Everything Is A Shit Post At This Point.

Micah. 27. NZ. Enby/Gender ???. Pronouns: Any and All. Grey-Ace/Pan Grey-Aro and Polyamorous/ENM (I'm just real queer tbh) Writer, Doodler, Video Game Nerd and Music Enthusiast Instagram: QueerMicah Twitter: QueerMicah YouTube: QueerMicah AO3: QueerMicah Art Commissions: https://ko-fi.com/queermicahart

[dannyboyandpdawg]

I of course love all versions of Phil Lester, but especially since the hard launch podcast has been airing, I do keep having moments where I'm reminded JUST how much of him he was holding back in the past. Every episode he gets to be like "I'm GAY and I love talking about sex, I have sex with MEN. Specifically THIS man, my partner of sixteen years Dan Howell. I will now piss him off on purpose. Speaking of, PISS. SHIT. FUCK. CUM." I am SO happy for him. True freedom

[sunchildsatoru]

okay but debunking an ancient crazy ass sex theory by somehow still confirming you were indeed having crazy ass sex is both hilarious and diabolical work

[diphowell]

"Dan and Phil, was it always gay?" "Yep. The whole time."

[reunitedinterlude]

everything worked out ❤️

[crabussy]

some people seem to think aotearoa new zealand is just fields and hills and grass. maybe some mountains. maybe a fjord or two. which is so fascinating to me because we have so many different biomes and landscapes it's bonkers.

[crabussy]

we have massive volcanic fields. we have native palm trees and mangroves up north. we have huge swaths of geothermal areas that have geysers and bubbling hot mud and multicoloured pools. we have dense temperate rainforests. we have fern trees that grow ridiculously tall. we have huge tussock grasslands. we have a freezing cold desert. we have huge black sand beaches. we have sand dunes that stretch for kilometres. I love you aotearoa. this isn't even all of it these are just a few examples man

[crabussy]

it's ridiculously beautiful and varied over here and yet when you say "new zealand", a lot of people imagine grass fields and sheep. which to be fair. we do also have. BUT STILL

[crabussy]

long story short: it's not all fields and sheep. p.s. yes those are people at the top of the sand dune in the last photo

[hobo-rg]

tags by @sufficientlylargen endorsed:

#I have a suspicion that a lot of people think aotearoa is a lot smaller than it actually is #I think there's a tendency especially for europeans and east-coast americans to think of it as 'a small island off of australia' #which like #it's small compared to australia #but most countries are small compared to australia #aotearoa has a greater area than the entire united kingdom #it also spans about 15° of latitude #which is 50% more than england #and also more than any US state except Alaska

"off of australia" is also a bit misleading; the distance looks small on a map, but that's because your brain is comparing it to the entire pacific ocean on the other side.

sydney (eastern coast of australia) to auckland (nz north island) is a three hour plane flight.

[crabussy]

EXACTLY!!!!! we stretch from florida to new york if you put aotearoa on a map of the US. it's like saying "japan is a small island off the coast of china" to me

BIG!

[ayamccabre]

Also the rolling fields are an invasive ecosystem. Unaltered areas don't look like that and neither did native agriculture pre-colonisation.

[gerardwaysbob]

first boyfriend

[ahappyphjl]

it hits different

[ahappyphjl]

we love you dan and phil <3

[gerardwaysbob]

Euripides, from “Orestes” (trans. Anne Carson) x Are Dan and Phil in a Relationship?

[livingchancy]

a man who would go back into the closet for 15 years for you without even blinking, without even thinking there’s anything to forgive you for, fully believing all that patience and time and space and agony was completely worth it because he loves you that much and is that devoted to you. a horrible liar who spends 15 years lying because you aren’t ready to tell the truth yet. you might think that this man doesn’t exist but he does. and his name is phil lester

[pseudophan]

so it turns out phan is real

[pseudophan]

dan and phil reveal the truth (but like actually this time)

[tentacleteapot]

your unreliable narrator fucking bit me

[charl0ttan]

thats not how they told it

[sp1resong]

being self aware suuuucks like yeah this thought pattern/behavior is stupid and pointless and a symptom. i know this. [does it anyways

[virtualgirladvance]

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

oh my god there are so many good choice on the touching prompt list for Ace!Tav and Astarion. But since it’s first numerically may I please request 3?

Summary: You finally arrive in Baldur's Gate and you can't sleep. Normally this would mean taking the nearest instrument and playing until your hands are raw. Luckily for your fingers, Astarion is there to listen.

Prompt: hiding face in neck

Astarion x AsexaulBard!Tav Masterlist

A/N: Hey! Sorry it took me so long to get to this. I swear to god I wrote like five different versions of this thing. Let's give it up for over writing! Enjoy.

Word Count: 1.8K

The night felt oddly still for Baldur’s Gate. You’d traveled so far, done and seen so much and you were finally here.  It should have brought you relief; instead, all you could think about was all you had left to do. There were still the tadpoles to deal with and devils and gods and frankly all the things you’d never given a second thought to the last time you stepped through the gates. Perhaps the city felt it as well, collectively holding its breath for whatever was coming next. 

You let out a deep sigh, staring up at the darkened ceiling. There would be no hope of sleep tonight. The best you could do was find a way to pass the hours without going mad.  

As carefully as you could, you slipped out of bed, mindful of Astarion resting soundly next to you. For all your troubles, they were nothing compared to the horrors coming for him.  You wouldn’t disturb his rare moment of peace for the world. 

In easy strides you grabbed your lute and made your way to the balcony where a comfortable enough chaise awaited you. 

No lamps were needed. Between the moon and the street lamps below, you could see well enough to play for an audience of one. 

You started with something easy, plucking out a handful of scales to warm up your hands. It didn’t take long after that for a melody to form, pushing your worries further and further away. Lyrics slipped their way past your lips in whispers and half remembered hums. You were here. Air moved in and out of your lungs. Your heart still beat. You had control over your body and the sounds pulled from the instrument in your hands. There was still time. The morning hadn’t found you yet.

Soft footsteps approached from behind you; the obvious padding of bare feet on wooden floor boards given just enough extra weight so as not to startle you.  Astarion could be very considerate at times. 

You paused your hands, turning to face him. 

“Sorry, was I playing too loud?” 

“Not at all,” he assured. “How else was I supposed to find you after waking to a cold, empty bed?”

You had to at least smile at his dramatics, which seemed to please him as he stepped further onto the balcony. 

The light of the moon gave his already pale skin and iridescent glow. His silver curls were just a little ruffled from their perfect coif as his eyes held you with a tired softness that made you ache. It was in moments like this you remembered why poetry existed; paints, canvas, marble, clay, they were too clumsy of tools to capture all of him.  

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, pulling you from your musings. 

“Just needed to clear my head,” you said. “Didn’t want to bother anyone with my plucking.”

“Perish the thought. I rather enjoy your plucking.” He nodded to the empty spot next to you. “May I?” 

You couldn’t think of a reason to argue, so you didn’t try. Astarion had proved himself one of the few people you could enjoy a peaceful silence with. So long as he didn’t expect you to entertain him, there was no harm done. 

You scooted over to allow him room. 

He took it, only to pull you against him, caging you between his legs. 

You gave a small yelp of surprise, only just managing to keep hold of your lute. “What are you doing?” 

“Making myself comfortable.” His hands found your waist, pulling you closer so your back rested against his chest while his chin made a home on your shoulder. “Go on dearest, start plucking.”

You snorted out a laugh. Gods above, he really was a cat sometimes. He didn’t ask for attention so much as demand it and in a way only the most heartless could be upset by. 

“It’s rather difficult for me to perform with my back to the audience,” you said as some attempt at protest. 

He gave a noncommittal hum. “I’m inclined to disagree. But if it does bother you, consider me a humble patron observing a rehearsal.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  

Settling back as best you could, you began again, humming a tune to yourself as you worked out the cords. 

A different kind of peace settled over you as he held you. You had come here to be alone, something you had gotten used to over the years. Astarion didn’t have to be here with you, but he was. He chose to sit here in the dark and listen as you played your troubles into the air. It was an alien comfort, one that still left you a little unsure, but it was a comfort nonetheless. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard this one before,” Astarion observed, gently breaking the silence. 

“I would think not, seeing how it’s only been in my head for the last few months,” you teased. 

He nodded as you felt him shift awkwardly beneath you. “Far be it for me to speak on your artistic vision, but is it meant to be so repetitive?”

You stopped your playing as a flush of warmth came to your cheeks. There was a reason why rehearsals were usually kept private. “Sorry, can’t seem to find the ending.”

“Might be easier if you wrote it down,” he suggested. 

“That would require me knowing how.” 

“You don’t know how to write music?” He sounded so genuinely surprised, you had to laugh. 

“Love, I don’t even know how to read it.”

“Really?” 

You shrugged. “Just not how I learned. They weren’t exactly letting riff raff like me into the conservatory.”

You could all but feel the furrow of his brow as his chin pressed against your shoulder. “So every song you’ve ever played, original or otherwise, you taught yourself, by ear, and stored away in that head of yours?”

“You make it sound more impressive than it actually is. Plenty of bards do the exact same thing,” you dismissed.  

He hummed in thought. “Perhaps. It does explain why so many of them don’t seem to have anything going on behind the eyes.”

“I’ll try not to be insulted.” 

“Present company excluded,” he amended, pressing a kiss to the back of your ear for good measure. “Why do you think I’m so impressed? Beauty, talent and brains are such a rare combination.” 

You gave a small huff, earning you another kiss on the temple.

“I’m sure we could find somebody in the city to teach you,” he offered. 

You shook your head. “Not interested. Besides, I’ve found it an effective filtration method. If I can’t remember the tune the next day, it probably wasn’t worth learning in the first place.” 

“Oh darling, who knew you could be so cruel to your fellow artists,” he said, full of approval. “But, what about when a song of yours is done? Surely then it would be worth preserving.” 

“If I’ve done my job well, then the memories of those who have heard it will be preservation enough,” you said. “It’s how all the best songs are passed on anyway. The specifics of who wrote it and when get lost, but the melody remains. It stays in the world because people want it to stay in the world. I think there’s a kind of poetry in that.” 

He let out a long exasperated sigh. “How nauseatingly romantic of you. One little problem though, people’s memories are shit. Give it a few centuries and it will barely resemble the original. At least if you write it down they can’t muck it up.”

“It’s obvious you haven’t met many musicians,” you said, dryly. “People are always going to have their own interpretations. Putting it down on paper doesn’t make it any less a memory. Personally, I’d rather keep it living in the mind than in a stagnant drawer somewhere.” 

“Or I can just make sure nothing happens to the original.” 

He tried to keep his voice light, but there was promise beneath that tingled at the back of your neck. His arms held you a little more tightly. His body tensed. It was as if he was trying to guard you from something, but who or what you could only guess at. 

“Astarion–”

“Don’t,” he said, sharply. “I know you want to say something comforting and I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you go on about memory or legacy or things to remember after you’re gone, because you’re not gone. You’re here. You’re here with me, and I don’t care who I have to kill or what bargains I need to make, but I’m not letting you go.”  

He turned his face into your neck, pressing his lips against your pulse. To your surprise, no teeth accompanied the gesture. He just breathed, inhaling your scent deep into his lungs. His touch lingered on your skin as some of the tension left his body; the steady beating of your heart calming him. 

“I don’t want memories,” he whispered. “I just want you.”

Your lips parted to speak, but quickly closed. You knew there was a correct thing to say. Letting go was a part of life, whether you liked it or not. Sooner or later, everyone became a memory; but, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear and that wasn’t what you felt. 

The promise he made wasn’t some collection of meaningless words, but a desperate, blood soaked plea. For the first time in so long, you knew somebody would be upset if you died, not for the loss of income or poetry, but because you would be gone. 

You wanted to tell him you loved him. You wanted to tell him you didn’t just want memories either. You wanted to make the same promise and then hide away somewhere safe where the world wouldn’t dare touch either of you; but, you didn’t say that either. 

Instead you placed your hand over his, squeezing his fingers. 

“You have me,” you said, softly. “I’m right here.”

A shuddering breath left his body, as if all the emotion he had been containing was suddenly pushed from his lungs. His arms stayed around you, but his whole body relaxed as his head found a new place to live buried in your neck. 

“Keep playing, my heart,” he said. “Don’t stop.” 

How could anyone say no to such a request? 

Your hands found a melody, different from the one before; something complete and familiar. As soon as the song finished you transitioned to another and then another, never stopping until Astarion’s hold became slack and his breathing turned deep and steady, signaling his trace. Only then did you set down your lute and curled into his arms to finally sleep. 

You would finish your composition another night. The morning would find you, but you had time. Air moved in and out of your lungs. Your heart still beat. You were here and you were going to stay. 

[panevanbuckley]

incorrect criminal minds gifs 2/∞