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Summary
Hawkeye’s mouth had a habit of getting him into trouble. In fact, anybody who knew him for a minute could tell you the same thing. He knows how to push the right buttons, and he does so gleefully. That is how he ended up in this current predicament. In a dimly-lit hotel room in Seoul, he sits on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the plush sheets. A silk robe hangs luxuriously off of his shoulders, exposing his porcelain complexion underneath. The matching tie has been repurposed – carefully arranged and lovingly placed across his mouth to muffle him.
“Punishment.” BJ had said. “For that self-satisfied smirk you’ve had since we left camp.”