 

Whereas, with your husband, your mind was his favorite thing about you. 

You pushed Aramis to the back of your thoughts again and continued batting your lashes at the idiots around you. 

Servants holding lanterns lined the paths of the garden, illuminated by the moonlight. Grand statues and topiaries were the center of Laurent’s boasts. You nodded and giggled and flattered until your brain was numb of boredom. 

A glint in the trees caught your eye. It was only for a second, but you could have sworn you saw movement. A flicker of silver. A contrast of blue-gray in the dark between the trees. 

You restrained yourself from groaning in frustration.

Surely, Athos was smarter than this. Surely, he wouldn’t allow for Aramis and the others to stake out the ambassador’s house because your husband was a touch too protective. Surely, they wouldn’t be that stupid. 

And yet… you knew it was them.

Aramis ducked behind the tree with his breath caught in his throat. 

“Do you think she saw me?” He whispered. Athos shot him a silencing glare. One trip, one loud noise could give away their presence. 

D’Artagnan eyed their leader and leaned over to Aramis. “She definitely saw you.” 

“Do you both want us to be shot?” Athos snapped. 

Aramis held a finger to his smirking lips. Athos’s blue eyes glared icy daggers. They all turned back to the group in the gardens and found that you’d looked away from their hiding spot. 

“Mademoiselle, have you seen your companion, Lady de Bonacieux?” Ambassador Laurent asked as he approached you. You’d only just noticed her absence yourself, sending a shock of panic through you that pushed the thoughts of your sneaking husband to the back of your mind. 

You gave Laurent a confused smile. “I haven’t, mousier. Perhaps she forgot something inside?” He looked to the house with a disappointed frown. “Oh, don’t let it upset you, sir. I’ll find her at once and we can continue our merriment.” 

There was something else in his expression, as well. A flicker of suspicion. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a smile of encouragement. 

“Don’t be gone long, my dear. I have yet to show you the largest of the statues.” 

“Of course.” You bowed and hurried back inside. 

In the trees, D’Artagnan’s teasing of Aramis halted with Porthos pointing to the gardens. 

“Look,” he said. Four pairs of eyes snapped over to watch you go. Porthos shook his head in confusion. “Where is she going?” 

“More importantly,” Athos said, motioning to another member of the gathering who retreated back into the house. “Where is he going?” Laurent’s ornately dressed form followed after you just long enough that you wouldn't notice. 

Aramis’s stomach dropped. He moved into a readied crouching position. “He’s discovered her. We have to help.” 

“Wait.” Athos held out a hand to stop him. “We must have faith in Y/N’s abilities. If we act too quickly, it could be a disaster for both her and us.” 

“But if he knows, he’ll kill her!” 

“Not with all of these people here,” Porthos noted the still full garden. “Even he’s not that stupid. He’d have to take her somewhere else if he’s going to kill her.”

“How surprisingly unhelpful,” Aramis snapped. 

But, with no other choice, he again remained, holding a clenched fist to his lips as he uttered more prayers he could only hope someone was listening to. 

Inside, you crept along the halls to the sounds of the crowd outside. You couldn’t help but wonder how many of them knew. How many knew of this man’s betrayal of his country and stood by and let it happen? How many helped him? 

You came upon a door on the second floor with movement and light streaming through the cracks. You removed the dagger you had strapped to your leg and opened it. Milady de Winter stood over the ambassador’s desk, rummaging through piles of parchment. 

“I expected a more subtle exit,” you said, closing the door behind you. “I believed you were more skilled than that. I thought wrong.” 

“Speed, in this situation, is favored for stealth, I’m afraid. Not all of us have musketeer husbands waiting to rescue us if this goes poorly.” She sneered at you over the countless letters and plans on the dark wood desktop. You froze. “Oh save me the shocked looks. It’s my job to know who you are.” 

“As it is mine to know who you work for,” you fired back. Of course, your marriage wasn’t a secret, but something about her knowing of Aramis made your skin crawl. “How did the cardinal find out about Laurent? No one else was supposed to know. Why would he send his favorite spy?” 

“Why indeed?” The growling voice behind you made your heart stop. A hand roughly grabbed your arm and the glower of Ambassador Laurent loomed over you. His burning gaze shifted over your shoulder. “What does the cardinal mean by this? I thought we had a deal?” 

“A deal?” You gasped, whirling around to look at Milady. “The cardinal is working with this traitor?” Laurent’s grip on your hand tightened and you forced a cry of pain back down your throat. 

“Unfortunately, you’ve run out of usefulness, ambassador. You’ve drawn too much attention to yourself, as this musketeer insider proves.” Milady said calmly. She raised her arm from behind the desk, aimed her pistol, and fired. “And someone has to clean up the mess.”

Laurent crumpled to the floor. 

Milady skirted around the desk with a cold, hard glare. “I’m afraid that goes for you too.” 

-

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the sharp sound rang through the night. The four men hiding in the shadows jumped to their feet. 

“Did you hear that?” Aramis exclaimed, not bothering to stay quiet anymore. 

“Steady, Aramis,” Athos urged, though he’d reached for his weapon. 

“We can’t wait any longer,” Porthos said. 

Aramis didn’t wait for an order. He dashed across the clearing separating them from the gardens. The other three swiftly followed. The guests gasped again upon seeing their approach. 

“Everyone remain calm,” Athos instructed. “We have everything under control.” His voice boomed with enough authority that nobody questioned him. 

Aramis’s feet carried him through the main door. Candlelight flickered in his vision. Gold shimmered from every surface it was nearly blinding. He whirled around, holding a hand out to stop the others, and listened. 

You dove for the weapon with one hand and slashed at her with your knife in the other. Milady knocked against the desk, sending parchment flying over the ambassador’s bloody body. 

“We could have made quite the team, you know,” she said. “The cardinal would have liked you, had you not married a musketeer of course. Aramis, isn’t it? I’m told he’s such a charmer.” She finished reloading her weapon. “Too bad you’ll never see him again. Husbands are useless anyway. He’ll betray you. Just wait.” 

You snatched a candlestick from the side table and launched it at her. She fired accidentally into the wall. In the bright flash of your weapon, a note caught your eye. There, on the edge of the desk, was a letter. In the moment you were able to read some of the words, you recognized it as Laurent’s plot to pay Savoyan soldiers to assassinate the king. And in the corner, was the cardinal’s signet. 

You swung your knife in Milady’s direction again, grabbing the letter and taking the second she had to reload to retreat. The ambassador’s guards met you in the hall. One reached for you. You plunged your knife into his arm and elbowed the other in the nose. If they pursued you, you didn’t turn to see. You ran. 

The second shot might as well have been through Aramis’s pounding heart. 

The third consumed his senses completely. 

With Porthos and Athos busy with more guards, he and D’Artagnan raced up the stairs. The ornate white marble brought them to the second floor where you laid with your back against the wall and a cloaked figure standing over you, gripping your arm as you screamed in agony. The figure tore something from your hands and hurried away without looking back. Aramis fired a shot but missed. 

“After her!” You shouted. You tried to pull yourself to your feet using the railing, but any movement in your arm shot searing pain through your body. Blood had already soaked the sleeve and side of your gown. 

“Go,” Aramis said to D’Artagnan. The young man sprinted after the assailant while Aramis rushed to your side. When his dark, beautiful eyes hovered over yours, you almost breathed a sigh of relief through your clenched teeth. 

“My arm,” you groaned. “The wretch shot me in the arm.”

Aramis examined the wound, lifting your limb gently. You took a sharp breath that sounded more like a whimper. He laid a hand on your cheek. 

“It’s bleeding too much.” Aramis unlatched his belt and wrapped it around your arm just below the shoulder. He tightened it and this time you couldn’t keep the scream at bay. “I know, love. But if I don’t remove the ball and sew the wound soon-”

“I’ll bleed to death,” you finished. There was a flicker of terror in his eyes. 

He saw the light leave your gaze, felt the warmth abandon your skin. He heard your final breaths as your blood stained his hands. He imagined his life without you. It was as dark and cold as a moonless night. The mere image of standing at your grave planted a seed of despair in his chest that he forced himself to push down in order to ensure that it didn’t become real. 

“That’s not going to happen.” 

Downstairs, Athos and Porthos’s battle showed no signs of ending. D’Artagnan returned with a shake of his head. Aramis put an arm under your legs and the other behind your back. He scooped you up and you bit back tears of anguish with every step as he ran. 

“I can walk,” you protested. “It’s my arm, not my ankle.” 

“Now is really not the time to argue, darling.” 

“What happened? Is she hurt?” D’Artagnan asked, keeping up beside you. 

“I need you to bandage her arm and apply pressure to the wound,” Aramis instructed. The younger musketeer tore off a piece of tapestry from the wall and wrapped it around your arm. 

“Sorry about this,” he said, pulling the fabric taught. 

You bit your lip and buried your face in Aramis’s chest. 

“What in God’s name happened?” Athos exclaimed. He and Porthos joined the rushing group. 

Aramis kept his eyes forward and his focus on you. “I need the ambassador’s cabin. She can travel on horseback and we need to get to a secure location for me to operate.” 

“Where is the ambassador?” Athos asked. 

You lifted your head. “He’s dead.” The four men exchanged a glance. You scoffed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t kill him.” 

“That might not matter,” Athos said. He held the door leading out to the path where carriages awaited. 

“What’s going on? Who are you?” The driver jerked the reins away from Porthos’s reaching hand. 

D’Artagnan lifted his gun. “We’re going to need to borrow this, monsieur.”

“Aramis, there’s something I need to tell you all,” you said, voice weaker than before. He lifted you into the carriage, keeping you close in his arms. 

“It will have to wait, darling.” He kissed your forehead. 

“But if I-”

“Don’t.” His tone was firm, but it shook with fear nonetheless. He gulped. “Everything is going to be fine.” 

-

A short ride away sat a small farmhouse, apparently abandoned. Porthos halted the carriage and the other two soon rejoined with the horses. Aramis hurried you inside. 

“She needs a drink. This is going to hurt.” 

Porthos held out a leather flask. “Why don’t we just do what you did with me?”

Aramis scowled. “I like her face the way it is. I’d rather you not damage it.” 

“I’ll have to agree with my husband on that.” You snatched the drink from his hand and downed as much as you could as quickly as the burning liquid allowed. You were already feeling the dizzy discomfort of losing so much blood from the inner side of your arm. “Before you start, I have to tell you all… I have to tell you… the ambassador was plotting to kill the king. And the cardinal was a part of it. That’s why he sent one of his spies to retrieve his letter. She’s the one who killed Laurent and the one who shot me. If you can find her, you may be able to expose the cardinal.” 

“We can worry about that later.” Aramis brushed a strand of hair off of your sweat-spotted forehead. “I’m taking care of you first. And I’m sorry, my love, but it is going to hurt.” His voice sounded as pained as you felt. The anguish in his eyes showed how much seeing you like this broke his heart. 

Finishing the rest of Porthos’s brandy, you gripped Aramis’s shoulder with your uninjured hand. 

“Do it.” 

Lacking the proper tools, Aramis took the sharpest knife he had and reluctantly plunged it into your gaping wound. The burn of the bullet was nothing compared to the blinding sting as he worked to remove the ball from your flesh. Athos gave you a piece of leather to bite down on, but even your muffled screams made Aramis sick to his stomach. 

“I know, mon amour. I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon, I promise. I’m so, so sorry.” He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus. “I’ve almost… got it.” The gore-coated piece of metal fell into his palm. Blood poured out from your wound. Again, the sensory images of your failing body filled his mind. Your eyes struggled to stay open. He worked faster. “D’Artagnan, tighten the belt and hand me my needle.” 

“Is it supposed to bleed that much?” 

“Just do as I say!” 

You let the leather piece fall from your mouth and managed a weak smile. “This reminds me of when we were attacked by thieves on the way to Gascony,” you laughed, ignoring the growing haze in your head. 

“I think we have different accounts of that.” 

You smirked. “Only, I saved you that time.” 

Aramis shook his head, his lips teasing upward. He threaded his needle and held the point over a candle’s flame. 

“Like I said,” he examined the needle. “Different accounts.” 

The sharp point pierced your scarlet-stained skin. It didn’t hurt as much as removing the bullet. You squeezed your eyes shut, took shallow breaths, and tried to stay awake. 

“There.” Aramis sliced the thread and wrapped a fresh cloth around your arm. “It’s over. You’ve lost a lot of blood but, God willing, you’ll heal.” He adjusted the cushions beneath you and cupped your face in his hands. 

“Aramis,” you breathed weakly and placed your hand on his. Your voice was hardly above a whisper. 

“What is it, love?” 

You opened your eyes to his brown irises staring in panic. Your smirk grew. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

He breathed a sigh of relief and brought your lips to his. 

Porthos chuckled behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. “That is a tough woman you’ve got yourself.” 

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Athos warned, though he was smiling as well. “We have to make sure the wound doesn’t get infected.” 

“Your concern warms my heart, Athos,” you teased. You pushed yourself up on your good arm and tried to stand. But the blood loss, as well as the brandy, weakened your legs. You fell back against your husband. 

“What are you doing?” He fretted.  

“I must get to Treville. We have to find de Winter. She has the letter.” 

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Aramis wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “You need to rest.”

You squirmed in his hold, grimacing when you moved your injured arm. “Leisure is not one of my specialties.” 

“I’ll just have to help you practice.” His dark gaze glinted with his smug smile, brow raised. 

“Perhaps you will.” 

D’Artagnan coughed, reminding the two of you that three other men stood in the room. You might have blushed if you hadn’t lost so much blood. 

D’Artagnan winked. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re going to be fine.” 

-

Aramis made a sling for you from his deep blue sash and the five of you headed back to Paris. You rode with Aramis, his arms on either side of you and his eyes shifting at every movement. He tensed at each snapping twig, his arms holding you a little closer. 

“It’s just a bird,” you whispered. “Besides, you needn’t be so worried.” You turned your head over your shoulder so you could kiss his cheek. “Broken wing or not, I’m still a better shot.” 

But if there were any of the ambassador’s allies, you did not encounter them. Nor was there any sign of Milady. By the time you reached Treville, you were sure the cardinal’s letter was little more than ash and memory. 

The captain paced before you as Aramis changed the crimson bandages on your arm. 

“If I had known your contact was Baffier, I would have warned your spouse to expect you.” 

“That certainly would have made you simpler.” 

“Admit it,” you snickered, “it was fun.” 

“I can’t say that’s the word I would use for you almost bleeding to death,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, rather his face held the same concern it had at the farmhouse. 

“Nor I.” Treville gave you a hard stare. “The ambassador is dead and we don’t have any proof of what he was planning. This is going to be a mess to try and explain to the king.” 

“It was the cardinal’s spy that killed him, not I.”

“Unfortunately, we also don’t have any proof that she exists and if someone from the gathering comes forward and recognizes you or the others, it’ll be a hell of a time explaining what you were doing there.” He stopped his movements and turned his head to both of you. “Which is why I’m not assigning you to anything else until this all dies down.” 

You stood up, Aramis following behind you. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means stay home,” Treville sighed. “You are injured. For God's sake, Y/N, you could have died if Aramis hadn’t been there!” 

“I’m afraid I have to agree with the captain.” Aramis stepped forward. “It’s far too much of a risk for you to be seen.”

Treville changed the subject of his exasperated glare from you to your husband. “And I’m sending you with her.”

Aramis’s face fell so quickly you would have laughed had you not been so frustrated. 

“Captain, I don’t… do you really think that’s… surely you’ll need-” He stammered. 

“You can keep an eye on each other until I can get this awful business figured out and her arm can heal.”

You both opened your mouths to argue, but he held up a hand. 

“That is my final decision.”

“What if you should need our services?” You asked. 

Aramis nodded frantically in agreement. “Yes! Surely Paris will find itself in danger some way or another and you’ll need our skills to stop another villain.” 

“If an emergency arises- and only of the utmost importance-'' Treville pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two will be the first to know. Now I have to try to begin to sort this out.” 

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand. 

You wanted to stay and fight, but between the ache in your arm and your husband’s guiding hand leading you to the door, there wasn’t anything you could do. 

“God knows how long it’ll take for this to quiet down,” you huffed once you were outside. 

“You two don’t look happy,” Porthos said. 

“Let me guess.” Athos crossed his arms. “House arrest?” 

You crossed your arms, grimacing from the jerking movement. 

“Careful, darling.” Aramis winced. 

You ignored him. “We aren’t allowed on any assignments until this whole ridiculous situation is handled.” 

“So, what, you have to go into hiding?” D’Artagnan wondered. “What are you supposed to do until then?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll think of something.” Porthos gave you a mischievous smirk, but his teasing did not lighten your mood. 

“He might as well have sent us to live in a cave.”

“Now, dear,” Aramis said, putting an arm around your shoulder “don’t you think you’re being a tad melodramatic?” Your face morphed with fury and your eyes burned into his. He gulped. “I love you?” 

You turned on your heel and stormed away. Aramis looked desperately at his three companions, but none offered any solace. In fact, they all grinned in amusement. 

“God help me,” he muttered, chasing after you as the trio started to laugh. 

-

Two Days and A Country Cottage Later

You swiped the damp cloth over your skin, bringing it further up your arm until fingers gently grabbed your wrist, stopping you from soaking your stitches. 

“Mind my needlework, darling.” Aramis purred into your ear. He took the cloth from your hand and began his own soothing motions over your arm. “Allow me.” 

You laid back against him, the bath water rippling with each movement. With your head leaned on his shoulder, he carefully cleaned the area around your wound. Any ache in your nerves was erased by his lips on your skin- from your shoulder to your neck to that little spot behind your ear. 

“You know,” you sighed contently, “maybe the captain was right to send us out here. I can’t remember the last time we’ve gotten to spend this much time together.” 

“I couldn’t agree more.” His lips followed your jaw as you turned to face him. 

“I just hope the city is still standing by the time we get back,” you giggled. “I’m surprised we haven’t already been summoned.” 

Aramis flicked at the water. “I give Treville and the others three more days before they come begging for our help.” A cocky smirk played on his features. 

“Well,” you stood, water cascading from your skin and glittering in the setting sun streaming through the window. 

Aramis basked in the sight of you. Almost glowing, you looked practically angelic. You stepped out of the bath and ran your fingers through your hair, beckoning him with a hooked finger and a suggestive glimmer in your eyes. 

“We better not waste them then.”

[scripted-downfall]

Porthos/Aramis: Off doing Things (TM)

Treville: Where’s Aramis?

Athos, whispering: Play dumb!

d’Artagnan: Who’s Aramis?

Athos: NOT THAT DUMB

[a-rare-jewell]

Fancast of the three Musketeers

More in tags

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

[ID: The Musketeers in Treville's office, slumped in chairs or leaning against things, all of them looking dejected, tired and worse for wear. /end ID]

When it's been a week™️ and it's only Wednesday.

[lead-acetate]

Treville: why is it when something happens, it's always you three?

Aramis: actually, I've been lately considering a possible explanation for this phenomenon. according to my observations, when one notices that something is often the case, one starts making a note of it each time it happens and forgets all the times it doesn't, thus remembering everything that confirms one's assumptions and dismissing everything that contradicts them. so each time something happens and we are to blame, you remember all the other times it was our fault but not the times it wasn't.

Athos & Porthos:

Treville:

Treville: a fascinating theory but something tells me that's not it

[thorin-is-a-cuddler]

Spoilers for the new musketeers movie :)

OKAY BUT I WAS SO HAPPY TO SEE THE SCOLDING SCENE!!! Like it was just a very short moment but for fans who love the scene it was the most genius character introduction to Aramis and Porthos 💕 Showing their hands was a nice detail :) And the fact that they get scolded like that two days in a row is so funnyyyy and finally it made its way to the screen

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Porthos: WE FIXED IT!

Treville: What did you fix?

Aramis: EVERYTHING!

[loud explosion in the background]

Athos: ... except that

[wingsofhcpe]

sometimes I remember that Treville canonically saw:

an alcoholic, disgraced nobleman who gave up on his previous life after irrefutable heartbreak

a black man from the slums that was also the bastard son of his asshole ex-best-friend

a spanish-french son of a sex worker that had ran away from home & his implied abusive bio father

and a freshly orphaned country boy with zero braincells who had just come to Paris all alone

and immediately decided that "yes, these are my sons. My children. I would die for them and I would also kill for them, and although my number one concern is my duty I would turn France upside down for their sakes, even if I try to pretend otherwise. They're stupid and disasters and almost get themselves brutally killed every other day, they have caused multiple large-scale diplomatic incidents and if I leave them unattended they will probably burn all of Europe down to the grown before lunchtime. But they're my soldiers and my sons, and I'm their captain and their father, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for them. And I will eventually sacrifice myself to protect the king of France, but ultimately it's in my sons' arms I'll die in, and so I will die happy and at peace."

And that's canon. That's, like, actually what happened in the show. I am so damn serious, if you want one of the best Found Family depictions in modern media watch bbc musketeers right now.

[bullet-prooflove]

A Cottage in Nice: Captain Jean Treville x Reader

Tagging: @lovemissyhoneybee @sekretwindow @rey4kat @roschele  @sassyscottishchick @aiko24k @scorpio-1357 @kmc1989 @burningpeachpuppy @swanfan17 @dragon85faby @angelnyx @caffeinatedwoman @missyhoneybee

Jean’s fall from grace is inevitable. You see it coming the moment he turns down the position of First Minister.  It becomes the talk of France because no man in his right mind would defy the king’s wishes and your husband does just that.

It moves quickly from there, the king shows his displeasure by stripping him of his rank before he dismisses him from the service entirely. His career is shattered within a matter of weeks.

He steers clear of you in the aftermath, he doesn’t want the taint of his misfortune to muddy you. Your marriage has always been his most closely guarded secret, he will take it to the grave if he has to.

He ignores your letters, vacates his premises in the garrison and disappears in the night.

There is one other man who knows your true identity as Madam Treville and you meet with him under a rain drenched canopy a few streets away from the garrison.

“We’ve tried to locate him.” Athos tells you as you watch the droplets form puddles in the mud. “It is as if your husband has disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“He is ashamed.” You say quietly as you remove your riding gloves from pocket of the men’s jacket you are wearing. Your hair is tied away from your face with the red ribbon that secured the bouquet on your wedding day and your clad in fitted men’s breeches. It’s easier to move around Paris in this guise. Women tend to be hassled if they are alone during this late hour. “If he isn’t in his cups, there’s another place he would have gone in order to lick his wounds.”

“The cottage in Nice?” Athos questions.

It’s been years since he’s thought of that place, of the town where he witnessed your marriage. It hadn’t occurred to him that their Captain may return there, that he maintained that level of sentimentality.

“We bought it several years ago along with a small patch of land.” You reveal as you tug the kidskin riding gloves up to your wrists. “A place for an old soldier and his spy to retire in their golden years.”

It’s a joke between the two of you because you both know there will be no golden years, not with your choice in careers. The cottage serves as a safehouse these days, a place to go amidst the chaos of the world.

“I’ll escort you.” He says, removing his own gloves from his belt. “The roads at this time of night will be treacherous…”

“Athos.” You say fondly because his loyalty to you and your husband is admirable. “The Musketeers need a leader in my husband’s absence and Jean has always intended to name you as his replacement.”

“Take Aramis or better yet Porthos, even D’artagnan.” He argues as he helps you up onto your mare and you shake your head as you grip the reins in your hands.

“This is something I need to do as a wife.” You say softly. “The presence of others will only serve to silence him.”

You see the resignation in his features as he looks up at you. It’s hard for him to concede to your wishes, it’s the gentleman in him you think.

“Stick to the main roads.” He recommends as his palm smooths over the nose of your horse. “The back ones will be filled with vagabonds.”

He’s not telling you anything you don’t already know but it’s the warning of an old friend, one that doesn’t want to see you dead. You feel his eyes on you as you disappear into the night, watching you for as long as he can. He can’t stand the thought of his Captain losing anything else, especially not his wife.

*******************************************************************

It’s a long ride to Nice and you spend that time considering the state you’ll find your husband in. There have been ups and downs over the years, the rise and falls of your professions, your personal follies but there has never been anything like this. The king has thrown his whole identity into flux and you’ve seen what that can do to a man, how it can twist them into bitterness.

When you arrive at the cottage nothing is as you expected. The windows are wide open, airing it, the garden is neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds recently tilled. The vegetable patch has been replanted and there’s a small harvest sorted into several different baskets. Each one has a name tied to them written on parchment in Jean’s hand.

Local families you realise as you study each one of them. You know that some of them have suffered hardships recently and Jean can’t stand to see someone struggle, not if he can help.

You employ a house keeper and a groundsman from the village to maintain the cottage while you are away. You use money you earn from your spywork and the jewels your first husband left you to fund it. His lands, along with your own had been seized when he’d been tried for treason but the jewels, you kept as payment for what you had endured underneath that tyrant. It had been a pleasure to watch him hang, knowing that you had orchestrated his demise.

You find Jean around the back, bare chested, chopping wood. His scars stand out starkly against his firm muscles as he swings the axe down over and over  and over again. There’s a catharsis in being productive, especially for him. You watch as he tosses the logs onto the wood pile before clearing your throat and stepping into his line of vision.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says wearily as he sets the axe down, diverting his attention to the wash bucket and rag he’s set alongside the well.

“Here or with you?” You ask him as he cleans himself with the cool water.

He doesn’t answer you, he won’t even look at you and you can tell he feels ashamed. He has lost his stature, his position. His name may be on the title to this house but it is you that it belongs to. He has nothing besides the clothes on his back, his pistol and the sword that’s been with him for almost as long as you have.

“I have no prospects as a husband.” He says finally as he wrings out the rag. “You’d be wise to ignore the affiliation you have with me, it will not put you in good stead if our relationship is ever revealed.”

You take the rag from his hand and toss it back into the bucket and he sighs because you would never let him off that easy, despite it being in your best interests.

“My love.” You say softly as you lean against the well. “Will you look at me?”

The line of his jaw clenches as he shakes his head, his palms coming to rest upon the stone rim as he looks down into the clear water below.

“I know that it feels that you have lost everything.” You say quietly, studying the profile of his features. “But you have not lost me, you will never lose me.”

“Terese…” He says, his voice rough as he finally tilts his head to meet your gaze. “I have nothing to give you…”

“Our marriage has never been about trinkets or reputation.” You say, your forehead coming to rest on his as your fingertips chase along his grizzled cheek. “It’s about love, it always has been.”

“Terese…” He begins again but you press your lips to his and all thoughts of arguing fall out of his head because there’s just you, here in this moment, anchoring him, holding him steady.

His world is full of turmoil but you’ve always been a safe space, a guiding light in the dark. With you he knows who he is, who he’s always been, who he always will be.

Jean Treville, your lover, your husband and most importantly the man you call home.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[general-du-vallon]

[ID: screenshot of Treville's hands, candles in the foreground. He's doing something, it's hard to make out. Something long and dark is in one hand, thread atached, th thread pulled by the other hand. End ID].

Does anyone know what he's fixing? I don't recognise it and can't work is out.

[roennq]

The Musketeers: Series Two Trailer

New villain, new adventures!

2/8

Series One

[animanightmate]

Wrote A Thing!

Encoded

(19485 words) by

Anima Nightmate

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom:

The Musketeers (2014)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Athos | Comte de la Fère, Aramis | René d'Herblay & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan & Porthos du Vallon, Athos & Milady, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters: Aramis | René d'Herblay, Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires), Athos | Comte de la Fère, Constance Bonacieux, Milady Clarick de Winter, de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires), Labarge (The Musketeers 2014), Background & Cameo Characters

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, Codes & Ciphers, Alternate Reality Game (ARG), Competition, Misunderstandings, neurodivergence, Happy Ending, Musketeer Secret Solstice, Gift Fic, Swearing

Summary:

December 2022 and Masters student Aramis has a lot on his mind and looming deadlines. What he really doesn’t need is to be continually bumping into an irritable stranger while trying to solve a decades-old mystery his impetuous friend just dropped in his lap. Not this close to the festive season.

This gift fic forms part of the Musketeers Secret Solstice, and was written for SaKha (aka @lead-acetate). It is probably the soppiest thing I've ever written, and does bear a passing resemblance to Hallmark Christmas Movies, only a lot queerer, obviously...