Brother in Arms
Title: Brother in Arms
Series: (BBC) The Musketeers
Characters: Porthos, Aramis
Pairing: Aramis/Porthos
Rating: PG
Warning: Very vague (and probably inaccurate) description of getting a tattoo.
Summary: (AU) Aramis finally convinces Porthos to get a tattoo.
Notes: There is going to be inaccuracies about tattoo procedures, I just know it. I don't know crap about tattoos, so please forgive me for that - I tried to keep it vague. Also I hardly ever write AUs and yet here I am. This is because of some random, passing comment from my friend and I thought "yeah, I could totally write that." About two paragraphs in I was like "I have no idea what I'm doing."
Aramis can feel sweat breaking out on the top of his brow and his breath a little shallow, despite himself. It isn’t as if this is the first time he’s done this, really. It’s hardly going to be the last. After years of owning this little parlor, he should be used to it. But it’s so much different. It isn’t so much that the work is difficult - because he’s owned this shop for a while now and he’s proud of the work he does. But it’s different when it’s Porthos stretched out on the chair patiently (or as patiently as Porthos is able), his shirt rolled up to the cusp of a firm shoulder as Aramis works on the swift flat of his bicep, his needle working the design in easily. It’s so sickeningly easy he wishes he could think of a way to prolong the work, if only to keep Porthos sitting there, if only to keep his hand holding to his arm as he works. But the fleur-de-lis is a design he’s done before and it won’t take long, no matter how ornate he makes it - and it isn’t as if he’s meant to prolong the work, either. Not for one session. Although maybe if he was smart he could have stretched it out to several sessions. But once he starts with Porthos, he doesn’t want to stop - if only because he fears Porthos will never let him near him again with his fucking torture devices as Porthos called them. And, really, Porthos isn’t an ornate kind of guy - tattoos across his skin beg to be simple, but stark, bold in color and austere in design.
But fuck if it isn’t doing things to Aramis. It’s so simple - just working a tattoo into his upper arm. And yet, he fears it’s already too much. And yet not enough, either.
It’s kind of funny, though, that Porthos would have finally decided to let Aramis do his thing. Even more so because of the design he chose. He laughed at the time, and when Porthos gave him an aggressively grumpy (and embarrassed, how adorable) expression, he’d only said, “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
Now he’s been hunched over Porthos’ arm for a while now - and goddamn if it isn’t the biggest arm he’s seen for a while. He and Porthos are relatively the same size, and yet he seems so much larger underneath his hands. All sharp muscles but rounded angles. Large. He draws attention, always.
“You think I could convince you to get one sweeping over your shoulder?” he asks conversationally as he wipes away at the blood and ink peppering over his skin, working the needle diligently. “Over your shoulder and down over your pec? It’d suit your personality.”
Porthos is sitting completely rigid, though, and it’s almost endearing that such a big, intimidating guy could be so done in with needles. The reason the tattoo had taken this long - and indeed that it’d taken him so long to convince his friend to get one in the first place - was because of Porthos’ complete discomfort and hatred of needles. The sound he makes when he glances at Aramis is an outright growl.
“Fine, I won’t talk to you right now,” Aramis says with a patient shrug. He tries to focus on the details and ignore the broader picture - the broader picture being Porthos’ rather impressive and broad arm. But he can’t help picturing all the tattoos he would carve into Porthos’ body, marking across him, sweeping down his back, across his side, dancing across his ribs and working up over his arms, curling down in full sleeves.
He needs to focus on the details. Not on the massive expanse of Porthos’ arm, or the sweep of his jaw and the slope of his neck-
For what feels like the hundredth time, Aramis focuses on the line of the fleur-de-lis rather than the line of Porthos’ thigh. Focuses on the shade of the delicate interwoven blank lines he’s sweeping across the tattoo rather than the shade that sweeps across Porthos’ jaw line, a scruffing beard that he just wants to nuzzle against.
He’s almost done, and he hates that he is. Wishes he could think of a reason to prolong it. In the end, he’ll just have to think of some way to get Porthos to agree to a second tattoo. And a third. And a fourth.
“You’ll be my prettiest customer yet,” Aramis says with a dazzling grin as he pulls his hand back, disposing of the needle and the mess, cleaning up. “All done.”
Porthos rolls his eyes, at least a little, but as the buzz of the needle dies for the final time, he just manages to hide a relieved flinch. He moans, loudly, pained, and his breathing comes out harsh-
And all Aramis can think of is what he’d sound like on his back. Properly on his back.
“What do you think?” Aramis asks, holding up a little mirror so Porthos can see it properly.
Porthos is about as sweaty as Aramis feels, face pinched with a pain that hasn’t quite faded yet. But when he looks at the fleur-de-lis, his expression softens a little and, a moment later, he smiles and nods.
“Yeah,” he says, and Aramis beams - somehow that little word is greater praise than anything Aramis could have wished for.
“I thought so, too,” Aramis says with a grin and then rolls up his own sleeve to reveal his own fleur-de-lis tattoo. He grins at Porthos’ expression. “This is why I thought it was amusing you wanted one, too.” He laughs as he adds, “We’re real brothers-in-arms now, so to speak.”
Porthos attempts to look disapproving at the pun, but soon enough he’s ducking his head and laughing, shaking his head. When he looks up at him, his expression is fond and it takes all of Aramis’ restraint not to just climb into his lap and press against him.
“There are worse things to be,” Porthos says with a shrug, and Aramis laughs, too.
And then decides, fuck it, and does climb into Porthos’ lap, kissing him.
Series: (BBC) The Musketeers
Characters: Porthos, Aramis
Pairing: Aramis/Porthos
Rating: PG
Warning: Very vague (and probably inaccurate) description of getting a tattoo.
Summary: (AU) Aramis finally convinces Porthos to get a tattoo.
Notes: There is going to be inaccuracies about tattoo procedures, I just know it. I don't know crap about tattoos, so please forgive me for that - I tried to keep it vague. Also I hardly ever write AUs and yet here I am. This is because of some random, passing comment from my friend and I thought "yeah, I could totally write that." About two paragraphs in I was like "I have no idea what I'm doing."
Aramis can feel sweat breaking out on the top of his brow and his breath a little shallow, despite himself. It isn’t as if this is the first time he’s done this, really. It’s hardly going to be the last. After years of owning this little parlor, he should be used to it. But it’s so much different. It isn’t so much that the work is difficult - because he’s owned this shop for a while now and he’s proud of the work he does. But it’s different when it’s Porthos stretched out on the chair patiently (or as patiently as Porthos is able), his shirt rolled up to the cusp of a firm shoulder as Aramis works on the swift flat of his bicep, his needle working the design in easily. It’s so sickeningly easy he wishes he could think of a way to prolong the work, if only to keep Porthos sitting there, if only to keep his hand holding to his arm as he works. But the fleur-de-lis is a design he’s done before and it won’t take long, no matter how ornate he makes it - and it isn’t as if he’s meant to prolong the work, either. Not for one session. Although maybe if he was smart he could have stretched it out to several sessions. But once he starts with Porthos, he doesn’t want to stop - if only because he fears Porthos will never let him near him again with his fucking torture devices as Porthos called them. And, really, Porthos isn’t an ornate kind of guy - tattoos across his skin beg to be simple, but stark, bold in color and austere in design.
But fuck if it isn’t doing things to Aramis. It’s so simple - just working a tattoo into his upper arm. And yet, he fears it’s already too much. And yet not enough, either.
It’s kind of funny, though, that Porthos would have finally decided to let Aramis do his thing. Even more so because of the design he chose. He laughed at the time, and when Porthos gave him an aggressively grumpy (and embarrassed, how adorable) expression, he’d only said, “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
Now he’s been hunched over Porthos’ arm for a while now - and goddamn if it isn’t the biggest arm he’s seen for a while. He and Porthos are relatively the same size, and yet he seems so much larger underneath his hands. All sharp muscles but rounded angles. Large. He draws attention, always.
“You think I could convince you to get one sweeping over your shoulder?” he asks conversationally as he wipes away at the blood and ink peppering over his skin, working the needle diligently. “Over your shoulder and down over your pec? It’d suit your personality.”
Porthos is sitting completely rigid, though, and it’s almost endearing that such a big, intimidating guy could be so done in with needles. The reason the tattoo had taken this long - and indeed that it’d taken him so long to convince his friend to get one in the first place - was because of Porthos’ complete discomfort and hatred of needles. The sound he makes when he glances at Aramis is an outright growl.
“Fine, I won’t talk to you right now,” Aramis says with a patient shrug. He tries to focus on the details and ignore the broader picture - the broader picture being Porthos’ rather impressive and broad arm. But he can’t help picturing all the tattoos he would carve into Porthos’ body, marking across him, sweeping down his back, across his side, dancing across his ribs and working up over his arms, curling down in full sleeves.
He needs to focus on the details. Not on the massive expanse of Porthos’ arm, or the sweep of his jaw and the slope of his neck-
For what feels like the hundredth time, Aramis focuses on the line of the fleur-de-lis rather than the line of Porthos’ thigh. Focuses on the shade of the delicate interwoven blank lines he’s sweeping across the tattoo rather than the shade that sweeps across Porthos’ jaw line, a scruffing beard that he just wants to nuzzle against.
He’s almost done, and he hates that he is. Wishes he could think of a reason to prolong it. In the end, he’ll just have to think of some way to get Porthos to agree to a second tattoo. And a third. And a fourth.
“You’ll be my prettiest customer yet,” Aramis says with a dazzling grin as he pulls his hand back, disposing of the needle and the mess, cleaning up. “All done.”
Porthos rolls his eyes, at least a little, but as the buzz of the needle dies for the final time, he just manages to hide a relieved flinch. He moans, loudly, pained, and his breathing comes out harsh-
And all Aramis can think of is what he’d sound like on his back. Properly on his back.
“What do you think?” Aramis asks, holding up a little mirror so Porthos can see it properly.
Porthos is about as sweaty as Aramis feels, face pinched with a pain that hasn’t quite faded yet. But when he looks at the fleur-de-lis, his expression softens a little and, a moment later, he smiles and nods.
“Yeah,” he says, and Aramis beams - somehow that little word is greater praise than anything Aramis could have wished for.
“I thought so, too,” Aramis says with a grin and then rolls up his own sleeve to reveal his own fleur-de-lis tattoo. He grins at Porthos’ expression. “This is why I thought it was amusing you wanted one, too.” He laughs as he adds, “We’re real brothers-in-arms now, so to speak.”
Porthos attempts to look disapproving at the pun, but soon enough he’s ducking his head and laughing, shaking his head. When he looks up at him, his expression is fond and it takes all of Aramis’ restraint not to just climb into his lap and press against him.
“There are worse things to be,” Porthos says with a shrug, and Aramis laughs, too.
And then decides, fuck it, and does climb into Porthos’ lap, kissing him.