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Martín is fixating on a springy black curl that caresses sunkissed skin stretched thin over muscles that lock and release. The man moves in a fluid slither, planting his arms deep in the mattress and twisting the pristine white sheets in his fists as he pushes back in a welcoming counter-tempo. He’s nothing like Andrés, not in the way he looks, not in the way he moves; yet he’s perfect. Martín isn't looking for a copy of Andrés anyway, it's not really about that. In a weird way, this arrangement they have is probably the most mature either of them has ever been about anything in their lives. So no, Martín isn't looking for a doppelgänger of the man he loves, he's just looking for a guy who's eager to take his cock.
His name is Tomás, and he’s very eager. He approached Martín first, acting ever so slightly cattily towards Andrés until the proposition was laid out to him, at which point he just measured Andrés head to toe and just shrugged. Sure.
Andrés occupies the armchair under the reading light, his silken robe parted all the way down. He’s wearing nothing underneath and still manages to look regal and not obscene, the way he sprawls comfortably, with his knees wide and his cock standing hard. He’s watching them. Enjoying it. He’s hardly touched himself - yet - but Martín reads it in him, in the way his fingers curl in fists like he's fighting to hold himself back.
Every time they do this, Andrés only grows bolder. Last time, he got out of his armchair and onto the bed with them; he held Martín through his orgasm, whispering the filthiest encouragements in his ear. The time before that, Andrés got himself off out in the open, no longer hidden by the luscious silk of his robe or the cotton of his pants.
Now, the robe frames his chest, his legs, its deep crimson such a beautiful contrast to his skin. The guy - Tomás - can’t seem to take his eyes off him, even as he’s bounced back and forth on Martín’s cock.
“You sure you don’t— “ Tomás moans, and his head sinks between his shoulders for a second before he gathers the composure to look up at Andrés again. “Join us?”
“You know the deal,” says Martín, strangely possessive. It's hardly rational; he's the one fucking someone else, and yet he’s jealous. He tries for restraint when he lets his hand caress up Tomás’ spine, he really tries for gentleness, but as soon as he reaches the base of his neck, he pushes down. Tomás folds his elbows, yielding soft and pliant, laughing as he rubs his cheek on the sheets and settles. He doesn't protest, doesn't insist anymore - if anything, he's pushing harder into Martín's thrusts.
He was shy at first, when they got home. Between kisses, he stole nervous glances at Andrés, trying to gauge his reaction, but that nervousness soon morphed into something akin to seeking approval, and then to unabashed exhibitionism.
Martín found that he also shares that drive to show off, to be seen. He didn’t expect that of himself, and certainly not like this, and yet here he is, loving every second of it. He loves that he can bring three people off like this - and he’s still somehow the one getting the most out of it. He fucks harder, raking his nails down Tomás’ spine, taking genuine delight in the way it dips so easily, the way he yields. And he’s good, Tomás; he makes these broken moans and he clenches and flutters and bucks; he’s livewire in Martín’s hands, so hungry for it, so needy.
For a moment, Martín forgets all about Andrés in his armchair, he’s so swept up in the writhing of their bodies, the gasps and moans and skin on skin; he groans, slipping a hand around Tomás’ chest, pulling him up on his haunches. He’s got him helpless like this, propped up by Martín’s chest, completely open, his body a canvas begging to be touched. He’s smooth all over - such a startling change from the rawness that was Andrés’ body, with scars and hair dusting his chest, his thighs, framing his cock - Tomás is soft skin wrapped around sinew and muscle, a rude tan line low on his hips and a tattoo between his shoulder blades. He’s hanging on to Martín’s arm like it’s a tether and he’s afraid he’ll come unmoored; throwing his head back with moans that grow deeper and deeper, and when he finally unlatches a hand it’s not to touch himself but to reach back, pulling Martín even closer.
It’s only when he whimpers, a completely new register of noises from before, that Martín becomes once more aware that they’re not alone. Andrés is standing right by the bed, delicate fingers tipping Tomás’ head back. Martín didn’t even notice him moving so the shock of seeing him right there runs like a lightning bolt of liquid pleasure, spreading hotly through his veins.
“I wish I could paint you both,” Andrés says, darting his eyes between Martín and the man between them. “I can see it on your face; what he’s doing to you. What it feels like.”
“Amazing,” Tomás whispers, then moans. “He feels amazing.”
“He does,” says Andrés with a mischievous smile that’s just for the two of them to decipher.
The bed dips when Andrés climbs in with them, up on his knees, and Tomás widens his stance as a welcome. He doesn’t know that he’s a first, that never has Andrés been interested in the other man; he just basks in the attention, gasping at Andrés’ touch, his closeness. Andrés toys with him, teasing with his lips close to Tomás’, parting in false promise before moving on to kiss his jaw instead, tipping his head to the side.
There’s a stirring of possessiveness in Martín when he sees the look of sheer want on Andrés’ face, but it’s a small spark that dies out quick, leaving nothing but mirrored desire.
Andrés is curious, he wants to see - and Martín is always there to enable him. He slows down his thrusts to a deep grind, gathering Tomás’ arms behind his back, allowing Andrés to explore him at his leisure. This has to be the first cock that Andrés has touched that’s not Martín’s or his own; Martín can read the fascination on his face as he can’t make up his mind where to keep his eyes - on Tomás’ face or on his cock. And whatever he’s doing, he seems to be doing it right - Martín can vouch for the talent inherent in those fingers, and Tomás agrees with his whole body. The guy is putty in Martín’s hands, under Andrés’ fingers. His head slowly lolls back and onto Martín’s shoulder; he allows himself to be manhandled like this, used and pleasured, and he quickly melts away like the last smudge of a cloud on a sunny day.
Andrés sees it too, he laughs softly then gets even closer, boxing in Tomás between their bodies. His hand still moves on his cock, though slower now, and his attention switches to Martín. He’s not saying anything, not with words, but there’s a fire in his eyes that Martín is absolutely parched for. So he forgets all about Tomás, despite the way his body is growing tighter and more taught, he’s focused solely on the way Andrés parts his lips, then licks them, before he lunges to cover them with his own.
It’s an uncomfortable angle, although Tomás doesn’t protest - if anything, his moans grow higher, more urgent with how he’s squeezed between them—a foreign body, accepted. All noises are reduced to gasps, breath that’s caught in his chest as Andrés finally draws back and refocuses all his attention on him.
“If you don’t—” the rest of the sentence freezes in Tomás’ throat, he keens and his body curls forward as if to protect itself from the onslaught of pleasure. His head falls on Andrés’ chest and he’s panting, his fingers squeezing and releasing against Martín’s chest where they were pinned. “I’m gonna come,” he says, and then immediately does.
Andrés holds him through it, though not with the same look of devotion he had when he held Martín; he watches Tomás exhale and melt into his arms, watches the play of his muscles through his orgasm, then finds Martín’s eyes, as full of wonder as his own.
“You did so good,” he says - to Tomás, presumably, although it’s not his eyes that he’s looking into as he says it. He’s only allowing Tomás a couple of moments before he pushes him back up against Martín’s chest - still impaled on Martín’s cock - and tipping his head up to look at him again. “Would you like him to keep going, or do you need a break?”
Andrés hasn’t come, Martín is sure of it - he knows every sign of it, sometimes he seems to know it’s coming even before Andrés does. Yet he seems in no hurry to do so, unlike Martín, who’s been cresting that edge dangerously long and had to slow his movements to a halt to ensure Tomás’ climax won’t claim his own. Relax. Martín takes a deep breath, trying to root himself to something that’s not the sensation that’s blooming in the pit of his stomach, but it’s not easy, not in the searing vice of Tomás’ asshole, not with Andrés looking absolutely wrecked in his arms.
“Oh my god,” Tomás says, still catching his breath. “Break.”
It would be rude to push him to the side, no matter how much he’d love to do just that, so Martín tries to be gentle as he pulls out, helping Andrés rearrange the fucked-out Tomás on the bed. And as soon as he’s rolled himself over to his belly and is lazily watching them from behind a few rebellious curls that spill over his eyes, he’s entirely forgotten.
“Beautiful,” says Andrés, as he gets up on his knees, hands curling around Martín’s hips and pulling him closer, against his chest. He presses his forehead to Martín’s in a gesture that’s second nature by now, instinct. “I love seeing that look on your face, even if I’m not the one coaxing it out of you. I see how it’s different than when I—”
Martín’s too far gone for all of Andrés’ romanticism by this point - he needs to come, and he intends to take Andrés with him. Maybe it’s cheating to take Andrés’ cock in hand and to begin to stroke him at the same time that he ducks his head to gently bite then suck at a sliver of skin on Andrés’ neck, but he’s not above taking what he needs - and what he needs is—
“I want to see you come,” whispers Andrés.
That.
Martín smiles, unlatching his lips from Andrés’ neck where he made sure to leave yet more evidence of his little claims - the ones that Andrés so flawlessly hides behind his turtlenecks, but that he always cherishes in private, following their contours with his fingertips in the mirror when he thinks no one can see him.
“Yes,” Martín agrees, nonsensically. He tries to move away, gesturing towards the bedside table, “let me get—”
Andrés pulls him right back, wrapping his fingers around Martín’s cock, mirroring him. “Like this,” he says. “Come on.”
Martín would like to think it’s the lack of the condom, the sudden contact of skin to skin that makes Andrés’ touch seem elevated compared to when he was buried in Tomás’ ass not minutes ago. But it’s the fact that it’s him that makes it weigh some much more, that transcends the mere physical side of it. It’s not just a hand around his cock or the tongue that slides against his own, it’s all that love that grew and took root between them that somehow magnifies every sensation.
“You look different when you fuck them,” says Andrés. Them. The men they pick together for Martín to fuck - not as much a proxy for Andrés as a means for him to give Martín what he, himself, can’t give. “Did you know it’s not the same kind of pleasure I see on your face as I take you? It’s something else, it feeds—”
“Amazing,” says Martín. He’s impatient, only half processing what Andrés is saying - the words, at least, because the wave of arousal that seeps from them already courses through him. He doesn’t have it in him to explain why he loves being fucked, why he wishes Andrés could share in all those feelings; all he wants, with a singular focus, is to come. He begins thrusting his hips slightly, fucking Andrés’ fist as much as he’s being milked. He’s incoherent soon enough, when Andrés removes his hand, grip loosened and rhythm more broken than not, and gets them both is his palm.
“Come on, amor. Come for me,” says Andrés, and he just— does.
It’s as if that last permission, that encouragement was the dam that held his climax at bay and it was suddenly lifted, letting everything surge through. All that Martín can do is to grab at Andrés - his arms, his back, his thighs, whatever part of him he can as if either of them is going to float away if he doesn’t. He comes, every wave of pleasure, every spurt of his cock feeling like a revelation, and when it’s all subsided, when he’s finally come back to himself he sees that Andrés is right there with him.
There’s a certain look of surprise on Andrés’ face when he comes, like he didn’t expect it to feel this good, like he didn’t know— Every time, that wonder morphs into abandon; moments when Andrés is simply a creature of pleasure that then melts with a soft sigh and a serene smile.
Martín is speechless and, for a change, he’s not the only one. He’s too tired to even consider a proper clean-up, he just lays on his side and draws Andrés in his lap, spooning him. Martín lifts his head, looking at the cheeky cherub that is Tomás, who’s got an arm folded under his head and a knee hiked up, teasing the darker skin of his sac. Shame they decided to never see the same guy twice, this one showed a great deal of potential - and Andrés seemed to like him too. But it’s fine, Martín thinks as Andrés captures Martín’s hand in his own and weaves their fingers together, it was never about them. It isn’t even about topping, Martín doesn’t need it; it’s about the way the whole experience paradoxically seems to bring them closer - even when there’s a proxy. Even when they’re three, it’s always about the two of them.