du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

He's definitely walked into something strange.

Porthos had finished up with the gym and stopped at the grocery store to pick up the fixings for tacos made with tilapia and other salsas, picking up beer and wine too, and when he gets home, there's the sound of rapid Spanish and laughter, two voices that he only recognizes one of. Wandering inside warily, he hangs up his coat and then feels a touch like he should have changed, because standing there in his bike shorts and a tight t-shirt makes him feel suddenly on display.

"Aramis," he greets politely, gaze sliding over to the man with him. He's handsome, that's for sure, but that could just be Porthos' appreciation of men like Aramis talking. "I didn't know we had company for dinner," he says, glancing at the already exhausted bottles of wine, a touch jealous that he'd missed out on so much drinking.

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"Indeed?" asks Aramis, "You would give up on me for a persuasive suitor?" He fastens his mouth to Porthos' collarbone, sucking just enough to leave a mark. "What would this incredible man promise you to make it worth it?"

Porthos hums as he thinks about it. "A lifetime of massages," he thinks, "and I think a big house with plenty of alcohol and card games. Fighting in the spare time. Something to give me purpose," he says. "And it wouldn't hurt if he looked exactly like you and spoke like you and...you know, was you."

"Or a very persuasive clone," he smirks.

"You'd best not," Aramis warns him, mouth sliding lower to nip at Porthos' nipple. "Sharing you with Athos is quite my limit. Everyone else can fuck themselves right off again."

Porthos breathes in deeply and with great pleasure. "I love when you get all huffy and possessive," he murmurs, scrambling to grab the edge of the countertop. "Like I said. He'd have to be very charming and persuasive and witty and fun and dangerous and look exactly like my dear husband Aramis," he muses. "And speak French and Spanish, of course."

"If my clone does arrive," Aramis tells him, "You are not to have sex with him unless I am also there. I will, of course, extend to you the same courtesy. Cariños One and Two."

"If a second version of me showed up, I'd worry you might implode," Porthos drawls, raising his brow in an interested smirk as he pushes himself off the counter and tangles himself up in Aramis' arms to move them to the chaise. "What would you do with two of me, naked?"

"Fuck one of you on your back while the other fucked me," Aramis answers immediately. He pushes Porthos down onto the chaise and climbs atop him, still running his fingers over that defined torso. "Like anyone sensible would do."

Porthos gives in, sprawling and going limp on the chaise as he stares up at Aramis fondly, thinking of all the nights he'd laid there and looked into the bedroom with longing and lust, touching himself quietly before abandoning it for fear that Aramis would see through him. "Well, you'll have to write that down as a suggestion," he replies. "God, you're beautiful," he praises.

"Are you really going to try and be on Space Hospital?"

"To place in our sex suggestion box?" asks Aramis with a bright laugh. "I will certainly submit my wish for a second Porthos to visit deviant acts upon." He preens for the compliment, lifting his own shirt over his head in that hopes that Porthos will put his hands on him.

"And I will. Perhaps when I've passed my EMT exams I'll even know what my lines are about."

Porthos leans up to drag Aramis down into a sudden kiss as soon as his skin is bared, thumbing the tattoo on Aramis' neck to trace the lines of it, breathing out a whiny little sound. "I don't want women building picture shrines to you," he complains, because he's seen what happens when people like characters too much.

"Would they?" asks Aramis, intrigued, groaning as Porthos pants against his mouth, sweet and warm. "You'd just have to make a bigger one. I would come and bless it nightly, I promise, who else in Darrow could say the same?"

"Could I come to set and linger?" Porthos challenges in between heated kisses, sliding his palms over the planes of Aramis' body to trace all those much-loved muscles. He thumbs and rubs at scars, smiling adoringly. "And would you send away all your admirers by admitting that you're taken not only once, but twice by a giant like me?"

"I would speak of little else," Aramis replies, framing Porthos' head with his elbows so he can deepen their kisses, in love with the slide of their bare flesh together. "I would not be surprised if they did not drag you onto set as well, just like with our photos. Who could behold a man like you and not wish to broadcast him to all?"

Porthos makes all the usual, desperate, aching sounds for Aramis. He reaches for Aramis' hand to slide over his scars and the heavy marks that mottle him, knowing he's hardly made for pictures without makeup. He could never do television. "I'm going to miss you," he says quietly. "I know it's a career you want and I know you'll be good at the both, but we're talking about being in a new place, except I'll miss you when you do this. And I'll miss Athos when he goes and becomes a famous detective and...I don't know what I'll be doing."

"But you will find it," Aramis tells him, "I know you will." He pulls back, pressing kisses to Porthos' cheeks and brow and chin, his throat, even his chest as he speaks. "Bonnaire was a wretch but he was right - you are a self made man, Porthos. You are already a brilliant cook, you work with children, you fight and you train. There is something in Darrow that you will love. And after you do it you will come home to me," he says, "And I will do this."

Porthos smiles up at Aramis, as always feeling like he's the sun and the moon and the universe. "I just wish I knew what it was," he says, having been troubled by his own boredom. He knows he does plenty, but little of it has been rewarding apart from the work at the shelter and they don't need him so often. The few hours he already gives are pushing too many.

"It would make coming home to you all the sweeter," he agrees.

"There's that anticipation I am so fond of again," says Aramis smugly. "Let us be scientific. What do you most enjoy doing in all your daily tasks?" he asks, sinking lower to nuzzle Porthos through his shorts. "Is there anything that you feel is missing?"

Porthos shakes his head, snorting because it's not like he can very well call in emergencies for the sole purpose of getting Aramis near him. He writhes, breathlessly, and thinks that it's very hard to come up with ideas when Aramis doing what he's doing. "I like the shelter best," he pants out. "Helping the kids. Only, they've got a staff and aren't hiring. So I can only do a few shifts here and there."

"But they exist elsewhere than the shelter," Aramis points out. "They go to school, probably some to jobs, to sports and other activities." He shapes the outline of Porthos' cock with his lips, smiling as it grows to hardness against his cotton shorts. "You could help them there, as well."

"And what if my favourite thing in a day is this?" Porthos asks, writhing against Aramis' touch. "Hmm? What if my favourite thing is to find pleasure with you? I can't imagine there's much that will pay for that. I mean," he says, "other than the filming of us to market." And that, he thinks Athos will murder them for if ever they actually do it.

He goes back to Aramis' words, frowning. "How?" is all he asks. "Employ them at the office, you mean?"

"If you want to be my house husband, do feel free," Aramis tells Porthos, lifting his head to grin at him. "Cook for me and Athos and the children, warm our bed. Just mine and Athos'," he adds with a laugh.

"And not at the office," he continues. "Help with sports, or do some sort of wrestling program, help them to burn off that mad, youthful energy lest they get into mischief."

He'd be able to do that, but he'd go out of his mind with boredom within a week. He likes doing those things, but if he did all those things at the exclusion of anything else, he thinks he might actually go mad. "They've told me that they've got coaches at their schools for sports," he says, frowning.

"I teach the rest of them what I can at the shelter, but those are limited hours."

"They must play sports outside of school," Aramis reasons, crawling back up Porthos' body. He reaches between them and undoes his jeans, pushing his boxers down. "All those children running about in the park on weekends and at night - there is some concerted effort to it. Would you want to teach them?" he asks, amusing himself with dragging his erection over the hard lines of Porthos' defined belly.

Porthos' eyes go unfocused and though he's sure Aramis is right, that question makes his brow furrow up as he starts to think about that idea. Teaching. He couldn't possibly teach them, could he? He hardly teaches himself, only he really does like learning and likes teaching other people. It's been d'Artagnan recently, but what if he could teach other things? Like French or history or fighting?

He says nothing, but gasps softly when Aramis moves over him, his brow still furrowed up in thought.

Aramis stills as Porthos' eyes go distant, and he sits back, curling against the arm rest. "You are thinking of it," he says, tucking himself back into his boxers for now. "Good thoughts or bad?" Aramis gestures over Porthos' body. "You were not terrible with showing the new recruits how to fight when you were in the mood to leave them conscious."