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Biomechanical Recordings [experimental, no subtitles]

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“How did you not know that you like taking it up the arse?” Aramis chokes out the words, forcing them up a throat that is tight with arousal. Athos can barely hear him through the throb of blood in his ears. “Look at you. Just,” he laughs shakily, “just look at you. I wish you could see this.” He leans in and kisses Athos on the tailbone. Athos can feel Aramis’ kiss rush along the highway of nerves all the way up his spine and tingle on top of his head. “You’re so soft,” Aramis whispers and twists his wrist, turning his fingers inside Athos. “I never knew you could relax like this.”

Aramis shifts and moves, his leg scrapes against Athos’ thigh, and Athos twitches, his skin over-sensitised after the orgasm, and after Aramis bloody petting him through the aftermath. His hands were warm and so gentle as if he thought Athos was going to break when he did more than hover his hand millimetres above Athos’ skin. Merely teasing the fine hairs on his stomach, up and down his flanks and his thighs; soft brushes that had no right to be so overwhelmingly fucking erotic. He didn’t touch Athos’ cock (“Not if you don’t want me to.”), but he kissed him and continued to kiss him until Athos melted, groaned and pulled Aramis down, kissing back furiously. He felt Aramis smile against his mouth. “Turn over,” Aramis said, his grip tightening all of a sudden, fingers digging into Athos’ ribs, guiding him until he came to rest on his front. “Relax,” Aramis said. “But don’t you dare fall asleep.” And he bit Athos’ ear.

And here they are, half an eternity later, Athos sprawled on his stomach with a pillow shoved under his hips and his arse thrust in the air. He’s not quite sure how he got there.

Aramis shifts and moves, his leg scrapes against Athos’ thigh, and he twitches, because sweat has made the hairs on his legs and on Aramis’ sticky, and the contact is not a smooth slide of skin on skin but an itch that he has to scratch. His body jerks up and sucks in Aramis’ fingers more deeply.

“I’ve got three fingers inside you,” Aramis whispers. He sounds, Athos thinks dizzily, completely in awe. “You’ve never been so open before.”

Athos squeezes his eye shut, against the sweat that burns in them. Aramis has never talked to him like this before, either. Not like this. ‘Slower,’ he might’ve said, or ‘harder’, or ‘yeah, like that’, simple commands and expressions of gratitude, interspersed with Spanish curses and the occasional colourful blasphemy, nothing to worry about. He’s not like this tonight, he’s fucking narrating what they are doing with each other. To each other. What he is doing to Athos, and Athos isn’t sure if this is the most arousing or the most embarrassing fuck he’s ever had.

“How did you not know that you like taking it up the arse?” He pulls his fingers back, and then out, and swipes around his hole, and all blood drains from Athos’ entire body and cascades to that one spot. “Have you never tried it, before?”

Athos groans. Aramis is just stoned enough to be talkative. Athos, conversely, gets quiet when he’s been smoking, his mind lulled into an elusive peace, and his tongue just another languishing muscle. But Aramis is circling him and circling him in slow, teasing strokes, as if he had all the time in the world, and Athos, who feels himself quiver under the soft touch, knows that Aramis is waiting for an answer.

“Annsadafingernthere,” he mumbles into the pillow.

Aramis laughs softly. “What?” he leans in, and his wrist slots into Athos’ cleft. Athos groans, clears his throat and tries again. “Anne. She used her finger. Once or twice. When she sucked me off.”

“Anne?” There is a hitch to Aramis’ voice, and Athos’ brain kicks into gear.

“My Anne, I mean. Not yours. Milady, not Queenie.”

There is silence, at first, for a few agonising moments there’s silence, and then Aramis snorts with laughter and buries his mouth in the nape of Athos’ neck. Athos laughs too, giggles even, the undignified, hysterical laughter of the well and truly stoned.

“God,” Aramis manages eventually, pressing damp kisses into Athos’ skin. “I really hope the girls never learn what we call them behind their backs.”

“Queenie would’ve a sense of humour about it,” Athos mutters. “She’s got nothing to complain about, we call her a queen.”

“Milady’d murder us, though,” Aramis says. His kisses have turned edgier, sharper, with a hint of teeth behind them. “If she knew that we didn’t make her royalty.”

“She is very much a commoner,” Athos says without thinking.

Aramis nuzzles Athos’ neck and whispers, very close to his ear. “‘S that what you liked about her?”

Athos tenses and jerks his head away. “Sorry,” Aramis says, “sorry, sorry, sorry. That was tactless. That was more than tactless.” He hovers uncertainly, and he’s about to pull away, Athos can tell. For a moment, he is tempted to let him, to make him feel rejected; to punish him. But then Aramis sighs, takes a deep breath and Athos lifts his head and kisses him.

“You really can’t help it,” he says at last, when they break apart, panting. Aramis’ eyes are huge in the semi-darkness.

“I really can’t,” Aramis says, smiling ruefully. Athos finds he enjoys watching him squirm from time to time. “Have I wrecked it?” He actually sounds uncertain, and Athos’ spirits soar. His cheek is resting comfortably on his folded arms; he raises one corner of his mouth in a non-smile and watches Aramis fidget with his hair.

“She had long nails,” he says eventually, when he decides that Aramis has suffered enough.


“Milady. Her nails were too long, it… It wasn’t comfortable. Yours are short.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aramis glances down at his hand mechanically and then back at Athos. “Does that mean we’re still on?”

At that, Athos laughs, a genuinely happy laugh that has nothing to do with the THC in his system, and he pulls Aramis close and presses his forehead to his. “Yeah, we’re still on.” He kisses Aramis on the corner of his mouth. “But you’ll better make it worth my while.”

“Oh, I will.” Aramis stretches out beside him, throws one leg over Athos’ thigh and zig-zags his blunt nails down Athos’ back. “I was just surprised, that’s all,” he picks up where he left off, “that you’ve never, you know, experimented. You’re so responsive.” His voice hitches again, and he pushes himself over Athos, his knee between Athos’ legs and his cock dragging over Athos’ thigh, the swell of his arse. “Are you comfortable like this?” The sound of his voice, suddenly rough with lust again, his touch, an intoxicating blend of tenderness and confidence, are almost enough to throw Athos back into the state of blissful haze in which he floated before Aramis decided he wanted to have a conversation. Almost.

Before he thought of Anne. Anne’s mouth on him and Anne’s fingers sharp and cruel, and he should’ve known, but he was young then, and she was the first woman he loved.

And then nothing. Years of self-imposed celibacy, and no, he never experimented, because his sex-drive was pretty much non-existent for ages, as if Anne had taken his libido with her when she left. Like she took everything else.

“Relax,” Aramis mutters. “Whatever it is that’s going round your head, it can wait till tomorrow.” Crouched between Athos’ legs, he runs his hands down his flanks, round his thighs, and dips his thumbs briefly into the cleft of Athos’ arse, pulling him open for a moment or two, as he blows a cool breath of air against his heated skin.

Athos’ hips twitch forward, and then back again, because the weight of his body on his cock is too much. He reaches under himself and adjusts his cock against the pillow.

Aramis swipes a hand firmly over the muscle of his thigh. “Ready?”

“What for?” Athos has just time to ask, before he yelps, jolts up and crashes into the headboard.

“Jesus!” Aramis grabs him by the hips and pulls him back down. “Stay here. You don’t want to wake Porthos.”

“His room is on the other side,” Athos says the moment he catches his breath. “Speaking of which: did you lock the door? To your room?”

“Why, are you worried he might come in?” Aramis leans back in and Athos can feel him grin, even though he can’t see his face, a mischievous tug at the corners of his mouth. “Porthos knows better than coming into my room unannounced. Especially at night. Not even if there was a fire. He’d just send me a text to tell me to get dressed and get out.”

“You’re a degenerate,” Athos says, and then gasps, because Aramis has bitten the hollow of his other knee, and this time he’s holding Athos fast to stop him from crashing into the headboard again.

“Mmh,” Aramis assents happily, dragging his teeth and tongue and beard up the inside of Athos’ thigh, “utterly depraved.” And he bites into the crease on top of Athos’ thigh. “Stay here,” he mutters. “Or do you want me to tie you down?”

“What?” Athos raises his head at this. That has not been part of the plan.

Aramis laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t, unless you want me to.”

“All right.”


“Do it.”

He hears Aramis hiss in a breath, and there is a tremendous sense of power in this: in the knowledge that he can turn Aramis on simply by lying there and going along with his ideas. Aramis almost falls off the bed as he reaches across, his arm popping up in Athos’ field of vision and out again as he rummages on the floor. He picks up Athos’ scarf and something else which looks very much like a woman’s stocking.

Aramis leans back in, and his voice is so thick with desire, Athos can barely make out the words. “I’ll just tie your ankles to the bedposts, tell me if it gets uncomfortable.” Athos turns his neck and their lips collide messily. “This is not about restraint, I’m not going to do your arms, you’ll be more comfortable like this, using them to cushion your head,” he’s babbling, and Athos finds he loves it, loves having made Aramis nervous, loves beating him at his own game. “It’s only to help you stay in place. Stay anchored.”

“You’ve done this before,” Athos says, not so much to reassure himself, but to reassure Aramis.

“Yeah, yeah. But never-” Aramis loops the end of the scarf around his ankle and tugs experimentally. “Okay? Yeah, I’ve done this before, but never…” he laughs shakily and strokes Athos’ calf with the flat of his hand, “with you.”

Oh. This is. Unexpected. A wave of hot tenderness unfurls in his stomach and his chest, and he actually feels it tug at his heartstrings, for fuck’s sake, and it doesn’t get any cornier than that.

Aramis pushes the pillow into place, runs his hands down Athos’ hips and – curses.


“I’ve lost the lube. Fuck.” He lifts the blanket, chucks one spare pillow on the floor and burrows his hand under Athos. “You may be lying on it…”

“You know, I thought you’d be better at this. You’re not very smooth at all, are you?”

“Is that a wise thing to say for a man in your position, you think?”

“I trust you,” Athos says simply, still riding the high of that overwhelming heat wave.

“Well, thank you. I’m truly honoured.” Aramis presses a hand to his heart, and he looks at him, his eyes black and serious, and then he smiles. “Found it!” He kisses Athos on the shoulder, slides his hand down his back and grabs his arse. “And no, I’m not very smooth, actually.”

Athos groans. The lube runs in a cool stream into his cleft, and Aramis catches it with his thumb and presses it into him. “You’re still so soft, my fingers slide in, just like that.” Athos groans again. He has almost forgotten, during their short respite, what it feels like to have Aramis’ fingers up his arse. His lips begin to pound with blood, and his face burns. “Oh fuck,” he groans again and presses his face into the pillow. It smells of Aramis, and he wants to burrow himself in it. “Fuck.

“Yes.” Aramis pulls out and thrusts back in, and he’s added more fingers, more heft. “Come on, Athos.” He moans at the sound of his own name. It doesn’t take long, and his name is the only word he can distinguish, as Aramis is talking again, the rest is just sounds, a low, honeyed voice that anchors him to the spot like the restraints round his ankles. His body has taken over, he’s just the passenger, swept on a joyride and clinging on for dear life. His last conscious action is to sneak one hand under his pelvis to grab his cock, but Aramis stops him.

“No, trust me.” He’s holding Athos’ wrist. “That’s not important now. Focus on this.” And he twists his hand and rubs inside him, and the flesh between his legs explodes. His body spasms and clamps down on the firm bones of Aramis’ fingers. “Yeah, like that,” Aramis breathes. “Let go, let yourself go, Athos, I’ve got four fingers inside you.” He moves his hand again, and the sensation is almost too much, Athos is panting into the pillow, and he’s breathing in Aramis’ scent with every desperate gasp for air.

“This is the broadest part of my hand,” Aramis continues, his words fading in and out like a badly tuned radio. “I can’t stretch you any more than that.” His other hand is curled around Athos’ hip, holding him in place. “I can feel your heartbeat around my hand.” And he slides his other hand up Athos spine and curls it around the nape of his neck, cradling the base of his skull with his fingers.

It’s a good thing Aramis is holding him like this, because Athos can’t even feel the bonds around his ankles anymore, a sense of numbness has come upon him, and nothing else matters but the sensation of being ripped apart at his very core, and it should hurt, as Aramis’ hand spreads him and twists slowly inside him, but there is no pain. Just relief and a throbbing intensity, and it is like an open wound that Aramis has closed.

He’s tripping, Athos realises. This is just like tripping, the full-body bliss-out, and he would love to say something, but he’s in a place where there are no words, and then a push between his legs, and another one, each one stronger than the others, and each surge creates a wave of numbness, bursting and fading, and he’s coming from the sheer intensity of it all, and Aramis is keeping his hand perfectly still, he isn’t even fingerfucking him anymore.

When he comes to, the pillow under his pelvis and the restraints are gone, and Aramis is curled around him, stroking him with the tips of his fingers. “All right?” he asks casually, as if he has not just ripped him open and filled him anew.

“You bastard,” Athos pants. He turns his head away from the pillow that is soaked in Aramis’ scent. But it was a mistake, his face is now burrowed against Aramis’ chest, and Athos is too exhausted to turn away. Aramis smells good, but it’s too much for his senses, the overpowering scent that fills his nose and coats his tongue, he will never recover from this. “Should’ve warned me.” He manages at last.

“I told you you’ll like it. I told you ages ago, the first time you let me finger you, remember?”

Athos would love to argue, just for the fun of it, but that’s impossible. He’s drifting, off and away. He uses his last ounce of strength for one important question. “What ‘bout you?”

“I’m fine.” Aramis nestles closer and gathers Athos to his chest. “Fucking exhausted, actually.”

Athos is half asleep already, dream images begin to flash before his eyes, but Aramis’ words penetrate the hazy fog. “She’s not my Anne,” Aramis murmurs into his hair.

“I know. Go to sleep, Aramis.” Athos can barely move his mouth enough to speak. He certainly can’t move anything else, as all his bones and muscles have turned to gelatine. He’s lying with Aramis’ arm slung around him and his skin still tingling with the aftershocks.

Aramis sighs and mmhs into Athos’ hair, but he seems determined to have the last word.

“They’re never mine.”