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 is clutching at the chaise beneath them, at Porthos' leg, turning his head against something warm that must be the edge of Porthos' thigh. He feels afire, not just in his arse but in his blood, lit up and straining for something, and no matter how many times he found himself on the precipice as Porthos' hand came down on him, the rock of his cock between them was not enough.

"Please," he says again, wondering that he can speak, that he can hear, that he can do anything but burn like a sun in Porthos' lap. "Please, Porthos, I need to spend."

Porthos turns Aramis into his arms, bearing him down to the couch so he can lean in and kiss him hard, clambering over his body to ruck up the kilt and shove his hand over Aramis' cock, breathing out raggedly as he strokes, knowing it won't take very long from this point.

"My Aramis," he praises against the kisses. "You know what to do."

Aramis does sob when Porthos moves him to the chaise, his arse singing and body screaming in glorious relief as Porthos puts his big hands on him. "Thank you," he says, closing his eyes against the tide that rises, bearing him higher and higher, love swelling in his heart for Porthos always gives him just what he needs.

"Thank you, Porthos," he pants, body seizing as he at last careens over the precipice, his shouts tight in his throat as he spends with a sharp splatter between them.

Porthos grabs onto Aramis and holds him tight through the orgasm, kissing his neck softly and laughing as he stares at the mess that Aramis has made. He hardly minds, though, and will be happy to clean them up, because he doesn't feel like he's harmed Aramis and they've both had fun.

"I don't know that I could've held out any longer, though," he confesses.

"Anticipation, Porthos," says Aramis in a weak murmur, and would sound despairing if he had the energy for it. He cracks his eyes and smiles, looking up at Porthos in exhausted wonder. "I can't believe I'm still conscious," he says. "That was incredible. I feel as if I spent with my entire body."

Porthos gently sets Aramis just to the side of him, mainly so he can bring himself off. He doesn't think Aramis is up to the task and it doesn't take more than a few more strokes before he, too, is coming. Sated and spent, he collapses atop Aramis and tugs their blankets atop them to get comfortable.

"I bet Lito sits around wishing he could do that," he teases, voice low and rough.

Aramis makes a soft sound as Porthos works himself, eyes following the movement of his wrist with eagerness despite having just come. He sighs in pleasure as Porthos spends, curling into him when Porthos settles against him on the chaise.

"I could have done that," he says, even if he doesn't also say just now. "And I'm sure Lito has hands on himself right now, thinking of you."

"My hair, maybe," is Porthos' instant reply, groaning as he wraps the blanket around the both of them, wiggling in and trying to get comfortable because he doesn't want to dare move. He kisses Aramis' cheek softly, staring at him yet in wonder. "I can't believe you'd give up everything for me," he admits.

"It seems like it isn't real."

"It's the only thing that's real," says Aramis, "Or at least, you are the thing that feels the most real to me. It would not even be a choice between you and anything else in the world."

He lifts his head, watching Porthos. "I thought you knew that."

"I know you love me," Porthos assures, never having doubted that. "And I know I'm important. I suppose I didn't realize how important," he says, because the business with the baby and the Queen has left a few seedlings of doubt in his mind, accompanied by the fact that Aramis left him at home for the monastery. "Sometimes, I think we're utterly insufferable," he says with a bright smirk.

"I only wish Treville were here to be irritated by it."

"He'd have kittens," says Aramis, relaxing back with a return of that smirk. "And we'd have to name the cat again. Perhaps we'd name it d'Artagnan, and he'd come back to us, too."

He brushes his nose against Porthos'. "You are," he says, "Important. You and Athos are first in my heart, always."

"I want him here so I can ask him questions," Porthos admits quietly, but also because he wants the steady Captain. He'd hand over the consulting agency without question if Treville wanted it. And besides that, he's the most father Porthos has ever had, so presenting his husband and partner to him (despite Treville knowing them) is something he desperately wants.

"I love you," he says, because it needs to be said. "And you're the most important to me. I'd die for the both of you and you both come first. Always."

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