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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

Porthos smirks as he spreads his legs and starts to stroke himself in a very, very slow manner, allowing himself to be teased because he doesn't mind a little anticipation, not right now. "It'll fit you perfectly," he vows. "I took all your measurements and made sure there's lots of good buckles."

"So there are," says Aramis with a bright laugh, wetting a towel to run over himself and wash away the traces of his earlier orgasm from his belly. He wraps the kilt around his waist next, fiddling a touch with the buckles and draping until it seems to hang just right.

"Not a terrible effect," he tells his reflection, turning this way and that, but eventually he must peel his eyes from the sight of himself and reach for something else on the countertop. Hiking a leg, Aramis coast his fingers with a generous bit of oil, humming as he works himself open with it. When he feels he is looser, but not too loose, he washes his hands and returns to the living room.

Aramis' eyes darken at once for the stroke of Porthos' hand around that magnificent cock. "Don't get too far without me," he says.

Porthos grins as he lifts both hands in the air to show that he's not touching himself anymore, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a hungry look on his face as he studies Aramis. "Half the time, at home, with that coat and those buckles, it half looked like you were in a dress," he raves. "This is just a touch of a change."

"It certainly did not," Aramis returns, for he loves that coat, and he hadn't thought anyone noticed his attempts to appear bulkier than he is under all those layers.

He sniffs and bends at the waist, lifting one of their fallen magazines to place back on the coffee table. He makes absolutely certain his arse is facing Porthos.

Porthos groans as he watches the bend, seeing the sheen that looks to be a telltale slick of oil and he reaches up to grab at that arse with both hands, tugging Aramis down and back into his arms. "C'mere," he growls, yanking him onto his lap to securely hold on. "You spent some time getting ready for me, didn't you?" he whispers against his neck.

"I believe that was stipulated in the game of cards," says Aramis, unable to help squirming against Porthos' hot skin. It really does feel as if there are miles of it, and Aramis adores every inch. "You did not enjoy the view overlong, querido," he laughs, turning his head to kiss him.

"This is when I need two of you," he grumbles, pushing Aramis out of his lap. "I want one to hold onto and one to watch," he bemoans, taking a long breath as he points to the table. "There's a bit of clutter Lito left that you might need to bend and pick up."

Aramis chuckles and manages to land gracefully on his feet, hefting one foot onto the coffee table to briefly examine a spot of lint on his knee. "That is what Athos is for," he tells Porthos, going to collect the extra glasses and Spanish magazines from Lito's visit. It requires little bending, but he does it as much and as egregiously as possible, smirking at Porthos from time to time.

"I can see why they like these," he says. "Quite airy."