Porthos stares down at Aramis, doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, and he feels a rush of heat overwhelm his skin. The flush of warmth is instantly ridiculous and he lets out a low gasp, moaning Aramis' name as the sheets are grasped tighter in his hand. "You've what, you prepared yourself?" he manages to eke out. "When?"

He tries to hold Aramis' gaze rather than let his mind wander to thinking of two fingers prying aside the panties and mounting Aramis from behind, all that silk sliding against his legs. With another gasping cry, his hips push forward.

"I'm not going to last," he warns. If Aramis weren't here, he'd have touched himself, brought himself off frantically and fervently with these thoughts, by now.