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A Helping Hand

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Athos looked a little dazed as he walked out of the courtyard, and Porthos, who’d been leaning in the doorway watching him train with Aramis before Sylvie’s interruption, could easily guess the reason.

“No kiss this time then?” Porthos chuckled.

Athos shot him a reproving look and made to walk past, but Porthos wasn’t done with him.

“Not very charitable of her was it?” he teased. “Getting you all wound up and unnecessary, then leaving you hanging?”

Athos conceded a rueful smile. “Perhaps I should go and have a cold bath.”

“Oh, I reckon I can offer you a better solution than that,” Porthos murmured, and pushed Athos up against the wall. “Hows about I sort you out instead?”

Having spent the last half an hour watching Athos sparring, Porthos was entirely ready for some action of his own, regardless of who might have turned Athos on in the first place.

Athos didn’t protest at the manhandling, but hung his head a little guiltily and Porthos stepped back an inch.

“What’s up?”

“It just – feels wrong. Kind’ve unfair. To you?”

Porthos snorted. “I’m not proud. She gets you worked up, I’m entirely willing to sort you out. Way I see it, this is not exactly a losing scenario for me.”

Athos half-laughed, looking away. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Porthos moved closer again and groped Athos’ crotch with a large hand. Athos was blatantly hard in his breeches and Porthos grinned. “Tell me you don’t want it.”

“Porthos! Are you mad? Someone’ll see us,” Athos hissed, but he didn’t push him away and Porthos pressed closer, still fondling him.

“No one’ll see,” Porthos countered. “Or, if you’re that worried, maybe we should take this into your room?”

Athos held out for a few more conflicted seconds then gave in, dragging Porthos into his chamber and firmly bolting the door behind them.

He’d barely turned round before Porthos was kissing him, hands gripping Athos’ shoulders, tongue insistent in his mouth. Athos gave a moan of surrender, letting Porthos pull him into his arms and kissing him back fiercely.

After a while of this, Porthos pushed Athos down on the narrow bed and reached for the jar of oil he knew was kept underneath it, but Athos stilled his hand.

“No. I want to fuck you.”

Porthos shrugged and handed him the jar. “If you call me Sylvie when you come, I will bite you,” he warned with a laugh, half serious.

Athos leaned in and kissed him. “I want to fuck you,” he repeated with more emphasis, and Porthos smiled, working his hand down inside Athos’ breeches and stroking him slowly.

“Good to know,” he smiled.