Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 1

The Halligan Bar is crowbar-like, multipurposed tool that is widely considered to be the most versatile hand tool for a multitude of fireground tasks. It is not uncommon for some firefighters to be possessive over their favorite tool, or to show a particular one added affection.

***

By the time the engine carrying Station Fifteen’s crew pulls up outside the dispatched address, Tripp Truett— noting the slight screech of the brakes and scratching a mental note to check the pads later— can already tell that the house is going to be a total loss.

“You can leave your masks off for now, boys.” Captain Gunnar’s calm and even voice filters in over the headset Tripp’s still wearing as he peers out the side window of the cab. As always, their platoon leader is both confident and reassuring, inciting the squad to follow his lead. Tripp’s not worried. His eyes wander across the fireground, dancing over men in bunkers, precariously propped ladders, and trucks with flashing lights. They finally catch and linger on the brilliant yellow and orange tones of the flames erupting violently from the third floor of the little rowhome, unable to keep from noticing the way they lick and light up the dark, midnight sky above.

It’s almost beautiful. Almost.

This is nobody riding Engine Fifteen’s first rodeo, and as such, no one makes the rookie mistake of bolting from the truck before it’s even been directed toward its final parking space. Out of the path from drafting hoses being laid (but still close enough to be useful), their engineer, Theo, throws the e-brake, which sends the truck into a high-idle to drive power to the ladder and pump panel.

As Tripp awaits direction (with his air pack wedged awkwardly between him and the seat and therefore digging obnoxiously into his back), his blood thrums hot in his veins. It’s been many years and hundreds of fires both large and small since Tripp was new to all of this, but the shine has yet to wear off. This is what he loves, what he feels called to be doing, but that doesn’t mean the reality isn’t stressful.

Adjusting the straps of the pack where they press against the bunker jacket covering his chest, Tripp unconsciously double-checks every piece of gear he’s wearing. Almost a nervous habit, the routine to do so is second-nature. His hands move assuredly over his uniform while his eyes watch the fire, his brain and ears remaining alert and tuned in for Gunnar’s orders.

Most of Tripp’s gear is still in standby mode—his air tank is full, his PASS device has fresh batteries, and his self-contained breathing apparatus is hanging from his neck. His hood and gloves are tucked inside the helmet bearing his name and rank on the front, and the helmet itself is cradled protectively in his lap. Those items all stay where they are, for the moment. Since Gunnar instructed them to hold off on packing up fully, Tripp’s happy to oblige. He’s not trying to turn himself into a human oven-mitt any sooner than necessary.

The rest of his checklist includes things that he could (and has) donned in his sleep: heavy, fire-rated turnout pants, coat, and boots, and all of it stacked over his regular duty uniform blues.

Tripp does have a secret, though. No one can see, but in addition to all of his regulation safety gear, he’s also wearing his “happy hamburger” socks. Black, novelty tube socks, with red heels and little cheeseburgers stitched all over them. It’s innocent—just the tiniest act of rebellion squirreled away beneath layers of clothing and fire-resistant Kevlar. Good luck socks are Tripp’s thing , and sure, maybe no one actually knows they’re his thing, but no one can take them away, either.

The engine Tripp’s currently sitting in happens to be one of several trucks requested from his base, Station Fifteen, and since they were dispatched on an upgraded alarm, they’re late to the party. As the third company to roll up to the active fireground, it’s no surprise to see that the fight to beat the fire back is already going full-force. There’s a crew inside the house executing an interior attack, a second engine setting up for exterior shots, plus the Rapid Intervention Team (RIT, for short) is packed up and standing by, hoping to remain unneeded.

Tripp’s limited view from the truck’s window tells him that a Battalion Chief is here, judging by the Sup vehicle abandoned halfway up on the sidewalk. There’s also a handful of cop cars blocking traffic, and at least one ambulance curb-sitting a couple of houses down.

Distantly, over the crackling, snapping noise of the fire and people yelling to each other outside of the truck, Tripp hears Gunnar speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder, communicating with whoever has scene command at the moment. Tripp assumes that would be one of the chiefs and the owner of that shoddily-parked Supervisor SUV—maybe Assistant Chief Walter, but probably Mickey Miller. Their Battalion Chief isn’t exactly one to sit this kind of thing out.

“Alrigh’ fellas,” Gunnar starts, relaying the message through the headsets from his place in the passenger’s seat at the front of the cab. “Chief Miller wants another stream on the northwest windows of the third floor, right where the visible flames are pushing through. There’s a missing kid down on the first level, but Eleven is on it.”

The ‘Eleven’ Gunnar is referring to would be the first-in crew—the company on the initial dispatch, and the one currently rushing through the front door of the rowhome with their hose line charged and at the ready. Even though everyone on Engine Fifteen knew this was coming, there’s a murmur of disappointment-laced acknowledgment that ripples through the truck as Tripp and his crew nod and comply, exiting the vehicle with laden-down thuds as their boots hit the concrete.

The general dissent doesn’t linger. It lasts for only a fleeting moment before evaporating completely as everyone springs into action. Jealousy forgotten, they move efficiently as a team, working to get their truck ready and their hoses connected, charged, and firing as much water as possible onto the burning house.

Tripp’s eyes water when the smoky air hits them, but he blinks the discomfort away.

He gets the grumbling. He’s right there with his co-workers, not that he’d ever outwardly let on. Every part of the job is important, every responding unit (and its crew) is as valuable as the next. There are no small tasks, everyone’s a hero, and blah, blah, freaking blah. It’s just that Tripp—and every other red-blooded, bunker-wearing human on this scene— really wants to be inside of that house.

That’s just a fact. Firefighters do not sit around dreaming and longing for the day when they get to straddle a five-inch in the middle of a soggy street lit only by emergency lights, directing high-pressure water into a broken window high above their heads.

To be completely fair, that’s definitely not the worst task in the world, either. Regardless, everyone wants to be the one on the nozzle. The hero leading the rescue team, the guy—gender neutral— in the absolute fucking thick of it. No one wants to be left hanging on the periphery, standing on the edge of the action and doing the necessary—but not nearly as exciting—firefighter version of busywork.

And yet, that’s exactly where Tripp finds himself today. Orders are orders.

After just a few minutes, though, he ends up passing the hose off to a probie, Aydin, who’s dying for it. Tripp’s antsy, wanting to wander around and see what Mickey’s doing, what his plan is for this whole show. Hey, if he can’t get in on the real action, he can at least be nosy and find out what’s happening inside the burn straight from the source. Nothing more he can do for Fifteen right now, anyway. Well, besides making sure that Aydin sprays straight, and keeping Theo company at the pump controls.

There’s also the fact that in the several minutes Tripp was on the hose, there was absolutely no sign of Engine Eleven’s crew. Not a flash of bunker jacket or a single radio crackle. That’s sort of suspicious—makes Tripp’s skin crawl. At the very least, the crew should be updating command via their radios, but there are no PASS devices alarming, so they must be alright. Vaguely, Tripp considers the friends he has at Eleven and wonders who, exactly, is manning their station tonight.

He rounds the truck and lets Gunnar know that he’s going to take a look around, receiving the “A-OK” on his request without any kind of fuss. On the hunt for Mickey, Tripp has to pick his way around hose lines and the multiple hydrants being hooked up to help douse the flames—they’re everywhere, criss-crossing the pavement like snakes. Other crews are busy soaking the adjacent houses to prevent the fire from jumping, but there’s so damn many people on the scene that Tripp feels almost superfluous.

Maybe Mickey’ll have something I can do, he thinks to himself, stupidly hopeful. Truthfully, smart money would be on Mickey calling him a dumbass and telling him to fuck off out of his hair so that he can concentrate properly, but Tripp’s just bored enough to risk it.

Before he can even walk five feet away from his truck, though, alarms start sounding. A combination of PASS devices activating from inside the house, emergency buttons being pressed, and panicked yelling over the radios themselves pierces the distracted fog of his brain and fills the night air.

“Tripp!” Gunnar hollers out from somewhere behind him, and Tripp whirls around, ready. “Pack up, cupcake. Eleven’s out, we’re taking over the rescue. That kid is still in there.”

In an instant, everything except for the task ahead of him flies out of Tripp’s head. His focus sharpens and narrows as he mentally reviews what will be expected of him, visually assessing the burning house using his limited knowledge of the layout in order to develop a plan of attack. In his peripheral vision, the RIT team—already packed up and ready—is charging through the darkened front door, off to rescue whoever went down from Eleven and to bring their whole team back out safely. The RIT assignment is ninety-five percent standing around doing nothing, and five percent pure adrenaline.

Tripp doesn’t pay them much mind. While he’s definitely worried about Eleven (natural, when he has friends at every station in the city), this type of situation is a part of the job, and it’s precisely what having a dedicated RIT team is for: rescuing the rescuers.

Less than two minutes after Gunnar’s order, Tripp’s standing outside the front door with a nozzle in hand and the rest of his newly-minted search and rescue team lined up on the pipe behind him. By that time, RIT is already extricating, leaving the house carrying two injured firefighters on Reeves. They move past Fifteen’s hose team in a wave of smoke, bringing the victims over to where EMS is running rehab so that they can be assessed.

A quick glance towards the rehab tent tells Tripp that there are only two ambulances on scene right now. He frowns, pausing before entering the house to radio Gunnar and ask for status on a third. Thinking ahead is important, since the kid they’re about to go looking for is more likely than not to need care, if not resus. Words the Chief told him during his probationary period years ago echo in Tripp’s head: Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

“On the way, sugar,” Gunnar’s Louisiana accent crackles next to his ear. “Coming from Central, ETA four to five. Everyone from Eleven is accounted for, you’re cleared to enter the building. Make good choices, brotha.”

Behind his face shield, Tripp can’t help but roll his eyes at the sarcastic note in Gunnar’s voice. He does know that the Captain means well, so he traps the return barbs that bubble up in his throat, instead zeroing in on what he has to do. A hand patting his shoulder says that his team is ready, and with it, Tripp advances forward. Easy, low and tight to the wall, assessing for structural integrity as he steps in through the blackened doorway.

The first floor is dark and thick with the odor of fire and smoke, but it’s relatively clear. From the intel Gunnar received, there must’ve been some miscommunication with Eleven—the kid was never on the first floor to begin with. It’s now up to Tripp and the rest of Fifteen to find him, wherever he might be hiding, somewhere on the second level. With the flames pouring freely from the third floor windows, Tripp doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the implications of someone being stuck any higher in the building—they’ll cross that bridge when they (hopefully don’t) come to it.

As he and his team are climbing the stairs, their breathing loud inside their masks and their arms full of hose line, Gunnar’s voice sounds again over the radio. “Idiot on Eleven tripped and took her buddy down with her. No one’s seriously hurt, ‘less we’re talkin’ ego. Only relaying so you don’t get all up in your head—I know how you are. Evac wasn’t even fire-related. Tripp, mother says the kid’s name is Ben, room is a left off of the stairs and two doors down on the right.”

“Ten-Four, Cap,” Tripp replies after depressing the button on the speaker mic clipped to his epaulette. At the top of the stairs, he follows Gunnar’s directions. The smoke pervading the second floor is much thicker, forcing the firefighters to get down on their knees and stay close to the ground, moving frustratingly slowly as they slog forward on all-fours. Tripp fumbles a little as he works to juggle holding onto the nozzle and feeling along the wall for molding or breaks that indicate doors.

“One,” he calls out to the team members behind him, knowing that they heard Gunnar’s message over their own radios. Normally, they’d be checking every room and clearing as they went, but time is of the essence here, and they’re working with reliable intel that there’s only one person to rescue and that he’s likely in the second room. The house isn’t particularly stable, either—drywall and beams creaking and snapping around them—and Tripp has no desire to be on the rescue-needing-end of a RIT team tonight.

“Two,” he declares, holding out a hand to stop Aydin, who’s right on his heels, from slamming a helmet into his ass.

Making quick work of a heat-check to the door, Tripp decides that it’s unlikely there’s fire behind it and turns the knob to shove it open. Sure as he was, the room is almost directly below where the fire is raging, so he still breathes a sigh of relief when it turns out the flames haven’t spread. Unfortunately, while wet marks are steadily tracking down the walls from where hoses are flooding water into the house from outside, the fire is nowhere near controlled.

“Ben!” Tripp calls out, but there’s no reply. They look to be in the right place, at least, if his bedroom is where Ben is hiding. Definitely decorated to be a young boy’s room—sports posters on the walls that are curling and falling, shriveling in the heat and threatening to catch. A twin bed boasts a Lightning McQueen comforter and matching pillow, and toys and clothes are scattered all over the floor.

A quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything overtly out of place, save for the smoky conditions that are worsening by the minute. From where he’s crouched, Tripp can confidently clear the space underneath the bed—no Ben.

Within seconds, he clocks the closed closet door that’s directly across the room and locks onto it. Tripp follows his instincts, standing and striding over to throw the door wide, feeling conflicting swells of relief and fear at what he sees inside as he drops back down into a crouch. Ben is curled up small and motionless in the farthest corner of the dark space, his skinny arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his head buried firmly in between them.

“Ben,” Tripp repeats, this time more gently as he reaches out to touch Ben’s arm. The closet wouldn’t have done the boy any favors if the flames had spread to this room, but it actually seems to have kept some of the smoke out, or perhaps the clothing hanging above Ben’s head provided some filtration. Tripp isn’t sure, but whatever the reason, Ben is relievedly awake. Lifting his head, the boy blinks owlishly up at him, looking terrified and sleepy. He’s got soot on his face, ash under his nose and around his lips, and while he seems to be compensating well at the moment, Tripp realizes that time is of the essence—much longer spent inside this house and Ben will be in deep trouble.

“Come on, buddy,” he urges, opening his arms and wrapping them around Ben’s little body as he eagerly climbs into them, clinging on tight. This close, Tripp can feel that his breathing is raspy and rattled. He stands and activates the mic with his free hand as soon as they're set. “Coming out with one, awake and alert but needs EMS, Mom can meet us.”

Abandoning the nozzle, Tripp brushes past the rest of Fifteen’s crew to exit down the stairs, knowing that his people will take care of the hose line and whatever interior attack Mickey orders next. Ben is the priority right now, and Tripp’s extremely glad that he didn’t have to warn Gunnar to keep the boy’s mom at bay. It’s nothing he takes pleasure in doing, and only would’ve happened if Ben was found in worse condition. Hurt kids are something no emergency responder wants to see—something that’s almost universally dreaded and generally agreed upon to be nightmare fuel—and devastated parents are their own tragedy.

Not today, Tripp resolves, his gloved hand cupping the back of Ben’s head protectively, the kid’s face buried in the fabric of his bunker jacket.

Stepping out into the LED-lit front yard and emergency-vehicle-strewn street, Tripp blinks against the harsh, bright lights and looks around for the raised hand he knows will be there. Gunnar. Standing to one side of the scene, out by the curb, his Captain is waving wildly, trying to attract Tripp’s attention. His eyes find their target just as Gunnar’s voice comes over the radio.

“To your left, sugar.”

It feels like every eye on location is following them as he and Ben exit stage left, but only for a minute, and then they’re back to focusing on the project everyone was sent here to solve. Rescue. Contain. Extinguish. So far, so good, even considering Eleven’s minor mistake.

Shit happens.

Out of the direct glare of the lights, Tripp’s able to find and focus on the EMT standing next to Gunnar on the sidewalk—a familiar red-headed pixie that he’s extremely happy to see. Marley, EMT-Basic extraordinaire and Tripp’s best friend, grins as he steps up, turning Ben in his arms so she can eyeball an assessment.

Marley’s holding an oxygen tank in a bag slung around her shoulder and has a non-rebreather mask inflated and at the ready. She’s great with kids, and it takes very little coaxing for Ben to allow her to apply the mask. Despite that, he continues clinging to Tripp, even as his mother rushes to his side, grabbing at his torso and kissing his head from the side, sobbing into his hair. Sometimes that happens—kids are quick to bond to their rescuers.

“Thank god, thank god,” Tripp hears the mom crying.

“Let’s move this to the ambulance,” Gunnar murmurs, more for the mother’s benefit than anything else. He takes the distraught woman’s elbow and gently guides her towards the box truck, idling with its lights flashing. She keeps looking over her shoulder to thank Tripp, crying and gushing profusely, but he barely notices.

In another world, this woman would be exactly his type, what with the dark hair and the dark eyes, and the yoga pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe it’d be something to consider if everything in his life wasn’t already in the process of changing.

Marley opens the side door to the ambulance and Tripp climbs in, Ben’s positioning in his arms initially preventing him from seeing the paramedic who is occupying the back. Whoever it is must be setting up their gear, preparing for the worst while Marley went and retrieved their patient.

At the top of the three steps into the box, Tripp turns and nearly comes nose-to-nose with a pair of very familiar blue eyes. They crinkle at their corners at the sight of him, and in response, his stomach turns over, doing its best to tie itself in knots while Tripp does his damndest not to let it show.

“Heya, Lee,” Tripp says. The greeting comes out a little breathless, which he hopes can be attributed to his current situation and not the reality, which is that he’s always a little too happy to see his best friend. Leander just smiles back, motioning for Tripp to hand the boy over, which Gunnar doesn’t seem overly thrilled about, but allows. Gunnar’s big on doing the heavy lifting for the ambulance crews whenever it’s possible, and most of them love him for it, but not Leander. He mostly takes the rule as a personal affront to his biceps.

“Hello, Tripp,” Leander replies, settling Ben onto the stretcher and introducing himself, immediately producing and handing over an inflated nitrile glove with a smiley face drawn in permanent marker on the palm. The endearment works—Ben gleefully accepts the gift, and does so with the untempered spark of someone who was not in life-threatening danger mere moments prior. Kids are heckin’ resilient like that, though it’s something that never fails to floor Tripp, seeing it live and in person.

Behind him, Gunnar is shutting the oxygen tank on Tripp’s back off before moving to tug at his helmet and hood so that Tripp can move a little easier around the ambulance. He bats Gunnar’s hands away, taking off his own mask before reluctantly allowing Gunnar to slip the tank from his shoulders, mostly so he doesn’t accidentally destroy some of Lee's equipment in the process. Finally free from the worst of his protective gear, Tripp shakes his sweaty head and works his jaw before turning to give Gunnar the full attention he’s waiting on.

“Stay with Lee,” Gunnar instructs. “Do whatever he needs you to do—I’m assuming he’s gonna want Marley in the back helping out, so you’ll need to drive. Hit me up by radio if y’all need anything, you hear me?”

Tripp nods, reaching out a hand to fist bump his Captain in acknowledgement before Gunnar escapes back out the side door. He watches through the window as Gunnar returns to the active fire scene, checking in with Command and getting back to work. He takes Tripp’s pack with him, but leaves the rest of his gear.

When Tripp turns around again, Marley has the back door open and is standing there with Ben’s mother, who is still sobbing and bereft. Leander catches Tripp’s gaze and raises an eyebrow, to which Tripp holds up an understanding hand.

“Say no more,” he says, before exiting out the side of the ambulance, closing the door, and making his way towards the back. “I got her and I’ll drive,” he tells Marley, who eyes him gratefully before climbing in with Lee and pulling the doors shut behind her.

Plastering on his most empathetic face, Tripp wraps an arm around the petite woman’s shoulders and moves to guide her towards the cab of the ambulance and the front passenger’s seat. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks kindly, waiting patiently as the woman sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. Tripp realizes belatedly that it’s actually a bathrobe, which is not surprising, considering how the fire clearly caught this family off guard, flaring to life in the dead of night.

“Liza,” she replies choppily, tipping her head to blink up at him with big, watery eyes.

Hoo, boy. Definitely in another time and place, Tripp thinks.

“Thank you,” she tells him, stopping Tripp’s arm as he reaches for the door handle like the gentleman he is. “Honestly, I can never—”

“You’re welcome.” Tripp cuts her off gently but genuinely, removing her hand from his arm—not unkindly—before opening the door, assisting when she struggles to climb up and inside. “It was my pleasure, glad we could be here. We’re all just relieved that everyone is okay. Houses, clothes, even pictures—all that stuff is replaceable, you guys aren’t.” Liza nods as she looks down at him and Tripp offers her a soft smile, reaching out again to squeeze her hand briefly, a small gesture of comfort and reassurance. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“Okay,” Liza echoes, nodding down at her lap as if she’s trying to convince herself. “Okay.”

“Seatbelt,” Tripp reminds her as he closes the door.

Having been trained to drive all of the fire apparatus, maneuvering the box ambulance is a breeze. Although, Tripp does have to keep reminding himself that there are people in the back, that he can’t take turns at sixty miles per hour and on two wheels—not if he wants Lee to make it to the hospital concussion-free.

On the way there, Tripp collects some basic info from Ben’s mom, relaying the important pieces to Lee through the pass-through window cut between the cab and the box. Once at the hospital, he takes it upon himself to register the kid while Lee and Marley are transferring him to a room and giving report to the Emergency Department team assuming care.

When Tripp’s done his part and then some, he meets the two EMS providers back at the ambulance where they’re cleaning and restocking used supplies. Tripp props his booted foot up on the truck’s fender, shivering a little in the chilly night air. He slipped his bunker jacket off before driving to the hospital—it was too warm and too confining for that particular task—but he kind of misses it now, since all he had underneath was a short-sleeved t-shirt.

“I told you to wear your long-sleeved tee,” Leander grumbles, barely looking up from where he’s organizing IV supplies back into the kit. His dark, messy hair is in a worse state than usual, looking as if each strand is determined to go in a different direction, just to piss off Tripp. It makes his stupidly handsome face look even more so than usual, and it’s distracting enough that Tripp fails at coming up with a snappy retort.

“Geez, I knew you two were attached at the hip, but he’s dressing you now, Truett?” Marley teases him as she slides the door to one of the storage cabinets shut, pumping some sanitizer into her palm and rubbing both hands together until they’re dry.

“Fuck you,” Tripp mumbles back, shoving a hand down inside his bunker gear to fish in the pocket of his regular pants and find his phone. Technically, he’s not supposed to have it inside a live burn, but who’s telling? Ducking his head to hide the flush in his cheeks, he drags up Gunnar’s number and shoots off a text message: Pick me the hell up, bitch.

“No, he doesn’t dress me. We were drinkin’ last night and I passed out on his couch.” It’s a half-truth, but it’s not like Tripp’s about to disclose to Marley (or anyone else) what he and Lee were actually doing until two a.m., or what they have planned for tonight. Swallowing hard, Tripp struggles to compose himself after flashing back to that discussion, determinedly ignoring the interested twitch his dick gives, a movement that’s thankfully hidden beneath several layers of very thick material.

When he finally glances up from his phone, Tripp’s not remotely shocked to see Leander staring back at him and smirking openly. While Marley might be oblivious, Leander knows exactly what he’s thinking about. Probably knows what his dick is doing in his pants, too, smug bastard. To make matters worse, Lee is now lounging against the ambulance wall with one foot propped up on the stretcher. He’s oh-so-casual, infuriatingly calm, his crotch and the outline of what he’s packing on easy display in his duty pants, and his piercing gaze challenging when it meets Tripp’s.

Narrowing his eyes, Tripp replies without words as loudly as he possibly can.

“Will you be needing a ride back to the fire scene?” Leander asks, completely cool, totally nonchalant, but Tripp doesn’t miss the way his fingers trail up the inside of his thigh, coming to rest scant inches from his groin.

“No,” he manages to reply, voice slightly strained. “Gunnar, uh—” He checks his phone and bites back a grimace. Gunnar won’t be able to come grab him for at least another thirty minutes, but no way is he going to let Leander in on that. If there’s one thing Tripp is sure of right now, it’s that he can’t be stuck in a confined space with his best friend while they’re both on work duty.

He can’t—the teasing is cute, but if it keeps up, one of them is going to end up dead, fired, or worse. His thoughts slightly addled, Tripp pulls his shit together for long enough to remember the point he was trying to make. “You guys go on and head out, Gunnar’s gonna come grab me.” It’s not a lie, and Tripp’ll die on this hill if that’s what he has to do.

“Alright,” Leander replies easily, dusting off his pants as he stands. The devious smile on his face belies the fact that he knows exactly what Tripp is doing, and is more than happy to let him make his own bed and lie in it.

Very abruptly, Tripp realizes exactly how deep he is in this, that Leander doesn’t think he even needs to be in the same room to torture and distract him. The truly awful thing is, he’s right. Even worse, Tripp is super into it, wouldn’t bail on this whole thing for all the bacon cheeseburgers in the universe and the metabolism to put them away.

As Leander steps down out of the truck, he drops a heavy hand to Tripp’s shoulder, squeezing hard and for long enough to send a pointed message that Tripp and his dick receive loud and clear. Marley follows behind, jumping off the bumper and shooting each of them a concerned look in turn.

“Are you guys alright? There’s something...” She narrows her eyes and waves an index finger back and forth, covering the charged space between them. “Something in the air, here.”

“We’re fine,” Tripp retorts, waving dismissively as Leander wordlessly shrugs. They’re saved from further prodding—and possibly the Spanish Inquisition, because Marley can be like a dog with a bone when she thinks she’s onto something—by tones dropping over the radio clipped to Leander’s hip.

“City Medic Four respond. 800 Park Avenue at Sunny Acres Retirement Home, Room 1501 for an ALS Medical.”

Immediately, Leander’s demeanor shifts, morphing into the consummate professional Tripp knows him to be. To be honest, watching that transformation only makes the situation in Tripp’s pants increasingly dire.

“Marley,” Leander says, all confidence and a take-no-shit attitude. “Please put our unit available and responding to that call. Ask Dispatch to leave Four on standby at the fire scene while they complete overhaul.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Marley affirms with a sloppy salute, holding that same hand up for Tripp to slap high-five as she passes by him before climbing into the truck. “Later, skater.”

“Bye, nerd.”

As Leander closes the back doors to the ambulance, he lingers inside Tripp’s personal space bubble, only for a moment. “Will I still see you later?” he asks softly, his hand hovering just above Tripp’s chest, and God, does Tripp ache to close the space between them. It’s all he can do to remind himself that this is a tease, this is Lee fucking with him, nothing more. It’s not romance, it’s not affection, it’s just…foreplay.

Good foreplay, but still.

They are not a couple. They are not on their way to being a couple, no matter what the already-crossed wires in Tripp’s head might want to believe. It’s a mind-fuck, for sure, but sex and flirting? That Tripp can do. He would never have agreed to this—this thing that Lee suggested, if compartmentalizing wasn’t already his strong suit.

Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that is his personal M.O., after all.

“You know it,” Tripp replies gruffly, hoping that the rough scratch of his voice translates as pure arousal and not the mess of conflicted emotions that being around an openly sexual Lee unwillingly brings out in him. To both Tripp’s great relief and incredible disappointment, Leander gives nothing away, just grins knowingly at Tripp before stepping away and disappearing around the side of the vehicle.

Tripp watches from beneath the neon-lit red and blue lettering that spells “EMERGENCY / TRAUMA” across the overhang as the ambulance pulls away, vanishing around the corner in a blur of flashing lights and wailing sirens.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

***

The final hours of Tripp’s shift drag, and not only because he spends a chunk of it sitting on a freezing cold bench outside Central’s ER with only a t-shirt on and absolutely nothing to do. It winds up taking longer than anticipated for Gunnar and Fifteen’s engine crew to be released from the fire scene and to swing by the ER to pick him up. Long enough that Tripp has to hide around the corner of the building when Lee and Marley’s truck returns to drop off the patient they transported from the nursing home, leaving him to reevaluate his life from the shadows.

Normally in a situation like this, Tripp would just text his younger brother Beau. Kid’s a trauma surgeon here at Central, and—barring any surgeries getting in the way—is usually down to hang out in the cushy doctor’s lounge for however long. His luck must be in the toilet, though, because Beau's not working tonight.

Humiliatingly enough, the waiting and hiding ends up being for nothing after all, since Leander and Marley wound up swinging by the fire scene to return Tripp’s coat, the one he accidentally left in the cab of the ambulance. Back at the station, Gunnar hands it over with a questioning look, ultimately taking pity when the color drains from Tripp’s face and he drops his forehead into a sweaty hand.

“Don’t ask,” he mumbles into his palm.

“Whatever you say, brotha,” Gunnar replies easily, but Tripp catches him smirking as he saunters away across the fire bay. That reaction provokes a spike of anxiety in his gut, a baseless suspicion that Gunnar might know something, even though there’s no possible way that could be true.

When the clock strikes midnight, Tripp’s out of the station like a shot, freshly showered to ditch the residual smoke and sweat clinging to his skin, and dressed in clean clothing that was packed for this express purpose. He’s in his car and halfway across town to Leander’s apartment before the nerves really start to settle in, and the questions (reservations?!) begin running through his mind.

Is this really a good idea? What if Lee isn’t actually into it, what if he’s just humoring Tripp and his grossly-obvious crush? Worse, what if Lee is as into it as he claims, but Tripp turns out to be a big fuckin’ disappointment? What if Leander regrets this thing in the morning?

What if they both do?

It’s tough, because there’s no question in Tripp’s mind—he wants whatever pieces of Lee he can get. They’re best friends and that’s great, he wouldn’t change that for the world. But Tripp’s also an idiot, and he somehow let himself fall for the one guy who doesn’t do romance, the one person on the planet who would never see him that way, even if he did.

It’s too late for Tripp’s feelings, that shit is a done deal. A smarter man, a wiser man would likely point out that getting physical with Lee won’t make them easier to deal with, not by a long shot, but Tripp wants .

He wants to touch Lee, wants to know what it’s like to be touched by him. With this offer, with the knowledge that Lee is open to it—how the hell is Tripp supposed to pass that up? Maybe other people are stronger or smarter than him, but when the dude he’s been pining over for years offers to straight up fuck him ‘til he passes out, all in the name of “stress relief,” well. Tripp simply feels that hollering, “ fuck, yeah, ” in response is actually a really understandable reply.

Maybe it would have been easier for him to say no, or at least to hesitate, if they didn’t have the whole BDSM thing working like padding to ease them into it. Lee has never hidden his life as a Dom—the opposite, really. In fact, he’s so open about it, he’s probably responsible for half of the City Fire a visible, tangible signal to help separate their worlds. As Leander’s deft fingers skate along the sensitive skin of his neck, securing the collar in place, Tripp swallows heavily, but he’s feeling increasingly confident—increasingly ready— with every passing moment.

“Of note—you can remove the collar at any time, to the same effect,” Leander elaborates. “It’s less intimidating than safewording, and sometimes that can be a good thing. Of course, that option is always open to you, as well.”

“Of course,” Tripp murmurs, wholly distracted by the way one of Leander’s hands lingers on his shoulder, the other just underneath his jaw, fingers firmly tilting Tripp’s chin up while he very blatantly admires the way the collar looks against his throat.

“What is your safeword, Tripp?” Leander asks, his sparkling baby blues meeting Tripp’s unflinching stare with hope and fire.

“Halligan,” Tripp says clearly, refusing to feel even the slightest pang of shame about repurposing his favorite work tool for this.

“Good—if terribly cliché,” Leander says, his hand soothing across Tripp’s jaw to trail just below his ear and skate over the line where his hair meets the nape of his neck. “And are you using it right now?”

“Absolutely not,” Tripp replies, flashing a cheeky grin that causes Leander to bite back his own amused smile.

“Don’t be a brat,” Lee warns, stepping away and motioning for Tripp to follow. He walks casually, and it would take a better man than Tripp not to gawk at the way his t-shirt stretches across the taut expanse of his back.

“Would you like to see my playroom? It’s yours now, too. I want you to feel as welcome and at home there as I do. In fact, if you’re open to the idea, it would be acceptable if—after putting your collar on—you would come in here directly, assuming that we have nothing else specific planned. If you are in the mood to scene, you may strip, kneel by the bed, and wait for me. If you’d like to wear your collar but need to ease into play or wish to begin with non-sexual submission, keep your clothes on and kneel next to the couch.”

While he talks, Leander occasionally glances over his shoulder, but mostly, he leaves Tripp to listen and absorb, and for that, he’s grateful. It takes him a few deep breaths and a small internal pep talk, but by the time Leander’s holding the playroom door open, Tripp is fully on board and ready for whatever awaits him on the other side.

He’s also quietly appreciative for the array of options Lee is giving him, the reminder that even stress-relieving submission isn’t always overtly sexual. That’s something they touched on briefly last night, but Tripp was left unsure as to whether Leander was interested in pursuing that side of things. It’s doing a lot for Tripp’s rollercoaster nerves to hear that he is.

As a show of equal trust and respect, on the spur of the moment, Tripp decides to return the favor. Before he can, though, he enters the playroom behind Lee and his attention is immediately stolen away. He gawks, struggling to take everything in—it’s a lot . Even the architecture feels different, somehow, from the rest of the house.

Tripp’s been in Lee’s main bedroom, which—thanks to the apartment’s corner unit status—benefits from windows on two walls, so he knew that this room would have some natural light. Despite that, he was not prepared for the playroom windows to be so dramatic, framed nearly floor-to-ceiling by blackout curtains made of what appears to be velvet, hanging from silver rings mounted near the top of the wall.

They’re not the only silver rings the room boasts, either, that’s for sure.

It’s classy, though. On some level, even knowing Lee as well as he does, Tripp was expecting more, ‘creepy sex dungeon’ vibes, less, ‘upscale downtown bar’. He was prepared for vampire-lair-energy, with dark walls and red-hued lanterns, thick carpet underfoot, the works—but this is not that.

The lights above are on sliders, able to be brightened and dimmed at Lee's will, and—probably for show-and-tell purposes—he shifts them all the way on. Between the bright lighting and the white walls contrasted with dark hardwood floors, the room couldn’t be further from the goth-fantasy Tripp envisioned in his head. In fact, considering the elegant, four-poster king pushed up against the far wall, crowned with a gauzy canopy that reads, ‘ soft romance’ more than it does ‘ Mistress of Pain ’, Tripp honestly can’t decide what he’s supposed to think.

Once the initial shock wears off, he begins to digest the details, and certain things start to coalesce and make sense. Sure, Lee's playroom bed looks like a dream to crash out on, but there are heavy-duty hooks mounted above (and all across the ceiling leading towards it). There is a Saint Andrew’s cross propped against the wall facing the bed, perfectly stained to match the dark color of the wooden floor.

There are multiple side-by-side armoires to their right, all with closed doors and drawers, and a random, two-foot metal cube sitting innocuously on the floor. A couple of leather chairs and an upholstered ottoman are scattered around the space, and there’s a small, leather-covered bench of some sort shoved flush against the wall with the windows. Tripp’s fairly certain that the bench has restraints attached, although their location leaves him equal parts scared and aroused. He’s pretty sure that thing isn’t just for spanking, although he hopes that might be part of it.

“Holy shit,” he manages to say, knowing that he’s gaping and completely unable to rein it in.

Instantly, Lee is at his side, hand on the small of Tripp’s back. The warmth of his presence is reassuring on its own, although Tripp isn’t scared—not really. It’s just a buttload to swallow , and he’s processing.

“If this feels like too much, we needn’t start in here,” Leander offers, but Tripp shakes his head in the negative.

“No way,” he reiterates after another minute, once his eyes have conquered the urge to continue roaming over each and every new item they land on. He blinks, finding himself easily able to focus on Leander’s face instead. Lee looks curious and only has eyes for Tripp, so Tripp offers him the widest, most sincere grin he can muster.

“It’s awesome, Lee. Seriously.” Dropping his gaze for a moment, Leander nods, his shoulders lifting and squaring off as he takes his own deep breath before turning his back on Tripp and moving fluidly across the space.

“In this room, and when you have your collar on, you should address me as ‘Sir’.”

His reminder is gentle but firm, and Tripp instantly craves to obey. “Yes, Sir,” he parrots back swiftly, watching in fascination as Leander stops dead in his tracks with his back still turned, and shivers. Hot damn.

“Good boy,” Lee says quietly, and that’s it—Tripp and his dick are definitely on board with all of this. “Also, just for your information and as we talked about before, I’ve replaced anything in this room used previously by anyone else.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Tripp tells him, and Leander makes a strangled sort of sigh that Tripp can only take as satisfaction, since he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he busies himself with rummaging through the top drawer of one of the armoires, looking for God knows what. Tripp takes advantage of the moment, circling back to his original plan to repay Lee for working so damn hard to make him comfortable.

He strips quickly and dumps his clothing off to the side, kneeling quietly on the hardwood floor. It’s not exactly a natural position for him, but Tripp forces himself to adjust, keeping his eyes down and his hands behind his back, just the way they talked about in last night’s negotiations.

It’s strange—Tripp’s not entirely sure what he expected to be in this moment. Exposed or embarrassed, maybe. Self-conscious and awkward, definitely. But none of those feelings rise. Right now, waiting impatiently for Lee to turn around and notice his offered submission, all Tripp feels is excited. While this is a whole new facet of his relationship with Lee, something completely foreign and as-yet unexplored, Tripp is still perfectly comfortable with the man as his best friend, and he supposes that translates.

Weirdly, the only thing he can seem to focus on specifically at the moment is the vague hope that he’ll have the chance to earn Lee calling him a “good boy” again—preferably soon. His dick agrees, plumping up against his thigh without permission, and Tripp wonders if Leander will mind. The thought that he could end up punished by Lee’s hand is almost as thrilling and enticing as the alternative.

The shuffle of Lee's bare feet against the floor and the sharp intake of breath that follows are the only clues that his offering has been noticed, but they’re more than enough. Tripp may be a newbie in practice, but over the course of their friendship, he’s lost hours talking to Lee about the BDSM community and scening in general. Additionally, he’s spent even longer parked in front of his laptop researching and reading, filling in the blanks Lee didn’t (or couldn’t) regarding what it means to be a submissive.

After all, when a topic truly catches his interest, Tripp can be an excellent student. Devouring each piece of new information, he’ll then file it carefully away for some theoretical future moment that he assumes will never actually come to pass.

As such, today, Tripp is ready. He knows very well what Lee is looking for and what he wants to give. Eyes trained on the floor and head slightly bowed, he works hard to control his breathing, to keep calm and remain still. He can do this—he can be good for Lee, and in return, Lee will give him what he wants (and then some). Tripp believes that wholeheartedly.

The sound of soft footsteps is followed closely by Lee's feet appearing in Tripp’s field of vision, and thankfully, Lee has nice feet. Well-kept toes and soft-looking skin, at least, what’s not hidden by the drooping cuff of his sweatpants. That certainly fits with the image Lee projects to the world: he’s neat and orderly, he takes care of himself in ways that most emergency service providers let fall by the wayside or never consider to begin with. Tripp’s always known that about Lee, but kneeling naked and willing in front of the guy definitely gives him a whole new appreciation for it.

The fingers scratching through his hair are unexpected, and Tripp—for all his surety that he can be still and perfect for as long as necessary—breaks almost instantly. Internally, he curses himself for leaning into the touch, but the quiet growl that comes out of Lee's mouth suggests that he doesn’t mind. As Tripp stares determinedly at the floor, Lee's fingers tighten and Tripp’s head jerks back, his face abruptly tipping up towards the ceiling.

With the bright lights still set to full-blast, Lee is essentially haloed. Framed from behind like the angel he is, come to rescue Tripp, to pull him from his own mind and his own personal hell, in a way only someone with Leander’s particular skillset can. Tripp lets himself be tugged around, subconsciously wetting his lips and watching as the lust on Leander’s face transforms his entire demeanor. It’s hard not to react, because Tripp has waited, he’s wanted for Lee to look at him like that since the first day they met.

Fuck me, he thinks, willing Lee to hear him. Take whatever you want.

Unfortunately, to Tripp’s dismay, Leander releases his hair and steps away. Closing his eyes, he shakes out his head and hands, seemingly trying to center himself. Not that Tripp’s ready to be hog-tied and fucked raw from both ends just yet, but the loss is still somewhat disappointing. The idea that Lee was close to losing control over just seeing him kneeling is intoxicating. It makes Tripp feel powerful, wanted, and he’s not too far above considering acting up just to have Lee's laser-focused attention directed his way again.

In the end, he sits quietly, watching his friend pace and waiting for him to say something.

“I reviewed our lists again today,” Leander says finally, almost conversationally, as he moves towards one of the three huge armoires up against the wall. Tripp watches with interest as he selects the middle one, opening both of the cabinet doors closing off the top half, sliding them back and out of sight so that the interior is fully-exposed. Inside is… a stereo? That’s not exactly what Tripp was expecting, but it is interesting, he’ll give Lee that.

While fiddling with the buttons and what looks like a freaking CD straight out of 2004, Leander continues speaking. “I struggled somewhat, to come up with a satisfying first scene. Something that wouldn’t scare you or be too overwhelming, but would spark both your interest and mine. It’s been longer than I would prefer since I’ve scened, and I fear that my desires may be clouding my judgment. So for first-time purposes only, I thought that I would ask: is spanking with a bare hand—”

Lee turns away from the armoire and holds up his right palm, flicking his wrist in demonstration as if Tripp might not be following. As if his entire fucking world hasn’t narrowed to Lee and his freaking hand, hello?!

“—something you’d be amenable to tonight? Followed by penetration, so long as we both remain interested and consenting.”

Tripp’s mouth is suddenly dry as the Sahara, his brain supplying various images of how Lee's scenario might play out in rapid succession. Caught up in considering the possibilities, he nearly forgets to reply, forgets that Lee is waiting for him to do exactly that, to ensure that he’s on board.

“Yes, Sir,” he rushes to say, eager.

Leander nods with satisfaction. “Very good,” he affirms and Tripp preens, even though it’s hardly directed praise. Much more likely a casual colloquialism that Lee didn’t even consider Tripp might take a certain way—he can still enjoy hearing it.

“Stand up, step over to beside the bed. Spread your feet apart on the floor, chest and arms down on the mattress. You may make yourself comfortable from there, however you like. Don’t worry about whether you’re positioning yourself ‘correctly’.” Here, Lee pauses to do air quotes, and the brief glimpse of the nerdy little dude Tripp is much more familiar with nearly whips him out of the moment and makes him snort. He catches himself just in time, managing to keep his amused smile to himself as he moves over toward the bed.

“Yes, Sir.”

“If need be, I will move you myself,” Leander finishes, and the commanding, assured tone of his voice wipes the smirk right off of Tripp’s face.

Bending over the mattress—which has a raised frame lifting it high enough to make Leander’s request slightly less awkward to carry out—turns out to be more intimidating than kneeling naked on the floor. The bed’s fluffy comforter is folded down, revealing sturdy cotton sheets that slide cool and soft against Tripp’s skin as he sinks forward. The feel of the mattress taking his weight suggests that he was right about this thing being a dream to sleep on—Tripp can’t help but wonder if he’ll get to find out.

It occurs to him that Lee probably keeps this second bed for exactly that reason. Having his submissives play and sleep here automatically creates needed distance between scening and the rest of his life, including his own private space. No risk of romance, no lines accidentally blurred or crossed. Tripp understands (and even subscribes), but the awesome mattress suddenly seems a lot less enticing.

As he spreads his legs and attempts to shift his weight more comfortably from foot to foot, Tripp is all too aware that he’s beyond fully exposed. There’s a large fan circulating the air above their heads, and the slight moving current feels like someone breathing on his hole—not at all unpleasant, but a very clear reminder that there’s no hiding, not like this.

Hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets around him, Tripp tries to wait patiently, and thankfully, Leander doesn’t keep him doing so for long. The sounds of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” fill the room—one of his favorites—and Leander appears by his side. “I thought this might make you more comfortable,” he explains.

Tripp smiles, despite himself.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says, making sure to lift his mouth away from the bedclothes so that Lee can hear him. He gets a firm squeeze to his bicep in acknowledgement and a teasing glimpse of a now-shirtless Leander, which is arguably the real prize. The defined muscles of Lee’s arms and torso are begging for Tripp’s touch, something he’s not sure he’ll even get to have.

Can’t win ‘em all, he tells himself.

When Leander steps up behind him, he hums softly before cupping one of Tripp’s ass cheeks, pausing before pushing his palm up and over the expanse of his back. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Tripp breathes a sigh of relief—over what, he isn’t entirely sure. It feels good to have Leander’s reassurance and praise, though, and Tripp gives himself permission to relax into it. He savors Lee's hands on his hips, on the insides of his thighs. Lee’s foot nudges Tripp’s where it’s planted on the ground, carefully working his body into a better position for his purposes. It’s not exactly sexual, but Tripp’s body responds like it is, taking his cock the rest of the way from interested to rock-hard in-between his legs.

Satisfied with the way he’s displayed, both of Leander’s hands return to Tripp’s ass, kneading his cheeks enthusiastically. “I think we’ll do ten today,” Leander muses out loud. “Five on each cheek, after we get the blood flowing. Three warm-up hits on each side first, how does that sound?”

“Good, Sir,” Tripp replies breathlessly, struggling against the urge to shift and wiggle, wanting more than anything to shove back against Leander’s groin and find out if his friend is as affected by all of this as he is. What if he isn’t? Pushing his face into the sheets, Tripp decides that actually, he doesn’t want to know—not yet, anyway. Lee sounds like he’s enjoying himself, and that’s enough for now.

“Color, Tripp,” Lee demands.

Tripp nods, sucking in a breath and tipping his chin away from the sheets so that his reply is clear. “Green, Sir,” he replies quickly.

“I am green as well,” Leander replies good-naturedly. “Extremely so.” He bends forward to nose at the space between Tripp’s shoulder blades, left hand gripping his hip possessively, and once again, Tripp has to fight hard to stay still, to not shove himself over. He wants to, wants to flip straight onto his back, to grab Lee and yank him down to kiss, to wrap his legs around strong thighs. Wants to do all of those things and a million other stupid, impulsive moves that would undoubtedly ruin this very awesome thing they have going.

It doesn’t help at all when Lee's groin presses flush against the crack of his ass and he discovers that, fuck yes, Lee is hard. Yes.

Tripp groans a little, he can’t help it, and Leander chuckles. “Warm up hits should sting but not hurt. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Tripp breathes, forgetting the formality, but Leander lets his faux-pas go unchecked as he straightens up and lands three light swats, delivered uninterrupted to Tripp’s left cheek. As promised, they leave him stinging and a little breathless but definitely not in pain, and surprisingly, desperately craving more.

“Color?” Leander checks in, and Tripp nods into the sheets.

“Green,” he affirms. “So freaking green.”

Three swats to the right cheek, and Tripp has to actively stop himself from rocking back on his heels. He’s biting his lip to hold back the demand threatening to roll off his tongue for more, more, more. Leander notices, probably sees him trying to chew off his bottom lip, and immediately shoves his own thumb into the warmth of Tripp’s mouth without warning, prying it open.

“Say it,” Lee orders, his still-clothed groin pressed flush against Tripp’s thigh, teasing them both. “Whatever you’re holding back, say it.”

Opening his eyes and from the angle he’s laying, Tripp can just barely see Lee's face peering down at him, his expression a confusing mix of arousal and concern. The inside of Tripp’s head is starting to turn a little hazy, but it’s in a good way, and the last thing in the world he wants Lee to do is stop.

“More,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Please, Lee, more.” To punctuate those words, Tripp rocks on his heels just a little, barely enough to give the man behind him some friction.

“Oh,” Leander says softly, apparently surprised that this is what Tripp was thinking. He straightens up and returns to kneading his cheeks. “With pleasure. Count out loud this time, please.”

The first real strike is more of a shock than it is pain, and Tripp relishes it. The feel of Leander’s hand smacking his skin, the slight burn that settles in after he pulls away—it’s far better than Tripp could’ve imagined.

“One,” he says as he shifts against the sheets, sinking down both mentally and physically. Leander spanks him five times total on each cheek, just as he promised, alternating sides with each hit and sporadically kneading his cheeks in between. The variety and unpredictability of the sensations synergize to stack the pain versus pleasure in a way that keeps Tripp on his toes.

By the time they reach “ Nine!” and “ Ten,” Tripp is deliriously lost, barely able to vocalize the count and with tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. A rogue one spills over and tracks down his face, leaving a wet, cooling path against his fevered skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tripp knows that he’s not being as still as he should be, rocking into Leander’s touch and often pleading for more without having been asked to speak.

Leander doesn’t punish him for that. Instead, he responds to and even encourages it. The skin of Tripp’s ass is on fire when Leander checks his color again, and even though Tripp has said “ Ten,” and knows peripherally that the spanking is over, he’s not ready to be finished.

“Green,” he blurts out before Lee has even finished asking the question. “Fuck me, please , Sir,” he moans, rubbing his cock against the side of the mattress, in desperate search of friction.

“None of that,” Leander scolds, gently pulling Tripp’s hips away from the bed and purposefully letting his thumbs graze over irritated skin, which only makes Tripp moan louder. “You’ve been so good, Tripp,” he continues. “So very good, and good boys are always rewarded. You’ll get what you want, I assure you.”

Tripp sniffles somewhat pitifully as the sound of a lube bottle snapping open can be heard from behind him. Leander’s fingers find his entrance easily, and the cool slide, the relief of penetration has Tripp gasping right out of the gate. Tangling both hands into the sheets, he squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation.

Quiet, methodical, and efficient, Leander opens him up without fanfare or pretense, spreading thick fingers until they move comfortably in and out in a not-quite-enough glide. Tripp’s happy as hell that he’s not in charge right now, that Lee isn’t asking his opinion about this—whether he’s ready or needs more prep. It’s all out of his hands and Tripp’s glad. He lays there, raw, sore, and exposed but still wanting more, willing to take whatever Lee sees fit to give him.

The crinkle of foil is the only thing that catches Tripp’s attention, aside from Leander’s perfect fuckin’ hands. They’d decided previously to use condoms (at least for the time being), and it’s safe to say that Tripp has never regretted a decision more. He wants to feel Lee pressing against his walls, wants the slow drag of skin-on-skin as Lee fills him up, wants to know what it’s like to have Lee dripping out of him when they’re done.

Tripp’s delirious mind tells him to beg for those things, but something stops him, tells him to let it go—this time. The words are gone, anyway, just like every other coherent thought in his mind the second Lee's cock pushes against his rim and pops inside. Leander groans and Tripp can’t help but let a “fuck, yes,” slip from his lips.

“So tight,” Leander murmurs, almost speaking to himself as he slides forward until his thighs are flush and his balls are knocking against Tripp’s own. With some difficulty, Tripp swallows the demands that bubble up in his throat, buckling down and forcing himself to be patient. He’s soon rewarded by Lee's hand carding through his hair, and that’s worth the effort.

“So good for me,” Lee says, his hips beginning to move and circle, dick dragging deliciously against Tripp’s insides with every small stroke. “Go ahead,” he says, “tell me what you want.”

“God—”

“Sir,” Leander cuts him off, voice tinged with amusement, though he doesn’t stop teasing Tripp with those killer fuckin’ hips. “Or Leander, but definitely not God.”

“Sir, please —fuck me hard!” Tripp verbally pivots just as soon as Leander requests it, joke or not, and in response, he feels an approving hand tighten in the locks of his hair. To Tripp’s great relief, the pace and depth of the thrusts both increase, and then Lee is threading an arm under his left thigh, encouraging his knee up onto the mattress.

The resulting angle is so much better, Leander nailing his prostate on nearly every thrust in or drag back out. Waves of pleasure shoot up Tripp’s spine and down to his toes, mixing in perfect tandem with the sharp ache in his abused ass.

While Tripp’s been fucked plenty of times before, it’s never been like this. With abandon, so totally open and vulnerable, completely at someone else’s mercy and because he wants to be. Tripp gets it, he really fuckin’ gets it, and as Leander reaches around to strip his cock—making Tripp seize up and come violently all over the nice, white cotton bedsheets—he hasn’t a single regret, not one. Not even that he’s doing this with a guy he’s so in love with he can’t see straight, blinding orgasm aside.

As he floats back down to earth, Tripp lies blissfully sated and pliant on the bed as Leander yanks at his hair and chases his own orgasm. Thighs pound roughly against his stinging ass, nearly milking a second orgasm out of him via his prostate. Lee finishes soon after, grunting and grabbing at Tripp, ending up with an arm around Tripp’s waist to clutch him tightly against his chest as he yanks them both down onto the bed to recover.

Tentatively, Tripp covers the hand splayed across his belly with his own, just for a minute. It’s almost terrifying, how good it feels to be held by Lee like this after what they just did. So much so that Tripp is regretful when Lee pulls out of him, when he gets up immediately to tie off and toss the condom as he makes his way over to the open armoire. The stereo is playing “Kashmir” now, and Leander turns it off, changing the sound to something soft and instrumental.

Blinking up at the ceiling, Tripp wonders when the lights went down. They definitely have—dim in comparison to the brightness level Leander chose when he first brought them in here. Vaguely, Tripp’s ears register a door opening and closing accompanied by some light clanking, like glass in a fridge. He wonders if he should get up, but then remembers about aftercare and the way Leander emphasized its importance . Tripp wonders what exactly that will entail, and selfishly hopes for more cuddling.

It’s only seconds later that Lee appears back at his side, leaning down to press a kiss to Tripp’s forehead and then cock his head towards the top of the bed.

“Come up here,” he says gently, leaving a grounding hand on Tripp’s shoulder that he feels strangely grateful for. With some difficulty—thanks to sore muscles and a fiery ass—Tripp drags himself more properly onto the mattress, only to collapse again face-down with his head on a pillow and his arms tucked underneath. Once settled, he releases a small sigh of contentment. Leander curls up next to him and soothes a hand down his back, stopping just shy of the reddened skin.

“Drink this before you pass out,” he instructs, and Tripp cracks open an eyelid to see a bottle of orange juice thrust in his face. Somehow, he manages to prop himself up onto his elbows and to suck down half of the drink in one go. It tastes and feels good sliding down his dry throat, enough that he lifts the bottle again, finishing it off without having to be prodded.

“Good, Tripp,” Leander praises. “You are so very good.”

“Alright,” Tripp grumbles before hiding his face in the pillow, as if compliments are the most humiliating thing he’s faced in the last hour (or however long they’ve been in here).

To his relief, Leander just sighs, though Tripp can almost feel him shaking his head. “I’m opting to let that one go, because technically, the scene is over,” he says. His tone isn’t unkind, but it’s still very firm. “But we will be working on your ability to accept praise.”

“Fine,” Tripp mumbles, directly into the pillow, and Leander pinches his ass. “Hey!”

“Don’t be a brat,” he murmurs, uncapping another bottle of something and squeezing a healthy portion of whatever it is into his hand. “This is arnica gel, it will help with any bruising.” Leander’s deft hands swipe the stuff over Tripp’s abused skin, and it feels wonderfully soothing, enough that Tripp feels safe to relax down into the mattress once again. “I also brought ice,” Leander continues, draping a soft cloth across Tripp’s ass and resting what he assumes from the cold is a bag of ice over that. “Probably excessive, but you’ve never been spanked before.”

After that, Leander hesitates, though his hand never leaves Tripp’s skin. “Considering this was a first-time scene for you, I would feel much better if you’d stay the night. I’d like to sleep in here with you—close contact after an intense scene can help to ward off drop, something I’d very much like to avoid either one of us experiencing, especially so early on. But if you’re not comfortable with that, I could be right next door...”

“Lee,” Tripp says patiently, turning his head on the pillow so that he can look up at his friend. Immediately, Tripp registers the pointed cocking of Lee's eyebrow, the touch of his fingers to his own neck. “Sir,” Tripp corrects, slightly sarcastically. “I know we’ve set some boundaries here, and I get it, but you and me have slept in the same bed plenty of times.”

Leander still looks hesitant, his gaze darting over to the closed door of the playroom like he’s thinking about bolting for an escape. Tripp sighs. Usually, he’s the one boasting the shitty communication skills.

“I’d rather have you,” he says, reaching out to drop a hand onto Lee's thigh, and that gets his attention.

The mischievous little grin that Lee is often seen wearing returns as he looks softly down his nose at Tripp. “Alright,” he says simply, picking up a remote that Tripp hadn’t previously noticed from the small table on his side of the bed. With a flick of his index finger, he’s dimming the lights the rest of the way off, so that’s one mystery explained .

When Leander relaxes down next to him and pulls the covers up over their bodies, Tripp doesn’t think twice about accepting the invitation into his open arms.

This is dangerous, the single brain cell still operating in his head warns, but Tripp can’t bring himself to care. Dangerous, but also exactly what he signed up for. Lee, warm and real, keeping him safe in the circle of his arms—however risky, it would take a much stronger man than Tripp to reject an offering like that.

So he stays, and they sleep.