Musketeer!fic: Affinity!verse (I am going to hell)

[rainjoyswriting]

Anticipation of Love, Musketeers fic, affinityverse (best catalogued in my memories), soon to fall out of order: prepare to join Aramis in joining the dots as best you can while time goes wonky on us).

Disclaimer: They didn't do this on *screen* in the series . . .

Rating: Oh look NC-17 (at least I'll bump into Aramis in hell and we can hang out or something).

Warnings and spoilers: The main list's on part one, read sensibly. This part, the smut that was very obviously coming. It's very eagerly consensual but they're currently sixteen, you know if you don't want to go there, and also Aramis is Aramis and has a weird thing about whipping and lists 'violence' as a favoured characteristic of women: erm, yeah ^^;

Summary: (skin skin skin)


Note: The poem is by Borges, I know if we're talking Aramis and love poetry in this verse it really *ought* to be Neruda but you know what Borges writes fucking *rings* around Neruda and Aramis has taste. Borges wrote love poetry only rarely, possibly just so it wouldn't physically destroy me later on.






Ways that Porthos has thought about getting under the waistband of Aramis' baggy jeans:

He's made a playlist.

He can never tell Aramis that he made a playlist.

He's thought of lines.

Thinking of one that will make Aramis neither burst out laughing nor insufferably smug is proving difficult.

He's dared himself, Aramis' tongue in his mouth and Porthos' hands pinning his hips hard to the carpet by his own jeans pockets, to just palm his arse and be done with it.

He doesn't want to fuck Aramis on the carpet like he can't help himself. Self-control is something both of them have a weird relationship with, maybe, but he doesn't want it to just be something that happens, he wants - he doesn't know what he fucking wants. He wants it to be right. He and Aramis are right, and whatever else happens - they don't talk about it because they really don't care whatever else happens - they will always be Porthos and Aramis, and right. Whatever circle they form, the circle they already make is as perfect as it ever needs to be.

He really doesn't know what he wants. He sort of wants to woo but he's worried of seeing it in Aramis' eyes, that he already knows every move Porthos is making. He wants -

He doesn't want a teenage fumble on the carpet, he knows that. Sometimes, on the edge of sleep, he runs his fingertips down Aramis' arm and watches how the hairs raise to his touch, and feels the slow safe shiver of Aramis' breath. That's what he wants. He wants that, only with orgasms.

He doesn't know how to seduce someone like Aramis. It's not just that Aramis is psychic and might already know everything they do up until the day they die. It's that Aramis is Aramis, and is quite open about the fact that he has condoms and lube in his top drawer and that the biggest fight he's ever had with Treville was over his hard-won promise not to sleep with any more of the staff. When Porthos pushes him on his back and climbs on top of him, Aramis lets him, looking quite pleased about whatever will happen next. Porthos is hardly fucking new to this but he's not Aramis, and how the fuck is he supposed to make this special?

Smug little psychic shit. He just watches crappy kung fu films with him and catches flicked popcorn out of the air as deadly accurate as he is with any gun, swimmer's lean muscles and caramel skin and lazy dark eyes like he's got all the time in the world.

The dumbest thing that has ever happened in Porthos' entire dumb life: the fact that Porthos loves Aramis too much is being a giant fucking cockblock and it's driving him insane.

*

Porthos is at the desk, on the laptop, bored on YouTube, aware of Aramis sitting on the bed behind him - he likes the comforting presence of Aramis in the room - with a book open on his lap, quietly reading. They're being so well-behaved that Treville is probably getting hives in his office, paranoid of what they're brewing inside themselves to do. It's his fault. The French countryside is actually boring as fuck, they have to invent every minute of their own amusement and new things to do that don't involve things getting broken are pretty limited by this point.

Porthos says over his shoulder, "We could get drunk and watch videos of skaters falling over."

"We do this a lot," Aramis points out, but not as if he minds.

"What're you reading?"

"The Song of Songs."

"Is it good?"

"Mm."

Porthos scrolls up and down the page. "We could get drunk and watch videos of cats falling off things."

Aramis puts the book on the bedside table and says, "You ask me."

Porthos turns in the desk chair a little. "What?"

"You ask me." Aramis says bluntly, not looking annoyed or anything, just holding his eye in his patient Aramis way. "You crack from waiting and you ask me if I know how it happens. That's how it happens."

Porthos turns the desk chair properly to face him, testing a few sentences in his mouth, because presumption would be bad, but the rising blood in his face is probably speaking for itself already, raising the flag of what he takes Aramis to mean; he has to clear his throat to speak. "How what happens?"

Aramis raises an eyebrow. Porthos rubs his palms off the thighs of his jeans a little, too hot in his t-shirt.

"I just ask you?"

Aramis shrugs. "They will put up reverent statues to the self-discipline you displayed in how long you managed to resist me."

"Fuck," Porthos says slowly, thinking it through still, "you. I just ask you?"

"You can always ask me anything. I don't know why you don't."

". . . dunno." He shifts a little in the chair. "Wanted it t'be - right."

"Right."

"Romantic."

"I'm involved. Of course it will be romantic."

"How the fuck do you get people to sleep with you when you're this irritating?"

"You're mistaken, huevón, I'm utterly charming."

Porthos rubs at his face and he'd wonder if he does want to fuck the smug little psychic shit after all except that all of the skin between his thighs - every nerve ending down there a-prickle under the flesh - already knows that he does, like the thunder before the rain. "I just ask you."

Aramis shrugs again. "Perhaps I like the direct route."

Porthos looks at him, Aramis with one leg crossed and the other dangling off the bed, propped back on his hands, always a sloppy sitter - he just spills onto any surface as if it belongs to him and looks as perfect there as if the surface were designed to hold his loose reclining body - and says, "You like everything."

Aramis looks back, very frankly at him, and nods.

Porthos considers it. It's been a long time, and making out with Aramis without doing anything else with Aramis is fucking agony, and he's just sitting there, perfectly patient but also as obviously willing as if he'd already thrown his trousers at Porthos' face.

"Aren't you the one asking me, not the other way 'round?"

Aramis shrugs. "If you want to wait, we wait. Until you ask, I'm a gentleman."

. . . Porthos just asks him. Huh.

Maybe anything, anything at all, between the two of them, would still have been right.

He says, "How does it happen?"

Aramis' smile quirks, head tilting down just a little, and that dark little light in his eyes, it's the first time that Porthos really gets any idea that he's been waiting too, that there's any relief in the end of the dance on Aramis' part as well. "You get up from that chair and come over here and kiss me."

"Now?"

"It might as well be now."

Porthos narrows his eyes. "Is this something you've seen or just something you want to happen?"

"Does it make a difference?" He holds a hand out. "You use your hand. You like watching me. It feels like being in water, being supported, being safe, letting go of all solidity. You like watching because you like the sense that you're the one who can contain me, because I do melt to your touch. You use your hand and watch me come in the most gratifying manner." Porthos' cock is now pressing his jeans, and he can't blink. "I feel very thoroughly fucked. And then I am very grateful to you." It can't be necessary for him to lick his top lip when he smiles like that. "I am very elaborately grateful to you indeed. Come here, Porthos."

Standing up feels like it might be an issue if he tries it. Aramis holds both arms out now and says, "I don't bite."

That might be the only thing that could shock the arousal down. "- you lying bastard."

Aramis just laughs, still offering his hold. "I don't bite this time."

Porthos watches his eyes, dark dark dark with that little flicker of the light of fun in them, and shifts again in the seat, feeling like the rise of the wind outside how inevitable his want is. And then he stands up, walks over, ignores Aramis' hands because like fuck he gets to dictate all of this, puts a knee on the bed between his, takes his face in his hands and kisses him.

This part they know.

Aramis' hands catch up into his hair and his fingers press deep, and Porthos feels the breath leave him against his cheek. He concentrates on tipping Aramis' head back to get the right angle - there's a particular bend of his neck that seems, like a cat carrying a kitten by the scruff, to just send him limp; Aramis' head lolls back in his hands and he lets himself be kissed, with the smallest hum of noise in the very base of his throat, the quietest and happiest yes.

Porthos breaks the kiss and unzips Aramis' hoodie since he's not waiting on ceremony anymore. "You knew this would happen?"

"Waiting for you," Aramis says, head still tipped back in the bowl of Porthos' hand as with the other he pulls his hoodie off one shoulder and then the other. He's already breathing a little rough. "You know how long I'd wait." He puts his hands, hoodie hanging off him by the wrists, at Porthos' chest then, and looks - odd, troubled, something drawn tense behind his eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I already waited a lifetime."

Porthos, jeans straining between his legs now, looks into his eyes and thinks Jesus Christ Aramis I love you but do not have an episode now.

But Aramis just blinks, and smiles at him again, and pulls him in by a fistful of t-shirt for another kiss. Porthos pulls the hoodie off him and Aramis is reeling Porthos' t-shirt up his chest a thumbful of fabric at a time, so he pulls that off as well, and Aramis pushes him off from the kiss he leans in for then, sits back to take him in. Which should be weird - Porthos has a strange urge to fold his arms over himself - but there's such a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face, like Porthos shirtless is the first thing he's ever seen, and no-one had ever told him that the world was so beautiful.

He says something, quiet in Spanish, and touches his side, gun-hardened points on his palm, gentle knowing fingertips. Porthos puts a hand over his, feels his fingers flex out and settle. Then he pulls his jaw up for the kiss again, and this time Aramis closes his eyes and opens his mouth and there's a flutter on his tongue that might be his heartbeat trying to get out.

He flexes his body with Porthos for pulling his own t-shirt over his head, skin, Porthos has dreamed of this as he shuffles his hips up over his, presses him down onto the bed and Aramis pulls him greedily down with him and then wrenches and writhes an odd way, curses and stuffs a hand down the back of his own jeans, and bangs a gun down on the bedside table.

. . . it's not like Porthos didn't know exactly who he climbed on top of on this bed.

Aramis quirks a smile and kisses him an apology, and another, and he's a hard man to stay mad at, especially shirtless. Soon Porthos is running his hands down his lean sides again (skin skin skin) while Aramis' hands slide over his shoulders and down his back, and the blood under Porthos' skin beats like it wants to escape to meet his touch. There's a moment's catch of teeth in the kiss and Aramis grins, whispers to his mouth, "We have time." and Porthos runs his hands around his sides, slips his mouth down his offered throat and breathes hot over his pulse and thinks, Not enough time in the fucking world. There never could be, for this.

He can hear the button of his jeans click off the buckle of Aramis' belt. He says to his throat, because his breath there makes Aramis' body do this shivery-jerk thing, "What happens next?"

His fingers stroke at Porthos' hair, a little weak already. "What do you want to happen next?"

Skin. He takes a lap and then a quick bite at his neck because two can play at that game and Aramis' hips roll under his, he gasps laughter at the headboard, and Porthos can hardly think around all the want anymore. "Everything."

"Prove it."

Everything has to be a dare with Aramis. Porthos could climb up but instead he drags Aramis down the bed so they're face to face for another kiss, legs tangled clumsy off the mattress, Porthos propped off one elbow and god fuck being on top of Aramis is the best place in the world to be. You use your hand, he remembers Aramis saying. He thinks about it - watching him come, making him come - and puts a hand down first to squeeze himself through his jeans to hope to buy himself some patience. And then he starts working open Aramis' jeans.

They're not easy things to open, someone like Aramis really should have put more thought into access. He wears some clunky belt that's a fucking nightmare to unclasp and Aramis slips a hand down himself to help him along, silent because his tongue is occupied with Porthos' mouth, kissing him and fluidly opening his own jeans and slipping a knee up to part his legs wider as Porthos yanks his underwear down too.

Warm skin and curling hair under his hand and he has to break the kiss to look down because he wants to see the fluttering of his belly, and the arc of his cock. Aramis' arms slide back around his neck and he watches Porthos' face, as Porthos looks at him and breathes, just breathes, he can't manage much more with a hand around Aramis' cock, bobbing a little with his breath.

And somehow it is right. Somehow everything about this is right. The bed under them and the way Aramis breathes and the way his knuckles stroke past Porthos' eyebrow, that quiet awe in his eyes; somehow anything they did would have been right.

He strokes him, very gently, and Aramis' head rolls back on his neck, he reaches out with loose fingers and tugs the drawer open. "Lubrication?"

He's doing pretty well holding himself together but his breath feels like some huge heavy thing in his chest, a horse stamping to get somewhere, and it makes his voice come rough. "Who'd you make friends with to get that?"

"Ferrand." Aramis squirts some clear gel into Porthos' offered palm, then grins at his widening eyes. "He's a very reasonable man if you tell him that you mean well but you can't guarantee that you won't have sex and really it's best for everyone concerned if you have the proper protections, ¿cachai?"

Porthos notices, glancing at the bedside table, that the book Aramis was reading before he announced that Porthos was going to have sex with him was the Bible. Which is still sitting there accusingly, while Aramis is mostly naked but still wearing a cross underneath him, and Porthos has to tell himself again that he knew exactly what he was getting into when he chose to go along with this; he applies the dollop of cold lube direct to Aramis, and uses his palm and fingers to properly distribute it while Aramis gasps and then laughs, head rolling back on the bed. "Such a gentleman."

"Giving you a fucking hand job, don't see you returnin' the favour."

"No, I'm going to suck you off." Porthos' back goes hot-cold all over, and Aramis' eyes are very dark and intent. "I've been looking forward to it for a long time."

". . . you did know this would happen."

"I know a lot of things." Aramis strokes Porthos' hair back, as if he could need it out of his face to get a proper look at him. "I know that you wanted this to be romantic."

He concentrates on stroking his cock, and not blushing. "It should be done - right."

"Many things should be." Aramis says, quiet with agreement, and strokes his hair back again. "This is a secret," His thumb runs over Porthos' brow. "You are the most beautiful person who's ever touched me. Don't tell the others, they'll be hurt."

The blush is now worse, but he can't look away from Aramis' eyes. "I don't need your fuckin' lines."

Unoffended, "I have those too, if you would like them." Aramis lays there with his jeans around his knees, Porthos' hand making little sticky noises as he jerks him slowly off, stroking Porthos' face and somehow still incredibly honest in the way he looks up at Porthos, like there's nothing about this situation that isn't love or beauty. And his thumb strokes over his eyebrow again - over where the scar just passes - and he says something to him in Spanish. Porthos is so mystified by the intonation of his voice (like water pattering down tiled steps, always like water finding its right way home in his own tongue) that it takes him a moment to realise that he's not speaking but reciting.

Aramis is reciting poetry to him while Porthos is giving him a hand job.

It makes something in him go tight and strange and shivery and all he feels in that moment is need for everything he's already got in his arms -

"- como el mirar tu sueño implicado -"

"What's it mean?" he whispers, but Aramis has a glaze of what Porthos' hand is doing to him in his eyes now, fingertips stroking his face and whispering back, "- en la vigilia de mis brazos, Porthos -"

He realises that he's gripping Aramis' thigh tight now, lets go before he realises that that wasn't an exclamation of pain. He runs his thumb over where he knows the bruise will be and Aramis whispers to him in Spanish ("- quieta y resplandeciente como una dicha que la memoria elige Porthos Porthos . . ."), and, still stroking his cock and understanding Aramis the way he doesn't even understand himself (Aramis likes everything), he puts his fingers and thumb back around where the bruise will be, and looks at his eyes, and begins the squeeze again.

Aramis' fingers go tight in his hair, and his breath catches mid-line.

It doesn't take long after that. It's weird how watching Aramis lose it and still whispering out words to him Porthos feels it as mutual, feels a sympathy of inescapable orgasm, as Aramis' voice struggles but still he gets out with his eyes on his and Porthos' hands unrelenting on him, "Y te veré porvez primera, quizá, como Dios ha de verte -"

Porthos whispers, "Fucking hell Aramis." just because looking at him is too much, hearing him as well has evaporated all the blood in his brain.

"- desbaratada la ficción del Tiempo, sin el amor, sin - mí."

And finally he can arch his hips up and come, mouth still open, eyes stuttering closed, Porthos squeezing then releasing his thigh, stroking him through it, all his skin glowing with too much under its surface, want want want and Aramis so impossibly perfect like his body was made for coming -

He gives a happy groan as he sags back, for one moment limp, eyes closed. Then he wets his lips, and smiles - smirks - up at Porthos, and says, "If you were a gentleman you would give me a moment."

Porthos looks over the bedside table, snags out a few tissues to clean his hand and then the wet mess Aramis' lower body has become. "Gentleman," he mutters, and Aramis laughs, and strokes at his arm with tired fingers.

"If you were truly a gentleman you would kiss me."

Porthos rolls the tissues in another one and drops the bundle on the floor to deal with when he can get upright around his own erection. "You're fuckin' greedy, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Frequently," Aramis says, like he doesn't mind in the slightest, arms slipping warm again around Porthos' neck as he bends his back to meet his smiling mouth.

The kiss is a little unbalanced; it's hard for Porthos not to feel how desperately hard he is, he wants fucking everything fucking now, he wants just to be touched, and Aramis is loose and mellow and easy post-orgasm, though still, fuck him, a good enough kisser that Porthos finds that he's making little grunts on his breaths which he doesn't notice until too late.

Aramis runs his fingers through his hair again, kisses his nose - weird; cute; still somehow sexy, Porthos is so turned on by now that Aramis breathing and being present is currently baseline sexy and everything else he does is almost too erotic to bear - and says, "Now, let me be grateful."

He slithers out from under him, lean and easy, catching Porthos' knees in his hands and urging his shift to the edge of the bed as he lets himself to the floor - how does he make these things look so graceful with his jeans still open? - and as Porthos hooks a leg around either side of him, he pops the button on his jeans. Porthos puts a hand in his hair.

"What's it mean? That poem?"

Aramis licks his lips again, a professional preparing himself, and opens Porthos' fly. "I will translate for you when my mouth is not about to become quite so occupied."

"Does this mean you're actually gonna shut up for a few seconds?"

"And you see what I mean," Aramis says, fingers curling in the waistband, Porthos arching to help him slide his jeans off his hips, "about being a gentleman."

Face to face with Porthos' cock -

No-one has ever looked at Porthos' dick like that in his life, it's almost alarming how honestly hungry Aramis looks, and Porthos would feel awkward that it's already quiet wet and messy but -

But then his head's back and he's moaning at the ceiling because Aramis doesn't care, apparently.

His hand settles around the base while he closes his eyes and adores the head of Porthos' cock with his tongue, and Porthos manages to swing his drunken head down to stare unbelieving as Aramis blinks, swallows around him - Porthos' hips give a little greedy jerk he can't quite stop - and he looks up at him, breathing steady around his mouthful, same old devoted, unembarrassable Aramis as always.

Then he lifts a hand, and lays it over Porthos' hand still in his hair, just pressing gently at first. His other hand he removes from the base of Porthos' dick to hold his thigh down a little instead, and he dips his head, slowly.

Porthos feels the moment of stoppage, when Aramis goes still, and swallows, and slides back up a little again. And then down, steadily, experimentally, again, and the third time - Porthos' toes are beginning to cramp on the carpet - the third time he slips deeper, before again Aramis swallows and pulls back, breathes, presses Porthos' hand on his own head, and dips deeper.

He looks up at Porthos' eyes, and presses again at the hand on his head.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

It's all he can do not to come immediately, understanding what he's being asked - allowed, asked, Porthos doesn't know - to do. He presses his own fingers through Aramis' hair, gently, stroking, because he wants to say, Look, you smug little psychic shit -

I just love you.

That's all.

Which is what his hand gently guiding Aramis' head, reading every pulse and hesitation of his throat, means. Because he can tell that Aramis is hardly new to this but also that it's been a while, and Porthos is being asked to be gentle, but he's also very firmly being asked to do this. Porthos wanted romance so Aramis gave him poetry. Now Aramis wants him to use him just the right way, without choking him, so Porthos watches his eyes and goes maddeningly slow and feels like he's having an out of body experience and can't hold out, breathing too hard and too hot, his skin's on fire -

"'m gonna-"

Aramis' fingers squeeze a little on the hand on his head, holding it in place.

He comes mid-achingly-slow-thrust, and Aramis' hand on his thigh twitches a little and his eyes narrow, but he swallows in a practised way -

Up until the very second (Porthos' mouth is still open, he's mid-orgasm lost) thunder shocks the world beyond noise and they both jump almost off the bed, Aramis choking, Porthos yelling, the lights cut dead and rain sluices off the window like the entire sky slit open.

In the rain-demented quiet, in the dark, they pant out of rhythm and Porthos grips the edge of the mattress and thinks what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

Aramis says brightly from the floor, "I'm that good?"

He'd hit him in the head but he can't see him and his arms are weak from what Aramis just did to him anyway. The bulb overhead hums before it flickers back, oddly buzzing after the blackness, and they blink at each other, and Aramis looks between Porthos' legs and before he can say anything about it, takes him into his mouth again and sucks once more all the way up and off his cock like he doesn't like to leave a job half-finished, so there's not even so much to clean off, as Porthos sits there like he's been punched in the stomach with his arms shaking from that.

Truth be told, he isn't sure if that was something his powers would do anyway or something that Aramis can make his powers do anyway.

Aramis lays little kisses all around his thighs and belly, nosing at the hair like he's quite happy there, while he cleans him with another tissue and then just sits against his leg, still stroking at him a little, too gently to be too much, like he just doesn't like to let go of perfect things so quickly.

He lays his cheek on his thigh, and sighs. Porthos puts a hand in his hair. Rain knocks off the window like it wants, almost despairingly much, to join them.

Porthos massages at his scalp with fingers and thumb. "You knew that'd happen?"

"I did not know you would kill the electricity."

"Always nice t'know you don't know everything, Aramis."

"When I first came here - oh joder." Aramis lifts his head, swats him in the thigh. "Clothes on, clothes on -"

"What -?"

Aramis is up and tucking himself into his underwear, flapping an arm at the window. "Powers just went crazy, Treville will be coming -"

"Oh shit." Porthos hikes his jeans up quickly, pats around the bed, starts pulling a t-shirt on before he realises it belongs to Aramis and tosses it at him. "Where's my -"

"You put the tissue on the floor?"

"The bin's all the way over there!"

"Learn to aim!"

Aramis is trying to pull his hoodie on inside-out, Porthos has got his t-shirt back on and is scraping his fingers back through his hair to neaten it; Aramis' is a dead loss. "Here come here," he hisses too quick, grabbing him by the arms, physically turning him, taking the hoodie from him and shaking it right, pulling it on him and zipping it and flipping the hood over his insane bedhead before -

The knock at the door.

"On the floor," Aramis says accusingly, but then calls, "¡Hola capitán!"

The door opens. Treville looks in at them.

They beam back their very most innocent smiles, the smiles that unfortunately mean that they definitely have been up to something. The only possible way out of this is Treville taking one look at them and just not wanting to know, and outside the window, the wind blusters like a huge scared animal.

Aramis says brightly, "Is everything okay, captain?"

Treville looks at the window, behind which it rains exactly like Porthos just came his brains out, and then back at them. He really does look at them. And then he says, "I hope to God it is." and closes the door again behind himself, like all three of them are better off just not even trying.

Aramis drops his head back, eyes rolling to the ceiling relieved, and Porthos sits down on the bed again because his knees haven't quite recovered from Aramis. "Fuck," he says, and rubs at his hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Aramis says dully to the ceiling, "When I first got here I kept exploding the pipes." and grins, slow and very amused, closing his eyes. "Then the captain made me promise not to have sex with the staff, so."

". . . you didn't explode the pipes."

"Two years. Grant me some self-control." Aramis puts a hand on his shoulder, rubs at it soothingly. "Not that I am not encouraging you to do things to me to attempt to make me explode the pipes."

He has to grin, at that, puts his arms around Aramis' waist and Aramis sits over his leg, pushing the hood back off his head and smiling down at him. "Okay, how much have you seen, and how much of it was complete porn?"

"At this point," Aramis pulls the zip on his hoodie so it falls open again, and shimmies his hips so his arse sits comfortable on Porthos' leg, "maybe we can stop thinking about what I see and think instead about what we want . . . ?"

Porthos thinks about that, rubbing Aramis' waist, and then he kisses him, just once and just calmly, because, okay, yeah. "So what do you want, next time?"

Aramis lets his breath out long, like that's a hell of a question. "I have a lot more poetry I would like to share with you perhaps while I fuck you," he says, thoughtfully. "I really would like to try breathplay, maybe while you use your hand on me, I like your hands. I would love you to tie my hands and fuck me against the wall. I very badly want to blow you in the shower -"

"You have a fucking list," Porthos says, mostly to shut him up, because his mouth's gone dry and his balls feel tight and it's too soon too much and he can't again right now, can he?

Aramis shrugs. "What would you like to do?"

To Aramis? He really meant that 'everything'. He shrugs himself, and says, "We'll work through yours an' I'll throw some stuff in. Make it a collaborative effort."

Aramis smiles - he has the largest, most varied and most subtle collection of smiles Porthos has ever known, ranging from childlike happiness to ironic amusement to wicked joy to obvious and utter depravity - and the wind is settling down, though the rain sounds like it's set in for the night in some sort of celebration. Porthos puts a hand back on the bed to better support their weight, the other around Aramis' waist to hold him steady, and says, "What'd it mean, then? Your little poem?"

"My little poem," Aramis says, smile just growing, and then he leans in under Porthos' ear, and whispers there while Porthos tucks his arm closer around him, closes his eyes, always soothed by the rhythms of his voice. It doesn't really matter what the words are, though he does appreciate when Aramis finds such quietly meant ones for him; he always knows what Aramis means.

The rain touches the window, like it's pleased for them.

Comments

[niitza.livejournal.com]

Aw this was sweet and funny (and porny but I guessed you already knew that ;) ). Once again, I loved Porthos and how adorable he was (although in denial about it), wanting things to be special while being kind of initimidated by Aramis' experience. And Aramis just caring about being with Porthos.

I was not expecting the abrupt turn in weather but now I'm like, of course that'd happen, *of course* Porthos getting some would unleash a thunderstorm. And would make Aramis all smug about it. Snerk.

I feel kinda sorry for Treville, though. I don't think he did anything to deserve this...

[rainjoyswriting.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you liked it =) Their differing approaches to sex actually slot together very nicely; I've never written a character anything like Aramis before, and finding him bedbuddies who don't mind his *him*ness pleases me. Porthos doesn't judge. Porthos just wants it to be *nice* is all <3

They have nigh-no control over their powers and they are being teenage hormonal nightmares, so yeah, orgasmic thunderstorms? ^^; I'm really looking forward to writing them older but I *know* I'm going to miss the crazy little bastards as they are now, not that Treville will ;) Bless him. He is so patient, and he hates me so, so much.

Thank you for reading, honey - thank you <3

[luthien82]

Oh, oh you two darlings. Aramis, you literally rocked Porthos' world, I just... YOU TWO!!! And of course Aramis has a list. I just bet that Porthos is all too willing to work through that one :D

[rainjoyswriting.livejournal.com]

Of course Aramis has a list! He adds to it by the hour. They'll have to work fast just to keep up with it ;)

Thank you for reading, honey! ^^