I really needed to start writing again folks - like, REALLY. I've found over the past year or however long it's been since I last posted anything (apologies if anybody is waiting on anything...) that I spend all day writing fics in my head but when I come to write them down I can only manage about 1000 words before the words/ideas just dry up. So I set a target; 250 words seemed do-able and I've actually got a surprising amount of these stored up so I may as well post them. Hopefully one day at least some of them will get developed into full-length fics but in the meantime...
Please enjoy my meager contribution to fandom culture and leave a review if you can - prompts, one word prompts, tell me what you had for lunch today, con crit, whatever you feel like.
THE MUSKETEERS
"They call me your dog!"
Porthos eyes the lad sympathetically as he overturns furniture and drops to his stomach to feel beneath his bureau for whatever has been nicked this time. He would offer to help, but suspects that it wouldn't be welcome right now.
"Could be worse," he says, a grim smile twisting his face.
"How?"
"All the shit you have to do because you're the youngest? The recruit, yeah? We've all been there." He pauses, his eyes darkening. "You can imagine what they called me."
D'Artagnan freezes, slowly withdraws his hand from beneath the bed and turns to gaze up at him. His expression flits so suddenly from confusion, to outrage then to fury that Porthos almost laughs.
"Who?" The boy demands. Porthos is fairly certain that disclosing any names – no matter how much he might want to – will result in d'Artagnan dancing on the end of a noose and so shakes his head dismissively.
"It was years ago."
D'Artagnan continues to look faintly disgusted then sighs and rolls onto his back. "It's just...when will they stop?"
"When they see it's not true." Porthos smiles, lends him a hand up until d'Artagnan is sat against his knees. "You know what you've gotta do?"
"Mm?"
"Next time Athos orders you about in front of 'em, tell 'im to go fuck 'imself."
D'Artagnan considers the potential repercussions of that option then groans, loops one hand around Porthos' leg and buries his face against Porthos' knee.
"Woof."
Porthos pats his head.