#and i was like WELL IF MY FAVOURITE PAINTER FEELS THAT WAY I'M SURE I'LL BE FINE ALSO | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aphrodite-would-be-proud · 4 years

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🕯Anon said: hi sweetheart 🕊 can you write about armin having a quiet night with the reader? something like wearing comfy pajamas, fairy lights, cute little candles, incense, soft songs and maybe some reading? and they just cuddling? 🥺 i think about that whenever i go to sleep and do all of the above, but i'm just by myself lmao anyways, thank you so much 🌸 (btw i'm the anon who asked you about the armin x painter!reader 🥺 hello 🥺 i just love how you write can we be friends please) 🕯

Quiet night with Armin

{ Armin x Reader | tw:none | sleep help, comfort, fluff | modern }

{ "Twilight, Valley of the Genesee" 1865 by Samuel Colman 1832 - 1920 }

Shimmering golden hues weaved across pastel blue walls in the form of strings, crossing the bookshelf before making a turn at the plants corner, illuminating the room with a soft warm glow.

Your head rested against the satin pillow, just right above Armin's shoulder, close enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest with every breath. The ends of his hair ghosting over your cheek whenever he leaned to tell a particular clever line of the book he's been reading to you.

You can't exactly remember the name of it, but you can clearly recall his excited smile this morning when showing it to you.

"It's one of my favourites" he said, "the last time i got to reread it was in high-school, has it really been that long?" And that's all you can remember from the conversation before it got sidetracked by him asking if you had lunch yet.

There's definitely something to be said about rereading a book over and over again, a sense of familiarity, an attachment to the characters, plot and world setting. It's almost magic how quickly your comfort book, show or movie can turn a horrible day into a nice one, making it the silver lining.

Looking at the way Armin would pause for a second after some lines, or chuckle at random scenes, like it's an inside joke between him and his mind, you can tell he's definitely recalling some good memories.

Just like how he's adding to his list of comfort memories by sharing this experience with you, he wants you to be a part of this silly book he once picked up as a child and continued to revisit every few years.

You glance at the remaining pages, just as he flips another one to start anew. You've already finished a third of the book, only a quarter remaining.

It's not that you're getting impatient, but it's more that the soft blanket draped over you, the warmth of Armin's body pressed next to yours and the sound of his voice, are all luring you into a hazy cloudy state where your eyelids feel too heavy and turning your head to check the clock seems too exhausting.

How long has it been? since you curled up against him right after you went to put your empty hot chocolate mugs in the sink.

You don't have the heart to tell him that your brain stopped registering the words he's saying and instead listens to the tone of his soft-spoken voice and reacts accordingly. Stealing another glance at the remaining pages, you notice a few missing, okay good, just a few more. You can hold on right?

Right?

Forcing your eyes open, you suppress a yawn threatening to rise before curling even closer to his shoulder, face against his neck, hand over his chest.

Instead of focusing on his calming heartbeat, you try to focus your attention on different things, like the smell of snowdrops flowers filling the room from the scented incense sitting on the nightstand.

Snowdrops, the milky bell-like flowers who befriended the cold harsh snow herself.

An ancient German tale that Armin told you, on one early spring morning. When the universe was just in bloom, as the earth shaped its form and the plants dressed themselves, when the god in the heavens above just created snow, she was told to go seek her colours from the flowers below.

She came with her request, but the flowers turned their heads, refusing to acknowledge her for she is the reason for the harsh weather, deeming their life spans short, overzealous and jealous, protecting their colours from the merciless lady snow.

She was left all alone, friendliness, colourless with no love or sympathy from a soul.

Except for one, came knocking on her door, head bowed down and humbly offered to share. Snowdrops were the flowers that warmed the snow's heart, and so white was the colour in which snow was known.

Snow made a vow, to always protect her one and only friend, even from her own self. Under her watchful gaze, snowdrops were gifted with warmth that let them be the first flowers to bloom when winter bid her goodbyes as spring was arriving soon.

You've never seen snowdrops the same since, their delicate and shy nature standing out between all the proud flowers, you even suggested planting some to Armin.

"...but sweetheart" you remember him saying with a frown, " snowdrops are poisonous."

…

Yeah, and so getting their scented incense was the second best option available.

You hear the sound of another page being turned, fewer left to go, just hold on a bit longer.

Wondering the room with your eyes, your gaze fell on the straw sunhat hanging from the on the back of a chair. It's Armin's favourite, he'd always wear it when the sun was particularly bright that day.

you remember him saying it was a gift from his grandpa when he was a child.

His grandpa...didn't you visit his farm a few months ago?

...yeah you did, you can recall clearly, how you were:

Squinting your eyes to avoid the bright sun, you wiped the sweat collecting on your forehead before leaning your head back against the wooden wall. The occasional passing cool breeze distracting you from the dryness in your throat, even after moving to sit in the shade your skin still felt too hot.

The grassy fields in front stretched wide before ending in white pained fences, where the crops patches for vegetables started.

The sudden gentle waves of cool air against your skin made you glance to the side, where Armin was fanning you with his hat, while holding a tray with two ice filled lemonades in his other hand.

"Are you sure you don't want to go inside?" He said, sitting next to you before handing you the cold drink, "you've already done a lot, I'll do take care of the rest."

You've been helping Armin with the farm work since sunrise, feeding the animals together and watering the crops, saying you're exhausted from the scorching hot sun was an underestimation.

And yet, somehow Armin seems unaffected. Not a sign of being bothered as he sat there next to you with his rolled up sleeves and cuffed pants, the slight flushing to his face was the only thing he got from the sun.

"Yeah, I need to lay down a bit." You remember saying, after emptying your drink in one go.

"If that's the case then-" setting the tray aside, Armin patted his lap while looking at you, "Come here."

Too tired to protest, you layed your head on his thigh, feeling your back stretching and the cool air from his fanning was already making you feel better.

"You know, there's a story my grandpa used to tell me about the sun."

An Australian folklore, about a time when the earth was merged in absolute Darkness, when even the stars refused to light up the sky.

Eternal darkness was the fate of humanity, as people were spent their lives carrying torches to light up their way.

Gnowee was an alone mother in a forsaken world, left to fend for her little son. Each day while he slept safely, she'd venture into the the fields in search for plants or seeds. Knowing very well that's it's a matter of life and death if she couldn't come back with something edible.

Each day she'd come with whatever she could find, feeding it to her son even if it meant sleeping on an empty stomach.

But with food scarce and the abyss looming at every corner, things were harder each day.

One day after rocking her child to sleep, she quietly left with her torch to dig for yams she saw on her way last time. Retracting her footsteps, it was a long journey but she knew it'd be worth it.

And so she walked and walked till she reached the place, began digging the ground but dirt and mud was all that she could find. But she couldn't just go back to her son empty handed, and so she wandered far.

She wandered so far in fact that she reached the end, not the end of her journey but the end of the earth itself.

Somehow, in someway she managed to pass from under it, her will for her son to live another day far greater that anything, and so she emerged from the other side.

The void.

Where nothingness lived.

Looking at the vast empty space, she didn't know where she was, the line between the ground and walls was so blurred that she thought she's floating.

Panic and dread filled her mind as she raised her torch higher and higher, attempting to clear a path for her to see. For she had to go back to her son, all alone sleeping by himself.

Climbing the sky was her only solution, as she wondered the world, unknowingly lighting up a path with her as she went.

"And so the Sun Goddess wonders the sky above, in search for her son." Armin told you that day, before offering you his own lemonade to drink because he was still worried about you.

...

You can't recall how that day ended, you think you might have fell asleep on his lap right after.

The fairylights on the wall reminded you of the clear stars sky you've seen while on the farm, his grandfather was a really sweet guy too.

With your mind still coulded in drowsiness, your hearing was also delayed apparently, since you just noticed the book in Armin's hold was closed with him staring at you with a smile instead.

Moving so he could set the book on the nightstand, Armin turned towards you before pulling you closer to him, making sure the covers don't slip off of you. He cupped your face, stroking your cheek with love in his eyes.

"I'm sorry baby, did I take too long?" He said, glancing at the clock behind you answered his question.

You shook your head, murmuring a slurred "it's alright."

Posture visibly relaxing, he gave your cheek a small kiss before resting too on the pillow next to you, a yawn escaping him.

With half closed eyes, you saw him cuddling close to your chest, features softening as he bid you goodnight. Your hand moved to stroke his hair just like he always liked, lacing your fingers through the soft strands you closed your eyes too.

Warmth took over you, the feeling of his soft breath near your neck, the comfortable weight of his arms around you, the slow ticking of the clock, it all rocked you to sleep as you happily gave in.

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out-there-tmblr · 6 years

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Mystrade wip: To break a curse (3)

***

Mycroft doesn't give much thought to the snippets of Latvian coming from the kitchen. The service industry across London is fueled by people working long hours for minimum pay, and those people are frequently immigrants with limited English. Hearing a foreign language from the back of a restaurant is expected.

The date is better than expected. Paul is charming with a nice smile, and he talks about his position at the Wallace Collection with passion and admiration. They've discussed favourite painters and the sheer emotion in the latest exhibition, and it's all going well until Mycroft hears himself laughing a little too loudly at Paul's joke.

“If you'll excuse me,” he says, standing up and making sure he feels the weight of his phone in his pocket. “I'll be right back.”

It takes too much concentration to keep his steps steady as he takes the narrow hallway to the gents. He can feel his pulse hammering at his neck, the hot flush on his cheeks. He looks at the dimly lit wallpaper around him, the way the design shifts and swims in front of him, blurring and overlapping in endless repetitive patterns. He notes the way it makes him feel: amused and entertained. He wants to call Paul over, show him this wonderful wall.

An entactogen, then. MDMA, maybe. Something slipped into his drink to allow for quick metabolism into the bloodstream. He thinks of Paul, Paul's easy smile, Paul reaching across the table to run fingertips along Mycroft's palm. No wonder the date was going so well; they're both under the influence of something.

It must have been a member of staff. Latvian. There was a corrupt general in Belarus with ties to Latvia, a general whose illegal arms deal fell through due to Mycroft. It's hard to think straight, let alone strategize right now.

Mycroft pulls out his phone. Texts his assistant with the details, orders the surveillance on the current employees. It's a risk for him to be anywhere near his office in this state, and Sherlock is in Scotland investigating missing emeralds.

“Need me to rescue you from another bad date?” Lestrade asks and Mycroft doesn't remember dialing. But the phone is in his hand, and Lestrade's on the other end, and when he drags his free hand down the wallpaper, the flocking feels incredible under his fingertips.

“With some urgency,” Mycroft says and manages to drag the restaurant's address from his memory. He relays it to Lestrade who hums as he writes it down. “You must have a lovely singing voice.”

“Are you okay?” The sharp concern in Lestrade's tone sobers him a little. “Is that some kind of distress code?”

“No, but it would be handy right now.” Mycroft can't remember where the kitchen is relative to this hallway. Doesn't know if he can be overheard. Doesn't know if he's said too much already. “I think I've had too much to drink.”

Lestrade mutters something about lightweights but Mycroft can hear his keys jingling. “Fine, I'm on my way. Stay there.”

When Mycroft gets back to the table, Paul is glassy eyed. There's a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Now that Mycroft's looking for it, he hears the faster speech pattern and the touch of mania in Paul's enthusiastic retelling of a light installation south of the river.

“It's an amazing piece,” Paul says fervently. “We should go see it.”

“I'd like that.” He would. He wants to see Paul again. He suspects Paul will change his mind when he wakes up hungover tomorrow.

“We should go right now.”

“I can't,” Mycroft says but he's saved from explaining the situation by Lestrade walking through the doors. He's clean shaven this time, in a wrinkled shirt that he's worn all day and his phone in his hand. His amused smirk turns into an outright grin when he spots Mycroft.

Mycroft wonders at the grin and then realises that he has listed somewhat to his right. He takes his weight off his elbow and sits upright.

Paul's nice smile shines even brighter when he sees Lestrade. Mycroft understands it, of course he does, but it's still galling. Lestrade is not there to be leered at.

“Paul, this is DI Lestrade.” He waves a hand between them. Gets distracted for a moment by the glide of his hand in the air. “Lestrade, could you explain to Paul the common effects of MDMA?”

“What?”

“MDMA. Ecstasy. Common effects.” Mycroft can't. He doesn't trust himself to explain the drugging without explaining the reason for it -- and that is far beyond what a civilian like Paul should know.

Lestrade is now looking at Mycroft. He must see Mycroft's flushed cheeks, the loosened tie because he'd been desperately hot. “You were roofied?” he asks, suddenly serious and professional and devastatingly handsome.

Mycroft nods and ignores Paul, who's staring at Lestrade's mouth but not paying any attention to the words spoken. “The drinks.”

Lestrade frowns and starts rifling through his coat pockets. He pulls out an evidence bag, wonder of wonders, then takes the empty glasses from the table and seals them inside. “Okay, gentlemen, we're going to the A&E.”

***

The car ride over turns Paul's pale complexion to the colour of chalk. He looks distinctly nauseated, so Mycroft stays in the back of the car while Lestrade takes Paul in.

He wants to sleep this off but he doesn't feel the least bit tired. Instead he watches the streetlights reflect on shop windows or runs his fingers over the car's upholstery. Leather seats would be easier to clean but Lestrade has the standard fabric option. No special requests. No special treatment. No expectation of higher recognition or higher rewards for doing his job and more.

Mycroft has both hands flat against the seat, dragging his palms over the febric just to feel it against his skin, when the car for opens. “Okay, got that sorted. They're keeping him for observation overnight, and his sister will collect him in the morning.”

Mycroft scowls at the thought of Sherlock having to do the same. It seems wrong. He's supposed to be the sober one getting calls from a hospital; it's never been the other way around.

Then he remembers Sherlock is in Scotland. Saved from that possibility.

When he looks up, Lestrade is staring at him. “Yes?”

“Your turn. Come on.”

“No.”

“No?”

“A hospital has too many staff. Too many entrances. If this was a planned attack, I'd be too vulnerable there. Take me home.” Mycroft drags a hand against his forehead, trying to think through the haze in his mind. “No, my laptop's there. Too much information. Take me to a hotel instead. Somewhere they charge extra for WiFi in your room.”

Mycroft fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it out to Lestrade who blinks and then takes it. “What's this for?”

“Hold on to that for me. I shouldn't be left with… with…” He can't remember the words. They're there, he can hear them in a variety of languages, but in English that word is just blank.

“With means of contacting someone?” Lestrade asks, still leaning into the backseat through the open door. From this angle, he looks tired. Shadows catch on the soft bags under his eyes. He should sleep more, Mycroft thinks. He should have someone to kiss him on the cheek and suggest an early night. “Mycroft?”

“Confidential information. No, that's not the right word. Sounds similar. Or similar meaning.” Mycroft shakes his head. His vision spins a little so he holds himself very still as he adds, “Classified. That's the word.”

“Classified?”

“The amount of information on that phone, the secrets I am privy to… I should not have access to them while I’m incapable of logical thought.”

***

Mycroft's not entirely sure how he ended up on a sofa in Lestrade's flat. Oh, he can guess the turns Lestrade took, how long he had to wait in traffic but he's not sure why. Yet he's sitting on Lestrade's sofa -- a deep grey blue fabric, easy to accessorise, new but not terribly high quality -- being handed a pillow and a duvet.

“I know you probably can't,” Lestrade says, “but try to get some sleep. I'll come check on you in a bit."

***

@lilynevin , @theopoiesis, @agent-elaine , @lavenderandvanilla , @ngaijuuyan , @egmon73 , @immaplane , @bigblueboxat221b , @lmirandas , @lizbetrx

#mystrade #wip #to break a curse

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enter-the-phantom · 2 years

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CASTIEL for the acrostic asks!!! -canongf 💗

My beloved 💕😭

C - Confession - which of you admitted romantic interest in the other first (if they’re the flirty type, when did they admit they were really serious about the other?) how did they do it? what was the reaction?

Neither one of us did, really. We just fell into it together--one of those things where the tension just got too much for both of us and eventually we ended up kissing. He was the first to say "I love you" though! 💕

A - Art - do they draw or paint? what about any other kind of art? what’s their favorite style/subject/another artist who inspires them?

Castiel doesn't do any art that I know of, but I think he'd be a great painter, personally. I'd love to teach him! I'm sure his favourite subject would be plants and insects.

S - Story - if you and them were in a fairytale, which story would you be and who would play which character?

The Little Mermaid, but with a good ending, of course. I'm the legend-hunting sailor on a ship searching for the myths of the deep, and he's the curious merman who rescues my dumb brother from drowning but falls in love with the only sailor on board who believes he's who he says he is.

I totally haven't written this whole story in my head.

T - Teach - what skills of theirs would they teach you? what would you teach them?

Cas taught me how to fight using an angel blade! I taught him pretty much everything about how to survive during his short stint as a human. We teach other how to love every day

I - Image - show us a picture of them that gives you a lot of feelings. if they aren’t a visual character, describe your mental image of them!

Oh god I have to pick one out of my album of 318 pics 😭

Uhhh I really love this one 🥺 It's his blue eyes and how they're so sad and so sweet at the same time, and his long lashes and his precious smile and I want to kiss his nose and ruffle his hair and scream good god

E - Emotion - is your f/o open with their feelings or do they keep them close to their chest?

Cas's emotions can be difficult to read. He isn't exactly unemotional, but doesn't always know how to express himself. He does however show his love very openly--whether for his friends, his family, or for me, he's very affectionate and wants people to know when he likes them. ☺️

L - Language - what’s their love language? what’s yours?

Acts of service, mainly protection. He also gives me little tokens, things he thinks I'll think are cool or pretty, and he's very physically affectionate when we're alone (he would be in public too, he just knows I don't like PDA). I think mine is probably service as well, I'm not great at openly expressing affection so I do it in quiet ways. Cas knows I love him even when I'm not great at showing it.

Thank you for the asks, friend!! Ughhh I love him so much now I gotta go smooch my angel husband and cry

#ask enter #castiel #amor vincit omnia #LOOK AT HOW GORGEOUS HE IS #AHHHHHH

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