Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 5

Waking up next to Lee never gets old. It’s only been a little over three weeks since Tripp showed up half-drunk and dropping, wholly unsure of what he was doing, dressed in panties and trying to bait Lee into showing him affection by way of an ass beating. In that time, though, Lee has been damn true to his word. Now, after they scene, he reliably stays the night in the playroom bed with an attitude that Tripp might even be coaxed to call “enthusiastic.” Through every one of those nights, Lee either does the holding or lets Tripp hold him, and he tries his best not to be the first one up and at ‘em in the morning, before Tripp can wake up and register that he hasn’t left.

With each passing day, Tripp can feel something loosening inside his chest. The tendrils of that deep-seated fear he can’t help but cling to, the idea that Lee is resentful and simply placating him, begin to release and disappear. Tripp can hardly believe it himself, but all of those insecurities are slowly but surely whittling themselves away, and doing so without him ever actively working through the issues that put them there in the first place.

The way Lee saw straight through his bullshit that morning was a little scary, though. At least he had the decency to explain about the “meeting of the minds” (i.e. dinner with Autumn) later that night, allowing Tripp to shelve his suspicion that his friend was actually psychic. Of course, if Lee was some form of mindreader, Tripp would have a whole other set of issues to deal with, wouldn’t he?

Regardless, Lee is keeping his promises, and better than that—from where Tripp is sitting, anyway—he seems pretty damn happy about the changes himself. There are even times when Tripp has lowkey thought to question his own assumptions about Lee and his (in)ability to develop feelings for other people. Honestly, he’d be a fool not to consider it, with all of the signs that seem to be cropping up left and right.

For starters, there’s the way Lee reaches for him totally unprompted in the middle of the night. There’s the way he seemingly jumped at the chance to stay overnight with Tripp in the playroom bed. And there’s how, when he thinks Tripp isn’t looking, Leander stares, his face morphing into his sappy expression, the one that usually only crops up after sex.

There’s also the fact that—even with their freshly-relaxed boundaries—Lee hasn’t tried to put up any others. He hasn’t distanced himself from Tripp’s friendship, hasn’t suggested that perhaps they should try and keep their relationship to one thing or another, for clarity’s sake. New to this whole thing as he is, Tripp can’t help but think that would be the most logical path, for someone so concerned about bleeding the perilously thin barriers between friendship and sex.

But Lee doesn’t seem concerned, so Tripp isn’t about to waste time worrying either. They continue to have movie nights (sometimes with Tripp’s collar on, sometimes off), visit the bar with Beau and their co-workers, and generally, live their lives the same way they always have, just with some new and improved extras .

Still, Tripp wonders. Distantly, and only from the safe space known as the inside of his own head, but he does. It’s nothing he can bring up at this point, even if he wanted to, but surely, if Lee was developing feelings, he’d share them.

He must know that Tripp would never make the first move, not after everything Lee has told him about Autumn and how her unreciprocated feelings drove them apart and then straight into the ground. It’s those thoughts and reservations that have Tripp questioning his own judgment, pondering whether the things he sees can just as easily be explained by the care and patience of a good Dom and a great friend.

Probably that, he tells himself. That’s probably all it is.

On the other hand, their sex has never been hotter, and their scenes only seem to be getting better. More intense and fulfilling each time they’re together, if still fairly “safe,” as far as BDSM can be, at least in Tripp’s opinion. Getting there, though. Last night, Lee wove a full harness over Tripp’s chest and thighs with rope before suspending him from the ceiling and fucking him in mid-air. It made Tripp feel like he was flying, or maybe tumbling around in outer space like a sexy, intergalactic porn star.

Fuckin’ hot.

In short, Tripp has no complaints, and maybe he shouldn’t let himself get so hung up on wondering what all is going on in that weird little head of Lee's, lest he push the wrong button and mess up the great things they do have going. Whatever it is Lee’s feeling, it’s translating to Tripp spending a crap ton of time on Cloud-Fucking-Nine, so really, he’d be some kind of walnut to do anything that might put that in jeopardy.

The only thing he sort of wishes that he could voice to Lee freely and without consequence isn’t anything related to that complicated emotional bullshit, but everything to do with his own desires. Bringing up anything scene-related to Lee feels like a Big Deal, though, in part because he’s made such a production out of not wanting to be involved with either designing them ahead of time or debriefing them afterwards.

It’s just that the more comfortable he becomes with Lee, the less difficult the concept of discussing things feels, even with concepts he previously would have balked at (heavily). On the other hand, Tripp’s not stupid—he knows that if he’s bringing something up, Lee’s going to take it seriously. If he portrays whatever it is as a need, he’s absolutely getting exactly what he asks for, which in this case is as terrifying as it is enticing.

So for that reason, Tripp has been stewing and chewing on his thoughts much more carefully than he ever has about anything he’s sought out in his entire life.

At the end of the day, he’s not afraid to tell Lee about what he wants because he’s worried the guy won’t be into it or won’t give it to him. On the contrary, Tripp is nervous because he knows, instinctively, that Lee has been holding back on some of the more dangerous, more specific kinks on their lists. Maybe he’s protecting Tripp, taking things slow after what happened at the beginning of their relationship. Or maybe he’s waiting for Tripp to be able to find the balls to ask for what he really wants.

That would be such a Lee thing to do, Tripp’s definitely not ruling it out.

Plus, there’s no rush. It’s not like what they’re currently doing isn’t meeting his needs—it definitely is. Submitting to Leander, handing over control of his body and his pleasure, it’s a high and a relief like no other Tripp’s ever experienced. The way he feels when he comes out on the other side of an intense scene is nearly indescribable: floating and free, unburdened, cared for, light .

So why can’t Tripp stop circling back to the conversation he and Lee had at the beginning of things? The one that happened way in advance of them ever laying a hand on each other, back before there were contracts and kink lists—just him, Lee, some beers, and a movie that was too dull to keep either of their attention.

That night, Tripp had been fidgeting something fierce, and Leander called him on the carpet for exactly what he was: touch-starved, horny, unable to get out of his own head. Frustrated and antsy, Tripp had all too easily spilled his guts on how the stresses of his job felt like they just kept building. Unlike when he was younger, these days, things never seem to mellow. There’s no reprieve, no emergency release valve for the pressure he’s under. Too many victims, people he can’t save, not to mention the friends he sees going under around him for the same reasons he’s struggling to keep his own head up.

Emboldened by Leander’s understanding gaze, Tripp even admitted to having nightmares. Nightmares in which he’s forced to relive different emergency responses that didn’t go well, calls he wishes he would’ve done something different to handle but didn’t in the heat of the moment. Something that—in retrospect—feels like it could have changed the game and resulted in a better outcome.

When Tripp was younger, all those issues still existed, still happened on the job , regrets and all. The difference is, they rolled easily right off of his back. A few whiskey rocks, a quick roll in the hay with a hot stranger he picked up at a bar, and boom— good as new. With a sigh and a drag of his fingers through his hair, Tripp had complained to Lee that those coping mechanisms hadn’t been cutting it, not for quite some time.

…aaand that’s when Leander set down his beer and made Tripp an offer.

At the time, it was so unexpected that it probably took Tripp the better part of half an hour just to wrap his head around the basics, which came down to his best friend suggesting that the two of them have sex. Together. On a regular basis!

That would have been wild enough, and Tripp would have been in like Flynn, no questions asked. Fortunately, his brain caught up with his dick in time to beat his downstairs brain into submission and take over again— temporarily —at least, for long enough to parse out a few of the more specific aspects of Lee’s proposal.

Obvious stuff aside, one such aspect happened to be the way Leander talked about pain, freely and as if there was no innately associated taboo to speak about. It was fascinating and alluring, and Tripp was captivated from the jump, not that he had the guts to say so back then. Now, though—it’s what he comes back to constantly, the thing he’s been fixating on for days.

That’s his secret, so to speak, the dirty-dark thing he’s been working up the courage to ask for his Dom to give him. It’s the need he’s both unabashedly terrified of confessing and desperate to try on for size—the temptation and the possibilities call to him like a siren.

In fact, the deeper he and Lee travel into their shared world of submission and domination, punishment and pleasure, the more Tripp wants. It’s complicated—all of it twisting together, intoxicating and delicious, swirled and blended with love and lust and fear—but Tripp is ready for Lee to take both of them to the next level.

It was clear from the things Leander said and the examples he gave that first night, that Lee doesn’t get off on pain, or even causing it, necessarily. No, even so early on, Tripp understood very clearly that Lee gets off on making his subs feel satisfied. Lee gets off on meeting his sub’s needs. That’s part of what Lee's own needs are, really, which is a whole separate train of thought, albeit one that Tripp finds equally fascinating, mostly because it’s entirely different from how his brain works.

Despite that distinction, Leander still managed to make the idea of inflicting and receiving elevated, intentional pain sound seriously exhilarating. He described a kind of eyes- rolling-back-in-your-head experience that could transform a scene—and a subsequent orgasm—from ‘ awesome’ to ‘ soul-temporarily-left-my-body’ levels.

And Tripp wants that. Sure, maybe he doesn’t have any real clue what he’s asking for beyond some broad concepts courtesy of Google, but it’s not as if this is out of left field. Tripp’s fairly certain Leander knows perfectly well that he enjoys a little pain with his pleasure, he’s just not entirely sure whether, as a Dom, Leander grasps the extent of Tripp’s curiosity, or even his desire to explore his own limits.

Therein lies the problem.

Squirming against last night’s slightly-crusty sheets, Tripp tips his head to the side and contemplates Leander’s peaceful expression. The lines in his forehead and around his eyes smooth out to nothing when he sleeps, taking years off of his handsome face. Right now, Lee’s laying on his left side, right hand tucked below his cheek, pillow completely lost to the nighttime shuffle. Warmed by the sight, Tripp chuckles a little as he imagines the way Lee’s for sure waking up pissy, his left arm almost definitely gone numb thanks to the awkward angle it’s tucked beneath him.

Smile fading, Tripp bites at his thumbnail and tries to summon both the courage and the words to ask Leander to hurt him.

Hurt him? Is that really what he wants? It’s hard to say. It’s not solely the pain—Tripp’s scened enough at this point to know that—it’s the escapism the pain provides. The way it forces Tripp out of his head in a way that nothing else can. Actually, the amplified orgasm is a bonus, really, and he’s experienced the phenomenon enough with lighter types of domination to feel comfortable in saying as much.

If pressed, Tripp would say that it’s that aspect he’s really interested in—the distraction . And yes, on some level, he does feel that he deserves it. Pain, that is. Punishment. There are things in Tripp’s life that he feels guilty about—people he should have been better able to help, victims and patients he let down by not being his best, by not being able to deliver on his promise to protect and save them.

In that same vein, of all the things Tripp is unsure about when it comes to Lee, this is a big one. Part of him thinks Leander will understand those haunting thoughts completely, and part of him worries he’ll be rebuffed outright. That Lee will insist that he’s being unfair and ridiculous by berating himself in that particular way, by carrying these regrets and perceived failings about things he could never control, whether it’s logical to do so or not.

Tripp scoffs at himself. He knows that his issues aren’t logical. If they were, he wouldn’t need to resort to alternative methods to cope, he’d just reason his way back to sanity and emotional peace. Stealing another glance in Leander’s direction, his mouth twitches up reflexively when Leander sighs and snuffles down into the mattress in his sleep. After taking a snapshot with his mind, Tripp blows out a breath and refocuses his gaze on the rotating ceiling fan.

He knows what he has to do—what he wants to do—but first, he and Lee have something much more serious to deal with today. Something that’s going to take all of their combined strength and mental fortitude to endure.

“You look stressed.” Leander’s sleep-rough voice rumbles soft in his ear, and Tripp can’t help but turn into him, to curl into Leander’s body as he stretches briefly and then snuggles back into his side. As they come together, Tripp automatically tucks Lee's face into his neck the way that he knows he likes, curling an arm around his waist just because he can. The hum of approval and brush of lips over his collar is affirmation enough, and Tripp smiles into Leander’s hair, relishes the way their legs tangle automatically together underneath the blanket.

“I’m okay, Sir,” he replies, not having to look to know that Lee is making an epic expression of disbelief. Before he can protest, Tripp amends, “I, uh, wanted to run some stuff by you. Later. After this torture session we have planned in—” He rolls over just far enough to reach his phone and squint at the screen. “—An hour. Ugh,” he groans, tossing the device down onto the bed and twisting himself around Lee, burying his face back into his hair. “Permission to stay here, be tied to the bed, and devastated for hours by my Dom instead, Sir?”

In response, Leander grunts something that might be a laugh into the space beneath Tripp’s jaw before abruptly sitting up and wrapping lithe fingers around Tripp’s throat. His grip lands just over the dangerous side of teasing to flirt with threatening, his thigh hot against Tripp’s hip and the place he vacated at his side far too cool. Lee's blue eyes flash dangerously in the strip of morning light slipping through the generous break in the curtains.

“You will behave today,” he warns, the pads of his fingers pulsing nearly imperceptibly against the sides of Tripp’s neck while his dick very quickly hops on board with wherever this is going.

Unfortunately for Little Tripp, Leander grins wickedly and then takes his hand away. Hopping out of bed in one smooth movement that Tripp tracks with his eyes (fine, he watches his ass), Leander heads for the bathroom before any sort of bratty act can be pulled from Tripp’s arsenal to try and trap him into staying or convince him to follow through.

Grumbling to himself, Tripp reluctantly sits up and shoots off a text message related to their impending doom before lazily rolling free of the mattress and scooping up the clean clothes he brought with him from home yesterday. All told, it’s a salty way to start the day.

That is, until Leander changes his attitude with the most welcome invitation in history. The shower is already running when a messy shock of bedhead appears in the open bathroom doorway and Lee clears his throat.

“Brush your teeth and join me,” he commands, and Tripp’s never spun on his heels so fast. By the time he’s spitting into the sink and washing the remnants down the drain, Lee is well on his way through washing up, body only half-visible through the frosted glass pane of the shower door.

Despite having heard the instructions clearly, Tripp lingers for a moment by the sink, enjoying the show Lee is putting on whether it’s intentional or not. His eyes follow the outline of his Dom’s muscled arms as they raise to scrub the shampoo from his hair, the subtle shift of his hips as he enjoys the hot spray against his shoulders. Lee's head tips back until water streams down his face, a satisfied little hum escaping from parted lips, and Tripp marvels at how naturally sexy he is just going through his daily routine.

There’s no pretense here, and he appreciates seeing Leander stripped so bare in a different sort of way.

When he finally does open the door to the shower, Tripp hesitates, caught up in admiring the way Lee shakes the water from his face and eyes before blinking them open. As usual, his gaze is sharp, intense, and it burns straight through Tripp as steam rises around his tanned and wet body like a dream. If he’s being honest, it’s hard to recognize the man who has been his friend for so many years—in this context, Leander looks unearthly, ethereal, even God-like. It’s a hell of a sight.

“You’re going to regret standing out there and staring at me instead of obeying my order,” Leander says off-handedly, pouring some body wash onto the cloth he’s holding and lathering it up. He nods at a second washcloth, left folded over a little bar built into the shower wall. “Clean yourself up, quickly.”

“Yes, Sir,” Tripp acknowledges, rushing to oblige as little lightning bolts of excitement zap through his fingers and toes at hearing Leander’s tone. It’s full of promise and something more to come, which Tripp really freaking needs before facing this damn day. While he washes, Leander rinses himself, but he doesn’t close his eyes again, and he doesn’t speak, either. He just stares at Tripp, openly appreciating the way the soap suds and water droplets sluice down his body, smirking when he discovers Tripp getting hard, presumably in response to his hungry gaze.

“See something you like, Sir? ” Tripp quips, and Leander’s eyes narrow, giving him less than a second to register his world being turned upside down before he’s slammed against the shower wall face-first, a hand fisted tightly in his hair and the other wrapped around his torso, squeezing the base of his cock.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Leander hisses in his ear and Tripp swallows heavily, forcing himself not to struggle in his Dom’s grasp. Moderately successful, he then fails completely at suppressing a moan when Lee's teeth sink into the meat between his shoulder and neck. The bite isn’t hard enough to break skin, but the threat is there, and Tripp’s really fucking glad Lee is squeezing his cock and keeping him from doing something embarrassing, like coming all over the shower wall. As it is, he can’t help chasing the urge to shove his ass back against Leander’s groin, and damn, he’s really turning into a needy slut for this guy.

No regrets.

“I’m going to give you what you need, Tripp,” Leander continues, grinding his own hard cock against the crease of Tripp’s ass, where it slips and teases in the slickness of residual soap. “But I am not going to reward you for insolence. I think, perhaps, what ‘ need’ includes today is motivation. Motivation to behave, to be good, to not ruin this day for people who are important to you, simply because you can’t stop being a brat. Do you understand?” Leander’s fingers tighten pointedly, the resulting stinging in his scalp nearly making Tripp’s eyes roll back in his head.

“God, yes , Sir,” he replies huskily, and to that, at least, Leander chuckles.

“I know you can be good for me, Tripp,” he says softly, dropping Tripp’s cock in favor of trailing a wet hand over his hip and across his flank, making him shiver against the tile. “Can’t you, beautiful boy?” Lee's lips press insistently against his neck, just above where the bite mark falls and below his collar, and Tripp nods, letting his eyes fall closed as a small whine escapes from his lips.

An intelligible, “Yes, Sir,” is almost more than he can manage.

“Good,” Leander replies, and just like that, his hands are gone, leaving Tripp to nearly flail into the wall as he stumbles to regain his balance. When he turns around again, Leander is smirking. “Switch places with me,” he commands, placing a hand on Tripp’s hip as they dance sideways so that he’s moved under the arc of the spray, sending any remaining body wash swirling away down the drain.

“Kneel.”

Tripp does, without protest or complaint, and even though the water beating down makes it somewhat uncomfortable, he lifts his face to blink up at Leander. With his bitten lips slightly parted, lashes wet, and cock flushed and heavy between his legs, Tripp knows exactly what the fuck he looks like. This move is purposeful and it lands, Leander grabbing him again by the hair and dragging his face forward towards his groin.

“Color, Tripp,” he demands impatiently.

“Green, Sir,” Tripp replies immediately, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Lee's cock is filling it, shoving all the way in and past his hard palate so that Tripp has to consciously relax his jaw and breathe through his nose. They hold like that for a minute, until tears are pricking at the corner of Tripp’s eyes and mixing with the water trickling down his face. A small stream of drool joins the mix right before Leander pulls out completely, patting Tripp’s cheek as he goes and practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Good boy,” Lee tells him, selecting his razor from the small built-in shelf and holding it out for Tripp to take. “We will return to that momentarily. First, you’re going to take care of some maintenance for me.” Expression smug, Leander props his foot up on the same shelf and raises an eyebrow as he looks down at Tripp, motioning with a wide circle to his pelvic area. Water from the shower still streaming freely over his face, it takes Tripp a minute to figure out what he’s being asked to do, but when he does, he’s eager.

“I know you enjoy a clear workspace,” Leander quips with a twinkle in his eye, presumably by way of explanation.

The thing is, Leander is typically good about manscaping, way better than most of the dudes Tripp has been with in the past. Even still, he tends to keep things trimmed and neat, never bare. Not that Tripp has any complaints—it’s Lee's body and however he wants to rock his shit is what he should do—but if he’s offering , then Tripp is definitely all in on this one. In fact, just imagining being allowed to worship at the altar of the end result has his dick pulsing with interest. He glances up at Leander, unsure, because this definitely feels like a reward and not a challenge.

“Do you…have any other instructions for me, Sir?”

Visibly pleased, Leander runs a gentle hand through Tripp’s hair, approving. “Whatever you would like to do,” he says, and even though it’s blanket permission for Tripp to proceed how he likes, Leander’s words somehow still carry a weight and authority that has him anxious to get this right, whatever right means.

“Just don’t cut me, or there will be serious repercussions.”

Tripp nods, and refocuses on his canvas. Licking his lips and tasting water, he decides to use some of the body wash to soften and smooth the way, lathering Lee up and ignoring the way his cock fills out further under his touch. He checks the razor and finds it to be a brand-new, five-bladed, expensive thing that makes Tripp feel a lot better about using it on someone’s sensitive parts.

Carefully, he drags the razor against the grain, over the short hairs above Lee's cock, glancing up partway through for approval and finding only amusement peering back at him.

Since Lee is trimmed already, it’s not exactly a tough job, though Tripp finds himself holding his own breath while he works on shaving Lee's balls. It’s not the potential punishment he fears as much as knowing from experience what a nick down there feels like. He stretches the skin carefully, holding it taut against the razor and managing to guide them both through the process in one piece.

When he’s finished and Lee is both smooth and nick-free, Tripp makes a pleased noise and tries to flip the razor in his hand, though with the water in his face, he winds up dropping it with a clatter onto the shower floor. He’s more careless than he should be when reaching down to pick it up, the stream flowing into his eyes and obscuring his sight as he closes fingers around the razor’s head instead of the handle. The result is a thin cut to his index finger and a yelping, “Ouch!” spilling from his own mouth.

Lee is there immediately, crouching down to take the razor before reaching for the injured finger Tripp’s instinctively popped into his mouth. Raising his eyes to meet Lee's, Tripp notes the way the man’s pupils dilate to see him do so, but only upon pulling his finger out through his lips does it register that there may be more to this than just Tripp making a suggestive gesture that reminds him of cock-sucking.

“I think you’ll live,” Leander tells him, but he barely glances at the injured finger, pressing down over the cut with his thumb and watching Tripp’s reaction with interest. It does sting, but Tripp doesn’t hate it, and he’s pretty sure the way he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth tells Leander as much.

“Interesting,” Leander murmurs before standing again and putting the razor away. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to explore this particular pursuit at the moment, but we will talk later. Right now, we need to give you your motivation so that we can get to our scheduled appointment on time. In fact—”

Pushing open the shower door, Leander wipes his hand on one of the towels hanging from the rack before reaching over to press the home screen on his phone, which is sitting on the counter next to the sink. “You have exactly three minutes to get me off using only your mouth. You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to come. If you can get me to finish in time, I won’t put you in chastity today. If you don’t…”

Leander trails off and flashes him a wicked smile, the fucker. No one is getting off in three fucking minutes. What are they, seventeen and new? Tripp sighs and dutifully edges forward, still being soaked by the shower as he does, opening his mouth wide for Leander to slide into. His knees are really getting sore, and that shit is punishment enough, if anyone cared to ask his opinion. Doesn’t matter—if there’s one thing Tripp’s learned the hard way, it’s that arguing with Leander will get him nowhere except frustrated and horny.

It’s not as if he has anything to complain about, though—Lee's freshly shaved skin is deliciously smooth and soft against his nose, his cheek, his lips. It’s pretty fuckin’ heavenly, and Tripp does his best to show his appreciation with enthusiasm, dipping into a top-tier assortment of the best tricks and techniques he knows.

Unfortunately, despite pulling out all the stops—deepthroating and swallowing around nearly Lee's entire length, licking around the shaft like a lollipop, sucking as if his life depends on it—he doesn’t succeed in dragging Lee over the finish line before time gets called. While Tripp expected this outcome—and is highly suspicious Lee did, too—he’s still disappointed.

Notably, Leander himself doesn’t seem remotely upset.

Of course he isn’t, Tripp thinks as he raises a water-and-tear-streaked face to watch Lee finish jerking himself off with one hand, closing his eyes as cum lands hot on his nose and cheeks. He’s off, he’s way off. I’m the one getting my dick shoved in prison.

Grumpy about it, Tripp pouts as he dries off, using the towel to obscure his expression from Lee's scrutiny, but he’s sure he knows. Leander finishes before him, sweeping off into the playroom to rummage in the middle drawer of one of the armoires. Tripp follows reluctantly, standing quietly with his head down and his hands behind his back.

“Tripp,” Leander says softly, appearing at his side somewhat suddenly. “I want you to know that you can say no to this request. I’m aware that you’re going to take your collar off before we leave regardless, and that we will be in friendship-mode as far as the world is concerned. If you want to maintain those boundaries, you may. I’ve no right to insist you disregard them. However…I believe we’ve come a long way.”

Tripp lifts his head to find Leander standing ridiculously close and looking up at him fondly. “I think that we can handle this, and if I’m being honest, on a purely selfish level, I’d love to see you do it.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Tripp bounces his eyebrows and spreads his arms. “Then lay it on me,” he replies. “Sir.”

The grin that splits Leander’s face is heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, and it’s so unfair—Tripp would do anything to be the reason for that smile. A little chastity? This is nothing. A freaking walk in the park. Tripp is in.

***

Tripp has made the greatest mistake of his life. Why the fuck he ever thought Lee would make this easy— maybe because of the newness, or the fact that they were sceneing in public for the first time—the absolute delusion in which that assumption was rooted is truly beyond his current comprehension.

How it never occurred to Tripp that Lee would absolutely seize every opportunity to press his buttons, to rile him up, and to generally put that cock cage to the test, he has no idea. He’s pretty sure he’s not an idiot, much as his decision making and thought processes today might indicate otherwise, and yet, here he fuckin’ is.

At first, things seemed to be going pretty smoothly.

Tripp’s anticipation about wearing the cage took care of any lingering arousal that might have prevented securing it in place, so at least he had that going for him. As the two of them left the apartment—his collar tucked safely away in its box but his mind still very much in sub-mode—the cool, circular metal actually felt alright.

Good, even, to Tripp’s surprise and intrigue. Not to mention, it felt pretty exhilarating to be under Lee’s control in public, even if (for starters) public only meant the elevator in Lee's building and the uninspiring front seat of Tripp’s car.

During the drive to their destination, Lee didn’t mess with him. He just sat back and let Tripp adjust, focus on driving, and cope with not leaving his role at the door to the apartment. He looked pretty pleased with himself, though, glancing between Tripp and his window, relaxed back into his seat with his favorite ratty trench coat on and his legs spread, exuding all the confidence of a man who has the entire world in the palm of his hand and damn well knows it.

He’s got one thing in the palm of his hand, that’s for sure, Tripp thinks, only slightly rueful.

Pulling into a parking space outside of the building where their appointment is, Tripp throws the car into park before turning toward Leander. “You know I’m gonna have to call you Lee, right? Sir,” he tacks on belatedly, since they are still in a private space and Tripp is not about to go into this thing with Lee's handprint waving hello from the side of his face.

“Of course, Tripp,” Leander replies easily. Too easily, which is suspicious—or maybe it’s not, Tripp’s not exactly swimming in familiar territory. “Consider it like…roleplay.”

Barely stuffing down the ‘ are you fucking kidding me, I’m roleplaying being myself?!’ that practically begs to be blurted out, Tripp shakes his head in disbelief and holds up a finger, the one with the cut on it. “Can we, uh—yellow,” he says weakly, and the change in Lee is instant.

The cocky smirk drops immediately from his face and he turns fully in his seat to face Tripp, practically kneeling to do so. Reaching out to take Tripp’s closest hand between both of his own, Leander doesn’t so much as blink when Tripp tugs it away with a frantic glance around the parking lot.

“Go ahead,” Lee reassures him, blowing straight past his paranoia. “Speak freely, you’re just Tripp right now.”

Tripp can feel a flush creeping into his cheeks but has no idea why or what’s causing it, so he covers. Dragging a hand over his mouth, he ducks his head under the pretense of adjusting his ass in the seat. Small miracles, Lee doesn’t say shit about it.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. So, here’s the thing. I wanna do this, Lee. A lot, if you really want to know.” He pauses to wait for Lee's acknowledgment and gets it in the form of a subtle nod and patient smile. “I’m just—um.” Anxious, he shakes his hands out and raises both eyebrows at Leander, searching for words and failing to find them. “ Beau, ” he finally hisses, like Beau is sleeping in the backseat and might overhear.

“Well,” Leander replies with a shrug, his own gaze drawn briefly to the view from the window before snapping back to Tripp. “All I can do is ask for you to trust me. I would never intentionally out you and our relationship to Beau, nor would I embarrass you in public, since humiliation isn’t on your kink list.” Lee says the last part so blandly, Tripp isn’t entirely sure whether it’s a joke or not, and then equally can’t decide whether the sentiment is concerning or not.

“About Beau,” he starts, but Leander keeps going.

“Beau knows that you and I are having sex, but not the particulars. He also thinks we’re both in denial about harboring feelings for each other,” Leander says flatly, like it’s the world’s smallest deal and not Tripp’s heart being ripped out of his chest and trampled on, right there in his own fucking car. He imagines his face reflects the same, which Leander must notice, as his carefully blank expression twists with sympathy. “Apologies. I thought it best to just cut to the chase. You know Beau and I talk regularly—”

“Well, yeah,” Tripp replies, gesturing out the window to the place they’re parked and waiting to enter. “Duh.”

Leander shoots him a warning look and Tripp shrugs. “ Beau, ” he continues, with carefully-measured cadence, “has never held back on his thoughts about you when speaking to me.”

Well that is new information, something Tripp really would have rather known and had time to come to grips with more than sixty or so-odd seconds before—

A rap on the window startles them both. Tripp cranes his neck to glare at his brother’s stupid-ass, Frankenstein-looking face peering in at them with a way too knowing grin slapped across it. Considering the information he’s just learned, that irritates the hell out of Tripp, and he’s not above showing it.

“Fine,” he grunts, in the same heartbeat shoving the door open and straight into Beau's side, intentionally rough.

“ Oof,” Beau huffs, stumbling away.

“We can do it your way,” he mutters to Lee, “don’t make me regret it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Leander replies, so low and so quiet that Tripp almost misses it, and then abruptly, as he’s stepping out of the car, wishes he had.

It’s late November, and the weather isn’t above reminding them of that. The warm spell that followed the city’s transformation from summer to fall all the way through October has officially worn all the way off, and in Tripp’s opinion, “cold as fuck,” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Not that he’s some delicate flower who withers and ceases to be able to function when the temperature drops below sixty degrees, but the bite in the air and the way his nose begs to be tucked into the collar of his jacket— or Lee’s— has even Tripp wishing for spring.

A respectful ten or so feet away from his car, the remainder of Beau's gaggle of groomsmen lurks, and Tripp hates this whole thing already. As he waves politely, doing his best to ignore the stinging cold whipping across his cheeks and causing his eyes to water (cue the flashbacks to this morning’s shower, and nope— the warning pinch in his groin is enough to bring that train to a screeching, grinding halt), he takes inventory of the faces.

There’s Bri's brother, a nice enough kid named—of all things—fucking Sandalphon, though Bri and everyone else call the poor sucker Sandy, for obvious reasons. As the kid waves back, Tripp makes a mental note to send Leander over to commiserate with him over faux-religious parents who hate their children enough to name them after obscure angel- lore. True, Lee is only burdened with ‘ Grigori’ as a weird surname, but it’s still relatable childhood trauma. Tripp can’t help but look at that and feel like his own parent loss and early promotion to adulthood both pale in comparison.

Beside Sandy—and standing close enough together that Tripp wonders if he’s not the only one who got the deviant gene in the family—are his douchey cousin Christian and Beau's equally douchey college and med school buddy, Brett. Tripp can’t think of another person in the entire known universe that he enjoys being around less than them, except for maybe the current City EMS Chief, Zavier. That dude is a Class-A prick, and he’s always fucking with Lee. Tripp lowkey considers setting fire to his car at least once a week.

Play nice, he reminds himself.

Holding out a hand to each of them in turn, Brett shakes it reluctantly before wiping his fingers on his coat, and Christian slaps his palm so hard it turns red. Asshole, he thinks, as Christian smirks, clearly hoping that Tripp will give him an opening to question his manhood or something equally ridiculous. Excuse him, but Tripp isn’t the one with his hand in the coat pocket of his “platonic work buddy”.

Well, he thinks, stealing a glance over at Lee. Not currently, anyway.

”What’s up,” he says flatly. Internally, he’s cursing Beau for liking these guys enough to even invite them to the wedding, never mind crowning them people Tripp will have to be in close quarters with for extended periods of time until this whole thing is over. Brett is one thing—Tripp gets it, Brett and Beau lived together all through pre-med and college is a weird time, whatever . The guy’s a jerk, but it’s mostly because he’s pretentious and thinks he’s better than lowly, non-doctorate-holding losers like Tripp.

Christian, on the other hand, Tripp doesn’t get at all. Not as a person, and definitely not what Beau sees in him. Despite technically being cousins on his mother’s side, Tripp adamantly denies any family resemblance. Christian, in his opinion, is an irredeemable asshole.

Growing up, Tripp and Beau were too busy being dragged around the country by their grief-stricken and usually intoxicated father in the years before his death to have many typical childhood experiences. After their mother was killed by a drunk driver in a hit and run, Teddy Truett became a man obsessed. Convinced that he was on a holy mission of righteous vengeance, following breadcrumb trails in a supposed attempt to track down whoever murdered her.

Every move was, “one step closer to the truth,” a proclaimed fresh lead that would buoy them to a new town, full of bars that old Teddy wasn’t banned from entering and pool tables full of unsuspecting assholes he could hustle for his next drink. The motels were always the same. Stale, musty, too hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Tripp never had his own room.

It took Tripp years to figure out that his dad wasn’t looking for anyone at all, not unless that person was hiding at the bottom of a fifth of whiskey. Half the time, Teddy seemed to forget that he and Beau even existed. Tripp was left to figure it out on his own, stealing boxed mac and cheese and dry cereal to feed his little brother, because their dad was just gone, but fuck his twelve-year-old self, right?

All that said, when it came to attending extended family functions, making a cross-country trip for Cousin #4’s birthday just wasn’t on the “how to survive to next Tuesday” to-do list .

For some reason or another, Christian seems to have branded that Tripp’s fault. Sure, maybe Tripp could’ve made more of an effort after his father finally kicked it (liver cirrhosis, anticlimactic as hell), but he was still a kid . Sixteen years old and dumped on Mickey’s doorstep, a guy who, at that point, he and Beau had only seen once a year max for the past decade. He was a brand-new orphan and living with virtual strangers! It wasn’t like Christian was Tripp’s top fuckin’ priority.

The worst thing is, Christian knows what they’ve been through and still sneers about their childhood. Condescends to Tripp, as if that mess is something he had any control over whatsoever. He exalts Beau for “rising above it,” and regularly reminds Tripp that—in his mother’s family’s opinion—he’s still gutter trash, just like his dad.

The mere reminder has Tripp clenching his hand down by his side, willing it to not find its own way into the sharply-sloped cartilage of Christian’s nose.

Fucking Beau just had to go and match for his residency at the same hospital where their estranged cousin was an attending. And of course, Beau being Beau (and a much better man than Tripp), he then had to go and mend fences with the guy. Not solely to maintain a working relationship, either, but to try and patchwork-together the larger family the two of them never got to have.

For that reason alone, Tripp can’t even be openly resentful about it. In his opinion, Mickey’s the guy who stepped up to the plate when the situation called for it. Mickey’s the person who took them in, who taught him what a parent should be, who put a roof over their heads and helped Beau apply to college. He was the first man to tell Tripp that his father’s shit wasn’t his to drag around, the reason he got his GED and enrolled at the fire academy in the first place. Mickey and his family are all the kith and kin Tripp cares to need, thanks .

But if Beau wants to form relationships with his blood, Tripp would be the ultimate dick to ice him out for doing so. Especially when it is maybe a little bit his fault that they don’t know each other in the first place. Just a little. Look, no one can accuse Tripp of not doing his best where Beau’s concerned. It’s just that distancing himself from Theodore Truett’s stain and gaining redemptive approval from his mother’s side of the family wasn’t ever something he cared to do.

“Hey there, Tripp,” Christian says, his eyes sweeping over Tripp’s cheap jacket, his old jeans, and his scuffed boots with a raised brow. “I see you came with your little guardian angel. Surprise, surprise. You winged-creatures like to stick together, don’t you?”

Oh good, a fairy joke. Tripp was really hoping this event would kick off with some old-fashioned homophobia and a fistfight. He grits his teeth and catches sight of Leander squinting and sizing Christian up with a thoughtful tilt of his head. Well, best-laid plans—Tripp gives Christian thirty more seconds ‘til Lee lays him out on principle. Never, ever underestimate the hot, nerdy dude in a flasher coat, that’s what Tripp always says.

Luckily for Christian’s face, Beau pops up in-between them, timely and slinging an arm around each of Christian and Tripp’s necks before sweeping them towards the front doors of the building. “Alright, alright, you guys are here for me, not each other, try and remember that. It’s my day and I want you both up there by my side, got it? We’re family. So no fighting,” he emphasizes with a chuckle that makes Tripp want to reach down into his throat and rip out.

Ugh. He hates how his brother acts around these two, but he’s right about one thing—it’s Beau’s day. With that in mind, Tripp rolls his eyes and settles for quietly wishing that his brother would go back to being his normal, dorky self, not this wanna-be mess he’s putting on to impress.

“Fine, Bozo,” he mutters, using the childish version of Beau's name on purpose, knowing he hates it.

“Burnout,” Beau replies, giving Tripp the finger.

“Clown.”

Leander opens the door for the group and everyone walks through, though he grabs Tripp’s arm and holds him back for a moment until the rest of them pass. Beau glances their way but ultimately doesn’t say anything as he disappears into the relative darkness of the shop, and Tripp’s grateful. The reassuring squeeze Leander applies to his hip goes a long way towards cooling his fiery edges, and he sighs, yanking a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I hate those two,” he tells Lee.

“I know,” Leander replies, standing close enough for their toes to touch. “You’re doing just fine.” The wind ruffles his dark, gel-spiked hair, and the concerned, caring look he pegs Tripp with as he looks up into his eyes has Tripp working really hard to keep from kissing him. “Whatever you do, don’t hit him.” Tripp scowls, but doesn’t promise anything. “If it’s needed, I’ll do it. Beau will be more inclined to forgive me.”

Lee's unexpected remark has Tripp laughing, even as Lee pats his arm and moves past him into the store with a crafty smile on his face. In his pants, the cock cage bumps against Tripp’s thigh, reminding him of his future reward if he can make his Dom proud.

Alright, maybe he can get through this after all.

Tripp inhales a deep breath of the crisp air before following his brother and his… Lee inside, wrinkling his nose against the too-clean scent of new clothing and fancy shoes.

Tuxedo shopping.

One step up (barely) from the kind of clothes shopping Marley drags him along for every couple of months—i.e., Tripp plays the part of the gay bff, sitting in uncomfortable chairs while Marley blasts one-hit-wonders from her phone and pretends she’s in a makeover montage from the eighties. At least here there’s champagne, and Tripp manages to down four flutes before Lee gently takes away the fifth and pinches his flank in silent warning.

Tripp’s tipsy brain digs it.

Somewhere between having his inseam measured by a way-too-handsy attendant and actually getting into the fitting rooms to try things on, Tripp somehow stops hating this whole thing. Sure, Brett and Christian are up to their normal douchebaggery, but Beau seems really happy, glowing even, and damn, does Lee look mouth-wateringly delicious in formalwear.

So delicious, that Tripp doesn’t even bother to make a token attempt to control his face when Lee emerges from a fitting room to strut in front of the group. When he comes out, Christian and Brett are still changing, and Tripp is sitting with his legs spread between Beau and Sandy in the line of chairs facing the mirrors. The three of them are just waiting their turn, shooting the shit about the various shades of red and where each of them appears in major league sports logos.

Which is probably a blessing, since there’s no way the asshole twins would ever let Tripp or Lee hear the end of it, had they been there to witness the way Tripp’s jaw dropped like a cartoon character at the sight of his friend all glammed up.

To be fair, Lee looks like he just strode off the cover of GQ, a transformation worthy of Jack Dawson in Titanic —broke- ass scrub to regular first-class swell, with nothing but some starched fabric and a nifty-looking bowtie. Damn, but he wears it well.

Lee knows it too, judging by the way his eyes find Tripp’s immediately, all-knowing and crinkly at the corners as he winks and steps up onto one of the little podiums before turning to face the mirror. His eyes find Tripp’s there, too, and he turns this way and that, admiring his own form as the attendant moves to adjust his cummerbund and then crouches down to do some pinning.

The cut of the tux does everything to accentuate Lee's trim waist and broad shoulders, the muscles in his arms, and the swell of his ass and thighs, and Tripp knows he’s basically drooling, can’t find it in himself to care. He knows one thing, though. Lee is a bastard of a tease when he wants to be .

Before Beau can let go of the comment that’s clearly dancing on the tip of his tongue—or Tripp’s dick turns this outing into the most awkward family moment in history—he snatches up his tux and hightails it for the room Lee vacated, pulling the curtain shut with more emphasis than is strictly necessary. As he dresses, Tripp simultaneously wills his dick down and lets his mind wander, even though he knows that’s a terrible, terrible idea.

It’s not that he’s afraid of being called out for ogling—let these fuckers know he’s doing Lee, Tripp’s not the least bit ashamed of the facts. The man is hot, and anyone who’s got a problem with the idea of two dudes hooking up isn’t someone whose opinion Tripp gives a rat’s ass about. No, if anything, so long as Lee doesn’t care about people knowing, Tripp’s pretty damn proud to be able to say that he’s hitting that.

No, the problem is—once again— Tripp and his inconvenient, unwanted feelings popping up and rearing their ugly heads at the worst time.

Yes, seeing Lee in a tux makes him want to get down on his knees ( plural) right there in the middle of the shop, audience and all, but it also hurts like it has no goddamn right to do, and he’s an idiot for even entertaining that. Tripp wishes more than anything that he could simply be happy with what the two of them have, that these fleeting thoughts about what if and if only would leave him the hell alone and stop waltzing through his brain, but he’s not in control of when they come and go.

The fact is, seeing Lee in a wedding tux reminds Tripp that this is the only way he’ll ever see the man looking like that. That no matter how happy he is with their current relationship status, that reality still blows. It’s worsened by the fact that Tripp never even considered himself a “picket fence and two-point-five terriers” type of guy before, never imagined wanting to give up his wild and free single life to commit to one chick or one dude.

With Lee, though? Fuck, Tripp can’t even pretend. He’d sign on that dotted line tomorrow if Lee was an option, if Lee wanted it too.

But he’s not and he doesn’t, and Tripp needs to knock off the sappy, self-pitying BS and get with the program before somebody catches on. He sighs as he pulls his crisp dress pants into place, tucking the overly-stiff button-down he’s already wearing into the band as he settles it around his hips. If there’s one upside to all of this angst, it’s that the risk of his dick going wayward and making things painful for everyone has effectively dropped to zero. Any arousal he might have felt over seeing Lee all dolled up has been quenched, like a bucket of ice water thrown onto a campfire, courtesy of Tripp’s errant emotions.

As he twists to check his angles in the small mirror, trying in vain to secure the snappy cummerbund, there’s a knock on the wall just outside the curtain and Lee's voice following close behind.

“Everything alright in there? May I help with your band?” Rolling his eyes, Tripp almost sends Lee away, but then he figures, what the hell? He’s already in this deep, might as well try on some of that masochism for size, let the guy torture him in private.

“Yeah,” he calls back, voice slightly unsteady, enough that he hopes Beau's jerk friends aren’t listening. The second he receives permission, Lee slips inside and pulls the curtain behind him, which thankfully, extends all the way to the floor. Tripp has to hand it to him—he doesn’t fuck around or carry on with some fake pretense for why he’s here. Nope , he just slams Tripp up against the wall so hard the mirror shakes, plastering himself flush to his back.

Instantly, whatever Tripp was thinking before? That bunch of bull about his arousal being doused? Yeah, scratch that , he’s in big fuckin’ trouble. His breath puffing cloudy condensation onto his own reflection, Tripp gives a token struggle, but that just prompts Leander to grab his wrist, twist it behind his back, and hold on tighter.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, as the obvious bulge of Lee's erection makes itself known in the crack of his ass. “This is cheating,” he complains, the cage swiftly growing tight and painful around his own cock.

“Is it?”

“Ungh,” Tripp moans, using his free hand to press down on his crotch. His mind flips desperately through every disgusting, dick-deflating image he can summon while an undeterred Lee nips gently at the shell of his ear.

“You look incredible,” Leander growls, apparently uncaring about Tripp’s discomfort, or perhaps enjoying it, probably the latter.

“I know, ” Tripp replies defensively, shifting uncomfortably against the wall as Leander grinds into him enthusiastically and without shame. “Listen, it’s a damn miracle all the blood in my entire body didn’t rush to my dick when you walked out, I could’ve ended up rolling around on the floor screaming about my balls, right in front of Beau! You get that, right?”

“I really do,” Leander replies thickly, and with blatant appreciation for the imagery. “Perhaps I should be insulted that you didn’t.”

“I ran back here, didn’t I?” Tripp mumbles, his dick finally giving up the ghost under the pinching pain and pressure it’s been getting in response to the multiple failed attempts to stand up and say hello. Alright, so the details of his escape are slightly different than he’s claiming, but Lee doesn’t need to know that.

“Hmm,” is all Leander says in return, busy nosing at the nape of Tripp’s neck, kissing his skin softly and then pulling away without warning. When he stands back, Tripp realizes that his cummerbund is secured perfectly in place and Leander is grinning from ear to ear, looking like he just won the giant stuffed animal at the county fair.

“Sneaky bastard,” Tripp grunts, pressing a rough kiss to the side of Leander’s face before slipping out from behind the curtain and going to face the music.

The rest of their appointment runs smoothly, and they all manage to make it out the door with tuxes ordered and no one’s face being rearranged by Leander’s fist, so Tripp figures the day a success. Before the group splits, he and Beau solidify plans to meet for dinner the following night since they’re both off, and Lee mentions something about seeing him in the hospital the following week.

Apparently—according to the casual chatter Tripp only half-listens to because he’s busy thinking about his dick—Lee is scheduled for his annual intubation skills review and subsequent O.R. demonstration with Cornell Reading, City EMS’s Medical Director. Tradition holds that this would-be ten hour assignment winds up with Lee intubating two people and then Dr. Reading taking him out for an extended lunch, one that involves cocktails and neither of them returning to the hospital for the rest of the day.

Man, Tripp thinks, jealous. Christian might’ve been right, after all—drinking in the middle of the work day? He is in the wrong profession.

During their ride back to the apartment, Lee is quiet, contemplatively gazing out the window as they drive. Try as he might, Tripp can’t figure out if he’s having some kind of a moment, or if this is an intimidation tactic. Either way, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him uneasy. Lee's silence continues all the way through their walk across the underground lot (where Tripp’s car can lately be found hanging out in the second space assigned to Lee's apartment, and with his very own keyfob access to the garage, thank you very much), through the journey up in the elevator, and Lee's unlocking of his front door.

It lasts through Lee picking up the box that contains his collar and offering it up, through Tripp accepting and threading it back around his neck, and even through Leander retrieving beers from the fridge and motioning with his hand for Tripp to sit down on the couch. When he speaks, it isn’t what Tripp expects.

“If I asked you something, would you be honest with me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Tripp replies easily, despite the lump rising in his throat. It’s not a lie, not for ninety-nine percent of the questions Leander could possibly ask. The only things Tripp would lie about at this point are his feelings regarding the man himself, and only if Lee asked him point-blank, in a way that Tripp couldn’t possibly dodge or divert.

Not a cell of his being wants to be untruthful with Leander, not anymore. Not after everything they’ve been through together and the incredible series of gifts Lee has given him. But that —those feelings? Tripp thinks this topic is perhaps best summed up with lifestyle-speak: Lee has taught him everything he knows about hard limits, and this is just one of his.

“When we were in the dressing room together,” Leander begins, and Tripp barely stops himself from breathing an obvious sigh of relief.

When you were fucking with me, he wants to interject, but doesn’t, because while the cage has been fun, Tripp is looking to get both it and himself off tonight. “When you became aroused and the cage began to cause physical discomfort, did you…enjoy the actual pain aspect of what was happening?”

Tripp opens his mouth to reply, but Leander holds up a hand, so he stops.

“I’d like you to take a moment and really think about what I’m asking. There’s a difference between appreciating the pain and enjoying it. There is a line between understanding hurt and craving it . I saw something in your face, when you cut your finger in the shower, and I’m…curious.”

Working his jaw a little, Tripp slumps back against the couch and regards Leander skeptically. Is his friend actually a mindreader? This wouldn’t be the first time Tripp’s wondered. It definitely isn’t the first time Lee’s seen through to his covert desires so easily, which would be worrying, mostly because in what universe does Tripp get to have this?

To have someone who understands and validates him like it’s a given , who’s always one step ahead of the sometimes-scary things Tripp wants and struggles to give voice to. If he was a lesser man, the whole damn concept might bring him to tears, and—oh, fuck. Who is he kidding?

“Oh,” Leander says immediately, turning to grab a tissue from the box on the side table. “I’m so sorry, Tripp. I didn’t mean to—please don’t be upset, there’s no pressure for you to like something that you don’t. I was wrong, I—”

“No, stupid.” Tripp sniffles, snatching the tissue from Leander’s grasp and swiping roughly at his traitorous eyes.

“Tripp,” Leander says warningly, but it’s Tripp’s turn to hold up a hand, still pressing the tissue against both of his eyes using his fingertips.

“Sorry,” Tripp says brusquely, tone covering desperately for the quiver he knows is present in his voice. “Just—one minute. Let me try, please? I’m trying.” He manages to look up and make eye contact, because he’s figured out that’s what Lee responds to best, what makes him feel respected and like Tripp is being sincere. It works: Lee nods and relaxes minutely, allowing Tripp the space to move what he needs to say from his brain down to his tongue and then out into the world.

“You’re not wrong,” Tripp begins, and this time, his eyes are focused on the knit fabric of Lee's couch cushions. He’d love to look his Dom in the eye, but he just isn’t that together or confident, not by a long shot. The fact that he’s even doing this, when only a few short weeks prior he wouldn’t even debrief a scene with Lee, feels like monumental progress. He hopes that Lee sees that, too.

“You remember this morning, when I said I had some stuff I wanted to run by you? Well…”

Tripp’s courage starts to run out, so instead of searching up some better words, he raises his cut finger and wiggles it, then uses the digit to point between himself and Lee. “Guess you beat me to the punch.” Feeling lighter, Tripp chances glancing over to gauge Lee's reaction, able to do so only because he already knows that he won’t find judgment there.

He’s right, of course—Lee is leaning against the couch with his arm on the back and his head braced on his hand. His eyes are thoughtful and the gears are clearly turning, but there’s nothing scornful in his expression. If anything, he looks intrigued. While Tripp watches him, nervous and twisting his fingers together in his lap, a small smile spreads across Leander’s face.

“You know that I couldn’t ask for a more perfect, more lovely, willing, and inspiring submissive,” Leander says bluntly, and Tripp flushes, because who the fuck talks like that? About him, no less. “If you want to explore this,” he continues, easy as if they were discussing whether or not to go out for dinner, “I’m not only game, I’m excited. And if you decide—at any time—that it is not for you, or even that a particular type of pain is not for you, you should know in advance that you will never disappoint me by saying so.”

Breathless, Tripp can only nod.

“We will make it up as we go,” Leander offers, leaning forward and well into Tripp’s space. It’s not only intention and promise that are written all over his face but plain and obvious affection, too.

“Thank you, sunshine,” Tripp says softly, tipping his head to the side and his mouth forward in a silent request. Leander reaches out, crooking a finger under Tripp’s chin to pull him the rest of the way in for a gentle kiss. The sweetness of his touch and the promises he’s just made sit in stark contrast, but Tripp eats it up, can’t ever get enough of Lee's hard and soft edges. The way he can make him twist and scream and beg for mercy, and then right after, pet his hair for over an hour while Tripp lays boneless in his arms—both sides of Lee are his favorite.

In fact, it’s all a lot more than he deserves, more than he ever could have dreamed of having.

Leander clears his throat. “While both adorable and appreciated, ‘sunshine’ is not quite appropriate right now,” he reminds Tripp after pulling away from his lips. “Nor is ‘stupid,’ but you know that. I would have slapped you, but it felt incongruous with the conversation.” Lee is only half-serious, Tripp can tell by the way he’s suppressing a smile and the way he looks towards the balcony doors instead of making eye contact, presumably so as not to undermine himself.

“Besides,” he continues. “Considering the subject matter, it seems as if I’ll have satisfaction in that department soon enough.” He shrugs. “I’ll find a way to work it in.” He winks as he stands, holding out a hand for Tripp to take and then leading him to the playroom when he does.

“Strip,” he commands.

***

What follows is the longest inside-the-bedroom kink negotiation Tripp and Leander have ever tried, up to this point. Going down the S&M road blindly seems like something Lee just isn’t willing to do, and Tripp is fine with that—maybe even secretly relieved, just a little.

While Tripp kneels on the bed, a fully-clothed Leander sifts through his various toys and implements, holding different options up and explaining what they’re for, what they will do to Tripp’s body when used, and then watching his face for a reaction.

Tripp, for his part, is struggling a little.

Sure, the idea of pain inside a scene sounds all sexy and exciting in his head, and God knows Tripp is confident in chasing his dreams, but there’s nothing sexy about what Lee is doing tonight. Hearing the nitty-gritty details—the mechanical, clinical explanations of what this flogger and that whip feel like, the harm this pinwheel and that clamp might cause him— outside of any existing arousal or stimulation that’s designed to mitigate anxiety and extend payoff isn’t the same.

Without corresponding physical sensations to guide Tripp in what he’s looking for, Lee’s questions are difficult to answer and his presentation feels a lot like pure intimidation. It’s not exactly putting Tripp in the mood. Ironic, since his cock has finally been freed for the negotiation, and subsequently branded itself uninterested in taking advantage of the situation.

Thankfully, Leander seems to catch onto this and changes tack, though not before Tripp considers at least throwing up his yellow flag or maybe bailing out altogether. His mind is already half-gone, more focused on going in search of more beers than making a memory.

As he shifts uncomfortably— restlessly— atop the sheets, Leander very suddenly just stops. Stops talking, stops examining his collection of toys and tools, stops trying to solicit Tripp’s input on the best way to wreck his shit without scaring him off of ever scening again. Quietly, he closes up the armoire he’s been rummaging through and turns around to face Tripp, the thoughtful look he’s been wearing off and on all day returning to his face.

“This isn’t working, is it?” he asks bluntly.

“No, Sir,” Tripp replies, rather emphatically shaking his head while his shoulders deflate in relief.

“Alright,” Leander agrees. He presses a finger to his lips as he paces a little before once again rounding on Tripp. “Shall we start over?”

“Please, Sir.” Tripp doesn’t hesitate to answer, licking lips that have gone dry with his building anxiety.

Leander nods. “Sit up against the headboard.” He points for emphasis and then moves back to the middle armoire, the one that Tripp has learned contains the most practical items—restraints, plugs, a friggin’ endless supply of lube that Tripp suspects rivals the Astroglide Twitter intern’s personal stash.

When Lee returns, it’s to toss his favorite plug onto the mattress next to Tripp’s hip alongside a bottle of lube. “Prep yourself,” he says simply. “I’ll be right back.” On his way out of the room, Leander dims the lights and presses play on his sound system, releasing some soft, nondescript music to float through the air.

Slightly less unsettled now after the changes in both energy and atmosphere, Tripp sinks back against the headboard and squeezes some lube into his hand, stroking himself gently. Lee didn’t say he couldn’t touch his cock, and Tripp really needs his buddy to get back into the mood for what they’re about to do.

In the end, it’s not a difficult mindset to shift. Without Lee's (slightly terrifying) lecture-slash-show-and-tell dampening his arousal, just being in the playroom and in this bed easily fires his libido back up. In turn, Tripp allows his mind to drift, thinking about Lee and Lee touching him, shivering a little when the cool air from the fan blows across his naked skin, letting his eyes fall closed as his fingers make their way down and inside himself.

It’s not long before he’s sighing and moaning quietly, riding his own hand with the other still slipping slowly around his cock, biting his lip and tipping his head back against the wall. In fact, Tripp gets a little lost in the feeling, nearly forgetting where he is and what he’s meant to be doing. At least, until he hears a soft growl from above and opens his eyes to find Lee staring down at him with the most heated look on his face.

“I regret not staying for the show, now,” he says, as Tripp blinks and hums and pulls his fingers free, accepting the damp towel Leander readily offers to clean them off. Without a word, Lee leans down and shoves the plug inside his ass, no warning save for the brief glimpse Tripp catches of some lube being squeezed onto it. Even still, the plug is a welcome sensation after losing his fingers, and Tripp can’t help but bite at his lip, making eye contact as Lee toys with it, tugging the bulb against his rim before letting it sink back in.

“Hands relaxed against the sheets, for now,” Leander instructs, finally peeling off his own long-sleeved Henley and undoing his belt while Tripp’s gaze lingers lazily on his bare chest. Mid-strip, Lee gets distracted and moves back over to the nightstand where a handful of candles have appeared alongside their typical aftercare supplies…and a first aid kit.

Jesus, how into the moment was Tripp that he didn’t notice all of the apparent back-and-forth activity? Holy hell.

He blinks quizzically up at Leander, who just smiles and lights the candles, adding a romantic sort of glow to this side of the room. Without any further hesitation, Lee kicks off his boots, drops his pants, and climbs up into Tripp’s lap. Reaching down, he takes one of Tripp’s hands and directs it to his own ass. Tripp’s fingers curve naturally around a cheek, tips coming to rest on something skin-warmed and metal nestled in between them. He raises his eyebrows in surprise and Leander nods.

“You wore the cage, I wore the plug,” he says easily, and a less horny version of Tripp would probably stop to wonder when the fuck Lee had time to do that, but as it is, he doesn’t really care. He’s slightly surprised that Lee didn’t demand to be fucked in the dressing room, but Tripp figures he must have his reasons.

“I had a different scene in mind when we got up this morning, something to do with riding your cock while choking you into near-unconsciousness, but—” Leander shrugs. “—the mood shifted.”

“I’ll say,” Tripp murmurs, taking full advantage of Leander’s lack of instruction to finger the plug in his ass and pry it out playfully before pushing it back in with intention. Virtually unaffected, Leander rolls his eyes from above him like a God on high and slaps Tripp’s hand away. “I’m still going to ride you,” he says, almost conversationally. “I’m also going to fuck you, but later. And in between…”

He settles in Tripp’s lap, muscular thighs heavy over Tripp’s own, knees pressed tight against his hips. Lee’s well-toned chest looms teasingly close to where Tripp’s mouth is watering to taste it—in fact, he barely resists the urge to close his lips around a nipple as Lee leans over to pick up a small box from the side table before sitting back on his heels. The box snags Tripp’s attention—not a fancy or decorative thing, just some cardboard and tape, hardly bigger than a matchbox.

In his distraction, Tripp finds himself absently running a hand down Lee's thigh, yanking it away and pushing a fist frantically down into the mattress before Lee can realize what he’s done. Whether he does or doesn’t, nothing is said about it as Leander opens the little box and pulls out what appears to be a tiny envelope.

Alright, color Tripp confused. What the fuck is Lee playing at?

Before he can ask, Leander flips the envelope open and extracts something that makes Tripp’s heart jump into his throat. It’s a brand-new, straight-edged razor blade. Lee's gaze flicks from the blade’s edge to Tripp’s face, his eyes sharp as the tool he’s holding as he carefully analyzes Tripp’s reaction.

“I thought perhaps it would be easier to try something that we know you had a positive response to in the moment, when you were already on your knees. Also, light scarification was marked as an interest on your kink list, so this feels apt.”

Dry-mouthed, Tripp nods, maybe not entirely sold, but definitely willing to see where this is going.

“Relax, Tripp,” Leander says softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Tripp’s neck. “It’s important that you know this is not a punishment. This is me giving you something you feel you need. You can slow things down or bring them to a stop anytime you like, and if you do, you will not be disappointing me. There’s nothing to live up to here but the expectations you set for yourself. What is your safeword?”

Tripp has to clear his throat, and in an unprecedented move, Leander exchanges the razor between his fingers for the orange juice, cracking the lid and offering Tripp a sip before they begin.

Licking the sweetness from his lips, Tripp nods and says, “Halligan.”

“And are you using it?”

Another deep breath. “No,” he replies firmly, clearly, surprised to find that he means it. Tripp’s eyes are drawn to the glint of the nearest candle’s flame and the way it reflects off the metal sitting atop its little box. Setting the juice down, Leander fits a hand to Tripp’s cheek and redirects his wayward gaze to his own face.

“Focus on me,” he commands, leaning forward to kiss Tripp slow but thorough, licking his tongue into Tripp’s mouth and grinding down in his lap. It’s exactly what he needs in the moment, and he finds himself melting into all of Leander’s touches.

This might be the softest his friend has ever been with him during a scene—in fact, if Tripp closes his eyes and lets himself pretend, he could almost buy that they’re a normal couple. Just two boyfriends, about to make love and swap undying declarations of devotion afterward, or whatever it is normal couples do, Tripp wouldn’t fucking know.

But Leander—he’s gentle, tonight. He threads hands through Tripp’s hair, cups him around the neck, works his body up to a needy frenzy with his hands and his hips like the two of them have all the time in the world. Eventually, he slicks up Tripp’s cock and pulls his own plug before sinking down onto it, settling in Tripp’s lap and pulling his body forward so he can tuck his legs behind, wrapping himself fully around Tripp’s torso.

Once again, Tripp takes full advantage of the moment, pressing his face to the curve of Leander’s neck and against the top of his chest, nipping at his collarbone and leaving open-mouthed kisses on his skin. No marks, because Lee didn’t say that he could, but he also didn’t say that he couldn’t .

For a few minutes, they rock like that, Tripp’s hands finding their way to Leander’s hips as he circles his pelvis, teasing. It’s nice, but the stimulation and movement aren’t nearly enough to even come close to getting either of them off.

When it happens, Tripp is neither looking for nor expecting the complete one-eighty Leander does, though in hindsight, that feels a bit naive on his part. The hand tightening in his hair, yanking his head back—that, at least, is familiar territory—and Tripp relishes it, moaning happily as Leander jerks him around by his roots, dipping down to bite at his neck, just over the line to where it hurts. When he does let go, Lee immediately drops his hand to wrap it around Tripp’s bicep, and it stays there.

“Color, Tripp,” Leander demands, and Tripp, still achingly hard inside him, aroused as hell and fully fired up for whatever comes next, doesn’t so much as blink.

“Green, Sir.”

“Good boy.” The next sensation is cool and wet on his skin, replacing Lee's hot palm on his upper arm for just a brief few moments before it returns. “Alcohol swab,” Leander murmurs softly. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, you know.” He laughs at himself and then clenches the muscles in his ass intentionally, and not for the first time, Tripp wonders what kind of a lunatic his best friend really is.

The first drag of the razor’s edge against Tripp’s skin doesn’t feel like much of anything at all. Just a scratch—Tripp’s had more painful stubbed toes. Nonetheless, he jumps a little, and Leander pauses what he’s doing to kiss him reassuringly on the mouth.

“Color?”

“Still green, Sir,” Tripp replies, if a little breathlessly, flexing his fingers against Leander’s hips to ground himself in the moment. He fills his lungs slowly and deliberately as Leander brings the razor down again, letting the corner of the blade sink into his skin only just enough to draw pinpricks of blood before pulling it along.

In Tripp’s mind, the conflicting sensations start to war and blur and blend, in a shockingly delicious way that surprises him quite a bit more than he expected. His hips start moving of their own accord, flexing up into his Dom more and more with every stinging swipe of the razor while his torso relaxes back, allowing the man above him to do whatever he wants and trusting him completely.

Lee lets him cope, doesn’t comment on Tripp’s touching or his movements, except to occasionally ask him to keep his left arm still, if he’s able. The more Lee cuts, the more it hurts, and yet, the more excited Tripp becomes. He doesn’t hold back any moans and groans, and when tears prick at the corners of his eyes, he lets them fall.

A particularly long drag of the razor has him reaching for Lee, winding an arm around his back and gripping his shoulder before deciding that isn’t enough. Pulling that hand back, he trails it up Lee’s chest, over his jaw to thread fingers in his hair, and that feels good. Intimate . The whole thing is so weirdly intense and bizarrely romantic—Lee in his lap, his focused face only inches away from Tripp’s, the heat building steadily between them and the pain in Tripp’s arm becoming layered and complicated, all of it laced with the pleasure of Lee trying to make him come.

The superficial stinging in Tripp’s bicep morphs into a deeper throbbing, and contrasted with the tight, wet heat surrounding his cock, Tripp would easily call this bliss. In the back of his mind, he even feels relief . There are so many things he carries with him, so much guilt over victims and families he couldn’t save, couldn’t help, and it all just builds and builds with no outlet, no escape, no pressure relief valve to vent and help him let it all go.

And yes, right or wrong, on some level Tripp wants to be punished for what he views as his failures, his short-comings. This pain—it’s more than an enhanced orgasm to Tripp, it’s a fucking benediction. It’s a way to atone, a reason to forgive himself, and he can’t forget that Lee is giving that to him.

Somehow, as Tripp slips further into subspace, Leander works them down to the bed so that Tripp is no longer leaning against the wall and he has more leverage to ride him. Tripp barely even notices when the cutting is finished, only registers the hot trickle of blood running down his arm, and it’s so fucking good— he feels so good, so free, so unencumbered for the first time in so very long.

Leander goes back to yanking his head around by the hair while he picks up the pace on Tripp’s dick, riding him hard and murmuring a very Lee mix of praise and dirty talk that has Tripp nearly short-circuiting with arousal and desire, and—fuck it— love . He gasps and reaches behind him to grab at the headboard as his orgasm builds and crests, the burning heat in his arm and the waves of pleasure washing over him sending his eyes rolling back in his head, making him call out with every ounce of breath he has left and then leave him sobbing.

Lee is merciless then, grabbing Tripp by his uninjured bicep as he slides off of his softening cock, only to haul him up and over, throwing him down onto his stomach.

“Ass up, shoulders and head down,” Leander demands, and Tripp complies as well as he can, still rippling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, still crying openly into the sheets his face is unceremoniously shoved into by Lee's hand curved firmly around the back of his head.

The plug comes out and Lee wastes no time in replacing it with his cock, no niceties or time for adjustment, just sliding all the way in to the hilt with what feels like half a bottle of lube slicking the way. He grunts as he fucks Tripp hard and fast, making him wail when he strikes his prostate, but for the most part acting generally indifferent to his sub’s existence.

He chases his own pleasure and Tripp adores it, loves feeling like Leander is using him like a toy when they’re like this. Half-out of his mind, Tripp relishes every damn semi-dehumanizing moment of Lee nearly ignoring him completely, even as his eyes continue to leak and his arm oozes blood onto the crisp, white sheets.

At the last second, when Leander is tensing up behind him and moaning as he starts to come, he grabs Tripp’s newly-marked arm and squeezes. The action brings a new rush of tears to Tripp’s eyes and causes him to cry out with yet another conflicting wave of pain and pleasure as Lee's cock rams repeatedly into his prostate at the same time. Valiantly, Tripp’s dick twitches between his legs, blurting another round of cum onto the sheets, and he’s never been more regretful that the refractory period is a thing that exists.

Behind him, Leander slumps forward, one giant hand coming to rest between Tripp’s shoulder blades as he struggles to catch his breath and presumably, his bearings. When he slides free from Tripp’s ass, he pauses, and almost as an afterthought, fumbles around in the sheets for the plug and shoves it back in, which— damn. Tripp’s dick also attempts to take an interest in that (incredibly hot, deliciously possessive) move, too— holy hell —and the idea that Lee's spend can’t leak out.

No dice.

When Leander turns him over again, he’s gentle, and the look on his face is slightly anxious and concerned. “Hello, Tripp,” he says softly as Tripp blinks up at him, desperately hoping Lee doesn’t want to talk about this, because words are not a thing that’s possible for him right this second. Hoping to ward that off, Tripp does the only thing that he can think of, which is to flash Leander the biggest grin he can muster, and along with it, shoot him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Surprised, Leander chuckles and pats his flank. “You still have to drink your juice,” he says. “And I need to tend to your injuries.”

Tripp nods while stifling a yawn, accepting Lee's assistance to sit up against a stack of pillows enough to drink the juice without dumping it all over his face. He uses his right arm to do so, since Lee is busy examining his left, dabbing iodine from the first-aid kit in a strangely specific pattern. His motions pique Tripp’s curiosity, despite the exhaustion he feels and the impending hormone crash that is about to vehemently insist he nap by simply turning out the lights.

“Can I see it?” he asks gruffly, tipping his chin in the direction of his bicep, which Leander is currently obscuring with a piece of blood-riddled gauze.

“Of course,” he answers. “Though, I will warn you, as far as scarification is concerned, I’m not sure this one will take. I used a very light hand, and honestly, I believe these marks will heal without leaving any reminders behind.”

The way Leander looks at Tripp when he says that makes him abjectly wary of what he’s about to find on his arm, but when Leander lifts the gauze, Tripp can’t help but draw in a sharp breath. Holy hell is right.

It’s a tracing of Leander’s hand, the outline of where his fingers were wrapped around Tripp’s bicep. The fresh cuts are thin and angry, most of them still oozing tiny droplets of blood. The skin around the actual wounds is reddened and irritated, striking in its unapologetic rawness. It’s an incredible sight, and the residual burn-throb Tripp feels makes his chest a little tight, makes his mind spin with how much he likes it. Tripp can hardly believe how much he likes it.

Lee's handprint, cut into his skin. It better not fuckin’ fade.

“I hope it does scar,” Tripp says, eyes still glued to the way the marks look marring his skin. It’s beautiful in its own right, and Tripp can’t believe that he thinks that. “Otherwise, you’ll have to do it over again.” He winks as Leander glances up at him in surprise, a smile spreading across his face and—if Tripp isn’t mistaken—a slight blush. He’s so stunning and perfect, fucked-out and exhausted himself, and Tripp so badly wants to keep him.

He shifts his gaze down to his arm. At least now, he’ll get to keep a part of him.

Another yawn from Tripp breaks their reverent moment, and Leander quickly resumes what he was doing before Tripp’s request. He spreads antibiotic cream meticulously over the cuts he made, and bandages Tripp up with expert hands that have done this so many times before, both in and out of the bedroom. Fuck, but Tripp’s never going to be able to look at Lee in the back of an ambulance the same way again.

“Thank you, Lee,” Tripp murmurs, only after Leander has shut off the lights and slid back into bed with him, gathering him up and holding him close, careful not to press down on his arm. “Not only for…what we just did. But for not judging me, not treating me like shit for being into some weird stuff. For feeling like I need it. I just—I know some people would think that me liking what we just did is really fucked up.”

“I am not ‘some people’,” Leander interjects fiercely. “You are aware of who I am and where you are…?”

“Shh, ugh. I’m trying to—” Tripp wiggles around at Lee's side in a mix of annoyance and frustration, glad that it’s dark and Leander can’t see his glaring face.

“I understand. Go on,” Lee says, and Tripp doubts it, so he sighs.

“Yellow—hear me out. Dom Mode off, just for a minute, opposite of this morning with the collar?”

“Alright,” Leander agrees.

For a moment, Tripp struggles with both what to say and how to phrase it so as not to come off too obvious or pathetic.

“You’re a good friend, Lee,” Tripp settles on. “You’re, you know. You’re my person.” It’s a monumental effort just to eke that out, so Tripp manages to forgive himself for not doing better, for not saying more. Anyhow, Lee seems to get the gist, as the arm he has wrapped around Tripp’s body tightens, and he drops his face into Tripp’s hair.

“Thank you,” he mutters, suspiciously heavy in tone and barely audible. “I needed to hear that tonight.”

“Cool,” Tripp says, going for casual and pretending to stifle a yawn when he says, “Dom Mode on, then.”

Neither of them speaks again as they both drift off, but Tripp feels Leander relax beneath him in a way that he usually only does after he’s sunk into a very deep sleep. It’s all so strangely comforting, so starkly contrasted with the way they played and got each other off earlier, and Tripp—if he’s being honest, and when did that become a theme in his own mind?—has never been happier in his entire life.

Nothing has changed between them, and yet, for some reason, Tripp feels a spark of hope about the future that he’s never let himself consider before.

And he hangs on.