#Cross-posting

[isuffercreativelytwice]

Forgotten birthday | Scp 076 x reader

wholesome interaction because why not (semi)

but its yandere

Scp 076 x reader

___________

Abel had his birthday alone. (or what he thought was when his birthday was). On a rock. With no one to celebrate with. 

Over the thousands of years he spent wandering the earth leaving a trail of death and blood, walking as a reanimated corpse to have vengeance on his brother.  

Killing every being that resembled a human without a drop of guilt. They were the creation of his brother, and he hated them with a burning passion. The smell of smoke choking his lungs, Abel missed the fresh air. 

This was all because of them. 

They killed each other anyway so a few deaths caused by him would be the norm. 

The dying candlelight illuminated the area he huddled into, in the open out on a large boulder. He stared wistfully at the flickering flames, rage leaving his presence as he was in peace, or as peaceful you could be created from violence and a thirst for blood. 

Someone walked up to him, as he sat unbothered, not striking them down with a weapon from hell. 

“Mind if I take a seat?” They asked, voice calm and melodic. Even with no answer, they seated themselves next to him, a gentle clack of metal with rock made Abel intrigued enough to turn a head. 

The person flicked open a lighter, holding it to the dying embers of the candle, relighting it once again. Why would someone sit next to a stranger they never knew? He thought to himself, making the conclusion that if they didn't die by his hand, another would take it. 

But maybe, with the years of no contact with humans in a positive way, he yearned for an interaction with a sentient being that could hold a conversation. 

As much as he hated the thought, Abel hated not having something to live for.

When he zoned out, the person who dared to interact with him hummed lowly, flicking open a satchel and an aroma of sweetness wafted out. His attention was now fully on the sweet treat, clutching the cape of animal and human skin that kept him warm. 

Grey eyes examined it, reading over the swirly letters that at first wouldn't piece together, like a broken puzzle waiting to be solved. 

‘Happy birthday.’

Abel stared at them, wide-eyed.  

“How do you know?” He said, voice filled with confusion, clasping the stolen blade that resided in the makeshift pocket on his cape. His voice hoarse from it never being used. 

They smiled at him, undeterred by the threat. 

_______

:) might make a part 2 idk

[rockingrobin69]

Wonder full (1)

It started with Ron’s idea for a thesis, and the fact they didn’t actually know a lot of people who used to be part of a white supremist cult and then left, and that Malfoy still lived in the country. In town, actually, in this crap of a flat above a chippy. Apparently the owner let him rent it for half price if he worked weekends. Apparently he did. And when Ron came back, two hours late with this strange frown, all he said was, “Whoa, mate.” And Harry decided that maybe he did sort of want to tag along after all.

Malfoy was different. Not only because he looked older, or because he sat on the floor with his legs crossed, or because of the piercings and the choker, or because he let his hair grow, wild and frizzy at his shoulders. Something… Harry didn’t know. Something hungry and a little loud about the way he kept his head down. The way he rambled one hundred miles a minute outside the interviews, the strange jokes he made and the way his eyes rounded, big and grey and startling. It was weird. He was weird. But he answered every single one of Ron’s questions, even the ones Ron hadn’t planned on asking. Even the ones that hung in the air. Even the one that made him go scary, that made him run to the loo with a hand over his mouth. He came back, half a weird smile on his face, and answered it too.

And Harry found the in-betweens interesting. Found himself asking Malfoy what he did the rest of the week (“butcher Italian art in the café across the street, you should come, it’d be horrible”); who was he still in contact with (“no one, I—don’t, ah, really, ah”); where did he get that tan (“a friend of a pal from work went bungee jumping so I begged them to take me? Never regretted anything more, apart from—well”). Found himself wanting to know. And the flat always smelled like chips, and Harry was perpetually hungry, and sooner than later he found himself going on his own, without Ron and the questions drilling into Harry’s scalp, festering in his brain.

Ron said Malfoy had actually volunteered. That he didn’t have to seek him out, Malfoy approached him through the university. It made sense, in a way, with this Malfoy: the Malfoy who couldn’t shut up for the life of him, who was constantly moving and buzzing and clicking. Would be annoying, but—Harry’s brain had been kind of quiet recently, and everyone around him seemed happy enough, or at least settled, and this heaped spoonful of Malfoy was a nice change of pace. With work, boring and safe and strangely continuous, with nights at Ron and Hermione’s or babysitting a quiet Ted twice a week, with always forgetting what kind of oat milk he liked and buying the wrong mustard. With life being, well, it. Nonstop and a bit bland. Malfoy was different, Malfoy was weird, and Harry liked it.

And there was the way he laughed. Loud, deranged, a little charming, and deranged. Like he didn’t know how to laugh. The crease between his eyebrows, like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right, the bubbling, like he didn’t care. It was a nice sort of laugh. Harry kept going.

He went sofa-searching with Malfoy when his old one gave out. Said he’d help him paint a chest of drawers Malfoy found on the street, begged him to chuck it when it proved half-eaten, roared with laughter when he tried, pink-cheeked, tongue between his teeth, to make it stand on three uneven legs. It wasn’t even funny, no idea why he was laughing. Only that there were tears in his eyes, and no breath left in his chest, and that Malfoy was radiant with something warm and weird and a little off.

“What?” he cried, flopping down on the rug. “Stop laughing, Potter! Honestly!”

But Harry couldn’t, waving his arms in big, apologetic flails. “Just throw the damn thing! You’re impossible.”

Malfoy smiled, that crooked line, small and weirdly alight. “No chance. There’s some potential there, I know it. I can almost, almost see it. Don’t you think it would look terrific right there?” pointing at an empty space on the opposite wall. Most of the flat was empty. Harry didn’t mind it so much anymore.

“I think the weevils claimed it first. Sorry.”

“Oh, no. We don’t have weevils. Potter, say we don’t have weevils.”

“What? Why?” the urgency in his voice made something stick in Harry’s throat, thick and jagged. Then an oomph as Malfoy fell on top of him, covering Harry’s mouth with a hand.

“Quick! Say it! Words are magic, we can’t take the risk! You have to say we don’t have weevils, you have to say it, say it, now,” but he was laughing like a maniac, and covering Harry’s mouth anyway, so Harry couldn’t say anything, do anything but laugh too, trying to push him off. Maybe not trying too hard. “Come on, Potter, say it, why aren’t you saying it, sayyy it—”

He finally managed a shove, and Malfoy rolled to the floor, hysterical. Harry wiped his cheeks, couldn’t get this foolish grin off his face.

“You’re barking,” he whispered, and it came out appreciative, fond. “Malfoy? Still alive?” only emitting these tiny noises, choked-off giggles, eyes closed behind a shaky hand. “Hey, you okay?”

“Wonderful,” Malfoy murmured, then swallowed. Sat up, looked around himself. Loud and a bit hollow. “Are you getting hungry? Bet you I could charm Mr. Picket for two sausage suppers.”

Harry sank against the sofa, this strange feeling in his belly. Content and fuzzy. Saturated or full of static or something.

“Yeah, I could do with some food. I can pay, though. Let me pay.”

“No need. Just sit back and watch a true master at work.” With a wink, Malfoy got up, and this sudden panic in Harry’s chest alarmed him silent. He realised he didn’t want to see Malfoy leave.

What a weird fucking thought to have.

This is the first part of act 1 of Wonder Full, posted on AO3. I'll be posting all 9 parts of the first chapter here too, or you can catch it on AO3 here.

[sassasafreeaction]

Hopefully this reaches everyone who wanted it, but here is the cross-post for the fic from this post.

[climbingthefloors]

obsessed with this baby hippo from thailand's khao khew zoo.. she has been so utterly betrayed by the world

[amezure]

Some of my favorite dialogues from animal crossing 🌈

[wellfine]

Au fucking revoir Mister Prince

[juxhex]

"i sure hope no elven deity breaks free from their prison in the fade and starts wreaking havoc on thedas"

the nefarious ghilan'nain:

[spicybeefu]

What if Pokemon & Animal Crossing had a crossover game? #20 Made in Blender - Pumpkaboo design by @omuart

[nattousan]

had to stunt on these kids with their own crayola chalks at the ice cream shop

[gaily-daily]

"They just replaced Brian Thompson, the shooter didn't change anything..."

Blue Cross IMMEDIATELY reversed their anesthesia plan. So like yeah? He actually did.

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[absterstuff]

mommmm they’re making haunted effigies at the jerma club again :(

[mellosghosts]

this is what you get for dating an atheist

original

[teal-chimera]

We will be okay, I promise this is not the end. It wasn't the end in 2016, it's not today, even if the future is uncertain. No matter who is in the president's seat we will continue to fight, that has not changed.

[officialspec]

what are we, some kind of league of legends?