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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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."

"And yet, he's not here in my lap," Porthos sighs out as he shakes his head and watches how Aramis moves and the glimpses he gets. He could get used to this, though he still prefers the idea of Aramis wandering around naked all the time for the both of them. "How much showing off do you plan to do? And do you think your arse is up for a bit of smacking around?"

"You all but invited me to show it off," says Aramis, but he straightens for the next bit, mouth going dry as he stares at Porthos. "Truly?" he asks. "You would be up for that tonight, Porthos?"

Aramis drifts closer, running his fingers through Porthos' curls as if to ground himself. "I meant it about the weeping. And the screaming," he adds.

"I don't know if I'm ready for the screaming," Porthos warns, tipping his head just slightly upwards so he can let Aramis slide his fingers through his hair while maintaining eye contact. "But I can definitely aim for weeping," he guarantees, sliding a hand around Aramis' hip, gripping him and giving him another push and twist, lightly smacking his arse for a start. "Kitchen's got that one stain on the floor," he indicates. "A hands and knees kind of stain."

"Oh dear," says Aramis for the stain, and though he knows they are yet only teasing, that smack makes his breath come faster, a flush rising to his cheeks. He takes their soft new blanket with him and puts it down for his knees, bending over carefully so he can rub at the stain with a cloth. (It might be a stain. It's barely a mark. It's hardly the point)

"Bit of a tough one," Aramis hums, scrubbing harder.

Porthos bites his lower lip as he watches Aramis present his arse to him like that. He really is the most handsome man, and it has more to do with his looks and so much to do with the way he moves and walks and talks and god, how did Porthos manage to secure this man? "If you get it out, I'm sure there's a reward in it for you," he says knowingly.

"I'm certain it will come out eventually," says Aramis, scrubbing at it more slowly now, long strokes of his arm that undulate his body back and forth where he kneels on the floor. "Perhaps with more leverage," he muses, bending deeper towards the ground.

Porthos hums thoughtfully. "Should I suspect that it was you that stained it in the first place?" he asks, of their non-existent mark on the floor, but he needs something in their little game in order to take the next step. "Best that you come here, then, after, and I'll have to punish you for staining it and reward you for cleaning it, all at the same time."

"A complicated tableau, to be sure," says Aramis, breathless not for the work but with anticipation. He glances at Porthos over his shoulder, teeth in his bottom lip for the sight of his gorgeous husband.

"I think I've got it," he says, rising gracefully. His approach is slow, eyeing Porthos with curiosity. He knows their endgame, but not how they will reach it, and Aramis' stomach leaps again.

Porthos hums again as he pats his thigh to coax Aramis in closer to him. "Well, then, in that case you ought to come right here, shouldn't you?" he questions. "And I'll see about taking care to take out the lashes for your mess," he growls, fingers reaching out to trail at the hem of the skirt.

Aramis' knees quiver, and he cannot quite stop the puff of a moan that escapes his throat for the stretch of Porthos' fingers. He looks down at the thick thigh Porthos has patted, and for a moment his head is so fogged with lust he can't decide where he's meant to be.

"Shall I kneel?" he asks, licking his lips. "Over your knee?"

Porthos runs his fingers over the fabric again and again, yanking Aramis down into his lap without giving him a chance to ask. The truth is that he doesn't often like to play the brute, but this feels controlled and safe. He holds onto Aramis tightly, but this is possessive and restrictive. "You'll stay right here until I want you elsewhere."

Aramis moans properly then, for he can feel the strength in Porthos' grip, more than he could escape with his own. A word from Aramis would free him, and that only makes Aramis love Porthos more, as gentle in his heart as he is powerful of body.

"Yes," he agrees, flexing against Porthos' grip just once more before he settles. "By God, you are strong."

"I can lift your weight and then some," Porthos says, and means it entirely, given what he can do at the gym. "Now," he says. "Are you going to admit that it's your doing that the floor was that messy?" he challenges, sliding his palm roughly over the fabric of the kilt. "Or am I going to have to get it out of you?"

"How can I be sure?" Aramis asks him, for he can resist no opportunity to be wicked. He shivers, gooseflesh rising beneath his kilt in the wake of Porthos' hand. "I don't remember getting mess on the floor. Perhaps it was the cat."

Porthos lets out a long sigh, like he's truly disappointed with such an answer. Hauling Aramis up and out of reach, he shoves him down over his knee, rucking up the kilt to bare his arse. "Not the right answer," he informs him, before drawing back for the first smack, not as hard as he can, but just a reminder of the sting his fingers can deliver to bare skin.

Aramis gasps, for the rough handling, for the sudden closeness of the cushions to his nose, for the sharp way Porthos rucks the kilt and exposes him - it is as if he cannot get enough air, and then Porthos smacks him, not as hard as he can but truly smacks him, and Aramis feels it against half his arse.

"So big," he whines. "Your hands are so big, Porthos."

Porthos feels a thrill and a rush through him, the way he feels during a fight. He's never wanted to be cruel or rough in bed, but Aramis seems to be enjoying this. "And you don't seem to be learning punishment," he replies, squeezing that red mark with his palm before he moves to strike again, catching the swell of his arse as he delivers a second firm smack. "Count them, Aramis."

Porthos strikes where Aramis already stinging, and he is mute for a moment, gaping soundlessly as the world blanks only to rush back in, flooding his veins with adrenaline. Porthos is telling him something, and Aramis shakes the fuzz from his ears, unaware that he is moaning.

"Two," he says. "I didn't make the mess, Porthos."

Porthos can't believe how hard he is, just from the sound of Aramis gasping, counting, and moaning. He grabs onto him and hauls him back into his lap. "If you didn't make the mess, then who's going to learn for it?" He dangles his fingers idly over the skin to make it shiver before he hauls back to smack again, marvelling at how he can almost see his handprint.

Aramis cries out, dizzy and reeling as Porthos hauls him about. His only focus is the the tender skin of his arse and the throb of his cock, the pair of them seemingly pulsing in time with one another. "Three," he chokes out, and if he had the breath for it he really might scream in anticipation of Porthos' next stroke. They are solid smacks, but still without Porthos' full might behind them. What would Aramis do if Porthos used all his strength on him? Pass out? Come? Probably both.

"I didn't, Porthos, please."

Porthos is breathing harder for the pace, shifting so he can drag the rough fabric of the kilt over that reddening mark, using his palm to smear it in circles for something different, leaning down to kiss and nip at the bare skin before he flips the fabric up again.

"Be more convincing," he insists.

Aramis breathes in raggedly, the whine high in his throat when Porthos teases him with his lips, his cry sharp when Porthos nips. "I'm sorry," he gasps, curling to tuck his face against Porthos' leg. His cock is a steady, insistent ache between his legs, and beneath him, Porthos' own hardness is enough to drive him wild. He shakes his head, breathing hard and fast as he waits for the next strike. The anticipation is truly maddening, and Aramis jerks more than once in false alarm. "Four, Porthos, I'm sorry."

Porthos whines right back, wanting so badly to give up the game and touch Aramis, hold him, do absolutely anything to make him happy and he gives in when he has to wrap his hand around Aramis' cock and give it one hard jerk of his hand, burying his face in Aramis' shoulder. "I don't know if I can keep going," he admits.

Aramis feels keyed up, like an electric current is running through him with nowhere to go, and he can't help the wave of disappointment that passes through him when there won't be more. He wants to feel this for hours, bear marks for days, wants Porthos to keep at him until he spends, but he won't demand it. He turns his head, searching Porthos' face in case Porthos thinks he's truly hurting him.

"You don't have to," he rasps out. "Only if we both like it, Porthos."