#42 in the freezer

[kedreeva]

Freshly peeled quail eggs!

This is the second hatch from my jumbo wild type group. A friend of mine has been helping me ID the chicks. They're SUPPOSED to all be actual wild type, and you'd think that the biggest coturnix quail breeder in the US that brags about the quality of their quail, would be able to weed out color morphs from a wild type group and sell actual wild type hatching eggs. But here we are, so I'm going to make my own.

In other news, I did find a breeder in California that was breeding wild type feather celadon quail! This is very exciting to me, because I REALLY want to have a line of jumbo wild type Celadons. Plenty of meat, nice big eggs, easy to sex so breeding selections will go better and I can keep the population down easier. If I can switch my Celadons over to 100% wild type feather 100% celadon egg, I can sell or at least retire my plastic rack, since I won't need it for sexing birds anymore.

For now, I have the eggs in the incubator, I have chicks in the brooder, and my racks are finished and doing great for the birds so far!

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

Terezi: 1F YOU W4NT YOUR 828 LB TURK3Y TO B3 R34DY 1N T1M3 FOR TH4NKSG1V1NG NOW'S 4BOUT TH3 T1M3 TO T4K3 1T OUT OF TH3 FR33Z3R

[beeapocalypse]

dinnar 🔥

[hhhgreg-official]

I have reblogged every post made about hhhgreg. I'm going into hibernation.

[sufficientlylargen]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but it's time to take your 12 partridges, 22 turtle doves, 30 french hens, 36 calling birds, 42 geese a-laying, and 42 swans a-swimming out of the freezer.

[aayakashii]

❤3 and ❤42 with Yuri please, I need something fluffy with him right now

3❤️ a kiss on the forehead

42❤️ a clumsy kiss

Warning: this is not a drabble at all but I can't shut up so here take this fic 🫳 also not very proofread YET so I apologize if it's a bit wonky

One thing about Mortkranken’s underground: it’s cold. It makes sense, though. There were tons of biological samples being analyzed by students every single day, so it’s not like it could have a warm and comfortable temperature.

Still, you weren’t expecting it to be so cold.

It was kind of ironic, knowing how Yuri hated the other extremely cold dorm of Darkwick. But while Frostheim was freezing because of its natural weather (or as natural as a place created by an anomalous island could be), Mortkranken had all the air conditioners and freezers to create that artificial bubble of icy and dry climate.

Yuri’s personal office wasn’t exempt from the cold. Despite how spacious it was, the air still hung heavy while a split system blasted glacial wind mercilessly.

You trembled slightly as you went through paper after paper, doing inventory of all of Yuri’s books. Despite being a genius, apparently he couldn’t organize all the dozens of bookshelves he kept carelessly stacked with medical tomes, articles and notes.

Sometimes you wondered if he would just carry on, working in a terribly messy office, if you had never come around and offered your help - which he begrudgingly accepted.

However, it’s not like you were doing that entirely out of the good of your heart. You liked spending time with Yuri, despite how snappy he was, yes. You saw how lonely and starved of appreciation he was and it tugged on your heartstrings. Probably no one ever tried to go past that wall of arrogance he had built for himself as a protection, and you were set on trying to give him a little bit of comfort.

Maybe you also thought that the way his hair fell on his face was very pretty, that his sea-green eyes were gorgeous, and that everytime he blushed you wanted to grab his shoulders and pull him into a kiss so you could watch him have a meltdown and turn into putty in your hands. Yes. Maybe. But that’s not why you were there.

You were there because Frostheim was throwing one of their fancy balls that night and you desperately wanted to escape. You were invited, or better yet, subpoenaed by Jin and Tohma and you wanted nothing to do with it. You already had to deal with a tragic curse, thank you very much. Mingling with stuck up rich students was the last thing you wanted to do.

So, mentally apologizing to Kaito and Luca, you lied through your teeth and said you already had a job to do. At that point, you didn’t; but you found yourself in Yuri’s office, annotating his every dusty book just in case they sent someone to grab you by the hair and drag you to the ball. They wouldn’t try to come close to Mortkranken, after all - too much drama between the captains.

And work you did. Being around a cute doctor was just a bonus.

Yuri scrolled through his phone mindlessly for a few minutes, allowing himself to rest his brain after another day of working until his eyes were crossing. He wasn’t much of a social media guy, but he understood quite well the importance of taking breaks every so often in order to have his thoughts reorganize themselves. Even if he went around and then spent three days wide awake just to compensate for a 15 minute break.

It’s not like he was actually relaxing, however. He was very much aware of your presence in his office, just a few steps away from him, as you organized his books. You had offered yourself to catalog his tomes and clean them up out of nowhere and, despite his hesitance, deep down he was grateful for that. After all, an organized workplace works wonders for inspiration and concentration - he was just… very bad at doing the organization thing when it wasn’t directly related to his duties as a doctor.

He also wasn’t quite sure why you had suddenly offered to spend the evening working, but he just decided to chalk it up to you being grateful for his brilliance and infinite generosity. He DID offer to train you in anomalous medicine, didn’t he? Maybe you were just wise and trying to repay his kindness.

He huffed, a smug smile on his face, clearly satisfied with his own answer, but quickly turned his attention back to his phone after noticing you heard him and looked his way.

After scrolling mindlessly through posts about scientific innovations, articles, new hospitals and a bunch of ads for questionable medicines that claim to cure people of everything and anything at all, Yuri stopped at a photo of a familiar place.

It had been posted only 10 minutes before and showed a grand ballroom, filled with young people in fancy garments and expensive flower bouquets placed in tall vases that decorated every corner. Some people appeared to be dancing, while others chatted with a drink in their hand.

It was a familiar place because he had been in this exact same setting before – it was Frostheim and apparently they were throwing a ball at that very moment.

Yuri's lips curled down in disgust at the sight of the dorm.

“These mindless pricks just can't spend a single day without flaunting their wealth, can they?” Yuri grumbled audibly, scowling at his phone.

“Did you say something, Yuri?” you asked, turning to face him while you meticulously noted down another batch of book titles in your handbook.

“These wannabe nobles from Frostheim!” he spat “They can't do a single useful thing for society, but still try to intimidate others by showing off how rich they are! Disgusting!” Yuri slammed his phone on the desk, getting up from his seat, and pranced around the large room, as if he could not contain his anger quietly.

He didn't quite understand the reasoning behind his own anger. All he knew was that he felt enraged, an ironically icy feeling crawling up his chest. And that he needed a Frostheim student in front of him right at that moment so he could punch them. Too bad he was so physically weak.

“Oh, are you talking about the ball they're throwing today?” you asked, nonchalantly.

Yuri stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around towards you, an expression of disgust and betrayal on his face.

How would you even know about this ball? Frostheim prided in excluding everyone else that didn't wear that godawful blue lapel pin from every social event. So how would you, a puny little student with no association to any dorm at all, know about a big event such as that ball?

Yuri chose to blatantly ignore your friendships with Luca and Kaito for the benefit of his own theory.

You swallowed hard, realizing by his behavior that you probably should not have said that at all.

“How do you know about that ball?!” he said, through gritted teeth.

You cleared your throat.

“Um… I heard Luca and Kaito mention it earlier today…”

Yuri slowly walked towards you, as if he was a predator gauging your movements in order to know when to attack.

“Lies. I see how you are blinking fast. You also have flared nostrils and you are unconsciously biting your lips! Body language 101! You cannot fool a doctor like me, I see everything!”

You sighed.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. I was invited.” you mumbled, grabbing a tome and wiping the dust from its cover, avoiding Yuri's accusatory gaze.

His jaw went slack. His theory was correct then, after all! But of course it was. He was Yuri Isami, the captain of Mortkranken and the best doctor on that campus. Of course he was correct.

And so you were indeed a filthy traitor.

“Oh, so you're so connected to that despicable dorm that you were even INVITED to their ball?!” How dare you, he wanted to say, how dare you give them the time of the day when HE– when Mortkranken was the one doing all the important work in that place.

You raised an eyebrow at Yuri's dramatics, side-eyeing him while you still dusted books.

“Darkwick made me the inspector, remember? I have to have proper relationships with every single dorm and it's not like I want that either. It's all because of my curse.”

Yuri scoffed, throwing his arms up in disbelief.

“As if you need anything else besides Mortkranken's assistance! We are the only ones who are qualified to undo your curse once and for all! And yet, you still mingle with those Frostheimers…” he clenched his fists.

“Yuri, I think you're forgetting the fact that I chose not to go to the ball and spend my night here organizing your books.” you wiggled a book on your hand to make your point clearer, fully turning towards him.

That little detail seemed to have finally been processed in Yuri's mind right after you said it.

He went silent, staring at you with narrowed eyes. As if he didn't trust you yet. As if you could stab him in the back as soon as he turned around.

You sighed, putting the book on the shelf and then resting your hands on your hips.

“Why are you so angry at them for throwing a ball? You know they always do that.”

He didn't know why he was angry, actually. It was like Frostheim was a trigger word for him. He heard it and fury just freely ran through his veins like molten iron. It burned and hurt because he didn't know why it felt like that.

He just did.

It wasn't in Yuri's nature to be quiet. To be speechless. And when he didn't answer your question, you knew something deep, deeper than you could reach, had been brewing for too long.

He stood still like a statue, mouth pressed in a thin line as he turned your question around in his mind, like he would an unsolved rubrik cube. Only this time, he wasn't able to finish it in record time like he used to finish all of his real cubes.

You took a deep breath.

“Look.” you snapped him out of his daze “I'm gonna prove to you that balls are boring and that you aren't missing anything.”

You knew he wasn't upset because of FOMO, but seeing him struggle with his thoughts like that made you pity him just a little bit. So you would pretend, for now.

You went to his desk and grabbed your phone, scrolling through something.

“What are you planning to do?” he observed your movements, still as tense as ever.

“What's your favorite song again? It's The Blue Danube Waltz, by Strauss isn't it?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes… I'm surprised a worm like you knows classical music and– no, what does this have to do with anything?” he asked, baffled at the sudden change of topic.

You walked towards him, gaze locked at your phone.

“You like waltzes then. Okay, then this one will have to do.”

You clicked on something on your phone and placed it carefully on one of the bookrack's shelves. Soon enough, some music started playing on the phone's speakers.

Yuri stared dumbly at the hand you were holding out towards him.

“What is this?”

“It's the Masquerade Waltz, by Aram Khachaturian.” You replied flatly, shoving your hand closer to his face.

“I- I know that!” Yuri sputtered, defensively “I want to know what you're doing!”

You shrugged, smirking at your own silly idea that seemed to have badly thrown him off “I want to prove to you how balls are kinda stupid when you can very well just waltz as much as you want at home. Come on. Dance with me?”

Yuri blinked, still staring at your hand.

“W-why should I?!”

“Well… you'll have the satisfaction of doing something Jin wanted to do but can't because I'm here.”

He immediately grabbed your hand, all hesitation left behind. You laughed and restarted the song.

“You better dance properly, worm!”

“I promise nothing.”

Yuri's hands were hot. He had them stuffed in his black gloves like always, but they seemed even warmer against your skin as you held him firmly.

He knew very well all of the waltz etiquette, of course. He was a cultured, refined man who knew how to be a proper partner when dancing with someone in a ballroom. He knew he was supposed to maintain eye contact with his dance partner.

But goddamn it, was it hard to keep looking into your eyes. Even though you weren't always looking at him – as expected of an impolite worm – whenever your eyes met, he felt his insides stir and he wondered in passing if he had to start taking some type of anxiety medication.

Sometimes he'd relax for a second when you looked down at your feet to count 1, 2 ,3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4. He used that moment to breathe deeply and then grimace at how shaky his exhale sounded.

His heart drummed inside his ribcage, and he hoped you'd keep your little grubby fingers far away from his radial artery, otherwise you'd feel how fast his heart was beating. He couldn't have you thinking he was nervous. He wasn't nervous! The situation was just… unexpected.

And then you started humming along with the song.

Yuri swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and cleared his throat.

“You… you like this waltz?” he managed to say. He shoved the thought that you sounded cute, humming a song just like he always did, deep, deep inside the corners of his mind.

You widened your eyes for a second.

“Oh! I was humming, wasn't I? Sorry. But yeah, it's my favorite. I guess I can't say I don't understand you when you hum too” you laughed nervously.

The both of you kept on clumsily stepping side to side, front to back, as the song reached its last notes.

Yuri knew the song was ending, and his anxiety peaked. It was like he wanted something to happen – no, like he needed to do something, but he didn't know what it was.

His stomach churned as the song faded out, and your feet came to a halt. Your hand left his own, and so did the one on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of your body leaving him as he forced himself to step back.

You cleared your throat and gave him an exaggerated curtsy, lifting the hem of an imaginary dress.

“Thank you so much for this dance, Lord Isami” you said with a grin, in a fake posh accent.

And after that, it was like he became possessed by some trickster spirit who had it out for him.

Yuri didn't really know what thought process led him to suddenly grab your shoulders and awkwardly place his lips on your forehead, but when you gasped under him, he finally came back to his senses.

“GAH! I don't know why I did that!” he yelled, taking a few long steps back and away from you.

He stared at his own hands, like they were monsters with a life of their own. Some cruel, awful things that made him act on an impulse he didn't even know he had.

His thoughts ran wild and tumbled one over the other, each and every one yelling some reasoning for his stupid actions and turning his mind into a deafening cacophony that made his head fuzzy and his ears ring.

“Um...” you voiced out, and Yuri finally looked at you again, quickly halting his spiral towards a panic attack. His eyes fluttered, taking in the sight in front of him.

You covered your cheeks with your hands, looking to the side as you pressed your lips in a thin line. Yuri swore he could see the ghost of a smile on the corner of your lips, gone in the blink of an eye.

Yuri was screwed. That immediately became the only thought that blared inside his brain after looking at you, all flustered and embarrassed.

“I'm screwed” he murmured unconsciously and you had the gall to chuckle.

“Sorry?” you asked, a smile warming your voice in a way that made Yuri dizzy.

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“You can go to your quarters now. Continue your work here later.” he announced, secretly celebrating how his voice sounded stable again.

You slowly grabbed your phone, still smiling like you knew something he didn't. Preposterous.

“Okay.” you replied, without much protest.

Yuri watched as you picked up the rest of your belongings and made the way towards his door.

“I hope I convinced you of all that stuff we talked about, by the way. See you tomorrow, Yuri” you said, looking over your shoulder before you left.

Yuri had absolutely no idea of what you were even talking about. All he knew was that his room was hot. He felt incredibly hot and his heart still hammered mercilessly inside his ribs. Was he having a heat stroke? Yeah, maybe it was that. Maybe he was having a heat stroke because you made him dance and sweat when he didn't need to.

He looked at the thermometer under his AC.

It read 5°C/40°F.

[freakylover]

TOP Dragon Ball Z ships on AO3

TOP 50 ships according to the number of fanfics on AO3:

Bulma Briefs/Vegeta (3941)

Chi-Chi/Son Goku (2031)

Son Goku/Vegeta (1812)

Videl Satan/Son Gohan (810)

Android 18/Krillin (566)

Trunks Briefs/Son Goten (413)

Bra Briefs/Son Goten (316)

Bulma Briefs/Yamcha (307)

Tenshinhan/Yamcha (248)

Bardock/Gine (238)

Frieza/Vegeta (173)

Piccolo/Son Gohan (162)

Bulma Briefs/Son Goku (140)

Raditz/Vegeta (118)

Freezer/Yamcha (106)

Broly/Cheelai (100)

Launch/Tenshinhan (99)

Goku Black/Zamasu (98)

Bulma Briefs/Chi-Chi (94)

Trunks Briefs/Mai (89)

Piccolo/Vegeta (84)

Chi-Chi/Piccolo (83)

Trunks Briefs/Marron (81)

Son Gohan/Vegeta (72)

Caulifla/Kale (70) and Marron/Son Goten (70)

Launch/Raditz (69)

Son Gohan/Son Goku (66)

Tights Briefs/Raditz (55)

Future Trunks Briefs/Son Gohan (53); Chi-Chi/Vegeta (53)

Raditz/Yamcha (52)

Cell/Frieza (49)

Frieza/Son Goku (48)

Gogeta/Vegito (47)

Piccolo/Son Goku (45)

Cell/Son Gohan (44)

Bra Briefs/Son Goku (43) and Future Trunks Briefs/Future Mai (43)

Android 17/Future Trunks Briefs (42) and Trunks Briefs/Son Gohan (42)

Son Goku/Yamcha (36); Android 17/Raditz (36) and Dende/Son Gohan (36)

Frieza/Frost (35)

Bardock/Tooma (34)

Beerus/Supreme Kai | Shin (33) and Dodoria/Zarbon (33)

Broly/Vegeta (31); Bra Briefs/Son Pan (31) and Nail/Piccolo (31)

Son Goku/Turles (30) and Trunks Briefs/Vegeta (30)

Erasa/Son Gohan (29) and Bardock/King Vegeta (29)

Goku Black/Vegeta (28)

Son Gohan/Son Goten (27) and Frost/Hit (27)

Trunks Briefs/Broly (26)

Future Trunks Briefs/Broly (25)

Android 18/Son Gohan (24); Krillin/Son Goku (24); Raditz/Zarbon (24) and Son Goten/Vegeta (24)

Broly/Raditz (23)

This list doesn't include fanfics tagged with character/reader or polyships.

Please don't comment hate messages, this post is purely informative. I don't want my notifications to be filled with ship wars/hate in general :ccc

This top is susceptible to errors, my bot almost exploded due to overload xddd

[petermorwood]

Flammkuchen / Tarte Flambeé / "German pizza"

This evening I found a slab of Speck (strong-smoked bacon) in the freezer that I didn't know we had, there was half an onion and a tub of Lithuanian sour cream in the fridge, so @dduane decided to try Flammkuchen.

Originally, so the story goes, it was made by bakers as a pre-thermometer way to check the temperature of their wood-fired ovens (and provide a quick snack at the same time).

Tarte flambée is the French name, but "German Pizza" or indeed any sort of pizza it certainly isn't; there's neither tomato sauce nor cheese, and no yeast in the dough.

Whether it's German or French depends on who you ask, since it originates from the province of Alsace, an area which has changed hands a lot in the past couple of centuries and whose ownership has been A Source Of Friction Between Guess Who for almost as long.

To stay neutral, the recipe DD used is Swiss. ;->

Here's the translation:

*****

Alsatian tarte flambée

This delicious speciality from Alsace is also ideal for an aperitif. Thinly rolled bread dough with sour cream, onions and bacon cubes!

350g flour (12½ oz) 1.25 tsp salt 2 dl water (6.7 US fl oz / .42 US pt) 2 tbsp olive oil 200 g crème fraîche / sour cream (7 oz) 2 onions (we had less, so used less...) 120 g farmer's (thick, well-smoked) bacon in slices (4¼ oz) a small grind of pepper

And this is how it's done:

Mix flour and salt in a bowl. Pour in water and oil, mix and knead into a soft, smooth dough. Form the dough into a ball, cover and let it rest at room temperature for about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 240 degrees (464 F). Halve the dough and roll it out into an oval shape about 3 mm thick (1/10 inch) on a lightly floured surface. Place the dough on two baking sheets lined with baking paper.

Spread the crème fraîche / sour cream over the dough, leaving a border of approx. 1 cm (½ inch) free all around. Peel the onions, cut them into fine rings, cut the bacon into strips, spread both over the crème fraîche / sour cream and season.

Baking per tray: approx. 12 minutes each on the bottom shelf of the oven.

*****

Since this was our first time making Flammkuchen, we baked them one at a time to check for errors. There were none (Swiss recipe!) and 12 minutes was exactly right to produce this result both times:

DD needs to be careful because of IBS so they were made with mostly bacon on one side, mostly onion on the other, and with a glass of cool white wine they made an excellent Sunday supper.

Next time, now we know how well this recipe works, we'll be more generous with the toppings. :->

Incidentally, rather than baking-trays or the pizza stone we need to replace (ceramic utensils, tile floors and gravity Do Not Mix Well) we used the cast-iron griddle which in summer often goes on the BBQ...

... and gave the oven a thorough pre-heating, then transferred the Flammkuchen in and out with a peel, all of which worked splendidly.

That tip about using baking paper is excellent, BTW: no sticking, no spillage, no washing up. I bet it'll work with other things as well.

Like, for instance, more Flammkuchen... ;->

[beansprean]

I did not want to draw a weeks-or-months-old decomposing corpse so let's all just continue to hand wave any sort of concrete timeline for this comic.

My Familiar’s Ghost part 42

Masterpost

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Close up on past Guillermo, in sepia tones, as he looks up at Nandor with a nervous grin, cheeks flushed. He asks, 'Are...are you going to eat me?' 1b. Zoom out, close up on past Nandor in the foreground in profile as he turns his gaze away from Guillermo with an uncomfortable grimace. He grumbles, 'I was going to, but you're kind of taking all the fun out of it...' Guillermo pipes up with an 'I'm sorry!' in the background, still smiling and wringing his hands together. 1c. Back in the present, close up on Nandor walking through the hall behind the Panera counter, looking down in surprise as he steps in something wet. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'Do you want me to...run or something?' 1d. Shot of the floor in front of present Nandor from his POV, showing a dead human in a Panera hat and apron laying there in a pool of blood, throat ripped out. Nandor rolls her over with his foot and says, 'Yeesh, already slacking on body disposal, Guillermo?' 1e. Close up on present Nandor in profile as he looks back up, brow furrowed and eyes shining with regret. He says, 'I proper sire would have... Would have seen you through this.' 1f. Back to the past, sepia tones. Medium shot of past Nandor squinting down at Guillermo and leaning away with a look of suspicion, as if he were contagious with something. He asks, 'Why are you so eager? Are you some kind of...death pervert?' Offscreen, past Guillermo responds, 'No, no! I just...'

2a. Back to the present. Shot behind Nandor as he walks through the hall behind the Panera counter, coming to an wall straight ahead with a few miscellaneous cardboard boxes, a metal freezer door to the left, and a wooden door to the right that says 'employees only'. The door is cracked open slightly, letting a dim light into the dark hallway. Nandor walks toward it. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'I've always wanted to be a vampire.' 2b. Close up on Nandor's hand closing around the doorknob to the room. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues, 'And I figure...' 2c. Wide shot from within the room as Nandor opens the door fully, his silhouette visible in the doorway on the far wall. It appears to be a break room, or was, with a unisex bathroom on the left wall, a collection of round tables and wooden chairs, and a short counter with upper and lower cabinets, sink, and coffee maker on the far wall next to a top-freezer refrigerator. The fridge is cracked open, which is what let light into the room. In the righthand corner closest to the viewer is a nonfunctional soda machine that says 'bepis' on the front. There is blood smeared around the fridge handles, the light switches, the soda machine buttons, in shuffling footprints on the floor, congealed in styrofoam cups scattered around the counter next to an abandoned cardigan, and dripping down the cabinets. One of the tables is overturned against a wall along with a chair with several broken legs. More importantly, perhaps, the room is littered with corpses. There is a dark-skinned bald man laying in the center of the room who appears to be wearing a Panera apron and is, presumably, human. The bald corpse laying next to him with pointed ears and a long black cape is decidedly not. Another body lays tangled in the fallen table and chair, bloodied cape tossed over their head. A woman in leather and a long skirt lays on her back on an upright table, coated in blood and throat ripped apart, staring emptily past the viewer with her mouth hanging open to show her fangs. Another corpse is slumped upright against the wall next to Nandor, wearing bellbottoms and a paisley shirt. His head is tipped back, mouth open and full of sharp teeth, the broken wooden leg of a chair sticking out of his chest. As Nandor stands and stares at the carnage, past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'It's now or never, right?' /end ID

[ersatz-ostrich]

See You Again

Chapter 1: The Coffin

Jason Todd x f!Reader

You were just a teenager when you lost your best friend, Jason Todd. Years later, your life is turned upside down, and you find your way back to him. He's changed. You've changed. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

[A/N]: Me? Publishing a Red Hood fic that's been sitting in my drafts for months? It's more likely than you think. Jason is such an interesting character and there have been so many takes on him and his story that I've lost count. All I can do is hope that I do his character justice, and that I can deliver something worthy to all of the Red Hood girlies (gn) out there!

Anyways, in this fic, f!reader is a researcher at STAR Labs Los Angeles for the Polestar program, a secret research operation investigating an ancient virus revived from the permafrost of the Arctic. She gets infected with the virus while trying to keep it from falling into the wrong hands—and that's when she meets the Red Hood.

Warnings: DC-typical violence

read here on ao3

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masterlist

STAR Laboratories Los Angeles

9:43:42 PM PT

The Coffin

You hated working in the Coffin.

The Coffin, as some of your coworkers called it—a cramped bunker of a cleanroom with thick concrete walls and vault-like hatches—was practically hermetically sealed from the rest of the world, and for good reason, too. 

The Coffin, STAR Laboratories LA’s so-called Sterile Research Unit, housed world-killers. 

They were all around you, housed in huge humming floor-to–low-ceiling freezers, in vials and Petri dishes. If one of those samples got out and contaminated the outside environment, you would have a huge, messy problem on your double-gloved hands. 

Located in the basement and separated from the rest of the facility by a sizable aseptics and decontamination unit, the only living things that shared the space with you were the dormant pathogens labeled and tucked away in the Coffin’s freezers. Chatter filtered through the radio comms unit on your lab bench, which you used to relay information with the rest of the researchers, your coworkers, involved in the Polestar study. 

“L/N, how are we doing down there?” A voice crackled through the comms. It was Dr. Davis, one of the senior researchers on the Polestar program.

“Hey, Davis. I’m happy to report that the Polestar vaccine prototype seems to be well on its way,” you reply, hearing the whoosh of your breath inside the respirator you donned before entering the cleanroom. “The vaccine seems to be pretty stable right now. I’ll continue to run tests.” You heard Dr. Davis’s hum of approval through the comms.

“Great to hear, Y/N. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t d—” It was an inside joke among the Polestar researchers that the Coffin was where bad researchers who half-assed their theses in grad school went to die. The sterile bunker was indeed a daunting place to run tests, with all of its doomsday-looking decor and freezers full of deadly viruses, but you had spent enough late nights in and out of decon to make the Coffin feel more like the world’s worst bathroom stall-turned-office cubicle.

“Dr. Davis?” You finally turned your gaze to the comms unit. “Dr. Davis, do you read me?” You could hear the faint sounds of commotion filtering through the comms; cacophony that should never be heard in a laboratory. “Is anyone there?” Someone started screaming—you recognized the voice to be Dr. Lee—and your heart jumped into your throat.

The sound coming from the comms unit suggested that the radio on the other end of the line had fallen to the floor. The speaker emitted more crackly yells. 

“ Doctor—” It was Dr. Davis. He was alive, but barely. The sounds of fighting rose around him. “Doctor—dammit, Y/N, do you hear me? Stay where you are and barricade yourself in the Coffin, they’re coming for the—” Dr. Davis’s voice cut out, replaced by garbled radio feedback. Right before the radio dissolved into static, you swore you had heard him howl in pain. You stared at the comms, heart thumping in your ribcage. You were beginning to sweat in your hood and coveralls and the respirator felt heavy on your face. You tore your attention from the comms to survey the frigid lab around you. The Coffin had been reserved by the Polestar program so you could test small lab animals to observe the virus’s behavior in living organisms and develop a vaccine for it, so most of the work laid out on the benches was Polestar’s. Cages sat in neat stacks, housing the lab rodents you had been studying. You could care less about the unbelievably expensive machinery or the infected rodents that could infect humans should they escape the Coffin, though; a dip into STAR Labs and the CDC’s research grants for Polestar would replace it all. Your eyes darted around the Coffin, eyeing the huge, heavy hatches that kept you encased inside the bunker. Whoever was outside, they’d have to get through aseptics and decon, which would keep them busy for at least a few minutes as they forced their way inside. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” you muttered to yourself as you swept glass vials and syringes around on your workbench into a cluster, creating a disjointed melody of clinking glass and metal. The rats began to turn restlessly in their cages. Your breathing picked up, coming out in short, shaky breaths as you ran from countertop to countertop, stowing away glassware still full of solutions and dumping solids into the trash—you’d get back to them later, if there was even a later for you. Screw how much that stuff cost by the gram, and screw how much time you’d spent synthesizing and isolating those precipitates.

No time to think about that , you thought to yourself as you rushed back to the workbench where your radio and the vials sat. You stared at the assortment of glass vials and syringes, panicking. They can all go in the freezer, right? Or the storage vault, or…

There was no time to think. You rushed to the freezer with trays full of vaccines and viruses alike in your arms, hurriedly punching in the code and scanning your retina to open the door to the walk-in freezer. The door unlocked with a hiss, and you silently begged the automatic door to open faster as you heard the sound of a squad’s worth of footsteps stomping through decon. Squeezing through the opening, you all but shoved the tray into the nearest vacant bottom shelf and sprinted out, hammering the button to shut the freezer doors.

You heard clanking against the entrance to the coffin, one, two, three…

A blinding flash of light followed by a deafening explosion shook the Coffin, and you instinctively turned away to shield yourself. You saw tongues of flame licking the entrance to the Coffin, flooded with red light. 

Oh, shit. 

How many of the substances stored in the Coffin were flammable? You hoped the explosion that blew the enormous hatch to the Coffin off its hinges and the flames that followed hadn’t reached far enough to hit the flammable substances storage unit. 

Behind the rubble of the hatch stood a cluster of black-clad figures, outfitted with bulky body armor and gas masks. They swept the Coffin with the muzzles of their rifles before stepping over the threshold and into the Coffin. You stifled a gasp and ducked behind one of the countertops, hoping that you weren’t spotted. Maybe you could find something heavy, like a fire extinguisher, and taken one out—

“Gotcha.” 

You couldn’t help the shriek that escaped your lungs as you whipped around, grabbing the nearest thing off of the countertops—a ring stand, luckily enough, and not something more expensive or fragile—and swung it in the direction of the voice. Your eyes widened as the heavy base of the ring stand failed to meet bone—and was instead stopped in its path by a strong, gloved hand around your wrist. Your hands shook as the hand’s owner, wearing a gas mask with round, reflective discs for eyes, lowered the ring stand with one hand and aimed the barrel of a handgun at you. 

“What do you want from me,” you choked out, your mouth feeling dry as you stared down the cold black barrel of the gun. The soldier chuckled, their voice—his voice?—deep and gravelly, muffled by the mask.

“Just your cooperation.” With a jerk of his hand, he lifted the ring stand, still attached to your hand, and forced you out into the open. “You know what we’re here for.” He wrestled the ring stand from your grip and tossed it away, the heavy thunk making you wince. He took your wrist in a crushing grip, and adrenaline shot up your spine. 

“I’m just a lab aide. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied quickly, not quite confident in your skills as a thespian (or a liar).

“Oh, yeah, Dr…” Still holding the gun in front of your face, they cocked their head to check your badge. “...L/N?”

Shit.

“You know how it is…the job market’s pretty tough for Ph. D.’s these days.” You chuckled nervously. “Seriously, though, I’m just here to wash glassware.” The soldier laughed coldly.

“You seem pretty calm for somebody staring down the barrel of a gun…I bet you’re smart. Bet you know a lot about all the super secret research in this shithole, too.” You couldn’t see it, but under his mask, his gaze settled upon something on the floor. “Maybe you could tell me a little about this thing right here.” You followed his line of sight and felt your blood go cold.

How could I have—

He nudged the syringe with the toe of his boot so that it rolled right to you. It took all you had to keep yourself from lunging for it. Your eyes caught the biohazard symbol printed on the label and you felt yourself die a little inside.

The Polestar virus was on the floor. The deadly ancient virus you had resurrected was in a syringe on the fucking floor. 

“Hmm, not sure how that got there—” Your words were taken from you when the barrel of the handgun made contact with the flesh of your chin, forcing your head back.

“Enough! Tell us where the virus is and maybe the actual lab aides won’t have to mop your brains off the fucking floor.” You grimaced.

“It’s right there,” You replied through gritted teeth. “In that syringe.” Keeping the gun’s sights on you, the soldier stooped to pick up the syringe. “It’s in a liquid suspension that was supposed to be for the rats. We were running tests—” You caught yourself rambling before you could divulge anything more damning. Maybe it was the gun pointed at your head and your life on the line, but you felt like your brain was out to lunch and had thrown out all common sense before it left. “—well, the bottom line is…just don’t break that syringe. The virus inside is viable and dangerous.” The soldier laughed again, this time more arrogantly.

“I don’t c—”

“I’d listen to her if I were you.” You, the soldier—everyone in the Coffin—turned to the source of the modulated voice. A huge silhouette passed through the sanguine lights of decon. The glint of the red helmet caught your eye first, then the red bat insignia splashed across the figure’s armored chest. 

Huh.

That posture—the way the helmeted figure stood to make himself look bigger—tickled the back of your brain. Your train of thought, however, was stopped short by your captor yanking your wrist and wrapping his free arm around you in a headlock. He trained his gun at the red helmet before you, who produced a pair of his own firearms.

“Don’t shoot,” your captor barked, and you realized what was in the hand that was clutching the fabric of your PPE. You struggled to break free, but the body behind you felt like a pillar with armor for cushioning. “Or she goes with me.” The helmeted Bat slowly lowered his weapons, which earned a smug huff from your captor, whose grip loosened on your PPE. You sighed in relief and started to extract yourself from you felt his arms quickly wrap around your neck again, making you cry out.

“No!” The helmeted figure called out. You heard the crack of the gunshot and the sound of the bullet meeting flesh. You felt warm blood—not yours—splatter on your face and trickle onto your coverall and you shuddered. You felt the soldier, impossibly heavy, slump over onto your body and slide to the ground. The gunfire of his squad mates erupts around you and you see the red-helmeted newcomer duck behind a glovebox and return fire. You dive for cover, watching the soldiers drop behind you. You see the red helmet emerge again to take out the last of the soldiers, engaging in hand to hand—these fighters seemed to be highly trained—and putting the occasional bullet through the weak points of their armor. The last bullet casing fell to the floor with a resounding ping! and you heard boots moving towards you once more. 

“Are you okay?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you why the soldier had held on so tightly to your PPE—you hadn’t felt the little prick in your collarbone when the gunfire had started. Dread pooled in the pit of your stomach as you slowly lowered your gaze to where the syringe stuck out above your clavicle, only dredges of fluid left, the black-and-yellow biohazard symbol turned up to the light like a bright and deadly flower. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]: We are hitting the ground running! Hope that was a good start to this fic.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[sashkapi]

Do you have any headcanons about those chaotic siblings? Because Man your headcanons are so awesome

OH BOY OH BOYO

Thmanksks <3

1. Because of their frequent physical fights Brianna is considered pretty strong when compared to other girls her age.  Buttowski brothers are for equality They'll fight their sister all the same <3

2. Speaking of Brianna: in my au(I guess it's an au atp) she is the reason for the slight wardrobe change of her brothers. They didn't really complain especially because Bri kinda gets their preferred styles. 

3. All of them were forced to play piano at some point. It stuck the most with Brad.

4. Musically speaking, Brad is the most "musically gifted" out of the three. Not really actually. He just thought girls like music and started learning how to make music until it actually stuck and became his consistent hobby and he improved.  Bri still plays piano for talent shows but not for herself. You have to throw Kick off a cliff with an instrument if you want him to play it. (Almost like there's an episode based on this whoa)

5. If you force them to pick an instrument to play then their picks are: Brad - guitar (chicks like it and he likes playing it) Bri - piano (she can only play it and has no interest in learning any new instrument) Kick - keytar (played both piano and guitar before so he would be curious about this amalgamation)

6. They all have "bits" of each other talents, mostly because they live together  Brad and Kick actually know how to put on make up (Brad paints his nails sometimes and Kick sometimes masks his scar if needed) Brad and Brianna somewhat good at acrobatics  Kick and Brianna have some knowledge of music making

7. Kick isn't the only one who hides his natural hair color. Brianna does it too. Her natural hair color is brown but girl likes Teena Sometimes so much that she dyes her hair blonde.

8. While I draw Kick and Brad with eye bags because "Ha ha, funny scissor seven reference" they also both suffer from insomnia. Brad frequently loses track of time and sometimes goes to sleep at 4 am. Kick physically can't fall asleep at a reasonable time. (There is an actual reason why but I'm saving it for another day).

They also learned how to fight quietly because parents are asleep but THERE IS NO OTHER WAY TO DECIDE WHO GETS THE LAST BIT OF ICE CREAM IN THE BOTTOM FREEZER AT 3:42 AM.

9. When it comes to each other love lives: Brianna will be all over her brothers to get all the information. It's prime gossip material. Especially with brothers like hers. Of course she would want to know what type of person would date a pathetic pig pen or adrenaline maniac. Kick cares a tid bit below surface level. He would just make sure that his siblings are in a "normal" relationship and intervene only if there's a potential "Kelly situation". Other than that, he doesn't really care. Brad pretends he doesn't care. He does. His sibling better not dare getting partners before he does. 

10. Silly one but if not "dillweed" Brad and Brianna sometimes call Kick "Brick".  Now all the siblings' names start with "Br" :)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This home is very different. It was built in 1917, which would make it part of the prairie style architectural movement. Located in Lakeview, Oregon it has 5bds, 3ba, $450K.

This door is so unusual, isn't it? It looks like it was a walk-in freezer door. There's a stepdown to the hallway past the first stair.

Very large living room has 2 large columns.

They are on either side of the opening to the dining room.

There's an interesting office/library with built-in shelving, a corner woodburning stove and window seats.

Large bath on the main floor has a shower.

Enter the kitchen from the front of the house and through the hall.

Cute little pantry.

The kitchen is quite large and has an arch, plus an arched opening in a half wall.

On the other side of the arches is a family room.

At the top of the stairs is a nice mezzanine with a door to the upper porch.

There's a cozy TV room up here.

And, a pretty large kitchenette.

This room is larger, but the rooms are kind of skewed looking.

The laundry room doubles as a bath.

This one is a child's room. The bedrooms need some serious brightening.

This has to be the primary bedroom.

The walk-in closet has a fridge and microwave.

And, it shares space with a bath.

The large up & down wrap-around porches are lovely.

A very big finished attic has potential.

A nice 2 car garage with new doors and cement driveway.

I tell what this small building is in the yard.

And, this is a very unusual shed.

The entrance to the property looks like you're entering a street. This unique property is on a .42 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/246-S-E-St-Lakeview-OR-97630/343689129_zpid/?

[eclipsed-writing]

7:58 am Watergirl: beach day pack your stuff

Fireboy: why

Watergirl: normal people like the beach Watergirl: its relaxing

Frosty: I would not classify any of us as “normal.”

Dangerbuff: who cares let’s go

Fireboy: :(

Bluebell: too bad Kai Bluebell: outvoted

Watergirl: oh and leave your weapons Watergirl: no fighting just relax

Green_Dragon: But they can just stay on the Bounty

Watergirl: n o p e

Fireboy: so…smth is gonna happn then right?

Green_Dragon: Yeah I kinda want to bring something…

(Lloyd shifts uncomfortably, not quite on board with the idea of traveling without protection—especially with his powers acting weirdly ever since the Oni. Zippy notices his change of mood and trills at him, pressing her head to his hand. Lloyd smiles and scratches her fur, earning a contented purr from the feline.)

Dangerbuff: nothing is going to happen Dangerbuff: I’ll make sure of it

Fireboy: same hree Fireboy: im not swimming so i can guard

Green_Dragon loved a message

Bluebell: are we bringing snacks or

Frosty: There are some ice cream packets in the freezer. Frosty: I will pack them into a cooler.

Green_Dragon: Yay

Watergirl: great Watergirl: meet me in 15 on the bounty

8:42 am They arrive at the beach Nya selected. It is a small cove, secluded from other people and protected from the wind. Fluffy white clouds dot the sky and the sun shines bright and warm. On one side of the cove, larger waves roll up onto the sand. The Bounty touches down near the middle.

The team sets up a small snack station near the ship, in the shade of a beach umbrella. The cooler of snacks, kept cold with Zane’s elemental ice, sits at the base of the umbrella. Multicolored bags and towels are scattered around the site, though only Kai’s beach towel is unfolded.

Lloyd immediately makes a grab for an ice cream. Nya smacks his hand away with a glare in his direction. Lloyd huffs in annoyance but retreats, following Jay and Zane towards the ocean water.

“Kai, don’t let anyone eat until after they’re done swimming,” Nya tells her brother as he lounges back on his towel.

Without opening his eyes, Kai gives her a little salute. “You got it, sis.”

Nya rolls her eyes but runs after the others.

Cole emerges from the Bounty with a surfboard and heads off to the larger waves.

It’s not long until shrieks ring across the secluded cove as a water fight breaks out. Kai is not jealous but simply watches from the dry beach, cheering on whoever appears to have the upper hand.

Usually it’s Nya, no doubt enhancing her water splashes with her powers, usually targeting Lloyd and Jay with the larger attacks and not so hard at Zane.

Hearing the commotion, Cole runs over to join in.

Laughter rings out across the cove.

Soon tired out, the team gathers in the shade of the umbrella and snacks on cold treats.

Kai decides that this is a part of the beach he doesn’t mind.

(FIRST / PREV / NEXT)

[rileyslibrary]

Living With Ghosts: 9. Ghost Mask

Two months ago you were drenched in sweat, picking lemons under the scorching sun. Now you’re cold, alone and wanted by one of the most dangerous criminals alive. But you won’t be alone, not for much longer anyway. Today is the day.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 2,117

Notes:

You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging until February, did you? Come on, I’m not that evil. But a little waiting had to take place, you know, for anticipation purposes. So there you go; the last chapter. Meet me at the end once you finish this! Happy reading!

There are eight more chapters leading up to this final one. It’d be best to head over to the beginning if you’d like to continue reading this fic.

Entire work on AO3

Table of Contents

———————————————————————

The cold seeps into your bones as if you’re standing in a freezer at -10°C. The wind is howling so hard that you fear it may carry you away with one gust of its icy breath.

Two months ago you were drenched in sweat, picking lemons under the scorching sun. Now you’re standing on a pier in Venice, alone and wanted by one of the most dangerous criminals alive.

But you won’t be alone, not for much longer anyway.

Today is the day.

You check your phone. 3:42 p.m. You’ve been waiting for two hours now. Maybe three; who knows? There’s no sight—or sign—of Simon yet. Your feet are numb, and your teeth hurt from clenching them so tightly. But you know what? This is all part of the plan—his plan. If you don’t freeze to death on this pier, then this might work out just fine.

Or so you hope.

You fulfilled every request he made in his cryptic letter. You arrived in Venice on the day he specified. You did as you were told. But nothing seems to be moving the way you thought it would. 

How long until the so-called “gondola” arrives? Will he be there, waiting for you with a bouquet? No, you’re asking too much. He’s not like that; he’s more subtle. Discreet. 

Will you be able to get a word out of him when he arrives? What if he never shows up? What if you misread the message? What if he...

No. Stop. You are overthinking it. Making assumptions won’t lead you to the correct answer. There is only one way to find out; stay put and wait.

Not only that but the threat has not yet been eliminated. Makarov is still out there, working with Laswell and God knows who else. You have to be constantly aware of your surroundings. It didn’t take a genius to realise you couldn’t trust anyone—not even those closest to you.

You’re holding a full-face white mask, a popular accessory worn during the Venice Carnival. You thought that putting on that mask would give you cover if all hell broke loose since it’d make you blend in with the crowd. It’s ironic how you can easily relate to Ghost now. You get him—the need to protect one’s identity from potential threats. And what a threat, mind you: the mafia and one of your closest colleagues. “People you know can hurt you the most,” Simon once said.

You become paranoid at the thought of Makarov breathing down your neck. You begin to look around, trying to spot anyone who may be suspicious, any potential exits from the area other than the canal itself, and if there are any gondola rides nearby, as they would make good escape routes.

“Y/N?” 

You jump out of your skin. A stranger behind you demands your attention, calling you out by name—your real name. You begin to panic. The man doesn’t sound anything like Simon. 

But he doesn’t sound Russian, either. That accent...

You turn around slowly and exhale in relief as you recognise the familiar face. 

“Sargeant Mactavish.” You smile as you greet him. “Nice to see you, Soap,” you say, extending your right hand. 

“Nice to see you, lass,” he says, taking it with a firm grip that doesn’t break when he lets go. His eyes are a bright blue colour—almost electric. Something about them feels familiar, but you can’t quite place it. He is slightly taller than you, with his mohawk adding a few inches to his stature. He is dressed casually, with an indigo pair of jeans and a khaki bomber jacket.

He nods at you, implying that you should follow him, and begins walking towards the crowd.

“How did you find me?” you ask.

“We are Special Forces Operators, love; we find anything we put our minds to,” he brags arrogantly. 

“He told me to summon a gondola, whatever that means.” You wonder, trying to figure out why you’re walking towards the crowd rather than getting into a boat. 

“We figured that putting you into one of these slow-moving targets would be a threat,” he shrugs, “so I’m afraid I’m your gondolier for the day.”

“You’re the best gondolier anyone could ask for, Sargeant,” you say with a smile, picturing Soap in a striped shirt, singing “O Sole Mio” in a Scottish accent. 

As you walk through the crowd with Soap, you calm down and start enjoying your surroundings. A large group of performers has gathered in front of an open stage area to your right. There is a lot of excitement as they start playing their instruments and singing loudly with the crowd. They’re all dressed up in bright-coloured costumes, and many of them are wearing masks. On your left, a man in an elaborate purple suit talks with his friends while sipping wine from a silver goblet. Next to him is another man who appears to be trying to impress a lady by flaunting his new outfit. Further away, two girls in bright green dresses are holding hands, laughing, and dancing to the rhythm of the music. You can’t help but feel mesmerised by the spectacle unfolding in front of you. Everywhere you look, there is a grand display of pageantry and joy, but not Simon.

You deviate from the busy streets until you reach a passage. You find yourself in a different world than the one you just left. The vibrant costumes have been replaced with a dark alley barely lit by dim lanterns. The music and joyful laughter are no longer audible. Instead, all you can hear is the steady dripping of a leaky faucet and the scurrying of rats in the shadows.

“That’s it, lass,” he says, turning to face you, “you’re on your own from now on.”

You nod and thank him before returning your full attention to the dark alley. 

Your nerves kick in once more. Even for this time of day, the area appears deserted. Walking an isolated passage—morning or evening—is never a good idea. 

Despite your fear, the prospect of meeting him again illuminates that path. It’s a temporary relief amid all the confusion and pain of these past months.You begin to walk.

There’re barely any lights on either side of the street, leaving only the occasional lamp here and there. You notice a few people looking your way. Most of them choose to ignore you, while others give you dirty looks as you pass by. How long have you been walking? You can’t tell anymore, and it’s getting dark. You’re starting to get worried... Maybe you should go back.

You hear a noise ahead. A light bulb suddenly turns on, illuminating a tall figure in front of you.

“Met that blue-eyed Sargeant of yours?” He asks with a smirk—a visible smirk. 

No mask. 

He’s wearing a black jacket over a white shirt, dark pants, and boots. He’s a little unkempt, but given the circumstances, you can’t expect him to be anything else. His light brown hair is tangled, with some strands straying away from the balaclava he has just taken off and hanging on his brow. His dark brown eyes are tired and red from all the horrors he’s been through. His nose is pointy, with a slightly crooked bridge from what appears to be the aftereffect of a fight. His prominent cheekbones have turned pink due to the cold, windy air. His lips are... tempting.

He’s... normal. You didn’t expect him to be this normal. 

Your eyes dart around his face, scanning him as he remains motionless with his gaze fixed on you. He’s letting you take it all in.

“Not up to your expectations?” he asks, breaking the silence. 

“W- What?” You mutter as you come out of your trance. “Fuck, shit, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to stare like that.”

“That’s fine.” He speaks softly, his raspy voice unmuffled by the cover you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Neither of you speaks. All you do is stare at each other. This is awkward, just say something, anything.

You swallow the lump in your throat and slowly break the silence.

“Is there any new information on Makarov? Laswell? How’s your arm doing?”

Seriously, idiot? Really? 

He smiles. “Everything is being handled accordingly,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “What matters is that we’re alive and safe for the time being.”

You nod. 

“How about you, love?” He inquires. “Are you all right?”

You lower your head and begin fiddling with your mask, twisting it like a hat. No, you haven’t been “alright”; far from it, to be honest. But the thought of someone, especially him, genuinely caring about your well-being causes you to start sobbing uncontrollably. 

Tears stream down your cheeks, and your body trembles from the intensity of your emotions. He looks at you with a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him and a sense of understanding—like he’s been in your shoes before. He spreads his arms wide open, like that last time back at the safe house. 

But this time, you don’t hesitate. You toss the mask onto the cobblestone road and collapse into his embrace. He cracks a smile and wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you closer to him. He is warm despite the cold weather, his breath brushing against the crown of your head. You take a deep breath and relax into him, your body melting on his, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief washing over you.

“Oh, Simon, I was terrified... We wouldn’t... make it out alive.” You mutter in between sobs.

His hands move up your back to cup your face. You look deep into his eyes and can hear their thoughts. They are filled with the same emotions you feel now—love, tenderness, and joy.

“You ‘re safe, I promise.” He says, caressing your cheek, “I’m here now.”

You nod, pressing yourself more firmly against him. His fingers brush your hair from your face as he looks at you. His gaze pierces right through you; its power makes your heart pound. His lips are so close to yours.

You had been waiting for this moment for a long time. You had been dreaming of it, imagining it, and crafting it in your head. You had thought about every detail, yet you had not expected it to be like this. He’s nothing like the rough-around-the-edges Lieutenant you met back in September. No. This wasn’t a Lieutenant anymore. This wasn’t Ghost anymore. This was Simon—your Simon.

He leans in, brushing his lips softly against your forehead, then moving down to your cheek. Your lips part in anticipation as he makes his way to the corner of your mouth. He pauses there, barely touching you, making your knees feel weak. Your eyes flutter closed. 

He moves for your lips, taking his time to trace them, brushing them softly with his, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine before placing a tender, sweet peck on your lips. You linger there, bursting with anticipation, even when he pulls back with a playful smile gracing his lips.

“For fucks sake, Lieutenant,” you exclaim in frustration and excitement, “finish the damn mission already!”

He laughs before fulfilling your orders and pulls you closer, his mouth crashing into yours, devouring you whole. His lips are soft and tender at first but gradually grow rougher. His tongue delves into your mouth with a passionate vigour, his teeth nipping at your lips playfully before biting down gently on them. Your hands move to his face, tracing the lines of his strong jaw.

He is leading you gently into the kiss; he is sweet but dominant, tender yet assertive. 

You can feel his heart pound against your chest as his hands slide further down your body, exploring every inch of you. Suddenly, you are on fire, consumed by the passionate kiss and the thought of what could come next. 

You slightly push his chest, breaking the kiss. 

“We need to stop,” you say breathlessly, with your cheeks flushed and a small smile tugging at your lips as you look into his eyes. “What if somebody sees us?”

He leaves a light chuckle as he kisses your nose, pulling away from you with his hand still holding onto your waist. He brushes your hair out of your face with his other hand and smiles softly at you. “A bit shy all of a sudden, are we?” He says with a smirk. 

You blush and look away, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Maybe a little,” you reply, smiling shyly.

He interlocks his fingers with yours and leads you away from the dark alley you were so afraid of just moments before. But not anymore; you have him with you now.

You turn your head back and catch a glimpse of the Volto mask you had previously dropped on the floor. That mask is also known as “larva” in Latin, which means “ghost.” Oh, how he’ll laugh once you tell him that. 

But now is not the time. No more Ghosts for now—just you and Simon Riley.

———————————————————————

So that’s it, my dear. That’s all. That’s how it ends. I just want you to know that if you followed through from the beginning up until now, you are a legend. I love you, and I appreciate you. Thank you so much.

[punkrockhistory]

42 years ago

The Misfits "Walk Among Us" Tour, Freezer Theatre Detroit, Michigan, April 3, 1982 supported by Necros, Negative Approach and The Meatmen

[moralesmilesanhour]

Hello hello!! How you doing?? Hope you're doing good cause I got a fluffy request!

Could be either 1610 or 42 miles, but, that miles has reader over cause he wants to impress her with his cooking but fails miserably and nothing goes as he wants it to be and reader is entertained 😆

Doing this w Miles G because something abt that is funnier to me (also he is making Ivorian food bc that's just where my brain went so you're getting African!Reader today 😭 also this is based on what I seen my parents do so idk the standard way to cook anything whoops)

You felt your phone vibrate and grinned upon seeing the contact name 'Gonzalo' flash across the screen.

"Miles?"

"Ion know who else it could be," the boy's voice filtered through your phone’s speakers. "You busy?"

You shook your head, then remembered that Miles couldn't see you.

"Nah, I'm just hanging out."

"Come over, I got a surprise for you."

The sound of something hitting a surface repeatedly in the background catches your attention, as if someone's chopping vegetables.

"Ooh, is your momma cooking? Hey Mrs. Morales!" You attempt to call out.

"She not here," Miles laughs. "I'm the one cooking. You coming over or not?"

You raise an eyebrow at your screen, and he notices the brief pause.

"You know, I can hear your lack of faith in me."

Still, you stand up in front of your bed and slip your crocs on.

"Guilty as charged, Gonzo. I'm coming over anyway to make sure yo' ass don't burn down Rio's kitchen. She doesn't deserve that," you joke.

"I'm not gonna–aye, what'd I say about that nickname–?"

"Bye!" You sung as you hung up.

Miles set aside the last of the veggies he was dicing with a dull scrape. With a swift movement, he slid the pieces of onion into the frying pan with the filleted fish already cooking in it.

The boy took a step back for a second to assess his work: the attiéké you had brought him last week to try out was soaking in a large bowl, waiting to be drained as the scent of simmering vegetables and spices began to spread across the kitchen. Miles grinned, feeling accomplished.

It all went to shit once you rang the doorbell.

"Hey, ma," he opened the door to you grinning in the hallway, arms crossed.

He enunciated the greeting you had taught him carefully, "On...dit...quoi...?

"Very good!" Planting a kiss on Miles' cheek, you quickly slipped your crocs off before stepping inside. "What's with the apron?"

He looked down, and remembered he had borrowed his mother's 'Kiss the Cook' apron.

"Cuz I'm a professional and I do this," he replied, locking the door behind you.

"Are you sure? I don't think 'professionals' leave the stove on unattended."

You laughed as Miles' eyes went wide and he spun around to dart back into the kitchen, cussing under his breath.

"It smell good, though, don't it?" Miles called out over the sound of sizzling.

It does smell good. And familiar.

"You making what I think you making?"

You popped your head into the kitchen and gasped with delight.

"M-hm," the boy nodded as he stuck the bowl in the microwave. "It is supposed to go in here, right?"

"Yup, I'm shocked you remembered."

Miles stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

"C'mon, you don't believe in me?"

The smell of smoke and caramelized onions wafts beneath your nose, and worry slowly creeps onto your features.

"Baby, watch the stove!"

"Shit!"

-

Miles sighed as the two of you leaned on the counter. His stretched out his fingers, having had to wash the remnants of burnt fish and onions out of the frying pan.

"It's fine," you reassured him, rubbing circles into his back. "At least we still got the attiéké, right?"

"Yeah, it's still up there."

Despite attempting to sound casual, the disappointment in Miles' voice was audible. You reached out and toyed with one of his braids before gently tilting his chin towards you.

"Hey, we still got a few hours 'till your mom gets home. You got anything else in that freezer?"

Miles' eyes lit back up as he replied, "Hell yeah, we got a couple chicken thighs left. Round two?"

"Yup," you pecked him on the lips, "but I'm doing the frying this time."