#sheen and fatigue

[untiziowo]

grumpy cat and silly jackalope

[fall-risk]

They're so fun to draw I can't stop

[kangabloo]

Love da bedfellers

[gacha-alex]

Love Bites.

[bloomeng]

taika’s comments on the podcast vaguely addressing the letter…. disappointing but unsurprising

(also if anyone knows about 9/11 it’s american youths who have had it crammed down our throats through the public education system)

[pucksandpower]

Baby Steps

Charles Leclerc x single mother!Reader

Summary: you are barely staying afloat, desperately trying to wrap your mind around your impending motherhood while juggling being a press officer for Scuderia Ferrari … Charles shows you that you don’t have to do it alone

Warnings: pregnancy, family abandonment, and harassment

You grip the edges of the trash can tightly as your stomach lurches again. The half-digested remains of your breakfast spill into the plastic liner with a sickening splatter. Straightening up slowly, you take a few deep breaths and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The smell rising from the can makes your stomach roll threateningly once more.

Turning away quickly, you lean against the side of the Ferrari motorhome, eyes closed. The sun beats down relentlessly, and you can feel sweat beading at your hairline.

This “morning” sickness is no joke — it seems to strike at all hours of the day. You thought you had gotten away with a quick breakfast break an hour ago when Carlos was in a team briefing, but apparently not.

Footsteps on the gravel make you open your eyes. You pray it’s not a member of the press, or, god forbid, Carlos. The last thing you need is a photo of the Ferrari press officer tossing her cookies behind the paddock. But no, it’s Charles Leclerc striding towards you, his brow furrowed.

You straighten up and attempt nonchalance. “Good morning, Charles.”

He slows, glancing between you and the extremely obvious trash can of vomit. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, fine,” you say breezily. “Just a bit of food poisoning, I think. Had a questionable chicken salad for dinner yesterday.”

You notice Charles is wearing a soft grey t-shirt and track pants, his hair damp from the shower. He must have just finished with physiotherapy. He looks so effortlessly handsome, it’s frankly unfair. You suddenly feel acutely aware of the sheen of sweat on your face and your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Charles’ face remains creased in concern. “Food poisoning? Have you been to the medical center?”

You wave a hand. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just 24 hours of hell before I’m back to normal.” You attempt a smile, but have to grab the trash can again as the smell from it hits you like a wave.

Charles springs forward and grabs your arm as you retch miserably. “Whoa, take it easy,” he says, supporting you until the heaving subsides.

You stay hunched over, breathing hard. The world is spinning a little. You hear Charles say firmly, “Okay, come with me. Let’s get you sat down.”

He keeps a hand under your arm and leads you into the blessedly cool motorhome. The rich scent of coffee fills the interior, reminding you that you haven’t managed to keep any food down today. You sink gratefully onto a padded bench at one of the tables.

Charles sits opposite you, his green eyes studying you intently. “When did the sickness start?”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. The jig is up. “About four weeks ago,” you mutter.

Understanding dawns on Charles’ face. “Oh. Oh!” His eyes flick down to your still-flat stomach. “So you’re ...”

“Pregnant. Yes.” You drop your head into your hands.

“Well, hey, congratulations,” says Charles gently. “That’s really exciting.”

You huff out something between a sob and a laugh. “Exciting? More like a nightmare!” You run your fingers back through your hair and look desperately at Charles. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Not even Carlos. I can’t risk anyone finding out about this. If I lose this job ...”

Charles’ brows draw together again. “Why would you lose your job? You’re Carlos’ press officer. I’m sure he’d be thrilled for you.”

You shake your head rapidly. “No, no way. I can’t take time off. The season just started! Carlos needs me, I organize everything for him. The travel, the events, the media, everything!” You bite your lip anxiously. “Maybe … maybe after the baby comes, I can figure something out. But I have to keep this quiet until then. Please.”

Charles reaches over and lays a hand on your arm. His touch is gentle but firm. “Y/N. Working yourself into the ground won’t be good for you or the baby. Have you thought about taking a sabbatical? Just a few months to rest, focus on yourself.”

Panic flares in your chest. “No! No, I can’t.” Your breathing quickens. “You don’t understand — I have no one else. No partner. No family. This job is everything. If I lose it ...” You trail off, trying to blink back the sting of tears.

Charles is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “Okay. I understand this is your decision. And I promise I won’t tell Carlos or anyone else.” He hesitates. “But Y/N, please take care of yourself. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

You nod jerkily and avoid his earnest gaze. With a shaky breath, you push yourself to your feet. The motorhome tilts sickeningly for a second.

Charles rises too, watching you with concern. “Will you be alright?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. You start to head deeper into the motorhome, desperate to lie down before the nausea returns.

“Y/N,” Charles calls after you softly. You pause, glancing back. “Congratulations again. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.” He gives you a small, warm smile.

You swallow hard. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper. Then you turn and continue on unsteadily, one hand braced against the wall.

You make it to the small office that passes for your private quarters on race weekends. Collapsing onto the ergonomic desk chair, you stare up at the ceiling and place a hand over your still-flat belly.

A baby.

Your baby.

Fear and wonder tangle inside you.

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know a hand is gently shaking your shoulder. You jerk awake to find Carlos standing over you, his eyebrows drawn with concern.

“Y/N? Are you ill?”

You stand up too quickly and immediately regret it as the room spins. Carlos grabs your shoulder to steady you.

“I’m fine,” you say hoarsely. “Just needed a quick nap.”

Carlos frowns, clearly unconvinced. “Charles said you were throwing up outside. That you have food poisoning?”

You make a mental note to kill Charles later. “Uh, yeah. Bad chicken salad, I think. But I’ll be okay.” You attempt a reassuring smile.

Carlos sits down on the edge of your desk, watching you closely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell? You know you don’t have to worry about me, I can look after myself for one day.” His dark brown eyes are filled with worry.

Guilt twists your gut. Carlos has always been extraordinarily kind and thoughtful, a rarity in the high stakes world of Formula 1. You hate lying to him.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t want to let you down. But you’re right, I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

Carlos shakes his head immediately. “No, don’t be sorry. Just focus on feeling better, yes? Take tomorrow off too. I order you to rest,” he adds with a small grin.

You smile weakly back. “Okay, boss.”

Carlos stands and gestures to the tiny table bolted to the wall. “I brought you some tea and crackers. Hopefully you can keep it down.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate you checking on me.”

He smiles. “Of course. Feel better, Y/N.” With a last lingering look of concern, he turns and leaves you in peace.

You look at the steaming tea and crackers and feel tears prick your eyes again. Carlos is a good man. Too good, probably, for the pragmatic demands of Formula 1. You know you should tell him about the pregnancy. But the thought of losing your place here, on this team, fills you with dread.

This high stakes world of racing is all you’ve known for the past three years. You can’t imagine life outside the bubble of the paddock, away from the adrenaline and pressure. Away from the team. Away from Carlos. Away from Charles.

With a deep breath, you sit up straight and tear open the crackers. You need to think about this rationally. Maybe Charles is right and you do need to slow down eventually. But for now, for the next few months at least, you have to keep going like nothing has changed.

You place a hand on your stomach as you nibble a cracker. “It’s gonna be okay, little one,” you whisper. “We’ll figure this out.”

***

The smell of coffee turns your stomach these days, but you still make your way blearily to the breakfast buffet each morning. Carlos is an early riser, and you need to be available whenever he is ready to start the day. You scan the offerings, deciding toast is the safest option, and reach for a couple of dry slices.

“Oh, Y/N!”

You turn to see Charles holding out a pre-packaged parfait cup. “I grabbed an extra yogurt by mistake. Do you want it?”

You hesitate. Your first instinct is suspicion — this is the third time this week Charles has “accidentally” had an extra snack to offer you. But the yogurt does look appealing ...

“Sure, thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him. Charles shoots you a smile before grabbing a plate and continuing down the buffet.

You sit down next to Carlos with your toast and yogurt. He glances up from his phone. “Morning. Feeling better today?”

You nod, mouth full. In truth, the nausea has continued, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it from Carlos and powered through.

Charles joins you both a few minutes later, greeted by Carlos with a fist bump. You peel open your yogurt while half-listening to the two men discuss the upcoming practices.

The sweet, fruity parfait is cool and soothing on your sensitive stomach. You find yourself polishing it off in record time. As you scrape the last bit of yogurt from the bottom, you realize Charles is watching you.

“Good?” He asks.

You lick the plastic spoon clean before answering. “Yeah, really hit the spot, thanks.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with a smile. “No problem. I’ll try to grab two tomorrow.”

You feel your smile grow fixed. This is getting ridiculous. Charles Leclerc does not care this much about your yogurt preferences. He’s up to something.

Over the next week, Charles’ thoughtfulness continues. A cold bottle of water when you’re looking hot and tired. A sandwich from a local bakery when you missed lunch. Your favorite chocolate bar when you mention a craving in passing. Always with an innocent smile, as if he’s not playing Superman to your pretend Lois Lane.

It all comes to a head on race day. You’re in the scorching sun on the grid, already feeling the fatigue of the hectic weekend. Carlos is doing his pre-race routine, so your attention has lapsed. Suddenly a blessedly cold bottle of water appears in front of your face. You look up to see Charles grinning down at you.

“Stay hydrated,” he says with a wink.

That does it. “Okay, enough!” You snap, smacking the water bottle away. It falls to the ground with a thud, water glugging out.

Charles’ eyes go wide with shock. “Y/N?”

Grabbing his arm, you pull Charles several steps away from eavesdropping mechanics. “Why are you doing this?” You hiss. “I don’t need you to baby me!”

“What?” Charles looks completely bewildered. “I’m just trying to help-”

“Well, stop,” you interrupt sharply. The hurt on Charles’ face makes you falter, but you press on. “I don’t need your pity. I’m fine.”

“Pity?” Charles frowns. “It’s not pity, Y/N. I care about you.” He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re always taking care of everyone around you. Now you need someone to take care of you too.”

His kind words hit you like a gut punch. Oh God, the stupid hormones! You feel hot tears spring to your eyes.

Charles’ alarmed expression softens. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you ...” He pulls you into a hug. One hand smoothes your hair while the other rubs comforting circles on your back.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs. You cling to him, embarrassed by your raw emotional response but unable to stop the tears.

After a minute the wave passes. You pull back, wiping your eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Charles smiles kindly. “Nothing is wrong with you. But I understand this is a difficult time.” His expression turns serious. “If you ever need anything, please ask me. I’m here for you.”

Looking up into Charles’ earnest green eyes, you feel a rush of gratitude. Whatever awkwardness lingers between you has evaporated. Charles is a true friend.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.” Glancing around, you notice some odd looks from passing crew members. “We should probably get back to work before people think there’s a full-blown soap opera going on over here.”

Charles grins. “Agreed. But this conversation isn’t over. Dinner tonight in my room?” He raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, blinking away the last dampness from your eyes. “It’s a date.”

***

You smooth your hands down your dress as you approach Charles’ hotel suite, suddenly feeling nervous. You’ve been in drivers’ rooms countless times for work, but this feels different. More intimate.

You take a steadying breath and knock. Charles opens the door, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp button down shirt.

“Y/N! Come in.” He steps back to allow you inside.

The suite is spacious and modern, with floor to ceiling windows along one wall looking out over the glittering city. Charles leads you through the living area to a set of glass doors. “I thought we could eat out on the balcony,” he explains, opening the doors with a flourish. “The fresh air will be good for you and baby.”

You step outside and have to stifle a gasp. A small table is elegantly set for two, a vase of flowers in the center. String lights twinkle overhead. “Charles, this is beautiful!”

He looks pleased. “I’m glad you like it.” Pulling out a chair, he gestures for you to sit.

As he takes the seat opposite you, you notice several covered dishes on the table. Charles sees you looking and smiles a bit sheepishly. “I, uh, called my mother earlier.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I asked her what foods she craved when she was pregnant with me and my brother. So I ordered a bunch of that from room service, in hopes there might be something you’d like.”

A lump forms in your throat. You reach over and squeeze his hand. “Charles, that is so incredibly thoughtful.”

Pink tinges his tanned cheeks. “Of course. I want to take care of you.”

You chat comfortably over food and Charles’ excellent choice of wine for you — sparkling grape juice. He relaxes as you praise the chicken and melon he ordered.

When you sit back contentedly, Charles fixes you with a thoughtful look. “So, do you know how far along you are?”

You hesitate. “About three months now.”

He nods. “And have you been to a doctor yet?”

Your fingers find a groove in the wooden table to trace. “Not yet.” At his surprised look, you add defensively, “I’ve just been so busy with work. But I’m sure everything is fine.”

“Still, you should make an appointment soon. Just to be safe.” Charles’ tone is gentle.

You nod without meeting his eye. An uncomfortable beat passes.

“Do you ...” Charles pauses delicately. “Forgive me, but … do you know who the father is?”

Your cheeks flame. You stand abruptly, walking over to the balcony railing. After a moment Charles joins you, leaning on the rail at your side.

“I’m sorry, that was too personal,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I just ...” You glance up at him. “He’s no longer in my life.” You look away, a lump in your throat.

Charles doesn’t ask anything more, just moves closer in a gesture of silent support. You stand together breathing in the night air. The twinkling city sprawls before you. For a moment, the future doesn’t feel quite so frightening.

Eventually you stifle a yawn behind your hand. Charles glances over. “You must be exhausted. I should let you get to bed.”

You smile gratefully. He walks you to the door of the suite. Pausing, you stand on tiptoes and kiss Charles lightly on the cheek. “Thank you again for dinner. For everything.”

His eyes shine as he gazes down at you. “Of course. Sweet dreams, Y/N. And ...” He brushes a feather-light touch over your belly. “Sweet dreams to you too, little one.”

You feel your heart melt just a little. With a last smile, you head down the hall to the elevators. As the doors slide closed, you catch one last glimpse of Charles watching after you.

Back in your smaller, blander room, you change for bed in a happy haze. Sliding between cool sheets, you let out a contented sigh. Tonight was lovely. Charles’ thoughtfulness reminds you there are still good people in the world. For the first time in weeks, you feel a spark of hope.

You drift off to sleep with a hand resting gently on your belly. Everything seems less frightening now that you aren’t alone. Whatever happens next, you and your baby will get through it together.

***

The buzz of the media pen is giving you a headache today. Or maybe that’s just the pregnancy. You blink heavily, trying to focus on Carlos speaking into the microphone in front of you. You hit record on your phone as he answers the first question. It’s your job to capture every word to ensure he’s not misrepresented later.

The reporter’s voice fades in and out. You sway slightly, shaking your head. Just need some fresh air. You take a step away from the crowd, vision blurring at the edges. Dark spots dance across your eyes. The concrete floor rushes up to meet you-

“Y/N!”

Strong hands grab your shoulders, slowing your collapse. Your head spins as you try to make sense of it.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Charles’ worried face swims into view above you. You part your lips but no words come out.

There’s loud commotion around you now. You feel yourself being shifted, lifted. Snatches of Charles’ voice pierce through the fog.

“She’s pregnant ... get help ... ambulance ...”

You try to cling to consciousness but it’s like grasping at smoke. The world goes dark.

When you resurface, it’s to antiseptic white walls and a steady beeping. Hospital. An IV pulls at your arm as you shift.

“Y/N?” Charles appears at your side, relief breaking across his face. “Thank God. You’re awake.”

Before you can respond, he’s disappeared again, calling for a doctor. You try to push yourself more upright but your limbs feel like lead.

A brisk older woman in a white coat enters, glancing at the monitor beside your bed. “Good to see you awake, Miss Y/L/N. You gave us quite a scare.”

“What happened?” Your voice comes out hoarse.

“You fainted from low blood pressure. A common issue in pregnancy, but yours seems to be more severe.” The doctor flips through your chart with a frown.

Charles stands anxiously at the foot of the bed. “But she’ll be alright now?”

The doctor hesitates. “I’m recommending complete pelvic rest and limited activity for the remainder of the pregnancy. Strictly no standing or walking for prolonged periods.” She pins you with a sharp look. “And if your blood pressure drops again, we’ll have no choice but to put you on full bed rest.”

Your stomach drops through the floor. “What? No, I can’t! I have to keep working, I-”

“Y/N.” Charles’ voice stops your panicked rambling. His face is lined with concern as he takes your hand. “Your health is what matters most.”

The doctor nods briskly. “Precisely. No job is worth risking your or your baby’s safety.” With a final warning look, she departs.

The moment she leaves, you burst into tears. Harsh, gasping sobs wrack your frame. This is a disaster. Without being able to stand or walk for long stretches, you’re useless to the team. You’ll be fired for sure. And then what will you do? You have no one, no other skills-

Warm, strong arms wrap around you as you weep. Charles cradles you against his chest, making low soothing sounds.

“Shh, it’s going to be alright,” he murmurs, stroking your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

You clutch fistfuls of his shirt, burying your face in the soft cotton. The steady thump of his heartbeat slowly calms your hysteria.

When the tears finally subside, Charles eases you gently back against the pillows. His thumbs brush away the moisture from your cheeks.

“I know you’re scared,” he says quietly. “But I promise, I will do everything I can to help you. We are in this together now.”

His green eyes radiate such sincerity, you feel some of the panic and despair lift. You cling tightly to his hand, anchoring yourself to him like he’s a rock in a stormy sea.

***

You pick listlessly at the greyish meat and mushy vegetables on your hospital dinner tray. At least Charles had the foresight to sneak in some contraband snacks earlier — you polish off the last crumbs of the cookies he brought, wishing futilely for something more appetizing.

A knock at the door precedes Charles peeking in. “Hungry for something better than hospital food?” He holds up a paper takeout bag and shakes it enticingly.

You brighten immediately. “Charles, you’re my hero.”

He laughs and enters, pulling a table over your lap to serve as a makeshift dining surface. Soon plastic containers of pasta, salad, and fresh bread are opened, the savory scents making your mouth water.

Charles watches fondly as you tuck in. “I wasn’t sure what you’d feel up to eating. But who doesn’t like Italian food?”

You make a noise of emphatic agreement through your full mouth. Charles chuckles.

When you finally surface for air, he clears his throat. “So I was thinking ...” Charles busies himself folding and refolding your napkin. “My apartment in Monaco is pretty big for just me. And it has a guest room that’s just sitting empty.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

“Well ...” Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I thought maybe when you’re discharged, you could come stay with me for a while. So I can make sure you’re not overexerting yourself.”

You frown slightly. “Oh. That’s really kind, but I’ll be fine once I’m out of here.”

“Will you?” Charles levels you with a knowing look. “No offense, but you’re not exactly the best at asking for help when you need it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but can’t really argue with that.

“Let me do this for you. For my own peace of mind too,” Charles implores gently. He takes your hand, blue eyes full of sincerity. “Please?”

Looking into his earnest face, you feel your weak resistance faltering. Still ... “I don’t want to be a burden,” you mumble half-heartedly.

Charles squeezes your hand. “You could never be. I care about you, Y/N.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I want to take care of you and the baby.”

The warmth in his voice melts away the last of your reluctance. And honestly, the prospect of having Charles doting on you is far preferable to being alone in your small, dreary apartment.

You meet his hopeful gaze. “Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then … I accept your kind offer.”

Charles’ answering smile rivals the sun. “Yeah? Oh, that’s fantastic!” He sweeps you into an enthusiastic but gentle hug. You cling to him, feeling the nervous knot that’s been your constant companion for weeks finally start to loosen. Everything will work out.

That night as Charles is leaving, you call his name softly. He pauses, one hand on the door.

You twist your fingers in the blanket, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to say … thank you. For everything. I’ll find a way to repay you someday, I promise.”

Charles’ expression softens. He comes back and squeezes your hand. “You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on yourself and that little one.” He strokes a finger over your belly. “That’s all the repayment I need.”

With a last smile, he slips out, leaving you to fall asleep with a heart full of gratitude and growing affection for your kind rescuer.

***

You smooth your hands nervously over your dress as you approach Fred Vasseur’s office. This is it. Time to tell your boss that you’ll be leaving him in the lurch smack dab in the middle of the season.

Charles gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It will be okay. Just explain the situation.”

You take a deep breath and nod. Charles opens the door and gestures for you to enter first.

Fred rises from behind his desk, surprise flickering across his face. “Y/N, Charles. What can I do for you?” His gaze darts between you curiously.

Your mouth goes dry. Charles gently guides you to sit in one of the chairs facing Fred, taking the other himself.

“Y/N has something she needs to discuss with you,” Charles begins calmly. “I’m here for moral support.”

Fred’s eyebrows raise but he nods for you to go on. Your hands twist together in your lap.

“Well, I ...” You have to pause and swallow hard. “I recently learned that I’m pregnant. And I’ve developed some, uh, complications that mean I can’t travel or be on my feet much.”

Fred’s eyebrows climb higher. “I … see. Congratulations?” He still looks perplexed.

Charles jumps in. “What she’s trying to say is, she needs to take a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ah.” Understanding settles on Fred’s face. He turns back to you. “I’m very sorry to hear you’re unwell. Of course health must come first.”

You feel yourself relax slightly. “So I can take a sabbatical? My job will still be here when I’m able to return?”

“Absolutely.” Fred nods. “You’ve been invaluable to our team. Your role will be waiting whenever you’re ready.”

You could cry with relief. “Oh, thank you! That means the world.”

Fred smiles kindly. “Think nothing of it. Focus on your health and that baby. We’ll manage in the meantime.”

Charles reaches over to clasp your hand supportively. “Is there anything else she needs to know before starting her leave?”

Fred considers this. “Y/N will have full pay during sabbatical, of course. And keep me posted on any support you require — medical, household, anything at all.”

You clutch Charles’ hand, too overwhelmed to speak. He smiles. “Very generous. We appreciate that greatly.”

After finalizing a few details, you both stand. Fred comes around the desk to shake your hand. “Best of luck with everything. Let me know if you need absolutely anything.”

You whisper a heartfelt thank you before allowing Charles to guide you out. Safely in the hallway, you turn and fling your arms around him.

“Charles, thank you,” you murmur into his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

His strong arms come around you, cradling you close. “Of course, Y/N. I meant what I said — I’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

You cling to each other for a long moment, his steadfast support washing away your lingering fears. As long as Charles is with you, you know everything will work out just fine.

***

You fidget in the generic mint-colored exam room, paper crinkling beneath you as you perch on the edge of the table. Charles sits in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone, the picture of calm. You wish you shared his zen attitude.

A brisk knock precedes the door swinging open. A smiling older woman enters, glancing down at her chart.

“Y/N? I’m Dr. Boucher, nice to meet you.” Her smile widens as she looks between you and Charles. “And you must be the dad! Wonderful.”

Your mouth drops open to correct her, but Charles beats you to it. “That’s right, thank you,” he says easily, standing to shake the doctor’s hand.

You snap your mouth shut, eyes widening. But the doctor has already moved on, washing her hands at the sink.

“Now then, let’s take a look at this baby, shall we?” She pats the exam table.

You lie back, hiking up your shirt to expose your belly. The cool gel makes you shiver as the doctor smears it over your skin. She places the ultrasound wand low on your abdomen and moves it slowly.

The screen blooms to life, blurred black and white shifting until a shape emerges — a tiny profile, curled arms and legs distinct. You gasp softly. There’s your baby.

Dr. Boucher smiles. “There we are. Looks to be about 16 weeks along. Growing beautifully.”

You can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. Your throat feels tight. After so many weeks of secrecy and fear, this precious little life finally seems real.

“And there’s the heartbeat.” The doctor turns up the volume, and a rapid thumping fills the room. “Nice and strong.”

Tears spill over your cheeks before you can stop them. A glance over shows Charles watching the monitor intently, green eyes shiny with emotion. He reaches for your hand, gripping tightly.

When the appointment ends, you both exit the office in a daze. As you walk down the street to Charles’ car, he turns to you.

“That was … incredible,” he says softly. “Seeing your baby for the first time ...” He trails off, at a loss for words.

You lift his hand and press a kiss to the back, hoping he understands the depth of your gratitude. Charles smiles tenderly in return.

Safely home in Charles’ plush apartment, you curl up together on the sofa with mugs of tea to continue gazing at the ultrasound photos. Charles slips an arm around your shoulders, his thumb idly stroking your arm as you chatter excitedly about preparing a nursery.

This moment, here with Charles, your child’s heartbeat still echoing in your ears … it’s the closest thing to pure joy you’ve ever known. The future finally feels bright with hope. You lean into Charles’ warmth and send up a silent prayer of thanks for this man and the new life he’s given back to you.

***

You curl deeper into the plush couch in Charles’ apartment, cradling your mug of tea. Rain patters against the windows overlooking Monaco’s glittering harbor. The cozy scene makes you feel safe enough to finally open up.

“Charles?”

He glances over from where he’s poking at the fire. “Hmm?”

You twist your fingers together nervously. “There’s more I should tell you. About how I got pregnant.”

Charles rises and comes to sit beside you, face open and attentive. Taking a deep breath, you begin.

“It happened last winter, during the off-season. I went back home to Italy for a while, to the little town outside Milan where my family lives.”

You stare into your tea, remembering. “There was a man vacationing there, from Rome. Dario. We met in a cafe and just … clicked. He was handsome, charming, a perfect gentleman.” Your lips twist wryly. “Or so I thought.”

Charles remains quiet, letting you gather the words.

“We spent every day together for two weeks. Took long walks, went on romantic dinners. When it was time for him to leave, we ...” You trail off, face warming.

“You made love,” Charles supplies gently. You nod, still not meeting his eyes.

“I thought it meant as much to him as to me. But after he went back to Rome, his texts and calls slowly stopped. And then I found out why.”

Your voice drops to a pained whisper. “He was married. His ‘business trip’ was just a chance to fool around. When his wife saw my texts on his phone … it exploded. And then my family found out about the affair.”

Finally you lift your head. Charles’ face is lined with compassion. “They disowned me. Called me a fool and a harlot. It didn’t matter that I was lied to — as far as they’re concerned, I brought shame upon our family.”

Hot tears spill down your cheeks. Charles immediately pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, crying into his shoulder as he rubs your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “You did nothing wrong. This Dario took advantage of you, and your family should have supported you.”

Charles holds you until the storm of tears passes. When you finally pull back, he cups your face in both hands, brushing away the lingering moisture with his thumbs.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says softly. “I know that wasn’t easy. You’re so incredibly strong.”

Leaning forward, he places a tender kiss on your forehead. Then his palms slide down to cradle your rounded belly.

“I’ve got you now,” Charles murmurs. “Both of you. You’ll never be alone again.”

Nestled in his lap, you close your eyes and just breathe. The remnants of hurt and betrayal wash away, replaced by the safety of Charles’ embrace. Whatever comes next, you have found your sanctuary here, with him.

***

You wander through the apartment looking for Charles, one hand braced on your lower back. Your belly has popped noticeably in the last couple weeks, throwing your balance off.

Not finding Charles in any of the usual spots, you head down the hall towards the spare bedroom. When you push open the door, your jaw drops.

The room has been completely transformed. Bright sunshine spills through the windows onto whitewashed walls. A plush rug covers the hardwood floor. In one corner sits a fully assembled crib, stuffed animals piled inside.

Charles stands back to admire his work, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair adorably mussed. He turns when you gasp softly.

“Y/N! I wanted to surprise you.” His grin falters. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? Charles, I love it!” You blink back happy tears, wandering further inside. Charles’ face lights up.

“I wasn’t sure what color to paint, so I left the walls white for now,” he explains, coming over to slip an arm around you.

You lean into him, gazing around. “It’s perfect. Our baby is so lucky to have you.”

Pink tinges Charles’ cheeks. He kisses the top of your head. “I’m the lucky one.”

You decide on a pale green for the walls. Charles immediately fetches paint supplies, but hovers anxiously as you start rolling color onto the first wall.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” He eyes your protruding stomach. “The fumes can’t be good ...”

You wave off his concern. “I’ll be fine! Here-” You dip a roller in paint and offer it out. “Make yourself useful instead of worrying.”

Charles accepts the roller reluctantly. Soon you’re both working side by side. Charles takes on the higher parts of the walls that you can’t comfortably reach anymore.

Humming under your breath, you step back to critique your work so far. As you do, your foot catches on the paint tray and you stumble. Charles reaches out to steady you, but not before a fat drop of paint lands on his cheek.

“Oops!” You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh at the green splotch on his tanned skin.

Charles narrows his eyes in mock indignation. “You think that’s funny, do you?” Before you can react, he flicks his loaded paintbrush at you, spattering your shirt.

You gasp in delighted outrage. “Oh, it is on!” Grabbing your roller, you swipe it down his arm.

Charles lets out a laugh of surprise. Soon paint is flying from both directions. You run around each other, giggling and slipping on the drops coating the floor.

Finally Charles catches you gently by the waist. You’re both absolutely covered in pale green, sides aching from laughter. Your faces are inches apart, smiles fading into something more tender.

Slowly, Charles leans in and presses his lips to yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. You melt against him, hands coming up to cradle his jaw.

When you finally part, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses, a little breathless.

You smile, heart soaring. “What took you so long?”

His answering grin outshines the sun. There, surrounded by dreams of the future, you share another lingering kiss.

***

You settle back against the mountain of pillows, trying to find a comfortable position for your unwieldy body. At nearly 8 months along now, your belly feels impossibly huge. Luckily Charles’ plush bed offers plenty of space to sprawl.

Speaking of Charles, he appears in the doorway holding a bottle. “Ready for your massage?”

You eye the bottle of oil eagerly. The stretch marks crisscrossing your stomach have been itchy and tight. “Yes please.”

Charles props up pillows behind you so you’re half-reclining. Then he drizzles some of the oil into his palms, warming it up before smoothing his hands over your bump.

You sigh in bliss at his gentle but firm touch. The fragrant oil soothes and softens your irritated skin. Under Charles’ ministrations, the discomfort slowly ebbs away.

His strong hands glide over every inch, easing out the aches and pains. As Charles works, he murmurs to your belly. “There you go, little one. We’re going to make your home nice and cozy.”

Your heart clenches at the tender scene. Even after all these months of living together, it still sometimes hits you how domestic this is. Sharing a home, sharing a bed … it’s everything you secretly longed for but never expected to have. A real family.

You trail your fingers through Charles’ soft waves. His eyes lift to meet yours, soft with affection. The look on his face steals your breath — pure adoration, like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

“I love you.” The words slip out unbidden. Charles’ hands still. For a heartbeat, you’re afraid you’ve said too much.

But then he surges up to capture your lips in a searing kiss. “I love you too,” Charles whispers fiercely when you finally break apart, both panting. “So much.”

He seals his words with another drugging kiss. Your hands clutch him close, heart near bursting with joy.

Suddenly Charles breaks the kiss with a gasp. His wide eyes dart down. “Did you feel that?”

You start to shake your head no, distracted by the sensation of his calloused hands massaging your belly, but then you feel it — a distinct thump against your insides. Your baby shifting and kicking.

Charles’ face lights up. “There it is again!” He laughs in wonder. “The little one is saying hello.”

Happy tears blur your vision. Charles presses a delighted kiss to your stomach. “I can’t wait to meet you,” he whispers tenderly.

Through your tears, you smile at the man you love. The one who gave you and your child a home when you had nothing. However you got here, this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

A dull ache starts low in your back as you crawl into bed. You shift and stretch, trying to get comfortable, but can’t seem to. Charles notices your restlessness.

“Alright?” He murmurs sleepily, rolling over to rub your back.

You nod. “Yeah, just some back pain today.” Probably from lugging around this massive belly.

Charles makes soothing noises and continues massaging you until he drifts off. You finally manage to doze too.

Sometime in the night, you jerk awake. The sheets under you are soaked. For one confused moment you think you wet the bed. But then it hits you.

Your water broke.

“Charles!” You shake his shoulder urgently.

He comes awake with a snort. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

“It’s time! The baby-” You break off with a hiss as the first real contraction clenches your belly.

That wakes Charles up fully. “The baby? It’s coming?” He practically falls out of bed, all long limbs flailing.

You have to stifle an inappropriate giggle at his panic. “Yes, so we should-” Your instructions die as Charles sprints from the room. Alright then.

You shake your head in amusement and heave yourself to your feet, one hand braced on your lower back. Waddling slowly after Charles, you find him hyperactively rushing around the living room, tossing items randomly into your hospital bag.

“Okay, let’s go!” He grabs the overflowing bag and dashes out the front door. You stare after him in disbelief then lower yourself carefully onto the couch to wait.

Not thirty seconds later, Charles comes barreling back inside. “Oh God, I forgot you!”

You have to laugh at the panic on his face. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Looking marginally calmer, he helps you up, frantically gathering your bag in one hand while keeping the other wrapped around you.

You lean your weight on him during the next contraction, breathing through it. “It’s okay. But we should really go now.”

Charles practically carries you down to the garage and bundles you into his Ferrari in record time. He drives well over the speed limit, one hand clutching yours the whole way.

At the hospital, Charles refuses to leave your side even for a second. He holds the gas and air for you to breathe during contractions, whispering how strong and amazing you are.

When the time comes to push, the pain is unimaginable. You nearly give up, sobbing that you can’t do this. But Charles is there, guiding you through it, telling you that you absolutely can. And with one final scream, your son enters the world.

The shrill cry is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Charles cuts the cord with trembling hands. Then the nurse lays your wailing, squirmy son on your chest.

You press kisses to his downy head, tears of joy streaming down your face. Charles gazes at you both with pure reverence.

“His name is Matteo Charles,” you whisper. Charles lets out a choked sob at the middle name.

Too soon, the nurses take Matteo for cleaning and checks. One asks Charles if he’d like to hold him. Charles looks to you questioningly, and you nod through your exhaustion.

Charles settles into a chair, shirtless, and Matteo is laid on his bare chest. Charles strokes a gentle finger over Matteo’s cheek, seemingly enraptured.

“Thank you,” he rasps to you. “For our beautiful boy. Thank you, mon amour.”

This is everything you never knew you needed — a family, a home, and an overflowing love you once thought would forever be lost to you. But you’ve found it now, here in this room, together.

***

The sharp cries jolt you from sleep. With a groan, you roll out of the warm circle of Charles’ arms. Your body still aches and protests as you make your way to the nursery in the dark.

Picking up little Matteo, you carry him to the rocker and situate him at your breast. He latches on eagerly, cries fading to soft snuffles.

Charles appears in the doorway, hair adorably mussed. “Everything okay?” He asks through a yawn.

“We’re good now.” You smile tiredly down at your nursing son. His downy hair and scrunched features are all you — you find yourself thankful that there is barely any indication that his biological father even participated in making him.

Charles comes to perch on the ottoman, watching Matteo. “I can’t believe he’s really here,” he murmurs. “Our son.”

Pride swells in your chest. Charles has fully embraced his role as Matteo’s father, as naturally as breathing.

When Matteo finishes eating, Charles takes him to gently pat his back while you right your nightgown. He kisses your son’s head when Matteo lets out a tiny burp.

Back in bed, you curl into Charles with Matteo nestled safely between you. Charles has a race this weekend, his first since the birth. The thought of him leaving fills you with anxiety.

In the morning, Charles confirms your fears. “I’ll just tell Fred I’m not coming this weekend,” he says casually over breakfast. “The team will manage without me. One of the reserve drivers can take over for a few days.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No, Charles, you have to race.”

“But I don’t want to leave you two!” Charles gestures helplessly to where Matteo snoozes in a bouncer.

You catch Charles’ hand. “This is your dream. Matteo and I will be right here cheering you on when you get back.”

Charles wavers. You soften your voice. “It’s only for a little while. We’ll be okay.”

Finally he nods reluctantly. You know how hard this is for him — but Charles was born to race. You won’t let him give that up.

The morning Charles is set to fly out, he clings to you and Matteo like a second skin. You practically have to peel him off at airport security.

“I’ll be back so soon,” he whispers fiercely. One last kiss, and then he’s gone.

The apartment feels empty and too quiet. But you fill the time singing and playing with Matteo, keeping yourself busy until the race.

You and Matteo cuddle close on the couch to watch Charles zoom around the track. Your heart swells with love and pride seeing your man do what he was meant to.

When Charles wins, he shouts his ecstatic thanks to you and Matteo over the team radio. The podium champagne gets sprayed directly into the camera for you.

Finally Charles is home, sweeping you and Matteo into his arms. “I love you both so much,” he murmurs in wonder. You whisper it right back, nestled safe in the arms of your little family.

***

The energy in the Albert Park paddock is electric as teams prepare for the first race of the 2025 season. You feel a thrill just being back, Matteo cooing happily in your arms. At nearly six months old now, he’s ready for his first race.

Charles bounces on his toes, unable to contain his excitement. “Are you ready to see Papa race, Matteo?” He tickles Matteo’s belly, eliciting bubbly giggles.

You head first to the Ferrari garage, where the mechanics crowd around eagerly to fawn over Matteo. Lewis gives you a careful hug, peering curiously at the baby.

“Lewis, meet Matteo,” Charles says proudly. At Lewis’ questioning look, he adds “My son.” The way he says it brooks no argument.

Lewis’ eyes widen slightly but he just smiles. “Hi Matteo!” He offers a finger for Matteo to grip.

Fred comes over next, cooing over how much Matteo has grown. You enjoy the familial atmosphere, everyone fussing over your boy. Matteo basks in the attention.

Charles takes him down to the front of the garage to watch the crews work on the cars. He points out parts of the sleek machines, explaining them seriously to Matteo as if he understands. Matteo just gazes adoringly up at his Papa.

When Charles finally straps into the car for practice, you have ear muffs ready for Matteo’s sensitive ears. Charles blows kisses to you both before pulling on his helmet. Matteo squeals and waves his little fist as the car roars out.

In the hotel that night, you set Matteo on the bed while Charles showers. Stripped down to his diaper, your son kicks his chubby legs excitedly.

Charles emerges in comfy clothes, his hair still damp, and laughs at Matteo’s antics. “Alright, my little race car driver, time for bed.”

He tickles Matteo’s tummy as he puts on a fresh diaper and snaps up his pajamas. Then Charles cradles Matteo close, humming softly as he sways back and forth to soothe him. Your heart clenches at the tender scene.

Once Matteo is deeply asleep, Charles lays him gently in the travel crib. He turns to you with a soft smile. “I can’t imagine life without him now.”

You slip your arms around Charles from behind. “He loves his Papa so much already. Your biggest fan.”

Charles covers your hands with his, gazing at Matteo. “I’m going to win tomorrow for him.”

And he does. On the podium, Charles looks down to where you cradle Matteo in one arm, and gently showers you with champagne. Matteo’s delighted laughter is the sweetest sound.

This is everything you’ve ever wanted.

***

The energetic buzz of the Italian Grand Prix washes over you as you stroll hand-in-hand with Charles, your son cradled safely in his arms. At nearly a year old now, Matteo is fascinated by the vivid colors and cacophony of sounds surrounding him.

Charles playfully bounces Matteo as you weave through the crowded walkways, pointing out the sights and sounds. “Look Matteo, there’s the cars! Vroom vroom!” Charles mimics the roar of an engine. Matteo’s delighted giggle melts your heart. You can’t help but grin, chest swelling with love and pride for your little family.

You’ve just about reached the looming Ferrari motorhome when an absolutely venomous female voice shrieks out, “You!”

Every muscle in your body instantly tenses. You freeze mid-step, heart lurching into your throat. Whipping your head around, you see an immaculately dressed woman barreling directly towards you, her face mottled an ugly shade of rage-induced crimson.

“You disgusting harlot!” The woman spits with unrestrained fury. “You filthy whore!”

Stunned, you instinctively take a faltering step backwards, nearly stumbling. Charles’ strong arm immediately wraps protectively around you and Matteo, steadying you. His body angles partly in front of yours and Matteo’s smaller form, shielding you both on pure instinct.

The deranged woman continues her tirade, advancing until she’s nearly screaming in your face. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, you reprehensible little homewrecker!”

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, a ghost from your past suddenly materializes behind the enraged woman. A man you hoped to never lay eyes on again.

His eyes blow wide at the sight of you, Charles, and the infant cradled against Charles’ chest.

The woman — his wife, you realize with dawning horror — grabs viciously onto his arm, her razor-sharp nails digging in hard enough to leave crescent-shaped gouges. “Just look at her!” She shrieks, spit flying from her mouth. “Parading that little bastard child around like it’s something to be proud of!” She violently thrusts her finger towards Matteo, still safely ensconced in Charles’ embrace.

Your son, sensing the onslaught of hostile energy, immediately begins wailing in distress. You instinctively reach out to take him from Charles, desperate to comfort your frightened boy. But Charles subtly shifts his stance, moving further out of her reach, as he focuses intently on gently bouncing and shushing Matteo in an attempt to calm him.

Matteo’s biological father simply stares, slack-jawed, at the sobbing infant. The gears visibly turn in his head. “Is that ...” he chokes out, “Is he … mine?”

“No.” Charles’ immediate response is biting and unequivocal. He clutches Matteo tighter to his chest. “Matteo is my son.” Though his voice remains steady, you can see a muscle in his jaw ticking from the effort of holding back more heated words.

But Dario clearly does not accept this response. His eyes narrow calculatingly as he continues scrutinizing the wailing baby. Behind him, his unhinged wife keeps up her tirade of slurs and accusations, whipping the gathering crowd into greater frenzy.

You feel lightheaded, paralyzed. This is a living nightmare. Distantly you are aware of camera phones pointed your way, capturing every wretched moment. Charles seems to realize the same, his handsome face darkening with rage.

With frightening efficiency, Charles strides directly over to the nearest paddock security officers and has a brief, terse exchange. Moments later, two bulky guards firmly take hold of the still-screaming woman and shellshocked man, forcefully escorting them away. The crowd reluctantly disperses, murmuring.

Charles immediately returns to envelope you and Matteo in a fiercely protective embrace. “It’s alright now, you’re both safe,” he soothes, though his rapid heartbeat belies his calm words. Matteo’s panicked sobs have faded to tiny hiccups against Charles’ neck.

The rest of the chaotic day passes in a blur. Much later, in the privacy of your hotel room, Charles reveals that he pulled every string and called in every favor necessary to have Dario and his deranged wife permanently blacklisted from all Formula 1 events.

His voice shakes with quiet rage as he describes how close security came to needing to restrain him physically.

Finally he takes your face so very gently in his hands. “I promise you, I will do anything and everything to protect our family. You and Matteo are my entire world. Nothing will ever hurt you as long as I’m breathing.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, you collapse against his solid chest. Charles’ strong arms anchor you in place as you cling to him. He continues murmuring fervent assurances, pressing kisses to your hair.

Despite the ugliness of the day, you know with utter certainty Charles will shield you and Matteo from the darkness of your past. Your family is still perfection in your eyes.

***

“Papa, I wanna be a race car driver like you when I grow up!”

Your five-year-old son looks up at Charles with big, adoring eyes as he makes this pronouncement over breakfast one morning.

Charles freezes with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets it down, gazing at Matteo with surprise and pride. “You do?”

Matteo bobs his curly head eagerly. “Yeah! I wanna drive fast cars and win like you! Can you teach me?”

Charles melts, ruffling Matteo’s hair. “Of course, buddy. We’ll have to convince your maman first though.” He shoots you a meaningful look.

You shift uncertainly. Of course you want to encourage Matteo’s interests, but motorsport is dangerous ...

Charles seems to sense your hesitation. “Why don’t you think about it, mon amour? No need to decide yet.” He winks at Matteo, who grins in excitement.

Over the next few days, your two boys put on a full court press to sway you. Charles points out safety advances in karting and helps Matteo make adorable PowerPoint slides with photos of your son in race helmets. They both unleash heartbreaking puppy dog eyes.

Finally you cave. “Alright!” You laugh, holding up your hands in surrender. “You can start teaching him the basics.”

Matteo and Charles high-five so hard it makes a cracking sound. “Yesss!” Charles pumps his fists while Matteo dances in glee. Seeing their matching enthusiasm melts away the last of your reluctance. Your little daredevil was born for this.

The next weekend, Charles takes Matteo to a racetrack an hour outside the city. It’s just a small circuit, but Matteo gazes around with wide eyes, gripping Charles’ hand tightly.

Charles shows him the karts and safety gear, patiently explaining how everything works. Then it’s time. Charles helps strap Matteo into a kart made for kids, snugging his helmet gently under the chin.

“Ready, mon petit champion?”

Matteo gives him a thumbs up, practically vibrating with excitement. Charles grins and drops the visor down. “Alright! Let’s do this!”

He gives Matteo a little push to get the kart rolling onto the track. Your son quickly gets the hang of working the gas and brakes. Charles jogs alongside, gesturing and calling out instructions.

Gradually he lets Matteo take full control. Your little boy zips around the course, hair blowing out the back of his helmet. His delighted laughter echoes around the circuit.

Watching from the sidelines, Charles records it all on his phone, face alight with joy and pride. “That’s it Matteo, you’re doing amazing!” He cheers.

This is only the beginning. But seeing the utter bliss on both their faces, you know Matteo has chosen the right path. The Leclerc legacy will live on.

***

“I’m here in the pit lane with Charles Leclerc on the momentous day his son, Matteo Leclerc, makes his highly anticipated debut with Scuderia Ferrari. Charles, you must be incredibly proud right now.”

The Sky Sports reporter holds her mic out to Charles as he stands, beaming, in front of the scarlet Ferrari garage. Charles nods, looking slightly choked up.

“Incredibly proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replies earnestly. “This has been Matteo’s dream since he was just a little boy. To see him achieve it, to be standing here watching him drive for the team I devoted my life to … it’s indescribable.”

Charles pauses, glancing over fondly at where you stand with Matteo, straightening your son’s helmet and race suit.

“His mother and I, we’ve worried and experienced every up and down along the way with him. But Matteo has worked so hard for this, never gave up even when it seemed impossible. He more than deserves today.”

The reporter smiles. “And his last name isn’t the only way he takes after you. Matteo is widely considered your protégé after you mentored him through the junior ranks.”

“I taught him everything I could,” Charles acknowledges. “But his talent and dedication are all his own. Matteo is his own man now. I can’t wait to see how high he continues to climb.”

“Any advice you’ve given him before his first race with Ferrari?”

Charles chuckles. “Just to enjoy every second. This only comes around once.” He looks off into the distance, eyes crinkling nostalgically.

“Still seems like yesterday I was in his shoes for my own Ferrari debut. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

The reporter wraps up the interview and Charles makes his way over to where you and 21-year-old Matteo are embracing. Charles’ eyes shine with unshed tears as he clasps arms with his son.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles says hoarsely. “Your mother and I both. Now go show the world what you can do.”

Matteo’s answering smile is blinding. “I’ll make you proud, Papa.”

He hugs you tight, then pulls on his helmet and strides confidently to his waiting Ferrari. The mechanics cheer as the car roars to life and Matteo peels out onto the track, on the cusp of achieving his lifelong dream.

You cling to Charles’ side, waving tearfully. “Our little boy,” you whisper in awe.

Charles wraps an arm around you, never taking his eyes off the bright red car. “He’s all grown up. But he’ll always be our son.”

No matter how high Matteo climbs, Charles knows he will always remain his sweet little boy — the bright-eyed child you and Charles raised with love.

His greatest source of pride and joy as the future beckons brightly, another generation of Leclercs carrying the hopes of Ferrari forward.

[reidsdimples]

Feverish

Spencer Reid x Reader

18+ ❤️‍🔥

Spencer can’t keep his hands off of you in his fever induced delirium.

Inspired by a scene from The Tearsmith (on Netflix)

“What happened?” You ask Morgan who’s got Spencer’s arm draped over his shoulder.

Spencer is out of it, delirious, coated in sweat. Yet he grins at you.

“Popped for the flu, probably from those kids earlier this week,” Morgan answers as he puts Spencer in the passenger seat of your car.

“I knew the flu shot was a waste of time,” Spencer muses. “It’s an educated guess at best as for what strain will circulate through the population,” he scoffs and shoves on sunglasses.

“Wonderful,” you groan.

“You’ve already been sick this season, you’re probably fine,” Spencer mumbles and lulls his head back in the seat.

“I think that’s why he said to call you,” Morgan smiles.

“Well, it’s great to see you again. Stay safe,” Morgan hugs you by way of farewell.

Taking care of your sick ex boyfriend on your long anticipated three day weekend was not high on your bucket list. But here you were.

You drop into the car next to him and he’s already fast asleep. Feeling his forehead, you confirm that he’s burning up.

You and Spencer had ended things amicably four weeks ago. Your crazy schedule as a labor and delivery nurse didn’t mesh well with his chaotic FBI job. It didn’t mean you didn’t care for him. Perhaps that made seeing him so sick that much harder.

“Come on,” you help him from the car and into your house.

He stumbles up the front steps but you’re able to hold him up.

“Sorry, dizzy,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” you place your hand at the center of his chest, pushing yourself under his arm further to support his tall frame. The heat coming off of him could almost burn you.

You had never been more grateful that you opted for a one floor house. You imagined getting him up a flight of stairs would be impossible.

“Here,” you sit him on the edge of your king sized bed but he just flops onto his side, tucking his face into your pillow. He breaths in deeply, you can hear how congested he is.

You hurry to your medicine cabinet to get him a concoction of fever reducers.

“Take this,” you sit him up.

He barely opens his eyes, just groggily obeys and trusts the pills you’re giving him. He knows you’d never do anything to hurt him.

You wipe the water from his lips gently. He purses his mouth as though to kiss the pad of your thumb longingly.

You slowly undo the buttons of his shirt, you needed to cool him down. He’s drenched in sweat.

“Sit up,” you pull him up with a hand on the back of his neck and push the shirt off of his shoulders. Your eyes trace his body longingly, but only for a moment.

You gently lay him back down and start undoing his converse so he can get more comfortable. He groans at the movements as you tug the shoes off and discard them, adoring his mismatched socks.

You brush his hair from his forehead and prompt him to open his eyes. He does but they’re heavy with fatigue.

“You’re going to be fine Spence, just tell me if you need anything,” you whisper.

You gently caress his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed. You relax your hand in the center of his bare chest, unable to help how drawn to him you are. You missed him. His lean body with the thin sheen of sweat had your heart fluttering. Touching him was too much, too overwhelming. You sigh and stand from the bed.

His arm wraps around your waist and he tugs you weakly back into the bed. You fall half onto him and half next to him.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs and buries his face in your stomach like you’re all he’ll ever need. You run your hands through his long hair and hold him close to comfort him. It doesn’t even bother you that his hair is damp, you just want to help him.

He pulls you more onto him and twists his hands into your shirt. You’re nearly straddling him now, leaning over him as he groans and begs for you to be closer.

“Spence,” you warn.

He nudges his face into your abdomen, between your breasts. He’s so out of it you doubt he’s even aware of his actions. His mouth clamps over your nipple which is hardening through your shirt. This is so wrong, but it feels so fucking good.

Your body reacts to him, your hips grinding down against his. You can’t help it.

Your tank top rides up and his mouth trails sloppily against your now exposed skin, causing you to suck air through your teeth harshly. He’s kind of kissing you, but more seemingly needing to touch you with his mouth. He leaves moist trails of kisses against your stomach. He grapples at your body, he’s needy, he’s panting. He’s whimpering against you.

He’s burning up.

“Shhh, Spence,” you sink down next to him and nestle into the crook of his arm.

You push away your arousal. That was not happening right now.

Besides, clear headed Spencer wouldn’t touch you that way after breaking up.

“Need you,” he moans.

“Not right now baby,” the nickname slips out. It was habit.

His buries his face in the crook of your neck, he’s breathing hard as his hand trails down your body. He digs his nails into the soft skin on your hips and squeezes lovingly. His fingertips move down the plane of your stomach and graze just under the edge of your waistband but he goes no further. You take in the sight of his large hand on your body again, those fingers, the way the muscles and veins move as he does. Your traitorous pussy clenches around absolutely nothing. Ugh.

He begins to kiss the soft spot of your neck and you can’t help but to tilt your head to give him better access. His hand moves up to squeeze your breast, pulling a moan from you. God you needed him so bad. But he was so sick. His desperation for you was driving you mad.

You hear him shudder as a chill washes over him. But he ignores it, moving so his laying on you, kissing your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. His eyes are still closed, heavy with sickness. But he slides his strong arms under you to hold you even closer to him as he continues to kiss and sucking at your neck. He nudges your tank top down and pulls your nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

“Ah, Spencer. Baby,” you writhe beneath him, but he’s got you pinned.

He kisses you until he can’t anymore, until his grip on you grows weaker and his mouth lingers on you longer.

He grows tired and rests his head on your chest. He keeps you beneath him, most of his body weight laying between your legs. His head rests on your stomach as he starts to doze off. His warm breath fans against your skin.

You push your hand into his hair to keep him right where he is. He’s absorbing your body heat, his breathing beginning to slow.

A content sigh escapes his chest and he finally falls asleep.

You can still feel the ghosts of his hands and lips, messy and needy on your body. It’s like he was devouring you, like you were the only thing that could save him. He was absolutely out of his mind, acting on instinct and primal need despite being sick. It’s like he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself from touching you.

[nereidprinc3ss]

rubber duck

in which reader is sick and spencer takes care of his girl!!

fluff (18+ for nudity) warnings/tags: reader referred to as girl, non-sexual undressing + nudity/intimacy, reader takes bath, spencer doesn't but he is in fact present a/n: heeeeyyy guys.... sorry for not posting for a month... accept this as a token of my gratitude and know that smut is in the works. keep sending requests, might not answer them but you never knoww!!

Spencer gets home around ten PM. Granted, it’s not a completely unreasonable time for someone to be asleep, but for you? A person who’d rather not go to bed at all than wake up before eight in the morning? You being passed out on the couch at this time is definitely abnormal.  

He drops his bag on the coffee table as he approaches, kneeling next to where you’re curled up in the dark room. Part of him doesn’t want to wake you if you’re tired, but he’s mildly concerned. Normally after him being away all week you’ll stay up until he gets home regardless of how late (or early) it is. Ambient light coming in through the window allows him to see the sickly sheen to your skin, and he feels your forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Spence?” you murmur, trying to blink the sleep out of your eyes. His response is equally quiet, wavering slightly. 

“Hey. Are you feeling okay, angel?” 

Even though you decidedly are not, your spirit lifts considerably at the sight of him in front of you. A wave of caramel hair falls over his furrowed brow as he scans your face, looking for signs that something is wrong. You brush it away, hand coming to rest on his cheek. 

“I’m fine. I missed you a lot.” 

Your voice is a paper-thin whisper, giving you away even as you try to downplay your condition. 

“I missed you too, but I’m a little worried. You’re pretty warm.” His eyes dart away from your face and down your body, seeming to notice your attire for the first time. “Did you go to work?” 

“I tried to. But I had to come home at early. I guess I didn’t make it all the way to bed.” 

This seems to worry him even more, if the way his eyes narrow and the line of his mouth tightens is anything to go by.  

“How long have you been asleep?” 

“Well... what time is it?” you ask sheepishly, still disoriented. 

“10:20.” 

“Oh god,” you moan, burying your face into a pillow (which does not make breathing any easier through all the congestion), “I’ve been sleeping for eight hours!” Panic wells in your chest at the ridiculous notion that you somehow lost an entire day to sleep.  "I didn't mean to-"

“Shh, relax, it's fine. Your immune system works a lot more efficiently when you’re asleep. It’s the best thing you can do when you’re sick. Studies show that melatonin may actually be an effective antiviral, and people who sleep seven hours a night are 300% less likely to develop an illness than people who sleep only five hours a night.” 

Despite yourself, you smile into the pillow at his unprompted information dump.

“So... am I... 500% more likely to be better tomorrow?” 

He laughs, running a hand through your hair. 

“I don’t even know where you got that number.” 

“I failed statistics in high school,” you mutter, pushing yourself up onto an elbow. 

“Honey, that’s Algebra.” 

You bury your face in your hand and laugh at your own stupidity- before it devolves into a coughing fit.  

“Ugh, I’m sorry. I know you hate germs,” you say once you’ve managed to get the coughing under control. You look at his face, but there are no signs of disgust or fear. 

“I could never hate your germs. But I am worried about the cough... do you think a bath would help?” 

You mull it over. Part of you wants to rot on the couch forever, but the more rational part knows you should definitely get up and try to take care of yourself. With a helping hand from Spencer you rise, stumbling into his waiting arms like a foal on shaky legs. Immediately you feel fatigued, but he patiently guides you to the bedroom and sits you on the mattress before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. 

For a few minutes the only sound aside from you catching your breath is the tub filling from the other room. Soon he returns, to find you curled up on the bed and barely conscious once more. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, gathering you up in his arms and helping you to your feet once more. “You really don’t feel good, huh?” 

You shake your head, allowing yourself to be carefully herded into the bathroom. Spencer moves to sit on the edge of the steaming tub, pulling you forward gently by your belt loops. Deftly he begins to undo your jeans as you fumble with the buttons on your shirt. 

“I feel like I’m dying,” you groan. He glances up at you.

“I wish you would have told me you were sick. I would have come home earlier.”  

“I thought about it,” you admit sheepishly, “but I figured better I be sick and alone than more people potentially end up dead because I’m too needy.” 

Your boyfriend sighs, resting his hands on your hips as he looks up at you with a mix of earnestness and admonishment.  

“At least tell me next time. I don’t like the idea of you here all alone without anyone knowing you’re ill.” His fingers press gently into your flesh to emphasize his point. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” you agree softly, without hesitation. Spencer’s expression softens too, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your sternum. 

“In,” he directs after you wiggle out of your jeans, getting out of the way and helping you into the water. He watches as you carefully submerge yourself, a little tense as if he’s ready to jump into action at any second. “Is it too warm? I tried not to make it too hot because your body temperature is al-” 

“It’s perfect,” you reassure, sinking further in. Steam billows up around you and you sniff. “Lavender?” 

Spencer nods, settling on the floor next to you. 

“And mint. I’m surprised you can actually smell it.” 

Normally you’d tease him for his fussing, but the minty steam really does seem to be helping you breathe a bit easier. After only a few minutes, you feel noticeably better. 

“Will you read to me?” you ask dropping your head to your shoulder to look at him. 

He’s leaning against the wall and monitoring you with a contented look on his face. At the suggestion his eyebrows raise. 

“Of course. What do you want to hear?” 

“Fairytales. But only the super gory ones. The more disturbing the better.” 

“What? No Jane Austen?” 

“Ugh, no. I need to hear about terrible things happening to beautiful princesses so I can feel seen.” 

A small smirk graces his lips as he regards you, eyes sparkling with humor and thinly veiled affection. 

“You are utterly ridiculous.” 

“You have to be nice to me when I’m sick,” you whine, slinking lower into the bubbles. Spencer hums in sympathy, running his hand through the water to check the temperature before trailing his knuckles over your arm. 

“My poor sick girl,” he teases. You huff indignantly, attempting to hide the way his words make you melt into the bathwater. 

“Just get the book, Spencer.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He kisses your forehead (covertly gauging your fever, you’re sure) before pushing off the ground. You watch him leave, heart overflowing with adoration even though you still feel sick. Maybe it’s the bath that’s helping, or maybe it’s just his presence.  

A minute later he returns to his post beside you bearing Grimm’s Fairytales and a tall glass of water, which he tells you to drink all of before he starts reading. Regardless of how unwell you feel, you find the energy to make sarcastic comments about the characters’ intelligence and the implausibility of the plot (it’s a fairytale, Spencer reminds you) but soon the soothing cadence of his voice enthralls you. The illustrations and the story capture your imagination as you rest your head and arms on the side of the tub. 

More time has gone by than you realize when you begin to shiver in the now lukewarm water. Spencer notices, finally setting the book down. 

“Ready to get out?” 

You nod and he helps you step out of the tub, pulling you close and wrapping you with a fluffy towel. Absolutely no heed is given to the state of his own clothing as your wet skin soaks his shirt, or his own health as he breathes in your air. 

“I’m gonna get you sick, Spence,” you say anxiously, making a feeble attempt to pull away. Spencer doesn’t even begin to allow it, holding you even tighter. The honesty of his words is reflected in his eyes as he looks down at you adoringly. 

“I can live with the idea of spending a few days at home together.” 

You lean into him further, too tired to hold much of your own weight up. 

“I can’t believe you have to intentionally get sick to get time off work.” 

“You’re definitely worth it.” He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back for a moment.  

“And to think,” you muse, the words muffled by his shirt, "when we first met, you wouldn’t even shake my hand.” 

[choerypetal]

Nap Time. / Mike Schmidt

Summary : You knew Mike ever since moving next door to his. While you were suggesting to look for a job and him in deed for a babysitter, to keep Abby during his night shifts. You accepted even at times to offer overtime, due to the nights at his work being somewhat more difficult than he had thought. Meaning having to also prepare tonight's dinner when Mike went to take a Nap. Warning : None, Just fluff!

Enjoy!

Mike had diligently prepared your paychecks for the past few months. Despite facing personal challenges, he consistently maintained his commitment to honesty. However, as he handed you your paycheck this time, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor. His gaze appeared strangely vacant, and he seemed to avoid eye contact, in line with his prior preference for avoiding meaningless, drawn-out conversations. You couldn't help but observe his bloodshot eyes and the dark circles underneath them, signaling that he hadn't enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep in quite a while.

Although you offered to stay a little longer, realizing that dinner wasn't ready and Abby was getting ready for bed, he firmly declined, shaking his head nervously, his stuttering making his anxiety apparent. "No–Noo– It’s– Abby can–" It was at this moment that you understood he had lost everything. The memories from that second night at the Pizzeria and the children were haunting him. He began to disconnect from reality, feeling his body temperature rise and sweat bead on his forehead. If Mike wasn't already in a state of torment, he had surely been gone for a long time.

"I insist." You firmly stated, believing in your words this time. Abby, who had been hesitant to peek from outside her room, came over to hug you. Seeing that you were still there, she tugged at the end of your shirt, signaling that you could stay even if her brother had chosen not to. She preferred spending more time with you, especially after all the recent events. While she deeply cared about her brother, she understood that sometimes adults needed their space, particularly when it involved taking Abby away from Mike and into the care of her aunt, who she herself had strongly objected to it. 

Mike observed the two of you, momentarily captivated by how he managed to keep his composure after all he had been through. He let out a sigh, soothingly rubbed his neck, and finally agreed before Abby could voice another protest directly. "Alright, alright. It wouldn't hurt if you stayed a little longer... Maybe  to also getting dinner ready too?"

A smile graced your features as you graciously accepted his request, fully aware of his fatigue. "I'll go take a nap if you... don't mind?" Without waiting for your response, he promptly headed to his room, leaving Abby and you alone in the room. "He's been rather grumpy lately." Abby remarked, her expression conveying her amusement as you playfully ruffled her hair. "Can I help?" She then offered to assist you with dinner, a proposition you welcomed with enthusiasm. "Of course. How about I handle the vegetables, and you mix everything?" Abby's face lit up with delight, and she eagerly took your arm, guiding you both to the kitchen.

The cooking process unfolded smoothly, with you patiently waiting for the spaghetti sauce to simmer according to your mother's cherished recipe, allowing it to develop its flavors over a few hours. As Abby settled in to watch her favorite nighttime comedy shows, you made the decision to rouse Mike from his nap before dinner was ready. You couldn't help but feel a tinge of guilt knowing he was in a somewhat disheveled state.

Carefully entering his room, your eyes wandered around, taking in the old drawings, family photographs, and a few posters that appeared to be recent additions, their sheen reflecting the moonlight streaming in through the window. Moving closer to his slumbering form, you gently brushed your fingers across his cheek, prompting him to emit a few soft whimpers in response to your tender touch. You couldn't help but smile, and as you continued to caress his cheek, you noticed his fingers entwining with yours. Initially, you thought it might be a sign to stop, but he murmured, "Please continue..." So softly that it nearly startled you, caught off guard by his vulnerability.

Mike unmistakably recognized your presence, discerning your perfume's scent and the tender affection you consistently bestowed upon him whenever the opportunity arose. However, tonight felt notably distinct, one of those nights when he needed your support the most. It pained him to see you openly caring for a guy burdened with numerous life problems, yet it was one of the aspects about you that he strangely admired, particularly your strong bond with Abby. As you prepared to rise and apologize for waking him so abruptly, he urged you to do the opposite. "Stay for a little while." he murmured, his words soft and slightly hoarse due to his dehydration, as he struggled to express himself.

In response, you emitted a soft hum and nodded, though you were uncertain if he truly meant it. He gently took hold of your wrist, assisting you in settling on his bed in front of him, his body shifting closer to yours. He rested his head on the crook of your neck, exhaling the familiar scent he had always been infatuated with. Though initially feeling a bit uneasy, you nervously cleared your throat and mentioned that dinner was nearly ready. However, he declined, saying, "Abby will know when to... Just stay here for a while."

You realized that declining wasn't even an option as Mike's arms were wrapped around your waist so tightly that he showed no intention of letting go any time soon. Although the sudden display of affection caught you off guard, you couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy this tranquil moment. Your soft smile graced your lips, and at just the right moment, Mike's eyes opened from his deep slumber, fixing on yours with a quizzical brow raised at the sight of your unexpected smile.

"What's the smile for?" He inquired, though he understood the meaning behind it and pretended not to, instead focusing on admiring every feature of your face. You shrugged, perhaps waiting for Mike to provide an answer, but he insisted that you share your thoughts. "I suppose it's just about sharing this moment with you." You confessed with a gentle smile.

"Is it?" He inquired, adopting a teasing tone, causing your cheeks to flush with warmth in response to the unexpected situation. Despite working as a babysitter for Mike, you had never anticipated or considered the possibility of a deeper relationship, let alone sharing his bed at this moment. As you found yourself also admiring his face, a subtle tingling sensation fluttered in your stomach—a mix of desire and affection for the man who had initially been nothing more than a neighbor.

"It is." You firmly concurred, your smile now more at ease. You couldn't help but giggle at how silly you must have sounded, only to then realize that the man who loved you, perhaps even adored you, had been right there in front of you all along. "I'm glad then..." He whispered softly, gently caressing your cheek. He showed no intention of releasing you for a while, even when he sensed your desire to do so, as the aroma of tomato sauce filled the entire house, signaling that dinner was ready.

"Nuh-Uh." He protested with a playful pout, fully aware of where your attention had swiftly shifted. "Pasta can wait just a little longer, please." He pleaded, emphasizing the word 'please.' His protest was more of a source of amusement than a genuine plea for pity. This time it was more of an theatrical performance, and you understood his intention. Even though you didn't make a strong effort to comply, you decided to stay a little longer, especially when you felt his lips against your skin. “I bet you even taste better than your mom’s spaghetti..” His journey from your neck to your collarbone brought a smile to your lips, intensifying the blush that had adorned your cheeks earlier.

In an attempt to deflect from your deepening blush, you attempted to cover it, but Mike had the time to gently lifted your chin as he turned your body to face him. "Did I ever told you that you look like an angel sent from above?" He boldly stated, making you initially think he might have lost his mind with such a bold compliment. However, you chuckled casually and replied. "I suppose so?" You decided to play along, mimicking the playful banter he had engaged in earlier, feigning innocence with a hint of sarcasm. To your surprise, this seemed to arouse him even more, making him desire you exclusively.

"You know."A familiar and youthful voice suddenly chimed in between the two of you, and Abby's figure peeked into Mike's room. You heard a sigh of annoyance, coupled with a sense of embarrassment, as you both realized where you had been all this time. Mike chuckled, "Yes, yes, Abby. We'll be right there for dinner."

"You heard her," you declared, joining Abby to help her get ready to serve dinner. Just as you were about to rise, Mike couldn't hide a pout, one that compelled you to lean in and press a soft kiss on his lips without hesitation. "Come on, grumpy old man. I'm hungry," you playfully protested, rubbing your stomach and indicating that he wouldn't receive any more kisses if he didn't comply. He sighed but abandoned the idea of keeping you both in bed, realizing his own hunger as his stomach grumbled in agreement.

As you got up and left the room, you glanced back at him with affectionate eyes before finally leaving to join Abby. It was in that moment that Mike fully comprehended the depth of what was happening—sharing his life with someone else, someone he loved and cared for deeply. It was something he hadn't expected, but here you were.

For once, Mike felt a sense of rest and inner peace.

[itsswritten]

Threads of Hazel

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: Angst, blood, gore, injuries, hints of death.

Summary: A mating bond can connect those who have not even met, but can it save them too?

All that welcomed you was the cold, splodges of darkness filtering in your distorted vision.

Time seemed to stretch and contract in the void, a dizzying whirl of uncertainty. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Perhaps even longer.

No one was coming.

Why had you dared to hope? 

It was that gentle hazel glow that danced behind closed eyelids that had stirred within you. A glimmer of something that felt worthy of holding onto. Something to believe in.

But it must have been a trick of the mind, a cruel illusion born from the depths of insanity. 

No one was coming. No one ever would.

Maybe it was time to give up.

Time to surrender to the abyss, to let go of the tenuous thread that bound you to consciousness. As you teetered on the edge of oblivion, a fleeting sensation brushed against your senses, a whisper of familiarity.

You could smell it, faint and distant yet unmistakable. 

Night-chilled mist and cedar. 

It was that scent again. But like a wisp of smoke on the wind, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving your senses grasping at shadows in the void.

Another wicked false sense of hope. Your mind must be creating delusions as it comes close to its end.

No one was coming.

It was time to let go.

***

This was the last location. And then they’d go home. 

Finally.

Azriel straightened his posture, rolling back his shoulders with a weary sigh. His wings unfurled and then tucked in against his back. He felt anchored, weighed down, by the silent burdens he was carrying. Even his shadows were slumped against him, as if they were also affected by his fatigue.

Azriel was utterly exhausted.

Despite Cassian's concerned pleas for him to stay behind and rest, Azriel couldn't bring himself to heed them. The ache in his bones and the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs were nothing compared to the thought of letting Feyre and his brother face this mission alone. 

He was Spymaster of the Night Court, he would fulfil his duties regardless of his own welfare. Regardless of the demons that weighed on him.

But these demons of his, had been plaguing him for months. Clear in the dark offset look of his gaze, and the purple shadows that sat beneath his eyes– he was a tormented soul. 

The aftermath of the war had etched its scars deep into Azriel. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with, the fallout of anguish and slaughter, had always defined his life. But in recent months, his demons seemed to be haunting him more fiercely than usual, their whispers echoing in the silence of the night.

For months, Azriel had been plagued by a recurring dream, a nightmare he assumed. Because as much as he tried he couldn’t recall the details. Each time he would wake from the depths of his sleep, finding himself drenched in a clammy sheen of sweat, his chest heaving attempting to draw in air as though a claw was clenched around his lungs. 

But that is all that would linger.

A feeling, no memory of what had caused this reaction within him. No clue as to why his body shivered in fear when he woke. 

It was a maddening cycle, the dream hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness. Clearly haunting in nature and yet elusive. Each day felt like a puzzle with a missing piece, the memory of something crucial lurking just beyond reach.

So close, and yet not close enough. And it was driving him mad.

In a desperate attempt to break free from that grip, he tried avoiding sleep altogether. Yet, that feeling persisted. A restless energy coursing beneath his skin. It was relentless, a constant reminder– that he was forgetting something of importance.

And that feeling terrified him. Azriel had always known most, metalicus with his gathering of intel and information. Skilled in deciphering most people and their thoughts. But his own mind had him at a loss. He was no Spymaster of his own consciousness, simply a male who couldn’t sleep because of a nightmare.

Feyre, Cassian and Azriel had embarked on the final leg of their scouting mission. Despite the passing of time since the war's end, new pockets of Hybern loyalists still cropped up. The three of them were tasked with weeding out any lingering enemies. They had arrived at the last location Azriel’s intel had unearthed. A manor house on the skirts of the borders, had whispered rumours to be a base for some Hybern stragglers.

Derelict and crumbling, the building seemed to sag under the weight of its own deterioration, its once-majestic features now reduced to a skeletal framework of crumbling stone and splintered wood. The scars of fire marred its surface, meaning any valuable pieces of information that might have once resided within its walls had long since been burnt. Nothing but charred remnants and ash laid in their wake.

They had been too late, but they still had to check nonetheless. 

"All clear from up above," Cassian announced, his voice cutting through the silence as he landed beside Feyre, who had just reentered what remained of the foyer. She had meticulously scouted the left wing of the building, while Azriel had taken the right.

"Clear here too," Feyre confirmed with a nod, her eyes scanning the dimly lit space for any signs of danger.

Azriel soon joined them. His part of the search had also yielded no immediate threats. Cassian stood beside his brother, kicking some burnt debris with his foot while mumbling that it was a shame Hybern’s men had burnt this place. That it was such a waste. But Azriel wasn’t listening. 

Running his rough hand down his face, he let out a heavy sigh. A very clear tell that he was not okay. Something Azriel never showed. But he could feel it again, under his skin. Pinching at him. Something faint in this chest, weighed and sliced, only to subside to a dull ache.

He felt uneasy, as he had for months but there was something about this place that had shaken a deepness within his gut. Even his shadows fluttered nervously around him.

Maybe he would need to see Madja when he got home. Or maybe even relinquish his pride, and ask Rhys for help.

“Let’s get this checked over quickly, and then head home. It’s been a long mission,” Feyre spoke softly, offering both males encouraging smiles as she gestured towards the back of the building. 

Feyre’s eyes settled on Azriel, giving him a reassuring look. For a moment Azriel almost let her in, he had noticed the concerned looks and touches his family had given him. Growing more and more these recent weeks. Instead though, he nodded softly following the pair into the back room. 

They descended down grand stairs, into the lower levels of the house. Each step he took echoed through the empty remnants of the building, every move feeling heavier and weightier. They were hit with a chill when they reached the bottom. In the absence of natural light, Feyre conjured small orbs of illumination, casting soft, flickering light that bobbed across the dark space. The feeble glow revealed crumbling walls and decaying remnants of furniture, similar to what they had seen upstairs. 

The air was heavy with the scent of decay and mildew, but there was something metallic that lingered.

Blood.

They could smell blood. And there was something else too. Perfumy and chemical.

Faebane. 

Tensions rose as they all hesitated on their weapons, Azriel’s fingers gingerly hovering over Truth Teller as they stepped deeper within the space. Azriel's shadows flickered and swirled around him, their movements erratic and unsettling. They sensed something lurking in the darkness, something that sent a shiver down his spine.

There was this haunting apprehension washing over Azriel as if he had been here before. He couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t quite pinpoint why he didn’t feel like a stranger in this room.

As though he had been here many times before and yet this was still his first time here. That gnawing began deep in his gut again as his fingers gripped at his dagger.

He heard Feyre gasp loudly, before his eyes quickly scanned to see what her light had revealed. 

A figure, barely recognisable in the dim light, hung limply from chains fastened to the wall, body gaunt and ravaged by torture. Steel rods protruded from flesh, each one coated in the deadly poison of faebane, its sickly scent permeating the air.

Feyre's hands flew to her mouth in horror, her eyes wide with disbelief and revulsion. "Is she..." her voice trailed off, unable to voice the question that hung in her mind. She had to stop herself from gagging, as the contents of her stomach threatened to spill up her throat.

Even Cassian, veteran of countless battles and witness to nearly every injury imaginable, could not conceal the grimace that tugged at his lips. They all took a moment to absorb the sight before them, Azriel remaining motionless as he processed the scene. The sensation from earlier still persisted, but now intensifying as Azriel's gaze fell upon the steel rod protruding from the body's chest, a sharp pang jolting through his own.

Azriel staggered, overcome by a sudden wave of agony that seized him, breaths ragged and uneven. Feyre moved swiftly to his side, her hand offering comfort as she implored about his well-being, but his attention was elsewhere.

He wasn’t listening to Feyre, he was listening to his shadows.

Alive.

They were pulsating beside him, waiting for his orders, waiting to be released, begging to be released.

Azriel clutched his chest, mustering his strength to stand straighter, the pain subsiding for now as he took a hesitant step closer, 

Alive, alive, alive.

They whispered frantically this time, their urgency desperate.

Then Azriel saw it. The faint rise and fall of your chest, the subtle rhythm of your heartbeat still persisting against all odds.

Azriel's breath caught in his throat, his mind struggling to process the sight before him.

How? How were you still alive?

He wasn't the only one to notice. Cassian, wasted no time in springing into action, his voice commanding as he instructed them to release you from your chains, to get you the urgent help you needed. Both Feyre and Cassian, mentally calling to Rhys to be ready with Madja.

But Azriel was frozen in place, his senses honed in on the fragile thread of life that still clung to you. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched, his chest constricting with an overwhelming emotion.

He remembered. 

The sight before him wasn’t new. No, he had seen this. Seen you before. Felt this way every night for months. 

It was you whom he had been forgetting when he woke, the haunting echo of your desperate pleas vibrating in his mind. As he watched your body slump to the floor, freed from the chains that had bound you, Azriel struggled to push back the flood of visions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Visions of you, screaming, pleading for someone to help you.

Begging him to come save you.

How could he have forgotten? Your cries had pierced through the darkness, reaching out to him night after night.

A plea for salvation had rippled down the thread that seemed to connect you.

That thread.

That power that had subconsciously been connecting you both for months began to hum. Louder and brighter than anything Azriel had ever felt before.

It was a realisation, a confirmation to what he had been feeling for all that time. The golden warmth finally settled under his bones, consuming all his senses.

The mating bond.

You were his mate.

Something that was supposed to be so cherished, felt incredibly bittersweet as he watched your near dead form be pulled into Cassian’s arms.

He could feel your pain seeping through the bond, in fact that is what he had been feeling all those weeks. Your suffering leaking its way down to Azriel. Your pleas reaching him in the depths of his sleep.

He had a mate, finally.

And yet when he pulled gently on that faint thread that linked you to him, he could feel it fading.

Maybe he was too late.

***

A bright white light filled your vision, its touch lining your body slowly.

It was time. You were ready.

But just as you were on the brink of surrender, a golden warmth surged forth, wrapping around you like a protective shield. It tugged at you, pulling you back, refusing to let you go.

Not now, not yet. It spoke.

You resisted, clinging stubbornly to the edge of oblivion, but the pull of that hazel glow was undeniable.

Let me go. It hurts. I want to leave. Your soul cried towards the glow.

The hazel glow called out to you with a familiarity that stirred something deep within your soul.

I won’t let you go. Not now, not now that I have you. 

You couldn’t understand. You heard no voice, yet you felt every word.

I need you to fight, for yourself, for me, fight harder than you ever have done and I promise, after this, you will never have to fight again.

Why those words had some sway over you, you weren’t sure. But when your senses filled with that comforting scent you had smelt every night for the past months. It tethered you, anchoring you in the physical realm once more.

You could smell it again, night-chilled air and cedar.

You would hold onto it one last time.

***

Agonising screams filled the air as you writhed in pain on the makeshift table. Your body contorting, fingers clawing desperately at the gaping wound in your chest. Even in the dim light, Azriel could see the blood, thick and crimson oozing through your fingers as you had lurched up when Cassian had pulled the poison coated rod from your chest.

They had managed to remove some while you were unconscious, but the pain of this one, deep in your chest, had yanked you awake. How you were still alive none of them understood. Your injuries and body filled with enough faebane to kill a dozen fae. 

Your vision was still distorted. Just one of the injuries that ravaged your body. Only blurry shapes and figures filled your sight, and the lack of that sense only added to your fear. You couldn’t see who you were with, and although they didn’t sound like your captors, you didn’t know them. Didn’t trust them, and they were hurting you.

Even if they repeatedly told you they were helping you, their touch just brought more pain.

Madja flitted around Cassian, her hands hovering over the faebane-drenched wounds in a futile attempt to heal. Azriel stood at the head of the table, crouched down close as he firmly held one of your arms down. His shadows fidgeted uneasily around him, reflecting his inner turmoil. He had witnessed countless horrors in his life, some inflicted upon himself, but seeing his mate in such agony was a new level of torment. 

Feeling the pain trickling down the bond was tearing him apart.

“Stop, stop. Please…” Your plea was raw, your voice strained and hoarse from the agony that wracked your body. Azriel shuddered at your tone, your voice an echo of the nightmares that had haunted him for endless nights. 

He remembered it all now.

Each night, stumbling through darkness, trying to follow that golden bond to you. To your calls for him. And each time, he tried to figure out where you were, how to get to you, how to save you only to forget everything when he woke. His memory of you slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“Rhys, there must be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation as he looked over your pained expression.

Feyre had diligently wiped the blood from your face, revealing slashes across your eyes. Remarkably, Madja seemed optimistic about their healing potential, though it was contingent upon your survival. He could feel your fear rippling down the bond, how frightened and in pain you were.

“Azriel…my power, I can’t penetrate her mind. The faebane has saturated her body, creating an impenetrable barrier,” Rhys responded. “I’m sorry brother…I’m truly sorry.”

Azriel couldn’t contain the small whispered sob that escaped him, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

When Cassian had carried you from that dark basement, Azriel had acted on instinct, snatching you carefully from his brother's arms and holding you close. He whispered into your ear, a litany of apologies for not finding you sooner, for the pain you endured. He begged you to fight, to hold on for him. And had clung to that faint glimmer of hope as he returned to the safety of the River House.

Rhys had prepared a table for Madja to work on, but neither of them had anticipated the extent of your injuries.

Azriel had laid you on the table, still unconscious as he nervously watched Rhys and Madja try their best. Cassian and Feyre joining them moments later to help. 

It was then they had all realised.

He was fussing over you, whispering frantically and his shadows had been skittishly tracing over your body and injuries. So unlike the usual calm and collected Spymaster.

Rhys had pieced it together first. Simply stating She’s your mate into Azriel’s mind. Although it was clear by the heartbreaking expressions on his family's faces, they were all aware of the significance you held.

Azriel felt helpless, he couldn’t lessen your anguish, couldn’t heal you, couldn’t do anything.

Your sobbing started again, while you writhed under their strong hands. Pleading for release. Instead, they responded with reassurances and hushed whispers, and there was one voice in particular that washed over you in a familiarity you didn’t understand.

You fought against them, resisting their attempts to restrain you, but they were stronger. Another wave of agony rippled through you as they worked to remove one of the steel bars embedded within your flesh.

“Focus, Shadowsinger,” Madja's voice cut through the turmoil, her gaze landing on him firmly.

“The best course of action is to remove these rods and then attempt to drain the faebane from her system. Her resilience is remarkable, but she won’t survive much longer without intervention.” Madja was speaking directly to Azriel now, he took a second to look down at you crying on the table. Cassian and Rhys holding you down, while they calculated removing the next impalement. 

Madja continued, “If you want to help her, comfort her, support her.” The instructions were clear.

Feyre spoke then, glancing between your pained form and then to Azriel. “Use the bond Az, she needs you.”

With hesitation, Azriel’s rough hand found yours. Holding it tightly. Grooves and lines were etched into his weathered skin, speaking of his own past battles. Instinctively you wanted to recoil from the stranger's touch, but as you felt another pull on your torso you clutched down on his hand tightly. Another sob racking through you.

You felt him close to you now, his presence enveloping you as his warm breath brushed across your face. He was close to you. But you couldn’t make out who he was. Only a blurred version of a male with tan skin and dark hair. His other hand grazed your cheek, offering you a comfort you hadn’t felt in months. 

“I need you to fight just a little longer,” the voice was deep and warm, there was something about it or maybe it was the words he had chosen that felt familiar. 

“It hurts..” you whispered, another sob leaving your lips.

"I know, I know it does...but not much longer, okay? And then you can rest, I promise," he reassured you, igniting a flicker of hope within you despite the overwhelming pain.

Then Azriel pulled gently on the bond sending ripples of reassurance and comfort down the link. So much that he hoped to drown any pain out you were feeling.

You felt that golden warmth fill your chest, that same feeling that had pulled you from the white abyss many times before.

"It's you..." Your voice choked with emotion, the realisation dawning upon you.

Azriel stood there, uncertain of how to respond, but he watched as you turned toward him, your brows furrowed in concentration. Though your vision remained distorted, blurred colours danced before you, and amidst the haze of black and deep tan, you saw it—the faint glimmer of hazel.

"You came for me..."

"Always..." Azriel's voice cracked with emotion, his unwavering commitment laid bare.

With the last of the rods removed, your body bled profusely. Madja urged caution, while Feyre urgently advocated to cauterise the wounds. But with this amount of faebane, they grappled with the best course of action. Their voices melding in a flurry of noise.

A soft, sad smile graced your lips, your hand reaching out to touch the figure before you, feeling the contours of his cheek beneath your fingertips.

Blood began to fill your mouth, the red liquid seeping through your smile. The bitter taste staining your words. Azriel began to shake his head, clinging to that fading bond with all his strength. With a pained slowness, he felt your hand slip from his cheek, leaving a blood-stained print upon his skin.

"You were real..." Your voice was barely a whisper now, breaths shallow. "My thread of hazel."

a/n: ngl I don't love this lol, doesn't feel like my best work but sometimes it's better posted than perfect! I had originally planned for this to be longer, but writers slump has me in a chokehold so this is all I managed! Anywho, hope you enjoyed the angst! <3 - Lottie Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

[fall-risk]

spider moment

[nep-neptune-0]

Seeking You

Dan Heng x Reader

Summary: Dan Heng never liked to be disturbed in his room, especially when he was sleeping. Even the slightest disturbance outside the door easily woke him up, much to his dismay. But he never felt troubled when you were the one who disturbed him.

Content: fluff, reader is injured, description of injury (not too detailed), male Trailblazer mentioned (sorry I luv him)

Word Count: 2k

a/n: I'm not a medical expert or anything like that, sorry if I got it wrong 😭

It was rare for the archivist of the Astral Express to get quality sleep. If he wasn’t out and running into all sorts of trouble with the Trailblazer and March 7th, you could find him in his room, so immersed in his work that he often forgot to sleep. The only semblance of rest he got was from blacking out from fatigue, but he never felt truly energized from it. He was also unfortunate enough to be a light sleeper, so during those rare times he decided to actually sleep in his bed and not pass out on his chair, all passengers made sure to take another route to their destination if their original path crossed his door. Of course, there were instances when they didn’t know he was sleeping, and later during that day his team would notice his fighting became just a tad more jagged, irritated. Though he never got properly upset at any of them.

Tonight was one of those rare nights where all Dan Heng wanted was to sleep, new data be damned. He had been pulled along for some new trouble the Trailblazer found himself in, which obviously triggered a chain reaction of even more trouble, as it always did. The archivist wasn’t sure how long they spent outside the Astral Express before they decided to call it a night. 

As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out, and he intended to be out for at least a couple of hours if possible. Since both March 7th and Caelus had fatigue clinging on to them before they went to their rooms, it was safe to say he would remain undisturbed. But he failed to take another potential factor that would threaten his sleep time into consideration.

That factor was you. 

His door was slammed open, a thud following close after. At first, he thought it was one of the troublemakers. He sat up, ready to tell them he wasn’t in the mood for another adventure. 

All words he had thought of died in his throat. There was a lot of blood pooling under you, who collapsed onto your stomach. The faint light pulsing from the data bank illuminated your knitted eyebrows, trembling lips, and the sheen of sweat over your skin. 

It wasn’t the first time you visited his room in the dead of night. Both of you had gotten into some rhythm of keeping each other company without saying much whenever you visited his room. While he was updating and refining data entries, you would be at his desk, sketching and scribbling notes of the new plants and enemies you had found during missions. 

You were a curious soul with a thirst for knowledge that could rival any high-esteemed scholar or researcher. The first time you were there, you merely stood on the other side of the doorstep, asking him with a quivering voice if there were any data entries that matched something particularly eye-catching you had seen on your latest mission. When he had given you an answer, you had scurried away to your room after thanking him. 

The next time you were there, you had bravely stepped into his room to observe him while he found the correct file. And before long it became a common occurrence for you to swing by after a mission, sketches in hand and questions burning at the tip of your tongue. After a few more times, Dan Heng had told you you were free to look through the information yourself.

At first, you thought he was telling you to stop bothering him, but the newest troublemaker on the express had other thoughts about it. He had pointed a shaking finger at you, sputtering about how the coldest person on the Astral Express had given you permission to touch his precious data without any consequences, something that he never thought was possible. Not that others weren’t allowed to, of course, but Dan Heng usually kept an eye on Caelus whenever he wanted to check something. A laugh had escaped you at that, and you waved his words away, saying that it was natural since Caelus somehow managed to cause trouble wherever he went. You weren’t special. In response you got a smug look from him. Whatever that meant.

One day, you were too caught up in information hunting you didn’t notice how much time had passed since you sat down by his desk. But before you could gather your papers and bolt out of the room with a flurry of apologies, he had stopped you and said you were allowed to stay as long as you wanted, so you sat back down. 

You had wondered if he was actually alright with it. Occasionally, you would glance at him, trying to read his body language or facial expression for any sign of annoyance. At one instance, your eyes met his, and you couldn’t look away, but after a few seconds, you forcefully tore your focus away from him, back to the photographs. You felt the tips of your ears burning as intensely as the sun. 

While you promised yourself to not look again in fear of embarrassing yourself, you couldn’t help but sneak some longing gazes at him. And if you had rested your eyes at him for a bit longer, you would have noticed his eyes being drawn to you more than a few times too. 

That night, you had fallen asleep on his desk, face planted on all the photos you printed out to analyze. His coat had been draped over your frame as a makeshift blanket when you woke up and your phone had an unread message. You’re welcome to continue looking through the database even if I’m not there. I hope you slept well, it said. You remembered feeling flustered, not only from the message but also the faint smell of him lingering in the coat.

Soon enough an additional chair was placed by his desk. The surface was spacious enough to fit two people working on their own thing, only occasional talk filling the otherwise silent air. Sometimes, only you were there when he was out with Caelus and March 7th. The Database practically became your second room. 

There were also times you opened the door to find him sleeping, and despite being a light sleeper that became grumpy the day after, he didn’t seem to be moody at all during the days after he was briefly woken up by you. He would merely peer up at you before shutting his eyes again, hand lazily beckoning you in. You had asked him more than once if your visits while he was resting disturbed his performance the day after, but every time he had told you not to worry about it. So you continued to visit him whenever you were finished with a mission, even if he happened to be sleeping. Though, you became more careful when opening his door. 

Dan Heng would never admit that he slept better when you were in the room. The comforting sound of your pen scratching against paper and the occasional sighs or hums you let out somehow made him feel warm, a stark contrast to the coldness that enveloped him when he slept alone in the room. He really didn’t mind you waking him up more often in the middle of the night if it meant he got to experience that warmth.

Although, you had never arrived when he was sleeping with a gash on your stomach. 

A metallic smell had spread through the air. Your breathing was shallow, body twitching from hiccups. 

“What the hell happened?” Dan Heng breathed, though he didn’t expect a response. Before he could think, he was out the door, heading to the infirmary. He gathered all the supplies he could think of getting. 

Detrimental thoughts swirled in his head like a typhoon. What mission were you sent to? Did they not check the danger levels before dispatching you? Did you get distracted? He should’ve come with you, but you were already gone by the time he met up with the troublemakers in the Parlor Car. You could’ve gone to him before heading out and he would gladly have accompanied you to the mission. What if you were gone by the time he came back?

When he had everything he needed, he hurried back. You still seemed to be in some state of consciousness when he entered his room, not dead. Good. 

Dan Heng started wiping off the sweat that collected on your forehead, then he tentatively rolled you onto your back. The wound wasn’t as deep as he thought it was, it wasn’t life-threatening. You’d survive.

“I’m gonna clean your wound.” He shut the door and gave you a towel to bite on before unscrewing the bottle of antiseptic. “... it’s going to hurt.”

Guttural whines and sobs escaped your throat as soon as the alcohol touched your wound. Biting down hard on the cloth, your hand flailed to find purchase in anything that could ground you. The victim happened to be Dan Heng’s thigh. You were sure it would leave crescent shaped indents at the end of the procedure, but you could not be less bothered to care. 

How you managed to stay somewhat lucid was beyond you. The shock probably helped you through the stitching part. Though Dan Heng’s gentle voice, mumbling something you could not quite make out, tethered you the most. If you had heard, you definitely would have been reeling from the profanities and apologies he was spewing out of concern. 

When it was time for him to bandage you up, the pressure on your abdomen relieved you. Your jaw slackened and the archivist removed the now soggy towel. 

“Sorry about the floor,” you slurred. “I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

“You will not. Now, care to tell me what happened?” 

“Hm.” Tiredness washed over you like a wave. The worst was over, and now you just wanted to sleep. “Found a treasure map, didn’t expect a Reaver to be in the way.”

“Hmph.” His disappointment was evident. “You’re lucky your wound wasn’t that dangerous. Who knows what could’ve happened. Did you go to that place alone? I would have gone with you if you wanted to find the treasure. You could’ve died, [Name]. Why didn’t you just go to Natasha when–”

“I couldn’t think straight,” you muttered, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your voice dropped down to a fragile whisper. “After I got injured– I don’t know– all I could think about was getting back to you first. I wanted to see you.” 

There, you said it. A few seconds went by and he had nothing to say back. Great. When you had gathered enough energy you were heading – crawling if you needed to – straight to your room and–

“You absolute idiot.” Gentle hands lifted you up, trying to avoid agitating your wound. You were half-expecting him to carry you back to your bedroom, but you felt him taking a few steps before you were lowered again, onto something soft. His bed. 

Dan Heng laid himself slowly beside you in fear of making you uncomfortable. He laid on his side, using his arm as his pillow as he gazed at your side profile. His free hand inched forward to brush some hair away from your face.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmured. “Next time you get injured, which I rather wouldn’t happen, give me a call and head to Natasha’s immediately. I will be there as quickly as I can.” 

Your eyes hesitantly cracked open. Upon seeing the worry etched onto his face you brought your hand to intertwine with his.

“Promise?” you asked meekly. 

“I promise.” His lips ghosted over your cheek before he casted his blanket over the both of you with the utmost care. “I’ll clean the blanket tomorrow, so don’t worry about it. Now, get some sleep. After the troublemakers roping me into their schemes and you nearly giving me a heart attack, I really need some rest. We’ll go to Natasha’s Clinic tomorrow.”

“Yeah… good night.” 

“Good night, love.” 

[gacha-alex]

Sheen is an Mortal Kombat fan but Fatigue is An Street Fighter Fan, Who's Tekken Fan? 🤔

[starofthesea7]

König~ it means ‘darling’

(König fingers you in the kitchen.)

Baby hairs stuck to the sweat of the back of your neck as you padded down the stairs to the communal kitchenette on floor 3. A heatwave had swept through the desert valley, expanse of sand still warm from the blazing sun, long since set. You’d woken up with a parched throat, in search of a glass of water.

As you neared the kitchen, flickering phosphorescence of the 80’s refrigerator down the hallway revealed another sleepless soldier must be awake. You peered inside, with half a mind to turn around, depending on who you might discover; you were now painfully aware of your thin cotton tank top and threadbare sleep shorts that must be at least a decade old, and how a soldier may mistakenly perceive your attire as some sort of colourful welcome sign.

Your gaze fell upon König inspecting the contents of the fridge, and you immediately felt your muscles relax, knowing he would blush at a mere glimpse of your clothed chest, let alone bother you for it. It was known that the colossal man was always snacking, as the energy needed to sustain such a large body, as well as its profuse activity, was immense. Now he was basking in the cool air of the refrigerator, bent over to peer in, his arm draped over the door. The fluorescent glow illuminated the contours of his bare chest abdomen, and you found your eyes lingering.

You’d never seen him shirtless before, and fuck, he was attractive. A greek marble statue carved by an expert hand. Lean rippling muscle, a pale, broad expanse of solid back, formed naturally by constant use and necessity. A well oiled machine, complete with a sheen of sweat glazing his heated skin. Your gaze trailed down, to a thick waist, soft indents of relaxed abs, and muscled hips which disappeared below the waistband of his pyjama pants.

You’d had a crush on the Austrian soldier for a while now, but fate had never placed the two of you in a room together, or close enough for you to make true conversation with the introvert. He was friendly enough, but you’d never gotten past simple gentile greeting. His soft presence, however, always brought comfort with it. So large, yet unimposing, as if nothing could harm you with him there.

You breathed in, and took a step forward. Bare feet sticking to cool linoleum. He turned at the movement eyes darting, then relaxing when he saw you smiling at him. You now realized he wasn’t wearing his mask. Somehow, it felt natural, here, under the cover of night. The lightsource behind him left much to your imagination as he turned toward you, however you were bathed in light. He could see your face, flushed with heat, cheeks shining with perspiration.

“König,” Your voice was soft as you greeted him, “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He shook his head, his voice was deep and raspy with fatigue, and it nudged a quickened heart beat in your chest. “‘S too hot.”

“I know. That fridge feels nice.” You brushed passed him, barely grazing his hip with yours, it left a fuzzy tingle in it’s wake. He seemed decidedly too large for the tiny kitchen, like a lion in a cage. Unnatural.

You turned, filling a glass with water, and found yourself wondering if he was watching you, studying the curves of your body the way you just had his. Perhaps he was noticing the way your shorts were a size or two too small, riding up the split of your ass. Perhaps he felt this pull towards you, as you did towards him. Pole to pole. You glanced over your shoulder to see him fully engrossed in comparing the nutrient facts of two different fruit cups. You felt yourself flush, and downed your glass of water, cool water soothing your heated body. Slightly.

You filled it again, before turning to him, taking a another sip from your cup. “Water?”

He turned slightly, looking down at you, “Sure, thank you.”

Before you could think twice, you were handing him your own glass. His eyes flickered from the glass, down to you, and back to the glass. Before you could reiterate, correct yourself, grab him a new, clean one from the cupboard, he took it, a large pale hand swallowing it whole. It was littered with a collection of veins and small scars. You couldn’t help but imagine how it might look compared to your own. Holding yours. Perhaps on your thigh. Your windpipe…

As he raised it to his lips, his eyes held yours vehemently, the sight of his lips where yours had been moments ago made your head cloud slightly. You gazed up at him, ardent through your lashes, studying what you could see of his face.

Although bare before you, in face and body, his true form still escaped you. An enigma. You could make out broad, muscled shoulders, a pale, broad column of neck with a white, healed scar gracing one side. You wanted to graze it with your teeth. A glint of canines and a jaw, sharp, with a whisper of stubble. His nose was large and slightly crooked, in endearing way, as if it had been broken when he was a child. Flicker of an eye, green, which you knew all too well, as they were usually your only point of reference for his expression. His hair was light, tousled from bed, and looked in need of a trim, shorter pieces curling across his forehead and around his neck, damp with sweat. He was younger than you’d imagined. And, admittedly, more attractive.

He leaned into you, and your pulse quickened, before realizing he was only placing the glass on the counter beside you. “Danke.” You nodded up at him, words escaping you in the moment, his close proximity having an embarrassing effect on you. He was hard to read; you supposed that was part of his job. His true motives indecipherable, though laced throughout his subtle movements. Did he want to reach out? Touch you?

You were pulled from your thoughts, “Would you, uh, would you like a fruit cup?” His voice was hesitant, you could tell he felt as though he should offer you something in exchange for the drink. It was cute.

You smiled at him, and pulled yourself up onto the counter, feeling it cold against your skin. A reminder you weren’t wearing anything under your threadbare shorts. “Sure. Mango please.”

As he moved, chilled air swept across your body, goosebumps rose and you saw his eyes flick to your chest, the movement undetectable had you not been studying him. Your heartbeat quickened—your nipples must have been poking through your thin tank. He tore his eyes away quickly.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the fridge, as it illuminated his face you noticed a large scar running from his cheekbone down to his jaw, as well as a split lip. How strange, only hours ago he had been on the field. Ferocious. Violent. Yet here he was, presenting you with a fruit cup. He selected the one labeled mango, and you realized it was the one he had set aside to have himself, and the last mango. You watched as he attempted to open it for you, collossal fingers struggling to grasp the small tab.

You held back a grin. “Here, I can do it.” You opened it easily. Not wanting to dirty a spoon, you began to eat it with your fingers. You felt his eyes on you as you slipped the fruit into your mouth.

Now he was struggling to open his own, bent over to focus. You chuckled, “Let me help. ‘S difficult with your big hands, huh.”

Hair fell across his forehead as he raised his head to look at you, cheeks flushing at your remark, and it dawned on you that perhaps he was insecure about his size. The thought was almost funny to you —If only you could tell him it was one of his best qualities. Hell, it made you want him. Badly.

“Yeah, danke, liebling.” You opened it with no trouble, before handing it back to him. He stood in front of you, a foot of space between your thighs and his, thick with tension. You wanted him closer, the space feeling like both a mile and a hair’s width. Both of you were illuminated softly in the darkness, quietly eating packaged tropical fruit.

Your voice surprised you, breaking the comfortable silence, “What does that mean?”

“Hm?” The deep sound made your throat dry.

“Liebling.” You cringed at your poor imitation.

“Oh, uh..” he was blushing, avoiding eye contact. Your pulse quickened slightly with anticipation. What had he called you? His voice quieted with embarrassment, “It means ‘darling’.”

Your heart swelled at his words. Darling. König had called you darling. You leaned back against the cabinet, shoulder blades pressing into plywood, legs parting slightly. You saw his eyes waver from his snack to your thighs. Splayed out before him. Tilting your head up at him, your lips stretched into a smile and you blurted, “You’re cute.”

He flushed at your words, eyebrows raised slightly. “Really? No one calls me that.” His fingers toyed with the plastic in his hands.

You finished your fruit, and licked your fingers clean, eyes on his. “I think you’re very cute.” His vehement eye contact as you sucked your finger made you dizzy. It felt intimate, even a little dirty- cliche. A low budget porno.

Something urged you to keep going. Push further. Whether it was the heat, the late hour or clenching of your cunt you couldn’t be sure, but you wanted more. You wanted to touch him. “Can I try?” You nodded towards the last piece of fruit in his fingers. Your pulse hammered. He looked at his hand, and back at you, as you dared him to give it to you, feed it to you. Your palms were glued to the counter, making no move to do it yourself.

He swallowed hoarsely. You suddenly realized he was shy. Although he was an intimidating presence -colossal in comparison- you made him nervous. Your muscles tensed in anticipation, your jaw opened for him. “Yeah,” His voice was soft and raspy. He leaned forward, lips parted slightly, mirroring yours. Your abdomen tightened as he grabbed the counter in between your legs, as if to stabilize himself, still not courageous enough to grab you. You gazed up at him, wanton through damp lashes as his fingers entered your mouth, so gently. Afraid to be too rough, afraid to hurt you. Used to being a bull in a china shop-but you could take him. God you could take him.

His lids were heavy, pupils blown as he stared at your lips. You felt his breath hitch as your lips wrapped around his fingers, sucking gently. Sweet, rough, calloused. Hot and large. You felt high with fervour, something in you wanted to take him deeper, show him you could do it. But you held back, pulling away with a quiet pop. Lips wet with juice and spit.

He raised his fingers, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek gentle with veneration, before they found the back of your head, skimming, then intertwining, tugging. Need overtook his timid respect. Your scalp prickled as he gripped the back of your head pulling you towards him. Into him. Your lips parted as you looked up at his face, back arching as he tugged you into him, searing cunt pressing molten against the cold plastic countertop. He was looking down at you with furrowed brows, need etched into every feature. Hot breath fanned your cheeks.

“Bitte.” Please. “Don’t tease me.” A fervent murmur that made your stomach flop. He pulled you into him, dwarfing you, lips searing against yours, his mouth opening immediately, inviting you in, pleading for more. More of you. He tasted of peaches and blood as his lip re-split with his mindless movements. Sweet ambrosia collocating with metallic copper. Oxymoron of gentle and harsh. Sweet and bitter.

He was scorching in your arms, musk and sweat. Deep and heady. Months of built up need unwinding, finally. Hot lust satiated, slightly. His grip was white knuckled on the counter between your plush thighs. It’s proximity taunting you, reminding you how badly you needed him there. How your fingers hadn’t been enough for the past months, how you were too small. But he could do it. God he could. He could fill you up- stretch you out. You couldn’t help gripping his wrist, inching your way towards him, squirming, letting out a warbled whimper as your wet cunt dragged against the counter. He groaned into your open mouth, fingertips tightening in your hair when he found your puffy cunt bare for him, clenching, wet and waiting for him.

You jolted as rough fingers brushed your clit, letting out a quiet, pathetic whine. “Quiet, leibling.” His calloused thumbs rubbed circles around the sensitive spot, making you squirm. He groaned as his fingers glided slowly down your sopping slit. His head swam- all for him? This was all for him? He could hardly wrap his mind around the thought. He’d touched himself at night, shamefully, thinking about you-about this puffy little cunt just a few doors down. And here you were, spread and ready for him, wanting to take him. His cock flushed beneath his waistband, heavy and hot. Needy.

You cried out softly as he split you open on his finger, and he pulled you into his shoulder, your mouth agape at the feeling of being stuffed with him. His middle finger twice the size of your own, you squirmed as he sank, knuckle deep. He pushed another inside of you, and you spasmed around him, overwhelmed at the euphoric feeling of being stretched so easily. Gummy walls pulled him in deeper. Sweat prickled his forehead as he held back his need to feel you squeezing his pulsing cock, the want to spread you open, fill you up- see how far you could go. See if you really could take all he wanted to give. You let out an airy moan as he hit that spongey spot inside of you with his middle finger, thighs glued together in over stimulation, spine arching-

Suddenly, to your dismay, he pulled out, quickly stepping away from you. You blindly reached out for him as cold air hit you. Reeling with emptiness. Had you done something wrong? Then you heard it, a creak of stairs. Heavy footsteps.

He reached out and you jolted as he brushed your clit, tugging your threadbare shorts back over your gaping cunt. He leaned back against the counter, face composed as ever.

A figure emerged from the hallway. It was the Lieutenant. He was squinting in the darkness to make out your figures. Voice was rough against the silence, save for the buzzing refrigerator, “Ah, grabbing a snack too?” You could do nothing but stare at König, unable to believe he had been knuckle deep inside you just moments before.

König nodded, face relaxed, lids heavy. He raised his hand and your sopping cunt clenched as you saw him place his fingers to his mouth, to taste you. As the Lieutenant watched. Vulgar. Lecherous. Your spit, slick, and peach juice swirling together in his hot mouth.

You flushed down to your fucking thighs at his words: “Yes sir, just having a peach.”

[crguang]

lost virgins with broken wings that will regrow

You’re an ordinary person with a void in your chest. Black Swan means to fill it.

smut, afab!reader, virgin!reader, sorta stalker!black swan (im just going with canon here…) so mention of voyeurism, oral sex on both parts, fingering, overstimulation, switch!r and swan, 9.3k words and 6k of it is just smut……………

A/N: um…… i just think she’s neat.

black swan: they are such a loser, weirdo, freak, social outcast i have GOT to fuck them

It’s under low, pulsing lights and seated between intoxicated bodies, sensual music in your ears and a half-empty drink in hand, that you feel the most alone. The irony burns your throat not unlike the alcohol you’re sluggishly sipping every five minutes as you take in the sea of strangers on the dance floor of the club rhythmically moving with the beat on the speakers.

Beside you at the bar, a couple converses lowly to themselves, staring into each other’s eyes and laughing quietly like there doesn’t exist a world beyond their intimacy. To your right, friends argue over who will be the designated driver tonight and draw from actual straws provided by one of the bartenders. The unlucky one pouts and the rest cheer before enthusiastically ordering colorful cocktails from a pink haired bartender. The bass reverberates through you, inciting you to join the sweaty bodies losing themselves in the music, but the throb of your head is louder. You feel fatigue at the corner of your eyes while you swirl the clear liquid in your glass and watch its hypnotizing movement, briefly lost in it. You tune out the drunk laughter and shameless flirting happening around you and feel the familiar sensation of your heart constricting in your chest. No one is interested in your sulking, people come and go in the seats beside you, oblivious to your inner struggle. When the feeling spreads to your lungs, forcing you to breathe in the smell of alcohol and sweat, you turn on the stool to search for your friend in the crowd. You catch a glimpse of her red hair as she sways against a tall woman with dark coily hair; she seems to be having fun, occasionally giggling when the woman bends to whisper in her ear, so you sigh and rest an arm on the bar. It was an unspoken rule that if you went clubbing together, you would either leave together or make sure the other would be sober enough to walk out the door with a stranger. You’ll give her another half hour, maybe, before ruining her night by telling her you want to go home.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” a smooth, sultry voice sounds near you.

You smell her before you see her; strong traces of resins and dried fruit, like incense sticks burning through the air, easily overwhelm the different odors assaulting your nose from the variety of people around. The pleasant fragrance makes you pivot in your seat. A woman sits on the stool to your left and drums her gloved fingers on the counter thoughtfully, keen gaze already on you and a small, easy smile on her lips. They look bare in the low lighting, though you can discern a soft sheen on them that suggests she must have applied lipgloss not too long ago. Her thick, pale hair frames her cheeks and disappears down her back in two wavy parts that would undoubtedly reach the back of her thighs were she to stand upright. The purple veil over her head matches the color of her dress— you think it’s a dress, maybe a tight strapless top?— and the sort of stained glass accessory between her collarbones that connects her top to the lacy piece around her neck. Your first thought is that she looks out of place amongst the flimsy, provocative clothing everyone is flaunting. Your second is that she’s gorgeous, the kind you can’t help but stare at like a fool. Which you are currently doing. Her head tilts in question and you blink, remembering the words she’s spoken to you a moment earlier.

You suddenly feel shy under her gaze as you try to come up with a reply.

“I’m not,” you say, mentally cringing at your lack of tact. Your honesty seems to amuse her though, sunset eyes glimmering with mirth.

“Not your kind of scene, I presume?” She has to lean closer for you to hear each other over the music and you meet her halfway.

You shrug dismissively, not wanting to admit that being surrounded by people only made you feel terribly lonely. It would ruin the conversation, you’re not that socially inept for you to know that. “Not really, no. The drinks are nice, though.”

You can barely hear her hum as she replies, “And yet, here you are. What makes you suffer through such an unpleasant experience?”

You find her way of speaking a little odd. Evidently, she’s not from around here. You turn around to face the dance floor and her eyes follow the direction you point your chin towards.

“I’m here with her,” you gesture to the redhead cheekily grinding against the same woman from before. The sight is a little funny, despite your mood you’re glad that she’s enjoying herself.

“I see. A friend of yours?”

You nod and steal a glance at the woman beside you. Her posture is impeccably straight, chin resting in the palm of her hand while she leans an elbow on the counter, and she looks at you with a sense of familiarity that you can’t reciprocate. You’ve never met her before, you would have remembered. You’re not the type to be embarrassed by every little thing but her attentive stare makes you feel exposed, as if you’re standing in front of her with your flesh turned inside out and she could see the gross parts of you usually hidden from sight. You want to evade her gaze, if only to compose yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to. She pulls you in effortlessly with only a look and you lean towards her when she speaks up again.

“I realize I haven’t asked for your name.”

You tell her your name, having to speak a little louder to be heard over the music. She repeats it, trying the feel of it on her tongue, then her eyelids lower in appreciation, a knowing smile on her face.

You ask for hers in return and she offers a gentle hand after answering you. “I am Black Swan.”

Black Swan. An odd name, like her odd behavior and turns of phrases. She stands out like a sore thumb and doesn’t seem to care enough to try to blend in. Her politeness is endearing, so you grasp her hand to shake it half-jokingly. Her fingertips linger on your skin when you slowly pull away.

“What about you? Are you here alone?” You don’t see anyone else acknowledging her presence around you. Black Swan confirms your suspicions with a nod. “Ah. A party girl, then.”

Her quiet laugh is beautiful, low and velvety. It makes you suppress a smile. The music blasting through the speakers is now much more energetic and worsens your headache.

“What makes you say that?”

You shrug. “You don’t seem from here but you also look totally at ease. I thought maybe you were either the sort to adapt quickly or to love this kind of scene.”

Black Swan hums, a forefinger tracing shapes on the surface of the bar. “I suppose that assumption is not entirely incorrect. I am not a local, no.”

“Where are you from?”

“That is… a complicated question to answer.”

You raise a curious eyebrow and she pushes some hair out of her face with a hand before leaning into you, closer to your ear. You pause as her soothing scent fills your nose and you feel her breath on your cheek, words meant only for you.

“Let’s talk somewhere quieter, if you wish. We can continue our conversation without having to yell to be heard.”

You consider her offer, hesitant. Your stomach tightens at her proximity and you would be lying if you said you didn’t want to keep talking to her. Her subtle charms lure you in and lower your defenses, and that is both refreshing and concerning. Black Swan feels like the kind of person you only meet once, you want to make the most of it. Not to mention that it would be stupid to deny how attractive she is. You look back at your friend in the middle of the dance floor, suddenly envious of how easy it is for her to be comfortable among the crowd. She hasn’t spared you a glance since she was approached by her dancing partner and while that doesn’t really bother you, part of you wants to prove that you’re also able to make immediate connections with strangers, that you’re not an antisocial freak who only keeps to themself.

“Okay,” you accept and look away at the pleased glint that shines in Black Swan’s eyes. “I have to warn my friend, it’ll take a second.”

You stand from the bar stool and clumsily make your way to the middle of the room, narrowly avoiding sweating limbs and their intoxicated owners. You hate the way anxiety buzzes uncomfortably in your guts as you’re closely surrounded by so many people. You make it to where your friend is, breathing heavier from the stress, and tap her shoulder to get her attention. She wears a grin as she sees you and jumps a couple times in excitement, grabbing your shoulders.

“You wanna dance?!”

“I’m leaving with someone,” you say loudly, pointing to the bar. Her eyes squint, looking in the same direction. She stands on her tiptoes to see over the heads of some clubgoers but doesn’t seem to find who you’re referring to. “Are you gonna be okay?”

She looks back at you and smiles with a quick nod. You don’t think she’s drunk, maybe just a little tipsy, because her eyes are clear and she hasn’t pulled you into an intricate dance only she knows the steps to yet.

“Have fun! Don’t worry about me! Go get laid!”

You make a face, embarrassed by the idea. She only laughs loudly and turns back to the woman she’s been with all night. You make your way back to the bar as fast as you can, eager to be away from the crowd and deafening music. Black Swan waits for you near the end of the counter and gently takes your hand in hers when you get close enough. Her gloved fingers delicately curl around your hand, an unexpectedly comforting sensation. She expertly navigates through the sea of bodies, tugging you along with a firm hand until you’re both out of the club and standing under the moonlight.

From outside, the music has dulled to a faint pulsing and you feel like you can finally breathe properly. You briefly close your eyes to take in a slow breath, inhaling the crisp summer breeze and exhaling softly through your nose. Black Swan is still holding your hand as you do, she turns to face you and observes the way your shoulders relax a little more with each calming breath. Your eyes blink open. You feel a bit sheepish under her stare but her small smile assures you that she doesn’t think any ill of you. Your hand slips from her gasp so you can wring them together.

“Do you want to walk as we talk? My place isn’t too far from here,” you realize how that sounds and falter, glancing away. “Not that we have to go.”

“I would enjoy that. Lead the way.”

You scratch your temple awkwardly. There’s a silent pause as you start to walk through the empty streets and closed businesses, almost close enough that your fingers brush with every step. You take your time, your pace measured to bask in the night air and the way the light winds blow Black Swan’s perfume towards your face. The quiet is a reprieve for your throbbing skull, you feel your headache shift to a dull pulse with every passing minute. You look up at the round moon in the sky, then remember your question from earlier, the one she had trouble answering. You start to cross a wooden bridge over a wide canal and clear your throat.

“You didn’t tell me where you were from, earlier,” you say, slowing down slightly to look at the moonlight reflecting off the still water.

“Ah, that’s right.” Black Swan trails her fingers over the railing before coming to a halt. She follows your gaze on the water and leans her forearms on the railing, seemingly lost in thought. You turn the other way, your back against the wooden bars, waiting for her to sift through her thoughts. Finally, her head turns to look at you and she asks, “Are you familiar with Memokeepers?”

You take a second to remember where you’ve heard that word before. “Memokeepers… from the Garden of Recollection, right? Beings who preserve humanity’s memories for the Remembrance.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t add anything else, only rests her cheek in the palm of her hand and gazes at you like she’s able to see past all your barriers and it only fuels her interest in you.

“…Are you saying you’re…?

“I am.”

“Oh,” you ponder the admission for a short moment. That explains why she stands out from the crowd. You think you remember that Memokeepers choose who to be seen by; you must have looked like a crazy person if no one else could see her at the bar. “I don’t think I have any memories worth preserving to attract the attention of a Memokeeper.”

“Mmm… We seek to protect humanity against the irreversibility of time. I, for one, believe there is nothing more human than loneliness, wouldn’t you agree?”

The smile that stretches her lips is a soft one, far gentler than you think you deserve. You look away from her to observe the discoloration of the wood beneath your feet. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised she knows about that considering what she is, but you feel slightly irked at the idea of somebody intruding on your mind without your knowledge or consent. Your thoughts and experiences are yours to keep, no matter what any Aeon may believe.

“I don’t appreciate you looking inside my head.”

Black Swan shakes her head. “I haven’t. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You’re just that astute, huh?”

“Or you don’t hide it as well as you think you do.”

You hum. You can feel the warmth of her stare against your face and when you meet her eyes, you feel small. It’s hard to imagine all the things she has witnessed and lived through, you are nothing compared to her time among mortals. You don’t understand why she’s here with you, who is painfully ordinary and inexperienced in most matters of life.

“I still don’t think I have anything unique to offer to the Remembrance. You’re wasting your time.”

“Collecting every aspect of life includes the mundane, not every memory worth preserving is extraordinary. Besides, I don’t believe you to be ordinary.”

“That’s a bold, but misguided, assumption.”

Black Swan chuckles lowly, straightening up to face you better. She stands slightly shorter than you, even with her heeled boots. A step brings her closer to your body, a hand loosely holding onto the railing.

“I have plenty of those,” she drawls, a little quieter, “and I don’t need to look into your memories to know that they are true.”

“You got all of this from one conversation? I doubt it.”

“Then let me presume something else.”

Your breath hitches as her fingers delicately cup your jaw like it could break under her touch. You’re unable to tear your gaze from hers and you want to shrink faced with the bright sunset colors of her eyes, there’s a knowing sheen in their depths that makes you feel vulnerable in a way you refuse to be with anyone. Her thumb moves across your skin, the gesture almost tender.

“There is an ache in you,” she says, eyelids lowering to watch the movement of her thumb near the corner of your mouth, “a profound desire that creates an immeasurable crater inside of you. You feel that this void makes you fundamentally different from your peers, so you hide behind tall walls and attempt to ignore the cries of your heart.”

Your lips part but the words get stuck in your throat. Black Swan’s smile is without malice and you feel emotion swirl in your gut, tightening the muscles and quickening your breath. A chill passes through you, raising the hair on your arms, and you don’t know if it’s from the temperature or her hold on your jaw. The smooth fabric of her glove rubs against your skin in soothing motions, the smell of incense fills your nose from her proximity, you feel bare in front of her, exposed to her judgment— it’s all too much. You take several steps back to catch your breath and she lets you go somewhat reluctantly, observing your struggle as another breath of wind makes you shiver. The temperature has dropped since you left the nightclub; though you know nights can get chilly, you thought you would be going home in your friend’s car, the same way you got there, and wouldn’t need to bring a jacket.

You rub your arms, hesitantly glancing at Black Swan. “What do you want from me?”

“Let’s get you home, shall we?” She kindly replies instead, extending a hand. “You’re freezing.”

You look at her outstretched palm with slight suspicion. She hasn’t done anything to make you believe that she’s ill-intentioned, quite the opposite, but you’re used to being careful around others. Still, she isn’t wrong. There is a gaping hole in the middle of you and it makes you incapable of letting anyone past the walls you’ve built for yourself, afraid that it would consume whoever ventured too close. You long for something you can’t bear to think about anymore, but Black Swan is… different. Somehow, she sees you for everything you are, and while that thought is uncomfortable at first, it soon develops into something deeper, desperate. You don’t know how it feels to be known. Black Swan materializes behind your defenses and gazes at you with genuine interest. Against your own practiced sense of self-preservation, you let her.

Her hand is warm as you lead the rest of the way to your apartment. A shiver runs through you occasionally and her free hand trails up your arm after each one to warm you. You try to ignore the pulsing of your heartbeat in your ears and the yearning in your gut growing with every casual touch on your skin. You don’t speak much while you walk. It doesn’t take too long to reach your apartment, maybe around twenty minutes or so. You fiddle with the keys when you stand on the doorstep of the building. The door opens with a soft click and you keep it ajar with one hand, turning to face Black Swan.

“Do you want to…”

“Yes.”

She enters the building after you, following you up the stairs to the first floor where you live. Her presence makes you a little anxious since not many people have been inside your living space and you thank the Aeons that you’re a fairly clean person before opening the door and stepping inside. There’s a gust of wind as you walk in and you realize you must have left a window open because the place is colder than usual. You discard your shoes near the entrance to slip into indoor slides, toss your keys into the bowl on the small table and scratch your temple, wondering what you’re meant to do next. You don’t play host often, so for a moment you simply stand in your living room as Black Swan looks around, trailing her fingers on framed pictures and leather chairs. You suddenly feel self-conscious about your taste in interior design but she only looks at you with a smile once she’s seen everything she needs to see.

“Uh, do you want something to drink?” You ask awkwardly, gesturing towards the kitchen. “I have wine.”

Black Swan shakes her head. “I don’t feel thirst— not that kind anyway. You’re sweet to offer.”

You don’t ask her what she means by that, thinking it might be Memokeeper related.

“You should change into something more comfortable,” she adds. “I can see you shuddering.”

It’s not a bad idea. You nod, adjusting the room’s thermostat to a higher temperature and feeling her eyes on you all the while before disappearing into a hallway. Your bedroom is warmer than the rest of the apartment. You let out a breath as you rummage through your drawers for casual clothes, hesitating between sweat shorts and sweatpants. You’re already warming up a little, so you pick the former. You change into a t-shirt and step in front of the mirror to check that you don’t look as tired as you feel. You rub the fatigue out of your eyes then pinch your skin to make you seem more awake. You fiddle with your hair a little until it looks good enough. Thinking of Black Swan in your living room causes your stomach to flutter uncharacteristically. It’s a different kind of nervousness from the one you’re familiar with, anticipation lingers in your belly and you don’t even know what it’s for.

There’s a soft knock at your door that has you pivoting towards the sound in surprise.

“Come in.”

The hinges creak as it opens and Black Swan slips her head through the opening, eyes briefly running down your figure.

“Is everything alright?” You ask.

“Of course. I wanted to check in on you.”

“Oh.”

Her attention catches you off guard still. She walks further into the room, taking note of the various tapestries and images on your bedroom walls, and you sit on the bed as you watch her. Her hands trail on the desk of your vanity, on your low dresser’s wooden surface, around the bottles of perfume you keep on it. She seems entirely at ease in your room like it was her own, her composure not faltering for a moment. Her eyes stop on a polaroid of you and the same redhead you went out with tonight that is stuck to the full length mirror on the door of your closet. She observes it for a while, a finger tracing the picture’s edges.

“When was this?” She addresses you without turning around, immersed in the sight of you doubled over with laughter while your friend stands to the side with icing all over her face, a pout on her lips. A fingertip touches your frozen form. You think maybe she can sense the emotions through the captured memory.

“About two years ago, when we were still rooming together. We used to prank each other when the other least expected it.”

“You seem… lighter, less burdened than you are now.”

She’s right, once again. It feels as though there’s nothing you can keep hidden from her, like she’s already learned you from the inside. She said she hasn’t been inside your mind but you’re not sure if you’re inclined to believe her words. How else can she accurately perceive who you are? Something takes over the uneasiness you would normally feel at being so acutely exposed to another’s gaze, something you recognize and have desperately been trying to ignore for years. The profound yearning for closeness; for fingertips in your hair, for low confessions into the night, for a synergy that can only exist between two beings completely attuned to each other— it swallows you whole and leaves you writhing in its belly. Your fingers sink into the sheets as they curl to grab a fistful of them. You look away from Black Swan to stare at a point on the other side of the room, willing your treacherous heart to be steady.

You don’t notice Black Swan watching you until she steps into your peripheral vision. She walks around your bed, heels muted on the carpet, and takes a seat beside you. Her fingertips brush your fist as her head tilts, sunset eyes dimmed. You just now realize that she doesn’t have any pupils.

“Poor thing,” her voice lowers to a sultry tone, a hand tenderly resting on your cheek, “you’re scared, aren’t you? These emotions inside of you, itching to leave the confines of your heart…” She watches your lips part when you exhale softly through your mouth. Her fingertips trace your jawline before tilting your chin up. “I can sate this hunger, if you wish.”

You swallow, staring into her appreciative gaze. “Why?”

“Why?” She repeats almost to herself. Her thumb slides up your chin to your bottom lip and follows its curve. “I’m afraid that eludes me. There is something unattainable about you, a part of you that is locked away, perhaps. I feel… inexplicably drawn to it.”

Black Swan slowly leans closer as if gaging your reaction and giving you time to react should you want to push her away. You can almost feel her breath on your lips, then she pauses to look up into your eyes, searching for an answer to an unspoken question. She seems to find what she’s looking for and when you think she’s going to kiss you, a persistent fluttering in your lower belly, her head dips to the side and her lips press against the skin of your neck. You tense as her fingers brush your curled ones on the bed, moving over your knuckles to your wrist, then up your forearm in a deliberately gentle touch. You feel her open mouth trail down your neck. Her hand leaves your face to settle on your bare knee. You let out a shuddering breath, frozen in place.

“Your pulse is racing,” she murmurs into your skin, pressing a firm kiss to your pulse point, “I can feel it.”

“What… are you doing?”

“Enjoying you.”

The hand on your knee slides higher, fingertips brushing the fabric of your shorts on your thigh. The other coaxes your muscles to relax with soft touches up and down your arm. You feel overwhelmed by her closeness and you’re unable to do anything but breathe out at the sensation of her slow kisses up your neck and to your jaw. A shiver runs down your spine and she hums in delight. The tip of her tongue tentatively darts out to lick a stripe up your jawline to your ear, causing you to inhale sharply through your mouth and drawing an amused chuckle out of her.

Black Swan pulls away slightly to take in your facial features as her hands sneak under your shirt to hold onto your waist, squeezing once. Your lashes flutter with every blink, the rise and fall of your chest quickening under her seductive touch.

“How adorable,” she mutters with a lustful sunrise in her eyes. Her hands travel over the expanse of your stomach, one of them separating from the other to trail up your back. She rubs the skin over your ribs. “I’ve barely touched you and here you are… so breathless for me.”

A meek sound escapes you at her forwardness and an appreciative gleam brightens her gaze. With her insisting hands on you and her scent all around, you feel entirely at her mercy. When she leans closer for her teeth to graze your neck, your head tilts to allow her better access. Her thumbs rub circles on your waist, enjoying its pliable curves. Your hand sinks into her long hair, messily tangling around the soft locks, and you bite your bottom lip at the low hum that follows. Black Swan finds a sensitive spot on your neck, sucks on the tender skin and your fingers grip her hair tighter at the pleasant sensation of her mouth on you. You relax against her like butter left in the sun. You can’t help the sharp exhales that leave you and with each one, her fingers dig into your sides almost possessively.

Her tongue swipes over the bruising spot at the base of your neck, soothing the dull pain caused by her teeth and earning a quiet, breathy noise from you. Black Swan smiles into your skin.

“So responsive, aren’t you?” Her voice is a sultry purr. Her touches grow bolder, lifting your shirt to pull it above your head in one smooth motion. She discards it somewhere on the bed and leans to gently bite down on your shoulder.

“Oh!”

Her palms roam over your torso, nails brushing the band of your bra. You fleetingly wish she would take off her long gloves so that you could feel her without any barriers and she seems to be thinking the same; a moment later she takes her hands from you to pull the garment off her forearms. You don’t see where they end up, nor do you care, because the feeling of her soft, unscarred palms sliding over the plane of your stomach steals your breath away. They reach your chest, squeezing your breasts over your bra as her wet kisses travel to your collarbones. Her fingertips slip under your bra, grazing your hardening nipples, and something resembling a quiet whimper escapes you.

“I wonder… How long has it been since you’ve been touched like this, mm?”

“I’ve never…”

Her lips pause near your throat. You feel her breath on your skin with every exhale.

“Is that right?”

You nod hesitantly, apprehending her response.

Black Swan pulls her mouth away from you, fingers expertly unclasping your bra to get it out of the way, and firmly pushes you further into the bed. Her gaze is hungry as she straddles your thighs and looms over you, a palm over your breast.

“No one has ever held you so close… had their hands on you like this?…”

“No.”

A possessive glint flashes in her eyes. She squeezes the flesh of your breast, the friction of your nipple brushing deliciously against her palm has you gasping out at the same time Black Swan eagerly claims your mouth. Her tongue pushes past your lips to swirl around yours and she readily swallows the soft moan you let out. You hold onto her hips while she presses breathy kiss after breathy kiss on your lips. You feel a mix of her saliva and yours at the corner of your mouth and her tongue licks it off before meeting your own once more, leaving you breathless. Two fingers pinch your erect nipple, coaxing more needy sounds from you and a low, appreciative moan on her part.

Her thumbs roll your nipples in tight circles, occasionally twisting this way and that to draw a whimper out of you, and she reluctantly separates from your lips to allow you to catch your breath. Her own chest heaves as she looks down at you, at your bruised lips and hard nipples under the pads of her fingers, arousal pooling in her belly. She is the only one privy to the sharp gasps you make, to your soft moans and quiet whimpers. Black Swan fills the void inside of you with her lustful and unrelenting touches, claiming you with her hot mouth and nimble hands. She leaves an imprint on your body with every kiss to your skin, every graze of her teeth or nails across your chest. You feel your arousal ruin your underwear, clit aching to be touched. You bring Black Swan’s mouth to yours with a hand around her neck, lips locking in desperate, messy kisses. Her hums of pleasure only turn you on more and you have to squeeze your thighs together to try and relieve the pressure between your legs.

A thin string of saliva connects your lips as she pulls away to press the flat of her tongue over your nipple. The tip teases your sensitive bud before she takes it into her mouth and sucks, hard and fast. She fondles the other breast, twisting your nipple between two warm fingers, and you can’t help a choked moan at the feeling. Pleasure courses through you in short, intense jolts down your spine, and your cunt throbs in your panties, begging for her attention.

“B-Black Swan,” you breathe out, biting your lip when she hums in satisfaction around your nipple. Her teeth graze the bud teasingly but she doesn’t bite, instead she opts for long suckles and the occasional flicks of her tongue. “Please…”

Her mouth leaves your chest and stretches into a smug smile, desire apparent in the way she gazes at the faint marks she’s left on your skin.

“What are you pleading for, darling?”

You forego timidity to focus on the burning need in your belly. Your fingers curl around her wrist and guide her hand down your stomach, over the band of your shorts. Her eyes narrow though the smile doesn’t leave her face as she lets you slip her fingers into your shorts. Her middle finger sinks between your outer lips over your panties and feels your slick through the thin fabric. You hold onto her wrist to keep her hand over your covered sex, sighing in relief.

“How rude of me,” she says lightly, finger running up and down your slit, “to neglect you like this. I was caught up in my own desire, it seems.”

Black Swan settles between your thighs. Her lips leisurely trail wet kisses down the curve of your stomach and her pussy flutters in response to the whimper that comes out of your mouth. She’s so wet already and all she’s done is kiss you. Her gaze is intense as she looks up at your brows furrowed in anticipation of her tongue on your cunt. How stunningly helpless you look under her ministrations. So sensitive, so responsive… she wants to ruin you, devour you until your thighs tremble pressed to her ears and your throat is sore from crying out her name. It sounds beautiful in your voice, even more so with unashamed desire lacing your words.

Black Swan discards your shorts without ceremony, tossing them on the floor next to the bed. Her tongue swipes over her lips at the sight of your wet panties. Her fingertips trace the edge of the material, hooking under it to watch the sticky string that connects it to your cunt as she pulls it away from you. Part of her wants to take her time ravishing you, she’s waiting this long, after all, but she also desperately wants to indulge her desires. How can she resist when you’re panting under her this way, a hand around your own breast and gazing down at her figure between your thighs?

Her hands fondle the flesh of your inner thighs, lost in the sight of your glistening cunt. Arousal slides down your pussy in slow drops, the tip of your pretty, aching clit poking out from between your lips. She almost wants to curse.

“You have no idea how long I’ve craved to have you bare before me like this,” she purrs, two fingers spreading your lips to fully appreciate your cunt, “how much I’ve wanted you.”

You exhale shakily, brows twisting for a second. “We just met…”

“Officially, perhaps.” Black Swan presses a kiss on your wet folds, tongue licking a stripe up your slit and collecting your slick. You moan, eyes squeezing shut. The taste of you makes her greedy and she has to contain herself not to lick you silly. “I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while…”

Your brain barely registers the words. Your thighs threaten to close in around her head with every flick of her tongue against your needy cunt. You pinch a nipple between your fingers as Black Swan places wet, open-mouthed kisses on your pussy and you almost forget to reply to her statement.

“What— What do you mean?” You ask breathily, hips jerking forward further into her mouth.

She laughs softly at your confused tone. Her fingers keep your lips spread wide to allow the flat of her tongue to collect more of your arousal. She feels your thighs on her ears and makes no move to stop you from squeezing them together.

“What do you think? Memokeepers are rarely eager to show themselves, and this pull I feel towards you… I had to understand it.”

You don’t know what to say. She’s admitting to stalking you while in between your thighs, tongue greedily swirling around your slick folds. She feels so good that you can’t focus on anything but the way she spreads her saliva on your pussy and swallows your arousal. You vaguely recall that this is the thirst she meant earlier, this bottomless need for more of your taste coating her lips and chin as the tip of her nose bumps against your throbbing clit.

You have trouble forming full sentences in your mind when she sucks your folds into her mouth and you don’t even care about the invasion of your privacy.

“You…” A finger teases your entrance and you whine, momentarily forgetting what you meant to say. “You’ve been following me.”

“Mmm…” Black Swan tentatively pushes the tip of her index finger into your cunt and swallows a moan as it effortlessly sinks inside you. “I needed to know who you were, what makes you tick, your unspoken desires. And after observing you for so long, committing your every heavy sigh to my memory, I could not resist meeting you myself— to touch you with my own hands and hear my name fall from your lips the way curses escape you on the brink of pleasure.”

You bring a hand to your mouth to muffle a moan, the tip of her finger brushing against a sensitive spot inside you. Her pace is steady, careful not to overwhelm you too fast or too soon, and it takes you two full minutes to understand what she’s implying. She takes your clit between her lips and sucks, long and hard.

“F-Fuck,” you whine, hips jerking forward in need. You feel your orgasm build in your lower belly and grip a fistful of the sheets under you, grinding your pussy against Black Swan’s experienced tongue. “You’ve— You’ve watched me… watched me touch myself?”

A throaty chuckle leaves her like she’s amused by how hard you’re trying to follow her sentences. She pulls away from your puffy clit for only a moment, looking up at you with unbridled desire. She drinks in the quiver of your bottom lip and the creases around your eyes, your parted lips and your hand palming the flesh of your breast. You are as beautiful under her as she imagined you to be when she would take a look around your empty bedroom, piecing together the puzzle of you with the help of your possessions.

Black Swan quickens the thrusts inside you, feeling her own cunt clench inside her shorts at the sensation of your warm walls around her digit. “How could I not? The way you fall apart under your own hands… your quiet moans as you play with yourself, oh…”

She moans into your cunt and you feel yourself gush into her mouth at the thought of her gaze on you all this time, watching you pleasure yourself and having to restrain herself from touching you, quietly suffering while she ruins her underwear. You wish you could have seen her and you wonder if she squeezed her thighs together as you played with your clit or sucked in a breath as you thumbed your nipple. She’s usually so composed, to think that your bare body can bring her to the edge of her self-control makes you so wet you’re sure you’re ruining your sheets.

“I can be a very patient person. I’ve had to restrain myself all this time, to be content simply watching you.” Black Swan circles your clit with her thumb, applying pressure on the tip as her slender finger drills into you the same way you do it when you touch yourself. The pleasure is too much and has you moaning into your forearm, uselessly trying to contain the noise due to living in an apartment building. “And… I think I deserve a reward for my patience, don’t you agree, darling?”

There’s a tightness in your stomach begging to snap; the pad of her thumb presses against your clit and the jolts of pleasure that course from your cunt to the rest of your body is heavenly, you’ve never felt more desired than with Black Swan’s uneven breaths fanning over your pussy, tongue darting out to taste you in soft, sweet kitten licks. You can’t control the tremble in your thighs and the stutter of your chest, or the hand that tangles into her pale hair to pull her closer to where you ache for her. Broken, high moans fill the room along with the wet sounds of her digit inside of you and her lips around your clit. You can’t think of anything but the pleasure that suddenly crashes over you and makes you shiver. You come hard around her finger and on her tongue, thighs squeezing against her ears and fingers tightly gripping her hair, and Black Swan laps up your cum with a rumbling hum of satisfaction. She helps you ride your orgasm by slowly massaging your walls, but her mouth doesn’t leave your cunt even as your high subsides. She licks long stripes up your slit, teases the base of your sensitive clit, then attaches her lips to your gushing entrance.

“S-Swan…” you manage to utter, back arching.

Black Swan inhales sharply at the soft sigh of her name. Her hands fondle the flesh of your inner thighs and spread them wide, keeping them pinned to the mattress. Her colorful eyes have dulled, the shine of your cum on her lips alike the lipgloss she’d applied earlier tonight. Her gaze is hungry and smug at having you shake for her, at being the first to make you come, to hear the mewls spilling from your open mouth. The thin layer of sweat on your skin gives it an intoxicating glow and she can’t resist dragging two fingers between your folds to watch your slick envelop her digits.

“You are a vision,” she drawls, unhurriedly rubbing your sensitive cunt. “Beautiful and so, so responsive to my touch…”

The pad of her thumb presses against your twitching clit and your hips jerk as you whimper, helpless under her. Black Swan hums appreciatively and gives you some reprieve, hovering over you to plant a tender kiss to your jaw. Your fingers grip the back of her neck to pull her body closer and the friction of your hard nipples on the fabric of her clothes makes you exhale audibly. She uses sticky fingers to tilt your chin upwards. Your lips part almost instantly to welcome her hot, wet mouth. It’s a softer kiss than the urgent ones from before, her lips slowly slide against yours and you feel her breath in your mouth, her firm tongue swiping over your bottom lip. Your arm sneaks around her waist, pulling her body flush on yours, earning another long hum from her. Her weight on you is a delight as she leads the pace of your mouths and your heart constricts as if squeezed between loving fingers. This is intimacy, you realize; Black Swan’s thigh between your legs and her wet digits under your chin, her tongue past your lips and the warmth of her skin on yours. You feel breathless in an entirely new way.

The ache of your pussy dulls to a soft pulse, your hands run down her sides to squeeze her waist and you’re suddenly hungry for everything she has to offer. You rub circles into her pliable flesh, your touch growing insistent as you keep her pressed against you. Black Swan moans low into your mouth when your palms slide down her body to grasp her ass. Her breathing is a touch heavier against your lips and you prop up the thigh between her legs, drawing an exquisite gasp from her.

“Need you…” you mumble, fingers slipping under top to pull at the mesh of her bodysuit over her back. It slaps her skin when you let go and the needy sound that leaves her almost makes you moan. “Off.”

“Demanding…” Black Swan sits up, lavender hair cascading down her back, and grips the material of her purple top from the bottom to pull it over her head in one smooth movement.

Your pupils dilate considerably at the sight of the intricate lace of her bra. She leans forward to capture your mouth in an eager kiss. You run your hands up her stomach and fondle her heavy breasts between your palms, enjoying their plushness. Your fingers tug on the cup of her bra to free one of them and you whine in the middle of the kiss at the feel of her hard nipple under your thumb. Black Swan leans into your touch with a quiet sigh. You harshly twist her nipple for the surprised moan that escapes her. Pulling her tight bodysuit down her waist only takes a few seconds and your hands greedily take fistfuls of her breasts and squeeze once, then twice, as your mouth chases hers, her tongue wetting your lips in a sloppy, hurried kiss.

Black Swan helps you pull her clothes past her hips and takes the rest off herself, revealing the creamy skin of her plump thighs and the dark lace of her underwear. Slick clings to the fabric in a thick, sticky string when she slides it off her legs to discard it on the floor. Two of your fingers run down her cunt, grazing her engorged clit, and she lets out a breathy moan, resting her forearms on each side of your head to support her body. She’s incredibly wet, so ready for your touch between her folds. Her entrance gushes with another wave of arousal, breath heavy, as the tip of your index teases her hole. Her forehead rests on yours, the tip of your noses brushing. You nuzzle into her at the same moment you push a finger inside her throbbing pussy, tentatively thrusting into her to feel the warmth of her walls before slipping a second digit into her.

Black Swan squeezes her eyes shut with a needy moan against your lips and her cunt clenches tight around your fingers. The slight stretch of her pussy brings her considerable relief; it’s not long before her hips follow the pace of your thrusts inside her. Her breasts move with the rest of her body, baby pink nipples grazing your chest with every roll of her hips. Her breath is hot on your face and she stutters out soft gasps as you quicken your pace, drunk on the feeling of her cunt sucking in your fingers like she never wants to let you go.

“Yes—” she gasps against your mouth, “You feel so good…”

You plunge into her up to the knuckles, determined to have her gush over your hand. Your name is a half moan past her lips and her brows twist in pleasure, the filthy, wet sound of your digits drilling into her fluttering pussy filling your bedroom in an intoxicating melody. A quiver goes through her thighs. Black Swan lifts one hand from the bed to bring it between her legs and swipe her aching clit in tight circles, low oh’s and ah’s spilling from her mouth. Together, you bring her closer to the edge. You masturbate her the way you know how, the way she’s watched you do to yourself so many times, fingers curling inside her and making her see explosions of colors behind her eyelids. She’s tempted to curse, her who never does, and she feels the coil in her belly snap as white hot pleasure washes over her. Her hand stutters on her clit and she comes around your fingers with a sharp moan, squeezing them tight and forcing you to slow down your pace, her limbs trembling over you. Her orgasm is intense, she shivers from head to toe and struggles to keep herself above you, chest leaning into yours.

Black Swan barely has a moment to catch her breath as you slip out of her and rub comforting shapes into her love handles with one hand while bringing her wrist up to your face. You take her fingers into your mouth and her eyes blink open at the sensation of your tongue swirling around her digits, sucking her clean. She gazes down at you, lips parted.

“Swan…” you breathe out around her fingers, the hint of a whimper in your words. “Want you on my face.”

Black Swan applies pressure on your tongue, making you moan. “Is that right?” Her voice is low and throaty, each word carefully enunciated despite her heavy breathing.

You nod eagerly, squeezing the dip of her hip. The thought of her plush thighs around your head, trapping you between their soft flesh as she grinds her cunt on your tongue makes your head spin. You want to bury your nose in her slick folds and have her come in your mouth until she’s too sensitive to handle your ministrations. Black Swan hums, a fondness in her lidded eyes as she takes her fingers out of your mouth. They leave a wet trail on your skin when they cup your cheek.

“So eager to please,” she says softly to herself, thumb tracing the curve of your top lip. “Alright.”

Like she was ever going to say no to the needy look in your gaze; you look up at her with twinkling admiration and she feels herself pulled to you once more.

Black Swan positions herself over your face, thick thighs on each side of your head, and your arms wrap around them to pull her closer. Her pussy glistens, puffy and pink, as she gently tangles her hand in your hair and the sight is breathtaking. The short hairs on her cunt are only slightly darker than the ones on her head, they shine with her slick and entice you further into her folds. Your tongue darts out to lick a stripe up her slit, delighting in the soft hum that follows the gesture. You’ve never done this before, but you try your best to apply theory to practice, rubbing the flat of your tongue on her cunt and collecting her tangy cum. The grip on your hair pushes you closer to her wet pussy, but she’s careful not to be too harsh.

“Just like that,” her quiet, breathy moans encourage you as you suck her pulsing clit. The drawl of her words sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your pussy. “You’re a quick learner, aren’t you?”

The taste of her fills your mouth, the smell of her arousal takes over your nose as it coats the tip of it, you can feel her all around and it makes you moan into her throbbing cunt. The vibrations reverberate through her pussy, pulling another long moan of your name out of her lips. She’s sensitive from her previous orgasm, already twitching against your tongue, yet her hips rolls into your mouth to chase release a second time. You stare up at her head thrown backwards in blind pleasure, at the sheen of her lips and the movement of her breasts, nipples like pretty pebbles on her chest. Sweat clings to her brows and dampens the bangs framing her cheeks. She’s a painting above you, one that you can’t tear your eyes from.

“You’re so pretty, Swan…” you mutter into her pussy, flicking your tongue on her clit, and she almost melts at the compliment.

Her hips grind into your face as she feels herself getting closer to release, gripping your hair a bit tighter to keep your mouth on her cunt.

“Oh…” Black Swan moans, two fingers closing around her nipple to pinch it softly. Her cum drips down your chin and her eyes shut in bliss.

Her orgasm comes embarrassingly fast— after having to rely for so long solely on the thoughts of you as she touched herself, hearing your muffled sounds into her pussy is enough to bring her to the brink. You’re enthusiastic, licking up her slit and between her folds, sucking her clit hard and fast, and she can’t resist bucking into your mouth as she comes on your tongue. Her body trembles and you welcome the gush of her cum in your mouth with a pleased moan, eagerly lapping up her release. Your hands tighten their hold on her thighs, keeping her flush against you while she rides her high, slightly leaning forward. Her clit twitches, her cunt throbs and she can’t believe how wet she is, cum staining her thighs and the bottom of your face.

You don’t let her pull away, gripping her tighter when her hips jerk away from your mouth, and she gasps out, the feel of your tongue pushing into her entrance quickly overwhelming her.

“Aeons—“ A moan breaks her sentence and the words get stuck in her throat as you wriggle your tongue inside her to swallow more of her cum.

Her thighs shake around your head and her eyes almost roll back into her skull at your desperate need to draw more of her needy sighs and throaty moans. Your open mouth won’t leave her pussy, sucking her lips, nose grazing her sensitive clit. Black Swan makes a pretty mess on your face and her hips greedily grind into you despite the overwhelming sensations, clutching the headboard in a tight grip.

She breathes out your name, eyes shut and brows twisting in pleasure, “Ah… Mmh—!”

You wrap your lips around her clit and suck, making her choke out a strangled moan as the hand in your hair attempts to pull you from her pussy.

“T-Too sensitive…”

Black Swan sees stars behind her eyelids, a broken whine in her throat when you relent slightly and opt to tease the base of her aching clit instead. Her stomach is so tight, orgasm rapidly approaching, and she can’t do anything but rub her cunt desperately onto the flat of your tongue. She needs to come so badly she forgets to take into account the fact that you’re having difficulty breathing with your nose in her pussy and her thighs around your head. There’s a throbbing in your skull not unlike a coming migraine, but you focus on making her feel so good her teeth sink into her bottom lip to muffle a needy cry.

With the tip of your tongue teasing her entrance, Black Swan comes hard and shakes above you as a drawn out moan of your name rips from her throat. You can’t breathe with how much she’s squeezing your head, you have to tap her thigh a couple times to get her attention and she finds the strength to pull herself from you, a tremble in her legs. You’re both panting heavily when she collapses on the bed beside you, catching your breath as the throb of your skull slowly subsides. Black Swan has the back of a hand on her eyes and you can see the quiver that runs through her with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

You bury your face in her chest and she sighs in satisfaction, absentmindedly stroking your hair as you press soft kisses to her breast.

“Was that okay?” You murmur into her skin, rubbing her waist.

Black Swan laughs, disbelief sending ripples through her abdomen. She tilts your head to face her and gazes down at you with a mix of endearment and amusement.

“It was more than okay, trust me.”

Her hand pulls you to gently kiss your lips, tasting herself on your mouth. You’re putty against her and she has no difficulty flipping you over so that your head rests on your pillows. A thumb swipes over your jawline when she separates her lips from yours. You watch the sun rise in her eyes.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, mmh?”

[samuelsdean]

Next To You

pairing: sam winchester x reader

summary: waking up next to sam was your favorite thing in the world.

genre: fluff

word count: 1.4k

author's notes: i would very much love to wake up next to sam don't y'all think so? i literally wrote this because i think t'd feel so good to be hugged by him the entire night and wake up to him first thing in the morning.

WAKING UP NEXT TO SAM WAS PROBABLY YOUR FAVORITE THING IN THE WORLD. IT WAS YOUR REFUGE, A SANCTUARY FROM THE WORLD'S HARSH EDGES. It was a reminder that each day is another day you get to spend the rest of your life with the love of your life.

You loved waking up next to Sam because his warmth radiated like your favorite hoodie, chasing away the remnants of a cool summer night. Tucked into the space between his jaw and chest, you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, his arms encasing you.

Slowly, you untangled yourself from his embrace, careful not to disturb his sleep. The light of dawn peeked through the window, painting a golden sheen across Sam's face. His brow furrowed slightly, a crease etched between his eyes, usually reserved for facing down monsters, but right now, it softened with sleep, replaced by the slight ajar of his lips.  

Watching Sam sleep had you going through your memories in a flash—the way he surprised you with your favorite flowers, after being gone from a hunt, a shy smile gracing his features as he laid a gentle kiss on your reddened cheeks. You smiled wistfully when you recalled how Sam confessed to you his feelings the night he had gotten home from a hunt that went on too long and could've gone sideways.

The motel room door creaked open, revealing a battered Sam Winchester. Dried blood stained the sleeve of his jacket and he was sporting a nasty gash on his right cheek, a grim souvenir from the hunt gone south.

Exhaustion hung heavy around him, a storm cloud threatening to unleash the floodgates of aches and pains. He wanted to go to sleep as soon as he stepped inside the dank motel room, but the tiny flicker of light beneath the door held him captive.

There you were, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, hands wringing together and brows crimped in worry. Sam seemed to forget all about sleep when he saw you. He has never yearned for anything the way he has right now with the sight of you, his relic of normalcy in his chaotic world. He pushed the door open further, the sound jarring in the silence.

You looked up, surprise giving way to relief. "Sam! Thank goodness you're alright. I was worried sick after you've been gone for so long."

A weak smile formed on his lips. "We got them. Nasty ghouls took longer than expected." He shuffled closer, the weight of the hunt pulling at him. He could feel the warmth radiating from the room, a stark contrast to the bone-chilling night he'd endured.

You stood up and reached out, your hand brushing against his cheek. The touch, even through the grime, sent a jolt through him. It was a simple gesture, yet it held the power to ground him, to remind him of what he was fighting for—what he was going home to.

"You look like hell," you said, your voice laced with concern. "Go wash up, then I'll get you something to eat. There's a diner near here, open 24/7 apparently, Bobby told me on the phone earlier, bless his gruff soul."

He allowed himself to be ushered towards the bathroom, crumpling onto the tub with a groan. As the hot water washed away the grime and fatigue, something else started to wash over him. It was the weight of his unspoken feelings, a truth he could no longer keep buried.

He emerged from the bathroom, a fresh towel wrapped around his hair. You were already by the table, a steaming cup of coffee and grub waiting for him. He caught your gaze, the way your eyes held a warmth that chased away the chills of the hunt.

"Listen," Sam began, his voice thick with emotion. You tilted your head in confusion as to what he was trying to say. "This life… it's not easy. It's dangerous, messy, and frankly, it terrifies me sometimes."

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours. "But then I come back here, see you… and suddenly, facing it all over again, well, it doesn't seem so bad. It feels… bearable."

A blush crept up your neck, mirroring the heat rising in his own. You opened your mouth to speak, but he pressed on.

"I know this is crazy," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But, I can't keep it in anymore. I… I care about you. A lot more than a friend."

The silence stretched, heavy with anticipation. He braced himself for a rejection, the fear of a cold fist squeezing his heart. Then, you reached out, your hand gently cupping his cheek.

"Sam," you said, your voice soft, "you're not the only one who feels that way."

Relief flooded him, warm and exhilarating. A hesitant smile spread across his face. "Really?"

You nodded, your eyes sparkling. "For a long time, actually."

He leaned in, the space between them collapsing in a rush. The kiss was soft, a tentative exploration of your unspoken feelings toward each other. But within it, there was a spark, a promise of something deeper. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, a newfound warmth radiating from within.

"So," he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips, "does this mean I get to keep bothering you for a while longer?"

You chuckled, a sound that filled the room with a melody of hope. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Winchester. Now, about that coffee…"

He pulled you close, the scent of coffee and the lingering warmth from the confession clinging to the air.  

Yes, in the face of whatever darkness awaited, this peaceful moment with Sam was a treasure. You leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek, a silent promise whispered against his lips, "I'll wake you soon, pretty boy."

The sunlight, bolder now, sliced through the gap in the curtains, landing right on Sam's eyelids. He let out a soft groan, sleep fading as he blinked the light away. Unlike you, mornings weren't exactly his best friend. For a moment, his eyes fluttered closed again, then snapped open, a glimmer of surprise crossing his face when he realized you weren't there.

"Morning, baby," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing against the empty space where you'd been. A frown tugged at his lips for a brief moment before it softened into a smile as he spotted you by the window.

You were turned away from him, busy reading a paperback. The rising sun cast an ethereal glow around you, highlighting the way your hair seemed to catch fire with golden light. A shiver danced down Sam's spine, a mix of the cool morning air and the unexpected sight before him.

"Hey there, Sleepyhead," you said over your shoulder, your voice laced with amusement as you turned back to face him. "You look like you could use some more shut-eye."

He stretched languidly, the movement sending a groan escaping his lips. "Nah, I'm good. Just gotta get the lead out before Bobby gets impatient." He winced slightly, a reminder of the recent hunt probably still clinging to his muscles.

A playful glint lit up your eyes. "Lead out, huh? Sounds fancy. Did you polish your shoes too, Mr. Winchester?"

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a warmth radiating through you. "Only the finest demon-blood repellent for this hunter, sweetheart." He reached for you, his hand warm and strong as he pulled you close, grinning at how easily he could make you laugh with his comebacks.

As you snuggled into his embrace, a comfortable silence settled between you. However, a shadow lingered in the back of your mind. The thought of Bobby calling usually meant trouble brewing. You decided to break the comfortable silence.

"Any whispers about what Bobby wants this time?" you asked, your voice soft.

Sam shook his head, his expression turning serious. "Not a peep. Knowing Bobby, it'll involve something nasty, a whole lot of rotgut, and probably a cryptic message scribbled on some random book." He paused, his gaze softening on you.

"But whatever it is," he continued, his voice low and reassuring, "we'll face it together. Like always."

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his cheek. "Always," you whispered the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air—together, no matter what the coming day brought.