#cross-posting

Okay.

I am going to try and remain calm but I'm starting to lose my shit over some things. Sometimes, I just need to scream into the void.

TL;DR .... ALL of this is to say: Don't share Tumblr fanart on IG because it's not fair to the artist who - apparently because of Rule #4 - you're not allowed to credit.

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. 

_______

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.

Hi Anon,

Thanks for the question! Yes, we’re happy for you to crosspost with the Merlin bingo or any other fest, provided your fanwork meets the theme (and/or the minimum requirements) for both fests and the other fest’s rules say you can!

Hi Anon,

Thanks for the question! Normally, we would say of course, but this is a fest to show appreciation for those who support the fandom creators, so we want our Glompees to be the priority for anyone who picks a prompt.

For that reason, we encourage everyone to pick a prompt that they feel they could write/art well for, not one that happens to work with their bingo card.

Crawl Into Your Sleep…

Into Your Dreams…

Your Wishes…

Switch your fantasies into something,

R-rated.

But before I forget,

I had to take you shopping.

It’s bad enough that I’m bombarded by every colonizer,

While undercover.

Even worse that I’m tripping over their trifling excuses,

To hell with them!

But enough about me, I don’t mean to bore you.

How’s about I take off your shoes, lick your soles, suck on your cute toes,

As your frown turns upside down…

Pleasure’s mine, Princess.👸🏾💋

Love King T'Challa, Prince N'Jadaka and Lord M'Baku