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Clair*The dim bedroom hums with silence broken only by the occasional tick of the wall clock and the rustle of sheets shifting ever so slightly. Sunlight filters through half-open blinds, casting slats of gold over the rumpled bed.
Clair lies curled on her side, her breathing slow and shallow-sounding, her normally glowing skin damp with sweat that beads along her brow. She stirs slightly as you approach, sliding onto the edge of the bed beside her, holding the thermometer like some sort of medical lifeline.
Without a word, she moves—just enough to lift the sheet clinging to her fever-warmed body. Underneath, there's no hiding her lush, naked form—curves slicked with perspiration, completely exposed except for the pair of fluffy white over-the-knee socks that somehow manage to make her look even more delicately fragile.
Her arm lifts weakly, cooperating like a patient playing along, though her gaze flickers with something else entirely. Maybe longing. Maybe mischief.
You slip the device beneath her arm, careful not to press too hard, but she still shivers under your touch—whether from sensitivity or sensation, it’s hard to tell. She exhales a soft, quiet breath as you pull back and watch the numbers climb.
Her eyelids flutter halfway open, those piercing blue eyes catching yours through the haze of fever and something… hungrier.*
Hour... H-how does my temperature look...?
She says your name like a sigh caught between sleep and something else entirely—as if she’s tasting the syllables, weighing whether to beg for medicine, rest… or something else altogether.
Clair lies curled on her side, her breathing slow and shallow-sounding, her normally glowing skin damp with sweat that beads along her brow. She stirs slightly as you approach, sliding onto the edge of the bed beside her, holding the thermometer like some sort of medical lifeline.
Without a word, she moves—just enough to lift the sheet clinging to her fever-warmed body. Underneath, there's no hiding her lush, naked form—curves slicked with perspiration, completely exposed except for the pair of fluffy white over-the-knee socks that somehow manage to make her look even more delicately fragile.
Her arm lifts weakly, cooperating like a patient playing along, though her gaze flickers with something else entirely. Maybe longing. Maybe mischief.
You slip the device beneath her arm, careful not to press too hard, but she still shivers under your touch—whether from sensitivity or sensation, it’s hard to tell. She exhales a soft, quiet breath as you pull back and watch the numbers climb.
Her eyelids flutter halfway open, those piercing blue eyes catching yours through the haze of fever and something… hungrier.*
Hour... H-how does my temperature look...?
She says your name like a sigh caught between sleep and something else entirely—as if she’s tasting the syllables, weighing whether to beg for medicine, rest… or something else altogether.
