#hatsome

Smith is tired, in that state of mind where nothing sticks and any inputs seeking his attention receive a delayed response. At some point, likely because of Ross' matching drowsiness, they stopped making cohesive decisions about what to watch on TV in favour of letting the programming run and now, rolling his head on the sofa arm to squint at the screen, Smith is faintly bemused to acknowledge a nature documentary showcasing how ants use pheromones to communicate.

He lifts his head, lips parted with the intention of voicing his confusion to Ross, but as soon as his gaze alights on him they close again, curling into a soft smile. Ross is barely keeping his eyes open, resting his cheek on one hand - propped up by its corresponding elbow on the sofa - and is so close to drifting off that it takes a few seconds before he notices Smith's attention. Even then, he tilts his head first as though the documentary is far more intriguing and slowly follows with his eyes.

"What?" He murmurs and sits up for a second, only to sink into the cushions and support his head on them instead.

"Why're we watching this?" Smith asks in equally subdued tones and extends the leg that isn't already resting its ankle on Ross' thigh, nudging a foot into his hip.

"S'just on, isn't it," Ross shrugs, reaching down to coil stopping fingers around Smith's ankle. This time, when he tilts his face towards Smith, he carries a tired smirk on his lips, sneaking secret dimples into his cheek, "change the channel if you're that bothered."

"Chuck us the remote, then," Smith jostles his leg, trying to free it from Ross' loose grasp, but all this does is broaden Ross' smirk into a taunting half-grin.

"It's literally next to you," Ross replies yet leans over anyway, carrying on the pretence that he only has the controller in mind right up until his hand is parallel to Smith's hip, trapped between it and the cushions, and his other can tease its way under the hem of his t-shirt, looping a thumb into a belt loop.

"Ross," regardless of the lazy warning present in his voice, Smith pushes himself onto a propped elbow and feels quiet delight trickling along his bones when he brushes affectionate fingers past Ross' temple.

"What?" Ross smirks, coy as anything, and presses a small kiss to the delicately soft pulse point in Smith's wrist.

"That's not the remote," flickering interest is starting to eclipse exhaustion in Smith's veins, a warmth of intention starting at the fingerprints Ross is leaving on his lower stomach and writhing up, past his ribs, to glow promisingly behind his softening gaze.

"Sod the remote," Ross chuckles and, determined to taste the embers smoking out Smith's eyes, carefully lowers himself so that their lips can find each other with an ease that sings in his chest.

Whilst Smith slides his hand into Ross' hair, Ross' slips easily into the bow of his back, pressing palm to skin and encouraging the slowly washing contentment this brings in abundance. Humming, tilting his head to create a seamless connection, Smith fights the urge to smile when Ross follows his lead and gradually rearranges his legs, allowing Ross to settle between them. The promise of something more, something satisfyingly dizzying, builds between their aligned hips like summertime humidity, drenching skin in rousing adrenaline and raising goosebumps in the wake of roaming touches. Starting off slow, almost teasing the shifting air, they roll into one another like opposing tides and steadily fill ceaseless mouths with luminescent seafoam; wash away any lingering dreariness and replacing it with invigorating warmth.

"Mm-," Smith's fingers twitch on Ross' nape as a change of angle threatens his leg's stability, almost sending it off the edge of the sofa.

"You alright?" Ross asks, though his lips merely move to Smith's cheek rather than obstructing his mouth as if he cannot bear to be parted for more than a split second.

"There's not enough room for-," Smith's would-be sentence cracks in two, splintering around a quiet moan, and Ross' grin presses a goading crescent against his cheek as his hand, cupped and welcoming, finds the firmness behind Smith's fly.

As always, ribbons of pure delight unspool and helix around Ross' veins until they wrap around his heart to draw out skipped pulses. Little time is wasted in getting Smith's jeans undone, and even less delay can be attributed to pushing his hand into the tight yield between Smith's dick and jeans. Smudging a moan into his cheek, feeling Smith's hitching inhale against his chest as a whetstone on which he can sharpen desire, Ross forgets he was meant to be tired, forgets the tedious documentary still playing on the TV, and angles his hips, facilitating the subtle rub of his front against Smith's thigh to the metronome of his cursory strokes.

"Wait, hang on," Smith mumbles breathlessly and pushes a separating hand between their chests, leading Ross up.

"What's wrong, mate?" Ross huffs in exasperation, but stops his touches and rests his skittish palm on Smith's stomach instead.

"There's really not enough room," Smith smirks, "I'm almost falling off the bloody sofa." Inspiration strikes then, latching on to a casual announcement made by their absent third earlier, and assists the devilish curl of his grin, "isn't Trott in the bath?"

"You know he's gonna hate that," Ross points out, though it lacks conviction and his eyes won't leave Smith's mouth.

"Since when has that stopped me?" Smith counters and, applying gentle pressure with his hand, guides Ross up in tandem with his own upwards tilt, "come on, you know you want to."

"I hate how convincing you are," Ross chuckles and melts one more hard kiss on the furnace of Smith's mouth before unfurling his limbs, climbing off the sofa with Smith in tow.

In the bathroom, engulfed in slowly dissolving bubbles and partially listening to the mellow melody of a relaxing playlist, Trott closes his eyes, sighs deeply and sinks further below the warm water. It has been ages since he last did this and the knots tangled around his muscles by a recent gym session are steadily unwinding beneath his skin. Of course, he thinks about the others, doubts he is truly able not to, but each thought floats past his mind with ease and none stick to his synapses for long. And then, a pebble in the shoe of his relaxation: Smith's voice murmuring beyond the door and growing louder as he approaches.

A second later, the door opens - Trott really should have locked it - and his eyes open into an admonishing squint pointed directly at Smith leaning smugly on the jamb with an apologetic Ross over his shoulder.

"Why?" Trott drawls, not needing an elaboration or any further questions when his glare is self-evident.

"Having fun in here?" Smith waltzes up to the tub and crouches, leaning folded arms on its edge.

"That's not the point and you know it," Trott sits up, water and foam crackling with the motion, and brings up a hand to shove steam-dampened hair back from his forehead. "Can I not have five minutes without you two hassling me?" His gaze, accusatory and sharp, flicks up to make Ross fidget.

"Don't look at me," Ross defends, "this was Smith's idea."

"Didn't stop him though, did you?" Bringing a knee up, Trott rests a wrist on its apex and returns to derisively scrutinising Smith's licentious expression; noting the shadows in his eyes, the faint pink dusted across his cheeks and a ruddiness to his lips which implies recent kissing. "Stop looking at me like that," he warns him.

"Like what?" One of Smith's hands abandons his folded arms and drops, skimming fingers beneath the water level and creating subtle ripples.

"You know what: like you're seconds away from getting in here with me," Trott is keenly aware that Smith's hand is carefully drifting closer to him, yet maintains eye contact like it is a challenge he can't back down from. "I was trying to relax," he points out sternly.

"You know what else is relaxing?" Smith counters and leans forwards, submerging his forearm in order to reach the real reason he put his hand in the water. Finding Trott half-hard cuts a knowing grin across his lips; watching his eyes flicker and encouraging cursory firmness with careful touches raises a tiny thrill up his spine. "Tell me to stop, if you're so against it."

"Fucking hell," Trott exhales and then, with more intention, looks up at where Ross has silently come closer, "come here, mate," he implores, extending a hand to receive Ross' cheek when he kneels at Smith's side.

The porcelain squeaks as Trott shifts his body, both giving Smith permission by parting his legs as much as possible in the limited space and tilting towards Ross so that guiding him forwards in aid of closing the gap between them is done easily. Keeping Ross close, his fingers slide into his hair alongside their lips opening against each other and a full-bodied shiver weaves through every limb when Smith, borrowing rhythm from the kiss, starts stroking him properly. He would have liked to continue his bath, yet can't lie to himself and say that drinking Ross' muted murmurs of enjoyment whilst bearing the shift and rush of water sluicing around Smith's hand isn't an extremely worthwhile distraction.

"Since this was Smith's idea," Trott murmurs thickly once sufficient softness has been committed to memory and ensures full eye contact is established with Ross, creating premonitions in the guise of sparks, as he adds, "take your clothes off and get in here."

"You say that like it's a punishment," Smith comments, withdrawing his hand and sloping a fiery gaze towards Ross, watching him remove his t-shirt, "like I'm not super into seeing you two together."

"You won't mind getting the lube from the mirror, then?" Whilst Trott's smirk is angled at Smith, he too is beholden to Ross' gradually exposed skin and follows Ross' hands undoing his belt with intimate darkness collecting in his irises.

"Obviously not." Though, Smith can't resist leaning into Ross when he half-turns away from the bath and dropping a kiss to his shoulder as a pitstop in his upwards journey. Whilst Ross' head twitches towards the touch, he is in the middle of getting his jeans off and, as such, does nothing further.

Removing his boxers is a little more difficult, given how inordinately turned on he is, but then he is levering himself into the bath, shivering as the temperate water rushes across his limbs, and slants a devilish grin at Trott when he shifts back slightly to allow him room. Space is limited, adding hesitancy where actions might usually be free-flowing, yet the effort is entirely worth it once Trott has braced forearms on the bath's edges, lifted his legs and bent them at Ross' sides because the melting together of fervent, aching skin washes synchronised moans through lungs contracted by pleasure. To begin with, Ross is mesmerised, studying the swirling arousal in Trott's eyes and resting their foreheads together, and only looks away when the overflow, protesting the body-to-water ratio, gurgles ominously.

"Might have to change position," Trott murmurs and, feeling that he should make the most of being able to, cups Ross' face in both hands, tracing smile lines with affectionate thumbs, "there's definitely not enough room for you to fuck me this way."

"Could probably do it over the side of the tub," Ross suggests, "if Smith is happy to support you from behind, that is."

Both look up at Smith's nearby enraptured stance, Ross raising his eyebrows and running a hot stare down to pool promises around Smith's arched, open fly, and Trott not bothering with concealment in regards to his taunting smirk. It is clear Smith hadn't heard Ross' proposition because he doesn't react to it, simply lowers to his knees, draws himself forwards using a hand on the bath, and hooks an immediately hungry kiss onto Ross' mouth.

"Christ," Trott hisses, enthralled by the act taking place in front of him and bearing a twitch against his lower stomach which tells him exactly how Ross feels about it. Unable to help himself, he submerges a hand, coils wanton fingers around warmth, and smirks when this has the desired effect of a moan rolling its way up Ross' throat to stain Smith's mouth.

"God, that's so hot," Smith murmurs earnestly and leans back, "where did you want me, again?"

"Stay there a sec," Trott instructs and looks down, figuring out the easiest route whilst not kicking anywhere delicate.

"Need help?" Ross slides hands under Trott's thighs, skimming them upwards to imply potential assistance.

"Uh, yeah, actually," a taunt unravels along Trott's mouth, "if you think you can lift me."

"Guess we'll find out," Ross grins back, leaning closer and making it easier for Trott to loop an arm around his shoulders. Somehow, perhaps facilitated by the water, he manages to pull him towards his lap and turn, settling him on the edge of the bath without causing injury. In hindsight, it could have gone a whole lot worse, and Smith quickly reaching out to steady Trott's hips definitely helped.

"Wow," Trott snorts, tilting and supporting his back on Smith's chest, "went better than I expected."

"Genuinely thought I was gonna drop you," Ross chuckles but then gets distracted; Smith's hands slide across Trott's stomach, catching minute quivers, and when Ross glances up his breath gets stuck in his throat thanks to Smith's incendiary stare pointing at him through lidded eyes. "You good there, Smith?" He asks with facsimile coyness.

"Oh," Smith grins and conjures goosebumps where his mouth brushes Trott's trap, "yeah, I'm really good." Turning his head, following the line of Trott's throat with his nose, he skims one hand down, smudges pleasure into feverish skin - provoking a jolt in his hips that Ross feels as well as sees - and adds, "really, really good," in a deliciously low timbre.

"Hh- fuck," a flicker passes across Trott's features, briefly closing his eyes and parting his lips, until grounding clarity is drawn out beneath the hand he clasps to Ross' shoulder and allows him to open them again, "Ross, hurry up and stick your fingers in me, mate? I'm getting a bit desperate."

"Alright, Christ," Ross exhales a laugh, "where's the- oh," without him finishing his query, Smith has already lifted the hand not currently gliding a slow path along Trott, holding the lube out for him. "Thanks," he smirks, taking it, and shares an indecent look with Smith past Trott's shoulder.

"Welcome," Smith's response is murmured, still obstructed by Trott's skin, but his eyes follow Ross' every move, gaining a gradually rising anticipation within his veins whilst tracking applied slipperiness and occasionally lingering on shifting arm muscles. He isn't disappointed when Ross doesn't meet him, when he speaks carefully to Trott and applies full focus to coyly preparing him; watching them like this, curling intimate jokes within cautious check-ins, always elicits promising sparks in his bloodstream and simply being close by is enough to satisfy any yearning which dares fill his thoughts.

Ross more than makes up for it once Trott's thighs have been lifted and he has slid between their illicit bow, bracing his hands on the bath's edge and leaning close enough that he can easily understand Smith tilting his head up as an invitation. Bearing the weight of Trott's shoulder blades digging into his chest, eclipsing Ross' hands with his own, Smith hums eagerness along the parting seam of Ross' lips until a tiny wavering movement shifts against his stomach, denoting Trott moving, and Ross slips away on the wings of a moan.

In the background of collecting intense, intrusive pressure where his body connects to Ross' or tipping his head back when Smith's fingers travel well-worn - yet by no means dulled - pathways along heightened nerve endings, Trott is aware his stability is precarious; hinging on Smith's chest keeping his back steady and his arm or legs wrapped around Ross. He was already wet thanks to the bath and now, with sweat gathering under his hands or sticking him to Smith, he is practically sliding everywhere which, whilst it isn't necessarily a bad thing, isn't particularly helpful at present.

"Fucking-," he sighs, exasperated and too on edge to be otherwise, and taps Ross' shoulder with barely moving fingers, "stop a sec, I feel like I'm gonna fall off any second.

"Okay, uh," Ross blinks away some of the foggy pleasure clouding his judgement and pauses, despite how annoying his libido finds it, "where d'you wanna go instead?"

"If we-," Trott sucks on his teeth and tries to focus on anything that isn't the tension of Ross' dick inside him.

"Could always drain some of the water," Smith suggests, resting his chin on Trott's shoulder, "I reckon there's enough room for Ross to sort-of lie down, if you're happy riding him."

"Yeah, but," it's hard for Trott to turn, to find Smith's eyes, and settles on a vague impression in his periphery, "what about you?"

"I mean, I can ride him instead if you want," it is clear from the curve that Smith's grin brands on Trott's skin that this is meant as a joke, one that makes Trott direct a withering smirk at Ross, but Smith continues, "no, seriously though, I meant what I said: I'm happy watching. Plus," the grin comes back in full force, "I'm sure you'll make it up to me."

"...Alright, fine," Trott sighs, not really wanting to argue right now when he has better things to worry about, and lightly squeezes his muscles around Ross to grab his attention, "Ross?

"Fuck," Ross crackles before sensation fades enough for a proper response, at which point he flicks a simmering glance at Trott's grin and resists the urge to thrust forwards, "yeah, sure. I'm not gonna complain, am I?" Carefully pulling out whilst keeping supporting hands on Trott's thighs is a little tricky, especially when his eyes flicker beneath small waves of pleasure, but once Trott is perched on the edge of the bath with Smith's arms around his waist, he is free to tilt and turn the plug release. Which, he is bemused to note, is perfectly framed by Trott's calves and therefore gives him a good reason to kiss his knee as he reaches for it.

"Alright, I think that's enough," Trott murmurs once only his ankles are submerged and gathers incendiary sparks on the smirk he points at Ross, "lie down, mate."

"Like telling me what to do?" Ross quips but turns, settling into a recline with his back against the end of the tub; waiting for Trott to join him with barely any patience left.

"Depends," Trott replies airily, carefully drawing Smith's arms away, and slowly slides into the bath. It's a tight fit for his knees either side of Ross' hips, but he pauses, waiting for Ross to rearrange himself, and suppresses a shiver when the cooling water washes around his legs. Ross sits up a little, pressing guidance into his lower back with a gentle hand and reaching down to align his tip to Trott's entrance when Trott lowers enough.

"On what?" He manages to press, rubbing against Trott and accumulating a steady trickle of pleasure along his length.

"On whether you like it," Trott sways downwards, drawing Ross into himself, and swallows a moan to add, thicker than before, "when I tell you what to do."

"Fuck," Ross exhales unconsciously, his eyes flicker whilst cohesion returns from where sprightly sensation threw it, and then his mouth tilts off-centre around, "why don't you try it and find out?"

"Come on, Ross," Trott rumbles and leans in, bracing hands on Ross' shoulders, "fuck me hard like a good boy."

"Christ," This is Smith, watching events unfold and tentatively relieving the taut frustration beneath his boxers with his hand, and splits into a wry grin when twinned bemusement tilts towards him, "what? That's hot shit and you know it."

"He's right," wrapping an arm around Trott, seamlessly sewing its swell into the dip of his lower back, Ross tips close enough to haunt Trott's lips with promises of his own and effortlessly shunts his hips forwards - an act facilitated by the slippery porcelain beneath him - to buck sharp pleasure past Trott's tailbone. "You always look so hot fucking- taking it."

"Oh my god," Trott loses grip on reality a little, his hands slipping on Ross' shoulders thanks to shuddering, early euphoria, and closes his eyes as it all washes over him, resting his forehead on Ross' for stability. Any control he contained previously is gone now, sending his hips back and forth without instruction beyond impulse and working warm, fluttering moans all the way up his core, past his stomach, through his throat until they emerge to stain Ross' cheek. He loves this, loves the intrusive intensity of it and the shiver of Ross' atoms rubbing against his own; the inescapable storm crackling ecstasy across their bones and dousing their skin in desperation. More than those elements combined, however, he adores the heat, eagerness and enthusiasm he sees pooling in Ross' eyes when he opens his own to see it.

"Good?" Ross asks in a deliciously resonant tone.

"Fuck yeah," Trott exhales shakily and circles his hips, tensing intermittently wavering muscles around Ross to force a gruff moan out of his chest.

"God," Ross' fingers dig into Trott's hip and thigh, absorbing clarity from the dimples they create until enough has been garnered to allow him turning his head, addressing Smith, "you doing okay, Smith?"

"Oh, absolutely," Smith smirks, the rapid shifts of his arm denoting his solitary satisfaction, and breaks into a luxurious grin when his next words are too tantalising to resist, "don't worry about me; get stuck in."

"Yeah, go on, Ross," Trott adds breathlessly and laboriously moves his legs, extending them enough that they can loosely encompass Ross' hips and provide leverage, "fucking give it to me."

"Fuck it," Ross huffs. His hands slide onto the uppermost curve of Trott's thighs, fingers digging into and pulling at him, whilst his face buries itself in that wonderfully scented slope where Trott's shoulder veers off towards his neck. With his racing pulse acting as a metronome, he conducts a dizzying rhythm between sliding, bucking hips and grabbing, pushing hands; receives melodic moans in his ear direct from Trott's mouth and feels them vibrate through their connected extremities like thunder. In the background of clawing himself closer and closer to an ending he needs like his lungs need oxygen, he is faintly aware that Trott's hands are clasped over his own, holding him in place, and that the limiting space in the bath is detrimental to his sprawl, yet these inputs are ephemeral, phantasmal, and barely scratch the surface of his buzzing thoughts.

Having given up on supporting his weight on the bath, Smith is now seated on the floor, watching over its rim instead. The sight of Ross throwing his effort into the act is astonishingly vivid, painting his insides in the glowing hues of wildfires; flashy, burning flames that only grow and consume his veins beneath the increasingly slick strokes he is applying to himself. He believes there is nothing more exhilarating or otherworldly than watching the two people he loves most collide in this way, until Trott turns his head, smears their equally inky gazes together, and unspools a truly hedonistic grin across flushed, sweat-shiny cheeks.

"Fuck, Ross," he croaks, holding unbreakable eye contact with Smith, "feels so fucking good," And tilts back, lifting his legs with the intent to notch heels into Ross' hips. He does manage this, but just about because as he moves, as the angle shifts, the shockwave Ross' next thrust bumps behind his stomach hits him much harder than anticipated and blots stars in a vignette around his vision. "Oh- shit," suddenly, the pretence he had been portraying for Smith's benefit becomes real, sending his senses into a dizzying free fall he cannot hope to stop, "fuck, fuck- Ross,"

"Fuck me," Smith murmurs as the shivers running rampant across Trott's body start puppeteering his own.

"Hh- Trott," Ross' muffled voice chimes in, ragged and enthralled, until he straightens, grins messily in Trott's face and snakes a hand between them, making what was already a quickening approach into a landslide, "that's it, come on; come for us."

"Fuck," as it tumbles down Trott's spine, as it removes any chances his lungs have of breathing correctly, Ross becomes a precipice keeping him grounded and bears his erratic, flinching rhythm as unmitigated euphoria fills up every crack in his existence.

Ross is entranced by it, drawing a loving gaze across luminescent edges and feeling a significant yank behind his stomach in response. This isn't unexpected; Trott is a mess of intermittent tension and impulsively swaying hips, and nothing - absolutely nothing - compares to seeing all the ways ecstasy lays waste to his form. Nothing, that is, except what greets him when a sharp, crackling huff expels from Smith's mouth, tugs his attention around, and he gets to watch his partially hidden reckoning take place as well.

"Hh- god," he keens, almost melting entirely, but then there are hands catching his wrists in recovered strength, his eyes flick back to Trott - to his dizzy grin - and like dancers they tilt. As Trott goes forwards, he goes back; his spine settles against the bath, Trott rolls and settles further anticipation under his skin.

"That's it, Ross," Trott murmurs.

"Here," Smith shuffles sideways, takes Ross' wrist from Trott and, after ensuring eye contact is strong enough, leads Ross' fingers into his mouth. This is a practiced act, a familiar act; an act he knows, and can see unfolding in Ross' eyes, as being one Ross particularly likes.

"Oh my god," Ross babbles and, when Smith's tongue cups his fingertips in synchronicity with Trott tensing around him, "oh, holy shit-," bends in on himself, fettering shaky limbs to his compliant partners whilst everything around him fades into nondescript white noise.

Tightly wound inertia slowly unravels in relative quiet, the sort where only harshly recovered breaths echo off the tiles or borderline icy water crackles around legs trying to remember movement. Trott is first to force some sort of separation, threading fingers into Ross' hair to guide his head up from where it ended up on his shoulder. When enough room has been granted, he eases himself up, almost over-balances once upright, and gets caught by Smith, who noticed him about to fall from where he was resting on the edge of the tub.

"Thanks," Trott snorts, settling hands on Smith's arms and allowing an act of assistance he wouldn't ordinarily let Smith have simply because he lacks the energy to protest properly.

"Don't thank me yet," Smith replies lazily, yet at least waits until Trott's feet are on the floor before ducking down, leaning into him and kissing him deeply enough that Trott can't help tipping backwards a little or throwing both arms around his shoulders to stop himself dropping completely.

The energy Ross would need to do anything except twist and rest folded arms on the bath isn't present in his veins yet, so he contents himself with smiling softly at Trott loosely shoving Smith's head to try and detach his now laugh-tainted kissing. Eventually, he gives up, submits himself to Smith's over-affectionate neck nuzzling, and tips a wry smirk towards Ross which he shares, knowing it to mean how much they both actually enjoy it when Smith is like this. Like any halcyon moment, however, this one must break and Ross already knows the nature of its destruction thanks to Trott's face contorting oddly.

"Ease off, Smith," he murmurs, ghosting light fingers down Smith's spine.

"Alright," Smith releases him, though not without brushing a kiss underneath his jaw, and has a dazed expression when he straightens.

"Cool, now both of you fuck off," Trott grins sunnily, "you're not staying here and watching me clean up."

"Spoilsport," Smith winks but waltzes for the door and eases it open anyway, only pausing to catch Ross' eye over his shoulder, "Ross?"

"Yeah, two seconds," Ross sighs, tips his head onto his arms and draws in a few, slow breaths, receiving middling strength on each inhale. When he lifts up again, juxtaposing displays of affection are directed towards him; Trott's mild yet undeniably fond smile and Smith's considerably more obvious half-grin in the same key. "What?" He posits whilst laboriously climbing out of the bath.

"You're adorable," Is what Smith offers, murmured and sweet.

"Yeah, what he said," Is Trott's version, which gains him a side-step and elbow nudge from Ross.

"Love you both, too," He chuckles and easily slips his hand into the one Smith offers him, saying a light, "don't take too long, yeah," to Trott as they walk over the bathroom threshold.