somepoorsoul | (no subject)

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Athos awakens in a weary haze of memories. Though the clock tells him it is mid-morning, he feels simultaneously like he has slept for days and not at all. A few moments pass before he realizes why he cannot shake the sights as senses of his childhood - the smell of forget-me-nots, Catherine’s bright red hair (he has not even thought of her for ages), Thomas’ boyish laughter. Then he remembers, and he exhaustedly presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He is tempted to remain abed until someone comes looking, but that would only delay his shame, and anyway, Athos is too honorable. He dresses slowly in garments that once again seem familiar as he tries to piece together the last few days, memories coming to him as though being relayed by someone else. Sheepishly, he misses the body and heart of his youth; he had been frightened and shy, world-weary too soon, but free and unfettered in a way he has not felt in some time.

Unfettered, perhaps, but also a fool. He has matters to explain, and hearts to mend.

When Athos carefully comes downstairs, his eyes are red-rimmed, and though he has tried to put himself back together, he knows he must still appear out-of-sorts. He can already smell coffee, thank goodness. But whether or not Aramis and Porthos will welcome his company is something he has yet to discover.

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Too sated even to be embarrassed by Aramis’ comment, Athos turns his smile lazy and inviting, lifting an expectant brow at Porthos. He must admit, there is something unexpectedly thrilling in the thought of making Porthos beg, of testing the limits of his impatience, but that suggestion can wait for another time - or perhaps remain a pleasant fantasy in Athos’ mind that he dares not speak. For now, though, he only wants to be close to Porthos, and in some small way make up for the pain he has caused these last weeks. “Come here,” he murmurs, voice low.

Porthos smiles fondly as he crawls away from his bed of pillows, eager to tell Athos of his news, of the money, of the decisions, but that can wait until he's come because he doesn't think he can manage proper conversation until then. Drawing Athos in near, he cups his cheeks and begins to slowly indulge in the eager, clumsy kisses he's able to muster.

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."

“Aramis,” he chides with a quirk of a grin before sinking into the kiss and returning it languidly. Yes, perhaps another time they will make him beg, but now Athos is just glad to have Porthos in his arms again, the man tense with desire and clumsy with hunger. Athos smiles against Porthos’ lips, and rolls himself onto his back once again, bringing Porthos atop him. “I will touch you while he fucks you,” he promises, shivering at the thought of watching them both from this vantage.

This all sounds like too much to bear and the best possible outcome he could imagine. He climbs on top of Athos, kissing his way slowly down his neck and over his shoulder, nuzzling there affectionately as he holds tight to Athos' hips to position himself, eager for Aramis to give him some relief.

"I'm gonna feel like I've died and gone to heaven," he deadpans.

Aramis arches a brow, taking that as a challenge as he slicks his fingers and moves them to Porthos' entrance, circling it a few times before he begins to press inside. If he knows Porthos - and he certainly does - Athos will soon be swallowing a series of moans. Leaning down on an elbow where he can see them, Aramis grins faintly at Athos, curling his fingers within Porthos to feed his moans.

Athos smirks softly in return, brushing his thumb up and down Porthos’ cheek. “Patience,” he murmurs again, watching Porthos intently. His body is still lazy and pliable, nowhere near ready for another round, but there is still plenty of pleasure to be found in watching the two of them pant and moan, and he does not intend to miss a moment of it.

Porthos is already weak with it, moaning and writhing as each additional movement of Aramis' fingers brings him new pleasures that build on the last. His brow furrows, a desperate look in his eyes as he tries so hard to draw this out. He bows his forehead to Athos' as he leans down to kiss him slowly, with more measure and patience than before.

"We missed you," he murmurs, feeling his heart ache with how much he'd missed Athos for those two weeks. "Felt like we'd lost a limb."

Hearing the ache in Porthos' voice, Aramis leans in and kisses his thigh, watching them after. "It's better now," he says to both of them, hoping that bare bodies tangled and untangled and twined again will heal them all. He looks down and finds that it's this as much as anything that finally moves his cock to fill, a desire to make the three of them whole again, and his own ability to help. Aramis reaches down and begins to stroke himself, needing just a touch more to offer Porthos.

“I’m here,” Athos agrees, his stomach twisting with warmth, and fondness, and the ache of love. He kisses Porthos tenderly this time, running his hands over the man’s shorn head and trailing his fingers down his back. He swallows hard, and though he gazes into Porthos’ eyes, his next whispered words are meant for both of them. “I love you."

Porthos glances back before the kiss, a tenderness flowing into it that almost takes him by surprise given how easy and settled it is, how he leans into it with such affection and when he hears the words for what he thinks might be the first time, something in him breaks and a relieved sob gets caught in his throat. "Us, too," he vows. "So much, Athos, we love you so much."

Important as his task might be, Aramis can hardly remain so far away for that, and he pulls free of Porthos so he can see Athos properly, clean hand catching his cheek before they are distracted by another kiss. "Please say it again."

Athos flushes at the sudden attention, turning to look at Aramis with eyes bright and wide. He swallows back a lump in his throat, fingers still dancing lightly over Porthos’ back. He has thought the words so many times, even spoken them in different circumstances and with different intent, and now saying them feels like the most natural thing in the world, and yet full of meaning. “I love you,” he repeats in a shaky whisper.

It seems mad not to reward him for the loveliest words Porthos has heard all day, and swiftly, Porthos bears down on Athos to cup his face in his hands, kissing him as hard as he can, indulging in the knowledge that Athos loves them, loves them enough to say it, to tell people, and it feels finally like permanency. He eases off to give Aramis a chance, holding so tight to Athos' hips, as if he's scared to let him go.

Aramis smiles down at Athos, certain the words will come again even as Athos musters the will to say them, and he is still smiling when Porthos and Athos again break apart. "Thank you," he whispers back, for he knows how brave Athos has been for them, how much he risks even now, and leans down to kiss his cheeks. "He is quite right. I do love you. To distraction sometimes."

His smile widens, for he is quite aware of Porthos still in need. "I can't recall what I was up to at all."

Athos arches into the kiss, gripping Porthos by the shoulders as he returns it with equal fierceness. The embrace leaves him breathless - not so much out of passion as from the fullness in his heart, his relief and awe at every moment that has brought him here. His eyes are wet, but he barely realizes it as he lifts a brow at Aramis. “Come now,” he quips, voice rough despite his attempt at levity. “Do not be cruel."

Porthos is already well on his way to pouting when Aramis insists that he's forgotten what he's doing, reaching back to give his arse a hearty smack as if to remind him, a pointed brow rising as he kisses Athos firmly on the lips, nodding towards the back. "Go on," he insists to Aramis. "Don't act dim."

He is perhaps a bit too well trained now, for the sharp slap makes his cock thicken all the more, and Aramis laughs. "I am dim," he insists, "No blood left to fuel my thoughts at all." But he ambles back on his knees, thighs still shaky from before, but nowhere near spent.

Taking Porthos' urgency at his word, Aramis takes him by the hips and lines himself up, pushing into Porthos' tight heat without further delay. Below, he knows that Athos is watching Porthos take it, and Aramis is thankful he has recently spent, else he would not last long with these thoughts at all.

Athos sighs into the kiss, a soft chuckle on his lips when they part. He watches Porthos with gentle wonder as Aramis enters him, and though Athos only lies there, he swears he feels the shudder of lightning travel up his own spine. "Porthos," he whispers, voice a little shaky. Only days ago he had been a lonely, unsure version of himself, struggling so hard to be something he thought he had to be, something dictated by blood and paternal edict. He is a different man now, precisely where he chooses to be. And in this moment, it is perfect.

Porthos is so used to this, but he's not used to it happening while Athos is beneath him, making him feel as if he's been bracketed with such perfection that makes him writhe and moan and hiss with it, panting downwards as he leans into a hard kiss, thrusting his arse back to push Aramis deeper inside him, a selfish and sudden act that he can't imagine Aramis being upset with.

Well used to Porthos' bodily demands, Aramis grins and grips his hips more firmly, pushing deep. "Worth the wait, was it?" he asks as lightly as he can when Porthos is squeezing like heaven itself around him, setting a slow, deep rhythm he knows will unravel Porthos bit by bit, for he is eager to draw this out for Athos and Porthos both. "Are his eyes open or closed, Athos?"

“Open,” Athos murmurs, sounding a little breathless despite himself after Porthos’ rough kisses. He grips Porthos by the shoulders, chest rising and falling as he stares into his deep brown eyes, wondering if he might lose himself in them and never come out. “He looks wild."

Porthos growls, as if to show Athos what wild truly looks like, bearing down on him to stop his talking, kiss him harder than before, and drag his nails into Athos' sides as he holds on, rocking forward and dragging his hard cock against Athos' body.

Aramis imagines he can feel that growl reverberate around him, and he grins and closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the feel of Porthos' skin against his hands, the tight velvety slick of him as he thrusts inside, the sounds the two of them make below as he works. "Do you like it when he holds you roughly?" he asks of Athos, for he knows that flex of Porthos' shoulders. "I do."

Athos moans with startled hunger as the kiss overtakes him, and he arches with need into Porthos’ trembling body. He has meant to wait before touching Porthos, to extend this moment, but now he only wants to drag more pleasure from the man, and on Aramis’ next thrust, he grasps Porthos’ cock and begins to stroke. Athos can barely manage a small sound of agreement to Aramis’ question, but surely the response of his body is answer enough.