grass shirt

anonymous asked:

Could you maybe do the "ways to say I love you" 12 There I think that's happy? -too small to be on tumblr

12:When we lay together on the fresh spring grass


Nico shivered despite the long sleeve shirt he had on, the dampness of the grass seeping into his shirt relatively quickly. Will’s body was close enough for Nico to feel the warmth radiating off of his body, and Nico subconsciously moved closer. The stars above them shone brilliantly, twinkling in and out of eyesight every so often. Nico wondered idly if the ones that went out like smoke were stars that had finally died, reaching the end of their supernova existence and snuffing out like flames. (Very large balls of flame.)

He glanced at Will beside him, and Nico could see no difference between the stars that hung up above their heads and the stars that hung in Will’s blue eyes. They held the same kind of intensity that enticed Nico and trapped him, holding him not at all against his will. (Nico had always loved the stars. They were something that always stayed constant, no matter what happened in Nico’s life.) He could tell no difference between an explosion that created a new star and the shine in Will’s eyes when he smiled.

Will Solace was a star himself, bright and constant, giving off an indescribable warmth and shining a light for guidance. Nico thought he belonged in the sky, immortalized in his glory for all of the worlds to see. He was a being too great to be on earth, living simply and quietly. He was a being too great for Nico to be allowed to destroy.

While Will Solace was a star, Nico di Angelo was a black hole. He was greedy, keeping the sole star to himself. Letting it light his darkest parts was the absolute most selfish he could do, but Nico would do it every time. If Will would let him have him, Nico would keep him.

“I love you,” Nico whispered softly to the star, to his star, hoping that with his immense darkness and bleak nothingness, the words would find their way to the light. He felt the soft pad of fingertips touch his cheek before dragging to his lips, and if Will was a saint, Nico was a sinner that needed redemption. He greedily snuffed out the star, wrapping it in his cool darkness.

Will’s lips were warm on Nico’s, and the feeling of the cool, damp grass under Nico came into sharp focus. Nico placed his hands on the side of Will’s face, basking in the glory of his star burning bright under his fingers. Will pulled away much sooner then Nico would have liked, but both boys were panting. Will was grinning and Nico was simple amazed at the glory that was Will Solace. Whoever created him was truly doing the lord’s work.

Will laughed suddenly, and Nico was confused for a moment before allowing himself to be caught up in the wonderfully harmonic sound. It was one of the most incredible sounds Nico had ever heard before. “The stars sure are beautiful tonight, huh?” Will spoke softly when the laughing died down. Nico nodded, but neither one of them were looking at the stars in the sky.


How cheesy was that?

4. “I need you to stop doing that because it’s really adorable and I’m trying to concentrate.” with yoongi | 590

“Shi–Schnitzels,” Yoongi mutters under his breath.

His daughter, a rambunctious package of velcro sneakers and grass-stained t-shirt, giggles under Yoongi’s hold. “Daddy, did you almost say a bad word?”

Almost,” Yoongi remarks, one hand picking up the pigtail that fell loose a few seconds ago. “Hold still, princess,” he instructs, words mumbled through lips that held onto two hairties and three bobby pins. How does Y/N do this? With his other hand, he combs the loose strands back in.

“Is it hard, Daddy?” The little girl inquires, eyes entertained by the trouble in Yoongi’s. “Do you need help?”

“Daddy’s got it, sweetheart,” Yoongi tries his best to sound cool, calm, collected. “Just sit still for a little bit more, can you do that for me?”

Bad move.

As soon as his daughter nods, his previous work comes undone, fingertips now holding onto nothing but air. Yoongi sighs.

The girl stops swinging her legs, eyes alert as she feels her head, the once taut strands now flowing just past her chin. “Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, hands tucking themselves under her knees.

She got this from you, Yoongi ponders. At seven years old, she could already read people like she had fifty years on them. It scared Yoongi a bit at first, but eventually, he was glad that she’d inherited your knack for navigating social situations instead of his (lack thereof).

But this wasn’t her fault. If anything, this just went to show Yoongi that he needs to spend more time with his daughter. A decade into his career, he’s become an established producer who’s earning enough that neither of you have to worry about finances for the rest of your lifetimes. Unfortunately, the hours have never gotten better. He’s continued to make a second home out of his studio, even though he spends considerably less time there than during his debut days. Yoongi sighs. “Sweetheart,” he tilts his daughter’s chin up so she would look at him. “Don’t be sorry, okay? This wasn’t your fault,” he keeps his voice calm, another hand tucking her hair behind her ears. He leans down to meet her eyes, “if anything, Daddy’s got some homework to do.” Yoongi smiles.

She nods, but she wouldn’t be his daughter if she weren’t stubborn. A pout settles onto her lips, and Yoongi holds back the urge to scoop her into his arms because pigtails be damned, they can break the dress code once a while. But you’d left a note on the bathroom mirror, and although Yoongi never cared much for photoshoots, he would never jeopardize his daughter’s Photo Day.

He picks up the comb again and runs through the part in her hair. Her eyes are downcast, and Yoongi can tell she’s using every muscle fiber in her body to hold still. “Princess, look at me,” he instructs gently between pulling her hair into one hand. Her eyes wander up to his, eyebrows pulled upwards in guilt. “It wasn’t your fault, okay?” He repeats, searching her expression to make sure she understood. She nods, but her lips are sealed in a pout. “Good,” he hums. With the hair secured in his grip, Yoongi taps her bottom lip with his free hand, pointing at her pout. “I need you to stop doing that because it’s really adorable and I’m trying to concentrate.” He reaches for a hair tie and succeeds in securing one pigtail.

“There,” he holds up the mirror for her. When Yoongi sees her smile crawling back, he grins. “Ready for the other side?”

collide

10 ways in which Nico di Angelo falls in love (with a place, with a boy, and with himself).

For two very kind anons who asked for my interpretation of how Will and Nico got together!

i.

Nico can’t really pinpoint the exact moment he decided to stay at Camp Half-Blood.

It was probably sometime during the battle with Gaea, he thinks. It was probably somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks, as the rest of him tried to adjust to the idea of the earth herself being an enemy.

Probably.

Or maybe it was before that. Maybe it was the second he stumbled onto a field of grass, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that might very well have been one of the seven deadly sins, bearing a statue that smoldered inside his mind and felt older than time itself. Maybe it was the moment a camper with eyes the color of noontime took his hand, and didn’t flinch away.

(Nico thinks he’ll probably remember that for the rest of his life.)

Keep reading

Spring Imagine: Inseong

Imagine…

- It’s hot

- Like really hot

- So hot, no one wants to be outside

- Except… Inseong

- “C’mon babe, it’d be fun!”

- “You want to play soccer? In this heat?”

- After endless begging, you give up and get ready to go outside

- Once the temperature hits you, you’re about to go back into your air conditioned house until Inseong stops you

- “Just one game. Up to 10″

- 10 didn’t seem like a lot until you started to sweat, pant, and the bugs became a nuisance

- “Inseo-”

- “It’s only been like 5 minutes”

- Before you know it, you have grass stains on your shirt and your knees are starting to ache

- But Inseong is just getting started

- “Babe, cmon, at least try to beat me”

- “What you mean?? I am trying”

- Surprisingly, your neighbor comes by to ask if you could watch over her kids for an hour

- Her 2 sons come by and attempt to gang up on Inseong to beat him at the soccer game

- “This isn’t fair, babe!”

- “It is to me!”

The one when they were a family

“Small Jamie obligingly scrambled over to me on hands and knees, still giggling, and nestled on my lap among the folds of my cloak. He sat as still as is possible for an almost four-year-old boy—which is not very still, all things considered—and let me remove the bulk of the grass from his shirt.

“You smell nice, Auntie,” he said, buffing my chin affectionately with his mop of black curls. “Like food.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. “Ought I to take that to mean you’re hungry again?”
“Aye. Is there milk?”
“There is.” I could just reach the stoneware jug by stretching out my fingers. I shook the bottle, decided there was not enough left to make it worthwhile to fetch a cup, and tilted the jug, holding it for the little boy to drink from.

Temporarily absorbed in the taking of nourishment, he was still, the small, sturdy body heavy on my thigh, back braced against my arm as he wrapped his own pudgy hands around the jug.

The last drops of milk gurgled from the jug. Small Jamie relaxed all at once, and emitted a soft burp of repletion. I could feel the heat glowing from him, with that sudden rise of temperature which presages falling asleep in very young children. I wrapped a fold of the cloak around him, and rocked him slowly back and forth, humming softly to the tune of the song beyond the fire. The small bumps of his vertebrae were round and hard as marbles under my fingers. 

“Gone to sleep, has he?” The larger Jamie’s bulk loomed near my shoulder, the firelight picking out the hilt of his dirk, and the gleam of copper in his hair.
“Yes,” I said. “At least he’s not squirming, so he must have. It’s rather like holding a large ham.”
Jamie laughed, then was still himself. I could feel the hardness of his arm just brushing mine, and the warmth of his body through the folds of plaid and arisaid.

A night breeze brushed a strand of hair across my face. I brushed it back, and discovered that small Jamie was right; my hands smelled of leeks and butter, and the starchy smell of cut potatoes. Asleep, he was a dead weight, and while holding him was comforting, he was cutting off the circulation in my left leg. I twisted a bit, intending to lay him across my lap.

“Don’t move, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came softly, next to me. “Just for a moment, mo duinne—be still.”
I obligingly froze, until he touched me on the shoulder.

“That’s all right, Sassenach,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “It’s only that ye looked so beautiful, wi’ the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.”

I turned to face him, then, and smiled at him, across the body of the child. The night was dark and cold, alive with people all around, but there was nothing where we sat but light and warmth—and each other.”

- Dragonfly in Amber 


I cannot understand why the show didn’t do this… is just aargh. 

Summer

It is Summer, and the heat and the humidity of the weather cannot be escaped. Levi thinks summer might be the death of him, because while he is able to withstand the heat with remarkable indifference, Eren has taken to circumventing his own discomfort the traditional way.

Namely, he wears less clothing. 

Eren himself is lying on the grass in a sleeveless shirt that’s raked up over his stomach, and there, a smooth expanse of muscle and curves, and a tempting trail of hair. Somewhere in the background, he hears Jean’s groaning about the heat for the umpteenth time. He ignores it, distracted as he is by the tanned sprawl of green-eyed boy before him. 

Summer suits the boy, he thinks as he watches those tanned arms stretch over the boy’s head as Eren stretches. His eyes follow the path of a bead of sweat on Eren’s neck hungrily, and he cannot help but admire the newly golden tone of that unblemished skin, and how much brighter it makes Eren’s eyes look. 

He notices a few freckles on that smooth neck, damp with sweat, brown hair plastered against that vulnerable nape. This should normally have Levi recoiling, his own instinct against the unclean kicking in - but it doesn’t, and it only brings to mind the image of nectar, damp on soft petals. The heat must be getting to him, he thinks, and unbuttons the second button of his shirt, cravat abandoned in favour of not wilting under the unforgiving sun. 

At this action, Eren jerks a little strangely, and Levi raises an eyebrow at the Titan-shifter, curiosity piqued at the flush that’s blooming on those gorgeous, damp cheeks.

Levi wants.