#I'm super looking forward to people dunking on me

[whoiwanttoday]

So I am generally pretty forward thinking and progressive. You know, I want to save the whales. I'm pro choice, pro environment, but against the bomb. But there are some things I am pretty traditionalist on and a big one is gender roles. When I was just a kid and everybody was in a band and we were all punks and everyone was angelic and sentimental garbanzos were a nickle a handful but the vibes were free there weer some truisms. Drummers can't be trusted and they just wander off sometimes and if their girlfriend breaks up with them they're homeless. A big one though was the bassist was always the most talented musician in the band and he was usually curly haired and had facial hair before that was really cool again and he was the backbone of the band be it good or bad he was the one who could really play and be counted on and he could not get laid to fucking save his life. Everyone else was hooking up but the bassist was striking out like it was his fucking job. It wasn't his job, holding down the rhythm section was but I said these guys were the most talented so they had time to take on extra work and apically fail at ever, ever hooking up. I am sure some bassist is reading this and upset and wants to tell me how he was swimming in so much trim he practically drown. To that I say yeah, big talk, it's the internet. I'm not impressed. While you were getting more tail than anyone else on the planet I was constantly getting laid while slam dunking basketballs and doing kick flips on my skateboard. See? I can lie too. Anyway, this was a truism in the sense that 90% of these bands were male and the bassist almost always was a dude. A nice, talented, unfuckable dude. But when it was a girl? Holy fucking shit was she hot. Just without fail. I know people think gendered stuff like this is bullshit but I am here to tell you that female bassists are always so hot it makes people question their sexuality. I know this because I saw it happen twice twice. One time we saw this shitty band play under the dollar theater in the basement bar of the run down strip mall next to the college and they were awful but then this other band came on and this girl came on with short hair and a lot of eyeliner and she picked up a base and she played about two songs before my gay friends leaned over and he said, "I think I want to fuck the bassist". To which I said, "You know she's a girl, right?" And he said, "Yeah, it's weird but she is sexy". To this day he is still pretty super gay but he doubted it than night. Then one time I saw some band middle for the Hold Steady, female bassist and a different gay friend was like, "That bassist is kind of hot. I don't know why but I can't quit looking at her". I knew why though. She was a female bassist and it's just the law that they are hot. Which brings us to Victoria De Angelis, who is a bassist and thus guys, I am here to tell you she's fucking hot. You might claim she'd still be hot even if she didn't play bass and maybe you're right but I bet if she was Victoria De Angelis the girl who murders children you'd be less into her. Because bassists just add that little something extra. Anyway, she is lots of good things, a bassist, a rockstar, an Italian. The real kind of Italian, not the fake kind like me who is only Italian in the sense that I have a grandparent who was born in Italy, which Europeans love to shit on. They're so fucking protective of being European like it's a kind of regional cheese or something but I won't get into that, I am just clearing up she is hot and from a country some of my relatives were from once upon a time, which you might not know why that makes her hot but look at the pictures. I don't have a story about a gay friend for everything, you have to do some of the work here. Today I want to fuck Victoria De Angelis.

[ravelights]

How I feel about star wars show that I've watched so far (not counting movies).

Ahsoka: Absolutely loved it, had some flaws that held it back a bit, but was overall a great story. Was worried on what they were doing with Sabines character but by the end I was rooting for her, and squealed when she used the force. Feels like it's the first time in star wars that I've seen someone tackle the idea of "the force is in all living" things since rogue one. I wasn't expecting the finally to end on a bitter sweet note, since I thought it was a limited series I was quite confused by it, but knowing that it going to be more then one season I think it's fitting. 7-8/10 just because I think it could do with some improvements in the pacing and some of the dialogue/ needed to be a bit more punched up all around. looking forward to the next season.

Kenobi: The story was great but it clearly was meant to be a movie and the camera work/set up was really bad some times. I loved we got more on the hidden path. Little Leia was great, and the fight with Vader and Obi-wan was heart wrenching. I loved Reva character and her story but I do think it belonged in another show, which is a shame since her story would have been great anywhere else. Sort of hoping it get's another season since I think it would pay off to having another one. 6-7/10

Book of Boba Fett: Mixed feelings about this one, loved the story with the tusken raider and Boba sort of redemption, fennc was amazing I loved there characters. That being said The story felt quite bloated overall and there were some parts that I felt where completely unessary. Biggest hate about this was the fact they shoved the Mandalorian in to it, they had no reason to do that especially with Grogu coming back in that story rather then the Mandalorian. I think it should have been it's own thing and instead have told the story of how Boba got his armour/ flash back to when he was a bounty hunter cause that would have been cool. 4/10

The Mandalorian: Season 1&2 where good, it's fun seeing someone who doesn't have the force have the spotlight for once, and Grogu is a great character love to see more of Yoda species. Din's a fun character I like that he's a bit awkward and just wants to stay out of everything but keeps getting dragged into it anyway. My only gripe with season 3 is what they did with the BOBF cause that caused everything to go out of whack and effect their storylines. That being said everything else was top notch, a bit controversial but the whole bit with the darksaber made sense. Din didn't want the responsibility but was going to honour it and Bo-katan didn't want to fight Din since it goes against everything she's standing (Mandalorian fighting other Mandalorian) and Din's openly her ally and has tried to give the darksaber to her freely without the fight, even if they did end up fighting for it, the fight would have been hollow, for show rather then a real fight in combat to earn the title. So the way they when about doing it fit's both there character, Din's Know Bo-katan is more worthy of the darksaber since he saw her use it in action, so when he saw the chance to give it to her in a way the somewhat satisfied the condition he jumped at the chance. (It's just my little rant but it made complete sense to me on my first watch and I'm a little salty people dunk on that) but yeah, overall season three get's more hate then it deserves. 7/10

Andor: Amazing show, can see why it's so popular. Only problem I find with it is just how...Un-star wars it is. It feels more like a show inspired by star wars then a show set in star wars if you get what I mean. it's probably the first show that is really for an adult audience, well everything else if for a more general audience. Amazing show with some real jaw dropping moments though can't wait for the next season. 9/10

The bad batch: Love it, super cool to see the world building of the first year of the empire and how they took over I feel we don't get enough of the early rise of the empire so this has been a nice take. All the character are great, I do find Omega a little annoying sometimes in the first season, but she mellowed out in the second season. 9/10

Tales of the Jedi: Loved every second of this honestly can't find anything to complain about it Dooku fall and early Ahsoka life was really good and I loved how they told these stories. Probably my only 10/10 from start to finish.

The clone wars: Really depends on the season, I find the earlier season to be a bit on the nose with somethings, and a little silly, but it's still enjoyable. Season four onwards though is a masterpiece and is a solid 10/10 but overall I give it a 8-9/10 just because of the earlier season.

Star wars Rebels: I watched this when it was first coming out I watched the first two season and then a bit of season three before dropping it. Season three wasn't really holding my attention at the time as the story had a very big tonal shift that I wasn't the biggest fan of at the time (also I lowkey hated Ezra new look). However I've re-watched rebels again with my mum and I grew to have a greater appreciation for it and I fell in love with the story and the characters it was great. Yeah it can be a bit goofy at times and some characters arc where a bit rushed/pushed to the side, but it's one of the best animated series of star wars solid 9/10.

[poetry-protest-pornography]

Okay, in making my way through the GMMTV2023 trailers, here's what I've seen so far:

We have that super angsty FirstKhao thing with quasi polyamory but it's actually mostly cheating and I will cry a lot. I cannot wait. I'm so glad Neo is getting to be serious and to lead.

There's the JoongDunk thing that looks adorable with just the right amount of angst, and Louis and AJ are Dunk's best friends, which is great-- wish they had bigger parts, but I'm glad they're there!

The Perth Chimon thing looks angsty af, but I'm so freaking happy to have Perth back I can't even be mad that it looks like the same school from LBC and I will absolutely be crying about AePete as well as whatever is actually happening in the show simultaneously.

And! We get double Perth, because he and Ohm are in a thing where they're brothers, and also trying to kill each other, and they are both so freaking talented I am absolutely overjoyed to see them in a thing together.

Alas, I haven't stumbled on an OhmNanon trailer yet, which makes me sad, but Nanon is in a thing with Off (and a bunch of other people but my brain is going very fast RN, sorry) that looks Very Hetero, but they look sexy-- even though they don't look at each other sexily -- and they punch people, and they cry, and they're so talented it will probably be excellent.

Speaking of Off: WE GET NEW OFFGUN! And it looks adorable, and we get more Neo!

There is a Jimmy Sea show that looks sweet and sad and very good, and like it'll make us all cry. Their chemistry is so good.

That's all I've got so far, what are y'all looking forward to?

(there's also a face blindness themed romance that looks kind of cute, but idk if I can deal with the faceless people effect, it's creepy. I cannot for the life of me remember who's in it, and a "girl gets plastic surgery because she's bullied, hot guy played by Win is like 'why'd you do that, being pretty is lame'" show that conceptually pisses me off, but I'm glad Win is working, even if I'm surprised it's not with Bright considering how popular they are together-- but then again they don't necessarily seen to love that, so 🤷🏼‍♀️)

[firespirited]

Today was derailed (in a good way) I was doing futher desk buying research as the stuff I'm seeing online looks kinda flimsy and M was passing by and goes "hey I don't like my desk, can we swap?" so I spent the day on the floor dismantling desks.

Lily the dog insisted on hazardously getting in the way of any and all furniture moving including a point where we all got trapped in the tiny corridor and had to lift the item and gently kick the dog forwards.

She was furious when I closed the door on my room which could only be navigated like one of those sliding puzzles. Pretty sure she thinks she's the foreman and doing important supervision. I love having her around but she likes to nick dremel bits and screws.

I'm too sore to say if the new desk (it's actually super old) is any better so it'll be a few days but at least it's another size to try in case I buy later. M's happy with mine at least.

The finale of Quantum Leap left us on a vague single sentence cliffhanger. I was starting to enjoy it and the cast but it was only 8 episodes. Hope it gets renewed, the format is great for tuning in to a different story and perspective every week.

Decided to not watch Warrior Nun, I'm burnt out on the binge watch season with cliffhanger episodes. There have been some great ones this year: Midnight Mass and Paper Girls are just the most recent but I remember thinking "oh hey it would actually be more fun-fun and less pushy-stressful-fun to rewatch something like Stargate Atlantis."

I'm thinking about the GdT curated Cabinet of Curiosities or Archive 81, it fits my current taste for the episodic and might have some decent smart horror. I really enjoyed the Monsterland anthology in 2020.

Speaking of, Something In The Dirt from the Benson and Moorehead cosmic horror and very relatable characters universe is out, go see it if you can. It'll be on streaming at the end of the month but I just know it'd be amazing on the big screen. Watch The Endless on netflix if you want an idea of what these two storytelling friends do on a budget.

Will put together small postage and parcel postage posts of baldies and unfinished projects after the second more agressive sweep. Below cost or for trade: black saran, vivid or pastel hq nylon colours, nylon strands for building a swatch, good acrylic paint and medium, new gloss as mine is old and seems to break down a few weeks after painting when I've used watered down paint. Maybe interesting textured or coloured yarns for when I get to be able to do 40 mins an hour at a time. Yikes, We're not even close to rebuilding my lower back yet lol I'm already planning how to get back to creating.

I've talked a lot in the past about how I dislike twitter for how it made me feel and having to navigate back through the quote tweets to get answers feels like in jokes you have to learn (this is a feature missing from mastodon because they believe it promotes dunk/cringe content culture instead of direct communication) . But I hadn't really talked about the fascinating people who used to study twitter, large scale moderation, harm reduction on current events (think 'not naming school shooters guidelines' but for a host of issues). I really hope some of them get hired by tumblr on how to engage hate speech and put them into contact with deradicalization programs, not just nazis but the gender essentialists of the terf, pro choice and red pill types are in cult-like communities.

Love to everyone who's feeling the autumn in their joints and american friends not looking forward to the ungrateful work of making thanksgiving happen. ❤️🌸❤️

[vitospaghetta]

Do you... do you think that maybe Leon and Claire shared a night together after RC? At least in remake?

There are no canon implications or anything of the sorts at all but curious to know your thots on this funny lil thing hehe

Hmm... I think Leon and Claire's relationship in the original continuity is pretty clearly platonic, but I think in the remake continuity they definitely leaned more into the idea of the two of them mildly flirting with each other. Do I think they ever slept together? I don't really see it being super plausible, just because of the way their lives got swept up in other events. Obviously in the remake continuity we haven't seen what they're going to do with the timeline moving forward, but as far as the original timeline is concerned, Leon didn't even visit Sherry when she was taken in by the government, so I doubt he'd have much to do with Claire outside of keeping in touch long distance and maybe meeting up occasionally when they can. That's if future remakes are written with a similar narrative regarding Leon keeping in touch with Claire and Sherry post-RC.

However that isn't me discrediting Cleon as a ship. Cleon is one of those timeless RE ships that Capcom clearly still caters to (like in ID and RE2R) because of its known popularity. I'm not a shipping person because I really don't care about it (I like things that are strictly canonical and just don't derive any fun or pleasure in shipping), but I'm also not the kinda person who will dunk on other peoples' ships. I'm just looking at this from an objective lens. :)

[fernysbasement]

On reading Dune not as a hero’s journey

Every time I saw people READ Dune and interpret Paul as very much the hero of the story I worried a little bit, about myself and how much bias I must have poured into my reading to understand this: that Paul is begrudgingly playing his part in a huge conspiracy that he hates, but which he can’t find a good enough way to oppose. 

Whether he is the expected Kwisatz Haderach, “the chosen one��� seems a lot less important than what that entails. For himself and the future of humanity.

So, now that I’ve learned a bit about how to make conscious readings of text (and mind you, I’ve learned just a bit... enough to pass a couple exams, I suppose) I found myself in need of tracking the exact bits that informed such a reading. 

And I mean strictly the first book. We go the Barthes way here, no author commentary, no sequels, just the text within the book with only a whiff of the historical context in which it was produced. 

If we take free will to be a core theme and hope for the characters, which can be glimpsed by calling the rebel forces the Fremen, for instance; there’s little in the way of a happy narrative to be found. The Spice Melange, the amazing substance that can grant an extended life, extended consciousness, extended awareness... is coupled with a terrible realization. 

‘ We're trapped here, she agreed.

And she accepted the truth of his words. No pressure of the Bene Gesserit, no trickery or artifice could pry them completely free from Arrakis: the spice was addictive. Her body had known the fact long before her mind awakened to it. ‘

-When Paul finally realizes that he is, more or less, the supreme being that secret organizations had been scheming for generations to conceive, through careful breeding programs and planting of cultural blueprints... that sense of inevitability and entrapment in a net far too grand and systemic only becomes more clear.  

‘ And he thought: I'm a seed.

He suddenly saw how fertile was the ground into which he had fallen, and with this realization, the terrible purpose filled him, creeping through the empty place within, threatening to choke him with grief.

He had seen two main branchings along the way ahead--in one he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, Grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

The other path held long patches of grey obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men--a pitiful few--were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull.

"I can't go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want."

"I don't understand you, Paul," his mother said.

He remained silent, thinking like the seed he was, thinking with the race consciousness he had first experienced as terrible purpose. He found that he no longer could hate the Bene Gesserit or the Emperor or even the Harkonnens. 

They were all caught up in the need of their race to renew its scattered inheritance, to cross and mingle and infuse their bloodlines in a great new pooling of genes.And the race knew only one sure way for this--the ancient way, the tried and certain way that rolled over everything in its path: jihad.

Surely, I cannot choose that way, he thought.But he saw again in his mind's eye the shrine of his father's skull and the violence with the green and black banner waving in its midst.‘

-Paul sees this path as the way humanity may remain constant in the universe, a universe it conquers and subdues. But at no point is he pleased by this, at no point does he embrace his place with joy, pride or passion. 

The tone remains as dry as the dessert that surrounds the characters most of the time. 

‘ Paul had sensed the jihad in their words, shrugged off the question with one of his own--learning then that Kaleff, the elder of the two, was ten, and the natural son of Geoff. Orlop, the younger, was eight, the natural son of Jamis. 

It had been a strange day with these two standing guard over him because he asked it, keeping away the curious, allowing him the time to nurse his thoughts and prescient memories, to plan a way to prevent the jihad.’ 

(...)

‘ "Nothing money won't repair, I presume," Paul said.

"Except for the lives, m'Lord," Gurney said, and there was a tone of reproach in his voice as though to say: "When did an Atreides worry first about things when people were at stake?"

But Paul could only focus his attention on the inner eye and the gaps visible to him in the time-wall that still lay across his path. Through each gap the jihad raged away down the corridors of the future.’ 

(...)

‘ Even the faint gaps were closed now. Here was the unborn jihad, he knew. ’

(...)

‘ And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. 

His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.

A sense of failure pervaded him, and he saw through it that Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had slipped out of the torn uniform, stripped down to a fighting girdle with a mail core.

This is the climax, Paul thought. From here, the future will open, the clouds part onto a kind of glory. And if I die here, they'll say I sacrificed myself that my spirit might lead them. And if I live, they'll say nothing can oppose Muad'Dib.‘

-Notice that the conjunction there is AND, not BUT. Which can be understood as these results not being quite contrary. 

-Then, after slaying his last enemy, the book ends with these words, shared mostly between Paul and those most close to him, his mother and his concubine: 

‘ "The Fremen are mine," Paul said. "What they receive shall be dispensed by Muad'Dib. It'll begin with Stilgar as Governor on Arrakis, but that can wait."

"And for me?" Jessica asked.

"Is there something you wish?"

"Perhaps Caladan," she said, looking at Gurney. "I'm not certain. I've become too much the Fremen . . . and the Reverend Mother. I need a time of peace and stillness in which to think."

"That you shall have," Paul said, "and anything else that Gurney or I can give you."

Jessica nodded, feeling suddenly old and tired.  She looked at Chani. "And for the royal concubine?"

"No title for me," Chani whispered. "Nothing. I beg of you."

Paul stared down into her eyes, remembering her suddenly as she had stood once with little Leto in her arms, their child now dead in this violence. "I swear to you now," he whispered, "that you'll need no title. That woman over there will be my wife and you but a concubine because this is a political thing and we must weld peace out of this moment, enlist the Great Houses of the Landsraad. We must obey the forms. Yet that princess shall have no more of me than my name. No child of mine nor touch nor softness of glance, nor instant of desire."

"So you say now," Chani said. She glanced across the room at the tail princess.

"Do you know so little of my son?" Jessica whispered. "See that princess standing there, so haughty and confident. They say she has pretensions of a literary nature. Let us hope she finds solace in such things; she'll have little else." A bitter laugh escaped Jessica. "Think on it, Chani: that princess will have the name, yet she'll live as less than a concubine -- never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she's bound. While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine -- history will call us wives."

Here I will concede that Jessica’s proclamation seems victorious enough, but I can’t help putting emphasis into the subterfuge and compromises made. Paul has displaced a despot, but not punished him. He’s playing the political game, he hasn’t overthrown the system he despises, simply taken a higher position within it, because that’s the lesser evil as far as he can see, and the path in which at least he remains alive, in accordance to the wishes of his family and those that look up to him. 

So... my reading may not be diamond-solid, of that much I’m aware, but at the very least I’ve shed some light on why I felt the way I did about Paul’s journey not as that of a hero, but of a reluctant monarch. A messiah to those beneath him, but a conscious cog in a machine, in a greater sense. 

Now I wonder which tone will the coming movie display, how will it portray the actions and feelings of the characters involved and the futility of their actions against the grand designs that predict and guide them. The photography seems to be quite grey, and that may prove to be telling.  But there are more than fifty shades of grey.   

[hazelandglasz]

prompt: I'm drunk and my phone fell into the toilet and now I'm drunkenly crying, waiting for a miracle when you come and help me out. either with crying Blaine and helper Kurt or crying Stiles and helper Derek. both would be hilarious.

Going the Sterek road, it’s been a while ;)

On AO3

Stiles just wanted to make a phone call.

He is drunk, yes, but he still needed to let his dad know that he wasn’t dead or lying in a ditch to prevent him from calling the Marshalls or whoever it is you call when you think someone is missing.

He digresses.

Not that it’s characteristic of Stiles being drunk, he tends to digress as a consequence of being, well, himself.

Back to the matter at hand: all he wanted to do was make a phone call to his dad, and then return to alternate between drinking and dancing, dancing and drinking—drancing, if you will—until he would meet a suitable partner for the night or get tired of drancing.

But now, Stiles is staring at his phone which is glaring at him from the bottom of the toilet bowl.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Stiles mumbles, wiping his face with his hand. “I didn’t mean to drop you, you know that, Samsy.”

A bubble escapes from the water in the bowl, as if conveying Stiles’ phone’s poor opinion on his motor skills.

“What am I going to do?” Stiles bemoans, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. The idea of reaching in crosses his mind, but even as drunk as he is, Stiles knows that his very drunkenness would only complicate things.

“My phoo-oone,” he whines. The only thing that would work now is a miracle, some kind of divine or demonic intervention—Stiles is not picky—or just some help.

That’s the moment when the door opens and a very grumpy, dark and brooding miracle happens.

“Uh?” is all Stiles manages to say as he gets back to his feet before the guy cocks his head, rolls his eyes at him and fishes Stiles’ phone from the bowl.

He even wraps it in toilet paper before handing it to Stiles.

Well, handing.

Tall, dark and super helpful actually presses the phone against Stiles’ chest.

And keeps his hand there.

“You should be more careful with your property,” the man says with a cocky smile. “It would be such a shame to have you moaning for anything else but—”

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles exclaims, not even noticing the shift on the man’s face, from dark and sultry to shocked and amused. “You’re my hero, I must repay you! Come on, big guy,” Stiles continues, pulling the man by the hand—it’s a surprisingly soft hand, for such a large hand—to the bar. “The next round is on me.”

The man lets himself be manhandled to the bar, taking his hand back. “You are something.”

Stiles leans over the bar, plastering himself to the counter to get the bartender’s attention, before turning back to his rescuer. “Something good?”

The man’s eyes drift back from where they were, at the level of Stiles’ ass. “Very good.”

Stiles beams at his hero. “Oh wow,” he whispers. “You really have deserved a drink, dude.”

The man winces. “Don’t call me dude.”

“Well,” Stiles replies, patting the man’s shoulder—oh, that is a strong shoulder, looks perfect to sleep on or bite into— “give me something else to call you, dude.”

The man grabs Stiles’ hand as he slides it down his arm and pulls him closer. “Derek. Now, remember it, so you can—”

“What’s your poison, Derek?”

“What?!”

Stiles points his thumb at the bartender who is quietly laughing at them. “Whatcha wanna drink?”

Derek blinks a couple of times before huffing a laugh. “I’ll have a Sidecar.”

Stiles gestures for the bartender to make two of those before returning his attention on Derek. “A fan of the sours, uh?”

“I guess,” Derek mumbles. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Oh! Right.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “You can call me Stiles. And I really meant it, you were a life-saver.”

“Your phone isn’t saved yet,” Derek laughs. “You’ll need to dunk it in rice. But,” he adds, scooting his chair closer to Stiles’, “I’m glad I could… lend you a hand.”

Something in the way he paused makes Stiles wonder if perhaps there is a whole level of discussion passing him by. Like when he goes to see a Disney movie with his little cousins and they laugh at the animation while he laughs at the puns hidden throughout the movie.

“Do you want… me? To lend you a hand? With something?”

The drinks are placed before them, and Derek’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “You really are…”

“Yeah? I know how some people would like to end that sentence, but I’m curious about your choices.”

Derek looks back at him, his smile all soft and turning Stiles’ insides all gooey-mushy. “You really are unique, Stiles.”

“That’s new. Here’s to new adjectives!” Stiles replies, lifting his glass in a toast.

“To new things.”

---

Three sidecars and two white russians later, Stiles doesn’t even know why he is laughing, but he knows that he was right.

Derek’s shoulder is very comfortable to lay his head on.

After their first drink, they managed to dance a little before snatching one of the velvety sofas in a corner of the club, and they have been talking and chatting there all night.

“I heard you crying and I th-I thought—” Derek hiccups. “I thought, here is a voice I need to put a face on.”

“Awww, Derek-poo, that’s so sweet.”

Derek looks down at him with an attempt at a glare before shaking his head, lifting his glass to capture the last drops in his glass. To do so, he tilts his head backward, stretching the expanse of his neck for Stiles’ hungry eyes.

Stiles even licks his lips, but he doesn’t move from his very comfortable position.

He doesn’t do it quick enough to keep the gesture from Derek’s eyes, though.

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Stiles drops his eyes to Derek’s lips, still shining from the last drops of white russian he caught.

And there he goes again, licking his lips all while wishing he could lick Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes were already dark, but their pupils widen even more. Stiles doesn’t even have the time to fully think about how it makes him look dangerously sexy (or sexily dangerous) before Derek moves forward, twisting them so he can press his lips to Stiles’.

That kiss is not well thought through, not planned well, it’s too wet and too rushed.

Long story short, it’s a perfect first kiss.

“Oh,” Stiles manages to breathe when they part, “so you are interested.”

Derek opens and closes his mouth before chuckling, leaning his head against Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles,” he whispers, his breath hot on Stiles’ skin, “I have been hitting on you ever since I laid eyes on you. Yes,” he continues, looking up and cupping Stiles’ cheek, “I am very interested.”

“You have—hmph?” Stiles starts asking, his words swallowed by the return of Derek’s mouth on his, and he smiles into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck to pull him closer on top of him.

Thank you for your sacrifice, Samsy.

[imagine-darksiders]

Sorry to bother you,but I'm gonna be stuck in the hospital overnight with a super swollen face :( could I get Draven trying to cheer up a sick friend?

Oh no! That sucks! Well, I hope this makes you feel a little better. But if it doesn’t, treat yourself to some ice cream. Good for swollen faces, or so I’m told x

—

It had been Ostegoth that told Draven of your condition, one uneventful day in the Eternal Throne. The old goat didn’t seem too urgent though, which set Draven’s mind at rest, though he was still anxious to see you after hearing the news. 

When he took his request to the Lord of Bones, the king was so taken aback by it’s nature, he actually considered granting it. 

“In all the years you’ve served me,” he wheezes suspiciously, tapping his long, claw-like nails against the throne’s armrests, “you’ve never once expressed a desire to return to Earth….So, why now?” 

Impatiently gritting his teeth, the Blademaster crosses his arms and gives a defensive sniff, swiping a hand quickly beneath his nasal bone. “Y/n’s sick,” he mutters. 

Almost immediately, the king’s cold, dead eyes light up with recognition. “Ahh! I see,” he chuckles darkly, stroking his thin, pale-green beard thoughtfully, “Then, perhaps desire does play a role here…” 

Draven stiffens and scowls deeply but he refuses to give the Lord of Bones any more ammunition - he gets enough grief from the other guards about his friendship with you - so he holds his tongue. For a long time, the throne room is perfectly silent, save for the stale desert wind that moans through the large, open archways set into the far wall. 

At long last, the Lord of Bones peels himself from the throne, dislodging centuries of dust with a sickening crackle of old, skeletal remains. He leans forward to level a long, gnarled finger at the Blademaster warningly. “You have one day,” he growls, “just one. So make it count. And don’t forget to whom you belong…..” 

Stiffly, Draven bows, backing towards the door. As he turns to stalk past the guards, he hears the king call after him. “Oh, and Blademaster?” 

With an elaborate roll of his pale eyes, Draven peers over his shoulder, half turning to face the undead ruler. “Yes, my Lord?”

Sneering, the Lord of Bones reclines back into his seat with a contented grunt. “Do give my best to Y/n, won’t you? And be sure to mention that, should this sickness prove……fatal-” Draven’s fists clench violently at the barely concealed hopefulness in his tone “- there is always room for one more soul in my Dead Court.” 

‘Over my rotting body,’ Draven wants to growl. Instead, he nods sharply, turns and throws the doors open a little too aggressively. Infuriated as he is with the king’s remark, he’s equally glad that he’d been given leave to visit Earth. A whole day to spend with you. He just hopes Ostegoth is right and whatever illness has afflicted you, it isn’t too serious. 

—

Draven stands in front of the enormous, concrete building, jaw slack and eyes wide in unashamed wonder. 

When Ostegoth described where and how to find you, he mentioned that this place was called a ‘hospital’, and as Draven walks hesitantly through the strange, glass doors that seem to have a mind of their own, he can’t help but to feel a little out of his element. 

Earth really has changed since he was alive. 

It’d been only a few years since humanity was resurrected and already the resourceful little species has rebuilt itself nearly to its former glory. It seemed that the eradication of their whole planet had put some things into perspective and people decided that restoration takes precedence. A lot of humans had become Wicked after their passing, leaving behind the far purer, ultimately good-hearted souls to populate the Earth. 

It soon becomes clear to Draven that despite humans now being both aware and used to other species walking around their planet - angels, makers, constructs and even the horsemen - something gives him the impression that Earth isn’t frequented by undead. Any human that’s seen him so far has either stopped in their tracks, mouths agape, whipped out a phone to take a picture of him, or they’ve simply turned around to scurry off in the opposite direction. One poor woman had turned a corner, took one look at his semi-exposed intestines and promptly dunked her head into a nearby bin and started heaving. 

That one stung a little…

He’s made painfully aware that his image is probably made even stranger by the bunch of flowers that Ostegoth had hastily stuffed into his hands, informing a clueless Blademaster that ‘one simply cannot visit a friend in hospital without bringing them a gift.’

Suddenly feeling very self conscious, he finds himself standing in the centre of a busy room filled with green chairs and sickly-looking humans until a young man who’s stood behind a stark-white counter clears his throat and beckons Draven over. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, eyeing the undead up and down suspiciously, though his face is the picture of exhaustion and his eyes keep flicking down to the flowers clenched in a large fist. 

Drawing himself up, Draven matches the other tired glare with a fierce one of his own. “Y/n,” he grunts, “I’m here to see Y/n L/n.” 

He’s surprised when the man sighs heavily, dropping his pen onto the desk and starts to furiously rub his temples. “Another one, wonderful,” he mutters to himself dismally before glancing back up at Draven and saying, more loudly, “Fine, why not? We’ve already let one of those horsemen and a maker in….I’m gonna go ahead and guess you’re not a relative?”

“N-no,” the blademaster stammers, put off by the man’s rather irritated reaction and informal way of speaking. In Draven’s time, a man as clean-cut and sharp as this one would have been almost insufferably prim and proper. “Just a friend.” 

“Your name?” 

 Proudly, he crosses his arms over each other and brings them up to his chest, announcing, “I am Draven. Master of blades. A warrior from the-”

“Just ‘Draven’ will do, thanks.”  

“…oh.” 

The undead stands there awkwardly, watching the man tap his fingers against an odd contraption he’d never seen before. Just as he’s about to lean further over the desk to get a better look, the man suddenly snatches up the discarded pen and points it down a long, crisp white hall. “Follow that red line on the wall to a ward called ‘Inpatients.’ Y/n’s in ward 51. I’ll go ahead and let them know you’re coming so nobody-” He gives Draven a quick once over, lips pursed “-freaks out.”

The warrior nods, grunting out a quick word of thanks as an afterthought before he turns to whisk off down the hallway, his green, hooded cape billowing behind him regally as he goes.

— 

“Remember that time I got to watch you get your ass handed to you by an old man?” 

“Ah, no. Eideard was an old man. Thane - despite what he says - is a maker who’s still in his prime. It was an honourable loss.” 

“It was a funny loss. My favourite part was when he dumped you in the water trough.” 

Death rolls his eyes, letting his head loll back against the uncomfortable, plastic chair by the side of your hospital bed. “I’m glad to see this illness hasn’t dampened your sense of humour.” 

A laugh catches in your throat, causing you to lurch forwards off the pillow and break into a fit of weak, painful coughs that sound haggard, wretched and rife with sickness. Death’s large hand finds your back and he gives it a few pats to clear your airway. You shoot him a grateful look, managing to chuckle softly,  “Nothing short of an apocalypse could ruin my hilarious repartee….Oh wait-”

Your conversation is abruptly interrupted by a soft knock on the door. 

Instantly, Death’s head snaps towards it and you stifle a snort when his hand twitches to Harvester’s hilt. 

“Really, Death? They’d have to be a pretty shitty bad guy to knock first.” 

The horseman grumbles at you but allows his hand to fall to his side as a doctor pokes her head around the door. “Y/n?” she sighs, “You’ve another guest. Honestly, I don’t want to know where you keep finding these…People. But listen, everyone’s getting nervous about Death being in the hospital.” Her exhausted gaze drags itself over to him and she shrugs apologetically, “I’m sorry Sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can come back and see Y/n tomorrow, but somebody’s head is gonna roll if our Chief of Medicine finds out you’re still here today.”

Stretching, Death catches your eye, sending you a questioning look. When you make a shooing motion with your hand, he nods at the doctor. “Fine. I’ll take my leave then.” 

Her expression lifts into one of relief and she steps back, ushering in your next visitor before trotting off down the hall, the sound of her heels clicking classily against the rubber floor and disappearing down the corridor. 

Standing to leave, Death’s attention remains fixed on the doorway, in which looms a tall, decaying figure with haunting blue eyes and a permanent, skeletal grin to put even the jolliest of rogers to shame. 

“Draven?” Death blinks, astonished to see the large undead here, on Earth and not in the court of his king. 

At the sound of the Blademaster’s name, you perk up and push yourself upright in the bed, straining to see over Death’s shoulder. “Draven?” you echo excitedly as your old friend steps into the harsh light of the private room. 

What’s left of his stomach churns nervously when he sees you and he begins to knead the stems of the flowers between his large, sinewy hands. You look so different from when he last saw you six months ago. If it’s at all possible, you actually appear even smaller than you already were, laying in the hospital bed, surrounded by bizarre machines and beeping instruments. Your eyes look shattered, heavy-lidded and your skin is several shades paler than it usually is. But your smile is still the same as ever when you send it his way. Even without a heart beating in his chest, Draven feels the telltale rush of warmth spread through his corpse at the sight of you.  

“Y/n,” he breathes, “I…I heard you haven’t been yourself lately.” 

As if on cue, you grimace at an unseen pain that races up your spine and into your head and you moan, massaging your temples tenderly. “Ugh, yep. Just a bit under the weather, nothing major.” 

Raising a skeptical brow ridge, Draven glances over at the horseman, who nods his head at him, almost imperceptibly. “It’s nothing Y/n can’t handle,” he confirms, “Though, I would try not to cause too much….excitement.” The horseman raises himself from the chair, resting his hand on yours for the briefest moment whilst Draven hovers uncertainly. “I’ll be returning to Earth in a week or so.“ 

You take hold of his fingers and squeeze them amicably. “I’ll be out by then. Come by my house when you’re back?” 

He nods once then turns to the Blademaster. “Take care of our mutual friend,” he warns, angling his mask away from your line of sight so you don’t catch the challenging glare he’s boring into him.

The undead simply smirks and lifts a hand to put it on Death’s shoulder, revelling in the way the horseman bristles noticeably under the touch. “Now where’s the fun in that,” he winks. 

Obviously deciding that an argument in a hospital room is beneath him, Death scoffs, bids you a quiet farewell, then vanishes out of the door, leaving you both alone in each other’s company. 

The easy atmosphere in the room dissipates slowly, leaving it cloaked in a thick silence that you’re dying to break. Meanwhile, Draven continues to stare down at you, his bright eyes wide and unsure. Finally, roving your eyes up and down his sword-punctured body, you find a topic of conversation to focus on. Gesturing to the flowers hanging from his grasp, you ask, “So. Those for your mum? Or do you just like the smell?”

He almost drops them, embarrassed that he’s lost his suavity in your presence. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he berates himself, ‘you used to be good at courting.’

You wait patiently, smiling as the undead suddenly stumbles forwards to your bed, glancing several times between you and the flowers before he pushes them into your hands. “They’re for you,” he explains needlessly, frowning when you let out a bark of laughter. 

“Well I didn’t think you brought them for Death!” Grinning widely, you shove your face between the petals, mostly to hide the giddiness evident in your expression. Giving someone flowers is a regular enough occurrence amongst humans. And sure, Draven used to be a human himself, but for whatever reason, the act of your zombified friend giving you this bouquet sends your mind in a tizzy. 

“They smell lovely,” you say once you’ve taken a good whiff. 

Draven shrugs. “Ostegoth chose em.” 

“Oh come on,” you laugh gleefully, “You know, you could have just lied!”

Leaning across the bedside table next to your bed, you try to reach the empty vase sitting on the far side of it. 

“Oh! Let me.” Draven jumps forward and grabs the vase, nearly sloshing water all over himself in his haste to help you. You thank him, placing the flowers in the proffered vase and laying back whilst he puts it on the table again. 

Satisfied, he gathers his cloak under one arm and plonks himself down in the flimsy chair, wincing when it creaks in protest. He looks up at you then, startled to find you shuffling down the bed and leaning towards him, resulting in the Blademaster lifting his hands to steady you as you collapse heavily against him with a happy huff and snake your arms beneath the hood, looping them around his sturdy neck. In return, he allows himself to relax into the hug with a quiet sigh, bury his nasal ridge in your hair and nuzzle his face against the side of your head. 

“It’s so good to see you,” you chirp into his hood, “I’ve missed you.” 

Draven’s throat constricts at those words. He’d forgotten what it was like to have people care about him - to have friends who wouldn’t stab him in the back and who sends his spirit soaring with a phrase so simple as ‘I miss you.’ 

Hesitantly, the words feeling foreign and strange as they leave his tongue, he whispers, “I’ve missed you too,” and tightens his rawboned fingers into your hospital gown. 

You both remain like that for some time, just enjoying the physical contact, though something tells you Draven is garnering far more happiness from the simple hug than you are. Eventually, you have let go and pull back, letting his hands slide down your arms and land in his lap. 

“So, what are you doing here?” you ask, rubbing at the bags under your eyes self-consciously. 

“I came to see you.” 

“Well, yeah. But why are you on Earth? Are you on a mission?” 

Draven blinks, tilting his head to the side. “No? I’m on Earth to see you.”

“I……oh.” 

He sits forward in the chair, resting his forearms over his knees and quirks his brow bone at you, sharp teeth gleaming grotesquely in the bright light whilst you try to formulate a response. ‘He’s here. Just to see me?’ After a brief moment of uncomfortably trying to respond, you settle on taking a sip of water from the plastic cup on your night-stand and swallowing thickly. “How - uh - how did you get the king to agree to that?” 

Draven shrugs, “he likes you.” 

When you snort obnoxiously, he reaches onto the bed to give your knee a playful shove. “S’true! Y’know he wants you in his court.” 

“He’s still going on about that?” you gripe, “Why?” 

“Well….He likes you.” 

“Again. Why?” 

For a fraction of a second, Draven’s eyes glimmer and his voice dips low, husky and soft as he murmurs, “What’s not to like?”

When you don’t respond except to blink tiredly up at him, the undead ducks his head, shadowing his face beneath the green, tattered hood and scratches at a patch of rotting skin on his wrist. “Y/n…I-” 

Suddenly, there’s another knock on the door and the same doctor steps into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over, you have ten minutes.” 

“What?” you whine, clutching your chest, “But he just got here! We’ve barely had time to talk!” 

Suddenly, Draven scowls and stands up from his chair, towering easily over the doctor and rolling his shoulders in an unnecessary display of power. “M’not leavin’ if Y/n wants me to stay,” he states gruffly. 

To her credit, the doctor merely adjusts her grip on the clipboard and draws herself up to seem taller than she is, not that it makes much difference when she only reaches the top of Draven’s chest. “My patient needs rest, sir. Besides the fact that my superiors will have my head if I let you st-” 

“Then send your superiors to me,” he pounds a fist against his chest twice, “I’ll deal with them. I’ve got twenty four hours on Earth before I have to go back to my realm and I plan spending that time with the only friend I’ve got.” He indicates to you with a wild wave of his hand, although he quickly realises that he’s revealed too much weakness to this stranger. Distractedly, Draven begins to fiddle with one of the blades sticking out of his forearm, ignorant of the disgust that flashes across the doctor’s face at the sound of his paper-dry skin tearing slightly with the gentle back and forth pulling motion. He slinks backwards to the headboard and glances down at you, pulling his teeth into a soft smile before looking back at her. “Please Doc?” 

The doctor seems more than ready to put up a fight, but eventually she just peers around Draven’s broad shoulders to stare down at you in the bed. “Are you okay with this?” she asks. You nod, reaching out unconsciously to weakly wrap your small fingers around the Blademaster’s wrist, sending a jolt of electricity straight up his arm. 

Rubbing the bridge of her nose exasperatedly, she gives a breathless laugh and flaps her hands out to the side. “Why the Hell not. Screw it, right? I’ve already died in an apocalypse, what’s the worst those pencil-pushers up top could do?” Turning on her heel, she stalks to the door, swinging it open and shaking her head. Before she leaves though, she glances over her shoulder at the Blademaster and shoots him a cool stare. “Just….just don’t leave this room tonight, okay? I don’t want people in a panic because they’ve seen a ghost walking around the ward at night.” Her eyes dart to you. “Y/n, surgery tomorrow is at ten. A nurse’ll be by to give you breakfast around eight. Use the call button if you need anything.” She raises a trimmed eyebrow at Draven. “Although I doubt much could go wrong with tall, dark and ghoulish here watching over you.”  And with that, she’s gone. 

Draven deflates visibly and drops back down into the chair, studying your face worriedly. “Surgery?” he asks uncertainly. 

You wave your hand reassuringly, “S’nothing major, don’t worry about it.” 

His eyes bore into you, trying to sniff out any hint of deception. “You’d tell me if it was serious.” It’s not a question or a request, it’s a demand. 

Rolling your eyes, you laugh quietly at the sober look on his face. “Yes, Draven. I’d tell you if it was serious,” you promise, leaning back into the pillow and turning onto your side with a grunt of minor pain. You stare up at him underneath his hood, blowing air out through your nose as you scrutinise the way his jaw is shifting every so often, a clear sign that he’s thinking of something to say. Deciding to help him out, you voice the thought that had been on your mind since the doctor came in. 

“So.. you’re only here for a day?” you ask. 

Nodding, he returns to picking the loose skin on his wrist. “S’right.

“Seriously?” You abruptly prop your head up on one arm and give him an incredulous scoff. “You’ve only got one day on Earth and you want to spend it inside a hospital room?”

“What else would I be doing?” 

“Um! Anything? You could be exploring. Finding out what’s changed. You could visit the place you used to live! I bet someone would help you find it. Hey, you haven’t even discovered television yet, or had a glass of wine. You said how much you missed wine.” 

Draven,” you furrow your brow and gaze at him sincerely, “I don’t want you to stay if you’d rather spend your time out there.” 

“I want to spend it with you,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes entirely now. 

You find yourself lost for words.. Again and again the master of blades does something heartfelt, reminding you that he wasn’t always an undead servant to the Lord of Bones. He may be a dead man, yet the spirit of humanity is still very much alive in him. It’s humbling when you get to see it. Draven, similarly, is grateful that you make him forget what he is - just a ghost. A ghost with a serious attachment to a living human. 

“Well,” you break the heavy silence in a reticent voice, “Thanks. I guess this means you’ll just have to ask the king for another day off, hmm? Maybe when I’m out of hospital.” 

Hopeful, he scratches behind his ear and has to stop himself from removing the hood altogether. He’s not sure you’re ready to see the grey matter showing through the large hole in the back of his skull. “Guess there’s no harm in tryin’.” He leans forward and taps a cold, sharp finger against your forehead. “But you need to get better first.” 

“Alright, alright,” you smirk, brushing his hand away. 

The light filtering in through the window diminishes slowly as the conversation turns to more jovial topics. He asks what you’ve been doing since the resurrection, you inquire after affairs in the Dead Plains. You fall into the conversation easily, as though you hadn’t been apart for six months. 

When you start to yawn, Draven asks if there’s a way to ‘extinguish that bloody, bright torch on the ceiling,’ which gets a hearty but weak chuckle out of you and you have to walk him through the proper use of a light-switch. He flicks it on and off several times, fascinated by his first interaction with technology before at last turning the light off as you reach over to switch on the lamp, casting the room in a much more pleasant, warm glow. You continue to talk softly well into the night, keeping laughs hushed and secretive so as not to draw any night orderlies to your room. 

Inevitably, your words trail off into a sleepy drawl and Draven’s wide, spectral grin softens at the sight of you fighting to stay awake. The last thing you feel before you fall asleep, is a large, ashen hand slipping beneath your fingers that rest on the bed and a cold thumb pressing gently into your palm.