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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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.

It finally is too much for him: the wonder in their eyes, their warmth, their compliments. Athos’ gaze skitters away, and he closes his eyes to collect himself. He has not felt this exposed in a very long time, and not merely because he lies naked. How right that he is with these two men, that they now know him in this way as well, and yet how terrifying it is to share so much of his heart with those he needs so dearly. Perfect. Nothing about him is perfect, and the more he shares, the likelier they are to finally discover as much.

He fights back the momentary panic, though, and looks at them both with a tiny curve of a smile. How do they manage to carry such delight and joy? What would it be to wake up beside those smiles each morning?

Athos shares none of his thoughts; he so rarely does, though if anyone can read something of his emotions, it is his companions. Instead he lifts a lifts a brow at Porthos. “So you can be patient, given the right circumstances."

Edited 2015-03-05 20:49 (UTC)

Porthos twines his fingers with Aramis' and clasps him tight as he grins at the both of them, snorting with a sudden burst of laughter for Athos' comment. He's hardly patient, but his care and love for the other two outweigh his neediness in this situation. He gives them both a wry smirk as he settles back against the board, slouching and knees falling to the side. "You asking to do something about it?"

Aramis brushes his thumb against Porthos' knuckles, gazing at him with a bloom of fondness too tender for speech, unable to rid himself of the knot his throat until he's lifted their joined hands to kiss Porthos'. He has been patient, and Athos terribly brave, and Aramis could not love either more.

Lifting up on his elbows, Aramis reaches for Athos, kissing away the hint of fear he sees in his eyes as best he can. "I can show you, if you like," he murmurs. "How to use your mouth on him. Otherwise, I can happily vouch that your hand is ecstasy. Or something else entirely."

He brushes his thumbs against Athos' cheekbones. "Whatever you want, Athos. We have our whole lives to be good to one another."

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.

Porthos gapes at Athos for the suggestion, blinking at him with such stunned shock that for a moment, he isn't sure what he's supposed to say. Still, he's sure that, "Athos, are you sure? I'm not exactly small," is not what he should be saying, except he does. He should be begging, demanding yes please, but he's rife with concern about pushing him too far.

"That is the truth," Aramis laughs, knees pressed to the sheets to lever himself upward. He curls his body around Athos', arms twined around his middle and chin hooked against his shoulder, just as it had been those weeks ago when he showed Athos how to do his tie. As with that day, Aramis feels awash in arousal and tenderness, and he gently pushes two of his fingers into Athos' mouth.

"Like this," he says, nosing at his cheek as he slides his fingers against Athos' tongue. "Show me how you would taste him." Gaze flicking over Athos' shoulder to Porthos, Aramis adds, "Show him what he'll be working with, hmm?"

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” Athos deadpans. Still, he flushes, and looks away, and wonders to himself what he was thinking to suggest such a thing when he hasn’t a blessed idea what he’s doing. But he isn’t a man to back down, and certainly will not allow nerves to get the best of him now.

Athos is startled by the bolt that goes through him when Aramis presses his fingers into his mouth. Inhaling carefully and closing his eyes, he runs his tongue experimentally along them, carefully but purposefully exploring. Heat coils in his belly at the mere thought that Porthos’ cock will be between his lips soon, his own desires startling him once again.

Porthos watches the both of them and slides to stand beside the bed, his gaze staring at Aramis' fingers inside of Athos' mouth, his moan transitioning into a happy sigh as he grasps the hem of his shirt to strip it off, settling his feet widely apart as he watches the both of them.

He tugs off his socks and then gets off his jeans, leaving him only in his boxers before he pulls them off, too, giving Athos a curious, expectant look. "Well, Aramis?" he muses. "Do you think he can take me?"