Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

"I don't complain," says Aramis, eyes drifting shut when Porthos' hand closes around them both, huge and warm. It is a loose grip, and the movement slow, but Aramis' body is too attuned to Porthos' to feel anything but a rush of pleasure. His whole body hums with it, and to feel Athos' hardness against his own is enough to push an eager whimper from his throat. "I merely observe," he says, stroking fingers that tremble over Athos' chest and shoulders, smoothing the beard that adorns his proud jaw until he can draw him into a kiss. "His girlish fingers made for a better visual," he confesses on a whisper.