atehimrightup | (no subject)

"For you, shirts should always be negotiable," Lee says as he hops in next to him, smirking over at him as the truck roars to life. "You are just-- so fucking nice to look at."

After leaning over to steal one more quick kiss, Lee drives them home. Thankfully, it's not very long before he's pulling into his usual parking spot. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, and Lee takes George's hand as they walk through the lobby of their building. George is holding a discreet black bag, but the loop of the riding crop sticking out the top of it sort of gives it away.

They ride up the elevator with an old white-haired lady who keeps shooting them disgusted looks, whether because of the sex toy bag or because they're holding hands or because Lee is staring at George like he wants to drop to his knees right here, he can't be sure.

If George even notices the way the woman was looking at him, he doesn't given any indication. His hand stays firm in Lee's. After he lets them into the apartment, he shrugs out of his jacket.

"Go and stand at the foot of the bed for me," he says, slipping back easily into the tone he uses with horses, calm and measured. "I need to put these flowers in water."

Well, that answers Lee's question of how and when they're going to do this. George's voice is calm but leaves no room for argument, but Lee doesn't have one. He wants nothing more than to obey.

"Okay," he says simply, twin pink spots high on his cheeks as he turns to head for the bedroom. George didn't tell him to undress so Lee stands at the end of the bed in his clothes and shoes, feeling nervous and giddy all at once.

He doesn't make him wait long, putting the flowers in water and setting them in the middle of the table and then shrugging out of his jacket and walking into the bedroom, bag in hand. He stands in the doorway for a moment, just looking at Lee standing there.

"Good boy," he says, walking up behind him, putting both hands on his shoulders and squeezing firmly. He takes his hands away to wrap them in the hem of Lee's sweater and start to tug it upwards. "Arms up."

As Lee waits, his mind rushes to fill the silence. They just had such a seismic thing happen between them and they’re still finding their footing again. What if this isn’t good time to introduce something new like this?

He fidgets and he worries, but then George is standing in the doorway and looking at him like he’s something special and it stills him. Then George calls him a good boy and all the racing thoughts seem to come to a halt, fading into static as George gets closer. His hands are heavy on Lee’s shoulders, his grip strong and reassuring in a way that makes tension bleed out of him.

Right now, he doesn’t need to worry about anything. He just has to be good, and George will take care of the rest.

He raises his arms up over his head, breathing in deep as the fabric covers his face. Once it’s off, he shakes a few curls out of his face and turns his head to try and look at George.

Lee wants to tell him how good he smells right now, but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to talk. He’s not even sure if he wants to talk, so he settles for leaning in slightly and inhaling deeply through his nose once George is close enough.

Lee starts to turn his head and George clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the way he might with a horse and he corrects the moment with two fingers against Lee's sharp jaw -- not forcing him, but reminding him.

"Arms up," he says again, starting to peel Lee's t-shirt up.."That's my good boy."

George tuts at him and it makes his face burn, but he allows himself to be redirected and stays facing forward when George’s hand falls away.

He lifts his arms and shivers at the praise. Any other time and he might be more embarrassed about the effect those words have on him, but not right now. Lee is determined to give himself over to it, knowing that he can trust George with it. He can trust George with everything.

This time once his shirt is off, Lee keeps his head still as his arms return to his side. He focuses on keeping his breathing even and staying still, letting his eyes fall closed.

George smooths one firm hand down Lee's bare spine and then, without a word, he kneels and starts to unlace Lee's boots. He lifts one foot and then the other, the way he bought to check hooves for stones after a ride, removing Lee's shoes and socks and then running both hands along his thighs as he stands up to start on his belt.

George doesn’t say much of anything, but Lee doesn’t worry about that just yet. He just keeps his gaze on George as much as he can without turning his head, swallowing hard as he sinks down to work on Lee’s boots.

Each touch is precise and methodical, inherently calming, and Lee’s nerves start to settle, bit by bit.

Even George’s gorgeous hands pulling his belt out of his jeans with a hiss of leather against denim don’t get him too worked up, because this isn’t a race. He’ll get what he gets whenever George decides to give it to him, and there is something so reassuring in that.

Edited 2025-10-30 15:35 (UTC)

When he's done that, he leans in, pressing himself against Lee's back for a moment. "That's it," he moments. "You're being such a good boy." He traces his palms up the length of Lee's arms and down over his chest, warm, circular motions like he'd make with a curry brush. Firm enough for Lee to really feel it before he reaches down to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

Lee has to bite back a whimper at the praise, letting his head briefly tip back against George’s shoulder before lifting it again. He wants to say thank you, but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to talk. He’s not sure if he wants to.

George’s hands are warm and firm on his body, not treating him like he’s something fragile. He’s not broken. He lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes, focusing on how George’s hands feel on his body. There’s a callus high on one of George’s palms, probably from riding, and Lee can feel every spot where it drags over his skin.

It’s all so good, and then George’s arms curve around his waist to open his pants and Lee’s breath hitches, but he makes himself stay still.

He opens Lee's jeans and working them down around his hips and pushing them all the way down, taking his underwear with then, stripping him naked.

"Step out of them," he instructs, squeezing Lee's bare arse with one hand.

Lee nods and carefully steps out of the pool of fabric around his ankles, one foot and then the other, until he’s standing naked at the end of the bed. The air in the room is cool enough to make his skin go pebbled, or maybe that’s just from George’s hands on him.

He’s still only half hard, mostly because this isn’t just physical for him. It’s just as much mental, and he feels a calmness starting to settle over him. He welcomes it. He craves it.

Once Lee is naked, George stands back and just looks at him for a moment, admires the long, lean lines of him. He's beautiful, probably the most beautiful thing that George has ever seen.

"Look at you," he says, quiet, admiring. "You're perfect. What a gorgeous boy."

George takes a step back and looks at him appraisingly. There was a time where that would have made Lee fidget nervously, but now he just takes a breath and lets it happen, eyes trained on George’s face.

There is no disappointment there, no regret. He looks like he’s pleased by what he sees and that feels so good, all before he even opens his mouth.

Lee flushes and bites back a whine, shivering from head to toe from the praise. It feels like a physical caress down the long line of his spine, nearly as heavy and warm as George’s hand.

“Thank you,” Lee says in a quiet tremble of a voice, licking his lips and keeping his hands at his sides, eyes trained on George’s face.

The way Lee flushes and the sound of his voice, the way it trembles, is delicious. He lets it linger, for a moment.

"Good boy," he says. "Now. The question is...what else do I want to do for you."

“You can have anything,” Lee breathes out, because at this point it’s true. He doesn’t think that there is literally anything that Lee would deny him if George wanted it, game or no game. If George asked for the moon, Lee would do his fucking best to figure out a way to yank it out of the sky.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says, achingly honest.

"Oh, I know that, sweet boy," says George, his smile utterly sweet. "I know you dont want to be a horse -- just want me to behave like I do when I'm with them -- but this is about the time I'd put a horse through his paces." He steps in again, cupping the side of Lee's face and drawing him in for a sweet, lingering kiss.

A tiny part of Lee feels vaguely pathetic for how badly he needs this, but that part is quiet now. Right now he basks in the attention, all the affection, smiling warm and pleased.

“I’m sure you can figure out a way to make it translate,” Lee says quietly, blushing as if they haven’t had sex in a myriad of obscene ways.

George leans in and Lee forces himself to stay still, letting his eyes fall shut and returning the kiss with soft hum, almost like a whimper. It feels a little like he might vibrate out of his skin, but there’s a calmness at the edges of it that he wants to chase.

"I'm sure I can," says George, his hadn still cradling the side of Lee's face, his thumb stroking against his skin. He thinks about it for a moment before he steps back. "Bend over. Put your hands on the bed."

Lee stares at him, completely besotted, and feels momentarily bereft when his hand falls away. But then he’s speaking in that low, commanding voice and Lee is grateful to be given something to do.

He nods and turns around, placing his feet shoulder width apart and bending at the waist to plant his palms against the mattress. It’s so easy to listen to him, to give him whatever he wants.

Behind him, George takes a moment to take off his shirt, though he leaves on the boots and trousers, as requested. He picks up the bag with the crop and the gag and takes them out, putting them on the bed where Lee will be able to see them in his peripheral vision. For the moment, George puts his hands back on him, starting at his hips and running them up Lee's ribs, skimming to his shoulders and then down his back. He applies firm, equal pressure, the way he'd touch a horse -- confident, and purposeful.

Lee can hear the rustling of fabric and plastic but doesn’t turn his head, staring down at the pattern on their duvet. Marveling over the fact that he lives somewhere with a duvet.

George sets down the crop and gag and Lee glances over at them, but then George’s hands are on him. It’s not sexual, not really, but Lee feels his cock filling where it hangs between his legs. Each sweep of his hands is firm and confident, like he knows exactly how to touch Lee. Because he does.

His hand drags down his spine to the small of his back and Lee can’t help but to press up into a little, whimpering and biting his lip.

Lee makes a soft noise, and lits his arse a little, pushing into George's hands. Biting his lip over a smile, George takes his hands away, clicking his tongue against his teeth again, that noise that he'd learned from a stablemaster when he was a boy.

"Did I tell you you could do that, sweetheart?"

George takes his hands away and Lee makes a sound like he’s been gutted, cheeks flushing as he shakes his head. That tutting sound is worse than the crop would be, he thinks. Worse than a slap. It sounds disappointed and Lee has to bite his lip to keep from whining.

“No, I’m sorry,” he breathes out raggedly, straightening his spine and pressing his hands into the bed. “I’ll be still.”