Actually Wait I Kinda Can But Its Limited To Chemical And Temperature Idk How Else To Explain It

I WAS NOT READY HELP

Loved one got top surgery yesterday so I made this for him but I think y’all would appreciate it too

Wow this obsession is sudden

so im posting my merthur wip hope its decent. concept is that there’s a shapeshifter that appears as your greatest love. Arthur has gone to tackle this alone and mysteriously. Merlin has followed him because of course. We are in the woods.

——

Merlin felt like he was intruding, seeing Arthur so openly in love like this. The envy festered in his belly, green and sickening.

And then the shapeshifter appeared. Dark, messy hair, an open grin, a clumsy gait, and a very familiar outfit.

Oh gods.

It was him.

Merlin was stuck fast, wide eyed, his heart pounding in his chest. This was not something he had ever prepared for. Not even something he thought could happen. Arthur cared for him? What on earth had that thing said to him to get him to follow?

He fast reasoned that it must be a platonic bond, built on trust, that cemented him as Arthur’s greatest love. His greatest love. Romance was clearly out of the question here.

And yet.

Merlin’s mouth fell open in shock as the siren ran his fingertips slowly over Arthur’s shoulders, and down his strong arms. He could almost feel the contours of Arthur’s body on his own fingertips. Having dressed Arthur so often, he knew the planes of his arms and shoulders almost like the back of his own hands. Long had he dreamed of tracing them like this. He gasped aloud when the shapeshifter tugged on his sword belt, causing Arthur to laugh, undoing it and throwing it into the undergrowth.

Merlin should have been concerned that the thing had disarmed him, but he was far more focused on its clear mission in touching as much of Arthur as possible. Its hands slipped under his white tunic, Arthur laughing as they awkwardly tried to remove it. They finally got it off him, Arthur dramatically throwing his shirt as he tugged Not-Merlin towards him to kiss his neck, Arthur’s hands running through its hair. Merlin breathed desperately, watching his love shiver as shapeshifter kissed and licked at his neck, bliss evident on his face.

Merlin’s blood seemingly had no idea what to do with itself or where to go. He should probably put a stop to this, and save Arthur, but watching his fantasies come to life was quite riveting, actually. The siren annoyingly had Merlin down to a tee. He watched himself melt into Arthur’s touch, and whisper something into Arthur’s ear that made him chuckle. Arthur smiled back.

“I’m yours.” He said, loving and earnest.

He then boldly took its face in his hands-

Merlin snapped back into reality. He had to do something now. He leapt out of his hiding spot and tumbled down the bank.

“Arthur! That isn’t me!” He shouted, feet slipping on the muddy ground as he rushed towards them.

Arthur turned to Merlin, and jumped away from the siren as if he was burned, his face flushing red with shock and embarrassment. He looked between the creature and Merlin frantically.

“What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life, you git!” Merlin grabbed the shapeshifter’s arms, and shoved it away from Arthur, tackling it to the floor. It was very odd fighting himself, but his self loathing was deep enough that it was fairly therapeutic.

Arthur had somehow turned redder, with embarrassment or fury, Merlin wasn’t sure. “Well at least I know you’re the real you, this thing didn’t disrespect me once.”

“It had a bloody good go at it though! Good job I got here.”

“Yes, great job, well done Merlin.” Arthur said through gritted teeth.

Arthur, at this point, was feeling many things, most of which he couldn’t bring himself put into words. Confusion, horror, and the flames of embarrassment coursed through his whole body. However, watching Merlin frantically wrestle with himself also let in a few flickers of something that shot down into his belly, that he probably shouldn’t have been feeling in such a grave situation. He winced at his own insanity, and focused on the matter at hand, desperately searching in the leafy undergrowth for his sword belt.

The siren managed to push Merlin off, flipping them over, pressing his wrists into the mud. He was pinned there by the thing, still looking up at his own face, vindictive and angry.

“Ah… what have we here… you’re a different one, aren’t you. Complicated.” Merlin winced, as the thing tightened its grip, nails digging into flesh. “Must be difficult looking at your own face with so much self hatred. How’s this one?”

Merlin watched in horror as the siren’s face morphed from his own into exactly who he suspected he would see. Dark curls unfurled into a soft blonde, his narrow jaw became strong, square, and he saw the face he had shaved so many times, the eyes he saw blinking into the morning sun every day, settle before him on the face of the siren. The weight on him changed: Arthur’s shape was stronger, heavier. The hands around his wrists became familiar, callouses from sword fighting blooming on its palms, and he couldn’t help but slightly relax into its touch.

He dared not look up and catch the real Arthur’s reaction. He hoped he was still searching for his sword.

The siren smiled with Arthur’s face, soft and loving. Merlin had seen that smile on him just moments earlier, when he first broke into the clearing. He craved this. His traitorous heart filled with bittersweet joy.

Where the ancient meets the city

These are my own photos ^.^

Bro for anyone feeling this: it’s probably the christianity if you were brought up catholic, you can deep six that shit like throwing slime on the ceiling

yeontan.sanai

they fucked up his lab partner 4 times

WHY IS THIS ME

The way most autism literature describes "literal interpretation" is often not at all similar to how I experience it. Teenage me even thought I couldn't be autistic because I've always been able to learn metaphors easily.

In fact, I love wordplay of all kinds. Teenage me was fascinated to learn all the types of figurative language there are in poetry and literature.

But paperwork and questionnaires are hard, because there's so much they don't state clearly. Or they don't leave room for enough nuance.

"List all the jobs you've had, with start and end dates." What if I don't remember the exact day or month? Is the year enough?

"Have you been suffering from blurred vision?" Well, if I take off my glasses the whole world is blurred, but I'm fairly sure that's not what the intake form at the optometrist is asking.

Or the infamous (and infuriatingly stereotypical) "Would you rather go to a library or a party?" What sort of party? Where? Who's there? I work at a library. Am I currently at the library for work or pleasure? Does it have a good collection?

It's not common figures of speech that confound me. It's ambiguity, in situations that aren't supposed to be ambiguous.

You broke me in the best way possible. You broke me in the delicious way a voice breaks to hit different note, in the way you break in a new favorite coat, in the way a bone needs to be rebroken and reset if it doesn’t heal properly.

You broke the person I was, the person I had somehow turned into along the way, and you pulled the best parts of who I used to be to the surface. In my heart you paved the way for who I am now. You stitched together the best parts of who I was then and who I used to be so long ago.

In loving you I started to love myself, to love who I turned into around you, to love the person you made me want to be.

Slowly, you led me to enjoy the world again and I’m forever grateful

And you wanna know something?

You didn’t even know you did it,

But I’m so glad you did

Happy birthday to my girlfriend

To you: my heart, my light, and my hope (and my gayness <3)

The little sword flicks aiwnsjdndksmxmdmdmdkkskdjfjd

One of my favorite things in Merlin is how you can clearly see Bradley James getting sword fighting training and improving at it as time goes on. Like, season 1, all Arthur sword fights are Duels With Helmets and minimal closeups, and then by the end of the show he's doing these choreographed long takes that look effortless. I just love seeing the progression.

OW

After (Stobotnik, Angst, Spoilers)

Joy does not come easily. Not since the doctor's been gone. A storm has taken root in Aban’s mind—wild, desperate, and unrelenting. It howls through his thoughts, rattles in his chest, and refuses to quiet.

Even now, there are moments where he forgets. His hand drifts across the sheets at night, searching for the steady thrum of the doctor’s pulse, but his fingers find only emptiness. His traitorous soul pleads for a heart that no longer beats. His flesh aches for the warmth of a body long gone. His ears strain for a voice that will never again break the silence.

And still, night after night, he reaches out. 

He drinks just to feel some kind of warmth, but it never lasts. The burn fades too quickly, leaving only the hollow ache in his chest, which Ivo used to fill. He wears the doctor's clothes until they hang off him like a second skin, fabric worn thin from desperate hands clinging to what little is left. He buries his face in the collars, inhales deep, searching for a scent that time is stealing from him. But it’s fading—just like everything else.

So he watches those stupid telenovelas the doctor loved so much, letting the overly dramatic sobs and badly written love confessions fill the silence. He scoffs at their predictability, but still, he watches. Every night. The same episodes. The same storylines. He waits for the doctor’s laughter, for the amused sound he used to give at every plot twist. But it never comes. It never will.

And still, he watches.

Every morning, he makes two cups of coffee—one for himself, one for the doctor. He doesn’t think about it; his hands move on their own, guided by muscle memory, by a love that refuses to rot. He steams the Austrian goat’s milk just the way the doctor liked it, watching the froth rise, the scent curling into the air like a ghost.

And then he drinks them both.

He never liked the taste of the doctor’s order, but that doesn’t matter to him. He forces it down, warm and bitter, a punishment, a prayer. At least it makes the absence feel less real and stifling. Some mornings, he catches himself placing the second cup across the table, waiting. Staring at it, watching the steam dissipate into nothing.

He knows that nobody will drink the coffee other than him. But still, he waits.

He tells himself that if he cries enough, if he drowns himself in grief, maybe the universe will take pity and return what it stole from him. He prays—kneeling on the floor and sobbing until his ribs ache, until his throat is raw and his lungs rattle with the weight of unshed screams. His hands tremble; they clutch at empty air and desperately try to grasp something that isn’t there.

Aban was never a religious man. He never believed in gods or fate or miracles. Yet still, he prays. As if grief alone could bridge the chasm between life and death.

He is a dancer whose body moves to a rhythm no one can hear, spinning in an endless, futile waltz and waiting for a partner who will never return. A singer whose voice has been stolen. A scientist who holds all the secrets of the universe in his hands but cannot make a single soul understand one.

Nobody could ever begin to understand what he lost—what he’s condemned to live without, day after day.

The warmth of gentle, calloused hands. Unspoken adoration wrapped in sharp edges, tangled with beauty, anger, and pain. The quiet comfort of soft evenings he spent crocheting, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows as Ivo’s fingers worked deftly, repairing one of his creations—his eyes alight with focus, the hum of his breath filling the room.

Now, there is only silence. The void of his absence echoes in every corner of the space they once shared, the unspoken promises of things left unfinished. And Aban is left, holding on to the fragments of a life that no longer exists, his heart a hollow ache, unable to fill the space where Ivo once stood. And yet, in the stillness, the memories cling to him, jagged like glass shards embedded in skin. He can almost hear Ivo’s voice in the soft creak of the floorboards and feel his presence in the cold drafts that slip through the cracks. But it fades. Always fades.