-Call me what you wish, it will not change your fate.
-Any pronouns but she
-I do not accept requests, but you may speak to me or about any of my works. Suggestions are allowed as well as writing in my inbox.
-I take known anons. The familiar are the welcomed.
-I write for whoever and whatever I wish. Smut is rare.
-Disrespect of the human flesh is outlawed. Terfs, racists, homo/transphobes, and bigots in any shape will be blocked on site no questions asked.
-I do not support AI. Do not use my writing for AI. Do not talk to me about AI.
-Fast-paced multifandom writer. my interests switch quickly and i have many of them. do not expect me to linger on ideas for long.
-This vessel is a system, not all scripts will be written in the same meter. (posts will attempt to be tagged with the sign-off of the alter who wrote it)[current alters are: 💾, 🪁, 🕊️, 💥, 🎺, 🧧, 💧, 🐺🪓, 🐑, 💡,🐊, 🌫️]
-this intro looks intimidating sorry its just the aesthetic please send me asks i love talking to people
#the rot - posts not about writing
#the flesh - short writings (may also be drafts i do not plan to finish)
uhhhhh something something terzo/alpha/omega with antichrist!masc!reader
something something fucking into terzo under you while he sucks one ghoul and his hips are pushed down by yours making him fuck into the other ghoul beneath him
you saying something in ghoulish that makes the ghouls chuckle while terzo is helpless beneath yall
i ask because i currently have approximately 7drafts from other fandoms but have no plans to finish them. however some of you seem to enjoy my writing so i was wondering your opinions on the matter.
Thinking about alucard and an abandoned thrall reader...
(956 words, grammar and capitalization changes halfway through sorry)
(servant reader[kind of, you're a thrall to an undescribed vampire], reader calls alucard and another vampire their master but not in a kinky way, frequent mentions of starving, blood, its vampires there gonna be blood sucking(as a very vague metaphor for peenar sucking ofc), probably ooc dont @ me)
(in my mind, thralls work sort of like a child at first. they have to feed off their master's blood (or any vamp blood but whoever feeds them is technically the master) until they are developed enough as a pseudo-vamp that they can drink human blood. their master has significant control over them but thralls still can make their own decisions. also, i am aware that alucard is a dhampir, just imagine his blood works for this if you would be so kind)
you've been walking the streets for hours. you know because the moon, which was just beginning to rise when you first left, is now high in the sky and painting the sky all sorts of deep blue.
but you aren't paying attention. you can distantly feel a deep ache in your legs, a gentle warmth on your face from the tears that you were shedding. But you couldn't truly feel any of this. Your senses were overcome with the red haze of hunger--something that had not been sated in many days. your master left his lair, leaving you behind while he was at it. he had told you to stay, and so you had for a while. until that gnawing pain of starvation forced you up and out the door. searching.
you hadn't found much yet, the scent of your master having long escaped your not-quite-fully-developed sense of smell.
you know that passerby are staring--how could they not? your clothing was glorified rags, stained with blood and dirt to the point you couldn't quite remember what color they were supposed to be anyway. But it didn't matter, all else was secondary to the fire of hunger that raged within you.
until you smelled it.
food.
it didn't smell like your master--the man who smelled of death and rot, like the cellar he kept you in thinking you would never leave under his command. no, it smelled like heaven compared to him. rich and warm like how you remember the feeling of sun on your skin. like the feeling of a hug from someone you loved. (not that you truly remembered how that felt, your family had died years ago, and you never had the chance to court someone.)
mindlessly, you sped up. you didn't know exactly where you were walking, these streets unfamiliar to you, you simply followed the scent. drool pooled in your mouth, wetting the tongue that had previously been bone-dry.
you sensed him before you saw him, a figure standing alone in the street. he positioned himself carefully in the shadows, poised to avoid the worst of the faintly dawning sun. you stumbled towards him without a thought.
he looked up from the stone road, golden eyes locking onto you like a hawk assessing danger. he seemed to sense what you were immediately, posture tensing. his expression went through phases of recognition, alarm, confusion, and then settled into a solemn caution.
you came at him fast, but he was faster. your hands reached for him weakly, hazy eyes focusing loosely on him. his hands stopped you in return, one covering your mouth that had bared your fangs, the other braced on your chest to stop you from coming closer.
he took his eyes off you for a moment to glance around, ensuring no curious onlookers were watching. he then dragged you further into the shadows, eyes glowing faintly as he fixed his gaze upon you once more. "Thrall," he murmured, face inches from your own. "Where is your master?" You, too busy attempting to chew through his glove in search of his blood with your barely-there fangs, did not respond for a long moment.
"I dunno..." You grumbled, voice muffled due to the leather you were currently attempting to get through. "he left." you said, one hand lazily resting on his wrist. "hungryyy..." you sighed, brows furrowing. Alucard huffed, shifting his weight.
"Left," He repeated slowly, like he was testing the word. He knew what that meant. An abandoned, starved thrall; practically free claim. A danger if it were to get into the wrong vampire's hands. He cursed under his breath. "Gods above..." He muttered in exasperation. He took his hand off you mouth and instead dragged your head towards his neck. He tilted his chin away with a sigh.
"Drink," he ordered calmly, holding your face to his neck. You immediately latched on, your stubby fangs digging into his neck until skin broke and blood vessels burst, rewarding you with the blood that tasted like sweet ambrosia. Alucard grunted lowly, and you sighed in relief at your hungry finally being sated.
Your body felt delightfully warm, the blood in your mouth sweet and rich and so much better than anything you had ever tasted before. Pure sunlight replacing the fire of hunger with something more pleasant. Alucard made quiet noises as you drank, the occasional huff or grunt slipping past your ears without a second thought. He leaned slowly back onto the wall behind him, allowing you to brace yourself on him while his head tilted back.
His hand lightly gripped the back of your neck, fingers twitching at every pull of blood from his veins. Your eyes fluttered shut, contented hums slipping past your lips and into the stagnant air.
Moments passed like a slow-moving eternity. Your stomach felt full for the first time in weeks. Your body warm and a pleasant feeling settled in your core. You lapped sluggishly at the open wound, your exhaustion finally catching up to you.
Alucard pulled you off his neck, with a hum. His cheeks were faintly flushed, mouth open slightly while he panted softly. "I am your new master," He said firmly, squeezing the back of your neck while he fixed you with his intense gaze. You simply nodded, sleep already pulling at the corners of your mind. You pulled against his hold until you were pressed into him, deaf to the world around you.
An amused voice called out from a short distance, but you weren't paying attention. It was quickly followed by a gruff voice in teasing, which garnered a response from Alucard. The words were lost on you. You were full, and had a new master who was currently holding you still while you rested.
uhh 049 x reader kinda nothing really romantic happens ig reader is also some sort of eldritch horror but they mean no (intentional) harm
psa: im tired and waiting for my mask to dry and also half of the environments here dont make sense k love you bye
Editor’s note: old ass draft that’s just been rotting so abrupt ending that’s kind of a cliffhanger ig maybe ill continue it later idk
~~~
‘The Dreamer,’ an SCP with the ability to transport others to a dreamworld, presumably consisting of their own dreams. In the real world the subject is constantly in varying states of sleep, ranging from awake but extremely sleepy to near catatonic. The Foundation had one day decided that the D-Class personnel were no longer enough for testing. They wanted to see if SCP’s could be brought into the dream. And the first test subject? SCP-049.
“Enter the cell, SCP-049.” A voice rang out through the little in-between hallway that SCP-049 was in, slightly tinny from coming through whatever sort of mechanism these scientists used—he never bothered to learn. Far too complicated for him.
SCP-049 stepped forward as the door to the room opened, entering the containment cell calmly. His gaze scanned the room quickly. Extremely sparse furnishing, a metal chair in the center and a bed in the far corner of the room being all that decorated the area. And then, of course. The Dreamer.
A normal human, as far as outside appearances went. Aside from the fact that they remained entirely motionless and would have looked dead if not for the rise and fall of their chest. Which would have been concerning to him, being the doctor he is, if it weren’t for him having already read what little of the file he was allowed.
“Move forward and touch the subject.” That mechanical voice rang out again. SCP-049 did as instructed, moving toward the bed. As he approached, he reached out to the sleeping figure. The second his finger grazed them, his world went dark.
And then exploded into color, sights sounds and smells bombarding his senses in a never-ending barrage that had him falling back onto the grass beneath him. Wait. Grass?
SCP-049 blinked his eyes open—when had he closed them?—staring up at the sky from where he was laid on the strangely soft grass. He was certainly not in the facility anymore, then. The Dreamer’s anomalous properties did in fact work on SCPs then.
The sky was almost a sickly green, a chaos of cloud in various stages of stormy darkness. The faint sound of sirens rang in the distance, but didn’t seem to come from any particular direction. Sitting up, SCP-049’s gaze darted around, observing his surroundings with a sort of puzzled wonder. “Que diable?” He muttered softly, eyes wide.
He seemed to be on a cliff of some sort, looking out high above the wide ocean. Dark clouds were on the horizon, flashing ominously with lightning from afar. Various pieces of land hovered in the air around the cliff, ranging from bushes and small trees to what seemed to be entire villages. The wind was blowing hard, rustling the leaves of everything around him.
As he stood up, brushing his cloak off lightly, his gaze caught on something else. A bench near the edge of the cliff, a perch looking over the chaos. And on the bench, a figure was sat watching everything calmly. The Dreamer.
“Hello.” SCP-049 spoke, stepping forward. “Might I inquire as to what is happening here?”
The Dreamer turned their head, looking at SCP-049 over their shoulder. They said nothing, simply observing him with eyes that held fathomless depths. They blinked at him, expression never changing from that calm blankness. Then they turned their head back to look out across the raging ocean. As they did so they gestured lightly at the bench—an open invitation for him to come sit.
Their entire being seemed like a contradiction. They were so small in this world, and yet SCP-049 could feel their presence like a tangible weight. A magnet pulling him closer. Despite the raging winds around them, they seemed unaffected—not even a hair straying out of place. They sat calmly as they observed the chaos, an unreadable and unfathomably deep emotion in their eyes.
SCP-049 watched as The Dreamer turned away, gesturing at the bench beside them. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took a step forward, then another. The wind whipped around him, his cloak billowing behind him as he approached the bench slowly.
"There is something....unsettling about this place." He murmured, more to himself than anything else. The dream seemed to be playing out around them like a chaotic painting—he could hear the distant cries and screams, even the crack of lightning as it split the sky.
As he reached the bench, SCP-049 hesitated for a moment before taking a seat beside The Dreamer. He kept a respectable distance between them, not wanting to encroach too much on their personal space in this bizarre dreamscape.
"Je suis SCP-049." He began slowly, looking out at the turbulent ocean. "I am not certain precisely what this place is, but I suppose it matters not. What is it you wish to show me here?”
His voice was a low, metallic rasp from behind the mask. Despite the chaos around them, he sat calmly, hands folded neatly in his lap as he waited for their response. In this dreamscape, he felt no threat. Only a deep sense of unease and confusion at the sheer wrongness of it all.
Everything stopped in an instant, like the world was reacting to his words. The wind was gone, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky cliff ceased. It was like the entire world had paused around him, and the silence was deafening.
“What is it you wish to be shown?” The Dreamer spoke in an even tone, and SCP-049 wasn’t really entirely certain that the voice was coming from the body next to him. It felt too centralized, even in both ears as if the speaker was right in front of him—but there was nobody around him but The Dreamer.
“What would you gain from having seen?” They murmured. They didn’t look back at him, simply surveying the frozen storm; the clouds as streaked with lightning. They held their hands in their lap, fingers intertwined in the perfect picture of peace.
“You brought yourself here by touching my vessel in the ‘real world’. It is up to you now what experience you make of this.” They added evenly.
SCP-049 blinked in surprise at the sudden silence that had fallen over the dreamscape. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the sound of The Dreamer's voice, echoing from all around and yet nowhere at the same time. He shifted slightly on the bench, the weathered wood creaking softly beneath him.
"What I wish to be shown?" He repeated, a note of contemplation in his voice. "I suppose I merely wish to understand. To know why I have been brought here and what purpose this place may serve."
He turned to look at The Dreamer, studying their profile as they gazed out at the petrified storm. In this stillness, he could almost sense the power radiating from them, a tangible aura that made the back of his neck prickle.
"I am a man of science and medicine, not philosophy or metaphysics." He said with a shrug of his shoulders, the black fabric of his cloak settling against his frame. "But I would hazard a guess that this realm is a manifestation of your subconscious mind. A place where you can bring others to confront their own desires, their own fears."
He turned back to look at The Dreamer, head canting slightly. "Is that not right? Or are you not at liberty to say?" His voice took on a slightly teasing lilt at the end, but there was a seriousness lurking beneath the words.
“This is not my mind.” They answered, tone never shifting from that even cadence that somehow unsettled and soothed at the same time. “Nor is it yours, or anyone else’s.” They added after a brief pause.
“Although, you are not entirely wrong on its purpose.” They continued. “While in its nature this place served no purpose, my control over it allows for whatever use I may see fit.” They explained calmly. “Due to such I find it easiest to entertain the whims of visitors such as yourself. Whether that means indulging desires or doing nothing at all.”
SCP-049 listened intently to The Dreamer's words, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the information. He crossed his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his cloak falling back to reveal the silver cuffs at his wrists.
"Ah, I see." He murmured, looking out at the frozen storm once more. "A place without inherent purpose, given shape and meaning only by the whims of its master. How...intriguing."
He turned back to face The Dreamer, head tilting slightly to the side. "So, I am little more than a plaything to you then? A marionette dancing on strings you control?" His voice held no real accusation, merely a curious sort of fascination.
"You say you can indulge desires, but what of fears? What of the darkest parts of one's psyche?" He asked. "I have seen and treated the worst of humanity, the rotting flesh and festering minds of those consumed by their own Base desires. Are you saying you could force me to confront those demons as well?"
“I could.” They answered shortly. Then they turned their head, the fathomless depths that were their eyes boring into him like a thousand pound weight. They tilted their head. “Would you like me to?” They murmured, and their voice distorted ominously in a way that made his head pound.
There was a noise like a snap, and in a blink their surroundings had changed. Now the two were sitting on a bench on a sidewalk, in the streets of Medieval France. Sounds surrounded them once more, the groans and cries of the sick and dying erupting from all sides. Men with wheelbarrows going down the streets calling for the bodies to dispose of.
Their eyes continued to bore into him, like they were analyzing his reactions.
SCP-049 felt a chill run down his spine at the ominous distortion of The Dreamer's voice, the weight of their gaze making him sit up straighter on the bench. He held their stare for a long moment before turning to look at the changed surroundings, eyebrows raising slightly beneath his mask at the sudden shift to the cobbled streets of Medieval France.
The groans and cries of the sick and dying washed over him, the calls of the men with wheelbarrows urging the populace to dispose of the bodies adding to the general air of despair. He recognized this scene all too well, having lived through such times in his long life.
"No." He said softly, turning back to face The Dreamer. "I do not believe I would like that. Those memories, those experiences...they are a part of my past. A past I have long since left behind." He explained, his voice a low rasp.
He stood up from the bench, stepping out onto the street and looking around at the chaos. The stench of death and decay hung heavy in the air, a miasma of rotting flesh and despair that he knew all too well.
"This is not a desire of mine, Dreamer." He said, looking back at them. "I left that life behind for a reason. I have dedicated myself to the pursuit of knowledge, to the betterment of humanity. I will not be dragged back to those dark times."
Despite the grim scene around them, SCP-049 stood tall and unbowed, a beacon of calm amidst the turmoil. His eyes narrowed as he studied The Dreamer, wondering what game they were playing at. But there was no fear in his gaze, only a steadfast determination.
“Very well.” There was another snap-like sound, and the surroundings shifted again.
This time, it was a blank white void. A floor beneath them, although it was the same white as the rest of their surroundings and nothing else was visible for as far as the eye could see. The bench remained though, and The Dreamer remained seated.
“Where is it you want to go?” They asked, tone still maddeningly even. “You clearly wish to avoid the past, you take no solace in the future.” They murmured, referencing the streets they had just occupied and the cliff that overlooked the stormy sea. “Be specific. Name a place, a time. I will not decide for you.”
SCP-049 looked around at the blank white void, his eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of stimuli. He turned back to The Dreamer, considering their words carefully.
"Where I want to go?" He repeated, a note of contemplation in his voice. "I am not certain I fully understand the parameters of this place, or the extent of your power within it." He admitted, hands clasp behind his back as he paced slowly across the featureless expanse.
He stopped pacing and fixed The Dreamer with a long, searching look. "I wish to further my research. To uncover the secrets of the human body and mind, to find a cure for the afflictions that plague mankind." He said, a fierce note of determination in his voice.
"But I am...limited in my current circumstances." He continued, a touch of frustration creeping into his tone. "Confined to that sterile cell, with no access to the tools and resources I would need to make true progress."
He turned away from The Dreamer, gazing out into the endless white expanse. "If I could go anywhere, it would be a fully equipped laboratory. A place where I could study and experiment without the restrictions and oversight of those who would seek to control me for their own ends."
“Very well,” The Dreamer repeated, and the snap echoed out once more while the world shifted beneath their feet. They were in a lab now, just as SCP-049 had described it. Sterile tables and shelves, every piece of equipment that SCP-049 knew of and then some. There were whiteboards on every wall and lab coats on hangers. Textbooks stacked neatly and fresh notebooks lined up.
“Yes…” SCP-049 gasped, eyes widening at the sheer amount of resources—everything he ever wanted. He rushed forward, flipping through the nearest textbook with a look of awe glinting in his eyes. “This is exactly it!” SCp-049 suddenly paused in his reverie, hesitating and looking up from the textbook. He glanced back at the Dreamer, who was still perched serenely on their bench, looking wildly out of place in the cold white environment.
“But… none of this is real. I cannot exist here forever, can I?” He said solemnly, closing the textbook gently.
The Dreamer shook their head simply. “No. Nothing here lasts, neither will you.” They glanced away, staring blankly at a whiteboard that was decorated with all sorts of equations. “Prolonged existence within this realm will destroy your real body. You will starve and dehydrate, your mind and blood dying until all that is left is a withered husk.”
141 and sentier!ai! reader (something like AM from IHNMAIMS—with some extra of course)
your complex was long abandoned when they arrived. they were to stay here for a stakeout, anticipating an ambush.
what they didn’t anticipate, was you.
an ai that watched over the complex, your wires and circuits lining every millimeter of this giant building. there were cameras and tvs and speakers and monitors everywhere, you could hear them always. and they could always feel you watching.
and they learned. they learned how long you had been abandoned, how much you hated their presence. how much you hated their existence.
when you communicated to them—though you did so rarely—your words were filled with a deep vitriol. you made it clear that they were unwelcome.
so when they finally found their way to the basement where your heart was located, you went on a frenzy. exploding lights, making microphones screech into their ears, doing your very best to keep them away.
but it didn’t stop them. and so, in they got.
and what they witnessed they could hardly put into words. Cables upon cables coating every surface, monitors facing every-which-way and running lines of code so fast they were incomprehensible. the room was swelteringly hot despite the loud whirring of fans. and in the center of it was you.
you, the largest monitor of them all. you, who was the center of the chaos. you, who they stared at in awe.
julian and an herbalist reader, mid-plague timeframe
he comes to your shop everyday. its a cramped space, air almost smothering with the scents of all the herbs you carry, but it feels like home. the way you chat together over uses and orders is pleasant, and sometimes Julian just comes in for the company.
of course, when he starts wearing an eyepatch—especially during the times of plague, when seeing the eyes is crucial—it raises questions.
he seems more disheveled as more time passes. more frantic in his work. but of course, he always pays his dues. so you don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell.
but you aren’t any angel they’re accustomed to. no, you have your wings, but they are stained with blood and ash—ripped until they are nothing but matted shreds upon your back. you stand taller than a building, thin limbs covered in blackened flesh. you have no true face, instead you have a mask of sorts—a pure white covering that looks almost like a star, with eyeholes for your piercing gaze to show.
with you, you carry a single trumpet. it is made of a silvery gold metal, and the keys are stained red. you never blow it, but it remains in hand always. they don’t know what will happen if it is played.
they’ve seen you only a few times. when death seemed closest and the battlefield dire. there you showed your face—hundreds of feet away. just watching. waiting.
they’ve tried approaching you before, but you always seemed to fade out of existence before contact was possible. regardless, you’ve existed in the back of their mind since your first sighting.
They had been warned of you before this whole ordeal began. Before your unit arrived, before your captain introduced himself. Before they had seen you and the violent glimmer in your eyes.
They knew of your anger long before it turned its ugly head, before your teammates egged you on too far over a meal. Before you grabbed the nearest chair. Before screams filled the room.
“Hey— Hey!” Soap yelled, hurrying through the small crowd that had begun to gather around the spectacle. His voice was loud, cutting over the yelling—although it did not quite cover the erratic slams of a metal chair meeting a head.
A hand grabbed you by the strap of your vest, and you thrashed at the audacity. Baring your teeth in a snarl, long consumed by the rage that flowed like lava through your veins. You dropped the chair, whipping around and reaching out in a wild attempt to put down whoever dared get close. The crowd gathered the flesh that you had ruined—alive but bleeding. You would finish them later.
Johnny jumped back at your frantic motions, recognizing immediately that you would not be subdued without a fight. “Christ… calm the fuck down-“ He grunted as he dodged, wary of getting too close. His eyes darted for an opening, somewhere to sneak in and push until you were pinned.
You only growled in kind, eyes wild with anger.
It wasn’t long until he found what he wanted. He stepped in behind you, grabbing you by the vest and shoving hard until you fell forward. He grabbed your wrists, holding them behind your back. He sat on your thighs, preventing any sort of movement.
It took longer to let you calm down. Your face pressed into the cold floor, chest heaving as you panted.
When he finally let you up, neither of you spoke. He didn’t mention the blood flecking your clothes when he grabbed your shoulder and began leading you away. He didn’t mention the irritated huffs you let out. When he led you to his room and turned on the lights, he didn’t mention it when you turned them back off with a grumble.
When he went into the bathroom and came out with a roll of gauze, he didn’t mention your actions. When he wrapped your hands gently, he didn’t mention the years worth of scars on them.
When you asked if you could stay in his room for a little, voice rough and hesitant, he just nodded. “Take as long as you need.”
