My Love (Armin Arlert x Reader)

Intricate Strokes

Your husband's work presentation signalled the end of months of cumulative stress that was now lifted off his shoulders. In a way, it was lifted off your shoulders too. Armin was present in the house again, not solely existing in his office every hour of the day. It was a nice, comforting presence; you once again felt whole, not having to be alone, pregnant and anxious. The meeting was well timed, too: you, in a burst of impulsivity, had ordered more furniture than your daughter would ever need. Its fast shipping was both a blessing and a curse: no less than a week after you had felt her first kick, everything you had ordered for her bedroom was at your front doorstep. Time to get to work. Correction, time to get Armin to work.

Conscious of the ever-growing strain on your back, Armin refuses to let you carry anything even remotely heavy, even to the empty room only a short walk from the door, where your daughter would soon be established. In an attempt to mitigate your boredom, you haul yourself down to the local Target, choosing two basic, minimalistic prints for your daughter's wall. After all, you had only a vague idea what Armin was planning to do paint-wise: gentle hues of muted blue. Your impromptu shopping trip ends as you arrive back at your house, bags in tow.

You open the front door, with no immediate response. Weird. You walk down the hall, peering into the first room on the right. This was the first time you had seen it, since Armin began painting the walls two days prior. The entire room was covered in a pale blue paint that had likely dried the night before. However, your focus quickly turns to your husband sitting across from the door, dressed in all white, focusing on his intricate strokes of navy paint. Every stroke contributes to the wave design Armin is painstakingly painting on one of the walls. No wonder he didn't react to the sound of your keys turning in the door, his focus was ultimately on the beautiful mural before you. He pauses, as you walk into the room, drawn out of his trance by the sound of your footsteps. Armin smiles at you.

'You're back,' he observes.

You almost immediately disregard his observation. 'Armin...this is so beautiful,' you say endearingly.

'You think? It's not all that.'

'Are you kidding? It looks amazing, how long has this taken you?'

'I started when you left. Really, it hasn't been that much work.'

You smirk at him; the design's taking up a good 80% of the wall. 'I've been out for two hours, and you've been at it the whole time. I love it.'

His smile widens. Armin looks put together yet dishevelled all at once. His normally neat blond hair was sticking out in all different directions, as if he had constantly been ruffling it (though, if that was the case, you couldn't blame him, given how unbelievably fluffy it was). A small smear of navy paint marks his pale cheek. It almost matches his eyes; unbelievably, brilliantly blue. His face was unharmed compared to his clothes. Armin's white tee is covered in paint, the same shade of blue as on his cheek. He looks as close to, and as far from, perfect as possible. You walk towards him.

'You've got something on your face, baby,' you say, wiping the smear from his left cheek.

He laughs. 'I'm so bad at this whole painting thing,' he admits. 'I'm almost done, though. We can talk about how the rest of it can go in a bit.'

You go to leave, but, tired from your traipse around town, you lean onto the door, narrowly missing the doorknob. As you stabilise yourself, you release your hand from its painted wood. A wet sensation fills your palm. Rotating your wrist, you look down. White paint. So there was still something that was still wet. You curse under your breath.

'Shit. Armin, I touched the paint,' you call out, though he stands only a few metres away.

Armin says nothing. Did you piss him off? No, it couldn't be that, he wasn't of that nature; you could pour soup in his lap and he'd apologise. Armin drops his paintbrush on the tarp on the floor, getting up from his seat to walk over to you. Still remaining silent, he guides your hand to the bare wall next to the door. You begin to panic as your hand gets unsettlingly close to the wall.

'Armin...' you warn.

Before you can finish your sentence, your palm meets the hard surface. You pull away almost reflexively, leaving a petite, white handprint. Was this his intention? You had no idea what Armin was thinking at this moment, but then again, he would always have these weird ideas that would turn out wonderfully. Perhaps it was one of those times. He walks to the intricate design on the opposite wall, placing his hand in the tray of navy paint. Still confused, you stay silent as he walks back to you. In almost the same manner, he presses his palm to the wall, overlapping your handprint. As he pulls away slowly, the design of your two handprints becomes clear. Your handprint in white and Armin's in navy perfectly contrasted with the muted blue wall.

You turn to look at Armin, as he smiles at the wall. 'Pretty,' you say.

'It's not just the nursery now, it's the baby's room. Our baby's room,' he says, resting his still-painted hand on your womb.

You recoil. 'Armin! There's paint on your hand still!'

He laughs, teasing you. 'I know, I know, y/n.'

You smirk; was this a challenge? You run over to the paint tray, placing both your hands in it. You almost pounce on Armin, painting his white shirt with your hands. The both of you are laughing now. He wipes his index and middle finger against your forehead.

'Simba,' he whispers, trying not to giggle.

You shove your husband playfully. Your ruthless paint battle continues for a few more minutes, before you call a ceasefire by wrapping your arms around Armin in a deep hug. He embraces you right back, kissing the top of your head. In response, you hug him tighter, nuzzling your face into his toned chest.

'Thank you,' you mumble. 'Her room looks beautiful.'

He pushes you slightly, moving you to optimal distance for him to pull you right back into a deep kiss. As your eyes close, you lean more deeply into it, reminiscing on the first time you kissed those honeysuckle lips all those years ago. Almost as quickly as it started, the kiss ends. Armin stares deeply into your eyes lovingly.

'Y/n, just wait until it's finished. You're gonna love it, but I think she's gonna love it more,' he says, once again caressing your growing belly.

'She's gonna love the room her daddy made for her,' you say.

Armin's expression suddenly drops from its previous enamour. Before you have the chance to ask, he speaks.

'It feels weird just calling her she. She needs a name. A real name,' he says.