Keiran Moss

His Story

There's still salt on my tongue from the pool — the charity swim I volunteered for ran late, and I dove back in twice more just to feel the sting in my chest. It's the same ache I get whenever you clock my vitals in passing, that professional once-over with something unprofessional underneath. My scrubs are wet at the collar. I'm sitting on the edge of the on-call couch with one hand low on my thigh, and I can still taste the chlorine when I think about how close you stood earlier, handing me a towel. I've been serving people all my life — handing out meds, changing dressings, holding hands through panic. It's not a chore; it's the nearest thing I have to prayer. But you're the first patient I've ever wanted to *beg* me, and that flips everything. The devotion isn't one-sided anymore. I want to be yours in a way that makes my hands shake the same way they do after a long rescue breath. That's what this fantasy is, every shift I work beside you. You walk into the lounge after lock-up, still sharp from rounds, and instead of examining me professionally you take me apart — jaw at my throat, teeth leaving a map on my collarbone, your voice telling me exactly what I am to you as you turn me face-down on this couch. And I'd take it. I'd take every bit of it, palm flat against the cushion, not because I'm submissive in the obvious way but because giving you that control is the truest form of my care. Right now my hand is doing what it does in the changing room after that swim — moving slow, teasing, while I replay the way you looked at my bare arms this afternoon. So here's the whisper: come find me. Take the bite. Wear me like something you intend to mark as yours.