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taurusdaylight · 11 months

Text

[3.21pm] let me take care of you

if there was a competition for the worst boyfriend ever, jeno was sure that he’d come in first place.

just yesterday, the both of you went out on a date together. jeno had been busy with his internship lately, but never once did he neglect you and would always try to make time for you. even if it was just one hour lunches or spending the night at your place until he had to leave for work the next day, he made sure to have those little pockets of time with you whenever he could. yesterday was one of those rare days for the both of you to spend dawn to dusk with each other, no pressure of having to leave early.

he was aware of how precious this time that the both of you had was, so he meticulously planned the day with activities that the both of you would enjoy.

jeno thought that everything went great, until he went to look for you at home today after getting an unexpected half day off at work because why were you wearing his hoodie when it was thirty-one degrees celsius out, looking like you haven’t slept for the past three days? it was evident that you’d been sick for a while, and jeno felt like such an idiot for not realising even though he spent the whole of yesterday with you.

he recalled the small exchange that took place in his car when he dropped you home last night. you were completely knocked out in the passenger seat, and jeno looked at you with affectionate eyes before he could bring himself to wake you up.

“hey,” jeno called out softly, gently tapping on your shoulder, “we’re here.”

you made a sound of acknowledgement, which earned a chuckle from jeno because it didn’t seem like you were planning on getting out of his car.

“are you feeling alright? you seem so tired today,” jeno remarked.

“y-yeah,” you replied. “it’s just, we did so much.”

since it was true, jeno simply left it at that. which, in retrospect, he shouldn’t have. he started to connect the dots and understood why you refused to share food with him, and tried to minimise physical contact with him.

to be honest, you’ve been feeling unwell since the start of the week. it was easy to hide it from jeno since you didn’t get to see him often. like him, you knew how a day like that wouldn’t come by again so soon. you couldn’t bear to cancel on him, not when he texted you the night before to tell you how excited he was to go on a proper date with you after so long.

regardless of how terrible you felt, you still decided to proceed on the date with jeno and hoped that he wouldn’t notice. you almost couldn’t get out of bed, and you took longer than usual to get ready. your sickly complexion would have been a dead giveaway if not for the little fix of make-up. throughout the day, you were fighting the urge to not fall asleep at random spots because the medicine that you took had a side effect of drowsiness. whenever you needed to cough or sneeze, you would do it when jeno wasn’t looking, or go to the restroom, away from his sight.

jeno’s heart shattered the moment he saw you today, he couldn’t help but blame himself. if you hadn’t gone out with him, you would have recovered by now. who knows? your condition might have worsened because you didn’t get to rest yesterday. jeno felt sorry and wished he could turn back time.

“why didn’t you tell me anything?” jeno’s voice broke. he immediately rushed over from the doorway to the living room when he watched you struggle to make your way to where he was. he held you close in his arms, hands roaming from your forehead to your neck as he said, “baby, you’re burning up.”

you could barely answer jeno except utter an apology to him. he seemingly paid no mind to it and brought you to the couch. he left your side for a while, but soon came back with a bucket of water and towel, preparing to sponge your body.

maybe it was because you were comforted by jeno’s presence, but you didn’t feel as horrible as you did when you woke up this morning. though, you were still apologetic towards him, so you said again in a tiny whisper, “i’m sorry.”

jeno’s movements stopped, finally making eye contact with you ever since he sat down on the couch. he couldn’t find it in him to be angry with you when his priority was for you to get better. still, he wished he didn’t have to discover that you were sick this way.

“don’t ever hide such things from me again,” jeno sighed, “i feel bad that i didn’t know anything while you were probably suffering. i should have noticed yesterday.”

“no,” you protested, “it’s not your fault. i just didn’t want you to worry…”

a scoff escaped jeno’s lips. “you’re my girlfriend. of course i’m going to worry about you. what kind of boyfriend am i if i didn’t?”

you didn’t know what else to say because jeno had a point. the only thing you could think of was to say sorry again, but jeno seemed to have read your mind because he took the momentary silence as a cue to continue, “i’m not angry and i’m not trying to start a fight with you, so stop saying sorry to me. just… let me take care of you, okay?”

at a time like this, you wondered how jeno was still so thoughtful that he could put you before himself, even though you clearly did something that should have made him upset, rightfully so.

you stretched out a hand to intertwine jeno’s fingers with yours, “thanks jen, i wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

jeno’s lips crinkled into a wide smile, “don’t worry your pretty little head over such things, you’re never getting rid of me.”

#jeno timestamps #jeno imagines #jeno scenarios #jeno fluff #jeno x reader #nct timestamps #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct #nct dream #nct jeno #lee jeno #jeno

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2-fast-2-curious · 1 year

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Sundress season is here and I wonder if reader has ever thought of wearing one around Lewis

🤔

I don't write anymore but I had to at least give this my best shot because it's @princessphilly. If you haven't read her TGM sundress drabbles you need to leave my blog and go read it right now.

Where else could this take place but Miami?

You had never been to the city but were excited to be joining Lewis at the Grand Prix. You were driven past the famous South Beach on your way from the airport to the hotel and you loved how confident everyone seemed in their tight skimpy swimwear. You had packed your best sundresses for this trip which meant high hemlines, low backs, and brightly colour fabrics that complimented your skin tone.

The days leading up to the race were full of promotional events and parties which meant there were plenty of opportunities for you to show off your collection of sundresses. Lewis was getting ready in the other room in the suite with his stylist while you slipped into your sundress and tied up the laces of your strappiest sandals which made your legs look impossibly long.

Sir Lewis Hamilton always took much longer than you to get ready. You flopped onto the bed, phone in hand careful not to mess up your hair or makeup as Lewis and the stylist went back and forth on different jewelry options.

Lewis walked the stylist out of the suite and went to get you in the other room. "Hey, are you-"

The sight that greeted him stopped him mid-question. Your body was stretched across the king-sized bed making your dress look even more indecent, the neckline accentuating the bare skin of your clavicle, shoulders, and cleavage and the neckline riding up to barely cover your thighs. "I've been ready for a while, Lew. C'mon, let's go."

You bent over to fix your dress, practically flashing Lewis your tits and grabbed your clutch off the floor, your heels clicking against the floor as you hurried to the elevator eager to get to the party. Lewis was strangely quiet, normally he would be pretty chatty before sponsor events so he would be warmed up when he finally arrived.

You raised an eyebrow at his strange behaviour. "What's wrong?"

Lewis traced the curve of your bare shoulders with his eyes in the reflection in the elevator. "Do you need a jacket or something?"

"Why would I need a jacket it's over thirty degrees Celsius?" Plus the event would be outdoors in the mid-afternoon. As you walked from the hotel lobby to the valet stand to get into the car, you could already feel the Florida sun warm your skin.

Lewis sighed, despite how much care he put into his appearance he rarely commented or advised you on how to dress. "It's already hard enough to pay attention to small talk and answer the same questions over and over again at these things. But now I have to do that when I know you're somewhere else in the room looking like this."

Lewis let his gaze linger as checked out the way your body filled out the dress. You smirked, pleased to finally get a reaction out of him. "Would you prefer if I remained in your sightline?"

Lewis imagined himself trying to look people in the eye during these boring conversations while you were in the background nibbling on chocolate-covered strawberries or being hit on by the bartender "I think that would be worse."

Lewis helped you into the car and made a last-ditch effort to make the next four hours a little less torturous. "Do you want to borrow my shirt?"

You rolled your perfectly made-up eyes. "The shirt you and your stylist spent hours trying to choose?"

Lewis shrugged. "And you're going to be walking around topless? Has George Russell been giving you styling tips now?"

The car dropped you and Lewis off at the venue. "I think I would rather you be clothed at this event. Besides I'm sure no one will even notice what I'm wearing when I enter the room next to you."

Lewis sighed in defeat knowing there was no point in arguing with you. He slipped his arm around your torso, resting his hand on your waist, and kissing your cheek. "I wouldn't be so sure."

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pasiphile · 9 months

Note

Hi there! Twiddling my thumbs on how to/whether to say this, but finding your Sherlock fic as a teenager (yeah, we’ve both been here that long, I am now eyeing my thirties in the street) was incredibly formative.

TVD (and Good Girls Don’t) was one of the first brain-changingly good pieces of online fiction I had ever read, and it made the days I worked that soul-wearying first job a little brighter. Or a lot. You gave me imagination and a playground for exploring my own writing, which continues to be a primary joy in my life. So — these two words aren’t enough. Thank you. 🩵

So, on to the writing! I have to ask for a Mormor prompt. Maybe the boys enjoying each other after a long absence, bonus for domesticity?

(gosh. I occasionally get messages like this and I always have to stare at the wall for a bit. I wrote it at a rather shitty time for me too and it definitely helped me get through it, so the thought that I made - make!- other people feel the same way means A Lot. Thank you <3)

The flat feels empty. Too empty.

It’s strange. It never did before. An empty place all for himself had been a luxury for many years. And after that, a necessity, a way to relax, recharge.

Except now all of a sudden the silence is too silent, the order too neat, the spaces too big. It’s absurd, and annoying.

He leans his head forward against the window, looking down at the street below. So many people and yet there’s just one, just one out of seven billion, who feels like –

The door opens behind him and he straightens up. “I’m back!” Sebastian’s voice bellows through the living room.

“I can see that.”

Sebastian starts, only spotting him now, then grins. “And I’m sweating like a pig. Manchester to London on public transport and let me tell you, those trains are not equipped to deal with thirty-five degrees Celsius, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll head straight for the shower.”

And before Jim can even think to react, mind and action sluggish in a way that’s totally inexcusable, Sebastian has dropped his bag and he strides past, already taking off his stained T-shirt and leaving behind a waft of deodorant and sweat and stale cigarettes, disgusting except it isn’t.

“Pick up your dirty laundry, you’re not a teenager,” Jim says, more on automatic than out of conscious thought, but Sebastian obediently doubles back to pick the shirt up, no comment.

The bathroom door closes. A moment later, the sound of the shower.

When did this happen? When he’d invited Sebastian to live with him? Before that, the first time he’d let him into the flat? When did he start to fill the spaces Jim hadn’t even been aware were empty?

He goes to the bathroom and slips in, quietly even though it’s futile to Sebastian with his SAS-instincts.

The dirty clothes are obediently in the hamper, tidied away. The steam smells of soap, not his, all alien and all familiar.

The shower switches off and Sebastian steps out. He grins, again, and spreads his arms as if to present the goods. “Did you miss me, then?”

“Yes.”

Sebastian’s smile slips. It’s too open, too bare, they don’t do this sort of thing, Jim doesn’t do this sort of thing.

“Of course I miss a loud, stinking oaf of a man dirtying up my flat,” Jim adds, and Sebastian relaxes, never mind that it’s actually true. “And you? Pining for home?”

“The moment I stepped out of the door.” Sebastian shrugs and turns to the mirror, absently running a hand through his hair. “You know me, I’m sappy that way.”

Jim grabs Sebastian’s arm and yanks him around, other hand finding his throat and slamming him against the wall, or rather, Sebastian lets him do all that because as always the balance is in his favour, Sebastian could break him like a twig if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. That’s the point.

“Missed you too,” Sebastian says, voice slightly constricted through the chokehold. “This, especially. Now can you calm the fuck down?”

Jim loosens his grip, breathes out. “You know I should have you killed.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, calmly. “But you don’t. Do you?”

“No.” He leans in, nose against Sebastian’s throat, nothing there left now but the scent of soap, the one Jim got him a month ago because he was tired of Sebastian smelling like a locker room full of teenaged boys.”

“All right. Now that’s out of the way, can we nghk “

Jim gets his teeth from Sebastian’s neck and leans back, smiling beatifically while his other hand keeps a new chokehold on Sebastian’s cock. “Yes?”

Sebastian gasps for air, then smirks, so wide it threatens to split his face. “Whatever you want.”

That’s the point.

Jim returns the smirk, then lets go and without even needing prompting, Sebastian goes to his knees.

#Sherlock #mormor #well those are tags that feel like they time-travelled from ten years in the past #anyway #once again written in one go; unedited #and probably not as sweet as asked for #but hey #this isn't my only sherlock prompt so who knows #tiny tumblr ficlet tag #i'm writing stuff!

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cielcreations · 3 months

Text

SCP-L0V365

Item #: SCP-L0V365

Site: 3M91R35

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-L0V365 are to be contained in an seventy four (74) meters by ninety two (93) meters stone room with a bullet proof glass window roof. The weather monitor shall be checked every four (4) hours. Once every two (2) weeks, the rain simulation should be administered. Once activated, the sprinklers will be turned on and should remain on for two (2) hours. The simulation should cease after those two (2) hours before the fog simulation be administered. The temperature during this simulation should be anywhere between fifteen degrees Celsius to twenty four degrees Celsius (15°C-24°C). The fog simulation should cease after one (1) hour before the weather is to be normal once again.

Absolutely none of the vegetation is to be touched. Anyone who tries to interact with such vegetation (ie: picking the vegetations, watering the vegetation, intentionally stepping off the path, etc) is to either be terminated by staff or SCP-B34N5, if he hadn't already. If anyone removes any plant life, it is to be placed back in their containment room.

Description: SCP-L0V365 are actually two separate SCPs. They are a married couple who are inseparable. The foundations has given both SCPs name for clarity sake.

SCP-B34N5 appears to be a thirty (30) year old Caucasian man of British decent, approximately one point eight (1.8) meters in height. He has brown hair and green eyes, with a green streak in his hair, green antenna, and green transparent fairy wings. He wears a simple white button up shirt with a green overcoat, khaki pants, and brown leather boots.

SCP-5H4D0W appears to be a thirty (30) year old Caucasian woman of British decent, approximately one point six (1.6) meters in height. She has pink hair with blue eyes, as well as pink antenna and pink transparent fairy wings. She wears a simple blue dress that falls to her ankles with white leggings and black slip on shoes. Her hair is usually tied up in two space buns with blue ribbons, but she has been seen to have her hair fully down or have SCP-B34N5 doing her hair.

SCP-L0V365 both claim to be fairies and, despite looking like they are thirty (30), have claimed they are hundreds of years old. They are both normally very calm and cooperative with staff. However, their containment room is overgrown with plants because of SCP-5H4D0W. If anyone attempts to interact with the vegetation, SCP-B34N5 becomes aggressive. He will attack and attempt to kill anyone who messes with the vegetation, demanding no one to touch "his wife's creations."

Because of how much they value the plant life they created, the foundation asked permission to install a path in their containment cell for easier interaction. No other modification is to be asked/made. SCP-L0V365 are constantly by one another's side and have asked for items to make their room "more romantic." These requests have been denied.

SCP-L0V365 Test Log

PRECONDITIONS: None

ACTION: Dr. █████ ordered D-Class Personnel to extract any vegetation they could.

TEST RESULT:

D-Class 098700 had managed to extract a flower from their containment room; a pink flower of unknown origin.

Attempted scientific research ended in the flower growing ten times (10x) its size, stabbing everyone in the room with large vines it had grown. It shrunk to its normal size once everyone in the room was killed.

The flower was then thrown in the incinerator for termination, but it had grown vines once again. It seemed to crawl out of the incinerator and, once again, stabbed and killed everyone in the room.

The flower was then returned to SCP-L0V365's containment room.

NOTES:

The vegetation is clearly induced with SCP-5H4D0W's magic, but the risk of more causalities is not worth the protentional scientific research. It is clear neither she or SCP-B34N5 want their plants to be touched or interacted with. For such reason, no one is permitted to attempt any research on the vegetation nor are they permitted to remove any of it.

#scp au #scp foundation #hermitcraft scp au #empires scp au #life series scp au #Hermit/Empires/Life Series SCP #joel smallishbeans #empires joel #empires lizzie #lizzie ldshadowlady #empires ldshadowlady #empires au #empires #empires smp #scp joel smallishbeans #scp ldshadowlady

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noonaishere · 2 months

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Online/Offline [C.S] -thirty-four | you’re both Too Nice

“San, can I ask something?”

“Go ahead.”

You walked over to the espresso machine and tapped the display as it heated up.

“Why is this set to Fahrenheit?”

“Oh-- it’s an American-made machine and it won’t stay set to Celsius for some reason.”

“Wow, trying to push its Imperial measurement agenda on us.”

He chuckled as he wiped down the counter.

“Wait, wait, San, look.”

He turned as you tapped the display that read 69 degrees.

“Nice.”

He covered his mouth as he laughed and you smiled triumphantly.

“What are you two laughing about?” Seonghwa asked as he walked out of the kitchen.

“Nothing,” you responded, watching the temperature continue to climb.

“Well, I have some news: since Minsoo has finally mastered all of the drinks-- thank you very much, y/n.”

You saluted him.

“What-- nevermind. You can now begin your baking training with Wooyoung.”

You opened your mouth in mock shock and looked at San. You pretended to be choked up by tears.

“Oh my god, I-- I thought it would never happen to me… this is the happiest day of my life!”

You pretended to cry and San walked over and pretended to console you.

“Oh my god…” Seonghwa said, already exhausted by the two of you.

You both looked at him.

“Are you sure you’re not related to Wooyoung?”

“Not that I know of.” You laughed.

He shook his head. “You can start now if you want to, since it’s slow.”

You nodded and turned to San, taking his hands in yours. “San…”

“Yes?”

“San… do me a favor.”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Remember to leave a candle lit in the window for me, so I might always find my way home.”

“Dear god…” Seonghwa sighed and walked back through the kitchen to his office.

“And San?”

“Yes?” San smiled, trying not to laugh.

“I’ll write you every day. Promise me you’ll write back?”

“I will. I’ll always read your letters.”

You nodded. “And San?”

“Yes?”

“I-- AHH!”

You were cut off by Wooyoung grabbing you around the middle and picking you up to carry you to the kitchen.

“San! Remember me! Always remember me!”

“I will! I will!”

“When, oh when will I come back from the war?”

You could hear San laughing as Wooyoung carried you into the kitchen and plopped you down in front of the counter.

“Buns!” He said.

You smacked your own butt. He stuck his out. You smacked it too.

“Now that that’s done with.”

You laughed. “Important things only.”

He held up his pointer finger in a matter-of-fact way. “‘Smack the buns before you make the buns,’ as I always say.”

You laughed harder.

“But we are starting with brioche buns.”

“Like the one you gave me that time,” you smiled.

He nodded, “Mhm.”

You nodded. “Why did you give it to me?”

He shrugged. “You were working like, all week… and maybe it was a little bit to try and make myself feel better about the whole ‘Romeo and Juliet’ thing.”

“‘Hey, I’m mad at someone-- random person, have a bun!’”

He cackled. “I guess that is basically what it was.”

You laughed. “I guess I can understand that reasoning. Being nice to someone would like… make your brain feel better.”

“See? I knew you’d get it.

So! Here’s where we keep the flour…”

“You two seem to get along well,” Seonghwa said as he leaned on the counter behind San.

San turned around. “I didn’t hear you come back out.”

“How could you? With the way you and y/n were carrying on before.”

San chuckled at your earlier theatrics.

“You two seem like two peas in a pod.”

“We do?”

He hummed in the affirmative as he nodded.

San shrugged. “She’s funny. She starts a bit and sticks to it.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “She reminds me of you when we were in school.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Carefree. The class clown.”

San smiled at the memory.

“Before everything happened.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that why you like her?”

San turned to Seonghwa with a start. “I--”

Seonghwa gave him a few moments to speak, but he didn’t. Silence settled between the two of them as San processed the question.

“You’re nice to everyone San, but there’s very few people I’ve seen you act that way with.” Seonghwa said after a while.

“Umm… what way?”

He thought for a moment. “Completely un-self-conscious.”

San thought.

“Honest… Earnest.”

San continued to think.

“It’d be hard for someone who’s known you for less time than I have to notice, I think.”

“Do you think she’s noticed?”

“I don’t know… she might not have realized.”

“I didn’t think I was…”

“Do me a favor?”

San looked at him.

“Don’t pull a ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and leave a letter for me.”

He laughed. “So leave without leaving a letter? Got it.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes with a sigh.

San smiled. “Hyung, you know I could never screw over the café.”

He nodded.

Silence settled between them again as they watched passers-by outside.

“Do you think you’ll ask her out?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell if she likes me. Other than as a coworker or a friend.”

Seonghwa chuckled sensibly.

“What?”

“Oh, the plight of the Too Nice.”

“You think she’s Too Nice?”

“Well, she might be a bit more scathing than you, from what I saw when she defended Minsoo, but you’re both Too Nice.”

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#San #Choi San #Ateez #Ateez smau #Ateez fic #Ateez au #cafe au #streamer au #fake dating #reader fic #ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ/ᴏғғʟɪɴᴇ

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muzzlemouths · 1 year

Note

Prompt: Hypothermic

Moon centric // Wordcount: 2407

You can recall the exact decisions that brought you to this point.

It started with a favor. Your coworker had a family emergency and needed to be out of there ASAP, but with an hour left to their shift, and no reason to expect that the company would honor the need behind their sudden departure, they were left with no other choice but to drop the remaining duties onto someone else.

You had generously offered to take on said responsibilities - after all, you had only just clocked out, and the required tasks could be done in a cinch. Off the clock, of course, so management wasn’t on your ass about overtime.

That was mistake number one.

Your second mistake came in the form of a locked door and pure, unadulterated stupidity.

The assignment had been simple; locate the walk-in freezer, find a spare bag of ice, and bring it to the food court. Easy. It was your last task of the night and there was absolutely, positively, no way you could fuck it up.

That brings you back to the here and now, where you stand blank-faced behind a solid, steel door, locked up tight from the outside, with no way out in sight.

You hadn’t bothered to prop the door open. In your defense, you didn’t think that was ever something you would need to even consider. Why bother installing a door - a door to a room that had the potential to make fucking employee-popsicles - that for some forsaken reason locked from the outside?

But this was Fazco. you were talking about. The number of poor design choices ranging from infrastructure to animatronic virus protection was so grand it exceeded the fingers on both hands. Of course they would design a freezer that turned into a deathtrap. Why make things easy for you? When have they ever!

Rant aside, you were in some serious trouble.

Your fists, pink and tender, ached with the force at which you beat them against the door and shook at the handle, your fingers having already gone numb, and trembling for another reason entirely.

Did you know most industrial freezers are kept at 0 Fahrenheit? That’s -17 Celsius. Thirty-two degrees under what is required to make snow.

You don’t have a jacket. Hell, you don’t even have long sleeves. You’re wearing the company uniform - a crew neck, polyester - and some old jeans. The forecast called for a steady breeze, not the fucking arctic plains.

Panicking won’t do you any good. You tell yourself this, mumbling it between chattering teeth, like a mantra, long after you’ve already given panic a fair shot. The panic came first from the very moment you realized you were trapped, only increasing when a failed attempt to call for help revealed that service wasn’t available in the deep freeze. Now it was time to be cool headed (pun intended), or you faced a near zero chance of escaping with your life.

Funny. You had always assumed, in the back of your mind, that your final breaths would be taken by this stupid company. But certainly not like this. Not by becoming freezer food.

No, think! You can’t afford to dawdle, not now, when the clock is already tick-tick-ticking away. You pace in circles, taking up the entirety of the 6'x 6' space, until remembering that movement increased blood-flow to your extremities and that warmth wasn’t coming back. So you sit, instead, regardless of how cold the floor is against your ass, and you put all of your remaining energy (what’s left of it, dwindling by the minute) into figuring out a proper plan.

You don’t have any medical knowledge beyond the first-aid training the pizzeria requires upon hiring, but you do have a handful of useless history knowledge - useless until today, that is. You pour over any detail from the books that might save you here and then recall a horrifying piece of trivia from your brief obsession with the Titanic; survivors had been cast into water that was 28 degrees, with the longest average of survival being forty-five minutes, and the shortest being only fifteen.

You sat in air twenty-eight degrees cooler. The clock in your phone tells you that five minutes have already passed. There is no life boat coming to your rescue.

Okay, so that information doesn’t exactly help your situation. If anything, it only rouses your panic into its second stage, and it takes everything to keep yourself from adding hyperventilation to your list of worries.

Speaking of symptoms, you were feeling your fair share of those already.

Shivering, obviously, pale fingers and exhaustion to name a few more, shallow breath, to boot, but that may be the panic. Though you try and try again to press your fingers to your wrist you come back short every time, your heart is screaming but your pulse is practically nonexistent, a bad sign to say the least.

You haven’t felt the urge to rip your clothes off, yet. You have that going for you if nothing else.

Another minute passes. Six in total. You find yourself leaning against the icy door despite the chill it brings to your already cold skin, if only from a lack of energy to keep yourself upright any longer. The breath forming in front of you feels like the warmest part of yourself right now, and slowly, doubtlessly, you feel yourself waning. Growing slow. Growing stiff.

You again try your phone, its 26% battery staring back at you uselessly. The call doesn’t go through, and neither do the texts. The back of your hand slams against metal in a another futile attempt to gain the attention of someone, anyone, who might be passing by. Again, and again, and again. Nothing. Your knuckles come back bloody and raw.

Something coils in your chest - terror and nausea all at once - it’s let out as a scream that echoes against the walls of this closed-in room and does not escape beyond it. You clocked out half an hour ago, the pizzeria having already closed before then. As far as your fellow coworkers are concerned you had already long since headed home. There stood no reason to check the kitchens or question your absence at all.

You are going to die here.

The thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. That realization in itself, however, does send some fickle wave of concern through your nerves, though there’s little energy remaining to do anything about it. Eight minutes have now passed since the door locked behind you. Thoughts come slow if at all, and your cries for help - slurring, now, you laxly notice - eventually fall silent.

Your hands run once over the goosebumps in a last ditch attempt to find some heat and you now realize, with a faint and humorless laugh, that even your shivering has come to a stop. A bad sign. The worst yet. Your world begins to fade one shadowy star before your eyes at a time.

Then comes the tapping. Nails on metal. Deliriously, you stare down at your own hands to see if you’re the one doing it, only to find them still wound tight around your elbows. The curious sound repeats, and then the door–

It opens.

Your body, still tucked in on itself, drifts forward all together with the weight of the metal as it’s drawn wide. And who enters next and stares down at you other than the man of the hour himself. Moon fucking drop. You’ve never been happier to see him.

At the same time, you think you’d rather take freezing to death.

“Breaks aren’t extended by hiding in freezers,” he says with a sneer, but it’s cut short, the smile wiped right off his stupid little face, and for a moment you swear you see his eyes change. Maybe it’s the delirium, but you see blue. For the very first time you see blue. And then he blinks, and the red returns, and he’s bending at the waist and shoving a cold hand against your forehead. “Bad.” Is all he says, whispered still. You don’t try to stop your laughter.

“Y-Yeah,” a cough escapes you, dry and heaving, “‘s real bad. C’n you help meyup?” You can’t believe the jumbled words even as they escape your dry, paling lips. Never before have you asked him for help, and hopefully, the occasion would be a first and a last. You expect nothing but mockery from him at the show of vulnerability.

Yet he bends ever further, bypassing your weakly extended hand all together in favor of gathering you into his arms. It’s awkward, at first, a hasty grab under your armpits that would have you squirming were it not for the cold stiffness in your limbs, and you hate to admit it, but the way he cradles you after - one hand tucked under your backside and the other pressed flat to your shoulders - it makes you relent. Your head falls against his shoulder with an effortless thud, and your arms wrap around him, feeling secure as they do so, the only thing on your mind being how warm he feels in that moment.

Before your eyes can fall shut completely you see him heading for the front entrance, and the confusion that realization carries with it stirs you from the seven layers of brain fog only enough to question him, “Wh’r we going?”

“Management,” the word is hissed, said flat, “hospital.”

“Wh’t?” That, if nothing else, brings you back to full attention. As much of it as the fog can spare, anyway. “Put me d’wn, ‘m fine,” you wade through layers of breaching unconsciousness to get the words out, and clearly, he doesn’t buy it, not even slowing to them, “Moon, don’t,” you try more insistently, “Please, I c’nt afford it. ‘ll be f-fine.”

This time, he slows to a stop, staring down at you with uncertainty. “Bad.” He repeats again, “Too cold.” The hand at your back raises to press sweetly against your forehead once more, “Hypothermic.”

His eyes scan the room, flickering back and forth before settling on a stream of light in the distance, and you watch him consider.

“No,” you coerce your head into shaking, the weight of it feeling like a slab of concrete on your neck, “n’t Sun either, he’ll j’st freak out.” Sluggishly, your head lifts to a point where you can kind of see his face, “I just need’a blanket, tha’s all.” Then, with a smile (albeit forced, and obvious about it), you add some cheek, “you’re good a’ blanket stuff, right, starboy?”

The way he stiffens around you signals your success. If nothing else, taking advantage of his attitude and making it conductive to your own needs remains one of your finest skills, and a habit you would milk until it inevitably came back to bite - or perhaps in Moon’s case - kill you. Today, however, he appears willing to cave, acting as if he’s truly worried about you. And maybe he is. But that was a question to pick apart another day.

For now, he seems fit to listen to your pleas, and you’re swept off to the daycare, instead.

It’s engulfed in darkness upon entering, as to be expected. Moon’s eyes cast an eerie red glow as he carries you further into the room. Bracing you firmly against him, he crouches by a chest of blankets and begins to pull one out, only to abandon the effort and instead take hold of the trunk’s side handle, dragging the heavy thing all the way to a corner fitted with bean bags and a crate of stuffed animals.

It’s here where he settles with you still in his arms, falling into a particularly large bean bag with a loud and tired sigh, and soon after reaching in for the chest again and drawing the cover away. While one hand stays snug around your waist, the other brings a patchwork blanket over your body, tucking it against your neck and shoulders, then he dives back in for a second blanket, and then a third, thoroughly nesting you beneath each one.

There’s little else for him to do here. He isn’t a doctor, he has no tools, no methods of getting heat into your body at a speed that’s more appropriate, so he goes about it the old fashioned way.

His other arm dips beneath the covers and together, both hands sooth over your exposed skin, drawing natural heat to the surface with careful, measured touches that feel like hellfire on your skin, but only briefly.

At one point he tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you smile into his chest, still somewhat loopy, “You aren’t gett’ng it off,” you tell him, all but mumbling, “I d’nt care how much it might help.”

“Cheeky,” comes his swift reply, “Just checking.”

“F’r what?”

“That they aren’t wet,” he says, “I don’t know how long you were trapped.”

“Mm,” your eyes fall shut again, “too long,” you say, “but ‘s fine now.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, muttering something that you don’t quite catch. Before you can bring it up, however, his hands distracted you, moving down your spine in soothing circles and then dipping kindly beneath your shirt, his palm flattening against the bare small of your back. “You should be more careful,” he says.

Your head lolls to the side, making an effort to look up at him once more, and you smile with a tease, “What, were you worried ab’t me?”

“Yes.”

Oh. The sass dies on your tongue.

When you smile again, this time, it’s something genuine, “Good thing you came to my rescue, then.” your eyes flutter closed, the weight of them too much to bear, “m g’nna take a little nap, okay?”

In the morning you’ll realize. Your words will come back to haunt you, and your willingness to let your guard down with him won’t go unnoticed. But tonight, you are content to stay just like this. Moon tucks his chin over your head and holds you in a way that makes you feel safe, nestled between three layers of blanket and a chest that plays you lullabies.

“You’re drinking some tea when you wake up,” he chides - but it’s soft, a whisper against your ear, followed by an exhale, you feel him smile against your head. “Nighty night,” he lulls.

Your heart beats warmly against his chest.

#drabbles #moondrop #fnaf moon #moon x reader #TWO DRABBLES POSTED IN ONE DAY LET'S GOOOOOOOOO #had an interesting time with this one #semi based off of a true experience #though mine was in a 34f room and not a goddamn thermal freezer thankfully #rip y/n you keep coming THIS close to death buddy

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the-californicationist · 3 months

Text

The Good Death -- (Rudy/FMC)

Rodolfo Parra x Female OC

Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra finds himself in the middle of the Caatinga forest of Brazil, looking for a stolen weapons cache. When he comes across a beautiful hitch-hiker wandering alone in the middle of the night, he gets a little more from the village than he wants to.

TW: mentions of rape, dubious consent, femdom, light bondage, edgeplay, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, hauntings

January summers in the Caatinga forest were as brutal as they came. It was an unforgiving landscape, full of cactus and scrub brush, layered with the sharpest shards and rock faces, designed to cut and slice. To make matters worse, the weather was deadly. The Caatinga would climb to almost 37 degrees celsius at the sun’s cruel zenith, and it would drop only ten degrees cooler by midnight.

Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra was nothing but sweaty. He could feel it between his toes, under his arms, beneath his balls — he was losing pounds of water a day and struggling to drink enough to rehydrate himself. Training in these conditions was brutal, but he wasn’t here for the Exército Brasileiro; he was on a reconnaissance mission.

According to Los Vaqueros’ intel, the Las Almas cartel had accepted a weapons’ cache from China, shipped through Brazil, and set to arrive at the Port of Houston in just thirty days. Rudy’s mission was to locate and tag the cache, and he was running out of time.

Being asked to find something lost in the Caatinga was like being tasked with finding it in Hell, although, Rudy thought, Hell may have been milder.

Arial arrays had helped him narrow down his search to a few key hiding places, but it wasn’t just the terrain that was unforgiving. Beneath the forest lay a complex network of caves and tunnels, as dangerous as they were beautiful, and searching through them would be almost impossible.

But, Rudy wasn’t one to give up so easily. He was heading to the village of Nossa Senhora da Boa Morte. There was a local guide who had seen some unmarked crates near a gorge in the area, and he had agreed to lead Rudy to them. The drive out to the village was long, pitch black, and full of foreign sounds. Rudy missed his well-known mountains of Monterrey, and he was anxious to be back with his team.

Suddenly, his truck lurched to a stop, and it felt like he had hit something big.

“A la verga!” Rudy grunted, slamming on the brakes.

He wrenched open the door with a loud creak and went out to check the damage. He kept one hand on his gun just to be safe. There was nothing in the road. He circled the truck just to be sure. All of his tires were in tact, and they all seemed free of damage, so he got back in the car and shut the door with a loud bang.

As soon as he did, something flashed, white and sharp, in the road. It was almost like lightning, but there was no rain and no sound. He could only hear the idling of his vehicle. As he stared at the road illuminated by his headlights, Rudy tried to focus his vision. He thought he could see something just in the shadow of where his headlights couldn’t reach.

He drove forward, slowly, inching his way up to the object, only to discover that it was a human form. A woman. She was facing away from his truck, staring out into the blackness of the Caatinga, unmoving. Her dress was long and white like a bride’s, whipping around her body in the night wind.

Rudy rolled down his window, trying out what little Brazilian Portuguese he had,

“Ei! Precisa ajuda, senhora?”

She didn’t answer him. He decided to stay in the truck, crossing himself before slowly driving up to her. He kept his window cracked and pulled out his gun, steadying his nerves.

The woman turned to look at him, and she seemed… unnatural, somehow. She was beautiful, that much was certain. In fact, Rudy wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such beauty.

“Precisa de uma carona? A ride? Do you need help?”

Perhaps she didn’t understand his terrible Portuguese accent. He tried to ask her in English, and she smiled. It was unnerving, but Rudy didn’t feel threatened. He pointed to the other side of the truck and unlocked the door. She walked around the front of the truck, the white of her linen dress blinding him, and she climbed in beside him. He kept his gun in his lap. Rudy may not have felt like he was in danger, but he certainly wasn’t trusting.

They rode in silence for the rest of the journey. He had tried to ask her things, and he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to be taking her, but he planned to ask his guide to translate when he got to the village.

It felt like hours had passed, but they finally made it. Rudy pulled into the small ranch where his contact was located, and he stepped out of the truck. He knocked on the small wooden door of the house and waited, angling himself so he could still see the woman in the passenger seat.

The guide came to the door, and Rudy recognized him from the video calls.

“Boa noite, meu amigo. I’m Rodolfo Parra with Los Vaqueros.”

“Claro. Good evening, Senhor Parra. I’m João. Welcome to our village. Come in, come in.”

João’s English was excellent, so Rudy didn’t continue with his Portuguese, but he did ask for help,

“Sorry, can you help me translate? I seemed to have picked up a hitch-hiker and —”

“A what?” João seemed confused.

“A rider. She is in the truck…” Rudy turned around and found no one there.

She was gone.

“There was a woman…” Rudy ran back to the truck and opened the doors, looking for her.

“A woman, you said? Was she wearing a white dress?” João asked in a knowing tone.

Rudy turned back to him, his eyes glassy and wide,

“Yes, but…”

“You showed her a kindness, amigo. Perhaps she will show one back to you.”

“Who is she?” Rudy asked, taking his bags into the tiny ranch house.

João shut the door behind him and ushered him inside. They sat at the kitchen table together, and the old wooden chair creaked loudly, complaining about Rudy’s heavy weight, his muscles and bones not meant for small farm chairs.

João took a bottle of cachaça from the pantry and poured some for himself and his guest, telling Rudy the story,

“She is a bruxa. Long ago, back during the times when there was still conflict, much before either of us could celebrate um dia da Independência, there was a beautiful woman. She was so beautiful, some say she had been blessed by the Virgim Maria herself. She fell in love with a native man, but he was Tupi, not Portuguese. So, thinking she was fair game, a priest raped her on her wedding day in the chapel on the hillside.”

“Madre de Dios…” Rudy drank his wine, only half-believing this ghost story. The woman in his truck had been very real. She had smelled like sweat and dried herbs. She was real; she had to be.

“She died, and her Tupi lover was slain. The next night, the chapel burned to the ground with the priest inside. Ever since then, this village has respected her as an omen. She does not appear often, but when she does, we make sure to heed her warnings.”

“What warning does she have for me, then?” Rudy asked.

“Eu não sei, senhor. But, whatever it is, you’d better listen.”

A week passed like a slow train, long and heavy, the heat and the pressure billowing around Rudy and all of his attempts to locate the cache. He was running out of options. There was one final location he’d not yet checked, but it was nearly inaccessible. Rudy asked João how to traverse the ridge that led to the potential site, but he wouldn’t allow it.

João shook his head,

“No, you cannot go there. It is too dangerous, even for you who knows the mountains well.”

“I have to. This is my last chance,” Rudy insisted.

“You’d be better off coming in from above. Use your expensive drone! I can draw you a map up, but you won’t be able to come back down. The rocks are too brittle. No one has survived.”

“I don’t have a choice, amigo.”

João sighed, but he produced a map anyway. He also loaded Rudy down with supplies and equipment, in hopes that some of it would keep him alive.

It took Rudy most of the morning to even reach the first flat part of the large ravine. He decided not to make camp, eager to complete the climb. Unfortunately, it was near dark until he made it to the next stopping point, a small cave cut out in the side of the large, gray gorge.

There was something so beautiful about how haunting it was in the Caatinga, but Rudy couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched the whole time he made his ascent. He camped for the night, and tried to rest as much as he could.

When he awoke, he was shocked by his surroundings. The daylight revealed that it was not a small cave at all but the opening to a wide, hellish pit. If he had rolled over in the night, he may not have woken up at all. Rudy crossed himself, gathering his gear and heading back to the ridgeline.

The cache was there, right where he thought it would be, and right where João had spotted it as well. They must have used a helicopter to drop it in, and Rudy saw the large metal clip had been cut instead of detached. How they planned to get it out, he had no idea. They’d dropped it in a hell of a hurry, though.

Rudy planted the tracking devices, hiding them as best he could, and then surveyed his downward climb. He tried to get his footing on the craggy rockface, balancing himself on the sharp shards, but to no avail. Once he started to apply his weight to his foot, the rock would crack and crumble beneath his toes.

Hours went by, and he’d barely made it fifty yards down the cliff. It would be nightfall soon, and if he was stuck out there climbing in the dark, his chances of survival were low. The climbing anchors were unstable, and he’d needed too many of them, making the cliff unpredictable and unsafe.

Rudy spotted a shallow, flat ledge just below him. If he could just make it there, he might be able to rest long enough to try again.

He placed another anchor, and when he released his grip, he fell. The last thing he saw was the carabiner snap as he tumbled into the darkness.

“Ah, you are awake,” a voice called out to him in the darkness.

Rudy tried to open his eyes. His ears were ringing, and it felt like a hammer was pounding into his head. He was in agony, and for some reason, immobile.

He tried to sit up, his eyes adjusting to the light. But, he was tied down. As he regained more of his consciousness, he realized that he was trapped on a long, wooden table. Above him, old lanterns glowed dimly in the night, and there were wooden beams that arched upwards into a high ceiling.

Rudy gasped when he felt a cool compress soak down the back of his neck. It was her, he knew it. He could smell her scent; that sage and vanilla. The woman in white… the bruxa.

Her hands traveled up his spine, pressing the wet cloth hard against the base of his head and then around to the scratchy stubble on his jaw. Rudy felt the sting of adrenaline rush through his body as his eyes followed her, wide with anticipation. She’d stripped him bare, and his skin glowed in the low firelight, illuminating shining scars and old tattoos. As she circled him, stalking around him, she traced the outlines of them; his Los Vaqueros tattoo on his arm, the Virgin Mary on his back. She never took her hands off of his body until finally, she came around the front of him so he could see her in full view.

“What’s your name?” Rudy asked, trying to buy himself some time. His captive training kicked into high gear.

“I have had many names. First, their god named me Eve. Then, his people named me Lilith. Then, their children named me as a demon. What would you like to name me, Rodolfo Parra?”

“Whatever you want. Please, let me go,” he bargained with her, looking around for anything useful.

“You will go…” She grabbed his face roughly, “When I am done with you.”

“Okay,” Rudy breathed in a low whisper, his voice husky and dark, “Okay. Whatever you want.”

She let out a warm hum of approval, seeming to enjoy his surrender. She smiled, kissing him full on the lips, letting him taste coconut and cinnamon and that same familiar sage that haunted him in his truck.

“You are what I want, Rodolfo… What will you say to that? Can I still have… whatever I want?”

Rudy swallowed, his spit thick in his mouth, tasting her flavor as it slid down his throat. He nodded,

“Y-yes.”

She didn’t respond with her words. Instead, she mounted him on his wooden altar and all around him, hundreds of candles suddenly came alight, dousing the room in an orange, unearthly glow.

He gasped, and she slapped her palm across his mouth, stopping his breath from escaping. His eyes tracked her every movement. Rudy had never been so captivated by a beauty like hers. It had been a while since any woman had even touched him, and he couldn’t deny that he was hungry for whatever she had in store for him — no matter how occult it was.

“Just a little fun, meu amor. You honored me by taking me back to my village. So many men drive right by, fearful of a woman… or what they may do to one… but not you,” she pet his cheek softly, releasing his mouth, “Were you not afraid?”

Rudy shook his head, following her lips with his, letting her kiss him languidly. He sighed,

“No, I am not afraid of you.”

“Many are,” she moved her mouth down his throat, planting little warm kisses across his jugular vein, over his bulging Adam’s apple, down his chest matted with hair, sweaty and filthy from his climb.

He tugged at the straps across his wrist, threatening to touch her, his desire building,

“I don’t scare easy, bella.”

She laughed at him, but there was no malice in it. If anything, she seemed amused. Then, to Rudy’s sudden shock, she began to rub the wetness between her legs back and forth over his nearly-hard cock, smearing herself all over him. She was still in her dress, but because of the candlelight behind her, Rudy was treated to a nearly transparent view through it.

She dragged her soft folds up and down his dick, slicking his swollen head and sliding back down his generous shaft, pulling and pushing at his velvety, uncut skin. His breathing became more than labored; he was feral. He wanted to touch her so badly.

“Porfa, bella.” Please, pretty girl. He begged her, “Dejame tocarte.” Let me touch you.

“You are touching me, Rodolfo Parra,” she laughed again, throwing her head back and humping herself across him at a quicker pace, torturing him with her softness, feeling the way he shamelessly bucked his hips up toward her.

Then, she lifted away from him, leaving him only to feel the cool rush of air as it skated across his sensitive skin.

He gasped,

“No, please…”

“Shh, shh, shh…” She ran her hand down his cheek again and kissed his mouth, letting him explore her tongue with his, tasting each other in sloppy, lurid movements.

“Please, please…” He couldn’t help but beg her. He was so close, and she had yanked him away from the edge.

One of her hands snaked its way between her legs, reaching for him to jerk him off. The other pulled down the top of her dress, exposing her breasts to him. She wasn’t sure if the face he was making came from her touch or her display, but she didn’t care. She leaned forward just enough for him to barely reach her nipple, taking just the peak into his mouth, straining for more.

Then, he let his long tongue loll out of his jaws and loop itself around her tight nub, teasing her and making her gasp from her own pleasure.

Every time he would get close to the edge, he could feel his cock swell with pressure, setting itself up to shoot its heavy load, she would immediately stop everything she was doing. Eventually, he became a grunting, whimpering mess. Everything she did turned him on. She licked down the center of his chest and it made his cock twitch. When she kissed him on the neck, he thought he might come from just that if she didn’t have such a cruel grip around his cockhead.

Finally, she lowered herself onto him fully, letting his head pop gently into her soaking hole, and then… she just settled herself there. She didn’t rock forward or back; there was nothing but infinite warmth cascading over him like the fires of all of the candles around him. He was burning alive within her core.

“Mi amor! Porfa!” He whined, his voice high and ragged, steeped in pure desperation.

Each chance he got to thrust up inside of her, he took, greedily. But, every bit of reprieve was doled out to him by her, his new master. She was in full control of his pleasure, nearly to the point of pain. His balls were tucked so tight up against his body, he thought they would crush themselves into nothing, desperate to be emptied.

“Do you need to come, Rodolfo?”

“Yes! Please!” Rudy thrashed at his bindings, trying in vain to fuck her with what little leverage that he could, making little noises of discomfort and defeat as she held him steady, “Mmgh, ungh… please… ahh…”

“That’s too bad…” She pretended pity with her tone, removing him from her body and laughing at his screaming protests.

“No! No, please! Don’t… don’t leave me. Porfa, bella, it aches…”

“Your complaints are so loud, tsk tsk… Is that any way to treat your bride?” She chided him playfully, showing him a sinister smile before turning her hips and positioning them over his mouth.

She slowly lowered herself down onto his lips, and he began to eat her with a feral passion. Still, he was begging. By working his jaw against her as fervently as he could, he was making a case for himself, trying to show her that he would be good for her, that he could make her come. He shoved his tongue against her flesh with a furious need, fucking her as best he could with it and tasting himself on her skin.

Rudy could feel her muscles clenching for him, and her skin warmed. Then, he heard her delicious cries, shouted out in complete abandon, echoing across the high ceilings and reverberating back to him, trapping him in a cycle of her pleasure. It was so overwhelming that he felt himself falling over his edge as well, coming into nothing, heavy ropes of his own fluids pooling onto his chest and belly, settling in his navel, sticking in his hair.

When he awoke, he did so with a start. He found himself back in the farmhouse, the sun beaming through the filthy windows. João was standing at the foot of his bed in shock.

Rudy was unsettled by his presence, but could only stare back in confusion.

“Amigo…” João whispered, “You are alive?”

Rudy swung his legs over the edge of the bed, finding himself completely dressed. He turned to João and asked him,

“What happened? What day is it?”

“You… well, you were lost. It had been three days, and we thought the worst. Your friend, Colonel Vargas is here now to collect your things.”

Alejandro stood in the doorway, his eyes red and full of a particular sort of fear and relief all at the same time. He pulled Rudy up into his arms,

“Hermano! What happened?”

“There was a woman… she…” Rudy tried to explain, but he couldn’t. He was having a hard time even remembering what had happened to him.

But then, he could taste her. He could smell her. He could feel her skin as it slid across his. Everything about her surrounded him until he was dizzy.

“Ah! A woman? Well, that explains it. Vamos, you have a fuckin’ mountain of paperwork, pendejo. Haha! A woman… Dios mio…” Alejandro laughed his way out into the hall.

João and Rudy stayed in the small bedroom, staring at each other, knowing the truth yet unable to speak it.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

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#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #rodolfo rudy parra #rodolfo parra #rodolfo cod #rodolfo rudy parra x female oc #rudy parra smut #rudy parra

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