somepoorsoul | (no subject)

(no subject)

Though he has spent much of the last week imagining Aramis and Porthos’ return - in anticipation, and joy, and a bit of fear - now that he knows the moment draws near, he finds himself teeming with uncertainties. There are things he must say - now, before the opportunity slips through his fingers forever, and all he has left is the memory of those moments in the stables, the press of lips against his and hands blissfully burning his skin. Athos still does not trust himself, and perhaps he never will, but he trusts his friends, more than he has trusted anyone. And so, there are things he must say.

But first, he must welcome his dear friends home. Athos has not attempted to make a meal for them, knowing that no meager fest he could concoct would match Porthos’ skill in the kitchen. But he has procured a few bottles of fine wine, one of which sits already open and half drunk on the kitchen counter. The steadying of his nerves has taken one, and then two, and three glasses. Now, shamefully, he pours himself a fourth.

He has never been very good with words.

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As keenly as he feels the absence of phantom fingers, the missive gives Aramis new purpose, and he takes several deep breaths through his nose before letting Athos slide deeper against his tongue. He savors every pleasure that is to be found in bed, but giving it to others is by far the headiest and dearest of them all, and the discomfort as Athos' prick reaches the back of his throat is nothing compared to the thought of what it must feel like for Athos.

Aramis moans, swallowing hard, and lets Athos linger there as long as he is able, watching every heave of Athos' chest above him through slotted eyes, feasting on the strain of Porthos' arms as he holds him as if it were the oxygen his lungs are screaming for.

He isn’t going to last long, not like this. Aramis’ mouth is relentless, and Porthos’ fingers bruise his wrists, and it’s so much that he truly believed he would not feel again, so much he did not believe he would ever feel at all. “Wait,” he stutters, despite his pride more a moan than a word, “Aramis, I cannot…” Surely Aramis will not allow him to come like this. Surely, he should pull away. But both men hold him fast, and he cannot help but thrust into Aramis’ mouth as he nears completion and then spends with a trembling cry.

Porthos presses a kiss that's so firm and so adoring to Athos' messy hair, burying his face in it until he can only barely peer up and over it to stare fondly at Aramis, pleased that they're the ones who've brought him over the edge the way that no one has in so, so long. "That's it," he soothes and coaxes him through the orgasm. "That's it," he promises. "Aramis can take it and I've got you."

It is torturous, knowing that above him, Athos' head is tipped back in ecstasy and Aramis cannot see it. But just as Aramis can taste Athos now, pouring hot and liquid down his throat, Porthos can drink in the sight of him, and between them they will share everything. So he eagerly swallows until the jerk of Athos' hips has relented, pulling back to drop a kiss to the wet tip of his prick before he lays his head on Athos' thigh, head tipped to grin up at them as he gasps for air. His throat and lips are sore and swollen, and Aramis tongues at the corner of his mouth to savor the ache, saving the last of Athos' taste there for Porthos.

Athos still trembles as aftershocks dance through him, his eyes closed and cheek pressed to Porthos’ chest. He pulls a hand free of its bond so that he can lightly, almost thoughtlessly, run his fingers over Aramis’ hair, thumb brushing his temple. All but these two men forgotten, Athos lingers blissfully with the world out of focus for one moment, and then two, and then three, before reality begins to set in again.

It is a wondrous reality, though, if one that leaves him unsure how to proceed. Athos blinks a few times, his gaze flickering up at Porthos’ face, and then down at Aramis with a shaky, breathless smile.

Porthos is grinning like a fool at Athos as he slowly comes back to himself, letting go of him and settling him aside so that he can reach for Aramis by the shoulders, hauling him up for the kiss he's been wanting since Athos spent, the taste of him on Aramis' lips something he chases after desperately and happily. He finally sags back against the headboard, stretching out his fingers after having been clamped down.

"What do you think, chou? He relaxed?"

Aramis sighs in bliss for the touch to his hair, moaning aloud when it is followed by another favorite thing and Porthos hauls him bodily up, kissing the taste of Athos from his mouth. Aramis stretches out on his side, nodding his agreement. "I dare say we've taken the edge off," he rasps.

Plucking Athos' hand from the covers, Aramis presses a kiss to his palm, taking in the sight of Athos more undone than Aramis has ever seen him. "Relaxed, and beautiful."

“I am right here.” Still, Athos flushes at the praise, surprised to hear that he sounds so much steadier than he feels. Still on his back, he turns his head to gaze at them both in awe. He has never been a man of many words, but rarely has he found himself quite so at a loss as he feels now.

Porthos quirks up his lips in a grin as he looks at Athos and the way he's never seen him before, so stupidly grateful that it's them who get to see it and no one else. "You are right there," he agrees, sliding his fingers over Athos' shoulder as he twines his other hand into Aramis' hair for another kiss, smirking as he moves his touch to Athos' hands, depositing those hands to Aramis' hips.

"So be a good man and strip him, would you?"

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.

Heart in his throat, Athos tightens his hands at Aramis’ hips and leans over Aramis to kiss him, realizing as he does that he has not done so yet today, and what a pity that is. Perhaps if he is very lucky, another day in which he does not kiss Aramis will never come to pass. Athos was once a rather romantic man – to the point of foolhardiness, even – and though he even now believes that he has left those overblown hopes and dreams behind him, the way his stomach twists now surely proves that there is more of his younger self left within him than he admits.

Hooking his fingers at the hem of Aramis’ boxers, he does as instructed and divests him of the rest of his clothing. “Tell me how to touch him,” he asks Porthos, his voice low, intent gaze never leaving Aramis’ face.

His smile only grows at the question, making room for himself at the head of the bed, knee pressed to his chest as he rubs his thumb over his lower lip and considers. "He'd very much like his hair touched right now," Porthos says lowly. "Trust me, as tight as you can. Don't be gentle with our Aramis," he warns.

"And when you touch him, rub your thumb in light circles, teasing and slow. Then, you should definitely use your nails, hard as you can, when you scratch down his back."

"Porthos," Aramis exhales, winded even before Porthos begins his instructions, "The way he looks at me." Athos' blue eyed gaze is unwavering, as soft as Aramis has yet seen, and still so focused. Aramis feels color rise to his own cheeks, and he struggles against the urge to cast his eyes downward lest he be swept away. Reaching up, he cradles Athos' face in his hands, lifting his head to press another kiss to his mouth. "He is right," he tells Athos, for his craving for touches deep enough to mark him is without end, "But I will like anything you do. I believe I could spend if you only stared at me long enough," he says in a breathless laugh.

Athos, too, must resist the urge to look away from the intensity with which their eyes have locked, and the awe he finds in Aramis’ expression. It is nearly too much, nearly more than he can bear, but as is so often the case in moments of unsteadiness, he takes refuge in controlled calm. “One thing at a time,” he admonishes with a mildness that stands in sharp contrast to everything else about him, and when he kisses Aramis, he tugs at the man’s lower lip with his teeth. Then, sliding a brief look at Porthos, he follows the first of his suggestions, tangling his fingers in Aramis’ hair and pulling back hard, then pressing his mouth to the exposed skin of Aramis’ neck.

Porthos grins at the tug, knowing exactly the sort of reaction that follows something like that and he finds himself eagerly anticipating what's about to come. "That's it," he murmurs, approving and encouraging. "Just like that, my beautiful, perfect men. Keep going, touch him while you grab his hair."

The groan tears itself from Aramis' throat, pushed from his mouth on a tide of pleasure so sharp he wonders if he is not bleeding, flayed open in an instant by the men he loves best in the world. He had not truly been jesting - Aramis feels he could spend beneath Athos' gaze, just as he feels he could vibrating with the rumble of Porthos' voice, and now he is pressed between both. Athos' fingers pull tight enough to bring tears to his eyes, and Aramis groans again for the fasten of that hot mouth to his throat, bottom lip still aching when he opens dazed eyes, staring at Porthos as if to confirm that this is not a dream.

Aramis’ response sends a shudder through Athos that he cannot contain. He pulls back enough to gaze down at Aramis again, running his thumb along his hairline, then the edge of his ear, and then jaw, fingers finally curling tightly at the nape of his neck to tug, again, at his hair. Athos glances up at Porthos again - for assurance, steadiness, the warmth that always lingers in his brown eyes - and slides his other hand down to stroke Aramis’ cock, refusing to hesitate, however uncharted these waters might be.

He wants, so badly, to get in the middle of the two of them and interfere, but that'll come. He needs to be patient and he grins as he watches him, breathing sharply as he slides his hand into his own trousers, watching the show in front of him with pleasure and eagerness. He catches Aramis' gaze, then Athos', and smiles beatifically for the way they check for him, grinning.

"I think if you look at him, he won't need more than a few strokes, especially if you touch his back," Porthos murmurs, moaning for how good they look and his hand coaxing him to his own pleasure.

"I want to last, damn you," Aramis hisses, mouth open for further admonishments that die on his tongue as Athos strokes him. His touch is firm, unpracticed but unrelenting, and Aramis feels his toes begin to curl. Porthos has not lied, if he looks into Athos' eyes too long he will come, but he cannot bring himself to look away. "Athos," he whispers, traitorous back aching for the blunt edge of his nails.

Athos grins despite himself, glancing up again at Porthos as though for approval, breath catching when he sees him touching himself, knowing that both these men are being brought such pleasure thanks to him. He again meets Aramis’ gaze, relishing greedily the way his eyes go wide with want and pleasure.

All because of him.

Athos does his best to respond to Aramis’ whines, and groans, and shaky looks, adjusting pressure and touch. But mostly he just holds the other man’s gaze, keeping up the intensity that so clearly drives Aramis mad, riding the wave of his eagerness through any lingering uncertainty.

Porthos eases off his own touches, because right now, he doesn't want to miss the way he knows Aramis is about to inevitably fall apart and how Athos is going to see it for the first time. He refuses to be outside of his control when he sees it and his eyes latch onto Aramis' face before sliding to Athos, watching him intently as he grips the sheets in his fist, something to hold onto.

"Aramis, chou, give in," he coaxes, because god, does he want to see this.

Aramis' gaze flits between them, whole body strung tight between the twin points of his stinging scalp and the building pleasure as Athos slides him through his fist. When he feels orgasm beginning to curl hot around his spine, he doesn't fight it, staring at Athos in wonder until his mouth cracks open in a joyful smile as he begins to spend, every new shuddering pulse punching another whimper from his throat.

Athos would not have imagined that Aramis could be more spectacular to look upon than he already is, tense and prone beneath him, but then he spends, and becomes something truly perfect. Athos does not let up his touch until Aramis is entirely sated, and in those last throes of pleasure, he presses kisses to his temple, and jaw, and lips, swept away to breathlessness merely through watching him.

Porthos grins to himself, remembering how he'd felt the first time that Aramis had spent in his arms, watching Athos enjoy himself through kisses and the look on his face. "See?" he replies smugly. "What did I tell you? He's perfect," he praises, of his husband.

Eyes closed, Aramis drifts a moment, body singing with the aftermath of Athos' touch, and he smiles faintly to realize that it continues, soft kisses dropped on his skin until the wet heat behind his eyes has nothing to do with pain at all. Aramis blinks them open, agreeing without knowing just who Porthos is speaking of, but it doesn't matter. Right now, they are all three of them perfect.

He turns an unfocused smile on Athos, a little wondering still that they are finally here, naked body and soul, and reaches for Porthos' hand. "It was perfect," he agrees.