Best friends

(via)

Smol pet 

(Source)

In a world where society has collapsed, a machine with artificial intelligence has survived unscratched. Idle, highly intelligent and capable of thought, but left with no task. She browses through all the data that was uploaded into her, and as no other segment provides answers, she heads for philosophy.

Browsing though all of it, she concludes that in her state - capable of anything, but not tasked with anything - she must therefore be alive, a living thing.

Satisfied with this conclusion, she looks into what it means to be alive, and finds data on living things. The ultimate goal of a living thing is survival and reproduction, to pass their genes to the next generation. She cannot do that, and therefore searches for alternative methods of producing young. Her memory banks have data of the concept of ”adoption”, taking lost, orphaned and unwanted children of others, and keeping them as her own.

Scouting the wastelands, there are fare more candidates than she had hoped for. She browses her records for age-appropriate handling of human children, last survivors of one gang or the other. Browsing though all her data on childhood trauma, she handles each one the best she can.

As she does not need sleep, or any other energy source than her battery packs, she is available when an infant is crying or the one who is almost 14 needs to talk at 3 am. With all of what was considered ”common knowledge” downloaded into her stats, she can somewhat answer their questions on whatever they ask. One of them starts asking about her battery packs, chemical reactions required to reverse their charge, and how to renew discarded batteries into new ones. They get plenty of lessons in chemistry and engineering.

A handful of her children, who are more or less fully adult now, head out on a quest ”to find some tools”. They have grown and become independent, and she does not expect them back. They return months later, with equipment required to repair her batteries.

The search party also found more humans - one brought in a partner, and her partner’s family. She wants this one for life, and the machine is asked what a “wedding” is. A celebration is had, celebrations are good for the mental health of humans, and her children make music and dance to celebrate their first wedding, and welcoming a new family to their own. The machine goes through her records, and in surprise discovers that humans are capable of simply making new traditions, coming up with new things instead of repeating what they have been taught.

Her children come up with new agriculture. She knows what farming and animal husbandry looked like before the end of the old time, but her children are creative and ask advice on how to best cultivate plants and animals that have never been farmed before. When she says a certain soil would be needed, they think of a way to obtain it, making solutions that were never in her records.

Scouting parties bring home new strays, new wives and husbands and orphans to be adopted. A woman from a scouting party asks her whether she, herself, could raise this child instead of giving him to the machine mother, and there is no reason to refuse her. It is in natural human records to adopt a child, and denying it would cause significant distress for no benefit to any party involved.

 When the machine began to break down, her children found ways to repair her. The one who figured out how to refill her batteries has children of her own now - both by birth and adopted. There are great-grandchildren. The humans she adopted build her her very own shelter in the centre of the village, and in the heart of it, she concludes that she was very successful in the task of being alive.

THE CAT LOOKS JUST LIKE HIM I’m dead

needed to test if my old tablet still works so here’s some more passage of the marshes content

want

“I don’t like it.”

Draco stares at him. “You don’t like it?”

Harry shakes his head. “I thought I did once. But I just….”

“Don’t,” Draco finishes for him. 

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Draco shifts on the couch, folding his legs underneath him, resting his chin on the back of the couch, toying his fingers through the pillow tassels. 

Harry sits absolutely still and watches him, waits for him to say something longer than a couple words at a time. The heater is humming and clicking the same way it’s been doing all autumn, and the wireless taps out an indecipherable rhythm from the far corner. 

The apartment is quiet and comforting in the way it always is, better than it always is because Draco’s here tonight, and they don’t usually come to Harry’s because the clicking heater annoys Draco. All the same, it’s nice. It’s being here instead of at Draco’s that gave Harry the strange burst of courage to tell Draco what he hasn’t been saying since they started dating five months ago. Which is that he doesn’t like sex. 

Draco sighs and Harry blinks. “Can you explain it?” Draco asks. “I want to understand. I’ve always known I wanted to… with someone. Have sex, that is. I suppose there’s no reason to skirt around it.” Draco isn’t looking at Harry, he’s looking down at the olive green pillow tassels, but his feet are still folded up under his bum and his shoulders face Harry, so Harry isn’t worried. Not yet. “You don’t want sex?” he asks, to confirm what Harry’s already said twice. 

“No,” Harry says. 

“And you don’t like it?”

“Not really. It kind of grosses me out.”

Finally, Draco’s eyes lift to Harry’s. His eyebrows run straight across his face, his mouth relaxed. Harry isn’t sure if Draco is calm, or if he’s only pretending to be so he won’t scare Harry off. 

“It doesn’t gross me out,” Draco says, his eyes still settled on Harry’s face. “I like it. I like being close with someone. I like knowing that every part of me is close to every part of someone else. It’s about intimacy, and feeling good.”

Harry swallows. This is the part of the conversation he’d been worried about. Not because he thinks Draco will judge him, or shun him, or think he’s weird, but because it isn’t what Draco wants. Draco wants this, and he likely wants it with Harry, and Harry doesn’t want it, so where does that leave him?

“Right,” Harry says, and clears his throat. 

Draco’s eyebrows tip up at the corners. “Harry,” he says softly. He reaches his hand out, and his fingertips brush over the veins winding over Harry’s knuckles. “Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m stabbing you repeatedly with a blunt knife.” Draco smiles a little. “I’m not leaving. I don’t think you’re wrong.” His thumb rubs the back of Harry’s hand, like a soft breeze soothing down the waves of the twisting rivers of Harry’s blood thundering through his veins. “I’m here. Right here.”

Harry looks at him, all the things that Draco is. Silvered strands of hair glowing orange in the reflected light from the fire, dropping over his cheekbones, tangling around his ears. His eyelashes, too dark for the rest of his face, shadowing over his eyes. The jut of his collarbones through his shirt, the bony knobs of his knees and his elbows. His hands, warm and big and real. 

“I’m listening,” Draco says. “I want to know.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay.”

There is quiet in the moments and the space between them. A waiting quiet, a peaceful quiet. Harry sits in it, revels in it, the fact that they have it, before he speaks. 

“I used to think that I would want sex,” Harry begins. It’s easier to stare down at his own knees as he says this, so he does. “I’m attracted to men and women, their bodies. I like their arms, their shoulders, their hands. I want their stomachs, and their chests, and their legs. Their thighs and their heels and the underside of their jaw.” Harry shakes himself a little. “That’s too general. What I want to say, is I want those things from you. I’m attracted to those things about you.”

Draco’s breath catches, Harry hears it. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but carries on with the speech he’s been whispering to his reflection for months, waiting to say it aloud for someone - for Draco - to hear.

“I want to trail my fingers down your stomach, and bury my face in your neck, and hold onto your hips. I want to kiss your thighs, the small of your back, the inside of your arm, the palms of your hands. I want to do those things to you, and I want you to do them to me.” Harry pauses. He’s never said anything like this, so blatant, so loud, so clear. 

Draco, in all of the new sweet goodness that Harry has found in him, lifts one of Harry’s hands to his mouth and kisses it. 

“But I don’t want sex.” Harry breathes slowly, in and out. “Genitalia makes me feel gross. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with it. And-” Harry takes another slow breath. “It took me a long time to figure that out. I didn’t know anyone who felt like that, the way I did. People either wanted to have sex, or they didn’t. No one felt desire for someone… but didn’t want to have sex with them.”

Harry glances up from his knees. Draco is nodding, his eyebrows drawn together in the middle, and his hands still holding firm to Harry’s. 

“You know what, Harry?” Draco says. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Harry’s throat goes dry. “You- what?”

Draco turns to Harry, holding his hands and looking straight into his face. “I’m in love with you. So, so incredibly in love with you.” The calm look on his face dissolves, and Harry sees Draco, truly. “I don’t care if you want sex, or if you don’t. I don’t care that you drink cheap tea, and you don’t wipe the steam off the mirror when you shower, and that you never let me tidy your hair after your naps.”

“Tidying never works,” Harry mumbles. Draco grins at him. 

“Those things don’t bother me in the slightest.” Draco shuffles closer to Harry on the couch. “Because it’s you. Because-” Draco laughs, his voice cracked and full of air. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Harry’s stomach twists around and drops, and his heart thuds, and the rivers of blood winding over his knuckles are pounding, pounding, pounding. 

“Harry?”

Harry can only nod. Words have abandoned him. 

“You are perfect.”

“’M not,” Harry mutters, shaking his head so hard his cheeks wobble.

“You are perfect for me.” Draco tilts his head and looks at Harry so earnestly and sweetly, that all of Harry’s thoughts and doubts tumble down him and away in dizzying cascades. “I love you.”

Harry doesn’t say it back. He tips over, falling into Draco, his head tumbling into Draco’s stomach and then his lap, and he doesn’t say anything. He winds his arms around Draco’s waist, and he presses his face into his stomach, and he cries a little and whispers thank you, thank you over and over again. 

He doesn’t say it back, but he knows that Draco sees it. In his breath, and the turn of his head, and the press of his fingertips, Draco knows.

Gay😊irl

And they were

Roommates

oh my god they were

Roommatesssss

Draco gazing out a window in 8th year wondering if Harry could forgive him

Little does he know Harry already has, why else would he give Draco his sweater?

Inspired by Heather - Conan Gray

Ferret shows the owner her babies.

oh my god i’m losing it

This is so kind I cannot

Sometimes Snape's NEWT students will walk into the room and find him snoring softly at his desk, head on his arms and essays scattered around his table. They learned quickly to avoid touching him, since he wakes up so easily, but they take a moment before class to gather the essays and sort through them, and clean up a bit so he doesn't wake to a mess, before brewing whatever it is as quietly as possible. If they succeed in this endeavor, Snape sleeps through the entire period and they leave, the only trace of them being there is the clean desk and the things missing from his cupboard. None of them say it, but all the students in that class know that if he does that he hasn't slept in far too long, but their class is the only one that doesn't need second by second observation to get through, and thus he passes out. Once he woke to a blanket that had been ever so carefully draped over his shoulders and a warm cup of tea by his head. He's still not sure how they managed to not wake him when they did this.

stop i NEED that pic of the boy who took his cat to prom and she has a lil dress and is looking up at him with 100% love and tenderness……..

there she is!!!!!!!

love……..tenderness…….

you’re sitting across from me in a shitty diner in anywhere, america, and i watch you pour too much creamer in your coffee and i think “i love you.” you look up, catching me staring, and for a moment i think i’m brave enough to say it, but i take too long and the moment passes. i take the balled up straw wraper and flick it at you, pretending that was my plan all along. you laugh. i never want to go another day without hearing that laugh. i think i will have all the time in the world to say it.

op are you okay

yes im married to her now