#mission thread 2

[boundlesschaos]

Don't Awoo (350g Penalty) [July Mission Board]

As you brave the wilderness for more food, you hear the howl of wolves nearby. It looks like they’ve just brought down a massive buck, big enough to feed an entire pack… the hunger pangs return, gnawing at your empty stomach. When was the last time you had a proper meal? Do you have it in you to keep hunting for however many hours it takes, when there is food right here? Trying to steal from starving wolves is a big risk to take—you’ll become prey yourself if you’re not careful. But a deer that size could provide many meals to your friends and allies back in the monastery. You better act fast before the wolves devour every piece of meat. [Grants Lance +1]

In a world where magic brought light to inky darkness and heat to frozen lands, there was something fascinating about the creatures who did not have the means to cast such power. To have to turn to tooth and nail to fell their foes, to rely solely on body alone to determine their outcome...

Today, it would seem fate wasn't so kind to one. It was inevitable - the coordination performed by the wolves left little room for error. The game of hunter had ended as quickly as it began, and with their meal taken down, all the wolves had left to do was eat.

At least, that was the plan. But, as they would soon come to find, they weren't the only one in these woods. A predator would rival them, eyeing the fallen creature with intent, judging the size and make up of the creature.

Yes, this would do. As long as she was careful, she could enter, take what could and should be hers, and then be on her way. Things were not so simple, though. Just as she goes to fish a piece from the staving wolves...

She spots someone else making her way towards that same goal. She can't believe her eyes - of all the times to show up - but quickly, she finds the desire to press on. She would continue on in order take what was hers, and deny this person any right to the same.

All that was left was determining which her adversary would reach towards. Would it be their shared goal, or would she take arms against her now?

[mercenarymage]

It had been a long, long evening of work.

Hugh is thankful for the amenities here - frankly, he's not sure how he could handle the job without them. More than the grueling work, though, was his contractor. Again and again and again once more, he'd be told that the paycheck would be coming soon. You know, eventually. Promise, it's true!

...what, did the guy think that he had the savings to wait this long? Just the thought of his contractor's face brings a wrinkle to his forehead, a loud sigh filling the otherwise quiet common area.

Whatever, it's fine. It's probably fine. He'll give it two more days before giving him an earful. Check the contract first to make sure he's pointing out the bounds that he's clearly overstepping here-

Huh.

The sight stalls his thoughts, the gears coming to a sudden halt. It shouldn't be odd. He was supposed to be getting comfortable, had kicked his feet on the table after pulling a chair over to get a bit of shut eye. But something was there that shouldn't.

Something was there that should have been behind the dinner plates, right?

No, no, no. It can't possibly be the same. Plenty of people use this place for their needs. It's not unheard of for someone to bring a snack over and forget to eat it, right? Maybe something urgent happened, and they had to leave. Yeah, that's got to be the case.

Still, as he removes the granola bar from the table, an unsteady feeling begins to take home in his stomach. Did...the owners put this here? They'd talk to him if what he'd been doing was a problem, right?

(Was it really a problem?)

Hugh can't afford to let these what-ifs linger. Getting to his feet, he marches to the kitchen - where it should be, to confirm his suspicions. It's got to be coincidence. Work's got him overthinking everything. He really needs to go to bed.

He doesn't stop to consider what it meant to return to the scene of this crime. He just needs to know the truth.

If I Could Give It Zero Stars, I Would

[softerhaze]

hello.....yes im still in my bg3 hole...anyway, look at my fave evil little slut

[nellasbookplanet]

Actually loving how the different critical role campaigns exist in relation to themselves, each other, and the world at large, and how their different narrative structures ripple outward.

Campaign 1 was story driven. Not to say the characters weren’t deeply important and dynamic, but their growths were largely driven through and by the plot. They were on a mission and grew along with that mission, and as a mission driven archetypically heroic party they also left very few loose threads by the end.

Campaign 2, meanwhile, was more insular and character driven. Where Vox Machina traveled all over the world and planes outside the main setting of Tal'Dorei, the Mighty Nein largely stayed in Wildemount, allowing for a more intimate and political look at it’s cultures. Instead of story and characters revolving around plot, plot revolves around character. We only got to see Yasha’s tribe in the epilogue, because her growth didn’t require facing them. We didn’t face Uk’otoa, because Fjord’s arc culminated in embracing the Wildmother, not in facing his former patron. Similarly, while the entire Assembly was an antagonistic force, only Trent was dealt with directly, because he was the only one directly tied into one of the pc's arcs.

The larger world building let us know about Molaesmyr and Ludinus, about the Luxon, even about Ruidus to some extent, but the Mighty Nein weren’t a typically heroic party here to save the world and solve every mystery, but a group of broken people finding it in themselves to heal, and to end their journey ready to face greater threats in the future. They were still getting the Assembly and Uk'toa, they just weren’t doing it in the main narrative, because they were irrelevant to the growth of the characters. Of course, that also left a lot of threads hanging, which brings us to campaign 3.

By now, it seems pretty clear that campaign 3 is another plot driven story rather than the more meandering, character driven narrative of c2. That leaves the cast free to pick up on the many larger mysteries in world building left in the wake of the last campaign. What is the nature of the Luxon? Of Ruidus? Of Aeor and the aeormatons? Half the party was just plopped down not far from the ruins of Molaesmyr, Ludinus' former home - will they go there? One of them is tied to the Luxon and dunamancy, another to Ruidus and Predathos - will we get to know the true nature of these entities?

Much like c1, the characters of this campaign are driven and shaped by events rather than shaping their own events. The difference is, c1 began as a blank slate, whereas c3 has history. Powerful allies and enemies alike are tied to former campaigns because such is the nature of the world. Mysteries left to solve were introduced earlier but approached only now because this is a campaign whose narrative and characters are served by approaching them. The world is dynamic. Alive. One story merges into the next, and new heroes are born on the shoulders of the last, ready to be shaped by their own narrative.

[thefirstknife]

Interesting info from today's TWAB (it will never be TWID to me) about the Veil Log quest!

Veil Containment will continue being unlocked for the remaining three weeks of Season 21, and additional entries will unlock at the start of Season 22 and Season 23.

We have three more entries until the end of the season and then two more: 1 at the start of season 22 and 1 at the start of season 23. That will be a super painful wait. I can't imagine what this last entry could possibly be that it would be such a delayed tease.

The narrative team also acknowledged that they made the quest a little too secretive by trying to turn it into something players would have discover for themselves:

Narrative Team: The Veil Containment repeatable activity continues to tell the story of Neomuna’s history with the Veil as introduced in Lightfall. If you haven’t checked in with Osiris and Nimbus yet, you might not be alone. In wanting Veil Containment to be something discoverable, we went a little too far in one direction and made the activity hard to find, even for the lore-hounds interested in digging more into the Veil. (A lesson learned for any future content of this sort!)

And the rest of the stuff on the quest is soooo juicy and I believe they nailed the vibe they intended perfectly.

Writing the story of Veil Containment was an opportunity to dig into the cosmic horror side of Destiny. Creating the encrypted records of Ishtar Scientist Chioma Esi as she and her wife researched an alien force was a chance to bring the essence of things like the SCP Foundation and creepy podcasts like the Magnus Archives into Destiny.

Movies like Altered States and 2001 a Space Odyssey helped inform the tone of the messages you uncovered, all of which are underlined by the emotional story of Chioma Esi and Maya Sundaresh’s lives unraveling in the aftermath of the Collapse and their contact with the Veil. We’ve even seen some keen-eyed players noticing similarities between what Maya attempts with the Veil to what the Witness did in sacrificing its own people, and even what Calus did with the Crown of Sorrows and a pack of Scorn. Those threads and thematic recurrence are intentional guidelines anchoring us to related moments in the past, and help the curious delve into the deeper lore armed with a fistful of useful citations.

The bolded bit is really good! It's something that we've been discussing a lot. I haven't directly mentioned Presage much recently, but it's been on my mind too and I'm super excited to revisit it next season when it returns.

Another source of inspiration during the creation of Veil Containment was the relation between an outside observer and the concept of the Winnower mentioned in the Books of Sorrow. We wanted to explore the relationships people experience to cosmic, otherworldly forces beyond their understanding and how it tears both their own moral foundations and sense of self apart at the seams. As we’ve discovered with Osiris and Nimbus over the past few weeks, the Veil is a cosmic collective consciousness, a psychic network that spreads like a mycelial network through the universe. There’s intentional visual and thematic connections to Egregore there. But also, an allusion to the famous scene in Lord of the Rings where Gandalf warns Saruman about using the Palantir. “You don’t know who else may be watching.”

I assume it should say "Unveiling" instead of Books of Sorrow. Other than that, this is absolutely my fave. That last line gave me legitimate chills. The connections with egregore are important as well and I'm sure we'll get more mentions of that in the future. Again, Presage was our first real exposure to egregore so I'm happy to return next season. Technically, our first exposure to egregore was the Derelict, Drifter's ship, but it wasn't until Presage that egregore was identified and named (and deliberately connected to the same entity that we've previously seen on the Derelict). Really good summary of egregore lore if you want to dig a little! Also throwback to the (I think) first time I mentioned the explanation for egregore, back in February 2021 when Presage was hot off the press. Actually staggering to me right now that this was 2 years before Lightfall's heavy theme of collective consciousness and merging of minds and they already dropped hints to it back then. Wild stuff. Also take a look at Bungie's dive into making Presage (spoilers obviously for those that never played it).

Capturing that sense of foreboding unknown is a staple of cosmic horror. The moment where you realize that your role in the universe is a small one, that the universe itself may be uncaring, and things lurk in it that you have been blissfully unaware of. As our cast is pushed through these harrowing experiences, it also sets the stage for the future in The Final Shape and beyond.

So true bestie. I am absolutely thriving with this lore and development. Cosmic horror is literally the only thing that matters to me and the sheer scale of how this is presented in Destiny with the Veil, Veil Logs, the Witness and its origins and everything around that has been the best thing in Destiny lore for me tbh. I've always been most interested in researching Darkness and this exploration of it as a cosmic force of consciousness that drives people to incomprehensible actions and spreads like a mycelium network is an absolute blast.

[age-of-moonknight]

“Reese,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #1.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[leolgc]

A NEW START

@cherrylgc

the fact that cherry was finally working towards debuting in the same field as him, filled him with more joy then anyone could understand. cherry wasn't exactly his best friend, she wasn't his sister, and wasn't his lover. she was something completely different, and somehow he didn't know what to call it.

but he knew that he wouldn't want it any other way. today was the first day he had a workshop with her and he was determined to make it memorable.

"CHERRY!"

he shouted out seeing her not too far away. "congrats on finally joining the darkside!" leo teased pulling a small gift box from behind his back. "surprise!"

[sevenmothz]

Anyway, if you want to play a game with a genuinely really fan-fucking-tastic storyline, a custom protag you can play as you like (complete with a cast of characters you can boink), a really bitching world it all exists in with a lot of lore of its own, that is ALSO really fun to play, may I suggest Cyberpunk 2077?

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 2

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Azriel’s shadows liked to spoil his mate rotten.

Not that Azriel could find anything wrong with that.

She deserved more for putting up with him. 

More than new tea from the Dawn Court and her favourite chocolate covered, wafer thin cookies from a small bakery near the Sidra…more than the occasional embroidery thread they snuck her…More than whatever animal he went to go hunt, to cover his bed in even more furs just for her. 

He nearly had enough Sable furs to have a blanket made for her for Winter Solstice…

Azriel also had half a mind to go sneak in her office later that day. 

Just as a treat for not killing either of his brothers. For being civil. 

Rhys had come over for sparring, unnannounced. 

Azriel had hoped to have some peace and quiet today, but it seemed like Rhys had other plans. 

Currently Cassian and Rhys were wrestling with less sense than they had had when they were just kids, and Azriel was cleaning his weapons, watching from the sidelines.

Azriel couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight of his brothers roughhousing. It was typical of them to turn a simple sparring session into some kind of ridiculous competition. He focused on sharpening his knives, trying to ignore their antics.

"You know, we could also actually train properly," he called out, his tone dry. "Instead of wrestling like a bunch of children."

Cassian looked up from his grappling with Rhys, grinning. "Oh, come on Az. Don't be such a stick in the mud. Loosen up, have a little fun for once."

Azriel's expression remained impassive. "I'm perfectly capable of having fun, Cassian. But I prefer to do so without rolling around in the dirt like a wild animal."

Rhysand chuckled, standing up and clapping Cassian on the back. "It's good to let loose every now and then, Az. You should try it sometime. It might make your brooding sessions a little less depressing."

Azriel just grunted in response, not willing to engage in a verbal sparring match with Rhys. He continued to clean his weapons, hoping that the training session would end soon so he could escape his brothers' teasing.

“When did you even come home yesterday?” Cassian asked him.

Azriel looked up from his work, his expression neutral. "Around 11," he said simply.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Rhys pointed out. “You were missed.”

He highly doubted that.

And maybe he had made that mission in Dawn just a little while longer, so that he knew that dinner would be over and when he came home, he wouldn’t need to be alone.

Azriel just shrugged. "I was busy," he said, offering no further explanation. He knew his brothers were just trying to rile him up, and he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

*Are you still pissed of at me?* Rhys asked him mentally with a sigh. *I get it. But you don’t need to avoid everybody else, just because…*

*I’m not avoiding anyone,* Azriel replied, his mental voice tight. *I’m simply choosing to spend my time how I see fit.*

“I was busy,” he repeated aloud.

Cassian rolled his eyes. "You're always busy, Az. You know, there's such thing as taking a break once in a while. Spending time with your family."

Or he could spent time with his mate. He could spent time with his mate, who let him brush her hair and even braid it …who pressed kisses to his horrible scarred hands and smiled at him. 

If it was a choice between Irena or a family dinner where he didn’t want to stay longer than an hour or two, because he was still too fucking pissed off at Rhys…the choice was easy. 

“Or is there a special somebody?” Cassian teased him.

Azriel glowered at him. "It’s none of your business." He went back to working on his weapons, his expression tense.

*You can’t keep panting after Elain for the rest of your life,* Rhys said mentally. *Look, I know I didn’t…I am sorry. But she’s happy with Lucien and…*

*Don’t worry, I’ll go to a pleasure hall and pay for it if I want to fuck somebody,* Azriel shot back viciously.

Or his own hand would suffice. More than suffice, especially if…especially if Irena had let him kiss her the evening before…sometimes he waited until she disappeared into her room, and he buried his face in the pillows that smelled like her, fisted his cock and rutted like an untried boy for seconds before he came all over himself. 

It was still better than any other sex he ever had had before.

Cassian raised an eyebrow at him. "It sounds like you need to get laid," he said, chuckling. "Maybe that'll help with your bad mood."

Azriel shot him a glare. "Mind your own business, Cassian. My love life is none of your concern."

Rhysand gave him a sympathetic look. *We just want you to be happy, Az. You deserve happiness.*

“Ohhh, touchy,” Cassian said with a snort.

Azriel just gritted his teeth, his temper rising. "Cassian, if you don’t shut your mouth right now, I swear to the Mother, I’ll shut it for you."

Cassian just grinned at him. "Come on, Az. I’m just teasing you. Lighten up."

Azriel's grip on his weapons tightened. "I don't like your teasing, Cassian. And I certainly don't appreciate you making assumptions about my personal life.”

Mostly he just wanted his brothers to leave him the hell alone.

And then...then before he could say another thing...he felt the shaking.

And then the sound came. An eardrum shattering explosion, the very foundation of the House of Wind shaking. It was terrifying him.

Irena was down there in her office. Nesta was in there. 

He was moving before he was even thinking. 

*Merrill's office, Master!* the shadows screeched.

Azriel was already running.

Cassian hot on his heels, so was Rhys.

Azriel was faster, heaving shadows around his limbs as he rocketed down the spiral stairs of the House of Wind.

Level Two, Straight to the right. Clearly...Clearly the epicenter of the blast. Of the explosion…of whatever had happened.

He pushed as hard as he could, legs burning as he hurtled down the hallway to Merrill's office.

He wasn't the only one. "Merrill!" He could hear Gwyn's shrill voice screaming, coming to a stop in a hallway of what had once been Merrill's office but now was just...

It was a mass of wood and rubble.

He barely slowed down, scrambling into action. Gwyn was already digging through it, so where Nesta and Emerie. Cassian landed behind him, immediately moving some of the debris.

His shadows swarmed as he and the others quickly dug at the rubble. Looking, desperately looking.

He moved another piece of rubble out of the way...a piece of blue cloths. The same blue cloth that he knew covered Irena's body, the scent of poppies clinging to her...Without a thought, he grasped and then dragged, a hoarse shout that was her, that was her...

He felt as if he were choking, as if he were drowning as he dragged out her body. Bloody, bruised, broken but still...still there was a faint flicker, a faint, thready heartbeat.

His heartbeat pounding in his ears, he tried to pick up on her heart. There was barely a flicker. Too fast, too faint, she was barely holding on. Barely hanging by a thread.

There was blood pooling on her abdomen, dying the blue dress she wore bright scarlet red, He put pressure on that wound immediately, leaning on her with nearly all his weight, his fingers slick with blood. "Damn it, stay with me, love," he demanded sharply.

Azriel felt like he could barely breath. Like he was falling, tumbling down as he tried to will her to stay with him. Stay. Stay. Stay. Please stay. Stay...

Rhys was there suddenly, checking her pulse. "Breathing is erratic. She's in shock," he told Azriel with a grimace. "Mor is getting Madja..."

"Az..." her voice was so weak, but he turned to see dark brown eyes watching him, brows furrowing.

"Just keep breathing, Love," he told her, trying to stop his voice from shaking.

He could barely hear what was going on around him. It was as if he were in a bubble, a world of just himself and her and the desperate beat of her heart under his fingers.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"There is nothing you need to apologise for her, Irena," he promised her sharply. "Absolutely nothing."

Irena's eyes drifted shut. Azriel felt like something was dying inside him as her heartbeat fluttered against his fingertips. His world was collapsing, shattering into pieces as her breath stuttered.

"Stay. Just stay..." he was barely aware of what he was saying, his eyes frantically searching hers. She had to stay. He would do anything to keep her here. Anything.

"I am still owing you that flight," he told her. She hadn't let him take her flying yet. They had snuck away in the library...in the rooftop garden...in her office. But he had never gotten to take her flying. He had never gotten to take her out into Velaris. They had never had a date at a fancy restaurant, had never gone to see the symphony. There were thousands of things that he hadn't yet gotten to do with his mate, because they had all the time in the world.

Irena just stared at him, her eyes pleading, as her heartbeat slowed, fluttering weaker and weaker. Azriel felt a sharp pain in his chest as fear clawed at his spine. "Just hold on a little longer, love," he whispered. "Please."

And then there Madja. Thank the cauldron. There she was.

Azriel could barely manage to let go of her, his mind consumed with the singular thought of Irena's laboured, erratic heartbeat as he moved back. Madja immediately set to work.

He lunged for her head, lunged to pull it on his lap, to touch her with blood slick fingertips, her normally rosy red lips pale, her skin even whiter than usual.

"Hurts," she whispered, as Madja set to work, barking orders.

"I know, I know, love," he whispered, touching her cheek with his fingertips as Madja got to work.

His eyes searched hers as he murmured those words over and over, as if he could somehow hold her in this world through sheer force of will alone.

"We haven't had enough time," he whispered desperately, leaning his forehead against hers.

She was slipping away. He could feel it. Feel her slipping, feel her heartbeat slow. Feel the thread that tethered her to this world fray, fray, fray...

No. He couldn't lose her. Would not let her leave him. He had waited far too long for her. Far, far too long to let her slip through his fingers.

"Stay with me," he pleaded. "Please stay with me."

But her eyes were slipping shut, her head lolling to the side. He gently patted her cheek, trying to urge her back to consciousness, but he didn't think he was even really aware of what he was doing, where he was. The world had boiled down to a desperate litany, in his head. Stay...stay...please...don't you dare...

“I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight,” he told her fiercely.

He needed her to know that he would be there to be furious with her if she dared to die, that she couldn't die. Couldn't. That she had to stay. Had to keep fighting. There were too many things ahead of them...a wedding to plan, children to have, years and years of life to live.

“Az,” she breathed his name, her eyes not even open anymore.

“Open your eyes, Irena,” he demanded. “Look at me, love,”

Her eyes finally fluttered open at his command. It was barely more than a slither of brown, but he latched onto it, taking it for what it was. A chance. A moment to get through to her.

He wasn't sure what he was saying, but the words spilled forth from him, a litany, a desperate prayer. "Please," he breathed, "don't go...don't you dare..."

He was dimly aware that the others had gathered, but he didn't dare look away. Didn't dare look away from her as he cradled her head, trying to pour all of his prayers into those words. All of his hope and desperation.

"You can't go." A statement. An order. An absolute certainty in his voice. "I will not let you go."

He wouldn't. Would never, ever let her go. Would drag her back from the Cauldron's grasp with bloodied and broken hands if thats what had to be.

She didn't speak. Didn't need to. He could read her answer in her eyes, the determination in those brown eyes as she tried so, so hard to stay.

It was as if she were holding on for him, because he had asked her to. Because it was him there with her. Like she would fight until her last breath because he told her too. He didn't deserve this beautiful creature, who was willing to fight for him, willing to live for him.

It was something primal, something desperate, something fierce as he whispered those words over and over, like a prayer. "Fight. Fight. Fight."

And she listened. She did. He could feel her hold on, just barely grasp hold of that tether that kept her in this world. Just barely keep her eyes open.

Just look at him.

And she did, those dark eyes unfocused but open, staring up at him, watching him. Trying so, so hard. It nearly made his heart stop in the most terrible way that she was struggling for him.

And he was so proud of her. Of the way she was fighting like she was. Of the way she was grasping, hanging on to life like she was.

The seconds stretched too thin, feeling like eternities and only the slightest of moments. But her eyes were open, if only barely. She hadn't given up. Hadn't let go.

He was dimly aware of the others, Gwyn hovering with a worried expression, Madja murmuring quiet instructions to the others, Rhys kneeling not far away. But he barely glanced at them, barely dared to take his eyes off Irena.

He was certain that if he looked away, if he let this tenuous thread sever, that she would die. That as long as he kept her here, she wouldn't slip, wouldn't let go.

He had one hand on her cheek, her skin still clammy and pale, as her eyes slipped open and shut. But everytime, they would find his face. His eyes, like he was the only thing tethering her to the world. It hurt. Hurt so much to see her barely holding on, only that last sliver of determination keeping her here.

"Please," he pleaded, whispering those words like a prayer, like he would be praying to a vengeful god. Those moments felt like eternities, stretching on and on with only his desperate whispers. "Please..."

The world felt so still, so silent as if the world was holding its breath. Azriel's eyes locked on Irena, silently begging her, asking her to please, please...

Live, live live... he whispered those words over and over, a desperate plea to the Mother, the Cauldron, to anyone who would listen. To Irena, the only person in the entire world who truly mattered in that moment.

Her eyes were growing glassy, slipping closed only to jerk open again. Stay he demanded. Keep looking at me. Please.

She tried. Mother, she tried. Her eyes drifted to him, the smallest hint of life, of a spark there in those dark brown eyes.

He hardly dared to breathe, hardly dared to move. Afraid that any wrong move could tip her over the edge, could pull her into that chasm of non-existence that she was desperately clinging too.

He felt something pricking at his eyes, felt something in his chest cracking, breaking at the sheer intensity of emotions thrumming through him. It hurt. Hurt so much to see her like this, so pale, barely holding on, barely conscious...

“Alright,” Madja said quietly. “Good girl. You were so very brave.”

"Will...will she be alright?" He asked, voice hoarse.

He didn't let his eyes drift from Irena's face, her half lidded eyes staring at him. It filled him with such an intense pang of relief and fear at the same time. Relief, because she was alive...and fear, because they had been so close to losing her.

"She's not out of the woods yet," Madja warned. "But she'll make it. She lost a lot of blood. It will take some time to get her vitals stable again."

He felt like he could breathe for the first time. It was almost dizzying, the sheer, intense relief that flooded through him. Irena was here. Irena would live. It filled his veins with an almost drug like euphoria, that made him light headed, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

He barely managed to keep that feeling in, the pure euphoria from showing as he smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. "Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes finally dragging away from Irena's face to look at Madja. "Just...thank you."

He looked back at Irena, taking in her face. Alive. Still alive. Still here with him, not gone. The tension seeped from his shoulders, a strange sort of exhaustion taking over. As if all the adrenaline that had fueled him, the fear, was slowly draining out of him like water.

“Merrill,” Irena whispered, her voice near silent.

Azriel felt his fingers brush her cheek, just the gentlest touch as he tried to keep it together. It had been too close. Too, too close. He couldn't stop the overwhelming feelings flowing through him of elation and fear as he looked down at her as he looked down at her, alive. Alive and breathing and whispering soft words. "Shhh," he whispered softly. "Save your strength. Don't strain yourself."

He looked up finding Cassians gaze who just shook his head. Merrill was dead.

Azriel couldn't quite process that information, not in that moment. His eyes were still drawn to Irena, still unable to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. His fingers brushed her cheek again, just the faintest touch as he pressed a small kiss to her forehead. "Rest," he instructed softly. "I'll be right there.” He promised.

“Being here to her room,” Madja said quietly.

“My room,” he corrected.

The priestesses dormitory was locked from males. If he even tried to get in there it would’ve end well for him. And he wouldn’t leave her side.

“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply.

“Gwyn,” Rhys said quietly.Azriel didn't even acknowledge Gwyn's words, didn't have the energy. All he could focus on was the way Irena's eyes had drifted shut, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She would be alright. She was going to be alright. She was alive. Right now, in that moment, thats all that mattered.

“Az, how long have the two of you…” Cassian asked hesitantly.

Azriel just shrugged, his hand resting on Irena's hair, smoothing back from her face. “Two years. She’s my mate,” he said flatly as he gathered her up. 

“Mate,” she rasped. “Mine.”

“Yours,” he agreed softly.

[finelinevogue]

hi!! can I get an azriel fic where he and the reader had a fight before a battle or mission and then she is presumed dead so he spends his days spiraling with guilt and he misses her a lot and that stuff. And then when she makes it back he finally confesses his feelings to her and happy ending :) bonus if she's rhys' sister but not necessary. thank u so much and happy new year!!

please come back

thank you so much for your request - i hope this lived up to expectations since i’ve wanted to write a fic like this for ages 💫

word count - 1.6k

“Where is she?”

“Az.. We… We don’t—.”

“I said where is she?” Azriel bellowed, readying Truthteller for anything.

Rhys rubbed a bloody hand over his chin whilst Cassian hung his head low.

Rhys looked at Azriel with those deep violet eyes, conveying a whole conversation to him without having to use any words.

Truthteller dropped to the ground.

Azriel followed.

His knees let out an earth shattering crack as he crumbled onto the floor. His whole body went slack, his entire demeanour changing from how he had been seconds before.

How evil a few seconds could turn life into.

“No.” He whispered to the wind.

“Az…”

“No!” He screamed, spit and blood flying from his lips - blood from the battle which he didn’t feel like they’d won anymore.

Why had any of that been worth it?

Days of war and fighting, and for what?

The peace and safety of the Night Court wad restored once more, but was life worth truly living without his person living beside him? He couldn’t even comprehend the thought of figuring that question out.

He could feel the bond slipping away. That once golden-feel thread, rusting and greying away.

Azriel tried pulling on the bond with all he had, whispering pleads under his breath. “Please, please.” He pulled and pulled, but the void when nothing pulled back was too empty to deal with.

“I’m sorry, brother.” Rhys said, kneeling down in front of Azriel. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” Azriel looked from his blood-caked hands and into his brother’s eyes once more.

Azriel’s own eyes pooled with tears. He didn’t think he had any energy left to think, let alone cry and yet the tears would not stop falling.

His body rocked as his cries took over him.

He felt like the world was ending and he was ending with it.

He pulled that bond again, wishing for anything to give him a sign that you were at least trying to pull back - to give Azriel reason to believe you were still there - but all he felt was nothing.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

The sun was setting when Azriel woke up.

He sat up in your once shared bed, holding himself up by his hands behind him.

He looked from the setting sun to your side of the bed. He’d set up your pillows so it looked like your body was underneath the sheets. They had dents in from where he’d been holding them at night - trying to replicate the feeling of you.

He can’t believe you were gone.

Azriel took one of his hands and placed it over his heart, tugging at that thread - he wasn’t giving it up so easily. He could feel it still there, only it felt distant. Distant didn’t mean forever gone, though.

And so he pulled.

Every morning - or evening - he rose, he pulled.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

“You look…” Cassian started as Azriel entered the kitchen.

Cassian was sat at the table eating some bread and sauce - forever snacking.

“Handsome?” Azriel asked in a teasing voice

“You don’t want me to answer that honestly.” Cassian shook his head, tearing off a bit of bread and throwing it across the table for Azriel to catch.

Azriel caught it with one hand and immediately took a bite from it. It didn’t take an intelligent someone to know that Cassian was just trying to make sure Azriel remembered to eat, seeing as he kept ‘forgetting to’ recently.

Azriel hadn’t attended family dinner in 2 days - the battle having ended 3 days ago.

Cassian was impressed that Azriel was even out of bed - proud, even.

“Answer me this, then.” Azriel counter offered, “If… If you thought there was still a small chance the bond was still alive between you and Nesta, even though she’d… gone, would you pull it? Persue it?”

“Without hesitation.” Cassian nodded.

Azriel nodded in agreement.

“Why—.”

“It’s nothing.” Azriel shook his head, leaving the bread on the table and disappearing from the room once more.

“What a weird guy.” Cassian spoke to no-one as he dipped his bread into a spicy-red sauce.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

You looked peaceful.

Madja had dressed you in lilac robes - traditional to your homeland for your upcoming memorial service.

You were lying to rest in a room away from the main part of the House of Wind. You looked so beautiful. Your Fae skin had not yet withered or cracked.

“Hello, my love.” Azriel said, brushing the tips of his fingers over your cheek.

Azriel had been coming down to speak to you every spare moment he had, not wanting to miss a single second he had to watch over you.

“Are you ready to come back yet?”

He tugged that bond and he tugged it hard.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

It was the third morning.

Azriel was at his desk, writing away as he often did in the mornings. His diary was the one constant - other than you - that he had always known he could turn to each day.

Now with you gone, he–

Mor burst through the door, panting like she’d run up the steps to reach the House of Wind.

Azriel hadn’t noticed he’d dropped his pen and spilt the ink everywhere. Mor had startled him, but his shadows had calmed him.

Mor caught her breath long enough for her to speak two words.

“She’s awake.”

And that’s when he noticed he could feel it; the bond.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

Azriel was running faster than he had ever before.

He sprinted down the halls, apologising when he knocked over a vase but continuing nevertheless.

When he approached the end of the hallway that led to that door, he spotted Rhys speaking to Madja just in front of it.

Azriel slowed down his pace until he was actually apprehensively approaching the door.

He looked at Madja first, needing medical reassurance more than anything. If this was real, how did the Mother pull this off? He would owe his soul for this.

Madja gave Azriel a knowing look that made Azriel want to crumple to the floor and kiss at the feet of the Gods.

Madja, Rhys and Mor stood beside the door as Azriel didn't waste a single moment more waiting behind the doors. He pushed them open widely and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he saw your eyes open.

You smiled at him from across the room and he was done for.

Azriel's shadows went into a frenzy to reach you and you laughed as they hugged and tickled you, moulding around your body in a protective cocoon.

"I came back." You said.

Azriel nodded, not understand how this was even possible. How was this possible? Could Madja even explain this phenomenon?

"You.. You were..."

"I know." You nodded sadly. "I can't imagine how that must have been for you."

"I pulled on the bond every other moment." Azriel walked towards you slowly, careful to tread carefully in case he blurred the dream that he was sure he was dreaming.

"I know." You rested your hand on your chest. "I could feel it."

"You could?"

"I'm certain that you brought me back, Az."

His shadows met back with him but only because he was so close to you now. Close enough to be able to reach out and make sure you were real.

He brought a scarred hand up to your cheek, hesitating in case this was some cruel trick. His hand hovered where he wanted to cup your cheek, like he was internally stuck with choosing what to do next.

"It's okay. I'm here."

You moved for him and pressed your skin into his.

Azriel gasped as he felt how real you were beneath his own body. He quickly brought his other hand to cup your other cheek and greedily bring your lips close to his so he could seal this moment with a kiss.

The kiss poured all of his love for you back into him.

He felt that bond grow tighter in his chest, begging to burst out and fill the room with the endless happy that you brought him.

"You're here." He said between kisses, not letting you go for a moment.

"I am."

Azriel's kisses were hungry and desperate. It was almost like he refused to believe this was real and that he would lose you the moment he stopped. As much as you loved him and his kisses, you did need to breathe and so you reluctantly pulled away.

"No..." Azriel whined, desperate to pull you back.

You cupped his cheeks this time, grounding him to you. "Hey, sweetheart, I am here. I am right here. We have all the time in the world. I'm okay."

"We're okay." And he sealed the fact with another kiss.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

"Az, get off!"

You laughed as you tried to push him off of your side of the bed.

"You're too big." You grunted as you tried to move him off you, but he was too big of a lump of muscle to move. Of course you were only struggling to suffer - you actually quite enjoyed the feeling of him on you. If it comforted him then it comforted you.

"I am, aren't I." He said cheekily, like a teen Illyrian.

"Ugh." You rolled your eyes, but were glad to see he'd gotten his spark back. "I give up."

You stayed laid down, Azriel's body completely wrapped over yours and his legs intertwined with yours. His arms were wrapped so snug around you that you couldn't move even if you did want to. Seemed like he was attached to you from here until forever.

"Good." He said. "Now, let's sleep."

He gave one last tug on the bond before you tried to go to sleep and he was only comfortable enough to go to sleep when he felt you tug back.

[just-aake]

A Feline Connection Part 6

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha is confronted by someone from your past and faces a new troubling situation that requires her to find you.

Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Warnings: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, toxic relationship/emotional manipulation (not from Natasha)

Words: 4905

Natasha carefully rewraps the bandage around her bruised knuckles, her gaze drifting toward the night sky outside your apartment window. 

The faint glow of distant city lights only emphasizes the darkness around her, leaving her alone in the dim room.

She flexes her hand experimentally, wincing at the ache, but the pain is almost welcomed—a distraction from the raw, defeated feeling inside her. 

Her phone beeps in her pocket, and for a fleeting second, a hope flares within her. 

Hope that it was you. 

But when she pulls out her phone, the screen immediately dashes away that spark. 

Her heart sinks slightly, but she still answers the call as she makes her way to the kitchen. 

“Did you find anything?” Her voice still carries a thread of hope she can’t entirely hide. 

There’s a pause before Tony’s voice comes through, his tone uncharacteristically serious. 

“Sorry, Nat, the kid and I searched everywhere. There’s nothing left. The place has been stripped clean—completely abandoned. Same as last night.” 

Natasha closes her eyes, inhaling deeply as she absorbs his words. 

After being forced out, she had to regroup and call for backup. But by the time they returned to the site, it was as if the place had never been occupied. 

No trace of guards, no equipment, and worst of all—no sign of you. 

“How are you holding up?” Tony asks, his tone softer, catching the weight in her silence.

Natasha clenches her fists, testing the tightness of her grip. Her knuckles ache, a dull, persistent pain, but it barely scratches the surface of what she feels inside. 

“I’m fine,” she replies, her voice steady but carrying a tired edge. “Just some bruises.” 

Natasha sighs, her frustration and concern bleeding into her tone as she continues. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” 

Natasha glances toward the front door, where Widow sits, her little black form almost statue-like, staring intently at the door as if willing it to open. 

Her tail swishes softly, but her gaze remains fixed, waiting. 

“I’m going to stay here for now,” Natasha declares, her resolve solidifying. She reaches for a small bowl and fills it with water, setting it on the kitchen counter. 

There’s a pause on the other end, then Tony’s voice, understanding and resigned. 

“Alright. Take care of yourself, Romanoff. Call us if you need anything.” 

“I will,” she murmurs, ending the call as she heads toward the cat by the door. 

“Widow,” she calls softly with a gentleness reserved for only a few. 

The cat’s ear twitches in acknowledgment, but she doesn’t turn, her entire focus still on the door. 

Natasha watches her for a moment, a pang of sympathy tightening her chest. 

She crouches down, setting the bowl beside her as she tries again to coax her. 

“If you’re not going to eat, at least drink something,” she urges, hoping the cat will respond.

But Widow doesn’t move, her tiny body tense, her gaze unwavering as she guards the USB drive tucked protectively beneath her paw. 

Natasha reaches a tentative hand toward her, but Widow’s yellow eyes narrow, and a low, warning warning sound escapes from her. 

Sighing, Natasha withdraws her hand, understanding that the cat won’t easily surrender what you entrusted her. 

She glances at the USB, reflecting on the mysterious mission you had given to the little animal, who seemed so intent on completing it. 

The cat’s dedication and loyalty is admirable, but Natasha knows that this kind of behavior will only become more harmful to her the longer she waits. 

Still, she hesitates, feeling the weight of what she needs to say. 

Widow had held her stance for a full day now, refusing anything Natasha had offered. 

And as much as Natasha respects her determination, she can’t let the little cat continue like this, clinging to a promise that may never be fulfilled. 

Steeling herself, she leans closer, her voice soft but steady with reluctant honesty. 

“She’s not coming, Widow,” Natasha murmurs, her tone carrying the painful truth.

The reaction is immediate. 

Widow’s body stiffens and tenses, her eyes flashing with defiance as she finally meets Natasha’s gaze. 

A small, angry growl escapes her as she clutches the USB tighter, then pointedly turns her back to Natasha, ignoring her completely. 

Natasha sighs softly, feeling the sting of the cat’s rejection. 

She leaves the bowl close by, in case Widow changes her mind, then moves wearily to the couch. 

Lying down, she keeps her eyes on the cat, watching as the minutes drag into hours, the room settling into a quiet stillness. 

Eventually, exhaustion overtakes her, and she drifts into a dreamless sleep. 

It’s a soft nudge on her hand that wakes her. 

Natasha blinks, momentarily disoriented, and glances down to find Widow on the couch beside her. 

The cat's head is lowered as she lets out a sad, mournful meow. 

With a gentle motion, she pushes the USB toward Natasha, nudging it forward with a paw, her posture dejected. 

Ignoring the device, Natasha opens her arms in a silent invitation. 

Widow hesitates, then pads into her embrace, curling up tightly against Natasha’s chest. 

Natasha pulls her close, one hand resting gently on the small, trembling body, the other stroking her soft fur in an effort to soothe her. 

Widow had offered her comfort in countless moments since she had met the small animal, so Natasha’s grip tightens protectively, offering what little comfort she can in return. 

She can feel the cat’s sorrow in the small, heartbreaking whimpers that escape her.

The sad sounds eventually fade as Widow drifts into an uneasy sleep, her small body occasionally twitching, as if the dreams that find her are anything but restful. 

A pang of sympathy tightens in her chest, understanding the feeling the cat must be going through.

After a moment, Natasha’s gaze on the sleeping cat is pulled away when her phone on the table lights up, vibrating softly with an incoming call. 

Her heart skips a beat when she sees your name flash across the screen. 

Moving carefully to avoid disturbing the little creature, Natasha grabs and answers the phone, pressing it to her ear with barely contained urgency.

“Hey, where are you? Are you okay?” she blurts out, her voice low but charged with concern.

Silence greets her, stretching unbearably long, and Natasha’s unease grows. She’s just about to call your name when a low, mocking chuckle crackles through the line.

“You know, she had you saved under an hourglass icon,” an unfamiliar voice drawls. 

Natasha’s brows knit in confusion, a cold sensation settling over her as she realized this wasn’t you. 

“Who is this?” she demands, her tone sharp and dangerous. “Why do you have her phone?”

The voice lets out a thoughtful hum as if savoring her reaction. 

“Let’s talk,” the voice taunts. “One on one. Come to the address I sent you—if you really want to know.”

The line goes dead, leaving Natasha staring at the phone, a notification already lighting up the screen with a set of coordinates. 

She exhales, steeling herself as her gaze drifts back to Widow, still curled beside her, her tiny body twitching restlessly in her sleep.

Determined, Natasha slips from the couch, pulling on her jacket as she glances back one last time. 

The sight of Widow sleeping restlessly stirs her resolve. 

This stumbling in the dark can’t go on—not for her and certainly not for the cat. 

She leaves quietly, heading to confront whoever this mysterious stranger is.

The coordinates bring her to the entrance of an unmarked underground bar. 

A brawny guard stands watch by the door, his gaze impassive but sharp. He sizes her up briefly, then steps aside without a word, opening the door and allowing her in. 

The door closes behind her with a definitive slam, trapping her in the dim, smoky atmosphere of the room.

The bar is quiet, empty save for a single figure sitting casually at the counter, her back turned to her. 

Natasha’s gaze sharpens, taking in the woman’s straight posture and the aura of confidence that radiates from her. 

Jet-black hair cascades down her back, and a strange glint of metal catches Natasha’s attention—the unmistakable shimmer of a gold mask covering her upper face.

Natasha moves forward, her steps soundless as she approaches the counter. She sits two stools away, close enough to talk but keeping a cautious distance. 

The woman remains silent, seemingly content with the space between them, focusing on the glass before her. 

Another shot glass slides across the counter toward Natasha. 

She catches it mid-slide but doesn’t raise it to her lips, choosing instead to study the stranger beside her. 

The woman’s casual, almost indifferent demeanor betrays an underlying edge, a danger that Natasha can feel. 

The woman lifts her own glass, taking a slow sip, before finally breaking the silence without so much a glance in Natasha’s direction.  

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, a smirk lacing her words. “Afraid I poisoned it?”

Natasha furrows her brows, coolly setting the glass back on the counter as her response.

The woman glances at her before shrugging and pouring herself another glass. ​​The lightness in the air feels false, loaded with an unspoken tension. 

Finally, Natasha breaks the silence.

“You already know who I am,” she says evenly. “So who are you?”

The woman turns, the gold mask covering her upper face catches the dim light, casting her in a half-shadow that only sharpens the piercing gray eyes staring back at her. 

A smirk plays at her lips, and she leans in, resting her elbow on the counter with a relaxed yet predatory air. 

“Straight to business. I respect that,” she says, chuckling softly as she swirls the liquid in her glass. 

“My friends call me Whitney,” she continues, pausing to take a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down on the counter with a soft clink.

“My enemies? They know me as Madame Masque.” 

Her voice drops as she tilts her head, gray eyes narrowing. 

“So…which do you believe you are, Miss Black Widow?”

Natasha catches the faint edge in her words when she says her title, half-mocking with a hint of hostility that’s barely disguised. 

It’s clear this woman has her own thoughts about who Natasha is. 

“Seems you’ve already made that decision yourself,” Natasha says pointedly.

Whitney lets out a short chuckle as her fingers tap against the counter as if contemplating whether her statement is true or not.

Natasha’s gaze flicks down to the counter at her action before drifting to where a familiar device rests.

Your phone. 

Whitney’s eyes follow Natasha’s line of sight, her hand reaching over to take the phone. She handles it with a casual, almost mocking nonchalance that makes Natasha’s blood simmer as she’s reminded of how she doesn’t know your whereabouts. 

As if reading Natasha’s thoughts, Whitney’s lips curve into a taunting smile. 

“Don’t worry, she’s safe,” she says smoothly, raising the phone and pointing it toward Natasha. Her eyes glint with dark amusement. “But tell me, how much do you really know about her to care?” 

Natasha’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenching slightly as she meets Whitney’s gaze, holding back the irritation clawing at her composure. 

“I know enough.” 

Whitney’s laugh is soft, laced with an air of superiority. 

“Enough?” she echoes, as if savoring the word, rolling it around in her mouth with condescension. 

She brings the phone up to her lips, brushing them lightly on the edge as if placing a delicate kiss.

“That’s nothing compared to who I am to her,” she purrs, her gaze locked onto Natasha’s, a challenge in her expression. 

Natasha frowns slightly at the implication, piecing together the hints of what sort of relationship you and this woman may have shared. Though, she doesn’t let the idea shake her composure.

“Funny,” Natasha counters, her tone ice-cold. “You say you’re so important, yet she’s never mentioned you. Not even once.”

The barb hits its mark. 

Whitney’s smirk falters, just for a split second, before her expression hardens, her grip tightening on the phone. 

Her gaze sharpens with a flash of anger, but she recovers, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low murmur.

“Careful,” she warns, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “People have disappeared for less.”

Natasha meets her gaze head-on, the threat passing over her like a breeze. 

The silence stretches between them, tense and unyielding. 

Then, as if suddenly bored of the exchange, Whitney tosses the phone across the counter. 

Natasha catches it effortlessly, not breaking eye contact.

“However,” Whitney says, standing up smoothly and tossing her hair back over her shoulder, “That is not the purpose of this meeting.” 

Her posture shifts, deliberate and commanding, as she steps closer. 

Whitney’s presence fills the space between them, a wall of cold authority. Her gaze bears down on Natasha, sharp and assessing.

“This is your only warning—a courtesy if you will,” she continues, her tone chilling in its calculated calm. “In recognition of the…friendship you shared with her during her time away from my side.” 

Her words are laced with a venomous undertone, and her eyes narrow, each syllable cutting with a precision that makes her intentions painfully clear.  

“Stay away from my business,” Whitney demands, her voice dropping into a steely edge. “And stay away from her.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air, but Natasha remains calm, her expression steadfast. Underneath, though, a flicker irritation stirs in her chest.

It’s not the words themselves that bother her—it’s the way Whitney carries herself, the way she exudes control, as if she owns you. That smug arrogance, that predatory assumption of power over someone else’s life, is something Natasha knows all too well.

She’s spent her entire early life under the thumb of people like Whitney, people who believed they had the right to decide her fate.

Natasha recognizes the pattern instantly, and the familiarity sets her teeth on edge.

“She can make her own choices,” Natasha counters, her tone calm but firm, a subtle steel threading through her words.

Whitney’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. There’s something predatory in the way her gaze lingers like she’s savoring an unseen advantage. 

She arches a brow, her response almost mocking.

“Yes,” she says smoothly, “and tell me, whose bed did she choose to sleep in tonight?”

Even though Natasha sees through the obvious attempt to provoke her, her fingers still tighten instinctively around the sleek metal of the phone, the only outward sign of her restraint. Her jaw sets, the tension visible in the small but deliberate motion. 

Whitney catches the reaction, and the satisfaction in her expression is unmistakable. Her smirk widens as though confirming a victory. 

Without waiting for a response, she pivots on her heel and strides confidently toward the door, her heels clicking in the silence. 

At the threshold, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. Her voice drops to a whisper, low and laced with a chilling sweetness.

“You should forget about her,” Whitney murmurs, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Or else…she’ll hurt you even more than she already has.”

The words twist in the air, lingering like smoke long after Whitney disappears into the night.

Natasha remains seated in the dimly lit bar, the emptiness pressing in around her. 

As much as she tries to brush it off, Whitney’s parting shot reverberates in her mind, a shadow that clings to her thoughts, refusing to disappear.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It’s early morning by the time Natasha finally makes it back to your apartment. She slips in through the front door, her steps weary, her mind weighed down by the revelations of the night. 

As she enters, her boot bumps into the bowl she’d left for Widow, the water still untouched and the food uneaten. 

Natasha’s frown deepens as her concern shifts to the little cat. 

The absence of any sound or movement from Widow sends a flicker of unease through her. 

Moving quickly to the couch where she left her, Natasha feels her stomach twist as she sees Widow, lying in the same spot, seemingly untouched by the passing hours. 

But as Natasha leans in closer, worry edges into panic. She notices how shallow the little cat’s breathing has become, her tiny body rising and falling with only the faintest of movements. 

Natasha kneels beside the couch, reaching a hand to gently stroke Widow’s back, calling her name softly. 

“Widow?” Her voice is tentative, hoping for any sign of life, any flicker of response.

But there’s nothing. 

Widow doesn’t stir or twitch, only the faintest breaths giving away the fact that she’s even alive. 

Panic surges in Natasha’s chest, and without hesitation, she carefully lifts Widow into her arms. 

The cat remains limp, her tiny body almost weightless, as Natasha cradles her close, rushing toward the door and heading straight for the nearest emergency vet clinic. 

In the waiting area, Natasha’s leg bounces with anxious energy, her fingers wringing together as she stares at the clinic doors. 

Every time a nurse or doctor passes by, she looks up, her heart in her throat, hoping for news about Widow’s condition. 

The minutes crawl by, and then hours, the feeling of helplessness pressing down on her with each passing second. 

Finally, a voice calls out. “Ms. Romanoff?” 

Natasha stands instantly, her gaze meeting the veterinarian’s. 

The vet’s eyes widen for a moment, recognizing her.

“Oh, wow, it really is you,” the vet mutters, then clears her throat, refocusing and offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry—I meant to say, your cat is stable now.” 

“She’s not actually my…” Natasha begins to clarify, but then thinks better of it, shaking her head. “What was wrong with her?”

The vet gives her a curious look but remains professional as she continues. 

“We gave her some fluids for the dehydration. Other than that, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong. Her lack of movement was likely due to severe exhaustion and lack of energy.” She pauses and studies Natasha for a moment. “Has she shown any changes in eating habits recently? A loss of appetite?”

Natasha nods, the previous day playing back in her mind. 

“She wouldn’t eat or drink anything yesterday,” she admits, her voice tinged with guilt.

The vet shakes her head. 

“That’s not good for cats, especially one her size. Going without food or water for even a day can lead to complications—some of them severe—if it continues. Has there been anything recently that might have caused her stress? Emotional factors can have a significant impact on animals.” 

Natasha exhales deeply, her chest tightening.

“I might have an idea,” she says, her voice quieter.

The vet nods, offering a small, reassuring smile. 

“That’s good. Addressing the source of her stress is key. Cats are incredibly resilient, but the sooner she feels safe and secure again, the faster she’ll recover. She’s stable now, but we’ll keep monitoring her for the next few hours. After that, she’ll be ready to go home.”

“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, her voice tight with relief.

Sitting back down, Natasha releases a deep breath, a mixture of relief and lingering worry filling her chest. 

The most likely reason for Widow’s condition would be your sudden absence and the overwhelming sense of abandonment the little cat must be feeling. 

If Natasha wants to truly help her, she knows she’ll have to find you—and fast.

But that’s already a difficult task. She doesn’t even know where to start, especially now that she can no longer reach you.

She pulls out your phone, the screen lighting up with a photo of you and Widow, a rare moment captured in happier times. 

A soft, sad smile tugs at her lips as she studies the image, but it quickly fades as determination takes over.

Natasha swipes through the phone, scrolling through messages, contacts, and any notes that might give her a lead. 

As her focus sharpens, a small notification banner suddenly drops from the top of the screen—a reminder. 

Natasha’s brow furrows as she reads it, her instincts and training automatically kicking in. Her eyes narrow as she considers the information. 

It’s a long shot, but it’s her only lead.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha remains hidden in the shadows, her eyes fixed on the building across the street. The crisp night air chills her skin, but she doesn’t waver. 

Hours of waiting finally pay off as she spots a figure emerging from a rooftop window, their movements precise and practiced.

Natasha’s breath catches as she recognizes the silhouette.

You move with fluid grace, scaling down the side of the building as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. Blending seamlessly into the night, you pause briefly on the ground, scanning your surroundings. 

Natasha watches and follows intently, her heartbeat quickening. She takes a steadying breath and steps out of the shadows.

“Hey, can we talk?” she calls, her voice low but firm.

You whip around, your body immediately tensing as your eyes meet hers. 

Surprise flickers across your face for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced by a guarded, hardened expression. 

Without a word, you turn on your heel and dart into a nearby alley. 

“Damn it,” Natasha mutters, breaking into a sprint after you. Her boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, her heart pounding as she pushes herself to keep up. 

She can’t lose you—not again.

“Wait!” she yells, her voice echoing through the narrow streets. 

But you don’t stop. 

You dart through the labyrinth of the city’s back alleys, vaulting over debris, slipping into tight corners, and using every trick in your arsenal to stay ahead. 

Natasha grits her teeth, frustration mounting as the gap between you grows.

Just when it seems like you might disappear into the night again, Natasha yells, desperation seeping into her voice. 

“It’s Widow! She’s sick!” 

The words stop you dead in your tracks. You skid to a halt, spinning around to face her. Disbelief and fury war on your face as you close the distance in a blur of motion. 

Before Natasha can react, you slam into her, knocking her off her feet. The impact sends her sprawling onto the pavement, the air forced from her lungs. 

You’re on top of her in an instant, pinning her down with your weight. Your knees trap her legs, and your hands grip her wrists, holding her firmly against the cold ground. 

“What did you do to her?” you demand, your voice low and intense. Your face hovers inches above hers, anger radiating from you. Your eyes bore into hers, alight with fury and something deeper—fear. 

Natasha’s breath catches as she processes the sudden shift, but her calm never wavers. 

“I didn’t—”

“I can’t believe you’d do something like this!” you snap, cutting her off. “Hurting her just to get to me!” Your voice rises with each word, the accusation stinging like venom, your emotions boiling over into your words. 

Natasha struggles against your hold, her frustration mounting. 

“Listen to me!” she bites back, her tone firm despite the compromising position. “I didn’t hurt her! She’s sick because she won’t eat or drink anything since you disappeared!”

Your grip falters slightly, confusion flickering across your face. Natasha seizes the moment, her voice softening but retaining its urgency.

“She thinks you abandoned her,” Natasha says before continuing, her tone quieter but no less resolute. “She misses you.”

Your fingers loosen their hold on her wrists, the anger in your eyes giving way to guilt and vulnerability.

Slowly, you push yourself back, but instead of moving off her entirely, you remain seated atop her, your posture easing into something less confrontational as the tension between you softens.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. The bitterness in your voice is evident as a hollow chuckle escapes your lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot…you’re not the kind of person who would do something like that.”

Natasha props herself up on her elbows, her sharp gaze still studying you, though the edge in her eyes has softened.

“But Whitney is,” she says evenly, her words carrying a pointed weight. 

Your eyes snap to hers, widening slightly.

“How do you know about her?” you ask, your tone shifting to one of shock and apprehension. 

Natasha sighs at the memory of her encounter with Whitney, slightly regretting bringing the woman into the conversation.

She hesitates, but before she can answer, her gaze flickers to where you’re still straddling her, pinning her in place.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, a spark of mischief breaking through the lingering tension. 

“You know,” she drawls, her voice teasing as she tries to lighten the mood, “if you’re planning to keep me in this position much longer, at least buy me dinner first.” 

The unexpected quip catches you off guard. For a moment, her words hang in the air before a soft laugh escapes you, easing the remaining tension.

Natasha feels her heart quicken at the sound and the shift in your expression, relieved to see the shadow of a smile on your face, even if it might be fleeting.

But then your smirk returns, playful and familiar, as you lean down slightly, closing the space between you, your face hovering just above hers.

“Does this affect you that much, Miss Black Widow?” you ask, your voice lowering as you draw out her title, teasing her the way you often do. 

Natasha’s breath catches, her heart practically pounding now.

Unconsciously, she leans closer, her lips parting slightly. Her gaze flickers to your mouth, lingering for just a fraction of a second too long as she remembers the last time those lips had touched hers.

Something in her gaze must have surprised you as your eyes widen slightly, as if just noticing the intensity of how she looks at you and seeing the possible depth and truth of her feelings for you.

The realization shakes you, bringing you out of the moment. Blinking, you pull back quickly, the teasing edge in your expression vanishing as the weight of the realization sinks in.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, though even you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for—crossing a line, or simply acknowledging what you cannot reciprocate right now.

You lean back and plant your hands on the ground behind you to give her space.

Natasha blinks, as though snapping out of her own thoughts, and shifts slightly, reclaiming her composure as she remembers the boundaries you’ve placed between yourself and her.

Her expression flickers briefly, something unreadable passing over her face, before she clears her throat.

She sits up smoothly, brushing off her arms and legs as if the act might rid her of any lingering emotions.

“It’s okay,” she says quietly, her voice steady, though there’s a faint undercurrent of something unsaid, something painful.

You shift back further, leaning on your hands for support, as you exhale deeply, rubbing the back of your neck.

“How do you know about Whitney?” you ask again, this time quieter, more cautious.

“We talked,” Natasha says, her tone neutral but pointed. “She made it pretty clear how much she doesn’t like me meddling in her business…or with you.”

A shadow crosses your expression, and you let out a low sigh, your gaze flickering between her and the ground. 

“She shouldn’t have done that,” you mutter.

Natasha tilts her head, studying you carefully as she wonders about your relationship with the woman. She pushes herself to her feet and steps closer, her gaze locking with yours as she reaches her hand out to you. 

“Come back with me, please,” she says after a moment. “Widow needs you.”

You hesitate, the conflicting emotions playing out on your face, but Natasha holds your gaze, steady and unwavering.

Finally, your hand raises tentatively toward hers. 

But before you can close the gap, a sharp kick slams into Natasha’s side, sending her stumbling back. She rolls to her feet smoothly, her sharp gaze snapping at her attacker.

“I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself,” a voice warns coolly.

Natasha straightens, brushing herself off as she locks eyes with Whitney.

The woman strides forward with predatory grace, pulling you to your feet. 

You avoid Natasha’s gaze as Whitney wraps her arms around you from behind, her chin resting possessively on your shoulder.

“She’s mine,” Whitney finishes, her tone dangerously low, laced with a chilling confidence.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her green eyes narrowing. 

“For someone so confident in that fact, you seem awfully insecure whenever I’m near,” she says, her words meant to provoke the woman.

Whitney’s expression hardens, her gray eyes flashing with anger. She makes a move toward Natasha, but you turn in her arms, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to stop her. 

Your other hand gently tilts her face toward yours, redirecting her attention.

“You promised you wouldn’t,” you whisper, your tone calm but firm. You lean in, pressing your forehead lightly against hers, as if grounding her.

Natasha’s chest tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar sting of pain settling in her heart. Her hands clench at her sides as she watches the exchange, feeling both helpless and infuriated.

Whitney holds your gaze for a long moment. Finally, she sighs, her lips curving into a slight smirk as her eyes flick toward Natasha. She seems to notice Natasha’s clenched fists, her smirk deepening.

“See?” Whitney says lightly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “I told you she’d only hurt you.”

Your eyes flash with a pained expression at her words. Still, you refuse to meet Natasha’s gaze.

With that, Whitney pulls you closer, turning to lead you away, leaving Natasha standing in the shadows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

a/n: I know, updates on both series in the same week surprises me too, it probably won’t happen too often but we’ll see. Again, thanks for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it or if the tag did not work for you, please let me know.

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[sleepingdiaryzzz]

so yandere young justice (platonic if possible if not then normal yandere will do) x reader with very strong psycick powers and has to keep their emotions in check but to do so they act cold and thus treets and thinks of the team as coworkers like the ones that you do not like, (cuz reader is only on the team so the JL wont constantly bother them) now I want the team to think reader is a piece of shit in the start but then they witness reader showing kindness to a kid controled genlte kindness, now young justice will think why do they not get this kindness why does reader hate us why why WHY, and thus an obbsession would form and eventually delousion with the memory of reader helping the kid being twisted into reader helping them showing that gentle kindness that they oh so wish to have.

(That became a ramble but I think there Are 3 patos we can go for why the JL bothers reader here, A the JL Are becoming yandere for reader, B reader is so powerful that they could easily pull mountains out off the ground, rip giant ships out of space or rip it spart in space (this reader is very inspired by star killer from starwars) or option C its a combo of the 2 previously mentioned.)

Yandere young Justice x reader

The day you joined Young Justice was a day that would forever be etched into their minds, though not for reasons anyone could have anticipated. You stood before them with an expression so blank and emotionless it felt like you were looking through them, not at them, as though they were mere shadows rather than people. Your tone, flat and detached, set the stage for what would come to define your presence among them.

“I’m not here to be your friend,” you said, voice calm but cutting, each word sharp enough to slice through the fragile threads of camaraderie they’d hoped to extend. “I didn’t choose to be here, and I don’t want to be here. This is strictly business.”

The room had fallen into a stunned silence, the team exchanging glances filled with confusion, irritation, and a faint flicker of disbelief. Wally, never one to keep his opinions to himself, had scoffed loudly and leaned back in his chair, the movement exaggerated as though he needed everyone to see just how unimpressed he was.

“Well, that’s one way to introduce yourself,” he said with a roll of his eyes so dramatic it could’ve been mistaken for an acrobatic stunt.

Artemis, who was never far behind when it came to expressing her disdain, crossed her arms and gave you a once-over that screamed skepticism. “Let me guess,” she said with a sneer. “You’re one of those people who thinks teamwork is for suckers, right?”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t react at all. Instead, you regarded her with the same detached indifference you seemed to have for everything around you. “I’m here to complete missions,” you said simply. “Whether you like me or not doesn’t matter. Just stay out of my way.”

If you had thrown a punch, it would’ve landed softer than your words. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on, and though no one said it outright, the unspoken consensus was clear: they didn’t like you, and they didn’t trust you.

But that suited you just fine.

From the very beginning, you were an enigma wrapped in steel.

Mission after mission, you fulfilled your role with precision and efficiency that bordered on inhuman. Where others might falter or hesitate, you moved with unwavering confidence, your psychic abilities tearing through obstacles like they were made of paper. You were power personified, a force of nature contained within a vessel that seemed utterly devoid of humanity.

It wasn’t that you were incompetent—far from it. Your skills on the battlefield were unmatched, and your ability to assess a situation with cold, calculating precision often meant the difference between success and failure. But outside the chaos of combat, you were a ghost. You spoke only when absolutely necessary, offering clipped, impersonal responses that left no room for connection or understanding.

It didn’t take long for the resentment to set in.

“Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?” Robin had snapped one evening after a particularly grueling mission, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. His mask couldn’t quite hide the anger burning in his eyes as he stepped closer, his frustration practically radiating off him in waves.

You had barely spared him a glance, your tone as indifferent as ever. “I did what needed to be done,” you said simply, as though the conversation bored you.

“Yeah, and you ignored the rest of us while you did it!” Wally interjected, his voice rising in pitch as his frustration spilled over. “It’s like you don’t even care if we live or die, as long as the mission gets done!”

For a brief moment, your gaze flicked between the two of them, your expression unreadable. Then, with a shrug that spoke volumes about how little their opinions mattered to you, you turned and began walking away. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Your words left them seething, but they didn’t follow. They couldn’t.

Because deep down, they knew they wouldn’t get through to you.

In truth, their accusations weren’t entirely wrong. You didn’t care—not about their opinions, their feelings, or their endless attempts to drag you into conversations that didn’t concern you. You didn’t care because caring was dangerous.

Your power wasn’t just a gift; it was a burden, a constant weight pressing down on you with an intensity that would’ve crushed anyone weaker. Every emotion, every flicker of feeling, threatened to unravel the fragile control you’d built over the years. A single moment of anger could rip a building from its foundation, a fleeting surge of fear could crush the air from someone’s lungs, and a whisper of sorrow could unleash a psychic storm capable of leveling a city.

So you didn’t allow yourself to feel.

You buried your emotions beneath layers of apathy and detachment, locking them away where they couldn’t hurt anyone. It was easier that way. Safer.

But the team didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

And so, they labeled you as cold, unfeeling, and selfish.

You didn’t correct them.

Everything changed during the mission in Qurac.

The objective had been straightforward: neutralize the alien technology that had been manipulating a local village into violent hostility. The team worked as a unit, moving through the conflict with practiced efficiency, their movements honed by months of training and experience.

You stayed on the outskirts, your psychic energy swirling around you in a tangible aura of power that seemed almost alive. You tore through the enemy with ease, dismantling their defenses like a child breaking apart toys.

But then, amid the chaos, you found him.

A boy, no older than five, huddled beneath a crumbling pile of rubble. His body shook with silent sobs, his tiny hands clutching a broken toy as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you hesitated.

Slowly, you knelt before him, your movements deliberate and measured, as though afraid any sudden motion might scare him further. “It’s okay,” you said softly, your voice a gentle whisper that barely carried over the noise around you. “You’re safe now.”

The boy looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, his small frame trembling as he clung to the remnants of his shattered world. Carefully, you extended a hand, your psychic energy weaving around him in a protective cocoon that shielded him from the chaos.

“I won’t hurt you,” you promised, your tone softer than anyone had ever heard it.

The boy hesitated for only a moment before reaching for you, his tiny fingers wrapping around yours with a trust that made something in your chest tighten. As you lifted him into your arms, your energy wrapped around him like a blanket, cradling him with a tenderness that felt foreign yet instinctive.

“It’s going to be alright,” you murmured, holding him close.

You didn’t notice the team watching.

They couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The image of you holding that boy, your voice filled with a kindness they’d never heard before, played over and over in their minds like a loop they couldn’t escape. It was so unlike the version of you they thought they knew, so completely at odds with the cold, detached figure who treated them like insignificant coworkers.

For Wally, it became an obsession. He replayed the memory in his mind constantly, dissecting every word, every gesture, every flicker of emotion. He wanted—no, needed—to see that side of you again. But this time, he wanted it for himself.

M’gann’s thoughts took a different path, though no less consuming. She convinced herself that the kindness you’d shown wasn’t an anomaly but a glimpse of your true self, buried beneath layers of pain and fear. “You do care,” she whispered to herself, clinging to the thought as though it were a lifeline. “You just don’t know how to show it.”

Even Robin, the logical and analytical one, found himself unraveling. He began watching you more closely, searching for cracks in the facade you’d built around yourself, desperate for another glimpse of the humanity he now believed was hidden beneath.

They all wanted the same thing: you.

And as their obsession grew, so too did their desperation.

(A/n: it's lacking smth idk what but I tried making it platonic but I think I went overboard and kind made it into romantic??? Please Tell me if I did and be honest 🙏🙏)

––TAGLIST!

@maicenitas

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. "yes sir." : 

﹙ top admiral boss x bttm male rookie reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

﹙ kinktober : authority kink ﹚admiral ˖ boss ˖ spy ˖ assassin character . . . rishen 1311 x male reader !! 🍒 : 

you had the nerve to speak up during a meeting with your admiral and boss. typically he would have appreciated the guts - if what you had said wasn't 1. the most dumbest thing he's heard and 2. you didn't have audacity to challenge him. 

﹙ cws ﹚: authority kink ˖ office sex ˖ lots of degradation ˖ use of vibration ˖ spitting ˖ severe edging ˖ implied oral | wc : 1.2k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: this man is soooo

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

The low buzz of the vibrator around your dick has your head looping already. Eyes wide while desperate gasps and pants proceed past your lips.

“Well,” Rishen sighs, leaned back against the table, with his cheek resting against whitened knuckles, that clench together each time he watches your dick twitch from the vibrator. All before a button is pressed and it slows down once again, leaving you high and dry. Crying out in frustration.

“By now, you should have learnt your lesson. But you still want to be a fucking patético, tonto idiota.” ( pathetic, dumb idiot ). With a small eye roll and an adjustment in stature, he moves over to you.

His gaze is full of faux pity and clear disappointment. The pleasure it is to be able to make the Admiral of Aegis so angry. Who knew you had such capabilities huh?

Smartmouth words had always brought trouble, it was no different this time. If only he’d touch you, or make you touch him in any way. And yet, all you could do was buck your hips helplessly to find friction in the painfully slow vibrator, and puck your lips at him.

As if that would do much.

“Poor thing,” he tuts. Leaning over your kneeling form on his pristine, black office flooring. Soon to be stained white - if he’d let you.

His tall figure casts a shadow over you. A reminder of who is above you right now. Who is always above you; in every way. His face swarms your vision, yet never leans down enough for you to reach up and kiss those deep red lips as you wish. Instead you can only run your tongue over yours. Dream of the sweetness of his tongue.

A violent buzz rips you out of your little daydream. Your head tosses back and your dick throbs around the tip. The whimper that you let out is most desperate, most depraved, as your hips chase the pleasure by bucking up rapidly. A rise from below. In your tummy - a knot —

And then nothing.

Nothing but a low chuckle. As the vibrations slowly wear off and an elegant, strong hand threads over your head. Before curling into whatever it can and yanking your head back. So that your spine arches and your teary eyes are set on him.

“To think. A mere rookie - challenging me in my meeting.” The click of his tongue emulates the look in his eyes. Indeed, you had actually managed to anger the Admiral.

“Questioning my decisions. You barely have a year behind your name.”

The front of his red high heel presses up against your clothed, vibrating crotch. He remains ever as rigid. Even when his thumb pokes past your lips and pushes at your mouth.

“Open.”

And you readily comply. Like you should have done during earlier’s mission. Instead you simply had to give your two-cents-worth. Now here you are. Bound, throbbing and humiliated by your superior. Who takes his well-deserved apology by keeping you on edge.

Your open mouth receives a well-aimed spit. The whining noise from the back of your throat only earns his shoe to grind up further into your crotch. All while he forces your gaze upon him.

Sharp, narrowed eyes and deep maroon irises that glare down at your pathetic form. Jaw tight, brows narrowed. Backlit by his large office window that faces the night city. Even in this state of control. . . he is beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

“Now. Who are you?”

“J-Just a rook - ah,”

The sudden surge in vibrations makes your mouth fall open. The just as quick drop in-turn has you crying out in desperation as you needily buck into his shoe. Tears pricking at your eyes from frustration and need.

“Just - just your pathetic r-rookie. . . Sir.” Your sob seems to sate his irritation. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone.

“There we go. Good boy.”

Groans bounce on and off the walls of the office. He hadn’t put the silencers off, to humiliate you more in that case. You knew nothing of that, yet. It would ruin the fun.

His shoe grinds down against your crotch a little harder than before and when a choked moan rips through your lungs, his index and middle fingers glide into your mouth for you to suck on them.

It took everything in him to deny his own desire to fuck you straight into the floor. Force your legs open and give you what he wanted. But, he is a master at his own stubbornness. You best crumble before the action passes the thought.

“Look at you, messy.” The condescending chuckle shoots straight down to your throbbing cock, while you gag on his fingers. Trying your hardest and everything to stay composed and hold yourself together for just a bit longer.

Everything within is like a mush of arousal, desperation, frustration. Mixes and hues of your own irritation, something that burns in the same kind of passion as what lies beneath your superior’s heart.

You never get what you want unless you act good, but you get this when you act bad. Time with him is time with him, isn’t it?

The anger you feel when he dominates you is so very oddly addicting. Frustration handled by rough touch and manhandling, there is no hesitance nor pity. You see the sadistic glimmer in his eyes.

It’s arousing—

Another pang of pleasure rushes through you. And suddenly, the knot begins to form within your stomach once more. The need to let it recoil and let yourself go.

“What’s my name.” The Admiral sneers above you, pulling the pair of digits out of your mouth, departing it with a string of saliva clinging onto them.

“M-Mr. H-nhgh Mister Herrera.” You moan out. Shivering as you watch satisfaction cover his features. While his foot presses against your sensitive cock once more and the vibrator speeds up further. Your poor dick leaking and spurting with cum in your pants.

“Louder.”

“M-Mister H-Herera! Mister Herrera!”

Your sob bleeds through the room. You can feel it. Your release right on the edge. Tummy twisting and knotting. Knees trembling as you throw your head back and roll your hips forward.

Alas, everything is ripped away when the vibrations stop altogether. Mind buzzing like the toy previously was as your tip leaks. Crying for stimulation. To be pushed right there.

Your teary eyes meet his glare and you choke a sob. Shoulders shaking as you messily attempt to grind into the floor. A slew of ‘no’s’ and ‘pleases’ leaving your drooling lips.

His hand slips to the back of your collar and gives it a harsh yank. Timing it with his graceful perch upon his chair. Your face is shoved to his pants-covered crotch. Your lips so perfectly opening right over his bulge as you pant and cry.

The groan that leaves him has your nerves on fire. His fingers stroke along your head before gripping at the back of your neck. Those deep eyes seem scarlet this time as they peer down at you with a certain menacing stature. The shadows of his office only make the imagery of his face so much more domineering.

“Go on, pretty boy.” Rishen grunts. A finger lightly tapping on your lower lip.

“Do what you’re worth. Suck.”

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[lostgirlinthewoods]

CRAZY STUPID LOVE | park wonbin smau

pairing. guitarist!park wonbin x athlete!fem!reader

synopsis. lee y/n, a competitive swimming athlete, just wants to finish her degree as a scholar. no drama. no distractions. and certainly, no romance. park wonbin, a music prod student and the siren’s guitarist, just wants to make music. no crazy fangirls in line to date him. no insane dms from random people declaring their love for him. and certainly, no dating. imagine the shock on y/n’s face when she received a message from her brother, anton, asking “since when did you and wonbin started dating?”

genre. social media au, college au, fake dating, fluff, crack

status. ongoing.

start: 25/06/2024 → end: ________

notes. this is my first smau, so be easy on me. this is gonna be my first work in this blog after 2 years before i decided to abandoned it to move. i just really love riize and my mind is itching to do something about it. ignore timestamps unless otherwise stated.

taglist. open. send an ask or reply to this post.

© lostgirlinthewoods. Do not copy, steal, or translate any of my works. 

profiles.

01. chlorine squad 02. pull it back that siren 03. girls only

chapters.

01. saturday gig 02. chanyoung's older sis 03. corner cafe 04. secretly a nerd?? 05. wonbin the black cat 06. lunch 07. hangouts 08. y/n's tiny little crush 09. rumours 10. twitter thread 11. anton's text 12. we are dating 13. how to boyfriend 101 14. so in love 15. im just a cat 16. swim meet literally 17. twitter thread pt 2 18. eunseok's pov 19. should we break up? 20. y/n and wonbin's break up mission 21. the joe alwyn to his taylor 22. 23. 24. tba...

meme and reaction pics archives. (will upload after i finish the series)

taglist. (closed. reached maximum mentions allowed.)

@molensworld @wonychu @yoursyuno @siuewnb @gyehyeonist @binoyu @secretiny @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @seokton @fae-renjun @nujeskz @i03jae @daegale @kyusqult @riki-shenanigans @revehosh @nctrawberries @wonbins-black-cat @parkwonbinie @saranghoeforanton @tommina @chuutaroo @000rpheus @p-d1ddy @starwonb1n @ikiqui @taroddori @blossominghunnie

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@onlyhyunjin @adoresoapy  @donutswjam @dearestjake @icyona

asks. for any thoughts, messages, and feedbacks; or even just for a conversation.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

listen

summary: you’ve been serving frankie and his friends at your bar for months. despite your wishing and wanting, the shy pilot doesn’t work up the nerve to ask you out before santi introduces you to his buddy, joel.

swept off your feet by the sweet southerner, and charmed by pope, the boys come together to show frankie exactly what it is he’s missing.

read part 2, watch, here

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, voyeurism, exhibitionism, maybe MFM?, sharing the luuuurve, praise kink, one (1) count of spitting in mouth, dirty talk, daddy kink (heavy, sorry lmao), oral (f&m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), creampie, come eating, pussyjob?, so many orgasms i started to lose count, maybe a tiny bit of angst, m!masturbation, light choking, f!overstim, bad spanish, right okay we’re done.

wc: 14.7k. we aren't gonna talk about it.

an: this is fucking filthy. i’m sorry. don’t ask.

When you first started to hang out with them all, Will told you that Frankie was useless with women. What you didn’t expect was for him to be this fucking oblivious.

You had been bartending when you met him at a bar downtown - all industrial steel, burnished mirrors, and low light. Frankie and the boys would come in every so often, and you warmed to them immediately. It was hard not to. The four men were always respectful, always polite. They never overstayed their welcome, or their tolerance, and always asked how you were. 

Of course, it helped that they were also handsome, and you quickly fell into the trap you were sure they wove for all hospitality staff. The lingering glances from their table, the crooked smiles at the bar. The competition they seemed to enjoy amongst themselves of who could lather you with the most attention.

Will and Benny did particularly well. The elder brother saved a special, particularly mischievous smile and a wink for you every time he came to order, and saved a special, bruising elbow to the ribs for his brother every time he caught Benny staring. Benny was always a hoot considering his sore ribs, the air never seeming to have been knocked from him as he chatted away to you across the polished wood.

But it was the quieter two, Frankie and Santi, who piqued your curiosity. Santi - often cool, detached; who offered little information in the way of his life but seemed to want to be wrapped up in yours. Who would watch you over the rim of his glass of whisky, drop his eyes to your lips, dip his mouth in a smirk, and say he’d see you later. And Frankie, who could do almost nothing but watch you from his corner of their booth, his Standard Oil cap sunk low on his brow, both hands around his bottle. His deep swallow when you’d catch his eye. The blush that would crawl up his neck, threading through his cheeks when you smiled.

Over the months they came to the bar while you worked there, the five of you became friends of sorts. Once in a blue moon turned into once every two weeks, turned into every Saturday night. And you made sure you were always there, sacrificing the time you would have spent surfing social media on your sofa for time spent flirting with your favourite regulars. Enjoying their eyes on you. Enjoying Frankie’s blush when you called him sugar as you asked if he needed anything else. 

One day, you hoped he’d gather enough courage to give you the answer you hoped for.

You.

But he never did.

When the time came for you to move on from the bar, you made sure to let them know. Your new job further into the city was a step exactly in the direction you wanted to go, and though the men shared touching groans of disappointment, they congratulated you wholeheartedly. 

They also invited you to their Saturday night drinks. You gladly accepted. 

On your last shift, Will slid you Frankie’s mobile number, explaining that he was the most reliable member, the one most likely to know what was going on with the group at any given time. When you ribbed him about how he must always be on his phone, Frankie shyly admitted it was because he had a daughter. He was constantly on the lookout for updates, sweet little pictures and messages his ex would send over. They had a good relationship, and his kid - Lucia - was gorgeous. They just live a little far away, Frankie had admitted, a sad little frown glazing over his features. 

You had softened to him even more, asking him questions about his daughter over the bar while you poured his drinks, propping your chin in your hand and listening to him as he continued to talk after you were finished. You found yourself trying to make Frankie laugh, to hear his sweet chuckle, to brush a touch against his arm, see the sparkle in his eyes beneath his cap - similar, you imagined, to how your own eyes glittered back at him. 

The conversation only stalled when Benny called for him - Fish, where are those drinks? - earning himself a thump from Will, who muttered something about Frankie finally finding the courage and Benny’s big fuckin’ mouth. Frankie’s cheeks had heated, and he'd cleared his throat, thanking you before gathering all the drinks in his large hands and heading back to the booth.

What you had overheard heated the tips of your ears and rattled around your brain, looming in the back of your mind when you joined them the Saturday after. 

But Will's words must have just been a silly little joke, because no matter how hard you try, Frankie will not bend. No matter what you wear, no matter what you do, the curly haired pilot remains firmly out of reach.

And it’s not like you don’t have fun together. You join them on nights out. You’ve been invited over for poker games and parties. You share glances with Frankie, jokes, tales, hell, sometimes he even puts an arm around you. But it’s always the same. The end of the evening is always frustratingly uneventful. 

Crowded into sweaty bars and packed living rooms, you’re caught in a never ending circle of wanting and longing. Maybe that’s why, one night, you find yourself exchanging heated glances with Santi. 

Frankie never really touches you beyond a hug and a kiss on the cheek when you arrive, and remains a staunch gentleman no matter how much he drinks. Santi seems to strive to do the opposite. He finds you in the kitchen one night, trying to cool off after watching Frankie laugh and lean into another woman’s conversation, feeling foolish, immature, but trying to blink away tears anyway. 

He talks to you like you’re the only interesting person he’s ever met, standing a little too close for a friend, only moving away when you’re interrupted by one of Benny’s buddies searching for a beer. When you return to the living room, Frankie notices. Notices how Santi pulls you in close when you’re near, presses a kiss to your hair, places a casual hand on your knee when you’re sat next to each other. And how you let him do it. 

When Santi drops you off at your house, he looks at your lips for a long time. His eyes are burning as he tucks your hair behind your ear and wishes you a good night. But he doesn’t go further. 

It’s driving you fucking insane.

You were sure you hadn’t imagined the chemistry between the three of you before, so what was wrong now? Whose starting pistol were they waiting for? You can’t help your desperate huffs of frustration every time you close the door at the end of another night - alone, sopping wet, with only your hand to help.

Until one night, when you really believe, truly believe that it might end differently.

Frankie has been sat next to you in the booth all evening, laughing and chatting away. His arm is slung over your shoulder, his thigh against yours, your body pressed into his side. It feels good, it feels right, and he’s looking at you in such a way that you begin to teeter dangerously close to pressing your lips to his in the middle of the bar. 

You and Frankie take the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. Catching up on your jobs, how he’s re-received his licence, your families, future dreams and aspirations. It’s almost funny how perfectly everything seems to realign. You think this is the turning point - this is when you realise how perfect you are for each other, this is when you take the leap. The only hiccup seems to be when Frankie says he’ll be away for the next three weeks - working, and then visiting Lucia. Your heart crumbles a little - just a little - before you try to sweep away thoughts of him dying in a helicopter crash or falling back in love with his ex. It feels like you’ve waited so long for this moment that the universe might just try and be that cruel. Just for shits and giggles. 

But it won’t. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

Santi seems to notice. He’s quieter than usual, watching the two of you cosy up together. He looks pleased, if a little put out, and when he thinks you aren’t looking he exchanges a look with Frankie. A raised eyebrow, a dipped head. A fucking finally.

As you move to leave the bar at closing time, Frankie touches your arm.

‘Mind if I walk you home, querida?’ He asks, holding out your coat. You take it and swoop it on over your shoulders, grinning at him.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ You say.

Frankie walks you home like a gentleman. 

Too much of a gentleman.

You bump shoulders every so often, but he doesn’t move to take your hand. And he’s all bashful smiles and throaty laughter, compliments and flirty asides, but you return them tenfold, wrapped up in a blinding smile.

You’re making it easy for him. Obvious. But he still isn’t taking the bait.

Maybe he doesn’t want you.

It’s an uncomfortable thought, but it bounces around your skull the whole way home. And it rumbles even louder when you get to your door and he pulls you in for a hug, a light hand barely lingering on your waist, before he wishes you goodnight. 

You stand there, a little dazed before your brain catches up and decides to deploy your last ditch attempt. Just to see. Just to find out. 

He’s halfway down your front path when you call out to him.

‘Frankie. Do you want to come in?’

He turns, limbs coming to a clumsy halt. His brows are high on his forehead, mouth a little ‘o’. Then he frowns.

Fuck. You’ve never felt like such an idiot in your life.

‘I - er,’ he starts, and you look down at the floor, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’ He says. 

You look back up at him.

‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘Any other time and I’d be - I’d be right there. Y’know. Just - timing, that’s all.’

You try to soften the bite that wants to creep into your words at his rejection, but barely manage it.

‘It’s cool,’ you say, trying to smile. ‘No worries. I just - I bought that film you said you watched the other day. Paddington 2? The one Lucia likes.’ A slow smile lights his eyes. ‘Just wondered whether you wanted to come in and watch it with a beer. But yeah. No worries,’ and then, because you just can’t help yourself, you add - ‘Wouldn’t have been any funny business, just so ya know.’ 

You force out a laugh, and Frankie drops his eyes. Disappointed, confused. You feel bad for a second, but then you remember how embarrassed you feel, how stupid. It makes your skin crawl. Nevermind.

You clear your throat.

‘Anyway. Get home safe, Frankie,’ you say, ‘See you soon.’ 

You rush in and close the door before he can reply.

---

Your phone buzzes with a text early the next day.

You open your eyes with a groan, clutching unseeingly at trinkets on your nightstand until your stomach lurches at the thought that it might be Frankie. You sit up to grab it.

It’s not Frankie. It’s an unknown number.

Hey. Do u want to head to the bar 2night?

You frown, confused, fingers dancing over possible replies before another text flies through.

Got a friend Id like u to meet.

And then another.

Its Santi btw. Cant remember if u have my no.

You breathe out, type a quick sure. Fuck it. What harm could another of Santi’s friends do to your pride? Your sex drive? What harm could a night with Santi do? You follow it up with -

Who else will be there? Are you setting me up?

You chew on your thumb anxiously, waiting for his reply.

Just the 3 of us. Might be ;)

You snort at his reply, shooting back -

God. Am I really such a charity case?

 - before getting out of bed to make breakfast. Halfway through your pancakes, you get a text back.

Nah. Just cant stand seein a good girl like u go to waste.

You put your phone back down on the table, slowing your chewing. Good girl. The two words send a lick of heat curling up your spine. A good girl like you going to waste. 

A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You pick up your phone again and begin to tap out a reply. A risky move, one which would surely harm your chances with Frankie, but fuck it - 

If you don’t want me to go to waste, you could always have me to yourself.

You stare at the blinking cursor for a second before deleting the message, instead asking him for a time. No need to be hasty. 

You don’t know what his friend looks like yet, anyway.

As it turns out, Santi’s friend might be exactly who you need to forget about Frankie.

Joel Miller is older, in his fifties. Greying, tall, broad, gorgeous, and a true southern gentleman to boot. The kind of guy - you imagine - who would drive you to work the next day if you couldn’t walk after seeing him the night before.

And it’s going well. Really well.

You, Joel, and Santi chat easily around your little table, swapping jokes, telling stories, brushing touches to each other here and there. Joel works in construction - runs his own company with his brother, Tommy - and has a grown up daughter called Sarah. He’s worked on Santi’s house - actually knows most of the group - but is usually too busy (or too tired, he tells you) to come out and join them. You think about how unlucky it is that he hadn’t come around before you made such a fool of yourself last night. And then you vow not to think of Frankie again for the rest of the evening.

Joel is easy to be around - warm, safe - earthy and masculine. And maybe it’s something to do with the way his chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, but you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You can’t seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to run your fingers through his curls, feel the scrape of his stubble between your thighs, what his arms look like beneath his flannel, what his fingers - what his cock - would feel like inside of you. Something about the man is making your toes curl in your seat, and he hasn’t done anything more innocuous than thumb the charm hanging from your necklace. It’s agonising. 

And to make it worse, Santi knows. You don’t know how, but he does. Maybe you’re just that easy to read. 

In the blur of Joel leaving to go to the bathroom and get more drinks, Santi leans over to you.

‘What do you think?’ He asks.

You shrug, trying your absolute hardest to play it cool.

‘He’s nice. I like him. You should bring him out more often.’ 

Santi’s eyes glint with something molten, something teasing and knowing and sharp.

‘You want to take him home.’

You baulk at his words, cheeks flaming in response. You open and close your mouth as he leans in and laughs.

‘I never said that -’ you splutter, but Santi takes your hand.

‘You don’t need to, querida,’ he says, ‘I can see it written all over your face.’ 

You groan, forehead falling to his shoulder. 

‘If it helps,’ he continues, ‘I think he wants to take you home, too.’ 

You look up from his shoulder into his eyes, and they glimmer back at you. You bite your lip.

‘Ya think?’ You ask.

‘Yeah, baby,’ he teases, ‘I do.’

You hum against him before tilting your face further back.

‘You know…’ you say, lips loosened by the alcohol. Santi tips his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. ‘'S not quite how I imagined the night would end.’

His lips quirk in a smile again. Ah, fuck.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I kinda thought you’d take me home instead.’

Santi chuckles and looks away around the room. When his eyes settle back on you, they’re black and burning.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says, scratching his beard, ‘A lot. But I guessed you were too caught up on Frankie.’

You freeze at his words and sit up straight, clearing your throat.

‘I don’t -’ but Santi shakes his head at you, cutting you off. He says your name softly.

‘I know about last night,’ he says quietly. Your cheeks begin to burn again, but this time for a completely different reason. ‘He told me about it after he walked you home. And I told him he was the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.’ 

Despite yourself, you smile.

‘I’m not gonna take you home, baby,’ Santi continues as you watch him, curious, ‘Not right now, anyway. My shit is complicated enough -’ Santi cuts himself off with a sigh, and your brows bunch together.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, your voice low and kind despite the fire sparking at his words.

Santi looks at you again, and whatever’s in his eyes looks too complex to divulge. He thumbs your knuckles, swirling patterns onto your hand.

‘Nothing,’ he says, but you frown at him again. ‘Just… stuff. Stuff to do with Frankie. It’s - complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But what I wanted to say was - I wanted you to meet Joel. Because I think you’d be great for each other.’ 

Your jaw drops again, but before you can ask any questions, anything about his stuff with Frankie, Joel reappears with new drinks for the three of you. Santi gives you a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your hand before picking up his bottle. But you drop his gaze when Joel places a hand at the top of your back as he sits down.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ He asks. 

Santi doesn’t leave early, but he doesn’t leave late, either. He stays long enough to know exactly where this thing with you and Joel is going, and then bails when he knows he should. Even if you still kinda wish he’d stay. 

Even if you didn’t get the chance to ask him more about Frankie.

You and Joel linger for an hour longer, the ache in your core and the wetness in your underwear in response to him now almost impossible to ignore. Joel keeps a hand on your thigh. He sweeps a palm down your arm, tucks your hair behind your ear. And when the bell for closing rings out, he takes your hand and leads you out into the night.

He keeps a hold of your hand the whole way to your door. 

When you get home, you turn to him on your doorstep. He smiles at you, taking you in through his eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You grip your keys tightly in your fist, the metal leaving marks and almost drawing blood as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You forget to breathe as his scent crowds your senses, as the scruff of his beard scratches your cheek. You want to lick his neck, find out if he tastes as good as he smells, want to know what it feels like to have him pressed against you, on top of you, under you, behind you -

Joel cuts through your thoughts with a low chuckle against your ear.

‘Breathe, darlin’.’ He murmurs.

You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh a laugh as you look down at your feet. 

He is still unbearably close, and you know, you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t know if you’ll ever see this man again, and everything Santi said at the bar, and the fact that you feel like Joel could make you come with just a flick of his wrist is likely what sparks your tongue to stutter out - 

‘Do you want to come in?’

Joel looks down at you again, a fire alight in his eyes. The heat sends a shiver down your spine.

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just pushes your front door open, takes your wrist, and pulls you inside.

---

Being with Joel is great.

It’s amazing. It’s like you finally have someone who can keep up with you. Your brain, your days, your plans. It’s like someone plopped Joel Miller on earth with a little note saying he was yours.

In the three weeks after you first meet him, you share countless breakfasts and dinners and spend your weekends wrapped up in sheets watching reruns of Golden Girls. It’s so simple to spend time with someone who is so easy to be around, someone who just gets you. 

Joel makes you laugh, makes you feel important, wanted.

And the sex is incredible.

Like nothing you’ve ever had with anyone else. He seems to know what to do, exactly how you want it done, every time - it’s effortless. And somehow, you seem to do the same for him. In fact, the only problems you seem to have found are his size (because he’s huge) and the fact that you can’t be inside each other all the time.

Which is why it takes so much effort for you to peel yourself away from him when Santi asks if you’d like to join him and the guys for drinks on Saturday. You give him an affirmative before promptly being distracted by Joel coming out of the shower.

You see his reply forty minutes later.

Frankie will b there. That OK?

You type back a quick -

Of course :)

 - before getting on with your day.

Drinks are almost the same as usual. It’s surprisingly easy to slot right back into where you were. Laughing, chatting, joking with Will and Benny. What they’ve been up to, who they’ve been with. Questions you manage to dodge with only a knowing smirk from Santi to remind you he knows exactly who you’ve been doing. 

Frankie joins in from across the table. He couldn’t meet your eye when you first arrived, but over the course of the evening and a few drinks, he seems to have relaxed enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Which is unfortunate, because you can still feel Joel’s come from earlier in the day seeping into your underwear.

At some point in the evening, Benny and Will make their excuses - they have a family get together tomorrow they can’t be too hungover for - and it’s just you, Frankie, and Santi left. 

It’s easy for the most part. Santi bridging the gap so effortlessly that it begins to feel like nothing happened between you and Frankie at all. And it didn’t, you remind yourself. Nothing happened. And then you met Joel.

So why are you still thinking about it?

You try to distract yourself, lose yourself in the conversation taking place between the two men. Something about Star Wars, new castings they’ve chosen for a series coming out later in the year. You try to contribute as much as you can, but fail miserably, earning yourself a brief history of the franchise from Santi. Eventually you get him to ease off with a hand to his chest, laughing until he starts to giggle, too. He uses the interlude to get up to use the bathroom and get more drinks, leaving you with Frankie and his soft, brown eyes.

You peer at each other nervously from across the table. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lip, as he chews the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and meeting your eye. 

You feel your jaw clench.

‘About the other night, a few weeks back,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was a fuckin’ moron -’ he pauses for a moment, sweeps a hand over his face. ‘I’m real rusty at this. The whole dating thing. I don’t think I even realised what it was you were sayin’ to me.’ Frankie huffs a laugh. A horrible, anxious feeling starts to work its way up your throat. ‘But I -’

He’s interrupted as a bartender floats by your booth, sweeping up some of the empty glasses. You smile up at her and thank her sweetly. 

Maybe you can stall whatever Frankie has to say.

She swats at the air with her free hand.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ she says, ‘Can’t let a thing like empties get in the way of a date like this.’

You smile at her and bite your tongue, feeling hot. A blush begins to claw up your cheeks as she winks at you both and swings away. Had she not seen Santi? And - fuck - now how do you brush this off with Frankie? How do you stop where this is going?

You turn your eyes back to him, and he hasn’t even flushed at the insinuation. Instead, he bites his lip, something which sends a jolt of heat to the space between your thighs. He scratches the back of his neck, and rushes out in a lowered voice that even though he’s busy with work at the moment, he’d like to make it right -

‘I’d really love to take you out this weekend.’

Your stomach plummets to your feet. Fuck. 

Tears of frustration prickle in your eyes. A lump of panic settles in your throat, and you almost feel like you could run out of the bar. Why is he doing this now?

You take a deep breath and try to form the kindest smile, the most apologetic furrow in your brows that you can.

‘Frankie,’ you breathe, and already his face begins to fall. You lean across the table and take one of his massive hands. ‘I’d have loved to, but -’

He shakes his head quickly, trying to draw his hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ he begins, ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have just misread - I didn’t mean - I don’t want you to feel -’

But his interruption only serves to further spark the surge of irritation. You squeeze his hand tighter so he can’t rip it away and utter his name harshly. He stops immediately, his eyes whipping back to yours. Something stirs in you at his immediate obedience.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, shaking off your traitorous thoughts. ‘I’d have loved to. But I - I literally just started seeing someone, and I -’ you break off, groaning in frustration, ‘I don’t know if it’s serious, or if it’s exclusive, but he’s great, and I don’t want anyone - especially you - to get hurt by me being selfish or not knowing where things are at.’ You huff out a breath and meet his eye. He looks disappointed, upset even - but worst of all he looks understanding, almost grateful that you don’t want him to get caught up in this complex knot of wanting. 

‘Frankie,’ you say softly, and try to smile, ‘I mean this in the least… damaging way. If you had asked me three weeks ago, when we were here last, I’d have said yes. In a heartbeat.’

Maybe it does make you an asshole. Maybe it does make you selfish. But it feels important in this moment to make sure that Frankie understands - you like him. You wanted him.

It’s just timing. 

Frankie grimaces.

‘Fuck.’ He hisses. And when he tries to withdraw his hand this time, you let him. But you don’t look away. 

A low light flickers in his eye. Something close to anger, you think - at himself, or at you, you’re not sure.

‘Is it -’ he begins, ‘Is it Pope?’

‘Pope?’ You ask, confused. Frankie shakes his head.

‘Santi. Is it Santi?’

You bark a laugh. You can’t help it.

‘Santi? Your Santi?’ you ask, bewildered. Frankie’s cheeks heat again. You want to put a pin in that, the flush at your, but your brain is suddenly so riddled with dredged up questions you can hardly order them.

‘What do you mean, Frankie?’ you ask, exasperated.

Frankie shakes his head again, realising his mistake, but you are beyond dropping the topic.

‘Frankie,’ you say, stern this time. ‘What do you mean?’

Frankie whips his cap off, runs an agitated hand through his hair, shifts his gaze around the bar for the other man.

‘He - he likes you, too,’ he says. ‘I was worried - worried he’d beat me to it ‘cos I didn’t ask before I went away. He said it was taking me too long to do - to gather the confidence to ask you -’ Now Frankie barks a laugh. ‘But it looks like we were both too late.’

You shake your head, the cogs in your brain turning slowly. How Santi looked at you was no secret. But if what Frankie was saying about how Santi felt was true, why had he introduced you to Joel? And if that was true, had you misunderstood what Santi said about him and Frankie? You feel your mouth open and close, but Frankie takes your silence to ask you another question.

‘Who is it?’

‘What?’

‘Who is it?’

You splutter over your answer, hesitating, stalling -

‘Frankie, how the fuck would you know?’

Because he would. And, rightly or wrongly, that panics you a little.

‘Is it someo-’

You cut him off, holding up your palm.

‘Frankie -’ you press a hand to your throat, feeling your rapid pulse. Fuck it. ‘I thought - I thought Santi was interested in you.’

Frankie chokes on his breath.

He stares at you, calculating something, breathing heavily.

‘It’s not - we’re not -’ he fumbles. You slouch back in your seat. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed. ‘We fuck around sometimes. And sometimes - sometimes other people -’ You groan, your head tipping back against the leather. Your head is spinning. ‘But we wouldn’t - I wouldn’t - fuck. I don’t want you to think that that’s what this is about -’ Frankie splays his hands in front of you. ‘God,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to explain any of this.’

The room suddenly feels too warm. You cradle your head in your hands, and stare at the way the table swims beneath you. What the fuck is happening?

You glance up at Frankie, but he’s watching you so intensely, so much concern and panic and want in his eyes that it makes you feel claustrophobic.

‘I need some air.’ You mumble across the table, and stumble out of the booth on unsteady legs. From the corner of your eye, you see Santi begin to cross the floor to return to the booth with drinks in his hands, see him watch you trip across the bar. In the back of your brain, you hear him call your name, but your hands are already on the handle of the front door, pushing it open and feeling the cool night air hit your clammy skin.

What the fuck is going on?

You fumble in your pocket for your phone and find Joel’s contact. You want to go home, and you want his help to forget about this. And, you think, you should probably ask whether he had any idea about Santi, or Frankie, or Santi and Frankie. 

The call with Joel is quick, and he sounds appropriately concerned without needing to hear any details. He tells you to stay in view of the bar and to not move a muscle, and that he’ll be there in 10. You hope he can make it in five.

He’s too slow. After seven minutes, Frankie bursts out of the bar, Santi quickly following him.

‘Fish -’ Santi’s calling, but he catches himself when he sees you still standing there. Frankie screeches to a halt, too.

The three of you stare between each other, eyes wide, like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Frankie says your name before you shake your head - rushing out a not now, Frankie just as Joel’s pickup peels into the parking lot.

Frankie can’t see him with his back turned, but he sure does when Joel comes striding from behind the two men to stand at your side.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ he asks in his low, southern drawl, and you instinctively lift your mouth for a kiss before realising how cruel that would be.

Joel tenses as you withdraw, finally taking in the other two men.

‘Pope,’ he says with a nod, and Santi smiles weakly back at him.

‘Frankie,’ Joel says a little softer, ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Joel.’ Frankie says through his teeth, realisation burning in his eyes. 

‘How ya doin’, kid?’ Joel asks him, placing a hand on your lower back. Frankie juts out his chin.

‘Fine. Great.’ He says, ‘I was just leavin’, actually.’ Frankie whips his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is set, angry. He shakes his head at the ground. ‘I’ll see you guys around.’ He says to no one in particular, turning on his heel and fleeing towards the car park. 

Santi and Joel meet each others’ eyes in some kind of understanding, and you look angrily between them. Being left out of the loop again was not feeling cute.

Joel sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.’ He murmurs, but you lurch out of his grasp and turn on the two of them. They watch you, surprised.

‘No,’ you say, ‘Nu-uh. We aren’t going anywhere until one of you tells me what the fuck is going on.’

Joel and Santi look at each other, expressions unreadable. 

Santi shakes his head.

‘Come back inside,’ he says, turning back to the bar entrance, ‘We’re gonna need more beers for this.’

---

When you get down to the root of it, the truth isn’t even that complex. That’s the laughable part.

The long and short of it is this. One: Pope knew Frankie liked you. But he knew Frankie moved slow. And he’d gotten tired of watching, of knowing he’d be a dick if he made a play instead. And he cares about you, his friend. Wants to see you happy. Enter Joel. Two: Santi and Frankie fooled around while they were in Delta Force. It’s not a secret, but it’s never really been discussed. Sometimes they still fool around, but it’s been less frequent as they’ve gotten older. As they date other people. Three: Sometimes, when those other people they’re dating are willing, they bring them in, and they all have fun together. 

Something Santi would have been fine with if you were his. Something Frankie was less cool with doing if he’d made his move. 

Santi admits that he’s likely just been a dick throughout the whole thing. You make him promise to do better over another beer. He does. He also now knows not to cock block his best buddy with a mutual friend.

And Joel feels kinda bad about that. Not bad enough to pump the brakes with you, but uncomfortable, sure. He’s had Frankie round for barbecues, he likes the guy. He’s sorry he whisked you away from him. But not sorry enough.

Joel hasn’t been involved in any of Frankie and Santi’s adventures, but it’s something he’s played around with before. He’s had threesomes, but he doesn’t really volunteer more than that. The thought ignites something deep in your belly and you file it away for another day, a different conversation.

Once it’s all explained and you’re laughing together again, everything feels fine. Normal.

Except you don’t see Frankie for weeks afterwards.

You drop him a text every now and again, just wanting to know whether he’s okay, but you hear nothing back. Santi tries to assure you that you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing for you to worry about.

But it still sits uneasy in your gut.

You see Joel almost every day. And Santi once a week. 

The three of you meet for beers in a different bar from the one Santi meets Frankie, Will and Benny in - your bar. And you have fun. 

It never goes beyond touches with Santi, though you find yourself wishing more and more often that it would. He rests a hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb swiping patterns over your flushed skin. Sometimes he has an arm flung around the back of your seat, sometimes rubbing the back of your neck, sometimes tucking hair behind your ear. He watches and stares and smiles and laughs at you and Joel, and you watch back with delighted curiosity. You like the way he makes you squirm while you sit next to the older man. And Joel loves to watch you squirm, too.

He loves getting you home and finding your panties soaked with arousal. He loves swiping two of his thick fingers through your folds with the front door barely closed, his hand shoved down the front of your jeans, your back arched already, a needy whine heavy in the back of your throat. He loves talking you through the things he’d like to watch Santi do to you, how good he knows you’d be for the two of them, how well behaved, how you’d take, take, take it, and how proud he’d be to show you off. My girl. He growls as he fucks into you at night. My girl.

And it suits you, how giving, how generous Joel is. 

Seems to suit Santi, too.

At some point ideas had been swapped between you and Joel - some thinly disguised remark dropped by him over dinner one night had led to you picking at the thread and grinding him down over three days, trying to get to the bottom of it. He liked to share, he’d said. He liked to watch. He liked the control, and the pride, and the possession of it all. And goddammit, you liked the sound of it, too. Because after serious discussion - serious boundaries, limits, run throughs of possible scenarios, you talked through people who you wouldn’t mind trying it with.

And there was obvious one name you both settled on.

Santi.

And well, given his history, it didn’t take too long for you to convince him to join you.

And if it hadn't been for Santi’s suggestion, his knowledge, his understanding of his best friend, there’s a chance Frankie’s name wouldn’t have come up at all. You’re not sure if you’d have dared, considering how things were left. But, lo and behold, it does, and along with it the chance for him to see exactly what he's missing out on. 

---

All the rules have been arranged for tonight, but the most important one, which you must remember, is that Frankie is not allowed to touch you.

At all. At any point. 

You and Joel head to the usual bar to meet Santi and Frankie for drinks. You make sure to wear a dress which clings to your curves, dips at your cleavage, and settles just high enough on your thigh to be bordering on acceptable. And it must be more than acceptable, because Joel threatens to fuck you out of it three times before you leave the house.

It must be acceptable, because Santi cannot keep his eyes or his hands off you when you arrive at the venue, and Frankie from across the table cannot regain control of his jaw.

They both look good - you all look good - Joel with his hair combed back, a deep green flannel on, Santi in all black - and suddenly all you want to do is call the drinks off now and just head back to Joel’s. But the patience, the build up is critical. It’s foreplay.

Instead, you lean back in your chair, sipping on your cocktail as you take in the three men.

The conversation flows easily after a while. Joel is a master at it, weaving questions in and out, making sure to put both you and Frankie at ease. Besides, it’s been a while since you last saw each other. Not that either of you were any less eager for him to be involved. He’d been very keen, according to Santi. 

He’s in dark jeans and a tight navy blue t-shirt tonight, his trademark cap confining his curls. He’s not dressed up, but he’s made an effort, and his shy looks across the table, his kind questions and easy jokes have begun healing the fractures of what happened weeks ago.

It doesn’t hurt that he and Santi had a good, long talk, and that you then shared a sweet phone call. 

All the same, he sits opposite you, unable to touch you for the rest of the night.

Instead, he just gets to watch as Joel presses kisses to your neck, pulls you into his chest, skates his hands over your thighs - anything he can get away with doing to turn you on. And Santi isn’t far behind. Holding your hand on top of the table, bringing your knuckles to his lips, keeping a hand on your knee almost the entire time.

Your brain is a hot, buzzing mess by the time Santi checks his phone.

‘It’s getting late.’ He says, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Eager, no?’ You tease, trying - and failing - to cover the scent of your own desperate need.

‘Of course,’ Santi smirks over the rim of his glass, ‘But I’ll take my time with you.’

You try to laugh but fall back into Joel’s shoulder at his words, and the older man chuckles. He kisses your forehead tenderly. Frankie watches hungrily from across the table, the dark void of his eyes flicking towards his watch, desperate to leave. 

When you do, he walks at a distance behind the three of you. You smile to yourself and sway your hips a little more for his benefit. And you swear you get a low whine as your reward.

---

You’re quiet the whole way home, trying not to clench your thighs too hard or rock yourself against the seat. You're so desperate for friction, for relief, that it’s hard for you to concentrate on what’s going on in the car. Hard for you to think of anything beyond Joel’s warm, heavy hand on your thigh as he drives. 

He leans over to you halfway home, and whispers -

‘You’re quiet, baby. Everything okay?’

You flick a glance to him and find his eyes equal parts concerned and equal parts aflame. You smile.

‘I’m trying to be good,’ you murmur, ‘But you’re making it very difficult.’

Joel dips his chin in a smirk and squeezes your thigh, his fingers drifting dangerously close to your panties. You squirm a little in your seat, and it goads him to drift his hand further until it catches at the lace of the gusset. You gasp at the feeling, a tiny whimper making its way out from your lips, and all conversation in the back of the truck grinds to a halt. Your cheeks heat, and you turn to look out the window again, clamping your lip beneath your teeth.

No one says a word the rest of the way home.

Once you're all home, a silence settles around you. Everybody wide eyed, geared up, on edge. You’re not sure who to look at or what to say until Joel does it for you.

‘Upstairs.’ He commands, and everybody moves to follow him up the staircase. You keep your eyes on his broad back the whole way up, and once you reach the top, he holds his hand out behind him for you to grab. You do.

When you get to his bedroom door, Joel leads you in. You turn just as Santi crosses the threshold, as he pivots to Frankie behind him and says -

‘Kneel.’

Frankie glances at you, swallows, and returns his eyes to Santi. He drops down to his knees in the hallway.

‘Good,’ Santi murmurs, stepping forward to crouch down in front of him. ‘Do you remember the rules?’ He asks Frankie.

The younger man nods, his eyes dropping to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Santi nods once. 

‘Good. Listen. And do not leave this spot.’

Santi straightens, turning his back on Frankie. You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him on the floor - small, submissive - and you can’t help the little gasp you let out as Santi steps towards you and closes the door slowly behind him, leaving just enough of a gap so that Frankie can hear everything that happens but watch none of it. 

Joel skirts his fingers down your waist and presses a kiss just under your ear.

‘You ready, baby girl?’ he rumbles. You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, finding his eyes dark, a familiar power behind them. You nod.

‘Yes.’ you say. He nods, pleased, twisting to kiss your mouth before guiding you towards Santi.

‘Good,’ he says. He turns and moves towards the armchair in the far corner of the room, sitting heavily in it.

Santi steps towards you and gently takes your face in his hands.

‘You okay?’ He asks quietly. You nod.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper, ‘Are you?’ 

Santi nods, his eyes searching yours for a hint of hesitation. You try to open up your mind to show him the excitement, the want you feel. Satisfied, he licks his lips.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks. You nod again, and Santi leans forwards, capturing your mouth in hard, slow movement.

Santi means to make a study of you, you think. His tongue is everywhere, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip, his hands gentle and then needy, already figuring out exactly what it is that makes you tick. And to make it even worse, every time you take a moment to catch your breath, he has that fucking smirk on his face. It’s infuriating, and you quickly need to find something  which will wipe it off.

So you begin to undo his belt.

Pope huffs a chuckle against your lips, but doesn’t stop the work your hands are doing. Instead, he matches it with his own fingers. 

With deft movements, he slips a hand under your dress and finds his way to your panties, touching you through the fabric. You groan against his mouth, and he smiles, ghosting over your folds. Not to be out done, you slip your hand into his jeans and palm him over his boxers. He hums against you.

‘Are we racing?’ He asks.

You cock your head to the side.

‘Thought you wanted to take your time?’ You quip back, and something flashes in his eyes. 

He steps back.

‘Take this off.’ He says, tugging at the hem of your dress, and you pout at him. 

‘Does that mean you take these off, too?’ You ask, tugging at his jeans. You’re pushing your luck, you know. But you think this might be easier if Santi undresses with you, if only to really see what you held in your hand. 

Santi raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see,’ he says, ‘But you go first.’

You step back from him and glance at Joel, assessing. He nods at you, encouraging, and you pull your dress up and over your head. You stand before them in only your panties, and Santi takes a deep breath, biting his lip, smiling again.

‘Gorgeous, baby.’ He says. And you feel it. The way this man looks at you makes you feel weak, giddy - like your core is on fire. 

Santi steps towards you to kiss you again, making sure his hand returns to where it had been, ghosting over your underwear. You groan into his mouth, impatient now, and his teeth scrape at your chin as he clicks his tongue. In answer, he sweeps your panties to the side, and grazes two digits along your slit. You moan loudly again, and Santi groans up at the ceiling.

‘Fuck, querida.’ He says, before stretching a thumb to your clit and sinking the two fingers deep inside you. You stumble against him as he begins to work you, breathing heavily against his clothed chest. You turn your face so your teeth can nip at his skin underneath.

‘Take - this - off.’ You hiss, and he laughs, slipping his fingers out of you with a groan to oblige. Santi removes his t-shirt quickly and chucks it somewhere across the room before pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them. He hurries to find purchase within your body once more, rocking you against him, curling his fingers deep inside you. His tongue returns to your mouth and you remember his hard cock in his boxers. You reach for it, but he blocks you with his arm. You whine.

‘Tan mojada ya, baby.’ He drawls. Santi removes his fingers from where they were curling inside of you and brings them to your mouth, tapping your lips. You open for him, and he presses them in, allowing you to swirl your tongue over them. You clean off the scent of your heady arousal as Santi watches you. He presses them hard, once, against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide for him. 

He retracts his fingers.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, and it goes straight to your cunt. You whimper a little, and he grins, stepping back and out of his boxers. ‘Take those off for me.’ He says, motioning at your soaked panties. You almost trip in your eagerness to do so. He retreats backwards until his calves hit the mattress, and he sits down before laying back, getting comfortable.

Santi watches you from the bed, laid out on his back. His lips curl as you rake your eyes over him - hands folded behind his head, his biceps rounding by his ears, his firm, strong torso spattered with dark hair, and his long, hard cock, bobbing and drooling as he takes you in.

‘Come here.’ He says. 

You begin a slow walk to the bed, hesitating only for a moment as you crawl onto it and towards him. He licks his lips as you come closer, and you bite your lip back.

You feel unsure without being given specific direction, but you know that Joel will put you right if you step a toe out of line. So you place a knee on either side of Santi’s hips, and sink your heat down onto him as he pulls you forward by the back of your neck, searching for your lips.

You start to move, to adjust to try and let him inside, before Joel’s voice cracks like a whip out of the corner.

‘Either of us tell you you could fuck him yet?’ He growls.

You try to draw your mouth away from Santi to give your response, but he clamps your bottom lip between his teeth so you can go no further. You whimper and shake your head.

‘So put your fuckin’ hips back down. Y’ain’t earned it yet.’

Santi lets your lip go and flops back against the sheets with a shit-eating grin. You lower your hips again and place both your palms on his stomach, pushing your tits together. He eyes them greedily, reaching out and flicking a thumb over each nipple. You feel your pout grow, your brows drawn tight together and your bottom lip swollen, jutting out almost comically. Santi catches a glimpse of your face, and puffs out a laugh.

‘Poor baby,’ he coos, ‘Just wanna get fucked, don’t ya?’ You nod pathetically, but don’t dare move. He is achingly hard beneath you, his thick length resting perfectly between your folds. Santi lowers his hands from your nipples until he has them on your hips, and like he’s read your fucking mind, he begins to rock you back and forth.

A wanton, needy moan drools out of your mouth as your pussy wets him, fresh slick leaking out of your clenching hole. You wonder how much of this Frankie can hear. 

Santi groans beneath you, watching the head of his cock disappear under you every time he slides you forwards. The pressure of him just against your lips is heady, and you watch as he guides you forwards just a little more, urges you to lean a little further forward until your clit catches on the head of his cock on every slide. You throw your head back, your fingers scratching at his torso, and he watches you. He whispers that you look so pretty like this, how he can feel you, look at how wet you’re making my cock, baby, can feel you twitchin’ on me already, angel. He guides you back and forth until you feel a heavy pressure begin to settle in your pussy, a burning beginning deep in your gut. Your moans become more frantic as you begin to plead with him, though you’re not sure what for.

‘Use your words, baby,’ Joel reminds you from his seat. ‘Ask Santi. Tell him what you need.’

You release a hot breath of air, biting your lip.

‘Gonna come, Santi,’ you tell him breathlessly, ‘Need to stop. Gonna come.’

But Santi just smiles sweetly up at you, his eyes heavy lidded. You pussy twitches, the knot pulling tighter. He reaches up with one hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘Why would I want you to stop, angel?’ He asks. You shake your head. You don’t know. ‘Talk to me, baby.’ He prompts.

‘I don’t know. Haven’t been - fuck - told -’ you whimper. He nods, swallows harshly.

‘I want you to come,’ he tells you, ‘I want you to come now, and then I’m going to make you come again, and then as many more times as I see fit, do you understand?’

You groan and nod.

‘Yes, Santi.’

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And when I’m done with you, I’m gonna give you back to your daddy, and he’s gonna make you come as many times as he sees fit, too. Okay, baby?’

You clench around nothing, painfully, moving faster over Santi’s cock of your own accord.

‘Fuck. Yes, Santi.’

Santi settles his head back against the bed again, running his hands all over your body, anywhere he can touch you.

‘Go on, baby,’ he says, ‘Use me.’

Fuck, you groan out, tilting your hips to allow your clit to scrape down the underside of his cock at every pass. Without thinking, you lean so far forward that you plant a hand around the base of Santi’s throat to keep yourself upright, tightening your fingers over his pulse point. He lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed, and you feel the pressure in your core build heavier and heavier until the white hot heat snaps. You throw your head back, coming with gasps of his name and loud moans, still rocking yourself back and forth, still squeezing over his neck.

Your vision is fuzzy and your breathing still feverish when Santi grabs at your fingers and pries them away from him. You flush at your carelessness, an Imsosorry rushing out as you stare at your hand in his. He shushes you tenderly, breathing deeply.

‘S’okay, baby,’ he says, ‘I like it. Don’t have a problem with it.’ He squeezes your hand, and then fixes you with a wicked, cruel look. ‘Just don’t wanna come yet, that’s all. Only so much a man can stand when I can feel you falling apart on top of me.’

You flush even deeper, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, laving hot, open mouthed kisses along the hard muscle there. He groans and chuckles against you, kneading your ass.

‘Want me to fuck you now, baby?’ He murmurs into your ear.

You whine against him, lick across his jaw.

‘Yes, Santi,’ you groan. ‘Please fuck me.’

Santi grips the hair at the base of your neck to pull you away from him, and you let yourself be led. He slides you off him, and rests on his knees before you. Your eyes dip hungrily to his bobbing cock, shining with your come, tip an angry red, precum dripping down its length. It twitches under your gaze, and you lick your lips. 

Santi chuckles again, his hand still buried in your hair.

‘Dirty fuckin’ girl.’ He murmurs as he manipulates your body. ‘Turn around,’ he says, ‘Hands and knees, baby.’ You follow his directions, turning on the bed towards Joel before planting your limbs and curving your spine, angling your ass in the air. You’re not sure where you should look until Santi releases your hair and leans over your back, a hand on your hip.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he says into your ear, gripping your chin softly to angle your head. You look at Joel through heavy lidded eyes, only to find his are similar. ‘Keep your eyes on him.’

Joel is still fully dressed in the chair, head heavy against the back of it. His legs are spread wide, a hand on either arm, fingers spread and clenched slightly against the fabric. His jaw is tense, and you can see how his jeans strain over his cock - fully hard by the looks of it. You moan into the sheets as you watch him watch you. Santi kneels behind you, running his hands over your soft skin, as he dips two fingers through your folds, swearing softly.

‘She’s so wet, Joel.’ He whispers, and Joel’s eyes leave yours momentarily to see Santi hold his fingers up to the light, coated in slick. Joel’s hips move slightly, bucking into nothing, and he barely manages to grunt out a response. You wonder again how much of this Frankie can hear behind the door, whether he’s straining in his jeans just as Joel is, whether his ear is pressed against the crack just so he can hear what Santi is whispering to you both.

Pope grips one of your hips, and uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. He uses his tip to spread your slick around a little more until you whine again, fisting the sheets.

‘Please, Santi, please -’

And he needs no more encouragement, sinking all the way in on the first thrust. You cry out into the mattress, your sounds coming out choked, overwhelmed as he sets a relentless pace.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he hisses out behind you, neither of you able to get more words out. 

You quickly lose yourself to the feel of him pumping in and out, every part of you wound up tight, hot. You can feel yourself squeezing him already, making his hips stutter. Joel notices, too. You wonder whether he remembers Frankie is outside, as well, because he manages to force out in a low grumble -

‘How does she feel?’

Santi gathers your hair up in a fist, bringing your face up from the sheets just so they can hear you better. He grits his teeth, tries to stutter out his answer -

‘So - fucking - good -’ and at this, a delicious smile sweeps across Joel’s face. He’s proud. You moan even louder and manage to garble out a daddy, which makes him positively grin.

‘Atta girl, baby,’ he says to you, before turning back to Santi, ‘Just good?’

You and Santi both hear the prod in his words, and it shoots another thrill through you to remember just how much control Joel has; how he wants him to tell him what he already knows, to prove that his worth.

‘Not just good,’ Santi groans, ‘Fuckin’ perfect. So tight. So warm. She’s clenchin’ me already, makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ teenager,’ he laughs around a puff of air, before leaning back into you. ‘Tómatelo con calma, hermosa - quiero que esto dure.’ You moan again at his words, as they spark the opposite of their desired effect.

‘Shit,’ Santi chuckles out, ‘God, Joel. Pussy like I’ve never felt. And so responsive, too.’ To prove his point Santi lands a firm smack on your ass and you yelp, pulsing around him, biting your lip. He moans behind you. ‘Don’t know how you ever get anything done,’ he bites out, ‘I’d never be able to leave her alone.’ 

You glow under Santi’s praise and Joel’s warming stare, and push yourself up loosely onto your elbows as Santi returns both of his hands to your hips. You push back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Santi gasps, before reaching around you to rub desperately at your clit. Your moans bounce off the walls, sharp gasps and whines melting into begging -

‘Please, Santi - fuck - oh my god, oh my god, please - ‘m so close. So close -’

‘Gonna come again, baby?’ He coos from above you. You nod furiously.

‘Yes,’ you gasp out, ‘God, please Santi, fuckin’ me so good -’

With a grunt, Santi hauls you upwards so your back is flush against his chest. He fucks into you harshly, fingers still working your clit, his other hand pinching and twisting a nipple as he kisses and bites his way along your neck, you shoulder, below your ear.

‘Good girl,’ he says, and your head dips back onto his shoulder, mouth open in a sob because he feels so good - 

Santi grips your chin again, yanking your face down and towards Joel.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he snaps at you, ‘You look at your daddy when you come for me.’

And you do. You can barely keep your eyes open as your body gives out, loud, broken moans escaping your mouth, Santi and daddy alternating somewhere in there as Santi fucks you through it, fingers still on your clit as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder -

‘Good - fucking - girl.’

And you see even Joel’s eyes close momentarily, his hands clenching to fists on the arms of the chair, a growl of desperation only you can hear tumbling out of his chest.

Santi is relentless as he chases his own release, but you’re so tight around him that he refocuses his efforts.

‘Again, baby,’ he orders, ‘Give me another. I can feel it. Come on. It’s right there. You gotta give it to me, hermosa -’

But you whine against him, twitching, trembling, sobbing through the overstimulation, unsure where the boundary between pleasure and pain is. You shake your head, try to catch your breath.

‘Too much, Santi, too much,’ you cry, ‘Can’t - don’t know -’

‘You can, baby,’ he breathes, voice like steel, and you whimper. That tone so similar to Joel’s, how he knows, how now Santi knows, that you can.

At his insistence, you tumble off the cliff again, weakly calling his name as a gush of arousal spills onto his lap, as you pulse and contract around his cock. He releases a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy. He peers over your shoulder at Joel.

‘Where do you want it?’ he gasps.

‘Inside her.’ Joel growls, and you moan again as Santi sheathes himself to the hilt and comes and comes and comes. You feel him fill you, his dick pulsing and twitching deep in your pussy, and he sags as he begins to leak out. You both hit the mattress, Santi just about propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. You both breathe heavily for a second, until he moves your hair from your face and touches your cheek.

‘You okay?’ he rasps, throat dry. You chuckle breathily.

‘Yes.’ You sigh. Santi licks his lips and laughs quietly, too, shifting gently to slip out of you. You both groan, trying to catch your breath again. Your limbs are liquid, your body heavy, and somewhere in your dazed state you feel him dip a kiss to your shoulder blade before using his tongue to soothe the bite mark he’d left earlier.

You turn your face towards him as you feel his weight leave the bed. He smiles at you, muttering something about getting himself cleaned up before gesturing to the opposite way you're facing. You turn your head to find Joel, pulled to his full height, standing at the foot of the bed, still fully fucking clothed.

You slowly rise to your knees on the mattress, and Joel smiles at you, lifting a hand to settle against your cheek. You lean into it, turning your head to kiss his palm.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asks softly.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You breathe.

He nods, pleased.

‘Good. On your knees, on the floor for me, baby girl.’ He says.

You pull your languid limbs off the bed and settle on your knees on the floor, waiting patiently for him. You rest your palms on top of your thighs, tingling and relaxed, and wait for your instruction. It comes before Santi even leaves the bathroom. 

‘Mouth.’ Joel says, and you shuffle forward towards him, hungry hands grappling with his belt as he chuckles down at you. ‘My eager girl.’ And you shine a blinding smile up at him. 

You whip his belt off, launch it across the room, and make quick work of the button and zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs so just his boxers are left. You lick your teeth at the sight of his barely contained cock, the front of his underwear stretched, the tip of his dick peeking from above his waistband, leaking and swollen. You rise up on your knees as you reach for the band, lifting your eyes to Joel’s as you pull his underwear down, smiling again as one of his big hands comes to rest at the back of your head, impatient already. 

His boxers and jeans pulled down, you take Joel into your hand, pumping him gently before pulling the tip to your mouth, blowing on it lightly before pressing a kiss to the weeping slit. Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth, and presses his hips forward, sinking his cock past your lips. You take him gratefully, opening as wide as you can, your tongue soft and firm against him, tracing and twirling as you hollow your cheeks.

‘So good t’me.’ Joel breathes out, pushing a little further, just to hit the back of your throat and hear you choke lightly. You moan around his length, your eyelids flickering shut as he begins to fuck your throat slowly, making sure to feel every inch you allow him access to.

Santi emerges from the bathroom, and he can’t help but grin as he takes in the sight of you on your knees before Joel, swiping a hand over his mouth to try and hide his mirth. You flutter your eyelashes at him, and he shakes his head before crossing the room to sit in the chair Joel was in before. He crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back to watch you both. 

You hum around Joel and begin to bob up and down his length, using your fist to pump what you don’t have the patience to take in your mouth. Joel tangles his fingers in your hair and groans as he feels your tongue dip into his slit, slip over the sensitive spot on the underside of his head. 

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he grunts, ‘Putting on a show for Santi, are we?’

You smile wickedly around his cock, before taking him all the way to the base on your own. You hold your head there as long as possible as Joel chokes out moan after moan, and from behind you Santi mumbles -

‘Fuck, Joel. She’s leaking all over the floor.’

Joel huffs out a breath, pulling you off his cock. He peers down at you, eyes dark.

‘Are you, baby?’ He asks.

You wiggle your ass to feel what even you hadn’t noticed, too caught up in sucking his dick. A small puddle of you and Santi has been dripping down onto the hardwood where you kneel. More slick pulses out of you at the realisation.

‘Yes, daddy,' you sigh, and Joel’s eyes roll up into his head. He yanks your hair roughly to bring you to your feet.

‘Get up,’ he snarls, ‘And get on the bed.’

Joel all but throws you back on to the mattress, and it happens in such a rush that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. You wrack your brain as Joel undresses before you, his eyes scouring your body, taking in the marks, the bruises already forming, how your hair is wet with sweat at the roots, how your pussy still drips onto the sheets - 

And then you get it. Joel is getting off on it - on the thought of you being full, used, wanted, shown off -

Once he is down to just his skin, he crawls over you, lifting and pushing your hips to move you up the bed. He dips his head to lick and kiss and bite at your neck, and your hands flutter around him, touching him everywhere. His back, his arms, his neck, his face, scraping your nails down his exposed skin. He makes his way to your mouth, devouring you - all tongue and teeth until he rears back to look at you, sprawled and gorgeous below him. 

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he groans, ‘So perfect like this. Open your mouth for me.’ You do as he says, flattening your tongue out against your lower lip for good measure. He groans again, and then leans forward to spit in your mouth. You swallow it down hungrily.

‘Thank you, daddy.’ You say, and he leans back down to kiss you again before retracing down your neck, your collarbones, your breasts -

‘Such a good girl, rememberin’ your manners,’ he grumbles, ‘So good, takin’ Santi, look so good when you’re takin’ his cock.’ You whimper as he bites down on each of your nipples, soothing them with open-mouthed kisses. He kisses down your stomach, around your heat, nipping the inside of your thighs, making sure to leave marks, breathing hotly onto your skin.

‘But now you’ve made a mess, baby, haven’t you?’ He says. You mewl at the ceiling, clutching the sheets around you as Joel blows on your clit, hovering just above where you need him. ‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you, with a sharp slap to your thigh.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You cry.

‘And what do we do when we make a mess?’ He asks.

‘Clean it up, daddy.’ You pant.

‘Good girl,’ he coos, ‘Good girl.’ Before he licks a fat, hot stripe from your leaking hole up to your clit.

You gasp at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, the coil in your stomach already wound impossible tight, every part of your body still so sensitive. Joel works with abandon at your pussy, flattening his tongue to lap at you, tasting the mixture of you and Santi, slurping around your opening before focusing his efforts on your bundle of nerves, sharpening his tongue to work it in tight circles, then figure eights. Your hips buck strongly against him, and he secures a forearm against your lower belly to stop you struggling. He hums against you as your hand winds its way into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.

‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, so good - fuck - so good - tongue feels so good, baby -’ You babble to him, to yourself, and Joel lowers his mouth, working his tongue inside you, grinding his nose against your clit. Your shoulders shoot off the bed, and you pull his hair now, biting a curse between your teeth. Joel doesn’t let up for a second, just moves his forearm so he can force your upper body back down onto the bed. Your fingers loosen their grip on his hair, coming up instead to scrub at your face as moan after moan escapes you.

A groan echoes from the chair, and you flick your gaze behind you to see Santi watching greedily, palming himself through his boxers. The sight only serves to work you up more, your core tightening and tightening and tightening, an unbearable heat settling where Joel’s tongue is, but you need him deeper -

‘You close, baby?’ He mumbles against you.

‘Y-es.’ You force out, as he pinches your clit between his lips.

‘What do you need?’ He asks.

‘Fuck - your fingers, Joel, please -’ 

Joel obliges, slipping one, and then two digits into your cunt easily, fucking them in and out as he licks again at your nub, swirling and sucking and lapping -

‘Come on, baby,’ he groans, ‘Give me what I want.’

The forearm he has braced against your middle barely keeps your back on the bed as you come, hard and loud against his tongue. Your whole body twitches, so warm, as he laps and laps and laps at you, as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe for just a second - but he doesn’t, he never does, just eats until he’s had his fill, until he’s satisfied. 

When he lifts his head from between your thighs, his beard and cheeks are glistening with your come. He releases his grip on you and begins to crawl upwards again, and you clamp your thighs shut to stop him from provoking anymore overstimulation. He laughs down at you, kneeling back to yank your legs back open with his strong hands.

‘We’re not done with you, yet, baby,’ he coos, ‘I ain’t had all my fun.’

You shake your head at him, pitiful, your lower lip jutting out. He pouts back at you.

‘You don’t want daddy’s cock, darlin’?’ He asks. You can’t even find it in you to hesitate.

‘I do,’ you cry, ‘Just don’t wanna be touched anymore.’

Joel nods at your words, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.

‘It’s okay, baby girl,’ he murmurs, ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Won’t make you come again if you don’t want to.’ Liar. He knows just as well as you do what his cock does to you. But still, he pauses, makes sure you’re looking at him. ‘Can I still have this pussy, angel?’

You blink up at him. Something warm curls in your stomach. Relief, you think, that he’s heard you, understands - that you know - even with Santi and Frankie here - you could stop this at any time.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You say. 

He smiles, wraps you up in a tender kiss.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He murmurs as he lines himself up at your entrance, and begins to sink in.

Joel tugs at the backs of your thighs, hitching them to your chest so he can watch as he splits you open. His eyes flick from your cunt to your face, the glistening slit stretching to accommodate him and the way your jaw falls loose in a silent ‘o’, your brows brunched, your eyes rolling and falling shut. The slip of him is sinful tonight - your orgasms leaving your body like jelly, Santi’s cock preparing you for Joel’s thickness. But he still moves toe-curlingly slow, inch after inch after inch providing a delicious stretch. He groans as he feels you flutter and tense and contract around him, still unable to breathe, unable to speak. Only he can get you like this - not a babble slipping past your lips, unable to do anything but feel him. Joel pants, moaning again as he bottoms out, tip kissing your cervix. He runs a finger over your cheek, letting you adjust further.

‘Talk to me, baby,’ he urges.

He rocks his hips back and forth, no more than an inch, but it punches out the breath you were holding.

‘Fuck, Joel,’ the whisper all you can get out. He smiles at you.

‘Yeah, angel?’

‘So big.’ you breathe, shifting your hips so he can sink even further in.

‘There she is,’ he huffs, pulling out again, ‘There’s my girl.’

Joel rocks forward again, and you cry out around him, the noise setting him off into a languid pace which allows him to hit every single spot inside you. You can’t bear to touch your own body, frightened of sending yourself into the void, but you do touch Joel. You clutch at his biceps, his tight forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons wherever you grip. You tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, swipe the lines on his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks. He twists his head to kiss and suck at your thumb, and you mewl at him, eyes wide and glassy, so full of him you don’t know what to do.

You’re barely aware, even, of the slick sound of skin and Santi’s soft groans as he works his cock in the chair, caught up in the intensity of you and Joel fucking, his chest flushed and shining with sweat. 

There’s still not a noise, not a peep from the other side of the door.

All you can hear is Joel; his deep breathing, low grunts and moans, his whispered praises, and the startlingly wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. You can’t stop the contractions that build inside you, and every time one ripples through your pussy Joel’s head drops a little lower towards your chest. 

Your orgasm feels deafeningly close and impossibly strong, brought on by every shift of Joel’s dick. You try to breathe through it, your moans getting louder, soaking the room with sound, but it’s hopeless. 

Joel dips his head to kiss you softly, swallowing your sounds for just a minute. When he pulls away, you teeter on the edge, everything feeling heavy and blurred and blazingly good.

‘Joel.’ You whisper urgently.

‘I know, baby,’ he says, ‘I can feel it. You’re taking it so well, sweet girl. So good f’me. I know it feels good. You can let go. You can do it. Come on.’

You all but scream against him, your orgasm ripping through your body, every muscle on fire. Your legs shake and your arms tighten around his neck as you shiver and twitch around him, and he moans, long and loud, like you’ve never heard him do before. 

As he fucks you through it, the relief, the pleasure catches up with you, and tears swell and pour out of your eyes.

‘So good,’ you sob, ‘So good daddy, God -’

Joel coos back at you. ‘Atta girl, baby. Knew you could do it. Knew you could give me one more. And it was so pretty, baby.’ he grins at you, before picking up his pace. You whine beneath him.

‘’S okay,’ he promises, ‘Where do you want me, darlin’?’ and you huff at him, as if you could ever give a different answer.

‘Inside. Come inside me.’ You say. And Joel crowds you out, pushing all the way in so you’re moaning again, pumping in the deepest part of you as his hips flex against yours, his head in your shoulder. You stroke his curls, breathing deeply as he relaxes. 

‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his head away, blinking. You giggle up at him.

‘Y’alright?’ you ask, and he smiles back.

‘Fuckin’ more’n alright,’ he laughs, ‘Are you?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘Real good.’

Joel slides himself out of you, both grunting at the loss, and he flicks a look over your shoulder.

‘You good, Pope?’ He asks, grinning at the other man. You twist your head to look at him too, giggling again when you take in his fucked out face, exhausted in the corner, his stomach covered in come. Santi can’t help but grin back.

‘Yeah, great.’ he answers wryly, and you giggle even more.

Joel laughs with you, rolling onto his back and pulling you against his shoulder, kissing your hair.

‘Did so good, baby.’ he reminds you again as you feel him begin to dribble out of you.

Santi stands with a groan, and makes his way back towards the bathroom, muttering something about having to clean himself up again. 

You press your face to Joel’s neck with a smile, leaving soft kisses, only coming away when you hear the jingle of a belt buckle. Santi is dressing at the end of the bed, just short of pulling his top on. You frown at him.

‘You’re leaving?’ you ask. He looks up, smirking again.

‘Not yet, querida,’ he says, ‘Just cold. Besides, there’s still someone we need to look after.’ 

You watch him as he buckles his belt with baited breath, curious as to how this will play out. You aren’t sure what exactly will happen next - whether Frankie will come in, or who will… deal with him. Your breath hitches in your throat before Joel answers your questions for you.

‘Go check on Frankie, baby girl,’ he murmurs, stroking your hair back. You bury your face in his chest again, and breathe in deeply. You scrunch the sheets at his waist in your fist, and Santi chuckles at your reluctance to leave the bed. You plant a kiss to Joel’s exposed skin before pulling yourself away to sit up on the bed. Planting your feet and gathering your strength before standing. You pick up Joel’s flannel from the floor and slip your arms into it, bundling yourself against the chill you now also feel as you pad towards the door. You feel Joel and Santi’s eyes on you, silent, assessing.

When you reach the bedroom door, you touch it gingerly, breathing deeply. You feel… nervous. How would Frankie react to everything he’d heard? You knew he’d done things like it before, but you knew you would be so… angry. Jealous and frustrated. You bite your lip, and slowly pull the door back.

Frankie is exactly where Santi left him, on his knees a step back from the threshold. Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in.

At some point during it all, he'd removed his cap. It’s tossed on the floor a few feet away, and his hair is… fucked. Strands stick out on all sides, his curls mussed and frazzled. Sweat is gathered at his temples, and his skin has a warm, glossy sheen to it. All across his face, right down to the hollow of his throat peeking above his t-shirt. His lips are swollen and bitten, wet with spit as his tongue pokes out to lick them again at the sight of you, and his eyes… Eyes so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown so wide they just sparkle back at you. Deep, dangerous, and hungry. 

He’s ravenous as he looks you up and down - your smooth skin, naked thighs, bare pussy - still dripping with come - up to your exposed tits, bitten and bruised, your neck, your face… totally fucked out, swollen lips, smudged makeup, your own blown out eyes. He moans as he takes you in, and you go weak at the knees at the sight of his hands raking up and down his jean-clad thighs. His dick is straining against the denim, against the claw of his zipper, and as you look closer, you see a wet patch much larger than just precum darkening the fabric. Your cheeks flush at the sight, at the knowledge - Frankie had come in his pants just listening to the three of you.

You breathe out shakily and get to your knees, so close to him you're almost touching. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, and he leans into it, breathing in and out deeply, closing his eyes.

‘You okay, baby?’ You ask him softly, voice low. Frankie groans again.

‘Yes.’ He croaks out. 

You don’t know if you’re allowed, but you figure you’ll find out soon enough. You lean forward, tits spilling out of Joel’s shirt, and place your hands on his thighs. His breathing sputters, and his head drops forward, but not before you can catch his lips in a sweet, soft kiss. Just like you’ve wanted to, for so long. 

He sighs against you, lips seeking yours. But he seems so exhausted, so on edge, that he can hardly pour any fire into it. His tongue searches your mouth, almost like a plea. 

Please. Please.

As though he hears it too, Joel says quietly from the bed -

‘Help him, baby.’

You pull away from Frankie’s kiss and lean your forehead to his.

‘What do you need?’ You whisper. 

He looses a ragged sigh, too turned on to even know himself.

‘Can I touch you?’ He breathes.

You nod, and he reaches out his hands - carefully, gently - to skirt over and up your waist, to touch your stomach, to skate over your tits. You wince, once, as he traces over one of your nipples, and he freezes. You smile shyly at him.

‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘’M just sore.’ He nods, and continues to touch, caressing your neck, thumbing your jaw, your cheekbone, stroking your brow. He’s so tender, so Frankie, that you feel tears well behind your eyelids. As though he can sense it, tell the gravity of the moment, he drops his hands, skirting them along your thighs, drifting towards your hips, thumbs rubbing the sides of your tummy, before creeping towards your heat.

‘Is this okay?’ He asks.

‘Yes.’ You sigh, this time against his mouth, drawing his lips back to yours. 

When Frankie dips one of his hands to sweep through your folds, you both moan. Low and long against each other. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes against you, stalling. Slowly, slowly, he brings his coated fingers to his mouth, so close to you that you can smell it, the mix of you and Joel and Santi, and he slips the digits between his lips. He holds your eye the whole time, devouring, tongue swiping over every knuckle, every valley, until they’re clean. He releases them with a pop. You groan, wanting him, impossibly, and you ask again.

‘What do you need, Frankie?’

‘You.’ He says. Frankie swoops forward again to kiss you, one hand now at the back of your head, one back between your legs, gathering the mess between your thighs. You rock against his hand as he parts you, feels you, and you reach forward for his belt, his button, his zipper, undoing all three in record time. You slip a hand into his jeans, under his boxers, impatient to feel him, all of him, and he gasps against you, stilling his movements. He groans your name, almost in warning. 

‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, stroking his hair soothingly, ‘You’ve waited so long, Frankie. It’s okay.’

You take your hand out from his pants, and join his at your pussy, just for a moment, just to collect what’s left and what’s already pooling from you again, before returning your hand to his cock, using the combined juices to move your hand easily up and down. Frankie moans brokenly against you, his body slumping forwards. 

You can’t see him like this, but you can feel him - and Frankie is big. Not quite as big as Joel, but thicker and pulsing against your palm, already wet from his come and what you have just provided him. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting his precum to spread down his length, and he jerks against you at the movement. 

‘Fuck, baby,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t, I’m not gonna last, hermosa -’

You shush him again, kissing at his temple, his brow, his cheek, before nudging to his lips.

‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ you say again. ‘I want you to come. You deserve to come. You’ve been so good for us.’ 

And it’s all Frankie needs as he moans loudly against your lips, body seizing and relaxing harshly against yours as he spills himself over your fist, over his jeans, over your thighs and the top of your mound. There is so much of him it’s almost comical, and you laugh softly as he finally starts to relax.

He looks up at you shyly, questioningly.

‘Look at you, Frankie,’ you breathe, and he flushes right to the tops of his ears. ‘So good.’ You murmur.

‘All for you,’ he whispers so only you can hear. He holds your gaze, trying to communicate everything he’s been thinking behind that door. ‘All for you.’

You lean forward and kiss him again. Try to forget, for now, the scratch of those unanswered questions, what it could all mean. Later.

‘Come on,’ you say, taking his hand and rising from the floor. He follows and returns your smile. ‘Let's get you cleaned up.’

[youghvaudough]

I will forever appreciate a theme in my fictional stories, & that’s exactly what Wind Breaker (by Nii Satoru) has, so, I present:

Wind Breaker characters have a theme to their names.. a thread:

Bōfūrin / 防風鈴

so, even though our protag group’s name is written and visually represented as “wind chime”, Bōfūrin’s name is where this group’s theme of trees/plants start:

防風鈴 (“prevent/protect” “wind chime”) has the same reading as 防風林, a type of forest planted strategically to prevent wind erosion of soil — much like Fūrin’s mission of protecting and serving their town

all of Bōfūrin’s named members (and close associations) so far have some element of tree/plant/wood in their last name (if you look at the kanji of their last names, you’d see a lot of wood radicals/木字旁):

桜 遥 • Sakura Haruka: 桜 / cherry tree

(fun fact: his name 遥 / haruka means "far"; also it's commonly a feminine given name)

蘇枋 隼飛 • Suō Hayato: 枋 / sandalwood (?) or tree used as timber, general term for wooden beams in houses

(fun fact: his last name 苏枋 is the Chinese name of a traditional reddish brown color, named after a pigment made from 苏木!)

楡井 秋彦 • Nirei Akihiko: 楡 / Siberian elm

杉下 京太郎 • Sugishita Kyōtarō: 杉 / Japanese cedar (cryptomeria japonica)

柊 登馬 • Hiiragi Tōma: 柊 / holly osmanthus (osmanthus heterophyllus)

(fun fact: his name 登馬 means "to mount a horse"; no, not that kind of mount, the regular horseback riding kind)

梅宮 一 • Umemiya Hajime: 梅 / plum tree

(fun fact: his name 一 is just "one")

This association also extends to Kotoha, who is very closely associated with Bōfūrin:

橘 琴叶 • Tachibana Kotoha: 橘 / orange tree

now, Bōfūrin members yet to be featured in the show: (spoilers below the break)

(if you want to go to later parts: part 2 - shishitoren & part 3 - noroshi!)

梶 蓮 • Kaji Ren: 梶 / paper mulberry (broussonetia papyrifera)

(fun fact: his name 蓮 / Ren means "lotus")

椿野 佑 • Tsubakino Tasuku: 椿 / Japanese camellia

(fun fact: their name 佑 means "to help/protect" or "to bless"!)

桐生 三輝 • Kiryū Mitsuki: 桐 / empress tree (paulownia tomentosa)

柘浦 大河 • Tsugeura Taiga: 柘 / mandarin melon berry (maclura tricuspidata)

There's also 桃瀬 匠 (Momose Takumi, "peach tree") & 水木 聡久 (Mizuki Saku, "wood"), the two other Heavenly Kings

I hope I have rly driven the point home here,, /lh