#i swear figuring out how to fit all the asks on a reasonably sized canvas was almost as much effort as the art itself hghfgh

[tallymarkbrothers]

sending each of you a blahaj

Prime: It'll be an issue if we run out of space, we only have so much storage and I don't particularly want to fill it with things we didn't ask for...

[scuttling]

Happy Accidents

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 6,300 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Art, Neighbor Hotch, Shy and Oblivious Hotch, Flirting, It's soo sappy I'm sorry, Oral sex, Unprotected sex Summary: Aaron's new neighbor is out of his league for so many reasons: she's young, beautiful, artistic, unique, free-spirited, the kind of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. It's no wonder he ends up falling in love with her. *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! Against all of his better judgement, Aaron is kind of creeping on his new next door neighbor.

He is absolutely the type of man, any other time, to approach a woman he’s interested in and introduce himself, look for a way to connect, some common ground, but this is no ordinary woman.

She is out of his league in so many ways: young, beautiful, unique, free-spirited, the type of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. There’s not a chance in hell she would look twice at an old, stuffy, monotone suit with a seven year old son and perpetual bags under his eyes. That’s not him feeling bad about himself, it’s just the way the world works.

The first time he saw her, she was getting on the elevator while he was getting off of it, and they’d bumped into each other; she was wearing a short, flowy dress, and she’d smiled at him, apologized, eyes sparkling, smelling like she’d spent all day in the sunshine. It was the only time since Haley he’d ever entertained the idea of love at first sight.

She keeps to herself most of the time, gives off the air of being really cool and mysterious; their paths have crossed a few times since then—at the bank of mailboxes downstairs, in the hallway they share, once during a false alarm fire alarm—but he enjoys watching her paint more than anything.

They have balconies next to each other, and one night when he was tending to his herb garden—Jack enjoys watching the plants grow, and picking the herbs, Aaron likes to eat them—he spotted her standing on hers, facing away from him, in cut off jean shorts and a baggy t-shirt, barefoot. She’d been painting the city, the sky, with the sunset glowing behind her like she was the work of art, and he actually felt an ache in his chest, the feeling of missing someone he’s never really met.

Since that night, he’s started taking his work outside in the evenings after Jack goes to bed, and sitting in near silence while she paints, hums—sometimes songs he knows, sometimes songs he doesn’t. The first time he goes out before she does, she says hello when she drags her easel out, so he starts to say hello to her when she beats him there, too, but that’s pretty much the extent of their interaction. One evening when Aaron and Jack are getting home from dinner, she is lugging a canvas bigger than she is through the hallway and Jack almost runs headfirst into it; when he looks up, he exclaims about how big it is, and pretty—it’s covered with colors, something abstract and cheerful, and even if he’d seen it on the side of the road, he would have just known that she painted it. (That may be a good indicator that he’s getting in a little too deep.)

“Wow, that’s the biggest painting I’ve ever seen! And so many colors,” Jack says, awed. Aaron puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him out of her way; they’re already bothering her enough, when she’s clearly trying to get that giant thing home.

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? I carry bigger pieces around at my studio, believe it or not,” she says to him, poking her head around the side to look at him.

“You have a studio?” His eyes are wide with interest; his favorite subject has always been art, as evidenced by their refrigerator, which is covered in drawings. She offers him an even brighter smile.

“I do! It’s not far from here; it’s called Live in Color. There’s a big rainbow painted on the side.”

“That’s so cool; it must be awesome to have your own studio.” Aaron loves that Jack seems to be so passionate about this, but the way they are obviously holding her up has him feeling awkward; he tugs gently on Jack’s backpack.

“That is really cool, bud, but we should let her go. I’m sure that’s heavy.” She smiles, shrugs.

“It’s no trouble. Hey, actually, we have some children’s art classes at the studio, and you look like you’d fit right in with the Green group—ages 7-9?” She looks up at Aaron, who nods. “Maybe we can talk dad into bringing you down sometime. We do painting, drawing, and crafts, it’s really fun.” She’s still looking right at Aaron, gives him a little wink, and he swears to god he gets butterflies in his stomach.

He’s a grown man. A federal agent. With butterflies. It’s insane.

“Oh man, dad, please? Can I take classes at her studio pleeease?” Jack tugs on the sleeve of his suit, and he nods, smiles down at him.

“Yeah, absolutely, Jack. We’ll go down and get more information tomorrow?” he offers, to both placate him and finally free the poor girl from the conversation; he nods excitedly, and she smiles, looks sweet, genuinely happy Jack is so excited to take the class.

“Cool, I look forward to seeing you guys there. Actually, if you give me one sec, I can grab my card for you.” She passes them, carrying the canvas and looking effortless while she does it; she props it up against the wall to get her keys out, unlocks her door and heads in, pops back out with a business card in a vivid watercolor yellow. “It has the address and phone number for the studio on the front, and I put my cell on the back; I figured it couldn’t hurt, considering we live next door to each other. Now you know who to call if you ever have an art emergency.”

He takes the card from her fingers, flips it over just to see the handwritten name and number; he knew her script would be lovely, and it is, easy and flowing and natural. It suits her. He tries not to grin, or flush, or otherwise be awkward about the fact that she just gave him her phone number, however innocently.

“Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.” They turn to head for their apartment, and she clears her throat; he smiles a little, turns back, and she’s leaning casually up against the canvas with her arms crossed.

“You know my name now. What’s yours?” She’s just being polite, but he gets the goddamn butterflies again.

“Aaron.” She smiles, something beautiful and a little wild.

“Okay, Aaron. See you outside.” From then on, most of their free time, be it evenings or weekends, is spent at the studio. Aaron isn’t the only parent who sticks around—it’s an art class, not a daycare, he doesn’t feel right just dropping Jack off and leaving him there—and he’s also not the only parent, it seems, who is aware of his beautiful young neighbor.

“She’s incredible, right?” another dad says to him one evening, over by the coffee. Aaron looks him over briefly—it’s a job hazard, he sizes up everyone, but he already has a weird feeling about this guy. “I’ve been bringing my kid here for a month just to look at that little ass running around. My wife just thinks our daughter is just really into art.” He says it with a laugh, like that’s a ridiculous concept. Aaron feels himself start to boil.

“You shouldn’t be disrespectful. She’s doing a great thing here, for the children; she’s not doing it for you to ogle her.” He feels a little hypocritical, because he is also looking, but not like this guy. He knows guys like this. He puts away guys like this.

He glances over at Aaron, looking a little taken aback that someone actually commented on his behavior, then rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t need you to defend her honor, buddy. She wouldn’t run around here in those overalls if she didn’t want us looking. It’s job security.” She’s wearing the overalls tonight, denim shorts with one of the straps unhooked, a t-shirt underneath, but it’s not as if she’s performing a striptease. She just looks like an artist, covered in drips of paint, smiling as she looks at the kids’ pictures over their shoulders. Aaron really, really hates this guy.

“In my experience, women usually dress for themselves; they probably have pockets, easier to keep things at hand that she may need, and it’s warm in here, so she’s likely dressing for comfort. She’s certainly not dressing for you.”

As if she can sense the tension, she looks over at them, flicks her eyes over Aaron, then the other guy, and walks over with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Aaron, Jack really wanted you to see what he’s working on.” She reaches out a hand, wraps it around his wrist and guides him over to Jack’s table. “I figured I’d save you,” she says when they’re out of earshot. “That guy sucks. He’s always saying creepy things to me and Alaina.”

“You should ask him to leave if he makes you uncomfortable,” he says, looking down at her with worry. “I can do it.” She shrugs.

“I would, but his daughter really does enjoy the class, and it’s not fair to her that her dad’s disgusting. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” She squeezes his wrist lightly. “Thanks, though. Hey Jack, show dad your project.” He peers over his shoulder, and it’s a pink and orange skyline, much like the one he saw her painting that first time on the balcony. “I asked the kids to paint my favorite thing today, and that’s sunset.”

“I saw you painting this one night,” he says, and then he feels abruptly like an idiot. She just smiles at him though, nods.

“Yeah, I’m a sucker for a beautiful sunset. It makes you feel like, just because the day ends, it doesn’t have to mean things are over; it’s just one of life’s beautiful natural transitions. And the colors are to die for: peach, coral, jasmine, rose, tiger’s eye.” He finds himself unexpectedly touched by her description, smiles softly to shake himself of the emotions.

“The way you see the world is extraordinary. To me it’s just kind of… orange.” She returns his expression, but softer, and squeezes his wrist again; he didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

“Sounds like you need some art in your heart. I give lessons for adults, too; you could even come over and paint with me on my balcony, some time. Special neighbor privileges.”

The thought of being with her on her balcony while she paints is almost overwhelming, which he finds funny, considering he currently sits no more than twenty feet away. There is an intimacy about it, while they both do their work in the cool, quiet breeze, but standing like this, close enough to touch, with the late day sun on her face while she talks about colors… he’s not sure he could handle it without falling in love.

She pats him on the back, moves on to another child, and he tells Jack what a great job he’s doing; his face is lit up, so happy, and regardless of the neighbor, he’s glad they stumbled upon this hobby.

When they pack up to leave, the jerk from earlier comes up to him, leans in to speak in a hushed voice. “You should have just told me you were fucking her. I would have backed off.” He blinks, but the guy and his daughter are walking out the door before he finds himself able to do more than that. About a week later, he goes over for that lesson almost by accident. Jack is at Jessica’s for the night at his request, and Aaron was planning to order takeout and have a paperwork cramming session, but when goes out onto the balcony, phone in hand to place an order, his neighbor is standing on hers like she’s waiting for him.

“Hey. I saw you don’t have Jack; I made some pasta with vodka sauce, if you’re hungry. I always prepare too much.” He sets his phone on the table, walks over to the railing to get a little closer.

“Uh. Sure. I have fresh basil growing here; trade?” She smiles, nods.

“Yeah, sounds delicious. I’ll be right back.” She ducks inside, returns a few moments later with two dishes of steaming, saucy pasta, sets one down on her table and gets right up against her railing, hands the other over to him across his. “That one’s for you,” she says, handing him an orange plate, and he sets it down, picks a few good looking leaves from his basil plant and tears them up, drops them on top. “And this one’s for me.” She reaches, holds a green plate over the gap between their porches, and he adds some basil to it before she pulls it back, takes a deep sniff. “God, it smells so good and fresh. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Thank you, it looks great.” He goes to sit at his table with it, but she scoots her chair closer to the railing, closer to his balcony, so he does the same. They make easy small talk while they eat, mostly about Jack, a little about her studio and his work.

“FBI, huh? I can definitely see that, with your suits, and your… neutrals.” She cringes when she says it, and it makes him laugh.

“I’m sorry I can’t wear paint covered overalls to the office,” he teases, and she shoots him a playfully affronted look, grins.

“You love my paint covered overalls—and for the record, you’d look great in them. You should find a pair. Preferably not black.” He flushes a little at that, but she doesn’t notice, just finishes up her pasta with a sigh of contentment. “That was so good, thanks again for the basil.”

“You’re welcome; thanks for feeding me something other than the takeout I planned to have.” He stands up, gestures to his apartment. “I’ll wash the plate and then hand it back over.”

“Why don’t you just bring it over and come paint with me for a little while? If you want,” she tacks on, and for the first time she seems a little nervous. “I’m not trying to be pushy, I just think it would be fun.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it would be amazing to watch her paint up close and personal. He’s just also afraid he’ll pass the point of no return if he does it, and he can’t handle any more heartache. He only very recently got to a place where just waking up in the morning no longer causes him agony.

It’s the look on her face, though, soft and sweet and open, that makes his decision for him.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.” She grins.

“I’ll unlock the door.”

She’s dragging out her easel when he walks through the door; her apartment is stark white walls with vibrant furniture, artwork, canvases propped up against every bare spot along the wall, paints and brushes and charcoal and pencils on every surface. It’s exactly what he would have expected, warm and lived-in and comforting, very unlike the mostly black and gray interior of his own apartment. She smiles when she sees him.

“Hey! Can you grab that tray of paint on your way out?” she asks, and he picks up what looks kind of like an ice cube tray filled with many different colors, carries it out to the balcony with him. She has a canvas propped up, a little larger than a computer monitor, and she’s gotten started, but he can’t tell what it’s going to be just yet. When he hands her the paint she looks down at it, peers around the edge of the canvas like she’s comparing something. He’s so intrigued, curious about the way her mind works, what she’s thinking.

“What are you painting?” he asks when she picks up a brush, sets it down, picks up another. She smiles at him.

“Well, we’re painting that.” She points to the street, where there’s a rusty, pale blue antique car parked—he says that loosely, because it looks broken down—in the alley. Aaron chuckles softly.

“We’re going to paint that? It’s a little… grim.”

“Yes. It’s part of a series I just decided to create: ‘Beauty in the Ordinary.’” She sighs, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are a little wet. She wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “You know Bob Ross, right? Everyone knows Bob Ross.” He nods.

“Yes; the guy who paints the happy trees on PBS.”

“Right. I used to watch him growing up, and I vividly remember something he said once, about needing both darkness and light in life and in painting. ‘You have to have a little sadness once in a while to know when the good times come. I’m waiting on the good times now.’” She sniffles, exhales softly. “I’m waiting on the good times too. Sometimes looking at things like this car, and forcing myself to find something beautiful in it, is the easiest way to get through the day. Does that make sense?” He swallows hard when she looks up at him, because aside from Jack, she has been the lightest part of his life since the first time they passed each other on the elevator.

“Yeah, it really does.” She shoots him a soft, slightly sadder smile, and then explains about the paints a little, shows him the difference in the brushes, lets him feel the weight of them, the textures of the bristles.

She starts painting the car—the background is mostly finished—and he’s more than happy to watch, to hear her talk about her process. She asks if she can use his forearm to mix paints, and he turns it over, wrist up, tries not to smile too hard when she puts some dark blue on him, then white, mixing them and then comparing them to the car on the street. He looks down at her, the concentration on her face, the softness in her eyes, and is met with the sudden desire to brush a line of paint over her nose and make her laugh and kiss her breathless.

“Okay, your turn,” she says when she’s about halfway done with the car. She puts her hands on the backs of his arms, pulls him in front of the canvas so she’s between him and the railing. “You’ve been watching me, so you know what to do.” He has been watching her, but not necessarily for her technique, so he’s a little nervous; he dips the brush in the blue paint but hesitates to make a stroke. “I have faith in you, Aaron. Here.”

She wraps her fingers around his hand, guides him toward the canvas, and together they make a wide, curved line, rounding out the bumper. It doesn’t look half bad.

“It gets easier once you understand the relationship between specific paint, specific brushes, and your hands,” she says softly, and she helps him paint another line. “Are you having fun? You look stressed,” she teases, and he makes it a point to relax his face.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” he says, looking down at her; they make eye contact for a long moment, and she leans a little closer, and he leans a little closer, and then he accidentally dabs a blob of blue onto the canvas. He pulls back, grimaces, deflates. “I made a mistake. You can’t erase paint, right?” She laughs softly, takes the brush from his hand.

“No, you can’t erase paint, but as Mr. Ross would say, ‘There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.’” She gets her fingers close to the tip of the brush, makes a few quick movements, then grabs another brush, dips it in green. When she pulls back, there is a little blue flower growing out of a patch of grass where his blob used to be. He exhales, a little amazed.

“If only the mistakes we make in life were that easy to fix,” he says, and she nods.

“Yeah, that would be nice, but a lot of the time we find a way to turn them into beautiful things eventually. Are you willing to give it another shot?” He says yes, and she guides his hand for a while, then just hovers near it, then just instructs him on what to do. It’s dark before their painting is finished, and she carries it inside to dry, then takes him to the kitchen sink to scrub the paint off of his arm.

“Thanks for having me over; I had a really good time,” he murmurs as she dries his clean skin. She looks up, smiles softly, nods her head.

“I had a really good time too. I’m glad you came over; you’re welcome to join me any time.”

He says goodbye, heads home, looks at his stack of work with a groan, and brews a pot of coffee. He’s in for a long night, but he wouldn’t change his evening for anything. Life is much the same for the next few weeks: school and work, Jack’s art class at the studio a couple times a week, painting on the balcony on the weekend, with and without Jack. When Jack joins them for the first time, she pulls out a big box of markers and thick sheets of paper and he draws elaborate scenes while they talk and paint together. When Aaron makes mistakes, she’s never upset, just turns them into perfect little details that end up being his favorite parts of the paintings.

“What ever happened with your ‘Beauty in the Ordinary’ series?” he asks one evening while they’re painting some ocean waves. “Did I cause you enough trouble with the car to give up?” She looks down at the ground, looks a little shy, then shakes her head and smiles.

“No, you didn’t make me want to give up. I’ve been working on it at the studio. You’ll see it when it’s all done, I plan to hang them there.”

“Looking forward to it,” he tells her, and then Jack tugs on her shorts, shows them the picture he drew of the ocean, too.

Later that week, the team takes a case, and on the day he’s set to come home, Jessica drops Jack off at the studio with the plan that Aaron will pick him up when his flight lands. Due to some weather between where the team is and home, they get a little delayed; he doesn’t want to make Jessica head back out that way almost immediately after dropping him off, but he’s not sure who else he could ask to pick Jack up. It’s almost a stupid length of time before it dawns on him to call the studio.

“Life in Color, this is Alaina.”

“Alaina, hi, this is Jack’s dad—” He has his whole spiel prepared, but she cuts him off.

“Oh, sure, hang on a sec, she’s right here. It’s Jack’s dad,” she says, but it sounds further away, like she’s trying to cover the receiver. After a moment, his neighbor picks up.

“Aaron, hi. Jack said you were working.”

“Yeah, I was, and I’m supposed to pick him up after class, but our flight was delayed.” He doesn’t know how to ask for help with Jack; even with all the time they’ve been spending together, she still makes him a little nervous. Luckily, he doesn’t have to figure that part out on his own.

“Hey, that’s no problem. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just take him home with me. I’ll order pizza, we’ll draw, and you can just stop by when you’re home and pick him up.” He breathes a sigh of relief, runs a hand over the back of his head.

“That would be perfect. Thank you—I’ll owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Hanging out with your mini me is reward enough; he’s painting something special for you today, won’t let me see it.” That makes him smile, and he feels so warm at the prospect of picking him up from her bright apartment, seeing his artwork, her smile. After a long, draining day like this one, it’s exactly what he needs.

“I’ll have to remain in suspense until tonight, I guess. Can you let him know I said hi? And thank you, I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Of course. We’ll see you then.”

It’s late, after nine, by the time he makes it home. He doesn’t even take his bags inside, just drops them outside his door and knocks softly on hers. She answers with a smile, ushers him in, asks him if he’d like a drink and gets them each a beer.

Jack is in her room, asleep, so they have a little time to chat; she asks about his flight, his case, and he asks about the studio, and she gets a little shy when it comes to that topic, clears her throat.

“Um. I have Jack’s secret project, if you want to see it. He said I could show you.” He’s not sure why that would make her nervous—at least, until he sees it.

The background is all watercolors, a gradient of rainbow colors starting with pink at the top and ending with a soft purple at the bottom. Over that, in black marker, he’s drawn the three of them, with a big heart around them.

“Tonight’s theme was the thing that makes you the happiest, and he said he’s the happiest when the three of us are on the balcony together. It was… really, really sweet.” She looks up at him, brushes a hand over the crown of her head. “If I’m being honest, that’s when I’m the happiest, too.” He takes the picture from her hands, runs his fingers over it, and smiles, feeling a warm ache in his chest—not like before, not like losing someone he’s never really met, but like finding something he never really planned on.

“That’s when I’m the happiest, too,” he agrees, and when he looks up, she looks determined, like she does when trying to find just the right shade of paint. She takes Jack’s picture out of his hand, sets it on the counter, and then pulls him down by the lapels of his suit, kisses him long and slow. His hands move to her waist, keeping her close, and eventually she pauses for breath, looks at him again, and then wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him some more.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you—tall and dark and serious, striding out of the elevator. So intriguing, mysterious,” she breathes when they separate again. “I wanted to know everything about you.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, huffing a laugh. “I’m boring, but you are so vibrant, so full of life; I felt like you were everything I wasn’t, and I wanted to know you so badly.”

“You know me now; would you like to keep getting to know me?” It’s one of the easiest questions he’s ever been asked; he nods, and she beams, and he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the couch, drapes himself over her while she leans back against the cushions, pulling him closer.

They make out like neither of them have a care in the world—god, how long has it been since he’s made out with someone?—her fingers scraping through his hair, his hands on her bare waist when her shirt rides up, and she’s in the process of pushing his jacket off his shoulders when they hear a sound from the other room that startles them apart. Jack.

“I’ll go check on him,” Aaron says, and when he goes into her room Jack is still snuggled up on her bed sound asleep. It looks like some canvases fell over, though, and he stoops to pick them up, then spots the car they painted together. He turns and she’s right behind him, skids to a stop. “I thought you said these were at the studio?”

“They were,” she says, and she looks nervous again. “But I changed my mind about hanging them there. They felt too personal.” He runs his hand over the car and sees where she’s coming from; this one feels personal to him, too.

“Can I see the rest?” he asks. “Only if you want to show me them.”

“You’re the only one I want to show them to,” she says with a soft smile, and she grabs a few more canvases, carries them into the light of the living room. “Beauty in the ordinary, remember.” He remembers, could never forget.

She turns one over, and it’s a kitchen sink, and in the kitchen sink is an orange plate with a fork resting on it—like the plate she’d given him with the pasta on it. She turns one over and it’s a man’s hand, holding a paintbrush, with pale blue paint on his forearm. The next one is a little herb garden on a balcony; the next one is a view from above, of a sandy haired boy with markers all around him. The last one is an open elevator—ripe with possibilities.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears in her eyes, and one slips down her cheek.

“So, I think I’ve found my good times.” She smiles through her tears, and he takes her face in his hands and kisses the salt from her lips. “I love you,” she says when he pulls back to wipe her face with his sleeve, and he kisses her softly, again and again, and tells her he loves her, too. The next weekend, Jack is at Jessica’s for a sleepover, and Aaron has been enlisted to help with an art project. He walks next door, knocks lightly, and enters the living room; he is met with a very deep, passionate kiss and a smile, and instructions to help move the furniture out of the way.

“I’m really curious what kind of art requires this much floor space,” he says, shoving her couch back against the wall, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, a move he has been unable to resist since she did it the first time they had sex. She knows it’s a weakness, exploits it, and he loves every minute of it.

“You’ll see, but I promise you’re going to like it.” When they clear the floor, she grabs a large, rolled-up fabric canvas and lays it out in the middle of the room, then drops three bottles of paint—one is yellow (jasmine), one is orange (peach), and one is kind of pink (coral? He’s still not sure.)—onto it. “You can obviously say no if you want, but I wanted something over my bed with the sunset colors, and I found this…” She steps closer to him, runs her hands down his chest, guides him down for a kiss so delicious he loses his train of thought. “It’s sex art; we put the paint on the canvas, and on ourselves, and… you know, go at it. What do you think?”

He thinks he really, really loves art now, even more than he thought possible.

“So we have paint-covered sex and then you just hang it on the wall? Like regular art?”

“Yep, I got the supplies I’ll need to hang it; letting it dry will probably take the longest. I figured we could shower while it’s drying, maybe go for round two, if you’re up for it.” She moves her hand to his waist, slips it inside his shorts, and he pulls her closer to his body. “Are you up for it, Aaron?”

That is an understatement.

Undressing happens extremely fast, because this is really sexy and they’re kind of in a phase where they can’t keep their hands off of each other anyway. She pulls her hair up onto the top of her head to try to minimize the amount of paint in it, and then she pours paint on the canvas, turns around and drizzles some on his back and tells him to lay down.

“I think we should probably change positions often so we get a lot of motion on the canvas; I apologize to your old knees in advance,” she teases, but she soothes the sting of her words by pouring paint on herself and then laying between his legs and licking at his dick. “Do some stuff with your hands; I want to see those big handprints on my wall,” she murmurs, and he groans, puts his palms down in the paint and drags them through it.

She leans up a little, sliding her knees through some yellow paint, sucks him fully, deeply into her mouth for couple of minutes, and then stretches forward and puts an orange hand right in the middle of his chest; the look in her eyes is playful, and he reaches out with one finger, hooks it under her chin, and guides her off and up so they can kiss.

“Your turn,” he says with a smirk, and then he gets her onto her back and ducks between her legs, hopes she doesn’t grab for his hair like she usually does. He rubs his pointed tongue over her clit, waits for the mmm it always elicits, and looks up at her, covers each of her breasts with a paint-covered palm and squeezes. “Leave handprints for me,” he leans up and reminds her, kissing her stomach, and she plants her hands, then presses up and grabs his shoulder, smearing pink down his back. “Oh, you wanted more of that?”

“Don’t tease me, the paint will dry,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs wider with his elbows and licks her pussy quickly, until she’s squirming against the canvas and panting for more. “Come here, come here.”

He’s not ready for that, though, paint or not, wants her to come from this; he takes his hands off of her, dips them in the paint again and presses down, then puts his hands under her ass and brings her closer so he can fuck her with his tongue, quick and deep and slick.

“Aaron, Aaron, god.” She slides her hands down his arms, over his neck, digs her nails in when she comes moaning like music.

While she catches her breath, so gorgeous, she sticks her arms out like she’s making a snow angel, and he catches her while she’s off guard and turns her onto her stomach, puts his hands on the smears of paint he’s already left on her ass, and slides inside.

“Oh my god; I was trying to impress you with this sexy art project, but you’re rocking my world.” She’s breathless, pressing back into his thrusts and painting with her entire body. God, he loves her mind.

“You know I always take your projects very seriously,” he says, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, and she groans, laughs.

“Yes you do. From the side? Let’s lay diagonally.” They shift, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, kisses her neck and huffs hot against her hair. “Hmm, love it like this,” she sighs, and she reaches back to press her hand to his hip, holding him while he moves inside her. “I love you.”

“Love you. I want you to finish on top of me,” he instructs with a wet kiss to her throat, and she nods against his lips.

“Yeah, next; I’m getting close.” A few more strokes and she gets up onto her knees, lets him lay back, propped up on his arms, and climbs on top of him; she kisses him slow and dirty and then runs her hands over him, sits back on his dick and glides up and down. “You wanna come like this too? I owe you a little world rocking,” she says with a flick of her tongue over his bottom lip, and he nods, squeezes her thigh.

“It’s the least you can do after making me move all the heavy furniture.” She rolls her eyes but kisses his chin, down his throat, and bounces harder on him, all delicious eye contact and moans. “Mmm. Just like that, baby, come for me.”

“Fuck. I will, I will.” She wraps a hand around the back of his neck, kisses him kind of rough and with lots of tongue, and then tips her head back and climaxes, clenches, wrings his orgasm out of him so quickly it’s almost jarring. “Oh, yes Aaron. So good,” she mumbles, and then he lays back, out of breath, and she slides out of his lap and lays beside him, out of breath too.

After a moment, she looks over at him, smiles, and swipes a pink fingertip over his cheek.

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done with anyone. I’m glad I got to do it with you.” He rolls on top of her, presses a kiss to her nose, and nods.

“Me too. You know,” he adds after a moment, “my bedroom could use some artwork, too.” She grins, wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“You’re right; I think we should do yours in blue: liberty, that’s dark blue; periwinkle, that’s light blue; maybe steel gray, too.”

“You’re the expert. I’m just your paintbrush.” Her hands smooth up his back, and contentment washes over him like a warm breeze.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that. Want to get cleaned up?”

Cleaning up is almost as fun as making the mess, because they’re well and truly covered, and when the canvas dries, the sunset colors are almost as beautiful as the ones she used the first time he ever saw her paint. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc

[aphrodite-would-be-proud]

hello! how are you? i hope you're doing fine, um i'm here because i wanted to ask if you can write about armin falling in love with someone who's related to art, like a painter and suddenly discovering a whole new world. i will be so happy if you can do it.

thank you and please, stay healthy! 💗

Hi💛 of course! I really love that idea! Plus as a painter myself the struggle is real man, just yesterday i was having an overwhelming meltdown over what type of brushes to buy.

You seem really lovely so here's a mini fic! 🌸

Armin falling in love with a Painter!reader

{ Armin x reader | tw: none | fluff, pinning | modern }

{ "The Cathedral of Saint Jacques le Mineur, Liege" 1846 by Jenaro Pérez Villaamil 1807 - 1854 }

Reading is Armin's best friend, it always has been. It kept him company on countless sleepless nights as a child, and now it offered the escape his soul needed when overwhelmed with troubles of being a living human in this current world.    

"It's just captivating," he explained to you one day while walking together, happily clutching the bags of books he just baught. You like how they smell. For someone who reads a lot, he surely seems to be out of words when it comes to describing things he's passionate about.

The winds picks up, your steps slow down. Armin is staring at your face, but it's not your eyes he's looking at. You smile and it brings him back to reality, he looks away, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

You offer to hold some of the heavy bags for him, he gives a warm smile. You think the faint color on his cheek is a really nice shade of pink, it looks lovely under the sun.

The more he took you with him on trips to the far away bookshop near the Riverside, the more you started to understand how a rearranging of words can pull him inside an entirely different world.

It was like he could be his true self when there, carefully reading the description at the back of the books. Frowning whenever he finds a review instead of a summary. you didn't mind tho, because it ment he'd have to read a few pages into the book and the shop had a nice corner couch you two would sit in.

He'd apologise for troubling you, you'd say he's never a bother for you that and reassure him that you enjoyed every last second.

Ah, there it is, that nice shade of pink again.   

 

-

In some way he managed to share his love for books with you, as you spend entire afternoons just sitting near each other. Your sketchbook in hand, the sound of your pencil lightly scratching the paper. Him next to you, his book in hand and reading just loud enough for you to hear.

You think he has a nice voice, so you say it out loud. For the rest of the evening, he stuttered through half the book.

You laugh at the funny moments together, be it a clever joke the author weaved in a serious moment or an incredibly redundant cliche trope that while predictable, was still as enticing.     

He would always look at you whenever you let a chuckle escape, staring just for a couple seconds longer than necessary.

That sketch ended up getting turned into a painting when Armin walked you home that day.

-

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Blue glass shards are scattered on the table and floor, what remained of Armin's favourite mug. The puddle of coffee already sweeping into the canvas you left to dry there this morning.

It took you three days just for the layering.

It was a big canvas, cotton paper and natural wood. It cost a lot.

You know this feeling when you're so so broken about something that your brain just skips the denial and anger and jumps straight into depression? To say you were mad was an underestimated, and rightfully so.

Armin is trying to remove the coffee stains with the nearest towel he could find, it only smudges the paint more.

He looks terrfied.

"It was an accident I swear, I'd never..." his voice takes a higher pitch, hands shaking. "I'd never, ever mean to do this...I..." he hiccups, Voice quivering..

And just like that, all you anger fades away.

"Armin, hey" you take a step closer, carefully avoiding the broken glass.

He doesn't look at you, he's still desperate wiping the canvas. "I'll fix it, please I'll figure out a way."

The clutch he has on the towel only intensifies when you put your hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," you say "it's fine really, look at me."

And he does, with shame filled eyes. "No no no, it's not. I ruined it, your worked so hard on this and I just..." He looks down "it's NOT okay."

"Yes it is." You try to guide him away from the glass. "That's just a material object Armin, what's important is that you're okay."

He reluctantly follows, you both sit on the couch. His hands are clutching his knees. "I'm really sorry, it's okay if you want to yell at me you have the right to."

You cup his face in your hands, "don't say that, that's not true. It was an accident, I'd never ever yell at you."

Shock is clear in his eyes, his arms leave his knees to wrap around you, pulling you closer. His face buried in your shoulder. You stroke his back. Both of you stay like this for a long while, neither of you seems to want to let go.

At night, when he's getting ready to leave and go back home. You walk him to the door and he kisses your cheek as a goodbye.

the shade of pink you grew to love really goes along with his smile.

-

"Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

With the sparkle in his blue eyes and his hands hiding something behind his back, how could you say no.

So you do, and you feel his hand brushing against yours before a light weight is dropped on your palms. He gives you the okay so you open your eyes, an envelope.

It's cream white with a straw ribbon around it, it looks too good to open but you do anyway.

"Is that..." his smile grows as you pull out the card and paper inside, "a membership card."

"For the art course you've been saving up for! You seemed really excited when talking about it." He takes a step closer, tilting his head to the side as his blond hair brush against his neck. "Do you like it?"

"Armin I love it!" You're so happy that you don't dwell on it before pulling him into a hug, he eagrly hugs back and his hand lingers on you when you pull away. "But...isn't it too expensive ? How did you.."

His lips press into a thin line as he looks to the side, "don't worry about it, I've been also saving for a different reason."

Oh...yeah you know the reason, Eren’s been telling it to everyone after all. The three of them agreed to go on a trip overseas, even Mikasa seemed genuinely excited.

You look at him, you look at the envelope containing the art course of your dreams, you put the card back inside.

"I can't, " you hold it out for him, "you can still return this, they're very lean with their policies."

He doesn't take it. "Yes, yes you can. This isn't just because I feel bad for what i did, it's because..." he holds your hand in his, "because I want you to have it, you deserve the world and if i can I'd give it to you."

"But what about Mikasa and Eren, you know they've been looking forward for this."

"They'll understand that i can't come, and if they don't it's okay, they'll still enjoy it by themselves." He cups your face, looking at you like you're the only person in the world, "It's just a material thing after all, you aren't."

-

Armin likes to get out of his comfort zone evey once in a while, he likes to try new things no matter how intimidating they look.

Which is why, seeing him hesitantly entering the art classroom was not a surprise. His wide eyes switching their focuses between all the different objects in the room, from the canvas with a glaze shine on them, ready to get painted. Or the different shapes and sizes or brushes, the ones near the water jars looking softer than the rest.

You should've seen this coming, with Eren and Mikasa away on their trip, Armin has been hanging around you all the time. Not that you're complaining.

Looking at your still drying canvas, you quickly cleaned off your brush before using a towel to wipe your hands and elbows from paint stains.

"Armin," you said, amusement in your voice at seeing the blond out of his usual element. His curious eyes focus on you and he says a small hi with a wave.

You walk him through the basics, he nods while you explain the pros and cons of each paint type, what type of paintings it goes with and which techniques are the most common.      

After a couple minutes of him asking you to show him to use certain things and hold some brushes, he settles down for watercolors. You think it's adorably fitting.

While picking his brushes, you explain how in order to not damage the cotton papers, they have the softest hairs. To make your point, you take his arm in your hand and run a soft brush against his palm. He laughs softly saying it tickles, it's contagious and you're laughing too soon.

He picks the seat next to you, looking lost with the short brush in his hand and the already wet canvase. But it's a nice kind of lost, like the way a child would look at a new toy.

While he expriments at the corner of the canvas with different brushes and swipes the colors, other people start filling the room and soon enough everyone has taken their seats.

The instructer begans setting up today's study object, a couple of pink Camellias in a tinted turquoise vase, creating a nise color contrast.

You stare at them for a while, wondering where did you see that fimilar faint of pink. The question answers itself when Armin taps your shoulder and ask how to start layering the paint

-

It's around sunset when the two of you are walking together, he's talking about all the new things he never knew about art that he just discovered today. You're listening to him while nodding occasionally, it's when he stops mid-rant that you look at him.

"I just realised something" he says, before facing you.

"Oh? And what is it"

He looks at you, really looks at you. The sun is shining behind you as it says its last goodbyes for the day, making you look heavenly. "I realised that...I'm deeply in love with you"

[feynites]

*flings some nsfw, polyamorous concert au dirthalene in @selenelavellan’s general direction*

Fear fiddles around with the straps of their stockings, fighting back the urge to swear.

They’ve worn a lot of odd outfits for a variety of gigs. The giant bunny suit stands out in recent memory; a costume for a charity Halloween ball. But usually they’re content to leave things like heels and corsets and garters to Deceit or, occasionally, Dirthamen. The clothes are a safety hazard in and of themselves. The shoes are impossible to run in – well, impossible for Fear to run in – and the wide variety of straps and buckles and zippers involved just seem doomed to catch sensitive skin in unyielding places. Welts, cuts, infections… unnecessary risks.

At least, they think, the clothes are in their size. How Des got their size, they aren’t sure. They suspect Deceit, and they have a long and fitting retaliation planned, involving some highschool photographs and a certain MySpace page on the Wayback Machine. But that’s a matter for another day.

Today’s matter is the need to get Des out of his apartment for at least half an hour, so that Selene and Dirthamen and Deceit can all set about decorating it, covering the place in balloons and streamers, and setting out the cake they ordered from the erotic bakery down the street. And after two failed attempts and an increasing amount of desperation, as the countdown to the surprise party grew nearer, Fear had resigned themselves to their fate.

They know what will get Des moving.

They finally manage to get the stockings lined up right, and double-check their bustier. Which they have no bust for, but the questionable article of clothing seemed intent on making up the difference with some well-placed black roses. The skirt swishes around their hips as they pick over the pair of steep high-heels, and make their way out of the bedroom. Des has been trying to get them into an outfit like this for quite a while, now. It was a quest, according to him.

Fear supposes his preoccupation has its uses, sometimes. They’re not actually embarrassed to be seen in revealing clothing. They just don’t like attempting to walk in the stuff – and they’re not a big fan of giving Des the satisfaction, either.

He’s much more amusing when he’s being denied.

Stone silence greets their emergence back into the apartment’s main room. Fear glances up, and raises an eyebrow as Dirthamen and Deceit regard them with surprise, and Selene looks equal parts shocked and flushed.

“I can get you twenty minutes, guaranteed; it will take him that long to get here,” Fear offers, striding towards the kitchen counter, where they’d left their phone charging. “Any longer than that and you’re on your own, though he’ll probably make a point of being obnoxious for at least a few minutes more. You should head out now. Text me when you’re almost there, and I’ll call him over.”

They work their feet into the godless shoes, standing in the kitchen, and then start trying to figure out how to angle their phone to take the necessary picture. They’ve faked Des out a few times, just to try and make a point. Using store mannequins or obvious photoshops, mostly. So this one will probably have to be a convincing whole-body shot to get him to actually come over.

Deceit is the first to recover.

“Here, I’ll take the picture,” he says.

“You all owe me,” Fear declares, handing over their phone. Selene looks like she’s slowly scraping her jaw up off the floor. Her fingers are twitching; apparently she and Des share more than a few kinks in common.

That would explain the lace underpants they found in Dirthamen’s sock drawer. Definitely too big for Selene herself.

“At least you won’t have to give Des an actual present,” Deceit reasons.

“As if I would have given him one anyway,” Fear counters. They paid for the cake, after all.

Deceit makes them move into ‘better light’, then, and fiddles with the phone, despite the apparent need for haste. But before Fear can get too annoyed he finally snaps the necessary picture. Their pose isn’t precisely alluring, but then, they don’t think it needs to be. They’re wearing the outfit. That will probably do.

“Alright, shoo,” they instruct, waving towards the door. “I’m not wearing this for your amusement.”

“Would you, though?” Selene blurts.

Dirthamen nudges her towards the exit, as her cheeks flame, and Fear considers.

She does have a birthday of her own coming up.

“Maybe,” they concede, before stepping out of the heels again. Selene makes an odd sound, which they ignore, as they stride back to their room. Apart from the initial struggle of putting it on, the outfit isn’t actually as uncomfortable as they expected. Probably by virtue of fitting properly. Still, they are not a fan of the bustier – it seems like the kind of thing that could break and jab wires into their ribs, under the wrong circumstances. They take it off, first, and then shimmy their way back out of the skirt, as they hear the apartment door close. The outfit comes off easier than it went on.

Part of the point, probably.

After a few moments they are down to the stockings and the brightly coloured panties.

They consider, and then take a second photo. This one of their lower half.

Just in case Des is resistant to the bait, for some reason.

Then they finish changing out of the whole mess, and pull on a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a black undershirt. Fear settles onto their bed, and turns on the television. Surfing through some of the channels until Dirthamen texts them to announce that they’re almost at Des’ place.

They open a chat to Des.

What are you doing?

There’s a pause. Mercifully, not long.

Having fantasies about you ofc ;) ;) ;)

Fear rolls their eyes.

What will they claim as repayment for this?

They think Dirthamen and Deceit are going to be doing their laundry for the foreseeable century.

What kind of fantasies? they ask.

Pick your poison baby I am all full of wicked ideas

And no punctuation, it seems.

Fear supposes that’s enough preamble, and attaches the first picture to their next reply.

Something like this, perhaps?

Another pause ensues, longer than the first. Long enough that Fear feels the need to comment again.

If you’re touching yourself, you should know that it is actually me in that photo, and that the clock is ticking on how long I plan to stay dressed like this.

…omw

They snort.

You’re at the apartment right???

Yes. Move quickly, birthday boy.

They reconsider.

But don’t violate any traffic laws.

Des’ response is quicker this time.

No promises ;) ;) ;)

Fear checks the clock, and then settles back again. They give it ten minutes, before some unnamed whim has them considering the second picture.

…Well.

It is Des’ birthday.

And they suppose they could give him something to make up for the inevitable disappointment.

They send the second photo.

Tick-tock.

No response for several minutes.

Then,

Baby stay JUST LIKE THAT just right where you are I am c o m i n g

Fear can’t quite fail to take that opening.

What, just from the photo?

No response. They suppose he’s driving, though, so they probably shouldn’t test their luck any further. Unless… oh. Selene has the car. So he probably hopped on a bus, then. That should give them even more time.

Fear finds a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress and finds themselves drawn into examining the corset dresses a soon-to-be-bride is critiquing. Not much different from the bustier, in fact. It’s interesting how context and colours can change so much about clothing. The consulting team has moved on – possibly into another episode; it can be hard to tell – by the time they hear a distinctive thump from the fire escape.

They blink, and then head over to the window.

They’re not entirely surprise to see Des wedged up against it.

“Noooo…” he moans against the glass, staring at them.

Fear frowns, and pulls open the window.

“It’s dangerous out there,” they snap, reaching over to yank Des inside. “Take the stairs, you lunatic.”

“I forgot my key,” Des admits, looking distinctly forlorn and rain-soaked, and just pathetic enough that Fear actually feels a little bad for him.

A little.

“You should have buzzed me,” they counter.

“I wasn’t exactly thinking with my higher brain, if you know what I mean,” Des counters, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

They take it back. He can fall down the fire escape.

“Ugh,” they say, checking the time. “Go home.”

“Are you at least still wearing the panties underneath the sweats?” Des counters, eyeing them up and down.

Fear purses their lips. He’s not even wearing a coat. And after a moment they decide that they can be magnanimous, as they turn, and head for the laundry hamper next to their closet. They pluck the panties up from the top of it, and then toss them at Des. He catches them easily enough, and his cheeks actually darken as her realizes what he’s holding.

“Not wearing anything under the sweatpants,” they say.

Des starts moving towards them, but they raise a forestalling hand.

“No,” they say.

“Aww, but sweetums-“

“No.”

Des’ disappointment lasts for a moment, before he, of course, bounces back.

“I’m keeping these,” he declares. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“No,” Fear says. “I’ll get you a bag, and you can go home, and touch yourself in your own bathroom.”

“Tease,” Des accuses.

“You have photos, now,” Fear counters.

“Oho, believe me, I am going to make full use of those-“

They throw a spare canvas shopping bag at his head.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Fear says, as if they didn’t invite me here,” Des replies, but he doesn’t actually seem all that put-out. “Admit it, you get off on making me run around at your beck-and-call. Winding me around those pointy fingers of yours.”

Fear shrugs.

“Why would I deny it?” they counter. Though they don’t usually like to give him this much material. Still, it’s not as if they actually dislike Des. Disdain him sometimes, sure. But there’s a reason he’s part of the group, and it’s not just because Fear enjoys watching him have sex with Deceit and Dirthamen and Selene.

Though they do enjoy watching that, often enough.

“You’re such an odd duck,” Des tells them.

Fear makes a ‘shoo’ motion, and picks their phone back up. Interlude over, and discussion concluded. They won’t be making anymore ‘overtures’ for at least a month, now. Des will have that time to get tired of the material they’ve already given him.

He’s heading back, they send to Selene.

They get a thumb’s up emoji back, as Des finally gives up, and leaves.

He’s gone for less than five minutes before they get another text from him.

Send nudes? <3 <3 <3

Fear sighs.

They already regret everything.

 ~

 Selene’s birthday goes a little differently.

Fear buys a pair of dark ballet flats, that match their stockings, and pull a pair of leather booty shorts and a see-through tube top out of the pile of offerings Des has subsequently managed to ‘ply’ them with. The tips of their hair are bleached and dyed blue for a concert, so they throw on some blue eyeshadow and a sapphire choker, and a matching ring. Big enough to be useful, just in case they have to punch someone.

It’s one of the simpler outfits they could don for this occasion, but it still takes them nearly the longest to get ready. When they emerge from their room, they spy Des, hovering next to the windows. If Fear is black-and-blue, Des is black-and-purple, wearing a pair of thigh-highs and a silky dress that looks like it was vacuum-sealed to him, and absolutely will not cover his ass if he leans more than an inch forward. Amethyst earrings drip towards his shoulders. Safety hazard, Fear thinks. They could catch on something.

Deceit is wearing a dress, too. His is black lace, not much longer than Des’ little number, with dark green stockings and a… mesh veil? Over his head. With emerald hair clips holding it in place.

Fear blinks.

“Why do you look like a slutty widower?” they ask.

Deceit just grins.

“It’s my theme,” he informs them, with a wink. “I like to think I’ve just buried my fifth… no, sixth husband. There’s some debate about the first one, it was mostly a common law type thing. But I still got all of his money when he died so tragically young.”

Deceit bats his eyelashes.

Fear gives up. They should never have given him an opening. Des looks like he wants to join in, now.

“Are you on the prowl for husband number seven?” he asks, not quite moving away from the window.

Deceit purses his lips, and then shakes his head.

“No, I think at this point what I really want is to find a gaggle of attractive people, and settle down into some kind of polyamorous commune. It’s time I started thinking realistically about my romantic goals. I’m not getting any younger, after all.”

“Good point,” Des agrees. “You are getting pretty wrinkled…”

Deceit narrows his eyes, and then produces a faux crocodile leather clutch from somewhere, and pulls a make-up mirror out of it. Fear levels Des with a look, but he’s already gone back to staring out of the window, snickering to himself.

Dirthamen emerges, then. His heels click as he carefully walks out of his room. His own ensemble is all-black, with a fitted corset, mesh stockings, and matching fingerless gloves. His skirt swishes with his every step, and he’s going slow. But he seems mostly satisfied.

“Is this acceptable?” he asks.

Des offers a low whistle of approval.

“I’m in raptures,” he declares. “Are we sure it’s not my birthday?”

He moves away from the window, and Fear pre-emptively catches his hand before it can settle on their hip. Nudging him over to Deceit instead.

“You are thematically appropriate,” they assure Dirthamen.

“Selene pulled in,” Des adds, waggling his eyebrows to let them all know that if they heard a double-entendre in there, it was entirely intentional. Then he slips one of his hands up Deceit’s skirt, and gets reproachfully slapped away again.

“End of the evening. End,” Deceit reminds him.

“You people ask so much of my self-restraint,” Des sighs, but folds his arms to himself, at least. “Ten bucks says Selene gets in through that door and we never make it to the club.”

It’s lingerie night at one of the local hotspots. Des found the venue himself, said it would be a good choice because of the floorplan, and the lack of overwhelming crowds. Plus, there was a drag show. A nice change of events, watching someone else perform.

“I’ll take that bet,” Fear decides. Selene likes dates. And she’ll probably be too dazed to protest any plans for… twenty minutes? That’s their guess, anyway. They head over to the closet, and start pulling out the trench coats they’ll all need to make it to the venue without being arrested. Or solicited.

They’ve just settled the pile onto the arm of a nearby chair when they hear Selene’s key scrape in the lock. Fear knows Des told her that they were going out for her birthday date tonight. They couldn’t do anything earlier, unfortunately; they had a recording session that they couldn’t reschedule. But Des had spent the morning with her, anyway.

“The only movie at the nearest theatre was…”

Selene looks up, as she finishes getting in through the door, and then freezes.

Her eyes go wide.

The keys fall out of her hand and hit the floor with a distinct clunk.

“Happy birthday!” Des exclaims, raising his arms, and shaking his hips a little. Enough so that the edges of his skirt flutters.

Deceit offers a wink, while Dirthamen glances down at himself. Obviously uncertain if the outfits have gotten a good response, or a bad one. Fear gives Selene a look over, for their own turn. She’s wearing neat white slacks and a blouse, with her comfortable pumps. They head back over to the closet and pull out one of their white dress jackets, extracting it carefully from its hanger bag. It will go nicely enough with what she’s already wearing that – especially with the four of them in tow – she’ll look just fine for the club.

“…Uh…” Selene manages, her gaze flitting over all of them, now, as if she’s not sure where to put it.

Eventually it settles on Dirthamen. To no one’s surprise.

“Is this alright?” Dirthamen asks her.

She swallows hard enough that Fear can hear it, even with their back turned, and then just manages a fervent nod as her face gets redder and redder.

They stride over, and offer her the jacket.

“Here,” they say. “It is lingerie night at one of the local clubs. We thought we could go, and have a nice time. There is a drag show, and the boneless wings are reportedly quite good.”

Selene mechanically accepts the jacket from them, and stares at their chest.

“What?” she asks.

“Put the coat on,” they advise, a little more gently. “It is chilly out.”

Her brows furrow, but she seems to relax a bit once everyone starts sliding into their trenches, in turn. Then she seems to recollect herself, and puts on Fear’s jacket, before she bends down and retrieves her keys from the floor.

“We’re going out in public?” she checks, a little faintly.

“Mmhmm!” Des confirms, negligently buttoning his coat before he reaches over and links an arm with hers. Then he leans in and whispers something in her ear. Fear doesn’t hear him, but whatever he says has Selene’s face darkening all over again, and embarrasses her enough that she raises a hand to cover it.

“Des,” she hisses.

“What?” he replies, with utterly unconvincing innocence. “I thought you’d appreciate knowing. I certainly do.”

Selene thwacks his arm.

“Desire,” Fear says.

Des makes a face.

“Ugggghhhhh, do not,” he protests.

“You’re driving,” they inform him. “You know where the club is.” And if his hands are on the steering wheel, then they won’t be wandering elsewhere.

The man lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine,” he agrees. “But no more full-names, unless you want me to start calling you Enfanim.”

“I have no objections to that,” Fear informs him.

“Unfair,” Des mutters. “I’ll shorten it, then. Feefee.”

Deceit snorts, and Fear rolls their eyes, and sidles up to Dirthamen so they can help him if he trips. Not that he can’t navigate heels fairly well, but this pair is tall even by his standards, and they have visions of him getting caught between the elevator doors, or tumbling headfirst down the apartment steps and concussing himself.

Selene consequently ends up wedged between Deceit and Des as they make their way down, her equilibrium gradually restoring itself once they’re all covered by the trench coats. Though, not entirely, if the way her eyes keep flitting down towards their shoes are any indication.

“I feel over-dressed. Or… under-dressed? I’m not sure which,” she admits, once they’ve successfully made it to the car without incident.

“You look fine,” Fear assures her.

“Better than fine, mistress,” Deceit asserts, playfully.

Selene makes a sound of protest.

“Let’s not – no,” she decides. “It’s my birthday, no calling me that. We’re not making that a thing.”

Fear pushes Deceit into the front seat of the car, so that he doesn’t spend the whole drive nuzzling Selene like a remorseful limpet, and nods in agreement.

“They’re just playing,” they say, as Des slides into the driver’s side, and leaves them to squeeze into the back with Dirthamen and Selene.

“I know,” she says, and lets out a long breath. Then her lips twitch. “And I definitely don’t mind. I just need a few minutes to adjust. Never had four gorgeous people take me on a sexy lingerie date before.”

Fear nods in acceptance, and Dirthamen takes Selene’s hand. Threading their fingers together, as Deceit and Des squabble over which bridge to take to get to the club. It ends up being a longer drive than planned due to traffic, but not too bad. The club itself doesn’t have much of an exterior. But inside the atmosphere is colourful and exuberant, with a variety of scantily-clad people running around in corsets and bustiers and thongs and thigh-highs. The queens are in full form, with hair blown out in abundant curls and sequins aplenty, and their table gets them a very nice view of the stage.

It doesn’t actually take that long for Selene to adjust, once they’ve sat down. Des goes to procure drinks, and comes back with a bunch of colourful cocktails for them, and the atmosphere is good. Lots of compliments going around, playful flirtation and raunchy jokes. Fear keeps an eye on the other patrons. There a dwarven man at the bar who keeps looking at Des, and a human woman at one of the tables who is giving Dirthamen one of those ‘where have I seen that face before’ glances. After a few minutes Fear gets up and has him switch seats with them; it puts his back to the woman and settles Fear between Des and the man at the bar.

Selene ends up nestled between Dirthamen and Deceit by the time the drag show starts. It’s a good performance. Lots of audience interaction for parts of it, and the singing is very pleasant, Fear thinks. Bombastic, as expected. They make sure to leave substantial tips, especially for the queen who gestures to their table and then lets out a low whistle.

“Honey, are those all yours?” the vashothi performer asks, twirling a finger.

Selene actually beams, her cheeks flushed just a little bit from her cocktails, now, instead of embarrassment. She puts her arms around Dirthamen and Deceit.

“All each other’s,” she says, looking almost giddy about it.

“Aww,” the queen replies. “Well I guess no one needs to ask what you’re happy about tonight.”

“It’s her birthday,” Des pipes up.

Fear almost smacks him, as Selene’s expression turns worried. But thankfully, the performer doesn’t do anything more than drum up a round of applause, before launching into the next part of her act. And Selene relaxes again, enjoying the show. One of her hands slides under the table, and after a few minutes, Dirthamen shifts, and his own face starts to get a little flushed.

Fear appreciates Selene’s mischievous streak, when it comes out to play.

They let one of their own hands slip down to rest on Des’ thigh, idly stroking the exposed skin above his boots back and forth.

He leans a little closer.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says. “Care to join me?”

“It’s better to go in pairs,” Fear agrees, pretending not to notice Des’ slight pout as they ‘miss’ his meaning, and slide out of the booth. They make their way to the club’s unisex bathrooms, and Des gestures pointedly to one of the stalls.

Fear raises an eyebrow, and folds their arms.

“Did you honestly think I would fool around with you in a filthy public restroom?” they ask.

“I’m an optimist,” Des replies. “But if you’re not interested, I guess I’ll just take care of it myself.”

“If you come before we go home, I won’t touch you all evening. It’s Selene’s birthday, she should be able to appreciate the festivities,” Fear states, moving to check their make-up in one of the bathroom mirrors.

Des makes a sound of frustration, but then gives up.

”Fine. I don’t even know what we came in here for, now,” he says, moving up to the sink next to Fear’s.

Fear declines to mention that it was, ostensibly, to use the facilities for their intended purpose. Their make-up is holding up alright. Better than Des’ – though, they tend to use products that are meant to hold up under stage lights. Des steals some wipes from their purse and then redoes his eyes, leaving the rest of it plainer but also tidier than before.

“Remind me not to get this brand of eyeshadow again, it’s a mess,” he mutters, just as the door to the bathroom opens.

The dwarf from the bar, Fear notes.

They watch him as he moves up to the sink next to Des, and turns on the tap. His gaze drifts up and down Des’ form again, while the man himself mostly frowns at his make-up wipe.

“Having a nice evening?” the dwarf asks.

Des nods.

“Of course,” he says.

“Yeah, you looked like you were here for a good time,” the dwarf agrees.

Fear notes the movement of his hand, and moves quickly. Darting behind Des and grabbing the dwarf by his wrist, before he can settle his grasp onto Des’ backside. Des blinks at the sudden movement, and then turns and raises an eyebrow just as the dwarf wrenches his hand back.

“What’s the big idea?” the dwarf protests.

“You keep your hands to yourself,” Fear snaps.

It earns them a sneer.

“Like you aren’t all asking for it, in those outfits. Why else would you come here? What’s the matter, think you’re too good for me?”

Up go Des’ eyebrows.

“Ew,” he notes.

The dwarf’s face twists, and he makes like he plans on grabbing Des. To what end, Fear’s not sure, but they catch his fist again, and offer him a solid pop to the nose in further rebuke. It’s the button kind, so it smashes pretty easily beneath their knuckles, but without a lot of damage. They opt not to use their ring hand.

Yet.

“Hands off,” they repeat, letting the dwarf stagger back, cursing.

“Sluts!” he accuses.

Des sighs.

“Why do people always call me that when I don’t want to let them paw me?” he demands, mostly of the ceiling lights. “Do you not know what that word means? I suppose you couldn’t spit out something like ‘tease’ with the same amount of vitriol, but at least shift gears into ‘skank’ or something…”

Fear grabs Des by the arm, as he’s in the midst of critiquing his would-be assailant’s choice of insults, and firmly pulls him out of the bathroom.

The dwarf, thankfully, seems too preoccupied with the blood pouring from his nose to follow after them.

“Really,” Des drawls, and then sighs. “I suppose we should go tell someone about the angry molester in the bathroom.”

“Probably,” Fear agrees.

“Don’t tell Selene. She gets upset about these things.”

“Alright.”

They make their way over to the bar, and opt to tell the bartender. It gets Des a free apology drink, if nothing else, which he happily carts back with him to their table, as one of the bouncer goes to take care of their ‘friend’.

Des glances at Fear, as they sit down again.

Then he leans over, and, just quickly, presses a kiss to their cheek.

“You’re a good soul, Feefee,” Des informs them.

“Don’t call me that,” they instruct, but without a lot of genuine annoyance.

It earns them both a trio of surprised looks.

“What brought that on?” Selene wonders.

Des winks at her.

“Private bathroom adventures,” he declares. “Now, who wants to go home and have sex?”

She sighs at him.

 ~

 They do end up going home not too long after that, though. Back to Fear and Deceit and Dirthamen’s apartment, anyway. Fear drives them for the return trip, with Dirthamen cooling off in the front seat – he got a little hot under the collar in the club – and Des and Deceit both paying an awful lot of attention to Selene in the back. Fear’s mind wanders, though, tuning out the rustle of fabric and the hitches in various breaths.

They should think about getting a new apartment, they suppose. Maybe not soon, but, it’s a matter to be prepared for. Moving can be stressful. Better to plan early. Finding a place big enough for all of them could be tricky. Maybe a house would make more sense, at this point. Though they’ve always been a bit leery of getting a house, though. Not enough security. Too easy for one of Dirthamen’s relatives to just pull into the driveway, unless they invested in a gated property.

Fear bounces some numbers around, mentally, tapping a finger against the steering wheel. By the time they pull into the apartment parking lot, they’ve moved on to weighing the variables of different viable locations.

Should they factor in neighbourhoods with access to early education facilities?

They’re probably have to have a group discussion before they could consider that. Children – and the various means of acquiring them – are a complex and often dangerous venture. Not to mention additionally vulnerable, and in need of a lot more security considerations. Dirthamen doesn’t want biological children, they know that much. Where Selene and Des stand on it is less clear. Deceit wants kids at some point. And Fear would have troubles carrying them, for a variety of reasons. Pain not being the least concern.

Adoption seems like a good simplification, if it becomes relevant. Which it probably won’t, in the immediate future, but Fear prefers to think ahead.

They park, and head out to help Dirthamen stand up on his heels. Des and Deceit and Selene manage to emerge from the backseat, flushed and rumpled but still decent, and the five of them make their way back inside with a certain haste in their steps.

They set up in Dirthamen’s bedroom, which has the most supplies and the biggest bed. Selene switches gears from being rumpled by Des and Deceit, into pouncing on Dirthamen, her blouse open and her bra crooked, while Dirthamen tumbles back towards the bed. Deceit and Des start their usual back-and-forth in turn, half quarrelling about who’s going to do what and to whom until Deceit manages to handcuff Des to the bedpost.

“I win,” he growls, and shucks Des’ dress up to his armpits.

Fear takes up their usual station in the bedroom chair, folding their legs and watching the proceedings. Savouring the simmering heat that builds up in them, as Selene mercilessly teases Dirthamen up amongst the pillows, and Deceit carefully fits a condom onto his own erection. Fear opens up the drawer next to themselves, and tosses a couple of cockrings onto the mattress. Selene takes one, but Deceit puts the other aside, and instead sets about working Des open. Lifting his lower half up off the mattress.

Fear continues to sit, still with their legs crossed and their gaze hooded, and continues to watch as Selene sucks Dirthamen until he’s begging to come; and as Deceit fucks Des until he does, clutching the bedpost behind him. As they switch things up a little, and Dirthamen goes to suck off Des – still with his own cock erect and flushed, leaking as he bobs between Des’ thighs – and Deceit presses Selene into the pillows, turning all soft and cuddly even as his refractory period closes, and he switches out condoms so he can thrust into her, in turn.

Fear watches them all drive one another senseless, spending themselves and denying themselves by turns. Selene is the one who finally frees Dirthamen from his cockring, and rides him until he comes inside of her. Deceit uncuffs Des from the bedpost, and rubs gently at his wrists, until Des seizes an opening to tie him up in turn, and then slides the second cockring onto him for the next round. Smirking as he lazily work his hand up and down Deceit’s length, until his hips are bucking in tired-but-still-hungry thrusts. Then Selene and Dirthamen join Fear in watching, the two of them slumped together in sated bliss, while Des strokes and fingers an increasingly incoherent Deceit. All their outfits rumpled and pushed aside, bottoms pulled off and tops askew.

When Deceit begins to beg, Fear gets up from their chair.

They pull a dental dam from the drawer next to it, and make their way over to the bed, next to Selene. No one notices them at first; too caught up in their own activities. But Selene looks over as they settle onto their knees beside the mattress.

“May I?” they ask.

She blinks at them, a little hazy from her own activities, but nods nevertheless.

Fear takes her by her hips, and arranges her at the side of the bed. Legs on either side of them, sex spread out in front of them, as they settle the dental dam into place. They can smell sweat and arousal on her tired, still-flushed skin, as they lean in, and press their mouth to her. The dental dam tastes like peaches. Selene herself is warm and very soft, her thighs still shivering a bit, as they languidly drag their tongue up and down the length of her. Focusing on the changes in her breath, and the shifting in her muscles. It’s not often that Fear wants to perform acts themselves.

But tonight, they do. And, well. It is Selene’s birthday.

They keep their motions slow and savouring, enjoying the brush of her thighs against their cheeks, and the sound of Deceit coming on the other side of the bed. They let their eyes slide shut, and focus on pressing their tongue deeper into Selene. Sucking at her clit, and holding her hips in place, and noting every building quiver and twitch as she gets closer to completion. It’s important to note that, because whenever she gets too close, Fear has to slow down. Rest their tongue and their mouth a little, and keep her from coming too soon.

Their impulses are rare. So, it pays to make the most of them.

But finally their mouth becomes too tired to keep going much longer. So they grip her more closely, all at once. Swirling their tongue over the sensitive cluster of her nerves, as the peach flavour fades, and then they suck at her until she comes in definitive rush. Thighs clenching around their ears, fists balling in Dirthamen’s sheets.

Very gratifying.

Fear gives her thigh an approving kiss, before they pull back, and take the dental dam away.

That’s when they realize the others are watching them.

Des looks a little floored. Deceit and Dirthamen are less surprised, but still clearly affected.

And Selene, for her part, seems pleasantly dazed.

“Thank you,” they say.

Selene manages to raise a hand, before dropping it back down onto the bedspread.

“Anytime,” she murmurs.

Des snorts.

Fear just nods, and then goes to fetch some water bottles and wet wipes.