#sucking at this game even momentarily just inexplicably fucks with my head so bad

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

Sitting here crying because not a single damn thing has gone right for me since I sat down at my desk is.....not what I had on my bingo card for this evening

[lochrannn]

AU-gust: Some people call me Maurice

Read on AO3

CW: Explicit sexual content, canon typical violence

prompt no 5: Science Fiction

Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

-

Lila is sitting at the bar, twirling the facsimile of what she assumes is supposed to be some grain alcohol around in her glass. It’s amber and it burns, that’s all she can really ask for. But she’s had two already in quick succession so she’s in no hurry to down this one as well.

She’s trying to settle her nerves after the day she’s had, and luckily she found the skeeviest bar at the port, with very few patrons and therefore all she has to contend with is the slightly irritating buzzing of the neon tubes that barely illuminate the place but bathe it in a weird purple light.

And then the automatic door zips open and a far too familiar, tall figure walks in.

Lila rolls her eyes and unsuccessfully tries to hide her face, because the man with his distinct scars, shaggy dark hair, and a thick beard, makes his way straight over to her and sits down on the next barstool over.

He signals the barman for a drink of his own but doesn’t say anything.

It’s not the first time they’ve crossed paths today. No, the fucking Hargreeves, and consequently also the angry fighty one, who is sitting next to her now, almost cost her her loot and did get her shot.

The salvaging game is dangerous and only semi-legal, so she knows the risks and loves doing it anyway, but the fact that recently she keeps running into this stupid group of misfits that claim they are a family somehow, who fly around in their stupidly named ship The Umbrella Academy and are annoyingly proficient, getting there before her almost half the time now, is making her job an absolute misery.

“You here to steal my loot?” Lila asks eventually, quite exasperated with the brooding salvager disturbing her peace.

“Nah,” he says in a low voice, “I know you offloaded that the minute you got back to the port. And I’m not gonna rob you of your money, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he goes on, turning towards her and toasting her in the air.

Lila realises she’s never heard him speak beyond a couple of barked orders to his crew or insults directed at her, when they have been competing for the same abandoned cargo ship. The way he’s speaking to her now feels deceptively pleasant. He has a warm voice that trickles into her ears far too easily.

“What do you want, then?”

“Came to make sure you were alright,” he says simply, not looking at her this time around.

That takes Lila a little by surprise.

Sure, it’s not like the Hargreeves have been particularly violent towards her in their past encounters, but especially the one sitting with her now has, so far, never had any particular qualms about shooting his phaser at her or throwing a knife in her path. Granted, he’s never actually hit her with them, but she refuses to consider that that might be by design.

Also, who the fuck uses knives in enclosed corridors on space ships where you are guaranteed to hit some vital piece of equipment if you just randomly chuck a knife at the wall?

“Why do you care?” Lila asks maybe a bit harshly. It’s not like he shot her himself. Admittedly, they had been lobbing petty insults at each other while trying to race one another to the cargo hold and maybe that had made them a little too distracted to notice the group of far less scrupulous scavengers arriving.

The man next to her smirks into his glass, but doesn’t answer her question.

Instead, after taking a sip of his drink he turns to look at her with big, impossibly dark eyes, some part of her brain informs her unhelpfully, and asks, “That zippy little number you’re flying around in, that’s far too nice a ship for a salvager. Where’d you get her?”

The question is so conversational that Lila answers before she can think better of it. “The Commission? A… uhm…” she hesitates, “a parting gift from my mother.”

“Oh right, so you’re one of those rich kids who go into salvaging for the adventure?”

Lila bristles at the accusation and shoots back, “Oh please, it’s not like we haven’t all heard of Reginald Hargreeves!”

But she doesn’t get a response to that conversational thread either.

Instead the Hargreeves sitting next to her, who apparently is reluctant to acknowledge his patriarch, asks her, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lila.”

She decides he doesn’t need any more than that, no point in giving up too much information to the competition, “What’s yours?”

“Diego,” he says and then holds out his hand to her.

When she shakes his gloved hand, Diego holds on to hers for just a little too long and the penny finally drops for Lila.

She’s a tad annoyed that he won’t just come out and say what he’s looking for, but it’s been a little while since she’s had another warm body in her bed and this one’s definitely a very nice body with a handsome face, and he seems clean and so far relatively respectful, and it’s not like she hasn’t thought about him that way before.

She thinks he’d probably end up being scandalised if she just outright asks him if he’d like to fuck her, so she goes with a barely disguised euphemism, “So if you’re that interested in my ship, d’you want to come take a look at it?”

His eyes widen a little, but he otherwise hides his shock at her straightforwardness and after a beat says, “Sure.”

-

“So this is the galley,” Lila says nonchalantly, pointing towards the stainless steel kitchen aisle in her cramped living quarters.

Diego just nods, arms crossed, looking otherwise a little forlorn before they move on.

-

“This is the propulsion reactor,” she says, pointing to the contraption with its bluish glow in the hull of her ship. She doesn’t really care about it and doubts Diego does, and right now she’s entirely distracted by the way he’s standing decidedly too close behind her, but to her absolute annoyance, not touching her yet.

-

“And this is my cockp-”

Lila doesn’t get to the end of her sentence, because Diego has apparently reached the end of his patience with their weird little cat and mouse game as well and wraps his arms around her, crushing her flush against himself so he can fuse his lips to hers.

Lila loses no time in slinging one arm around his neck and wrapping both her hands around the straps of his weapons holster so she can pull herself even harder against him while kissing him back fiercely.

Next thing she knows, Diego twists them around and he slams her into the closed cockpit door, making Lila gasp on impact and Diego uses her surprise to lick into her mouth and tangle his tongue with hers.

A thrill runs up her spine at the prospect that, contrary to her concern after he was too chickenshit to make the first move at the bar, this is apparently not going to be any kind of gentle love making.

They start undressing each other roughly, though to her surprise Diego is particularly mindful of the bandage on her arm covering the phaser burn, and then, when he pulls off his tactical gloves, she is momentarily distracted by his unexpectedly long and elegant fingers.

Without thinking about it too much, she grabs his hand, takes his index and middle finger into her mouth and closes her lips around the base, then painfully slowly pulls the digits out again, making sure to press her tongue against them the whole time.

She doesn’t miss the way Diego’s pupils blow wide and a muscle jumps in his jaw, as he whispers a breathless “Jesus!”

To her delight, she’s apparently given him ideas, because the moment she lets go of his hand, he shoves it down the front of her jumpsuit, the top half of which is pooling low on her hips, past the waistband of her underwear, to drag his fingers along her already wet folds.

He knocks her knees apart with his own, and Lila has barely any time to grab ahold of his broad shoulders before he pushes both long fingers inside of her, reaching deeper than she ever could herself.

For a little while he drives her absolutely insane with every twist of his wrist and curling of his fingers, his lips on her throat, sucking and biting at her pulse, but eventually she gets frustrated. It’s just not enough, so she tells him as much.

“I need more!” she gasps.

Without a verbal acknowledgement, Diego pulls his hand away from her and they get each other fully naked as fast as possible, before he pushes into her with a hard thrust.

And this is exactly what she needs. Stretched to a point just shy of being painful, one leg wrapped around his waist as he slams into her, every inch of him pressed against her body, still holding her flush against the door.

Lila has her arm firmly wrapped around Diego’s neck so she can keep his remarkably soft lips on her own, she’s savouring the feeling of his long fingers digging into her thigh where he’s keeping her steady on her one leg, while she’s gripping the biceps of his other arm, which he has up by her head so Lila can lean against his forearm instead of the hard metal door.

He’s far too good at this and her combative nature takes over for a second and she gasps against his mouth, not losing the rhythm of her own movement, “Don’t think for a second this changes anything! I won’t go easy on you if you try and take my cargo again!”

Lila feels a smirk stretch across his lips where they are still touching hers and for some inexplicable reason, that makes the knot building in the pit of her belly tighten even more.

“As if I wanted you to go easy on me,” Diego growls before he kisses her again deeply and his self-satisfied tone riles her enough for her to bite him sharply on his plush bottom lip.

“Ow! Fuck!” he cries out and then smacks her hard on the back of her thigh in retaliation. It stings bad enough that for a second she can’t breath but, Christ, if it doesn’t almost tip her over the edge.

-

In the end she comes when he has her bent over one of the consoles of buttons and switches, buried to the hilt inside of her, chest flush with her back, his teeth scraping the shell of her ear.

-

And afterwards, for reasons she really doesn’t want to examine too closely, she takes him to her bed so she can fall asleep wrapped up in his arms.

[seita]

Perhaps random of me, but I spent the afternoon going through your content for Semi and felt very likewise when I saw your post about how hard it was being a semi stan when there is just so little content, so because you gave me yours, I will give you some as a payback, 4K of probably a little too soft dom semi to appease your sensibilities.

You are considering possibilities, coursing your tongue over your lipstick worn lips when Semi’s hand circles around your upper arm. He draws you to height without preamble, maneuvering your body into gentle collision with his own, the silken red of your dress gliding across the tight stretch of his leather pants. His eyes, dark and heavy, settle upon yours with indecipherable intent, but intent none the less that tempts anticipation to simmering in your blood.

The spike in your heart stalls, tempers out into quick bursts that bring color to your cheeks and team mercilessly with the breath in your throat, caught. You effectively force it down with a thick swallow, mascara curled lashes blinking lucidly, stemming the slow curve of your mouth that threatens his mildly expressed temper.

Semi’s grasp ghosts down the length of your arm to encircle your wrist and he gazes at you, impassive and imploring, prompting, “You’ve been bad, haven’t you?” though the traitorous twist of his lips betrays the serious insinuation.

The question gives you pause, a split second in which you catch your thoughts before they resort to indecencies and depravities. For a brief glimmer your brows furrow, but you do not take long to assume the fault that he places upon you, however inadvertently.

With a defiant upward tilt of the chin and perfectly arched brows you challenge him. “Have I?” Your tone betrays all innocence, taunting and tempting him to pull no punches, even as you appease him with the sure presence of your body, molding to the sharp cut of his figure presumptuously.

For his part Semi’s resolve remains, consuming the forefront of his thoughts, deciding his course of action before instinct has any chance to draw you in, consume you in a kiss that tells of things to come. The derisive noise he makes in his throat says as much as any domineering pass of his mouth over yours might, sets an edge of danger looming into the atmosphere around you that lures the low and warm glow of bedside lights into a casting of shadows that deign his facial expression a warning.

In response you wither, just slightly deferring to him, to the explanation he offers in brandishing his phone, thumbing through messages that are attached to your name.

“It wasn’t very nice of you to send me this while I was at a business dinner, now, was it?” He poses the question with expected subservience, natural agreement and concession, not once considering that your lips might curve contrarily, eyes gleaming with open insolence.

You do not have to look to know of the this that he refers, the uninterrupted measure of your legs peeking lace finery beneath the raised hem of your dress. Even in the picture your face is far too innocent, not at all imbued with the sinuous concept that sending such a picture surely entailed.

Still you feign your innocence, batting your eyelashes while adopting a low tone, a softly teasing voice that asks, “Did you not like it?”

He can see in your eyes the unrestrained mirth, warm and tempting, making the color of your irises appear liquid. The haze of color across your cheeks only serving to tug his mouth into a traitorous twist, honest sentiment betraying the steel in his eyes.

“Of course I liked it, and that’s the reason we have rules love, because what the fuck am I supposed to do about something like that when I’m stuck at a dinner with my managers?”

Giving a noncommittal hum you risked the forward sweep of your chest, leaning into him to breathe out, ‘anticipate.’

Immediately something dark twists his expression, fond sentimentality vanishing only to be replaced with lurid promise and you do not hide it now, the way your smile stretches in dulcet satisfaction, appease soaking into the very depths of your soul. Semi neither restrains himself, raising your cuffed wrist in order to remind you of the dynamics at play, remind you of how things go. He does not have to speak for you to hear the sternness of his voice, the reminder of, you’re not in charge here, I am, that sets poised on the tip of his tongue, locked away by bared teeth that snap oh so close to your ear before grazing the column of your neck.

His phone is forgotten, discarded upon the vanity you previously imposed yourself and his hand finds its place at the curve of your spine, endearing the slope of your figure to his will. You oblige him with the downward sweep of your shoulders, the forward press of your waist, earnestly meeting the pliant mouth he rests just over yours in which to scold, “The next time you talk back to me like that I may just have to take you over my knee.”

Fleetingly you wonder if it is your disobedience at play now or previously that he considers the slight but the errant thought is short lived, consumed in the sudden wildfire he ignites with his kiss. The damp press of his mouth is coaxing and so downright sinful that were you not shivering in anticipation at the mere thought of a spanking then his mouth would surely have dissolved you to helplessness, a malleable soul only all too happy to acquiesce his every whim.

He drags his teeth along your bottom lip in conclusive fashion, the gentle tug imploring you upright, melding your chests together in righted posture and proximity that leaves you momentarily dazed. You blink yourself back into a reality of his thoughtful face, the considering angle of his mouth. Semi arches a brow and muses, “though I suppose you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His words, an afterthought, are immediately followed with ones more present, idleness marring the proffering that accompanies his restraint erring, shifting from a lithe wrist to grasp your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’ve always liked playing rough.”

Again you hum, agreeability gifting your features anew, foxlike and coquettish, teeth nipping at the thumb he sweeps over your mouth to be met with Semi’s devil may care smirk. His demeanor is as steady and sure as ever, even as he results you inexplicably otherwise. The sharp edge of your anticipation sings in your ears, pressing down upon you until you are practically buzzing with it, waiting.

The dark chuckle he emits only adds to the tight hold around you the tension provides. You feel it wrap its tendrils around you and pull tight, suffocating, intoxicating. He is so close that every breath you take is a sweet inhalation of scent you know to be purely his. Faint strings of boyish musk and cologne inciting you to thoughtlessly press forward.

Your words are a purr against his mouth, lashes dropping seductively over your eyes. “Only with you.”

Marginally appeased Semi allows a conceding inclination of his head, sentiment of, “You know what’s good for you,” and momentarily you are on even ground, the celebratory couple you were meant to be as of this date. But sentimentalities aside there is only brief adoration in the brush of his lips over yours and it is succinctly chased with a harsh suck of your lower lip that courses flush red when released, teases out a deep moan that implores his smile out of hiding.

Semi smiles with unfettered glee and brushes his thumb over the swollen measure of your mouth, his other hand along the exposed notches of your spine. The backless dress had been chosen specifically with him in mind though you knew there would be no merit in it for him but the handful of moments that came before he took it off. Despite intentions of contrary you had each been summoned in alternate persuasions for the night, never mind the fact that this date was meant to be yours.

You intended temptations that could amass hours in such a dress and your one ploy had served to temper him equal parts in and unimpressed. So much for your game, your play at power; Semi, with his hand pressed between your shoulders, had it all, plucked every string to his own fancy. Never unfairly, you would be the first to amiss, never in a way that didn’t appeal to you, never in a way that didn’t align every one of your dark and sordid inclinations with each and every one of his own.

When he dipped his hand down the curve of your spine once more, settled the width of hands that could pleasure and punish in the same stroke at the curve of your backside you did not worry for what was to come next, simply bit at your bottom lip and did as you had suggested he might, anticipated.

You pressed fingertips tight to the sinewy muscle of his neck, shoulders, tilting your head with doe eyes that better suited low lights and bedroom gazes. “What’s it gonna be Semi, pleasure or punishment?”

His lips assumed an angle of condescension, playful disposition guiding the affectionate brush of noses together in an eskimo’s kiss before his lips found yours in one more fitting, deep, dark and dizzying, leaving you grasping desperately at threads of reality to anchor yourself. Your hands grasped the curves of his shoulders while he acquainted himself the perfumed skin of your neck, breathing in low, warm tones, “On our anniversary? Pleasure, of course, my love, so much of it you’ll be begging me not to touch you.”

The predatory gleam of his eye was raised a swift disconnect, a step away resulting your figure noticeably cool without his pressed keenly. He offered a demonstrative twirl of his fingers, ordering, “Turn around, hands on the table,” and years of his requests make you immediately acquiescent, turning on expensive heels to oblige.

The heels of your palms meet the edge of the vanity, fingers curling around the pristine antique mahogany to find tentative purchase, to enunciate the curve of your spine, to press your thighs together. Intrinsically his dark eyes find yours in the mirrored surface, assuming a domineering possession that keeps your eyes locked even as he lowers himself to the curve of your neck and sweeps your hair aside to sear in a kiss that has flames licking your skin.

Warmth erupts from your every nerve ending with each pass of his tongue and Semi’s mouth shapes satisfaction as it sweeps across your shoulders, fingers working fine finesse on the closure of your dress, letting the slip of red pool unbecomingly low around your hips. The backless feature had boasted a lack underneath that he knew of already though you did not miss the distracted nature of his gaze when it disconnected from yours to follow the paths his fingertips trailed.

A venture of curves and almosts, ghosting along the edges of your breasts but never acquainting as you began to wish he would. Semi touched you with brevity, a glimmer of sensation designed to set you on edge, anticipation upon ever mounting anticipation as he slowly gained momentum, as he slowly lavished you in indulgent kisses that allowed him taste and you dissolving patience, just as he wished.

When his hands were a prominent weight gliding along your sides, imploring you upright to rest against his chest and raise your arms above your head you were already shivering, the tremor of your body obvious when light fingertips danced along the soft skin of underarms, tickling. The laughter such an action normally elicited tumbled from you in soundless gasps, heaving in your chest and rendering you hyper sensitive, hued cheeks hinting sheer desperation that was nowhere near peak.

Semi hummed approval into the crook of your neck, punctuating the silence of your content by sharply tugging your earlobe between his teeth, drawing a ragged moan through the seam of your lips in muffled response. Your eyelashes fluttered to descent, resting upon warm cheeks in solace as you surrendered wholly.

Hands falling from midair suspension they too found solace in smoky ash, twining, twisting, tugging, until just a slither of Semi’s composure slipped, an errant groan permitted escape. Your smile, executed in the most divine listlessness, slackened under hands that passed over breasts, palms that brushed already hardened nipples, to lure out a soft gasp, a breathy admission of Semi’s name.

In response an acknowledging hum, an arch of a brow that you could not see with your eyes still closed. He caressed the supple flesh of your chest only to catch you off guard with contrasting sharpness, the pinch of his thumbs, forefingers, scattering your errant thoughts further into disarray. The precise roll of his fingers curled desire in tight coils beneath your skin, enlisted a restless shift in your hips that he had awaited.

Semi palmed your stomach, pressing a possessive hand to your abdomen while he breathed instruction into your skin.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

And you found in the sheer proximity of his observation heart wrenching intimacy, all subdued affections unreservedly pooling in the depths of dark granite eyes so close to your own that the angle employed a necessity to blink, to refocus your vision. You leant back just slightly, chin on your shoulder to peer at him more openly, to boldly insist where you rather shyly intoned, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

A play at boyish charm and arrogance and Semi was working down the discreet side zipper of your dress. “Why?” His gaze raked over your form, followed the cascade of silk down your legs to puddle around your feet and none too discretely passed his tongue over his lips. His gaze flickered back toward your own. “Because you look absolutely devastating.”

Emboldened, teasing, you straightened, arching a challenging brow, loftily intoning, “And you didn’t want pictures.”

His answering scoff is abrupt, accompanying a sharp purchase on lace covered hips, teeth on lips. “You know why I didn’t want pictures?” he whines, nipping your bottom lip and drawing you close enough that you can feel his growing arousal through strained leather. “Because this is what you do to me,” he explains, his hand covering yours, guiding it over his length in demonstration.

“Knowing how you looked while I wasn’t there to do anything about it?” His hand left yours to self employed devices and he smiled, sheepish, earnest. “Fucking torture.”

With a sinuous smile you palmed his erection through his pants, delighting the shaky exhale that filtered through his lips and fanned across your own. “I spent the rest of dinner thinking of all the ways I could punish you for teasing me like that, and now…” he gave an ineffectual wave of the hand, words tapering off into suggestive silence and arched brows that spoke more than sentiment could.

“Now I just want to devour you. Just want to see you fall apart in all the ways I know I can make you – until you’re begging me to stop, and maybe, maybe then you’ll understand.”

Semi returned gentle hands to a tender cradle of your face, bringing your lips to his in a kiss long enough that you were laughing disbelief into the crevices of one another’s smiles, slipping buttons and zips free in growing haste and murmuring in disjointed phrase; “As if you don’t do the same to me.”

You push away the fabric of his jacket, tugging his shirt free to work through the remaining buttons. “Do you even know how unfair the sight of you in leather is?” You glance him in flirtatious suggestion, fingering the lapels of his shirt until your hands are caving to implicit need and carting him forward, affording your mouth access to his jaw that he obliges with the craned measure of his neck to eager teeth that lay claim.

His shirt finds company amongst your dress, his jacket and Semi toes off his shoes while your hands fumble with the fastener of his pants. Impatiently pushing the fabric down his thighs your hands return to the narrow planes of his hips to find the elastic of his boxers only to draw back curiously when you find none.

Before you can subdue it an unbidden moan slips out, distress nuancing your features. “Really Sem? No underwear?”

And his answering chuckle is sin.

He is reaching for you around the waist, gathering you in his arms, guiding you away from tangles of clothing with a charming smile that renders all admonishing statements inarticulate on your tongue, diffused to giggles when one awry step, one stray swing of your foot, catches the vanity and topples the contents across the surface. Adept sheepishness glances across his features and Semi mutters, “I’ll tidy it later,” and you laugh against his mouth, disagreeing.

“No you won’t,”

And a beat behind, his concession: “No, I won’t.”

But he will make it up and though it’s not promised it’s not doubted either, a wordless gesture extended between kissing mouths and tumbling forms that find comfort amongst plush pillows and linens. The weight of his figure warm and heavy atop yours expels from your lungs in sweet relief and were it not for the hands he reaffirms around each one of your wrists you would draw him closer. Yet even in the throes of playful jeers and teasing remarks Semi has not forgotten his intentions, has not forgotten what he promised lay ahead and he reminds you of as much with pupils blown so far the color of his eyes is obsidian, coal, onyx.

He does not indulge a moment’s hesitation before descending upon you in predatory stance, the muscles in his back rolling, stretching taut and tempting under coffee cream shadowed skin that your fingers itch to touch. The instinct draws reach that he restrains, an admonishing tut sounding in the back of Semi’s throat that he breathes against your neck, your chest.

“No touching,” he reminds, his voice a lofty sing song, and you can hear the curl of his mouth as much as you can feel it slanting over your skin. He lifts his head with a devilish smile scantily and immediately returns to idle touches of his tongue that feel mostly directionless, executed with only the intention of teasing as he delves lower. In his descent his grip loosens, imploring fingertips pressing to the inside of your wrists with the suggestion of compliance that for now you concede to obliging.

Your body is not so acquiescent, gradual warm up picking up where the last had left off to leave your spine arching from the mattress in a feeble attempt to garner more from him than just his tongue. Though unlike you Semi is happy to indulge restraint, despite breathless tones that feel as if a physical caress directly upon his cock, your efforts to appease him are useless.

“This is why you shouldn’t send photos babe,” he teases, tracing his tongue between your breasts, glancing up at you with wicked eyes. “It’s no fun not being able to touch, is it?”

Affronted you idly entertain your most put out expression, squirming beneath him. “I thought you said pleasure, not punishment?”

Semi shrugs and drags the flat of his tongue over one of your nipples. “Does this not feel good?” and though he asks the question he does not expect a response more telling than the shudder that rocks your chest, the fists your hands clench into. His hands ghost over your ribs, waist, hips and he lifts you sparsely from the mattress to draw you into his mouth, following, “that’s what I thought.”

And though it is what you had thought to want Semi’s teasing ministrations are so pointedly a beat behind that the more from his mouth you had sought no longer seems satisfying to receive, need having bypassed to exceeding the suckling of his mouth, the hiss of your breath at the drag of his teeth. The upward press of your hips to his is pointedly ignored in spite of the strong instinct required to ward off a downright adolescent urge he feels to rut himself against you.

By the time he moves across your chest to attend the breast left untouched you are running worrisomely low on patience, knuckles pierced white in their tightly clutched posture. Your eyes too are tightly clenched shut, fighting off the arousal doomed only to multiply if you were to watch him, to see the way he settled his weight in the space between your thighs, could not help the occasional abortive rock of his hips.

The groan he emits vibrates tantalizingly against your skin, a current of electricity that skitters across the surface and sizzles and burns, makes your throat close up with a whistle of a breath that turns his smile in arrogance. The application of his mouth is not hindered by smugness as much as it is reinvigorated, picking up pace to placate you some as he relents to shifting down your torso, teasing in sharp nips of teeth over your ribs and hips that will leave the faintest traces of him come morning light.

You do not dare to tempt diversion when his fingertips find the underside of your thighs, curling under your knees, guiding your legs over his shoulders, by opening your eyes. Fearful that the moment you locked eyes with him Semi would direct you the mildest of smiles possible before countering, ‘you didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?’ you remain unseeing, unsuspecting and vaguely suspicious of his intention only to be spared surprise by the path chosen.

The feather touch of his mouth along your thighs prompts an impatient, needy whine in your throat, your fingers to twist in your hair and Semi chuckles agonizingly into the seam of your thigh and hip, idle fingers considering the lace hem of your underwear. With baited breath you await the unavoidable discovery he is due to make of just how much of a mess he has reduced you and it comes shortly, some spare minutes after he lavishes your thighs bruises that will only serve to tug his lips with satisfaction if you dare send him any pictures soon.

At first he overlooks your aching center to meanly snap the elastic of your underwear against your waist tauntingly, but then the tips of his first two digits are acquainting with the curve of your womanhood and despite previous self-preservation your lashes flutter open to afford you the humbled expression that adorns his face when he feels just how wet you are.

There is a minute wideness to his eyes, an arch to his brow almost as if he doesn’t quite believe it though this is hardly new territory for either of you as his fingers follow your shape. The moisture coating his fingertips when he considers, rubs the two against the pad of his thumb, burns your cheeks, enlists a most dazzlingly pleased smile from him. Semi breathes out a faint echo of disbelief and errantly suggests, “Have I been too mean if you’re this wet already?”

And you know that what he means is perhaps his pace has been too unforgiving but he does not let up on it, sparing a nonchalant hum before he drops his head and presses a kiss to your lower lips. Instinct dictates your hands better placed in his hair than in your own and for your own part you have the presence of mind to recall his earlier instruction just seconds before your fingernails have the chance to drag across his scalp, deferring to drag in frustration across your abdomen in trails of blossoming red.

His name slips past your lips in a heavy plea; please, please, please, chasing the syllables in an unspecified request that has nothing to do with his languorous pace and everything to do with your desire to touch him that Semi picks up on adeptly when he notes the sting of red painting your skin.

He is in some ways feeling guilty enough that he acquiesces a modicum of your patience in allowing the small liberty though it does not employ his haste. Greedily you bury your fingers in the tufts of his hair, all out sighing with small satisfaction. The drag of your nails across his scalp catches his breath and you feel your small satisfaction grow, blooming with potential that you scarcely entertain.

While Semi does away with the dampened cloth of your underwear just to the side to perchance his tongue access you pull on the strands of his hair, urging him closer. His acquiescence is executed under his own design and followed through with a lazy probe of his muscle that dips just past your soaked lips to make blessed contact.

Your breath escapes you in a noisy whoosh that you do not have the necessary energy to feel embarrassment over, succumbing to sighs and closed lids while Semi concedes to less teasing and more firm applications of his mouth. He presses hard kisses to your clit, feeling the persistent throb of it against his lips, under his tongue when he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth to suck.

He only lets up on the singular assault when the tension in your muscles bows your body rigid, tightens your thighs keenly to his ears.

Sparing a modicum of the strength he has over you to force your legs apart once more Semi directs his tongue a new venture, lapping at your entrance and the steady flow of arousal that aptly coats his tongue, allows the easy slide of his first two fingers right down to the hilt.

The length of his fingers has always been a point in his favor that Semi has illustrated the punishing benefits of before, expertly reaching every part of you that history guarantees favorable reaction to. The thrust of his digits reaches so deeply that all at once you feel his momentum finally gaining on your own, aligning with the tightly wound pleasure in your abdomen until it is fit to burst, so very, very close that you can feel your release creeping up on you.

It takes only the flat of his tongue and a curl of his fingers to ease the locked up tension in your muscles, your thighs trembling as your nails dig painfully into his scalp and your back arches restlessly from the mattress, the flutter of your eyelashes offering no distinction between the light or dark that steals over your vision in a pleasurable haze as you curse his name, squirm away.

“Fuck Semi, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You push at his skull when you blink your eyes open and he relents enough that he lifts his head from between your legs and lazily drags his tongue over his lips, cleaning himself up, propping his weight up on his elbows in such a way that your legs slide from his shoulders.

Scrambling back enough to demurely close your knees Semi’s eyes glow with mischief and he is fastly on his knees, crawling across the mattress to drag you back beneath him.

“Where on Earth do you think you’re going?” he says, and this time he’s a lot faster about the way he settles a palm at your hip and bypasses preamble to thrust into you without warning beyond the fingers that spread you open for him, the smile that drips across his mouth. “What did I say before?”

You worry your teeth over your bottom lip, hips squirming beneath the experimental roll of his own even as you traitorously clench around him, draw him in deeper. 

The breath you take is just enough to lend your voice volume, to acquiesce him an answer that rolls off your tongue with all the trappings of anticipation and overwhelm. “Until I’m begging you to stop.”

Semi hums, dipping his head down to brush your noses, to murmur, “There’s my good girl,” right against your mouth. “And I don’t hear you begging yet.”

[hangonimevolving]

Attempting some gratitude, for once.

I need to post this, before the thought and the mood from which it’s sprung both dissipate into thin air.

I suck at gratitude, on the whole. Seriously, I do, and I know I need to work on that. I’ll spare everyone my sob stories, explanations, justifications, etc. for why I have had a hard time with gratitude in recent years, but suffice to say - I am aware that I suck at it, and I heard somewhere that the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one.... so fine. I admit it. I’m ungrateful and unappreciative in my life most days.

But today, I’ve had multiple - MULTIPLE - moments of just feeling this weird, inexplicable, warm and fuzzy, happy, sigh-inducing THING just bubble up in me. And I was like WTF is this feeling?! Why is my tummy all glittery and light? Why am I sitting here on the sofa smiling for no damn reason?! OHHHHH! Wait! Is this.....gratitude?! HOLY SHIT, I think it is! So I’m gonna write it down and note it for all posterity. I, Evolver, have felt gratitude on this 7th day of September, 2018.

It all started last Saturday night, where, right in the middle of Labor Day weekend and my sister Rithers’ visit to our hike in Miami along with her hubby, Uncle K, and her kids H20 and NiNi, our 5.5-year old Vevvy fell ill. We thought that perhaps he was just overly exhausted from a long and happy day in the pool when he felt warm to the touch on Saturday night, but mid-day Sunday, during a beach excursion - Vev’s FAVORITE thing in the world, he completely fell apart, acting listless, fatigued, and not having fun at all. One look at him, standing statuesque on the beach, staring out to sea longingly while tears rolled down his cheeks, said it all: “what is going on?! I’m so confused, mommy! I’m in my favorite place in the world, and yet I feel so miserable! What is happening to me?!” A hand on his forehead revealed that he was burning up. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Spouse loaded him up in the car and headed for home, while I remained at the beach with Dey to host Rithers and co. a while longer. Poor Vev needed a shower, some kiddie Tylenol, and bed rest, stat.

the “I am siiiiick” face :(

Over the next seven - SEVEN! - days, Vev would continue to have relentless fevers or 101-103F even with continuous children’s Tylenol and Motrin. He also developed monster congestion in his sinuses and nose, headaches, body ache, and general fatigue. I was sincerely shocked and more than a little intimidated by his congestion snot (keeping it real), which was so thick and oppressive, it would choke his throat and inhibit his from breathing if he dared to rest in even a semi-reclining position. 

The poor kid had no choice but to be completely upright if he didn’t want to gag on his own phlegm, which meant that he (and by transitive property, I) could really sleep no more than 90 minutes at a stretch for four nights straight. He was miserable, and I was doing everything I could to help him, staying with him each night either on an air mattress in my bedroom, or just holding him against my shoulder/chest in my bed while he desperately tried to sleep and breathe at the same time. I felt awful for him, and mused for a moment about parents whose children have respiratory disorders like CF who live their lives this way.... good health is such a blessing that we all take for granted.

As much as I hated every minute of Vev’s suffering, there was something a bit nostalgic in holding him sleeping in my arms for several consecutive nights. Wasn’t there a time in the not-so-distant past where this was the ONLY way he’d sleep?! I bitch and moan all the time about how clingy, dependent, and non-self reliant my kids are — but it has been years since Vev needed me at night this way. My Vevvy has grown up a lot.

And to his credit, despite all this sicky misery, he was really a trooper while ill. Against his traditional character, when sick or not, he really didn’t complain much - just went quiet and kept to himself for days, forming a little nest on the sofa each day with a warm blankie, big box of Kleenex, and his iPad, not really asking for much at all except quiet and rest. He never really complained when I had to give him medication, and he did his best to heed my urges to drink clear fluids even when I could tell he really didn’t want to. And - forgive the TMI here - but you know your kid is really growing up when they begin to have some way of forewarning you and/or running to the bathroom on their own steam and hitting the preferred target of the toilet when they’ve gotta vomit. Fortunately, Vev only puked twice this week, and I suspect that too was only bc he gagged on his own copious snot — but both times, he announced “throwwww uuuup!” to me before sprinting to the loo and handling affairs with no mess and accurate aim. HALLELUJAH! This should be considered a major developmental milestone!!! (And yes - poor, poor kid! I really am glad it was only the twice, because that must have sucked a lot for him!)

Yeah, so.  He’s growing up.  Way to go, buddy!!!... and, sniff.

(supposedly this says “Mommy I love you ”...  but he always starts writing at the bottom of a page and works his way up.  He may also be of the mind that “Mommy” is spelled “mom-E.”  Yes, we’re gonna work on it)

It was only yesterday, Thursday, that we got an official pediatrician diagnosis of his illness: the flu, as in the legit flu virus, or Influenza A. The word came too late for antiviral medications to be of any great use to him, unfortunately, but I was grateful anyway that we got a halfway-decent pediatrician BRILLIANT nurse practitioner who needed my assertive request demand for a prophylactic prescription or Tamiflu for Dey. We’ve had shitty luck in South Florida with pediatricians who appear to be reactionary and unnecessarily nonsensical in their responses to my requests for help - but this time, our pedi NP was A+. She treated our family like competent, educated people and did things that made sense as far as ensuring this highly-contagious virus wouldn’t spread to another healthy child living in the same household. I wish she could be our regular PCP (but of course, I bet she can’t be, bc she’s not a doctor. Grr, fucking managed care. Oops, hold it - I’m supposed to be channeling gratitude here, not my customary bitchiness. My bad.)

Anyway, speaking of Dey, I’ve got to brag about him a bit here too. At 3.5 years old, Dey’s baseline is definitely chill, go-with-the-flow, glass-half-full, and a pleasant, happy and easygoing “whatever you want, dude!”-ness that Vev NEVER was at that age. It’s been really awesome to see. But this week, his general outlook on life, combined with impressive moments of being a team player, cooperating, helping out, and exhibiting formidable empathy really made me sooo proud.

It’s certainly understandable that he’d be potentially jealous that his older brother got to skip an entire week of school while he still had to go. It would be even more understandable since they are actual CLASSMATES at school this year (yes, our Montessori school groups ages 4-6/preschool, pre-K and kindergarten in one classroom, so they’ve been together at school and at home since the start of the academic year). So I was very impressed when Dey accepted his brother’s illness and his need to stay home from school, while he was forced to go. Without one word of complaint, he’d get up each morning, eat his breakfast, get washed up and dressed out in uniform, gather his things, then visit Vev quickly and dispense a goodbye hug and a “hope you feel better, Vev!” before loading up in the car for school drop-off. What a trooper. At afternoon pick-up, when I’d ask about his day at school, he’d say with a little frown, “oh, school was okay...but Vev wasn’t on the playground.” It was kinda weird feeling my heart simultaneously break a little, but also burst with pride at how much he loves his brother. Sweet kiddo. 

At home, each afternoon he’d run excitedly to Vev to see how he was doing, his face full of hopeful anticipation that perhaps today, Vev was feeling better and could play with him... but when he’d find Vev too miserable and tired to play, his face would momentarily fall in disappointment, but then he would muster some compassion and understanding, silently shuffle away, and find a quiet game to do in the vicinity, just so he could be nearby without disturbing Vev. Or, cuter still, he’d snuggle down on the opposite side of the couch as Vev, and tune his iPad into the same YouTube video Vev would be watching, so they could give each other silly smiles and glances during the funny parts. The boy would periodically race off in the house to find his toy doctor kit, and would affix his little plastic stethoscope to his ears so he could “give Vev a checkup” and “make him feel better.” 

(Dr. Cutie Pie is in)

It was adorable, man. His whole world spins because of his brother. It’s so touching. I don’t know how it is that I managed to have two kids who love each other so much, because karmically I’ve done NOTHING to earn this. My sister and I were rotten to each other as kids, and only really turned a corner on it in our... what, our late 30′s?!  Haha :)  But I’m so grateful for these two dudes. These two little people are the best of friends, and they can’t live without each other. The feels.

One more funny brag about Dey. Dr. Spouse and I often jokingly refer to him as Dory, i.e. the lovable blue fish, voiced by Ellen DeGeneres from the Disney movie “Finding Nemo.” Dory’s schtick is that she’s easily distracted and has short-term memory. 

Fittingly, Dory is one of Dey’s favorite cartoon characters, and he’s not shy to let the world know....

Anyway. Remember that whole prophylactic script for Tamiflu? Mind you, I was so grateful to get it. But. Ummmm, pediatric Tamiflu tastes FOUL. It is seriously the most bitter, disgusting, viscous goo I’ve ever gingerly licked to mentally prepare myself for my kid’s reaction to. I began fearing Dey’s reaction, and the ensuing tantrums to come over the five-day course of the drug. But I spoke matter-of-fairly to Dey about how this was a medicine he’d need to take to keep himself healthy, and that it would be a little bit yucky, but that I’d give him a HUGE spoonful of sugar right after to make it taste better (and THANK YOU, blessed Mary Poppins, for your genius). 

 Luckily, little Dory just took my words at face value without any further thought, opened his mouth, and downed the nasty shot of devil’s semen Tamiflu that I dispensed into his mouth. Immediately his face went every shade of red, purple, and white, with a coordinating expression like “what the hell is this shit?!” — but I swooped in there prepared, like a crack-smoking Mother of Batman, giving him a swig of water then heaping a MASSIVE spoon of white sugar directly onto his tongue. The result was nothing short of magical - the kid instantaneously closed his eyes in pleasure, turned up his cute little round cheeks to the ceiling with a huge smile on his face, and loudly cooed “Mmmm!” as if it was the best damn thing he’d ever eaten in his life. Moments later, the sugar fully dissolved, Dey matter-of-fairly reminisced with a RainMan-esque tone, “hey mommy, that medicine was kind of yucky for me. Kind of salty. Kind of spicy. But the SUGAR WAS YUUUUUUMMMMMY!” I worried that at the next dosing (and man, the kid’s gotta take it morning and night, poor little dude) he’d run screaming from the salty spicy medicine, and wouldn’t fall for the sugar trick — but amazingly, when I announced “medicine and sugar time,” the child came RUNNING to me with a huge grin on his face like he’d just won the lottery. He gulped down the medicine like a champ, swigged the water himself, then began changing “Su-gar! Su-gar! Su-gar!” till I ladled a bit into his mouth.  Naturally, my mind spun forward a bit, concerned that his ease of overcoming the Yucky Taste Barrier and downing this stuff for a cheap reward might translate into some unsavory teenage and young adult behaviors (err, tequila shot champion in the making?!  Please god, help us).  But, for now - eternally grateful for my little Dory’s easy distractability and forgiving memory!!! Vev, at that age and even now, would have NEVER gone along with this!

(is it just me, or do they even kinda sorta look alike, Dory and Dey?  No one else sees it?!  No one?!!!  Hmm...)

Anyway. In conclusion, it’s not normal for me to have something kind of bad happen, like the flu hitting one of my kids, but finding some good in the mess. But here I am, in spite of myself, awash in all the warm fuzzies.

1. I’ve got two healthy, happy kids, when many people have children with serious health issues and have to live their lives watching their kids sick and miserable all the time

2. my kids are growing up, becoming wonderfully independent, self-reliant, empathetic and helpful. But they still sometimes need me, and that’s nice too.

3. They both have such fun, distinct personalities.

4. I admit that it’s pretty awesome that my second kid is so chill. Love them both to bits, but if kid #2 has been more ornery and neurotic, I think that would have sucked. Having a chill kid #2 is a godsend.

5.  They frigging LOVE EACH OTHER.  It’s a goddamn brotherly love fest up in here.  

6.  Last but not least - the flu sucks, but it isn’t forever, and life will go on.  Soon, in fact.  And we’ll be onto the next adventure together.  Look forward to seeing what it’ll be!

[taesthetes]

roulette.

noun : a gambling game of chance.

he loves me, click, he loves me not, bang.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader genre: a sprinkle of fluff if you squint, angst type: assassin / mafia au word count: 1,221 words warnings: implied death author’s note: writer’s block really sucks, so here’s another choppy fic for the time being. thank you to @spoopyscapes for voluntarily sacrificing her man for this lmao

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The .357 magnum revolver lays on the table between you and Jungkook. It looks deceptively innocent as one bullet is hidden amongst the six chambers of the revolving cylinder. The warehouse with your rivaling members standing around the edges to watch this spectacle for their amusement and your punishment only adds onto the ominous atmosphere, air stilled for what’s about to come. Sitting on one side of the table, your eyes graze over the metal weapon before flitting over to meet the man’s in front of you, who is also mimicking your stance but in a much more rigid form. Your leader–Irene–stands behind him as his boss–Namjoon–holds his position behind you.

“Did you ever think it’d end this way?” he laughs humorlessly, his stare boring into you with such a burning feeling that you almost look away, but you force yourself not to.

“No.” Your eyes finally move away from his, and you stare at your hands, a simple, familiar circle of metal looped around your finger gleaming back at you. You quietly wrap your other hand around it inconspicuously, hiding it from the view of everyone else.

“So I guess you’re not really a computer analyst, and those late hours weren’t from crunching numbers, were they?”

“And you’re not really an IT guy, and your late hours weren’t from fixing computer viruses, were they?”

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips at your counter, and a tiny part of your heart begs for him to show the entirety of it just this once, one more time. You start to reach out for the weapon, hand barely brushing it, but he is faster, plucking the revolver up from the cold surface and shifting it between his hands before handing it to his leader. Namjoon positions the gun against the back of your head. Your eyes narrow slightly.

“It was already in my hand.”

“You weren’t quick enough.” He gives you a careless shrug, and you’re harshly reminded of the countless times the two of you went through the same conversation over the last slice of pizza.

“Still competitive, I see.”

“Just let me have this.” There’s an indiscernible, almost desperate look in his eyes, and you nod. He gives you a tired smile.

“We both fucked up, didn’t we?”

“Maybe just a tiny bit.”

His laugh echoes around in the warehouse, and it sounds hollow and lost, nothing like the sound you’ve been familiar with for the past seven months. Your fingers itch to reach out and wrap around his, looking for a false sense of security that somehow always seemed real with him even when you knew it wasn’t.

“Are you ready?”

“Is that really going to be your first question?” You offer him a tiny smile, and the way he looks at you after is so painstakingly reminiscent that you almost surrender right then and there. “But no, I’m not.”

“I’m not either.” His voice is barely above a whisper, the soft, yet baritone sound wrapping itself around you in wisps until it’s gone, and you cannot explain the inexplicable touch of solace that somehow finds its way into your heart.

Namjoon nudges the barrel against your head harshly, unlocking the safety with a loud, resounding click, as he barks out, “Ask a damn question already or I’ll blow all her brains out right now without waiting.”

Your heart leaps to your throat– not because of the weapon, but because of how Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours with a mixture of unwillingness, desperation, and something you cannot pinpoint.

“When did you figure it out?”

You pause before answering, “Two weeks ago. You came back to bed late that night. I got up to go to the bathroom, and I found some gunpowder residue on the shirt you threw in the hamper.”

He nods. You hold your breath and pray to the every single god you can think of. Namjoon presses the trigger, a slight maniacal glint in his eyes.

Click.

You exhale, your heart racing beyond belief. Namjoon unwillingly passes the gun to your leader. Irene roughly presses the barrel of the weapon against the crown of Jungkook’s head with a smirk. “My turn to have fun with you, lover boy.”

You can see the chambers of the revolver clearly, and a fleeting moment of relief hits you when you see that his is empty for now. You don’t know if you should consider it lucky or not Jungkook picked this gun for the game. Is it considered good or bad to be able to know whether or not you will be the recipient of the bullet? You can’t even bring yourself to count out the remaining empty chambers to see who will be the winner. 

You swallow harshly. “When did you figure it out?”

“Around the same time. I saw a couple empty casings when I accidentally knocked over your purse one day and tried to put everything back in it.”

Irene pulls the trigger.

Click.

She lets out a huff of disappointment before tossing the gun back to Namjoon.

“When I said I love you…”

An uproar from your and his members is heard on the outskirts of the warehouse, but Irene pulls out her firearm and shoots at the ceiling: a warning shot for everyone to be quiet. They all immediately settle down.

Jungkook’s shoulders shake, voice quivering in the slightest of vulnerability and his fringe falls over his eyes as he ducks his head momentarily. A few seconds later, he raises his head, looking you straight in the eye, any hint of a mask now gone.

“… Why didn’t you say it back?”

Your heart plummets through your rib cage and is buried six feet under. Squeezing your hands into fists until crescents form on your palms from your nails, you let out an unsteady exhale. Tiny droplets of tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away rapidly.

“Because I was afraid,” you whisper. “Because none of this is real. There is no us.”

Namjoon lets out a mirthful chuckle and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Growling in anger at the lack of blood splatter, he thrusts the gun over to Irene, sliding it across the scratched surface of the table, and she grabs it, putting it in position again once more much to her sadistic delight. You stare at the metal object in trepidation before closing your eyes temporarily as an influx of memory upon memory crashes onto you like a wave, all revolving around the man sitting in front of you.

“When you said you love me…” You open your eyes, taking a deep breath and clasping your hands tightly together, your eyes meeting his once again. “Did you mean it?”

The silence is overpowering as your question hangs in the air. A look of resignation and contentment is settling in his eyes. Confused, you search his eyes for an answer, and your gaze wanders until it finds itself fixated on the revolver, on the chambers, on where the bullet is now located.

There’s a jolt in your heart when you’re finally hit with the realization– why he suggested this game, why he chose this gun, why he insisted on going first.

The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly as Jungkook answers you softly.

“Yes.”

Bang.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

notification: it has been brought to my attention that my fic can be seen as similar to jimlingss’s fic, Russian Roulette. this was not my intention, and i did not know such a fic existed beforehand while writing this. i have talked to the writer about it, who is very kind and understanding. she is fine with my fic as the issue is due to us both basing our fics on the game of Russian Roulette, but our ways of executing the use of the same game in our fics are different. nevertheless, please read her fic as well!! it’s wonderfully written, and she sets a charged tone of emotion between the two characters so beautifully, and i love it.