ʏᴇᴀʜ ɢɪʀʟ & ᴅᴏʟʟ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ
Sweet!Baron Lamram x f!Reader ~ Requested By Anon!!
Title Song: Yeah Boy and Doll Face ~ Pierce The Veil (but i changed it obviously bc Baron is doll face iktr)
Warnings: MDNI 18+! Making out, tiddy suckin', non-sexual nudity to kick start, reader got tiddies, no use of Y/N. FLUFF!! A little SPICEY
Summary: New in town and an artist, you've struck up an interesting relationship with the postman in town who is all but happy to help you out with a piece in preparation for an upcoming gallery.
Word Count: 4.2k
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Clear plastic sheets cover the studio walls in an ominously threatening kind of way, protecting the walls and important equipment from the impending destruction that was due to follow in the coming few minutes to an hour. The camera set up on its tripod too was covered haphazardly with plastic.
If anyone walked in and hadn't known you were an artist, they'd immediately assume the worst. Dexter kind of worst. The saving grace of being relatively new to town is that you very much looked the part of an artist. Coveralls constantly smattered with paint and boots that were once brown, now a kaleidoscope of paint drips and flicks.
It was a too-small town somewhere insignificant and far away from everything significant. It was perfect really, to get away and reset, re-calibrate and downscale from how busy life got. So you quite literally threw a dart at a map and went for it. Financially it wasn't viable, your art makes barely enough to live but it was necessary.
Unexpectedly, what you hadn't been planning on finding in your reset, was someone. Loosely. Baron Lamram was the paper boy (man?) and he knew everyone from the elderly couple down the road to the de facto couple next door with too many kids.
He was a sweetheart, the way he immediately locked onto you as the new person in town. The conversations started off as typical small talk, though you consider he isn't really one for small talk since he just speaks his mind a lot. Then the conversations began happening outside of the usual mail exchange, through the doorway of your little house and in other places as a change of scenery.
Like at the corner store or just on the street.
Then it just became a routine, neither of you really had set it, but it just happened. Similar to how most things happened between the two of you, you kissed him and he kissed you, only a handful of times. But from then on he came around daily, even for just ten minutes, just to talk mostly. Or to see you.
So really, he wasn't anyone particularly grand, hell, he wasn't even your boyfriend. He existed as an entity somewhere that took up space like one but neither of you were in a hurry to rectify the confusion.
For now, it was just... Nice. No real expectations, none of the bullshit that came with modern day dating. Even if you could call kissing the same guy three times 'dating'.
The doorbell ringing signifies his arrival, a planned day together because you wanted his help with some art for an upcoming gallery.
"Sugar! You made it," you grin while swinging the door open, already you were a mess from head to toe. Cut offs of tape stuck all over yourself from sticking that plastic wrapping around the makeshift studio. There were perpetual flecks of paint in your hair or on your face. Today was no different, "hows your Ma?"
"Well," he scratches the back of his head, hair windswept from biking in the spring warmth. Baron was never one to beat around the bush, no he very much liked to beat the bush. It was easier to say 'good' then move on, but he never had a flair for those types of niceties. He gives context instead because he likes to give context, "they done raised the prices of Ma's medicine again."
"You're kidding?"
"Swear to god, I ain't."
He looks at you with those downturned eyes, the ones that made your stomach flip and your heart sigh with a resounding here we go'. "Well — this gallery could be decent pickings, I'll give you half the earnings for helping me out, sugar."
"Shucks... I ain't helpin' for money." You know this, but you know he'd never ask for help not because of some warped sense of masculinity or pride. Because you know he doesn't like to bother people too much with his troubles. Well... He doesn't expect people to offer help because who the hell can in these times?
"I know, sugar. C'mon! Get your ass in here." Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him inside. He still never invites himself in, only ever waiting for you to pull him in or explicitly ask him to come inside. It was endearing and delightful.
Once inside the studio he looks around once, then at you, then back around again as if to verify that what he's seeing is real. "You... What's with all the plastic?" He points, turning on the spot, "you done changed it up since last time."
You gesture to the paint pots lining the wall, "we gonna make a mess."
Your artwork is best described as expressionism and byproxy, an extension of you. Less flashy in a way that billionaires would fork out fortunes for, but twenty somethings and quirky cafe owners would snatch up at the right craft market. Pictures captured a thousand unspoken things, invoking emotions and inspiration unique to everyone who looks at it.
The type of art you did was painting the subjects, then snapping that moment for eternity inside the tiny reel of film ready to be developed.
He's seen your work before, lining the entry way of the small ramshackle house. A lot of them were you, different lighting, different elements. One thing in common; Nudity.
"All right, sugar. I'm gonna sit on this, I want you to paint me. No overthinkin', just doin'." You grin, and in you fashion, clothes are discarded as though they were more an inconvenience than anything else. In your case for art, they were more annoying than helpful.
Some collections of art in the past that have made it to a gallery had you as the subject before, this wasn't new. Only this time you have help.
At first this was an endeavor you were completely comfortable to do alone, as always had been the case. Living in a small town now meant the subject pool shrunk drastically compared to the outer suburb living that was abundant in people willing to sit in front of a camera naked for an hour.
Baron, bless his soul, asked if you wanted help when it was brought up a few days ago. He was good at that — giving out his time like he had all of it in the world to spare. Barely scraping pennies together being the post boy, it was a non-negotiable for you that he'd give up a work day for this.
And now he's here, on a day off, staring at you with his mouth parted as if he was unsure what to do now that you sat on the stool naked.
"Sugar?"
"Mh." He tucks his hair behind his ears and draws a shaky breath. Tongue swiping across his lips while he really tries his hardest not to look at you.
"If you're not comfy, you don't have to do this, sweetheart." Because even though you double checked yesterday, then triple checked this morning on the phone, it was okay to back out at any point. Nudity is precious to some people, and that was never going to be something you'd make fun of (especially) Baron for.
"I wanna help," he rasps, finally flicking his eyes up to meet yours. Quagmire and petrified wood is what they reminded you of, swirls of amber adding visual variance that just made him all the more precious.
Nodding, your hand gestures to the paint pots, "don't overthink it, sugar. Get it on your hands, put colour where it feels right. Hell — you could dump a whole pot on me. Follow instinct. I got a remote to trigger the camera." Which you held up and shook in your hands.
The plastic on the floor crinkles with his careful and measured steps, if he isn't looking at the paint pots he's only looking at your face. He was sickeningly sweet.
It was interesting to watch how he looks at the colours, hesitating on one and then moving on. Once he clears the camera, now on the other side of the room, you snap a picture. A preamble to what is to come. Cleanliness and order before chaos and mess.
Finally, he comes over, having settled on the yellow he hovered near for a while. Right hand dripping with viscous paint, immediately forgetting its on there and tucking his hair behind his ear.
You giggle, he jerks away from his hand, "oh gosh dang it," muttering softly to his hand as though it had a mind of its own and did that on purpose.
"Paintin' the wrong canvas, sugar." A hand comes up to properly tuck in his hair, you slip off the hair elastic from your wrist, arms resting over his shoulders as he naturally settles between your parted legs. You gather his wayward hair and tie it into a messy bun. Strands not quite long enough to fit, frame his face instead.
"Better?" Your hands slide down to rest on his chest, fingers playing absently with the buttons of his coveralls.
He nods coy and bashful, a smile curling in his lips and immediately does it again without thinking. This time one of your hands gently grabs his wrist, "I can paint you next if you'd like, don't worry about getting messy."
Again, he nods and refuses to look away. The side of his face smeared with yellow and some of it tracked through his hair.
"Words, sugar. Yes or no."
"Y-yeah—yes." His words are clumsy and breathy, it occurs to you now that maybe he's never been this close with someone before. He adds a quiet, "I'd like that," before his throat bobs.
Despite the double affirmation, you know he was prone to being convinced into stuff he doesn't feel that good about, so your other hand cups his cheek, "are you sure?"
This causes him pause, the hand that was covered in paint had begun dribbling yellow onto your thigh. His doe eyes firmly plant their gaze at you, the most confidently he's looked at you since stripping naked. "I want you to."
Translation heard, he wants your touch, your hands, maybe even your lips on him. He had moments of quiet confidence like this, that seep through that sweetheart nature of his. It makes you consider he might not be as sheltered as he comes off.
Then he blushes when he accidentally looks at your breasts and that consideration immediately goes out the window.
Your hands drop, one closing around the remote for the camera.
Almost immediately, in a way that makes your heart ache impossibly hard, his messy fingers draw a tentative smudge across your chest where your heart rest beneath. It steadily thrums, stuttering for a beat at the cool touch, his touch. This sweetheart from a too-small town.
Without permission, your mind becomes a whirring presentation of every asshole you've given time or your heart to. Paling in comparison to this precious and rare enigma of a guy who isn't much to look at initially. But beneath there was hidden treasure just waiting for the right person to come by and witness.
With the pause of his fingers and the two of you locked in a silent conversation between glances and parted lips, he lifts his hand to brush across your cheek. Yellow smears along with the drag of his thumb across the apple of your cheek. Your finger twitches, almost instinctively pressing on the remote that triggers a near blinding flash from the camera.
A moment worth a thousand words, immortalized in light sensitive crystalized silver forever.
Once he finished off with the yellow, he moved onto green. Then came red. Then blue. Then pink. Colours mixing to make vibrant hues or muddying depending on where his hands decided to go. From arms, to legs, neck then naval. Each colour prompted another flash, each moment that felt right also triggered another flash.
His touch wasn't lewd, it didn't toe the line of inappropriate or opportunistic. It was curious and careful — there it was again, that rare confidence that would appear. Or maybe it was awareness.
"Hey," your hand gently curls around his, joining the muddy colours that have mixed from his painting, he's been at it for a while, lost in his own world. Eyes fluttering with those ridiculously big lashes, lips puckered in concentration and nose scrunched.
Baron had never looked more beautiful than right now. Hair haphazardly tied back, messy coveralls and those mahogany eyes with rings of molten gold. It was unfair.
You swipe two fingers across his neck playfully, "didn't wantcha feeling left out."
He blushes a dusty pink beneath freckles that aren't obvious compared to his moles. "Did I do it right?" He takes a step back, not to create distance, but to look back at his handy work.
Fingerprints and smudges streaked limbs and joints, his favourite was the accidental smiley face he made on the inside of your thigh.
"Baron," you lean forward, he's already hanging his head.
"'There ain't no right or wrong', s'what you were gonna say, right?"
"Uh-huh. Instinct just flows, sugar. You might be good at this art thing."
His teeth gnaw at the plump of his lower lip, not in a particularly sexy way or an attempt to come off attractive. It was a nervous one, "I guess... I ain't too sure how paintin' a pretty girl got anythin' to do with art or nothin'."
"Well do you feel different? Better? Worse? Pensive?"
"I got no clue what that word means, pretty." He chuckles awkwardly, abandoning the turquoise paint pot on the stool beside you, "I feel... calm. Like I ain't got nothin' to worry about. S'just you and me."
You and me. Said in that hopelessly earnest tone looking at you as though you were the reason he got out of bed every day. This... Thing, whatever it was, existing between you felt more real every day.
Nothing seemed adequate to follow that up, aside from a ridiculous love declaration, but this wasn't a scenario that needed it. Baron didn't need to hear you say anything other than you were there and listening, maybe love was on the cards eventually but right now it was still in its infancy.
A petal not quite ready to bloom outward.
So you say nothing at all, just keep your fingers on his skin until he speaks again, "can you paint me now?" He looks guilty for asking, in the downward turn of his head, missing completely the way you beam at his request.
Already, your unfolding off the stool, standing upright beside him with a toothy grin. "Yeah?"
"Yeah — can you make me blue?"
You laugh softly, "just blue?"
"I like blue," he says it defensively but theres no punch to it, barely a gentle reasoning — he's giving you context like he always does.
"I didn't mean it like that, sugar. I can do shades of blue, don't want you looking like smurf."
His lips curl into a smile, "I like them guys." He's now just fucking with you, evident in the way his smile turns impish and his eyes avoid yours like he's bashful about being playful.
Your fingers curl around the lapels of his coveralls, dark curls poking out from the opening which you have to actively try not running your fingers through it, "this'll need to come off if you don't wanna get it ruined." A suggestion, not a strict command. Whatever pace he wanted to set was going to be fine by you either way.
There's a moment he considers it, telegraphed in the quirk of his brows and soft hum that vibrates his chest, rumbling beneath your fingertips. Something in his mind embarrasses him, because his breath hitches and he stumbles to sit down on the stool. His eyes follow you more easily now you're covered in paint, as if it created a barrier for him to look guilt free.
While he sits with that lone paint mark from before, you trigger the camera to flash and in the process, accidentally startling him who wasn't prepared for it.
"Sorry, sugar." You chuckle from across the room, picking up midnight blue and teal.
"S'okay," his eyes track your approach, not in a lecherous way, never in a way that made you feel more like meat than a person. Baron was incapable of making someone feel like that, his eyes say too much. Curious without probing, assessing without scrutiny, innocence from inexperience not because there was anything 'wrong' with him.
He once told you he got called an invalid, not that exact word, but the connotation meant all the same. Baron was gullible, saw the best in people and went through life to enjoy the little treasures given to him, not to be sucked into all the misery that was hard to ignore.
He was not lesser for that, and thats what you'd said. All those things, about how he strolls through life looking at all the colours of the world and smells and sights and tastes. About how he assumes the best and never expects the worst, because whatever trajectory he was on would lead him to contentedness one way or another.
Without thinking, lost in the details of his face, your lips move and the gentlest of, "pretty," murmurs out. Then your brain catches up to the moment, and you smear some midnight blue over the apple of his cheek.
"You ain't actually mean that, pretty. That's you," he breathes, shifting on the stool and wringing his fingers.
Your messy hand cups his chin tenderly, tilting his head up to lock eyes, "you are the prettiest work of art I'll have the pleasure of painting." The weight of your words land heavier than intended, unintentionally feeling more like a declaration of love than the usual three words.
But it felt right to say, just like the strokes on his skin to follow it was all instinctual. Did it mean any less even if the two of you were simply delighted in one anothers company? No. It meant something, but that something didn't feel like it needed defining right now.
Indigo, lapis, azure, cerulean one by one make their statement across his face and hands and coveralls. When the moment felt right, the camera would flash and even though he knew that was the objective of this art work he still jumped every-time. Sapphire, cobalt, cyan and periwinkle soon join the mosaic union of all these blues while you work quietly to appreciate the man before you.
"Done," you nod with satisfaction, "all blue and not too smurfy either."
Your voice was gentle, breath puffing in his face when you reach up to adjust one of his wayward strands painted teal. There really were no words to describe the complex push pull of your feelings toward Baron, but maybe the ocean was a good example. It felt easy being near him, talking to him, sometimes it was like the tide.
Some days the tide was high, other days it was low but that wasn't indicative of feeling less intense about him. More that, whatever existed was softer, more calm in preparation for the days where it felt loud and consuming.
He must feel it too, while his hands stay put on his thighs, his head tilts into the delicate touch of your hand and subconsciously leans forward toward your face. "You look like one of them picato paintin's," he tried his best. Always.
A faint laugh bubbles out of barely parted lips, considering for a moment to correct him and say 'Picasso' but decide there was no need when the moment was perfect, "you look like a starry night, sugar." Both literally and in reference to Van Gogh's painting.
Without giving it much thought, your fingers circle the parts of his face where his moles came through the paint faintly, "s'like looking at the milky way." And like everything else about today, you just act on instinct and kiss the parts of his face where you know his beauty spots are.
He shifts, hands twitching but that embarrassing flush of inexperience and clumsiness halt his movements as you peck the tip of his nose.
"Baron." Not sugar, not sweetheart, but his name sounded so sweet whispered through your lips. At first it felt like a warning, like you had somehow managed to burrow into his mind and hear his thoughts but the look on your face said otherwise.
Then your fingers press into his wrists, not hard or demanding, just guiding them up to rest on your hips. "Is this okay?"
It was a simple question but it meant all the same, it seemed like a significant jump to go from kissing a handful of times to then be touching your naked body. He doesn't just nod and murmur a soft 'yes', his fingers flex out before firmly indenting in the plush of your body.
Only then do you let go of his hands, resting them languidly on his shoulders, "you can touch me," you pause and think if its worth clarifying, but settle on something that will make him feel more at ease, "wherever you like."
His hands don't move more than the soft rubbing of his thumbs across your skin, and surprisingly, he's leaning forward to initiate a kiss. Sweet and wobbly, his nose bumps yours in a way that was entirely ungraceful yet didn't deter him from feeling your lips with his own in a short peck.
"Hey," you murmur playfully, tugging him back closer, "get back here, you." This time you lean in, pressing lips to his soft at first. Enough that his hands tense around your hips and somewhere in your core, you feel that familiar tightness starting to coil more and more.
Your fingers curl into his long messy strands of hair, tongue swiping over his lower lip which causes an abrupt whimper to stifle from his mouth. He pulls back red in the face underneath all the paint, wide eyed like he did the wrong thing.
"Too much?" The question hangs in the air, quiet and safe. A checkpoint to stop things now before getting too carried away.
Peering through his lashes was a sight that nearly made your knees buckle. And then he shakes his head slowly, "can you kiss me like that again?" He pauses, then smiles nervously, "p-please."
"You liked it, hm?"
That felt like the biggest understatement of the century, especially when you kiss him again, tongue, teeth and spit but not rough or urgent. Unhurried and slow, every drag of your tongue against his was a long swiiiipe, mainly to help him get the movement down and replicate but also to just feel him.
Wet lips pressing against one another had you instinctively rocking your hips against nothing, legs pressed together as the need and desire starts to flush through you from top to bottom.
His hands move without any intervention from you, still cautious and learning but fingertips glide up your bare sides. He makes little humming noises through sharp intakes of breath, like he's forgotten how to breathe when your tongues are entwined. Hands stopping shy of your breasts, close enough that you know he's thinking about whether he can touch you or not.
"Shgar," you slur against his lips, breathy and deep. Only now do you bring a hand down to his, lifting it up and over one of your breasts. Both of you stutter, the kissing halts for a moment and nothing but the chorus of panting and heartbeats thrum in the studio.
"Can I?" His whine cuts through the silence, flushed in the face, lips swollen and wet, he looks at you with a foreign desperation. Unintentionally starting something in him that he had yet to experience but now he had it, he needed it. Can he what, exactly? You had no idea, but you nod anyway.
"Yeah, sweetheart."
What you hadn't expected was him to lean forward, press his face in the space between your breasts and nuzzle his head in. The hand already on one, squeezes softly, then releases intermittently, curious and light.
His lips press feather-light kisses across painted skin, barely pressing down on your sternum, the curve of your breast and then over your nipple, which he kisses tentatively first before sealing lips over the bud and sucking. The entire time his eyes are flicked up to yours, through long lashes and strands of painted hair.
Without even knowing it, he sometimes had the confidence of a guy much different than him. Your legs clench tighter and fingers anchor themselves in the loose bun beginning to unravel, kind of like how you might if he kept looking at you like that. "Sugar," you sigh, out of breath from him tugging at your nipple, "you feel so good sweetheart, but you're gonna swallow paint if you keep goin'."
As reluctant as you were to get him to stop, there was still a very apparent hazard of being covered in paint respectively.
When he moves back, nipple still trapped between his teeth until he finally lets go, he takes a shuddering breath and swallows, "I didn't taste no paint or nothin', pretty. Just you." The yellow smeared paint across his lips say otherwise.
"You're so sweet. C'mon, I'll get you all nice n' cleaned up, mmkay?" Your fingers thread through his and tug him off the stool.
"Yes, ma'am."
For two people figuring each other out, it was becoming a lot easier every passing day. Only tomorrow guaranteed more moments like these.
