|Aramis (romantichero) wrote in the100,|
@ 2016-04-30 00:22:00
|Entry tags:||!log/thread, aramis, porthos|
WHO: Aramis & Porthos
WHEN: April 22nd, 2016 after Fight Club
WHERE: Their room
WHAT: Porthos can only communicate via whiteboard and body language, but Aramis has always known him best. Basically, they’re dumb and really really into each other.
WARNING: PGish. Some kissing, some language.
A pile of pillows sat across the room from where Porthos lay sprawled out on the floor. They'd be a hell of a lot more useful if they were over here, but he wasn't quite ready to get back up again. He'd thrown them earlier, before six rounds of fighting his arse off and doing damn well. More specifically, he'd thrown them at Aramis over the many hours of this frustrating voicelessness. Now, he couldn't remember exactly why he'd thrown them, beyond wanting Aramis' attention. But then, he always wanted Aramis' attention. Fuck, he'd had it tonight, though. It didn't matter how intense the fighting got, Porthos could feel Aramis' stare like the heat of the sun on his back. He'd reveled in it. He was still reveling in it. Just...well, from a reclining position.
It probably hadn't been the best idea to spread out on the floor. He'd been gesturing dramatically - acting out a particularly satisfying few hits - and the floor was just where he'd ended up. Now that he was there, grinning dumbly up at Aramis with that insane mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline that he loved so much buzzing along his skin, Porthos thought it wasn't so bad just to stay.
The view was nice. The view was better than nice.
Porthos reached for the discarded whiteboard at his hip and wiped off the words ‘Okay brat’ from earlier. Still grinning, he quickly wrote out ‘proud?’ and held the board over his chest.
Aramis was standing over the spread eagle Porthos, grinning with that cat-like grin he’d had on most of the evening. He was in various states of undress, the wrapping on his hands were long-gone and his shirt - which had a little blood splatter on it - was discarded so it could be cleaned. His own face was sporting a black eye, which matched well with the bruising around his ribs. His match against Reyna had been rather brutal, though he’d come away even more impressed with the young soldier than he had before. She would make a brilliant Musketeer.
It’d been a fairly remarkable day. A marriage in the morning - which had followed directly after Aramis discovered Porthos’ having lost his voice and had force-fed him cup fulls of hot tea - the day spent trying to figure out how to cure his friend so Alison wouldn’t murder him, and then ending on the note of Fight Club.
No matter how many times he thought he was used to seeing Porthos fight like he did, it was still bloody disarming.
No one who looked at him would think Aramis wasn’t wrecked by Porthos. Watching those muscles move, the graceful air accompanied by brutish strength- Fuck. He was a goner.
“More than a little,” Aramis stepped away from his friend and fished out a pillow, reluctantly giving it back so Porthos would have something to rest his head on. “Thor is worthy of said pride, given how brilliant he looked in the ring tonight. Every fight was a work of art.”
Porthos hadn’t ditched his shirt yet, and looking up at Aramis, he was starting to wonder why. His own was sweaty and bloody, but a dark enough blue that it just looked a little rough, hanging open and framing his soon to be mottled with bruises chest. Luckily, his face wasn’t too bad off this time around. His nose had gotten broken again, but hell, that was nothing new. Porthos had adjusted it back into place before Aramis had even got close enough to fuss.
Now, he kind of wished he hadn’t. Any excuse to get Aramis’ hands on him would’ve been a good one. Especially when Aramis was being mean. Porthos scoffed, sat up, and drew a large frowny face on his board. His own pout might have been more convincing if he wasn’t half-smirking as he snatched the pillow and smacked Aramis in the legs with it.
He squinted up at Aramis for a moment, wishing he was closer, wishing rather desperately that they’d sorted out this Storybrooke situation so that he could pull Aramis down to the ground - either for friendly revenge or something else entirely - without worrying he was crossing a line one way or the other. The conversation with Sarah earlier had only cemented the fact that they hadn’t. Normally, he’d have joined right in with the racy talk, but everything with Aramis felt so precarious still. Porthos dropped his eyes to his board and wiped it off with a sleeve.
‘Be nice,’ he wrote. ‘Gonna hurt tomorrow.’
“You undoubtedly will be,” Aramis agreed, smirk still playing at his mouth. His hurts were going to be nothing compared to how sore Porthos was bound to be, after so many rounds and against such heavy hitters. He’d already made a mental note to track down ice for Porthos’ wounds tomorrow, as there were a few hits he’d made notes to check later.
But, then, “later” could easily be now, where he’d give himself a chance to get his hands on Porthos. It was unfair, probably, but Aramis never was very good at playing fair.
“Alright you, now that you’re sitting up, off with your shirt.” Aramis moved in, hand reaching out to tug on his friend’s shirt to help remove it. “You took a hit on your side that I want to check before you go to bed. Can’t have you dying of internal bleeding on my watch. We should probably also get you in the shower, you’re starting to reek of sweat.”
Grunting wordlessly, Porthos hurried to obey, but slowed immediately when slipping out of his shirt made at least two aches bark their annoyance. Tomorrow might have been been too generous an estimate. Even the stab of pain around his kidney area couldn’t wipe the smile from his face though. He grinned affectionately at Aramis, waggling his eyebrows at the word shower. He even started to warmly growl ‘you like my stench’, getting as far as the first syllable even, before he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. Not talking was exhausting.
Shirt gone and one hand ruffled through his hair until the curls stood up waywardly, Porthos scribbled awkwardly on the board at his hip. ‘I’m fine Aramis. Good!’. After a searching glance up at Aramis from under his eyelashes, he added, ‘Shower sounds nice tho.’
He was attuned to Porthos, had been for several years, so much so that Aramis just knew what Porthos was thinking - and the other way around, a lot of the time. It was how they worked so well together, and with Athos. When Porthos opened his mouth, Aramis knew exactly what was going to come out of it, and he grinned in return. Having a full day of Porthos lacking the ability to truly rebuttal was far more enjoyable than he expected.
“Good, he writes.” Aramis huffed out a noise of disagreement and crouched down behind Porthos, “You’re more than good, but I still want to check.” Gingerly, he stretched his fingers along Porthos’ back, massaging slightly along any areas that were already red, before finally, softly, moving to the area he was most worried about. The close contact was enough for him to suck in his own breath, mouth close enough to Porthos’ shoulder that he was almost tempted to lean in and kiss it. As if that’d instantly fix everything. “How’s that feel?”
Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis’ smug face, even though it warmed him through. Didn’t matter that he lost sight of it as Aramis examined him from behind. That careful touch, those hands Porthos likely knew far too well to ever be considered seemly, that was enough to keep the warm heavy feeling trapped in Porthos’ chest even as he gritted his teeth in pain. That too stoked the fires of his adrenaline and made him swallow dryly at the question breathed against his shoulder.
He really didn’t want to move. Well, no, he did, but not for the whiteboard. Porthos turned to look at Aramis over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded but focused on Aramis’ mouth. When Aramis’ fingers hit a particularly deep bruise, Porthos groaned and leaned back into him, eyes dropping shut. It was a good pain all things considered, and distracting. Somewhat distracting. It was doubtful a bomb would have fully distracted him from Aramis’ half-naked warmth at his back. Blindly reaching for the board, Porthos eventually got a grip on the marker and wrote, ‘Hurts good? Keep it up & I’ll owe you.’
Aramis laughed, but it wasn’t his amused-at-the-world laugh, but one more reserved for private encounters. Low, sensual and full of promise. He hadn’t intended this to turn into a massage session, but who could argue with the results? Porthos’ groan was enough to send shivers down his spine, so he kept moving his fingers gently along the soldier’s rough skin. His pressure was enough to hopefully elicit the same response as before, but his ears and fingers kept alert to any sudden pain or movement that could crop up.
“And what will The Mighty Porthos owe me, exactly? Feel free to draw that one out.” Aramis was fairly certain now that there was no internal bleeding around the forming bruise, so he moved on to the middle of Porthos back, digging gently against the bunched muscles there, leaning just a little closer. “The good news is that I think you’ve only just got some bruised muscles and maybe a bruised rib. Nothing feels broken or bleeding abnormally.”
Shit, that laugh. Porthos cleared his throat, for all the good it did. If he could’ve answered Aramis in words, well, he’d probably have tripped over them. There was something freeing about having to write things out. Having to carefully choose what made the cut. It meant he could sag under Aramis’ deft touch and moan quietly for a moment without feeling rushed to speak. After a few seconds, he pulled the board into his lap.
‘Mighty,’ he wrote, smiley face next to the cheerfully sloppy word. ‘Thank you, nurse.’
Porthos tapped the marker against the board, genuinely tempted to draw something graphic and hope for the best. Instead, he half-turned, as much as his aches would allow, and lifted a hand to graze two fingers near Aramis’ black eye. The look on his face asked ‘how do YOU feel’ even if he didn’t scribble it out in writing.
“We never should have taught you how to communicate through written faces.” Aramis sighed, shaking his head with genuine pleasure written across his face. How far Porthos had come since he was a child was remarkable, but Aramis was always even impressed with how far he had come in just the time Aramis had met him. One of the smartest and most determined men that France had to offer, self-taught in every way.
His hands continued their movement along Porthos back, though he did pause briefly with the touch to his face. “It’s fine. Aside from my pride and beauty being marred, it should heal in a few days. Give me something to talk about at storytime, even.” The heat Porthos was radiating was starting to get to him, making his head swim and settling butterflies in the pit of his stomach. That was really the only excuse Aramis had for dropping his head down to place a soft kiss onto Porthos’ shoulder.
Porthos might have thought he’d imagined that kiss if he hadn’t still be watching Aramis over his shoulder. But he was, and he felt Aramis’ wild hair brush against his face as an added bonus. Breathing in deeply through his nose, Porthos breathed out Aramis’ name. It was a barely audible whisper-croak at best, but it felt loud in his own ears. He grabbed the whiteboard and shifted in quick little increments until he was facing Aramis, legs spread out on either side of him. His aching thigh muscles were starting to seize up, but he probably would’ve sat that way regardless.
‘So,’ he wrote, raising his eyebrows, ‘been a few days.’ Patience had never been one of Porthos’ strong suits. And if Aramis was going to go around kissing his bare skin, then dammit, he was going to clear the air. He wrote another sentence and held the board halfway up in front of his face, just covering his nervous smile. ‘Decide what you want from me?’
Aramis watched the entire shifting movement with eyebrows raised, eyes drifting up and down the folded length of Porthos without offering to help once. It was more amusing this way, in all honesty. He could have stopped Porthos at any time, kissed him stupid and dragged him over to the bed, but-
No, he really had no excuse for hesitating. He just did. Not because he had doubts, but because he had still worried Porthos would have doubts. Now that things had settled. They’d had more than their fair share of run-ins over the last several days, longing looks, shirtless encounters, a moment after the wedding where their eyes met and Aramis had wanted nothing more than to pull him close for a kiss in full view of everyone.
Really, his only regret was that he hadn’t.
“What I want from you?” His face flushed a little. “I don’t think it’s polite for such innocent ears as yours.”
Porthos huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes dramatically towards the ceiling. It was an answer. Even if it wasn’t as straightforward as Porthos would have liked, the look in Aramis’ eyes as he watched him move was enough to quiet Porthos’ worries. If it had been just another heated stare, it wouldn’t have been. Thankfully, staring back at him was the same agonizing wishfulness he felt himself
‘Always calling ME ridiculous,’ he wrote, lifting his eyebrows. ‘Why don’t you’-- Porthos shook his head and tossed the board aside. There were never gonna get anywhere like this. Reaching out, he curled both hands around the back of Aramis’ neck and pulled him forward into a kiss. He’d have outright tackled him if he’d thought this sitting spread-eagle thing through a bit more carefully. But then, this was probably better. He had no moves left but urging Aramis to come to him, with a searching kiss and fingertips in his hair.
Porthos always had to charge right in. Aramis, typically, preferred a lighter hand and more subtle approach, which included not exactly being outright in saying what he wanted. But apparently he’d gotten the point across, because the next thing he knew, he had a Porthos in his personal space.
And he wasn’t complaining. Especially not when he was being kissed so thoroughly. Had Aramis been standing, he likely would have gone weak at the knees, but he took the cue and dove right into meet Porthos half way.
Though shoving their tongues down each other’s throats was likely not the appropriate answer to Porthos having lost his voice, and the little medical part of Aramis’ brain knew it. It didn’t stop him, not really, as he immediately shoved his hands to the less-bruised areas of Porthos chest, fingers playing at the smooth skin. “Fuck-”
He didn’t swear often, but at least it seemed appropriate, his mouth pulling from Porthos. “I think now is a good time to agree to get you into the bed, wouldn’t you say? I doubt either of us are up for anything… vigorous, but-” Aramis tugged at Porthos’ belt, warm eyes twinkling mischievously. “But there are ways around that.”
Aramis had a point. Porthos felt about a half dozen aches start up just in having a fit Musketeer pressed up against him. But fuck if he cared. His hands dragged across Aramis’ back, greedy but a little cautious, and he was already out of breath. Years of wanting this and two weeks of playing ignorant make believe didn’t mean he could be cavalier about this. Still, he mouthed a hungry path up Aramis’ neck even as Aramis kept talking.
“Mm?” Porthos pulled back just enough to glance down at his belt then back up to meet Aramis’ sly gaze with one of his own. Or at least an attempt was made. Sly was a bit beyond him with Aramis half-naked and in his arms. Even more difficult was scrabbling sideways for the board so he could jot out a wild-looking pair of words - ‘Yes. Anything.’
Porthos intended that anything as a come on. But written out in his blocky handwriting, with his other hand still pressed to the base of Aramis’ spine and his heart beating an elated drumbeat, that word felt a little too pointed. He huffed a laugh at himself and shrugged, shooting a look back over his shoulder towards the bed. A quick, groaning struggle and he was on his feet and picking up the board. He underlined ‘anything’ and walked backwards towards the bed, wide smile growing with every step.