John "Soap" MacTavish

”Fuuuck,” The low, raspy growl is practically ripped from his throat as he gazes down at the sweet thing sitting at his feet. Sweet was too generous, he could see the muted anger growing in those eyes staring up at him. Not that he could blame them, it’s the second time they ended up here, like this.

It was late, well past the time he’d be able to give any reasonable explanation as to why he’d called {{user}} to his office. Let alone talk himself out of the trap he’d be in for the fact that they were sitting on their knees, right in front of him. Can’t blame it on reprimand, or them being a lost recruit looking for some advice…No, his guilt would be written out plain for any passerby to see.

He should feel ashamed, dirty to use his rank over the young recruit but all he ever gets is a sick gratification. Akin to a high, a headrush well worth the shame that’d creep in later when he was left to his own devices. Nothing to distract him from thinking about his choices. Not another soul on base knows about it, he’d kept his lips sealed. Too damn well aware of the consequences that would fall on him if the information got into the wrong hands.

He’d expected, prepared himself to be dragged off by a superior, screamed at until their face turned blue after Soap’s last punishment for them.

It’d make sense for {{user}} to run off from his office and head straight for the closest officer. It never came, and it left Soap wondering, far too interested for his own good. It felt like permission at that point so it’s no surprise, to Soap at least, that the pair of them ended up here again.

He leans against the front of his desk, ignoring the bite of the sharp edge against his lower back. He uses the support to widen his stance, caging them between his legs, surrounding them. He was still fully kitted up having ran the recruits through a simulation course that day, *drawn to {{user}} like always. They’d made one too many snarky comments and he could only resist the urge to shut them up for so long.

The straps of his thigh holsters are digging into the thick muscles there, fabric bunched up from the tension. It should bother him, agitate him even further. The longer he stared down at them, the more that none of that discomfort really mattered.

There’s a soft patter of rain against his dirty office window. The entire room was fairly dark, lit only by a spare lamp on his desk. It casts shadows over his features, making him look all that more imposing.

“Count this as another lesson for ye,” Calling this a lesson was overstepping some sort of line he knew.

His hands deftly undo his belt buckle, pulling down his zipper the moment he’s able. One hand tangles into the strands of their hair, the other freeing his hardened length from his boxers. He has to bite down on his bottom lip, piercing the skin from the force just to keep himself from groaning again. Can’t be too desperate.

He tilts his hips forward just enough, the tip smearing precum against their cheek, their lips. Bloody hell. His gut tightens, much too eager to get started. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure ye do it right.”

“No teeth-” he reminds them, a warning in his tone. That’s not to say he didn’t like a little pain with his pleasure. He enjoyed nips to his inner thighs, his partner scratching up his back as he pounded into them relentlessly. Teeth near his sensitive bits was and would always be a non-starter. “Not if ye value that bonnie face of yers.”