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Aosta doesn’t precisely remember when they started sleeping together, but if he has to guess, it probably wasn’t long after they started sleeping together in the innocent sense. It was always better to stay close, usually one of them keeping watch for trouble while the other two rested. But one thing’s for sure: it was, like most things, like right now, Chiave’s impulsive idea.
Chiave, who currently has his arms around Broca’s neck, on his toes as he kisses Broca with the usual short-sighted enthusiasm he does everything with. Fortunately for him, Broca is interested in kissing back, one burly arm around the small of Chiave’s back holding him steady as Aosta brings up the rear and closes the door to their room behind him. Broca’s yellow eyes are focused on Aosta, a silent question in them, asking if he’s game.
Aosta nods, locking the door. He doesn’t bother with the lights, the few emergency lights peppered about the room and the faint glow of the twin moons beyond the window enough for their keen eyes.
Satisfied by the response, Broca turns his attention to Chiave and lets himself be herded towards the bed in the corner—the three of their beds, pushed together to form a single big one. He sits on the edge, and Chiave is already pulling the zipper of Broca’s vest down, red tail flicking back and forth with anticipation. In typical Broca fashion, he leans back on his hands, content to let Chiave do whatever he wants provided it’s not too stupid, and even from across the room, Aosta can see the shiver that courses down Broca’s frame as Chiave skims his palms up Broca’s chest to cup his considerable pecs. “Gloves off, Chiave,” he sighs, not unhappily.
“Ah—right, right.” Chiave moves back to do just that, and his eye falls on Aosta. “’Ey, what are you doin’ all the way over there, Aosta? C’mere!”
“I was going to take my clothes off before getting there,” Aosta replies. “Obviously.”
“Well, hurry it up, otherwise we’ll be starting without you!”
He sincerely doubts that, but nevertheless, works on stripping and collecting the garments the other two pass—or in Chiave’s case, vaguely toss—his way, and he’s barely done setting them somewhere someone won’t slip on in the morning before a warm hand closes around his wrist, pulling him around to face Chiave, grinning his infectious, devil-may-care grin a few inches above and away.
Any dry retort forming on his lips fades away. This time, he’ll let it go. Just the three of them, like this, safe, it’s not necessary.
He lets Chiave pull him over, where Broca has already moved back to make room for them, and with a shove between his shoulder blades, he’s pushed into Broca, and Chiave presses against his spine and his next breath is unsteady. Usually Chiave likes to be in the middle.
“Hey, don’t you want to—?”
“In a minute,” Chiave replies easily, kissing at the back of Aosta’s neck and making him shiver. A large hand slides up Aosta’s side and tugs his chin up, and he lets himself relax against Broca’s chest and kiss him.
Broca’s mouth is warm and familiar and welcoming, and his barbed tongue scrapes pleasantly at Aosta’s lips as he laps gently, the smooth slide of teeth and opening slowly. He never rushes in, always receptive but never hasty, patient while Aosta banishes his instinctive caution or Chiave gets ahead of himself—but here, well. There’s been less need for that caution.
It’s still a strange thought: that they’re safe here, in Rhodes Island. That they can relax, let down their barriers and just be themselves. It still doesn’t feel right. But with time, maybe it will.
Almost as if he can sense that Aosta’s mind hasn’t stopped thinking, Chiave’s fingers push through Aosta’s hair against the grain to knead at the bases of his ears, and his eyes roll up into his head as an overwhelming shudder courses down his spine, and he maybe lets out a tiny groan against Broca’s lips, and that’s when he licks into Aosta’s mouth and Chiave snickers against Aosta’s skin, biting lightly and sucking one of his huge sloppy marks onto his neck. Aosta’s next inhalation is a little unsteady, especially as the hand from his jaw moves to his thigh, broad and warm and rough with calluses, rubbing in slow circles and moving up tease at the base of his tail before smoothing back around over his stomach to fondle his dick. He wants for the life of him to fight back and not melt into a pliant puddle, but with Chiave still working at his ears and Broca flicking his tongue behind his teeth just the way he likes, it’s a losing battle. Unconsciously his breath starts coming fast and short, and while he still has the chance, he’s got to move out of the middle, otherwise…
He reaches back, blindly searching until his fingers close around the fluffy mass of Chiave’s tail, and tug sharply. He’s rewarded by a hiss, and Chiave’s fangs sink a little deeper into his neck, not quite deep enough to break skin but enough to hurt, and the little shock of pain grounds Aosta back in the moment. “Lay—lay off,” he gasps to their leader as Broca moves to his neck. “We’re switching.”
“Aw, but it’s been a while since you were in the middle, Aosta.” He lets go of Aosta’s ears, hands resting on his shoulders instead as he drags his tongue up the nape of Aosta’s neck. “Or do you not want to? Thought maybe you’d want a break from always coordinating everything.”
The consideration takes him by surprise, and really, it shouldn’t; Chiave may be an idiot in many ways, but he’s surprisingly attuned to his companions. Aosta shudders as Chiave drags his fingers through his tail, and from where he’s kissing down Aosta’s chest, Broca’s eyes flicker up to him again, waiting for an answer even as his hand stays where it is, stroking steadily.
“I—what do you want?”
“I would like to fuck you,” Chiave purrs, tugging lightly on his tail. Broca laves his tongue over one of Aosta’s nipples, and he shudders again.
“Broca?”
The feline shrugs his huge shoulders minutely. “You want me to shut him up, I can.” His tail slides around Aosta’s knee, the short fur scratchy in a nice way. Softer, he adds, “If you want me too, I’m good with it.”
Unbidden, the arrangements unfold themselves in Aosta’s mind, regardless of what Chiave said; he can’t help organizing everything anymore than he can help breathing at this point. But it’s not a bad idea, either, and it has been a while, and the images flashing through his mind are very welcome ones. “Yeah, alright,” he murmurs, and tugs Chiave’s tail again as the bastard grins gleefully against his skin. “I prefer that to double.” That’s Chiave’s thing. Not that Aosta minds it—it’s fun to trap Chiave between himself and Broca, to shut him up with tongue or fingers or reduce him to nothing but broken curses and stuttered moans and frantic gasps, and it’s nice in a weird way to be so close; the three of them, together, a single unit, moving in tandem, as close as can be. Chiave, though, is the only one masochistic or flexible enough to actually enjoy it.
Plan decided, all that’s left is to execute it.
“Like—like this is good,” Aosta says, and there’s a minute shifting of all bodies involved. Broca opens his legs a little wider and Aosta settles on his thighs, and Chiave behind where he can grind against Aosta’s ass, the damp tip of his cock smearing against the tops of his thighs before his arms come around Aosta’s chest, palms dragging down over Aosta’s collar and making him hiss, and Broca, solid and supportive, holds their weight as the hand he doesn’t have around Aosta’s dick reaches out to pull the lube from under one of their pillows. In a moment, with that same smooth efficiency, his slick fingers are around Aosta, skin now slick.
The velvety slide is perfect, and Aosta’s breathing stutters as he rolls against Broca’s abs, until his big callused hand curls around them so they move together, and the tiny barbs around the head of Broca’s dick stand out as he gets harder and his foreskin pulls back, pricking lightly at Aosta but not unpleasantly. He sighs, his huge damp chest shuddering, rolling up against Aosta, and he’s their rock, their support, their balance.
In his softest moments, Aosta thinks in the bottom of his heart that Broca is their missing piece. He loves Chiave fiercely despite all his idiocy, but at times he can be so trying. At his lowest Aosta has had instances when he’s been on the verge of coming to blows with Chiave—were it not for Broca intervening. He leans up and kisses Broca, letting himself moan softly into his mouth, conveying his feelings without words.
Chiave pulls him out of the kiss by the hair, tugging Aosta’s head backwards at a slightly painful angle to kiss him, sharp canines nipping at Aosta’s lip. His fingertips pinch at Aosta’s ears again and make him hiss, and he shudders as Chiave’s nails drag around the base of his tail and move underneath, pressing where he’s been rutting into the crease of Aosta’s thigh, smearing over already slick skin to press at his entrance.
“Easy,” Aosta mutters, and Chiave bites down, almost drawing blood.
“I know,” he growls, and laps at the back of Aosta’s neck before and curling his fingers inside, and Aosta shivers but relaxes, leaning back against him. As the shortest of the three, his head fits against Chiave’s shoulder, and it’s Broca who has to lean down a little to kiss him. It’s over all too soon, Broca moving back to slide out from under them, and Aosta settles more of his weight against Chiave. Chiave’s red tail flicks around Aosta’s waist, and he winds one hand into the fur and one into Chiave’s hair, holding tight as he rocks onto Chiave’s fingers.
It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, being stretched, and the ache soon disappears into something pleasant. His sharp nose picks up the musky scents of his companions, and instinctively, his body begins to relax at their familiarity. He rolls his hips slowly, sparks of pleasure starting to build in his spine, feeling Chiave still pressed against him, as patient as he’ll ever be, though it’s in no small part due to the two of them avidly watching Broca turn over, exposing his broad and powerful back to them; vulnerable, such a display of trust and love as his muscles flex and his tail flicks out of the way. His spine flexes beautifully as it bows and his fingers reach back to press into himself.
The noise he makes is barely audible, because Broca is never loud, nothing more than a soft sigh, but it’s a treat to see his eyes close as his brow furrows as he works himself open for them, and Aosta untangles one hand from Chiave to palm the lube from Broca, dipping two fingers in, and Broca hisses, his tail flicking in a way that he knows isn’t displeased. Broca opening himself up to them in the most intimate of ways is always a treat, and one of his eyes glances back at them as he moves his knees apart a little further. “Whenever—whenever you’re ready,” he says, black hair splayed out over the sheets.
Chiave nips at Aosta’s neck. “You good, Aosta?”
He shifts a little, and nods. “Yeah.”
There’s another careful rearrangement of limbs, and it’s a bit of a relief to rest some of his weight on Broca’s back, nosing at the nape of his neck, and Aosta swallows back a whine as Chiave bites the curve of his ass before he presses the head of his cock against him—and pushes inside. It’s nothing but smoothness, the stretch of him, the feel of him familiar and a little heady, and Aosta exhales, shuddering, as Chiave tucks his chin over his shoulder, leaning heavily against Aosta’s spine and urging him down. This is good enough, but far be it from him to leave Broca hanging when he’s been so patient, and as Broca spreads himself with two fingers Aosta aligns his cock, and moans softly as Broca takes him easily and murmurs his name.
This; this is good. Aosta rests his chest against Broca’s back and shudders at the tight heat engulfing him, and Chiave’s panting breaths puff out hot against his ear as his hips give little involuntary twitches inside him.
They’re so close. They’re one unit. Inseparable. A warm, choking feeling wells up thick in Aosta’s chest, and it’s kinda sad that it took him so long to realize that that’s the feeling called love, but better late than never. It’s so strange how most of the time he barely feels it, more like some nebulous idea for sentimental, innocent fools, but at moments like this, it comes roaring to the forefront and makes him wonder how he could ever forget that it exists.
It’s that feeling that makes him lift his forehead from Broca’s shoulder and pepper his skin with kisses and little nips, tiny gentle bites that make goosebumps spring up over his skin, and Chiave tugs at Aosta’s ear with his teeth and Aosta’s jerk is completely involuntary, sending him deeper into Broca and it’s a chain reaction, a waterfall: Broca gasps and Aosta barely holds back a cry and Chiave rocks deeper and makes a pleading noise. “Aosta—”
“Y-yeah, j-just go ahead—”
That’s all the permission Chiave needs, pulling back and snapping his hips deep, barely giving Aosta a chance to move with him, but be it through experience or familiarity, he manages to fall into a rhythm with him: rolling into Broca when Chiave thrusts into him, the three of them moving in tandem, skin on skin, hands gliding over sweaty skin, finding sensitive spots on instinct and pinching, scratching, pulling, rubbing; mouths seeking, kissing, biting, sucking; the three of them close as can be, tangled up in each other, not loud but only their own sounds filling the room and drowning out any mechanical hum of the landship with panting breath and quiet groans. It’s all so good, it’s almost intoxicating, and Aosta feels heady and drunk on sensation, carried away trapped between two hot bodies—his two companions, the two people he’d trust with his life.
There’s a tiny part of him that protests the loss of control, of letting himself get swept away—but for once, it’s easy to let that little part of him be drowned out, be silenced, to close his eyes and just let himself trust and feel and move with them, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, like well-oiled machinery or a ribbon of gradient color, each one flowing and blending into the other until their boundaries are indistinct, until they’re one and the same.
Broca takes Aosta’s hand, guiding it over his side and down into the dip of his hip with unsteady fingers, wrapping it around his hot length, and Chiave changes his angle slightly, pounding against Aosta’s prostate and he chokes, especially as the motion sends him deeper into Broca, and he’s shuddering uncontrollably under Aosta, hissing softly with each exhale. They’re not going to last much longer, none of them, not with the way Chiave is moving faster and faster, losing some of the rhythm and panting harshly in Aosta’s ear, and Aosta focuses on Broca, stroking him firm and quick, rubbing his thumb around the barbs as Broca cants his hips up into Aosta.
Chiave’s teeth sink into the back of Aosta’s neck, followed by his tongue, and the shock of pain – pleasure takes his breath away, and as Chiave’s hips stutter and grind and slow as he comes, he tweaks Aosta’s ears and all Aosta can do is smother is a groan into Broca’s shoulder as he follows, carried away as all sensation overwhelms him and his world melts briefly into nothing but heat and skin.
Then he lifts his head, hissing as Chiave moves back, and Aosta goes with him, pushing at Broca’s shoulder to turn him over, and he goes willingly, spreading his legs, rock hard and flushed, and as one, Aosta and Chiave kneel between his thighs and take him into their mouths. Chiave engulfs his head and Aosta drags his tongue down his length and sucks lightly on his balls, and Broca’s hands descends on both their heads as he chokes out a warning. Chiave sinks his head and swallows him down his throat, and Aosta moves back, stroking Broca’s abs as he comes, head thrown back.
He falls back on the bed, and Chiave atop him as Aosta slides off to fetch a cloth. By the time he gets back, Chiave is already dozing off, Broca cradling him against his chest with one arm. Chiave stirs at Aosta’s touch, raising his head to give sleepy kisses to anything and anyone within reach. No sooner does Aosta finish with him than does he flop over, eyes closed and halfway gone. Aosta flicks his forehead, then ruffles his hair before moving on.
Broca takes the cloth from Aosta’s hand, pulling him in for a kiss, warm and open, palm on the side of his neck. Aosta can’t help but melt into it, leaning into the touch even as he wrests the cloth from Broca’s fingers to wipe him down. It’s nothing but affection, comfortable and familiar, and he can’t help but savor it, since they have the opportunity to give and grant it freely. He does himself last, and he’s barely finished before Broca is drawing him back against his side, lying back on the bed and rearranging their limbs. Chiave makes the very faintest snoring noises, and Aosta is vaguely tempted to pinch his tail just to make him jolt awake, but he refrains. He’s an idiot, but he’s their idiot.
Instead he lets Broca enfold him in one big arm, and he nestles the sleeping Chiave with the other on the other side. Big enough to support the both of them, Aosta thinks as he rests his head on Broca’s shoulder; no, all three of them. Unconsciously, his hand creeps across Broca’s chest, and he feels safe, curled against his side like this, and he knows that despite everything, the reason Chiave is able to sleep like this is because he feels the same.
Again the thought comes that the three of them are a unit, inseparable, compensating for each other’s weaknesses. Chiave wears his heart on his sleeve, that openness of his something neither Aosta nor Broca can share, at once one of Chiave’s greatest gifts but also one of his flaws. The same goes for Aosta’s organizational mind, and Broca’s guarded nature. Each of these are their unique strengths, but also the things that will lead them into the darkness left unchecked.
But it’s alright, because as long as they’re together, they can make it work, they can look out for each other. The trust between them is steady and solid, firm and supportive as a rock, and Aosta finds himself drifting, content with the fact that he doesn’t need to state his love for the both of them.