terrible reflection

Jeno - The Correct Direction

An overpowering smell of detergent tickled your nose. Straightening your back from your previous slouching posture, you stretched and made a weird noise of satisfaction. A completed piece of algebra assignment lay neatly on the table in front of you, and you scanned the page contentedly. That strong detergent smell was still irritating your nose. You got up, about to go hunt for the culprit of the detergent malfunction when your phone dinged.

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Hey so like, what if mirrors are actually the gateway to another dimension and humans don’t realize this because they cannot comprehend nor even perceive it. And the reason that Vampires don’t have reflections in mirrors is because we /are/ able to comprehend and perceive, and therefore the dimensional block (aka our reflections) don’t apply to vampires. And what if the reason the rivalry between lycanthropes (aka werewolves) and Vampires is because the Vampires control the access ways between the mirror dimensions and use this as a trade route, which is why Vampires are typically described to be the more wealthy of the two. Meanwhile the werewolves, typically being impoverished workers who fell victim to the curse, are jealous of the trade route and want to take it over for their own financial gain.

[M] Pluvial // BTS’ J-Hope

[A/N] For when you miss those rainy days.

The rain is nice,
you try to convince yourself as you drum your fingers on the edge of the bench. The rain is nice. It smells clean and brings with it a refreshing breeze, filling the bus shelter with the scent of a crisp spring day. Maybe if you take a deep breath, you can pretend that you’re a tulip in the middle of an April shower. Maybe if you close your eyes and let your mind wander, it will feel something like getting hit by a playful ocean spray.

But you don’t. Instead you choose to glance at the glass wall on your left. It’s plastered with raindrops, some fat, some minuscule, all of them gliding down the glass in a race to drown the earth. There has always been something calming about the sight of it- raindrops, you discovered early on in your life, have a therapeutic quality to them- but today, you find yourself scowling savagely at the scene because no, the rain is not nice. It is not a spring day and there is no playful ocean. It’s almost winter and it’s fucking freezing. The rain is positively pouring down, your clothes are sticky from the droplets, and yet somehow, despite the miserable situation screaming at you otherwise, you’re still here on the bench after forty-five long minutes of waiting.

Forty. Five. Fucking. Minutes.

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allforthegreatergood  asked:

"Come here," Grindelwald pulled Gellert close, looking him in the eye. "I'm going to tell you something powerful that I once read, and I want you to think about these words. 'Whisper a dark terrible secret to someone. Now they have the power to destroy you... but they won't. That's what love is'."

Gellert looked at Grindelwald. The other one had somehow found him, despite hiding in the shadows. Another definition of love. “This is love?”, he repeated and sadly leaned himself against Grindelwald’s chest, “I heard so many definitions of it by now that I am not certain which one is the correct one. What if they are all correct?”

tagged by: @officialikunagae


Samuel David Aas 


just turned twenty. still at the interstice between important birthdays 


Making coffee


Graduating college and getting a big boy job 


Sports goth 


Figures, gundam models 


As terribly as this reflects on me, i usually bring up anime when i’m talking with someone my age that i’m not familiar with. If they watch it, we usually have a lot to talk about. If they don’t, i drop it and never mention it again 


People slamming their doors or having loud conversations in french outside my room at 1 in the morning  


I’m the last person anyone should ever come to for advice 


Abrasive - Ratatat

This Horrifying Force (The Desire to Kill) - Skeletonwitch

My Spine! My Spine! My Spine! - Combatwoundedveteran

Stay with me Part 3

Jimin x reader

Genre: Angst, romance, school au, new girl, bad boy, school gang activity.

Warnings: gang like activity, partying, strong language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, smut.

Word count: 2335



With every beginning there is an end.

With every push, there’s a pull.

My pull towards you is strong.

But where is my push?

Is it caught in a catastrophe of words and phrases?

Is it at the bottom of this colored glass?

Or has our beginning not even begun?

With every beginning there is an end…

I’ve begun something.

I want my push that will lead me to your pull…

With every push there is a pull…

And with every dream…

There’s an awakening.


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A Place Called Home

[ Jimin x Reader ]

Genre: Fluff (PG-13)

Song: Let Me Love You (Until You Learn to Love Yourself) by Ne-Yo

Word Count: 5.0k

Description: With Jimin away on tour, you are left to your studies and an empty apartment. Unsure of the date of his return, you search for a distraction from the loneliness only to find yourself in the middle of a battle with your inner demons. It’s not until Jimin makes a surprise appearance that you are able to pick up the pieces and discover what it means to love yourself.

Originally posted by jitamin

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gizmojess  asked:

PROMPT: KyouHaba where Yahaba sees how good Kyoutani is with animals? Veterinarian Kyoutani makes me so happy :3

[This got over 1500 words because I am shameless, oh my god.]

Kyoutani was terrible at keeping secrets. Despite the fact that at first glance, he might look like the type of guy who was always up to something shady, the truth was that Kyoutani just didn’t have the capacity to be sneaky or subtle about almost everything. He was straightforward to a fault but then back to a virtue, both in his style of play and in his personal life.

Which is why Yahaba found it ridiculously annoying that despite all that, his boyfriend still was trying to lie to him. He had been from this morning, being horrifically obvious about making up excuses to sneak off during practice after arriving late and ditching Yahaba during lunch.

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vincentvxngogh  asked:

I just read wuthering heights & I really don't get the hype about the "romance??" Like I started reading thinking that there were gonna be moments that make me weak but it doesn't show how heathcliff & cathy become obsessed w each other. It just shows their unhealthy obsession, w them always just hurting each other while declaring they can't live w/o each other. Idk I was disappointed & the souls line that i liked before now seems not as gr8

Wuthering Heights is a masterpiece and easily one of my favourite books, but oh my goodness it is NOT a romance in the traditional sense and you cannot approach it the same way you would approach, say, a Jane Austen novel. This is Gothic fiction at its finest and most chilling.

Unfortunately, it is marketed to the world as a romance and productions and adaptations inevitably portray it as this great romance with Heathcliff as the brooding Byronic hunk, leading to the dissonance and confusion that you are experiencing. What kills me is that a lot of productions don’t even bother with the second half of the book, they just tell this contrived, inaccurate love story between Catherine and Heathcliff, but honestly, if you don’t tell the second half of the story, there is no point to your adaptation, like you could not fuck up any worse.

Wuthering Heights is all about the cycles of abuse. Heathcliff is a monster, a cruel and demonic figure, but he was not born bad. He suffers greatly in his early childhood, is adopted by Mr Earnshaw and finds solace in the company of Catherine. When Mr Earnshaw dies and his son Hindley takes over the Heights, he abuses Heathcliff, sends him out of the house and forces him to labour in the fields for his keep. Heathcliff endures unimaginable torments, but none of that matters because he has Cathy, and she has him. They spend every waking moment together, and every punishment they endure is forgotten when they’re in each other’s company. They promise to grow up wild as savages and spend all their time wandering together across the moors. Catherine and Heathcliff are two people bonded by obsession, isolation, trauma and abuse, and the savage wilderness of the moors becomes their sanctuary. At home by the fireside, where these children should by rights feel safe, there is nothing but fear and pain and abuse. Out on the moors, with only each other, there is safety. Preferable to heaven itself, the moors are their sanctuary.

Heathcliff and Cathy are both awful people, twisted by abuse and mistreatment, and the line about sharing a soul is a terribly tragic reflection of the fact that Catherine has only ever felt safe with Heathcliff out on the moors. After Hindley’s wife dies giving birth to their son Hareton, Hindley loses all self-control and goes mad with grief and anger. Nelly explicitly says “his treatment [of Heathcliff] was enough to make a fiend of a saint.” Hard labour and mistreatment makes Heathcliff lose interest in intellectual pursuits. At sixteen, his mind, manners and appearance deteriorate, while Cathy becomes obsessed with the glittering world of the sophisticated Lintons. She desires social advancement and prestige, and despite considering herself to share a soul with Heathcliff, she says it would degrade her to marry him, and so marries Edgar Linton instead. Catherine is Heathcliff’s obsession and comfort; losing her causes him to devote himself to revenge. All the abuse and horror that was meted upon himself he inflicts upon others.

Years pass and Hindely, Catherine and Mr Linton all die. Heathcliff acquires the Heights and our original trio of Catherine, Linton and Heathcliff are replaced by a new generation of children: Cathy, Linton and Hareton. Heathcliff has gone from the abused to the abuser, and he takes his wrath out on all three children. In the case of Hareton, Bronte makes it explicitly clear that Heathcliff is taking vicarious revenge on Hindley by abusing the boy as Hindley abused him. He takes Hareton into his arms after his abusive father’s death and says, “Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked, with the same wind to twist it!” Every brutality and indignity Hindley inflicted upon him, he inflicts on Hareton. He takes the boy’s inheritance from him, treats him as a servant, beats him, and keeps him dumb.

Young Cathy ends up at the Heights and Heathcliff cannot abide her and abuses her without mercy, even though she is the daughter of the woman he loves. At first, Cathy dislikes Hareton and teases him for his stupidity. When she is imprisoned with Heathcliff and suffering daily from his torments, Hareton tries to be kind to her, but she rejects him, and takes out her anger and frustration on him. She becomes somewhat more attached to young Linton.

Haven’t we seen this all before? The wild, dumb, abused boy and the girl he loves rejecting him because of his low station?

History is repeating itself. The cycles of abuse are being perpetuated through generations and these innocent children are all being made to suffer for the feud between their families. But things change, because even though these children have been abused, they choose not to perpetuate this abuse themselves. Hareton is perhaps the most important character of the book because he is meant to be a mirror of Heathcliff. Hareton has known nothing but violence and cruelty since he was born. He was beaten by his father and mistreated and kept dumb by Heathcliff. He suffers as Heathcliff suffered. Heathcliff even remarks, “Hareton seemed a personification of my youth, not a human being.” But even despite all that, he sees young Cathy suffering and he chooses to be kind. Cathy rejects him at first, and is cruel to him, but she repents of her behaviour and sees that she was wrong to do so. She too rejects cruelty and chooses kindness. She extends friendship to Hareton. She teaches him how to read. They fall in love. These two young people live under the thumb of a tyrant and are in constant fear, but what makes them different, and what redeems them is that they refuse to act like their tormentor. Hareton suffered exactly as Heathcliff suffered, but where Heathcliff chose revenge, brutality and anger, Hareton chose kindness. He did not want others to suffer as he had suffered. He wanted to ease Cathy’s suffering because he knew what it was like to suffer, and that choice made all the difference.

People talk about how this book is awful and fiendish and unpleasant, but what’s even worse is that all the horrors of this book can only be blamed on plain human choice. It is a book about the cycles of violence. It is about how we inflict our suffering on others, and how the younger generation is forced to suffer for the mistakes of their parents. In one half of the book we watch two abused children, Heathcliff and Catherine, become obsessed with each other. They find solace and comfort in one another and prefer savagery and the wilderness of the moors because they found nothing but pain and torment in the “civilised” world. They are twisted into awful, cruel people. In the second half of the book, we watch two abused children find comfort and solace in each other, but the difference is they choose not to perpetuate the abuse they suffer. They choose to be kind. The relationship between Hareton and Cathy is the the great romance, and the great triumph, of this book. Whereas Catherine and Heathcliff are together in death, this new generation is united in life. They represent redemption, hope for the future. They break the cycles of violence and cruelty and their love ends the feud between their families. In the face of cruelty and suffering, they choose to love and they choose to be kind, and that takes the greatest courage of all. “They are afraid of nothing… together they would brave Satan and all his legions.”

Honeydew and balm. Roads tar-black, rolling in front of us, waves and waves of heat & mist. The sun, gold pouring across the plains. Sky an open palm, swallowing, cradling. Every night was wind, bonfire, looking into each other’s faces. No mirrors but a million reflections. I remember the night we thought we would die – lightning exploding in front of our faces, the rain luminescent, endless, everything cowered and small. In the afternoon, a boy stabbed a snake. The next day, we found a bloated frog in the pool. Every morning, the mosquitos loved us ferociously, kissed splotches into our brown skin. Cracks of light in the wet grass. The mountains bigger than our gods.
The Signs and terrible Xmas gifts...

Aries: If they get another shirt with something “sarcastic” on it, they’re going to literally set it on fire.

Taurus: exclaims “Wow!” in half sarcasm, half disbelief.

Gemini: looks at you to see if it’s a joke, then pretends to like it when it’s not.

Cancer: will nod gratefully, use it once, then add the gift to the growing pile of stuff that they’ll never touch again.

Leo: vows to make sure next year’s gift will reflect how terrible this year’s is.

Virgo: tells you up front that they’re going to give it to someone who will “really appreciate it!”

Libra: is going to judge you. So much judging.

Scorpio: is grateful for any gift (even if it’s fruitcake) and will thank you sincerely.

Sagittarius: sighs at getting yet another “inspirational” sign, then donates it to Goodwill or to someone who needs it.

Capricorn: will gush about how much they love it, then talk about your gift-giving abilities behind your back.

Aquarius: inspects the gift thoroughly, imagining how they can deconstruct it and use the parts for something else.

Pisces: will smile and pretend to like it then put it in the closet forever.

The End - Part 3

*Soon to be adapted as an original novel by Tristen Ross, called Exitus*

You’ll need to read  The End -  The End - Part 2

Warnings:  Angst, very dismal setting, apocalypse, language, reference to character death, alcoholism, injury, blood, 

After Dean left I stood there paralyzed by uncertainty. The whispering crowd outside was dispersing with the arrival of their leader, all just as quick to turn their back on me as he was. I watched as each shadow retreated and left the tent in dead, familiar quiet. My knees were beginning to ache from where I had landed on stones. I wondered why Dean needed so badly to talk to Cas, and whether or not Cas would tell him about the can of peaches. 

The heavy breathing behind me reminded that none of that really mattered anymore, at least not in comparison to the task at hand. The prisoner was quite still and calm. I watched him from a distance as I gathered what little medical supplies we kept in the house. His scarecrow-like face let my imagination run wild. I was sure the face behind the burlap was gruesome and terrible, something reflecting the illusive sin he had commit. When the faceless head turned to follow my movement across the room I froze in my tracks and felt my heart lurched foreword in its bony cage. My breath was just as heavy as his now and all the more terrified. It took me a moment to realize the less than sinister cause of his action. The fabric around his nose rustled gently and as I straightened up. Of course, he can see through the bag

I chastised myself for being so jumpy and tried to shake the tremors from my fingers. While staring back at the prisoner I noticed the dark stain that marred the side of his shirt, with fresh redness still blossoming around the edges. He was bleeding profusely, but the real oddity was the condition of everything else on his body. His clothing was in near perfect condition. It wasn’t dirt smudged or torn like everyone else’s around here. I chalked it up to a lucky steal from some poor bastard, maybe even belonging to the unnamed victim of his crime. 

The few supplies that weren’t shared by the camp, that actually belonged to Dean and I, were stored carefully inside a wooden box in the corner. The cover was engraved with sprawling script from all languages and spells. The only thing I could read was the message printed above the lock. “A cohores fratres viventem in aeternum.” From the little latin I had been taught by Dean, I knew that translated to something along the lines of “a band of brothers lives forever.” I traced my thumb over the inscription and tried to imagine Sam carving it. Dean didn’t talk about his younger brother much, not since Detroit anyway. I retrieved the sewing kit from inside the box and tore away some of our clean sheets to be used as gauze. On a hunch, I found a half empty bottle of whiskey tucked in one of Dean’s old boots. It looked strikingly similar to the ones he promised to take to the infirmary. I sighed and carried the supplies to the table. The once comforting quiet was making my skin crawl, so I resorted to engaging my captive audience in a rather morbid form of convocation, which was really just thinking aloud. 

“Your side, is it a bullet wound?” Silence followed, as expected. I pulled a chair to sit across his and pushed my sleeves to the elbow. 

“It looks quite large…” When I reached for the hem of his shirt I awaited a flinch or some kind of restrained reaction, but none came. The man breathed steadily, his chest expanding in large ragged breaths as I peeled away his shirt. The half-dried blood clung to his wound and for a second I saw the muscles of his stomach wince. Those same abs were a mess of scars, each a different age than the last. This man was no stranger to pain. Dean had similar silvery marks on his own body, but they were overshadowed by each fresh scrape and tear he received.

“Sorry, I know it hurts. It’s going to be a lot worse too.” The injury left open to my gaze was no mere bullet hole. A large, shapeless laceration left his side gaping. Blood trickled steadily outwards every time his ribs struggled to expand. 

“Holy shit…” The ribbons of flesh left to hang suggested some uneven blade was used. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was made by a shank of razor or glass. “Who did this to you?” After speaking I grit my teeth tightly in regret. It was hard to remember that this man was the predator, not the victim. I poured the amber alcohol over my hands and needle, aware that his veiled eyes watched me closely. The fingers I moved to hold the skin of his side taut could feel every muscle contracting in anticipation of searing pain. 

“Sorry for this.” Throughout stitching the stranger shut, I found myself flinching on his behalf. The handcuffs securing his hands to the back of the chair rattled slightly as he clenched his firsts and groaned through whatever gag stuffed his mouth. I could imagine him snarling at me for the hurt I was causing, but something about his body language said otherwise. He never lunged closer to me like a rabid and wounded man would. Instead, he bore the agony to the very end, when his head finally fell forward in exhaustion. There was still a shot or two of whiskey left in the bottle on the table. I considered drinking it, but it didn’t seem right anymore. I couldn’t enjoy that sort of thing when the world was going to hell around me. On the other hand, if I left it, Dean would know for certain that I had found his hidden drinks. I wasn’t terribly eager to explain my sneaking around his belongings. I was too tired for another fight. 

My patient’s breathing was slow and shallow now, edged with weak will. His chin rested heavily on his sternum. He would be well enough soon, but the pain was probably like nothing I had ever experienced. Suppressing the pity I felt was nearly impossible. “Innocent till proven guilty” flitted through my mind, as with memory of better days and better law. As sad as it was, this man likely wouldn’t have a chance at justice. If as many people as Dean said wanted him dead, he’d disappear in the night and show up on the wrong side of the compound fence in the morning. The least I could do was ease his suffering now, in what could be his last day. 

I unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and cleared my throat, but he didn’t respond. He was probably too busy wrestling with consciousness. I could hear Dean chastising me already, and maybe that was what pushed me to untie the cords around the burlap covered neck, although it could be blamed on pure curiosity. I pulled at the strings very gently, like one would undo a bow tie. The weathered knot slipped loose easily. I swallowed back nervousness and reassured myself that the man’s hands were still hopelessly chained. 

I hooked my fingers under the material that bunched around his collar and inched it upwards. My hands moved with the trepidation and care of a surgeon. Very slowly a chin came into view, a chin that tilted up at the realization of what was happening. My fingers grazed skin that was freshly shaven and soft. Dean never did shave anymore, not now that razors were so precious. And his hunting knife did a poor job of removing his ever growing scruff. I wondered how this man came across so many of the things we struggled to secure. 

My fingers lifted higher, revealing two chapped lips parted by a rag tied tightly around his mouth. It was strange, examining someone’s features in pieces. It was like a Van Gogh painting being created in fractured segments. He must have thought me crazy, to be staring at his lower face so intently. I paused, concerned for what might come out of that surprisingly attractive mouth. Without seeing his eyes I couldn’t truly tell what kind of man he was. 

“I’m going to take your gag out. Please don’t make me regret it, I’d really hate to see what Dean does to you…” My threat wasn’t at all empty. I leaned closer to the man than I had been yet, and over his shoulder to remove the rag from his teeth. He smelled so clean, like soap and mint. I found myself inhaling deeply when near his shirt. He didn’t just wear new things, he smelled like a new thing. I’d have to ask how he had been so lucky over these past few months. Probably at the expense of others. I leaned back before taking the gag with me like ripping a band aid. The independent mouth gasped open and immediately sucked in dehydrated lips to wet them. 

“Here, have some of this. It will help with the pain.” The stranger greedily  drank of the bottle that I tipped, droplets escaping down his jaw in the frenzy. “Sorry there’s not more.” There would be if my husband wasn’t a functioning alcoholic. The man licked his lips again and again, till they were raw with chafe. Even in their red, swollen state, they reminded me of someone. I couldn’t take my eyes of his mouth, the only real clue I had to his person. 

 "Thank you.“ It was startling to hear him speak. I furrowed my eyebrows at the striking familiarity, but I couldn’t pinpoint who he resembled. 

 "It’s fine. Just please don’t tell Dean.” In a bout of of maternal instinct, I wiped my thumb along his chiseled jaw to catch the liquid slipping down. The action felt hauntingly reminiscent… I shouldn’t have been so close to him, holding the chin of a man who the entire camp seemed to believe was a murderer. But a stomach churning sense of deja vu kept me from removing my touch. When his lips moved I was barely able to focus on listening.

“That’ll be difficult.” That voice, that deep, gritty, lazy voice…  I didn’t have time to question the statement before I was analyzing that all too familiar noise again. 

It’ll be difficult, because you’re telling him right now.”


I felt the need to clear my head today. This is the best place for me to do so. Nature is so peaceful and beautiful. And just look at the clouds reflecting from the lake ☆

“Look deep into nature and you will understand everything better” ~ Albert Einstein

So, one of Jak’s favorite things to do is run on his wheel, and people never believe me when I say that he does this all the time! Usually, he’ll use it anywhere from five to thirty minutes a day when he’s feeling active. I always encourage people to add one of these to their tanks since Jak seems to derive a substantial amount of activity from it. 

Consequently, he also uses it as a bathroom…. which is a little hilarious, because he refuses to go anywhere BUT directly on the wheel. |:

(Excuse the bare tank, I like to briefly take out some of his decor in order for him to hunt for food easier when I feed him!)


I’m going to try to describe what this moment was like for me when I saw it on Wednesday. It’s difficult to put into words. It was like someone had suddenly wrapped me in a blanket of dread. That music kicked in, and the barbed bracelet circles started flying, and I HAD A REACTION. I had an actual physical reaction to it. I took a sharp breath and it felt like my heart seized up. But it was completely without context. I’m reacting to this and I have no idea why.

Memory is such a strange thing. I remembered so few details about Stars. (I didn’t even know I remembered THIS until there it was.) Yet suddenly there are all these EMOTIONS and you can’t be sure where they’re coming from or going to.

I know me. I would’ve watched this over and over again. Don’t get me wrong, I am wailing in agony and my tears are real and everything I am going to be writing about HURTS ME DEEPLY. But they’re all (well, mostly) The Good Hurts, the kind that remind you how much you love these characters, and how much they love each other, and how very very important all that is.



So that music, the sudden chord erupting from the silence and tension of the moment, would have been the signifier that all that pain, that delicious delicious pain, was coming.

Then fast-forward decades later, and the details are gone. The whys and hows have left me. There’s only THIS. This flash of intense emotions that I feel, that are mine, but also NOT mine because I don’t understand them.

I wouldn’t have needed help to feel the things that I did, but it added an interesting dimension to it all, made it a bit more REAL, almost. It was overshadowed so quickly by what happened, but it was such an intense moment for me, I wanted to try to capture it.

It’s amazing, the power that stories have.