du_vallon | (no subject)

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Wearing the scarf that had been purchased for him last year, Porthos has managed to recreate his outfit as best as he could. It's not exact and it's hardly the same (honestly, he doesn't remember much about the night beyond the scarf, the food, and Aramis bending down on one knee while the land passed by). It's all those things he's glad to recreate as he settles onto their table on the boat, fidgeting as if he's expecting yet another proposal.

Like an eager child at a party, Porthos' eyes are casting about everywhere they can, desperate to find the waiter for champagne, though he remembers to check in with Aramis, because being at sea (even so limited) can't be enjoyable for him. "Are you okay?" he murmurs quietly. "Should I get you something stronger to get your mind off the water?"

He's practically bouncing from eagerness, so happy to be back as he is.

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"I'd make sure I could take it out," Porthos promises, winding his arm around Aramis' waist as they step into the elevator, his head still bowed down, but he's grinning like an idiot. "You said in the fighting rings. Does that mean you're willing to concede a few matches against Oliver or Tommy?"

"I told you that I was," Aramis replies, and it's a wonder he can think to remember at all with his blood racing so. "It is Athos you must convince. So long as it is a friend who will not cause you real harm, fight to your heart's content.""

Porthos lights up, holding onto Aramis that much tighter, wrapped around him from behind. "I'll ask him later this week," he murmurs. "And maybe I won't get a ring, but a little golden stud. Though, Athos might have a heart attack if he discovers what I've done. It'll definitely have to come out," he says, hitching the bag of cake higher as they reach their floor.

"Thirty more seconds," he breathes out, mostly to himself.

Aramis all but flees the elevator when it opens, hauling Porthos in his wake. Fumbling out his keys, it is only his marksman's accuracy that gets the key into the lock, and Aramis bursts into the hotel room, immediately shedding his shirt and both shoes.

Normally, Porthos might tease, but it's been a very long few hours and of that time, he's wanted to go down on Aramis for at least ninety percent of it. Shoving the cakes onto the table, he pushes at Aramis until he pins him to the wall as hard as he can, sinking down to his knees in front of him as he fumbles with the button of his trousers, shoving them down as fast as he can. "I wanted to do this in the restroom," he complains, but doesn't wait at all before he swallows Aramis' cock down as far as he can, already in an aggressive rhythm.

Aramis cannot help a needy whine as Porthos approaches him, pulling his trousers down so roughly it is a wonder they do not tear. And then, it is a wonder that Aramis does not fly apart from that first touch of Porthos' mouth, no tease at all but a long and punishing slide of his tongue deep into soft, wet heat.

"Am I - " he tries, sinking fingers into Porthos' hair. "Am I to stay silent here as I was there?" Aramis gasps, knowing it will be quite impossible.

Porthos doesn't answer him at first, intent to do nothing but bring him pleasure by way of his mouth until he's ready to ease off. "I'd rather you made noise," is his growled reply, eagerly coaxed on by Aramis' hands in his hair (now long and nearly twice the length it'd been when they first arrived here in Darrow). He pins him harder to the wall, hands on his hips, and returns to what he's been doing, desperate to bring Aramis pleasure.

Just as eager to give Porthos what he wants, Aramis does not have to feign his moan, ripped from his chest even as his knees tremble. "You - " he begins, but he cannot complete the thought, so firm and insistent is the pressure of Porthos' mouth. He will spend in record time, even for them, Aramis realizes, and he cries out, already mad with the dizzying spirals of pleasure.

They've been at this for so short a time, but they've been on the cusp of it for so long that Porthos has to shift on his knees, because the unyielding pressure of his cock against his jeans is starting to get truly painful, but he needs to wait and see this through, keeping his mouth firm and his tongue steady, fingers making their marks in Aramis' pretty, pale skin.

Aramis feels the blunt pressure of Porthos' nails, and he cries out again, those tiny stings whipping his frenzy into a gale. Holding on so tightly to Porthos' hair that it must hurt, Aramis struggles to keep his feet, and when the pleasure gathers suddenly at the base of his spine, Aramis knows he is lost.

"Porthos," Aramis sobs, spending so mightily down his throat that only the hard press of Porthos' hands keeps him upright.

Porthos coughs, choking a touch on it, but he manages to ease back and smear the back of his hand over his lips once he's swallowed back as much as he can. His scalp still stings, but he eases onto his haunches proudly, a delighted smirk on his face. "I've got a request for me, though," he says, licking his lips. "I'm not gonna last long, but I wouldn't mind you eating some of that cake off me."

"Yes, you dear man," breathes Aramis, throat raw for all that he'd screamed for moments only, and clumsily kicks out of his trousers. "Bring the cake, I fear I'll drop it," he says, dividing their labor in order to get himself to the bed without collapsing. "Are they both chocolate?"

Porthos takes slow, cautious steps, aching with every additional one as he fetches the second cake, the one that's more frosting than cake. "One's the chocolate, but that's for later. This one is all whipped and perfect for your tongue," he insists, bringing it to the bed as he fumbles with his scarf, throwing it across the room before bending over to yank off his boots.

Aramis molds himself to Porthos' back, moving his arms around him to divest him of his shirt. "That cake is monstrous," he says approvingly as his eyes flick to it. "It will look beautiful against your skin." Seizing Porthos' ear between his lips, Aramis asks, "Where will I put it first?"

Porthos moans for the position of Aramis' mouth, desperate for more and not knowing how to get more when he can barely even walk. He's left in very little and today, he did wear briefs, not sure why and yet it's one more layer for him to contend with. "So long as you know I won't last more than a few moments before I come," he warns.

Aramis shushes him, moving to guide Porthos back against the sheets. Strength returned to him, he settles between Porthos' knees, leaning down to nuzzle his cock through his boxers. "I wonder," he says, dragging his finger through the frosting to paint a line across Porthos' belly. "Is it vanilla, or lemon?"

Lowering his mouth, Aramis laps at Porthos' skin. "Mmm. Vanilla cream."

Porthos is actively writhing and sobbing for the touch of Aramis' tongue and lips, his hot breath so close. He's close to thrashing, but he winds both hands up in the sheets to prevent that, desperate and crying out Aramis' name in jagged breaths. "Please," he begs. "Aramis, don't tease me, not like this."

"You went to all this trouble," says Aramis, dragging his finger through the frosting a second time, "I want to appreciate your efforts." He takes some small mercy on Porthos, though, pulling down his boxers to spread the frosting on just the tip of his cock.

Lowering his head, Aramis sucks at it lovingly.

His back arches off of the bed wildly for the touch, raising both hands to grab the pillow above him, swearing under his breath as he realizes how sensitive he truly is right now. Smirking, he closes his eyes and lets loose an invective stream of swearing that has Aramis' religious icons in the midst of a terrible amount of profanities.

Ears prickling, Aramis lifts his head and raises a brow. "On your own head be it," he replies, spreading frosting in the curve of Porthos' hip now, licking it neatly until he gets close to Porthos' cock again, upon which time he goes to retrieve more frosting for the other side.

"If you would," he starts to pant, desperate and whiny, "just do something about getting your mouth on my cock, maybe my soul can get saved already, so I get to spend eternity with you too," he pleads.

"My mouth can save your soul now, can it?" asks Aramis, pleased. He lifts his head and grins at Porthos. "I'll certainly do my best to move you to raptures," he adds with a nip to Porthos' side. Forgoing the frosting this time, Aramis wraps his lips around the head of Porthos' cock and sinks down, beginning to stroke him slowly against his tongue.

"If it gets to the work it's meant to be doing," he snaps back, hissing for the nip to his side, but that complaint turns to pure joy when Aramis finally does what Porthos wants, moaning wildly for the touch of hot, wet heat around him. "Aramis," he sings out with relief. "God, finally."

Aramis would chuckle if he could, joy blossoming as it always does to hear Porthos in the throes of pleasure. He favors him with long, deep strokes into his mouth, cheeks tight and hollow to keep the suction at its peak. Porthos' flavor bursts against his tongue, and Aramis doubles his efforts, hastening his pace to make Porthos cry out again.

Porthos swallows back the desperate plea in his throat, mainly because Aramis is finally giving him what he wants and needs, and there's no sense in being greedy now (except that he always, always is when it comes to Aramis). His moans soften, turn into something devoted and delighted, and he writhes as another cry comes out.

"Am I vanilla tasting now?" he questions. "Or just me?"