du_vallon | (no subject)

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Porthos keeps moving, allowing his mind to clear and the music to command his movements as he pushes back against Aramis, as if reminding him that it's his rules keeping them here. One drink, one dance. Porthos would've been happy to go straight home. He reaches, now, for Aramis' hand to slide it over his bare torso, over the defined muscles of his stomach that he's earned from yoga and other exercises. "It's to punish you for demanding a dance," Porthos says knowingly.

"I was attempting to honor the hostess' hard work," replies Aramis in a fair imitation of Porthos' growl. He pinches at Porthos' side in forced recompense. "Elsewise the place is little more than brothel, however tempting a ware you might be."

With Aramis' hand where it is, pinching like it is, Porthos leans back hard and finds that he's not just moving his hips against Aramis' and that his own interest is sparking up as a result. He lets out a helpless little sound, unable to wait for the song to end. Instead, he turns and slides his hand down Aramis' spine to cup at his arse, a look of desperation in his eyes as he steals the hat from Aramis' head to wear on his own. "And what would you ask the mistress of the house for permission to do to me?"

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"Firstly," says Aramis, dragging Porthos from the floor by the hand, "To take you away from prying eyes, as I don't intend to share even the view of you." He manages to keep hold of his manners long enough to hold the door open for three new entrants, but after that Aramis is pulling Porthos bodily into the streets, the cold air a balm for his heated flesh.

"And I never asked what might be done," he says. "Only what must not. I have never enjoyed anything that did not bring pleasure to a lover."

"Hey, no, hold on," Porthos argues sharply, a note of dismay in his voice as he tugs on Aramis' hand, heading back towards the door. "My cloak is still in there," he says, eyes widening as the chill begins to set in and Porthos might have managed through frigid winters, but never an autumn with so little on. "Wait here," he says, grabbing Aramis by the hips to plant him there firmly before he heads back inside to find his cloak and say goodbye to Allison.

By the time he's back outside, almost ten minutes have passed and Porthos has lost some of the driving lust, though not all. Wrapping the cloak around his shoulders, he burrows into the warmth as he plasters himself to Aramis' side. "And what sort of thing were you constantly denied, hmm? What could even you not convince them to offer?"

"It was not human contact," replies Aramis, his tone nearly as icy as his skin. His torn shirt and thin breeches have not provided much barrier against the cold, and if it is pride that has kept him waiting out of doors, it's certainly stubbornness that prevents him molding himself into Porthos' warmth.

"Ten minutes? It took less time to drink and to dance."

Porthos shifts the cloak as he clasps it and wanders behind Aramis to wrap his arms and the fabric around him in full, letting the warmth of his body bleed out as he holds close to him. "There was a line to get my cloak and I couldn't leave it. It's part of my uniform," he murmurs as he presses soft kisses along Aramis' tattoo, settling the hat back on his head. He begins to rub his hands up and down the bared skin of Aramis' chest, his torso flush to Aramis back while the cloak keeps them warm. "I also had Allison call us one of those cars, the thing that takes us home."

Perfectly timed, the taxi pulls up and Porthos bundles Aramis into the back of it, holding onto him tightly after giving the man their address. "Better?" he murmurs, lips still attached to Aramis' neck.

"Possibly," Aramis allows, wrapped up in Porthos' cloak and arms and scowling fit to rival Athos, but it is a difficult expression to hang onto when Porthos' hands are like brands on his cold skin. They are mere blocks from home before he knows it, and Aramis tucks his chin against his own chest, forcing the cloak up to his nose lest Porthos see is softening expression.

"You could have brought any cloak," he murmurs.

Porthos uses the cloak to secretly bundle Aramis onto his lap, wrapping it around them both so they have some privacy as he continues to run his hands over all parts of Aramis' body that he can reach. "This one is the warmest," he points out. "And the effect of dropping it to reveal the costume is...well, it's something else. I'd brought it with you in mind, thinking I might surprise you with my costume." He nuzzles his nose against Aramis' cheek, digging into his briefs to find a secreted away bill against his hip, holding it to the driver as he starts to urge them out of the car.

"Home," he says. "And away from prying eyes. That was step one, wasn't it? Of what you wanted?"

"It was," Aramis concedes, exiting the warm cocoon of the cab for the doorstep to their apartment. He has his keys, but he takes his time in fishing them out, searching for them in pocket after pocket of his uniform.

"Next, I would have asked what the lady most enjoyed," he says, digging into the pouch at his hip. "Then I would have taken my time in giving it to her. As I have told you, anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac."

Porthos continues his slow assault of Aramis' body with both hands and mouth as they stand outside the main door, while Aramis searches for a key. He even goes so far as to boldly slip his hand down into Aramis' trousers, wrapping his fingers around his cock as they stand here, in the street, while Porthos touches him for potentially all to see. "Is it?" Porthos muses, skin prickled from the cold and heart beating madly. He strokes very, very slowly. "And what if she enjoyed you finding pleasure most. What would you choose to do?"

Aramis breathes out quite carefully, but it is no use. Porthos' searching hands have already ruined his plans for artifice - he could no sooner hide his thickening cock than claim disinterest, and he produces the key, jamming it into the lock with no more time for playacting.

"If a woman, I would ask her to ride me," he confesses. "I have always enjoyed the view."

"And if it were a man?" Porthos suggests, pushing them inside with a little bit of rush, opting to begin climbing the stairs rather than wait for the lift, especially on a night like tonight with people coming and going. The cloak flutters behind him as he climbs, tugging on both of Aramis' hands in lieu of shoving down his trousers again for now. He does stop on the seventh floor landing for a deep kiss, using the railing for balance as he gives a heady moan, thinking of the picture Aramis makes in full.

"It depends on the day," Aramis confesses, sucking in gulps of air around Porthos' deep kisses. "I might like to be taken, if the day was particularly trying. If too slow, I would ask him to ride me, same as a woman, and save his cock for my own hands. Porthos, why did we not take the elevator?"

"Because," is his reasoning, all that Aramis gets before Porthos hoists Aramis up and over his shoulder with two firm hands wrapped around Aramis' waist to get him there, ascending the last three floors with ease. He steals the keys from Aramis' hands and opens their door with his hip leaning against the door, not stopping until they're in the bedroom and the door has been closed behind them.

He almost throws Aramis on the bed (he doesn't, but it's a near thing) and takes two steps back. First go the briefs, kicked to the side, and then he's unknotting the cloak, letting it drop away as he throws off the adornment by his neck so that he's shirtless and he's only wearing the sandals, skirt, and armbands. "And that's what you were meant to see, at the party."

"That is what I did see," says Aramis, pulling himself onto hands and knees, body still vibrating for its sudden volley towards the bed. He is breathless, and not only for the hard press of Porthos' shoulder into his midsection.

"You are a vision fit to tempt any saint," he says with feeling, and it's only his own restless hands that have him recalling the whip coiled at his side. "You'd best come here," he says, "Before I make you."

Porthos doesn't move an inch. Instead, he peels off the sandals slowly, making sure he's twisted so that Aramis gets a prime view of his arse in the process. "I want to know what else you asked for, in your brothels. It sounds fairly tame now. To be taken, to be ridden, to ride," he lists. "I always pegged you for more creative."

"Perhaps you aren't asking the right questions," says Aramis, taking in the view offered him. "I did not always go merely for pleasure, particularly not in early days. Sometimes a man simply needs to be taken out of his own thoughts, sometimes forcibly. I do not think it is something you would enjoy," Aramis admits, discarding the whip to stand before Porthos, hands lightly following the bunch and flex of Porthos' muscles as he undresses himself.

"Besides, those days are another world entirely compared with what I have done with you."

Porthos grins fondly when Aramis gets closer, the softness of it taking him slightly by surprise because he honestly didn't think he could be more enamored with Aramis and then he gets surprised. "I want to try something that I think you'll enjoy," he says, heart beating faster as he prepares himself for it. "If you'll let us."

Aramis smiles, lifting Porthos' arm so he can dig a finger beneath the band, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin beneath it. "I cannot imagine I would deny you anything," he says, fingers drifting to the edge of Porthos' skirt. "What is it?"

Porthos doesn't point out that Aramis hasn't heard the request yet. He thinks that there's a reasonable chance he might be denied, given what happened last time. Porthos plucks off the hat from Aramis' head and tosses it into the corner of the room, breathing harder for the touch of fingers on his skin. "Tie me up, using the whip," he says, not blinking and not moving his gaze. He wants Aramis to understand how serious he is.

"Porthos," exhales Aramis in surprise, a little dizzy for the unexpected request. If Porthos had not enjoyed that first time, Aramis feels all but haunted, the teartracks on Porthos' cheeks still burned into his memory. "I do not know if I can," he admits, lifting Porthos' hand to his mouth to avoid meeting his eyes. "I meant what I said, I cannot derive pleasure if I am not also giving it. Your face, Porthos...I can't bear to upset you again."

"I told you that you might say no," Porthos points out, sliding his other hand through Aramis' hair to wind through and bring him close for a slow kiss, a smile on his lips even if he's not getting the answer he wanted. "S'okay," he mumbles, the word sticky, hot, and lazy. "How about we start with you riding me, hmm? I'd very much like that, too."

The kiss is so gentle that Aramis feels a bit of his anxiety melt away, even if he still rattled when he pulls back to look at Porthos. "I always enjoy that," he says, "But why did you ask to be tied? You hated it, Porthos. Could that have changed so much that you would willingly try again?"

Aramis worries at his bottom lip. "You would not consent to something you hated just to please me?"

He shakes his head when Aramis poses the last question. "No, I'd never consent to something horrible just for you." He might be in love, besotted, and any number of words describing love, but he's no fool. "I had rules," he admits, even if they're not going to do it. "And you were going to follow them, but we'd try again. It's no matter," he hurries to promise. "C'mon, you haven't ridden me in days, I miss it," he tries to pitch the mood more cheerful, his eyes still full of mirth and life.

Aramis gives a small laugh, one that he feels better for, and kisses Porthos' hand with purpose this time. "If that is what you want," he says, pulling Porthos towards the bed. "But I want to know your rules, and why you think you might be able to enjoy yourself this time."

Porthos grins as he slides his hands over the lapels of Aramis' torn-apart shirt, thumbs beginning to slide over his collarbones as he leans in to slowly, slowly begin to lay a line of kisses from his neck and down the torso, advancing on Aramis and pushing him to the bed when it's close enough so he can continue, sliding his lips in slow kisses down the defined muscles of his chest. "For one, you weren't going to get to blindfold me," Porthos says, thinking back to the mental list he'd compiled.

A slow kiss around Aramis' navel is pressed and he circles the area, letting his beard brush the skin before he tugs open the button of his trousers. "And I was going to make you tie them where I could brush my fingertips against your skin," he says. "The biggest rule of all though, is that you weren't allowed to withhold once I'm tied." He nips at Aramis' hipbone, visible barely beyond the shirt. "You're far too clothed," he says, so very disappointed. "I'd rip it all off you, but I don't know if you'd be angry about the ruined clothing."

"I enjoy being denied," says Aramis, dutifully unbuttoning his shirt to tug it from his shoulders, his breath coming faster for Porthos' mouth on his skin. "And not being able to see what might come next, but we are not all the same. I should have asked you," he says. "I thought leaving you unbound would be enough, but it was not. I'm sorry," he feels compelled to say again.

"If you truly wish to try again, I would do better by you, Porthos."