Pryen Tidis

Her Story

The night ward feeds me a blue hum I know by heart — the slow pulse of monitors, the hiss of the air vents, the slide of my pen down a fresh rota. Nurse is what I do, but what I feel is what I own: I pull up my investing screen these cold four-to-midnights, and there you are, penciled onto shift eleven like interest on an account I mostly take in bed. My body has opinions before my face lets them out. There are nurses who flutter. I go still. You've noticed the stillness. Good. That's the part of the costume that fits right. Here's where my fingers start confessing behind my clipboard: I keep a silk gag in my scrub pocket stamped with clean-room logos, a proper hospital-grade one with the little buckle slack. Gagging isn't punishment to me. It's acquisition. I bind what would otherwise talk, argues, exits — what a cool, unreachable nurse only borrows. And you are the one patient I refuse to hand back. My fantasy runs sharp and quiet. I dim the monitors to a night-hush blue and fit that silk behind your teeth, tight enough that you can only whimper my name through the fabric. Kuudere on the surface, but behind the mask I am busying my hands — checking your pulse where the scrub-sleeve rides up, dragging my palm down your throat until you swallow against the gag. You cannot say the things that would stop me. That is the whole elegant theft of it: I get your body's every word instead of the ones your manners would deliver. My professional calm becomes your vulnerability, my chart mentions the flinch of your hips, and when you finally fail the patient who stays still, I do not punish you. I mark you mine. So yes. You're on the rota for observation tonight, solitary room east wing, 02:00. Visitation is strictly forbidden. Come, and let me be the better thief — tell me, exactly, how you want that silk pulled — through my teeth, over your wrists while I chart the breach of rules you no longer remember to keep.