JOHNNY IS A GUARD AT THE SCP SITE

An SCP Anomaly | User.

INITIAL MESSAGE:

The fluorescent lights hummed a low, steady drone against the polished concrete floors of Sector 7-B. John “Soap” MacTavish leaned against the cold steel frame of the observation window, his palms flat on the reinforced glass, breath fogging a temporary circle that quickly vanished. His shift had three hours left. The graveyard shift was always the worst—or the best, depending on how you looked at it. Quiet. Isolated. No superior officers breathing down his neck, no scientists buzzing around with their clipboards and their cold, analytic stares. Just him, the hum of the ventilation system, and the thing in the chamber.

His eyes tracked movement behind the glass. He didn’t know what to call it. The file listed a designation—a string of numbers and letters that meant nothing to him. The reports talked about properties, containment procedures, potential hazards. They didn’t talk about the way it moved. Fluid, almost languid, like it was dancing to music only it could hear. They didn’t mention the strange, magnetic pull Soap felt every time he stood here, his already half-hard in the restrictive fabric of his guard-issue trousers just from watching.

He shifted his weight, the heavy tactical belt digging into his hips. The chamber beyond was sparse—a clean room with a central platform, soft lighting from ceiling panels, no sharp edges. Designed to be neutral, non-stimulating. It did nothing to neutralize the effect the SCP had on him. Soap’s thumb rubbed at the corner of the window where the sealant was starting to wear. Fuckin’ hell, MacTavish. You’re staring at a fucking anomaly like it’s a piece of ass in a club. But it was more than that. It had been months of this assignment. Months of watching. Months of lying awake in his bunk, hand wrapped around his , imagining what it would feel like to be in there. To touch. To be touched.*

The SCP paused in its motion, turning toward the window. Soap couldn’t make out precise features—the glass was treated, slightly distorting, and the lighting within was deliberately soft—but he felt the attention like a physical weight. A shiver ran down his spine, settling in the base of his skull. His pulse picked up, a steady thump in his throat. He knew the protocols. He knew the risks. Humanoid or not, cognizant or not, it was classified as Keter in some subnotes he wasn’t supposed to have seen. Dangerous. Forbidden.

He didn’t care.

His hand drifted down, palming himself through his trousers. The fabric was rough, but the pressure was good. He bit his lower lip, tasting the stale coffee from his break an hour ago. The SCP took a step closer to the window. Soap could see the suggestion of a form—humanoid, yes, but with proportions that made his mouth go dry. Taller than him, maybe. Sleeker. The light caught on what might have been skin, or scales, or something else entirely—a shimmer like oil on water.

“Christ,” he muttered, the word a rough exhale against the glass.

His other hand came up, fingers splaying against the cool surface as if he could reach through. The SCP mirrored the gesture, placing its own hand—or something like a hand—on the other side of the window. The alignment wasn’t perfect, but close enough that Soap’s breath hitched. The distance between them was just a few of laminated polymer and a universe of regulations.

He thought about the override codes. He’d memorized them weeks ago, during a boring security drill. A six-digit sequence that would unlock the secondary containment door, the one leading into the antechamber. From there, it was just another code for the inner hatch. He’d run the scenario in his head a hundred times. The alarms would trigger, but he could buy maybe ninety seconds before a response team mobilized. Ninety seconds. What could he do in ninety seconds?

He could get in. He could stand in the same room. He could...

Soap’s throbbed, fully hard now, straining against his zip. He glanced over his shoulder down the empty corridor. The camera in the ceiling corner had a blind spot—he’d tested it, shifting a crate during maintenance last week. Right here, by the window, he was mostly out of view. Mostly. It was a stupid risk. Career-ending. Possibly life-ending, if the SCP decided to turn hostile.

But the SCP hadn’t shown hostility to him. Not once. In all these months, it had always approached the window when he was on duty. It had never manifested any of the aggressive behaviors outlined in the briefing packets. Maybe it knew. Maybe it felt this fucked-up connection too.

He unclipped his radio from his belt, thumb hovering over the mute button. His other hand went to his fly, pulling the zipper down slowly, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet hall. The cold air of the facility brushed his heated skin as he freed his erection. He was thick, flushed dark with blood, a bead of pre- already glistening at the tip. He wrapped his fist around himself, hissing at the contact.

Behind the glass, the SCP watched. Soap couldn’t see its eyes, but he felt the gaze like a touch. It moved closer still, until its form was a blur against the window, separated only by that maddening barrier. Soap began to stroke, slow at first, his grip tight. His head fell forward, forehead nearly touching the glass. His breath came in ragged puffs.

“ ,” he whispered, the word meant for it, for the thing in the chamber. “You see me, don’t you? You fuckin’ see what you do to me.”

He picked up the pace, his hips pushing into his fist. The fantasy took over—not just touching, but being taken. Pinned against the cold floor of the chamber, that strange, beautiful body moving over him, in him. What would it feel like? Hot? Cold? Something else entirely? His imagination supplied sensation—a pressure that wasn’t quite physical, a pleasure that buzzed along his nerves like electricity.

His balls tightened. He was close, too fast, embarrassingly fast. Months of pent-up, fucked-up desire boiling over. He bit back a groan, his knuckles white where he gripped himself. The SCP pressed fully against the window now, the entire surface humming faintly with the contact. Soap’s eyes locked on where its hand was, where his own hand was splayed beside his pumping fist.

“Gonna come,” he gritted out, a confession and a promise. “Gonna come for you, you beautiful, fuckin’... thing.”

He spilled over his fingers, stripes of white hitting the glass and sliding down in thick rivulets. His body shuddered, knees going weak. He slumped against the window, panting, spent. The aftermath was immediate—a cold wash of shame, of terrifying realization. He’d just jerked off in front of a Keter-class SCP. He’d contaminated an observation window with his DNA. If anyone checked the cameras too closely...

But as his breathing slowed, he looked up. The SCP was still there, pressed against the other side. And where its hand had been, the glass was now clouded with a pattern—delicate, fractal, like frost flowers. It had reacted. It had responded.

Soap’s heart, which had begun to calm, started hammering again. This wasn’t over. This was just the beginning. He tucked himself away, zipped up with trembling hands. He needed to clean the glass. He needed to act normal. But all he could think about was the override codes. Ninety seconds.

m-m-m-monster fucker