Aramis sighs into Porthos' mouth when the hand in his hair is denied him yet again, but he turns to look at his work with Athos' hands. He longs to know that he's made Athos feel good, but Aramis also knows better than to wait to hear it, reading his praises in the flush of Athos' skin, the soft lines around his eyes, the tremors that are yet to be seen in his naked body.

Then those hands curl around his hips, and Aramis shudders. He has seen them at work so many times, those pale fingers long and elegant, handling a blade with tremendous skill. To be handled by them now is dizzying, and Aramis looks eagerly between their bodies, gaze flicking between Athos' hands and his face so as not to miss a moment.