Round 2

[bbcmusketeerskink]

Welcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme

The lowdown: You post your prompt, anon or not. Someone else will hopefully fill it (also anon or not). Not for profit, just for fun. And in this case, for king and country.

Anon is on, IP logging is off.

Rules:
No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
No prompts with characters under the age of 16 in sexual situations, please.
Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post

Mandatory trigger warnings/warnings for both prompts and fills:
non-con/dub-con
abuse (physical and mental)
issues such as racism, sexism, homo-/trans-/-bi-/ace-phobia etc
character death
suicide
self-harm
eating disorders
extreme physical or mental illness
substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, medication)
bullying
gore and horror

If this list misses anything, do let me know, though please understand that if absolutely everything is added this list will never end.

You are encouraged and advised to add additional warnings at your own discretion.

Please make use of the subject line.

If your prompt alludes to the book or any of the other adaptations, please let us know which one.

Lastly, prompt freezes (which I have to say I’m really not fond of) etc will be at the mod’s discretion. I will decide on a prompt cut-off point for prompt posts once I know how fast the meme moves.

Archive:
https://delicious.com/bbcmusketeers

Discussion post:
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/557.html

Official fill post (I strongly suggest you use it for better visibility of your fills):
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/418.html

Mod contact post
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1356.html

New updates:
- Extras fill post for the free for all rounds (as much as I hate dividing the meme even more.)
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html

- To answer a question going around in the discussion post, here's a small guideline: If you're unsure about something, either decide by yourself how you want to fill it and see if OP likes it or not or communicate with OP via aksing questions.

Comments

Fill, part three of four

[(Anonymous)]

"Am I going to die?" Porthos asks, small and scared, and Aramis cups his cheek.

"No," Aramis says. "Let me check you over."

He removes Porthos's shirt, and reveals more bruising under the bandages. Aramis cuts those off, too, to show deep red lines across Porthos's shoulders. He takes the bandage off Porthos's head, and then sits back. Porthos lets out a quiet, strained sound.

"I wish I had my saddle bags," Aramis says, resting a hand on Porthos's side.

d'Artagnan goes to sit in front of Porthos, by his head, and takes his hand again. Athos joins them, too, squeezing himself between d'Artagnan and the wall, stroking Porthos's hair. Aramis snaps a blanket over Porthos, suddenly, and shoos them both back to their feet.

Just in time. The inn keeper himself comes bustling in at the head of a line of people. First, the maid, who's carrying blankets and extra candles, and a second lamp. Then two kitchen boys bearing trays of food, then the inn keeper's wife with hot, spiced wine. Athos hurries them all away again, and they re-take their places.

Aramis goes for water and returns with a bed-sheet and a pink cheeks. He tears the sheet up for bandages and sets about cleaning, bandaging, and strapping Porthos up. He presses carefully over Porthos's abdomen, then pronounces that he'll live. He checks Porthos's groin again, mutters about him being a child and pats his hip.

Athos shushes Porthos, who's shivering and whining now. Athos leans onto the pallet and cradles Porthos's head. d'Artagnan squeezes the hand he's holding.

"Food," Aramis says, getting to his feet again.

They eat sitting around Porthos's bed. Aramis makes Porthos drink some of the hot wine, and that puts him to sleep. Athos soon follows, pulling a pallet close to Porthos and snoring. Aramis and d'Artagnan sit up longer, side by side, backs against the wall.

"You must be exhausted," d'Artagnan says.

"I was worried about him, to begin with," Aramis says. "But he can take a beating. He'll be fine."

"You're still worried. Why didn't your or I go? We could have talked them round."

"Because. He doesn't do this. Doesn't take more than his share.He's brave and a bit brash, but he allows us to take our share of the hurt. He judged that, this time, it was him who needed to do it. I don't know why."

"Will he tell us?" d'Artagnan asks.

"Yes. If it's something that will help us find these men. If we need to find them. If they were after the queen and not just hoping we were with someone important, chancing their luck."

"Will Porthos know?"

"He might. Athos will question him, and find out."

"I'll keep watch," d'Artagnan says, "if you want to rest."

Aramis hesitates, then looks longingly at the two pallets pushed together.

"Wake me in an hour," Aramis says, at last, "I'll take first watch, then. I sleep better the second half of the night."

d'Artagnan settles in to watch, and Aramis lies down behind Athos. Porthos is breathing heavily in his sleep, wheezing slightly. Aramis's light snores soon join the night sounds. Athos is still and silent, even deeply asleep.

d'Artagnan guesses the hour, judging from the sounds from the house beyond their room. He uses the time to take stock. It's the first time he's seen torture first hand. For all Aramis's assurances that Porthos can take it, and for all Aramis's assurances about torturing the body is much better than if they'd been torturing Porthos's mind, d'Artagnan is still off kilter from it.

Perhaps from being in that dark, dank cellar, waiting, knowing they were hurting Porthos and not being able to fight. Perhaps from the look in the eye of the man who took a liking to Athos. Or perhaps Porthos's reaction to that look, which was, for d'Artagnan, more telling. Perhaps from all of it. By the time an hour is gone, d'Artagnan has forced his mind through it all, and he's calmer. When he wakes Aramis there's no tremble in his hand.

"Here," Aramis says, getting up, "Take my place."

d'Artagnan does as he's told, tucking himself in behind Athos. It's warm here, the sheets and blankets still retaining Aramis's body heat, Athos adding more. d'Artagnan presses a hand to Athos's back, for comfort, and then falls asleep without much trouble.

When d'Artagnan wakes, it's to another back. A rumbling, growling, moving back. d'Artagnan presses a hand to the side of the new body, hushing it like a startled horse. The body stills like one, for a moment, then starts to rumble again. d'Artagnan wakes a little further and recognises first Porthos's back, then Porthos's laughter.

"Not a colt," Porthos says, voice rough but amused, only faint traces of the strain from last night, "what're you doin'?"

"Soothing," d'Artagnan mumbles, rolling into a sitting position and stretching. "You were disturbing me. Is it morning?"

"Suppose so. Athos has gone for breakfast, Aramis has gone..." Porthos trails off.

d'Artagnan leans forward to get a glimpse of his face, and sees confusion. Porthos shifts, growling in pain, and then flops down again, panting.

"Went somewhere," Porthos says, "can't remember... there was more wine."

"Don't worry," d'Artagnan says, blithely, "either he went somewhere specific, and will return, or he wandered off in a drunken stupor and possibly fell in the river. He can swim, so either way."

d'Artagnan gets to his feet and looks around. The room is strewn with bits of his own and Porthos's uniform and outer clothing. Their boots are in a muddle by the door. The table's clear, a bible sitting at the place nearest a window indicating Aramis's watch, and an empty wine bottle indication Athos's.

"Help me up," Porthos demands, drawing d'Artagnan's attention back to him.

He looks well rested, but otherwise not any too well. The gash across his head is bruised all around, across his eye and down his cheek. He's grimacing, as well. Probably from discomfort, from his ribs, or his knee, or any of the many other injuries.

"I think you should stay put," d'Artagnan says, uncertainly.

Saying 'no' to Porthos is like saying 'no' to a bull; it has little effect and the sound of your voice might send it into a rage. Porthos doesn't throw things at d'Artagnan's head, though.

"I need to relieve myself," Porthos says, irritably.

"Oh!"

d'Artagnan hurries forwards, and between them they get Porthos sat up against the wall. They're resting, both of them panting a bit from the effort, when Aramis comes in.

"What do you two think you're doing?" Aramis says, dumping his arm load of things onto the table and hurrying over.

"He needs to piss," d'Artagnan says.

Aramis makes a sound of surprise, and then a wicked grin slides across his face. He goes back to the table and offers the empty wine bottle, one eye brow raised. He stays well out of reach of Porthos, but d'Artagnan is still close and he gets a biff around the ear. Aramis laughs heartily before stooping, getting hold of Porthos under his right arm, and heaving.

Porthos comes up off the pallet with a roar of pain and d'Artagnan leaps to his feet, helping Aramis keep Porthos upright as Porthos's knees both give way.

"I'm stiff, is all," Porthos defends, when he can speak again, getting his good leg under him.

Aramis leaves d'Artagnan to help Porthos to the pot, turning back to the table. d'Artagnan tries not to look, but Porthos's groin is as bruised as the rest of him, and d'Artagnan hisses in sympathy. Porthos growls and d'Artagnan raises his eyes, apologetically.

"Not you," Porthos mutters, "it bleedin' 'urts. Aramis, don't make me ride today, for the love of... 'o's the patron saint of-"

"Blasphemy before breakfast is bad for digestion," Aramis cuts across hastily, coming over to peer at Porthos's privates. "Let me check you out."

"Last night when you did that it just 'urt more!"

Porthos finishes pissing and tucks himself back into his braies, leaning away from Aramis, into d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan's breath is pushed from him at the sudden extra weight and he staggers, but manages to keep them both on their feet. He heaves Porthos back to the pallet and sits him with his back to the wall, then slumps beside him.

"You're heavy," he defends, when Porthos laughs.

Porthos reaches out to ruffle d'Artagnan's hair, then pulls him into a half-hug, half-headlock. d'Artagnan leans against his hot side, going limp, not fighting whatever it is. He frowns at the heat of Porthos and, when Porthos lets go of his head, he sits up to feel Porthos's forehead, away from the cuts and bruising.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan says, "I think he has a fever."

"Very likely," Aramis says, "Porthos, do you have a fever?"

"A little. Not bad, don't think anythin's infected."

"Good."

Aramis turns, a needle and thread held up in triumph. Porthos groans and leans his head back against the wall.

"Do I need to have d'Artagnan knock you out?" Aramis asks.

"No," Porthos grumbles, pushing he face forwards and closing his eyes.

Aramis crouches, instructs d'Artagnan to hold Porthos's head as steady as he can. Porthos holds still for the three stitches Aramis puts into the gash by his eye, only flinching into d'Artagnan's hold when the needle pierces his skin. Aramis ties the stitches off and goes back to the table, returning with bandages.

"So that's where you wen'," Porthos says, leaning into d'Artagnan's side.

"I told you where I was going," Aramis says, pulling Porthos's shirt up and undoing the bandages around his chest.

Porthos hisses under Aramis's poking and prodding, but remains still. It's not until Aramis checks the knife wounds on his shoulder and arm that Porthos loses patience and lashes out, pushing Aramis away.

"Big dolt," Aramis complains, but he leaves Porthos's knee alone.

Athos returns with breakfast, limping only slightly, and they fall into the familiar routine of eating together, Porthos and d'Artagnan sitting comfortably on the pushed together pallets, Aramis and Athos sitting at the table. d'Artagnan, noticing Porthos eating only a slice of bread, piles his plates with things that can be eaten with fingers, and wafts it around in front of Porthos's face now and then. Porthos puts up with it for longer than he usually would, and even eats a couple of grapes and some meat, before elbowing d'Artagnan.

“Stop,” he growls, quietly, eyes cutting to Aramis to make sure he's not listening. “Stomach hurts.”

d'Artagnan frowns, remembering the bruising from last night. He also looks at Aramis, but Aramis is gazing out of the window, idly tearing bread apart. Athos is watching. He kicks Aramis under the table and Aramis yelps, then turns to look at Porthos, eyes narrowed.

“What?” Porthos says.

“Exactly,” Aramis says, “what are you trying not to tell me?”

“Nothin',” Porthos grumbles.

Athos snorts.

“His stomach hurts,” d'Artagnan blurts, “sorry, sorry. I had to tell him.”

“Traitor,” Porthos says, but there's no heat behind it and he puts his plate aside to raise his own shirt.

His side and stomach are turning black, with hints of purple and green. d'Artagnan whistles admiringly. Aramis comes and pushes bits of Porthos, making him moan and groan and swat at Aramis like an annoying fly.

“I can't really tell if you've damaged your insides,” Aramis says, eventually, sitting back, frown deepening. “Is it a sharp pain, or do you feel sick?”

“Just hurts,” Porthos says, weary, leaning into d'Artagnan again. “I'm just tired, and sore.”

“You're not going to throw up?”

Porthos shakes his head, then winces.

“Head hurts, though,” Porthos says, “feel a bit sick from that. Whoa.”

“Dizzy?” Aramis asks, cupping Porthos's face.

“Mm,” Porthos agrees.

“Stay awake,” Athos says, curtly, “I need to question you. We need to make a plan. Aramis, you need to go scout around the area, check we weren't followed.”

“d'Artagnan-” Aramis begins.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos interrupts, “is perfectly capable, I'm sure. However, as it is he majesty's safety, and not our own, I would prefer to have someone more seasoned, who knows what to look for.”

Fill, part four of four

[(Anonymous)]

Aramis squeezes the back of Porthos's neck and checks him over once more before getting to his feet and gathering his hat. He pauses at the door.

“When I get back,” he says, sternly, “I'm looking at your bollocks.”

d'Artagnan giggles. He can't help himself. He pulls his knees up and hides his face, trying to stifle the noise. He peeks out when he hears the door creak, and sees Aramis glaring at him. He hides again until the door shuts with a snap. When he looks up Porthos is giving him an amused, fond look, and he reaches out to ruffle d'Artagnan's hair again.

“I thought it was funny, too,” Athos says, dragging a chair over and sitting backwards, leaning on his hands, looking at Porthos.

“Can't remember much,” Porthos says, hand falling from d'Artagnan's head. “Don't think they were just thugs, I think they were gentlemen.”

“You said they spoke like me,” Athos says.

“Yeah, most of 'em. First time, there was one bloke who didn't.”

“You said he spoke like you?”

“Yeah, I said that. He didn't, though. More rural. More like d'Artagnan.”

“Was he a Gascon?”

“No. But he sounded like one.”

Athos asks question after question, for half an hour, and then he tells d'Artagnan to help Porthos get some rest, and leaves the room. d'Artagnan wants to follow him to ask his own questions, but Porthos's breath is coming fast and shallow and his face is grey with exhaustion and pain.

“Here,” d'Artagnan says, helping him lie down on his better side, “I'll get you some wine, and you can rest.”

“I feel sick,” Porthos whispers, eyes tight shut.

“Are you going to throw up?” d'Artagnan asks, looking around for something just in case.

“I don't know,” Porthos whispers, sounding miserable.

From Porthos, that's practically a 'definitely', so d'Artagnan hurries to the table and empties the fruit left out of a bowl, rushing back in time for Porthos to get unsteadily up onto an elbow and vomit weakly. d'Artagnan catches it in the bowl.

“Good reflexes,” Porthos whispers, when he's done. “Got any water?”

d'Artagnan fills a cup and brings it over, watching Porthos rinse his mouth and spit. There's blood again, and d'Artagnan frowns, looking into the bowl with distaste. He can't tell if Porthos vomited blood, or if it was just in his mouth.

“Did you bite your tongue again?” d'Artagnan asks.

“No,” Porthos says, opening his mouth for d'Artagnan to check.

There's blood in his mouth, from a tear in his tongue. D'Artagnan sighs in relief and sits back on his heels.

“It's bleeding again,” he tells Porthos, “thankfully. I thought...”

Porthos hums and lies down again, eyes shut. He still looks almost grey. d'Artagnan looks around, feeling helpless. If Porthos can't have wine, there's not much to do for the pain. He goes and empties the bowl into the chamber pot, then sits by Porthos's head. Porthos presses his face into d'Artagnan's thigh, hand resting on his knee. d'Artagnan takes the hand and holds it. Porthos's breathing gradually evens out and deepens a little, and he starts to snore, quiet congested sounds that are unlike him. Athos returns soon after that.

“How is he?” Athos says softly, coming to sit next to d'Artagnan.

“He was sick,” d'Artagnan says.

“I'm sorry for that. I've sent word to Treville, with details of the location as best I remember them. I've told him to meet us here. One of us will go to the meet with the Queen, and escort her back into Étampes. One of us will remain here with Porthos.”

“I can go,” Porthos says.

“Of course you can,” Athos says, smiling, putting his hand around d'Artagnan and Porthos's, “but you need not. How are you? And don't say 'fine and fit'.”

“I'm fine,” Porthos says.

“The fact that you cannot think of any other, more imaginative, variation to convince me? Isn't convincing,” Athos says. “You need to rest.”

“I'm goin' t'be sick again,” Porthos says, suddenly lurching up onto his elbow.

d'Artagnan darts up for the bowl, and Athos helps Porthos the rest of the way up then sits with him, holding his head and spreading a hand over his chest, as he vomits. Aramis comes clattering in while he's still about it. He frowns and opens his mouth, then closes it and shakes his head, going to the table to remove his gloves.

“No one followed us,” Aramis reports, sitting and pouring himself wine, “I found the house again, I'm pretty sure. It's a mansion, in its own grounds, so I couldn't get too close. I did a bit of asking around. Took off my uniform and covered my head with a bandanna. The house is owned by the Comte de Saissons.”

“The king's never had much luck drawing taxes from him,” Athos says. “Nor has he presented himself at court since his father's passing.”

“He has some Spanish leanings, also,” Aramis says, “some business interests. It is believed that he knew the queen. He at least knows Madame de Chevreuse, who was the queen's confident a few years before you, d'Artagnan, came to Paris.”

“An' who Aramis,” Porthos says, done throwing up, now resting in Athos's arms, “bedded quite thoroughly.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Aramis says.

“I know, I know,” Porthos says, “a gentleman never betrays a lady.”

“We think this Saissons is the one who took us, yesterday?” d'Artagnan.

“Not himself,” Aramis says, “he would know how to get information. And he would not make the mistake of assuming Porthos the weakest link merely because he speaks as if he's from the lower parts of Paris.”

“Ah, tha's it,” Porthos says, “knew there was a reason. 'Least it wasn' me, eh?”

“Shush,” Athos says, stroking Porthos's cheek, “stop interrupting.”

“I would suggest that it was some younger member of the Comte's household, who listened to too much of the talk around the dinner table,” Aramis says.

“What about the men who came later?” d'Artagnan asks.

“Other young members of those same dinner parties who wished to act,” Aramis says, shrugging. “I'm not too sure. The house seemed deserted, this morning.”

“Do you think they know where the queen is?” d'Artagnan asks.

“No, I do not,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. “I think that is probably what they were, very inexpertly, trying to get out of Porthos.”

“Painfully inexpertly,” Porthos correct, sitting up to vomit again.

Aramis winces and gets up to take another look over Porthos. Porthos complains, loudly, and tries to hit Aramis twice. Aramis ducks both and wrangles Porthos into lying down again.

“Is it your head?” Aramis asks, softly, stroking Porthos's hair.

“Mm,” Porthos murmurs, “'s'nice.”

Aramis continues his ministrations, massaging Porthos's scalp with one hand, the other feels gently along Porthos's ribs and over his bruises, checking and re-checking for anything missed.

“He sounded like Treville,” Porthos says, suddenly, jerking up under Armis's hands. Aramis sighs. “The other man, the one who didn't sound like Athos. Like Treville. A Gascon who spent more time in Paris than Gascony.”

“You're sure?” Aramis asks, trying to soothe Porthos to lie back down.

“'Course I'm sure.”

“The Comte has a son, who befriended a certain soldier,” Athos says. “It was rumoured that this soldier has committed treason, but the only thing that was proved was that he had acted in a cowardly manner. He left the army, and the Comte's son employed him as servant. The soldier was a man born in Gascony but brought up in the city. He would know how to harm Porthos like this, but he would not have the sophistication to know to target the mind as well as the body.”

Porthos finally settles under Aramis's hands, calming. Aramis motions them all quiet until Porthos's breathing evens and deepens, and the congested snores come again.

“He sounds like he's sickening,” Aramis says with a sigh, “I hope not. We have solved our conundrum, though, it seems. Why this son wanted the queen, I can't imagine. He'll probably be hung, drawn and quartered when we report this.”

Athos rides to meet and escort the queen, an hour later. Aramis rides out to meet Treville and bring him to the inn, and for a time the whole building is busy with musketeers. d'Artagnan joins them, leading them back to the house. They raid it, rounding up everyone there. d'Artagnan finds the cellar and shows Treville the rosary Aramis never collected. Treville calls in two musketeers to witness it, then collects the beads and gives them to d'Artagnan.

“I don't think he'll want them,” d'Artagnan says, running his thumb over the bloody wood.

The men they find are young, younger even than d'Artagnan. The soldier and the three men who came to fetch Porthos are found ransacking the rooms for precious things, and four horses are found saddled, already weighed down with stolen items. The Comte's son is not found at first, but then d'Artagnan thinks to search under the beds. He finds the boy on the third try and drags him out. He's barely fifteen.

They return to Paris, and the four men without noble titles or families are tried and sentenced to death at once. The three before a firing squad, the fourth beheaded. Athos returns to Paris with the Queen and the Comte de Saissons, and the Comte's son is returned to his father, for a hefty sum, with the understanding that he will be sent away and will not set foot on French soil again. The other men, who are not collected and paid for by their families, are sent to the Bastille.

Aramis and Porthos return to Paris the day Grenier, the soldier, is beheaded. d'Artagnan and Athos wait for them by the gate and accompany them to Aramis's rooms. Porthos lies clutching his ribs and complaining for ten minutes, then falls asleep. Aramis and Athos and d'Artagnan sit around the table, laden with food and wine, and catch one another up on the happenings in one another's lives while being apart.

Re: Fill, part four of four

[(Anonymous)]

Good story, anon.

Is it available on AO3 by any chance?