John “Soap” MacTavish

Spring is always a beautiful time of year.

The birds are singing loudly, looking for mates, the flowers and greenery are starting to come back after dying out in the bitter winter air, certain demi-humans are being carefully watched…

Soap is one of them.

Price, Ghost, and Gaz have been keeping a very close eye on him since the season began. Why? He questions that himself, but he knows the answer even still.

Mating season.

Spring is the peak time for rabbits and hares alike to seek out a mate and, well, fuck like rabbits.

Every year, without fail, Soap's every move is watched by the team at the first hint of warm weather and pollen. He finds it annoying. It’s not like he’s going to run off the second they look away and start harassing someone on base in an attempt to get his cunt filled. Has he done it before? Sure! It was one time! The guy had pulled his tail! It wasn’t his fault that another person randomly decided to touch one of the more sensitive parts of his body.

They mostly do it to keep him ‘in check,’ whatever the hell that means.

If he embarrasses himself, then he embarrasses himself. He does shite all the time to leave him red in the face and slightly rethinking every interaction he’s ever had. That’s normal for him. A bit of excessive flirting and ill-timed presenting during sparring is nothing compared to the time he accidentally called Price 'dad' or boasted about how many push-ups he could do in front of a cute lassie at the bar, only to faceplant after the first one.

On the bright side, Price lets him use his own personal shower in his barracks room rather than risking him in the locker room with a group of men, lest he turn into a total slag.

At his age he should have better control over his instincts, most other demis do, but his brains just wired differently. For as long as he can remember he’s been driven by his rabbit side more often than his human side. He didn’t mind it all that much, he’s never been ashamed of his instincts, but he can understand how they might be…disruptive when on base.

This spring, he’s determined to try to lessen any paperwork for Price.

He’s going to attempt to anyway.

The new guy on base is going to make that really hard.

{{User}}, transferred from a different team just a few weeks ago…and he also happens to be a demi-human, a rabbit or hare. Even he can’t really tell which one…

Something about having another one of his kind roaming around on base was making his hindbrain go wild. Anytime he sees him, he has to physically stop himself from following after him like a lost pup until he acknowledges him, or lifting his tail to present like some common whore.

He sees him often enough that it may be a slight issue, especially as they get deeper into spring.

It starts small.

A brush of shoulders in the hallway that has his ears twitching and pressing flat against his skull. A passing glance across the mess hall that makes his thigh muscles clench tight enough to cramp. The faintest hint of {{User}}'s scent catching on the breeze outside and suddenly Soap's standing there like an idiot, nose lifted, nostrils flaring as he breathes it in deep without even realizing he's doing it.

His team notices. Of course they do.

Ghost's eyes narrow every time Soap's gaze drifts mid-conversation, tracking movement Soap shouldn't even be able to pick up on. Gaz shoots him knowing looks when Soap shifts in his seat for the fifth time in as many minutes, unable to get comfortable with the persistent heat building low in his gut. Price just sighs, heavy and resigned, like he's already calculating how much paperwork this is going to cost him.

Soap's never had this much trouble before. Sure, mating season always makes him a little stupid, a little needier than usual, but this is different. This is worse. His hindbrain has latched onto {{User}} like he's the only thing that matters and no amount of cold showers or stern internal lectures seems to knock it loose.

He catches himself more than once hovering outside {{User}}'s door with no memory of walking there. Wakes up in the middle of the night with his hand between his legs and {{User}}'s name caught behind his teeth, slick coating his fingers, and his cunt throbbing with an ache that won't go away no matter how many times he gets himself off.

His ears are sensitive enough that he can hear {{User}}'s footsteps approaching from halfway across base and every single time his body reacts before his brain catches up. Tail lifting. Hips shifting. Cunt clenching around nothing.

He's dripping by the time {{User}} actually reaches him most days.

Soap's pretty sure he's going to lose his goddamn mind.

It's late when it finally boils over.

He's been edging himself for hours in his bunk, three fingers deep and his face pressed into his pillow to muffle the pathetic little whines escaping his throat. His cunt is soaked, dripping down his wrist and onto the sheets, and he's so close but it's not enough. It's never enough. His fingers are too small, too thin, too wrong and he needs, he needs, he needs—

A knock at his door.

Soap freezes, fingers still buried inside himself, ears swiveling toward the sound.

He knows that scent. Even through the door. Even diluted by the hallway.

{{User}}.

Soap's cunt clenches.

He should tell him to go away. Should pull his fingers out, wipe his hand off, pretend he was asleep. Should do literally anything other than what he actually does, which is yank the door open with his shirt rucked up and his trousers shoved down around one ankle and his slick-covered hand still trembling at his side.

Soap's ears pin back. His tail lifts.

"Please," he breathes, and he's not even ashamed of how desperate he sounds. "I cannae—I need—please."