#praiseandglcry

[contrariumarchive-blog]

❛ Thanks for being my best friend and making my life bearable. ❜

       slender fingers resting on the engraved hilt of a PISTOL, he pauses a seemingly endless process of cleaning; picking apart, putting back together, the cloth changed twice already              a soldier’s very personal method to combat BOREDOM perhaps, or simply Aramis’ nature commanding him to be particularly thorough. dark brows arch, a gaze from onxy eyes finding Porthos’ face, with the whole, utter, comfortable SILENCE nestled between them          crickets chirping, tumbleweed rolling by, the whole shebang. he waits. for a few more words perhaps, explaining that wholehearted but very SUDDEN confession. or at least Porthos’ barking laughter, followed by a rough ‘got’cha!’. something like that.

         nothing follows however. not a second after, not ten, not thirty. and eventually, Aramis nonchalantly SHRUGS, feet propped up on the bench before him on the Garrison’s courtyard. ❝you’re most welcome           ❞

         and very suddenly, a very IMPISH smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. ❝now don’t let Athos hear that I am your best friend. it would break his fragile little heart, no doubt.❞ or leave him entirely UNIMPRESSED, more likely.

▒▓ - meme ( @praiseandglcry )

[eastxrnsea]

-- - @praiseandglcry

It’s hard to recover a life when there’s nothing left of it to see the beauty of what it once was.  The garrison is ash around them, their numbers have been cut almost in half, and Lucy aches so badly she thinks she’s never hurt this much before.  She’s exhausted, too, more than she knows how to voice.  Seeing d’Artagnan run back into the flames, imagining losing not only her brother, but Constance, and the cadets she’d grown to know, and everyone else.  It had pulled everything out of her.  

Porthos had stayed close to her - or maybe she’d stayed close to him.  Somehow, in charging after d’Artagnan at the same time, they’d managed to hold each other back, hold each other up.  She remembers curling into him when the secondary explosions happened, clinging to his solid form to stop her being thrown like a rag doll.  And now it feels like they’ve adopted the same thousand yard stare.  

Lucy keeps reminding herself of what is real though, keeps looking at Constance, at d’Artagnan, at all the rest of them, doing their best to keep breathing, and she thinks maybe it’s not the end.  It’s why she moves towards Porthos with a bowl of water, a relatively clean cloth, and she holds out her hands gently towards him, a silent question.  ❝Let me help.❞ It’s soft, and scratchy, her voice ruined by the smoke, by her screams, by the trauma.  Fair enough - it matches the rest of her.  ❝Please.❞

[ivegxtyouarch-blog]

▼ :Are there popular head canons for your character that you disagree with? W

:: ▼ : Are there popular head canons for your character that you disagree with? Why? (x)

:: ( there aren’t that many popular headcanons generally, I think, simply because the fandom is pretty tiny, and you can count the number of roleplayers on both hands--- but a headcanon - made canon by the bbc - I disagree with probably is Aramis’ neverending search for love and the desire to have a family. I always enjoyed that he doesn’t care about any of that in the novels, merely pays some money for his bastard son and sees him occasionally, and that’s the end of it. I will always prefer Aramis seeking power and recognition over him looking for love. If we’re being honest, he’s too self-centered for anything else... ).

[ivegxtyouarch-blog]

❝ The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it. ❞

:: game of thrones sentence meme (accepting).

           ❝True! True, but what if---❞

      There is a pause that makes little sense; a usually oh so eloquent master of a silver tongue goes quiet for a brief moment to remember what he is about to say. Aramis doesn’t quite slur his words yet, in fact he feels and talks remarkably sober for the amount of wine he’s had -- and a freshly refilled cup indicates that he has no plans of stopping anytime soon. He chuckles, feels like Athos for a second or two, and realizes how quickly tides could turn. All it takes are four years for one to become a sober, noble Captain of the Musketeers, and the other to turn into a priest with red on his ledger and a cup full of wine.

      Still Aramis is remarkably chipper, happy to be back obviously, filled with purpose again and following what surely has been his true calling all along. Side by side with one he loves. Still. Forever.

      ❝--what if we are incapable of learning from it? That very short moment when you hear that voice in your head telling you this is a bad idea, and you merrily ignore it.❞

Like slipping into your best friend’s bed at night. And then again, and again.

[ivegxtyouarch-blog]

100% sinnamon roll ( ˘◡˘ )

      ❝Who, me? Aw, why thank you---❞

[reinesfaveur-blog]

❝You’re the only thing I know like the back of my hand.❞

     there ought to be a kind of comfort in the words as he walks side beside the man he has loved more dearly than his own blood. but instead there is a weight of sadness that his brother might be one day left isolated. aramis was often reckless with his well being, negligent even on the best of days. he might preen and fuss with his appearance, but it was that which kept him safe from others learning of the inner loathing that he carried.

     it is sad that one cannot love another until they have loved themselves, but aramis has never loved a fragment of himself half as much as he has loved porthos. his hand goes to rest on the taller’s shoulder, the warmth of his gaze saying far more than any words could possibly.

           ‘ as if you even knew the back of your hand, when was the last time you washed? you begin to smell as the bears you so greatly resemble. i ought to throw you in the trough there --- you’d be far cleaner than you have in a month. ‘ 

        flippant words to hide the heart of the matter, aramis cannot risk being known by any other ---- his love will be porthos ruin. and that is a ruin he cannot bear to bring. 

[reinesfaveur-blog]

❝Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes.❞

     ‘ then my dear friend might i say this with all the good         intentions of my heart --- stop squirming you bear. ‘ 

   usually he was far gentler with his dearest companion, but from the wound and the pallor that already tinged porthos skin aramis was acting just in time. he had yet to even establish when he’d gained the wound -- much less how he’d even gotten it. thankfully porthos was wrong in his dramatization of a bullet hole. it was in fact a rather deep gasp to the back of his shoulder. he didn’t think it was life threatening, but he wasn’t about to have to knock him out to sew this shut. because with his luck ---- porthos would land on his back and he’d have to get a horse to roll him over.

            ‘ any chance you wish to illuminate me to the why behind such a wound? exactly who did you cheat and why didn’t you take me with you? we’ve gone over this -- when you go to somewhere new --- to where someone is idiotic enough to challenge you to a game, that i will stand guard and make sure no one catches on. this is a basic tenant of our friendship porthos --- and stop squirming and take another drink. i’m only half way done.. ‘ 

[dettexhonneur-blog]

🎶

“People told me slow my roll,” Athos’ grin flashing wickedly as he finished pouring their shots, the party in full swing around them.  It was edging into the realm of chaos, nosing on up over toward actual fucking bedlam, and Athos loved it.

Loved it, because it was loud enough you could ignore anyone you didn’t feel like dealing with, because you couldn’t fucking hear them in the first place.  Loved it, because it was a sea of people losing their minds all around them, liquor splashing everywhere and the pervasive smell of cigarette smoke, underneath it the sneakier smell of weed, laced with sweat and unchecked drunken hormones.  Loved it, because in the middle of this madhouse, working his way through the human spectacle with his mates, he could ignore the noise inside his own head for a little while, let it get lost in the slow-motion, gleeful destruction of the poor fucking house that was offering as tribute for the night.

Loved it, because in the morning none of this carnage would be his problem, because this wasn’t his fucking house.

He raises his shot glass, giving Porthos a jaunty salute.  “I’m screaming out fuck that.”