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Troy can't remember a time that he's wanted to get off the ice faster in his life. Practice today has been a shit show: missed passes, failing to connect with the new rookie, Monty, and getting stuck in his own head about what this must mean for the upcoming season. He knows he's freaking out because he's wearing the A now, alongside Bood, but he's sure that Ilya is going to ask for it back after today's showing.
"Shake it off, Drover," is all Ilya says to him, clapping his shoulder on the way into the shower. Troy grunts but doesn't say anything—there's nothing to say. He played like shit today, their pre-season was lack luster, and he's got no idea how to fix it before their first regular season game in Toronto, of all places. He fucking hates feeling like this.
These days, Troy's life is pretty fantastic. He's married to the love of his life, he's on a cup-winning team where he can be true to himself, his dog is obsessed with him, and he has a real community for the first time in his life. Troy knows all of this. He sees what his life is and knows that he is so, so lucky.
Knowing all of that doesn't help when he feels like this though—like he can feel his teammates' eyes on him, judging, waiting for him to finally admit that he's a fraud, that he's been lying to everyone, including himself, and that he's still the same piece of shit he was when he transferred to Ottawa. He doesn't deserve the words of encouragement that he gets as the rest of the guys file through their post practice routines. None of them call him ungrateful, even though he desperately wishes that they would.
His dad would have ripped him a new asshole for the way he's been playing lately. He would have screamed Troy's ear off about how he's wasting their money, all the time his parents invested into hockey when he was young. Curtis would call him entitled, soft, a pathetic sissy that was better off in a ditch somewhere than disgracing the ice. Troy used to be able to let his mind shut off when Curtis was on a tear about something, tuning the vitriol slung at him out of his head. It felt like rest, sometimes.
Except now, Troy knows that he hadn't been resting back then, but shutting down. Even still…he misses how it used to feel good. Ignorance is truly bliss, because Troy can clearly see the tragedy of his childhood in hindsight, but he misses his dad's predictability. It's horrible, and he definitely shouldn't, but, he always used to know what to expect: play like shit, get treated like shit. Play well, and maybe you'll be worth something one day. The rules were simple: be perfect, push himself to the limit, leave everything on the ice, because failure was not an option.
The most important thing to remember in Curtis Barrett's presence: do not complain, or he will give you something to complain about.
His dad's equally unpleasant sister is someone he barely talked to before he came out, and definitely not since, but he still remembers her scathing tone directed at him as a kid. They'd been at a big family reunion—something the Barrett's weren't necessarily known for, though the one he remembers may have been the last—and Troy had been upset about something. It could have been something serious, or he could have been acting like a brat. He can't remember now, and he's pretty sure it doesn't matter, but he'd been talking to his mom when Aunt Mary Ann had started scolding him for being ungrateful.
"Don't you know how blessed you are? I can't believe what I'm hearing! All this whining out of a boy your age is disappointing. You should remember how good you have it, Troy."
"Drover." Ilya's voice echoes through his head, jolting him out of his pity party. He looks up and around; he's one of the last people still in his gear, and he can see Monty trying not to glance at him from across the room. Fuck. Poor kid is probably scared shitless—he's from the U.S. somewhere, eighteen, fucking homeschooled or something, and all alone for the first time. He's billeting with Dykstra and his family. By all accounts, he's a good kid. He just seems so scared of his own shadow around Troy, and every time he feels like his father. "Shake it off. Go shower, then see your husband."
The mention of Harris shakes something loose in his chest, allowing him to start stripping off his sweat-soaked gear. Thankfully, everyone leaves him to himself; he's not good company for anyone when he's like this. Even still, he makes sure to catch Monty's eye when he glances over next from a couple of stalls down.
"Good work today, Monty." He stops short of actually reaching to pat the rookie on his shoulder, instead flinching back when Monty just stares at him like a deer in the headlights. Troy's stomach twists and he can tell he's grimacing uncomfortably, so he turns back to his shit and finishes changing as quickly as possible.
Since just reminding himself that his life is objectively wonderful isn't helpful when he's this upset or his nervous system is going haywire, he's always had to get creative. When he was a kid, it looked like constant hard work, first on the ice and last to leave it, the pursuit of greatness. And honestly, that's still his go to, but when that isn't working, he just finds another way to punish himself for feeling bad. His therapist, Lennox, has been working with him on alternative coping mechanisms and relying on his support network, so instead of trying to tell himself that he should suck it up because he's so lucky, he trudges into Harris's office as soon as he's dressed in his normal clothes.
Harris's office since getting promoted is a lot nicer than his old one, now with two windows and enough space that the couch isn't jammed into a corner. Much to Harris's delight, there's been plenty of space to decorate, his desk and bookshelf covered in knickknacks and photos. One of their wedding photos, a candid of them feeding each other chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cake, is displayed proudly in the small gallery wall Harris has created.
Chiron notices him first; Troy can hear his heavy tail start to thump behind Harris's chair, though he hasn't decided if his visitor is worth getting up for yet. It's a running joke amongst Harris's team that Chiron is the one running the show. Last year, the social media intern, Kylie, had made Chiron a special calendar for "appointments". His husband is sitting at his desk, earbuds in as he (hopefully) finishes up a business call. Troy carefully sets his bag on the couch and slides onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. They're pretty nice too, with enough give that you can lean back a bit. Chiron seems to realize the visitor is his dad, immediately trying to crawl into his lap, and Troy is all too happy to help him up. It's a tight fit, but his weight ironically lifts some of the pressure in his chest.
"Yes, I understand what you're saying, John, but that doesn't change the reality of our timeline." Harris sounds so sexy when he's in Director of Communications mode. Troy knows that Harris has been working on a project that was just dumped on him. He's going to turn out something amazing, Troy is certain of it, but that doesn't mean he's not stressed out. It's been a couple of weeks of long days.
Honestly, Troy is kind of impressed with himself for deciding to ask for Harris's help with how he's feeling. A year ago, he would have just bottled up his mood and let it fester, but he's trying to be better. It always feels like he's trying to be better about something, he wishes he felt like he's succeeding for once. Chiron, oblivious to his plight, adjusts himself and jams one of his giant paws into Troy's stomach. He does his best to smother his grunt, but Harris still glances over.
"Alright, John, I'll email you the edits. Yup, okay, have a good afternoon—yeah, you too! Okay, buh-bye." Harris ends the call and sags back into his chair.
"Yeah?" Troy asks.
Harris rolls his eyes. "It astounds me that that man is capable of tying his shoes in the morning, I swear to god." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his face goes bright red under his beard. "Oh, jeez, that was so mean. He's not a bad guy." Troy's heart squeezes almost painfully in his chest. Even after all these years, he can't believe how lucky he is to have stumbled into this life.
"Anyway, how're you? You look rough, buddy." Troy snorts and gives Chiron a big squeeze. Once upon a time, Harris would have hedged and waffled about Troy's state—two-day stubble, hair still matted with sweat. Upon further reflection, it's possible that Troy should have just showered right after practice. He just hadn't been up to being Troy Drover, alternate captain on a losing streak with a rookie that has been struggling to find his groove on the team, for another minute. With Harris, he can just be Troy, a kinda fucked up guy with a lot of baggage that his husband shouldn't have to deal with. "Hey, Troy. Talk to me?"
Troy shivers at the way Harris's voice slips into something more sedate, a nonverbal cue that he's taking this conversation seriously. He could cry with how much he loves Harris, how much he appreciates the fact that he doesn't have to be the first one to say he's not doing okay. Chiron wriggles around in his arms, trying to lick his face.
"I know, buddy, I'm all sweaty and gross," Troy says, focusing on rearranging the big doofus so that he's not in danger of sliding off his lap. Once he's settled again, Troy glances up at his husband, locking eyes with the love of his life. He reminds himself that Harris loves him and won't judge him for asking, that he's not demanding help, and that this is the beginning of a conversation, not a fight. Fuck, he's so damn tired. "I need to not think tonight. If that's something that we can arrange." He's hoping that Harris can fully put him under, but if not then they can figure something out. Harris nods slowly, mulling his statement over. He's leaned back in his desk chair, his shirt pulled taut over his broad chest as he stretches.
"I think we can work something out. Honestly, it would be nice to have something go right today. This project is such a nightmare." Harris smiles at him, the quiet kind that makes Troy feel like the only person on earth in the best way possible. "I'm going to need a couple hours to finish up here, but you're welcome to keep me company." Troy considers the offer, his fingers combing through Chiron's fur. As much as he would love to spend the rest of his day being lazy on the couch, he's very aware of the fact that he smells, and he doesn't want to distract him while Harris is working.
"I think I might take this guy home and go on a jog. Tire him out, y'know?" A jog would probably help Troy out too. It feels like a completely rational choice to him, but Harris still narrows his eyes a little.
"Can you keep it to under three kilometers?" Harris asks. Troy flushes at the way his voice has gone deep and serious. He's slipping into enough of an authoritative tone to make Troy want to move heaven and earth, much less take their dog on a run for a step more than three kilometers.
"Yeah, I can set my watch."
"Good. Shower when you're done," Harris says with a wink. Troy's face gets a bit warmer, and he's distracted for a second by the way his husband's tongue pokes between his lips, swiping to wet them. It's an automatic motion, he probably hasn't even realized that he's done it, but Troy needs to go before he does something stupid like offer to tuck himself under Harris's desk; it had been a disaster the last time. Instead, he leans forward until Chiron jumps off his lap. Then, it's as simple as one, two, three: lean over Harris's desk to kiss him real quick, grab his bag, and whistle for Chiron to follow.
With a new mission in mind, it's easier to focus on getting Chiron tired enough that he won't care about being locked out of their room for the majority of the evening than his own problems.
An hour later, Troy's watch reports that he's run for two point nine kilometers, and he's pretty pleased with himself because Harris will be pleased with him for not overextending himself. Next to him, Chiron is panting happily, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Troy had kept their pace pretty relaxed, not wanting to overwork himself when tonight was already going to be taxing.
"Okay, buddy, let's get you dinner, yeah?" Troy goes through the motions of refreshing Chiron's water bowl and assembling his dinner. Shane had gone on a binge about canine nutrition when the vet told them that Anya's got arthritis. You'd never know it from how she acts, but Shane had become determined to cure her through food.
Unfortunately, once he explained it to Troy, it made a lot of sense. So now he's one of those assholes that gives their dog fresh, raw dog food, various animal tendons and organs, supplements, and finally a scoop of his "junk food" kibble. He goes through the dinner routine, having Chiron do a couple of tricks before releasing him and heading upstairs. He makes sure to close the little baby gate at the bottom of the stairs that they'd installed a while back; the official story is that it's for when the team comes over with kids in tow, but everyone knows it's first purpose is to keep their dog from cock blocking them.
He keeps himself focused on getting ready for Harris, trimming his stubble into something resembling tidiness first, followed by a scorching hot shower and the most perfunctory stretching possible. Harris usually likes to tease him for ages, but there's no reason Troy can't make that easier from the start. His cock is already half hard at the thought of Harris touching him, giving him a knowing look, and calling him something sugar sweet that would make his past self keel over.
They'll have to work up to that, of course, but they know their routine for nights like these. For so long, Troy was reduced to what he could give other people: his body, his hockey skills, clout, the ability to fulfill his father's delusional claims that Curtis could have really been something to the sport. Now that he's grown as a person or whatever, he gets too twisted up in the dimensionality of his life. It used to be easy: he was an irredeemable piece of shit, and he did not deserve to be happy, but he was selfish enough to hold onto Harris for dear life, to leech at his joy for as long as he could. Now, he knows that he's actively working through his bullshit so that he can have a positive impact on his life and community, that he's not perfect, but perfect was never the goal, and that he does deserve to be happy, even if he used to be a real dickhead.
It feels like the Greek dude that had to roll the boulder up the hill, except that instead of rolling all the way back to start at the end of the day, he's pushing that boulder day and night without rest. Sure, he has some tools to make the job a bit easier, but it's still a fucking boulder. Would it kill the universe to give him a nice downhill stretch for a while?
So, when everything gets to be too much, he needs to be broken down to just what he can give: his body. They have this routine down to a science at this point.
Harris is in charge tonight. The only time that stops is if one of them uses their safeword, or when the scene ends. After a certain point, Troy is going to be too far gone to do much of anything besides respond to their specific check ins. Troy's job is to listen, and to please Harris. That's it. The anticipation alone has him hard as granite.
Once he's clean, he throws on the first thing that he touches; everything they own is either soft by design or soft from years of wear. He ends up in grey sweats and a Drover Cidery shirt that has a hole in the armpit. Long gone are the days where he feels like Harris will fall out of love with him if he's not at one-hundred and ten percent. And it's not like he's going to be wearing them for long once Harris gets home, anyway.
He's trying to do some meditation that Bennett had shown him, meant to center himself or some shit, to kill the time and try to keep his intrusive bullshit at bay. When he hears Chiron run for the door, he feels like he can finally take a full breath. It's hard not to run down and greet his husband like their dog, but he knows that the entrance is just as important to Harris as the scene itself. He'd once told Troy that he has to put himself in the right headspace before seeing Troy's face, or else his "ridiculously blue and pretty eyes" will distract him.
He gives himself a shake, unclenching his jaw and letting it crack once as he listens to slow footsteps heading towards the bedroom. Then, finally, the doorknob turns.
Harris is always handsome, but he holds himself differently when they do this. There's a quiet air of authority around him, the kind that says he means business. Troy has never been able to describe it, really; it's like all he can see is the soft love shining in his green eyes, but the rest of him feels commanding. He's standing with his legs slightly parted and has kept his tie on, but his suit jacket is nowhere to be found. He sleeves are rolled to the elbow in what he calls "slut mode". Not because rolling up his sleeves makes himself slutty, no—it has simply been proven too many times that his forearms drive Troy to fucking distraction. If Ilya can wax poetic about Shane's freckles, then surely he can be a little freaky about the way the fabric pulls and tugs over Harris's muscles when he moves.
It's already begun. Troy stands in the center of their room, waiting to be addressed, every hair on his body standing on end. He feels small, but good small. He knows that Harris loves him, loves giving this to him.
"Hey, baby," Harris says, stepping into Troy's space and cupping his jaw in one hand. He almost never calls Troy by his name during scenes, preferring to keep a clear distinction between this and their real lives, even though he uses all the same pet names as normal. Hearing his own name too much reminds Troy that's he's himself: messy, complicated, a highway under a constant state of construction, imperfect. But when he's just Harris's baby, his stud…all he has to do is listen, he's just a vessel for his husband's desires. Even when he's helping Troy feel reduced to nothing, he's still there, ready to catch him.
Troy melts into the touch and Harris smiles. Even his smile is different when he does this: it's more reserved, a little smirk-like, but softened by the adoration in his gaze. "You still want to go down tonight?"
"Yes, please, fuck," he chokes out. His heart is everywhere, stuck in his throat, hammering in his temples, fluttering in his chest, but he knows that's his fucked nervous system at work. His soul knows that there is nowhere safer for him than standing right here in front of the man he loves.
"Alright, let's make that happen," Harris says, voice still even. "Go choose what you want me to spank you with tonight." Panic sears through Troy's body, surging in time with his pulse as it begins to pound impossibly harder; he can't make a choice right now. Not yet. Not until—Harris is supposed to—"Woah, hey, hey, buddy, sweetie, what's wrong?"
Troy recoils from the soft pressure of Harris's hands cupping his jaw. It's okay. All he needs to do is listen. Harris told him to pick a toy. He can pick a stupid fucking toy. "I can—it's okay. I'm okay, one—" He's cut off by Harris's grip on his jaw getting firmer as he gives him a little shake.
"Woah, stop, look at me. Who decides if you're okay right now?" The question, the promise of someone else calling the shots, sends happy shivers down Troy's spine. He slumps forward as the adrenaline starts to seep out of him, growing into a flood that leaves him feeling shivery and empty when Harris wraps him in a firm hug.
He sighs as his eyes slip closed and presses his cheek into Harris's shoulder. "You."
"That's right. Do you need help choosing?" It's a soft check in, subtle enough not to disrupt the syrupy feeling gathering at the nape of Troy's neck. He takes a second to think before trying to pull away, shamefaced. He should be able to choose something— "Yes or no, baby," Harris says, arms turning into steel around him.
"Yes, please," Troy whispers. His manners are rewarded with a soft kiss that grates on him. He doesn't want soft right now; he needs to earn it.
"Okay, handsome, can you get pretty for me?" Harris asks, sending molten heat straight to Troy's pelvis. Pretty he can do.
He's never gotten undressed so quickly in his life, careful to make sure that the clothes actually go in the hamper before sinking to his knees, sitting back on his heels. Each passing moment has him floating closer towards mindlessness. Troy can't wait. He shows off a little in a blatant attempt to use Harris's attraction as a bargaining chip, letting his shoulders flex and he sits up straight. Harris smiles slowly as he watches.
"Mmm, look at you, baby. Always so eager to make me happy," Harris purrs, tracing his fingertips across Troy's cheekbones. Troy's mouth drops open without him expressly meaning to, but he can't argue with results when Harris presses two fingers against his tongue, moaning when they bump the back of his throat. "Honestly, I don't know how I got so lucky. The perfect man for me."
Troy closes his eyes and tries not to shake his head. He hasn't been anything close to perfect lately. Not at home, not on the ice, not—
"Hey, eyes on me, handsome," Harris says, pulling his fingers out of Troy's mouth enough that he panics for a second until Harris simply adds another one. "I know, you're not ready for me to be mushy yet. It's okay." Relief and shame drip down his spine in equal measure at the care in Harris's voice, and it's easier to sink closer to the place where he is ready for his husband to be mushy. He knows Harris loves him, more than anything, but it gets so hard to see it through his own bullshit sometimes. What better way to internalize the fact that his partner in life actually loves and values him than asking Harris to beat the ability to think right out of him?
"Maybe," Harris says, tilting his head to the side like he's appraising Troy, "we should get you one of those gags that's shaped like a dick. Then you could have something in your mouth whenever you wanted." Oh, fuck. His cock throbs between his legs and he swallows around the fingers in his mouth as a show of enthusiasm. "I had a feeling you would like that. It's certainly a pretty picture: I could just have you on your knees, sucking on the gag while I get some work done. Would you like that?" Troy whines and tries to push down on Harris's fingers, wishing that they were his cock instead. He wants to choke on it.
"So sweet for me, baby. Fuck, so easy. Now, I'm going to go choose a toy, but I need my fingers for that, don't I?" Troy reluctantly lets Harris pull his fingers out of his mouth, leaning forward to delay the inevitable for an extra moment.
The second Harris steps away and turns towards their dresser, Troy misses him. He swallows hard—once, twice—and tries not to fidget. There's no rule against him moving, but he can't risk it right now. Harris takes forever to finally choose a toy from their respectably-sized collection. It's agony of the sweetest kind, wondering which one he'll choose, what kind of pain he'll inflict. Troy's self-destructive streak wants to be laid out, beaten down until he's bloody; Harris would never actually hurt him, though. The whole point of nights like these is for Troy to avoid self harm.
"Harris," Troy whines, craning his neck to try and see what's taking so long.
"Shh, I know, baby," Harris says, still not raising his voice more than normal speaking volume. Troy has to strain to hear him, swallowing down his whines to try and listen better. After what feels like ages, he finally comes back, holding two toys.
One is a flogger, soft strips of leather that deliver a broad, deep kind of ache. He shivers; Harris has picked the one that has some braided strips mixed in for an extra bite. The second is a tawse, hand crafted and gorgeous with embossed details on each strap. It stings like a bitch. Troy knows exactly what Harris planning, and he sucks in a hard breath when he feels precum drip down his shaft.
"Look at you, baby. Sit up, fix your posture," Harris taps his shoulders with the tawse and Troy immediately rolls his shoulders back and down, sitting up straighter and pressing his chest forward. Harris clicks his approval like he does with Chiron, and Troy knows that he will never live down the sound that he makes. It's a weak, desperate kind of thing. Of course, his husband notices immediately and hooks the flogger on his belt loop so that he can cradle Troy's jaw in his hand again. He just barely manages not to sink into the touch and lose his posture without permission. "Oh, handsome, did you wait too long to come to me?"
Troy has the realization the same time Harris asks him; he did wait too long. He feels like he's on a knife's edge, ready to shake out of his skin if he's not hit in the next ten seconds. Jesus, and he'd been so proud of himself earlier, fuck. "I tried—" he gasps, "I thought I was okay, I promise. I'm sorry, please—" Harris chucks the tawse on the bed and crouches so that they're more or less eye level. He wipes at Troy's cheeks with his thumbs, brushing away the tears beginning to gather on his lashes. He can't fuck this up, he can't. He needs this so badly.
"Sh, shh, Troy. You're okay. I'm not mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry about anything now. Your only job tonight is to listen to me. I love you so much, and I'm going to take care of you. Do you understand?" The words wash over Troy's senses like a physical touch, smoothing out the tension and panic enough for him to nod.
"Yes, I understand." It's barely not a sob, but choked and pathetic all the same. Harris looks at him with enough warmth to out shine the sun. He basks in it, wants to roll in it like a cat in a sun warmed patch. "Please, Harris."
"What's your color?" Harris asks, smoothing his hands down Troy's neck with a firm touch that feels like he's pushing Troy back into his body.
"Green, please." He does sob when Harris kisses his forehead.
"It's okay, baby, I've got you now."
Time smudges and slows for Troy after that, his awareness narrowing to only Harris. His touch, smoothing out Troy's rough edges, where the ugliness inside of him seeps through cracks in his good guy veneer. His voice, so different from usual but still completely himself; it's Harris in a crisis, going into problem solving mode. He has all the answers, and he's going to save Troy from his demons, like saintly hands removing sin.
Harris arranges him on the end of the bed, on his knees and bent fully forward, his hands bound by heavy leather cuffs and attached to a lead that Harris has secured to the headboard. His ass is exposed to the room, leaving him feeling especially vulnerable. His cock has gone soft in the time that it's taken to get into the position Harris wants, but he knows that won't last. Soon, he's going to be rock hard again, trapped between his thighs and his stomach without room to try and hump the bed.
"So gorgeous for me, baby, look at you," Harris's voice filters through the thick fog in his mind, the words caressing his skin and sending sparks through his nerves. He shivers and makes a soft sound, inadvertently tugging where his arms are cuffed to the headboard. He has enough range of motion to squirm, but the limited freedom of movement helps keep him tethered to the present. It also keeps him from trying to block his ass, not that he's even tempted to be a brat tonight. "You wanna hear what I've got planned, beautiful?"
Not really, but he knows better than to say that; Harris already knows Troy would prefer to just be hit until he safewords. "Whatever you want, please," he tries to beg, cut off by a jump when Harris drags the flogger across his back and ass. "Please, please, Harris, please. Whatever you want."
"It is whatever I want, baby, you're right. Such a smart husband I have," Harris purrs. Troy isn't expecting the first hit, isn't braced for it when the flogger lands and knocks the wind out of him. His front half collapses onto the bed as he tries to catch his breath. Right on cue, his cock begins to stir, quickly coming to full attention when Harris presses his cool hand against his skin. "That's how tonight is going to go: I get something I want, which is to tell you exactly what I think about you, and in return, I will spank you. Isn't that what you want?"
The thought of having Harris showering him with love and affection makes his skin crawl, until Harris's hand lands on the round of his ass, grabbing the muscle and pushing to reveal his entrance. He yelps and whines, but he has no traction to recover before he's moaning into the sheets at the familiar sound of Harris spitting, followed by the deliciously shameful feeling of wetness landing on his ass. "What's your color, baby?"
"Green," Troy slurs, pushing himself back into Harris's hard grip. His cock throbs where it's trapped between his legs and his stomach.
"So what do you say, when I give you want you want and hit you?" Harris asks, and there's a trap here; Troy can feel it.
He wracks his brain, trying to think of what he could have missed already, when he feels a broad hand wrap around the back of his neck. Harris pushes some weight onto his back, pinning him down and caging around Troy's body as much as possible. "This isn't a test, Troy. What're your manners?"
There is some part of him that registers how simple the answer has been the whole time, but it's quickly overwhelmed with the relief that he's not being tested. He knows the answer. It's okay. "Thank you, Harris."
"Good boy," Harris croons, giving Troy's ass another squeeze that has him tumbling down the rabbit hole head first. He can feel wetness gathering on his thighs as he clenches around nothing. "You're always so good for me, aren't you?" The discomfort from the praise doesn't have time to settle before the next strike lands, higher this time so that the low thrumming build of pain feels so much bigger already.
"Thank you," Troy gasps. There's a wet mark on the bed underneath his cheek, but it's anyone's guess if it's more tears or drool at this point. He doesn't really register what Harris says next, sinking past the point of hearing individual words and letting the familiar tone of his husband's voice rain gently over him. All he knows is that Harris loves him, followed by the rush of deep, dizzying pain and a surge of endorphins flooding his nervous system. "Thank you."
He hears the words in snatches as he settles into a familiar rhythm.
"So beautiful for me. Just the most outrageous body, it drives me wild. You take such good care of yourself."
Another swing of the flogger. Troy's lashes flutter closed as he sighs, "Thank you."
"Always work so hard. You never stop trying to be better." Harris's hand presses against Troy's burning skin, pinching and grabbing until he's writhing, trying to get some friction on his cock. With each passing moment, he floats through sensations.
The heavy feeling of leather connecting with his skin. "Thank you." The cool press of fingers soothing the ache, following by cold wetness against his hole that makes him sob and try to press back. His favorite voice, calling him baby and darling, while his lungs shudder because more liquid drips over his entrance and down his balls. He chokes on nothing, urging his hips back to their limit as Harris starts to stretch him.
"…the kindest man I've ever known…"
The fingers disappear and Troy's protests quickly die when Harris gives him two hits in quick succession. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he pants. He doesn't know any other words right now.
"The sweetest man for me." A kiss pressed to each cheek, then the blistering feeling of skin-warmed leather.
"Thank you."
"…generous…"
Thud. "Thank you."
"…loyal…"
Thud. "Thank you."
"…extraordinary…"
"Thank you."
He'd tried to explain it to Harris once, the way he feels when he's completely out of it: like he's floating on his back in the ocean, rocked by slow waves, skin perfectly balanced between the hot sun and cool water. He feels like a speck in the universe, too small and inconsequential to matter, to be in charge of anything, a single-celled organism dedicated to basking in the glow of Harris's light.
He's vaguely aware of sensations, the feeling of his own voice rumbling in his chest, of heat, and pressure, and so much pleasure that he feels like he's melting. He's flying with each hit, slurring his thanks in a constant mumble. He can hear Harris's voice, but understanding is beyond him.
Time has no meaning, but after some span of it, Troy's eyelids flutter open when Harris touches his cheek. He makes a small sound, an attempt at an acknowledgment while his sluggish brain starts firing again. "Take your time, baby," Harris says, and Troy realizes that he must have been asked a question.
"Wha…" He knows that Harris needs his attention, but still he fights coming back down to the world, not ready to give up on the euphoric freedom he's feeling.
"Can you tell me your color, Troy?" Harris asks. He looks so worried for a second, but Troy just smiles up at him. How could he be anything less than amazing with Harris by his side?
"Gren…green, s'good, green," Troy rambles, eager to reassure, to tell Harris just how good he's making him feel. His husband's face breaks into a wide grin, bright enough to rival the sun.
"Good, I'm glad, baby. Good boy. Do you want the tawse?" Troy is so glad that Harris is patient, because having an answer means having to remember what a tawse is when his brain is leaking out of his ears. Except Harris is perfect and holds the toy up so that Troy can see it. He's beginning to become a little too aware of his body, the stiffness beginning to set it from being in the same position for an extended period.
"Y's, please, yes, green, yes, yes," Troy jerks against the restraints on his arms as he squirms with anticipation of the blinding stinging pain the tawse leaves in its wake. Harris pets over his back to settle him, trailing his fingers lower and lower until Troy thinks that Harris is going to fondle his balls, only to yelp when he quickly swipes his hand up and hooks his thumb in Troy's hole, tugging gently. "Please, pleasepleaseplea—oh fuck!"
Harris sends him soaring with the first slap of the tawse against his throbbing ass. He loses every sense of reality, overwhelmed to the brink by the rapid, sharp hits Harris is giving him. He's sure that Harris doesn't even have to use much force with each stroke; he's oversensitive to everything, an exposed nerve. Eventually, everything goes white, and Troy is gone.
He comes back down in stages, his awareness consumed at first by the deep ache in his ass and thighs. He floats in that pain for a while before he realizes that the sheet is no longer wet beneath his cheek, replaced by a warm, firm, fuzzy chest and the steady beat of Troy's favorite heart in the world. He can smell the faint scent of apples mixed with something that is intrinsically Harris; warm and spiced, something that smells like home. His wrists are no longer restrained, instead tucked close to his body to give his shoulders a break.
"Hey," Harris says, voice almost painfully tender as he brushes Troy's hair out of his eyes. "There you are, gorgeous." Troy preens at the attention, brain so flooded with happy chemicals that he understands addiction. Nothing feels bad. He presses himself impossibly closer to Harris, trying to crawl under his clothes in search of skin to skin contact. His husband's responding coo makes his insides melt. "Yeah, you're feeling nice and gooey, aren't you, handsome?"
He whines and clumsily tries to push Harris's shirt out of the way, except there are all these fucking buttons. "Easy, easy, baby," Harris says, gently guiding Troy onto his back and rolling to straddle him, using his bulk to press Troy back into the sheets. He can only blink at Harris as he tugs at his tie, pulling it off and tossing it behind him, quickly followed by the offending dress shirt. Troy's hands immediately grab at his shoulders, trying to pulling his husband down for a desperate kiss. Harris chuckles but obliges, licking into Troy's mouth with a possessive fervor one wouldn't expect just by looking at him.
Troy loses track of time again, lost in the feeling of Harris over him, his beard scratching at Troy's neck as he leaves open mouthed kisses in his wake. He feels the bed dip between his legs as Harris settles there, running his big hands over Troy's thighs and kissing his sternum before working down, down, down.
"You've been so good for me, baby," Harris purrs from somewhere near Troy's hip. The direct weight pressing his ass into the sheets makes his breath catch. He whines when Harris shifts back, relieving some of the pressure, except that's the opposite of what Troy wants right now. He tries to pull Harris back on top of him, but his husband moves further back. It's awful. "Hey, handsome, look at me."
Troy doesn't have much choice in the matter, considering that Harris gently grabs his chin and makes him look. He can't keep his eyes on Harris for too long; his chest flutters and fills with an overwhelming amount of emotion when confronted by just how beautiful his husband is. His eyes are extra green against his flushed skin, his beard is mussed, and his blond hair tumbles into his eyes. Trying to maintain eye contact basically hurts, but he can't look anywhere else because his entire view is filled by the man he loves.
"You're too pretty," Troy warbles, closing his eyes when they start to burn. His skin breaks out in goosebumps when Harris kisses him sweetly, chuckling against Troy's giddy smile.
"You're sweet as pie, aren't you?" Harris asks, his voice rough with want. Troy nods, pulling him forward into a proper kiss. He could kiss Harris for hours and hours. His squirms under his husband's body, rutting his cock against Harris's pants. "Oh, look at you, needy little thing." The teasing sends molten heat through Troy's chest, dripping through his diaphragm and pooling in the base of his cock. He feels electrified.
"Please, Harris, please," Troy doesn't realize that he's saying actual words until Harris kisses him, shushing him quietly and devouring him whole. His big hands grab Troy's hips and hold him still where he's still trying to hump his husband like a dog in heat. "Need you—need you closer."
"Fuck, baby, you need me to fuck you? That's all you're good for right now, isn't it?" Troy nods desperately, still trying to rock against Harris's tight grip on his hips. "Yeah, I know. Get my fingers wet, pretty boy." He barely has time to comprehend what Harris is saying before his thick fingers are pressed into Troy's mouth, and then nothing else matters. He moans and his ass burns when he arches his back up, pressing himself as close to Harris as humanly possible.
Troy doesn't really consider himself as someone who has an oral fixation, but he certainly understands the appeal when he imagines having Harris's fingers in his mouth, always. They're the perfect size, like Troy's mouth was made for this. He could just sit next to Harris's desk and float while his very impressive husband works. Just the fleeting image of being knelt next to Harris's legs, present but ignored beyond his purpose, makes him whine.
He loses himself in the pressure against his tongue, the heavy feeling of the hand on his hip, the ambient sound of Harris speaking. Nothing matters right now, everything is soft, and good, so unlike Troy's everyday existence. He doesn't register anything concrete until he realizes that Harris is slowly pulling his fingers out of Troy's mouth. He makes a wrecked sound and tries to grab for Harris's arm.
"I know, you did such a good job, baby." The praise makes him whine and buck against Harris's stomach, the hair sticky with Troy's precum.
"Harris—" Troy pants, pulling his husband in for a desperate kiss, needing to be closer. Their bodies are pressed together from lips to toes and it still doesn't feel like enough; Troy thinks he won't be satisfied until he can crawl inside Harris's barrel chest and stay forever.
After what feels like much too short a time, Harris manages to pull back. "I'm so sad; I need my hands to prep you. I think we might have to get you that gag, baby." Harris's voice is saccharine, the condescension honeyed and loving. What a devastating reality they live in; why wasn't Harris born with extra hands? Troy feels the ridiculous urge to cry. "Aw, baby, it's okay. Here, maybe this will help."
"Oh—oooh, thank you, thank you," Troy gasps, body clenching for a brief moment when Harris presses his fingers into his hole before melting in relief. He hisses when Harris's knuckles brush his bruised ass, twitching as the pain mixes lazily with his pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck, you're so fucking pretty, baby," Harris pants. His movements become more urgent, focused on the task. He's somehow managed to manifest lube out of thin air—or more likely had grabbed their bottle from the nightstand while Troy was out of it earlier—and adds another finger, very clearly taking deep breaths. Troy can't believe that he's the person that gets to see Harris like this, purpose driven to fuck Troy until he can't think for the second time that night. "Hold your legs."
Troy groans but does as he's told, hooking his shaking hands behind his knees. He breathes through the waves of pain as his bruises stretch with the position, but it's all worth it when Harris all but tears his pants open, lines his cock up, and presses into Troy in the span of three breaths. Troy arches as his breath is bullied out of his lungs, the room filled with Harris's shattered moan when his pelvis brushes against Troy's ass.
"Not gonna last," Harris gasps, rocking his hips slowly, practically grinding his cock against Troy's insides.
"Me neither—oh, oh fuuu—ck—" Troy loses the capacity to articulate when Harris starts stroking his weeping cock in time with his thrusts.
For the final time that night, Troy shatters apart, knowing that Harris will catch him and put him back together again. His orgasm builds in his stomach, his chest, before breaking like a wave over him, sending shivers all over. He can feel when Harris finishes, his hips beginning to twitch erratically as he topples over the edge into bliss.
By the time that Harris gets them cleaned up and changed to sleep, it's easier to admit what's been bothering him.
"I'm really worried that I'm fucking up with Monty," Troy mumbles into Harris's chest, having resumed his earlier position of listening to his husband's heart steadily pumping. "I don't know what I did, but he just looks terrified whenever I talk to him." Troy isn't always the best at catching when he's fucked up in the moment, but he can usually look back and piece the clues together. With Monty, fuck, he's barely talked to the kid one-on-one.
"Oh, baby," Harris says mournfully, brushing Troy's bangs out of his eyes, "He's just starstruck. You were his favorite player growing up. I heard Wyatt telling him goofy stories about you to get him to relax, but…" Troy feels Harris shrug. "He's still a baby, but he's coming out of his shell. Wyatt's basically adopted him; he keeps saying that he, Dykstra, and Caitlin share custody." Troy snorts.
"Sound like Hazy," he mutters. He doesn't address the bit about him being Monty's favorite player growing up; no matter how he does the math, he ends up feeling ancient. He's barely in his late twenties. Instead, he focuses on the fact that his first rookie since getting the A isn't scared shitless of him. He takes a big breath, letting it stretch him out and holding it before releasing it. Relief fills the empty space on his next breath and he admits, "I kept feeling like I was just like my dad."
The words hang in the room, and Troy closes his eyes. He takes another breath and can feel when Harris matches him. He knows how upsetting it is for Harris to hear him compare himself to his father, but he can't just bottle things up the same way anymore. An apology beats against the back of his teeth, but he clenches his jaw and holds firm. He's not sorry for sharing his feelings honestly, because sharing isn't wrong. Harris is a grown man who is perfectly capable—
"Thank you for telling me, Troy," Harris says quietly. Troy bites his lip. This isn't a fight, Harris isn't mad at him. As if sensing his building stress, his husband brings his hand up to cup the back of Troy's neck and give it a firm squeeze. "I'm not angry with you, or at you, or even because of you. I love you, and you are nothing like Curtis. Do you know how I know?"
He does, but there's a script to this conversation, so he asks, "How?"
"Because Curtis doesn't ever worry how his actions affect others. He is incapable of thinking of the people around him. He's a narcissistic piece of garbage." A smile tugs at the corner of Troy's mouth as he nods along. Harris sounds so hot when he gets righteous about his piece of shit dad. "You, on the other hand, care very deeply about how you treat people, how you make people feel. You are the kind of person who worries about connecting with a kid who is doing the coolest and also scariest thing he's ever done in his life because you want him to have a support network here.
"Curtis Douchebag McGee Barrett would somehow manage to give less than zero fucks about Monty, or actively try to haze him. You will never do that, because deep down, that is not who you are as a person. And that's always been the case, even if you used harmful behaviors as a defense mechanism in your past. You, Troy Henrietta Barrett, love of my life and father of my dog—" Troy smothers his giggles into Harris's chest. "Are a kind, gentle, resilient, badass of a man. And the next time you hear Curtis in your head, you tell him that I said to fuck right off. Deal?"
"Deal."