ski blanket

bangtan as things

[namjoon] nighttime after it’s rained and the ground is wet, the reflection of streetlights beneath your feet. cars pass and you’re alone, the feeling of turning pages, whether metaphorically or literally, libraries, dark coffee, literature, dried flowers, pencil shavings, stacked books, grey hoodies, using up your entire battery in one sitting.

[seokjin] the comfort of being with someone you love, friendly banter, love letters, ballads, fairy lights, ivory furniture, lattes, lullabies, neat studying notes, desks littered with figurines, lipstick kisses on napkins, incense.

[yoongi] the empty feeling that comes when you stay up too late or when you sleep too much, never being happy enough with your self-care, the sun that warms your chest in the dead of winter, poetry, forehead kisses, small meaningful tattoos, curtains that let in light and bring a sense of comfort and warmth to a room, snowflakes or raindrops clinging to eyelashes, the slow sound of windshield wipers, the melancholic hum of background music, ocean spray, winter breeze, flickering streetlights, the rush you feel from a first love, a first kiss.

[hoseok] group hugs, words of encouragement, doodles, a hand rubbing circles on your back, a shoulder to put your head on or the head that’s on your shoulder, an arm interlaced with yours, the giddy laughter between childhood friends, carnival games, kisses pressed to your forehead and to the palms of your hands.

[jimin] warm sheets, hot chocolate and marshmallows, falling asleep by the fireplace, listening to the ost of a movie over and over again, vivid skies, hair that sweeps across like waves in the ocean, running barefoot on the beach, waltzes, falling autumn leaves, someone holding your face in their hands, kisses intentionally missing your mouth and tracing the outline of your face, secretly holding hands.

[taehyung] the feeling of fingers running through your hair, hearing someone else’s heartbeat when you lay your head on their chest, rainbow hair ties, putting daisies in your hair, falling asleep in a meadow, plush toys, someone pushing brushing or kissing away your tears.

[jungkook] night skies that look like blankets of glitter, the allure of the stars making you want to reach out and touch them, warm showers, wind that’s possessive, ocean spray, spilled glitter, velvet, sleeping with your headphones in, the worn down keys on a computer keyboard, trading cards collections, biting your nails, resting your head against the car window, shy smiles, backhugs.

astrology aesthetics

aries: cups of tea, european monuments, music festivals, pennies kept in jars, awful jokes that are secretly funny, sleepy pets, key chains.

taurus: cherry blossom trees, karaoke machines, 80′s high school movies, sunrises, lockets, home-made lemonade, stationary.

gemini: summer wind, fruity alcohol, expensive clothes, meditation, city bridges, pastel colors, palm trees.

cancer: black and white photographs, sunflowers, midnight snacks, valentines cards, fresh fruit, lake reflections, bookshelves.

leo: tanlines, coca cola, fashion magazines, face paint, old fashioned telephones, sunglasses, wrist watches.

virgo: uncontrollable laughter, sunsets, sweet perfume, inspirational quotes, vines on buildings, chandeliers, notepads.

libra: bubble baths, romantic comedies, italian food, footprints, rings kept in bowls, flower shops, umbrellas.

scorpio: record players, campfires, staying up late with the best kinds of people, newspapers, art studios, waffles & syrup, libraries.

sagittarius: gigantic maps, new bed sheets, foreign languages, museums, car journeys, fancy suits, snowstorms.

capricorn: wooly jumpers, rustic architecture, baked goods, caffeine, 90′s rock, rainy days, dreaming.

aquarius: foggy mornings, glitter, countryside smells, documentaries, hot chocolate, aquariums, greek mythology.

pisces: violet skies, flannel shirts, blankets, pianos, old televisions, astronomy, gift shops.


Mackerel sky, Houston, Jan. 26, 2017

*Not the typical images I share on this blog, but I was pleased with the results.

After the arrival of a cold front late Wednesday (we hit 80 degrees earlier in the week – in January!) Houston’s skies were blanketed with altocumulus clouds. My 93-year-old grandmother described them as “buttermilk clouds,” otherwise known as a mackerel sky. 

I photographed the view with an old Hasselblad 500c/m on Fujifilm Neopan 100 Acros that I processed with Ilfosol 3.


day 2/8 | tomarry christmas special 🎄

“…Harry takes the seat Tom gestures to and snatches up a piece of toast, ravenous.  As he butters it, he glances outside at the blue skies and the world blanketed in white…”

there’s been some complication’s with the original schedule for this, so i had to mix it up a lot to make it fit to my personal plans. here’s the link for that.

[ full view

Was working on fic prompts last night and one got very long and very out of hand and formed another AU because I do that. If I continue working in that AU, I’ll link to this, but for now it works as a standalone, so 

(borrowed a little from @deadcatwithaflamethrower‘s ReEntry, as usual)
(also I think this slips into an AU of @doctorwithafryingpan‘s proposed Tahl Lives AU)

Beautiful is the Temple on Alderaan, with its high vaulted ceilings and its carved pillars and walls, with the statues that line its halls. Splashes of brilliant colour dapple its floors where sunlight bursts through the stained glass panels above and falls to the ground in soundless cascades. 

It would be so easy to make this place austere, ascetic as the Jedi are thought to be - aloof and cold, cold as the mountain winters.

But Alderaan is not cold.

Though the Temple sits nestled in the mountains, perched far away, near-inaccessible unless you know precisely how to make your way to it, the Temple is not cold, it is not austere, it is not at all aloof.

It is, however, somewhat abandoned. Many of the old Temples are, for there are far fewer Jedi these days than even a mere century ago.

The first time Qui-Gon Jinn comes to the Alderaanian Temple, he comes with Master Dooku. Master Dooku is the definition of this perfect Jedi, the only definition Qui-Gon knows. He is cool, he is clinical, he is aloof.

Qui-Gon chafes under the weight of his - frankly chilling - ever-evaluating gaze, his unrelenting sternness. His Master’s praise is rare at best, and he is not a demonstrative man. The only contact the boy can expect is the heavy press of a hand on his shoulder to correct an error in his form (and, stars, he can’t stand Form II). Once, he got himself sold into slavery by complete accident, and his Master chided him for it, made him feel a fool and unwanted -

No. Made him feel how acutely he had inconvenienced his Master.

(Qui-Gon does not know this is wrong. All he knows is that he is not enough, and it’s his fault entirely. He’s sometimes tried to explain, but his explanations are inconsequential, so he pulls them into himself and forces them down. It will be years before he realises that his frustrations escape him in other ways, and the skies are blanketed grey, and the clouds grow heavy and his lungs go tight before they spill.)

(And then, for a time, he feels less tense.)

The first time they come to the Alderaanian Temple, Qui-Gon meets an Archivist who is warm and kind and reminds him of Tahl. She smiles and helps him look for the texts he needs for his classwork, sits him down at her table and throws up her feet to the chair beside her, settling in to read, herself. When confusion knots his brow and he’s all but broadcasting his dismay at failing to understand a simple problem, she catches the tense line of his shoulders in the corner of her eye and softly asks him to read it out to her. Qui-Gon does.

He watches, fascinated, as her agile mind bends and twists and turns, fingers skittering over the table between them. She explains herself, backtracks, prompts him, breaks down the question into parts, tells him things he’s never heard before, pulls up old texts as evidence, and through it all she even finds ways to make him laugh. She never once makes him feel lesser for not knowing so much of what she’s said, never chides him for not looking something up before asking.

Predictably, good moods do not last. He’ll forget what it was about, in a week, because all their arguments are one and the same, but for now Qui-Gon feels the sting of his Master’s words keenly, and he takes himself outside to sit on the Temple doorstep. He tries to be still for a moment, shaking not with the cold - then gathers a breath of air in his lungs and slowly counts as he holds and lets it go. It’s cold, but warmer than the day before, and there is no sharp, biting wind. He looks up just as the first of a flurry of snowflakes twirls through the air and some of them settle, lightly prickling, on his skin.

Behind him the Archivist’s already-familiar presence is warm as it draws near. He doesn’t want to be seen, but at the same time, he wants that comfort. He wants someone to see him, really see him. Just someone.

The warmth of that presence seeps into him when she sits down, almost close enough to lean towards him and brush shoulders. “It’s early for snow,” she remarks absently, but says nothing else.

Qui-Gon thinks it must be lonely here, where she is one of a handful of Jedi whom he’s seen, and there are perhaps a handful more in the more distant parts of the Temple. Yet it is warm and peaceful, and he thinks that perhaps she isn’t unhappy even in this small circle.

By dint of a heavy snowstorm, Master Dooku decides to delay their departure a few days. Qui-Gon spends those days mostly sequestered in the Archives.

The second time he comes to the Alderaanian Temple, the Archivist is no longer there. The Temple feels colder, because its walls have stood even nearer to empty in the last decade. It feels almost the way he felt, for much of these last ten years.

And yet, as he brushes his fingers over the old cloth- and leather-bound books, painstakingly cared for and preserved, he catches a hint of that warmth still. In his mind, a new flame burns - a young child he’d been forced (yes, forced, Master Yoda, you gave me no choice in the matter) to take as his Apprentice. They haven’t had an easy time of it, though their difficulties stem from different things.

Obi-Wan learned harsh lessons on Melida/Daan, lessons that Qui-Gon had wanted to shield his Padawan from learning. No matter how you try, no matter if you do everything right, you can still lose in the end - that was what Tahl had said. He couldn’t explain to this brilliant boy that the sacrifices to end their war had to come from the Melida/Daan alone, and not from Jedi. Instead he’d watched his Padawan suffer, thinking he’d failed to protect him - again - that he’d failed as a Master.

That he wasn’t enough. Again.

And yet this child had burrowed into his arms afterwards for almost the entire duration of their flight back to Coruscant, clung to him and wept into his tunics, and would not let go. When they made it back to the Temple, Qui-Gon had taken him straight to the Healers and refused to leave the boy’s side even to make their report until he was released a tenday later.

Those early days, Obi-Wan was restless without the tactile reassurance that Qui-Gon was still there, still with him. When they made their report to the Council, he’d inched closer and closer to his Master’s side without any conscious awareness of it, and Qui-Gon had finally given up all pretenses of serenity or aloofness, pulling his Padawan tight against him. In the privacy of their quarters, Qui-Gon held him for their shared meditations while he guided Obi-Wan’s mind, helped him reach out with the Force to see what his eyes no longer could.

They’d been removed from the active mission roster. Qui-Gon cornered Mace outside the salle once while Tahl watched Obi-Wan as he worked through his warmups, and demanded to know the reason in a low growl. Mace had deliberately brushed him off, but answered, not without sympathy, that Qui-Gon’s missions were always high-pressure diplomatic disputes, and many had a tendency to go to pieces.

“Mace -”

“It’s not an accusation, Qui-Gon. If anything, it’s something of a compliment. We have a tendency to run our best ragged, and we’ve been sending you into situations that, sometimes, should have been left alone entirely.” Like Melida/Daan - the words hung unsaid in the air between them, colouring it with regret.

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Qui-Gon grumbled, somewhat mollified.

Mace shrugged. “You didn’t hear it from me. We’re looking for something that has a bit less chance of going to pieces, but at the moment all we have is the Alderaanian Temple -”

“What?” The Force seemed to chime in his ears. “What about the Alderaanian Temple?”

Thus they had found themselves here, in the mountains. Qui-Gon still remembers the convoluted route the guides had taken his Master on, but when his Padawan looks left instead of right and asks, ‘why not that way?’ he listens and lets him lead on. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they find themselves at the Temple steps long before dark, when their expected arrival had been estimated at nightfall.

More and more, Qui-Gon lets himself hang back while his Padawan walks ahead, quite in reverse of tradition where the Padawan follows the Master. Obi-Wan is daring, yes, at times even reckless, but he’s never lead his Master astray.

In the quieter moments, and particularly in the evenings, Obi-Wan prepares tea for them both, almost ritually presents it to his Master, then curls up pressed against Qui-Gon’s side. It’s on one of these nights that Qui-Gon notices how the ache in his chest eases when his Padawan settles beside him. He’s reviewing an inventory list for the Temple - and, gods, if this is the work of the Head of the Coruscant Temple, he quite understands why Mace looks like he has perpetual migraines (because he actually does).

But when Obi-Wan presses close, the threat of a migraine recedes; and moments later, when the rhythm of soft shallow breaths proves that the boy has fallen asleep, Qui-Gon realises he will never, never feel at ease without this. That he has, perhaps, never felt so much wanted and needed in all his life. The feeling almost overwhelms him, constricts his chest and clutches at his throat and dares to steal his breath. He breathes through the sting at the back of his eyes, shuts off the datapad and shoves it away to wrap the small, beloved warm body beside him in a tight embrace.

||❥ amber amongst ash

v e r n o n ! s c e n a r i o

d y s t o p i a n ! a u

Originally posted by lonexsamurai

words: 7.5k

genre: fluff + some minor sadness + cute ending for @hansolmates

synopsis: hansol has finally escaped the chaos that plagues a world long crumbled, his heart beginning to swell for the pretty girl who presents him his new utopian life

Our last utopian seat goes to Hansol Vernon Chwe.”

You read from the slip of thin paper in your fingers, eyes quickly following suit of your words to sift through the crowd of dusky and ravenous looking individuals. They all clumped before you on the platform, each one standing in their own phantom of exhaustion and hopelessness. 

Tattered excuses for cloth rumpled in speckled dirt wrapped their glass bones, skin laced with rough, bumpy callouses, and hair a matted mess that resembled twigs from a birds nest. Not a single drop of spirit could be traced back to their beaded eyes as your voice echoed across a platform only kept aglow by the dull candescence of lanterns, and you suddenly feared for yourself if those faded sources of light were to flicker away.

Suddenly there was a ruffle, a squabble of movement that cut through the dimmed atmosphere. No one was willing to move from their stand on the steel, the boy that was weaselling through the crowd pouring out a litany of anxious apologies until he almost tripped his way to the front. You were lowering the tiny paper to your side as the boy matching the name, Hansol Vernon Chwe, appeared before you, the strap of his bag almost slipping from his shoulder.

“You’re Hansol?”

Keep reading

Fleeting Moments

I want a life defined by fleeting moments;
Setting the sunrise as my alarm clock,
Running, barefoot, through the woods with you.
Printing rings on tree trunks that even coasters can’t prevent,
Watching swirls of leaves chase each other in circles, midair,
Or witnessing the bare branches of trees continue to shake, swayed by habit, despite being void of leaves.
Streaking through cities even maps don’t recognise,
Messy, unmade hotel beds the only proof we were there.
Visiting pieces of history constructed atop ancient grounds,
Feeling the millions of untold stories reverberate under our soles with every step we take.
Fusing into the waves, playing hide-and-seek amongst the anemones,
Sprinting along ribbons of sand, flowing hair tousled by the ocean salt.
Snuggling in front of campfires, pulling apart melted marshmallow kisses,
Laughing ‘white rabbit’ to ward away the smoke, but not really meaning it,
Pretending we were dragons as we puffed misty breaths in the chilly air.
Spending midnights staring at the skies, wrapped in blankets of scattered leaves,
Stealing slivers of the moon with the blades of our gazes.
And I’d wish for these ephemeral moments never to end.
Take things for granted, and run out of fingers to count my blessings on,
And, at the end of it all, be left with nothing but memories.

strong willed, eyebrows furrowing and clenched teeth. desperate for some sort of release but never willing to let go. long, hard runs that leave you gasping for breath and covered in sweat. tight, french braids. whipped cream vodka. staring contests.

ripped, loose jeans. boiling water at midnight and quick, affectionate hugs. long fingers and twitching muscles. speeding tickets. going bird watching, counting to infinity.

setting boundaries and breaking promises, but meaning no harm. night skies blanketed with clouds and high winds that kick up leaves against your legs. tickle fights, shrill screams.

a strong grip. taking care of people. pounding nails into the side of a house. beehives…sweet, sweet honey. laziness with a purpose. long camping trips where your hair gets dirty and your skin becomes oily but your head is finally clear.

brightest smiles, terrible jokes. the stray hair you find on your clothes. sitting down after a long day. strong muscles that pull hard. hot espresso that boils blisters on your tongue and leaves you jittery and wild.

the smell of cotton sheets, a clean room. chocolate cake with pink frosting. a firecracker that explodes in your hands. trips to the hospital. swimming two miles, exhausting yourself.

history classes. triple A batteries, frayed string. the smell of nail polish remover. the nights that you toss and turn for hours before finally falling asleep. soft edges, sharp angles. older boys.

raven black hair. the feeling of coming home after buying new things. exploring a new place. riding in a convertible and feeling your hair curl and twist behind you. pursed lips and red cheeks.

opening presents on christmas morning. the smell of pancakes. the feeling of falling when you first begin to fall asleep. relapsing. huge clothes that make you seem small. sheer black tights and small knuckles. loud music.

the week between winter and spring when the leaves are budding but there’s still snow on the ground. eating out at fancy restaurants. deep bass notes. buildings with high ceilings and beautiful architecture. 2 a.m. talks with your friends.

aromatherapy…the smell of patchouli. huge tapestries that cover your whole wall. visiting art museums. snowball fights. the crunch of celery between your teeth. sliding over a wood floor with socks on. outfits that show a lot of skin.


holding your breath. button down shirts. pulling your hair out. bright screens. black pen ink that stains your favorite shirt. bright silver jewelry. breaking into buildings. kisses.

anonymous asked:

How about Rivamika first snow together after their wedding? Romantic feels on the cold days sounds really cute<3 thank you!!

Levi looks out the window of the hotel room and scowls at the massive snowdrifts that blanket the ski resort. In the distance the chairlift to the top of the mountain is stopped, its benches swaying precariously as they’re buffeted by gusts of wind and snow. “Why did I let you book our honeymoon again?”

Mikasa looks over at him from the bed, where she is flipping channels on the television, switching from a reality show to sports to public access to static and back again. “Because you said, and I quote, ‘I don’t give a shit where we go as long as I get to be married to you.’”

“Real romantic, huh?” Levi asks with a sardonic little smirk. Mikasa snorts. “I regret saying that now. We should have gone somewhere that doesn’t even have a word for snow.” He sighs exasperatedly and closes the curtain, then flops back on the bed next to her, crawling over to her so he can rest his head in her lap. “I really wanted to try that cafe on the side of the mountain,” he says sulkily.

“I’ll get you some tea and cookies from room service,” Mikasa offers. “Then maybe we could go sit in the jacuzzi?” A corner of her mouth lifts, a subtle entreaty.

“Gross,” Levi exclaims, lifting his head from for a moment before resettling his cheek against the hardened curve of her thigh. “I am not putting my naked ass in that filth cauldron.”

Mikasa chuckles, then shakes her head. “I can ask housekeeping to bring up some bleach so you can personally disinfect it first.”

“I know you’re teasing me, but it’s shit like that that reminds me why I married you.”

Part 1 is here.

The Weeping Willow – Part 2

He knows this drive. He’s made it hundreds of times before. The road always providing exactly what he needs at that time, whether it be solace with its miles of reflection or comfort with its turns of familiarity.  But today it feels different and he doesn’t know why.  

He can’t say he even knows why he’s making the drive at all.  He’s been away from this country, his home, for months and had fully planned to spend his first several days back resting at his flat.  But yet the moment his feet hit English ground, he felt Suffolk’s pull, deciding to leave London behind without as much as an advance call to his mother.

As the road grows narrower and the sky grayer, he begins to think of his mother and the phone call she made to him two weeks before.  It had surprised him, seeing as she always asked that he call her when he was away because she was aware of his busy schedule and didn’t want to interrupt a meeting or impose on his filming.  But yet here she was, calling him in what was the very early hour of the morning where he was, her voice echoing her happiness.  She had simply stated that she wanted to hear his voice, that she missed her only son.  She went on to tell him about having tea, scones and a nice conversation with a friend earlier that day that left her feeling very positive.  When he sleepily asked what the conversation was about, she chuckled and said she would just tell him about it some other time. Perhaps it was his mother’s gleeful laugh or the way she sounded happier than he had heard her sounding in months but he’s thought of that phone call several times since he received it.  Whatever the conversation was that she had that day, he’s pleased that she had it.  

Keep reading


Alright. So as many of you might not know, the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide is coming up. Now, before I go into this, I want to tell you a story. 

Imagine a little girl begging her grandma for stories of her childhood. Her grandma decides it’s finally time to tell her granddaughter one of the most significant times of her family history. 

Once upon a time, in a little village in a southern part of Armenia, lived a young couple. They’d only been married for about a year or two at that point, and were living a happy, content life. One day, they heard shouts of anger and fear erupt from outside of their little cottage. Utterly confused and terrified, the man grabbed his wife and ran out, only to be met with crowds of men, women, children, and even the elderly running in different directions. The couple tried to look for the source of the mayhem, craning their necks until they saw men armed with bayonets, and some even wielding swords. The dirt roads that were once used for travel, bearers of good news, and trade were masked in pools of red. Bodies began falling left and right as these armed men slashed through them like pieces of meat. Men, women, and children alike lay dead on the ground. The chaos only heightened when one of the men produced a burning torch and touched it to the roof of one of the little homes. The men continued this action until all of the houses of the village were up in flames. The husband and wife, now feeling extremely panicked, did the only thing they thought would save them: they hid. The man ran with his wife’s hand clutched tightly to his and reached one of the trees toward the back area of the village. Helping his wife up, he climbed up afterwards and found a branch thick enough to support the both of them. Hidden from the view of the men, the wife wept hysterically into the shoulder of her husband. The two stayed up there for what seemed like hours and watched their people, people they’d played with as children, neighbors they’d lent a cup of sugar to, friends they’d invited to their home and had meals with, all either drop dead or run away to never return to their homes that were now either burnt to a crisp or in ashes. They watched the plumes of thick smoke cover the blue skies like a dark blanket. They watched as everything they’d ever known was forcibly taken from them right before their very eyes, all while staying as quiet as possible to not meet the same fate as their village met. 

Miraculously, although they lost everything, the couple survived. They spent the next few months begging for scraps of food from towns they passed through on their journey to nowhere. 

As the grandmother finished her story, her granddaughter looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. “Who were they, grandma? Who were these people?” she asked. “The man and woman were your grandpa’s mom and dad. They were your great grandparents, dear,” her grandmother spoke in her native tongue.

At the time, I didn’t understand the importance of the story, or who the men were and why they wanted to destroy innocent people, as I was only a child. As I grew, I began to learn more about events similar to what my great grandparents had experienced, and it ultimately led me to learn about the Armenian Genocide, where 1.5 million innocent people, just like my great grandparents, were murdered by the Ottoman Turks simply for the purpose of trying to rid their country of Armenians.

Most people don’t know about this first genocide of the 20th century, or how it inspired the Jewish Holocaust, but the survivors know. The children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren of this genocide know. Someday, my children will know the story of my great grandparents. My story is just one story in the seas of stories survivors of the Armenian Genocide pass down to their children, and I will not let it be lost in time. 

On April 24, 2015, it will be 100 years since Armenian, Syrian and Greek men, women, and children were systematically killed by the Ottoman Turks and since then, the U.S. refuses to admit it was a genocide, simply because they want to remain allies with Turkey (who denies they even started a genocide). 

Don’t allow this to happen. Don’t let this censorship take place. Don’t allow those men, women, and children to have died in vain. Don’t let this genocide be forgotten.


I can’t even describe how much I adore you. It goes something like: the ocean, blue skies, puppies, cats, soft blankets, comfort, good tea, and laughter. I can’t even believe how supportive, kind, helpful and funny you are. I’m so #blessed to have you, honestly. I love you soooooo much 💕💕💕

The Search

The Beginning 

Thunder boomed across the night’s sky. Thick dark clouds blanketed the skies over the island of Berserk and and only lit up when flashes of lightening shot out as Thor hit his anvil with his might hammer. Large droplets of water poured down, drenching the small blankets that she was in. Bells rang and distant voices could be heard. One rang out the most “FIND HER! FIND HER NOW!”. There was maniacal laughter coming from a boy with bright red hair as he put an item in the cot, a horn with a crest on it that couldn’t be quite made out. But the face came closer and there was a deranged smile on his face. “Toodles sis. Say hi to mummy.”

There was movement and slowly the island became smaller and smaller and the waves became bigger and the storm harsher. Lighting lit up the sky time after time and thunder rolled across the skies still. And then a giant wave washed over–

Heather woke up in a panic, heart racing and in a cold sweat. She was in her bed on the Dragon’s Edge. “Just a dream. Just a dream…” She repeated to herself in a soft murmur, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The sky was a subtle orange as the sun rose over the Dragon’s Edge. She slid out of her hay lined bed (something that Hiccup invented, which was far more comfortable than the wooden beds she was used to) and looked out of the amber window. The sky did look far more orange from Hiccup’s invention. Fishlegs did pick a lovely spot for her hut. It had a perfect view of the ocean and the sun rise.

Dagur had changed, or was trying to, this was obvious to anyone who knew him years ago. But had he really changed? Or was this just another faze of his? Was he still the same deranged Berserk that everyone had been used to.

There was a snore coming from the other room, Dagur’s room that she had built for him. But the snore made her heart leap and spin around on her heel to where the noise was coming from. It was still all so soon. Not long ago she found out her brother had died and then all of a sudden he was back and now they were searching for his- their father.

“ShatterMaster!” Came the excited voice of Dagur as he was woken up by the bright green Gronkle. Next would come the greeting for her. And like clockwork. “Sister! Ready to continue our search for dear old dad?” He greeted her with a tight hug and lifted her up off her feet. He did seem very genuine. But he was a master of deception!

“Sure I am. If he’s out there we’ll find him, brother.” Heather replied as she was placed back down on the floor of her hut. Windshear was in the corner looking at the siblings as they embraced and Shattermaster was now stuck in the doorway as he was too big to fit through. So with a struggle Dagur pushed the Gronkle out the doorway and they all went to the club room to have some food. All of the dragon riders were already there waiting for Heather to cook. Whenever they returned to the edge the gang all waited for her cooking. Heather was hands down the best cook out of all of them.

Yak chops were on the morning menu for all of them and Tuffnut was being very over dramatic about the taste and how of cook she was and begging her to stay again. But today they were meeting a contact of Dagur’s in the northern market about a sighting of Oswald.

“Oh… Oh yeah this pleases the tastes!” Moaned Tuffnut as he ate and didn’t sit still in his chair. “You have to stay… The others lack in the cooking department.” He gestured to the rest with his chop. Ruffnut took offense and lobbed her chop at him but he only ended up catching that with his mouth.

They were set to leave soon but Heather was having a quick training session in the arena with Astrid. It was something they did. It was their ‘girl time’.

“Think you’ll find your father?”

“I.” Heather stopped to throw her axe. The nightmare was replaying in her mind and it caused her to miss her target and it fell to the floor in front of the circular target. “Don’t really know but I hope we do. Anyway, less father finding talk-” She was cut off suddenly as she tripped over a crack in the arena floor. “Damn..” She muttered but heard a chuckle from Astrid. After getting up and picking up her axe she turned to Astrid. “How’s things with Hiccup? Still the same after what happened with Viggo?”

“Yeah. Still beating himself up about it. Still think it could have ended another way.” The blonde shrugged and threw her axe right in the center of the target.

“How about you two?”

“Oh… Oh! Yeah good. Things are great, really great even.” Astrid had a tint of red on her face.


The sun was high in the sky over the skies of the archipelago and both Heather and Dagur were putting the last things in their bags. The gang were gathered around them to say their ‘goodbyes’. Heather gave them all a hug and Fishlegs received a kiss to his cheek which made him squeal slightly and blush. Snotlout made fun of him and he received a clip to the ear from Astrid.

“Come sis!” Dagur called out, hoping up on Scatter Master, and Heather got up onto Windshear.

After a quick ‘goodbye’ they took to the sky on their dragons and headed north to meet the contact of Dagurs’ at the norther market.

Before The World Ends. (chpt 1)

synopsis: The world was always going to end someday. But Jungkook thought he would have at least told you how he felt before then. Turns out all the time in the world isn’t a lot of time at all.

genre: Jungkook apocalypse au // angst and fluff.

(gif not owned by me)

words: 5,389.

It has been said that the world will end not with a bang, but with a whimper. That in reality we’re all nothing but meaningless people with meaningless dreams who put ourselves on soap boxes to make us feel like we have something to contribute, that the loss of us will leave a dent in the galaxy, a dent in the universal cycle and that time will seek its bearings in the extinction of us. Yet, we forget that time is a man-made construct, a socially accepted norm among us and us alone. Time doesn’t really exist, it’s bounds have been compressed into numbers and calculations by people who most of us cannot name. The world will end, not according to our time, but to its own will, regardless of whether it is with a bang or a whimper. Regardless of whether you have said and done the things you said you would, regardless of your readiness. The world will end.

There is a lot of unsaid things between people, despite how close they are. The man across the street doesn’t tell his wife that it wasn’t the kids down the street who scraped her car, it was him. The little boy who lives to the left of you never told his mother that it was him who broke her favourite vase and not his sister. Your best friend tells you that he hates your boyfriends, but he doesn’t tell you that it’s because none of them love you in the same way he does. A friendship had blossomed between you and Jungkook when you were eight years old, a typical friendship with a not so typical meeting. It’s only once in a life time you manage to meet a boy who didn’t mind sticking his hand down a drain to save a frog and ever since that summer day in June where the wind swept through the grass and the sun bore down on the side walk, you two had been inseparable. 

His feelings, however, had not burst into fruition on that blue sky’d day in June, but six years later, on an October night at a party. There was a lull to the night, most of the party guests had left and you, Jungkook and several others occupied the living room where popped balloons and ripped paper in the form of make-shift confetti littered the carpet, lights off aside from the blaring blue glare of the television. It was only down the street from both of your houses, so neither of your, nor his, parents had really minded if you stayed the night. Half asleep, your cheek rested in your hands while the dulling conversation still peaked your interest enough that you remained mildly conscious. They were playing a game, somewhat like truth or dare but without the dares or the hassle of being forced to answer a question if you didn’t have an answer and it soon became your turn.

“Out of everyone in this room, who would you like to marry the most?” Someone asks.

Rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, you sit up and cross your legs, looking to everyone in the room before glancing down at your feet. Your socks were blue, well, they weren’t your socks, they were Jungkook’s who was kind enough to let you borrow his pair so you wouldn’t have to attend a party with holes in your socks. Yet, while you were distracted by the question and lost in your own thoughts, Jungkook shuffled uncomfortably back in his chair, the anticipation of your answer somewhat bothering him. ‘Why are you so uncomfortable? It’s not like she’s going to pick you, she’s your best friend’, he thinks to himself, folding his arms across his chest in an awkward fashion. This whole game was awkward, especially for awkward teens like yourselves. 

“Nobody really, I mean, it’s not a good idea to pick your husband or wife when you’re exhausted, right?” You yawn, drowsy smile somewhat natural on your features. Really, you didn’t have an answer, but if you had thought it through, you probably would have said Jungkook. You were spending most, if not all, of your time with him anyway, so what more would a lifetime do. That’s when Jungkook knew, when he felt that sting of disappointment when you didn’t say his name, that heavy feeling in his stomach that weighed him down. He could tell himself a thousand times that he didn’t want you to say his name, but he would know then that he would have been lying to himself. Because if that question had been directed at him, he knew he would have said your name in a heartbeat.

The boy planned to tell you the extent of his feelings some day. The feelings that made messing around together even easier, the feelings that had him lying in bed at night imagining where you two would live, where you would go, how he would tell you and how you would react. Jeon Jungkook believed he had all the time in the world to tell you the deepest, most confined expressions of his heart and all that they could have meant. Jeon Jungkook did have all the time in the world, and yet, unbeknownst to anyone at the time, all the time in the world was not a lot of time at all.

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ReaderXConnor (An Autumn's Evening)

     Your feet crunch on freshly fallen, fire hued leaves on your way to Warren and Prudence’s farm. You knot the ends of your shawl together, bracing yourself for the occasional brisk breeze. Strands of hair that escaped your bonnet tickle your face as they get blown about by the wind and you think about how fast the seasons had changed. It seemed as if just yesterday you and Connor were rendezvousing on the shores of the lake, heat on your backs and heat building between the two of you until, at last, came the kiss you’ve anticipated for what seemed like a lifetime. Of course, it was well worth the wait and you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect way to remember this summer. As the tender memory replays in your mind, the handle of the bucket of food scraps you brought with you begins to dig into your finger tips. Fortunately, you were already at the farm so you made a beeline for the pig pen to dump the heavy bucket of slop. You didn’t mind helping around the homestead, even if it was a task as unappealing as delivering breakfast to pigs. The swine started to crowd around the feeding trough as you made your way out. Closing the gate, you feel a tap on your shoulder from behind. Thinking it’s Warren or Prudence, you about face, ready to ask if they needed anything else, but upon turning around you realize neither stands before you.

“Connor!” Flashing a smile you cast the empty pail aside, “what brings you here?”

“I was going to head for Boston. There’s a delivery for Lance I must retrieve so…” his words seem to fade as you begin to observe how Connor stands with a strong posture, shoulders square, his feet set firmly apart, and one hand cupping his other fist in front of him as he speaks. When he catches whiff of the pigs, he scratches his nose a bit with a slight cringe in his brow. You find yourself paying closer attention to these movements rather than what he’s saying…

“Oh, hmm, Lance? Of course he must have such important…things to do…” you say, still reminiscing about when those big strong hands stroked up and down your wet back on that steamy summer day,

“Um…yes…which is why I should depart to Boston now. I shall see you again when I return.” He nods and turns to leave the farm. You stand there, stiffened by the brevity of the conversation that just took place. You didn’t want him to go just yet, you didn’t him to go at all. Everytime he left the homestead, trouble seemed to find him and he would return with a couple to many bruises, if not, wounds. He’d never say much about what happened and when he did, his accounts were brief and sometimes vague. Well, this time would be different. This time, you were going with him whether he wanted you to or not. Before his foot hit the main path you hiked your skirt and tailed after him.

“Connor, wait!” He looks at you in confusion but let’s you catch up to continue, “what would you say to me accompanying you on this trip?”

“I would say no.”

     You knew he’d be difficult but you continue anyway, “You’re just picking up a package for Lance, that can’t be too demanding a task. And it seems like forever since I’ve been beyond the Frontier. Besides…” coming closer you’re able to run your fingertips down his arm and slip your hand into his, “We can spend some time together outside the homestead.” He doesn’t look at you but he appeared to be considering the idea. After a moment or two, his face softens and he answers,

“Very well. But promise me you won’t go anywhere alone.”

“I have no intention of straying from you.” You cross your heart and wink at him to put his worries to rest.

“Then we leave on the Old man’s carriage this evening. Seven o’clock.” He grins, giving your hand a little squeeze before letting go and heading down the path towards the manor. You head back home with a little spring in your step to prepare for the long road trip.

     His mighty hands firmly grasp both sides of your waist as he helps to hoist you into the carriage and you’re grateful the evening shadows hide the growing pink in your cheeks. You feel the blush burning more as Connor climbs in and takes the seat across from you. You sit ridged on the carriage cushions, unable to relax. You hold tightly to your seat as you feel the carriage lurch at the pull of the horses. Connor sits hunched over, elbows on either knee and his hands folded. Streaks of faint orange rays from the evening sun are barely able to peek into the windows. The trot-trot of the horses cover the silence you cannot find the words to fill but to your surprise, you see Connor reach over and pat your knee, “Why do you not sit on this side?”

“W-with you?”

He nods, “Yes, it is getting late, so it will get colder…” he trails off and looks at his feet, slightly embarrassed, “…of course, if you are fine sitting there-” before he could say more, you swing over and plop yourself down next to him.

“It’s much better next to you, Connor.” You move close to his side and rest your head on his shoulder. From here you can pick up that subtle pine scent from his clothes and just the support of his shoulder gives you a strong sense of security. Closing your eyes, you expel a small sigh and let yourself rest against him, “Connor?”


Your hearts skips a beat, “You know I love every minute I’m with you.”

“As do I.” You still keep your eyes shut but you know he is looking at you now. You feel him shift a little, his head was leaning in close, “You know I…..I love you, (insert name).” He whispers. Your eyes snap open as your heart summersaults at his words. Immediately, you remember telling him the same thing this summer, in a fleeting moment, amidst the ebbing tide of the lake, the steamy closeness of him against you, and your lips interlocked in fierce combat. He had also said it back, breathlessly and softly. And now Connor, Connor, now unaffected by the haze of summer or the dizzying spell of passion, was telling you that he loves you, looking at you with soulful eyes, awaiting your response. So with a gentle grin, you say, “I love you too, Connor.” And even in the dim evening glow, you can see his face turn a shade of cherry as he bashfully grins to one side. You giggle girlishly and bury your face in his chest, you couldn’t get enough of him when he was being so sweet.

“It’s getting late and colder as you said. And we have a long ride ahead of us.” You lift your feet and tuck them beneath you, “Why do we not get more comfortable?”

“Oh, alright.” He relaxes a little and then takes his mighty hand behind your back, coaxing you to come in close and recline your head against his chest. With his other hand, he gently strokes your (color) hair as he rests his chin atop your head.

     The trot-trot of horse hooves continues into the chilly night air and the chorus of crickets and nightlife intensifies as darkness begins to blanket the skies overhead. The carriage gently rocks along the beaten dirt path cutting through the frontier. Past woods of pumpkin tinted leaves, past dimly lit cabins and glowing amber campfires, the carriage rides on. You flick your eyes upwards to see Connor trying to fight back sleep with a drowsy look in his puppy-brown eyes. You knew that he wasn’t going to let himself relax so, slowly, you raise your hand up to his face, and lightly graze your fingertips over his heavy eyelids. He gently strokes your back once in response as you hear him softly exhale an “I love you.” Taking the chance, you lift yourself up a bit to give him a sweet little peck on the lips. “I love you,” you return to your position and whisper, “Goodnight.” as the two of you let your heads sway to the soothing ambiance of autumn, lulling you both into a slumber. 

(Continued in part 2: An Autumn’s Day in Boston)