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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"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."

Porthos lets out a snort of disbelief as he stares at Aramis. "Not terrible, there's a ringing endorsement," he growls at him, grabbing at his hips to makes a sad noise for Aramis putting himself away. "Why can't we have sex and talk at the same time?" he protests, fumbling at those boxers again.

"We were neither having sex nor talking when I stopped," Aramis points out, but he lets Porthos pull him near again. "It troubles you. If you need to think just now, that's alright. My cock isn't going anywhere."

Porthos makes a considerate noise as he reaches down to grope at Aramis, absently fondling him, because if they're going to stop foreplay for talking, he wants to at least touch said cock before he goes a little mad. "I just don't know," he admits. "I'd have to go to school here if I wanted to become a teacher," he says. "And with the baby we want to have, isn't it safer and smarter to just keep doing shoots with you?"

Aramis breathes sharply in, arching into Porthos' touch. He has never had any trouble at all conversing while having sex, and he shakes his head at Porthos. "Not if you go mad with boredom," he says, thrusting into his hand while he is able. "We are men of purpose and always have been. Family won't change that."

Porthos' eyes are flooded with wariness, not sure that he knows what he wants to do with this idea. He lets out a huff. "Still, going back to school? We can't afford that," is what he says, chastising the notion. "Not with you pursuing studies and Athos on his own at the agency. It's duty," is all he says. "I should do what makes our family money."

"Why?" asks Aramis. "I am sure the children here have need of your skills. Do they not teach French in schools? Reading, writing, wrestling, even? If you need qualifications I'm sure your Jim is up to the task. We will say you attended the finest tutelage universities."

"I don't want to fake everything, I really do need to learn how to teach," Porthos protests as he wraps his hand a little tighter around Aramis, smirking devilishly as he shifts to hover atop Aramis as he brings him off. "You think I could sit there and teach French?" he asks, a touch hopeful as his mind starts to think of it. "I would want to do their year. Like I said, that's money and time we don't have."

"I don't see why, you understand French," says Aramis stubbornly, breath hitching for that smirk and the flick of Porthos' wrist. His cheeks flush, lips parting for the ache, but he still frowns. "And you like children, and they trust you. You could teach them."

Porthos grins as he works Aramis, breathing eagerly as he rubs his thumb in circles around the head. "Aramis," he chides. "In a year, we'll be having a baby. I can't start teaching then just to quit and take care of the child." He sighs, slowly, and leans up to kiss him as hard as he can.

Aramis groans into the kiss, hips rising to thrust into Porthos' fist, and it feels good, it always feels so good between them, especially when Porthos is rough. "Three of us," he gasps, throwing his head back when the kiss is through, "We'll work it out. Find you something, Porthos."

Porthos leans in for another kiss, mainly to shut up Aramis, but also because he truly and really does enjoy it. "Aramis," he murmurs, pumping him with little mercy now, desperate to give him whatever he can. "I'll think about it," he says. "But no promises. I've been managing okay," he says. "And I want to get Athos settled."

Aramis shakes his head, for he will not see Porthos neglected while he tries to take care of the rest of them, but his hand is swiftly moving him past speech. "Porthos," Aramis pants, clutching at his shoulders.

"We'll find it," he says again, and then he is shaking and spending between them, calling Porthos' name with every new warm burst against their stomachs.

Porthos kisses every bit of neck and shoulder and cheek and lips and skin he can get at while he works Aramis, laughing as Aramis spends and he nuzzles into his neck. "I want you and Athos to be happy," he insists. "That's what I want." He's spent so long after a life of honour that he hasn't stopped to think about what makes him happy, so much as what's the right thing to do.

Aramis comes back to himself nuzzling Porthos' throat, hips still hitching idly between them. He hums and does not argue, for he takes their vows seriously, and he will look after Porthos whether he seeks it or not.

"Alright," he says for now, opening still dark eyes to look at Porthos. "I've had my reward for choosing you over Lito's life of falsehood. What would you like, my dear husband?"

Porthos grins as he leans in to cup Aramis' cheeks and kiss him slow and careful and considerate. "That's a very dangerous question," he says pointedly, licking his lips as he grins. "But how about you go and look in the bottom drawer in the parsel that's wrapped up in tissue?" he suggests.

It's the kilt he'd bought after their little round of cards and he can't stop thinking about his hand on Aramis, now.

Aramis raises both brows. Parcels in drawers tend to be fascinating indeed, and he pushes Porthos off of him. "What have you done now?" he asks, retrieving the parcel from its promised place to carry back into the living room.

Aramis opens it, brows climbing even further when he unearths a large skirt. Or is it, "A kilt?"

"I like giving you presents," is his delighted reply, reclining back and getting comfortable on the chaise. "I hope you're going to wear it properly without anything under it, at all," he suggests, draping his arm under his head as he gets cozy. "This would make me very, very happy," is his pleased reply.

Aramis grins, both for the garment in his hands, and for the picture Porthos makes, draped back against the chaise like that. "You look like sin itself," he murmurs, and of course he will wear this. "Just let me clean up," he says, for he remembers another stipulation of that bet. "Wait right there."