#and would only bring misery

[tuituipupu]

in my head valentine’s day is just my pre birthday because it was my due date 💀💌

[rakkuntoast]

wishing that things will get better for qforever and that after all of this he realizes that there are people sticking out for him and people fucking CARE AND LOVE HIM isnt enough, i need to fight ccforever for making his cubito miserable

[jaggedjot]

It is vital that the visions of Lestat that haunt Louis are seen first and foremost as shards of Louis’ own fractured psyche. These scenes are emotive hallucinations, a visual representation of the way that Louis feels unable to escape his past, as well as how he directly draws on those experiences as he tries to move forward. It is only Lestat in the sense that Louis has cast blended memories of the man to perform the role of Louis’ own doubt, misery and regret.

[the-apocalypse-is-upon-us]

Mukuro Ikusaba,they could never make me hate you

[butchviking]

ppl are always saying that the most important thing with """mental health""" (they mean mental illness) (no, they mean depression and anxiety) (no, they just mean emotional wellbeing i think) is to talk to ppl about it. but like. sorry how does that help tho. maybe this is just whatevers wrong w me talking but for real how the fuck does it help to actually tell ppl the actually bad stuff in ur head. like i think it's good 2 be able to say stuff in passing and for everyone to not clutch their pearls if u joke abt killing urself or whatever like its good to not have to actively dig it down and repress it. its good to b able to say "ive been bad lately" or whatever and move past it. but genuinely honest to god does anyone in this whole wide world actually feel better after they tell the people who care about them abt their serious emotional problems in any significant detail. its not going to fix anything! its not going to solve anything! "a problem shared is a problem halved" no!!! its a problem doubled!!!! now you feel bad AND the person u told abt it feels bad bc they wish they could make u better and they can't!!

[faaun]

the forest looks like heaven today i woke up feeling the heaviest weight at the top of my heart

[rainswept]

aventurine is “money can’t buy happiness” personified. i think

[kamil-a]

coming around to the theory/headcanon ? that seraphimagent computers 1-7 did not do full broadcast+tower management in the way sayer does and thats why for example porter has been in argos the whole time without any sayer there.... like it isnt that there were 7 previous sayers but sayer is actually the first of its kind to do its particular task set. which unfortunately yeah if they invent a new kind of task completing robot they are in fact going to keep making "that but better???"..........simply look at the humble ipod :(

[dutybcrne]

Kaeya most definitely made at least one joke about how bc Addie and Elzer helped keep him alive during Luc’s Adventurous 4yrs Adventures Abroad, he was gonna make himself their problem.

Addie will never forget to bring up he has yet to make good on his threat every time he visits.

[anaalnathrakhs]

"i thought you said you'd make an effort" MOTHERFUCKER THIS IS ONLY COMPLAINT #1 OUT OF A VERY LONG LIST JUST BE GRATEFUL I CAN WAIT UNTIL THE GUESTS ARE GONE TO SNAP

[vagueiish]

fuck i wish i could write. oliver just signed the deal with raphael (because he constantly feels like he's doing nothing to help the party or anyone and putting his soul on the line is the very least he could do, even though he helps everyone and also is like.... at max approval with the whole party and has finished or done the majority of everyone's personal quests)(he's trusting the emperor less and less, for Reasons, which i guess would involve more writing because it involves personal backstory shit, and he's already burned the bridge with gortash by crashing the party at the iron throne and saving wyll's dad, so his options to deal with the tadpoles are becoming fewer and fewer)(so. raphael it is. for now...?)

and astarion's basically just like 'well that was stupid, but what do i care, it's not *my* name on the contract lol' (even though oliver's apparently the first person he's truly cared for, bb, what are you doing? is this a 'id rather you hadn't, and i'm actually kind of upset but don't know how to deal and also you're a fuckin adult and made your choice, so what's the point in saying anything' moment or what, i am having trouble deciphering this right now)(and i know the dude is an ass, i dont expect him to be Nice, but your honor, theyre in love. and he did sound kind of pissed about it! or irritated/sarcastic??? but! how did he mean it? my brain is not cooperating, i hate this, lmao, i wish there was a follow up convo or something so i could pin down this fuckin plot bunny)

(and i mean. this is deviating into headcanon/oliver as tav specific territory, and is me trying to figure out how it'd figure into the thing i'd wind up writing for this if i do, and again, astarion is an ass and all that, maybe not the most emotionally mature dude in the realms to put it mildly, but he'd know, right? eventually, at least??? that he fucked up saying that? that however he actually meant it, it's going to sound very much like 'i don't actually care about you' to the first person he professes to actually care about?)(and in terms of oliver's canon timeline, i think he signs well after his own 'personal quest' would have occurred. so astarion would know about oliver's mother and all that baggage. not that he'd necessarily know what do to with it, but he'd probably have heard her be all 'yeah, i never actually cared for or wanted you, soo....')(which is an oversimplification and the whole situation is quite complicated, but. that's the gist he gets, so anyway...)

and then karlach. my love. the bestest of girls, she's angry and insisting on going to avernus one last time to save oliver's fucking soul because she's awesome and also because he's her friend and, tangent, i wish there was an option at all times to hug her, whether as a friend or lover. she deserves all the hugs, romantical or platonic or whatever, fuck, i want to hug karlach so fucking bad

and there is something *there* with all of this because oliver, sweet and sad and self-loathing, wouldn't have any of her help. he'd want her to let it go. gently, at first, but of course she doesn't, so then he gets pissed. because this is his decision. because it's not her name or anyone else's on the dotted line, so why the fuck does she care? (hm. sounds familiar.......) let it go. let him help for once, not be a burden on the party for *once* (as if he hasn't spent the whole adventure bending over backwards not just for our merry band of adventurers, but everyone he's come across)(because it's not enough, never enough, it'll never be enough to make up for being him) he isn't worth the trip to avernus, isnt worth her forcing herself to face that place again. and he's rarely loud or angry but he's both now, the exhaustion and frustration and uncertainty and fear re: the future that he's been trying to ignore pouring our of him, horribly misdirected at probably his best friend in the whole group, so of course the rest of the party is going to hear it and it's just.... there is something here, i feel it in me bones

(also. tangentially related, but didn't raphael imply that fucking up the contract would fuck over the whole group and not just whomstever is signing it? said something about hanging you and your friends from meathooks while watching the world burn??? so either he's full of shit or the contract actually fucks over everyone if broken, which..... oliver as tav would not have signed if breaking it affected anyone else, so this might all be moot. i dunno. just rambling)

[frau-wilhelm-klink]

The generational gap between me and people my own age who use a million abbreviations. Don't get me wrong....I use some of them too, but some of y'all be out here trying to abbreviate a whole sentence into a few letters🤣

The generation gap between me and ppl of my own age

[blissfali]

i need to complain and be miserable but its gonna involve me dropping my fragile facade of coolness for a moment and i need everyone to be really chill about it and remember how cool and awesome and collected i usually am

[retiredteabag]

The soul does not lie

synopsis: Sukuna allows tedious nonsense when he can feel your soul's cravings.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

Though he hardly mentions it, Sukuna can, in fact, feel your soul in a way that a normal sorcerer never could. Knowing this helps to make sense of the fact that the man can always tell when you are distressed, even when you try to hide it.

You had discovered this little ability of his when he had come stomping in from the gardens one day while you watched unblinkingly at a horror film.

With your eyes only visible through the slots of your fingers you looked up to see him standing, arms crossed, in the entry way of his chambers.

"What is it that brings you fear?" He had thundered.

"W-what... no, nothing, I'm just watching a movie, see?" You flipped your phone around for the man too see but he did not take his eyes off your form.

"I do not repeat myself." His four eyes were squinted and his eyebrows arched in a dangerously attractive way.

"Kuna' it's a horror movie, that's all, I'm not really scared." You finally announced to the rolling of four red eyes.

"Your soul states otherwise." He quipped before drawing close to try and see what had your soul trembling so fearfully. He was disappointed, to say the least when he was unable to identify what was so "horrific" about your film.

And that marked the moment you realized that Sukuna was able to feel you in a way you could not understand.

Sukuna was NOT a gentleman, he was far, far from it. He loved to bring terror to the masses, very rarely did he allow another beings to so much as speak in his presence. He did, however, have "soft spots" for creatures that sparked his interest, and those remarkably loyal.

Even so, he did not make efforts to calm your nerves when you were anxious. He did not feel the slightest effect in his chest when your sorrow was palpable. He would certainly not allow for time to be wasted on your souls quivering's. That-was none of his concern.

It was not as if he was taking any actions when he allowed your pathetic "cuddling" nonsense when he felt the pangs of misery that surrounded your essence.

You had tried to hold him in the past but he did not see the use in wrapping oneself around another. Even so, he found himself pretending to sleep (even though he did not need it) when he sensed your desperation for his touch.

Likewise, when he could feel the shaky and childish excitement that bled from your soul when you were happy, he could not seem to help but humor you.

As mentioned, Sukuna does not require sleep like your helpless human form. Still, it was not uncommon for the king of curses to close his eyes, relaxing in his ultimate power. Be it when he bathes, when he is lounging on his palace's engawa, when he is seated on his throne, or even when he reclines himself along his chamber's bed.

Sukuna had his eyes closed one evening, feeling his power splay out from his body, grasping at the forms of everyone within his domain. When he sensed your spirit, quickly approaching his chambers.

He made the decision then to seem uninterested when you clambered through the doors.

He could hear the switch in your step as you drew in a breath, clearly forgetting what you had wished to say at the sudden image before you.

The bloodthirsty man had never looked more like a jungle cat, lying atop his bed in such a lazy fashion. He felt the exact moment your soul leapt. He knew you had covered your mouth as your heavy breathing had dulled despite your heartbeat climbing to unusual heights.

He knew of your antics. Having felt you chew on each of his biceps several times. You had that same giddiness now. It was simply that he did not care to move that he kept his eyes closed. Pretending not to notice as you took out your phone, your feet dancing around him. He'll allow you to take your ridiculous photos, he's too... relaxed... to... take issue with your senseless mischief.

He could tell you had finished when he heard you pocket your phone once more, your hands covering your beating heart, you leaned down, holding your breath. The king of curses had to keep himself from squishing his face in ....disgust.... as you planted a chaste kiss in the space between his lower eye and his upper lip.

"You're too precious." You quietly whisper. Brushing your hand softly through his hair. And Sukuna rolled his eyes behind his lids.

Such foolishness he has never seen. Even so- he will allow it.

[bi-writes]

ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

[shotmrmiller]

the tale of how simon got himself a gf without stepping a foot outside of base.

anyone can tell you that alcohol reduces the ability to use logic. to see reason. it lowers inhibitions and blurs the boundary lines you've drawn in the sand.

but indulging in drink tonight is justified. you're in need of reprieve after this shit week: broke up with your boyfriend, deadlines at work appearing out of thin air, a flat tire on your morning commute. you even stepped on the end of your cat's tail.

miserable. (she's okay, just giving you the cold shoulder. you'll buy her some tasty snacks tomorrow.)

but for tonight, you're wallowing in your own misery. some uninteresting show is playing on the television, you're cradled by the cushions of your couch, a fluffy sherpa throw over your socked feet.

if only there was a way to melt this week's accumulated stress away even further.

cue the drunk texting your ex cliché.

anyone can tell you that it's detrimental to moving on. it's akin to reopening a wound that's already begun to heal. a step back when you should only be moving forward. your friends would drag you by your hair for being so dumb.

but there's an incessant throb in between your legs that's only getting stronger with every glass of wine you toss back. you're wound tight, violin strings stretched to the brink. a couple of bow strokes away from snapping.

you'll deal with the consequences tomorrow, along with your hangover.

typing in his (deleted in a fit of heartbroken rage) number with fumbling fingers and send a picture of you with the hem of your sleeping shirt between your teeth, the swell of your bare breasts on full display with a cheeky little missing you <3

he responds in minutes even though it's 2:30am.

send a vid and show me how much you miss me.

it makes your pussy clench around nothing, already slick, drooling, begging to be filled. you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you bring up the camera.

when simon first gets the text, he's on edge, gripping his phone hard enough to crack. no one should have this number except for price, johnny and kyle. he's made sure of it-- had laswell pull strings to give him a secure line. no scam likely's, no cold calls, nothing.

but then some silly little bird dials his number by mistake and the sweet cherry on top is that you've sent a nude. breasts on full display-- soft looking, hard peaked. it makes his mouth water, his gums itch. he'd love to sink his teeth into them, into you, hard enough to bruise. mark. claim.

but that's for later, once he finds you.

he texts back and what you send him in response fattens his cock. a small hand tucked beneath the waistband of your flimsy knickers, gusset dampened with warm arousal. you lick your bottom lip, leaving it glossy with spit. your chest heaves with the sharp gasps of breath you're drawing.

but there's a problem. he can barely see what you're doing. he doesn't have x-ray vision, your knickers are in the way. while he can understand the allure, he himself doesn't have the patience for it. either you let him see your bare cunt or don't waste his time.

he wasn't expecting you to agree this fast. maybe a bit of push back, a little snapping of teeth until you relent but no. you're an obedient thing. submissive. just how he likes 'em. (if he wants to break someone in, that's what johnny's for.)

soft, inviting thighs spread wide, a couple of fingers curling inside your glistening cunt. (duly noticing how your 2 fingers are the size of 1 of his.) your moans spill from your lips unreservedly when you roll your pearl in tight, precise little circles. he spits on his hand, heavy length resting in his calloused palm and tugs himself at the pace you've set: jerky, quick, messy.

you come with a whimper, eyes shut and pliant body coiled tight. a frothy, sticky cream coats your fingers, dripping down to your arse, pooling on your couch.

you miss me too? sent 3:27 am

(he decides to keep you. simon can't remember the last time he's had a climax that spine stiffening in a while.)