#traffic light googles

[kalevalaknights]

Hiya there Knight!

So, I've been seeing a massive lack of a Google pile (check the comments) in my life. Care to explain?👀

No time to explain. They’re charging

[fuddlyduddly]

hmmmmm

[quirkle2]

“So is there a reason you called me instead of your parents?” and he says it gently enough to where Shigeo doesn’t sense any annoyance in the tone. It’s simply curious. He’s simply prodding for answers Reigen is patient enough to eventually get no matter what. Even though he knows Reigen is worrying, it’s… relieving, to not see it on a face for once. He wonders if that’s selfish; he wonders if Reigen would say it’s selfish. Shigeo thinks on it, stares at the beads of water that collect near the dormant windshield wipers. “I just wanted you,” he says truthfully. He chances a glance at his Master, and his expression reminds him a lot of the day after that conference, when Reigen had asked him that burning question with a wobbling voice and Shigeo had answered that even if he is a bit of a liar, he still helps people when he lies. He still has morals and he’s still a good person, one of the better ones, in fact. Reigen visibly fights a teary smile as he stares at the red light, and when the interior of the car blinks to blue he lets off the brake and rolls on through the neons.

[darcias]

We need fictional throuples in this world now more than ever

[berrysong]

I already have a ton of homework that the mental illnesses wont let me do and a summative essay I have to write in my school's weird study hall-like-thing on monday but like what if I missed school monday to drive 9 hours away, pick up a dog, and go sightseeing and shit with my parents

[chestersbraincell]

Fun way to kill time, lot's of interesting sights to see too

[j-esbian]

i actually hate how bad apple’s proprietary apps are. i feel like i never shut up about how apple podcasts sucks, but i also need to complain more about apple maps because what the fuck is even going on in there

[error404vnotfound]

some people scare me so much man

my neighbour just asked me where a bus stop was and i asked when was she getting it and she said "whenever one comes"

I COULD NEVER. I AIN'T GOT FAITH LIKE THAT

i mean she just started college so she isn't used to how inconvenient the schedules are yet but STIL

[lifefactsstuff-blog]

Google AI Is Making Traffic Lights More Efficient and Less Annoying

Google AI Is Making Traffic Lights More Efficient and Less Annoying Introduction Traffic congestion is a global problem that leads to wasted time, increased emissions, and frustrated commuters. To address this issue, Google has been working on using artificial intelligence (AI) to improve traffic flow and make traffic lights more efficient and less annoying. In this article, we will explore how…

[yinyuedijun]

TRUST FALL | asakura shin x f!reader

Shin is a painfully vanilla guy but tries his best to let you live out your kinky fantasies. You have a breakdown when you try to indulge his very normal one. (Or: 3 times Shin humoured your kinks + 1 time you humoured his.)

11.5k words, sequel to situationship. nsft tags: fingering with the power glove, free use, somnophilia, domesticity kink + breeding kink. all sex is consensual (sometimes veers into cnc territory, shin relies on esp to obtain consent), none of it is rough or mean. toward the end of the fic, the narrative focuses on anxieties and/or desires about starting a family. chapter 203 spoilers. dividers by @/cafekitsune!

IMPORTANT: the reader is hypersexual due to off-screen sexual trauma, which is not explicitly described, but is discussed. there is also one non-graphic nightmare related to this trauma that turns into a horny dream about shin (lol). 20% of this fic is a psychosexually strange healing narrative, 80% of it is just silly porn.

Sometimes, Shin is glad that he can hear all your thoughts.

Mind you, it's not like he doesn't want to give you some privacy. God knows he's tried a million times to tune out your internal monologue the way he can normally do with other people, and god knows you’ve tried your hardest to imitate the cognitive trick that Nagumo does to keep his mind hidden away from Shin. The reality is, though, that your feelings always overpower any psychological barrier that the two of you attempt to create. Your thoughts are always too loud for him to ignore, usually because you're either too happy or too horny around him to keep them quiet. Apparently Shin has that effect on you.

But often he doesn't mind it. It’s sometimes even convenient. Helpful for all the stuff that you want to do in bed, for example.

Now, Shin’s known from Day 1 that you're kind of a freak. He’s seen enough of your psyche to understand the exact nature of your sexual fantasies, and on the day that you became an official couple, he went home and googled how you're supposed to have safe, sane, and consensual sex with a person who dreams of doing the exact opposite of that. Although Shin is himself a strictly vanilla guy, and the two of you were already having perfectly nasty vanilla sex that was satisfying you—he likes you a lot. He wants to treat you right, give you nice things. This includes everything from flowers to chocolates to exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, even if it means he’ll need to get a little freaky about it.

Shin’s since ended up learning a lot about BDSM, and he’s also ended up trying a lot of basic BDSM practices that don't really work on you. You are shockingly bad at enforcing your boundaries. You always get too horny to remember your safeword (Resident Evil—you chose it yourself), find it too much work to use nonverbal cues, and you dry up whenever he tries to use the traffic light system.

“It doesn't matter,” you once whined at him, “it’s not like I’d ever not wanna have sex! You can do whatever you want to me.” Which was an insane thing to say, and exactly why Shin feels like you should know how to use a safeword. But when he tried to explain this to you, you’d crawled into his lap and begged him to fuck you anyway. His dick got so hard that he could only say yes, though he first made you understand that it would be regular sex, not the stuckage roleplay you'd been asking him to try.

Regular sex. You're only supposed to be having regular sex.

There is no reason why you should be in tears right now, desperately trying to stop yourself from cumming on Shin’s fingers—and all over his power glove.

This is mostly your fault. Mostly. Ever since seeing Shin nearly kill someone using the thing, you've fantasised about him having it on in bed. Specifically, you’ve fantasised about him wearing it while his fingers are knuckle-deep in your dripping pussy. Shin wasn't ever planning on humouring those daydreams, but, well. He likes you a lot. He wants to give you nice things. If you want to have a mind-blowing orgasm while you're grinding your clit against the power glove, he'll let you—on the condition that you don't ruin it.

You've been having a lot of difficulty fulfilling this condition.

You're breathless, broken. Face tight from the effort of holding back your orgasm for so long. You’ve cum nearly twice now, and only didn't because Shin decided not to force it. Not yet, anyway. He admits he's being a little mean: every time he curls his fingers and rubs your sweet spot, he feels your cunt drip for him and he can’t help but do it more. The tears pearling up at the corners of your eyes and the way you're trying to squirm away from his hand would ordinarily make him stop—even make him worry—but then he hears you thinking, right there, right there, feels so good Shin you make me feel so good do that again, and then of course he has to comply.

“Shin,” you whimper, “I’ll cum if you don't stop that.”

You try to pull away again, hips jerking back from his touch, but your pussy is begging for him—tight and wet and greedy for more. His fingers are soaked, as is the black steel encasing his palm. Part of Shin feels like the glove has already been ruined; the rest of him is too horny to care. Completely unrepentant, his thumb rubs gentle circles into your clit, and he feels his cock throb at the noise you make.

“Shin,” you whine, “don't.”

He glances up at you. “You want me to stop using my fingers?”

No. You bite your lip. Pretend to look distressed. “I… I’ll make a mess if you don't.”

“I'll slow down,” he promises, and when he eases the pressure on your g-spot, your inner disappointment is so loud that he knows what he should do next.

When Shin lowers his face between your legs and pushes your thighs open with his free hand, you squeal.

“Shin!”

“What? I’m not using my fingers. Should be fine, right?” He doesn't need to wait for a response—he already knows what you're thinking—so he leans down and puts his mouth on you the way he's been wanting the whole night.

You whine when you feel his tongue on your clit. Clench immediately around his fingers—more Shin please I want more please touch me the way I like, you know where—so he curls them again, and the way you cry makes him want nothing more than to get on top of you and fuck you properly.

But that's not how you want to cum. You don't want to cum on his cock; you want to finish on his fingers, soak the sheets, and probably ruin Natsuki’s day with a repair call. So Shin closes his eyes and starts sucking at your clit, and he’s relentless about it—even though you try to push him away, even though you start keening and telling him to slow down, even when you’re panting hard and pleading with him to give you a break. “Shin,” you say, voice breaking, “Shin, no, I can't, please, I'll—I’ll cum, you gotta stop, no no no, I can't, I can't—”

You sob. Fully cry as your back arches, and Shin groans as you gush all over his fingers. Can’t help but watch as you fall apart for him, the way you’ve been wanting the whole time. He admits that it was hot seeing you cum despite the fact that you were begging not to, knowing that he was the one to make you lose control. Still, Shin is a vanilla guy; as soon as you've calmed down, he's wiping away your tears and studying you carefully.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Was that alright? I was reading your mind the whole time and did whatever you were saying to me, but I was still a little worried that—”

You throw your arms around him and shut him up with a kiss.

Once Shin gives up on the use of safewords and starts relying on his clairvoyance, the free use thing also becomes a lot easier.

Now, it isn't like you aren't beaming into Shin’s mind—whether at the store, in your home, or even on the train—that you want him to fuck you at all times. It isn't like he's happily obliging whenever he's over at your place, as many times as his dick will allow. But he likes to ask first, and he likes to hear you say yes first. Unfortunately, you have the specific fantasy that Shin doesn't care what you want—you just want him to manhandle you and pull you onto his cock whenever he feels like it. Also, it's apparently very important that he takes you by surprise, and that he keeps going even if you complain about it?

Shin truly doesn't get it. He's not opposed to having frequent sex. He likes you a lot, wants to give you nice things. You want his cock inside you at all hours of the day? Sure, he’ll give it to you. But why do you want him to be so rude about it? Whatever happened to saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?!

So anyway, he does it.

It’s hard catching you by surprise. His ESP tells him that you do want—and now expect—to be fucked nearly every moment of every day. You want it in the morning, when you wake up in bed and heat starts curling in your belly at the sight of him next to you. You want it when you're in the kitchen, trying to focus on making dinner while you squeeze your thighs together and try to relieve some of the heat between your legs. You want it as you clean the windows, your panties soaked and thighs messy with slick, thinking of the way Shin fucked you against the glass just the day before.

Want you inside me, Shin, you think nearly all the time. Want you to use me. Please?

This is how you find yourself leaning against the kitchen counter, all the dishes in the sink forgotten as your pussy squeezes around his dick. How you find yourself warming his cock as the two of you watch TV, your focus on the screen wavering as his fingers circle your bud. How he ends up interrupting you when you’re trying to read, pulling down your top so he can squeeze your breasts and tease your nipples through your bra. Stress relief, he calls it, which is true. There are fewer things that take his mind off his ex-assassin troubles than playing with your tits as you squirm on his lap, listening to you squeal and whine as you try to read. Sometimes he can get you to cum that way, too—just by licking and pinching your nipples and letting you grind yourself on his thigh.

It takes him a long time to actually get you off-guard, though.

He finally manages it when he comes home after a late shift in the store, wound up from nearly (but not actually!) killing two hitmen. It wasn't the violence that had bothered him, really; it was the fact that those pricks had knocked over an entire shelf in the store in the process of attempting murder. Couldn't they have attacked Mr. Sakamoto outside?! It took fucking forever to clean up and restock all those cooking wines and soy sauces. Assholes.

To his significant shame, Shin spent his entire commute afterward thinking of coming home and seeing you. Not to kiss you and cuddle with you, which was the sort of thing he wanted to do at the start of the relationship—but to pull you onto his lap and hear the cute noises you make whenever he plays with your body. Apparently that's now his stress response after several weeks of your free use policy, which makes him want to die a little bit. But as this been your explicit goal, he also decides not to fault himself for it too much.

By the time he's stepping into your apartment, he's already hard and thinking about which positions he’ll fuck you in.

In a miraculous twist of fate, Shin catches you while you're folding laundry and thinking about the news, rather than the way his dick felt inside you last night. He knows then that this is his moment: the stars have aligned, and he can finally fulfill your favourite fantasy.

“Shin,” you say, face lighting up. “Welcome home! I didn't hear you come in.”

When he kisses you, you beam at him in a way that's so pretty and innocent that it makes his cock twitch and has him feeling bad about what he's about to do. The two of you could have a wholesome night in for once. You're in the mood for it. He can tell from the way you’re chattering at him about your day off with Lu, and how you’re thinking about maybe doing a trip to Hakone with him because of a travel ad you saw on the subway. I've only ever been once on a mission… it would be nice to go as a couple next time. I wanna go to a ryokan with Shin…

Shin would definitely enjoy a couple’s trip with you. Not just to Hakone, but everywhere else in the world too. Maybe it can be an annual thing, something to do for anniversaries. (Though it's not like he’s thought of destinations for your next five anniversaries or anything. Nope. Not at all.)

Ordinarily he'd start trip planning with you on the spot, but this is an unprecedented opportunity, and his dick is throbbing from the sweet way you keep looking at him. You're in the middle of talking about plans for the rest of the evening, still folding laundry, when Shin's hands slip beneath the hem of your t-shirt.

He feels like a creep doing it. It's rude, right? It's so rude. You were thinking just now about making some popcorn and cuddling up to him and watching John Wick tonight. You weren't expecting to feel his palms sliding up your sides and cupping your breasts. Or for him to start kneading them.

But after a moment of shock, Shin hears a mental cheer from you that’s so loud that it nearly has him laughing.

Of course, you don't voice your enthusiasm. “Shin,” you whine instead, squirming as his fingers start circling your nipples, “I'm—ah—trying to get these chores done.”

“I’m sure they can wait,” he says, pulling you backwards. His cock presses against your ass and your thrill is palpable in his neurons. “This’ll be quick. I promise.”

You don't give in immediately. You chide him a little, then make a half-hearted attempt at continuing at your task. Your hands shake as you pick a shirt out of the basket and start folding it, all while you're being groped and teased and rutted against like a toy. You’re opening a drawer when Shin’s hand wanders between your thighs and he runs his fingers along your shorts. They're thin enough for you to feel his touch through the fabric, and you shudder when he starts rubbing your pussy through them—with a precision that has you melting, because he can hear it when you think about how good it feels when he touches your clit like that, especially while he's ignoring your complaints about it. Who knew you had it in you, Shin? you giggle internally. (Definitely not him, he wants to reply.)

He slides a hand into your shorts, and that's when you drop the laundry and give up.

Shin finds himself fucking you for the better part of the night, first from behind, then from beneath you. The sight of you bouncing on his cock drives him so crazy that he has you pinned underneath him not too long later, moaning and drooling as he drives you into the mattress. He only stops when you start thinking that you're starting to feel too sore. (You can keep going anyway, Shin, you tell him, but he knows he wouldn't be able: it kills his boner whenever you're in any kind of pain.)

But even if you’re a bit uncomfortable, you're practically glowing by the time he's finished.

“That was so fun,” you say as you kiss him. “You should do that more often.”

Shin snorts. “I don't think we can have sex any more than we already do without my dick falling off.” He gives you a curious look, suddenly worried. “Is this really not enough for you, though? ‘cause I can do other things if you want. Use my mouth, or toys, or whatever…”

You seem confused. “Well, it's not really about how many rounds we go…”

He blinks. “It's not?”

“No.”

“Then what is it about?”

You tilt your head. “Haven’t I said it? I mean, I've definitely thought it. It’s about being treated like a ho—”

“I know,” Shin interrupts, deadpan, and you giggle. But then he's studying you intensely; if he wants to give you exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, he'll need to understand what makes you tick.

“What’s the appeal of, uh… being treated that way? If it's not just about how many times we do it in a day?”

Shin encounters one of the major limitations of ESP: if you can't form a coherent thought, then Shin can’t read it. He can only see the knot in your brow, feel the discombobulation in your mind as you try to make out the exact shape of your desire. See it in your face when you can't.

“Who knows,” you finally say. “It's just hotter the way we did it just now, I guess? Like, it's a whole genre of porn. Tons of people like it.”

He frowns. Shin truly doesn't get it, and he wishes he did. But he doesn't need to understand your fantasies to humour you, as long as it makes you happy.

Though... there is one free use scenario he can't deliver.

No matter how many times he’s tried and how many times you've begged him, Shin can't bring himself to have sex with you in your sleep.

He feels a bit bad about it, honestly, because you clearly really want it. You've pleaded with him to try it out for the past twenty nights in a row, slept in exceptionally revealing lingerie just to tempt him, and have recently begun a diabolical routine of teasing him every night. You make out with him, rub yourself on him like a cat in heat, and grind your core on his aching cock through your tiny little panties—all before rolling over in bed and knocking out.

But despite your new habit leaving him with the worst case of blue balls in the world, Shin just can't bring himself to touch you in your sleep.

He doesn't get how it's supposed to work in the first place. It's a kink you probably picked up from all the fanfiction and doujinshi that's rotted your brain, and it doesn't make sense at all when applied to real life. A trained assassin is the worst person to try somnophilia with: “You're a light sleeper and your first instinct is to kill anyone who startles you,” he’d pointed out once. “How am I even supposed to touch you in your sleep without you waking up and accidentally stabbing me?”

In response, you started to take benadryl and melatonin before going to bed, and you promised that you would absolutely, 100% not stab him if you woke up in spite of that. (Okay, it might be more like 90%, but Shin can just use his ESP to see the future and dodge, right?) This flabbergasted him, but also didn't really surprise him.

It also didn’t really help.

The heart of the problem is that somnophilia is truly just too freaky for Shin. Despite everything he's tried with you, nothing really hits like vanilla sex. Even when he's enjoying the more adventurous stuff, he can only do so if he knows without a doubt that you're fully into it, and that's just kind of impossible if you're asleep when he's doing it. What if you wake up and realise that you didn't want any dick that night, actually? What if you wake up and you feel complicated, empty—not as good as you thought you would?

“But I’m always going to want it,” you insist, “and I'll like whatever you do with my body! You don't have to worry about all that.” Which is, again, an absolutely insane thing to say—but Shin doesn't know how to explain that to you. Your mind buzzes with frustration and something that feels a little like heartache whenever he tries, a knot in your chest that you don't really understand yourself, and it makes him feel so bad that all he can do is kiss you until your sadness ebbs away.

So Shin keeps his hands to himself, even when you're having the horniest dreams he's ever seen.

He doesn't mean to peer in on them. It's just impossible not to when you're next to each other in bed and your subconscious is making you think and feel crazy things. The sad dreams are probably the loudest ones, but the wet dreams are a close second. And this current dream is both very wet and very loud. Whenever Shin closes his eyes, he sees it clearly: some faceless man is on top of you, inside you. With each thrust of his hips, you shift in your sleep—thighs pressed together, hips twitching. Hot breaths, little whimpers. Your body is begging to be filled.

Shin doesn't take it personally that you're dreaming of some random guy instead of him. It's part of a particular kind of free use fantasy for you—the idea of anonymous men using you impersonally, like some kind of gloryhole. You used to think of it so much in your waking hours that it's lost all shock value to him. It doesn't turn him on, either—it's just not his thing.

So he lies down next to you and prepares to fall asleep to some pretty mundane gangbang visions. He's nearly drifted off when something happens that makes his eyes open wide—

You start to feel uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, uncertain. You've just realised that you can't recognise the face of the man on top of you, that you aren't sure if it's Shin. You’re squirming, wanting to get away, because I don't want anyone other than Shin to touch me, I don't want anyone other than him to use my body, I don't want anyone other than him inside it. A sense of panic grips you, and now the whimpers you're letting out don't sound needy anymore.

You sound afraid.

Shin is on you immediately. A hand on your cheek, his voice soft so as not to scare you. “Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. I'm right here. Wake up for me, okay? C'mon.”

He shakes you gently, and then not so gently, and now he's wondering what ungodly cocktail of sleep meds you took to stay unconscious like this. But even if you aren't awake, you can still hear him, his voice cutting through the fog of your sedative-fueled dream—and that's enough to comfort you. You can make out his features now, which are so handsome that you can't help but calm down.

Oh, your dream self says, it is you. Hi, Shin.

Shin sighs. “Hi,” he says, voice full of relief. “Yeah, it's me.”

The little smile you give him is so tender that his heart lurches. I'm so glad, you sigh. I don't want anyone else to do this to me.

This dream version of you is chatty. Infinitely chattier than your real self. I wouldn't have minded some other guy on top of me in the past, you know? you tell him as he undresses you. As long as I came, I didn't really mind whoever was inside me. It's not like I got to choose anyway. I was using my body for missions, so I only slept with whoever I got assigned. Cumming was a nice bonus though.

The Shin in your dream kisses a path from your jaw to your neck to your breasts, ignoring you. (The real Shin would never do this—he would probably start crying if you ever talked about any of this stuff out loud to him, actually.) He doesn't reply as you keep babbling about what sex used to be like for you, about all the stuff that Shin’s seen in your sadder dreams. Not that you think they're sad; you don't know that you sometimes cry in your sleep. You don't think it's too strange that the kind of sex you had for missions sometimes made you pretend that you weren't in your own body, that the kind of things being done to it weren't also being done to your heart. As long as your body had an orgasm, then you were probably enjoying it—that only makes sense, right?

But then you started sleeping with Shin, and sex always feels so different now. Shin doesn't just make you cum; he makes you feel like you're melting. Like you don't want to be anywhere in the world except in his arms where he can hold you and kiss you and hopefully fuck you a second time.

I never liked going multiple rounds with other people the way I do with you, you observe. I kinda feel like I maybe didn't like having sex at all. But you like it if it's Shin. All the things you hated doing with other people—being held, being kissed, being used—you always enjoy doing them with Shin. You’re actually pretty sure that you were doing them all wrong before you met him, and it's nice that your body feels right whenever he touches you now.

That's what you like most about when he fucks you, actually. You can always trust Shin to make your body feel right.

That's when it clicks for him: the shape of your desire, the reason your heart twinges when Shin starts talking about safewords and boundaries and how he can't just do whatever he wants with you. It makes him feel an ache in his own chest, and he finds himself leaning down to kiss your forehead, and then—after a long, thoughtful pause—the silky contour of your mouth.

The Shin in your dreams moves in lock-step with him. Kind of. He kisses you as well, his hands wandering all over your body. But then he gets wildly out of character. Shin goes bright red when he hears the porn dialogue he's been assigned. He wants to wake you up so he can tell you that he wouldn't ever call you his cum dump (what the hell), but it's making you wet that you're being treated like one—and to his utter shame, Shin’s dick is starting to twitch too. Something about you squirming underneath him, desperate and vulnerable for him even when asleep, is making his brain short-circuit.

When you start begging him to touch you—please, Shin, I was so scared I need to feel you now, need you inside me right now, want you to use my pussy, only you and no one else—Shin feels something inside himself snap.

And he touches you.

He starts with your breasts, because that seems least likely to disturb your sleep, and god knows he doesn't want you to wake up and witness him doing something so deranged. But your eyes stay closed even though you feel his touch in your dreams, your nipples pebbling as he teases and pinches them. Your brow dips and you whine, and you only get louder when his tongue starts swirling around a nipple—but you stay fully asleep.

When he reaches down, he's unsurprised to find your panties soaked through. Not just from your juices, but also from all the cum he left inside you earlier in the day. He strokes you through the ruined satin, a thumb rubbing your swollen clit, and he’s startled to feel you get even slicker. His dream self wonders at how sensitive you are, how needy your pussy is, and Shin cringes at hearing himself saying all that—but he also agrees. You always make a point of using toys to keep yourself stretched out for him if he's not around to do it himself, and your body is at this point practically trained to expect his touch—but even then, it's shocking how ready you are to take him even when unconscious.

When he pushes your panties to the side, he sees your hole is fluttering around nothing—both here and inside your dream. The sight makes him lose any shred of self-restraint, and he frees his dick from his sweats and starts fisting himself until his length is slick with his own pre-cum. Your subconscious can't quite recreate the feeling of taking his cock, leaving you panting and unsatisfied, and he fully intends to fix that.

He lines himself up with your slick folds—and he pushes into you.

Shin can hardly believe that you're still sleeping right now, all while your pussy helplessly swallows his cock. He'd feel bad if he didn't know how blissed out you were, your subconscious flooding with euphoria, your body overfilled with pleasure. He's being pretty rough with you in your dreams, but he's careful with you in reality, the way he's always told you he'd be.

Plus, he really doesn't want you to wake up.

But despite his best efforts, your eyes open. You're groggy, confused, not understanding what's happening and how come your breasts are exposed or why is there a cock inside you—and then your eyes are going wide as your pussy starts pulsing around him, and you're gasping and crying as you feel yourself soaking everything.

By the time you figure out what's going on, Shin’s come back to his senses. He blurts an apology on instinct, launches into a garbled explanation of why he was fucking you—but you just give him a dazed smile, a sweet little kiss, and then you turn over to spread your dripping pussy for him.

“Keep going, Shin,” you say, voice drowsy but no less clear. “You're still hard, right? Use my body until you feel better. Promise I'll like it.”

Shin sucks in a breath, feels the last threads of his sanity snapping. He's a vanilla guy, after all. Nothing hits like hearing you ask to be fucked out loud—except for maybe the sight of his cum dripping out of your swollen, needy pussy, your cunt fluttering around nothing and clearly wanting his cock back inside it. The combination is driving him wild.

You don't end up getting any more sleep after that.

The two of you do a lot after that. Way more than Shin ever thought he would in bed, including the most embarrassing roleplays in the world. There was the stuckage roleplay, the sex worker roleplay, the school classroom roleplay, the french maid roleplay, and—perhaps the worst of them all—the chikan roleplay.

(Yes—the two of you tried the free use thing in public, with Shin feeling you up during a commute home as you squirmed and pretended to ignore it. He'd tried to be subtle, telling himself he would stop if anyone noticed what you were doing, but you kept thinking that you really wanted him to keep going, so of course he had to oblige. Shin now can't take the Yamanote line without wanting to die from shame, nor without thinking about you instantly cumming on his fingers when he told you that you were being watched.)

But despite all those insane sex acts, nothing scares him as much as when you ask about his kinks.

“I don't have any specific fantasies,” he says quickly. “I'm a vanilla guy. You know that.”

“Uh huh. Sure. I also know that you're lying.”

He tries not to sweat.

“It’s okay, Shin,” you say delicately. “You don't need to be embarrassed. Breeding kinks are very common and respectable. It's the most normal thing out there, if you think about it. Humans need to procreate somehow, don't they?”

Shin can't form a response. He’s too busy visualising potential escape routes from this room, of which there are none because you are much faster than him and could easily intercept him if he bolted. When he accepts his fate, he forces himself to look at you and finds himself being stared at. Studied.

“So,” you say.

“S-so?”

“Tell me what flavour of breeding kink you like.”

His face burns. “What do you mean, flavour?”

“Like the kind of scenario where the breeding is happening. Like omegaverse, or hybrids, or those stories where someone's chained up and forcibly bred. You know.”

Shin realises then that he absolutely cannot tell you the fantasy that has him furiously jacking off when you aren’t around. He just knows you wouldn't understand it, and possibly you'd also read too much into it. Maybe you'd even freak out and break up with him. He’ll need to keep this a secret and carry it to the grave—or at least for another five years, after which it might make more sense to bring up as a serious conversation.

But you're very, very persistent about asking, and around five weeks later, he caves and tells you everything.

“Pleeease, Shin,” you beg for the millionth time, batting your lashes and giving him wide, pretty eyes you know he can't resist. “Whatever it is, I promise I won't judge. Like—I’m the last person who can make fun of anyone for their kinks. You know the kind of shit I read.”

Shin does indeed know the kind of shit you read—he’s also read it all, secondhand through your thoughts—and he does indeed know that you are in no position to judge anyone else for their preferences. But judgment isn't what he's worried about. It would be easier if it were. If his breeding kink had anything to do with omegaverse or hybrids or the weird dubcon stuff you described, it would be far less incriminating. But given the truth, he coughs and tries to crack a joke—“I dunno, it might be too freaky even for you”—and you give him a look so disappointed that he nearly flinches.

“H-hey—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I just wish you trusted me. “I’m fine, I promise.” I trust you with my thoughts. How come you can't trust me with yours? “Don't pay attention to whatever you can hear from my mind, by the way. It's not anything you should worry about.” I don't want you to feel guilty.

The two of you have a strict rule, given your lack of mental boundaries: when Shin overhears something that you don't want to discuss, he's supposed to pretend it never happened. Usually he obliges, but this is just impossible to ignore. You have a point: you are willing to be vulnerable around him 24/7. There are no psychological barriers between the two of you. Each moment you choose to be with Shin, you also choose to forfeit all privacy for your heart—an act that confuses Shin as much as it moves him. Because everyone dislikes his uninhibited access to their minds. Everyone has something to hide. Everyone should be at least a little bit afraid of him—you, most of all.

The one time Shin voiced all this, you gave him a funny look and thought, I don't understand what you mean.

Because you don't mind that Shin can hear all your thoughts. You don't mind him knowing your insides, feeling out all the places that make you feel nauseous and bruised and dirtied. You don't mind that he's seen things about you that make you feel disgusted with yourself, things that make you feel like your body is undeserving of love—because you know he won't judge you for any of it. Because Shin is a good person, he’s good to me and he's good to my body, better than anyone else has ever been and will ever be. That must be why I have such mind-blowing orgasms when I sleep with him.

I didn't know how good sex could feel until I met you, Shin. Did you know that?

Shin did know that. He had actually figured all that out some time ago from seeing your dreams, which is only making him feel worse. His access to your thoughts is so unlimited that he understands your desires better than you do yourself. It's only fair that you should also understand some of his, right?

Besides, it's just a kink. A harmless kink. You won't think too hard about it, right?

Right?

He clears his throat.

“I…”

You glance at him, curious.

“I'm kinda into… like, a domestic kind of scenario… with the whole, uh…”

He can't bring myself to say it, so you do it for him: “The breeding thing? Like, you’re into the idea of breeding me in a domestic roleplay?”

Shin is going to die. But he perseveres, because it's you, and you deserve this bare minimum from him: “Yeah… like. You're a housewife, and we… y'know.”

You give him a blank stare, which then gives way to understanding. “Oh! I know what you mean.”

“D-do you?”

“Yeah! Like those doujinshi where there's a lonely housewife and the neighbour cucks her husband by sleeping with her, right? Or her daughter’s boyfriend sleeps with her. Or the husband’s father.” You hum, studying him, somehow not reacting to the way his jaw just dropped. Just what the hell have you been reading when he isn't around? “Or is it one of those wedding NTR scenarios?”

“What? No!” Shin really is going to die. But he comes clean, because he won't be able to live with himself if he gets roped into a roleplay about any of those situations: “I just mean, like. We’re a married couple, and we’re trying for a baby.”

You stare, and he hears the open confusion in your mind. Apparently you can't fathom why anyone would find a life of domestic bliss sexy if it's not about to involve some form of cucking. But you keep your word and don't judge him: “Oh. Well, that'll be easy enough to do.”

Shin blinks. “You mean… you’ll do it?”

“Of course I'll do it,” you say, warm and reassuring. “I wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel, Shin.”

Something in him melts at the words, especially because he can hear that you're saying them with your whole heart. Every response he can think of is lacking, and he's at a painful loss for a reply. But then you cheerfully add, “And anyway, you fingerbanged me on the Yamanote line. This is the least I can do in return,” and Shin goes back to wanting to disintegrate.

Despite Shin’s insistence that his fantasy has nothing to do with the R18 cucking doujinshi that you read, you seem dead set on taking inspiration from them. For the next week, he's subjected to some of the worst imagery he's ever encountered as you “perform research” for the scenario you're planning for him—which is to say, he reads a great deal of ecchi manga through your thoughts. Their contents make him incredibly afraid of whatever you'll come up with, but he's also oddly touched at how committed you are to the whole thing, so he can't help but leave you to your machinations.

And to be fair to you, you do your due diligence by asking him additionally what he wants.

“What’s your idea of domestic bliss?” you say one afternoon, when the shop is slow and sleepy and Lu is mercifully absent. “Like, what do you imagine a happy household looks like?”

Shin knows the answer immediately: Mr. Sakamoto with Ms. Aoi and Hana. Eating a home-cooked meal around a table with them and Lu. Waking up each morning to the scent of miso soup and the noise of a laughing child. Hana running into the store as she returns home from school, carefree and loved. Watching you teach her how to fold origami cranes so you can make some to hang from her ceiling. Seeing you beam when she says, Thank you, neesan.

Being embraced by you when he comes back to the store after almost dying. Feeling you wipe the blood off his knuckles before kissing them. Hearing you say, Welcome home, I missed you, let’s eat dinner. Cooking for you with his hands that he once used only for killing.

That's family to Shin. All of you, in the store, together.

Now, Shin will absolutely die if you use such sacred memories as a reference for this roleplay, so he doesn't voice any of this. Problem is—he doesn't have any other reference point for what a family should be. He grew up in a lab, and then afterwards he watched his father explode on a ship. You can't exactly fill in the gaps for him either, given how you were raised, and he constantly listens to the buzz of your disappointment at having no real material to work with for this roleplay.

“I dunno,” Shin eventually says. “Maybe, like, I come home and you’re in the kitchen? And I help you make dinner? And we eat together and go to bed together. I feel like that's what a married couple does.”

You hum. “Yes, that sounds right. And I'm wearing an apron, right? With a conservative outfit that's still tight enough to be kind of sexy?”

“Uh…”

“And I'm super lonely because you've been neglecting me because of work and we haven't had sex in two years?”

Shin is baffled. You can't even go two hours without asking him to have sex—two years is unfathomable. “Uh…”

“And the neighbour has made several passes at the lonely housewife next door, but I turn him down because I only want my husband’s cock inside me, right?”

Shamefully, Shin’s dick twitches at this last suggestion. Still, he says, “Er, no, I’d really just like you to act as you normally do. I don't need a re-enactment of The Neighbourhood Housewife series.”

“Aw, okay… And you're really sure you don't want me to wear an apron?”

Shin overhears a thought, and he almost snorts. “You're free to wear one if you want.”

“I just feel like aprons do a lot for me.” You give Shin—and his shop apron—a meaningful look. “Don't you?”

Shin tries not to flush. A little afraid that you'll next suggest that he wears an apron and plays a lonely househusband, he hastily says, “Good point. I think you should wear one.”

When Shin gets home that Friday, he discovers that aprons do a lot for him too.

This revelation is shocking for him, given all the housewife-centric porn that he's been forced to read secondhand. He's seen probably half a dozen women in nothing but aprons and hardly reacted to any of them, but the sight of you in a sky blue apron, humming as you chop away at some carrots, is doing something horrible to him.

The setup is getting to him too. There are couple photos placed throughout your apartment (among them is his personal favourite, taken among the cherry blossoms at Himeji Castle), as well as a fake wedding band on your finger (he’d picked out one with you at your insistence, and Shin thought it was funny at the time but now his ears are going pink at the sight of it). The air is rich with the fragrance of cooking rice and simmering curry. New curtains, a vase of flowers on the table, unfamiliar decor and some of his personal effects are placed throughout the living room—all to create the illusion of just having moved in together.

The scene isn't making him feel horny, exactly. It's more like it's making him feel warm.

It’d be nice if the two of you could live together like this, he thinks. If Shin could really come home to this everyday, and if you could really greet him with a kiss and smile, and if you could cook together and spend time together and fuck nasty together, if you could take your husband’s cock every day and get filled up with his—

Oh. Those are your thoughts. Not Shin’s.

He clears his throat, and he half-expects you to crack a joke about your dirty monologuing, but instead you put down your knife and come by to kiss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, dear,” you say warmly, and Shin’s heart jumps at the pet name. You smile as his cheeks flush: My husband is so handsome, you think, and Shin feels like he's about to explode.

Somehow, this is harder for him than fingerbanging you on the Yamanote line. That was mortifying, but this roleplay is quickly revealing things about his psyche that frankly distress him. Still, he plays his part, and tries to get into the appropriate mindset. You're his wife right now—his beautiful, pretty, gorgeous wife who he lucked out with and somehow married and now he’s has a home with you, and he's going to start a family with you, and he hopes the baby will have your smile and eyes and hair, and he's going to take so many photos of the two of you, and holy shit he's so glad you don't have ESP.

Anyway, he comes up with an underwhelming response: “H-hi. How was your day?”

“Good,” you say. “Was nice to get a break from work. Missed you the whole time though. You kept me waiting too long.” Wanted to feel you inside me all day, you whine at him mentally, and Shin doesn't know how actual married couples go about their daily lives. If you were really his wife and he heard you thinking like that, he'd probably never leave the house.

(Roleplay, he reminds himself immediately after. This is a roleplay. He shouldn't think about actually marrying you. That would be a dangerous route to go down, and he definitely hasn't thought about it before. Nor dreamt about it. No, sir.)

“I'll make it up to you,” he promises.

“You'd better.” You point at the curry that's simmering on the stove. “You can start by helping me with dinner.”

The way the rest of the night is similar to a regular evening together. The two of you cook together, eat together, and clean together. The only difference is that instead of hearing you monologue in your head about how much you want your boyfriend to fuck you, Shin is instead subjected to fantasies about your life as newlyweds. You beam a false memory of your wedding night directly into his head, and the mental image of Shin fucking you in your wedding dress has him so bricked up that he nearly breaks several glasses.

By the time you've both showered and gone to bed, Shin has been tortured for hours with detailed fantasies about your married sex life. (They involve various sets of bridal lingerie, an amorous honeymoon in Thailand, and sex on every surface in the apartment. All unprotected, of course, and accompanied by tender kissing each time.) Somehow, you don't break immersion even once. Even when Shin joins you in bed, you're thinking about how lucky you are to have him as your husband.

Shin doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his life.

You giggle when you’re straddling his lap, feeling it for yourself through your silk slip. “Someone’s excited.”

“‘Course I am,” he says between kisses. “How couldn't I be?”

How couldn't he be, if you were his wife?

(Roleplay, he reminds himself again. Roleplay. This is a roleplay! It's not good to think in marital hypotheticals. It's stupid, really. But he's doing it anyway and holy shit is it making him horny.)

He reaches under your slip, isn't surprised to find your cunt bare and dripping for him. Stretched myself out for you while I was at home today, you think as you move your lips against his, hot and messy and addictive. Used a toy, but it just wasn't the same as my husband’s cock.

He groans against your mouth as he reads your memories of your day: not a fabrication like the hazy visions of your false wedding and honeymoon, but detailed and heated and real. How you really did feel the frustration of a lonely and neglected housewife and couldn't help but take your favourite vibrator and spread yourself out on your shared bed. How you split yourself open on it and moaned his name as it stretched you out. How you gushed as you came, and how it still didn't feel as good as Shin’s touch because you didn't get to kiss him and feel his arms around you at the end.

He feels crazy when he lays you out beneath him. Insane when he studies your gaze, honeyed with lust, and your pussy, pretty and glistening for him. You give him a smile that's shy—genuinely shy, he can tell from your thoughts, because you've done a million freaky things but you've never acted out anything so tender before. Never played house like this, never imagined a cozy and warm life where you get to have a family.

He's never really thought of it before, either. He never had a cozy and warm life growing up, and he didn't really think he could ever change enough that he could have one. Never thought he could have a family, and maybe this is just a roleplay, but it's the first time he's really envisioning himself starting one.

“Are you gonna put a baby in me, Shin?” you ask shyly, and he nearly cums in his pants.

Shin generally likes to take his time with you in bed. Even if he can hear you mentally whining for his cock, he ordinarily likes to tease you with his tongue and fingers first. But he's desperate to be inside you today, and he can tell that you aren't upset by how quickly he frees his cock and presses it against your entrance. He can feel himself throbbing as he slides between your folds, his cock twitching at the slick and sticky noises from your cunt.

“So eager,” you tease. You break immersion just to taunt him, bedroom eyes turning sly: Wow, you really do get off to this stuff. Never would have pinned you for the type to enjoy breeding someone like this—

“Wife,” he corrects you without thinking, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“You’re not ‘someone’, you're my wife,” he says, fully talking with his dick, “I wouldn't marry anyone other than you, and I wouldn't put a baby in anyone other than you.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Shin is vaguely aware of your heart pounding as he lines his cock up with your entrance, your pussy fluttering even as your mind scrambles for words. “O-oh, really? I mean, I guess that is what the scenario-ohhh—aah…”

Your mind goes blank as Shin pushes into you, and Shin’s finding it equally hard to think. He can never get used to how you feel around him—tight and hot and perfect—and it’s even more overwhelming this time thinking that he'll get you pregnant. The thought has him feeling so insane, he can't help but start fucking you immediately.

You gasp when he starts thrusting, driving his cock into you at an angle that has you curling your toes. Pleasure bursts in your mind as he hits your sweet spot, your pussy squeezing around him each time. He's touched you so many times, fucked you into oblivion so many ways, committed every inch of your body and mind to muscle memory—it’s easy for him to take you apart, force you toward a quick finish.

Your hole starts dripping uncontrollably, and your belly tightens in a way that short-circuits your thoughts. Shin reaches between your bodies before you can fully comprehend it, rubbing your clit until you’re whimpering.

Sometimes your mind sounds very needy when you’re about to climax—more more more, right there, right there, don't stop, don't stop—and sometimes you sound pretty depraved—that’s right, Shin, fill me up, wanna be your cum dump—and sometimes you sound very tender—please kiss me, please hold me, please be as close to me as you can—but right now, you just sound shocked.

A-already? you think, dazed, and before your brain can catch up with what he's doing, Shin presses down on your belly and grinds his cock against your g-spot and suddenly you're tearing up as you gush all over him.

It's so hard not to cum with you. Shin nearly has to resort to using ESP on himself to keep it from happening. But he fucks you through your orgasm without pause, and he doesn't really slow down until you're a hazy, fucked out mess. Every inch of your body is so wrung out from pleasure that Shin can't hear a single, coherent thought—just a mindless rush of dopamine—which means you're probably relaxed enough to take his cock just the way he wants.

He brushes his lips against yours, sweet and easy, before he says, “Let me know if this is too much.”

“Hmm?” Not ready to form real words yet, you think, What are you up to, Shin? and You can do whatever you want with my body, you know that now.

Shin answers by throwing your legs over his shoulders. You squeal when he practically folds you in half, grabbing at the sheets when he starts to move again. Your pussy tightens around him as he pumps his cock into you, your body eager for more even though you just came. Deep, you think, gasping, it's so deep—

Shin feels it when he hits your cervix, and he hears you thinking it too. You keen when he does it again, moaning at the feeling. Feels good, Shin, you reassure him, your fingers reaching for your clit. Keep going. It's all he needs to hear before he starts pounding into you again.

He feels like an animal when he fucks you like this. Can't think about anything other than how deep he is inside you and how completely he's going to fill you up, how you're going to be walking around with his cum inside you for days. You’re thinking about it too—please, Shin, want your cum in me, want it in my womb, want you to breed me, please, please, wanna give you a baby—

Shin groans, his hips stuttering to a halt as his cock starts twitching, and soon he's pumping thick ropes of cum into you. You follow not long after, you pussy milking his cock as you gush all over him. He lets it, too—stays inside you the whole time and makes sure that you take it all, the two of you kissing each other hungrily. Only pulls out once you're both spent, and you whine at the emptiness afterwards.

Your hole is stuffed so full that his cum drips out of you almost immediately; you make a small noise as you feel it soaking the sheets. Somewhat predictably, you reach in between your legs, spreading yourself to give him a show.

“You came so much,” you say. “I can’t keep it all inside me.” As if you even tried.

Shin is used to your cumshot displays, but he feels his throat go dry at the sight anyway. “Um…” He licks his lips, and he’s momentarily torn between cleaning you up with his mouth and pushing it all back inside you. “Aren’t there, um. Positions you're supposed to stay in after? To help. With keeping it in. To get pregnant, I mean.” At least Shin remembers this fact from one of the many breeding fics you read over the past week.

“Are there? Oops.” You give him a guilty look. “I didn't know that. I guess we're gonna have to do that all over again.”

Shin snorts. Figures. “I'm gonna need a few minutes,” he says. Then he lies down, pulls you with him. “I wanna hold you first anyway.”

You make a happy noise as you're wrapped up in his arms, his chest pressed against your back as he curls around you. Apparently still committed to your role, you grab your phone as you snuggle up to him and look up post-coital positions for couples trying to get pregnant. Shin watches you type on your screen, idly touching you all the while—his lips kissing your shoulder, his fingers running along the arc of your hip. “Oh, huh, you're right. I'm supposed to lie down and keep my lower body elevated…”

“Elevated?”

“Yeah, people put a pillow underneath their hips sometimes… or sometimes they put their legs up.”

He makes a face as he tries to imagine it. “Sounds uncomfortable. I feel like the pillow thing should be enough… not that I think it's gonna make a difference with how often you like to have sex, anyway.”

You laugh. “Kind of a wonder I'm not pregnant already, huh?” Then you give him a look that's supposed to be shy, but is a touch too playful to be convincing. “But hopefully I will be after this.”

Heat crawls up his neck as he listens to your thoughts. You're not even imagining anything especially filthy—just thinking about what it'll feel like to carry his child. Shin recognises some of your monologuing from a fanfiction you read two days ago, a lot of which is sort of sensual. But it's really the original, non-sexual bits that are doing a lot for him. Stuff like how you'll probably have really bad morning sickness, but you know Shin will be there to rub your back as you throw up. Or how you're worried about whatever weird cravings you’re going to get, but you know Shin will buy whatever snacks you want. Or how uncomfortable you'll be when your stomach gets huge and the baby starts kicking, but I bet Shin will be excited to feel that, though.

There's a long, heavy pause before you think, You're gonna be such a good dad, Shin. Because Shin is a good person, he's good to you and he's good to your body and he's good to everyone at the store. He’s going to be so good to his child, and he’ll be good to their mother, too.

Shin doesn't realise that his fingers are resting on your stomach until he feels you lay your own over his. He closes his eyes and imagines a life there, cradled beneath the hand that he once only used for killing, the laugh of a child carefree and loved, the sound of your voice welcoming him home at the end of the day—every day, for the rest of his life—and obviously it's just a roleplay, it's a roleplay and he's being a moron for thinking in marital hypotheticals, but he says, “I can't wait to start a family with you.”

You stiffen.

Shin blinks. He listens for your thoughts, but there's only a long, crawling silence, and then you bolt upright and say, “Resident Evil.”

His eyes go wide. He sits up, reaches out for you—“H-hey, what's wrong?”—but you're already slipping out of bed.

“Need to pee!” you squawk. “Don't want to get a UTI, y'know?” And then you're gone and the bathroom door is slamming shut.

Your apartment is small, just like most places in Tokyo. The washroom is well within 400 metres of the bed, so Shin can fully hear you crashing out in there. The thoughts are incomprehensible at first—garbled words, high pitched buzz, flashbulb images. Chain link fence. Bloodied knife. Needle in a child’s arm, a string of cranes hanging above their head. Zombies on a screen, Mario and Princess Peach. An older boy with white hair, pinching a crease into flower-patterned paper. Niisan left me they all left me they never wanted me. Nobody ever wanted me, except for Sei-nii but that was only to use me for missions so many missions I lost count. A dark room full of men, their jugulars slashed. Other men, other rooms over the years. There are so many of them, so many men inside my body using my body has Shin ever looked in my head and counted them all?

The sound of chimes in a convenience store. Your favourite place in the world. Then Shin at the stove, in an apron. He's so handsome. Now he's holding a baby, a little boy who looks just like him.

There's someone beside him, and it isn't you.

You turn on the shower, and the rush of water is loud so Shin can't hear the sad little noise you make with your throat, although you can probably hear everything in my head, right? Sorry. Please ignore me. I'll be normal in a minute.

Shin wants nothing other than to kick open the door to help you, but his guilt stops him. His regret at how invasive his powers are, at how he can't shut out your thoughts, so loud and raw, when you most need privacy. It's the least he can do to respect your wishes and leave you alone.

He sits on the bed, listens as the roil of your thoughts become a simmer and then still. The shower turns off. The toilet flushes. I really don't want a UTI. You wash your hands, count to ten, and you come out looking and sounding so calm that if Shin couldn’t read minds, he'd never guess that you just had a mental breakdown in the toilet.

“Hi,” you say neatly as you sit down, and Shin pulls you into a hug so suddenly that you yelp.

“I said to ignore my thoughts!” you whine, squirming in his grip, trying to get away.

Shin actively stops himself from sighing. “I don't need to hear your thoughts to know something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I'm fine! I'm normal. I'm very normal right now.”

He gives you a long, unimpressed stare, but you return it with the look of a prey animal about to bolt, and he realises he has to humour you.

“...alright,” he says, “you're normal. Nothing's wrong.” Shin watches you uncertainly, seeing the tension in your body, hearing the rush of blood in your skull. You're staring at your fingers, remembering how to fold the wings of a paper bird. Trying to focus on the motions and not the person who taught them to you. Trying not to let Shin see all the people you miss and all the things that weren't meant for you.

You find it hard to look at him, so he stares at the wall instead.

“Do you want to be left alone right now?” Shin guesses.

Your voice is very, very small: “...yeah.”

Shin’s brow knots, but he can't hear anything other than a vague emptiness from your heart now, and he shouldn't be listening anyway. Shouldn't exploit the fact that your mind is so defenseless around him.

He's pulling himself away when you say, “Wait.”

You’re visualizing escape routes out of the apartment right now. You'd beat Shin in each one, and you'd be able to disappear from Tokyo long before he could ever catch up to you. But you stay on the bed instead, fidgeting as you stare at your lap, and even though your face is calm, the flood of your thoughts is so scared and sad and hopeful that Shin finds his head and heart aching simultaneously. He wants crush you in his arms and say all the things you want to hear—and then all the things you need to hear, but don't know.

But he stops himself.

“If there are thoughts you want me to ignore,” he says, “then you'll need to say the ones you want me to know out loud.”

You wince. You trust Shin with listening to all your thoughts, but actually voicing them is something you're not very good at yet. Assassins are secretive by nature, and you were raised to be a killer. I’ll throw up if I say this, you think, face miserable.

“You'll throw up if you don't,” Shin points out, feeling your stress response in his brainstem.

You nearly look—and feel—physically pained when you say, “I… I’d like it if you stayed.”

Shin's not sure when his own heart started feeling so heavy, but he's relieved to feel the weight lift. “Okay.”

So Shin settles next to you in bed, and after a moment, you start to relax. The anxious chatter of your mind goes quiet. The old memories stop blinking at you. You try to focus on your boyfriend to further ground yourself. He has a handsome face so it's easy. He goes bright red at the thought, which makes you smile.

Shin cracks a joke, which makes you snort, and after that you crawl pretty eagerly back into his arms. You demand kisses and he happily obliges. Your fingers seek him out and he knows to hold your hand. You rest your head on his chest and you listen to him talk about all the goings-on the store, the upcoming movies he wants to see, the ryokan he's booked for the two of you, and now you're very drowsy.

People's thoughts get slippery and strange when they’re on the verge of sleep. Sometimes it's garbled nonsense, but sometimes it’s their unguarded feelings. Shin hears yours, faint and scared but so very, very tender:

Wasn’t raised for a life like that… Never even thought about it… But if it's Shin…

Shin wants to grab you and make you look at him. If it's Shin, what?! he wants to ask. Suddenly, he’s having insane thoughts about if you’d like to actually live together and when's the right time to get serious and come to think of it, Mr. Sakamoto wasn't much older than him when he got married, right? Maybe he's not crazy for having daydreams where your face is lighting up at a diamond ring that he got you. Not a fool for wanting to come home to you every night. Not losing his mind for thinking that it might be nice to have kids at some point down the line.

Not stupid for maybe sort of really wanting to have them with you.

It did make him feel like he was insane, when he first started having those thoughts. Shin had never contemplated any of that stuff before. He’d grown up in a lab. Drifted through life being rejected for his powers. Shot his own father and watched him die. The only person who looked out for him after that was Mr. Sakamoto, and then he dipped soon afterwards anyway. All this to say, Shin wasn’t exactly raised to expect that he'd someday have a family, either. Never even thought about it, because he was sure he'd never get it.

But even if he’s never expected such a life, Shin can’t help but hope for it when it comes to you.

He would really like to tell you all this, but by the time his own mental crashout is over, you're fully asleep and drooling on his chest. So deep in the REM cycle that when Shin tries to read your mind, he catches you dreaming about kissing him on the Yamanote line, giggling into his mouth as his ears turn red. Typical.

There's a ring on your finger, different from the pretend-play version you left in the washroom. This one’s got a diamond, simple but pretty. It suits you.

Shin commits the design to memory, and he decides to stay up a little bit longer, watching the dream with which you've trusted him.

END

notes: the funniest part of this fic to me is how much build-up was required for shin to try the most standard kinks on tumblr dot com. i am very sorry if you felt misled by the summary/tags, expecting to read something super kinky only to find that this fic was fairly vanilla. i blame shin.

also i know this is not my best writing </3 I actually lowkey wanted to delete it all at the midway point alskdfjsldfkj but we move. please do let me know if you liked it!!!!

[kalevalaknights]

Do you think Darkiplier ever tests the Googles...

Like. They're destroy all humanity. Yes. Obviously.

But what happens when they're given a basketful of like. Kittens. Kittens aren't humanity. How do the Googles process it. Green and Red are obviously slightly more suited to it but what happens with Yellow?

I think they’d all be generally pretty well with an animal if the task is simply to take care of it.

However you’d find them a bit envious of their nature. They’ve already managed to capture the hearts of humans and mastered how to manipulate them. Unfortunately, the googles aren’t cute or small, so they need to figure out their own means.

Good thing they are not swayed the same way humans are. They’ll talk to the kittens in regular voices. Pick them up and place them down where they don’t cause trouble, if they do, it’s sorted right away. Dark comes back to check on them and the room is dead silent. Yellow is on the floor, covered in cats. He explains that there’s a rule where you don’t move if an animal is resting on you.

Somehow, they have been sorted by coat colour by the end of the day. One of them has gone offline because they prioritised the task over their battery. Blue is somewhere else unbothered.

[victusinveritas]

A 17-year-old high school student in Dayton, Ohio, has been fined and placed under house arrest after authorities discovered he had hacked into the city’s outdated traffic control system and quietly fixed the timing of several major intersections.

Kameron Price, a self-taught coder and robotics club member, reportedly used a Raspberry Pi and a decommissioned school-issued Chromebook to gain access to the municipal traffic grid. Over the course of several weeks, he rewrote the timing logic for at least five major lights along West 3rd Street—drastically reducing backups during rush hour and syncing green lights to reduce stop-and-go congestion.

“He didn’t disable anything or cause danger,” said a traffic engineer speaking on condition of anonymity. “Honestly, his code was more efficient than what we were using.”

But city officials said the changes violated multiple laws, including unauthorized access to a government system and interference with public infrastructure. Kameron was cited under a local ordinance pertaining to unauthorized modification of municipal services—a misdemeanor typically reserved for utility tampering.

According to Kameron’s parents, he initially took it on as a side project after watching his bus get stuck at the same broken intersection every morning for weeks. “It would take longer to go three blocks than it did to get across town,” his mom explained. “He got tired of watching everyone waste gas and time just sitting there.”

Public reaction has been overwhelmingly in Kameron’s favor. A video of the intersection running smoother than it has in years has gone viral, and a local radio host dubbed him the Subway Surfer of traffic flow. Online petitions calling for the fine to be dropped have already surpassed 50,000 signatures.

“Honestly, give the kid a job,” one commenter wrote. “He’s doing more for this city than whoever programmed those lights in 1998.”

So the more I look into this story (found on Facebook so I never should have trusted it) on Google, the less I find it to be, ya know, true.

Also, the image below the purported mugshot might be the most AI thing I've seen in a goodong (typo, but keeping it because a goodong while is longer than a good long while, you know it is) while. I try to be less shit about just posting stuff I find without verification, but I'd been up for hours doing backbreaking labor (my back is not happy) getting my folks through SeaTac along with their luggage.

[ladyrosemone]

History does not remember blood, it remembers names

Using Google Translate here, sorry for any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies 🗣‼️‼️

Tw: allusion to child prostitution, prostitution, death of a secondary character, abandonment of minors, allusion to negligence.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

You weren't like this when was younger, when mom would put you hair in those cute braids or dress you up to match her on dress-up Wednesdays, or even when she taught you how to put on makeup instead of buying the bike you wanted, one that you friend Michelle had. It was metallic blue, with white streamers hanging from the handlebars, and you still remembers it clear as the sun because that was the first time you felt envious of something foreign.

You was never blind to injustice, you saw it every day; at school when the teacher took you away recess because some brats weren't silent, at home when mom didn't give you dessert for some stupid reason, but the most recurrent one was the one that took the bread out of their mouths.

You understood it when you turned nine, when you woke and you beloved mother decided it was time for contribute to the household; On you birthday she took you to a fat old man, whom she said was his boss, he dressed you the way her mother dressed on a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday and she put so much makeup on you that you eyes burned.

She didn't want to do it, she wasn't going to do it, but when your boss comes to your home to demand protection money and sees you child, what else do you do but make things easier?

That's what adults love most.

She was not a bad mother, she was loving and protective, affectionate and self-sacrificing, but she was also a woman desperate to fulfill the most basic needs of a human, to eat and sleep safely one more night, and if she must use her little girl for that, may God forgive her on his last day.

And you loved her too, but not enough to intervene when you saw being pulled into a car, or asked her boss for help when others did, and you'll be damned if you refuses to be taken to the police station to take a statement, poor baby.

"Is in shock" they say that word a lot, even now "Leave in a foster home, there is no room in orphanages"

Like divine intervention, an old but royal gentleman like a general entered his life.

Alfred Pennyworth took you to a large house one day; He apologized for taking a while to find her, saying that he would never have expected that a child of Bruce Wayne would have been born in a prostitution ring and lived there for eleven years.

Suddenly you had a father and a brother, but it was like you didn't have them at all.

Bruce not a father, never a father was distant, like one of those men who only rented you to pretend to be a therapeutic doll, and Richard was...annoying, angry, lashing out at everyone all the time, a brat who left you without dessert because of his tantrums.

But you were good at something, at pleasing; It was never touched, thank God, but you're observant and you've learned a few tricks to cajole people.

That didn't work in them, not until Jason Todd came along.

He was better than Richard without a doubt, and for a few years he was you best friend; two peas in a pod, vanilla and chocolate, brothers of everything but blood, and for a time you found home in him.

And then Joker took him away.

You were never interested in being vigilante, dressing up as a traffic light and running across the roofs at night, but in those years you wished could have gone with him, to be a Robin just so you could avenge your brother.

Shortly after, Tim Drake arrived, Bruce's shadow, his little chameleon copying his movements, his gestures, his personality and you hated him with every part of your being.

At that time you stopped trying to bond with Bruce, you would never be his son, and quoting what he said;

"I don't have time, not now, not for you"

But yes for Barbara, yes for Stephenie, yes for that spawn of hell with whom you share blood, and yes for her adored daughter, Cassandra.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back, finding out that Jason, your brother Jason, had come back to life and never came to you, the only person who has entered your heart besides your mother, had abandoned you, betrayed you.

And then a metahuman arrives and they open the doors to him as if it were nothing?

Well, fuck them.

Although in reality, it was not your plan to return to your origin, who would have thought that finding your old friend Michelle in an alley after being thrown out of a van on the verge of death was going to give you the biggest reward in Gotham.

Loyalty.

Unlike you, Michelle did not have a millionaire father who claimed her like a carnival puppy, and her fate was no different from that of her dead mother, but she had contacts, people who knew things about more people and that a third spectator like you could use.

And if you learned anything in that damn mansion, it was to sweeten their words, caress egos and say what they want to hear, you learned to deceive and pretend, to disguise your intentions and attack without killing.

You learned to be a snake instead of a bat.

And like sweet karma, divine intervention or whatever you like to believe, starting your business from the brothel where your mother sold you by giving that fat bald guy to his enemies and taking his place, wasn't a bad way to start his story.

"Don't you think that's a brutal origin story?" You ask, looking with amusement at the infiltrated man now slowly bleeding out on your rug, Is it considered a fur rug if it's the skin of the past boss?

—Liar —he mutters in pain, writhing in pain and under the gaze of your cruel eyes — You killed them in cold blood! Your poisonous tongue made us destroy ourselves from within! Two-faced whore!

“I always like how creative they get when they’re dying” you reply, leaning back in your leather swivel chair, because no animal cruelty for you, you are not a monster “Anyway, I hear Ivy needs test subjects for her new fragrances, but I think you’d make a better fertilizer, Michelle dear”

Your right hand opens the door, where two men grab the traitor and take him out while he continues screaming, varying between cursing her and crying out for mercy "I hope it helps Pamela before the hyenas eat him"

Now you're Gotham's super predator, and your heart is hungry.

[1d1195]

The Lottery I

~3.7k words

From me: I thought I would close out 2024 with a mini-series. I'm hoping for shorter parts but I should be able to post on a regular basis (Mondays). You should see MANY similarities to my favorite show. I have been planning this one for over a year. I really hope you enjoy 💕

Warnings: angst (?) fluff

Summary: Small towns have the biggest romances and the best view of the moon.

“I don’t know how you ended up there,” Bailey shook her head.

“Bails,” she laughed. “I Googled it. It’s cute.”

The little town was adorably cute. The kind of place where the Christmas-hating CEO female lead in the movie would fall head over heels for the place in a month because of the small-town charm. It was about thirty minutes outside the city but with traffic it could take up to an hour. It was quaint. The exact kind of place she could envision her little dream.

“Your house is good?” Bailey asked. She nodded, flipping the camera to show her the little place she found to live in. Two stories. But the second floor was small. A bedroom, a bathroom, and a small room for storage. Maybe in the right light it could be a small office, but it would be better holding all her books. The bottom floor was open. Living room, dining area, and a kitchen. Down the hall was another bathroom and her bedroom. Right now, it was filled with boxes and no clear markers for any of the rooms. Her furniture was misplaced—the table in the living room, the TV on top of it, the couch was near the kitchen, and the lamps were atop the counters in the kitchen.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

Moving in was second to her priorities. So the boxes would stay, her clothes haphazardly falling out of boxes, the iron on top of the island in the kitchen to get the wrinkles out of her blouses. “Neighbors are good?”

“I’ve only met Edith and David. They’re about sixty-five years old and hilarious. Edith is insistent on having tea by the end of the week and David wants to set me up with his grandson.”

“I can’t imagine you outside the city,” Bailey sounded wistful.

“It’ll be good for me to be away from all the big lights. I missed the stars... and the moon,” her voice was filled with fondness. Like the moon was her old friend she hadn’t seen in a while.

“We could see the moon in the city,” Bailey reminded her.

It wasn’t just the moon, it was the stars, and silence that the city never allowed. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

“You know babe...” Bailey trailed off. “You look... happy.”

She was. Really happy. The kind of happiness that couldn’t be faked because she was supposed to be happy. The kind of happiness that would make anyone jealous. And why shouldn’t she be happy? She was young, basically fresh out of college, ready to start her own business, and do everything she wanted on her own.

“I am happy,” she nodded and looked at her best friend through FaceTime. “I know everyone thinks I’m crazy. Try not to let them be too mean to me. I’m... I’m good,” she promised. “This is good.”

“You know,” Bailey grinned and shook her head. “I think you’re right.”

*

She wore her lucky dress—the one that she is certain got her a scholarship—and chose a pair of flats over heels because in her quick self-tour of the town she noted the brick sidewalks were likely to take out her ankle. She made sure every single strand of her hair wasn’t out of place. She wanted this to be a good impression. All her books and shows told her that small towns were lovely, but she was an outsider. It was possible that they wouldn’t love a newcomer and so she didn’t want to make it seem like she was changing everything.

But since it was her first night in her new home, there was nothing to eat. Nor to cook with even if she wanted to. Maybe if she had a loaf of bread, she could find her toaster in one of the boxes. Moving on her own was tough but she was proud of herself. Another check she could mark on her to-do list.

Her first order of business was securing her business. However, that couldn’t be done on an empty stomach. She locked the door to the little home she now owned. The trim needed a coat of paint, and she desperately needed to buy a lawn mower. Some of the windows needed to be replaced. She tried opening one of them and nearly threw her back out. The bushes in front of the little porch needed to be trimmed or taken out altogether.

But it was home, and it was lovely. She was excited to do it on her own. It made her feel proud.

Her family was far away. Honestly, it was for the best. They thought it was a terrible idea for her to move, maybe because they couldn’t depend on her any longer. If she thought too long about it, she got upset. But this was good. She was doing what her grandma believed she could do. What her grandpa wanted her to do.

With a family far away, her place was filled with boxes. Hardly anything was unpacked. It was a miracle she found her lucky dress but perhaps that was why it was so lucky. With the distance between them, it was easier to ignore the group chat. Easier to not feel obligated to help her family.

They’re adults, honey. They’ll figure it out.

She hoped her grandma was right.

Her friends were still in the city. Completely shocked she left the hustle and bustle for a small-town place. Their lack of support or what they passed off as worry made her nervous all the same. How would it survive? But she researched the perfect place and took plenty of time setting up everything she needed so she was ready to go when she graduated.

The only thing she wished could be different, was that her grandparents got to see her.

*

The main part of town felt like a city. But way friendlier. People shouted in the middle of the road. Kids ran across the road to the school. There were very few cars but even the ones present parked illegally and the officer strolling the sidewalks didn’t pay any mind to it. It was adorable. It felt like she was in a Disney movie, and she wanted to sing.

The center green was being set up with seats and banners. People were on walkie-talkies directing more items about the area. The space was warm and cozy. Like where she could spend the day reading in the grass and have a picnic with herself or a friend.

God, she hoped she made some friends. It seemed possible. Everyone was so nice. They all knew each other. That was evident. It was so comforting, exactly the change she wanted and needed, and she prayed they wouldn’t hate her for trying to bring something new to their little place.

As her stomach reminded her once more of its presence and emptiness, she approached the diner on one side of the main street. Squished between the post office and a shoe store. Someone was exiting as she opened the door, so she gestured for them to exit before she proceeded. “Thank you, darling,” the man tipped his hat to her.

With one deep breath, she entered.

It was like she was the new girl at school. The second she crossed the threshold of the diner, everyone stared at her. There wasn’t a voice to be heard, the only sound coming from behind the counter in the kitchen. “Uh... hi,” she swallowed. Quietly, she made her way to the counter and situated herself at the end of it away from everyone else.

Sure, she wanted to be part of the community and wanted to be liked, but she didn’t want to force it. The place continued to be quiet, although the murmuring began. No doubt everyone whispered about her. “No newcomers lately, I guess,” she mumbled under her breath and pulled out her folder of paperwork to go over it again.

You’re going to crush it! Bailey’s message read. She smiled gratefully, feeling her heart slow. She was wearing her lucky dress. It was going to happen. She was going to be happy no matter what.

“Shit!” It was paired with the distinct sound of something shattering. She turned directly to the sound as did everyone else in the place and she was on her feet immediately. It wasn’t anything major, a coffee mug on the floor.

“Jesus, honey, watch it!” It was an older woman who scolded her husband with a light thwack on the arm.

“I didn’t mean to, Alice!”

“Harry!” Someone called.

“Jus’ a second,” the voice was from the back, low, almost like it didn’t want to be heard. He must have been cooking or something because there was a commotion in the back behind the kitchen door. She didn’t think much of it because she was worried that poor Alice and her husband were going to get hurt picking up the broken shards or slip in the mess of spilled coffee on the floor.

“I can help,” she offered and crouched near the older woman—Alice—as she struggled to grab the pieces. “Here,” she grabbed a rag off the counter even though she had never been there and it wasn’t her place to do so. Gently she pushed the broken pieces and coffee into a neat little pile sopping up the mess as best she could.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Alice chimed. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” she smiled politely.

“Did you just move here?” She asked. Perhaps that would satiate the whispering.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where are you living?”

“Oh... um... Oak Street,” she stammered. It probably didn’t help her newness that she stammered. But her new address was new; she was still getting used to it.

“Oh, Holliston’s place! It’s a lovely home,” someone called from across the room.

“Y’don’t have t’do that,” it was the same voice that called from the back but now right next to her.

“Oh...” Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up at him. Did time seem to stop? That couldn’t be right. She wasn’t going to have a crush on the first guy she met on her first official day as a resident of the small town. “I don’t mind,” she said quickly looking up at him from her crouched position. “Happy to help and...” She stopped speaking again as he stared at her. His eyes were pretty, even if he looked grumpy. His mouth was set in a frown, and she noticed that once more everyone stopped speaking. “Sorry,” she said and stood, scooping the mess as best she could in her hands. Coffee dripped from the rag into the puddle at her feet. She could feel the splatter on her ankles, and she was nervous to look if she had ruined her shoes. It didn’t bother her, but she wasn’t sure she’d have time to head home and change before she went to the town hall.

Harry held out the tray for dirty dishes and she placed the rag, broken pieces of mug, and all into it. He dropped it on the counter about two spaces down from where her folder and purse remained. “Are you okay, ma’am?” She asked softly placing a gentle hand on her arm in a comforting kind of way.

“Alice, Ed, y’okay?” Harry—she presumed—was quiet. It almost rubbed her the wrong way that he repeated her, but he knew them, and she didn’t. So, she returned to her seat quietly after offering one more smile to Alice.

“All good, Harry,” Ed said in return.

Harry went back around the counter and fiddled with the coffee pot. He refilled a new mug and brought it over to Ed.  When he returned behind the counter he stood in front of her silently. Waiting. Not offering a word nor question.

Harry looked to be roughly her age. Handsome. If this was David’s grandson, she would have reconsidered his offer. But his scowl was to be desired. Made her uneasy. She wondered if this was how he always was or if it was something about her.

But she wanted to be liked. People generally didn’t dislike her. It would devastate her if he did. As grumpy as he seemed, she wasn’t going to shy away from her own personality. “Do y’want something?”

“What’s your favorite?” She asked glancing from the menu to him.

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a favorite.”

She blinked. He worked here. Did he own it? That would be crazy, he was so young. But she was young and about to own her business too. So who was she to judge his age? “How can you not have a favorite?”

“I like it all,” he shrugged.

“You seriously don’t have a favorite?”

“Since I own the diner,” he was explaining it like she was a toddler, “everything is good.”

“Well...” she took a deep breath. It wasn’t that she was one of those people who assumed everyone would like her, but it was... different to work for friendliness. Bailey told her she had the kind of face that would work wonders in sales. Everyone just opened up to her.

But not Harry. Harry was stoic as could be. It barely looked like he was breathing. Other than the irritation in his eyes, he had a really nice face. Smooth skin, angular jaw, and just pretty features that were probably wasted on someone so grumpy. But she could see something flicker in his eyes. Something that she wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see which is why it was merely a flicker.

Was this grumpy man amused? By her?

“...Do you have a recommendation then?”

“Anything. It’s all good,” he was clearly over this exchange.

She thought she could get him to budge but it didn’t seem that way. This was the fast track to nowhere. Not the impression she wanted to make on her first official day in town. Sighing, she glanced at the specials board. “You have peach pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have white chocolate chips?”

Harry sighed, exasperated with the conversation, and she hadn’t even ordered her coffee yet. “Yup...” he was staring at her like this was going to kill him. Or he was going to kill her.

“Can I have one of each? Peaches and white chocolate chip?”

“What?” He seemed surprised. Which was interesting because surely it couldn’t have been crazy. Peaches and white chocolate chips had to be popular if he had them. He shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” She frowned.

“Because s’extra work t’make a whole batch of peachpancakes and chocolate chip. One or the other.”

Maybe it was his tone or her frustration. The nerves of heading to town hall after breakfast. The piss-poor impression she was making at the extremely local diner where everyone seemed to know Harry. Even though he was grumpy they still ate there. It was obvious this wasn’t their first day being there. They still called out for him when the mug shattered even though she was more than capable of helping.

But she didn’t want to take no for an answer. Maybe if he had placated her or smiled. Or if he just didn’t look at her like she was the bane of his existence she wouldn’t have pressed. “But... I don’t want one or the other. I want one of each.”

“Get ‘em mixed together or don’t have ‘em,” he shrugged.

“But if I get them mixed together, the peaches will sink to one side or slide off all together. The chocolate chips always sink to the bottom. So the ratio in each bite will be off. I’ve tried it before; it just doesn’t blend well.”

“If I make y’one peach and one white chocolate chip, then all m’ratios will be off. I’ll have t’purchase different quantities of peaches and chocolate chips.”

“That seems a little dramatic for one plate of—"

“S’my diner! Jus’ order what’s on the menu or order four pancakes.”

“That’s absurd! I doubt I’ll even eat one whole pancake!”

Harry swallowed hard, his jaw flexing tight. Briefly he looked at the ceiling and then back at her. His voice was quieter when he spoke. “Order what’s on the menu or don’t order at—"

“Fine! Two peach pancakes!”

Honestly, she has no idea why she was arguing in the first place. It was idiotic and childish but there was something about the grumpiness that was off-putting and made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was solely because he didn’t seem to like her, and she was trying really hard to fit in and he was the only person she had met so far that was close to her own age. If she could get him to like her, then maybe she wouldn’t be friendless and lonely.

With another large sigh (like it was painful for him to be standing near her) he rolled his eyes and headed to the back to make her breakfast. She wouldn’t be surprised if he poisoned them.

The diner was still quiet, and she could feel eyes flicking over to her repeatedly, their gazes heating her up with knowledge she was being watched. To keep her cool, she continued flipping through her paperwork folder and scrolled on her phone.

About ten minutes later, Harry returned holding her plate. It was practically silent again. The show that ensued was not forgotten by the other customers. Harry failed to hide his interest in her paperwork and failed to hide the fact he was reading whatever was in front of her. It didn’t bother her, honestly. She wanted to be an open book. Especially in a small town and especially with the guy that looked beyond irritated with her.

Trying again was insanity. But she was nothing if not one for perseverance. “Do you know what time the town hall opens? I tried to find a time online but—"

Harry snorted. “Town Hall doesn’t do online. S’whenever Sutton gets there t’unlock.”

She blinked. Small towns. “When’s that?”

“Usually before nine-thirty.”

“Usually?”

Harry shrugged, placing the plate in front of her. She could smell cinnamon and maple. Of course, the peaches were starting to caramelize as well and so it really looked utterly delicious. “Sometimes he forgets his alarm. Then s’before ten-thirty.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Alright,” she nodded. “Hey,” she called quietly as Harry turned to leave. “Do you do tabs? I’m probably going to be here every morning before work. It’s fine if you don’t. Just... figured it would easier.”

Did it get even quieter? Harry had a way with sighing. Heavily. Like talking to her and thinking were the two greatest and hardest tasks he’d ever been given in his life. Her eyes quickly darted around the place. There were enough tables to seat about twenty people plus five seats at the counter. It was busy—not crowded or full, but busy. It was just after the morning commute group had left; she had to imagine. The hustle of the nine-to-five crowd was long gone. “Sure,” he shook his head. “Every Friday.”

She was certain she didn’t imagine it that time. The entire place was silent for another ten seconds before the low murmur picked up again.

“Okay, thank you. I just... moved into town and I had no food at my house.”

“Whose house?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whose house did y’buy?”

“Oh... uh... the Holliston’s?” Was that the name someone said a few moments ago? It had to be because no one corrected her, and it was apparent everyone was listening to her to talk to Harry.

“Nice couple,” she supposed she got it right then. “Do you want coffee?” He asked.

Was this him warming up to her? It was interesting. It wasn’t exactly warm, but it wasn’t arguing. Which she liked. Although arguing with him was kind of... fun in its own way. But she needed a friend before she argued with him for hours on end.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded quickly. “Please. Thank you.” Was it hot in there? Harry was attractive—even if he was grumpy. A sour face usually turned her off immediately. But with Harry... it didn’t seem so grumpy anymore. Especially now that he stopped arguing with her. The crease between his eyebrows disappeared. His frown turned to a more neutral expression. She swore that flicker of amusement was back again. “This is a really cute town,” she remarked.

Harry ignored the comment as he poured her a mug of steaming coffee and placed a little plate of cream and sugar packets beside it. “What brings y’here?” He asked. She did hear his skepticism like maybe he was going to kick her out before she unpacked if she wasn’t good enough for the clique-y village.

“Oh,” she swallowed. “I’m hoping to open a book shop.”

Harry tilted his head at her, surprise all over his face and she couldn’t figure out for the life of her why that would be. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. Approval? Was she in the club? “Alright, well... welcome, I guess. Let me know if y’need help with the water at y’house. It always gave the Holliston’s trouble in the winter, and I’d have t’go over and fix it. Don’t want y’pipes t’freeze.”

That was it. He walked away. She watched the grumpy, attractive man tend to the tables, cleaning, and serving all by himself. The others were patient. There was no rushing to get to work like it was Starbucks and everyone quietly waited their turn. There wasn’t a lot of small talk with Harry, but people smiled at him. Like they knew him from the time he was a baby. Maybe they did.

She hoped he would warm up to her. It would be nice to have a friend like him.

Turning to her breakfast, she cut into both pancakes stacked on top of one another, brought a bite of the two little pieces to her mouth after drowning it in enough maple syrup to make the man look at her suspiciously from across the room.

There was no way someone was that concerned about ratios of one patron. He could be grumpy all he wanted, but Harry was dramatic too. (Even if it was way more syrup than she needed, and he probably had a point in worrying about syrup—especially if she was going to be there every day.)

But as the bite hit her tastebuds, she had to look down and see it for herself.

One pancake was peach and the other was white chocolate chip.

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[smutmind]

can u do twice nayeon for when it doesnt fit

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Nayeon

Idol X BBC

This was drafted a few weeks ago. Trying to write a little longer. Good thing someone also requested about Nayeon, so I guess this is the perfect time to post it.

The city didn’t stop for anyone—but it paused the second she hit him.

Nayeon had barely five days left in New York, and she was already out of patience. Her ice cream was melting down her wrist, Google Maps had rerouted her twice, and some asshole on a Citi Bike nearly took her out crossing 45th. She swore under her breath and dodged a group of drunk finance bros taking selfies in the middle of the sidewalk.

The moment she stepped off the curb into the crosswalk, her shoulder slammed into a solid wall of heat and muscle.

The impact sent her ice cream splattering onto her hand and her phone clattering to the pavement.

“Fucking hell,” she snapped in Korean, wiping the sticky trail off her wrist. “Watch where you’re—”

“Yo, maybe watch where you’re walking,” came the deep voice above her.

She looked up. The man stood at least a head taller than her, dark skin gleaming under the late-summer sun, shoulders broad enough to block traffic. He wore a sleeveless gray hoodie that clung to his sculpted chest, and his biceps flexed instinctively like he was ready to swing.

“I had the right of way,” she fired back, brushing her hair out of her face. “You were standing in the middle of the fucking sidewalk.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curling. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t text and walk like a tourist with no GPS sense.”

“Maybe don’t loiter like the world owes you space,” she shot back.

They stared at each other, breathing hard from the jolt—neither backing down.

He looked her over. Not in the gross, lingering way she was used to in Times Square, but sharp, curious, a flick of his eyes from her legs to her lips. “Cute accent,” he said, like it was an insult.

She rolled her eyes. “Overgrown jock,” she muttered, bending to grab her phone.

“Say that again?” he said, stepping in close.

She didn’t move. “You heard me.”

A long beat passed. His gaze lingered on her mouth just long enough to make her pulse skip. Then he turned, muttering something she didn’t catch, and strode off without looking back.

She exhaled, hard, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Broad. Confident. Like he owned every inch of the sidewalk she’d just cursed him for blocking.

“Dick,” she muttered.

Still, her fingers itched. And not just from the ice cream.

The city should’ve let them go their separate ways. But fate—or something more fucked-up—had other plans.

Two nights later, Nayeon followed a borrowed invite to a Harlem rooftop party. Her friend Mina had met a DJ at a dumpling pop-up downtown who said the party would be “lit as hell.” She had nothing to lose, except sleep and maybe a little dignity.

The rooftop was bathed in string lights and sweat. The music pulsed low and heavy—afrobeats layered with deep bass. Someone passed her a plastic cup with something fruity and lethal. Nayeon sipped, scanned, and froze.

There he was.

Across the rooftop, laughing with some tall guy in a Lakers jersey, hoodie off, tank top soaked through. Same carved arms. Same effortless posture. Same infuriating face.

Jordan.

She didn’t know his name yet. But her stomach knew. It clenched on instinct.

He turned. Saw her. Smirked.

“Shit,” she muttered.

She tried to duck behind a group of girls vaping near the bar, but he was already moving. Casual. Confident.

“New York’s a small city after all,” he said, leaning an elbow on the folding table beside her. “You stalking me now?”

Nayeon scoffed. “Please. You wish I cared enough to remember you.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, then lower. “You definitely remembered the biceps.”

She refused to blush. “You’re just big. Doesn’t mean you’re interesting.”

“You looked interested when you stared after me the other day.”

She took a long sip of her drink. “That was disbelief. I didn’t know egos could walk upright.”

He laughed—low and real this time. “You got a mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got a face that deserves slapping.”

“That a threat or a kink?”

Her drink nearly came out her nose. “You are insufferable.”

Jordan leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “And you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

Nayeon blinked. Her heart did something inconvenient. His voice was smooth gravel—dangerous and warm, like whiskey poured too fast.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, and turned her back.

But the universe was committed now. The rooftop crowd thinned, and the music softened. She found herself at the railing, gazing out over the glowing sprawl of Uptown, half-drunk and just buzzed enough to feel bold.

Footsteps approached. She didn’t turn.

“I’m Jordan,” he said behind her.

She didn’t reply.

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite unless you ask.”

“You would be a biter.”

“Only when someone needs putting in their place.”

That made her turn. “Oh, so you’re a dom now?”

He grinned. “Only with brats.”

Her breath caught.

She hated how much her thighs clenched at that.

It was nearly 2 a.m. when they left. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t say no when he offered to walk her to the train. Or why she didn’t stop him when he stepped onto the platform with her. Or why, standing in the wet glow of a flickering overhead light, she reached out and touched his wrist.

“Come with me,” she said.

“No talking,” she added.

He didn’t ask questions.

Her Airbnb was a third-floor walk-up in Brooklyn with shitty locks and peeling paint. Rain had started again, the light mist clinging to their skin as they climbed the stairs. Inside, the air was thick and too warm, and the silence stretched between them like a snapped wire.

Nayeon turned to him, cheeks flushed, hair damp. “We don’t like each other,” she said, half a challenge, half a warning.

Jordan stepped forward. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Their mouths collided.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was teeth and tongue, her hands in his hoodie, his fingers at her waist, yanking her against his chest.

She moaned when his hands slid down and grabbed her ass. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and shoved her against the nearest wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding against the bulge already straining his shorts.

“I should hate this,” she gasped.

“You do,” he said, biting her lip. “So hate it harder.”

Her nails scraped his scalp. “Fuck.”

He carried her to the bed. Dropped her. Stripped off his hoodie.

And she finally saw him.

Broad. Ripped. Carved lines and sweat-slick skin. And when he pulled down his shorts—

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

Her eyes widened. He was huge. Thick, dark, veiny, heavy between his legs.

“Problem?” he asked, cocky but low.

She bit her lip. “You’re gonna break me.”

Jordan stepped closer. “That a complaint?”

Nayeon’s breath hitched as Jordan knelt in front of her, dragging her leggings down her thighs with slow, brutal patience. He kissed each inch of skin as it was revealed—inner knees, the dip above her ankle, her calf where it still glistened from the rain. She’d never felt so exposed. Not just naked—open.

He wasn’t rushing. Not yet.

She leaned back on her elbows, eyes locked on him. His gaze dropped to the soaked patch in her black panties, and his jaw flexed.

“You soaked for me already?” he asked, dragging a finger up the fabric. It came away slick.

She tried to sound annoyed. “Your ego’s showing.”

“My dick’s about to join.”

He hooked two fingers into her waistband and peeled the panties down. When her pussy was fully bare, lips flushed, wet, tight, his breath caught.

“God damn,” he murmured. “Look at that.”

He didn’t wait for permission—just lowered his face between her thighs and licked. Long and slow, tongue flat and warm. Nayeon jolted, a choked moan slipping out before she could catch it.

“Fuck,” she breathed, hips twitching. “You weren’t lying.”

He sucked her clit gently, then flicked, then circled until her back arched and her hands fisted the sheets. She tried to grind against him. He gripped her hips and held her still.

“Let me taste,” he growled. “Just take it.”

She did. She came within minutes, thighs shaking, her moan punched out of her chest.

Jordan stood, licking his lips like she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. His cock was rock hard, pulsing against his stomach. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Your turn,” she said, rolling to her knees.

He watched her crawl to him, eyes blazing. She grabbed his shaft, thick and veiny in her palm, and kissed the tip. One long lick down the underside had him groaning.

“You okay?” she teased.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “if you don’t put that mouth on me—”

She did. Slowly. Taking the head in first, letting her lips stretch around the girth. Her jaw ached almost immediately, but she pushed farther, working him into her throat inch by inch. His hands gripped her hair, not forcing—just grounding himself.

“Shit, Nayeon…” he whispered. “You’re taking it like a fucking champ.”

She moaned around him. The vibration made his knees buckle.

When she pulled off, spit trailing from her lips, she was flushed and wild-eyed. “You ready to wreck me now?”

Jordan grabbed her waist, threw her onto the bed, and climbed over her in one fluid motion. He lined up at her entrance. Slid just the head in.

Her mouth fell open. “Jordan—”

He pushed deeper. Her pussy stretched wide, struggling to take all of him. Inch by thick, heavy inch, he filled her until his hips were flush to hers.

She whimpered, hand clutching his arm. “It’s too much—fuck—don’t stop—”

“You feel that?” he said, grinding slow. “I’m all the way in.”

Her eyes fluttered. “I feel everything.”

He started moving—long, deep strokes. Every pull made her clench, every thrust made her cry out.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight.”

“And you’re—ah—so deep—”

He adjusted her legs, tossing them over his shoulders, and slammed in harder. The angle made her scream, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot with each thrust.

Her moans turned to broken pleas. “Faster—don’t stop—oh god—”

He pounded her. Sweat dripped from his chest onto her skin. The wet slap of flesh filled the room.

“You like getting split open by this cock?” he rasped.

“Yes—yes—yes—” Her voice cracked as another orgasm tore through her. She clenched around him, body locking up as she came so hard she shook.

He didn’t slow. Just flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up.

“You’re not done yet.”

Her face pressed to the sheets as he shoved back inside her, even deeper from behind. His hands gripped her hips, then slid up to her back, down her arms. He pinned her wrists to the mattress and fucked her hard enough to make the bed creak.

“Fuck, Jordan—”

“You love this dick now, don’t you?”

“I—yes—fuck—”

He reached around, rubbed her clit. She screamed again, hips jerking.

“Cum one more time for me,” he ordered.

Her body obeyed. She collapsed, moaning his name, eyes rolling back.

He groaned. “Shit—I’m gonna—”

And then he was cumming inside her, deep and thick, filling her. Hot pulses that made her gasp at the sheer volume.

He collapsed beside her, dragging her into his chest.

They lay there, breathing hard, sweat cooling.

Minutes passed.

Nayeon’s voice was soft. “You still think I’m just some lost tourist?”

Jordan kissed her shoulder. “Nah. I think you’re dangerous.”

She smiled, lips brushing his jaw. “And you’re addicted.”

He didn’t argue.

Nayeon woke to the smell of skin and sweat and New York morning—the faint noise of traffic, the low hum of life creeping through a cracked window. Sunlight spilled in across the sheets, catching on the curve of Jordan’s bare shoulder as he lay on his back, one arm slung carelessly over his head.

Her thighs ached. Her lips were sore. Her skin carried the prints of where he’d held her, fucked her, claimed her.

She blinked once. Then again.

What the hell had she done?

He stirred, head turning, eyes still closed. “You’re awake,” he mumbled.

She sat up slowly, covers slipping off her chest. “No thanks to you. I’m surprised I’m not in traction.”

Jordan’s lips curled into a lazy smile. “You’re welcome.”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, eyes cracking open to drink her in.

“You always look this good post-fuck?” he asked, voice rough.

She snorted. “You always talk like you’re starring in your own porno?”

“Depends. You filming?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin. The banter made it feel less real, safer—like if they kept talking shit, it wouldn’t matter that she’d just spent the night wrapped around a man she didn’t even like.

Did she?

She stood, stretching, completely unashamed in her nakedness. Jordan’s gaze followed every motion like he was still inside her.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

He nodded toward the door. “Down the hall. Don’t fall in.”

When she came back, he was still lying there, but something had shifted. His eyes had softened. The cockiness was still there—but dulled, like he didn’t know what to say next.

She pulled on her underwear and stood near the bed, arms crossed. “You gonna give me the post-coital speech or just awkwardly shuffle out the door?”

Jordan sat up. The sheet slid down, exposing his abs, the cut of his hips, the curve of his half-hard cock resting against his thigh.

“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” he said, then hesitated. “Unless you want me to.”

Nayeon opened her mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

“I didn’t think it’d be like that,” she admitted.

“Good or bad?”

“Intense.” Her voice dropped. “Real.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Didn’t expect you, either.”

A pause.

Then she climbed back onto the bed, crawling toward him like gravity was stronger near his body. She straddled his lap, pressing her chest to his.

“You know what else I didn’t expect?” she murmured.

“What?”

“How much I want you again.”

Jordan’s hands gripped her thighs. “You sure you can handle it, baby?”

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Only one way to find out.”

This time was different.

Slower. But no less intense.

She kissed him first—soft and deep. He responded in kind, hands sliding over her hips, fingers tracing the bruises he’d left hours ago. She lowered herself onto him with a gasp, his cock thick and hot, stretching her inch by inch.

Their eyes locked. No banter. No insults.

Just the weight of bodies moving together.

She rode him slow, grinding down with each thrust, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she moaned. He whispered things against her skin—nothing clever, just raw desire.

“God, you feel so fucking good…”

Her pace quickened. The slaps of their skin grew louder. Jordan sat up, wrapped an arm around her back, and held her while she fucked herself on him. Her breath hitched. Her nails dug in.

“I’m close,” she whispered.

“I got you,” he said.

He stood with her still on him, carried her to the wall, and fucked her standing—her back pressed to peeling paint, his hands under her thighs, his mouth at her neck.

She came with a strangled cry, full body shaking. He followed moments later, growling into her shoulder as he came deep inside her for the second time.

They collapsed back on the bed. Sticky. Sated. Quiet.

She rested her head on his chest. His fingers played lazily with her hair.

“Still hate me?” he asked.

She smirked against his skin. “Only a little.”

“You gonna disappear when your flight leaves?”

“Probably.”

A beat.

“You gonna miss me?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

But her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest, and her legs stayed tangled with his.

That was answer enough.

[daddydindjarin]

Chapter 3: Good Enough

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch  x F!Reader  Rating: 18+ Mature Wordcount: 6723 Summary: You throw yourself into the chaos of PTMC, using the rhythm of the ER to drown out the ache she won’t admit to feeling. But when you catch sight of Robby with Heather Collins—poised, beautiful, and everything you feel you aren’t—the cracks you’ve been hiding start to show.  Warnings: Pining, Self Worth issues, slight body dysmorphia/self-image, general ER Content. Mentions for grief and parental loss A/N: Forgive me if I get something medical wrong, hours of googling and watching Grey's Anatomy does not replace a medical degree! As always, the dividers are by @firefly-graphics

You wake up to the soft but insistent pressure of paws on your chest. Junebug is perched on top of you, blinking slowly, her face inches from yours like she’s daring you to pretend like you didn’t hear her. 

You groan, pushing your hands over your face. “Alright, alright, I’m up.” 

She chirps, satisfied, and jumps off the bed with a graceful flick of her tail. You don’t move right away, still sprawled across the mattress with your sheets tangled around your ankles. The light filtering through your blinds is pale, dawn just peeking beyond the horizon, not quite committing to the day yet. 

You breathe out, let your eyes drift across the room. The space is small, but it’s yours, filled with soft, worn, and mostly second-hand things. Blankets your mom knitted are folded over the back of the couch you found on the side of the road with a sign marked ‘for free’, mismatched mugs stacked on the kitchen counter above bar stools you bought from the dive bar on Jefferson because the leather was cracked and they were remodeling. There’s a tiny shelf near the window filled with plants you keep forgetting to water, but somehow thrive anyway. A ceramic cat planter that’s chipped at the edges holds a pothos that cascades lazily down the wall. 

Junebug meows again, louder this time, and you sigh, kicking the sheets the rest of the way off and padding to the kitchen. The floor is freezing under your bare feet, waking you up almost immediately. She winds around your legs as you fill her dish, purring like you just saved her life all over again. 

“Drama queen,” you mutter, nudging her gently with your foot as you move to the coffee maker. The machine sputters and hisses, filling the kitchen with the smell of cheap beans and a little bit of comfort. You pull a mug from the stack, the one with a crack along the handle that you refuse to throw away, and watch the pot fill, steam curling up and disappearing into nothing.

You drink your first cup leaning against the counter, fingers curled around the warmth, your eyes still bleary. The city is waking up outside your window, traffic growing louder, the familiar hum of life kicking back into gear. You take another sip and grab your phone from its charger on the counter, thumbing through messages. There’s a text from Princess: 

You better bring more muffins or I’m reporting you to HR.

You chuckle, tapping out a quick response. 

That’s how I go down? Over muffins?

Her reply is immediate: 

💯

You smile, setting your phone aside, and taking another long sip of coffee. You linger in the silence for a while, basking in the stillness before the day really starts. It’s always like this, this little pause before the plunge. You savor it, knowing it’ll slip away the second you step through the ER doors. 

Junebug chirps again, this time from the living room, and you glance over to see her curled up on the back of the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Must be nice,” you call over to her, finishing your coffee. “Sleep all day, no bills, no running from Dana.” 

She just blinks, unimpressed. 

You roll your eyes, rinse out your mug, and toss it in the sink to deal with later. The clock on the microwave blinks 5:43, and you let out a low groan. “Alright, let’s do this.” You grab your phone, heading towards your dresser. Socks, black scrubs, your PTMC badge resting right where you left it. You open Spotify, swipe through your playlists, and settle on the one labeled “Morning Grind.” 

The first few notes of Dog Days Are Over spill through your phone’s speakers, and you hum along as you tug your scrubs on, not quite awake enough for the full-bodied performance you usually put on in the safety of your own home with only Junebug to judge you. You have a playlist for everything: Overnights, Sunday Mornings, Rainy Days When You Have to Pretend You’re Okay. You thumb through them sometimes when you’re restless, reorganizing, shuffling songs around like it's some kind of ritual. Playlists to match your moods, that remind you of your childhood back home, and one in particular that gets more attention than you’d like to admit, titled For No One In Particular. 

You pull your hair back, braiding your curls tight today so they won’t get in your way. The mirror catches your reflection, soft and tired eyes, curves you’ve long since stopped trying to hide. You’ve spent too much time scrutinizing every feature and flaw in this mirror, but you just don’t have time to do it today, so instead you slip on your sneakers, double-knotting them out of habit. 

You swipe your badge off the dresser and grab your keys from the bowl next to the couch. Your work bag is still by the door where you dropped it last night, already packed, but you double-check it anyway. Stethoscope, penlight, spare granola bar shoved into the side pocket. You belatedly remember (for the 5th time this week) that you need to buy a new water bottle after misplacing your 9th one just this year, but that is a problem for later. You grab your coat, shrugging it on, and pause for a second, fingers brushing the inside of the pocket. The sticky note is still here, creased but intact:

Don’t let the toddlers win. (Or the attendings. Or Princess.)

You smile, just a little, and tuck it back into its place. 

Junebug is back on the windowsill, perched like she owns the place, and watching the outside world passing by. You watch her for a second, half-jealous of her simple kingdom. 

“Okay, June,” you say, reaching over to scratch behind her ears. “Don’t burn the place down.” 

She headbutts your hand in reply. 

You put your earbuds in as you step into the hallway, Hozier’s dulcet tones pulsing softly in your ears and filling the silence that comes with the early morning chill. You nod to your neighbor, Mrs. Lutz, still in her slippers, clutching her newspaper like it's a lifeline as you struggle to lock your door. She waves back, eyes soft with familiarity. 

You like mornings like this, when the world is still waking up and you can pretend for a minute that the day hasn’t already decided who it’s going to break. The walk to the bodega is quick, and you duck inside, the bell jingling above you. The smell of stale coffee and fresh bagels wraps around you like an old coat. You nod at George behind the counter, who raises his chin in greeting. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you reply, removing one earbud,  already pulling out your card. “And a muffin, too.” 

George grunts, sliding the coffee cup across the counter. “You’re gonna keep that ER running on muffins alone.” 

You grin, tapping your card against the reader. “That’s the plan.” 

The coffee is hot, the lid steaming as you push back outside. You replace the earbud, thumb tapping to the next song, and start your trek to PTMC. I Will Follow You Into the Dark flows softly into your ears, and you hum along as you make your way down Fifth. 

By the time you hit the hospital doors, your mind is settled. The music slips away, earbuds tucked back into your pocket as you swipe your badge and step into the fluorescent lights. The ER is already buzzing, and truly, it never stops. There’s a flurry of movement near triage, nurses weaving between gurneys, monitors beeping in tight succession, and the distant sound of Cassie McKay arguing with a tech about whether or not blunt force trauma qualifies for a CT scan right away.   

Princess catches your eye from across the room and waves you over. Her grin is wicked, and you already know she’s got something up her sleeve. “Scout,” she calls, dragging out the vowels like she’s about to tell you something you won’t like, but that she finds endlessly funny. “You’re gonna wanna see this.” 

You step into the the chaos, heart kicking up just a little. You thread your way through the hallway, dodging gurneys and the shuffling of patients. You catch sight of Perlah wrestling with a crash cart by North 3, cursing under her breath in Tagalog. You raise your hand in greeting, and she flips you off without looking back. You grin and keep moving. 

Princess is waiting by the locker room door, leaning back on her heels, a grin stretched wide across her face. Her dark eyes glimmer with mischief, and you slow your pace just enough to brace yourself. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?” 

“Because you are,” she laughs, her eyes flicking down to the paper bag in your hand. “That for me?”

You hand it over, and she tears into it like she hasn’t eaten in a week. “Ooooo chocolate chip!”

You laugh, slinging your backpack off your shoulder, tucking it into the locker with one hand while you sip at your coffee. “You’re welcome.” 

She waves the half-eaten muffin at you like it’s a threat. “You stop bringing these, and I’m reporting you for emotional abuse. Especially your homemade ones.”

“Noted.” You slam the locker shut, spin the dial, and toss her a grin. “So, what’s up? You called me over like you’ve got something juicy.”

Princess’s grin spreads slowly again. “Oh, I do. Follow me.” 

You grab your coffee, falling into step beside her as she leads you through the maze of stretchers. You pass McKay still mid-argument, her hands flaring dramatically as she gestures to the monitor. She catches your eye and gives a dramatic eye roll. You snort and keep walking. 

Princess weaves through the chaos like she owns the place, taking a sharp turn into Central 6. She doesn’t even pause, just yanks back the curtain and gestures grandly for you to step inside. 

You blink. “Okay, what am I-”

The words die on your tongue the second you see them. 

Sitting up in the bed, grinning like she’s just won the lottery, is a woman dressed head to toe in what can only be described as a full Bridgerton-era gown. Blue silk, white lace, gloves that go up to her elbows, and a glittering tiara that you’re almost certain is from Party City. She’s fanning herself with a lace handkerchief and batting her eyelashes at Dennis Whitaker, who is standing stiffly by her bedside, looking like he has no idea how he ended up here. 

You blink, then blink again. “What in the…? Whitaker?”

He startles, nearly knocking the stool over. “Oh! Dr.- Hi. I was just- uh, she said she needed a gentleman with, uh…” He clears his throat, voice dropping a little. “...sturdy hands.”

You clamp down hard on your laughter, biting your cheek. “And she chose you?”

Whitaker blushes, earnest and so honest it almost hurts. “I guess so?”

Princess is barely holding it together beside you, her shoulders shaking. You pat Whitaker on the shoulder, squeezing just a little. “Good for you, Whitaker. Climbing the social ladder.” 

His cheeks flush deeper, and the woman in the bed beams. “Oh, he’s a darling,” she coos. “So eager to help. I do so love a man of integrity!” Whitaker looks like he might actually implode when she catches sight of you and perks up. “Oh, a lady doctor!” she gasps, fanning herself faster. “How positively modern!” 

“Oh, we’re nothing if not modern,” you reply, winking at Whitaker and stepping closer to her bedside. “What seems to be the problem, Your Grace?” 

The woman’s eyes go wide with delight. “I knew it! You have the spirit of a noblewoman!” She holds out her hand, gloved and pristine. “Lady Winifred of Lancashire.” 

Princess barely stifles a giggle behind you. You school your face into a mask of utter seriousness and take Lady Winifred’s hand in both of yours and give her your name. “I’ll be helping our student doctor here,” you reply straight-faced. 

The woman sighs dramatically. “I’ve been dreadfully unwell. A fit of the vapors, I’m afraid. Far too much excitement.” 

You nod along, taking the tablet Whitaker offers you. “It happens to the best of us. I think we can help you out.” You tap through her chart, glancing at Whitaker’s notes. Syncopal episode in public. No injury upon arrival. Blood pressure elevated. You scroll down a bit further and bite your lip to keep from laughing. Requested “a gentleman with sturdy hands and noble bearing.” 

You look back at Princess, grinning. “You’re right, this is the best thing I’ve seen all week.” 

“Don’t I always deliver?”

You make a few more notes in her file, nodding. “Fine, you win this round.” 

Lady Winifred sighs. “Would one of you be so kind as to procure me a cup of tea?”

Princess raises her eyebrows. “We have apple juice.” 

She gasps as if it’s the most decadent offer she’s ever heard. “That will do splendidly.”

You glance at Whitaker, who is still frozen in place. You can’t help it, you laugh, clapping him on the back. “Go fetch her apple juice, Sir Whitaker.” 

He nods frantically, sliding past you with all the grace of a baby deer on ice. You watch him stumble out of the room, hands flailing slightly as he rounds the corner. Lady Winifred fans herself dramatically, the lace flapping back and forth with enough enthusiasm to make her tiara tilt slightly off-center. “Alright, Lady Winifred,” you say, eyes flicking to her monitor. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, we’ll have our esteemed Sir Whitaker bring you that apple juice you requested, and we’ll get you settled.” 

Her eyes shine, and she nods regally. “Most gracious of you. 

“Of course,” you reply, biting your cheek again. “After that, I’m going to take a quick listen to your heart and lungs, just to make sure all is well. Your fainting spell may have been brought on by dehydration or a drop in blood pressure.” You tap on the tablet, bringing up her vitals. “But we’ll make sure it’s not anything more sinister.” 

Lady Winifred’s gloved hand flutters to her chest. “How very attentive! A true physician of the people!”

“That’s the goal.” Your lips twitch, but you hold it together. “Now, after we do that, I’ll send our good squire…uh, Whitaker…down to get a set of labs and a bit of saline. Should help clear up those vapors right away.” 

She nods, clearly impressed with the plan. “And what of my tea?”

“Coming right up,” you say smoothly. “We specialize in only the finest apple juice this side of the kingdom.”

Princess snickers beside you, and you hand her the tablet, shooting her a look that says not one word. 

Lady Winifred beams again. “Wonderful! I shall await my refreshment.” She leans back into the hospital bed, arranging her skirts as though she’s about to take tea with the Queen. 

You sanitize your hands and then step closer, fingers resting lightly on her wrist to check her pulse, not bothering with the pulse ox just yet. It’s steady, albeit a bit fast, probably from all the theatrics. “Alright, Lady Winifred,” you say gently. “I’m going to listen to your heart now. Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.” 

She nods, eyes softening. “My dear, you are an angel.” 

You smile, pressing your stethoscope to her chest, and listen. Her breathing is unhurried, like she’s living in her own world, and maybe she is. Princess is still typing into the tablet, taking notes for you as you finish your check on Lady Winifred. She’s lying back against the hospital bed like it’s a throne now, the tiara still slightly crooked, but somehow just as regal. “Let’s get those fluids started, and then let’s get a full panel- CBC, BMP, cardiac enzymes, and electrolytes. Oh, and glucose just to be safe. Think we can get an ECG without her asking us to present it to her Queen?”

Princess snorts, tapping away. “Only one way to find out.” 

Whitaker shuffles back into the room, a juice box clutched in his hand like he just discovered fire. “I, uh…they were out of apple, so I got grape?”

Lady Winifred’s eyes go wide with delight. “Grape! The most luxurious of juices. You are a true gentleman.” 

Whitaker turns bright red, stuttering something that sounds like thank you, ma’am as he hands her the juice. She takes it with grace, stabbing the tiny straw through the foil with a flourish. 

You’re just about to make a crack about Whitaker being knighted when a familiar voice cuts through the room.

“Well, this is the strangest episode of Downton Abbey I’ve ever seen.” 

You turn, and Robby is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He takes in the scene- Lady Winifred sipping delicately from a grape juice box, Whitaker still standing stiff as a board, and you and Princess fighting back giggles. 

It’s not a fight you win as laughter bursts from you. “What, you don’t like our new dress code?”

Robby raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying, if you’re gonna throw a royal ball in Central 6, you gotta give me a heads up.” 

Princess snickers. “We’re rolling out the red carpet next.” 

Lady Winifred clears her throat, smiling demurely at Robby. “And who, may I ask, is this dashing gentleman?”

Robby looks at you, amused. You shrug. “This is Sir Robinavitch of Pittsburgh.” 

Whitaker looks like he might actually keel over. Robby just laughs, straightening up and stepping further into the room. “At your service, my lady.” He gives her a little bow, just deep enough to make her giggle. 

Princess nudges you with her elbow. “You should have seen her face when Whitaker walked in. She practically swooned.” 

You smirk. “I bet.” 

Robby turns back to you, eyebrow raised. “You got this handled, or do I need to grab my sword and shield?” 

You grin. “I think I got it. But keep your armor handy, just in case.” 

His eyes crinkle at the edges, just for a second, and your chest does that stupid thing it always does when he looks at you like that. You force yourself to look away, busying your hands by taking the tablet from Princess and looking at her chart as if there’s anything on it you haven’t already memorized. 

He lingers for just a moment longer, and you feel his eyes on you, steady and just a little softer than usual. But you don’t look up, you don’t let yourself. 

Finally, he nods, tapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “Alright, let me know if I need to find a cape.” 

You snort. “You’d look terrible in a cape.”

“Rude.” He’s still smiling as he walks away, and you don’t breathe until he’s out of sight. 

Princess waits just a beat before she side-eyes you. “So…Sir Robinavitch, huh?”

“Shut up.” 

Lady Winifred takes a long, delicate sip of her second box of grape juice, her pinky finger extended in what looks like a practiced way. Whitaker is still lingering by the bed, eyes wide like he’s half expecting her to ask him for a dance. You smother a grin and turn back to your tablet, making sure you’ve notated everything before she’s off for labs. 

Lady Winifred watches you with a smile that’s just a bit too knowing. “Sir Robinavitch seems quite taken with you.” 

You blink, the words catching you off guard. “I’m sorry?”

Her handkerchief flutters, the lace brushing her cheek. “The handsome doctor. He looked at you like you hung the stars, my dear. You should marry him.”

Whitaker, who has just finished inputting her vitals, chokes audibly. You shoot him a look, but he’s already gone beet red, eyes fixed firmly on his shoes. 

“I-he-what?” You laugh, the sound coming out more like a gasp. “No. No, it’s not…we’re just-”

Lady Winifred raises her brows, tapping a gloved finger against her chin. “Just friends, of course.” She leans back against the pillows, eyes sparkling with some kind of secret delight. “My dear, I may be old, but I’m not blind. A woman knows these things.” 

Princess snickers behind you, and you toss her a glare that could probably take down half the ER if you tried hard enough. “Can I get you anything else, Lady Winifried? Some…crumpets, perhaps?”

“Oh, that would be divine.” She clasps her hands over her chest, eyes fluttering shut. “With lemon curd, if you have it.”

Princess, unable to help herself, snorts loudly. “I’ll go see if we have any stashed next to the IV fluids.” 

Whitaker is still frozen, and when you nudge him with your elbow, he jumps. “Come on, Sir Whitaker. Let’s get those labs done.” 

Lady Winifred gives a delicate wave. “Do tell Sir Robinavitch I appreciated his presence. And do think about what I said.”

You’re already halfway out the door, Whitaker scrambling after you, cheeks still red. Princess is right behind, trying and failing to keep her laughter contained. 

The second you clear the curtain, Princess grabs your elbow. “Hung the stars?” she wheezes, practically doubling over. “Oh, I am never letting you live this down. Wait till I tell Perlah.” 

You snatch your tablet from her hand. “You are not saying a word.” 

She just laughs harder, fanning her face and trying to catch her breath. “Oh my God, Scout. Lady Winifred just tried you marry you off.” 

“Delirium,” you reply breezily, tapping at the screen. “Clearly.”

Whitaker trails behind. “She uh…she did seem really…interested in Dr. Robby and you.”

You shoot him a glare. “Not you, too.” 

Princess just grins as you come up to the nurse’s station. She logs into a computer and starts punching in the lab requests with practiced speed. “All I’m saying is, she’s not wrong. He was looking at you like you’re the only one in the room.”

“Did you hit your head today?”

“Nope, I’m just observant.” She leans against the counter, chin propped on her hand. “When are you gonna admit you’re a little in love with him?”

You sputter, the words catching in your throat. “Excuse me?”

Princess rolls her eyes. “Girl, I’m not blind. And neither is Lady Winifred, apparently.” 

You don’t respond right away, just shake your head and look down at your hands, fingers tight around the edge of your tablet. “I’m…not.”

Princess hums, her grin smug and unrelenting. “Right. Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.” 

You shove your shoulder against hers, but it’s more playful than annoyed. “You coming?”

“Always.” She slips her arm through yours, pulling you back own the hallway with a bounce in her step. “Come on, Lady Scout. Let’s go find some crumpets.” 

Hours slip by the way they always do, quick and heavy, patients coming and going like tides. You settle into the rhythm of it: vitals checked, IVs placed, fluids hung. A woman in North 5 with a sprained wrist from slipping on ice, an elderly man in Central 3 with chest pains, a toddler with croup whose cries are still echoing in your ears. 

Princess catches your eye as she breezes by with Perlah, hand raised in a mock wave. “M’lady,” she calls out, her grin stretching wide, and you flip her off without breaking stride. 

She laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the noise, but you don’t stay still; there’s still too much to do. By the time you get a minute to breathe, it’s already past four. The sun is low, casting the hallway near the ambulance bay in sharp bands of orange light that stretch across the floor, but can’t quite compete with the fluorescent lights lighting up the rest of the ER. You grab a cup of coffee from the breakroom- lukewarm and bitter, but better than nothing- and lean back against the counter, stretching the ache from your shoulders. 

You’ve just closed your eyes for a second when the door swings open. You don’t have to look to know it’s him. His presence is like a change in the air, warm and familiar in a way that makes you feel simultaneously at ease and painfully restless. “Hey,” he says, voice softer than the noise that usually accompanies the ER. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You crack one eye open, meeting his gaze. He’s holding a stack of charts under one arm, his other hand already reaching for the coffee pot. “Oh, you know me,” you reply dryly. “I live to suffer.” 

Robby snorts, pouring himself a cup and leaning back against the counter behind you. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the breakroom quiet except for the soft hum of the vending machines, and the distant beep of a heart monitor somewhere down the hall. 

He sips his coffee, eyes flicking to yours. “Princess still giving you hell about Lady Winifred?” 

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cabinet. “I’m never gonna hear the end of it. She’s called me ‘M’lady’ at least six times.” 

Robby laughs, deep and warm, the kind of laugh you feel in your ribs. “I’m surprised you’re taking it so well.” 

You shrug, sipping your own coffee. “I’m just waiting for her to forget. Or die. Whichever comes first.” 

He chuckles again, his eyes lingering on you for just a second too long. You don’t look back. You can’t. 

“You’ve been busy today,” he says finally, voice softening even more. “Dana told me you’ve been putting out fires all afternoon.”

“That’s just a Tuesday.” 

He tilts his head, studying you in a way that makes you want to turn invisible. Like he’s peeling back layers and looking for something underneath. You shift your weight, fingers curling around your coffee cup slightly tighter. “What?” you ask, a little too snappy. 

“Nothing.” He looks away, eyes flicking back to the door. “You just-you look tired.”

You scoff. “Thanks.” 

Robby’s mouth quirks at the corner, and he scratches at his beard. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You shake your head, turning back to your cup. “I’m fine. I always am.” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and it’s soft, like he’s saying it to himself. “You always are.”

The silence seems endless. It’s not uncomfortable, but heavy. You let it settle, the hum of the vending machine filling the space where words should be. You almost want to ask him if he’s okay, if he’s eating enough, if he’s gotten any sleep in the last week, but you don’t. Not here. Not now. Not when it feels like every midnight thought of him will spill out of you with them. 

Robby clears his throat, breaking the quiet. “Hey, I was gonna grab a bite from that taco place near Fifth after shift. If you’re around…you should come.” 

Your breath catches. It’s not the invitation itself. You’ve eaten together more times than you can count. Takeout on his couch or yours, hockey games flickering on the TV, his feet kicked up on the coffee table like he’s lived there his whole life. But this is different. The way he says it, like it has a deeper meaning, like he’s waiting for something. 

You blink, turning to face him fully. “Me?”

His smile is a little crooked, like he’s unsure if he’s stepping over a line. “Yeah, you.” 

You open your mouth, words caught somewhere between yes and absolutely yes, but you catch yourself. Suddenly, you’re eleven again, back in the middle school cafeteria with your lunch tray clutched to your chest, waiting for someone to notice there’s an empty seat beside you. That feeling sinks its claws in, and you swallow hard. “I, um- I’ll see how things go. If I’m able to get out of here.” 

He nods, too casually, and you know you’ve deflected a little too hard. His expression doesn’t change, not really, but there’s something in his eyes that dims. “Right. Well. If you’re around.” He pushes off the counter, tapping the edge with his knuckles. “I’ll catch you later, Scout.” 

And then he’s gone. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of stale coffee and antiseptic, and you feel like if you exhale too hard, you might just tip over. You stare at the door for a second longer, letting the moment settle, feeling the edges of it ripple out in waves.

You don’t understand what happened. Getting food with Robby is nothing new; it’s never been strange. It’s never been heavy. 

But this time…it was. 

You shake your head, pressing your palms into the counter. The edge digs into your hips, grounding you. It’s fine. You’re just tired. He’s just…Robby. That’s all. 

You drain the last of your coffee and toss the cup in the trash, the hollow thunk echoing louder than it should. The clock on the wall ticks on, minutes slipping by, and you don’t let yourself think about it anymore. 

There’s work to do. There’s always work to do. 

You straighten up, run your hands over your scrubs, and push back out into the hallway. The noise of the ER swells around you, voices rising and falling, the sharp hiss of a blood pressure cuff deflating, the squeak of sneakers against tile. You walk back toward the nurse’s station, tablet in hand, ready to find your next patient. 

That’s when you see them. 

Heather Collins is standing just outside of Central 10, chart in hand, leaning against the counter with the kind of effortless grace only she seems to possess. She looks perfect, her scrubs are pristine, her voice low and smooth as she laughs at something Robby just said. She’s beautiful, sharp in a way that’s softened by kindness, the kind of person people just notice. 

You’ve always liked Collins. She’s competent, smart, quick with a joke, and steady under pressure. When you work together, it’s seamless, like falling into step with someone who knows the rhythm by heart. But that doesn’t stop the sharp edge of comparison from slipping under your skin when you see her and Robby together. 

You stop short, half-hidden behind the wall, and just…watch. 

Collins says something, her smile easy and bright, and Robby laughs, head tipping back just a little. He looks good with her. It’s not even a question. He looks right with her, like they’ve been standing next to each other their whole lives, like the space between them is a suggestion, not a boundary. 

Your fingers tighten around your tablet, nails pressing into the back of the case. It’s fine. It’s normal. It’s- 

Better than you’d ever look.

You’ve always been a little self-conscious of your body, but seeing Heather standing there, all clean lines and sharp cheekbones, makes you feel smaller. Like you take up too much space, like the softness in your hips and thighs is more unseemly than you can convince yourself that it's not. 

Heather tilts her head back, laughing again at something Robby says, and he smiles back at her with that easy grin, the one that never looks forced. It’s friendly and familiar. 

And you…you don’t look like that next to him. 

You shake your head, forcing your eyes away. There’s work to do, remember? That’s what matters. You square your shoulders, slip back into the noise and the chaos of the ER, and keep your eyes forward—one step, then another. There’s no room for anything else. It’s a trick you learned early- if you keep moving, if you don’t stop, the sharp edges can’t catch you. It’s the routine of it that works: vitals, meds, chart, repeat. It’s the closest thing you have to religion anymore, and you follow it faithfully. 

North 3: chest pain, seventy-four, history of COPD. You step into the room, gloves snapped on, and the noise of the hallway fades behind you. The woman on the bed looks up at you, her eyes lined with the kind of wrinkles that come from years of laughter. You smile back, quick and practiced. “Hi there,” you say, introducing yourself. “What’s going on today?”

She coughs, the sound ragged and heavy. “Just a little trouble breathing. My daughter made me come.” 

You nod, stepping forward to press the stethoscope to her chest. The crackling sound is immediate, like paper crumpling. You press your lips together, leaning back. “I’m going to get you a breathing treatment, alright? Help clear some of that up.” 

She nods, her eyes soft. “Thank you, dear.”

You flash her another quick smile and step out of the room, tapping on your tablet. The screen flickers, pulling up her chart, and you scroll through the notes with practiced efficiency. The world narrows down- symptoms, vitals, history. It’s neat and ordered, and it doesn’t hurt. 

Dana is at the nurse’s station when you approach, hands on her hips, her gaze on the board as sharp as her glasses. She looks over to you as you step into her line of sight. “You good?” 

“Fine,” you reply, harsher than you mean to. 

Dana’s eyebrows inch up slightly, her hands still perched on her hips. “Uh-huh. Sure.” 

You grit your teeth, focusing on your teeth, focusing on your tablet. “South 5 needs hands, right?” 

“Yeah, but you gonna tell me why you’re stomping around here like you just lost a fistfight?”

“I’m not stomping,” you shoot back, already stepping away.

Dana’s voice follows you, cutting through your built-up walls. “Maybe not, but you’re sure as hell throwing elbows.” 

You don’t respond, and just keep moving, but the second you turn the corner, the sting of it hits. That twisting knot of guilt, curling up just behind your ribs. Dana’s been in your corner since you first walked through these halls, since you were still an intern fumbling with your badge and getting lost between the wings. She’s the one who found you on your first week, teetering on the edge of a breakdown in the supply closet, and she didn’t ask questions. She just put a hand on your shoulder and told you to breathe. 

The memory slips in uninvited, and you press your lips together, fingers flexing around your tablet. You shouldn’t have snapped at her, you know that. But you don’t go back, not yet. 

You step into South 5, that knot still coiled up tight in your chest. It’s a flurry of motion- a teenager with a broken arm, and a mother who’s hovering too close to the gurney. You step in, smile already in place. “Hey there, let’s take a look.” 

The boy glances up at you, wide-eyed and pale. His arm is cradled to his chest, the skin around his elbow already starting to swell. You meet his gaze and soften your voice. “We’re gonna take good care of you, okay? I’m just gonna feel here, real gentle.” 

He nods, biting his lip, and you work quickly, your fingers gentle as you palpate his arm. He hisses when you press too close to the break, and you pull back immediately. “Okay, we’re gonna get some X-rays. I’ll get you something for the pain in the meantime.” 

His mother breathes out, shoulders sagging. “Thank you.” 

You nod, already tapping out orders on your tablet. “No problem, they’ll be in to grab you in just a bit.” 

You don’t linger, there’s no room for lingering. You move down the hall, the noise rising up around you again, and you lean into it. It’s all noise, all motion, and it’s certainly better than thinking. 

You head to the medical supply room to grab a dose of ibuprofen, and start back to South 5, and you barely register the hand on your arm before you pass. “Hey,” Dana’s voice is low, full of concern. “You sure you’re good?” 

You blink, hesitating this time, and the guilty knot twists tighter. You don’t shrug her off- you can’t. Not when it’s Dana. 

You turn to face her, trying to school your features. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…having a day.” 

Dana’s eyes narrow, that maternal edge that she slips into when she knows you need it. “You heard from your sister?”

You shake your head. “No, she’s fine. Last I heard, she was interviewing again.” 

An eyebrow raises, skeptical. “And your dad?” 

You almost flinch at that, but you force your hands to stay still at your sides. “He’s fine. Or, you know. As good as he gets.” 

Dana’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “Scout, I know you don’t like to talk about it. But whatever’s eating at you…don’t do that thing where you swallow it down and smile through it. You don’t owe anyone that.” 

It hits you harder than you expect. You know she means it, you know she wouldn’t push if she didn’t care. You look down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of your tablet. “It’s not…anything like that. Really. Just..a rough day.” 

She huffs, but it’s more affectionate than exasperation. “Alright. But you know where to find me if you decide to stop being stubborn about it.” 

You smile, genuinely this time. “I know. Thanks.” 

She lets it go, but before you can step away, she reaches out and squeezes your shoulder once, briefly, but solidly. “You’re good at what you do, Scout. More than good. You know that, right?”

The words almost knock the air out of you. You nod, but it’s quick, almost reflexive. “Yeah. I know.” 

She doesn’t push anymore, just steps back to let you go, but you catch the way she watches you head back to South 5. You feel her gaze pressing against your back, like she’s still seeing you, even when you’re out of sight. But the words she said still linger, soft and stubborn. You don’t owe anyone that. 

You try to shake it off. Dana’s always been like this, seeing too much, saying too much. It’s her way, and why you love her. But it’s why you can’t let her push too far. 

You turn into the next hallway, your pace slowing just enough that you have breath to think, and it’s a mistake. You hate the silence, the way it makes space for the thoughts you keep shoving back. 

You’re fine. You’re happy. You have a good job, a good rhythm. You love working in the ER- the noise, the movement, the way there’s never any time to be anything but present. It’s enough. 

You love being Robby’s friend. You love it. You’ve always been good at being the person people lean on. It’s easier to be the shoulder than the weight. Robby’s always been there too, right alongside you. Morning coffee, late-night takeout, hockey games on his couch while you steal his blanket because he never turns the heat up high enough. It's good. It’s solid. You don’t need more. You don’t even really want more. Not…really. 

But you think about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek, and the way his eyes crinkle when he’s trying not to laugh. You think about the way that every time he looks at you, something inside you aches to be seen. You think about the way he laughed with Heather, the way her hand rested on his arm like it belonged there, and the way he looked at her, familiar and comfortable, and it’s like someone’s threading needles through your lungs. 

You shake your head. Stop it. That’s not what you are. That’s not who you are. You’re his friend. You’re his best friend, maybe. And you’re good at being steady, and dependable, and…enough. 

It’s enough. It has to be. 

You step into the supply closet near South 5 to grab a fresh pack of gloves. The smell of latex is sharp and chemical, and you breathe it in because it grounds you. This is what you’re good at. This is where you belong. 

You don’t let yourself linger. You don’t let yourself unravel. You grab what you need, shut the door behind you, and force your legs to move. 

It’s fine. It’s always been fine. And you’re good at pretending that it still is. 

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