The Designs Of Him As A Villain Are So Akdjksjxjsjfjdjdjfj I Love It So Much I Cant Kajxjwjdjejjdjdjdj

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.

My heart imma cry it’s so sweet

Imagine you’re Telemachus.

Go ahead, picture it. You’re a kid growing up on an island where your dad is literally a living legend, but he’s been MIA your entire life. Twenty years of being “the son of Odysseus’’ and having no idea what that even means. Your mother constantly compares you to a guy you’ve never met, the suitors trash your house, eat your food, and openly plan your mom’s wedding like you’re not even there. Your own people think you’re too green, too weak, too not your father to do anything about it. One day, Athena shows up in disguise (because gods love a good mask) and tells you to stop moping around and go find news of your father. So, you set sail with no real plan, no real power, and a whole lot of unresolved resentment. You brave the seas, deal with cryptic kings, and what do you find? Nothing concrete, just more stories about how amazing Odysseus is. And then, just when you’re starting to think you’ve wasted your time, he shows up. But he turns out to be a killing machine, and you’re in the middle of the bloodbath, trying to keep up while the suitors are out for your head. At one point, they literally use you as bait to corner the king. Your father.

The first words you hear him say? Not to you, but to his enemies: “My mercy has long since drowned. It died to bring me home.’’ Imagine, how does that sit with you? You’ve spent your whole life dreaming of this reunion, hoping for a lovely father, a protector, maybe even a friend. Instead, you get this: a stranger soaked in blood, declaring that mercy — the thing you’ve clung to, the thing your mother embodies — has no place in his world.

But then he turns to you.

And suddenly, everything shifts. He looks at you, really looks at you, and says, “Oh my boy, the sweetest joy I’ve known.’’ The walls he’s built, the hardness he’s worn like armor, crack just enough for you to see the man underneath. For the first time, he’s not Odysseus the warrior, or Odysseus, the son of Laertes. He’s your father. He is Odysseus, father of dear Telemachus.

It doesn’t erase the pain, the years of absence, or the violence you just witnessed. But for that moment, it doesn’t matter. Because for the first time in your life, the man who’s been a myth, a memory, and a mystery, is standing in front of you — and he’s calling you his joy.

I miss you

Did you know?

I hear your voice in my ear

I feel your touch on my lips

I see hints of you everywhere

I miss you in the mannerisms i picked up from you

I miss you in the way my hands have the urge to move to scribble at your ribs

I miss you

I love you

I’ll see you tomorrow

Mk for some reason i have phoenix stuck in my head and my brain made like a storyboard for loz with it??????

Like the “it’s your reflection looking back to pull you down” it would be the ocarina of time scene with the shadow link reflection thingy

And the “go bury your demons and tear down the ceiling” could be twilight princess link with the interloper thing or skyward sword link with demise or oooo even better ss link and demise the first time the line happens and then tw link with the interloper the second time the line pops up

And idk but the idea of link as a phoenix link thing bc yk constant reincarnation and endless fighting

Good to know there’s a term for this <3

IM A SFW LER! I want to see My lees having as much fun as i do

IM A SFW LER! I'll Make sure to not overwhelm You or Cross boundaries

IM A SFW LER! I don't have a Kink or fetish about it, i just find it wholesome and a fun way to bond <3

IM A SFW LER! i am a gentle kind of Ler :D

IM A SFW LER! I Make sure to check if you're okay.

IM A SFW LER! My only goal is to see your beautiful smile

IM A SFW LER! Cheer up Tickles are My favourite kind to do

IM A SFW LER! Feeling sad, don't worry! I'll put that frown upside down!

IM A SFW LER! I don't get rough because i don't wanna hurt you.

IM A SFW LER! Don't be embarrassed about liking tickles, it'll be okay!

IM A SFW LER! AND I AM VALID!

DNI IF: NSFW, KINK BLOGS, HOMOPHOBIC PEOPLE, MAPS, HATERS.

REBLOGS > LIKES!

REBLOGS helps me get My content to other people and makes me feel happy! While likes does little, literally nothing, so Make sure to reblog!

I love the artstyle so much aksndidhdjdnjsjsjsjsj

AlriGHT fine, here it is, Metamy enjoyers.

I created this around February last year, but I never ended up posting it because I WASN’T DONE! I wanted to test out CapCut’s capabilities before PRO got introduced. I’m gonna check out alight motion next time…

.Anyways… BYE-

OG SONG

only one

(my girlfriend 😁)

is anyone into super clingy and needy girls

rb to have a super gay 2023

The perfect time for rom coms too )

hear me out…

snowed in, cozy blankets, cuddles, warm drinks, books, movies, tv shows, games, and later you tickle and tease me all night

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.