Porthos does not tease or delay, and Aramis chokes on his moans, head thrown back as he slides deep into Porthos' mouth. "Porthos," he grinds out, fingers tightening in those curls until he forces them to loosen. "By God, your mouth - " Aramis is nearly past speech, a rare enough event, and his hips hitch helplessly upward, seeking even more heat. "Your mouth is heaven."