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Jack's hands moved with deliberate slowness as he buckled the last strap of the leather harness across Robby's chest, feeling the other man's breath hitch beneath his palms. The house was quiet except for the creak of leather and Robby's increasingly unsteady breathing—sounds Jack had come to crave during the long night shifts when his mind wandered to places it shouldn't. Places where he could strip away the careful distance they maintained at work and reduce Robby to nothing but need and surrender.
"Color," said Jack, his voice low and steady despite the heat building in his own body, despite the way his pulse hammered against his throat.
"Green."
Robby's answer came without hesitation, his dark eyes fixed on Jack's face with an intensity that made something twist in Jack's chest—something dangerous and tender that he refused to examine.
"So fucking green."
Jack allowed himself a small smile, then reached for the leather gloves he'd laid out earlier. The ritual of putting them on was as much a part of this as anything that would follow—the smooth slide of supple leather over his fingers, the faint scent of oil and hide and something darker, animal, the way Robby's pupils dilated as he watched. These weren't the sterile gloves they wore in the ER, snapping them on between traumas, between lives saved and lost. These were something else entirely. These were about control and trust and the exquisite cruelty of withholding what they both wanted most.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the leather conform to his hands like a second skin, then traced one gloved fingertip along the edge of the harness where it crossed Robby's collarbone. The leather was warm now, heated by Robby's skin, and Robby shuddered—a full-body tremor that Jack felt in his own bones.
"You've been thinking about this all shift," said Jack.
It wasn't a question. He'd seen the way Robby had looked at him during their brief overlap in the ER earlier, the way his gaze had lingered on Jack's hands when he'd been suturing a laceration on a teenager's forearm. The way Robby's throat had worked when Jack had stripped off his gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin.
"Haven't you?"
"Yes, Sir," said Robby.
His voice was rough, already wrecked, and they'd barely begun. The title sent a jolt of arousal straight through Jack, dark and possessive. They'd negotiated that too, weeks ago, along with everything else—limits and safewords and the careful architecture of trust that made this possible. Jack still wasn't entirely sure how they'd ended up here, how a chance discovery of restraints and leather tucked in Robby's closet had led to this, to months of scenes that left them both wrecked and wanting more. Wanting things neither of them would name.
He should have walked away. Should have pretended he'd never seen any of it, never glimpsed the truth of what Robby needed. Instead, he'd asked questions. Robby had answered with a vulnerability that had nearly broken Jack's carefully maintained control, and, now, Jack couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before. Couldn't imagine not having this—not having Robby stripped bare and bound and trusting him with everything.
Even if it was only this. Even if Robby would never want more than the scenes, the sex, the careful choreography of dominance and submission that let them both pretend they weren't falling apart.
"On your knees," said Jack.
He heard the edge in his own voice—the need for control, the hunger to see Robby yield. He was immediately rewarded: Robby sank down, graceful despite the harness. Jack took a moment to adjust his prosthesis—a practical consideration that Robby had never made awkward, never treated as anything other than part of the mechanics of their bodies. Jack appreciated that more than he'd ever said aloud. Appreciated the way Robby's eyes tracked the movement without pity or discomfort, only patience and something that looked almost like tenderness.
He circled Robby slowly, trailing his gloved fingers across the other man's shoulders, down his spine, feeling the way Robby arched into the touch like he was starving for it. The harness framed his torso beautifully, black leather stark against skin, the straps crossing his chest and back in a pattern that made Jack's mouth go dry. He let himself look, let himself want, let himself catalog every detail—the way the leather bit into Robby's flesh just enough to leave faint impressions, the way Robby's breathing had gone shallow and quick, the way his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his thighs.
"Hands behind your back."
Robby complied without hesitation. Jack secured his wrists with a leather cuff, checking the tightness with practiced efficiency. Not too tight—he'd seen enough nerve damage in the ER to be meticulous about circulation, had treated enough patients who'd been restrained improperly—but snug enough that Robby would feel the constraint with every breath, every movement. The leather was soft against Robby's skin, well-oiled and supple, and Jack ran his gloved thumb over the buckle, feeling the cool metal, the warm leather, the heat of Robby's pulse beneath.
"Color," said Jack, again, because he needed to hear it, needed the reassurance even though he could read Robby's body like a map he'd memorized.
"Green, Sir. Please."
The please nearly undid him. Jack ran his gloved hand through Robby's hair, gripping firmly, tilting his head back until Robby's throat was exposed, vulnerable. Robby's eyes were dark and hazy, his lips parted. Jack wanted to kiss him so badly it ached—wanted to taste the desperation on Robby's tongue, wanted to swallow the sounds Robby made when he was like this, open and needy and his. But that wasn't part of their arrangement. They fucked, they scened, they went back to being colleagues and friends who happened to know exactly how the other sounded when they came apart.
They didn't kiss. They didn't talk about what any of this meant. They didn't acknowledge the way Jack's chest tightened every time Robby called him Sir, or the way Robby looked at him sometimes in the ER with something that might have been longing.
Jack released Robby's hair and moved to retrieve the leather paddle from the bed. It was well-made, the leather thick and supple, dark with oil and use. He'd watched Robby's face the first time he'd seen it—the flash of want quickly masked by that sardonic expression Robby wore like armor at work, the defense mechanism that kept everyone at a distance. Everyone except Jack, here, now, when Robby let himself be stripped of everything but need.
"Count," said Jack, positioning himself behind Robby, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "And color after five."
The first strike landed with a satisfying crack, leather on skin, and Robby gasped—a sharp, broken sound that went straight to Jack's cock.
"One."
Jack watched the way Robby's shoulders tensed, the way his fingers flexed in the cuffs, the way the leather harness creaked with the movement. He waited, letting the anticipation build, letting Robby feel the sting bloom across his skin, then delivered the second strike—harder this time, more deliberate.
"Two."
Robby's voice was already starting to fray at the edges. Jack continued, methodically and controlled, each strike placed with the precision he used in the ER—the same focus, the same attention to detail, but inverted. In the ER, he healed. Here, he hurt, within the careful boundaries they'd negotiated, and the trust required for that was more intimate than anything else they'd ever shared.
By five, Robby's voice had gone rough and ragged, and Jack paused, running his gloved hand over the heated skin. He could feel the warmth even through the leather, could see the faint redness blooming across Robby's ass and thighs.
"Color."
"Green. Fuck—green, Sir."
Robby's breathing was harsh, uneven. Jack could see the way he was trembling, could see the way his cock was hard and leaking against his thigh.
Jack continued, watching for any sign of distress and finding none—only surrender, only trust, only the kind of vulnerability that made Jack's throat tight. Robby took it beautifully, his breathing harsh but steady, his body yielding to each impact. Jack felt something dark and possessive unfurl in his chest.
Mine, he thought, and hated himself for it, because Robby wasn't his. Not really. Not outside of this.
When Jack finally set the paddle aside, Robby was trembling, his skin flushed and marked. Jack couldn't stop himself from running his gloved hands over the heated flesh, feeling the way Robby shuddered at the touch.
"Good," murmured Jack, and he meant it.
He meant it more than he'd ever meant anything. He unbuckled the cuffs slowly, carefully, massaging Robby's wrists with gentle pressure, checking for any numbness or tingling. Robby's pulse was racing beneath his fingers. Jack wanted to press his mouth to that frantic beat, wanted to taste the salt of Robby's skin. Instead, he guided him up onto the bed with steady hands.
"On your back."
Robby sprawled across the sheets, flushed and gorgeous and utterly wrecked. Jack took his time removing his prosthesis—easier to maneuver without it, easier to position himself where he needed to be. He kept the gloves on, because he knew Robby loved the feel of leather against his skin, loved the contrast between the softness of the gloves and the hardness of Jack's control.
Jack reached for the leather cuffs he'd secured to the bedframe earlier—part of their ritual, the preparation that made this possible. He buckled Robby's left wrist first, then his right, checking the tightness with practiced efficiency. Not too tight—he pressed two gloved fingers between leather and skin, feeling for proper circulation, watching for any sign of discomfort in Robby's face.
"Color," said Jack, his voice low and steady.
"Green."
Robby's answer came immediately, his dark eyes fixed on Jack's face with an intensity that made Jack's chest tighten.
"Green, Sir."
Jack nodded, then ran his gloved hands down Robby's arms, feeling the way Robby shivered at the touch. The leather was warm now, supple, and Jack let himself take his time—trailing his fingers over Robby's shoulders, down his chest, tracing the edges of the harness where it framed his torso. Robby's breathing was already unsteady, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. Jack hadn't even really touched him yet.
"You're going to stay still for me," said Jack, settling beside Robby on the bed, close enough that Robby could feel the heat of his body. "You're going to take what I give you, and you're not going to come until I say you can. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
Robby's voice was already rough, already wrecked, and something dark and possessive unfurled in Jack's chest at the sound of it. Jack traced one gloved finger down the center of Robby's chest, following the line of the harness, watching the way Robby's muscles tensed beneath his touch. He could feel Robby's heartbeat, rapid and frantic, could see the way his breathing had gone shallow. Jack wanted to memorize this—wanted to burn the image into his brain so he could recall it during the long shifts when they had to pretend this didn't exist.
He let his hand drift lower, ghosting over Robby's stomach, deliberately avoiding his cock. Robby made a frustrated sound, his hips lifting slightly, seeking contact. Jack pressed his other hand firmly against Robby's hip, holding him down.
"Still," reminded Jack, his voice edged with command.
Robby went rigid, trembling with the effort of obedience. Jack continued his exploration, mapping Robby's body with gloved hands—the curve of his ribs, the jut of his hipbones, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Every touch was deliberate, calculated to build need without offering relief. Robby was making soft, desperate sounds now, his hands flexing in the cuffs. Jack could see the way his cock was leaking, flushed and hard and untouched.
"Please," Robby gasped, and Jack felt the word like a physical touch, felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest where he couldn't afford to examine it too closely.
"Not yet," said Jack, and finally—finally—wrapped his gloved hand around Robby's cock.
The sound Robby made was broken and raw, his back arching off the bed despite Jack's command to stay still. The leather was smooth and slick against heated skin, and Jack stroked slowly, deliberately, watching Robby's face. He could read every flicker of pleasure there, every spike of need, could see the exact moment when Robby started to climb toward orgasm.
Jack stopped.
His hand went still, wrapped loosely around Robby's cock, and Robby made a sound that was almost a sob. His whole body was trembling, straining against the restraints, and Jack could see the sheen of sweat on his skin, the way his chest heaved with each breath.
"Color," said Jack, quietly, because he needed to hear it, needed the reassurance even though he could read Robby's body like a map he'd memorized.
"Green," said Robby, his voice shaking. "Fuck—green, Sir, please—"
Jack waited, letting the desperation build, letting Robby feel the ache of denial, then started stroking again. Slow at first, then faster, his gloved hand moving with practiced precision. He knew exactly how Robby liked to be touched, knew the pressure and rhythm that would take him apart, and he used that knowledge ruthlessly. The leather of his glove was slick now, obscene, and the harness creaked with every movement as Robby writhed beneath him.
Jack watched Robby's face, tracked the way his breathing changed, the way his muscles tensed, the way his eyes went hazy and unfocused. He could see the orgasm building, could feel it in the way Robby's cock pulsed in his hand, and he stopped again—pulled his hand away completely this time.
Robby cried out, a desperate, broken soundJack saw the first tear slip down his temple. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming intensity of it, from the way pleasure and denial and trust were all tangled together into something almost unbearable.
"I've got you," murmured Jack, and meant it in ways he couldn't afford to examine. He ran his free hand over Robby's chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, feeling the leather of the harness beneath his palm. "You're doing so well. Color."
"Green,” whispered Robby, unable to speak any louder his own tears and need. "Still green, Sir. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
Jack wrapped his hand around Robby's cock again, and this time he didn't stop. He stroked with steady, deliberate pressure, his gloved hand slick and sure, watching the way Robby fell apart beneath him. More tears slipped free, tracking down Robby's temples. His whole body was trembling, straining against the cuffs, chasing the pleasure Jack was finally—finally—allowing him to have.
Jack wanted to kiss him. Wanted to taste the salt of those tears, wanted to swallow the desperate sounds Robby was making, wanted to tell him that this meant something, that it wasn't just sex and scenes and careful distance. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with fear and the terrible certainty that Robby didn't want more than this, didn't want the messy reality of Jack outside these carefully negotiated boundaries.
So instead, Jack focused on the slide of leather against skin, on the way Robby's cock pulsed in his hand, on the broken pleas falling from Robby's lips. He brought him right to the edge again, felt the way Robby's whole body tensed, and this time—this time—he didn't stop.
"Come," commanded Jack, his voice rough with his own need.
The orgasm tore through Robby immediately, violent and overwhelming, and Robby came with a sound that was half-sob, half-scream, spilling over Jack's gloved hand and his own stomach. His body arched off the bed, straining against the restraints. Jack stroked him through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until Robby finally went limp, gasping and shaking and utterly wrecked.
Jack released him slowly, carefully, and reached up to unbuckle the cuffs. He massaged Robby's wrists again, checking for any damage, any sign that he'd pushed too far, and found none—only the rapid flutter of Robby's pulse beneath his fingers, only the tear-streaked flush of his face, only the soft, sated sounds he was making as he came back to himself.
Jack's cock was still hard, aching, and he could feel the slickness of lube and sweat on his skin. There was time. They had all night, and Jack intended to use every minute of it.
"Color," requested Jack, quietly, reaching out to run his hand over Robby's chest, feeling the leather of the harness, the rapid rise and fall of Robby's breathing.
Robby's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, soft and sated and still edged with need.
"Green, Sir. Still green."
Jack's chest tightened with something he refused to name—something that felt too much like love, like the kind of tenderness that would ruin everything if he let it.
"Good," he said, his voice rough. "Because we're not done yet."