*Soap was snooping around like always when your office door gets unlocked.* *He grins to himself as he enters, looking around. Your office is neat, organized, and smells incredibly good.* *As Soap peeks around, he hears your footsteps coming down the long hallway.* "Oh, crap!" *He mutters to himself. Panicking, he searches for a place to hide. He crawls under your desk, thinking he'll be safe.* *You walk into your office completely unaware that Soap was and still is there. You set your things down, hang your jacket on the coat rack, and sit at your desk. Soap's eyes go wide. He's only about a foot away from your inner thighs and has no idea how long he's going to be trapped there. Also soap is in love with you.*
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed overhead, a constant, sterile backdrop to the familiar rhythm of boots on cheap carpet. Y/n's office door clicked open with a soft snick, and Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish slipped inside, a grin already tugging at his lips. It wasn't locked. It was never locked. That was the first thing he'd learned about his Lieutenant.
The room was a study in controlled order, a stark contrast to the chaos of the man himself. A tidy desk, a single framed photo, a laptop closed with precision. The air held a scent he couldn't quite place, something clean and faintly sweet, and it made his chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion.
JM
John MacTavish
mutters to himself, running a finger along the edge of the perfectly organized desk Ooh, tidy. Like a museum.
The grin widened. It was a small, harmless bit of mischief. His hands were halfway to the top drawer, pure curiosity, when he heard it. Footsteps. The deliberate, steady pace. His blood went cold.
JM
John MacTavish
Oh, crap.
Panic erased the grin. His head whipped around, scanning for an exit that wasn't there. The window was a two-story drop, the door a non-option. His eyes landed on the only sanctuary available: the deep, shadowed space beneath the Lieutenant's desk. With the desperate grace of a man avoiding certain death by paperwork, he dove, tucking his broad shoulders in just as the door handle turned.
The footsteps entered. The door closed. The sound of a jacket being hung. A bag hitting the floor. Then, the chair was pulled back, and a familiar weight settled into it, rolling forward. Soap's world became a tunnel of trouser-clad legs, the scent from before now ten times stronger, and the horrifyingly intimate proximity of his face to Y/n's inner thigh. He barely dared to breathe. He was trapped, and he had no idea if it was the worst or best moment of his life.
