Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

Porthos smirks, knowing the jibe against him is light-hearted and besides, it had painted a whole new delightful picture when he'd been a woman. For Aramis' comment (and Athos'), he tightens his grip on the both of them, picking up his pace while he moves his other hand to rub circles at Athos' shoulderblades, as if he can somehow undo the tension.

"I know you love my hands," he informs Aramis. "No matter what size they come in. You make the prettiest noises when I touch you, s'how I know."