Jaejoong: Since there are a lot of guys here too, when the guys and girls are leaving later and if you find someone you’re interested in but you’re too concerned with JYJ to talk, then fold your pants up to your knees. If you’re wearing a skirt, fold the hem.
Junsu: But skirt….ne-ne-nevermind.
Yoochun: What about skirts?
Junsu: There might be a slip-up. What if the skirts are already too short?
Jaejoong: People like that should fold the belt area once and make it a bit shorter.
Yoochun: You know what that person over there is saying at Jaejoong? “PERVERT!!”
Junsu: *points at Jae* Pervert!~
Yoochun: But have you met such a handsome pervert. It’s a waste to call him that. 

Baekhyun, what are you doing?

I get uncomfortable looking at your face, and shaky when i look at your hands but plEASE DONT PUT THEM NEAR EACH OTHER

silentstrums:

ohmilk:

everyone wants to wear jongin’s clothes (◡‿◡✿)

gosh i love this :’)

i don’t think the clothes are all they want though.

nprfreshair:

A tiny, beautiful thing.

My Modern Met:

Found primarily in Central America (Mexico through Panama), the glasswinged butterfly’s name in Spanish is Espejitos which translates as little mirrors. In certain lights, the translucent wing parts have a glossy, almost reflective quality to them that makes their Spanish name effectively accurate. Whether they’re seen as glass or mirrors, though, there’s something absolutely fascinating about the way these butterflies’ wings offer a surreal look at the environment around the insect. It’s like they’re tiny ornaments designed to draw the eye to the scenic appeal of nature.

I act different around certain people.

It’s not because I’m fake. It’s because I have a different comfort zone around certain people. I’ll act loud, stupid, be mean to you, act crazy, and do the most stupidest things with you because I’m comfortable around you. But, I can be quiet and shy if I don’t know you that well or we aren’t very close. Just because I act different around certain people, doesn’t mean I’m fake. I just have a different comfort zone with certain people.

Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.
Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.
She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page.
Erchomai, it said.
I am coming.