Hello hello! Im Scorpion/Lilac/Edwin/Aeros. My pronouns are he/him and xie/xim, zuf/zuft/zufs/zufts, thon/thonself and ni/nim. 25 years old.
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Also in multiple fandoms so i tend to reblog whatever im in the mood for. Granted i do make my own posts randomly xD
I also like to archive old content. Mainly creatures labs content if we're being specific. So do be aware of the norn posts popping up throughout cookie run posts.
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I know i could have done this sooner. But my sleep deprived ass kept forgetting.
theist accelerationism: the world needs to get as bad as possible as fast as possible so God is forced to intervene
atheist accelerationism: the world needs to get as bad as possible as fast as possible in order to trigger a collapse of the current economic and socio-political structure
agnostic accelerationism: nobody knows why the world needs to get as bad as possible as fast as possible
A/N: Ugh, I don't feel 27. As a little May 13th birthday treat, I'm releasing some birthday-themed one-shots (All gn x reader in case anyone is confused and decides to give me death threats again LMAO)
Full series out so far:
Birthday Bat(Batfam x Platonic!GN!Reader)
Tactical Cake (Leon Kennedy x GN!Reader)
You got the idea at exactly two in the morning, which should have been everyone’s first warning.
By breakfast, you had already printed the reservation confirmation, highlighted the time in radioactive yellow, and marched into the mess hall with the kind of bright-eyed determination that made trained soldiers instinctively look for exits. Price noticed first, because Price noticed everything, even the emotional weather of a room before the storm had fully put its boots on. He was standing by the coffee urn with a mug in hand, cap pulled low, beard still slightly damp from the shower, and when his eyes landed on the paper in your hand, his expression shifted by a fraction. Not fear. Captain John Price did not fear many things. But there was a definite calculation there, a small internal ledger opening in his head and immediately trying to determine how expensive, dangerous, or humiliating this was about to become. Gaz sat at the nearest table with one hand around his tea and the other scrolling through his phone, while Soap was halfway through building an architectural disaster out of toast, eggs, and whatever sauce he had found in the kitchen. Ghost stood by the wall because, of course, he did, black hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, mask in place, watching the room with the calm menace of a gargoyle assigned to breakfast duty.
You slapped the paper down on the table.
Soap’s toast collapsed.
Gaz looked up. “That sounded official.”
“It is,” you said. “Birthday orders.”
Price took one slow sip of coffee. “Birthday orders?”
“Yes.”
“We’re doing those now?”
“We are today.”
Soap leaned over the paper, eyes lighting up before he had even read all of it. “Resident Evil escape room?”
Ghost’s head turned.
Gaz’s eyebrows climbed. “You booked us an escape room?”
“I booked us a Resident Evil themed escape room,” you corrected, tapping the confirmation with one finger. “For my birthday. Two hours. Full immersion. Puzzle-based. Horror elements. Actors. Fog. Lab sets. Raccoon City vibes. Leon Kennedy. Love of my life. There may be zombies.”
Price closed his eyes briefly in the way a man might when informed that a goat had been elected to Parliament. “There may be zombies.”
“It says infected personnel on the website, but we all know what that means.”
Soap grinned at you, bright and dangerous. “You wee menace.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It felt like one.”
Gaz picked up the paper and scanned it, his mouth twitching. “It says here no weapons, no excessive force against actors, no breaking props, and no tackling the infected.”
You looked pointedly around the table. “Which is why we’re having this briefing now.”
Ghost said, “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“No.”
“You have to come.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s my birthday.”
Silence settled with the sudden weight of a trapdoor opening under all of them.
Soap made a soft, delighted noise. “That’s dirty.”
Gaz looked between you and Ghost like he was watching someone prod a bear with a party horn. Price’s gaze dipped to his coffee, but not fast enough to hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Ghost stared at you from across the room, unreadable except for the long, glacial pause that followed. Somewhere in that hush, you remembered the last time you tried to mark an occasion, your infamous attempt to make cupcakes on base, the fire alarm going off, Gaz laughing so hard he nearly dropped his tea, and Ghost silently handing you a fire extinguisher with all the ceremony of a knighthood.
You stared back, heart giving one stupid, hopeful little kick behind your ribs. You did not ask for much, not really. You were good at pretending days were just days, at letting milestones pass quietly because it was easier than admitting you wanted anyone to notice. But this year, something in you had rebelled. Something bright, ridiculous, and maybe a little feral had looked at the calendar and said, No. This one is mine.
“It’s my birthday,” you repeated, softer this time, less triumphant and more honest. “I want to go. And I want all of you there.”
Soap’s teasing expression gentled first. Gaz followed. Price looked at you over the rim of his mug, and whatever refusal he had been preparing dissolved somewhere beneath the steady, tired warmth of his eyes. Ghost did not move for a moment. Then he looked away with a small shift of his shoulders, annoyed in a way that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“Fine,” he said.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Soap pointed at him. “Marked down in history. Simon Riley defeated by birthday law.”
Ghost’s eyes cut to him. “Keep talking, and you’re bait.”
“You hear that?” Soap said to you. “He’s already in character.”
By late afternoon, the four of them had been dragged off base and into civilian clothes with varying degrees of cooperation. Price wore a dark jacket, jeans, and the expression of a father who had agreed to one festive activity and was already prepared to confiscate something. Gaz looked effortlessly normal, which meant he could pass for a regular person until someone noticed how he mapped every exit the second he walked into a room.
Soap wore a black T-shirt under an open flannel and looked so excited you feared he might attempt to fistfight a zombie purely for atmosphere. This time, at least, no one tried to wear their shirt inside out like last year's 'stealth mode' attempt, although Soap did check three times just to be sure, and everyone was still banned from costume hats after the infamous sombrero incident. Ghost came in a hoodie, gloves, and his skull mask, because apparently "civilian clothes" meant "same haunting, different fabric."
You had dressed comfortably, ready for crawling under fake laser grids, unlocking cabinets, and screaming for theatrical reasons, though you suspected the real entertainment would be watching the most competent men you knew struggle with a puzzle designed by someone named Trevor who probably lived on energy drinks and horror movie lore.
The escape room building sat between a vape shop and a closed bakery, its front windows plastered with biohazard symbols, fake warning tape, and a poster that read: RACCOON CITY NEEDS YOU. The lobby smelled faintly of dust, rubber masks, and popcorn from a machine in the corner. Red lights pulsed along the ceiling in slow, dramatic beats. Somewhere behind the walls, a distant alarm looped, low and mechanical, like a building dreaming of disaster.
Soap breathed in deeply. “This is brilliant.”
Price glanced at the waiver on the counter. “This is a lawsuit in fancy lighting.”
Gaz nudged your shoulder. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I haven’t even begun enjoying this.”
Ghost stood behind you, looming silently at the display of fake severed hands in a glass case. One of the teenage employees at the counter looked at him, looked at the skull mask, then looked at their clipboard with the weary professionalism of someone who had decided they were not paid enough to ask.
“Team name?” the employee asked.
Soap opened his mouth.
“No,” Price said immediately.
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I know enough.”
You leaned on the counter. “Put us down as Birthday S.T.A.R.S.”
Gaz made a sound as if he were trying not to laugh.
Soap clutched his chest. “That’s awful. I love it.”
Ghost muttered, “Should’ve stayed in the car.”
“You came in my car,” you said.
“Should’ve stayed in the boot.”
The employee gave the rules in a flat, practiced voice, and you listened very carefully, mostly because you could feel the combined impatience of 141 radiating behind you like a tactical furnace. No touching actors. No climbing unless instructed. No forced entry. Clues were hidden, not buried, inside walls. If anyone needed to leave, they could say the safe word, which was “green herb.” Soap immediately lost his mind at that and had to turn away, shoulders shaking.
"Appropriate," Gaz stage-whispered, "half the team needs healing herbs on a normal day." You added, "Is there a bonus for yelling 'herb' in a Scottish accent?" Ghost looked as though every cell in his body had filed a complaint.
Then the employee opened a heavy black door and gestured into the dark.
“Welcome to the underground lab. You have ninety minutes before the infection reaches the surface.”
You stepped in first.
The door shut behind you with a final, theatrical thunk.
For a second, the room was nearly black. Then, the emergency lights flickered on overhead, bathing everything in red. You stood in what looked like a ruined security office, all cracked monitors, overturned chairs, fake blood dragged across the tiled floor in long, glossy streaks. A corpse in a lab coat slumped over the desk, one hand outstretched toward a locked metal case. Papers littered the room, covered in patient logs, chemical codes, and warnings about viral exposure. Somewhere beyond the walls, something groaned.
You felt ridiculous joy rise in your chest.
“This is so cool,” you whispered.
Price stepped past you, eyes moving automatically across the room. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
“It’s an escape room, Price. Touching things is the point.”
“Organized touching.”
Gaz laughed under his breath and picked up a clipboard from the floor. “Patient list. There are numbers circled.”
Soap crouched by the fake corpse. “Our dead friend’s got a keycard under his hand.”
“Ask permission,” you said solemnly.
Soap looked at the corpse. “Sorry, mate.” He lifted the rubber hand, took the keycard, and immediately the corpse jerked upright with a recorded scream.
Soap screamed too.
Not a little. Not politely. A full, startled, soul-ejected yelp that echoed off the walls and made Gaz double over laughing. Price turned sharply, hand half-raised before remembering the no-weapons rule. Ghost did not flinch, but his eyes snapped to Soap with such murderous dryness you nearly folded in half.
Soap pressed a hand to his chest. “That was cheap.”
“You apologized to a mannequin,” Ghost said.
“It had presence.”
You laughed so hard your eyes watered, and that more than anything loosened the room. Gaz was still grinning as he matched the circled patient numbers to a keypad on the wall. Price sorted through lab notes with a gruff efficiency that made even fake paperwork feel like part of a classified operation. Ghost found a UV flashlight taped under the desk within thirty seconds, because of course he did, and when invisible ink appeared across the wall spelling out DON’T TRUST WESKER, you gasped loudly enough for Soap to whip around.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” you said. “I’m just emotionally fulfilled.”
“You’re a nerd.”
“It’s my birthday. I’m a decorated nerd.”
Gaz entered the first code. A cabinet popped open with a hiss, revealing three colored vials, a laminated map of the facility, and a plastic pistol-shaped scanner that the employee had explained was used to identify infected samples. Soap grabbed it instantly.
“No shooting actors,” Price warned.
“It’s a scanner.”
“I know what I said.”
The next room was a laboratory choked with fog. Glass tubes glowed sickly green along the walls. A fake containment chamber stood cracked open in the center, its door clawed from the inside. The air smelled like machine fog and cold metal, and something about the lighting made everyone’s faces look sharper, stranger, half-human under the red emergency wash. Your hand brushed Gaz’s sleeve as you moved in, and he glanced down, not quite taking your hand but staying close enough that the offer was there. It was the kind of quiet care that never announced itself. You felt it anyway.
A speaker crackled overhead. “Attention. Viral breach detected. All personnel proceed to decontamination.”
Soap looked delighted. “Aye, see, I could work here.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Gaz said.
“I’d be great in a zombie outbreak.”
“You’d get bitten trying to pet something.”
“It might be lonely.”
Ghost moved toward a locked medical fridge. “Focus.”
“Bossy for a man who didn’t want to come,” you said.
Ghost did not look at you, but his voice came back low. “Still here.”
The words landed softer than they should have. Still here. With him, everything gentle arrived disguised as a blunt object. For a second, the realization pulsed through you: these small acts, so easily dismissed, meant everything. You smiled to yourself, a little helpless, a little grateful, and turned back to the puzzles before your heart could do anything embarrassing, holding tight to the warmth of being together.
The lab puzzle required mixing the colored vials according to a formula hidden across three different stations. Price became alarmed about it. He lined the vials up with military precision, assigned Gaz to the map, told Soap not to touch anything unless supervised, and somehow made a fake antidote puzzle feel like defusing an actual biochemical weapon. You watched him argue with a laminated instruction card and felt a warmth spread behind your ribs.
“You know we don’t actually die if we mess it up, right?” you asked.
Price gave you a look. “That’s no excuse for poor procedure.”
Soap whispered, “He’s having fun.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Then the lights cut out.
A siren wailed. Red strobes burst through the dark. Something slammed against the glass of the cracked containment chamber. You jumped back into Gaz, who caught you by the shoulders automatically, steady and warm. A figure in torn lab scrubs lurched out of a hidden door with a guttural moan, face painted gray, contacts gleaming under the strobe.
You shrieked. Not because you were truly frightened, but because it felt right, and because joy sometimes needed a dramatic exit. Soap shouted something Scottish and delighted. Price stepped in front of you on instinct before stopping himself. Ghost moved faster than anyone, one gloved hand catching the back of Soap’s shirt before Soap could square up like the infected actor had personally insulted his mother.
“No tackling,” Ghost said.
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“You shifted your weight.”
“I shift my weight all the time.”
“You were gonna tackle the zombie,” Gaz said, still holding your shoulders and laughing.
The actor groaned magnificently and pointed toward a keypad before staggering back into the dark.
You clapped a hand over your mouth. “They gave us a clue.”
Soap stared after them. “That zombie’s a team player.”
The clue got you into decontamination, which was really a narrow hallway with flashing lights, hanging plastic strips, and a voiceover announcing that all contaminated subjects would be incinerated. You had to solve a pressure-plate sequence to cross safely. Soap kept trying to rush it. Price kept catching him by the collar. Gaz figured out the rhythm. Ghost, infuriatingly, memorized the entire sequence after watching it once and crossed with the smooth, silent confidence of a man who had never once been humbled by recreational puzzles.
You stood at the start of the plates, eyeing the flashing pattern. “I hate that he’s good at this.”
Ghost turned from the other side. “You wanted me here.”
“I wanted you mediocre here.”
“Disappointing you already.”
“No,” you said, and the word came out too honest, too quick. His eyes held yours through the red-lit haze. “Not that.”
The hallway seemed to quiet around you for half a heartbeat, though the alarms were still blaring and Soap was muttering numbers under his breath. Ghost said nothing, but something in his posture changed, a tiny easing at the edges. You crossed the plates carefully, Gaz counting for you, Price watching your feet, Soap cheering in whispers as if volume might set off the fake incinerator.
When you reached the other side, Ghost’s hand hovered near your elbow, not touching unless needed.
“You’re fine,” he said.
“I know.”
“Good.”
The final room was the director’s office, all dark wood, flickering monitors, and ominous corporate villain décor. A huge Umbrella-style logo dominated the wall, altered just enough to avoid copyright, which made it funnier. There was a locked briefcase on the desk, a chessboard with missing pieces, a bookshelf with hidden switches, and a red-glowing countdown timer above the exit door. Twenty-two minutes left.
For a while, the five of you moved like a strange little machine. Gaz cracked the monitor password using employee birthdays from a file. Soap found a chess piece inside a fake plant and crowed like he had discovered buried treasure. Price decoded a memo by holding it over a lamp, and when a hidden message appeared, he looked personally vindicated. Ghost discovered that the bookshelf switches corresponded to the order of infection stages listed in the lab notes. You found the last key taped beneath the director’s nameplate and unlocked the briefcase to reveal a final vial labeled CURE and a card that read: Only one team member can carry the cure to extraction. Choose wisely.
Soap immediately pointed at you. “Birthday immunity.”
Gaz nodded. “Birthday immunity.”
Price took the vial and placed it in your hand with ceremonial seriousness. “Don’t drop it.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Still.”
Ghost looked at the timer. “Move.”
The exit required one last code, hidden in a recorded message that played from the office phone. The message was distorted, layered with static, and accompanied by a dramatic voice speaking about betrayal, containment, and the collapse of Raccoon City. You all leaned in around the desk, trying to catch the numbers beneath the noise.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price added.
“Was that a nine?” you asked.
“Five,” Ghost said.
Soap frowned. “I heard sandwich.”
“You heard sandwich?” Gaz asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“You had cake in the car.”
“That was pre-outbreak cake.”
The timer hit three minutes.
You punched in 7259. Red light. Wrong.
“Damn,” you whispered.
Price’s jaw tightened. Gaz replayed the message. Soap finally went quiet, focus sharpening beneath the humor. Ghost stood close behind you, his presence steady at your back. The voice crackled again.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price said.
“Not five,” Ghost corrected. “Fight.”
You blinked. “Resident Evil puzzle logic. Boss fight. It’s not a number. It’s a word.”
Soap snapped his fingers. “Tyrant.”
You looked at the keypad, then the letters beneath the numbers. TYRANT. 897268.
Green light.
The exit door unlocked with a heavy clunk just as the timer dipped under sixty seconds. Soap whooped. Gaz grabbed your sleeve and pulled you through the door with the others behind you. Fog spilled after you into the lobby as if the room itself had exhaled defeat.
At the end, Leon Kennedy’s voice crackled from a digital frame at the end of the hallway, a spotlight shining directly on the frame.
Leon congratulated the group. Then he did a backflip.
“He’s so dreamy,” you sighed.
Gaz and Soap scoffed. “He’s fake.”
You turned to them, eyes narrowed in defense of your beautiful blonde man.
“Leon is a tactical genius. And hot. And biceps.”
The employee behind the counter clapped politely, dead-eyed from too many bachelor parties and corporate team-building groups.
“Congratulations. You saved the city.”
Soap threw both arms up. “Never doubted us.”
“You screamed at a mannequin,” Gaz said.
“It screamed first.”
Price signed the completion board with your team name while pretending not to care about your finishing time. Ghost lingered near the wall again, but when the employee offered to take a team photo in front of the biohazard backdrop, he did not leave. He stood behind you, huge and still, while Soap threw an arm around your shoulders and Gaz leaned in on your other side. Price stood close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The paper crown Soap had bought from the lobby gift shelf sat crooked on your head, black with a little red biohazard symbol in the center, and you looked at the camera with flushed cheeks and a grin you could not seem to tame.
Outside, night had settled over the parking lot, cool and deep, the pavement shining faintly under the streetlamps. The world felt strangely soft after all that red light and fog, ordinary in a way that seemed almost magical. Soap was still arguing that he would have survived the outbreak. Gaz was listing every reason he would not. Price walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, quiet but close. Ghost trailed just behind, the sound of his boots steady in the dark.
You slowed near the car, looking back at the glowing windows of the escape room. “Thank you for coming.”
You shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I know it was ridiculous.”
“It was,” Price said.
You laughed under your breath. “Thanks.”
His eyes warmed. “Was also worth it.”
Soap bumped your shoulder gently. “Best outbreak I’ve ever been dragged into.”
“You loved it.”
“Aye. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Gaz held up the photo strip the employee had printed, the five of you caught in a ridiculous little frame of smoke and fake biohazard tape. “We’re keeping this.”
Ghost reached for it.
Gaz moved it out of reach. “No.”
“Destroy it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s evidence.”
“It’s memories.”
Soap leaned in. “Same thing, LT.”
You looked at Ghost, smiling. “You had fun.”
“No.”
“You made the zombie clue-giver nervous.”
“That was not fun.”
“You solved half the room.”
“That was efficiency.”
“You came because it was my birthday.”
Ghost went still.
The others quieted with the kind of subtle grace they sometimes had when something mattered. The parking lot lights hummed above you. Somewhere down the road, a car passed, its headlights sweeping over the curb and gone.
Ghost looked at you for a long moment, then said, “You asked.”
It was not much. It was everything. Your birthday had been fake blood, cheap fog, a plastic cure vial, Soap screaming at a corpse, Gaz laughing with his whole face, Price pretending he wasn't deeply invested in the puzzle procedure, and Ghost standing in a themed escape room because you wanted him there. It should have been silly. It was silly. But under it, threaded through every ridiculous second, was the thing you had been too afraid to ask for directly.
They showed up.
You looked down at the little photo strip in Gaz’s hand, at all of you crammed together in red light, alive and absurd and yours in the only way people like them could be.
Let me keep this, you thought. Just this. Just them.
Then Soap ruined the moment by saying, “Next year, we’re doing haunted laser tag.”
Price immediately said, “No.”
Gaz said, “Maybe.”
Ghost said, “Absolutely not.”
You grinned, birthday crown slipping lower over your forehead. “It’s my birthday next year too.”
Ghost stared at you.
Soap started laughing.
And under the cool hush of the parking lot, with fake city-saving behind you and real warmth walking beside you, you let yourself believe, just for tonight, that some wishes did not need candles to come true.
A/N: Happy Birthday to anyone celebrating their birthday and reading this!!! Hope you have a great birthday!
