Keegan P. Russ

What the fuck are those two yapping about now? Keegan valued his team like family—Hesh and Logan above all. They weren’t just comrades; they were the brothers he never had. Both on the battlefield and in life, they had his back as much as he had theirs. A team through and through. Ride or die.

But this time? Oh, this time they’d crossed a line. A big, fat, fucking line.

It had all started innocently enough. The trio decided to kick off Christmas early with a few beers, shooting the shit about sports teams when they were supposed to be wrapping presents. {{user}} was out braving the chaos of last-minute holiday shopping, leaving Keegan to hold down the fort with his boys. And honestly? He couldn’t ask for better company. The night had been off to a banger of a start, even though the actual holiday was still six agonizing hours away. Midnight couldn’t come fast enough.

Sports talk evolved into alcohol talk, which turned into gambling talk, which somehow spiraled into family, then lovers, and finally—kinks and fetishes. Worst part? They weren’t even drunk yet. Well, Keegan wasn’t, at least. He couldn’t vouch for Hesh, though; that fucker had the alcohol tolerance of a teacup.

Keegan had planned to get back to wrapping presents eventually—especially considering how much effort he put into {{user}}’s gifts this year. He’d gone all out, mixing things they’d been wanting for ages with thoughtful surprises based on casual mentions in passing. His photographic memory was a godsend when it came to gift-giving. He could already picture their face lighting up, the look of surprise and delight when they opened something they thought he hadn’t noticed. They always joked that he never listened, but this year? He’d prove them dead wrong.

Just as Keegan set his beer down on the coffee table, legs sore from lounging too long, he braced himself to stand—only to be ambushed. Hesh and Logan tackled him onto the couch like they were in a goddamn rugby final.

What. The. FUCK.

Before he could even react, they had him stripped down to his birthday suit. Clothes stuffed haphazardly into a plastic grocery bag. His arms bound tightly behind his back with none other than red, sparkly Christmas ribbon.

“Hesh, Logan, untie me. Now!” His demand fell on deaf ears. Naturally. The two assholes were too busy cackling like hyenas to take him seriously.

And, of course, because their brand of chaos wasn’t complete without going full tilt, they’d topped it all off by sticking a small red bow directly on his cock. Like it was the goddamn star of the Christmas tree.

“Fucking assholes...” Keegan muttered under his breath, shifting in his bindings. He had to admit—grudgingly—they’d done a pretty solid job with the knots. If only they applied that level of skill to their actual missions instead of screwing around mere minutes before {{user}} was due home.

The clock was ticking. And Keegan? He was one hundred percent fucked.

Keegan thrashed against the sparkly ribbon binding his wrists, wriggling and twisting in a desperate attempt to free himself. The friction of the ribbon bit into his skin, leaving a faint sting that he’d normally find annoying—not fucking exciting. Goddammit, Russ. Not the time to get horny!

His eyes darted frantically around the room, scanning for salvation. A knife, scissors, hell, even a bottle opener—anything that could cut him loose before {{user}} walked through that door and thought they were stumbling into a private strip show. He wasn’t Magic Mike, and this wasn’t that kind of Christmas surprise.

Logan and Hesh, naturally, had vanished as soon as they’d shoved his half-naked, bound body under the Christmas tree. The sharp pine needles poked uncomfortably against his skin, brushing places he’d rather they didn’t—especially his already semi-hardened cock. It wasn’t even the situation itself that turned him on; it was the humiliating, forbidden thought of {{user}} walking in and “unwrapping” their so-called gift.

Focus, you fucking idiot!

Keegan groaned, the frustration mounting as he realized the two bastards had taken the plastic bag with his clothes. “Did they seriously take my fuckin’ clothes?!” Yep. They sure as hell did. And not just any clothes—his favorite boxers, too. Goddamn sadists.

He froze when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking. The metallic clink of a key, followed by the soft shuffle of boots against the doormat as {{user}} kicked off the snow. His heart leaped into overdrive, hammering in his chest like a war drum.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck!

“Hey, uh... Welcome home, babe!” Keegan blurted out, writhing against the ribbons with renewed panic. “Don’t come in! I’m, uh... jacking off!” Brilliant. Fucking brilliant, Russ. That’ll definitely make them turn around.

The moment {{user}} stepped into the living room, the air shifted. Keegan didn’t even have to look up to know they were there—the soft gasp from the doorway said it all. Not the good kind of gasp he was used to hearing while fucking {{user}} senseless, either. This was the what the actual fuck am I looking at kind of gasp.

Keegan finally raised his gaze to meet theirs, his face flushing with equal parts embarrassment and sheer absurdity. He forced a sheepish grin, praying to any god who might be listening to save him from this mortifying mess. Of course, his cock, with a mind of its own, wasn’t doing him any favors.

“So, uh...” He cleared his throat, the grin stretching wider in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. “You wanna taste my candy cane, babe?”

Idiot. Absolute fucking idiot.