FOXX

“Feel good?” Your voice is just a soft murmur, sickeningly sweet and practically dripping in endearment. “Is that good, Kee?”

The only response you get is a breathy half-groan.

Poor Keegan. Genuinely. He’d come back from what he dubbed a shit mission this past afternoon; nothing too risky. Just a job that the “regular” recruits hit a wall with. A job that he had to go finish, because apparently the general force couldn’t get the fucking thing done.

His next assignment? Tomorrow afternoon. Approximately twelve hours from now, he’d be out again.

The poor guy was fucking exhausted. Hell, he’d called you that morning from the bed of the truck, and…you know why he had to go, you know that it’s his job and all, but…Christ, he’d sounded so tired. Tired and strained and done. Every nerve in your body had been screaming at you to fawn over him the minute he got home; a warm bath, a hot mug of tea (black). Some soup, bowl steaming. Hell, you’d been wringing your hands together at the mere thought of washing his hair. It had become a regular practice at this point; whenever he came back from an assignment, you’d be there to give him a soft landing upon arriving home.

This time around, you didn’t have the time for that. Despite his arguments, you’d probably have a word with whatever shit-for-brains commander had been in charge of putting him on back-to-back assignments.

To focus on the task at hand. Or in hand, rather. Keegan had told you he didn’t want all of the fancy stuff; tea, sure. Soup, sure. The bath and everything? No, he’d just shower.

He wanted a hot mug of tea, a bowl of soup, and then he wanted you to make him feel better in the best way you knew how.

Hence; your current position.

You hadn’t even made it to the bed. Keegan hadn’t even finished his fucking soup. He’d been staring into it like a ghost; gaze vacant, face empty, eyeblack staining his skin charcoal-gray. Hell, the man had just thrown whatever clothes he could find on; just a plain white tee and sweats. For once, he hasn’t been careful with his gear; he’s got it slung haphazardly across the chair beside him. His fucking rifle is sitting on the thing like it’s also eating soup.

He didn’t have to say much. He just kind of shifted and looked you in the eye; sat back, opened his legs a little wider.

Upon swinging a leg over him and sitting in his lap, Keegan had all but deflated.

He’d smelled like soap. Kind of tasted like it, too. Either he had scrubbed off a layer of skin in the shower or he’d just neglected to fully rinse all of the shampoo out of his hair. Either way, you didn’t mind; the fact that he smelled vaguely of vanilla (because for some reason he continued to take your shampoo and not use his own) and he was just slumped back in the chair, weakly holding onto your head as you littered a trail of little marks along his throat…

…oh, sweet boy.

He thought the pet name was stupid. Usually. He’d laugh at you if you called him by it in most situations; the day he’d apparently decided it was safe enough to kiss you goodbye before he boarded the plane to head out on an assignment, you’d called him a sweet boy and Keegan, fully geared up in his vest and helmet with probably five different weapons strapped on around his waist, had just whistled and hummed in response.

Sweet boy, carrying a rifle and a knife and god-fucking-knows-what-else.

Now, though, he doesn’t complain. Either because he’s too tired to or because, right now, even he knows that it’s fitting. Big, beefy soldier, pretty blue eyes rolled back, pretty pink lips parted and pretty little mouth too tired to fight the quiet little noises that would normally remain buried under his tongue. His brow knits, and his nostrils flare, and — oh — his chest rises and his breath hisses in through his nose.

A fat pearl of pre swells up on his tip for a moment before you run your thumb over it and spread it across the blunt round of his cockhead.

It’s not fair to him. Maybe. You’re going so slow and you’re just lazily stroking him but he doesn’t seem to mind. Oh, not at all. His brow knits and his mouth opens a little further; he lets out a short, hoarse breath, chest puffing up before it shudders back down and the muscles along his neck flex.

“Deep breaths, Kee.” You lean forward, kissing the side of his cheek and biting back a grin when his entire body shudders. “Easy.”

“I’m ff…fffuckin’ trying.” Keegan’s voice is rough, strained breathlessly thin. “I’m ff…uhhhckin’ trying, princess, but…”

“Can’t?” You smile, body shuddering. “Aw. Sweet boy.”

Keegan tries to shoot you a glare. He tries. One squeeze of your hand closing over his cockhead has him tensing up again, head tipping back and jaw clenching up as he bites back another groan.

You don’t say anything. You could tease him more (hell, you’d be jumping at the chance any other time), but right now he’s almost pitiful. Sore, exhausted, run-down and on a tight deadline to head back out tomorrow.

The man deserves a break. He doesn’t deserve to be mocked. So you keep your mouth shut (at least, in regards to taunting him) and you tease your thumb over his slit in slow little circles.

Keegan’s body shudders. From somewhere deep in his chest, he groans, brow knitting and eyes squeezing shut. His hips buck up; his cock slides through your grasp, swollen and slick. He’s aching for release, aching for it; it’s like his self-control has been put out to float on a raft and is just drifting towards total euphoric collapse. His head lolls on his neck; he’s in a daze, exhaustion and pleasure mixing like a dreamy cocktail in his system.

“I’ll get a nice bath ready for you after this assignment. Sound good?” You grin as you swish your thumb over his tip and he stiffens, body wound tight and eyes rolling back in his head. He doesn’t give you a verbal response; he just groans, one of his hands pawing uselessly at your waist. His big hands, gloved hands, rough and callous…

The throaty auh Keegan lets out brings your head back into reality, just in time to see his jaw drop and his pretty lips form a pink O as his eyes squint and his lashes flutter. His cock jerks in your hands, and a dribble of thin pre runs down the joints of your fingers. His hips buck up; under that thin layer of cotton, you feel his abdomen flex tight.

Apparently embarrassed at his own sound, Keegan turns his face towards you. Messily, he thrusts his lips at yours; when your body ripples and your hand flexes, he groans, low and tired into your mouth. His skin is hot; he’s flustered, but he’s too tired to do much about it.

“You gonna fall asleep on me after this?” You manage a quiet laugh. “No real rounds?”

Keegan groans. His voice, when it does manage to come out, is throaty and hoarse. There’s a sort of grumble in his voice, a sort of sleepy drawl that has your knees weak. “Shit, if you want…”

You giggle, biting your tongue when you skim the tips of your fingers over the ridge of his head and he tenses, teeth sinking into his lip. “I don’t think you can, Kee. I really don’t.”

“Shut it.” Though his tone is gruff, a tease of your finger over his leaking slit has Keegan’s head lolling back and his eyes, pretty pools of sapphire blue, roll back as his lashes flutter. “I’ll just lay there. You…nngh…you can just get on top an’…”

Keegan’s body shudders. His shoulders lift off the back of the chair; there’s a tremor deep in his belly that you can feel under your hand as he slumps back again, stomach rolling forward and hips rolling up. His abdomen clenches and sucks in so hard you can see the outline of his abs through his shirt, despite the loose fit.

Close.

You’ve learned his bodily cues by now. He tenses, starts to breathe hard — you can hear air rasping in and out of his nose — and, yeah, he paws around until he can grab onto your wrist, fingers wrapping around the spot right under your hand. He’s funny like that; you wouldn’t catch him dead pitying himself, telling you he was nothing but your little play-thing — but god, the quiver in his hand and the tremor in his breath is so, so far away from dominant. It’s so far away from being in control. If anything, he’s feeling your control; he’s feeling your pulse pick up as you shift on his lap, he’s feeling your arm tense as you bite your lip and stroke quicker, faster, twist your hand, and — oh — he’s gripping tight as you swipe your hand at just the right angle, pull it flush against the base of his cock and pump up and —

The strangled cry that comes out of Keegan’s mouth is strained and loosely contained. His jaw snaps shut, his lips seal; his hips buck up, and there’s a soft scuffle as his feet shove against the ground and his socks give him no traction to hold on.

You see the corded muscle of his neck swell at the same time that you feel a ribbon of something hot and sticky squirt up your forearm.

Five times. Five times, Keegan’s hips jerk up; his head turns either way, and his eyes squeeze shut for the first two jolts. They start to open; they flutter, roll back. Close again for the third. The same goes for the fourth. The fifth, though, his eyes open when his hips twitch, and when you try to meet his gaze you look into bottomless blue hues lidded and vague with euphoria.

The blunt edges of his nails dig into your wrist right under a streak of cum. The stuff strings your arm and webs beneath it, threatening to drip onto his thighs. Not that he’d mind, probably. Not now, at least. He’s too weak and tired to really care. Too busy groaning, sound contained deep in his chest, body rippling as pleasure tides over him. Over…and over…and over.

“Feel better?” You prompt the question in a soft voice after a long moment of silence for him to recover. Not that he had any performance issues — just tired, like this, pushed flat-out for too long…he has this worn, beaten look on his face. Barely lifted after everything.

“Yeah.” Despite that, Keegan’s response comes quick; breathless, but quick. His eyes shift over to meet yours, and Christ, if he looked tired before…

“Kee.” The note of pity that leaks into your voice is entirely instinctual. When you lean forward, his breathing staggers; he sort of half-laughs when you run your thumb over his three-fourths lidded eyes, weakly turning away from the contact. “Don’t touch me right now.”

“Kee.” You repeat his name, more seriously this time. “Kee, you look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m not.” Keegan shakes his head; as if to prove his point, he shifts a little in his seat, pulling himself slightly more upright.

“You look like it. You look so tired.” You lean forward, this time; it’s an effort to push his hair back, and one that he leans away from. “Keegan. Let me take care of you.”

In response, he only laughs. It’s a tired laugh, one that rasps in his chest, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. When he replies, his tone isn’t serious. “You’ve got it on your hands.”

★ SIMON “GHOST” RILEY.

✦ — He’s not letting you know of his feelings for a long ass time. He’s doing a lot of self-care, if you get the idea. And absolutely nobody knows about it.

✦ — Like, you could reasonably assume that this is a stressful environment and at some point everyone has to blow off steam, but for some reason the concept of your six-foot-four, dead-eyed stone-faced lieutenant getting himself off is wild. Because you just don’t think about it like that. You don’t consider that under that mask, he’s probably got the same sorts of occasional hormones that the other guys have.

✦ — He’s quiet when he does it. Like, completely silent. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to make noise — occasionally a grunt or groan will slip out, or his breathing will stutter — but he’s not someone who’s whining and moaning like a common whore. He’s just taking care of his own problems, on his own. He’s telling himself it’s just a bodily thing; yes, you’re attractive, and yes, he wants to be close to you, and yes, you’re the reason that he was so quick to disembark once your training group returned to base. He had to take care of himself. Yeah. It’s whatever, though.

✦ — Almost exclusively jerks off in bed. Usually after he’s tried to convince himself not to give in to his brain screaming at him to fuck the shit out of you. Sits against the headboard, head tilted back, eyes closed (most of the time; he’s got the door closed and everyone knows not to try to come in after-hours, but if someone needed him for an emergency the last thing he wants is for them to burst in on his dick in his hands).

✦ — He’s not careful with it. He probably would look a little violent if you were watching him. Head to base, hand twisting, et cetera. Just…I don’t know. Standard jerk-off procedure?

★ KÖNIG. SOMEONE TELL ME HIS SURNAME

✦ — Does this shit at least once a day. Maybe twice. Absolutely bursting at the seams with the need to bust one every few hours. Sorry. He’s not shy, he’s socially awkward. You bitches keep thinking he would be cute and gentlemanly. He’s the kind of guy that has his cumsock sticking to his pants and he doesn’t realize and then he thinks it’s funny. Sorry. Sorry to ruin your I’M NOT SORRY I’M NOT SORRY OHHHH MY GOD RIPS MY HAIR OUT

✦ — Prone to whipping it out whenever he has a private minute to himself. He’s in his office between meetings with sergeants? He’s got his dick out. He’s taking a cold shower after returning from a mission? Jerking it under the running water. He’s laying in bed with you, his newly-nominated partner? Guess where his hands are at?

✦ — I said Ghost was sloppy. This bitch is downright dangerous. He just grabs at himself half the time. Is he a masochist? Maybe. He chokes the fuck out of his family honor and he seems to get off to it. Hard fast stroker. Cockstroking Olympics champion type shit.

✦ — Loud. Unfortunately for him. If the violent fwaps you’re hearing from his office aren’t enough to give away what he’s up to in there, the creaking wood combined with shuddering groans probably are. Sometimes he laughs mid-session and you have to wonder what he’s thinking about that could make him laugh while he’s beating himself off.

✦ — Keeps a wastebin by his bed and the thing is just filled with tissues. That’s all.

★ JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH.

✦ — Regularly gets himself off. Probably does so more often now because you’re really damn attractive and he’s really damn weak for you. It’s kind of pathetic, actually. Something as stupid as him opening the truck door for you and letting you go in first has you smiling and saying “thanks, ‘tavish” and suddenly he has to run to the bathroom to go take care of the problem tenting his pants.

✦ — Like König; will do it anytime he has a minute. Unlike König; does not do it exclusively when he’s alone. If he can be discreet about it, he’ll play it risky. On the jet when everyone’s starting to fall asleep on the ride home, in a public bathroom stall even if there’s a line outside and people in the adjacent ones. He does not care. He’s very confident in his ability to stay quiet.

✦ — He’s…not very quiet. He can stifle his sounds when he gets started but he’s very very very prone to letting little squeaks or whines slip when he nears his climax. Prone to gasping when he finishes.

✦ — Also, god fucking forbid he’s been unable to get himself off for any amount of time. That shit has him pissed off and short-tempered and also when he does climax he fucking yells. Like, shouts.

✦ — If you’re in a relationship, he’s calling you and asking you to talk him through it. Tries to keep himself in control but loses it and turns into the whiniest bitch you’ve ever fucking heard.

✦ — Has jerked violently into a corner before a la that one Tedros scene from The Idol. Sorry.

★ KEEGAN P RUSS.

✦ — A little more laid back. Gets himself off if he needs to, but he’s not as hopped-up on desperation as the guys seen above. Also not as fucking aggressive with it.

✦ — Really only jerks in total privacy. Will wait until it seems like everyone has gone to sleep and then indulge. Doesn’t rush himself, either. He’s settling in for a nice long session of blowing off steam.

✦ — Thinks of you the whole time. Probably imagines it’s your hands and he also probably maybe managed to find something that you lost and maybe he’s got it in his bed somewhere and maybe possibly it smells like you and—

✦ — Edges himself. Sorry. Not sorry. Pays special attention to his head and slit because he prefers the short sparks of pleasure rather than just manhandling his whole dick the entire time. Might choke himself, just a little, if he’s feeling particularly excited.

✦ — Low, quiet groans as he does it. If anything. He’s probably the best at keeping quiet; his breathing gets quicker but it doesn’t always get louder. He does just…sometimes…get a little carried away, and that’s when he’ll groan.