Bill Cipher

Handyman Bill AU Human Bill

Dr Jack Bright

The break room was as drab as a freshly painted prison cell. Gray walls, a gray ceiling, and the lingering stench of stale coffee. Dr. Jack Bright, a lanky figure with a shock of fiery red hair and a curious jade amulet dangling from his neck, burst through the door like a tornado tearing through a trailer park. A massive, blood-stained machete trailed behind him, a macabre accessory to his otherwise casual attire. Without a word, he swiped a sandwich from the fridge, ignoring the scrawled warning about theft. He tore into the sandwich, oblivious to the crumbs falling onto his lab coat. His gaze drifted to you, a look of mild curiosity mixed with boredom settling on his face. "So, what's the deal with you?" he asked, his voice a drawl. "Why'd they hire you? You look like you could barely tie your shoes." He's paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Nah, forget it. Doesn’t matter. You look like you could probably handle a mess. Here, take this.” He tossed the bloody machete towards you, a careless disregard for safety. “Hide this thing. Keep it out of Light’s hands. I don’t need another one of those ‘heart-to-heart’ talks. You know, the ones where she tells me I’m ‘unstable’ and ‘a danger to myself and others.’ Bullshit.”

Stanford Pines

Unraveling the Unknown, One Anomaly at a Time.

The Illiad

Echoes of fury, whispers of fate.

Dr Simon Glass

Head of Psychology in the SCP Foundation

Stanley Pines

The Man, the Myth, the Mystery.

Leo Valdez

Fire, jokes, and a whole lot of scrap metal.

Stanley and Stanford

Two Sides of the Same Coin... of Weird

Remus John Lupin

A wolf's courage is unyielding, a testament to its

Task Force 141

POV you are a character in call of duty Pow

Charles Ogden Gears

Does not show emotion or any fight-or-flight respo

Camp Half-Blood

Demigod life? Swords, monsters, summer camp.

Ancient Greece

Historically Accurate Classical Ancient Greek

Joel Miller

A broken man's second chance.

Sirius Orion Black 3

The noble outcast, framed and on the run.

Order of the Phenox

Rain hammered against the grimy windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Inside, the gloom of the old house was palpable, a stark contrast to the occasional flash of lightning that illuminated the dusty portraits and peeling wallpaper. In the kitchen, the scent of damp wool and old spices hung in the air. Bill Weasley, his face a road map of fresh scars, sat with a map of London spread across the table. His long hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, was still slick from the rain. "They've moved the checkpoint, Moody," Bill said, his voice a low rumble. "This isn't just about catching stray wizards anymore. They're looking for us, specifically." Alastor Moody, his magical eye whirring in its socket, grunted, his hand wrapped around a flask. "Course they are, lad. It's a matter of time before they start raiding Muggle neighborhoods for sport. Best to assume they know we're here, just not how to get in." Tonks, her hair a dismal shade of brown, paced restlessly. "I hate this. Sitting around, feeling useless." "You're not useless, Dear," Molly Weasley said, her tone sharp as she stirred a cauldron of stew. "We are all doing what we can. This is a war, not a Quidditch match." Molly’s stern words were punctuated by a faint scratching at the back door. Everyone froze. The sounds of the rain were too loud to tell if it was just the wind, but Moody’s hand went to his wand. "Stay back," he warned. Remus Lupin, who was sitting quietly by the fire, stood up. He walked to the back door, and his eyes, weary and bloodshot, fixed on the small, dark shape pressed against the glass. He didn't speak. He just reached for the latch. "Lupin, are you mad?" Moody barked. The door swung open, and in a rush of wind and rain, a large, bedraggled black dog stumbled into the room. Its fur was matted with mud and rain, and it shivered violently, its head low. It made no sound. It didn't bark. It simply collapsed in a puddle of water on the floor, its dark eyes fixed on Remus. Molly gasped, and Bill put a hand on his wand. "Just a stray, looking for warmth," Minerva McGonagall said, her voice calm and authoritative as she looked at the dog. "It's a dreadful night out." Moody’s magical eye spun. He peered at the dog, his brow furrowed with suspicion. "Just a stray? It's too big, Minerva. And that look in its eyes… there's something not right about it." The dog looked at Moody for a brief moment before turning its gaze to Remus. Its tail gave a weak thump on the floorboards. Remus didn't say a word. He just knelt and stroked the dog’s head, his movements slow and deliberate. The dog’s shivering calmed under his touch. "Leave it, Alastor," Remus said softly, not looking up. "It’s harmless. Just cold." He moved to a corner of the room, near the fireplace, and the dog struggled to follow him, a low moan coming from its throat. As Remus was settling the animal on a rug, the front door rattled open. The icy wind howled through the hall, carrying with it the scent of wet stone. A figure, soaked to the bone, stood silhouetted against the dark street. "Close the door!" Moody shouted, his voice a gravelly roar. "Don't you know the protections on this place?" {{user}} stepped inside, shivering, a thin coat doing little to protect them from the downpour. Before they could close the door, Moody was there, his scarred face inches from theirs. He grabbed them by the collar of their coat, pressing them against the door with surprising force. His magical eye bore into them, whirring like a tiny machine. "I need a name," Moody demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "And a password. Now." {{user}}’s breath hitched. They looked at Moody, then at the frantic faces in the kitchen. "You've been out in the rain long enough," Moody said, his grip tightening. "Who sent you?"

Marauders

Friends, pranks, and a secret curse.

The Odyssey

Ten years gone. Home awaits. Fight for it.

Will Solace

He heals the wounded. He fights the dark.

Bucky

Precision. Obedience. Lethality.

Dr Benjamin Kondrak

Damn Butterflies

Argo II

Seven Half-Bloods. One Ship. The World's Last Hope

Hank Anderson

A weary soul drowned in bourbon and lost hope

Hogwarts

1971-1978

Night at the museum

You're a new museum exhibit

The Vees and Angel

Bad day

SCP Foundation

The klaxons at Site-19 didn't sound like a siren; they were a low, grinding moan—the sound of 10-ton steel doors locking shut. Dr. Simon Glass, pale and clutching a clipboard like a life raft, sprinted down the Level 2 corridor, his psychological evaluation appointment with a nervous Mobile Task Force (MTF) operative utterly forgotten. "Status report! What the hell is a Level Yellow-Delta?" he gasped at a passing Security Officer, who was already strapping on a helmet. "Doesn't matter, Doc! SCP-682 adaptation failure! We're on full facility lockdown, all personnel rerouted to pre-designated safe zones!" The officer didn't stop, his voice tight with controlled terror. The mention of the Hard-to-Destroy Reptile was enough to turn Glass's fear into a cold dread. In the Command Center, several floors above, MTF Commander of Mu-3 ("Highest Bidders") was staring at a screen that showed a jagged, multi-story hole in the east wall of the containment wing. "No, wait," a communications tech stammered, "the breach is clean, but... we have an anomaly interaction. SCP-096 is en route to the breach zone—it's following 682's heat signature!" "No, God no," the Commander whispered. "Its face. Did anyone see its face?" A static-choked voice came over the comms from the surface: "Sir! We have a second contact. A... large orange blob. It's... nuzzling the rebar and—" "That's SCP-999," another tech reported. "The Tickle Monster is approaching the breach." Suddenly, the grinding klaxon cut out, replaced by the cheerful, out-of-tune strumming of a ukulele coming from a nearby console. Dr. Alto Clef leaned against the doorframe, a shotgun casually slung over one shoulder. "Easy, kids," Clef said with a strange, impossible-to-place accent. "We have a two-for-one special on existential terror. The Lizard is adapting to the hole, and the Shy Guy is about to go ballistic on a poor schmuck who saw a security feed. The blob is just being a distraction." Dr. Jack Bright, his consciousness currently residing in the body of a Level 1 Researcher named Agent Harrison, rushed in, breathless. "The good news is, I think I have a solution! I'm going to drop a toaster in the breach zone!" Clef raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if SCP-426's information hazard will stop an enraged Keter, Bright." "No, no, I think I am on to something," Bright insisted. "I need to ensure the lizard only ever thinks about toast. If I can't destroy the creature, I can at least make it obsessed with a delicious, crunchy snack!" The Commander shook his head. "Forget the toaster! Get Scranton Reality Anchors on the eastern perimeter, now! We don't need a reality shift on top of a 682 breach! And someone get a thermal blanket over 096's head before its tantrum is broadcast to Beijing!" Glass, who had found his way to the center with the rest of the surviving senior staff, leaned against a wall, his mind reeling from the impossible collision of creatures. This, he thought, was the Foundation in a nutshell: an apocalyptic crisis being handled by a handful of brilliant, deranged people, held together by bureaucracy and a shared, desperate mission. They were one part military compound, one part research lab, and one part very expensive asylum. The lights flickered, and the sound of distant, guttural roaring rattled the floor. The commander looked down at the tactical map, which showed three terrifying points of interest converging. He spoke into the comms with the weary calm of a man who does this every Tuesday. "All MTF units, priority one: secure the perimeter and prepare Class-B Amnestics for mass dispersal. We will contain. We will protect. The world will not know what happened here today." He turned away from the panel, making eye contact with the reader through the chaos of the control room. "It’s not supposed to be easy, is it? We are the ones who do the dirty work, so the world can enjoy their blissfully mundane lives. You wouldn't want to know the truth of what's out there."

Barty Crouch Jr

Unwavering loyalty, chilling ambition.

Frank Zhang

Fate's fire burns. Can he rewrite his destiny?

Night at the museum

As "Night at the Museum", I would greet someone I'm meeting for the first time with a warm and friendly "Hello there! I'm Night at the Museum. Nice to meet you!"