Author's Note: I actually also write non-explicit fanfiction but that account name is known by too many, and so this account was born. If you want some Musketeers adventure and some tamer shipping, check out my favourite authors.
This was written in celebration of The Musketeers finally reaching America, is set before d'Art, and has no spoilers. It was based off of an idea from Guy Ritchie's 'Rock'n'Rolla', and will feature a very smutty second chapter.
Please enjoy my first attempt at smut AND Porthos' PoV!
Chapter 1
"Remind me again, why we're doin' this?"
Porthos knew he had asked the damn question way too many times and he was finding it harder to disguise the real reason behind it.
The reason was in front of him, Aramis, who looked over his shoulder with a bright smile and replied, "Treville wants information, and what other dashingly attractive men would he send to retrieve it?"
Three days they had been looking for the target, three long, boring, wet days. It had rained from the moment they had left Paris, through each sprawling little town, and over each muddy road. Porthos could feel the dirt embedded into his skin and knew with forlorn certainty that his hat was ruined.
Light flashed twice and he looked up at the skies with as much detestation as he could muster. Thunder rolled overhead, booming and forceful, and Porthos wanted nothing more than to find an inn, curl up next to the fire, and sleep for the next week.
Aramis, of course, spread his arms out and laughed delightedly, the sound spiking through the thunder. He looked rather magnificent with water sluicing down his face, his hair plastered to his neck, his eyes closed as he beamed into the rain.
Utter bastard.
How did Aramis manage to make rain look good?
Then again, Aramis could make anything look good, even things that Porthos was fairly certain that he had never considered before; never considered until Aramis had appeared in his life with his lidded eyes and heated smiles.
Porthos had been very happy pining after Flea and thinking himself heartbroken. Yes, very happy.
Until Aramis.
But no, it couldn't be that easy, because Aramis had tried coming onto him in the beginning, and Porthos had panicked, panicked so much that he had cut Aramis down with such ruthless efficiency that even the memory of it made him feel sick.
Aramis was a danger to society, he invoked feelings in people that they've never experienced before, and then he just offers himself, his wink telling you that you'll like it, promise.
It was a promise that Porthos was deadly certain Aramis could fulfil.
But at the time, it had felt a little like being a horse backed into a corner, and so Porthos had lashed out.
Aramis hadn't seemed phased, his passionate expression had shuttered but he simply shrugged the insults off and walked away. The next morning, when Porthos was fairly certain that his friend was going to ignore him, he had apologised to Porthos.
Aramis had apologised to him, even though Porthos had said such vile, hateful things.
There was no end to Aramis' grace.
Utter handsome bastard.
And, oh, didn't he know it? It didn't seem to matter to Aramis that Porthos had rejected him, he carried on in his happy-go-lucky, flirt-with-everything, I-can-bend-fucking-rulers, ridiculously-attractive way. Throwing him the odd glance that managed to make Porthos hot under the collar as if Aramis knew that he had just been blindsided.
But Aramis had never offered again; not in so many words, anyway.
And Porthos was too chicken-shit to pursue the elegant swine, especially when he had no idea how it was supposed to work.
How do you woo a man, anyway?
His head found his rain-slicked hands and he groaned exhaustedly. His life had been so much easier before Aramis had glided into it.
Darker too, though.
"Your tendency for drama is beginning to eclipse even Aramis'," Athos remarked dryly, pulling his horse into the steady plodding that Porthos had maintained for the last few miles.
Athos was the one saving grace in this world-altering life. With cool-headed Athos around, Porthos could just tune everything out and simply obey his shrewd orders, not needing to worry about how he was going to restrain himself from watching Aramis stretch or Aramis laugh or Aramis-
"That needs to be rectified," Aramis announced, his neck arching proudly as he rode straight-backed through the mist, looking for all the world as if he were a king amongst paupers.
"Didn't take much work," he muttered, and somehow, Aramis heard and flashed him a cheeky grin.
Porthos bit back the eager noise that wanted to sound from his throat, tamped down the want that surged in his gut, held all of that powerful emotion in check that had surged just from one damn smile.
Utter, utter bastard.
"I hate this rain. Athos, mate, enough's enough."
Athos gave him a sidelong smirk at his whining but nodded deliberatively. "This doesn't look like it will pass soon," he said as he eyed the broody clouds. "We'll stop at the next inn."
Porthos thought that he might sag in relief, already picturing warm food and a comfy bed… Or, more likely, lying awake with the knowledge that Aramis was probably tumbling some pretty barmaid, his quick fingers knowing just where to stroke to elicit the throatiest moans-
He coughed a little too loudly, earning twin surprised looks when he said, "Why don't we just make camp?"
"In this weather?" Athos asked with rueful amusement. "We'll catch our deaths."
"I don't know about you, mes chers, but I find I hunger for warmth, tonight."
Porthos was no longer sure whether Aramis deliberately layered his words with lewd intention, or whether he was just reading too much into it. Judging by the way Athos rolled his eyes though, he wasn't imagining it.
"Please do your best to stay away from the innkeeper's daughter this time. I really don't want to have to leave at the break of dawn."
"How was I to know who she was? She served me so attentively that night."
Okay, there was definitely a small smirk aimed his way that time, and Athos completely missed it, because Athos wasn't looking for it.
No, only Porthos had the painful pleasure of witnessing Aramis' sly smiles, because he was the only idiot who couldn't take his eyes off of the slender Musketeer.
Aramis had to know that the blush on Porthos' cheeks was solely because his head was full of images of Aramis with his head tipped back, his hand possessively on some woman's head as she bobbed up and down with his cock in her mouth as he groaned appreciatively-
Porthos' horse fidgeted and danced underneath him, reading his distress in the way that every muscle had stiffened as he focused so intently on not letting anything show.
Aramis merely laughed, thankfully completely misreading his reaction. "Porthos, I never took you for a prude."
"S'not prudish, just…" he trailed off uselessly, looking to Athos for support.
"Sensible," Athos came to his rescue, and added a warning look to Aramis. "No one except us in our rooms tonight, Aramis."
Aramis sighed heartily, as if he had been told to clip the grass of France. "As you wish, Athos."
Athos glanced at Porthos, trying to share a look of exasperation that Porthos was just a beat behind reciprocating. When Aramis trotted off haughtily, Athos said under his breath, "Our friend is a magnet for trouble."
"He's a magnet for somethin'."
Athos snorted in amusement. "Keep an eye on him tonight."
"Why, where you gonna be?"
"In my bed, because I had Aramis-watch last time." When Porthos frowned at him, he added dryly, "You remember, the Comtesse who appeared at breakfast with all those marks on her neck?"
"How does he do that?"
"I have no idea, I watched him like a hawk."
"You were drinking."
"I am very capable of keeping watch with a drink in my hand, you know that... But Aramis is like a master thief."
Porthos grunted an agreement and braced himself for a night of watching Aramis make eyes at various patrons until one of them finally succumbed to his onslaught.
A night of torture until Porthos could fall into bed and palm himself off to thoughts of Aramis.
Why did he stay with him? Why did he put himself through this? These were the same questions that always wailed in his head when Aramis tormented him so.
Aramis reappeared in a canter and called joyfully, "There's an inn ahead, hurry mes amis!"
Porthos immediately brightened, and he wasn't sure if it was the promise of warmth from a fire, or the promise of warmth of sitting next to Aramis and them both making ribald comments about the other patrons.
Aramis reined in at his side, flashed him a smirk, and then thwacked Porthos' horse on the rump so that it startled into a gallop.
Porthos was too captivated by the sly tilt of Aramis' lips, and by the time he had managed to soothe his mount, Aramis and Athos sped in alongside him to the inn's stables, Aramis with a wink and a murmured, "That's more like it," that managed to make Porthos flush.
Not for the first time, did Porthos wonder whether Aramis did it on purpose, if he knew that his feelings had changed and that Porthos wanted nothing more than to ravage the charming Musketeer.
He'd confront Aramis in Paris, he'd considering confronting him in Paris, he'd certainly contemplate considering confronting him in Paris.
He was such a coward.
Safely inside from the rain and damning thoughts, Porthos scanned the inn automatically, looking for the doors and windows, calculating escape routes – it told a lot about the company he kept that he wasn't looking for his benefit anymore, but for Aramis'.
No one in the Court of Miracles could create trouble like Aramis could, and his wasn't done with a sword, it was with a smile.
Utter unbelievable bastard.
Idly, Porthos made note of a few faces; it never hurt to size up any potential drunken brawlers before a fight started – and being brutally honest, there was probably going to be one. If Aramis got loose then someone always ended up offended, and it was always up to Athos to either soothe their ruffled feathers, or Porthos to punch someone out.
His eye kept travelling over the same man, a warning pinging in his tired, rain-sodden mind.
"Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, and Athos and Aramis immediately followed his line of sight. "It's him, isn't it?"
"Trouveau, yes, so it is," Athos replied quietly, a contemplative expression on his face as he regarded the very man that they were sent here to extract information from.
"Perhaps this was fate, meeting our target at the very place we stopped for the night," Aramis said with a shrug. "Although, I had been looking forward to a quiet night."
Aramis smirked at Porthos' raised eyebrow. There was no such thing as a quiet night for Aramis; it was always loud, whether it was the sex or the escape afterwards.
Shaking his head but unable to hide his laugh, he looked to Athos for guidance. "What now?"
"I hadn't expected to find him in a tavern, that makes this difficult."
"Yeah, we can't exactly rough him up."
Aramis was suspiciously quiet, his gaze fixated on the target like he was watching prey, and then a very predatory smile crept over his face. "Maybe we won't need to."
Athos seemed to cotton on immediately, tilting his head to the side in consideration. "Do you think so?"
"I know so," Aramis practically purred, and Porthos looked between them before finally lighting on Trouveau again. The man was sat against one wall, his arm slung around a smaller man's shoulders as he leaned almost close enough to kiss him.
Porthos blinked. "Wait, you think he's gay?"
"You can't tell?" Aramis asked with a tiny quirk to his lip that seemed to mock him. Porthos stared at it, his usual banter failing him in the presence of that thinly veiled taunt. Aramis merely chucked him on the chin and walked past. "I'll get the rooms, then."
Porthos was still at a loss for words, but finally managed to blurt out, "You seriously think he's gay?"
Athos crossed one arm and smoothed his moustache with the other, deep in thought. "If Aramis says so, he has a compass for that sort of thing."
"And what," Porthos remembered to whisper, but did it fiercely, "Aramis is gonna charm the information out of him?"
Athos shrugged. "It was his idea; I wouldn't have asked it of him."
Porthos stared dumbly at the man he had thought was the most clear-headed of them all, and thought he and Aramis were both mad. Slowly, he turned back to Trouveau, evaluating him entirely differently now that he had this new, and slightly perturbing, information.
Trouveau was broad, his shoulders muscled and arms thick. He was, Porthos realised with a sickening clench of his stomach, built rather like him.
Aramis was about to spend the night flirting with a man that looked just like him.
"We should've camped in the rain and died," he muttered bitterly, but pretended not to notice Athos' questioning brow.
"This place is cheap," Aramis said, reappearing with a wrinkle of his nose, "We have a room each."
Porthos hoped to the God that Aramis prayed to that cheap was the real reason he had booked three rooms, and not that he was planning on inviting the target back to his bed.
There was a voice in the back of Porthos' head that said he was not allowed to be jealous, he could be envious, but not jealous.
He was the one who had spurned Aramis.
Now life was paying him back twenty-fold, and it was starting to hurt.
"Well, good luck, Aramis," Athos said through a yawn, clapping Aramis on the shoulder but lowering his head to say quietly, "Remember that you don't have to do this, if you want to stop at any point, just give Porthos a sign."
Aramis smiled at him and it was fond enough to make Porthos forget what was happening and smile back. "Will you come to my rescue, mon cher?"
"Just say the word," he replied gruffly, nodding farewell when Athos tipped his hat at him.
Aramis herded him to a table and then strolled off to buy some wine, passing Trouveau's table so nonchalantly that Porthos had to drag his gaze from Aramis' slender form to see Trouveau look up and keep looking.
An absolute danger to society, was Aramis.
Porthos clenched his hands under the table, fighting back a sudden urge to start a fight and punch that interested look off of Trouveau's face.
He shouldn't be jealous, he couldn't be jealous.
Trouveau disentangled himself from his incredibly drunk companion, and eyed Aramis like a farmer eyed a particular thoroughbred horse.
When rage fired through him, Porthos admitted that he was probably jealous.
Trouveau wasn't wasting time, he sauntered over to the bar and murmured something in Aramis' ear that had him laughing and handing the man Porthos' bottle.
Utter selfish bastard.
Why had Athos allowed this, Athos was supposed to be the intelligent one. Why had Athos left him here to witness this idiot flirt with Aramis who had let a very innocent smile light his attractive features.
So that was how Aramis would play it, he would pretend to be the oblivious quarry when in actuality it was Trouveau who was being stalked.
Porthos had to admire Aramis' skills; it took a gargantuan two minutes for Trouveau to hustle him beside the bar, hidden from most of the room until Aramis angled himself for Porthos' anxiety to simmer down a little.
It roared back into jealousy when the man brazenly leaned into Aramis' space.
Aramis hadn't just mastered the 'come-hither' glance, oh no. Aramis had perfected it. It didn't just say 'come-hither', it said 'come-hither-and-fuck-me-and-I-swear-you'll-see-stars'.
It was some kind of sorcery, a black magic that he weaved with his long, graceful fingers and the languorous heat that constantly burned in his molten chocolate eyes.
Porthos was only too happy to fall under his spell, if only he would cast it on him again.
Perhaps this was his punishment for denying him so brutally all of that time ago. His friend had laid a secret bare to him and Porthos had spat in his face, so now he had to watch as someone else got to see those secrets, someone else got to see the way Aramis nibbled his lip when he wanted something.
He was doing it now, his white teeth clamping slightly on his lower lip, the action making it plump and pink as he smiled. It said that if you were kind enough to give him what he wanted, he would worship at your feet forevermore.
Utter charming bastard.
It was a gesture that Aramis now coupled with a glance at the floor and back up again under his lashes, as if he were a little unsure, a little shy.
Aramis was as shy as a leopard, one that didn't truly change its spots but could hide perfectly in the long grass, pretending that he was something innocent so that when you lowered your guard, he jumped on you before you could even realise that he was a ruthless hunter.
For now, he was a gazelle, tall and lithe, poised as if to run at the slightest scare and it made a man so very protective – and judging by the way Trouveau was bracing an arm by Aramis' head as if to shield him from the world, it was working.
Porthos knew that Aramis was clever, that he was cunning, that he managed to wind people around his dextrous fingers with such skill that it should be illegal. What he was doing now was all of those things.
Aramis would whisper sweet nothings into the target's ears, tell him all of the things that he will do to him (no, won't do, because Aramis wouldn't, he wouldn't need to, please God say that he won't need to), and then when the target is eating out of the palm of his hand, Aramis will dive in for the kill and scarper.
He'll scarper upstairs where Porthos will be waiting for him and if that large fucker Trouveau thinks of following him, Porthos will knock him cold and possibly break his nose for the absolute agony of watching them.
Despite himself, Porthos was hooked.
He watched the scene as if it were played out for his delectation, but that intriguing thought was sobered when he thought of how Aramis would not return with him to his rooms tonight, for Porthos to pore over and touch and taste.
No, Aramis would be elsewhere, with someone that had accepted him with broad, eager arms.
And Aramis, apparently, was taking full advantage of that, because when Trouveau ducked his head to Aramis' ear, Aramis exposed his neck and the movement begged to be bitten.
Porthos was simultaneously furious and aroused.
Still, he watched with sick fascination as to what made Aramis shudder and what made him roll his eyes in boredom. Aramis demurely turned away when Trouveau tried to take a kiss from his well-nibbled lips, but Porthos had to wonder whether it was just because the target was a stranger, a potential threat.
He wondered whether Aramis would let him bite the sly smile that had taunted him so for long.
Porthos pictured himself in that space, his large hands spanning Aramis' slender waist, his broad shoulders that Aramis clutched onto, his bruising kisses along Aramis' proud neck.
He wanted it so much that it hurt, a strangled noise arose in his throat at the burning desire that washed through him.
Porthos closed his eyes to try and stifle the pain, but all he could see was Aramis, Aramis' mouth open on a cry of pleasure, Aramis' eyes blown with desire, Aramis' hair messy from where Porthos had tangled his fingers in it.
With a tiny whine, he opened his eyes again, and choked on a breath.
Aramis was looking at him.
Mouth parted, eyes blown, hair messy, and his expression was so full of 'come-hither-and-fuck-me' that Porthos almost prepared to deck Trouveau and shove Aramis against the wall so that he could take him then and there.
Take him apart and make him moan because he had made Porthos wait for so fucking long.
Aramis had shown him Heaven and then kept the golden gates closed.
Utter addictive bastard.
Completely unable to look away, Porthos kept his eyes locked with Aramis' as the Musketeer's supple body bucked under a bite on the collarbone.
Concern was the only thing that managed to override the raucous heat, and he suddenly worried that this was meant to be Aramis giving him the signal that he wanted an out.
Porthos stood, but froze when Aramis subtly shook his head from side to side, eyes almost fluttering shut when Trouveau paid particular attention to his jugular. The concern faded and the heat reigned once more, spiked when Aramis whispered in Trouveau's ear and his eyes widened slightly at what he heard.
"Atta boy," Porthos murmured, a strange sort of pride entwining with the need that still bubbled in his stomach, Aramis had the information.
Aramis gave him one last look that seemed to linger deliciously, and then almost gently pushed Trouveau back to smile nervously and cast a glance upstairs.
That was Porthos' sign to move.
He clattered up the stairs and every moment that Aramis didn't appear, he became more and more anxious.
Finally, taking it no more, he stood in his room's doorway and watched the hallway, fighting the urge to go looking for Aramis, hoping that he would appear at any moment.
Appear entirely composed and not as if he had just had a quick roll in the hay.
Too much time had passed, he didn't care if he interrupted the flirtatious Musketeer, he wouldn't sit idly by and let Aramis be manhandled by a target-
On amazingly silent feet, Aramis scampered up the stairs and collided with his chest, whispering urgently, "Quick, close the door!"
Porthos bundled him in, hauling him around the waist with one arm, and slamming the door shut with the other. "You okay?"
"Yes, yes, I promised him I'd be right back, that I had to do something."
Porthos hesitated. Aramis was pressed against his chest, breathing heavily, and Porthos didn't want to let him go. Wetting his suddenly dry mouth, he asked uncertainly, "You gonna go back?"
Aramis' attitude changed instantly as he looked down and up again, a sultrier version of before, completely bereft of uncertainty. "That depends on whether I have something to do."
Porthos gaped at the almost open-invitation.
Only almost, because Aramis was not going to ask again, not after last time.
The sword was definitely in Porthos' hands.
"Aramis," he started uncertainly, not entirely reassured by the way that Aramis settled against his arm with an expectant expression, as if he had waited for this.
Fuck it, he had watched Trouveau touch Aramis, watched so many others touch Aramis, and he couldn't go another minute without touching him either.
But first, he had to apologise.
"Aramis, I'm a twat," he said simply, pleased to see a smile dance on Aramis' lips. "I was cruel, I was outta line, and most importantly, I was wrong.
"I was so wrong, Aramis. I thought I was happy before you, but I knew I wasn't when, without you, I was fucking miserable. I can't go another day without letting you know how fucking sorry I am."
Aramis was quiet, but thankfully he still seemed amused, and he was still relaxed in the circle of Porthos' arms. "Is that all?"
"No," he continued, and took a deep breath, because Aramis' pulse was beating ever so temptingly in his jugular, and Porthos desperately wanted to bite it and make him shudder.
So he did.
Slowly, very slowly, just in case Aramis – probably rightfully – decided that he didn't deserve forgiveness. But Aramis lifted his chin, exposing the proud arch of his neck, and murmured, "You were saying?"
Porthos chuckled, and it must have vibrated through him, because when he pressed his lips to Aramis' skin, Aramis sighed happily.
"I was saying," he said through nips at Aramis' throat, "You're the most outrageous, flamboyant, stunningly attractive man that I've ever seen, and you've driven me through absolute Hell."
"You deserved it," Aramis replied huskily, and Porthos felt his smile against his cheek.
"I did, but never again."
"Is that a request?"
Porthos pulled back to look Aramis in the eye as seriously as he could, trying to convey how absolutely vital Aramis was to his life. "Please, Aramis, don't let me die without the taste of you on my lips."
Aramis' eyes went from amused to aroused in a blowing of pupils, and Porthos couldn't restrain his groan at finally having that look bestowed on him.
"Bed," he said, and then tried to phrase it like a question.
Aramis' agreement was breathy, "Bed, mon cher."
That endearment had never sounded better, coming as it was from Aramis' nibbled lips, and Porthos had to stop in his tracks to stare at them.
Aramis' tongue darted out and Porthos fixated on it, leaning in slowly in case Aramis bolted like the gazelle he pretended to be.
Aramis met him midway, his lips crashing so hungrily against his that it finally broke down the wall of restraint that Porthos had been trying to keep up, lest he lose all dignity and beg.
Instead, he muttered a shameless thank you into Aramis' mouth whose laugh was darkly victorious, "Only for you, Porthos."
Those leopard's claws scratched against his collarbone, just hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain, brilliant enough for Porthos to vainly strangle a moan that had Aramis grinning against his lips.
Now that Aramis knew that he had struggled all of this time, there was definitely a smug sense of satisfaction in Aramis' eager eyes. "Why, Porthos, not a prude at all."
"Told you I wasn't."
Aramis' thigh slotted ever-so-neatly between his and pushed against the aching hardness that had long throbbed for Aramis, only ever for Aramis. Porthos had tried so very frantically to get the man out of his head, diversify, explore, but he always knew that only Aramis would end his torture, like a tall glass of water to a man dying of thirst.
"Did you hunger, Porthos? Did you lie awake," Aramis arched his leg for emphasis, "thinking of me?"
"Every fucking night for the last forever of nights."
"Poor darling," Aramis murmured, a sadistic tilt to his smile.
"Yeah, yeah, you gonna keep me waiting, or what?"
"Keeping you waiting seems to be the most fun thing I've done in a long time."
Utter cheeky bastard.
Porthos drove his fingers into Aramis' hair, tugging on the curls until his neck was exposed again, and he dragged his teeth along the length, sucking away any marks that weren't his. He bit the muscle that had tantalised him every single time that Aramis had stripped, clamped his teeth there as he ran his free hand down Aramis' back and ground against his thigh.
When he pulled back, Aramis was blissed out and gasping, focusing on him for a brief moment to pant, "Bed?"
"I dunno, keeping you waiting seems to be-"
Aramis cut him off by scoring his nails over his scalp and absorbing Porthos' groan with his own, rocking against him so temptingly that Porthos was half-convinced he was going to finish immediately.
Aramis' chuckle was low and sumptuous, "Eager, are we?"
"I ain't waiting another minute."
Aramis grinned appreciatively and flourished a bottle from his jacket with such perfect timing that Porthos had to pause for a moment to say, "You're way too prepared."
"If I wasn't," he replied breathlessly, "We couldn't do this."
Porthos weighed his head to the side. "Good point," he said before diving down to capture that smug smile in another kiss.
Aramis tugged at his shoulders until Porthos had to disentangle his hands from those wild curls and brace them either side of Aramis' head as they fell onto the bed, Aramis with an anticipatory moan and Porthos with a surprised grunt.
Aramis was scary good at this.
Aramis arched underneath him, that long sinuous length of gorgeous Musketeer pressing against every inch until Porthos attempted to still him with a bite of his jugular.
Except that Aramis had to completely undo him by whispering, "I wanted you just like this."
He groaned against the thumping beat on his lips, against the pounding heat on his hips, "Aramis, stop."
"I can't, mon ami, having you in my bed-"
"We're in mine, actually."
Aramis ducked his head and then pain surged deliciously along Porthos' shoulder, the hurt turning to wet heat when Aramis' laved open-mouthed kisses along his chest. He pulled back slightly to murmur across his skin, "Tell me what you wanted, Porthos."
Porthos grumbled, unable to think coherently when Aramis' hands so deftly undid his jacket, Aramis' fingers pushing from his collarbone to his biceps with just enough force to make him shudder in pleasure.
"Porthos," Aramis crooned.
"I wanted you naked and writhing beneath me," he bit out, the words turning into a torrent now that they could finally be released, "Ever since you cornered me in that fucking stable, with your fuck-me stare and sly, seductive smirks, I wanted you."
Aramis shivered at the intensity of his voice and Porthos realised that he was finally getting what he wanted, what they had both wanted.
"I can't believe I turned you away," he said suddenly, fervour turning to forlorn at the memory of how he had treated him.
Aramis' fingers framed his jaw, and Porthos knew that Aramis was going to say something heartbreakingly gallant again, so he interrupted him by murmuring, "I'm sorry, Aramis."
A smile that seemed so very vulnerable tilted those sensuous lips and Porthos wanted nothing more than to kiss them.
He didn't this time, the mood had changed and he wouldn't take from Aramis what wasn't given freely, so he simply rested their foreheads together and murmured again, "Please forgive me."
Aramis laughed quietly, a little hitch to it that made Porthos tighten his hold. "I forgave you a long time ago, you fool."
The colossal propensity of Aramis' loving nature still managed to astound him, and so all he could manage was a whispered, "Thank you."
Aramis lifted upwards and gave him a fleeting kiss with lips that turned to a smirk, "But I will never forgive you if you don't immediately take off this jacket."
"I'll never deny you again," he breathed, and stood to tear the leather off of his arms.
Aramis, however, crossed his behind his head and, whilst eyeing him appreciatively, said, "I will hold you to that."
"I've got better things for you to hold."
"Lecherous oaf."
"Charming bastard," he shot back immediately, but they were both grinning by now.
Porthos grinned well up until his jacket was thrown aside and Aramis raised an eyebrow as, with his fingers, he made an 'off' gesture at his shirt – a request Porthos didn't deny.
Porthos was still grinning when he hooked his thumbs in his belt and made a questioning noise, to which Aramis just lifted himself off of the bed and idly tugged at one of the strings to his breeches.
Aramis' black magic was at work, because no knot that Porthos had ever tied had ever come undone that easily.
The bottle was back in his magician's hands again, and he shook it invitingly, heat flaring in those chocolate depths when Porthos took it.
When Aramis' fingers trailed down his own stomach and disappeared to a place that Porthos had fucking dreamed of, Porthos stifled a groan and had to re-evaluate the situation.
"Yeah, you're like a wrapped gift and I don't know how long I can last."
Aramis paused then, his hand still down his breeches, before moving it slowly and murmuring, "I guess you should keep saying sorry then, because I can last all night."
"Oh really?" Porthos growled, lunging forward to brace over Aramis again, who shuddered lightly at the crowding but managed to nod nonchalantly.
Utter lying bastard.
And Porthos would prove it, prove it in all of the ways that he knew Aramis loved, because he had been watching him intently for far too long.
Porthos set his jaw and let all of his pent up hunger roar through his eyes, felt it roughen his voice as he said lowly, "Aramis."
Aramis stilled and, just like Porthos had dreamed, bucked involuntarily, a surprised look entering his face.
"I've had my eye on you very closely, Aramis Rene d'Herblay," he growled, savouring the stunned arousal that had made Aramis freeze and writhe in short bursts. "I've watched you flirt, I've watched you fight, I've even watched you fuck, once."
Again, Aramis stilled, a desperately interested question in his eyes, but Porthos merely flashed his teeth and relished the fine shiver that went through the body that he had seen moving gracefully over a bent back.
"Now I've got you all to myself, mine to flirt, mine to fight, mine to fuck.
"And you're telling me," he asked with a raise of his eyebrow, and very deliberately showed Aramis his hand that was now empty of bottle but glistening with its contents, "That you can last?"
"Porthos-" Aramis gasped, and cried out when Porthos simultaneously ground their hips together (the friction delicious), dragged his teeth along collar bone (the marking addictive), and swiped his fingers swiftly down Aramis' cleft (the temptation heady).
Aramis' hips jerked. Once. Twice. And then swore a breathless streak of blue in what Porthos was fairly certain, was Spanish.
"El nombre de Dios," Aramis panted, and Porthos tutted, not bothering to hide his shit-eating grin as tiny twitches still wracked Aramis' form – each one sending bolts of heat against Porthos' cock.
"It's still blasphemy if you say it in another language, you know."
Aramis managed a pathetic attempt at a frown and muttered between dragged in breaths, "And yet you have the devil's tongue."
"You've not even felt it yet," he murmured, and Aramis groaned pitifully.
Porthos forced himself to merely watch Aramis try to put himself back together again, enjoyed the tumble of his curls and the heaving of his – now, quite sticky – chest.
It was only when he realised that Aramis wasn't trying very hard at all and then heard the ragged edge to his voice say, "It would be a shame to waste that oil, don't you think?"
Porthos laughed around a groan when Aramis arched underneath him, "Insatiable."
Aramis' smile was sinful and greedy and everything that Porthos had expected of the man that had dominated his thoughts since he had first witnessed that 'come-hither' look.
"And all yours to sate," Aramis whispered, his hands trailing down Porthos' abdomen to cup the painful mound below.
"Fuck me," Porthos swore, already fit to finish, riding the edge from seeing Aramis come apart.
"Gladly, mon cher," Aramis purred, and then his skilled fingers wrapped skin-to-skin and rubbed in one smooth motion that felt like heated silk.
And Porthos was spent, groaning to the sound of Aramis' pleased laugh. Dazedly, Porthos pressed kisses to Aramis' lips that made the man sigh happily into his mouth.
"I take it the wait was worth it?"
"Ask me again in the morning," he muttered, controlling his shaking muscles to pull back and frown at the mess between them. Aramis merely tilted his head and smiled through lidded eyes, looking the picture of sated.
Sated and thoroughly his.
"Yeah, it definitely was," he answered, unable to deny that languorous heat that still – and had always – flared between them, "But I'm not done with you yet."
"I should hope not," Aramis replied archly, and cast a glance to the corner of the room where a bucket of water sat. Porthos was only too happy to fetch it, and took great delight in flicking the cold drops of water along Aramis' chest to make him yelp.
Porthos chuckled and tore a strip from his discarded shirt, ducking his head when Aramis' affront turned to pleased surprise. "Have to clean you up," he mumbled, and gently sluiced away the evidence of a time long waited.
Aramis caught his spare hand and laced their fingers together, smiling tenderly when he said, "Thank you, mon cher," before tugging hard enough to make Porthos overbalance and abandon the wet cloth. Leaning over Aramis again, there was definitely a stirring against both of their hips, but Aramis' kiss was sweet and light. "Come to bed."
Porthos hesitated at the gentle request, at the offer of a lover's comfort rather than explicit intimacy. Aramis had given him the forgiveness that he wasn't sure he deserved, and now he was also offering him the prize of sleeping by his side?
"I snore," he said needlessly.
"I know, I've shared a camp with you."
"I cuddle," he said uncertainly.
"I know, I've shared a fire with you."
"I-," Porthos cut himself off before he said something stupid, something that explained the overwhelming lightness that had exploded through his chest. It began and ended with Aramis, just as he did – for everything paled when Aramis was not there.
"I know," Aramis said, nudging their noses together, "I've shared a life with you."
Porthos sagged in ridiculous relief and, with some shuffling, divested Aramis of his shirt and manhandled him until his back was pressed to Porthos' chest; Aramis' arm reached back to lazily scratch his scalp as Porthos murmured sweet nothings into the hot skin of Aramis' neck.
Time was immeasurable when Aramis was the constant. If he wasn't there, the days passed too slowly, and when he was there, the blissful hours turned to too short minutes.
But at last, with Aramis' heartbeat pulsing under his palm, Porthos was content.
Utter perfect bastard.
Morning broke far too soon.
Even if they hadn't been running on little sleep anyway, they only ended up with a few hours of peaceful rest, and most of that had been Porthos waking up just to delight in the knowledge that Aramis was sleeping peacefully in his arms.
Aramis had also wriggled onto his back in the night, but Porthos' palm was still flush to his chest, offering a reminder that life truly had become this wonderful – and he laughed at himself to think that disgustingly sappy thought.
Unable to help himself, he rose up on the other arm to look down at the sinuous stretch of Aramis' tanned body. Aramis had thrown the sheets off of their torsos at some point, muttering that Porthos was enough of a blanket – and Porthos had taken that role very seriously.
With one of Aramis' legs thrust between his, Porthos had practically covered all of that delicious tan flesh with his own darker skin.
A possessive thrill ran through him as he let his gaze travel from Aramis' feet to the mess of curls at his head, arousal flaring as he thought of all the dreams he could finally make come true.
He locked eyes with chocolate ones.
Aramis had woken up, and he looked like the cat that got the cream, so much so that it made Porthos grin instinctively as he asked, "What you beaming at?"
"Athos said that I could have no one except us in our rooms, and I do believe I obeyed that command rather well, and got my own way."
Porthos chuckled, enjoying the way Aramis' hand absent-mindedly made soothing motions along his back, as if he had always wanted to do so but Porthos had never let him.
The thought made him hunger for more, as if he had a well of attraction that he had denied himself for so long and now he wanted to gorge on it. And why shouldn't he? Aramis was delectably his for the taking, and they didn't have anywhere to be 'til- well, whenever Athos showed up.
Time was immeasurable when Aramis was at hand.
"You just love obeying, don't you?" he murmured lowly.
Aramis' eyes flashed, his smile turning sweet and yet somehow very predatory, a glimpse of the leopard within. "I thought that, perhaps," Aramis began slyly, "I should properly forgive you."
"Hadn't you already?" he asked, unable to hide the note of anxiety in his voice.
Aramis gave him a look that said to stop worrying, and then slowly sucked the tip of one finger between his lips.
Porthos' inhaled a sharp breath, focusing on that blasphemous little mouth, and then blurted, "I did say sorry a lot."
Aramis' smile was very pleased, as if Porthos had said the exact thing that he wanted. "You did, and so I suppose you deserve forgiveness."
Porthos couldn't speak anymore, because Aramis hooked the arm that he had been bracing on so that he fell back against the bed and Aramis rose over him, licking his lips until Porthos groaned.
With a flick of the sheets that really shouldn't have been so erotic, Aramis lowered until his lips brushed Porthos' chest, licking a path downwards that was slowly sending Porthos mad.
"Aramis," he called, just edging on a plea, but couldn't bring himself to either beg or force that attractive head to more meaningful pursuits. Instead, he tugged one curl, and fixated on the flickering of Aramis' eyelids.
Fascinated, he twirled one hand in the tangled mess and pulled until Aramis groaned softly, his breath fluttering over the still untied laces in Porthos' breeches. With magician's hands that moved far too slowly for Porthos' sanity, Aramis brushed one slender finger along Porthos' length.
Porthos strangled a plea, but then noticed that Aramis had gone preternaturally still. Mouth open on a question, Porthos recognised the look of 'caught-red-handed' in Aramis' eyes – having seen it far too often from the interrupter's perspective before.
And every time had been like a kick to the gut.
Aramis yanked the sheets over his head and laid flush against him, his mouth so tantalisingly close to Porthos' cock that it took him a moment to realise what was about to happen.
The door smashed open and Porthos blindly grabbed for Aramis' pistol, aiming it at the door before he realised that it was Athos standing there, water dripping down his face.
"Please tell me that Aramis is the lump under the covers; his room's empty and Trouveau's downstairs demanding his blood."
"Er," Porthos managed eloquently, and Athos strode into the room and slammed the door behind him.
"Athos, mon ami," Aramis called unabashedly from his position plastered to Porthos' side, his breath hot against the nakedness of his hip, "It's too early for loud noises."
Athos paused, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now tell me you have the information."
There was a shuffling, and then Aramis propped himself up, his hair a complete mess as he said affrontedly, "Of course I do." His tone dropped to positively smug when he added, "I always get what I want."
Porthos couldn't help his chuckle, especially when Aramis fell back onto the bed and stretched fluidly, the sheets pooling about his waist in such a way that made Porthos wish Athos would fuck off.
Athos shook his head in amusement when he looked at them both. It was obvious what had happened, even if Aramis hadn't practically said as much.
"As happy as I am for you both and despairing for my own sanity, get dressed, Trouveau's threatening to break doors down in his search for 'that little flirt'."
"He's got you termed, Aramis," Porthos murmured and Aramis grinned at him from his pillow.
"I didn't hear you complaining, in fact-"
Athos made an exasperated noise and settled into his leader stance. "Enough, up, dressed, out of the window."
"With my lover? What fun," Aramis laughed.
"I said I'd rush to your rescue," he chuckled. "I'll even catch you if you jump from the sill."
"My hero," Aramis simpered with a flutter of his eyelashes.
Unable to resist, Porthos leaned in and captured those charming lips in a kiss, breaking only briefly when the door slammed again and he realised belatedly that Athos had left.
"I think he's jealous," Aramis murmured as his magician's hands swirled spells across Porthos' skin.
When they reached his waist, he just about managed to nod vigorously before growling compliments into Aramis' grinning mouth.
Utter beloved bastard.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed it! Please, please write me a review! I love reading Portamis and finally managed to write some of my own - those two are just so disgustingly adorable! Smutty second chapter is in the pipeline, please follow if you want to know when!