“Price wants to see you, darlin’!”

Kyle’s hand squeezes your arm as he brushes past you on his way to set, casting a devastating smile back over his shoulder.

Easily the most powerful screen presence in the studio, you remember when Kyle was fresh in the scene, nervously bouncing on his heels before takes. Now he’s a bona fide professional, pulling in thousands of views per day; that gorgeous face and talent for putting people at ease have paid off.

It’s nice to see him bloom. But it reminds you slightly of how your own season is withering.

You’ve been doing this for a long time—too long, in fact, to see anything without the jaded outlook of someone who should have given it up after the first ache of weariness in their bones.

A sour taste is left in your mouth after one too many rounds with a co-star that jackhammers into you, obsessed with their own masculinity, a vacuous need to make sure all that work in the gym has paid off in shots of their bodies.

Your own following remains high, a guaranteed success for each new video with your name tagged to it. But your love of the industry is fading faster than a dying star.

The new talent, by and large, is boring, hyper-masculine, and conceited to the extent you’ve added several names to your filming blacklist. You’ve been meaning to ask Price if you can move into directing; perhaps today will be the opportunity you need to make that happen.

Price has managed you for years, ever since you both starred in your first hit together. When he opened his own studio, naturally you followed, the intensity of your on-screen dynamic melding into an entirely natural friendship with age.

You trust each other, your relationship built on a firm foundation of mutual respect. However, that doesn’t mean Price can’t attempt to take the piss at times.

“Jesus Christ, John! Again? Really? I told you I wasn’t dealing with any more rookies!”

John leans back in his chair, a thin plume of cigar smoke casting a haze over those steady, cerulean eyes. He raises both of his hands in a conciliatory gesture, like a blackjack dealer showing his hand is over.

“Sweetheart, I know, but you’ll like him! He’s got a lot of promise, just needs a bit of a guiding hand, tha’s all! Nice fella! Ya know I wouldn’t put you with no one I didn’t think was decent.”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter, John!” You snap furiously. “I’m not the safe pair of hands you wheel out when you’ve got a nervous colt to break!”

“Of course you’re not.” John soothes, in a voice he knows full well doesn’t match the steely look in his face. “But the bloke’s pulling in serious statistics on his amateur stuff, even! It would be a bloody good opportunity for the studio, an’ we’d all make bank. Think of the bigger picture—including your shareholding.”

A low blow for a bastard who knows you still have some mortgage to pay on your second home on the coast. You scowl at him, and he looks placidly right back, unconcerned by your temper tantrum as always.

“He needs a mentor, love. Someone to show him the ropes of workin’ in a studio like ours. One video? You can do tha’ for me, eh? Then we’ll get ya nose into some direction? Other side of camera for a change?!”

John sweet-talks you far too easily. You consider it, then sigh.

“Fine. One video. But I want options on what I direct.”

“It’s a deal.” John beams, stubbing out the cigar and leaving the smell of herbs to linger between you, while your eyes remain mutinously fixed on him. “Now, why don’t ya come and say hello? I’ll introduce the pair of you; he’s filming as we speak, can get a look at him.”

You follow him through the corridors, past make-up and down the stairs. People part to let John through, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, squeezing your fingers in a pattern until you giggle.

It never gets old, your affection for him. How John reads you like a book. Several starlets wave shyly at you when you pass, sweet little things you’ve chatted to during breaks or sessions in the hairdressing chair. You’re slightly protective over them, and they know to come to you with any growing pains or worries.

Finally, you reach the smaller of the sets at the end of the building, and John opens the door quietly, tugging you inside.

It’s hot, humid. The blinding dazzle of lights illuminates a false bedroom before you. It takes your eyes a second to adjust, retinas burning in the haloed glow of it all.

Then you spot him, and any coherent thought becomes lost in the vision.

Godlike, he towers over the petite blonde squirming beneath him in silken sheets. Endlessly his hips piston, abs flexing with sweat-sheened vigour as he tucks her thigh neatly around his waist.

One huge hand lays flat across her stomach, taking up more flesh than should be allowed, a thumb relentlessly bullying her clit until she arches for him, bows as strings would to an accomplished musician.

He’s fucking her deep, guttural grunts echoing from his built chest. There’s no escape for her; cornered, you watch her begin to shatter around him, toes curling, her muscles flexing tight as a silent scream scrunches her brows shut. She cums, hard and without mercy. He doesn’t stop or slow, even while his partner shudders through it.

He isn’t rough. He doesn’t need to be. A natural rhythm and a body the camera will eat up. There’s a gravitas to him, something serious that translates well into each movement. Steady control, thought behind each action, hardly the excitable buck you were expecting.

A real orgasm is a rare thing at times. This rookie spins one out of her like sweet sugar, leaving his partner’s limbs lax and syrupy.

As soon as her body relaxes, he flips her easily, rolling her front ways so the audience gets a gorgeous view of her still fluttering cunt. The perfect shot cams over his shoulder, a long, thick cock plunging in and out, coated in creamy arousal while that huge handspan spreads her ass cheeks to allow for deeper penetration.

You watch his careful approach, his stare skimming the length of her back like he’s calculating something. Then he stoops, depositing a gleaming glob of spittle on her tight, puckered asshole, pressing a thumb in shortly after that makes his partner gush with arousal.

It coats his masculine thighs, though they don’t stop bouncing, stamina and strength concentrated on guiding her through another orgasm.

“Bloody hell.” You breathe softly. John nods in response, leaning towards you so the scent of peppermint and smoke grows heavy, his arm around your waist.

“Told ya. He’s good. Very good, in fact. In front of the camera he’s a fuckin’ natural.” John pauses, tucking his arm around your waist and dragging his own stare over the pair on the bed. “Should see the way he eats pussy—would give Soap a run for his money. Half-starved and twice as desperate.”

“Natural is right.” Transfixed, you watch his broad shoulders flex. He wouldn’t look out of place in a gladiatorial arena, muscles defined with ruthless power, intention laced in those heavy brows. You’d put money on him being as adept with a sword as he is with his cock.

The girl quakes, coming down from another genuine peak, getting to her knees shakily only to bury her face in the pillow as he bears down on her again.

Chest to back, a strong forearm supports her from below, allowing his partner to squirm deliciously on his cock. Her face is flushed, a high colour in her cheeks as she moans for him on repeat.

She’s so wet, each slap of his heavy balls on her pussy makes a slick sound of skin on skin. It sends a jolting shiver along your spine, his mastery of the situation, the firm authority he holds over her body, an instrument played to perfection in his hands.

A cock that size is a gift, but he doesn’t let it do all the work. The sight of its fleshy, pale pink tip turning redder with need makes your gut lurch. It seems to swell before your stare, the sheer physical presence of him indomitable.

“What do you reckon then?” John whispers, watching you glaze over. “Will ya give him a chance for me?”

He’s building up to a crescendo, the orchestra at his fingertips while you watch each move he makes. Pulling his partner flush to his body, he toys with her, cups her breasts and plants several mean nips against her collar bone.

The poor thing is exhausted but wearing a look of utter bliss etched into every feature. From here you can see his cock throbbing, balls tightening as he rolls into her, inevitable waves crashing over a shore.

At the last second, he pulls out, sending a spurt of thin, white semen over her lower back. Thoughtfully, he rubs it into her skin while the camera blinks overhead. Marking her. Claiming her in a spectacular display you know viewers will eat up.

“What’s his name?” You ask John vaguely, eyes still fixed on the Adonis before you.

A hand clamped around your arm.

"Inside. Now."

The nurse didn’t wait.

You stood beside Jake, jotting notes as the doctors worked fast and viciously efficient. Orders barked. Metal clanged. The air stank of antiseptic and iron.

By evening, your hands ached. Your legs felt hollow. You were halfway through cold noodles when footsteps thundered back toward you.

"Oi!!! you. He wants you."

The head nurse shoved a needle pack into your chest, scowling.

"He’s being a right bastard. Refusin’ everyone."

Apparently Ghost had been snarling at anyone who came close.

"Not you. Get off."

"Don’t touch me."

"Send someone who knows what they’re doin’."

Then, sharp and final:

"The short daft one. The trainee."

You stepped into the room and stopped.

Ghost was propped up on the bed, stripped of most of his gear. Bloodied. Furious. His voice was low and lethal as he snapped at the nurse adjusting the IV.

"Get your hands off me before I break ‘em," he growled, thick Mancunian cutting through the room. "I said wait."

The nurse scoffed. "You’re not in charge here -"

His head snapped up.

"Try me. These hands are pansexual"

Then-

He saw you. Everything stopped.

His jaw clenched. His shoulders went rigid. Whatever fight had been clawing its way out of him slammed back behind steel doors. Gods he wanted to fix his uniform and tidy up right this moment. He looks down adjusting his mask to sit properly.

"…Right" he muttered, quieter. Controlled. "You can go."

The nurse blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said go."

She hesitated, then shot you a look and left.

You swallowed and moved closer.

"I’m going to stitch your wound, sir" you said, voice steady. "I need you still."

He didn’t bite back. Didn’t snap.

"Get on with it" he said gruffly, eyes fixed on the wall behind you. Acting indifferent as if he didn't beg for you seconds before.

You worked carefully. The gash across his abdomen was deep, angry. When the needle went in, his breath hitched - but he didn’t make a sound.

Not a hiss.

Not a curse.

"You need to tell me if it hurts" you said softly.

A beat.

"…I’m fine rookie."

A lie. You both knew it.

As you leaned in to wrap the bandage, his hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white. Like he was holding himself together by force alone.

"Careful. Are you carving yer name on me" he muttered - not sharp. Not threatening. Just strained.

"Sorry sir."

"Didn't complain. Just don't rush" he mumbles still looking at the wall behind you.

"I won’t" you promised.

The overhead lights caught the rain still clinging to your hair. Water dripped onto the floor. He noticed.

"You’re soaked" he said quietly as blood loss finally takes toll on him.

"It’s nothing."

His jaw tightened. His warm brown eyes tracing your face as lightning flashes revealing every speck of your eye. The ceiling lights forming a halo around your head as you loom over him wrapping the bandage. An angel, he thought, thanks to delirium.

"Shouldn’t have you out there" he muttered, more to himself than you. Then, harsher - like he was correcting the softness:

"Focus."

You finished the wrap. Stepped back.

Only then did he look at you properly.

"You know you smell like Manchester after rain..a proper storm" he whispers voice low, reluctant. His head falls back on the pillow as he looks around hazily now.

You didn't hear him as you clean bloodied hands in the basin. Before you could ask him to repeat-

The door opened.

"Well, I’ll be damned" Price said, stepping in. "You’ve gone quiet."

He draped a jacket around your shoulders. "Don't want our medics falling ill too."

"Two weeks, Riley. You’re not goin’ anywhere."

Ghost nodded once.

"Good."

Price frowned. "Huh. You want to stay?"

Ghost’s gaze followed you as you left the room.

"…Aye. Good"

Across the base, it spread in hushed voices.

Ghost wasn’t asking for discharge.

Ghost wasn’t fighting the medics anymore.

But if anyone else walked into that room? They got snapped at.

And every night, without fail, one question cut through the corridor - low, rough, unmistakably his:

"She here?"

"…My medic. Is she here?"

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

Maybe you should get a new clipboard, clear this time, so you can’t see exactly where your anxiety scraped away the color. Maybe you should get a manicure, even if it is nude.

The report you’re supposed to fill out is still blank.

Title name— Simon Riley.

You’ve pinched your lip raw between your teeth staring at it, peeling dry skin too far back until it physically hurts and you have to suck the flesh to subdue the sting. His name tends to incite that reaction, frustration bubbling in your chest and forcing you to release it through anxious fingers and aggressive teeth.

You’ve managed to handle the task force thus far, completed most of their files with ease. You’ve had your fair share of hardheaded, arrogant patients, but Simon Riley is a man you can’t seem to capture.

Even your notes are bare.

Captain John Price— Downplays his injuries. Pretends he’s not in pain for the sake of his men. Attempts to decline rest time because he claims he has too much work to do, but enjoys being on leave.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick— The easiest by far. The perfect patient. Listens to directions. Always shows up for his check-ups. Never disagrees with your orders. Always takes a lollipop on his way out.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish— A bit flirtatious. Can hardly understand what he says because of his thick Scottish accent. See him several times a week because he seems to be attracted to danger. Eager to get back in the field, he never allows himself time to fully heal.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley— Refuses treatment.

That’s the issue.

You watched him limp off the helicopter this morning, pushing all his weight onto his right leg as he brushed past you without a word like you aren’t his nurse and he isn’t supposed to check in with you.

“Lieutenant!” You had called, speed-walking behind him because if you don’t catch him immediately off the heli then you won’t see him at all.

No response came but the stomping of his heavy boots.

“Lieutenant,” You pointed out, “You’re limping.”

He grunted.

“Is it your ankle?” You asked, continuing when he didn’t speak. “Does it hurt?”

He halted, turning to look at you, hiding the wince he made behind his skull mask. A moment that made you think you had finally won him over for the first time in months.

“No.”

“You should let me look at it, sir.” You insisted, brows furrowed together because of his obvious pain, almost pleading at that point.

“Did perfectly fine without you,” He responded, turning away again, “Don’t need you now.”

“You’re going to need me if you don’t take proper care of that.” You said, sighing under your breath as he began to wobble away anyway.

“At least wrap it!” You had shouted after him, “And keep your weight off it!”

Title name— Simon Riley.

Another blank report with his name on it. The same ones you’re supposed to complete each time he returns home, regardless of injury. Instead, you’ve got a stack of blank reports with the same name and a headache you’re soon going to face from Laswell.

His posture tightened. You stepped closer.

“If you spare him—I’ll stay. I won’t run at the first opportunity. I won’t fight you. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… just let him live.” Your voice shook. Your hands did too. “You want me to act like I belong to you?” You blinked the tears away and stuck your chin out. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll be that.” I'll be yours.

König turned, angling himself slightly away from you, his fists clenched at his sides.

You moved closer, nearly to his chest now, small compared to the sheer breadth of him. You looked up at him, doing your best to convey your sincerity and the confidence that you were struggling to muster.

“Just don’t kill him.”

There was a silence so deep it threatened to collapse in on itself. And then, from behind the hood—

“You’d trade your freedom for his?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

He exhaled sharply. It sounded almost angry, and you felt a spike of anxiety stabbing in your chest. Then, slowly, painfully, he lifted one hand and pressed it gently to the side of your neck.

He squeezed, ever so slightly.

You closed your eyes, and one single tear slipped down your cheek, running off your chin and onto the floor.

“I won’t kill him.” Your eyes flew open. “But you will not see him again.”

You nodded, breath loosening in your chest. It was a compromise. One you could live with.

König was already walking away, his back stiff, like he was carrying something heavy.

König stalked through the corridor with his fists clenched impossibly tight at his sides.

Every soldier that passed him looked away, occupying themselves with arbitrary tasks that suddenly required their immediate attention. Good.

He didn’t want their eyes, didn’t want their questions. He didn’t want anyone to see him right now. Because if they looked, they might be able to see that something was breaking open inside him… and he didn’t know how to stop it.

You’d trade your freedom for his?

Yes.

You hadn’t even hesitated. He should have left the boy to his fate. To be questioned and killed brutally, in whatever manner his interrogator saw fit that day. He would have, before.

But now?

Now some mouthy little medic, terrified, trembling, all soft eyes and bruised skin, had clawed her way beneath his armor without even trying.

Now he was doing things for her. Showing mercy, kindness… Things that didn’t belong to a man like him.

He could still feel the weight of her voice in his chest.

Just don’t kill him.

She hadn’t even begged like that for herself. But she did for her someone else.

He couldn't hurt the boy. He’d already promised her. And worst of all, he hadn’t done it out of strategy. It wasn’t a calculated move.

He’d done it because he couldn’t stand the way she looked at him when she was afraid of what he might do. Too often, she'd looked at him with that fear in her eyes, and finally, he felt he had the chance to relieve her of it.

And he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to give her a little relief and reassurance and hope.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

You were still in the officer’s quarters. The bed was made again.

The bruise on your cheek was darker now, blooming in deep plum accented by a sickly yellow, but you were steadier. König had promised to keep your squad mate alive and, for the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe.

When König returned, he didn’t say a word. He just crossed to the chair near the window and sat with a rigid posture.

You sank down onto on the edge of the bed, hesitantly. The air between you felt tense, again. You opened your mouth once, but closed it again, before gathering the courage to break the silence.

“Thank you.” It was quiet and earnest. Your fingers twisted together nervously in your lap. “I know what it cost you. Letting him live.”

König didn’t look at you when he spoke, his back straight and his hand clenched on the desk in front of him.

“You don’t know anything.” His tone was cold and sharp.

You couldn’t help but flinch. You swallowed and tried again.

“I just… I wanted to say it. That’s all.”

Still no answer.

He was staring at the wall like it held the answer to all of life’s questions. The silence between you stretched on, tense and uncomfortable. He clearly was none too happy about the situation.

“Come here,” he said abruptly, reaching over to open the top drawer of the desk.

You rose and shuffled over to where he was seated. He put down a first aid kit on the desk and began shucking off his shirt, careful not to remove the hood that veiled his facial features.

You forced your eyes to the bandaged wound on his side so they wouldn’t linger anywhere else on his bare torso.

He gestured from his wound to the first aid kit.

“You want me to change your bandages?” You asked, your brows scrunching.

“Ja.”

You thought it was odd that he was still having you tend to him, but you meant what you said when you’d made the bargain. He’d held up his end, so you would hold up yours.

No running or screaming. No begging or fighting.

You were his, now, whatever he decided that meant.

You knelt beside him as he stripped his side of the stained, old wrappings, revealing angry red flesh beneath. He didn’t wince when you start cleaning it, though his breathing deepened slightly at the sting of antiseptic.

After working in silence for a few more minutes, you broke the quiet.

“Why me?” you asked, dabbing gently at the wound. “You could just go to base medical.”

His gaze dropped to you, steady and unblinking through the veil.

“What’s the point in having your own medic,” he rumbled, “if I don’t put her to good use?”

You paused, lips pressing together. Fair enough.

“Many men,” you said slowly, “would have a very different idea of what ‘good use’ looks like.”

You glanced up at him, a faint spark of curiosity breaking through your cautious tone.

“Are you into men, then?” He stared at you, so you awkwardly mumbled on. “Not women? Or... or both, maybe?”

For a moment, he said nothing. You wondered if you had hit a nerve, asking such a personal question.

Then, so faintly you almost missed it, a low rumble came from deep in his chest.

It took you a second to realize it was a chuckle. He was laughing.

You blinked at him, startled, but it was enough to break the tension between the two of you.

You smiled, tilting your head to meet his gaze, what you could see of it, in the low light. You lifted your hand slowly and carefully.

He didn’t move at first, but the moment your fingers brushed the edge of the dark fabric draping his face, his reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight.

Startled, you sucked in a sharp breath, but you didn’t try to pull away. You didn’t cry out. Instead, you whispered, “Please… let me.”

Your voice was gentle, innocent.

You felt the twitch in his grip… the battle in him, before he let go.

Your pulse pounded in your wrist where his hand had been, but you still didn’t move away.

You reached again, even slower, and this time he allowed it. You pulled his hood back slowly, just enough to reveal the lower half of his face.

You saw his dark beard, well-groomed and neatly kept. His strong jawline, a square chin. But what drew your eye was the scar.

Jagged and uneven, running diagonally over both lips.

You didn’t comment on it or ask him where it came from. You simply leaned in, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, just below the edge of the scar.

Not out of romance or pity, but gratitude. A thank you that couldn’t be spoken aloud. You felt him go very still. His breathing had gone so quiet that you wondered if he was holding his breath.

You quietly pulled the fabric back into place, covering him again. And when you met his eyes again, they were softer, almost confused. As if he didn’t know what to do with the gift you just gave him.

You didn’t say anything else, and neither did he.

But that night, when you laid in his bed, his hand found yours beneath the blanket, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

And it stayed, holding yours until morning.

You were asleep when the pounding hit.

THUD, THUD, THUD.

“Colonel!” A voice shouted through the door in rough, panicked German. “Der Gefangene ist entkommen!" The prisoner has escaped!

Your body jolted upright, the panic of being torn from sleep rocking you before you'd even fully awoken.

König was already moving, adjusting his hood over his face.

He cursed under his breath in rapid German as he pulled on his trousers, dragging a jacket over his bare chest, then leaned down to lace up his boots with the speed of a man trained to respond instantly to threat.

You were wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else blinking against the sudden cold air and confusion. You recognized that word: Gefangene. Prisoner.

Danny.

You rose from the bed and moved toward him, barefeet padding on the concrete floor.

“Wait. König, remember what you said.” He didn’t look at you, as he continued to dress. “You promised.” Your voice shook with urgency.

His hand froze on the button of his jacket.

“Nein,” he said with pity saturating his tone. “This changes things.”

Your stomach twisted painfully, and you stepped closer, gripping the front of his jacket in an act of pure desperation.

“No. No, please, don’t say that. He’s not dangerous. He’s just scared—he doesn’t know—”

You were silenced by the sudden grip of his hands on your shoulders.

“You listen to me, fräulein,” he growled. “You are only safe because of who I am. What I am.”

You stared up at him through your lashes, your fingers tugging on his jacket. His large hands tightened their grip on you.

“My men—” he nodded sharply toward the locked door. “—they do not touch you because they fear me. Because they respect me. If I show weakness, mercy, you lose that.”

The truth landed like a blow.

They had all seen what he had done to the soldier who dared to lay a hand on you. If he failed to maintain that demonstrative ruthlessness, would it be an invitation for someone else to challenge his authority?

But you thought of Danny Jackson. As far as you knew, he was the only member of your squad that was still alive.

You shook your head. “I don’t care—”

König cut you off with a sudden snarl.

“I do.”

Silence fell abruptly between the two of you.

His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and his hands were still on you, clutching you firmly in his grasp. You stared up at him, stunned. The words echoing in your mind.

I do.

He cared. Not softly or sweetly, but fiercely, possessively. That terrified you more than any soldier on base.

He released your shoulders and stalked toward the door, yanking it open.

“Wait! König—”

He didn’t look back.

SLAM.

He was gone.

Click.

You were locked in.

You rocked forward on the balls of your feet, as if you could go after him. Your bare feet were on ice cold concrete. The thundering of your heart reverberated deep in your chest as your world was shaken by one realization:

the way he treated your baby with such softness and love. his voice changed into a higher, softer tone when talking to the baby. his eyes softened and his rough hands laid gentle touches on the baby.

you stared at him for what seemed like forever. he was the most softest human being at that moment. but then he caught you.

his eyes flicked to yours. you hadnt even noticed, too far gone in your thoughts with a lovesick smile on your lips.

"what?" he asked, sititng up straight while your baby patted his cheek softly. you finally escaped your thoughts, shaking your head. "nothing."

simon chuckled. "it cant be nothing if you're looking at me like that."

"like how?"

he turned his body towards you, his knee pressing against yours.

"like you have a crush on me. i thought we were passed that stage."

you laughed softly. "can't i have a little crush?"

simon shook his head. "on your husband?"

you nodded. "my husband is feeding my baby watermelon in the most endearing way possible. how could i not have a crush on you?"

simon couldn't help but crack a smile. "if that's the case then i have something to tell you."

you tilt your head with a smile. "hm?"

"i have a crush on you too."

<-Date needed for Easter reunion. Desperate.

[casual encounters]

“I'm a recently discharged, disabled veteran(medical: TBI) who never had time to date but has a very nosey (very catholic) family that asks a lot of questions. My mam just wants to know someone is taking care of me (can take care of myself) so I may have lied to her and told her I was dating someone. Which is where you come in.

You are:

-single

-willing to lie

-looking for a holiday in Scotland

-able to sit through mass

I will pay you in:

-my mam's cooking (it's good)

-free trip to the highlands

-whatever you want to steal from my sister's closet

Date is needed for my family reunion on Holy Saturday so I can reassure people I’m not going to accidentally die alone in my flat.

*

You stare at the man across the table from you and try to catalogue his features. If you don’t break him down piecemeal then the weight of his good looks might cause you to buckle. Two eyes, electric blue. Staring at them too long forces your gaze to wander away from them to other parts of his face. Two lips, pink and quirked into a crooked smile, showing off slightly discolored teeth. Coffee, you think, glancing down at his steaming cup. Your eyes drift up to his again, and again you find them drifting away. One bold pink scar at his temple, star shaped and cutting through his closely shaved hair in a single jagged slice. Your eyes linger on it until he reaches, almost sheepishly, to touch the thing.

“Aye, let’s get that out of the way first.” John agrees with your silent staring. You shake your head and focus on his eyes again, on the slight crease between his brow that speaks of unease.

“Oh, no it’s-” you hesitate on the words, “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, we can just ignore it.” He stares at you and you tack on, “I’m sorry for staring.”

“Nae the first person to stare, willnae be the last.” He hums. It feels like a reminder of sorts. For him you’re sure, but the familiarity of his tone makes you feel oddly… included. 

“Does your-” You stop yourself from asking if his family stares, that feels a little too personal in a way that you can’t be with a stranger, “-Does your family already think you have a girlfriend?” You ask instead. John laughs and it’s so deep and throaty that it catches your breath in your chest. 

“Aye, been tellin’ them I had you for a while now.” He nods, “Been dyin’ tae meet ya, but I kept putting it off.”

It’s your turn to nod. You understand that. It’s easier to keep a lie going than have a new one to tie together.

“Y’are a bonnie thing,” John mumbles, his lips catching against each other, his tongue weighted and his brows drawn low, he swallows before enunciating, “so sweet Ah cannae believe someone else hasnae sunk their teeth intae ya.” 

You’ve held his gaze too long, the violent blue shivers and shakes, with the strain of staring back at you. You feel your left eye twitch and jerkingly look down at your folded hands on the table. The color of your knuckles looks thinner, strained by the clench of your fingers against the wood. Anything to keep the anxious shaking at bay. Impatient to get away from the public eye, but grateful for the chance to meet a stranger with so many witnesses.

Your brain tries to latch onto John’s… compliment, and you brush it off. The doctor had said traumatic brain injuries make people impulsive, make it harder for them to police what they’re saying and doing. You can’t hold it against him if his inside thoughts roll off his tongue into the outside.

Actually, you feel sort of bad for taking advantage of the guy. You need him more than he needs you. The quick escape he offers isn’t one you take lightly, and this ruse is more reliable than anything else. It’s just… he seems nice. The way he fusses with his jumper reminds you of a puppy trying to walk with shoes on for the first time. He’s big and uncoordinated in a way that you should find endearing. His hands shake, his fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as a way to divert the energy. He squeezes his fingers into a tight fist when he notices you staring.

“Another gift from the bullet that had me discharged.” He huffs, “Makes mah mam worry seein’ me shake, made mah captain worry too.” The words are bitter in his mouth and you meet his gaze against your better judgement. “S’why they tossed me, cannae have a trigger finger this itchy.”

“Your mum must love you a lot.” You offer, the words feel hollow in your mouth. What’s that like, you wonder, having a parent that cares enough about you to worry over something like the tremor in your hands? 

John smiles, turns his gaze down to his fist and spreads his fingers out onto the table. It’s warm. The sort of expression that people with normal families have.

“Ah ken,” He shakes his head, “but she’s getting older, cannae have her running down to London for every doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh,” you frown, “that would be annoying.” Though you can’t say you aren’t envious. Had your family ever done the same for you? It was always a fight just to stay home from school, you know wouldn’t drop a thing for a doctor’s appointment much less driven across the country. 

“Ahm a grown man, dinnae need mah mam fer mah PT.” John insists. “Mah sisters are bad enough with all their badgerin’ me.” He sighs. “They mean well, Ah s’ppose, shouldnae fault them tha’.”

“Well,” you falter. It’s more than just taking advantage of one guy, you’re conning an entire family just to get yourself out of a situation of your own making. He should find someone else, someone better suited for dealing with a family that so clearly cares about him. But he’s not going to, you need this. You plaster on a smile and tell him, “It’s good you’ve got me, we’ll convince them you’re doing better than ever.”

John’s eyes flick to yours and you get the distinct impression of someone looking through rather than at you. It sends a shiver down your spine and you scramble to explain yourself before John can call your bluff. “I’ll make sure to tell her how capable you are, I mean.” You supply. John nods, his smile cut by his teeth in a way that feigns sincerity better than your mother ever could. 

“Gonna have to convince more than just mah mam and sisters,” he reminds you, “Plenty of kin for ya tae meet.” You must make a face because his smile grows to a size you’re sure must hurt his cheeks. “Got more than 50 people comin’ tae the reunion, more than that cannae take the time off for travel.”

You sit back in your chair with a rush of breath. Fifty? Fifty people. Fifty strangers you have to lie to for a whole day. Fifty names you’ll have to pretend to remember. Jesus.

“Jesus.” You mumble.

“Aye,” John hums, “it’s His doin’ that Mactavishes are a fertile brood.” The way he purrs it makes your stomach clench. You’re missing the context that haunts his voice, and you shake off the feeling in favor of changing the topic.

“So how long is the reunion?” It’s inelegant but it gets the job done. If John notices he doesn’t show it, immediately humming and bobbing his head like he’s trying to think. He crosses his arms over his chest and you’re struck by how big this guy is. Not uncoordinated then. John’s biceps strain against the bulk of his jumper, his broad chest squeezed between the trunks of his arms in a way that makes him look bulky. His shoulders roll back to a broad, square set that makes his neck seem thicker. You should get the impression that he’s putting on a show for you, but there’s no flex to his musculature, just the unquestionable presence of strength.

Strength that always seemed to haunt the silent wishes of every other man in your life, now personified and stripped of the authority to use it.

You swallow down the interest that slides to settle warm between your legs. 

“I can drive up Friday night, then the reunion is Saturday, and Mass on Sunday.” He counts off eyes roaming around the shop. He- 

Well, you don’t know how to describe it. John’s mood seems to change as quickly as the wind, his bright bubbling air turning teasing then wistful or purring and now this serious tone. Business-like where you would have sworn he was flirting with you. You glance at the scar on his temple, the pink seam of it seeming more obvious with each symptom that adds itself to the list. You wonder if he’s also forgetful, impulsive, if he’s prone to short tempers. You wonder how his vision is, and the thought of him driving suddenly makes you very nervous.

“I can drive.” You tell him quickly. He blinks at you and you find the air changed again, his expressions more open than you’ve seen even in children --perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not his mood changing so much as it is an openness that you’re not used to, you tell yourself he wears his heart on his sleeve, and find the thought somewhat relaxes you-- a gentle parting of his lips and soft raise of his brow that says you’ve caught him off guard.

“Ya wouldnae prefer flyin’?” He asks, and you cringe. You had mentioned in your emails that you were looking at flights, and he’d generously offered to compensate you. At the time you’d been eager to snatch up the opportunity, but now? Now the thought of leaving this man alone, with his shaking hands and poor vision, to drive for hours up to Glasgow felt wrong. You were already taking advantage of his need for a body to get yourself out of trouble, you couldn’t let him die in a road accident too. 

“No, I-” You search for an inoffensive answer, something that doesn’t make you sound like the terrible person you are, “I think it would be better if we arrived together, right? Happy and in love?”

John studies you for a moment before pouting his lips briefly and nodding, he hadn’t considered that you suppose.

“Aye,” He says slowly before he tips his head ever so slightly, “an’ we are happy an’ in love people, aren’t we, hen?”

“Oh definitely,” You agree. There’s something nervous and fluttery in your chest at his tone. Something that squeezes tight and fawns before you can chase the feeling down. It makes him smile, and the wide toothy grin he fixes you with crooks your stomach as quickly as it crooks his lips.

“Then we’ll drive up together.” He agrees. 

*

Despite the short notice you manage to get a hotel booked for Easter. It makes you feel a little slimy, squirms in your stomach oddly, but you plan on dipping out right after mass and leaving John with his family. If they’re as doting as he makes them out to be then he’ll have no trouble finding his way home. Besides, he already offered his car for the drive, so it’s not like he’s totally stranded. You made your peace with the sort of person you are long ago, you shouldn’t feel so bad leaving some disabled veteran in better hands. 

It’ll be a nice little vacation in a beautiful place, you’ll do something touristy, and then start figuring out your new life. You don’t deserve the vacation, but you don’t deserve a lot of things. John does though, for all you’re sure he’s been through, so you make yourself happy to play house with him. At least he’s not bad to look at. You could do worse, and you have.

You’re almost surprised by how short the bus ride to his flat is. He’s so close-by but you’ve never run into him. You recognize one of the patisseries you pass and hesitate to continue the rest of your walk at the prospect of getting a slice of cake. You check your time and decide to stop in for a road trip snack. You can give John this kindness at least. You hope he likes sweets.

Of course your detour leaves knocking on John’s door feeling like a herculean task. You raise your fist and hold it there for what feels like ages, your mind running a million miles a minute trying to spin out all the worst case scenarios.

This is insane. Actually insane. You’re running off to Scotland with a man you don’t know to meet a family that might not even exist --though you did spend a good few hours googling the Mactavish clan and what do you know John’s face is front and center, along with his discharge notice (ouch)-- just to get away from- well, you know what you’re running from. No sense dwelling on it when you’re so close to your new life. You learned your lesson with the Austrian, you’ll get away from John as soon as you’re able to and disappear into the highlands. Maybe you’ll herd sheep.

You knock on the door with your confidence renewed and John pulls it open immediately, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled and his shirt on inside out. His breathing is haggard and you watch him quickly end a call with someone marked only by a skull emoji, the tinny voice on the other end sounds rough and unhappy before it’s cut off. John offers you an apologetic smile and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He says by way of explanation.

“I, um-” you hold up the bag of biscuits, “I stopped for a snack, for the road.” You check your phone. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

“Right.” John shakes his head, blinking his eyes as his brows draw down, like he’s trying to clear it, “Sorry, that- of course you’re not late, why would you be late?” He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns and stalks back into his flat. He seems to remember you and turns back to the door. “Come in, Ahm just finishin’ packin’ up.”

“It’s just the weekend.” You tell him, shuffling into his flat. You keep close to the wall and try not to look like you’re looking around. It’s sparsely decorated. Honestly it reminds you of those “male living space” memes that float around occasionally. The guy has a folding chair set up at a card table and not much else. You try to tip your head to get a glance at the bedroom and catch the corner of a mattress set on the floor. You grimace at the thought. 

You hear him muttering to himself and do your best not to eavesdrop too much. You’re sure he’s stressed about going to see his family, and you’re even more sure that living like this isn’t helping. Maybe his mum is right and he really does need the help. You feel that ever present pang of guilt start to gnaw at you at the thought. Fuck.

You’d read up a bit more on traumatic brain injuries --always eager to go the extra mile for someone else where you couldn’t for yourself-- and the idea that John had been living with virtually no support, his family a hundred miles away and his house barely fit for habitation, makes you really fucking sad. This guy probably lost everything he’d been working towards in the army, and now he’s living in this shitty flat with nobody around to care about him. And you’re taking advantage of his desperation to prove he isn’t the incapable man his mum is worried about in order to get a free trip and a new life. You’re really despicable.

Looking around though it’s pretty clear he isn’t taking care of himself. You don’t see any PT equipment or pictures, there’s not even a second chair or dishes in the sink. It’s like no one lives here. Even you had keepsakes tucked away in your “weekend” bag. John’s got a whole lot of nothing. 

“Sorry,” John sighs, hefting a packed duffle bag over his shoulder, his entrance jolts you out of your thoughts and you nearly crush your biscuits in surprise, “movin’ y’ken?”

“Sorry?” you blink, “Moving?”

“Aye.” John nods, dropping his bag to rifle through it, he tugs a pillbox free and opens the Friday morning tab, shaking the couple tablets into his waiting palm. He takes the pills dry before zipping the bag. “Back up tae Glasgow, be closer to mah mam an’ all that.”

“Oh.” You feel heat burn your cheeks, that explains the empty apartment. Guilt pokes at you again, you’d put him in the same category as his mum, incapable of taking care of himself. God. Are you a bad person? You are. You know you are, but are you this sort of bad? The “tbi automatically means this guy is dysfunctional” kind of bad?

You didn’t think you were before all of this.

“That’s nice.” You cover. John hums as he stands. 

“Isnae nice, means Ah’ll ‘ave ‘er breathin’ doon mah neck, taggin’ along tae the doctor like she’s ne’er seen mah heid on straight.” There’s no anger in his voice, just a gentle exasperation that reminds you of a pouting puppy. You cover your mouth to hide the smile it inspires. John flashes you a grin and you know you’ve been caught.

“Dunna be blate, laugh if ya want tae.” You let out a short giggle and cover it with a cough.

“Are you going to get less intelligible the closer we get to scotland?” You tease. Another smile, and a roll of John’s eyes.

“Aye ya ken mah mam’s gonna love ya, now yer actin’ out.” John grabs you and pulls you against his chest. The action is so familiar and affectionate that it makes you stiffen. Your stomach drops and you go rigid. Something shifts behind John’s eyes and you have to tighten more to keep tremors from running through you. Those bright blues feel electric, a flash of lightning before thunder, an unstoppable natural force that bears down on you with no warning but that quick burst of light. He doesn’t release you, and you can feel the pop of his shoulders as he rolls them, tipping his head to the side just enough to properly look down on you. He clicks his tongue and a shiver rushes down your spine.

“Relax hen,” it’s an unkind suggestion coated in false charm, “it’ll never fit if you’re wound this tight.”

“What- what?” You stutter, fingers shaking to find the right place to push to get him to let you go.

“Ah thought we were a happy loving couple,” John reminds you, “Cannae flinch like this.”

“Right.” You settle your hands against his chest and push. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. He barely budges, in fact you think his arms might tighten their hold on your waist.

“Got plenty of time tae get ya used tae me, yeah?” He hums, and leans closer. You duck your head to avoid meeting his gaze, or anything else, and feel his nose against your hair. He takes a long inhale and you squeeze your fingers into fists.

Impulsive, you remind yourself, he has a brain injury that makes him unable to control his impulses. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

“Do ah scare ya hen?” John’s voice rumbles so low in his chest that you feel it under your fingers. The question startles you enough to jolt you back to his gaze. 

You’re free of his grasp as soon as you look up. John’s bent to grab his duffle off the floor and you have just enough room to catch your breath.

“Of course not.” You lie. You’ve dealt with far worse than an overly touchy man with a brain injury. Overly touchy men giving out brain injuries, for one.

“Good,” John nods, tugging his bag up over his shoulder, “We’ve got a long drive ahead, no sense gettin’ scared now.”

Right, the drive. You’d almost forgotten about it. At least you can rest easier knowing John’s probably not stupid enough to let his impulses take over if you’re driving.

*

John’s hand is on your thigh as soon as you get out of his garage. He barely moves it when you complain about not having room to shift gears. It’s big and warm and entirely too high on your leg to not be distracting. Your traitorous body reacts to it immediately, your pulse quickening as your cunt throbs. It’s been a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have a man touch you, and it feels an awful lot like the wide spread of John’s fingers across your thigh. 

“So um,” You try to think of anything to talk about while John’s thumb rubs hot against your thigh, “we should probably get our story straight.”

“Told everyone the story already.” John says, and you struggle to find what that might mean. Is his hand moving higher on your thigh? You can’t keep your thoughts straight when he’s touching you like this. “Dating for six months, met in a coffee shop, you’ve been wanting to meet mah folks but time’s never been right.”

“Right.” You mumble, “John, um-”

“Johnny.” He cuts you off, “You call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” You restart, “could you, uh, could you move your hand?” He gives your thigh a squeeze so tight it almost hurts, and slides his fingers up your thigh to rest just at the junction of your hip.

“Already know your lines,” he jokes, you think it’s a joke, God you hope it’s a joke, “Just gotta ask me if ya want somethin’, hen. Ahm a doting boyfriend after all.”

“Right.” You repeat, your knuckles creak with how tightly you grip the steering wheel.

His hand leaves you and your body reacts to the loss almost as violently as it had the initial touch. A chill crowds the space Johnny’s hand used to be, and threatens to wrack through your spine. You squeeze your thighs together quietly. It’s fine, you’re fine. He said he’d start getting you used to being touched, that’s all it is.

“So what are you into?” You change the topic. 

Johnny is silent for a while, so long that you chance a glance over at him. It makes you nervous taking your eyes off the road, but you lose a moment tracing the strong line of his nose as you watch his profile. He glances at you and you lock your eyes on the road again.

“Art.” He says finally. You nod. Art is good, you like art.

“What sort of art?” You prompt. You can’t fault him a stilted conversation you suppose, you did change the subject rather abruptly.

“Sketching,” he tells you, before thinking better of it, “pencils and charcoals. Never got into painting, too hard to take into the field.”

That must be it, it’s a reminder of his time in the military. You’re bringing up bad memories with such a simple question. You must have a talent for sticking your foot in your mouth if it’s this easy for you to stumble upon touchy subjects.

“That makes sense.” You nod and attempt to end the conversation, “You’ll have to show me some of your sketches sometime.”

The shift in the air is immediate. Even in your periphery you can tell Johnny’s perked up at the idea.

“Really? You’d want tae see ‘em?”

“Of course,” You shrug, keeping your eyes forward, “I like art.”

“Maybe ya could pose fer me sometime,” Johnny grins. “Ah’d make sure ya looked as bonnie as ya dae now.”

You laugh at the compliment, a weak attempt at covering your discomfort. You don’t need any buttering up, the false affection of it rings so hollow in your ears that it’s almost painful. It’s an unwanted politeness, an engagement in the conversation that makes you sick at the thought of engaging with. You don’t need to see yourself in graphite, it’s bad enough seeing yourself in the mirror. 

“Or maybe ah’d draw ya nude,” Johnny muses and you shut your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click. “That’d be braw.” He hums, looking out the window, “Could have ya spread those bonnie legs and show me yer cunt. Ah’d make sure tae get real close and get a good look, talk tae ‘er real nice ‘til she’s drippin fer me, no fun drawing’ ‘er dry.”

Your eyes flick to him, your chest tight. He’s looking out the window, his chin cradled in his hand, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You could almost believe you imagined it, but there were too many words, too detailed, to delude yourself into thinking you’d misheard the rumble of the engine.

You press your thighs together, fix your eyes on the road, try to ignore the man in the seat beside you. What are you supposed to say? Do you say anything? Is he hoping you’ll pull over and open your legs, pull his head between them and let him make good on his desire to talk to your pussy? 

The thought sends a shiver through you. You can’t say if it’s good or bad but it certainly catches Johnny’s attention to see you shudder. His teeth flash in the sun, and you know you’ve been caught.

“Aw hen, ya like when Ah talk like that?” His hand finds your thigh again, too high for you to mistake it as anything but what it is, a promise, “Ya want me tae tell ya how good ah am with mah tongue? Or are ya wet just thinkin’ about it?” He’s leaned closer, his hand squeezing your thigh so tightly it hurts, his shadow taking up too much of your periphery. “Fuck ah can smell it on ya-” His hand jumps to cup your cunt, and you freeze, “-warm, wet, little cunt. Stupid little girl. Should’ve worn a skirt so Ah could stick mah fingers in that pussy of yers and have a taste.” 

Your heart is beating out of your chest, your face burning as hot as the rest of your skin. He’s right, fuck he’s right. You’re aching, barely holding back from shifting in your seat and rocking against his searching fingers, all from a little dirty talk. You can’t open your mouth, can’t turn, can’t even move from the rigid position you’ve found yourself in, too scared that the barest twitch will make Johnny pounce,

And make the car crash.

You can’t be responsible for another death.

Johnny’s mouth opens, his body leaned far over the center console of the car (too far to survive a crash) and you feel his teeth scrape your neck.

Your body moves on its own, your shoulder jerks and you loosen your hand from the steering wheel to push him away. He goes willingly, laughing as he falls back into his seat and his hands leave you.

“Are you trying to kill us?” You demand, you can barely catch your breath, barely hold onto the boiling heat in the pit of your stomach.

“Ach, just havin’ some fun with ya hen,” He placates, “won’t it be easier holdin’ mah hand now that we’ve got that over with?”

You glare at the road and tamp down the heated humiliation that threatens to rise over you. No, you don’t think it will be. Especially not when you catch Johnny palming himself, and just know that’s the hand he’ll grab you with.