#idk I just like exposition

[queen-vv]

Yay I did it I opened my gundam wip and edited a sentence and fixed some syntax

[zoebelladona]

okay i'll say it: percy being "different" because sally taught him the myths before he knew he was a demigod is an unnecessary change. percy was never "different" because he knew the myths and thus came into the mythology world knowing how fucked up everything is. he's different because he has a strong sense of loyalty (fatal flaw). he's different because his mum loved him and he learned love and compassion and kindness from her. he's different because when the time comes, he will choose to be the demigod of the prophecy. he's different because despite the life he's had he's a good kid. he's different because he will not give respect that hasn't been earned, even if it gets him into trouble. he's not different for knowing the gods are a fucked up family and that sometimes a monster is not a monster. he's not different for not wanting kleos. in fact i think it's much more impactful if he gets to that conclusion himself, if he sees it and he comes out kinder and choosing not to continue the cycle on the other side.

also they should have let annabeth say the exposition. not just because she's the "smart one" even though she is, but because she was raised in the world of the gods since she was seven and she would absolutely have biases percy could challenge with his own choices.

you know.

like in the book richard wrote already.

[darkworkcourier]

i have a request: after realizing the reader has a crush on him ghost teases her, at first just by gazes, later by words and touched and eventually makes her come by rubbing her trough her panties

so i'm working on a follow-up to this fic where ladybird gets railed in a hotel (like she deserves), but this prompt inspired me to get her into the mile high club. this is shorter than what i'm used to writing, but i hope you like it! :D

contains: through-the-panties fingering, quickies in the bathroom discussion of public sex, and price being way too into nature documentaries.

---

The 141 is flying coach, and—in a word—it sucks.

There's a reason, like always. You're all assigned to carefully monitor a red-eye flight from Boston Logan Airport to London Gatwick on trusted intelligence regarding a potentially dangerous agent onboard. You've read the file (now six going on seven times, nearly beating out how many times you've read the in-flight magazine and the safety card), knowing that this agent—known informally and hilariously as Red Sox—is Kastovian. She's posed as a Bostonian businesswoman for months now, and your instructions are to confirm her role in a recent cybersecurity incident at an international bank. With any luck, you'll get the evidence and have her arrested the moment she gets off the plane.

Until then, you're stuck in the middle seat of the middle aisle in a 787, fighting with a granola bar that refuses to open, half-watching whatever godawful action movie Soap's entertained by on his in-flight screen. He's enjoying himself, though, feeding himself a package of peanuts with the gusto of a man eating caviar.

At least someone's having fun.

Gaz and Price are four rows ahead of you, and Gaz has the luck to have a window seat. You've walked by them twice as you've gone to the lavatory out of sheer boredom. It's all sunshine, roses, Netflix, and podcasts up there, apparently. Sure, they have eyes on Red Sox, but apparently it's much more important for Price to finish his nature documentary ("Jesus Christ, have you seen how much a whale shits? Nature's incredible!") before you all do your jobs.

Ghost is the luckiest, you think. He's in business class, with leg room and hot towels and a seat that isn't actively trying to fold him up like he's in a mousetrap. He's also closest to Red Sox, quietly muttering through the comms whenever she gets up or gets something from one of the flight attendants. He sounds bored as hell, though.

"She's getting a— bloody fucking hell, who gets decaf coffee on a red eye?" Ghost grumbles through your headset. His voice is low, sending tingles through your body and making you wish he was next to you instead of Soap—currently guffawing in every sense of the word at something in his stupid movie.

You hear Gaz snort. "Who gets decaf, period? Gross."

There's a brief pause before you hear Price's awestruck voice. "Did you fucking know that killer whales can chomp a penguin in half? What the actual fuck? Why do we keep these little bastards in zoos?"

"The penguins or the orcas?" Gaz asks, even though he's sitting right next to Price and probably looking at his phone screen. Then, he confirms he is when he utters a disgusted, "Oh, nasty. Why are they showin' that on a documentary?"

At the same time, Soap slaps his knee like a grandpa, nudging you in the ribs with his elbow before snickering and gesturing to his screen where a man is yelling at... you think it's a goat. No way to know what that has to do with exploding cars or paragliding.

You lean back in your seat and groan, rubbing your eyes. "Ghost, please tell me you're having a semi-productive night," you say.

"If by 'productive', you mean carefully analyzing dinner choices and how many copies of 'Tatler' this woman brought with her, then sure," he responds dryly.

"Beef or chicken?"

"Fish," he says.

"Oh, she's definitely a spy," Gaz says. "Decaf and fish. There's something wrong with her."

That's the sum total of your work so far. You briefly glance at the time on the screen in front of you—you still have four and a half hours.

For lack of anything better to do, and abandoning your fight against the granola bar, you turn your focus back to the main object of your thoughts for the past few months. It's not easy to think of Ghost while you're crammed in a tiny seat and sandwiched in between Soap and a snoring British businessman, but you let your mind wander a little bit in Ghost's direction.

Since your crush came to light, he's opened up to you, allowing you to get close enough until you felt tidally locked to him. He's shown you Simon Riley, Manchester born and bred, with a love of bourbon, vinyls, and old camping equipment that he collects the same way people gather stamps or glassware. He's revealed all sorts of quirks and tells, drawing you in further, yet keeping just enough distance for the sake of professionalism.

But for days before this flight, Ghost's teased you relentlessly, in ways you never expected from him—glancing touches on your shoulders and back as he passes you in the hallway, pressing his thigh against yours when you do manage to sit next to him at a meeting, fingers brushing against yours when you pass something to him or vice versa. And he knows what he's doing, because Ghost never moves without intent. Every stray touch lights up your nerves like fairy lights, and he is completely aware of it.

Touches like that might not seem relentless, but in the gap between them are his words—again, carefully chosen. The man's got a way with double meanings and innuendos, all woven into his normal speech so well that no one seems to notice. He'll lock into eye contact with you, then say things to Price, Gaz, or Soap about erecting defenses or pointing the finger of suspicion. Bastard knows exactly what he's about. He knows it's been driving you crazy for weeks.

Those thoughts start to get something stirring in you, which is frankly a terrible thing to have happen on an airplane. Apparently, all your bad thoughts are mile-high ones, and before you start rubbing your legs together like a cricket for Soap to notice, you excuse yourself to the lavatory again.

Squeezing by Soap and his godforsaken tendency to manspread, you catch him grinning at you as he takes one of his AirPods out. "Goin' somewhere exciting, Ladybird?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, gesturing to one of the emergency doors. "Thought I'd test one of those slides out."

"Oooh, fun," Soap says, all cheeky. His brows go up, and you feel what he's going to say before he says it. "Thought you'd be payin' a visit to a businessman up front. He seems lonely up there."

God, you wish.

You stand in the aisle beside Soap for a second, willing your legs to wake up and ignoring the wash of pins and needles through your skin. "Nah, I think he likes being by himself," you say. "Obviously he's not chomping at the bit to watch nature documentaries or visit with us."

"No," Soap agrees, tucking a hand behind his head and grinning up at you. "But I dinnae think he'd say no to you visiting him." At that, he wiggles his brows suggestively, then breaks into a wide smile that has you rolling your eyes.

"Yeah, no, I'm leaving now," you tell him, turning on heel to limp your way to the lavatory on a very wobbly-feeling right leg. You can hear Soap laughing at your back, and you think you hear the words 'mile high club'—better to ignore it.

The lavatory's full when you get there, so you lean against the wall and wait, arms crossed over your chest, fighting back a yawn. The plane wiggles with a little turbulence. Someone coughs nearby. Someone else turns off their overhead light.

Then the lavatory door opens and— yeah, that's Ghost looking down at you.

He's dressed in a disarmingly casual way. He's ditched the balaclava in favor of a black disposable mask and a beanie pulled down low. You're both pleased and distressed that you recognize his hoodie (one that you've stolen before to dart between his room and yours and briefly considered stealing for good), although the jeans are new.

In turn, he looks over you, a faint flicker of something in his eyes that makes a familiar, raw heat already start to form in your gut.

"Ladybird," he says with a nod.

"Ghost," you reply.

It feels like an old cowboy movie standoff, except there's less than a foot of room in between the two of you. Someone has to move—preferably him, because you kind of do need to use the lavatory now. There's a stretch of tension, of an invisible band being pulled before—

Ghost suddenly looks left, then right, and then his hand is on your wrist, tugging you back into the lavatory and closing the door behind you before you can even comprehend what's happened. As soon as the lock clicks into place, the overhead light blinks on, filling the tiny, tiny space with watery white light.

It smells like Clorox wipes and diapers, which is not conducive to anything sexy until Ghost is practically pressed up against you, an arm wrapped around your waist. In another too-quick movement, his mask is pulled down beneath his chin, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is hungry. His tongue finds yours immediately, and in between deep kisses, he catches your bottom lip between his teeth. It's ravenous—starving. His free hand goes up to your jaw, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye.

He kisses you like you haven't seen or touched each other in months. Like he's not the one keeping a perfectly professional distance, maintaining the hierarchy of command while torturing you with words and touches. Suddenly, the hand on your waist moves and goes up under your t-shirt, up and up over your stomach to your bra, fingers brushing over one rapidly-stiffening nipple while you moan quietly against his mouth.

For fuck's sake, Soap was right about the mile high club. You wouldn't be surprised if he texted Ghost the suggestion.

Ghost tilts his head back enough to talk, although you feel every syllable against your lips. "Wanna touch you," he mutters, half-lidded eyes flickering up to meet yours.

"Do it," you whisper back. The urgency is there, knowing you only have a short amount of time and the smallest bit of elbow room to work with.

The hand on your breast descends quickly, and with it, your body feels like it goes into an uncontrolled downward spin, dizzy with the thought of what you're doing. Ghost's hand slips under the band of your—

"Pajama pants? Really?"

You glare up at him, although all the heat is redirected southward. "They're comfy, and it's a long flight," you retort.

He breathes out a laugh that fans over your cheek before he kisses you again, just as his fingers go down and rub against your cunt through the thin cotton of your panties. It makes you gasp against him, even at a slight, barely-there touch. But his touch transmutes into something stronger and more insistent, rubbing your slit, the fabric helping to build friction.

"Oh, fuck," you whisper, staggering a little and leaning on his shoulder for support. You feel him press a finger against your clit, setting off a charge that darts lightning-quick up your spine. One of your hands claps over your mouth to stifle a moan.

Ghost laughs, a low rumble that seems to vibrate right through you, matching frequencies with the electricity currently pulsing through your whole damn nervous system.

"Been wantin' to do this all week," he mutters into your ear as his index finger slides over your clit.

Your voice fights to catch a foothold in your throat, hoisting itself up into your mouth in a strain. "I-in an airplane lavatory?" you manage, although the joke is lost on another moan that you have to hide in the fabric of his hoodie.

He hums this time, and it's almost thoughtful. "Sure," he says. His fingers slide back, pressing the soaked fabric of your panties against your opening in the most teasing way. You're tempted to just pull everything down and let him take you over the tiny stainless steel sink. But he goes on, "Back at base. Kitchen, office, common area. Don't really care."

Holy fuck, the idea of Ghost taking you in any of those places sends another little shock through your system and turns that inner coil tighter. You shudder, gasping as he rubs his fingers back and forth. You cling onto him, fingers in a vise grip on his hoodie, face tucked against his shoulder as he draws your climax up to the surface quicker than you've ever felt it rise.

"Wait until we get to London," he says, his voice low and hot in your ear. "I know at least five places where I can fuck you in view of a whole damn street an' no one will know we're there."

That promise alone and all the mental images it conjures are enough to send you right over the edge, burying your cry in fleece and shuddering against his hand as you rock your hips against him. You hear him whispering encouragements to you, to use him to get off, to come for him. You do, using all that friction and that sense of taboo of what you're doing now as a springboard for your pleasure. It's not the hardest you've come (and Ghost certainly has the honor of achieving that), but it's the fastest—almost embarrassingly quick. You hit the heights, the upper ceiling of your personal atmosphere, and try to catch your breath as you fall back into an oxygen-rich level.

Ghost draws his hand back while you lean on him for support as your legs threaten to give out entirely. You hear and feel him laugh again, and then he's pressing a rolled-up piece of toilet paper into your hand.

"Kind of soaked there, love," he says, and it's all fondness—maybe a little bit of pride.

"Who's fault is that?" you say, your voice hoarse and tired. Still, you make use of the paper, reaching in to wipe up at least some of the dampness. And—well, fuck, you're going to have to sit with that for another four hours. Gross.

Ghost presses a kiss to your temple, and you lean into it instinctively.

"I'll make it up to you in London," he promises.

You have a better idea.

---

You squeeze past Soap again, inwardly groaning as you sit down and feel dampness between your legs. It's three hours and forty-eight minutes until Gatwick. Three hours and forty-eight minutes of sitting in wet panties while trying to apprehend a criminal on a 787. Nevermind that your orgasm sent enough endorphins through your system to maybe get a good nap in.

Then, beside you, Soap laughs. You feel a tug on your sleeve, and look over to see him grinning at you.

"Nice hoodie," he says. "Is it new?"

You smile and nestle yourself into the fabric, still warm from Ghost's skin. "Sort of," you reply.

[pinazee]

Becky Barnes has to be the most underrated hatchetfield character. Like her coolness to fandom appreciation ratio is way too low. This bad bitch didn’t accidentally knick her abusive husbands femoral artery, she aimed for it, and left that bastard to bleed out in the woods.

Then she shot Linda in the middle of her forehead with zero hesitation and without any context into the whole wiggly situation. She decided Linda had to go and handled it.

But also she’s a sweet character. She was in that line, probably after work since shes still wearing scrubs, for the kids at the hospital. Plus, I personally, like to believe she didn’t “miss” hitting hannah with that needle, i think part of her knew what was happening and stopped herself.

Ill admit, i under appreciated her myself, but what a great character.

(P.S that stanley guy is still alive somewhere isnt he?!? Tbh, i don’t want him to come back because i dont want becky to have to deal with him anymore. But if he does, I hope another lady stumbles across him and finishes it for her.)

[kris-shinnie-pride]

Thought I'd support @jar1nza with the 2.1 criticism-

[sskk-manifesto]

And so the big sskk shortage begins (no sskk for the next 15 episodes) (and the sskk episode coming after kind of sucks)

[deathfavor]

my indulgent version 2 for @yeonban

Xue Yang grimace as he grips the edge of the sink, hunched over as he closes his eyes. Great. The word is bitter and angry in his mind. This self-appointed mission had been practically pointless and to top it all off, it seemed like Jin Guangyao was passing through the city. So the whole place is the human equivalent of someone kicking a massive hornet's nest. Frankly, Xue Yang can't be blamed for not knowing about the other's traveling plans for some clan event even if they were announced - he never kept up with the cultivators when he was a guest disciple, let alone now that he's supposed to be DEAD. But as he likes to say, he's going to make Death fight tooth and nail to drag him to hell. He was supposed to be dead for years now. Xue Yang IS dead as far as the world is concerned. Most of the world hadn't ever known he existed in the first place.

MAYBE he'd taken a distant peak at the heart of the city just for a glimpse. Xue Yang hadn't gone close ; he'd observed from the safety of the shadows far away. Now that he reflects on it, maybe that could have attracted attention from an eagle-eyed observer. Most other people has surged to the street for a glimpse while he'd stayed away. It's the only reason Xue Yang can think of for suddenly having someone try to follow him later. It was a LAUGHABLE attempt, but it had been rather NICE to slaughter and mangle the unfortunate fool. The dogs on the street were having a nice feast tonight.

It doesn't matter. Xue Yang will leave before the sun rises and this place on the outskirts of town doesn't ask for names or information. Xue Yang shoves off his outer robes and shirt, eyeing the ugly bruises and scars - blood from his earlier slaughter staining his collarbones while a fresh, recovering injury on his lower back has seeped through the messy, sloppy bandaging. More than that, though Xue Yang watches when the door. Age and time has only sharpened his already uncanny ability to sense danger. The door silently opens but he's already waiting with a skull piercing nail in hand. He throws it when a hooded figure steps in and watches it embed itself deep into the wood while the figure doesn't flinch.

Xue Yang hates that it means nothing. Nothing, because Xue Yang knows who that is. Nothing, because they both know if Xue Yang really meant it, he wouldn't have missed.

" Oh? Is this one worth a visit from an old friend? " Xue Yang flashes his teeth in a dangerous grin, and nearly wants to bark with laughter at the insanity of this situation. Jun Guangyao's too smart for his own good. Suddenly the fool earlier seems like a greeting - or a test to see if Death would appear in monstrous violence, a telltale sign of Xue Yang. Damn. Well played. He licks his teeth, head cocked to the side with a smirk.

XUE YANG. He hasn't heard his own name from someone else in YEARS. His smirk freezes, eyes focused intently on the man in front of him. His jaw clenches, unclenches, and clenches again. He's not mad though, or else violence would have already revealed itself. He doesn't know what he feels. He ALMOST wants to plead to hear his name again, and isn't that pathetic? It digs up the ugliness in his chest - the wrathful resentment that even temporary happiness hadn't been able to crush. Xue Yang didn't exist in Yi City until he was synonymous with death and disaster descending. It wasn't XUE YANG that was happy, just a nameless stranger. Now Xue Yang is alive, brought back on gilded tongue.

He couldn't care less about the blood or injuries that the other can see in the mirror or on him. There's no way he'd actually be here. It's probably just an illusion or talisman or something. Meng Yao is probably very comfortably lounging in some overly extravagant bed in one of the fancy buildings and whatever else clan leaders do. Xue Yang never has and never will care. Maybe he should be envious, but he'd never taken well to formalities even when he'd been with the Jin clan. A wild animal is still wild even in a sanctuary. So when Meng Yao says something about tending to wounds that Xue Yang waves off, ( some things never change ) , Xue Yang merely rolls his eyes. An illusion or projection can't do anything other than lecture.

Except Meng Yao can touch him and illusions can't do that. The warmth of fingers on his skin almost feels like FIRE. Xue Yang's head snaps towards the other and stares dumbfounded when the stained, messy bandages are yanked away and cold fabric washes away the blood at the injury he can't reach himself. ( Another eventual scar most likely given Xue Yang's lack of care to it. ) His mouth is suddenly dry. He's not afraid even though this is a DANGEROUS spot to be in. Part of him wants to shove Meng Yao away, to grab his few things and flee. Part of him just finds RELIEF that someone knows him. He wants to talk. He wants to run. He's suspicious. He's.....tired. In the end, Xue Yang finds himself just standing there and letting Meng Yao do as he pleases with a sharp eye following his every move.

" Ow- Ow! Hey! " Xue Yang is all skin and bones and raw power packed into muscles. His lower back muscles twitch under the cleaning and it fucking hurts. Yet even he knows better than to reject this help. ( Because who willingly helps Xue Yang? No one. And who does Xue Yang allow to help him? No one. Except, evidently, one lone soul who is the answer to both. ) " This is MY room you know. Showing up here and immediately in my stuff. " He scoffs and glares at Meng Yao in the mirror but he doesn't stop him or make any move to hurt him. He clicks his tongue. " You shouldn't be here you know. " Pot calling the kettle black, really. Neither of them should be here. It abruptly brings back a much earlier memory of them slinking around Jin Guangshan's hidden rooms where they shouldn't be, plotting a demise. He shakes his head slightly, knuckles white as he grips the counter. Fine, maybe it's a bit worse than he'd care to admit. " Guess this is rather fitting a reunion though, huh? " He grins, sharp again. He can't exactly imagine a TYPICAL reunion. Not for them. Xue Yang wouldn't ever change that.

[dopemonkshit]

i'm gonna need some people to just admit they are not fans of fantasy/sci fi and to stop watching/reviewing said genres

[unproduciblesmackdown]

another appearance by asia kate dillon as LOS via the 7th moon girl's lab short, "coding" =']

[alyona11]

Tbh when I’m watching DW I feel like a such a pessimist, like those fucking insufferable people who are not happy about anything. People are so emotional about the eps and I’m like: Space Babies are ok, regular passing ep that will be forgotten - solid 6/10, Devil’s Chord is pretty fun, enjoyed a lot - 8/10.

Still absolutely more entertaining and engaging for my brain than 13th eps where I didn’t manage to keep myself entertained during the ep (it might not be the fault of the show but the fault of my brain needing more stimulation since current short things trend is killing my attention). Here I was pretty entertained, loved Ncuti and Millie they are super fun to look at.

But also I don’t feel that attachment to the show that I felt before which is sad, I’d love to be more into DW than I am for the last… 8? Years

[serabellyms]

  PLOTTED STARTER !     ⤷ @downs1de ✧ rustin cohle.

Finally, finally, she'd been able to take some leave. It was difficult, given the intensity of her training, but now that there were final evaluations for those who'd be deemed N7 status (and her passing all of the previous levels with flying colours), she had time to wait until she'd know whether she'd been chosen for such an esteemed vocation. It'd been a difficult journey, and so far... she'd passed. Now, she had a chance to take a break, and she’d sent a message to Rust, letting him know where she was staying if he’d like to come visit. She hadn’t received a message back, but she figured he’d see it eventually.

What she didn’t expect was hearing a knock at her door late at night. She was up in a flash, grabbing her sweater and pulling it over her head to conceal the garish scars that marred her arms and shoulders. Who would be coming at this hour? She hadn’t received any messages; surely if it was emergent, one of her COs or her training officers would’ve sent her a message. Raising a hand, she pulled her pistol close with her biotics, setting it out of sight in case of an intruder, but somewhere she’d know where it was. No need for her to answer the door holding it; she didn’t exactly need a gun to defend herself, after all.

Opening the door, she was... surprised at what she saw. Dishevelled was one way to describe it; clothing rumpled, tie loosened, and a half-abused bouquet of flowers that looked like it'd been bought hours ago. The only saving grace was his hair; it always looked like that, a little tousled. The rest was easy to figure out; even if she couldn't smell the alcohol yet, she certainly knew the look of a man who'd had one too many drinks.

At least he'd taken a cab, identified by the car that was leaving now that she'd opened the door. Oh, god, what did you do? At least he looked... okay, for the most part. No bruises or cuts, which mean no fights, but something had happened. Sighing softly, she reached for his arm to gently coax him inside, resigning herself to... whatever this was. If he'd come to her in this state, there had to be a reason he'd picked her over everyone else.

"C'mon," she encouraged, guiding him to the couch. "Do you... want some coffee, or do you just want to sleep it off?" Either option didn't matter to her; she doubted she'd be sleeping much, given she'd be too damn busy worrying. Once he was sitting, she pulled two glasses from the cupboards, filling them both with water; if nothing else, she’d get him to drink at least one glass of water, and she herself probably needed one. Of course, water wasn’t the only thing she grabbed; reaching into the fridge, she juggled one of her usual electrolyte drinks, knowing that ought to be a hell of a hangover cure for a non-biotic.

Setting the glass down in front of him as well as the bottle, she took a seat next to him, sipping the second glass of water herself. “Drink. The water first, then that. It’ll at least save you from being dehydrated in the morning. They’re, uh—they give them to us after… long stints groundside.” Hopefully he wasn’t apt enough to notice her cover-up; she’d yet to tell him about their real purpose: to keep biotic soldiers hydrated, given the amount of calories and electrolytes burned in combat generating and controlling mass effect fields.

[rimouskis]

tragic news: I liked dune part 1 much more than dune part 2

[djsangos]

//BIG RUN IN ONE HOUR

[didsomeonesayventus]

thinking about how way to dawn really was like the most iconic keyblade ever that so neatly summarized riku's journey and ideals and had so much meaning and history and so uniquely his and kh3 really threw it away for a fucking car key

[mejomonster]

I wrote 6000 words today!

[volfoss]

its like genuinely really funny to see the goodreads reviews talking abt how its not even a proper gothic book anymore (which im gonna be honest it hasnt been one in a while...) and talking abt how bad the alien angle is vs ME who is having a blast minus the horrific shit she keeps putting in. how can i be mad when she literally put mpreg in her book.