#barely forming coherent thoughts

[cyb3r-mutt]

I just want to feel your wet puppy cunt clench on my cock every time I hit you, feel the sting in my hand when I slap you, feel your skin break as I bite hard into your shoulder as I cum and you cry, barking and begging for my cum <3

Fddjjj whimpering fuck yes yea please I need it I do <33333

[seaside-lovers-archive]

me online: i love my F/O soooo much!!! y'all don't even know, i'm so hopelessly in love with them aaa ❤️❤️❤️😍😍😍🥰🥰🥰 they're so cuteeeeee!

how i look typing that all out:

[radioactive-cloud]

i feel the need to write my thoughts down a bit (and i hope this doesn't come out as like. weird or smth.)

so like. jan's photos have dark background, and he almost blends in with it. he's closed off and guarded, he hides behind his hair and his hand and desperately doesn't want others seeing him as he is. when they are together but not behind the "door", he doesn't let nace be the one to say it, whatever that it is, yet still he's not quite ready to say anything himself. this choice is his.

nace's photos show him struggling with something, but he's still quite open. he shows his tattoos (which are a way to express himself), he quite literally wears his heart (the tour bus which means his band which means his family) on his sleeve. and even if he's struggling a bit, he's willing to lay down and wait, he's accepted it and is content with it.

and then they are together. they are hiding behind a see through glass door that shows them to the world but, still, it's just them behind it and no one can get through it. they can be comfortable and safe and vulnerable there because they know that even if they are visible to others, they still have each other to lean on. they're each other's safe sweater.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

PRIS GLITTERBELL ✰

the youngest daughter of three, pris' intended role in life was set in stone before she was even born. trained to pickpocket, obfuscate her intentions, and wield a dagger from a young age, at fourteen, she began working for her family as a smuggler. fifteen years later, after a series of betrayals, pris fled the underdark with nothing but the clothes on her back and the coins in her pockets-- only to be snatched up by an illithid ship the moment it seemed like true freedom was finally within her reach.

[dreamingthroughwords]

i could write like a 100000 word essay on hualian & their love but right now i’m thinking about just how tender it is and how they are with each other. the way they both show their love differently - hua cheng protecting, fighting, forming himself for 800 years for his beloved; xie lian with touch, grabbing hua cheng’s hand without thinking as the novel goes along before they get together and frequently thinking of him & always wanting hua cheng to be there so he can be the first person xie lian tells everything too, how xie lians confession of love was a simple hug but said “i love you” without him having to say it. their love shows in their actions, words, thoughts, in everything they do and that core love between them that bleeds through each page of the novel, the main story and the extras, is so tender, full of hope that there is someone out there who will understand you like no one else, someone who will stick by you at your worst and stay. hualian embody such tender love for each other that the the book ending with “no paths are bound”!” is just. there’s so many ways to interpret it but their love for each other is always, always at the centre of it

[aq2003]

in all senses but the physical david tennant is like if hamlet was one of those air inflatable floppy arm guys at car dealerships

[hyenashark]

hhhgh zhongchi body worship… zhongli kissing childe all over talking abt how beautiful he is and treating him like divinity even though hes the one thats divine… rhghrh

[poems-of-the-anentomologist]

I saw this under a post about AI art and OMG THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY

what do you mean symbolism has no place in art.

you sir are a fucking idiot

so the metaphors I spend a significant portion of my time as a poet brainstorming, entire fucking books, the whole point behind propaganda and flags and icons is all nonsense?

I think you should rewrite that exam and think about more about why we even have words to describe these things in the first place

[blossoms-phan]

something was in the air today we all knew it we all asked for it and yet given something that altered the course of our entire lives we say. I Can Not Look At It Directly. they’re too much and not enough at the same time. they’re freaks and weirdos and I love them. what a great day to be a phannie as always

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

i can’t believe i really just saw arctic monkeys oh my GOD it was amazing and emotional and exhausting and i just want to put on my new tour tee and sleep for about a hundred years before i can fully process the enormity of it all

[general-cyno]

obsessed with how vash's cover is filled with all these little trinkets related to his identity while nai only has his blades and the piano/piano room behind him yet they both have things that tie them to each other (the photo, the gun, the piano)

[mcmuppet]

[clowndensation]

reading dai fic goes crazy like damn these events sound raw as hell. if only there was a medium where i could experience them for myself. ah well! back to other people's experiences with them.

[xunkun]

warning: incromprehensible and unfiltered, pure and raw bullshit straight from the recesses of my brain!! i havent read up much on crazyb lore but i just listened to crazy anthem for the first time and it has this poignant feeling to it kinda. not really "sad" or "bittersweet" since the song isn't about anything of that sort as far as i know. it should be more of the "im crying listening because it makes me so happy" type i think. from what i can tell since it's crazyb's climax event song and it's all about how far theyve come as a group and individuals i think

it kind of reminds me of songs you would sing at your senior graduation with all your classmates and friends, where most if not all of them would be crying before the song even ends. everyone offstage may shed a few tears because you're just watching and listening to cracked and tear soaked voices struggling to finish singing the song, but it's a happy occassion. (this is just my experience with senior graduations at my school though)

what am i even talking about i think im trying to say that despite it being a happy and upbeat song, it just that air of melancholy to me. like "look how far we've come" and you turn back to see a blazing sunset over the horizon of the sparkling ocean miles and miles away.

which is crazy cause it's not like they're 'graduating' or 'disbanding' or anything. theyre not going anywhere.

it might be the way the song was composed, but i'm not a very music-sensitvie person so im not sure if the certain chord progressions and key is causing that

what am i talking about

[cheeriecherrymain]

Incorrigible Flirts And Besweatered Men [Chapter 5]

Pairing: TA!Viktor x fem!Reader Rating: T Warnings: Descriptions of anxiety and stress, i wrote this without my adhd meds so, good luck you lot :S Proofread: no beta we die like men Chapter Summary: You officially start your career as a musician, and it’s nothing like you thought it would be; thankfully Viktor is kind, and does what he can to care for you, even though you feel like you don’t really deserve it.

On Monday, you finally find the energy to send an email back to the studio; apologizing for the delay and explaining that you’re a full time student. You thank them for the opportunity, and agree to set up a time to meet - whenever they’re available, of course, and you’ll do your best to work your schedule around it.

The professionalism and anxiety pretty much destroys your mood afterwards. You’re barely able to pay attention in class that day, too full of nervous energy to absorb the lecture.

Thankfully, Viktor texts you later and offers to send you a recording of the lesson.

—

On Tuesday, you’re able to recover a little bit. The only class you have that day is in the afternoon, and you’re thrilled to be able to sleep in for once; not as late as you’d like to, but waking at ten was still better than waking at seven.

You run into Viktor after your class, and the two of you end up grabbing coffee while he’s on his break. You talk for a little while, telling him about the meeting you had coming up on thursday and expressing your worries about everything.

He, as usual, encourages your skill and capability.

But the mood shifts when a couple of your classmates walk into the small cafe, and find seats not far from you. Viktor doesn’t seem to notice them - or if he does, he pays them no mind - and continues telling you about one of the most recent papers he’s read.

You, however, are unable to ignore the dirty looks being shot your way.

—

On Wednesday, you take the first test of the semester. There are seven of them in total - according to the syllabus you’d been given at the start of the course - worth twenty percent of your grade, and not including your final exam. 

Part of you is grateful that most of your grade relies on your ability to absorb information; as opposed to having to write, source, and properly format a multitude of academic papers. Sitting for hours while scouring through books and internet pages wasn’t your favourite way of learning, and more often than not it had you getting sucked down wikipedia rabbit holes that had nothing to do with the subject you were supposed to be researching.

Though you also kind of miss being able to add things to your bank of useless knowledge.

In any case, the test goes well, and you’re pleased with your performance. It had been challenging enough that you really had to think and apply what you’d learned in class, but still straightforward in its wording, and not purposefully convoluted as a means of confusing you.

—

On Thursday, you have your meeting at the studio.

You get lunch with Viktor beforehand, going over the prior days’ test and talking about which concepts you fully understood, and which ones you maybe had a little more difficulty with. He seemed to be fairly confident in your grasp of the course so far, going as far as revealing that you were among the top three students in the class.

“I would not be surprised if you get an invite to one of the winter galas,” Viktor had admitted, much to your surprise.

“I thought those were only for the faculty and university sponsors?”

“Typically, they are,” he’d explained, going on to tell you about the singular event at the end of the year where certain students could be invited to attend and talk about their experiences with the school.

“So it’s basically to get more funding?” you’d asked, and Viktor had nodded with a smile.

You were thankful that he’d been able to take the time to sit with you for a little while before your meeting, his presence temporarily mitigating your ever-present anxiety. You didn’t tell him that, but you weren’t sure you needed to; his hand on your shoulder and a gentle encouragement as you departed suggested he already knew how stressed you were.

Now, you’re waiting in a small lobby. Waiting to be called back into an office to discuss the next five years of your life. You poke idly at your phone, playing some silly, repetitive game that didn’t require any skill or thought, but it had cute cartoon cats in it, so it automatically held your interest.

Kind of.

It keeps you entertained for all of thirty seconds, before your thoughts start wandering. What would it be like to work with an actual studio? Would you have to write your own music, or would you have help? Thus far in your life, you’d gotten on by mostly playing covers - some with lyrics, some not; you’d only ever written a couple pieces, and none of them had words. God, how were you going to do this? You didn’t know how to write! You were a physicist in training, not a songwriter-

You ball your hands into fists, so tightly that your knuckles turn white and your nails bite into your palms, and you force yourself to take a deep breath. Wait a couple seconds, breathe out, says Viktor’s voice, in your mind. Again. That’s it, good girl.

You try not to think about how much the sound of his voice flusters you, instead focusing on the little encouragements and praises he’d give you: kind words, a pat on the shoulder. Maybe even his hand wrapped around yours, thumb smoothing over your skin, like he had done the weekend prior.

Your anxiety eventually recedes, though the fluttering in your chest remains. At least the palpitations aren’t from fear, you think, and slouch back in your chair.

—

Four hours later, you meander through the doorway of your home, dragging your feet and overwhelmed with exhaustion. The toe of your boot catches on the lip of the entrance, causing you to topple forwards. You barely manage to catch yourself on the way down, twisting so most of your weight lands on your knee instead of your face; and you still end up sprawled out on the floor surrounded by loose books, but at least you don’t have a broken nose.

You lay there in the front hallway for a few minutes, unmoving and unmotivated to get up. Even when the cold air starts coming in through the screen door, you remain frozen.

Disappearing into the woods sounded like a really good option.

You know that you’re just being dramatic, and that nothing particularly terrible had happened, but that’s not really the point. The point is that you know you’re going to be stressed in the coming weeks, and you’re not looking forward to it.

You’d gotten through your appointment without much issue - you’d talked through the contract with your new boss, and been honest with him about the fact that you were a full time student. You’d met your mentor, a couple of other people you’d be working with at some point, and gone over what would be expected of you should you sign with the studio.

Everything had been thorough and friendly, and it had been written into your terms that your schedule would be modified to fit your student lifestyle.

In theory, there was no reason to be anxious.

Yet here you were.

On the floor.

Seriously considering running into the woods to become a mushroom.

It would be easier than writing an entire album in six months, you think, finally gaining the willpower to push yourself up into a sitting position. You gather up the books strewn around you, carefully sorting them into little piles before sliding them back into the bags you’d carried them in. 

While the meeting had gone well, and everyone you’d been introduced to had been kind and understanding, you’d still been…criticized, to some extent. Or rather, you’d been told that at least two thirds of your first album needed pieces with lyrics.

“Your instrumentals are fantastic,” your new boss had said, pairing a couple more praises as you went through the CD you’d sent in weeks ago. Then, he skips ahead to one of your more impressive covers. “Your voice, though? That’s a gift not many people have.”

He’d been somewhat disappointed when you’d admitted that you’d never actually written lyrics before, and even moreso when you and your mentor had tried to come up with something on the spot.

It was obvious that they were looking for well-rounded musicians - not necessarily traditionally educated, but with at least some kind of natural talent that could be built upon. And you were certainly what they were looking for in most areas: you just…didn’t have a way with words. You couldn’t take your feelings and turn them into sung poetry.

Which was apparently a detriment only to you.

You’d left the studio with a modified contract - instead of five years, you were cut down to six months. If you could produce a worthwhile album in that amount of time, then the longer deal would be reextended and you’d officially become one of their artists.

And if not?

You didn’t want to think about that.

Your mentor had been kind enough to catch you on the way out of the studio, offering you a list of resources that you could look into to start learning how to write lyrics, as well as a few words of encouragement. You had thanked him, and exchanged numbers in case you had any questions, and he’d disappeared back into the building.

You’d stopped at a couple of bookstores on the way home, picking up as many of the recommended books as you could afford, and…well, now you were on the floor in your front hallway.

One of your cats chirps at your side, pressing up against you and knocking her head on your arm.

“You have no idea what kind of nonsense the world is,” you tell her, trailing your hand over her fur. She - as expected - says nothing, and begins to purr.

—

Your life gets a hell of a lot more hectic after that.

Every moment you’re not studying for class, you’re studying what it takes to write a decent song. Beats and syllables, word shapes and styles that are pleasing to the ear, how to breathe properly, what to avoid; it’s maddening, and not in a good way.

You knew that it would take longer than a week to grasp concepts that were entirely new to you - it had been years since you’d studied a subject that you didn’t already have some base knowledge of - but that didn’t do much to lessen the frustration you feel each time you try to write something, only to scribble it out minutes later because it sounded wrong.

You’d hardly had enough time to keep up with your classes before, but now?

Now you can hardly pay attention.

You’re tired, your sleep schedule is a mess, you’re stressed. Each time you walk into the lecture hall, you feel like the entire room is staring at you with malice, and yet you can’t find the ability to care, because all of your energy is being put towards spongeing up information.

You feel like you’re learning so little about music, that you even start bringing your books to class: you figure you know enough about physics to get by for a couple of days, a fact which proves true when you’re called upon to participate in some discussion taking place around you.

You can tell that Heimerdinger doesn’t quite believe you when you say that you’re ‘just distracted by writing everything down’, but he doesn’t press you on the matter, which you’re grateful for.

Viktor, on the other hand, is less gracious.

He wanders up to your seat once the lecture is finished, and finds a spot beside you. He doesn’t say anything while you pack up your things, but you can feel his gaze boring into you - you worry you’ll find disappointment if you look at him.

“Is there something on my face?” you ask, keeping your tone lighthearted. Viktor sighs.

“Are you alright?” he wonders quietly, making guilt well up in your stomach.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you reply, but you know your resolve is slipping: and Viktor’s hand on your shoulder is the last straw.

“You’ve just started a very demanding job, and you’re still in class full-time,” he says, and then taps a finger against the cover of the book you’d been reading out of. “That, and I don’t think poetry is part of the curriculum.”

You cease gathering your things up, and slouch back in defeat. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” you mumble, “I’m in way over my head. I thought I knew so much about music, but now I- I’m learning entirely new concepts, and I have no idea how to apply them!”

Viktor quietly slides the thin textbook towards himself, glancing over the cover and opening it to take a look at the table of contents.

“I’m sure you didn’t always understand physics, either. Learning takes time, Y/N.”

“I know that,” you cry, “but I don’t have time! I have to make an entire album in six months! Less than that, really, because I’m spending so much time studying and not enough time actually writing, and a good chunk of the time I have is going to be spent recording so the writing needs to be done by then, and-”

A pair of warm hands cupping your jaw draws you out of your anxiety spiral.

“Darling, breathe.”

His thumbs stroke over your cheeks, giving you something to focus on while he helps you monitor your air intake: you’re amazed you don’t start crying, with how tenderly he cares for you.

It takes a couple of minutes, but finally, you sigh.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Viktor’s hands drop from your face, to your shoulders.

“We are going to head to the library, to go over what you missed in class today.”

“But-”

“No buts. We’re going to go over the entire curriculum, and we’re going to see which parts you need to study, and which parts you already understand. Then, we’re going to make a schedule around that.”

You cast your gaze away from him, anxiety beginning to claw its way back into your thoughts. “I’m not going to be able to change your mind, am I?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“No,” he says, with every ounce of warmth and kindness he possesses. “But I could perhaps be convinced to stop for a snack on the way there, should you desire one.”

You perk up slightly. “But the library doesn’t allow food.”

Viktor smiles then, giving your shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “We can sit elsewhere while we eat,” he promises. “And maybe you can tell me more about ah…poetry and songwriting, is it? We could work it into your study schedule.”

[unhingedlesbear]

Hello TDIM community!!! Um so It would seem that based on posts by @sigmamax69, myself and I believe @kindheartedgummybears We have all decided that a TDIM/TQ au would go really hard 😍Um we should talk about that <3