Aramis extracts himself with a shiver and a moan, unable to help feeling a touch empty now that Athos is gone from him, but he has seeming leagues of rich, dark skin wrapped around pale limbs now, and the sight is remarkably comforting. He drags his hand down Porthos' back, finding the lubricant they had discarded while the others kiss.

"No finesse," he says of Porthos, and it is hardly a criticism. Made to want like this, and Porthos becomes a barely contained cluster of need, the sounds and expressions he makes dear to Aramis' eyes and ears and he strokes Athos' hair with approval. "You may hear him beg yet, dear Athos."