Athos’ pride twinges at the look of gentle concern in Aramis’ eyes, hating still the way his inexperience shines. But he nods and leans in close, pressing their foreheads together and allowing himself to take comfort in Aramis' assurances. He closes his eyes, and takes a breath, and thinks of Porthos, his eagerness and warmth, and how he would look, wild and undone. Such a heady thought bolsters his courage.

“I believe I would like to use my mouth,” he decides in a low murmur.