the return of the musketeers

So, back to the Return (last for a week or so, because I am off to the land of no bandwidth to speak of.)

So the bad guys have gone away, and the peasants of Pinon reveal just how small the budget for extras were for this ep. Adding the poor sod on the ground being ignored by everyone including the man he saved from a savage beating, 20 souls or so are supposed to be the entire adult population of Pinon, apparently the only ones working to keep Athos’s family in the style he is no longer grateful for. Either that village has some combine harvesters hiding behind the picturesquely ramshackle village buildings to work sodding enormous farm land, or Pinon is just one of about ten villages supporting the La Fère estate. (Is Athos going to do a tour of each in turn, telling them he hates them and to fuck off out of his life, or will he send a round robin, I wonder?)

The Musketeers who aren’t drugged, hungover, and pissed off have arrived

And Athos insists on flashing us, so not GIFing this would be rude, right?

Watch this darling bit of dehorsing from Porthos/Howard Charles (contrasting with Tom B who apparently was extremely wary while dismounting, according to Tamla and Alexandra):

Porthos proceeds to also ignore and literally step over the groaning hero (still being utterly ignored) on the ground. (Note his shirt, unlike Athos’s, and despite the nasty whipping, is not damaged at all.)

For some reason, it has fallen to d’Artagnan to lecture the cranky bugger of our hearts about his duty, and Athos uses the cloak to indicate his level of not giving a fuckedness (Also, considering how hot it was during filming, and in the plot, why the hell was he forced to wear a wool cloak? And stand near a cooking fire in this scene?)

As Athos walks away, clearly thinking “Why me?” and “How much would I pay for someone to shoot me right now?”, Porthos, never one to run away from a potential bomb, leaps in with both feet

Athos does his best to kill him with his aristocratic brain

Porthos is obviously unconcerned by Athos’s frame of mind, his headache, or his pathological hatred of anything to do with his old life

And here we have a man at the point of turning into a human catherine wheel (no pun intended) with the amount of rage he’s carrying, a man who has been drugged, beaten up, knocked out, kicked in the guts, and forced to wear wool in 35+° C heat, letting everyone in the vicinity know that he will not be responsible for his actions if they touch him, speak to him, or look at him. Or breathe funny

I declare Athos the winner of the murder stare Olympics. Treville has a scary one, Porthos can look murderous, but only Athos can look *up* at someone while dirty, ragged, sweaty and sore, and make them wish they were at least a kilometre away in any direction :)

More coming, but not for a week or so. Have a happy Thanksgiving, my American friends.

Wherein Athos’s No Good Very Bad Totally Shitty Day gets worse.

Catherine emerges from her lair, and d’Artagnan is all “Who dis?” with an added dollop of concern because he knows nothing female coming out of this house is ever good news for Athos. Or him

Athos does the introductions with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The puppy still looks worried.

Catherine does her best to look better bred than everyone else in this scene

Look at the puppy. He can spot a snob at twenty paces and damned if this skinny stranger is going to throw shade on him or his posh new pauldron.

Catherine has no talent whatsoever of judging her audience

Athos says, “It makes sense to me. More than anything else.”

Then he says to her “Come with us. You’ll be better off with the other villagers.”

Well, you don’t say things like that to Catherine de Garouville, you really don’t. She’ll have you know that she’s much too grand for that.

Then, in a spike of highly unusual bitchiness, Athos tells her what he really should have kept his mouth shut about.

And Catherine reacts. This is where I lost all sympathy for her. She has no capacity to understand what Milady’s behaviour has cost Athos, how much it’s still hurting him. All she can do is blame the messenger, and punish him for daring to bring bad news to her door.

Even though Athos could have avoided the confrontation, the slap was out of order. Poor baby.

Feeling sorry for himself all over again. D’Artagnan is back to being worried.

But then he severely underestimates just how pissed off, fed up and downright done Athos is with the whole thing, and offers platitudes when it’s obvious what Athos needs is a hug, a warm bath, some brandy, and satisfyingly energetic sex.

And gets the Athosian version of a slap in the face for his trouble, because while Athos’s code of honour won’t allow him to hurt women or children, he’s perfectly happy to kick the nearest small squishy thing that goes squeak, provided they’re big enough to carry a sword. 

Puppy did not like that.

This scene gets me. It’s so silly, with Athos looking ridiculous, flinging the Coat Flaps of Petulance about like this. He doesn’t do petulance, or ridiculousness, or clothing drama (excepting the Flinging Of The Hat, which is apparently essential to a good musketeer’s fighting style.)

Yes, he’s having a bad day. But son, you did bring half of it on yourself, you really did.

And then onto the peasant  preparation in the next post, coming soon.

My edits, take what you like :)

Call of Duty

Steve, Bucky, Sam, Reader.

Summary: I don’t know where I saw the prompt but it was basically “Person A kicked your butt in FPS multiplayer” so it stemmed from that.

Warnings & A/N: there’s a bit of swearing right out of the gate for accuracy? because I personally get mouthy when playing COD. Like. Bad. Why are people such shits? SORRY ANYWAY. It’s kinda fluffy. Basically it’s all over the place.

Word Count: 1211

Originally posted by hopeinloveinfinity

“MotherFUCKING ASSHOLE. What the SHIT?!” you yelled, finally unable to control your brain-to-mouth filter any longer. The image on the screen changed to a final scoreboard before you were blessed with the replay of your soldier dying as the game winning kill.

Despite the intense annoyance at your recent fate, it felt nice to finally scream your frustration after spending the past hour trying to stay quiet so no one would overhear your colorful vocabulary. You let out an exasperated huff as you flopped back onto your bed. Guessing that was the point of your night where everything started getting really annoying, you tossed your controller onto your nightstand and decided to call it a night.

You and Wanda were seated at the kitchen island the next morning, both enjoying a bowl of cereal when the Three Musketeers returned from their run.

You nodded to the men in greeting before refocusing on your breakfast. You weren’t quite ready for full on conversations yet, so you tried to ignore how they were watching you closely.

Of course it was Sam who finally spoke up.

“Did you have company last night?”

You shook your head before bringing another spoonful of cereal to your mouth.

“An intense phone call?”

You cocked an eyebrow as you looked up at your friend. “No? Why?”

“Sounds like you need to take some relaxation pointers from Banner,” Bucky piped in, an amused smirk plastered across his face.

Keep reading


“Why should men get to have all the fun? Why do women have to be dignified and lady-like?”

More from the Return. We’re still before the credits at this point :)

Tom Burke delivers a master class in acting, for the most part, with just the smallest movements of eyes and head in this scene. You don’t need dialogue to tell you what he’s feeling or thinking

Just. One. Blink. He moves nothing else.

I have to admit, the rare moments when Athos comes over all Comte de La Fére in all his arrogant glory, are my jam. Most of the time he’s exquisitely polite and deferential, but it’s all an act. He’s hiding the snotty nobleman that goes bone deep.

Meanwhile, back at the farm garrison, this is Treville’s attitude distilled. (Also needs a witty caption :) You supply, I will make it?)

Two things about this scene - Luke may not be Tom’s acting equal, but he knows what he has, and uses it to the limit. This is a bonafide example of d’Artagnan’s famous ‘puppy eyes’ in use.

And, how slashy is it that d’Artagnan knows Treville well enough to anticipate his moves and feels comfortable enough to get right up in his grill and touch him like that while using the puppy eyes?

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth :)

Aramis approves, since he practically invented the technique being used by the brat.

Of course, Treville knows he’s being played like a fish, and doesn’t mind even a little bit.

Actually, he loves that they’re playing him, and being so cheeky. Better than shit shovelling, for sure.

The opposite of puppy eyes - the Athosian death glare

Stopping there for the evening, because we’re now coming to the scene chewing part of the narrative.

All edits mine, take what you like.


Just throwing it out there that it makes sense in the Musketeers/Versailles timeline for those two old gays (Porthos and Aramis) to have mentored those two baby gays (Phillipe^2). And this is approximately what they would have looked like when they all knew eachother.

Just gonna throw alllllllll my headcannons out there (they’re based on a combo of both shows cannons, and history trufacs):

Porthos survived that war, but Elodie ran off with his pension, so he stayed a musketeer. (They knew each other for like….4 days. No way that was gonna work. Puh-lease.)

Aramis kinda fell out of love with Anne when she stopped being the sweet, protectable thing that he falls in love with so easily and became the manipulative bitch that she historically became. By the time she gives birth to Phillipe and starts neglecting him, Aramis and Anne only speak when they’re having massive arguments. And they have famously massive arguments about the boys.

When Anne begins sleeping with Cardinal Mazaran, all 4 of the Musketeers aboutndiednof the irony.

Porthos and Aramis low-key got back together. Athos called it and D'artagnan owed him drinks for a month.

After he returned from the war, Porthos became the Musketeer in charge of 4-year-old Phillipe’s personal security. He fell in love with the sweet little boy instantly and became his surrogate dad.

Phillipe is actually Aramis’s biological son, just like Louis.

That time that Anne left Phillipe behind to be captured by the Frond, Porthos fought his way through the occupied area singlehandedly and walked out with his little babby. He also never really trusted Anne again after that incident.

Aramis isn’t sure that Phillipe is his son because Anne won’t tell him, but Porthos knows cause “he’s cute, and a flirt, and a good shot, and kinda gay. Of course he’s your son.”

Porthos taught Phillipe how to defend himself because Louis’s friends used to pick on him for wearing dresses. That’s why Phillipe is a hell of a fighter. He learned from Porthos.

That’s also why he’s a boss-bitch in battle. Porthos trained him.

Phillipe wanted to be a Musketeer when he was a little boy. He even had a tiny blue musketeer cloak that Constance made for him for his 6th birthday.

Milady gave him a poison hairpin one time to help him “take care of himself”. Phillipe still has it and wears it on dress days.

Because Louis became a little shit once he became king, the Musketeers adopted Phillipe as their fav instead. They taught him to ride, and fight and shoot.

Phillipe came out to Porthos and Aramis when he was 11, after he caught Porthos and Aramis kissing behind a hedge one day. Porthos’s exact response was “Yeah….I kinda already knew that.”

Porthos HATES most of Phillipe’s early lovers cause he thinks they’re creeps. Particularly the Count De Guiche.

Porthos initially distrusts the Chevallier, but Aramis convinces him to give the Chevallier a chance because “he recognizes some of himself in the boy” (cause they’re both man-hoes. But they have good hearts.)

The Chevallier eventually becomes the only lover that Phillipe’s musketeer dads approve of. Mostly because he accepts their sweet babby Phillipe for who he is.

But the Chevallier will always be low-key scared of Porthos…..because he’s HUGE.

The Chevallier did NOT realize that Aramis and Porthos were kinda gay for each other and when Phillipe told him he just gaped like a fish for about ten minutes.

Right before Aramis died, he finally told Phillipe that he was his father, and that he loved him, and was so proud of him, and Phillipe was so happy to finally have a parent that loved him.

And everyone lived gayly ever after.
The end.

So that’s my little contribution to Versailles and Musketeers.

kat2609  asked:

I'll play. How about Killian and rope?😉😉

Thanks for helping me out with my 15-Minute “Masterpiece” (round 2) prompt! (For those of you unfamiliar with my 15-Minute Masterpieces, they are one-shots I write for at least 15 minutes, with no beta, and light editing. Basically a brain dump to help get my writing wheels turning again.)

Kath, I bet you didn’t think I would go in this direction…

Here’s a little Captain Charming for you because it’s Friday!
(Rated PG, ~745 words)

Look At Your Mate

“What’s this?” Killian asked, a look of amused suspicion on his face.

David had just thrust a small package into his hand and nodded at it, then stood back a pace, folding his arms over his chest.

“What’s it look like?” David asked with a huff.  

The baby giggled from where he was tossing blocks out of his play pen at his father’s feet. David took the opportunity to avoid looking directly at Killian who stood there, eyebrow raised.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Not so far as you remember anyway.” David shot back with a snort.

Shrugging, Killian chuckled. “Fair point. Maybe it is my birthday.”

“Just open it already,” David muttered, rolling his eyes.

Using his hook, Killian pulled the tape away from what was a rolled up paper bag and then gently shook it open to reveal a red box and a citrusy, musky scent wafting up at him.

Killian pulled the box out and tossed the bag on the table, all the while perplexed as he read the label. “Soap… on a rope?” he asked.

“Yeah!” David said, his enthusiastic grin sliding away in exchange for a nonchalant shrug. “I saw it at the drugstore and thought you might like it.” David tapped the box with his finger. “Look, there’s a ship on the label. Thought it kinda looked like The Jolly Roger.

“Aye, mate, I noticed.” Killian read aloud from the box and shook his head in disbelief. “‘Old Spice?’ Are you disparaging my age or the way I smell?” he laughed.

David sighed. “No. Neither! I was just trying… you know what?” He reached over and snatched the box of soap out of Killian’s hand. “Nevermind. I’ll keep it for—”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Killian interrupted, holding his hand up to stop David from continuing. “It was a lovely gesture, and I am flattered you thought of me when you saw this…soap. On a…rope.”

Retrieving his gift back from David, Killian wedged the box between his left bicep and his chest and opened it, fishing out the cream-colored round of soap. He hung the rope from his finger and gave it a little twirl. “I look forward to using it,” he said with a nod. “Thank you.”

David slapped Killian on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

A few days later, the two men were helping Emma wrangle three rowdy and inebriated former Musketeers into the squad car to return them to their lodgings after a particularly raucous gathering at the Rabbit Hole. They weren’t belligerent so much as unruly, and at one point, David lost his balance when Porthos attempted to put Aramis into a friendly headlock, sending the two of them careening toward Killian who had been keeping Aramis mostly upright.


“Bloody hell!”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Hey now!”


Killian managed to right David after he awkwardly dodged the burly Porthos, who toppled over onto Aramis. The sheriff and the pirate let the two swordsmen sort themselves out and finally spill into the backseat of the squad car where a drowsy Athos was waiting, his head pressed against the glass, and a glare directed at them like the point of a rapier.

Emma was coming around the back of the cruiser, making sure everyone was ok when Killian caught the look of confusion on her face.

“Dad? What are… Are you sniffing Killian?”

Killian glanced behind him to catch David, eyes closed, and in the middle of a deep inhale.

Chuckling, Killian asked, “So, which is it, mate? Do I smell old or spicy?”

David grinned. “Spicy.”

Emma said with a soft snort, “You two are weird. I’ll take my chances with Huey, Dewey, and Louie over there.” She walked back over to the driver’s side and opened the door.

“Aye, but they won’t smell as good as I do, love.”

Nodding in agreement, David called out “It’s true!”

Emma rolled her eyes and got into the car, turning on the flashing lights as she revved the engine.

“What kind of soap do you think would be good for me?” David asked, as he and Killian walked toward the squad car.

“Sheep dip,” Killian responded, not missing a beat.

David opened the passenger door and gave Killian a shove. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“Aye, funny and fragrant,” Killian said, sliding into the front seat next to Emma, leaving just enough room for David.

“I take it back. You just smell old.”

A/N: There is/was Old Spice soap on a rope, and the reason I used the Musketeers in the second half, is because there is also an Aramis soap on a rope. I like to amuse myself if no one else. ;)

Lost in Time

Here is the second chapter of my new AU! And yes I am still continuing Lightened Soul, so you can stop yelling at me in my inbox :) Here’s a wee peek at Jamie’s mindset. Enjoy and lemme know what you think!

Part 1

Jamie sighed deeply and relaxed his shoulders as he was met with the warmth of fire and the smell of onions and peat surrounding him as he walked through the door. 


Though, Lallybroch was sorely lacking even the basic of necessities during the famine, it was still leaps and bounds better than the chill of his cave.

He had finished skinning the stag he had brought down and was bloodied and muddy from calves to cheeks. He hoped Jenny wouldn’t see him or she would have a fit about him getting muck on her precious rugs. He hadn’t been due back to the house for a few weeks yet, but the stag presented a good excuse to make the trek home. Even though Fergus would have been able to bring the meat home, Jamie needed human contact once more.

He quickly stoked the fire in the kitchen and set about getting the meat cooking.

The chair creaked under him as he sat down a few minutes later, letting the feeling of peace settle into his bones like a tonic, easing him of the pain that came along with his isolation.

It could be worse, he thought. The family could be starving. At least if he had to live out this purgatory without his wife and child, it gave him some comfort that he was able to do even a little to provide for his sister and her children. And his Fergus. The closest thing to a son he would ever know.

Without conscious thought, he reached up to his neck and rubbed the beads of the rosary Jenny had given him before going to war. Let her be safe, she and the child.


Looking up from his prayers, he saw his sister standing in the doorway with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“We didna expect ye until later this month.” She came around and placed a hand lightly on the hand he was tightly clutching the rosary with. “I’m sorry. I didna mean to interrupt your prayers.”

Jamie smiled and patted her hand. “Ye did no such thing. I caught a stag and I needed to skin it before the meat went bad,” he nodded to the fire where the meat was roasting.

He heard her stomach growl at the sight. It had been a good many weeks since everyone in the house went to bed with their bellies full.

“Good, that will do for nearly a week! I could even make a pie!”

Jamie’s own stomach rumbled at the thought of a meat pie.

“What are ye doing up at this time?” He asked to make his own belly forget about the smell of roasting meat.

“Kitty was sick earlier and I was making sure she was sleeping easy when I smelled the food.”

Jamie touched his beads again. “Is she alright?”

Jenny nodded and sat down in the stool next to him. “Aye, she’ll be fine.”

A small amount of relief went through him as he heard this. What would he do if someone in the family got ill? There was nothing to be done. He would be helpless to them. The only healer Lallybroch had ever known and would most likely ever know was gone. And never to return. A spasm of grief went through his body like a musket ball. In a way, it was harder to deal with his lost wife’s absence in the house. A place where they had lived happily together as a family. As the laird and lady.

He could almost see her coming down the stairs, her curls framing her face as she walked towards him with a smile. He saw the two of them stealing kisses in front of the fire when Mrs. Crook had her back turned. He saw her in the potatoes that were keeping their family alive, her healing touch still with them even after she was not.

In the cave – a place she had never been – it was a bit easier. He thought of her and their child always, but it was easier to bare in a place she had not been and would never be.

“You’re thinkin’ about her. Claire. That’s who ye were praying for.”

He glanced up sharply at his sister. She had disappeared from his sight as the past had overwhelmed his senses. Unable to face her gaze, tender and sorrowful, he looked to the fire. The orange and blue flames dancing around in a hypnotic dance.

“Aye,” he answered simply.

“She’ll always be wi’ ye, brother. She lives in the walls of this place, just as Mother and Father do. She lives on in everyone here. Not only through her healing, but from her mind. The potatoes have kept us from starving more than once.”

Moisture threatened to escape his eyes as he clenched his fists to try and reign in his emotion. He never talked of Claire to Jenny. Or to anyone. Even Fergus, who had known her as a motherly figure, had stopped trying to talk get him to talk of her. Perhaps, he spoke to Jenny. He hoped anyway.

“The suffering is too much to bare sometimes,” he whispered, eyes still fixed on the fire.

Jenny made a small noise and reached over to grasp his hand tightly. “I ken, brother.”

“No, ye don’t.” He felt a tear escape the corner of his eye and he made no move to wipe the evidence of his ache away. The ache of the last four years without her. The ache of sending her away.

“Ye have Ian and your bairns. And ye didna ken what it’s like to lose one. Not once, but twice.”

Jenny started at that, leaning back a little as she absorbed the words. She looked down at her hands as she wrung them in her lap.

“No, I dinna ken that kind of pain. But I do know pain, Jamie.”

He stood and walked to the hearth fire. His eyes overflowing from the pain and the smoke. The weight of his heart was too heavy and he needed to release it before it became all too much. Before he had to go back to that awful hole in the earth.

“She was with child, when I…when she went.” His hands clutched the mantle for support as he remembered that last night with her, cradling the child, whispering his love to her belly while she slept. The only words he would ever speak to him. And though he knew it impossible, he wished that somehow the bairn would remember his voice, somewhere in the deepest part of their mind, when they needed it the most.

He took a shaky breath in as he fought to speak through his thick throat. “And we lost our wee Faith in France.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Jenny whispered and came over to hug him tightly from behind as he wept into the flames.

She rubbed his back in a soothing manner as he fought for control. The control he desperately needed least he fall to pieces and into oblivion.

Jenny took a deep breath and grabbed his hand, an anchor in the misery he was drowning in.

“Come wi’ me.”

They stood in the Laird’s study with a few candles lighting the room from the darkness. Jenny reached up and grabbed the large book that his father had started when he and mother moved here. She brought it over to the light and opened it to the family tree.

Jamie glanced at her for a moment, wondering what her mind was up to before glancing down at the page himself, seeing both his mother and father’s script.

He saw the dates of Willie’s birth and death. His own birth and Jenny’s. And his father’s hand that recorded the death of his little brother and his mother.

And then the breath went out of his body and he feel to his knees as they failed to support him. Underneath his name and Claire’s –which he had added as soon as they came home the first time after she chose him at the stones – he saw his wife’s neat script.

Faith Fraser.

He bowed his head as he traced the lines left behind her. One of the only tangible things he had to remember her by. He could picture her here, fighting back tears as she wrote their daughter’s name.

“Ye see, they aren’t gone, Jamie. They will live on as long as we do.”

And then, Jenny dabbed a quill into the ink pot and added a name next to Faith’s.

Baby Fraser

And with that he simply grabbed onto his sister and wept.

Continued here