"It's gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon."

“How fucked up is Gideon for expecting all this done tonight?” you mutter, your pen scraping across the page as the faint scent of freedom finally drifts near. Just a few lines left, and your handwriting’s starting to fall apart.

Ironically enough, the witness report’s the only thing looking sloppy these days. Six weekends in a row of the same joyless grind, while the only kind of sloppy you’d actually kill for involves drunk sex, a warm body, and someone who moans more and weighs less than a tower of case files.

“I think he’s being considerate,” Hotch says, without looking up. “He’s giving us the opportunity to overstay and finish everything so we can take tomorrow off.”

“Wow,” you scoff. “How much of a suck-up are you to abandon basic human logic and call overworking on a Friday night an opportunity? You want his job that bad?”

“I’m not a suck-up.”

“Oh, please. I’ve seen you nod along to every bit of bullshit that comes out of his mouth when you’d rather be quoting Bureau protocol back at him.”

If there’s one thing that really gets under Hotch’s skin, it’s swearing - or worse, being called out on the truths he pretends aren’t there. Which is exactly why you always make sure to do both.

It works like a charm every time: his pen stalls mid-lawyerly sentence, his jaw tightens, and a few rebellious strands of hair (the same ones he probably spent an hour taming with gel this morning) slip loose over his forehead.

He looks like a wounded puppy.

“Haley’s been wanting to expand the family, I wouldn’t be opposed to a promotion if it were… presented. But that doesn’t mean I’m a suck-up.”

His earnest willingness to open up at this hour couldn’t make it more obvious to you that he has no friends. Probably not even his wife, judging by how unenthusiastic he sounds about the whole ‘expanding the family’ thing.

“So you’ve got plans tonight, suck-up?” you ask, smiling, while aggressively trying to scrub the image of Aaron Hotchner breeding out of your head.

He stutters. He’s chronically allergic to anything sexual in the workplace. Hell, to anything not about the workplace in the workplace. Which is the annoying part - because outside of it, he’s actually… decent. Too decent. You hate that he’s decent.

You don’t quite know how to define whatever it is between you two.

Because somehow, somewhere between his “Haley’s at her sister’s, my big plan is trying not to burn a frozen pizza, what about you?” and your ongoing existential rant about wasting your twenties in a government building, you ended up bribing him to come to the club with you.

“It’s a bad idea,” he announces - unoriginally - for the seventh time. But now that you’ve both handed over your jackets and the bass from upstairs is practically vibrating through the floor, he actually sounds like he means it. Not just for moral superiority this time.

“When was the last time you’ve been to a place like this, huh? Were we still a British colony?” you tease, swatting his shoulder. It’s strange - you’re used to the soft padding of his suit jacket, not the actual warmth of him. Solid muscle. It kind of catches you off guard.

“You’re very funny,” he deadpans, clearly irritated, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the smallest twitch.

Truth is, Hotch hasn’t been to ‘a place like this’ often enough to be fooled by the rhythm of a song he vaguely recognizes, or by the flash of color as he looks down and you climb the stairs ahead of him.

He doesn’t look too high. Tries not to.

And then he’s thrown off again - this time by the chopped-up remix of a commercial he doesn’t recognize at all. Back in his day, music didn’t need borrowed parts. (And America was independent.)

He gestures toward the bar, and you follow him through the clouds of sugary perfume and aquatic cologne, brushing against his shoulder so you don’t lose track of your 6’2” colleague whose thick head of hair is already standing out above everyone else.

You tap him there.

The music’s too loud, so you have to lean in, your mouth brushing the air beside his ear just to be heard. You find yourself suddenly surrounded by a comforting, nutty vanilla scent. You’ve never noticed it before, probably because you’ve never been this close to him. Your lips are hovering barely an inch from the spot where he must’ve sprayed it.

He smells good. Overly sophisticated.

You cup a hand beside your mouth to aim your voice toward his old-man ear, your pinkie accidentally skimming the edge of his stubble.

“You look like a fed.”

He rolls his eyes, then gets his revenge by showing off exactly why he’s been sucking up to Gideon for the Unit Chief job, ordering your drink before you can even open your mouth (obnoxious flex of profiling prowess.)

He knows what you drink. And he pays for it, too.

One drink turns into two tequila shots, then a third, because neither of you really feels it.

Yet.

Every time he downs another, he makes this ridiculous stupid-ass face. Scrunches his nose. Raises his brows. It’s his desperate attempt at looking unaffected, but it only makes him look more affected.

It’s kind of cute. God forbid he lets tequila defeat him. He’d rather die of internal combustion than admit it.

But as the night warms and the liquor starts to dilate your blood vessels, his perfect posture starts to go, too. He slouches, legs spreading wider on the seat, and your eyes dip down before you can stop them.

The strobe light keeps catching him in flashes. One second it freezes his reluctant smile, the one that tugs his mouth into dimples he clearly didn’t authorize, and the next it drifts down the sharp edge of his jaw to the tendons in his hand resting on the counter.

The light hits, ricochets back toward you, golden, before sliding lower - along his arm, over his thigh - and looping back up to his face. Still smiling. At you.

He's just being very, very nice. 

You start talking more - half because it’s easier to hear each other here, half because silence feels… dangerous. Office gossip, mostly. You’re surprised how much he knows, actually.

Apparently Aaron Hotchner, professional wall of quiet, is also an unrepentant gossip. And he’s good at it, too - leaning closer when he lowers his voice, lips barely curving when he drops something scandalous.

It’s a little addictive.

The way he speaks, there’s this warmth in his voice you’ve never really heard before, and that dry humor that used to slide right past you suddenly hits like a slow burn.

You start noticing things you shouldn’t.

The small scar on his chin.

That single white eyelash you keep staring at. Also - his lashes are so fucking long.

The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he talks, and how your eyes keep following the movement like you’re under some kind of spell.

The fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he moves his arm behind you. You feel his sleeve brush across your back, his thumb resting temptingly on your shoulder.

From there, the talking starts to fall apart. Words stretch out, sentences trail off, and what’s left hanging between you feels a lot less like small talk and a lot more like…

“Do you wanna dance?”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s asking for the time. But his head tilts, eyes catching yours, that unreadable half-smile still playing at his mouth.

Polite.

And so, you let him lead you deeper into the crowd, the music swallowing your inhibitions whole while he’s right there in front of you, mouthing the lyrics to some pop song that dropped, what, a week ago? Shakes his head to the beat like he’s pretending he doesn’t know every single word.

Is this the same man who once thought April Fools’ Day meant swapping your pen holder to the other side of your desk? Really? That guy?

Because you hadn’t expected him to move like this. Or to move at all. Truly. His hips roll with an effortless, fluid rhythm that shouldn’t belong to someone that tightly wound. Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening him up, making him look less like a man with a broomstick lodged up his ass, but he looks – damn - devastating.

The dark turns him into something you can’t stop looking at.

You feel it hit low in your stomach, an aching pull that has your hand finding his shoulder before you can think better of it. You want him (plain and simple) and he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the second he catches someone glancing your way, he moves closer, hand finding your waist, claiming space that wasn’t his a moment ago.

He doesn’t want you distracted by anyone that isn’t him. And you’re not. To the point where you’re standing too close, far too close.

But the dancing makes it forgivable, almost necessary.

Just like the slow drag of your hand as it slips down to feel the damp fabric stretched over his broad chest, coming to rest above the rush of his heartbeat hammering beneath it.

His face grows slick with heat, cheeks flushed a deep pink, dark hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead no matter how many times he tries to brush it away. He drags a hand over his face, then shakes it out with a quick flick, sending a few drops of sweat flying.

You’re transfixed. You’d lick them straight off his fingers if you could.

But instead, that same hand drifts to his collar, loosening the top button of his shirt. Then another. The fabric parts just enough for the light to catch on his collarbones, the sheen of sweat along his skin.

His gaze never leaves you - not even as he tugs at his tie, loosening it and baring the strong line of his throat. A ghost of a smile lingers, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like this little striptease is for your eyes only.

You’re honestly not sure you could afford this whore.

Not when he pulls you closer, his hands sliding down your back, fingertips grazing the curve of your ass before slipping lower to cup it, guiding you to move with him. To match his rhythm.

There’s no mistaking it anymore. But you don’t say a word. Neither does he. He just keeps moving with you - and the longer you dance, the looser his tie gets, the knot slipping lower, lower, until it’s hanging on by a thread.

You catch it between your fingers and give it a tug, pulling him closer, drawn to the heat rolling off his body. The silk slides under your grip, and you twist it twice around your hand like a leash.

A whimper, swallowed by the music, tells you he’s really into this - but then you see it. The thick outline straining against his slacks. Your mouth goes dry. The alcohol humming through your blood and the sight of him together make a lethal combination.

You want to feel that. Desperately.

So you start moving your hips, drawing circles that drag right against the hardness pressing against you. You grip his tie with one hand, his shoulder with the other, using him as leverage. 

Then he takes over.

He grabs you by the hips and spins you, pressing your back flush against his chest, manhandling you into place. His head dips into the curve of your neck, breath hot against your skin as his strong arms lock tight around your waist.

Then he starts to move you, the thick line of his cock grinding against your ass through the fabric. You can feel everything. Every inch. Every pulse. And again, you are very. Very. Horny.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your hips roll back into him, syncing with his rhythm until it stops being rhythm at all. It’s messy. Craving. Addictive. His grip tightens on your hips, almost possessive, and for a fleeting second you hope he leaves marks.

You’re still dancing, technically.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when one of his hands drifts up, spreading wide over your breast, fingers greedy even through the fabric. The other slides lower, gripping the flesh of your stomach, holding you right where he wants you.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, breath unsteady. Your hand finds its way into his damp hair, tracing down the side of his face until it catches on his tie. You wrap the silk around your fingers and pull, tugging him closer - not that he needs much convincing.

You feel him twitch against you, his breath coming fast and shaky as his fingers toy with the buttons of your shirt. He slips just beneath the fabric, enough to brush bare skin. He has the decency to stop there, not daring to slide beneath your bra, but the restraint doesn’t last long.

His hand drifts lower, over your waistband, between your thighs, until his fingers find your clit through the thin layers of fabric. He strokes your nub carefully, almost invisible to anyone watching. But you feel it.

The pressure exactly where you need it, the friction so good it turns your legs to water. You bite your lip hard to keep quiet, swallowing the sound that would’ve absolutely counted as an ad-lib this song didn’t need.

But that only seems to do something to him. You feel his hands slide up your sides, his face pressing into your back as he bends down, fingers gripping your hips while you keep rolling them, side to side, right against him.

Suddenly, you feel his teeth on your ass. He bites you.

The song gets its ad-lib this time.

He stays there for a moment, mouth hot against your cheek like he’s savoring it, before shifting to the other side - symmetry, maybe. Or greed. Then he drags himself back up, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the hard press of his cock still wedged between your cheeks, pulsing.

It might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.

It’s still dancing. Technically.

Even if you’re soaked through your panties, and his fingers keep working over your clothed cunt, the fabric now slick and clinging, each drag leaving more of you on his hand.

Even if, when your trembling hand finds his hip for balance, he bends lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck.

He pulls you tighter against him, his breath warm against your ear, carrying the faint tang of the shots you’d downed together not long ago. Then, in a voice so low and buttery you could fuck it, he murmurs, “Can we get out of here?”

How convenient it is that you’re both horny drunks with no self-control.

Hotch still insists on driving you home (because God forbid he stop being a suck-up model citizen for one night), even though he’s clearly just as drunk as you are. He’s too far gone to realize your apartment is literally a few blocks away and there is no need.

Not that he’s supposed to know that, of course.

You play innocent, insisting you’d never burden him with the task of driving you home, gracefully omitting the fact that you picked this club specifically so you wouldn’t have to drive at all.

“Really?” he says, giving you that look - the one that usually makes you want to slap him, but right now, with the booze in your system, you’re thinking it’d be much more effective if you just sat on it instead.

Anyways-

One raised brow. That’s all it takes. It says I know you’re full of shit, and somehow, even worse, I know exactly why.

He’s right, obviously.

You’d love for him to drive you home, just not for the usual reasons. Normally, you’re just glad to be in his SUV instead of Gideon’s (the old man drives like shit), but tonight it’s the thought of those leather seats, that squeaky-clean interior, and how they’d feel against your skin if you ever stopped pretending to be professional.

Still, once you’re outside, the cold air hits him - sobers him up just enough for both of you to slip back into that safe, polite colleague silence.

Just dancing, right? Nothing to talk about. Totally normal.

So normal that his voice is still rough when he insists on walking you home (now that he’s finally realized the car was unnecessary). The moment you fold your arms against the cold, he’s already shrugging off his jacket. He doesn’t even ask - just drapes it over your shoulders and says, “Make sure to slide your arms inside the sleeves.”

Condescending piece of shit.

You would. You really would. If the jacket didn’t smell exactly like him (like an expensive whore). It hits you harder than the tequila. And you’re not the only one feeling it.

He keeps glancing over, subtle but not subtle enough. Maybe he’s checking if you’re cold. Maybe he’s just making sure you’re still there. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re walking close enough for your arms to brush.

Either way, he’s not exactly trying to fix it.

“Do you want to come upstairs? Get some water?” you ask, pretending it’s casual. Hydration, right? For his safety. For public safety. Nothing else.

He agrees far too easily. Just like that. No “Don’t worry about me,” no polite Disney-princess routine about how he’s fine. Just a quiet, “I’d be glad to.” (Still phrased like a Disney princess, at least.)

You’re not sure how to feel about seeing him in your space. 

At this hour. This late. Alone. With you. 

He either hasn’t noticed the time or doesn’t care, already poking around your kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Within seconds he’s reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetically, obviously, the same way he arranges case files) while you grab a glass and fill it with the good water from the fridge.

You hand him one of your favorite cups. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at it. Then at you. Then back again, processing in horror why anyone with a fully developed prefrontal cortex would willingly drink from something so… phallic. (Probably a subliminal message. You hope he gets it.)

“You shouldn’t store water in the fridge,” he says, completely deadpan. “Drinking cold water isn’t good for you.”

Okay, mom. You were hoping the alcohol might’ve dulled the asshole tendencies a little.

“I’ve got tap water too, if you prefer,” you shoot back. But he’s already heading toward your fridge - your fridge - murmuring a quick “It’s alright” before opening it like he pays rent here.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, domestic. Again - this is your kitchen. You should be asking him.

“I could make apple fritters,” he continues, half to himself, already rummaging through your shelves. “Are there even any eggs in here?”

He tsks under his breath, shaking his head at what he finds - clearly unimpressed, like your pantry has somehow offended his stupid-ass refined palate. Then he pulls something out. (Sadly, not the beautiful dick you almost regret grinding on, if this is the attitude you’re stuck with.)

“White chocolate? Really?” He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “What are you, twelve?”

He’s taunting you - shaking the bar in one hand before snapping off a piece and slipping it between his teeth.

Then, with the chocolate still wedged between his lips, he picks up the pen from your counter and scribbles something onto your grocery list - the one pinned to the fridge with that tacky Paris magnet he brought you back as a souvenir.

(You have two, actually. Morgan gave you his because he said it looked too kitsch. He wasn’t wrong-)

He scrawls, “Buy real chocolate.” The handwriting’s a little wobbly - clearly not his usual neat penmanship. Then he turns back to you and grins boyishly.

You hate to admit it, but he looks so handsome.

The chocolate’s still there, clamped between his teeth, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he finally bites down and eats it. It’s ridiculous how sexy that looks. Is this foreplay? It has to be.

“It’s way too sweet,” he says, still taunting, crossing his arms as he leans sideways against your fridge - just a few inches from you.

His tie’s still crooked, his shirt half undone, his hair a mess. His eyes look so lively and golden under the lights. What a beautiful slut of a man.

“Don’t blame the chocolate because you’ve got bad taste,” you shoot back, taking a step closer without really meaning to.

“I believe my taste is just fine.”

You roll your eyes. You’re done with him. “Are you sure?”

He hums softly, and steps forward. So do you.

You’re both too drunk to tell who actually moves first, but suddenly his big big big big huge humongous, rough hands are on your face, and yours find the back of his neck as you crash into a kiss.

It’s softer than you expect - oddly tame, almost sweet. Tastes like tequila, gin, and… white chocolate. Of course. Because he’s a suck-up. He probably ate it on purpose just so you’d taste it now.

Like this.

The man’s commitment to people-pleasing really knows no limits.

You pull back for air, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. They’re darker now, the control gone, his pupils blown wide and – most importantly - fixed on your mouth.

It feels like the floodgates burst open.

He surges against your lips again, hungry, tracing your lower lip with his tongue until you yield to him - parting, melting into the kiss as your hands roam across his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his tie.

You back him up against the fridge, magnets rattling, one of them clattering to the floor and shattering. He’ll probably pick it up later, but right now he’s too busy helplessly groaning into your mouth as you bite his lip, tug, and suck it between your teeth.

His stupid, naturally pink lips are going to be ruined by the time you’re done.

He slaps your ass once, then grabs a handful, pulling you tight against him and grinding his half-hard cock between your thighs. You moan into his mouth, hips chasing the friction, your clit throbbing where you meet.

You don’t even break the kiss when you start to guide him backward, one hand fisted in his tie. He follows easily, way too easily.

“God,” he groans, smiling against your lips.

Amen.

Your calves bump against the back of the sofa, and he sinks down without hesitation, spreading his legs wide, no pretense left in him. His hands find your waist, guiding you to straddle him on your knees. One slides up your back, pulling you in until your chest meets his mouth.

He bites at the fabric covering your breast, hot breath seeping through, mouth full of you. His other hand grips the opposite side, squeezing possessively. His mouth then moves, open and hungry, latching onto the other, teeth scraping, tongue tracing circles that make you whimper.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pushing him closer, urging him deeper. He hurriedly moves between your breasts, kissing, sucking, biting softly, before pausing to look up at you.

Your fingers are still threading through his coarse strands, and he’s already breathless.

“Can you take this off already?” you mutter, impatiently working through his buttons, tugging the fabric open to expose his chest. Endowed, yes, but it’s what’s lower that really gets you. The soft strip of stomach, the trail of dark curls disappearing beneath his waistband.

It’s so fucking hot you can’t stop staring. You want to touch it. Bite it. Leave marks just to see how he’d react. You need him to return the favor before you give in and lean down to taste the skin you’ve just exposed.

“Ask nicely,” he teases, though his hands are already toying with the flesh of your ass anyway.

“Hotch, for fuck’s sake-” You hate him. Can’t believe he’s the one you ended up tangled up with. Of all people. The fact that it’s him and not Morgan honestly makes you a little sick.

“Aaron,” he corrects you, his wet mouth against your neck. Impatient, too keyed up to play his own dumb power games anymore.

And so, his fingers go to your shirt, working through the buttons. The liquor makes him rush - fast, a little clumsy in places, but stubbornly determined, like he’s trying to prove he still has control over something.

You can’t relate.

You shrug out of it in a hurry, desperate to be rid of anything that isn’t skin. The shirt hits the floor somewhere - you’ll deal with that later (future you’s problem). You’re half out of your mind, while he, of course, takes the time to unclasp your bra in record speed - then neatly folds it and sets it on the side table like a psychopath.

The time he saves with that efficiency, he wastes by looking. Just looking.

“God,” he is so wrecked. “You’re beautiful.”

And then he’s on you. No hesitation - just his mouth latching onto a swollen nipple.

His tongue circles around your peak, perfectly in sync with his fingers rolling the other between them. Then he sucks, and the sound that leaves your mouth only seems to push him further.

“Do you like it?” muffled against your breast, but before you can even form a thought, he pinches your nipple and tugs, pulling another helpless sound from your throat.

Yeah, he’s not asking for feedback. He just likes watching what you turn into when he does that. How you arch, how your voice falters. He’s giddy about it.

Actually giggly, which should infuriate you, especially after he has the nerve to murmur, “You’re so sensitive.”

But he’s too good at this.

Too good at you. The irritation melts right out of you the moment his mouth starts moving again, trailing across your chest. His tongue drags sloppily over your skin, until he finds your other nipple.

“God,” he breathes. You can feel him smiling against your skin when he flicks his tongue - teasing kitten licks (meow?) that start playful and immediately stop pretending to be.

One hand comes up to press your breast harder into his mouth, while the other slips under your waistband, fingers finding your clit, slick and aching, the glide so smooth it’s honestly kind of obscene.

You can practically count down to it - you’re so wet incoming in 3, 2, 1-

“God, you’re so wet.”

Fuck. You’ve missed the God. Also breathing, if you’re being fair.

He circles your nipple and clit at the same time, every touch winding you tighter until you’re practically shaking, right on the edge-

- then he stops.

Leaves you dry, whining. You barely have time to register the loss before he brings his hand to his mouth.

Holy fuck.

He sucks his fingers clean. Purposefully. His gaze stays locked on you while his lips part, tongue dragging between his fingers, tasting you like it’s the first decent thing he’s ever had in his life.

Then he moves.

Guiding you down onto the sofa, he sinks to the floor without a word, his arms braced on the outside of your thighs. His fingers hook under your waistband and in one swift motion, he tugs. Pants and panties gone in a single move.

A shiver runs up your spine. You feel the drag of the fabric as it slips away, a slick string stretching between you and the cotton before it breaks.

You see him bite down on the inside of his cheek.

Oh, he noticed.

He still folds your stuff - because apparently, even like this, he can’t stop being him - but it’s rushed now, like he’s pretending it matters. His hands are shaking a little. His focus is shot. He’s already back where he wants to be.

His pupils go wide, dark swallowing gold, there’s nothing collected left in him. He’s looking at you like a man starving, but then he giggles. Again.

It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing (omg is that a cunt!?!?!?!?! Wooooooah! Okay… it’s probably just the tequila).

You can’t help it - you giggle too. It’s contagious, almost… sweet, until your hand slides back into his hair, guiding him forward. He follows easily, his breath warm against your inner thigh. But he detours (come on, now), pressing open-mouthed kisses up your skin and nipping at the soft flesh.

“Aaron-“ It feels wrong to call him that. Who is Aaron?

He whines, but finally gives in. One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. He tastes you, savors it, moans into you like he’s the one being touched.

His lips wrap around your clit, and he sucks (literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.)

You can’t hold back the sound that tears out of your throat; it feels too good. You yank him closer by his hair, and he starts devouring you, loses himself completely. His mouth moves frantically, flicking, shaking, devouring you with an eagerness that borders on worship.

Through the haze, you catch flashes - the veins standing out in his hands as he grips your thighs, keeping them spread when they try to clamp around his head. The tension in his forearms, the tremor in his wrists.

He’s so into it. Such a munch it’s almost... illegal?!

He’s so gone, mouth everywhere, tongue sliding up and down your folds, messy and uncoordinated, pausing to kiss you, to suck, to drag his tongue through you again and again. When he slips the tip of it inside, you arch so hard into him your vision whites out.

He moans again, a deep, guttural noise that you feel more than hear, and it hits your clit perfectly.

He’s so overwhelmed he can’t seem to decide what to do with himself, alternating between making out with your cunt like it’s something precious, the next (barely) remembering this is supposed to be for you.

So, he fucks into you with his tongue, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly with every movement, and it’s so good you can’t help but arch, the tips of your toes curling as molten heat starts pooling low in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to find your clit again, mouth wet and greedy, and you feel it - two of his thick fingers sliding through your slick, gathering it at the tips before pushing inside. The stretch knocks the air out of you. He fills you so easily, and when he curls them - just right, just there-

It’s-

“Cold-” you gasp, the word barely forming.

He looks up, eyes glassy and unfocused, still lazily flicking your clit with his tongue. It takes a second for your words to sink in. Then it hits him.

He freezes. Pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling completely empty. The light catches instantly on the gold band around his finger, glistening wet, smeared with your slick.

The ring.

You see it hit him like a punch. His face changes completely. He stares at his hand, transfixed, still trying to catch up with his own breathing.

He’d completely forgotten it was there.

It’s second nature by now - the way it just stays on through everything. When he drives. When he works. When he washes dishes and grumbles that it makes his hand feel weird. It’s always there. Always been.

He doesn’t really notice it anymore. It’s just part of him.

So why the hell could he forget now?

The band is obnoxiously thick, he’d picked it that way on purpose. When he first bought it, the jeweler told him the size would “balance out his sausage fingers,” laughing as he said it’d be impossible to miss.

And yet - he did.

Because why would he think about it? Why would he ever need to take it off? Everyone knows he’s married.

You know.

Everything suddenly feels colder. He finally drags his gaze away from his hand and looks up at you, and it’s devastating.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales through his nose.

Shit.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, calm. Way too calm.

He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t even look at the ring. He doesn’t need to. You know exactly what he’s talking about. Still, for a second, you’re not sure if you heard him right - if he really just asked that.

Does it bother you.

Like he’s already accepted what he’s doing, already stepped over the line, and now he’s just politely checking if you’re okay being the accomplice. If you’re fine fucking a married man.

You blink at him, searching his face, trying to understand whether it’s remorse or curiosity flickering behind his eyes.

It’s impossible to tell. He looks too calm for either.

“Does it bother you, Aaron?”

“I asked you,” he says simply. His hands slide back up your thighs. You shiver when the cold metal brushes your skin.

“Aaron, I don’t- I don’t get what you mean by-”

But you don’t get to finish.

He surges up, closing the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours, desperate, like the realization just made him need you even more.

His hands are everywhere - grabbing, searching, and dragging you closer by the waist, his heavenly touch edged with the cold brush of metal.

You freeze for half a second, brain still trying to catch up to what’s happening, to how wrong it should feel (or if it should, at all-). But instinct wins. It always does.

Your hands find his belt, still locked in a deep, hungry kiss while fumbling with the buckle. The metallic clink cuts through the air as you undo it, pull it free, shove his slacks down, and find him - thick and hard - against the soft fabric of his boxers.

Oh wow.

You palm his erection through it, feel the heat, the damp spot of precum he’s left. He can’t help but hiss into your mouth the second your fingers press against the wet head.

“Please,” he whimpers. Of course it’s vague as hell. Cryptic to the last.

Please what? No, okay. You’re not about to make him say it - please fuck me - even though the thought of hearing those words in his perfect, restrained voice makes you clench around nothing.

You’ll spare him the humiliation, keep his saintly swear-free record intact. And he should really never say you don’t do anything for him.

You strip him down until he’s bare beneath you, nothing left but the loosened tie still hanging around his neck (and yeah, you might need that soon). You sit back, straddling him, just looking.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is.

You could take your time.

Trace every inch of him with your tongue. Follow that line of hair, taste the salt of his skin, lap at the bead of precum glistening at his tip while your hand wraps around all that girth-

But patience isn’t exactly your strong suit. Not now. Not when the alcohol’s still in his system and you’re racing against the possibility of whiskey dick. You need him while he’s like this.

You give him just a couple of strokes from base to tip, pumping him, your cunt clenching around nothing just from holding his weight in your hand and watching him tilt his head back against the couch, his lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to make a sound.

You position him at your entrance, teasing the bulbous head as it presses right where you want it, grinding your cunt against him. Slick drips from your folds like honey, coating his girth and trailing down the sides as he breathes shakily. He doesn’t say a word, probably thinking you’re taking your time to ease into it.

You’re not. You’re taunting him. Drawing it out just to watch him unravel.

It’s addictive - how he looks at you, how he whimpers quietly, waiting, eyes wide and so goddamn earnest it almost makes you feel bad.

Fine.

You sink onto him slowly, the first push stealing all the air from your lungs. A sultry moan leaves your lips as you sink down, inch by inch. The stretch feels unreal, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, your walls clamping around him so tight it’s almost too much.

He’s thick. He fills you up so, so, so good.

You feel his rough palms settle on your waist, thumbs stroking over your skin. Tender.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, the sound of it alone making your walls clench around him. (#humbling.)

Another moan slips out of you when you feel the blunt tip of him kiss your cervix. The jolt steals your breath, your head tipping back as your hips find a rhythm, grinding against him, slick coating his skin, your swollen clit dragging across his lower stomach with every motion.

The friction rips groans out of both of you, the living room heavy with the sound of it - wet, reckless, echoing through the quiet, past any respectable hour.

His hands roam up your sides, tracing your waist, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. You arch into him when his mouth finds you, catching a peak between his lips, sucking hard, humming against your skin as his teeth graze lightly.

You ride him harder, thighs slapping against his, every thrust punching another sound out of you.

“You feel so good, Aaron…” you pant, pace picking up until all you can think about is taking him deep and deeper inside you.

He mumbles something against your breasts, barely coherent - something about how tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how this is such a good pussy. The words slur halfway through, like he’s losing track of his own damn data, too far gone to remember what he’s saying but unable to stop.

It sends another spark straight through you. You tug on his tie, pulling him closer, and he just melts into it - lets out this low, breathy chuckle that vibrates against you, still flicking his tongue over your nipple like he’s drunk on the taste of you.

You want more. Always more. So you twist the silk tighter around your hand, pull again until it bites against his throat.

He’s gone - completely gone – intoxicatedly giggling through the next moan, head tipping back against the couch, mouth slack and pink.

He smacks your ass once, then again. (Behave, bottom!) Your voice breakis around his name, leaving your mouth far too pornographically to ever be mistaken for anything innocent.

You’re not sure you’re going to survive him.

Tingling pleasure starts to spark up your spine when he grabs your waist and pistons his twitching cock into you, his hips snapping roughly against your thighs, the head of his cock finding that sweet spot inside you over and over until the coil in your belly winds dangerously tight.

“Aaron, I’m-” The words die in your throat, splintering into a cry.

Your head falls back, eyes rolling, mouth open as your body takes over - every nerve sparking, every thought obliterated by the way he fucks into you. All you can think - all you want - is for him to come inside.

It’s a terrible idea.

Disastrous.

But you’re too far gone to care, too cock-drunk on him to remember why it would matter, too lost in the heat to even pretend you’d stop him.

Your hand slips down between you, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and desperate until everything tightens, until the world narrows to heat and pulse and sound. The orgasm hits hard, blinding, ripping through you in waves as your body locks up, fluttering tight around him, milking him until he breaks too.

He groans your name, hips snapping up one final time before he spills. The warmth floods you instantly as he keeps thrusting, chasing the last tremors of pleasure, filling you until it’s spilling back out onto your poor sofa.

You collapse against him, chest to chest, boneless and trembling, every nerve still sparking.

His arms come up around you right away instinctively, pulling you close until you can feel every uneven breath against your skin. Warm praises spill quietly into your ear, even as the ring keeps brushing your spine each time his hand moves in tender caresses - frozen against feverish skin.

It’s distracting - almost as much as the smell of sex clinging to his damp hair, the trace of sweat and you mixed in.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your fingers move anyway, threading through the tangled mess, finding the back of his neck, tugging him closer until he exhales against your shoulder and settles there.

Exactly where he shouldn’t be.

You let him stay. Just a little longer. Long enough that it almost feels… natural. Comfortable. You could fall asleep like this. Bodies tangled, skin still sticky, the air still thick with the proof of what you’ve done.

You keep forgetting someone else is waiting for him.

At home.

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And so you left to the medic tent to get your broken nose stuffed with gauze and wrapped properly, only returning to the bunks later that night. One of your closer teammates came to sit down beside you, a frown set on her face. “Did you piss him off or something? He looked soooo mad after.” She questions, confused by this sudden unusual behaviour– general’s son or not, he still had standards he needed to uphold. 

You shrug your shoulders, just wanting an early night's rest so you could catch up on training in the morning– a trip to the medic wasn’t an excuse for a break. “I didn't..do anything different. I didn't even say anything the entire time.”

“It’s not your fault.” You hear a voice pipe up from behind you, a boy you only met during training here. This was a necessary course for soldiers at your level, so your actual team wasn't here with you. He comes over and hands you a water bottle, a frown set on his face as he sits on the bunk opposite. Technically women and men had different tents, but it wasn't time to turn in for bed just yet. “He’s General Shepherd’s son.”

The name rings a bell in your head but you can't exactly figure out from what, and instead you just gratefully take the water bottle. “Thanks. I guess it's just another stuck up nepo baby.. Huh?”

The two of them nod in response, chuckling quietly just in case he happens to be lurking nearby. Hopefully if you just stay in your lane then he’ll leave you alone.

—----------------------

He did not in fact leave you alone even once.

You had tried nearly every single possible approach to fix this situation but it was like the target was permanently nailed to your body in bright neon red. He yelled at you constantly with corrections during training, and then some more when you sparred with others. When the simulated exercises came around, your name was at the top of every list of concern along with a stupid reason circled beside it. Every time you corrected your previous mistakes, new ones appeared, and to your dismay, the other instructors wouldn't bat an eye to your pleas for some guidance. That’s the worst part really; you hadn't actually even complained about the harsh treatment at all, only ever asking for them to show you what you were doing wrong.

You began to realise quickly that this wasn’t as much of a problem on your half, but a result of a vendetta you hadn't even been aware of. After asking nearly every instructor, not one could give you a solid improvement you could actually do in each of the situations. Besides, his complaints started to become obviously stupider by the day.

“Really? He got annoyed because my shoe wasn't tied twice?!” You throw your hands up in the air as your friend practices their stitching skills on you, trying to close up a particularly nasty wound on your shoulder.

“I know it’s rough but will you please stop moving so much!” She yelps as blood starts to spill and you give her a sheepish look, keeping still as best as you can as she cleans the wound again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just –Ow! Are you really sure you know how to stitch?” You hiss as she drags the needle through the sore skin, wincing as you turn to her with a very obvious frown.

“I do! I’m just..” She finishes it as fast as she can, tying it off with a satisfied look, hands planting on her hips. “Ay not that bad! I mean.. It looks closed?”

You roll your eyes, rolling your shoulder to check the pain and surely enough the stitches don't break nor does it seriously ache.  “It’ll do. My point is, i’m not even going to even pass the course at this rate! What the hell is the point of all of this then?”

“You just have to keep pushing through it, okay? Everyone knows he’s being extra harsh anyway, they’re just too afraid to speak against him.” It was true; someone had to be a serious idiot to not see the obvious problem he has with your mere existence. With a soft sigh, you nod along to her words– maybe she was right. In some weird way, you were just his stress ball, and he’d probably be squeezing you until this course is over. But he wouldn’t pop you surely, you hadn't actually done anything deserving of it.  

—-----------------

“That’s it, everyone stop. None of you are getting any food because of this.” 

You’ve only placed one carrot in your mouth, just like your friend who sits beside you, so surely this can't be your fault this time. So naturally you let your fork drop back against the plate, blinking at the others who also don't dare to question why he suddenly spoke.

“We do not raise pigs in the military.” He scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he walks over to a soldier who dared to keep chewing, snatching his tray out of his hands and placing it on the side. 

“And she is a direct example of this. You wait for everyone to sit before you eat, and you do not take a portion for a man.” He sneers as he walks around to you, plucking the plate from before you and dumping it directly in the bin. The whole team stops and turns their heads towards you the second he announces it, leaving you burning with unexplainable shame. 

This wasn't even your fault– you didn't make the portion sizes, in fact the workers used to give the women less and even on the self-serve areas you did so because you didn’t want to feel sick during your sneaky training when everyone was asleep. Mind that fact, there has never even been a rule to only eat once everyone's arrived in the month you’ve already been here for. 

“Get out! Now!” You stand up straight as he yanks at your shirt and shoves you towards the door, You stumble but keep yourself silent, already leaving before you get personally targeted even more.

—--------------

Everyone’s looking at you strangely, and people don't even let you speak in their direction before they’re walking away. They glare at you for every yelled word, for every extra lap you never provoked, and especially the countless times the hot water has been cut for your group.

You sit by the lake not too far from the camp, trying to reign all the muddled feelings as you scrub at your hair with the salty water. Today your own teammates banned you from entering the showers, and the worst part was that they couldn't even do it with hatred in their eyes.

“Listen– you can't be here, okay? If you’re here, he’ll punish us all and we don't want that.”

“But I'm not even doing anything wrong! I’ll even take the cold water –”

And that’s how you ended up trudging down here, trying not to think too hard about whatever is bubbling beneath the water on the other side of the rocks. Just the other day you had to get a friend to sneak you a bread roll because of the food incident. What the hell would be next?

You didn't want to admit it but you were actually afraid, especially with how you wouldn't even blame your friends if they chose to stop talking to you as well. What if you really had been causing problems this entire time? 

And you couldn't stop it if you tried. After all, you've been sleeping outside for the past week with new wounds appearing daily. You always promised that you’d push through everything, every rude instructor and pretentious high ranks too. You swore you wouldn't let it get to you, but you could feel it slipping past, eating at you. 

—--------------------

The end of the course couldn't have come any slower, and everyone received their passing results save for the few who genuinely had caused nothing but issues in the other team. Then there was you– you who had him sneer in your face as you went home with no certification. Apparently since he had been the one assigned to grading you, that meant he had all the right to decide whether you passed or not. This time you didn't pick yourself back up– you had a small feeling he preferred when you had your face against the dirt– figuratively and literally.

You return to base and sit at the edge of a truck with silence towards you, even if it is all over. Maybe they believed he could still revoke their certifications too. Either way you left the truck last as the rain poured down, the contents of your bag spilled across a muddy puddle. You can't even blame him for this– it could be absolutely any of them.

Dragging the ruined fabrics inside, you ignore the looks others give your sodden state. Was Simon on deployment? What would he say when he found out you did all of that just to completely fail? This wasn't fair– you had tried so hard, you worked so hard just to be thrown under the bus because one guy didn't like the way you looked.

“Miss, you need to come with me.” You blink at the obvious higher rank standing right infront of your room door, and pause.

“Huh?”

You barely get a chance to question why when another three come out from around the corner and you immediately drop your things. “I didn't—I've— did he report me or something? I never—“

“Do not resist soldier, or we will use force.”

“Sorry— sorry, okay!” You hold your hands up high, realising this is not some kind of joke especially when two have guns pointed directly at you and something tells you they are not afraid to shoot someone as insignificant as you.

Two of the men come and grab your arms, restraining them behind your back as you squirm before eventually going lax— clearly you couldn’t do anything else but let this happen.

—————-

You’re escorted to an interrogation room, all your belongings stripped off you and then your hands locked into handcuffs on the table. Anxiously you bite at your lip— what the hell was actually going on? Eating more than you should did not lead to rooms like these nor measures this serious.

 A lady on the older side enters the room clutching files, her badge reading CIA.  “I want you to tell me everything that happened over the past weeks.” So you do— from when you arrived at your first meeting with entering the base, not forgetting the details of the General’s son's hatred for you. Of course, you had to phrase it differently though; even you weren't immune to being afraid of him.  So his obvious bullying and harassment turned into him not liking you often and punishing you multiple times a day. And you just had to accept that.

She notes down the details, along with her own information, trying to see if it connects or not. A lie or the truth? You knew you were being honest, but she didn't, and that meant you may even be considered the enemy as of right now. 

“You’ve been accused of leaking information, files from Captain Price’s office.” The woman suddenly says as she closes the file, stares hardened towards you. “I’ll give you one chance to confess.”

“I would never do that ever, Ma’am.” You shake your head adamantly but she doesn't seem too impressed. What the hell was she talking about– Did someone really report you for a crime this serious? Wouldn't Simon know you’d never do that?

Would he not defend you?

Obviously you want to argue, shake your head adamantly, and insist you’d absolutely never ever do that under any circumstances. But something tells you they won't believe you and just their opinions on you wont be enough.

You’re escorted to a sort of holding cell, consisting of a small room and bathroom and wake up groggily the next morning. Unfortunately, still in your soaked clothes, a cold is probably about to clog your throat. 

And you just wait, hoping for them to come and get you, saying they’re sorry for the mistake and it was a misunderstanding. You wait past breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for a day on end. They gave you new attire on the second day thankfully, but you still couldn't get an ounce of sleep in fear. The other convicts in the other rooms were loud sometimes, violent and you’d see the guards run across, detaining them. On the third day you were taken for a medical exam. The regular ones were intrusive as it is, but paired with the non stop troubles this whole month, the prodding and poking at all your injuries didn't help. 

It’s only on the fifth day, when you drag yourself to sit upright, does a key jingle in the lock of your door. “Good you’re up, we’re going.” The guard opens the door and you stand, quietly letting him cuff you and bring you back to the interrogation room once more.

Your eyes widen in relief when Price appears in the doorway, lips parting in surprise. Though immediately you shut up on seeing the Captain’s harsh gaze directed onto you as he enters the room. Beside him is the same woman from the CIA before. 

If you speak out of turn, would they suspect you more? But if you only speak when spoken to, would they think you were trying to be calculated?

———————————

“I would never look at any of his files— he always keeps his drawers locked too! Ask him— he’ll tell you. He won't even tell me the country his missions are in—”

Even with your constant denying, they kept going through the claims against you. And with every single one, came another forged evidence. Supposed notes with your signature, pictures and videos taken out of context, testimonies from the people with you for the past few weeks.

Well, she was always getting into trouble for one thing or the other.. just to get sent to the infirmary too sometimes. I reckon she didn't even go, could’ve looked around for all we know.

She hardly slept with us for the past week or so, and she’d regularly go to the lake on her own. I saw her on the phone once or twice too.

She always muttered to herself and scribbled down notes when no one was looking— then she’d stash it with her other stuff.

How could you even argue against that? You did all of those things, but without the context you did try to give.. they didn't believe you.  You couldn’t find it in yourself to try and fight any longer when they announced they’d be detaining you for a few days until the allegations were investigated properly. All you could do is fall quiet, give up slowly, knowing that it was your word against whatever higher up wanted you out of the picture.

——————

“Ghost, ah’m sure that it’s not them. He’s playin’ games with us— ye know this!” Soap pats a hand on the back of Ghost where they stand behind the one sided glass, watching your interrogation unfold.

He knows in his chest that it isn't you, deep in his heart, just from how you struggle and desperately argue the reasons for every single incriminating evidence that matches up so well. But Simon never trusts his heart, no it’s far too erratic most nights and he’s been in this job long enough to know when to keep it locked behind bars.

This all started a month ago, when he left for a mission during your course. An ally had betrayed them, or rather prioritised their own needs over lives.

“You know, Ghost, you really should look deeper at who you keep close to.” The American had laughed in his face as he called for his men, his arms crossed over his chest. “Just a thought.”

It only spiralled from there— he knew and trusted the team, but who else was there outside of it? The receptionist he passed by in the mornings? The lady in logistics he discussed plans with? The man in admin who handled file transfers? 

You?

You.

He had drowned himself in nearly every single file when he returned from that mission, looking for every link to you even if it was something as stupid as when you slipped on a bar of soap and bruised your ass. Yes, that is in your medical records to your dismay. He found nothing in the slightest that could tie you to leaking secrets or the like. Sure you slept in his bed and occasionally used his desk as a hard surface when he didn't mind, but he always kept most important files locked away. 

Then a report came from the parent team instructing you, supposedly anonymous but it seemed to be a soldier not worth mentioning anyway. You were acting strange. Sleeping outside of the tents, always sneaking off, causing trouble. Before that you had skittish behaviour when he got injured, sure he had been.. affectionate with you but what if that was a scheme too? Had he really fallen for it?

So he ignored every message you sent whilst at that camp, if anything giving you the driest responses possible to make sure you didn't try and run. It hurt him, especially when you’d try and subtly complain, too afraid to say too much else the instructors caught you bad mouthing them. You sent sad faces all the time, sometimes a voice message that would be deleted after, and he assumed you must’ve been so choked up on tears that you couldn't keep it there longer than a few minutes.

“She’s still denying.” Price reenters the room as you sit alone now, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. “I showed her the evidence found in her belongings and she still won't confess.”

“That’s because she’s not the one who leaked the information.” Soap scoffs, elbowing Ghost in tandem, waiting for him to agree. “Ghost can confirm that, can’t he? Graves is just being a fuckin’ prick.”

“We can’t rule it out, Johnny.” Ghost says all too solemnly and Soap’s elbow falters, body going lax as he looks up at his lieutenant in shock. 

“You can't be serious—”

“He’s right.” Price butts in, a frown set on his face. “Both of you should go, I don't want anyone thinking we’re getting biased here.”

Reluctantly Soap follows Ghost out of the room, but as he’s about to question him about what he just said, he’s already down the corridor. What the hell were they doing? This wasn't right in the slightest– how could they not blatantly see that it wasn't you?!

“How is it going?” Before he had even realised, he had made his way to the rec room and was standing before the kitchenette where Gaz was boiling water. Their mugs were already set on the counter, the steam slowly rising out of the kettle as he pours the coffee grains inside.

“Nowhere– she hasn't confessed because it’s not bloody her.” Soap huffs in response, bracing his palms on the counter as he huffs, watching the water turn the mugs to a murkier colour. At least Gaz understands, nodding along in tandem to his words, though that’s probably why they're both still sergeants. Sitting back and having to listen to the evidence is never fun.

“Let me guess, Price told you that we can't argue the facts against her?” He raises a brow, already knowing that he’d state the same thing he always does. Either way it makes Johnny snort. 

“Not this time, but he implied it pretty fucking clearly when he glared at me.” He takes the mug with a small thank you before following him over to the couch, slouching against him all too quickly. “Don’t get me started on Ghost either– just sat there and watched.”

“Anything he turns in might end up being biased. Stupid too, if anyone knows her best it’s him.. I just cant understand why her team mates would lie too—-”

Before Gaz can finish, the door slams open, heavy boots approaching and they both look up as Ghost rips his mask off, and drops a pile of files in their before them.

“Second Lieutenant Shepherd.” He practically growls the words out, seething and they both look down in shock as they flicker through the logs of him being on that same trip as you, big circles around your name and connecting to the descriptions in a few of the witness testimonies. “The bastard has been framing her– and of course he’s the son of the General.”

“He may as well swear his allegiance to Graves than play these stupid games..” Johnny scoffs but pats Ghost's knee as he sits in front of them, still with his blood boiling. “We just need the proof now.”

“He must’ve threatened everyone else on that course. No wonder she was sleeping outside and going to the lake– he must’ve gave her no other option.” Gaz scoffs, equally as annoyed and Ghost nods along to his words. 

“We’ll force the information out of them then– one of them has to spill.” 

“Wait–” He stops Ghost as he begins to stand again, hand catching his sleeve. “I’ll do it. I think I have an idea that’ll work.”

—---------------------------------------------

Today you don't have the luxury of Price, no you’ve had a much harsher man who seemed like he wanted your blood personally painting his office. The questions were invasive, non stop and forceful, especially when he dug through your phone and looked through the messages you had sent to others.

You weren't some kind of double agent by complaining about the instructor, you were just another useless soldier regretting all the life choices that led you to sniffling over the phone to your friend back at base. He kept putting words in your mouth too, leaving you scrambling to defend yourself while he tried to use it against you, constantly interrupting and riling you up.

“Fine, you think you’re such a smart girl lying like this? Well, the General just approved for.. new methods to be used in our next meeting.” He snarls towards you, almost beginning to laugh to himself as he looks at the files a lowly private passed him. “Do you want to admit to anything now?”

You didn’t of course you didn't, stupid you, still being stubborn and so you were dragged back to that cell once more. This time your pillow is soaked from your tears, face buried in the flat thing as you do your best to contain it. Why hadn’t Simon contacted you once? Was he really out on a solo deployment?

He hadn't responded to any messages while you were at the camp and he hadn't come to see you once in this holding cell, even Soap had tried to get a peek at you sneakily whilst you were escorted away. Why the hell were you crying pathetically in here anyway? Well, probably because you were getting tortured by the organisation you signed up to and for something you hadn't even done.

—

“Of course, his bastard son.” Laswell scoffs as Price looks at the evidence given by his fuming Lieutenant, practically itching to just kill. 

“Unfortunately it’s not proof enough— especially his rank. We need witnesses and confessions.” Price’s fingers grip the edge of the paper a little too harshly, trying his best to stay sane in the current situation. There was no holding back though when there was blatant proof you were innocent.

“Kyle’s gathering it.” Soap speaks up, a frown set on his face since he unfortunately had been told he’d just scare the rookies off altogether if he tried

“..Good. Ghost, come with me, we need to buy them some time.”

—---------------------------------

“You think that General’s son gives a shit about you? She’s about to get fuckin’ sliced up in there if you dont tell me the truth right now and you will be next.” His finger points at the chest of one of your prior teammates who is pressed up against the wall and likely about to piss himself. 

Soap had sworn he wouldn't come near and yet here he was, staring around the corner and fighting the urge not to record the scene before him– he did not even know Kyle was capable of something so.. aggressive. But then again, they were all on the same team for a clear reason.

Naturally the rookie agreed quickly, telling him everything and confirming what they had heard from two others already. That was more than substantial evidence, and now they just had to get it back as fast as possible.

—————————————-

“That’s enough!” Price’s voice echoes out in the cold dark room you’re in, except you can't see him with the blindfold tight over your eyes.

“They approved—“ The man interrogating you starts to speak only for a rustle of clothing to immediately sound out, along with Price’s stern voice. 

“I said enough. Why don't you make sure your witnesses aren't bribed before you start pointing fingers?” He argues, and all of a sudden someone’s slightly cold hands are on your face, unwrapping your blindfold.

You blink as light  reaches your eyes for the first time in hours— maybe the first stop to this interrogation was by depriving you to make you go insane. Either way you’re glad to see Kyle as he fusses over you, making sure they haven't laid a hand on you. 

He helps you upright, knowing your legs are probably wobbly from being sat still for so long and you hold onto his arm. Was it really all over?

“We’re going.” Price nods for you and Gaz to follow, and you look back one last time, eyes catching onto a glint of metal. It’s coming from a tray set near the chair you were tied to— sharp edges and in various sizes. Like ones you’d see in a butcher's shop.

—-

“I’m sorry Captain..” You sigh, rubbing at your arm to ease the anxiety buzzing through you as Kyle holds you close. He looks pissed, and he doesn't even answer, just shakes his head at you before continuing to walk.  

Eventually you reach a meeting room and you’re ushered in, only to come face to face with the woman who you talked to initially.

“Ma’am.” You salute in respect, even if you wince with the movement. Even if it’s only been days in that, it feels like years. What if it wasn't the end..? What if they had decided worse for you?

“Apologies for.. before. Thanks to the 141, there’s more than enough evidence to prove you’re innocent.”

All you can do is just nod firmly to her words, suddenly feeling very small in this room with elite soldiers. You’re not sure even why this is the only time you’ve felt the gap between you too, but it’s stronger than ever. It dissolves quickly however when you make eye contact with Simon across the table, your promise to him before only replacing the feeling with guilt instead.

“We need you to tell us everything you heard about the General’s son. No reservations this time.”

So you do, for the next couple of hours, answering any questions they have. They mainly just want to know how he acted, anything awfully suspicious, or anything you even heard that you wouldn’t typically repeat.

“How did he act in training?” Price asks, and the woman you now know to be Laswell glances towards you too.

“He was harsh on me, but other than that he knew his stuff, I didn't doubt for a second he was a professional. The way he handled situations just made him feel like a nepo baby..”

“Handle situations?” 

“He’d blow up on us like it was bootcamp— well, he blew up on me. Not so much anyone else unless they did something that actually would call for it..” You shrug, half expecting them to want to know more about what he did to you. As if remembering, the scars and bruises throbbing along your arms, rubbing against the hardness of this chair.

Thankfully they had gotten you water to chug down, which you’d been sipping non stop to try and keep yourself awake. All the sleep you had gotten since coming back was barely any better than what you had there, probably worse with your body aching and sore. 

“Alright that’s it for now. Kyle, Johnny, c’mere and look at…”

Their voices start to fade out in your ears as they move to all stand around the table, Simon forced to put his back to you and concentrate on the task at hand. Besides, as long as you were out of immediate danger, it’d be fine. 

You were starting to question if it was really okay for them to speak about important topics when you were sitting right here. It’s not like he dismissed you anyway, and you’re too nervous to even think about asking for anything. You probably shouldn't try to play victim either— as far as they knew, you came back from camp probably tired that's all, and unfortunately had to go in the cold cells for a couple of days whilst this went down. Hardly the crime of the century.

Right.. it’s not important, you should just sit quietly and obediently, do absolutely anything you can to not make Price glare at you again like he had in the interrogation room. Anything—

“Hey— Earth to Rookie?”

You snap out of it, eyes drooped to see Kyle standing above you, a concerned look over his face. Suddenly you see the entire room staring at you, and you swallow quickly. “S-sorry, i was just making sure I didn't forget anything. Did you want something?” 

Oh shit, Price is staring at you again, what if he really does get angry again? Any CO getting angry was nothing compared to having this Captain’s glare on you— half because of the sharpness but closer to the fact you know he absolutely does have the intention and execution behind each one.

His looks do kill.

“Do you want to go back to your room?” He asks, his words going slower in your tired brain and you freeze. Was this a trick question? 

“W-whatever’s easier for you, sir.” You stammer out, much to your dismay, but at least you seem a bit more awake now.

“Go, you need the rest. Kyle, go get her food and come back when you’re done. We have a lot to talk about.”

A sinking guilt starts to form in your gut as the sergeant listens to his captain immediately— had you really ruined their whole meeting because you were a bit tired? Oh- no, no, this is wrong— you didn't mean that!

“C’mon. The cell food definitely wasnt good.” Kyle gently wraps a hand around your arm and you stand almost immediately, glancing between all of them. Simon definitely wouldnt be back tonight.

—---------------

He screenshots the uber receipt, ready to ask a favour of a fellow soldier to bring the food here when it arrives– he definitely won't let you go and get it. Just as he sends the message you come out of the shower, now dressed in more comfortable clothes, and stinking less of damp now. 

“I got someone to grab food for you, here I grabbed a few drinks from the rec room too.” He gestures to the small table where he has his favourites, and the few he’s seen you drink too. But he pauses when he looks up at you, catching a glimpse of marks beneath your sleeves. 

“During training..” You mumble, because why should he care further– they’ve gotten much worse than this and come out smiling. If you were a strong soldier, you wouldn't dare to complain even if it was because of unjust treatment.

‘When you’re in a real fight, you won't be whining about what's fair and what's not, your only focus will be to survive.’

That’s what they’ve drilled into your head, even more so in that interrogation room with that man. A real soldier doesn't tell such lies to comfort themselves– they accept the facts for what they are worth.

“Maybe you should swing by the infirmary tomorrow?”

“Yeah, i will.” You probably shouldnt worry him any further else he starts to think you’re stupid and self sacrificing too. Besides, that medical exam you had for the interrogation didn't actually do much but take note of your injuries, and even then they didn't seem to care too much. Almost like they wanted to find things against you.

“Okay.. i’ll see you tomorrow. Try and get a good sleep okay?”

He leaves you for the night, and you dont get spend much more dwelling the past days, or the past months, falling into a deep sleep immediately. Though a small part of you does shuffle up to the side of the bed in hopes Simon would sink down next to you by morning.

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AAA part 1 is out mcfinally anywayi hope you guys like this and pt2 will drop soon :)

decided to drop this b4 my exam tmr so at least i have something to be happy about. wish me luck guys im mcterrified

rookie masterlist Support me with kofi!!

taglist:

the deep

— a = aftercare — doesn’t know the world aftercare. he does know generally to hold you for a few minutes afterwards. but i’ll be honest his street name with women is probably “get off and go”… the ridiculous way he fucks and ducks would be funny if it wasn’t so annoying. just coax him ( or demand of him ) to stay. you’ll have to train him a little like a pavlov dog but he’ll get there.

— b = body part — not sure about your favorite body part of his but his favorite part of you is likely your tits. i think kevin’s a total boob guy, they’re just so aesthetically pleasing to him. doesn’t matter if they’re big enough for him to rest his head on or small enough to fit fully in his palm; he loves tits.. first thing he does when a girl undresses is sucks on her nipples. he’s actually really good at palming, kissing, sucking, and occasionally nipping at your breasts.

— c = cum — a tinge salty. usually a warm off-white color. thick, also. the deep’s favorite place to cum is of course on your tits, but he also enjoys seeing your thighs all sticky and shaky too.

— d = dirty secret — is not an anal virgin! i just know he’s taken it up the ass at least once, though he refuses to say whether it was from pegging or from a man. one day you bring pegging into the picture and moskowitz’s a little too casual about letting you slide that strap of yours into his eager hole. it’s a lot less tight than you imagined, too.. that’s when you realize he’s not new to the concept.

— e = experience — he’s fairly experienced especially in the realm of vanilla sex. he’s not new to toys or to taking it up the ass but he doesn’t exactly say that he’s experienced with those things.. so you’re introducing them and thinking he’s never done it before and then you’re like “wow he’s taking this really well… wait.” i feel like he goes on freaky side quests so he’s got knowledge on some more taboo things but he’s slightly ashamed of it in a way? he’s ashamed of getting off to things like being pegged or being in positions where his partner’s in power. fragile masculinity and such.

— f = favorite position — he would probably tell his friends something stupid like “whichever one where she’s bent over and i’m fucking her from behind”. but secretly? kevin’s favorite positions involve you standing up or sitting in a chair and him on his knees or somehow lower than you. when he gets to kiss up your legs or eat you out from under — sometimes you make him ride your boot and ( despite his hesitation each time ) he likes it a lot more than he cares to admit. he likes being put in his place. loves when you ride him like he’s nothing, too. he’s fucking you but you’re still in charge.

— g = goofy — he’s usually pretty goofy, making jokes until you tell him or force him to shut up. on the bright side, things will never be awkward! he’s relaxed enough to let a lot of mistakes slide if you’re inexperienced. he’ll laugh it off, though he might bring it up to tease you later. i think the only time he’s not so goofy is when you’ve got him needy and restless, pleading with you for something. when he’s all desperate, his only focus is behaving for you. no jokes, just pleas and whimpers and those darling eyes of his tearing up as he begs.

— h = hair — shaves when you ask. doesn’t shave unless you ask him to or unless he gets bored and wants to clean himself up.

— i = intimacy — the deep is definitely not the most romantic in the book but he tries during foreplay. he’ll press his forehead to yours and maybe make a corny ocean related love pun. you’ll laugh and he really likes that, your laugh, and he’ll kiss your neck and then.. he’ll see your chest rise and fall and.. fuck, he’s getting hard. and then it’s all out the window — sex, now. please. he’ll be romantic again afterwards if you’ve schooled him on aftercare but — babe, when you look so good and you’re already so close to him? sex, sex, sex.

— j = jack off — sometimes calls you in the middle of the work day just to jerk off. he finds it so hot when you talk him through it from wherever you are.. also, moskowitz has definitely jerked off in the seven meeting room when no one else is around 😭 don’t flash any uv lights around his spot at that fucking table. if you tell him not to masturbate, he’ll try his best not to. but, i do think he is a victim of supe libido ( though not as much as a-train.. ).

— k = kink — being dominated easy. this is a man born to be a sub, forced to be a dom. doesn’t mean he doesn’t love pounding into your cunt every so often and making you scream his name despite yourself. but he is just as, if not more interested in being your little boy toy to use and abuse and all those things. and then tell him he’s a big strong man afterwards, that’s the cherry on top. he just took your strap like a champ — only real, tough men can do that!

— l = location — if you’re down, he’s down, especially when he’s horny. any location will do, though preferably somewhere with a little bit of privacy so he doesn’t have others seeing your body.

— m = motivation — the deep’s not extremely easily motivated but, c’mon. it’s you. if he’s in love with you he’s going to be aroused by whatever you happen to do in relation to him. you compliment his work? hard. you laugh at one of his stupid jokes? hard. you slap him? ouch.. hard. and probably needy too.

— n = no — don’t touch his gills ever or he will freak out. it honestly takes a bit of time for him to even be comfortable taking off his shirt around you. i think this is something you could try to work on but even as he grows more confident in himself and his body, kevin doesn’t want you touching his gills. you can kiss around them, however, once he’s close with you.

— o = oral — oral king. loves to eat, loves to be sucked. absolute adores oral, it’s easy and it’s fun and it makes his toes curl, giving or receiving. genuinely, i think he’d be a big fan of it.

— p = pace — depends on his mood, your mood, and what you’re both wanting in that moment. he’s usually not very sloppy until the very end unless he’s been edged for a while. every now and then he wants it fast and reckless but most of the time he’s fine with going at a medium sort of speed.

— q = quickie — if it’s oral then yes to quickies! but a strong no outside of that. moskowitz doesn’t want to fuck you for ten minutes, no, he wants it to stretch. to be fair, head is like perfect for quickies anyways. especially if you’re giving and he’s been pent up that day.

— r = risk — generally, if you’re down, he’s down. just talk to him about it while you’re kissing on each other, don’t spring it on him. you might have to walk him through the concepts you’re bringing up, maybe have a video handy.

— s = stamina — supe stamina is nothing to play with. he stops when you tell him to but if you don’t speak up he knows to stop when you’re all fucked out and babbling or out of breath. especially if he’s sub, he stops when he thinks you can’t take anymore because he’s a good boy who can take care of you. the deep doesn’t want to fuck you to death, silly.

— t = toys — not inexperienced with them but not a full fledged toy master. he’s open to using whatever you have if it looks interesting or sounds promising.

— u = unfair — every time he tries to play unfair, you quickly put him in his place and he loves that. just a little bit of a brat sometimes. he’ll tell you to beg for his dick and all you have to do is pull his hair a little — he’s rolling his eyes all playful and pretending like he’s not harder from that. “okay, okay, miss impatient…” as kevin lines himself at your entrance.

— v = volume — not loud, not quiet. kind of just average or normal? he doesn’t like it when you’re quiet though, makes him feel like he’s fucking a dead fish. react, respond, insult him, anything. just don’t be quiet, don’t seem bored.

— w = wild card — i think you guys should try using vibrators on each other throughout the day. i think he’d enjoy that. you both come home all shaky and aching and desperate for each other, barely making it to the bedroom because you’re undressing each other in the hall. 🫶

— x = x-ray — again, not good at describing penises. i don’t think his is the prettiest but it’s definitely big. homelander’s is the prettiest in my mind.

— y = yearning — medium to high range supe libido. jokes about fucking you all the time but he’s really not as sex obsessed as you’d think.