du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Porthos had started to learn English, he'd used books and the people around town to improve his knowledge. He hadn't been awful to start with, but there had been a lot to be desired. This time, he's got Aramis and it's only Spanish, so it's not like he absolutely needs to learn it, but it's important for Aramis and it's something that he wouldn't mind surprising him with now and again.

Still, as he sits cross-legged staring at Aramis, he's starting to get a little frustrated with the way you have to speak differently, and how it sounds so entirely strange to his ear.

"Why do my R's have to sound like that?" he demands, because they're not like that in French. And he's defaulted back to French, which he's been doing all lessons even though he knows he's supposed to be learning by speaking more in Spanish than French or English. It's only that the other languages are so much easier by now. Letting out a growl of frustration, he drags a pillow into his lap to lean his elbows on it.

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"Tu," Aramis corrects, "You need not use formal vowels with those who are close to you." He grins, though, for the compliment, pushing his scalp against Porthos' fingers. "I like the bun as well," he replies. "Keeps it out of my eyes."

"It's very attractive," Porthos says knowingly, because he's been helping himself to morning touches in the shower while thinking about Aramis styling his hair up into that elegant little thing. "Mine's a bit wild now, but it's still not able to do that," he says, reaching up to drag his fingers through his hair and make it stand as much on end as he can make it.

Aramis laughs and touches Porthos' curls, now making a wide halo around his head. "You'd have to make several buns," he says, "All over." He taps the back of Porthos' head, the sides, the top. "Here and here and here and here."

Shaking his own head, Aramis lets his hair fan out against the pillow. "Not quite as fetching as yours, is it?" he grins.

Porthos laughs at the image of himself with multiple little twists and ties, which seems a touch too complicated for him to do every day. "What, yours? Yours is gorgeous," he protests, leaning down to slowly steal a kiss from Aramis that's slow and measured and very much like something he'd see from a fairy tale, he thinks.

Aramis is quiet, savoring the slow, lingering kiss he receives, his fingers gentle against Porthos' cheek until he pulls away. "Then we are equally enamored of one another's hair," he concedes, beginning to mold Porthos' curls back into spirals. "As dark and as handsome as you are," he murmurs.

Porthos tips his head to the side, confused as to why Aramis is talking about his dark and his handsome, grinning as he licks his lips and leans in to kiss Aramis again. "I love when you curl my hair like this," he praises, voice soft and warm. "Make it sleek and shiny and perfect for you and Athos to look at."

"And I love doing it," Aramis replies, fingers moving on to the next clump of hair to begin molding it. "My fingers smell of your hair for hours. And even when the scent fades, I can still imagine the silken glide of your curls over my fingers perfectly."

Porthos' eyes fall to half-mast as he happily lets Aramis play with his hair, sighing slowly as he thinks of what his hair will look like. "We must spend a fortune on hair products," he confesses. "I don't even look at the bills anymore. How much do we spend?" he asks warily.

Aramis shrugs. Porthos hates thinking of the bills, and Aramis hates to speak of them for that reason. "I don't know," he says. "Not as much as some people, surely. We have natural beauty on our side."

He snorts at that, enjoying the thought of their natural beauty. "I still think we ought to pose for pictures," he murmurs. "Maybe Athos could be much more amenable to our photographs if we were to give him a set that he likes. Or maybe that's your wedding anniversary gift," he suggests. "Many, many photos of me in provocative poses."

"I'm not giving pictures to Athos," says Aramis firmly. "I tire of giving him opportunity to call me vain or to say I am debasing myself." He rolls his eyes, for Aramis has no place for shame where his own form and what he does with it is concerned. "But I will pose for you anytime."

He doesn't like when Athos calls the endeavor vain or silly because it earns them money that they wouldn't have otherwise. "How about you take some photos and I take some photos and then we have a nice dinner and exchange them," he suggests, already thinking about some of the ones he'd like to take. He lifts a hand to help Aramis play with his hair, sighing happily for the shivers it causes. "I'm never cutting this again."

"Not even when it reaches your waist?" asks Aramis with a raised brow and a smile. "You may well shave it all off again when the child comes, both to free up your time and to prevent her sticking sweets into it."

He lifts his head, brushing his nose against Porthos'. "I like that idea, dinner and photographs."

"It only grows out, not long," Porthos says knowingly, because it's never grown in length so much as long and longer until he can bundle it up with a few handfuls. He laughs as he thinks of a child's tiny hands in his hair. "Maybe I'll slick myself up until I'm all shiny and pose with something you really like."

"Maybe one of your muskets?"

"I'd like that," says Aramis, "Though I think muskets will be in my pictures as well. Or - " He stops before he can give anything away. "No, I think I'll save that idea for when you open the folder of pictures," he decides with a grin.

Porthos lets out a warm laugh, giving Aramis a long look of curiosity. "How did you tempt me away from my lessons?" he wonders, because the book is long forgotten now. "And here I thought I was going to be able to hold out." He steps away from Aramis and stands at the foot of the bed, moving the book to the desk as he stands there, his feet shoulder-width apart.

"What would you like?"

"Apparently all I had to do was give up," says Aramis in amusement, and he props up on an elbow when Porthos moves away to stand at the foot of the bed. "What do you mean?" he asks. "Such an open question is dangerous, Porthos," he adds with a grin.

Porthos grins as he looks down at all the things he's wearing from his socks to his sweatpants to the undershirt and the sweater. "Where do I start?" he asks, this time, thinking that might be a better way for Aramis to understand. "In Spanish, so I still learn," he insists.

Aramis chuckles. "Ah, well then, let me see." He surveys Porthos, but his first choice is probably predictable. He can hardly be blamed - Porthos has a magnificent torso. "Con tu suéter," he says, "Y." Aramis raises a hand. "Lenta."

Porthos grins widely, not missing a single one of those words. He understands all of them and he puts his hands on the hem of his sweater to slowly pry it off, inch by perilous inch until he's got it off, ruffling his hair and leaving him only in the tank top now, hugging tight to every muscle and angle of his torso. "I've been doing this good workout for my abs," he boasts. "I think there's more definition than ever."

"The effect is striking," Aramis agrees, fingers itching to reach for him, but he refrains. He does bite his lip, however, and certainly looks his fill. Humming, Aramis decides, "Los calcetines. Espera." Aramis grins and makes a turning motion with his finger. "Giro de vuelta."

He has his hands down to his socks, knowing that word, when suddenly Aramis tells him to wait. He mouths 'turn around?' and when he gets the confirmation he needs, he does exactly that, spinning until his arse is facing Aramis and he bends down very, very slowly in order to slowly pry his socks off. He flicks them to the side, turning back to look at Aramis, wiggling his toes against their floor.

Rolling his shoulders back, he stands there with sheer, unabashed pride and delight. "I'm thinking the arse is next months' focus."

"Can perfection be improved upon?" wonders Aramis, and he's moved closer on the bed by the time Porthos turns around. "I suppose it cannot hurt to try." Reaching down, Aramis adjusts himself in his jeans and hums in thought.

"Ahora, la camisa," he decides.

Edited 2015-11-22 04:18 (UTC)

Porthos is pleasantly delighted to see Aramis so close when he turns around. His smile only grows to see Aramis adjust himself in his jeans. "I still remember a time when I had to beg, borrow, and steal just to get you in a pair of those. Now look at you wearing them to show off your every asset." He hooks his thumbs in the tank-top and slowly nudges it away and wiggles his way out of it, draping it into a pool on the ground beside him as he stands there, hip cocked out.

"Lovely," Aramis praises, "Guapo," for Porthos deserves to know how handsome he looks. He turns onto his front so that the tight jeans cling to his arse and wriggles it a bit.

"Tell me," he says. "If I ask you to remove your pants next, will there be underwear beneath?"