#john price x doll

[writingfromasgard]

Kinktober 2024: Day 4: Clothed Sex [Price]

tw: feet rubs, slight angst, female reader x John Price

Of all the loving moments you share with your husband, John Price, it’s the bittersweet ones you love the most. You can feel his love thrumming against you whenever security pages your office phone to let you know he’s headed your way.

Excitement swells in your chest, along with grief in knowing tonight you’ll go home to an empty house. He’s freshly showered as he steps into your office, bringing in a wave of that woody cologne he wears. His expression is one of guilt, his head tilted downward and his shoulders drooping.

He’s holding a paper bag with your favorite restaurant’s logo plastered on the side. He walks like his feet are made of lead as he puts the bag on your desk and drags up the extra chair you keep in your office for him.

“Sorry, Doll.” He whispers, setting up your entire meal for you.

John settles back in the chair, a familiar gesture that signals the start of your shared moment. You instinctively twist your chair to face him, stretching your legs across his lap. His hands work up and down your calves while you enjoy your meal, nothing but your soft sighs of satisfaction filling the air.

“I went ahead and made dinner, too. You need to throw it in the oven to reheat it.” He lifts one ankle to kiss it. “You don’t have to do this every time work calls.” You reply.

“You know it could always be the last time.” His lips tug down into a frown. “I want to leave you with something good.”

The conversation dies down until you’re finished with your meal. He packs away the trash into the same bag it came in. He abandons his chair in favor of kneeling between your thighs, hands massaging them upward until they’re pushing your skirt up higher. He jerks you to the edge of your office chair.

You love the feeling of his beard against your inner thighs, lapping at you to get you worked up. You thread your hair through his hair, keeping quiet so the rest of the office doesn’t hear how good John’s treating you.

It’s hard to contain said noises when his thick fingers invade your slick walls, sinking to the knuckle with a raspy moan from his throat.

“Can I do that for you, Doll?” He asks, pumping his fingers inside of you. “Can I leave you with something good?”

You nod quickly, and his fingers leave you aching for more. He can’t seem to resist swirling them in his mouth to taste more of you before offering them to you. His other hand is undoing his belt while you clean off his fingers. There’s a muffled moan from both of you when he pushes into you. His mouth replaces his fingers, kissing you greedily through his shallow thrusts.

It’s nothing like what he gives to you in the bedroom, it’s simply satisfying a need to leave his mark on you before he leaves. You know, as his hands dig into your thighs, he’s going to leave bruises to remember him by. The pressure he applies when kissing you is meant to swell your lips, along with the bite to your lower lip.

Your nails dig into his neck, leaving crescent red marks behind. You wish you could run your nails down his back or his chest to leave further marks. You settle for the way he gasps your name against your lips, the way he comes undone so quickly, the rough pad of his thumb over your clit meant to send you over the edge with him.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter Two - An Understanding

< Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Alcohol mention, Smoking mention (Tobacco), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

The captain looks at you for a long moment, dark blue eyes wide with surprise as he takes you in. You have to admit that he’s handsome, dark brown hair and well-groomed facial hair (muttonchops, no less) flecked with silver, and a nice nose that skews to the large side. It gives him a friendly, approachable demeanour, despite the weight of his stare. His heavy attention shifts from you to the other three, and his expression turns serious. “Lads,” he says, his voice a rumble that you can feel through your own body. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Weeeel. It might be,” Johnny says apprehensively. “But I did my research, sir. She’ll be perfect for ye, ye’ll see.”

“She’s a good girl,” Ghost adds. “Sweet as can be. Won’t be any trouble for you.”

“Already moved her in and everything.” Gaz gestures around the room, looking rather too proud of their work.

The captain nods slowly, taking in the new additions to the space. “So you did. And did this pretty little thing agree to having her life upended, or did you lads just decide for her?” His arms shift around you, and you feel almost protected, oddly enough, even though by the size of him, he’s just as dangerous as the others. Probably even more dangerous, the way they defer to him, standing in a line like cadets, eager for his approval.

“Not… Not exactly,” Gaz admits. “I mean, we didn’t ask. But this’ll be better for her. She was living in a real rat hole before. Tiny little apartment in a shite neighbourhood. Was only a matter of time before something bad happened. We’re just looking out for her.”

Johnny shuffles his feet. “Dealt with a few neds while I was doin’ reconnaissance, even. Poor lass coulda been in real trouble if I hadna been there. Bawbag employers would ask her to stay past the last bus to watch the bairns an’ no’ even offer her a ride or ta pay fer a cab.”

“It wasn’t that far a walk,” you protest, glaring at Johnny. As if it’s any of his business. “And they did offer to drive me, I just wasn’t— It doesn’t matter! You had no right—”

The captain shushes you, and your words wither on your tongue, your cheeks turning hot under his stern blue gaze. He cups your jaw and turns your head to face him again, the rough pad of his thumb stroking your cheek gently. “Sweetheart, you and I will talk in a moment. Soap’s right about that not bein’ safe, and you know it.”

Your stomach flutters nervously. He gives you a little smile, and his crow’s feet deepen, the lines fanning out further. There’s a moment where you’re tempted to smile back, but his legs shift under you, and you wince sympathetically instead. “Sorry, I should get off of you,” you say quickly. “I’m heavy.”

“I won’t stop you if you’d like to sit somewhere else,” he says, that cheeky smile deepening more. "But you’re not heavy, and I'd like it if you stayed put."

"Told ye he'd like her," Johnny whispers, loud enough that it shatters the isolated pocket of reality that, for a moment, housed only you and the captain. "Hasna even introduced himself an' he's flirtin' like mad."

"Soap!" Gaz hisses back. "Shut up."

Ghost scruffs them both. "Let's finish getting dinner on. Give 'em a minute to talk."

Johnny grins at you and gives you two thumbs up as he circles around to the kitchen, as if you’d actually been a willing participant in all of this.

"I'm John, by the way," the captain says, calling your attention back to him. He drops his hand and settles it on your knee, his fingers curling around the joint. "You alright, doll?"

A loaded question. "Well. Not really."

"You're keepin' it together real nicely, all considered. Wouldn't blame you if you were hissin' and scratching."

"I'm not much of a fighter," you admit. "And even if I was, I don't think it would do me much good."

John chuckles, squeezing your knee lightly. He's gentle, but there's power in those hands, the kind that comes from years of hard work. There's scars all over it, from his the tips of his calloused fingers up to the leather band of his watch, etched in evidence of violence. If there are scars further up his arms, their hidden by the buffalo plaid flannel. "No, it probably wouldn't."

"Are you going to let me go home?" you ask.

He sighs. "The thing is, doll, the boys have put me in an awkward spot here. If I let you go on home, you're going to get them in trouble, and I don't want to see that happen."

"I promise, I won't say anything, I just--"

He shushes you again, and you shut your mouth, biting your lip. "Let me finish, sweetheart. You're being so good right now because you're scared. But that's not gonna last, is it? And worse, it sounds like you don't really have much to go back to."

"I'll find a new job. I always do."

"With another family who doesn't appreciate the work you put in? That doesn't make you feel safe?" His fingertips toy with the edge of your skirt absently, but his eyes are on your face, studying your reaction with rapt attention. This is how a rabbit must feel, pinned under the stare of a grizzly bear, frozen in place and hoping that no claws come down on top of it. "I can read between the lines, doll. That man you were workin' for made you feel so uncomfortable that you'd rather walk through a bad neighbourhood at night than get into a car with him alone."

You can't dispute it, although you're surprised he can glean so much information from half an outburst. "It wasn't like that-- He wasn't that bad."

John hums. "You're tellin' me you've had worse?"

A dozen jobs with a dozen managers or coworkers that took your silence as permission to stand too close, or put their hands on you flash across your mind. Mr. Kinsey was just the latest of many. You know that the thought is displayed on your face, from the way his eyebrows pinch together just slightly, not angrily, but concerned. You try to deflect with a little laugh. "Oh, well. I suppose I have. But hasn't everyone?"

"Soap had a bad lieutenant once and locked the man in his own car when he was just a private. Just because you have a bad boss doesn't mean you have to take it." He looks at you so seriously as he speaks, his fingers dancing distracting circles against the top of your knee, rough fingertips catching on the nylons just slightly. The heat from the arm curled around your waist bleeds through the fabric of your dress, his hand twitching slightly, like all he wants to do is take a handful of soft flesh. “You should speak up when you’re not comfortable, doll. You just need some practice standin’ up for yourself, don’t you?”

If a statement could have teeth, this one would, and you’re not sure if agreeing or disagreeing will have him closing his jaws around you. He’s probably right, you do need to do a better job of standing up for yourself. But you’re certain that he doesn’t want you to start by standing up to him, or his three attack dogs either. “I’ll work on it,” you say meekly. You test his commitment to the statement by gently picking his hand off of your knee, although there’s nowhere to really put it either.

“We’ll work on it,” he agrees, lacing your fingers together. When he rests your now-entwined hands, it’s a little further up your thigh. “You want a drink, darlin’?”

“Oh, um, no thank you.” You wouldn’t mind another tea, but you don’t think that’s what you’re being offered.

The scrutiny he puts you under is intense, like he’s determined to figure out what every microscopic shift in your expression might mean. “You sure, doll? You gotta ask if you want somethin’, or you won’t get it.”

“I would like a tea. But I can make it, I don’t want to be trouble.”

“Nonsense. Lads?” he tips his head back slightly.

“On it, sir,” Gaz replies cheerfully.

Ghost leans over the back of the couch to hand John a tumbler. Whiskey or scotch, by the sharp smell that hits you. John pulls his hand away from yours to accept the glass. “Thank you, Simon,” he says pleasantly. "Good lad."

“S’your party, sir. An’ you’re busy, ain’t you?” Ghost rests his hands on the back of the couch and studies the pair of you, dark eyes gleaming with pride. The man has the demeanour of a cat that’s brought in a helpless little bunny to his master, while it’s still alive and struggling.

“Gettin’ to know our pretty guest.” John smiles at you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“Isn’t she just?”

“Could I, um, sit over there?” you ask, glancing at the chair. Somehow John had managed to distract you from the idea of moving for a while, but you were still eager to get a little space from him, especially with Ghost looming over both of you.

“Of course, sweetheart,” John’s arm loosens, and you quickly get up and move to the chair.

You almost feel cold, without the heat that radiates off of his body. His attention feels weightier now too, or maybe it’s just that his body isn’t shielding the stares from Johnny, Gaz and Ghost, and you’re subjected to all four of them watching you, like you’re either fascinating or delicious (or both). You cross your arms over your chest and shrink into yourself as much as possible, eyes wide.

"Here's yer tea, hen. And may I just say, ye've go' a fantastic rack from this angle." Johnny hands you the mug and sits on the arm of the chair, leaning over you. "Weel. Ye've go' a nice rack from any angle. Nice arse too. Captain's lucky I like him so much, or I'd've gone for you myself."

You breathe in steam, wrinkling your nose slightly. It doesn't smell quite right. "Did you put something in this?"

"Aye. Finger of whiskey. Ye look all stiff and peaky still. Need a pick me up, don't ya?"

You look at him reproachfully. He sighs and plucks the tea from your hands and takes a big sip. "There's nothin' else in there, if that's what yer askin', ye suspicious wee daftie. A little whiskey ne'er hurt no one." He hands the mug back to you, smile crooked, doing his best to be charming, but he's too intense, too fervent, to be anything but unsettling.

“Got Johnny checkin’ everythin’ for poison, do you?” Ghost asks, chuckling. “Can’t say I blame you.” He nudges John with the back of his hand. “She’s smart, worth keepin’ an eye on that. Know’s ‘ow to ‘old ‘er tongue, but she’s listenin’ and payin’ attention.”

“Of course she is! Wouldna choose a lass withoot a brain in her head. Wouldna be worth the captain’s time. Weel, maybe worth a wee bit of time.” He winks down at you. “But no’ wife material, ye ken. Chose her because she’s delightful, no’ just ‘cause she’s bonnie.”

The few times you’d spoken to Johnny before you’d thought that he was so nice. Laughing and joking with you in the pick up line while you waited for the children you were respectively responsible, greeting his niece and nephew with big smiles. And Finn and Rory were always so excited to see him, you’d chalked him up as harmless. Clearly you hadn’t been paying enough attention then, too focused on the Kinsey kids and your job, maybe. You hadn’t noticed that he was appraising you like a piece of livestock, judging your value like you’d been put up to auction.

The whisky-fortified tea is a bit on the strong side, but you take a few sips anyway. Getting drunk would be unwise, but you’re so tense that your whole body is starting to ache, and that’s not doing you any good either.

“Dinner’s ready,” Gaz announces, untying his kiss the cook apron and setting it on the counter. “Hope you’re hungry. Soap made a cake earlier too.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You can bake?” he asks, surprised.

“Aye, picked it up while I was gettin’ rehabbed for the big fuck-off hole in my head,” he replies airily. “Was goin’ mental putterin’ around Kirsty’s waitin’ for the bairns to get out of school, so Ah picked it up. Isnae so hard. Just chemistry, aye?”

“He did make a big mess,” Gaz says. “Had to wash about fifty dishes before I could get started on dinner.”

“Everyone’s a fuckin’ critic,” Johnny complains. “See if I bake ye a cake for yer birthday, Garrick. Ye’ll be sorry then.”

“Oh no, how will I survive?” Gaz clutches his chest like he’s deeply wounded by the statement, laughing. “I have two mums, I’m still pretty much guaranteed a cake.”

“Always braggin’ abou’ that. Thinks he’s more evolved than the rest of us just because his da’s a woman.” He hovers next to you as you get up, and sticks close as you walk over to the table. You don’t choose a seat, in case there’s an order to things you’re not aware of.

“Pretty sure the whole point is that he dun’t ‘ave a dad,” Ghost says. “Now sit down, mutt. Yer not sittin’ next to the bird. You’re botherin’ ‘er.” He points at a chair, and Johnny sighs and slinks into it.

“Here, sweetheart,” John says, putting his big hand on your back to guide you the last few steps and directing you to a seat. He slides the chair in for you too, masquerading as a gentleman, and sits next to you.

Gaz settles in on your other side, all smiles. “Feeling better?”

They keep asking you how you are, as if the answer is going to change. Like all you need to adjust to the reality of being kidnapped and relocated to some stranger’s house in the country is a little time. Like you’re going to be just fine, if you just get a few more minutes to adjust. “Not really.”

"Ah, don't worry, doll. Captain's gonna be real good to you. You'll get there soon enough. Probably'll feel better once you've had a proper meal."

At least they don't try to make you talk much at the table. They fall into easy conversation between them, and let you eat roasted chicken and potatoes and carrots with some kind of sweet and mildly spicy glaze. Ghost pulls the mask down to eat, so you're able to watch when he goes slightly pink from what barely qualifies as spice. Gaz gives you a little side-long glance, and you almost laugh. There's some solidarity to be had, even in a situation like this one, something funny about how a little more spice could probably straight up kill the other three men at the table. Maybe that would be the key to you freedom: Murdering John by feeding him something full of chilies.

Admittedly, you do feel begrudgingly more charitable towards them after eating. You could maybe blame it on the tea too, which, against your better judgment, you do end up finishing.

John stops you from helping clean up when you stand automatically and try to stack Gaz's empty plate with your own. "No, sweetheart. C’mere." He guides you to the door and out into the chilly evening air. You wish that Ghost had let you put on a sweater over your summery dress, but he had been so keen to show you off, and you’d been too scared to insist. You curl your arms around yourself for warmth, and keep quiet, watching as John trims and lights a cigar, looking out into the darkness beyond the porch.

Fear has morphed from pressing terror to something that gnaws at you from the pit of your stomach. You could try to run for it, but you’d probably roll your ankle wearing the stupid red heels, and you have no real idea where you are, or how far you are from someone who could help you. Outrunning John would be a feat anyway. He’s older than you, but he’s in better shape, nearly perfect shape, broad and strong, that long military career not yet forgotten.

There’s a bench by the door, so you sit down to take the heels off. You’re not used to wearing them, it’s so rare that you have anywhere to go that calls for spicier footwear than your comfortable, worn in trainers.

“Here.” John slides his flannel shirt off and drapes it over your shoulders, and kneels down in front of you, cigar clamped in his mouth, pulling your heels off for you. Smoke curls around you for a moment, thin and blue in the scant light, before a breeze carries it away. He leans on his one leg and studies you, but he doesn’t stand. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

You put your arms through the sleeves of the flannel, humming noncommittally. You know you’re pretty enough, by most standards, but you feel like his interest— And the interest of the other three— is disproportionate, too intense.

“I’d like you to stay a while, doll,” he continues. “I won’t force you, I’m not that kind of man, but I’d have a hard time letting you go back to living paycheck to paycheck in a bad nieghbourhood, workin’ for creeps that don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. You deserve better than that.” It’s as though he doesn’t even hear his own words though, or imagines himself better, because he absently runs his hands over your calf, squeezing the tense muscle gently.

“I have to work,” you protest, biting back a moan. You didn’t need to encourage him, even if you weren’t quite brave enough (or willing) to stop him. “I have student loans, and I send money to my lola in Vigan. I can’t afford to just disappear off the face of the earth.”

He nods thoughtfully. “How much?”

"Three hundred pounds a month to Lola. I know it might not seem like a lot, but it goes a lot further there."

"And the student loans?"

"Sixteen thousand. Not that much, I worked through my degree, and I inherited a bit of money from my parents. But I still have to--"

"I'll pay for both. You'll stay until you find a good job, and a safer apartment." He says it like it's a final edict, no room for argument.

You pull your leg out of his grip, tucking both further back under the bench. "No, John, I don't want to owe you either--"

"You won't. My boys kidnapped you and disrupted your whole life. I'd pay a lot more if it keeps you from going to the police over it. Least I can do is make sure you're better off when you do leave here, hm?"

You bite your lip. Starting over with a clean slate is tempting, but you're not sure you can trust John. He seems so earnest, blue eyes clear and guileless, but he can't be much better than the other three. Unless he was just holding their leashes tight as their captain, and had to let them loose when he retired.

"Can I think about it?" you ask.

"Of course." He puts his hand on your knee to steady himself as he leans across to ash the cigar in the ashtray that sits on a little table next to the bench. "But I think you'll say yes. You're a smart girl, hm?"

You're tempted to say no, just to test weather or not he's being honest about not forcing you to stay, but there's a niggling worry in the back of your mind that the veneer of civility will evaporate if you push him on it. He's nice enough now. And maybe that niceness isn't a show, maybe he has no darker side, maybe it's all just paranoia on your part. Perhaps the worst thing about him is his predilection to protect his "boys", even though all three are clearly insane.

Military is like that, isn’t it? The whole brotherhood thing? Maybe fighting for your life beside someone changes how you see them forever.

“How long did you all serve together?” you ask. “Johnny mentioned that he was SAS before— I asked about the scar once.” You tap the side of your head, the same spot where Johnny has a nasty bullet scar.

“Long time. Hand-picked Gaz and Soap for my taskforce about ten years back. Simon and I served together longer. He’s a captain now, even if the lads still call him LT. They’re both lieutenants, and Gaz’ll be a captain himself before long. Probably would’ve been already if he’d transferred out of the 141.” He gets up with a grunt and settles onto the bench beside you. “Don’t think Simon’s long for it. He’s only still in because he wants to keep an eye on Soap. Man’s a bloody romantic. Live together or die together.”

“I didn’t realize that they were together at all.”

“The way Soap’s been droolin’ all over you, I’m not surprised.” He puffs on his cigar thoughtfully. “But Simon’s just like that, as far as I can tell. The world’s divided into three categories. Enemies, his people, and everyone else. Enemies ‘n’ everyone else can’t touch what’s his, but he’s never given a damn about Soap sleepin’ with Gaz, or me.”

“I’m not his people.”

John looks at you and shakes his head. “Course you are, doll. You’re one of our people now. They might’ve gotten a bit overzealous, bringing you here the way they did, but those lads would do anything you asked of ‘em now.”

A bit overzealous. You laugh, but the sound comes out bitter.

"Relax, doll. I know you're determined to hate them, but they're good lads. Their hearts are in the right place." He pets a big hand over your head and rests it on the back of your neck, warmth seeping into your bones, relieving some of the ache from all the tension of the day. John has a way of soothing that terrified little animal in your chest that would otherwise threaten to kick it’s way free from your ribs and flee into the dark trees. “Lookin’ out for me, in their own way. Lookin’ out for you too. If your situation was a better one, they wouldn’t’ve plucked you out of it like that.”

There’s hope in his eyes when you look up at him, hope that you’ll forgive and forget, that you’ll come around to some kind of understanding in time. His thumb brushes a sensitive spot behind your ear, sending an awful, irrefutable thrill through you.

You’re worried that he might be right.

My favourite John Price to write is the sneakiest, most charming, manipulative bastard on the planet. I definitely take a lot of inspiration from 391780 's portrayal of him. The Rear Window and Neighborly have been forefront in my mind while working on this (Largely because I think my John would have taken a similar approach if the lads hadn't jumped the gun. The Rear Window is dark, so be warned! Early writes delicious dark fics, but that may not be everyone's cup of tea, so mind the tags.)

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[v1x3n]

BARBIE GIRL - masterlist

[3amfanfiction]

Chapter Index for Doll and Darling

Explore the lives of Doll and Darling who have been kidnapped by Simon and John. This is a dead dove fic in a hurt/no comfort style. Please check trigger warnings.

Simon Draws a Bath - 3.2k Your kidnapper draws you a bath.

Meeting the Price Family - 3.3k You and Simon take a surprise up to meet the Price family

Back to the Prices - 5.3k You and Simon go back to the Price house

Darling and John Meet - 6.3k Let's go back to the beginning and find out how Darling and John met. Did she go with her kidnapper willingly or was she snatched off the side of the road? 18+ smut, MDNI

Main Repository || Current Works

[mi-i-zori]

SCP-8077 : The Doll - Original File

CoD - TF141 - SCP!AU

SUMMARY : The first file written about The Doll, now labeled SCP-8077, after its retrieval by MTF Alpha-141.

WARNINGS : None.

Author's Note : Never thought I'd be brave enough to post this. But I hyper focused on SCP stuff for a while and was quite satisfied with this, and I thought it would be silly to let it rot in my files. So here you go.

I do not allow anyone to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

CoD AUs - Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Previous

Item # : SCP-8077

Object Class : Euclid

Special Containment Procedures : SCP-8077 is to be kept within a three (3) by three point five (3.5) by two point five (2.5) meter square containment chamber, isolated from other SCPs to keep the specimen’s thirst for knowledge under control. The room is to be furnished with a desk, various writing utensils and a limited amount of books, which can be replaced upon request. 

The walls of SCP-8077’s containment chamber are to be lined with soundproof drywall along with a three (3) millimeters thick isolation membrane. Access is to be ensured via a heavy and rigid steel containment door measuring one point three (1.3) by two (2) meters, built in order to close and lock itself automatically when not deliberately held open.

Despite these measures ensuring that SCP-8077’s containment chamber is soundproof, all personnel is required to be highly mindful of every word they might say when standing in its vicinity. It is advised to cease all conversation altogether when walking past this room to avoid any major slip-up that could lead to a containment breach.

Under no circumstances may any personnel be allowed to have any kind of conversation with SCP-8077 unless an experiment and/or interrogation is underway. No personnel outside of the Antimemetics Divison is permitted to conduct such procedures.

Description : SCP-8077 is an antimemetic entity taking the appearance of a one hundred and sixty (160) centimeters tall, female ball-jointed doll, seemingly made of white porcelain, with long, wavy black hair and pale green eyes. Highly intelligent, the entity constantly seeks to consume all kinds of information and knowledge, feeding off of it by writing it down on any surface available.

SCP-8077 has been discovered to erase pieces of information from its assigned Researchers’ memory after writing them down, an effect that had not been noticed in the various books it read and took data from. The subject’s abilities seem to be activated when the information or knowledge it consumes comes from someone standing within its hearing range.

Note : It does not matter whether the piece of information or knowledge is addressed directly to the entity or not. 

Addendum : SCP-8077’s ability does not activate when taking notes from a recording.

An individual whose part of their knowledge was consumed by SCP-8077 will progressively remember it with time, or immediately if hearing, seeing or reading it, as if they never forgot about it in the first place.

When prevented from processing knowledge for an extended amount of time, a situation which first took place during the retrieval following the discovery of SCP-8077, the subject will first express confusion as to why, then gradually fall into a state akin to that of a panic attack. According to Agent Kyle « Gaz » Garrick of MTF Alpha-141, who was the first to notice SCP-8077’s abnormal behaviour, this panic manifests itself through a tendency to hide, fidget and faint sounds of whimpering that will grow into full crying. At the time, the specimen also questioned the members of the recovering team, not understanding why it was suddenly forbidden from writing anything.

The recovering team, once given the authorisation do to so after deeming the entity to be more and more unstable by the minute, managed to quickly de-escalate the situation by simply giving SCP-8077 a pen and paper, bringing it back to a peaceful state.

Previous

CoD AUs - Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[rookiesbookies]

So im so upset, i accidentally deleted an ask.

Here’s the sex doll price fic I got asked for, and i outlined out they work my beloved anon, im sorry😭

—————

So I saw your question and I outlined how it works more in this post (if you havent seen it) and Im getting ready to write the Konig piece, however I want to make it really special so im going to hype it up a bit more and here’s a Price one because I felt like writing him!

Price’s story of getting bought goes much like all the other’s. His lady is lonely one night, flips through some infomercials because there’s nothing good on and she figured they’d be entertaining she guessed? It was a better idea than Steinfeld reruns for the fifteenth time, and nothing streaming was updated or good. It was a rare mood.

It came on for the dolls and she fell in love with the way he moved, smiled, his eyes. It was like the tv knew how much she loved the soft eyes of an older man.

She slid off her couch and onto the floor before she punched in the number on the phone to call, saying she wanted Price.

It took time before he was there. She felt different, he has been marketed as a companion robot on the tv. One that could walk, talk, cook, clean. It would be nice having someone to take care of the house while she was at work.

When the mystery box was on her doorstep with the gibberish, she assumed what it was based on the size.

It took a long time of struggling to get it through the door. She tore into it almost immediately. She didnt even get him out of the box before she planted a soft kiss to his lips, just as the commercial said. His eyes fluttered open and she was met with the same soft eyes she first saw.

He was swift. Reconnecting his lips to her and moving out of his box without much effort. She slid back to make room for his large form, when she hit the wall he crawled over her.

“I was told you were a companion,” she said softly eyes, trained on his lips then flicking up to his eyes.

“Companions do lots of different things. There are plenty of different types of companions, love.” His rough hands came up to her face, thumb grazing over her lower lip. “It just so happens to be my directive to be a certain kind of companion.”

Her body felt like it was on air the whole time, like her nerves were cushioned by personal clouds as he worked.

He was swift, putting her on her hands and knees before working off her pants and underwear. His mouth connected with her lower lips and began work. He was delicate but hungry.

Once he got her what he deemed wet enough he used his knee to move her thighs apart, pulling his pants down.

“Breath, love.” He whispered sweetly into her ear after spitting into his hand, rubbing it over his cock, “remember to breath.”

He let it rest in her for a long time. She fell onto her forearms, debating letting her mouth hang open so drool could fall.

He was rhythmic and juicy. Everything she imagined. She was so high up she almost didn’t register she was about to cum until it happened. He didn’t seem to orgasm, surprisingly, but he didn’t seem to care, maybe he did - well she had no clue. He picked her up and wondered her home until he found the bathroom, drawing her bath before washing her gently and putting her to better not long after drying her.

Worth every penny.

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, check out my AU list for more like this. Don’t forget to leave me a comment (i always try to respond) or a request in my inbox (i also try to respond to these when I can), a reblog, or even just a like to let me know what yall want to see!

[thatgoblin]

IT'S 12 DAYS OF HOT TAKES WOTH EMERY I GUESS CAUSE MY ADHD ASS ONLY KNOWS RAGE NOW?

Stop defending the fictional men we are playing dolls with.

WE ARE ALL PLAYING WITH FICTIONAL PEOPLE LIKE DOLLS! THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY OR WRONG WAY TO DO IT!

Goddamn.

I go so hard for this because I fucking know there's someone reading this and seeing that it's not okay how they're having fun because you think canon is an ancient text we should abide by.

The only canon that people should be concerned with is the one on the pirate ship captained by John Price and his dumbass kids.

Just let people have fun with their ideas. I find myself a lot happier if I don't engage with things I don't like instead of complaining and getting support for it to silently bully and put people down.

I reply to these posts and reblog them to show people that it's not okay to police fandom and to censor. I just reblogged a post about this but with published work.

JUST BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DOESN'T MEAN IT SHOULDN'T EXIST. LET PEOPLE PLAY HOW THEY WANT. WE ARE ALL JUST TRYING TO GET THROUGH THE DAY AND IF GHOST WEARING A MAID UNIFORM WITH CAT EARS AND SOAP IN A MANKINI WITH A CHEESE PLATE FAWNING OVER A YOUNGER PERSON IS HOW YOU DO IT, THEN FUCKING DO IT.

Fully becoming the fun police because the tiktok hc devil got some of you believing hcs are canon 😭

No, Soap doesn't have ADHD. As a sniper and demolitions expert, someone with ADHD wouldn't be able to do the work effectively, it requires extreme focus for extended periods of time, and literally nothing in the game or his behavior indicates he has ADHD.

Yes, Ghost passes his psych evals. He NEEDS to be mentally stable in order to be part of the SAS, otherwise he'd be pulled out no matter how much Price likes him. There are no indications in the game or voice lines that show otherwise, he's able to hold his own weight and is likely on therapy and medication to help with his trauma and nightmares.

No, Soap doesn't have 10 sisters. He doesn't even have a family.

Yes, comic Ghost is canon to 22 Ghost. Literally nothing indicates otherwise, every single character in the remake kept their canon pasts, why would Ghost be an exception?

No, König isn't shy. He's snarky and cocky in all his voice lines, not a single trace of shyness in this man.

No, none of these grown men need a pink blanket from their childhood to sleep.💀 Infantilizing grown men is weird enough as it is, and I feel like some of you forget these men are soldiers— the best of the best, used to extreme conditions that could break regular people, they're not babies or mentally unstable teenagers, it's weird to treat them as such.

While we're at it, some of you make Price act like a fucking nonce and it's weird. No, he wouldn't date an 18 year old child. Probably the youngest he'd go to is 30s, some of you forget the huge difference in maturity age gaps always have and how he wouldn't want to date a pouty child, especially with his line of work and how often he's gone. A relationship with this man would require plenty of mutual understanding, communication skills, trust, and maturity.

ANYWAY NSOSNWLSMALQ

[konigsblog]

P!LINK COD MWII MASTERLIST (🌽)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. STRICTLY 18+. ALL MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED.

BEWARE: DARKER THEMES BELOW.

PHOTO CREDIT: GLUTT_R ON 🐦/X

KÖNIG

somnophilia with pervert!könig

taking kidnapper!könig for the first time

size difference with petite!reader and könig

“just the tip, könig.” with loser!könig

loser!könig who loses control (breeding kink)

being groped by kidnapper!könig (hole inspection)

forced breeding with pervert!könig

hope inspection with older boyfriend!könig

virginity loss with könig (virgin!reader)

letting virgin!könig use your body (virginity loss)

raped and recorded by könig

entertainment for kidnapper!könig (non-con)

raped in public by rapist!könig

incel!könig making porn for his online girlfriend

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

punishments with brat!reader and simon riley (brat taming)

relaxing simon riley with your pussy

‘obedience’ with simon riley

stepbrother!simon riley and his best friends

humping your stepfather's bulge

car sex with stepbro!simon riley

rough dom!simon riley and his fuck doll

being manhandled by your stepbrother

raped by kidnapper!simon

being filled by simon riley (breeding kink)

hole inspection with simon riley

cock worship with older boyfriend!simon

rough dom!simon x brat!reader (brat taming)

punishments with stepfather!simon

having your attitude fixed by your lieutenant

semi-clothed sex with pervert!simon

raped for intel by lieutenant!simon

JOHN ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

pervert!soap x milf!reader (morning sex)

“just the tip, i promise.” with stepbro!soap

your needy stepbro attempting to distract you

rough dom!stepbro!soap punishing you

playful!stepbro!soap and his virgin stepsister virginity loss

stepbro!soap eating you out

cuddling fucking with stepbro!soap

drunken sex with loser!soap

“fuck, don’t stop, bonnie...” handjobs with soap

being fingered by stepbro!soap

mutual masturbation with soap

stepson!soap with stepmom!reader

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK

shower sex with pervert!gaz

the type of videos gym bro!gaz sends you

riding gaz in your new lingerie

the result of getting high with stepbro!gaz

having your insides rearranged by gaz

riding gaz for the first time

“don’t pull out!” with pervert!gaz

sucking off gaz for the first time (inexperienced!reader)

letting virgin!gaz play with your cunt while you're high

treating soft!gaz to a handjob after his deployment

virgin!reader fucking themselves back on gaz

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE

being eaten out by john price (1)

being eaten out by john price (2)

morning sex with older boyfriend!price

spit play with older boyfriend!price

morning sex with sugar daddy!price

being eaten out by sugar daddy!price

manhandled by price

making out with price

stepdad!price and his slutty, daft stepdaughter

[beloveds-embrace]

(firefighters!141 x chubby reader… 👁️👁️ )

A friend of yours is a fire chief for your town’s local fire station. They ask you to help the fire station do some training drills for rescue operations. Your friend says it’s because you have acting skills, but you both silently acknowledge it probably has to do with the fact that you are chubby. Not fit, not thin, not easy to carry as evident by all the partners you’ve dated before- whatever you wanna call it.

It’s alright, you are pretty used to it. If they weren’t your friend, you would have honestly refused and saved yourself the inevitable humiliation, but alas. You are used to it, you really are.

You are introduced to Captain John Price, who holds your hand so warm and snug you have to will your blush away, but there’s nothing that can help you as he lays a big hand over your lower back and leads you to the waiting firemen. Three men, though you expected far more but John- Call me John, sweetheart. Captain is just for thos muppets- explains that they’ll be doing it in groups.

You are introduced to the three firemen (a Scot, and two Brits. Johnny, Kyle and Simon respectively. Unlike the other two, though, Simon is wearing a balaclava) and by god, you almost want to say that just for today, there is a different source of water they can use-

“Lay down here, sweetheart.” John’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and with a blush, you scramble to obey. The good girl you receive in return might as well be the best thing you’ve even been told in your entire life and the heat between your legs agrees as well.

Though you are quickly reminded that this will probably not go so well, considering your size and everything and maybe you should just apologize and leave already-

Before you can think about leaving, Johnny steps forward with that smirk he’s had since the beginning and a glint of mischief in his eyes. He crouches down next to you, stretching his arms out. “Alright, lass,” he says with a wink, “don’t be shy now. Let’s see if I’m up for the challenge.”

Before you can even process it, he slides his arms under you and lifts you up effortlessly- still mindful of your “injury”. Your face goes bright red as he shifts you in his grip, making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He gives a low whistle as he run around with you in his arms, a teasing grin plastered on his face. “Not too bad, eh? Thought I’d be struggling, but you’re light as a feather.” His grin widens, smug, as he watches your flustered reaction. “Didn’t expect me to be so strong, did ya, lass?”

You mumble something incoherent, trying to avoid his eyes, and he laughs, his deep chuckle vibrating through his chest. When he finally sets you down, you’re left feeling a little dazed, and before you can catch your breath, Kyle steps in and helps you lay back down.

“Alright, my turn,” he says with a gentle smile, his hands warm and careful as he reaches down to lift you. His grip is steady and secure, and he holds you with a tenderness that has your heart pounding in your chest. Unlike Johnny, Kyle doesn’t say much, but he gives you soft, reassuring smiles that somehow fluster you even more to the point where you really, really just want to bury your face in his shoulder. His arms feel solid around you, and there’s an easy confidence in the way he carries you that leaves you a little breathless.

“You doing okay, doll?” he asks, his voice low and soothing, and you nod, struggling to keep from blushing harder. He catches the faintest smile on your lips and chuckles softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he gently sets you back down.

Simon is next. He’s quiet as he approaches, his intense gaze flickering over you. Without a word, he slides his arms under you and lifts you in one smooth motion that leaves you drooling (in more ways than one). His hold is firm, and you can feel the strength in every part of his frame. If you weren’t playing the role of an injured, barely-conscious woman, you would honestly be begging to feel under his clothes.

He doesn’t say much as he carries you, but his steady breathing and the quiet intensity in his eyes speak volumes. You can barely hold his gaze; there’s something about his silent, stoic demeanor that sends your heart racing.

Finally, John steps up, and you realize you’re already blushing before he even touches you. Honestly? You doubt your face will return to normal anytime soon. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet authoritative. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you with an ease that leaves you a little lightheaded. The warmth of his embrace and the strength in his arms make you feel small and delicate in a way that you’ve never felt before. It leaves you breathless, but in a good way. John holds you close, his breath tickling your ear as he chuckles. “Not so bad, is it?”

By the end of it, your cheeks are burning, and the four of them are all sharing knowing smirks- you can even see the slightest crinkles of Simon’s eyes.

“Well, I’d say you’ve helped these muppets passthe test alright, sweetheart.” John huffs, his voice warm and full of amusement, and the others chuckle in agreement, each of them clearly enjoying your reactions far more than you anticipated. You can barely meet any of their eyes, your heart still pounding from the attention- and the teasing glances they keep exchanging make it clear that they noticed every flustered look and blushing smile.

As you’re still catching your breath, John tilts his head, an amused smirk tugging at his lips, and continues. “Well, we’ll have to call you back soon for another round, sweetheart. Can’t let the boys get rusty.” he teases, giving you a wink.

Johnny chimes in with a grin, taking your hand and kissing your palm. “Aye, can’t let you off that easy, bonnie. We’ll need plenty more practice to make sure we’ve got it down, yeah?”

Kyle nods as well, his gaze fixed on you. Never before have you had so much attention on you, and you never realized how much you quite love it. “Wouldn’t be proper training without our favorite helper.”

Simon, ever the quiet one, just gives you a small nod, but there’s a glint of promise in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.

You can’t help but smile, feeling a warmth you didn’t expect filling your chest. “I’ll… I’ll look forward to it. I’m glad to be of help.” You manage, your cheeks still tingling from the attention.

As you turn to leave, maybe go and ask your friend what else they could need you for since you are such a gracious friend, John’s voice calls after you, low and steady. “Soon, sweetheart.” The words linger, making you wonder just how soon “soon” might really be.

You hope it’ll be soon enough. Very soon enough.

[d-emeter]

Types of lingerie they'd go a little feral over — plus-size!fem!reader x cod characters

Includes: Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, König, Graves, Alejandro, Rudy, Valeria

CW: mid/plus-size reader, photos of people wearing lingerie!, mentions of sex/sexual activities

Photos are not indicative of reader's body type/skin colour/other physical attributes! Just meant to be examples, but us bigger girls deserve some rep on here (but also why is it so hard to find cute pics of mid/plus-size girlies that aren't ads or extremely edited?)

All rights go to owners of the photos! I tried to crop out their faces as best I could <3

John Price

Price would love anything feminine. He adores when you play into his housewife kink, parading around the house in babydoll dresses and fur-lined robes (preferably sheer). He wouldn't even bother with taking the pieces off once he gets his hands on you, simply pulling and adjusting where necessary. Not above ripping either, but don't worry, he'll gladly buy you some new sets. Maybe he should get you some of those crotchless panties, poppet, would save him a lot of hassle.

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

Listen, as much as he loves it seeing you all dolled up, there is nothing that gets him going quicker than you in some raggedy, hole-ridden comfy clothes, preferably when they're his. His boxers framing your plump ass so nicely, digging into your flesh a bit when you move and his shirt doing nothing to hide the jiggle of your tits while your nipples poke through the fabric. If he sees you like this, his hands are all over you in a split second. God forbid your shirt is cropped, showing off your soft tummy and the underside of your breasts — you couldn't pry him off with a crowbar.

(you cannot tell me Johnny doesn't own some dumbass boxers like this)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

In fear of repeating myself, I think Simon would also go a little dreamy-eyed over you in your comfies. Except, unlike Johnny, he loves those sweet little pj-sets you wear. He's still a little taken aback every time he comes home to you curled up on his — your — couch. The realization that he has something this sweet to come home to — that he has a home at all, hitting him like a freight train. Like Price, doesn't bother taking your pajamas off when he pounces on you. Just makes it easier for him to tuck you into bed after he's done with you.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Garters, belts, straps, buckles, the whole thing. And best believe he's the one picking them out, too. You'll randomly find boxes on your bed, the contents in different styles, colours, fabrics. He insists you model them for him, or send him pictures if he's deployed. The sets are an absolute nightmare to get into, but he'll gladly help you take them off, darlin'. Don't mind him though, if he snaps a photo or two in the process. Also loves it when you wear lingerie as part of an actual outfit. What can I say, the man loves showing you off (with the knowledge he's the only one that gets to see the full sets and everything underneath them later).

König

Anything resembling some cheap halloween costume from party city. It honestly doesn't matter to him what; sexy secretary, naughty nurse, you name it. Literally whatever. He will lose his mind a little if you go as far as to engage in some roleplay pertaining to whatever you're wearing — acting like he's your boss or your patient. Oh, a pair of animal ears can and will make his eyes roll back in his head. (He will, however, ensure that your outfits are of relatively good quality — they've gotta outlast a least a few rounds, Schatzi).

Philip Graves

Ugh, he's so nasty (affectionate). He wants you to look hyper-feminine. His perfect little all-american wife (even if you've never set foot in the usa, or don't yet wear a ring on your finger) in her hyper-feminine lingerie, waiting for her soldier to come home. Frilly bras, lacy undies and silky night dresses in white or pink or any pastel shade. He gets off on the innocence they exude — makes him want to ruin you. And then wife you up. Maybe give you a baby or two.

Alejandro Vargas

Corsets!!! Or anything somewhat structured, really. This man adores the shape of your body no matter what, and the way the corset only accentuates the curve of your waist and pushes your tits up so deliciously has him rock fucking hard. If you choose to add some thigh-highs to that with the plush fat of your thighs spilling over the edge you may as well have killed him. He also has this weird infatuation with the marks the corset leaves on your skin after you (or he) take it off.

Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parra

This poor man nearly faints the first time you wear lingerie for him (and pretty much every time after that). It doesn't particularly matter to him what it is, but he does like it when you stick to the classics: simple lacy bra and panty set. He likes that it makes you feel confident and (relatively) comfortable, as your comfort is always his number one priority. He also just thinks the simplicity of the sets helps accentuate the beauty of your body, rather than distract from it.

Valeria Garza

Anything expensive. Like, crazy expensive. She has the money, amor, why not spend it on something she enjoys? She'll make sure you only wear the highest quality fabrics (and that goes for all your clothing, by the way, she likes taking care of her girl). There are diamonds glittering all over your body, highlighting all your curves and twinkling with every move you make, and a nice string of pearls disappearing between your folds.

(I couldn't find ANY photos of this type of lingerie on bigger bodies, my apologies. Rest assured Valeria will get everything custom-made for you — remember, only the best for her girl)

[shotmrmiller]

kinktober: cockwarming (john price x reader x simon in underground fighter au)

You're no fan of real-time violence.

Movies can never replicate its visceral reality— the sharp metallic tang that clings to the air, mingled with salt and the bitter stench of the swill these local colors call beer. Even worse is having to be the one to patch Simon up with trembling, blood-slick fingers and your molars sunk into the thick of your tongue to keep your lunch where it belongs.

So when Simon sends you Price's way with a firm palm on your arse and his spit still warm on your lips, you're grateful. He'll keep ya busy.

You're not counting his blood money, if that's what he was thinking.

"Course not, love," Price says, the rings on his thick fingers glinting under the dim light overhead as he opens the door to his office. It smells of worn leather, polished wood, and layered on top is the heady aroma of tobacco, rich, unmistakable. (You will not stay if he lights one of those puppies up. You like your lungs how they are.)

"Tha's wha' the bill counter is for." You can feel the warmth of his palm seeping through your clothes— a steady presence at the base of your spine, guiding you forward with a subtle push.

You'd expected him to let you pluck a book off the well-stocked shelf that's been beckoning you since you laid eyes on it and curl up on his couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders. Maybe even chat you up with small talk, ask about your week, school/job, and how you were adjusting to this new life.

Not with his broad front curling around your back, breath warming the shell of your ear, while you stare at the smooth, raised skin on his knuckles— which is less furry than the rest of him— in hopes that you don't fall apart around the thick of his cock. He's got a hand flat on the desk, small finger slanting to the side probably from where it healed wrong, and the other's signing off paperwork you couldn't even try to understand with a clear mind, much less one that's spinning from the sheer want for friction, relief.

Your arse pulses hot from where he'd reprimanded you earlier for squirming too much.

"Quite obedient. Simon's taught ya well." He hisses when you tighten up involuntarily, indignation cutting through the sluggish heat you've been burning in at his remark. Obedient. Taught. As if you're some kind of lap dog, yipping and rolling over for a treat. (Or in this case, a cock.)

"Easy, love. Jus' a joke." The hand he'd had on the desk comes to squeeze at the meat of your ribs, a small gesture, before weaving down to your cunt, fingers spreading, feeling how well split you are around his length, lips spread wide. "I'd hate f'you to turn my own guard dog against me, eh?" His apology comes in jerky little circles, smearing slick over your neglected clit, coarse hair of your mons coated milky white.

Each stroke of his fingers only bows your spine, winding it like one would a key on the back of a doll, your muscles coiling with tension, bodily response not your own after being denied release for god knows how long.

The sharp tap on the door goes completely unnoticed by you, but not Price. His pace remains steady, continuous, as Simon walks in through the door with crimson peppered on his cream wifebeater.

"John." Through bleary eyes, you see Simon settle in the chair across from you both, legs long, knuckles angry red and swollen as he palms himself over his denim. "Gaz may or may not 'ave goaded Soap into a fight."

Price's hand stops abruptly, desperation clogging your throat, the coil beneath your navel cranked so tight you might just scream. His voice rattles you from behind. "And?"

Simon's got his jeans bunched to his knees now, cock resting heavy atop his thighs, quads' ridges shifting as he gets comfortable. He might just be a tad bigger than what you've got sitting snugly against the plug of your womb.

"They're tumblin' outside, among civil folk. I doubt gettin' 'em out will be as painless this time 'round."

Price snarls and you find yourself empty, straddling Simon's hips, your inner thighs burning at the width. "Bloody fuckin'—," the sound of his belt buckle peters off soon after he walks out the door.

Your hands can feel Simon's shoulders flexing as he runs a fist up his length, eyes heavy lidded and focused on the creamy slick dampening your curls. His cock sits long on your stomach.

"'ave a seat, then." Amusement curls his lip, usual pink scar on his lip stretched silver. Your knees don't reach the cushion he's on properly, so you place your feet right above his own for leverage, legs folded tight.

His fingers dimple your waist as you lower yourself onto him, breath rushing out of your lungs as he fills you, aching, burning, a stretch you'll never really get used to, the pinch deep in your core causing discomfort to clump your lashes together until you're flush against him.

"Sit real pretty now. Gotta wait f'r Price t'give me my earnin's."

You're gonna rip his ear off with your teeth if you don't get to come soon.

"Claws in," he mutters, thumbing your pebbled nipple through your shirt. "Won't be too long."

(It was too long but worth every bloody second in the end.)

[tojisun]

cw: john price x f!reader - older man/younger woman; 18+

john makes you feel beautiful. he dotes on you like you are his doll, splurging everything he’s got until you’re all spoiled.

“m’gonna be y’r rotten girl,” you told to him once, giggling, and john had just hummed as he gathered you in his arms, pulling you up until you’re both chest to chest. he breathed you in, his scruff tickling your jaw, his hands finding purchase along the pudge of your waist.

“i’d love you either way, baby,” john said like his words just didn’t lay waste on you.

you nodded, quiet and shy, your cheeks thrumming with warmth, and john kissed your silence away, murmuring nothings about how he could not wait to dress you up, to see you in his gifts, to fly you to spain and show you how a pretty girl should be cherished. you laughed it up, nodding to indulge him, but john always went through with his word and you found yourself in the next flight to ibiza.

it was exhilarating.

no one has ever done so much for you; no one thought you’re worth more than a 50/50 split dinner that you barely even enjoy or a quickie in a dingy parking lot because apparently a hotel was too much for a ‘casual thing.’

and sure you know you are worth more than those sucky dates, but your roster never changed and it’s like—

if they don’t like you enough, then… are you?

then john came and just. well, fuck — you know?

he’s ruined you for everyone else. he’s ruined you for anything that isn’t himself. john filled you up with fulfilled promises and went above that because he made you his sole point of focus. his priority. because somehow, you triumph over everything.

every of your whispered pleas, every quiet calls, every crooked requests — john always answered them. you are never too much for me, he said. nothing goes before you.

and who is strong enough to not fall for that? no one.

john loves vividly, and he loves you with such vastness it’s incomprehensible. john loves like this, whatever this is, was an organic sort of love; like it did not start with a messy hookup with a friend of a friend of a friend’s… dad.

(but there was something dizzying about the way your bodies clicked. how when john, apparently the mr. price, sank to his knees and flipped your skirt up, something just slotted into place.

it felt right to be there in his master’s bathroom, grasping at the hems of your skirt with shaky hands and watching on with tears in your eyes as he sucked on your clit and laid his tongue flat along your slit. it felt right to be there as he held your hips, thick fingers digging into your fat, and felt him grunting into your flesh, muffled praises slipping from his slick-sheened lips drunkenly. it felt right to beg for his fingers; to beg for more.

and god, it felt good.

so good, you were all numb in the brain, muscles shaking, satiation rolling off of you in heaps.

“shit, baby,” john murmured, cupping your jaw. “you’re so perfect.”

“mmrf?” you grunted, still nonverbal as your body caught up with the tidal waves of pleasure punched out of you.

he laughed, so soft and quiet. “yeah, you are.” he bent forward and pressed a kiss on your forehead. “might just keep you.”

he didn’t sound playful when he said this. he sounded certain, and it filled your heart up with giddiness because—

“please.”

john cooed and snuggled up beside you, pressing his bulk on your back and pulling you impossibly closer. not letting go.

not after that. not anymore.)

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 4 - Runaway

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized reader, female reader, Poorly thought out action sequences, Guns, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though I might even tell y'all her name.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

You wake in the morning with your nose buried in a thick patch of chest hair, and strong arms around you. Your legs are hooked around one of his thick thighs, and something hard digs into your stomach. You start to inch away, but his arms tighten, and his hips cant against you, a thick, sleepy groan rumbling in his chest. It would be a nice way to wake up, if not for the circumstances. It’s been ages since you slept beside another person, let alone someone that feels as comfortable as John does.

“John,” you say softly. You don’t want to fully wake him up, just get him to let you go. “John, please let me go.”

He hums, one hand sliding to your waist, and then down to your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against his thigh. You squeak in protest, becoming aware that you’re already wet, like you’ve been unconsciously humping his leg in your sleep for some time. You push your slightly freer top half away a little, so you can look at him. He’s still sleeping, a little frown on his face as he’s pulled unwillingly toward consciousness. He really is handsome, especially like this, all his defences down, grumbling like a hibernating bear.

“Don’t wake up,” you tell him, as if it’ll make any difference. “I just have to pee.”

One of his blue eyes cracks open, a little unfocused. “You comin’ back?” His voice is rough from sleep, rasping like sandpaper.

“Sure,” you say, even though you have no intention of doing so. Your body seems as eager as his is for something you’re sure is dangerous. Maybe he smells good, like tobacco, warm, boozy spices and something undeniably male, and maybe he feels warm and solid against you, but you don’t want to encourage this. You just want to enough space to clear your head. His admissions last night still have you spooked, John’s words not tempered by a night of surprisingly good sleep. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He loosens his hold on you enough that you can wiggle free, his eyes opening a little more so he can watch you slip out of bed. He rolls over onto his back, and starts snoring gently before you’ve even made it to the bedroom door. You take the opportunity to snag one of the bags stacked in front of the closet and your purse off the dresser and bring both to the bathroom with you. You’re not sure what’s in the bag, but you know the larger suitcase has things from your closet in it, so you’re hoping this one has more from your dresser.

You get dressed, glad that most of your underthings and a comfortable pair of jeans and a thick sweater are inside and pack your toothbrush and makeup bag into the larger one, and creep downstairs carefully. One of them is snoring gently on the couch, but otherwise, the house is silent. You carefully fish a set of keys off the hooks by the door and sneak outside. You don’t know where any of your shoes are except the red heels, so you just leave in your sock feet, and pile your things into the pick-up truck. You’ll drive it into town and leave it there, buy a ticket on a train or a bus, and get the hell back home.

It sucks to have to leave everything you own, beyond the clothes in the one bag and the contents of your purse, but maybe you can call the cops— Well. Probably not. Better to just start over anywhere else. You have digital copies of a few pictures of your parents, and that’s better than nothing, even if their wedding album is sitting on a shelf in John’s living room, along with all the family photos that your parents took of you and them while you were growing up. Your mother’s sketchbooks too, and her camera, and your dad’s guitar.

You bite your lip, holding back tears, and start the truck.

No sense mourning things. The memories are in your head and your heart, not trapped in the pages of books or twisted into the strings of the guitar. You don’t need them.

You haven’t driven in a long time, and the truck, unfortunately, is a manual, which you haven’t driven in even longer, but you manage to pull away from the house without revving the engine too hard, and pick up speed once you get to the road, only just remembering to hit the clutch with your left foot before you change gears. You’d feel pretty pathetic if you only made it to the road before stalling out the pickup.

You’re not sure which way town is, but you figure the road has to lead somewhere no matter which way you choose, so you navigate blindly, turning onto a bigger road a little ways down the gravel one that leads to John’s house. Bigger road means more people, although the hour is still so early that there’s no one around yet. The sun is barely up, and it’s still shadowy in the woods on either side of the road. The woods give way to fields suddenly, the sun making a too-bright debut, shining right into your eyes. You flip down the visor and adjust the rear-view mirror, wincing when you see a blue car a ways behind you, approaching fast.

You didn’t notice the car when you were leaving— It must have been parked behind the bigger van that they’d used to move all your things— but it looks sporty and fast, and judging by the way it closes the gap, there’s no question that it’s them. You push the truck harder, squinting against the light, heart hammering. The car’s engine roars, loud enough that you can hear it over the blood rushing in your ears, and pulls into the lane beside you. Gaz motions for you to pull over from the passenger seat.

You slow up enough that they pull ahead a little, and you yank your steering wheel to the side and stomp down on the gas and the clutch, shifting into third gear and nailing the side of the car, shattering a tail light and making it spin, stopping just shy of the ditch.

For a moment, you’re still close enough to see the shock on their faces, but you’re moving fast and leave them in the dust, at least momentarily. It won’t take them long to recover and catch up again, and if they hit you with the same maneuver, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the truck under control. There’s not enough weight in the bed of the truck to compensate, and you’ll wind up in the ditch for certain.

Funny, how it comes back to you. Learning to drive along mountain roads way outside Aberdeen, either in your dad’s little car or your mom’s old truck (usually the car, which was the easier one to drive. Your dad was the safer driver too, the better parent to learn from), and you can almost imagine your mother in the passenger seat, laughing her head off at the insane circumstances, encouraging you to throw caution to the wind, to get a feel for the road under the wheels and the way the old truck handled. She always laughed when she was under stress, but it’s comforting to think of. Your mum would never let a couple of thick-headed military assholes get the better of her.

The car is catching up again, so you floor it and smash through a fence gate into a muddy field, where the car won’t handle as well, and speed your way across the stubbly remains of wheat, already harvested. The car follows, and, predictably, struggles, the low frame too close to the muck, bumping unhappily over the soft, uneven ground.

Laughter bubbles up in your chest, relieving some of the built-up anxiety. You smash through a segment of the fence on the other side and yank the truck back onto the road, giggling when the truck fishtails a bit, mud slicking the tires on the pavement. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through your system that you feel like you might be sick the moment you let any of this catch up with you. So you keep driving, and pray that it doesn’t.

The car gets close again when you reach another wooded section of road. Through the rearview mirror you can see Gaz pop out of the window, gun drawn, but you don’t hear the crack when it fires, you only feel the impact when the bullet strikes one of the rear tires. You shriek, slamming on the breaks as the truck spins out of your control and off the road, slamming into a tree head on.

The lurch forward as the airbags deploy, your body hitting them hard, knocking all the air out of your lungs as you’re slapped back into he seat. The seat belt bites into your shoulder painfully. You unbuckle yourself quickly, ears ringing too loudly for you to hear the screeching tires of the pursuit car. You fall to the ground when you try to get out, head spinning.

You stumble into the trees, still blinking away double vision. If you can find a good spot to hide— Maybe you can double back and take the car while they chase you blindly through the trees. You cast about, feeling every rapidly forming bruise, wishing desperately that you had shoes, and dive into the underbrush, scooting forward on your belly, brambles catching in your hair as you curl up, out of sight.

“Please come out, doll,” you hear Gaz call out, boots crunching through the woods, closer than you would like. “It’s okay, we’re not mad. Just come out and we’ll take you home, yeah?”

Johnny is yelling further off, his voice incomprehensible but sing-song, mocking. Gaz moves further into the woods. You wait until his voice grows a little more distant before you drag yourself back out, sweater streaked with mud, leaves in your hair, and quickly sneak back to the road. The car is still running, the driver door left open. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“There you are, bird.”

You scream. A gloved hand drops over your mouth, cutting off the sound, and an arm loops around your waist, picking you right up off your feet.

Fuck.

"Look what you did, bird. Wrecked up Price's truck. 'E's not goin' to be 'appy about that." He turns so you can see the slightly smoking truck, the front half of it crumpled beyond repair.

You shake your head until he pulls his hand away from your mouth. "Its not my fault I crashed. Gaz shot the tire out. I wasn't even going to steal it, just leave it in town once I'd gotten to a bus stop."

He hums. You hear the slight crackle of a radio. "Got 'er, lads. Come back to the car."

"Rog."

"Aye."

Ghost shoves you into the back seat. "Stay put," he says sternly. "You're already banged up, don't want to 'ave to tackle you."

You sigh, all the fight leaving you. You feel awful, bruised and shaken up and trembling, and you do nothing but watch as Ghost gathers your things from the truck and puts them in the boot of the car. You slump back in the seat, inspecting the scratches on your hands idly. Your head hurts, and your shoulder aches, and you feel a bit like you've been stepped on, but nothing feels broken, just bruised and tender. You got lucky.

Well, not lucky. There's very little about any of this that counts as luck. Especially considering the look on Johnny's face when he jogs out of the trees. At first he looks stormy, but he grins when he sees you and opens the back door to crawl onto the seat and on top of you.

"Steamin Jesus, where'd ye learn ta drive like tha'?" He asks. "Didnae ken ye were a racer."

"Outside Aberdeen," you reply. Your ribs hurt. Soap’s weight makes every little ache more acute.

"Price isn't gonna be happy about his truck," Gaz says, tossing himself into the driver's seat. "What were you thinking, doll? You could've been hurt."

"You didn't have to shoot the tire." You try to push Soap off, but he wraps himself around you, a bit tight, but bearably so. You’re trembling, and he’s trying to help, in a thoroughly unhelpful way. "I was just trying to get home."

"That's the wrong way. Your home's with Price now." Ghost gets into the other front seat, and Gaz reverses back out onto the road.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window, watching the countryside flash by. It takes an embarrassingly short time to get back to John's house. You didn't get as far as you would have liked, hardly got anywhere at all. Your eyes prickle with tears, but you don't want to cry in front of them. You want to go back to bed, maybe back in time to the morning. You would have been wiser just to curl up next to John again.

Soap drags you from the car, hands a bit rough on your bruises, and pulls you back to the house. John rushes out, worry creasing his face, blue eyes sweeping over you and turning furious. "What happened?" he barks, not at you, but at his men.

"Bird was makin' a run for it," Ghost says.

"Wrecked your truck," Gaz adds.

"That's not my fault!" you protest. "You shot at me!" You glare at him, frustrated tears overflowing down your cheeks. It’s like they have no idea what kind of stress they’ve put you through.

"Woah, woah, c'mere, doll." John pulls you against his chest, wrapping strong arms around you, stilling some of the tremble in your limbs. "You broken?"

You shake your head, leaning into him, gripping his t-shirt tightly. You breathe in raggedly, trying to steady yourself.

"Lads. Why did you shoot at her?"

"Trying to stop the truck."

"She's a civilian you muppets. I take it that the truck's in no shape to drive, or you would've brought it back. You could have killed her." He pets a hand over your head, plucking out a few leaves. "You should’ve let her go."

"She stole your truck!" Soap protests.

"So what? It's wrecked now anyway, innit?" The silence behind you speaks volumes. "Alright, doll, why don't you go get cleaned up? " he murmurs against the top of your head. "I need to talk to the lads, and what I have to say is not fit for a lady's ears."

He gently ushers you into the house and closes the door firmly behind you. You trudge upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic, and lock yourself into the bathroom. Still sniffling, you comb sticks and leaves out of your hair with your fingers and put yourself into a hot shower, where you give yourself the freedom to cry your eyes out, hoping that the sound of water drowns your stifled sobs.

The house is quiet when you shut off the shower and dry yourself off. You wrap the shirt you'd slept in around you and poke your head out into the hallway. John is right there, holding out a bundle of clothes. "Here, sweetheart," he says softly, like he's worried a sharp word will set you off again. He must have heard everything. "I sent the boys to deal with the truck and that tail light, so it's just us. Just come on downstairs when you're ready."

You open the door wide enough to accept the clothes, and he turns to leave again, content to leave anything else to be said when you make it downstairs.

He'd obviously taken his cue from what you'd been wearing already, because he gives you a sweater and jeans again, comfortable worn in things. You go downstairs carefully, every joint and muscle in your body aching, even after the shower.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks. "Or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee, please. I can make it. I'd feel better if I did, honestly." You skirt around him to the cupboard where you'd seen Gaz take mugs out, recognizing your own nestled among John's mismatched ones. You put milk and sugar in your favourite mug, and pour in coffee, stirring it throroughly. The clink of the spoon is loud, and so is the pan he sets on the stove top.

"Eggs and toast okay?" He asks.

"Um, yeah. That would be nice. Over easy?"

"Yes ma'am." He looks at you over his shoulder while butter melts in the pan, blue eyes all worry. "Did I say something to you last night? Maybe the sort of thing that made you feel like you needed to steal a truck and run as fast as you could away from here?"

"Um. Yes." You hold onto the mug with both hands. "Some stuff about wanting to start a family. With me."

His ears turn pink. "I see."

"I suppose this is where you tell me it was just the whiskey talking, right?" you ask hopefully. You like him, even if it’s ill-advised, maybe even dangerous to do so.

"Wish I could."

Your stomach twists. “Oh.”

John turns around fully, guilt and sadness written all over his handsome face. He steps closer and touches your arm gently. “I’m so sorry about what my boys have put you through, sweetheart. None of this has been right.” He sighs, brushing a few tendrils of still-wet hair away from your face, studying you, those intense blue eyes focused on you intently. “But there’s something special about you, doll. I really do want to keep you forever. Not if you’re scared, and not if you feel forced— It’s just, the thought of you leavin' and never wanting to speak to me again is— I don’t want that.”

You swallow nervously. “This is just really overwhelming.”

“I know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let this happen. Soap really could have just given you my number.” The smile he gives you is hopeful, and you can’t help but return it, just a little. “Now go sit down, doll. Let me take care of breakfast, hm?”

You nod and move to the table, sitting where you can watch him, and peek out the window too. The car is gone, but the van is still there for the moment, sitting idly to the side. You consider making another run for it, but your aching limbs protest even the thought. There’s not enough fight in you, and you’re not even sure you want to fight John, not the way you do the other three. His only crime has been wanting you to stay, and being a bit overzealous about it. You can’t be mad at him for that, can you? It isn’t really his fault.

Well, it might be his fault, in a roundabout way. He trained them, taught them how to ruthlessly pursue an objective. It’s just not his fault they can’t keep it from coming home with them. That’s a clear failure of whoever does their mental health assessments.

You sip your coffee and watch John crack eggs into a pan. He keeps glancing at you, and his smile flickers on a little longer each time that he catches you looking back, until he doesn’t stop smiling, and just looks happy, glad to have you there, even if you’re just keeping a silent vigil on the other side of the room.

It's not like you have anywhere to go. It'll take days at least to feel like you haven't just been in a car crash, and days more to locate everything to pack it back up. So long as you don't have to share a bed with John again, you think you could live with this, for at least a week. It can't be that terrible, so long as the others leave you alone. You rather hope they just leave. If you asked, would John send them away?

"John," you say as he sets a plate with buttered toast and a couple of eggs on it in front of you, and sets a couple tablets of paracetamol beside your plate. "If I stay… Will they be staying too?"

"I'm going to have them leave this afternoon. That alright with you? We can go for a walk to the neighbours while they pack up, if you're up for it. Maybe dr-- Well, not drive." He sets his own plate down and sits next to you, handing you a knife and a fork. “Have to get that sorted out. But the neighbours-- Rob and Melissa-- Their dog just had puppies a few weeks ago. Do you like dogs?”

You nod, breaking the yolks of one of the eggs with a corner of toast. "My parents had a dog when I was growing up. Some kind of German shepherd cross. Best boy. His name was Rob Roy, because he was a wee outlaw. Mam found him digging in the trash and--" you stop and give John a baleful look. "Sorry. That was more than you were asking."

"No, that's the most you've said at once this whole time. I'd listen to you talk all day, doll. Don't ever apologize."

"Sorry I-- Oh, shit, sorry--" you press your fingers to your mouth, cutting yourself off. "Force of habit."

"I'd like to see you lose that one. You have nothin' to apologize for. Not one damn thing, and especially not talking. I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help smiling. "You're just saying that."

He touches your arm lightly. "You don't know me too well yet, doll, but I never just say anything."

Yet hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know him, wants you to stay with him, wants you to like him. Even if it makes no sense, the offer is tempting. It's been a long time since you've let someone get close— You've had the occasional fling, and the odd reunion with an ex that you’d stayed friends with, but grief is like a canyon you can't bear to cross. What if you love someone and you lose them, the way you lost your parents? How could you live with that all over again?

Still, there's something that feels like warm sunlight in his smile, and you can't help but incline toward him, slowly but surely reaching for the light. No one can live in the shade forever. There’s no nobility in suffering.

So you let yourself talk, at least a little. And he listens, hanging on to your words like they're precious, gazing at you with something unfurling in his expression that you can't name. You're almost afraid to try.

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[v1x3n]

BARBIE GIRL ~ MASTERLIST !

~ '' we can get a little freaky boy, a little naughty ,,

୨ৎ PAIRING : bimbo reader x john price.

୨ৎ TAGS : kinda slow burn , fluff , eventual smut , ongoing.

୨ৎ SYNOPSIS : you meet john price at Kyles birthday, who knows what could come next?

MOODBOARD FOR BIMBO!READER AND JOHN PRICE HERE ~ -`♡´-

KYLES PARTY // fluff

♡ ... you meet a tall, bearded man during a friends birthday party, hopefully you would see him again?

"A DATE?" // fluff , suggestive

♡ ... you find john on tinder, quickly setting up a cute date you two hit it off!

[3amfanfiction]

Meeting the Price Family

Part 2 to this

Hurt/No Comfort, MDNI, Dead dove fic. Please check the trigger warnings.

You and Simon have a surprise to show the Price family. They really have a picture perfect life.

cw: kidnapping, babynapping, implied torture, breast binding, stockholm syndrome, this is hurt no comfort folks, just like the last one. The brain goblins keep beating the war drums and the thoughts keep coming

~~~~

You thought everything was over when you realized you were pregnant. You're not sure why it was a shock; Simon didn't bother with condoms and the only time he pulled out is when he wanted to degrade you in some other way. So you were surprised when nothing really changed, other than for the better.

You're cautious as things began to shift. Simon was in no way nice but he was being more careful with you—physically at least. The day he dropped a bottle of prenatal vitamins in front of you without comment you wondered if you were hallucinating. Maybe he'd slammed your head into the headboard last night and this was all some sort of brain swelling fever dream.

When you commented on them he only grunted—not deigning to provide more information than that, so you took the pills. It seemed silly not to.

As the months progressed you noticed yourself feeling uncomfortably optimistic. The good moments were a bit more pleasant while the bad ones were easily brushed off—forgotten quickly. When you recognized the feelings you tried to beat them back, knowing hope would only wind up with you more hurt in the long run. But it was hard not to be a little bit hopeful when there's no more brutal couplings.

Simon hadn't choked you until you passed out or brought out his knife collection in the months since you learned of the pregnancy. The consideration he fucked you with played with your emotions, hormones no doubt helping that along. In some ways it hurt worse when he was nice to you. You never took Simon as the type to have a soft spot for pregnant women but at the end of the day if it saved you a bit of pain you were all for it.

The food was better too. While Simon hadn't necessarily withheld food before, it wasn't treated as anything more than a basic necessity, something to keep your body functioning and able to heal from the abuse he piled onto you. Now he was making sure there was fresh fruit in the fridge for if you get hungry between meals, smoothies to drink with breakfast, and a healthy mix of vegetables in the evenings. It was bizarre.

Maybe you were past the worst of it? You didn't know why being pregnant would have changed anything but maybe he realized he didn't need to be so rough with you. Your chances of survival were far increased if this was his new MO.

Over the next few months you tried your hardest but you were unable to keep from getting attached to the baby growing in your womb. This innocent little life had done nothing wrong and was the only thing still pure in your life. You didn't want to get attached—that's how you get hurt.

You knew it was over when you started calling them Charlie.

Never out loud where Simon could hear. No, only in your head where it was safe. And not all the time either. You were still trying your hardest to keep separated from this baby, nothing in your life stable enough to support a tiny human. But how could you be separate when it was your heart beating for theirs? Your lungs breathing for them? They needed you.

As you grew larger the separation disappeared further. You found yourself rubbing your stomach soothingly when they began kicking up a fuss swaying back and forth softly to rock them inside of you. You could imagine you were holding them in a nursery when you did this—walls painted a pretty shade of green or yellow, stuffed animals in the corners and murals painted around the windows.

Would you have told everyone or kept it a secret? As you got further along your stomach expanded rapidly. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hide it for the whole pregnancy. Would your friends have been excited or shocked when you told them? Would you be a good mom?

You cried in a heartbroken panic when you realized you were imaging holding and nursing them once they were born. This was going to destroy you.

\\\

Simon didn't say anything the day he caught you talking to them. The baby had been doing loop-de-loops and had tied your stomach into queasy knots. Rubbing a hand along the protrusion you soothed, "Shh shh, you're okay. There's no need for all that," —soft, calming— "You need to be nicer to me while you're in there bub, we're in this together, the two of us."

When you looked up you saw Simon staring from the doorway where he had stopped on his way past, caught by hearing you talk in such a soft voice. You freeze, waiting for him to say something about being soft or to make fun but he never does. Just looks at you before continuing down the hallway, footsteps as silent as the grave.

Maybe everything is going to be okay. It will never be good, not as long as you're kept here but maybe it will be okay.

The optimism grows ever so slightly, deep within your chest.

\\\

Looking at your newborn you felt shell-shocked. They had been inside of you for months, kicking your ribs and squishing your organs, and now you were holding them. It didn't feel real.

You had a little girl.

Her birth last week had been rough but ultimately uneventful. It was a home birth of course—just you, Simon and another man he called Garrick. While it lasted for most of the day it was worth it for the baby held in your arms.

You had just pulled her off your breast when Simon told you you were going to meet the Captain and his Darling.

" 'S time they met it," he said dismissively, eyes glancing at your baby before moving back up to yours, "we'll be leavin' in an hour."

You worried about this change in routine, certain nothing good will come from it. You haden't left the house before, Simon kept you firmly caged in all matters and you never thought you'd be longing to stay rather than to leave.

You couldn't see any way out of what was to come so you decided to make the most of it. Maybe this was going to be your chance. Your chance to get away from him and find safety for you and your daughter. Maybe you could tell his captain how deranged Simon was—some of the horrible things he'd done to you. Surely his captain would help.

Wouldn't he?

You didn't have enough information to be making concrete plans so you shifted them to the back burner. Moving into the bedroom to clean up, you dressed your baby in one of the three outfits she had, clothes you'd begged Simon for before she was born. Once done it was time to leave.

\\\

It's a beautiful house you pulled up to, deep in the countryside. You hadn't passed another building for over an hour when it finally came into view, tucked into the shadow of a mountain with trees sprawling in every direction as far as the eye could see.

It was a couple who greeted you, standing on the porch with a toddler. The little boy was perched in his father's arms, a stern-faced man with a truly impressive beard. The woman at his side was beautiful, dressed in a sundress with her stomach arching prominently in front of her. She smiled kindly as you walked up, leaning into her husband's side where he had his free arm wrapped around her waist.

The man introduced himself to you as John and at his wife's wide-eyed look tells you her name is Darling. She gathered herself quickly and smiled softly at you, welcoming you to their home.

"And this little munchkin is William," John continued, jostling the toddler slightly to make him laugh. His baby blue eyes swallowed his face, causing him to look downright angelic as he giggled and hid his face in his father's broad shoulder, smiling shyly towards you.

"Well, no use standing on the porch, come on inside," he turned to open the door, ushering Darling in first before stepping back to allow you and Simon through, smiling at you warmly when you pass. The crinkle around his eyes made him even more attractive than before.

Their home is warm and bright, windows letting in light from all sides with no curtains to block the beautiful view. You and Simon are guided to the living room where two sofas face each other, a comfortable well-worn recliner holding court over the room where it was tucked into place down at the end.

You took a seat on the inviting sofa, shuffling the baby into a better position against your chest; luckily she's fast asleep at this point so there's no fussing to be found. Smiling as Darling brings you a drink, you took a sip before setting down the glass, leaning back comfortably and cuddling your baby.

John and Simon immediately jumped into discussion which faded into background noise in your mind once you realize they aren't likely to be asking you any questions just yet.

You find yourself watching Darling, now holding William, perched across from you. Her and John look happy together with their eyes never straying far from the other. Darling sits poised next to John, returning each smile he frequently sent her way. His arm rested along the back of the couch, hand placed on Darling's neck, rubbing comforting circles into the skin.

Occasionally as he and Simon talk, he'll reach across with his free hand and rub it soothingly over her stomach, basking in her pregnancy. Or he'll brush a hand over William's hair who is fast falling asleep on his mother's shoulder.

You wonder if this is what your life would have been like, if you had never met Simon. A loving husband who was interested in being a father and adored his wife, a beautiful house in a quiet area. It felt idyllic.

As the time continues, William grows fussy. "It's past his nap time," Darling apologized, a distressed look crossing her face at the interruption to John and Simon's talk. As the toddler began to flail more forcefully, his little fist grabs the neckline of Darling's dress and pulls downward sharply, causing the fabric to lower along the front giving you a health view of her full breasts. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw the light blue ropes criss-crossing her skin.

They flowed along her curves, stunningly beautiful in their artistry if not for the angry skin glimpsed between the coils.

It was clear that while this rope harness was for aesthetic purposes that had not been the case in previous instances. If you had to guess you'd say Darling's breasts had been bound tightly, crushed to the point of cruelty. Shiny rope burns traced the swollen skin, creating an alternate pattern below the blue rope. You noticed that the burns looked to be about a week old.

The thought of being bound tightly enough to cause marks like that at the same time as you were nursing sent a wave of horror through you. It seemed you got your answer on whether or not to try and get help today.

Darling noticed her dress sagging and quickly pulled it back up, an embarrassed look on her face as she straightened the neckline, making sure everything was covered once more.

You looked at the two of them in a new light as you realized Darling was in the same situation as you. Different nuances perhaps but the same bones. It tugged at something inside you, something you thought all but gone by now. It's hard not to compare your situations, wondering which is worse; Simon at least is honest in his pursuit to hurt you but John feels much more sinister.

You tuned back in as John began to tell Simon about William's diet, "When it came time to begin weaning him, it was quite the undertaking. You'd think we were trying to kill him—the way he carried on at not being allowed the tit at all times of the day and night. Although," John chuckled sardonically, "I certainly can't blame him," reaching up he dragged the back of his fingers over the curve of Darling's breast. "I'd love to stay attached to Darling's tits all day too. It's one of my frequent daydreams."

Darling doesn't so much as lean away from John's stroke, conditioned to accept all of his advances you realize, trained away from flinching. It curdles your stomach and makes you want to cry when you realized you probably look the same way from her end.

Simon rolled his eyes, well used to his captain's quirks, "You and your tits, cap."

\\\

You felt awful for thinking it but John seemed to be a good father considering the circumstances. Nothing like Simon. He was holding his son, rocking back and forth as he softly rubbed his back, the sweet faced boy's eyes drooping shut, each blink lasting longer than the last.

To no one's surprise he was out cold within the next few minutes, John excusing himself to lay the toddler down in his crib.

Darling waited until he got back before she asked him if she could hold the baby, only turning to see if it was okay with you once he gave his approval. With an uncomfortable nod you pass your child over to her, transferring carefully, reluctant to let her out of your grasp.

The way she cooed at your baby with a soft smile settled something in your chest, causing you to smile back when Darling looked up at you to tell you she was beautiful.

John moved closer, peering at her over Darling's shoulder. With a smile he reached out to let her grasp his finger, chuckling when she tried to pull it into her mouth.

"She's a strong grip," he said to Simon approvingly.

Simon looked smug, "Of course, came from me, dinnit?" he boasted.

This was the first time he'd looked proud of her in any way. He was normally more than happy to ignore her and let you handle everything to do with her. It was weird seeing him brag to his captain as if showing off.

"Do you think she's going to take after you or Doll here?" John continued, waving her little fist around where she's still holding his finger. The baby gurgled in delight at the attention.

"I hope my ugly mug won't make it another generation," Simon groused, taking a sip of his beer, "Doll's got the looks between us, so here's hoping."

John hummed in thought, still looking at the baby. You almost said something when he began lifting her arms and legs, wondering what he was doing. "Healthy, I hope."

Simon huffed, "Did you have any doubts, sir?"

When John laughed and shifted back from your baby you found yourself relaxing slightly, breathing easier now that it was only Darling interacting with her once more.

The next half hour passed quietly with Simon and John carrying the bulk of the conversation except for the times they would direct questions to you or Darling. You noticed subtle indicators you had missed before—missed because you weren't looking for them. You saw the way Darling sat with her spine perfectly straight, as if she'd been trained to be presentable at all times. You saw the way she always deferred to John, never speaking first. The way John's hands possessively trailed along her skin more moments than not highlighted the covetous nature now that you were looking.

Before you realized it Simon has finished another beer and stood with a gruff, "Time to go, pet," directed towards you with a nod of acknowledgment towards John and Darling, still holding the baby.

You nodded your head, ready to leave this home that is as much of a prison as yours is simply with prettier walls. Standing, you gathered your things before moving towards Darling, ready to take your baby back. She smiled at you and rose to meet you after one final cuddle and forehead kiss, the resulting coo causing her to blink back brief tears.

You didn't think anything of it when John stands as well until he placed a hand on Darling's shoulder and said, "Sit back down, sweetheart."

With a quicksilver confused look thrown your way, she lowered herself carefully back onto the couch after a moments hesitation, baby still cradled in her arms and tucked close to her chest. You can see from where you stand that her breath had begun to match yours, coming slightly too fast. It was never a good thing when something unexpected happened.

John took a step to the side, moving directly between the two of you, cutting off your line of sight to your child. He planted his feet and crossed his arms over his big barrel of a chest, watching you, assessing.

You turned to look at Simon for help, unsure of what was going on but not liking it in the least. He didn't bother to reassure you, watching you as you struggle to put the pieces together, mind shying away from what you already suspect.

"I don't understand," you tried, grasping for straws. Simon's expression didn't change.

"Don't start being difficult now, you'll embarrass me in front of the captain and his missus," he deadpanned unaffected by the whole situation. "You'll be leavin' 'em, pet. The prices are going to be raising it."

What?

You stared at him uncomprehendingly as your brain spun. The Prices? Raise your baby? But it's your baby, not theirs. You turned to look back at John but he was a stone wall—no emotions played out on his face. Swallowing the saliva building in your mouth you turned again to Simon, "but that's my baby."

With an annoyed huff he began moving towards you, reaching out and taking a firm grip of your upper arm.

"Not repeating myself, pet," he grumbled, "it's time to leave."

Nonononono

You pulled away from him, trying to get closer to Darling and your baby, "That's my baby, give me my baby!" you yelled, breath coming in pants as sweat prickled your skin, adrenaline began to race in your veins in preparation to take your baby back.

"Give her back!" —jerking violently in Simon's grasp you clawed towards where you could see Darling peeking around John's broad frame, wide-eyed and panicked, gaze darting from you to John in stress, biting her lip until blood began to pool around her teeth.

Your baby began to cry in the commotion, screams setting off every instinct in your brain to get to her but you were held fast, unable to get a single step closer. You watched as Darling shushed her, bouncing slightly in an effort to soothe her.

You're not doing it right, she likes when you sway not bounce flashed across your thoughts as this woman tried to comfort your child.

You sounded like a harpy at this point, your screeches echoing harshly as you pulled and squirmed, fists beating against Simon as you tried to get free.

Simon soon lost his patience and physically moved you, pulling you into place in front of him before he wrapped his arm around your windpipe, squeezing harshly, restricting blood and oxygen both.

The last thing you saw before your vision went black is John standing behind Darling who had stood as if to come to you, hands pressed on her shoulders. Likely both in support and to keep her in place. Darling had your baby pressed to her chest, tears running down her face from horror filled eyes while blood streamed from her bitten lip.

You were still reaching for Charlie when everything goes dark.

Next

Story Repository || Main Repository

[mi-i-zori]

I - Retrieval of the Doll

CoD - TF141 (Soap's POV)

SUMMARY : Soap is used to fighting against monsters disguised as humans. But the world has changed. Creatures much more dangerous than humans are now threatening the order of things, and it's become his mission to Secure, Contain, Protect.

WARNINGS : None. Just a post apocalyptic setting.

Author's Note : Never thought I'd be brave enough to post this. But I hyper focused on SCP stuff for a while and was quite satisfied with this, and I thought it would be silly to let it rot in my files. So here you go.

I do not allow anyone to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

CoD AUs - Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Next

As a joint, multi-national special operations and counter-terrorism military unit, Task Force 141 has been put in charge of many perilous missions. Its members, considered to be some of the best soldiers in the world, have seen their share of horrors ; a reality nobody could really imagine unless they saw it with their own eyes. Some people never even thought such nightmare-inducing experiences could ever happen. 

Which, in itself, could be seen as some sort of relief.

For it was those soldiers’ job to protect those who only wished to live in peace, away from the souls seeking a path of power and destruction. To get rid of the humans threatening their civilian peers. When you think yourself to be the ultimate predator, it is easy to forget you are not the only one sharing similar thoughts and acting to break their limits ; to achieve a twisted form of perfection, never caring about who they might end up crushing under the foundations of the world you dream of.

Nowadays, Mobile Task Force 141 isn’t too different from what it used to be - except the dangers they are brought to face are far from being human.

The world has changed. The security of this planet has been compromised, thus leading to an international review of every single safety measure made to preserve humanity itself, as well as the many environments it came to conquer, and sometimes lose.

It started with what is now known as the Covid-19 pandemic. When the year 2020 was littered with a seemingly never-ending amount of deaths, with some even trying to compare it to a list of other illnesses that once wrecked havoc around the world, such as the Black Death or the Great Influenza epidemic. It added a twisted dimension of resigned horror to the events everyone was going through. When the pandemic started to slow down, hopes of peace also came to rise.

But it didn’t take long for things to become much worse.

A year later, the global climate had fallen apart, and the world became colder every month. Snow started falling in Africa, covering even the Sahara in a layer of crystallized water. The icy plains covering the poles thickened and spread over miles, now covering an ever-growing surface nobody ever thought to be possible in such a short amount of time. All over the world, autumn and spring started to feel like winter, and summer like spring.

Only a few months were needed for a handful of researchers to find the source of all those changes : our planet had somehow broken out of its orbit, straying further and further away from the Sun. Even more surprising, a few other celestial bodies caught in our solar system, mainly those that circled the further away from our star like Pluto, seemed to be creeping closer at an unimaginable speed. 

It was theorized that these planets and the Sun’s gravitational pulls had changed drastically, leading our solar system to seemingly be thrown upside down ; although it would probably take some time before studies could yield a few reliable results. What was for certain, however, was that many were those who succumbed to the sudden waves of frost that assaulted the Earth. Humans, animals, plants - no one, and nothing, was spared. 

Yet on the other hand, the species that pushed through it all were found to have started to evolve quickly in subtle, unexpected ways. It gave the situation a fascinating, supernatural aspect - one that sparked hope in the hearts of those who tried their best to stay positive.

« Survival of the fittest », was how the situation started to be referred to by many. The media was partially to blame for such a frightening quote ; yet there was no denying the thought crossed everyone’s mind more than once.

But things didn’t stop there. The Frost in itself would have been bearable had humanity’s most important resources not suddenly started to collapse. 

The gargantuan platforms drinking petroleum from the ocean floors were the first to crumble. Waves akin to mountains crushed their pillars, sending gigantic shreds of ruined machinery to the not-so distant shores. The wails of those who ended up being torn apart by unknown forces were swept away by the winds. Some of their shredded silhouettes could also be spotted on the surface of beaches covered in crystals of salt. Areas that were soon to be declared « off-limits ».

Then sudden, violent earthquakes started to shake the entirety of the world. As one of their worst consequences, many underground gaz pockets started rupturing, their contents leaking over the surface ; mixing with the normally breathable air. Things happened too quickly for any previsions to be made, and many were those who succumbed to gaz poisoning or explosions before the most vulnerable areas could be properly evacuated. The gaz exploitations worldwide, as well as their workers, were the principal victims of these devastating events. 

And there was more. Roads, radio towers, internet relays and power lines kept being torn apart by waves upon waves of merciless winds. Tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards and storms of all kinds unleashed their wrath upon solid ground, shredding rural towns and buzzing cities alike. The survivors were left with nothing, and sometimes no one. Communicating over long distances became a struggle in many places, and over time, repairs could hardly be seen as efficient. While lasting power outages and blocked-off roads became so common people started to learn how to live through them, they also became a source of anguish - for they often tended to be a symptom of imminent destruction.

Theories of all sorts have been shared to try and pinpoint the cause of it all, based on science, myths, urban legends and more - but a real answer has yet to be given.

At least, to the common masses.

A few years have passed since what has quickly been labeled as « the beginning of the end ». Although things seem to have settled a little bit, it doesn’t prevent any kind of chaos from surprising everyone once more. Despite the comfort they manage to preserve, humans are solely focused on survival, constantly building and rehabilitating underground shelters in the hopes they will be enough to protect them against the worst catastrophes. Recording every new event has become a way for people to help understand the origins and functioning of these innumerable changes. A desperate attempt to overcome the disasters they constantly unleash.

On his own smaller scale, Sergeant John « Soap » MacTavish quickly started to do the same, detailing them in a special notebook himself. Combining them with his own experiences, analysis and thoughts, he finds some comfort in the way it makes him feel grounded, standing on his feet despite the way reality keeps being thrown upside-down, the potential conflicts between what his job forces him to do and the new kinds of horrors he sees. Helps me stay sane, he repeats over and over when his teammates ask him what he is doing. Even though he lost count of how many times he has been caught off guard by how big the moon sometimes seems to be.

In his eyes, Mother Nature has officially labeled humanity as its target, and seems to do everything in its power to destroy it - piece by piece.

He is not the only one nurturing such thoughts. When his busy schedule allows him to turn on the TV standing in the common room of his barracks, the screen seems to constantly hold images of riots, interviews of crying faces and angry social media feeds - people blaming the biggest companies, governments or whatever name they can find to unleash their frustrations on. Fear, panic and despair spread everywhere in the world as people struggle to understand the cause of everything. Inside the military bases he is stationed on, keeping the morale up has become increasingly difficult. Tensions arise between those who dare voice their thoughts and the others who, usually coming back from deployment, only wish to find even the smallest ounce of peace, away from the exhausting violence of it all.

This is our reality now, is what every single person worldwide thinks as they are submitted to constant security measures on the daily - safety protocols meant both to protect their health, and keep any form of potential terrorism at bay. For many are those who try to take advantage of the chaos, finding power and satisfaction among the seemingly never-ending confusion.

Yet none of them knows anything about the real threat looming above their heads. 

Most of the time, Soap struggles to grasp what he sees. As a soldier, he has been trained to never question the orders he receives - and although his team has already gone rogue once or twice, which ended up being beneficial for many people, he makes sure to follow his Captain’s words. Yet he can’t deny the fact that his mind has a will of its own, constantly running over miles of thoughts whenever its owner takes a break. And when facing the things that now seem to crawl all over the world, he is unable to stop the questions from flowing.

Night had already fallen when the Researchers arrived to the military base. When they went to bed a few hours later, the soldiers of the 141 could hardly believe what they’d heard : detailed explanations about a new kind of intensive training to face otherworldy beings - some so powerful they became the real cause behind many of the current catastrophic events. They were sent off with a new schedule and bewildered thoughts about anomalies that have been roaming the surface of the Earth long before humanity came to exist. Creatures that have found a place among them all. Unimaginable threats a secret organisation had been dealing with for decades - perhaps even longer. 

And the terrifying knowledge that some of these creatures had « breached containment », as the lead researcher said.

Secure. Contain. Protect. 

Such is the mantra every single member of the SCP Foundation has engraved onto their very bones. The one that every single soldier now also has to follow.

Not so long ago, Soap went through a very different routine than the one he pushes himself through every day now that the Foundation has started working directly with the international forces. The daily list of questions he has to answer frequently changes, probably to prevent his brain from settling into a potentially dangerous pattern ; one that could easily be copied by an entity. And, for now, his answers remain practically the same every time. He can only pray it stays that way.

Even though he doesn’t really know who he should dedicate his prayers to anymore.

The thought has him curse lowly under his head-gear. He takes a second to readjust his mask, groaning as the rough edges carve trails of reddish discomfort on his cheeks. The unknown fumes that now litter the surface of certain areas of the world distort his surroundings like an intense heat would do the air. A part of him is grateful for how quickly the new generation of air-filters has been developed, allowing people like him to do their job without inhaling a lethal amount of poison in the span of a few minutes ; but the protection still weighs heavy on his jaw, held tightly by a series of straps that scrape against his scalp with each careful move of his head. Ignoring it isn’t easy, especially when the warmth of his own breath keeps wafting against his skin. He stopped counting the times his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the delicate skin tightening even more every time it dries up.

Secure. Contain. Protect.

Right.

And how are they supposed to do so when they barely have any idea of what exactly they have been sent to face ?

The sarcasm of his thoughts is cut abruptly when his Captain’s voice echoes through his earpiece.

« Soap, Ghost, how copy ? » 

« All ah can say is it’s been a while since ah’ve seen so much green in a city. » 

« Green that could hide our target. Stay sharp. »

« Aye, Sir. »

« Gaz, you still in position ? »

« Affirmative, Sir. Got your back. »

Treading through the ruins of what once was a small French town, now partially swallowed by the forest lining its borders, has proven to be quite the experience - one as fascinating as it is tense and tiring. Initially, the two areas did not share a border. They slowly grew to do so, until massive roots tore the concrete roads apart, and various - possibly mutated - plants greedily devoured both fields and buildings.

Johnny feels the mnestic drugs he took before the mission steel his mind from the potential antimemetic entity they’re chasing. He notices their effect in the way the details of his surroundings stay clear in a corner of his thoughts, as if he was constantly looking at them. The medicine reinforces his memory, preventing it from being erased should it be their target’s ability. 

In full honesty, they are not sure of its nature. They have have been led to take such precautions because of a few sightings that all seemed to circle around places with lots of information, such as computer stores, book stores, or other similar environments. Said environments being literal playgrounds for antimemetic entities.

What they are sure of, however, is that their target is far from being human, and could be extremely dangerous. And although they have been trained to face any kind of supernatural being, Soap can’t deny that this is far from the military operations they used to deal with. 

Sometimes, he misses the horrors of the past.

« Went around the electronics stores o’ the west central block, » says the gravelly voice of his lieutenant, both through the comms and behind him. « Didn’t see, hear or feel a thing. » 

« Copy that, Ghost, » Price answers. « Got nothin’ on our end either. Keep searching. »

Soap points to a grand building standing at the end of the street. Not far from him, Ghost nods, holding a finger to his earpiece.

« Found the library, » he announces.

« You goin’ in then ? »

« Affirmative. »

« Roger that. Be careful. »

« Aye, » Soap says, ending the conversation.

Like all the other buildings in this town, the library’s white walls and columns, built as a modern mimicry of the Ancient Greek temples, are being swallowed by countless strands of ivy. The small garden surrounding it has long gone haywire, nature reclaiming its rights with a series of colorful flowers and overgrown greenery. It gives the whole setting an undeniable charm, and Johnny wishes he could capture it in his sketchbook.

But they’re not here to play tourists.

« Ghost an’ Soap, goin’ dark. »

Next

CoD AUs - Masterlist

Main Masterlist