blur frames


his smile is most naïve
cheerful and good-natured
and he’s as handome up close as at a distance


When your husband’s a big dork

anonymous asked:

wait whats surface blur??

Hey, there! Surface blur is a filter on Photoshop that can help smooth out your GIFs so that they look better! It’s easier for me to show you!

GIF-Surface Blur Tutorial - by

This is a quick and easy GIF-Surface Blur Tutorial made with both the fresh faced beginner and seasoned veteran in mind.

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timeline of bloom

pairing: jimin x reader
word count: 2.1k

  → i kissed you before midnight and then our fingers laced together and you pressed your lips against mine again at the staircase and i wondered what we were and you said i was your girlfriend and that was lovely in itself and i hope it lasts.


You don’t expect it when the tangerine locks appear behind the creaked door, in the midst of your own tousling. Namjoon enters without hesitance, and it seems Jimin is the first friend you’ll meet that night. Jimin doesn’t give you much thought at first, and you are quick to meet the back of his head where a white pair of outdated sunglasses rest arrogantly, pathetically.

There are less people than you’d thought there would be at the rowdy party in the weary apartment complex, but Namjoon assures you that they’re all cool people, and it takes you a minute for the tension in your shoulders to release.

Some boy in a varsity jacket hands you a shot, and you shyly accept. His name was Jung Hoseok, you found out, and the story went that his smile made flowers grow.

“Who’s the guy by the couch?” you ask Min Yoongi carefully, and he almost looks annoyed when he answers you.

“Jungkook. Fucked off Molly, let him deal with it himself.”


Tangerine locks glances your way again. He’d been thrown in the tub mere minutes ago, but hadn’t bothered changing his clothes. His white t-shirt clings to his upper body, and your mouth curls at the involuntary thoughts that start roaming through your head.

“Jimin.” he sighs and throws himself down next to you with a towel elegantly resting on his shoulders. “Just so you don’t leave this party without at least knowing my name.”

You tell him your own name, just to be polite, and he reiterates teasingly after licking his bottom lip. He makes his mind up in that second that he wants to be with you. Date you. Be in a relationship. Perhaps a month, but maybe forever. Jimin’s vision blurs slightly around your frame, but your eyes are vividly clear and he doesn’t doubt your beauty for a second.

“You came here with Namjoon?” his voice raises in question, and it dawns on you just how short his fingers are when he points to your tall friend.

He watches you intently as you nod, and you wonder if he’d always been this close to you or if he’d scooted closer when you didn’t notice.


The scar on your thigh had reminded him of an accident he’d had when he was younger, and the proximity between your bodies was lessening, for which you’d eventually blame Hoseok for, as he was the one who brought you the rows of shots.

“Oh my God, you are so embarrassing.” he kicks his head back with an eye roll when you finish telling him the story of how you got caught cheating in math, and how you spent every night after that crying out of shame.

A whiny sound leaves your lips as you slap his thigh to scold him, but your hand stays there even after the punch, and his skin is no longer red because it hurts.

“Okay, now tell me something.” he finally asks after the laughter has escaped his lungs, his voice much more baritone now. “Why is Namjoon’s tongue not down your throat?”

“Huh?” your eyes widen in confusion, and you wonder if you read his intentions wrong, so you lift your hand from his thigh. A smirk stretches his cheek simultaneously as he lets his gaze follow your hand. “Why would it be?”

“Relax,” he breathes at your jumpiness, “It’s just because he’s brought the prettiest little thing to my apartment, yet your hand is on my thigh, and his hand is down her thigh.”

You barely catch the second part of the sentence when your mind clutters and the thought of kissing Jimin becomes more dominant.

“Perhaps the prettiest little thing has something else in mind.” you finally speak through your fluttered lids, and your voice dies out at the end because you clearly lack the courage, but it doesn’t matter much because his lips meet yours anyway.

His lips are dumbly soft and yours are bursting with joy in the midst of the fiery, red kiss.


It’s almost midnight and you’ve kissed Jimin more times than you can count on your one hand, and he’s considered his bedroom during each kiss, but his fists curls in restraint and he convinces himself he needs to be smoother with you, because he knows you aren’t that girl, and you’re convinced you are.

“Why didn’t Namjoon bring you earlier?” he breathes into your lips once, when his hands are fiercely on your hips. “You’re the most beautiful, perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

When Jimin kisses you, he also makes the world stop spinning, and you wonder if that isn’t an awful lot of work to put into one kiss. Love fills every inch of your body, and you play with the thought of it being real. Jimin plays with this thought, too, until your scent becomes intoxicating and he can’t think of anything but kissing you again.

“You,” he quips, drawls, and the empty glasses behind the two of you attest to everything, “are the only girl I ever want to kiss.”

“Jimin, we met like an hour and a half ago.” you try to speak sense into him, but you can’t help the falling once it starts, and you don’t believe a word you’re saying anyway.

“Ah, shut up.” he smiles with his hand cupped around your jaw. “It’s real and you know it.”


Jimin’s kisses have traveled south just once and a cheeky little painting of purple stains your neck now, and a slurred romantic story as for why left his lips at one point, but it didn’t matter much to you. You liked it, you were nobody’s, and you wanted to be his.

He introduced you to Taehyung as his girlfriend in his own drunk, brazen manner and Taehyung induced a loud cheers as Jimin’s hand burned the skin on your waist.

“What about tomorrow?” you ask courageously in the bathroom after the door closed and it all got a little quiet, and Jimin flicked his eyes open from the sink and watched you in the mirror.

“Tomorrow is a distant concept.” he mutters lightly, and a careless smile spreads widely. “But I will tell you about forever.”

He turns around and his lower back rests on the edge of the sink, his arms straight in his pockets, and a languid smile.

“Forever isn’t distant?” you taunt him and his responsive brow quirk humors you greatly.

“Oh, I can relate to forever. I can tell you all the tales of forever. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow; maybe we’ll go for frozen yogurt? Do you like frozen yogurt?” he ponders for a split second before dismissing any possible answer you’d throw his way, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Tell me a tale of forever?” you ask shyly and your voice becomes near that of a whisper.

“Just us.” he hums and his eyes flutter shut, and for a second you just let the room spin.

“You’re sweet.” you whisper through closed lids, and you try to ignore the burn that spreads across your chest.


Your hands have been intertwined for so long you barely remember how it feels to have the spaces between your fingers not filled with Jimin. He smiles whenever he lifts his sleeve and sees your red nail polish contrasting his pale skin.

Your back is up against the wall when you stand on the staircase with Jimin, he’s shorter than you now, and his pearly whites spreading his lips from each other with every rose that blooms on your cheeks. It’s not always that words are being spoken, and this was one of the quiet moments when you both indulged in butterflies and bouquets.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks dauntingly and your eyes grow in bewilderment. “It’s fucking giggle galore in here.”

“But this is your apartment.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. These people are like my family anyways.”

He doesn’t take long before his fingers separate from yours and he grasps your wrist in a tight grip, pulling you with him until you slide out the front door unnoticed.

Tangerine locks bounce all the way down the stairs of the apartment complex, you almost stumble once or twice, and you have no idea why you’re laughing as hard as you are.

Jimin thinks you’re so cute he finds it hard to keep calm as his fists tighten in frustration.

It takes about 15 minutes before you kiss again, and the wait is absolutely awful.


Two creepy pubs and a grocery store later, and you’re finding yourself on the sidewalk with a bag of chips and Jimin’s head in your lap.

“You are so beautiful to me,” he sings and you find the courage to stroke his hair and he scoffs with contentment and you sigh discreetly out of relief. You were more nervous than you’d let him know, but perhaps that’s what happens when you fall in love.

“You can tell me if you like frozen yogurt now, if you want to.” he quips earnestly, and you consider obliging.

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

He makes his mind up that he wants to know everything about you, and it stings a little that he doesn’t know if you like frozen yoghurt or not. He nods idly, and accepts the fate of the uncertain, but it seems to him that he fears mystery more than he’s led on so far.

Your movement falters whenever you catch a glimpse of his lips, Jimin is desperately trying to savor the scent of you, and there’s a growing fear that, perhaps, this isn’t forever. You recognize that you are both young, and the awareness makes you shake, but you wonder why you’re blinking tears away.

“I’m in love with you,” he drawls at last, and he knows it’s terribly brazen, and maybe he’s just saying it to hear how it sounds when the words are being spoken. “I know so.”

The three words burst out of you, and you hate yourself for blurting it out. You would’ve never said it had Jimin given you another second to think, and you’re wishing you would perish, and the longer the silence persists, the more you want to disappear.

Jimin freezes until he flutters his eyes open, and he knows his heart isn’t lying to him.

“Okay.” he smiles. “I love you, too.”


The world spins much slower now, and Jimin falls into the idea of taking you home when you tell him you’d like a dog.

“So soulmates exists.” he confirms with his lips pressed against yours, and you attest to it apparently, kissing him back.

He mutters something sweet to the cusp of your ear, and you’re almost a little sad that you missed it, but it is then that his coffee swirled eyes look into yours, and you notice that the red is lessening and his gaze burns a little less.

You weren’t yet sure if you liked the burning, but you accepted that burning comes with heat and that was the aftermath of sparks.

“Do you want to come home with me?” his voice gets a little lower, and perhaps he’s a little nervous, but there’s virtually no reason not to, so you nod innocently and swing his arm a little higher.

However, then regret starts seeping in and Jimin looks at you with fear of what the night has escalated to, and he wonders if perhaps tomorrow does matter, and if perhaps forever is a distant concept. He wonders if his heart could be wrong, if infatuation could be as blinding or if it really was your eyes. Perhaps he should’ve said something earlier, because the three small words had fallen from your lips again, and he doesn’t get to say anything before it slips from his lips, and the meaning is entirely implied and heartbreaking, and you know it the second you hear it.

“I think I’m sobering up.”


And then the morning had come and you were no longer with Jimin, and the moon did what it had to do and scattered the sparks you shared across the sky like stars, and the sun kept talking about how lovely you could’ve been, and the world believed it was real.

Listen, whatever you see and love—
that’s where you are.

- Mary Oliver

Timed Prompt (15 min)

  • Prompt: Word/Phrase: Mother

“Mom! Mom!” Kyungsoo flings his body over her cold limbs, hands grabbing for a reality that doesn’t break his soul. Denial slams into his chest as he touches her skin which once warmed his heart. Her smile flashes in his eyes before they’re pulling his stubborn limbs from her corpse.

Eyes of weariness follow the body of the one who he once shared this life–the person who influenced his choices. Let alone, the one person he had left after losing his father five years ago.

His lungs are on the verge of giving in when the lump lodged inside his throat expands until it releases tears he could no longer withstand behind the rapid blinking of his eyes. Shaking, his body cries in every way. His muscles fall into a lapse, and so does he. The ground races toward him, but he doesn’t reach it when the sturdy arms of the paramedic wraps around his frame. Blurred eyes move up to find a man of soft tan skin and passionate eyes before black rings the edges of his eyes and he goes under.

The swirling beads of white and black static welcome him upon his awakening. He lets his mind linger along the dream he once dreamt, and he allows his stifled cries to hide behind his palm. The tears flow in currents down the side of his face and he doesn’t stop them. He could never stop them. He’s lost his mother, his teacher, his supporter–his friend.

“Hey,” he hears someone say, “Kyungsoo?” the man’s voice is familiar in every way, and that captures Kyungsoo’s attention. He turns his head to find that same man sitting beside him. The fluorescent bulbs shroud him in an unpleasant light that does nothing to help the natural glow of his skin. “You fainted and we brought you to the hospital,” the man continues, and Kyungsoo could only listen to his voice. It’s soothing–warming. Almost like the sun rays on a cool winter day– he’s bright, agonizingly so. For the brightness Kyungsoo seeks has been greatly dimmed, her smile had a radiance that could rival the sun, and this man is an awful reminder of that which competed.

“Kyungsoo? You’re looking right at me, please say something,”

“M-my,” he breaks, tears raining down harder. The skirt of the plastic chair grates against the air when Jongin’s body flies from its confines to his bed side to shush him. He wipes Kyungsoo’s tears, a man he doesn’t know, but his touch is so familiar.

“Kyungsoo, I’m so sorry,” there’s a crease in Jongin’s brows, a frown that deepens.

“H-how do you know who I am?” he asks, because this man does know.

“Kyungsoo, you’re my husband, what do you mean?” A tears falls out from widened eyes, and Jongin stills his hands while cupping Kyungsoos face.

anonymous asked:

what are some of your scully growing up headcanons, because I was thinking about it today and the show never really addressed what she was like as a kid

She only knew what happened in 1965 because there were photographs in her baby album of family adventures that Bill and Melissa could remember. She was a squinty infant in her mother’s arms in photographs of the four of them next to monuments and landmarks. Sometimes her father was there too; usually he was on the other side of the camera, having already seen the sights to which he was treating them. She had been all over the world before she could even comprehend what the world was. She still struggled with that, some days, understanding the vastness of the small pale blue dot upon which they lived.

Her first memory that was actually hers was completely insignificant. She remembered waking up in a room striped with sunlight, the bars of her crib slicing it into even thinner beams. She remembered looking over at Charlie’s crib, the way his red hair caught the sunlight and turned it into fire. She had worried about him in an abstract way, and then her mother had come in with Melissa and they had begun their day together. Scully thought that they went to the zoo that day, but her memory was too piecemeal, too full of moments of this and that to stitch together a complete whole. Like her baby blanket, it was more holes than wholecloth.


It snowed on her birthday. All the base kids came over, shepherded by their mothers, stuffed into snowsuits. They ate her pink cake and brought her presents, and then they all went out to throw snowballs at each other as the mothers talked in the kitchen over coffee. Missy stayed on the porch watching, saying she didn’t agree with such violent games. Bill stuffed snow down the neck of Dana’s coat. Still, it was a good day, and her father called that night to talk just to her. “Happy birthday, Starbuck,” he said as she cradled the phone to her ear, smiling. “You’re getting so big.” “Not as big as you,” she said. “Not yet,” he said. “But I know you’ll outgrow me someday.” “Never,” she promised, and he chuckled.

She remembered second grade mostly because of the shoes. They were shiny black patent leather Mary Janes that pinched her feet. She wore them with white socks, a plaid pinafore, and a white shirt. Her mother had found a Catholic school just off the base. “It’ll do them good,” her father had said, ruffling Bill Jr.’s hair. She held Melissa’s hand, standing outside the stern brick building. “You’ll be fine, Dana,” Missy whispered. “Come on, I’ll take you to your class.” Missy was an expert at school, having already been to three or four. They had moved so many times that one base house blurred into the next in Dana’s memory. She remembered the way her shoes squeaked on the floor as they walked down the hall, and the way that her teacher had written all their names on cheerful cutout daisies. She thought she remembered that teacher leaving halfway through the year, on the grounds that she was too gentle and didn’t talk about Jesus enough, but it was so long ago she couldn’t be certain. All her teachers had been blurred faces framed by wimples, in the end.

She didn’t mind the dresses, or the way her mother encourage her and Missy to wear similar styles despite their different personalities.  She didn’t mind Bill Jr.’s insistence that he was the man of the house.  She didn’t mind Charlie’s tantrums; she understood he was still almost a baby, still frustrated by the world.  But she minded that everyone talked to her like she didn’t know anything, except her father and her mother.  She did her chores.  She did her homework.  She kept her side of the room clean, everything shipshape.  Her whole life was shipshape and she liked it that way.  Even when they moved from base to base, the houses looked the same.  There was a comfort in that, to knowing how many steps to go down when she wanted a glass of milk in the middle of the night.  

In fifth grade, she decided she wanted to be a doctor, but she told the teacher she wanted to be a nurse. The teacher smiled and praised her. “And to be sure, Dana, you’ll be an excellent nurse if you put your mind to it,” the teacher said, her Irish lilt tinting the words with a taste Dana vaguely remembered from her earliest years. The boys could say they wanted to be doctors, she understood, but she had to say she wanted to be a nurse. But she told Missy, and her mother, and they both told her she could be anything she wanted to be. She got a white coat for Halloween, and wore it proudly.

She punched a boy who tried to touch her chest on the playground. Her mother frowned at her in the office, but squeezed Dana’s hand as they walked out of the office. Her father patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl, Starbuck. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel helpless.” Bill told her she shouldn’t have done it. Missy said she didn’t approve of violence, but that she was glad that Dana understood boundaries and offered to help her rid herself of negative energy. Charlie asked if Dana would teach him how to hit.  Three days later, she got her period for the first time.  The cramps felt like a punishment.

She stole cigarettes out of her mother’s purse and sat on the porch. Her fingers trembled as she struck the match and lit it. When she inhaled, she would have sworn her throat and lungs caught fire. She held the smoke in, released it slowly through her barely-parted lips. She didn’t cough. She wouldn’t cough. If she coughed, her parents would hear. They still stayed up late when her father was home, talking until all hours, laughing quietly so the children wouldn’t hear, but she always heard. They would be furious if they caught her. She couldn’t cough. She smoked two cigarettes every night that week that her father was home, half-hoping to be caught, half-craving the attention, but all she got was a lingering hitch in her breath when she ran that vanished after a month or so and the malignant stench of processed tobacco at the back of her throat.

They moved. Again. She and her braces and her unflattering bob were never going to make new friends. Missy, meanwhile, fell straight in with a crowd of equally dreamy girls and boys, and Bill was away at college, on the football team. Dana hid in the library at lunch, poring over anatomy textbooks. Missy had to coax her out, introducing Dana to all her friends, who were sweet but so unfocused. Dana spent most of her time with Charlie, sitting on opposite corners of the couch, reading for school or for pleasure.

She fell in love with her physics teacher, or, more accurately, with physics. Accuracy was important to her. Her teacher was passionate. She was knowledgeable. She dressed in buttoned shirts and sleek skirts and ignored her male colleagues. She made sense of the universe with sweeping gestures and elegant equations. Dana desperately wanted for anything to make sense. She went outside at night and gazed at the stars, thinking of how they were guided by equations, even if those variables were unfathomable. She wondered if her father was looking at them too, letting the stars guide him home.

Marcus, the twelfth grade love of her life. God, she’d come so close to kissing him before the sirens. For a moment, she had thought her dreams would come true. After the prom, she saw him in the hall pressing some other girl against her locker. She changed her first choice college after that; anywhere but there, she thought, anywhere new. She wasn’t afraid of change. She was afraid of the fester of old hurts. Better to cut herself off clean and start over again.

Maryland was a coastal state; that felt like home to her. She studied human anatomy and physics. She could x-ray a man with her eyes and understand his intentions. She could being to explain the universe. Her father called once a week to talk to her, wherever in the world he was, for five minutes or fifty, and she traveled with him vicariously, sailing, sailing, over the ocean blue.

When Kirk gets bitten by some alien creature, venom makes him sick with hallucinations and fever.  Spock takes him to a cave for shelter while an Ion Storm keeps them from beaming out. (aka tropetastic tropey tropeness)

By Phyona (ao3), who apparently can’t stop writing about these two buttheads

Kirk writhed as Spock lowered him to the ground.  He felt like small insects were crawling all over his skin, burrowing into his pores and setting his nerves on fire.

“Why must you always insist on touching dangerous, fanged creatures, Captain?” he heard Spock say, his voice fuzzy and distant.

“Just trying to make friends with the locals,” Kirk grit through his teeth.

“Perhaps on our next mission you should seek friendship from a ‘local’ lacking neurotoxin.”

“And miss all this fun?  Never.”

“I fail to see what aspects of your condition are fun.”

Kirk was about to deliver a no-doubt witty retort when a convulsion wracked his entire body.  He clenched his jaw as a cold sweat broke out on his skin.  Strong hands gripped his shoulders and held him steady until it passed.

“We need to get you to sickbay as soon as possible,” Spock said as he waved the hand scanner over Kirk’s body, intent on the tricorder.

“We aren’t going anywhere until this storm passes, which could take days. I don’t have days.”

“If you’re implying you won’t survive this affliction, Captain—“

“I might not.  And I won’t have you putting yourself in danger to stay here with me if something happens. I won’t have it.  That’s an order, Spock.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Kirk narrowed his eyes.  He closed a hand around his first officer’s wrist, demanding his attention.

“You’re not listening to me, are you.”  It wasn’t a question.

“I am listening, sir.  I simply have no intention of doing what you ask.”

Kirk groaned.

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Johnny x Reader

@madamemarco asked: (I know this wasn’t on the list buuuuut I really like this one) “please baby, keep your eyes open! Please!” W/ Johnny? (Da feels of that prompt tho)

“Please baby, keep your eyes open! Please!”


It was an inferior rumble. To make matters worse, it was your first rumble. This fact led the Socs to single you out, and not relent.

The Greasers ended up losing. Too many were hurt. You had never seen anything like it, though; there was nothing to compare it to. Everyone’s hands were curled into fists, with beads of sweat running down their temples. You heard the clashing of fists and the stomping of feet, the rehashing, jarring sounds that eluded open mouths. You noticed how people’s teeth bared and how their eyes glinted with kill.

The last thing you discerned, though, was how the Socs roared and bellowed. In your mind, it was due to being provoked with the chance of death.

When you awoke, the Socs were gone. Johnny and Darry were neighboring you, and you wanted to reach up to touch Johnny’s face, for it looked so contorted in affliction. He did good in the rumble, you knew this without second thought. You wanted to thank him. Convulsions gripped you though, until your jaw clenched and your voice idled you.

“Y/N?” Johnny gasped.

Before you, the Greasers’ frames blurred.

“Come on, stay with us, Y/N,” Darry groused. His voice echoed in your mind.

Johnny laid his hand on yours, but as he realized your nerve was failing you, he clutched your hands in his. Black pushed the edges of your vision.

“Please baby,” Johnny begged. His voice cracked somewhere along the way. You bit your lip, but there was no pain.

“Keep your eyes open!”

A throbbing heartbeat was causing your whole body to shake rhythmically. Poor Johnny, your mind wandered. You loved him. Too many people had hurt him. Would you be the first to leave him?



His voice eventually perished, and your world went black.