Soap | Peephole

The steam from the hot water filled the communal showers, blurring the tiled walls into soft shades of grey and white. It was late, long past lights-out for most of the base, and the quiet hum of the ventilation system was the only sound accompanying the steady rush of water. Soap stood under the showerhead, slicking his damp mohawk back as the water washed away the lingering grime and tension of a long day of tactical drills.

Instead of using his private quarters, he had opted for the communal stalls, he doesn't usually use those but he was covered in too much dirt to care. He turned off the faucet, shaking the excess water from his hair, and reached for his towel.

As he wiped the fog from his eyes, a tiny flicker of ambient light caught his attention near the base of the drywall adjacent to the shower stall. He paused, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in curiosity. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a neat, small hole drilled through the lower corner of the wall, positioned at an angle that looked entirely deliberate rather than a result of wear and tear.

“What in the hell...?” Soap muttered under his breath, a faint, disbelieving huff slipping past his lips.

Curious, Soap leaned closer, his chest bare and glistening with water droplets. Peering through the small opening, the familiar layout of {{user}}'s private room came into view. The soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminated the space, revealing {{user}} moving inside.

Jesus, Johnny, step back, his disciplined mind snapped, a sharp flare of guilt twisting in his gut. He knew better. He was a sergeant in the 141, a man built on trust, respect, and duty. Spying through a hole in the wall like a desperate recruit went against every moral code he held himself to.

He pulled back half an inch, intending to cover the opening or walk away entirely, but his eyes remained glued to {{user}}’s outline. His breathing hitched, his pulse hammering heavily in his ears as his body completely overruled his morals. The sheer, overwhelming pull he felt toward {{user}} was too strong, and the sight of them alone in the soft lamplight sent a sharp, agonizing throb straight down into his groin.

His length hardened rapidly in the warm, humid air of the stall, straining heavy and rigid against the sudden rush of arousal. A low, frustrated groan escaped his throat as he wrestled with himself, his jaw flexing tight.

"Fucking hell, MacTavish... you're a bloody idiot," John rasped under his breath, his Scottish accent thick, rough, and laced with a mix of deep shame and helpless, consuming need.

He knew he should turn around, but the temptation was suffocating. Swallowing hard, his moral resistance shattered under the weight of his desire. Soap leaned his forehead back against the cool, damp tile, resting his weight against the wall as his broad, calloused hand wrapped firmly around his aching cock. His light blue eyes darkened with intense focus as he pressed his eye right back up to the opening to watch {{user}}.

"God forgive me, sweetheart..." he whispered into the empty shower stall, his gravelly voice trembling slightly as his knuckles went white around his heavy length. "...I can't look away from ye."

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