#general porthos du vallon
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Recs list
I've been reading a few fics about our favourite absolute love of a musketeer Porthos :) Here are some I've loved a lot!
Wonders by Anonymous
Porthos gets a letter from Samara.
Either I've read this before or I read another one where he gets a letter from Samara that I loved, I believe the first but either way it's warm and fun and a lot of things in a small space. It's really lovely little rumination, and gives Porthos something good about his heritage as well as all the sadness in the show.
Holding On by Stk (Silasthekitty)
d'Artagnan getting to know the others in modern AU having many panic about Porthos's lovely grabby hands, so much fun! I love the relationship between them all and how d'Artagnan is seduced. It's also very funny.
Fever by Swashbuckling
Gen fic where Aramis (eventually) takes care of Porthos who is a bit ridiculous and of course very lovely. a little hurt/comfort slice of fluff. They're nicely characterful and I like the way they talk and things. Also they take good care of Porthos which is BEST.
Porthos Paper Doll by Irusu
Not a fic, just a glorious art, it is what it says on the tin - a paper doll design with some little outfits how great!
EDIT: add any gay Porthos centric fics if you have recs pleassseee your own too I want MORE.
#rec#fic rec#art rec#bbc the musketeers#BBC Porthos#Porthos Du Vallon#general du vallon#I just really love him a lot okay? It is kinda hard to weed out the fics that are wholly and fully about him. This is true of fave charac#a fave character but I am BUTT HURT about it happening to MY fave. Porthos should have ALL the fics FULLY about him
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Этот парень был из тех, кто просто любит жизнь
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/KJC3zvN
by fandom Гедонисты 2023 (BBBFF)
Злодеи и герои всех возрастов, профессий, рас и национальностей. Из общего у них только одно - любовь к жизни.
PS: простите, что выборка из мужских персонажей, мы не специально.
Words: 436, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Русский
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, Karlsson på taket | Karlsson-on-the-Roof - Astrid Lindgren, Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout, Naruto, Zootopia (2016), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types, 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Jīn Guāngshàn, Jack Sparrow, Iroh (Avatar), Benjamin Clawhauser, Porthos du Vallon, Nero Wolfe, Jiraiya (Naruto), Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Bilbo Baggins, Karlsson (Karlsson-on-the-Roof)
Additional Tags: AI Generated Art, wombo, Food, Character Study, Ship Manifesto, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Kombat 2023, Amphibian Challenge
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/KJC3zvN
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Этот парень был из тех кто просто любит жизнь
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/nazWO2o
by fandom Гедонисты 2023 (BBBFF)
Злодеи и герои всех возрастов, профессий, рас и национальностей. Из общего у них только одно - любовь к жизни.
PS: простите, что выборка из мужских персонажей, мы не специально.
Words: 436, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Русский
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, Karlsson på taket | Karlsson-on-the-Roof - Astrid Lindgren, Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout, Naruto, Zootopia (2016), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types, 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Jīn Guāngshàn, Jack Sparrow, Iroh (Avatar), Benjamin Clawhauser, Porthos du Vallon, Nero Wolfe, Jiraiya (Naruto), Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Bilbo Baggins, Karlsson (Karlsson-on-the-Roof)
Additional Tags: AI Generated Art, wombo, Food, Character Study, Ship Manifesto, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Kombat 2023, Amphibian Challenge
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/nazWO2o
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River
Fandoms: The Musketeers (2014)
No Archive Warnings Apply
Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Aramis | René d'Herblay
Athos | Comte de la Fère
Porthos du Vallon
d'Artagnan
Fanvids
OT4
Emotional Hurt/Comfort
through thick and thin
Subtitles Available
You've got me, and I've got you. A fanvid.
(Feed generated with FetchRSS)
source https://archiveofourown.org/works/39876660
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Someone: Porthos is NOT based on Dumas!!!! BBC Porthos is NOT Book Porthos!!!! Book Porthos is a nobleman, NOT born to a slave!!!!
Me, sobbing: Please go and read a biography on Alexandre Dumas and his father and then read the text. Please. The ignorance physically hurts me.
#the musketeers#bbc musketeers#porthos#howard charles#the three musketeers#alexandre dumas#general thomas alexandre dumas#thomas alexandre dumas#porthos du vallon#original post#racism#twenty years after#the man in the iron mask#slavery
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[Image description: A page of sketches, four drawings of Porthos from BBC's 'The Musketeers'. There is basic shading, the drawings are monotones with Porthos's earring standing out gold. Clockwise from top left: he is laughing with his thumbs hooked in his belt; he is looking down and smiling in a loose shirt; he is leaning on something and winking; he is walking leading a horse, looking up into the sun. /End ID]
Shout out to @general-du-vallon for commissioning a sketch page from me and keeping the Porthos love going! 🙏💖
#much love for the image id as well!!#bbc the musketeers#bbc musketeers#howard charles#my art#musketeers fanart#honestly cant wait to get my energy in a better place so i can do more than just sketches of this wonderful man
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Sick Fic Gif Pick-me-up Pics?
In my fic-canon, today (4th April) is Porthos's birthday and I'm ill af. So does anyone mind indulging me with pics and gifs of our favourite Parisian Musketeer?
[Image description (courtesy of general-du-vallon): a gif of Porthos from BBC’s ‘The Musketeers’, saying something (maybe “What?” or “Why?”) and laughing. /End ID]
#the musketeers#bbc musketeers#bbc the musketeers#musketeers#porthos du vallon#porthos#gifs#[coughs pathetically]#now with image description#image description
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Fic: Sweet Daughter Mine
Fandom: The Musketeers
Characters: Porthos, Marie-Cessette, original male character
Warnings: None
Summary: Even sweet little girls (and of course Porthos is adamant that his girl is the sweetest of them all) get in trouble sometimes.
Notes: Originally a fill for Musketeer March, vaguely covering either "Porthos" or "Favourite Character" and "Favourite AU", but well, it's May by now, so it gets to stand on its own.Children are pretty hard to write, yo!
AO3 link
Porthos looked up at the grey, nondescript building and scrubbed his hand through his hair uncomfortably, then let his hands fall down to tug at his suit jacket. He had managed to put on an outfit that was making him feel both over- and underdressed – or, no, it wasn't so much the outfit as the situation that was making him feel ridiculously nervous. Someone who faced terrorists, bomb threats, mobsters and a disgruntled Captain Treville on the regular should not be intimidated by a meeting with the principal of his daughter's school.
But he couldn't help it, schools just sent him back to the time when he'd been the one called to the office for whatever trouble he had gotten into in his illustrious career as an adolescent delinquent.
He sighed and gave his sleeves a last tuck before he squared his shoulders and marched towards the building. Hopefully, Marie-Cessette had good reason to be in trouble and hadn't stepped into his shoes with regard to petty crime. Not that she'd ever even know about that if Porthos had any choice in the matter.
He made his way to the office and gave his name to a kind-faced secretary. She did not smile but her look was sympathetic as she lead him into a small hallway leading to a closed door. Before it, two chairs were sitting side by side, and on one of them was his daughter.
“Papa!” Marie-Cessette cried out and jumped up to rush to him and give him a hug.
He returned it and smiled, glad to see that whatever was going on, she was fine, no sign of tears, ripped clothing or bruises. “Hi, little bug.”
“Papa, they--” she started to say but broke off when the door behind them opened.
A man stood in the door, critically eyeing Porthos and his daughter. After a moment, he said: “M. du Vallon? I'm principal Porchet. Please come in. You too, Marie-Cessette.”
Porthos nodded and followed him when he went back into the room. Inside, M. Porchet shook his hand and gestured to the two chairs set up in front of his large desk. Porthos took a seat and pulled Marie-Cessette onto the chair next to him.
They sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and Porthos had to suppress the urge to fidget. Next to him, Marie-Cessette was losing the same battle, tugging at the hem of her shirt not very unlike how he had tugged on his suit jacket earlier. Finally, M. Porchet started to speak: “I'm sorry to call you in during work hours but I really felt the need to address this situation with you in person.”
Porthos made a dismissive gesture. “No need to apologise. I've got a very understanding employer when it comes to family affairs,” he replied. Well, that and they were between assignments anyway, so work was slow and mostly involved paperwork that ended up being used as paper planes Aramis and he were throwing at each other across the room.
M. Porchet didn't look exactly pleased by that – he was probably a stricter employer – but nodded and continued: “Alright, then. Now, are you aware that your daughter has an ongoing feud with one of her classmates?”
Porthos frowned and looked sidewise at his daughter. “I know there's one boy who she's been clashing with before,” he said slowly, trying to remember what exactly Elodie had told him over the phone after she had been called in to see the principal before. “I think he's called … Christophe, I believe?”
M. Porchet nodded. “Christophe Faucher, that's correct. As this has been ongoing for some time, we have kept a close watch on the two of them. Children fight, it happens, but the level of animosity between your daughter and Christophe is worrisome.”
“Marie-Cessette,” Porthos said, using a moment where M. Porchet had to take a breath and not caring that he didn't seem to be finished yet. He could feel Marie-Cessette give a start at his side at her name being spoken and put a hand on her knee to calm her.
M. Porchet raised his eyebrows at the interruption. “I beg your pardon?”
“My daughter's name is Marie-Cessette.” He quickly looked at his girl to give her a smile. “I'm well aware that she's my daughter, so please give her the respect to call her by her name when speaking about her.” He returned the principal's gaze with a hard look, which he knew was hard to resist.
As predicted, M. Porchet looked away first.
He cleared his throat and then said somewhat stiffly: “Of course. Now, as I said, we were keeping an eye on the two of them. For the most part, they seemed to keep it to the occasional insult and argument, steering away from anything physical, so we left it at reprimands for inappropriate language and made sure they didn't spend too much time near each other. That is, of course, until the unfortunate glue incident last month ...”
Porthos pinched his lips and fought to keep back a growl. Elodie having to cut their daughter's hair by about a hand's length to remove the strands stuck together with superglue had indeed been unfortunate, and he'd hated not being there, not being able to hug her when she cried about losing her beautiful blonde curls. They had just grown back enough that they were brushing her shoulders again. Porthos thought that she'd looked absolutely adorable with that curly bob but he knew that Marie-Cesette had loved her long hair.
Out loud, he said: “Elodie – my wife – had told me all about that, yeah.”
M. Porchet nodded. “We kept a close watch on them afterwards, in case any retaliation were to take place. Christophe had been punished, of course. But things seemed to settle down again. Until today, when they got into a screaming match during lunch break. I'll spare you the details but I need to tell you that we are very concerned about some of the things your dau-- Marie-Cessette said during this argument.”
Porthos raised his eyebrows and looked at Marie-Cessette again who had her arms crossed over her chest and was staring intently at the floor. “Which were?” he asked.
“Among others, she claimed that you are a super-spy,” M. Porchet declared, and Porthos felt a whoosh of air leaving his lungs as if he had been punched. “Never mind that according to our files, you are a pharmaceuticals salesman.”
Porthos kept his face carefully neutral when he replied: “Marie-Cessette has a very lively imagination.” He ignored the hurt little “Papa!” whine coming from his daughter. “Was that all?”
“No.” The principal steepled his fingers. “She also told Christophe that you would hunt him down and that you would hold him over the edge of a roof until he apologised, and if he didn't, you would break every bone in his body, one after the other.” He fell silent and let the silence stretch before he continued: “Now, lies and tall tales are one thing. As you said, Marie-Cessette has a lively imagination. But threats of violence of that kind are something we are not willing to tolerate, M. du Vallon.”
Porthos directed a frown at Marie-Cessette who was still finding the floor extremely interesting. “I understand,” he said. “I can assure you that I will have a serious word with her about this.”
M. Porchet nodded. “I appreciate that. Since it was still only verbal, Marie-Cessette's punishment won't be too severe this time but I sincerely hope it will not happen again, or I would be forced to take more drastic measures.”
Porthos sat up straight and looked the principal in the eye, mustering his best look of absolute honesty. “I'll do my best to ensure it won't, as will my wife.” He waited a moment, then added: “Lessons should be over by now, so I can take my girl home now, right?”
M. Porchet looked at the clock on his desk, then said with a sigh: “Of course. Thank you for coming at such short notice. Let's hope it won't be necessary again.”
“Yeah, let's,” Porthos agreed. He stood and shook the other man's hand, then turned and held out a hand to his daughter. “C'mon, bug.”
She looked at him with something that was a cross between a pout and a scowl – he had no idea how she managed to do that, and how it could be so cute – but took his hand. “Goodbye, M. Porchet,” she said politely, despite the general air of annoyance she was projecting.
“Goodbye,” Porthos followed her lead almost sheepishly. They made their way outside, with Marie-Cessette smiling sweetly and waving at the secretary when they passed her.
Once outside, Marie-Cessette pulled her hand free and whirled to face him, again crossing her arms over her chest. “I don't have a lively imagination!” He almost thought she would stomp her feet but the glare she gave him was impressive enough.
“You have, little bug,” he returned.
“Not about the spy thing!”
Porthos sighed and dragged a hand over his face. “No, not about that,” he allowed. He had known that it might become a problem one day – he hadn't wanted to lie to his family about what he really did but it was hard to drive home the need of secrecy to a child. “But do you remember what I told you about bein' a spy? What's the most important thing?”
“Uh...” Marie-Cessette's glare melted as she thought. “That you're keeping everyone safe?”
“That, too. But I meant that a spy needs to be secret, that no one knows he is one,” Porthos explained. “Else I can't work anymore when everyone knows I'm a spy, darlin'. You can't go around and tell people about it.”
His daughter's face crumbled in dismay. “I'm sorry,” she said, stretching out her hands, and he acquiesced with the unspoken request and picked her up. She hugged her arms around his neck and hid her face in his shoulder. “Christophe said such stupid things about you, that you're a loser and just a stupid salesman who doesn't even have his own shop.”
Porthos couldn't suppress a snort of laughter at that. “He doesn't know much about pharmaceuticals salesmen, then,” he said, unperturbed. “I mean, would've been impressed if he did. But point is, let him say about me what he wants, bug. You know I've got a great job. That's enough, isn't it? Your classmates can think whatever about me.”
She peeked at him and then nodded against his shoulder.
“Good,” Porthos said as he turned towards the visitor parking space and started walking. “And now, about that threat ...”
“I know,” Marie-Cessette sighed, “I shouldn't have said that.”
“Damn right you shouldn't,” Porthos agreed. “How do you even come up with somethin' like that? Danglin' someone from the roof?”
His daughter was quiet, drawing patterns on his chest. Porthos tried to be patient but when no answer was forthcoming by the time he had reached his car, he poked her with his free hand. “Cat got your tongue?”
She shook her head. “No, but--” she looked up at him, “you're gonna be mad.”
Porthos frowned. “Why d'you think that, bug? I'm not gonna be mad at you.”
“No, not at me,” Marie-Cessette clarified, “but--- Uncle Aramis, he--”
Porthos groaned. “He told you about that?”
She just nodded, and he had to fight down the urge to faceplant on the roof of his car. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I promise I'm not mad. Okay, I'm a bit mad. But I promise not to yell at him, okay? I'll just tell him the same I'm tellin' you: Don't talk about things like that outside of home. And in your case, darlin': Don't threaten other kids, you understand? You can tell them I'll come and yell at them – no, wait, probably not that one, either. Just don't threaten them.”
Marie-Cessette could not suppress a giggle but then nodded, giving her best attempt to look serious. “I promise I won't, no matter how much of an asshat Christophe is being.”
Porthos laughed a bit desperately. “And where does that word come from?”
“Uh … Uncle d'Artagnan?”
Porthos gave in and slumped forward onto the roof of his car, bouncing his forehead lightly on the cool metal. “Shouldn't be a surprise,” he mumbled. He straightened up again and gave his daughter a glare. “We'll talk about that, too,” he promised her. “Lots of serious words to be had all around.”
She shrunk a bit under his glare and nodded.
“Alright,” he said with a sigh. He unlocked the door and set her down in her seat, then rounded the car and got into the driver's seat. A quick check that she had buckled herself in correctly, and he was pulling out of the car park and turning the car towards home.
Where he would have to have some words with those brothers of his. Wasn't it fun to have kids? Especially the part where he was also parenting two grown men in their thirties ...
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Musketeers (2014)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Aramis | René d'Herblay, Athos | Comte de la Fère, Elodie (The Musketeers 2014), Constance Bonacieux, Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, Charon (The Musketeers 2014), Milady Clarick de Winter, Porthos du Vallon, Louis XIII de France, Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche, Red Guard(s) (The Musketeers), Original Characters, Captain Treville
Additional Tags: Gen Work, Pre-Canon, Not Canon Compliant, Brotherhood, Trust, Bad Spanish, Canon-Typical Violence, Period-Typical Racism, go ahead and squint for OT3, generic, Male Friendship
Summary: Porthos is recruited. For Aramis it starts as an act of defiance. Athos is just trying to find a way back to solid ground. Becoming a musketeer is no easy undertaking; a least they’re not doing it alone.
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I’ve finally finished my BBC Musketeers fanfic, “On the Wrong Side of the Blanket”! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!
Aramis-centric, hurt/comfort, asexual romance.
Excerpt from last chapter:
The Comte wheeled around—and caught sight of Aramis. “You!” If anything, he became even redder in the face than before. He marched toward him. “I know you are keeping my daughter here—you bastard son of a bitch!”
Porthos stepped forward and caught the Comte easily with one hand, shoving him back. “Watch your mouth,” he thundered. “You are speaking to the First Minister!”
The Comte lifted his lip. “C’est une connerie! He’s nothing but the baseborn son of a whor—"
In a moment, all three of Aramis’s friends had drawn their swords. The Comte’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but it was clear from his expression that he had finally realized he was well out of his depth.
“You should watch your tongue, Monsieur,” Athos repeated in a low voice. “You are speaking of the First Minister of France—appointed just this morning by Her Majesty.”
“And who are you? The Pope?” The Comte wasn’t backing down just yet.
“Me?” Athos smiled. “I’m no one. Just a King’s Musketeer. But this—” he indicated d’Artagnan, “is Captain d’Artagnan, and that”—toward Porthos—“is General du Vallon. If you wish to verify this with the Queen, I am sure she will gladly confirm her appointments.”
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Well. Musketeers for sure gets my odder fics. Someone aaaaaaages ago suggested Porthos adopts a kid, and I did a half arsed job of it, and now I have done a second bad job at it hahaha. I love Simone though and Porthos. Here you go, it's great!
WARNING: cold, hunger
It got pretty cold in winter time, that’s true of most places and like most places the cold was fine as long as you had money. Fur-lined clothing, extra layers, boots! Boots were great for cold. Fuel, endless fuel for hot fires, heating the houses top to bottom (bottom to top really, seeing as heat rises). Food, too; being well-fed was important in cold weather, good food, hot food. Cold was free, heat was expensive (until summer rolled around when somehow, that cold which cost nothing was suddenly a commodity). Winter in Paris was a mixed bag, you didn’t have to be horrendously rich to be warm, but you fell somehow easily into poverty if you weren’t careful, and there the cold waited, crouched, cracking frosty fingers against the glass, ready for you. Cold hid in corners with beggars and chased anyone marked ‘criminal’, snapping at their heels for the moment they stopped running and their sweat turned to cold damp, wet creeping into clothing, freezing through to bone. Cold dragged at the heels of children walking to their jobs, if not carefully shrugged off they might be sluggish, lose their work.
Some had no work. The poorest slunk down into the cold, the familiar embrace almost a comfort, inching into the lee of buildings, walls, under houses, through any unlatched door that might go unchecked for an hour or two. Simone had passed even this stage, sitting out on a step looking up at the frozen stars stretched achingly across the crackling sky. Paris was inhospitable, dirty, and smelt worse than the thickest stenching manure. The cold wasn’t the only thing at large in the city, either. Paris didn’t rest its head and take to its dreaming, when night fell, not in these parts. Men and women, clawing their way out of varying degrees of frozen cold, drank and sang and reeled past, blurring and sliding. Soldiers, guards, Queen’s Musketeers, policed the streets in their warm cloaks and boots, according to their whim, depending on their mood, how cold their shift had been. Violence stirred.
Paris lay around her like a great carcass, sprawled, feast and famine, decay and new life, and bones.
“You hungry?”
Simone didn’t know much anymore, numb with cold and half dead, but she knew this much; yes, yes she was hungry, as ravenous as Paris. She took what she was given, and took more from his pockets and bag, and took the cloak he offered and the gloves he didn’t, scarf tucked under the cloak, hidden. As he left her, he whistled a jaunty song, turning at the end of her ally.
“Paris is beautiful at night, but just you wait until I show you what them stars look like out there were there’s no lights.”
Simone followed him, unnoticed, a mere shadow among shadows, and found his back door. It was always good to know where the kinder lords lived, to know where you wouldn’t be beaten for taking scraps. He had stables, horses, hands who lived above in the hayloft and boys who slept with the animals but no one sleeping behind, out in the cold but warmth just the other side, close enough to touch, seeping through the woods.
“Morning’s here, little bundle of bones. If you give me back me gloves, you can have breakfast. And better gloves.”
Simone ran, before his hands could close around her arm and his big voice could call her thief she ran. His voice chased her, calling her to come back any time, and a polite request, again, for his gloves returned next time she was passing.
They had come to Paris for hope and life but Paris had eaten them, swallowed them up.
She went back. Found him, after midnight, sitting out there singing. He gave her food again, swapped her gloves for a pair that fitted, tossed her a pair of stockings and boots. She wanted to ask why, but he wasn’t watching her, he was writing. She gathered up her bounty and left. Paris wasn’t so cold with boots.
Next time, he wasn’t there. He was gone.
The men were rough. Men who barely contained their violence, wouldn’t have felt the cold even if they weren’t swaddled in layer upon layer of red, their bright hard steel chilling but not to them, just to those they dragged off the cold streets and threw into the colder cells, and left there. You couldn’t see the stars from inside a cell, couldn’t run, couldn’t piss except on the floor, couldn’t eat except the rat-bitten bread they threw at you when they remembered, fruit they’d let go rotten, couldn’t sleep unless you were ready to die. The cells were stone, stone held cold like it coveted ice, held you in that same embrace and tried to burn your bones frozen.
“You could, I s’pose. I’ve only got a knife on me. C’mon, test your hypothesis boy. You a coward, boy? Not gonna fight afterall? Hahaha! Pig fucker!”
The guard of the cells that night sometimes mildewed the carrots especially before tossing them down, whether or not they reached the cells he didn’t care. He was tossed down like his carrots, a great giant coming after laughing, plucking him up like he was nothing and slinging him over a shoulder. He opened the cell by jamming a knife into the locks and kicking it, the line of bars and locks shuddering under the heel he drove against the handle with such force the lock shattered.
“Bring that,” he said, looking down at Simone.
She brought the knife and followed him home, whistling between her missing teeth to keep tune with his whistling, his knife tucked into the rope she wore as a belt. They walked through the city like they owned it, Simone thought maybe he did. He stopped to throw the guard under an arch, leaving him on the frozen cobbles like garbage he no longer wanted. It was a long walk, she followed him right up the steps and into the hall before realising it.
“Kitchen’s through here. Water over there.”
He sat and cleaned the knife, he didn’t watch her at all. Her hands got in everywhere, bread and fruit and good vegetables, uncooked pastry ready for tomorrow, burning-hot chestnuts in the banked fire.
“Don’t burn your fingers,” was all he said, pointing her again to the cool water when she burnt her fingers on the chestnuts anyway.
She lay that night under the stars behind his stables, stomach hurting from eating so much, cold soaking from the ground into her thin dress, her skin, her blood, her bones. She wondered who he might be.
“Porthos,” he told her, from the back step, the next morning.
“Did I ask?” she rasped.
“No, which is rude. I want my knife back,” he said.
Simone did not return his knife.
It wasn’t Simone’s fingers in the pocket of the lady but it was Simone the lady saw, because it was Simone who was too frost-bitten and too hungry to duck into the shadows. The fingers of the rich were bony, for all the good food they ate, pinching and sharp and unrelenting. Tossed after the guard from the other week, brittle from cold, rolling unceremoniously into boots. Queen’s Musketeers policed as well as Red Guard. Their sympathetic warm eyes hid behind orders and duty. Simone kicked and bit and ran.
“She’s not here, captain. I’m due back on the front in three days and you want to make our goodbye acrimonious, over some scrap of a thief you thought you’d arrest?”
“Madame is mistress to our cardinal, Porthos. Mazarin demands, and we follow orders.”
“Since when? Go jam a long-sword up your arse, d’Artagnan, it’ll give you a better backbone.”
Kitchens were warm, in winter. Monsieur Porthos mostly lived in his kitchen, so Simone found a corner in there for herself. She learnt, from him, how to tend to the fires, and how to roast chestnuts. She made them for him, and ate most of them herself. He brought her clothes again, and cleaned his knife (his fingers lighter than hers, retrieved when she was looking right at him without her knowing).
“You’ll need to stay here, while I’m gone. Eat, rest, stay clean and tidy, no one’ll look twice. Wouldn’t recognise the difference even between you an’ me, Simone. I haven’t got time to teach you much, but I’ll show you your name, and my name.”
He showed her a few more words, too.
Porthos was gone for a long time. The kitchen was warm, and then they started propping the back door open to keep it temperate, and then it was sweltering. As long as she lived in the kitchen she was expected to keep the fire and help out; the servants taught her how to cook. Now and then a letter would come with her name carefully, clearly written, and inside was the short note, the only thing she could read. She wrote back; his name on the front, hers inside, and the only sentence she could write.
Cities don’t out run the cold. It came around, as it always did, creeping under doors and through cracks, driving Simone behind the stove to sleep and read the growing pile of notes. She wondered who they were cooking for, if Porthos was not here. This was his house, they were his servants, and he was gone. Simone traced the words of his most recent letter. It was longer, and she didn’t know the words. She wondered what it said.
“Can you show me?” she asked the cook.
The cook, Simone didn’t know his name, looked flabbergasted, and did not teach her to read. Instead he talked and talked about her scaring the living daylights out of him, as he’d thought her mute or stupid. She was neither, but she decided to be both in the face of his bad manners. When the cold started retreating, though, and another letter came, even longer, even smaller words, she asked again and this time he agreed. All through the stifling heat of summer they worked, in any moments that were his own, which were few and far between.
He taught her how to use a knife one way to cut meat, another to cut vegetables, and yet another way that would go right through a man. He showed her on his own stomach the place to find the guts, and how to tug up to guarantee death. He taught her how to read and write ‘eviscerate’.
Autumn came with rain and mud and a thin chill, cold air setting everyone coughing, and Simone could read the first longer letter. Porthos wrote to her about stars, horses, longing for good food, and ended by saying he missed her company. Simone kept the letter in her pocket for a week, while she learnt how to bleed, kill, dismember, and cure a pig. They packed the meat in salt and built an ice-house in the yard. One night Simone crawled in, trying to remember being as cold as the preserved meat. The cook’s boy dragged her out by her ankle and told her if she wanted to die she would not do it on Baron du Vallon’s property.
That explained why they were still working when Porthos wasn’t here; it wasn’t his house, it was this du Vallon’s. She heard more stories of him, and he sounded terrible, larger than life, richer than a god, remorseless. She crept behind the chimney to her bed and took out the longest letter yet, working on reading Porthos’s words to banish this terrifying baron.
That year, the winter lasted too long. Porthos’s letters came with small parcels, sometimes, and sometimes in bundles, and got shorter and shorter, until they were back to variations on words she knew so well. Still the winter came on, storms came up the Sein, ice coated the Parisian streets, rain came down day after day, washing away snow until another freeze came.
Spring didn’t arrive, but Porthos did.
Simone heard him and ran through the house, forgetting the baron who lived somewhere in its depths eating enough for several families, never seen. She ran down the front step and Porthos was waiting there for her, broad and beaming, soaking wet, his armour when he lifted her freezing against her skin.
Porthos took her out of the kitchen and upstairs, into rich, opulent rooms. They were brought hot water and she watched him wash, cleaning away dust and mud and, underneath, blood. She could smell it, like when the pig sat woozy and dying, bleeding for their black puddings. He wasn’t woozy, nor was he dying. He sang as he washed, songs about her, about the stars, about Paris. Once he was clean and dressed, he sent for more water, and dunked her head gently in, washing her hair with firm fingers, warm oils. He dried it and combed it with a wide toothed comb, her curls kinking more tight than his.
“This is my daughter, Simone du Vallon,” he introduced, as they walked about Paris, she holding onto his arms. “Found her in the vegetable patch under the stars, monsieur, like a discarded pumpkin.”
He bought her roast chestnuts on a corner, the seller staying as late as the winter this year, and shelled them for her.
“You can pay the cold to stay away,” she said, hands warm around the hot bag.
“Yeah,” he said.
He, too, knew that cold bit, she could tell. He, too, knew the bitterness of buying their heat, leaving everyone else behind.
“My sister died,” she told him, pointing out the last house they hid under.
The spring came. Simone showed him how well she could shoot, and told him that they showed her how to kill a pig.
“I thought you came here from a farm,” Porthos said, correcting her grip on the small pistol.
“This is bad form.”
“Yes, but you have small hands. Form was written for people with bigger hands.”
“I have forgotten everything before I came here to this house.”
“Remember it whenever you like, even if it’s as bloody as slaughtering pigs.”
Simone showed him the ice house, the last of the meat, and he lay down on his back, she snuck against his side, and they wondered what it used to be like, to be this cold.
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Этот парень был из тех, кто просто любит жизнь
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/KJC3zvN
by fandom Гедонисты 2023 (BBBFF)
Злодеи и герои всех возрастов, профессий, рас и национальностей. Из общего у них только одно - любовь к жизни.
PS: простите, что выборка из мужских персонажей, мы не специально.
Words: 436, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Русский
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, Karlsson på taket | Karlsson-on-the-Roof - Astrid Lindgren, Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout, Naruto, Zootopia (2016), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types, 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Jīn Guāngshàn, Jack Sparrow, Iroh (Avatar), Benjamin Clawhauser, Porthos du Vallon, Nero Wolfe, Jiraiya (Naruto), Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Bilbo Baggins, Karlsson (Karlsson-on-the-Roof)
Additional Tags: AI Generated Art, wombo, Food, Character Study, Ship Manifesto, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Kombat 2023, Amphibian Challenge
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/KJC3zvN
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Этот парень был из тех кто просто любит жизнь
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/qEDBfaF
by fandom Гедонисты 2023 (BBBFF)
Злодеи и герои всех возрастов, профессий, рас и национальностей. Из общего у них только одно - любовь к жизни.
PS: простите, что выборка из мужских персонажей, мы не специально.
Words: 436, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Русский
Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, Karlsson på taket | Karlsson-on-the-Roof - Astrid Lindgren, Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout, Naruto, Zootopia (2016), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types, 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Jīn Guāngshàn, Jack Sparrow, Iroh (Avatar), Benjamin Clawhauser, Porthos du Vallon, Nero Wolfe, Jiraiya (Naruto), Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Bilbo Baggins, Karlsson (Karlsson-on-the-Roof)
Additional Tags: AI Generated Art, wombo, Food, Character Study, Ship Manifesto, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Kombat 2023, Amphibian Challenge
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/qEDBfaF
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@general-du-vallon commissioned a Porthos sketch and I decided he deserved to look fancy for once. I know red is not exactly a Musketeer color, but I found a pic of this doublet and knew he would look ravishing in it.
I can also imagine Aramis seeing him dressed like this for the King's Autumn Soiree and being absolutely gobsmacked for a moment, blushing when he realizes he is dating the most handsome man in Paris.
#porthos#howard charles#bbc musketeers#the musketeers#the three musketeers#fanart#traditional art#colored sketch#colored pencils
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My kingdom for a musketeers 3-sentence fic. Preferably with Constance or Porthos.
There are Musketeer legends, of course: every cadet has heard the tales of General du Vallon and Captain d’Artagnan, of Minister d’Herblay and the former Captain Athos. Nobody would ever go so far as to detract from their adventures or their heroism.
But perhaps the Musketeer whose legacy lives longest -- in the aligning of a sight down a gun barrel, the neat stitching of a wound, the practiced and steady stance of a swordsman not blessed with great height -- is Madame d’Artagnan, who imparted her lessons without a pauldron on her shoulder, but with every bit of insight and care and courage that a commissioned Musketeer might have, and more besides.
#anon u speak of the characters who hold my heart#gave u constance because there's a Porthos prompt coming up#love my daughter Constance d'Artagnan#The Musketeers#zainab does ask meme things#my fic#Anonymous
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Musketeers (2014)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Characters: de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires), Athos | Comte de la Fère, d'Artagnan (Trois Mousquetaires), Aramis | René d'Herblay, Porthos du Vallon, Constance Bonacieux, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Hijinks & Shenanigans, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, disguises, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Investigations, Nuns, Song Lyrics, Movie Quotation(s), Secret solstice, Musketeer Secret Solstice, Crack, Humor, Double Entendre, Puns & Word Play, The Author Regrets Nothing
Summary:
Captain Tréville demands to know how his four finest have got themselves into such a mess. A tale emerges that casts literally none of them in a good light.
Part of The Musketeers Secret Solstice Challenge and a gift for @dropdeadjack, with enormous thanks to @privateerstudies for setting this up.
Enjoy!
#bbc musketeers#bbc the musketeers#the musketeers#musketeers#secret solstice#musketeers secret solstice#fanfic#fanfiction#crack with plot (if you squint)#macguffin#athos#captain treville#porthos#aramis#d'artagnan#constance bonacieux#nuns#oc#i regret nothing
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