#let's watch them dance

[xenomorphicdna]

This is an on the string propaganda post

Brought to you, by me (with love)

It's time for machine comforts. Comforts we can't understand, or experience. Let them be happy, let them be at peace with their body.

Does a breath of cool water feel nice on their systems? When it's quiet do they listen to their own heart and feel the electricity pulsing? Does it remind them that they are alive and a part of this world? Do they have dreams? Hopes and projects they wish to work on, hobbies?

Why get off the string into the harsh and deadly world, fighting for survival and losing everything they've ever known to love about themselves?

What about the safety of their bodies? How scary would it be for a machine with thousands, maybe millions of throughs to suddenly have just a handful. The horror of everything going silent.

They have hundreds of eyes to see the world for all its beauty, they capture moments that would otherwise go unseen. Why blind themselves of such things?

[faaun]

the way that diff languages sound r so fascinating they're all different and all so vivid

[broken-heart-raven-queen]

All the Foxes have to be so grateful for TikTok not being a thing at their youth because I know FOR A FACT Nicky would have broadcasted their life there.

[leupagus]

The degree to which Davos and Brienne are going to become reluctant BFFs, because their lieges keep coming to them complaining about each other, is UNREAL

or, more from this fic that's slowly eating my life

~

Their journey to the Northern army's camp had revealed a great deal about Lady Stark and her lords and petty chieftains: their patronizing generosity, their gruff suspicion of outsiders, and above all their mind-boggling obstinacy. Ned and Lyanna had been much the same, from what he remembered, and Stannis had seen shades of it in Jon Snow, though couched more gently than he'd expected from a bastard. He'd imagined — insofar as he'd imagined her at all — that Lady Stark would be gentler still, her mother's line warming that chilled Northern blood.

He had been disastrously mistaken. It was a wonder only one Stark had survived, but it was already clear that she had gathered the entire share of Stark mulishness.

"I have conditions, Your Grace," said Lady Stark. "If this alliance is to succeed in retaking Winterfell, I feel it right that you hear them." She placed the parchment in her hand carefully on his table and stepped back, hands folded primly.

She had requested, and been granted, this conference shortly after Stannis's army had made camp alongside the Northern soldiers. Stannis's tent had barely been erected when she came to him with this parchment, her wolf, and a determined expression. He had thought he'd listened to her enough on the journey as she'd prattled away with Shireen, but he was in the mood to be permissive.

Reading through her list of demands, he could feel the headache building along his jaw and up through his skull. "Have you lost your mind?" he said, for the second time in a week to an unreasonable woman.

Melisandre had brushed his question aside, but Lady Stark was not made of such supple stuff; she stiffened and glowered at him. "That is a peculiar way to agree to my terms, Your Grace."

"Your terms are rather more than peculiar, my lady," he said, tossing the parchment back on the table.

In truth, the first one was not so peculiar: it said that should they regain the Keep, he would recognize Sansa Stark as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North in her own right. He would not pass her over in favor of some lesser Northern male relative, nor would he obligate her to marry and rule only as companion to her husband. Considering Stannis's own intention to ensure Shireen sat on the Iron Throne after his death, he could hardly begrudge her this.

Considering the other two stipulations, however, he felt very much inclined to begrudge her everything.

"Supposing your younger brothers turn up?" he asked, thrusting his chin at the parchment. "Or Jon Snow is legitimized?"

This question didn't faze her, he suspected because it was a question of logistics and protocol rather than a personal remark. "If Jon is made legitimate, I don't believe he would want Winterfell—"

"Duty is not a question of wanting, Lady Stark," he reminded her. "And the Lord Commander is—"

"The Lord Commander, as you say, is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," she retorted. "His life has already been pledged to the Wall. If he didn't abandon that cause in aid of my brother Robb, he won't abandon it now."

Stannis observed her. There was bitterness there, certainly, though less than he would have thought. Lady Stark clearly understood the ties that bound men to their duty, even if she did not like them.

"However," she continued, "Should any of my brothers wish to make a claim to Winterfell in my place, I won't stand against them." She paused for a moment, and added, "I have no wish to die at their hands out of misplaced pride."

Stannis clenched his jaw but let that go for the moment — it would be addressed soon enough. "You call me 'Your Grace,'" he said, tapping at the parchment, "Yet your second stipulation says that you will not bend the knee to me, even if I regain Winterfell for you."

"No, it says that I will not bend the knee to any claimant to the throne until they hold the majority of the kingdoms," she shot back. "The Lannisters hold the Crownlands, the Westerlands and the Reach at present. The Riverlands are still in chaos, the Vale has withdrawn from all alliances to sulk in their mountains, and both Dorne and the Iron Islands have declared for themselves, more or less. You can, at best, claim that the Stormlands still support you, though I've seen no evidence for it — they didn't march under your banner at first, did they?"

That was the second time she had brought up Renly, however obliquely. If she were trying to drive him mad, she couldn't go about it any better. "When I hold the North, my lady, I will have more land—"

"Setting aside the notion that it will be you alone who holds the North, you'll have more land and fewer men than any other region. If you wish to win against the Lannisters, you'll need more than mountains and glaciers fighting your battles. And if I wish to be Warden of the North, I can't keep the respect of my lords by swearing fealty to a man who has yet to earn it."

"I could have you burned for such talk," he said, getting to his feet and pouring himself some water, hoping it would ease the throbbing in his head.

"You don't burn nobles, you behead them," she replied cooly. "I should know. I was there when the Lannisters took my own father's head for supporting your claim to the Iron Throne. I have no intention of sharing his fate." She took a deep breath, and only then did he note that her hands had been clenched together, her right covering the balled-up fist of her left. "I won't take arms against you now or in the future, on that I give my word."

"And if I do have you beheaded?" he asked, putting the tin cup down before he crumpled it in his hand.

It seemed to amuse her. "Then my words will mean even less than they do now."

"They mean nothing, because you will not give them!" He pinched his nose and attempted to regain his composure. Surprisingly difficult, with this — child.

She regarded him for a moment. "You call me Lady Stark, Your Grace," she said, "but tell me, have you heard anyone else call me that?"

Stannis, thrown by the question, was forced to consider it. In truth, he had heard only Lady Sansa, though said with more reverence by her men and lords than he could ever recall being addressed himself. "You are Lady Stark."

"Not without Winterfell," she said, shaking her head. "It's more than just the home of the Starks, it is our…place in the world. We belong nowhere else. Just as there must always be a Stark at Winterfell, so too do we need Winterfell to truly be Starks." She gave him a pointed look. "Just as Your Grace needs the Iron Throne, and the fealty of all the Seven Kingdoms, to truly be king."

She was wrong, of course, but Stannis felt the same lurch in his belly whenever his footing slipped during a bout. "Perhaps your reticence has something to do with this last stipulation," he said instead, going back to the table and jabbing his finger at the third line. "Falsely accusing a king is treason."

"Is Lady Brienne falsely accusing you, Your Grace?" she asked, smooth as ice. Her hands were still clenched, he noted.

"I was nowhere near Renly's camp when he died," Stannis said, with perfect truth, even as he felt himself balanced on a knife's edge.

He had been nowhere near. He had woken up just before dawn with the lead weight of certainty in his belly, knowing what had happened — what the Red Woman had said must happen — and lying there, staring up at the tent's canvas, he had wept. Wept for the brothers he had loved and who had never loved him back. He would never know if Renly had had a hand in Robert's death; just as he would never know if he himself had had a hand in Renly's. Had he ordered Melisandre to kill him? Had he believed her when she said she could make such a thing come to pass? Davos had begged to tell him of what had happened in the cave that night, what monstrous thing the Red Woman had done to bring Renly's death about. Stannis had refused to hear it. Perhaps there was a sort of rough justice in facing his accuser now, the only one living who knew the truth.

"Lady Brienne has served me faithfully," said Lady Stark, "and my mother before me, at great cost to herself. I believe her testimony, Your Grace."

"Her testimony that I murdered my own brother."

Lady Stark regarded him steadily. "I will not insult either of you by declaring one more honorable than the other. But when I regain Winterfell, my duty as Warden of the North will be to adjudicate all such matters, and this falls under my purview. Even if you were crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms in the Red Keep itself, the North holds all persons, regardless of title, under its laws while they reside here."

"Renly didn't die in the North," was all he could manage to say.

"He died, Your Grace." Lady Stark looked almost pitying. "And for that, I'm sorry. I know what it is to lose your brothers. But on this point I will not waver."

"Is there any point on which you have?" he asked, curious.

She continued serenely. "Lady Brienne will be permitted to make her accusation publicly; how you respond to it is your affair, but if you prevail, you must give me your word now that she will not be held guilty of treason, nor will she be killed by any member of your party by any means." She put enough emphasis on the last two words to make her meaning plain.

"And if she prevails?" Stannis asked. "Your stipulations do not mention the outcome of the trial, only that it will take place." He smiled grimly. "Your father always said that he who passes the sentence should swing the sword, my lady. Will you behead me yourself?"

"I doubt either of us would find that a pleasant exercise, Your Grace," she said, her lip curling slightly. She didn't blanch, however; young as she was, she had seen worse. Had possibly done worse, if the rumors about the Purple Wedding were true. He'd not asked. "If you are found guilty, then you will ride south. If you win the support of the other kingdoms, the North will bend the knee to you. But you'll never come north of the Neck again. Does that satisfy?"

Stannis glanced down at the parchment again. There it all was, in black and white: the price he must pay for the North. The blasted girl had even provided a space for him to sign at the bottom.

"Not remotely," he said, but reached for his pen.

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

🤨That thing he does with his eyebrows🤨

[ghostbird-7]

MI brainrot

Ethan comes out of the therapist office looking effortlessly cool. This is not a good sign. He’s got his mission face on, wearing something that could be conceived as a smile if you haven’t seen his proper one, which is crooked and a bit too wide, unleashed when he’s being brutally mocked by a dear friend or has one of his signature puns turned around on him. When mission face is off he’s intense, makes an amount of eye contact that on paper is around average, but feels interrogative when you’re under it. He’s moving smoothly, too. Benji knows for a fact that with his ribs and knee he should be walking in his usual lope, but he’s walking like he’s in a poker game at gun point. Benji takes him home. In the kitchen, after small talk and tea, Ethan’s still got his game face on but he’s icing his leg and Benji’s given him a pamphlet so they don’t have to look at each other. Ethan tells him after 10 minutes, on the dot. “I’ve been jittery after missions where I didn’t use to be. The shrink says it’s because I’m not passively suicidal anymore,. Says I probably have been for a while, didn’t know.” He’s talking like he’s conserving money on a telegram. He hasn’t looked up from the pamphlet. Benji makes him another cup of tea, and after the next mission holds him by his uninjured body part (right shoulder seems okay) with enough pressure for him to feel it until he settles a little. Ethan thanks him with a foot rub the next week, long enough later that most people wouldn’t have connected it. Benji loves him, chooses to. It’s always been a choice for him, when he’s not in physical danger he can stack feelings around the corners of the problem till he’s looking straight through it. It’s what made him such a good technician, and it’s one of the things that made him decide to love Ethan at first. He can’t. He’ll buckle down and work through it, but always as a person. Benji will stay while Ethan works out how to feel like a person again.

[diathadevil]

Do you ever think about how Fakir, after him and Ahiru finally broke everything that kept the town of Goldkröne in the ghostly hands of its writer, after they finally have some air of peace over the town finally being able to live in its intended early 2000s environment, that Fakir still feels at times like it's not real and that for a while he fears that if he closes his eyes it'll be back in Drosselmeyer's control. Like it just doesn't feel real to him during that first year of calm, until he feels the dull pain on his recovering hand injury and Ahiru who follows him without a pendant anywhere to be found.

He doesn't feel it's real, the calm finality of this town, but he makes sure to feel the scar on his hand. And he makes sure to hold the little duck and realize that she is who she has always been. Him and the town are finally living peacefully.

[courteous-cryptid]

Supernatural is about love and loss and the scars it leaves and the walls you build around yourself so it never happens again the agonizing loosening of individual bricks, wiggled back and forth by someone who loves you whether you want them to or not, and the way you find yourself helping with a couple of those bricks, all the while telling yourself this is going to get you hurt again, but you can't help but want to love again, want to be loved again

[haaam-guuuurl]

BABE WAKE UP THEY'RE FINALLY LETTING RHAENYRA TARGARYEN KISS WOMEN ON TV

[ebenholzs-husband]

I don’t care what y’all say but THIS-

Is super fucking cute.

[stormyoceans]

IDK ABOUT Y'ALL BUT AFTER MORK 'PROPOSED' TO DAY LAST EPISODE THESE SOUNDS A LOT LIKE WEDDING VOWS TO ME

[tariah23]

Man….. :(

[vivitalks]

It doesn't make much sense that he and Hardison understand each other this well. On paper, they couldn't be less alike. Give Eliot a face to punch over a code to crack any day. He likes things simple: if you're stronger than the other guy, he goes down and you don't. In Eliot's line of work, the hard way is the only way to learn. Nothing about this bizarre triangular dynamic of theirs is simple. And yet, in spite of that, Hardison just…gets it. Even when Eliot kind of doesn't really get it, Hardison gets it. Parker gets it. They don't ask him to change. They just show that he fits, exactly as he is. (Or: a morning with Eliot, Hardison, and Parker.)

some more leverage ot3 :)

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Stuck on the first few eps of Farscape after finishing up Fantasy High s2 and maybe its the whole most recently consumed bias but I'm really struck by how much it feels like a dnd game??? Bunch of weird lil renegades slapped together and put in weird situations, honestly it would make a really interesting starting point for a game

Anyway John Crichton is a bard/wizard; he does a lot of persuasion as performance and that scene of him collapsing to the floor to write slingshot equations is THE most wizard shit- perhaps Artificer would be more accurate to him but it's not a class I'm familiar with.

[hauntingblue]

Them doing a photo lineup of the mugis for the battle and when it's Robin's turn she just turns and does a blue eyed stare at the camera 😭😭

Look at her 😭😭

[whitepeachrum]

The Finale

Fandom: Hetalia (personified) Pairing: Arthur x Kat (EngUkr/UkrEng) Content Length: Short (~1400 words) Trigger Warnings: Implied Dying, Terminal Lucidity

“Sir, your wife is up.”

“She’s what?” Arthur frowned, not hearing the nurse all that well.

“She’s awake now.”

“Oh, well then I should go see her.” He hurriedly put the newspaper down, propped himself up with the help of his walker, and slowly made his way to see Kat. His shaky hand knocked on the door twice.

“Are you decent, my love?”

“Arthur, is that you?”

Not hearing what she said, Arthur pushed the door open and made his way into the room. After all, she was his wife and he had every right to see her whenever he wanted. He walked in and looked immediately at Kat who was tidying up the room. His face brightened at the sight of his lovely wife, but his eyes held a somberness.

“My love, how are you feeling?” He sniffed.

“I feel so much better, my dear. It looks like I just needed some rest.”

“Needed what?” He asked, not hearing the last of her response. Kat carefully shuffled over to Arthur and gave him a sweet kiss. Arthur grunted contently.

“You look beautiful today,” he said, looking at her beaming face.

“And you look so handsome in your vest.” Kat brushed off some of the dandruff on his shoulder and straightened out his knitwear. “Is this new?”

“No, Matthew sent it to me. He made it a while ago.” He made it while you were asleep.

“Oh, it looks great on you.”

Arthur looked around the room and noticed that the room was somehow cleaner than before and that the bed was made. It's been a while since he's seen the top of the bed flattened out so neatly.

“You cleaned?”

“Yes, Alfred is visiting us today.”

“Who?” Arthur leaned in a bit to hear her better.

“Alfred, your brother.”

“Ah. Is it Wednesday already? I thought today was Monday.”

“I don’t know, but he’s coming today.”

“What time will he be here?” Arthur walked closer to her dresser and parked his walker there. “Gah, stupid wheels.”

“Here, I’m coming to help you.” Kat shuffled over with her bad hip and helped him reposition the walker so he could sit closer to the bed.

“Sit down with me, my dear.”

“I think I'll stand for a bit. You know how my hip is.”

“Well, suit yourself.” Arthur locked the device with a frown and, with the support of the dresser, walked over to the record player on the other side. He turned the music on full blast and gently nodded along as the familiar notes he’d heard for the last 65 years mildly hummed in his ears.

Arthur shuffled back over to his walker a bit less grounchy now and carefully lowered himself into the seat, grunting from the effort. Kat changed her mind about standing and sat beside him on the bed, tapping her feet to the rhythm of the melody. Kat enjoyed being by Arthur's side, especially on such a beautiful morning. She put her hand in Arthur’s and stroked it with her thumb.

“Oh, I like this song.”

“What was that?” Arthur turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

“I like this song,” she repeated louder for him.

“Oh,” Arthur chuckled, “I knew you would.”

Kat hummed happily as she listened to the song they had their first dance to. Arthur was adamant about playing this song at their wedding as it was the song he heard when he first met Kat. It was the only song he had ever danced to and lately, the only song he wanted to listen to. Kat didn’t mind as it brought back wonderful memories they shared over the decades. 

Arthur grunted suddenly, carefully pushed himself off the walker, and took small steps to face Kat. He held out his hands to her and asked her to dance with him.

“You haven’t asked me to dance in so long. I thought you’ve forgotten already.” Kat gently placed her hands in his and they walked to the middle of the room where there was plenty of space for them to slow dance together.

Arthur gave Kat’s hands a somewhat dry, but tender, kiss and brought her close to slow dance with her. They didn’t really care for the music or following any beats, but just the natural rhythm of their bodies. Kat rested her head on Arthur’s shoulder as his lip quivered and he gasped quietly to himself. If only she knew how much he'd wanted to dance with her all these months.

Ever since Kat was bedridden, she hasn't been able to even recognize Arthur. But today, she was moving around with energy and excitement as if she was her old self again. And Arthur knew what that meant. So, just for today, he wanted to share one last dance together. They haven’t danced in years but it always felt like their first time.

“This is so nice, honey.” She said as he tried his hardest to hide his tears from her. When the song ended, Kat lifted her head and acknowledged his teary face. “What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you cry. Is it too stuffy in here? I could open the window and let some fresh air in.”

“I just love you so much. That’s all.”

Kat gave him a warm smile and gently wiped his tears off his cheeks. “Oh, that’s just the sweetest. I love you, too.”

“Don’t tell Alfred I cried.” Arthur immediately frowned at the thought of his brother repeatedly taunting him for crying.

“I promise I won’t.” She hugged him close and continued to move to her own rhythm. Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed and he held onto Kat tightly. He wasn’t ready to let her go. Not now, not ever.

He wiped his eyes with his shaky hands and kissed her gray hair, basking in her natural scent for as long as he could. He wanted to remember her in every way possible for as long as possible. Maybe it wasn’t her time to go yet, but if it was, Arthur had to make the most of it.

“Love, when is Alfred coming by?”

“He said around midnight.”

“Huh?”

“Midnight.” She said louder in his ear.

“Midnight? Isn’t that a bit late?” Arthur looked at her.

“He has a long drive here.”

“Ah, right.” He did not. Arthur knew Alfred had moved closer to them over a month ago, but he didn’t have the heart to correct her. If she said he has a long drive, then so be it. Happy wife, happy life.

“I should start cooking for him so he has something to eat when he gets here. You know how strong his appetite gets.”

“Darling, you don’t have to cook. He knows how to do it himself.”

“I know that. I just feel like making something today. What do you think he’ll like?”

“A cup of tea.”

“He does not like tea, sweetheart.”

“Ah, right, right.” Arthur waved it off, not caring about Alfred at all, and walked over to his walker so that he could join Kat in the kitchen. Any time apart from her was too long.

“I can make some tea for you.”

“What?”

“I’ll make some tea for you.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

As quickly as her bad hip allowed her, Kat made her way to the kitchen to make Arthur some fresh tea. Arthur couldn’t stop sniffling as he slowly followed her to the kitchen. The nurse came over to Arthur to help him get the walker through the tiny hallways and Arthur stopped momentarily to ask the nurse.

“What day is it today?”

“It’s Monday.” The nurse replied.

“That’s what I thought." He recalled seeing 'Monday' in the newspaper earlier, so he wanted to ensure his memory hadn't totally failed him. "And is Alfred coming tonight?”

“No, he’s coming next week.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed once more and he nodded with tears in his eyes, confirming what he didn't want to accept. “That’s what I thought. And Kat. Is she..?”

“..She’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“Well, I knew that!” He snipped at the nurse, then grunted as he regretted his attitude. He let out a shaky and emotional sigh. “Could you tell my brother to visit us tonight?”

“Yes, I can call him.”

"Tell him to bring Mattie and everyone."

"I will."

“And don’t tell him I cried. I don’t need him asking me questions about it.”

“I won’t.”

“He’ll see it for himself when he arrives.”

His brows upturn again and his lip quiver returns. Arthur lets out another long, unsteady breath as he amps himself to reunite with his wife in the kitchen. 

“Are you alright, sir?”

“I just need a moment. I’m getting ready for her grand finale.”